this has been in my drafts for ages what

dragon age starters

feel most free to change pronouns ,  etc .

❝ it doesn’t matter that they won’t remember me. what matters is i helped. ❞
❝ bad things should happen to bad people. ❞
❝ i’m here to set things right. also ? to look dashing. that part’s less difficult. ❞
❝ planning has never been my strong suit . now, killing…killing & love-making. those i am better at. ❞
❝ oh ! we could get matching outfits ! ❞
❝ i’m not saying i should be your first pick for a dance partner at the ball , but in the deep roads , i’m your man / woman. ❞
❝ draw your weapon & say that again ! ❞
❝ we’re here to kill them all, yes ? for sport ? ❞
❝ you tend to get up to interesting things. you meet interesting people & then you kill them. ❞
❝ i never worry, darling. a leash can be pulled from either end. ❞
❝ it’s like you need permission to be alive. ❞
❝ has anyone told you what marvelous eyes you possess, my dear ? ❞
❝ have you ever licked a lamp post in winter ? ❞
❝ i’ll try not to hit anyone. ❞
❝ there you are. everyone’s been looking for you. ❞
❝ the last man standing gets final say on who is right or wrong. ❞
❝ i like my hair the way it is, thank you. ❞
❝ do you think about how to kill everyone you meet ? ❞
❝ are you… sassing me, ____? ❞
❝ yes, but she/you seems more… “ooh, pretty colors !” than “muahaha ! i am princess stabbity ! stab, kill, kill ! ❞
❝ congratulations ! you have found a wastebin . ❞
❝ what are you going to do with that sword ? ❞
❝ not listening ! la la-la la la ! ❞
❝ i saw you looking at the girl/boy in town earlier . ❞
❝ anyone wishing to accuse me of weakness is welcome to try. ❞
❝ …did you cut your own hair ? ❞
❝ ”one by one they follow, drowning in the sea”. the rest of the poem is sad.. ❞
❝ you aren’t all stone, ____. there is a person inside of you. ❞
❝ we crush the heads of rude women when we feel like it. just so you know. ❞
❝ protect what matters with everything you have, or you’ll have nothing, and deserve it. ❞
❝ i want you to know that what we had was real. ❞
❝ in the end you are always alone with your actions. ❞
❝ somebody’s been drinking. ❞
❝ let’s show them our hearts, and then show them theirs.. ❞
❝ do you feel that ? my magic-sensing nose is tingling. ❞
❝ well, shit. ❞
❝ you worry me, you know that ? ❞
❝ i’m cold. & it’s indoors. this is so wrong. ❞
❝ i saw what you were doing back there. ❞
❝ we will never speak of this again. ❞
❝ you’re a big softie ! ❞ 
❝ i’ve got just the thing to cure that pout. ❞
❝ eight, nine, now you die. ❞
❝ daughters never grow up. they remain six years old with pigtails & skinned knees forever. ❞
❝ i don’t need my pants, anyway. ❞
❝ smiles. we must be careful how we present ourselves. ❞
❝ be careful what you wish for. power is treacherous. i have seen many people–great leaders–consumed by it. ❞
❝ don’t touch me ! stay away ! ❞
❝ i think of him/you/her as much as he/you/she thinks at all. ❞
❝ i knew nothing of friendship before we met. ❞
❝ you can approve or not approve as you wish, but this is one thing you cannot influence and mold to your liking. ❞
❝ there you go, breaking my heart. ❞ 
❝ does anyone else feel the verge to vomit? ❞
❝ i…love you. just… wanted to tell you that. ❞
❝ let those who would destroy us step into the light. ❞
❝ it’s dangerous when too many men in the same armor think they’re right. ❞
❝ if you love a character, you give them pain, ruin their lives, make them suffer. maybe even throw in a heroic death. ❞
❝ i do quite like watching you leave. ❞
❝ send him a fruit basket. everyone loves those. ❞
❝ did i stutter ? ❞
❝ are you kidding ? i’m surprised you didn’t kill anyone just coming over here. ❞
❝ the world may want my time, but you have my heart ❞
❝ have you ever heard the saying ‘let sleeping abominations lie’?  now would be the time to consider it. ❞
❝ that sounded much better in my head . ❞
❝ i have an excellent sense of dramatic timing. & good hair.  ❞
❝ the air hurts. i have to stop. ❞
❝ challenge someone to arm-wrestle me. ❞
❝ so, you’re not like a lot of other girls/boys. ❞
❝ not long ago this was impossible to imagine. you, the man i love, victory close at hand. ❞
❝ how do you do that ? make everything better with a smile ? ❞
❝ it gets no easier. your struggles have only just begun. ❞
❝ there comes a time when you must stop running, when you turn & face the tiger.  ❞
❝ it’s family, you protect. doesn’t matter who it is, blood or not. ❞
❝ perhaps we should carve our names into the giant tree ? ❞
❝ hey ! that’s mine ! ❞
❝ our mistakes make us who we are. ❞
❝ fear makes men more dangerous than magic ever could. ❞
❝ don’t let anyone tell you when to move on. take their hand & say, “my choice". ❞
❝ words are easy, like the wind; faithful friends are hard to find. ❞
❝ shitballs. fuck. shit. crap. ❞
❝ living a lie … it festers inside you, like poison. ❞

