"Does this unit have a soul?"
i grieve with thee
continuously in mourning for saemus and ashaad
Kill your darlings, the old adage goes, but a writer knows it’s more like favorite sentences that don’t belong, the beautiful rhyme that just doesn’t fit. It’s about words you favor too much, turns of phrase you rely on, the metaphor you don’t know how to replace.
Nobody ever asks a storyteller to commit murder like a common rogue—except for an editor, of course.
‘That doesn’t mean I don’t think about them, you know,’ Varric tells Isabela when they’re out on the open ocean, waves making the planks nicker and groan, as far as a dwarf and a pirate can get from the bronze and brass of the city of chains.
‘You old romantic so-and-so,’ Isabela replies, in that way she has of saying one thing and meaning me, too.
Journal of Hawke. Part-time champion, full-time comeback artist.
Answered correspondence. Bothered the seneschal so he’d feel important. Planted more mushrooms in Fenris’s carpet. Will Fenris ever notice?
Making a real difference in this city while making really good jokes. Father would be proud.
Of the jokes.
Thought about Saemus again today. Strange young man. Of course he wouldn’t last in a place like this. Or anywhere, really, save for Varric’s stories. Never got to deliver all the jokes I thought of about the lad’s hair.
But it wouldn’t have mattered, would it? Ashaad never seemed to mind it.
Wonder what pillow talk’s like with a qunari.
On the morning Saemus Dumar fell in love there was a smog in the air from the foundries in Lowtown, particularly rank due to the summertime warehouse fires, and all the nobles waiting to speak to Father—Viscount Father, Saemus thought of him now, always with the title, never alone—had their silk handkerchiefs in front of their mouths and noses to avoid breathing any of the uncomfortable truth in the air, its dirtiest, foulest, vilest realities, the acrid tang in the back of the throat, the promise of a poisoned sort of rain from dubious clouds that wouldn’t clean the ash away, that would only make the blood stains run between the cracks in the cobblestones, that would water the weeds and little else, but Saemus Dumar’s hair stuck to his forehead when the rainfall began, and he touched Ashaad’s chest with his not-so-small hand, where a strong heart beat the truth in steady time: below, below, below.
You once saved me. I owe you a life, but this is the cost. Whatever you become, whatever cause you claim or deny… you are nothing to me. Goodbye, Hawke. Live as you choose.
Bobby said something to me, he thinks there is a part of Rumplestiltskin who kind of wishes he could be Charming. ( Eddie Kitsis )
Whose gonna save me?