Streams of florid ichor imbrue mocha flesh and stain❜t carmine in hue as they flow e❜er so languidly from betwixt lips chapped by hollowly whispered pleas; she gazes into naught, steel-hewn gaze focusing on intrinsic nothingness as the shuddering coil of mortality quakes, and pleads softly, so that ❜tis no more than a susurrus of evanescent forme,

                     ❛ Let me die. ❜

(leth.)

“You look like a tough one— I don’t s’pose you’re up for being hired?“ It is hard to come by those that are hardened in battle these days (especially ones not loyal to the Conqueror) but he is happy when he finds someone new because he is always open to help, always accepting it and he can only hope that he’ll be able to lend a hand in return. “You are, right?”

Query garners naught but the meagre cant of her head, mahogany tresses shifting in slight and chinking in metallic chime as plaits (weaved with delicate chains of steel betwixt) gently scrape over a gardbrace polished to effulgent sheen. Itinerant in her Way though she may be, services of a militaristic nature is that by which she has been raised (seeming to have a proclivity for the bloodshed) and that which she continues to offer, the blade hung about her waist all the affirmation she’d need for words she’d not intone. Belatedly does umber crown beckon alow, a solemn nod to acquiesce his observation and self-same affirm her eligibility for hire. (Though she’d hardly a need for such, as there is little profit that she could not gain by a means more mundane; she accepts nevertheless.)

(therín.)

                “You probably shouldn’t brandish weapons in public.”

Brows quirk in tandem afore they follow the other’s gaze to Gwrtheyrn, situated snugly ❜gainst cuisse polished proud; there is but the span of a single blink wherein there’s not a movement, and an apologetic bow to punctuate the ending of rigid confusion. She is sorry to have propagated disquietude and vexation both.

(leth.)

   「 ⚔ 」—

                            “Not to be intrusive,
                             but— you look kinda lost.”

Humiliation sown ❜twixt twin swathes of umber, brows raise o❜er a wholly apologetic gaze; it had not been her intention to beget the concern of a stranger, let alone cause them to pause. Clad in taciturn decorum, clandestine form juxtaposes a visage dusted carnelian by embarrassment nigh palpable.

(líthalin.)

           her supratip twitches, _{consequently allowing for the vermilion estigma ripple across her light, ecru-coloured countenance. she senses something antithetic in the warrior’s poise and her incongruous quiet demeanour; it sparks a bout of apprehension within the child-like arrancar — but, she makes an effort not to let her uncertainty show.  ’ you … no talk? ‘}

Timid and demure tessitura hails, belated utterance tentative in its deliberation; and it is such a meekness of address to which she responds, for so accustomed is she to gruff word (or even benign ignorance of her presence), that such gentle words be directed towards her is an unlikely conclusion: yet, here she finds herself thusly confronted by a bairn upon ❜rounding on her heel, when intent had been to appraise from whence oration had made its origin (an allotted pause ❜tween the dissipation of sonance and halt in forward gait had assured that the call had beckoned unto no other save for the Wayfarer herself, as she is scarce to believe anyone would deliberately seek her attention). Astonishment widens steely eyne thereafter, startled stare keen upon the form of the young girl, twin swathes of umber piquing o❜er a gaze henceforth wrought of wonder.

The muted beat of a heart —— once, twice, thrice —— is all that is to be heard within the stark silence, tension eked on by continued quiescence —— fourth, fifth, and a sixth time has Heart’s beat tarried in the repose —— until e❜er so gently, so overwhelmingly gently, does the Warrior bend down upon her knees before the child, pauldrons ground firmly into the dirt, arms balanced delicately upon armour-clad thighs, ❜till such that she is brought face-to-face with the other’s petite form.

                 And to the child before her is a most meek smile bequeathed.

(vrun leth.)

a rare interest towards not powers, not an aura, but movements - abilities - is shown. hence teeth nibble constantly, loudly, on a dark and sharp claw. optics piercing on an opposite visage.

Impassive does she remain, bequeathing naught but a stare of equal proportion unto he who gazed at her with such evident intrigue. Despite the gnawing of teeth reverberating betwixt them (it is the only sound to be heard —— all else lays in a silence regardably eerie; and ❜tis only by the void of sound that the warrior finds herself disconcerted in the slightest), the vagrant warrior is not so easily perturbed by queer looks and attentiveness alone. Nay, placid mien remains, starless stare (oh, if such matte eyne were to be proclaimed as ❛Gateways to the Soul❜, one may presume her to be devoid of one such Soul, for how hollow she appears! An armour-clad husk of a woman) fixated upon the stranger with little more than a removed sort of curiosity.

