#peacekeep

This is the introductory video for a Lore Series I'm making, overall there will be 36 videos to this series each of which average around 2 mins a piece. These provide concise, bit-sized bits of lore derived about what the Jedi would do as their primary occupation.

I hope this series aids you in some manner!

Here’s the first batch of Lore Videos, I’ll have a trio of 3 lore videos of this series coming out every other day (Sept. 27, 29, Oct. 1, 3, etc) at 12 am PST.

Peacekeeper - Jedi Guardian Occupation

Lore Keeper - Jedi Consular Occupation

Watchman - Jedi Sentinel Occupation

It had been weeks since Madame Villehardouin had written to the chevalier purported to be his father, to ask for his aid in seeking matriculation of the young Aymeric into the Academie des Chevaliers in Val Royeaux. And it had been weeks, therefore, that Aymeric had waited with the jubilant restlessness that tired anyone in his presence. 

It had been all he could talk about for days. He had waited weeks for the letter’s return, but had waited far longer, years longer, for some form of communication with his father, some small acknowledgement, recognition. Madame Villehardouin had always assured him that the chevaliers were the most honorable men in the nation, in all of Thedas. That death before dishonor was their code and their creed, and that his father, among the chiefest of their number, would be proud to have a son who followed in his footsteps. 

But he knew what sort of answer he’d received when the lady of the house had spoken dismissively of his father that morning. First a gentle redirection of his asking after the letter, then a flurry of unbridled revile that turned to full on denunciation. How chevaliers were an ungodly lot, brutes that deserved the flames of Andraste’s wrath and worse (her son excepted, of course). 

His father had not agreed to the sponsorship. Nor would he acknowledge Aymeric as his own. Not as a trueborn son, nor as a bastard. It was a a devastation Aymeric did not anticipate, and therefore could not prepare himself for. It was inconceivable to him that the only blood family he had left in this world would choose to remain unknown to him, he who had been raised among the tight-knit Villehardouins to honor and love the blood of their blood. 

But he was not a Villehardouin. He was a servant who lived off the kindness of that extraordinary family, and had more important things to do in that commission than wax pathetic about a father he’d never known. He had work, chores to do. And after the morning’s tumult, it seemed the best to take his mind off that particular complication. 

✭ ✰ ⭑ ✹ @peacekeep

Iblis stretched his long limbs with rumbling groan emanated deep in his chest. The divan in which he reclined was extraordinarily comfortable, the recognition of which should not have come as a surprise to him (but did) given that it was of his own design.

Everything in this palace was of his own design, done to the specifications of his mistress, and executed with meticulous detail. She had wanted to become a princess, the little urchin. And he had made it so: pale marble walls mottled with gold stretching high to meet cathedralic ceilings, prismatic stained glass letting in sunlight filtered through kaleidoscopic hues, exceptionally ornate architecture that was unparalleled in the civilized world. It was so beautiful, so rare and incomparable in its wonder, who would want for more? 

Verity, he hoped. His mistress. The owner of his vessel, and to whom he was oathbound until she exhausted her last two wishes. Which she seemed more reticent to spend than his previous owners had been. There was a certain clever glint in her wide green eyes when she spoke to him, as though she were weighing her words, knowing how easily he might choose to interpret anything as a wish to be granted. So he’d try another approach.

@peacekeep

I like to think of Verity sitting in Sebastian’s lap looking very serious as she teaches him how to speak Orlesian to her satisfaction. Correcting his vowels and pushing out her lips to demonstrate the softer umlauts, soft pats of encouragement to his cheek when he does well. He smiles at her indulgently, gesticulates sometimes for emphasis, but his broad hands always return to where they rest on her slender thighs. Probably says things wrong on purpose just to elicit that bossy little air she gets that he finds strangely endearing, when her eyes flash in annoyance and she starts to speak sharply in her dark little voice.