#shieldofshame

Clattering steel against steel rung through the air as the commander ran through another round of training exercises with the troops. He’d shout orders here, encouragement there – straight-faced but content with their growth. There were always threats lingering in the far-off distance, trying to disrupt the precarious balance of everyday life. From what he was seeing now, he had confidence in the future. For this moment, he could invest in the idea of hope.

His comrade’s presence was silently noted as Samson came to stand beside him. Cullen leaned slightly so that the man was able to hear him over the noise.

@shield-of-shame​ (Felix) wrote: “The most poisonous snakes are often the most beautiful.”

          Part of Dorian perked up at the mention of snakes. He did have a love for those animals. While it could never compare to the immense adoration which Fereldans seemed to possess for their dogs, snakes were able to hold a special place in Dorian’s heart. They were simple enough creatures: terrifying in their beauty. Just like Dorian himself attempted to be ( while he would never quite live up to Mae’s abilities to embody that, he fancied himself a decent runner up ). 

          ❝ Now, Felix, I must ask... are these snakes of which you speak literal or metaphorical? ❞ In both cases, he spoke true. It was likely that Felix spoke literally of snakes living throughout Thedas. His mind was a scholar’s mind, just as Dorian’s, though Felix’s penchant lay rather with numbers as opposed to words and histories as Dorian’s own. 

It was one of those miserable nights when oblivion sounded better than facing it all [wooow dramatic was the name of the game]. It was also apparently one of those nights when he was denied such pleasure as getting shit faced for no reason other than doing so. That was AMERICA. In AMERICA, someone could tip back beers with careless abandon until their asses abandoned the stools they once sat upon! He must have had some look on his face that made his usual barkeep lift a brow.

Mac kicked him out.

Okay, so not so much kicked him out. There weren’t many people who could kick a big ogre like him out if he didn’t want to be. He just strongly suggested with his eyes and a grunt and a flick of his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Out,’ the gesture said. You will not bring that trouble into here, the look finished.

So he left, because why bother with fighting when all he really wanted to do was get to the drinking? Good thing he lived in a massive metropolis like Chicago! It wasn’t like the Farms down in Missouri, where there might not be another option down the block! It was a one size fits all kind of a place. That wasn’t the case there in HIS town.

So he went to another bar [sticking his metaphorical middle finger up at Mac - well well well well out of his sights, though Harry didn’t take that into consideration during his childish need to express his frustrations]. Another bar didn’t quite... suit him as well as Mac’s. One: being that he was a tall fellow. Too skinny, true, but tall, scarred, adorned in quite the suspiciously cliche detective attire [really.... a duster, no hat though], two: that he nearly always brought trouble with him and Mac’s was a place where it was understood that trouble would wait OUTSIDE. New places weren’t really Harry’s gig. But sometimes needs must?

One thing that should have turned him off of the new place immediately was the fact that there were very few patrons inside. A GOOD place at least had a loyal fanbase, right? He noticed those things [hello, detective!]. It didn’t really have the depressed air of a normal bar [WAS it a bar?? kind of felt different....]. But there was weird inside. Just that feeling of WEIRD.

There was a tall gent stuck up in one corner of the place. A young man. Looked like he fell into a hamper or something and came up wearing whatever happened to stick to him. Big all floppy hat and everything. He was damn near as tall as he was, but pale, paler than pale, gaunt even. Sickly [drugs obviously]. He had spilled quite a mound of salt down on the tabletop and was strategically moving it around in fun shapes with a toothpick.

Yeah, this might actually be his kind of a place after all.

Harry turned, ignoring the activity behind him, planting his ass down on the stool that he would hopefully be vacating satisfying drunk. Eventually. 

Samson: Yes.

Fenrir: I was hula hooping. Arthur and I attend a class for fitness and for fun.

Samson: Oh, my God.

Fenrir: I've mastered all the moves. The pizza toss, the tornado, the scorpion, the oopsie-doodle.

Samson: Why are you telling me this?

Fenrir: Because no one will ever believe you.

A wooden practice sword is held out before Samson. She holds it hilt-first for him to take, dark eyes kept masked in their regard. Khaliya is many things and many faces, but the one that he will see today holds no emotion -- and no judgment. Her Keeper had said that it is one’s enemies that keep you sharp. She intends to learn more, even if every fiber of her being is whispering to recoil, to leave. She knows that what she will ask will likely be spat upon anyways. In that, at least, there is a saving grace. 

@shield-of-shame

“But ‘tisn’t the ability with which to save thyself, or of thy Soul,” argues passionate Roland.

“But the comprehensive capability, to discern whether or not someone, or something, canst be trusted. As a pretty flower in the wild Garden canst be borne the most poisonous one of all, and as art all potatoes the most wholesome food for the healing genetics, forsooth.”

DAI PARTY BANTER ( ACCEPTING AS STARTERS )

She’s not one for parading prisoners in the streets – it’s petty, often cruel, entirely unnecessary. Even so, it’s impossible to transport prisoners with any real secrecy around here, no matter how hard she tries, and so it’s no surprise that she finds him wounded. It takes some effort to keep the irritation from her face ( it’s a matter of pride, sometimes – her prisoners are hers, and she doesn’t like anything that challenges the hold she has over what is hers ) but she manages a nod, her expression impassive. 

     “You’ll find there’s a great deal of anger toward your Red Templars,” she says idly. “Did you happen to see who attacked you? I don’t take assaults to prisoners of war lightly; it will be dealt with, I can assure you.”