are there rebellious archivists? other than YOU, that is. // independent dorian pavus, written by mimi. est. jan 2016.
Misplaced Lens Cap

Origami Around
Jules of Nature

roma★
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Peter Solarz

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Discoholic 🪩

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will byers stan first human second
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

if i look back, i am lost
Monterey Bay Aquarium
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@fadescar
are there rebellious archivists? other than YOU, that is. // independent dorian pavus, written by mimi. est. jan 2016.
jcined.
@fadescar
“For what it’s worth, Inquisitor, I’m pretty damn sure it’s not an Archdemon.” She’d be able to feel it — sense it, hear the song louder when it was near. She cannot. Even past the song already rioting in her head, louder, louder, cracking at her skull —— she remembers how the last one felt. “As far as I can tell, it’s just a fucking ugly dragon.”
❝ still bad, ❞ simplicity for the sake of simplicity. perhaps, one day, people may find amusement in this. perhaps, one day, people may look back on this and believe that it is so fantastical that there was no way it was REAL. a dragon, preferable to an archdemon. not an impossible thought, but still ridiculous when you remove yourself from the situation, isn’t it? ❝ just slightly less. ❞
lastbled.
@fadescar
“——- I’m trying to tell you something about the story of us.” She has played the role now heaped upon his shoulders; she had only one city, clipping wings and grounding talons. He has Thedas. He has THE WORLD. ( she realizes, abruptly, that there is a world outside thedas. ) But there are things that are the same, and she knows it, and she —
He ought to be prepared for the lies and the hate and the way the world will not thank him or care for what he has done for them. He ought to know that they will not remember. “No one understands what you’ve been fighting for — be prepared to watch your history unravel thread by thread.”
is there any good in this world? yes / no / there was. some days he awakens and wonders where it all had gone. some days he awakens and wonders that, if there were gods / a god, why have they / he / she / it allowed this? being a hero is a thankless task. being a hero means : infested dying fighting surviving screaming out where no one can hear because if all could hear then the world would crumble.
vengeance soaks him. need to do right soaks him. expectation is drowning him. she is a woman whom he barely knows but her reputation precedes her, perhaps. her importance to varric does, anyways. ❝ few understand. ❞ he does not expect the world to thank him, when this is all over. he does not expect to be alive, when this is all over. he : dalish elf / savage / made / heathen. ❝ i will be forgotten. ❞ always forever acceptance.
i’m awake and out of my apartment but....... at what cost?
i have....... minimal recollection of today??? oh well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
WE’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK! / PRIVATE. MULTI-VERSED. MULTI-SHIP. HIGHLY SELECTIVE. WRITTEN BY CELENE. / ART CREDIT.
YOU ARE NOT DEAD! & UNTIL YOU ARE, YOU WILL NOT BE BEATEN! independent & canon - divergent warden of dragon age: origins. as written by merc.
What I say: I am ship trash.
What I mean: I am always open to the possibility of ships happening and developing while two characters are fleshing out their relationship, but I do not immediately ship things because dynamics can change as muses interact. However, if someone were to IM me about a ship, I would 100% be on board to discuss the possibilities of it happening, how that would come about, and what other fun we could have- including angst.
righteousmade.
He had known the inevitable causation of actions, the bloodied hands of a man that was a healer promised who had taken upon himself that proverbial sword — the staff to lead a righteous cause where those with silence forced had suffered. But action had not birthed this particular infestation — men who held their swords and shields tainted red and called and carried by it’s siren song.
This had not been his doing; and yet it breeds from the cracked chaos of his making.
He intends to burn them too at Justice’s pyre, blazing glory for what needed to be done to those drunk with power and with poisoned thought. The Templars, he had known them all to be the same — ready to strike, to use the gifted powers of corrupt system to carry on their legacy and help keep that pillar standing strong.
