#abyssflown

[sanctamater]

“ Champion. ” She has the same look in her eyes as Andraste when they had bound her hands and lead her to her pyre. Utterly serene. Both of them do not belong here; not really. The white marble spires and hedge mazes of Kirkwall are as alien now as the boreal forests and mountains of Ferelden have become; neither here, nor there. Always running from something, be it Blight or a matter of the heart; and though the Wardens have slayed the Archdemon, though years have passed since; there is no going back. Only onwards, forwards — never stopping, unable to rest. Keep on marching, and eventually, they will collapse.

Champion, they all call @abyssflown. Such a dangerous thing — not a name, not quite a title; but an ideal — rigid where a soul is not so easily tempered. It is a weight she has known, a shadow that will always haunt her. Yet she owes more to the Champion than all the gold in her coffers and all the silverite in her smith. Two lives, saved twice ( and he has buried their names and faces as surely as she once buried her own; left at the riverside ); a debt she cannot repay. He might have done a great many things — ignored her plea, handed them to the ghosts of the past and washed his hands of it all. She would not blame him for either. Could not. The good lady’s hand had only extended in helping a chosen few; gilded and golden before turning her back on her countrymen entirely. They both have, she thinks. All of them fighting for scraps — some had more advantage than others.

“ When you cut the Arishok down, did you think that mere months from now you would be settling petty squabbles and intrigues? ” The Maker had a strange way of exerting His will, it seemed; and her voice is quiet amongst the nervous chatter of the market — both of them cut familiar figures within it by now. The good lady, herself, is drawn — tired; pale with dark circles under her eyes. Hours spent in the night calming a child who was growing less stable day by day; the reality of it bleeding into her home ( some nights, she wakes in strange places — rooms she does not think were there before, hallways she has never seen ); and the cage she had made to protect her daughter might as well have been a noose.

The good lady has no more quips or cutting words to offer; not now — not here; unsteady on her feet for a moment before she shakes her head; righting herself, order forms written in shaking hand under her arm that speak of blades and arrows and shields that no forge could ever hope to produce in such a tight timeline. Does he pretend he cannot feel the water beginning to boil? She is trying to. If the good lady does not see it happen, then does it happen at all? And if it does not happen, does it happen to her? The good lady does not know. Does not want to know — the only thing she does know is that nothing is as it should be, that nothing is right; perhaps it never was. But as with all things, the good lady remains silent; turning her head away to prevent herself from seeing the grim truth. “ It is… It is good that you… Ended such a gathering as quietly as you did. ”

[martyrmarked]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 to quell the anxiety rippling through her chest, each wave crashing against her ribs like sea water against rock. there is a new name staining her tongue, courtesy of hawke beside her. it tastes like ash, iron, and sidri sets her jaw hard against it. she should have known that sealing the breach was only the beginning, the first few pages of a tale longer and darker, and the magic in her hand pulses as if listening to her thoughts. ❝ thank you, hawke, for coming, ❞ she finally states quietly, gaze trained on the jagged edges of the frostbacks. ❝ i am sorry that my gratitude must look so dour. ❞

not all that long ago she might have been speechless to stand next to hawke, the hawke, but the woman that might have been nervous and stammering existed a lifetime ago. she has already been made somber, something brittle forged into steel. (was it like this for hawke, also? can he still remember who he was before destiny took interest?) ❝ most people meet me and are disappointed. ❞ her gaze turns to find his. ❝ they expect someone more impressive, i think, or radiant with some kind of holy light. i can see it before they manage to hide it, that they're underwhelmed, perhaps even angry for a moment. but you? should it mean anything, hawke, i think you live up to everything i've heard. ❞

a small smile follows, faint but undeniably genuine. a hand lifts and her lips twist into a grimace. ❝ and i'm very sorry cassandra kidnapped varric. you've my word i've told him that he's free to go, but he seems content to stay for now. ❞ @abyssflown

