#seeblood

“You-” she started, and walked closer, brows furrowing. “You must be the Champion.” Cassandra greeted and stopped a few steps before the man. “I am Seeker Pentaghast. I apologize for not joining you earlier in the War Room.” she finished, and let her features relax just slightly.

“THAT  IS  HOW  YOU  GET  CAUGHT.”  she  is  not  a  mage  -  and  she  has  the  sense  not  to  dress  like  one.  voice  drifts  from  the  door  of  the  cottage,  gaze  fixed  on  the  countenance  of  the  man  before  her.  what  an  odd  thing,  to  wish  to  evade  capture  and  yet  wear  garb  that  points  you  out  as  HUNTED.  pearl  thinks  for  a  moment  of  a  red  cloak  and  the  sound  of  rushing,  girlish  laughter  as  a  trunk  of  dresses  is  flung  open.  “dressing  like  a  MAGE.”  she  had  always  been  the  more  sensible  one  -  the  QUIET  BANK  bordering  a  GUSHING  RIVER.  “there  are  less  conspicuous  things  you  could  wear.”  @seeblood

“ i’m here now. ” not a platitude, but instead, a promise, his hands in hers, both calloused and expended with far too little to show for it. “ if you’ll have me still. ”

When she realizes Hawke is here, on the battlements she's wandering after yet another nightmare, she yelps aloud, the ends of her hair lighting on fire and tears pouring suddenly down her cheeks. He looks to her and her hands raise rapidly, habitually, to brush away any concern that might follow. "S — Sorry! Not — y - your fault!" That she's crying, or her hair; she notices the flames and manages to put them out. "My fault. I can't ——" Every emotion she feels feels like a whole sun behind her ribs, devouring and being devoured. It's too much. She's so grateful for it, but the momentary surprise and the drowning empathy and ache threaten to drown her, like so much else. "Not your fault. I'm just — like this, be — because of the —" Inhale. Exhale. She can't imagine how much worse this would have been if they'd met at Haven. "Hello. Sorry."

@seeblood requested a starter !

"i have a cousin who was at the gallows." esyllt says after a stilted silence. "you look different than i imagined, from his letters." she wonders what arlin would think of the figure he had described in letters interacting with his cousin. the man died at the conclave, so it isn't as though she has a way of finding out.

          hawke,  the champion of kirkwall—or garrett,  as he might prefer to be called—was not someone aurora ever would’ve imagined trusting in.  not that he was untrustworthy,   but rather,  that she’d ever have the chance to speak to him at all—-let alone so deeply.  aurora need not imagine as to whether or not garrett has his own share of inner turmoil and conflict…  not even the entire book describing his life as the ‘champion’ would be needed.  the fact that he’s regarded as a hero,  as a myth or living bit of folklore speaks enough.           it makes aurora almost feel…  guilty about her own turmoil.  compared to what garrett must’ve dealt with  (and still deals with perhaps),  the weight on her shoulders feels highly exaggerated.  but even then,  it doesn’t feel any lighter.           aurora smiles for a moment as she lets out a brief humorless laugh.  amidst the silence,  she struggles and inevitably fails to find something to say.  aurora had always been the one to comfort others when she could,  even if she could not heal them.  helping others comes so easily…  why is it that helping herself is the hardest?           “  thank you,  “    is all she can manage to utter.  her voice is quiet,   her spirits seemingly broken for the night.  aurora knows all sorts of things she can talk about,  but there’s no idea of where to start.   she fears the moment she mentions one thing,  everything else follows—and like a great tide from the sea,  it crashes down onto the both of them,  engulfing them entirely.  garrett’s kindness is appreciated…  but she believes he has enough on his mind.