martyriium-archive-blog

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                                                  Sometimes I feel                                           What silence best describes                                      So what can the broken ever say?                 Independent General Samson from the Dragon Age Series                | highly selective | please read rules before interacting |

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I jumped on the bandwagon with the archetype quiz and..

Samson is the master traits: determined, obsessive, powerful, charismatic, confident, rash, challenging the master is most commonly used to symbolize the antagonist, or the upper hand. while they aren't inherently the bad guys, their determination and ability to plan ahead can be twisted into something akin to evil. while that is a strong possibility in literature, their charisma and confidence can be utilized to create a strong idea and even an idea for the good side. many masters were the catalysts of revolutions, sparking hope and motivation. masters are extremely rash in their decisions, no matter how meticulous their planning may be. they tend to follow their instincts, and it's a good thing that they're so quick on their feet, otherwise, many of the challenges they face might have become uglier than expected. 

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@tempestri

“Inquisitor... I know it’s not in my place to ask but -” And yet he still reached out to the woman, deciding he had nothing to lose even if his request was denied. When the dwarf did not need him, he usually hurdled up by the forge, trying to stay close to its warmth to chase the chill from his aching bones.  When the Inquisitor entered the atelier, he watched her from weary eyes. An old blanket was draped around his broad shoulders, he used one hand to keep it in place when he got up to approach her - not too much.  He knew that his presence was not welcome. 

“.... I would like to visit my parents’ grave before I die. If there is a possibility to do so. They lie buried in Ansburg, Cullen and anyone else will confirm you that.” Was it so wrong to assume that his account would not be trusted? Whatever he did would certainly be twisted against him. People assumed each of his words and acts must be fueled by malicious intent. But the truth was... he was probably older than his age, and oh so weary of this world and its people. Yet he would feel better having seen home one last time before his end came. 

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songoflyrium:

“Never figured you’d be sentimental, Samson. We may have been friends once, but it feels like that was a lifetime ago. Look at yourself, look at what you have done to the Order.”

He was bitter and angry.

“Why? Why work for Corypheus? What did he offer?”

He couldn’t fathom why so many people followed that monster. A corrupted, not-even-human-anymore, ancient magister. Did he use blood magic to control them?

“Oh, you’ll soon realize that I am the most sentimental old fucker you’ll find ‘round here.” His laugh was stuck in his throat rough and dry. A part of him felt deeply betrayed-  Cullen, who had once been such a bright lad, now... he did not see. He did not understand. Samson swallowed hard and simply got up again from his crouching position. 

“And what did the chantry offer to you? What did this whole fucking world offer to you? To me? To a single templar? We did their bloody work and what for? Did a single templar die or go mad for a greater purpose? all we did was a waste of time, of life, of sanity, of .... everything.”

He gestured almost wildly. “This whole world’s like that. Some things are so bad, all you can do is burn them down and hope something better will grow out of it one day.” 

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wildmageling:

Birdie’s lips twitch again, as if the child is trying very hard to hide a smile. He coughs a little too, his small shoulders shaking a bit. Then he takes a deep breath and replies, calm as a stone, his blue eyes dancing.

~They will be alive. Corniog’s people… they steal humans because they need our blood.~ A pause. ~Not in the magic’s sense. They were… humans once. A long time ago, before the Veil. They… need to mate with us, to inject human blood in their bloodline, lest they become too spirit and This World becomes close to them.~

The child inclines his head, looking at Samson as if to make sure he understand. Again, his lips twitch.

~Oh, it is as bad as it sounds~ He reassures Samson cheerfully. ~But we need not to depart today. The Clan Mother gives us hospitality. We can rest warmly, and go tomorrow.~

"No, no, no. One is a person, or one is not. You don't get to be some half spirit half human sort of thing." He shook his head. But this was not the first time that Birdie spoke of things that sounded like wondrous nonsense to him. "Before the veil is so long ago, it does not count. It just does not count."

Despite his open mind by northern standards, he was still but a simple northern templar, once Andrastian, and even though he lost every ounce of faith, he still retired to the ideas and beliefs that were most familiar to him.

Samson sighed in exasperation, but waited until they were alone before eyeing the boy with a stern gaze. "Ey, lad. I have a question, and I mean it. Why the hell are we doing all of this? Don't tell me all of the chasind got no one else but a kid and an old templar to take care of their lost laundry."