D&D

My DM: Hey, can you send me a short email with some details about your character?

Me (6 hours later): Here’s the brief history of my Cleric.

Name: Marna DuGorman
Age: 17
Hailing from the quiet, verdant foothills of Chendle Glen. Her people are human but are said to have descended from a bloodline laced with halfling ancestry. The men of the tribe are known to be amicable farmers, shepherds, artisans and little else but have also had a long history of being regularly drafted into the wars of neighboring kingdoms.  This constant recruitment by their larger and less peace loving neighbors has left the men of this province to fulfill what has been coined as “Chendle’s Charge”. Over the course of the last few centuries, this has left the Chendles with generations worth of community history in which the women made up the vast majority of the population.  They have worked the land, maintained the homes and written the history of their people while their loving husbands were forced to fight and die for wars they couldn’t believe in because a man cannot fight for a cause he never knew existed.


The medicine women of Chendle Glen are followers of Pelor, the God of light and extremely adept healers. The unfortunate upturn of violence in surrounding kingdoms, in previous decades however has proven to be taxing on their community. War has made their boys into cripples, shut ins, and worse yet, cold, hard unfeeling men.  In order to treat the wounds of the body and the mind in such scale and volume, the Chendle healer women have turned to more unconventional but unarguably effective practices than had ever been explored by their distant forebears.

The Pilgrimage of Lenara:
Lenara DuGorman; My character Marna’s great grandmother was only 14 when the War of the Sparrow Rivers provided yet another dark age for Chendle Glen and its ever mending families. The men were taken by King Roenid the Cursed and his red clad knights but Lenara would not let her brother Rett be taken, at least not alone.  While she could not keep the red marauders from dragging away every boy and man who could hold a spear, she could pack a bag and she could keep pace with their march toward the now cratered and war torn banks of the Sparrow Delta.  For months, Lenara tended to the injured and fallen, seeing to proper burials for the dead and proper comfort for the suffering. In the red camp, she grew skilled at mending and soothing while her brother found that he had no choice but to become fierce and at times savage as he was forced to defend his beloved sister from the uncouth and desperate footmen who fought alongside him. 

This went on for years. Beyond the war for the Sparrows and over many borders. Lenara grew to know the smell of soldiers’ blood as any other woman of her upbringing would have known the smell of her children.  Rett never stopped protecting her up until his final day. She lost him in a sandstorm crossing the Khan-Kabar desert while marching toward the stone city of Esmir; yet another land to be violently contested in the name of Roenid the Cursed.  Most of that party were lost in that crossing but Lenara made it to the the other side where she realized that there was little reason for her to stay with the few surviving men who now revered her as an asset but would never respect her as an equal. Rett had fulfilled Chendle’s Charge and Lenara was left alone with no purpose other than finding her way home to let the rest of the Chendles know of their loss. 

Lenara struck off shortly after the desert crossing. She had been paid nothing but wisdom for her years of aid. She carried little else but grief for her lost brother on her journey. With only a basic understanding of which direction to go, she found that there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of languages outside of the Glen. So many that she could never learn half of them in a thousand lifetimes. Every town was alien to Lenara and she in turn, to it… but all living things know pain and sickness. This was her key to every gate. Her bargaining chip. Her currency. 

