#wilyways

[shorelinesiren]

ooc: 

-rolls about, still hating the text editor- I wanted so badly to leave Tumblr RP because of this; I hate it, but there's nowhere else to write and I miss my Tumblr DARP family. Can things just go back to the way they were? :c

[redemptior]

"I heard you spent all of your templar stipend on hair product and furry coats."

           ”Perhaps I should take after y o u r lead and smear            blood across my face like a murderous toddler.”

[rebelllum-blog]

✿

15: last kiss

              They can call it book-ends; the first and the last —— a meeting of the lips so they could say it’s been over and done with. Acknowledge that it had happened, that the meeting of their lips here was real. Physical, and noted. Something that could be remembered. (as he had wanted to be remembered.)

               Words don’t have to exist between them both — not for this. There was nothing to be said, nothing that needed saying. And even if there had been, there was no air in either of them that was strong enough to expel it, spit it out. Breathlessly, they come together. Fingers at shoulders, hands in hair. (she cut it. he’s not sure if he likes it on her or if he doesn’t. he’ll lean towards does. it gives her a kind of wily aura; all half-smiles and wry jokes —— yes, yes. he likes it.)

                He’s not sure if she’ll never come back. In his heart, he can’t imagine why she would. There is nothing to keep her in Skyhold. Not Varric, not him, not the tempting idea of rekindled heroism in the form of shutting down an old enemy. Hawke was never known for her ability to stay put. A fugitive at heart, he’d say. Maybe she’d laugh.

                Maybe neither of them can laugh anymore. Maybe there’s no more room for that ——— filled up by everything else. Loss, and Kirkwall, and Kirkwall’s losses. He wouldn’t be surprised. He doesn’t think she would, either.

                It isn’t chaste, the kiss before the end. Sloppy and scratchy (for his part) and hot and messy. A kiss that should’ve happened years ago, when they could both pretend at contentment, or happiness, or find their laughter as it lay in their bellies, now squashed under the chill of the mountains. (or their personal chills, the stony nature of champions and martyrs — the moment before history forgets the person and remembers the statue.)

                The thing about champions and martyrs is that they’re not supposed to make any grand returns except unto history, where they become a part of the typeface, the content, the nomenclature. Personhood ends at great and infamous deeds. They both always knew that. 

                 When they part, Anders doesn’t tell her to come back. 

                                                                                       In his heart, he knows she won’t.

[fearnothingness-blog]

wilyways replied to your post:; update [[MOR] So i decided I’ll be ditching...

( t w e n t y s e v e n freyja )

( l o v e  m e  bri )

[butilikemyhats-blog-blog]

☁

☁ :Describe how they would spend a stormy, overcast/rainy day.

Cole shivered as drops of water dripped down off of the brim of his hat; he was soaked to the bone, the wind rendering the wide brim all but useless against the downpour. This wasn't where he wanted to be, for obvious reasons, but it was where he needed to.

Carefully removing a blanket from the leather satchel on his back - thankfully dry - he laid it over the urchin child sleeping under the eaves of the tavern; the tiny boy pulled it tightly around himself, warmer and dryer for it. His nightmares easing, Cole smiled.

No, there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

[unwantedheir]

wilyways replied to your post:solas probably smokes herbs that relaxes him buT...

( same shit gandalf smokes tbh )

YEAH

[nocencia]

( wilyways )

Stories always seemed to weave themselves in different fashions and there was no finer cryer of legends than embellishment.  Yet some lived up to their namesake and others merely a shadow, a husk of what was in fortune gilded favor. Her life had taught her never to make much of heroes, even if some decided to bestow such a title upon her -- a surfacer dwarf, a former member of the Carta and yet she finds minor interest piqued at the Champion of Kirkwall ; what a grandiose tale sung rather humorously by their other resident dwarf.

Her chin finds purchase against the hollow of a scarred palm, tiers of carmine shade pursing. Thick brows knit as the other's voice filters through the air and she finds attention rapt ever slightly. There was nothing left to be desired from this woman before and if anything, she hadn't been nearly as irritating as Varric had perhaps described her as ( gore for glory and horrendous jokes aside ) . However, intrigue over her past bade the dwarven lass to speak, 

                     " Varric tells me you were once part of a smuggling                      organization. You don't seem the type though clearly                      it worked out for you                                          . . .                       How did the Champion of Kirkwall start off like that? "

Amusement lays thick in the former-Carta's voice, cheeks dimpling in the faintest twinge of a smirk. Such a calling used to be her line of work and who was to say that she wasn't a little... Nostalgic? 

[tethrxs-archive-blog]

✿ B)

kiss meme; ( 12 ) GHOST KISS status: still accepting. 

He cannot say that he dreams. Dwarves simply don’t. Not that he would want to anyway,  not after the trip in the Fade, not after the events of Adamant, not after — … A body weakened slumps and sighs against a ridged back post of a chair far too large, papers skittering across a broad lap, and he finds not the energy to pick those that slipped from his grasp. He doesn’t find the energy to do much these days. Is this what humans call wallowing?

