codex is me

@evergloow  you made me curious so i did some research  &  according to the cooperative eye hypothesis,  humans are intuitively able to follow each other’s eye movements bc being able to subtly communicate w other humans  ( ex. following someone’s line of sight )  was evolutionarily advantageous to living in large communities bc it helps humans detect emotion,  intention,  &  lies,  &  humans developed  “the whites of the eyes”  to do so more efficiently. 

galra probably never evolved this trait bc it was unnecessary  –—  assuming they’re based off bats  &  similar species,  they probably rely more on sound  &  hearing to detect emotion,  intention,  etc. 

so what i’m saying is it would be  VERY UNNERVING  for a human to talk to a galra bc the human would suddenly have no way to detect those subtle emotional cues,  &  the galra would be able to pick up on vocal inflections that the human probably doesn’t even realize they’re making

also if a human looks at something,  another human would most likely follow the first human’s line of sight  &  understand what the other human wants  ( i.e. look at that !,  watch out for that !,  bring me that ).  a galra would have  NO IDEA  what the human is trying to communicate  &  would be confused as fuck,  which is hilarious

am i the only one who feels suspicious about this room in Skyhold??

ladyvehk  asked:

Prompt: Ellana and Solas during Inquisition, taking a happy moment to dance goofily with each other :) or any other instance of them just being silly and enjoying each other's company.

The ball at the Winter Palace approaches, and there isn’t a soul in the keep who feels it as keenly the Inquisitor – it’s clear to Solas from the nervous wringing of her hands, and how she can’t seem to focus on the conversation in front of her, her answers brief and her attention fleeting.At first he thinks it’s the impending assassination that’s got her so consumed – the thought of Corypheus’ ever-tightening grip around the South, and the future their failure will herald.

But then – “It’s the dancing,” Ellana admits, slender fingers interlaced and knuckles pressed to the small of her back, a familiar gesture of nervousness, and her expression is endearingly woeful. “I might be a little…rusty. Josie was joking about arranging for a tutor.” But then she pauses, expression contorting with something akin to horror. “On second thought, I think she might have been serious.”

The idea is impulsive, lightly teasing, but he’s damned by the sight of her – the nervous purse of her lips, and the way she keeps shifting her weight, as though digging through her memories for old steps and older songs – and, “There is no need for that,” Solas hears himself saying, hearing tunes older still, and a hundred steps to a hundred different dances sitting like an itch in his legs.

He’s offering his hand before he’s had time to question the desire, and for a split second he’s afraid she’ll see all the years implied in the gesture – the slight bend of his shoulders and the question that sits in the very tips of his fingers, his palm open and held before her.

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The release of the new Chaos Codex has me battling the urgings of Heresy. Like, an Iron Warriors army with three Predators and three Vindicators? Or A Word Bearers force allied with a load of daemons. Or an all-Raptor Night Lords warband. Or Noise Marines to go with my new Daemonettes. Or Nurgle, Plague Marines and plague zombies are so much fun to convert and paint. Sigh!

Your Fave is Problematic: Thor in Þrymskviða

- gets his hammer stolen by a giant

- agrees to marry the giant to get it back

- while pretending to be his mother

- enlists loki as a bridesmaid

- doesn’t act convincingly feminine e.g. eats an entire ox

- like come on guy

- when he gets his hammer back it’s basically framed as just one big ol’ dick joke

- fucking norse mythology

- for serious look at this nonsense no crackfic can beat the original

it’s kinda weird because some people are scared that there might be life somewhere else in the universe but wouldn’t it be more frightening if we were all alone????

zendelai  asked:

Jellyfish for Hawke & Fenris?

 jellyfish: a thousand little stings

I wanted to do a literal approach to this prompt, and the result was 6000 words worth of fenhawke merfic


She’d once heard heartache described as a wound best healed undressed – to leave it open, untouched; to let it breathe and mend on its own, not suffocated with distractions, or drowned with drink.

But Maker, what she wouldn’t give for a distraction. Or better yet, a pint.

