#grar

[asstreetown]

Honestly, Scarian is kinda like, lame now. I personally like Grar more, but that is just me.

[giantpotato693]

[recitedemise]

"And you would embellish it so exhaustively as to weary the mind," Gale plainly supplies. Gods. "I assure you, Astarion, that determining where your truths begin and end is not without its effort." At ease, Gale. The wizard, beleagured, fatigue in his sinew and every pinch of his nerves, less relaxes in his seat and more wearily crashes. The day's proven difficult, and the smell of a storm takes the air, and Gale's still mortal and impossibly human. He's weary, sighs, and peers back up. This vampire engima... How typical that he'd obscure attempts to discuss himself. "It may surprise you, but I would more enjoy poring myself over whatever quandry we would come upon than untangle your stories. Sometimes, it's better to keep your embellishments within the pages of a book. When in the throes of conversation, I find honesty better. It only makes for stronger, and dare I say it, sincere connections."

@svartr, continued from here.

[thiefscant]

" and what am i owed? what about the injustices i’ve suffered - am i not entitled to anything? " ↳ @grar — memes / accepting!

        anais doesn't respond immediately to the outburst, tempting as it is to snap back at him in kind. they cross their arms over their chest and tilt their head just so, sharp eyes studying astarion's face and posture. rage is something that anais understands better than many. anger is a fuel that will keep on burning even when all the hope runs out of you. she gets it. to a point.

        "you're entitled to your revenge, astarion," they say, at last, "against cazador." the name sounds quite like a curse in their mouth. anais never harbored such hatred for someone she'd never met before. now, the list just seems to keep on growing. "it's the other seven-thousand souls i'm not convinced you're entitled to." they purse their lips, glancing away. "...it might even be a matter of what you owe them." he is, after all the very reason why a fair few of those souls are now at risk of being sacrificed.

[softersinned]

@grar / starter call (accepting).

A warrior, Varric said, someone reliable, and Astoria has learned by now that questioning Varric is foolish at best. He tells the truth when it matters, and in this, it matters. And he wasn't exaggerating here, she's learned; Fenris' arrival was welcome, and that he's remained with the Inquisition at all, for whatever reason, is a gift. She is half desperate for allies, and there is something undeniably soothing about seeing him on a battlefield, swinging a sword that seems to be as tall as he is, and knowing at least he's not swinging that sword at us.

But there are no swords now, no battles, no blood. There is always something new to worry over, and not for the first time, Astoria stands at her war table, her hair in a crooked braid over her shoulder and a cloak thrown hastily over her nightgown and wrapped tightly around her in the cold, a new and inevitably important missive held in her hand as she reads by candlelight. It's so late it's early, and she'd only just begun to drift to sleep when one of Leliana's women rapped on her door to make the delivery with some urgency.

"I'm sorry to summon you like this." If she ever looks imperious in the daylight, she certainly doesn't now. Her voice is husky from exhaustion and she can't stifle a yawn, and for once, the thought of politics has her miserable. She's sent all the rest to bed; Cullen had tried to argue it and she'd insisted that at least one person she trusted to handle things while she slept should be well-rested when morning came. And she cannot quiet her mind long enough to get any rest herself, despite her body's desperation for sleep, and so she sits here, and she stares at the letter, and she ignores the tea someone brought her an hour ago that's gone cold beside her.

And so the request for his presence comes not from the Inquisitor in all her glory, but rather from an exceedingly tired woman who, if asked right now, might hand over her throne to Corypheus if it meant an uninterrupted night. "The Prince of Starkhaven wrote. We had hoped for his support, given his piety, but it seems he has conditions, should he extend any friendship to us." She remembers the tea, now, and she holds the cup between her hands, watching as the water slowly heats and her skin glows a pale gold. "He is, it seems, intending to invade Kirkwall, and demand Hawke and Anders be surrendered to him.

"You knew him, did you not?" She fights off another yawn, and she shakes her head. "Would he follow through on his threat?" And then, with a hint of real unease in her voice—"Hawke and Anders aren't still in Kirkwall, I can only assume. I can only hope. What danger is Kirkwall in, if he does move to occupy the city?"

[aaaaaarchive]

Fishermen

[ebonykain]

Some days you just need to subject your co-workers to 8 solid hours of The Ramones, Depache Mode, and Black Flag because you're processing time cards for a bunch of children masquerading as adults.

And no it has nothing to do with their actual ages. Several of the ones making me want to pull my hair out are older than I am. And have worked here years longer. AND YET. THEY STILL NEED ME TO CHASE THEM AROUND THE FACILITY TO GET THEM TO ACTUALLY FILL OUT THEIR DAMNED TIME CARDS!

You would THINK that they would give attention to the thing that gets them paid. But nooo.... Here I am, chasing them down and reminding them what days and shifts they worked.

So the kitchen gets MY music today, fuckers.

[hizokucycles]

Reposted from @bellecycles - Here we all feel that long good riding days are coming and we are happy . #GRAR #steelisreal #custom #gravelgrinder #allroad #custompaint #cycling #rideeverything #cyclingfriends #fromwhereweride #outsideisfree #bellecycles #handmadeinbarcelona #hizokucycles HizokuCycles.com https://www.instagram.com/p/Bt1-yUHnmw1/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=147qv1st4r0h6