#DA Abjid

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Shifting back into Dragon Age mode via Everyone's favorite Orlesian Warden... N'Abjidynen aka Abjid (they/them).

Redraw of a doodle from a while ago, perhaps I'll keep working on it.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

I gave Abjid and Nas'len a kid. I might given them another...

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Forgot how pretty DA Abjid is

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

what if DA Abjid and Nas'len had/adopted kids at some point...

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Splash of Color Saturday Prompt: Tell us about important figures in the history of specific regions, and cultures, in Thedas! Past kings, queens, leaders of empires, and leaders of tribes. Perhaps there are infamous rebels, gentle healers, renowned teachers? Or someone else who has extraordinary importance to your narrative from the past? Let us remember them, here!

Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin and Aclinde

[An excerpt from a letter written by Ghi’la’nas’len of Clan Eir’melamem. Originally written in an Orlesian-Elven pidgin, it has been translated by Warden N’Abjidynen of Clan Eir’melamem]

I hear life in the cities has taken a turn, with all that’s going on with the royalty and nobles. I fear it’s not uncommon.

My dear cousin[1], have I ever told you about my clan’s history? We have a long history, of course, but your stories of your hardships working in noble estates have reminded me of one particular story. My clan has always roamed Orlais, we’ve witnessed and learned much of both historic events and mundane happenings. Some we even played a part in.

Do you know of the unrest among servants during the late Storm Age and early Blessed age? I’m sure you can assume the basis of it, I fear such unrest is ever-present in Orlais, regardless of the age. The unique part of this unrest had to do with the Keeper of my clan, at the time, Keeper Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin, and an elf named Aclinde.

Generally, our clan and most I know try to keep their distance from human cities. But one time during the late Storm age, a snow storm and damage to the aravels caused Keeper Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin to settle the clan temporarily on the outskirts of Val Firmin. 

Meanwhile, in the city, the servants of the noble houses were beginning to band together. It is a familiar scene, one that had taken place before and has taken place since, as you well know. And I’m sure you are also well aware of how the nobility deals with such issues. Plenty of servants are fired at best, and at worst…

Perhaps the Creators were watching over our people that day, as one of the servants who had been fired, an elven woman by the name of Aclinde, had gathered with the others who were still free, and together they raided the jail, freeing are their fellow elves. The group thereafter split up, some going home to their families, some quickly packed up and fled towards nearby cities hoping to create a new life. Aclinde gathered a group of her own and led them south of the city, perhaps hoping to find refuge in the wild.

Her group, a few dozen elves, some children, some elders, made their way to the outskirts of the Val Firmin. It was winter, and a great blizzard soon fell upon them as they walked, freezing and with no home to return to. It was there that her group came across where Clan Eir’melamem had settled. The hunters noticed them first, and Keeper Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin was quick to welcome the group, urging them to sit by the fires, to eat, to rest. And as they did, Aclinde met with Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin, to tell them of what happened to their group and to ask for a short refuge until the storm passed.

Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin agreed, and took it upon themselves to ensure Aclinde’s group was cared for and protected. Even as city guards came looking for Aclinde and her group. When the guards asked Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin if they had seen Aclinde or her people, Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin would simply shake their head and tell them there were no strangers among their clan, they had not met or seen any servants. 

Once the storm stopped, neither Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin nor Aclinde felt rushed to go off on their own ways. By the time the aravels were fixed and the snow began to melt, both groups had grown accustomed to each other. As the clan readied to move again, Aclinde met once more with Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin to speak of the future. 

Aclinde felt as though she and her people had overstayed their welcome and wished to not intrude further on the clan’s hospitality. Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin, though, proposed that she and her people stay instead. 

“You and I are knit from the same cloth, your people and my people are knit from the same cloth. You are free to go your own way, but do not let it be due to worries of whether you are welcome. Never were you strangers here, your arrival was not an intrusion, but rather a homecoming.” 

Thus, my cousin[1], is how my clan came to be as it is today. There are many more tales I could tell you of Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin and Aclinde, if the Creators allow, perhaps you will one day hear our harhen tell you the story properly.

