❝ LET’S SHOW THEM OUR HEARTS, AND THEN SHOW THEM THEIRS !
ind. priv. sel. plot based dragon age multimuse, by killi. feat. moira theirin, maric theirin, oghren, genevieve & others!

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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
hello vonnie
dirt enthusiast
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NASA
trying on a metaphor
Jules of Nature
cherry valley forever

Kaledo Art
will byers stan first human second
almost home
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

pixel skylines

oozey mess
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
occasionally subtle
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@therreign
❝ LET’S SHOW THEM OUR HEARTS, AND THEN SHOW THEM THEIRS !
ind. priv. sel. plot based dragon age multimuse, by killi. feat. moira theirin, maric theirin, oghren, genevieve & others!
last day!!
thanks all for being patient; it’s my last day of the course and while i still have my essay to finish, i’ll be back soon ;_;
hiatus
it’s my last week of this summer course, and while i thought i would have the time to be decent and write all my replies/queue them, i simply don’t. on top of weekly discussion posts, i need to write another big essay that’s due next week, my bday, also this week... and uni is starting up again B( i am properly stressed and will be stepping away for a bit while i get my shit together lmao. see u all soon whooo <(’-’<)
( STRANGER. )
Oghren had pushed his luck -- he knew it, but sod it all if they were going to kick him out! He stomped around the Diamond Quarter, raging about his exile, got right up to the step of the Assembly... and was promptly dragged off. All of his hollering and threats, stifled with a hit to his stone-hard noggin. He grumbles under his beard, guards yanking on his limbs like he’s some roasted nug ready to be eaten!
❝ Sod you, you filthy blighters! ❞ Oghren jerks his arm, and it’s promptly grabbed. The blood pools in his face, feet digging into the ground as he’s pushed along. One guy explains to him what the deal is -- Oghren doesn’t care to listen, won’t. The both of them, they can piss right off.
He does more yelling than anything, thinking of every foul mouthed insult he can conjure while emerging from his stupor. As he’s pushed and yanked through the commons, they give him one hard shove towards the door of the Deep Roads. He whips around, fists clenched, teeth showing.
❝ They don’t throw exiles in the bleeding Deep Roads! ❞ He roars, making a miserable attempt to catch a sword that was thrown at him. It falls at his feet, and Oghren labours to pick it up, the ale sitting in his stomach now ready to spill from his mouth. He burps, head turning to look at the other dwarf he’s supposed to be exiled with, he can only assume. ❝ Ehe... What did these nughumpers get ya for? ❞ He asks, but he doesn’t care. Oghren guesses the Assembly had enough of him, and the other guy, too. ❝ Trying to get rid of Oghren... I’ve explored these roads more than you’ve ever explored what’s in your trousers! ❞ He spits, chuckling at that, but he swings his sword at a guard who dare attempt to push him along, threatening to gut them where they stand. Nobody was going to get rid of him!
@chokethelight / plotted!
( FIONA. )
Sleep had been a luxury Maric seldom had. He wandered the halls of the castle like a ghost, aimlessly, quietly. The king fancies sitting in the dark of Rowan’s study -- marginally untouched -- except for the chair he pulls out. He goes unnoticed, by the men that walk the halls, intentionally or otherwise, allowing himself to be forgotten about until the morning.
Maric sits, and waits, finger brushing against the spine of a book Rowan had on her desk -- he didn’t move it either, not in the two years since her death. The blue of his eyes reflect the dim of the room he surrounds himself, staring at the door, intently listening. Fiona had made it clear in her last letter to him, this would be it; the thought never sat well with him. Control had continuously eluded him: Rowan passing, losing his other child, his grip on the country... It pained him to even think about.
The door clicks open, and he sits up somewhat straighter now. ❝ I see you made it. ❞ He says, flatly, hand withdrawing from the book, coming to rest now in his lap.
@seahaloed / plotted!
♥ for plots? capping at 5 rn; please have a muse in mind! i’ll be popping into ims maybe later this week
muse list!
Name 3 - 10 muses you’ve considered or would like to write in the future!
sebastian vael (da2)
my (canon) warden or inquisitor
aeducan warden
cassandra (da: inquisition)
leliana (da: origins, da: inquisition)
male dwarven companion (da: inquisition)
Your current muses (optional and in no particular order):
moira theirin (the stolen throne)
maric theirin (the stolen throne, the calling, the silent grove)
cailan theirin (da: origins)
alistair (da: origins, da: inquisition, the silent grove)
oghren (da: origins)
kell ap morgan (the calling)
duncan (da: origins, the calling)
genevieve (the calling)
Tagged by: i stole this!
