Now when we know that the Inquisitor is losing their arm no matter what at the end of Trespasser DLC, I really like to thing about different prosthesis for each one, based on the race, like:
Trevelyans having their forearm made of silverite lined with drakeskin leather, with family crests carved on the back of their hand. It looks like a ceremonial armor, decorated with ornaments in fashion of choice, but also full of hidden weapons.
Cadashes new arm is literally a weapon on a whole new level. It’s all bare gears and machinery, with detachable hand they can change for a blade or hammer, all made from steel and refined lyrium.
Adaars’ prosthesis are the simplest, but practical and elegant. Dragonbone core covered in layers of dragon hide painted black, branded with gold.
Lavellans is the most terrifying. It’s all twisted, living wood - be it ironbark, sylvanwood or dragonthorn, that’s personal preference. Matching the skin, it looks almost like naked muscles. Their hand can shaped with claws and even bloom once a year
Also, if they are mage, the Inquisitor’s arm can glow (especially Lavellans’ becasue tbh something has to keep that wood intact, right?)
As a child, I played this with my sister. She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won – which was all the time. My brother and I practiced together for weeks. The look on her face the day I finally won… Between serving with the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years. I wonder if she still plays. ↳ for tethrasing.
Unforeseen circumstances bring unforeseen love, even in a
Thedas on the brink. Adele is a rebel mage who doesn’t want to deal with her
affections for an ex-Templar. With the end of the world
hanging over their heads, it’s now or never for both love and war.
Ferelden was cold, damp and miserable. This, in Adele’s
opinion, perfectly suited her mood. Snow crunched underfoot, signifying her approach
with a steady scrunching. The path was still, quiet, without even a bird’s
chirping to fill the dead silence. Warm breath twirled through the cold air,
curling out of Adele’s lips and escaping into the great white expanse around
her, fading. A crack roused her from her hazy plodding, sharpening her gaze and
quickening her heart. Adele settled into a hastier pace, scanning the barren
landscape for signs of the living.
She trod more carefully, steps as light as the caress of
sunlight on the mountains above. Adele tugged on her hood, pulling it lower
over her brow, and tucked an escaped lock of dark hair behind her ear. A muted
rustling sent her heart tumbling into her stomach. These were the sounds of
shifting fabric, soon joined by a distinct clanking as the source grew closer –
“What’s a little birdie doing out here,” words ground
against each other like screeching nails and Adele whipped around to meet their
speaker, “all alone?”
Cullen waited while Dorian read the letter once to himself, and then out loud.
How scandalous to think there might be any connection between our house and those fiends of legend! It’s not true, of course, and to reassure you on that point, I intend to dedicate my family toward helping the Inquisition in its righteous struggle. Yours in faith, Magister Irian of House Amladaris.
“Yours in faith,” Dorian repeated, snorting. “What absolute hogwash.”
The ravens above them agreed, loudly and with their usual excretory enthusiasm. Cullen expected the letter to be crumpled and chucked over the railing, but Dorian handed it back.
“This research is valuable, and much appreciated,” he said, and an incurable prickle climbed the back of his neck. He resisted the impulse to rub it. “I’ve been asked to retrieve the Liberalum, though, I’m sorry. The Inquisitor would like to return it to the Magisterium as a sign of, well, good faith.”
Dorian continued as if Cullen hadn’t spoken at all, as if he hadn’t remained standing there in the alcove, waiting.
“You know, I do believe some part of this Magister Irian is proud to claim Corypheus as his ancestor.”
He located the Liberalum among his stacks and slid the book under his elbow, but rather than hand it over he leaned against the window. “Such a fickle thing, pride. Virtue or sin, or some delicious concoction of both? Show too much in yourself and you’re an insufferable ass, show too little and you languish in obscurity. It appears you don’t gain anything until you give it away.” Dorian traced the edge of a diamond-shaped pane, down to where it joined the metalwork at a point. “Until you’re proud of someone else.”
Cullen cleared his throat. Drawing himself back from a thousand-mile journey, Dorian opened the Liberalum to a page where two letters were tucked. With his personal items removed he finally gave the book to Cullen.
“Spiteful, I know, but it’s comforting to think my father will never feel that particular delight.”
It must have been plain on Cullen’s face, in his halting grasp, how he wanted to challenge the assertion. Dorian offered him a familiar tilt of the head, and the sort of smile no son should have ever learned to perfect.
“You disagree? You don’t know the man.”
“I can neither agree nor disagree, for that very reason,” replied Cullen, because he knew the man in front of him. The book was touch-warm in his hands, as if transferred directly from sunny Minrathous. He did rub his neck then. “We are not given to flashy accolades here, but you have…your work has generated a great deal of pride in at least one corner of Thedas. As cold and noisy as that corner may be.”
They regarded one another in the alcove’s peaceful light, Dorian pleased in his own disbelief, Cullen unable to smile with both sides of his mouth. I am. We are…of you.
“You sound like Felix,” Dorian said at last. His cheeks dimpled briefly. “He was a rather annoying idealist, too.”
“It’s the truth,” said Cullen, feeling the snowmelt quality of it on his tongue. Avoiding Dorian’s eyes, he looked instead at how the Liberalum’s thick spine fit in his palm, the whole of it much heavier than it looked. “And the truth is, in my experience, rarely ideal.”
Dorian folded his two letters into a tight square, pressing the creases too firmly between his thumbs and fingers. With a voice soft as ash he said, “On that point we agree.”
My sincere hope for DA3 is that it is relatively easy to mod. However, if you try to use a white Vivienne mod, it will crash your computer and leave a disdainful, “Non” burned into the monitor. Likewise, any “pretty” Cassandra mods will lead to the same except with an exclamation of, “BULLSHIT” that will be belted from your speakers, making your ears bleed.