#extravagantliar

[martyrmarked]

❝ you do turn a pretty shade of pink when you blush. ❞

she reminds herself that this is hardly new in an attempt to quell the nerves twisting in the pit of her stomach. even from the very beginning, those first few chaotic days at haven, she’d more or less been the face of the inquisition. to now represent it as its singular leader, to speak on its behalf adorned with a new title, is a natural progression of what already has grown familiar. 

still, the nervousness refuses to abate as she waits and sidri fidgets with her sleeve for what feels like the umpeenth time, absently tugging silk towards her palm. she’d hardly recognized herself in the mirror, common clothes and armor now replaced by diligent tailoring, the cut of navy cloth hinting at influence from ostwick and intricate needlework reminiscent of orlesian design. she now presents an impressive display, undeniably so, but an unfamiliar one to even herself. 

“first official engagement, inquisitor?” 

her gaze halts its scanning of the hall’s doors at low voice, grateful to be pulled from her own thoughts. 

“what gave it away?” a faint smile is offered in varric’s direction and she wonders if he intends to permanently settle in front of the roaring fireplace. she’d have guessed the library would be his preferred home but, then again, sidri is well aware that all she knows of him are the bits and pieces he allows to be known. 

“josephine looked particularly frantic this morning and someone finally tended to the banners near the throne. they’ve been askew for a week, but I thought you might be a bit too busy to attend to them personally. ” varric muses and steps forward, muscled arms clasped behind his back. she has seen his gaze grow dangerous before, its edge sharp enough to cut, but his eyes are curious as he looks over her. “send my regards to the inquisition’s tailor.”

“i’m sorry we weren’t able to seek out your’s, but i fear i wouldn’t be able to wear that-,” she gestures loosely towards his admittedly impressive expanse of chest on display, “with such grace.”

varric shrugs with false modesty and her smile turns genuine. 

“i had requested something in red, but vivienne assured me that red is not, and never has been, my color. i was informed that blue is far more flattering.” sidri shrugs before a hand lifts to tug at her wrist once more, the fabric still irritably tight. 

“maybe it isn’t my place to say so,” varric takes a step closer after a moment, voice quieter, “But you don’t need to be nervous, inquisitor. you’ve earned the title and you more than look the part.” 

her hand stills. “why do you think I’m nervous?”

“it’s either that or you’ve developed a sudden disdain for sleeves.” 

any hope for clever response dies on her lips and, instinctively, her fingers straighten at her sides. “the laces are too tight,” she confesses quietly and furrows her brow in annoyance. 

“well, we can’t have the official records showing the inquisitor was uncomfortable when she presented to the world. ” varric gestures towards her hand in silent permission and sidri lifts it curiously. he gently takes her wrist and turns it over to reveal the delicate laces tracing down her arm. 

she stands still as a stone and it shouldn’t surprise her that varric’s fingers are nimble, (they’re usually a firm requirement of archers possessing of his skill), but he carefully, kindly, undoes the first few laces circling pale skin. there’s immediate relief for the faint indentations left into her arm and the silk now rests against her rather than bites into her. 

varric works slowly, as if at any moment she might pull away. his thumb absently brushes the glimmer of skin now revealed and sidri distantly realizes she’s forgotten to draw in a breath when he reaches for her other arm.

she tries, and fails, to remember the last time anyone was this close to her, much less so much as touched her. somehow, she has become a symbol of either reverence or disdain, and no small amount of wariness, and why draw close to what is either touched with some measure of divinity or harboring corruption? symbols do not need the warmth of touch, require not familiarity, but for a few precious moments she is not a symbol but just sidri trevelyan, who has laced her sleeves too tight in her nervousness. 

and those few moments where she can feel the weight of his touch prove all but dizzying. 

“thank you, varric.” the words come just a touch too quick but there’s a sincerity there that implies more than just aid with her jacket. 

varric gives a half bow, pausing as if in thought before continuing. “And she’s right, you know, our first enchanter. blue is your color.” 

