#☼ ･°･⊱ answered asks ic. ∣ messenger ravens.

[avrorean]

@hoboblaidd. [ shoulder ]  –  for the sender’s muse to place a hand on the receiver’s shoulder to comfort them, or stop them.

The Warden-Commander was in a dark mood. 

It may not have been to the degree that others might consider a ‘dark mood’; there had been no stomping or raging, nor an undue shortness at unsuspecting passersby, but it was enough of a shift in her typical demeanor that it garnered whispers nonetheless. Nothing cruel, simply…cold.

With no missions to attend, Nanna had contented herself with staying, not in her room, but the little loft above it whose holed floor had never been repaired, thus leaving it free for her own claim. It was a good place to work. But nothing she’d tried to set her mind to seemed enough to distract her. 

It had been like this ever since returning from Redcliffe. She had wanted to help Cole, and had insisted to Inquisitor Lavellan to come along. But as soon as they started delving into the problem, and the source, everything had just… locked up.  

It all came back to the Templar. 

Lost in her own thoughts, Nanna hadn’t paid as much attention as she should have to the mixture she’d been tending, and the vial started to bubble and smoke from the incorrect amounts colliding.

“Maker’s- shite-” the rolling lit slipped past her practiced accent in a wave of irritation, and with a cry of pique, took the bottle and flung it out of the hole in the wall. In a calmer moment, she might feel ashamed at her lack of self control. Right now, it felt good to chuck something. 

“Nanna?”

Frustration bubbled a creaking groan in her throat. Not now.

“Just busy.” The lie came quick and easy, waving him off as his familiar shape climbed the ladder before he could begin his usual barrage of questions. She wasn’t in the mood. “Local supply for the Wardens the Inquisitor sent out need to be tended while I deal with the fallout of Clarel’s mess. Of which partly needs to be diverted to Amaranthine, where I am dealing with the fallout of Fiona’s mess. Clearly, that is what I am here for. Cleaning up everyone else’s messes, because why should that change in ten years?”

Solas hesitated behind her, his arms locking behind him as he did when he was analyzing something critically.

“It has been clear something has bothered you since we returned.” He didn’t specify, but they both knew what he meant. There was concern in his voice, but tension covered it like a worn blanket. Something taut like a bowstring when held in a draw. “And you withdrew yourself from voicing your stance on the matter. You disapprove of the choice?”

“What?” The low disapproval in his voice seemed enough to momentarily jolt her from her agitation, turning to face him incredulously. That his expression was hard from an answer she hadn’t yet given just further soured her. Her expression withered, and turning back to her work. “Do not be ridiculous.”

From behind her, Nanna could hear him loose a slow exhale and some tension seemed to leave the room with it, as though he’d been preparing for an argument. 

“But it has something to do with what happened.” That was a statement, not a question. A hand found itself on her shoulder, and for a moment, Nanna felt some of the tension slacken. 

“Is he well?”

Solas nodded. “He is adjusting, and settling back to how he should be.”

As a spirit, she remembered him mentioning. That was good enough, then, but it did little to soothe the caged energy still running bolts through her nerves. In a rare moment of distance, she shrugged off his hand. 

“Then that is what matters.” Her smile was practiced, a perfect imitation of reassurance. But it was an iron smile, intentionally bent into the right shape, but there was a roughness to the grip in her hands as it continued to grind at the pestil. “Just do not ask me to feel sympathy for the man he had to forgive to be so.” 

[avrorean]

did you know that its against a Storm Age charter* for Grey Wardens to have face tattoos?

*the charter is attached to this anonymous missive. The slip of paper is practically decaying by the minute. It also doesn't look like the charter was ever ratified.

"Ah," she said aloud, holding the crumbling notes with care more out of habit than interest. "So now we care about regulations of the Order."

Unfortunately for whoever could have possibly sent this, he was not the only one who knew how to dig up old history. He contended with a Circle mage, after all. It was basically half her skill set.

So with an afternoon's perusal and a well tipped runner, a proclamation from the Glory Age would appear on Solas' desk accounting the Grey Wardens' dedication to neutrality and refraining from aid in any particular conflict - including those with affiliations to the Chantry. Not that it should be seen as relevant to her place in this Inquisition at all, but if it's a matter of regulation-

@hoboblaidd

[avrorean]

꧁ @hoboblaidd. ❝I don't see why you would bother.❞

“Well, we were all young, once.” Her voice was light with a playful wistfulness, a soft trilling measure to counter the sour note his cadence carried. She had hoped it would lighten the conversation, maybe divert it with a free opening to chide her youth, but of course, this was Solas with a pointed question. So when he did not rise to it, Nanna pursed her lips and sighed through her nose. She did not want to argue with him, but neither was it something she were unused to. It was hardly the first time she had been prodded over her decade old decision regarding the life of Loghain Mac Tir.

