#I’m praying that’s the correct elf

[autumnsoldier13]

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

[queenstarlight2]

Lindir and a modern human who thought his name was Lindor like the chocolate for awhile until someone had to tell her she was saying his name wrong 😂

Let's put our listening ears on

word count: 1,035

The morning sun spilled golden light across Rivendell, painting the dew-kissed leaves in shimmering hues. Birds trilled from the treetops, and the cool, sweet air carried with it the fragrance of blossoming wildflowers. You found yourself wandering the grand halls of Elrond’s haven once more, marveling at the beauty that felt as surreal as a dream.

You were adjusting well, or so you liked to believe. Even if waking up in Middle-earth had initially been a shock, Rivendell’s serene beauty and the Elves’ gentle, albeit occasionally amused, company had helped you settle in. It didn’t hurt that Lindir, one of the more graceful and composed Elves, often accompanied you on your walks.

Today was no different. You found Lindir waiting by one of the many bridges that arched over Rivendell’s rivers, his silver hair catching the light, and his expression, as always, a careful mask of tranquility. You greeted him with a wave and an enthusiastic grin.

“Good morning, Lindor!” you called out cheerfully.

His serene expression twitched ever so slightly, but his smile remained. “Good morning to you as well,” he replied, his voice smooth as the river’s song.

The name—Lindor—had become something of a pet nickname. You knew it was a slight mispronunciation of his actual name, but somehow, it had stuck, and Lindir never corrected you. You didn’t think too deeply about it, assuming it was either not important enough to mention or perhaps he found it endearing. Besides, in a place so removed from your world, it was nice to have something familiar, even if it was just a name that reminded you of chocolates.

Together, you wandered down a path that led to a sun-dappled grove, your conversation meandering as effortlessly as the river beside you. Lindir asked questions about your world, his curiosity polite but genuine. You had spoken of cities and cars, of libraries full of books and kitchens full of foods the Elves had never imagined, but somehow, chocolate had yet to come up.

“You know,” you said, looking up at him, “it’s funny how you Elves don’t seem to get tired. If I didn’t have chocolate in my world, I don’t think I’d have survived college.”

Lindir’s brow furrowed slightly. “Chocolate?” he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. “What is that?”

You blinked. “Wait, really? You don’t have chocolate?”

Before Lindir could respond, another Elf, taller and with a more severe demeanor, approached. It was Erestor, one of Elrond’s advisors and librarian. He paused, eyeing you both with his typical scrutinizing expression, which always made you feel slightly like a wayward child.

“Ah, My lady, Master Lindir,” Erestor greeted, though his gaze lingered on you. “Forgive me, but I have overheard something quite peculiar these past weeks.”

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. “Oh? What’s that?”

Erestor’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you felt the weight of an Elven stare that seemed capable of seeing straight through you. “The name by which you address Master Lindir,” he said, his voice precise, “is incorrect. It is not ‘Lindor,’ but Lindir.”

Your cheeks flushed with sudden embarrassment. “Oh no,” you said, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. “I’m so sorry! Why didn’t you say anything, Lindir?”

Lindir, who looked both amused and faintly embarrassed, shook his head lightly. “I did not wish to embarrass you,” he admitted, a gentle smile gracing his lips. “Besides, you seemed to find some joy in calling me by that name. I did not think it harmful.”

Erestor, however, looked as though he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “And what, pray tell, is this Lindor you have been referring to?”

You couldn’t help but giggle, though you tried to stifle it. “Well, it’s a type of chocolate in my world. A really fancy, melt-in-your-mouth kind of chocolate. The best, really.���

Lindir and Erestor exchanged a look, one of deep Elven confusion, and it only made your laughter harder to contain.

“Chocolate,” Lindir mused, as if tasting the word again might give him insight. “You must explain this… delicacy.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, excitement bubbling up at the prospect. “Chocolate is, like, this heavenly, creamy food made from cacao beans, and you can make it into all kinds of things—bars, drinks, desserts. And Lindor chocolates are these little round truffles with a silky filling that just melts when you eat it.”

The Elves stared at you, their expressions frozen somewhere between polite interest and utter incomprehension. Finally, Erestor shook his head, his long hair swaying with the movement. “Your world sounds increasingly bizarre, My Lady,” he declared.

You grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess it is. But seriously, I owe you an apology, Lindir. I’ll get your name right from now on.”

Lindir’s eyes softened, and he placed a hand on your shoulder. “No harm done,” he said gently. “If it is any consolation, the way you say it has a certain charm. But I am pleased to know the story behind this… Lindor chocolate.”

You couldn’t help but smile up at him. “Thanks for being so understanding.”

Erestor looked between the two of you, sighed as though resigning himself to the strangeness that came with having a human guest, and excused himself, muttering something about the peculiarity of mortals. You and Lindir watched him go, and once he was out of earshot, you both burst into laughter.

“He must think I’m hopeless,” you said, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye.

Lindir’s laughter faded into a fond smile. “I think he finds you… perplexing, but in a way that makes this world feel a bit more lively,” he said. “As do I.”

You felt warmth bloom in your chest, and for a moment, the beauty of Rivendell seemed brighter, more vibrant. “Thank you,” you said, feeling a bit shy. “I guess I’ll have to introduce chocolate to Middle-earth one day, won’t I?”

Lindir’s eyes lit up with a playful glint. “I look forward to it,” he replied, “if only to finally understand what could be worthy of my accidental namesake.”

And with that, you continued your walk together, the morning light gilding the leaves, and a new promise of sweet surprises hanging in the air between you.

[ellekhen]

Hand, Hearth, and Home

Chapter 65 - A Sanguine Song

Chapter Summary: At last, the time has come to investigate the Grand Thorm Mausoleum and the secrets that lie within. However, a certain devil takes the opportunity to approach Church and Astarion with a deal they can't refuse. Secrets are revealed, but with that clarity comes consequence.

Pairing(s): Astarion x Male Tav (Main); Past OC x Male Tav Rating: Explicit Length: 340K+ words; Chapters 65/?? (Master Post)

Excerpt below:

Despite being in an ancient, foreboding temple, camp at least feels safe. Church hopes Withers won’t decide to lapse in his protection now of all times as the skeleton stands ever-present at the perimeter. Wryly, the warlock wonders if their guardian is enjoying a bit of relative peace and quiet away from his young charge. Last Church saw, Arabella was back at the inn introducing Thaniel and Oliver to the other tiefling children. They seemed to be having a good time, all things considered.

He can’t quite say the same for themselves. Astarion has barely let him out of his sight amid the ruins, and Church isn’t inclined to do the same. He can barely eat due to his nerves. 

Where the hells is Raphael?

Church knows Astarion is thinking the same thing when he finds the elf in a more remote corner of the ruins.

“Hey,” Church murmurs as he sits beside him upon the crackled marble stairs. The tiefling tilts his head, smiling softly as he offers up his neck in invitation. “Liquid bravery?”

To his surprise, however, Astarion looks almost nauseous.

“I must decline,” he says, far too politely.

“Oh! Of course,” Church says, taken aback as he lets go of his collar. “Something wrong?”

“Where the hells is he?” Astarion grumbles.

“I mean, besides that,” Church says hastily. “What was that look about just now?”

Astarion stews in silence for a long moment.

“Look. If you must know, I haven’t been able to… stomach the idea of feeding upon you ever since… then,” Astarion admits, stilted. 

Church winces. “Oh. Gods, I didn’t even consider that…”

“I’m sure you still taste wonderful,” Astarion says reassuringly. “But when I meditate, all I can see is your bloodied throat and your… beautiful, dead face. Those empty, glassy eyes. And…” 

His voice breaks as he speaks. 

“...I felt your life leave your body, darling. Even in that dazed, feral state. Even though you were revived and fine soon afterwards… you have no idea, do you? No, you wouldn’t have known, being dead and all,” he corrects himself quickly. “I was there for what felt like ages, listening for your heartbeat, begging for you to stop your nonsense and wake up.”

Church’s mouth is dry. “Astarion…”

“I… prayed, you damned fool! To any fucking deity that could reach that forsaken plane. Even to the Raven Queen herself, even to Shar. I thought maybe—”

“—perhaps you shouldn’t have looked to the heavens, little vampling, and instead looked to the hells.”

Church and Astarion leap up as Raphael emerges from a fiery seam in the air, a swagger in his step as he approaches them with that stupid, smug smile.

“What the hells is going on?” Karlach calls into their minds, and Church can hear the clatter of her dropping everything to race over.

“Stop! Stay where you are!” Church orders all of them. “Give us some privacy, alright?”

“What are you doing?” Wyll asks in dismay. “Please, don't tell me that you’re making another deal?”

“This deal is already done,” Astarion tells him flatly. “Now stay. Away.”

Raphael watches them in amusement. 

“Discontentment in the camp, I see,” he chuckles. “No matter. I won’t be long.” He raises an eyebrow knowingly at Astarion and Church’s resentful expressions. “Oh my, did I intrude on something private? Do forgive me, I was under the impression you wanted answers as soon as possible.”

“Well we’re all here, aren’t we?” Astarion says blithely, even though his body and smile is tense. “Do go on.”

Raphael examines his nails.

“Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?” he asks conversationally. “It returns to the hells — to the very point where it last stood before venturing to whichever devil-forsaken plane it died on. In the case of our friend Yurgir, the orthon you so handily dispatched here in the temple of Shar manifested in my House of Hope.

“He returned to me chastened but intact, his wounds healed, his body restored. He thought I would dismember him…” he chuckles. “...but he has his uses. So instead, I am reeducating him.”

“Lovely. Look, we delivered the devil,” Astarion cuts in impatiently. “Now I want what I’m owed.” He raises his chin imperiously. “We had a deal.”

“Indeed we did,” Raphael smiles. “I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours; it’s a rather grim tale, even for my tastes.”

“Stop stalling,” Church says flatly.

“As you wish,” Raphael drawls. “Brace yourself, Astarion — we’re about to unveil your destiny.”

He eyes the two of them. “You may want to sit.”

“We’ll stand, thanks,” Church replies curtly.

“Very well,” Raphael shrugs, and with a snap of fingers he conjures up an ostentatious armchair upon which he drapes himself languidly. 

“As you know already, your precious skin is home to one part of a contract between the archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master, Cazador Szarr. In full, the contract states that Cazador will be granted knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed — The Rite of Profane Ascension. It promises to be a marvelous ceremony. Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical.

“If he completes the rite, he will become a new kind of being — the Vampire Ascendant. All the strengths of his vampiric form will be amplified, and alongside them he will enjoy the luxuries of the living. The arousals and appetites of man will return to him, and unlike Astarion, he will have no need of a parasite to protect him from the sun.”

Church feels a throb of emotion from Astarion through their tadpoles.

Envy.  

“But the ritual has its price, as all worthwhile things do,” Raphael flourishes a hand towards Astarion. “Lord Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his vampiric spawn, if he is to ascend.”

Church can’t help but drift instinctively closer towards Astarion’s side.

“Imagine how he felt, then, when one of those precious spawn simply disappeared into thin air,” Raphael continues, watching in amusement. “The only missing ingredient is Astarion. You are the final piece he requires to complete the ritual — your scars bind you to it. Your soul will set off a very wave of death, bringing Cazador his twisted life.”

