[ Shadows seem to curl around the streets like smoke, or maybe they've been there all along and she's just now noticing the way they seem to follow, to obscure her surroundings so thoroughly that she feels more off-guard than she has in ages. Cecily Trevelyan, brows knit in careful scrutiny, is extremely aware of the weight of the quiver at her back as she walks, boots click-clicking on the stones and thudding dully against the packed earth. The place has only reminded her of the Deep Roads thus far, an unpleasant memory as any that squirms in the pit of her stomach like a worm.
Maker, but this is impossible. To be in the halls of Skyhold one moment, and then-... What had happened, exactly? The memories seem half-formed at the edges of her mind. She raises a hand to press to her temple as she wanders, fighting off a tiny, burning headache that's threatening to occupy more of her thoughts than she'd like. Clearly, there's work to be done here, and it starts with figuring out all the details of how and why and keeping safe, and keeping others safe, too, as often has been the case.
Then, something stirs off and behind her. The Inquisitor freezes, ears pricked for any sound, and immediately she thinks darkspawn. It isn't lucky that the monster isn't darkspawn, exactly: better the devil you know, or so they say. Instead, as she reaches around to slip her longbow out in preparation, something rogue wraps securely and too-swiftly around her wrist and pulls with tremendous force. She can't help it; Cecily yelps in surprise, but uses her free hand to work free a dagger at her hip to try and extricate herself as the beast drags her steadily toward it, whatever "it" is.
Another day in the life of the world's most Unfortunate person. ]
hope
[ There is a pot of soup just beyond the window and she can hardly believe her eyes. She should be able to believe it; by all accounts, she's seen her share of impossible things in the past year and managed to live through them ("miraculously," as Varric had explained). Still, it is impossible that the soup from her childhood would be sitting inside one of the buildings in her strange new home, waiting patiently for someone (her?) to come in and at least examine it.
But the door is locked. Of course the door is locked! When isn't the door locked, busted, rusted, broken, or otherwise keeping things just out of reach?
It isn't an issue. Cecily smiles, tight-lipped and somehow mischievous, and glances briefly down the street. Strangers, few and uninterested in the young woman staring fervently through a random window. Feeling very much in her younger years again, the Inquisitor tucks a stray curl behind her ear and crouches, slipping a lock pick from the pouch at her side. She hasn't felt very prepared for this misadventure before, but this is one of the rare times she's considered herself well-met with a situation thus far.
And she's only going to look inside, to see what the possible reason for the soup's presence could be. Because it wasn't just any soup; there was an exact number of carrots bobbing in the broth because she'd had a strange period of fixation with certain numbers. It was the same tan streaked with gold, sporting shredded chicken and quarters of potatoes, flecked with parsley and a dusting of spices that she could practically smell. Their cook had prepared it for years when she was a child to her exact, youthful (and fickle) specifications... and it even seemed to be in one of their old bowls, porcelain white and deep green.
It could be a coincidence, easily. But she had to know for sure. ]
inquisitor trevelyan ; dragon age: inquisition
[ Shadows seem to curl around the streets like smoke, or maybe they've been there all along and she's just now noticing the way they seem to follow, to obscure her surroundings so thoroughly that she feels more off-guard than she has in ages. Cecily Trevelyan, brows knit in careful scrutiny, is extremely aware of the weight of the quiver at her back as she walks, boots click-clicking on the stones and thudding dully against the packed earth. The place has only reminded her of the Deep Roads thus far, an unpleasant memory as any that squirms in the pit of her stomach like a worm.
Maker, but this is impossible. To be in the halls of Skyhold one moment, and then-... What had happened, exactly? The memories seem half-formed at the edges of her mind. She raises a hand to press to her temple as she wanders, fighting off a tiny, burning headache that's threatening to occupy more of her thoughts than she'd like. Clearly, there's work to be done here, and it starts with figuring out all the details of how and why and keeping safe, and keeping others safe, too, as often has been the case.
Then, something stirs off and behind her. The Inquisitor freezes, ears pricked for any sound, and immediately she thinks darkspawn. It isn't lucky that the monster isn't darkspawn, exactly: better the devil you know, or so they say. Instead, as she reaches around to slip her longbow out in preparation, something rogue wraps securely and too-swiftly around her wrist and pulls with tremendous force. She can't help it; Cecily yelps in surprise, but uses her free hand to work free a dagger at her hip to try and extricate herself as the beast drags her steadily toward it, whatever "it" is.
Another day in the life of the world's most Unfortunate person. ]
hope
[ There is a pot of soup just beyond the window and she can hardly believe her eyes. She should be able to believe it; by all accounts, she's seen her share of impossible things in the past year and managed to live through them ("miraculously," as Varric had explained). Still, it is impossible that the soup from her childhood would be sitting inside one of the buildings in her strange new home, waiting patiently for someone (her?) to come in and at least examine it.
But the door is locked. Of course the door is locked! When isn't the door locked, busted, rusted, broken, or otherwise keeping things just out of reach?
It isn't an issue. Cecily smiles, tight-lipped and somehow mischievous, and glances briefly down the street. Strangers, few and uninterested in the young woman staring fervently through a random window. Feeling very much in her younger years again, the Inquisitor tucks a stray curl behind her ear and crouches, slipping a lock pick from the pouch at her side. She hasn't felt very prepared for this misadventure before, but this is one of the rare times she's considered herself well-met with a situation thus far.
And she's only going to look inside, to see what the possible reason for the soup's presence could be. Because it wasn't just any soup; there was an exact number of carrots bobbing in the broth because she'd had a strange period of fixation with certain numbers. It was the same tan streaked with gold, sporting shredded chicken and quarters of potatoes, flecked with parsley and a dusting of spices that she could practically smell. Their cook had prepared it for years when she was a child to her exact, youthful (and fickle) specifications... and it even seemed to be in one of their old bowls, porcelain white and deep green.
It could be a coincidence, easily. But she had to know for sure. ]