[cloudy-babyblue-deactivated2020]

Reblog if you want an Anon's honest opinion of you.

[tethrxs-archive-blog]

                       ❝               Well, shit. 

                                          independent  Varric  Tethras.                                             multiverse. multiship. novella.                                           revived muse. written by frey. 

                                                         home | rules 

[griffonhearted-deactivated20160]

( valoroun )

[griffonhearted-deactivated20160]

        Fingers rake up along sore temples, wary of the gilded halo         that weighs down his skull.

        Pressure swells in his head, his shoulders, and his back. For         the past few minutes, he has been curved over the desk — bent                 under the persistent ache. It is only now that the King manages         to lift his gaze from woodwork to finally surrender.

        ”Andrastate’s Mercy, fine!”

        ”I’m going to Vigil’s Keep, I’m going to greet the Wardens there,         and then I’m going tocome right back. No overnight stay,         not even a grand tour of the grounds — happy?”

[valoroun]

Nary a word had passed over tiers plump with carmine tint, merely an expression laden upon expectant features. Her approach had been an easy one ; no knock to herald merely a gesture of shoes clacking against the harsh, cold flooring.  

A pale brow arches, lips pursing at the outburst coming forthright. She finds herself crossing lithe arms, fingers tapping on tapered biceps. Was he prone to momentary fits or was this a new development? 

          " I would presume you are talking to me?             As loathed as I am to say this, you abandoning             your duties as king for dalliance with the Wardens             is not what would make me happy. "  

There is very little, in fact, that would bring her joy at this current moment, yet she need no over burden her new... husband with untidy things of the Courtroom dealing sort. If he can hardly handle paperwork and the various stressors, she need not inform him of the pompous Orlesians awaiting him in a rather dank, but spruced parlor.

        " I won't stop you from going, please by all means.           But I will inform that not everyone will take their Kings           absence with such benignity. "

[valoroun]

Baisemain (Alistair/Anora?)

baisemain: a kiss on the hand.

When the gesture is made it is made out of fealty –; a sworn oath that can only be judged by the Maker. Lingering tiers upon pale knuckles, barely marked by strife and callused hardship, though her hands had seen their fair share. Her fingers bore a more discreet burden. A common act to preform upon a Queen when one thinks about it. Bent at the knees, head ducked down low, and the woman’s wrist cradled delicately in a hand far larger than her own ( usually ). It was all so disgustingly ceremonial and she loathes the process entirely.

So when she takes his hands within her’s, she does not kneel. No, she stands, ignoring the proper distance between them. And when her lips press against callused pads, she lingers at each knuckle – it’s a whisper of affection placed along each knuckle, though anyone who were to watch them could barely see her mouth leave. Grace bestows through chaste admittances and it’s entirely a private matter.

He is her King now. And she? His Queen.  

She silences him before he can ask why she acts this way, nose crinkling and brow furrowing in vexed warning. Gratitude shows in many forms and to retake the boorish act, to make it personal between husband and wife seemed a mightier want than anything. 

For there is no real fealty to pledge to, only faith between. And neither to each other, but to a country filled with expectations of it’s newly bound rulers. She will abide by it, feeling the quake of his wrist in her hold. Digits tremble with each peppered peck she gives before the final is left at the center of his palm.

The very palm that held a blade which struck down an Archdemon. The very palm that saved her and her own. And the moment that she swore to choke down the bile that rose at the prospect of him and learn to more than just tolerate.

And when she moves to take back her mouth, her arm, and her fingers he stops her. She had denied him once the lace of hands before, earlier in their union, but he seemed far more adamant in the aftermath of her gesture. Entwined their fingers become and the woman blessed with a Maker given rule swears under her breath at the warmth of it all.

Perhaps this marriage had not been the worst thing to have happened. 

[valoroun]

Malapert: Varric and Hawke

malapert: clever in manners of speech

He likes the way her tongue works. Not like that. Well, sometimes but at this current moment; private affairs were not at the forefront of his mind. Instead the way she chides and chuckles through her conversations seems to seep into his brain, a fuddling amazement that oozes over the many drinks and card games had. She’s too busy talking to pay much mind to him watching her, chin in hand, and smirk lazily creeping against broad features.

