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[karvaus-blog]

lathboraviiran.

          “Fine. I’ll admit it. The shortcut was a bad idea.”

“ah, so the illustrious inquisitor finally admits he was wrong---- an hour TOO LATE, because now we’re lost.”

[karvaus-blog]

“I got a few scratches and dents. I hope they just give me character.”

the inquisitor shakes his head, as if his scorn will make adifference towards whether or not she throws herself into combat. it won’t, notreally, but it’s all worth a shot—- “next time, at least try to avoid being hit.”

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“My people have a saying - seek the enemy of your enemy, and you will find a friend.”

“your people, meaning back-stabbing nobles who sit and laugh at the unfortunate? somehow i’m not surprised. it won’t be long until your enemies with the enemy, and then you’ll be regretting that choice.”

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You look like a winter’s night. I could sleep inside the cold of you.

deathless sentences.

“to be perfectly honest, i’d prefer it if you didn’t-- whether this is an insult or a compliment.”

[karvaus-blog]

“I’m sorry.”

mass effect sentences.

perhaps it’s just the noise that overwhelms him, or the smell of smoke in the air from where they are burning bodies just down the way, but he has never confided in someone like this before---- and aban is unsure of whether or not doing so to cassandra was the right choice or not. a nervous tic strikes, and he stands from the ground, paces back and forth. skyhold is busy, flooded with traders and nobles and peasants, people of all kinds.

when was the last time he’d said the words aloud? the real reason he hated humans? that rage is ebbing away as time passes, but he still holds tight to the bitterness, keeps it clutched close to his chest. he moves, one way and then the other, stops to look at her with his head held high.

he hates being pitied, hates feeling as though he owes people something. he can see it in her eyes, the way she looks at him as if he is weak. not worth anything. pain lances through his left hand, and it is the very same pain that makes him snap. he can hear the crunch and tear of flesh as his claws dig so fiercely into his palm to restrain the sudden tumult of the self-control that the skin breaks, and blood pours from there to the dirt beneath their feet.

“you weren’t there, seeker. you couldn’t have known--” his voice does not break, because he is not weak, has learned to hide that sort of emotion and replace it with another type. “you couldn’t have known.” there is no thank you, no offering of kindness or response to her words. “i didn’t know either, and this is where i am now. with a fucking responsibility i didn’t ask for, surrounded by people who make assumptions of me as if i can fix all their problems. what if i can’t save the world, pentaghast? what then?” the confession comes from nowhere, the hollows of his lungs and the stretch of his ribcage. aban is not scared to die -- but he is terrified of failure, terrified of feeling the same way he did all those years ago. he can still see it fresh in his mind’s eye.

“you are one of the few people i can call an ally, seeker. and i’d rather that not change. don’t apologize for something you didn’t do.” the realization does not dawn on him like the sun, does not crash over him like a wave. it is not a sudden change.

[karvaus-blog]

okay. tiny starter call.

[karvaus-blog]

@oflowersofgold.

“you’d think this would be easier,” aban huffs out, as if there is no one else in the great hall. he’s just spoken with varric, had listened to the dwarf weave his tales for a whole half hour. he turns to the woman, arms crossed over his chest. “i don’t know how to help you. you might want to try someone else.”

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@provocatcur.

“did you want to ask something?” his tone is snappy, short, and most of all? IRRITATED. he has spent all day going through papers and arrangements and orders, listening to cullen prattle on about things that seem minuscule. there are things that are important, and then there are times that the commander opens his mouth. “if you’re looking for the ambassador, she’s in the room down the way.”

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lyrium-arrxws.

⇒ They scowl as he cuts them off mid-sentence, nose crinkling as their brow furrows and they look up at the hulking man from the page in the book, finger pressed to the text.

     “I was saying that you       should be careful not       to confuse the types       of elfroot found in the       Emerald Graves.       For example, you should       be careful not to let       the horses consume       Bracken Elfroot–       it can make them       very sick. It can       make you sick too, but       you are far less likely       to eat it without a       second thought.”

it’s almost as if it’s through one ear and through the other. his dracolisk had never gotten sick before, and therefore, the laws of poisonous plants to do not apply to anyone else and how they might work. “where did this come from?” he didn’t recall mentioning the emerald graves, or anything of that sort of nature.

[karvaus-blog]

sproutyelf.

“Oh, did I say it was a plight? I think not.” He shrugs and takes a bite of the

orange, chewing slowly and savoring the flavor. “You sound more of a threat

than them, anyways. I meant you no ill will with the comment, Ser.”

“if you say so.” aban doesn’t believe it, and that’s obvious enough in the way his expression settles. “you should speak with lady montilyet if people are giving you trouble. she’ll make them disappear, for a short time.” he’s not actually sure if that’s true. “unless you intend to deal with the issue on your own.”

