#anecdotist

[nobroth]

hey how does alistair feel when he sees the request for inara's marriage cross his desk :3

Random Asks | Always Accepting

He might have mistaken it for something else, if it had not been for the fact that Anora delivered it to him herself.

Anything else.

Marriage petitions were not few in number after the Blight. Many people, it seemed, had either fallen madly in love amidst the death and the fighting, or lost their loves and were rushing to replace them. No one was getting any younger, even he knew. Heirs needed to be born. Life needed to go on.

Anora held her face carefully blank when she came to him that afternoon. It was hot. The sun bathed the smooth black stone around his desk, but he stayed cool there in his chair made for another King with his last name. The window was open, and the breeze made the soft red curtains sway.

He smiled at her when she came in. He always tried to. To train himself.

She didn't smile back. But then, she rarely did.

She laid the paper on his desk with careful fingers and more careful eyes.

"I've already signed. You must as well."

Simple enough instructions.

"Important, is it?" he'd asked with a laugh as he shifted, looking down.

Petition of Marriage. Again, not uncommon. He might have— Until his eyes fell on the word Amaranthine.

Still, it could have been—

Ah.

His mouth was suddenly very dry. He tried to swallow, and had to cough.

In a flash he was staring at her wide-eyed, blue and red and yellow in broken light over her skin. She turned and smiled at him. Her fingers were shaking when they made their vows. He could almost hear—

"Alistair."

He must have been still for a very long time for the Queen to say his name so. Frozen, staring at her name. Her letters had gotten prettier. The movement of ink beneath her pen more certain.

"Is there a problem?"

The words - no, her tone - restarted his heart. In the same way that you could restart a mule to movement with a whip.

"No problem at all."

His hand moved, and the pen tip broke the paper.

Ah. Ink. Right.

Before he could move the pen tip, he had to ask.

"Did you— I mean. Had you heard?"

His heart thundered. He felt dizzy. Ill. Rumors came and went about Inara. The most prolific was about Fergus Cousland. Nobles snickered and jeered. But they quieted when he walked in, coughing and covering their mouths.

But this was... this was no rumor. This was real.

"Does it matter?" Anora asks.

He supposes it doesn't.

His hand moves. Pen in ink. Pen to paper. He signs his name. He blows on it. He smiles at Anora, and the smile falters faster than usual.

She leaves, and she takes it with her. The paper.

He is hollow, in his chair. It feels as if his heart drained into the paper through the pen. He feels his face grow pale, and he slumps back in his seat.

[thanatologie]

@anecdotist - Lucanis' head instinctively turns as he enters Emmrich's rooms, looking at Hezenkoss. Spite curls around his shoulders, raising the hair on the back of his neck as he comments, Smells like. Failure. 

“Volkarin.”  And when that fails to garner the response desired, Johanna mutters under her (metaphorical) breath a moment, words such as useless and annoying and, perhaps most offensive of all, asshole being all that's comprehensive , before continuing, louder this time.  “Volkarin.  The abomination's speaking to me.”

Emmrich doesn't turn from where he's reorganizing a shelf of reagents, carefully putting those that have gone past their shelf life to the side.  “Spite," over his shoulder, as he puts aside some particularly woeful, incredibly desiccated embrium that's better used as mulch at this point.  “Don't provoke Johanna, please.” 

A pause, and he glances up from the shelf, his tone carrying a touch of exasperated and forlorn acceptance.  “I believe that's a trial we could all do without.”

“Why you-”  

“Yes, thank you, Johanna-” His own voice swells in volume, to drown out the description of what, exactly, he exemplifies (not fit for polite company, such as it is), “Illuminating as always.  Hello, Lucanis, I'm sure you're here for something more important-”

He ignores Johanna's loud (and incredibly rude) snort.

“-Than trading barbs with Johanna?”

[palespawn]

from @magistheir: "Please help me understand, the whole... inviting into houses thing. Is it just anyone who can invite you in? Do they have to live there permanently? For how long?"

“ the technicalities of vampirism are far less... convoluted than your ... wizard-ly bylaws, trust me, ” despite his initial lack of indifference, astarion's mouth curves into a subtle smirk. for @anecdotist to seek him out and question him on his existence is far more headway than he's had with him thus far. who was he not to leap at the opportunity?

