#evirsor

[hypocratic]

@evirsor for raynne canem.

In his hands, standing by the unlit desk-side fireplace, Frederick cradles a book he randomly plucked from one of the shelves. Most of his collection is past volumes of academic journals—medical and psychological. Old to very old. A given; nearly all academic journals have gone digital in this day and age. He does not read it. He only pretends to—he knows she is coming. He watched Dr. Canem enter the hospital on the security cameras. Over his desk phone, he alerted the check-in nurse to guide Dr. Canem to the empty waiting room adjacent to his office and then let her in after five minutes.

The door opens. Frederick turns his wrist to note the time on his wristwatch. Six minutes. He smiles to himself. He'll read the hospital's rotation chart later, find that nurse's name, and silently reassign any unsavory shifts to check-in instead. She could do good there.

A bright and immediate switch: “Sorry.” Frederick slams the book shut, one-handed, and glances (fleeting, discreetly) at its spine: Psychological Bulletin embossed in gold lettering. The title isn't important; all journals are the same: nothing more than finely bound gossip (it's why he has so many). He looked in case she asks. “I am so terribly busy.” He walks over to his desk chair, softly tosses the closed journal onto a stack of un-submitted session notes, and sits. He gestures with an open palm to one of the upholstered leather seats across from him.

“Let us not further delay the issue.” His smile is a sharp slit of perfectly white upper teeth; self-amused. “You may have been granted access to his brain, Dr. Canem, but what you do not have access to is my hospital.” He leans forward, aware of how imposing such a movement looks (regardless of the wide girth the desk between them sets), then diverts and defuses the motion into a smaller, still-weighted purpose and fixes the golden nameplate at the edge of his desk so it is no longer crooked—𝙳𝚁. 𝙵𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙻𝚃𝙾𝙽 𝙷𝙾𝚂𝙿𝙸𝚃𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙳𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙸𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁. His attention drifts back up to Dr. Canem. “My jurisdiction is bigger than yours.”

#ic #evirsor #evirsor: raynne. #me editing this reply to say desk-side fireplace b/c after examining many pics and angles of frederick's office #i realized it has two fireplaces??? one on each side? which is hilariously excessive

[brutlist]

No. It’s a disturbance in the force. / from ray

𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐯𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 , 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥 , 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐟 , 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . and it's not just her . ezra and zac , he spies , are peeping out past her shoulder , the youngest of the two just a few paces back a dark silhouette from the laundry room's doorway , the two of them curious as to what could put ray of all people at a potential hackle . he looks back to her . this is why he's beginning to gray . " better give him what he wants . "

@evirsor

#evirsor #ic . answered

[debreuil]

@evirsor [ for iollan ] * 🎁 – cup runneth over, kiki rockwell.

"and yet,"  a sigh slips from her lips just as easily as leather gloves do from her hands, trailing over her fingertips, movements deliberate and decisive.  "all i hear is––"  she pauses once more, head tilted to the side and bare finger raised suddenly in the air, as though intently listening out for something before her attention snaps back to him, a positively feline smirk beginning to form,  "christ above taking notes on all my crimes."

#evirsor #i have no idea not a clue what's going on there r simply vibes n good music for me right now x #if this does not work friend let me know!! #[ evirsor ] * iollan.

[deadtwice]

is that the best way to work on something like this ? / from raynne

it's hard not to roll his eyes into the back of his skull ( do it , she can't see it through the back of your head , roll them 'til you can feel your corneas stretch ) ; is it the best way , she asks ── no , probably not . none of the paths césar ever chooses are GOOD or APPROPRIATE or LEGAL , but it is the best way to certify that neither of them have to suffer through handcuff bruises .

when laces turns around to face her , he bites the air , like a cornered dog would ( takes one to know one ) . " hey , sweetheart , it's really hard to bind a lawman down with you constantly stressin' out in my ear ! " césar pointed out while crouched over an unconscious policeman . meters of black tape had already been used around the poor guy's wrists and , judging by the bright pink shade covering all of his chubby fingers , it must have been cutting off the circulation .

césar's snarl is short-lived though ; the sight of raynne reminded him of why he was doing this ( a lie he's told himself to feel a bit more galant , laces assaulted an officer because he did not want to go to jail , not to protect some fair maiden ) . even though he had knocked the cop out and dragged him back into a broom closet , THAT DID NOT MAKE HIM A BAD GUY . césar was trying to do something good , you know , for both of them ! the hunter eventually sighed , hanging his head in shame from snapping at raynne .

