#makerbound

[aglaecan]

@makerbound asked: “But it is one thing to read about dragons and another to meet them.” / @ mar because WHAT A CASS THING TO SAY

At the voice, Hawke glanced up from wiping her blades carefully clean. Dragon blood was often hot and strange; it would eat away at steel if you weren’t careful, turn leather and cloth to weak tattered rags. The bulk of the dead dragon was heaped nearby, more of the dark strange blood seeping out and puddling beneath the rent hide to soak into the verdant, fertile soil of the Graves.

She met the blank, glassy eyes of the high dragon’s corpse for a moment, reflecting briefly on how small and sad it looked now; which had only a little while before been a strangely beautiful, if deadly, creature. Brightly patterned scales in shades of teal and umber; she had spat ice at them instead of fire, which was new in Hawke’s practical experience, though she’d heard of it before. 

Hawke’s eyes flicked briefly to where the Inquisitor stood with their other companions, examining the high dragon themselves and talking quietly, no doubt strategizing how to strip the corpse of its valuable crafting materials, the thick blood not excepted; and then she tilted her chin to look up at Cassandra standing beside her.

“I suppose so. But I mean, this is my....” Hawke trailed off a second, visibly counting on her fingers, “...fiiiiifth? No, sixth. Sixth? Fuckweasles, I’m starting to lose track! Let’s just go with sixth dragon I’ve had to face. Yeah, some of them were a teeeensy bit smaller than this, drakes and mature dragons and the like, and that does not even come close to counting all the Andraste-damned dragonlings, but.” She shrugged. “Loses the novelty after a while.”

There was a pause, and Hawke’s eyes widened. “Waiiiiiit, is this your first? Is it? Did you just lose your dragon virginity?” She hopped to her feet and grinned at Cassandra in bright fond tease; she knew it wasn’t Cassandra’s first, not by a long shot, but the joke was just sitting there, waiting, taunting. How could Hawke ever resist picking it up? 

“Aw, babe, I’m honored you’d share your first with me!” 

[mercysought]

@makerbound​​ . ❝ Make peace with what you cannot change. ❞ / @ the priestess . pomegranate seeds . accepting

Each one of the Trees in the Emerald Grave had once been a warrior that fought for the soverignty of the elves. In ancient times (ancient from the eyes of those that had no concept of a different age to marr their own bones), the rituals would have been different. Trees would sprout and feed the earth all around them, but it had not been quite so literal, not in the same way that the stories of the Emerald Graves.

The priestess had walked the grounds out of sheer curiosity and dread. Dread for all of the Children that had been left to be buried by time and the spirits that had no guide to welcome them to the Beyond. Bodies without proper burials, without proper goodbyes, without the honour that they had deserved. The elves that had been buried there and whose spirits still lingered in the rich shadows were now considered ancient. As the memory of that walk washed over her, the standing in the middle of so many of the Children’s graves with the warm sun beaming down her dark skin, the priestess feels old.

The meal that they had been sharing remains untouched. It had been at least three full days since they had left the general area and yet it beckons her still. Not the disquieted souls or the silence that is heavier than any stone that she had ever seen. Not the graves themselves. Herself. Her own blood called her back, called her to enact revegence, to return and turn those same trees into avenging guardians to remind all that stood on those holy grounds of the sacrifice that had been made.

To demand repayment in blood for what had been done.

Scarred fingers cover the top of the wooden cup and she feels the eyes of the Inquisitor on her. The Seeker, the talkative dwarf. The priestess spares them a glance, unsure what conversation they were having but only that those words seemed to have been directed at her; her thoughts almost. 

With a single movement she drinks the whole contents within her cup. The cold water feels nice in the midday sun. She could not change what had been done, the atrocities that had been done to the Children, but she could not make peace with it either. She could not look upon those forests, upon these fields, upon much of this world without feeling a bottomless fury.

   “There is no peace to be made, Seeker.” 

[extravagantliar]

“May I have this dance?”

may i have this dance // meme cache // @makerbound​​​ | @cllgood​​

This is not a Kirkwall party.

