#redemptori

[daiovro]

you are a tolerable drunk.

five word sentences – accepting !

                                 a bubbly giggle slips past parted lips, a wavering figure held together by one hand against a wall and her own DISSIPATING pride. this isn’t the herald or the inquisitor who has drowned herself in wine for the night, but the two hardly COINCIDE anymore. she’s a little too affectionate, a little too everything in this state, but the words make her beam like a child, rosy-cheeked ( and with a quickly following hiccup ). delicate hands reach to touch either side of the mage’s face, FOND & SWEET, but tinged by her own drunkenness. ‘ you’re too sweet, dorian. ‘ she nearly falls over, but steadies herself with one hand on his chest, TRUSTING – she leans her head on him, a bit sad, but too smashed to really care. ‘ you are always tolerable. the most tolerable. my FAVORITE, actually. ‘ a hiccup & a giggle, hand covering her mouth. ‘ oops. don’t tell anyone. ‘

[raisedguilt-blog]

i am a demanding creature. i am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable.

❝   don’t sell yourself so short. you forgot that you’re an evil mage. from tevinter no less.  ❞ he flashed a knowing grin, shaking his head dismissively. he realised dorian’s tone was less play, more grave, but it was instinct to jump in and make light of serious matters. wave enough of that snark around — the kind of snark that made you want to claw the skin from his face — and people were bound to back off. right?  ❝ everyone’s a lil selfish and unreasonable. cruel? you’re a lot of things, dorian, but i wouldn’t pin you down as cruel. ❞  not like him. not like he could be. he took another swing, shrugging his shoulders lightly to ease the rigidity in his muscles. the scoff was still on his lips, but his eyes weren’t smiling. 

[raisedguilt-blog]

it's so much easier to see the world in black and white; grey… I don’t know what to do with grey.

❝  believe me, i know what you mean.  ❞  easier to assume all orlesians were cut from the same cloth, but when the news spreads that the wardens have returned to ferelden, an orlesian stands at its head. let it go, dean. it’s what dad would have wanted. easier to despise and demonise all mages, to write them off as doomed from the start — a maleficarum in the making, no different than the one who had taken his mother— yet as the war draws to a close, his baby brother starts to show signs. that same baby brother he’d sworn to protect, no matter the cost, was growing into something he would have wanted dead on the spot. watch out for sammy. his final words. he had to preserve it; see past it. nine years of age, motherless, soon to be orphaned altogether, caught in the middle of the war, and he had to ensure the essence that took his mother from him wouldn’t get the better of his brother. 

greys all over, and he hated it. if it weren’t for his father, he wouldn’t have known what to do after the war. who to turn to. how to start over. how do you snap out of that way of thinking? how does yesterday’s foe become today’s ally? 

❝  ’s what made joining the wardens easier.  ❞  they were an isolated sort; not a whole lot of them that were recruiters, and even then, it was at a fairly dispersed pace. as a warden, there was no trial, no judgement, no morality — just something to hunt, something to kill, and a world to protect. ‘course it wasn’t the reason he’d joined, but it was an upside, if there were to be any upside. 

[kinderliving-blog1]

@redemptori

(  cue her choking back a snort. the stache...  )  ‘  is that for real?  ’