#bornpariah

[inquistior-a]

@bornpariah​ said:  𝙸 𝙰𝙼 𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙴𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝙸𝙽 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴. 𝙸 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙱𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚁𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴.

      “Is that so?”  Halwn arches a brow and shifts a little against the roll of his bundled leathers which is, at present, serving as a pillow. They are camped with the scouts in a temporary outpost, and this means low-slung tents and bedrolls and little more. The Inquisitor has his own tent—but he is not so above the others as not to share, if he must, as the party members are all made to do. Even if his bedmate has brought with him a stack of tomes  (where he was keeping them, Halwn couldn’t say, but they have materialized, as they tend to do),  several scrolls of parchment which are apparently too precious to be even nudged, and a pen and pot of ink. When added to the volume of their bodies, the mess of the makeshift bedding, a staff and a swordbelt and a clutter of discarded clothing, not to mention the missives and reports that Halwn had been handed upon arrival—to call their current quarters ‘tight’ would be generous.

      Of course, Halwn does not mind it, and Dorian has made himself at home in nearly three-quarters of the tent space, draped somewhere perpendicular across Halwn’s legs, comfortably tangled together. A soft rain is falling, its sound little more than a distant texture, suffusing the quiet with calm. Outside it is cold but here, in the tent and in such proximity to Dorian, who is always warm to the touch, Halwn can find nothing to complain about.

      Nothing genuine, at least.

      “You’re sitting on my foot.”

      The comment has the desired effect. A flat response to a romantic overture, even one phrased in teasing, earns him Dorian’s full attention from the book in his lap at last—even if it arrives in the form of an annoyed look, made to cut. Halwn is being ungrateful, he’s well aware. He only smiles to himself and returns his eyes to the reports spread across his legs, feigning a good-natured disinterest in the mage’s offense at being so dismissed.

      Halwn does not lift his eyes again until he hears a book drum shut  (not snap, of course, since Dorian would never be so inconsiderate with what is surely an old and delicate binding)  and feels the impatient shifting of the other man as Dorian turns to pin him with an expectant stare. Waiting for his reward, no doubt, or for some explanation. Dorian never seems to do well when denied the full focus of Halwn’s intention in such scenarios as this, which he must have grown very accustomed to having by now. Nearly since the day they met under the glowing eaves of a ruined chantry. Ironic, when Halwn thinks about it—but he is not thinking about it now. Instead, he is trying to smother his smile.

      The orb of Dorian’s magelight hovering above them flashes in warning, and, finally, Halwn looks up, that smothered smile drawn plainly in the creases about his pale green eyes.

      “I am afraid you will be very distraught then, my darling—”

      He cannot tell if the pull of Dorian’s mouth is surprised pleasure at the endearment or annoyance over it. Perhaps a blend of both. Halwn sets the reports aside, safely tucked into their casing, and sits up further, loosening his legs a little to make space between them in a very unsubtle invitation for someone to come and lie there.

      “For I’ve every intention of earning only vastly more of your love in the years to come, such that it is likely to cause constant fits of real remorse—if you insist on being sorry for it.”

      Halwn sets his hands on the tops of his own thighs, now the impatient one himself. They both know the truth:  that when Dorian so much as mentions love, Halwn’s pleasure is such that he’d indulge him anything, and very often does. It’s a demanding impulse on his part, love for love, the having and the giving of it, a bit pathetic by now, and one Halwn can only play at resisting for so long . A feint frown creases between his brows. Again, one arches with a palpable impertinence.

      “Now, will you come to me—or must I go to you?”