( well it is — but it is poorly done, poorly managed, for the Maker’s sake there isn’t even one man drunk in the antechamber singing the many praises of Hawke ). 

It’s some, sick perversion of Bran’s, and possibly Aveline’s — he hasn’t thought that far ahead. For the guest are mostly gentry, and even he ( Varric, the man whom they were celebrating, for it was his birthday after all! ) is subjected to wearing the Crown of Thorns and coat that fits far too well, and a dress shirt that covers up far too much. This wasn’t what he had wanted, not in the slightest, when he had requested something small — he had expected cards with Aveline and some of her men, perhaps Dorian coming in for a week ( if not a night or two ), or even a drink down at The Hanged Man. 

Not all of Kirkwall’s gentry in high regalia — and Sebastian tucked against a rotunda with someone who made him smile ( good for him, good for Starkhaven ).

 Yet, this was not what he ever wanted. The hushed voices, men and women who believe to be better fit to do his job offering him halfhearted congratulations on his existence, and part of him wanted to snap at the next person that wished him well, wishing to cite that the woman they should have been thanking rested in a copper plated urn on his mantle. 

He hates his birthday, anyway.

“Bran.” It’s hissed into the ear of one of his most trusted statesmen and watches as the man visibly recoils ( before using his free hand to straighten his banners — for it seemed even Bran was partaking in the good mead tonight ) before offering the Viscount his undivided attention. “There is not nearly enough sawdust on the floor.”

Bran is easy to mark, it’s interesting to watch him think. For his glass is switched between his free hands and teeth dig into his lip for a split second, he’s so meticulous and careful with his words. It’s admirable, but also infuriating, for this was not what they had ever agreed upon. “Sir —- I do know that this isn’t The Hanged Man.” He snorts, and Bran shoots him an incredulous look as if he’s murdered his eldest son — and dark green eyes behind glasses widen in almost disgust before the seneschal sighs resigning to his position. It’s as if he has to continue to remind himself that Varric abhors all to do with the gentry and always will. “I thought we discussed this, sir — that next week Magister Pavus, Lady Helia and a few others will be meeting you at the southern dock and I will begrudgingly assume Head of State for a few days.”

Begrudgingly — meaning they’ve already fought at length about this, and he’s forgotten it, placed this date aside for something else more important ( like the budget for the University – or the Lowtown Restoration Project ), something that has to do with the actual projects that need his attention. “I believe you told me this was a State Dinner — and I see Chantry Bo —-” 

“His Serene Highness, Prince Sebastian Vael, sir.” It’s a substantial correction that he heeds no warning. 

“Chantry Boy — and the square from Markham.”

That cause Bran to turn and glare down at his Viscount, earning the seneschal a smirk that he would consider fulsome. “That is the honourable Lord Astley, the Head of the Council of Markham, many of these guests have come quite a distance to see you and wish you well in your next year. Some have even sent their congratulations in lieu of being here – like the Beaufort family, House Cousland, and even Mademoiselle Clarel, Duchess of Val Chevin sent tribute.” Bran lives for things like this, casting the wide net to extend the reach of Kirkwall — and usually, Varric is more than happy to play along. 

But this is not a party.

Titles don’t mean much, Astley was never one to help the people of Kirkwall when they were starving in the streets, at least Sebastian had the sense to keep his fingers on the pulse of the people for him during his bout with the Inquisition. “Doesn’t change the fact that Astley is as dull as unpolished sunstone.” A glass of mead is offered, and he happily takes it, twirling the flute betwixt thumb and forefinger. “Alright, tell me what I need to know, but Dorian’s here for two weeks, and I believe Aveline has new recruits all those days.”

“We agreed on ten days with Captain Vallen.”

“Well,” The crown is easy to pluck from his temples and pass towards his waiting seneschal, “You can explain to Lord Atlee…”

“Astley! Astley! Astley! Varric! For the Maker’s sake, fine! It’s like negotiating with my ten-year-old grandson! You’re nearly fifty for Andraste’s sake, Varric.” 