" hand me over that hammer , will ya ? "

#* ANSWERED . #* EVIRSOR . #* VERSE / MAIN . #h e 's S UCh A NICE GUY

[anarkissm]

DOSSIER CHEAT SHEET

LEGAL NAME : claudette morel. NICKNAME[S] : claud, "santa claud" by her father during the winter holidays, detty (by family + loved ones), science girl, the botanist, the empath, etc. DATE OF BIRTH : september 18, 1980 (missing since 2005). GENDER : nonbinary black woman. "demigirl" would probably be the specific label, but more importantly: she does not acknowledge the sex-gender dyad pseudoscience posited by old white men and evangelical fanatics which ultimately set a standard of beauty and "normal" that was impossible to achieve as a visibly black person. claudette's past struggles with school and their ableist teaching methods taught her that western sciences and systems are not the benchmarks of truth or progress. but in the context of her lived experience, it is impossible to separate herself from being (seen as) a dark-skinned black woman. PLACE OF BIRTH : ville-marie borough of montreal, canada.

FAMILY INFORMATION

SIBLING[S] : no siblings; several cousins from canada and brazil. PET[S] : a green and blue christmas beetle or scarab named darwin (2 years). a stag beetle named eartha (5 years). before she went missing in the woods, she took care of an ant farm in her cabin. typically has a custom terrarium for her buggy pets. she loves pets like cats and dogs, but does not have the commitment to keep a large vertebrate since they're too high maintenance for her autism. instead, claudette regularly babysits her friend's anxious corgi, named celeste; the quiet, shy 5-year-old dog was rescued from a shelter and did not have an easy early life, so claudette always spoiled her with treats whenever she would visit them. claudette is the only other human that celeste trusts!

RELATIONSHIP INFORMATION

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : asexual spectrum. RELATIONSHIP STATUS : single. SINCE WHEN : carnaval season(s) in salvador de bahia, brazil.

tagged by: @hatethepm tyy

tagging: @mrgoatman @obituaried @kenasakis @ubcs @pyrrh1c @chaoslulled (harley) @spiderled @alphateamsfinest @afraidofchange (ana or shepard) @hollowsparda (max) @sayitan @evirsor (raynne) @mortisvitae + everyone steal it

#MOREL ，CLAUDETTE. #SCRIPT. #love these things love thinkin abt the blorbos #love reading abt everyone's blorbos too

[inquistior-a]

' And love without trust, what of that? ' from solas

EVER AFTER SENTENCE MEME   /   ACCEPTING

      𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽, 𝙰𝚂 𝚂𝙾𝙻𝙰𝚂’ 𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙾𝙵𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝙳𝙾, 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙰𝙻𝚆𝙽 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝚃𝙴𝚂𝚃. A test and a curiosity at once. Halwn leans his forearms flat across the work surface, body bent like a broad bow, and plucks a pear from an open bushel on the table to roll it between his hands. Its skin is tender and almost over-ripe. When he presses it, the smell of the white flesh beneath seeps out like a green perfume, and juice wells beneath his thumb. The lines of his face are easy, relaxed, in the low light from the kitchen hearth. He is speaking softly, leaning softly. Soft in his expression. It’s the middle of the night, and the scullery has gone to sleep. The kitchens are empty but for the two of them—casually crowded around the center block at either side. Philosophizing. Wasting time. Perhaps not, for there is something in the strange hour, or the strange light, or in the candor of their conversations that often makes time seem to stand entirely still.

      “When I was a boy, my tutor, a Chantry Sister, told me that fear was the food of a righteous love. That love without fear would go on, unchecked, to inevitably become perverse. When I asked her what she had done to fear the Maker so, as I thought it must be equal to her love for her notion to carry weight, she gave me five strokes across my palm with a willow switch—”

      He turns his hand, displaying the same palm, where the Anchor is nestled now. A mildly unpleasant memory, yet there is a strange nostalgia in the Inquisitor’s smile. 

      “Fear and love don’t live together, Solas. I am not very old, and I am not very wise, but I know that. They cannot sleep beneath the roof. To have one, to really have it, we must cast the other out.”

      Halwn covers his hand with a tea towel before he passes the pear into his palm and brings it to his mouth, so that the juices catch in the fabric, and his chin stays clean. It’s polite. Neat. As he was raised to be. The fruit is sweet, and he chews the first bite slowly, swallowing it completely before he speaks,  “If we wish to love, we must be willing to trust. We must choose to put faith in what’s beloved. It is a risk. I acknowledge that—but whosoever told us that risk always leads to loss...  had a very narrow vision of the world.”

