spiritsong

[spiritsong]

for whatever reason my chronic pain has been especially bad the last four days or so and im fighting back the Gloom about it because im afraid this may be the beginning of a new flare. it's so easy to get used to "normal". it becomes unremarkable and then the pain comes back and it's like ohhh yeahhhh i had it really good actually. (and ofc my ''i had it really good'' is actually pretty bad to the average able-bodied person.) anyway im sad but trying to keep a stiff upper lip about it

[spiritsong]

just a short something something I wrote the other day. I wanted to explore this scene from Heinrix's POV because these early days are so fun. so much friction and lack of awareness 😌

Unease grew in the pit of Heinrix's belly like the mutating flora that flourished on this strange planet. It gnawed at him, self-cannibalizing, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from speaking out.

Despite his warning, the Rogue Trader seemed to fixate on every word that the abominable xenos spoke. She stood directly in front of it, without even a hand on her weapon; it would have distressed him if not for her loyal Seneschal standing sentry right beside her.

She craned her neck to peer up into the Aeldari's bright, unsettling gaze. She watched with rapt attention… seemed to cling onto every word that passed through the creature's thin lips.

It was maddening. The Interrogator, with all his skills of assessment, could not find fear in the Lord Captain's manner. Caution, certainly. But the healthy fear expected of any respectable citizen of the Imperium was notably absent.

After one heavy moment of silence, Viatrix spoke her first words to the xenos. "I will not claim to understand all of which you speak, or pretend that we are one and the same. But I wish to put an end to the troubles that plague this planet, same as you. We are at least joined in purpose in that regard."

Heinrix scoffed. He couldn't keep it in anymore.

Both the Lord Captain and the Aeldari turned in his direction.

"Viatrix, you are being reckless."

She looked to be about to say something, but Abelard cut in first, ever diligent in his duty to come to her defense, all the while ignoring the true threat in front of them.

"Master van Calox, need I remind you that the Warrant grants Rogue Traders with the right to convene with xenos as they deem necessary?"

Heinrix didn't oblige the man with a response. Viatrix resumed her conversation with the xenos. He scrutinized every word that passed between the two, every minute movement of their faces and bodies, every subtle change in tone.

His tongue grew thick, unwieldy and uncomfortable, like some foreign mass had decided to make the cavern of his mouth into its home.

Viatrix looked at the xenos with a respect that bordered on reverence. He had never seen her look at anyone that way.

"Yrliet, if you wish to solve this mystery alongside me, you may join my party." The Rogue Trader tilted her head in invitation. "My title will protect you from the disdain of the locals."

Yrliet had hardly finished voicing her acceptance before Heinrix interjected.

"Rogue Trader, I implore you to rethink your decision," he said hastily. "We know nothing about this creature's intentions. Despite her assertions, she is clearly withholding information from us. Her agreement to partake in our investigation must be a step towards some dark purpose—"

"You have no claim upon my choices and inner thoughts, mon-keigh," the xenos cut right back in, narrowing her eyes at him. She seemed to stand taller in reaction to his words. "I wish only to bring peace to the Lilaethan. If joining your mistress will see it to fruition, then it is the true path. You will make no attempt to sway me from it if you value your life."

Heinrix let out a bark of cold laughter. "You have a lot left to learn if you think paltry threats will earn you my good graces."

He turned abruptly from the xenos so as to completely disallow any further conversation. He looked to Viatrix. "Lord Captain, the final decision rests with you. But let it be known — I will terminate your pet xenos at the first sign of her noncompliance."

His eyes widened just a fraction at the withering glare Viatrix shot at him. It was filled with such a fury he had yet to witness in her, made more chilling by the fact that with the exception of her gaze, her face remained largely neutral.

After a beat of silence, Viatrix said, with slow and measured care, "Do not refer to Yrliet as my pet unless you are also keen on being known as my pet Interrogator."

Idira made no attempt to cover her snickering, while Abelard let out a strangled noise that he struggled to disguise with a cough. Cassia blushed and looked away. Yrliet, for her part, looked unchanged, as did the Magos.