“You are aware that I did not approach the Landsmeet with the intent of recruiting him, I hope,” she responded at last, relenting to his scrutiny. “At the time my intent was either to talk him down so we could stop the civil war in time, or surrender him to the Crown’s justice.”

Her intent, at least. And while she no longer remembered the words Nanna could still vividly recall the heat of Alistair’s anger. They had been so young, then. “Despite evidence to the contrary, it is not the place of Grey Wardens to be so heavily involved in political crises. Or for a girl whose political acumen was the rushed accumulation of a couple of months.”

Her fingers thrum idly in a thoughtful rhythm as she leaned back on her arms, trying to recall the details. Nanna had been asked about her choice an uncountable number of times in the ten years since the Landsmeet, rivaled possibly only by the questions around the loud and disastrous split that occurred between she and her formerly fellow Warden. Former many things. She thought she should be used to it by now. But it did feel different being questioned by someone she knew rather than throngs of inquisitive strangers.

“Riordan insisted we needed more Wardens, for reasons that are obvious now that were not then, and Urthemiel was all but on our doorstep by then.” She shrugged, twirling a braid idly around her finger. Him knowing more than he ought at least made it easier to discuss things like this. “And at the time, I thought it more fitting that he help clean up the mess he made.”

[avrorean]

solas ships nanna with anyone* at this point, as long as they make her happy and can finally give her the one thing she's always been denied: a romantic relationship. *anyone not on his kill list, which is ever fluid

"I cannae't believe he does not have higher standards for me."

[avrorean]

@valorcorrupt. 🎬 ↳ clips of the past (accepting!)

The girl had never truly felt cold before. Her house had always been a warm place, fit snugly on one of Nevarra’s layered hills with its bright blue door and the orange trees that grew outside her window, where she took naps to the sound of the rolling of the sea in the middle of the day. But there had been no orange trees once the Templars brought her across the ocean, and the sun had felt like it had lost all of its warmth.

Instead, it had just felt wet, which made the persistent cold even worse. It hadn’t rained, but the fog that had settled over the dark ground hadn’t lifted for days and had only ever grown worse once they reached the lake. The girl sniffled – whether from cold or the threat of new, miserable little tears it was hard to say – tugging the scratchy old blanket tighter around herself as another violent shiver shook her tiny body. That, at least, had garnered her the attention of the old man who had lent it to her, looking up from his place currently rowing the boat. 

(“Don’t you worry now, li’il one. Won’t be much longer now and that tower’ll have ya bundled up warm an’ proper. Promise from ol’ Kester.”) 

The little girl blinked her wide, wet eyes up at him. The old man’s smile was friendly, but it was no good despite his intent. The girl had barely started reading in her own language before she’d been taken, and she hardly understood a word of the common tongue as of yet. If she had caught one word in twenty when someone spoke to her mother or father, it was a success, and the old man’s accent was impossibly thick. The only person she could get any thought across to was her escort, Templar Alban; he wasn’t a cruel guardian, but he was cold. Cold as the lake and the wind and this hard green country, and despite speaking plain Nevarran, he didn’t seem to want to talk to her much at all unless he needed to. Not even to tell her what the old man had said. It had stopped disappointing her during the early days of the voyage, shortly after she’d finally stopped crying.

But the old man hadn’t been wrong, at least insofar as Alban would have known; the boat ride hadn’t taken too much longer before the knock of wood against the dock signaled their arrival, and the armored man lifted her out of the little wooden dinghy and, for once, carried her the rest of the way inside. His armor’s cold, too, the child thought as the large wooden doors parted before them.

Inside was indeed warmer, and reactively the girl shuddered in the Templar’s arms with relief as the warm air worked itself right away to combating the cold in her bones, but even that hadn’t dissuaded the rise of fear at the number of armored men waiting within the grey halls. There were only a dozen or so, but to her, it felt like a hundred. Cold and faceless in their helmets and still like statues. Just like the ones that chased mama, she thought, shrinking back into Alban’s arms. Even if he was a Templar too, at least he was familiar.

Alban clearly hadn’t felt the same, however. Gently, but unsympathetically, her templar escort peeled her off and sat her feet-first on the ground, pulling the scratchy blanket the old man had given her away and leaving her standing before two more old, bearded men. One was hard-faced and armored, the other in colorful robes that reminded her of the bright rugs in her house and laugh lines at his eyes beneath his long hair. 

“Hush now.” It had felt like forever since Alban had last said more than a few words to her, much less in her own tongue, so the girl stared up at him with a jump. “Do not cause a fuss. This is the last of it, so behave yourself.” 

