#fereldancommander

Sloth: a headcanon about something your character hates to do or simply hates in general

Shopping. The whole shopping thing is not something Keita’s generally a fan of. Trying things on, being around people, talking to shop attendants, all of the shopping experience is something Keita avoids. 

Gluttony: a headcanon about food or obsessions

"Enlisting to work at the Rose?"  She quirked her eyebrow at the warden knowing full well what he was referring to, but choosing to swing the topic elsewhere.  It was more likely that she would go be a dancer at the rose than abandon her family regardless if there was a pay check coming to help them establish themselves.  Desperation for giving them a better life had not gotten to the point of leaving them to do so, but she had to admit that the option was there.  Garrett would kill her if she ever gave voice to it, so the thought was about as prominent as it ever came.  Plus, she would have to ask Anders his opinion before she would even consider joining, and she could imagine how that conversation would go.

It had been a long time since Feynriel had last found himself pulled into another person’s dream by accident, long enough that he did not immediately realize what had happened.

Darkness.  Ancient walls of hewn stone.  The smell of dust and rot and a distant whiff of brimstone invading his nostrils, and a sound that was almost more of a feeling than organized waves of pressure in the stale air – rough feet scuffing, wet flesh tearing, as if some myriad-legged worm was slowly eating its way through the heart of the world.

The sense of disturbing creatures just beyond the range of hearing, scrabbling at the edges of his perception – that was one Feynriel knew, had long ago accepted as a constant in his existence, so the fact that it did not come from demons but from the dreamer’s own mind went unnoticed, at first.  It was instead a peculiar aspect of the stone tunnels that gave way to long-abandoned, subterranean buildings of impeccable construction, that eventually allowed Feynriel to understand – these passages were familiar, but not to him.

Upon realizing that, he could locate the dreamer himself – an older man, fierce despite the limping rhythm of his steps and the weariness that seemed to hang in a miasma around him as he moved through a nearby tunnel.  Feynriel might have left, then.  By his own usual way of doing things, should have left.  But experience had taught him to feel the shape of a dream even before its scenes fully unfolded, and this one…

No, he couldn’t leave.  He couldn’t leave anyone to this.

Even as the decision he was made, he felt the keening threads of emotion through the weft of the nightmare, and knew that he was too late to shift it gently before the worst was revealed.  Rather than enter the city that hung lost in time, the dreamer had turned down a short side tunnel, or more accurately a tiny pocket of a cave, and stopped there.

Invisible and silent, Feynriel followed.

There was a hunched form huddled in the cave just a few meters ahead of the dreamer, surrounded by a haphazardly nonsensical assortment of objects - an old chamberpot, a necklace, a wristwatch.  At first, Feynriel thought the man was a dwarf.  Then the man looked up, and through the scraggly hair and wan, wasted skin, the bone structure was clearly human, even aristocratic, and his eyes, a clear-sky blue that seemed utterly alien to such a forsaken place.