The Lord Captain approached Heinrix — it would be inaccurate to describe it as storming, as quiet and controlled as she was, but her movement was filled with an intensity that would have had lesser men fearfully jumping out of her way.

The others, seeming to sense what was about to occur, hurriedly turned and walked away a few paces, granting them the illusion of privacy. Viatrix stopped directly in front of him, then gripped the edge of his pauldron with an unexpected force — enough to bring his face just inches from hers.

"Test me at your own peril, Heinrix," Viatrix whispered, "and no one within my demense will ever call you by your name again."

At this closeness, her pale eyes had to jump back and forth between his own in order to hold his gaze. She held him there for a second more before releasing him and returning to the retinue as though nothing had occurred.

[spiritsong]

[spiritsong]

🫵 YOU. STOP WHERE YOU ARE

say something nice about prev!!! find something cool about them!! give their blog a skim!!

compliments are FREE TO GIVE so GIVE THEM OUT. pls. thamnk. (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

[spiritsong]

my partner said something that kinda rocked my world

[spiritsong]

when drawing requires you to draw

[spiritsong]

[spiritsong]

🫵 YOU. STOP WHERE YOU ARE

say something nice about prev!!! find something cool about them!! give their blog a skim!!

compliments are FREE TO GIVE so GIVE THEM OUT. pls. thamnk. (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

[spiritsong]

you're the only one who understands me mr strobbery

[spiritsong]

dont piss me off. next time you go on a trip im filling your house with galapagos finches. by the time you return, they've evolved to fill your niche. they're a better spouse to your partner. they're a better parent for your child. and? they're a better friend to me than you ever were.

[spiritsong]

🫵 YOU. STOP WHERE YOU ARE

say something nice about prev!!! find something cool about them!! give their blog a skim!!

compliments are FREE TO GIVE so GIVE THEM OUT. pls. thamnk. (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

[spiritsong]

Two boys practicing their swordplay, Harlem, 1939–1940.

Photo: Aaron Siskind via Smithsonian American Art Museum

[spiritsong]

🫵 YOU. STOP WHERE YOU ARE

say something nice about prev!!! find something cool about them!! give their blog a skim!!

compliments are FREE TO GIVE so GIVE THEM OUT. pls. thamnk. (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

[spiritsong]

[spiritsong]

In the club

[spiritsong]

happy friday! bandaging/stitching up an injury + fenhawke?

Happy DADWC! My first ever! I loved this prompt, thank you so much for sending it.

For @dadrunkwriting. A little something set in that nebulous three-year span between acts one and two of DA2.

--

“Hold still.”

Fenris would like very much to flinch again when Vissenta jabs the needle in - too close to one of the markings on his back, no doubt, as that is the only explanation for his sudden urge to twitch at her touch - but he complies, fixing his eyes on a crack in the wall opposite in the mansion’s dilapidated sitting room. The back of his tunic is only unclasped halfway, but he feels as if he might as well be naked. “I am holding still.”

“No you’re not.” Vissenta is gentler when she tugs the thin filament through, but her touch on his skin is still firm, all the places where her fingertips meet his skin so warm that he is deeply aware of the cold around them. If she notices the chill, there is no shiver in her hands; there is only steady pressure to bring the edges of the cut together, and the sharp pinpricks of the needle in her other hand as she continues stitching in a neat line. “Maker’s balls, Fenris, you really ought to get Anders to--”

“No.” Why Vissenta trusts a mage with her life is her business, but Fenris would have to be knocked cold before letting one touch him. He winces at her next jab, glad that she can’t see the pain that deepens the scowl on his face. He smooths his brow as much as he can and turns slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. “This is more than sufficient.”

“If you say so.” She falls silent, intent on her work, and Fenris can only just see the line that forms between her brows.