(“Maker be praised for your safe return, Templar Alban. This is the mage from Nevarra?”) 

Though he addressed her escort, the Old Templar’s unflinching eyes had fallen firmly onto her, watchful and analytical, as though he’d found an animal in the woods and was debating on whether or not it would try and bite him. The little girl shrank beneath it and backed away several steps until she felt the light touch of Alban at her back, holding her in place.

(“Do not intimidate the poor girl, Greagoir. By your templar’s accounts, the journey has been an ordeal.”) The old man with a long beard chastised, which only made the Old Templar’s scowl deepen. (“Be welcome to your new home, █ █ █ █ █.”)

Alban translated the last part for her this time. The girl bit her lip sullenly, digging her chilled fingers into her muddied skirt and said nothing. The Bearded Man merely smiled in a way that seemed like understanding, before turning back to the Old Templar to mutter sharp words together. The girl didn’t think she wanted to know what they were arguing about. Instead her big purple eyes wandered the walls of her new environment. Tall and grand, yes, with its high walls that had no pictures or tapestries and bars on the few windows she could see. 

Colorless. Dull. 

She hated this. She wanted to go home, to her mother and father and her little baby brother, who’d just started to crawl. To take a nap by her window with the orange tree and sneak figs from the big bowl in the kitchen. She wanted to feel her mother’s arms around her. The feeling of her father’s tightly wrapped hair beneath her fingers when he sat her on his shoulders, and the way he’d securely hold her legs to keep her from falling. Every time she asked Templar Alban when they could go back, he ignored her, which had only amplified her cries and tantrums on the ship, which Alban had simply let run their course by herself until she was too tired to cry anymore. The girl didn’t think she had anymore tears to cry, but as these strange, cold people talked around her, she felt them burn the corners of her eyes again. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

(“... the reidentification forms on my desk. Is that necessary? The child is-”)

(“Blame the girl’s family, Irving, not I.”)

Another sniffle, unbidden, snapped the attention of the Old Templar and the Bearded Man back to her. She shrank again. The two conferred again, quieter this time, and made a motion to the Templars she couldn't quite understand, but they clearly knew what to do.

Templar Alban nudged her again, giving a quiet command to walk to one of the vestibules by the door. As her tiny feet shuffled three steps for every one of his long, armored strides, she found herself distracted briefly by the intricate webbing of vine-line bars that caged it off from the rest of the room. It had been the first thing the girl might have called pretty.

But the hint of wonder was brief. When the Old Templar and the Bearded Man approached her again, it had felt as though all the coldness from without had come flooding back inside. She didn’t know why, but the Old Templar had begun to recite something; what it was, she couldn’t have begun to say, but she noticed that Templar Alban had stood straighter, his hands locked firmly behind his back in a soldier’s respect. And then they’d started pulling things out of a velvet lined box that another, faceless templar had brought them: a vial, a wooden medallion-like circle covered in strange writing, and something sharp. 

Terror seized her then, as the Old Templar’s recitation made the strange and scary objects begin to glow, but Templar Alban had a firm grip on her tiny wrist, keeping her palm stretched out no matter how hard she tried to wiggle free from his metal grip. She ignored the Bearded Man’s attempt to soothe her, thrashing and whimpering in the Templar’s hold. She could get out. She had to get out. If she could just run back out the door, the kind old man with the boat had to take her across, right? He could row her all the way back home, she bet. He had a boat and these faceless, armored men didn’t. But Alban held her firm. The words she wanted to plea wouldn’t come, but as the strange device glowed red, the whimpering was more than sufficient a plea to get across. The Templar was unmoved, but had the decency to look uncomfortable.

“Hold still,” he said quietly as the Bearded Man and the Old Templar approached her with their sharp and glowing things, finished with their chanting. “It will only hurt for a second.”

[avrorean]

Rumor has it that the Hero of Ferelden birthed the Archdemon who started the Fifth Blight herself, through blood magic. She used the beast to support Uldred usurping Kinloch Hold, and made a show of "killing it" to wrest control of Ferelden from the Hero of River Dane and Rendon Howe, who knew her for the witch she was. She then commanded darkspawn to raid Amaranthine, so she could utterly control the arling and wipe out the last of Howe's supporters.

The laugh burst from her before she could stop it, a hand quickly flying over her mouth to suppress the ungraceful wheezes that followed slipping through her fingers. It didn't stop her shoulders from shaking with the effort, however.

"Indeed! That was a busy year for me," her grin is wide and unapologetic. "Clever you will have sniffed out Orlais to be next, no doubt. You will forgive me if I refrain from exposing my plots further, I hope - too much excitement upsets the next archdemon."