      The way that he brings his thumb to his mouth to draw the juice from it with a short, sharp sip is considerably less genteel.

#evirsor #answered. #it's me answering this nine years later

[bornpariah-a]

@evirsor :  sit + after an exhaustive battle, cole helping dorian find somewhere to rest —— NONVERBAL ACTS ( accepting )

His temples pulse, an unpleasant thing ——— exhaustion pulls at him, every last inch of him, inexorable and unavoidable. The battle had been long and dragging and raging and he stands among the remaining CARNAGE, gaze cast about / unseeing and unthinking but the latter is a lie. He is never unthinking / always thinking too much too much too much.

There is blood in his mouth / Dorian is reasonably certain that it’s not his own.

It feels as though he’s flashing hot and cold, stuck somewhere in between. A fascinating side effect of his blend of pyromantic and necromantic magic, one that causes his skin to shiver, as though the full force of the sun above were pressing its way into his skin. The staff in his hands is heavy and he contemplates leaning his weight against it / decides not to, in the end. Instead he tips his head towards the sky and sighs : spirits of the recently departed swirling around him, their beacon of death.

Cole appears !! Or perhaps he had been there all along, Dorian is rarely able to tell and less willing to parse it out than he often would be. It’s rather difficult to say when it comes to him, besides. Cole could very well be everywhere or nowhere at once / present and not.

Still he appears at his side, at his elbow, peering at him and ——— speaking. Something Cole—like, though Dorian is distracted for a moment by someone else screaming in his ear. Rather inconvenient, that.

❝ ——— you’re hurting, ❞ is the tail end of Cole’s sentence, something that he would like to piece together before he considers asking him to repeat it and his headache increases ten fold. Ah, another time.

Hurting. Hurting. In what way? The physical / the metaphysical? FOR MOST it would be easy to assume on the surface, alone, Dorian does well at hiding the vast majority of his aches and pains and people are so often loathe to pry into business lest they end up with mess all over their shoes. But with Cole ( ... ) it’s far less easy to say.

you let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are.

❝ I’m quite alright, Cole, ❞ he says with far more bluster than he feels, fingers curling and uncurling about his staff before he twists it / allows it to find its place upon his back, held secure and fastened. The world threatens to tilt for all that he remains upright, chest shuddering as he breathes. If only mana were endless / he had tried to figure out as much when he was a child, before accepting, after ample research and hours and months and years spent on the endeavor, that it was a frank impossibility.

❝ But you aren’t, ❞ he’s a rather insistent boy, though whether or not he could call Cole a BOY is rather up in the air ——— never mind how old he is, Dorian feels immensely ancient referring to someone as BOY. Particularly one who has begun to lead him by his elbow away from the bulk of the bloodshed.

❝ Physically I’m in peak condition, ❞ it’s a blatant lie considering that they are surrounded by carnage and he is clearly worn from the battle, but what is he without his bluster? He steps over a corpse, though perhaps they still yet live and are in the process of dying, he can’t quite tell with the chaos of the dead otherwise pressing around them. ❝ Are you alright, Cole? You’re looking rather peaky. ❞

Another spirit SHOUTS and Cole’s head tilts and / ah, that’s right, he should be able to hear them as well, shouldn’t he? The souls of the departed : fleeing this realm, scrabbling for the Veil, for the Fade beyond.

❝ It’s very loud, ❞ is what Cole says as they step towards their encampment and he / releases Dorian’s elbow, gesturing at a rather large crate. ❝ You should sit and rest. ❞

Always trying to help, isn’t he? Always trying to lend aid, to fix hurts, as if it were an instinct. As if there’s little else driving him. ❝ You’re sounding more and more like a nursemaid every day, ❞ a smile pulls at his mouth as he scrutinizes the crate that Cole has chosen. ❝ Very well, Cole, I will sit for now ——— but only if you take a seat, as well. This should fit both of us, I think. ❞

#evirsor #( ∞ ┈┈ inquisition ) WELL THERE'S A GIANT HOLE IN THE SKY AND A DRAGON OR TWO AROUND. #[ here we see me trying to write cole dialogue and failing miserably ] #[ i am so sorry lmao ] #[ anyways dorian cares a lot abt him and i just. wow. ]

