[Lavellan's usually content to let people sort out their shit on their own. He's had enough of having to manage other people's drama for one lifetime, and as far as he's concerned the rest of the world now has a blank check to tear itself apart if it wants. He did his time.
...The problem with that is he didn't anticipate... this. This morass of alien thoughts mixing in with his own, endlessly, constantly, so that even on the best days he feels like he's struggling not to drown. It's getting better with time and practice, but it's not stopping.
And that's just on the best days.
Something is happening with his new broodmate--the girl, Asuka. In a fight, he realizes, dimly. All he knows in the moment is a roiling, ugly, black mass of impulse, almost like a sickness, overlapping and confusing with his own thoughts and making him forget where he is. For a moment he's back home, months ago, reeling and in shock and grief as the entire structure of his life and--thoughts and memories that aren't his flit through his head and it isn't until the phantom sting of a slap on his own cheek, an echo reverberating through the link, brings him back to the presents that he realizes what's happening.
Hatred. That's what it is. Hatred. It's bleeding through from Asuka, through the bond, and it builds and builds until fuck this. Fuck this. He should be calm. It would be more productive to be calm, but he also can't care. He's sick of this and sick of feeling terrible and angry that other people have the gall to make it worse when he's trying to have a moment to his damn self.
He finds them easily enough; he hardly thinks about where he's going, just following through intuitively until he walks right into them mid-argument, and doesn't bother stopping to actually take in the scene. Instead he strides forward and grabs Asuka's raised arm by the wrist. He's prepared to drag her away if she resists.]
wanders in with pizza
...The problem with that is he didn't anticipate... this. This morass of alien thoughts mixing in with his own, endlessly, constantly, so that even on the best days he feels like he's struggling not to drown. It's getting better with time and practice, but it's not stopping.
And that's just on the best days.
Something is happening with his new broodmate--the girl, Asuka. In a fight, he realizes, dimly. All he knows in the moment is a roiling, ugly, black mass of impulse, almost like a sickness, overlapping and confusing with his own thoughts and making him forget where he is. For a moment he's back home, months ago, reeling and in shock and grief as the entire structure of his life and--thoughts and memories that aren't his flit through his head and it isn't until the phantom sting of a slap on his own cheek, an echo reverberating through the link, brings him back to the presents that he realizes what's happening.
Hatred. That's what it is. Hatred. It's bleeding through from Asuka, through the bond, and it builds and builds until fuck this. Fuck this. He should be calm. It would be more productive to be calm, but he also can't care. He's sick of this and sick of feeling terrible and angry that other people have the gall to make it worse when he's trying to have a moment to his damn self.
He finds them easily enough; he hardly thinks about where he's going, just following through intuitively until he walks right into them mid-argument, and doesn't bother stopping to actually take in the scene. Instead he strides forward and grabs Asuka's raised arm by the wrist. He's prepared to drag her away if she resists.]
Shut. Up.