Picture Prompt Meme

[thelivinglegend]

Picture Prompt Meme

an o p e n rp post

1) Post a blank comment, or leave a picture prompt of your own.
2) People reply to said comments.
3) Profit.

Comments

For Emma

[hattergonnahat]

[sheriffing]

[If there's anything about her kingdom that makes Emma a little uncomfortable, it's their ability to turn any small victory into a reason to celebrate.

She'd never begrudge anyone their good time, but being the princess complicates matters for her. Her attendance is always required, eyes are usually on her all night, and she has to spend most of her evening dodging suitors and forcing smiles. Excessive partying would be fine by her if she didn't have to be a part of it, because what was beautiful and fascinating when she was a kid at her mother's side has become one of her least favorite obligations.

Then again, when most girls were dreaming of finding their prince, she was learning how to swing a sword and working on magical fire manipulation. Her upbringing wasn't the most normal, no matter how hard her parents tried to offer her everything in the world they could give her. Maybe it's having everything she did that's allowed her the freedom to be who she is today. Emma may be polite with her guests, but she's also quick to excuse herself whenever the opportunity presents itself. She'd rather be listening to the stories of the castle guards, or sneaking a bite in the kitchen (where she doesn't have to worry about her manners).

The constant coming and going makes it hard to catch the princess, which is just the way she likes it. She's trying to her best to appear busy on her way in and out of the ballroom, but in the constant crowd of people, there's one in particular who catches her eye. It's not because she knows him, but because she doesn't. He's new, or visiting, she's not sure which one it is. What Emma does know is that he's looking not to be noticed, inching his way out of the ballroom when everyone else is distracted. It's suspicious, and it sets off a few alarm bells for someone who's raised more than enough hell to know when someone else is about to try it.

The rest of the room is at least vaguely familiar to her. She doesn't know everyone by name, but she knows that they all know someone else in the room. The man she's watching seems to be on his own, and he might slip out unnoticed by everyone else, but he has Emma's attention. He leaves and she follows because her instincts tell her to, slowed down a little by the emerald gown she's wearing and the heels that are a little too high to be comfortable. Between the dress and the crowds, he has a good head start.

Not that it matters. One way or another, she always finds what she's looking for.]

For Samson

[hallaifyouherd]

[wolfofskyhold]

Skyhold was in shambles when Samson returned from his latest task. One of the Nightengale’s birds met him halfway and hurried his return with the news that the Inquisitor had been taken. Out on an errand of her own and accompanied by an entourage of soldiers, they’d still managed to take her. He felt the tension in the air when he returned, the panic brewing just under the calm of the people around.

For his part, Samson raged quietly. He didn’t take time to rest, but dove straight into getting reports. Red Templars, they told him. They were hopelessly outmatched and every last man laid down his life to protect Marjara. Leliana called on the full powers of her contacts to track their enemy. Samson wasted little time rallying the full force of the Inquisition to ride out and retrieve their leader.

For Tony

[quiteprolific]

It's all very fascinating, when he first arrives. There's hardly time to feel alarmed, knowing how very far that spell gone awry must have displaced him. The halls he arrives in are sleek and shining, a disembodied voice drifting somewhere unseen.

Of course, if anyone was present he'd imagine he'd have some explaining to do, popping out of nowhere like that. Mages aren't appreciated as they should be in some less civilized corners of the world, and even can acknowledge that the sudden intrusion in someone's home would likely be frowned upon at a minimum.

Though what a home it is, in what appears to be someone's lounge or living area. The bar off to the side says it's likely the former than the latter, somewhere to entertain guests.

Staff still in one hand, Dorian spends the next five minutes exploring the room he's appeared in, tapping at the strange glass tables that seem to react to touch, able to accept words and commands, though at this point he's not certain what he'd search for beyond signs of home. Or, failing that, just where he's wound up.

Silver eyes dance across the data that springs to life, narrowing thoughtfully. New York. Well. That's no place he's ever heard of, but it's a start. Perhaps a land beyond the ocean? Maker forbid he's been flung that far, it'll take ages to return.

for Dorian

[hallaifyouherd]

[ Some part of her is present, she thinks, but it's like a walking dream. Lucidity might break the spell but it's all a fog, a daze she can't quite push past.

