#r0kh

[mercysought]

what a brave and reckless and marvelous thing you did. — @ever4sking for asharen <3

warrior of darkness // accepting

Asharen watches Rook's sleeping form, standing just a single step behind Tamara. The other continued her work with her tinctures and healing magic; Asharen had done as much healing as she could, worked through what damage she could see, expect despite knowing very little of what he had gone through. She could push herself further, but she knew the limits of her own body and the fatigue that she had pushed and pushed and spurned in order to get to this place, a place where they had finished the dagger and got Rook out. That fatigue had sharp teeth and it was prowling closer and closer.

And there was still so much still to do. Were it any other time, this dagger would have likely been one of her crowning achievements and yet, knowing the inspiration and the reason behind it she could feel nothing but a sense of bittersweet victory.

Light eyes lift to Tamara upon hearing her words; she cannot stop herself from smiling. Giving the other a nod, Asharen takes a single step forward, hearing her prosthetic hand rustle against the fabric of her robes. Her left sleeve was folded as she approached, standing beside Tamara.

   "I still can't believe it worked." she whispers though how deeply the other slept it was unlikely to make a difference.

Truthfully, it had been a massive long shot; and incredibly lucky on so many levels that it could, perhaps, be considered miraculous. Asharen now knew more people that had walked into sections of the fade that no living being was meant to walk away from and having that honour gave her pause. The fact that they had been able to craft as powerful an artifact and managed to narrow down the area that they needed to cut through in order to pull him out was a testament to the power behind this team. Truthfully, much was still unknown, she didn't know what the effects of the prison that Solas crafted would be on him.

The elven woman inhales, glancing once more to Tamara.

   "Mara, I am..." so sorry. She wants to say and yet the words don't quite come out. Her light eyes are on her friend's, brows arched.

But even that wasn't her place. It had not been her that had put Imad in such a place, and yet she still felt guilty. It was not her who had unlatched the keys to allow for such a terrible thing to have happened, but it had been her who had kept pushing for temperance, to not trust but allow for grace, mercy.

And now, now she felt she needed to apologise because she would keep asking for it. Even if doing such a thing felt cruel, even if his actions felt unforgivable. And Asharen could only imagine, she could only imagine truly what both of them might feel. And yet, selfishly, terribly selfishly Asharen knew she would not stop now. There were nights where she wondered how she could ask this of others when she herself sat and wondered where the line was. When would it be too far? Too much? Could she find it in herself to forgive him, when they met again?

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Asharen closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. She touches the side of Tamara's arm with her own hand "I am glad we weren't too late."

Clearing her throat, the Inquisitor pulls back, away from the bed and away from Tamara.

   "When he wakes, tell Imad that I am glad he lives." long fingers dig through her pockets and pull out the brass prosthetic, swiftly pulling it onto her arm and tightening it. She hoped that some of the spirits in the Crossroads could be of aid, to let her know about what was going on within the city, what should they expected beyond just devastation.

She did not need to ask them, she was sure that Solas out of everyone was surely fine, and yet that question too was on her mind. Metallic fingers wrap around her staff, pulling it closer to her as she walks out of the room "Please let me know when he does, I'd like to have a word with him before we leave for Minrathous. I will be in the Crossroads."

@st4ysoft @ever4sking (but also @r0kh)

[wisdomsought]

the day will come when people will learn, and get the better of you. from imad

the witcher, the last wish // accepting // @middener @r0kh

His hands hold tightly onto his writs; Rook's voice cuts through the humming in the air around them - Solas, wonders, for but a moment what the space must look for him. It came in waves that Solas could almost telegraph but never quite so, the silence that only deepened like the space that separated and collapsed the area around them and the static that pierced through each moving atom around them to reform and reshape themselves. The gnawing of teeth, the ripping of fabric, the many eyes that glare down directly towards him as he stands before Mythal's judgement chambers.

He had walked those floors, though never faced before Her from the space that he had assigned himself as they both stood now.

   "Or, perhaps, they will simply have gotten lucky." his own voice cuts through, the silence settling upon them both like dust. Solas remains unmoved, his hands are cold against his wrists and his armour grounds him to the same rock he had always found himself in the conversations that proceeded.

He gives Rook a tenuous smile.

   "I am not above admitting when I am wrong, Rook." he continues, eyes hardening "To have your expectations changed is a gift and to deny it is a disservice." and insult, not only onto others but to yourself. To not make use of the pain you inflict when you know the best course of action, when you know that any and all paths will lead to some level of pain - the responsibility lay easily before one's fingers. Its weight there, just as gravity held onto their bodies - whether they were aware of it or not.

Solas had never been able to ignore it. The way that his body weighted against the ground. The glint of pain in one's eyes. The anger and demands in their curve. His hands bloody and unwashed, kept as a reminder of that weight even after the bodies turned to dust as light as the wind "Not to mention that to discard a lesson that is hard won is foolishness."

But he understood that too, did he not? Solas tilts his head, eyes narrowing as a tightly kept inhale jolts his arms into wakefulness, tighting against his back.

   "It still does not change what must be done." those words echo around the halls; behind Rook he sees the wings of Mythal and sees the shadow she would have cast when seated upon her throne. Her judgement cannot reach him, but her blind gaze weighted on him all the same.

Solas does not look, choosing instead to narrow his eyes towards him "Or the fact that your world now faces a much larger danger than I could ever pose to it." due to your meddling - though that last part, he keeps silent, even as the grounding noise starts at his ears once more.

[mercysought]

stasis can kill a person. imad, for orla

thrust // accepting // @middener @r0kh

   "So can a knife." she offers "Or an unlucky punch."

Once she had punched a man - she had been attempting to move him out of her way and didn't actually intend to kill him. But she did and by the end he had fallen on the floor and with the fall he had remained there. She didn't remember his face anymore, only that he was double her age. Orla could have easily have subdued him and pushed him out of her way in a way that wouldn't have ended up in his death, but she hadn't. She had moved on before his body even hit the ground.

Statis could kill a person just as easily. It was a specific sort of training that, if used the wrong way, could stop her breathing. It could atrophy muscles. It could break bones, if applied too strongly. And it was certainly something they would be sure to find as they continued down this path. It was hardly something unique to magisters, unique to people like Imad, unique to people like her. It was useful for a great many things, but great many people didn't have a light enough touch for it, the finesse to make proper use of the technique.

So it was more often than not used for a quick and painful death.

It was also a method that she had been trained to withstand. To break out of. But it was something she had not felt since the cane that now rested on that same bench that broken through the skull of the man that had held her chains.

   "It is good training." Orla watches Imad from the other side of the room that they had assigned for training. Comedic and Relief shine as she turns them in her hands. She places one first atop the bench, next to the other straightened and parallel to the wood "You look like you know what you are doing."

Bare hands it would need to be. Orla takes Imad's form in, studying him from beneath the fan of dark lashes.

Gladiator and larger than her, strength and quick reflexes - even with the lyrium brands it would be a hard fight. Face to face, if they had met in real life, she would have to heavily rely on surprise and not being seen first. Truthfully, unless he was the target, she would have found a way to avoid him completely. A fight with him would not have been worth the time. The risk.

She returns to the square, feeling the sand under her feet. Her dark eyes find his, holding the gaze and herself in the small square. She feels her feet sink into the sand, allowing her feet to make a shape on them.

   "Come." the place was light. Lighter than she would have preferred. But this was not about preference. She offers a single half smile, both hands falling to the side of her body, warming up her fingers. Those were often the first to go "You won't kill me."