Shame and guilt ball thickly in his throat, choking whatever pale grievances of thought he may have left of paper the days prior. What he should have done, what he could have done — those were thoughts that didn’t matter anymore and he could not find anger to place on anyone but himself. Not even the Wardens who so trounced through halls like they deserved to be there. When he knew there was only one person who had the right.  

Teeth grit painfully when his jaw clicks and tapered, glove fingers move to tap against scarred lips. And how damnable does idle thought come forthright, how quickly he sinks back down right from where everyone tried to hold him up. He, in the back of his mind ( like some clawing beast ravaging his head ), knew the day would come when he would lose everything and everyone the dwarf deemed family.

He just didn’t think it would arrive so quickly and with such vengeance. 

And he thinks on how she had always look pretty to him, whether soaked to the bones in blood. It seemed to wash away all the pretense that she carried, the borne legend that seeped inside her very soul and infected those around her. Suffering and conquering is how she laid herself bare, through weeps and wails, a battlecry that no other could mimic. For behind all that humor she trounced bloomed a champion that not even his quill could hope to describe ( and yet he did, for everyone to know her just as he did ) .

His thumb pricks with softer pain, teeth gnawing down on it. Is it now that he truly wonders about her? A possibility of confessions and plaintive murmurings. Should he ever even told her that he stood in awe, in rapture, in affection? He could hear her now ’ i wouldn’t want to get in bianca’s way ’ — a devilish coo, a half hearted chuckle, and how he wishes he may have had the fortitude to push that lonesome love aside in favor of some one who always stood, not before, but aside to him. A woman who never questioned his equal valor or importance.  

What would it have been like to press his mouth against hers, to put his hands upon her waist, to feel callused pads run through his hair? Her name a benediction on his life, sweeter than anything. Not Hawke, but Aela, he could mumble aloud in to the nook of her neck, peppering wants and wishes along there with a fever no man alive could muster but him.

What would have it bee like to just be with her?

He curses aloud, biting down hard enough to bleed, and he does. Liquid pools beneath a tawny glove and his thumb throbs. Quickly, he removes the offending cloth ( that clearly lulled him into a false sense of security), only to watch as rivulets of blood simply splatter against renditions and letters to the rest of their friends.

It’s then he realizes, that he will never know what any of that will ever feel like. 

[necroxantic]

[wile e coyote] 

       "By the Dread Wolf, Aela!"            The brunette jumped, having not heard the other approaching.            A hand over heart in an attempt to soothe the quickened beats from the shock.             "I will never get used to that"

[idlefxncies]

     "If you've a moment between one excruciatingly      bad joke and the next, there is work to be done..."

           Morrigan's voice could be heard at the distance from which she came, slowly, down the hallway, clearly contented enough to keep a pace of her own in the midst of hurrying others along. Ochre eyes were fixed upon the armoured blonde, as to not send the poor young woman into a state of confusion based upon a notion as simple as, Who is she talking to?

[ataashe]

wilyways liked for starter

 [ Comfortable & slouched as he was in his seat by the fireplace,    Iron Bull seemed not to notice the approach of the human    until she was near enough to share the fire's heat.    He recognized her easily enough, though they'd not been in    close quarters for more than passing acknowledgement.     Hair cut like Dalish; Friendly with Varric.                    { And the Champion of Kirkwall, if Bull's information was right.                                                                                                        Which it was }    Angling his horns, the Qunari lifted the tankard resting on his stomach in greeting. ] 

                                  "-- come to drink with me, Hawke?"

[rebelllum-blog]

18, 19, 20

What made you want to join the roleplaying community?

( I joined out of curiosity? I've only been roleplaying for a year now, and I only started because I'd seen roleplayers on my dash before and I thought it looked like a fun idea. I've had my ups and downs in this community, but far more ups than downs, and I don't regret joining it for a second. ) 

What one piece of literature has been most inspirational/life changing for you? Why?

( I can't pick anything in particular. I've been heavily inspired by the works of Murakami, Kafka, Nabokov and Fitzgerald -- which is sort of reflected in my prose -- but other than that? I can't pick much of anything. I read just about everything, and it's all pushed me towards cultivating my own style. I learned how to write from reading so much, from taking in so much. Everything I've read has left a fairly indelible mark on me. ) 

Who are your top three favorite fictional characters and why?

( Anders is my favorite because I relate very personally to him as a character. I share a lot of his traits -- both negative and positive -- and as a character who isn't neurotypical, whose symptoms and attitudes are meant to reflect the worst, most debilitating parts of Bipolar Disorder, I've become really attached to him. I see myself in Anders, every awful parallel, and it makes him as a character really important to me. I think the game and the developers treat him very ------ awfully. The villainization of Anders rubs me the wrong way, even if I understand why characters react to him like they do, since he did do something terrible, but overall? I connect to him positively, rather than negatively. My other two favorites switch out every other month, but Anders is always going to be my favorite character. That's never going to change. ) 

[healerapostate]

wilyways replied to your post:there’s a cat named Ser Pounce in Game Of Thrones...

// I HEARD SER POUNCE And my friend and I DIED

// I K R

[shorelinesiren]

"So, you want to play games?"

     ”Games?” Isabela released a dark roll of a chuckle, gaze swiveling towards the other woman. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, “Hawke, sweetheart… if this was a game, I would be winning.”