#HOW DO YOU DRAW THE MYTHAL VALLASLIN HELP

[churrostyx]

POP MUZAK ☆ ANDRASTE'S JIVE

funky art of my inquisitor lavellan

[mrs-gauche]

Solas: “Cole is a spirit. The death of the real Cole wounded him, perverted him from his purpose. To regain that part of himself, he must forgive.” Varric: “You don't just forgive someone killing you.” Solas: “You don't. A spirit can.”

You know, this little exchange from Cole’s personal quest made me think. We like to speculate that the corruption of Wisdom in Solas’ personal quest is drawing a direct parallel to Solas’ own past and what might have happened to himself, a spirit of wisdom being denied its original purpose, turning into Pride. And Cole’s comments in Trespasser always suggested to me that the cause of this could lie somewhere in Mythal giving him a body against his will and making him fight in wars he didn’t want to participate in.

But looking at this dialogue again, although in Cole’s case, it was specifically the horrific circumstances under which the real Cole had to die that corrupted his compassion, maybe it really was Mythal’s death that, like Solas says about the real Cole’s death, “wounded him and perverted him from his purpose”. It makes me wonder at what point in time that line “He left a scar when he burned her off his face”, removing his own vallaslin and therefore free himself from Mythal’s will, took place and whether it happened before or after she was murdered.

We’ve talked about the importance of Solas’ “true name” that the Qunari seeked out in Tevinter Nights and how remembering his first name, hence his original purpose could potentially be the key to his redemption and “to regain that part of himself”. Seeing as Cole needs to forgive to regain his compassion, I mean, Solas clearly never forgave the Evanuris for what they did. If anything, he would need to forgive himself for his mistakes, when all he tried to do was to save his people. But I don’t think it’s about forgiveness in his case. The first thing that comes to my mind thinking about Solas’ deeply rooted pile of issues that perfectly matches his pride, is his inability to trust.

It might sound cheesy to some, but what if bringing Solas to learn how to trust again will help him remember his first name and find his original purpose?

[dirthavarens]

Mirani Lavellan Bio;;

I have an entire history for this beautiful darling and haven’t had such an in-depth story for a character in a very long while.

As a child, Mirani Lavellan was a rambunctious sort, playing and tumbling as all young Dalish do. She learned the way of the bow by her mother’s teachings, while her father drowned her in lore and stories of the Dales. The legends fascinated her beyond measure. Young, wide-eyed, and captivated, the child knew she had to discover everything there was to know, even the stories that were forgotten. That was until, of course, she began to show great potential as a mage at the age of nine.

The Keeper had talked to the family years before, when the babe had been born, telling them that he sensed magic within her and if it came to fruition there would hardly be room for her in the Clan. Her father, Hairen, swore to the Keeper that she would pose no threat. Mirani’s mother, Asalai, however, wished to err on the side of caution, and asked if the Keeper would take to training the young girl enough to help contain her magic.

There was already a Keeper and a First of the age of twenty; with no room for a third mage in the Clan, she could possibly prove dangerous. It was the First to the Keeper, Athara, who proposed an alternative. She approached both the Keeper and Mirani’s parents and promised to take her on as her own apprentice. Destruction was not the only use of magic, as the Dalish well knew, and it was often the burden on mages to hold sacred the knowledge of the People. 

With an agreement met, Mirani began her training, much to the disapproval of the rest of the clan. The Old Ways were being ignored. Of course, this meant great strides had to be made by the First. 

Athara quelled the disquiet of the Clan by appealing to their Dalish pride. The Elvhen were of the first mages and their ties to the Fade were stronger than any other. It was Mirani’s right to be a part of the Clan, to hold dear the ancient truth that thrummed in the heart of every Dalish elf. She was safer among her own than left to the fate of the shem Circles and their templars. 

Clan Lavellan tolerated her magical abilities due to her conviction in controlling them, despite her aptitude to find benevolent spirits in the Fade. Demons often sought her out in her youth, coming time and again in her dreams to tempt and taunt and try to possess. Athara taught her how to avoid demons and how to denounce them, even in the Fade. 

With her training, Mirani never surrendered to these troubling entities, but often found herself running in her dreams. It was a truth she withheld from all but Athara. She was not a dreamer, but something similar to it, tied infinitely to the Beyond. This led her to several places in the Fade unfamiliar to even the Keeper of their clan. No matter where they ventured, which was far and often, Mirani made new discoveries in the fade and picked up more of the Elven language than most. 

At the age of fifteen, only six years into her training, she decided to devote her efforts in both the waking and dreaming worlds studying her people’s history. The real history, and began taking little faith in the Dalish legends. Naturally, Hairen protested vehemently in the way she went about it. After all that she had learned in the Beyond, it was hard to take legends entirely on faith alone. Mortal men make mistakes in recounts of the truth over time, but echoes of spirits and memories long forgotten could hardly lie. 

The Creators became more of cautionary tales to her rather than true Gods and the only ones she came to genuinely care for were Mythal and June. When it came time for her vallaslin, her keeper thought it best to exclude someone as noteworthy and powerful as Mythal. Instead, she received June’s mark, as she was a crafter in her own right. While she did not fashion bows or teach her people to hunt, she used what knowledge she gained to help her clan forge new devices from ancient information; new wards from old magic.

Only years later, when her research led her to explore the nebulous Fen’Harel, did her clan truly fear for her. The Dread Wolf who locked away the gods and kept them from ever reaching their people was to be feared and chased away at every turn. Never mention his name unless to curse another, was the philosophy held by the Lavellan. Mirani turned her back on such mythos, choosing instead to dive into whatever trace of the legend she could find. Mostly, her research led to dead ends and more questions than answers. Why lock away the gods both good and bad? Why only let himself roam free when nothing changed except the Elvhen? Why want all of that power and do nothing with it? 

Unless there was more to the tale.

Her research often led her from the Clan, putting her in direct contact with humans and other hostile creatures. It was an acceptable tradeoff in the Clan’s eyes. With the third mage gone and Mirani left to her studies, both could peacefully exist. It was in nature and seclusion that she managed to fine-tune her magic, calling on whatever aid she could, often from spirits and the elements themselves.

On occasion, Athara and one of the Clan’s younger hunters, Terhavel, would join her, if only to keep her safe. But Clan duties would always call them back. Mirani held little against them. She would thank them for their companionship, but ultimately be relieved when they parted ways.

She found peace in the forests, taking days, if not weeks, to laze in the trees and befriend the benign wildlife. She would dive into untouched ruins and try to make sense of them. Oftentimes, they were of the Imperium, but that hardly stopped her from exploring. 

However, exploring ruins did not come without a price. Ancient wards and traps were often still active and she was not impervious to them.  At the age of twenty-four, a flame ward had been tripped and the entirety of her back was scorched. Luckily, she had not been far from camp and managed the walk back home if only thanks to the elemental magic she applied to her back.

The Keeper took the time to caution her of the path she wandered down, telling her that no good would come of it. If she continued on, she would find what she was looking for, for good or ill and he feared that it would not turn in her favor. 

Even Athara found it impossible to fully sympathize with Mirani’s cause. Forging a path to such a dangerous destination could only result in tragedy. Asalai entreated her daughter to abandon the hunt and return to the Clan for good. She could trade books and such in the shem world, find rare gems if she could. 

For a time, Mirani agreed, if only to appease those she cared for. The wound on her back kept her from leaving the Clan’s camp for what felt like ages, anyway. It was at that time she began to commit everything she learned to paper. Notes and drawings were scattered within her tent. The hunter, who had joined her, Terhavel, had become more and more of a friend as the days passed. Before long, the two went against tradition and found that they were physically compatible. Neither was in love with the other and thus complications remained at the wayside. There was no secret romance to hide, no awkward family discussion, no approval from the Keeper, just sex and studies. 

When he showed interest in another of the Clan months later, Mirani actively encouraged him to pursue her and neither spoke of what happened between them. Within the year, Terhavel and his heart’s desire were bonded. 

In her dreams, she tried to search for the spirits that had aided her for years, but found an eerie silence. It felt as though someone had intentionally thickened the Veil around her, beating on a wall where a door had once been. She felt drained most days, her magic weaker than before. The injury had long since healed, and yet she was still fatigued.

That was when she noticed the Keeper acting strangely as well. A quiet night at the fire with her father telling another Dalish folktale to the children brought about a great change in Mirani’s perspective. She caught sight of the Keeper looking lethargic and pulled him discreetly from the fire. When she inquired what was wrong, he insisted nothing, that it had been an especially trying year for all of Clan Lavellan. 

The following night, Mirani slipped away from camp, choosing instead to sleep away from her fellow Dalish and found her magic and vitality restored. A suspicion that hadn’t crossed her mind had not only crept in but had been confirmed. 

Then, Athara appeared from the underbrush.

Now twenty-five and old enough to know what trouble looked like as it approached; Athara looked like trouble.

“I fought against the decision to dispel you,” she professed before Mirani could offer a greeting. The night was warm and the breeze gentle from where the younger mage sat perched among a tangle of branches. Yet the words of her mentor wrapped around her like ice. “I even tried to override his spell, but he threatened to remove me as the First.”

“If this is your attempt at an apology, I would start over,” Mirani replied flatly. Her heart sat squarely in the pit of her stomach. How could the one person she trusted above all not tell her? “Why?”

“He feared you would leave again, that you would be possessed or killed. Deshanna wants only for you to be safe. He saw no other option that led to you remaining among us, da’len,” Athara explained as she took her place at the base of the tree. 

Mirani gave a sigh and rubbed at her temples. They were Dalish, the so-called last of the Elvhen, yet she was caged at every turn. Caged for being a mage, caged for being a researcher, caged for exploring and leaving the camp. No wonder Circle mages were growing restless. They had to remain in the same building their entire lives; her tower at least had fresh air. 

“Then maybe it’s time I take my leave. For good, this time.” Perhaps it was the only way. 

“Lethallan, you would consider surrendering to the Keeper’s whims instead of finding another way? There are many in the Clan who admire you for what you do. They would never voice their support so actively, but you are not without friends among your clansfolk. Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel may be as stubborn as halla with a thorn in her hoof, but he is not without reason. Speak to him. You are a voice among our people, he must listen.”

Mirani looked out into the forest surrounding them and watched as the creatures of the night scurried about. Reasoning with the Keeper was hardly an easy task, even harder for her, given the rampant disapproval of her work. She knew she could survive on her own, but where would she go otherwise? The life of a roaming apostate would not be easy, especially in the Free Marches. With the proximity for Kirkwall and the rumors pouring from other Clans and the shems they encountered, there was a chance she would be caught and forced into Kirkwall’s Circle. 

In order to make the Keeper see reason, she had to find it for herself first. Athara was always damnably talented at helping her do so.

“Alright. I’ll speak with him. If I can at least have my shackles removed, I’ll be content enough for now. I had no intentions of leaving permanently until this, Athara. If the Keeper cannot be made to see reason, then I won’t make promises to stay for it is one I cannot keep,” she declared, her defeated words an echo of the ache she felt deep into her soul. 

“Should I tell the Keeper you will return in the morning, then?” asked her former mentor. “He will come looking for you if nothing is said and I’d rather avoid conflict if possible.”

“Tell him what you want. I need tonight to think.”

Athara turned to leave.

“And Athara?” Mirani called down to her. “Thank you for coming to talk to me.”

She smiled. “Anything for you, da’len. I just wish it was under better circumstances. I sometimes miss our old adventures.” 

Mirani said nothing in return, only nodded her agreement.

The following morning brought the debate, Mirani now with a level-head spoke to her Keeper. Deshanna was displeased with Athara, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had been found out and his reasons were selfish ones. 

“I see now, da’len, how my intentions could be misconstrued,” Deshanna surrendered. “You are no immediate danger to our Clan, but there are other dangers that could arise from your endless hunt.”

“So rendering me too weak to use my powers would accomplish that? Would you strip a curious hunter of her bow when she found a decent hunting ground?” Her return was level, but fueled by the betrayal she felt. “Keeper, I devoted my life to serving this Clan as a researcher and historian. I am not a teller of tales as my father. Nor am I a hunter of my mother’s skill. I am simply a mage caught in an old fear of a gift granted to us simply by our Elven blood. I would never harm the Clan or abandon it simply to fuel my own ego. This is our history I’m looking into. I just want to get the story straight. I fail to see how my magic interferes with the truth.”

“You’ve made your case, Mirani. I am not here to doubt your commitment to Clan Lavellan. There was another mage, the first to her clan, who resorted to blood magic to find answers about the people. I did not want to see you share her fate.”

She knew of whom the Keeper spoke. A member of the Mahariel clan had left her people to restore a corrupted eluvian. There were even rumors that she bargained with a demon to do so. It seemed blood magic and demons often went hand-in-hand. But demons posed a threat to any mage.

It was Athara who spoke from Mirani’s side.

“She would not resort to such desperate measures, Keeper. In the years I have traveled with her into whatever ruins she found, never had it even crossed her mind. I taught her the dangers of such practices early on in her training. She knows the horrors it brings.”

“I do not believe I was speaking to you, Athara. She was not to know the ward on her was present,” Deshanna snapped back. It was the first time he raised his voice. 

“It should not have been placed upon her in the first place. I tried to tell you before that she wo--”

“It’s alright, Athara. You don’t need to speak for me. Ma melava halani. And for that you have my sincerest gratitude,” Mirani placed a hand on Athara’s shoulder in thanks before returning her attention to the Keeper. “To you, I make this promise, if any of my research proves too dangerous I will withdraw. If it leads me to something that may bring harm to the Clan, I will not return.”

“I do not want it to come to that, da’len, but I fear there is no changing your mind,” the Keeper relented with dissatisfaction. He took a moment’s pause then with a great breath and a few Elvhen words, lifted the hex. “It brings me sorrow to see the path you wander, but I know I cannot halt your footsteps any further.” 

The next three years were spent as they had been before, this time with Mirani having at least one hunter with her at all times when she left the camp. The Keeper said it was for protection, but she was certain it was to supervise her like a child. She limited her expeditions to a week at the longest and did not plunge as deeply into caverns and ruins as she wished. 

Then came the news from the shem world. The Conclave between mages and templars was something of great interest to all living people, from elves to qunari. There was little argument from Mirani when the Keeper tasked her with finding out what exactly was going on. This would be the farthest she traveled from Clan Lavellan, a chance to truly stretch her legs and get a sight of the outside world beyond trade and occasional run-ins. 

She said her goodbyes to her parents and a few others of the Dalish wished her safe travels and offered items for her to take on the journey. Her final goodbye was to the woman who mentored her. Athara knew the farewell was permanent, that Mirani would not be returning to the Clan. If there was news to be had of the Conclave, it would come in the form of a letter and perhaps a package useful to the people. 

They kept their goodbye short, not wanting to keep the other from her duties, but not so short that Athara could not offer her a necklace with a small carved halla head and a statuette of a wolf. 

“I know you have your doubts in the Creators, but may Ghilan’nain guide you and Fen’Harel never find you.” Athara’s words were laden with the tears that could not fall from her eyes as she placed the necklace upon her. She wrapped her arms around Mirani and held her tightly in an embrace. “You are as graceful and as beautiful as the halla and as valiant and strong as the wolf. May your journey be a blessed one, da’len. Dareth shiral.”

“Ma serannas, Athara. Keep the Clan safe. I will try to send good news,” Mirani promised as she tucked the wolf into her pack.

The journey from the Free Marches to Ferelden was made with both excitement and caution. The humans she dealt with looked down upon her for being both an elf and Dalish. She was even more looked down upon when she revealed her magic in a moment of defense. One of the sailors tried to get too close whilst drunk and ended up with burn marks along his hands and chest. The rest debated throwing her overboard, but she remained well-hidden for the remainder of the voyage. 

tl;dr? she’s not the first to her keeper and she’s basically a fade nerd who likes to nap and find new magics to test out as well as learn elvhen history. i stan, thank you.

[theharellan]

Ame dirthan, ame harthan

This is a repost of a thread written five years ago tomorrow (so 4/1/2015) between myself and @theshirallen​, an alternative scene (and canon to this blog) to the infamous grove scene where Solas does not turn away from revealing the truth to his love.

I want to note that this was written before Trespasser, so it was based mostly on speculation and extrapolation of canon material. And there is a lot I and I’m sure Joly would probably write differently if we were to rewrite it today, both because of new canon material and because our interpretations have changed. Regardless, it remains a special thread to me and I wanted it back on my blog.

As a final note most of the elvhen featured can be read by scroll over text. My apologies to those reading on mobile.

theharellan

The day had been kind to them, for though Crestwood was famed for its foul weather they had felt not a drop of rain since sunrise. It had been the perfect day, everything Solas had been planning since he first asked Ian to join him in Skyhold. Though fate had ruined his plans before, today it seemed fortune smiled upon him.

Yet every day spent beneath the sun had to end. Twilight had already begun to press down upon them and the grove was lit with a pale blue gloom. With every step Solas took the pressure in his chest increased twofold. It had hung over him like a shadow, always at the back of his mind even as he melted into kisses. The truth was mere moments from being spoken, and his lips trembled at the thought.

As they approached the grove Solas took Ian’s hand, hoping it might steady him. Their fingers laced together, his thumb rubbing the tough skin where scars lingered.

“Do you like it?” he asked. “The Inquisitor uncovered it not long ago, I thought of you when I saw it.” The proud hart statues towered over them, their eyes turned skyward. Whatever they guarded was gone now, but the area still had a power to it. The Veil moved here, stretched thin as spirits leaned in to watch the two elves on their stroll.

Solas pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth, glancing towards Ian. He had learned to love the way his whole spirit lifted when he looked at him. Over the course of the day Ian’s hair had steadily grown more mussed, tousled by the wind that skirted over Crestwood’s lake. Untangling their hands, he reached up to brush his hair through it, bringing them both to a halt.

“I was– trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me,” he confessed.

And as far as Ian knew, that was Solas’s only reason for planning the day’s events. It was more than that, though. He wanted one last selfish day, just for them. One last day where he might swim in cold lake water and hike up hills with Ian at his side.

“To demonstrate how much I love you,” he added. His hands rested along the back of the other’s neck, fingers warming themselves beneath his hair.

theshirallen

Ian was glad of the sun today. He always felt better when there was sun, and traveling in Crestwood was a rare place to find it. He would have endured the rain without complaint, however, to live this day with Solas.

Easy days came rarely, still. Things were not so difficult as they had been, though he was beginning to realize that the changes to his mind and his magic would linger far longer than he might have hoped. The ever-growing urgency that hung over Skyhold and the Inquisition did little to help him, but to spend an entire day with nothing more to concern him than enjoying the company of his love was a gift he had no intentions of squandering.

Stepping into the grove was like passing beneath a waterfall. Ian could feel the Fade shift and press close. The Veil was thin here, thin enough he was surprised no Rift had opened. Just on the other side of the barrier between the physical realm and the realm of thought, he could feel spirits shifting, their essence bending the Veil like a child behind a curtain, pressing their face into the shroud so that the contours almost matched their features.

Spirits caused him less alarm than once they had. He’d touched them, been touched by them, and being aware of them so close had become a comfort. They were always closer when demons were farther, and demons he still feared.

Solas’s fingers between his own pulled him from his distraction, and he looked up to study what his love had brought him to see. The towering statues inspired a soft draw of breath as his mouth fell momentarily agape before shaping into a gentle smile. Like so many remnants of the elves’ past, these monuments had weathered with time, but even the passing of ages had not robbed them of their beauty. Words could not adequately express the emotion they inspired, but Ian gave a soft nod in answer. Yes. He liked them very much. There was more to Solas’s question than it presented as, however. Something else beneath the spoken that did not immediately give rise, and Ian turned his face as Solas made an effort to smooth his impossibly tousled hair.

Fingers came to rest at the base of his neck, half buried in his hair, and his head fell forward for a moment, forehead resting where he fit so comfortably, nestled in the safety of Solas’s chest, tucked beneath the curve of his love’s chin. His own fingers found purchase at Solas’s waist, and he shifted his weight back, just a little. Just enough that he could lift up to his toes and bring their lips together.

How to explain to Solas that, though the thought was much appreciated, the gesture itself was not necessary?

“I’ve never doubted.” He said softly. “You have nothing to prove.”

He dropped back, rocking from his toes to his heels to back again before he found something akin to stillness. “I have no gift to offer you in return, vhenan, but I hope my love is known to you.”

