#multiplayr

describe solas’s… sadness | not accepting

it is often muted, and not by mistake.

if something strikes solas as sad the first thing to change is his voice. it drops, growing soft and a little distant. these are smaller moments, most often found travelling with him. when he stops and says “my people built a life here... it must have been something to see” it is a mournful observation, genuine sadness for both the fallen kingdom of the dales and the passing of elvhenan.

but if it’s a more potent sadness he gets fidgety. you can see it in the cutscene where he gives you his personal quest, he gestures almost constantly during that scene, at odds with other scenes where his arms are still-- often anchored on a staff or behind his back. his expression will crumble, and his voice might break.

he doesn’t cry, though. not even after losing wisdom, at least not in front of people. instead, he’s quick to turn on the mages, anger allowing him to forget his mourning and once he can’t use that, he leaves. it’s the same with almost any emotionally charged moment for solas, he peaces out the second he knows he’s going to break. there are only a few people solas feels comfortable crying in front of.

＊ ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭━☆ﾟ.*·。ﾟ   𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝     ↷     for  @multiplayr​ .  ♡

" lose the battle, win the war. "

victory  is  not  always  a  beautiful  thing.     theirs  had  been  a  war  won  in  inches,   half  of  it  in  the  trenches  of  bureaucracy,   paper  soldiers  with  weapons  forged  from  officiousness  bleeding  ink  and  salt  and  dust.     had  it  really  been  a  victory,   in  the  end?     had  it  really  been  worth  it   —   playing  the  international  stage  and  ensuring  the  curtain  hiding  their  sins  was  spotless,   that  it  fell  just  so,   all  for  the  impresarios  in  their  board  rooms  to  clap  and  sign  off  on  more  of  the  same?     if  victory  became  defined  by  tallying  numbers,   by  ensuring  that  yours  were  bigger  or  smaller  than  that  nebulous  theirs,   did  you  win  at  all?

when  you  lose  a  leader,   it  is  at  once  a  personal  loss  and  the  loss  of  the  many.     angela  remembers  bloody  hands  and  dirt  under  her  nails,   remembers  saying  his  name  until  her  throat  at  last  went  raw,   remembers  telling  him  to  stay  alive.     she  remembers  the  months  afterwards  when  she’d  somehow  forget,   thumbing  the  chat - thread  with  jack’s  name  on  her  tablet  because  she’d  just  heard  the  most  egregious  schiesdreck  that  he  would  have  a  field  day  over  with  her.     she  remembers  every  gut - punch  moment  where  the  air  turned  to  wet  cement  in  her  lungs  when  she  realized  he  wasn’t  there  to  laugh  with  her  anymore.

the  voice  is  damning  in  its  familiarity   ––   and  yet,   it  is  a  stranger’s.     she  feels  the  familiar  leaden  weight  in  her  chest,   that  ever - blooming,   ever - withering  mote  of  mourning  not  laid  to  rest.

she  remembers  realizing,   remembers  ice - hot  fury  and  jubilation  coursing  through  her  veins,   tears  spilling  and  spilling  as  she  sobbed  her  way  through  a  bottle  of  cheap  vodka.     she  remembers  meeting  his  gaze  behind  the  visor  the  next  day,   clear - eyed  and  distant,   pretending  she  wasn’t  mourning  him  anew.     she  doesn’t  know  if  she  resents  the  fact  that  her  plea  was  answered     [  stay  alive,   i’ll  find  you,   i  swear  it  ]   or  that  her  broken  promise  is  unbroken  once  more.     she  doesn’t  know  if  this  is  part  of  the  war  too,   if  victory  means  losing  the  man  she  called  a  friend   &   finding  a  stranger  in  his  place.     peace  comes  at  a  steep  cost,   and  angela  does  not  know  if  she  can  pay  it  again.

i  cannot  fight  wars  for  which  i  do  not  know  the  cause.       she  wets  her  lips,     whets  her  teeth  against  the  stone  of  time.       we  were  looking  for  peace,   but  it’s  clear  now  that  it  is  not  found  in  death.          but  what  do  i  know  of  death ?       words  unspoken,   flowers  laid  at  an  empty  grave.          “   it’s  funny;   i  once  knew  a  man  who  said  the  same  thing.     i  would  like  to  think  he  chose  his  battles  wisely,   but  now  i  don’t  know  anymore.   ”  

“i do not know what you thought would happen.   you, of all people, should know better.”

Acts of Affection: Semi-Accepting.

☀   -Singing to sleep.

0200 HOURS. 

Quinn wakes with a start, a quiet fear; fists curled tight enough that red crescent marks bleed her palms. There are echoes. Cold glass and frost and ice and the sound of people talking, but always too distant to make out. She hears a voice, now; less distant, more tinny. Blinks, drowsily, but remains still. Her pulse is like a jackhammer, like loud drums in her ears. It takes a while to understand what she’s hearing. 

It’s familiar. Recognized. The nostalgia hits like a wave, dark and relentless. A young boy slumped in a chair, bowl of cereal in one hand, tablet in the other. The song filtering through as he watches, eyes rheumy and wet. He sniffs, wipes at his face with the collar of his pajama shirt. ‘Why are you crying?’ she asks. 

‘He lost his son.’ 

Quinn’s breath shudders, broken up as she presses a fist to her mouth. The singing stops. The only noise is the faint snores of the other agents, punctuated by her own disjointed breathing. A few seconds pass, and she turns to look over. The others slumber in the cots, all except for a blinking pair of red eyes, gleaming in the dark —- pointed at her. 

‘He lost his son.’ Still echoes. The memory slips between her fingers. It gets harder to remember what that voice sounds like. 

“Genji.”

“I apologize. I did not mean–”

[ クイン. ] Im only concerned. its important to know if you will need one. they can be a disadvantage

straight white boys texting: accepting.