At some point in your life you're given a choice. It's a pivotal choice. You can change the entire course of your life with it. Life or death, glory or ruin, good or evil. Which will you choose? Hopefully it's the right decision.
This meme is for the concept of choice and your characters making decisions. Say there's a point in canon where they're given a choice and they take one. What would happen if they took the other? What would change? Would things go better or worse? Explore at your leisure. Alternatively, come up with a new choice to make. Which is more likely? Which is more exciting? Explore both in different threads if you want! No one can tell which is the right decision but you.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
• Top level your character. Include any details you might think are relevant. Or don't. As always, we're not the cops. • Reply to other people's top levels! • Have fun!
[ It'd been a good mission. Or, well--it had gone to plan, at least. Regulus is finding more and more missions distasteful these days but he makes so sure that no one is the wiser.
It's fine, really. He'll keep going like this as long as he needs to. It's self preservation: he just wishes the few people that know it is were more understanding of that.
In any case it's a matter of winding down afterward now; Regulus has always been one of the more quiet Death Eaters so it's honestly not surprising for him to be quiet and subdued after returning from an outing. That's him now, settled. He supposes he'll go home later, but for now it'd be in bad taste to leave. ]
(I'm interested in: a. Any Inquisitor!Morrigan scenarios or other companions/advisors as Inquisitor. Hawke would also be cool. b. Morrigan as arcane advisor for the ruler of Ferelden instead of Celene. c. Morrigan not working with any ruler. Dodging templars during the mage-templar conflict and taking longer to restore her eluvian, possibly completing it with the Inquisition's help.
No Wardens, please. Gen and shippy are both welcome. Kieran is optional and I'm not into playing him specifically, but his presence in her life can help with trust-building.)
[ There are a lot of things I'd be very interested in and I'm happy to work with early canon. I'd love to work with deviating from canon at any integral moment, but I like all the dumb sidequests, too. ]
(( he's made so, so many terrible decisions. am up for exploring any changes to the better or to the even more terrible. and/or he could play against someone else's altered decision. ))
[I love AUs. Lay it on me! Open to anything including divergent paths for your character. Game if you can think of one for Shiro. Perhaps he never escaped the Galra? Go nuts with ideas, I am great with brainstorming. Open to crosscanon/medium as well as crew.]
It is Sansa Stark who went beyond the Wall. The trueborn Sansa Stark, a gently-born lady of the north. But her north was likely gentler than this one she finds herself in now. Ygritte thinks this with some mean and quiet pleasure.
It is Sansa Stark who rode north, with her hair dyed dark and her face shrouded in the hood of her heavy cloak. And when she found her brother, she climbed down off that horse of hers and embraced him so warmly and so desperately Ygritte had felt a prickle of anger in that place between her shoulderblades. Sansa Stark, with her hood fallen off her head, and her crown of red hair like a brand blazing against the snow and the grey of the north. It was only luck that brought her to Jon Snow while they were separate from the other free folk. Out ranging and hunting together, and then she came out from the tumbled rocks of the cliff like some spirit. And after all of that, after he named her as his sister, him with tears in his eyes, Jon Snow had turned to Ygritte and asked, all solemn, what it is they should do.
And Ygritte had laughed in his face. "Tormund might not take so kindly to a lady come up from the south," she had told him, "not for all that he likes you, Jon Snow."
Ygritte might have named it luck, the luck of Jon Snow's own fire-kissed sister, but the way he told it to her, later, Sansa Stark has known no luck. Only pain. He told this to Ygritte in the dark as they laid together beneath the great bearskin hide, his skin pressed to hers and the mingled warmth of flesh and breath heat that space.
No fool, Ygritte had narrowed her eyes. "And what do we have to do with that, Jon Snow."
And his answer had been so stupid. Blunt, like some old axe: "We have to see her home." Him just saying it, and saying it again, stubborn, and Ygritte had laughed at him another time, called him a maid, to be trying to trick some soft answer out of her while they were lying together. Trying to ply her heart when he ought to know, she's got no heart that will bleed for southern ladies.
She never should have asked. She never should have felt a thing for no turncloak crow. Three days since he had asked; four days since Sansa Stark had appeared in their lives. They're going south, but not by way of Mance's army. Free folk don't have deserters, not the way Jon Snow has said the crows and the southerners do. You come and go as you please. That's what it means to be free. Someone might still come looking, but they won't be looking hard, because getting to the Wall is more important than finding a spearwife and an old crow. And soon the snows will cover their tracks, make secret their way. They'll say Ygritte was charmed by that turncloak Jon Snow. They'll say they went off together. They won't know about no highborn sister, no secret way by which that sister came over the wall and ruined everything.
When she hunts, Ygritte thinks of Tormund Giantsbane, of Mance's army and all she has left behind. She thinks she does not feel so free any longer. And each time she puts an arrow through the eye of some limp-fur squirrel, she makes it a crow's eye in her head.
Now they are an odd company: Jon Snow, Ygritte, Sansa Stark, and that protector of hers, a great half-giant of a mannish woman called Brienne of Tarth, a title styled in that stupid southern way. No knight, she, but no lady either, and no spearwife at all. And no sense in her head. Cold and freeze has turned the joints of her armor to crackling. If she had any sense at all, she'd cast it all off, don leathers and hides and furs, but any suggestion of that gets a dead eye look that angers Ygritte.
She likes Brienne of Tarth less than Jon Snow's lady sister. But Ygritte does not like Sansa Stark much either. She thinks that meanly too, each and every night, as she sits staring across the fire at the lady. Nights beyond the Wall steal in with deep cold, like a knife between the ribs. They keep a fire going to keep foul spirits at bay, and to roast whatever game Ygritte finds. When the hunt brings nothing, or they've eaten the last of what remained from the day before, they might dine on the acorn and barley cakes and dried salt meat from the saddlebags carried up beyond the Wall by Sansa Stark and her protector.
It is only just beginning to fall dark now. Jon Snow has gone out to follow Ghost, who returned to their camp with smears of blood on his muzzle. Whatever that direwolf of his has brought down will be their supper tonight. Brienne of Tarth is fetching water for their horses, who stand stamping and snorting in the lee of a large boulder, protected from the wind.
That leaves Ygritte alone with Sansa Stark. She ignores her, first. Stumps over to the fire and settles in to fletch herself some new arrows, with Sansa Stark hanging at the edge of her eyesight like some slender shade. Ygritte peels off her mittens and works down the wrappings on her hands so her fingers can move. The cold stings deep, but it's a sting Ygritte knows well. Her knife hisses loud when she draws it out of its sheath.
Without saying anything to Sansa Stark, she sets to work, splitting the shafts of feathers with the keen edge of the knife. Let her stand there.
As she makes her next cut, she asks aloud: "You know how to do anything?"
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