Multimuse blog, written by Chris.
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I track the tag #despiour
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-the bard
Made a quick painting after watching the newest Death Stranding trailer, incorporated Gustav Klimt’s elements!
@despiour cont. from here because Lir and Michel
Lir had been leaning against the wall, arms folded as piercing blue eyes watched the Orlesian with some distaste in his gaze. At the mention of said distaste, Lir gave a disbelieving scoff before pushing off the wall and stalking closer to the man.
“Even if I was, I know damn well it won’t amount to much,” he stated plainly, walking about Michel. “Aelia’s my sister and we both have a habit of not caring what others think and just doing as we well please.”
He stopped in front of him, eyeing him up again.
“I don’t trust you and I do not trust Orlesians. I will not hide my dislike, but it’s not my job to make decisions for Aelia. I can make suggestions, but I have no intention of bullying you or her into an end of courtship. But I will be watching you carefully.”
“That’s great.” Michel responded dryly. “You can be bitter all you like, Maker knows I won’t let that change how I feel. But if you ever felt like making the effort to get to know me, for Aelia’s sake, if not mine or yours, just… let me know.” He spoke the last words with a tired sigh.
“If you put half as much effort into it as you do disliking me, I think you’d quickly come to find me trustworthy.” Though Michel wondered if he even really cared enough about Lir’s opinion of his trustworthiness to try to earn it.
Oh. Oh good. It went over her head. Or was that a good thing? He wasn’t sure; most people in Kirkwall would have gone with the innuendo. He’d had enough one night stands based on that. Not that he was interested in a one night stand with Merrill, definitely not. Well, he was, but not just a one night.
He was thinking in circles.
A warm smile came to his features as she listed off the options. He was sure if anyone else saw the look on his features, they would tease him. But right now it was just the two of them and Merrill was caught up in her listing things off to notice his expression. He thought so anyway.
“I can swim,” he told her with a small chuckle. “So if you fall in, maybe I could pull you out?”
He tilted his head to the side a bit, a chestnut brown strand of hair falling into his eyes.
“I don’t mind, it’s cute,” he told her plainly. He realized what he said, though, and felt a warm hue come to his cheeks.
“All of those things sound like something good to do, besides visiting Anders…Not that I have anything against him, I’d just prefer for it to be…Us. Just you and me.”
So he could swim. That was good. She certainly wasn’t going to let a fear of drowning stop her from the view at the docks. And now she could have someone to walk with her to save her if she happened to in again.
So busy with these thoughts, Merrill did miss the look on his face, but hearing him call her cute, and the way he had emphasized that ‘us’. The implication was not lost on her, but part of her wondered if she was thinking too much of it.
“Oh.” She said, now somewhat bashful. “Well, then… okay. Should we take a walk then—um, now? Or… later? I’m free any time, at least any time I’m not with Hawke.
Oh but not with-with Hawke, of course, there’s Fenris, and Isabela, and Varric, you—you know them already. Of course you do.” She was getting off track again. “Us? Walk? Anytime. Yes.”
He was determined, that was assured. And that might be a problem, as well. He rarely ever seemed to be genuine, so it made his motives difficult to read. She didn’t like that, but it was also like a puzzle to try to solve.
“And why would I desire to join you for an evening?” She inquired, settling down to sharpen a blade. “I’m sure most of the evening would you be discussing yourself, would it not?”
Nethra raised a finger at her. “It would not, although perhaps it should. You think so little of me, it wouldn’t hurt to spend some time getting to know me, would it? You may even find that you’ll like what you discover.” He watches as she sharpened the blade.
“But I would not offer if I had no interest in getting to know you as well.”
(Source: despiour)
dafenlin:
Fenvir felt no reason to be impressed with the man’s rant, with the high status he once held. Titles fell, positions faded into dust, and power corrupted. The more he spoke, the more Fenvir was sure he cared not for his assistance.
Instead, he gently placed a shard in its appropriate place, keeping his attention on the shattered eluvian.
“Many a night I wander in the mists, down the paths which twist and turn with the fog. I follow the footsteps of ages past, ages long forgotten by nearly all. I speak with beings who have seen much things; from the rise to the deaths and to the fall. My knowledge, therein, lies not from the Dales, but from a more reliable whisper.”
Another shard set in place, his hand swiping over it to reveal a glimmer of a shadowy figure, an owl upon his shoulder; a memory buried deep within the Fade.