He’s forty-seven, actually. 

The crown is pushed back into Varric’s waiting hands, and while he is loathed to drive his feet into the dirt so childlike sometimes it’s the only thing that breaks through Bran’s iron exterior ( plus, he can only get away with this one for two reasons — one being, Dorian and Varric would have done it regardless and the second being it was, in fact, his birthday ). “Two weeks with Baron Pavus sans Guard Captain Vallen, just don’t destroy Lowtown.” 

“You have my word, Bran.” He passes the glass of mead to Bran as the crown is adjusted and slipped back over his head, nestling on his temples ( it covers the new grey that has appeared, there is much more than before ). “Now, who is here and what do I need to do.” 

“Besides Prince Sebastian and Lord Astley, there is Lady Lucille Trevelyan, an extended member of the Trevelyan family, I believe she’s a title holder, however, I am not privy to how she is styled. Lord Barnard is here as well from Tantervale, most likely here to recount his glory days defending the Free Marches — of course, none of these people simply hold on to your meagre attention, Sir.” Scathing, but well deserved, plenty of remarks almost dare to boil over in response to the insult of his “exiguous” attention, which it was when it came to parties such as these — where he just wanted more sawdust on the floor. 

“Anyone else, Merrill? Hawke? The Inquisitor?” It’s a stretch, for any of these. Isabela is out facing the open water, Fenris would never ( not even for all the wine at the party ), and there were others he would never dream of having them step foot in the rotunda of the Viscount’s Estate. 

Bran signs, defeated. “You know as well as I do that Serah Hawke would rather face any nightmare of their choosing rather than being here. Merrill declined, citing that she would, and I quote: ‘see you on Thursday’, and the Inquisitor is in Val Royeaux.” There’s a pause, a smirk that Varric catches, over the glass of mead and it stops him for a second. The fidgeting falls to the wayside. “There is one other, a noble from Nevarra — House Pentaghast should be arriving next hour.” 

There — the ace that Bran had held onto. Their work together, through these last few years, had left a decent impression on the both of them — information and punches would be pulled to make the other party bend to their will in this game and this morsel, this gem of information is what keeps him going through the stories and the helloes, the congratulations, and gift giving of far too beautiful things that he has no need for. It’s enough, it’s more than enough to be able to make it through the self-serving sycophants and their lecherous families. For she is worth all of this and more, Cassandra Pentaghast — once a foe and later a friend in arms ( for they had fought to get to this place, this place of letters and pressed flowers, where he adored her and wrote her biweekly merely to allow her some glimpse into his life ).

She’s worth this hell.

Alas, he makes it through — charming and dancing with those who demand his attention for idle chatter or to make an ally, hoping to get a kind word from the esteemed Viscount and the House of Tethras. It’s tiring, and he’s eager for a reprieve, for something other than this, and with his impeccable behaviour, it’s easy to alert Bran that he’s taking a moment ( pipe in hand, flint in waistband, and glasses pressed to the inside of his breast pocket ) alone on the veranda, to overlook the city and her waters, to leave the gentry and the music behind for a few moments. The fresh air is welcoming — the last bit of summer finally fading away as the crisp fall air takes hold of Kirkwall, turning her foliage a spray of colours and keeping the night skies alight and bright until the winter storms move from the south. 

Flints spark and fire comes to life on the end of a match — a vice he hasn’t had in years puffing to life for a few moments ( a guilty pleasure he partakes in, once every three or four years ). Smoke curls and rises, finding the home in the elaborate rafters of his home. The orchestra carries on, strumming up some new fast tempo — and he’s happy here, relieved.

“Varric.” That melody is sweet, sweet enough for him to turn tapping his pipe out on the veranda and coughing at the same time. They’re too old for romantic anyways, she knows his vices by now — she knows his weaknesses, and his proclivities. “Bran said you would be out here, but I wasn’t aware that you were smoking.” 

Cassandra.

