makerbound

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♛ fill in the blanks | fluff otp edition

Cassandra & Margaux Hawke

Who’s more likely to find who wearing their clothes?: Cassandra finds Hawke trying on her leather-padded armor once. It doesn’t fit. She’s too small. She looks ridiculous, and Cassandra laughs. Hawke laughs. 

Who initiates hand holding?: They both do; Hawke tends to do it more frequently, especially in public places.

Who likes having their hair washed by who?: Cassandra is a sucker for getting her hair washed. (Reminder that my Cassandra wears her hair long.)

Who likes to slow dance?: Definitely not Cassandra…unless in private. In private, it’s fine, but not where people are watching, Maker forbid.

Muse that’s more likely to fall asleep with their head in the others lap?: Hawke. Cassandra can’t fall asleep on other people; part of her would always stay on alert because she expects them to move. 

Muse that does all the cuddling in a blanket fort?: Hawke…

Who hogs most of the covers at night?: Hawke…if at all. Cassandra might notice but doesn’t care much, unless it’s a really cold night.

Muse who nuzzles the others shoulder to get them to give them a head rub?: Hawke. 

How do they share a desert? Two forks or one?: Whatever’s available; if there’s two forks on the table, then they use them, if there’s only one, then they share. If there’s none, then that’s fine too. 

Who gets jealous more easily?: Neither of them are the jealous type. They’ve seen too much of the world for that, or at least that’s Cassandra’s line of reasoning.

Who gets angered more easily?: Cassandra, but hoo boy, once Hawke’s reached her boiling point, you don’t want to mess with her. Cassandra learnt that early on because their first interactions where beyond tense. 

How do they go to sleep at night?: Independent of each other, usually, although they both try and stay awake until the other joins them.

Who gets the most shoulder rubs?: Cassandra; blame the armor.

What are there arguments/fights like? How often do they fight?: It’s rarely full-blown fights and more like bickering, teasing, maybe a day of tension.

Who is more likely to throw things in fights?: Probably Hawke.

How do they make it up to each other/apologize after an argument?: Cassandra isn’t the best with apologies, so she’ll try to say it without words: be extra attentive, leave little gifts for Hawke to find, stuff like that. 

Do they have nicknames for each other?: Cassandra sometimes calls her Margaux in private. It’s so rare it almost counts as a nickname, and it does feel intimate somehow.

Caring for each other while ill, how does the other muse go about it?: Extra attention, little gifts, shoulder rubs.

Who’s more likely to be patching the others wound?: Battle basics: Don’t go out without a healer mage. 

Muse that says ‘I told you so’, after they come home from the beach and other muse is burnt to a crisp while whining how bad it hurts for not listening and putting on sunblock after the other muse repeatedly told them they’d get burnt?: Cassandra.

Your otp has a newborn baby, who gets up in the middle of the night when he/she cries?: Cassandra would probably fret more, but that’s a hypothetical question; given her age and time-consuming work, she would be reluctant to take in a newborn baby to care for.

Your muse’s of the otp reaction to finding the others crying about something? And how do they make them feel better?: She asks what’s wrong, wants a full description and explanation, and then offers unsolicited advice until Hawke tells her to shut up. 

What would they be like as parents?: Easy, doting, with clearly distinct roles: Hawke would be the jokester mom, the one a child would do mischief with or come to first to fess up when they need to. Cassandra is the stricter one, which also makes her the one the children would reach out to when they’re in need of reassurance. 

What would they have been like as childhood sweethearts?: Probably not much different than now; although a lot of things have changed in Cassandra’s life, her approach to romance and love haven’t.

Who initiates taking a bath together?: Hawke.

Who likes who playing with their hair?: Hawke, probably – Cassandra lets her braid it when she wants to.

