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a trauma poem

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youriinquisitorialness:

          ❛    Perhaps.  Although you’ve kindly pointed out                how inexperienced my guards are, so I doubt                it’s that simple.

She could see from the woman’s proud glare that  she held no love for the Inquisition.  It was, perhaps, too soon to conclude that she was there under the pretence of an assassination…although Eleftheria got the impression that there would be no tears shed by this elf should harm befall her.  It was odd, such resent when this thief was the one to sneak into her castle grounds with some form of duplicity in mind.  Did she think she could traipse about the property of a group called the Inquisition and not get caught?

                     Maybe the city elves were truly as naive as the stories described.

Sure enough.  Yep.  No tears shed.  At least the - stupidly - blunt admission all but cleared her of the suspicion of assassination.  No, if she had planned something as grand as that, she would have prepared more, been better equipped and, likely, not have made a flippant comment about it when facing judgement.

                                            ❛    That’s a pretty tall sized if; slitting my                                                  throat is harder than it sounds.

Again, to be proven right.  Not planning an assassination, then.  To this admission, all she did was give a nod; it counted as a reply without the need to confirm if she actually believed in the tale that was being spun.  This elf was…like Varric; she didn’t seem inclined to tell the truth but, then, that could’ve just been her attitude.  Eleftheria couldn’t understand it and, frankly, she didn’t appreciate bearing the brunt of this girl’s irritation.  It was hardly her fault she’d planned a shoddy heist.

                                                                     ❛     And, what, she couldn’t do this by                                                                            honourable means?  I know for a                                                                            fact that the Inquisition would’ve                                                                             welcomed the aid of someone who                                                                            is clearly well trained, even if it’s                                                                              as a - rather sloppy - thief… 

   seyrena shoots up at that, bristling at the implication that her work is anything but pristine (not that she’d be wrong to assume, but seyrena’s not about to take that kind of insult lying down). ‘hey,’ she practically yelps, ‘i’m doing my best!’ a beat, and she relaxes again, mouth a long line of irritation. 

    seyrena absently scratches at the end of one chapped lip, picking off the dead skin as she speaks. ‘economy’s rough these days,’ she explains, lying through her teeth,  ‘what can i say. war’s got everybody in a hissy fit. there’s no room for elves. well,’ she amends, her eyes flicking to the inquisitor’s decidedly pointy ears (and how did that happen, she wonders), ‘if there is, it’s hard to find. can you blame me for assuming?’

   despite her efforts to brush past it, welcomed the aid sticks out in her mind, bright as a pristine gem in a pile of shit. hm. seyrena rolls the offer around in her mind, thinking about how clean everything was when she first came in, the way everyone had a place to be. sure, there are some holes in the ceiling, and some of these people look do a bit sketchy, but any quickfoot worth her salt knows that a patchy roof is better than no roof at all. and it’s not like seyrena sleeps with her valuables wrapped to her abdomen for fun.

   considering all this, she can’t help the way her eyes widen a little, the way her foot taps out a slow rhythm against the floor. as seyrena knows from experience, skyhold’s fucking nigh impossible to penetrate (if she has to climb one more stone wall, she’ll just jump). and if she were to keep a stash here, perhaps—

   ‘i realize tensions are high,’ seyrena starts, pressing the toe of her boot into the floor and counting the arrangement of the stones to keep her pulse steady (one, two, three), ‘but hear me out. if a hypothetical elf were to repay you for the hypothetical grief she’s caused you by, i don’t know...pledging her services to you! indefinitely and fully. would that ease any pain?

   by the way, those services may or may not include archery, assassination, lock picking, information, spying, advice...maybe a kiss if you ask her nicely. think it over.’

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wyrmofthrace:

A moment passed, && then two. Seconds spanned as though hours until finally a great wing lifted–revealing a terrible head, great jaws lined with daggered teeth. The Dovah paused, regarding the smaller being with momentary amusement, making no move to indicate hostility.

