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this is where we come to make pretty things. blog is run jointly by xim & bleu.

contains fanwork & speculation.

sten, what becomes of certainty when the world is changing?

kadan, small and slight and tiny as a bird, had once looked him in the eye and asked the question that, then, had an answer. the qun is certainty, he had said, drawing an oiled rag across the blade of asala, watching the glint of the steel catch in the firelight, so blindingly golden and bright that it seemed he was shining a sword forged from flickering flame— shadows of ash and dust, gone in the twilight, like so many before them. 

the qun does not change. 

and kadan had only put her hands against one another, rubbing them together as if to ward off a cold she couldn’t quite feel. she and a small party of three had returned from the swamp witch’s hut during high noon that day, altered by what they had seen. she’d remained there a moment yet, looking long into the gloom, the grey-green of the dalish marks almost alive on her skin. she’d been the only thing in that camp that ever smelled like seheron— woodsmoke and forest spices, the recipes of a people who have passed and changed beneath the yoke of a hundred empires, growing strong among the rocks and hardship.

he’d thought her ignorant. the world was a sea of it— ignorance— when it came to the understanding of the qun. and so it was, and so it had been, but he does not know if it will be, and the thought shames him. the leather of asala’s handle creaks under the tightening pressure of his hand. the blade’s soul has turned dim and unhappy, silver like a storm over water. he is not at peace, and asala knows it. he cannot stop it.

she’d have been proud of him, questioning everything so. that had been in her nature. she had been maddening, and stubborn, and always accepting of the fool notion that one could never prepare for everything. 

she had been right— and now she is gone. 

"There’s something right about this time that all the previous did not have. When she lets the arrow go she knows with a certainty unlike any other that it will find its mark, and it does— the arrowhead buries itself deep into the strawman’s heart, and she remembers times when she caught what used to run between her parents: the hopeful but forgiving light in Celia’s eyes, and the feeling she got of Father wanting desperately to return it but not knowing how."

(x)

Drinking lyrium is like drinking deep from the liquid boiling at the bottom of a lit brazier. 

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