#orxna

[wind-tail]

Got stuff!

ordered these from @orxinus 's preorders a bit ago! Quality is amazing, so glad I bought :))

Worth every cent

[theodosiani]

Ghilan'nain @ the people she forms unhealthy obsessions with: Get tentacle yoinked, loser. You're going in the elf terrarium.

[dreadblaidd]

[whisper] “Do—Do you know how to pronounce that word? I—I’ve only read it before.”

ask meme | whisper something in his ear

"Defenestration," Solas says, just as quietly. His brow knits together as it registers. "What does Varric have you reading?"

[weptfreedom]

a kiss after a devastating event , meant to comfort / @orxna

They'd meant to offer some form of comfort. Alanari hadn't known Hawke well, and maybe that was why she'd....

There's no saving someone in a fraught moment like that. Someone had offered that as consolation, they thought, but they'd shrugged that off as easily as Varric had walked away.

At Skyhold, another hurt waits. Orana's eyes are reddened, mouth thin. They're not welcome, they know, but try anyway.

Alanari had lost a parent, too. All, in one sweep.

They know her pain.

But their comfort is unwelcome, clear in the way Orana turns her head, her hair, loose, denying them any selfish show of sympathy.

[mercysought]

Orla "rook" Mercar starter for @orxna plotting and starter call, accepting

   "So..." Orla walks slowly over to where she is working. It seems that whenever Orla came to the Shadow Dragon's hideout that she was there. Always cleaning. Always organizing something. Probably half driving Tarquin and the Viper up the walls with the touching things. And only that made her smile. Humming, the mage killer rests against the entry way, watching her work before continuing "That was... certainly something."

The talk between Varric and her. Orla really had no idea what was going on. She was sure there was plenty of the Dwarf's life she had no idea about, plenty that was fabricated about too. But the man had more adopted kids than a figure out of folklore. It was almost amusing especially when the woman in front of her looked about as old as she was "Do you need help?"

[anextravagantliar]

She perches on a chair beside his sickbed, a macabre rehash of the aftermath of Hawke's fight with the Arishok with a different coat of paint. A quiet vigil, as if speaking any louder than a whisper could cause him to shatter. Her hands clutch one of his, her body curling forward forehead touching his limp palm as she mumbles, "You can wake up now."

There is only so much one can do. Only so much one can say.

Only so much one can fight.

Only so much a body can give.

And she pleads, she prays, her whispers do not fall on deaf or false ears. He will need time, only if it can be given, only if he can forge the river through it. That path is his own, stained with his own follies, his own reasons, his own blood, and her whispers keep him somewhere in the in-between, somewhere not quite here, not there.

Only time will tell.

[heartsdefine]

@orxna:

        ▌ continued. "Oh, but I really don't need it," Orana starts as Hawke notices the way her eyes linger on a particular booth within the busy Hightown market. The elf quickly rearranges the produce in her basket, giving her hands something to fiddle with. She reminds herself to be more careful, Hawke has already been so generous with her she doesn't want to seem ungrateful, "W-We should finish getting our things, it would be terrible if the butter melts."

        Hawke slows their steps before they can move completely past the stall that's caught Orana's attention. “You know, it's all right to have something just because you want it, not because you need it.” They usher her closer to booth with a gentle hand on her upper back, looking over the assortment of fine scarves. “Look, there's a discount if you buy two, and I've been thinking of buying one myself anyway.” It's not entirely a lie. They are missing one of their scarves, recently. Hawke scoops the basket from Orana's arms before she can further object. “Go on. Pick one for me too. We've got everything we need, and we can afford to splurge a little on something nice.”

[ourdawncomes]

There's easy.

And then there's so easy it's suspicious.

Bruno's guard is up as he enters the Herald's quarters, clutching the basket of laundry in his hands like it's a shield against a dagger in the dark. No dagger comes, though, shadowed or otherwise, and he's free to plod into the room like he owns the place. No one had answered when he'd called at the door (at least none that he'd heard), so for the moment it may as well be.

It's nicer than he pictured when he got the debrief, even hearing the caveat that the Herald was more a political prisoner than a punitive one. The floors shine under his boots, the pillows are plump and plush upon the bed, there's even a sitting area, like she entertains guests.

If he didn't know better, he'd say he'd have walked right back into Severina's estate. Maybe with a few homier touches.

It's more than Tevinter had ever given him, but then again, a cage is a cage.

He moves hesitantly, placing the basket on a chaise lounge, empty besides a half-finished knitting project. Refolding the few clothes that had gotten mussed in the hike up here, he resents how second nature it is. Like stepping back into an old life he hasn't quite managed to shake off yet.

A whisper sounds from the corner, and he near jumps out of his skin.

Still calming the quick pace of his heart, the impression of his hidden dagger digs under his clothes as he slips around the corner. The figure crouching in the corner on their hands and knees doesn't look like much, almost enough to make him forget who he's here to keep an eye on.

Almost.