The old oak pipe is left of the stone, free hand covering his mouth as his lungs protest, hating the smoke as her disapproval sinks in for a moment. “It’s a non-issue.” It’s coughed though, apparently his body protesting as much as she almost seemed to be. Lungs burn for a moment, and he leaves the pipe behind, the smoke behind and basking in her for a moment — the true surprise ( and he’s not entirely sure how Bran pulled that off without one of Varric’s many spies catching wind or how Cassandra was able to keep this secret from him ). “Hello, Cassandra. You look —” Radiant, stunning, resplendent  — she is matchless in this sea of people, a glittering gem in road amour rather than a ballgown or a suit, of course, he’d be fine with either. 

She tisks at him, something reminiscent of their time on the road  “I’m dirty Varric, and underdressed, so save your words. Bran did not inform me that this was going to be a —-”

“An affair?” He closes the gap between them, perhaps he’s a bit too eager to, perhaps he’s dumbstruck, and that is why Bran kept all of this under wraps ( to keep him from keeping his head in the clouds ). “He informed me tonight was a State Dinner, it was nothing of the sort — I’ve made it through.” Road weariness ekes from her, and part of him doesn’t wish to ask her to change, to be subjected to this when she’s made the effort to come all this way, from only Maker knows where. 

“You know,” He takes her hand, thumb drawing lazy circles over the back of it, “You don’t have to do this, my apartment is unlocked still. If you’re lucky, Lena is still around and could draw you a bath, sit by the fire, and wait for all of them to leave — even Aveline and Bran.” A pause, not only with words but with the long, languorous circles and in its stead, he pulls the palm of her hand to his lips, something gentle, something just for the both of them. She lingers for a moment, long enough that he knows she’s considering all of it, plus or minus a glass of wine and a book ( and for a moment he considers kicking everyone out now ). 

There’s a groan elicited from her lips, moving past and stirring something in him, and a carnal part of him ( a younger part, a part where he can sweep her up the forty-something stairs ) almost declares the party over then. “I promised Bran, I would try and make an appearance.” 

“Fuck Bran. This isn’t even a real Kirkwall party.” She’s tired, and so is he. They do too much, along with this. But, there is no place he would rather be than here, in this moment. Flyaway is brushed aside, an excuse to hold her — to cup at her cheek. That earns him a smile, something soft ( something he never dreamed of seeing, this wildly romantic and compassionate side ). Hands slide past, rather finding home behind her head, nestled in her windswept and wind musted up-do. “I’ve done my rounds, we can go upstairs and sleep.” Just sleep — there would be plenty of time for anything else, but he was fond of the few days where he got to wake next to her when the light was just right, and they were just people for a few hours. 

“Yes, I noticed the lack of drunkards on the way in, I was impressed.” The band slows, he can hear the piano slow and the strings following suit. They’ve never fit together, they’re both callous and bloodied, worn from their respective pasts and put their work before each other, but they fit. It’s not perfect, they’ve had to make amends, to apologise, to write letters upon letters explaining everything that this means, to chose to continue on. Her hands find him, amongst the song and the nightlife. “May I have this dance?” She’s not given him a choice, for she’s pressed herself against him, dirty road wear against one of his finest suits ( and he loves it, he loves everything about it ). 

“I don’t know the steps to this one.” A paltry admittance, hands pressed against the small of her back as they rock back and forth, taking the occasional step in time with the notes. They’ve always made their own path, beat to their own drum, why would this be any different. Selfless people giving up too much, but for a few moments they get to be selfish, they get to make their own steps, he gets to kiss her and hold onto her. For a moment it’s just them, their fingers entwined as they take their rounds around the veranda ( he spins her, and he swears she laughs — for a moment this is their life, and for a moment he craves this more than anything. For a moment there is a small house, it’s just them. She has her work, and he has a quill — there are roses, and rings on gold chains, but it’s only for a moment ). 

He no longer cares that there is not enough sawdust on the floor. They’re bumping noses, lips pressed together as they come to a halt to drink in these moments. This makes every conversation worth it, every ingenious person grappling for his favour and every forced smile is worth it. She’s worth it. 