It’s not the broken engagement that stings the most – her pride might be a great and terrible thing, but she’s always carried her social losses with grace (and not a small amount of insufferable cheek, much to her late mother’s chagrin). No, the worst by far, Hawke thinks, is that she’d started to care. And affection for someone who’d toss you to the sharks without a second thought, now that is not a wound so easily suffered.

A whole month since the debacle, and the rumour mill keeps churning, but it’s not the whispers that get to her – it’s the seeming indifference, the unshaken calm of the man who’d treated her heart like a small, insignificant thing, as though Hawke herself was small, and irrelevant beyond being a stepping stone to a considerable fortune. Turning up at the same social event is one thing – turning up at one hosted at her own house speaks of a disrespect so vivid it’s bordering on the absurd.

She’s escaped the festivities with most of her dignity still intact, only one, albeit generous glass of wine in her belly, and her former fiance’s pilfered pocket-watch tucked away in her skirts for some nefarious plan she’s hoping the sea will help her hatch. Her family’s manse (hers now, after her mother’s passing, but she keeps forgetting between one grief and the next), lies in the cradle of a secluded cove, behind which Kirkwall sprawls. A sliver of beach curls almost all the way around the cove, and on the far side twin rows of cliffs cut sharply into the dark waves of the Waking Sea, the great jagged shapes like a hundred fins arching from the surface. And there’s a wildness to it that calls her forward now, away from the clink of glasses and muted laughter drifting out of the open windows, and she wanders along the beach until she’s out of sight of the house, dragging her skirts and her wounded heart, and only when she’s by the water’s edge does she allow herself to stop.

And to scream at the very top of her lungs the loudest, most outrageously colourful expletive she can think of.

The water doesn’t answer, nor does the sea beyond the cove, and in the resounding silence Hawke huffs a self-satisfied breath. She toys for a moment with the idea of tossing the pocket-watch into the depths – a final flourish, to top off her rather impressive vocal performance – but she decides against it when another idea presents itself in its stead.

It takes her a moment to consider the thought – another for that one glass of wine she’s allowed herself to give her the go-ahead, and then she’s stripping off her boots and stockings, fingers trembling from the slight chill making her hands fumble on the laces of her dress, before she’s discarded it on the beach along with the watch (and her inhibitions and good sense, clearly). And then she’s running for the water with a whoop of delight that’s cut off rather abruptly by the shock of cold that hits her, and wraps around her like an iron vice.

If anyone sees, they’ll say she’s gone mad – broken heart and broken mind, and she’s used to making public spectacle of herself, isn’t she? – but it’s hard to remember the party and the stares and her hand wrapped around the stem of her glass, imagining his throat bobbing with that insufferable laughter. A few quick strokes take her away from the beach, until all she can see is water on all sides and the dark sky above – like she’s floating, suspended in a void, dark and cold but honest, at least, in its unforgiving nature. Unlike some, she thinks, but the thought is a very small droplet, quickly swallowed by a bigger pool of indifference, and it’s a strangely liberating thing, being bared like this – just Hawke, and the water.

Something brushes against her bare leg, a deceptively delicate caress. It takes her a moment – a millisecond, to register the pain.


The rest of the oath is drowned by a mouthful of water, and she’s flailing, lungs screaming as panic clamps around her windpipe, and now she really can’t tell sky from sea, or even the bottom of the cove from the surface – can barely think past the agony that’s gripped her leg, like fire under water, and a pressure so great it’s hard to force her thoughts past it, to the actions needed to keep her afloat.

A hand on her elbow then, strong fingers digging into her skin, hauling her up (is it up? or down?), and the last thing she sees before the dark water and unconsciousness swallows her whole is a tiger’s pattern of iridescent stripes, like the moon glinting off the surface of a rippling pond, burning against her retina a bright and brilliant ghost of blue, blue, blue

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electricghoti​ was giving me Sten feelings last night.

So have some super saxual DA2 style Sten. The qunari-who-may-or-may-not-have-loved-me. Thank you for that extra layer of feels, Mary Kirby. I wasn’t needing my heart anyway.

