day 4

hurr durr

***

does she practice magic or is she magic, herself? she asks, often, when people question her ability to do this or that, or perhaps when they accuse her of harboring a hundred thousand demons inside of soul, or something.

shemlen think funny. like predators on a hunt, yet without any skill to actually kill their own prey, so that when they leap. they fail. they try again. again. again. until it exhaust them or whomever they hunt this day. anaan had found herself on the receiving end of such chases too many times back in kirkwall and she remembers all of them vividly.

memories are good, though. they make her angry and anger means strength and strength means victory, but it also means vicious storms of fire and ice and lighting raining from the heavens as if it was rain, and her staff broken on the ground and crackles of thunder on her fingertips still, 

and anaan means victory.

***

'inquisitor.' the whichever soldier voices their concern. she does not look well. that which was brown is now blue, red and purple, and it is so obvious she hurts to move yet stubbornly refuses to have anyone assist her. the finest healers could help her in a flash.

anaan eyes the soldier - her soldier - and nods for them to go on. her attention is, unnerving, always. minstrels describe her eyes a blaze yet gaze cold as ice, which makes their job of writing songs all more troublesome.

'someone, err, commander - he wants you. to see you, i mean.'

'anything else?'

'no.'

'go on.'

dismissively, she waves her hand and the soldier marches off (perhaps terrified of her doing something bad to them, she's a horrible mage, after all, the worst), leaving but tens of footprints on the ground. they will be quick to vanish. nothing ever lasts in skyhold.

***

wow im rlly not feelin the writing huh 

***

once shoes hit the snow, it screams. in pain, perhaps, with all of its bones being broken at once by someone who does not care to check if it feels anything. when you run, it yells. pulses of pain go faster

where was i going w this what the fuck

***

anyway anaan and imshael

i'm supposed to get the hang of anaan's character but like holy fucking macaroni

***

souls are older than our bodies. it is not difficult to judge how old someone might be when you first look at them as faces betray everyone who wears them. only when you look deeper can you make a true guess, an attempt at digging up everything about them you are able to salvage.

anaan feels ancient. her eyes look forever at the sky, reflecting promises made in the past and long forgotten instead of sparking youthful joy as they rightfully should. body moves with trained expertise and she says she has never practiced anything like that, but it's clear she lies to save explaining the horrors she had to prepare for as a child.

no one is kind to elves. dalish get the benefit of living away from humans. city elves, like her, are doomed to an eternity of agony at the hands of the same people who already took everything from them.

'knife-ear,' she overhears daily, at the beginnings, when people do not see a promise of a new beginning when they see her face but an elf, a dirty savage that cannot comprehend basics of humanity. even now, after saving the world and mending the torn up sky, she still hears these words. knife-ear. 

it's not surprising when she understands something, the moment their eyes met. the moment it dawns on her that she is looking at someone as old as she is, but with the ability to remember everything from his life. the moment his focused expression morphs into a confident smirk and she realizes she will have to come here, alone, to talk with him properly.

demons are not to be taken lightly. she prepares and has prepared, before, to talk with demons or spirits, or whatever they wished to call themselves - she does not fear the words "blood mage", like others do. blood magic is the means to an end and it seems like she has finally found the end she has been chasing for so many years.

still battling whoever was sent out to murder her (which he knew wouldn't happen, but, ah, he likes to watch), she nods. crushes her fist and sends a hundred ice spikes through some poor bastard that decided her head would be the best decoration for his sword. the demon nods in return.

they'll talk. he seems like the sort who adores talking.