As Ian nestled against him Solas went still. For a moment he did not breathe, afraid that in this position Ian might hear how his heart quickened. His nerves had settled over him, blackened fingers that gripped him tight and squeezed ‘til he had to remind himself to breath. He breathed in, memorising the feeling of his nose being pushed off-center by the top of Ian’s head. It was always the little things that he feared missing the most: the pins and needles he woke up with after a night spent together, the way his cheeks would ache from smiling, the things he could never find on his own.

He sank into the kiss, eyes falling shut. A shame that at this distance he could not admire how Ian’s mouth curved when their lips met. The fingers that rested at the nape of his love’s neck tangled in his hair, and remained there even after they parted.

A gentle smile stole across Solas’s features, though his eyes could not keep pace. “To you, maybe.” But he had much to prove to himself.

In a thousand years he never would have guessed he would be standing here, in love with another elf. Yet love was about more than sharing dreams and stories, he could colour a thousand dreams, show Ian a hundred ruins, but the word Vhenan would feel hollow on his lips until he could afford Ian trust.

This lie had lingered for far too long.

“I require nothing in return, I only ask that you listen ‘til the end, for what I have is no gift.” Ian loved him, but would he love all of him? He was meant for quiet evenings and a humble homestead, nothing Solas could offer him. Solas’s gut clenched, eyes tracing over the branches of Mythal, lingering upon the Tranquil brand. Perhaps this was a mistake, perhaps some truths were not meant to be shared, some loves never meant to be.

He had practised the words to himself time and time again, hoping he would find the combination that would make the revelation easier. Yet another truth came to mind, so that his lie might live another day.

But it would mean losing him.

“You have become important to me, in ways that I could never have imagined.” His fingers untangled themselves from Ian’s red locks, knuckles brushing his cheeks. “And so what I must tell you… the truth…”

For all his talk of freedom for the People, he had always been a selfish man. A more worthy man would never be in this position, his eyes would never have strayed from the target. He watched how Ian’s vallaslin shifted with his expression, and remembered the words of a woman who once valued him for his malleability. Perhaps, if things were to change for the better, then first he must change, as he had before. Something stirred in his chest, heart lifting, a feeling akin to hope.

“The Dalish tell tales of uthenera. From what they have described to me they believe it to be the last stage in an ancient elf’s life, and they are not always wrong, but they do not have the full story. Some Dreamers were so proficient they could sleep for centuries and not age a single day, often they would wake up to share what they learned during their time in the Fade.” The serenity of the grove put him ill at east, he almost felt this confession should come on a battlefield, if only to match the dread in the pit of his stomach. Solas paused to allow his words to sink in, so that Ian might recall every story his love has told him from his time in the Fade, stories that would have taken even the most proficient dreamer a hundred years to collect.

He surrendered any grip he had on Ian, afraid that if he held on his grip might be miscontrued as possessive, needy. “But when Arlathan fell they had nothing to wake up to. Some, like Abelas, clung to what little they had left. Others changed, allowed the world to see them as a lie while they picked up the pieces of their lost civilisation.

“Do you see what I am saying?”

theshirallen

There is a method of teaching, a style of intellectual discourse, in which one party leads and the other follows, where the destination is left only to discovery rather than provided in revelation. Sometimes, there is no time for such wanderings. Sometimes, the final fact must simply be given. Other times, this almost-game allows for a deeper exchange of thought, and comprehension is bolstered by reaching conclusions with only a gentle guide.

Ian and Solas often held conversations this way. It was how Ian had taught his apprentices, and Solas himself was quite adept at this, at providing one small piece after another, until, as Ian assembled them, the picture itself presented as a whole.

Solas’s request for him to listen attentively added an urgency that tightened Ian’s chest. Though nothing yet had been said, no motion had been taken that he might find truly upsetting, the soft brush of a hand over his cheek paired with his love’s somber tone and left his heart skipping. His attention was always given, freely, gladly. That Solas felt the need to ask for it as though seeking a promise added weight to anything that might come next. Something deeply troubled Solas, and that knowledge in turn troubled Ian. He would listen. He must.

But the pieces Solas set before him were incomplete, and it could be nothing but intentional. Solas was too gifted at teaching, at the sharing of stories, and there was more to this than the words he measured so carefully. Ian studied their shape, how they formed on Solas’s lips, as intently as their sound. He followed, and he listened, and his brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile what he knew with what Solas was saying.

It was more complex than a tale about elves like Abelas. Were it only about elves like Abelas, these pieces would have been given sooner. Shortly after meeting Abelas, perhaps.  No. Were it only that, Solas would not have brought him here. This was a place for gifts, or so it had seemed. Now he knew that it was also a place of confession. A place to mark an occasion that could not otherwise feel right, where truths and stories should be shared that were too heavy for comfortable venues.

Solas’s hands fell away, and without that touch Ian had no anchor. Ice crept into his chest, and his mind clouded, but he did not reach out to reconnect with Solas. His thumbs hooked within the hems of his sleeve, rubbing the thick stitches and worrying at threads that would soon unravel for his nervous attentions. Teeth drew over his bottom lip as his mind worked, and his gaze travelled back to the towering statues, remnants of a world long since lost. Touched by time, and yet enduring. What moments ago had been subject of inspiration and wonder now stirred the beginnings of fear.

The pieces did not tell a frightening story, not yet, but Ian could feel his understanding shift as certainly as the world around him. The press of the Fade against his skin, the dampness in the air, the trepidation of the sun peeking through gathering clouds, and the foundation of the history of his people that he had so carefully nurtured for all of his life, all of it moved and changed and existed in a flux that threatened at any moment to grow unbearable.

And Solas.

Ian’s understanding of his love was changing, too. Solas was not talking about unnamed elves, about strangers unknown to Ian who might yet wander this world in the guise of any other, who carried secret banners and forgotten knowledge.

Solas knew much, had always known much. It had been so easy to accept that such was his gift, a piece of his magic and his talent, of his curiosity and his ability to seek places and people who might enrich his mind and broaden his experiences. Now it seemed that it was that, combined with the impossible spanning of ages.

Solas’s question fell heavy in his ears, and they shuddered at the burden. He dropped his eyes from the giant harts, folding one arm across his chest, holding himself where Solas would not, and braced his chin against the rough edges of his knuckles as words died somewhere between his throat and his lips.

“It must have been disorienting, to awaken and find your world so changed. To so suddenly have reality mean something other than what it always had.”

theharellan

“You must know the feeling well by now.”

Ian had lived a thousand lives in his twenty-seven years. Born to a Dalish clan but raised in the Circle, he had travelled with heroes and earned the title hahren by deed and not age. Now his world was being reshaped again, but unlike the colours in his dreams this change would be permanent. They could never go back to the way things were, not exactly. Yet that did not spell doom… only if Ian wished for it.

It was not often he allowed himself to seem vulnerable, even in their most intimate moments there had always been a part of himself he had guarded. No more. He looked small against the backdrop of the hart statues, shoulders rounded and sagging from the weight of what he had to say. Solas laid his heart before him, still beating, and hoped that another pair of hands would reach out to take it.

“When I was a boy reality was determined by Dreamers. The world was more than it is now. Once I told you of a world where spirits were one with this world, as natural as a mountain stream or a thunderstorm.” Without Ian to cling to his hands searched for something else to occupy them. He drew his fingers across the air between them, distorting the Veil until it shimmered. “The two worlds were woven together, and those with the ability to shape the Fade could build wonders.”

Palaces that floated in the clouds, spires that rivaled the mountains themselves. Arlathan, a city woven by Dreamers, the jewel at the center of Elvhenan’s crown. Solas had seen them all at their roots, when Arlathan was naught but a dream in the minds of Dreamers. He wanted to show Ian what the Elvhen were capable of, but he could not pretend they were without flaw. At Mythal’s Temple he saw a hint of what the empire was, and perhaps he could glean the truth from what Abelas had told them. That there had always been a blackened pit at the center of Arlathan. The brighter the empire the darker its shadows, their glory had eclipsed the lives of a thousand slaves.

“What I told the Inquisition was no lie: I was born in a small village to the west of Haven, but if you were to go there today you would find only ruins.” A wiser man would have lied, yet when Leliana questioned him he could not bring himself to sever ties with his home for a second time. “I had humble beginnings, but my abilities set me apart. I befriended spirits, which in the eyes of my village was akin to taming wild beasts.” And sometimes they were beasts. He recalled the fear in the eyes of a boy named Era’Len who had seen no wisdom in the eyes of their friend, not at first. The world was what they made it, after all.

“As I grew I began to discover I could do more than commune with spirits. From nothing I could craft anything, a dangerous power for a wild young man to have, and I was not the only one that had it. There were others like me.” He drew his tongue across his teeth, face crumbling as his tale continued. Solas watched Ian’s expression. He had pulled into himself, body language guarded. Ian had built a wall between them, and Solas feared it would only grow higher the more that was revealed.

“Imagine for a moment that you lived in this world, that you met a people who could shape the world to their whims. Imagine the names you might have given them as they went on to build cities that outshone the sun itself.” It had all seemed so logical then. They had built wonders, how could they not be gods? Their deeds far outstretched those of other elves, there could be no mistaking it.

He took a deep breath, lungs filling with air and mist. It did not lessen the strangled hold his nerves had over him, it did not make what he had to say any easier.

“Solas is not the name I was born with, nor is it the name that your People know me by. I have another.”

theshirallen

Ian could imagine the feeling, but he would not claim he knew it. For every time his world had come unravelled, for every time reality had reweaved itself, he had borne witness to its changing. There had been sudden changes and there had been gradual ones, but he had watched their passing, had caught himself in the falling and bent his soul to weather them, even as he had tried to resist them.

He watched as somehow Solas’s words made him less. It defied comprehension, to see him speak of the ancient empire of the elves, of the power he wielded and the life he had lived, and watch him grow smaller for the sharing. He could not bear Solas being small, because he was small, and Solas had always been more. How was it possible that in this truth, this identity he was revealing one gentle statement at a time, he was diminishing, as if in fear or shame? For all their time together, he had never seen Solas so vulnerable, and it was not a vision that brought him comfort. Solas had never been small, and Ian closed his eyes against the sight, turning away from the images Solas was weaving in the shimmering light of the folded Veil.

Solas was still speaking, and Ian was still listening, but the anxiety that crept up his throat and iced his mind made concentrating difficult. He could hear the words, could comprehend their meaning, if not entirely their implications, but his thoughts had drifted back, to a past truth that had felt so much safer.

To the Solas who stood beside the Inquisitor–then only Herald–and exuded confidence, who had first spoken to him in Elvhen when his Common had been so stuttering. That first meeting, when Ian had been covered in another man’s blood, terrified for his own life but needing to finish his task before the Inquisition stole it away and cost two lives instead of just one. How certain he had been of their hostility, and how Solas’s gentle assurances had calmed him. How he had believed, how he had trusted. Solas had not been small, then.

He had not been small when they stood together as the Herald had closed the Breach, when Ian had all but crushed his toes in his haste to steal a kiss in celebration, or when he had knelt in a dream to paint a garden, or when he had taken Ian’s hand to soothe away nightmares. He had not been small.

But now, with his shoulders slumped and his expression sad, with his every word weighed and measured and burdened with emotion, despite the power in their content, to Ian he seemed unbearably frail.

Ian’s own breath came only with conscious effort, ribs tight enough to cause pain, but he needed air in order to give answer.

He had listened. He had followed. He knew well enough how Solas guided, could see the conclusions that he was expected to reach, and yet he railed against the knowledge. It settled over him like a shroud, like icy mist that clung to his skin and muted the world around him. He didn’t like this truth. He didn’t like the way it shifted the ground beneath him, the way it unmade everything he’d tried to learn. He had always had questions, doubts, curiosity, but whatever answers he’d hoped to find had always been vague and distant and philosophical in nature. This was harsh and sudden and certain, and he could feel his very identity unravelling as he processed Solas’s words.

Shaky inhales left him trembling as his fingers still worried at frazzled threads and his lips still pressed against raw knuckles. He knew what Solas was saying, but he was coming to realize that knowing and understanding where quite different things.

Several attempts to speak fell to failure as the words crumbled in his mouth to leave a stinging bitterness in his throat.

“To those without such power, they would seem as gods.”

He stilled as if alarmed by the sound of his own voice, and when he lifted his eyes to study the face of the man he loved, the man whose name he did not even know, the dryness in his mouth broke the words  that came next:

“Which god? Which name?”

theharellan

He saw how Ian came undone before him, unraveling like the threads of the shirt he tugged at. Solas’s stomach lurched, fingers curling into fists that squeezed ‘til his knuckles turned bone white. Tethered to the earth, he felt powerless to reach out, to help, terrified that the last thing Ian would want was his touch.

Fear had claimed Solas. He envisioned a world where he hid his truth, severed the ties that bound Ian to this ruin of a god. It was selfish of him to share it. There were times when he envied spirits, spirits like Cole, who at a single touch could unmake all the damage they had done.

    Forget.

It was a talent Solas had never mastered, for all his expertise he was only an elf. Ian would know the whole truth, or none at all.

“… Correct again.” Though his voice did not ring with pride, as it so often did during their conversations. It was quiet, soft against the flow of wind and water.  Words were fleeting, fumbling things, and this tongue was not native to either of them. The language of the People could not just be heard, but felt. Every word took on a life of its own, the King’s tongue a mere invention used to peddle goods. He was afraid in this language his meaning might be missed, his intentions overlooked.

He waited for Ian to find his voice, listening to the shaky breaths he could not soothe. Tonight he was the nightmare.

The question, once spoken, changed the world. The Veil drew to a breaking point, the curtain between the worlds thin enough for spirits to see through to their side. They listened, not just for the answer Solas will give, but the response. This confession was more than a display of trust, it was a surrender.

The curve to his back was shame born not of his past, but the lie he had lived. Ian had allowed Solas to love all of him, the freckles and the scars. Until now he had seen only the good Solas had to offer, only the freckles and never the scars.

His hands ghosted over the bone that hung about his shoulders, thumb tracing over the ridges in its teeth. A gentle hint, so that the words Solas must speak might be softened.  His chest swelled, but not with pride. Resolve squared his shoulders, though the shame still dwelt behind his eyes as they met Ian’s. He wished he did not have to speak the words.

Ian could not answer every question for him.

                                             “U'melin tel'dinem…                                                                         Fen’Harel.”

theshirallen

The only one that remained. Said like that, it sank into his skin and burdened his very bones. The only one that remained, because the rest were locked away, trapped out of the People’s reach. Trapped by the one who yet walked the Fade, who visited the People’s dreams and dispensed twisted wisdom, who used them for sport, or hunted the souls of the dead.

Fen'Harel, to whom offerings were made in appeasement. Fen'Harel, whose name was a curse upon the People and their enemies alike. Fen'Harel, whose teeth were to be feared as those of any wild, untamable thing. Fen'Harel, who had chained the gods and would never stand to be bound himself.

There were no blessings in the Dread Wolf’s name. Only…

                                   Nuva mar'dera'hron ir'tel'dera Fen'Harel.

Murmured in cautious parting, when anxious friends might fear for the safety of the paths they walked. Take care, that you might not draw his eye. Take care that he might not hear your steps. Take care, for when the Dread Wolf finds you interesting, nothing good will follow.

                                  ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ let him cαтcн your 𝓼𝓬𝒆𝓷𝓽

It was a warning as much as a prayer, and as Ian’s mind whirled through every story he could recall, he was chilled to realize that nothing he knew, nothing he had ever read or heard, provided instructions for what to do once he had.

Ian felt himself grow tight, fingers digging into his palms until the crescents left behind by his fingernails marked the skin as he unballed his fists. Lurching emotion quaked in his gut, and his head spun. There was no point in denying the statement; Sol–Fen'Harel. Fen'Harel had worked too hard, had been too adept at leading him here. The Elvhen hung in the air and shaped reality around it, like a dream weaved to suit the Dreamer. The knowledge would not let him deny it, would not let him ignore it. It would be heard. It would be acknowledged.

Accepting, then, this truth with the ones before it, left him exhausted, trembling and aching. Nothing was steady. Nothing was solid. Not the truth, not the stories, not the grove they stood in. Least of all himself, folding and bending and warping as surely as the Veil that tickled his skin and set his nerves prickling. Anxious, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, needing motion to balance himself, feeling more at ease with restless pacing than with stiff attention.

He must speak again, and the effort to do so all but broke him.

“I thought I knew you.”

It was not an accusation, but the beginning of a plea. “Why tell me this? After all this time, why now?”

theharellan

From birth the Dalish were trained to fear him. They were taught legends of his cruelty and hatred. He had taken the People from the gods that loved them. He was no elf, but a wolf– a monster. A beast with six eyes and a black heart.

What must his love think of him now? Could he still see the elf, or was there only a wolf where he once stood?

Solas wanted to hide, cover his face for fear that Ian may see his fangs. He didn’t, instead his hands clasped before him, a mimicry of the woman Ian had pledged himself to. Mythal had believed in him, given him purpose, he hoped she would forgive him for his weakness. He hoped Ian would forgive him for his deceit.

                                                “I thought I knew you.”

If words could cut Solas would be sliced to the bone. A sharp intake of breath caught in his throat, head bowing to look at the space between them. From where he stood it looked like a chasm, one he feared might never be bridged. “You knew more than most,” he whispered. “Even before today.”

History would paint him as a monstrous god, but there were no monsters and there were no gods– only people. Ian knew the person that lay beneath the legend of Fen’Harel. That did not make it right, but he thought (he hoped) it was enough.

“Because I could not allow this to continue if you did not know the truth. I might have told you sooner, but I have heard the tales the Dalish tell of me, Vhenan. They carve statues of wolves and turn them from the hearts of their camps. Cowardice prevented me from telling you sooner; I was afraid.” There were moments, in dreams or on quiet evenings, when he imagined telling him, but terror gripped him. Solas could carry the hatred of the Dalish, he could stand the scorn of humans and Templars, but he could not stomach the thought of Ian’s resentment, no matter how justified it was. “It was wrong, and I am sorry for the deception.”

This lie had grown rotten inside him, cleaning the wound was no small task. Da’Fen, Fen’Samahl, Fen’Harel, Solas– they were all him, and if Ian wished to listen he would learn of them all. The good and the bad, and the shades of grey in between.

“I will not tell you what you should make of me. Despise me and I shall hold no ill will towards you, but know there is more to my tale than the Dalish tell.” As there so often was. He could see the truth at the heart of each legend, but the lie was prettier. It had good and evil, a figure that they could hate and a light they could turn to. “If you listen I will tell you everything.”

The promise slackened the tension in his shoulders, and his hands released one another. His fingers pulled idly at the Veil, as if he were plucking the strings of an instrument. One hand curled into a gentle fist, then opened, pulling the Veil tighter around them. This story was for Ian, and Ian alone.

“You deserve the truth. The whole truth.”

theshirallen

Ian had not intended his words to wound, but how could they do anything but? Fen'Harel slumped as the blow landed, and Ian’s shoulders mirrored the injury, though he did not straighten when the other did.

He tightened his grip across his ribs, knotting his fingers into the rough weave of his shirt for a moment before one hand lifted, fingers carding his own hair, tugging and pulling at the tangles as he continued to struggle with concentration and comprehension. His palm brushed against the raised scar of the Andrastian sun, and his whole body stiffened with the distraction, the memory of the broken man he had been surfacing to smother him. Panic, already clutching his heart, hovered just at the edge of tolerance, and he felt as though a single misdrawn breath would send him plummeting.

Strange then, that the thing that had set him to spinning was the thing that brought his world back to a stop.

That familiar voice, the whisper that had calmed his storm time and time again, drifted through his haze, first touching his heart and then his mind. Ian did not know what answer he had expected, but the one given surprised him. A fleeting warning brushed against his thoughts, a reminder that the Dread Wolf spoke in riddles and deceit. That he should not so readily trust, that it could be the words he wanted to hear were the ones that would be said, offered to appease him in a purpose he could not yet fathom. He should be cautious, and yet…

                                             Fen'Harel already had his scent.

Ian smoothed his bangs back down, and with them as many of his misgivings as he could smother.

In the previous truths, he had been given no choice. They had to be accepted, even when they dismantled everything that composed his world. This one was offered differently, in the tone of a confession, a request, an offering. There should be no secrets between lovers’ hearts, and he wanted to believe that was Fen'Harel’s purpose. He let himself believe, because doubting would destroy him. He needed this truth to hold him steady while he heard the rest of them.

“It is unfair of you.” He said softly, glancing back to the great hart statues. His eyes travelled up their proud necks until he was looking no  more at earthly things but drifting clouds that shaded the glade and dimmed the slowly rising moon. “To let me love you and then think I might despise you.”

