#veraquen

He’s thought of it twice before, twice unsuccessful in execution. Aden had become perhaps the most familiar face around Skyhold to him since Mihtriel used to wander the courtyards and Faeron had grown quite accustomed to his presence. He was kind, despite his many flaws. He seemed to understand more deeply than others; his empathy undoubtedly set him apart from any other. Despite himself, the healer had grown quite sentimental, and felt deep in his heart the same pull he’d felt only for a select few in his lifetime. Seeing Aden made him happy. Speaking with him overwhelmed him with satisfaction, on most occasions. It was indescribable, this situation, and perplexing in both its wrongness and rightness. It seemed to dare him to leap from his comfort zone into the realm of possible endings; he feared to make a mistake. Yet he never would know unless he committed the act.   They’re leaning on the ramparts side by side, overlooking the mountains. Aden’s bracerstink against the stone every once in a while with his movement, but otherwise they are in silence, save for the faraway cacophony of courtyard chatter. There was not much to say today. Faeron had lost a patient in the morning who’d arrived too late to receive treatment, and the Templar’s wonderful resilience in training had him in some sort of deep, subconscious mental preparation for whatever was to come next; no doubt he’d depart tomorrow on some sort of patrol. His eyes are looking to the distant cliffsides, but they seem vacant, and unfocused on the present.   Everyone liked to comment on Faeron’s confidence. His tongue was sharp for someone so uneducated, and he spoke loud and clear despite his accented tones. He walked with his shoulders back as if he were human and his very aura seemed to give off the impression he knew what he was doing, much to the gratitude of his patients. So why did it seem so difficult to do this? Head turns towards his friend, watching him quietly and closely. Perhaps the risk of offending him had steadied his hand thus far, or perhaps he just hadn’t known until recently. It made him anxious, really. He’d had relations with men before in Orlais, but always for favours, or for work. It had never been personal; he’d never felt the way he did presently. It was important for him to detach these past experiences from Aden in order to progress, sure, but pursuing what he wanted would mean a complete re-evaluation of himself and his preferences. If he did it now though, when it was least expected, at least he might give himself the advantage of surprise so that he could abort just as quickly.    Swallowing thickly, lightheaded and heart fluttering, Faeron removes his hands from the stone barrier and reaches out to Aden, his left hand gliding smoothly under the other’s chin and cupping the right side of his face. His right hand rests lightly upon Aden’s left shoulder and remains there as he carefully but confidently guides the other to face him, drawing his focus precisely where he wanted it. He wanted to kiss him. And he would now, lips coming seamlessly together, warm and soft and the human’s stubble tickling his cheek. He closes his eyes tight because he doesn’t want to see the other’s reaction, as he fears anger or offence, withdrawal or disgust. His hand wavers along Aden’s jaw as his fingertips quiver with nervousness, and thus he removes it, tucking it in close to his own body as though he’d been burnt. His lips are frozen with the time and he withdraws soon after his hand leaves, that worrisome thought in his mind screaming that he’d gone on for too long.  Reopening his eyes, the elf backs up, returning that gap between them. He looks to Aden for a split second before averting his eyes, looking back over the edge of the ramparts though focusing on absolutely nothing in particular, darting from mountaintop to mountaintop. He may as well have signed away whichever trust they had between them, if any at all.        “Sorry – ” he breathes out hastily, flipping his braid over his shoulder. The urge to leave it there, but his feet feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each.  “I…. I really don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry.”

The Templar had gotten word of loss in the infirmiry, another man overcome by his injuries. Demons had taken their toll on their people, but so had many other conditions, leaving them all the lesser for the loss. Aden wished he didn't fail his people so, every loss feeling like another set back in the march ever forward, but he had to accept that loss was just part of the  nature of the beast. They had raised an army with the expectation that people were going to fight, and with that came the loss of life. It wasn't something easy to handle, but Aden could at least ease the concious of those still living. Pyres burned with semi-regularity, the smoke off of them blending with the smoke  from the living.

Aden had gone to seek out Faeron, worried that the patient had indeed been the elf's, and indeed it had been. The man had been far beyond the aid of anyone here in the Inquisition, and his passing had been one of the many that they had needed to accept. Aden wished he could offer some sort of real comfort to the elf despite being somewhat unable to understand. The man had that need to help others, tied his success in the wellness of the life he touched, and Aden couldn't imagine the failure he must feel as being unsuccessful. The young noble assumed that it was possibly akin to the same sensation he felt when a mage had failed their harrowing, the failure to keep the young apprentice safe... All Aden could do for certain was offer his presence and ear if Faeron needed it. Death deserved respect, and so did the reactions of those still remaining to life. A passing effected everyone whom had touched that life.