He barely notices, but he does notice the way her fingers move against the face cards not so subtly pressed against her breasts ( beautiful as they might be, no such voluptuous manner would distract him from the gambit about to be played ). She’s too distracting to others – too vibrant and bolstering against what could very well be divine manifestation. There’s nothing like a god-complex to bring the best out in a woman, especially one so sly at playing cards that Isabela would be proud. And a little annoyed that her coin was gone.

She purrs, lips pursing into a wicked, wry sort of grin. The one that makes him feel all fluttery in his chest. But the look isn’t for him and he ignores the pang jealousy twinging in his heart, washing it away the moment her voice demands their playing-opponent up his ante. Vibrant hues focus on the way lips move, parted tiers plush with carmine tint, and he can only imagine that the other is just as vexed as he is.

He’s already lost his coin. All of this is just for fun now.

It doesn’t take much, a woeful girlish sigh, slumped shoulders, and a softer plea of poor decisions past in gambling for the other to take the bait. He would laugh aloud would it not ruin her chances of a clean sweep. Though when the poor sod walks away, defeated, cursing bitter tidings beneath his breath is when the dwarven rogue lets out a chuckle.

          “ Going easy isn’t in your nature.”

An arched brow and dimpled cheeks greet him, fingers scurrying to pack in coin from the table. How much gold had she won exactly? Idle murmuring filters with delectation and it snaps his attention back,

          “ I would have thought you’d notice that by now. “

          “       Oh, believe me, I have,” he chuckles, head shaking. Such a truth, if the corpses between them had been any indication ( or the bruises and scratches clawing into his shoulders blades, too ).

         “ Is that a complaint? ”

         “ Hardly. Though I almost feel like I should apologize to him. At least you let him keep his pants unlike the last guy.”

        “ You were the last guy, if I recall correctly. “

        “ And I still miss those pants.”

She quips back faster than he expects, throwing a normally practiced charmer off his guard.

       " I didn't hear any protesting from you at the time."

It gives him pause, the gentler memory that beckons forth from the teasing word. And how hyper-aware he becomes of the warmth that presses against his shoulder and the lips now against his ear, urging forth shudders to claw along his skin. He could listen to her hum and speak the day's long, a better spinner of his heart and other... areas than he could ever be at tales.  

He turns to greet her, smirking in the low light of a seedy tavern. His nose brushes against her's and he swears he can hear the faintest hitch of breath sucking through those damnable tiers. 

       " No. No you certainly did not. "

It's confirmed in that split moment. It's not just like -- he loves the way her tongue works. 

[valoroun]

(◡‿◡✿) anora teaching alistair to dance. 

(ʘ‿ʘ✿)  and alistair constantly stepping on her toes.

[valoroun]

❤ yodels into ur ask

kiss me 

Expectation holds her tight, beyond the point of breaking free and yet she heralds it with little regard or care. What the Court demands of her is blatant affection in the face of a people's pressure for a happy kingdom; their lives far too invested in that of her and her prince-consort's. If she were even to so boldly declare they had a life together outside of the fortuitous political arrangement.

Yet expectation does not explain the knot in her chest, a worming sickness that gurgles in the back of her throat and tosses a stomach steeled even for the most garish of situations. It does nothing to aid the writhe of her hands or the heat upon apple-cheeks. Or how aware she's become of his hand settling against the small of her back during dinners and parties. A blooming heat that sinks into her spine and recollects sweeter tidings behind her eyelids.

Expectation does nothing but makes her hate him a little bit more every day.

So she takes it upon herself, to act without prying eyes or echoing whispers -- a pressure completely forgone when she approaches him, buried in missives and legislation. Mayhaps if she indulges herself even slightly then whatever the ache that thunders in her chest will leave.  

Light flickers in licks and lashes across weary features. Enough to entice her to drag the backs of her fingers against his temple, garnering attention in suspicious shock. It's when she leans, bowing a proud head to him, that her lungs pull tight with suffocation -- the air already knocked from them. There is no show to put on, no measure of man and wife or king and queen in her actions and yet she still presses her lips to his, if only for a moment. He tastes of warm wine and parchment, the dryness to his mouth far more enticing than it should be ( if only to wet his lips along hers. What a damnable thought ).  

