#seeblood

[ofrevas-a]

Why are Hawkes so tall. Who allowed this

[dragonversed]

{old} starter from Cassandra for @seeblood

Varric’s tale had been both frustrating and impossible to fathom most of the time, let alone be enough of an explanation for what had taken place at the Kirkwall Chantry that fateful day. The Champion seemed like a figure of legend, and every time Cassandra would hear the name Hawke she wondered how such a man would have come to be. However, having searched for both the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall to lead the holy Inquisition, the Seeker had accepted that there would be no answer to her invitation. Which did nothing to assuage her anger when Varric admitted to knowing where Hawke is a few days after the Inquisition had reached Skyhold. A fight had erupted, mostly on Cassandra’s part, and for the remaining days until the Champion’s arrival she remained fuming at her corner of the courtyard, hitting a training dummy with a wooden sword. Varric and she have not spoken in a few days, both avoiding each other, and the Inquisitor seemed to not want to take sides. So when the Champion finally arrived at Skyhold, Cassandra decided not to join the greeting party, among Leliana, Josephine and Cullen.

What she did, however, is take the steps to Varric’s usual place up in the battlements and search for him. She was not sure whether she would apologize or try to find some middle ground. Her feet touched the hard stone steps just slightly as she climbed up them with ease, as she finally reached the top of the battlements. Scanning the area ahead of her, dark eyes caught sight of someone (ridiculously) taller than Varric. A red streak across his nose, and unruly black hair.

“You-” she started, and walked closer, brows furrowing. “You must be the Champion.” Cassandra greeted and stopped a few steps before the man. “I am Seeker Pentaghast. I apologize for not joining you earlier in the War Room.” she finished, and let her features relax just slightly.

[iterte]

“THAT  IS  HOW  YOU  GET  CAUGHT.”  she  is  not  a  mage  -  and  she  has  the  sense  not  to  dress  like  one.  voice  drifts  from  the  door  of  the  cottage,  gaze  fixed  on  the  countenance  of  the  man  before  her.  what  an  odd  thing,  to  wish  to  evade  capture  and  yet  wear  garb  that  points  you  out  as  HUNTED.  pearl  thinks  for  a  moment  of  a  red  cloak  and  the  sound  of  rushing,  girlish  laughter  as  a  trunk  of  dresses  is  flung  open.  “dressing  like  a  MAGE.”  she  had  always  been  the  more  sensible  one  -  the  QUIET  BANK  bordering  a  GUSHING  RIVER.  “there  are  less  conspicuous  things  you  could  wear.”  @seeblood

[eisbyl]

❝ everything mortal fades away in time, but the spirit remains. ❞ wah

her father once said something to that effect, a passing comment during a night of respite before the next big job. she thought it a warning, then, jeralt’s roundabout way of making certain she never loses sight of what matters, never lets herself forget how easily it’s lost. she imagines he must have been exactly where she finds herself now. 

she imagines he must have hoped it would give her the solace he’d no longer be there to provide.

“ i’m sorry, ” she says, to neither of their benefits, empty words if not for the purposed look in her eye. she’s sorry for their shared pain, their shared loss, and most of all, that grief is still not something either of them can afford themselves. but, as he says, the spirit remains. 

perhaps that’s the reason she still finds herself suspended in that wide, open field, endlessly rewinding the instant her father took a holy relic to his back. 

“ i’m here now. ” not a platitude, but instead, a promise, his hands in hers, both calloused and expended with far too little to show for it. “ if you’ll have me still. ”

[gutshift]

@seeblood / hawke & dove!