[asteeledheart]

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻: @bornpariah​

“they’re  endlessly  fascinated  by  you,  you  know,”  she  drapes  herself  over  an  aged  chair  in  a  movement  both  dramatic  and  exhausted,  careful  not  to  displace  any  of  the  books  precariously  balanced  around  his  desk,  “the  chantry  sisters,  i  mean.  they’re  convinced  you’re  some  sort  of  lurking  menace  within  the  inquisition,  some  dark,  foreboding  presence  that’s  determined  to  corrupt  my  vibrant  spirit.” 

low  huff  of  annoyed  breath  follows,  gaze  flickering  over  ancient  titles  and  words  delicately  pressed  into  faded  parchment.  “i  can  correct  them,  if  you’d  like,  but  that  also  means  they’d  probably  start  bothering  you,  dorian,  instead  of  fleeing  at  your  very  sight.  your  pick.” 

[hiraecies]

@bornpariah liked.     /      alexei & dorian.

There’s ------ an odd expression his face, normally so irreverent.  He is far more useful when he can keep a cool head, and in the moment, he HAD.  But now, hours after, back at Skyhold he is --- the anger is spilling.  Alexei is surprised at his own response, at the quite rage, and wonders if it could possibly be something as petty as JEALOUSY and knows that it isn’t.

Dorian deserves better than ------------

“If you want me to rip Bull’s horns off, I’d be happy to oblige you,” he says, arms crossing as he leans against the bookshelf beside Dorian.  “Whether you give me leave or not, I might just give it a try anyway.”

[mercysought]

   “You presented yourself as a conduit to secret knowledge.”

The gentleman looks up from his book to focus on Dorian as he speaks. The Altus hadn’t been reading for quite a while, choosing instead to toy with pages back and forth. For the last five seconds, he had elected the gentleman’s frame as a more interesting subject than the lines of knowledge in the leather tome still within his hands. The library where they stood was large. One might even consider it an infinite source of secret knowledge. A secret, or simply unknown? The two could wear very similar faces. The fire roared behind them, deep-set into a fireplace like a single, tired but intense eye that stared at both of them.

His eyes are on the other and while the fire cracks loudly, the warmth felt on his back as the shadows are cast over his frame, the shadows encroach them. The mountains of books and shelves disappear into the darkness, like the moon covered by a heavy cloudy night. In the middle of a dark sea of books, they both stand on a small island. As the shadow falls, there is no sea; just the island. His fingers, ringed, curl around the book, holding the specific page where he was. The book closes, still held in his grasp as a smile forms “I am not sure I follow.”

starter call ( accepting ) : @bornpariah, from the gentleman

[irnhrns]

he departs from his meeting with red after two hours of paltry negotiation on top of all the other bullshit. he likes the nightingale, don’t get him wrong, in fact, he might be his favorite person in the entirety of the fortress -- but dancing around with words has suddenly fallen out of his favor. it’s like... his tongue twists itself into knots, somehow. the words were once there, he’s sure, and now they are not. instead, they’re dampened by a dull but persistent ache, the one that comes from old scars and joints when rain is on the horizon.

it’s been a month since he left the qun. since he buried hissrad for good. this last meeting with red, today, has confirmed once and for all that whatever the inquisition could have had with the qun is done. that’s it. chapter closed. and he knows he shouldn’t -- but his fingers still itch to open to the pages he’s bookmarked. to reread, to see exactly where he went wrong. not the boss, not the inquisition, not their people. him. he’s debating on a drink as he descends the stairs from red’s nest and finds himself confronted with an entirely different hovel: dorian’s. the mage’s space is warm, inviting, and in a complete lapse of judgment, bull stops.

they don’t speak often. par their interactions in the field, which seem to start and stop all at once in what can only be called awkward on the best of days. he doesn’t know why that is. something about dorian disarms him. he tries not to think too hard about that, turns his eyes towards the bookshelves. if he weren’t unsure about their capability to hold his weight he might have leaned against the shelves, but there’s no reliability in most things for a man his size, from benches to beds ( not that he can fault anyone for it; most places outside of the qun don’t expect a qunari to walk through their doors ). so instead he stands back and reads the titles on the spines. some are in tevene, others antivan, nevarran, most common, and he can’t help but wonder if dorian’s cultivating a little collection all on his own. making a space here, because others will not provide the room. 

bull might be projecting. he pulls a book -- simply titled mortalitasi, and nothing else -- and opens the cover. a few minutes pass, and he gets five pages in before he decides it is not his particular cup of tea. it’s here that he moves to look at dorian, sitting in his chair, and, in a second lapse of judgment, opens his mouth to speak. “can i ask you something, pavus?”