Fingers card through his hair when she pulls back, staggering herself mentally if by personal shock. Her own experiment had failed and vigorously so. She pulls back, hyper-aware of the staggering beat of her heart and the sinking pit of her stomach. Her limbs lighter than they should be and temperature. rising, 'lo not from a fever.

Her nose crinkles and Anora finds her voice, though not to reason her actions. Explaining would only beget answers she did not feel like hearing. He did not need that satisfaction.

       " I only wanted to wish you a good night, Balfour Cousland.                                                     So then, good night.  "

Expectations always lead to ramifications. 

[valoroun]

❤ tbh

kiss me

        " You're slouching, and you know            how the Orlesians hate bad posture.  "

Her voice breaks into a whisper, as if not to startle him. Hands that normally neatly clasp in a prim lap now flutter about, straightening and fussing at collar and coat. He is not made for this, she knows, but must hold his obligations all the same. Her careful inspection of him before their necessary appearances is hardly harsh. If anything, she looks upon him with a softer sadness in pale irises -- she refuses to treat him as a child, knuckles bending and palms retreating before moving to slick back wayward tresses along his brow.

Half a mess and all the nerves to go along with it, she balks. The way he holds himself is unlike her late-husband and hardly the memory of his father.  It's genuine. How broad do his shoulders look in armor, quivering beneath the weight of a gilded decree shrugged none too lightly from divine right. Had this been the look of honesty she had forgotten some time ago -- that two-fold concern for his sense of self, only doubling on what his words might mean later on in the night for the future of their kingdom?

First appearances in leading Court were never particularly easy.

Yet her lips twitch ever slightly at the knotted brow image of him, snickering laughter pooling in her throat. A hand moves to clasp the side of a grimacing face, thumb brushing against a high cheekbone. She hopes to reassure him, after all her hen-pecking. Her Father had always called her too cold-hearted when it came to men, too stern and unyielding -- perhaps it morphed into a boon for Alistair that she remained stalwart, though soft in places.  Or perhaps he had been the one to make her waver.  

She catches a sigh along her tongue, breath slipping heavily past before she arches to meet his height. Chaste is the touch of her mouth along the side of his -- something that is barely there, a motive of affection that she daren't express. There were lines that had not yet been crossed between them and she would shirk at the idea ( for his sake, of course ). Her lips linger, nose brushing against his own before slipping back down.

        " There. You look the part, now here's hoping            they believe it. Though... I do believe you'll do           just fine, wobbly stance and all.  "

[gavefarmore]

[ valoroun ]

[gavefarmore]

           ”It would benefit you greatly to help with this… expedition,” says the dwarf, offering all the respect that he can manage to a queen such as she. Anora Mac Tir. A ruler with more sense than the last, and no doubt one that will be able to help him find what lies beyond the reaches of Thedas.

               ”Think of what you could gain, being the Queen that helped to find what other have only dreamed of.” Though, Ragnar is certain it will be him recorded in the history of the known world, and not her.

[valoroun]

T'is not oft that many are so brazen to approach the sanctum of rule from which she presides. A lion's den of garish record, built upon a damnable legacy of her Father's boon and late-husband. Her interests, however, only extend so far and she is not so foolhardy to regard the dwarf before the Court with much accord. He speaks softly of an expedition, with a grin wry and impish demeanor. Honesty, she imagines, is not the stronger of his suits.  

        " Do explain. All you have offered thus far is           possibilities, not certainties. I do not deal in fanciful           wants ; not when my people and men are being used. "

Her tongue clucks against the roof of her mouth, expectation of reason from him hopefully coming forthright. Gaining gold for the Kingdom had been somewhat a heralding task, though reputation suited her fine. Glory was not her own nor did she care for it. But if what he spoke of suited her reign and subjects, then so be it. 

[herorecipe-blog]

And wars won or lost were attributed to the greatness or lack thereof in specific men, rather than every soldier to raise her blade in defense of home. It was almost as if one could not trust anything beyond her own five senses. Had she not needed something of the Queen, Hawke would have balked: first at heroes and second at past age. Though she detested even the thought (positions through merit, not blood or divine rule. A crown no better than the gold made to cast it, and the hands who bend it), the Champion held her tongue, waving down the off-guard herald babbling out her titles, and played her ace.  

