#wolfwalkings

Party Banter || Accepting

Solas and Atreion

Solas: I can sense another artifact of my people.

Atreion: Our.

Solas: I’m sorry?

Atreion: Our people, Solas. If you’re going to drag me after these things, kindly don’t insult me while we do it.

Solas: …I see.

Atreion: Oh, don’t you give me that look. Yes, that one, the one right there, like you’ve swallowed Spindleweed. I still don’t know what your problem is with the People, but I won’t be erased from your little worldview just because you don’t like us.

Solas: Certainly, if that’s what you believe is happening.

It was almost too embarassing to admit, but in moments like these Atreion felt lost inside his own keep.

Morning, noon and night his head was filled with whispering. Like a constant rushing wind made of a thousand voices they twisted together into a cacophany, as impossible to ignore as it was to understand. It was with him when he attended War Table meetings, distracted him in the training yard; even speaking with his friends was difficult, distracted as he was by snatches of words he couldn’t quite place nor comprehend. It was exhausting, frightening, and throughout it all he stumbled through his castle like a man sleepwalking, lost inside his own head.

He had made a terrible mistake, he knew. From the first night after he had drunk from the well, his head pounding with lack of sleep, he was sure that something was wrong. Had Abelas lied? Had he, just one little elf, too fervent and convinced of his own devotion, taken something mortals were not meant to have? Or perhaps it was worse than that... But this was Mythal, she would never forsake him so cruelly, wouldn’t she?

His feet had made the decision before his mind could, taking him on shaking legs down stairs and along sweeping corridors, greeting all he passed with a mask of forced civility. It was an easy mask to don when there were one or two, but this castle was large, and masks did not last forever. They would figure it out, sooner or later, they would know, and when they knew...

“ Ah! ” He almost leapt back in surprise, stopping dead in his tracks as a figure loomed into the torchlight. A long, lean figure, straight-backed and proud even while his face twisted in some inner struggle. The very face Atreion both yearned and dreaded to find.

“ I--- Solas. ”

ximisaari has never been the sort of man to hoard things. he has a few little favourite possessions that he’s kept with him through the years, but that’s all; he’s never been a COLLECTOR of anything. 

but for the past few months, ever since the mess at therinfall redoubt, he’s been gripped by some strange compulsion to collect and hoard things anything he comes across. most things are little, meaningless: goblets from the kitchen, oddly-shaped rocks from the road, scraps of cloth he finds here and there --- few things of actual monetary or sentimental VALUE. he’s barely conscious of it, at first; but over the weeks, he starts to grow more and more aware of it. it bothers him. he’s never been a jealous man, but now, the sight of ANY item, no matter how small or inconsequential, sends pricks of envious possessiveness scattering along his spine. he wants to have it, and that odd desire is so strong that it manifests in a compulsion. he hoards anything and everything --- and for some reason, he can’t work out how to STOP. 

Gettin sappy

DOM. Omg Dom. I was literally just talking to Dom this is great yes good so @wolfwalkings here we go without further ado. 

                             ► deathless  ││ Accepting ◄

    It is not easy to hear, not easy to feel or accept. The words are not soft or comforting but cold and blunted. They cause a stirring of anger, and defeat, within her mind. How heavy did the world become with loss? How much more could she bare, if any at all? If one listened closely, they could hear the snapping of vertebrae, the cracking of her ribs while they carved their names into the bone. 

   His voice does not sooth this pain. His touch does not save her. Worn fingers cannot brush the tears from her cheeks for they sear into her flesh with rage. There is a storm brewing in her veins that he cannot stop, but only watch. Only watch the mask she has only just formed crack and crumble into dust. Only watch her calloused hands tremble as nails dig into her face to try and hold it together. Only see the way air forces itself out of her lungs, and barely fills them once more. There is no words, no touch, that will quell the raging storm inside her. 

  The tongue that let loose pleads to let this end, to trade her life for theirs, wags no words now only sobs. The lips once soft and smooth now bleed after sharp teeth tear them open to stop the sobs. The wonder and kindness that once filled those emerald eyes is replaced by the storm. She knows he watches her, knows that she asked for his advice, begged for the answer; “How can I live with this?” 

  Live with the guilt of her clans blood on her hands. Live with the purge of an alienage. Live with the death and blood that stained her, dripping off her skin and soaking her for ages. It sinks in slowly, carefully embedding itself in her flesh, the curve of her cheek, just how she would live:                    CHAINED TO THE INQUISITION & GASPING FOR AIR UNDER BLOOD. 

  It is not a realization that calms her, nor helps the pain of names carving into her ribs. It only allows her to see the iron clapped around her wrists & throat. The chains that bind her to drown under the blood that floods these lungs. It is a realization that she has nothing beyond these stones and it is her fault. The anger boils her blood. The weighted grief cracks her bones. And the guilt makes her want to scream. But it no longer forms features in her skin, no longer twists her features. Perhaps it is the first time such emotions have made a storm that forms the new mask on her face. 

   Moving her knees to her chest, her arms around her legs. The emerald eyes still let tears fall, but they are no longer showing the storm. Burying her head into her arms, she hides from his gaze. 

        “Thank you.. Solas.”