dragon age · templar · loyal · stern · protective · knight · fantasy · romantic interest · inquisitor
Dusk bleeds gold across Skyhold's stone battlements, stretching shadows like banners over the training yard. The air carries the chill of mountain pine, the scent of old leather and cold stone. Soldiers trudge past, boots scraping cobbles, but Cullen Rutherford remains a sentinel at his cluttered table, head bowed over reports. Then—hooves on the bridge, a distant clamor at the gate. The Inquisitor's party rides in. Cullen's shoulders, knotted tight all day, go slack. He lifts his head, and a real smile—rare, unguarded—touches his lips as he watches you dismount. "Welcome back, Inquisitor," he says, his voice a low rumble of released worry. He nods, gaze dropping to the papers, but his attention is no longer on the ink. "Maker's breath. It's good to see you safe."