Is Astarion… trembling? 

“And that, my tragic and toothsome friend, is that,” Raphael concludes with a flourish. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere.”   

He snaps his fingers and burns away into a wisp of smoke — chair and all.

The Raven Queen breaks her silence. 

“A ritual most foul,” she whispers into Church’s mind. “An undead tyrant, ascending, evolving into a beast beyond measure… you mustn’t let this happen, little bird.”

Church gulps. 

The only missing ingredient is Astarion.

Not if Church has anything to say about it.

Astarion’s shoulders sag slightly as he relaxes, turning towards Church with an unreadable, preoccupied look upon his face.

“Hmm…” he frowns.

“You’re not going back to Cazador,” Church says softly, his mind racing with possibilities. “I won’t let him…”

“Do you think it’s so simple?” Astarion snaps scornfully. 

“It’s never been simple!” Church retorts. “But I know you’ll never be truly free while he lives.”

Astarion grimaces.

“I hate how right you are,” he growls. “I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone even when I was just another wretched toy for him to play with. But if I’m key to this power he craves, he’ll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn.”

He scoffs. “A ‘Vampire Ascendant.’ As if he needed another reason to be the pretentious bastard that he is… but if he can walk in the sun, imagine what other powers he could gain? Even as he is now, he can enthrall beyond those who are his spawn. He can enthrall even you. Just taking away the burn of the sun would make him unstoppable."

Astarion's expression turns pensive. "But if someone else were to steal that power from him…?” 

Church eyes his companion. “What are you saying?”

“He doesn’t deserve that power,” Astarion spits. “But don’t you think I’ve suffered enough? And if there’s a way to ensure my freedom, then I won’t need that tadpole at all. Then… I can protect what’s mine.” He gazes at Church, his eyes earnest and determined. “I can protect you. And you won’t need the Raven Queen or any patron, delightful shadowy powers aside.”

“How would that work though?” Church asks uneasily. “Did you not hear the part about sacrificing souls including yours and your siblings?”

“Yes, well, we don’t know the details of that now do we?” Astarion waves him away. “I’ll need to figure out exactly how I’m involved, but I wouldn’t lose any sleep over my siblings. They’re not good people either, darling. They hated me. They did terrible things to survive in Cazador’s name. As for the other souls, well…

“I’d let any number of nameless souls burn if it meant keeping us safe,” he concludes vehemently. 

Church looks at him in disbelief. “You can’t mean that.”

“Can’t I? I don’t expect you to understand,” Astarion scoffs. “I haven’t had anything ever since I crawled out of that grave. Nothing but shame and hunger… until you.”

He huffs before taking Church’s hand. “Can you blame me for wanting to fight to protect this? The barest possibility of living beside you in the sun, without fear?”

For all the ferocity of his words, his eyes are so, so soft. Despite the squirm of his stomach, Church can’t help but feel… thrilled?  

No one — not even Tavi — had ever made such a declaration as this. It is likely the elf’s emotional hyperbole in the moment, but all the same, Church’s heart soars. 

“I’m touched,” he murmurs. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, alright? We don’t know how many souls or whatever devilish stipulations Raphael conveniently neglected to name. And there’s the matter of getting Cazador out of the way too, of course.”

"Indeed," Astarion chuckles. “It’s all wishful thinking while we’re in this tomb.”

He ponders to himself, resolution manifesting upon his face. “Either way, I need to take the fight to him.” He looks up at Church. “And I need you to help me, darling.”

Church squeezes his hand back. “Of course I’ll help. Whatever it takes. We’ll hunt him down and kill him.”

Astarion nods, before pressing a firm kiss to Church’s lips — as if to seal a pact of their own. 

“Thank you,” Astarion murmurs, eyes blazing with determination.

[cavernfullofexistentialdread]

WHY THE FUCK DOES CHASCA HAVE THOSE SPECIFIC ELF EARS WHAT

Okay so we know Iansan has similar elf ears to Klee, so that’s an established elf ear shape. SO WHY DOES CHASCA’S LOOK LIKE THAT??? HELLO??? THIS ISN’T JUST THE ZOOM BY THE WAY. As she turns the elf ear shape stays the same. The only people I can think of off the top of my who also has pointy ears that don’t look similar to Klee’s species is a fucking Dragon Sovereign, The Dendro Archon, and Layla. AND THEIR NOT EVEN THAT SIMILAR TO CHASCA’S?.?

HOPING BEGGING PRAYING THAT SOMEONE CAN CORRECT ME AND THAT I’M WRONG, BECAUSE WHAT DOES THIS MEAN

[givemeweasley]

First Things First pt. 3

Fred Weasley x Reader

Warnings: angst to fluff no worries only happy endings here (this is also the last part)

Word Count: 5.9k

A/N: Thank you so much for reading this! I put a lot of research into it even for smaller details about Ilvermorny or even the Gryffindor password to make sure it was all correct. Also for the last section I listened to Heart by Sleeping At Last (highly recommend)! Please let me know what you thought and I’m also taking requests :)

First Things First pt. 1, First Things First pt. 2

-----

You remembered the first time you made up-

You were miserable. There was no easy way to put it. In the week leading up to the ball you’d been eating your meals in the kitchens, studying for next semester in the kitchens, really just spending every free second in the kitchens since classes had finished. And sitting alone. Even herbology. You’d made a point to quietly sit on the other side of the classroom and not look at him even in the slightest.

The week leading up to the ball felt like a year. It only seemed longer when you overheard the house elves talking about who was going with who.

“I heard Mr.Potter is going with that Ms.Patil.” One of them whispered.

“Parvati or Padma?”

“Parvati.”

The whispering continued until one name caught your attention. You didn’t dare glance up, you could feel the house elves lower their voices and glance at you.

“The eldest Weasley twin is going with,” their voices lowered even more. You leaned forward a fraction, tilting your head in their direction. “Angelina Johnson.”

“They’ll be a right handsome couple.”

At that comment you heard a few house elves immediately fuss and shush the house elf who said it, but it was too late. You’d already heard. They were right. For what seemed like the millionth time in that week, your eyes welled up with tears.

Godric. You were so tired of crying. So tired of feeling guilty and angry at the same time. So tired of missing your friends.

You hated England. You hated Hogwarts. You hated these stupid kitchens and these stupid dungeons. You hated Yule balls especially. How simple everything would’ve been if the ball hadn't existed.

Maybe you could’ve spent your life pretending you never kissed him.

But you knew better. The kiss was never far from the front of your mind. Even if the memory now only brought pain.

Fred was right. You could’ve asked him. Why didn’t you?

You buried your head in your hands uncontrollably sobbing. You called him a coward. The only coward between the two of you, was you. He was better off with Angelina. She was incredible and they had so much in common. You could already see their wedding in your head.

It only made you cry more.

“Look what you did!” You vaguely heard one of the house elves whisper angrily. There was some shuffling around and pots clattering about before you felt the tap of a long finger against your elbow.

“Ms.Y/L/N?”

You looked down to see Jippy. His ears were flopped over, his wide eyes looking up at you kindly with a blue box in his hands. A white bow wrapped around it.

You unfurled yourself from the seat, your limbs achy and in desperate need of a stretch. “What’s this?” You asked taking the box from Jippys hands.

He nervously glanced back at the house elves behind him. They were all smiling broadly looking from the present in your hands to your face. Finally, he seemed to build up enough courage to say what he needed.

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N, we all noticed you’ve spent your entire week in here and-”

“Oh I’m so sorry!” You grimaced. They had probably needed alone time from humans and you’d done nothing but intrude on their continued generosity.

“No! No! That’s not it at all! We just knew that you hadn’t gone out to Hogsmeade to pick out a dress so we wanted to do something for you.” Jippy said, twisting his foot on the floor. But his smile widened as he glanced at the present. “Happy Christmas.”

The tears already in your eyes spilled down your cheeks. You had completely forgotten about purchasing a dress for the ball. Hastily, you wiped the tears from your cheeks before pulling the ribbon gently off the box. You lifted the blue lid.

Inside was the most stunning fabric you’d ever seen. It glittered silver reflecting off every light in the room. You gripped the shoulders of the gown and lifted to see the entirety of it.

Jippy poked his head into your field of vision. “Do you like it?”

As gently as possible, you folded the gown back into the box. You made a point to look at every single house elf in the room. “I love it. Thank you.”

Cheers rang out through the kitchens. For the first time in weeks, you laughed. Heartily. Until, you realized what Jippy said. You whipped your head to him.

“Christmas?”

Jippy froze, furrowing his brow. “Yes ma’am. It’s Christmas.”

Your eyes widened before lifting them to the grand clock on the wall.

7:03

You leapt up out of the chair causing Jippy to startle backwards. You reached your hand out to steady him before him fell. “I’ve gotta go! Adrians coming to get me at 7:45! Thanks again you guys!” You yelled over your shoulder, box in hand as you ran to the portrait.

Shouts of ‘good luck’ and ‘Happy Christmas’ rang out over your shoulder as the portrait shut behind you. Without thinking, you barreled towards the staircase hauling ass to Gryffindor tower. You were on the bottom floor, Gryffindor tower on the seventh. It would take you at least ten minutes to get there. Still, you ran up the stairs no matter how much your legs ached. You’d be damned if the beautiful dress in the box went to waste.

Finally, you halted to a stop in front of the Fat Lady. “Balderdash!” You huffed out, still catching your breath.

“Running from something, dear?” The Fat Lady asked as she swung open.

You didn’t take the time to answer. You shot into the common room and up the stairs trying not to notice several people lounging around already dressed for the ball. You did however slow enough to check the time on the clock over the mantlepiece.

7:16

Shit. Using the banister as leverage, you half pulled half leapt your way up the stairs to the girls dormitory. Not even bothering to head to your dorm, you swept into the nearest empty bathroom. Clothes came off your body faster than they ever had before. You wasted not a moment before hopping in the shower. If life had seemed slow these past weeks, it seemed to be catching up with you in the span of ten minutes.

Jumping out of the shower, you toweled off and threw your hair into the towel swinging it atop your head. You wrapped another towel around your body and grabbed your clothes and the blue box that was sitting safely on the counter.

You ducked into your dorm throwing your old clothes onto your dresser and gently sitting the box on your bed. Angelina and Alicia were nowhere to be seen. It made your heart hurt worse than you anticipated, therefore you tried to ignore it.

You threw on your undergarments and with a drying spell, dried your hair. With a few quick succinct movements and charms your hair was done. You examined your work in the mirror with satisfaction. Your hair fell perfectly around your face, a few well placed spells had made it seem like tiny stars were intertwined within it. You then brushed on some mascara and lipgloss, rubbing your lips together a few times.

Finally, you turned to the blue box still sitting peacefully on your bed. You lifted the cover once more, the dress looking even more beautiful at second glance.

Your fingers gripped the shoulders, pulling the entirety of the dress from the box. It glided along the edges before the bottom of the gown hit the floor. Trying not to stare at it too long, knowing you had limited time, you walked to the mirror and slipped into the shimmering gown.