It’s enough to crack what remains of carefully wrought composure and she feels the flush creeping into her cheeks immediately. the dwarf appears annoyingly pleased with the reaction, which only deepens the color lighting over her cheekbones. his arms cross over his chest assessingly and his head cants to the side. “you do turn a pretty shade of pink when you blush.” 

“varric, stop." it’s meant to be a command but ends up being more of a flustered request, which seems to only amuse him more. 

his reply does not contain an ounce of apology as he retreats back towards the fireplace, but rather more than a hint of smugness. "as you wish, inquisitor."

despite the annoyed purse of her lips, her flush only deepens.

[endawn]

❝ varric , i -- ❞ a sigh , soft yet forced. not out of indignation, but exhaustion and resignation. want to be left alone . is what he meant to say but a bite of his tongue stifled the words when hand met a shoulder and gentle nudge followed. well meaning and stubborn was a combination he hadn't the energy to spare for ... nor desire to argue with. another soft rush of air in response to yet another nudge as gloved hands fidgeted. quelling the stirring weight in pit of stomach. the aching , twisting. internal stuggle against the encroachment of mind; looming and —

❝ yes. no. ah, i mean i … i will help. i am coming. ❞ @extravagantliar ‘s voice snapping him back to reality , boots pushing himself forward to close the distance which grew between them in his … hesitance. taverns and gatherings of the sort were never a particular favorite of his, ❝ i am just … uncertain how well i will blend in, varric. i do not make a habit of haunting this tavern. the ramparts, maybe… ❞

and there was a feeling the dwarf might come to regret asking for pax’s assistance in cheating he couldn’t shake. after all, he had always been better at pickpocketing. ❝ my presence might raise suspicions ? ❞

continued from here

[telndas]

❝ it is a good thing that i thrive on chaos. ❞

❛ I do not know how you stand this place. ❜

A rhetorical statement, of a sort. In a murmur, half under her breath, as her gaze flicks from the streets of Lowtown they walk through. Kirkwall feels much the same as Denerim in the notion of being in the center: of commerce, of politics, of the people themselves. It leaves little to surprise when noting just how corrupt it is as well, where keeping a knife close at hand is more normal than not.

The Alienage is no less the same. There may be no walls, but it is away from all the others. There is a peace to that, but for how long? Already it seems there is a great big swelling to the ground underneath her feet. ❛ Or anyone, really. It all seems too chaotic. ❜

❛ It is a good thing that I thrive on chaos, ❜ @extravagantliar quips back.

He is not the first dwarf with a tongue for wit that she has known, though she can stand Varric a little more within this short time already. Perhaps that is saying something. Still, she can hardly agree with him. She would rather do without the chaos that Thedas so loves. Find herself a better place to settle, but her clan does not move and she does not wish to remain with them. ❛ That makes one of you. Merrill, on the other hand, I am not quite so sure … Our clan kept far from cities before the Blight. ❜

[mercysought]

from a meme reply by @extravagantliar

They're standing somewhere, over someone, as he's pulling valuables off someone and something, and she says simply and quickly as she looks over her nails. As if he ruined her nails and her day by them being ambushed. It's hilarious, and her poking fun at their situation. He doesn't dream of losing his composure - not just yet. It's all in good fun. "You? Better at lying? I taught you everything I know - which is why I have so little left." Gloved hand comes to his tunic, almost aghast. Then he laughs, pulling what is left of the gold and goods out of the packs and stuffing it down into their things. Never know what might be handy these days. "Remind me to find you a new teacher when all this shit is over."

   “My hunger for mastery is insatiable, what can I say, master Tethras?" she hums to herself, not letting her eyes wander to the pilfering of corpses. The warm sun beat down on them, but the wind had a heavy chill. The mud beneath her boots made her feel uneven. She hated being back in Orlais, being in backwater Orlais. This felt like a bad dream.

Still, she cannot avoid smiling and snorting at his comment.

