allthisshitisweird | TEST DRIVE MEME

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TEST DRIVE MEME

A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like

it's the Hinterlands

Maybe the Inquisition sent you, maybe you came seeking the Inquisition. Maybe you fell out of a rift into this world last week and are still just trying to find your feet. However it happened, the first days of the new year find you in the Hinterlands. Tucked between Ferelden's massive Lake Calenhad and the icy Frostback Mountains, the Hinterlands are a hilly region covered in patchy forests and small farms trying to eke out a living between the boulders. Though somewhat remote, the area is rich with game and minerals and home to Redcliffe, a bustling town on a busy trade route.

Lately the Hinterlands have also been full of mages and templars and rifts, all threatening to turn once-peaceful countryside into a dangerous warzone. The Inquisition has set up several camps and sent personnel to try to restore order to the region, unwilling to let it slip into chaos. There's a lot to be done, some of it straightforward killing bad things, some of it weird and nebulous morale-building.

STILL WITH ADDED SNOW. WILL IT EVER BE WARM AGAIN WE JUST DON'T KNOW

1. AND THE BEARS THAT ONCE CONTROLLED ME CAN'T GET TO ME AT ALL

You have turned the wrong corner in the snow, forded the wrong stream in the snow, crested the wrong hill in the snow, entered the wrong cave in the snow. Maybe you are far from camp, in the snow. Maybe you are in camp, which is also snowy. Whatever has happened, wherever you are: you are being chased through the snow by bears. Did you throw a snowball at the bears? Are they huge and snow-dusted? Babies burrowing through the snow drifts and coming for your ankles? Fade-touched in addition to snow-touched? Controlled by cold mages who are hiding in the snow? Popping up out of the snow like a game of whack-a-mole? What are they chasing you away from in all of this snow? What are they chasing you into, other than more snow? What warm things do you plan to make out of their hide if you kill them in the snow? What do you think they'll craft out of your hide if they kill you in the snow? P.S. In case you hadn't guessed, it's still snowy.

2. LET IT GO

At first it sounds like a folktale, passed around tavern hearths and campfires after a few too many tankards. An evil witch with a heart of ice atop a frigid mountain fortress, casting endless winter upon the land, turning those who oppose her into snowmen. But it turns out it's true-- or at least partly. Maybe. Sort of. If you can weed through the stories, the common threads are these: several locals and travelers claim to have been accosted on the back roads through the hills by a female mage who used ice magic to trap them and steal their belongings, sometimes freezing solid those who tried to fight back. Some said she claimed to own the land, others that she was collecting a toll, and several that she cackled wildly about ranted about endless winter. Whichever version you choose to believe, there seems to be an apostate who needs dealing with. Perhaps you'd like to wander the roads in the guise of a wealthy traveler and lure her into an ambush? Scout the caves in the hills and try to track her to her lair? Make a friendly visit and recruit her to the Inquisition?

3. LET IT GO

The Hinterlands are dotted with lakes and ponds and streams, nearly all of which are frozen solid. The locals sometimes travel this way, pushing goods across on sledges, or strapping blades to the bottoms of their boots to skate, carrying messages and supplies or just racing when the weather is clear. Some enterprising souls have even attached sails to their sleds or runners to their rowboats and skitter across the ice hoping not to tip over or stray off-course into rocks. There are other hazards, too: in some places the ice is deceptively thin, and you may come across a stranger unlucky enough to have lost a boot or gotten a leg stuck or fallen through altogether. Maybe you're the unlucky one, treading icy water and calling for help.

4. I AM ONE WITH THE BLAH BLAH BLAAAAAH

The tavern at Redcliffe is rid of both cakes and rats, but is still filled to the brim with rowdy drunks. Tonight they are both rowdier and drunker than usual, and something sets someone off. Maybe it's you, maybe it's the guy next to you, maybe it's someone all the way across the room and you don't even see it happen, but suddenly the entire place is engulfed in a knock-down drag-out glass-smashing chair-swinging bar fight. Dive right in, pick a side, pick no side, get caught off-guard, hide under a table, try to sneak out, it's up to you but you'd better decide quickly.

