edda-grenade

[edda-grenade]

rivulets

Caldarus had asked her once, during the late spring rains, if she might keep him company during such a peaceful moment. To his relief and delight, she had agreed. He had not expected her to make a habit of it.

1.8k, fields of mistria # caldarus/farmer, fluff + emotional smut, DRAGONFUCKING BC OBVIOUSLY, sounding, frottage

on AO3

look i know they didn't design caldarus' human form for the dragonfuckers. but his dragon form? HELLO

[edda-grenade]

Hey I just found you randomly on Tumblr and I have absolutely love your tattoo AU and I wanted to work the idea of full body vallaslin into my fic! Are you cool with that? Can I give you credit?

hey, i'm so glad you're enjoying it! <3<3<3

you can give me credit, as in 'x inspired me for y', bc i certainly don't own the idea

AND ALSO

you do Not need my permission to use that idea. like i'm certainly not the first person to use full-body vallaslin in their fanworks and i won't be the last, we're not doing iron-clad IP rights in fandom here

[edda-grenade]

tattoo au

solas has a job in the garden section of a hardware store, blood on his hands, a past that probably wants him dead, and a tattoo he really wants to get rid of. saar’s a vitaar and tattoo (removal) artist, who is definitely, totally, 100% the normal one in this scenario

au tag bc yes this is escalating

(new ship tags! who is surprised! me, somehow)

research intermission

The bathroom mirror shows a bald elf with brown skin and faint freckles, barefaced even without any glamor. Solas looks away. He touches his right cheek—the skin and underlying tissue is raw and aching from the needle. The needle that drew the ink from him.

The sensation calls the same—a similar situation to mind, despite his best efforts.

How gentle her hands were…

He buries his face in his hands, pushing until the heels of his palms make stars sparkle behind his eyelids. Inhales deeply, holds his breath, exhales for longer. His lungs ache. Eventually, he finds enough focus to work a minor healing spell, easing the recovery of the skin along.

Before he prepares for bed, he checks the wards on door and windows, and smothers the impulse to ascend the stairs to Mythal’s private quarters and ensure the security measures there are all in place and functioning properly.

The apartment he stands in now has no stairs. It is small and far from new, but the rent is affordable, and just as his current employer, no one cared much for background checks before he was able to sign the contract. The fact that Solas Adahlen has no records of his existence that reach back farther than a few months did not present an obstacle.

He tidies away the dishes from dinner. He brushes his teeth. He checks the wards again. He dons his nightclothes. He goes to bed.

He falls asleep with the phantom sensation of a hand stroking his back.

Fear not. You will always be mine. I would never cast you out…

You good to keep going?

#

Merrill is already in her pyjamas when Saar arrives: flannel, with ducks and frogs printed on it. Her hair’s still up, and a mess. Saar tugs the pencil out of the bun once she lets go of Merrill from their hug and tucks it into the breast pocket of Merrill’s shirt.

“You sounded worried,” Saar murmurs as Merrill leads her inside. Merrill laughs, a sound that is too sharp and too bright.

“Only a little! Probably!” She drags Saar to sit down on the patched-up couch. On the low table in front of it, pages from one of her vallaslin research folders are spread out. She sits down next to Saar, feet drawn up onto the cushions, puts her chin on her knees and wraps her arms around her legs. “There. That was the article with the best picture…”

Saar scans the headline—the big splash of a tabloid, about infiltration by ancient nefarious beings—then the picture itself.

“…How’d they even get permission to print that?” she asks after a moment.

“I doubt they asked.”

It’s a photograph of a naked corpse. Clinical, with even white lighting, the body laid out on a slab in what’s presumably a mortuary. The wounds may have been cleaned, but something had ripped open the stomach. Saar tries not to look too closely. She can handle fresh injuries, the scent of blood and viscera everywhere, but that… it looks wrong. Feels wrong.

Lines of dark, almost black copper form twisting ribbons and what might be stylized flower buds all over the skin. The motifs stretch from the cheeks down onto the throat, grow along the collarbones and bloom onto the arms. Above the sternum, a stylized panicle of blossoms points down towards the navel, its vines wrapping over the ribs. On the knees more abstract flowers bloom, stretching their leaf-ribbons out towards the hips and feet.

The pattern itself is very different, but the overall arrangement, the strange sheen of the ink even under that sterile light…

Saar’s insides feel cold, and heavy.

“You said the victim wasn’t Dalish?” she asks Merrill, leaning their shoulders together.

“Most likely not, yeah. There was a whole conspiracy going on—y’know, ‘oh, the Awakened Ancient Dalish are coming to take over’—which might’ve played a part, but no clan ever claimed her. And…” Merrill pulls out two different articles, scrawled over with her own notes. “She got mauled by some kind of animal, no idea what because this was in the city, the reports just said ‘animal attack’. But the cause of death—” she taps the first of the other articles, “—probably wasn’t that. It was poison.”

Saar’s starting to see where the potential murder is coming in. She looks at the second article.

“What does ‘Elgar’nan Goldenhand of Arlathan’ have to do with this?” The name’s marked in neon yellow, and underlined. The photograph is of a tall elvhen man, in expensive-looking clothes, a kind of crown on his dark hair.

“His wife and him are the leaders of a Creators’ Temple, in Arlathan. Like, they say they actually are splinters, or reincarnations, of the Creators? The Sun-Father and the All-Mother.” Merrill’s voice goes thin. “And their followers—there’s not a lot of images, never mind naked ones, but—I think they have full-body vallaslin too.”

Saar’s skin crawls. She sinks down into the couch, head resting on the backrest. She looks up at the ceiling. When Merrill moved in, Saar helped her paint it, sky and clouds around a bright sun.

“You think the person who got killed was one of those followers,” Saar says, not quite a question.