Everything stops, the music fades away, but they’re still together. They’re still locked together and hands drifting until she groans and pushes him off her. “I told you I’m filthy.”

“Yes, you are.” It comes across more lewd than it should be, accompanied by him running his hands up her vambraces and pulling at the leather. 

“Varric!”

 He waves it off, his hands leaving her vambraces entirely, “Sorry. But — this is not the worst I’ve ever seen you, nor does it come close to how dirty I’ve been.” She swats at him and misses. It’s playful and brings a smile to his features as he settles next to her. “Remind me to take you to a real Kirkwall party.”

“No.” It’s stern, but it’s also punctuated with her armour being forced into his arms ( bits and pieces of it being stacked slowly, and if he wasn’t so tired — other ideas would have been forming ). 

“How about I draw you that bath instead of Lena.”

“Mh. I’d like that.”

“Maybe I’ll even read to you, filthily.” It’s more of a promise rather than a threat.

She laughs and tugs her breastplate free. This is what he wants. She is what he wants – all of these gentle moments, the way her eyes crinkle as she laughs and how it’s a genuine laugh at his rancourous behaviour ( even though once he swore he told her that he, Varric Tethras, was the paragon of being well behaved — now she really knows he’s full of shit ). Kirkwall needs him now, and she is more than able to stand without him, but one day — one day they won’t have to do this.

One day soon.

A hand is offered, she takes it

A kiss pressed to the back of his hand, and like schoolchildren, they dodge the gentry ( mostly Bran ), moving through darkened halls and stealing a bottle of wine or two and he pockets a sweet treat for her — and even pulls one of the maids to the side, letting her know he’s not to be disturbed for any reason. 

Then, they are both gone, lost to something else — to steam and poetry, a bottle of wine. To clean linens and soft kisses. 

Perhaps, his birthday isn’t that bad after all.

[theharellan]

ღ ♦ ☼ ☾

ღ your favourite da:i banter

i’m gonna highlight one that for some reason ppl give solas a lot of flack for. i say “some reason” but i know the reason, it’s ppl having difficulties admitting dorian sometimes deserves to be criticised.

Dorian: Solas, for what it's worth, I'm sorry.Dorian: The elven city of Arlathan sounds like a magical place, and for my ancestors to have destroyed it...Solas: Dorian... hush.Solas: Empires rise and fall. Arlathan was no more "innocent" than your own Tevinter in its time.Solas: Your nostalgia for the ancient elves, however romanticized, is pointless.Solas: If you wish to make amends for past transgressions, free the slaves of all races who live in Tevinter today.Dorian: I... don't know that I can do that.Solas: Then how sorry are you?

ppl seem to hate that solas doesn’t accept his apology and?? why should he, it sounds like all it would do is alleviate dorian’s guilt about his empire’s past, while doing nothing for elvhenan, solas, modern tevinter slaves, nor even dorian’s development.

solas is just pointing out that being sorry means nothing if you do nothing about it. it also highlights some of the similarities in their arcs, with both eventually choosing to do something about the state of the homes they love (referring to fen’harel’s rebellion in elvhenan rather than solas’s current plans)

♦ your favourite piece of lore

i already talked about my fave lore aka everything about the dalish/elves in general in da:i and i talked about dwarves elsewhere so...

rivain??? i love rivain?

i think as a culture it seems incredibly interesting, a real melting pot of their own traditions, andrastrianism, and the qun. and given what we know of the former, i also have to wonder how it meshes with the latter two. we have some idea w/ andrastrianism, they had a circle but it was much more lax and mages were allowed to have families and seers even merged with spirits, similarly to the avvar. the qun however is harder to imagine fitting in well in that climate, although this is partially b/c we’ve never seen the qun as it’s supposed to be in the games, beyond exposure to individuals, and the one example of a qunari subculture in-game doesn’t end so well.

what happens to the circle as dairsmuid is a tragic example of what a pile of shit the “circles/templars are for our protection” is. mages in rivain are revered (or at least the women are,) and as far as we’ve learned there’s nothing to indicate they cause a lot of problems, and to the chantry that is a problem. it’s a clear indication that everything they’ve been preaching isn’t as true as they want it to be, and so it has to go.

i really hope we go to rivain one day. like more than anywhere else, i want to go to rivain. i remember a few years at dragon-con when ppl asked where some workers at bioware wanted to go, weekes said rivain, so hopefully one day i’ll get my wish.

