disgustcdnoisc

[disgustcdnoisc]

[[ ooc. it's been literal y e a r s but please come find me at illyrianbabyrhysand if you miss me lol. i miss you crazy bunch ]]

[disgustcdnoisc]

Since receiving the writ of the Divine and her subsequent calling to raise the Inquisition from its ashes, the Seeker had visited many a place in search of noteworthy members for the organisation, but none quite as disreputable as her current stop. Granted, the Hero of Ferelden was worthy of her efforts, if their reputation spoke any truth, but this place? It made her feel more than a little uneasy. For someone as devout an Andrastian as she was, it was quite uncommon to be found among smugglers and murderers. She found it difficult to believe that someone whose stories had inspired such awe from her, would consort themselves with someone who seemed to be entirely at ease in a place called The Salty Wench. Nevertheless, she found herself here, keeping a keen eye on the fair-haired, bronze-skinned assassin as he snuck through the crowd of tavern patrons. Despite having received several detailed descriptions of what the man supposedly looked like, she was still quite surprised to find that he, unlike many others present that evening, still seemed to have most, if not all of his teeth, did not smell of festering fish innards on a warm summer’s day, and---well, generally looked well-groomed. Strange, that a man with loose morals and questionable motives should take such proper care of his appearance. 

She had found herself a spot in the quietest corner of the tavern, or at least as far as quiet went in a place that felt like a mound of writhing maggots had settled there permanently. Her men were stationed on every far corner of the main room, and would be by her side at a single beckoning call. As for attempting to blend in, the shadiest item Cassandra possessed was a copy of the first chapter of a new book that she had recently gotten into, written by a Dwarf who had no doubt seen enough unsettling things to be able to accurately describe them with every flowery word in his vocabulary. What was shady about this particular piece of literature was that it was best described as---well, smutty literature. Not a single eye fell upon her book as she opened it, not one questioning glance pointed in her direction. A welcome change, really, from having to hide her enamored reading habits from the day-crowd at Val Royeaux. Ah yes, in that moment, she fit right in with the locals, if she did say so herself. 

Peering over the cover of the book every so often to track the Antivan’s whereabouts, she was surprised to find the man surrounded by what seemed to be a growing crowd of adversaries. And by the looks of it, she seemed to be the only one who actually needed him alive. The addition of a knife being placed against his throat made the muscles in her legs tense in automatic response, but she willed herself to remain seated. It was too early to blow her cover just yet, and whilst she had no qualms about taking on whomever would get in the way of her intended heart-to-heart with the Elf, she wanted to let this play out a little longer, see if perhaps he would find his way out of the mess he had gotten himself into. Or, as idle hope would dictate, perhaps his Warden friend would come along and break up the imminent fight. Minutes passed, and he only seemed to agitate his detainers even further. No surprise, either; what little she could hear from his drawled-out responses to them, caused a proper eyeroll and a muttered ‘eugh’ even from the Seeker. Time for interruption. 

And just in time, as well; the moment Cassandra finally tucked her book back into the satchel attached to the belt around her waist and pushed herself up from where she was seated, a small fight broke out in the exact location she had last seen the Antivan. Having him surrounded, the aggressors momentarily blocked him from her view, but when one stepped aside and gave her a clear picture of him again, she was almost relieved that he seemed to be unharmed. For now, at least, but that could very well change within a matter of seconds, judging by the growing aggression among the men who had surrounded him. A single nod was given, and Cassandra’s men marched their way through the crowd and in her direction, but did not interrupt the scene unfolding before them just yet. She was very capable of breaking up a fight, and a little show-and-tell of exactly how capable she was, would only benefit the conversation she was going to have with the Elf after she had taken care of the ongoing brawl here. 

Well, well...you are certainly a sight for starving eyes. 

Ah, really? She was about to spare him his life a little longer, and that was what he had decided to greet her with? Maker’s breath, she hadn’t heard any of those tiresome, inherently male responses to a show of feminine power in such a long time, she’d almost forgotten they were actually a manner that some men still deemed fit to express themselves in. She would no doubt gift him with the sore eyes he so badly desired soon enough, but first and foremost, she had to secure her target and fend off his attackers. After a short upward tug of her upper lip to display her disgust at his greeting, she decked the knife-wielding man straight in the nose with the tip of her elbow, hard enough for there to be an audible crack that left not only the man, but his fellow aggressors, momentarily dazed to be joined in this brawl by a woman, and one strong enough to break a nose with a single move, at that. The first one to recover from this momentary distraction was the man with the broadsword, this time turning his attention towards the Seeker in the form of a very precise lunge towards her with his sword. She, in turn, evaded the blow, stepped aside and forcefully placed an armored shin to the back of the man’s knee, causing him to momentarily collapse to the floor. He was far from defeated with such a move, but it gave her enough time to unsheathe her blade, the Seeker sigil adorning its handle as a signature sign of her moral code and capabilities, and placing its sharpened tip against the man’s larynx. 

