#st4ysoft

the witcher, the last wish // selectively accepting // @st4ysoft @contrabends

Solas cannot stop himself from snorting at the comment, one hand holding onto his staff, shifting the stance softly as they waited for the Inquisitor to finish their dealings with Fairbanks.

Was this place not built upon a dream too? What was there in acting and fight without first the dream of a better life? Without the notion appearing before you that things could be better and that the pain they would wrought would one day be worth it? Human posturing never ceased to amaze him.

   "Perhaps you are correct, Varric." he starts, softly at first with narrowing eyes with an unknown type of mirth in their glint "It must truly be a human characteristic:"

He hums, amused, light eyes glancing down towards Varric as he stands a few steps away. Not truly talking to Tess but at her. His head tilted to the side, though his eyes returning once more to Tess though his posture barely changes "To pick up a grand goal and run head first into it with the confidence and naivety of a child."

warrior of darkness // accepting

Asharen watches Rook's sleeping form, standing just a single step behind Tamara. The other continued her work with her tinctures and healing magic; Asharen had done as much healing as she could, worked through what damage she could see, expect despite knowing very little of what he had gone through. She could push herself further, but she knew the limits of her own body and the fatigue that she had pushed and pushed and spurned in order to get to this place, a place where they had finished the dagger and got Rook out. That fatigue had sharp teeth and it was prowling closer and closer.

And there was still so much still to do. Were it any other time, this dagger would have likely been one of her crowning achievements and yet, knowing the inspiration and the reason behind it she could feel nothing but a sense of bittersweet victory.

Light eyes lift to Tamara upon hearing her words; she cannot stop herself from smiling. Giving the other a nod, Asharen takes a single step forward, hearing her prosthetic hand rustle against the fabric of her robes. Her left sleeve was folded as she approached, standing beside Tamara.

   "I still can't believe it worked." she whispers though how deeply the other slept it was unlikely to make a difference.

Truthfully, it had been a massive long shot; and incredibly lucky on so many levels that it could, perhaps, be considered miraculous. Asharen now knew more people that had walked into sections of the fade that no living being was meant to walk away from and having that honour gave her pause. The fact that they had been able to craft as powerful an artifact and managed to narrow down the area that they needed to cut through in order to pull him out was a testament to the power behind this team. Truthfully, much was still unknown, she didn't know what the effects of the prison that Solas crafted would be on him.

The elven woman inhales, glancing once more to Tamara.

   "Mara, I am..." so sorry. She wants to say and yet the words don't quite come out. Her light eyes are on her friend's, brows arched.

But even that wasn't her place. It had not been her that had put Imad in such a place, and yet she still felt guilty. It was not her who had unlatched the keys to allow for such a terrible thing to have happened, but it had been her who had kept pushing for temperance, to not trust but allow for grace, mercy.

And now, now she felt she needed to apologise because she would keep asking for it. Even if doing such a thing felt cruel, even if his actions felt unforgivable. And Asharen could only imagine, she could only imagine truly what both of them might feel. And yet, selfishly, terribly selfishly Asharen knew she would not stop now. There were nights where she wondered how she could ask this of others when she herself sat and wondered where the line was. When would it be too far? Too much? Could she find it in herself to forgive him, when they met again?

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Asharen closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. She touches the side of Tamara's arm with her own hand "I am glad we weren't too late."

Clearing her throat, the Inquisitor pulls back, away from the bed and away from Tamara.

   "When he wakes, tell Imad that I am glad he lives." long fingers dig through her pockets and pull out the brass prosthetic, swiftly pulling it onto her arm and tightening it. She hoped that some of the spirits in the Crossroads could be of aid, to let her know about what was going on within the city, what should they expected beyond just devastation.

She did not need to ask them, she was sure that Solas out of everyone was surely fine, and yet that question too was on her mind. Metallic fingers wrap around her staff, pulling it closer to her as she walks out of the room "Please let me know when he does, I'd like to have a word with him before we leave for Minrathous. I will be in the Crossroads."

   "Are you alright?" Asharen asks, glancing towards Tamara with a worried glance. She seemed fine, holding on. Good. Asharen pushes the loose red hair stuck on her forehead with the sweat, pulling it over her ear and against her scalp. She turns to the five frazzled people they had found in the ruins of the nearby village. They looked at them with wide eyes "Is anyone injured?" it was hard to tell; it had rained all day and the ground was muddy beyond just the pools of altered blight.

