WARDEN.

[howeabout]

i literally have no icons or idea what i’m doing so like this for a small, iconless starter

[howeabout]

this is why we can’t have nice things, everyone. 

[howeabout]

              “  -- are you certain about this ? ” An edged drawl meets husky timbre ; he should know better.  But he is not a man who has been aged through hardship or recompense, a delicate undertaking found in his pride beyond that. Still, that does not mean he cannot question what is going to transpire -- safety brokers easily from such tidings. 

[howeabout]

i turn into literal sleazy satan whilst on nate 

[howeabout]

COMMANDER.

‘tis unfortunate, really, that such sweet little gestures go mostly unnoticed; a twitch of an ear betrays the Commander, a surreptitiously pleased response to the gentle touches placed along her cheekbone. Distracted as she is, however, Nilviri can’t quite seem to acknowledge it as she perhaps should - or would want to. There’s but a subtle lean of her head against a gloved hand, a fleeting movement that suggests acceptance - even appreciation - of the other’s fussing. Violet eyes remain fixed on her parchment, however. So bloodshot and tired are they that she’s fearful to look away, to lose her spot and forget the document’s half-read contents entirely.

     ❝ Nonsense. It’s barely past midnight. ❞

   A delicate hand raises from the table in apparent intent to wave him off; instead it brushes his own, fingers absently hovering over his as if intending to grasp them - wanting to. It drops back down.

     ❝ I can’t hope to finish this by noon if I put it off for the night–you needn’t worry. ❞

                    It’s by the Maker’s barest graces that subtle restraint offers itself unto him. Threadbare and broken, akin to the man he was when he had waltz in here -- no longer a boy, but a pariah intent on reclaiming something lost. Snaps of warmth from her are all he can feel through his gloves and it’s enough. She held dedication to her task, if nothing else, though simplistic fitting would have decreed she rest rather than make mistakes. His own fingers flex at the meager touch, a scoff following accordingly when she insists on the task. 

                    ❝  Barely past.? Are you sure about that ? Even Oghren’s gone to sleep.  ❞ Perhaps passed out in the larder would have been a more apt descriptor.   ❝ Whatever the.... --  ❞    A quick glance is torn from the gentle round of her cheek and point of her ear to check the title and first few lines of her parchment, He muffles a disgusted groan,  ❝  -- Orlesians’ want, can wait until morning. Or if you’re intent upon this, I can finish it and you look it over in the morning. I have to be up for rounds regardless.  ❞

[lotsofchocolateicecream]

[howeabout]

thxwarden

 @thxwarden: does this please you? 

this isn’t very professional of you

when have i ever been professional. 

[howeabout]

                      He’s too bold. Emblazoned and furious in a casted righteous that deviates only in the gesture of gloved fingertips that dare to tuck back errant strands of auburn tresses. Perhaps she’s far too busy to fuss, to notice, or to deviate from whatever pressed aggravation into her brow. Funny, he would not think himself to dote on a woman whom he once considered his enemy, staunch disaster in faith and forthright -- yet now he stands in his former, late Father’s keep, hovering over a lithe shoulder, allowing knuckles to brush along a high cheek bone for a scarce moment. Maybe she won’t catch it.  

                            ❝ -- you’re working too hard, Commander.  It’s late, perhaps you should retire for the evening. I’m sure Varel won’t mind missives being unread in the morn.  ❞ 

@thxwarden

[howeabout]

@thxwarden: does this please you? 

[howeabout]

long time no see, babes. like for a smallish starter.

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surxna:

     There’s plenty of interesting things to be found in the Keep. The other       day he found a scrap of the most shiniest cloth near the kitchen. Before       that there was some juvenile yet hilarious graffiti in the dungeons. Today,       however, his attention has been grabbed by something a little more       substantial. A large sword of silverite with the fanciest encrusted handle.       How could he see that and not pick it up?

      Or at least, he was trying to. The thing was at least four inches taller       than him and he’d sorely underestimated it’s weight. Nevertheless he’d       managed to hoist it up with two hands; almost triumphant. Until he heard       the familiar voice of one Nathanial Howe. It was a blessing he didn’t drop it.

      “Ha- Hellooo friend. What brings you all the way down here. Shouldn’t        ya be.. somewhere that isn’t here.” Quinn offers a smile, still holding the         the sword. Maybe if he just.. gradually bent down he could disarm safely..