“ but, we don't want that precious brain matter of yours imploding from lack of exposition now, do we? in short: the arrangement of the... tenants matters not. so long as there's someone who lives there to invite us in. be it the owner, or a guest. that's all that matters, really. was there anything else? ”

[nekrotisch]

@anecdotist :

slander written about your OC

DAI OC Codex Entries || Accepting

Dear Myrna, This letter is written to you from multiple members of the gentry with a matter of concern. It seems a young Watcher, a nameless foundling at that, has destroyed the remains of a body of the nobility. There's a certain expectation of the Watchers, to protect the bodies of those housed within the Grand Necropolis. We charge them with the protection of our ancestral bodies, only to find that unfounded allegations of insurrection charged at a Baron. Even if the allegations are proven true, which we have not found any evidence to prove so, the methods of this careless Watcher of unknown origins. Please make sure this Watcher is corrected in their methods. The letter is signed by a couple dozen members of the Nevarran Nobility.

[howetragic]

from zevran: He lightly skimmed his knuckle over the back of Nathaniel's hand. Leaning over, he whispered in his ear, lips a hair's breadth away, "What do you know about contact poisons?"

Not a Meme but I Love JD Have I Mentioned?

Ah, Nathaniel was so close to pulling away.

But when Zevran whispers, his head turns towards him. Like he's listening closely. The edges of his lips turn up, and his fingers turn over to snare Zevran's hand in his.

"Oh, perhaps not so much as you," he murmurs softly, making sure that every movement of his lips is flush against that long, slender elven ear as his fingers slide, sealing every gap in Zevran's hand. "But enough that by the time you would manage to pull away from me now, we'd both be dead."

[freedomscall]

@anecdotist | vann hawke | shippy starters

As the years passed the stream of patients into Anders' clinic had steadily slowed and now, along with his momentary withdrawl from the mage underground for fear of once again losing himself to Justice, Anders for the first time since living in the Circle found himself left with far more free time than he knew what to do with. Boredom had begun to creep in him, edged on further by a sense of a restlessness that simply lounging around the estate reading a good book or two couldn't cure. He's even antsy now, in the way he seeks out a distraction from it. " Vann? " The call of his partner's name leaves him as the mage climbs the stairs to the upper level of the estate, having been told by Bodahn that the other man was home after Anders had made his way up from Darktown. " Do you have any plans for today? "

[rookfang]

Pink Roses: What is the relationship between your character and their mother?

↪  FLOWER THEMED OC QUESTIONS  .  ACCEPTING  .

At the beginning of Veilguard ( and, indeed, for most of her life ) Laika is under the assumption that her mother, Nauja Banereast, is dead. It's a fair assumption to make: Laika has been freeing enslaved people in Tevinter for nearly six years now. She's seen the devastation that a few months in bondage does to people. If her mother were alive, it would have been at least 22 years— twenty two years!! Couple that with the fact that Laika hasn't managed to find a whisper about her mother, in the many mills and factories she's cleared, and it's... not hard to see why she would presume her mother is dead.

In that respect, it's hard to have a relationship with ( or even an opinion on ) her mother. Laika remembers... Songs that her mother sang when braiding her hair. The rush of practicing with a child's bow, under her mother's watchful eye. But she also remembers the two of them being taken. So, most of her like... voiceable opinion is about what could have been. The relationship they could have had, if it weren't for the awful circumstance.

The dramatic irony being, of course, that we the audience know that Nauja is alive. Nauja is an intentional foil to Laika, mother and daughter both being shaped by the ways they had to survive.

When Laika's investigations bring her face to face with her mother, neither actually recognize each other. And how could they? It's been, as I keep reiterating, twenty two years, never mind that both of them are masked combatants. As for their meetings in Veilguard, it's, um, well— you ever accidentally try to kill your own mom? And have your mom try and kill you in turn? Because by the end of act two, Laika sure has!

... I really need to finish writing her questline, huh?

[oakthcrn]

propaganda written in support of your OC

DA:I OC codex prompts // accepting //@anecdotist

𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑼𝑵𝑩𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑴𝑼𝑹𝑨𝑳.  It was sprawled over the brick wall near the Treviso docks. Lark soaked in the image of a red-haired, freckled woman wielding flaming swords. Thankfully, her face was masked. Her gaze traveled down to the words written. 

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑭𝑳𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑹 

A resigned sigh escaped her. ❝ 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐕𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐨 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬? ❞ He had done the same in the past, it was how Lucanis got his title, the Demon of Vyrantium. Now it seemed that she was donned with the title of Flamesinger. She could see the benefit of uplifting his fellow Crows, but this was going to bring unnecessary attention to herself. 

❝ 𝐈𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐭,❞ she muttered under her breath.  ❝ 𝐇𝐞'𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞, 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭. ❞

[nobroth]

from zevran: He leaned against the the stone arch of the window, staring out and enjoying the breeze. A finger idly tapped his wineglass and as the conversation lulled, he asked quietly, "Alistair... do you still believe in love?"

