#worldevoured

          HIS FACE IS MARRED WITH BLOOD, his eyes with heavy circles beneath them, the traces of his Elixirs evident in the deep-veined lines on his complexion. The Elixirs rattle his bones, twitch his hands, pound his heart. But he cannot fight without them. The head of the Leshy slams onto the ground, proof of a job done. A coin pouch of one hundred and fifty crowns jingles in his hand. He heaves a breath. 

          The one-hundred-fifty doesn’t go a long way.  Fifty for the costs and maintenance of the Witcher Trade: swords, armor, alchemy for brewing Elixirs. Another fifty in between a place to stay at the inn and the food and ale that one tired Witcher would deserve. A final fifty to stretch thin between now and the next Contract. If there is another contract, he ponders, with the way that his stomach is permanently growling and there grows to be little Contracts.

         But the ale warms his gut, indeed, so he doesn’t complain. Not yet, anyway. And the roast lamb is just fine. He does mourn the loss of his companion, however, not that he would say this in so many words. His companion, as well as the loss of his leather jacket -- holes and all. But this is no Novigrad, and there is no Dandelion in this part of the Continent, and, much to his chagrin, his thoughts return to Yennefer.

          “So...” His words just barely make it over the clinking sounds of armor through the forest of the Brecilian -- or, well, what’s close to it, at least. There’s a certain uneasiness to it, because he doesn’t know much about elves. (Thank you, dear Chantry.) And these are real elfy elves, he thinks (and is that racist, insensitive, insensible, he thinks), so what’s going to happen when they just show up and ask them to honor age-old treaties? Refusal? Battle? 

Neither giant spiders nor Darkspawn carry torches. Jeja doesn’t either, technically, but a little coaxing and a few chips of fuel gets the flame rune on top of their staff to start spitting out enough light to be polite in mixed company. 

Jeja doesn’t like to assume that just because someone is stomping around in the tunnels around a long-cold thaig they’re lost-- it’s what Jeja is down here doing, after all.  There are places in the Deep Roads best forgotten, and there are places that are just forgotten, and the only way to know is to get your hands dirty finding out. 

That said, they’re fair sure they’ve passed this group three time now, and none of them any closer to the passage back to the surface. Better to sort it out now, before the Stone starts grumbling about leaving people to the rock-wraiths.

“Did you know that mushroom by your foot releases toxic spores? Itches like anything, and then the skin comes off.”

Ah, right, that wasn’t what they meant to say.

          ❝ you know the basics of the warrior path rather well now... did you decide on which specialization you want to choose? ❞          the teyrn asked his son, putting the training sword back into the rack, where it'd stay until bryce decided to join the training again. sadly, he did not find much time to do that with all his other responsibilities. but for that reason, he hired some of the best trainers thedas had to offer.

Arl Eamon was sick, they had to defend the city from the undead; they needed to go to Kinloch Circle and ask for help from the mages and/or Templars; it all seemed impossible to do at once. The woman sat at their camp, hand rubbing at her temples as she looked over the map. They had already spoken to the Dalish as well as made friends with Orzammar...she just wasn’t sure what all else they were going to do.

But, as a body came near, her eyes flickered up to find that of her fellow Warden with an offered plate of food. Meredith gave a soft shake of her head, declining what was put beside her politely. Despite the ravenous appetite she usually had, all the stress was making her stomach churn with anxiety. 

“I’m surprised your bowl isn’t full of mostly cheese...” she chuckled softly, seeing as though Leliana had whipped up an easy potato soup. Although it smelled delicious, her mind was somewhere else. 

A SENSE OF UNEASE HAS BEEN BUBBLING TO AN APEX    within  her  chest  from  the  moment  she’d  regained  consciousness  inside  the  solitary  hut  in  the  heart  of  the  Korcari  Wilds                                          and  how  it  rises  to  twist  into  something  horribly  tangible .     It  tastes  acrid     &&     vile ,     a  bitter  bile  burning  something  wicked  on  her  tongue .     Her  memories  of  Highever  and  Ostagar  are  starved  hounds     &&     they  chew  at  the  fraying  fringes  of  her  reality  without  mercy ,     tongues  hanging  like  silken  ties ;     like  nooses  hanging  from  trees .     