“Enough. The Elf leaves with me, lest you are willing to eat steel today.”

At this point, Cassandra’s men stepped in to incapacitate the other attackers and to secure her prisoner. Upon eventual surrender of the man at the tip of her blade, she did not yet lower it, but in stead swung it around with precise speed and timing, bringing its swing to a halt right before it would touch the ink adorning her prisoner’s caramel-coloured skin. Only then did she lower it, though the sharp steel threat remained there, at her side, ready to deliver him worlds of pain, if that is what he was looking for this evening. 

“I should want no protests from you. My orders are my own, and I am neither forbidden to kill nor to severely injure you. The more you comply, the easier our conversations will be.”

In Search of a Hero

AU Starter

@disgustcdnoisc

Fog settled over the port of Llomerynn, gray sea-mist rolling over the docks and spreading like a plague. The boats knocked into one another as the tide rose and fell, and the lanterns glowed faint in the thick fog. Perhaps to those unaccustomed to Rivain’s temperamental weather, one might believe they had stumbled upon a city overrun by the undead. On most nights the sea port would be bustling with activity, pirates and smugglers alike trading whatever stolen goods they had acquired over their travels, but with the storms halting all ships coming in and out of Llomerynn, tonight all dealings would take place in the port’s infamous tavern, The Salty Wench.

The tavern lights glowed a dull yellow as the assassin slipped between huddled tables, his sensitive ears picking up select conversations that held mild interest. Deals made in secret, plots of murder or theft, whatever the crime, it would take place in this seedy city. Llomerynn was a city for the wicked, which was why he was particularly fond of it. Antiva and Rivain had always maintained good relations with one another considering their proximity–in many ways it felt as if he were already home.

The knife pressing against his throat, the elf decided, was a rather nice touch as well. His palms raised slowly in the air as a lackadaisical smile etched onto bronze features. While he could not get a good look at the man who slipped behind him, two other individuals rose up from their tables and sauntered towards them.

The other occupants of The Salty Wench seemed unphased by the interaction, their attention quickly focusing back onto their own dealings. An occasional stabbing or brawl was far from out of the ordinary here. The floorboards seemed permanently caked with blood.

“Oh, what a delightful surprise,” The assassin drawled, his chin lifting slightly as the pointed end of the knife dug into his skin, “I am all for a little knife play. Rough me up, you dirty scoundrel!”

“Damn knife ear,” the human who held a knife to his throat spat out, his breath reeking of ale and salted beef, “keep talking and I’ll slice that tongue of yours from out your throat.”

“You touch ‘em and I’ll have yer head in ‘s place,” hissed the second man, his beady eyes peering out underneath the fat of his brow. The heavyset man wielded an axe and raised it threateningly in the air. “That’s my bounty an’ you ain’t touchin’ it.”

The third of his admirers, a rather sallow looking man, gritted his teeth in response to the other two. Of the three Zevran felt he was the most capable, judging from the way he carried his broadsword like an extension of his own arm.

“The elf’s coming with me,” he stated with finality, and for a moment the assassin noted a wary glance exchanged between the other two.

How intriguing.

“Now, now, my burly friends,” the Antivan drawled, his heavy accent slurred from one too many bottles of honey mead, “there is no need to fight over me. I am fully capable of spreading myself amongst you three–and spreading myself in other ways too, should you so desire.”

Judging from the lack of enthusiasm upon his captors’ faces,it would seem that a  peaceful solution was out of the question. Zevran’s fingertips danced upon a blade near his upper thigh, hidden underneath the intricate ebony designs of his leather tasset.

“I suppose we could each cut off a piece of ‘em,” the knife-wielder hissed, “I ain’t got no instructions to keep him alive.”

“Only part that matters’ the head, and I’m not leavin’ without it,” the axe-weilder replied posessively.”You lot can fight over the rest.”

“I thought I made myself clear,” the sallow-faced man replied, his gray-green eyes seeming to darken underneath the faint tavern lights, “I am talking this elf with me and I’ll gut anyone who stands in my way.” His broadsword raised high, the warrior swung down his silverite blade towards the heavy-set fellow, who barely managed to parry the attack with the long handle of his axe.

In the midst of the chaos, Zevran finally managed to wiggle his hidden dagger from it’s sheath. With dexterity he twisted his foe’s hand, snapping his wrist and forcing the man to drop his weapon. The elf was about to bury it deep in the neck of the knife-wielder when, much to his surprise, there was an interruption. Eyes the shade of molten honey filled with intrigue at the newest addition to this manhunt.