   “Do you know many trusted teachers in the Impirium, dearest?" it wouldn't be surprising. She pushes past where she stood hearing the mud slosh beneath her step. Standing beside where the other was hunched over. The tails of her robes held folded, nicely, over her right arm "I must admit it is rather unbelievable how difficult it has been to find trusted tutors."

[headshaker]

WHAT KIND OF LOVE ARE YOU?

TAGGED: @dcstinyscdgc TAGGING: @extravagantliar, @endawn, @weaverot, and whoever else wants to do it!

LOVE AS A FLAW.

Cowering, your love hides in the dark. In shadows and under cover of night, your love runs from corner to corner, afraid to linger, afraid to be caught. Afraid, afraid, afraid of everything. When you fall in love, it is with alarm bells ringing. Your love is a mistake, a flaw in the code, a purchase you don’t remember making and desperately want to return. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t want this. It’s a problem–– your problem ––and you would do anything to pass it off, burn it away, scoop it out of you with bare hands, or carved out with hooked knives before it can destroy you. Get it out, just get it out now. You don’t care who you hurt in the process, only that you can’t afford to be hurt first. Being loved by you is to be loved by a figment of the imagination. It is to be loved in halves, or not at all.

[idolbound]

post 9 albums that remind you of your muse / blog motifs, then tag people to do the same.

Gladiator soundtrack - Hans Zimmer & Lisa Gerrard

Ritual - In This Moment

HBO’s Rome soundtrack - Jeff Beal

Thirteenth Step - A Perfect Circle

How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful - Florence + The Machine

Blood - In This Moment 

Mother - In This Moment

Inbred - Ethel Cain

Superstition - The Birthday Massacre

tagged by: @sunbentsky thank you for this one! tagging: @whalefelled for Shepard, @bluwr , @thanflowers​ , @sanctamater​, @extravagantliar​. 

[whocanretell]

Some Extremely Jewish Banter between Rivka and Varric

(with all my love to @extravagantliar) Varric: So, Red. Rivka: That’s Leliana’s nickname. You can do better. Varric: I’m working on it. You’ve got a lot going on right now--makes you hard to place. Rivka: I’m in right in front of you, if that helps. Varric: Thanks. I’ll make a note of it. Varric: Hey Rivka, did you ever run across a Dalish clan on the outskirts of Kirkwall? Rivka: Oh, Clan Sabrae. They’re cousins. Some of them split off fifty years ago to be with us. Varric: What’d you think of the aftermath of all that mess? Rivka: Marethai failed her First. That much is clear. Varric: I didn’t expect Daisy to have defenders. Rivka: She had more than you’d think. A Keeper failing her First, especially if they’re talented, can lead to censure and exile, even if they’re dead. Arlathvhen should be fun this year. Varric: Sounds like you were hoping to throw your weight around.

