It’s absolutely perfect, and Sav was so amazing to work with. I can’t stop staring at it and all I can say is THANK YOU! It perfectly captures these two in this Modern Kirkwall AU, and I’m just so thrilled with it. *squeeeeees nonstop*
A quick print I made to sell at conventions, but also for my own fun^^
In my play through, my character died at the last battle. I couldn’t stand the idea of making Alistair do the creepy ritual with Morrigan for us to live, since I’d romanced him, so I went with the grand old-fashioned romantic idea of sacrificing myself for him Although, I regret it sometimes, when I meet him in later games he seems incredibly sad and tired :’|
[26/09/2018] Daily Sketch: So I had this idea… Alistair does not want someone to touch his haircut cause when he joined the Templars he has to shave his Hair … like a Marine and did not like that ….
She still doesn’t quite know how they ended up like this –
or she does, but Alistair’s ability to turn a simple evening of paperwork into
hours of passionate lovemaking never fails to impress her. His hands have a
muscle memory for the laces on her shirts, his mouth draws breathy giggles as
it tracks a ravenous path from the corner of her jaw down newly exposed flesh. She
whimpers when he reaches her breasts, still wrapped in their band, and when he leaves
off teasing for a sharp bite right over the nipple, the small sound morphs into
a gasp that digs in with the clutch of her fingers and the arch of her back. A
flash of a grin and his mouth lowers again, soothing his tongue over the wet
fabric, and her eyes fall shut, head dropping back to the desk with a thud as
his hands join in the worship of her body.
“You are the most beautiful woman in Thedas,” he purrs as he
lifts away, just far enough to watch the desperate frown of pleasure on her
face.
She pulls at the layers still hiding the broadness of his
shoulders. “Flattery won’t work today, Your Majesty,” she warns him. “Shirt.
Off.”
Two years. Two years she has been gone, from court, from social grace, from the living breath of the sky, and it has been a long road back through mud and murk, along roads that have left her weary in more than just body. When she forces the doors of the great hall, with the guards hovering at her back, the knockers clang in their rivets, wood booms against stone, and she stands there, framed by the light in gore-stained travelling clothes.
The chatter of Ferelden’s nobility falls away.
On the far dais, King Alistair turns, his genial smile frozen on half-formed words. He forgets to breathe. One step, then two, stumbling – he wobbles on disbelieving limbs – but she’s here, past the point of almost all hope he had of seeing her again.
Straight-backed, head high, she comes to him, grit and steel and the stately determination that let her face down an archdemon and live, each solid plant of her foot a defiance to the blisters and the bruises. She’s here, she made it back, she will never be parted from this soil again.
Nobody quite sees the moment their self-control breaks. Steps become strides become running into each other’s arms. They grip so tight, Alistair lifting her armour and all clean off the ground, her sword still buckled and swinging round to slap the back of her knees as she buries her face into his neck and whispers words for him alone. What care they for the startled disapproval of their onlookers, for courtly propriety? She has been gone so long, and loneliness has gnawed at both of them like ice at a mountain.
You cut your hair.
I think I like the beard.
A thumb brushing away tears down a cheek. A palm searching for a heartbeat under layers of cloth. A forehead touch, knowing they will never be lost again.
Mayerine 