“I think they murdered her, because she left,” Merrill whispers. Hearing it out loud is worse than having just the thought in your head, and Saar has to take a deep breath. “Look, I know—I know, all right, I know that there’s no concrete evidence for that, but—” Merrill clambers onto Saar’s lap and into Saar’s field of view, her hands insistently cupping Saar’s jaw.

“Please be careful, all right?”

“I will,” Saar promises quietly. Her breath is going all thin in her lungs, because her brain’s running off and imagining Solas laid out on a metal table like that, lit by dead light, his stomach opened up by something with many teeth. That Merrill feels cold and smells like fear even though she’s practically in Saar’s arms is even worse.

She does wrap her arms around Merrill properly. When Merrill kisses her, Saar just pulls her closer.

“Want me to stay the night?” Saar asks quietly, once they part. Merrill nods and kisses her again.

#

The tattoos on the back of Samson’s shoulder, spilling over the skin from the full sleeve, always move in such mesmerizing ways when Saar fucks him. Seems as if the flowers shift in the wind, petals opening and closing, from the bunching of muscles beneath the skin.

He twists a little to shoot a filthy grin at her over his shoulder. “Getting lost in your own handiwork again?”

Saar huffs out a laugh and a groan. She grabs his hair and pushes his face down into the mattress again. Snaps her hips harder against his.

Afterwards, while she’s cleaning him up, Samson trails his fingers over her knee where she sits next to him on the edge of the bed.

“You back on with Daisy?” he asks, voice very casual.

Saar goes still. How does he always…

“We were never off,” she replies. “And how would you know?”

“It doesn’t take you as long to get really mean, when you’ve fucked her first.” Samson smirks. “I should send her a fruit basket for that, one of these days.”

Saar can’t help laughing. She puts the rag away and applies elfroot tincture to the spots on his ass and thighs where her claws went through the skin. “And what would you put on the card?”

Samson hums. “‘Most gracious gratitude, signed, Raleigh Samson’s libido’?”

“Horrible. She’d love it.”

There’s quiet for a bit, while Saar finishes up with the tincture. Samson never asks, but he also never tells her not to, when she does a pass over the old lyrium infusion marks in the bend of his elbows too.

“I do need a favor,” she says then. Samson just raises his eyebrows at her, looking not the least bit surprised. Asshole, Saar thinks fondly. “I have a client, who…” How does she even put this. I think he ran away from a maybe-cult lead by supposedly reincarnated gods?

Finally she settles on: “I think he’s got a similar history to you. Not a Templar, but… someone who got out of a very bad situation.”

“You want me to talk to him.”

“Offer to, yeah.”

Samson considers this. “How long have you known the guy?”

“Uh. A tenday? We had three sessions—well, two. First one was for making an actual appointment.”

“Saar.”

“What?!”

Samson puts a hand half over his eyes, laughing hoarsely. “No, no, you’re right,” he says. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“So you’ll come by?” Saar can’t help how hopeful she sounds. 

“Of course.”

[edda-grenade]

The Ink Plot Thickens

solas has a job in the garden section of a hardware store, blood on his hands, a past that probably wants him dead, and a tattoo he really wants to get rid of. saar’s a vitaar and tattoo (removal) artist, who is definitely, totally, 100% the normal one in this scenario

au tag bc yes this is escalating

3rd meeting

Ten minutes into the second appointment, Solas realizes with a start that Adaar has worn a different vitaar pattern each time he has seen her so far. For him to be so occupied and distracted to have missed it… that is disconcerting.

This one is bright warm yellow in color, similar in hue to her eyes. The bottom half of a stylized sun on her forehead where her hairline starts, its rays stretching down over her temples, nose, and cheekbones. He does not recall the specifics of the past ones—last time, it was perhaps pale blue?

“It’s not based on the Tranquil brand,” she says, eyes flicking up to meet his before returning to where the needle pierces his skin. “In case you’re wondering.”

He was not, but now that she has pointed out the similarity, he does. She did not seem defensive in the denial, but… worn.

“What is it based on?” he asks, trying to move his face as little as possible as he speaks. The way she halts, chuckles, and readjusts her careful hold on his face, he was not successful.

“My parents gave it to me, when I was like, five? It did look different, back then.” She sighs. “But they didn’t know about the Rite. Then we found out, and… well. Spent two months thinking about ways to burn down the Grand Cathedral, when I was seven.”

Solas swallows, his throat suddenly tight. How much time he had spent, conceiving of ways to rip the Sun-Father’s temple from its foundations…

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “It looks beautiful.”

Saar smiles. “Thanks. Now, what were you saying, before you got distracted? About splitting the enchantment?”

“Yes—it might be easier to make adjustments if the spell were to be split into several components. One enchantment to drive the recognition of pigment, another to power the extraction…”

They spend much of the next two hours like this, debating and discussing how to adapt the tattoo removal enchantment to deal with recalcitrant inks like the one that Solas bears. He is aware the fact that he speaks so much, and thereby disrupts Saar’s work, prolongs the task—but she does not reprimand him for it. Or even seems to mind, truly. She is as invested in the question as he is, and her cunning, delight, and creativity as they talk almost let him forget why they are discussing the matter in the first place.

Almost.

“Look, this won’t be relevant for you, but…” She sets down the tool and huffs out a breath. She has been operating it with her left hand today, to more easily work with the other side of his face, as confidently as with her right—but the exhaustion of fueling her own magic into the enchantment is plain. Still, her smile is sincere. Hopeful. “Do you wanna work on this with me, to target this kind of ink? Like, actually work on it? I still owe you that demonstration, obviously, but afterwards…”

Cold wraps itself around Solas’ limbs like vines. Thin, choking tendrils all along his skin.

#

Saar regrets asking almost immediately. Solas looks at her like an animal with its leg caught in the snare. He’s practically cringing away from her, and she scoots her chair backwards on instinct, holding up her hands.

“Hey, no, don’t worry, it—”

Solas sucks in a sharp breath. “That is not—” He snaps his mouth shout. His throat works. “I am…” He stops again, clearly searching for words.

