Now Playing Tracks

yarnandteaisallineed: spicyshimmy: bioticbootyshaker: what happens in the hanged man… by ~domirine The epic battle between mages and templars waged on outside the Hanged Man’s walls, while within, an echo of that ancient scar was still an open wound. Fenris and Anders, like oil and Corff’s watery brew, needed no reason to hurl the customary invectives—a sobering reminder of the effect our prejudices had on all of us. And so we drank. To forget; to forgive. To forge on.  ‘Did…you just say what I think you said?’ Anders demanded. ‘Indeed I did just say what you think I said,’ Fenris replied. ‘You did not just say what I think you said.’ ‘Do you think for a moment about what others have said?’ ‘I think I know what you just said!’ ‘Does anybody know what either of them actually said?’ Isabela whispered. ‘Cruel assertions,’ Varric said as he wrote. ‘Their hearts burning with the close cousin of passion known as hate—’ ‘I think Fenris said something about a pussy,’ Merrill replied. ‘Poor kittens, being dragged into all of this.’ ‘Yes, yes; poor kittens,’ Isabela said, taking that exact opportunity to snake an arm around Merrill’s waist. Meanwhile, the Champion’s prowess—his legend, his strength, his nobility, his reputation—was a sight to behold in the flesh. Brave and bold, Hawke would stop at nothing in his heroism. To see a mage with such convictions standing beside a warrior like Aveline was enough to give you chills. Strength in spades and honor above all—yes, integrity, the pride of Kirkwall in those days. ‘Now, Hawke,’ Aveline said, ‘it’s clear to all of us you’re cheating.’ ‘It’s not cheating,’ Hawke replied, ‘if you’re a delicate mage flower up against a…scary enormous you. Besides, two of my arms are less than half the strength of one of yours. If you look at it that way…’ Sweat dripped down Hawke’s face. ‘…you’re the one who’s cheating by being so unfairly strong.’ ‘Many a good-natured battle was waged among friends,’ Varric said, quill flying. ‘Oh, to be a part of the good old days—’ ‘—before my brother’s fingers were squished like a handful of worms,’ Carver suggested.  ‘And before Fenris tore out Anders’s heart,’ Sebastian added.  ‘If he even has one,’ Fenris said.  ‘Your eyebrows don’t match your hair,’ Anders replied.  ‘Jeweled barbs and clever ripostes peppered the conversation until it shone,’ Varric continued. ‘Now,’ Isabela explained to Merrill, ‘if I spill my drink on both of them, of course, I’m without a drink, and that’s a tragedy; but Aveline’s shirt is white, you see, and when wet, magical, mystical things will happen to the fabric. I’m torn. Terribly torn. Torn as a pair of trousers. Kirkwall is full of such difficult choices.’ ‘And you can’t have it both ways,’ Merrill agreed. ‘…Their city was full of such difficult choices,’ Varric concluded, his quill practically flying, as though it was still a part of the bird that’d lost it, ‘and soon they were bound to learn: you can’t have it both ways.‘  ‘My fingers!’ Hawke moaned. ‘My victory,’ Aveline replied.  ‘My turn,’ Carver said.  My story, Varric thought, tucking his latest chapter against his heart with a satisfied sigh.  Perfect post is perfect.
Zoom

yarnandteaisallineed:

spicyshimmy:

bioticbootyshaker:

what happens in the hanged man… by ~domirine

The epic battle between mages and templars waged on outside the Hanged Man’s walls, while within, an echo of that ancient scar was still an open wound. Fenris and Anders, like oil and Corff’s watery brew, needed no reason to hurl the customary invectives—a sobering reminder of the effect our prejudices had on all of us. And so we drank. To forget; to forgive. To forge on. 

‘Did…you just say what I think you said?’ Anders demanded.

‘Indeed I did just say what you think I said,’ Fenris replied.

‘You did not just say what I think you said.’