☼ some positivity for a canon character roleplay blog

bethany is a criminally underrated character and @vigilflight gives her the attention she’s deserved. what she’s done with wasa in particular has grown into something really special and i feel grateful for being able to watch it unfold even as my gut clenches in preparation for whatever shit they’re about to pull next. i’m probably gonna end up modding my game so i can play through w/ one of my mage hawkes and experience warden bethany for myself and it’s 100% lisa’s doing.

☾ some positivity for an original character roleplay blog

shout-out to @exnobis and all adelle’s creations, but in this case specifically nox who i had the pleasure of hearing all about the other day! elvhenan muses are hard, there’s so much history, more than we can ever hope to live. nox’s life is so sad and fraught with suffering and hearing how it led him to hurt others is heartbreaking and yet fascinating.

i’m finally getting a nox thread and honestly i’m hype to write the starter. adelle is a blessing.

[archontem]

                                                      @makerbound

                                        Cassandra Pentaghast

[beefcakequnari]

makerbound replied to your post: Bull, loves interacting with kids.Bull on the idea...

Ok, now i wanna know how many bastards he has running around

Well, since he was under the Qun and in Seheron until 26ish, they probably hit breeding around 15 and he was considered someone you really wanted more of

Dozens??

[divinitatem]

makerbound replied to your post: cllgood replied to your post: ...

i wanna unsee this

hey there divine vickie, you got your armor of the divine, i got mine

[mindsmade]

             The fire’s going and it’s surrounded by people ––––– first in a tight ring fitted snugly about the circle, and then a few strays standing back a few steps, leaning against whatever wall or tree looks solid enough. It’s an impromptu gathering centred in the courtyard as unintended consequence to another victory of the Inquisition’s. Leave it up to the Iron Bull to invite all of Skyhold and their mothers once he realises this is becoming a thing ... but Krem’s not complaining.

             If anything, he rather appreciates the atmosphere here. It creates a perhaps much needed opportunity to mingle with those not oft sought out –––––––– such as Cassandra, in this case. She approaches and Krem’s sure to respond.  ❛  Seeker Pentaghast. Here to see what the fuss is all about?  ❜     ( // @makerbound )

[gcnenineteen-blog]

makerbound replied to your post: Vannay has absolutely saved his own life at at...

wait a sec don’t roland and suze do that in book 7 in empathica or do i remember something wrong

makerbound replied to your post: Vannay has absolutely saved his own life at at...

(which would make this headcanon even cooler then because then it’s basically roland remembering another one of vannay’s teachings)

I honestly can’t recall, but it sounds just plausible enough that I’d believe it. And for Roland the teaching was likely a little less about discipline, and more about preparing him for literally every eventuality he can imagine, because he’s the only student he’s ever taught in whom that will really matter. I doubt anyone asks why he pushes Roland harder - he is their future king, after all. 

[aglaecan]

oh man i just found the pics from when i modded the game to make Mar Hawke as inquisitor and romance Cass.... gosh they were cute

[mercysought]

DAY 01: favorite portrayals of a character in your fandom

@theharellan

I am going to sound like a broken record from all the times that I’ve said this but it’s really hard for me to find portrayals of a character (or I should say Evanuris I’ll be honest) like Solas that I like. It’s really required to have a light hand to write such a character filled with nuances that could be easily bulldozered in someone’s characterization and considering how complex Solas is you make... an extremely good job. I can actually see his voice in your writing and more, not only the fact that he is a man that would destroy the world again, incredible intelligent but also able to possess this sweetness and love for life that is incredibly nice to see. 

