#tethrxs

“cassandra’s mood is a bit more tempestuous today than usual,” she warns with a little twitch of her lips, “you should probably avoid her, unless you’ve interest in being hurled from the ramparts.” 

When she had written Varric and he had told her about the Inquisition, she’d not really had any intention of joining their cause. She’d already done that whole ‘saving people for the good of... well, good’ thing once, and it wasn’t really her style. She was more of a ‘do things for the hell of it’ kind of gal, and while the thought of the attention that came hand-in-hand with saving all of Thedas was appealing, she just wasn’t quite in the mood... but, she had missed Varric, and coin was low, so she decided to see what they had to offer.

Walking through the ornate gates with a swagger to match her recently-acquired admiral’s hat, Isabela grinned at the forces of the Inquisition milling about in the courtyard. Her amber gaze fell upon a familiar sight lounging by the fire.

“Still handsome as ever,” Isabela purrs, in lieu of formalities and greetings.

Tiny, when it comes to proportions, it’s an even match and you know it.

smooches!! // 1/3 // @tethrxs

A knife hovers close to her left ear, and in the right is Varric’s familiar voice-”you sure about this, Muscles?”  she’s not, but then she;s rarely sure of anything these days. At the very least her mind is clear of the pain tonics Anders has been dosing her up with for the past few days. A steady flow of pain hums around her entire body, but she wants to do this with a clear head or else she probably won’t do it at all. She licks her lips, swallows past a dryness in her throat. 

“I’m sure.” 

 At her reassurance, Varric moves the knife and there is a soft schk noise as he begins sawing her way through her thick ponytail. She inhales sharply and instantly regrets it when pain blossoms through her stomach. It shouldn’t bother her this much, after all it is only hair and there’s no way she can care for it now she’s barely able to take a piss without help. Her wounds will heal, but not quick enough, and though she knows Orana would wash her hair for her should she ask, it doesn’t feel right. No one has washed or plaited her hair for her since she was a little girl. Not since her mother used to braid flowers into it and her father called her beautiful. Back then she only grew it out for their sake, and if she’s honest with herself that’s why she’s avoided cutting it for so long. Something about it feels like a betrayal, like literally cutting away the final ties to her dead family. Who knew the Arishok’s sword nearly slicing her in half is all it would take. 

For a while they sit in comfortable silence filled only by the sound of scissors and the occasional comment about nothing at all. This is exactly the reason she asked Varric to do this for her. While she trusts that Merrill would do a wonderful job of it, she would fuss and chatter through the whole thing, and Hawke is far too tired for that. Any other time and she might have asked Isabela, but she has barely seen the other woman since she swanned into the Keep. She’s not sure yet if she wants to see her or not, so she tries not to think about it. Varric however is steadfast and dependable. Around him there’s no need for her to force herself to talk if she does not want to, nor any pressure to be anything other than herself. Their friendship is still as strange to her as it is vital to her very life here in Kirkwall. 

Eventually it’s over, and her hair lays scattered on the floor around them. She doesn’t even bother to try and lift her arms high enough to see the end result (the first time she’d lifted her arms too high the stitches in her stomach had torn. It wasn’t something she wanted to repeat) but shot Varric a thankful look as he handed her a hand mirror. The woman staring back at her had deep shadows under her eyes, and black hair cut short and messy. It didn’t look like herself, but she wondered if that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Andraste’s ass,” she muttered, turning her head to look from another angle. It’s not exactly the best cut in the world, but it will be easier to manage and keep out of her eyes in a fight. Dare she say it, but she almost looks handsome, or will do when she’s no longer house bound with life threatening injuries. That doesn’t do much for anyone’s complexion.

send ‘rough touch’ and the generated outcome will be used for a small drabble scenario or starter in which —  26. my muse pins yours to the ground.

               POOR VARRIC.  Honestly, this is likely not what he had planned for the day — in the upper floor on the forge in Skyhold, sitting upon a table and writing { letters?  stories?  she can’t claim to know } only to have one VERY PANICKED INQUISITOR bolt up the stairs and throw herself into the room with a terrified YELP and such force that when she hits the table and topples over — apparently forgetting, in her rush, to actually LOOK AROUND for potential obstacles — that she hits the dwarf and takes him to the down with her.  She responds quicker than he after they hit the floor, presumably not as shocked at the whole affair, and twists so that she can glance around the room with sharp - eyed panic { the movement, coincidentally, also means she’s STRADDLING the shorter man, but she’s too terrified for her life to notice }.  A moment later the sound of the lower door slamming open can be heard, and Ahvir squeaks.

                                “WHERE ARE Y’, LADYBITS?”

         “Shit!” the previously mentioned Ladybits whispers as the voice belonging to Sera climbs the stairs { presumably along with it’s body }.

                                                “Come out come out wherever y’ are!”

                     “What the  — ?”  One rogue tries to ask, moving to sit up { a difficult task, with an elf on your gut } but she quickly shushes him and pushes him back down.  It takes him a moment to see her game; ah.  At this angle, the table MIGHT hide them from Sera and whatever righteous fury she’s got in plan for the poor Inquisitor.  Nevermind that he’s now UNDER the Inquisitor, Andraste’s tits.

                                  Luckily for them, the archer spends little time looking upstairs and, after a quick glance from the top step and a muttered expletive, apparently assumes that Ahvir has escaped some other way, for she stomps back down the stairs to continue her search.  When the door slams shut, Ahvir sits up but does not stand, releasing a breath she’d been holding.

             “Thank the Creators.”

                      A glance down at the man she is STILL STRADDLING and his incredulous expression causes her hands to lift and smile to turn sheepish.  “Sorry!  She tried to prank me, and I kinda turned it around on her, and she got flowers growing out of her bow and —- anyway, I needed to escape, or she would have KILLED ME.  Or worse.”  When his expression doesn’t shift, she glances down at them again and — oh!  OH!  The situation clicks, with a freckled face warming and eyes widening.  

                                       “OH.  Oh, I didn’t — well, I’m — on top of you.  Right.  That’s a thing that’s happening.  I should — I’m gonna stand up now.  STANDING UP.”  She does so — almost falling over herself once.  “I’m just gonna — uh, thanks for — hiding with me, and, uh — not ratting me out — and — uh — sorry for — I’m just gonna ———… YEAH.  Bye.”