#hyssrad

[skysaved-a]

hyssrad replied to your post: complain abt dialogue all u want but the...

holy shit wait really

to be fair hes royalty

[bornpariah-a]

He felt it —— the air shift the moment they walked into this room. He felt it before it happened, the door swinging shut behind them. He felt it : an instinct / a compulsion / a feeling with curled around his spine sinuously and he fleetingly remembers his snake from all those years ago ( her name was guinevere and she was beautiful and sleek and pure, pure white ) before the memory his gone and the room is dark and dusty and likely hasn’t seen true life in years. Ages. He felt it —— too late.

As the heavy stone door shuts he is turning already and striding towards it. His fingers drift over the too smooth surface and he tries to get a read of the MAGICAL AMBIANCE in the room and it isn’t ancient but it is old and he can feel it : reverberating in his bones. Darkness envelops him as his eyes close and his mouth parts ; veritatem cognoscere. It ( a mysterious it, it in regards to magic, it in regards to history, it in regards to impossibility ) floods him and he could choke around it and separates from the door with abrupt finality. His skin shivers with a truth that he cannot piece together.

❝ This is old magic, ❞ he announces it at large before remembering that he is only accompanied by one other ( scouting ahead, nothing more nothing less : we won’t get trapped in only maker knows where, of course not !! admittedly, he had been —— distracted, with the death spirits trying to tell him something ) It’s dark enough that it’s difficult to see Bull, which is preposterous considering his size alone, but Dorian flicks his wrist and conjures an elementary orb of light. Its soft radiance fills the small room and illuminates the door right across the way. ❝ Not quite Ancient Elvhen, but close. An Age or so off, at most. Whoever did this either wants us to starve to death, ❞ perfectly likely, ❝ or they want us to find something. ❞ More likely than one may assume.

He casts his gaze around and strides forward, trying to see if there was anything carved into the stone walls, but finds nothing but the doorway. And beyond? Fathomless shadow. ❝ I can sense a confluence of arcane energy further in. Shall we figure out what it is? ❞ he glances at the Iron Bull and raises a brow, ❝ you may want to watch your head. ❞

@hyssrad // uhm

[bornpariah-a]

❝ ———— Tell me, Bull, ❞ perhaps his position is best described as LOUNGING, though not quite. In fact, despite the fact that he’s addressed him directly, his gaze remains focused on his staff as he mends a minor break / his magic practically radiating from him as he uses it to mend the fractured wood. A picture of absolute focus, as he often is, if it weren’t for the fact that this were so utterly routine by this point that he finds his thoughts wandering and wandering and here he is / and there the Iron Bull is / and a question occurs to him. A rather obvious one, certainly, though not one he’s had the opportunity to ask. ❝ How do you feel about magic? ❞ As if asking his opinion of the weather !! Well, magic and weather are both similar to Dorian, of course, in that they’re utterly routine. And, as far as he knows, there’s no harm in simply asking the question. Perfectly understandable to request clarification, in fact.

@hyssrad​ // you didn’t ask for this i just thought about it and decided to throw it at you

[asteeledheart]

@hyssrad​

“remind me again why we agreed to this,” she states grumpily, though in truth there’s no way she’d have denied the request. the young man had seemed distraught and while it had seemed odd to have to be near tears over a lost ram in the middle of war, she’d never had a family ram and in turn, perhaps was just incapable of understanding. “tromping up and down every hill in search of someone’s farm animal.” 

her nose scrunches tiredly and she says, digging her fingers into the tender center of her palm to remind herself not to be so miserable. at least there were fewer bears here, unlike the rocky forest to the west. she glances up at bull, having to crane her neck to do so, and coughs once. “there were an awful lot of women looking at you back in that village, bull, in case you didn’t notice and in case you were, ah, interested when we return.” a pause. “ram in tow.” 

