bearmuther

[bearmuther]

marlena, pt. 2.

dialogue prompts from marlena by julie buntin.

something’s up. something’s not right.

i acted like an idiot.

are you the kind of person who takes the easy way out?

do you feel bad?

tell me a story.

tell me a story about us. give us knives or something.

i have to have a few things that are just mine.

you will be rewarded for your loyalty.

you are the prettiest one of all.

what would i do without you?

i had to hurt your feelings to keep you safe.

you could’ve at least left a note.

it’s easy to ignore something you really don’t want to know.

you were always too good to be, well, good.

it’s not much of a life at all.

where did you go? is everything okay?

i’m not afraid.

when did you become such a criminal?

is this my influence? i kind of really want to take credit for this.

you can’t steal a whole new life.

you’re smart as me. smarter than me, probably. you just don’t try.

five years and you won’t even remember this place.

you trying to kill us?

you don’t have to act like you don’t care. not with me.

let’s go down to the beach. 

i love the beach at night.

we’re in trouble.

you just don’t seem like you fit.

one of love’s side effects is turning off your fear of consequences.

i want to make sure you’re okay.

what do you mean, ‘yikes’? you’re a supermodel.

isn’t it so funny how you just can’t imagine where you’re gonna wind up?

i never saw you coming, and now you’re like family.

what is there to say?

what was ___ like?

[bearmuther]

mortulitasi​.

Bozhena surprises her. This is not, in any particular way, some sort of revelation. She barely knows the woman; it might be that this is just how she is. But what a gift to be given a power so immense it has never even existed, to be the very first to wield it, and eye it with some hesitance and give it a soft chuckle. It is currently a nauseating shade of green, and the flesh around it seems cracked. It is fascinating to Manon that she does not cover it. In a world where people left and right are afraid of mages, it seems strange to walk with it, unbowed, unashamed, unafraid. As if to call and say you should look.

And they have. For all their hero worship, their wide eyed gawking and mouths left ajar, they still stare at her as if she is more than a woman. She’d been there, when they’d rescued the prisoners from the rogue Avvar, and she’d seen the way they had trembled at the very sight of her, tear tracks running down their faces, bruised and bloodied but otherwise unharmed. And, more than anything else, they’d looked at the mark, a different hue then than it is now – she desperately wishes she could just touch it – and had… trembled.

Manon thinks they are afraid as they are reverential. She hums, and tries to enjoy the sensation of the breeze running across her face. It’s not intense, but it had picked up earlier near the Rift. No corpses to rise, though, which had been a little disappointing. “Maybe they just think you’re worth bowing to,” she hums, a single brow quirking, “I certainly would have.” In the moment, surrounded by the undead and spirits, the fade so thin that she could feel it caressing her skin, like it had settled across her like a cloak, well… she’d been distracted.

Her attention returns to the mark. Her horse begins to slow, and she gives him another nudge to spur him along so they are once again at equal pace. She watches: it is ever-moving, always shifting, never still, like something simultaneously above and below the skin. “Does it hurt you? Does it feel like anything at all? I noticed, when you closed the Rift, you–” she tries to imitate the moment, the shaking of her left hand as if attempting to dry water from it, or flick blood away. “Does it impact the movement in your fingers at all? I am truly fascinated.”

The mental image of such a regal, collected woman such as Manon bowing to her makes her grin. Who would think of it? That a well educated Nevarran, likely of high ranking, might admire a simple mountain witch is bizarre. It warms Bozhena, to see that perhaps not all see her as either prophet or barbarian. It is a difficult dichotomy to embody. "That is a funny thought."

She wonders what assumptions others make of the lady Valis herself. She has not learned much of her land, beyond rumors of strange magic and ancient rituals, and has heard even less of its people as individuals. There is nothing to pre-conceive, but for the human desire to understand another.

