#helllllo

thalia. luke. the prophecy. her thoughts are going a million miles an hour as she stares up at the cabin ceiling. brown eyes blink against the darkness, moonlight creeping in slivers. she can hear the soft snores of the others and she turns to her side with a wince. her shoulder still hurt where alison's arrow pierced it and her bed felt too hard to be still. she couldn't sleep. how could chiron think any of them would sleep ? she let's out a small huff before she flings her blanket off of her, feet touch the hardwood with a soft thud she's sure no one heard, and she offers one last glance around before she reaches for her sweater.

she's out the cabin and walking. fingers pulling at the cuffs of her sweater nervously before she's stopped. feet shift her wait nervously as she wonders if she should turn around or not. brown eyes stare at the poseidon cabin door and she bites the bottom of her lip. maybe she should go back and try and sleep. maybe she should walk off the anxiety she's feeling. she looks back over her shoulder the way she came and her nose scrunches as she thinks. maybe he's asleep and she'd be waking him. he needed his rest after everything after all. she takes in a big breath, palms wiping the sweat off her palms onto her pajama pants and then leans forward and knocks.

it's a soft knock. part of her hopes he doesn't hear it and she can walk away. a bigger part of her hopes he can't sleep either and he's been waiting for her knock. she rocks back on her heels, waiting patiently for the door to swing open or nothing at all. please open the door. the thought keeps her there as she counts in her head the seconds until she has to leave and resolve herself to her own company.

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD PROMPTS PT 1

It starts as a second pulse, something that slithers alongside the natural beating of his heart. It is utterly locked within his chest that he desperately wishes to push outwards.

A wave, radiating, only to crash against some unseen shore.

It is suffocating, this anger and rage, that reverberated upwards since sinking to his knees in a moment of utter weakness. It breeds a type of desperation that is unbecoming of his will. His hands shake from it.

I am a weapon, the mantra reverberates in time of that second rhythm. It should be seamless, the transition from steel to flesh — to drop his blade would be a shame even if his body aches from the bruises it has been dealt.

A severing.

An amputation.

Kirk would be nothing without the weight of a killing instrument within his palm.

I am better than this.

He twists his wrist, stabs the end of his sword into the hard packed earth now and uses the leverage to force his way to his feet.

Standing, he towers over her cloaked form.