Coming to Tevinter was a mistake.

She watches from out of her own eyes as the goblet she'd held in her hand spills and rolls away, leaving a trail of red behind. Something in the drink? Must have been. Her expression seems almost placid as she's pulled upright out of her chair, like a puppet on strings, though her heart beats rapidly in her chest as though startled. Frightened. She knows what's happening, but she cannot stop it.

Kill the traitor. Then turn the blade on yourself.

It's the small blade she uses for cutting up roots and herbs that finds its way to her hand as she pushes at Dorian's door with the flat of her hand. Latched. Quietly, she raps twice with the heel of her palm. ]

Dorian.

[ She has a few seconds to lunge when he opens the door. Creators, she hopes he knows better than to open it himself. Of all the times for him to rely on having everything gotten for him, let this be one... ]

[footsies]

[ Maker, but as soon as they got there he'd wanted to turn right back around.

Dorian drags his hand over his face while they're in the carriage, shamelessly putting his boots in her lap with a shiteating grin. We're not quite at the gates, we could always turn back, he offers, even though they both know that's not an option.

Now, knee deep in everything else that's going on, Dorian wishes that he'd opted for that. Maybe things would have been better - easier if they'd just kept to written correspondence. Then again, they wouldn't have gotten word of the Venatori still trying for Tevinter from the inside out. Some part of him is glad for it; he wants Tevinter to deserve better, wants them to be worthy of it but they aren't right now, with everything going on.

He stares at the letter from Mae, able to read between the lines. They're going to be attacked, but that much isn't a shock. The timeline is, a touch; he wishes he'd known earlier, but it is what it is.

Sighing, he nudges aside his untouched wine and gets up to find the Inquisitor, a stack of books held in his arms. They'll go through these and figure out what to send back, while they figure out what to do about this perceived attack. When he hears the rap, he huffs, balancing the books on one arm so he can unlatch the door and nudge it open with a foot. ]

Oh, good timing. Here, take some of these, we may as well do this in here and then I won't drop them.

For Samson

[hallaifyouherd]

[ She is changed, when she returns from the last mission. No one can quite put a finger on it, but there's something different about the Inquisitor. Something quietly disturbing. Her counsel at the War Table is brief, she spends more hours observing the keep and its goings on than she might have before, and she is distant. Not once does she visit her companions, not even her general, who otherwise might have had all of her attention.

She does not seem unhappy, however. Quite the contrary. She often has a very small, satisfied smile on her lips that does not quite reach her eyes.

It's Leliana who comes to Samson first with her fear that something is not right. She does not wish to bring attention to Marjara concerning those fears, but perhaps he might share them. He spends more time with her than any, or so she's noticed. ]

[wolfofskyhold]

[ He’s noticed it, too, something wholly alien in her behaviour. It isn’t like her to be distant from those she thinks of as family. Samson makes all his assurances that he shares the Nightengale’s concerns and that he will do what he can.

In truth, he tried to ignore it until he could no longer. The thought that worst might have happened crossed his mind. Under all the regalia of the Inquisition and the titles bestowed upon him in his service to it, Samson’s still a Templar. He can never shake that training and it’s what makes him best suited to deal with… whatever it is trying to pass itself off as Marjara.

How best to lure her away, to keep the casualties to a minimum should things get ugly? The pretense of a walk in the woods where they first found their affection for each other the blossoms of a hearty flower made sense. If it started there, it could end there as well. Of course Samson surreptitiously let his second know his fears. Cullen and his companion were also Templars once and could be valuable allies if their worst fears are realized. ]

Inquisitor, [ He calls after the shade of woman he loves. It doesn’t seem odd to address her so formally. He always does when they’re in view of others. However, when his strides quicken to take him to her side, he offers an arm. ] Would you walk with me?

