Rules: 1. Always post the rules 2. Answer the questions given by the person who tagged you 3. Write 11 questions of your own 4. Tag 11 people
What’s your favorite season? Autumn!
If you were a cartoon character what would your signature outfit be? Probably some sort of retro dress and cardigan, tights with a seam and red lipstick.
Do you drive? What kind of car if you do? I don’t drive! Never had a lesson in my life. I’m a bit anxious in traffic.
You have ten thousand dollars to give to someone, who do you give it to? My grandmother. I would hope she’d buy a house nearby (as she currently lives in another country) and settle herself nicely. She worked so hard for so long, I would love for her to enjoy herself.
Do you prefer to play video games or watch people play them (or neither)? I’d prefer to play, but the only video game I enjoy is the Sims. :’)
What’s your most regretted purchase? Nothing major, just clothes I’ve bought with a terrible fit or quality.
Are you easily grossed out? Yes. I can handle gore in movies, but get very squeamish about things in real life. I can’t stand dirt or when people’s houses aren’t clean or bad personal hygiene. I have also developed something against meat.
What would 13 year old you think about current you? She would think I were pretty cool, but also a bit perplexed about how some things have turned out.
What’s your favorite candle scent? Something that would remind me of autumn or something floral yet musky like jasmine or patchouli.
What’s your least favorite chore? Mopping the fucking floor and cleaning windows.
There was our Inquisitor. An elven mage, of all things, accepted as Andraste’s Herald, small in stature with tattoos brandishing his face, as familiar and noticable as the Anchor of magic ripped into his skin. Formerly know as a prisoner, charged with the crime of murdering The Divine, tearing the sky and, by extention, destroying the world, but is now known to us as a leader. A man in command of the most powerful organisation in all of Thedas. A single man, a single inquisitor, to lead an inquisition, to right the wrongs of demons, darkspawn, dragons and thousands of men.
He was sent through time, saw his friends bleeding lyrium through their flesh, faced a dragon, a twisted amalgamation of mans fears and desires wadded into one messed up ball of darkspawn, endless surges of thugs, bandits, ventatori, rogue templars, mages and creatures bursting red lyrium at the seams. And he only ended up losing an arm in the end.
And, just between you and me, with everything our beloved Inquisitor was faced with, I had never seen him once weaken. Steel faced against all, apart from in the presence of a particular mage.
Who knew that when the world was ending, people would find time for love?
An exerpt from Varric’s tales of the Inquisition
As requested by @swevenfox - a short little drabble for you !
This temple swallows him.
Light bleeds through the narrowing embrasures, but it casts the ribbed vaults in an unfeeling, frozen glow. Too much light for it to be wholly real, wholly bound by so petty a thing as the laws which govern the workings of this world. What is law before that which exists beyond it? It is a vastness he cannot grasp, could not try to. The light issues with a searing whiteness that devours all it touches, furnishing the pooling shadows into dizzying abyssal chasms of an unending black. His eyes swim, spots blinking in his vision, and he must tear his gaze away, eyes pinched tight against a red seam of hungry illumination. His skin does not rise to chilled gooseflesh even in the cold bath of this searching brilliance. It does not burn his cheeks a shivering pink, and he is emptier for it.
He feels, lurchingly…nothing, not heat nor chill, and the vacuum of sensation passes a tremor through down his shivering vertebrae. He is glad for that - it reminds him his body is grounded, is here. How easy he finds it to drift into mindlessness, suffocating in this smothering void of being. He could forget himself, his duty, his life. This temple - and the god who claims it - press down upon him, cloying, greedy, grasping. The Will is impossible to disobey - it is all that seems tangible, a living entity beyond death itself, witness to the birth of the only world he has ever known. Creator and guide, whose hand ushers its end. In the shadow of the exquisite, that which offends in their insignificance - personality, thought, will - are scorched away.
Before it, Mythal’s sentinel kneels in penitential devotion. Love and fear taste the same to a god.
He is bent and bowed in genuflection, head drooping like an overripe fruit, fecund and ponderously weighty upon the branching arc of his neck. His tongue cleaves dumbly to the pate of his mouth, working uselessly, a bloated and numb organ. And it feels right, although it does not, that a thing so small and base as he should know the mercy of having the burden of words taken from him.
This place is sacred, yes. He can sense that what makes it cruel makes it holy - there is a terrible rapture in his wonderment. He knows there should be currents vortexing from the airy windows, bearing the heady fragrance of syrupy honeysuckle and nitrous earth. He knows he should hear the covetous murmurings of the Orchard trees, swaying to a windless breeze. But that which has narrowed to his only world - this temple - is consumed by callous silence. Perhaps this is a blessing, to be spared the drowsy languors of the white grove, the slow lethargy that renders him sluggish and thick, and so tempted to just lay his head upon the mossy vegetation, invitingly lush, and rest a while.
He cannot but tremble, humiliated for his weakness laid bare, profane and scaled large against the perfection of the infinite. He has knelt at altars of the gods, offered each their burnt offerings of sweet-smelling things, and he was firmed and consecrated before Their presence. And yet, his fear betrays the Great Mother now, all strength failing him, humbled and laic as he is.
Amusement ghosts unseen in the threads of the Weave, the brush of a thing so sibylline and immense that he knows it can be nothing else but the the shadow of the presence of the divine. And the fabric of the world ripples - a laugh without form or sound, unheard but deafening. He cannot dampen or escape its resonance, teeth ground chatteringly together in an aching jaw.
The words he was meant to deliver flee him, a shame so profound and so crude that he can taste it like a bitter scorbutic closing his throat. He drowns in the sorrow and fractured ruin of his duty on his goddess’ behalf, poisoned hubris of this worthless priest to convey Her words, a mistake, a mistake, a mistake, a—
GO TO YOUR MISTRESS. YOU DO NOT YET KNOW WHAT SORROW IS.
He starts, scrabbling untidily to a drunken stagger, casting about in sheer, animal terror. He is alone, and the memory has already left his body. Only the reverberations remain - some hollow echo in the cavity of his chest that sharpens his breath and leaves him reeling as though struck by a terrible blow. His breast heaves, brow puckered with beads of sweat, and the mortal stench of it sours the air. He recalls nothing but the memory of ruthless light, of the spiritual glimpse of something grander beyond all knowing.
The sentinel stares sightlessly with hooded eyes, the fresh fir green of Mythal’s brand shining with perspiration upon his brow. Lost, nonplussed, he pays his obeisances to the great temple of Falon’din, and cannot but shake the whispers of the woods he leaves behind.