“Well, well…you are certainly a sight for starving eyes,” the elf greeted, his cheshire grin stretching across pearly whites.

Tonight was about to take an intriguing turn, he was certain…

[disgustcdnoisc]

shiftysmugglerlook liked your post “starter call;”

"Inquisitor." 

Temporarily lowering her sword after her most recent blow to the battered training dummy she’d been occupied with for most of the morning, she let her gaze fall upon him through slightly narrowed eyes. So many questions surrounding his nature and intentions had yet to be answered, yet he had done a fair few good things for the Inquisition thus far, too. It was a confusing state of mind to be in, and the puzzlement of it was no doubt visible on her face. 

Nevertheless, she had long since cast aside her initial suspicion of him concerning his share of responsibility in the attack at the Conclave. That did not mean she had not been keeping a wary eye on his actions as Inquisitor---their reputation, but in this scenario and depending on the choices he would make as their public leader, the fate of Thedas depended on him. 

“Is there anything you wished to speak to me about?” 

Her sword, though lowered, was still held at her side, perhaps so she could return to training if he had no need of her, perhaps as a physical representation of her natural defenses. Breaking down her walls required quite a bit of effort, and not many were willing to look past those walls to begin with.

[disgustcdnoisc]

bakes you bread in a freemen free dales.

monches bread in a freemen free dales

gives stinkeye to anyone who dares disturb the freemen free dales

[disgustcdnoisc]

starter call;

Fierce as cassandra may be, neither of us bite (hard. not really >.>) 

So, since I don’t make generated starters but prefer to personalise things for my followers and make sure people actually want to write with me before I put in the effort, like this post for a starter. If I don’t know where to start, I’ll hit you up to plot. If you want a specific verse or plot, let me know! I added information to my verses page today.

[disgustcdnoisc]

Actual goddess Cassandra Pentaghast

[disgustcdnoisc]

Get on with it.

cassandra allegra portia calogera filomena pentaghast

like reblog if you love hearing that full name said out loud. 

[disgustcdnoisc]

dragontongued liked your post “starter call;” 

It was a rarity, these days, for the Right Hand of the Divine to have a full day to herself, a day without duties, at that---though the latter, perhaps, wasn’t entirely true. Whereas matters surrounding the Chantry had calmed down since the Ten Year Gathering, word had come to her that there had been some unrest within the White Spire, courtesy of the paranoia of the Templars that were stationed there. Granted, keeping the Templars in check was among her duties, though not directly her responsibility...but she had a personal interest in this. Galyan was there. Avexis was there. The mages that saved her from the executioner’s blade were there. None of them were to be hassled with, or that Right Hand would surely turn into a fist. 

But, for now, rumours remained rumours, and as she had not visited the Circle in some time, she was intent on investigating matters before drawing conclusions. 

Despite not having been there for a while, in stead opting to meet Galyan outside of Val Royeaux more often than not for the simple idea of being away from their duties for a short while, she still knew how to navigate the Spire perfectly well. Not that it was difficult to begin with; there was a clear structure to the housing of the Mages and the overseeing Templars, all one really needed to know was where specific individuals were either in training or accommodated in personal quarters. This time it wasn’t Regalyan’s quarters she would be visiting, but Avexis in stead. The young mage had been through a lot over a short span of time, and Cassandra felt it was partly her responsibility to see to it that her future would have her wanting for nothing. 

Her search along the middle levels of the Spire comes to an end not long after it had begun, as a glimpse of long, golden hair catches her eye, and her lips settle for a contented smile to find the girl looking better than she had when they had first met. 

“Avexis. It’s been some time---have you been well?” 

[disgustcdnoisc]

"Please, Cassandra will do." 

Ladyship was not something Cassandra had ever owned up to; yes, she could be graceful at times, and she'd had plenty of etiquette drilled into her by her uncle---but she had left Nevarra’s gilded cage a long time ago and no longer identified with her royal lineage and upbringing. Perhaps this was something Fairbranks could relate to, but it was doubtful that either one of them would step over the threshold of stubbornness that they had built around their past. She was happy to just let her hands do the heavy lifting and her mouth remain at rest for the better part of the tasks at hand. 

Having freed up some space on one of her arms, she briefly looks over the man, and promptly steps in to carry part of the burden for him, at least physically. He looks so worn, and while she will appreciate someone with a caregiver nature at any given time, there is a fine line between hard work and going overboard. She should know, she’s been there. 

“I should like to visit here some time, when my duties allow for some time off.”

Pausing for a moment, she considers her next thoughts and ultimately, words, very carefully. 

“Speaking of which---when have you last rested?” 