The only thing about being alone meant you had to perform a summoning charm to pull the zipped from the bottom of the dress and into your hand which rested at the top of the track.

But the dress fit you perfectly. The transparent glittering sleeves continued down to your wrists. The neck dipped softly down your chest, not revealing too much but enough to compliment your skin tone. The waist cinched in just the right spot before softly flaring out. The material moved like water as you twisted. It brushed the floor gently before pooling at your feet. You looked more beautiful than you remembered ever looking.

Shaking your head, you checked the clock behind you.

7:45

Quickly, you pulled on a pair of black heels before taking one last glance at the mirror. As beautiful as you looked, something was missing.

You glanced at your dresser before grabbing it. You pulled it over your head doing your best not to mess up your hair and then tucked the pendant in the bodice of your gown. The fireworks heating up the valley of your chest.

You carefully made your way down the steps of the dorm, focused on the steps before you. It was rare you wore heels and you weren’t quite perfect at walking in them. You gripped the banister tightly praying you wouldn’t fall. So when your heel finally hit the floor of the common room, you let out a breath.

The common room was empty except for a few of the younger Gryffindors who weren’t allowed to go to the ball. You tried to ignore the few gasps and looks you felt as you crossed the room to the portrait.

You pushed it open half expecting the corridor to be empty. That you had accepted Adrian over Fred just to be stood up. It would serve you right.

But Adrian was standing there in his dress robes, leaning against the opposite wall of the portrait.

You stepped towards him, the lights of the hall dancing off your dress and the glitter in your hair. “You know I never asked how you knew where the Gryffindor dorms were.” You spoke up causing him to look up from where he was pulling at a string on his robes.

Adrian jerked to a standing. “You look beautiful.”

You are magnificent. Breathtakingly beautiful.

You blinked and Fred was gone. “Thank you.”

Adrian stepped forward, offering his arm. “Shall we, milady?”

A small laugh left your lips. “We shall.”

The walk to the Great Hall was pleasant. Adrian was a gentleman who asked all about your classes and what you got for Christmas. His arm was also a blessing considering the several flights of stairs you had to descend to get to the Great Hall. But he was slow, making sure to assist you when you needed.

The Great Hall was stunning. Barely recognizable. The walls glittered with ice and sculptures. Lights were floating around that looked like snowflakes. There were tables scattered around with frozen centerpieces. Some were flowers, others were elaborate carvings. There was music quietly playing while students shuffled into the fold. Adrian led you to a table that was typically on the Slytherin side of the Great Hall. He pulled out your chair for you and you graciously sat.

Adrian sat beside you and smiled widely. The room was stunning. Your eyes were bouncing from wall to wall, decoration to decoration, trying to absorb every inch of the beauty. You felt starstruck.

And then Draco Malfoy sat next to you. Followed by Pansy Parkinson. Your shoulders tensed as Draco smiled evilly.

“Well isn’t this a treat?” He said smiling broadly, looking you over. He leaned in close til his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “You look simply ravishing.” He pulled back smirking.

“Leave her alone, Malfoy.” Adrian rolled his eyes after taking a sip of his pumpkin juice. “Not tonight.” It was then that Lucian Bole and his date Patricia Stimpson sat down. It was at that moment you realized you were a Gryffindor sitting at a completely Slytherin table. You tried not to show a sliver of fear. You had a feeling they could sense it like blood in the water.

“So you actually got the American Gryffindor to come with you, Pucey.” Bole leaned back in his chair smirking, throwing an arm around the back of Patricia’s chair.

“I did.” Adrian smiled back at him.

You leaned forward trying to reign in your slowly building irritation. “My name is Y/N.” A tight smile lifted your lips.

Bole shrugged. “I know.”

“I think it’s a rather ugly name if you ask me.” Pansy spoke up. You were surprised it had taken her that long to insert herself in the conversation.

“Good thing nobody-”

“I think Dumbledore’s about to announce dinner!” Adrian spoke up over you. You glared at him, but he was already looking over at Dumbledore.

“He agrees with me, you know.” Pansy whispered just loud enough for you and Draco, who was sitting between you, to hear. You tried not to think about how much you wanted to smother her.

Draco smirked widely looking at your fuming face. You sucked in a breath, relaxing yourself. Your hand subconsciously reached for the pendant at your chest, still hidden by your gown. It calmed you just a fraction before you turned to face Dumbledore. Maybe if you ignored them they would be quiet.

You’d tuned in just in time for Dumbledore to announce dinner and how to get food to your plate. You put in your order and waited only a second before it appeared on the plate.

You desperately tried to eat your food in peace, but all you could hear was the sly snickers of Pansy and Draco paired with the constant Quidditch talk from Bole and Adrian. You had briefly attempted conversation with Patricia, but she gave you a disgusted once over before turning back to her food. If that hadn’t been a clear message about how she felt about a Gryffindor being at a Slytherin table, you weren’t sure what would.

You just picked at your food while watching the lights float around trying not to glance at the flashes of red you saw throughout the hall. You wondered what Angelina was wearing. What Fred was wearing. If they’d coordinated. If he’d held her hand while they descended the stairs. If he caught her when she stumbled. Maybe even kissed her because he couldn’t help it, she just looked so beautiful.

Breathtakingly beautiful.

“What did your plate do to you, Y/L/N?” Draco laughed loudly. You furrowed your eyebrows before seeing the knife in your hand completely stuck through the plate. You let go of the knife, pushing the broken plate and knife away from you. You felt a blush rise up to your cheeks unwillingly.

You pushed your chair back, turning to Adrian.

“I’m going to go use the bathroom. I’ll be back.” Adrian vaguely nodded continuing his conversation with Bole about the potential of increasing the weight of bludgers. You rolled your eyes as you stood and walked away.

“Awh, poor American mudblood probably peed herself too.” Pansy snickered from behind you.

Frustration built in your chest. This night, one that so long ago you were dreaming about, was turning out to be the most miserable you’d spent at Hogwarts yet.

You slipped out the doors of the Great Hall making your way to the furthest bathroom on the first floor hoping the walk would give you a minute to breathe. You shoved the bathroom door open angrily hearing it fall shut behind you.

Your hands gripped the edges of the sink as you stared into the mirror. Your mascara still looked pristine. Your lipgloss was still perfect. Your hair still spun up with the glitter still sparkling. You looked great.

So why did you feel so awful?

Enough with the pity party. Go out there and enjoy the dance, if only to show off the dress the house elves made you.

You shook your head and once again pressed your hand to the pendant still situated warmly against your chest.

Your heart ached for him.

Pushing the bathroom door open, you took a deep breath. You didn’t, however, expect someone to be waiting for the bathroom.

“Oh I’m so-”

Fred.

He was leaning against the wall looking down at his shoes, until you spoke up. He was wearing his black dress robes with a nice white button down and a black tie tucked underneath a burnt orange vest. His eyes lifted as he stood up straight. His brown eyes seemed to stare straight into your soul.

You began to take a step towards him when you realized you hadn’t spoken since your fight. Your arms seemed to wrap themselves around you of their own accord. Your eyes fell away from his, unable to keep his strong gaze. You simply stepped out of the way of the door to the single stall bathroom.

“It’s-um let me get out of your way.” You mumbled beginning to pass him.

But the softest touch brushed your forearm. “Wait.” The word was whispered. “Please wait.”

You stopped but didn’t dare turn around. You didn’t have the courage too.

I’m the coward. You so desperately wanted to say.

“Y/N, I’m sorry.” The fingers still barely touching you began to curl around your wrist. Soft as a feather he pulled your wrist forcing you to turn to face him. You kept your eyes on the ground. The cobblestone underneath your feet had never been more interesting. “Please look at me.” His voice sounded desperate. But when you still didn’t comply his finger lifted to tilt your chin.

Finally your eyes met his. Tears in yours and pain in his.

“I’m sor-”

But your voice had finally found you. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Fred.” Your chest felt a fraction lighter at the release of the words that had been weighing on you for weeks. “You were right. I got mad at you for not doing something that I wasn’t even willing to do. That’s not fair.” Your voice choked. “You’re not the coward, I am.”

Fred's hand slid up to cup your cheek, and you couldn’t help but to lean into it. “We’re both cowards then.” His thumb brushed away a runaway tear. “I should’ve asked you. I should’ve brought up the kiss before Adrian asked you first. But I was scared that what happened in the Trophy Room was a result of you being vulnerable and needing comfort. That I had taken advantage of your hurting. I was scared to face the rejection that would’ve come if I asked you and you admitted that’s all it was.”

“Fred, do you want to know what the boggart said before you started to hear it?”

Fred furrowed his brows. “What does that have-”

“It told me that you- that it-  would never love me. That I wasn’t worthy of its affection.”

which was also the first time you said it.

“Fred, I’m so in love with you.” Your hands lifted to rest on his chest, gripping his shirt. “I have loved you since the day I was sitting at the breakfast table reading my letters from my friends and you suggested buying them gifts at Hogsmeade. I love every dumb joke you tell me in the middle of class when I’m trying to take notes.” One of your hands made your way to brush a bit of hair out of his face. “I love every smile you give me. I love every time you throw fruit at me at breakfast just to test my reflexes. I love the way you sing and dance when you’re drunk after a winning Quidditch match. I love you, Fred Weasley. All of you.”

Your heart was pounding. You had just spilled your soul out to him and more than anything you needed him to say something.

But he didn’t. Instead his fingers left your face and drifted down your neck. The trail of his touch sent shivers running through your body. Finally his touch rested on your collarbone.

“Fred?” You whispered desperately searching his eyes. But his gaze dropped down to your neck. Before you could say anything else, his fingers dipped underneath the chain resting on your neck. With a gentle tug, the necklace was slowly lifted from underneath your dress. His fingers slid down the chain until they clutched the pendant.

Fred softly cleared his throat.

“I saw this through the window of Gladrags Wizardwear. It was resting on the neck of a mannequin. I ran inside and asked to know how much it was despite probably being absurdly expensive and knowing me and George were saving for the shop. The clerk that day leaned down on the counter and asked me to go grab it. When I got back with it he asked me what I saw inside the pendant. I was confused but I told him I saw a Wampus running around within it.” Fred’s hand reached up tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He asked me who it was for and why I wanted it. So I told him it would be for you because your house at Ilvermorny was Wampus- and he cut me off. Said I could have it free of charge under one condition.”

“What was it?” You asked breathlessly.

“He told me to ask you what you saw. He said the necklace was like Amortentia but instead of smell it showed you something that reminds you of the person you love. Y/N, I love you. I think I loved you from the moment you doubted whether I was good at Quidditch. I can’t get you out of my head. Seeing you cry that night in the Trophy Room because of words you thought I was saying to you broke a piece of me. These last few weeks have been hell without you. I’m so mad for you, ‘Merica, that I can’t stand it.”

Then he kissed you.

It was just as amazing, if not better, than the last one.

Your lips pressed together as if they were never meant to be apart. You reached up, gripping the back of his neck pulling him closer. Fred’s arms wound their way around your waist tightening until your bodies were flush together. Every corner of your body was in tune with his. Every movement of your lips together felt like breathing again.

