!! r u still accepting these!!!
send β!!β and Iβll write a para description of your muse from mineβs perspective
Kodran reminds her too much of her father.Β
Heβs 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 wasnβt Kodranβs fault that he was more.Β
It wasnβt Kodranβs 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 heβd poured into her since she was old enough to understand what honor was. It wasnβt his fault that he was proud and smart like the memory she cherished, wasnβt his fault that just the scent of him could make Inaraβs knees shake. It wasnβt his fault that his dark eyes and dark hair were just like Ulrichβs must have been before heβd gotten grey (more than a little bit her fault, no doubt), and it certainly wasnβt his fault that when Kodran was kind to her and she retreated she felt the same bite of disappointment in herself sheβd felt the day she watched Ulrich die, wasnβt 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 wasnβt Kodranβs 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 fuckβs sake, as annoying as that coward might have been.
When Iβm a Warden for real, Iβll be stronger, she told herself. When Iβm a Warden for real, Iβll talk to him.Β