The place they mostly likely accidentally fall asleep together?: The Skyhold bannister when they’re sitting up there, leaning against them to watch the sky and talk about every random thing they can think of.

meme tagged: @archontem  tagging: whoever reads this, feel free to tag me to see your post! uvu

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(…) I want, in the hushed moments when the nameless draws near, to be among the wise ones— or alone.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book Of A Monastic Life: I, 13 in “Rilke’s Book Of Hours: Love Poems To God” [translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy]

[und ich] will in stillen, irgendwie zögernden Zeiten, wenn etwas naht, unter den Wissenden sein oder allein.

(via adrasteiax)

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Takato Yamamoto | Amakusa Shirō Tokisada depicted in the Shimabara Rebellion | “Divertimento for a Martyr”

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                                                                     ( credit. ♥ )

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Words cannot express how much I *don’t care* if you can’t answer an ask/meme that I sent. Dude, it’s ok. Don’t stress, delete it if you can’t think of something. EVEN IF we are long-term partners or shipmates. It’s ALL GOOD.

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Walter Draesner

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ecelsaati:

“Hi.” A tiny voice as it was overshadowed with her motions to follow her along. Mehmet hesitated slightly, but the childish curiosity forced his feet to not remain idle for too much longer ( add in the fear of being left alone with a corpse that might move any second now ) and the child was quick to hurry after the other. For it being his first time within the depths of this cavernous place, the anxious feeling of dread was a cold hand wrapped around his heart in this moment. No matter how close or far the girl was or if her voice rang out louder than the singing and guttural moaning that had once been so clear to him. 

The question did well to force his mind from a pit of darkness it threatened to push him into as he thought of the various spirits that could be watching him at all times. He knew that his father spoke of their own family crypt somewhere within this darkened city, thus his eyes flicked from the floor where he stepped to the walls hoping to see some sort of indication where the rest of his family would be situated. Would the spirits come when an ancestor walks through into their rooms for life after death? 

Dragons though… a pleasant thought. “The Gam… Gamordan Stormrider.” A tongue twister of a name. “It kills you with lightening! It’s the best dragon there is.”

Yet thoughts of dragons were but fleeting in a place like this. Voice quieted as the singing once again became louder the more the girl pushed open the door with apparent difficultly. He almost stepped forward to help before she finally had one of the doors swinging open to relieve an even larger crypt than the one they met within at first. Mehmet was in awe as he stepped forth, eyes flicking around the room: at the Mortalitasi, the riches, and then the ruler himself upon his throne in his celebrated death. What brought his face to scrunch up as he glanced back at Cassandra and, in a quiet whisper, spoke. “He’s no giant.”

"The Gamordan– oh.” 

“Tony says it’s Orlesian, so he won’t bother with it.” 

Tony also said that he would one day bring home the crowned glory of a Vinsomer’s horns, but at that, she merely laughed. He was only four years older than her and yes, she knew he was good (she wanted to be just as good one day!) but he wasn’t that good yet. So she teased him and he huffed, and she laughed, and he grinned. Those were good days, when Tony was around for long enough to jest with. He was around less and less often though, and so she had to find her own ways of keeping entertained –– like playing guide to a little boy her own age but twice as much in awe of the place she’d walked in and out more often than she could count.

His comment made her scoff. Thankfully, the hall was wide and vast enough for the sound to be drowned by both the cavernous depths and the steady low chanting of the mage-priests. “No. I think he looks quite shrunk up there.” Perhaps it was the size of the room that did it. Poor Caspar the Magnificent, to be reduced to such trivialities in the eyes of these children. It was a good thing the Vinsomer was still on his little descendant’s mind.

“D’you know how he defeated that last Vinsomer he slayed?” She nodded up to the golden-crowned corpse on its throne. 