Saar keeps quiet, wary and watchful. It doesn’t seem like he’s about to bolt, so she forces herself to wait. After a horribly long moment, silent except for both their unsteady breathing, Solas gets up from his chair. But he doesn’t leave.

He shrugs off his cardigan. Takes off his fingerless gloves. Drags the undershirt over his head, leaving him half naked.

The vallaslin is everywhere.

Fine, branching tendrils follow the lines of his arms down to the backs of his hands. They wrap around his ribs, over his shoulders, frame his hipbones. By now he’s stepped out of his trousers too, and the tendrils reach all the way to his ankles. Spreading like vines along the sinews of his feet.

Solas watches her with wide, wounded eyes. Any words stick right in Saar’s throat.

It’s always so easy, to fall a little bit in love with her clients. Hard not to, when they trust Saar with something as intimate as marking their bodies. Even if it’s impermanent the way vitaar is, the process of designing a pattern for somebody, of applying it… They open up their souls for her, and then, they allow her to touch it. Trusting her not to harm them.

Sometimes that connection lingers, like Sam, whose Templar marks she turned into a bouquet of toothy red flowers. But even when it doesn’t, when she never sees them again, she still remembers: Karriss, who asked for a vitaar fit for a poet and a knight, to go court a mage politician in Ostwick, as if he’s in a fairytale. Helisma, who asked for the sun of the Tranquil brand on her forehead to be made into a starry sky. Evka and Antoine, wanting to frame their shared scars in colorful ink.

Right now it feels as if Solas cracked open his own ribcage and dragged Saar's hand inside to touch his heart.

“All of it,” Solas says finally. His voice is brittle. “I want all of it gone.” So quietly that Saar barely hears it: “I need it gone.”

Saar just manages a nod, at first. She gets up, blindly drops the syringe tool onto the equipment table. Rubs her hand across her mouth, because about a thousand questions are trying to climb out of her throat. She’s never seen vallaslin patterns that extended beyond the face. And this—it’s massive. It must have taken ages to ink. Not something anyone could drunkenly stumble their way into, or have done in a fugue of a few days. And whatever the reason was, now—now it tears him up.

She takes a step closer. When Solas doesn’t flinch or back away, more steps, until they’re right in front of each other.

“We’ll get rid of it,” Saar murmurs. If she starts asking questions right now, she’s never gonna stop. “I promise.”

Solas nods, lips pressed together. She reaches past him, then drapes his cardigan over his shoulders again. He shivers. And it’s really bloody stupid, because Solas is in his fucking underwear and apparently he can barely talk about his vallaslin, markings, whatever it is, but—

Saar hugs him. Not tightly, not too long. Careful, except for the part where he might be having a panic attack right now. But when she tries to let go, Solas’ fingers claw into her shirt at her waist, holding on. He buries his face in her chest, his breath stuttering.

All right. All right. She can work with that. Slow, deep breaths.

After a while of just holding him, Saar pets his back a little. Wonders if there’s vallaslin under her hand here too.

“You good to keep going? I’m close to done with that patch…”

Solas nods silently, and slowly, with hitched movements, entangles himself from her arms.

“My apologies,” he croaks. “I did not intend… That was rather inappropriate of me.”

…Wow. Saar kind of wants to shake him. And then hug him again.

“Don’t worry,” she replies, her tone a lot lighter than she feels. “Believe it or not, but you’re far from the first client to get snot and tears on my shirt.” At Solas’ glance towards his discarded trousers, she adds: “Not the first one for that, either. Besides, I will see all of it eventually anyway.”

He lets out a slow breath and nods again. Seems to compose himself through sheer willpower, or maybe that’s just Saar’s own worry nagging at her heart. But he gets dressed and sits down, and when she sets her fingers and the needle to his skin again, she could swear he relaxes.

#

Once Solas has left, Saar closes down the shop and calls Merrill.

“Do you know of any Dalish clans that do full-body vallaslin?” Saar asks, without preamble. “Or ones that use spell-infused ink?”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Merrill’s probably putting the pieces together of what this is about, which is… not ideal. But Saar hasn’t actually said anything. And the questions are like a fucking storm in her head.

“It’s rare,” Merrill says finally. It sounds like she’s digging through books or paper stacks. “There are some clans in the Tirashan, their designs extend beyond the face. I’ve never done those myself—we do have a bottle of the pigment somewhere I think? It’s that Sunrise Crimson red—but I can ask… I could reach out to my old Keeper.”

Shit. “You don’t have to,” Saar says softly. “Just, get me a direction, I can go blunder into that mess for info myself.”

Merrill laughs a little, the sound very small and not very happy. “Yes, I’ll put something together for y—oh! Right! Hold on, there was—”

More rustling, hurried steps. Muffled curses. Saar smiles, imagining Merrill’s frantic, excited energy. Around her, the tattoo parlor is just quiet and dark.

“There was a, a death or a murder or something,” Merrill says now, in the tone she uses when she’s talking herself through her memories, “I don’t remember when, a few years ago? Down in the Dales; Lydes, maybe? And the victim had vallaslin everywhere, but the papers said she wasn’t Dalish—where is that damn folder—”

Suddenly it’s as quiet on the other end of the line as it is in Saar’s shop. Tension seeps down her spine and into her limbs.

“…Merrill?”

“…Yes! Yeah, I’m here, I—” Another pause. “Saar, I think you should… You should come over and look at this yourself.”

[edda-grenade]

more tattoo removal shenanigans

solas has a job in the garden section of a hardware store, blood on his hands, a past that probably wants him dead, and a tattoo he really wants to get rid of. saar’s a vitaar and tattoo (removal) artist, who is definitely, totally, 100% the normal one in this scenario

au tag bc yes this is escalating

2nd meeting

Solas arrives early for his first session of tattoo removal. Someone else stands behind the counter this time: a tall and lanky Dalish elf, her dark hair done up in haphazard buns. He notes the pattern of her vallaslin—the All-Mother, strong and shielding as a tree—and swallows down the panic that attempts to climb up his throat once more.