Lenara crossed hundreds of cities on her journey home. She helped whoever was in need and was rewarded for her compassion more often than not. There was only one place in which Lenara could find no use for her craft and it was there that she learned a bitter truth. “The world is vast and I know nothing”. It was a place so perfect that it somehow inspired only hopelessness. 

Lenara had found a land untouched by pain, sickness or even madness. It was here that she gave up hope of finding her home. She sat and waited for misfortune. The scourge of an inevitable oppressor. The cold of winter. The collapse of her tired, starved body. The release of death. The warm light of Pelor’s final grasp. None of it came. Nor would it. This tiny, hidden land was beyond decay and so was she, just as long as she stayed within its borders. 

The denizens of this realm were, and are (for they will no longer allow themselves to expire) practitioners of dark magic. Wielders of the type of energy that can produce anything so long as the price is paid with heavy interest. These beings were once seduced by power but toppled by a greed that consumes from within. But they were also beings of great intelligence. Just humble enough to change course before the fall. Wise enough to avoid the fall altogether… and fearful enough to accept that in order to never die, they could also never live anywhere but this one space. 

The Chendle listened to the tale of each one. All different in size and shape but identical in color. Elves, Men, other strange beings, some towering and branched at the top. Others tiny and flitting about on translucent wings. There was even what seemed to be a few half orcs and a goblin despite all the rest being the shape of more civilized races.  All of them were a deep blue in coloration. A blue darker than the blackest night sky. Their eyes were shining marbles of azure obsidian. Hair like delicate flowing blue cracks against the very fabric of space. Each of them different living statues cut from the same midnight stone. Each of them powerful sorcerers in a long passed life, deserving of a cruel hell for their transgressions against nature. Each of them just outside the gate of that very specific hell. Forever here. Painless. Deathless. By the saving boon of their one final spell. An eternal enchantment over this one small space. Their home. Their prison. Their penance. 

Through these hours and days and months, Lenara learned not to fear them. They were bound by the comfort of this place. They had all been wicked and in their sins she saw the fruit of vice and ill gotten gain. Having seen the fruit, she knew the seed and it was within her just as sure as she sat before them. 

But in hearing story after story, Lenara began to realize that the seed in her had not grown. Not much, anyway. Not like theirs. This was a place to avoid the wrath of a just universe. She was at peace with accepting her judgement and so she asked just one favor of these beings before she left. Lenara asked to learn the secret of their undying enchantment. They gave it freely and Lenara knew that her own charge had begun. 

It took Lenara another 2 years to journey back to Chendle Glen. She was 29 when she returned and the young girl she was had been all but forgotten over the past 15 years. No one recognized Lenara the woman. Not because she was older. Not because she had adopted the garb of many foreign lands in her travels. Lenara had changed in a much less subtle way. She was two years bluer. Not blue like a Ralterian troll. Not blue like a drowned man. More like a starling’s egg. One that blushed when she realized that she had… well, turned blue. It seemed that everyone else she had met recently just assumed that she was born blue. 

Very shortly after her homecoming, Lenara was recognized by her family and her friends and all of the dwellers of Chendle Glen. She told them of Rett’s loss and of the scores of other cultures, totally disparate in every way from their own but similarly bound by the chains of mortal suffering. 

But it was Lenara’s tale of the blue people that garnered the attention of the elder medicine women of Chendle. She told each of the creatures’ stories. She told of their shapes and sizes. And she told their secret freely just as they had told her. 

“The only magic for which there is no price is thus: Give and Trust.  Take only the life you can give back. Relinquish all you have so long as you trust that the world will give back.”

It is an endless, cyclical incantation. When understood, it can be used to form a bond that will accelerate healing, eliminate pain and ward off death itself. Give and Trust. 

Lenara’s teachings showed new horizons to the medicine women of Chendle Glen and they harnessed the cycle of give and trust supremely effectively.
Chendle’s charge is still being paid by many young men but most military leaders are careful to keep the Chendles safe. They aren’t typically efficient or fearsome fighters but a safe Chendle is crucial for morale.  The other men fear what happens when a Chendle comes to be harmed. 

