#enregards

It has lingered for hours, almost ceaseless at every turn it's scent trails him; maleficar. A corruption that he can feel in his blood, no amount of blight could cover its stench. Its a rot that has slowly bleed throughout the Fade—yet another disease wrought by the witch. No matter how deeply convoluted his route turns, it is never too far behind.

But as he allows it to drew closer, it's what accompanies it this day that has his senses frenzied.

Spice, sandalwood, leather. Yet a sweetness.

Unbound honeyed locks cut out of his hood, twisting to follow it as his blade drags through the freshly lain snow. It leads him far from where he has found a modicum of safety, his endless journey to subvert Ghilan'nain's ever watchful gaze. The stronger the presence becomes, he begins to hear the sound of a voice carrying on the wind.

" The focus you provided is weak, but I am picking up a trace of his presence. " The tevinter mage remarks openly, his bloodied palm weaving in front of him as he walks ahead of a leather clad blonde man.

He moves without sound. In the past, there had been heavy foot falls and platemail clattering with each step, but now he moves like a wraith in shadow. So much so the mage has no time to react when a blade is thrust mere centimeters from their jugular vein. A startled gasp chokes in the mage's throat as he is met with a visage that only frightens them further. Pupil-less gaze, corrupted veins that caress the sharp angles of his jaw. Long hair partially tied back that escapes from the wind.

" Demon—! " The mage exclaims but the wraith quirks a brow; suppose not all maleficar are as intelligent as they'd claim.

" You follow— " He croaks, a voice graveled with lack of use, but the blade presses to the mage's throat with the intent to intimidate. "—Why? "

But then he pauses, the sweetness returning in full force as his gaze turns from the mage to who he escorts through the Fade.

Horror Sentence Meme || Accepting || @enregards

Cosima feels frozen in place, she has been waiting—waiting for the torture to end. For Viago to come and save her, or even for her body to finally give out and release her that way. At this point, blood staining her blonde hair a matted rust, new scars pulling skin too taut every time she turns her torso, the straps holding her wrists tight grinding the bones together. All of it, just if it could stop for a moment but the grandmaster has plans for her. Needs to break down what Viago has spent months building in her again and again this dance feels endless.

House Arainai takes her, House Arainai breaks her, House De Riva finds her, House De Riva carefully builds her back up, House Arainai takes her.

Over and over and over.

Cosima’s mind has almost grown numb to it, almost. She doesn’t know if this is what the grandmaster wants, which is the worst part because she is loathe to give the man any inch he might turn into a mile. She is big for an elf, big for a girl of her age standing taller than all her age mate fledglings in either house but before him she feels So Very Small.

She sits in the corner of the eighth Talon’s office, he doesn’t even wrinkle his nose at the smell of her among his meticulously decorated space. She exists in a pool of her own filth, blood and worse besides since the only bath she has had in weeks were practically drownings. Sweat clings to her brow and she isn’t sure if it’s a winter draft or fever that has her shivering. It isn’t fear, that at least House Arainai has taught her, she doesn’t have to fear the unknown of whether they will harm her. They will always harm her.

He says something to her, as he works on his papers but his voice sounds thready in her ears. She nods at appropriate pauses even as it sends her skull aching because to not respond would invite something worse. He must be reciting some lesson, he likes to give her lessons in his study. He says it is to show her that she too could rise as such, she thinks it is because he is too good to sully his shoes in the dungeons.

She has almost drifted off, into the corner of her mind where she can pretend this is a bad dream. That she will wake up and this will have been a hallucination from another of Viago’s poison lessons. She is nearly there, hunkered deep in the quiet of her own mind when she spots it.

There is something in the room with them. Cosima stirs, just enough to refocus her eyes upon the large arching ceiling, where something—someone clings to the corners. She blinks once, slowly and the masked figure raises a single finger to their mask.

Hush.

She lets her eyes drift away, huddles back into herself as they descend in one elegant swoop and a knife finds it’s home in the man’s skull. Their free hand holds over his mouth, muffling the death cries of the man before he slumps in the assassin’s arms. Warmth fills Cosima’s chest for the first time in days as she watches blood drip down onto his books. A near hysterical laugh finds itself bursting from her throat, rough from disuse but still high and tittering with the telltale squeak of youth.

The masked assassin meets her laugh with a chuckle as they tug their dagger from the Talon’s left eye socket. The sound is rich and warm but it is not Viago, nor does it sound like any of the De Riva’s she knows. They are not here for her, she simply benefits from a collateral contract—unless she is to be killed as a witness but even then at least all of this is over—

But the assassin pulls down his mask, tanned skin and a tattoo she knows has been banned in House Arainai since her the fifth blight. She laughs again, less hysterical and almost genuine. Perhaps she will be spared, so she may be the one to tell this wretched house who is sending a message. The most infamous scion of House Arainai grins,

@enregards: 🙌 ;* from [ x ]

@engards sent ren a hug! their first meeting plays vaguely in his mind; larawen was too deep in thought as they travelled. something was clearly bothering her. so much so that neither ren didn't figure out the ambush until it was too late. the woman was quite an actress. then the rogue at the end of the battle, oh so easy to lay down his life for her. ren remembers bristling and suggesting she kill him instead, to save them the trouble. but she didn't. instead she agreed. and he watched between the days and lights as weeks rolled by.

then in denerim, once again, ambushed in the street, by antivan crows. something about finishing zevran off for running off from them, he recalls. once that battle was over and done with, lara seemed to trust him more and bond. ren started to loosen up a bit more, although hesitantly. it the group's first long while interaction with any crow henceforth.

the warden recognizes the lines of tattoos on his cheeks, the devilish look in his eyes that genuinely seem to twinkle with mischief. wouldn't be zevran without it. the tan skin, the sandy blonde hair .. ren was glad to see him.

"No," Dorian answers with that familiar nonchalance. "I'm sure it only causes more problems for you."

Zevran is a presence. Even in his time amidst finery and riches, this assassin, this professional, yet manages to catch his eye. Alas, it's despairingly two-way what with the certainty in that gaze so terribly knowing. Dorian could feel himself whittled, a twinge pared to his secrets like a void blasted fruit, and that part of him that riles to being seen at all? What a pity, he confesses. What a pity that Zevran can so hammer at his walls. Still, the mage holds himself valiantly, appearing all a man convincingly unbothered. So what if he'd been vying to get someone to bed him? By the void, the letter from Maevaris in his satchel is burning a bloody hole.

"There you are, talking your way out after being uncharacteristically apprehended, and now you've a perfectly handsome man wrapped around your finger. What hardship. Feel free to unburden yourself of that misfortune with me."