OPEN | coldest comfort, safety glass

[limier]

WHO: Wren, Anders, Gwen, and OTA.
WHAT: Arrivals at Skyhold & Junk.
WHEN: Post-Winter Palace. Catchall.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: I'll edit if anything comes up!

Starters in comments. If you'd like a specific starter, or to make plans for later in the month, just let me know on plurk or Discord (oeste #8807).  :)

Comments

[limier]

A lingering glance to her hands, then his. She's not certain she wants any more than this cursory endorsement. Doesn't want to know what depths Bergier might have sunk to,

There’s no harm in it — is there? If Samson’s alive, it’s in name only. One way or another, the Inquisition will have done with him. His own body will.

(There’s no harm in remembering. For a moment only, before what must come may. Even if you find him,)

"Twenty-five now, or thereabouts. Short for it. Sandy hair, a beard, green eyes." A beat. That won’t be so useful now. Softly, "He had green eyes."

Maker help her, she will hold her voice steady. She hasn’t spent the last two years watching them fall away only to crack that ice now, not crouched in a rotten little basement. Not speaking to the totem of their destruction.

"The horses loved him, dogs too. A good tracker. Bad singer — shit liar. Only ever tried if he was covering someone's ass. And he always tried." It was why he’d had to go; quietly to some backwater where the Spire couldn’t use him. Couldn’t chew him up and spit him back, another tool for the cunning and malign. How well that had gone. "He wanted to be liked."

Wanted to belong. A painfully average recounting; the sorry heaped story of a life.