#2vinters

[valehrn]

if you want to blow off some energy i can think of more pleasant ways to do it… (from tarquin)

his proposition nearly makes him forget about what he was seething about. it surprises him enough that ren expels a harsh breath, blinks, " -what? "

maybe it was laughable but suddenly, the idea locked in his frustration and dove through his stomach to neatly coil in that region. blushing, ren flexes muscles underneath the armor. the idea .. oh, that sounds good right about now. tarquin.. silver hues bounce on their surroundings. in minrathous there are plenty of areas to sneak and hide in. the warden reaches for @2vinters, pulling eagerly into the first alleyway .. once he's deep enough and sure no one is in sight, ren pushes and pins the templar against the wall, lips finding purchase lips and teeth. needy .. perhaps a tad rough, hips curling forward enough that he hoped 'quin would feel a very obvious answer..

[tragedia]

@2vinters's [ ASHUR ] gets a starter from [ FEYNRIEL ].

The promise of better something that Feynriel thought Tevinter could fulfill was the first to evaporate after seeing its reality for himself, and yet still, he knows he is one of the lucky ones. This awareness is hard to get rid of as he stands witness to the blood spilling on the cobblestone, so gradually, as the security in his abilities grows, he finds himself latching onto this notion, that he can make a difference and help, just like he had once been helped by others.

That's easier said than done.

In a dreamlike state, Feynriel slips past prying eyes unseen, his expression determined. An issued warning and a set time is followed by a stroll through the misty pathways, and it's only once he finds the one he's been looking for that a smile settles on his face.

“ Does the revered father have time to chat with this lowly servant, or should I come another time? ” His voice comes in an echo, reverberating with a low hum. He drops onto a seat, before sizing Ashur up with a slightly petulant gaze. “ It's hard to get a hold of anyone these days. I hope it's not because of my mentor's needless concern. ”

[mercysought]

class hc for maxima

hc meme // accepting // @2vinters

alright not sure what class specifically, but I'm going to tackle this on both ways:

Class as in game class that Maxima would be

Class as in the class systems within Tevinter (and try to keep this section shorter than I know I can do when I word vomit)

Class as in game class that Maxima would be

Maxima in a dragon age game would be a mage that uses a staff but has more experience with a dagger. Her mage specialisation comes much later in life (early thirties, already in Tevinter) where a friend of her father's trains her in illusion magic which is the magic that she is the most in tune with. We are talking mimics of herself. If you want a visual of it, think of a mesmer from Guild Wars 2. A lot of the abilities would be in the same tune. She is also incredible at forgeries and uses magic to aid in those as well. By Veilguard she is proficient in the magic, enough to be able to convincingly cast what would be an astral projection that looks good. It is the only way she survives Elgar'nan's attack on the Magisterium.

Class as in the class systems within Tevinter

Maxima can almost say that she's been in almost all stratas in tevinter. Though, she won't say it for obvious reasons. She was born a slave and so by virtue she too was born a slave. Her mother eventually pays for her freedom and they flee south making her a liberati (and those things severely limiting what someone like Maxima can do in Tevinter's society and what roles they can play). Until her early thirties, Maxima fully believed she would have lived her life in the South and in the Monstimmard circle, that is until the news from the Kirkwall's chantry and the very clear shift in feeling from the templars even for mages.

This is about Tevinter class but it's important that I touch upon class in Orlais as well. As a mage that was in a position like Vivienne though without a powerful sponsor to keep her sheltered and protected, the danger of her dying at the hands of the templars that were accompanying her was becoming more and more real and she was growing paranoid. So when she got the letter from her father begging her to return North and help him (eventually with the plan of becoming his heir apparent given how sick he was) it was a no brainer.

A story was crafted and Faustus is a man powerful enough where cracks would not have been a concern except from few specific individuals who had the power, money and time to be afforded to be discovered by the Aurum family. This is how Maxima then became an Altus. Literally the highest class except Magister. It was a surprisingly easy transition, one that she felt was, very selfishly, earned. Deserved even. A birthright in a way (even if, technically, not quite).

The problem wasn't that she found the luxury overwhelming, it was from keeping reactions like what she had come to expect in Orlais from seeping through this new persona. For example, the fact that she could order her own family's assassins to remove annoyances and people that offended her or her family didn't become so much of a day dream but a real possibility. She had to be clear in intention: if she was complaining because she was being herself or if some action needed to actually be followed through.

This is also why, not long after her father died, the Aurum family became another of the Altus family to stop using slave labour (much like Pavus and Tilani), offering instead to pay for the service of specific servants. It is a new guard, a new dawn in Tevinter, even if Maxima never outright shows support for the Lucerni nor does she join them.

As for post Veilguard, I foresee a situation where the Black Divine or the Archon could theoretically ask Maxima to become a spy master of sorts. However, this is a line of thinking that Maxima doesn't particularly like from the standpoint that her network of spies is hers. It's not Tevinters. It's her own personal network. In any case, it is a tempting offer and one that she might accept.