It is possible to remove his marks—the marks on him. Sunken inside his skin, down into his bones…

“Oh! You must be Solas!” the Dalish woman exclaims, eyes bright. “I’m Merrill, Saar said she mentioned me?” She steps out from behind the counter and close to him. “Don’t worry, she didn’t tell me any details,” she whispers, “but you’re in really good hands. Saar gives really good hugs if you need them; I mean I think I’m not too bad at it either, but I’m not, y’know—”

A statue in motion. The kossith in question emerges from the back room, her towering frame filling the door. 

“—Saar!” Merrill interrupts herself, “Your 3 p.m. is here!”

The gentle smile that blooms on Adaar’s face is as imbalancing as it was during their first meeting. A part of Solas wants to bare his teeth at her—he is not a wounded animal to be coaxed into shelter—but the rest of him cannot help but relax, if only slightly.

What little of her magic he was able to observe during their first meeting gave the impression of a capable mage. And if the newspaper article was accurate in this regard, she developed the enchantment herself, and ought to be able to describe its function and makeup in detail.

Adaar leads him into the back room and activates an… interesting example of a silencing sigil. Solas is not exactly familiar with the Free Marches style of academic spellcraft, but he cannot imagine anything like that being taught in official schools. She bids him sit down on the client chair, then straddles her own—backwards, again.

Her amber gaze is piercing.

“I’m not trying to pry, here,” she says, “but if you know anything about the chemical, or magical, for that matter, properties of your ink, that would be real helpful. Or just the specific product name, or manufacturer? I’ve never seen that type before.”

Solas swallows. He had done his best not to involve himself in those… proceedings. “I am afraid I do not know any specific details,” he says finally. “It is—was crafted to be particularly long-lasting and stable. It stains very well.” Like the hands of whoever applied it…

Mythal’s hands, shining silver—

Adaar laughs, small and sharp. “It certainly does.” She gets up, dons gloves, fetches the syringe tool and disinfectant. The scent of alcohol is biting as she applies it, chasing away any fragments of Solas’ memories. He breathes in deep, closing his eyes.

Adaar touches his chin, careful despite her large hands and claws, noticeable even through the thick nitrile gloves.

“Ready to get started?” Her voice is careful as well. Something in Solas’ chest twists painfully.

My dear Wolf, my General…

He releases the glamour spell.

“Yes, I am.” If his voice cracks, Adaar does not comment on it.

#

It stings. More than when Adaar extracted the sample. But if anything, the pain is a welcome distraction from the voice deep in Solas’ mind that screams he should not be doing this, must not be doing this—

“Hey. Solas?” Adaar’s voice is quiet. Solas blinks at her—he is not certain how much time has passed. “Do you… I can ask Merrill to come in, if you want?” she asks. “Hold your hand, or just keep us company? Sometimes it helps—”

“No,” Solas interrupts her, shaking his head. “I would not—the fewer people see…”

The fewer people know, the better. For his own sake, and theirs.

“Gotcha.” Adaar holds a tissue box at him. “You’re crying,” she explains gently, when he raises an eyebrow at her in question. Ah. That would explain the different stinging ache. Solas dabs his face dry while Adaar putters with her tools. She exhales, noisily, and rolls her neck and shoulders. She seems nigh exhausted. A glance at the clock hanging on the wall informs Solas that it has been almost a full hour since they began.

“Are you well?” he cannot help but ask when she sits down once more.

“Oh, yeah.” Adaar stretches her neck, generating a concerning crack, as if to belie her statement. “Your ink’s just a blighted stubborn fucker, so I need more than just the enchantment. And I haven’t figured out yet how to dislodge it more efficiently.”

More than the enchantment… She must be fueling the spell with her own magic, then. It would explain the residual energy Solas can sense lingering all around them, now that he is paying attention.

“How does it work?” Solas asks. “Both the physical mechanism and the spell?”

She hesitates, the syringe tool an inch from his face. “Little hard to explain while I’m doing this—” she gestures with her free hand at his face, “—but I can try?”

“Please do. The article did not go into much detail on the actual manner of functioning.”

Oh, that smile is new. It lights up her eyes like the sun.

“All right,” she says, pulling the skin of his cheek taut with one gentle thumb while setting the needle against it. “The core is a modified extraction spell, like what gets used in magical filtering set-ups… ”

#

It’s far from ideal, trying to explain her particular process of tattoo removal while she’s doing it. Saar constantly has to remind herself not to gesture, because she has a damn needle jabbed into Solas’ skin. The ink itself hasn’t deigned to cooperate in the meantime either, so she has to keep track of the power she’s funneling into the enchantment, move the altered tattoo gun in time when the ink does finally gets pulled out… It’s a bit of a mess, and it takes twice as long as before. Lucky that she didn’t schedule any appointments after this one.

But Solas has his eyes open now, and his breathing is regular. Not flat and fast anymore.

“You integrated multiple spells with one another? In succession?” Solas asks, a hint of disbelief in his voice. Maybe even awe.

Saar shrugs—and freezes. Blights. Good thing she’d already pulled out the needle. “Yeah? For me, it’s easier that way, building it up piece by piece. Don’t have to figure out how to fit five different things together all at once, y’know?”

“How did you deal with interference? I assume there was interference, given the complexity.”

“Oh, for sure. But it’s…” She pauses, resets the tool to the next spot, and gently holds his face still. It’s kind of endearing how readily he moves under her hand—and then completely forgets about stillness when a question or comment occurs to him. “Look,” Saar says, “I don’t know the fancy terminology for it. But I did it like you get cats used to each other. Let them sniff each other for a while, before letting them in the same room?”