[skysaved-a]

@hyssrad    /    starter   call !

 she   should   be   dead .   this   isn't   the   first   time   she's   had   that   thought ,   but   it   seems   especially   fitting   now .   mislyn   almost   wishes   she   was ;   it   might   be   kinder   than   this .   when   she   charged   into   the   eluvian   after   the   qunari ,   she   had   expected   them   to   cut   her   clean   in   half ,   or   for   the   anchor   to   give   one   last   awful   pulse   &   take   all   of   them   with   it .   to   tear   her   up   from   the   inside   out ,   like   it's   been   doing   for   hours ,   days ,   years   now .

 but   solas —   fen'harel ,   she   corrects   herself ,   a   little   hysterically —   had   done . . .   something   to   it ,   with   that   cold   grey   light   in   his   eyes ,   because   she   had   not   let   him   touch   her   ( it   still   hurts ,   like   fire ,   like   water   boiling   underneath   her   split   skin ,   but   it's   not   spreading   so   quickly   anymore ,   not   crawling   up   the   length   of   her   arm   like   some   kind   of   sickly   green   infection   creeping   ever   closer   to   her   heart ) .   &   then   he   had   left   her   there ,   in   the   wake   of   his   destruction .   she   tried   to   follow   him .   to   stop   him   maybe ,   because   he   had   been   her   friend   once ,   or   to   kill   him ,   the   way   he   means   to   kill   them .   she   doesn't   know .   it   hardly   matters   now .

 eventually ,   she   stumbles   back   out ,   alone   &   alive   but   only   barely .   the   force   from   the   mirror   sends   her   to   her   knees   hard   enough   to   bruise ,   but   she   can't   feel   it —   can't   feel   much   of   anything   except   the   pain ,   blinding ,   white   hot .   the   limb   is   mangled   &   ugly   &   wrong .   she   holds   it   to   her   stomach   with   her   good   hand,   like   she   is   preparing   to   lessen   the   blast   with   her   own   body   should   it   decide   to   flare   outwards   again .

 she   coughs ,   gasps ,   &   it   is   a   shuttering   &   ragged   sound .   mislyn   doesn’t   think   she’s   ever   been   this   afraid   before .  

[asteeledheart]

2 for that platonic touch meme !

Across the shoulder hug: 

the first time his offer had come as a surprise. she’s very nearly turned him down, uncertain of just what exactly this would entail and his vagueness has done little to alleviate that worry, but she’d donned the coat and the scarf tugged high up around her neck nonetheless. 

it had all made sense when he’d sat her down across from the small group of soldiers, introduced her under some assumed name and began asking questions. the instinct to bolt had kicked in and kicked in strong then, the fear their answers would only wound her, but much to her great relief they had spoken well of the inquisition, of her. by the end of it, she’d been grateful for the darkness and shimmering firelight to cloak the sudden stinging in her eyes. it had been a kind thing to do. it had been made with no ulterior motive, no hidden machination or plot, and that had been the gesture all the more treasured to her. 

she and bull hadn’t made for immediate, natural friends, but something in her mind had shifted after that night and a distinct and bright fondness for him had grown swiftly after. visits to his corner in the herald’s rest had come more frequently after that, though his choice of drink did make her head swim and her throat ache, but bull had a way of making her feel perfectly comfortable somehow herself. 

he takes her out again tonight, this time to a group of healers nestled around their small campfire and it does her more good than she can admit to hear their approval and admiration. 

she cares, after all, cares so much that it aches in her chest and perhaps, out of all of the others, bull seems to understand that. with time, sidri thinks, she’ll ask him about it and about the chargers. 

but for now, as they walk away and the hour is late, she glances him to up and stands on her tiptoes. she isn’t nearly large enough to wrap her thin arms around his massive frame and can barely reach most of him, instead wrapping one arm tightly around his shoulder and squeezing. this little sign of thanks is the least she can do. 

[skysaved-a]

' does it hurt? '

 somewhere   in   the   back   of   her   head ,   she   can   hear   the   disapproving   tsk   of   her   keeper .   sloppy ,   deshanna   would   say ,   reckless ,   too .   &   she   would   be   right ,   if   the   gash   on   mislyn’s   side   is   anything   to   go   by .   just   below   the   end   of   her   rib   cage ,   &   there   is   a   steady   trickle   of   blood ,   but   she’s   sure   the   blade   didn’t   cut   deep   enough   to   hit   anything   vital .

 bull   is   smearing   a   poultice   over   her   split   open   flesh .   the   swipe   of   his   fingers   is   quick   &   careful   &   thorough .   it   stings   in   a   way   that   has   her   inhaling   sharply   through   her   teeth ,   but   she   remains   still   &   unflinching .   he   moves   with   well   practiced   deliberation ,   like   he’s   done   this   a   hundred   times   before .   it   occurs   to   her   that   he   probably   has .   she   hasn’t   asked   him   about   seheron   before ,   not   really .   she   is   of   the   mind   that   it   does   the   body   no   good   to   remember   war   stories ,   to   recall   phantom   pains   like   they   are   still   happening .   as   for   the   soul —   well .   mislyn   has   not   thought   very   long   about   the   soul .   maybe   she   should .   but   not   right   now .