[dienli]

RULES: answer  20  questions  +  tag  20  of  your  followers  you’d  like  to  know  better.   TAGGED  BY: @irohthesecond TAGGING: @theamazondiana @asroleplayblog @evirsor @thegreatunxter i can’t remember anyone’s urls but just do it okay

NAME:  sid NICKNAME:  sid SIGN:  gemini HEIGHT:  we don’t discuss this NATIONALITY: american ORIENTATION: west southwest when facing my monitor FAVOURITE  FRUIT: lemon FAVOURITE  SEASON: i like the transition from each season to the next more than any one season FAVOURITE  FLOWER:  rose FAVOURITE  SCENT: wind in a thunderstorm FAVOURITE  BOOK: lots of nonfiction. partial to victor hugo and neal stephanson for fiction. FAVOURITE  COLOUR: dark teal FAVOURITE  ANIMAL: cannot pick one - horse, raccoon, cat, mustelidae, platypus COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: i like all, in rotation AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: 5ish CATS OR DOGS: i love them both. more experience with cats NUMBER OF BLANKETS YOU SLEEP WITH: 0 or 1. DREAM  TRIP:  i want to go everywhere. next year i’m planning to go to japan and see family members and historical sites etc. BLOG  CREATED:  dec 2015 NUMBER  OF  FOLLOWERS:  206 pornbots. some have become sentient

#»111

[brutlist]

❛  this must all seem so unsatisfactory for you.  ❜ from ray

𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 , 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭 . he'd been doing pretty well with keeping himself together since he'd hit the lip of the kitchen sink , easing himself down onto his tiled floor at a somewhat awkward lean - to against it's cabinets . he knows what this feels like . it'd been kinder the first time , had been faster ; there'd been no time to begin to register past the sucking wound in his chest what exactly it had meant at the time until he was brought back from nothing , to the everything again . knowing , no matter how meager , makes the numbness in his fingers less frightening . the sun's on his thighs . so's the dense red , but that's alright . heugh'd rather look at ray . alone was what he was ready for , but this was better , he decides . i'm scared you're not going to be able to hear me one day , daddy , had been what mable told him in a phone call he'd made too brief over an incident he couldn't coax to memory , something he'd not taken seriously , had consoled her with the best of intentions but with no real grasp on what that might incur or truthfully any care ; i'll hear you , i always hear you . he didn't . and now he had his blood on his lips from where he'd collected her stammering hands in his when the horror finally found her , where he'd kissed on their knuckles when they'd hovered over the hole she'd punched through his lungs when they weren't scrabbling through the med kit he always kept in the kitchen island's drawers or dialing numbers in his phone that she'd in her panic thought that maybe might matter , but didn't . it wouldn't be quick enough . they'd only doom her . it's okay . i hear you , baby . i'm sorry . she'd ran , just like he begged her to . he'd called bernie , but had hung up on the third ring when he'd realized he could no longer feel his hands . if it happened on the phone with her , he'd never forgive himself .

so he'd sat there , slumped and laboring through the phases as the red wash burbles and bathes him . the house seems to hold it's breath as he half convinces himself that the new weight that thumbs down in his chest feels good , that the fullness in his belly comes from the breakfast he'd snuck bits of and not the pooling of the life that makes him where it ought not to , shook off inside him by the quaking of his lungs and their rattle . it's okay to be a little unsatisfied he wants to tell her , decides not to ( the air is thinning ; death's never comfortable ) and elects instead to put his faith in the hand he turns to her to say so , because this must be unsatisfying for her too , or maybe he's projecting , or maybe he's a little scared but more for mable or what surely was going to be one of his other children to find him and the burnt hashed browns he can somewhat smell wafting on the breath of the open window overhead --- if not his neighbor al . ray takes it . it's amazing how he barely feels her . had they ever touched before ? he coudn't recall . and that's just fine , he thinks as they watch one another together , until he doesn't think at all .

@evirsor

#evirsor #ic . answered #death / #blood / #hey you wanna see something fucked up

[inquistior-a]

@evirsor said:  𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈’𝙻𝙻 𝙺𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙼𝙴 𝙸𝙵 𝙸’𝙼 𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙺𝚈, 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈’𝙻𝙻 𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝙼𝙴 𝙸𝙵 𝙽𝙾𝚃. 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚁𝙰𝚈

      𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙴𝚈𝙴𝚂, usually pale, jade-colored, that now are drawn in a dark, tense light. The fire is low in the hearth, and the candles were all snuffed out many hours before. Only the wicket gate is open, but the night beyond it is lightless and still, seeping a bitter cold. Everyone else in the castle is abed. It was no shock to find her waiting beside the door to his chambers when he had hurried to descend. No news is ever fresh for Raynne.