In truth, he could not put name to the emotions he was feeling. Confusion, certainly, and fear. Hurt was there also, but not hate. Frustration. Anxiety. Others that could not be given substance beyond the turbulent waves that constantly buffeted his thoughts since he had been touched by the fade and the spirits therein. It never settled, and parceling his emotions did little to alleviate them. Let the waves come, so long as he did not drown.

He felt the change in the Veil before he looked to Fen'Harel, the thickening of the barrier pulling it away from his skin, relieving the ever-present electricity by a fraction. The spirits who had taken such an interest in their discourse no longer stood as witness. He was alone in the glade, and he no longer knew with whom he stood. His love, yet?

                                                               “Sathan dirtha.”

The elvhen left him with a sigh, and he moved forward with hesitating steps.

Fen'Harel already had his scent. More, he had his heart.

Ian reached tentatively forward, unable to disguise the shaking of his fingers as he touched the hand that had woven the Veil.

                                                           “Ar ame harthan.”

theharellan

“It would not be the first time that I earned the scorn of those I loved.” Though this time scorn was what he deserved. Those he once called brother and sister would rather hate him than hate themselves, as Fen’Harel had learned to centuries ago. He followed Ian’s gaze, eyes drifting towards the hart statues that had guarded this grove since a time only he could recall.

Solas had been here before long, long ago, in a time when he had needed shelter from a war of his own making. It had seemed more peaceful then than it did now. But Fen’Harel had brought ruin wherever he tread, why should Solas be any different? The thought curdled his blood, picturing the brand that lay beneath knotted red hair. Ian had come far since his tie to the Fade had been rekindled, but his emotions burned like a wildfire that threatened to reduce the forest to ashes.

If not hate, then what could he inspire? The name Dread Wolf was given to him by his enemies, but if history told him anything it was that Solas could destroy his friends just as easily.

The sound of boots scuffing against grass snapped Solas back to reality. Ian’s footsteps were an answer to a prayer he had not spoken. His words, woven in a tongue that had once redirected rivers and brought kings to their knees, stood a chance of changing both of their worlds. His legs shook and he locked his knees, toes curling into the wet earth, pulling strength from the soil beneath his feet.

Yet Ian answered no prayer beyond the one in his own heart, for he was no god. There were no gods, there had never been gods, only people. And Solas believed in them all, but none moreso than the man that stood before him.

They stood toe-to-toe, as they had so many months ago in Haven. Ian had asked him to speak, but he dared not so long as his heart were in his throat.

Warmth blossomed where Ian’s hand met his. At a single touch Solas had brought colour into his dreams, he had turned his sky blue and his gardens green, yet it was trifling compared to the fingers that now brushed the back of his hand. His skin felt unbearably fragile, his heart dropped in his chest. Tears pricked the corners of his vision, like needles in his eyes.

He moved as if they were made of glass, hand slipping gently into Ian’s. A broken smile cracked his lips, wet cheeks pinched together. Stranded somewhere between a laugh and a sob, Solas settled for a sigh.

                                            “Ma serannas, emma lath.”

The moment lingered, Solas waiting ‘til he had found the words to tell his story. Parts would be missing, but if Ian wished to hear them, then they would come, too. There was not a moment of his life he wished to keep from him. He squeezed his hand once, and it gave him courage to go on.

“In the golden age of Elvhenan the People had another name for me– Fen’Samahl. I was a man without purpose or direction, while my brothers and sisters found their place in the world I floated without shackles. Some might have called me a god of freedom, but not universal freedom.” He had been blind, his pride made him a fool. “The Dalish wish only to see the good, for there was much to admire about Elvhenan. Magic lived in springs and music, we lifted the earth into the sky, and lived at a pace where each man might live forever. Yet it was not without flaw.

“In the early days of the empire criminals were forced into servitude for the duration of their sentences. This practise endured for a time, but it was not long before there was a desire for a steadier source of labour… slaves.

“Lower classes were forced into a lifetime of servitude, their faces branded with the blood of their gods– my family.” Blue eyes met with the markings of Mythal before looking past to see the elf that lay beneath. “It was described as a blessing, for by serving the gods and those who loved them, you were serving the empire. For centuries it went unquestioned, but Mythal, she…

“She guided me. I was her arrow, I struck where she could not, and I began to see that the faces beneath the vallaslin were no different from me. I was no god. I was born just as they were, what right did I have to subject them to my will?

“It was like I had woken from a dream, only to find myself in a nightmare. My name no longer had meaning, for there was nothing to laugh about, not anymore. I chose a new one, a better one, and I fought.” Purpose was a difficult thing to find, but once he had found it he did not let go. He held fast, determined not to let his love of his family turn him against his People.

“The People called me Fen’Harillen, but to my enemies I was the Dread Wolf.” At the time he rather liked the name. They had every reason to dread him, for he did more than free slaves. “Now I am neither.” Now he is Solas.

theshirallen

All the world was different, and Ian had almost forgotten, almost allowed himself to detach and retreat, to construct a reality that resembled the ghost of the one Fen'Harel had just unmade. For a few moments, his breaths came at pace, and his heartbeat slowed. He had returned to a quiet evening with his love, and everything was easier.

Their hands still fit, and Ian’s wrist turned slightly as Fen'Harel squeezed his fingers.

A simple gesture, that, and yet something in it spun the world again. At first Ian had thought the shakes were all his own, his fear and trepidation so prone to leaving him in timid fits. He was not alone in his uncertainty, however. Fen'Harel was trembling, quaking where he stood, vulnerable in a way Solas had never seemed, and when Ian lifted his face he could see the shining dampness of tears.  

Even in this turmoil, it was not a sight his heart could bear, and his free hand lifted to cup Fen'Harel’s cheek, thumb gently smoothing away the tracks, as Solas had so often done for him. He let his hand rest there for a moment, still struggling to know just whose face he was touching. The same face he had kissed, just before the sun had set and the rising moon had thrown the grove into another realm? It seemed the same, dotted with pale freckles and the shadow of a scar. The eyes were the same, and he could almost see their color shift, the grey clouds massing to mute the bright blue.

His hand fell away. The face looked the same, but so did the world, and he knew that it was not. He had almost forgotten, in his desire to feel safe. But Fen'Harel had unmade it with these truths, and unmade him, and unmade himself.

Listening, still, one hand still anchored in Fen'Harel’s, the other raised to thumb the crystals set in his ear. There was little enough they could do for him, but even the small release of calm, of courage, eased his struggle.

He listened as Fen'Harel spoke of names he’d never heard, names forgotten by the Dalish. The Dalish had forgotten so much, and were he not so close to tears himself he might have laughed. He had dedicated his life to preserving what was known, and to discovering what was not. The truths he had uttered had turned him out from his own clan, and still he had searched. To hear now these truths, to know it was the barest shadow of what yet was unheard, might have been amusing, in another light…If he hadn’t been hurting down to his bones.

Fen'Harel’s eyes met his own, just for a moment, and then traced the lines that marked his face, gazing over the vallaslin he had worked so hard to earn, to prove himself worthy of, after a lifetime alienated from his culture, and the truth that came next viced around Ian’s heart. The ink burned as fresh, and he felt the skin on his wrists grow raw and tight in memory of chains he’d sworn to never wear again. Cold sank into his veins, so deep and penetrating that when he breathed he was startled to not see frost in the air, and his shaking grew. His head fell, as though if he looked away he might hide the shame, the hurt.

He had promised to listen.

He wanted to listen.

But how much more could he bear? What truth would come next? What was left to unravel in his world?

The next truth, however, was a great relief. It was the one he needed to hear most, and the one he had not dared to search for.

Ian’s shallow breathing fled him a sudden deep sigh, exhaustion pulling from his toes to escape, and when he breathed in, it was with his nose pressed deep into his love’s sweater. He could hear their hearts beating together, erratic and frightened, and the both of them trembled, and their hands still fit.

“Solas.” He murmured. “Solas, I’m sorry.”

theharellan

Every touch rebuilt the foundation Solas had feared he’d torn down. Ian bridged the gap, stone by stone. He took the heart Solas had laid bare and held it.

His eyes closed, indulging himself in the rough thumb that brushed across his cheek. It smeared the wet trail, cool against his skin. He longed to lean into it, feel the palm press into his skin. With Ian Solas forgot what it was like to have walls around him. For so long he had watched the world turn without him, but the fingers threaded through his anchored him to it.

The air felt cold where Ian’s hand was, blue eyes opened to watch how his love’s expression changed. He knew it was not easy. Ian had weathered two losses, one after the other– first he lost Solas, and then the Elvhenan of his childhood. Solas had heard the stories for himself: tales of kind gods and golden streets where every elf was free. An Elvhenan that existed entirely within the realms of their imaginations– and his own.

Ironic that this empire they longed for lay in the mind of their dreaded Wolf.

His heart clenched as Ian’s chin fell, remembering the face of another marked elf who could not bear to look him in the eye. Felassan had no such qualms anymore. Perhaps if Ian knew there was a choice his, too, would disappear. “In my time as Fen’Harel I discovered a spell that would erase the vallaslin, undoing the hold the gods had over the freed slaves.

“Not all of them desired it, some demanded theirs be kept. They did not want to forget, nor did they want me to forget.” At first Fen’Harel had not understood, but Solas did, and that was why he offered a choice. “If you like, I can remove yours as I did theirs.” Ian deserved better than the brand of two tyrants. He did not possess the power to remove the scar the Chantry inflicted, but he could take this.

He inhaled sharply as Ian fell against his chest, not daring to move.  Solas hesitated, even now, even with Ian’s face pressed against him. Their hands still fit, but how? The breath caught in his throat, remaining there until the moment his other hand found his Vhenan’s waist. He wondered if Ian had heard anything he said: he had admitted deceit, and much more, yet he still sought comfort in his arms.

And they were only the beginning. There was one secret that remained, one that he had to know, but as Solas’s hand crept up to brace Ian’s shoulders he wondered if it should wait. He trembled as he had the day the Inquisitor brought Ian back to him. There was time, they both had time– together.

“No,” he whispered. Voice gentle, it wavered as fresh tears stained his cheeks. Solas– never had the name sounded sweeter. “I am sorry. Telling you was selfish, but I hope you understand why I had to say so much so soon.”

                                           “Ar din jumyan na ta.”

theshirallen

For all the world had changed, leaning into Solas’s chest was enough to keep him breathing, and breathing seemed all he could do. He lingered there, and long moments passed of listening, of matching breaths and heartbeats, of laced fingers and smothered sobs. Solas’s hand first found his waist with a  touch so gentle it almost seemed afraid before his hand traveled up to brace Ian’s shoulders, and it felt as though these hands were the only thing keeping him on his feet. Ian’s own hand pressed against Solas’s chest, close enough to his own face to feel the dampness he left there, but more concerned with the pace of a beating heart.

Trying to speak, his voice was lost in quiet hiccups, muffled in the thick fabric of Solas’s sweater until he surrendered the effort. His thoughts whirled back, spanning months and ending here in rapid and repetitive circles, from the moment their eyes had first met until this moment he stood in, reliving everything he had experienced a dozen times over in the span of only a few ragged breaths.

Though he had heard everything that had been said, to say he understood would be a lie. He reeled amidst the crashing turmoil of his emotions and the sudden overwhelming barrage of information, the hurt of being one deceived and the shock at the nature of the deception, the desire to be held until the storm settled and the need to run until it could not find him.

He could make no choice tonight, not with the whole of his existence unravelling.

He needed to think, to settle, to understand, and he could not do it in this instant. He wasn’t certain, really, if it could be done at all. Worse, he could still feel the way his love shook, and he could hear his tears, though they were softer than his own. No one should be abandoned while they cried, and yet Ian was not strong enough to stand beside him.

Breath came with a shudder, and he pulled his face back so that his words would not be stolen, knowing he could not speak loudly enough to keep them from being lost in the warmth and safety of his love’s chest.

“N-no.” He fisted Solas’s sweater briefly, before his hand fell away. A single shaking step put more distance between them than he could bear, and yet he took another, connected only to Solas by their interlocked fingers. “I-I’m s-sorry, I–”

He shook his head, still unable to raise his face, ashamed of his brand and ashamed of his fear and ashamed of his exhaustion. He struggled to find words to explain, knowing that clumsy ones would wound, and there was too much hurt in this grove already.

“Everything is–I can’t b-breathe.” The stutter in his voice marked his unsteadiness as surely as the way he swayed where he stood. He looked up, expression pained. “I-I need to r-run. I n-need to b-breathe.”

He always felt better when he was running, but he wasn’t certain that Solas would understand, standing as they were in such bare vulnerability. How could Solas think that he was doing anything but running from him, when Ian himself was uncertain just what it was he needed to flee?

“I-I’m s-sorry.” He said again, fingers slipping free from those of his love as he took one final step backward, the motion pulling him into a cloud as he cast his spell and changed his skin, fleeing the grove and bolting into the night.

theharellan

Wet tears stained the front of his sweater, Ian’s shoulders shook no matter how close Solas held him. He had lived through the millenia, believed himself a god, and yet without fail he was powerless to help the ones he loved. Fen’Samahl had not been able to save his brother, Fen’Harel had allowed Revas to slip through his fingers, and now Solas. Wisdom had knowledge that outstripped any library in Thedas, yet it had not been wise enough to put its trust in someone else.

The thought might have made him laugh were he not mere inches from the brink.

Solas’s fist balled up in his love’s shirt, burying his nose into his hair. He had done this to Ian, it did not seem fair that he was permitted to hold him. A selfless man would have let him go, but Solas couldn’t. Love, once earned, was a difficult thing to let go of. He hoped for the hand that laid in his to remain until it grew wrinkled and spotted. He longed for selfish nights where he could fall asleep to the sound of Ian’s breathing. He wanted forever.

This was no longer a diversion, the moment his old name tumbled from his lips it evolved into something far more dangerous. The last time Solas had embraced change he had lost his home and his People. His eyes squeezed shut, pushing out tears that caught in strands of ginger hair.

Fear consumed him, but love sustained him. Ian held Solas up with the top of his head, giving him strength where he thought he had none.

Fingers tugged at his sweater, squeezing the fabric into a fist. Lips freed from Solas’s embrace, it was impossible to ignore Ian’s staggered breathing. His arm fell to his side, dragging down Ian’s shirt. “Vhenan-” he breathed, hand twitching, hoping to stroke his cheek. Instead he touched air, as the chasm between them opened. He did not stop it, promising to himself that if Ian left he would let him. “I-”

Words were lost on him, he could only watched as Ian took another step, and another. Solas’s arm stretched out, fingers slipping farther from Ian’s grasp.

‘Wait,’ he wanted to whisper. ‘Please.’

Bridged only by the tips of their fingers, he clung to what was left. The inches between them felt crossable so long as they had this. “Ian,” he began, though he was not sure what he wanted to say. Solas traced his eyes over his love’s features (a precaution, in case memories were all he would have), memorising the shape of his eyes and the two freckles on his lips.

As they parted, he realised what he wanted to say:

                                                       “Dareth shiral.”

A blessing he had said time and time again, but never with the weight it now bore. ‘Please be safe,’ it said. ‘You do not have to come back, but be safe.’ Solas pulled his hands into fists, trying to fill the spaces fingers had filled. A breeze chilled him to his bone, a cold settled over him that no magic could cure.

Tears flowed freely, blue eyes rimmed red. Solas settled by a pool of water, feeling older than ever. In it he beheld the moon and watched its path across the sky. He sought no solace in the Fade, though he felt them gather around him, offering comfort when he wanted none. Twilight passed into night, and he sank into it. Sleep would find him when he needed it, now Solas needed to feel the chill night air in his bones and the damp earth beneath his feet. For once the waking world had something the Fade did not.

No matter what changes it might bring, Solas had chosen this world–

         He had chosen Ian.

[alyssalenko]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @pikapeppa @schoute and @starsandskies to share a snippet from a current WIP so how about a little Solavellan? Tagging you three back as well as @natsora @inquartata30 @juleshawke @seigephoenix @kenshi-vakarian7 @foofyschmoofer @bardofheartdive @lauraemoriarty @poweredbycoffeeandwine @a-shakespearean-in-paris @shretl @bardofheartdive @soldiermom1973 @obvidalous @briarfox13 @forlornmelody @vorchagirl @naromoreau @hawkeykirsah @amarmeme @rpgwarrior4824 and anyone else who wants to play! As always no obligation!

Newti’s scream echoed around Skyhold. Her advisors found her in the garden on her knees, with tears in her eyes as she clutched her stomach. The only conclusion she could draw was that something had happened to Mythal, the bond between them strange and unheard of. Cullen held out a hand to help her up, Newti clutching desperately at it, struggling to get her breath back as she staggered to her feet. This was not what she’d expected when she’d chosen to drink from the Well of Sorrows, that was for sure; her servitude to Mythal had been a calculated risk, one burden she wouldn't let anyone else shoulder--especially Morrigan. The woman had a son who needed her, and Newti had nothing to lose...not since Solas had removed the Vallaslin and left her. Then they’d found out it was Flemeth, and Morrigan who besides Solas had put up the biggest fight that she be the one to drink from the well, had been relieved when everything was said and done.

Just as suddenly as it came, the pain was gone, the bond feeling different now...more powerful than before and vaguely familiar. She worried what that meant since she hadn’t been able to stop Flemeth from using her to stop Morrigan from trying to kill her when they’d chased Kieran through the eluvian. Thank the gods Morrigan had been stopped--the pain moments before had been almost unbearable. Thanking Cullen for his help, and Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine for running to her aid when they did; she hadn’t meant to worry anyone, the scream unwillingly ripped from her throat. She glanced around, quickly, feeling her Vhenan’s presence clearly, as if he stood beside her. But that was impossible; he was gone.

Solas had needed the Old God Soul Mythal had been carrying; her soul in combination with Urthemiel’s had been just what he needed to bring himself back up to full power after sleeping for so long. Ironic, that he’d put up the veil to seal the old Elves away because they had killed Mythal, and that was exactly what he’d just done. He hoped it had been a necessary evil. He’d taken no joy in her death, but allowed himself a moment to mourn the loss of his oldest and most treasured friend and lover. Suddenly, he felt a familiar tug of longing for the one woman who could destroy everything he was trying to accomplish...and if he wasn't careful he’d let her. It was almost like she was beside him, and he let himself wallow in the feeling, remembering the feel of her skin as he made love to her, her silky flame red hair between his fingers, and her lips against his, breath fanning his face. She was the one good thing about the world in front of him.

Newti Lavellan--the one person in Thedas who could make him rethink his whole plan--was now bonded to him instead of Mythal.

That wasn’t what he’d wanted...he’d been unaware of the magnitude of the contract she’d made by drinking from the Well of Sorrows. And now faced with a deep connection, a type of bond he’d never encountered before, he felt himself being drawn back to her. He’d admit, while part of him needed the souls, he knew another part of him had thought he was helping save her by killing Flemeth so that she wasn't bound in servitude to an Evanuris, but he hadn't realized the gravitas of his actions; guilt claiming him. He now had the power to make his Vhenan do anything he wished--a power he neither coveted or needed. She was headstrong, selfless and independent, and he loved those qualities about her...he didn't want to take that away.

For the first time, he wondered if he shouldn't leave Evanuris sealed behind the veil, and that was her influence.

[tropicoola]

Character backstory and explanation for one of my main inquisitors under the cut. Will feature images.

So I wanted to write about one of my main inquisitors, this is Levant Lavellan. She’s not really a Lavellan, because she was adopted into the clan when she was exiled from her home to the west. 

She’s a teenage inquisitor (16 when Inquisition starts and 20 when Trespasser ends) and a descendant of Ghilan’nain’s mutated slaves who escaped slavery before the fall of Arlathan/Elvhenan. It’s been referenced in the game that Ghilan’nain would create creatures and even experimented on her own followers/slaves so this was where I took the idea from, I suspected that there were at least some failed attempts. Anyways, eventually the slaves grew fed up  with how they were treated and attempted to flee. Fortunately (or unfortunately) Fen’harel had heard of this and wanted to help them, so he did but they were terrified. Having heard the terrifying stories of him. In addition, they were afraid they would no longer be treated as Elvhen for how beastly they looked and the fact that they were no longer immortal due to their mixed bloodline. So when Fen’harel was not looking, they escaped him and fled to the west over the Hunterhorn Mountains.