They were all in rough shape, but none looked blighted. Not that Asharen would be able to tell. One of them raises their hands and she moves towards them. Lifting her flesh hand to pull at the healing spells she knew off. It would not be much, but it would be enough to keep them moving. Moving and hopeful that they would make it out somewhere warm and dry.

DISCO ELYSIUM // not accepting . @st4ysoft @ever4sking

   "A miracle?..."

Émilie's head nearly snaps when turning towards Tamara, a beginning of a snort forming in the back of her throat; she had expected to hear a joking tone, maybe a glint of mischief in her voice but when light eyes fall on Tamara she sees nothing but genuine warmth. It is disarming in a way that Émilie doesn't expect, it makes all words die in her mouth and her eyes.

The laughter just at the beginning of her throat and the mean edge on her lips feels awfully inadequate. Out of place. Of course. Tamara likely doesn't understand the intricacies of the Southern Circles, and truthfully, Émilie wished that she didn't have to learn them. Émilie wished to have that sort of ignorance also bless her "I don't think any mage would ever be called that in the south, Mara."

A curse, yes. Being a miracle of any kind was only for the fact that she was still alive.

Out of the thirteen that had planned to overthrow the White Spire she was the only one that managed to survive, by sheer luck. Perhaps the Maker had smiled upon her too on that day. From that standpoint perhaps Tamara was correct. In some ways, she was.

   "Maybe Andraste, if you believe the rumours." she picks back up, not noticing how long the silence had truly spread. Her right hand comes to rest on the pommel of the blade to the side of her body. Light eyes move to Tamara to give her a significant look: the rumours that Andraste had been a mage, that had been the reason why she was ultimately betrayed. The reason why she had eventually died - a sacrifice for them all "But I don't think they are real."

Émilie had never cared much to find out. Andraste and the Maker and the Chantry within the Circle were only places that she might slip by and gain a few moments to be alone with her thoughts despite knowing that she would always have eyes on her. She was never able to remain in that room for too long. The floors were scrubbed. The walls were reinforced. The seats replaced as they were needed.

But there was not a single soul that didn't know where the templars felt most at home in the Spire. The most comfortable to show the maker how they made their charges pay.

   "Not to mention, of course, that it is heresy." and with that, Émilie shrugged.

Whatever that meant to a centuries dead woman and all the names etched into books. It didn't mean anything to her, not more than the fact that once she had been able to walk free... Free to walk free since she had been such a young child that she had hardly remembered her life before? That the discussions she overhead and participated in when it came to religion, away from the templars ears, done in small notes and hand signals, made her feel terribly despondent.

As well as stoke an anger she had thought long dead.

YOU ARE EATING AN ORANGE // selectively accepting . @st4ysoft . @ever4sking

Tamara's hand is warm in hers, her single flesh hand held between the other's as she keeps the brass hand away from that moment. It did not feel right, even if it was as deeply a part of her as the rest of her body.

It is odd to feel so painfully calm in that moment; it is not relief that fills her bones but this chaotic environment is not so unfamiliar. Asharen has not quite ever felt herself like in this moment, having climbed to the heights of the Archon's palace and knowing, having an inkling, of what awaited her when she turned her back. When she said her goodbyes. To be faced with the unknown after so long of chasing solutions, to face it without the demand that she should know and find the answer by the tip of her tongue.

How terrible a thought it was, to be so relief to be allowed to simply leave into a place that she had never known? Knowing how much she would leave behind.

And how bittersweet to know how unlikely it was that she would ever see it again. The implications of such a decision flash through her mind and she pushes them aside with a blink of an eye, with a small smile. With a squeeze of hands and a pull of a body against hers. The warmth she feels and the heartbeat of both their hearts beating against their chest.

Asharen wished for that moment that she had spent more time, one last time, watching a sunset with a deep orange glow and feel that warmth upon her face. To feel the dancing leaves of her orange trees upon her face. She holds those memories each time she blinks, fighting the feelings that tempt to overwhelm her, fighting to stay in the moment and to not allow her mind from slipping from the moment. those memories would always be with her. This too was loss, but there is no life worth living that did not have it woven into it.