THERE IS little posture to present, a low slump of shoulders and he cares not if the Commander witnesses his grievance over the matter. Nathaniel has half a mind to leave, to allow him the grace to figure out the situation himself with great sword in hand – a family heirloom, no less, but his tongue clucks and legs seemingly move on their own.

          ❝ I was making my rounds. The ones you told me to do and blessedly so – I might feel you’ve found yourself in a bit of a situation, ❞ thin tiers purse, steel flashing over steel if only to weigh and measure. Offering a twist of instruct, the archer fights the creeping smile that forms over his mouth – of course their Commander would find something to get into. Just the old armory hadn’t been on the list in in his mind.   ❝ –  If you twist the flat of it to the side, you can let it drop safely into your palm and then put it down. ❞

Gloved hands reach, careful to grip the balance pommel of the blade. Allowing the mage to do this himself? Possible. But him not helping with something that rightfully belonged to his family? Absolutely ludicrous.

         ❝ If we are to ever disarm you, I must inform you that Varel is looking for you. Something to do with the nobles visiting upstairs, I suppose. They just arrived and I assume Orlesian by all the clucking. ❞

[howeabout]

           ❝ — do put that down, ❞ comes swift murmur, a delicate timbre of rumination to leak across weary, gravely tongue. He beckons only by right of concern, a method of staying another’s hand from possible damage done. And personally, he felt no need to clean up a mess this late in the eve. 

[angelic37]

[howeabout]

angelic37:

Watching for the plot | Richard Armitage in Robin Hood (2x03)

[howeabout]

amagenotamiracleworker:

“You’re the one with Ferelden blood here, it’s probably you that’s the furnace” he quipped, eyes slipping half way closed, turning to press his cheek against the hand that been playing with the hair that escaped his neat ponytail. A sigh left his lips and lids shut, face turning just enough to press a kiss to finger tips.

But his eyes did not stay shut and mischief danced in them as he reached down with both hands, hooking around the bottom of his robes. Didn’t pull it up but wiggled some of his fingers like he was offering too. Was it too much, too fast? He didn’t know, had no frame of reference besides the Circle and he knows it. But he also knows Nathaniel and he’ll push away if it’s too much.

If nothing else he’s proven that much, tonight being the exception rather than the norm to his flirts and teasing.

“You never did ask if I wear anything underneath my robes.”

Base indulgences were just so, something beyond the call of thought and consideration, where only consequences held themselves close abreast. Never clearer than any other moment did the softer chide of the other take to his ears, louder than the pulsing of his blood throughout his skull -- swollen and muddled. Caution lingers in his gaze and his own hands drop to cover and still the mage’s. It is not for lack of want or rampant sensation, if the shift of his hips is anything to go by, yet respect hinges hungrily in his bones and a couch makes for a poor start. 

              ❝ That would be because I have manners, ❞ teeth bare in gentle smile, eyes rolling half-heartedly. Rough palms work to smooth past narrow hands, pressing down length cloth. Heat pools in his belly against the notion and his legs move against the weight propped a top them to better sit up.  The utterance is soft that pours across his tongue, head bowing forward to brush foreheads for a time. ❝  -- You can slow down. Unless you are in some rush I am not aware of. ❞ 

Chapped lips dot butterfly notions against a tanned cheek, skirting to line the stalwart expanse of a scruffy jaw. 

               ❝ I am more than content with this. ❞

[howeabout]

amagenotamiracleworker

For a few seconds he does not actually react, eyes widening just a little that all of his teasing has finally borne fruit, lips parted and he fancied he felt the corner of them tingling. But that was foolish and so he shut them, curled into a grin as he let himself be pulled, shivering again at the urgency he was pulled with. One hand dropped down to cover Nathaniel’s still on his thigh, back arching enough to press their chests together.

“They are quite cold, I would be shirking my duties as your healer to leave you suffering like this.”

Whatever reply Nathaniel might give is stopped as Anders closed the short gap, lips against lips, and it’s a little clumsy from both the wine and his eagerness but he can’t make himself care. It’s real and he hopes he can tell the difference between the games he plays with his words and this kiss, that he means it, even if they might only fuck once and get it out of their systems it’s still real.

His laughter is smother by the press of another’s mouth, halted immediately in favor of other things. Of all the things to say, such sentimentality urged only fondness from the archer. It had always been so easy for Anders to invoke, though not from the very start ; hostilities born from simple teasing and uneasy alliances. There had been a time when scoff and glare were the only gifts he’d offer to an unabashed blond and now? Simply so he could not fathom the depths of previous annoyance, not with affection blooming sweet song in his limbs. 