@bornpariah  /  starter call

[glrchmp]

zach you're legitimately so amazing !! you're so funny and creative and inspiring in general and you're extremely nice too??? the passion that you have for anything that you love is so blatant and evident in everything that you do and holy fuck you're SO GODDAMN TALENTED, it's frankly amazing. i utterly and absolutely Adore You, and i hope that you know that

MIMI YOURe so nice to me im going to bawl for real YOU are talented and lovely and amazing *i kiss you on the cheek* i LOVE YOU SO MMANY

[aetla]

          ❛  dorian —— dorian, i said i was sorry ,  ❜     she thinks she’s been knocking on this door for hours. where does her hand end and the wood begin? her tongue has gone numb from apologising.     ❛  really, it’s not that bad of a color.  ❜     //  @bornpariah​

[antibadnik-a]

@bornpariah  /  not like the others.

The child is terrified and it is obvious; too - wide eyes ------ electric green only turned more saturated with the force of her tears.  Small hands tremble.  She doesn’t understand; she just knows that this is very, very wrong.  She should feel safe here.  She has always felt self here.  At the home that she was raised in, and yet ---

Master has had many guests lately.  All interested in her.

But he isn’t like the ones that came before her.  They treated her as a curiosity at best or a tool at worst ----------- eyes cruel and wanting for the power she isn’t yet aware of.  IMPERSONAL.  Yet this man is different.  His eyes are kind.

“Avanna, ser.”  Amelia remembers her manners, even crying like she is.  The child bows.  She’s never had a reason to be so formal before (  master is gentle with her, indulges her mood, or did before the dreams came  ) but now she senses that it is in her best interests to remain POLITE.  “I --- I am.  I am Amelia Rose.”

[inquistior-a]

@bornpariah​ asked:     𝙸 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝙰𝙳𝙼𝙸𝚁𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝚀𝚄𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙴𝚂.

    “Do you think me unaware of your admirable qualities? Or do you seek to reinforce their value by always reminding me?”  The Inquisitor’s brow is arched playfully, enough humour in the warmth of his eyes to thoroughly soften the slight edge to his words. Of course he is aware. They both know that Halwn is unforgivably aware of how specifically and confoundingly fine the mage is, so keen in that awareness that it feels half-cruel for Dorian to remind him—even in teasing.

    There has been a tremendous amount of teasing.

   The scene between them now—not yet half-drunk, sitting on the steps of a darkened stairwell only a few risers apart, avoiding the rabble of the party they are obligated to appear at to secure some invitation or another, glad for the thin excuse to almost let the toes of their boots touch across the distance—is punishingly reminiscent of some various scenes that have played out in Halwn’s life before. Once or twice, at least, but for what is missing. Dorian hasn’t smiled at him in a way that Halwn suspects that he is able, haughty and inviting. A wordless demand that Halwn would bend to without the slightest hesitance, if given the chance. Surely, Dorian knows that, too. His wish, Halwn’s command. The Inquisitor has not been subtle, after all.

    That is, of course, part of the problem. The command. Halwn’s titles, his position. The very real possibility that Dorian simply wants to save the world, not complicate his already complicated life further by indulging the Inquisitor’s obvious desire to tip his head back and kiss him senseless. Dorian values his senses. As he should. Halwn values those senses, too.