Of all of the things that Alistair may have expected to pop out of Zevran's mouth, what did come was pretty near the last. His face betrayed the feeling, the good King's head turning and his cheeks lighting up with blush like he'd suggested something much more salacious.

Perhaps if the wine had not tilted his tongue, he wouldn't have given any answer at all. Or joked. He was good at jokes! He could have said something very funny. Probably.

"What difference does that make?" he asked instead, and oh the words were bitter. He took another drink of wine to swallow them down, along with the lump in his throat.

"I'm married to Anora. Forever," as if thinking better of that word, "As long as I live. What good would love do me now?"

[thanatologie]

@anecdotist / zevran - "You know," Zevran starts, lengthening his lean against Emmrich's desk. His shirt is open despite the cool air, his legs crossed and stretched ahead of him--no match for Emmrich's, true, but well muscled and clad in tight-fitting pants. "Davrin has agreed to watch Assan and Manfred for a few hours. We could..." Zevran tipped his head up, looking up at Emmrich through his eyelashes, his golden gaze warm as honey. "...go shopping? There's a new book seller in Treviso." unprompted asks / always accepting

-only necessitates axial precession if-  No, not this one.  The book is reshelved, and he scans a moment before pulling another down, flipping through with the practice of someone who's read it cover to cover more than once, a finger trailing down the page he finally stops on.  Etheric apoapsis is only relevant in the event-

That book is also shut with a resounding snap, before it's returned to its home among the others.  He knows the prescribed method of diurnal flow entanglement exists in a tome he, personally, has in his possession, as while it's been a fascinating theory he sharply remembers chuckling to himself over the matter, as when would anyone need to do that, unless the entire Veil threatened to come down?

Well.

He feels it, that sinking sensation, the realization that the particular volume he needs still resides on a shelf in his apartments back home, and they've left it in such an untidy disarray when preparing to depart for the Lighthouse.  He starts to make one more pass over this set of shelves, to see if he's perhaps overlooked what he searches for, belatedly realizing - much to his chagrin - he's being spoken to.  And in that, that Manfred has mysteriously disappeared, when not two seconds ago, he'd almost tripped over him in his scouring of the shelves-

“I'm sorry, darling, I'm afraid my thoughts wandered.  What were you-”  He glances up then, pulling his attention away from the vexing certainty that the book he seeks lies elsewhere, and for a moment both thought and spoken word trail off into nothingness, snatched by the currents of the Fade around them to be delivered to parts unknown.  

The late afternoon sunlight that is ever-present in their little corner of the Fade is no more actual sunlight than the air they breathe is air.  It's a concept others have found a bit unnerving, as it is, in its own way, something like raw magic that keeps them sustained.  But knowing that as he does,  understanding the concepts that make it so and only guessing at many more he does not, the light that does filter through from above - mostly unnoticed when one is flat-footed in the main part of the room - manages to find its way to that particular spot when the buildings floating around them navigate in their ever-shifting orbits.  He doesn't think, necessarily, it's entirely by chance Zevran's found his way there, not with how enticingly he's positioned himself, and certainly not with finding himself captured with little more than a look.

But there is more to this than the tantalization of the way the light frames this feature, dips another in shadow, the softness of the not-light reverent in the way it touches.  Sparks of idle desire are a thing he's familiar with, of course, but easily rebuffed, when one longs for more.  This isn't that, or at least not entirely.  No, there's a softness there, a hopeful, bright little bubble under his ribs, pressed tight to the heart - a riotous little collection of emotions all hand in hand, akin to a daisy chain of his greatest and most secret wishes and hopes.  There's desire, of course, but therein next to it sits a sort of contentment, at Zevran here, in his space.  Joining them is a trembling spark of hope, diaphanous as a skeleton flower, that he dare not look at directly.  Encircling them all an adoration that threads through every thought.  It presses with such fervor it leaves him dizzy.

Bookseller, the part of his brain not distracted helpfully offers, some part of him having at least been subconsciously listening while the bulk of his attention had been locked on finding a book that simply isn't here.  In Treviso.

He manages to cleave his tongue from the roof of his mouth and leans with his forearms upon the railing of the staircase, firmly putting the ineffectual collection of knowledge behind him.  Preoccupation of a warmer, decidedly more wondrous kind awaits.  

“Dinner after?”  Idle time for such explorations have been light on the ground as of late, and Zevran's company is that which he cherishes above all; after being asked so enticingly - even if only half-heard - he doesn't think he has it within him to say no, and no reason to, besides.  “I'm sure Davrin can be convinced to keep a watchful eye over Manfred for a little longer with the right recompense.”