For Cullen

[hallaifyouherd]

[ She doesn't feel as though she can take another step. Every joint in her body feels stiff and uncooperative, and every step is an exercise in sheer will as she pulls herself through the deep trenches of snow. She can barely keep her eyes open against the stinging cold, for all the good it does staring into the same black darkness she's been staring into for hours now. There's no sign of anyone, the snow drifts covering any tracks she might have followed, and only the odd abandoned campfire lying dark in the cold to give her some shred of hope that she's going in the right direction anymore.

The wind beats down from the mountain peaks and brings with it the sharp, sheer bite of cold that sinks through leathers and fabric at once, so bitterly cold that it feels as though her lungs have shriveled to nothing in her chest. Breath is short, painful, but she has to keep moving. The memory of fire at the nape of her neck and the cries of the frightened villagers push her forward another step. The chill in her bones as she stared Corypheus in the face pushes her again. She can't have survived all of that just to give up and lie down here.

For a moment, she thinks she sees glittering lights at the bottom of this slope, like fireflies in the forests. Not for the first time she thinks of home, of her clan. She thinks of her Keeper, who had done all she could to warn her of the dangers of involving herself too deeply in the affairs of humans. She was meant only to spy, not to save them. Not to lead them. What would she say if she knew her First had given her life for them?

No. Not just for them. For Thedas. This had been larger than anything they could have imagined. She'd spoken the truth in Haven. If giving her life would have ended this madness...

Finally she feels her knees buckle beneath her, pitching her gracelessly forward into the deep snow. The shock of it knocks the breath out of her lungs, and somehow she rolls dazedly to her side, staring up into the night sky. Hours ago she'd looked into that same sky, and the scar left by the Breach, and dared to hope. Now there's only more darkness, the snow around her, and the encroaching cold. I never got to tell him, she thinks for a moment, delirious as her breath stutters.

In the morning. I'll stop putting it off then. ]

[tothecause]

[ The march into the mountains had been the longest most difficult of his life. Terror had given way to hopelessness and grief and then all had been all but buried under a numbing cold that nothing seemed to penetrate. He'd stayed longer than he probably should have, watching the avalanche settle on what had been Haven, watched for one small figure, a familiar green glow, anything - until the needs of the army, of the refugees, forced him to push aside the ache that gutted him and take up the mantle of command once more. Between him and the advisers, they got the people moving, scouts sent out, moving quickly and desperately into the mountains with no destination but away.

Time became meaningless beyond one foot in front of the other, making sure no one fell behind, making sure he saved as many of them as he could. He owed her that. And when they finally found a safe place to set up camp, taking shelter from the winds and the snow beneath a rocky crag that jutted into the sky overhead, he continued moving, waving off Josephine and Leliana and even Mother Giselle as he threw himself into making sure everything was secure, making sure everyone was seen to.

Then he lost himself in staring into the distance, back the way they'd come, unable to rest, unable to relax, huddled in his cloak at the edge of camp and oblivious to the tremors in his limbs that he could no longer tell if they came from the cold or something else.

Cassandra had almost succeeded in luring him back to a fire - by threatening him with the Qunari, of all things - when the strange pale wisp of a boy who had found them before the attack suddenly appears by his side, startling him, because Cullen hadn't even realized he was still with them.

The words he speaks makes no sense, rambled disjointed thoughts of cold, tired, dark, but when Cole points to the pass behind them and whispers there, it's just in time for Cullen to see the faint spark of familiar green in the otherwise dark night. ]

She's alive.

[ He's barely aware of speaking the words aloud, tone a fervent prayer, and he barks an order to Cassandra, a demand of guards, to ready the healers, and takes off into the snow, forgetting his own weary body and cold-numbed muscles.

When he finds her, it's to see her stagger in the snow, go to her knees, and his heart leaps in his throat as he rushes to her, calling out to the others that he's found her. The distance is closed in a blink, his hands reaching for her before he hesitates, unsure if she's hurt, if she can walk, if he should carry her. If she's even real, when every logical part of him is quite certain that there was no way she could have survived what she had. ]

Herald, I've got you. You found us. Can you walk? The camp's only a little farther, my lady.

for Dorian

[yourdesire]

[ It's an old tale.They've lured the young mage here to test his resolve, like so many before him. They come, stir the currents like fishermen chumming the waters, and sooner or later a demon comes out to investigate the prospect of a meal, a body, a way into the world of mortal men to see through their eyes.

