faderift | and I'm haunted

Entry tags:

and I'm haunted

WHO: Hercules & Leliana & Ruby & whoever would like a thread with them 8Db
WHAT: a catch all for February-March;
WHEN: the next monthish :|b
WHERE: Skyhold, Emprise, maybe somewhere else.
NOTES:
1. individual starters in el commentos
2. specific themes and warnings will be dropped into subject lines as necessary.
3. if you are threading with Leliana it would be amazing if you could reply to this post re: information she could know about your character.
4. if we have discussed doing a thread but there isn't a starter here, feel free to just barge in and set one up! otherwise prod me and I can add it asap, I have a to-do list but I am also scatterbrained ;u;
5. I'm not doing open prompts this time for Leliana, but if you would like a thread with Leliana, please don't hesitate to get in touch with me! I am just trying to do custom things because she is in a particular state of mind, at present.
6. I am sorry there are so many notes

apparently I am being pretentious this month

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Wars don't stop. They're a relentless, bloody thing, as likely to wear you down as they are to outright kill you. A sword to the gut, or Blight in your veins, an arrow finding your throat or exhaustion and hopelessness taking you. They were all ways a war could get to you, and not even close to a full list. This is a war that they're fighting, and to be honest, he's not sure what role it is the Wardens will play. Are they a liability? Are they fooling themselves? Or are they going to help to save the day and make things right, despite the carnage that's tearing through their ranks?

He doesn't know, but he trusts the Wardens here, even the ones he hasn't met before. They're family, bound by blood and oathes and secrecy, and sometimes by alcohol and cheese wheels, if things get a little out of hand. As long as there's breath in his lungs and a way to filter out the song in his head, he'll keep fighting for the world, and for the Inquisition. Seems like much the same thing, these days.

Still. Not all of them are soldiers, and not all of them have sworn oaths, and he remembers the voices of the woman over the crystal. She didn't sound fragile, exactly, but she sounded like she could use a break. It's not that Herc seeks her out, so much, as he hears her talking (to herself? well, there's stranger things) and lumbers over. It's late afternoon, he's returned from a job, and he's still heated up enough from the trek in armour that now he's down to leather breeches and a shirt that, ordinarily, wouldn't be near warm enough for the snow, though he's still got the gloves that'd normally be covered over by his armour. Sometimes the Blight makes his skin burn too hot after battle or a run, like his blood stirring has made the need to duel the infection fire up something awful.

After eighteen years, you get used to it. Despite his apparently lacking snow-wear, Herc wanders in the woman's direction, leaning against a tree until she's done with whatever it is she's doing exactly. "Merrill, right? I think we spoke on the crystal."

His voice is distinct, at least, his manner friendly and relaxed. They all need a break from the war, sometimes.

Red bleedin' templars. Suffice to say, he made it back in one piece and the templars didn't, but he's scooping snow up in his hands and pressing it against his face to cool his skin and wash away the flecks of blood and lingering sweat. There's a small gash on his cheek that stings for a moment with the ice held against it, before it eases just slightly. It'll have to be good enough, and he's washing the back of his neck and letting snow slide down his back as he does away with his armour. He'll go out again, likely, do some hunting (of game or more templars he's not decided) but first he wants to check out a nick on his arm. Not deep, but bleeding.

So there he is, shirtless in the snow, bandaging his own upper arm in what he thinks is good enough for him, but if he saw on someone else he's probably make an unimpressed sound at. One handed wound wrapping is never going to go well.

And it's now, of course, that he spots her. Not when he is in his armour, looking passably useful, but now, and it seems appropriate enough. She'd probably prefer it if it left him off-kilter; she seems like the sort. Unfortunately, he doesn't care all that much.

"Councillor," he starts, with a respectful nod. "How's the Emprise treatin' you today?"

Taking a breather is important.

'Course, there are the times that goes too far, and he's suspecting that he's gotten himself into that. Again. Probably his fault, though he'd contend that the Hawkes are so bloody minded that if he could get Bethany to not try and out drink him, then they may as well make him Divine and given him one of them fancy hats. Nugs would fly, dragons would breath butterflies instead of fire or lightning or whatever nightmare you've gotta deal with.

Reality is that, instead, he is sitting in tavern in the middle of nowhere (because that's what this place is just about reduced to) sipping a stein of what Orlesians let pass for ale (not actually bad, but he has to object at least a little, just on principle) while one of the barmaids sets down another in front of each of them. It's Bethany 's that he eyes for a long moment before speaking.