It was a mass exodus of grand peril, for the journey was filled with monsters, dark jungles, chilling mountains, scorching deserts, and, for the most part, uncharted territory. A normal Elvhen would have died, however they were no normal Elvhen. For they carried animalistic traits. For having the blood of animals and beasts, they had claws that could help them climb, some had wings, others had gills, others had fur that kept them warm, and most had unnatural colored skin (green, blue, silver, etc) that helped hide them from predators. Despite their different powers, there was one thing they all had in common - a deep tie to the nature that surrounded them. These people were almost entirely cut off from the Fade and instead they turned to the Earth beneath, but not to the Titans. They paid close attention to the sun, the stars, the winds, and all the creatures that crawled on the crust of the world. They did not talk to animals, but they understood that animals knew the way through these places the best and so they listened to them, followed them, and eventually found a clearing far from monsters and even farther from Elvhenan. It was here where they built their first settlement, living in peace with the animals. Eventually the settlement turned into an Empire and they dubbed it ‘Neo-Arlathan’ and closed its gates from foreigners for a very long time. Ever since, paying respects to natures and having beastly roots have become an intrinsic part of their culture.

I made art of what Neo-Arlathan would look like and although it is by no means as beautiful or intricate like Arlathan, it does have a charm of it’s own. Much of it and the people - I have taken inspiration from myths and legends of Faeries and their courts, their politics, and their appearances. Here are examples of the kind of aesthetic it would have: x, x, x, and x, x, x, x. The last four are mainly to point out how beastly they can look and yes, some do look exactly like that (also follow the artist!! they deserve a lot of love!! i admire them a lot).

(Pictured above, Levant with her claws coming out during Trespasser - a sign she is slowly maturing into whatever form she’ll be in as an adult)

In much of Faerie lore, the Fae are depicted as having pointed ears and dressed in clothes woven from insects (butterfly wings, moth wings, etc) and plants. They are known to be tricksters and volatile when even the slightest bit offended, their politics are commonly divided into two - the seelie and unseelie court. The first being filled with kinder Fae and the latter with more malevolent ones. Levant belongs to the latter, specifically the Autumn court. I won’t get into too much about this but if you think human politics is complicated, Fae politics is ten times more. Taking inspiration from this, the court Levant is in has a High Power (the king or queen) and needs an advisor because of how dangerous the politics are. Levant was studying to be the next advisor and was close to becoming one until a dispute between her and the High Power caused her to get exiled. 

In short, the High Powers (plural because the others in different courts were involved) wanted to 1) destroy any remnant of Arlathan/Elvhenan and 2) rename Neo-Arlathan under the basis of ‘why should we keep records of our abusers? let us burn it and move ahead’. Levant was extremely against this, especially because she was a scholar who was very interested in her people’s past. She even started a rebellion with her colleagues but that was stopped fast by the ones in charge, although her colleagues were allowed still in the Empire - because she was their leader she was sentenced to be exiled into Thedas under the basis of ‘if she loved Elvhenan so much, she can live there for the rest of her damn life’.

Distraught and alone in Thedas, she was surprised to find.... well... a lot of things (racist things, war things, apparently Elvhenan was dead things, and did you know about the Fade? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF THE FADE things). She literally did not understand anything, that was until she met the Dalish - until she met clan Lavellan. They were literally everything she could have hoped for. Unlike her people, they cared for what was left of Arlathan and Elvhenan. They also worshipped the Evanuris/Creators, unlike her people who saw them as slave keeping monsters (Levant is a rebel, at this point she’s everything against her people). This, in retrospect, is incredibly funny for me. Because she has been fed nothing but the truth since she was born, ‘Evanuris bad, they keep slaves’ ‘We have actual records of them being bad’ ‘Why do you think we look like this, Levant’ and Levant’s just ‘(in Dorian’s mocking voice) tRiTE pROPagANDA’. 

Anyways, although Levant wanted to share what she knew from her home she knew they wouldn’t believe (after meeting with other Dalish that didn’t really agree prior to clan Lavellan). She simply went along with the ‘City Elf who wants to be Dalish’ and she was in (reminder that she was 14 when she was exiled into Thedas)! She became a hunter and was much loved, and she loved everyone back just as much. Yet over time, it seemed like her secrets could not be kept for long. Eventually it got out, drama ensued, and after so much time trying to be Dalish - something she was not, Levant felt something in her broke.  She knew she would never be Dalish, never be like them, so she refused her Vallaslin and told them she had to leave - she needed to see Thedas and find out where she really belonged. Her clan forgave her over time and advised her to be careful, for an unmarked elf meant something - usually easier prey for slavers. Understanding this, Levant made it routine to draw her Vallaslin on every morning with a special ink and wash it off every night. She chose Mythal and clung to her religion of the Creators like a child to their mother’s skirts, praying she’d find her place.

She just never imagined it would be the inquisition. 

Now since we know how inquisition plays out, here are just a few tidbits:

Nobody believes her at first (typical)

Until they find her notes and books she took with her from the Empire (at which point Solas is ??????? ???????? SHE KNOWS ?????????)

Solas’ reactions are the funniest because while she sees him as a mentor and eventually a father figure he is almost constantly on the verge of ‘she has so much potential’ or ‘i need to get the fuck out of here’

Also it’s funny to see him going absolutely crazy at the fact she’s like ‘yeah my people said the evanuris were bad and they kept slaves and vallaslin r slave markings but they’re really not’ and he’s like (in a croaked voice) ‘oh??? who said so?’ ‘the dalish’ (in an even more croaked voice) ‘and you believe them?’ ‘i swear by the creators’ (cue solas’ inner monologue going absolute bonkers) IT’S LIKE SHE’S HITTING ALL THE MARKS BUT SHE KEEPS MISSING THEM AT THE SAME TIME???

‘oh but my people said fen’harel was bad’ ‘at least your people and the dalish have one thing in common’ ‘right?’ ‘.... yes’

which only makes the ending of inquisition and trespasser hurt even more

finding out that her people were right and Levant has been playing ‘know-it-all’ for the past 6 years of her life, that the creators really were bad, that mythal is in a form of a human woman, and that a man she considered her father figure and mentor was the dread wolf? who tried to help her people but they refused him? and now he wants to destroy the world?

her troubles with identity (inquisitor? levant? a lavellan? elvhen? an elf? a fae? a beast? a person? an imposter? a fool?), religion (who to believe, the maker? the creators? the earth and beasts, as her people do?), family issues, and culture.

culture because she suddenly finds it unfair that her people got off this train wreck of a history before the fall, how many lives were spared because they left early. how grateful and horrified she might have been when she saw the shattered library, heard the voices of the distant brethren of her ancestors.

standing before solas at the end and wondering if she should just go home, beg for a place in her court, wait for the world to end - what hope did thedas have? after having her heart shattered like that?

were her people right? was burning anything they had of arlathan/elvhenan justified? were her emotions just stupid, insensitive of the truth of it all? were her people being prideful and haughty as usual, or was there an act of kindness and progress in it? what if they were right? what if they really should just move on? should she move on as well?

god knows if she doesn’t, she might end up like Solas.

but like... despite that i feel like she’d still come to believe what the dalish believe. sort of caught in between her leaving thedas to go back home or just fully 100% acknowledging herself as a lavellan or just being a silent and distant protector of the dalish

yknow, like a wolf (considering she’ll grow to have a wolf and lion-like appearance)

like a neo-fen’harel.

O SHIT I LIKE THAT!!!!!

anyways sorry for all the word vomit but this is what i have on levant so far!

also cool tidbit: instead of Solas offering Abelas another place in the world, it’s Levant who offers him the secret to getting to the Empire in the west. After a lot of talking, he takes it and leaves.

[serafinetheangel]

About the Muse

I was tagged by @scharoux​​ (thank youuu 💛) and I finally did it! I tag @a-shakespearean-in-paris​ @gugle1980​​ @briarfox13​​ and anyone who wants to do this.

- Your Muse’s name:

Lyliane Calithiel Vesryn

- One favorite picture/face claim of your Muse: Face claim: Evangeline Lilly as Tauriel in “The Hobbit”

- Two head canons you have for your Muse:

a) Lyliane’s clothes are far too fine for an elf in Thedas even if, before leaving home, she chose the simplest pieces she had in her closet. When she saw the Dalish, Lyliane hid them into her bags and looked for a Dalish armour. She also learnt how to draw the Mythal Vallaslin and fixed it on her forehead with the help of magic.

b) Lyliane joined the Inquisition mostly for selfish purposes. It became much easier to travel together and under the protection of the Inquistitor and her inner circle. Still, Lylie had to thank the Inquisitor-to-be Calanthae Lavellan for helping her in an unpleasant situation that got her wounded and that’s another reason she joined it but if she ever found a lead for her own interest, she would leave.

- Three things your Muse likes doing in their free time:

a) Lyliane rarely denies a fight or any other chance to show her skills. Lylie’s fighting style is rather acrobatic and she’s rather proud of how she learnt to master bow and daggers. It’s not only a pleasure for her, as many people in Skyhold stop to watch a fight she’s involved in, especially after defeating Cullen for once.

b) Lylie loves music and plays some elven instruments. In Thedas, she discovered the piano and fell immediately in love with its sound. It didn’t take her too long to master it.

c) Lyliane would have never imagined to enjoy watching a human and his routine. She found it out with Cullen, as Lylie would stare at him for hours while he’s shaving or putting on the ton of layers of his armor so accurately.

- Seven people your Muse loves/likes:

- Calanthae Lavellan

- Cullen

- Josephine

- Dorian

- Iron Bull

- Cassandra

- Krem

- A phobia your Muse has:

Lyliane can see in the darkness just like every other elf but she got scared of dark places and nights with no moon after she experienced an ambush in a tangled wood when she was still a girl. To stay out in the night became then part of her training and it helped her with her phobia but still today Lylie doesn’t enjoy too much to be in the darkness all alone.

[roguelioness]

Scars

He could see that Val Royeaux sat heavy on her soul, the Chantry mother’s words a slow-bubbling acid. It made little sense. Why would she let herself be affected by such inanities, such meaningless blatherings, when he knew her to be certain of her own motives?

Unless… unless they had woken old, painful memories..

She had taken first watch. Cassandra and the dwarf were fast asleep, and he should have been in the Fade, but curiosity had gotten the best of him. He sat next to her, close enough to have a whispered conversation, but not so close that he would be intruding into her personal space.

“You seem troubled, da’len.”

She gave a mirthless chuckle. “That obvious, is it?”

“Surely you cannot believe what the Chantry says. And as for the Lord Seeker, even Cassandra admits that he does not seem his usual self-”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

Her lips parted slightly, as though she were about to speak, but she hesitated. “Old wounds.”

“If they trouble you so greatly, perhaps you should talk of them, da’len. Do not let the poison fester.”

She let out a long, slow, sigh. “Ah, ha’hren, the truth is my burden to bear.”

“It need not be.”

She sighed again, poked the fire with a long stick. Little sparks jumped out from the logs, drawing attention to the scars on her face. She’d told him once, that she had been attacked by an animal while on a hunt, and he could believe it. He observed her face now, the many claw-like cicatrix that covered her cheeks. It must have been a vicious attack; indeed, one of the marks was perilously close to her right eye.

She shifted restlessly, stretching her legs out, then drawing them in close to her chest, wrapping her hands around her knees. “You don’t like the Dalish, do you?”

The question caught him off-guard. “My experiences with them have not been very positive,” he replied cautiously.

“Why?”

“They- I have learned a great deal from the Fade. When I offered to share my knowledge with them, I was met with… intense opposition. They strike me as obstinately close-minded.”

“You’re not wrong,” she muttered.

“You have-” he cleared his throat. “You have never mentioned a clan?”

“That’s because I don’t have one. Not anymore.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“You’ll get all judgey, so no.”

“Does it have something to do with your name?”

Her eyes flew to his, fury burning in their depths. “What would you know of my name? What would you know of me? You, who calls himself Pride, you want to judge me?”

He remained calm. “I judge people on the merit of their actions, and no more.”

Her shoulders sagged. After a long, long silence, she spoke softly. “I had a clan once. Clan Lavellan. We- They wander the Free Marches mostly. I think they’re near Wycome now. The Keeper… the Keeper was my mother.”

“Why would she bestow such a name on you?”

“I wasn’t always Linarel, you know. I… the Keeper took away my name after…” she swallowed, hard, and Solas could see, in the firelight, the sheen of tears in her eyes. “The Dalish… if you wish to be a hunter, you must pass a Trial. Sight a predator, track it, and slay it, then return with the pelt. It proves to the clan that you can protect them, as a hunter must.”

“Something happened during your Trial.”

She nodded. “A large wolf. It had been attacking our halla pen, nearly killed one of the halla. The Keeper warned me not to go after it, to leave the creature for the other, more experienced hunters. But I wanted to prove myself… so I set off after it. But I was careless in my tracking, and-” she gestured to her face. “The hunter became the hunted.” The sound that followed after that statement was filled with bitterness. “I fought it the best I could, but it was strong. Very strong. I could feel myself dying, and- I was scared. I didn’t want to die. So I prayed to the Creators. I prayed to Mythal, to Andruil, to Ghila’nain. I pleaded with Elgar’nan, begged Falon’din to spare me, cried out to Dirthamen and June. No one answered me, There was nothing but the sound of the wolf tearing into my flesh. I could feel my life trickling away from me, In desperation…” she cleared her throat, turned her head away. “I prayed to Fen’harel. I implored him to save me. I promised that I would serve him, and only him, for the rest of my life if he would come to my aid. I even swore my soul to him, in exchange for my life.”

A strange swirl of unnamed emotions churned within him. “What happened?”

“The wolf left. It could have killed me, but I think it was distracted, and left me. And even then, I could have died, but- I didn’t. Another hunter found me, I don’t know how much time had passed, but he found me and took me back to the clan. And even though I had failed my Trial, the elders were impressed enough that I had fought the wolf and lived, to deem that I was worthy of receiving my vallaslin.”

He watched as she traced her face idly with her fingertips. “I had wanted Andruil’s but after the encounter I decided on Sylaise. Everything was ready, they had blooded me, the ink mixture was prepared fresh, the needles were passed through flame. They even had fresh bedding for me, straw and lavender so I would remain calm. I shut my eyes, bit down on the leather strap the ha’hren ghi’myelan gave me. The pain… it was terrible, but I made no sound. It took them all morning to tattoo the design on me. By mid-afternoon, the vallaslin was gone, as though it had never been there.”

She looked at him now, giving him a half-sided smile. The scar near her lip lifted, and he had the sudden, strange impulse to reach out and stroke it. Instead, he took up the stick and stirred the embers of their campfire. “I am sure that would have puzzled the Keeper.”

“It did,” he watched out of the corner of his eye as she drew out the dagger she always kept on her belt, and began to sharpen it. Her way of fidgeting, he thought to himself. “They tried many times more, but it wouldn’t take. They tried using more of my blood, then no blood, but the ink would not remain in my skin. They thought it was the scars, had the healers prepare potions and poultices, but even those did not help. They thought perhaps I was not meant for Sylaise, but none of the other Creators fared any better. The clan was confused - and scared. They had never encountered a person being so thoroughly rejected by the gods. They did not know what to do, and they were frightened of what would happen if they let me stay. The Keeper... my mother… she came to me one night, with the elders. They gave me a potion to drink.” She exhaled heavily. “Orichalcum, deathroot, and prophet’s laurel. Extracted under the right conditions and mixed in the correct quantities, it makes a potion that will make the drinker speak only the truth.”

“They learned of your vow to Fen’harel.”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “They were so angry, so betrayed. They stripped my name from me, stripped it from my mind. Linarel, the Keeper was so, so sad. My name, a warning. They would not keep me in the clan. My mother sent me out, in the dead of a new moon’s night, with only my bow and nothing else. For years, I wandered, avoiding both the shems and the Dalish. For years, I kept no one’s company but my own. But…” she shrugged. “One can only be alone for so long. I feared my voice would leave if I did not use it. So I found myself in a town. Found a mercenary company that would have me. Found people to talk with, people who did not know the meaning of my name. It wasn’t so bad. They think me dead, but I survived. ”

He did not know why he was so angry. “Could they not have excused you given the circumstances? You were young. You were dying. You would have perished! Was it so wrong to-”

Her short bark of laughter was filled with the harshness of experience. “They would rather I had died, than swear myself to Fen’harel,” she explained. She shook her head. “But the truth is, I do not regret it. I may have lost my home and my name, but the Dread Wolf kept me alive when everyone else would have let me die. He may be a Trickster, but he came to my aid when I needed him the most. And even though the clan thought I would die by myself, I did not, so he must have had a hand in keeping me alive.”

“A heavy punishment. To lose your name, your clan…”

“Some days I wonder if I would have been better off dead,” she confessed. “But I made a promise, and I will keep it. I would rather walk with Fen’harel than live with cowards.”

He did not know what to say to that.  At last, he spoke. “Why did the chantry mother affect you so?”

“The Chantry believes I am no Herald of Andraste. I agree. I am no Herald, and I do not believe in this Andraste. That I am alive - that I am still alive - is because of Fen’harel, is it not?” Her laugh was genuine, and it warmed him.

What she said next, he would never forget. If I am the Herald of anyone, it would be the Dread Wolf.

[tserofweald]

My Dalish Warden headcanons

I journal my headcanons about my Dalish Warden Atheline Mahariel, but my hand is seriously giving out on the heavy writing. I have two other characters in development, Lethel Lavellan (she’s the first one I worked on).

This is for the sake of documenting my current development of Mahariel, and I apologize if I get any of the DA lore wrong :) They’re not really headcanons but more so going over my characterization of Mahariel.

Atheline Mahariel, Athy for short to her friends. She was 20 years old at the beginning of the Fifth Blight. She’s a warrior specializing in two-handed weapons. 

She’s stupid strong despite her short stature even for an elf. She’s very careless in battle and is the one to set off all the traps during combat. Zevran literally trains his ass off to up his lockpicking skills to disengage all traps beforehand. 

She and Zevran eventually get into a friends with benefit relationship. She had never experienced sex, and was never really interested in it until getting to know Zevran. She was pretty eager to give it a go, and really enjoyed it with him. 

Though Zevran was really on the idea of them just being friends with intimacy involved, Atheline had developed special feelings for him, though she didn’t really understand that she had those feelings at the time. She was satisfied with keeping things between them as just “friends.” 

Atheline wanted to explore her sexual experience more through sleeping with other people. Though she was definitely satisfied at the Pearl, she ended up reserving this space solely for Zevran. She didn’t understand why, but she felt some sort of a spark with Zevran but none with her other encounters (later on, she realizes it’s because she loved him). 

Though she reserves herself to engage sexually only with Zevran, she didn’t mind Zevran engaging with others than herself.

Atheline is proud of her Dalish heritage, but not in the sense Lavellan is. My Lavellan is interested in uncovering the truth of elven lore/history, whereas Atheline focuses more on her people standing up against slavery enforced by Tevinter. She takes the most pride in her people’s bravery and fortitude, fighting against forced human religion and exploit, knowing the consequences. 

Atheline was initially not a religious person. She didn’t really care to pray to the Creators, for she knew they wouldn’t be able to hear her prayers. But when Tamlen went missing and she had to enter the shem world as a Grey Warden, she prayed relentlessly to Mythal and Andruil for guidance. 

She got the same Vallaslin as Tamlen and didn’t put much thought into actually picking a god to draw strength from. No matter what god it represents, a Vallaslin is a Vallaslin, right?

The biggest value she learns from her culture is creating a close, familial connection with everyone in the clan. This is why Mahariel is so well accustomed to welcoming anyone who wanted to join her in her journey. She was able to create deep, personal bonds very quickly and easily with those around her.

Keeper Marethari also taught her clan that yes, learning more about their elven past is important, and they should continue to find supporting artifacts that’d expand their knowledge, but no knowledge is at the cost of a clansman. Safety and well being of individuals came first. Atheline really took that to heart, though she’d often forget this lesson in place for dangerous adventures.

Despite her deep love for her clan, she also craved adventures beyond the forest. She wanted to know what the world was like beyond the Dalish, beyond the elves. She’d sometimes sneak out of camp with Tamlen and Merrill to visit a nearby village. There’d be a summer festival, with food, music and dancing. She was so intrigued to see human traditions. Tamlen would tease she’s gonna become one of the “flat-ears.” They’d regularly sneak out to nearby villages every time the camp relocated, though Ashalle had caught them at some point and scolded them for it.

Mahariel never thought she’d be “adventuring” in the outside world at the cost of Tamlen’s life and feels guilty for becoming a Grey Warden. Why was she saved in place of him?