                        (In all truth, she was merely taking the moment to decide                                       whether or not to kill the little elf–though it didn’t show.                                                                       After all, half the fun is in the surprise.)

     “ Flattery and humility? ” The dragon gave a noise–was that…was that laughter? She thrummed, a deep rolling noise, akin to gravel being c r u s h e d underfoot. Still the great beast lay, completely relaxed–it was obvious by now either the dragon uncaring, or very much assured that the dunmer could not hope to harm her even if she tried. 

    Though in fact, it was merely that the beast was LAZY that was the saving grace. A stomach full of Auroch, && with muscles well-heated from the stones, she was quite content to lounge so long as present company kept their humble air. Recent developments included, indeed the Dovah found herself rather interested in company, as it were. So, perhaps this encounter could be fate. 

     “ So very rare nowadays. Come–who are you, girl, who knows not much of the world? I harbour hunger for talk, not food. Quickly, speak! Else perhaps my wants may change yet. ”

   seyrena’s heart is beating so hard, she’s half expecting it to split her chest apart and go flying away, tossing a quick you’re on your own, sucker! over its shoulder as it flees. it’s what seyrena would do, given half the chance. honestly, regardless of her begging or how prettily she pleads, she gets the feeling that roasted dunmer is on the menu for this creature’s dinner. maybe brynjolf’ll give her a nice send off when he finds her bones—if he even finds those, that is.

    she glances up, then back at her feet, eyes wide as her mother’s finest supper plates. looking at the beast only makes her heart beat faster, makes her tongue feel thicker. better, then, to not look at all, and merely pass it off as a meek heart. ‘you are a very wise beast,’ she responds, adjusting herself so that she might drop into a pretty little bow, the sort of gesture normally reserved for jarls and potential clients. sapphire told her it was cute, once, and she hasn’t stopped using it since. anything to save her own skin (if she fucks up this mission, mercer’ll follow her to the afterlife and cut her into tiny, thief-sized pieces). ‘but i do not mean to flatter, only to tell the truth. they call me seyrena. i hope i did not disturb you; i am on my way to do business for a master of mine.’

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Do not mistake my silence                          for subservience.

                                                    The knife of the heart                                                            is held between my teeth.

— Natalie Wee, from “忍,” Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines

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Their faces I thought were knives. The way they pointed them at me. And waited. A hunter is someone who listens. So hard to his prey it pulls the weapon. Out of his hand and impales. Itself.

Anne Carson, “Town of the Sound of a Twig Breaking” from The Life of Towns (via soracities)

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It starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same running from something larger than yourself story, shoving money into the jaws of a suitcase, cutting your hair with a steak knife at a rest stop, and you’re off, you’re on the run, a fugitive driving away from something shameful and half-remembered.

Richard Siken (via facinaoris)

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REBLOG this to be added to the masterlist of elder scrolls roleplayers if you are a character from the elder scrolls series by bethesda or if you have a verse for it. PLEASE MENTION IN THE TAGS if you are :

i. an oc - dragonborn or not / an npc. 

ii. in what game your character is set

iii. if you are a character from a different canon with a verse.

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♡ follow for more cr1tikal aesthetic ♡ ( ♥ )

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… the past splits in two:           one stays in the past and dies one past shape-shifts    walks with you.

Camille Rankine, from “Necessity Defense of Institutional Memory,” Incorrect Merciful Impulses (via lifeinpoetry)

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I am a liar and a thief. Don’t let me into your house, and if you do, don’t leave me alone. I take things. You can catch me with your string of fine pearls clickering in my greedy little paws, and I’ll tell you they reminded me of my mother’s and I just had to touch them, just for a second, and I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. My mom never owned any jewelry that didn’t turn her skin green, but you won’t know that. And I’ll still swipe the pearls when you’re not looking.

Libby Day, Dark Places by Gillian Flynn, page 52. (via mythaelogy)

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She liked to disappear, even when she was in the same room as other people. It was a talent, as it was a curse.

(via sylviaplathwrites)

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