@vasrea replied:
freckles !!!
SHE HAS SO MANY!

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@vasrea replied:
freckles !!!
SHE HAS SO MANY!

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Five times kissed!
five times kissed || @vasrea
ONE
The rains have stopped long since but the Fereldan air stillsmells of it, smells of settled dust and damp earth and something wet andgreen. You came here, to this hilltop, to be alone with the scent of home, butyou find you do not mind that sheâs joined you.
Inquisitor is avery big word to lay on such narrow shoulders, you think. But then, you knowsomething about big words. Championhas some weight to it, too, and itâs a burden youâd set down if you could. Youlook at her and you wonder if sheâd set down her own or if the momentum of it has her in its grip.
She looks like a bird. Youâre meant to be the raptor, but she looks likea sparrow to you, all of winged shoulder blades and delicategripping fingers. Her bones must be hollow, you think. If they were laid out bare onthe grasses, the wind would whistle throughthem and play a tune. You feel a rush of tenderness which surprises you withits strength and think youâd do anything to make sure the wind doesnât get itschance with her skeleton.
You wonder if you ever looked like that to anyone, like youwere far too fragile for everything you were expected to bear. You wonder if you were too fragile, in the end. You wonder if youâre broken and just too blind to see it.
She turns toward you then and there is a question there in her sparrowâs eyes. Her whole body is bent into it asshe leans toward you, so curious and so bright. You answer it the best way youknow how â a thumb to her cheekbone, a brush of your lips on hers. She stiffensslightly and you pull away at once, afraid of trespass â but her dark eyes arewide, her dark cheek is flushed, her lips are parted with something more akin toawe than fear.
She tastes like rainwater and mist, and so you kiss heragain.
đ§đ§
Send đ§for my museâs reaction to your crying or send đ§đ§for your muse to find mine secretly crying.
It is the night of the ball at the Winter Palace, the night everything changes. She can feel the balance of power shifting; which way it will tip balances entirely on the Inquisitor, a woman she knows precious little about. Her spies had gleaned next to nothing, save that she was Dalish but raised apart from her clan, and a mage â practically common knowledge.
Everything, everything depended on winning this woman to her cause. And yet â she couldnât focus, couldnât breathe the moment she was told. Two of our agents were found dead in the servantâs quarters. What are your orders, madame?
She holds composure as long as she can, but the moment it is prudent, the moment she is certain there are no eyes on her, she steals away (through the palace she knows like the blood in her veins, from winters spent following Celene in the hallwaysâ)Â to a spot she will not be noticed, and she lets the grief wash over her.
She sent them to their deaths. More innocent blood on her hands â in every war, there are casualties, but she is no chevalier. Each death wounds her like the severing of a limb.
The Inquisitorâs footsteps are light enough that she doesnât notice them at first, not quickly enough to dry her eyes. Had she followed her all this way? âInâŠInquisitor. My apologiesâŠit wouldnât do to show weakness among those vultures.â
but picture this : ilaan and cassandra meditating together early in the morning, as the sun rises, before anyone else in the keep has stirred.
Time gathered and heaped behind an orange-crested horizon. It swirls, expands, a slow waltz in circles drawn to an ever-present centre.
Time is a speck of dust, a mote carving memories through air. With a mind tethered to the past struggling to break free, Cassandra tries to pinch a dash of now between forefinger and thumb. Cleansed by morning dew, her hands feel unsullied, but thereâs blood seeping into the cracks called Regret, Responsibility, and Redemption.
vasrea replied to your post.
oh my g osh
did you see them did you look them up have you been enlightened

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@vasrea
Winds blew from the north. The rain had finally stopped and the hills high above Crestwood Village were saturated with rich color in its wake. Somewhere just beyond these hills lay the Waking Sea. To the north, where the wind was born. She fancied she could smell the salt of it, borne on the wind. Wishful thinking, maybe. Wistful thinking. On the other side lay home.
She sat in the lee of a stony outcrop, campfire shedding sparks into the air. The wind sneaked in and toyed idly with the small hairs at her nape; but she did not shiver.
vasrea replied to your post:feeling like an old lady that needs her rest at...
10:30? more like wine & bed o'clock
*grabs the strawberry milk and hides it inside her pocket* WINE, SUUUUURE. tbh a small cup of baileys or carolans always feels great at night, not going to lie, especially in the winter.
â ( from dog son --- gaia i would actually have to /look up/ his login info isn't that s ad )
â for a kiss of swearing fealty.
     « They come from the south », his son yelled, a hand grabbing his horseâs mane and his hound running at his side.Â
     FĂ«anĂĄroâs horse reared, neighed, and a heavy wind, filled with ashes, blew in his face. He tightened the hold of his legs around his mountâs sides and turned towards TurcafinwĂ«, now by his side, whose eyes were wild and urgent; the vanguard circled them in a cloud of dust.
     « The birds above screech of the horde that advances. They would flank us, father, but I know where they are, and Huan shall guide me to them. Let me take my people and captains with me, let us turn our enemies into prey. »
     He breathed the foul scent of blood into his lungs, and his sonâs path shone in his thoughts, poured into his mind directly from TurcafinwĂ«âs. A few seconds of understanding pulled together the threads of a plan and FĂ«anĂĄro eventually raised his chin high and clasped his sonâs pauldron that he himself had forged. « Marshal your troops », he ordered.Â
     His son caught his hand before it could return to the horseâs neck, he caught it and held it, and then raised it to his face. Turco placed a kiss on his gauntlet, given with a solemn frown, with a wrinkle of tension at the root of his nose and with a light of pride beaming upon his face.
     FĂ«anĂĄroâs breath quivered. Oneâs heart is uplifted when it recognises sincerity and yet his was caught in a tight hold. It was no night for soothing feelings, no. It was a night of war.
     « Go, my hunter child », he said, in a low, gravelly voice. « Bring me their heads as a trophy. »