@fadedforthem

Yes, I have two Solas on my list, sue me. I like Matty’s portrayl for different reasons than I like Tas’ but both of these portrayals have such an important place on my heart that I will defend with tooth and nail. It is incredible how fast and how adaptable your Solas is. The difference between interacting with someone that he likes and someone like the priestess is night and day, our interactions make it easy for me to see the side that people would fear, the laughing wolf and the one that made people tremble. But also, when interacting with other people to see someone that was to teach and be a guide.

@deathlyguide // @sorrowedvigil

Low frequency pitches, I mean how could I not. The interpretation of Falon’Din fell so perfectly into what I had imagined that I simply cannot stop yelling at how great it is. For both of these character, Falon’Din and Abelas there’s this sense of ancient-ness though not quite in the same way which is what makes it brilliant. Before joining the rpc I would spend hours pouring through your threads on both these accounts even before knowing that they were written by the same person orghierger The nuances are there, they are audible as you read both of the writing, and it’s impossible not to fall in love

@archontem

It can be so hard to write villains and more so unapologetic ones in the sense that they don’t feel like they are doing anything wrong, be it because their society made them believe in their principles or because he sees that things that we know are wrong need to be done to keep a nation growing. I love your rendition of the Archon, you write him so beautifully, he is so menacing in the exact way that I would imagine him being. Different than what Falon’din is in the sense that he feels more earthly, it’s not a matter of religion (for that it’d be the Divine, but of true, raw power. And it’s... hmmmm yes.

@makerbound

We actually don’t get many parts in the game/media where we see Cassandra being afraid since she mostly turns towards anger (I feel at least). But, our threads with the priestess and Cassandra are so intricate in terms of reactions, I absolutely love reading your Cassandra’s threads, it’s a fine line between someone’s characterization being plainly ‘woman of god’ type thing and ‘warrior woman look at me smash I don’t have time for your bs’. You make her be so much more than that, it’s really nice.

@idolbound

slAMS THE DOOR I AM SO HAPPY TO SEE YOU RETURN TO THIS ACCOUNT. I would never leave if I talked about all the things that I love that you do with Meredith, I absolutely adore your portrayal of her, your headcanons, the relationships that you’ve forged (though, I’m still sitting here for that one that you said about: Meredith and Viscount Hawke. I want........) Yes, yes at all of this. 

[extravagantliar]

occasionally unwelcome tagalong 

[eritvita]

continued from x

@makerbound

As an arrow, shot, doth his heart bare struck, and he clutches his breast in an unconscious, airy gesture.

“That... My Gracious, ‘twere not what I had meant!”

[archontem]

trick or treat  🎃 (accepting)

@makerbound / @cllgood

[asteeledheart]

makerbound replied to your photoset: happy slightly belated birthday, @bornpariah!

dang casey this is beautiful

cries i got better since 2013

[mademyselfreal]

♡

PARTY BANTER ; ACCEPTING ; @makerbound;  ♡ — my muse and yours

CASSANDRA: the locket was a kind gesture cole, but you needn’t shower me with gifts. COLE: i didn’t. CASSANDRA: what?COLE: it wasn’t me.   CASSANDRA: oh. then who---COLE: does it matter?  CASSANDRA: (sigh) yes, it matters. aside from the thanks i owe, i would rather people not have access to my private quarters without my permission.COLE: he knew you’d say no.CASSANDRA: he? so you know who it is?COLE: yes.CASSANDRA: and you won’t tell me. COLE: he wants you to be happy, even though he doesn’t always know why. he thinks you’d be angry if you knew. but you already do, and you’re not. CASSANDRA: ...i suppose i do. tell var---...tell him, whoever he may be, that i appreciate the books. although, next time, i’d rather he not break into my chambers to leave them. if he wishes to remain anonymous, then he can simply leave them by the training grounds. COLE: he picked the lock just to annoy you. CASSANDRA: (sigh) of course he did.