For where the charge has been fulfilled, the blue women come. The young ones could be mistaken for any other girl who’s a bit less rosy in the cheeks than most… it’s the elder ones that’ll bring a chill into the heart of the most seasoned soldier. Shrouded in deep, dark blue, the matriarchs come and all the other men give them space. Space enough to stay clear of a Chendle healer’s hand. Blue black as the deep waters of the farthest sea. The mark of an elder healer. The price of the secret given freely. The give and the trust. Lenara’s proud rebuttal to Chendle’s Charge. 

Generations have passed since Lenara'a pilgrimage home. A daughter of Chendle may choose to follow her path and set out into the world practicing the magic of give and trust until they see fit to return to their homeland. Marna DuGormand has said farewell to her beloved sister Bale, her mother, her grandmother, her great grandmother Lenara, and of course Lenara’s mother and grandmother. 

Marna:

This is where Marna’s story begins. She is a confident, optimistic and sometimes headstrong young woman. Marna approaches her Charge with a full understanding of give and trust but very little understanding of any other motivations held by less peaceful cultures.

8

“There’s this quote that has kind of become a mantra in my life. It’s from the Bhagavad Gita. And it goes a little something like this: “You have the right to the work, but for the work’s sake only. You have no right to the fruits of the work. Desire for the fruits of the work must never be your motive in working. Never give way to laziness either. Perform …” Well, then it gets kind of religious. But, basically, what I think it’s saying is that all you can really trust in is your own personal journey in the work. I can’t worry what it’s going to do in my life, or what impact it’s going to have. All I can really focus on is the task at hand, you know?”

There’s something suspicious about Solas being agnostic but also talking about “great (religious) rituals” and that you should “tread lightly, this is sacred ground” in a reverent voice - what is up with that? Why are rituals worthy of respect to him when he hates the evanuris and finds modern religious organizations to be bad, and he doesn’t think gods are real? 

(This has been in my drafts forever - it’s really long rambling thoughts about spirits, the elven gods, worship, and religion in Inquisition.)

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i don’t remember where it came from or when it got here but there is a type rope beneath me suspended in a perfect orbit above the pacific ocean. i don’t know what it’s made of but sometimes it melts and i pretend i can swim for a while until i feel the fibers of it cutting into my joints again. i walk a lot, and it’s okay, mostly, because the sea breeze is nice, and the sun is only bubbles against the back of me, and even if i can’t breathe i’m the only one with a view like this. i get tired, and my feet hurt, though. come to think of it, most of me hurts, but i’m sure that’s normal. i never get far enough to get callouses. sometimes i jump off, ‘cause, in the summer, the heat is just so big and i get so tired and i hitch a ride with icarus all the way to damnation. we laugh a lot. it’s nice, really. it’s fine. i love my type rope. i have good balance now. i know how to hold my breath for six whole years now. i forget how to be happy but i guess that means i don’t miss it either now.

the b stands for

This has been sitting in my drafts for ages. No one thing prompted me to post it at this particular point in time. I’ve just seen some particularly disheartening Discourse crossing my dash of late, and…yeah.

I know they mean well. This is what I tell myself, over and over again, as I read the message in my ask box and desperately try to figure out if or how to respond.

They mean well.

“My gf and I definitely think you’re one of the cool straights!”

Every time I read that message, the knot in my chest grows colder. Harder. Tighter. It hurts to breathe around it. One of the cool straights.

On my “about” page, I mention that I’m bi. It is, in fact, the second piece of major information I volunteer about myself after “resident old fogey”: “bisexual lady person married to a dude.” Sometimes, I acknowledge it in the posts I reblog (“are you a space bisexual or a deep sea bisexual?“); sometimes, I go on tag rants. Maybe I’m not particularly loud about it, but I’m not usually loud about things that don’t directly concern fandom. Just because I’m not loud doesn’t mean it’s not important.

You married a man, says a little voice in the back of my head. What the hell did you expect people to think?

I close out the message without responding. I tell myself, they mean well.

*

My first and only girlfriend hated that I was bisexual.

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What she says: Bert did nothing wroooong!!