[thanatologie]

“Oh, Sybile detests velvet.”  There was an answering hiss from the skull, between its bared teeth - a note of agreement from Sybile.

“Ostentatious," she tacked on, in clarification.  “And itchy.”

The sigh from Emmrich was long, drawn out, full of exasperation before he answered, “And we've discussed how your allergies do not carry over into death.  Come now, Sybile, lives are at stake.  You've made mention of a creature before that aligns itself perfectly with what Davrin is hunting, and I only ask you share what you know."

A long silence greeted him, before she deigned to answer.  “Not the pleasant conversation usually offered this one.  Speak, Warden!  Describe your creature, this one will tell you if she recognizes it.”

“Thank you.”  Honestly, he didn't feel her testiness was at all warranted.  She was different, by a large magnitude, from other corpses he usually whispered, and while he did think it perhaps was owed to their shared gift, there was something…Unsettling, at times, at how she remembered conversations, had awareness past the end of her own life, yet refused to share that knowledge no matter the ways he'd attempted to steer conversation in that direction.  But that was for contemplation at a later time.  As an aside to Davrin, he added, “She's being a bit difficult at the moment, I do apologize - I admit it's been some time since I've hand the chance to converse with her and she's taken offense to it.”

"Oh, please, don't let me stop you from being weird." Davrin couldn't help the way his ears twitched, amused at Emmrich's reaction. Poking the old guy was mostly in jest, though there was a small part of him that wondered just how long Emmrich would stay polite and mild-mannered. What sort of things would actually break that polite facade he'd constructed? "I don't see this getting more normal, so we might as well weird it up."

As Emmrich described what they needed to do to talk to the skull--Sybile--he smiled crookedly. As if Emmrich didn't get derailed himself. He was sure that if he brought up a rare plant, right now, Emmrich would stand here all day, skull forgotten in his hand, as he went off on an impromptu herbology lesson. "Right, so like talking to Bellara, got it."

As Emmrich's hands moved, though, Davrin's smile faded. Time to get to work. The hair along his arms stood up as the Fade around them jumped to Emmrich's command. It took everything he had to not rub his arms, instead opting to cross them, squeezing his biceps. The Lighthouse seemed to amplify magic and make it something he could feel, even when the spell was so minor.

Again. Weird.

"Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the velvet box," Davrin murmured. Clearing his throat and speaking a little louder, he continued, "I'm Davrin, a Grey Warden and a monster hunter. There's a creature currently tormenting a small village and we were hoping you'd be able to help us identify it. Emmrich says you're the best there is when it comes to rare creatures."

[nekrotisch]

@anecdotist :

from lucanis: "You look like you need a pick-me-up. I will put something sweet together. Tea or coffee?"

Lost Meme || Or Unprompted

Rook was working on responding to some letters in the dinning hall. She had assumed it was empty so she could spread out while she answered the letters. Working on responses and updating her own journal on any new updated on their allies and what problems they were facing.

Her face must of shown her concern when she heard Lucanis speak. Having finished reading a letter from the Grey Warden's about Hossberg, the place made her feel uneasy with the surging Blight, and heart felt pity for those who once called it home.

She offered a slight smile as she nodded. While she preferred tea, Coffee was often a wonderful treat to lift the spirits, "Coffee sounds wonderful," she answered. Organizing the letters to tidy up just a bit, if only to appear to be organized.

[howetragic]

from zevran: a possessive kiss in front of a jealous third party

Get Ya Kisses! Platonic Kisses. More Kisses.

Nathaniel tries not to smirk as Inara whines.

She cannot move to join them. As part of her punishment, she is bound hands and feet to the post at the bottom corner of the bed, forced to kneel there and to watch as Nathaniel and Zevran’s hands crawl over each other. The assassin is atop the archer, Nathaniel’s hands sliding slowly over the crest of Zevran’s hips.

They tangle slowly, agonizingly slow. Zevran is doing a good job, bating his breath and tempering his touches. Every time their fingers almost contact the other’s cock, they switch direction. Inara squirms each time, wiggles. She cannot be freed until one of them cums, the rules of the game.

And neither of them intends to do that soon.

Or perhaps…. Zevran leans close, captures the rogue’s lips with heavy, deep ownership. The back of his knuckles graze Nathaniel’s cock as it lays hard against his stomach, and the archer sucks in a breath.

Even through the gag, Nathaniel can hear Inara say, “Finally.”

But Nathaniel catches Zevran’s hand, turns the attention away. His lips and teeth graze the inside of his wrist, hungry and warm. Zevran allows the distraction, and Inara groans, heartbroken again.

