There!  She was looking at him again!  Akorad had caught the elf watching him at least half a dozen times within the past hour, and then writing something in her notebook.  Was she some sort of spy?  If she was, she wasn't a very good one.  Akorad set aside his ale, deciding if he was dealing with a spy it would be best to do so sober.

Still, it didn't make sense for her to be this open about what she was writing if she was a spy, and he was the third in command of a mercenary company working under the Inquisition's banner.  In other words, nobody important enough to spy on.  Which left the question, what was she doing?

Akorad returned to his meal, attempting to keep up a facade of normalcy despite his suspicion.  When he caught the elf woman looking at him again, though, he set down his fork and stood up.  Very aware of where he kept the dagger on his belt in case he should need it, he approached.

  Melwyn sighed, but she couldn’t help but smile. She truly did appreciate the offer, as a distraction from the gratuitous amount of paperwork would have been quite a welcome change. And for a moment, she found herself mulling it over, despite her better judgement. She knew that it wouldn’t be the responsible choice, of course. But even she could admit when she needed a break.

    “You’re going to get us both in trouble.” her fingers coursed through her hair, as her bangs fell over the left side of her face. Why yes, it has been at least three days since she’s last slept. “But I’m listening.”

“Me? Get us in trouble? Perish the thought.” He lay a hand across his broad chest, insult flickering briefly across his face. It was soon replaced by a friendly smile and a hand tugging at the papers on her desk.

    @lavellcn liked for a starter!

    Eon hadn’t taken a day off for himself in a long while. His troupe had travelled far and wide as of late to overcome a myriad of trials and missions. Several rifts had been closed over the past few weeks, so Eon felt he could take a day to himself to relax.

        his eyes FLICKERED up from his desk, the stack of loose parchment and books looking much like some very important military strategy. however, the half hidden CHESSBOARD he had used to plot out a few tentative moves gave the true nature of his work away, to which cullen quickly tried to hide by jolting straight up from his SEAT. ‘i-is there something you wanted to ask about?’

send five times kissed for a thing

one plum wine

      his lips are sticky, sweet with the taste of plum wine. he’s not a      drinker, he never has been, but it is wintersend, and he would      not have the courage to speak to melwyn otherwise. ❝ happy      wintersend, my lady herald, ❞ he says brightly, gifting her      cheek with a sweet, chaste kiss.

twovirtue

      he is a templar, virtue is in his blood. he is the picture of chivalry      around her, because it doesn’t cross his mind to be anything else.      he has been chaste all his life, he has never thought about      anyone... like that. never any of his fellow templars, never anyone      in denerim. and now, despite his burgeoning interest in her, he has      not thought about melwyn in such a scandalous manner. until he      sees her dressed up for the winter palace, fabric hugging her figure,      and he swears his cheeks have been red all day. he’s still utterly      volcanic when it comes time for her and her companions to depart      for orlais, and he stops her only long enough to press a kiss to her      knuckles and wish her luck.

three the lion & the serpent

      he can still see the blood on his hands. still see the light leaving his      dear brother’s eyes, still feel his blade slipping between lucien’s ribs.      in the choas of the moment, he hadn’t even thought about it, all he      could think about was stopping a dangerous apostate. but now, in the      quiet of skyhold, he cannot stop thinking that he made the wrong      choice. that he should have talked him down, tried to steer him down      the path of redemption. he doesn’t realise he’s crying until melwyn’s      there, hands either side of his face. he’s still crying when she kisses      him in the dark of the barracks.

fourlife or death

      it’s finally here. they’ve done everything they can to stop corypheus,      to ready themselves for the final battle. he should be with his fellow      templars, but instead he finds himself outside melwyn’s bedroom      door, trying to pick up the courage to knock. he doesn’t know what      they are; whether they’re friends who hold hands and share kisses      sometimes, whether they’re lovers, whether this is even going to last      once corypheus lays slain and the breach closed for good. but he      knows there’s a good chance they might die tomorrow, and he      refuses to die without having at least asked for a night with her. just      one night, and he could die happy. so he knocks on her door, armed      with flowers from skyhold’s garden, and embraces her with the      passion of a man who knows death waits for him on the sunrise.

five victory

      it makes something in his chest ache watching melwyn run off to      lead the charge against corypheus, and knowing he can’t go with      her. his place is with his fellow knights, holding back the brunt of      corypheus’ forces. every cut, every bruise, they’re all worth it, if it      means melwyn succeeds. and when he sees the breach snap      shut... maker, the relief that floods through him. he should still be      feeling that relief when the choas has died down, but all he can      think is that he can’t feel his legs. or his arms. or... anything, really.      he hears the healers talking, saying he’s lost a lot of blood and      that he likely won’t last the night, but the words are far off and hazy.      but there’s melwyn, her blonde hair shining as bright as the sun in      his last dying vision. he’s not sure if she’s even there, or if it’s just      some hallucination meant to ease him into the afterlife, but he      cracks a weak smile and utters the phrase he’s practising for      weeks, waiting for just the right moment to speak it. ❝ ar lath, ma      vhenan. ❞  

    Melwyn hadn’t even realized that someone was standing behind her. She was usually so busy running around Skyhold like a madman, she didn’t often have time to do anything about her appearance. She didn’t have time to care. But as she fastened the belt of her uniform, she started feeling apprehensive.

    Being Dalish, she’d obviously never attended any sort of formal event like this, let alone this sort of attire. She hated how the color red looked with her hair and eyes, and she hated how small her chest was. She certainly didn’t think she was ugly, but there were still a few things about her appearance that she didn’t like.

   “Ah.. How long have you been standing there?”

    She had been so concentrated on the target she was aiming at, that she hadn’t even noticed Bull approach. That was, at least, until the resounding smack of his hand slapping her ass made his presence known. A startled yelp escaped her, as the surprise caused her to release the arrow before aiming. It was sent flying, missing the target by a longshot, though thankfully not hitting any innocent passersby.

   “Fenedhis lasa!” she exclaimed, her body whipping around to face Bull. The blood boiling beneath her skin had flooded her cheeks, and spread to the pointed tips of her ears. For a moment, she looked as if she was going to yell at him.. But she simply took a deep breath and folded her hands in front of her.

    “…. Okay, I guess I have to ask. Why?”

@lavellcn

The reaction had Bull laughing so hard, hands on his belly and roaring with delight.  He knew Melwyn was distracted, and he knew she wasn’t going to even see it coming.

But her reaction, he hadn’t known exactly how it would go, and the actual end result was priceless.

“You fire your bow better than I expected.”

The moment he says it he realises that he has, once again, put his foot in his mouth so to speak. It is not that he means for things to sound so rude, but Qunlat is a very different language to the common tongue. In Qunlat there is no way so say something that isn’t direct and no real room for manners or euphemisms. It is hard for him to work his way around the delicate nature of common speak, and even harder to do so without coming off as either rude, or an idiot. Still, he at least tries to make things right.