    The silence has caught on in that particular way, that way that it tends to between them. The way that indicates that Halwn is thinking of doing something patently,  achingly,  adoringly stupid. Dorian gives him that look, that warning look, that offers no room for argument against it. There will be no discussion of this tonight, it seems. Another tonight, and another tomorrow, then, gone much the same way. Not wasted, of course. Not wasted when they are together, in whatever capacity, though Halwn feels a sharp spike of self-reproach at how easily he accepts less than what he wants. If he were to bend now and kiss Dorian, stretch over him on the stairs, cradle the back of the mage’s head in his hand to have the freedom to kiss the breath out of him without smarting his skull against the stones—

  Halwn pushes himself to his feet and descends a little, and then lingers on the step below where the mage is artfully reclining. He thinks that he can almost hear Dorian’s heart accelerating in his chest, fighting in his breast like a bird. As though reading Halwn’s mind by some dark art or another. Yet Dorian’s face wears the same quizzical, commanding expression, utterly unflinching. He’s a brave man. Fierce, and sharply tenacious. The thought only makes Halwn all the more tempted to kiss him at last. But there is something brittle beneath Dorian’s face, too, beneath his sleek and beautiful facade. Fear. A perfectly understandable, and justified, fear.

    For men like them, love is always a risk—and a man like Halwn, in particular? The Herald of Andraste, the Maker’s Chosen? What a spectacularly bad bet he is likely to be, in the end. It is not a deal he’s willing to entice Dorian to make, Halwn reminds himself, no matter the power of his own desires. His fate will be the same at any likely outcome, but Dorian’s happiness is at risk. His trust, and his willingness to trust. Halwn does not wish to wager that kind of currency.

    It is, all of it, too precious to be unwillingly risked.

    Whatever happens, Dorian must invite it. Some day. Sooner, hopefully, rather than the later that is likely to involve an Archdemon and a field of magickally enhanced fire. Halwn would like to be so certain of his own good intentions. But he’s a military man, too, and a military leader, and he knows how wars like this one are usually won. Gradually, softly—so softly that they do not seem to be fought at all.

   There is only a single candelabara still lit along the staircase and, rather unfairly, its light is draped across Dorian’s shape, reclining on the stairs in all his white and gold silk, all his appealingly flushed skin. He’s been dancing. That thought alone causes an unhappy and utterly ridiculous drop of Halwn’s stomach. It’s not jealousy, precisely, so much as it is a sense of loss. He wants Dorian to be happy in that simple way, and he’d not begrudge him a moment of it —but Halwn also wants to be a part of it, with an admittedly jealous want.

   “The Maker made us all from the same dirt, so the Sisters say.”

    Halwn cants a brow and forces himself to smile, though he’s sure it will be perceived as thin. Dorian’s no fool. It is thin, stretched by the insistent longing that he feels to forgo conversation unless it is to say:  I am in love with you. I have been in love with you for a year. Every day, though it seems impossible, I find I love you more.  They’re not foolhardy boys, making eyes on someone else’s staircase. Testing invisible boundaries. Are they? What should Halwn say? The truth?  Kiss me. I will spend every day for the rest of my life, short as it may be, desperate to make you happy.

    Even to him, it sounds like a poor bargain. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Halwn is going to do it anyway, with or without the kiss.

    That thought lightens him, and Halwn’s smile grows a little warmer, a little more sly. Rather than retreat, he steps into the stairs and bends his body slightly, over Dorian—nearly the same as he’d thought of doing, though missing the press of them together. No, he’d not go that far unasked. He holds himself at a passable distance with a hand on the riser just above and beside Dorian’s head, unable to resist a slight grin at the offended, almost appalled expression on the mage’s face at their sudden proximity. Dorian had given him that look, after all. That should have been the end of it. Still, even as the mage begins to turn towards indignity at Halwn’s sudden defiance of their rehearsed rules, the Inquisitor lifts his own chin and takes keen note of the way that Dorian, perhaps unaware of it, tips his head back just a little in a perfect, answering accommodation of the motion—as if in anticipation of a kiss that hasn’t yet been delivered.