Northmare

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fun fact: technically Samson is a Martyr, or ready to become one, at least since the definition of a martyr actually is  “ One who makes great sacrifices or suffers much in order to further a belief, cause, or principle. “ 

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❝Samson knight in red, He hath lost his way. Samson martyr rage. Soon the world will pay.❞

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Sometimes, you ended up with inevitable debts... debts you could not possibly hope to pay off. In that case, sometimes you needed to play just as dirty as everyone else. By now, Samson had learned that he could never be both good and alive, and no matter how bad... a part of him was drawn to life and compelled to fight. Each man had something that would always keep him going, even if it meant stepping on bodies. Deep down inside, he felt as if his life was not over yet. There was still something lying ahead of him. Something still had to be done, and he was not yet certain what it was.

"Do not make such a face, Thrask... you would do this city more good by that than by standing around in the Gallows for seven days straight. Some people..." Deserved to die, and he never had considered himself as militant on any topic. Samson's life has been thus far defined by a certain level of passivity. Always standing on the reasonable middle ground, not because of wisdom or conviction, but because he never had truly felt compelled to have real, clearly defined opinions. His world had been limited to the few things and people he cared about. Now...

Slowly, the former templar shook his head. "Nay, there's no point in telling me to stay away." Whoever had the lyrium also had him by the balls... and at the moment, he was in no position to go ahead and bite the big sharks' tails. For now, he simply had to survive. Get enough Lyrium to keep a clear head, or else he might as well drown himself in the bay.

"Yeah... honestly? Fuck them. Fuck everyone. Fuck the chantry, the mages, the order. Fuck rich people, fuck people in general. Fuck the whole world and burn down this city."

Fish and egg pie sounded good enough and Thrask hinted a smile, wide enough to not let his beard cover it. The uneasiness of that morning wasn’t gone quite yet; it would probably colour all of his interactions with Samson, until he let familiarity with misery sink within him and nest in his breast — it wasn’t entirely the same type of misery of the Gallows. The only course that had ever touched Samson was a modicum of sympathy.

When he dropped his eyes onto the piece of paper, placed there on the chipped wood of the table so casually, though with careful attention, his smile waned, replaced by the slightest anxious frown. He eyed the paper as if it were an uncomfortable echo of what had happened to Samson once already — but this involved no mages, did it? It bore no relevance to the Order or the Circle. Still, Thrask did not quite intend to be privy of whatever secret was written on it, so he quickly took the paper from the table and hid it in his fist, labouring to hide it under his doublet without attracting much attention. He was likely worrying too much.

« Alright », he said, though his lips were slightly tight. « I’ll make sure that it reaches the Captain without making your name. I imagine that telling you to not get involved with the coterie won’t make much of a difference, anyway, will it? » Especially if he was already involved. Thrask would have sighed, but he imagined there were sides of that life that he couldn’t even start to fathom. 

« The issue with Alrik and Conrad and… Karras, and frankly so many others is that you’d expect better from them. Or at least I would. I used to. » He crossed his arms over his chest, as he so often did while standing guard in the courtyard. « But you know how it is. And going around with Conrad looking for apostates and their liaisons… » He cast a quick and meaningful glance towards Samson. « —Is an experience, I assure you. »

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Slowly, the once proud knight crouched down in front of the Commander, one knee bent for his own comfort. Even under the glowy eyes of the red templars this encounter felt almost private. He really would have preferred to meet him again under better circumstances, but... this was all they were given by the tides of fate and maybe he would even have preferred never seeing him again at all. To be seen like this... tired and exhausted and on the verge of breaking. 

  “Hm. I see ... and what do I do now? What am I to do with you? I cannot let you go, have no need for prisoners... and yet I would hate to take your life. We may stand here as enemies, but...” Even you deserve better than being stabbed like a pig. Cullen was better than a death blow in the middle of nowhere, even if it were to happen by the hand of his now direst enemies. 

          One quick glance towards his soldiers. They waited for a verdict, a choice he had to make with a hard and cold heart. Only one outcome was expected: that he walked away with the commander’s severed head by the end of this encounter.

Cullen was visiting the outpost when they were attacked. The base didn’t have enough men yet, and that was why he came to discuss reinforcements. Then the red templars came out of nowhere. Outnumbered, the recruits were slaughtered quickly, and even though Cullen was much harder to defeat, he couldn’t fight dozens of there monsters alone. One of their rogues found a gap in his armour and stabbed him in the side. He was bleeding heavily when they finally overpowered him and dragged him in front of Samson.

“I’ve had worse” he hissed, looking at the man who was once his roommate. More than that, actually. But that was long ago. “I’ll be fine.”

It was a lie, of course. He could barely stand. The wound was deep and he was weakened from the blood loss. But he was too proud to admit it. What did it matter? They would probably kill him anyway.