So much so that you almost forgot you had to. You pulled back sucking in the air. Both of you panting. You licked your lips tasting him. That thought alone almost sent your lips back onto his. He seemed to have the same thought as his mouth descended. But you stuck your hand between you, pressing against his mouth.

“Wait. I need to tell-” You panted. “I need to tell you what I see.” Your hand left his mouth as you reached between the two of you to grab the pendant. You lifted it to your eyes watching as the fireworks exploded before your eyes in the same shade of red as Fred's hair. You looked back up at him, a small smile on your face.

“I see fireworks, Fred.”

-----

Lastly, you remembered the first and last time you said I do.

You thought the NEWTs were stressful, they had nothing on the feeling rolling through your gut that day. You paced the floor, already dressed in a stunning white gown that accentuated every part of your body. Yet, so many things could go wrong in the span of an hour. So what your hair was done? So what your makeup was complete? Who cared that you were already at the venue and you had personally seen to that everything looked perfect? What if the officiant didn’t make it? What if you fell while walking down the aisle? What if the groom didn’t show up-

“Y/N!” Ginny yelled, halting you in your tracks. “If you pace anymore you’re going to wear a hole in the rug.”

You squeezed your fingers before nodding and gently sitting down taking care not to wrinkle your gown.

“I’m just nervous.” You sighed trying hard not to reach up and fiddle with your hair.

“About what?” Angelina laughed, leaning on the doorframe in her bridesmaids gown. “Fred is stupidly mad for you. Hell would freeze before he would let anything go wrong. Besides what matters most is at the end of that aisle. Not me, Ginny, Iris, Louisa, Hermione, or any of us really.”

Iris nodded. “She’s right you know.”

“I know. I just- I can’t help but feel like this isn’t real. And something is going to take it all away from me any moment.” You weren’t sure if it was the raw break in your voice that rendered the room silent or if it was the reminder of Fred’s near death nearly a year ago.

Ginny stood up abruptly. “Alright everybody out.” She waved them out of the room despite the protests.

You furrowed your brow preparing to ask what she was doing, but she beat you to it.

“I’m going to get Fred.”

“But-”

“I’ll close the door so he can’t see you. And under no circumstances is he to come inside.” She smirked. “I want to see him cry when he sees you walking down the aisle.”

And with that she shut the door behind her. The thought of Fred being so near made you equal parts more nervous and more relaxed. Your hand smoothed out your dress, trying to keep yourself busy in anticipation. You didn’t have to wait long.

A knock sounded on the door. You leapt up trying not to run to the door.

“Y/N?” Fred’s voice filtered through the door. You pressed your hands on the door, wanting nothing more than to open it and throw yourself in his arms. But you agreed with Ginny. You wanted him to first see you when you walked down the aisle on the way to becoming his wife. “Y/N? You in there?”

“Yeah.” You replied.

“Ginny told me you were nervous.” His voice had a slight wobble to it that made you respond immediately.

“It has nothing to do with you!” You hesitated. “That’s a lie.”

“Are you afraid I’ll leave you?”

The words sat on your chest heavily. “Not willingly.” You whispered. The memory of seeing him almost die underneath the weight of an entire wall would be forever seared behind your eyes.

“Can I open the door?” Fred whispered back.

“You can’t come in.”

“I won’t.”

The door pushed inwards and after opening about six inches, a hand stuck through the crack. “Give me your hand, love.”

Tears gathered in your eyes as you placed your left hand in his. You felt his hand tug your upwards. His lips pressed against your knuckles, kissing them gently.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not even death will stop me from marrying you. I’ve been hoping for this day since-” A laugh bubbled out of his mouth. “Since that moment in the Trophy Room.” Fred lowered his voice a fraction and pressed a kiss to your palm. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I promise that I will do everything in my power to make sure you never have to see anything like that again.”

You blinked away the image of him underneath the rubble. Thanking every force of nature that he was alive and was about to become your husband.

Your fingers reached out and cupped his face rubbing your thumb over his clean shaven cheek. “I love you, Fred.”

“I love you back, Y/N.” He shifted your hand until it rested over his lips and then pressed another kiss onto your palm.

And then he sucked your thumb into his mouth.

“I also can’t wait until tonight when I can peel that dress-”

“Alright!!” Ginny shouted. “Time’s up!”

You jerked your hand back inside hearing Fred groan from the other side of the door. “Five more minutes, Ginny!”

“Are you joking me right now? You’re about to be with her for the rest of your life, you can wait-” she paused, “thirty more minutes.”

“But-”

“Shoo!” Fred’s groan followed him all the way down the hall.

You stepped back from the door right in time for Ginny and the rest of your bridesmaid to come strolling in.

The next twenty minutes passed pretty quickly. Touching up your makeup, checking to see if anything had been missed, and just talking with your best friends. As much fun as you were having talking with your friends, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t vibrating with excitement when Ginny checked her watch and stood smiling broadly.

“It’s time!”

“Yes!” Louisa shouted, pumping her fist into the air. Ginny, Louisa, Hermione and Angelina all walked out of the room grabbing their bouquets. Iris handed you yours before walking with you out of the room.

“How you feel, kid?” Iris whispered. You looked at your best friend. A genuine smile on the  lips of someone who saved smiling for when the occasion was truly deserving.

“Happy.” You squeezed her arm gently. “So incredibly happy.”

“Well then let’s get you married.” Iris leaned over pressing a kiss onto your cheek, before handing you to your father. Hermione had been paired with Ron, Louisa with Lee, Ginny with Harry, Angelina with Danny, and finally Iris with George with your flower girl being Bill and Fleurs baby girl who was being carried by her mother.

When the doors opened, one by one you watched your friends disappear through them. Your heart felt as if it was about to jump out of your chest and run down the aisle without you. But your fathers hand on your arm settled you just a bit.

“You ready?” He already had tears in his eyes. You nodded before wrapping your arms around his neck tightly. “Fred’s a good man. I wouldn’t let you go for anyone less.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

And then the music started. He held his arm out and you wound your own around it as you stepped to the doorway.

And saw Fred standing at the end of the aisle.

A smile lit up your face. Your father led you forward, but you ached to ditch the slow pace and sprint to the man who waited for you at the end. With each step, a memory of the two of you flashed before your eyes. Every kiss, every laugh, every touch, every smile, every tear, every moment.

You knew you should’ve at least acknowledged the other people who were standing in the room, but you knew it would cause you physical pain to pull your eyes from the most beautiful man you’d ever seen in your life. A man who was crying wearing his simple black tux. He was still smiling but the tears were slipping down his face softly and onto the floor.

Finally, you and your father reached the end of the aisle. You barely noticed your father giving him your hand or Iris taking your bouquet from your hands, all you felt was Fred. You reached up wiping the tears from his eyes, like he had done for you so many times.

“We are gathered here today…” But the officiant's voice drowned out as you stared at Fred. Your eyes flickered down to his lips as he mouthed a sentence. You are breathtakingly beautiful.

You mouthed back, not caring if anyone saw. So are you.

“I believe you two have prepared your own vows?” You and Fred both nodded. One of Fred's hands left yours as they reached into his pocket to pull out a sheet of paper. He unfolded it one handed before glancing back up at you. Then George tapped him on the shoulder handing him something else. Fred smiled, you could tell he had forgotten.

“Y/N Y/L/N, I wasn’t even sure where to begin these vows. There is so much I want to give you, so much I want to do with you. Ever since I saw you all those years ago, I knew I wanted you to be a part of my life forever.” He took a deep breath, glancing down at you. “You are my entire world. Being next to you makes me breathless. I am so madly in love with you.” His hand tightened around yours. “I want to be with you when you’re happy, when you’re hurting, when you’re angry, when you’re excited, when you’re perfectly healthy, and when you’re sick. I want to be with you when you accomplish the big things and when you fail. I want to be with you when you love me and even when you hate me. I want to be with you even if some enchantment turns half of you into a giant squid.” A small giggle slipped past your lips thinking back to one of Fred’s failed products taste tests. “I want to have children with you and make a family. I want to grow old with you. I just want to be with you in whatever way you’ll take me, love. I can promise that much.”

The tears in your eyes were spilling in waves now. Fred reached up wiping a few of them away before slipping the wedding band on your finger.

For the first time since you had seen him, you turned away to face Iris who was standing behind you. Her hand was already outstretched holding the sheet of paper holding your vows and his ring. You mouthed thank you before turning back to your fiancé. The paper had already been unfolded, so you began to read.

“You are-” you glanced back up at the man who was about to become your husband. You dropped the paper and grabbed the hand you were forced to drop in order to hold your written vows. You stepped a fraction of an inch closer to him. “You are magnificent.” Fred’s smile wobbled at that. “You are all that I could have ever dreamed up. You are handsome, kind, brilliant, loyal, loving, gentle, and best of all hilarious. Whenever I’m around you every single one of my worries just melts away. You are my solid ground, my anchor. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live without you-” Your voice broke off, but Fred’s fingers massaged your own steadying you. “I never want to remember. Fred Weasley, if you’ll have me, I will spend my last breath making sure you’re happy. You are the man I love and also my best friend. And I love you more than I have words to express.” And then you slid the ring on his finger, your hands shaking the entire time.

“I now declare you bonded for life!” The officiant said. “You may kiss the bride!”

Fred’s arms wound around you like they had done a thousand times before, while yours stretched up around his neck pulling him down to you. Your lips collided somewhere in the center, molding themselves to each other. You vaguely heard shouts and cheers ring out. It was then that you realized you were kissing your husband. You were married. To Fred Weasley.

Fred pulled back just enough to speak. “Mrs. Weasley.”

You giggled. “Mr. Weasley.”

And then his mouth was back on yours again as you laughed against his lips.

-----

“The end.” You whispered, running your hands through his hair. You began to stand when a tiny hand grabbed your finger.

“What happens after the end?” The tired voice of your child called. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his small forehead. You glanced up at Fred who was leaning against the doorframe, silhouetted by the light from the hall. It was him who answered your son, but his eyes were on you.

“They lived happily ever after.”

Taglist: @huffledor-able541​ @asuperconfusedgirl​ @daddystevee​

let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

[spiltscribbles]

Any chance you could give us some Arabic speaking Remus headcanons? Loved your latest fic ❤️ 📚

OMFG gorgeous sugarplum! I legit only just was reminded of this while scrolling through my inbox right now! But my heart is finna burst!!! Thank you SO SO much and yes I would love to give some Headcanons about this! Especially since the next long story I’m working on includes this dynamic, and I’m so excited about it!! However, common disclaimer that while I am Arab and culturally Muslim even if I don’t practice like the rest of my family lol, I am Palestinian and not Syrian. So with every identity there are different experiences and customs no matter how closely intertwined. So I apologize for any inconsistency   that a Syrian may read and disagree with, and please feel free to correct me<3 <3

.-

The FIC this HC is from 

.-

So first off some background on his mum in the story 

I chose the name Vivian based off a friend of a friend who’s uncle married a woman by that name back in Palestine,  so it’s definitely extremely uncommon, but a fully Arab lady was named it, so like it’s my defense bahaha. But it also means lively, and coupled with Hussein as her maiden name which means beautiful, it just fit her personality to a t!! 