That would burn too, just like it had done before.
But this time, he is not alone. There are those who see him for what he had done, for what had needed to be done — the hand that moved against the ticking clock and sought for action needed and the fury favoured. This time, they are with him; different from the rest, no crazed fanaticism that many painted as rebellion. Here they had reason, here, it was not only justice and freedom, but to help pave the path to the new world where they all stood on equal footing.
Here he lay the groundwork for a new order of mages.
It is some skewed sort of luck that he finds himself in a situation where he finally meets The Inquisitor.
Opportunity, there is motion and the raised staff — a glow and brilliance of blue in eyes as he signals for the attack. The monsters flood in with a wildness rabid. Barely human, creatures with lyrium infusing with bone, jutting from skin, and perhaps it is that, perhaps there is blindness that follows deafness that leads them to simply act on instinct - swinging erratic, defensive where needed but lacking instinct and survival when attacking, Anders and the small group of mages that work with him move — well trained to deal their damage.
There is fire, ice, stone and storm — they summon powers that are as sharp as the blades once used against them. Unison, a oneness in the way they move ( they’ve done this a while ), and they deal a damage that cripples. Pre-emptive strike! Surprise! And now there are more enemies for the Red Templars to deal with.
“Inquisitor! Your path is here!” He calls, moving with a grace that speaks of training and a warrior’s mind as his staff twirls and foot sets in stance to dodge, parry and launch fireballs and electricity. There is a dagger there too! Quick, and seen only when the light catches as he throws it towards a monster that staggers as it tries to pull tie dagger from it’s body.
Distraction, and a break in their line of attack.
“ Go! Now! “
blood spills and it is blood. blood spills it stains seeps settles. blood spills and people die. they are beginning to trail blood after them, the inquisition. their founding had been in blood. perhaps their end will be in blood. he is soaked in blood and that thought is a discomfort / uneasiness / unhappiness. right now his own blood is dripping, overflowing, sticking.
a saviour arrives !! or something like that. magic rains down and he can feel the fade, can feel the call upon it. spins and twists and moves, freezes a set, brings down lightning on another. he glances, out of the corner of his eye. a band of mages, a glowing man, blue and cracked and radiant and abomination. perhaps, perhaps. assumptions are dangerous. assumptions can be unfair. assumptions can be truth.
words ring and an opening arrives : a chance. a way. a path to take. this is a decision to make and it is not a decision at all. not truly. not in the end. they may die, if they remain here. they may perish. such is the undeniable truth, unquestionable in its basis.
his hand glows burns itches and he raises it high and he can feel that infection spreading. can feel it inching. can feel it straining. can feel it fighting. it is only pragmatic to acknowledge it. to accept it. to know that it is there. to know that there may be no way to stop it in truth. it GLOWS and he lifts it and
protection, for all. a breath and
he shifts jumps glides forward, fingers splaying, hand burning and he feels for the not there edges of the fade. forces his way through them and pulls yanks tugs. arm rears back and he breathes with it, or tries to. breathes and sets his jaw and the veil rips, the other side SCREAMING and the red templars falling falling falling they all fall down.
perhaps there would be silence, were this an idyllic situation. in reality, however, they are not all dead. only most. only many. there are still shouts and calls and templars falling but they will not die, today. on this day, they will not perish. they will live another hour, if only that.
hand flexes and he catches his breath and he remains moving, never stopping, always flowing. ice scatters cold reigns winds oppress and the battle begins to wane, begins to quiet, begins to settle.
as it does he looks to their saviours once more. a merry band of mages. the merry band of mages, he can only assume. there is no such thing as coincidences, not in this world. there is no such thing as happenstance in a world where the end may yet be tomorrow. his eyes settle on the man who spoke as the final red templars begin to fall and he watches him, silent. watches him, staff twirling in his hand. watches him.