[avrorean]

whispers "snitch of the outlaws"

"If Annie were to find herself caught by the authorities for her unlawful gliding, that is hardly my fault."

[avrorean]

@hoboblaidd a kiss shared while holding your dying (dubious parental figure.)

This is death. 

He is brought low, bloody and battered and defeated in a way that went so much deeper than battle. Nanna watched him, bereft. The words ring repeatedly, hard and sharp in her head as she watched Solas raise himself again, figure hunched but solid with a new purpose. Nanna saw it in the unguarded haze that filled his eyes as they turned to observe the tear in the Veil, the choice he would make, and she felt her heart drop.

In the short span of those seconds that were left them, Nanna looked around desperately for someone here to object. None of them move. And worse still. they all seemed to know. Mythal watched in all her distant, damnable benevolence. Dhavi does not meet the silent plea that she gives her; there is sorrow, but also resignation. Necessity. The mirror she saw in the sorrow of Rook. There’s tears in their eyes, but nothing to suggest an alternative. As though this were the best ending any of them could muster. 

This is death.

He isn’t dying, not yet, but what is death if not the loss of a self? What kind of a life is one kept imprisoned? How was this fair? Despite all the wrongs he had done that brought them all here, was it not at his core to call for freedom? Long for it himself? It chokes her, and she cannot feel relief that all this is ending. And this is an ending. The book is closing before her eyes and she can’t bring herself to finish the last sentence. This isn’t fair. This is a tower. This is death. 

The call of her name is distant, somewhere far away or spoken to someone else. Nanna doesn’t hear it, or know when she started walking, only that now she is at Solas’ side, a hand gripping his wrist before the dagger can be raised for the inevitable. All she knows is what she sees about to happen, and his bloodied eyes that are still so sad.

“Tel’iau ghilan?” She pleads with him, searching his face for some sort of answer. A spark that would not submit. Anything but acceptance. Is there no other path? 

He smiled at her then, and all she saw was Solas. The Solas she loved. It did not ease the ache. “Ghilan’sor felashir, da’lathin.” The path is forward. 

Her gaze fell to the ground, as though the ancient stonework could give her another answer. Then the dagger in his hand, alive with the swirl of lyrium and his magic. And finally back up to him. He smiled at her then, full of love and reassurance as he spared some of his strength to brush a hand against her cheek. Even bruised and trembling, it was warm, like he’d always been. All it did was tear at her heart.

For a moment, she stared up at him silently, each a moment to take one another in as they’d been unable to this entire time. And again, Nanna knew firmly in that moment, this would be goodbye.

Tears burned the corners of her eyes, and Nanna built her resolve. She pressed herself up then, a step to close the gap with a hug that for once, he let himself return. That, at least, was a comfort. She pressed a kiss to his cheek that she knew would be the one goodbye they were allowed.

And pulls the dagger out of his hand.

[avrorean]

꧁ @keepslore The Inquisitor is walking casually through the main fortress of Skyhold, until she spies Nanna sitting at a table with a view of the stained glass windows. Dhavi quickly peers down into Solas's rotunda to confirm he's busy, then redirects herself to sit next to the Warden. "I was wondering if you might do me a favor," she says with a subtle smirk. "I don't know much about Andrastianism or the Chant, but I was wondering if you could maybe... tell me a few of the stories? If you know any." She leans to check again that Solas hasn't moved, then returns her attention to Nanna.

"I want to slip some of the details into my Dalish tales next time Solas and I get into it. Try to catch him off-guard." And see whether his brows can actually tie themselves into a knot, or if his ears will start putting off steam first.

It had been blessedly quiet in Skyhold that day, a rare enough occurrence to enjoy. The book that Nanna had been occupying herself hung forgotten in her hand, taking instead to observing the birds flit to and fro on the other side of the brightly colored class. The Inquisitor's sudden presence was a surprise, but as Nanna heard her entreaty, her brows raised in curiosity.

"I would share some of what I know, yes," she said after a moment with a nod. "Though, truth be told, I fear my knowledge has waned somewhat over the years. I do hope 'the Herald' will not begrudge me the fact that I have rather shirked my religious obligation when not necessary. Terrible of a leader under the Chantry, I know."

Nanna gave it a moment's thought, glancing at the railing of the rotunda where Solas sat no doubt ever studious beneath them. Then the cry of ravens overhead echoed between the walls, and she was suddenly struck with an idea.

"Though...if you want the most detrimental information you could take from the Chant, I would consult Leliana." She leaned in then, her voice lowering with a touch more drama than perhaps was necessary. "She knows the whole of it backwards and forwards. Let her know the mischief you have in mind, and your Spymaster will tell you everything you need and how to use it in a way that will give Solas such a knot between his eyes that his face will pucker."