“…Fascinating.” He sounds like he actually means it. His gaze shifts to somewhere in the distance, then returns. “Would you be willing to give me a demonstration? One where I am not the subject.”

Saar can’t help smiling, a little giddy. Few people are that interested. “Yeah, absolutely.” She resets the syringe tool. “Now hold still, I’m almost done with this side, then you can go back to not being an experimental subject.”

Solas actually chuckles. It’s a short, low, wry sound, but definitely a chuckle. Considering in the beginning Saar had been worried he’d start hyperventilating on her, that’s almost more of a success than getting that bloody ink out of his skin.

In the end, it takes three hours to do one cheek. Saar decides to file that as a success too. When she’d done the comparisons to the other inks in her sample library, and nothing behaved remotely the same…

“D’you wanna see how it looks right now?” she asks, before she covers the skin in ointment and gauze. Solas’ expression freezes, and only bit by bit unfreezes. Saar files that away for next time. That skittishness evidently runs deep.

“Not—not yet.”

“Sure.” She bandages the raw skin, then pats his shoulder. “Well done. That wasn’t easy.”

Solas squints at her. “I spent the past hours moving as little as possible, while you expended… quite a bit of your magical reserves.”

“True.” Saar’s starving and bloody exhausted. She takes her hand back, arms crossed over the backrest of her chair. “But removing something that was a part of you for a long time, for whatever reason, or just a short time but it still was a part of you… that’s hard. You can be proud of that.”

He looks at her as if he’s drawing up a multi-step counterargument. Saar gives him a sharp grin. “You can try and convince me otherwise next time, but not tonight.”

Solas sighs. He honestly looks exhausted too. “Very well.” He watches her for a moment, gaze inscrutable. Doesn’t smell nervous anymore, though.

“When would it be possible to schedule the next appointment?”

A part of Saar wants to say, tomorrow. But even if she didn’t have her schedule packed, she’d be too worn out to do this again so soon. She needs a lot of food, and sleep, and maybe have another go at picking apart that ink, now that she has more of it. At this point she’s almost sure there’s some kind of magic woven into it.

“In three days, same time slot?”

After a moment of consideration, Solas nods. He draws the glamour spell over the half of the tattoo that remains, and exits after her. In the front room, he hesitates before the door. He turns around and looks up at her with eyes that seem very old.

“Thank you, Saar.”

He’s gone before she can even think to reply.

Merrill, who had been closing down the shop, scoots close to Saar’s side. She gestures at her own cheek, expression curious.

“I thought he came in for tattoo removal?” she asks quietly. “That’s what you put down in the calendar…”

Saar hesitates. But… it’s Merrill. “Yeah. He did.”

[edda-grenade]

guess who's starting a Completely new AU instead of working on their big bang fic? that's right, this bastard 👍

solas has a job in the garden section of a hardware store, blood on his hands, a past that probably wants him dead, and a tattoo he really wants to get rid of. saar's a vitaar and tattoo (removal) artist, who is definitely, totally, 100% the normal one in this scenario

au tag bc yes this is escalating

1st meeting

It’s a slow day without appointments, which perhaps isn’t great for business but it’s certainly great for finally catching up with the organisation of the business. Saar inventories the pigments—vitaar, permanent and non-permanent tattoo ink—they have in store, orders new rashvine white and blightwasp red and makes a note to ask Merrill what colors she uses the most for vallaslin currently. Then there’s tidying up the vitaar design files, the back room in general, the front room counter cleared off and given a wipedown… There’s a lot that accumulates while they’re busy.

Saar’s setting everything back into place when the door jingles and an elf walks in. He’s bald and barefaced, and his gaze immediately snags on the vallaslin patterns Merrill put up on one of the walls. He looks a good bit older than most of the people who come in for vallaslin, but it’s not like there’s an age restriction.

“Our vallaslin person isn’t in right now,” Saar says carefully after a long moment of silence. “But I can put you down for an appointment, if you wanna discuss options?”

He blinks, ears flicking down for a second, then shakes his head. “No, I…” He studies her. “I believe I’ve come to talk to you.”

“You have?”

He pulls out a meticulously folded page from a newspaper. It’s the very local one, Wycome Docks Daily. “Saar Adaar, I presume? You perform spell-assisted tattoo removal?”

That article is from a year ago; someone on the team had gotten very excited about Saar’s borderline illegal magical experimentations on that front. Saar doesn’t ask how the elf got his hands on it, because he does not sound like a local. People have their reasons, and this guy… he looks tense. Smells tense.

“Yep, that’s me.” She gives him a gentle smile. “You wanna get rid of old ink?”

Again, that caught stare. He nods sharply. “Yes.”

“All right, we can have a look right now, see what kind of pigments and area we’re dealing with. Then I can estimate the fee, and if that works for you, we’ll set an appointment to get started.”

Another small, sharp nod. The way he glances out the shop windows… Probably not just the name of an ex on his wrist. Saar gets out from behind the counter and opens the door to the back room, then tilts her head. “Come in, there’s more privacy back here.”

Saar activates the silencing sigil once he’s followed her and sat down on the customer chair. Although it’s more like a perch, with his back ramrod-straight, legs crossed at the ankles, and his hands folded in his lap.

“Y’know, whatever it is,” she says conversationally, dragging her own swivel chair over with a foot and straddling it backwards, “I can guarantee I’ve seen worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I had assumed most of your clients for this kind of work are victims of ill-advised decisions made in the vigor of youth, or under the influence.”

Huh.

“Yeah, sure.” Saar leans her elbows on the backrest of her chair. “But we get all sorts. Removal of Gallows brands. Covering up Templar infusion marks.” Once, even an exiled Dalish who wanted their vallaslin removed. Merrill had held their hand the entire time Saar worked. Both of them had cried.

But this guy has no vallaslin on his face…

Saar sucks in a breath as he releases a spell with a shivering sigh. The faintest glamour, dropping off of his face.