You might think I know not of the struggles you face in the city, and perhaps I do not first-hand. But as Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin said, our souls are of the same cloth, we are not so different. Elders in our clan are descended from Aclinde and her group, my own mother spent much of her life as a maid, my spouse was no stranger to such work, most of our clan have cousins or aunts[2] in the city. Our worlds are the same. The stories of what you face now are interwoven with my clan’s history, are told as one of our own. 

Remember, we have more in common than you have with the nobility. There is always a spot in the aravels for you[3], my cousin. It is together that we can be Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin[4]. 

Translator’s notes:

[1] In this case, the term cousin is being used akin to an endearment or show of familiarity, rather than actual blood relation. 

[2] The actual term used is a general term akin to aunt or uncle.

[3] Meaning, “You are always welcome among the clan”

[4] Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin translates to “One who searches for a gentle tomorrow”. In this case, the name is being used both to mean to live in Gwillen’il’cam’ienvunin’s footsteps, and also to do as their name means and search for a gentler tomorrow.  

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Abjid liked to think they had pleasant memories of visiting Val Royeaux as a child. It wasn’t true, they couldn’t remember anything pleasant about their childhood. Their memory was full of holes, gaps, enough years missing that they couldn’t tell how old they were offhand--They were born in 9:02 Dragon, allegedly, as far as they knew. 

Perhaps their most guilty pleasure was imagining what could fill those gaps in their memory. Val Royeaux wasn’t too far from Val Foret, it wouldn’t have been impossible for them to visit. Abjid’s clan was currently settled in Emprise du Lion, Abjid was supposed to be in Ferelden now, They had been living in Kirkwall less than a week ago, but now they sat on a tucked away stone bench near one of the markets in Val Royeaux. Maybe they came here as a child.

There was a stall in the market nearby filled with all sorts of brightly colored candy and sweets, bright-eyed children pulling their parents over to get sweets, or spending their own pocket change on a bag of candies with their friends. Abjid wanted to picture themselves like that, wanted to somehow unearth a memory of this that they had long forgotten. 

Even now, though, they couldn’t wander the streets freely. A Dalish elf in fine clothes wandering Val Royeaux would bring too much attention to them. Instead, they needed a crafted illusion spell to change their appearance, make them look like a human man of moderate standing.

They couldn’t walk the city as themselves, they couldn’t manifest memories of a pleasant childhood. They could, though, unearth memories of Val Royeaux. They had been here as a child. 

Once following around a servant from the Foret estate, to get a headstart on learning the duties ahead of them. Later tied up and dragged to the White Spire, left in a windowless cell after they had fought tooth and nail every Templar that came to take them. And then as a rumor, idle gossip, a ghost story. Whispers of an bastard child, a possessed mage, a secret funeral.

Part of them desperately wished that they could walk the streets with their head held high, let people look, let them gossip. Abjid wanted nothing more than to announce who they were and let scandal destroy the Foret family. They wanted rub in everyone’s faces how they were alive, that they were a Grey Warden of such standing that they had personally been gifted armor from the Empress. They wanted to show up at their father’s doorstep, let him see them alive, thriving, married, dressed in fine gowns, adorned with Vallaslin. 

But Orlais had killed and erased elves stronger than Abjid. They could only win by playing The Game. They had to smile, dance around issues, lay in wait, sacrifice pawns, gamble innocent lives for sport, for revenge, for the improbable chance to hurt someone untouchable.

They couldn’t.

But they could pretend. Imagine.

Abjid watched children run around the marketplace laughing. They liked to think they had pleasant memories. It was easier that way.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

N’Abjidynen Za’arslu (Andras) of clan Eir’melamem: Senior Grey Warden, Mage, Son of Duke ▓▓▓▓▓

“No one really knows me. You know scary stories and rumors, you think what stands before is the amalgamation of all the half-remembered ghost stories, fractured rumors whispered fearfully by people whose voice shake. Demon, abomination, they call me, a ghost, a copse they mutter as they pray in the vein belief it will wash the blood from their hands. And perhaps that is all I am, nothing more than a ghost story, perhaps I don’t deserve a proper name if my existence is but a noun too vague and blurred at the edges to be proper. But if you must ascribe a name to my something so concrete to who or what I am, then you may call my N’Abjidynen Za’arslu.” 

