#inquisition.

[tisomwizord]

Gilliman.: So what have you been doing for the last 10000 years?

Me an order Cronos, inquisitor: We re going back in time to the first Thanksgiving to get turkeys off the Menu.

[bornpariah]

       Returning from a walk about the grounds of Skyhold ( necessary to clear the head every now and then when he’s effectively been stumbling around blind and coming upon only obstacle after obstacle again and again and frustration truly isn’t conducive to work, is it? ) to find someone in his alcove isn’t wholly unusual ——— as in, it’s been known to happen every now and then regardless of everything and anything. It can range between messengers to the Inquisitor himself, the latter of which being far more amusing of an encounter, and between those, or perhaps even elevated from, there lies : Isabeau.

      Magic shimmers, pulses, the pot of tea that he had managed to procure from the kitchens, hovering beside him as though it were always meant to be there floating and settling itself upon a stack of books set on his table, a thick fabric dragging itself to cover them just before the pot settles. An expression of utmost concentration ( his thinking face, as felix always put it ) shifting seamlessly into pleased surprise at the sight of her, ❝ Isabeau, come to bask in my presence once again, I see, ❞ it has been some time since they had last crossed paths, mind. Perhaps not excessively lengthy, but between her travels and his own it was as if they were meant to not quite intersect, which is something of a shame. He does so enjoy her company. ❝ Our Spy Master isn’t working you too hard, I hope? You certainly still appear to be in one piece, ❞ ( it’s rather black to joke about ——— he still remembers her, not broken but taken apart / suffering in darkness. ) ❝ Would you like some tea? I’m sure I have another cup lying around here somewhere. ❞

@chanticle / isabeau ♥

[bornpariah]

       Late night stretches and he finds himself arrested in a moment ——— the moment, this moment, however which way you decide to think of it, whatever permutation. He hasn’t the slightest clue what time it is, if his internal clock serves ( and it nearly always does, mind you ) dawn is far closer than dusk and other responsibilities will begin to call and he’s uncertain what, precisely, has awoken him. Simply that he has awoken, cocooned in warmth that extends beyond his typical enchantments, much of which have long since faded with the passage of night.

       His head tilts and he finds himself summarily unsurprised to be greeted with the sight of Halwn, awake, and the mystery of what has awoken him has been solved at last !! Not that the man had been loud, mind you, considerate to a fault. How could you be considerate to a fault, you may ask? Well : simply look at the Herald of Andraste. Absurdism at its finest. ( he wonders, fleetingly, how long halwn has been awake. for mere moments? hours? it’s worry, he knows. worry, worry, always worry. )

       ❝ What’s that saying? It’s Ferelden, if I recall, though perhaps of the Free Marches ——— the early bird gets the worm? ❞ Dorian’s mouth presses together ( as if to suppress a smile ) and he takes Halwn’s hand in his own, turning it over and passing his thumb over the callouses he knows so well. He presses his mouth to Halwn’s palm within the span of the next beat of his heart ( slow, slow as death, as always ) before he twists, gathers magic about him as though it were a second skin ( it is ) and slips out of bed in a fluid motion. ❝ Well, the origin is neither here nor there. You have clearly taken it to heart ——— venhedis it’s freezing in here, people perish of frostbite, you know, ❞ complaining for all that he is the one who extricated himself from the warmth of their bed.

       Still : he, particular as ever, selects an orange from the bowl set unassumingly on the Inquisitor’s desk and throws it towards Halwn ( aided by magic ) as he makes a quick return. Dorian presses his already freezing toes against Halwn’s calves, imperious as ever, exhaling in something of a huff. ❝ If we are to be up before the crack of dawn, we might as well enjoy ourselves. And look : we are already well on our way, considering we slept on an actual bed. Revolutionary. ❞

@inquistior

[aposthates]

HE KNEW THE MOMENT HE HAD AWOKE. HOW COULD YOU NOT? SOLAS WAS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND, AND EVIDENTLY ; NEITHER WAS JUSTICE. the first moments were of pure terror, seizing and lurching as if he was about to purge whatever remained inside. AN INSIDE HE WAS SUDDENLY UNFAMILIAR WITH. so long intermingled with another, conforming to one another as though you were liquid stirred. HE'D NOT HAD ANY HOPE OF UNDERSTANDING WHAT PARTS OF HIM WERE WHICH. and yet, INSTANTLY HE KNEW. HE WAS GONE.

IT FELT LIKE BEING CARVED OUT, OR PERHAPS LIKE BEING RIPPED IN TWO . . . he'd had no idea if his friend was alright, or if he was even still alive. HE FELT VIOLATED. and if he'd thought he grieved for justice before, IT WAS NOTHING COMPARED TO NOW. yet, he knew. he'd spent a considerable amount of time running around skyhold looking for SOLAS. maybe he was out, as he couldn't find the inquisitor either. but, there was an urgency that existed in the empty parts of him as he'd been forced to sit with it. AND A PART OF HIM WONDERED IF IT WAS WORTH IT TO GET TO KNOW HIMSELF, NOW. beyond the confusion of not understanding why this was happening, or how. but the comforting thought was only that, if he were alive, justice must be. AND IN SUCH A THOUGHT, (and conversation with cole), BIRTHED THE HOPE THAT HE COULD FIND PEACE IN LIVING AS HIMSELF AGAIN. hoping when solas returned, he would find justice was alright. HE'D HAVE HIS FRIEND BACK. and perhaps, he could right himself after anders had tainted his purpose.