5. THE COLD NEVER BOTHERED ME ANYWAY

Hunt game, or kill demons, dig under the snow for herbs, track bandits, open a streetside scarf stand in Redcliffe, fall off a deceptively tall rock into the snow, get lost circling the same hill ten times trying to find a way up to the weird glowing skull on a stick you can see is up there, climb trees or abandoned towers covered in snow, rummage around in empty homes to get out of the snow, run from a dragon, definitely don't kill any fennec foxes, set up camp and chat around the fire, sing a rousing solo about your love of the weather, do whatever the hell you want-- the Hinterlands are your endless frozen playground.

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ᴘᴏsᴛ ғʟᴇᴇɪɴɢ ʙᴇᴀʀs

( gwenaëlle had not been thrilled about having to come to the hinterlands, but - there were rifts still to be closed, and they needed at least three shard-bearers to do it, and no one else was available, and it wasn't as dangerous as some places. all she would have to do would be hold up her hand, they said. the fighters would do the rest.

it had gone well. she'd almost managed an expression that wasn't frightened or resentful.

and then the bear. the demons, fine somehow! the bear: a problem! bears, she decides as they slow to a stop and listen to it meander angrily after easier prey, may be the real threat. alternately, a group of people exhausted by demons and a rift were not prepared to be subsequently set upon by a bear, but probably it's that bears are worse than demons.

her hand presses to her side, where she can feel blood pooling in the bandage, seeping through fabric, staining her fingers. )

My stitches - they are undone.

( her jaw sets. it is cold. everything is terrible. she wants to go home. )

I'm not bleeding all the way back to the camp, with bears. You will hold the wound and I will sew it.

ᴡɪʟᴅ ᴄᴀʀᴅ

( surprise me! )

ᴀʟsᴏ

( her app, for reference. )

Edited 2016-03-03 08:28 (UTC)

As soon as we get back to camp I am dragging you to one of the mages to be healed properly.

[ That she has not yet done so is ridiculous- but he has long since given up on attempting to understand the inner workings and logic of nobles. Normally he would not be so blunt but he is weary, there were demons, and there is this grating, spitting, viciously annoying noble he must play babysitter to as long as they are traipsing about closing these rifts.

There have been moments when he's been tempted to take the hand from her and save them all a great deal of trouble.

He has not yet quite hit that point- but he does not give her a chance to peel clothing out of the way, flicking a knife out to simply cut a tear through which they might work.

It's faster. ]

( startling a woman about to put a dagger where he suddenly has his hand is a risky proposition; zevran nearly gets his fingers slashed open for his trouble, and well it would have served him, she thinks, not dignifying his first remark and giving him a suspicious look. she hasn't had much to say that wasn't necessary since leaving skyhold, frightened and unhappy; 'thank you' is not necessary, when he patently has no desire to assist her and probably only did that for the sake of her startling in the first place.

she doesn't want to go to the mages. the mages she doesn't trust. this elf, she doesn't trust. she trusts herself, however, so she moves away from him to busy herself with cutting through the bandage underneath her dress to get to the wound itself. she works busily and efficiently and turned slightly away, not enough for a matter of modesty but to make it harder for him to shove a knife at her a second time without a little bedamned warning. )

Edited (fuck repetition ) 2016-03-03 08:53 (UTC)

[ There are, he supposes, worse traveling companions. But there are a great many that are far better and fare more useful- she cannot even fight. The shard, yes, they need those with the shards but-

He puts it from his mind, waiting with crossed arms for her to finish revealing her cuts. He had little care for her trust issues or lack thereof, walking around injured is asking for stitches to tear, Bears to find them, or demons to fall out of rifts and decide she looks tasty.

Then who covers her, mm? Him. ]

( gwenaëlle has never met an elf whose opinion she didn't find completely irrelevant to her life. or many men, for that matter. zevran who is both is spared the sharpest edge of her tongue only because - yes. he covers her, and she would like to live through this experience, if at all possible.

also she would like it to be over.

once the bandage is free, she frowns down at the tear in her dress for a few moments before pulling, hard, to rip it wider; allow herself room to work. she can tack it back together a bit when they're done, wrap herself up in her cloak. her sewing things - well, it's not all of them, but the few things of any particular value that she'd brought with her to the hinterlands are on her person, needles and thread included, and when she's ready-- )

Here, ( briskly. ) Put your hands here. Steady.