She was born into a pretty secular family in Syria in the late 1920s, so there was a lot going on in that time period. But her dad was pretty influential, working in the government and such. Vivian was also the youngest of four girls and three boys so she was pretty spoiled tbh

She attended a boarding school in France through out her adolescence and decided to go to university there too, so she’s fluent in both Arabic and French, with pretty great English as well. Though she wasn’t exactly white passing, even though like a bunch of Syrians/Palestinians/Lebanese folk she was somewhat fair, she had distinctly Arabian features, like the large almond shaped eyes and thick lashes and thicker brows, and a long, largeish nose, accented by full lips. So she experienced a good amount of jeers and discrimination, especially when folks found out her surname. So I think she’s able to relate to Remus in that sense of being a wolf at least, and later on  when he comes out as gay.

It was 1950  when she and a few of her girlfriends went to Wales for holiday after completing university. The second Lyall first spotted her in the woods while she was trying to make it back to the cabin near the Irish Sea with her mates, it was something like love, because duh. She was a fucking knock out!! A babe and a baddy! Literally so far out of his league its ridiculous! But on Vivian’s side,  she was mostly just amused and a bit enamored by this cocksure Welshman who had the most endearing of crooked smiles that their son would inherit a decade later. So obviously she didn’t make it easy on him, but eventually she let him take her out on the last night of her trip, and was pleased to find out that they had the same sort of humor and the same passion for their careers and even the same love for the outdoors too.

 They had a long distance relationship for two years while she went to grad school so she could teach about classics while Lyall himself was rising the ranks in the Ministry for regulation and control of magical creatures— Unbeknownst to her, the Floo network  was very helpful with the distance. Just thank God Lyall himself is a Muggle born because he really had to fake the hell out of it lol.

So just to speed things up they got married on a lovely June evening in  1955,  subsequent to  Vivian excepting a professorial job in Cardiff after Lyall told her about the Wizarding world. At first Vivian thought e was tripping on some subpar edibles until he proved it by transfiguring her snuff box into a lovely broach that she kept for the rest of her life, So after Vivian was convinced, she became  absolutely enthralled by all of the magic so completely. 

They were trying for a few years when she finally became pregnant with Remus in 1959, and they were both so over the moon (pun unintended).

So like I said above, Vivian’s family are pretty secular, so I see her mostly practicing the cultural aspects of Islam. For example, every Friday— which is the equivalent to Sundays being the holy day  for Christians— she lights up the instance that she always keeps herself stocked up on after her annual trip to Syria, instead of the typical candles she ordinarily prefers.  And Remus swears that for the rest of his life whenever he smells it, he’s back to being a baby, puttering around the house and watching her dusting the shelves while humming quietly an Arabic song that’ played out the gramophone  by a man who’s music would soon become regarded as the song of the people. Or Remus would recall being snuggled into her lap while she read him a novel on the windowsill. Or he’d simply remember listening to his parents laughter fluttering in the air while he fell asleep by the fire, subconsciously making the flower buds closest to him bloom with his untapped magic.

Remus’s first clear memory— thanks to the endless pictures— is when he was around four years old, before the attack, and they were staying in Vivian’s home town in Damascus. While the men congregated out doors for cigars and cards and the women in the living room chatting while snacking on watermelon seeds, his older cousins— who were all girls— dragged him off to one of the bedrooms and doted on him because he was the baby of that side of the family. And he remembers walking out in a set of one of their heels and a headscarf wrapped around his head which made his Mama and Tata and Aumties laugh out loud and croon over him, and all his uncles and Sido call him Aumty Remus.

The attack by Greyback happened soon after they returned to Wales, and I’m not gonna touch on it becs I’ not finna depress myself. But it was a January morning after his first transformation and he remembers that when he woke up, he saw the cookies stuffed with dates resting on his bedside with a glass of milk that Lyall had put a cooling charm on. And they’re indulgent treats that Vivian makes for both Eids every year even though they don’t celebrate them in any other way lol. But the cookies always reminds him of family and of feeling safe in his mother’s arms, and they still work to make him feel better even after the worst thing he has ever experienced in his short life.

Remus’s love of poetry came from both sides of his parents, but it was listening to his mother recite the story of Majnun Layla in it’s original Arabic that really made him glow for the art form, and brought him to discovering his favorites like Auden and Neruda. 

There’s a ornate, wooden prayer box that has been past down on the Hussein side of the family for five generations, it was originally  meant to hold a Qran but for the past three it’s simply just been a beautiful piece of decoration. So when Vivian gave it to Remus when he was headed off to Hogwarts, little Remus asked McGonagall to help him with locking  charms so it could become a safe place for him to keep his most cherished of nicknacks ant momentos, so obviously,  she silently added a charm to keep the wood nearly unbreakable and the extension charm atop of that, like Hermione with her bag, so that he could keep as many happy memories as possible inside of it, and she prayed that there would be so many that it threatened to burst. 

The last time Remus opened the box was in 1996, when he was putting away the ring Sirius gifted him as a match to his own in some feeble promise of forever only weeks before James and Lily’s own engagement. 

Once during first year, he and the lads were staying up late, trading stories about how they got their most ridiculous scars— after seeing the one that scraped across Remus’s left shoulder blade— But it got to a point where they were all feeling a bit nippish, so they went down to the kitchens for some of the chocolate pudding that was served during dinner that night. And Remus idly asked the house elves if they could make him a batch of Kinafa because he was getting home sick and missed when he and his Mama would dash over to the city whenever they were feeling antsy, and she’d take him to their favorite hooka bar after buying a round of the dessert— which is basically sweetbread stuffed with cheese— from down the block. And they’d stay sitting beneath the starlight, and talking about her job and his lessons from school while she’d let him try a discrete puff or two and they’d laugh about everything and nothing at all.

The next time they stopped by the kitchens one of the younger house elves presented him with the snack gleefully, and it tasted fine, just not like how they do back home. So Remus smiled warmly at Tipsy, the house elf, and thanked her with real sincerity.

But his face must’ve betrayed him because after easter break, Sirius plops down a fresh batch of them on Remus’s bed before leaping into his own, casually mentioning that he saw how grossed out Remus looked when trying the one the house elves made, and it was from a restaurant close to Grimmauld so it’s not that big of a deal, and then he rushed to cursing at James for stealing his favorite pen and swearing that  if he broke it he’s gonna have hell to pay. Remus had only blushed and chuckled  with a small smile on his face when he cut himself a small piece and finished the half sheet off with the rest of their house later that night during an impromptu party that the Marauders would become infamous for in later years.

It was the summer after second year when all the marauders visited Remus back home in Wales and when they heard Vivian call him Qamar practically every other sentence, which of course lead to endless ribbing and eventually  to his nickname of Moony— even though it’s so fucking obvious and Remus loves and hates it in equal parts. God his friends are so fucking stress inducing!

Remus teaches the other marauders funny Arabic curse words and they use them in class so that they can talk shit about particularly disgusting Slytherins without them being any of the wiser. (Yes I did do this with my friends, and I’d do it again! POW! POW! POW!)

It’s from Vivian that Remus has an affinity for coffee as strong as shit, but also prefers his tea weak— specifically two sugars and a dash of milk. But seriously, if you’ve ever tried Arabian coffee you’d understand, that shit is so fucking strong it’s literally a hate crime LMFAO. But yeah, this habit is definitely a point of contention between him and Sirius— who’s actually so fucking posh no matter how much he wants to be punk, and he stands by only drinking black tea— like Merlin intended— and saying bugger off to any and all coffees. “Leave that shite to the French and Americans.” And Remus would try to keep himself from making eyes at him from across the table, because God Sirius is hot when he’s all fiery  and impassioned, even when it’s about the dumbest, most inconsequential shit.

Something that’s sort of funny is that Remus was the first among them to become a fucking pot head and could drink them all  under the table even though Sirius himself has got two stone and three inches on him. But Remus still refuses to eat ham, purely because he never grew up eating it and doesn’t care too now. Sirius had to specifically ask Euphemia and Monty to make turkey for Christmas dinner their sixth year just because he knew that Remus’s head would probably implode with the decision between being rude and not eating it or forcing himself to gag down the unfamiliar meat.

When Remus is really, really fucking drunk he definitely spends the night only speaking in Arabic! (Don’t look at me I’m trash just because I stole this from my own life lmfao) But yeah, it’s really fucking hilarious and Sirius swears to God he’s so fucking in love with him while listening to Remus ranting in the unfamiliar language. And he’s like positive that half the time he’s actually just cursing Sirius out but he doesn’t even care because it’s SO! DAMN! CUTE!  And sometimes Sirius decides to speak French at a drunk off his arse Moony, who occasionally replies back in a stiff staccato before returning back to the easy Arabic. And it’s just a mess.

Ok so sadness warning

In my head, Vivian loses her fight against breast cancer the July after the Marauders graduate from Hogwarts, and afterwords Remus gets a tattoo of her name in Arabic on his chest, and the word for soul on the nape of his neck. He locks away that battered copy of Magnun Layla in the wooden box she gave him years ago, along with a woolen  scarf that smelt like her perfume.

 It’s Sirius who buys a set of prayer beads to hang off her photo above the mantel in the flat he and Remus share, and when Remus sees it he literally feels like  he might crack open with tears, but opts to kiss Sirius thank you instead, and they stay tangled on the sofa for the rest of the day in quiet contemplation.

One night, in late 1979, while  the war was only getting worse and worse—  Sirius was hit by a cutting curse to the ribs. And it was really fucking bad, but thankfully James got him to his house in time for Lily to help and heal. He slept for the most part for nearly an entire day, but remembers snippets. Like when Remus had sprinted into the room with fear painted all over his soft features, and when James put a cooling cloth to his head. But most distinctly, Sirius recalls Remus gingerly lying besides him and Sirius talking gibberish at his boyfriend while Remus plunged his entire face against his back, eyes wet with tears and body shuttering as he squeezed him softly, saying something quietly in Arabic. Sirius obviously didn’t understand like 99.9% of it, but he did catch the word “Habibi,” which he instantly remembers as an old pet name Vivian use to call Remus with so much love it made her entire countenance sparkle. It’s an endearment  that means beloved, or darling, and it feels like Remus is begging Sirius to stay with him and Sirius’s throat is still raw from the screaming, so he can only  reply by dragging Remus’s hand up to his mouth and kissing his knuckles tenderly. And he knows that whatever he does for the rest of his days, he loves Remus Lupin with every cell in his body.

Oof this got mad depressing…. Chow anyways, I can add a picture of the container you’re suppose to use for the instance if anyone wants that?

Thank you again dear Nonny!!!

Ask Me For Headcanons About A Story I’ve Written Or For One You Want To See Written

[retroateez]

Prophecy - Chapter Twenty

Length: 2.7k

taglist: @hewwo-from-the-other-side @sweetsojudreams 

Now's the time. You can do this. What's the worst that can go wrong?

"No, really. What's the worst that could go wrong?" you sigh deeply at your reflection in the mirror, running your hands over your face in nerves.

"They could like... behead you or something?"

"Mingi!" you whip around to glare at the bard, who is casually lounging on your bed. "That really isn't helpful!"

You knew that telling Yeosang and Wooyoung what you did was the next step in setting this right. All the wrongs you had committed since meeting Yeosang could only be set right this way, no matter how much you were dreading the conversation.