Dove feels wrong - footed, fragile. It's not Hawke's fault in any meaningful sense. She always feels that way — or has, at least, felt that way constantly since she could feel things at all. Varric is so kind, and he's told her that Hawke is kind, that he won't hurt her, and she's more grateful for that then she can say. But it's ———

When she realizes Hawke is here, on the battlements she's wandering after yet another nightmare, she yelps aloud, the ends of her hair lighting on fire and tears pouring suddenly down her cheeks. He looks to her and her hands raise rapidly, habitually, to brush away any concern that might follow. "S — Sorry! Not — y - your fault!" That she's crying, or her hair; she notices the flames and manages to put them out. "My fault. I can't ——" Every emotion she feels feels like a whole sun behind her ribs, devouring and being devoured. It's too much. She's so grateful for it, but the momentary surprise and the drowning empathy and ache threaten to drown her, like so much else. "Not your fault. I'm just — like this, be — because of the —" Inhale. Exhale. She can't imagine how much worse this would have been if they'd met at Haven. "Hello. Sorry."

[endawna]

soft exhale , saccharine iron clinging to old wounds. imbued within and under flesh, it carried a tinge of familiarity. a familiarity not easily placed and quickly overtaken by the parts of them both ever tethered to the fade. magic crackled between gloved fingers as he idled the conjured electricity in such passive manner ; rolled from one hand to the other as if playing with a mere rock. there was an ... awkward silence falling between them. he hadn't the gift of conversation their shared acquaintance of a certain dwarf did. never could find the words despite a desire for company when the mood took him. lips pursed and brows furrowed yet he continued to move the lightning from hand to hand; never bothering to look away, ❝ -- i knew anders before ... ❞ a stretch of silence again , choosing words. quelling a crawling sensation at the back of his neck ; under skin. swallowed back and suppressed. there was no intent to offend or dredge up ill feelings, but the knight found it hard to banish the possessed apostate from his thoughts when seeing such an integral part of the story in front of him, ❝ justice. not well, but enough to be saddened by our brief reunion in kirkwall. do you know if he is ... still well ? ❞

a question borne from concern. for his own future -- possession -- and the wayward mage.

@seeblood requested a starter !

[fals3nd]

@seeblood

famed champion of kirkwall. esyllt frowns at him ; the severity of the look is exacerbated by the still fading bruising about her eyes, the split lip she keeps accidentally opening, and the new angle of her previously unbroken nose. these gifts left behind by corypheus and the trek through the snow until she had found the inquisition again are still visible, and those that aren't still pain her. there's a cane left leaning against the edge of the table she ought to be using. the light in her unnaturally green eyes spark in tandem with the green spitting from her hand and she stops herself from biting her still sore lower lip.

"i have a cousin who was at the gallows." esyllt says after a stilted silence. "you look different than i imagined, from his letters." she wonders what arlin would think of the figure he had described in letters interacting with his cousin. the man died at the conclave, so it isn't as though she has a way of finding out.

[rosaeura]

'you know you can always talk to me' uwu

          hawke,  the champion of kirkwall—or garrett,  as he might prefer to be called—was not someone aurora ever would’ve imagined trusting in.  not that he was untrustworthy,   but rather,  that she’d ever have the chance to speak to him at all—-let alone so deeply.  aurora need not imagine as to whether or not garrett has his own share of inner turmoil and conflict…  not even the entire book describing his life as the ‘champion’ would be needed.  the fact that he’s regarded as a hero,  as a myth or living bit of folklore speaks enough.           it makes aurora almost feel…  guilty about her own turmoil.  compared to what garrett must’ve dealt with  (and still deals with perhaps),  the weight on her shoulders feels highly exaggerated.  but even then,  it doesn’t feel any lighter.           aurora smiles for a moment as she lets out a brief humorless laugh.  amidst the silence,  she struggles and inevitably fails to find something to say.  aurora had always been the one to comfort others when she could,  even if she could not heal them.  helping others comes so easily…  why is it that helping herself is the hardest?           “  thank you,  “    is all she can manage to utter.  her voice is quiet,   her spirits seemingly broken for the night.  aurora knows all sorts of things she can talk about,  but there’s no idea of where to start.   she fears the moment she mentions one thing,  everything else follows—and like a great tide from the sea,  it crashes down onto the both of them,  engulfing them entirely.  garrett’s kindness is appreciated…  but she believes he has enough on his mind.