As for those design choices, click the read more below! I don’t want to clog your dash.

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anonymous asked:

Prompt: Lavellan awakens after their first night together to discover that Solas is a total and utter snuggle bug.

She’s grown used to waking up in her quarters, turning over on her back to find the ceiling spanning high above her head, and the cold, winter-white light spilling in through the windows and the balcony doors. She’s learned to feel at home here, beneath stone and sky and on a bed that doesn’t smell of moss and woodsmoke; has grown used to hearing the soft shuffle of feet on the stairs, and opening her eyes to find a tray at her desk. And she can name the contents without looking – a steaming cup of black tea, two warm rolls with butter, and a bowl of honey and whatever fruit has survived the trip up the mountains.

She’s used to this now, waking up to the feel of crisp sheets and the soft feather mattress. The muted crackle of the fireplace.

She’s not used to waking up with arms around her.

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  • *In a bookstore*
  • Me: *picks up a book* Ohh yeah, that was a good book, I should buy it!
  • Mum: What? But you've brought it from library a month ago? Didn't u finish reading it?
  • Me: ... You just don't understand. *walks away hugging the book*
briar thorn crown

Follow-up to this, and part two of my Roses For Your Garden

(she comes with the dawn)

He’s fast asleep when the first knock sounds – a hesitant, barely-there rap-rap-rap – but the noise succeeds in drawing him from the heavy warmth of an exhausted slumber to the cool, musty air of the royal chambers.

For a moment he doesn’t move, conscious of the lack of light filtering in through the heavy drapes, which means the sun has yet to rise and which means, in essence, that anything short of a Blight or Orlais on their doorstep does not require his immediate, kingly attention. But – the knocking persists, and there’s a frantic note to the sound now that tells him the knocker does not belong to his usual staff. His no-nonsense head housekeeper would never have bothered with such a tentative approach (not to mention, she wouldn’t have bothered knocking in the first place, the vile woman. No sense of privacy whatsoever).

The groan is lost somewhere between the pillow and the mattress, and on whoever is behind the bedamned door, because the knocking doesn’t cease, but rather seems to intensify with each second that he fails to respond.

“Maker, there better be a war.” Lifting his head from the pillow, the King of Ferelden considers the door, the knocking that won’t stop and – whether it’s too early for a King to retire at thirty-five to spend the rest of his life sleeping in some remote hut in the Hinterlands.

What,” he snaps. The knocking stops abruptly, and the perverse thought strikes him that maybe an assassin lying in wait had had enough of the bloody noise and taken matters into his own hands. Granted, that’s probably bad for him, as he’s no doubt next.

But a moment passes and there’s no assassin kicking down his door, and as the last remnants of sleep clear from his mind, the hostility follows suit. Then again, he’s never been one for undue anger, anyway.

“What is it,” he tries again, in a calmer tone, though he can’t keep his misery quite contained. But it’s too bloody early to be polite, even if he is King.

There’s a pause. “Your Majesty.”

Alistair sighs. “Yes?” It sounds like one of Vera’s boys, although why one of the junior staff would be at his door at such an ungodly hour escapes him. Although to be fair, anyone of relative high rank is probably still asleep in their beds, as they should. As anyone should, really, and with the thought he feels the stirrings of irritation again.

The pause that follows the question drags on, and Alistair feels his patience thinning by the second. “Well, spit it out, man. If it’s Orlais, you can tell them to invade at a bloody reasonable hour, people are sleeping.” (He is only partly joking, of course – he doesn’t actually think it’s Orlais, but he can’t imagine what else it could be that should require his attention before breakfast.)

“It's–” the speaker hesitates, and Alistair is already halfway on his way back to sleep. “It’s the Queen, Your Majesty. She’s – well, she’s back.”

