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you got a taste for blood when you were licking your own wounds
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Post by cyrlan lavellan on Mar 10, 2016 10:11:38 GMT -5
[attr="class","minipost"]A curling design in the colour of blood, all flowing, graceful lines, tracing its way around a pale, cat-like eye, ending in a flourish just below high cheekbones.
Of Sylaise, hearthkeeper, goddess of fire, of domestic arts, of healing.
Vicious, burning, wild. He spins and turns, not so much fighting as he dances to his own heartbeat (and perhaps the screams of his foes burning) and it's a terrifying, terrifying sight to behold when the flames are reflected in grey-green depths and make them glow.
Gentle, giving, the sigh of relief as pain is removed, as bones mend and skin closes. Not being a healer gives him little pause and he simply dives right in, throwing himself into it and bleeds magic like an open wound, not pausing until his legs give out and there are empty lyrium potions scattered across the ground because there's simply not enough to give in a single frail body. He doesn't stop until he sees a healer and stumbles across, points out whoever needs help (himself notwithstanding) and totters off to fall into a dreamless sleep.
When he wakes up it starts all over again - kill the enemies, heal the wounded, rinse and repeat - because home is where he is, and he defends that with everything, everything he has.
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you got a taste for blood when you were licking your own wounds
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Post by cyrlan lavellan on Mar 11, 2016 7:29:27 GMT -5
[attr="class","minipost"]It is confusion in its purest form, right behind him like a wolf chasing a doe. There is the mark on his hand, a glowing green slash that seeps into the pool of magic within him, that curls around so tightly it gets difficult to tell where he ends and this new mark begins. Then there are the humans, with their odd villages that while not wholly unfamiliar, it is so jarringly different that there are times he simply needs to stop and try to breathe.
They are such odd beings, filled with the need to be protected by flimsy structures, to compartmentalize so that their Chantry is there, the apothecary is there, and the blacksmith is just a little further down. He is used to different things, to the freedom of open space and the protection of watchful eyes, of everything melding into one and the concept of having everything so very separated, so very private, is so very odd to him. Sometimes, he studies the walls until he can pretend they are to protect and not cage; studies the hearth until he can imagine it cradling and not containing. Other times, he slips out into the night to welcome a frigid breeze and the vastness of an empty sky, calling fire to his fingertips with his back against a tree.
He cannot find familiarity, no matter how much he tries. The only other elf he knows in this little village they call Haven has no problem in expressing his disdain towards the Dalish. They may have pointed ears, they both have knowledge of a tongue all but lost, they can cast magic with little difficulty - but beyond that they are different. The other has a curious lack of vallaslin, yet is no city elf, and Cyrlan simply cannot figure out where he is from, what he is. There is little question that he has been hurt by the Dalish in one way or another, and to no small extent. But that is all he can glean until the other shoots him the kind of look that makes him so very sure he violated one taboo or another.
Then there is the matter of being 'the Herald'. The first time someone falls to his feet speaking faster than he can comprehend, every line in his body strains to get away, screams "I don't want this", but he does manage to croak out a few words before he scrambles past a very confused Commander like a startled fennec out of the bush and sprints to escape the wooden cage, to charge headlong into the forest away, away. There are others who are the opposite, who see a pair of pointed ears and a wooden staff. They would have him in chains for being an elf and leashed for being a mage, and this is when he grabs onto one of his new allies like a lifeline because he's never quite had to deal with it to such an extent before.
[ also known as i occasionally think about small things throughout the events of inquisition so just humor me with my incoherent drabbles okay ]
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you got a taste for blood when you were licking your own wounds
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Post by cyrlan lavellan on Mar 12, 2016 6:22:41 GMT -5
[attr="class","minipost"]The elf is a man of many faces, as he has come to realise. Three, to be exact.
The first is to the world, he is little more than an idea. He is more than a person, yet less of a person, for few wish to delve beyond the title of 'Inquisitor'. They see a figure cut against a broken sky, sharp and righteous, a leader, their defender. Time and time again proves that he is not so easily felled and so in their eyes he simply grows, until he is no longer just a single man but the Inquisitor.