What she means: I understand that Bertolt is not free of flaws and has made many questionable or outright wrong decisions throughout the course of the series. But we can’t deny the fact that he’s a person that was trained to become a murderer from a very young age. No one deserves to be brainwashed and forced into a suicide, guilt-ridden mission before even reaching adulthood. All I want is for him to find peace, and because it feels like the entire SnK universe is actively depriving him of that, the easiest way I can vocalize this feeling is through using an overused expression.

  • what she says: anders deserved better
  • what she means: anders had to take a hard decision and, while everyone can see it differently depending on personal ethics, his development and moral dilemmas from that point were disregarded because, in the narrative thats being pushed onto us, the ‘angry fighter for freedom' character has no place. Its not surprising that in the default world state, the mage hawke has not only killed anders but he also violently despises him; and several times we are reminded of how he 'single-handedly' started the war. Never mind the inherent abuse in the circles or the straight slave work that its presented in the kirkwall circle; good mages would have never rebelled, good mages seek help from the merciful chantry, good mages stay quiet until... until a /bad mage/ seeks answers through violence. Anders' life is nothing but the tale of the nice opressed, who smiles and gently corrects; and the mean opressed, who speaks up and ACTS. Once he becomes the Mean Opressed, his narrative ends. Theres nothing else to his character, he is Done, he will not evolve past that. In Dragon Age 2, most characters become, at some point, a monster: fenris and his markings, merrill and blood magic, isabela and her stolen book. Anders' monster is not being an abomination: is daring to fight with the same violence that was shown to him, to his people. We aren't shown any more of his development because right after his stand, we can kill him. We can abandon him. We can kill him, again. We end the game. His storyline has no closure; its made so we can comfortably hate him and never get to see his real drives and ethics. And thats why he deserved more.
  • what she also means: my son..... my be aut iful feli ne son..........
and i’ll be anything you ask and more

I’m posting this because writers block is a son of a Sith Lord (Luke is the cinnamon bun exception, of course) and this has been sitting in my drafts for ages now. Mara x Luke, not EU compliant. Bound by the things we choose ‘verse, third installment. 

An ex-assassin meets a dead man in the shadows and somehow, he is darker than night itself and somehow, he knows exactly what to say to her.

Mara Jade was entirely what people thought she was. She was cold and ruthless, unkind and brash and everything they fought against. She was a smuggler, a traitor, a killer, a liar – 

Mara Jade was Emperor’s Hand.

(The darkness clouds her senses and the shadows whisper Mara…Mara… Come here. Come home.

And some nights it takes everything for her to shut them out, breatheinbreatheout, you are not that person anymore, remember what you have learned.

And some nights she looks at him, at blonde hair and tan skin, and wants to plunge a dagger right into his beating heart. Killhimkillhimkillhim Mara, it is your destiny.

And some nights he looks at her, infinitely understanding, and puts a comforting arm around her shoulder. He murmurs into her hair and she melts into his imbrace the way it feels she was meant to and all is right for that one, fleeting moment.

But they not friends, not lovers, merely acquaintances, Mara breathe.)

Luke seems to have no problem with that and she thinks it’s all a tiny bit ridiculous, because how in the galaxy can one person be so… nice? How can one person be smart enough to escape death at her hand (numerous times, amazingly) yet be so naïve at the same time? She was trying to kill him for ages, Force almighty, he can’t just befriend her and be nice to her and not want to kill her back at least a little – right?

Farmboy is a paradox in more ways than one.

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SO I WENT THROUGH MY DRAFTS AND

I just had a thought. Solas has revealed himself as the dread wolf. Basically word would start to get around orlais. I’m wondering how well devout chantry will take this? Some will dismiss it as nonsense, but others? They might see it as a threat. Now imagine. Fucking chantry followers, trying to hunt down the dread wolf. Not that they’d be successful. No. But u have to wonder what might happen if the inquisitor also worked against solas’ forces. If they somehow, managed to capture the dread wolf. 

I imagine it would hurt my inquisitor quite a lot, having to see solas restrained and sentenced. In fact don’t imagine it. Don’t imagine solas proudly, maybe a little vehemently, accepting his punishment. Don’t imagine lavellan able to do nothing but standby, and watch as he looks her in the eyes one last time as he’s led out of the hall. She didn’t want this. She tried to stop them. She has to stop them.

“And how would you stop them?”

“However I had to”