    Halwn smiles, and draws a breath of the scent at Dorian’s throat, the same that’s in his hair, citrus and amber and a faint dark, floral spice, all mingled with skin and its sillage spread by the already long evening, and stands back.

   “I will say, unpressed, that you have polished yourself to a far finer sheen than the rest of us seem able—”  the mirth is gone from Halwn’s posture, replaced with an almost apologetic affection. It’s not his intent to push until something breaks, to trample over boundaries. That is not his nature. Still, he does want, in a way that has gone long unsatisfied—just a sign would be enough, such as Dorian has sometimes given him. A lingering look, an involuntary smile. An apple. An abundance of healing energy. Three long passages read aloud from a book that Halwn could not begin to honestly understand. A coy touch. A sharp rebuke. What else? A kiss. One, and Halwn would be satisfied.

    Halwn’s not a liar, so he doesn’t say such a thing aloud. Instead, he smooths a hand down the front of his jacket, sweeps a hand back through his hair, and sets his soft eyes on Dorian one last time in the dim light of the stairwell. Looks at him a little, and dips his head in appropriate contrition.

    “I should say goodnight. Elsewise, I believe there is a chance that it might go ill between us, and you might end the evening cross with me.”

    Dorian doesn’t answer, but Halwn thinks he hears a quick inhalation.

    “Goodnight, Dorian. Enjoy the party.”

    If you dance with another, please, think all the time of me.

[asteeledheart]

sidri’s bffs featuring @comnder, @extravagantliar, @bornpariah

[hiraecies]

@bornpariah liked.     /      marigold & dorian.

“Ugh.”  She’s wiping blood from the corner of her mouth --- there’s a bruise blooming around the corner of her lips, too, though Marigold seems more annoyed than upset.  The giver of said mark stalks out of the tavern --- past Dorian as he enters.  (  he has a black eye to mirror her own injury, which is gratifying, at least.  )  She’s lucky the tavern is mostly emptied --- it’s too late --- but even now there remains a handful, and Marigold smiles and waves the concern away when others meet her eyes.

What a nightmare.  Josephine will be annoyed at her for getting in a fight in public.  But he’d hit her FIRST ------

The concern in Dorian’s eyes is bright, and she smiles faintly at it, shaking her head as she slumps into a seat.  “He s - said ------ something bad a - about mages.  I told h - him to stop.  He must not have realize th --- that I’m the Inquisitor, because he --- smarted off.”  She touches at the corner of her mouth.  “And hit me.”

[mercysought]

@bornpariah​ :  [ run ] the gentleman, a quiet moment... but then i suppose many of their moments are quiet from word prompts compilation ( accepting ) 

It is an uncommon thing to meet another that understands the lengths that one must go to fulfil one’s job. One’s purpose, you could call it. Past the oddities of the man, many in Tevinter didn’t understand the fascination with the paintings, the long stretches of silences. The few chosen words. The complete disinterest in the inner workings of the Magisterium. The replacement of worn robes and blacks that had grown dull with time, brows that had worn themselves thin. Many could understand the want to discover and expose what lay just beyond the veil. To see the shadows passing beyond it as a taunt to approach closer and prod further.

In every place that he travelled he found someone that was able to understand - even if but catching a glimpse - that he was more than an odd man with a shy demeanour. He didn’t particularly try to hide it, there were more important matters to attend to than to hide from other living beings — that, and it always posed for interesting topics. Company. Many didn’t understand him, nor did they care, but the number that had approached him, to attempt to draw him to their inner circles and pull more words from him as if they were teeth had been far larger than any could have guessed.

It was almost amusing, to see this song and dance and the pull and tug. More amusing when they realised that, apart from pleasantries and good conversation, the gentleman held no real interest to participate in any of their games, and so he didn’t. The amusement ran out swiftly when the dark liquid that threatened to come through the threshold poured in like a wave. Completely washed off from his face when the flood came to a stop and they realised that regardless of their writhing, of their screaming, that he did not bow nor bend to their actions or their words.