The second is to the inner circle, to friends and the scattered remnants of family. Cat-like eyes that crinkle in mirth, a painfully honest, crooked smile. Ready with some bad joke or other, in which his sole purpose is to simply do his best, and few doubt that if such a decision comes about, he is willing to throw away his life in exchange for another. He is bound to the people as much as they are to him, an iron chain that coils around neck and ankle.
The last is to himself, hidden in shadows and secrecy. It is when he crumples against the wall, a hand over his face as if to mask what he does not want others to see, yet his shoulders jerk with thinly veiled sobs, hitched breathing harsh against silent stone walls. It is when people start to kneel, to bow their heads until he is the only one left standing and all he's thinking is that he doesn't want this, please get up, get up, get up, get up-
[ i remembered some old sentence i saw and i decided to use it bc i'm uncreative amirite also i'm too lazy to wrap things up properly. also a small break in the chain of events but maybe i'll add some form of index to the first post to tidy it up ]
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Post by cyrlan lavellan on Mar 15, 2016 2:51:55 GMT -5
[attr="class","minipost"]He counts his twenty-third shackled to a chair in a dark basement, with his hand on fire and a dozen swords levelled at his throat. Perhaps he should be more concerned about the sheer amount of hostility he's receiving yet the elf can only focus on how his hand feels as if it is being torn apart from the inside, a throbbing venom slowly working its way across his palm. Slowly, he drags his attention from the pulsing green light and tries to remember. Nothing comes to mind, the last thing he remembers is crouching to hide from the council. When he wakes up, he is manacled and chained and there's this thing in his hand and there are angry humans and-
Creators, please just let this be a bad dream.
The hole in the sky assures him that it is not.
Cyrlan follows the female warrior blindly, stumbling after her to the best of his ability, eyes wide as he takes in one more displeased expression after another. Jumping to narrowly avoid being spit on causes him to bump into the woman, earning him an icy glare. He bites his lip nervously and continues to move, though the brisk speed they are making scarcely compares to how his thoughts buzz around in his mind. The sky's gone and fucked up and they think he can fix it? Surely the rumors of mages here aren't that preposterous.
Demons. There are actual demons and for all his training as a mage Cyrlan panics and his mind runs on self-preservation instinct alone. Frantic. Something, anything. There, next to the overturned cart. He scrambles for the staff, a poor excuse for one if he's ever to judge, but it's better than his bare hands, or hand considering the other is hardly functioning properly. Casting blindly, catching the spell on the edge of his mind and tossing it with all he can, swings the wooden staff for good measure and hears a odd 'thwack' as it connects with flesh that isn't quite flesh. The demon screams before it collapses, and he's dimly aware of someone else shrieking bloody murder (it's him).
There's a hole in the sky, demons all around and he's about to freeze his ears off yet this woman insists on him disarming himself, though thankfully she changes her decision quickly. He is definitely not going to willingly give up any sort of weapon right now. He clutches it like a lifeline, till his knuckles turn white under leather gloves but fighting is something he knows, and he knows well. Demons, a considerable amount of knowledge as well. But for now, the only thing that matters is that demons or no, they went down if he hit them.
When an elven mage grabs his hand and thrusts it towards the sky, he is saved from making the most undignified yelp ever simply due to the fact that the pain lances up his arm and pierces the base of his neck, so much that the only sound that escapes him is a strangled hiss. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop-
It stops when the hole closes, a phenomenon that he is quick to question, though words feel foreign on his tongue and he's quite certain that he is not even standing up straight. There are more humans (and one dwarf), more talking, and when they ask he opts quickly for the mountain pass because if there is a human army out there, he wants to be as far away from it as possible. He murmurs a steady mantra of profanities and curses under his breath, as if a constant stream of words will stem any confusion, but if anyone questions this, they don't make a show of it.
