#orson hawke

rennybu:

orson has been laughing at 1 of fenris’ jokes for like 3 minutes

jawsandbones:

For@rennybu

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He pulls his hand away from his side, wordlessly staring at his palm, sticky with blood. It seeps through the cracks between his fingers, weeps quiet drops onto the ground. The arrow sticks out the flesh of him, a scar in waiting to go beneath an already existing scar. He presses his hand back against the wound, fingers around the arrow, focuses instead on the swell of magic in his other palm. On the inhale, he pulls all the bandits together. Fire blooms in the spaces between, and on the exhale, he squeezes his hand around the staff, some wanted fist.

It’s almost too easy. In a night, they snuff out one of Kirkwall’s gangs.

He looks at his hand again, so red and full of noise. It doesn’t scream, it doesn’t shout. It whispers. Soft words, gentle and pliant. “What are you doing?” Snapped, breaking Orson out of his own head. He tosses a grin towards Anders, even as the other mage is poking fingers at the wound, scowling at the arrow.

“I didn’t know I could bleed,” he says, and it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s the first words that come to mind and they’ll have to do.

“Right,” Anders says, giving him a singular look, “well, surprise.” On that word, he yanks out the arrow. He fills the missing spaces with his magic, and it’s as though he makes the stitches with a needle made of ice. A cold burn around the edges, a lake in the middle of it. The blood is an ignored inconvenience, simple, meant to be washed away and forgotten. He hasn’t forgotten the last, or the time before that.

Finished, Anders spins the arrow between his fingers. Isabela snatches it from his grasp, steps out of his reach. Holding it between two fingers, one at pointed prick and the other hidden by feathers, she holds it up to study it properly. “I wonder how much we could get for selling this,” she says, “wounded the real Champion of Kirkwall! A rare item indeed.” Orson hides his unease with laughter, gently plucking it from her. It goes up in flames, crumbles into ash.

“Meredith would be the first in line, hoping to make a phylactery of it,” Anders tells her, with an angry roll of his head, and a glare to match. She crosses her arms and chuckles.

“And I bet she would pay a fortune,” she says, a smug smile on her lips, a teasing shake of her shoulders as she leans closer to him. Anders opens his mouth to speak, stops when he feels the hand at the back of his neck. A matching one on Isabela’s, and Aveline’s eyes are closed, the sigh falling heavily between them.

“This incident will be a mountain of paperwork in the morning. I want to go home. I want to go to bed,” she says. Opening her eyes, looking between the two of them.

“If you kill them, it’ll only be more paperwork,” Orson tells her, “that was the last of them anyway.”

“Good,” Aveline says, letting them both go. A hand drops to the hilt of her sword, and she falls into step beside Orson. He’s absentmindedly looking at the frayed edges of his tunic. How do they always manage to find the most inconvenient spots? He wonders if he has any thread left that will match. The moon shudders in its reflection, rocked by waves that break against the docks. Orson lets his gaze drift out over the sea, and there are some moments when Kirkwall can be truly beautiful.

“Please don’t get killed,” Aveline tells him as they all go their separate ways. Orson gives her a cocky grin as he walks backwards, his arms outstretched.

Keep reading

rennybu:

drew Orson bisexually casting a spell in his pyjamas

palipunk:

I’m curious, dragon age players, do your characters speak any languages in thedas besides common? If so, what are they? Reblog and tell me I want to see