#prophetries

[kinlochs]

WARRANT OUT FOR @prophetries ' ARREST!

JAIL!!!!!!! JAIL FOR 1000 YEARS!!!!!!!!

[hoboblaidd]

Does your muse read smut romance ? (I need to know if he reads the Randy Dowager Quarterly ironically)

ask memes | romance headcanon meme

Oh he absolutely does. I imagine Elvhenan had some incredible epic romance novels and poems, and modern Thedas has some wonderful tragic romance books. He's got the heart of an artist - he loves a good romance. Unironically, he thought Varric's romances were good light reading. He greatly enjoys the Randy Dowager Quarterly and thinks it's hilarious. He less enjoyed Inquisition Exposed, because the inaccuracies annoyed him (I can't find that art someone did of him annotating it, but he did), but he also found it hilarious. Even smut he reads but in the same way a dad laughs on a roller coaster - he finds it funny.

[coryphcus]

@prophetries sent:

❛  you're wrong.  ❜

"Yet here you stand before me, almost as if under the pretense that I am to have any such care for whatever preconceived notion you carry."

"You hold an awful habit of showing up where it is you aren't wanted. Unfortunate that your condition all those years ago had not been the end of you."

[redemptior]

“do you remember our encounter in paris the emprise du lion?” / for imshael

"AH, HOW could i forget? you, so pious, so steadfast in your conviction; and i, ever the gracious host, offering you the most generous of choices.

                              that band of merry whelps that lick at your heels may not have sensed your hesitation, but i found it most... illuminating. do you find yourself thinking of our little dilemma often, o, holy herald? do you dream of what could have been had you made a different choice?"

ASK ME(ME)

[fadewalking]

@prophetries - Liked the starter call.

An empty Cobbled Swan was something Emmrich would never get used to. He’d only experienced it once before, during a prior meeting where he’d lingered in the background while Rook spoke with the Inquisitor. For a place known for its noise and bustle to be so starkly deserted was... unnerving. More so, ironically, than the halls of the Necropolis had ever felt to him, even in his youth.

He adjusted the collar of his cloak, setting it back into place. First impressions mattered, and while Rook had assured him he looked fine, he couldn’t shake the nagging urge to fuss with his attire. Sure, he’d seen her briefly before, but this was different. She hadn’t asked for Rook or the Veilguard. She’d asked for him.

When Rook had informed him of who had requested his audience, he’d thought it a prank. But no—it was real, and it was on account of some particularly restless haunting somewhere in the south. Emmrich was only too happy, and more than a little flattered, to agree to offer whatever advice he could.

A quick scan of the empty room revealed her, seated in a corner. His boots clicked softly against the wooden floor as he closed the distance between them before offering his greeting.

“Madame Inquisitor—ah, Herald—or, uh...” What was the proper way to address her, and how had it escaped his mind to ask Rook or Harding beforehand? He internally scolded himself, clearing his throat to smother his flustered fumblings. “Apologies. It’s not every day one meets the woman who saved all of Thedas.”

He extended his hand. “Emmrich Volkarin, Senior Watcher of the Necropolis and specialist in Fade-bound phenomena. I’m positively humbled to make your formal acquaintance.”

[calperna]

the cobbled swan is quiet in an unnatural way ; the usual buzz of chat, the sound of music being played - all dead and buried. it can only mean one thing, really ... that it has been unnaturally cleared. calpernia curses that she had not noticed until the barkeep had slid out from behind the bar that she was mostly alone. mostly. "inquisitor," calpernia greets without turning, "i did not know you had intended a meeting with rook. if they are who you seek, i am quite sorry to report that your intel has failed you. i am the only one here."

@prophetries

[berthindeath]

@prophetries SUCCEEDS IN FLUSTERING GWEN

“ ‘Rook,’ ” she tuts, tucking a strand of hair like liquid ink behind Gwendolyn’s ear. “ What an ignoble appellation. You deserve something with more gravitas. Like…Deathsinger. Wolfsbane. ” Her warm, dry hand comes to cup her face as the Inquisitor gazes deep into her eyes, as if the answer is to be found there. “ Come with me to the Frostbacks, my darling. We will go to the Avvar and have the augurs give you a name you deserve. ”

They sit so dangerously close, Gwendolyn's arm drapes across the lounge chaise, but it is bent at the elbow as the backs of her fingers ever so gently brushes over Evelyn's cheek. A quiet indulgence, one that she's longed for since she'd left for the Hossberg Wetlands. Her return almost immediately draw to find her.

And in this quiet she notices the way the other woman seems suddenly struck with thought. Gwen's touch continues in it's feather-like decadence, thick brows tightening before she speaks, " What trouble's you, dragostea mea? "

But what follows seems to strip the air from her lungs. Evelyn's touch, so delicate as it brushes hair from her face as declarations of her title being unfit for her worth fall like dulcet tones. It's unexpectedly swift in it's confidence, this praise. As it then marries the cup of her hand to the swell of her cheek. Grander titles are offered along with it, but all Gwen can see is her. Words feel unworthy of what she feels, the prospect of their remaining together on offer and all she need do is agree. Her heart thunders in her chest, trying to break free, trying to reach her.