"You sure you need another one?" Fond. Amused, faintly exasperated, but fond. They all need to cut loose, if they wanna survive. Just need to make sure that things don't fall apart in that window, as they tend to.

It had been a long trip out to Emprise, that was for certain. Snowy paths, minding her horse's footing, and all of that to deliver more warmly knitted socks and to make sure that everyone was all right up her. It was her way, and her fellow Wardens didn't even blink when Bethany went on a sock run. She did enough in the Deep Roads, after all.

She had planned on just turning around and hitting the road again, but she found Hercules standing there with his hand absently petting Max, his gaze distant as he looked off to the mountains. She knew that look - it was the Chuck Look. So she got down to pet Max, and bet Hercules spilling his current feelings on a drinking contest.

Oh ... she knew she wouldn't win (sigh, she never won.) But taking care of her would help Herc with his 'fatherly instincts' right now, so she'd take the hit, and the hangover.

It was common knowledge that Bethany, by Warden standards, was a light-weight. Three ales in and she was already listing to the side a little. She blinked at Herc, slowly, before she beamed happily at him, "Of course I do! It's a ...a drinking contest, not a stop .. .drinking contest. One more, please, of your delicious ales."

That beaming smile was turned to the waitress, who smiled back despite herself, before putting the next mug in front of Bethany. Bethany put on a ... 'trying to be determined face' which fell right into another grin. "These are soooooooo big, Herc. They're like ... the ogres of mugs."

Returning from the Emprise early had not been a great concern for her. It made sense if Cassandra was in the field for the other founder of the Inquisition to be at Skyhold, the Divine's hands monitoring matters and extending their reach. Hearing of the rift opening in the castle was alarming, though she has not found herself overly consumed with concern on that count, since her return. There have simply been so many things: Zevran, Alayre, the gathering hosted by Lady Vivienne, conversations with Morrigan, endless threads that must be grabbed and pulled, allowed to to the work of unravelling themselves. Their resources are not what they could be, or what Leliana would like, and she finds herself overstretched.

She will endure it. She must.

What catches her interest, though, and justifies a descent from her tower, is the news of a young woman arrived to the castle. A mage, one with scars on her palms, if her scout's words are worth anything at all. It is a concern, but Leliana would sooner she approached the young woman than someone else - so many are quick to judge, with mages, fast to condemn. Better to try and understand, first, even if the Nightingale would condone strict, swift action. Not in this - not against mages, simply for suspicion and based on who they are. That the scars can be seen and that she has come to the Inquisition must mean something, and Leliana is not so far gone as to deny people the right to change.

It is a silly contrivance, really, but silly is so disassociated with Sister Nightingale that it seems the best option, for this. Simple, painless, and it never hurts to let her nugs get a little more socialised. She's fairly sure they enjoy the attention.

"Schmooples!" Her oldest nug friend, still as delightful as he was during the Blight, and her most reliable comrade for such exercises as these. The elderly nug is scuttling across the courtyard, beelining for Clarke, with what appears to be little brown parcel held in his mouth. Despite his age he is still speedy with his scurrying, shooting between Clarke's ankles and lurking behind her. "I apologise for the trouble," she exhales, moving to the young woman in long strides, arms crosses as she looks around her to the nug. "He always thinks he can get away with murder if he runs to a new friend."

Her tone is very dry, an accusation directed at the little bunny-pig, and he squeaks uselessly as he drops the parcel. "Don't make that face at me, ser," she retorts, and the creature does not look even a little chastened.

The familiar rush and thud of bow strings letting fly and arrows sinking into targets - she wouldn't go so far as to call it music to her ears, but in times like these, it might be about as close as it comes. It's comforting, familiar, and practical enough not to spur guilt.

Harding has become a fine shot, and it seems that she remains that way, keeps her skills honed. Her dedication, her intelligence and the care she takes is the precise reason Leliana thinks her so well suited to scouting new areas as they extend their reach. In part it is Lady Vivienne's party that sparks Leliana seeking Harding out, beyond the context of her visits to the tower and their messages via raven. The Herald had spoken highly of Harding. Leliana is not certain she has ever actually told her that. It seems... remiss, as much as she could throttle herself for being sentimental when there is so much to be done. Sentimentality would not change what happened to Evelyn.