Such thoughts had led Aden to think along similar lines, but on a different path. He would be dispatched for another hot spot and every time he went out he risked his life. Aden put himself under the same risks as he asked of his men, thus there was the same chance he would be unlucky. Aden had the training to accept that, to know that the risks had to be assessed and accepted. He had weighed himself against the people he protected, and he was happy to present himself as an alternative even as he fought to win. Aden was certain that the man whom had been lost likely had similar thoughts, a want to help, a desire to make a difference somehow. That sort of idealism ran deep in the blood of the Inquisition, something he thought might ease the affected healer. Aden merely had a hard time putting that drive to words, an explanation that resonated loudly throughout his being without need to be defined. Hands that could be of use, perhaps that would be the best way? How did hands that dealth death comfort ones that gave life? Aden regretted many a life he had ended, though often he felt some sort of vindication or reasoning for it. Every time he went out, he came up against another he had to end, another life brought up short. How did he ease himself of that stain? Often it was the understanding that their cause was just, or that he was freeing another from frenzied madness.

Yet would the healer accept such a comfort? Would he be understanding of the need to risk the spark they so direly fought to keep within a chest? Aden hoped he could say something that might aid the other, as he could see that Faeron was agitated. Something was weighing heavily on the mind of the elf, and logic would assume he lingered over his unfortunate task. It seemed to reach a peak, and Aden came to a halt, wondering what words might burst from the Orlesian's lips. He did not anticipate the guiding pressure that turned him. At first, the Templar stiffened, wondering what Faeron was about, but as lips touched his own, he felt himself start in a bit of pleased surprise. A forward move for the healer, though one that took a great deal of his will to pursue if the quiver of his hand was anything to go by. Faeron snatched it back almost as swiftly as he had placed it, leaving Aden's skin sparking with fleeting touch, a sensation contrasting with the almost wooden nature of the elf's lips. Aden felt a flare of understanding simmer across of his mind, and he let Faeron retreat as he needed.

The elf was terrified. Terrified that he had overstepped an unspoken line, terrified that he had done something wrong and thus broken an understanding they had come to. Aden needed to act fast to assure the other, but pushing too far would also work against him. This was a delicate a dance as another instance, this time Aden on the outskirts seeking a safe path. Unfortunate that eloquence was outside of his grasp. He'd just have to muttle through the best he could and prey it worked.

        It was not unusual to see others occupying the tables up above with a book nestled between their arms for hours, let alone come the very next day as though they never left their spot. What is strange and curious is that this one in particular, the Healer, chose the same book each time ( he should have finished by now, Solas mused ) and never seemed to flip the pages. Upon closer inspection — and he does not know why he’s never noticed this before when he’s perusing the shelves — Solas could see the frustration that seemed to settle on the fellow elf’s features each time he gazed upon the book. A look Solas had seen numerous times before.

Starter for @veraquen

Ever since the breach in the sky appeared, rifts had been appearing left and right all over Thedas, spilling demons into this world. But as another rift opened now, no demon whatsoeever emerged. All that was spit out, by the significantly smaller than usual rift, was a pair of ravens: One white with piercing blue eyes and the other black with glowing red eyes. As soon, as their feathered tails left the rift’s vicinity, the tear in realy just went and closed up again, as if it had never even been there in the first place.

The two birds fluttered about the place in what seemed to be a frencied search, cawing loudly at each other. Eventually they moved to land on the grassy ground. But now bird-claws touched the green, but two pair of elvhen feet - one delicate and clad in pretty dancer's shows and the other significantly bigger, wearing soft hunter's boots.

The smaller woman was dressed head to toe in beautiful, expensive-looking silk, her silky, black hair tied up in complicated knots and decorated with glittering accessories. She was pacing the clearing in obvious anger. "This is all your fault, brother! If you had paid better attention, we wouldn't have lost him!" The taller man, wearing equally expensive-looking, but a lot less extravagant garment, his snowy white hair tied in a messy tail, held up his hands in surrender.

"Hey now, don't blame it all on me, Sis! You were just as surprised, when he suddenly jumped through one of these tears! None of us could've reacted in time! Let's calm down and then we go lookin' for'im, yes?"

thighs a++++

them thigh high boots do wonders

@bellafaire-bellafine replied to your post

Aren't you supposed to be naked to be drawn like a french girl? You fail, Saeghda.

do i need to bring out the nekkid pinnup again because I w I LL!!

@veraquen replied to your photo

JE T'AIME

JE T'AIME PLUS QUE TOUT

@flame-of-ostwick replied to your post

(MUST SMOOCH CANNOT RESIST THE PRETTY)

this is actually super interesting bc, coming from an art standpoint, renaissance artists used to focus on the hands the most as they made/broke a piece. the more beautiful the hands, the more beautiful the painting or sculpture tended to be.

Max doesn't tend to riseto the bait when it comes to insults, and will generally just make aplayful quip in response. He's used to being insulted, used to beingmocked and belittled, and has gotten to the point where he justdoesn't care anymore. It's only when someone insults a person hecares about that he tends to get riled up and defensive.

You might just want to rest instead of write, sweetheart. You've already over-exerted yourself. Need rest now in order for your body to heal.