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

The hanged man was never a quiet place, really, largely because it was never empty. Sure, afternoons and evenings were the busiest times, but plenty lingered in their night of drinking until the wee hours of the morning. And once morning came around, folks started trickling in for breakfast and conversation once more. There were always people coming in and out, travelers, locals, all sorts of people who brought noise, conversation, music, it was part of why Varric liked living there.

It was also why Varric could tell something was off that night, because he could no longer hear the din of conversation from the pub below. 

It was late into the evening, usually, the number of patrons would have dwindled a bit by this point, but silence at this time of night, or at any time, was something Varric had never come across. 

Putting down his quill and reading glasses, Varric walked over to his doorway, peering down into the tavern. There were still people, a scant few at the bar, a couple posted up at various tables, but something was off. Even from there, he could feel a strange tension, an unease in the way everyone sat, in the hushed whispers and worried side-eyed glances.

Varric wasn’t certain what exactly drew him down the steps into the tavern.. It could have been anything, morbid curiosity, concern, perhaps simply the anticipation that this could be a story to tell. If it was curiosity, he didn’t have to wait long, as he saw what everyone was avoiding the second his feet touched the tavern floor.

Sitting alone at a table in the corner was a Dalish elf. That in of itself wasn't too uncommon, what was uncommon was everything else. Blue, gold, and silver robes with intricate embroidery, countless gold piercings, a cloak, and a headscarf made from fine brocade. Their vallaslin itself was gold, glittering against their dark brown skin in the torchlight, there was even gold thread even woven into the thick braid of theirs that was so long it pooled on the floor. 

Even that, though, likely wasn’t what put everyone off. What put them off, Varric had to assume, were the bones. Animal bones hanging from their belt, a deer skull on the table next to their leather bag, the bag’s straps beaded with vertebrae. Leaning on the wall next to them, a gnarled wooden staff, wood twisting around more vertebrae, branches with teeth hanging from golden thread, teeth that looked too human. 

What caught Varric’s eye, though, was the silver Grey Warden pendant hanging at their waist.

“You’re scaring people, there, Bones,” Varric chuckled as he approached their table.

He could almost feel a collective sigh of relief from the other patrons as he sat across from them. The elf, on the other hand, hardly reacted aside from slightly raising their eyebrows. 

“What can I say, it’s amusing,” They shrugged.

Varric couldn’t help his surprise at their accent, faintly Orlesian of all things.

“We don’t tend to see many Grey Wardens around here”

They laughed slightly, not even looking up from the papers on the table in front of them.

“I wouldn’t think people saw Grey Wardens much anywhere, now the Blight is over. Much less Kirkwall, the Blight didn’t reach this far north aside from some ghouls.”

“Well, I didn’t think the Blight spread west enough to bother Orlais, either,”

“Grey Wardens don’t care much about borders. I spent the early parts of the Blight in Ostagar as the Ferelden Warden commander’s left hand.”

“I suppose you would know a lot about darkspawn and the warden, then,”

They paused, finally looking over to him after a moment.

“We don’t have to do this,”

“What do you mean?”

“All of this,” They gestured vaguely, “Cut the sweet talk, you’re only talking to me because I’m a Warden and you want something from a Warden,”

“Come now, what makes you think that? I just thought I might talk to some traveler sitting all alone,”

“Nobody talks to me willingly, what gave you away is the fact that you’re speaking to me at all,”

“Well now, it’s not just that you’re a Warden, you’re quite the interesting character, a Dalish elf dressed like a nobility walking into a dingy lowtown tavern? There’s gotta be some story there.”

They were quiet now, seemingly ignoring Varric for a minute before they spoke again.

“Perhaps I’m nothing more than a story.”

With that, they stood in a flourish of fine fabrics. They limped out the door, a glint of metal visible under their skirt, the torches dimming around them as they passed.

Varric looked back at the table, and their mug still sat there, full, untouched, filled with an inky black liquid.

They returned the next night, around the same time, at the same table.

Varric wasn’t one for writing ghost stories, he never really saw the appeal. He preferred mystery, intrigue, drama, crime, a spooky specter floating around didn’t quite cut it.

Perhaps, though, Varric realized, that was because he only thought of ghosts as some apparition, a cheap scare. Maybe they could be more than that.

If Varric were to describe the Orlesian Warden, he would call them a ghost.

