- Did you see that woman in the library this morning? - Who is she? (-᷅_-᷄๑) - I saw her greet master Tethras… with a kiss! ( ॣ•͈૦•͈ ॣ) - And lord Pavus. - I heard someone say she’s a Magister! (・о・) - Another Tevinter? ( 눈 _ 눈 ) - Who cares? She’s gorgeous. (・ˊ ᵕ ˋ・)♡
there are so many fuckboys who play dragon age like holy shit what swamp did they all crawl out of?? ?
The Chantry teaches us that is the hubris and entitlement of men which brought the fuckboys into our world. The men had sought to usurp the gaming community, but instead…they destroyed it. They returned as crying manbabies, the first of the fuckboys…
Are you saying that fuckboys are on the same level as fucking darkspawn
don’t insult darkspawn like that they were people once
“It’s been the same for the past three days,” he says. He turns the cup only slightly, porcelain against porcelain, stuck in that matching saucer. The tea remains untouched, still steaming. He briefly rubs at the corner of his eye. “I’m already halfway to the room when it starts.” His hand moves from his eye to settle on his shoulder, a half hug, as he leans forward, elbow on the table. “The mirror is waiting for me.”
It’s always on its own. Surrounded by sunshine, the glass of the windows cast brilliant vibrations of light across the clean floor, all colliding at the center. He tracks mud inside. His footsteps make no sound, or perhaps they’re simply silenced by it. It hums a song, low and rolling. Gnarled branches make up its frame, with halla carved by his own hand or perhaps a hand he used to have. The windows gently shake with the song. Dust falls from the cracks in the ceiling. It has its back to him. The sun sets and rises in that room a thousand times before he stands before it.
The mirror shows him what he already knows in his heart to be true. It reflects a pattern of infection, just under his skin. Mahanon presses fingers against the scar of his arm, gone from the shoulder, and follows the luminescent green bloom. The mirror reflects his carving of flesh, heaving chunks. Piercing fingertips into bone, pulling at the strings of vein and nerve through weighted muscle. There’s always the need to go further, to seek out the source of the rot. There’s always more fade lurking in his depths. The song hums what he’s told himself a thousand times. It will never be gone.
He tears himself apart, unravels himself to the end. The taint is in the weave. He is left, small and alone, but for his reflection. It regards him kindly, at least. His own mouth opens to speak, but it’s only the song and Mahanon can’t understand the words. They’re from a tongue far older than his own. Something shifts under his own reflection’s skin, as though someone else is wearing him.
“It doesn’t change,” Mahanon tells them, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. He turns the cup once again, can’t bring himself to drink just yet. “And I can’t hear the Well anymore.” Dorian and Maevaris exchange a glance. Dorian reaches out, puts his hand over Mahanon’s.
Solas: Yesterday after she finished her discussion with Leliana she… Instead of using the stairs she hurled herself from the top of the tower down onto my desk. Then picked herself up and addressed me as if nothing odd had occurred.
Blackwall: She does it from the battlements as well. Just last week I was strolling by the stables when a dwarf in hundred pound armor came streaking down from the sky like a bloody meteor. Left a dent in the sod. She stood there shuddering for a second and then stood up, grinned, and asked me how I felt about Cullen’s leadership.
Varric: The other day I caught her staring down a cliff in the Storm Coast. I pointed out that there was a path nearby, but she just said, “Nah, I’ve got enough guard for this.” And flung herself off.
Cassandra: I… I was not aware.
Inquisitor: *Lands in a thunderous heap a few feet away* Hey guys, I saw you from the east tower and wondered what the party was all about! What’s everybody talking about?