He'd seen her before this, albeit always from a distance. Far enough that he hopefully doesn't look like a hungry buzzard, like the half-dozen other spies that swarm around Tevinter's holy Herald. Close-up, she looks grim. Still young, maybe of an age with him, but a little dull behind the eyes. Not stupid like, but

"M'lady," he sputters, the deferential servant act easy to pick up, given his stuttering heartbeat. He bows before he knows his bowing, head bent reverently towards her. "I didn't think- you weren't-"

He almost excuses himself, but thinks better of it. Might not have a chance alone with her again, at least not anytime soon. Redirecting to make his intrusion seem like it can be a help, he asks:

"Are you... sorry if I'm assuming, are you looking for something?"

@orxna

[kirkw4ll-a]

❛ ghosts do not have to be scary. they can be comforting. ❜ @orxna

it was supposed to be reassuring, she supposed. eyes trained on the fire in front of her, gaze having lingered long enough that hawke was sure she would see spots if she were to look away. ghosts didn't have to be scary. she let out a sigh, barely shifting in her chair. the manor was so empty nowadays... the silence was an entity in itself and it grew larger and larger until it threatened to swallow up hawke herself.

"i'm not afraid that they exist, sweetling," came her delayed response -- her throat was dry. when was the last time she spoke? "i'm terrified that they don't." haunt me, she begged. please don't let that be the last time i heard you. SAW you. held you in my arms. a stubborn few tears welled in her eyes that she moved to wipe away with her sleeve. a shaky exhale. "it's fine. i'm sorry -- it's fine." and just like that, she sniffed and felt... numb. the deep, ACHING sadness that she felt just moments ago switched off. she couldn't have orana worrying.

and she SMILED -- turned to the other like nothing had happened. "after all, we can't have me moping about, hm? not when i can HEAR the dog begging for his dinner. mustn't dawdle or else he might eat me in my sleep. say, do we still have any of that chicken left?"

[afraidofchange]

does your muse get "hangry" when they haven't eaten in a while? - For Ilona

@orxna | hc meme.

Oh yes. Ilona has a pretty decent tolerance for focusing on the mission at hand, but man, she's a dwarf, she's mostly muscle, she's got a big appetite to sustain herself.

She'll try not to let it show too much, but if she suddenly gets a little snappy or tense, she's hungry.

[bushelofmuses]

@orxna || From Here

He felt the lie forming before it reached her lips.

It was a simple comfort to soothe her worries, a way to steady herself. It was grounding, and he couldn't fault her for the need of something therapeutic. She was under so much pressure and stress, so many people hoping she was their Hope.

He nervously shuffled forward and knelt down beside the pile of clothes she'd already finished, folding them for her when she was done. His hands were clumsy; it was a task he was still learning. He watched the mages fold their things but he'd never had to do it himself. His work was passable, but only just.

Still, he wanted to help if he could. It was this or offer to stay with her in the night while she slept and he doubted that would go over well. He knew he could be unsettling, and he knew most people didn't like being watched while they slept. Perhaps he could sing her to sleep. Would that help? It did for the younger mages in the circle, but did it work on adults?

"Sleep hurts," he murmured. "Mind booming, terror dogging your fleeing steps...have you asked Adan for a sleeping potion?"

It wouldn't rid her of nightmares entirely, but perhaps she would sleep deeply enough that they would struggle to find her in the night.

[theodosiani]

Something something Ghilan’nain would be So Petty about Solas’ ability to remove vallaskin that the ones she gives his daughters would be spelled on ten different levels. Spells that will injure him if he attempts, spells that will injure them is he attempts, scarification beneath the tattoos themselves so that it will be more difficult to fully remove any remnants, enchantments that leave the scar tissue reactive to magical light so the vallaslin is visible under veilfire(thanks @wayan9an), basically removing them will have Consequences and even if you can manage it Solas will never be able to take the memory of receiving it at all from them.

[dreadblaidd]

@orxna continued from here

Solas watched the comings and goings of the mansion for days. Sometimes, as a poor beggar at the gate. Others, as a flickering shadow on the ramparts, indistinguishable as the clouds. It was no small thing to assault the villa of the most powerful man and mage in Tevinter. Only a fool would imagine they could best a veritable army of guards and mages surrounding the Archon. Solas was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He could not send his agents. Skilled as they may be at subterfuge, Solas could not foresee them surviving this. They provided him with the layout of the mansion, and where the Archon kept his prize.

He had waded into more dangerous territory to free slaves and prisoners in the ancient past. Hard fought lessons were etched into his memory. Some assaults had been successful. Some, like his battle with Andruil, very much less so. It was safest to approach any such mission with the thought that it could go as wrong as the wolf tied to a sacrificial tree. Wariness and precaution were as great an asset as valor or justice.

He waited for the change of the guard at the darkest point of the night. Tired and still shaking off sleep, they ambled to their posts and grumbled to their retiring colleagues. And still, he waited. The new guard yawned and wiped their eyes. The old guard would be out of their armor, seeking the relative comfort of their soft beds. When all had stilled, he doused the lights. The guards grumbled, but could not stir the smothered flames. At last, the mages appeared. They were as fatigued as the new guard, torn prematurely from sleep to see to the fixtures.