The implication that he needs rest is there, but she does not voice it. Not yet, anyway. It is, quite frankly, none of her business...but remaining silent when there are truths to be spoken, simply isn’t for her.

disgustcdnoisc liked your post “daleslancer: Orlesian starter call hon hon.”

 “I appreciate your help with this, Lady Cassandra, the Dales is a better place now that the red templars and freemen are now gone.”  Not one to stand on ceremony when there are dozens of chores still left to be done until sunset, he looks haggard and rather stressed. Dark eye bags lining his eyes with impunity as his back carries the load of over hundreds of berries. There is laundry next and herb picking after… 

 “You and the inquisition are welcome anytime.”

[disgustcdnoisc]

starter call;

Fierce as cassandra may be, neither of us bite (hard. not really >.>) 

So, since I don’t make generated starters but prefer to personalise things for my followers and make sure people actually want to write with me before I put in the effort, like this post for a starter. If I don’t know where to start, I’ll hit you up to plot. If you want a specific verse or plot, let me know! I added information to my verses page today.

[disgustcdnoisc]

nocturne;

[inspired by this]

Some places leave you with a distinct experience of stepping past a threshold into an entirely different world, as though it was a portal to another realm that you knew nothing of until your feet were on the other side, and this is one of such places. It was built for such a reason, it seems, and for a moment, the real purpose of this place would elude its visitors. The entrance is a stone arc, simple at first sight, but upon closer inspection, sunburst sigils make up a string of delicate carvings across the entire center of the arc. In the afternoon, the sun will fall upon this entrance and her rays will caress your back, as though she encourages you to step inside; a warm welcome to those who know of this place and would pay it a visit. 

Carvings on the walls on either side of you implore you to leave your shoes behind, and for good reason, because when you walk on, grass caresses your feet, not just at the bottom, but it engulfs them, as though nature itself has rolled out a soft carpet for you. The path forms an aisle down the center of a large open space, and with every step, you get a stronger sense of smell from the surrounding area. Strawberries, Nevarran ones. If you’re lucky to have such knowledge, you might recall how much she liked those, when she was a child. Then again, if you’re here…you probably know. The fruit is lined up as neat as freely growing fruit can be, leaving you with the impression that someone still tends to these gardens, even after such a while. The fruit itself remains untouched, silent like everything else, but perfect in its blooming state. How lucky you are to have picked the correct season for your visit. 

Time has no meaning now that you’ve stepped into this new, quiet world. The sun seems to turn around the area, casting new light and shadows in every corner until it colors red around the edges of statues and walls surrounding the gardens. You stay out for a little while longer, because the path ahead is shrouded in shadows, and despite the serenity of it all, you know what lies within the inner sanctuum. You have an inkling of what it will do to you, of all the ways it will move you, all the emotional response it will draw from you. No, it’s much more pleasant to remain in the gardens, where you can picture her laughter chiming through branches and carried on the soft breeze that blows through star-shaped openings in the walls. They are deliberate, the breeze is deliberate. Everything here is so beautiful, but deliberately so. Not particularly for any audience, either, except for the few who dare disturb the quiet that has draped over these premises since they finally found their purpose. 

When the sun has disappeared behind stone and marble, you disconnect yourself from the timeless state that seems to define the gardens, and push onward towards harsh reality. There are ever-burning torches to light your way, not by any magic, but because there are caretakers that watch over her now. They keep everything tended to, and it’s strangely pleasing to know that she is looked after. Carved and painted works of art along the passageway tell her story, as though you didn’t know it already. You know, you’ve read every bit of her, every letter, every last word. You were part of her story. But these pictures, cold and unmoving, tell of her victories and achievements, of the type of woman she was and how, even after all that life had thrown at her, crashing waves of sorrow and loss had not managed to weather what was set in stone. She was a warrior, a protector, a believer and a lover. No circumstance had ever been able to change that, and her story would remain the same long after she was gone. The stone made certain it would be kept alive, but only you can fill in the most important blanks. The way she greeted you, the way she looked at you after a long time of separation, the way her lip would tremble when she edged on fury, or maybe you would be one of the lucky few to know the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slept. The stone does not tell such stories, but it will remind you every time you look at it. 

At the end of this hall of stories is more light, a larger gathering of torches that all seem to point towards the center. You know what you will find in there. This is why you came here, and it would be disrespectful to turn back now. So, with that in mind, you push forward, into a small enclosure of a room, where the flames of the torches are remarkably warm. There are details that you might focus on first; a sword mounted on the wall on the left -her sword hand, as some might notice- rubies in the shape of the Pentaghast family crest adorning it. A shield on the right, decorated with two dragons bent towards the middle. If you know of the shield, you know of the engraving that lies hidden on the side that points towards the wall upon which it is mounted. Mai Soli. Never alone. 