And what a world it is. He's only ever had glimpses, sips, taken from dreams and wistful thoughts, from longing and late-night imaginings. Whispers, rumors, and dirty-little secrets, the darkest lusts of mortal hearts. He's grown stronger over the years through them, though weaker still than some of his brethren, and as all demons do he hungers for more.

Desire is ambitious. Who could sample such delights and not want to gorge, to feast?

But mortals can be clever. They can be stalwart and brave and noble. There's no telling what sort of creature has wandered into his grasp, so it's best to make a good impression. Luxuries are a good start. A palace, perhaps, marble and gold, a bastion in the shifting, mercurial nature of the Fade.

Let the little mortal dream, he thinks, excitement growing as the prospect of a host starts to take seed. Let him conjure the details himself, feeding the illusion with his own comforts and wants. Let the mageling build his own perfect trap, one he could exist within happily, never even wanting to leave.

So much the better if he surrendered to desire willingly. ]

Re: for Dorian

[footsies]

[ It's not his first time through the mess of the Fade. He's used to how it works, how to dodge demons, how to protect himself. After the mess in Tevinter, though, his sleep isn't as guarded.

He spends the night in a brothel, curled between the two bodies he'd paid to keep him warm at night, far enough in the slums that no one would come looking for him. When he wakes - and he knows it's not quite waking, knows how to judge and measure his surroundings, it's to shiny floor and gilded walls - ridiculous in its opulence. Why not more, he thinks with a snort, and feels it tremble around him, a mix of ridiculous opulence and Tevinter's own greed, sharper angles.

There's food there - while he knows it won't sate him for the morning, he doesn't much care. It's still enjoyable.

Dorian turns to a table that's suddenly there, spiced curries, candied nuts, a whole spread of his favorites and his lips twitch as he plucks a grape and finds it peeled in his hand, just like that. It's popped into his mouth and he trails on, exploring for lack of anything else to do, his staff landing in solid, steady thumps against the ground. He encounters the normal demons, of course - dodges them, unimpressed, unwilling to surrender to rage or fear or anything like that. No, those aren't much his issues.

Pride, maybe. Or desire. But he hasn't gone that deep in just yet, and doesn't care to go looking and tempt fate. Instead, he plucks another piece of fruit, and studies the walls, rather impressed if he says so himself. ]

steven pls

[battleshipping]

here we are again. the same, but different

& some more steve

[battleshipping]

[thelivinglegend]

[ Battle after battle, journey after journey. It feels at times as if that is all his life will ever be, and he honestly feels no regret for it at this point. Maybe once, a long time ago. If he has regrets, it only ever involves the people who become a part of his life along the way.

He feels them when he hears that Peggy is not expected to make it to the end of the month. Life is fleeting. Not his, it seems, but everyone else's.

The time he takes isn't exactly a vacation, more decompression than anything. It's a nice hotel room, just the right touches of nostalgia in the print of the window dressing and the sheets, and the music he would have listened to on a record player at home now croons from an mp3 player charging on the bedstand.

He checks his phone, the last text he sent out, for what seems like the dozenth time before stowing it away again. ]

For Marjara

[eothasian]

Tyki Mikk

[how_i_tease]

god damn it

[myheartglows]

For the cheese nerd

[ladyoflions]

Noodle nerd

[ladyoflions]

And now, the queen

[ladyoflions]

[It's with hesitation that Rosie seeks out her elder sister, waiting till dinner has come and gone, letting night creep over the mountains. She isn't quite sure what even makes her hesitate so, she knows Mia loves her, wants nothing more than her happiness. That's all she's ever wanted, as much as she despairs over Rosie's flightiness, her unwillingness to just settle and make a life from what she has. She knows, deep down, that the last thing Mia wants, is for Rosie to end up like her, alone and seemingly too old.

Mia has always been the one to think about such things. More mother than elder sister, even before the Blight. She's been the one to raise Rosie, really, to the point that sometimes when Rosalie thinks about her mother the face she imagines doesn't seem quite right, both too much and too little of Mia in it. The image has blurred over the years, and in the end it's Mia's approval, her opinion she finds herself needing, and the thought of losing such things is a terrifying one.

