#extravagantliar

[martyrmarked]

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑, the fact that she must sneak around like a trespasser within her own camp. the usual process has already taken place, the announcement that she's retiring for the evening followed by blowing out what candles flicker within her tent, and waiting for a vaguely acceptable amount of time before slipping from the back of it towards the tent that always seems to be placed near her own. once certain that the inquisition's scouts and the few guards lingering on watch have turned their attention elsewhere, sidri swiftly glides between loosened tarps and laces them tightly shut behind her.

❝ do you think it's that i've become stealthier or that the inquisition's guards are just worse? ❞ despite the aches that run bone deep, the exhaustion knit into the fibre of her muscles, a bright smile appears as flicks back her hood. a few steps forward and a lingering kiss is pressed to his cheek. ❝ i can see why it's easy for you, varric, but i hardly have the decades of practice you possess. ❞

somehow, miraculously, any space he inhibits has the wondrous effect of relaxing her. it is hardly his room within the skyhold, lacks the roaring hearth and piles of parchment, but this tent is still his space and she can smell the sandalwood along his jaw and, for that, the tension melts from her shoulders and a quiet sigh of contentment falls from her lips. moving to shrug off her cloak and set it aside, sidri looks over her shoulder smugly. ❝ i caught you lying today. did you think i wouldn't notice? i'd expect it from you towards cassandra, but dorian? somewhat surprising.❞ @extravagantliar

[orxna]

HC + aspirations

Send HC + a word for a headcanon || Accepting || @extravagantliar

Orana!! Wants!! To Make!! Her School!!!!!

I’ve said this several times before but I don’t know how much I’ve really gone into detail but Orana wants to make a school for liberati and otherwise liberated slaves from the Tevinter Empire. She was incredibly unprepared for the world when she first got her freedom and now as an adult she doesn’t want others to feel that way! She wants to give people a safe environment to learn to be people the way Hawke did for her.

Politically, this is a very hard task and I think that it’s possible that through like, Varric’s position as Viscount she probably does get something going on a small scale. I like to think maybe she manages to turn the Hawke Estate, should Hawke have no interest in coming back to live full time, into a sort of halfway house for slaves like her. Varric would probably take care of anyone being Too Concerned about all the ‘vints and elves’ hanging around Hightown whether through bribes or threats.

The only verse where she might be able to start something in a larger context would probably be her Herald verse where politically she herself would have enough sway to not immediately get shut down by those concerned about her amassing a number of freed people at that scale. However, she is also incredibly emotionally damaged in the verse and while she might facilitate the creation of such a school she very much is not in the right state of mind to run it as she might have wanted to.

[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 !

[avrorean]

@extravagantliar. hc + justice ↳send hc + a word

No one after the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry would believe Nanna if she were to speak of Justice's virtues, or the spirit that she had known. Not that she could blame them, in light of things that happened, but it makes her sad regardless to see what he's seen as now. And what he became in the end.

Amaranthine was a hard time for Nanna. On top of all these and rulership she was never trained to deal with, she struggled to connect to the new group of companions that were following her about calling her 'Commander'. The only one remaining from her travels, Oghren, was spiraling so hard into an alcoholic abyss that she feared even a nudge of her problems would push him over the edge.

The only one she really made a solid connection to at first was Justice. He was stalwart and immutable, at least at first, but straightforward in a way that was relieving in her current circumstance. And then as he opened up more about the world... it reminded her of how she was at the start of the blight. Why she grew to love it too.

"The spirits consider mortals beyond their reach, and beyond help. They do not understand. We are wrong about this world. There is beauty here... and the mortals, they are worth saving."

She wishes that this was the spirit that more people could have known. The spirit that waxed poetic about the beauty of the mortal world, the connection he felt to its people. How his idea of justice in many cases was redemptive, to act in penance rather than execution. She wishes the world he grew to love had been kinder to him.

[endawn]

unlocal man who has fought a god and godlike beings keeps getting adopted. more at 11.

[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."

[fearindulgence]

Fingers traced circles over the wooden grain beneath them as Deimos weighed the questions; truly - honestly - he cared little whether or not Varric was tasked so much as to take a shit floating in the middle of the Rialto Bay. And as for belief? Well. Fifty-fifty on that. But… A roll of the eyes and he leans back in his seat.

“I’d much rather you begged. I need to feel something, you know.”