He counted three mages, and ten guards. Templars most likely, given who they guarded. He doubled the number in his mind, and accounted for the more he would meet inside. Tevinter mages were more flash than necessary, but there was no denying their relative skill with the craft. He could kill them all, and carve a bloody path. He had no desire to begin an outright war with Tevinter. Not when his plans were so near to fruition. But neither could he simply move on and leave their prisoner to bondage.

He called on his friends in the Fade, asking Valor and Justice to aid his plan. And then struck. A lone elf such as he could do much, but he needed chaos. They had an alarm bell. He would have them ring it. So he did not enter the courtyard as an elf. He came as the Wolf.

Valor and Justice flanked him as he descended upon the guard. He ripped through the mages before they could begin a meaningful counterattack. He slit the throat of one with a swipe from his massive claws. One. He threw another into an immovable wall, crushing her spine. Two. He tore the last in half with his unforgiving maw. Three. The fear of the guard made them clumsy, and they lashed out impotently with their swords and shields as Valor and Justice cleaved through them.

One guard reached the alarm bell, and it rang sharp throughout the courtyard.

On cue, he plunged the courtyard into an unnatural darkness, and slipped back into his true form. Cloaked in shadow, Solas slipped into the mansion. Solas listened for the din of guards rushing to reinforce the breach in the courtyard. The halls were all but deserted, and the few guards who remained inside he killed with a flash of magic.

He calmed his adrenaline as at last he reached the suite. He opened the door slowly, bathing the room in the light of the hallway. He did not look the unassuming apostate from the wilderness. He was righteous fury, the liberator, the great rebel. He stared down the dog, the calm he attempted to exude muffled by the Tevinter blood staining his armor. An approaching guard lifted his sword. Solas' eyes flashed purple as the guard froze into stone.

When she at last turned, he started. Of course years had gone by, he knew that, but to see that evidence on her face, stuck again in as if her brief time in the Inquisition had been a single, distant memory, it halted his steps. Common failed him then, "Garas, da'len," he said softly, holding out his hand. He had lived moments like this for centuries. He didn't even notice he'd slipped into Elvhen, and couldn't remember if she even understood it. "Ar lasa mala revas." It is an old declaration, the intent imbued with the magic of a sacred vow. You are free.

[theharellan]

🪱

oh worm? | not accepting | @orxna

"Is there some purpose to this line of questioning?" he asks, though he falters when he sees the unadorned look of hope on her face.

"I suppose I have loved stranger things. Though it would be difficult to spend time together as we had before. Aside from gardening. That much, at least, we could still do together."

Hopefully that satisfies.

[mercysought]

❝ Being that far away, you see things differently. ❞ for Orla

BLACK SAILS SEASON 2 - ACCEPTING / @orxna

   "They were good to you, then?" she glances to the elven woman. Expression kept neutral to warm "Hawke, Varric?"

There was, honestly, a pang of jealously. Or perhaps that was too strong of a term.

A pang of envy, even if it was just barely there. Orla didn't wish to have had the life that Orana had led; she knew enough about the overall details that had lead her to eventually meet the Champion and Kirkwall and Varric when he still lived there - before all of this. And yet, it was hard to deny it: the brief glimpse of a better life - of being told that you didn't have to be concerned anymore because there was a group of people that would take care of you? Protect you?

Orla smiles and it hurts, but she pushes through it. Pushes until she can see the warmth in Orana's eyes and how good it had done to her. This was what life should be like. What life should offer. If not to her to other people.

Her mother had never known the life that Orla had lead. Never known the hardships that Orana had to suffer before Hawke was gracious enough. And was that not good enough It hurt, hurt that Tevinter would not welcome its children with the same warmth and love as her own mother's hands did. Despite the weight of her body and the darkening of her mood - she was Tevinter still. They all were. Even if Tevinter didn't love them back.

   "Good." It was selfish, in a way, to hope and wish that she herself had been whisked away. But she could truly not bring herself to believe it: the fight was still there, in Tevinter, and she was good at that. Fighting. She had always been. She would be. She had her teeth sharpened and now? Now all there was to do was bite the hand that raised to smack down on hungry mouths and angry tongues. She would prefer to take that fight over Orana taking up weapons. Than her mother.

She preferred that they should live a better life and let her do the fighting. Orla smiles, finishing peeling the orange with a dulled knife, cutting it half and handing one half to Orana. Orla herself does not eat "That's good."

[anextravagantliar]

Be honest, do you think Hawke is still alive in the fade? That if they could be rescued they would want to be?

There will always be some quandary with death, something they all pause and turn over, like a stone before it is thrown.

"Yeah, well..." It always starts like that with a long pause, as he likes to build suspense. "I don't think about things you can't change without something like a magic hand or blood of an old god." Or a friend.