(asal.)

❝ Are you thoroughly pleased
     with yourself? ❞

Such smug countenance adorning her visage? Surely an inane prospect; yet here she sits, all coy and cool whim, the vestiges of a simper hinted upon warrior’s lips —— yes, she is rather pleased with herself.

(asal.)

Seldom is he the one by which such qualms can be construed,
for his orifice is tightly-knitted if in battle, lest a fear-mongering guffaw
be sown into the wind’s stratum; but nevertheless, if metacarpal fortitude
becomes besmirched—imbrued by human ichor—and so do the likes of
atrous raiment, he may propose an intonation riddled with chagrin.

❝ Y’know, I might consider pickin’
     up another hobby if I ruin one more
     shirt. ❞

Melanic manus eschews its adamantine form, retreating and endowing 
the appendage with a more incarnadine hue whilst one punctured soul
is ejected withal from his grasp. ( Mortal torsos rarely make satisfying
punching-bags, it seemed. ) 

There is a fleeting integer of eudaemony printed upon the plumes, a
vestige of echoed integrity of emotion; perchance there is sincerity in
his smile, rendered askew.

❝ But, hey—anybody ever tell you
     that you’re one hell of a swordsman? ❞

She retains some wonted serenity upon a mien sullied by ample globules of carmine ichor and gore alike, however none disturbed by stickiness thereafter adhered to her visage. Skirmishes (such as that now drawn to a close by wallowing corpses) are belikes a common occurrence, the aftermath of which she hath grown accustomed by no other behest but her own. Bedecked by the sanguine culmination of battle, a languid motion presents steely whisper to hiss through hastily-made silence as Gwrtheyrn glides into the grasp of its sheath alongside its master. Heedless of the corpse strewn about her feet, oculars flicker towards comrade in passive observation.

Nary a word is thence reciprocated to praise; strictly a critical gaze and perked umber brow bequeathed in lieu of loquation, acknowledgement conveyed only by scrutinizing stare which scours every contour of his form in overt inspection of wear and grime (inwardly is a sigh born of satisfaction breathed, upon ensuring that no harm had befallen him) afore ❜tis thereafter dispersed unto combat’s ungainly remnants. Ghostly steps, faint in flirtation with sound, bordering the plane of existence in ethereal disposition, deposit chevalier form to stoop at his feet, inspecting what had be wrought upon the man with effort that had been all but evanescent. Satisfied, there’s now but one obstruction to their continuing on their pathless journey.

❜Twould be improper to simply leave the carcasses strewn about to rot as carrion —— an imploring gaze is cast upwards, appearing nigh innocent in her speechless request for assistance. (She cannot dig graves by her lonesome.)

(ité.)

“—I’m… not that hungry, miss. But I appreciate the offer.” Perhaps a partial lie, finding that the knots contorting inward his abdomen wasn’t simply due to fatigue.

“You probably need them more.”

She’d no sooner beget a gift unto another than she wouldst claim it for herself; ❜tis by observation alone that conclusion —— and decision on the action therewith —— had been resolved upon in staunch determination. Once more does she extend her offering, brows perking in accord with resolute gesticulation. (Recollections of quondam years beg forth an eking of sympathy; she recalls herself at such a youthful age, much the same as he appeared to be.) It is clear that she’d not tolerate declination on his behalf.

(alinnè?)

hubrris:

& rymors

gradual was the sweep of his 
gaze across the forest floor.
unblinking eyes drank in scattered
leaves, dead — and broken;

twigs, earth, and shadows cast
just so by the waning light of a clouded moon.

silence. almost.

save for the steadied breath hidden 
amongst the brush.
a heartbeat unperturbed:

who should fear the child enclosed in
the brush —

who would anticipate hubris incarnate
to be waiting so patiently 
( and god, he had been so patient )
for the return of his counterpart.

❝ human. ———-
    you, pause a moment. ❞

the voice emerged not from his
container, not the face and image
and amestris’ serenity, no:

from the spanse of obsidian that
carpeted the grass and trees. 

❝ tragedy comes less frequently to those who obey. ❞

Quietude becomes solace, spindly fingers of night coalescing in atramentous straits stretching o❜er the horizon and dragging the Earth into Darkness’ shadowy maw, encasing forest and wayfarer both by stygian shroud. Unawares of what mayst lurk in inky twilight (or, perhaps, she simply pays no heed to the Powers that Be; for they shall do as they must, and she shalt partake of her role in the universe regardless) she continues onward along her path, only giving pause to lay weary gaze upon shadows seemingly construed of malice —— a forgone conclusion to which there is not a hitch in steady gait.