Tamlen and Mahariel were best friends since birth, and they met Merrill when they were 10 years old. While Merrill was timid and strict with herself as she was the clan’s First, Tamlen and Mahariel would try and help her relax and engage in fun stuff together. Tamlen and Atheline would invite Merrill out on hunting together, and the two hunters would compete who had the best kill. Merrill would be the mediator during these competitions. 

When entering their teen years, Merrill and Tamlen began having romantic feelings for Atheline. Merrill and Tamlen knew that they shared mutual feelings for Mahariel, and thus their relationship became strained and distant because of it.

Merrill stopped joining in on sneaking into villages with the duo, for she felt that her relationship with them were weaker than the bond between Tamlen and Atheline. She slowly continued to distance herself from the two, and eventually Atheline confronted her about it. Merrill simply says she wanted to focus more on her training as the next Keeper, and that she shouldn’t let such distractions keep her from her studies. 

“That’s bullshit, Merr. What are you doing pulling on Fenharel’s dick for? I’m sorry if I did anything to upset you, but I can’t change if you don’t tell me.” 

“It’s because I’m in love with you, you twat!” 

And there it is, Merrill blurted out the one fear she had, loving Mahariel, loving another woman. In my hc because there aren’t many Dalish people who can preserve the elven gift left by their ancestors (magic), having Merrill was a miraculous gift to the clan. And to keep the old magic alive in the clan, Merrill is expected to produce another bearer of magic. Being with another woman was not an option for Merrill. Merrill not only distanced herself because she knew how Tamlen felt and thought that she had no chance with Mahariel, but she also knew that her clan would never let her be with Mahariel. 

On Atheline’s part, I would like to think that she had feelings for Tamlen but was too late to realize it. She didn’t understand her feelings and was never really bothered to understand them, other than the fact that she cared really deeply for him, but she didn’t think it was any different from how she felt about Merrill (which is why she has a hard time understanding how she feels for Zevran). Atheline ends up rejecting Merrill’s confession, saying that she doesn’t feel the same way, but she always cares about her as a friend. This breaks Merrill’s heart and asks Mahariel if she’d instead be with Tamlen, to which Atheline doesn’t reply because she doesn’t know how to. Merrill and Atheline’s relationship become pretty strained because of it (this will be around the time Dalish origins starts).

Atheline only realizes her feelings when she sees Tamlen as a ghoul and when she was forced to kill him. 

Sadly, Tamlen and Atheline never discussed about his feelings for her. She wasn’t clueless; she knew he had something to say, but he’d just treat her the same as how he always had, and with how it ended with Merrill, she didn’t have the heart to force an answer out of Tamlen either. If he had confessed to her, she wouldn’t have known what to do. Reject him like how she rejected Merrill? Ruin the brotherhood they had together because she couldn’t sort out her feelings?

Tamlen knew how Atheline felt, which was why he decided not to speak to her about it. And they would never speak about it until he reappears into her life as a ghoul. 

“Always…loved you…”

Tamlen and Atheline wanted to go into the cave to find anything interesting to bring back to Merrill in hopes of mending their friendships, for they knew that Merrill was always delighted to discover new elven artifacts. They thought they could do the same with the mirror. 

When Atheline becomes a Grey Warden, she didn’t give up on searching for Tamlen. She made it her life mission and commitment to find him and save him. She didn’t believe Duncan and the clan when they said that Tamlen is dead. She found no body. He must be alive. And he was. 

She blames herself when Tamlen goes missing. She had let her arrogance and thirst for adventure get the better of her. The Dread Wolf had guided her this entire time. She blamed herself for Merrill’s heartbreak, for Tamlen’s unrequited feelings, and for the torture he must be going through with the taint.

Because of this, she becomes extremely protective of her party members during combat. She lets no one step into an unknown area until she examines it first. She’d take an arrow for her teammates when she can, causing her to take on the most injury out of the party. She’d tank her way through it if it meant letting her friends go unharmed.

Many of her companions thought she was arrogant and condescending because of her “I can do it myself” attitude, but when she takes that first hit for a companion, they realize it’s because she’s terrified of having any one of them injured.

It was finally during the trials to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes when Atheline finally accepts the idea of Tamlen being gone. It was when the spirit had taken the form of Tamlen and had said, “Goodbye, my friend. We will never meet again.” That she finally let herself think that it’s okay to forgive herself for this tragedy. 

But then he comes back. He comes back and she can’t save him. She regretted not telling him how she felt. She regretted letting him die without telling him how sorry she was she took too long to realize her feelings.

She does him one last favor and kills him instantly so that she may end his pain. She only feels empty. Alistair is the first to ask if she’s alright, that this was the only way and that it had been a mercy to him. She just wanted him to shut up. 

Mahariel goes into the forest by herself, with Tamlen’s body in her arms, wanting to give him a proper Dalish burial. 

Zevran followed her into the forest, and with not a single word, helps her bury Tamlen. She allowed herself to sob and cry relentlessly, and Zevran would simply wrap his arms around her.

After recovering from Tamlen’s death, she confesses to Zevran that she loves him out of the blues, completely startling Zevran and him rejecting her confession outright because an assassin cannot love. 

“And that’s fine. Just because someone loves you doesn’t mean you need to love them back. You don’t have to do anything at all, really. But I don’t want to make the same mistake I did with Tamlen. I love you, and that’s all there’s to it.”

This completely flusters Zevran and he has no idea what to do with it. He’s been growing fondly of her day after day and had become even more protective of her, but to have her tell him outright that she loves him is just….weird. Incomprehensible. 

[timeforelfnonsense]

Would that I

Part of my Wasteland, Baby! Fics: Would That I

Solavellan 

Crestwood breakup 

Angst 

AO3

A cool breeze rustled the trees. Stone stags framed a picturesque waterfall tumbling softly down a cliff side. A smile creeping onto her cheeks, he wondered if she was recalling the first night they had spent together in a place not unlike this one. That had been part of the the reason he had bought her here. She’d hated Crestwood when they had first slogged out to the murky and mountainous village. There had been so much suffering there, so much lose. Too many people who needed her help and not enough time to go around. However, things settled somewhat in the months since they had last visited and this place was special, just like her.

“The veil is thin here. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?” He asked, placing a hand to her face. She hummed her approval, pressing her cheek into his palm. They remained in silence for a moment, nothing but the sound of the bubbling water and their quite breath. He wanted to freeze this moment, paint a picture in his mind like the walls of Skyhold of. He memorized the softness of her beautiful green eyes, the constellations her freckles cast across her round face, the way her lose, snowy, ringlets  fell down her back, “I was trying to determine someway to show you what you mean to me.”

She giggled, taking up both if his hand into her owns, “ That’s not necessary, Solas. You’re my…”

She stopped herself, casting her eyes to the ground, her cheeks glowing pink under twisting green vallaslin.

“That is the question, is it not?” He lifts her chin and offered her a gentle smile, the other hand squeezed her’s, “For now, the best gift I can offer… is the truth.”

She raised a curious eyebrow at the word truth and he swallowed hard.

“Oh? “ Her voice was honey, “Have you been dishonest with me, my heart?”

Her smile was light and flirtatious and so painfully real. He found conviction in her kindness, if anyone could understand it was surly her.

“You are unique” He responds at last, “In all of Thedas I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the fade. You have become important to me. More Important than I could have imagined.”

She smiled wide revealing the little space between her teeth he had come to adore. He felt her hands shaking in his and he tightens his grip.

“Solas, I care for you more than words can express. You have been the brightest spot in my life since I came to the Inquisition. You are brilliant beyond measure. You are kind and caring, always calm under pressure and... I love you. I love you with every fiber of my being.”

She was so good to him, better than he could ever deserve. Ashalle, lovely and kind beyond measure. She had given herself to him so completely, she deserved to have him in kind. Solas took a in a breath and looked deep into her eyes.

“Then what I must tell you… The truth…” He hesitated, her eyes still fixed on his.

He knew he must tell her yet, how could he?  He could not ask her to bear this burden. What if the awful truth sent her running? Would she understand?

He was not often at a loss for words but in that moment every word in every tongue he knew was gone. How do you tell someone you love you are the monster whose name their people spit like acid. He searched her face, looking for the right thing to say hidden in her doe-eyed gaze.  He composed his thoughts and continued, “Your face, the vallaslin. In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean.”

Her face was confused and unsure. She was staring past his words and into his very soul. He had told her a truth, just not the one he had set out to. It was better this way, he thought, he could remain Solas in her eyes and their love could remain.

“What do you mean,vhenan? These marks honer the elvhen gods, they mark me as a full member of my clan, as they have for generations.”

“No. they are slave markings, or at least they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”

“So this is what? Just another thing the Dalish got wrong? We try to preserve our culture and this is what we keep! A relic of a time we were no better than Tevinter!” Tears fell down her cheeks. Her voice shook, “Was Abelas right? I am just a shadow in marks I do not understand?”

“Ashalle, don’t say that. Your people might not be perfect but, they have a spirit I admire. You strive to keep a memory of what was lost, warped though it may be.” He took her into his arms, “For all their faults, the Dalish did one thing right. They made you. I did not tell you this to hurt you. If you like I know a spell. I can take the vallaslin away.”

“I don’t know… These marks have been a part of me for so long…”

He saw the conflict pulling at her and he wonders if he made the right choice or if this was another truth that was better left unspoken.

“I know, and I am so sorry for causing you pain. It was selfish of me. I look and you and I see what you truly are, vibrant, free spirited, fearless, you are so much more than those cruel mark represent.”

She nodded, her face earnest, she spoke in what was hardly more than a whisper, “ We are the last Elvhen. Never again shall we submit… I am no one's slave, take the vallaslin away.”

He knelt before her in the soft grass and placed a reassuring kiss on her forehead. His palms radiated warm and blue as he took her face into his hands. He watched as the green thorns that once covered her face fell away into the light of his magic. He offered her a hand, helping her to her feet. He had removed countless vallaslin but, none had made him feel so much as this.

“ Ar lasa mala revas...You are free.” He paused and took her in, “You are so beautiful.”

He pulled her into a tender embarrass, wrapping his arms loosely around her hips. His lips fell onto her’s. His fingers tangle into her messy silver curls, his thumb traced the edge of her ear. Her love is blinding, intoxicating, a blazing fire he was happy to be consumed by. His free hands found her backside. She is rapturous and he is utterly her’s. When she held him tight he can feel the Dreadwolf slip away with the pain of what he has done. Perhaps, he had not broken the world if someone like her could exist. He kissed her deep, savoring the sweetness of her full lips and the smell of lavender and honeysuckle on her skin. He knew in that moment he could not bear his life without her. He’d stay with her, he’d find a way to protect her from Mythal, Corypheus, anything that would bring her harm. She was joy made flesh, kindness and heat personified. She was his home, his heart, his world.

When she broke the kiss his sense returned to him and he is faced with another awful truth.

‘What is it?” She reached for his face but he backed away, “My heart…”  

He was Fen'Harel, nothing could change who he was, even a love as sweet as hers. He had nearly forsaken himself for the sake of a woman’s love. No, he could not abandon his purpose, even for her.

“I distracted you from your duty and I’m sorry. It will not happen again.” His voice was measured and reserved. The way he spoke to other people...People that were not her.  He watched her face twist from confusion to despair in a matter of moments.

“What? No. No, please, Solas don’t leave me. I love you…” She was sobbing, pleading as she reached for him.

“Vhenan, please,” He took another step away, arms outstretched to keep her back. He knew her touch would be too much and he’d once again fall for her charms, “You have a rare and marvelous spirit. In another world…”

She crumples to her knees, broken hearted and lost, “Why not this one?”

[ofxelvhen]

She supposes some part of her knew. When that first wall came down claiming the Creators were only mortals elevated far above, when step after step everything Solas had ever said about the Dalish history being skewed, some part of her must of known. But denial held it back. She hadn’t seen him in years, not truly, not actually. Sometimes she thought she saw him in the distance when she was back with her clan, but she was never certain, as the moment she turned to look he vanished.

Maybe she suspected before then, maybe it was when they found a dead Qunari during the peace talks, maybe it was the first moment she stepped through the Eluvian and everything felt different. She can’t be sure. All she knows is when the Viddasala told her Solas was one of Fen’Harel’s agents she couldn’t deny it any longer, everything made sense, everything she saw in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking, everything he didn’t say after the Temple of Mythal and removing her vallaslin. It was too perfect, he was Fen’Harel.

Walking through the last Eluvian, Eve’s not sure what she expects, not the way back to be barred, not the sea of petrified Qunari before her, not Solas’ voice in the distance speaking to the Viddasala she pursued. Part of her wants to hesitate, but she carries forward. He was closer than he had been since he left, close enough she could hear him, close enough she could feel herself gravitating towards him. Only when she sees the Viddasala turn to stone before her does she hesitate. That was a display of power she had never seen from him, he hadn’t moved a muscle and she was petrified, just like that.

“Vhenan,” the word comes softer than she means it to, not the call after him she wanted but she sees him stop and turn anyway. Her next words swallowed by the pain of the anchor flaring again, bringing her to her knees before him. Isn’t that ironic? Falling to her knees in front of one of her false gods, but one of the Creators nonetheless? The pain subsides and she looks back up at the man she had once shared a bed with seeing in a moment the sorrow in his eyes, the hurt and regret and she knows it’s echoed back in her own.

“That should give us more time.” He speaks softly, and she can still hear affection in his voice. Before she can imagine they’re back in Skyhold spending an afternoon together, he speaks again. “I suspect you have questions.”

“Not anymore,” she replies trying and utterly failing to keep her broken heart from coloring her words with sorrow. “I think a part of me knew. Not always, not from the beginning. But... from the end, maybe. You always spoke of Elvhenan as though you had been there, Solas. You carried a weight on you and expected me to not see it when I carried a similar burden. I set mine down around you, but you never did, not truly. Any doubts I had were shattered when the Viddasala told me.” It fixed nothing, she knew.

“Well done,” he congratulates and Eve hates how her heart still wants to flutter at his praise, even now, even in the ruins and wreckage of everything, even in a sea of petrified Qunari.

“I was Solas first, a name given to a wandering child surviving on his own. Fen’Harel came later, inspired by some...friends of mine. It was meant as an insult even as I took is as a badge of honor. That I was dangerous enough to be exiled as such by those I sought to bring down. It was a mantle I took gladly, reminding those who needed it I was to be feared, while comforting those who turned to me for it.” He glances away and Eve can feel her heart breaking on the words to come next. “What was the Dalish curse? ‘May the Dread Wolf take you?’“

“And he did.” The words are off her lips almost before he was done speaking, colored with pain, not an accusation as they could be, as she felt they should be. Part of her was still angry, angry that he left her, broke up with her when she needed him most, when she was preparing to fight Corypheus. She needed him to hold her up more then than anything and he had left. But standing before him again, pain won out.

“I never lied. Not about this. I would not have been with you under false pretenses. Whatever else you may believe of me, believe this.” And the conviction in his voice almost broke her again, it made it worse. That he loved her and still left her. That he couldn’t bear to let her know the truth and decide on her own.

“I loved you, Solas. I still do. Did you think I wouldn’t understand? That I wouldn’t help you as you’ve helped me?” There’s the anger, late and without all the fire, but it’s there. Not sharp but enough to convey her betrayal, enough to tell him why she hurt, why this hurt.

“Ir’abelas, vhenan.”

“Tel’abelas, vhenan. Don’t you understand? If you love me, tell me. Tell me everything. I’m owed that, you owe me that.”

He turns away, as though he can’t tell her the story under the shame of having hid it for so long. He tells the tale of freeing slaves and anyone who came to him, of being named Fen’Harel. Of the others being elevated to godhood and their crimes thereafter, of forming the Veil and cutting the world from its magic and stripping the elves of their immortality. His voice carries the weight of his actions, the weight of a world long gone, destroyed by his own hands. She knows the weight, of having to choose between two bad choices and never being happy, of holding too many burdens and hoping none slip through her fingers. She can’t imagine his pain, his weight, can’t imagine carrying it alone, can’t imagine godhood when cared as deeply as he did. 

He only turns to look at her when speaking of his own crimes, as though imploring her to understand that he’s not the man she thought he was, as though convincing her of this would make her love him less, make her hate him. It does the opposite of its goal, instead deepening her sorrow thinking of him carrying this alone through his time in the Inquisition, about him having to hide it from all of them. From the woman he loved.

“What about now? What about this world, Solas? What about us?” She thinks she might know his answer, thinks she knows his goals but she needs to hear him say it, needs to hear him tell her what he intends.

“I slept for many ages after the Veil, countless wars passed in my slumber. I only woke a year before I joined you. I gave Corypheus the orb; I couldn’t unlock it, I was still too weak. He was supposed to die when he did, I did not expect him to learn the secrets locked within and use it to claim the godhood I sought to prevent.” He pauses for but a moment, turning and walking towards the open Eluvian before them, and she trails behind listening, waiting for her answer. “The elves fell because of what I did to stop the Evanuris, but they can rise again. I will save the Elvhen people, even if it means this world must die.”

“Let me come with you, Solas. Let me help you.” She manages to not sound desperate. She agreed with his goal, agreed with the idea of fixing what he had broken, she merely wanted to help him do so, to be with him again as they had been before.

“I cannot do that to you, vhenan.” He doesn’t turn to look at her, and sounds even sadder than before, if possible. And she refuses.

“But you would do it to yourself? I couldn’t handle the Inquisition alone, I can’t bear to think of you doing this by yourself.”

“I walk the Din’anshiral, I would not have you see what I become.”

“You’ve seen me through my worst, vhenan. Let me help you. You have to set down your burden sometimes, let it be with me. Allow me to be what you were for me,” She insists, stepping further, wanting to reach out to touch him but unable to do so, unsure how he would react.

“This is my fight,” he insists, shaking his head slightly. “You should be more concerned about the Inquisition. Your Inquisition.” As he turns to face her, she can see his determination setting in and she knows he won’t let her come, knows he doesn’t want to be followed. But she can’t let him be alone. She can’t be alone.

“Don’t you understand? Solas, I would die for you, for this. I am dying, let me spend it with the man I love,” she pleads, hands clenching to fists at her sides for lack of anything else she can do.

“And that is why I can’t let you come with me. I have lost enough, vhenan, I can’t bear to watch you die. Not when it was my mistake that brought this fate upon you. The Inquisition needs you now more than ever. It will be filled with corruption and betrayal even with you at its head, it will only be worse without you. With luck, you will not need to worry about the Qunari again for some time, but there are others.”

“You have spies.” It’s not a question and they both know it.

“Yes. How else did you think I brought this plot to your doorstep? My spies found theirs.”

“If you do this...” She bites her lip and looks away momentarily, “If you do this, will the- the Evanuris be freed?”

“I have plans for them.”

“Which are?”

He shakes his head. “Telling you would compromise them.”

“I’m on your side, Solas. But... aren’t we even people to you?”

“When I awoke, it was to a world that had lost its connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil. You showed me I was wrong for believing such, that there was still great emotion and passion in the world. And knowing so only makes this harder. I take no joy in this.”

“What about the anchor?” She asks. “It’s getting worse and you are the only one who understands it.”

“I know, vhenan.” He glances away again and Eve can feel the farewell. “We are running out of time.”

The pain flares once more and she falls to her knees again. She’s not sure if it’s her despair or truly the anchor worsening, but it hurts so much more than it did even last it flared at the beginning of their talk. She knows it’s only a matter of time before it takes her life, she only wanted to spend the remainder of her days with Solas. Fen’Harel. The man who would not let her follow.

“Drawing you here has given me the chance to help you, for a time,” he kneels before her and if she wasn’t in so much pain, she would laugh at the brutal irony of one of the Creators on his knees before her.

“Solas,” she looks up at him, despite the mounting pain in her hand, shutting it out to focus on him, knowing that, if he has his way, this will be the last time they meet. “Var lath vir suledin.”

“I wish it could, vhenan.” He pulls her closer and she just barely catches his eyes glowing before their lips meet and the pain in her hand slowly slips away. She tries to convey her love and desperation in her kiss, tries to convince him one final time to take her with, but then he’s pulling away and standing. “I will never forget you.”

And that breaks her as he turns and walks away. She vows to herself to spend the last of her days looking for him, if she must, vows to do anything she needs to find him and be with him again. But also knows she may never succeed. He knew things she never would. But she loved him.

Var lath vir suledin, ma vhenan.