The matter of politics could be an interesting one, though it is one that the gentleman prefers to read on, to be so far removed that he knows his presence will not affect the pattern one way or another, to know that no one will attempt to weave him into a pattern, only to watch it fall apart.

Those were not the thoughts that occupied the gentleman’s mind on that night, however.

The gentleman’s favourite thing about Dorian Pavus was the rhythm of his heartbeat. The light thuds against his chest as he rests, the growing drums when his mind races and so do his words, running and yet being unable to keep up with the sheer velocity of his mind.

There was much to love. And in his oddity and strangeness, the gentleman felt the life in him intoxicating, how Dorian’s face and mind fit so well to what the gentleman would consider a beautiful representation of humanity’s curiosity without the tinge of greed. There is vanity, arrogance. But that too was beautiful, part of a larger picture where without it one could not see the depths of its charm; to be able to see the light, one must be able to know darkness. It is a hard thing to explain and one that the gentleman feels no need to do so, so he doesn’t. Dorian’s smile took over his face fully, warming any room that he stood in.

Cianán felt it, the warmth in the base of his neck, in his bones, in his hair and scalp as it softly gets brushed into a larger mess by Dorian’s fingers.

His home was a refuge for the many forgotten stories from many people that had never seen the world that he now found himself in. It was a place of hope for those stories to be brought to light, sooner or later, remembered and catalogued. Told and retold, shaped to influence another cycle and another pattern. His home, old and seemingly always kept underneath an eternal cloud that brought in the fog, had been called intimidating, looming. And yet he felt, in a way, that the concept was true to Dorian himself.

Or perhaps it was he, himself, that became the refuge. An odd thing to think about, but one that brought him as much pleasure as the mindless act of Dorian’s fingers through his unruly hair as he read, laying next to him in bed. Cianán rests his head against Dorian’s fingers each time that they move, dark eyes half-closed watching the fire die down. From the light of the flames, a small shard lights up from the edge of the fireplace. Red as a ruby.

Those thoughts too were not what occupied Cianán’s mind, as his lover’s fingers brushed once again over dark curls. As the gentleman gets up, first lifting his chest and then the rest of him, Dorian’s eyes follow, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and a start of a demand.

He reaches for the rings, the golden and silver so dark, eroded and dirty that one could barely tell the details. No stones, no lion head, only a single white marble circle and a chipped, small piece of dark stone — a sad sight, but such was the fate of all things. They fit loosely over thin and lanky fingers.

There is a painting at the top of the stairs, behind a set of portraits. A painting that has been covered. There was not much left of the paint or the original concept. All that remained were vein-like webs spread all across it. Small, all of them small. The only colour that truly remained, as bright as the day that it had been painted was of the bright red lines that composed such threads. Last time he had looked at it, he had wondered what paint could have been used, the technique to make it seem pulsing from the canvas.

   “I’m sorry, Dorian.” a small smile forms, dark eyes moving to the figure of the man. Shadow captures him whole, heavy robes lift from his chair and float in his direction as dark eyes remain on the man in his bed.

All around them small crystals form. Small at first, at the edge of his bed. Then tearing his bedside table. The light from the fire grows a bright, all-consuming red and the shadows grow darker. Dorian moves closer to the edge of the bed, his mouth moves and the gentleman doesn’t hear the words. At that moment, it surrounds them both like a sea of red jade. All bright red, from the crystals, from the glow. All but Dorian’s figure, hidden beneath his looming shadow with one hand holding out to him.

The coat covers one arm first, leaning to capture the other just as the gentleman captures Dorian’s hand softly, the edge of his rings brushing against warm skin. Dark eyes close and he can hear the light thud and another. And another. His other hand brushes against his cheek, moving black hair aside, thumb brushing lightly against his lips.

The painting must be finished and returned.