Tagging: @praeludio / @glibncss / @blightmantra / other multis ik ik forGOT sdfhls
Josh Hartnett photographed by Julien Lienard on May 22, 2017 in Cannes, France.
blightmantra:
( ALISTAIR. )
alistair could not remember much about what proceeded after he ingested every drop of what the dreaded chalice had to offer him. he remembered stumbling before his entire vision was enveloped in darkness, darkness that was mistaken as death in the midst of his confusion. the darkness lasted what seemed like a LIFETIME, the only indication that he was otherwise alive was the searing headache that managed to wake him from his stupor.
he had been awake for a few hours now, time he hadn’t noticed had past as he did nothing but blankly stare at the wall as he relived the events of the joining a million times over in his head. his rattled brain fought to make sense of it all that it did not initially hear duncan’s knock. he physically jumped as a million tiny alarms went off in his head when his voice finally registered.
‘ duncan… ’ alistair attempted to stifle his sigh of relief as he tried settling his nervous. ‘ i, uh, i was just… i couldn’t. ’ he ran his hands over his knees over and over to still his trembling hands. ‘ i must look like a madman to you, ’ he managed a breathy laugh. ‘ i’ve just… never experienced something like that… ever. ’
❝ I understand. ❞ He replies, his sympathies extending to the young man as he closes the door behind him. His steps carry him further into the room, lingering but a few paces away. Duncan studies him with a curious eye: he knew the look well. His dark eyes rove round the room, to a pitcher Alistair has on a sideboard. ❝ You should drink some water, get the taste out of your mouth. ❞ He allows the boy to sit there, attempting to clear his head as he pours him a glass, before he’s back at his side, handing it to him. Maybe it’s instinct that makes Duncan grip Alistair by the shoulder, giving him a squeeze. Subtly, he nods, contemplatively.
❝ Nor would you have. Nothing can compare to the Joining. ❞ What he says is fact, a plain truth, grim though it may be. The old warden sits beside Alistair, on the edge of his bed, folding his hands in his lap. ❝ It is a test of your resolve, your fortitude, even before you become a Grey Warden. However, as you saw... despite a person’s good intentions, that cannot spare them from the finality of what we all inevitably face. ❞ The mere thought makes his head shake, disappointingly. Another warden recruit, lost. ❝ Edith will be missed. ❞
Unfolding his hands, Duncan digs into is trouser pockets, yanking a pendant out. He holds it out to Alistair, ❝ Your oath. ❞ It’s silver, emblazoned with a griffon on its face. ❝ We wear these to remember those who we have lost, and to remind us of the duty that we have taken as Grey Wardens. ❞
( SEBASTIAN. )
Cailan knows how to smile when it’s necessary, how to greet people with manners of a soon to be king. They talk of him, nothing but fondness in their voices, and all praise for King Maric. How well he raised a son just like himself! They could be twins, he and his father. Both tall and handsome, with blonde hair that was pulled back and out of their faces ( Maric was greying, but it mattered little. ) Cailan imagined that when he was older, he would definitely look like this father. As Maric made his rounds around the room, greeting Starkhaven nobility, Cailan silently followed behind him, offering compliments and earning the smiles of others with a well placed laughed.
He still had retained something of a boy-like quality to him; finding humour in little things, excitement bubbling over uncontrollably whenever his interest was captured. Cailan departs from his father’s side, to the far end of the room, hands behind his back, still wearing that sweet smile.
❝ Sebastian, is it? We met a little earlier, do you remember? ❞ He asks, inquisitively. The prince takes his side next to the other, smoothing out his doublet as he watches his father. ❝ You do not look like you’re having a grand time of this. ❞ Oh, he hoped he had found someone of similar mind as he! All of this was simply formality, lingering in the king’s shadow as his second -- he wanted something to do!
@rcgueprince / plotted!
anseahaloed:
( LOGHAIN. )
@therreign
Loghain finds himself laughing, staring up at the sky as sputtering of Rowan’s pyre fizzles out. Maker above, she’d love it… rain on her funeral. He is one of the last here, other than Maric.
The ground is slick with mud as he makes his way over and her puts a hand firmly on Maric’s back with a heaving sigh. “Let’s… go inside.” he insists with a small tug. It’s been… years since they were any semblance of the friends they once were.
(he knows she’d hate it if they remained like this)
“I think I could use a drink.” he adds calmly, hair soaked through already from the torrential downpour. Denerim would be flooded by morning if the rain continued like this… best they get inside before that happens.
The pyre was one of the few things to bring him peace; counsel had told him that it would offer closure -- that had been temporary. A lot of things, Maric had realised, were temporary. The sounds of Cailan wailing still rung in his head, broken sobs breaking from his chest, begging him to bring his mother back -- Maric couldn’t. The void in his chest opened a little wider that day, and he could feel himself sinking.