[ He says nothing, having already had his fill of the cold, of demons, of bears, and as was it's renewed custom his eye has begun to throb behind it's leather patch. Usually that's a sign of a larger migraine and, truly, he ought to take a sip of an elfroot potion to soothe it-

Had they any left to spare. Other fighters took the worst of the demons in the time it took to close the rift, they are without. He will have to make do, much the same as this fine lady.

Hands go on wounds, his eye flicks to their surroundings. The bear is gone- for now. The demons are dead, also for now.

That could change. ]

Be quick.

You think? I was so enjoying this moment between us.

( like she enjoys being trapped in long conversations with marcellin's mother, she's enjoying this moment between them. she's loving it so much that even in her inability not to give a droll response, she doesn't waste any time; steels herself and shoves the needle through, lips pinching together into a thin line. it hurts, and it bleeds, and it has to be done - her hands tremble with a combination of the cold and the pain, but she grits her teeth and pulls the thread through, tight, knotting it and not giving herself a moment before the next stitch.

the sooner this is all over, the sooner she isn't in the hinterlands any more. she wants to be gone from here as badly as he wants her out from underfoot, on that they are absolutely agreed. )

Until we return I am certain there will be many more, mia bella.

[ What is normally an endearment is twisted until it is wry and flat and bland- though he does raise his brows in surprise. She'd been serious about stitching her own wound. Most nobles he knew would get as far as pricking their skin with the needle and either fainting or ordering him to do it. So she is not entirely useless-

Or merely has a higher pain threshold than most.

Curious but not enough to ask over it, he minds the sides of the wound to make her job somewhat easier. If it was stitched crooked they'd have to do this again in half an hour. Better to not. ]

( she'd really rather not hand this man a needle and suggest he stab it through her flesh, given how little he relishes her company. the quick, neat stitches speak for themselves, however - it's unlikely that she's done this on herself, before, but there's a much stronger possibility that she's done it for someone else.

for her father, specifically, who isn't so much distrustful of mages or physicians as he is a difficult drunk who has to be cajoled, sometimes, into letting her mind him. maybe, she thinks, he just likes that she tries. well, now he's sent her to ferelden and there's nothing for it, it's his own stupid fault she isn't there. )

Almost.

( she knots it again, snips the end of the thread with the knife he'd forestalled her using earlier. it isn't pretty, but for what it is, she did a good job. )

There.

Bravo.

[ He removes his hands once he is certain she isn't about to spill more blood or bits of her into the snow and takes a step back- normally he'd be more forward, more flirtatious, but there is a migraine on the horizon, more rifts that need closing, and bears.

Ever and always, the bears. ]

Apply a poultice over it- that will hold the stitches or at the very least mask the smell of the wound from wolves and bears.

( she almost snaps she hasn't got one, who carries poultices around, of course she -

does. actually. because this is the sort of place where you carry poultices around, and she'd been loyal to her physician over the less-known-quantity that is the mage healers, so she is particularly the sort of person who ought to be carrying them around, even so. her lips tighten into a line like she's biting back words and she does as she's bid, using her scarf to bind it all and cover tightly where her dress is now prepared to let all the weather in, skin turned to gooseflesh.

she'd just wanted to go home. the country had been so claustrophobic, that woman's eyes following her even when she wasn't in the room - she'd just wanted to go back to her house, and her things, and it was all over but the shouting in halamshiral. the civil war rages on (the world is on the brink of falling apart, why not let gaspard have a crack at it?) but not outside of her house. she just wanted to go to her house.

if she'd stayed in the country, the rift that broke her carriage would have been someone else's problem. and so would this mouthy elf. )

Are we very far?

( from camp. her ignorance will annoy him, she thinks, but so does everything, apparently. she wants to know. if he can't be put in a better mood, anyway, she might as well know. )

[ He should not wish quite so much to be given an excuse to fight her. For one it wouldn't be much of a challenge, for another it would be a waste of time and effort. A good shouting match is as cathartic as a good fuck, all told, but again. Bears. And demons. And possibly bandits! So many reasons to not and as such he smiles oh so sweetly in response to that glower, the words she swallows back. Whatever they might have been he can guess at. The usual spoilt, frustrating fussing of a soft creature running about where life is less so and being petulant about it as though that solves anything.

Pining for silk cushions.

As she is no longer bleeding (hurrah) he turns his attention elsewhere- far up along the path they'd been taking, sighting the sky for birds or the sickly green glow of another rift. ]

Miles to go before we sleep, mia Bella, [ Her ignorance is grating. Perhaps they could simply lose her in the woods. No one would know. ] And a long walk uphill at that.

