#mxrkedluminary

a childhood memory of her father

Note: ‘that lyrium has already been mined’ is my headcanon for the dwarven way of saying ‘that ship has sailed’. Because I have too much fun reinventing idioms for fictional worlds. 

          “I found this, Inquisitor. Kept it with my things and had forgotten about           it until just now. Picked it up in Riel, last we were in the Exalted Plains.”

He notices more than most, if only perhaps because he watches, often silent and reserved. The Inquisitor is herself, inquisitive, and he has watched her enthusiasm for turning over artifacts and tomes alike. The book he offers is weathered, faded cover roughly hewn, but it is offered with a kind expression, a slight smile, an acknowledgement that he listens and, when possible, cares. 

The Emerald Graves are as beautiful as they are dangerous.  The hills were verdant, grass like the precious stone the land was named for. Everything seemed to sparkle and carry a headiness about it. Like wine, Cole thought distantly. It was a lot like the way alcohol affected the minds he listened to. He had never had it himself but he imagined it was a lot like this. It always sent his mind swimming in the most pleasant of ways and pulled the tension from his shoulders. Here he wasn't forced to be human or spirit. Here he was just one other being in a forest of perfection.

He was silent for a long time as he followed behind Atai, carrying an empty knapsack made of worn leather for the herbs in addition to the one full of potions and bandages in case they ran into a particularly nasty bear or a stray Templar. His daggers were already sharp and fresh from the whet stone, harnessed to his back in such a way he could easily reach it. There was nothing in his posture, however, that said he would be reaching for it anytime soon. Instead he smiled, as rare as it was. The expression was soft, wondering. Not a perfect smile from someone who had long perfected it but the crooked kind, a hesitation, a whisper.

Whisper or not, it was soon gone to his usual expressionless gaze as he pushed up a wall so that he could focus on the mage that walked slightly ahead of him. They were looking for something, he remembered vaguely. But what? His memory had never been to terribly good as was common with spirits, but it was becoming slowly better and- “Blood of the beloved, welled up into tiny gems, berries fit for the maker on a bed of glossed green. We look for prophets Laurel. We look for… a vine… a vine… blessings that hang from the walls, little charms in the form of leaves. Perhaps it will bring us a good harvest, perhaps it will keep us warm. Arbor Blessing.”

( Drabble Meme ) | I broke the 4 - 5 sentence rule.

         If she was supposed to feel a wash of sadness, she did not. It felt as if she had been preparing herself for this moment to come; to avoid that guilt & dismal feelings of DEATH. She had not lost something here, she gained. Days of verbal insults, days THINKING she was to grow into something hated ( washed away ). Today she thinks something is w r o n g with her because of this woman & she was supposed to be BROKEN that she was dead? She was not. They say the house is hers, the land - & she laughed. This isn’t what she wanted, to stay locked in this house of memories of a child who THINKS she had a shot at having a mother. She wants to leave, be something & grow into something that isn’t a reflection of her childhood. & while she could of left at any given time, she used the excuse of free food & a warm home that kept her locked in place. But, now she was f r e e - she could leave the psychological abuse, she could overcome the many struggles she was faced with to