ordered these from @orxinus 's preorders a bit ago! Quality is amazing, so glad I bought :))

Worth every cent

They'd meant to offer some form of comfort. Alanari hadn't known Hawke well, and maybe that was why she'd....

There's no saving someone in a fraught moment like that. Someone had offered that as consolation, they thought, but they'd shrugged that off as easily as Varric had walked away.

At Skyhold, another hurt waits. Orana's eyes are reddened, mouth thin. They're not welcome, they know, but try anyway.

Alanari had lost a parent, too. All, in one sweep.

They know her pain.

   "So..." Orla walks slowly over to where she is working. It seems that whenever Orla came to the Shadow Dragon's hideout that she was there. Always cleaning. Always organizing something. Probably half driving Tarquin and the Viper up the walls with the touching things. And only that made her smile. Humming, the mage killer rests against the entry way, watching her work before continuing "That was... certainly something."

There is only so much one can do. Only so much one can say.

Only so much one can fight.

Only so much a body can give.

And she pleads, she prays, her whispers do not fall on deaf or false ears. He will need time, only if it can be given, only if he can forge the river through it. That path is his own, stained with his own follies, his own reasons, his own blood, and her whispers keep him somewhere in the in-between, somewhere not quite here, not there.

        ▌ continued. "Oh, but I really don't need it," Orana starts as Hawke notices the way her eyes linger on a particular booth within the busy Hightown market. The elf quickly rearranges the produce in her basket, giving her hands something to fiddle with. She reminds herself to be more careful, Hawke has already been so generous with her she doesn't want to seem ungrateful, "W-We should finish getting our things, it would be terrible if the butter melts."

And then there's so easy it's suspicious.

Bruno's guard is up as he enters the Herald's quarters, clutching the basket of laundry in his hands like it's a shield against a dagger in the dark. No dagger comes, though, shadowed or otherwise, and he's free to plod into the room like he owns the place. No one had answered when he'd called at the door (at least none that he'd heard), so for the moment it may as well be.

It's nicer than he pictured when he got the debrief, even hearing the caveat that the Herald was more a political prisoner than a punitive one. The floors shine under his boots, the pillows are plump and plush upon the bed, there's even a sitting area, like she entertains guests.

If he didn't know better, he'd say he'd have walked right back into Severina's estate. Maybe with a few homier touches.

It's more than Tevinter had ever given him, but then again, a cage is a cage.

He moves hesitantly, placing the basket on a chaise lounge, empty besides a half-finished knitting project. Refolding the few clothes that had gotten mussed in the hike up here, he resents how second nature it is. Like stepping back into an old life he hasn't quite managed to shake off yet.

A whisper sounds from the corner, and he near jumps out of his skin.

Still calming the quick pace of his heart, the impression of his hidden dagger digs under his clothes as he slips around the corner. The figure crouching in the corner on their hands and knees doesn't look like much, almost enough to make him forget who he's here to keep an eye on.

Almost.

He'd seen her before this, albeit always from a distance. Far enough that he hopefully doesn't look like a hungry buzzard, like the half-dozen other spies that swarm around Tevinter's holy Herald. Close-up, she looks grim. Still young, maybe of an age with him, but a little dull behind the eyes. Not stupid like, but

"M'lady," he sputters, the deferential servant act easy to pick up, given his stuttering heartbeat. He bows before he knows his bowing, head bent reverently towards her. "I didn't think- you weren't-"

He almost excuses himself, but thinks better of it. Might not have a chance alone with her again, at least not anytime soon. Redirecting to make his intrusion seem like it can be a help, he asks:

"Are you... sorry if I'm assuming, are you looking for something?"

❛ ghosts do not have to be scary. they can be comforting. ❜ @orxna

it was supposed to be reassuring, she supposed. eyes trained on the fire in front of her, gaze having lingered long enough that hawke was sure she would see spots if she were to look away. ghosts didn't have to be scary. she let out a sigh, barely shifting in her chair. the manor was so empty nowadays... the silence was an entity in itself and it grew larger and larger until it threatened to swallow up hawke herself.

"i'm not afraid that they exist, sweetling," came her delayed response -- her throat was dry. when was the last time she spoke? "i'm terrified that they don't." haunt me, she begged. please don't let that be the last time i heard you. SAW you. held you in my arms. a stubborn few tears welled in her eyes that she moved to wipe away with her sleeve. a shaky exhale. "it's fine. i'm sorry -- it's fine." and just like that, she sniffed and felt... numb. the deep, ACHING sadness that she felt just moments ago switched off. she couldn't have orana worrying.