Little sighs slip across his tongue, a hum in the back of his throat. No need to rush, no need for furious intent, his nose bumps against the others’. He parts only for breath, ghosting tiers against pliable ones. Now did the glacial notion set in, how apt, how despicably charming in it’s way, in sudden desperation as if he should have never parted. 

                ❝  -- Maybe you aren’t such a ruddy healer,❞ husky tone braves itself, lidded eyes fetch a keen glance to scan the mage’s face. Hands twitch and itch to wander, fingers skirting the wispy strands of blond hair whilst the other cupped against a sturdy leg digs nails downward. 

                 ❝But you are incredibly warm.  Like a furnace, I’m certain. ❞

[howeabout]

amagenotamiracleworker:

“Warm” Anders repeated, tasting the word on his own tongue. It’s not something he’s been called when he’s climbed into people’s laps in the past but then those times they had both known exactly what they were after and how little time they really had to get it done. Here he has all the time in the world and he finds his hands faltering a little at the thought.

He’s chased all this time, like a dog after it’s tail, but with the prize within sight he doesn’t know how to act.

A slight shiver ran up his spine as fingers dug into his thigh during his distraction, eyes slipping shut for a moment. He wants, selfishly he wants but what is he offering? Only one way to find out and despite his sudden nerves he falls back on his wit and his grins, they’ve not failed him (too badly) yet in life.

“I am warm, but my lips are warmer still if your’s are cold.”

               ❝ You are always so quick to offer. ❞ It’s a scold that he breathes, half-hearted and poorly formed whilst fingers gather at cloth bones beneath his hand. Had it always been like this? Anders daring him, challenging him, to push him forward, into action? Perhaps it was the for the best this way, that no mistakes were made. For all his insistence, the mage never over stepped boundaries unless they were openly offered therein. And by the dryness of his throat, Nathaniel had more than allowed such a thing to occur. 

Were it not for the thundering of his heart, a deafening echo in his ears, he would have thought it stopped completely. Such a sobering sensation to recall one’s own heartbeat, such a flourishing whimsy that brings a shake to limbs, and an utter tremble to his stomach. Raven tressed skull cants upward, a gentle arch of neck, and he’s lost so simply again. 

It is only by the grace of the Maker himself that he’s able to whisper chaste notions in that moment. To allow himself the benefit to brush lips against the side of another’s mouth so boldly, permission granted and thusly offered. His nose bumps against the other’s cheek and his free hand reaches up to clasp at the back of Anders’ neck, tugging him down just a sliver. Eager. 

              ❝ -- Too cold for you? ❞

[howeabout]

➹. SURANA

‘TIS INDEED expectant silence that hangs in the air between the two as a question slips into another’s ear and right back out, never answered. Perhaps the Commander would deem to repeat it were her focus not suddenly turned to a curious observation of what gave the archer such pause. Studiously her gaze glides over Nathaniel’s long features and takes in every twitch of the muscle and every dart of grey eyes with an almost scientific interest. Maker forbid there be an ulterior motive to the way the elf stands on her tip toes and cuts those precious inches of the distance between them. With a birdlike tilt of her head and a deep inhale, she scrunches her nose and leans away yet again, clicking her tongue in playful scolding.           ❝ Drinking on your post, Warden-Ensign? Shameful. Just shameful.              And without offering me one, too! What am I to do with you? ❞

BY WICKED notion does a chuckle reign itself in ; he is thankful for small moments, particularly the break in silence that eggs on his thoughts into places beyond reconciliation. ‘Tis a worrisome note that he found himself enraptured, caught by devilish interests like the plush curve of a bottom tier -- He huffs, tongue clucking against the inside of his cheek and his knee deigns to bump against her. 

            ❝ If you consider the Mess a post, my lady, then Oghren will surely be disappointed. ❞ Quick on the take, he settles for distraction, for deliverance from the situation of her. For all she is worth, for all that she is, he had not anticipated the linger sensations that wander in his blood or knot in his muscles. Loyalty unfounded these days had warped into something -- Nathaniel coughs once, offering what little remain in his goblet, though a tease parts across his tongue as easily as he found wonder before. ❝You are welcome to take what little is left if it vexes you so, though I am remiss to say that perhaps the most of it resides on my lips. ❞