LET MINE BE THE LAST SACRIFICE.

o maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights. steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. make me to rest in the warmest places. my maker, know my heart: take from me a life of sorrow. lift me from a world of pain. judge me worthy of your endless pride. my creator, judge me whole: find me well within your grace. touch me with fire that i be cleansed. tell me i have sung to your approval.

[oprophetess-blog]

MAKER, MY ENEMIES ARE ABUNDANT.  MANY ARE THOSE WHO RISE UP AGAINST ME.  BUT MY FAITH SUSTAINS ME  ------  I SHALL NOT FEAR THE LEGION,  SHOULD THEY SET THEMSELVES AGAINST ME.

[oprophetess-blog]

sorry i’ve been away!! i’ve been busy with midterms / on my other blogs and my partner in crime over here has not been on her damn maferath (callout for @eaglehoe​) but i’m gonna try to be more active over here

[dailyjcj]

[sle0nll]

Visit Original Link

[oprophetess-blog]

AHVIR.

          THE SPREAD OF THE CHANTRY — ??  For a moment expression is blank; this woman cannot be so ignorant as to speak of the Chantry’s poisonous veins reaching out so positively to a DALISH ELF.  As though the Chantry has not sought to ERADICATE THEM time and time again.  It only takes a moment for her mind to move past the ABSURDITY OF IT, and her lips twist, teeth barring.  Arms cross tight over her chest.

                              “Easy to spread it on the ends of swords and violence,” she hisses, glancing back up at the statue that looks NOT AT ALL like their damned prophet.  “Easy to spread it when you kill everybody who won’t sing the DAMN CHANT.”

                              it  has  been  less  than  a  blink  since  last  she  stood  with  feet  planted  in  this  earth.  the  world  has  TURNED  AND  TURNED  AND  TURNED  without  her  and  she  has  known  none  of  it.  she  can  still  feel  the  licking  warmth  of  flames  as  they  crept  up  the  drape  of  her  skirt.  she  shut  her  eyes  and  met  death  with  SO  MANY  SONGS  yet  unsung  in  her  throat,  and  she  wakes  now  to  find  others  have  sung  them  for  her,  taken  what  bare  notes  she  had  the  time  to  pen  and  BUILT  FROM  THEM  A  SYMPHONY,  a  rising  music  sung  the  world  over.  should  that  not  fill  her  heart  with  joy?

                              still,  she  knows  the  moment  her  words  reach  the  other’s  ears  that  she’s  said  SOMETHING  WRONG.  there  is  a  new  chill  to  the  air;  a  new  venom  to  her  voice.  “ swords  and  violence? ”  no.  no,  the  maker  is  open  hands  and  light,  peace  and  balance,  harmony  in  all  things,  love  unconditional.  ahvir  speaks  with  a  bitterness  which  would  indicate  a  history  quite  unlike  the  FUTURE  SHE  WORKED  TO  MAKE.  “ tell  me.  tell  me  what’s  happened. ”

[oprophetess-blog]

AHVIR.

         Ahvir still finds it strange.  IMPOSSIBLE.  This woman is fucking dead, after all, and ———- to be quite frank, she’d prefer it that way.  Her being alive seems to lend more credence to this MAKER shit, which she handily refuses to buy into for a moment.  She has spent too long with her own BELIEFS, holding fast to them in the face of a world that wishes naught but to see her ( and her gods ) RAZED and BURIED.  

                       Still.  She’s not beyond humor.  “You’re a mad bit paler in the pictures and the statues, too.  You’d think the Chantry wouldn’t be so quick to PRETTIFY their prophet.”

                              “ am  i  really? ”  well.  that’s  a  curious  thing.  she’d  like  to  see  these  pictures.  “ my  sister,  you  know  ---  she  was  much  paler  than  i.  lovely,  agreeable  hair  like  this.  she  was  always  THE  PRETTY  ONE  when  we  were  children. ”  an  answer  to  a  question  unasked,  she  knows,  but  she  delights  in  sharing,  telling  stories.  maf’s  eldest  brother  found  her  insufferably  irritating,  told  her  once  he  was  QUITE  GLAD  she  hadn’t  married  him.  

                              andraste  draws  a  deep  breath,  exhales  soft  and  slow  as  an  AWED  SMILE  pushes  onto  her  lips.  “ chantry. ”  it’s  a  breath.  every  time  she  hears  the  UNFAMILIAR  WORD  spoken  she  feels  her  heart  lifted.  “ it’s  incredible.  how  the  word  has  spread. ”

[chromat]

[oprophetess-blog]

FAITHSCARS.

