Four years strong, we are a literate to advanced Dragon Age roleplay that focuses on the events post-Trespasser, while also following the timelines of the Warden, Champion and Inquisitor.
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Played by Holly
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It'd made the walk back to the barracks quicker, at least. Steps hastened for a will to be done with it. Return to a book he'd hoped to finish the night before, sat dog-eared and waiting beneath a pillow his pounding head longed for.
That's what the quiet did... it gave headaches.
The sorts of headaches that made a man, desperate to get off his feet, blind to his surroundings. Walking too quick. Head up. Eyes forward. If he'd thought about it, in hindsight, while breezing through the apprentice floor, he ought have thought to look down more often. So many of them too young to be there, he'd thought for long enough that, now, shaking that belief loose, had been difficult. Understanding that a small elven girl was a weapon... understanding that a boy barely able to carry a stack of books down the corridor was dangerous. Looks can be deceiving, Greagoir always said.
Which meant, when the impact came, jostling him from his focused retreat, when gaze dropped to find the culprit, he wasn't too quick to judge what was found. Thin, a wisp of a woman ( or girl? Age was hard to determine in elves ) with the markings of a wildling, was offered the same non-judgemental once over Cullen had prescribed to most of his charges. More in an effort to access her for damage than to pick apart what she wore or how she held her head. Whether she, like other elves, were determined to pay homage to their heritage and go without shoes or slippers despite frigid stone floors. More so, he'd eyed the harsh edges of her tattoos with a curiosity of their fresh state rather than anything else less scrupulous.
"Wha—... oh!" His thoughts working against him, the moment for chivalry had nearly escaped when Cullen took to the necessary crouch, desperately gathering what loose leafs and tomes were scattered about the ground around him. "No, I... I wasn't paying mind to where I was going." His blame or hers, it hardly mattered. "It's the helmet," grin in his voice, the hand not busied with straightening a line of books tapped mockingly at the side of the armor, rattling a noise in his ears less easily ignored than imagined, "whoever designed them must not have had height in mind."
It was easy to get angry.
It was easy to blame mages for all that went wrong in the tower, their abundance clear and their predisposed guilt determined by default as far as the Chantry was concerned. But...
"I am quite alright... my apologies. I'll be more conscious, next time." Mowing over a six-year-old certainly wouldn't garner him much favor, after all. "Um..." Rising, back to his full height, making sure to crane just enough to see her, the stack he'd balanced while doing so was held firm, out for her taking. "Your things, miss...?"
He should have known her name. There weren't any great number of Dalish present. None with their identifiers, at least. And, fresh as her may have seemed, there'd have been whispers among the hall gossip, surely, had he paid heed toward it. That he hadn't meant one thing, "I'm afraid I cannot place your name."