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[ someone is very, very precious and deserves an award. ]

#armythus #;ic for ooc #( bless you. )#( thank you so much. )

five times kissed

Five Times Kissed

The first time Dorian kissed Armythus, it was shortly after they had travelled to meet with whom they assumed would be a retainer, but who instead turned out to be none other than Dorian’s father. Needless to say, it had been emotionally charged, and it was likely only thanks to the presence of the Inquisitior that Dorian had stuck around long enough to speak with him. His father had even assumed, naturally if even only for a moment, that Armythus and Dorian were — well. They weren’t, at least not up to that point, but Dorian had no shame in admitting he had been outrageously charming and flirtatious enough to make a Chantry sister blush (not that such an attitude was restricted to men with marks on their hands and nice bottoms). But then, he’d wondered why they weren’t. Not because he planned on courting the man or establishing any kind of emotional attachment (though even then, it might have been too late for that) but because why shouldn’t they? He’d seen the way Armythus looked at him (the way nearly everyone looked at him but more ) and the cat was out of the bag, wasn’t it? And so, after some time spent reflecting and another conversation with Armythus, he’d initiated. Or, perhaps Armythus had? No matter, it had been done. And right there is the library, where everyone might see. There was something liberating, like casting off whatever shackles of secrecy remained. Discretion was all well and fine but in that moment, he hadn’t given a damn. It had been nice. Nice enough, even, to do again. The second time Dorian kissed Armythus, it was in an empty room, filled with crates and dust covers, away from peering eyes and wagging chins. It had been a stolen moment, at the Inquisitor’s request, and Dorian relished in being wanted. It reminded him on secret trysts back home but less suffocating, less damning. Exciting but not part of a dirty secret. Dorian, who had never been good at taking things slow, had tried his very best to let the other male lead and set the pace. Self control, and self restraint. He was certain Armythus was just as delicious everywhere else but he contented himself with pulling soft breaths as Armythus chased his mouth when he pulled back. Yes, he could get used to that. The third time they kissed, he should have known he was in trouble. Kissing, groping - it was all well and fine but feelings, he didn’t understand those. It was after a battle and he had remained at Skyhold, left to worry (a proportionate amount, of course, and for the entire party, not just the Inquisitor) with reports of dragons. Armythus had found him in the library and found himself pinned against the inside of the nearest closed door as Dorian took his mouth like he hadn’t kissed him in years. He should have known better. The fourth kiss was full of laughter, and wine. Something about Madame Giselle had put Dorian in a sour mood and Armythus had opted to fix it. It had been a good night kiss, a bit drunk, and probably not even a proper one, but it had left him feeling warm. There were those feelings again, like he was home. He still flirted with everyone but he realized The Inquisitior did not. As if he felt it might betray whatever was between them. Which was nothing. It would be absurd. Could he…? Were they? There are kisses inbetween but the next kiss that matters comes after he surprises Armythus in his quarters. It comes after a confession of fear of inadequacy, a revelation that things could be different there, different from Tevinter where pleasure was Tevinter for pleasures sake and there was no future in loving someone like yourself. Not that he loved him, however dangerously close it felt sometimes. But he could, if he wanted too, if he let hinself and he would not be scorned or ridiculed or punished. The fifth kiss is a promise, that Dorian is free to feel what he feels for whomever he feels it for, and a promise that Armythus is there, if he wants him. And he does. Its new and it confusing even, letting his walls come down, walls that kept him safe and made sure he always knew what the limits of any infatuation might have been. The process begins slow and it does not come over night but Armythus has a key, and it’s scary but in a good way. Like he is a treasure map, and Armythus has the means to seek out hidden parts of him, small treasures.

#long post for ts #ugh is this lame?????#armythus

Rhododendron: Beware

He would call it laughable; an upstart human { not even a mage } presenting a challenge—

But Falon’Din knew well the weaknesses that pride begat. Knew well what that it would avail him nothing were he to assault his enemy’s strength head-on. Far better to cripple and maim; to topple the pillars upon which the entire foundation was laid — all before the war was ever begun.

But what he wanted, above all else, was to be left alone. He had lost millennia. He had lost his brother.

He would not lose anything more.

#armythus

Followed the last one - a vision of "rebirth"? It can be anything what can give him a goal/destiny. I am mostly interested how his soul to reborn once he finds a goal he can "grab" and "feel" and by it "follow". That moment when the burden of the lost years of failing at last the well finally lifts from his shoulder. He lives with reasons and he finds that reason.

Going to combine this with armythus’ prompt.

"Dalish child offers the stranger a flower."

For his limited access to the world beyond the crumbling walls he knew, Abelas had seen much. These Dalish were no surprise to him, not when they had pawed at the seams of the Arbor Wilds since the fall of their vaunted homeland. It was a word worth spitting at. Abelas had been content to let them hunt the outskirts, flitting like ghosts through the dense vegetation, the lush, fragrant jungle. They could never pierce the forest here, to its heart, to the temple that was not, and would never be, their birthright. They where not the People. They were not his People.

