#sad problem bear

[commandermorgan]

Fighting artblock with Blackwall sketches 💪

[goodmorningmissmorgan]

a little unedited writing snippet/exercise, Blackwall cuddles under the cut <3

___________

“Blackwall, move over.”

“M’lady?” He looks up blearily even as he’s rolling aside. She crawls into his bedroll, blanket in tow, and worms her way against him. 

“Bloody freezing. I’m here to steal your warmth.” 

“Whatever you need, my lady,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He doesn’t seem to object when she pushes her chilled, stocking-clad feet into his shins, nor when she buries her ice-cold nose into his chest. He’s shockingly warm and wonderfully sturdy. 

After several minutes of fitful squirming and rubbing her feet back and forth against him in an attempt to warm herself, Blackwall lets out a frustrated groan. “You must be half cat. Can’t decide if you want in or out.” His arm snakes around her and pulls her into him, back to chest, and her wiggling is effectively quelled. 

With a resigned sigh, she backs herself as close into him as seems appropriate and closes her eyes.

“Goodnight, my lady,” Blackwall rumbles at her ear. A minute later and he’s snoring softly. 

[commandermorgan]

rediscovered an old Blackwall video edit (:

(audio: Winter’s Song, Tommee Profitt x Fleurie)

(mods: Shantia’s Eyebrows by Shantia, Exquisition by jacknifelee, Assorted Hairstyles by horography, Warden of Orlais by CaffeinePainter)

[commandermorgan]

A cozy Blackwall and Ellana Lavellan for @ladyeglantine ! <3

[commandermorgan]

[commandermorgan]

[commandermorgan]

Thom “why did I let myself get talked into this” Rainier.

[goodmorningmissmorgan]

Yet another wee little writing exercise from my archives. Thom Rainier in mourning under the cut, cw: mention of death + burial.

___________

He contemplates the man’s long, straight nose and forked beard as he lays there, breathing in the smell of dirt and grass. What would Blackwall do in his place? They had been bound for Weisshauppt. He has a vague idea of the fortress’ location. A brilliant idea that would be, Thom. A wanted murderer showing up and claiming the Warden-Constable had conscripted him, then died at the hands of darkspawn?

Even if they did believe him, they’d probably have him thrown in prison. 

Or killed.

He fingers the glass vial in his pocket, filled with the blood he’d been on his way to return to the Warden. What was I meant to do? It sits like a lead weight in his pocket now. If he had only returned sooner. All for your sorry hide, Thom. And for what? 

He can’t bear to rifle through Blackwall’s belongings. He buries them all with the man: the coin, the rations, the tent. The only items he takes with him are the breastplate and shield. I’ll make good use of them, Warden. I promise. 

He buries the man at the topmost part of the hill as far away from the darkspawn corpses as he can manage. Those he burns, the smell acrid and oily and coating the back of his throat. He deserved better, Thom thinks as he digs. He marks the upturned earth of Blackwall’s shallow grave with a collection of worn and hazy sea-glass, pink seashells, and smooth stones. There are precious few flowers on the storm coast; he gathers as many as he can and lays them beside the stones. He spares a single one as an offering to the sea.