A rogue nug scampers by through the bushes; her elk protests and jerks his chin upwards, spooked. "Shh, Ingo," she hums. It is with a gentle hand that she soothes him back into a trot, aligning herself alongside the other rider again. It's a funny thing, the mark. It seems to move and warp if one stares directly into it too long, yet its core remains stationary, captured in place in the open wound that is her palm. Today is a good day; it has not gone out of control. She does not blame Manon for her curiosity; Bozhena herself would ask the same. 

So it is with an amicable tone that she outstretches one hand lower, so the other woman might better see it. "Sometimes. It hurt when I first awoke with it, of course, it had torn open my palm. Now there is usually a dull feeling, as though it's fallen asleep. A hum from my wrist upwards, when I close a Rift. The greater the Breach grows, however-- well. I suppose you could say it electrocutes me." With a little smirk, as if she's showing off, she wiggles her fingers. "It doesn't hinder me. It may kill me, but for now it is largely just an annoyance. And a tool." 

The inquisitor takes the opportunity to ask her own questions. She knows an affirmative answer is unlikely, but it is difficult not to ask. "You seem to be familiar with the arcane. Have you ever seen anything like it? Any theories?"

#mortulitasi #OMG this took me for fcking ever #promise i wasnt dodging a reply i was literally going crazy #interacting with people im trying to garage sale crap to sjkgsdjkgljkdg #me emerging from the garage to write my lesbianism

[bearmuther]

Pride and Prejudice | Kodachrome | Phillip Carr-Gomm | Caroline Davies | Sam Kriss | Jack | Sam Kriss | Rainer Maria Rilke | Uffington white horse | Mary Oliver @oldstones (x)| Cornelia Funke | Rio Pinturas | Horace Smith | 

#*in tears*

[bearmuther]

There is nothing to be afraid of, it is only the wind changing to the east, it is only your father     the thunder your mother     the rain

Margaret Atwood, from Night Poem; Selected Poems II: 1976 - 1986. (via megairea)

#* THE RETURN OF THE REPRESSED. #* THE CONCRETE MOTHER STANDS ALONE. #* DAS GEWICHT DER VATER'S ERINNERUNG.

[bearmuther]

it could be that these people made their entire world into a gallery, that animals charged across every rock-face, that wherever the tremendous herds of beasts roamed, they were surrounded on all sides by echoes and images of themselves,in a world where image and object had not yet torn themselves apart.

[bearmuther]

sekilat​.

                                                                                   IT WAS ALWAYS FUNNY HOW THEY FIND THEMSELF WITH MOTHERLY FIGURES , no matter where he was . perhaps it was a natural instinct learnt while growing up , when the inquisitor was merely a cub to look for his own mother . they laugh – perhaps a bit too loud as it rang across Skyhold . aetlus had gotten lively just chattering away about how they’ve somehow slid down a steep cliff with barely a scratch . much like how a young child would to his mother . 

“ a tattoo ? ” he mouths , eyeing the tool – recognizing it to be similar to how the dalish would use for their vallaslin . the elf , curious as ever about cultures outside their own , couldn’t help but wonder how different were avvar tattoos compared to elvhen ones . “ what about the ink , mama– ” he catches himself , covering his mouth immediately upon calling bozhena as ‘mother’ . “ … i’m sorry , i couldn’t help myself . ” they give the avvar woman a sheepish grin , top canines stuck out like tusks as they became more exposed . 

“ i hope i didn’t make you uncomfortable . ”

aetlus was a darling, really. charming to the bone, never missing a beat when it came to humoring her- it’s a sweet relief, really, and she hopes her presence offers distraction from the madness of life in skyhold. responsibility like his can weigh one down. to ease it, even for a minute, is worth the effort. “yes, just a little one.”

and then he calls her that. it cuts a little, the title, putting pressure on an old wound. she shrugs it off with a laugh. life is too short to let old memories hold one back from the new. she pulls a little tub of dark ochre ink from her satchel, and winks.“my, my, aetlus, you think me so unprepared?” 

with a comforting hand upon their shoulder, friendly and light, she replies; “don’t worry. i appreciate that you trust me so. it is kind.” they are not the first to call her that, nor likely the last. a pause, then, as she directs their leisurely walk towards a room where they might sit and talk as she works. “you’re experienced with tattoos, i see. how old were you when you received them?”