YET, IN ANOTHER TWENTY FOUR HOURS, IT ALL CHANGED AGAIN. if he had felt carved out and hollow the day before, he felt STUFFED FULL AGAIN NOW. AND NOT IN THE FUN WAY. FILLED TO THE BRIM, IN FACT. WAKING IN THE WEE HOURS WITH A JOLT, AND A FAMILIAR WAVE AND PANG OF THEIR SHARED NEED SPARKED A CERULEAN BLUE. but this time, he felt once more, a strange ache. A TUG OF WAR OF EMOTION. for any hope of having his friend back, or . . . of coming to terms with this, was lost. RIPPED FROM HIS HANDS WITHOUT EXPLANATION. like he was naught more than a pawn in someone's game.

THAT'S WHY HE'S JOGGING WHEN HE ENTERS, and he's somewhat relieved at the sight of the elf there. "solas --" he speaks, his face BRIMMING WITH CONFUSION, AND FRAMED BY HIS HAIR. STILL STREWN ABOUT HIS CHEEKS AND SHOULDERS FROM RESTLESS SLEEP.

hurt also commingles in the storm of emotions, with fingers curling at his sides. "what happened?" it's all he can think to say, shaking his head minutely before continuing. "it was justice. i . . . woke up yesterday and he was gone." EITHER OPEN PALM RISES UP TOWARDS HIS FACE, WHICH SOON ACCEPTS CURLED FINGERS. "and when i couldn't find you, i didn't know whether he was alive or dead." HIS FOREARMS FINALLY FALL. FOLLOWED BY A TIRED SLUMP OF HIS SHOULDERS, as the age of his years showed clear upon his face. "but now, he's come back to me. i can feel him inside me, as sure as i knew he had been taken. and, forgive me if i sound presumptuous, but . . . i've been open with you. and i can't help but feel like you've exploited that. even if you didn't have a part in it directly." he pauses, HEAD TILTING WIH A SHRUG. "not that i'm particularly unused to that."

@soiasan. plotted starter.

[aposthates]

❛  when  were  you  going  to  tell  me ?  ❜ ( temp )

HE FEELS THE VERY BREATH SUCK ITSELF OUT OF HIS LUNGS. LIPS EVEN PART, whilst actions second nature grind to a halt in the threshold. his brows even narrow in surprise, FOR BUT A MOMENT. however, soon enough his lips close and broaden into an apologetic smile. "i'm sorry." he starts. his voice is soft, plush with understanding. "sometimes i just -- well i never know how to say it." HE DOESN'T NEED TO ASK WHAT SHE MEANS. well, he assumes this has something to do with both justice and the chantry. "i mean, how do you go about telling someone you barely know that you're possessed? . . ."

ANDERS SHRUGS HIS SHOULDERS, WEAKLY. "i don't know. seems like a bit of a conversation killer." besides, she had to know, right? she's the inquisitor, after all. "but if i'm honest, i . . . also thought someone was likely to have told you. hawke, or . . . varric." HE APPEARS A BIT BASHFUL, FOR A MOMENT. his head tilted in the beginning of his speech, WITH ENDEARING EMBARRASSMENT SPREADING WITHIN WHISKEY GOLD.

it's not exactly as though his picture was plastered across thedas, so he doesn't expect everyone to recognize him. it's been a long time. (thank the maker . . . ) BUT SO CLOSE TO PEOPLE THAT WERE THERE? THE LEFT AND RIGHT ARMS OF THE DIVINE HERSELF? it just . . . well, it seemed unlikely.

@avemaria. deadly nightshade.

[sacrificivm]

𝑰𝑵𝑸𝑼𝑰𝑺𝑰𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵 𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑪𝑨𝑳𝑳

𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙰 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁.

[bornpariah]

       Candlelight casts long shadows, though the magelight that he has oh so casually conjured casts the deepest of all ——— it’s intolerable, how low the light becomes with merely candles while the darkness of night has long since descended outside. For once he is not cloistered securely in his nook, though it’s hardly as though he’s deviated much at all : several paces away, seated at the table beside, leaned back in his chair and balanced perfectly / awaiting a fall that will never come. Hands interlaced over his abdomen, the majority of his attention focused on the man seated across from him.

       Why only the majority, you ask? Well, very few people ever get the whole of Dorian’s attention, after all. ( there are too many things to ponder and theories to consider and his hyperawareness ——— doesn’t lend itself well to focusing the entirety of his attention on much at all. )

       ❝ ——— It’s as though they’ve never encountered quality fabric in their lives, ❞ he speaks both broadly and derisively, a flippant wave of his hand as he leans further back / and still yet doesn’t fall. ❝ Though that would explain their uniforms, ❞ pondering, now, gaze drifting as his head tilts and all four legs of the chair touch the floor once more, and he shifts, one of the legs aggravatingly shorter than the others. ❝ And yes, I’m perfectly aware : why keep the caged mages in any semblance of comfort? They have no reason to consider such material discomforts. It simply makes it more barbaric. ❞

@magicbound​