4. Do NOT touch the hair!
Hair was important to the elves, it was a sign of beauty and to allow another to touch it was a sign of trust and liking, an intimacy of a sort. So Legolas was not going to have it when at the tavern, which he visited out of curiosity and curiosity alone, a drunk saw it fit to approach him and stroke along the length of the golden strands with sweaty fingers stained with ale. He grabbed the man's wrist after a split second, and held it firmly in his grasp.

One slender eyebrow arched, Legolas looked displeased and most unimpressed.

option a.
At the tip of his tongue was a snide remark that would certainly set off in motion events not exactly pleasant to most, and worst for the owner of the tavern. But perhaps a kind soul would step in, and spare a proud elf the experience of being spat on and the inevitable fight that would break out.

option b.
"If you would spare me the fate of smelling of ale and your sweat, I would greatly appreciate that," level toned, with a small smile, but the look that accompanied the words said a lot more. In the drunken stupor it took the man a couple moments to notice the pointed ears and realise that this, this was an elf. A little different looking, but an elf all the same. And this elf now was talking back at him!

Thus, a swing that Legolas ducked easily. He let the man tumble forward into another patron and once the people around were distracted, he quietly, discreetly made his way out.

Catch him and bring him to justice? (No.)

5. F$%^*& DRAGONS!!
Middle-earth, for a large majority of Legolas's life, was hardly a peaceful and safe place. In his home, orc raids and giant spider infestation was a constant, a sleeping dragon lived in a near-by mountain, and then he joined the Fellowship and trouble followed in their step. The War of the Ring was not a pleasant matter either. But none of it could have prepared him to stand eye to eye with a dragon that could rival Smaug.

He fled without thinking much of it, hiding among trees and lightly stepping on the fleshly fallen snow without sinking at all. Swift, he tried using the most dense of the routes beneath the canopies.

option a.
Luck had it that, looking over his shoulder to see if the creature was following in his wake, he missed someone struggling through the deep snow right in his path. And while elves - those of Arda anyway - could walk on top of snow, when falling they were prone to follow the same rules of gravity as everyone else. The snow collapsed beneath Legolas's weight and he sank with a plop.

Overhead, thankfully, the dragon flew on.

option b.
He found shelter, sliding into it in a hurry and with some degree of nervous panic showing on his features. Shelter apparently occupied by someone else - and not a bear - so... hello?

WILD CARD!
Anything at all! \o/ Random run-ins on the streets of camps, or whatever cities there are or in the forests... catch him singing, or hunting, or simply walking around and talking to trees.

Now that could not have gone any better had he orchestrated the situation himself, which he had not. Honestly!

Oh one could never tell, but really, that had gone off without his hand in it at all and the glorious chaos that sprung from it put a small, nondescript smile on Loki's lips.

Now the drunks were leveling their confused, imagined slights at one another and the elf wasn't hanging back to appreciate his very fine work. What a shame, which was why he had to follow.

"It is pandemonium in there, you've no wish to observe?"

Edited 2016-03-03 18:31 (UTC)

The tavern is Korrin's refuge from nonsense involving rifts, bears, dragons and other hazards of the Hinterlands. She doesn't especially care for that refuge to be disrupted in any way, let alone by human bigotry. Upon spotting yet another elf being harassed, the Vashoth woman stands up from her seat and heads over with narrowed eyes.

"Hey, asshole. Turn around and head out. Now." Considering that she's over a foot taller than most human men and horned, with a staff on her back, looming is usually all Korrin needs to do in order to get people to obey her. But if that's not enough, she's willing to show that some mages know how to throw a good punch.

4. LET'S DANCE CRAZY

[It's difficult to say what is the cause, but Thane suspects that it was going to be inevitable. Poor decision making is often made while one is intoxicated, Thane is the odd man out in the corner of the tavern, preferring to let his hot tea steep. He sits, patient, his face difficult to read due to the serpent stone mask he's wearing.

The fight quickly crawls his way.

When one unfortunate thug comes his way, ready to pick a fight, Thane barely looks at him, kicking the man's feet out from under himself.

Sadly, that's not the only man. It's almost bothersome; Thane would much rather just be left alone right now and enjoy his cup before it gets cold. He snaps a hand up to stop someone's club from coming down, using the momentum to toss him aside into someone else.