Falon’Din was victim to vanity, an ego which caused an ocean of blood. His ambitions lay waste to Elvhenan, his lust and greed never to be sated. You may speak your truth, but you don’t speak his. So, if you serve Falon’Din and his will, this brings into great question your motives.”
Fenvir wiped away the image, looking back at Fenvir with a skeptical gaze.
“And yet I am sure you’d prefer for them to be free again,” he said curtly. “I’d prefer for them to be wiped out as much as possible.”
He lifted up another shard, pressing it into place and it hummed as it connected with the others.
Likewise, Nethra seemed equally as unimpressed by Fenvir’s response. His mood seemed further soured by his description of Falon’din. Not that he was necessarily wrong, Nethra knew that. Falon’din’s vanity was no secret, and Nethra had-had the frequent opportunity to see the often inhumane consequences of that. Still, unfortunate or not, he was a god, and it sat wrongly with him, the notion of some young brat referring to him as a victim of anything.
“I serve no will by my own.” Nethra corrected. Of course, since the fall, there was no longer any other will for him to follow. “And you don’t speak His truth any more than I do.” Even under the eye of Fenvir’s scrutiny, Nethra’s expression remained unchanged from the bitter boredom that colored his face.
“Correct. I most certainly would wish them free. And if ever I saw such an opportunity, I would take it. But right now? That is simply not an option, nor is it an option to just ‘wipe them out.’ Sooo,”
Nethra picked up another shard, accidentally nicking himself with it in the process. He gave a small frown, but placed the shard where it belonged. “For now, it would behoove us both to work together.”
(Source: despiour)
I have had some interaction with those that were heterosexual. And it does not bother me at all, even though I do believe in God.
@selflice plotted for a starter.
Six hundred years. That was how long Dirthamen had been awake since Fen’harel had trapped him here. It had been a clever trick, Dirthamen had to grant him that. Even he, the great Keeper of Secrets had been fooled; had no inkling of what the Dread Wolf had planned. No one had ever before managed to keep something so big from him, albeit, no one had ever before attempted something so big.
He was both trapped within the Fade and cut off from it. The shock of the trick, which had confined and bound his powers, had forced him into a 400 year sleep; uthenera. And as brutal as that had been, it was nothing compared to the isolation that he found himself in after waking. Being alone with himself was maddening. For nearly ever year of his long life he had had Falon’din, or at least a whole world of people there to keep his mind busy; to feed an insatiable hunger for intrigue that had always so aggressively cursed him. But now? Nothing. Nothing but deafening silence for six centuries. And not even half of that sentence had passed before he could begin to feel his mind drying out, becoming brittle and forming cracks.
Now he sat on the floor, on which he’d been sitting for days (which he could not sense the passage of) in the exact same spot of his prison, eyes fixated on a particular spot of black against the patchy marble floor. Still as stone and utterly silent, Dirthamen sat in what he believed to be eternity.
Until something changed.
For a half second he thought it to be an illusion, another trick his breaking mind was playing on itself. But no. This was tangible, a crisp drift that set against the otherwise stagnant air. His ears perked up, and he stood as two ravens flew from a point of nowhere and into his view. He smiled knowingly, and instinct overtook any doubt he might have had as he dusted himself odd and bade the ravens to take him to Falon’din.
Her smile remained for a few moments more as he spoke, her eyes on him, and her brow raised in doubt. He could hardly be serious and for a moment she was convinced he was joking. But he continued and Asharis began to wonder if he was being serious. She could play along.
“So am I to believe that you are actually some ancient being, hundreds if not thousands of years older than myself?” That was exactly what he was saying, was it not? That was… bizarre. Uthenera was not such a far-fetched idea. She shook her head and took a deep breath, her gaze fixed ahead of her rather than down at her side at Nethra.
“Why would you lie about something like that? That’s what I cannot quite grasp.” And how many people would just believe him without question? Surely even the Dalish would doubt him. “You might be older but I’m not a child. Calling me da’len is strange.”
“Hundreds of thousands.” He corrected. “Why, indeed. If I can offer you any sort of proof, I most certainly will. Whatever you can think of.” He kept his eyes on her even as she looked away. “You are not a child, but you are young. I suppose it’s just a habit.”
Suspicion and doubt were the usual reactions. There were very few in his life, in fact, that had actually taken him at face value. But almost always he was able to convince them, sooner or later. He was likewise sure that she would come around to the idea. And in the meantime, he would enjoy watching her try to decide the truth for herself.
(Source: despiour)
sometimes self-care is putting on a cloak and wandering through the woods at twilight