But Mia needs to know. She's her sister, the eldest of the family, it's head and shoulders and strong steady backbone. She should have been the first to know, and perhaps if Mia was younger, or Rosalie older she would have been. Perhaps, but in this she's kept even Bran in the dark. Even from day one it hadn't seemed like her usual rush of feelings, thoughts of Alistair lingering more than they should, her heart beating faster than it typically did when he smiled at her.

Those feelings had only grown, in the end. And now Rosie knows, with a stubborn clarity of her own. This is what she wants. This is the man she wants to spend her life with, this is the man she well and truly loves. She wants all that she can have with him, whatever life they can make together even if it means never being the princess or lady she often dreamed about. Childish dreams, really, she had always known that. Something to cling to to hold the real world at bay but with Alistair at her side... She thinks she can face it now.

But first. Telling Mia has to happen, and Rose knows she can't dally any longer. There's been too many close calls already, Skyhold not that big of a Keep, and in truth she wants them all to know. Wants to be able to stand in the sun with her hand in his, to embrace him without the smallest fear of family rejection. And Mia deserves to know first.

So Rosie steels herself and goes to her sister's rooms, her knock sharp. But her voice is soft when she calls out, half pressed to the door, ears straining for the smallest sound of movement]

Mia? It's me, Rosalie. [Using her proper name. A sign that it's serious]

[lettersfromhome]

[ Serious indeed. And with Rosalie she's always been of two minds. Part of her wants her protected from the stark bleakness the world has to offer them, and if she still possesses the heart to dream? Mia cannot be the one to take it from her. Not after all they've already lost along the way.

But she cannot keep her forever sheltered. She'll need to find a family of her own, to settle down and do well for herself, and stop waiting for a prince or a knight to sweep in out of a fairy tale and carry her away. A potentially good life in the here and now shouldn't be sacrificed for the sake of a fantasy.

Perhaps that's part of the reason she brought her to Skyhold, to see the way people push forward and make do with what they have. Cullen's done well for himself, even if he's often too busy to spend time with them, but there's more than enough to keep anyone busy here...and Rosalie has never lacked for friends. She can learn a great deal, provided she doesn't spend the entirety of her time breaking hearts left and right across the keep.

One in particular is drawing Mia's attention over time, a Grey Warden she appears to be growing quite friendly with. Oh, Mia has respect for their Order, for what they do...particularly after the Blight. But this, whatever it is, it can't be what she suspects it is. Rosalie has to know that this is even more foolish a fantasy, both brief and tragic. She's got sense enough to know -- ]

Come in.

[ Maker, may she have sense enough. ]

Iron Bull / Fenris

[brooder]

The Iron Bull and his Chargers were notorious in this part of the world, but truth be told Fenris knew of him from what felt like a lifetime ago. His face was older now, he was also missing an eye, but he was the same Qunari that Fenris recalled seeing from a few of the skirmishes. How strange to suddenly be thrown into the path of his past while 'dismantling' a den of slavers along the Orlesian border, though if Bull recognized him he hadn't brought it to his attention yet. He knew his markings made him stand out, but the fog was always so thick that perhaps he had never been seen, though the dwarf's blasted book gained him more notoriety than he expected.

He accepted the invitation to join them for a drink in an inn which was a small step up from the Hanged Man, though he quickly changed his mind once he took a sip of their wine. No, definitely just a step sideways. The Chargers were rowdy but he enjoyed listening, as it been a long time since he'd had anyone to listen to. A pang of loneliness was dismissed, something he was used to doing. Perhaps it was the need for company that had his eyes, nearly shadowed by his long bangs, lingering over Bull's body. He admired the man for many reasons, and Maker knows he had not known the touch of anyone since Isabela. Still, he should not stay for so long, or so he told himself. Yet he continued to stay, drink, and continue to look when he felt no one was watching.