Send a '🌸' for my muse's reaction to yours putting a flower in their hair.
hiraecies.
She is not unsettled; it takes a great deal more than one quiet elf to cause true discomfort in a creature such as her. The song ( it’s pretty, almost, when she can barely hear it and she catches herself straining for more and knowing that that can only mean —— ) in her head makes her uncomfortable. The sensation of poison in her veins makes her uncomfortable. Her own blackened blood coursing over her weapons when she makes use of Avernus’s torture makes her uncomfortable. But not him. She smiles, something sincere and faintly cocky.
“I know.” She does. If she wasn’t good, she wouldn’t be here. She can do with a bow and arrows and a pair of daggers what most could not do with all the magic and all the skill in the world. It isn’t arrogance to know so — it’s simply fact. “From what I’ve heard, so are you.” Her smile turns crooked. “If you weren’t, I suppose you’d be dead, now, wouldn’t you?”
❝ survival is luck, ❞ a plain statement with a bland tone and there is truth behind it, he thinks. an undeniable truth. he would have ( should have ) died at the conclave if fates had not aligned. he could have died many more times over if he had not moved a certain way. if he had not said certain things. if he had not walked a certain path. sheer strength / willpower can only take you so far.
❝ but i’m very good, ❞ he says because that, too, is a truth. has truth behind it. he has never shied away from the idea that he is a powerful mage. that he wields great power. infestation mark or no, the fade molds to his shape and he manipulates it with ease. as easy as breathing. as easy as walking. as easy as climbing. as easy as magic.
switching from dorian to eth basically gives me whiplash
eloimai.
‘ hm ~ that is good to hear, i regret not meeting them on my travels before all this, ’ a vague gesture, twisting of the wrist up, towards the ceiling, ‘ mess happened. ’ of course there was always the opportunity to do so after the mess was cleaned up — if they managed to do so — but then was the question of when. it could be months, years. . . so, for the time being at least, eloi could but make simple skeletons of plans in her head, a comfort.
resting the point of her chin on the ball of a palm, eyes wander up the stone walls of the hall. following the lines of cement that held them together. ‘ yet, for as different as we dalish can be, i’m certain most of us would feel strange here, living here, ’ she certainly did. a statement, rather than a question, weighed with something heavier. it is of the ancient elves, & yet, felt very far from what she knew elven to be.
❝ strange, ❞ he echoes ; an answer. these stone walls and stone floors and cold halls are foreign / false / unwanted. he had not always been a child of the forests and plains and mountains and he knows that well, but that does not make this any better. any simpler. any easier to accept.
unnatural / irregular / abominable.
he watches the lines, as well. at times it feels like a coffin and he finds himself glad for his open rooms, the half crumbled walls. shems live so easily in these places, in these structures. he has never understood. will never understand. not truly. not completely. he takes a breath, glances up. wishes that he could see the sky. ❝ though the sky is near. ❞
“ canon “ romances or something like that
eth: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ cullen / solas / i don’t fucking know esana: leliana / zevran vinh: merrill / anders monty: dorian
montague “ monty ” trevelyan is a devout andrastian and magic-fearing as any “ true andrastian “ would be. he’s a strong advocate for the circle and templars being a necessary component of society. he believes that magic is dangerous and, despite being a naturally powerful mage, believes that magic destroys more often than it creates. he turned himself into the circle when his magic manifested and indirectly caused his sister’s death.
aka i can’t make a character without making their backstory a bit tragic but he’d probably have a messiah complex and is power hungry and is quite the liar at all times and is still Wrong and a little bit Bad and maybe a bit of a lawful good / lawful evil flux. dark messiah trope, anyone?
ANYWAYS, TIME TO STUDY LOVE YOU ALL
me: okay time to study my brain: what if you made a mage trevelyan who’s a devout andrastian and openly proclaims that he is the herald of andraste and shares the same general outlook that vivienne does aka supports circles and finds templars useful because you never have characters like that me: fuck you, brain
i’m gonna do some stuff over on dorian before bed !!