Being Leliana, of course, she is lurking, so she appears to simply materialise out of the shadow of the stairway as she approaches from behind Harding. "A fine shot," she comments, and keeps her gaze focused on the target rather than the woman alongside her. "What do you think of when you shoot?"

Curiosity. She can never quite help that.

Following the Rift in Skyhold, the infiltration of wretched Crows into their midst and the taking of not only an Inquisition member and the poisoning of another, but the torture of a dear friend... well. Leliana has had reason to be withdrawn. And she has had even more reason to hunt, to look into every person in their keep, who has come to their fortress and claimed a place among their ranks. Some people have a history that is easily gathered, checked. Others are more secretive, and while inconvenient, it is not a reason for immediate removal, nor eradication.

On this occasion, the person in question has not sparked immediate concern. That will change, when it is Leliana inspecting him and not her harried, desperately working scouts, eager to assure the security of the Inquisition. Desperately so, perhaps. As such, she is not here to interrogate or to question, but to check in on the condition of a Scout, struck with a poisoned arrow on a mission, and the wound allowed to fester too long on the trip back to Skyhold. It was foolishness, and she might have lectured the young man, if he had not been so ill as to near collapse in the Rookery.

"How is he?" Leliana has a habit of appearing out of nowhere, sometimes, and she stands at the entranceway of Detlef's workspace, balancing a respectful distance and a commanding presence with the talent of one well-used to playing games.

Edited 2016-02-15 12:50 (UTC)

"A moment, please." It's been a while since he'd last needed to be used to superiors coming in to ask after their people. Over a decade, in fact. He's unused to this. But it's something he's going to have to get used to - not stiffening when someone shows up behind him asking questions, maintaining his focus despite how he could be in danger, all of it.

After a couple of moments as he finishes up his initial work, Anders turns to see Leliana there. At least she's here for her scout and not for Anders. That's the only consolation, really.

"He'll live. I need to..." He nods at the table near here and crosses, pulling a few things out of jars and getting to work. "The infection's dealt with, the deeper tear is as well, but the poison's in his bloodstream. He's going to need to take a dose of what I'm making twice daily. And, like most things that are good for you, it will taste awful."

His voice is pitched enough so that the scout can hear him as well. He might as well be efficient with notifying them both of what's going on. "He'll need to be off-duty for at least a week, and I'd like him in here again at the end of that to take another look. Should he start hallucinating, or his leg fall off, bring him in sooner." There's a short beat as he looks up from what he's doing for a moment. "The leg falling off is a joke, his limbs will be fine."

Of course. She held Wynne in too high an opinion not to respect a healer's space - especially when they work in such challenging conditions such as these. Another thing that needs attention, needs work, but there are only so many hands and so many hours in the day.

Nodding at the information, her mouth tugs into a slight from with the description of the injury, gaze casting towards her scout for a moment in a brief, severe reprimand that does not last more than a moment, before she retrains her gaze on the healer.
"I understand." He will have his medicine, every drop, no matter how he protests the taste.

And at the joke, she doesn't quite smile, there there is a hint of something at the corners of her mouth. Not quite smiling, not quite amused, not quite anything beyond the Nightingale.
"Do not worry. If he does not comply with his rest order," Leliana replies, quite calmly, "there will be no need for his leg fall off." A significant look at her scout, who nods, and the shadow of a smile. Leliana's brand of caring is complex, perhaps, but her people are valuable to her, and she will do everything she can to protect them, to keep them safe - even from their own bull-headedness. This is a scout who returned to Skyhold sooner than seek medical attention. Dedicated, but reckless with his own well-being. Her threads come from a loving place, one could suppose.

"I appreciate your assistance. No doubt Scout Shawling does, as well. Detlef, isn't it?"

He is very glad to not be that scout, with the little hint of a threat there. A shame he'd never been able to intimidate Hawke into behaving enough to let things fully heal. Then again, she'd at least had him nearby. The scout could be sent anywhere next, far from a healer.

"It is." Just Detlef, just a healer, please let her inquiries end there. Varric's help had certainly fleshed out his background, but there's no telling what resources Leliana has. The chances of her directly knowing more about Laysh than he does are slim, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have someone there.

He finishes the mixture up and carries it back to the scout, holding it out. "One mouthful at dusk and one at dawn. If you miss a dose, don't take two, come see me." Once that's handed off he comes back to the table and starts cleaning up, 'aided' by his hand being batted by a tiny black-and-white-spotted paw sneaking out of one of the canisters. "Or Adelaide, if I'm not currently available. I'll leave notes on the toxin and your name in case of that."