Rivka: I’m not sure if all this will tip my hand or win them over. Guess we’ll see. Varric: Hey, take it easy, Thistle. He’s already dead. Rivka: Thistle? Varric: You don’t like it? Rivka: Why Thistle? Varric: I did a bit of digging. Old legend from the Dales--when a group of Templars tried to ambush an Emerald Knight’s camp, their leader stepped on one. His yell woke them up. Rivka: I know the story. What’s that got to do with me? Varric: I think it suits you. You’re easily underestimated, prickly underfoot and you look good in purple. Rivka: (Hums thoughtfully) I do look good in purple. Varric: There you go. Varric: Rivka, how would you describe yourself? Rivka: Are you writing a new book? Varric: Something like that. Rivka: Are you stuck? Varric: Humor me. I’ve got something, but it’s not quite there yet. Rivka: All right. I am great and I am beautiful and when I walk into a room, all eyes turn to me because my name is a holy name and you will listen. Varric: Andraste’s ass, Thistle--I didn’t ask for poetry. Rivka: Tell other people’s stories enough and you pick up a few things. Varric: Do you believe all of that? Rivka: It’s what I tell myself every morning. Something to live up to. Varric: You know, Thistle, I’d kill for your poker face. Rivka: It’s a blessing and a curse. People take yours better when I tell them the truth. Varric: I wouldn’t go that far. People see what they want to see. I’ve told you about my great-great-great grandfather’s axe, right? Rivka: I don’t think you have. Varric: We left a lot of things behind in Orzammar, but my mother smuggled this out. It’s been passed down to us through ten generations. We’ve replaced the jewels, recast the blade, reworked the silver. For all the time spent on it, it’s held up pretty well, even with the faults and cracks it’s gotten. Varric: Might not be the same as before. Doesn’t mean you need to throw the whole thing out and start again. Rivka: (Quietly) You do understand.  Rivka: Varric, I’ve got another line for you. Varric: All right, let’s hear it. Rivka: I am the morning and evening star. When I say day is night, it is written. Varric: (Whistles) Rivka: Too much? Varric: You’re getting into villain territory. Let’s take it down a few notches. Rivka: I came upon a little dime, tra lai lai, lai lai lai~, the old dime wasn’t even mine, tra lai lai, lai lai lai~ Varric: Let us all be happy, see, come and grab a drink with me~ Rivka and Varric: Drinking brandy, drinking wine~~~~~~~tra lai lai, lai lai lai~

[bornpariah]

       ❝ ——— Are you certain this is wine, Varric? I’m not convinced they haven’t given us vinegar, ❞ a sniff !! Imperious, sententious, grandiose ——— much the same as usual, for Dorian of house Pavus, you could say. Though perhaps adding magisterial to the list of metonyms is par for the course and, as a result, rather too on the nose. Quite enough to sour his mood, which is rather elevated at the moment, thank you very much, and instead he ignores the passing thought and nudges Varric’s thigh with his heel from where he’s decided to lounge, legs stretching and long, gazing at the man’s profile.

       To say that he looks irritated isn’t quite correct ——— mostly he looks amused, mouth curling ( though there is a sneer lingering there, reserved purely for the state of dismal orlesian wine that they have been drinking ) and there, were you to wish to glimpse it, lies a trace of exhaustion. Dorian is not AVOIDING THINGS, per say, but his return to Minrathous is imminent and, well. Alright, perhaps he’s avoiding things somewhat. ❝ This nearly makes me miss that swill from the Herald’s Rest. You know the one, it tasted like the stuff of nightmares. Surely you can exercise your powers as Viscount to acquire us anything of substance.  ❞

@extravagantliar​

[martyrmarked]

There is a pause, a breath, a moment, years maybe. And yet, they are but a moment away, a heartbeat away, a breath away. So he remembers that they both spun long-ago tales between them and more delicate conversations as well. They are but a moment away again, so he breathes - letting go of something he had been holding onto for far too long. Yet all he musters is a ghost of the words he usually gives. "Sid," Life breathes around that name with him, a story he thought could never be told. And yet there is playfulness, hands ghosting over hers before away again, another breath, and they're together at last - hand in hand. "Found you."

sometimes her body no longer feels like her own, only a vessel for the strange, churning magic buried beneath her skin. her hand is but a channel for something that has never felt like it belonged but the familiar warmth of his fingers around her own grounds her, reminds her that she is more than the anchor, more than this mark. the nearness of him, as always, brings her back to herself.

❝ varric. ❞ she repeats his name as an echo to her own and already the corners of her lips betray a smile. even if she wished, and she does not, she could never deny him one.

she lifts his hands carefully and lips gently press to calloused fingers. all these stories he's woven for only her, memories and dreams and promises of something afterwards, something to be shared together, but the sole thing she's ever cared for is that he be in each of them. what use is any tale without him? ❝ of course you did. ❞ a knowing smile, bright and easy and certain. ❝you always do. ❞

[asteeledheart]

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻: @extravagantliar

she  finds  his  room  pleasant,  comforting  in  the  familiar  scent  of  ink  and  parchment  and  whiskey,  and  on  any  other  occasion  sidri  might  have  allowed  herself  to  stop  and  breathe  it  in  properly,  allow  it  wash  over  and  soothe  almost  constantly  frayed  nerves.  today,  however,  she  ignores  it  altogether  entirely  now,  flicking  loose  hair  away  from  her  face.  “we  need  to  talk.”