[hemerasiae]

@anecdotist:

Feyn slinks in through the dark, pulling down his hood as he quietly approaches Leliana's desk. From his bag he pulls two letters, waving them to make the first sound: paper sliding against paper. "Brought ye some news. Ye wanna hear th'good or th'bad first?" He separated the letters, both tilting back and forth in a little imaginary jig as he smiled. "Spymaster's choice, a'course."

Her mind is always a turbulent place—even more so as of late. Though she hears Feyn before she sees him, she makes no effort to convey this. She stands in front of her desk, eyes trained on a blank piece of parchment in front of her. Leliana has put off this correspondence long enough.

It will be even longer now, though, it seems.

“Why not read them both, and I will decide?” comes her counter-offer as she pushes the blank page aside with a lingering glance. “Go on, then.”

[thanatologie]

“I'm afraid it's simply not my wheelhouse at all.”  While he was perfectly capable of the dramatic showings other magic users employed to assist in whatever world-ending calamity happened to be upon them this week, his innate talents lent themselves to a more…Specialized form of support, more suited to soothing devastation in the aftermath of such travesty than combating it directly.

Effectively…He spent a good deal of time cleaning up the mess left behind; fetching back last words of a loved one, allowing the living and dead to say goodbye to one another, easing grief.  Rubbing elbows with the likes of the Avengers and the X-Men could be thrilling, to be sure, that was better left for the likes of the Scarlet Witch or the Sorcerer Supreme.

It was unfortunate, then, that Manfred chose that moment to peek around a corner (despite being explicitly told to stay out of sight - Emmrich simply had no idea what another of these super types would do after Clint Barton's fantastic showing of ignorance and an astounding lack of manners all the way around), wide green goggles seeming even wider as he spotted no less than Captain America standing big as anything in the drawing room.  Manfred had gained a…Certain fascination with the superheroes that dwelt within the city; never failing to watch in wonder as Iron Man or Thor or Captain Marvel soared overhead while in the rooftop garden, and, Emmrich had to concede with a sigh, Captain America was likely too large a temptation for him to pay instruction he was given any mind.

“My ward, Manfred.”  As there was simply no use waving it away now that Manfred had drawn attention to himself.  Manfred continued to peek around the corner, his hiss oddly shy.  “Harmless, I assure you.  Mostly.”

Manfred hissed once more, this time with an offended edge, the tone of it exactly that of a child embarrassed by their parent sharing mortifying secrets.  

But more to the topic at hand:  “I'm afraid I don't follow.  As I understand it, death should be the end of your problem, no?”  As though he weren't aware of the vexing habit that lot had of not staying that way, good or bad or anything in between.  He couldn't recount how many times he'd seen death notices rescinded for this hero, that villain.  “Beyond scant information that may or may not be of any value to you, I fail to see what use I would have.”

"The level of my acquaintance is part of the problem, sir." Steve doesn't generally air grievances between himself and his fellow heroes--they come under fire often enough from enemies and the public. Their own in-fighting doesn't need to take center stage. But since regaining his memories, Steve's avoided working with most of that Illuminati group if he can help it--Tony excluded, obviously.

"I fully understand that this isn't your normal wheelhouse. And I promise, I'm not trying to drag you into this on a full, or even part-time basis. Wanda Maximoff would usually take my call, but she's got her own hands full. And," Steve smiled, his bright blue eyes dancing with mirth. "My problem is dead."

@thanatologie you can't escape me

[nobroth]

from zevran: He sighed, tipping his head back. "You should know better than to ask me about Inara, my dearest friend."

Not a Meme but I Love JD Have I Mentioned?

He should have known better than to think he'd answer, he meant.

Alistair snorts a bit, his head leaning heavy on his hand as he looks over by the window where Zevran has laid himself out luxuriously on that... fancy couch-like thing cushioned with fine red silk. It's a beautiful window. Not much of a view. But Zevran looks stunning there somehow, nonetheless.

"It's not illegal to ask questions about someone," he defends himself as childishly as the hurt in his chest feels. "And if it was, well. I'm the King. I'd make it... un-illegal. Legal. I can do that, you know."

He can do a great many things. Travel the world! Give commands! He's got power, and prestige. Eamon makes people stand up when he enters rooms. He can do so much.

But waking up to the woman he loved, feeling her skin, seeing her face... he can't do those things, anymore.

His eyes grow a bit sad, and his gaze falls to the pen between his fingers that he fiddles with. He liked it because it had a feather. But now it just tickles his nose when it gets late and he gets tired. He's bad at... choosing.

"I just want to know if she's okay," he says, softer. "Doesn't she ever want to know that about me?"