And before he knows it, Thane finds himself in the middle of a tavern-wide brawl while trying to keep his tea from spilling.]

WILD CARD BABY!
[Throw something at me!]

( ONE: BEARS )
She had not meant to slight a bear. Some could rightly call her callous, which was true; Delyth cared little for what wasn't hers. But she was not stupid. Just because she dared a stranger to throw a snowball at the bear out of boredom (the camp nearest to the rift fanatics always grated on her nerves, at best) was not her business, until it had become her business when the fool had gone ahead and done just that.

Camp destroyed and little to hand but her daggers in the snowy landscape, Delyth runs and doesn't plan to stop. If you're tagging along with her, great. Try to keep up. If you cause her to trip and fall and cause the bear to catch up, she might kill you first before she kills it. But that's a chance you're welcome to take.

( FOUR: TAVERN )
She blinked, and she missed it, which was disappointing. What was more apparent was that the fight had started and it wasn't her fault. Surely Atisha or one of her superiors would be proud of her for that.

They would be less proud of what happened next, as Delyth downed the remains of her drink, drew a forearm across her face staining her sleeve, and then turned to the nearest brute that was currently wrestling another smaller brute atop a table. She lifted the man as if he were made of glass and not muscle and without another word, threw him several metres across the room, where he landed with a thud against the bar, dazed but not out.

That gets her the crowds attention. "Can't you guys keep it the fuck down?" she snarls, dusting off her hands. If it's a fight they want, bring it. She'll kick everyone's ass here. Without daggers, because the mess afterwards isn't worth it.

Unless you look like you might need a bit of help, then she might save you instead.

( FIVE: FENNECS )

Delyth would kill a fennec. She has, in fact, just killed a fennec, humming as she kneels down and utters - something? A prayer? Disgust? - making to toss the sorry cargo over her shoulder and make her way back to camp.

You probably have something to say about this.

( WILDCARD ME! her history is in progress but think bitter angry kirkwall city elf who hates everyone (mostly) and u got it. )

Edited 2016-03-03 19:04 (UTC)

( THREE, SORTA )
Ferelden was freezing and she really was going to die.

Well, no, it be worse if she were on the underside of the ice, as it would be for the sled and its occupants that dallied behind her, waiting for her signal that it was safe to cross. If she did fall through, would any of them come to pull her out? Questionable. But Ashley was hard pressed to ignore a family in need, and she wasn't about to start now, even if it were far, far, far colder than what she was used to and instead of using her common sense and settling into the tavern for the evening, she just had to have a bleeding heart and was stuck out here atop a frozen lake instead.

Far as she could tell, the ice seemed thick, and safe enough to keep going. If it could survive under the bulk of her armour, emblazoned with the eye of the seekers, and the sword strapped to her back that was almost her height, a sled full of inconsequential goods wouldn't be a problem for it. Right?

( FOUR, BRAWLIN' )
She had, up until a moment ago, been quietly enjoying her drink at the bar. The drunks would keep to themselves.

Or so she had thought. The fight erupts, quickly, spreading like magefire and it's not like before the tankard clunks to the floor, contents spilling, as Ashley raises a hand to block an incoming blow. What a waste. Her fingers press around the fist as she frowns, turning towards them. Really, they thought she was involved? Well, she is now.

( WILDCARD ME! )

( silk cushions. yes. and blankets, and furs, and a fireside, and a door she can close in zevran's face. and someone to be kind to her and comb her hair and care if she dies or not.

no one here cares if she dies or not.

gwenaëlle sets her jaw and tucks her hands in her cloak, following him silently. there's not much else for it. )

Or a guy with a longbow and a blue uniform can step in, grab the other guy by the hair, and casually bounce the side of his face off the table.

"Come on, time to sleep it off," Nathaniel growls, lifting the assailant by his hair. "He said no."

Both the large longbowman and the drunk assailant disappear into another room. After a moment, the longbowman reappears, adjusting his gloves and apparently muttering something under his breath. He glances about for the...oh. The tall elf. Meets his eyes and gives him an are-you-okay nod.