               IT BRINGS A small sense of joy to know humans celebrate in such a festive way   —   she can only imagine what they would look like, if they would have costumes as elaborate to match the paintings.   & briefly, she pictured the few humans she’d met in such a way; how ridiculously wonderful she thinks they would look.   such a beautiful art, it would be.   not far different from the elves   —   the vallaslin was an art of its own, one so few master.   meant to last, but often fade.   painful, a rite of passing, but always renewed.   

               BROWS FURROW, & head tips to the side.   she finds it odd, if the woman has lived with her people but has not seen their writing in blood.   among the city?   merrill had never seen other elves bare-skinned.   ❝   you haven’t?   where you in a city?   they don’t wear them like we do.   ❞   chin raises high as she continues, & she is prideful as she explains with lips set in a grin.   ❝   the dalish   —   we wear them for our gods & ourselves.   a sign of worship & to show that we will never submit.   that our beliefs are ours.   ❞

                              oh.  DALISH.  what  a  beautiful  word  ---  what  pure  music  to  her  ears!  in  her  life  she  made  so  many  promises  which  she  did  not  live  TO  KEEP,  so  many  vows  cut  short,  but  shartan’s  stands  above  all  the  rest.  the  sullen  shape  of  him,  and  his  skin  glistening  and  dark,  and  her  fingers  gentle  ACROSS  HIS  SHOULDERS.  the  injustices  ---  the  crimes  against  your  people  are  INNUMERABLE.  INCOMPARABLE.  i  want  you  to  know  i  meant  every  word  i  said  before  your  forces.  i  will  see  reparations  made.  you  will  have  a  HOMELAND  of  your  own.  his  eyes  dark  and  suspect,  a  man  who  has  never  seen  an  oath  kept.  where?  WHERE  WOULD  HAVE US?  

                              they  had  settled  together  on  the  dales  of  the  south,  after  careful  consideration,  long  inspection  of  their  maps,  mock--squabbling  over  borders  in  preparation  for  the  GRUELING  TREATISES  with  various  alamarri  tribes  which  were  sure  to  lie  ahead.  she  had  imagined  he  would  represent  his  people  personally,  with  HER  AT  HIS  SIDE.  in  the  end  he  went  to  their  maker’s  side  before  her  very  pyre,  and  SHE  WEPT,  out  of  grief,  yes,  but  just  as  much  out  of  fear  ---  that  in  her  absence  the  promises  she  made  to  the  elven  people,  IN  THE  MAKER’S  SIGHT,  would  go  unfilled.  she  should  not  have  doubted. 

                              “ no,  no  city.  we  marched  together.  were  they  A  TRADITION  OF  ARLATHAN,  then? ”  she  believes  she’s  pronouncing  that  correctly,  but  it’s  been  an  age  since  she’s  heard  old  elvhen  words  invoked  in  shartan’s  low  tones.  “ i  had  A  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND.  he  told  me  that  so  much  of  what  your  people  once  believed  had  been  taken  and  crushed  by  TEVINTER  ---  that  only  fragments  remained,  and  barely  that.  that  KNOWLEDGE.  it  has...  been  reclaimed? ”

[oprophetess-blog]

                              “ is  this  meant  to  be  me? ”  her  mouth  has  curved  upward  in  AMAZEMENT,  in  AMUSEMENT,  as  she  ponders  the  great  stone  statue,  the  spectacle,  the  prophet  with  her  hands  out  to  her  sides,  palms  forward,  frozen  a  moment  before  an  embrace.  “ my  hair’s  NEVER  BEEN  SO  COOPERATIVE  a  day  in  my  life. ”  the  woman  depicted  has  more  in  common  with  her  sister  than  herself,  had  halliserre  been  allowed  to  grow  as  tall  as  trees,  had  she  not  died  below  cover  of  leaves.

@ahvir hit  ❤︎

[rackhamrogue]

[xx-ange1a]

[oprophetess-blog]

FAITHSCARS.