Cianán takes his lips, softly, allowing himself to be pulled, his arms around his waist “It’s late.” is whispered against his lips, interlocked with his kiss and the whisper of his voice. A plead. A tempting proposal to stay “I promise I won’t leave for too long.” not that such promises were so easily kept; time escaped them both swiftly when work was involved when they felt themselves down a path and knew the lengths they must go. He tried, he tried to keep such promises, but such things were hard concepts for someone like him to keep. 

He feels Dorian smile beneath his lips and so he does too, slowly moving away in the bright red glow. The gentleman’s thumb brushes against Dorian’s cheek lazily. A dark iris, painted against a marble surface stares up at the ceiling “I will prepare some tea. Will you join me?”  

[irnhrns]

Are we not devils?

there’s blood everywhere. like, he’s not fucking around -- it’s everywhere. both bull and dorian are splattered in it, but the venatori henchmen are dead, and it only takes a harsh yank before the spear bull had stolen and used in lieu of his axe is free from the cultist’s body. he makes a sound of disgust at the noise, throws the spear to the side. it clatters against the stone. storm coast isn’t a place he’d normally expect to find them, but here they are anyways, except now they’re dead, so...

dorian lets out a laugh: “are we not devils?”

bull looks at him, runs his tongue across his top set of teeth, and yeah, that’s definitely gore, eugh, serves him right for fighting with his mouth open. he spits, and what flies towards the ground is blood. the fight’d been so quick there’d been no rush of adrenaline to accompany it, but that means there’s no come-down either. all there is is the faintest sensation of sweat at his brow, blood in his mouth, and the wind as it whips past the both of them. the inquisitor’s gone, not sure where she went, and sera is already picking at bodies. 

he moves towards the body of a swordsman, grabs the haft of his axe, pulls. “depends on what you mean by devils, dorian,” his voice is haughty, confident. “murderers? sure. crazy assholes? definitely.” he spits, again, rests his axe on his shoulders. sera lets out a triumphant laugh and holds up what appears to be a golden pendant, but all bull can look at is dorian, who bull believes he might be starting to see in a new light. isn’t that strange? how something as innocuous as a stupid thing said after a fight is enough to shift the dichotomy immediately? he grins.

“-- devils? nah.” he kicks at the corpse, who, because it is a corpse, does not kick back. it just sort of... shakes, and then returns to its previous state of stillness, crimson already shifting towards black. “that title goes to them.”

[glrchmp]

ZACHARIE listen... i love your leon, i love the life that you breathe into him and your passion for him??? you love him so much and that's so so so clear through your blog and your twitter and just writing him in general and it's so amazing to see, i think your characterization of him is just... perfect

validation hour

mimi i will SOB im so glad u think so bc i look up to u as a writer and love u lots... and i think about your raileon fic literally all the time bc i love how u wrote him in it too and 🥺 hhrrhagghhghh

[sensehurt-blog]

“ i do care. ”

huffed,  puffed,  chest  pulled  in,  pulled  back,  balled  up  and  strung  out  and  unforgiving,  the  lines  of  dorian’s  face  crease  and  deepen  in  their  anger,  exasperation  slick  in  his  cheeks.  cole  watches  passively,  as  if  the  feelings  directed  towards  him  can’t  touch  him.  “i  do  care,”  dorian  insists,  an  admittance  like  a  knot  wound  up  beneath  his  tongue,  vulnerability  twitching  red  and  vile  like  an  open  wound.

cole  can  feel  it  rush  over  him  like  an  enveloping  wave,  but  the  heaviness  he  feels  is  not  his  own.  he  dips  his  head,  trying  to  understand  the  insistency  of  the  repeat:  caring,  for  him,  but  –  “why?”  cole  asks,  an  innocent  a  question  as  ever,  but  he  feels  the  barbs  of  it  puncture  and  stills,  eyes  pale.  “i  don’t  …  understand.  i’m  me,  but  just  enough  for  everyone  else.  you  don’t  have  to  care.”

the  balking  comes  first,  then  the  pain  later,  like  a  hiss  through  the  backs  of  dorian’s  teeth.  “of  course  i  don’t,  that’s  the  point,”  he  says,  and  his  pain  blooms  inside  cole  like  a  poisonous  flower,  seeds  making  cole’s  veins  swollen. 

cole  bows  his  head,  unsure.  “i’m  sorry,”  he  says,  voice  whispered  underneath  the  lingering  pain,  “it  was  easier  when  people  didn’t  care.”

cole  finds,  after  looking  onto  dorian's  expression,  he  shouldn’t  have  said  anything  at  all.