‘Do you think for a moment about what others have said?’

‘I think I know what you just said!’

‘Does anybody know what either of them actually said?’ Isabela whispered.

‘Cruel assertions,’ Varric said as he wrote. ‘Their hearts burning with the close cousin of passion known as hate—’

‘I think Fenris said something about a pussy,’ Merrill replied. ‘Poor kittens, being dragged into all of this.’

‘Yes, yes; poor kittens,’ Isabela said, taking that exact opportunity to snake an arm around Merrill’s waist.

Meanwhile, the Champion’s prowess—his legend, his strength, his nobility, his reputation—was a sight to behold in the flesh. Brave and bold, Hawke would stop at nothing in his heroism. To see a mage with such convictions standing beside a warrior like Aveline was enough to give you chills. Strength in spades and honor above all—yes, integrity, the pride of Kirkwall in those days.

‘Now, Hawke,’ Aveline said, ‘it’s clear to all of us you’re cheating.’

‘It’s not cheating,’ Hawke replied, ‘if you’re a delicate mage flower up against a…scary enormous you. Besides, two of my arms are less than half the strength of one of yours. If you look at it that way…’ Sweat dripped down Hawke’s face. ‘…you’re the one who’s cheating by being so unfairly strong.’

‘Many a good-natured battle was waged among friends,’ Varric said, quill flying. ‘Oh, to be a part of the good old days—’

‘—before my brother’s fingers were squished like a handful of worms,’ Carver suggested. 

‘And before Fenris tore out Anders’s heart,’ Sebastian added. 

‘If he even has one,’ Fenris said. 

‘Your eyebrows don’t match your hair,’ Anders replied. 

‘Jeweled barbs and clever ripostes peppered the conversation until it shone,’ Varric continued.

‘Now,’ Isabela explained to Merrill, ‘if I spill my drink on both of them, of course, I’m without a drink, and that’s a tragedy; but Aveline’s shirt is white, you see, and when wet, magical, mystical things will happen to the fabric. I’m torn. Terribly torn. Torn as a pair of trousers. Kirkwall is full of such difficult choices.’

‘And you can’t have it both ways,’ Merrill agreed.

‘…Their city was full of such difficult choices,’ Varric concluded, his quill practically flying, as though it was still a part of the bird that’d lost it, ‘and soon they were bound to learn: you can’t have it both ways.‘ 

‘My fingers!’ Hawke moaned.

‘My victory,’ Aveline replied. 

‘My turn,’ Carver said. 

My story, Varric thought, tucking his latest chapter against his heart with a satisfied sigh. 

Perfect post is perfect.

let’s start wiiith…yeaaaa =u=precious babies <3I don’t know why I like this so much I just like it so much I’m not good at the analysis thing so I can’t really tell you why I think this could work, and work well, I just intuitively feel that these three together would be more stable and ultimately successful than the individual relationships.Although if I have to be UTTERLY honest, add Isabela to the mix and it’s my Ultimate Perfect DA2 Ship of All Ships and I certainly plan to draw them all someday 
Zoom

let’s start wiiith…yeaaaa =u=
precious babies <3

I don’t know why I like this so much I just like it so much 
I’m not good at the analysis thing so I can’t really tell you why I think this could work, and work well, I just intuitively feel that these three together would be more stable and ultimately successful than the individual relationships.