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Can you imagine one day when Dean is minding his own business, cleaning the kitchen or working on the impala or reading a book, and Cas is passing him on his way to something, when he stops and does a double take. He comes back, getting right into Dean’s personal space, and intensely squinting at him for what feels like ages but it’s probably a couple of seconds.
Dean starts to get uncomfortable after a while, all like “dude what are you doing? Haven’t we talked about this? I thought- you had gotten better at it!”
But Cas just says “shut up Dean” and stabs him with a finger right in the stomach.
Dean feels a flash of grace singing through him and then it’s gone and Cas is nodding at himself, satisfied. The angel is about to leave when Dean catches his sleeve and sputters “what the fuck?”.
Cas shrugs and points at his middle section. “You were developing stomach cancer, I cured you. You should start eating better” and then leaves for real to tend their garden or some shit and Dean just stands there, dumbfounded, and probably utterly done with everything

Just came across this from the Corypheus’s Memories sidequest (which I haven’t had chance to play through just yet):

“Did the others never return from the Black City? There is no record even of our names! We are vilified by legend. They spit on our deeds and claim we brought darkness into the world. We discovered the darkness. We claimed it as our own, let it permeate our being. If the others have not returned, they are lost. I am alone in my glory.”

And it got me thinking about this section of another codex entry:

“Reminds me of a story my grandsire used to tell, about something his grandsire did. Said he once came upon a group of three darkspawn in the Deeper Roads, each twice the size of any dwarf—bigger than humans, even—and dressed up like kings. He watched from the shadows and said they talked, like people, about things he couldn’t understand. A city gone black, and they blamed each other for things but could barely remember for what. My mam was like that: never remembered the slight, just that she was angry. Story goes they attacked each other, and one ran off while the second choked the third to death and then ate him.”

Before, I’d assumed Corypheus was one of those three darkspawn, but now I’m wondering, since he doesn’t seem to know what became of the other six magisters. Interesting.


Var lath vir suledin. Solavellan, alternate ending to Trespasser, aka JUST LET ME DREAM OKAY. 

“Ready to go?”

Her voice draws him; lifts his eyes. The view of the mountains disappears, their cold, unforgiving elegance replaced with warm eyes curving at the corners, and the knowledge of what he’s been thinking about sits in the gently assuring smile that greets him.

Solas suspects that part of him will always be surprised by how easily her presence settles his concerns.

“I have been ready for some time,” he answers. “You were the one who insisted on saying goodbye to the horses.”

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A wee fenhawke ficlet for the-firefall, written to this absolutely gorgeous kiss she drew. (title from (x))

you’re a taker, devil’s maker 

He’s training, the muscles in his back shifting under slick skin with the strain of the exercise, holding her eyes from across the room. She hears his breath, a laboured rasp from deep in his throat, and he’s too preoccupied to notice where she stands, admiring the lethal elegance of his movements with an eagerness that will have her own breathing turn laboured if she doesn’t watch herself.

And – why had she come again? She’d had a reason, beyond simply seeing him, but for the life of her Hawke can’t remember what.

She also realizes that she’s staring.

“Nice moves,” she says, and almost doesn’t recognize her own voice. “Maybe Varric was wrong to think you were joking – maybe you do dance.”

Fenris turns; wipes a hand across his brow, and if she were any other girl she’d blame the midday heat for making her so lightheaded.

But Hawke is not. Hawke is Hawke, hungry gaze engaged in following a single droplet of sweat on its lazy, meandering path down his chest.

A brow raises. The sweat has turned his hair to quicksilver, gleaming in the dim light. The bun sags, loose against the back of his skull. She feels, suddenly, like pushing her fingers into the damp mass; to tear the leather strap away and bury her hands in it. 

It’s a strangely compulsive thought.  

“Do you dance, Hawke?” he asks her then, and there’s something about the low quality of his voice that tells her he’s not really thinking about dancing. Not the strictly vertical kind, anyhow. Unless we’re being particularly adventurous today.

But, “Only at exceptionally boring parties,” she’s quick to add, despite the fact that her tongue feels too thick to wrap around the words. “And then very poorly. Fereldan dances aren’t exactly known for being elegant. On account of us all being raised by dogs, you see.”

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