“cole  has  always,”  she  pauses,  lips  pursing  together  briefly,  “been  special,  exceptional,  really  but-,” gloved  hands  twist  together  anxiously  at  her  waist,  “i’m  worried  about  him,  varric.  i  thought  perhaps  you  might  speak  to  him.”  another  pause,  this  one  more  careful.  “solas  has  taken  an  interest  in  him,  as  well,  in  his  nature.” 

[telndas]

Kirkwall has always been one too many barrels ready to blow every couple of years to Suhani; a shem problem, she often said. But it is still a place she has found herself more often than once thought at the beginning. The draw of friends, of familiar faces all, in her lonely wanderings of finding a cure, brings out the sentimentalities within Suhani. Now, with the cure found, Kirkwall on the up, there is yet another issue deeming attention. Internal, though it is, inside the machinations of its political beast, she still looks at Varric with a certain understanding and quiet concern fitting for such an afternoon.

It does not help her own personal anxieties that are never too far behind, unconcerned with those of the shemlen, as if her mind has grabbed them from the waiting air of Kirkwall and set neatly upon her chest. All well and good that Varric has them within the little garden, allowing her hands to not remain idle with every twist of a stem, to each pluck of a waiting petal.

❛ Where will you go, then? ❜ Suhani asks, a curiosity drifts into her tone, as she sits back at the table with a handful of long-stemmed flowers. Her fingers were deft in separating them into groups according to her own set of particularities, ignoring the tea that she gently pushes off to the side in order to sort. ❛ A Kirkwall … so much the Free Marches without a dwarf named Varric, seems an odd place yet. ❜ Yet there is a smile, brief as it is.

❛ Perhaps a little adventure of your own is bound to happen. ❜

continued from here, @extravagantliar !

[mercysought]

this place breeds nightmares ( me chanting the priestess )

what moves the dead // accepting // @extravagantliar

   “As I'm sure the apostate would tell you:" the priestess rises from the spot she had taken to meditate, slowly she erases the runes she had written on the floor with chalk and her own blood. Amongst the mud and dust, the red seems through the cracks. A small, brief offering. She glances towards where the barefaced elf is somewhere, ears indicating that he is listening "It is by design."

Or had been once. For those that were capable of touching and manipulating the fade such as the Dreamers, only those that were allowed would be capable of finding true rest within the halls. Such as none of them were, they would only be welcomed by nightmares that would keep their capabilities to a minimum. The priestess found it surprising that some of these methods still worked despite the Betrayer's best attempts.

   “It is an ancient defensive method far more common in the North where more of elvhen temples still survive." a lie, but a soft one. She was sure that at least in Tevinter someone had poached those same methods and claimed it to be Tevinter. She would also be surprised, given what she had learnt about Rivain, if they didn't employ similar methods.

In any case, it didn't affect her; old habits were hard to kill and she had learnt that sleeping in such places was likely never a good idea if she could avoid it. Not that she allowed herself to sleep much these days in any case. Even if her dreams, whenever she did dream, were thankfully limited.

   “I am surprised you can dream however," she looks to the dwarf, the writer. One brow arched as she put away the ritual materials. She had not known any dwarf past her last sleep, not any dwarf that she could have spoken to in a way to discover such things. Before the Veil she did not speak with them due to matters of state, after the Veil she had only seen dwarves in Tevinter and only when in company of the shem'len that claimed to own her.

   “I had heard that dwarves are incapable of doing it. Unless you mean it as a metaphor?"

[bornpariah-a]

@extravagantliar​ :  Have you missed me since I’ve been gone?