[feynites]

Howling For The Slain - Chapter 2

(submitted by @fantasysdrivingforce)

CHAPTER TWO 

In fact, the dragon’s den is a vast temple – or palace, in this case – that reminds Salla of the Temple of Mythal and Cradle of Sulevin. But it’s vast, with opulent sculptures of glass dragons, murals of magic and paint alike, vast halls of trophies or gardens or general pretty things. There are spirals of glass and refracting crystal in the distance, past every stained window illustrating flowers or golden dragons.

Salla’s blade is taken from her upon entering the temple, and instead she limps forward, following the woman with dragon horns and pure white wolf the shape of a great bear. The air around her prods and questions, even as the spirit of Knowledge and Compassion keep close.

Until they reach a pair of wide, painted doors.

The horned woman shoos away Knowledge and only allows Compassion to draw close. The serpentine spirit coils in the corner, and watches Salla with its three eyes. Only Salla and Compassion follow the woman and wolf through the doors that quickly shut behind them.

Beyond them, a garden that reaches high, intertwining with ancient trees and nests. Flowers bigger than her grow and wave in the baring breeze of this vast, opened terrace.

The woman halts on a platform, bordered by a small stream that feeds down into a pond behind them, and the wolf at her side.

“Compassion says you have lost your people and your home,” the horned woman states. “What were your people like?”

“Strong,” she says. “Each astonishing and beautiful in their own ways, but heavily flawed.”

“And broken,” says the wolf. The air bristles around him, voice guttural and harsh.

“Calm, my friend, we will get our answers,” the woman says. “The rip in the sky brought you here, but how?”

“I… I am unsure,” Salla says and hangs her head. “I knew… a man. He was exceptionally powerful, but not the man I followed. I believe he was the one who opened the rip and brought me here.”

“And what became of him, and why send you?” asks the wolf.

And Salla meets his eyes. “He… he cared for me, in his own way. I think he was in love with me, but when he did what he did, he ripped what love I could feel for him away. He’s dead now, I think. Our world was dying, and the only way to survive was through that rip in the sky. I think, for what love or care he still had for me, he wanted me to survive even if he died.”

“So we need not worry for others to come?” asks the woman.

“I am unfamiliar with the magic used to open the sky, so I do not know,” Salla says.

Turning to Compassion, the woman’s golden eyes pierce. “Is what she says the truth?”

Compassion shines bright. “Yes, Mythal.”

Salla’s eyes snap wide. Mythal? No, no, that should be impossible, but yet… but yet…

Oddly, it rings true.

Though the silent white wolf doesn’t say a word, the air sharpened like thousands of eyes have been turned Salla’s way.

“Calm, Fen’Harel.”

And that’s like a kick to the gut. This white wolf, as pure as newly fallen snow is…

No, he’s not. He’s not her heart.

But the wolf doesn’t calm. The woman though, barely waves her hand. “Very well,” she begins. “We will allow you time to grieve. You lost your people, home, and heart, and even constructs deserve to rest and recover. We offer you leave of the palace; eat, drink, relax, and learn. When you’ve had sufficient time, we will talk again.”

Construct – there’s that word again.

“Compassion, make sure our guest gets comfortable in her quarters and is cleaned and healed.”

“Of course, Mythal.”

Salla’s escorted to a room small and unremarkable by palace standards, she thinks, but comfortable for her. There’s a bed, strewn with elegant sheets of golds and silvers, a small writing table, and a few windows that look out to a well-kept garden below. A doorway past the bed opens to a bathing room with a small tub, cleaning basins, and odd little shampoos placed here and there. It’s enough for her.

But behind her, she has begun to recognize the careful prodding of magic; a gentle sweep of warmth against her back that reminds her of the large, vibrant spirit she met - Compassion.

“It is not much,” says Compassion as it draws close. Its two eyes glance over her, squinting as if it smiles. “Mythal and Fen’Harel feel your own space will help you grieve.”

Mythal and Fen’Harel; two names Salla thought she’d never hear again. But here she is, in a land and place she thought no longer existed. She remembers Alhannon and a meeting he asked of just her, a discussion about what he saw, that time magic should not exist in any shape or form…

“Everything was… all of it was wrong,” he had said, grasping one of the little carved halla she had made for him upon his return. He had a few then; three, she thinks, each a different shade of cream with different styles of curled antlers and darling poses. He adored each one just as he adored the animal. “I saw Cassandra and Solas and Varric and Sera. They’d all been twisted by the red lyrium.”

“Did you see me?” Salla had asked.

Alhannon only gripped the halla figure tighter and tighter, eyes squeezing shut as tears ran swiftly down his cheeks. He fought past a sob and when he opened his eyes, they were red. “I saw them kill you,” he confessed. “I saw the life leave your eyes. I saw the beautiful glow of gold fade and your vallaslin turn black. You were gone.”

“But I’m not.” She shook her head. “That – what you saw – can be changed. I am here, Alhannon. See? I am right here, at your side and making you all the little halla figures you want.” She offered a wink and dragged a hurt laugh from him.

“I suppose that’s so,” he smiled. “Can you make me a black halla? A special one. Unique one.”

“Black halla, huh?” She raised a brow, unsure of why he’d ask her to make a halla a color it could never normally be. “Not a golden halla instead?”

Merely shaking his head, Alhannon’s smile grew. “Golden halla are beautiful, but a black halla would remind me of you. And there’s never been a black halla.” His hand sought hers, curling his hand against her calloused palm. “Halla are wondrous creatures, but whenever I dreamt, whenever I wanted a sign you were okay, I saw the illusion of a black halla. Wild, free, with the most gorgeous gold eyes one can imagine. Its horns curled but deadly. Body stock and strong. A fierceness in her eyes unmatched by all, and if she was too be chased by a wild pack of wolves she’d outrun them or cripple them easily.”

Salla didn’t wish to tell him she was more a wolf than a halla, but she squeezed his hand gently and nodded. “Then a black halla I will sculpt.”

He loved that black halla figurine, up to the day he died. And up to the day she was thrown back through time and landed in this… ancient Elvhenan society of god-kings, palaces, and spirit people. Of the ancient Mythal; the supposed All-Mother - or Fen’Harel, the past of a man Salla thought she loved, but only tore her heart from her chest instead. The one who showed her how to take the shape of a wolf, who helped her learn and allow her knowledge to seed and bud through the years.

Then he left and took her love with him.

Now, she almost wants to drive her sword through him and watch that pretty white fur seep red, and the light drain from his eyes. But…

With a curse, Salla grasps the edges of the bath and holds herself upon trembling legs. Murdering Solas’s past self isn’t going to happen; a part of her still mourns and grasps the emptiness he left inside her to be filled.

“Compassion,” she begins, trying to breathe past the pain in her ribs. “Where can I fetch water for my bath?”

“That isn’t necessary,” says Compassion, and the spirit draws closer, waving a soft, shining hand over the tub of carved silver. Magic hums and shudders, and soon a steady stream of water rises from the curving bottom. “There.”

“Convenient.” Salla flashes the spirit a smile. “Could you, uh, help with the straps of my armor?”

The spirit’s quick to nod, swirling to her back to unhook the clasps. Slowly, the dragon bone plates are lowered away piece by piece until Salla stands in a tunic clinging tightly to her form. And when she removed that, letting it fall to the floor, she spies the deep purple and yellowed bruises that work up and down across her chest. Scars paint her from head to toe, each a badge from a fight with a story to follow.

Salla reaches forward and slips her fingers into the waters, letting the tension bleed from her shoulders at the warmth that steadily rises. An enchantment to keep it hot, she thinks?

Nonetheless, she slips in silently until the water comes up to lap at her chin. Though her shuddering doesn’t cease, or her heavily aching breaths that twist agony between her ribs.

She knows a spell.

And so raises her hand to hover above her injured sides.

The light glistens with auras of gold and blue as healing magic seeps beneath her skin, stitching wounds and cooling her hurt, until the bruises slowly fade.

Compassion hovers close, warming the air around them and lighting the dozen or so candles that decorate every row in the bathing room. And there Salla remains, allowing her eyes to flutter shut when the last of her physical aches disappear and all that’s left is her despair and grief.

She gasps softly, no longer out of pain, but of loss and anger and misery. The spirit of Compassion drifts closer, whispering sweet coaxing in her ears, wrapping warm limbs around her shoulders and vibrating through her like a purr.

She is in a very distant past, with beings of power she never thought to meet. Though she knew the Dread Wolf, she knew a Dread Wolf who had thousands upon thousands of years of living, of wisdom and pride. He held it on him, aging his face. She knew Solas as a man and not a wolf. Wry, brilliant, intelligent. This Solas, or Fen’Harel as he’s called by here, might not even know any of what the future holds, Salla thinks.

Then there’re her friends – all those who fell or fates she can’t recall. Wiped away, erased, never to have existed in the first place. And that tightens like a fist around her heart.

Dorian and Iron Bull. Krem and the Chargers. Cassandra and Cullen. Leliana and Josephine…

Time passes, but Salla isn’t aware of how long she remains. The water stays warm, the spirit doesn’t move away, and no one comes for her. She decides not to use most of the shampoos and body washes, except for rubbing all the filth from her skin, because she definitely does not to smell like flowers or a bloody battlefield. The only thing that stops are her tears, and finally her stomach knots.

Compassion seems to realize it too. “Bodies need sustenance,” it says. “When was the last time you ate?”

That’s right, when was the last time she ate? Thinking back, she didn’t eat since before the war. When the armies arrived at Skyhold’s doorstep, she had forgotten to eat then, more concerned with getting the innocents to follow down tunnels meant for escape and preparing the forges and warriors with necessary equipment for battle.

“I do not remember,” Salla says.

There’s a breathy sigh by her ear, oddly enough from the spirit. “Then we must get you fed,” it concludes. “Come, I will show you the dining hall.”

“Will I not be welcome?” Salla retorts with a rise of her brow. “You heard Mythal and Fen’Harel. They think me a construct, unfeeling… a tranquil.” Now she understands why Solas had said it felt like he was surrounded by tranquil upon waking in his new world, because everyone was apparently cut off from puffy emotional clouds flitting in the air.

“I am not familiar with the term ‘tranquil’,” confesses Compassion. “But Mythal and Fen’Harel extended their hospitality to you for as long as you need, which includes food and drink and learning. Here” – Compassion peels away, fluttering down to grasp at the tunic upon the ground – “I will show you.”

“Why are you giving me my dirty tunic?” Salla asks.

Compassion blinks. “It isn’t dirty.”

Sure enough, as Salla stares at the dark tunic and raises a hand to run it up the woven fabric, she finds it clean. Void of sweat, blood, dirt, and other stains. Rather, it feels like it had when she first requested it made.

“Huh.” She blinks. Probably some odd enchantment then, and looking at her armor, Salla finds it shining like the polished dragon bone it is, instead of being dulled by soot, ash, and blood.

Her movements slow to a crawl as she pulls herself from the heat of the bath, drying herself with a towel hanging near and finally slipping on her discarded leggings and tunic. But she softly shifts her armor to the side instead.

Following the spirit out of her given quarters is easy enough. But when emotions flutter through the air almost nauseatingly and the quips of voices chat back and forth, Salla hesitates. Even as she peeks around the corner into a well-lit dining room, she’s frozen in her spot.

There are rows upon rows of tables, long and grand, with hundreds of elves sitting and talking. Spirits dance through the air, skirting along the arching ceilings that seem to open to the sky and trees. But likely just an illusion, she thinks.

Against a wall near her shadowy, arched walkway is a smaller table with drinks of shimmering liquids and wines and foods.

Compassion wraps around Salla and beckons her forth toward the smallest table of foods, where a few elves gather too, filling plates.

With Compassion clinging tightly to her and radiating warmth, Salla garners her own plate in hand and glances over the foods. A lot she… doesn’t recognize. There’s some odd honeyed bread that looks to be filled with some jam or – is it meat? – a cold soup that glimmers green and is brimming with vegetables, and odd vials of drink that fade like the colors of a fall sunset. But there’re cooked birds and rabbit sliced and marinated with a caramelized glaze, that she knows.

However, as soon as she reaches to fill her plate with the legs of some rabbit, the elves gathered around the table silence. The air sours and Salla swallows thickly, mouth tasting of bile.

Compassion bristles but whispers soft noises in her ears as Salla grabs what she can, stocking her plate, and grabbing a clear drink that she hopes is water before she slinks back out of the now unwelcoming dining hall.

“What was that?”

“Could’ve been the construct Lady Mythal and Lord Fen’Harel found earlier.”

“But why was it in the dining hall. This is for People not-”

Barely catching the tail ends of gossip, a sigh droops Salla’s shoulders as she seeks out a small place where she can eat her fill. She finds her solitude in a small garden filled with white plants that glimmer with Fade-green magic near the ends of petals.

Compassion’s still wrapped around her like an overgrown cat as she sits upon one of the benches in reclusive silence and sniffs at her glass of drink. It is water, thankfully. And she eats in her silence with legs folded under her, balancing her plate on a knee and eating her fill of the meat. But there’s more to her plate that she doesn’t remember grabbing; and Compassion purrs and whispers sweet words as Salla picks up a small honeyed roll of jellied meat. It’s an odd taste; almost like a tart or biscuit with sugared honey and a filling she finds unusual. It’s not quite to her taste, so she sets that to the side and instead takes her fill of a rainbow of berries nestled between her leftover rabbit bones.

Filling her belly is enough to calm Salla for awhile before she makes her way back to her room in silence. Compassion peels away as Salla sinks beneath sheets and allows sleep to find her. But peace doesn’t.

***

Knowledge finds her in an old reconstruction of Skyhold’s destroyed rotunda. Fragments of frescos lay in ruin, the ceiling to the rookery torn apart, and leather bound books ripped or burnt until titles are no longer recognizable. Blood stains the floor black, and broken swords scatter about the rubble.

Salla kneels in the middle of it all, soot fluttering down to rest in dark hair.

The serpentine blue spirit first curls around her feet, blinking up at her with its three eyes. “Is this your home?” it asks.

“It used to be,” Salla says. “Or at least one of my homes.”

“You had many,” the spirit deduces and she nods. “This image inspires grief in you. Why do you choose to remain here if it makes you upset?”

“Because it’s still memory,” Salla says through gritted teeth. “I learned much here. I lived on my own for many years, but upon joining the Inquisition, I learned much more than I could’ve on my own.” Around the girl and spirit, ruins groan and rise from the stone ground. Fractured chunks piece together until the ceiling arches overhead, bars to cages melt together again, and deep black birds return. Candles come alive as chandeliers hang overhead, the char on books bleed away as they’re lifted back to bookcases that build themselves up once more.

And the rotunda’s frescos glow with new life, the story of the Inquisitor and his duties, and a destroyed couch knits itself back together. A table of scrolls, documents, and books settles itself in the middle of it all, as does Solas’s chair.

“Ah,” Knowledge purrs and swims through the air, only to sink into the chair. “This is where you studied.”

With a sigh, Salla drags herself up. She doesn’t want to talk much about her life in Skyhold, or the area she took over when Solas had left; reading over his writings and works in hope to find where he’d gone. The couch still smells of him, and large paw prints stain the leather of it.

“Who taught you?” asks the spirit.

Salla hesitates, but only after a moment, sighs. “My heart,” she says.

Knowledge briskly nods.

There are paintings strewn across the table, small watercolor pieces of the forests Salla remembers being in. And one painting that tugs at her heart.

Watercolors of the giant trees of the Emerald Graves, as green as green can be. Under the canopy of emerald leaves and golden light, is the statue of a wolf, but at the feet of it is a real wolf standing high and proud, howling to the sky.

Its fur russet cream, red, and black, shoulders lighter than the dark fur that stretches across her muzzle, chest, and paws; one of the first times she had successfully taken the form was in the Emerald Graves. She and Solas had disappeared for a day after clearing several rifts with Alhannon and the others, curled up with a picnic at the base of a watchful stone wolf guardian.

His cheeks reddened as she tightened her hand in his.”You need only concentrate,” he said. “Let your spirit swell, greater than your skin or bones or shape. Concentrate on your senses, let it fill you. Let the smell of the leaves, of the bark and soil, of fresh air and birds’ wings speak to you.”

His touch grazed along her own, cupping her cheek, as her hand slipped away. Her heart hammered in her chest, breaths shaking and magic bristling around her. It had felt like the world snapped and coiled away, became smaller and air became too hot. And Solas’s scent of elfroot, parchment, and distinctly him became overwhelming.

When she opened her eyes, he looked at her in wonder, but when she tried to speak all that came out was a gruff yap. Something thumped behind her and, oh, it was her tail.

She was a wolf, big and stocky, with fur soft and warm as she pressed against her lover.

They hadn’t known what kind of animal she’d become; it could’ve been a halla, or a bird, or some kind of shadowcat.

Upon glancing back to Solas, he peppered her face – snout? – with kisses between gasps of words. “You are so beautiful, ma vhenan,” he said.

Turning back into an elf soon enough, she had him then and there in the green of the forest, careful of their sounds with their companions close by.

The memory fades away before her eyes and Salla drops the painting to the rotunda’s table.

“He taught you how to change your shape,” says Knowledge proudly. “Constructs cannot change their shape as readily as the People. Dreaming Born are more apt to the art than Waking Born. Was he a shape-changer too?”

“Yes,” Salla confirms. “He could change into a wolf as well, black as a new night’s sky. We used to run together in the woods outside this castle whenever we were stressed and needed to get away.” The thought brings a smile to her lips.

And then the Fade around her shudders, constricting, until it quite suddenly snaps.

She finds herself running up slopes and hills on four legs of dark russet reds and blacks. Golden eyes blink wide as she darts over fallen logs, around trees, through cold puddles and up toward canopies of snowy trees and mountains. Behind her, Knowledge snakes through the air at her heels.

The change may have been nauseating if Salla wasn’t already used to it; her thoughts, often sporadic, changed the Fade readily. Her skills as a Dreamer were not as great as her love’s was.

The air tastes of winter and it reminds her of Solas, of the times they raced across the snow, through the tree line, hunting hares and elk. And suddenly, winter’s replaced by the smell of freshly inked parchment, and under her paws, snow turns to smooth stone.

“Fuck!” Slipping into common, she yelps out – voice echoing in the humming air around her and skidding across a large floor with scrambling paws, before finally colliding head first into the legs of a well-crafted table. With a groan, it breaks, collapsing upon her and scattering books across the floor.

“Oh!” Knowledge gasps behind her and tendrils twist around the bulk of the table, but –

- They’re not alone.

“Well.” A gruff, guttural voice slices the hanging silence. “This is surprising.” But they sound more agitated than anything. “A construct that can shape-change and dream.”

“Not a construct,” another voice corrects more feminine in tone than the first. “A person.”

“Is it though?” retorts the other. “It does not feel.”

“Are you entirely sure of that, my friend?”

The other huffs.

Salla’s wolf shape sinks away as the air shudders, and instead she crawls out – as an elf - from the mess of the desk only to meet the narrowed emerald glare of a massive white wolf.

Fen’Harel.

Shit. Did her thoughts of Solas accidently lead her here?

Behind him, another spirit – brilliant and green – hovers close. Knowledge circles around it, cool against this spirit’s warmth.

Salla bows her head away. “I apologize,” she whispers. “I did not mean for my dream to take me here. I can leave.”

But the white wolf sneers, pulling back lips to show off glistening fangs. “Stay,” he says, “and tell us how a construct such as you can dream?”

Construct; such an offensive term. It draws a scowl upon her face and an icy chill to her eyes.

“That term is misleading and cruel,” Salla says coldly. “I am a person, same as you.”

The wolf straightens and turns his chin high. Scoffing, he says, “I think not. Your feelings are broken. Now, you’d be wise to answer my question. Tell me how you can dream.”

“My friend,” the spirit of green nudges a limb into the wolf’s side. “You think just because you’ve never seen a creature such as her before that you can treat her with disrespect? If you wish to learn more of who she is, do not demand it of her. Simply ask.”

The wolf huffs.

“Your spirit friend is wise,” Salla says, which causes Fen’Harel to still and the spirit to face her. And it blooms brightly, eyes widening, and an odd toothy smile spreads through its shimmering form.

“Thank you,” it says. “I am Wisdom.”

Salla mouths the word, ‘wisdom’. Like the Wisdom that Solas had known; the same Wisdom who died from the mages attempting to bind it and twist its nature? Is this the same Wisdom, but of an ancient time?

It drifts closer, limbs reaching forward to help her sit up. It has six extending arms tipped with dulled claws, and it cups her face between two. “You have wisdom in you,” it purrs. “And knowledge, and pride, and curiosity, and sorrow, and compassion. I sense it all. But my friend’s sense has dulled.”