He has vallaslin. Or—

It looks like a version of the All-Mother pattern, but not one that Saar recognizes. From below his eyes, branches feather out along the arches of his cheekbones. The pigment must be something else, because it actually shimmers a subtle silver.

“I…” He makes an aborted gesture towards his face. “I wish to remove this.”

His voice has the hint of a crack running through it, and it pulls at Saar’s heartstrings. “Yeah, of course,” she murmurs. She rolls herself closer. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna pull a sample and we’ll figure it out, all right?”

He doesn’t move while she gets the modified syringe for ink removal, and a small sample vial from the newly organized cupboards. She checks the enchantments working properly, then sits down in front of him again.

“You’re good with me touching it?”

He frowns at her.

“The val… the tattoo, I mean,” she clarifies.

He closes his eyes, drawing a deep breath. “Yes.”

Saar sets the syringe to his skin, carefully holding his head in place with her other hand at his chin.

“This is going to sting a little,” she warns quietly. His face twitches as she draws the sample, but no more. The tiny vial fills—

Oh, that ink is something else. It resists the spell’s pull like a burr, barbs lodged deep into the tissue around it. Saar breathes deeply, funneling her own magic into the enchantment. Very slowly, she pulls enough to do comparisons and a few tests. …All right, maybe two if she’s lucky.

“Does it work?” the elf breathes when she gets up to store the sample for later. Saar goes still, tools and sample in hand. The expression on his face is heartbreaking, this mix of disbelief and hope.

“Yes. Not as easily as most other inks, but… yeah.”

He lets out a very small, very wounded noise. Saar turns around to give him time to compose himself, even though she really just wants to go over there and hug him. But how skittish he’s acted so far… Maybe next time. She’s definitely gonna ask Merrill to stick around, if he’s all right with that.

He agrees to the fee without hesitation, and Saar maybe sets the first proper appointment closer than she has to. His magic is humming right under his skin now, and it sets off her own. Whatever he wants to get rid of by removing the ink, it’s gotta be bad.

Finally she gives him a soft look. “I do need a name, for our files.”

There’s a pause.

“Solas.” No last or clan name, no affiliation… Well. People have their reasons.

Saar notes it down and gives him another smile. “See you in a few days, Solas.”

[edda-grenade]

…actually is this bc of the live action movie release. besties please love yourself and go watch the animated one if you haven't

oh someone's been recommending one of my httyd fics, that thing has been Racking Up kudos in the last few days

[edda-grenade]

oh someone's been recommending one of my httyd fics, that thing has been Racking Up kudos in the last few days

[edda-grenade]

it's that time of the year again 🧜‍♀️🧜‍♀️🧜‍♀️

naptime in shallow waters well, shallow by whale standards which works out even when your tiny gills-having eldritch horror boyfriend needs to keep his head underwater to breathe

[edda-grenade]

Do you have any tips on designing an alien species? I fell utterly in love with your Voltron (specifically Galra) art and fics, and I want to try designing a species of my own to write about but... kinda have no idea where to start 😅 This also feels like a big ask and a very broad question, so sorry about that!

omg thank you okay 🙈 no worries, i’ll do my best XD

first off, disclaimers: i haven’t designed much alien species specifically, so if you want to get into the really nitty gritty stuff like ‘but what if they’re not a carbon-based lifeform’ i’m the wrong person to ask

i rarely start “from scratch”? (i mean, in fairness, i don’t think anyone ever does 100%, but, y’know)

SO.

if you Are starting from scratch, sort of, I think step 1 is figuring out in what space you want to play in

figure out the basic category: they’re not even carbon-based (clouds of electrical energy! gas planet but it’s a person! etc.) vs classically humanoid (bipedal, lateral symmetry, head+limbs+torso) vs CreatureTM, etc. sky’s the limit

anything more specific you think is cool or interesting. personally i tend to do a lot of ‘based on x animal(s)’ and then branch out bc there’s just SO MUCH WEIRD COOL SHIT on our planet alone

like it doesn't have to be super big or specific or well-thought out! just Anything so you have a handhold, y'know. "i want them to have movable spine spikes"<= there you go, that's enough

literally don’t worry about being ~original~, pick what concept makes your brain go Neat I Like It

next!

find a reference point: you can’t do creation in a vacuum, that’s just how it is. e.g. you want a humanoid species but they have a hivemind and spawn clones to reproduce? look at mushrooms and how they do shit, plants that propagate via scions, stuff like that

what do you know a lot about? (or even just a little) what do you think is really interesting? use it. all of it.

like my scientific background is largely reproductive biology, so i’m always like, OKAY HOW DO THEY REPRODUCE? if they have sexes, do they have di/tri/whatever morphism and what does it look like? how does that interact with the culture? and also i go slightly unhinged about fictional monster reproductive systems. mindflayers and darkspawn i’m looking at you

like when i write dragons in my own settings, they usually have Very obvious sexual dimorphism (tri, i guess, bc there’s two kinds of male morphs)

but they don’t have a cultural concept of GenderTM. bc i think that’s fun and interesting (especially when they interact with the humans, bc those Have gender concepts

you DO NOT HAVE TO copy any real-world functions etc one-to-one. actual biology and physics and chemistry is really interesting and cool but you Don’t have to stick to it religiously, just use it as building blocks and jumping off points, don’t let it break an idea you really like

(of course, if you Want to make your species as biologically/physically-feasible as possible, you Can do that! that can also be really fun! but it’s not a requirement)

literally so much of the culture/species-building i do is ~just~ “i think it’s cool”

…and then think about what that thing could/would imply for other aspects of the biology, or the culture(s)

(see our movable spine spikes guys. are the spines decorative? defense? something completely different? is the motion subconscious or like a prehensile tail? are colorful spikes seen as something positive, negative, secret third thing? does the appearance matter at all?)

like i slap milk lines on any mammalian species i can bc i just like them! they’re a cool design thing! human boobs aren’t The Normal Kind, they’re just a version of mammary tissue

…so galra, being a very varied species, have different ‘lengths’ of milk lines, they’re all about Efficiency so they only develop mammary tissue when it’s actively needed, etc

there’s a skink species that has green blood (several actually, iirc), even though they have the same haemoglobin that we do. i thought that was super cool! so now elves in one of my stories have red blood, that turns green under [redacted] circumstances

…and there’s a whole cultural sacredness around it, bc it’s a Very visible change, and occurs rarely, and often in old experienced people

sooo, uh. i hope that helps?