Although if I have to be UTTERLY honest, add Isabela to the mix and it’s my Ultimate Perfect DA2 Ship of All Ships and I certainly plan to draw them all someday 

svenharel: spicyshimmy: Slaves wear cuffs and chains until they need cuffs and chains no longer, the impression of the metal left against their wrists, heavier at their ankles now that they are gone.  They do not need to cross the ocean in order to drown.  Dockhands curse. Merchants cheat. Thieves steal and strangers lie. The sky covers them all and it rains regardless of the hour when the clouds gather at the wind’s behest.   There is no line in the earth where one country meets another’s border. The change is implied rather than tattooed in the mud or drawn through the sand with the sharp end of a stick like scars. Somewhere over the water, ships pass one another with full but tattered sails, the wood of their hulls creaking.  Somewhere over the water, a slave is seasick.  Kirkwall in the summer is too hot. In the winter, it is too cold.  Though he does not wear his armor, the strips of leather are tighter now that they are gone. Fenris wears the red cloth around his wrist because the knot is his to tie, the weight familiar and unfamiliar in one cinched loop of cotton. The dwarf has organized a betting pool—no small amount of coin bandied about—to determine ‘What the broody elf’s thinking about.’  ‘Vile abominations,’ Merrill suggests.  ‘My hirsute physique,’ Hawke says.  ‘How much he hates us all,’ Varric agrees.  ‘How I’m the only one who doesn’t mind getting naked in front of the corpses he keeps around the house, I’d wager,’ Isabela says.  The mage does not play along.  ‘How foolish we all seem,’ Aveline offers. ‘Thoughts beyond us, I believe,’ Sebastian says. ‘Cheese,’ Fenris replies without lifting his eyes. They have kept him on his toes, light on the balls of his feet, marked by his footprints on the solid ground beneath, and their laughter like the tide.  Still waters do not always have to run deep.  Anders does not play along because he’s busy thinking, “BITCH THAT IS MY BOX OF SHAME YOU GET YOUR ASS OFF IT RIGHT NOW SERAH”. i&#8217;m totally considering this my christmas gift from shimmy (even tho she doesn&#8217;t know me shhhhhhh) 
Zoom

svenharel:

spicyshimmy:

Slaves wear cuffs and chains until they need cuffs and chains no longer, the impression of the metal left against their wrists, heavier at their ankles now that they are gone. 

They do not need to cross the ocean in order to drown. 

Dockhands curse. Merchants cheat. Thieves steal and strangers lie. The sky covers them all and it rains regardless of the hour when the clouds gather at the wind’s behest.  

There is no line in the earth where one country meets another’s border. The change is implied rather than tattooed in the mud or drawn through the sand with the sharp end of a stick like scars.

Somewhere over the water, ships pass one another with full but tattered sails, the wood of their hulls creaking. 

Somewhere over the water, a slave is seasick. 

Kirkwall in the summer is too hot. In the winter, it is too cold. 

Though he does not wear his armor, the strips of leather are tighter now that they are gone. Fenris wears the red cloth around his wrist because the knot is his to tie, the weight familiar and unfamiliar in one cinched loop of cotton.

The dwarf has organized a betting pool—no small amount of coin bandied about—to determine ‘What the broody elf’s thinking about.’ 

‘Vile abominations,’ Merrill suggests. 

‘My hirsute physique,’ Hawke says. 

‘How much he hates us all,’ Varric agrees. 

‘How I’m the only one who doesn’t mind getting naked in front of the corpses he keeps around the house, I’d wager,’ Isabela says. 

The mage does not play along. 

‘How foolish we all seem,’ Aveline offers.

‘Thoughts beyond us, I believe,’ Sebastian says.

‘Cheese,’ Fenris replies without lifting his eyes. They have kept him on his toes, light on the balls of his feet, marked by his footprints on the solid ground beneath, and their laughter like the tide. 

Still waters do not always have to run deep. 

Anders does not play along because he’s busy thinking, “BITCH THAT IS MY BOX OF SHAME YOU GET YOUR ASS OFF IT RIGHT NOW SERAH”.

i’m totally considering this my christmas gift from shimmy (even tho she doesn’t know me shhhhhhh) 

(Source: frikadeller)

tasharene: EDIT: The artist is elfkin on dA! Clicking the image now properly takes you to the artist’s gallery. DOES ANYONE KNOW WHO CREATED THIS BEAUTY? I snatched it from k!meme, so quite obviously the post was anonymous, and the link that was posted doesn’t give any info about the artist. I’d love to credit it properly, so if anyone has any idea - please share. gimme gimme gimme gimme 
Zoom

tasharene:

EDIT: The artist is elfkin on dA!