“It has not,” growls the wolf. “I simply see this… creature irrelevant when it comes to sense.” It paces the room – a library, Salla thinks? – full of high bookshelves with no end in sight. “If it cannot feel or even have the desire to care, why should I care to learn more of it except what may be relevant in why it’s come to us?”

His words hurt more than they should, and Salla balls her hands into fists. “If I may, have you ever heard of a tranquil, my Lord?” she asks.

“Trank-quill?” He scowls as he attempts to sound the common word out. “No,” he says.

“Where I’m from, ‘tranquil’ is the term used for someone who does not feel, who is stripped of all that they are, their emotions ripped away, and have little desire to say no to anything that’s asked of them,” Salla explains.

“And you’re such a creature,” concludes the wolf.

“No,” she simply retorts. “I feel. I dream. Tranquil cannot feel or dream. They are the living nightmare of every mage; a message of what they could become.”

Fen’Harel blinks and lips loosen to cover bared fangs. “What they could become?” he asks. Besides them, the two spirits – Wisdom and Knowledge – simply listen.

“Tranquil are cut from the Fade, from spirits, and from magic,” Salla continues, but is wary of giving him too much. “They are born feeling, dreaming, using magic – but fearing it.”

He asks. “Why would they fear magic? Do you fear magic?”

“No,” she says. “I never have but… my home is different from here. It’s… an alternate place. Very similar to yours, but not.”

“A different world then?” the wolf asks.

“Sure,” Salla allows. “Magic isn’t as… readily accessible as it is here. There are people there who are mages, who can use magic, but they are a minority. A majority of those who live in my world cannot access magic at all.”

The air chills and the wolf’s eyes narrow. “That is… hardly believable,” he says. “Magic can be accessed by all, even constructs.”

“Maybe in your eyes,” Salla retorts. “In my world, it is normal for people not to have magic. Mages are small in number and feared. There are people trained to police them because mages are dangerous. Magic is dangerous. Spirits are dangerous.”

“Magic and spirits aren’t dangerous,” snaps Fen’Harel.

“I understand that,” Salla scoffs. “I’m merely expressing what others of my world think.” When the wolf does not speak, she continues. “These people who are trained can dampen magic. They trap away anyone with magic inside towers, restricting them and treating them they’re not even people but dangerous objects that can explode at any given moment.”

Salla rises and finds she can stare straight into this clever wolf’s bright green eyes if she stands tall. “These soldiers devised a way to strip a mage from the Fade, from dreams, and emotions – essentially making them a husk that breathes, eats, and works with little desire for anything else. They’d take mages against their will and brand them, cutting them away from all that they are. They kill the spirit inside of them. What they become is called a tranquil.”

She finds that the wolf does not hide the look of horror upon his face, eyes wide and air around them shuttering coldly, like heavy stones dropping into her stomach.

“I’m one of the lucky ones,” Salla continues. “I hid. I was never brought to these towers, never stripped of who I am. If I was, I doubt I’d even be here talking with you now.” She straightens her shoulders, narrows brilliant gold eyes, and takes a step toward the massive white wolf of a mage-king. “You think me a construct, but this, me” – she gestures to herself – “is normal in my world. Compassion said my emotions broke when I fell from the sky, but I cannot tell you if that is true or not because I do not know. What I do know is I can feel as much as you. You may be able to read the emotions of others, but mine – the only way one can read my emotions is to feel them in my words, in my expressions, in my anger and rage. So tell me again, Clever Fen’Harel, am I just a construct to you?”

The Dreaming around them sharpens into invisible blades pointed at her as emerald eyes narrow and darken, like an uneasy storm caught deep within the swirling of green. When he doesn’t respond, Salla simply sighs and allows her gaze drop.

“I’ll let you decide and leave you to your dream I’ve so rudely interrupted,” she says and forces herself to wake like Solas had once taught her to do.

But she does not return to her dreams at all that night.

[buttsonthebeach]

Lethallan

@cedarmoons and I had so much fun imagining how our Lavellans would interact with each other a few weeks back, particularly how they would each react if they were a companion and the other romanced Solas - so here is my take on Ellana as a companion, reacting to their break up!

****

People gave Ellana a wide berth when she made her way through the main hall of Skyhold. She’d learned to soften her stony countenance in her months with the Inquisition. It doesn’t do to have one of the Inquisitor’s companions frightening away the guests, you know.

She unlearned that lesson on her way to the rotunda.

She would be damned if she was going to be polite or considerate or open-minded or any of the things she’d been told.

Not today.

She’d gone to the Conclave for a chance at all of those things. A chance at a world outside the clan. And she’d gotten it - seen the explosion from a distance, gone down into the Hinterlands to help sort shit out, and run into, of all things, another Dalish elf. One the humans called the Herald of Andraste. But she wore Mythal’s vallaslin and said her prayers to the Creators and she skinned her kills with the same neat precision her own hunting master drilled into Ellana from the time she was thirteen.

Her name was Ariala, and she had a mark on her hand that could seal the sky, and in some ways she was everything Ellana wanted time away from: Dalish through and through, the kind of person who might have looked down on her own flat-eared parents when they were alive.

But Ariala was also just, and good, and funny, and kind, and in those long months fighting to seal the sky there was a comfort in having someone else who spoke of ironbark and the warm close circle of aravels in winter and the sound of halla in early morning. Someone who made her think that maybe she wasn’t lesser-than or not-enough after all.

But Ariala wasn’t who Ellana was going to see that day.

There’d been another elf there that day in the Hinterlands. Bare-faced, and a mage. One who smiled without showing his teeth when they brought blankets and food to the refugees, and one who scoffed at the Dalish, and one who did not hesitate to put himself in the jaws of the Chantry if it meant saving innocent lives. One who carried sadness like a heavy cloak and twined Ariala around his finger like a vine in summer.

(But really it was the other way around, she’d realized with time, at a dozen dozen firelit evenings when Solas sat and watched Ariala with grief and wonder in his eyes.)

There was grief in Ariala’s eyes when she returned from Crestwood. But no wonder.

And that was why Ellana forgot every diplomatic lesson she’d learned on her way into that rotunda, and became again the woman she always was underneath. A Dalish elf with a kinswoman who needed protecting. A person for whom that bond was absolute as any bond of blood.

The sound of the door flying open was enough to startle the ravens and Solas alike. Good. Ellana had saved her rage in the days since Ariala came back alone, hollow-eyed. And seeing him sitting there, stiff-backed, mouth already set in a thin line, she was ready to unleash it.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Solas closed his book with a crisp snap.

“I am afraid I do not know what you mean.”

“Don’t play games. I asked Ariala why she came back from Crestwood alone and heartbroken and she said she didn’t want to talk about it. I figured I would have to ask you. And here you are. So talk, Solas.”

Her tone irritated him. She could tell. He was a stoic man, but his blue-gray eyes were expressive.

“That is a private matter.”

Ellana thought, again, of the months they’d shared on the road. The dangers. The campfires. The times when it was her, Ariala, and Solas, and she felt like she might have a new little clan here, a place she belonged. And then she looked at Solas, his impassive expression, his false calm. He was drumming the fingers of one hand against his desk. He was rattled.

“I’m sorry,” she said then, her tone both light and acidic. “You must have me mistaken for some other elf. A stranger. Not the woman who has patched up your wounds and killed your meals and watched your back for months. Not the woman who would lay her life down for the Inquisitor. Or for you.”

That got some chagrin from him. He broke eye contact at last. Ellana stood, waiting. He did not look back up before he spoke.

“Ariala truly would not tell you herself?”

“No.” Another silence. For the first time since she stormed in, Ellana felt a pinprick begin to deflate her rage. She couldn’t read Solas now. Soft voice and downcast eyes. Why was he acting like this, when Ariala was the one who returned first, the one who returned wounded? How could they both act that way?

Solas looked up and caught her studying him. He swallowed, and regained his composure.

“I realized something while we were in Crestwood. That realization led to an end of the - connection that the Inquisitor and I have shared.”

There it was.

Someone had finally said it.

Ellana was never the smartest person in the room, but even a fool like her could guess that something happened to cause a rift in their relationship. What she wanted to hear was why, and how.

“And what exactly did you realize?”

Solas’s face turned to anger once more.

“What I realized is none of your concern. I have already spoken as much as I care to on this matter. If you wish to know more, tell the Inquisitor that you asked me, and I told you as much as I was able. She should be the one to tell you more. She is your friend, after all.”

He stood abruptly from his chair, and began rearranging the papers on his desk. Ellana knew his mask, suddenly. It was the same kind she’d worn throughout her life. The kind of anger that masked pain.

“So are you, Solas,” she said, lowering her own voice. “At least - I thought you were my friend. And if something happened - if you regret something you said to her - maybe if you talk to me, I can help fix it.”

He paused in his shuffling, but he did not look up.

“Your offer is unnecessary. Now, if you will excuse me, there are reports I must complete.”

He gathered the papers he’d shuffled around, and left the rotunda. Ellana watched him go, no longer angry so much as confused.

“Well, that was an entertaining show. Will there be an encore at dinner?” Dorian’s voice came from the library. She looked up to see him leaning over the railing.

“Somehow I doubt it. Do you know where the Inquisitor is?”

“I believe she returned to her quarters after her meeting with the advisors this morning. I saw her heading that way when I made my way to a late breakfast.”

“Ma serannas.”

The Elvhen words lingered on her tongue as she crossed the hall towards the door that led to Ariala’s chambers. There had been tension between Ariala and Solas over the subject of their shared heritage - or not so shared, as Solas would have it - since the early days of the Inquisition. It seemed they’d moved past it, though. What had come up on their trip to Crestwood?

Ariala was not in her chambers. Ellana went down to the courtyard next, and heard that the Inquisitor had been seen practicing archery near the Herald’s Rest. Sure enough, her ears picked up the rhythmic sound of a bow being drawn, an arrow being loosed, and a target being struck. A rhythm as familiar as her own heart. There were practice bows nearby, no doubt left unattended by some hapless recruit, and she grabbed one as she made her way towards Ariala rather than head down to the stables she shared with Blackwall and recover her own equipment.

Ariala did not acknowledge her as she approached, except for with a quick glance. Ellana watched her finish the arrows in her quiver, burying each one neatly in the dummy. Sweat shone on the orange vallaslin crossing her brow. When she was done, Ellana spoke.

“Well, I got more out of Solas than I did out of you, lethallan, which isn’t saying much. I hope you’re pretending that dummy is him.”

Ariala did not respond. Instead she went to the dummy and removed the arrows. “What did he say?”

“That he had a realization in Crestwood, and that said realization led to the end of your ‘connection.’”

Ariala returned to her mark, and swiftly loosed three arrows. These ones did not fly as true. One missed entirely. Her draws had been short and stiff.

“Well, then you officially got more from him than I did. Congratulations.”

Another three arrows. Two missed.

“Mythal’s tits,” Ellana said at last. “Will you just tell me what happened?”

Ariala lowered her bow, and her eyes. “He took me to a grove in Crestwood dedicated to Ghilan’nain. He told me I was beautiful and that I meant the world to him. Then he told me that our vallaslin was used as slave markings in Elvhenan, and asked me if I wanted him to remove mine, and then I said no, and then he kissed me, and then he told me we were over.”

Ellana didn’t think she’d ever heard a more confusing story in her life. Her heart sank. Vallaslin, the markings of slaves? It couldn’t be.

And yet.

If it was true, who would know better than a man who could walk the Fade? Who spoke Elvhen like he’d been born speaking it - and yet had no vallaslin himself?

Her stomach twisted.

Ariala was looking at her, something like a challenge in her eyes. Ellana strung her practice bow, plucked an arrow from the quiver at Ariala’s back, and took aim. She took one deep, steadying breath. Vallaslin as slave markings. Another thing the Dalish got wrong. Or were they? Ariala clearly hadn’t believed him - or didn’t care.

Was that why he left her?

She loosed the arrow and after it hit the dummy, she felt ready to speak.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Which part?” Ariala’s voice was bitter.

Ellana took another arrow. She got another look at Ariala’s face as she did so. The beautiful, intricate markings - the beginning of her Mother’s Tree. How could anything so lovely - so prized - come from something so hateful? And if they did - did that matter?

Ellana thought of her own markings, that long night when she’d gotten them. She hadn’t done what most young elves did the day of their ceremony. She hadn’t kept a vigil for her chosen god. If she was being perfectly honest, she wasn’t sure she believed in them. Instead, she’d thought of her parents, whose graves were still fresh. She’d chosen June for them, for their clever hands and all the crafts they made, for the life they’d left behind in Ostwick to ensure their daughter grew up free. Her vallaslin weren’t for the gods. They were a sign of her adulthood, of her love for her parents. A sign that she did belong in her clan, however much she doubted it at times. If she could redefine what they meant for herself, why couldn’t the Dalish as a whole redefine them?

Another deep breath - another arrow loosed.

“You did the right thing,” Ellana said. “Not letting him remove your vallaslin.”

“He clearly doesn’t think so.”

Ariala’s voice was still bitter - but it was also small. Ellana turned to face her.

“You think that’s what he meant? His realization?”

“What else could it be?”

Ellana’s emotions swirled too quickly for her to name them all accurately. Anger - pain - disbelief - and a nagging suspicion, born of Solas’s own pained expressions, that his realization wasn’t related to the vallaslin at all.

“If it is, then he is wrong. Dead wrong. Do you hear me?” Her friend looked up at that, her dark eyes sad. “You know - there are days when I agreed with Solas. The Dalish can be closed-minded. We don’t do enough to help the rest of our people. Some Dalish don’t even see other elves as their people. I saw that firsthand when my parents were alive. I volunteered for the Conclave because I wanted to see what the world was like outside our narrow little view of it out there in the wilds.” Ellana dropped the practice bow and set both her hands on Ariala’s shoulders. “But Ariala - you are everything that is good about our people. Everything that reminds me that I am proud to be Dalish. You are proud of who we are without being prideful - a champion for the Dales and for the rest of Thedas. Solas should never have tried to take that away from you.”

Ariala looked at Ellana for a long moment, and then reached up and squeezed one of her hands.

“I’ll bet I can split one of your arrows again,” Ariala said, when the moment passed.

Ellana smiled, and raised her bow.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

OC Kiss Week - The Moments Between

So it is OC Kiss Week, and I wanted to write a piece for Hanin Lavellan and @lavellanlove‘s wonderful Avira Lavellan, who have gone on a solid novel’s worth of adventures together over the course of the past year or so!

I only hope I did the lovely lady justice, and thank you for letting me borrow her for this event.

Hanin Lavellan x Avira Lavellan (hanavira), approx. 2300 words, most under the cut <3

Most soldiers had rituals they performed after a fight, and Hanin Lavellan was no exception. Coming down from that heady battle-rush was a difficult, at times painful process. It was a time when old wounds mingled with the new, the physical with the emotional, and they all made themselves known at once with bright and startling clarity.

Sitting by the fire, watching the rest of his squad and a few scouting parties drift like wraiths through the camp, it felt alarmingly selfish for Hanin not to be among them. Tending to whatever he could, comforting others with his presence. He would use words, as many good captains did, but too often he just didn’t have them at the ready. It was an art he had yet to master, and a part of him was convinced he never would. But his squad had yet to think him less of a leader for it. In truth, Hanin wasn’t quite sure what he had done to deserve them.

You don’t give yourself enough credit, vhenan.

He smiled to himself, Avira’s voice so clear in his head that she might as well be standing behind him, murmuring the words in his ear. But, of course, she wasn’t. Hanin’s smile wavered before fading entirely, his usual scowl moving to fill the void it left behind. Their duties often saw them separated; it was something they both knew would happen time and time again. But still, in those quiet moments between the sliding of steel and the cracking of burning logs, there was an emptiness. A new emptiness; one he had never felt before. And no matter what Hanin did, he couldn’t seem to fill it.

Not the way she could.

Letting out a tired breath, Hanin allowed his eyes to close for the briefest time, forearms on his knees, his head bowed. For a moment, he could feel her hands on his shoulders. A light touch, at first, growing more confident as he leaned into it, knowing that he selfishly sought contact despite being covered in filth and  blood and Mythal knows what else. It seemed a small, fanciful thing, but whenever he imagined her hands on him, he was never wearing plate. The limitations of hard metal were no longer worth consideration, so it felt as though it was not there even though his body recognised the familiar weight bearing down on him. Perhaps it was because he did not feel he needed it when he was around her. It was armour in more ways than one. Piece by piece, she had taught him how to shed it without even realising. Or perhaps she had known all along. A smirk tugged up the corner of his lips. Avira always seemed to know more than she let on.

Those imaginary hands shifted, brushing across his shoulders, and in his mind’s eye Hanin saw her face, that brow creased in an expression of concern he hated himself for placing there. But at the same time, he knew his own often mirrored it when she arrived late in the night, cloak tattered, eyes heavy from lack of sleep and too many cards at play. As it turned out, a part of loving someone meant worrying about them. Despite insistence. Despite assurance. It had taken him time to learn that the sensation would always be there, eating away at the inside of his chest, ignoring all rationality, all confidence, all careful consideration. 

It had taken significantly less time for him to learn that he could live with it. 

Ir abelas, he thought, imagining reaching out to brush the side of her face with his fingertips. To tuck back a stray strand of hair; trace one of the faint lines of her vallaslin as it glided up her temple. It has been too long, this time. Far too long.

Their separations came often, that was true, but for the first time since realising that this was a dance they desired to do in pairs, over a month had kept them apart. Not just apart, but at what might as well be separate sides of Thedas. Her mission was a vague mist; a fog of secrets that could not be shared, and that Hanin did not demand to know. The Nightingale made use of her agents, just as Commander Cullen relied on his soldiers to be where they were needed. For the most part, it was manageable. Fine. 

It was always the quiet moments. 

Moments alone in his tent. Moments like this, after battle, after hours spend in a frantic blur of steel and dread and orders shouted to the wind. Moments where he could count every old wound like nails driven into his skin. Moments where the new ones seemed to pile on top, driving them deeper.

He needed to distract himself. Hanin stood, ignoring the protest of legs that had carried him through a field of demons and men alike, and made his way around the camp. Checking in on his squad let him forget for a moment as their problems surpassed his own. A head wound here. A broken strap there. Scrapes and gashes and a thousand little injuries that he hoped they would never have to feel again once the scars arrived. It was good, for a time. It kept him busy.

But before long, Hanin found himself by the horses, tethered at the side of the campsite. They snorted and huffed, and Elgar was waiting for him, her ears flicking in absent greeting as she recognised his footsteps. Reaching out, Hanin trailed a hand down the side of her neck, feeling the muscle ripple and twitch beneath his palm. She was strong. He could be, too. He had to be.

“So... when was the last time you pulled a brush through that mane of hers?”

At first, Hanin just snorted, shaking his head, thinking it was just another trick of his mind. That he was making up her voice, so clear and crisp, out of some delusional need to see her again. But when he heard footsteps, he paused, hand freezing on Elgar’s snout. Then, sharply, he turned.

She was… there. Riding boots that reached her thighs, leather half-gloves designed for gripping reins, thick brown hair bundled into a practical pile at the back of her head. A half-smile was the crown of her features, regarding him with a kind of fond amusement. A part of him wondered if she knew what he had been thinking. A part of him wondered why she was there; how she had arrived without him noticing.

A part of him was just hopelessly, unashamedly happy to see her.

Hanin’s hand lingered on Elgar as he turned; slipped off as he crossed the distance between himself and Avira in a few purposeful strides. He did not even hesitate to fold her into an embrace, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her as close as he dared. “Vhenan,” he murmured, lips brushing against her hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Breathed. “I… did not expect to see you here.”

She sighed gently. Tiredly. He felt it in the slight rise and fall of her back. “Nor did I expect to come here,” she confessed, and then shifted, tilting her head up to look at him. Those green eyes seemed to search his own. That brow creased ever so slightly. “Are you well? Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I... am fine. More than fine.” Hanin couldn’t believe the first thing he had done was cause her to worry, but then again, of course it was the first thing he had done. He let himself relax into a faint smile, arms loosening slightly around her form, giving her more room to move but still not quite willing to let go. Not entirely. Not yet. “This is just a surprise.”

“A good one, I hope.”

Hanin’s expression warmed. “On’ala sa.” The best one.