This breach, as they call it, is larger than all the rest. It's not just a small tear so much as it is a bloody damn huge gash in the sky, as though a particularly irate being had attempted to cleave the very fabric of reality in half. The demons pour out in hordes and he's quietly glad for the biting cold when it numbs any new wounds. He dodges a demon and trips it up with the staff, but the wood splinters on impact. A well-aimed arrow finishes it off and he's dimly aware of someone screaming at him to close the breach. Someone else is screaming too. It's probably him again.
Everything is searing pain and blinding green light.
Then everything goes black.
[ these aren't even chronological anymore wow this one's from the prologue actually ]
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you got a taste for blood when you were licking your own wounds
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Post by cyrlan lavellan on Mar 26, 2016 2:50:19 GMT -5
[attr="class","minipost"]Clad in strange shemlen armor, gripping a new staff so tightly his knuckles turn white, the only thing that is properly his is the halla horn amulet that winds around his neck, a parting gift fro the clan. He professes concern over how he does not quite know what he is doing, but the seeker is marching ahead and does not hear him speak, and if the others do, they do not deign to respond because now there are mages and templars and it is all he can do to not get trodden on in the chaos.
It is a phenomenon that occurs again and again, the elf struggling to keep his head above the rising water. One battle comes after the next, some fought with words rather than magic and swords, and though he can escape these physically unscathed he turns each word over so carefully, silently arguing with himself as to which would answer would be more appropriate, then berating himself a while down the road when he thinks of a better answer. He calls fire and lightning to his fingertips and purple arcs through the air to seek its target, and he decides that he likes this sort of fighting much more than the other.
He also discovers that the Hinterlands is a sprawling maze, and multiple times he has attempted to climb up some impossible slope or other before begrudgingly heeding the party's advice to simply go around. The boots he wears are of human-make, heavy and now soaked through with the blood of enemies fallen, and it does little to make all this running around any more pleasant. He makes a mental note to track down the elusive horsemaster as soon as he finds a way to stop running in circles.
Not for the first time, he wishes he had paid more attention when taught to be a hunter.
At times, the virescent mark on his hand flares up and he follows the accompanying pain like a beacon, clutching the staff so hard that afterwards he has to consciously pry his hand loose to close the rift. When that happens, his world explodes into bright, searing agony and he squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again the pain subsides, the tear in space has been repaired and someone behind him is picking up curious remains to give to the researcher at a later date. And then they are off, leaving only a moment for them to catch their breath and lick any wounds, this time scrambling to find someone's misplaced wedding ring or track down an errant son. The ache of muscles and throbbing pain of hastily healed wounds is becoming a norm and he is all too glad that every stray corner seems to hold a stash of elfroot. As terrible as it tastes, at least it keeps him on his feet.
[ procrastinating on homework again as usual because i really don't know what i'm writing ]
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you got a taste for blood when you were licking your own wounds
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Post by cyrlan lavellan on Mar 27, 2016 9:28:42 GMT -5
[attr="class","minipost"]The Inquisitor is lightly marked for a dalish elf, if one were to judge by his face. A carmine flame curls around his eye, the type of colour that lends a whole new meaning to the name of blood writing. It is the only mark on his face, if one were to overlook the scars raking across lip and cheek. Yet it stands out clearly, screaming that he is different, he is not what they want him to be, he is no herald of any human god.
But he is a First, and it is, or more accurately was, his duty to perform the vallaslin ceremony unto others of his clan. As such, he practices (first carving designs on wood and leather, before the keeper gives him the go ahead to do so on himself), and that clearly shows, upon closer inspection. Another design branches out across his collarbones, one can only imagine how difficult it must have been to apply from such an angle (it skews a little to the right, but it's not too noticeable). A few more carefully applied lines adorn a pale wrist, this time in ink barely darker than his skin tone, almost invisible until he holds it up to the light. Similar patterns trace the curve of muscle along a thigh then calf, though only done on the left leg, its right counterpart only half done. One assumes he had been interrupted, but it ends off in a tasteful flourish that begs to differ.
He carves out a shrine for them with his body and prays for the best.
[ i had to write this before i forgot tbh ]
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