#fleurdacier

*height comparison! accepting.

she is not as wholly uncultured as the orlesians care to think her and fellow free marchers to be, (only slightly more cultured than fereldans, of course), though val royeaux has a funny way of making her feel exceptionally foolish. vivienne, of course, passes by and through with her usual, effortless grace. sidri envies her that, the ability to appear so naturally comfortable, whereas any such appearance she might exude is carefully crafted. 

“i don’t think i’ve ever really been to a spa,” she states with a little smile, “though i’m certain i’ve never needed one more than now. if there’s a spell for covering up dark bags under one’s eyes, dorian hasn’t been gracious enough to share it.” an appreciative nod follows. “thank you for inviting me, vivienne, it’s very kind of you.” 

“     I’m   not   sure   if   you’re   aware   of   this     ,     since   you’re   not   originally   from   Ferelden     ,     but   there   is   one   key   piece   of   advice   that   I   can   give   you.     ”     He   leaned   forward   in   his   chair     ,     elbows   resting   atop   the   table     ,     fingers   steepled.     “     In   any   potentially   world-ending   situation     ,     it   is   of   vital   importance   that   you   should   always   keep   a   mabari   war   dog   as   a   companion.     They’re   far   smarter   than   either   of   our   kinds.     I   wish   I   wasn’t   only   half   joking.     ”     He   smiled   a   little   and   nodded   seriously     ,     as   if   that   would   help   to   accentuate   his   point.

*drunken confessions! / accepting.

Mahariel does not look at the Inquisitor, not even in his peripheral vision. Instead his dark eyes with their blown pupils focus on the empty bottom of his tankard and the noise of the tavern. ‘YES’ is what he could say and be done with it —- but there is more, so much more. There is a story he has, one to answer her question, but he locks it between blunt teeth.

He already ran once. Nine years and four months ago, he did run away. Nearly a decade prior, a newly appointed Warden-Commander of Vigil’s Keep, disappeared into a mirror much like the one that corrupted him. He left the world behind at its most fragile point and did not care to look back, FOR SHAME, HERO.

The tight line of his jaw feathers as he toys with the griffon around his neck and remembers who wears its twin. He recalls then, golden eyes brighter than sunshine, a laugh purer than the first snowfall of winter, the reasons he left and the reasons he cannot leave again. 

     “we all do, don’t we?” The Warden reaches across the small space between them to pat at the elbow she rests on the tabletop, as if to reassure his presence. ( Whether it be for his sake or hers is debatable. ) “but in the end we do what we must.”

Sabiq's fingers hovered all over the 3D display of his omni-tool as he noted and reread all of the info Shepard has gathered during the geth related missions. He certainly wished that he wouldn't be stuck on this ship and could gather the data himself, but his fever barely left him a choice. What Sabiq however did not envy Shepard for one bit was being under constant fire. During his short military training to prepare for his pilgrimage, Sabiq barely got through all the stress and physical activities; he was an engineer and not a fighter for crying out loud!

   Well, you all certainly look different. Moe stops what she was doing: in the middle of apply paint to her hair in order for the pink to stick to it, to look back at whoever was approaching. Her hands wave in the air, the tip of her fingers tinged pink. She had almost hoped that by setting camp in such a private area, close to a body of water, that she’d be left in piece but apparently that was too much to ask even in fucking Ferelden of all places. Over her crossed legs there’s a small wooden bowl with a viscuous pink liquid while right beside her tights one of her inventions shone in the sun lazily  Not templars. at least she’d never met any qunari as templars, or elven either Mages? 

Brow arch, left thumb up as her hand closed into a fist drags over her open right hand. Eyes fall on the rest of the companions, especially on the dwarf. No templar dwarves either, or mages for that matter. Could dwarves even be mages? Moe had never met one. In general, she thought of the dwarves to be far smarter than the rest, knowing not to get involved in the shenanigans of humans. The piece of wet hair dangles as she continues to watch them all closely, a small half smile forms on her lips, hopefully concealing (and not very well) how nervous the leader of the group made her feel at the possibility of what they could really be  Or Qunari?