Your eyes finally meet a statue at the center, or rather, two of them. The larger one, even someone who is not a devout Andrastian will recognize as The Maker himself, a large, sunburst sigil on the wall behind him, lit up by five torches all around its circular form. His hands rest at the center, where they are supported by a sword. Protective, vigilant, yet at ease. At the foot of this statue, finally, you see the other. It’s her, and the likeness is so perfect that it will no doubt send a pang of various emotions coursing through your body, but that’s a Nevarran specialty. Atop a rectangular altar made of stone, lies a statue carved from marble, a sword bearing the ever-watchful eye of the Seeker beneath folded hands. Her eyes are closed, lips in a perfect state of rest, and she looks perfectly at peace. When you approach her, you’ll even notice that her lips are perpetually pulled into the smallest of smiles, as though she’s fallen asleep that way and is having the most pleasant dreams. You hope she’s only sleeping. But the towering statue above her reminds you of the cold truth: she is at the Maker’s side now. Nevarrans have no particular tradition of carving names into tombs, as they are made solely for the dead and those rare few visitors who wish to pay homage to them, but you can imagine what words you would have used to describe her, post-mortem. 

Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast has been welcomed back into the Maker’s arms, where she is reunited with her brother, Anthony. Protector. Warrior. Seeker. Friend. Lover. Mother. Hero. The world is a little darker to have lost her. 

“Uncle, what are these?” 

They were just clumps of stone surrounding the gardens she and Anthony would visit, then; inconspicuous to a child of her age, with no shape or form to indicate their function. Vestalus did not respond, at least not right away, in stead giving the child a small pat on the back and plucking a strawberry for her, before placing it in the opened palm of her hand. Only after a moment longer of silence, did he formulate an answer for her, though she would never be able to comprehend the magnitude of the work in progress she currently sat amidst. 

“This is your legacy, Cassandra. I am building you a home.” 

An eternal home, a final resting place, a place where all fond memories would forever be preserved, even though the fondest of her memories were yet to be made. It was, like all things still alive and on the move, a work in progress. Perhaps even one that he hoped never to personally have to see finished.

[disgustcdnoisc]

maybe cullen carried the inquisitor through the snow after the search party found them. maybe. but i am just saying, given the physical shape cullen is in, and how intense that snowy trek was, it’s also possible that both cullen and the inquisitor were carried back to camp, one under each arm, by cassandra allegra portia calogera filomena pentaghast

[disgustcdnoisc]

Dragon Age Meme Idea

Send in a scenario or gift and the character will respond with their level of dis/approval or rivalry/friendship.

[disgustcdnoisc]

inner storms; a cullen starter

“You give yourself too little credit.” 

The Seeker was painstakingly aware that she had spoken those exact words before, but the Commander had been too caged-up inside his own mind to let what she was saying ring true at that moment. Now, in a calmer setting, with ear and eye finally directed at her with full attention, she could only hope that he would at least consider that she was perhaps right in this situation. He had, after all, asked for her insight on the matter, and she was not the type to dance around the truth like a dog chasing its tail. Straightforward, just as the Commander usually was when they would have a sparring, verbal or physical. Their friendship had evolved past pointless pleasantries---not that she cared much for those in interaction anyway. 

“Many people wish they had your perseverance, Cullen. You’ve done so well. Surely, you are not going to give up now.” 

Her gaze smoothed along his features, then softened, eyebrows that were knitted together in frustration now displaying a more concerned frown. He looked so much older now, so...worn. Not by battle, at least not those which the Inquisition or his previous occupations had led him into. No, this was an inner battle, still ongoing, and it had begun to leave its marks on his face in the form of lines where there had been none before, and deep, dark circles under his eyes. 

There was a moment of hesitation before she tentatively placed a hand upon his, thumb crossing the back of his hand until it came to a halt on the side of it, and she gave a little squeeze in comfort and reassurance. Even his hands were rough now, knuckles white from the fists he had made as a clear sign of his inner battle, finally erupting outward. It was frustrating for her to know that this was not a battle in which she could stand by his side in comradery as she often would for those closest to her---but she could be there for him. Moments later, her other hand slipped underneath his palm so her hands enveloped fingers that were rigid with inner struggle. With a touch that was unexpectedly gentle for a warrior woman’s hands, her fingers slipped over and under his, soothing, attempting to calm whatever storm was raging inside him. All she could ever do was try, but by Andraste, he was stubborn. Perhaps even more stubborn than she was.

“If I did not think you were capable of facing challenges, I would not have appointed you Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Even this challenge. You can overcome this.” 

