#deificatin

“The rebel mages join the Inquisition.” It is rare that Visus speaks first, or that he has an opinion. “I do not envy whatever horrible future you saw for us, Trevelyan, but I do think you have done a good thing” the archer admitted it with a heavy gaze, adjusting himself better. He put the arrow shaft down, giving her his attention.

“Not that you need my or anyone else’s approval, but unshackling those that were unaware of their servitude is a worthy cause, especially since they unknowingly traded one prison for another” he did not like what Circle represented. The subjugation and fear they were spoken of by apostates who sought refuge with Lavellan on occasion before passing through.

(a cycle doomed to repeat, broken)

           THE TWO WOMEN SIT on the ramparts staring over a mass of dead bodies below them. Agents had thankfully arrived to Caer Bronach as quick as they could to dispose of them, but their small party of four had been dealing with the wreckage themselves for the past few days (despite Ysenia’s audible displeasure.) Rotting bodies were the worst in any situation, but they were especially horrible when drowning in rain puddles. Even after the reputation the Inquisition—and Esyllt specifically—had worked to build, such poor bandits still dared to test their worth. Ysenia could never wrap her head around the madness.

Rosara

  ❝  well, i’m hawke last time i checked. unsure of what sort of a name ‘okay’ is.  ❞        & the large man stands, belongings chucked over his shoulder, glancing around the quarters he’d been given in ... sky... caress?  maker knows what the place was called.  chances are his mind was elsewhere when he was told. 

  ❝ i’m always alright, lady herald.  herald of andraste, a good one --- i thought champion of kirkwall was a strong title until now. ❞          hawke shifts, casts her a warm smile, a soft and kindly one that he is so famous for.         ❝ but yours sounds heavier than mine. are you okay? ❞

hawke can still feel the weight of bethany, and carver, one on his back one on his chest.   carver would chew on his shirt collar as he walked.   bethany just slept, lazy curls already starting to spill over his tiny cheeks.    always an angel.          

hawke recalls the way mother would trace his features when he couldn’t sleep, run her fingers over his eyebrows his cheekbones the bridge of his nose.   looks back at the times that his father would hold his hand when he was too scared to leave the safety of their household doorway.           ❝ mine were. ❞       & he had his arms across his chest, thick fingers firm over his scarred arm, as if holding himself together sometimes.        ❝ i don’t know if that makes it ... easier, or harder, now they’re gone. ❞