#;ask answered

[theodosiani]

APPROVAL + asking the Caretaker to make sure that Kasaanda doesn't stab any artifacts that might explode the Lighthouse. Or damage the artifact. Or really, just don't let her stab anything except Rook and their companions.

Approval Meme || Accepting || @hoboblaidd

Kasaanda isn't a CHILD she doesn't just stab things for fun. It's absolutely ridiculous that Solas would think so poorly of her self-control that she would do something so careless. She is a trained professional, a former priestess of the Qun, and an agent of Fen'harel she would never do something to interfere with her mission--

But she will listen if the Caretaker asks her to stop juggling her knives in the conservatory.

Kasaanda Disapproves.

[orxna]

"even when things look bleak, i'll keep you safe. you're not alone in this."

Keep You Safe Starters || Accepting || @breathandshadow

"But--But he's gone," Orana cannot remember the last time she cried in the open like this. The great heaving sobs that leave her head spinning and her fingers tingling, as she clutches at the bloodied coat, "Th-They can't both be gone."

She had thought that--She had met Rook and they spoke of Varric as if--

But all that's here is Bianca shattered to pieces, the Inquisition's writ, and his coat. She could clean it, she knows how to clean blood from clothing. She'll need lemons and white vinegar but then it won't smell like him anymore. She holds tighter, as if it might disappear otherwise, as if it will be taken from her. Aftershave and ink and the good whiskey he always kept hidden on the highest shelf in Hawke's larder because Hawke and Isabela never expected a dwarf to hide something somewhere tall.

He won't be coming back to loudly lament his retirement as Viscount while Bran grumbles and Orana hides giggles behind her hand. Won't tell her that he's proud when she plays something she learned at the fancy Orlesian music college he paid for her to study at. He won't be there to squeeze her hand softly as Orana sips Hawke's terrible whiskey on the anniversary of when they lost her even though it makes her cough and gag because the stuff smells like Hawke.

Orana is just barely thirty and she has lost her papa, has lost her mama, has lost another father figure, yet another jagged piece of their broken little family ashes on the wind. Every year less of them linger, drifting further from each other without Hawke here to moor them. It hurts, it hurts so much and Orana thinks her chest will cave in with the ache of it. What will she do? How can she face the others when just the thought of it has her breaking down so strongly.

Varric is gone, and Hawke is gone, and she can't breathe.

[devotionbled]

hc + name //hello and happy to see you here!

Send me hc + a word for meta to be forged || ACCEPTING.

She does not know her name. It is forgotten to time: a mother laboured to abandon a babe to the inferno, duty forgotten.

JOTE, it is the name she was given--a pleasant name stolen from a deceased member of the Undying. They say the one that came before her, was a man. He was the Keeper of Lore, all hidden in the Order's secrecy. He held no violence in ink-stained hands. They say he was a better person than she is: less hungry, less starved, no torment in spirited worship.

The Undying have the tendency to reuse names within the cult, their belief in reincarnation leading to the practice of stolen names for a new title to be forged, once a soul passes. She is the tenth Jote woven in the Undying's blanket of history and the first to hold the sacred position of the Phoenix's attendant and shadow.

They say she holds the same eyes as the first Jote, the first Priestess of Flames; and she was aptly named and the position she holds--is right.

Her name will be passed on once death claims her.

[lakecountylibrary]

LIBRARY WRAPPED

You checked out... probably some stuff? Thanks for doing that :)

Used our wifi maybe? For something?

Look we actually don't know what genres you read or how many times you renewed Gender Queer.

We don't want to know.

Our gift to you is privacy.

Take it.

Be free.

[fox-bright]

hi any life advice for 21yo

Don't date thirty-year-olds until you are at least 25.

Having a glass of water for every glass of alcohol will give you a 50% reduction in hangover viciousness.

Bad people will use your willingness to be quiet as a weapon against you. If someone's being awful to you and trusting you'll be quiet to keep from making waves, surprise them.

There is no physical object in the world that is worth as much as your honor.

Honor is not the same as dignity. Retaining one sometimes means leaving the other aside.

Don't have any sex you don't want to have; have as much as you want of the sex that you do, whether that's a lot, a little, or none at all. Nothing you can do to your own body is immoral, unless you're doing it as an act of self-punishment.

Food is morally neutral. You do not have to earn the right to eat calories. Fat and sugar keep your brain from eating itself.

Learning to sit still and breathe--in, in, in, hold, hold, hold, out, out, out, out, out, out--can give you five feet of clear space around yourself in a maelstrom.

Find out how to make three good meals: A comfort meal you can make for just yourself relatively easily, a fancy meal you can use to wow a date, and a meal you can feed a bunch of people. All the other cooking can come later, but you can build a community on those three meals.

If you ever get to the point that things are so bleak you can see no other way forward but to die, make any other choice. If that means leaving everything you own and being a beach bum, or quitting your career, or taking up or leaving a religion, or deciding to bicycle across the country, so be it; living means more chances, dying means everything stops and you don't get to see any more interesting things. As you have not yet seen all the things that can interest you, it is better to live.