[disgustcdnoisc]

 @zevran-theblackshadow​

If he’d known the Seeker was capable of tricks, perhaps a rogue such as himself might have caught her intentions before suddenly losing balance. Surely, he would have tumbled to the floor had it not been for the firm palm of the shieldmaiden upon the crook of his back. Nevertheless, the Antivan was confident he could redeem any faux pas in the bedroom. All it required was a change in perspective, really.

“My, my. I am not accustomed to being swept up by beautiful women….” The elf drawled with a lackadaisical smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Truly, Cassandra was full of surprises. “It is something I can get used to, however.”

Two steps back and privacy was theirs for the taking. The door closed with a solid thud behind them, muffling the echoes of chatter through the halls. Immediately, Cassandra reached for the strapping of her armor, disposing of the protective guard as they clattered to the floor with a ringing sound. She stood before him at her most vulnerable, having abandoned the glinting armor that seemed to be a physical manifestation of her emotional walls.

Words did not seem to be capable of spilling from his lips, a surprise to be sure for a man known for his incessant commentary. His usual demeanor was thwarted by Cassandra’s forward gesture, the way she stood before him simultaneously inviting him and warning the elf to keep his distance. Perhaps she expected Zevran to look at her as a beast would observe their prey–something to be conquered and maimed. Perhaps she expected him to mock her–as if his intentions all along were to exploit the sincerity of a woman who gave too much and received little in return. If he were all the things people first presumed him to be, perhaps that might be so. Perhaps he would look at her that way.

Yet if she could only see through the eyes of the Crow. He’d sensed that she would be nothing like previous bedmates, yet, alas, the Seeker seemed intent on bringing forth a side to him he hadn’t known existed. Why was it that, even after inviting him to her room, Cassandra seemed to test him, as if daring the elven charmer to prove her suspicions right?

And why was it that he found himself ever more determined to earn her trust?

He closed the distance between them with, slow and measured steps until he stood but a breath’s distance from the Nevarran beauty. His slender digits would follow the sharp line of her collarbone with the same devotion of a Qunari convert, fingertips hooking onto the collar of her tunic and tugging it away from satin skin. Lips descended to press fondly upon her clavicle, peppering kisses upon her skin and inching closer and closer to the elegant slope of her neck. In between kisses he could not resist the soft hiss of air between his teeth from their proximity, his desire a boundless wildfire catching onto whatever part of the Lady Seeker he could claim.

His free hand lingered upon the swell of her hip before cupping her outer thigh,  fingertips indenting in the smooth skin. He drew her leg up to wrap around his waist, making the effort of lifting her seamless. While it had been he who was pinned against the door previously, the Seeker would find herself caged between the Antivan and her bedroom door. His lips were ravenous, nipping at the tender skin of her neck before soothing away the bites with a sprinkle of kisses, akin to the dapple of summer rain on scorched earth.

With his shirt abandoned and her armor resting on the marble floor, his senses seemed to crackle like a lightning storm. Without the armor he could admire the lean muscles blanketed by soft flesh, their intertwined hips divided only by clothing. He pressed himself harder against her frame, starved for more, yet restraining from taking whatever she did not wish to offer.

Tilting his head back, he met the burnt umber hues of the Seeker Pentaghast. The lantern light cast her gaze with a flickering gold palette, and the mere sight of her in the warm light ceased his breathing. His tongue desired to tell Cassandra how her beauty was incomparable, yet his lips could not find words. His forehead grazed hers, gently, as his palm pressed flat against the wall. The other hand tugged at the hem of her tunic, curiosity sparking in honeyed eyes. His gaze fixated upon her features as his hand slipped under the fabric, keeping an eye lest she showed some subtle hint of displeasure.

“I am completely at your whim, Cassandra,” the elf murmured with a soft purr. “Though you are certainly making it hard for me to maintain my gentlemanly reputation.”

If she did not protest, he would roam the flat surface of her stomach with fleeting touches, fingertips inching ever upwards. Forehead still pressed upon hers, he would steal another kiss, sucking upon the padded crescent of her bottom lip, his breathing labored as every second beside Cassandra left him unraveled.

“Voglio assaggiarti.” 

Much to her own surprise, there was no protest from the Seeker, not in words nor actions, and not in the secure confines of her own mind, either. She wanted this, him, despite the protestations she had made during their earlier encounters. Thinking back, she realised that they were a natural defense that she had built up over years upon years of trauma and loss of almost everyone she had held dear in the past, a defense that was, perhaps, no longer necessary, that held her back in this instance. And if there was one promise she had made to herself after the smoldering remnants of the Conclave had been extinguished, it was to learn from the past, but never look back upon happy times with remorse, nor let it slow her progress for the future. She had prevailed, and she would continue to do so. 

