Aveline’s hands are not special at a glance. Average, but perhaps broader than you would assume a woman’s to be. At a closer look they are lined, dry, discolored by bruises and calluses that are years old. Her nails are broken, ragged and one is an off colour. The veins show in the back of her hands and when she makes a fist you can see the muscles flex. When the hand is brought up for an arm wrestle you can sense the history and training in the palm stretched challengingly towards you.
Aveline’s hands twist in her lap worriedly, tap against the table impatiently, they soothe over the back of a guard recruit who has just experienced his first loss. They smell of affordable lotions made from elfroot, used to ease the sore skin and muscles, and they smell of armour polish and fresh baked bread. Her hands are generous and loving but shy and awkward, all at once. And yet, her hands seem just as comfortable embraced with her lover’s as they do holding a blade.
Merrill’s hands are small, her fingers thin and long. Bird-like somehow especially when she folds them to her chest or lips, fans her fingers in the air as mana whisps around them. They are soft, touches fluttering and short-lived, her palm closes before you can see the scar that no magic will lift from her skin. She won’t open her hand while you are looking, not ashamed, but unwilling to have misunderstanding looks cast upon it.
There is dirt under her finger nails, her hands smell of earth no matter how long she lives in the alienage. They are marked with ink, with a droplet of dried jam, a finger cut from when she pricked it against something sharp and only sucked on the wound mindlessly as she continued. She touches everything, her own skin, her clothes, her staff, she fidgets with a coin in her hand and folds a piece of found paper over and over again until its soft as cotton. Her fingers transform, rendering things into something new, they never mend. She shies from touching others, worried she will break them too.
Isabella’s hands are generous, friendly, they touch at your shoulder, your back, your arm before you notice her moving. She caresses and squeezes as she talks, her hands expressive in their pressure and how they slip away from you easily. They are not too small or too big, nothing particularly remarkable at a glance, forgettable if it wasn’t for the touching. Her nails are long, clean, suspiciously so, formed into soft points that occasionally tear from her prying at things.
She will give you her hand, palm up with curling fingers inviting. The skin on her palms is rough, callused, even though you can tell from their scent that they are treated with softening creams often, the flowery smell only just covering the copper and sea salt beneath. Dried brown blood is collected in the lines on her hand, caught against the raised scar on the back of her hand and when asked she tilts her gaze at it and wonders aloud who exactly it came from.
Anders’ hands are healers hands, mages hands, but they do not match the descriptions and expectations attached to those labels. His fingers are long, knuckles knobbed awkwardly, his skin is dry, the veins in the back of his hands dark once they are close and bunching under his pale skin. A finger on his left hand seems out of place, out of line somehow, and when asked he explains how it was broken and set wrong. His hands are warm until healing magic glows from his palms, cool and soothing as the mana collects and heals.
His finger nails are chewed, the back of his hand marked with small scratches and small bruises. They fidget and rest on surfaces, walls, objects, as if their touch tells Anders something that you do not know. He stretches his fingers and cracks knuckles and you can see the colour in them shift as the air around Anders changes, static over his skin as the fair hair on the back of his hands stand and they change. Somehow his hands are no longer his, void of the softness and history they held only a moment ago.
Fenris’ hands are long and narrow, as most elves are, but like Fenris they are completely unique. Few people see his hands, and those that do may only have a glimpse before they vanish under a tavern table, fall to his sides, or are tucked back into the gauntlets that armour and hide them. His hands feel vulnerable, too soft and thin for a strong warrior, but when held they reveal their history all too quickly. The lyrium lines running along his fingers are raised, sensitive, they bulge slightly when Fenris closes his hand. The bones underneath the lyrium have slight ridges in places, tell tale signs of magic healing bones that broke and strained.
Fenris’ hands smell like leather, sweat and blood on a bad day. On the better days they smell of fireplaces, red wine and the citrus soaps he prefers. Fenris’ hands are tensed and prepared when outside, slack and unfeeling when he feels safe. They stay on his lap, at his sides, the gestures say I cannot touch.When he speaks they move freely, easier to express with them than with words. When he finally touches he hesitates, then lingers, soft, his hands were once only weapons and now he tries to reclaim them.
Varric’s hands are broad, his palms lined deeply with an untold history, the back of his hands tanned and scarred just enough to catch in low tavern lights. They are never dirty, not really, although they almost always smell of wood polish and iron. His right index finger is calloused from nights of writing and Bianca’s trigger, ink catches in the cracks no matter how much he washes. His nails are blunt, one or two are torn and catch on the silky texture of his shirts.
He is always expressive and affectionate with them, all his friends are familiar with its weight upon their backs or shoulders. Varric drums his fingers on table tops, rubs condensation on his tankard mindlessly, runs them along the familiar planes of Bianca’s frame. He crushes his fingers when he clasps his hands together thoughtfully, makes himself jump when he accidentally cracks a knuckle.