For true ages, he had never once wavered in his faith. His belief defined him, delineated the grey spaces of the world, parsing them into compartments, into named things that could be referred to once and filed neatly away. And with the fall of the temple — the Well — he no longer had that luxury.

{ they had welcomed him, the dalish. in his travels, it was little more than weary feet and a wearier soul that had brought him to this place. he might have sneered, for it was his vallaslin that named him kin; vallaslin they wore in pride and ignorance. and yet they had asked no questions. demanded no answers. their scouts had cast their quivers aside, singing bowstrings cut. they welcomed him without any reservation, and greeted him in a tongue that, to his surprise, he still recognized. }

The outline of the rolling knolls of the plains was visible only by grace of moonlight’s kiss, limning the fields in starlight. Abelas chose to sit by the fire, saying nothing as Dalish tales, Dalish fictions were related to the little ones. He would not mark himself an outsider by shouting out and sloughing aside the centuries’ worth of lies and corrupted realities. That was not his place, his purpose.

{ what was his purpose, he could not say— }

He lost himself, for a time, to the susurrations of the storyteller’s voice, the dipping intonation and the grain of her timbre far more than to the words that fell from her lips. He wondered where he might go — what might call to him next, and found himself lacking in insight or direction.

Perhaps something in his posture revealed his thoughts, his doubts, more than he had anticipated. The back of his cowl was tugged just gently enough to fall backwards upon his shoulders, his long, single braid lunar white under the stars. He twisted, more bemused than upset, and espied an elven child, hair tucked behind ears narrow as his, one perfect flower in their youthful fist.

And then they offered it forward, the embarrassed flush over soft, yielding flesh of their cheeks and ears cast in an amber glow, the fire’s sparks reflected in their wide, dewy eyes. They were perfect. Sexless. As Elvhen in their red hearts as they were Dalish and they saw him, knew him, claimed him as their own.

He knelt, wordless, and the stoniness of his heart was broken by one sure strike of the hammer. He smiled, at last, transforming the hard angles of his face to something that was, somehow, indescribably softer. At such an urging, the child released a peal of laughter and pinned the flower into his braid, the small hands a truly alien touch, but not an unpleasant one.

The story ended. Or perhaps their interest in old legends had waned, and the children looked to the present — to the future — for suddenly they were all about him, lightly weaving wildflowers into his hair as their elders looked on, amused to see one of their kin kneeling so patiently as the little ones chattered about him. He had named himself Suledin to them, and this they had accepted without comment.

For the first time since he had left behind his once sacred duties, he felt a weight lift from him. Age old perceptions and belief would not leave him — neither would his biases, his hurts, his fears. Such were things that only time itself could chip away — and even then, he had proven remarkably obstinate. But this was truly a moment of liberation, of connection to what he had thought lost.

They were not the last hope for Elvhenan, he knew. Not even that moment’s sense of the past overlaying the present did he ever once forget. But that was not to say they did not carry the light of Arlathan in their spirits. That was what made them Elvhen. Perhaps this one clan would be the last. Their stories were no more accurate than any other’s. But their intentions were good, and they had met him with kindness, taken him in as though he had always belonged.

He still had no purpose, no goal to which he could anchor himself for the next thousand years. But, as he lived in the moment, his face broken in a wide grin, he wondered, perhaps, if it was not so bad a thing to embrace the People of today.

#[I've decided.]#[His goal is to have no goal. This is his first true moment of freedom]#[because even though he was not chained]#[he was not free until now]#armythus #swevenfox #abelas #abelas dragon age #✮ ┅ ❛ ᵃ ᵍⁱᶠᵗ ᵒᶠ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ { ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ }

Armythus: Pronounced "Goofy cuteness that will make you fall over and spasm as the warm feelings bloom inside". Ostwick is a strange place with their words and sounds.

snowy <3

bonus!

#armythus #;out of tributes

armythus said: You are always full of love to give. Never change.

LET ME LOVE YOU. grabby hands

#[reblog the thing or I'll make one anyway]#armythus #;out of tributes #;tribute

okay i’ll stay while i watch brooklyn nine nine!!!

#armythus

☁☾♕

☁ - If they’re caught out in the rain how do they react?

Lani loves the rain, she will happily stand out under it and let it soak her clothing, or hear it patter against her armour. She finds the rain very soothing. Many times she has caught a cold from being outside.

☾- Are they prone to nightmares or dreamless sleep?

Lani gets terrible nightmares, she dreams of the Circle and of Uldred and of Abominations and the Fade. She’s quite a restless sleeper and will wake many times in a night in a cold sweat.

♕ - Do they trust easily?

Lani rarely trusts, she’s scared they would turn her in if they found out what she was, so she gives the appearance of trust for the most part. There are some notable exceptions and if her trust is earned and broken she will never trust you again.

#[letters]#lani codex;#armythus #Lani codex;