   "Truthfully, I don't think I'd ever be able to truly fully depart." there was a saying, she had first thought it Dalish but had come to think that she didn't actually remember where she first heard: different deaths held at different times, one of the body and one of the name, of memory. This was not a death of either but felt like a permanent parting all the same. There is fear, of course, to not fear what was to come was to be foolish but Asharen held onto that fear, holding with hands that held hope in it too "Not if you allow it to."

She loved this world and for the moment it was safe, it would keep itself safe and she looked upon Tamara, Rook and Émilie and had no doubt that those that remained, that had trusted her with the vision of what the world could be would continue to do their best. This vision was hardly hers, or hers alone, it had been shaped by them all too. And she would miss them so.

She would miss the small house that she would never be able to rebuy and rebuild, the books she would never be able to recover, the visits to her clan. The orange trees she would never own. Late night stories and warmth and hope. To be seen by others so clearly and to be believed and loved so wholly, it was a gift that Asharen could have never dreamed of by herself. It wrapped her as a warm blanket and she would carry it wherever she went for as long as she breathed.

  "As much as I would like to be convinced." and she did. Oh she did.

As much as she loved to travel there was no denying that there was a comfort to having a home to return to, a warmth that was missing even in the hottest of campfires. Even in the uncomfortable pit within her stomach, she could feel the bones of a home in the Lighthouse. If she were to focus on it too tightly she'd be able to put muscle to a thin and hungry frame and she'd know it by name. Perhaps not like she had always known it, but she'd know it and love it all the same. And perhaps that was one more reason to keep herself away.

Until the work was done, there would not be a home that would not prompt her to leave nor a home that wouldn't feel colder than the road "I'm afraid I need to stay."

The situation in Val Royeaux was deteriorating quickly and Celene was seemingly allowing her panic to get the better of her, not allowing - still - the elves of the alienage to be armed. Asharen's presence could, perhaps, hopefully, be enough to soothe her, enough to let her see reason.

And if she didn't, then Asharen would find a way that those in the alienage would still be able to protect themselves, if need arose. These were all rumours, the Ferelden crown was not the most reliable of sources but if there was one thing that she could trust Anora for was to see the worst in Celene - and to often be right.

  "It does not mean, however, that you must remain at my side." Asharen smiles softly, covering Tamara's hand and squeezing it gently. She had come to Asharen in one of the moments of her most need, and while she would never turn her away, there were so many that could do with that same relief. People that needed it more than Asharen herself. It was a wonderful place to be, even if it hurt her to admit it "In fact, I think you would be of great aid to Rook."

The elven's woman eyes raise to meet Tamara's and she smiles more openly, releasing her hand. From inside of her robes' pockets, she picks up her prosthetic and starts tying it. Mentally, she is thinking what would be the best roads, with the least amount of resistance. She could cut through the fade but would prefer to not run the risk. They were not terribly far. As far as she knew there was one eluvian at least available in the city, however, she had not been able to find it in the Crossroads and the time to search would be too long.

Finishing tightning the brass material against her flesh, Asharen turns to Tamara, indicating for her to bow her head. She gives the other a soft, light kiss on the temple, moving away almost immediately after, wrapping her worn red shawl over her head and shoulders.

  "And, if I am lucky, I will be back in the Lighthouse before you even miss me."

She is constantly under water there.

She can feel it; the lighthouse's light is off and there is a constant hand wrapped around her ankle like a chain and a hand on her neck keeping her down. She can see the light sway just above her, shinning brightly, so brightly that it hurts her eyes. Mind swimming and yet sharp focus, a constant struggle and a throbbing headache that bites into the front of her throat and back of her neck, like two jaws pressing into her throat. And the guilt, the guilt was the worst.

When they walk from the Eluvians across the worn walls she can almost see them. The frescoes that were there before. She wondered what had happened to get to that point, she didn't think age would do that but what did she know about Elvhen frescoes? Still, each time they cross them, if she were to really focus, she was sure that she'd be able to... see them, tell the shapes. If she focused on them, which she didn't.