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me: - listens to Jesus Christ Superstar- Samson: - rolls up sleeves - Samson: I am back bitches

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Everything in him bridled at such carefree, unsupervised use of magic. Of course, Samson always had been on the sympathetic side, and finally ended up against the system that put up the Circles, but now he realized why he once doubted whether it was a good idea or not. Even in this place, surrounded by people whose life was moulded by magic, he still had doubts.

As far as he could tell, this was nothing but an Nausseden risk. Naturally, Samson was smarter than saying it aloud, his quiet disapproval and doubt was already hart enough to hide on his facial expression turned sourer than usual.

"Is there even a chance we find these children alive?", he inquired dryly. Children disappeared, people died, and sometimes their bodies were found. Small white bones and no one could tell who they once belonged to.

Samson had seen enough death to remain almost indifferent - nothing could shock him anymore, and he was not afraid to ask this awfully simple and brutally final question. Infants were the most sensitive and he knew that a few cold nights sometimes were enough to end their short lives before they even have begun.  These people should know best.

Still, he had to be respectful of their culture, and he finally gave a nod. "The Hollow Hill? Doesn't sound ominous at all." Bitterness and sarcasm made up the majority of his tone as he withdrew from the... thing. So this was what they would have to be putting up with next... Things that stole infants in their cribs and left enchanted wood in their place.

Northmare

The kid chuckles lightly and nods at Samson, bright blue eyes amused.

~We use magic. A lot. We have no problem with it. It is most useful~

The little boy seems… interested in Samson’s reaction and when he notes the subtle relaxation in the ex-Templar’s shoulders, something like… approval passes in his eyes, his small face relaxing into a little smile. He scoots closer to the man his father, as if to show him better or just to get closer.

~It is… leeching, I think you would say. A trick, from the people of Corniog’s. They do this when they… kidnap children.~

The chief has not spoken, nor move. Her eyes, a startling yellow colour, are set on Samson. She speaks then, fluid and calm, her shoulder high and her finger loosely wrapped around her cup.

{The cup is pure crystal and shines with inlaid gold. Golden threads are woven or embroidered into the fabric of the tent, of the rugs. The cauldron is of high quality steel. Richness. These people can be rich.}

“A dhéanann siad é mar is mian leo rud éigin mar mhalairt a fhágáil” She says, her tilting voice making almost a song of the words.

Birdie nods and turns to Samson.

~She says they do it because they want to leave something in exchange. They aren’t always malicious but… they don’t get people, they are too spirit for that~

Birdie touches the wooden-almost child and pursues his lips.

~They must be stopped, and the children brought back.~ He adds, levelly. ~They are most likely in the Hollow Hill~

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friendly reminder that I am still available for plotting! 

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"You don't drink? Man, and I thought I did a lifestyle change." Of course, he definitely did not go to the same excess as he used to in Kirkwall, but a drink once in a while... it kept you warm, too, for he still had not quite grown accustomed to the cold of the wild South.  Still, he respected Atreion's choice and put the bottle away again. More for him, then. This was not comparable to the rotgut he'd poured down his throat in Kirkwall just to numb everything down enough to bear existence itself. A part of him wondered what would have happened if he had just finished it back then. His life had no meaning at that point... yet... There he was, and maybe it was for the best that he was right here in this moment.

Of course, deep inside he knew that the chances of finding her alive were meager. She had been protected by the magic of Corypheus, but now that he was gone... He was afraid of finding a dead body encased in red lyrium, not placed into sleep but gone for all time. Nothing should matter, but his heart still clung to her, to her wide eyes full of hope and idealism and fire. Calpernia had been burning bright while he was cold ashes already.

"Why can't a single fucking thing in my life be certainty?", he spat, taken by a sudden burst of deep indignation. His life had been anything but easy and straightforward, and for once, he would enjoy feeling... safe and certain about something. Too many maybe's wherever he went and whatever he did.  "You know, there was a time when I thought I knew where my life would go, there's not much deviation in a templar's life, is there?  And instead I'm here... ah, just fuck my life, I am sometimes not sure whether I am extremely lucky or ridiculously unlucky."

The look Atreion gave the bottle set before him was one of intense suspicion - although not, for once, for the reasons Samson might assume. “ Thank you, ” He said, gingerly pushing the offending article back. Creators, even from here he could smell the stuff, sweet and sharp. “ But I—- do not drink any more. It’s— well.” He cleared his throat, and for a moment it seemed that he might say more, but the words never came, his breath leaving him in a put-upon sigh. “ I just… don’t. But nevertheless, I thank you. ”

For all their awkwardness, it was a good night to be out of doors. The air was still, just crisp enough for the fire that snapped and crackled merrily between them, casting dancing shadows across the three – and a stranger group Atreion had not seen in quite some time. Elf, man and wolf, where two of the three would once have gladly torn the others throat out, given the chance… to go from months of lonely travel to this was a strange twist of fortune, and he had to admit, he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. It was necessary, without a shadow of a doubt. The ex-Inquisitor could hardly afford to turn down allies, no matter how dubious, and Samson had been good as his word in accompanying him. It was bigger than his old grievances, he knew that. It was bigger than both of them.

