#ofshieldbash

he can only STARE -- watch as the woman bashes the straw filled dummy with her sword over and over again -- splitting cloth, watching strings of straw fall to the ground. he listens to her grunt -- watches the way the sun shines off her raven hair. familiar. that hair. much like his own. well, perhaps that was just a PENTAGHAST trait...

finally, he steps forward, a smile upon his lips, hands resting upon the hilt of the sword upon his hip. he may not be as SKILLED in battle as she was -- but he known back in the castle for his excellence in swordsmanship. perhapss, that is just another PENTAGHAST charm. 

❝ cassandra. ❞ her name rolls of his tongue, as if he had said it many times before. in fact, he hasn’t. it was their first meeting. but he has heard so many tales -- ferdinand was very descriptive. ❝ it seems we meet at last. ❞

comforting hug

The banquet was going well enough. The most recent Orlesian (minor gentry and nothing more) to corner them–well, corner them was maybe a touch dramatic, but not really–had been…polite. Alarmingly so. Alistair played the Game with all the grace and subtlety of a war hammer, and Cassandra with even less, but they had both at least learned to translate it into some semblance of regular politics.

There is a haze, the air stained green, and in the center of it Alistair can see Corypheus and a gaggle of Grey Wardens trying to end the world.

He explains, afterwards, in halting words that his failure to get the Wardens to listen is apparently twofold; that those he calls family would end the world for their own terror. His gaze is distant, though he stirs when Shepard puts a hand on his shoulder.

You cannot save them, Alistair, the Nightmare croons at just the wrong moment. You cannot stop them. Not then. Not now. They will tear themselves apart and leave behind nothing but wreckage. And you. Always you.

Alistair’s grip on his sword goes limp, the tip of the blade striking the ground. Cassandra closes her fingers around his before the sword can fall from his hand entirely. On his other side, Shepard loops one of her arms through his. Like some sort of clockwork toy, he jerks back into motion as they start walking. Letting them tow him for a moment, he shakes his head to get his bearings again and glances over his shoulder at Dorian, Sera, and Stroud.

“Come on.” He sounds almost like himself as he says it. “We need to keep moving.” He musters a smile. “After all, we wouldn’t want to miss whatever comes next.”

Shepard ruffles his hair before she lopes ahead, her boots splashing through the green ichor that goes up past their ankles. Cassandra disentangles their hands, but he catches her’s again at the last moment, giving her fingers a squeeze. Her smile is tired, but genuine, before he releases her hand and they keep moving.

He can fall apart later. He’ll have plenty of time to do so. Cassandra already has a corner dedicated to him falling to pieces (he should probably find that worrying, but mostly he finds it sort of comforting) and Shepard will know where to find him when she decides the best way to cheer him up is to let Bethany climb on him.

Varric set his pen back into the jar of ink and quirked a brow as he noticed the Seeker standing watch over him. He was sure she had been there for a while, but work came first and he wasn’t entirely thrilled with her visits. Not that she wasn’t great conversation but the two never seemed to click for some strange reason. Casually he leaned back in the chair, arms folded behind his head, and grinned.