#sekilat #this is so cute ahaha #bozhenas like. ouch! but its sweet ! #she comes across as very warm and maternal i think i dont blame them slgkgdj #now i just have to remember how tattoos work again to write this

[bearmuther]

.

#Hanukkah Sameach my friends 💙🌌

[bearmuther]

Details of Judith (1892), by Jules Joseph Lefebvre

#* HOW LONG WAS I AWAY? #* HAD A FLASHBACK OF A PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED.

[bearmuther]

mortulitasi​.

CLOSED FOR @bearmuther.

They are leaving the Fallow Mire, with the Inquisition’s agents rescued and the Herald herself – an Avvar woman who could rival the sun with the way one’s eye is drawn to her – victorious. 

Strangely, Manon thinks that she will miss it. There is a strange twisting in her stomach as the swamps turn to wilds, the wilds to grasslands and fair fields. When they are outside of Lothering and she has watched the Herald close another rift, she chooses to speak something. Her horse is no great beast, small and nimble and frankly a little frail – she was shocked to see it had made it this far, all things considered. She’d been bracing herself to go it on foot, but he’d powered through in spite of wolves, cold, muck, and corpses. She gives him a quick pat to the neck and an affectionate hum before spurring him to move up. The Herald’s party, which she now seems to be a part of, rides either single-file or in a diamond-esque shape. She is, admittedly, struggling to parse which of these two arrangements is more favorable.

Right now, the road is wide, but they ride one-by-one at a leisurely trot, the sun high overhead and sweat at her brows. She has shucked her longcoat away in favor of her undershirt. The wind is a comfort, the gentle breeze rustling through their hair and giving the impression of a sunny summer day. It’s as if there were never a rift to begin with, and the scorch marks on the ground are the only scars that remain. She can’t even smell the sulfur anymore. Fascinating. This is what she wanted, in a way, but still, the daunting feeling remains. She and her gelding ride alongside Bozhena for some time before she is fully able to gather the courage to speak.

She is not a fool. Merciful, holy, Herald of Andraste or not – there is an air about her which demands respect and turns heads. Manon cannot say she is shocked that she, too, has been drawn into this warmth. “You cut an impressive figure, Herald,” she starts, voice loud enough to carry across the sound of hoofs against road, steady-like-a-heartbeat, “is it the same at Haven?” She nods, then, in the direction of Inquisition agents further down the way, moving in a speed so unison it is a little terrifying. Consistent, but terrifying. “Do they all look at you with that same revering, puppy-eyed expression?”

Sealing a rift always fatigues her, like she’s run a mile uphill. The gentle breeze through the valley is a sweet relief. Her arm is sore from the fight-- it tingles, buzzing dully like a limb that’s fallen asleep, stiff from the elbow up. The people of Thedas seem conflicted on how to regard it, torn between blatant, fascinated stares, or avoidant gazes, obvious in their desperation not to appear rude. For some, perhaps it is a religious sort of fear. She starts binding her wrist in gauze as she rides, trusting her steady old Frostback Elk not to let her go tumbling off. 

There is a Nevarran woman among them today. A death mage. Talented. Fascinating. Bozhena is rarely one to judge another by appearance alone- but there is a certain mystery to this new addition. She looks earnest, sharp as a blade. Despite her curiosity, she resigns herself to the comfortable quiet until this Manon speaks up for herself. It’s polite, she thinks, to let others have the first word. It proves to have been much worth the wait.

“Oh, just you wait, my lady.” She, too, finds the rigorous unity of the Inquisition forces bizarre at times. Surreal. The Avvar see themselves as one of a whole, and this reflects in the mannerisms of their forces in combat- but there is value in independence, and one might say they lean more into guerilla tactics and formations than whatever it is these people do. The fierce admiration of these soldiers is certainly different. 

