!! r u still accepting these!!!
send ‘!!’ and I’ll write a para description of your muse from mine’s perspective
Kodran reminds her too much of her father.
He’s proper Avvar, she reminds herself when it gets too hard to look at him. Ulrich, in all his furs and body paints, never truly was a chief, never truly believed in the gods that Kodran keeps, never had a title or any sort of favor with the tribes that his grandfather had been banished from. He was an imitation, nothing more.
It wasn’t Kodran’s fault that he was more.
It wasn’t Kodran’s fault that he was everything a wide-eyed little girl had seen in her father, tall and strong and capable, fierce like all the legends of all the heroes he’d poured into her since she was old enough to understand what honor was. It wasn’t his fault that he was proud and smart like the memory she cherished, wasn’t his fault that just the scent of him could make Inara’s knees shake. It wasn’t his fault that his dark eyes and dark hair were just like Ulrich’s must have been before he’d gotten grey (more than a little bit her fault, no doubt), and it certainly wasn’t his fault that when Kodran was kind to her and she retreated she felt the same bite of disappointment in herself she’d felt the day she watched Ulrich die, wasn’t his fault her heart raced in every battle and every time that Kodran limped along showing signs of sickness because she feared having to watch Kodran die, too.
And it really wasn’t Kodran’s fault that Inara could express none of this, her eyes getting wide and cheeks getting hot before fleeing from his presence at every chance to hide behind Alistair or Duncan or even Jory, for fuck’s sake, as annoying as that coward might have been.
When I’m a Warden for real, I’ll be stronger, she told herself. When I’m a Warden for real, I’ll talk to him.