#rcvclations

[arlaathvhen-blog]

a birthday gift for @rcvclations!

[bornpariah-a]

@rcvclations // i dunno

             ❝ ——— You know, Blackwall, I used to have several piercings, myself. ❞

[outlivings]

[ comfort ] ( u don't gotta do this one 2, it was just 2 good 2 pass up )

@rcvclations || meme || CLOSED

            merilin and blackwall speak of family for the first time on the battlements, in a secluded spot he discovered some time ago. 

           she has no doubt that their shared experiences with loss had something to do with him entrusting her with this private ritual of his- he mourns his younger sister with flowers, ingraining her memory into them and leaving traces wherever he goes. she’d called it beautiful, and offered to accompany him the next time, if he’d have her.

           and so they gathered handfuls of wildflowers and tossed them over the battlements, taking time to let them each scatter in the wind. she laughed softly when he reached over and placed one in her hair, and let it remain while they chatted. 

           he talked about liddy, his parents, and as dusk fell, she recounted memories of her son; his shyness, how he’d cling to her hip like she was the only thing in the world keeping him safe, the delight in his laugh when she played with him.

           but it dawns on merilin; her memories of itha are of a cooing baby boy, only beginning to learn how to walk without gripping her finger in his tiny fist. children his age grow up alarmingly quickly within months, and it’s been years since she last saw him. 

           slowly, her words trail off. blackwall seems to notice her falling tears before she does, because it’s his brows drawing together in concern that alert her to them.

           she breathes out a wry laugh and scrubs the heel of her hand into her eye. a vain attempt to make herself seem less pitiful to him. “it’s alright,” she says hoarsely, addressed either to him or herself, she’s not sure. 

           his pale eyes don’t glint in the dark like roshan’s, and she feels inexplicably thankful for that. 

           “i often wonder if he knows i’m alive, or that i still love him,” she continues thoughtlessly, because opening up to the warden has always been so easy. the forced smile drops almost instantly, breath hitching on a question she’s repressed all this time.

           “…will i ever see him again?” she asks the air. “maker- will he even remember who i am?”

           with the last muttered question, she threatens to fall apart. an edge of panic rises in her voice, familiar and dreaded by her, stopped short only by the unexpected sensation of being held.

           it takes a moment, but slowly, cautiously, she eases into his embrace. the tears flow heavily and freely, but in his arms, she is kept whole. she’s free to grieve for the death of her old life, for the first time, without fear of losing herself.

           shaking arms wrap over his shoulders, gripping at him like he is her lifeline and she’s been drowning for years. he feels so sturdy, so warm.

           “i miss him so much,” she whispers weakly into his shoulder. 

           merilin always misses her son; but here, she accepts that yearning for family and feeling utterly alone needn’t coincide with one another.

[honeycut-a-blog]

rate! this! boy!

VISUAL ATTRACTIVENESS: 💗💗💗💗 you know. in your sexy dirty lumberjack sort of wayFRIENDSHIP LEVEL: INCONCLUSIVE JUST YET  ---  but i can see them getting on! SEXUAL DESIRE: 💗💗💗💗 👀 ... older man meat. hawke’s into the thrillROMANTIC INTENT:  also inconclusive! for now. (wriggles)

[asteeledheart]

Platonic touch: Sharing a blanket

she’d normally ATTEMPT to mask how cold she is, BUNDLE up and make the best of it, but the temperature’s plummeted since the sun sank behind the mountains and sidri swears she can feel the cold in her BONES. she’s since donned every piece of clothing she’s brought along and the only things more or less visible are her EYES. she suspects she must look like the world’s most ARMORED scarecrow. 

“alright then, blackwall?” she asks, voice heavily MUFFLED as he approaches. he looks practically comfortable, no doubt grey wardens have to face far worse than the COLD. “bet the BEARD helps, doesn’t it?”

his reply is a quick SNORT and she grins beneath jacket TIED up to her nose. he sits beside her and suddenly there’s a blanket placed over both of their knees. immediately curling into it, sidri SHIVERS and offers a thankful nod. “don’t know where you managed to find this, but i won’t complain.” she INCHES closer to him and feels practically DWARFED with him next to her, but he’s IMPOSSIBLY warm and it’s only a few minutes before she’s PASSED out altogether against him. 

[foppishdandy]

♡ — my muse and yours

       accepting – party banter –  ♡ my muse and yours. (…a continuation of this. (sorta))

Dorian: (ahem)

Dorian: (AHEM)

Blackwall: (sighs dejectedly) Is all that racket intended for me, then?

Dorian: Ah! See? Proving there is, in fact, a brain somewhere in all… that… uncombed bird’s nest.