❝ Not half so much as you missed my presence, I’m sure, ❞ mirth all but shimmers through him : his voice / his expression / the curve of his mouth / the arch of his brow. His posture is loose, arms crossed, half—way to open and welcoming, his gaze fixated and that easy arrogance oozing from each and every pore of his skin, per the usual. ❝ I could hardly blame you, of course. My company is widely sought after for a reason, after all. ❞

IT HAS BEEN QUITE SOME TIME, relatively speaking——— it’s quite odd, being away from someone that you had spent nigh every day with for a year straight. More than. Hardly an unfamiliar oddity to Dorian / there had been something that could only be described as desolation which settled in his chest after leaving the Alexius estate, after all. Rather like losing a limb. An essential organ.

Being apart from Varric is hardly so dramatic nor pressing as that, of course, but still he had found himself looking for the dwarf, consciously and not. Thought of the stray bit of gossip they would laugh raucously over with drinks in hand later / only to remember that their usual rituals were put on pause. Drank in the evenings and found himself wanting for his usual company. Small things / minuscule things / the unimportant nagging of his mind which amounted to him being very acutely aware of the fact that Varric was missing from his life.

A strange thing to come to terms with.

Perhaps it isn’t so strange after all, however. They’re hardly attached at the hip, but they had their day to day routine which generally involved each other / in one way or another. On some level or another. Varric is his friend, and while that thought is still ill—fitting in his mind he’s hardly oblivious to the bare fact thereof. One of his closest friends / one of the people closest to him, dead stop.

Something that he has come to terms with. For the most part.

❝ But, yes ——— I suppose I have missed you, ❞ blatant honesty still fits on his tongue oddly, for all that his delivery remains as grandiose and broad as ever / he’s an adept learner and pretender, after all. Even in front of Varric’s shrewd eyes and the crooked curve of his nose and the shit eating grin on his face. ❝ The fault lies entirely with you, by the by. Playing cards with anyone else is dreadfully boring, now, ❞ delivered with a sniff, as if he’s been gravely offended by this transgression.

❝ For that you owe me at least two drinks tonight, Varric. ❞

[idolbound]

3-5 Things Survey    

The rules are simple: for each of the below items, fill in three to five things that your character might be identified by. After that, repost and tag away!

Tagged by the effervescent @gentlejack​ Tagging: @extravagantliar​ @chiefambassador​ @whalefelled​ for Shepard, @milfyclaus​

Emotions/Feelings: Confidence. Control. Powerful. Distant. Cruel. 

Greetings: A raise of the eyes in acknowledgement. A nod. A firm handshake. A bow of the head.

Colors: Blood red. Gold. Silver. Lyrium blue.

Scents: Lyrium. Forged steel. Leather. Faint traces of personal floral perfume.

Clothing: Chantry robes. Plate armour. Leather gloves and boots. Breeches. Red hood.

Objects: Greatswords. Lyrium kit. Andraste’s circlet crown. 

Vices and Bad Habits: Overly righteous. Violent. Excessive cruelty. Hypersexual habits. Habitual wine enjoyer. 

Good habits: Protective. Caring of those closest to her. Devoted to Andraste and the Maker. Competent. 

Body Language: Upright and stiff, but walks with a purpose; hard and stern stares. Raspy, loud orders barked; yet, soft spoken in private. 

Aesthetic: Religious imagery (and blasphemy); paladin/white knight hero; ‘she glittered like the sun but her heart was ice’; a ‘tall, handsome woman.’

[lastbled]

@extravagantliar liked.

What kind of friend is she, that she finds her friend suffering, and she wonders which of her sins haunt him?  Is it Bartrand, however many years dead he may be?  Is it some other ache, just as deep, just as sick?  Some other curse she’s caused him?  Either way ------------

Hawke is not good.  But she loves him.

“If you must mourn,” she mutters, settling into the seat at his side, “don’t do it alone.”

[chmpn--a2]

@extravagantliar  ❤’d  !

“Caterpillars have more muscles than humans but I’d like to see one try to fight me and see what happens.”