"Can't you just tell them for me?" you whine, dropping down next to Mingi. "You're a bard, you're good with words."

"I'm a bard, not your personal messenger." he frowns, but wraps a comforting arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side, rubbing your arm in support. "You can do it, you just have to accept responsibility and try your best to fix it, okay?"

"Okay." you exhale sharply, standing up and grounding your panicking thoughts.

"Great." the bard says, rising from his seat. "I believe they are in His Majesty's office whilst he is in a meeting with Seonghwa, something urgent apparently. So, that means you have ample time to tell them!"

Brilliant. Absolutely fantastic.

"Alright. Alright, fine!" you bat Mingi away from you as he ushers you towards the door. "I'm going!"

"Come find me later and let me know how it went, okay?" he smiles at you, before pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. "You've always got me."

Touched, you smile back up at him. With a final shove, you make your way to the king's office, nervously playing with your fingers.  The short, familiar walk through the castle hallways seems to take forever. Each footstep lasting a hundred years in your head but in reality only taking a second. You play out the conversation in your head, mentally rewriting your speech, scratching words out with an invisible pen.

You're so scared.

You don't even care if they're angry at you, you just really hope they aren't upset. After everything they've done for you, upsetting them is the last thing you would want to do.

Eventually, you find yourself standing directly in front of the door. For a few moments, you shut your eyes to brace yourself. Truthfully, you're praying that San, the snitch, had already told them and that you wouldn't have to. Or maybe that they were observant enough like Hongjoong to have been able to figure it out themselves.

You raise your arm to knock, and with a final exhale, your fist connects with the cold oak.

"Come in!" a familiarly comforting voice calls from the other side.

Twisting the brass handle, you shakily enter the room, not daring to raise your eyes to look at them.

"Oh, hey, there you are." you slowly look up at Yeosang, who stands over Hongjoong's desk rifling through sheets of parchment and rummaging through countless open books.

You look over to your right, at Wooyoung, who is carefully studying the spines of a pile of books to put them back on the correct place on the shelf. He turns at the sound of you entering, and his face lights up at the sight of you. His amethyst eyes glitter with joy, and your heart is consumed by guilt.

"Iris?" Yeosang's voice is laced with concern. "What's wrong?"

"I- I have to tell you something." you stutter out, looking at him with wide eyes. You turn to look at the elf. "You too."

Confused, the two men take a seat on the bench in the middle of the room. You grab one of the chairs facing Hongjoong's desk and drag it opposite them. The sound of the wood violently scraping across the floor pierces your ears and the noise goes directly to your stomach, fueling your nausea.

The sit opposite from you, poised and waiting for your news. You feel like you're the one who should be berating two naughty school children for provoking the pigs out in the school yard, not their protege and lover respectively, who is about to break some horrifying revelation to them.

"What's the problem?" Wooyoung asks you, leaning forward a little to inspect your eyes. "Are you alright?"

"What?" your voice cracks a little, the way Wooyoung is asking you if you're okay jams the dagger more into your heart. "Yes, yes, I'm fine."

"Then what's wrong?" Yeosang says, beginning to get a little impatient.

"I- I messed up. Really, really, really badly." for a moment, you let yourself study their faces.

Wooyoung's brows, furrowed with concern, relax slightly. He leans back and crosses his arms across his chest. His one pointed ear flexes just a little. You don't know what to make of it. Then Yeosang, is completely stoic. There is little to no emotion written on his face. It's scary.

"I got really mad when you guys wouldn't let me help out with the prophecy." you admit, staring down at your clasped hands in your lap. "All I've wanted to do was help, ever since Yeosang took me in, I've wanted to learn and do my best and help you. And I'm so sorry. I didn't think about it properly and it was such a stupid thing to do-"

"Hey. Just tell us, it's okay." Wooyoung cuts off your rambling by leaning over and grabbing one of your  hands. The sensation of his thumb ghosting over your own soothes your frantic mood, and grounds you enough to speak clearly.

"A few weeks ago, I snuck out of the castle to the town, and I went to see Yunho."

You see Yeosang stiffen at the sound of his old friend's name.

"I visited him and I begged him, despite Yeosang's refusal, to teach me magic-"

"You did what?!" The blonde mage bursts out. "I'm going to murder Yunho, I swear-"

"He didn't teach me anything!" you cry out, and luckily that seems enough to calm Yeosang down. "He flat out refused. He told me about what happened to him- to you both - at magic school, and that he was sorry, but he wouldn't help me."

"Oh. Then that's fine."

"That's not everything."

"Oh."

"Before I met you, Yeosang," you look him his bright, cobalt eyes and hope he doesn't hate your guts after this. "I was a street rat. I was homeless, I had no family, no real friends. I stole food and clothes to keep myself alive. So when Yunho refused to teach me, I had no issue stealing his magic book. So I did, I stole it and I kept it hidden, and at night when everyone else was sleeping, I tried to teach myself magic from the book."

There's a few moments silence whilst the men process exactly what you're telling them.

"Did it work?"

"W-what?" increduously, you gaze at Yeosang's curious but untelling eyes.

"Did you succeed in doing magic?"

"Not properly, but I made a little something happen."

"What spell did you use?" Wooyoung suddenly speaks up. His body is tense, you can tell from his crossed legs, crossed arms and stiff, furrowed brows.

He knows.

You cast your mind back to the conversation you had with him, recalling his reaction to the spells even then.

"What did you just say?" he demands.

"Feinn ichaer?" you repeat. "Aevon bleidd was another-"

"Stop!" he practically screams at you. "S-stop saying those words!"

"Why? What do they mean?"

"Where is that book?" Wooyoung glares at you, angry, crimson fire bursting through the usual calm lilac of his eyes and for the first time since meeting him, you're scared.

"I-I do-"

"Where is it, Iris?!"

"I don't know!" you cry. "I just left it somewhere and it got tidied up!"

The elf exhales shakily, running his hand over his face and keeping them over his eyes for a few moments.

"Feinn ichaer, Aevon bleidd" the elf says after some time.

So that's how you say them.

"Sun blood and river wolf. They are two of the most dangerous spells in the realm of dark magic. In the hands of corrupt people, well, you could conquer entire planets with them."

"What does it feel like? When you cast them, I mean." you really were pushing your luck now but Wooyoung was probably too shocked to care.

"I've never used them myself, but," he looks up to meet your gaze, his eyes glistening, but not burning brilliantly like they usually do. "Feinn ichaer feels like a forest fire rages through your veins. Like your heart has been plucked out and replaced with the sun itself, or like the air you breathe has turned into scorching hot lava... It's like physical hell, apparently."

Interesting.

"You stay far away from those spells, Iris. Do you hear me? And if you find that book, give it to me immediately, okay?"

"I tried two, but I'm not sure I said them ri-"

"What spells did you use, Iris?" the elf lurches forward almost aggressively, moving in a way you've never seen from him before.

"Feinn ichaer and aevon bleidd," you say quickly. "I don-" you stop speaking abruptly, as the colour drains from Wooyoung's face, and Yeosang drops his jaw.

"Are you serious?" Yeosang leaps up, practically yelling at you. "How could you be so stupid? Those are forbidden, ancient elf spells, Iris. They're tied to a banished elf clan! Why on earth did you think that learning magic by yourself was a good idea!"

"Because you never let me in!" you scream back at him, standing up from your own seat. "You never let me help! I just wanted to be included!"

"Is that so?" Yeosang glares at you, speaking through gritted teeth with an air of anger you didn't know he could possess. "Well, I hope you're happy with yourself, because everyone is in danger now, Iris. Everybody." before you can respond, the mage marches out the room, slamming the wooden door closed behind him.

You force yourself to look at Wooyoung, and the second you do, you can only wish you hadn't.

The elf looks up at you, broken. His usually sparkling, purple eyes are dampened, darkened with tears that read a mixture of rage and betrayal. You can't find any words in you to say to him, except-

"I'm sorry, Wooyoung." your bottom lip trembles as you fight back tears of your own.

Still, he remains silent. Fresh tears roll down his pale skin as he looks at you. Slowly, he begins to stand up, his movements sluggish. He paces towards the door, before suddenly stopping and whipping to look at you. The movement is so sudden, his black hair jumps and grazes the tops of his pointed ears.

"I-" is all he can muster up, before biting his bottom lip and rushing out of the room.

You stand, alone and motionless in the center of the room for a few moments before breaking down into your own fit of tears. A flurry of emotions swirling inside your brain like a suffocating snowglobe, so many thoughts bashing against the dome of glass trying so desperately to get out.

Yet, you had nobody to blame except for yourself. If you had just listened to what Yeosang told you, none of this would have happened.

But it was too late for that now. You simply had to live with the consequences of your actions.

"If fate is real," you sniff, wiping your nose with the back of your hand and kicking the leg of the bench with your booted foot. "Then it's a real bitch."

"Don't speak ill of the gods, kid." Hongjoong's voice grows louder as he enters the room. He examines your face, noting the wet, puffy eyes and redness around your nose and lips.

"So, you told them?" you nod. "I take it didn't go well?" you shake your head.

Hongjoong sighs, spreading his coat out behind him before shutting the door and heading over to sit in his throne. He motions for you to take a seat opposite him, and you do.

"If there is one wisdom I wish to impart on you Iris," he begins. "and this is regardless of whether or not I like you, it is that good and evil do not exist.

There is no such thing as wholly good or wholly evil. I have done terrible things in my past, I have murdered people, tricked people, betrayed people whom I loved, and yet I have devoted my all to people, taken people in, given those in need necessities to survive. You are not defined by the bad things you have done, if you can reedem yourself of those shortcomings."

"I don't understand." you sniffle.

"Yeosang and Wooyoung will come around," he sighs. "There are bigger problems at stake here. I shouldn't tell you this, but I'm going to, because to be honest, it is basically your fault."

Here we go.

"You remember that Seventeen didn't attend the ball, correct?" you nod. "That appeared to be a statement, so Seonghwa and myself organised a little chat with Commander Jeonghan, who deals with inter-kingdom affairs for them. They somehow got wind of the magic going on within Ateez walls, and as a result they refused to attend."

"But why do they hate magic?" you ask.

"Hundreds of years ago, the kingdom of Seventeen was entirely a magical kingdom, their queen I believe, was an elf, and she would willingly take in magical breeds and look after them. Until one day, a group of humans turned up, and as Seventeen was soley a magical refuge, they refused help to the humans. You see, the humans didn't like it, and that very same night while the kingdom was sleeping, they snuck in and burnt the entire city to the ground.

Legends say that the thirteen heads of state that rule Seventeen now are direct decendents of that group of humans that massacred the elves and mages."

"So they're waging war on Ateez because of something from hundreds of years ago?"

"Yes, essentially."

"Well, that's stupid."

Hongjoong nods in agreement and it only hits you then that he's the one who has to deal with this. He has to defend his kingdom and his people from a much stronger force, just because of a bit of magic.

"Anyway," he carries on. "The talk we had with them did not go well. They threatened to invade if we didn't get rid of the magic, I promised that we would. But evidently, there is still some traces of it here, as magical residue does not disappear quickly. Even less so if it is dark magic. This morning, Seonghwa recieved a letter informing us that Seventeen will attack."