Nanna picked up her book again, only to hide the grin trying to pull at the corners of her mouth.

"You did not hear it from me, however."

[avrorean]

꧁ @keepslore you caught the eye of a young woman in that last village. // i just need One "not you too" moment lmfao

In most cases, she liked to think she was more observant. Nanna was acutely aware, though perhaps too late, that the quickness with which she glanced behind her might give out the wrong impression. An unintentional expression of interest. That was impulsive, and in a case such as this, a mistake.

But when she shot a glance towards the rest of the party, Solas blessedly seemed too deeply ingrained in an unrelated argument to note her reaction. Only then did some of the tension go out of her. For once, she was thankful for his stubbornness. And whilst pointedly ignoring Dhavi'hal's amused expression, she beckoned the Inquisitor closer.

"Whatever you do, do not tell Solas," she insisted quietly. "He will drag our entire march to a halt and send me back to see if I can be woo'd."

This time they both passed a glance back at the apostate, who had shifted in such a way that signified he was about to metaphorically dig his heels in to this scaling verbal battle with Vivienne. Nanna's expression when they turned away was deathly serious, but the slight curve of her mouth betrayed the battled urge not to laugh at the absurdity.

"And if he again decides to prod the issue of my 'aversion to love' because I do not run away with the first passerby to show me fancy, I will publicly accept the next proposal of marriage a nobleman offers me. An Orlesian one. And then we shall see how he likes it."

[avrorean]

꧁ @hoboblaidd. wiping away your lover’s daughter's tears as you kiss them . literally just that. let yourself cry nanna

She couldn’t have said how long she spent staring at the letter.

When Leliana had placed the worn parchment in her hands with an uncharacteristically tentative caution that her friend should wait till she was alone to read it, Nanna could form no expectation at all of its contents. An ominous warning wrapped in the bound and tattered remnants of an old journal. It was browning and stiff with both damage and age – ten years worth, Leliana had said – Nanna had almost feared to unroll it at all lest it crumble to pieces in her hands once she tried. 

But unroll it she had, and despite the advice of the spymaster, it hadn’t taken very many steps before Nanna had succumbed to the temptation. It was a curiosity-driven impulse, ever her virtue and vice in one in allowing an anxious impatience to strike her, and Nanna was hardly halfway across Skyhold before the binding was loosened and her eyes began devouring the words all at once. And almost immediately, she was filled with the regret of it. 

  Nanna’s steady stride had stopped abruptly in the hall, stunned, and unable to fully understand, or perhaps rather believe, what it was she was reading. The conflicting swirl of emotions that overtook her expression could hardly be wondered at, for scrawled within, was the familiar penmanship of First Enchanter Irving. 

The environment of the tower is such that certain modes of thought are encouraged, both for good and ill. 

It was difficult to put to words exactly what she had been feeling as she read, and Nanna hardly allowed herself space to define it. As soon as she recognized the handwriting, she had begun jumping from word to word with such speed and eagerness in her rush to reach the next sentence, she could hardly make sense of the one before it. 

At some point Nanna had reached her quarters, though she could no more have said when she’d started walking again than she could number the times she’d reread the page in her hands by the time she’d arrived. And little more could be said for her understanding of it.

Deviant traits must be exposed early, or the whole of the Circle suffers.

She attempted to read it several more times, hardly able to move past it to the accounts from the other mages, and with each attempt forced her attention to every present word, to fit them together in a way that might make any sense. But the contents were so antithetical to all her thoughts of Irving that Nanna instantly resolved them to be false. It was a mistake on Leliana’s part, or some miscommunication in her network. She shook her head, crumpled the pile together with the resolve to never look at it again, only to smooth them back out minutes later.

The creaking sound of a door opening seemed a thousand miles away.

The apprentices would be shocked at his ability to manipulate them. I must organize a retreat– 

“Nanna?”

Her petite figure jumped as though the intruding voice were a flash of lightning, seizing her with a start till she turned to see the familiar figure of the Inquisition’s apostate advisor slipping through her door. Were she not already so shaken, Nanna might have guessed on her own that he might come. No one else in all of Skyhold came to and fro through her private quarters as though it were a storage room, and she hadn’t decided whether or not she was glad of it now. 

“Solas-” She gasped his name, half in relief and half in dread. The paper crumpled with dangerous cracking in her hands. Her heart fluttered erratically like a frightened bird in her chest. “My…apologies, I did not hear you enter.”

He only shook his head, and the manner in which he closed the door behind him seemed almost cautious. “I witnessed your hurried march across the courtyard. Is something wrong?”