            “ The Warden spoke well of you. ‘She won’t just let you in, Anora.                 Even you will fight for the right to get a word in, Champion.’ I                have no more goal here than to present a letter from a father to                his daughter (though admittedly it is nice to not be out in this                squall). Will you take receipt of it? “

[valoroun]

It had been odd to hear anything regarding the forlorn patriarch of her family, specifically from a stranger that nary any contact had been made prior. What had been stranger was that her Father deigned to speak of her at all ( his blood, a prouder born lady far more wild than noble in youth ), let alone kindly. And it is her guard that relaxes at the sudden quip and purposeful announcement -- the Champion did not balk to her, not like the others, a force of reckoning beneath the Maker. Anora found that strangely refreshing, though a brow lifted in amused speculation.

          " A missive from my Father? He has not written before,             though the surprise is not entirely unpleasant. Yet this             means, you have seen him, Champion. Sate a daughter's             curiosity -- how does he fare? He was rather appalled at             the idea of becoming a Warden.  "

[valoroun]

Do you actually ship Alistair and Anora?

monarch ; far more than i ship calian/anora or anora/court meetings . but it's actually something that i've recently come to appreciate... which is odd for me --

alistair as a person would be so good for her. just to get her to smile, to laugh, to touch, to love, and to move beyond the expected ideals of being royalty because he doesn't know the first thing. alistair would respect her in ways that calian never did, knowing her worth is outside being his wife, his queen. he would treat her as his equal, not as a creature to bare him heirs.

i love slow building pairs. certainly they wouldn't be in adoration of one another to start but as time progressed, their relationship would become more about enjoying each other's company rather than tolerating. spending nights together, not for the sake of "doing their duty as man and wife" but rather just simply sitting together, chatting idly. it's when alistair would notice that anora has a beautiful smile when she laughs and a surprisingly crass sense of humor. it's when anora finally notices that alistair can hold an intelligent conversation and regards his duties as king with an appropriate respect.

they would be more emotional than physical.  they would be more heart-felt than spur of the moment. they would trust and be loyal feverishly once they bonded. alistair and anora are not so different when you break them down, they were just raised differently though their values are much the same. would they be physical with one another? perhaps, in due time, tentative kisses and laced fingers. hands upon her hips and digits grazing his jaw stubble.  

like don't touch me okay, i've thought about this too much. 

[valoroun]

ツ

ツ - make my muse laugh/smile

She is shockingly simple to please, at least when the time calls for it. Out of place gestures, whether it be kindness or jokes do not fit her mood nor will garner an appropriate reaction. She appreciates a sense of timing, not the slight jab at the end of a tense argument or dealings with her Court. Something soft and slight in private moments is the best time to get her to smile full or laugh even just a little.

She believes in keeping appearances amongst the throng of individuals constantly watching for her to stumble or fall, so she will not even give them the slightest hint that she is not serious in her duty. It does not mean she doesn't enjoy a good joke or even the mention of care, but she would rather it take place when prying eyes are not scrutinizing her ( especially in the aftermath of the Blight. Her Father did nothing to bolster the family name, truly ).  

However, finding an individual funny/amusing would take sometime, especially in the process of getting to know them. Little things, clumsy motions or stuttering speech would make her grin ever slightly, at least until the witty retort gave forth to a chuckle. Once she finds comfort and familiarity in a person, they are more likely to make her laugh with stupid attempts and make her smile with merely existing.

[valoroun]

✎

✎ - negotiate with my muse

Coming from a house that heralds it’s history in more action rather than conversation, Anora abides by her Father’s sense. She prefers to see the fruits of labor and aftershocks of a promise rather than just mere words. If someone can garner reasonable results and within a timely manner, she may agree to whatever the demands may be.  She is with sense and is incredibly pragmatic. It is far easier to gain a favor and fortune form the Mac Tir family by already acting without expecting — it makes her more pliable and sensible to a want.  Show, don’t tell. 

Dodging one’s way and playing sweet words with her is not the way to get her to listen nor respect you. A straight-forward approach is always the best, with a plan already laid out ; how each party benefits, how each party loses, and most importantly — how does it help her and her people becomes the most primary and pure focus of each negotiation.  