His hands melted barriers of which she had previously been unaware existed, fingertips drawing circles around her mental walls until the sensation managed to spiral its way into her core to lower the drawbridge from the inside. Quite the accomplishment for someone she’d previously considered a threat to her life and perhaps someone to toy with her emotions, if she were to show him anything besides bitterness or even anger. He was still in the position to do so, but the part of her mind that was not yet parched for a taste of him, hoped furiously that he would not take advantage of her emotions after she had given him permission to do as he pleased----as they both pleased, with her physique. For someone as guarded as Cassandra, emotionally as well as physically, the two were unequivocally connected, and one could not exist without the other. She had no doubt the Elf would be able to fulfill his physical urges without any emotional attachment, but, well---she would have to deal with the emotions in the aftermath. There was something of a connection, but she was no fool; to think that there was something more between them than a need for physical satisfaction would be entirely too naïve. 

With that in mind, she mused a moment longer and came to the conclusion that she still wanted this with every fibre of her being. His touch would seem bold at first glance, but there was still something tentative about it, eyes searching hers for any confirmation of consent, and she respected him so incredibly much for it. Perhaps there was more honour in the Antivan than she’d initially gauged, and even the Seeker had to admit that she was not flawless in her assessment of strangers. She could only hope that before long, he would no longer be a stranger to her. Having found no words to accurately describe just how intense her craving for him was and how much she wanted him to continue every single thing he was doing at that moment, she did something that would initially seem contradictory to her feelings about the situation; she broke contact, all of it. Within moments, she had broken free from his grip, not one to be pinned down easily after all, and she stood a foot’s length away from him, spun around so her back was turned towards him. Confusing as that action may have been, she spared no seconds to make it very clear that she was all in for this. 

As she’d spun around and away from him, her fingers had found the laces that held her tunic together at the same time, and the exact moment when she’d fully turned away from him, also happened to be the moment she had undone the lacing far enough for the fabric to naturally fall away from her skin. As slowly as hot wax dripping down the candle that was lit in the corner of her room, gravity tugged at her tunic, and ultimately, fell to the floor. Her thumb hooked underneath the bindings that wrapped around her chest and flicked the end of the cloth outward, creating enough space between the bound layers for them to unravel from their previous position, and join the tunic in a puddle on the floor, around her feet. Turning the slightest bit, she now let her arms hang loosely around her body, which in turn caused the candlelight to momentarily give him a perfectly light-framed side-view of her posture, bare from the waist up. The glance she flashed him from over her shoulder was unmistakable; I want this. I want you. 

“Come. Join me.” 

Her words held a double meaning, both beckoning him to the bed at the other side of the room, but at the same time, her gaze crept over his body as though she expected to peel off the layers of clothes he was still wearing with a simple glance. Needless to say, consent was given, and the night would prove to have so much more to give for the both of them.

----------

Leaning back against one of the pillows that had been discarded during their intimacy but that was now propped up against the corner of the bed’s headboard, Cassandra had gathered the sheets between her fingers and drawn them back over her body, not specifically for warmth, but more so because she felt...exposed. Vulnerable, perhaps. A faint hint of moonlight fell through the window and caught her attention, or rather, she let it draw her attention away from the scenario she’d found herself in at that moment. It had been pleasant, no, much more than that, but now that silence had engulfed the room once more, her thoughts were flooded with memories, worries, and perhaps if she was honest with herself, insecurities. This situation had her at a bit of a loss, and with no clue how to move forward from it, avoidance was always her best option. She would pretend to be capable of these things without any further ado, as many free spirits seemed to be, but in the back of her mind there would always be that little glimmer of hope that this she had not just become a notch in someone’s notebook. His experience had been beneficial for the both of them, but in afterthoughts, it made her incredibly uneasy for her own dynamics with him. 

Part of her hoped he would simply get up, get dressed and leave before her mind spiraled into further suspicion, part of her longed for...something she wasn’t even quite certain of, herself. He had given her many a thing she hadn’t realised she’d been sorely lacking while she had been consumed with grief and dutiful labour, perhaps he could continue the trend a little bit longer. 

No. She reminded herself that he was an assassin, and with the amount of parties that still disapproved of the Inquisition and its co-founders, this...thing between them had simply sprung from a mutual frustration and should evolve no further. 

...Should it? 

Her gaze remained averted from him and his perfectly sculpted forms for a little while longer as she mulled over the options of what to do or say next. Whatever the case, she would make sure to come out on top. As in any and all situations.

The Sinner and the Saint

[disgustcdnoisc]

When someone stands in the fire and complains that it is hot.