It would be far easier to dip into his mind, read his thoughts directly, pluck each thought apart strand by entwined strand until he found the answers he sought; although one of his favourite things to do, it wouldn’t go over so well in such graciously polite company. Half gloved fingers traced the grooves of wood grain as thoughts were mulled over, stopping shy at the edge of parchment.

“Allow me to cash that favour now. Let me into your mind. I’ve some lost time to catch up with you, after all. Let's say we skip the formalities,” If he was whispering before, he was practically telepathic at this point.

“You let me in to that itty bitty dwarvish brain of yours to pick apart the necessary information required, and perhaps I’ll save you a week’s nonstop journey to the Imperium so you may ask on them yourself.”

Because I’m feeling generous.

The way the tone shifts between them, the way Deimos becomes sharper - like the knife he knows is hidden deep in one of the man's boots. It all reminds him that this isn't just a tune repeating itself, it's that great thrum of time that they are all not immune to. There is a humour in how they got to this point - this strange friendship. Well, that wasn't entirely true ( they had bonded over one does, a well placed barb and a well placed knife ).

"My money has never been good to you." True, true enough - they had always repaid one another in favour, reminding one another when they had so selflessly placed their neck on the line for the other. They've also made other wagers, bets, and favours as payments throughout the years - but rather than continuing the thought of payment, he diverts for a moment, "Would you believe me if I told you I was looking for someone? Would you believe me if I told you I was tasked?" He wasn't truly as if Sidri would send him out into the world for this; this was of his own - selfish volition.

Then, and only then - there is payment, "What about a favour - or I can remind you, who saved your ass the last time we did anything together." A pause, a smile, "Don't make me beg; you know who this is for."

[hoboblaidd]

Solas' Physical Characteristics during Inquisition

The Dread Wolf comes in humble guises. During Inquisition, most of how Solas presents himself - demeanor, sound, smell, etc. - is an affect. He's selling a lie. He does have little tells, but nothing that would shatter the humble veneer.

Physically he's unassuming and "nondescript." Solas is taller than the average elf, but he compensates by making himself look small. He uses the Apostate Slouch™ : his posture is poor, he keeps his arms to his side, and leans his head slightly forward. He's broad shouldered, but he masks this by turning slightly inward. When he disapproves or feels strongly, however, he straightens with his arms behind his back.

Solas is quiet when he walks, such that you might forget he's there or become startled if he appeared behind you. Barefeet help with this, but it's also the way he carries himself. He tries to be more of a shadow than a spotlight. His gait is simple, not confident. His stride matches the pace of whoever he's traveling with such that he's always lagging just behind the entire group.

His voice is soft and melodic. It gets sharper when he's angry or passionate, but he reins it in quickly. Solas chooses his words deliberately even when speaking about something innocuous so that if pressed, it's not atypical for him to take his time articulating an answer.

Solas is always observing, almost as much as Bull does. His eyes will narrow and sharpen when he's thinking. He keeps very pointed eye contact when talking with someone. Though he may occasionally look down in grief, it's more like he's mourning the idea of something rather than his own memory.

Solas smells like the rich tones of (decaf) coffee. He smells like study - old books, the burning wick of a scentless candle. He smells like ruins - light rain on stone, the smell of a cold night that promises snowfall. Underneath it all is a faint hint of something like frankincense, a scent that one might associate with the Fade.

Magic is something as comfortable to him as breathing, and he often forgets to act as self-taught with only ~40 years' experience. It's noticeable. So Solas compensates by making frequent little mistakes, like "accidentally" lighting his cloak on fire.

[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​. 

[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.

[tewwor]

*undertaker gong* enter tombstone ( accepting ) — @extravagantliar

Today starts like any other. The barely functioning OPEN sign blinks into existence. Swathes of fabric are already strewn about. A low rhythmic thrum of machine punched needle and thread sets a steady pace — acts as ambient music where there lacks a radio. Tombstone’s always favored the whir of his sewing machine than AM yabbering or overplayed music anyways.

Five new custom orders from yesterday.. Two of which are due within a week’s time…. The remaining three can stall until the month’s end….. Couple those with a few dozen or so minor alterations.. Royal gold thread is snipped and tied in one fluid motion as he ponders the day’s schedule. Won’t be the most relaxing, but the same can be said about it not being the busiest, too. A knuckle pushes the very edge of his readers further up the nose when — tinkle, clang!

Oh, someone’s arrived.

A mess of white streaked hair pokes from around the clothes stacked divider. “Morning— welcome, pickin’ up or lookin’ to inquire?”

[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. ❜

[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~

[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

[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​