“let’s not pretend as if you wouldn’t be actively cheering for said perishing,” sidri retorts with a quick glimpse up to her, “and i doubt you’d be the only one there hoping for it. celene has earned herself more enemies than she can manage effectively, try as she might. it’s just a question of who is wielding the knife when it pierces her back, not when.” a small pause and teeth tug over full lip, “the dog can come, so long as you’re not the one with the knife.”
quill is pushed aside with a long sigh, ink-stained hands lifting to rub at her face in a rare display of exhaustion. such gestures are reserved all but solely to her company, allowed in the presence of that unspoken and unshakeable bond. (two halves of a whole, she thinks sometimes, the broken edges of her aligning with pros’ own.) “the game is a stupid luxury for people with more time and money than common sense.” hands lift to rub at her brow now, fingers sinking into tight flesh. “but at least i’ll have you to save me if the stupidity becomes overwhelming, hm?”
pale hands lifts to gently cup sharp cheekbone, gaze solemn but warm as it meets the warden’s. “thank you, pros. i know you’ll be miserable, but i can’t tell you how much i appreciate it that you’ll endure it for my sake.”
❛❛ it is only her own fault she has earned enough enemies to find multiple knives pressed to her throat. had she not purged the alienage, she wouldn’t have even half the enemies she had now. (..) what if the dog has a knife? ❜❜ nose scrunched; paired with a long sigh. (void-bound; normally vacant but never now/for her). sharp brow raised, poised arch of her face. half slumped, curled grin.
❛❛ i don’t know how any of the others cope with it. i might take a drink everytime someone tries to talk to me, i’ve had enough politics to last a lifetime. .. i suppose. someone has to save you from the stupid and it sure as hell won’t be leliana or josephine. perhaps you could convince vivienne to take over your inquisitorial duties for the night and we can get drunk in the library. ❜❜ soul-shared, as no two will ever be alike as they are. nails bitten back, a sharp tug to a hangnail with little care and wide-eyed. somber-eve, the soft bluster of the wind ambiance ’neath their conversation. she softens to a peach, over-dramatized tone. ❛❛ i’m sure i’ll survive; .. unlike celene, hopefully. ❜❜