❝ How can you laugh?! ❞ He asks, demanding an answer, all pain and rage and helplessness. The rain masks the tears that fall from his eyes, face casting haunting shadows in the dying fire behind him. He breathes, pushing his way past Loghain,their shoulders connecting in a rough shove. ❝ Drink by yourself, then. ❞ His hair sticks to him, drops of rain bouncing off the leather jerkin he wears. The king slides through mud, tracking it up the walkway into the keep. There was nothing to drink about, nothing to be happy for -- his wife, the queen, the mother of their child -- she was gone. Nothing could bring him joy.
( ALISTAIR. )
Only one person to succumb to the Joining; Duncan should be thankful for that. In some regard he is, and after years of conducting Joining rituals, a part of him has learned to separate the emotion from the loss. He stands in the hall of the Denerim compound, wiping a rag around the chalice, thoughts drifting off. He had already begun to draft a letter to Fiona, stopping only a few sentences in before he discarded it. She wouldn’t be happy to know the boy had been brought into the Wardens; Duncan only hoped she could understand.
He sets the chalice down, tossing the rag on the table before walking through the halls. Alistair had to be dragged out: he could barely stand, much less walk, but was no doubt still drawing breath. That had been a relief -- partially because he would have hated to lose another promising Warden, the other reason was something more personal.
Duncan knocks once, and opens the door after a belated pause. The old warden tilts his head, a hum catching in his throat. ❝ I’m surprised to see you’re awake, Alistair. ❞ He lifts his chin, curiously eyeing how pale the boy looks. ❝ You didn’t sleep much, hm? ❞
@blightmantra / plotted!
my w and q keys are effectively DEAD; u dont realise how much u use those assholes >:/
having my second dnd session today and i am!! excite >:))
( MARIC. )
He says that as if he’s so sure of himself -- maybe he is. Moira had watched Maric grow resilient: not because he would be king, but so that he could survive. That wasn't the life she wanted for him, regardless of how necessary it may be.
Moira lays in a chair, hand holding onto her a side. A wound she had earned after another bloody skirmish; her face is unnaturally pale as sweat clings to her forehead, her blonde hair knotted and unkempt. She demanded Arl Rendorn keep Maric safe; he was too young to be swept into a battle, only for him to lose his life. She couldn’t protect him in the midst of a battle. Her heart sinks; it would be her greatest regret if she were to lose him. ❝ You will have a crown when I am gone, young one. Until then, remember that I am the queen. ❞ Her lips, pale and cracked, pull into a smile. He was every bit her child. She extends a hand to him, thumbing over his fingers. His hands were innocent, clean; they still had a softness to them that hers did not -- one day soon they would no longer be as such.
❝ You are my responsibility, Maric. Were we living in an age free of occupation, I would not be so in fear for you. But I am carving a path for you, and I will fight my way down this path for as long as I am able, so that you may take our kingdom without issue. ❞ She holds his hand a little tighter, covering his with the one she had been nursing her side with. ❝ I hope that when you are older, you know not of the turmoils we have faced for so long. No mother, no matter whom she may be, wants to see her children suffer. I will fight this battle for you... Besides, you still have your schooling to keep you occupied. ❞ Moira impishly grins at Maric. They were at war, but Andraste preserve her, if she would have her heir be uneducated!
@glibncss / cont.
♥ for plots? capping at 5 rn; please have a muse in mind! i’ll be popping into ims maybe later this week
“ it makes you sad, doesn’t it? that there’s so much hatred in the world. ” / @glibncss
His jaw tightens somewhat at the comment, but he lets it go in a breath. Alistair’s response is a hum; yes, he supposes he is sad. The weight of Ostagar’s failure still sat heavy on his shoulders -- he couldn’t do anything to change the outcome, he did what he was told and now there were just two of them ( and Morrigan... eugh. ) Truthfully, he didn’t feel any better knowing that they, the Grey Wardens, were at the top of the Crown’s hit list. Ferelden believed it too -- they barely managed to leave Lothering without being mugged by a mob of townsfolk.
Alistair finds comfort in being at the camp, tucked away off the road, as safe as one can be when in the woods. It wouldn’t last. ❝ I didn’t think things would get this bad after Ostagar. We have a duty to fulfill, we’re facing a Blight and because of Loghain, there are people out to kill us. As if the darkspawn weren’t enough! ❞ He deflates, shaking his head in disbelief, looking around the tiny clearing that they claimed as their own. ❝ I’m going to check out the perimeter, make sure we weren’t followed. ❞