[edda-grenade]

On a Soft Bed

Alistair’s hair has finally grown long enough again to grab properly.

600 words, dragon age # alistair/surana/the messenger/the first, fluff & smut, praise kink, pegging, you know the drill

on AO3

listen if canon is never gonna deliver on a polycule involving the disciples/awakened darkspawn, i just gotta do it myself

[edda-grenade]

Farewell

Fen'Harel has completed his preparations; he is ready to tear down the Veil. There's only one thing left to do—say farewell to Saar. Her spirits have other ideas.

2k, dragon age # saar's spirit posse & solas the dread wolf, aaaaangst

on AO3

[edda-grenade]

felassan at the winter palace

the winter palace section of this fic is uhhhh Spiralling, but here's one of the fun bits :D

———

Briala’s gaze slides past Saar, and behind the mask, her face freezes.

“…Felassan?”

His voice is surprisingly gentle. “Aneth ara, da’len.”

Saar stares as Briala straightens, a low tension thrumming in her body. Felassan steps beside Saar and holds out his hand; Briala grasps it and squeezes, brief and hard, then lets go again.

“I had thought you dead,” she says.

Felassan shrugs. “I got better.”

Saar takes a deep breath and resists the urge to smack the back of his head.

“You couldn’t have mentioned that you know everyone involved in this blighted civil war?!” she hisses at him.

“I’m mentioning it now!” Felassan says, with the barest hint of apology in his voice. “Besides, I warned you about Celene and Gaspard.”

“Maker’s tits.” Saar rubs a hand across her face.

[edda-grenade]

wounded by the same knife

[edda-grenade]

adaar/felassan snippet

so the whole thing is like… more than 4k by now XD but rn i'm just enjoying writing wherever the inspiration strikes, so here's some softness :3

–––

“There's another story,” Felassan murmurs, “that I haven't told you yet.” 

Saar makes a vague noise into his chest, signalling her attention.

“Your enthusiasm thrills me, it truly does.”

She laughs, once again muffled into his chest. If he’s honest—and he so rarely is—Felassan is glad she’s not looking at him. He’ll have to field enough probing questions as is.

“This one… it’s not Dalish. Not quite. It’s about the leader of a rebellion and their general, and the seemingly all-powerful tyrants they tried to topple.”

Saar is quiet for a long moment. She shifts her head, pillowing her cheek on his chest. Her horns brush past his collarbones. “Does it have a happy ending?”

“No.” Felassan kisses her temple. Lingers. The texture of her horns, rough and hard but alive, scratched and marked like the rest of her. “But they won. And I know everything it took to get them there; every trickery, every alliance, every desperate battle.”

And oh, he really wishes Saar wasn’t so good at waiting people out. Because she does, quiet and gentle and watchful and looming like a bloody dragon—even if right now she’s sprawled half on top of him.

“You’re facing a tyrant with too much power as well,” he continues. “Whatever you need to know, whatever you need… just tell me.”

Saar’s fingers, which had been slowly stroking along his ribs, stop moving.

“You’d be my general, kadan?” Her voice sounds a little unsteady, which is quite all right. Felassan’s not sure he could sing a hymn right now, either.

“Yes, mir sulevin.”

(mir sulevin = my purpose)

[edda-grenade]

felassan stop thinking about your ex challenge

it continues! previous parts here and here, and i guess this is a whole tag now #felassan survives au

felassan/adaar and (totally, definitely, 100%) past felassan/solas in this one

–––––

“So… ‘Inquisitor’, huh?” Felassan closes the door behind him and leans against the wall, crossing one foot leisurely over the other. Saar, both hands resting on the war table, looks up at him. There’s a wild light in her eyes.

“Yep.” She grins.

Oh, that should be interesting. Felassan raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“When they just called me ‘Herald’, half the world was calling me a heretic.”

“I hate to say it, but they probably still are.”

“Sure, but now I have an actual title. One they can’t take away as easily. That bloody sword is useless, but what it means…” She lets out a deep breath. Sparks dance over her broad shoulders. “I’ve got power now, worldly power. I can fucking change things.”

Oh.

Felassan stares at her for a long time. How her smile changes, turns—not softer, but gentler. The determination he can practically feel bleeding out of her. The way she looks at him, fierce, happy, expectant, just like—

Shit. He glances about the war room, his throat tight.

“Changing the world’s no small task,” he says. “Even if you’re ludicrously big.”

Saar chuckles. Her footsteps fill the silence as she circles around the war table, a creak as she leans her weight against it. “Sure,” she says again, easily, and that flippant confidence is… so different, Briala was never like that, even in the early days, Solas was never—

“But I’ve got an army. A kith who I trust to have my back in a fight. I’ve got Josephine, and Leliana, and her birds.” She cocks her head. The dying sun frames her in gilded light. “And I’ve got you.”

It’s really not his fault.

All right, it very much is, but he’s blaming it on the knife wound in his fucking chest and Saar’s eyes on him like the fires of the sun and the memory of Briala with the eluvian passphrase stilled behind her lips driving him insane.

Saar lets out a rough breath, right against his face. He barely manages to stop himself from closing the distance entirely. Comes staggering to a stop instead half perched on her thigh because she’s so tall, hands on either side of her hips clutching at the wood of the war table.

Her hands settle around his waist after a moment.

Larger than Solas’, some rotten corner of his mind supplies unhelpfully.

