#moralbirthright

[snowmcid]

soooo finals suck and I’ve had a bit of a day, but I just wanted to take a minute to give a little shout-out to @moralbirthright for just being super sweet? My new theme, icon, and header were all made by them and I’m so in love with them all. Not only are they really talented, but they are also a great writer. I’ve enjoyed discussing our muses and trading headcanons. Even if you’re not a DA muse, I highly recommend them 

[sacrificialarrow]

"If I were a watermelon, would you spit or swallow my seeds?"

@moralbirthright asking the important questions

“Have you experienced watermelon sticking in your throat?” Expression as collected as if the subject were naught but another of his lectures on spirits, pale brown eyes remained fixed upon the charcoal dancing across the yet to be filled page on his lap. “One may gag for a moment, but one has no need to swallow. The seeds find their own way.”

[waketothefirearchived]

[ disagree ] ( to whatever muse you're feeling )

xx // accepting

“You’re right, it’s not like I can read anyway,” he replied, keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. The Iron Bull replaced the book, complying with Dorian’s demand despite the snap he had received. He wasn’t offended at all, actually, as the book was old and delicate and Dorian probably didn’t trust it in his heavy hands. “Did you want me to go back to hitting things then?”

[dryadalismagicae]

@moralbirthright  ||  Discovered the Wanderer

Often, meeting folk within the wilderness meant battle and discomfort for the world around them was changing - but sometimes one met folk of whom stuck in the mind, of which bought laughter or amusement and indeed, in the camp of refugees he had come across while wandering did Lyrian witness one such person. Evidently had this fellow in question been drinking heavily in order to cope with the loss of his home but my, did he become relentless with attempting to flirt his way into a young female’s bed. “He’s adamant - I’ll give him that-” Did Lyrian utter, his arms folded as he leaned idly against a low wall, observing while potions steeped before use. He knew not the male near to his person but he thought idle conversation couldn’t hurt- “Though - I am not certain his intoxicated state is aiding him at all in the ways of flirting-” 

[mutilans]

"So... we'll talk later."

@moralbirthright​ | critical role sentence starters

     Skyhold would be a grand sight to behold were it not crawling with mages. And perhaps it wasn’t really - but the few he’d spotted made him think only of rotted food cast carelessly into the alley beside the Hanged Man, left to be infested with all manner of vermin. This fortress made Fenris’ skin crawl not only because of the mages - but because of one mage in particular.

     Fenris may have joined the cause far too late to know how such a man had made it into the Inquisitor’s inner circle, but whatever the reason… he shouldn’t be trusted. Not as he is. Dorian Pavus is at his core a man of Tevinter, and all men of Tevinter exist to preserve the damned place and all it stands for.

     So when he’s cornered by the man just before a war council and promised a later conversation, Fenris’ hackles are raised. Like an animal, he bares his teeth and snarls at the Altus as threateningly as he can. “We will not if you value your life, mage. I can’t imagine what you’d want to talk about, but it is nothing I wish to hear.”

[disciplinebreached-blog]

"Please don't start that again."

@moralbirthright || moulin rouge sentence starters || not accepting!

    “I’m not… STARTING anything; it was just–” His SHARP defense petered off, a stern claim dissolving into a near SHEEPISHNESS–no, was that a pout?–upon catching himself in the wake up the other’s demand. He shuffled his feet where he stood, gaze once perusing the shelves in which Dorian had made his HOME skirting off to the rather PATHETIC look on his face. The color in his cheeks may have reddened, then, though he was GRATEFUL for the dim lights.

    Perhaps he had made too much of a habit COMPLAINING every opportunity he found.

    “To FINISH, I’d be more than CONTENT never setting foot in a place like the Winter Palace ever again–regardless of what it WINS us… the amount of WANDERING hands–” It was the SHAKE of his head that ended the spiel before he went as DEEP as was typical of his recollection of the events. He cleared his throat, nodded toward the books under his attention.

    “I’ve my own collection back at my office–albeit much SMALLER.” His arms folded loose over his chest. “Should you require something NEW, you’re more than welcome to BORROW some.”

[beefcakequnari]

moralbirthright replied to your post: Since we don’t have any Vints around, who wants to...

What’s there to learn? Besides the grand illusion offree will and independent thought.

Hard to preach free will when your family keeps slaves.

[sacrificialarrow]

@moralbirthright​ [cont]:

  Experience and knowledge had guided him as literal magic hands had cast their spell, traveling down to the end of his staff and projecting out in a burst of purple mist. In moments the opposition had been ripped from their corporeal shells, becoming only a shadow of their former selves and working to Dorian’s will – the enemy group falling one by one by the hand of their own undead allies until their ultimate demise and the end of the fight. It was then Dorian could feel eyes on him, and, turning to the source, found the elf staring at him with mild confusion – a raised brow accenting the look. The statement that followed only made the corners of his lips tug into a brief half smirk before returning flat.

“Just one of my many talents, I’m afraid.”

      Among the arts taught in the halls of Arlathan, Solas could scarcely remember anything so... Well, he daresay powerful. Whether necromancy was a skill simply new to him, or whether it was an uncommon practice among his kin, he knew only one thing for certain: he had sold Dorian dreadfully short of the talent so clearly possessed. First had come the manipulation of time through Solas’ own creation -- a feat the latter was still attempting to rationalize and pick apart -- and now, yet another accomplishment of magic as skillful as it was intriguing.

   “Then your continuous study does you great service.” Returning staff to the resting place between his shoulder blades, he took several steps forward til he stood beside his fellow mage, though his eyes remained fixed upon the withering purple remnants of the last cast spell. How intriguingly foreign it all was, yet even in the shadows of its glory and sans the basic knowledge of its technique, it whispered -- perhaps on a more personal level than he’d cared to have heard -- of the strength of its bite, nearly warning of turning the flames to his own non-corporeal body next. “I do not claim to know of the details, however, I find your technique to be truly fascinating. Perhaps when we are not otherwise occupied, you would be so kind as to enlighten me?”