/ekˈsɪʒən/.

the act of removal; an excising.

[selfexcision-a]

officially retired, moved on over to @m0tiveforce; again, it's a sideblog attached to my current main. thank you for sticking around as you have, and please softblock whether you follow me over to the new space or not!

[selfexcision-a]

officially retired, moved on over to @m0tiveforce; again, it's a sideblog attached to my current main. thank you for sticking around as you have, and please softblock whether you follow me over to the new space or not!

[selfexcision-a]

officially retired, moved on over to @m0tiveforce; again, it's a sideblog attached to my current main. thank you for sticking around as you have, and please softblock whether you follow me over to the new space or not!

[selfexcision-a]

officially retired, moved on over to @m0tiveforce; again, it's a sideblog attached to my current main. thank you for sticking around as you have, and please softblock whether you follow me over to the new space or not!

[selfexcision-a]

officially retired, moved on over to @m0tiveforce; again, it's a sideblog attached to my current main. thank you for sticking around as you have, and please softblock whether you follow me over to the new space or not!

[selfexcision-a]

officially retired, moved on over to @m0tiveforce; again, it's a sideblog attached to my current main. thank you for sticking around as you have, and please softblock whether you follow me over to the new space or not!

[selfexcision-a]

officially retired, moved on over to @m0tiveforce; again, it's a sideblog attached to my current main. thank you for sticking around as you have, and please softblock whether you follow me over to the new space or not!

[selfexcision-a]

think i'm gonna move this blog to a sideblog attached to vann for absolutely no pressure, no maintenance, just vibes and once again reducing my number of blogs. i'll follow up with updates as soon as i'm all set up.

[lastburden-a-deactivated2025061]

TRISTAN TREVELYAN LAIDIR, IN HIS DAYS AS ROOK.

appearance progression throughout 9:51 dragon.

top: leading up to the events of Veilguard, through Solas' ritual, and up until the twin dragon attacks on the cities. For the first time since he was 18, Tristan lets his hair grow out; in the days that follow the failed ritual in Minrathous, he allows a stubble to at last develop into a beard he keeps trimmed short. You used to be more baby-faced than this; what changed? / Everything. Again. Varric says nothing else, and a whisper in Tristan's mind goes out like a snuffed candle.

middle: the aftermath of the dragon attacks, till after Weisshaupt. as he grows more comfortable around the companion circle, bonding primarily with Harding and Bellara, Tristan ties up his hair and makes his face more visible. He begins styling a braid into it, too, in a subtle callback to his usual style. He keeps the beard; it's growing on him, and in days like these, he'll take any sense of bodily comfort, no matter the form or the reason behind it.

bottom: after returning from Hossberg, till the end of Veilguard and beyond. it finally sinks in that he is back in the fold to lead. He thought leadership died when he put down the Inquisitor, but some identities are hard to kill. There's no returning to the man he used to be, so he has to make do with what is left of him now. Tristan opts for a discreet mullet and, most importantly, a visible braid behind his left ear. It is a reconciliation of appearances, as well as acceptance on this relatively new lease on life.

[laperlina]

Long of limb, though slight of frame, like a needle titan spiders might sew with, Adella seesaws high on her cushion as he sits beside her. Vannil is a boulder of a man, after all, fit enough to snack on titan spiders, if he wanted, and use their needles for toothpicks. If he wanted.

Side by side, the pair really do paint a strange picture. It was regarded as much, anyway, by the town’s Herbskeeper — a gabby, pigtailed halfling, who had sold them her greenest stock of earth smoke and livervain petals just this morning, questioning not the purchase of ingredients so exactly matched to those required of one of the realm’s more ... experimental recipes for exorcism, but, indeed, the greater curiosity: whether or not they should abandon their professions to roam the world instead; a three-set — great, middling, and thimble-ish — together on a quest to find a girl named Goldilocks.

Clearly, she wasn’t taken up on the offer. Adella remains stuck in her fiendish employ, and Vann is wise to stay in his. The water soothes, and she huddles in close, greedy, that trait so typical of her kind, for more warmth.

❝ Desperation. ❞ She mutters, tartly, ❝ Why else? I wasn't exactly all that free before, you know. I did have a soul, yes, but you don't really see the value of having one at all when you're suffering so much. And when you suffer so much, selling it away, even to a devil, doesn't sound so awful. It just sounds like a deeper hole you have to dig before you get someplace better ... Spoiled meat tastes tasty if you're starving. ❞

From her place, her cheek leaned into his arm, she blinks up at him, eyes so blue, and brooding. Narrow, and searching. ❝ I traded one slavedom for another, but at least this one came with power. And it was fun while it lasted. ❞

She bares into his soul no longer, and instead towards the chattering fireplace. ❝ You've never been that desperate in your life? I don't believe you. But if you prefer I do believe you, then I will say that you are very lucky. ❞

[selfexcision-a]

time and time again has he heard such a tale, and yet it never fails to spear his chest with heartache. Desperation. Ever the common pitfall, ever the discreet leviathan eager to satisfy its hunger with the lost and the agonizing. The hare must needs run always from the fox, but the fox need only catch it once. The same could be said about peace and self - destruction, for immediate relief in the face of constant pain is far more appealing than having to wait for that reprieve, if only for one more second. Vann sighs when he hears the word, though not in disappointment.

he feels Adella's gaze on him next, like greedy fingers tearing a ripe apple in half to find the worm burrowed in its core, but he doesn't falter under such pressure. Of course, he still allows her to huddle for warmth. ❛ Believe me or not, Adelaide, I have to be honest: I haven't experienced such desperation before at least not the kind that would lead me to sell my soul for momentary relief. ❜

there's no critique, though it may sound as such to Adella. Vann lowers his head in thought, allowing the gentle crackling of the fireplace to fill the silence. The difference between them is stark. Even rotten food feels like sustenance to the starving, just as a mirage is a promise of water for the desert wanderer, but the temporary relief is but a mask for the malaise, weakness and disillusion that will follow shortly after. Then it's all vomit and rot.

a mild feeling of nausea, in a twisted instance of serendipity, pushes bile up his throat; the backs of his eyes begin to hurt as a headache builds. It took the angel long enough to make its displeasure known, particularly at the concept of selling one's soul. Of dismissing it simply because of the suffering it brings. WHAT ABOUT THE REST? Vann pinches the bridge of his nose.

❛ Then again ❜ there's an attempt to rationalize. He understands, but there's a part of him that rebels at the idea of treating a soul like a burden. Like currency. He sighs again, this time in discomfort. ❛ No, never mind. It's not my place. ❜