They weren’t malevolent, they didn’t torment any poor souls. But they showed up every night, bringing an unsettling aura and leaving silence in their wake. They sat alone at that table, with a drink they never touched. They would leave the tavern at the same time, whether Varric spoke to them or not. When he spoke to them their answers were vague or cryptic, but most of the time they were simply silent. Their voice was flat, face stoic, and impossible to read. 

There was something off about them, something that haunted every other patron in the Hanged Man.

One night, Anders stepped into the Hanged Man while the Warden was there. As soon as he noticed them, he had paled, frozen, like he had seen a ghost. He turned on his heel and left in a hurry.

“They have a lot of names, really,” Anders said, when Varric asked about them.

“So what’s their story?”

Anders was quiet for a while, looking off in the distance, “If you asked them, they would tell you they’re nothing more than a ghost story,”

Varric couldn’t help but find truth in their words.

“Varric, a letter,” The barkeep nodded at the counter.

The letter itself was a deep pine green in color, thick parchment folded neatly, stamped with an ornate white wax seal and dried flowers. Before Varric could reach for it, though, the barkeep spoke again.

“Not for you, though,”

Turning the letter over, Varric read the address. The Elf in the Corner, written ornately in white ink. There was no name, no return address.

“They’re already spooking my patrons,” the barkeep continued, “I don’t want more spooky characters and dealings scaring off any more customers. You tell them that!”

“Right, no more spooky characters and dealings are off, only shady characters and dealings,”

“They’re scaring everyone half to death!”

“No, no, I hear you, I’ll let them know, no problem,” Varric said, waving his hand dismissively as he took the letter and started towards his room, “No more spooky business, I’m sure they’ll listen.”

For the rest of the evening, the letter sat on Varric’s desk. There was no way he could find the Warden himself, he didn’t know their name, Anders wasn’t keen on talking about them. Varric wasn’t even sure where they disappeared to when they weren’t at the Hanged Man. He had asked around a couple times, as to whether anyone had seen a Dalish Warden, an Elven mage dressed in fine robes, an unusual Orlesian character. People would mention the Warden who ran a clinic in Darktown, the friendly Dalish mage in the Alienage, the tattooed elf living in Hightown, but never the person Varric was looking for. 

They might as well be a ghost, an apparition that only appeared briefly in the dead of night.

At a quarter past two in the morning, like clockwork, a silence fell over the tavern below. Putting down his work, he grabbed the letter and descended into the tavern area. 

They were in the corner again, still as a statue, staring off into the distance, mug untouched in front of them. As Varric approached, they didn’t react, didn’t even raise an eyebrow as Varric sat at the table. Pulling out the letter, he was about to speak, but before he did their hand snatched out to grab the letter. Varric was nearly startled, he had never seen them move so quickly, and as he watched them open it, he saw their usually inexpressive face soften, their whole body change. For the first time, they seemed just like a person, eyes warm, a faint smile visible behind their hand as the read the letter.

Learning over slightly, Varric could make out the first line.

My love,

And suddenly the story shifts in Varric’s mind, away from horror, from ghosts, hauntings, and instead to one of love. No longer was the Warden before him a ghostly apparition haunting a tavern, but a traveling, lovesick knight waiting anxiously for letters from their love, desperate to send back tales from their travels and their affection--

“Thank you,”

The Warden had folded the letter closed once again, straightened their posture.

“Oh, no problem, I mean I figured you might happen to be the Elf in the Corner it was addressed to, “ Varric smiled as they scoffed, “Be sure to give them my regards--”

“I won’t.”

Varric paused. 

“The Templars would kill them if I ever went home again,” Their voice was flat, face stony and emotionless, at odds with the words they spoke, “Their letters are the closest I get to being with them. I appreciate you delivering it.”

They began carefully folding the letter, gathering their things.

“So, what are you going to do now? There’s not much Grey Warden business in Kirkwall, and I imagine you could spend your days writing love letters and lurking in shady taverns before Templars take notice.”

“I can’t write, but I am good at keeping out of the Templars' sights. As it stands, though, I do indeed have Grey Warden business here,” They paused for a moment, head tilted slightly as they looked into the distance, “It’s not something I plan on completing, though. Do give Anders my regards,”

They stood with practiced grace, their staff suddenly finding itself in their hand.