The Inquisitor leans to look at Manon, smiling warmly, hair in wild disarray; “Some won’t even look me in the eye. Sometimes they bow. I couldn’t fathom why. My dear advisor tells me I've got to quit bowing back.” 

There's a certain restless hunger for work among these people. They seek to please her-- to offer a hand, even at their own inconvenience. Bozhena understands what it means for your status to demand respect, but she's used to doing years of work to earn it. Perhaps sealing those pesky tears in reality makes up for it. The rifts themselves are bizarre-- one moment torn open, pouring forth all kinds of horror, and then in the blink of an eye-- gone without a trace. The impermanence troubles her. Still, she tries to find the humor in it; cheerily waving her yet unwrapped palm, still glowing a dull, acidic green. “What, don’t you like it?”

#mortulitasi #bozhena like idk theyre so uptight. im just here for a good time #* WRITTEN. #me: ill write this tommorow #me 9 hours later sitting on my bed: technically it is in fact tommorow

[bearmuther]

Bozhena’s staff of choice is the cold Glacial Staff. (During Trespasser, she uses the Avvar electricity staff, Hakkon’s Wisdom.) When first transitioning into the role of Inquisitor, she often wears standard Avvar armors, although as spring nears she adopts local customs. She does, at times, wear traditional Avvar body paint when it may be a wise tactical decision. However, her body paint is not exclusively in black and white; this color scheme is only designed to suit the color scheme of the Frostbacks. She adapts the colors and forms of the paint to blend with the environment she intends to fight in.

Her light armor of choice is the Masterwork Battle Armor, and her heavier armor (which she often wears to meetings and events of importance, if not formal) is the Light Armor of the Dragon. Around Skyhold, she wears a simple white button up and high-waisted, billowy trousers, and a pair of comfortable boots. Her steed of choice is a Greater Frostback Elk. His name is Ingo, and he’s dear to her. 

#* OOC. #* CHARACTER STUDY.

[bearmuther]

skyheld​.

Lost in thought,  it takes him a moment to notice her presence.   He moves to give her space beside him and finds her holding the bowl of stew,  which he accepts,  smiling his thanks.   He supposes he forgot to eat,  again.

“ I only just found this place. “   Out of curiosity and admiration of the fortress he has been exploring Skyhold,  but it takes time.   The place being as it is,  narrows stairs and steep cliffs sprawled over its high perch  —  and he being as he is,  unsteady on his legs as a newborn foal but with none of its youthful vigour.   “ I hope it isn’t…  disrespectful.   To the people buried here.   There are people buried here,  aren’t there? “

bozhena slurps, perhaps a little rudely, at the soup before she ventures to answer. she likes how he’s taken his time to explore the place. sera did an odd little thing, jogging through the whole fortress in a way that made bozhena feel like perhaps she wasn’t getting enough exercise. she and ameridan, they are taking their time. 

“oh, i don’t know.”

“there are certainly people here. i don’t think it’s disrespectful to visit. it’d be worse to leave it empty.” she sighs, crossing her legs at the ankles as she looks about the space. there are wildflowers sprouting up from funny places. it’s all in a bit of disarray. a glance is cast his way, curious. she doesn’t like the way some here seem to tiptoe around asking him about his life. she is not other people; she wants to know. “why would you say so? are the dead not visited, among your people?”

#skyheld / ameridan #skyheld #* WRITTEN. #oh hell yeah! that's perfect #i have to tell you-- ameridan is such a cool character!! #i really like how creative you were in coming up with your muse backgrounds #these two especially seem like a really cool combo! #they are old-gay-people bonding #throwing rice at pigeons in the park kind of day

[bearmuther]

how do you see yourself in old age? / >:)

“In old age..” Bozhena glances down, moving a stack of her books from the desk to the floor. In her youth, she thought her current age would feel old. Now she’s mid-way through life, and it only keeps going. Time does not stop to catch it’s breath. She clings to her obligation.