                    It’s  the  unmistakably  real  mabari  at  her  feet  that  finally  takes  hold  of  her  mind  and  pulls  her  from  thoughts  of  those  she  had  left  behind  on  the  battlefield ,     wet  nose  nudging  a  silent  prompt  against  the  back  of  her  hand ,     and  clarity  awakens  in  her  gaze  akin  to  the  lighting  of  a  candle  as  delicate  fingers  glide  over  the  top  of  his  head  with  a  familiar  persistence  in  response .     Morrigan’s  words  are  still  prominent  in  Leta’s  memory     (  the  darkspawn  had  won ,     the  abandoned  were  massacred  ) ,     but  perhaps  most  rousing  had  been  the  sentiment  that  Alistair  was  alive .     Ultimately ,     it  is  this  that  spurs  her  from  inaction ,     practiced  hands  donning  steel  armour  so  that  she  is  prepared  to  leave  the  temporary  sanctuary  that  the  four  walls  have  provided .     She  is  not  yet  the  last  of  the  Grey  Wardens .     

send me a topic to write meta about my muse

ohhhh boy he’s just. he doesn’t KNOW what masculinity is? like he does, but it’s not something to emulate as is common in many parental units. like he doesn’t see it. everything is too big and too beyond his understanding. he’s just a boy. he plays with other boys, and they can be rough, and he can be rough with them in playfighting or what have you, and that’s it. he doesn’t really have father figures with which to look up to (maybe a bit of teagan who is a pretty understanding man, to be fair). he plays with toys. dolls sometimes. he’s a stableboy, so i guess he could look up to horsemaster dennet somewhat. but by and large adults don’t treat him nicely. and before he knows it he’s sent to the monastery.

and the monastery is the same. less adults to try to emulate behavior. more sisters trying to instill in him these chantry beliefs. he doesn’t go with that. he lashes out. he screams. he cries. the other boys tell him to toughen up. that’s probably one of the earlier examples of him and feeling openly. (and he misses sleeping with the dogs! softer than these hard beds and these rude boys, he probably thinks.) 

the first real good figure him is duncan. the kind of person who looks to see goodness in people. duncan saves him, really. saves him from the deep dark pit that is the templars, and he feels very grateful for that. he thinks duncan’s a good man. and he strives to emulate that. and duncan doesn’t tell alistair he has to hide emotions. which is something alistair thinks about sometimes, but he’s more. shrug. he has feelings, why should he hide it? what’s the point? why do some people feel the need to hide it? if i’m sad, i’m going to cry. if i’m angry, i’m going to yell. is that so wrong? etc. so duncan reinforces that, and alistair is absolutely FINE with that. another reason he loves duncan like a father. 

by and large, the concept of “behaving like a man” is lost on him. he’s a man. whatever he does is behaving like a man already. but his behavior is very much in line with what is considered traditionally feminine behavior, and he’s fine with that. he’s very emotional. he wears his heart on his sleeve, especially around origins. he loves with all his heart. he mourns duncan freely (and he’s only embarrassed because it’s crying and he doesn’t want to burden the warden). he hates loghain with everything in his heart. and there’s that dialogue about being okay with not steeling himself, because he’s okay with being a little soft, and that’s okay. it’s just who he is.

        one of the grey warden treaties was for the circle.  

jowan had felt himself begin to close off again when sorcha mentioned that little tidbit.  as if redcliffe hadn’t been bad enough,  now they had to go back there ?  if he would have ever,  in a perfect world,  been able to return to being ignored and quietly anxious in the circle,  compared to what had happened in arl eamon’s estate,  jowan would have taken that option without second thought.  but now he felt enclosed upon,  like he was running out of places left where he could still run.  the outside world wasn’t safe.  the circle was an epic nightmare he didn’t want to face.  sorcha had saved him from both execution and tranquility with the warden’s rite of conscription,  but . . . would that really do him any good,  standing face-to-face with greagoir ?  maybe not.