She fidgets with the fastenings of a belt, almost anxiously, as if waiting for fate to befall her – clack! – the metal pops open once more before she closes it again, only to repeat the procedure.

A curious gaze alights upon the visage of the other, furrowed brow and pursed lip, quiet becoming her every movement as hands are extended towards her, an offer to help then made.

What prestige has a Wanderer to claim for their own? None. Perhaps it is this very strain of thought which designs the nature of her inadvertent stray from pre-ordained path; the lure of pine and the scent of petrichor beg attention which she gladly delivers, fondness softening a battle-scarred mien as she gazes upon the purlieus of the woodlands, reminiscent of a time where she would have wandered about, free to admire as she pleased. Yet Tain boiled within her veins and, iwis, had Duty not beckoned she wouldst place calloused palms against the rough texture of bark, and linger awhile in admiration.

It cannot be so, and in such she relents, moving on from the edge of the forest with hardly a sigh to convey her disappointment. Charged with the title of ❛Warden❜ it would hardly behoove her to forgo duty for whilom wiles, and thus, once she encounters a stranger upon her lonely course there is a respectful bow ( for the Wardens already had reputation enough, and she wished to bolster it something positive – notwithstanding she could ne❜er ignore decorum even were she to wish to ).

❜Pon straightening her back, the Griffon, the sigil borne by brethren destined to protect ( despite their scorn ) is brandished, light refracting off her amour in spectacular show before the elvhen woman. A cool gaze lingers, wary, afore glancing down to her boots in absolute reticence, prepared to receive whatever this stranger may have to offer, whether it be praise or contempt, or simply to be ignored – she was obligated to heed by it.

& mortiuum.

Briefed she had been ( as they all had ) about the situation at hand, the Breach, the Rift, and the hand of Duty beckoned – that she would assist the Inquisition was ne’er a question. Bent over a sullied blade, she scrapes and cleans it meticulously, crouched in her immense bulk in a nondescript alcove at Skyhold. She senses a person’s approach and rises to greet them, returning the cleaned blade to a sheath afore lying it upon a bench and turning around – only to pause mid-step, trip o’er her own foot in her hurry to bow.

Of all those who could have chosen to visit her, she would have least expected the Inquisitor himself.

The skull ruptures with an abrasive crack and pop sounding upon the air, bone splintering fragments into the air, globules of nameless carnage flung about as a shriek dies in the revolting Creature’s throat; blade is retrieved by a foot finding position in the center of the now-corpse’s chest, exacting a rough shove to pull sword free from the Hurlock’s head, the body crumpling wetly and un-mourned.

Darkspawn Taint no longer filled her mind with sickly shroud, and ‘tis then that blade is sheathed proper after muck is wiped from is Silverite surface onto a no-more clean towelette torn free from it’s station tucked at her belt. Despite the calm and seemingly oblivious comportment immediately thereafter donned, the Warden is well aware of the presence of another being – ability to sense the Taint not necessary for this culling of self-awareness.

Eyne flicker ascension from the task by which they were seemingly enraptured, to lay gaze upon their form, aura a cool toleration and interest, rather than the bellicose apprehension one mayst assume to be faced with, what with the blood and mud caking her from head-to-toe.

      A polite bow forms the curve of her spine, in acknowledgement of the woman’s presense.
                        ( Kālǐnn always had ammended any situation with proper decorum,
                             despite what appearances may boast in err on her behalf. )

& tsugunaii.

Her fingers are caked in gore ( a customary sight ), hair sticky with residue, the stony visage buried ‘neath the ample spatters of blood fixed with a similarly customary frown; however, though gait remains steady and uninhibited, there is a peculiar anomaly to her stride. A foot is dragged along the ground while the other’s sole meets the ground properly — the limp pronounced, and the limb in question drenched in copious amounts of ichor. Whether or not the blood was her own was indistinguishable, for all the gore drenching the entirety of her person.

She reports to him as would any other Warden – notably fatigued and with a curt bow.

jibunosho.

      Silence is preferred— though he is unsure in this situation. Stilled lips in the company of another usually left a rather awkward atmosphere. His eyes darting east to west, awaiting a more fuller response, until he opts to coax something more.

         “… Nice weather.”

Sonance cleaves the silence asunder once more, inciting a response from her – though there is naught borne upon her tongue, reply manifests in the upwards gaze of steely eyne that ( upon seeing the fortunate skies for themselves ) glance back towards him. A peaceful calm exudes from her battle-worn visage as chin inclines towards her chest; a minute display of assent in the rapport thus assumed.

        Indeed, the weather was ——— pleasant.

jibunosho.

      “Hm— it is quiet.”

      Whenever she’s around, things are always quiet.

Silence settles like a shroud o’er the immediate area occupied by the stoic mercenary and now is no different a time.

unworldry.