" I would travel to the ends of the earth, at your calling. " Her voice like silk as her touch drifts passed Evelyn's cheek to weave into her loosened braid. The distance feels cavernous and unbearable, she can no longer stand the longing. Gwendolyn banishes the void between them as she draws their lips together.

Finally.

Her kiss is the clarity of her affections, that Evelyn could ask her to traverse all of Thedas, and she would do it. Home had always been a fleeting notion in her life, wherever she may rest her head. And she would wish for Evelyn's lap so that she might rest her head there for good.

Gwendolyn's free hand drives up the other woman's back, leading her close until she could fit her astride her lap. She frames Evelyn's face in soft palms, thumbs sweeping her cheeks as she draws their kiss briefly apart, but they still continue to brush as Gwendolyn deeply whispers, " Might I explore you first? "

[idolbound]

“i keep praying, and praying, and praying.”

@prophetries | unprompted.

"And so you shall."

A deep exhale marks the end of a simple statement that conveys their lived truth; to serve under the Maker and Andraste is to pray, to heed the Chant as it is written, and to keep the faith.

Yet, in the years after Kirkwall, living in exile after an unheard call to the Maker for His aid, the foundation of her faith had been shaken, cracked to the core and made unsteady, and uncertain. Days had passed, surviving both physical injury and gradual withdrawal of lyrium when supplies ran out - until supplies could be found once more. Each passing minute was always spent praying, asking the Maker forgiveness for her sins, to be accepted as one of His again.

And in a way, the Maker guided her feet through the treacherous Frostbacks, step by step; being humbly accepted by the Herald herself (who kneels here beside her, in the makeshift Chantry, at the feet of their beloved Andraste), has been nothing short of a miracle — it has renewed faith where it was once lost.

"Even in my darkest hours, I called upon the Maker as you do now... it led me here, to face your judgement, and to serve again."

The events of Adamant have lingered heavily; even for Meredith, who has seen demons and abominations in her time, had not expected Wardens to sacrifice those of their own order. Left fighting, there had only been so much she and the others could do as Evelyn and the others had fallen into the fade — an experience she cannot begin to fathom nor comprehend.

My faith has even returned me to my love, she thinks, but does not say; though for those who pay attention, there is a reason for her to smile now, within these old, old walls.

Then, a cautious hand - one that had never quite been so affectionate - raises to the younger woman's shoulder, weathered and calloused fingers squeezing against it. While Evelyn had provided the means to earn her salvation under the Inquisition's banner, Meredith cannot help but to see her own experience reflected — an ascension through rank and responsibilities at a young age, unexpected to hold such a station — and in some ways, asserts an inner maternal desire, to support and advise her, all the same.

"There are those who stand behind you, not just for your title or what you represent, but those who truly believe in you. You may bear the burden of the mark, but you do not bear it alone, Evelyn."

A pause follows, and the hand falls away; she stays, however, even as the hour drags on into the cold, cold night. There is a small, encouraging smile on her scarred face (where her failures live so all can see - yet she survives, still).

"I am unsure what that may be worth to hear it from me...but it is true."

[avalior]

@prophetries skydweller

"It's getting harder and harder to stand tall." Still the blood of Minrathous lay thick upon his hands, seeping beneath bone and nail, beaten armour and shielding humour, 'til only dreadful red remained. Though Neve had since returned, still Arturo remember the beaten frame of the Viper, the vicious glare writ plain upon Tarquin's countenance, and the cold disappointment upon Neve's.

I thought I could be faster! I was always going to help Minrathous--

-- We just weren't top of the list.

You've brought nothing but trouble since you came back!

"How did you do it? When you had to make a choice you thought was right, only to find out it wasn't?" Dark eyes cast downward, hands picking nervously at nails, wringing at his fingers. "Sorry, I shouldn't ask that; you're the Inquisitor."

[tobebrutal]

@prophetries ♡ s.c.

serve the inquisition. it's an echo by the time its sank in ; poor judgement. poor taste when the blood of the dead still stain the soles of his boots and even stripped of his armor , samson leaks the acrid glow of red lyrium now tight to his bones. he feels it in the bends of his fingers.. in knuckles blanched when cell bars are gripped and the inquisitor , just beyond reach , has idled. " gotta say , y'er not gonna be winnin' many people over with this one. " what she was liable to've guessed when the hush died in the hold and somewhere , at the back of the hall , a woman wept loudly. a few well - earned curses for flavor. " all t' have me scrubbin' ya piss pots , aye , inquisitor ? "

[grcvewctcher]

"You've a surgeon's hands, Professor. All the laws of life and death, your eager patients." || @prophetries

The words catch him entirely unawares, and Emmrich pauses, blinking rapidly as he processes the compliment. The words are.. Achingly sweet, in truth, and observant, even while they push the line from banter into pure flattery- flirtatious beyond what he had expected from Evelyn.