She responds better to those that speak plainly, not just as what was previously mentioned, but those without reserve ; as a soldier may speak to a general. While she is regal and has a divine birthright, only by marriage seemingly so, she prefers common tongue and does not think her above the men who fight in her army nor the individuals that work the field. They are her people and she is their Queen — when it comes to deliberation, consideration of her “lessers” whether in mention or in speech is always preferable over that of a pompous over powdered noble. 

[redemptior]

He thought he had outgrown the boyish blush that so readily rises to his cheeks, encompassing them in something warm and nice. To the best of his ability, he attempts to hide the color behind his pauldrons; armor, which proved to be as useful in protecting a sight of the heat in his face, as making him look incredibly ridiculous.

The Queen speaks with ease, a subtle kind of dialogue, wrought with hints of wit. It is a pattern which Cullen should be used to now, surrounded by the company that he is.

The Inquisition has done wonders for his ability to ‘communicate’ and ‘understand social cues’; though he thought his aptitude in such was already impeccable. As it so happens, templar humor, things of that ilk, they do not so easily translate into other plains, and more often than not, Cullen finds himself missing the joke, of which, he had the distinct pleasure of being the butt of.

Anora speaks plainly, though, a kind of speech that he does not struggle to understand, as so often is the case.

                            “Of course.”

He finally obliges, nodding as her slender fingers glide across his rerebrace.

He feels the soft tapping of them against the metal shell, and for a moment allows his mind to wander; wondering how it might feel if such protective layers were not a hindrance.

                           "I do apologize for my       speech, Anora. I haven’t                             much training in dealing with royalty; it is only my                             wish to properly serve as an ambassador for the                             Inquisition. Unfortunately, my nerves are better                             suited for battle than for banter.”

[valoroun]

Hints of vibrant tint dons cheeks of scarred and sunkissed splendor and it does give way to a wry tilt of tiers upon inspection. He is not nary so subtle as one might think, though she misses just barely. There is no mention to make of it, nothing that would not further the carmine grace filtering delicately across a handsome visage. She knows better, certainly, to avert her gaze far more focused now on the crawling chill of her wrist against paladin armor. If anything, such an action comes as a boon -- to hide her own gracing fluster painting sweetly against the proud bridge of her nose.

To make a queen feel like a girl? How utterly foolish and simple a task it did seem. And yet she found him far more cordial than most of the men and women who slunk amongst her halls, bickering and scathing words of intent and praise. Men of her Father's stock -- warriors and countrymen loyal to their home always found refuge in her thoughts, more than powdered political interlopers.

She was bred to be bold, to never shirk in the light of something she wanted. What lessons served her now, she could not tell though she could hear the chortle of her Father in the back of her mind.

          "                       You are rather fit for the purpose of it all.             The Inquisition owes a good deal favor to you and yours,             it would seem. After all, the vanguard of their forces are             seemingly due in large part of their Commander's stalwart             nature.   "

The crook of her arm settles against him, fingers skirting the evident line of where bracer meets gauntlet. His wrist would lie beneath, a pulse to flutter and fetch a fair maiden's wonder she muses. It's all in tame thought, her head cocking upward finally to drink in the sight of a strong jaw and warm hues.

          " There is much credit you are due, Cullen.             And you do not provide yourself nearly enough.             Nerves or not, the banter is not nearly as important.             Some will judge you by your conversation, certainly but             others have learned that actions and skill provide more             than any words ever could.  "

The Queen pauses, tongue clucking against the inside of her small mouth.

          " When this is over. Do you have plans to stay within              the Inquisition? Or am I far too bold to wonder. "

[vonspe]

drawing isn’t working out for me today

[valoroun]

( herorecipe )

Legends were simply spun stories that begged for a touch of flair, dipping in embellishment no more than a noble's gown. She harbored them not within her breast nor gave them much heed -- even in the presence of one ; born of measly boon only to solidified herself in glory. What transpired in Kirkwall had not gone unnoticed by the Queen ( or anyone for that matter ).

         " How is it that nearly all the heroes of the past age             have been of Ferelden stock? Not that I find it appalling             -- on the contrary. It's merely a curiosity. Much like the one            of Champion of Kirkwall barging into my Court uninvited ;            this must be some emergency indeed. "

[valoroun]

( canutum )

          " You may find I do not share the excitement my             husband does when it comes to your ranks, Ser Duncan.             That being said, why are you here? Clearly there is not             posturing to be held without Calian present. "