      Halwn’s mouth is set in a hard line—harder than is natural to its shape, and the dark of his eyes in the dark of the hall is shaded further by the low-drawn furrow of his brows. The knot inside of him is visible. Even aware of how little he truly knows of her, he has trusted her. Even aware of this, now, he trusts her still. But he does not love to be lied to. This is an omission large and dangerous enough to make a lie.

      The Ambassador is wringing her hands at the other end of the hall, standing alone beside their late-night visitor. The man that Halwn had been roused from bed to greet. Marcel de Gèllant, some small noble of little note, with a suspiciously scant retinue and a flushed, almost lusty expression. Smug and righteous, as a man who has seen the snake before it’s had the chance to strike him and now cannot wait to demonstrate his triumph. There is no altruism in it.

      The stone steps are cold beneath his feet, and the sensation reminds Halwn that he is barefoot, shirtless, skin still warm with sleep. The anchor cuts sharply through the dark as it arcs in a dangerous expression of his mood. Raynne, he notes, is dressed for scouting, so fresh from the outside that her cheeks are coloured still. Snow beads slowly to pearls of water in the long, black wildness of her hair. She smells of the wind—their guest must have been far less a surprise to her, and yet she has allowed him to arrive.

      It is a crooked way of allowing me the truth.

      And still, even if crooked, a profound permission. As is typical of Raynne, it is a gesture akin to the too-late offer of an already empty hand. Halwn’s heart gathers up that thought, and decides;  though his brow is still hard-knotted, something barely loosens in the wide line of his shoulders. He knows from Josephine’s breathless warning in his chambers who ‘they’ are, and he knows, from what he has seen over the course of the last many months, the full breadth of what they are capable. His mouth hardens further, and he looks past Raynne to the Orlesian, the decorated shape of him, waiting expectantly in the dim slant of the dying fire. Waiting to be acknowledged.

      When their eyes meet, Gèllant raises his chin.

      How strange is the sudden urge that Halwn has to hit him. A man he doesn’t know, has never met. It’s such a foreign impulse that he feels as though his body hardens around it, isolating that aggression inside itself. An uninvited mass. The Anchor spits energy and, for perhaps the first time, he feels the allowed reverberation. The way it strikes her and reflects back in sudden form. Light seen only when it’s caught in the slant of a once-invisible mirror. This is the physical sensation of nearness to a mage.

      Whatever she has done—

      The Inquisitor’s exhale is tight, visible, as he says:  “They won’t.”

      A simple, deliberate statement, allowing no debate. Halwn’s voice is soft and steady, a little rough from waking still, though firm enough to carry not only between they too, but to Josephine and Gèllant as well. Full of an old, poised politeness that he pulls out of himself from childhood, when it had been so endlessly reinforced, the Inquisitor adds,  “Please wait for me upstairs.”

      He says no more, and looks at Raynne only once. He is angry, yes, but still he wants to touch her. To lift her chin, and look full into her eyes, but now is not the time. Halwn’s feet pad on the stones as he steps around her and the sound of his bare footfalls is an almost surreal thing, giving and naked, in the icy grandeur of the empty hall. The way the cold raises Halwn’s skin in gooseflesh is plainly apparent, his tawny hair uneven from his pillow. All his exposed throat, his naked shoulders, even the tender skin of the belly that an animal would nervously defend. There had been no metaphor in his decision to come down even before dressing, given the urgency of the sudden request, but when Halwn reaches Gèllant, who is done up in all his finery, it is strikingly visible that there is very little that the Inquisitor feels naturally compelled to hide.

#answered. #evirsor #i know they're supposed to travel to #the meeting but honestly i just had a scene in my mind SO

[bornpariah-a]

THEY’RE RATHER LOUD TODAY. The spirits ——— a retinue of soldier had returned earlier that day, as the sun passed its zenith in the sky, arriving in marching order, wagons in tow, bringing along with them the dead and the dying. The dead had not bothered him, not by half / but the dying ( ... ) they were relentless. Is it unkind to say such a thing? Cruel, perhaps? Yes, certainly, and it’s not as though he’s unmoved by their plight. By the plight of the suffering, the deceased, the spirits wandering and trying to find their way.