Chances are he'll be here, but there's no telling where he'll be needed. "Was there anything else the both of you needed?" Maybe they'll say no.

--he isn't wrong, but Benevenuta would prefer Hercules off-kilter in general simply because she finds him much easier to deal with when she has the upper hand. (This is true of most people; that she's forced to acknowledge it so much is less common.)

"Better than it treats you, Warden," she says, eyebrows raising as she approaches - she looks much as she did the first time he met her, a few extra layers of fur in addition to the grey and embroidered traveling clothes she's made good use of since, her hair in two neat braids half pinned under her furred hat. A bit more sure of herself, though; less hesitant of the terrain, less easily spooked. A bit more of her indoor saunter to the way she carried herself, in aura if not practicality.

"Let me look at it? I am certain I can fix a bandage better with two hands, at least."

Whilst much of the Inquisition's forces, its scouts, its supply wagons, and its focus had been out in the cold, blizzard struck fjords of Emprise du Lion, and that was where Harding had been. But as days turned to weeks and the Inquisition suceeded in its goals, many of them drew back. Oh, there would be a presence. Scouts were still stationed there, still things that needed to be resolved, still things that would take time and they couldn't turn a blind-eye, but it was enough for Harding to feel comfortable enough to return on one of those supply runs and not chomp at the bit to be back out there straight away.

Skyhold was oddly warmer, in comparison, which was odd, given that it too was surrounded by snow. But it's not as bad as the Emprise, where much of her time not spent scouting or surveying was spent huddled up in a corner of her tent writing reports. It wasn't an ideal place to practice archery. Now, with a free afternoon, she's not going to waste it with frivolity. She could have a drink or two, later. Maybe. After some more reports.

She knows Leliana is there long before she reveals herself. Not that it's Leliana specifically, but you get used to the presence of your boss who is prone to lurking and put the two together. As such, her apperance doesn't make her miss a beat, releasing the arrow true and joining its fellows dead centre of one of the targets. "Thank you," she says with a crooked grin, already reaching to her quiver for another arrow, though she doesn't pull it back, merely twists it round in her fingers, pensive. "It depends. Focus, mostly. Just me, the target, my bow and the arrow... time stands still. Keep an even head, and then it'll go where you want it to. Or," her eyes flicker up towards Leliana as she notches the arrow, "how much worse it would be if I missed."

It's true. She's not a soldier, not even a hunter as far as the Dalish go. Merrill prefers not to fight, if there's a way around it. She prefers peace. But peace isn't always an option, and it isn't an option in regards to Corypheus. Perhaps that's why she finds it so important within the ranks of the Inquisition. Perhaps it's part of why everyone reacted so strongly when accused of something like godlessness.

Merrill has never considered herself to be an expert at people. She's never even thought of herself as being good at people. But what she said had struck a chord with people, at least. There have been good conversations, ideas for distractions and joy and better ways to work out frustrations. The Grey Warden named Hercules had offered all of the above, and she's pleased to see him as she straightens up from where she's gathering herbs, flashing him a bright smile.

"Oh, yes! It's very nice to meet you in person." The herbs are shifted, tucked into a pouch along her belt; they'll keep. "The Grey Warden who wants to throw snow."

This is a bit more familiar, isn't it? She's more a traveller, now, and less a politician, or whatever it is a fancy lady like her probably wants to go and call herself. It's all ranks and titles, and much as he understands it, sometimes it just seems like a waste of energy.

Her question makes a smile quirk the corners of his mouth, as he idly rubs his jaw, feeling the harsh rasp of stubble against the palm of his hand and the pads of his fingers, and he chuckles very quietly. "I didn't know politician types still liked to get their hands dirty in the field."

Honestly, it's meant as a compliment. Plenty of people think that once they have some foothold, some power, they don't need to do the hard yards any more, that it's just for the footsoldiers. But she's here instead of in Skyhold, and she could have moved on, but she's offering to help him out, and the way he tilts his head says sure, why not?

Herc's got quite a fine collection of socks, courtesy of Bethany. Not always sure about the patterns, but it's not like he could ever sneeze at a good pair. Right now he's wearing one pair layered over another, so his boots are a little too snug, but at least his feet are warm. (Or, one is. The other is soggy from a hole worn in the leather, a problem for a later day and that could be forgotten with this ale.)

"All right." Like he's going to win an argument with drunk Bethany, though his expression is somewhere between fond and concerned.