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hey yall @thedraisms is the reason why i might bring this lil nugget back on a side blog or smth

I don’t think I’ve ever shown you folks my Inquisitor, so here she is: Meet Samahlris Lavellan, whose name translates into ‘little laughter’ and who has been raised as her clan’s First before falling into the mess that is the Inquisition. In addition to her vallas’lin, her lips have been inked in the ancient tradition of her clan: a Keeper and a First’s job is the transmission of knowledge and storytelling, so the mouth is their tool more than anything else. The tattoo ceremony is considered a blessing ritual. Sam’s lips were inked a faded shade of brown. She is a fire mage specialising in rift magic, which Solas aka @fadedforthem gives her extra practice in. 

It’s difficult to predict her behaviour and decisions; she’s rather impulsive and inexperienced, due to her youth, and often feels overwhelmed with the whole Herald thing – which she doesn’t quite believe in, at least not the way the Lady Pentaghast would prefer her to do. That she’s an ambassador of the human god? Nah. Can’t be. She knows little of human politics and social developments, but once Fiona’s reached out to her in Val Royaux, she’s adamant to aid the mages against what she perceives as ‘a mass of ignorant fools leashed to their fear of what they cannot understand’. 

Solas’ betrayal hits her hard, since he’s the one she’s been closest to in the Inquisition. With her mentor figure turned renegade, Sam feels pretty disillusioned at the end of Trespasser, and decides to disband the Inquisition. 

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LEND ME TEN THOUSAND EYES, and I will fill them with prophetic tears. (x)

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mercysought:

   “My tone was more than fine.” if anything, it had been more than respectful, more than she would give to most. The elf did not agree with the other’s beliefs, she thought them misguided at best but that did not mean that she could not respect them. She could, but respect only bent so far if the other was so willing to make her question out to be a personal attack. If the priestess wished to hurt her, to attack her and use her memories against her, her own magic being geared towards it, she would have done so. They would not have been having that  conversation “A simple question should not have scared you so and yet here you are shaking like a young girl that just got out of a lake after falling in it in the middle of winter.“

“It is pathetic, but I don’t need to say that. You already know it yourself. When you come to grips with it, maybe we’ll talk then. Perhaps you will be able to learn from my mistakes and not do them yourself.“ she gets up, grabbing what was left of her food carefully. Black eyes lift again to focus on her. And she had been that child, the child that had burnt herself while shouting at the sky saying that she would be different only to be consumed due to it “Until then you can scream and shout like a scared child, the end result will not change.”

“Leave.” 

It was as superfluous a statement as a denial would be––but wisdom prevailed. She bit it back. Or, perhaps, it was sheer luck that she was too stunned to formulate coherent words for the shaking anger in her muscles. 

The Priestess was already leaving, had already turned her back, and Cassandra stared darkly at the curvature of her spine before she turned too – shaking like a young girl – and stomped away. 

There was nothing left to say.

(There was everything left to deny: She was not a quivering young mess of a woman. She was not a petulant little thing. She was not, she was not, she was not.) 

[makerbound]

Also, on the subject of this, I’ve decided to use Mich.elle Ye.oh as my go-to fc for Byron until a Byron blog actually pops up to write with.

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my day today has consisted of studying and staring at this gifset realizing i’m gay for cass.andra pent.aghast’s throat

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mercysought:

   “Neither are mine.” she snaps back with her eyes narrow, hands still one on top of the other. Black eyes narrow at the other, the child had had someone poke at their open wound. What did she know about the priestess and her mission? About the pains that came from carrying the world with such brittle bones and so many scars in one’s hands? What did she know about failing her people? Her charge had died yes but there were still plenty of humans around weren’t there? Her nation still flourished even if it was by someone that did not deserve to seat upon the throne. She thought she knew failure’s taste? Felt it in her throat?