This is how Skyhold shall be haunted.

He walks the ramparts more often than he would. Pacing back and forth high on the walls, gaze falling upon the scrabbled together infirmary down below. He’s making the guards nervous, he knows, with his ceaseless movement and the crease in his brow and his drifting hands every now and then as a spirit struggles / and he guides them along.

But this is his duty, as a necromancer. Or is meant to be, if he were a classical Imperial Necromancer ——— he is trained, but had never worked alongside the others / not truly. They had all known, all along, that he wouldn’t, not when he is an Altus meant for the MAGISTERIUM / the heir to his household, to boot.

He was, anyways.

Still, they’re loud / raucous / pressing at all sides and prodding at the Veil and it’s making it unnecessarily difficult to concentrate, to the extent that he finds himself pinching the bridge of his nose and barely swallowing a sigh as one murmurs ——— something or other. Murmurs, screams : it blends together, after a time. His temples pulse dully and he stares at the pages that he’d been trying to make sense of since that morning / only to be interrupted by the sheer onslaught of death.

Distantly, he wonders where Cole is. Wonders where he’s found himself, wonders where he’s gotten to ——— near the carnage, he presumes, watching over the hurting. It occurs to him to seek him out / book floating just before him beginning to lower itself / before a thought crosses his mind and he, as he’s wont to do, snags onto it.

He follows the compulsion, sitting from his chair and shuffling his table to the side and someone else dies as he begins to descend the staircase into room below / where Solas is so often found, doing ( ... ) whatever it is he does. Painting, as far as Dorian can tell, though what he’s uncertain of. Still : he enters the area and casts his gaze about, eyes catching on the colorful walls, and he has half a mind to simply stand there for a moment and truly parse out what it all is, but, well. Priorities.

❝   Solas,   ❞   they can hardly be considered friends or even friendly acquaintances, but despite appearances he doesn’t hate the elf. Though the same can’t be said in reverse ——— luckily, Dorian has no qualms about bothering someone who has a less than positive opinion of him.   ❝   You study spirits,   ❞   an obvious statement, and as though prompted, another wails nearby his ear / he doesn’t even twitch.

❝   Do you hear them? Just beyond the Veil?   ❞   Dorian is well aware he is only attuned to DEATH SPIRITS and SPIRITS ATTRACTED TO DEATH ——— any and all other sorts are lost on him / or lost in the noise, perhaps, but he’s certainly never heard a spirit of purpose. ( he’s also never asked, but it’s shockingly difficult to talk back. )

@evirsor // for solas, sc.

#evirsor #( ∞ ┈┈ inquisition ) WELL THERE'S A GIANT HOLE IN THE SKY AND A DRAGON OR TWO AROUND. #[ here take this unnecessarily long thing ]

[brutlist]

❛ see? i’m not just a pretty face. ❜ ray.

𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞 --- 𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 . if he was asked he'd admit to it --- with the lackadaisical - ity of when they come together , how it all fits in that place of pinnacle appointment --- never planned yet always happening , heugh forgets . her skin is a thin layer cored by the otherness of herself , built upon a seeming frailty that lies and lies well , so well that even he's prey to it . but she will do things , say things , as she's done now that bring him back . it's likely what she wants . and that's just fine . it's good to remember this , when he ought to . there's an urge he's compelled to adhere to , to check on her . ray's real good at that . and then , it might not be the time to . the world doesn't feel real when he's around her . these choices are harder . he thinks that's just fine , too . heugh beckons to her , a large paw with limp , stiff fingers waving her to come follow . " c'mon . you're gonna burn out here . "

@evirsor

#evirsor #ic . answered #me but i'm mouth breathing

[inquistior-a]

@evirsor​ said  :  ' 𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝚁𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝙴𝙳𝚄𝙲𝙴 𝙼𝙴. ' 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝙾𝙻𝙰𝚂, 𝚂𝙾𝙵𝚃𝙻𝚈 𝚃𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶

   𝙰 𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚄𝚁𝚂𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙻𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙶𝙴𝚃𝚂 𝙲𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙰𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷,  so that Halwn has to take a bite from the fruit to dislodge it after he’s freed his hands by depositing his burdens on the space that Solas has cleared for him on the desktop. He has a tray stolen from the kitchens, laden down with fresh shoots from the second crop of tender young asparagus that is just starting to grow in the garden, raw and lightly salted, a few hunks of cheese and loaf of white bread still warm from the oven. Two bottles, one of wine and one of oil, and two stemmed goblets, are cradled delicately all in a single hand. A mess of stems and necks. Luckily for the stemware, Hal has large and quite capable hands.

