i too am agonized by that same decision WHO YA ROMANCING WHAT DECISIONS HUHUHUHUH
Might go for Izzy this time. Purple!Marian/Isabela have such a great rapport, and such a fabulous romance—not to mention Those Who Speak has left me in a Rivaini frame of mind.
in order to be reborn they have to have the ritual right? would the wardens, or anyone really, have known that much during the first blight? does that mean her mother was a Warden, or at least Warden-adjacent?
Maybe that’s how they figured out the Ritual? I mean, at some point in time, someone had to learn that you could make an Old God Baby by smashing Warden and Muggle body parts together at the right time and place.
I dunno, it’s probably nothing — more like the Chantry just wants Andraste’s birth to coincide with the end of the Blight as a point of theological pride. Still, the date did pop out at me.
cheesiestart said: oooooooh that would be really fascinating! maybe OGB via Morrigan will be regarded as some sort of ‘prophet’ too - how the masses see this deeper connection to the divine
there was this brilliant fic but sadly its been put on hold….the rest of my recs im sure youve read already
ON HOLD BUT NOT DEAD
(unless you meant someone else’s brilliant fic but I choose to believe that you meant shadows)
The hang-up — and it’s always been this — is that there’s this certain plot point we’re working towards, you know the one, and it’s got to happen, but I just can’t make myself DO it, because you KNOW where it’s going and I KNOW where it’s going and sweet Maker can’t that just be enough? Can’t we just time skip past all the necromancy and horribleness? Can’t we just skip forward to the happy ending already?
Okay I’ve added these people to the list:
And I still need addresses from:
If you’d like to exchange holiday cards, just leave an ask or a fanmail (my only request is that if I send you something, you send me something back! Yay for snail mail!)
And one last thing, please only request a card if you are 18 years of age or older. I have absolutely NOTHING against my teenage followers, not at all, and I’m certainly not going to stuff my cards with cigarettes and porn or anything like that. But consider that your parents would probably freak out if you got a card from some 30 year old anonymous stranger you met on the internet — if for no other reason than that means you gave out your address to some 30 year old anonymous stranger on the internet. So please, only consenting adults should volunteer for my holiday exchange. Thanks!
(And if you see your name above or on this list and you’re not over 18, please let me know and I’ll take you off it. I know — maybe we can do a holiday email exchange instead?)
Come on, self, try a looser cartoon style
NOT LOOSE ENOUGH
omg girl i am fucking DYING over here
magenta: what drives you the most insANE?
Noise. I cannot concentrate with noise, particularly intermittent, staccato noise. So talking. Eating. Coughing. Humming. Whistling. Clicking your pen. Flossing your teeth. Breathing. (No, seriously, I have yelled at people for breathing before.) And I get vicious when I’m disturbed—it’s a good thing I work from home because I wouldn’t last two minutes in a real office.
I really am the worst person to be around when I’m working.
Yellow: What do you do when you’re stuck in a block? list three sources of inspiration when new ideas are scarce.
I’ll answer this for fic writing, because when it’s work-related, my process usually just involves going back to the source material and doing more research. For corporate writing, I find I don’t get blocked in the same way—you still have good days and bad, of course, but for the business world it’s more important to ensure that the words make sense when you smash ‘em together than that they look nice, you know?
So, for fic:
Carver and Merrill are university students that have to read the same book for their freshman English class. Late night study session. GO.
she’s just enraptured by the way your mouth moves, Carver
good thing you have coffee because I bet you’ll be up all night studying
Yep, still staring. At me. Like I’m some sort of monkey, and she’s waiting for me to dance.
I grit my teeth and force myself to ignore her, because, dammit, Carver Hawke is nobody’s monkey.
“She gave me for my pains—“ She sighs, her breath making a little flutter against my arm, hot and brief. “A world of—“ Goddammit, she did it again. Wait. She’s not doing this on purpose, is she?
“A world of—what?” I slam my hands on the table and wheel on her.
Goddammit. She’s still staring.
“What?” Trust Merrill to make one syllable sound so innocent and yet so dirty at the same time.
“I can’t do this with you, with you,” the heat rises to my cheeks, “sighing all over the place.”
She brings a small hand up to her mouth, to hide a smile she thinks I can’t see. “Oh, Carver. Don’t be so literal.”
I frown. “What?”
“The line?” She leans against me and pokes a finger against the play in my hands. She’s warm. Firm. Pressed against my arm like it means nothing at all. “The line you’re reading? She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. See?“
“I see,” I grunt. Something on her smells like apples. Her hair, maybe. It’s like the stuff her friend Bela uses—not that I’ve been paying attention. “If you know this play so well, maybe you should read it.”
“Nah.” She leans back, the half-smirk still toying with the corners of her lips. “I like when you do it better.”
Quickly I look down at the play in my hands. Without her pressed against it, my arm feels cold. “But you’re not even listening to me.”
“Of course I am.” She pauses so long that I look up again. When our eyes meet, she lowers her lashes ever so slightly, and bites her curling lip in a way that goes straight down my spine, and I suddenly get the sense she’s been waiting for me to look up all this time, just so she could look at me like that. “Intently.”
“Then, uh.” I swallow. Words. Breath. Making. How? “Guess—I better keep going.”
She hesitates a moment, and I swear her eyes drop to my lips before whatever that expression is on her face dissolves, melting away into a full, wide grin.
“Guess so,” she chirps. She waves her hand. “Orate on, my good Othello.”
It takes me a moment to figure out she said orate and not something else.
Stupid Carver. No. Goddammit. Stupid monkey.