"Ogres of mugs?" She's won a warm chuckle from him, at least, even if it's quiet. "That'll make for a gruesome hangover, you know," Herc adds, sipping his own ale. "You reckon there's a mug for every darkspawn variety out there? Maybe a genlock, or a shriek."

This could be an interesting or terrible conversation, and when next the barmaid wanders by, he's just discretely asking for a couple of waters. Just to have it to hand.

No one ever won an argument with a drunk Bethany. Her inner Hawke stubbornness started to come out with a vengeance. As it stood, right now she pulled the large mug towards her and took a healthy swallow off the top. She coughed, wheeled, then said with a thick voice, "The shriek would be something that snuck up on you. Down the throat, then POW!"

She punched her hand into her palm, then made various faces of pain. "Ow. That ... Really hurt my fingers."

There might be a pout now, Herc.

Edited 2016-02-20 01:43 (UTC)

One day Leliana will talk to Harding about the importance of personal time, rest, recovery... all of those good things, basically. One day that could be today, or could get guiltily pressed back, because Leliana wants her scouts to be well and to be safe, but well and safe and happy all feel like perilous indulgences, in a time like this. If she were to insist Lace worked less hard, trained less, took less upon herself, and something went awry, the way so much has seemed to go awry of late, what then? If she commanded her to do less, as she had commanded her scouts back to Haven for their safety, what then? She had cost the Inquisition its Herald through her caution. Perhaps it is better they press themselves, as much as they can.

It is not satisfactory, and she worries for the sake of her agents and scouts, as much as for the Inquisition and for Thedas. What is a nation, a world, if not made up of individuals? What kind of world will it be, if individuals are left to suffer, to push themselves too far? But what world will they have, if they do not do everything in their power?

It is the struggle that drags at her each moment, one of many. For now it is set aside, pressed into the background so she can focus on her lead scout and weigh up her tone, her posture, each word.

"Logical and emotional, in one," Leliana comments, the slightest hint of a smile. Approving, really, and her smile quirks into something more obvious for just a moment. "I once had a potential scout tell me he thought of an ex-lover," she adds, tone rather more dry. "His potential was rather reduced, after that."

Not talking to herself, then. Maybe talking to herbs? He's pretty sure his mum used to talk to her elfroot plant, mind, and it makes his mouth quirk with a grin at the memory. Old times, fond memories, and sometimes it's not a terrible thing to have the past bought up for a fleeting moment. You can't go about feeling like a raw nerve ending all the time, after all. There's lives to live, out there.

"That's me," he agrees with a bit of a laugh. "And you're the peacekeeper who likes griffons. Nice to meet you, too."

Fun fact, if you like griffons, you're almost automatically going to be sort of endearing to a Grey Warden - or, at least to this one.

"You busy with those herbs of yours? Otherwise, I was gonna ask if you wanted to have a go at building one."

There are times when blood becomes an indelible mark upon your being. It washes away, yes, but memory is far more persistent than the moment it springs from. An error in judgment could be some seven, eighteen years past, and the memory as fresh and painful as if it were an action of that day. Compassion could be a curse, Leliana sometimes thought. ‘Compassion' seemed a fine word for a feeling that makes so much of your past and your present nightmarish, when you take each action and follow the thread of it to see what you have done, through decisions you did and did not make. There was never a day when she could fully carve it away, and when just the scarcest portion remained, it could take root again. To be able to view her mistakes, her decisions, her actions with cool logic would be one thing. You were young, she could say, you did not realise the consequences, but even then logic would counter with and yet, you should have. You were a fool.

She cannot afford to be mired in her thoughts and her regrets, and yet, when there are rare quiet moments, it is exactly what occurs.

To her credit, she does not look as exhausted or wrung out as she feels, and she murmurs a quiet prayer under her breath to the Maker as she lights a fresh candle at her shrine in the Rookery, bowing to it respectfully before she turns, sharply, and sets her gaze on the new arrival in her tower.

“Kitty.” Surprised, yes. She had not seriously expected the young woman would seek her out.

"Um - yeah."

Kitty feels like she's interrupted something. It's always an awkward thing when you come across someone praying, especially when you're pretending to be Andrastean but you haven't ever actually been to an Andrastean service, and...well, whatever Leliana was praying for, it certainly wasn't a cheerful sort of thing. She looks sorrowful. Unhappy.

