Tag: anders

yarking:

pikestaff:

So anyway Anders was canonically in solitary confinement (widely considered a form of torture) for a year and that factoid isn’t changed by your guys’ “here is a list of Dragon Age characters who had it bad [conveniently leaves out Anders]” posts

Honestly the fact that Anders is anywhere near how functional he is after that is just a testament to his remarkable strength, and the heartbreaking circumstances where he would be required to demonstrate it. Fuck the chantry, is what I’m saying.

vonuberwald:

pikestaff:

So anyway Anders was canonically in solitary confinement (widely considered a form of torture) for a year and that factoid isn’t changed by your guys’ “here is a list of Dragon Age characters who had it bad [conveniently leaves out Anders]” posts

I don’t understand how people think he doesn’t have it bad even if they don’t agree with him or like him?

I mean. Even if you haven’t played Awakening or didn’t listen too closely to him throughout DA2, his actual recruitment mission isn’t enough to convince you he’s not on fucking holiday?

mikkeneko:

drawsshits:

Anders IS the only one out of your group of assholes that actually goes out of his way and dedicate years of his life to helping the disenfranchised js, for free i might add

It’s an interesting dichotomy there, really. If a character is a selfish asshole from the get-go, then we’re perfectly fine with them being a selfish asshole and don’t really expect more. Whereas if a character tries to be Good, then we expect them to be a saint, and the judgment is far more harsh if they aren’t.

fauxfires:

calligraphypenn:

ITS MY FAVORITE PICTURE OF ALL TIME

FAVED AND SAVED

#can’t decide#is he borrowing hawke’s clothes or have they started wearing matching couples outfits (- @carabas)

the former, imo. hawke stowed his father’s old armour away when he acquired the mysterious robes from the bone pit dragon – heavily enchanted, reeking of power, and with a gorget thick enough to mean business; it was an outfit fit for a champion. the old armour was getting a bit threadworn anyway, around the elbows and the collar; dismantling the spiked chantry sunburst pauldron had taken a toll on the seams.

anders found it in one of the spare rooms at the hawke estate. heavy with metal – buckets, paulrons, the chainmail lining the inside; even the boots were weighted with knee guards. grounding. he says he wears it for the smell of hawke, which still lingers in the thick wool collar, the greasy tips of the gloves, the worn down sash; but the truth is, it sounds like hawke, too.

every mage leaves a mark on the world in the things they handle. this suit of armour saw hawke through the challenging of an arishok and the fight for a city; he fought templars in it, and demons, and common street thugs all three with the same focus and determination, that drive to do right by someone. he wore it down in the deep roads, back when it still had that hateful chantry sunburst on the shoulder and it was the only sun they had seen for weeks; he wore it through the sniffing out of corruption in the templar order and the eradication of slavers; he’s cast magic in it, he’s been wounded in it, he’s stood in anders’s clinic and been kissed in it, and all these things have left their mark.

like aura’s wedding band, but these memories aren’t a puzzle. anders, whoever he is now, whatever he is now, doesn’t have to work backwards to find their meaning in the memories singing through the lyrium stitching. the memories are in the meaning.

he was there for every cut and scrape; he was by hawke’s side for every spell, every school hawke ever cast; he healed the wounds and kissed the man and watched hawke chip that sunburst off by hand himself, and every inch of the fabric across his skin sends little bursts of memory through him like a childhood lullaby, an old song never quite forgotten.

somedays he forgets where the line is. somedays he feels too big for his skin, like he’s bursting out of it, and the cracks spidering along his knuckles are nothing but a symptom; other days there’s sela petrae under his fingernails and all he can think about is sulphur and blue fire, you will never take another mage. somedays varric talks to him and he can’t remember which him he needs to be, to put his friend at ease – but then anders turns his head, or raises his arm; and the fabric whispers, soft and sweet, an old song in his ear – of fire and smoke; of clinic kisses and malcolm hawke’s magic; of the thudding of his heart in his chest and the rushing of his blood in his ears, and he knows.he knows.