   It’s a rare thing that he isn’t wearing gloves—but then he never does, in Solas’ presence. The Anchor does not disturb the mage. He doesn’t stare, doesn’t jump when it spits light. They argue about theory that is often just outside Halwn’s reach and Solas occasionally orders the Inquisitor to hold out his hand so that he can silence the Mark when its noise becomes disruptive to the conversation. Perhaps he finds the meal that Halwn has dredged up for them disruptive, too—but the Inquisitor doubts the sincerity of it. This is fast becoming their tradition. He has no way to repay Solas for the labour he does in instructing him in magickal theory. No way but this:  the currency of attention, of care.

   Halwn takes another bite from the apple, and produces a second apple from the pocket of his trousers. Golden and sweet and soft in texture. He sets that on the desk, too, until he will have time to section it so that Solas might eat it piece by piece, layered under slices of cheese. It’s only as he’s fished the corkscrew from his other pocket and is working to cut the wax from the neck of a bottle of Montclair white, cold from the cellars, that Halwn realizes how it does look—and a seduction is not far off. He hasn’t spread the food out on a blanket on the floor, at least. Surely Solas is relived at that.

   There was a time in his life, perhaps twenty years on now, when such a little tease as that, harmless and inert, would have frozen him still in an instant. Fear, or only apprehension, perhaps dread—all coiled in his throat, as his mind raced to supply a range of excuses that would sound plausible, unplanned. But he is not that boy anymore, nor is he a young man by any means, and the panic simply isn’t in him. Instead, he chuckles low in his throat and pulls the cork free from the bottle of wine with a flourish and a sharp pop.

   ‘ I know what you think of me, Solas. In this capacity, at our lessons, I am so ignorant as to border on incompetent. You are patient with me, perhaps because you must be, but I know that my lack of experience astounds you, even disturbs you, on occasion. I’m sure you think me harmless, inept and somewhat pitiful, but let me be clear—there are some things to which I am naturally attenuated. I have no skill for magick, that is true, but I do have talents elsewhere— ’

   Hal holds the bottle easily and turns his wrist as he pours in a motion that seems discordantly graceful. The smell of the wine is immediate, woody and clear. The glass condensates attractively, and Hal leaves it there on the desk for Solas to take as he moves to pour his own. There’s a little seen slant to his brows, steady and assured, an edge to his smile, that reveals an angle of the Inquisitor’s personality that few could ever boast of seeing. He is a modest man by nature—but modesty is only one virtue of many, and sometimes he has no use for it. Sometimes it is out of place. Halwn glances up, and meets Solas’ eyes that seem bright with patient mirth. Something of the same mirth is in the Inquisitor, too, and thick in the air between them. Solas is long-suffering, Halwn must afford him that. But even the smartest of men is bound to enter an arena unprepared once or twice in his life. More often—if he is always facing up to confrontation.

   Halwn is smiling as he does:  small, chin drawn down, toothless but for the way he closes teeth over the inside of his cheek, creating a momentary dimple.

   ‘ I can assure you, Solas...  assuming that you were receptive to it, and I had come here with the intention to seduce you—you would not stand a chance against me. ’

#evirsor #answered. #lllloooooollololo #i love him so much

[brutlist]

" 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨 , " he tells her , thumbing the bit of grime ( god knows what , from god knows where ) he'd smeared from off of her chin onto the rough of his jeans , " i'm gonna sick my kids on you until you feel bad . "

@evirsor // sc

#evirsor #evirsor . 001 #evirsor . ray #he'll do it #he will

[brutlist]

✮ five songs that always inspire you to write your muse

qare 5.298 (this is like 98% what heugh in combat sounds like)

follow don't follow (heugh trying to remain morally good instead of succumbing to the ease of abusing his power for selfish gain)

still life (heugh struggling with unreality and trying to combat his depression)

desolator (some heron ambient!)

tide (what do we say to the god of death? not today)

tagged by: @grisler <3 tagging: @withbeasts , @ruinaa , @rassvetiye , @vlyuvdova , @brav0six , @evirsor

#god i have so many little scenarios in my head at all times #tbd