Blackwall: Is there a point to this? Other than to insult me?

Dorian: To listen to myself talk? Also, yes. But only this once.

Dorian: I’ve noticed you have begun to feign our enemies, confusing them before my magic strikes. You are adapting to having me as an invaluable ally– adapting to my style. Finally. 

Blackwall: (chuckling) You’re sure you are not adapting to mine?

Dorian: (sarcastic gasp) Perish the thought!

[bornpariah-a]

[ defend ]

Nonsexual Acts of Dominance // @rcvclations

                 When a mage begins to run low on mana, little good will result considering the fact that it essentially means that you are out ONE SOURCE OF MAGIC. The battle has been long and Dorian cal feel himself pulling from the very dredges of what may or may not remain, sweat beading on his forehead. Barriers take priority, and everything else falls into line as it must, though Dorian can barely manage that, at this point. It’s a good thing that Blackwall is a literal wall, really, and that everyone remains within a certain range. He presses on because he must but. Well.

                Then a rock hits his temple and he’s just knocked out. Just like that. The famed Dorian of House Pavus, taken out by a rock.

                Really it’s just a moment of CONFUSION and momentary paralyzation as a result of the pain and he sways and then falls and. Hm. Yes. This is rather unpleasant. He can hear shouts around him —— or did he black out, first? It’s difficult to tell. Nonetheless he opens his eyes and is DISORIENTED by the fact that the sky is spinning and can’t quite tell what direction is which. So, essentially, it is a grand time. Someone ( read: blackwall ) is going to have a laugh about this later.

                He can still yet hear the sounds of battle RAGING and he flexes his fingers, testing. Turns his head and squints and —— is that Blackwall? Yes, yes it is. Standing before him, deflecting attacks, defending him? Because he got knocked out. By a rock. Worse things have happened to him, he knows, but this is certainly a hit to his pride.

                Dorian hops back up as best as he can, world tilting dangerously, before he swallows a lyrium potion anyways. Casts another barrier spell, throws a ball of fire at a rogue trying to pull a fast one on the warrior. ❝ Let’s not mention this again, shall we? ❞ he says instead of thank you, though he IS touched that Blackwall took the time to defend his unconscious body. There is really only so much to do when you are so awful at expressing gratitude.

                By the way that Blackwall snorts, however, Dorian takes that gratitude back. Clearly, they will not forget about this situation.

[foppishdandy]

Knowing that Dorian would still be in the main hall for some time, Blackwall visited the mage's spot in the library. After doing a little poking around, he carefully placed a small wooden box atop a few papers and books. The box was intricately carved with the Pavus house sigil, stained dark and sanded smooth, with a little mirror resting on the inside of the lid. Pleased, Blackwall left whistling.

He entertained a regular courier of Skyhold with his eloquent accounts of their time on the field with the Inquisitor. The rise of the poor boy’s eyebrows when the mage used an archaic term to describe a magical endeavor was, in turn, entertaining Dorian. If he could have stopped baiting his hubris with that halla-eyed stare of wonder, he may have spelled it out for him. Perhaps condescendingly, but nevertheless.

Ego now tickled and on the cusp of full to bursting, he bid too-polite farewells while the chatter and whistled tunes of the main hall drifted back into his thoughts. Thoughts that swarmed with territorial remarks, should any unfortunate soul be residing in his domain. For all his mulling, he never would have guessed tonight’s offender would be a little, wooden box. 

His eyes slide suspiciously around the perimeter, but it is relatively quiet here. Most have adjourned for lunch or still actually have things on their social calendar and have not yet made it into the company of introverted books.

Alone in his momentary bubble, he lets the light reach his eyes as he studied the emblem with a double-edged fondness. Fingertips partake of the widdled curvature like he might the supple-but-callused palm of a man’s hand, inciting his cleverness to provide him some insight on a subject he knew little about. For but a whole minute he fascinated himself with its make, snippets of conversation from others that elicited Blackwall’s handiness flashing; afterimages of wood chips hitting dirt and the like each time that Dorian fluttered his lashes in that lost-beyond-thinking way.

But that was as long as he could fend off his curiosity. He is, after all, an impertinent researcher in that jaded core of his. How his brows arched in the reflection that greeted him, momentarily stupefied by his doppelganger (although he would say something like “mystified by my own beauty”). He cradled the item, brought it in front of him to preen just as a certain unnamed warrior so hated for him to waste his time doing, then decidedly punctuated the end of his wonderment by snapping the lid and sheathing his gift. 

He carried it with him, tucked under his arm as he sought the courier out to rescind his letter. He had been in need of a new personal mirror ever since his had been smashed on their last outing, but that need had been met. Dorian would remember that.