[qunari]

When you were a spy, you learned to watch without the appearance of watching. While the Qunari -- now Tal-Vashoth, in truth -- appeared to be doing little but smiling and laughing along with his boys, matching them drink for drink, he'd already noticed the elf's lingering gaze. One of many things in the tavern he'd picked up, along with the shake in the bartender's left hand and the shady-looking dwarf tucked back against the fireplace.

None of these things were of an immediate concern. The elf? Definitely a curiosity.

Still, Fenris was trying to be covert about those glances, and Bull let him think he wasn't being noticed, only just glancing back a time or two in the natural flow of conversation. Eventually, that look lingered. Bull's mouth crooked at the corners, a very different smile from the jovial grin that accompanied the Chargers' storytelling, and he drew himself from his chair with a scrape against the wood floor.

The nod towards the door is subtle. It could just be a breath of fresh air he's angling for. Could be an opportunity. Really, what it turns out to be depends on the elf, and whether or not those looks are what he's betting on.

Winter Soldier

[rumlow]

[ The target wasn't the issue. Some small time warlord with delusions of blackmailing Hydar with the knowledge of their existence. The same Hydra that had made him what he was when it suited them to have someone to stir the pot in this volatile region of the Middle East.

Not a smart idea when Hydra didn't take kindly to loose ends.

It had been a serious security risk to justify unleashing the asset, alongside the STRIKE team responsible for seeing him to the base where the warlord and his soldiers were currently holed up. Simple job, all told. The asset's primary concern was the targets elimination with the team acting as backup and distraction to clear his path to the target and the plan had worked perfectly. To a point. This would be the point in time where he'd radio in to the asset with instructions to meet up with the rest of the team.

But at the moment? Rumlow's just a little busy getting the shit kicked out of him by some upstart hired guns who got the drop on him. Rollins was supposed to be keeping his back clear, but intel hadn't mentioned these guys. Figured that anyone who had the arrogance to try and blackmail Hydra would have a little hidden firepower to back themselves up. It wouldn't be enough if the asset got wind.

But Rumlow, for all his skill and cunning, is just a man. He can't break cuffs with his bare hands. All he can do now is grin savagely up at the idiots looking so fucking pleased with themselves, ready to hand him over as 'proof' once their contact gives the all clear. Hard to do, with a couple of fresh knife wounds in his throat, but they don't know that yet. Brock knows. The asset hasn't failed them yet, and the man was as good as dead as soon as they landed. He might be too, if the asset decides he's not worth pulling out of the fire, and that's fair really. He fucked up, got careless. It's him that should pay the price for it.

It doesn't change the fact that he's thoroughly enjoying the notion of what's going to happen to this fuckwads when he gets here. ]

[gavemyleftarm]

[ He’s little more than a weapon. They point him in a direction and set him loose like a mad dog. No, there’s more focus in him than that. He’s precise, efficient, and relentless. Hydra sent him with a team, of course. Back-up, perhaps, but they were his handlers. The Soldier knows that much (and knows it because it’s valuable that he does. Hydra doesn’t take risks with him). Even in that regard, he has a grudging respect for the boys in STRIKE. They’re tough as nails and good at what they do. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s come to think of them as comrades, not handlers. They’re the ones who make sure his missions go smoothly. They’re the ones who back him up when the situation gets too messy.

So he’s not about to leave them now.

He knows something’s gone sideways when no one contacts him. There’s a protocol with these things, malleable as it sometimes must be, they never disregard it entirely. So he heads back to where they were. Well, he’s not just going to walk in; he doesn’t know what’s waiting. Stealth isn’t a skill he struggles with, even if it’s not used often.

There’s only a handful that he can see; enough to overwhelm STRIKE by employing surprise. Not enough to stop him from tearing through them to aid his team. The first two he takes down with a knife, cutting through their vocal chords before they could ever make a noise. Each he lowers to the floor to prevent attention from the noise. Once he gets to the team, he’s not making any effort to hide. He’s just as precise as before, putting bullets in enemies without wasting a single round. There’s no made spray of gunfire from him (best to keep his people from getting hurt). Once he’s out, he drops the gun and goes for the last three with a blade.