[problemnyatic]

when will we talk about the willful helplessness epidemic on here. So many people on this god forsaken website demand to have any and all things that exist outside their personal experiences directly, personally pre-chewed and spoonfed to them. And when you do, they'll then ask for you to swallow for them, too, because, you see, in THEIR experience..,

[bamsara]

as soon as the disorders stop disordering and the disability stops debilitating I will be so unstoppable powerful forever

[yamujiburo]

clothes shopping!

[evilwizard]

what is the difference between a witch and a wizard

wizards are mathematicians and physicists. witches are chemists and biologists

[bixels]

Baffled.

[marvelsmostwanted]

Joe Biden, coherently and normally: I have three issues to speak about. First, the NATO conference went well. Second, the economy is back on track and inflation is down. Third, my proposal for a ceasefire in Gaza is moving forward. Any questions?

The media: Did You Know That You Are Old

[theodosiani]

you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

Salt and Vinegar Opinions || Accepting || @fatedvoyage

Cullen gave me The Ick when I was 14 and I have Never Recovered. Like I cannot quite describe how Viscerally Upset his one scene explaining to a female mage how he would have been sorry if he had to kill them as if he was telling an embarrassing secret to his crush and not relating a Deeply Fucked Up aspect of indoctrination on both their parts. I REALLY wish it was addressed in game a Liiiittle more.

Like I have written with some Incredible Cullens in the 12ish years I’ve been in the darpc but him in canon? I’m tired of this guy. What an individual writer with an intense love for him and willingness to actually confront the Incredibly dark aspects of his character that canon sort of scooped from him in Inquisition is just so much more interesting to me.

[orxna]

❛ You have as much claim to grief as anyone. ❜

House of the Dragon Meme || Accepting || @theharellan

“Don’t you say that—You don’t get to tell me that.” Orana’s voice cracks, a choking sob she can’t suppress even with years of practice. Her hands shake, it isn’t grief—Or it is but it churns with an emotion so unfamiliar.

Angry.

She’s so angry.

“Hawke because of your orb, Varric because of your dagger,” She trembles with it, choking in her throat with every word pushed through irate tears. She cannot recall ever feeling like this before, it isn’t fair. Life has never been fair but this is cruel. That he can comfort her and it rattles her heart just as much as it settles her, “Why do all of your accidents steal my family?”

Why can she be filled with such impotent rage but not hate him? This should push her to hate, but she can see the regret in the corners of his eyes. Can see the way his hand twitches unsure if a comforting hand is welcome. She wants to scream because it is, she wants to beat her hands against his chest just as surely as she wants to be engulfed in the comfort of someone familiar, someone alive.

Anger and love and hate and grief tangle and she’s so tired. She’s been tired for so long. She moves, arms lifted and for a moment it seems she might strike him. Instead she falls into his chest, gasping through tears. The young woman’s hands grasp the fabric of his tunic as if they are a life raft to the drowning. Her head tilts, her ear laying over his heart where she can just barely hear it beat over the sounds of her own weeping.

[devotionbled]

"Cherish your life. Your life."

Saw Prompts. || Accepting.

The Hideaway is a burial site, a fucking grave.

It is the resting place for comprehension. It is among the rolling halls, greenery’s abuse of man’s creation; Jote finds grief. To be left behind, to be lost; she thinks she has died && this forsaken place singing of hope, is foreign.

A petite body curls in on itself, boards shuddering beneath the steps of training / battle learnt, in the loving arms of benign hurt. She does not need to study the war of bones. She knows it well, the parry && the strikes of silvery blades, the wood of training swords.

The cursebreakers dance to the song of weary pain, adrenaline soaring to feast on pretend death.

The lamps are placid as dawn arises, light ebbing then flowing when newborn winds sink into nothingness. It is a sick reminder of loss. Liberty is a paradox, one she scarce believes. Jote’s body hunches over && her corpse disobeys her, nerves on fire—not the way she likes it, belly searing from flames. Training has ravished a body in exhaustion, but still, she defies.

You do not parry properly.

Strike fast.

Deflect.

The enemy does not care that you are tired.

Appearances deceive. Sometimes those with strength linger with a body small. Do not let me make my mark.

Demand after demand she howls, in reach of the taste of iron. Bloody regret seeps && she still seeks holy enervation. Pain flowers, nerves groaning in protest to wood shattering against ribs. She waltzes back; gaze foul. A sweep of the leg && her training partner falls.

Perspiration trawls for bare flesh, to pour. Jote lifts a palm, to sweep away the slickness.

Do you yield?

YES.

A dry swallow && a back turns, barracks to be entered. Timber twirls in a grip, gaze empty—ribs groaning beneath the efforts, bruising sure to crawl across flesh. A gaggle of men && boys linger—

Cherish your life. Your life.

Snatches of conversation && a clever mind latches.

“Miles,” she begins, eyes searching for a brand long seared away; a taller figure. She rolls the name over her tongue. “It’s Miles, is it not? Do you believe in liberation? To cherish one’s life, how is that defined?”

She thinks quietly again, that without creed she is a corpse destined for rot.

[barghest-land]

i scratch you, you scratch me 🤝 a pair of warm and cute Eohippus for this cold winter