“Do you need a moment?” Saar asks. Her voice has gone deep, rumbling as distant thunder. Her hands haven’t moved. Despite the black sclera, her eyes seem so bright.

Felassan thinks of the sun glinting off the edge of the ceremonial sword. Of that same sun, lining her in gold. Of that same sun, catching corners of Briala’s skin and hair and knives, how her eyes never closed behind her mask.

I can fucking change things.

“Ma las ar sulevin*,” he whispers, and kisses Saar.

His feet nearly lose contact with the floor when she presses him close. Her mouth is hot, careful. Felassan grabs her shirt and squirms even closer, hiking his leg properly up over her hip—and oh, that makes her shiver. When Saar holds him tight and tips him over to deposit him on the war table, a tremble goes through him in turn. He wasn’t exactly planning to have sex on here, but, well…

He hauls her close again, and that carefulness slowly seeps out of Saar. It’s so bloody sweet that it makes Felassan’s throat go thick, and then dry out because what remains is heat, and hunger.

Solas would melt under that.

Felassan sucks in a shuddering breath when Saar starts kissing along his jaw. Her hand is in his hair, cradling his skull.

Shut up, he thinks. Shut up shutupshutup—

The door creaks open.

“Inquisitor, I—”

Oh, fantastic. Felassan lets his head drop onto the war table with a groan—and then he feels vaguely guilty for the frustration, because it’s Josephine standing in the door, frozen and face flushed.

There’s a long silence.

“We would’ve cleaned up afterwards,” Saar says, still between Felassan’s legs.

“Um. That’s good!” Josephine says, very brightly. “Come see me when—when you’re done?”

Saar chuckles. “I will.”

That smile is no less charming for being directed at someone else. Felassan props himself up on his elbows and curls his legs around Saar’s hips as Josephine awkwardly departs the room. Then, he hooks his fingers into the band of Saar’s breeches. She’s so warm, even through the fabric of her shirt.

“You’d get me messy enough to require cleaning?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Saar leans into the touch, her smile growing. “Depends a bit on what you enjoy, but… yeah.”

Felassan nudges his fingers deeper and doesn’t think about the way Saar’s belly flutters against his knuckles in a way that’s really rather different to Solas’ body.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

---

* You give me purpose

[edda-grenade]

felassan in da:i, aka a menace

can't stop won't stop, part 1 is here (also the post that inspired it by @mumms-the-word) but currently they're just floating scenes so

–––––

“Out of curiosity,” Felassan says one evening by the fire in the Exalted Plains, “what Dalish legends do you know? Other than the ones I've shared, I mean.”

Saar makes a thoughtful noise, head tilting. On the other side of the fire, Solas goes stiff as a board. Felassan smiles pleasantly at him.

“Well, the big one,” Saar starts counting on her fingers, “the great betrayal, how all the gods got locked up. Then some about Ghilan'nain, about the monsters she made—although I'm not sure if Iolain was just messing with me on that, I mean, tree-tall spiders?—and how she killed them all, to become a god.” There is a bitterness swimming in the undercurrent of her voice that surprises Felassan.

“You wouldn't have done the same, to gain that power?” he asks.

“Sacrifice what's basically my children to, what, gain the power to make different children? She could already do that.”

“Godhood, whatever it may have meant in those days, would certainly have given her opportunities that were inconceivable before,” Solas cuts in. He's watching Saar now, intent. Felassan’s smile sharpens.

“There's always more than one way,” Saar says flippantly and flicks a bit of kindling at the fire. “Not that I wanted to, but when I was a kid I wondered how it would've been if I'd been born Dalish, or a human Marcher, or in the Qun, and the vallaslin I'd get would have been hers.” She shrugs. “Until Ashuon told me the story of her ascension.”

Wordlessly, Solas gets up, turning away from the fire. Felassan watches him pace, slowly, the tense line of his back.

“Ghilan'nain would've loved you, I think,” he murmurs. He leans his knee against Saar’s. “Not sure if that's a good thing, though.”

Saar chuckles drily. “The Maker loving Andraste sure didn't save her.” She extends another finger. “Oh, and the one about Fen'harel and Andruil! ‘The Dread Wolf and the Tree’? Ashuon told me that one too.”

“Ah, yes,” Felassan says, keeping his voice light. “The Dread Wolf’s famous cunning.”

And his slow arrow being too slow to save him, even if that part never made it into the stories. Solas stops pacing. He glances back at them, over the fire flickering between. This once, Felassan can't bring himself to smile.

“Sounded more like desperation to me,” Saar mutters quietly. She's watching the fire, how the flames dance. “I mean, he's trapped, and outnumbered, and his choices are getting murdered or gettting raped. I don't think anyone's cunning under those circumstances.”

“Yes,” Felassan says softly. “I imagine he would be.” His chest aches, where the knife pierced him clean through. But the pain feels so much like an old panic, running after Solas who had gotten himself in over his head against one or more of the Evanuris. Damn him.

I was fine, Solas had said back then, and on so many other occasions. The situation was under control. But he had not resisted Felassan’s embrace, or his steadying hands.

“Stars, this is depressing,” Saar groans. She rubs her left hand across her face, stands up, stretches. Her gaze drifts from Felassan to Solas and back. “Tell me something fun? Either of you, I know you’ve got more stories packed away.”

The fire crackles.

“I did encounter a spirit of amusement, once,” Solas offers at last. Felassan suspects no one else would notice it, but Solas’ voice… it wavers, just a little. Saar grins and hooks her arm over Solas’ shoulders, then drags him to sit down beside her, with Felassan on her other side.

“The epitome of fun, huh?”

“It considered puns the highest form of humor,” Solas says flatly, and Saar laughs.

It’s a good sound. Felassan’s not gonna pretend he doesn’t like hearing it. Or that he doesn’t enjoy the way Solas’ expression fractures and softens helplessly, gazing at Saar. Serves him right.