Don’t forget Mordin’s “Your lower eyelids did a thing, but I’m not interested in you or the army of people trying to bang me” or Morinth’s “You’ll totally survive the brain hemorrhage I’m about to give you.”
Actually because Photosets only allow 10 pictures I couldn’t be bothered to upload some and left out a few, seeing as I didn’t think it’d get any notes.
A little piece of audio from Cullen that didn’t make it into the game (found here). I’m trying to edit together the other clips in order to share them more easily on tumblr.
Green, and grey.
Clouds of smoke and violent fires, red against white. There’s a breach in the
sky, death on the ground, and a foreign spark flares in a stranger’s hand. Cullen
knows of despair. He knows of fear, of desolation. He recognizes its particular
stench and it taints the world now, but when he looks at them, an outsider…
he doesn’t recognize himself.
The Herald of
Andraste. Pious nobles get distracted by the twitch of their fingers, as do
their enemies. Dubious allies question the life they had before, and whether
they are worthy. The fate of Thedas rests in their hands—literally—and there’s
doubt and there’s envy everywhere they go, hope and melancholy, but it’s
something else that catches Cullen’s attention. It’s something else that turns
his heart into a battlefield.
He doesn’t dare give
it a name, but it won’t be silenced. It lingers on his lips when they walk by,
a glow in his eyes when they talk. He doesn’t willingly acknowledge his
behavior, but when he finds himself in the middle of a crowd, he knows why his
head won’t stop turning, seeking, until
his gaze finally falls upon the object of his fascination. He knows why he
cranes his neck and why his sword wavers in his hand, why his steps follow
their pace, and why he walks the same hallways, every day, scanning rooms after
rooms for a glimpse of what has now become a familiar sight. He knows why his
face reddens when he finds them, looking back, and he doesn’t want to smile but
he does anyway, a blink, stalling a second too long. Maker’s breath and they steal his
away and he clears his throat and he rubs his neck, but when he returns to his
quarters, lashes fluttering low upon his cheeks, he sees them still, vibrant, a
constant beat in his chest.
It doesn’t change
once they become the Inquisitor. It doesn’t change once they drift and lean
against him, melt into him, and he cups their face and he touches their lips
and he tells them, I can’t keep my eyes
off you, even now, and they smile at him and he does recognize himself now, a part of them, and he never wants to
look away.
the real victim in Pride and Prejudice is Georgiana Darcy, bc u know her brother spent at least two weeks lying around in his Regency Jammies eating Benjamin and Jerrold’s out of ye olde carton feeling sorry for himself bc his crush not only didn’t like him back but tore him to shreds in the process and Georgie had to deal with that and then said crush shows up at their HOUSE and she has to live w both of them probably stealing lovelorn yearning glances at each other the whole damn day while knowing if she even SUGGESTS to her brother that maybe perhaps his crush doesn’t hate his entire guts anymore he’ll just be all tragic about it bc “you don’t KNOW her Georgiana she dESPISES me and i DESERVE it”
Lynda Carter attends the ‘Heavenly Bodies: Fashion & The Catholic Imagination’ Costume Institute Gala at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City (May 7, 2018).
giipsy-dangerr's tumblr 