[karvaus-blog]

daiovro.

                                  she’s not smiling, but there’s a QUIRK in the corner of her mouth as her head ducks, like she’s hiding the expression. no matter how IRRITATED the adaar is, she is keen to help – & neria does not often give in when things get HARD  (  or else corypheus would’ve won long ago  ).   ‘   well, i’m hardly your MOTHER. i’m not going to scold you.   ‘   as amusing of a thought that is. hands remained firmly in her lap, though she WANTS to pull his hand closer so she can see – but sometimes she tries to be respectful. eyes lift to his face, challenging, just a little ANGRY, but she tempers it with care & turns away.   ‘   obviously, magic would be easiest, but i do know of some HERBS that would help the healing… & i can wrap it right.   ‘

constantly wanting to help is not something aban feels, and he will likely never be inclined to be so useful. he is more skilled with a blade than he is with potions. it always makes people stare, the way he disappears from a crowd or sinks into the field without even blinking. you’d think, at his... stature, it’d be easy to spot him. they’re usually wrong. there is a flash of ANGER in her eyes -- he can see it, it’s right there, but she apparently changes her mind. he huffs. “magic will do. i’d like this healed as soon as possible.” a long pause. “ --thank you.”

[karvaus-blog]

1, 43

1. What’s their full name? Why was that chosen? Does it mean anything?

his full name is aban ataash-raas adaar. when his parents came to ferelden and realized just how long names could be, they didn’t hold themselves back. is the name a bit long? sure. but it has meaning to them, && that’s what’s important. aban doesn’t necessarily fill his name’s “prophecy”, not really, but when you’re named after the sea, glory, nothingness, and a weapon, it can be a lot to live up to. his parent’s track of thought essentially went like this:

aban for the sea, to remember the home they left behind.

ataash-raas for the hope that their middle child would not be hungry for power.

adaar for a weapon, which was what they all took in hopes of the future.

43.Are they religious? What do they think of religion? What do they think of religious people? What do they think of non religious people?

i wouldn’t peg him as particularly religious, not to the extent that most are, but he doesn’t think there’s nothing up there. it’s just not a large part of his life until after he get stuck with the mark, and is forced to decide if he really is the herald or just lucky. he doesn’t care if others are religious, but he’s annoyed by most of the hysterical chantry-goers, however, calls a fair number of them harpies, and non-religious parties don’t really matter to him. he doesn’t care.

[karvaus-blog]

aban adaar, 2/?

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sproutyelf.

“The next person that calls be knife-ear is going to get cut with something

a little less soft and fleshy.” He uses a dagger to peel an orange, nose

wrinkling in disgust. “What about you, hm? They’ve not been very sweet 

to you either.”

“were i you, i would not compare your plight to mine. an ‘oxman’ is no ‘knife-ear’, and the same is for the reverse.” a claw digs into the peels that have fallen, picks up the citrus’ skin and tosses it away for the rats. “i don’t expect them to be sweet to me. it’s not their job.”

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@lyrium-arrxws.

“what are you rambling about?” it’s a question provoked not from curiosity, but rather irritation, and confusion. aban has long since learned to tune out the voices of people he isn’t interested in speaking with; unfortunately, such a skill tends to carry over to conversations he might need to listen to. “i didn’t catch the last part.”

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@xstrange.

“a word, if you’d please.” his tone remains curt, as short as it can be---- he has no interest in extending this conversation to a length any longer than it needs to be. his respect for the magical advisor is small at best, but he does not expect the mage to grovel. magic simply makes the hairs on the back of his neck raise, “i am being told by our commander almost incesstantly that the mages of the inquisition are acting up. & if i can RECALL, i’m sure i put you in charge of them.” one man cannot manage so many, surely. aban is well aware.

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daiovro.

                            disagreeableness is met with a STERN frown & no hesitation in approach, the inquisitor rather defiantly taking a seat near him, one brow lifting with SILENT attitude  (  her specialty  ).   ‘   you were the IMPORTANT thing, actually. sera snitched.   ‘   eyes drift down to the bandage, then back to him, a cant of the head, a fall of dark hair.   ‘   i could FIX it if you wanted. i can’t imagine handling a sword will be easy with the injury.   ‘

if this is some sort of competition in attitude, he will meet it with equal measure, brow quirking to match her expression. she is the INQUISITOR, he has to remind himself, and deserves respect. she has done nothing wrong. wrangling his temper, however, is easier said than done. “of course she did.” there is a wary glance towards his hand, and he slowly unwraps the cloth. long black nails scrape alongside the wound. “fix it how?” aban is not particularly KEEN on magic, but using daggers is difficult with an injured hand.