“It-” Nanna opened and closed her mouth trying to form words that did not come. She might reassure him, or dismiss it as unfortunate news, any word to reclaim some ground for herself, but every one became a stone lodged in her throat. Nanna looked helplessly back down at the rumpled papers in her hands, tensed, and stiffly handed them to him to see for himself. He raised a brow, looking first between her and the paper, before taking it in hand. And as he leaned on her desk to read, Nanna found herself unable to keep still.

“A confession?” he asked after a moment, not bothering to hide his growing distaste for what he read, flipping to the page behind it with the accounts of those involved in the attempted coup. “From Ferelden’s First Enchanter?”

“So Leliana says.” Suddenly anxious, Nanna began to pace the room with her eyes fixed firmly to the floor and fingers knotting themselves together as though they could weave her more acceptable answers as ready as they could weave magic. Counting the stone till it melted into the weave of the colorful rugs was easier to fixate on than whatever Solas’ expression might tell her. Still she forced iron into her voice, trying to make it seem as though she was more confident in her skepticism than she truly was. “Or it could be a forgery for all that we would know. The timing is too opportunistic, is it not? The Inquisition allied with the rebel mages, and now suddenly comes an account of Ferelden’s First Enchanter taking part in…in…. Internal subterfuge?” 

Nanna was suddenly acutely aware of his eyes following her even as she refused to meet them. “Perhaps,” Solas allowed, and the word drew out like dough. “Did the Spymaster suggest that as a possibility?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly. 

“Then…” 

“Then it is something else.” The words came sharper than Nanna had intended, a sword not striking but pointed through a rising gate, but the need to cut his thought off outpaced either affection or decorum. But maybe that would open the door to some relief - maybe there was even a chance at his retaliation. There was every chance in the world that Solas could buck up at the energy she gave him, return it, they fight about it, and then the conversation would be over. It could just be as though the papers never existed at all. 

But the elf did not rise to her hopes, much less her tone. In fact, Solas did little more against her defensive response than continue to watch her pace the floor, silent as stone. Simply waiting. And it was the lack of a response that drained the shallow pool of her vexation, and with it whatever strength the irrational idea might have given her. So Nanna stopped, her shoulders sagging, but she did not yet turn to meet his eyes.

“Do… Did you ever hear of Uldred in your travels?” 

“The one mentioned in the account?” His frown was steadfast and hard, but she felt another irrational surge of frustration at the otherwise even patience of his expression. “I know the name is affiliated with a prior mage rebellion, but little more.”

She hadn’t meant to laugh, but came short and dry as a match being struck. “That is one word to call it.”

The bitterness that crept up her throat felt near primordial with the feel of its age, and surprised even Nanna herself at its lingering rawness after all this time. She hated to talk about what happened in the fallout of Uldred’s failed uprising, even now with a decade old wall between her and the carnage that had befallen it. Most days it was little more than a ghost that floated ignored just beyond her periphery. Other times, like now, it was mud in her throat. 

“Uldred was a Senior Enchanter in our Circle, one of the louder voices that pushed for succession at the time. He had tried to ally with Loghain during the Blight in an attempt to bring about a coup on the Templars.” Her hands began to pantomime the story alongside her words, as though it would paint a more vivid picture, despite the erratic waving. “But somewhere along the way, the events at Ostagar came out against him. As I understood it, he panicked, and their rebellion ate itself almost immediately. Abominations, rampant spirits, there was… so much death…”

Nanna had turned her gaze to the window - it wouldn’t be the first time she had watched the way the sun beamed its golden rays across the ancient stone beyond the glass to gather her thoughts. But the sun was already gone, and all that was left was the dimming shadow of night. 

“Irving was my mentor. He taught me the entirety of my foundation, he…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes trailed the metal frame that gave the windows its geometric patterns. A unique artistry in the architecture mired in age. She thought Solas might have said something, but sound in the fortress had become a dull ring in her ears. Her voice sounded strange to her even as it forms words rising from the base of her chest in broken murmurs. “He was meant to protect us.”

But perhaps what was worst of all was, when she paused to give it a genuine moment’s thought, how believable it actually was. As well loved as Irving had always been, it was well known among the apprentices that the First Enchanter knew everything. Even children know the unease of being watched. And hadn’t it been at his knee that Nanna had learned to read people? To mold a situation to suit her needs? Was she still so naive to think he hadn’t used those same skills to shape the Circle how he wished? That it had been exclusive to the Knight-Commander and the Templars? 

And yet worse still, could Nanna even be sure that she herself, his beloved apprentice and touted favorite for so many years, hadn’t been a pawn at any point herself in his struggle with Greagoir?

If you want to survive, my girl, you must learn the rules...

“I had to kill them.”