❜Till soliloquy rends asunder fettered silence doth wanderings greet their cessation, sonance falling hushed upon unnaturally still air; she is wary. Halted in place, she utters not a sound, bequeaths no acknowledgment nor understanding unto the abyss. (When had the Thirteen bestowed voices unto the shadows? Such is a query best left to oblivion, as she knows naught, and from whence oration originates is a musing freshly mulled —— cognizant that shadows have always spoken, a faint susurrus ❜pon the purlieus of one’s mind, poisoning thoughts remorseful; yes, she has always known.) Alone she stands, silent as the death which she heralds, motionless personage rigid ❜neath paladin pauldrons, resolute and firm in stance asserted. She fears naught which may linger in the blackness.

(ald❜therín.)

     “Ah.. are you interested in this?” Flower picking and weaving became her biggest hobby since her dear friend had taught her the ropes. Not she minded much seeing as the princess herself lacked much skills to be a domestic woman—as delicate as she may be it was difficult for her to be this delicate as she would with these flowers, not when her porcelain fingers were hardened on a battlefield.

A pause henceforth follows the waning of query posed, silence begotten by a tongue bereft of susurrus, vocals twisted to but a hollow mantra of continued nothingness. Yet, despite the quiescence suspended ❜twixt wayward warrior and maiden (though such a conclusion is called to question; semblance lacks what one must expect to originate from gentler vocations, and rarely can one exposed to war so easily escape its grasp. Nay, it leaves its marks plain to see, and selfsame scars are shared upon her own visage) and irises, e❜er serene, remain transfixed in their fascination with such humble workings as that of weaving blooms.

Deterred only in slight, a fluttering blink beseeches pardon for being remiss of proper manners, thereafter concluded with the dip of flame-lined tresses of mahogany.

Starless gaze, struck by variegated hue, looks onward unto the horizon brimming carnelian straits of splendor across the expanse of navy skies; such is dawn beheld by the wayfarer, little sated by meagre rays of sunlight ———— she wishes to bask in the glory of the dawn and every flavored nuance tinting verdigris ❜pon blades of grass. (The silence of the morning reflects the emptiness of her mind; naught occupies thoughts save for the beatitude of Nature.)

❜Tis facile, incredibly so, to force the tip of a well-honed blade through a gap in another’s defense and penetrate flesh, rend sinew from bone with a single effortless pierce through the mistake which left an opening on their abdomen clear to be spotted by keen and accustomed gaze. And their cries fall upon deaf ears —— she’s no mind to listen to the lamentations of the fallen.

A swift movement thereafter, and the lifeless corpse slips off the blade just as easily as it had been run through (as a corpse is a person no longer), while she stands, Gwrtheryn brandished before her.

(adam❜ta.)

       ❝ I made this for you, ❞

           he says, a gentle and meek smile curving lips while hands are carefully handing out a furred coat that seems almost identical to the one he dons, perhaps a replica that he’s crafted so that she feels as though hers was never given away. it’s soft, a bit more large compared to what she had before, and maybe more comfortable to have lay atop her armored shoulders; it’s held out just before her, ruby softened as he tilts his head just slightly, voice kind when speaking again.

                                                    ❝ — in return for the one you gave me. ❞

Beguiled astonishment engulfs the entirety of warrior’s visage, eyne forthwith exacting a appraising gaze to pander o❜er the proferred gift, and ❜tis with immense awe that the garment is beheld; reflex guides fingers to grasp forth, yet hindrance palpitates and carpus halts its thitherward advance afore she mayst do so much as stroke the cloak dangling from his grip. She had not given her cloak to him in hopes of some return favor; furthest from contemplations were a notion so veritably idyll. While the absence of fur’s warmth had been sorely noted, no modicum of regret tinges recollection sour; nay, fain is she to have given away the garment, to have served another and provided where they could not.

And so it is with deliberate gentleness that arms complete their extension, wherein the acceptance of his offering lies in digits curling into plush pelage, steely irises cast towards the ground whilst she inclines her head, a wordless thanks.

(æòdh.)

         Crimson hues are alight with soft affection
                            as she notices his appearance.
          He was rather hoping she’d notice.
          Leaning against the doorframe, the famed Warden-Commander
          offers what could be Ferelden’s goofiest, lopsided smile.

There can be none save for she to be they unto whom be bestows simpering geniality, emitting amiability to which she is solely privy. A quirked brow further ascends, curling lips to reflect some unvoiced laughter (she finds no reason to speak) as she remains seated apart from the Warden-Commander, looking upon him appreciatively. She is ever so grateful for his kindness.