"I am no stranger to such a thing." Being the woman of the wilds as she is, Morrigan is no stranger to judgement, to things being used against her. She knows how to navigate these things and speak carefully. Her mother made sure she knew humans can not be trusted, that meant learning how to speak to the ones who would rather judge and imprison her if she had to speak to them.

Flemeth would have very much preferred that she stayed away from mortals all together.

He understands exactly what Isabela means. This battle is exhausting and even before this battle, there had been one with his former Master. It feels like Fenris has always been fighting. For the man, against the man, and this fight with Hawke.

It's exhausting and he wishes to simply escape it all. He supposes it's nothing a good bottle of wine can't make him forget for a while and Isabela sounds like she'd make a good drinking partner.

Normally, he sticks to himself, avoiding social interaction of any kind but he doesn't really mind spending time with Isabela.

@directfromthedas

“Light heals,” answers Roland, nose-deep into a tome of forbidden, unheard-of topics. The ancient tomb of both man-make and Elvhen statuary is silent, dark, dusty, and rend of the bursting flora in the slants of light come down from the broken ceiling.

“’Dark’ beguiles a necessity to harm another living Being. A urge to break and spill blood, if only for the primitive Want.” But then Roland blinks and reheard his verse, and lifts himself out from his over-encumbering book. “Why dost thou ask?”

28. A memory that strains a relationship | Not Accepting

“I am afraid not, lethellen.”

Five small words, and his faith is shaken.

When he first opens his mouth, no sound follows. Only the Fade speaks for him, reflecting the sense of betrayal he dares not let himself speak. It reveals his heart, the certainty with which he had believed she would agree manifesting in the trembling earth. Temple grounds move beneath him, expectations suddenly thrown into disarray. All her court look beneath them, save Mythal herself.

He remains rooted to the earth, knelt before her, afraid that if he were to pull himself to his feet his knees might tremble beneath his weight. His mind still swims with the memory of her trials, a golden path to her side. He would not ordinarily take it, having earned his place beside her long ago, but the effort felt worth the statement it would make. He cleansed his mind of its answers and walked it as any among her people would. A fruitless endeavour, in the end.

“We cannot go on as we have been,” he pleads, finding his voice. With heavy legs he pulls himself to his feet, standing to his full height. “Justice cannot be truly realised the way our world is now. If not for their sake, then your own. What if you lose sight of yourself?” It had happened before, he need not name when. Not to her. They both remember Andruil, slayer of beasts reduced to half a beast herself. “Your spirit may--”

“It is for their sake I refuse you!” Around them the air begins to sicken, the putrid scent of sulfur that heralds dragon’s fire coats his throat. Despite himself, despite the years he has fought for her, bled, fear steals into his heart. “I would sooner lose myself than risk them in open war.”

“We risk them either way.” Black plagues scar Andruil’s woods, and to the east Falon’Din has gone silent. “Or would you prefer to sacrifice them two by two?”

“Enough,” she seethes. He sees the veins in her hands bulge, knuckles white against the bone. “My judgment is final.”

His legs straighten, every muscle straining against the earth to keep himself aloft, breathing in and ignoring how his lungs burn with her magic. “Then what of my fate?” He has seen her reduce petitioners to black marks upon the floor for less than he had said, today. Their memory lingers, if he listens close, for even in death they still call to their All-Mother.

Mythal does not answer him, and he grows still. The fear in his heart is silent, though he cannot call its absence bravery. It will be quick, he thinks, and she will be beside him. In the space of a breath a day seems to pass, shadows shift positions until his points towards the temple door.

“Your methods may be flawed,” she says at last, “yet your motive is pure. You’ve the People’s interests at heart. I cannot fault you for that.” Her fingers fold before her, fingers aligning at her chest. The yellow atmosphere is siphoned slowly away, until the air breathes clear again. “You may leave in peace, Fen-- oh.” She stops short of his old name, the sound of it deaf to dreams. “I see.” Her eyes are sad as she regards him, mourning what was, unable or unwilling to hide her disappointment. Standing before her, knowing it was but a single woman’s judgment had stood between him and the final journey, he is not sure there was ever anything to mourn.

“Go, then,” Mythal bids him. “And may I know the delight of speaking your true name when next we meet.”

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🎭 MASQUERADE BALL STARTERS 🎭  || accepting 

      Despite the ( ongoing ) mess that was the city of Kirkwall, they did throw parties every now and then to appease the public ( & nobility ). The captain of her personal guard ( what was his name again? ) insisted upon the ladies attendance since her presence was next to null as of late. It had taken hours to get her into the deep green dress and presentable. Her normally tangled short brown hair was brushed and pinned up as best as it could; though some strands still fell around her face and owl mask. 

In true Orlesian fashion she stood off to the side; posture straight and green eyes disinterested. Not because the ball ( if it qualified ) was boring, but because she was uncomfortable. Her left hand ( used to turning pages and shooting arrows ) twitched nervously at her side, feeling exceptionally bare without the gloves that had been fashionable last time she’d left the house.