… and realize that sometimes, sacrifices are necessary. 

The admission came softly even as emotion began to thicken her voice, as though the same revelation had only just struck her again for the first time. There had been so few survivors by the time she had arrived at the Tower that night, and the rest would have died horribly, whether at her own hands or the hands of demons. Or madness. Or one another. Because of this. Because of- 

“Whether he knew Uldred’s true intent or not, Irving was… If this tells it true, he was finding apprentices who could be swayed into blood magic.” Nanna’s voice was quiet and far away, lingering in the valley between the peaks of grief and disbelief. Still, disbelief. “And he gave them to him.”

Some part of her knew distantly that her hands were shaking as they twisted the hem of her skirt into frays. It was strange, like she was only half feeling the tearing seem between her fingers.

The only thing that seemed to draw her back was the warmth of Solas’ hand on her shoulder, then her cheek, turning her head back to look at him with such slow gentleness that he might very well have thought anything more would break her. His hands framed her face. Her eyes were on him, but it hadn’t seemed as though she truly saw him either at first till the soft brush of his thumbs coaxed her focus back, her violet eyes now properly meeting his own and accompanied by something wet and a little cold following the trail of his fingers. It took her longer than it should have to realize it was her own tears. When had she started crying? 

“Ir nal’abelas, da’lathin.” His voice was soft and grounding, holding her up from sinking into the greying limbo of her senses. There flickered the embers of anger in the softness of his eyes, like a lit match being dropped in a pile of leaves, but beneath it burned an understanding. The understanding of betrayal. “Nae syl mal’asu telem’vhen.” But do not hold your pain in isolation.

The pronouncement gripped her heart and shook whatever hold on herself she had managed to maintain. A hand fell over his wrist, the grip firm but weak. Whether she was trying to hold herself up, or back, or away, Nanna couldn’t begin to say. Just that somewhere in the seconds between the gestures, her forehead had found his chest and when she opened her mouth, all that tumbled out was a sob.

[avrorean]

꧁ @aestuum. "nanna?" casadh knocks tentatively on her half-open door and pokes their head inside. after a quick exchange of greetings and after casadh settles into their usual place beside the older warden's workbench, they muster the courage to ask what they'd come here to ask.

"what are the chances?" they ask. "how likely is it that you—we find a cure?"

they twist their fingers together in their lap, trying not to appear as anxious as they actually are.

"i ..." they look to her, then away. "lucanis—i just feel ... guilty. for being happy. and knowing that it won't last. i don't want to do that to him."

𝒯he scent of the air was soft today. Gone were the harsh metallic smells that came from their study of the Blight, or the sharp medicinal herbs that made her potions and poultices that tended to hang in the air. Instead, it smelled like warmth; cloves and honey boiled on a warming glyph on her workbench next to a small pile of sweet smelling red powder nearby. Nanna had been stirring the mixture when Casadh slipped in, offering the accustomed smiles and greetings, but the weight on them was noticeable. So she continued to stir, leaving them the room to bring it to her themselves when they were ready.

“I believe we are doing quite well, considering how few have ever attempted it before.” There was pride in her voice, tugging her mouth into a slight grin. Even with the setback of these Evanuris altering the Blight, this had all but been Nanna’s life’s work and that it held its own when the world seemed in need of it made her hopeful for the results.

But that was hardly the core of their worry. So when they remained silent, Nanna crossed her legs and adjusted the glyph to simmer low, turning in her chair to face Casadh fully. Their eyes did not meet her, their hands gripping each other in quiet anxiety. 

“You know,” she said after a moment. “We do not recite the Warden Oath very often in Amaranthine. I have it that way by design; as recent examples will show, it becomes rather easy to fixate on. ‘In death, sacrifice’. ‘Know that one day, we shall join you’. It is all quite honorable. And rather counterintuitive to my mind.”

She did not bring up Davrin, but Nanna counted him among the Weisshaupt Wardens nonetheless. The earnestness for the call of death in battle, rushing to throw themselves on the sword for victory in the now without a thought for what might be needed in the future. Not even Casadh had been fully immune to the mindset, even if they hadn’t meant it. It made her frown even now. 

Nanna turned her eye to glance at a stack of notes on the far corner of her table, all handwritten accounts of her most recent study. Progress, she thought to herself. We are on the right track, I know it. But the timeframe? The wonder of if either of them would live to see its end? For that, Nanna had no answer.

“I cannae’t give you certainty, Casadh.” The solemn answer would not be what they wanted to hear, but neither would she give them a falsehood to cling to. Hope had to be found in the truth. “What we are attempting, to my knowledge, has never been done before. But that should inspire you to value the time you have that much more.”

Nanna leaned forward then, taking one of their hands between the both of hers. They were still warm from the cloves.