Failure was all that the priestess had tasted for years, failure and disappointment. Delusion. To watch humans and all together anything other than elves touch the stones that once housed her people? To have her religion destroy all that remained of Elvhennan when they fled South. How could she not want to tear her own tongue out just so she could not taste that sadness any longer? “If I so chose to become an island, let it be so. Do not patronize or question me and my choices for I do not have the patience that the rest of the inner circle seems to have when it comes to this.“

The priestess leans forward, shoulders hunched as her jaw locks “And do not dare to say that you wouldn’t have the same reaction that I’m having if I’d approached you and said the same.“ 

Silence finally falls but the priestess�� gaze does not stray from the seeker. If nothing else, the priestess would have expected that the seeker would have gotten up and left without an answer if their roles were reversed. Because she was human and she did not owe an elf anything and what harm came from it? But when an elf dared to bite back? Suddenly private affairs were no one else’s business. Of course, elves no longer had the right to own anything in this world, not even their own lives.

   “It is not so fun when it is another that is poking and prodding, is it Seeker?”

A shield, a shield to hold up even between their faces if need be: “I was being polite! It’s your tone that is off!” She could not, would not bend her back for this lonesome woman before her. 

THIS LONESOME WOMAN.

There were others who could do so; she thought she had no responsibilities in that regard. Maker’s breath, she had protested the woman from the moment she’d stepped through Skyhold’s gates. 

THESE TRUTHS, THE MAKER HAS REVEALED TO ME.

Of course she had too much of Falon’Din’s priestess inside herself. Of course she refused to let the thought touch her, let her ensnare her. It would do so at an appropriate time. It would do so when she was alone. 

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mercysought:

Black, intense eyes narrow further at the half finished sentences. 

And suddenly the image of a seasoned, veteran warrior gave way to that of a lost, flustered child. The priestess simply watches as the silence extends and how the other’s eyes seem to stray, how her cheeks turned from the bright red of someone that had been caught unaware, dark eyes going from confusion into a deeper darkness that one could not pass through unless blood dropped on the floor. From confusion fury is born as one’s mind returns to reality. Black, old eyes glance down at her fists seeing how the leather gloves’ seams threatened to burst it was clear that she had hit a nerve with her question.

Her assumption confirmed as soon as the human opened her mouth, she could almost see the walls being built in front of her own eyes, reinforced with each short and sharp breath between each word. The priestess’ jaw tightens, watching the woman that had come to her table and lecture her about becoming an island turned into a girl, starting to stomp away with her walls.

The priestess remains as it was, the only thing moving being her eyes, accompanying the shape as she moved away. Behind closed mouth and sharp teeth, her tongue sliding and feeling their sharpness. A small, sharp smile forming on her lips before the neutral expression is allowed to return.

   “Never thought you one to run away from confrontation, Seeker.” 

A pause as her head tilts up, looking directly into the back of the human’s head.

   “I guess I was wrong.”

It was enough to whip her around on her heels.

 A heartbeat. She turned. She was back in the Priestess’ face. A heartbeat. 

“Confrontation?” Cassandra hated the way her voice went when she was distressed, hated it all the more since it showed so clearly: she carried her heart on her tongue, Byron’d always said, and she’d always been right in this regard. Like in so many other things. Cassandra wore her heart on her tongue, and she was fine with hiding it as long as she kept her mouth shut, but there was no shutting it now. There was no stopping it now. And she hated it. “My private affairs are not up for confrontation.” 

There: the words were out, ground exceedingly fine and torturously slow into a simmering mash of resentment. At the Priestess? At herself? 

She buried a girl when she became a woman. She buried a mother when she was barely a girl. 

She would not bury herself in the reflection of this fey elf-woman. 

(Perhaps she would. Perhaps it is what scares her.) 

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IF YOU ARE OKAY WITH ICONLESS ROLEPLAYS REBLOG THIS SO YOUR FOLLOWERS KNOW !!

like as much as i love icons and a good psd, sometimes its just tasking to do. and not everyone has great resources. so if you’re okay with having threads with no icons, please reblog this so that people know you’re okay with it. i feel like roleplayers today are too focused on the aesthetics and won’t follow people who use base icons or even none at all. it’s not about icons, but about the writing !!

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Schloss Schönbrunn, Vienna, Austria