[disgustcdnoisc]

I moved further than I thought I could              But I miss you more than I thought I would

It’s peculiar, how the world passes you by when you’re traveling, sometimes on automatic controls, your body taking over because your mind is too exhausted to even fully process your surroundings anymore. Trees, hills and a handful of quaint forest cabins all whizzed by as four pair of hooves created a fast, harmonious echo through the valley they traveled across. The Seeker’s gaze wandered over her shoulder, scanning the features of the person behind her, red streak across the nose and part of the cheeks, scruff around the lower half of his face...it was strange to think that this was the person Varric had described in his stories, the Champion of Kirkwall. Yet...the hidden depths of his expressions told many more stories of troublesome experiences. She knew then that this was the person she had been looking for. The future leader of the Inquisition. 

Come nightfall, what had been a galop and some trotting later, turned into more of a walking pace, until eventually, Cassandra suggested for them to dismount and search for a good spot to set up camp for the night. They had already crossed the Waking Sea and traveled for the better part of a day, so there would only be about half a day’s worth of travel left, but the horses needed rest, and so did they. As much as Cassandra would have preferred to get to know the Champion, relatively few words were exchanged between the both of them before they turned in for the night, the thought of an early morning wakeup and travel ahead fresh on their mind. After all, it wasn’t just Leliana who had traveled ahead of her to be present at the Conclave...

Regalyan. Galyan.

The second time she called him, he responded, instinctively arching his lips into a smile upon recognising her voice. 

“Cassandra...” 

Maker, how long had it been since she had last seen him? Too long, surely, and being able to see him again, touch him---it was akin to fresh drops of water after the longest trail through the desert. Being in public, their greeting was a demure one, but their fingers interlaced, and she could swear something physically sparked between the two of them. She had made it in time to see him before the Conclave, but as her duties as Right Hand of the Divine required her to join Divine Justinia at the Conclave, she made a silent promise to herself and her Mage that she would save the real greeting until after the meeting had been disbanded. A kiss on the cheek was what she parted with, blissfully unaware that it would be her final kiss for him. 

As it turns out, travel is not the only time when time seems completely irrelevant, and events simply...pass. One blink of the eyes, one sharp breath, and moments had passed like fine grains of sand escaped from within clenched fists. An attack, defense, the brightest green light, sharp, searing pain---so. much. pain. A familiar voice, crying out for help, and another, calling out her name. 

Galyan. 

I’m here. I’m here--- 

Gloves seared into the scorched flesh of her fingers, she still reached out to him, still found him and held onto him for dear life, fists clenching around what was left of his tunic, her iron will clinging on to the last remnants of life, as though it would have made any difference...any at all. The blast had hurled them away from impact, heat had engulfed most of the Conclave’s attendees by now, and perhaps in a final act of mercy from their Maker, they had found each other again. The last thing she saw before her vision glazed over and even a Pentaghast’s will was put out like the faint flame of a bedside candle, was his face. Regalyan’s face, barely recognisable save for his eyes. Eyes that, until he had taken his very last breath, spelled nothing but love for her. 

Galyan--- 

I’m here. 

A sweltering ache woke her from her slumber, and she felt so many things at once. Agony, emotional more so than physical, but she had thrashed about and tangled herself in the sheets, and toned, caramel-skinned arms had her firmly locked in place...trapped. 

"Shhh...Lady Seeker, I’m here, I’m here...” 

It took a moment for her to gather her thoughts and realise that she wasn’t trapped, she was--- 

“You are safe.” 

Safe. She was safe. Her gaze found his, but with the same unbearable history no doubt visible behind her eyes like the pages of an opened book, she quickly broke contact again. These dreams, these alternate timelines of what could have been, they had plagued her ever since the Conclave, but she had never spoken of them, never shared them. She had not shared her bed since, not in her personal quarters, not where come nightfall, all of her walls would break down. She could have known this would happen, should have known, and yet...perhaps this was exactly what she needed. His warmth, his calming arms still firmly locked around her in an unexpectedly caring embrace. 

And just this once, she let the situation be as it was. No damage control, no distancing herself, but in stead, she sought out the very core of his embrace by resting her forehead against his chest, eyes falling shut as she allowed for his soothing touch to drape over her like a blanket. 

Moments later, her shoulders shocked lightly and the salty trails of her grief rolled ever so slowly down the side of his chest, to disappear into the sheets beneath them and dissolve there, not a trace of her momentary weakness left in sight. But for that moment, weakness was not so bad; after all, she had been strong for so incredibly long, even the strongest of fortresses was bound to crumble under such duress. 

Oh, how she crumbled. And how remarkable that it was the Antivan who was witness to it all. His hands, as it turned out, would be most capable of rebuilding her, memory by tiny little loving memory, moment by moment. 

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be 

              Right in front of me

                    Talk some sense to me

@zevran-theblackshadow