[martyrmarked]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒' 𝐅𝐎𝐆 shrouds the city's towers and arches like a worn cloak, draping over spires whose beauty seems forever dulled by the circumstances that have both brought & kept her here. the seemingly-ever present cadence of rain against the crowded streets threatens to lure her into its rhythm, and while it's hardly the rain pattering onto the ivy tangled outside her window far to the south, it's familiar enough to feel like a balm. sidri turns her gaze from the doorway to face the interior of the pawn shop and gathers her shawl once more around her shoulders. ❝ never thought i'd trust a man with a name like the viper, ❞ she muses quietly to the elf examining the menagerie of items gilding the shelves, lifting her chin towards rook conversing with him across the room, ❝ but he's one of the few good snakes. ❞

he's built strong, this elf, broad and muscled in a way that reveals clear discipline, purpose. it's always struck her as odd that, even for their mournful doom, that inevitable sorrow, every grey warden she has ever met has seemed brimming with life. she offers a small smile. ❝ davrin, isn't it? rook mentioned you when last they were here, said you're a warden. ❞

her gaze traces the curve of an ear and her lips purse together briefly, thoughtfully. she's never been good with these words, always feels so clumsy when it comes to talk of gods and the sacred, inadequate against the vast tapestry of the world, but if nothing else she has always endeavored to at least speak sincerely. ❝ i imagine it all must be a shock, learning the truth of gods. i learned a long time there's usually nothing behind all those altars, just empty, ugly spaces where the rituals are supposed to reach to. ❞ @abyssflown

[prophetries]

contd. from here @abyssflown

          they  had  insisted  upon  the  name  ‘  the  herald’s  rest  ‘  despite  the  fact  that  the  herald  herself  spent  so  little  time  in  it.  she  was  as  new  to  drinking  as  she  was  to  taverns  themselves  ,  having  only  tasted  ceremonial  wine  or  celebratory  mead  at  the  appropriate  holidays  back  home.  she  cannot  lie  and  say  she  doesn’t  enjoy  seeing  it  so  busy  ;  seeing  her  people  so  carefree.  indulgent.  they  can  be  so  because  of  her  sacrifices.  krem  lifts  his  tankard  when  he  sees  her  enter  ,  and  she  smiles  indulgently  in  return.  blessedly  ,  he's  adroit  enough  not  to  make  mention  of  it  to  the  rest  of  the  chargers.

the  champion  of  kirkwall  perches  at  table  by  himself  ,  a  transplanted  weed  from  fereldan  soil  ,  a  free  marcher  not  by  blood  (  at  least  not  the  blood  in  his  veins.  varric  had  not  shied  from  the  gory  details  of  their  time  in  kirkwall.  )  he  unceremoniously  offers  her  a  seat  and  a  deal  from  the  cards  in  his  hands.  she  takes  the  former  and  frowns  at  the  latter.  “That  depends  how  good  of  a  teacher  you  are.  Gambling  was  frowned  upon  in  the  Chantry.”

[anextravagantliar]

I'm not so sure. you can't argue with me if I'm dead. / from hawke

If.

If is a good word.

If one splits it down the seam, cracking it in two and spilling the contents across the table, seeds, sinew, blood, and bone spilling across them.

If.

If is good.

If is good, he saunters into, swaggers even - diverting the words, like water, like a levy, like the wash he is. Like the wash, they both are.

"Well." He starts, "Well, I am not sure anyone can argue with the dead."

If.

If.

It's ripped from his lungs like he is lost, like he is drowning, like he is being pulled in a million different ways.

Too late.

Too late, they always are.

Hawke is locked in time, Varric locked out of it.

They miss each other by milliseconds, crossing that great divide.

It's hands, reaching, missing. Fingerprints pressed against a palm, a story that repeats, the dirge still playing and ever-present.

If.

Love if we made it.

He would love it if they made it.

They miss.

He argues with a dead man.

[prophetries]

❝ the silence suits you. gives you an air of mystery. ❞ + hawke and evelyn

                     “I believe that's the nicest way anyone has ever told me to shut up.”