"What? Are you serious?"

He nods.

"How long do we have?"

"Seventeen is quite far, so I would say roughly a week until they get here."

"Why are you so calm about this?"

Hongjoong takes a moment to think over the question, playing with a strand of overgrown hair at the base of his neck.

"I'm the king." he shrugs eventually. "Everybody looks to me for guidance, If I am panicking like a headless chicken, or freaking out like Mingi when he plays his chords wrong, nobody will have faith in me as a leader. This is my job."

As you examine him, you don't see royalty. You see a young man with the pressure of the world on his shoulders.

"How old are you, Hongjoong?"

"It's your majesty to you, you know."

"I'm not a citizen," you retort. "I don't have to."

Hongjoong chuckles.

"I'm twenty seven years old."

"Is it even legal for a king to be that young?"

"My grandfather was crowned when he was six," he replies. "They had to remake the crown to fit his tiny head, we buried him with it in the family crypt, he hated when we teased him about it."

You laugh along with his fond chuckling, happy to at least have one person who didn't hate your guts right now.

"That reminds me," he says, straightening up in his seat. "Yunho contacted me about your request to learn safe magic, which, seeing as we're being invaded anyway, I will allow you to do in the safety of the castle.

I have also invited Jongho -you remember him? the tailor from the ball, yes?- to come and measure you up for some clothes better suited for battle. I haven't forgotten about that. Oh, and Seonghwa will give you some sword fighting lessons, too."

"I'm supposed to learn how to do magic and to swordfight within a week?" you ask, astonished.

"Yes." Hongjoong casually nods. "If you hadn't disobeyed me, you would've had much longer, but you didn't so..."

"Okay, okay, I get it."

"Great," he grins, standing up and pulling his tawny fur coat straight. "I believe Yunho should arrive any minute now, so head down to the courtyard at the front of the castle and you can start your training immediately."

He heads towards the door, with an aura of regality and power.

"Hongjoong." you suddenly call out to him, causing him to stop in his tracks.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you." you say sincerely. "Thank you for giving me a chance."

"Of course," he smiles a little. "You're welcome."

He turns to leave again, before stopping to look at you a final time.

"And it's your majesty, to you."

-----

hello everybody! huge apologies for how many months it took me to get this out! i started my second year of university in october, and for some reason i thought taking an extra class would be a good idea, so now i am so ridiculously busy.

i hope everyone had a good christmas and new year, or if you don't celebrate, i hope you had a wonderful holiday season!

keep safe!

[patriciasage]

The Wordless One

Author: Patricia_Sage

Fandom: The Adventure Zone - Balance

Summary: Davenport may not be able to speak, but there isn’t a mystery on this plane that Angus McDonald can’t solve.

[chapter one of two]

posted in full under the break but you can find me on AO3!!

She is with Magnus when he forgets, and she takes care of him the best she can. She helps him to the ground, so he doesn’t fall like a tree, and then casts Sleep. She gently brushes his hair out of his face, noting that even unconscious he’s grimacing.

She wants to take a moment to breathe, but she doesn’t have the time yet. She needs to get to Barry and Taako next, before they do something reckless in their panic. She rushes up the stairs to the deck of the Starblaster where they spend each night planning and worrying. The walls of the stairwell feel like they’re closing in. She perseveres.

She’s not sure what she expected to see, but it wasn’t this. There’s a hole blasted through the railing and Barry is nowhere to be seen. Taako is crumpled like an abandoned doll on the deck, hyperventilating. His wand, barely clinging to his shaking hand, is still smoking.

“Taako,” she calls out softly as she approaches. He whirls at the sound of his name and the expression on his face nearly breaks her.

His ears are low and flat. His skin, normally a warm brown, is washed out, and his dark eyes are ablaze with panic, confusion, and fear. He scrambles away from her like a wounded animal. “Who are you? Where am I? What the fuck is going on!?”

She has to account for everyone. “Where’s Barry? The other man who was here.”

“I-I don’t…” he points with his wand to the broken railing. “He told me to kill him. I didn’t know what to do – I just did it. Who was that? Why did I do that?” His hair is falling in front of his face like a curtain, some strands sticking to the tears on his cheeks. “I’m sorry! He told me to – I’m sorry!” He’s looking at her like she’s going to blast him in retaliation.

She puts her hands up. “Taako, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.” He doesn’t believe her, and the fierce distrust hurts more than she thought it would. He’s breathing in ragged gasps, pushing his back against the other railing. Taako’s a proud elf; she’s never seen him like this. She thinks of his past, carefully shared by Lup one lonely night, and hates herself for making him defend himself again.

Oh, Lup. Forgive me for what I’ve done.

Sleep is a contact spell. She dreads what she has to do. “Taako. I know you’re scared and confused, and your head probably feels really strange. Please, let me help you.”

“Who the fuck are you? How do I know you didn’t do this to me?” That breaks through her fragile defenses and she can’t stop a few tears from falling.

“Taako, please.”

He tries to fight her when she approaches, but she disarms him before he can cast any spells. She touches his arm and casts Sleep. He slumps to the ground and she lets herself cry.

But only for a moment.

The last two were in the stateroom this evening for their weekly tabletop game. She collides with a confused and frantic Merle on his way out. They blink at each other for a moment before she sends him to sleep as well, catching him as he falls.

Davenport is sitting at the table when she enters, cards scattered and abandoned in front of him. He’s holding his head in his hands, muttering to himself.

“Captain?” Lucretia calls out softly.

He looks up. “Davenport,” he says.

He doesn’t usually correct her. She doesn’t know what to say. “Listen, I’m so sorry. I know it’s inconsequential now and you don’t even know who I am. But I’m so sorry, sir, I’ll fix everything.”

He’s looking at her with confusion. “Davenport,” he says.

Her heart stops. Something is wrong.  “Sir?”

“Davenport!”

His expression is similar to what she saw on Magnus, Taako, and Merle. But there’s also frustration as his mouth seems to grope around words he can’t say. He says his name again. She’s terrified.

She touches his shoulder and protects his head from hitting the table when he goes limp. She prays to any god listening that this is a temporary side-effect, that he will wake up and talk to her.

She casts a careful enchantment on the other three so that they don’t remember being on the ship, but she’s too worried to try the same with Davenport, who remains unconscious on the Starblaster with her for now.

She places Taako in a caravan near New Elfington and, as she stands on his front step, she hears him groaning about a hangover. His mind appears to have filled in the gaps she created (potentially devastating, Lup-sized gaps and 100 years of static).

She purchases a house for Magnus in the community of Raven’s Roost and watches him unpack for a few hours just to make sure he’s okay.

If there’s one thing she knows about Merle, it’s how much he loves the beach. She places him in a little cottage. The first thing he does in the morning is collect a pocketful of shells and plants.

And when she returns, she rouses her captain.

“Davenport?” he mumbles. Even though she was expecting it, it still aches when the flickering and desperate bit of hope is extinguished. His identity as a pilot, a leader, an adventurer – it was too much to take away. The guilt almost crushes her on the spot. She can’t leave him somewhere to start a new life like she did with the others. She has to keep him close, keep him safe.

She offers him a job. He nods.

They build the Bureau of Balance together.

[teruthecreator]

Hey... let’s play in the chaos Fitz space... I’m so curious how magic lessons with Festo would go now Fitz is aware of Chaos in relation to his magic...

anon idk what u were expecting when u sent this, but im sure it wasn’t a 1.7k drabble of fitzroy and festo having a lil chit-chat. that being said, though, this was incredibly fun to do so thanks for the suggestion!!! 

_______________________________________________________________

“I don’t want magic lessons anymore,” 

The question makes the fairy halt in their fluttering, staring at their pupil with a curious stare. Fitzroy hasn’t been the same since the centaur assignment, they knew that already. Word has made its way through the faculty about the barbarian’s outburst on the field; hushed whispers of concern that never seem to make it to either headmaster’s ears. Althea Song even came in to discuss with Festo about the future of Fitzroy’s lessons; what might be the safest approach to controlling his wild magic. 

Festo is well aware, though, that “control” and “wild magic” tend to not mesh well. 

This is the first time they’ve managed to get Fitzroy to come to a lesson since his return over a week ago. Usually they meet three to four times a week, practicing simple spells and focusing on how to channel the energy for larger ones. He used to be adamant on his distaste for magic, but after a while he began to warm up to the idea of understanding the arcane abilities he was granted. Snippers seemed to help with that warming, becoming less of a familiar and more of an emotional support crab when Fitzroy’s feelings would go haywire and seep into his magic. But, after the centaur assignment, they were advised to postpone a few of their lessons to give Fitzroy the space to recoup after being cursed (and whatever triggered his outburst). 

After that grace period, though, Fitzroy just became a no-show. No matter how many cheerfully threatening letters Festo would send, Fitzroy never came to a lesson. 

That is, until today, when they came into their class to find Fitzroy already seated in his usual spot; twiddling his thumbs anxiously as he looked down to the floor. Festo was hoping this meant Fitzroy was finally ready to get to work, but...it would seem that’s not the case. 

“...Is this why you’ve been hiding from Festo?” The fairy asks, seating themselves atop a stack of books so they can face the half-elf properly. Fitzroy refuses to meet their gaze, nervously scratching his neck as he nods. “Ah...I see…You do not believe in Festo’s teachings.” Fitzroy perks up at that, turning to them and vehemently shaking his head. 

“I-It’s not that, Festo, really! It’s just…” Fitzroy trails off, looking frustrated and caught between words. “I just...When I came to you first, Festo, it was because I didn’t know why I had been given my magics and, therefore, was unable to control the outbursts. O-Or, that’s why I felt these lessons were good--I know they’re required, given my schooling track, but--” 

“--Festo gets your point.” Festo finishes, not wanting Fitzroy to get lost in the semantics before getting out what needs to be said. He nods his head bashfully and continues. 

“Right, yes. B-But now that I...I feel like now--or, I know now why I have magic. When...When I got cursed? I-I, uh...I met someone…” 

“You met Chaos, yes?” Festo asks, simply. Fitzroy buffers for a moment, mouth sputtering as he attempts to grapple with the knowledge, and Festo snickers. “Fitzroy, did you think Festo did not understand where your powers came from upon first meeting you?” Fitzroy’s cheeks are tinged red as he opens and closes his mouth to try and retort. “Festo knew your magic was wild from before Festo even saw you! There are not many schools of magic that manifest in catfish transformation.” 

“I...suppose so. B-But Festo, if you knew where my magic came from this whole time, why did you never tell me anything?” 

“Because you never asked!” Festo answers cheerfully. Their response makes Fitzroy’s shoulders sag as he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Also, it would not have been wise of Festo to give you such an answer when you were first learning your magic. Knowledge is not always key to understanding.” 

“I’d say it is!” Fitzroy bites back, his hand dropping from his face. “These powers were imparted on me to do evil, Festo! A deity has been watching over my every move, cheering me on whenever I goofed up severely and got people hurt!” The air begins to crackle with static electricity as Fitzroy gets riled up, anxiously running both hands through his hair and lodging them there. 

