#ignames

from the sounds of it, dorian's encounter with the first warden went about as well as athelstan expected; jowin was stubborn on the best of days and downright inflexible on his worst, he would have been concerned if the man did see sense. twenty years since their own first correspondence and the first warden held a steadfast grudge against athelstan for his silence on the true events of the fifth blight. so much so that he still received yearly letters threatening his position and denying all of athelstan’s own requests for information until he could ‘demonstrate similar support in return’.

tristan may be grateful to have athelstan's help again but he strongly suspected that his presence at the cobbled swan would have hindered rather than helped the situation. maybe they all would have been packed up to weisshaupt together. whereas dorian had quickly identified, and used to his advantage, jowin’s obsession with the reputation of the wardens to protect rook’s freedom. swooping in to save the day at the last second, a recurring talent of his and one which athelstan greatly admired and envied.

❝ you remind me of someone. ❞ athelstan eventually said with a grin, ❝ a tutor i had growing up. no one wielded blackmail and guilt like that old man did. aldous never seemed to run out of material. he must have been collecting it since before calenhad. ❞

dorian offered him a pointed side-glance. ❝ i suppose i'll take that as a comment on my demeanor and not my age. ❞

her black mouth twists   into a wry smile.

TIME FLIES THROUGH THE HOURGLASS , always accepting!

@ignames remarked "you made a hell of an exit."

❝     always   do.     ❞ 

she   stands   by   the   cluttered   makeshift   table   for   a   moment   longer,   eyes   closed,   massaging   her   temples.   exits,   for   her,   tend   to   be   explosive   in   the   figurative   or   literal   sense   –   either   way,   a   sight   to   behold.   this   time,   the   trail   of   a   comet   as   it   consumes   itself   &   crashes   from   the   sky.

valeria   hangs   in   the   silence,   hiding   behind   it   like   a   flimsy   shield.   but   what   is   there   to   say?

❝     i'm   sorry   about   your   city.     ❞ 

i   thought   you'd   be   there,   she   doesn't   add;   it's   what   everyone   says   to   her,   &   it's   salt   compacted   into   the   wound.   &   maybe   he   actually   was   there,   &   just   not   enough.   she   looks   at   the   plans   hastily   rescued,   now   thrown   haphazardly   across   the   plank   supported   by   shipping   crates,   &   traces   the   fraying   edges   of   one   that'd   begun   to   curl   in   the   damp   of   this   derelict   safehouse.   how   many   of   these   are   usable   anymore?   how   many   of   their   agents   –   friends,   family   –   did   the   shadows   lose   overnight?

neve   knew   so   many   of   the   bodies   out   there,   she   wonders   if   he   did,   too. 

❝     i   tried   to   hurry.   i   didn't   think   the   venatori   would   gain   a   foothold   this   quickly.     ❞ 

i'm   sorry.

THE CROW HAS CHOSEN TO ROOST UPON THE TOP OF A MASSIVE, HEAVY BOOKSHELF THIS TIME, HIS LEGS CROSSED BENEATH HIM AS HE LEANS BACK AGAINST THE WALL. he's not sure how long he'd been sitting there in the dark, observing, before electing to make his presence known to the mage. most, admittedly, find this practice of his particularly off-putting, but tristan cannot find it within himself to mind. he learns so much more than he otherwise would by lingering, hiding, listening. to consider sacrificing that advantage simply because others might think he's less strange for it seems rather unthinkable to him. granted, his stay in skyhold, however temporary it is bound to be, predicates upon the concept of working with others to solve larger problems – but he keeps to that goal in the loosest possible terms. after all, he's never really been the sort to play well with others, so to speak. and the more he unnerves the majority of the team, the more they choose to give him a wide berth, which suits him just fine.

" bullied and intimidated? is that really what you think I'm doing? " tristan drawls through the dim, glancing up from cleaning his nails with the edge of a dagger for only a moment before going back to his task as though this were a perfectly normal conversation, as though he were not likely just a gargoyle of a silhouette haunting what should have been dorian's space exclusively. " if I were trying to intimidate you, I'd be far more creative than this. " there's something almost haughty about his tone, as if he were offended, and he suppose he would be, if he cared for the opinions of others – or if dorian's response did not admittedly amuse him.

that is his game, of course, to press and press and press against what might be bruising until his subject cracks, even ever so slightly.

" maybe I'm simply trying to mingle like people say I should. tell the boss I'm trying, won't you? " not that tris thinks that anybody truly cares much, let alone dorian, but to be frank, it's about as good as it gets with the viper. he's always clutched his isolation close to his chest like a security blanket, and the idea of interrupting it for want of a conversation of any conversation puts him on edge, no matter how relaxed he seems.

she looks forward to their chats in skyhold's tower, their mutual stance beside the bookshelf as dorian peruses through old tomes and flicks through books without a care in the world. as mundane as it may appear on the outside, it is the mundane hypatia craves at a time like this — peaceful, simple, inconsequential conversation that both calms her and forces her to think. dorian excels at that specific type, which is why she is here again. here above solas's quiet tablescape and surrounded by passing elves or curious soldiers, hypatia lingers in dorian's silent nook, smiling warmly with every comment the tevinter mage makes.

" DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO. " the childish response slips from simeon before he can do anything to stop it – though, once it's out, he quite quickly realizes he wouldn't have bothered anyhow, not any more than he's bothered hiding how annoyed he often feels when he and dorian pavus are stuck in a room together. it seems to baffle people a bit, the way he harbors such a distaste for the company of someone so similar to himself. sim struggles to see what they find difficult to understand. he had never pretended to be able to share the limelight effectively and certainly not one with the other man's attributes. dorian is taller, dorian is somewhat absurdly handsome, dorian is noble and charming and wealthy and learned and certainly a better fucking mage.

and simeon – well. ever since his arrival on the continent, simeon has never felt particularly threatened by another. rather, he's accustomed to being the life of every room, as sparkling as a fine champagne, with the sort of charm that draws the eye and draws others into his orbit with ease. others may be attractive, even delightful company, but they lack sim's magnetism, the infectious energy coursing beneath the surface of him. since his earliest days amongst the nobles in orlais, he capitalized on this, perfecting and layering his allure with precision. he is light and radiance and desire to which few can compare.

except dorian fucking pavus, apparently.