This time, they both smiled, something soft and genuine passing between them before they drifted closer and their lips touched. Exhausted, filthy, bruised and aching, it probably would have made sense for it to be a short affair. Something simple; a greeting long overdue. But Hanin couldn��t seem to bring himself to break the kiss, leaning into it, deepening it, wanting it. One hand wrapped around the small of her back, drawing her closer as his other hand glided up to cup the back of her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin, the quickening of her pulse as it rose to match his own. Creators… he had missed her.

They broke apart for a moment, breathing as though they had ran the length of the kiss, foreheads touching, the tips of their noses brushing ever so slightly. Hanin swallowed, eyes closed, fingers absently lingering at the back of her neck, playing with the stray strands of hair that had escaped her bun during the ride. He had no idea what machinations of fate saw her brought to their forward camp. Creators knew the Nightingale had no intention of doing Hanin any favours, so the idea that she had organised this with any intention seemed absurd.

Then again, as he opened his eyes and caught Avira’s slightly parted lips, her cheeks a dust-flushed hue, perhaps it would not have solely been a favour for him. After all, say what you like about Leliana, she cared for her best agents.

“How long?” he breathed, voice tightening slightly with the question, fearing the answer.

“A few days,” she replied, a note of apology tinging her voice despite both of them knowing it could not be helped. “My target is further north. I am only staying here to resupply and await further orders from Nightingale.” Her lips pursed slightly. “Things are… prone to changing, in my line of work. Often far too quickly.”

Hanin nodded, his heart sinking for a moment before he chided himself for the emotion. A few days. Perhaps only a few hours on each of those days, with all the fighting, but Creators, he intended to use them well. However, Avira was quick to read his initial response, and she reached up, her hand cupping the side of Hanin’s face, drawing his gaze back to her. “Ir abelas, ma lath.” I’m sorry, my love.

No. All Hanin did was shake his head slightly, meaningfully, meeting and holding her gaze, wanting nothing more than to convince her she had nothing to be sorry for. So he leaned in again, slowly, almost tentatively, their breath mingling in the cool night air. He closed the distance between them, mouths hovering as close as they could without actually touching. An apology of his own; a request. “No apologies, vhenan,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. “We... take what we can, when we are lucky enough to have it.”

Then he kissed her again, and she kissed back, and the memories of the day, the fight, the blood, the fear, the rush of battle, all seemed to flood out of him now that he was certain she was there and he was hers. He could touch her, feel her, and she could touch him too, her fingers laced at the back of his head, pulling him close, insistent but gentle. There was almost a giddiness to the realisation, and he found himself smiling against her lips. She must have felt the expression and drew away, one brow arched curiously, her head tilting to the side as she inspected his sudden shift in mood.

“Something amusing, vhenan?”

“Not amusing, no.” Hanin took a deep, slow breath, simply regarding her through its duration. Even the moments spent blinking felt like wasting time they did not have. “Just… right. Good.”

It was a simple answer, but Hanin’s answers often were. Thankfully, they didn’t have to be more complex; Avira always seemed to understand what he meant. It was yet another thing he loved about her. Where she spun stanzas of poetry, he slapped down prose in single lines. And she never treated him as lesser for it.

“Well… good.” Avira smiled, and Hanin watched the expression rise to meet her eyes as she stood on her toes and stole another chaste kiss from his all too willing lips. “We have… much to catch up on,” she murmured, and then her gaze flicked down and up again. “Is it safe to say that blood is not your own?”

It was at that precise moment that Hanin realised a few things. Firstly, that he was still wearing his plate. Secondly, that it was covered in blood and filth and other grime he had picked up throughout the course of the day. And thirdly, that he had just pulled her against him and kissed her as though neither of the first two things were true. “I… no, it isn’t,” he said, then cleared his throat uncomfortably, releasing her and moving to step back. “Sorry, I—”

He snagged his wrist before he even managed to move away, tugging him back in close with a playful shake of her head. ”No apologies, remember?” Then, she slipped her fingers between his and turned back towards the camp, tugging softly for him to follow her. “But I think we could both use a bit of rest and relaxation. At least for tonight. I for one would like to wash off some of the road I have collected over the past few days.”

Falling into step beside her, all Hanin could do was watch her for a moment, her eyes determined, filled with the promise of a washcloth and shared warmth for the night to come. She would have everything she needed seconds after setting foot in that camp; of that, Hanin was certain. After all, how could anyone deny such an expression?

A low chuckle rose from Hanin’s chest, and he let it find life on his lips. “It is… good to have you back, vhenan.”

Avira glanced across at that, squeezing his hand in silent affirmation of the same. “It is good to be back. Even if it is never for quite as long as I might hope.”

“It will be long enough,” Hanin said, voice soft but certain as they neared camp. “Until next time. And that time will be long enough, too.” In truth, a single moment would be long enough, if that was all he could have. But Hanin could not find the words to express it, so he let it linger in his tone, his eyes, the press of his palm to hers.

And without another word, without another sound, Avira understood.

[dr-j-bright]

Revas Lavellan ~ Dragon Age OC

Full name: Revas Lavellan

Nicknames / Aliases: “Little Daisy” because he will wear flowers in his hair frequently, and oftentimes people refer to him using his last name, Lavellan.

Gender: Transgender Male

Birthday and Age: 1st of Solace, 9:17 Dragon (Zodiac sign is Cancer)

Race: Elf

Sexuality: Homosexual

Height: 5' 2"

Weight: 155 lb.

Languages: Common, Elvhen, and is learning Orlesian

Religion: He believes in the Dalish elven gods.

Family: He is from the Dalish clan Alerion, and his mother is named Eralia Alerion. His father left to live in the city of Denerim when Revas was 7. He has no siblings.


Appearance
: He has pointed ears, with green eyes, brown wavy hair, freckles, and green vallaslin. He is rather short compared to humans, but he assures himself he is of an average height for a Dalish elf. 

Eye Colour: Bright forest green

Hair Colour and style: His hair is golden-brown, wavy, and he lets it fall into his face in a messy hairstyle most of the time.

How old do they look?: Early twenties

Body Type: Short, but lithe and graceful

Skin Tone: He's white, but on the tan side from being in the sun so often

Defining Features (tattoos, scars, facial hair, birthmarks): He has green vallaslin representing Mythal on his face and body, and he has a scar on the right side of his neck around 3 inches long. Elves do not grow facial hair, so he has a smooth face. He has freckles covering his cheekbones and shoulders, as well as his ears partially. He also has a very faint Welsh accent.

Likes: Nature, talking with friends, dogs, music, flowers, respectful people, rainy weather, jewelry (especially earrings!), wood carvings, contemplation, etc.

Dislikes: Manipulative people, most humans, ignorance, large crowds (he prefers small groups of close friends), too much social interaction (he's introverted), yelling, stress, and routines.

Fears: Physical pain, certain types of insects (bees, wasps, crickets, centipedes, etc.), helplessness, abusive relationships, unrequited love, fire, and he is avoidant of conflict (ex: if someone is yelling at him really harshly, he'll try to zone out and stop engaging or even walk away)

Hobbies: Woodcarving, practicing archery, drawing (he's trying to get better!), playing instruments (he plays the lute), gardening, birdwatching, and he collects rocks, flowers, and feathers.

Habits: He stutters sometimes, he picks at his lip, plays with his hair, and if he is wearing jewelry, will fidget a bunch with it. Overall, he is always doing something with his hands. He often touches his face, such as resting his head on his hand, covering his mouth, or rubbing his chin. He zones out a lot, and won't always respond when you call him. He gets distracted easily, but if talking about something he enjoys or to someone he likes, he will never stop talking. He also likes sitting on counters, and he can and will sit in a chair in the most ludicrous position you've ever seen. He also will be very affectionate with the ones he truly trusts, laying on top of them or headbutting them the way a cat does.

Strengths/Virtues:
 He is very intelligent and constantly wants to learn more. He is loyal and affectionate to the ones he loves, and is very empathetic. He is also very understanding.

Weaknesses/Flaws: When he is wronged, he does not forget or forgive quickly, if ever. He struggles with maintaining a positive self-image, and can be a people pleaser. He often falls in love with people who don't love him back, and he feels emotions very strongly. He is distrusting and even hateful of humans, even though the logical side of him knows not all of them are evil. 

 
Dreams/Goals: He wants to find his father eventually, if he's even alive still. He wants to enact revenge on the humans who tried to destroy his clan. He wants to find a group of friends who will support him through anything, and he hopes that someday he'll find a lover who will love him and trust him as strongly as he loves and trusts them.

Class: Rogue

Specialization: Ranger

Relationship status: Taken (Depends, sometimes he portrayed as being with Dorian, other times he’s portrayed as being with someone else’s oc named Rilas Lavellan)

Romanceable: No 

Background: He was born in 9:17 Dragon, and was raised by his mother and father. At the age of 6, a large group of human hunters and farmers had banded together and lit the clan's camp on fire and killed their halla in an attempt to drive them off of their borders. Everyone managed to escape, but a teenage elf died of his burns a day later. He deeply distrusts and hates humans now, and is also fearful of fire. At the age of 7, his father left his mother and his clan to move to Denerim. According to what Revas' mother has told him, his father left because he was a coward and didn't want to stay in the clan after the attack. He started training to be a hunter at the age of 10 years old, and was proficient with a bow. He tries very hard to follow the Vir Tanadhal, the Way of Three Trees, a Dalish philosophy taught to young hunters in the name of Andruil. At the age of 24, he was one of the best hunters in the clan, and decided to start traveling in an attempt to learn more about the world, and more about the history of the elves. He always had the intention of returning to his clan, but when things started going downhill in 9:42 Dragon, he decided to join the Inquisition so that he might better keep his clan safe from harm, and so that he could help people who needed it. He was very adverse to the idea of working with humans, but after a large amount of consideration, he decided that joining the Inquisition was the right thing to do.

Notes: He does have autism! However, he doesn't know that, and just thinks he's kinda weird. He doesn't hate humans just for what they did to his clan, he also hates them for everything they've done to elvenkind. He carries lots of resentment about Halamshiral and the Exalted March, as well as towards how elves are treated nowadays. He plans to return to his clan after this is all over, and tell them stories about what he learned and experienced.

[daroguecampaigndiary]

The Dalish Curse: Chapter Two

Disclaimer: If you plan on playing The Dalish Curse in your own group, be warned that this campaign diary is riddled with spoilers. This is the sixth installment of the campaign. Invisible Chains // Ashes to the Waking Sea

Read Chapter One here. 

As morning breaks, Man-Cheetah is ushered unceremoniously out of the inn by his companions. The Avvar warrior, in desperate need to relieve himself, crouches near a bush outside. Chuckling to himself, he lifts his rear to the window of their room, watching on as the party glances in disgust from above. 

“Excuse me, my good sir,” says a voice. “I am need of assistance.”

Man-Cheetah whirls around to face a dashing man in a seafarer’s garb; his accent is thick, possibly Antivan. Ignoring the state Man-Cheetah is in, the stranger continues. 

“I am looking for my wife - a raider, like myself. She was taken from me, you see. I heard that she may have wandered into Vintiver village. Have you seen a woman travelling alone through here?”

Still crouched, Man-Cheetah replies, “No, the woman we found is an elf. But I’m travelling with a group that might help you find her.”

“Then I’ll join you.”

The two venture back into the inn, where introductions are made. The new adventurer reveals himself as Captain James Rodolfo, a once-great Waking Sea Raider betrayed by his closest ally and separated from his wife, Captain Cressida de la Cruz. Unsure if she is still alive, he has been scouting half of Thedas searching for his beloved. By pledging his services to this mercenary band, he thinks, he may have the best chance of finding her. 

Eshara reminds the group of the urgent matter concerning her Dalish clan, and so the party follows the elf out of Vintiver. Dhara remains behind at the inn so as not to draw more attention to herself, though she seems especially sullen not to help Eshara’s people. 

As the group leaves the village, they overhear the villagers whispering; it’s some sort of trap, they say, and Eshara is the bait! 

Studiously ignoring their words, Eshara looks over her shoulder at the party. “It’s only two days’ travel on foot from here to reach the ruins.”

After travelling through the Dales most of the day, they come across the remains of the Dalish encampment, not far off the track in the forest. The elves’ aravels are circled around the remains of a campfire in a shallow pit, long since turned to cold ashes. The carcasses of at least one carthorse lies outside the circle of wagons, picked over by forest scavengers, and the wagons themselves (as well as the debris scattered around) show signs of a struggle. 

Darius and Solange spearhead a quick search of the camp, but they don’t seem to find much. Some of the wagons show signs of being broken into, smashed or kicked in. Hoof prints show that most of the carthorses ran off at some point, probably panicked by the attack. 

By the time the group finishes their search, night begins to fall. As shadows darken toward night, a faint, wheezing and mocking laughter seems to drift out of the trees. All of the adventurers seem to suffer from their own unnatural fear, ill-equipped against the laughter. 

“Revengers!” Eshara shouts, reaching for her blade. 

The chuckling gets louder as jackal-like creatures surround the party before bursting from the shadows in an attack. Darius, startled, flings his hands forward, shooting a barrage of flame at the revengers. The rest of the party quickly joins in battle. 

The fight is ferocious, but swift. After besting more than half of the revengers, those remaining flee into the forest. While they catch their breath, Solange bends forward to examine the fallen foes. In death, the revengers revert back their original forms: the missing Dalish, normal elves bearing the same wounds as the slain darkspawn. Eshara drops to her knees, crestfallen. 

Despite the terror of the forest, the party agrees to stay at the Dalish camp for the night. They endure a fitful sleep. 

The next day, they come to a massive tree that has fallen across a deep chasm, forming a natural bridge to the far side. The chasm appears to be nearly a hundred feet deep, with a river rushing across tumbled rocks below. There is no way to get around this chasm, not for miles. And to make matters worse, a flock of bloodcrows, forest creatures corrupted by the abomination Mythallen, hover above. 

The party nervously idles. Darius is the first brave enough to cross, indeed overly confident. Taking not even two steps, he slips and falls from the trunk, a terrified shriek escaping him; he manages to hang on to a thin branch by one hand, but even that threatens to snap, sending him to his death. 

James dashes forward to help, heaving the shaken mage from his certain end. Darius manages a nod in thanks. 

So the party regroups, strategizing the best way across. Man-Cheetah and Solange realize they have rope from their last visit to the shops; the group agrees to tie one rope to the brave soul willing to cross, with Solange holding the other end. James, the only one with a ranged weapon, decides to fend off the bloodcrows. 

Man-Cheetah and Darius make their way across the bridge with Eshara. With each slip, with each near-death, they strengthen their resolve, most of all Solange. From her position at the start of the path, her arms bulge with the effort of keeping her comrades alive. Even her veins, normally far below the skin’s surface, lace her neck and forearms, her face growing redder with each passing moment. 

From his vantage point, James tries his hardest to pick off as many bloodcrows as he can manage. After a time, he grows frustrated with his lack of solid kills, but maintains focus for the sake of the party’s survival. Darius, now safely on the other side of the chasm, takes over the task so that James can cross. 

Lastly, breathing like a hearty bull, Solange strides across the fallen tree to join the rest of the group. 

A much darker energy washes through the adventurers, coming to fully realize the grave danger they face. They can only take a few moments to rest, however, as Eshara reminds them that her people’s time is running out. 

So the party makes its way down into a narrow valley, at the far end of which is the ruins of what looks to be an ancient stone keep. Only the floor is intact, and it’s lacking a roof and largely filled with rubble, some of which has been cleared away to reveal a stone staircase leading down. 

They move down the stairs into the basement of the ancient keep. Smashed furniture and broken, decaying weapons litter the floor. There was a battle here long ago, that much is clear. In the darkness they can just make out the bones of the dead, but they do not rest quietly. Skeletons stare at the trespassers, their sockets empty but their hate palpable. The keep has guardians still.

The heroes leap into battle, exhausted from their trials. Despite their fatigue, they fight bitterly, dodging the skeleton’s spears and the arrows from one’s longbow. 

Exasperated, Solange screams, “Who put you on this planet?!” as she dispatches one of the skeletons, heaving her mighty sword down upon it with a “Huh!” 

At the end of the battle, the group hears cries coming from down one corridor off the main chamber, in both the trade tongue and elvhen. 

They quickly begin searching for a way to reach them, Eshara most passionately. They find a door that leads deeper into the keep; Man-Cheetah approaches without caution, finding a tripwire in his haste. A rusty dagger falls and scrapes him horribly. Darius handles the trap, shaking his head in disappointment at the obvious misstep. 

The corridor beyond leads to the rest of the keep’s basement. The group tries a door on the right side of the corridor, but finds them to be empty and ruined, their original functions indiscernible in the wreckage. 

The cries come again, this time more clearly on the other side of the corridor. They try a door to the left, finding the keep’s dungeon. Behind its ancient bars are the remaining members of Eshara’s clan, mainly women and children, and those able to resist transformation into revengers. The imprisoned elves are tired, dirty, hungry, and frightened.

“Keeper Orellis!” Eshara says, rushing forward to an elf in the most elaborate robes, similar to Dhara’s. His hair is silvery white, and his face is beginning to show lines and wrinkles that would, in a human, be the signs of middle age. Still, he appears to be the eldest in the clan. He, alongside the others, wears a vallaslin upon his cheekbones and forehead, a web of winding branches. 

Upon seeing Eshara, the clan warms to the group immediately, reaching their hands out to their lost lethalin and the adventurers alike. Man-Cheetah and Darius work to open the prison doors while Solange asks the Keeper about what has happened to them. 

“Mythallen and his remaining darkspawn left the ruins just hours before you all arrived here, vowing to bring a terrible vengeance upon the humans of Vintiver,” the clan leader explains, his voice grave. “You must know the abomination’s true identity. We know him as Harralan, a skilled hunter and tracker of our clan. Yet Harralan has a great temper and a certain amount of arrogance about his abilities; he yearns for the time when elves were a greater society than we are now. I do not know how, but when I sent Harralan into these forests to cool his anger, he was transformed, taking one half of our Mother Mythal’s name to become Mythallen... a child of vengeance.”

“We must reach him in time,” Eshara says quietly. 

“Wait,” says an elf, a young man with a bow strapped to his back. He steps forward.

“Lirresh?” the Keeper allows. 

“I know a more direct route back to the village. It’s not one Mythallen likely used. If you’re willing to risk the hazards of the forest to get back in time, I can guide you.” 

As the group looks around at what remains of Eshara’s clan, they realize that a battle with Mythallen might require more than the help of one Dalish hunter. 

Solage steps forward. “Who among you is willing to help us save your people, and the people of Vintiver?”

“Aye!” Man-Cheetah pounds a fist to his chest. “Who will join us?”

Some exchange glances. The last of the able-bodied hunters, two young elves, join Lirresh’s side. 

“I will help my people out of this keep,” Orellis says. “Eshara, go with them. Dareth shiral, da’len.” 

Just before the party makes to leave, James takes Orellis aside. 

“Have you seen a human woman travelling alone in these forests? I’m looking for my wife.”

The Keeper places his hands solemnly over the man’s own. “I am sorry, dear shemlen. My clan and I have been preoccupied with Mythallen and our own safety. I have not seen your wife; but I wish you luck in all battles ahead. Dareth shiral.” 

Meanwhile, Darius casts a glance at the end of the corridor, feeling an odd pull towards one last chamber. He, Solange, and Man-Cheetah make their way to it, a small, circular chamber with an arcane circle inscribed in its floor. 

“This must be where Eshara took the link,” Solange says. 

A strange light emanates from Darius’s garb, where the link rests in his pocket. He feels it briefly spark with power. 

The three look between one another, confused, without a word.

So the party takes their leave of Eshara’s clan. Lirresh leads them from the keep, past the chasm - where the bloodcrows are too thinned to attack. He strikes out into the deep forest, off the main trails, as night begins to fall once again. The deepening twilight lends a sense of menace to the looming trees and the trail is only barely visible from some ancient, cracked cobblestones hidden beneath the undergrowth and moss. 

Suddenly, a few of the adventurers stumble into  a giant web stretched between the trees, nearly invisible in the dark; the web’s strands are sticky, and those stuck realize that they are unable to move. Those unstuck quickly brace for whatever created the web.

A giant spider, likewise corrupted by Mythallen’s presence, attack the prey stuck in its web, scuttling down the strands, eager to feast on such large creatures. 

With the hunters’ help, the party manages to grapple free of the web and face the spider. The arachnid fights fiercely, extending its poisonous fangs to the horribly exhausted group of fighters. But, at long last and with nearly-fatal results, the party dispatches the creature. 

Yet, the group can’t help but notice it’s body begin to quiver, as if still alive...