my hand btw


distances taken from this

denerim to lothering : orange

230 miles on roads
11 days on foot | 7 ½ days forced march | 6 days on horseback | 4 days fast carriage | 3 days horse relay

lothering to ostagar : red

80 miles on the imperial hwy
4 days on foot | 2 ½ days forced march | 2 days on horseback | 1 day horse relay

lothering to redcliffe : purple

105 miles on roads
5 days on foot | 3 ½ days forced march | 2 ½ days on horseback | 2 days fast carriage | 1 ½ days horse relay

lothering to kinloch hold : light blue

195 miles on roads
10 days on foot | 6 ½ days forced march | 5 days on horseback | 3 days fast carriage | 2 ½ days horse relay
11 miles in a boat
3 hours rowing

redcliffe to gherlen’s pass : dark green

160 miles on mountainous roads
16 days on foot | 8 days on horseback | 6 days fast carriage | 4 days horse relay

denerim to soldier’s peak : light green

100 miles on the pilgrim’s path
5 days on foot | 3 ½ days forced march | 2 ½ days on horseback | 1 ½ days fast carriage | 1 day horse relay
20 miles on mountainous roads
2 days on foot | 1 day on horseback | ½ day horse relay

lothering to the dalish camp : orange + dark blue

80 miles on roads
4 days on foot | 2 ½ days forced march | 2 days on horseback | 1 ½ days fast carriage | 1 day horse relay
40 miles off road
5 days on foot | 2 days on horseback

redcliffe to honnleath  yellow

35 miles on hilly roads
2 ½ days on foot | 1 ½ days forced march | 1 day on horseback | ½ day horse relay

redcliffe to haven : dark green + pink

100 miles on mountainous roads
11 days on foot | 5 days on horseback | 2 ½ days horse relay
20 miles off road
3 days on foot | 2 days on horseback

PAGE 1  >>  PAGE 2  >>  PAGE 3  >>  PAGE 4 & 5  >> PAGE 6 & 7  >>  PAGE 8 >>  PAGE 9 >> PAGE 10 & 11 >> PAGE 12 (END)

*gulps* H-hey, um @unoutan? I’m your Secret Santa and this is the comic I’ll be giving you over the course of next few days (if everything goes according to plan, haha…) Merry Christmas!!!


premise: rick is jealous that morty is paying more attention to his new phone than him lol

oh boy… >//// is it super obvious i’m still figuring out how to draw these guys ??? (and in general…its been abt 10 years since i posted my art online(idk what’s happening w/ the shading here, that really got away from me)) 

  forgive me

penalty shot

pairing: hermione granger x draco malfoy

setting: modern, non-magical, single parent au

written for@brightki [merry early xmas!!!!! i love you etc

It’s corporate tax season, so it takes Hermione a couple of days to notice that something has gone terribly wrong.

“Max,” she says slowly, staring at the crayon-smeared drawing stuck to the front of the refrigerator. It’s new. The drawing, not the refrigerator. The refrigerator has a ten-year manufacturer’s warranty. The refrigerator is not the problem. “Max, what is…where did you…is that a hockey stick?

Max pokes at a tepid strip of grilled chicken with the blunted tines of his baby blue spork. His nose is scrunched up in disgust, and he keeps glancing at the cookie jar on the counter with transparently calculated longing.

“Yes,” he finally says, swinging his legs. “We played with Scorpion’s daddy.”

“Scorpius,” Hermione automatically corrects, even as she inwardly sneers. Scorpius. Honestly. Why not just tack on an –aiden at the end and be done with it? “You played with Scorpius’s daddy.” She blinks. “Wait. What?”

Max shrugs. “I shot a fuck.”

Puck,” Hermione bleats, dropping her spoon into her own bowl of meticulously fluffed quinoa. “You shot a puck, sweetheart.”

“Puck,” Max repeats dutifully, leaning forward to slurp at his chocolate milk. “I love hockey.”

“What? Since when?

“Scorpion’s daddy plays hockey on TV.”

“I…yes, I know,” Hermione says, dumbfounded and more than a little appalled. “Believe me, sweetheart, everyone knows. Did he—so, he came to your school? To play…hockey?”

“My stick was red,” Max replies sagely. “I love red.”

Hermione’s nostrils flare as she reaches for her wine glass. “Oh, yeah?” She swallows an enormous gulp of Chardonnay and furiously tries to remember the name of the Netflix documentary about concussion rates in youth contact sports. “And what color was your helmet? Was that red, too?”

Max sniffs and puffs his cheeks out, flipping a carrot medallion around and around the edge of his plate. His eyes are big and brown and utterly without mercy as he twists in his chair to look expectantly at the cookie jar.  

“Mommy, what’s a helmet?”

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