#ladyoftheanderfels

          ♕ —— A flood of anger and frustration took               over  her;  hands clenching into  tightly bound               fists    at     her    sides.    Given    any    other               circumstances,  the princess would have held               her tongue and would have allowed the anger               to silently  dissipate in  her thoughts but today               was different  and he had broken  through her               patience.  Viktoria’s gaze  fell  upon him,  long               and hard as the silence gathered between the               two. Her brows furrowed together as she drew               in                a                sharp                 breath. 

                  ❝ All you care about is yourself! ❞

                                         It was difficult not to notice the anger building up in the princess. Starting subtle, restrained by years of a ladylike upbringing.      Sansa had been much the same in those last few years at Winterfell when he had known her. It had something amusing--         something that would have made him smile at her in a mocking way, at her expensive. For the moment he met the hard stare with an apathetic one.     Until she spewed those words, that was. They cut deeper than he cared to admit,  and the smile he flashed her did a poor job on hiding how he felt. Yet the tone in which he spoke would have anyone believe he was amused, spitting out a jape.  

The late afternoon's sun forced Casper's eyes into a squint as he traveled directly into its light. The Orlesian forests just west of Val Chevin were beautiful, but they did little to block out the sun's brightness on its setting path. Certainly, this was only a problem due to the archer's own decision to move westward at this hour - a fact he accepted and continued on, a sleeved arm moving to rest upon his forehead in attempt to block the light.

In truth, his exposure to this circumstance was without purpose, as he had absolutely nowhere to be. He'd recently been into town to sell what he could and restock any supplies he could see himself needing in the near future. Casper was simply in the mood to walk...in the wrong direction, apparently. Pippin, his mutt, followed happily behind him, smart enough to remain in the man's shadow to shield his own eyes.

After a long while of striding along, the archer was drawn from his thoughts by a quiet whining behind him. The sound was only ever presented to him with good reason, and so Casper turned slowly and kneeled next to his companion. Placing a gentle hand upon the animal's back, he spoke just barely above a whisper. "Was ist das, Pip?"

The dog's eyes were focused ahead of him, so the man craned his neck to listen carefully. It wasn't long before he caught a faint rustling just past some nearby bushes. Given that Pippin seemed more concerned than was to be expected with your average rustling, Casper decided he'd look into its source.

CUTIE

⏀ describe their usual smile

Casper is almost always smiling, but he tends to keep his lips closed when he does, concealing his teeth. That slight bit of hiding himself is due to his shy nature, though his smile is still warm and welcoming. Whenever he laughs or smiles so wide that his teeth do show, however, he often turns away slightly in a subconscious attempt to hide it.

❖ describe their hands

His hands are quite large, calloused and rough from his years of archery and fletching. 

❞ write a quote they would find themselves saying

          ♕ —— Viktoria kept her eyes focused on the green               grass that  seemed to cling  to the sides of her shoes,               leaving  it’s dewy drops against the  fabric where they               would  then begin to soak through.  It had been some               months since she  had retreated to  Westeros and the               two  girls had been  through  more than either wished                                                 to speak of. 

                        ❝ You are wiser beyond your years,                                     Lady Sansa. And you are much                               stronger than you let others believe.                                      I wish I had your courage. ❞

{  ♟ *;･ﾟ❄︎ —

          Courage? Strength? Others always seemed to somehow              make her out to be so much more than she truly was.              Sansa was not brave, not courageous. That was Arya,              Robb, her lady mother, the Starks of old. Someone who              was not and would never be Sansa.

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Send me a word and I will write a drabble with our characters:Wanweird - An unhappy fate.

     Denerim was burning. 

     If it weren't for the blood pushing up out of her throat, spilling from Inara's shaking lips as her mind slowly faded into the dark and cold of the rain-drenched stone, for the way her life was draining out and washing across those cobbled streets in every direction around the crack between every stone, the whole street seeming to shine red in the dim moonlight that pushed through the clouds, for the death that was creeping from her extremities and taking over the core of her body, quieting her breathing and stilling her every motion, Inara might have smiled. 

     The attack had been so sudden, those assumed-defeated creatures swelling up into the city like the blood that ran from her every wound. It shouldn't have been possible, all of those Darkspawn. They were supposed to be defeated, banished back into the dark and cold of the Deep Roads. This was not a Blight; everything was wrong, everyone was terrified. 

     But they won. 

     The Wardens stationed in the city, however small their numbers, had rallied the guards and destroyed every single one of the creatures before the castle had fallen, saved most of the citizens by ushering them behind the prison walls, the castle gates, and the gates that protected the Arl's Estates. The elves had burned the bridge to the Alienage; between the fire and their archers, led by the Warden Tabris, they yet lived. 

     Every victory came at a cost, however. And this time -- finally, she might have said if she could speak, made Nathaniel's eyes narrow at her more out of concern and something almost resembling fondness than actual irritation -- among those costs were her life. She was dying. 

     And then he was there. He was holding her, his armor shining in the moonlight and his hair glittering gold. It had been so long since she'd seen him, he almost looked like a ghost. Or an angel; which one took your soul away when you died? She couldn't remember. She couldn't really remember anything, though, all of it draining away as she shook in the cold, held in the world for a few, shimmering moments only by the warmth of his fingers, and then, his lips as they pressed against hers. 

     He told her he loved her, and she saw tents and skin and moonlight and the crackle of magic, impossible and wonderful and unforgettable things. The pain disappeared, and she forgot it all, remembered only him and love and want. 

     "I love you, too," she said like she was speaking to the past. And, in some sense, she likely was. 

     Then she saw a stranger's face, a woman's face, and she saw tears. 

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