#arc. blight.

[gwahrens]

@thiedas, alistair & elethea. * “did you do something different with your hair?”

reflexively, her spine straightens — a hand going to the aforementioned new hairstyle binding back her golden curls. her self - consciousness possessed no ounce of insecurity; only an acute awareness of his attention. with it comes a small smile, head tipping. "do you like it?" adopting her offhand, flirtatious tone, she angles herself more fully towards him. he would blush, surely, or clear his throat in that nervous manner he had. that's what she was after, anyway. "it seemed the most practical choice, short of chopping it off," because she would sooner die than be inelegant; it had taken rising with the sun to begin the process of braiding her hair & pinning it up. a darkspawn had gotten hold of her loose braid on the road from lothering as they journeyed toward redcliffe & it had proven most distressing. not to mention inconvenient. "though it seems rather plain..."

[gwahrena]

@antiivans, * zevran & elethea. it would seem that i am doomed to always come too late.

Blood coats her from scalp to foot — some of it her own, most of it not. Blonde curls blackened by the thick layer of gore. The dripping blades clenched in her fists do not belong to her; she thinks she remembers taking them both from some of the guards she had torn apart. Then again, she already barely remembers that part at all — even in the moment, it had not felt like her own mind which guided her hand. It had been someone else, something else. That beast which lingered in the back of her mind & in the pit of her belly ever since the Joining. It had taken over. It was still with her now, rattling in her lungs — almost snarling. It flinches at the sound of Zevran's voice, pale eyes snapping to the assassin's face.

Her shoulders tense, arm twitching to raise; as if to strike, before she regains the sense to remember that he is friend, not foe. After a second of tense, suspicious silence, the blades clatter to the ground. "Too late to be a hero, you mean?" Her voice far away & terribly cold. A quick glance surveys the room they stand in; it seems her rampage had carried her to the main door of the fort, and she'd caught Zevran and their companions en route to her rescue. The knowledge that they had come for her was enough to crack a small smile across her lips. "Despite appearances, I am very much still alive, you know. Against all efforts."

[gwahrena]

@eueclid, alistair & elethea. how have you never done this before?

A frown curves her mouth, her brows furrowing as she casts a nearly murderous glance at her fellow Warden. She hadn't even thought to be insecure about it until this moment — not knowing how to cook. Now, however, her freckled cheeks were burning scarlet red at the realization that she was bad at something that was, to him, apparently simple. She could not analyze closely the reason why embarrassing herself before Alistair was particularly grating. Instead, she cast aside her gaze, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

"It wasn't a skill thought necessary for me to learn, so I didn't," Her tone is clipped and chilly, defensive against his good - natured teasing. For her entire life, meals were something that were placed before her at scheduled times, and she hadn't given the preparation of them much thought before that luxury was abruptly taken from her. Why would she? "Can you picture me in a kitchen? I had far better things to do, I assure you. Besides, my education in other subjects compensates plenty for whatever I lack in the culinary arts."

[gwahrena]

‘ i can handle this on my own. ’

‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ"Oh, be quiet," Elethea hisses, shooting a sharp glance up at Evren through her lashes. As though her hackles would not be as staunchly raised — if not more so — were their positions reversed. To call her an inexperienced healer would be a bit of an understatement. Before the start of the Blight, she had never touched a wound herself, there had always been people better suited for such a task on hand. She could apply a poultice & bandage a wound well enough, now. At least, her work would serve until they could reach camp & allow Wynne to have a proper look at it. At least, it would if Evren would actually allow her to tend to it. "Your whinging is only making it take longer. Honestly. Just sit still."

[ahighevar]

@standbetween​.      [ BRAID ]  sender, sitting behind the receiver’s back, begins to braid their hair.

thom’s hands are gentle  &  deft, not that it’s especially surprising.     she wouldn’t have asked him to tend to her hair if she thought he would be rough.     as gruff  &  rugged as he presented himself to be, elethea knew him to be a tender - hearted man.     his presence was a comfort in such troubling times, it made her feel safe to know he was close-by.     perhaps that was why she sought him out instead of balfour.     “do you have much practice braiding, thom?”     she asks, regarding the neatness of the braid.     no loose strands tickled her neck or fell about her face as he set about his work.     balfour had the practice of tending to their mother’s hair, which was why her brother had any skill with it at all.     did thom used to have someone he would tend to?     it occurred to elethea that, despite knowing him for as far as long as she had, she knew very little about his life before he was castle cousland’s guard captain.     shame settled over her, ashamed that she hadn’t thought to ask about it before, when she had known him since childhood.     she stretched out her hands to take in some of the campfire’s warmth, to appear casual in her inquiry, and not as if she was interrogating him.     “you're better at it than bal, though don’t tell him i said that.”

[ahighevar]

@fereldea.   continued.

elethea is aware she isn’t, perhaps, anyone’s favorite sibling.     especially not orlaith’s.     too harsh, too cold, too distant, too critical.     always shut away in the library when everyone else played.     even now, orlaith’s tears stir irritation more than sympathy.     elethea is fully capable of swallowing her tears, swallowing her grief until she choked on it, why can’t orlaith?     that isn’t to say she doesn’t feel any sympathy, seeing her baby sister reduced to her breathless sobs moves something in her chest.     a sense of cracking ice somewhere deep within her that she had shut away the moment their parents died.

she hadn’t told anyone that she’d taken it.     not even their mother, though in the urgency of their escape, she’d hardly had time to ask permission.     merely grabbed it and stuffed it in her pocket so rendon howe couldn’t sully it with his touch.     perhaps she wasn’t ever going to tell orlaith that she kept it, but now... perhaps it would bring her some comfort as it had given elethea.     graceful hands reach up to untie the blue satin ribbon tied about her neck, dipping into her tunic to obscure what was strung on it.

as she lifts up, the silver ring glints in the low light of the candlestick she had smuggled into their shared tent.     engraved with the laurel wreath of their family’s insignia.     their father’s signet ring, too big to fit on any of her slender fingers, even her thumb, but needing to keep it close, she had worn it about her neck for weeks now.     its surely still warm from her skin as she rests it in the center of her little sister’s palm, and closes her fingers around it.     “when we were gathering up jewelry to sell during the escape, i saw this on mama’s vanity, and i couldn’t let howe’s men get it,”     when she took it, she did not think it would be the only physical thing that she would have left of their father’s.      but now it was, and it felt more precious than any jewel, even if it was just roughly hammered iron, worn with age.     as ancient as their family line.     “it makes me feel... as if he’s close,”     the sentimental words are foreign on her tongue, and she can’t quite meet orlaith’s eyes as she says them, only lowers them to their joined hands.     the tenderest expression she’d ever shown her.     “perhaps... it will help you feel the same.”

[ahighevar]

@fereldea​​.      ❝ did you sleep? how long? ❞  

“enough, orlaith,”     comes sharp reply through gritted teeth, casting a cold glance over her little sister.     both an answer to her question  &  a warning to cease her fussing.     dimly, she knew that orlaith meant well, that she was only worried about her.     elethea never seemed to have much patience when it came to the youngest of the cousland children, but her patience was especially thin with everything these days.     something about orlaith attempting to mother her proved especially irritating, though she couldn’t quite place the reason.     icy glare moves from her sister to the cheap hand mirror she had purchased for herself, and continued to pin up her hair.     “i slept enough. cease your hovering, it's grating,”     in truth, she had been avoiding sleep as much as she could; avoiding the nightmares that awaited her.     however long she spent in her bedroll, staring up at the top of her tent was her concern.     she did not need to be treated like a child.     “i assume you slept well, considering you have plenty of energy to pester me with.”