[mercysought]

hc weapon for orla

hc meme // accepting // @2vinters

give this person a molotov cocktail at some point or give me death and let orla throw it at solas

Orla's main weapons are two daggers which were kindly named by Varric during their time working together as a joke in itself. They are Comedic and Relief. They are both very well crafted and minimally decorated, though they are heavily altered to make sure they fix Orla's fist to the minimal detail. The decoration that they have is small leather work into the strips that wrap the handles.

That being said, Orla is proficient with all manner of weapons. Like crossbows and bows. She prefers to be up and close, her lyrium brands work best and are most effective that way. That being said, if the job called for it would not have been any skin off their back.

Explosives though? Those are wonderful. Orla is not a great crafter but with the aim that she has? She is a great recipient for any and all explosives. Think any of Sera's bombs in Inquisition? Orla would have loved to have those available to her even while fighting in close combat.

[mercysought]

❝ Make no mistake about it, whatever future this place has left, I’m it. ❞ (tarquin to orla post-canon)

black sails season 1 // @2vinters // accepting

She probably shouldn't leave. It would be wiser not to.

   “Good.”

Leaving Tarquin alone in Minrathous in the state that it was felt like a mistake. But it was also something that Orla knew she would not budge on. She would travel, and it would be a grueling one, but she needed to go to Ventus. She needed to make sure that her mum was still alright, even if she wouldn't recognise Orla.

He could come with her. But what good would that do? She wasn’t useful in the city, not beyond making sure that he’d be safe. But him? Yes. Whatever future Minrathous’ crumbling stones had, they would be part of the future. Him in particular.

There were more survivors of the Magisterium than she would have liked - that only meant that whoever had survived in the Shadow Dragons would need to be all the more protected. Now it was the type for them to step into those spaces that should have always been available to them.

Ashur was alive, Tarquin was alive. Minrathous had some hope in that too. In them. Orla glances to her brother, eying him for a good second before giving him the shoulder.

   “You be careful, yes?” a dumb question. Tarquin would be as careful as it benefitted him - at times not even that. Brown eyes narrow. Lips curl into a small knowing smile “While I’m in Ventus.”

They would be fine. They had to be fine. Their victory over Elgar’nan was more of an outlier when it came to her managing to do something right than the norm. Getting herself out of their way was the only good thing that she could do, plus, there was nothing that told her that the Magisters wouldn’t turn around and recognise her for the wanted woman she was. Orla could feel that was the paranoia talking and yet it still felt awfully true in the shaking emptiness in her chest.

She wanted to see her mother again. The image of the thin body hanging clothes against near-snapping wooden pegs by the sea. The smell of the salt. The rough wind and rougher fabrics of the washed shirts. Orla was afraid of how old her hands would look when in hers.

   “Don’t do anything stupid, stupid.” grabbing her pipe, she lights it with a match, putting it out as the metalic edge hangs from the edge of her mouth “I’m not good at cleaning up messes, especially not yours.”

[mercysought]

a story can be anything, at any moment, if we need it badly enough. (tarquin to orla)

thrust // accepting // @2vinters

   "Oh, I've known the types."

She glances towards Tarquin with a half grin. It just happened that she was much better at just standing while people with silver tongues wove their spell. Story. Propaganda. All of the above. Sometimes a story was just a story. Things were simpler on that front these days and for that she was thankful.

Orla had the small apartment at one of the towers away from the the hideout. A single room and a small mattress. She was called to do a job, outlined by the Viper with the expectations. She could ask why, she could refuse a job though she rarely did that. Truthfully, it felt good to follow orders again - but it felt better to know that at least now she did so with the intent to clean up the city.

   "I don't have the—" she turns on her heels towards Tarquin, gloved hands moving from the pommel of her daggers at her hips to illustrate the point "I don't know, the flair?"

The patience, the imagination, the will to really do it? It seemed often that was something that people expected out of her, to be able to be jovial and humorous in the face of everything.

To make use of the terrible stories and spin them into something that would be digestible and nice. And perhaps she should, perhaps it would help. But Orla knew that people only thought that because they didn't know the effort it took to clean off the blood from her armour. How red her skin got from scrubbing. How raw her fingers felt after cleaning her nails.

Still, Tarquin was worth the effort. So she smiled, enough to warm her face "The bulshit gut instinct?"

Or perhaps it was more about holding onto hope. And truthfully, Orla didn't know of many people like her that had managed to escape it with some semblance of normalcy. There was still plenty of time for her to meet her due end, but until then she was just glad to have been able to meet Tarquin. To be able to feel the sun on her face as a free woman, even a wanted one.

   "You and the Viper have it." she guessed it made sense, considering how close they were, bird's of a feather and all "Actually, the Viper has you beat, but I think you'd agree."

[mercysought]

maybe sometimes, death isn't death anymore. (ashur to orla)

thrust // accepting // @2vinters

   "Death is death, Ashur."