Clicking the image now properly takes you to the artist’s gallery.

DOES ANYONE KNOW WHO CREATED THIS BEAUTY?

I snatched it from k!meme, so quite obviously the post was anonymous, and the link that was posted doesn’t give any info about the artist. I’d love to credit it properly, so if anyone has any idea - please share.

gimme gimme gimme gimme 

spicyshimmy: ghouley: you ask me what this is i say i dont know ba dum tshh thats the joke What he drops, you will not be able to reclaim for him. What he loses, you will not be able to replace. What he needs, you might give—or you might miss it, passing quick as a shadow across his face, no louder than the blink of an eye.  What he says, he will not always mean. What he means he will so rarely say.  You will not laugh at all of his jokes. He will mention it when you do and it will be—to borrow a phrase from the dwarf—the bronto in the room thereafter. This will encourage you not to laugh again, even when the joke is funny. More often than not, you will not have to worry that the joke will be funny. He will be tired. You cannot rest for him.  He will be hurt. You are no healer.  He will bleed. You will know his blood better than your own.  He will stand next to you—and you will know he is lonely. He will touch you—and you will touch him.  It will settle like dust on tired pauldrons, stained and weathered and scarred, passing like wind through the torn edges of a cape, and knot itself around the wrist like a scrap of forgotten cloth. You will do him no favors. You will love him, and this will be faulty, uncertain, prone to long silences and cleared throats and snores in the night, hiccups and burps and sweat, too detailed an understanding of old wounds and weak spots, a map of freckles and his insistence on the sensitivity of the tips of your ears, the insides of your thighs, your…nipples.  What he drops, you will not be able to reclaim. What he loses will not be you. You will not tell him he is tired for it need not be said. You will not tell him that you love him until he needs to hear it.  And he will laugh when he means to cry, a sound like torn leather. ‘Fenris,’ he will say, ‘I’m beginning to think you like me.’ It will go to his head. It will go to your heart. 
Zoom

spicyshimmy:

ghouley:

you ask me what this is i say i dont know ba dum tshh thats the joke

What he drops, you will not be able to reclaim for him. What he loses, you will not be able to replace.

What he needs, you might give—or you might miss it, passing quick as a shadow across his face, no louder than the blink of an eye. 

What he says, he will not always mean. What he means he will so rarely say. 

You will not laugh at all of his jokes. He will mention it when you do and it will be—to borrow a phrase from the dwarf—the bronto in the room thereafter. This will encourage you not to laugh again, even when the joke is funny.

More often than not, you will not have to worry that the joke will be funny.

He will be tired. You cannot rest for him. 

He will be hurt. You are no healer. 

He will bleed. You will know his blood better than your own. 

He will stand next to you—and you will know he is lonely. He will touch you—and you will touch him. 

It will settle like dust on tired pauldrons, stained and weathered and scarred, passing like wind through the torn edges of a cape, and knot itself around the wrist like a scrap of forgotten cloth. You will do him no favors. You will love him, and this will be faulty, uncertain, prone to long silences and cleared throats and snores in the night, hiccups and burps and sweat, too detailed an understanding of old wounds and weak spots, a map of freckles and his insistence on the sensitivity of the tips of your ears, the insides of your thighs, your…nipples. 

What he drops, you will not be able to reclaim. What he loses will not be you. You will not tell him he is tired for it need not be said. You will not tell him that you love him until he needs to hear it. 

And he will laugh when he means to cry, a sound like torn leather. ‘Fenris,’ he will say, ‘I’m beginning to think you like me.’

It will go to his head.

It will go to your heart. 

(Source: hellltrash)

To Tumblr, Love Pixel Union