He turns to look at her, clearing his throat even as he feels his cheeks burn redder. "... You have... A beautiful manner with words, truly. Anyone should count themselves lucky to be the object of your observation as such."

[hoboblaidd]

[ APPROVAL ] + endorsing vivienne to be the new divine 🫣

ask meme | solas greatly (dis)approves

Solas passed the eminently smug face of the Inquisition’s First Enchanter as he stalked out of the rotunda. As he always did when he was angry, or troubled, or generally annoyed at the goings on of Skyhold, he sought out Varric.

“You look happy,” Varric chuckled, already pulling out the glasses he kept stashed for them for just such occasions.

“Whatever you have that’s strongest,” said Solas, “and in most abundance.”

“I got your back, Chuckles.”

Whatever the glare of disapproval Solas levied at Inquisitor Trevelyan was lacking in focus, it more than made up for in vitriol.

Solas GREATLY disapproves.

[thanatologie]

@prophetries - 🌺 I think Emmrich would be fond of poetry.  send me a headcanon/fact about emmrich - i'll rate it / accepting

10 / 10, he is, in fact, a huge fan of poetry (and it's why i use shelley and byron on like…all of his info everywhere, if you were wondering, because i think it's funny in a way).

but to go you one better, here's a codex about it:

not only does he enjoy poetry, he acts as a patron to poets he particularly enjoys.

[redemptior]

[[ shuffle starter ]]

falling for you | weezer

"I'VE GOT a number of irrational fears that I'd like to share with you"

@prophetries

[coryphcus]

@prophetries

How long had it been?

He doesn't know, but he can only guess. Not to mention that the time in the Fade passed far differently compared to the world outside of it. Time and time again, he'd find her. Or she'd find him. But the end result was always the same.

A chase. Exchanged insults. And violence. It was practically a dance routine.

And it was more often than not a constant repeated cycle. Haven, in its former glory, where everything was restored and placed back in order before its destruction. For whatever reason, the Inquisitor had a fondness of that stain on the map.

And each dream, each time he would find her, it would end all the same--in its destruction by his hand.

He would do it again and again ad nauseum, if just to drive the point home that he was death, that he was ruination, and he was powerful.

Each and every time, buildings would collapse, and it would become tainted in scarlet red crystals, jagged edges that were like blood. This dreamscape on a damn near perfect one to one replica minus all the bodies that he could so wickedly be tying up on strings with forced infection.

She dreams again tonight.

And he stands at the edge of the small and empty civilization.

Waiting for her.

[afraidofchange]

[ TENSION ]  one muse is patching up the other’s injuries which leads to intense eye contact,  lingering touches and them finally crashing their lips against each other’s.  ( for cass lmfaoooooo)

@prophetries | smutty literature.

A visible wince crosses the Seeker's features; it is not the first wound she has experienced, nor will it be the last, but the placement of it -- a blade thrust just below her breast plate, cutting through layers of fabric and slicing into the skin along the curve of her waist -- makes this more painful than it needs to be.

Thankfully, the laceration is not deep nor that long, but still needs tending to. Her discarded, torn tunic lays cast aside in a heap. Evelyn hovers above with bandage strips cut to size to lay once she has finished stitching the wound together. Numbed with ground elfroot, it still doesn't remove the sting of the needle guiding thread through the flesh.

There's an apology on the Inquisitor's face, but Cassandra turns her head, gritting teeth and clenching her jaw; her calloused hands grip the side of the cot until her knuckles turn white.

I'll be fine.

"Maker," She sighs when she turns her gaze back to Evelyn, whose careful hands cut the thread, and tie a knot. It aches but she is thankful it was only skin deep rather than a puncture affecting internal organs or bleeding too profusely. "That had bite," Cassandra remarks with a soft huff of a laugh beneath her breath. The Inquisitor smiles at that, and for a moment, she feels her face become warm, which she cannot blame on the near campfire.

Soon, those same careful hands begin to bandage the wound, requiring Evelyn to first place individual strips of bandage across the site carefully before then wrapping the material around Cassandra's midsection. Sat up and balancing her weight on one hand placed behind herself, the Seeker's breath catches as Evelyn draws herself impossibly closer -- close enough to feel the warmth of her breath against her sternum, her chin. The first pass makes Cassandra grunt a little with the added pressure to the wound, but the second?

It somehow brings the other woman impossibly closer, to get the better angle on the wrap of the bandage. Yet as deft hands come to secure it in place, Evelyn does not draw away, meeting her gaze -- and from so close, she can see the divot between her brows, the flecks of colour in her eyes, and the pleasantly plushness of her lips. Such tensions had been thought to be imagined, at times during their adventures, but as Evelyn draws closer even still, Cassandra decides then that they have not been fiction at all, cautiously moving in the space between until they meet. At first, tentative, but soon, eager; her free hand comes to press against Evelyn's chest, fingers tugging at the fabric of her shirt to keep her close, as such a kiss deepens into something more, like that of her fabled Swords & Shields.