II: March of the witchhunters

"No good pissheaded arse-breathed tit-"

Whatever Sera was going to gripe out next was swallowed by her indignant yelp as her legs sank several feet into the snow, soaking her already shoddily patched breeches and effectively trapping her in place. Shitebag bitch that was making them walk out this way, through all the snow and cold and nature and...and snow. Sera was grumbling this and more at a more or less inaudible level as she struggled to pull herself back up out of the snow bank. If it wasn't for the fact the arse-nut was running around, hurting the little people just trying to live their stupid lives in the middle of all this madness...

"What sort of wonky brained idiot lives on top of a stupid mountain?"

IV: Dancing through life...

It had been too easy. Everyone had been so serious and mopey faced and it had been driving her mad. So a little fun was needed. A pinched butt here, a stolen drink there, and the place was a right sight soon enough. Sera had, of course, happily vanished to a better viewing area (with her small pile of stolen drinks). She was crouched under a table in the corner, giggling madly into her tankard as the chairs went flying. There's enough room under there for someone to join her, or she's loud enough that she can be dragged into the fray. But for now she's having fun, basking in the piss and fire that had replaced the whining and tears.

Wildcard

Run into Sera anywhere! Set the scene and I'll reply.

( A woman stands on the ice, drenched, looking critically at the hole that she was only recently pulled herself out of. The ice around it is fragile, but padded with enough snow to cover it, laying a dangerous trap for the unwary, or those trying to make a quick escape across the lake. They might escape a bear or a worse, only to find themselves dragged to a far colder demise.

She seems undisturbed by the face that her robes cling heavily to her skin with the water, the layered material black and dark shades of blue that may have been partly grey or slightly less midnight when not so very soaked. Her arms are wrapped in black cloth and leather, and in her right hand she holds a staff, carved from wood, the top adorned with a crow's skull and what could be blue glass or an eerie, semi-translucent stone hooking through the skull. Frost magic moves about her hands and she murmurs quietly, before her spell layers over the patch in the ice and the surrounding area to layer it over.

The sound of approaching steps makes her look up sharply in their direction, though whether she looks like a deer tensing to flee or a wolf preparing to leap, well. So much depends on the eye of the beholder. )

Do not, ( she warns, nodding to the ice. ) The ground here is treacherous.

( the staff stops gwenaëlle in her tracks, more than anything else; apostate? inquisition? they're all apostates, now, and how is she supposed to know who's who? she wishes there were a templar. not to do anything, just - in case of the necessity of doing something, that's what they're for. she'd take that sneering elf, even, but she lost her footing running from the bear and now she isn't sure where she is, much less where anyone else is.

she's going to die in the hinterlands, probably, it's not even going to be an interesting death. they won't find her body for months. her father will probably die of grief, which will serve him right for sending her here. )

Well, it is ice,

( a bit waspishly, wrapping her arms around herself. )

Ice breaks.

That table doesn't seem to have quite enough room underneath it for Korrin to join in, but she hears the giggles from underneath when trying to maneuver around the fray. Fortunately, no one seems to want to piss off a horned woman who's at least a foot taller than them on average. So the punches and flying chairs have other targets and the Vashoth woman makes it to the table intact.

Sliding casually into an abandoned chair as though there wasn't a bar fight happening all around her, she directs her voice downward while only slightly lowering the volume. Why be subtle about it when no one's going to pay attention to them anyway? "Since that beanpole of a bartender is hiding, think you can spare one of those drinks? I'd be in your debt."

Edited 2016-03-04 04:47 (UTC)

"The sort that does not wish to be bothered by much of anyone." Zevran drew to a stop, offering this rather creatively offensive elf a hand out of the drift. He had grant her points for originality- even Oghren had not carved a blue streak quite so well or with half as much speed. No, his swearing had been slow and slurred, much like the dwarf himself up until the moment he was angry enough to sprint. "Though that might include us as well- is Skyhold not on the top of a mountain of sorts?"

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TEST DRIVE MEME

ɢᴡᴇɴᴀëʟʟᴇ ᴠᴀᴜǫᴜᴇʟɪɴ | sᴘᴏɪʟᴇᴅ ᴏʀʟᴇsɪᴀɴ sʜᴀʀᴅ

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legolas, tolkien

4. b.

4 a.

Thane Krios | Mass Effect | Native AU | elven assassin eyyy

delyth | native oc (city elf, kirkwall, scout)

ashley williams | mass effect | native au | rivaini seeker

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4a

Sera | The Age of Dragons

wildcarding u

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IV

2