 in   this   light ,   at   this   angle ,   she   can   see   the   faint   shine   of   silver   woven   in   to   the   patch   on   his   face   where   an   eye   should   be ,   but   isn’t .   all   there   is   the   rough   &   uneven   &   scarred   surface   of   his   skin .   she   hums   quietly   &   turns   her   gaze   down   to   her   side ,   considering   it .   the   flesh   there   is   raised   up   &   a   faint   shade   of   red   still ,   but   no   longer   bleeding .   she   wonders   briefly   if   it   will   scar   too ,   thinks   that   it   might ,   &   then   thinks   she   does   not   care   very   much   either   way .

 ❛ no .   it’s   fine   now . ❜      there   is   a   lingering   sensation   of   hurt ,   like   her   mind   has   not   quite   caught   up   with   the   rapid   pace   of   her   body’s   healing ,   but   she   knows   it   will   fade .      ❛ i’m .   ah .   thank   you . ❜

[bornpariah-a]

classy ! >.)

Halamshiral very nearly feels like a homecoming, in a twisted way. All of the lies and scheming and masks, albeit very literal ones. Then again, politics and the upper echelons of society are the same no matter where you go, aren’t they? It’s all a fabrication, all for show, all to get a leg up on the competition or your greatest enemy —— or to kill them outright. There are even nobles turning their nose up at him, as if he’s tracking mud and unmentionables all through the palace !!

Just like home.

It is no overstatement to claim that he is at ease, or as close to as can be, his sherwani pressed and neat and perfect, the excess fabric draped artfully and deliberately over his arms. He is a picture of DECADENCE as he always was in the Imperium —— and he is not the only one who appears at ease.

❝ You’re looking remarkably comfortable, ❞ eyes are on them as he stands besides the Iron Bull and they whisper behind their hands and they laugh and they make a spectacle of the whole of them —— their entertainment for the night !! ❝ And not a single priceless artifact broken, yet. ❞

And he knows well that Bull is a spy, for all intents and purposes —— he has never been one to underestimate others, despite what his peers and tutors and teachers thought of the matter. ( the fact is that he was simply better than the lot of them. arrogance or self-awareness? you choose. ) For all that he had been incredulous upon first encountering the Qunari, he understood then and understands now that overlooking his LIFE PURPOSE would be a grave error, on his part.

Precisely why encouraging such thinking in their eavesdroppers is essential.

The pair of them make an odd picture : the Tevinter mage and the Qunari, conversing in a corner —— drawing stares and therefore drawing ATTENTION and giving the opening that the others need and it truly isn’t very different from home, after all. From the people to the self and he knows that his posture has shifted as his expression has as his presence itself has in accordance to the Game. In accordance to the watching eyes. A shift that not anyone would be able to see —— but one that Bull can see, he’s certain.

Just as he can tell that Bull has shifted. Just so. By inches. Less than that, perhaps —— IT’S A GAME, AFTER ALL.

He : takes up more room / and Bull : takes up less —— by inches. A smooth transition, insofar as he can tell, one that they were out of practice regarding but some things are so well known that they become a sixth sense / an extension of the self. As easy as putting on an Orlesian mask. Not quite so easy to take off, perhaps.

( they are curious parallels of each other for all that he cannot see it, right at this moment. their origins and their lives and their paths so different and yet they are not so dissimilar as the universe itself would lead him to believe. there is more common ground than there isn’t and what a strange thing that is to consider —— as if the sky splitting open is more likely !!

yet it has, hasn’t it? )

❝ ——— I must admit it’s a relief to know that even you can clean up reasonably well, ❞ mirth lightens his words and there is a glass in his hands and a lack of tension about his shoulders and he holds Bull’s gaze and tips his head just so. Towards the stairs. A subtle gesture / accompanied by a shift of his grip around his glass ( not yet drained, just barely sipped —— they have work to do, after all ) and the message is clear enough : the Inquisitor needs us, and soon.

Well, perhaps not just like home.

@hyssrad // DRABBLE LIST.