Well. Most people would see that and would walk away. But Kitty has never much cared for letting sadness or misery influence your behavior, and she's increasingly getting the sense that sadness and misery are what power Leliana. So instead of asking is this a good time or should I come back later or any of that, she lifts the bottle of wine she's brought with her for inspection.

"I assume you've got time to have some of this with me, since you completely skipped out on me the other day."

That she is here at all is a surprise. Footsteps and the sense of someone being there normally mean a scout, or official business, but here is a delivery of wine and a smart comment, and it's enough to make her brows raise with a faint and ever so slightly incredulous smile.

"Skipped out?" But her tone is far from angry or accusatory, more bemused. Not all would address the Nightingale so. She finds herself not minding, in this instance. "I suppose I did."

A glance to the sun, dipping low in the sky and brushing orange and yellow across the dark crests of the Frostbacks, and Leliana nods her agreement. A moment, at least, was not unwarranted. All the letters she needed to write are inked and dried and sent. Walking towards her desk, she sweeps aside some blank parchment, and indicates for Kitty to sit before going to retrieve two cups. "How have your shuffles progressed?"

"Very nicely," she responds with pride. The cards come out of the satchel she carries, and at once she slaps them down on the table. First, she shows off the shuffle that Leliana taught her - rapidly and smoothly done, with confidence and certainty - and then another, new shuffle. That one's a little less sure - she messes it up once - but on the second try she gets it right. Then she grins up at Leliana.

"Learned that from one of the other barmaids," she said. "I like that one a bit less, but it's not too bad."

She pushes the cards into a nice block, neatens out the edges. "Not perfect, definitely, but I'm getting there, at least."

Watching as she opens the wine, pouring a cup for Kitty and then herself, and sliding the first to her guest. Guests in the Rookery (or chicken coup, as Dorian suggested) was rather a novelty.

"Nicely done. Although," and she takes up the cards for a moment, replicating the shuffle Kitty just showed her, "here. A little more action with the wrist, and less the hand. Let your hand concentrate on the hold, and your arm provide it support. That will make avoiding a slip easier."

Nonetheless, she is pleased by the progress, and replaces the cards on the desk before she sits. "But I imagine cards are not your sole interest, if you sought me out."

Clarke doesn't appear to be a person who smiles very often; she's only eighteen, and she looks it, but even standing in the courtyard and idly rubbing ashes from the surgeon's fire (for want of ink or paint) into the blank final pages of a spellbook in the vague shape of mountains, her resting expression features a worried line between her eyebrows.

The nug's appearance doesn't erase it. She snaps the book shut out of reflex when he darts between her feet, steps in place like she's worried he might run into her or up her leg, and then looks at his apparent owner with uncomprehending skepticism.

She understands what the woman has said; she understands who the woman is. What she doesn't understand is:

"Schmooples?"

Schmooples. It doesn't make Sister Nightingale a less intimidating person to be approached by, when one is a young blood mage with many regrets, but it does put that concern on hold for a moment.

Politician is precisely the word that this fancy lady prefers to use for herself, and if she were prompted - she would say she is no less that for being here, but arguably just better at it than most. Smart enough to see there's more than one way to skin a cat, and the success your rivals don't see coming is all the more effective.

...but her somewhat brutal approach to politics is not the matter at hand. He earns himself a small, close-mouthed smile for his remark and she gestures him to sit on a nearby rock fit to the purpose, tugging her gloves loose.

"My hands go wherever the rest of me goes," she says, peeling away the bandaging job he's haphazardly achieved for himself. "And they do the work required of them. Politics; for, of, relating to citizens. Is that not what this is?"

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and I'm haunted

MERRILL. EMPRISE. following her post.

BENNY. EMPRISE. some...time???

BETHANY. EMPRISE. idk timewimey.

Re: BETHANY. EMPRISE. idk timewimey.

CLARKE. SKYHOLD. after the rift in skyhold/zevran's return/idk other stuff

LACE HARDING. post rift, post zevran, post EVERYTHING EVER IN THE ENTIRE WORLD??? skyhold.

DEFINITELY-NOT-ANDERS. post rift/zevran/idk are there other things??? :')

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im terrible and late but i love u

but did they save the day

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luv u moar tho

emerges from under the rl swamp yaaay

Re: emerges from under the rl swamp yaaay

of COURSE sassy redhead archer spies ftw

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KITTY. SKYHOLD. timeywimey???

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I'm here I'm sorry hiiii.

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