There is a thoughtfulness there, a quiet, meditative seriousness that he’s not quite seen in her before. It is not the same concentration she has when she is taking in a gang’s haphazard formation in a Lowtown alley, or the feigned gravitas she gives to her losing Wicked Grace hands down at the Hanged Man. This is so practiced to be second nature, and yet so private that it is a wonder he’s seeing it at all.

He tries for humor, already knowing before he opens his mouth it’s likely to fall flat. “Do you do this often?”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Stitch up elves with more rage than sense?”

His scowl returns. “Point taken.”

They are both silent as she works her way down to the last inch of the wound, and when she speaks again, he nearly flinches in surprise. “Mending is a useful skill when you don’t stay in one place for long.”

He allows a small smile, but only the crack in the wall can see. “And you’ve mended many elves?”

There is warmth in her voice when she replies; a smile of her own, one that, to his surprise, he can see perfectly in his mind’s eye. “Just the one.”

Those words make his heart skip, and her touch is too hot now, but if he moves a muscle, he’ll never hear the end of it. He swallows. “Then I’m glad you’ve broadened your skills.”

“This is nothing.” She is nearly finished, but she moves slower now; some small, wild, inopportunely hopeful part of him wonders if perhaps she wants to let her touch linger. “I can embroider, too.”

He cannot help the short bark of laughter that escapes at that, and he smiles again, this time looking back over his shoulder as she lets out a soft Andraste’s ass under her breath. “You? Embroider?”

It’s her turn to scowl, but the expression is as endearing to him as her sly, sideways smiles, perhaps even more so. “Keep that up and I’ll embroider a little flower right here next to your knife wound.”

It is not the suggestion of a flower stitched into his skin that makes his stomach lurch. It is the thought of another mark, nearly as powerful in concept alone as the lyrium brands that already exist; it is the terrifying realization that he would allow it, and this time, he would want to bear it for all to see.

He can see the moment she makes the connection: her eyes widen slightly, and her scowl smooths out into an expression of worry tinged with remorse. “Shit. I didn’t mean…”

He tells himself that he only doesn’t turn to touch her hand because she still holds a needle hooked to a thread that is woven through his flesh. He can comfort himself with this half-truth, knowing that he clings to it to hide a deeper fear. “I know.”

Vissenta finishes stitching the gash together, and Fenris stands a little too quickly when the thread is cut. When he turns to face her, she is wiping her hands with a damp cloth that is now smudged with the dark rust of his blood. “There,” she says shortly, stowing away the needle. “That should hold for a while, and then we can take out the thread when it’s healed up enough.”

“Hawke.” Their business is done, but he does not want her to leave. There is wine, of course, and even a passable attempt at a spread of meats and cheese and pickled things that she’s brought along with her to, as she often says, make sure he doesn’t “waste away and turn to eating corpses.” The corpses have been disposed of, thank you, and he could even make an effort at clearing a table for them to sit at. But the invitation catches somewhere between throat and tongue, and he can only turn it over in his mouth and hope she knows it is there.

As ever, she has a ready smile, a little too easy, a little too charming. “I could mend where that tunic is torn, too.”

He runs his fingers over the hem, and his own small smile returns. “No flowers.”

She stands and turns to give him some privacy, stepping out the door and towards the stairs to the kitchen. “Flowers are extra,” she calls back over her shoulder. “But if you play your cards right, I could throw in a feather or two.”

He does not even have to ask what kind of feather - Vissenta Hawke is not known for her subtlety - but Fenris does not protest the thought as he strips off the torn tunic and replaces it with another. As he walks down to the cellar to find a good bottle of something or other, he rolls his shoulder to feel the tight sting of stitched-together flesh, and thinks of the raised pattern of hawk feathers stitched into fabric that will rest over the spot, and despite the twist in his gut that warns him that such closeness is not for him, he smiles into the promise of the rest of the evening.

[spiritsong]

🫵 YOU. STOP WHERE YOU ARE

say something nice about prev!!! find something cool about them!! give their blog a skim!!

compliments are FREE TO GIVE so GIVE THEM OUT. pls. thamnk. (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)