“You two share that there is danger in your lives even without the threat against the world. Both of you will hold your breath every time the other leaves to do their work, be it tomorrow or twenty years from now. It is a risk you must consider together, but you cannae’t live your life held back by the fear of what you might lose, or what might be left behind. Else you will not live at all.” 

The bronze eyes of a once-Crow was brought to her mind, then. Of red hair and the gentle wafting of Andraste’s Grace pressed into a collar with Orlesian stitching. A flash of longing gripped her heart. Casadh may not know it, but Nanna understood their fear intimately. 

“Love despite the inevitable. You are a Grey Warden, and more than that, a healer. You know as well as I that there is enough out in the world seeking that end on our behalf. Do not chase it for yourself.”

Nanna gave their hand a reassuring squeeze, moving to brush a stray hair back from their face, before turning away again to bring the pot to a boil once more. 

“Perhaps you should see what he thinks of the matter, hm?”

[avrorean]

@ourdawncomes. ❛  I knew a moment ago, but I have forgotten.  ❜ (cole)

" 𝒯hat is fine, Cole. "

Chin resting in her palm, Nanna watched the strange boy roll a thousand feelings behind his eyes. It wasn’t of much consequence; Nanna had started to find the flow of things when they spoke, and the turns his attentions took when something pricked his nature. Best to let him follow where it leads him, she found.

It brought to mind another spirit she had known once in Amaranthine. Near as kind, and just as eager to help.

" How about you tell me what you are thinking of instead? "

[avrorean]

꧁ @godrotting. “ of course i came. you called me. what’s wrong? “

"Theron!"

Nanna was breathless when she turned at the sound of his voice, the looming figure of her fellow Grey Warden ever imposing in the glint of the sun. But it was not fear or any anxiety that Theron Mahariel would find in the gleam of her eyes when she rushed towards him. It was delight.

"Look! Look at this!"

Nanna was normally more tactile when it came to touching the others in her party; it was a strange learning curve when the apprentices in the Tower had depended on it, just to find people beyond the old walls of Kinloch needed other things. But so bountiful was her excitement that she hadn't given another thought to tugging the man by the wrist over to see what she had found.

It wasn't much, in truth - a tangle of vines sprouting from the earth, touched by little wiry flowers along its spines, and turning to tangle in on itself even as they watched it. But magic hung heavy in the air, and its touch held the plant at its center. By the pride glowing in her violet eyes, one might have thought she had sprouted a garden. But it had been something that came naturally, and that made it hers.

"It reacted when I- it was a miscast spell, but- and then it-!" Her hands flailed as wildly as a pair of panicked birds, enthusiastically trying to illustrate the event that words were barely managing and finding themselves no greater aid. "I did not know I could do that!"

[avrorean]

꧁ @howetragic. "A mage in a position of power is a thing to be wary of."

It should not have stung as it did. 

Ever since she was a child, Nanna had been told what the world would think of her. That it would never accept a mage among normal people. There had been enough horror stories from other apprentices and older mages to prove the rule from the very beginning of her time in Kinloch Hold, enough to see why it was surely neccesary. And why she should always stay safe, for herself and for others, locked away in the Tower. 

So why did this surprise her?

Perhaps she had simply grown so accustomed to the love of her friends, the ones who had seen her and whom she had held so close in her heart, that she had forgotten what the world was. But her friends were gone now, scattered to the wind to the far corners of Thedas to continue their lives with its new lease from the time they had spent together. Nanna would never had wanted them to do less - but as of late, Nanna had begun to wish she had gone with them. Something that every day seemed determined to remind her in the cold, uncertain eyes of her ‘vassals’. The same look in Nathaniel’s eyes now. That he had more reason than most to distrust her did not ease the weight of it.

  Maybe Wynne had been right, after all. No matter what she did, who she saved, or how many corrupted dragons she slayed, in the eyes of the world Nanna would always be a mage, and part of her would always be unwelcome here.

It was wearying. In a way few things even in the Blight had been wearying. She ha only come to Amaranthine to hopefully tie loose ends, but Nanna had begun wishing that she had never come at all.

“I hope,” Nanna began at last. When she turned to him, her smile was tired. “That I will prove able to ease your worries.”

[avrorean]

Do you like to draw Nanna?

It was a simple question, and Nanna had thought, at least at first, that she had a relatively simple answer to give them. But she paused. Scratching any more into the thought beyond the surface of the question had brought up... nothing in particular. This was a particular gap in her experience; strange, considering the handful of artists she'd met on her travels. Had it really never crossed her mind before?

Huh.

"You know," she admitted after a moment, with more surprise than dismay. "I do not believe I have before!"