#monsterorhero

Maker, her ribs bloody hurt.

Ordinarily, if she’d managed to get into some sort of scrape, Talia would have merely dragged herself off home and knocked back a couple of healing potions before going to sleep. She’d never been particularly good at healing magic or attempting to patch up herself, so that usually did the trick. After so long living in Kirkwall, fights were something she had become well used to, usually for a little extra coin, but this was something different. The healing potion she’d taken already had cleaned up the cut slashing across her right eyebrow – it would probably end up scarring, but Talia could live with that – and the worst of her bruises but there was some sharp pain every time she took a breath that had led her down into Darktown.

Anders’ clinic was rather quiet by the time she arrived, the last patients leaving just as she stepped up to the door and slipped inside. As the other mage spotted her, Talia couldn’t help a slightly sheepish and apologetic smile.

HEEEE HE HE HEEEEE

monsterorhero replied to your post:

u want me to beat up tumblr for u? I’ll fight it, i’ll fight the whole website.

            Home used to be a farm house in Lothering, a mansion in Hightown, and now home’s with one man who’s too damn far away. There’s an old familiar ache that accompanies him on his long walk back, a bitter reminder of his age. He’s not as young as he used to be and his little excursion through the Fade’s taken its toll on him. On the good days, it's only a slight throbbing of his knee, on the bad days it's everywhere and he's counting down to the day when a bad day becomes his final day. It's not a thought he likes to entertain, but when there's so little to keep him occupied on the road and with no one to fool but himself, he no longer sees the point in keeping up a pretence. He supposes it's that wisdom that comes with age that everyone's always talking about.

     Apprehension grips his heart like an icy fist when he comes to a small cave, blood rushes like thunder in his ears and breathing suddenly becomes difficult. The footprints on the ground are fresh, he’s not sure who they belong to and he only has one hope, but the fear that hangs over him is what keeps him from rushing forward. His grip around his staff tightens as he pushes aside a branch.

            He’s never had much faith in the Maker, but right now he’s praying.

    “Honey, I’m home.”