“I never got your name,”

The Warden froze, their robes swaying around them gently as if being pushed by a breeze, silk and embroidery glimmering, vallaslin glittering in the low torch light. 

“When is one deserving of a name? Where does story stop and personhood begin, does such a line even exist? Are some things too blurred and ephemeral to have a name? What people know me as is a story, not a person. even in their stories they don’t give me a name. Is it out of reverence? Fear? or is it the careful and deliberate erasure of my personhood, an abstraction that allows room for cruelty? In my lives I’ve been called a great many things, I’ve been given a great many names,” They paused for a moment, “For you, I shall leave you with a name of my choosing: N’Abjidynen Za’arslu,”

As soon as they spoke their name, all the torches flickered, the tavern going dark for a split second. When the lights returned, they were gone as if they had never been there. The only evidence of their existence, the mug left on their table, filled with the same, strange inky black liquid. As Varric watched, something white broke the surface. A single, bleached animal bone.

When Varric thought about it, there wasn’t a difference between a love story and a ghost story.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

had a fun dream last night where zevran, fenris, and abjid teamed up to kill some shitty nobles in Orlais. some fun elf-centric infiltration and assassination plots. like a wewh or MotA but the humans are 1000% in the wrong and the elves are right. zevran had the assassin knowledge, abjid has the Orlesian knowledge and their background, fenris is just there to have fun. everyones bisexual and brown.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

For the Kirkwall residents, where is their favorite spot to go, whether to be alone or people watch or for whatever reason? Is it an in-game location or somewhere else, such as a particular rooftop or specialty shop?

Oooo! Yes!

For Joaquín, he usually just rolls the city at night. Commonly Hightown or Lowtown, he'll just roll around, usually he sticks to places with less people. I tend to imagine that Kirkwall, with all it stairs and steps has some sort of network of service paths with ramps made for like, merchant carts/horses/etc, and I imagine him utilizing those and keeping away from main streets. I always imagine him enjoying like, the solitary-ness you can find on city streets some times of the night, you know where there are people in buildings or lights on in windows but the streets are empty. Urban loneliness.

Azahar is the opposite, when xe wants to be alone or get some space they head out to the Wounded Coast. Xyr not a fan of cities, they're used to spending time just traversing the Hinterlands on horseback so whenever they can they try to get out of the city. They'll just ride along the winding trails and cliffs on xyr horse. Sometimes xe might run across some Bad people or monsters, which xe enjoys. Sometimes you just want to ride on your horse and breath the fresh air and kill any slaver you come across. The reason they choose the wounded coast over Sundermount is purely the chance to come across someone to fight.

Bonus, since Abjid is in Kirkwall for a bit. They usually lurk in Darktown, in whatever dark and tucked away passage they can find. But their favourite place when they can manage to, is the graveyard on Sundermount.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Kinda new here, hope the question is not repeating something i haven't found here yet, but. What is Abjid's life as a Grey Warden is like? How did they come to be one? What is their relationship with their collegues and what is their relationship with the order at large? Your characters are so interesting, and their designs are gorgeous! Thank you for sharing your work here :)

No worries, tbh I'm not sure if I've ever put some of abjid's lore in a proper post!

Let's start with how Abjid came to be a Grey Warden! They joined the order when they were roughly 21 I think, why they joined is a longer story. First, Abjid was in Kinloch Hold (they had originally been in an Orlesian Circle but their father had them moved out of the country), and they managed to escape when they were about 18. They were pretty injured in the escape and passed out in the woods, where their future spouse, Ghi'la'nas'len of clan Eir'melamem found them. As Abjid was nursed back to health, they ended up joining the clan and later marrying Ghi'la'nas'len.

However, their status as an escaped mage, especially given their... escape methods and magic, meant they were still being hunted for by Templars (their case, due to how dangerous they were labeled and how well they managed to keep from being found, was handed over the the Seekers at one point). Because of the danger this posed to their clan, they decided to try and throw themselves at the Grey Wardens and hope that would give them some immunity and ensure the clan wasn't put in danger. As luck would have it, they did manage to find some Wardens and ask to join, and they passed their Joining.