He’s vicious, wild-eyed, and… enjoying the carnage. It shows in his eyes when a glancing blow knocks the protective eyewear off. It isn’t hard to imagine the sneering grin beneath the mask as he sinks the knife into the throat of the last man standing. He doesn’t even bother wiping the blood from it when he crouches to cut the cuffs off the team. ]

Cullen

[hallaifyouherd]

[ It's been a month since the kiss. A month since she awkwardly fell asleep in the Commander's arms, dizzy from wine and grief and sudden revelations.

She was really going to have to find a way to stay conscious around him, or whatever this was was never going to work out.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the Inquisition still required her attention, and traveling to the Emerald Graves proved necessary once it was clear Corypheus was digging for something in the elven ruins. With party in tow, she'd put distance between her and Skyhold...but perhaps with a lighter heart at the prospect of coming back to one face in particular.

None of it is anything remotely official, yet. They're two people with feelings for one another in the midst of an ongoing campaign. He understands as well as she does that things will be slow, likely interrupted by duty, and probably complicated. But that doesn't stop her heart from wanting to punch a hole in her ribs and escape every time she thinks of him.

It's late at night when the guard notes their approach, lights in the distance. They disembark from their mounts and she feels every inch of her travels in her bones -- and carries at least a portion of the woods back with her on the hem of her cloak and robes -- but she knows he's awake. That light from the battlements was visible, even from here.

She doesn't even bother to unburden herself of her pack or supplies before heading towards the Commander's office. ]

[tothecause]

[ Cullen staying up late is usually a safe assumption because it's usually the only time of day that he's not interrupted with missives and summons every five minutes. Everyone else is tucked in for the night or at the tavern for the evening, leaving him with several quiet hours to actually work on the mountain of reports that accumulate on his desk on any given day.

He anticipated tonight not being any different, content that the Night Watch would alert him if there were any problems and in the meantime he's bent over a map of a problem area in the Exalted Plains the scouts have been keeping an eye on.

He hears the door open and, assuming it to be one of the guards or a messenger, he doesn't even lift his head as he continues to scribble notes on the margins of possible actions to run past the other advisers tomorrow. ]

Come in. What is it?

[ He calls out in greeting to the visitor, his tone utterly business-like and that of the Inquisition's Commander rather than Cullen himself. ]

Brennan

[qunari]

The harsh desert sun vanished hours ago, and with it a good deal of the heat. It's damn near cold as the wind sweeps the barren landscape, a few sparse, thorny plants shivering in the breeze, but the campfire's done a good enough job of keeping everyone around it from feeling the chill.

The perimeter looks clear, or it did the last time he put a passing sweep through the outside of the camp. The others are scattered about, tending to wounds and waiting for word that they're moving out again, but Bull's ready. More than ready. They may not be nearby, but the enemy is never far.

It's nothing like Seheron, where they could be next to you, smiling, waiting for the opportune moment. Oh, those people exist in the Inquisition, certainly, but few of them would be stupid or desperate enough to try anything more than spy. Out here, the bad guys practically wear signs, and he can set aside any thought of guilt or remorse with little trouble. They stop being people when they pose a threat to him and his.

Speaking of which.

Bull stops by the Inquisitor's tent almost as if incidental, as if he hadn't meant to at all, brow lifting as Brennan comes into view. "Hey boss. Doing alright?"

[outofthebreach]

There's a tiredness about Brennan's eyes as he glances up at Bull, but his smile is still just as quick and sharp as ever, not at all dimmed by the exhaustion they're all feeling from traipsing across what feels like endless plains of sand. He'd spent some time by the fire with the others but had retired to his tent earlier than normal, soaking up the heat from a lantern instead as he scribbled out a few quick reports to his advisers before bed. He'd just finished up before Bull had arrived, the missives tucked safely away in his saddlebags.

"Unless you count the fact that I've got sand in so many uncomfortable places I don't think I'll ever get it all out? Sure, I'm brilliant," he quips wryly, motioning Bull inside in invitation if he cares to visit a while. "How's it look out there? All quiet?"

Because they all had their nightly habits in camp. And Bull never settled in for the night without making sure for himself that nothing was lurking on the horizon.