               NERVOUS FINGERS TOUCH her own cheeks, suddenly aware of the markings on her face.   an unmistakable sign of her people; she can still remember the pain vividly.   nonetheless she smiles in return, genuine & sincerely flattered a human should find them so pretty.   ❝   oh!   ❞   she chimes as fingers trace over the raised, inked skin.   she’s quite proud of the design.   ❝   i am.   & thank you.   on the bright side, with paint you could choose a different design every day.   pick ones for special occasions, even!   but again, thank you.   it isn’t often anyone outside our people appreciate our ways.   ❞

                              there  is  a  genuine  sweetness  to  the  elf  before  her,  a  pure  light  shining  through  the  earnest  excitement  in  her  voice,  and  it  brings  a  WIDER  SMILE  to  draste’s  face.  what  a  lovely  young  girl.  “ we  do!  different  patterns  and  colors,  for  tournaments  and  celebrations,  hunts  and  battles.  it’s  an  art  which  one  can  spend  a  LIFETIME  perfecting. ”  she  can  recall  so  clearly  the  rough  yet  gentle  feeling  of  the  painter--woman’s  fingers  streaking  across  her  cheeks  ---  on  her  fourteenth  name--day,  on  the  evening  of  her  wedding,  on  THE  FIRST  MORN  OF  HER  MARCH.  “ your  kind  have  a  truly  wonderful  culture,  too  often  ravaged  by  those  who  make  no  attempt  to  understand  it.  IF  I  MAY  ASK  ---  what  are  they?  i  lived  a  while  alongside  a  great  many  of  the  people,  but  i  can  remember  none  with  markings  such  as  yours. ”

[oprophetess-blog]

oprophetess:

it’s a starter call!!

[oprophetess-blog]

FUCKTHEDIVINE.

@oprophetess

            “I’ve certainly been injured more severely.”  True, of course, both in and out of battle.  Elf manages a wavering smile for the other despite the still - present ache.  Without this woman, Fiona’s condition could have ended far worse.  “Thank you for your help.”

                              “ you  talk  like  my  husband. ”  her  smile  FLICKERS,  in  and  out  like  candlelight,  like  a  lantern  hung  in  a  drafty  hall.  “ always  I’VE  HAD  WORSE.  injury  is  injury.  the  wounds  of  yesterday  have  hardly  made  us  NUMB  to  pain  today. ”  the  warmth  of  her  hands  ghosts  again  over  the  gash;  a  green  light,  soft  and  without  source,  gently  illuminates  her  palms  as  MAGIC  presses  BLOOD  BACK  INTO  VEINS,  knits  together  torn  skin.  “ THERE.  time  will  finish  what  i’ve  started.  it  shouldn’t  scar. ”

[orhcid]

[oprophetess-blog]

LIONSFELL.

      ❛     i am thankful that the inquisition found it when we did .      ❜     TO STAND BY HER ,   PROPHET AND VISION OF GOD   —–    her holiness is a blinding beacon ,   a light at a rocky shore ;   warning  /  beckoning .   he finds himself UNBIDDEN ,   despite the praise sung unto her ,  though still admittedly self - conscious .    ❛    after haven ,   we were in need of a fortress such as this one .     ❜

                              “ it  has  A  DIVINITY  to  it.  you  can  taste  it,  on  the  breeze. ”  her  smile  is  warm  and  gentle  as  a  sun--soaked  draft  of  wind  in  early  summer,  A  SPARK  OF  FIRE  sharply  contrasted  against  the  crisp  chill  of  the  mountain  air.  “ certainly  our  lord  creator  guided  your  people  here,  AS  HE  DID  MINE,  in  your  time  of  need. ”  she  reaches  out  to  draw  calloused  fingers  across  the  lines  of  cracks  in  the  wall,  savors  the  clear  sensation  of  cold  stone  on  her  skin.  HOW  WONDERFUL,  to  be  alive.

[oprophetess-blog]

                              a  smile  grows  across  her  face  like  the  RISING  SUN  AT  DAWN,  warmth  and  light  breaking  over  the  world.  it  brings  HER  HEART  a  special  joy,  the  sight  of  one  of  shartan’s  people,  lithe  body  unburdened  by  chains.  if  one  elf  has  led  a  life  FREE  OF  TYRANNY  for  her  actions,  one  child  born  who  would  otherwise  have  lived  a  slave  ---  then  she  regrets  NOT  ONE  MOMENT  of  her  life,  not  one  battle,  not  one  word.  “ you’re  very  beautiful. ”  it’s  absolutely  genuine.  “ it’s  GOOD  to  see  the  people  THRIVING. ” 

@pariahe hit  ❤︎