AND SHE BRIGHTENS, a soft glow to her (un)holy essence, eyes brimming with universal spring — a stranger with a hearthfire heart, a treasure divine among the seas of people and their personal evils.

Where gesture may typically be wrought from rotten circumstance and stalwart devotion to duty and the execution of that there-of, the press of tiers heretofore had been guided by naught but reverence. A spiritual woman by nature, and stringently pious ( though hers was a belief founded in that which the Originals hath provided – Nature and the Creatures therein; a worship of the world in which she dwelt ) the notion of acting without reverence is one she is, by the foundation of her very person, incapable of venturing a thought into – let alone acting out. So when lips graced her brow, it had been genuine, a blessing a prayer unvoiced – it had not been born from desperation or obligation, but genuine want to do so.

Though a smile curves not the chapped lips of a warrior fair, the worn lines of a stony visage are softened, peaceful gaze to meet the others afore there is a respectful bow the head.

haematicus.

          brief was the contact, yet he closes
          the distance once more, contact soft
          against the lips, a stark contrast to a 
          seemingly brutish exterior, scarred and
          battle-worn. a gentle gesture of purest
          affection.

                              love in its gentlest form.

There is no spark that ignites a flame beneath her skin, nor is there shock at the contact swiftly instigated; ‘twas not wholly unexpected, and she was extending only that which she knew he required. Intimacy was seldom in occurrence and even less oft was it so open ( – at least, as far as she believed ).

Fingers whisper compassion along the line of his jaw, speak what her voice cannot. Reciprocation manifests in the curl of lips that press against his own ( a chaste affection ) only briefly, parting and then once more bestowing a kiss – that there is blood and muck caking their boots should be of little concern – or at least it is of little concern to the both of them, with how candid they are.

epizov.

           “Slow.. and steady——”

A gaze thence upwards thrown, a sigh percolating through parted lips whilst fingers thrum an exasperated rhythm ‘gainst a armour’d hip. Such instances where it appeared that a body was sure to fall upon her ( with some degree of velocity, as well ) the bulk of her iron-clad limbs was a damnable reality … she hadn’t the means to move quickly enough out of the way.

kaanro.

( mesukku​ )

                    ‘ your   courage is something to behold. 
                                     —— silence  means volumes.  i am honored
                                     to be in the presence of such a warrior. ‘

Divine aura is beheld in awe, lips set aquirk ( for they are parted by a shocked intake of breath that scorches her throat raw ) and there is a prolonged stare before she snaps at the waist like a broken doll, so severe is her bow. Praises beseech in dual accord whilst the apples of cheeks are dusted carmine. ( It seems that her embarrassment with being presented with someone of such a commanding presence stems from what she perceives as lack of proper decorum on her account – for she’d neither wine nor meat to proffer, and she is clad in armour and skins – her shame accounted for in the steep bow in her back, apologetic and respectful in display. )

destinedtopacify.

He silently judges alongside her. ( Perhaps they should view them as entertainment, and grab the ale while everyone else is distracted. )

A hand sneaks over the bar and sanctions possession of two mugs of ale, one in each hand and she proffers one to the man beside her whilst simultaneously focusing her attentions to the ( dreadfully pathetic ) display before them. A man had twisted his arm while attempting to roll his sword in palm ( and, had it been executed correctly, that blow would have been devastating for the amassed speed and general kinetic force that would have been delivered ) and there’s a wince borne upon her lips, facilitated by this … display.

They fumble and she contests a look of sympathy, somewhat embarrassed for their poor handling of a sword. ( Perhaps she should help them … )

abirdofpray.

♚ — this is new. Their tongues usually spew threats and war cries, insults and angry laughter whenever he spreads his views on “what should work” or what he knows best”. Avian shifts his stance — eyes making her out of his confusion. If you were normal, you would try to kill me by now. If he were normal, he would just walk away. But the name Hawke and the description of normal was something that was dead and buried some odd birthdays ago. His arms cross — eyes narrowing towards the woman with a growing smirk at the corner of his mouth.

                         “What? Cat got your tongue, then?”

There is naught which she has to proffer forth to either assuage or deny. Her voice had been rent from her long ago, her tongue all but cleaved from her head; and all that remains now is a hollow column of a throat, a vice which sequesters timbre and the seeds of speech. Were she to be one whose ire was easily rouse this may have proved quite the issue – however, such is not the case. A woman whose actions spoke the actions her tongue could not, whose carriage remained unfettered, shoulders rolled back with pride, the griffon emblazoned upon a gleaming chest-plate all that need be said – and who was he to interfere with the affairs of the Wardens?

Natheless, little heed is paid to quips that bounce as uselessly off her as a dagger would her armour.

A stare is then administered, though it lacks heat. The etched lines of her mien, the puckered scar that sullies her cheek grotesque in abstract lighting as shoulders all but slump. Visibly defeated, and for wont of usual quietude, she retreats a pace, the milky sheen of steely irises conveying all the wariness within her chest.