In the Wardens, Abjid doesn't have the best relationship with their collegues! Partly because of their reputation as a possessed mage, partly because they go out of their way to be annoying and noncompliant so people won't get close to them. So their commanders don't have many positive words other than their competence as a mage. And this is part of why they ended up being passed around, sent to different commanders, different regions. The Other reason is their being in Orlais is... an issue given their father's identity, so it was a little risky for them to be in Orlais. Nevertheless, their competence really shone through despite all their issues and they ended up getting the title of Senior Warden around the time of the Blight.

Their closest collegue was actually Duncan, as he had something of a soft spot for them because he saw through their attempts to come across as moody and distant. They spent some time working with Duncan to the point they were considered his right hand man. They originally were with Duncan in Ostagar at the start of the Blight, but they were sent to get the Orlesian Wardens before the battle of Ostagar and well... that didn't turn out.

To the Grey Wardens, especially the Orlesian order, they are a very risky asset, but one with a lot of unique skills and experience. Part of why they were sent to amaranthine was 1. to get them out of Orlais because they were starting to cause trouble and 2. they were competent enough for the job but also expendible if something went wrong. But lo and behold, they were gifted armor by Empress Celene and went on the handle Amaranthine rather well. Which is bothersome for many, considering they're a possessed Dalish mage, which isn't really a good poster child for the Order.

Abjid doesn't care too much about the Wardens, they realize the importance and take it seriously (not that others could tell), but as I said in the beginning, they really only joined the Order to keep their clan safe and their being a warden and their duties means they really don't get to go home. Their joining is more comparable to Mahariel, in that it was out of necessity rather than any real desire.

But yeah, that kinda sets the stage for Abjid's character. Stuck bouncing between Grey Warden Orders and unable to return home properly. Their story is kinda one of tragedy and longing, and revenge, but that part doesn't have to do with the Wardens.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Abjid and Amal meeting years after Abjid escaped the circle, both realizing the other became a blood mage AND a grey warden:

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

For DA Abjid, what are some Undead ™️ things they do that they forget aren’t just normal human/elven things.

Probably the biggest ones are blinking, sleeping, and eating. None of which they need to do, and when ur a lil dissociative and you don't have those urges it's easy to forget about them lmao

Instead of sleeping, they usually just stay or lie completely still, eyes still open. Or fucking, Blair Witch style facing a corner. Especially since they spend most of their time away from their clan, they forget that elves sleep just like humans. Or that they dream.

Some more quick ones

Being able to see and communicate with spirits

Incredible healing ability

Vague ability to read minds

The ability to sense someone's imminent death

The ability to speak dead languages

Not breathing

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

I’m supposed to be doing my Honor Society orientation but instead I pushed it off to make this based on that one Yahoo answer

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

does Abjid have any best friends? do they have any favorite cities/regions?

Best friends is a strong word, Abjid tends to be a bit of a loner, if only because they're always traveling. They're pretty close with Amal (my Surana) and Ane'lun (my Mahariel), they met Amal in Kinloch Hold and then after the blight they ended up mentoring the two in Amaranthine since neither knew much about being a Grey Warden. They also met Anders in the circle and then later in Amaranthine. Varric's quite fond of them, really, and the two are friends and spent time together when Abjid was in Kirkwall. I imagine if they crosses paths with Fenris and Zevran they would be friends too.

As for places! Orlais is their home turf, they do hate Orlais with a passion but the land itself they don't hate, it's where their clan tends to roam. They also deeply enjoy in a hateful way Orlesian politics and like messing with The Game and the nobility. They prefer central Orlais for messing with nobility, but their favourite places tend to be places like the exalted plains, the arbor wilds, and the frostback mountains.

They haven't ventured out much beyond southern Thedas, but they would like to check out Nevarra, Rivain, and Antiva, but they've never gotten much of a chance.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

da abjid’s energy is like an immortal from a different realm messing with humanity sometimes for the fun of it. like, no skin in the game, they’re just like “this could be interesting lets see how this plays out”. maybe its the orlesian in them, but they make is sexy and take it to the next level. fuck around and find out incarnate. all they do is randomly show up out of the darkness and talk cryptically. they did it to alistair. they did it to joaquín. they did it to anders. they did it to blackwall. they’re living their best life ig. when they’re not materializing in dark rooms they’re fucking over nobility. good for them.