#heraldofdoubt

          They'd  finished  supper  and  put  another  log  on  the  fire  before  Bull  and  Sera  retired  to  their  tents.  The  Western  Approach  is  deceptively  cold  at  night,  all  the  heat  the  sand  must  have  soaked  up  throughout  the  day  having  leeched  out  long  ago.  The  Inquisitor  shares  a  large  stone  with  Blackwall  as  they  sit,  pensively  gazing  into  the  fire.  She'd  offered  first  watch,  and  he  felt  he  ought  to  leave  her  to  it,  so  he  stands  with  a  graceless  grunt,  swipes  sand  and  dirt  off  the  front  of  his  trousers,  but  strong,  cool  fingers  wrap  around  his  wrist  before  he  can  depart,  quick  as  a  serpent's  strike.  She's  a  formidable  creature,  his  Inquisitor,  deceivingly  strong  and  quick  —  scrappy,  he  might  have  called  her,  if  she  weren't  worthy  of  so  much  more.  He  turns,  drops  to  one  knee  to  meet  her  gaze,  his  free  hand  coming  to  rest  atop  her  own.

She stumbles back to Halamshiral, nearly falls through the eluvian, and seeks Guinevere first. The Inquisitor is surprisingly clean, armor almost pristine as it was before she left. But her eyes are shock-wide, and her arm just. . . ends . . . at the elbow. Those she passes hardly notice anything is amiss, though she leans a bit on Cassandra, having twisted her ankle after falling on it awry.

Her cousin pushes through the throng, eyes flick from Evelyn's face down to her arm, then to Cassandra beside her. There is a storm in her glare. “What happened?”

The Inquisitor loosens herself from the Seeker's grasp, floats to a face so familiar it could be her own. She lets Guinevere take her by the shoulders, fret over her, cup her cheeks in her calloused hands. “Evie, tell me.”

“He took it.” Evelyn finds her cousin's eyes and lingers there before her legs give out, her carefully stoic mask cracking like porcelain. Guinevere is there to catch her before her knees meet the marble below, and Evelyn cannot help but fall into her. Her tears are dry, but sobs still wrack and rattle her rib cage, gasping for breath in Guinevere's armored shoulder. The other Trevelyan, the stronger Trevelyan, pulls her into a fierce embrace, whispers calming words through Evelyn's wail.

                    @heraldofdoubt and @vigiilance’s                  ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY THANK YOU

                                                                          {art credit}

When we both made our blogs a year ago today, we’d not even met one another officially until a few days later. Since then, we’ve shared an absolutely incredible year made up of fantastic interactions, storied threads, loving relationships, and wonderful memories. And now, with more than a hundred threads, partners, and almost three thousand followers between us, we want to turn our thanks to all the people who have not only made Dragon Age roleplay an incredible experience for us, but who have kept us coming back again and again.

Thank you for helping us relive the best and worst of Inquisition. Thank you for letting us into your fandoms, for writing in our AU verses. Thank you for letting us be a part of your lives, for being a part of our lives and our muses’ lives. Thank you for loving, laughing, for sharing in all the highs and lows with us. You have helped make us what we are today and we would be nothing without your influence.

It takes a village and we want to thank you all. As a means of recognizing how valuable all of you have been, we’ve linked our blogrolls below–each one a curated list of our favorite people, our dearest friends, and those we can’t wait to start new interactions with.

Cheers to one year, friends, and onward to many more to come.

          Inquisitor Gwendolyne Trevelyan                                     Warden Blackwall                    Independent/Selective                                               Independent/Selective                       Written by BREE                                                             Written by FAY

                           BLOGROLL                                                                   BLOGROLL

THE COLD wind had already started to punish his cheeks, and the tips of his nose and ears. Anyone would have gone back to their chambers in the same situation, but the warden would rather stay outside, fidgeting around to keep the cold away from his bones, than to be doomed to face the unfinished reports he had been making in hopes to help the Inquisition end that madness at once. Alistair had some knowledge that shoud be shared, and even if it was probably not suitable for him to intervene in such matters, the Order already wanted his head; would lending them a hand really hurt that much? Either way, facing the dread of his own sloppy (and sometimes blurry) caligraphy for another five, six hours seemed worse than fighting another Archdemon then. 

                         ' inquisitor ——  if you have a moment, there is something i'd wish to discuss. ' 

                                   && posture is deplorable, shoulders slouch slightly as he carries himself closer to the woman before him. eyes weary, a shocking red throughout from rubbing them in attempts to wake himself. palms open to reveal a stone the shade of BLOOD and a sense of uneasiness falls over him as he looks upon the gem.

HE IS NOT, as he promised, in the way. In his own right, he is everything but; taking an open, empty garage as his own, filling it with what he could salvage, and making a fine, rudimentary home for himself away from the bustle of Sanctuary’s workers. The rest--these farmers, these runners, these makers, these junkers--had almost failed to look twice when he came to town, towing behind him a pack brahmin laden with terminals and wires and crates. They didn’t even notice when he filled his garage the same way he’d filled his sanctuary; terminals and work benches against the back wall, bedding to the right, living to the left. A half circle around the statue of the knight that is no longer there save for in spirit. 

          (Though there are marks on the floor from where this synth           has knelt in its place, hands bowed, eyes turned up to pray           to some forgotten thing.)

And when the sky burns green and crackling, when the radiation storm blows in, he calls for her by name, 

          “Gwen!”

hand outstretched, pulling her into the safety of his garage as he pulls the door down with his one, freed limb. This sanctuary twinkles with low lights, strings of salvaged Christmas decorations that line the walls like great constellations, dimmer under the chartreuse hum of each whirring computer. 

          “Dreadful storms. Worse when there’s no place to go inside to wait them out.”

Lips press together as his head cants, considering her.