“Perhaps I will remain with the inquisition until I no longer can.”  It feels just as wrong as it sounds. Even now, the inquisition feels fragile. There is not much time left. She wonders if they all know this, or if it’s her burden alone. “I am cleaved to Skyhold. I have a duty to them.”

Steadfast Bozhena has always had a plan. Now she doesn’t. That’s quite the conflict to grapple with. She keeps idly cleaning, moving mindlessly as she speaks, stacking books by the shelf, scooting a slipper beneath the bed. Age creeps up on you - life isn’t over, but it’s slower now, and perhaps Bozhena prefers it that way. She sees the way Manon looks at her.

“Then again, I figure I would do better elsewhere.” She shakes her head. Wracking her mind for a proper answer, she comes out empty handed. There are the obvious answers; she misses home. The hold may never be just how she remembers it, and there may be no room for her any longer. She wants to belong to something, but where does one with a history like hers find refuge? She must learn to live with these realities. All her nervous moving stops, and she moves to sit directly across from Manon. Bozhena shrugs, breathes deeply, and smiles.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I want.”

It’s a hard thing to admit. She looks Manon in the eyes and feels that perhaps there is a little hope left in her. “I have no plans. All I know is that I want to learn. I want meaning in my life,” She pauses, “I want many friends, and I want to see my daughter’s grave once more. And, I hope my hair grows grey and inconveniently long. As simple as that.”

#mortulitasi #my writing is so ROUGH #just give it a day lol ill figure it out #* WRITTEN. #bozha wants to rock the baba yaga forest lady look in her golden years

[bearmuther]

I WANTED TO TELL YOU THAT DEATH DOES NOT HAVE A VIOLENT FACE. IT IS THE SIGH OF A MOTHER     /     WHO HAS COME TO PICK YOU UP FROM YOUR CRADLE WITH A LIGHT HAND.

#* PROMOS. #wife #go follow sable!! one of the most brilliant writers i know #SO EXCITED

[bearmuther]

i made a playlist for bozhena :) 

#* OOC.

[bearmuther]

it could be that these people made their entire world into a gallery, that animals charged across every rock-face, that wherever the tremendous herds of beasts roamed, they were surrounded on all sides by echoes and images of themselves, in a world where image and object had not yet torn themselves apart.

#dragon age rp #dragon age promo #promo #self promo #* SELF PROMO. #* PROMO. #indie rp #darp #i have decided my other promo was fuc ugly

[bearmuther]

The Red Nymph (1900), Plinio Nomellini / Standard Bitter Love Song #7, The Mountain Goats

#blood mention / #* HAD A FLASHBACK OF A PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED.

[bearmuther]

stonelions​:

30 multipurpose prompts, open to interpretation

to write, draw, or whatever. have people choose a number and perhaps a character, or proceed however you wish and invent it all. 

The 11th. 

Lost at the creek. 

Above, there is an attic.

The tree is very old. 

A figure at the edge of the woods.

Horses anticipating a storm. 

One foot in another world. 

Face on the other side of a dark window. 

Driving for many hours through mountains. 

The photograph. 

In search of sea life. 

A blue tin kettle. 

Wanderer on a scorched path. 

It had no eyes. 

Please, let’s go home. 

Small birds, dry grass. 

A hero in the wrong. 

Unearthed bones. 

The sensation of falling as experienced in a dream. 

How far can you carry this?

Conversations with the crows. 

A book infested with ghosts. 

Forgetting why it mattered. 

The protection of laughter. 

Each time we climb the stairs, something changes. 

Wildness on the loose. 

The passage of time as it varies by season. 

Sunlight on rumpled sheets and the smell of pine.

I love you, they said. I love you. 

Submersion in cool water. 

#* PROMPTS. #please send these!! #they're a great opportunity to dig into #character background and try and work out my writing muscles again lol