Still, the offer of a drink, refused or not, earned a tiny smirk at least, the elf rifling through his pack with his one good hand to find a handful of mint leaves. He put a few in his mouth, chewing steadily as both men lapsed back into silence, lost in their own thoughts. Little wonder, when those thoughts were so dire as this.

“ We’re already chasing a possibility. ” He said at length, the subtext loud and clear and decidedly not mentioned. “ If—- If Calpernia cannot help us, then that’s a risk we’ll have to take. This might be something, or it might be nothing. We don’t know. ”

“ Either way, I’m used to chasing shadows by now. ”

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Recommend a blog to me.

Send a URL to my ask box, on anonymous or not, of someone you’d like to see me interact with OR someone you think I’d mesh well with.

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@songoflyrium

Someone should let him sleep. However, nothing was ever easy in this world - a subdivision stationed in the Western Approach had started an unauthorized attempt at taking an Inquisition base and made a catch bigger than anyone would have expected. He was still half asleep, hair messy and in a light chainmail instead of his heavy armor, when he arrived at the former Inquisition outpost. Samson was not much of a rider, and he looked rather awkward and clumsy when he got off the back of his dapple mare. Dawn was still at least two hours away and still.. he rubbed over his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand.

      “Lieutenant Caroll, come forward!” A massive red templar approached the General, towering over him at least one head taller. Still, the deformed creature saluted. “First of all, good job, boys and girls. Second... the fuck were you thinking? This offensive was neither authorized nor was anyone informed for reinforcements. This place will be crawling with Inquisition soldiers in a few hours once they get word of this. Fuckin’ great! Wasn’t I clear enough? No direct confrontation?”

His tirade was only stopped by one of the other soldiers who (almost meekly) asked for the General’s attention. “Samson, Sir, we got the Commander - “ That was indeed a piece of information worth soothing his momentary anger and he strode towards the lone figure surrounded by his soldiers. Wounded and... Fuck, this was actually him. He would recognize a familiar face anytime. “Dismissed!” A short order for the soldiers who were all too close. They had taken Rutherford’s sword and shield, and he did not quite seem like he was in a state to fight back anyway at this moment. 

            “You think you’ll survive that one?” A simple question. No hello, no mockery, his primary attention was currently focused on whatever injury he had sustained towards the fight against the aggressors. 

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He should turn around and leave because he knew damn well how everything he did was bound to end. Pain and a broken heart and probably death... but weren't they steering into the abyss anyway? He might as well do so with... but Samson knew this feeling very well and he was frightened of feeling again. Not now when he needed a clear head and a hardened heart... still... His gaze dropped when she spoke of her torturer, admitted that she once had harboured hatred for him... but it was so easy to hate a faceless name. A man you never met and probably would never meet, but one you could blame for everything nevertheless. In a way, she certainly was right: with him, this madness started, and with him it would end. Corypheus' ascension would be paved with the bones of the templars and the blood of the venatori. Personally, he would pour his own blood gladly down to the last drop and crush his bones under his own heels if it meant this world would indeed be born anew from hot ashes like a phoenix. The red dawn of a new world. A better world.

Samson would have leaned forward to kiss her, had she not been quicker than him and wrapped her arms around his torso. Slowly, his hands came to rest on her back as he leaned his head against hers. "It's not over yet," he insisted ardently. He was scared of admitting that all hope seemed lost in this current situation. The Inquisition was closing in on them... but they were still willing to fight because they had no other way out. Backed against the wall, all bridges burnt down on the way, they had nothing else left to lose.

"In this world, we all do what little we can do," he mused and closed his eyes. He would rather have kissed her against better judgement. With each day that passed, he died a little more, and he would rather be complete once more before the end came upon him.  When the entire world collapsed above their heads, why could they not be locked in a lovers' embrace? Did they really have to be alone when the end came?

    "Vanora, I.... I am glad I have met you. I would say I am sorry that you are in this place, here by my side, but I would be lying. Knowing you are here gives me strength."

None becoming

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Don’t try to tell me Samson is not susceptible to microsleep, because his enormous red Lyrium usage keeps him awake for days in a go, which is simply too much for his body, so he regularly just falls asleep for some seconds in situations that are not so high-stress that adrenaline production overrides all physical need for sleep.