#weptfreedom

this is the perfect window for aforementioned Hater 1 & Hater 2

𝐍𝐈𝐃𝐀 & 𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄

also known as:

the apprentice gossipers.

NIDA was transferred from the Hasmal Circle when she was 14 alongside a handful of Enchanters who had been brought in, albeit temporarily, to give specialty seminars. She doesn't like to talk about where she came from or her life before coming to Ferelden, so most assume it wasn't very good, but this is something she neither confirms nor denies, even to Molle.

A bit of an overachiever herself, Nida is a well read student that tends to excel more in her general education than the magical—her knowledge and interest in (human)history made up for the fact that she wasn't as skilled in offensive magic as she would have wanted. And while she's not inclined to Creation by any means, there's some mean-spirited joy knowing that she's better at rejuvenation magic than the local teacher's pet.

MOLLE is the bastard daughter of Sighard Argall, and was brought to the Circle under his order when she was 11. She's not very academically competitive, middling in her studies where it disinterests her both in magic and general education, and tends to put more emphasis on the social goings on than anything in her studies(for which she'll skim off Nida's notes when it comes down to the wire).

However, she's garnered herself a bit of ire from other jealous apprentices for the fact that the Bann will levy his status as the representative of an arling to make occasional, incognito trips to visit her. It's clear he loves her regardless of the stigma that comes with her being a bastard and a mage, and that's something she's not shy about letting everybody know it—even if he won't claim her openly.

The two quickly bonded in their dorms, despite Nida's initial reticence to branch out, and quickly found rapport in sharing gossip from around the Tower, and it wasn't to make fun of their fellow apprentices for minor infractions. They're a bit of the Mean Girl duo, and they did not get along with Nanna's group, and her specifically. To them, Nanna was an annoying Know-It-All that sucks up to the instructors, and the praise she tended to receive only further soured their opinion of her. That didn't change after she became the Hero of Ferelden.

@weptfreedom | 🔥 choose violence ask game 🔥

black sails season 1 // @weptfreedom // accepting

Orla closes her eyes, straining to keep the breathe from coming with a harshness that would make her choke on the pipe smoke. Brown eyes seek the heavens but she finds nothing - there is never anything to find except the lights of Minrathous and in this place where the sky was either grey or filled with a dull sort of noise? Well, not even the hanging promise of a falling empire could give her joy.

   “You're not a loose end." though the comment about what type of person they were remains closed. They were not wrong about the type of animal that she was, there was no point in pretending to be anything other than someone that had a knack for suffering. She puts down the pipe, putting it out with a swift motion - finally looking up to the Inquisitor with a clipped, cold smile "You're just fucking insufferable."

They all were. But they had come with the Lighthouse and while Orla had no joy in being in this space, it seemed that they (the Inquisitor and company) had decided to drain any and all joy that could be perceived from the space. Orla didn’t blame them, were the situation to be different, she’d likely do worse.

But she was trying to be different. The Inquisitor was a figure that meant something. Not to her, but to others. Plus, if no one was allowed relief, then Orla was not going to be dishing it out to anyone. If they were all here to pay for their misdeeds, then the Inquisitor had plenty to do as well - at least from the way they carried themself.

All things demanded their pound of flesh.

   “That doesn’t mean your place isn’t here.” her jaw is tense, though her dark eyes remain locked on the Inquisitor.

Be Honest| Accepting

"The answer will only serve to harm you," he warns, "incite grief where none is needed."

But he had asked, and Solas is compelled to answer. Honestly. Horribly.

"Yes. I would have. No life, no one life, no matter how dear to me or others, can be held above the rest. Felassan's choice risked dozens, the people who yet lingered behind the paths he delivered to Briala's hands, lost to us without the passphrase. And I did not see the truth at the heart of his betrayal- no, more than that, I did not wish to see.

They fight.

Well, it isn't a fight - it is more of a creative discussion in which he is always the loser, sorely, tenderly, as his bones still ache as if lyrium rakes through him. Varric hisses, half pain, half something else. He has heard all the words before, along with others, scorning him - as if his actions are not out of character for him - he thinks he was of very sound mind and body when he did it, very in character of him - sticking his nose in something that he did not truly understand, something once again that did not belong to him.

Well, barely - he dreams now.

"You don't think I get that now."

He has been at the will and whim of others - listening to reports, having to half sit through them and wonder, wait, tapping his cane against the wooden floors. "I - didn't expect to be stabbed. I couldn't foresee that." There is more complaining, more nagging, and he is so tired of it, it manifests in his lungs, stinking nearly to his teeth as he exhales, which brings Emithas to pause, brows knit in worry for just a moment.

Kisses with varric // five of ?? // what is counting at this point?

It isn't often he is woken up by someone, even less by someone waking him up at his desk. Usually, he's better than this; typically, it's not him working well past the bell, where the hours start getting larger and the sun begins to rise. However, it's the rustle of fabric over his shoulders that rouses him, and it's too gentle for Bran, and it's too early to be anyone else. So he grabs, half in the dark and finds a hand smaller than his, a wrist caught draping a quilt off his couch.

"Ripples?"

"Jumpy, have the Carta come to kill you recently?" Their hand is let go, and they nearly hop back, giving Varric space, but there is a ghost of a teasing smile on their face.

"They send me two knives a week." It's tired and it's met with a laugh, one that sounds more like them, it's good to hear it. "What brings you to the ugliest side of Hightown?"

It's answered with papers, bits of people moving through Kirkwall. Information he'll need to help more people, to keep his city alive. "The Community is friendly; they didn't even know who I was."

"They also harboured a blood mage for years; the Community likes to keep secrets." Not that he wasn't thankful for Daisy, but facts were, in fact, facts —well, mostly. He had spent good gold keeping them all safe, and now, with another new friend, "They'll treat you well, do you need anything?"

"Do you have a map of the sewers?"

"Do I want to know what you're chasing?" He digs through his desk, finds one in a case, checks the title and pulls the scroll out before handing it off. "Or am I better off not knowing?"

"I'll see you later, Varric." It's tucked into a bag, but Varric grabs at their hand one more time, it's a flash of a kiss across skin and them batting at him, teasingly near and pretending to twist his nose, it's a tired moment, a silly one, one he'll near think is a dream, settling back against the chair at his desk. They're near the window and turn their head, looking down at him. "Don't sleep there."