@bornpariah

[antibadnik-a]

“amelia,” oh there is a hint of Danger in his voice, a simmering anger intermingled with worry that is masked with frustration and that she is HERE is far more of an alarm bell than a comfort. he has half a mind to throw her on a boat to somewhere safer — if there is such a thing. “what are you doing.”

@bornpariah

She knew he’d be angry.  She hadn’t quite bet on just HOW angry he’d be, though, which is — sad, maybe, on some level.  (  she can’t guess, or is afraid to — how much she’s cared for.  she is used to be a transient annoyance, is all.  that dorian might care enough to sincerely wish her safe is — surprising.  it oughtn’t be, after all these years, but it is.  )

And so she shrinks back a step (  like when she was merely a child and they first met, afraid of every magister or soon - to - be  ), moving half behind the inquisitor; he won’t hurt her, she knows.  At least not physically.  And he won’t hurt her emotionally on purpose.  But she is a fragile girl far too dependent on the approval and validation of those she loves, and when he angry with her he forgets that.

The Inquisitor says, voice low, a confused half - threat, “Dorian —”

But she shouldn’t need defending.  Not anymore.  So she grasps the woman’s arm and shakes her head.  “He asked me, Inquisitor, not you,” she murmurs.  Ahvir looks down at her with faint surprise — and then smiles.

“You’re right.  I should let you speak.”

Amelia squares her shoulders and steps back forward.  Meeting his eyes is difficult, but she manages.  HE’S ANGRY BECAUSE HE CARES FOR YOU, she reminds herself, and tries not to consider the disastrous alternative : he is angry because you’re an annoyance and he does not want the burden of you following him.

“I’m here,” she starts, “to help.”

His eyes grow brighter, and she continues before he can speak.

“My talents will be of great value to the Inquisition, and you know that.”  Her hands tremble and she curls them to fists to hide it.  “I can help.  I want to save the world as much as you do.”

“You are a CHILD —” he starts, voice biting, and she stiffens but does not flinch.  REFUSES TO FLINCH.

“I am as capable as any other!” she says back, voice nearly a shout.  “I am not weak!  I am not someone who needs protection!  I am powerful and I am capable and I will not stand in the background and LET OTHER PEOPLE PROTECT ME!”

She takes a step nearer, anger coming quick and peaking, furious not with him but with the mere IDEA of her own weakness.

“I WILL NOT SIT BY AND BE A BURDEN ANY LONGER!”

Her fists shake and she stares up at him, and he is as surprised as he is angry now, she thinks.  She wants to cry.

“You can say whatever you damn well wish, but I’m not going anywhere.  I am as much a part of this Inquisition as you now.  You can’t make me go.  Not out of some misguided attempt to protect me, and especially not because you think I’m some bothersome child.”

“Amelia —”

“Don’t,” she spits.  If he says anything, either cruel or kind, she will weep, and she refuses that weakness.  Not when she has to make him realize that she isn’t weak.  Not when she has to convince herself she isn’t weak.

And so she turns on her heel and is gone from the war room; all is quiet in the girl’s wake.  The Inquisitor looks to Dorian, a smirk sloping her lips.

“Well said.”  She takes a step nearer, placing a hand on his shoulder as she passes.  As she leans over the war table, Ahvir says, “I didn’t quite believe her when she told me before, but after seeing that exchange?  I can absolutely believe that you raised her.”