#endawn

Who do you think I could write?

“ were you scared ? ” it’s the right question, but not the right words. they try again. “ are you scared ? the oblivion gates. . . ”

destroyed an entire city. her home. horrified and angered and disgusted – how long will it take for her feet to cross the border?

@endawn / starter call. / no longer accepting

Beneath the familiar crackling of air around them as the Veil knits itself together, there's a breath of relief that isn't his own.

For long seconds, Solas considers the possibility he'd misheard. That a wandering Spirit had escaped his attention and sighed in the blanketing shadow of the room. Only the artifact pulses with any distinct sound, a primordial heartbeat that satisfies the Inquisitor enough to abandon the ruin, lest Solas have anything else to say about the place. With practiced ease, he weaves together a Fade-dreamt anecdote that's accepted with a bored gaze, as always, but it's from the corner of his eye that he catches it - a subtle shift in Pax's shoulders. A weight, lifted. His eyes are notably brighter than they had been before they found the artifact, and Solas' axis of awareness tilts.

Any mage could sense a thinning of the Veil. It was something far more particular that could ever feel its effects.

Out of some shape of kindness, he at least waits until the others are far enough ahead before he starts digging. His steps are a comfortable distance from Pax's, the dimming sun shifting shadows along the dirt path as the party leaves the cave. The Inquisitor drums up a conversation at the head of the line, and he takes his chance. ❝ You seem to be feeling better. Perhaps there's some healing property of stagnant air and mildew that I wasn't aware of,❞ he muses, a considering glint in his eye.

the great tiber septim stands in place of their statue, transfixed in the same position as the stone he just replaced. armored and armed with a greatsword clutched in both hands, the hero god of mankind remains still, silent, staring down at pax in the grass below. i should have asked for your forgiveness long ago, the champion of cyrodil admits in a low voice, i hope you can forgive me now. not yet ready to respond, talos doesn't move; his brows lift beneath the winged helmet on their head, but there is no shift, no opening of his mouth to draw a response, and no reaction to pax's soft request. perhaps it is better to let the hero of kvatch shake in his boots, anxious, silently pleading for a response as the god considers his options.

it reminds her of the wolf hunts. sometimes the bravest ( or the most foolish, if father lucian were asked ) would take to the woods to hunt a troublesome pack. she likes to imagine that this will be similar, but she won’t hold her breath.

“ i’d rather not be taken by surprise, is all. i’ve had enough of those. ”

i’m fine. two little words form the biggest of lies and while her tongue isn’t well-versed in the craft, it knows these two well. in response it clicks – a sound of disapproval, and slight irritation.

“ liar. you need to rest, don’t you ? ” it’s less of a question and more of a disguised accusation. “ there is time; rest if you need to rest. the road will not move. ” nor will their destination, no matter how much florence prays.