She says quietly and she is holding herself from pressing the bottom of the cane against the floor in a rhythmic manner that would drive him mad. She keeps her hand tightly holding the top, the wingless raven whose head peeks through the darkened and dirty leather glove. She doesn't look at him because it is easier; choosing instead to look at the large hole on what had once been part of the hideout.

   "You can dress it up, dress it down" paraded its corpse through the street with cries for the celebration or its death or the wails of the criers and those hired to grieve "you can even make it mean something."

She glances over to the Viper, watching the thin black lines that crawled over his skin just on the top of where his mask allowed some skin. Her eyes move away, back to the dark outline of the houses piled on top of each other. She swallows "Hopefully you can make it mean something."

It is gruesome work, otherwise.

Her hands had been shaped for this job but it hardly meant that she took joy in watching the lights fade. Even the worst of men got to have her as the last witness. It was a punishment, to not feel any pleasure even in knowing they would not hurt anyone else. Relief. Yes. Another item off a list. But joy? It was hard to hold onto any feeling at all, joy didn't even come to mind when she finally was allowed back in the comfort of her head.

   "It is still the end of the road for someone." she whispers, breathing in softly she feels herself too heavy. Her body too loud. In this quiet room where she is the only one talking her voice echoes and overtakes the wind.

What were they going to do? Once he was gone?

Brown eyes move to him, expression distant even as her lips twist into a frown. She realises the noise she heard was not the wind but the soft brushing of the cane against the fabric covering her tight. She stops immediately. Her eyes still holding Ashur's gaze.

   "Is there...?" the question materalises on her tongue and dies immediately before reaching her lips. She had done enough. She would think. Her eyes lower to the cane, softly bending it to the side. When her brown eyes return to Ashur she gives him the smallest of smiles, even if her own gaze is distant "I should let you get back to work. Or rest. Whatever Tarquin has been chewing you up to do lately."

[mercysought]

are you fucking with me? (tarquin to orla)

thrust // accepting // @2vinters

   "Wha—" Orla blinks at him, her mind being pulled to the forefront of her mind and with the burning cheeks, a flare of anger. Why would she fuck with him about this? "I don't have the sort of imagination to come up with something this fucked, Tarquin."

This hadn't been the way that she had expected to come back to the Shadow Dragons. Truthfully, she had fully expected to never return. The last thing she wished was to bring more shit to their doorstep and in that attempt she managed to just make it worse. There should be a lesson there to be learnt, she was sure, and yet she seemed to completely miss it at every turn despite trying her hardest. And now it was late in the Shadow Dragon's hideout, Neve and Bellara had returned to the Lighthouse and she had fallen into the long shadows of the hideout that she had so temporarily called home.

And that was why after speaking her brother's name her eyes fall to her calloused hands.

   "I haven't told anyone else yet except you, just—" that she had this connection with Fen'harel, that he was stuck in the prison he created (it sounded liked some ironic justice). That they had spoken and that he had blamed her for everything. But he had been the one that had threatened her city. How was it her fault that he was a massive fuck up? And, worse of all, that somehow in their attempt to prevent the massive wave of magic to enclose on the city, that two elvhen gods were not only real but they were now roaming free. Holding her pipe with her left hand she taps it against the palm of her right "Fen'harel really is such a massive fucking cunt."

The same as some of the magisters that they had taken out.

She didn't know what she expected. From the stories of the elven servants that she heart whispered, to the briefest mentions of memories that her mother didn't even know were true (it hardly mattered if they were). The one thing that lingered was that they were meant to bring comfort. Comfort in knowing that the suffering was towards fighting with defiance. And hearing Varric speak about him? She had expected something different.

   "You know what's worse?" and she can almost hear him ask what else could be worse than what she had done already but they both knew the answer to that. When they thought the bottom of the barrel had been reached, there was always a way down "Varric had the shot." her lips thin into a line and she nods, her eyes on her own hands, to the floor "But he wanted to try and talk him off the ledge first. He asked my opinion and I told him..."

She bites her lower lip, cutting the bitter smile that forms on her lips. Her brown eyes look up to Tarquin. She can't stop herself from keeping nodding, a nodding that turned into a soft rocking of her body against the wall behind her back "I told him not to take it."

All she can do is smile, smile and bite into her cheek with her head lowered. She had set out to make up for the shit she had done. She didn't regret the lives she had taken, nor the money she had been able to send to her mother knowing she would never need to consider throwing herself into the meat grinder. She didn't regret the path that she had taken there but it was hard not to feel bitter, not to feel that she had failed Tarquin and Ashur after they had given her a chance. The first time that had driven her from Minrathous and now this too.

Trying to do some good, but her hands were only good for one thing and it seemed that each time she tried to swim against the stream she only ended up drowning those closer to her.

   "No good deed..." she sits on the floor, but looks up to Tarquin. She wants to apologise but the words are dead before they reach her throat. And so her brown eyes lower once more. Pulling a small box of matches and lighting the pipe "Maybe I should learn my fucking lesson."