hxbristic

Ten long years it’s been, and not a single moment of it has been spent peacefully. Balfour is tired, in truth, feeling like his Calling already looms, even though Alistair’s words still stick in his mind. He should have a good twenty years left, give or take a few, but already he hears the voices of the Old Gods beckoning.

These things are easily put aside, however. He tries not to worry about them, instead worrying about his son– and whatever plans Morrigan is currently putting into action. He isn’t aware of all she is working on, but he still trusts her. Or perhaps just loves her enough to follow her to Orlais of all places, to suffer through balls and masked parties. It wouldn’t surprise her, he’s sure, to learn of such a thing. He’s always been loyal.

Loyal enough to currently be dressed up as much as every other Orlesian fool-noble at this blighted ball. He lost sight of her a great long while ago, his dear Morrigan, his sole reason for being here tonight, though he’s sure she’s with the Empress– wherever that may be. As seems to be the norm, he gravitates towards the presence in the room that feels most like his own. The kind that attracts danger purely by existing.

It brings him some level of comfort, after all.

        “You look as though you wish to leave as badly as I.”

Brows rise, and he does try to smile. Of course, he only manages something along the lines of a particularly pained grimace. Orlais is such a chore, after all. He’d rather be back home in Ferelden, but then he’d be without his love, without his son. So suffering through these dreadful events… they’re a bearable sacrifice.

        "Were you dragged here unwillingly too?“