She hears Tamara's voice through the distant sounds of water sloshing. Émilie hears it but doesn't quite register, not quite yet. Émilie never thought that she would consider leaving the Inquisitor and Tamara, but the thought that they would require of her to stay for longer in this place made her feel unwell.

It made her feel like she would unravel at any moment, that if she were to stare a little longer at any given part of this that she would become completely undone.

It made her feel like she was going to die. There was no voice that came from the lighthouse. Just permanent judging in the silence. A silence that said: there was once hope and life here too, do not forget why. Do not forget. Do not forg—

   "You also need to sleep." she finally cuts through, looking at Mara she gives a small smile though she can't really tell much of her face. Even in the dim light, the bloom that comes from the orange light of the small candle blurs most of her vision.

Holding the other's hand, she squeezes it softly. Only long enough to feel its warmth, quick enough to not let her concern touch her chest but even that reaches her heart far too quickly.

   "I'm just going... for a walk, I think." she finally says, not really looking at Tamara. Slowly she grabs the sword and sheathe, buckling it against her waist. Then, she grabs her robes, pulling it over her shoulders - there was no amount of clothes that could make her feel warm in the Crossroads but she still hoped each time. Finally, she turns to Tamara feeling a chill in her body "I will talk with the Inquisitor, once she wakes. I might need... a different arrangement for resting."

Émilie cannot stop herself from smiling at Tamara at the words. Pale eyes move from the herbs she was preparing and wrapping in her bedroll. The Inquisitor was just on the other side of the small fire they had going, though it was clear she was not listening. There physical tells, of course, but Émilie could tell too - from beyond the way that her hand absently touched the back of her ear and the furious writing on the notebook, that her mind was quite far from them.

   "I wish I could see the world like you do." her eyes return to Tamara, leaning closer as she works on rolling the bag. The bag was first, the second would be to make sure that they still had enough herbs for the trip. Running the list through her head, she glances towards Tamara whose eyes remain locked on hers. In that moment she truly wonders what it would be of them if she weren't there. The thought makes her shudder; they would likely be fine, but when you knew of a better alternative why would you choose to think about anything else?

It was hard, but being around Asharen and Tamara helped. They made her feel better by just standing around. They were not quiet per se, but it was a sort of lulling that made it easier for her mind to detach. Asharen because she was often thinking of so many things that it just sounded like white noise if she were to focus, never settling in one true thing for longer than a few seconds before sleep finally took her. Tamara because it was often warm.

   "My heart is all but too willing to accept how the rest of the world feels at any given moment." placing the roll to the side, Émilie picks up carefully the sheathe of her sword. Holding it briefly for a moment and allow for a small smile before that too is moved to the side. Opening her herbs bag, she started taking a mental tally on if.

Biting into her lower lips, she pauses, looking up to Tamara. Her face felt off, somehow, the scars often didn't bother but she guessed the constant travel and the lack of proper care was finally coming back to bite her.

   "That is a problem when most of the world really insists on being..." the word forms quickly in her mouth and yet she pauses. 'shit' would not be quite the term she should be saying when in kinder company "Unkind."

She glances briefly to the Inquisitor and then starts digging on her bag again. It was unfair, in a way, and the one reason why she was with the Inquisitor was because Émilie believed her. She wanted to keep believing and she would be there every single step of the way. It didn't mean that it was easy, however, being with the Inquisitor often also meant she got to see the worst that the world had to offer first hand. It also meant getting angry and wanting to put people in their place when she couldn't do it.

Émilie was glad that more leveled heads were leading the path on, suffice to say.

   "I know I can't trust it." she finally continues, closing the bag and placing it next to her belongings. She checks on the small kettle of boiling water. She needed to wait. Breathing out, she feels herself deflate "It is a glutton for its cruelty. It is hard to forget, at times, that there is anything but that."

The pull of the pain received and the pain inflicted. It felt that it was only fair that the same level of pain that she should receive she should feel... relief? Was it relief? Upon returning it to the world. It didn't belong to her to begin with, and (obviously) she did not wish to be the recipient of it. Ever.

   "But I love how you see it," her eyes turn to Tamara and she smiles openly, uncaring at how it twisted the right side of her face, or how uncomfortable it made her. Her hand covers hers over the other's bed roll, squeezing it softly "I think it is beautiful."