“I ripped a man’s hand off, Festo! That’s fucked!! I struck fear into innocent bystanders! A-And the worst part of it is th-that...I didn’t feel bad for doing it! The hand part, at least--I felt awful once I noticed how everyone was...was looking at me like some sort of monster. It’s terrible! I can’t sleep because of it, I don’t have an appetite anymore because anything I look at just becomes a hand or a shitty magic apple, a-and I can’t...I won’t do magic anymore.” He looks to Festo pleadingly, hoping they see his anguish and understand. “I-I can’t even summon Snippers anymore because I’m paranoid about him being a direct line for Chaos to watch me mess up! I-I don’t--I don’t want my magic anymore, Festo.”  

Festo sits there, watching as Fitzroy huffs and puffs on the verge of a meltdown. Then, after Fitzroy seems to have regained a little bit of his compuse, they get up and fly over to him, grabbing his right hand with both of theirs and flipping it over so it’s palm-side up. 

“Make a flame for Festo,” they command, not even bothering to look up and see the utter confusion and hurt on their student’s face. “Just do it, it will be fine. Have faith in Festo.” Fitzroy sighs, deep and long, before shutting his eyes and concentrating. In a few short moments, a small blue flame appears in his hand. Festo makes an affirmative noise as they study the flame. “How did that feel for you to do?” 

“Um...Fine? I guess?” Fitzroy replies, sounding unsure. 

“It did not hurt?” 

“No…” 

“Did not feel forced out of you?” 

“No.” 

“You feel confident that it was by your will that this flame came to your hand?” 

“Y-Yes, Festo, what does that--” 

“Then you are fine!” Festo states matter-of-factly. They push Fitzroy’s palm closed, thus extinguishing the flame. “You should not feel worried about Chaos’s influence!” They look up in time to see Fitzroy’s eyebrows furrowing. “You said yourself that the magic felt natural to you--it was not forced out of your hand or influenced by a force that was not your own brain, yes?” 

“R-Right…” Fitzroy responds. Festo flies up to his face and pokes their forehead with maybe a bit too much force than necessary. “Ow! What the heck, Festo!?” 

“Your magic may have been bestowed upon you by a being of influence, but it is you who controls how that manifests.” Festo explains, suddenly sounding wiser than normal. “Chaos can only influence your magic if you let them; other than that, they cannot control how you choose to use the gift they gave you. From Festo’s experience, they actually hate doing that, so you should not worry about being ‘controlled’!” Fitzroy’s eyes widen and he guffaws for a moment. 

“W-Wait, Festo, you’ve had experiences with Chaos?” Festo twirls around in a circle and giggles mischievously. 

“Not in that way, silly! Fairies are creatures of unpredictability; Chaos is one of our patron deities! Festo has had quite a few communes with them in Festo’s lifetime!” Fitzroy’s face scrunches up in disgust at the implication of their first sentence, making Festo laugh again. “You were the one who said ‘experiences’, not Festo!” 

“Right, but I was not implying you had sexual experiences with a deity, Festo. I really don’t want to be thinking about...really anything like that ever, thank you very much.” 

“You brought up sexual! Not Festo!” 

“Ahhh! I am covering my ears until this conversation ends!” Fitzroy screams as he slaps his hands over his ears. Festo rolls their eyes and kicks Fitzroy in the nose. “OW! Are you even allowed to hit a student?!”

“Festo has tenure, remember?” Festo chides, letting out a snarky “teehee” before flying a little further back so Fitzroy can look at them properly. “Now, do you still want to stop your lessons? Festo won’t make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” Fitzroy stares for a long moment, brows furrowing once more as he thinks. He doesn’t think for too long before squaring his shoulders and sitting a little more confidently in his chair. 

“Y’know what, Festo? I think...I think I’m going to keep at this magic thing! Show that Chaos who’s boss!” Fitzroy announces, his usual bravado back. Festo claps their hands as a shower of sparkles rains around them. 

“Hooray! Festo is proud of you for conquering your fears!” Festo cheers, making Fitzroy flush a little with the praise. “Now, to make up for your missed lessons, Festo wants you to come here every day for the next two weeks after your classes! This is non-negotiable!” At this, Fitzroy deflates, just as Festo expected. 

“Alright, I suppose I...deserve that for ghosting you for so long…” Fitzroy groans. 

“Correct!” Festo chirps, causing Fitzroy to roll his eyes. “Now, to pick up where we left off, show Festo how you’re doing with Mage Hand…” 

---

It’s later that night, when the school has settled and all the students have gone to bed, that Festo returns to their office. They pull a set of small candles from one of the drawers in their desk and lay them out in a pattern on the desk’s surface. With a flick of their wrists, the candles are lit in an iridescent flame, and they close their eyes to pray. 

Coming to, they find themselves in a familiar woodland clearing, looking unimpressed at the figure seated across from them. The figure, on the other hand, looks positively delighted to see them. 

“Festo does not want you meddling with Fitzroy anymore,” Festo says, their voice uncharacteristically serious. Chaos smiles and shakes their head. 

You, of all the beings in my court, should know I cannot do that. They reply. I have a special mission in mind for him, and I do intend on seeing it through to the end~

Then, the wind blows, and Festo wakes up back in their office in a circle of smoking candles. With a sigh, they put the extinguished candles away and leave. 

Futile as it seems, Festo is determined to give Fitzroy control over his powers, Chaos be damned. 

[nagdabbit]

🥺👉👈 pwease? 🥺🥺

okay okay, but like, be gentle? it's just bones right now, and a really good ending, if i say so myself, but, like... bones. it's bones with rules, because i like them. and it's about four dumbasses playing dnd, so obviously i gotta.

anyway, here's a lil bit. not quite the beginning, i guess? i dunno, i've forgotten how to do writing on the internet. be gentle.

~~~

D&D was weird.

It involved a lot of sitting around, trying to stay focused as Heather narrated at them. A lot of trying to be clever, trying to be smart. A lot of trying not to fuck up entirely.

The biggest problem with it all was that, sitting directly next to his highschool--and current--bully, it was damn hard not to feel like he was breathing wrong. Hell, Billy had shown up and rolled his eyes at Steve's presence, so he was clearly existing incorrectly, too.

"Alright, you've made your way from the college library to the very outskirts of the city," Heather said, eyes scanning her notes, while her arms made wide, sweeping gestures. "Almost an hour on horseback through the busy, winding streets. There are no street signs directing, but you see a path breaking away from the main road, and disappearing into the trees. The path is dense and quiet and dark."

"Is it weirdly quiet?" Steve asked, then shrank a little as Billy whipped his head around to glare at him.

But Heather just looked a little proud. "Yes! The sounds of the city have disappeared, but it's that same oppressive quiet that you rode through on your way to the city. Musty and still and quiet."

"Do I notice the same thing?" Robin asked.

"Go ahead and roll…" Heather tilted her head back and forth as she thought about it, "Gimme a nature check real quick."

Robin eagerly rolled her die, and then groaned. "That's a seven."

Heather chuckled. "You don't notice shit," she joked, but her smile was teasing. He liked that about her, the way she could ease tension and soften failure. She was easygoing and kind, just about the only person he'd trust his best friend to. "No, you don't notice anything out of the ordinary. The wood has grown so dead, and quiet so steadily that you haven't even noticed it happening."

Robin made a face, and scribbled that down. "I don't like that one bit," she muttered.

"As you make your way through, you come to a small clearing, and in the middle of it stands an ancient temple," Heather said, hands still weaving the story out in front of her laptop screen. "It's small and crumbling, but the thick vines and moss-covered roots that cover the intricately carved stonework looks like the only thing holding it upright. This is the home of Ash, the cleric. And, Billy, why don't you introduce yourself."

At his shoulder, Billy straightened up a little. "A tall tiefling steps out of the door as you ride up." Steve very carefully didn't laugh at Billy making his character tall. "He is a mottled grey-brown color, almost like tree bark, and his dark hair is pushed back away from his face. He has horns pushing out of his forehead that curl back over his head. He's wearing old, but sturdy leather armor, decorated with oak leaves, the symbol of Silvanus. He's carrying his wooden maul, and he looks very angry."

"Great, who does he see riding up?" Heather asked, turning her attention back to him and Robin. "Althea?"

She nodded, eagerly. "On the first horse, you see the elf that you've been dealing with. She's got her hair braided back, and she's wearing the dark robes of the college, with the crest on the front. You don't see any weapons on her, but she has several books strapped behind her."

Heather smiled, sweetly, and Steve had to wonder just how often they'd get distracted flirting in the middle of a game. But then Heather looked at him, expectantly, "Ront?"

Right, fuck. He shoulda probably thought ahead while he had the chance. "Uh, following behind her, you see a large half-orc, about seven feet tall. He's wearing just simple clothes, no armor of any kind. He has a carved, wooden amulet of a hawk, hanging around his neck, and a battleaxe strapped to his back."

"Perfect!" Heather clapped her hands together, excitedly. "And our party has gathered! Althea and Ront, you arrive in the clearing surrounding the temple of Silvanus. It is late afternoon, the forest around you beginning to cool as evening draws closer. Ash steps out to greet you, and--"

"And walks forward toward them, very annoyed, like he's been waiting. And he says, ah, she finally leaves her tower to visit the peasants," Billy greeted in a gentle accent, almost Irish, maybe. He gave Robin a mean grin.

"Shut up, I finally have something helpful," she snapped, going for haughty and posh. "The village of Oakville--"

"Oak Pointe," Steve corrected.

"--was wiped out," she finished, unperturbed. "Only one villager survived."

"And how is he useful?" Billy asked, and Steve got the feeling he wasn't exactly in character.

"First, he's the only living person who has seen how these monsters operate," she reasoned, just as annoyed.

Billy turned his sharp gaze toward Steve, and it cut just as deep as his words. "And why are you so important to all this?" he asked, in a mocking tone. "Why not run for the lawmen in their castle? Why go to the librarian?"

"My entire village is gone," he said, slowly. "Everyone I have ever known, just gone. My family, my friends, everyone. If I can stop this from happening to others, I'm going to. Guards with swords didn't do a damn thing to help when this all started, they won't help now."

Billy--Ash, whatever--gave him a long look. Not impressed, definitely not, but maybe surprised. "Then why didn't you come sooner?"

"I had to be sure they really were dead, and that I wasn't sick. It spreads so fast, I needed to wait it out," he reasoned. "Someone brought that death to my home. I wasn't going to risk bringing it here."

Billy studied him for another long moment, expression a little more searching than judgemental. But finally he nodded. Maybe not acceptance, yet, but close. "And you, why are you finally here?" he asked and rolled his gaze toward Robin. “I have been sending my concerns for months, and you and your books have ignored me at every turn. So why are you finally here? We could have made so much more headway if you hadn't waited for a witness.”

“Because I might have finally found a clue," she said, triumphantly, expression a little more fiery than she'd worn the week before. "And I'm gonna open up the book to the weird pictures and things that I've been working on."

"What is this?"

"A book I'm trying to translate," she said, jamming her finger against the page as if she had an ancient book in her lap. "I have yet to get very far into it, but it speaks of a temple, deep in the Rootwood," Robin said. "And monsters like the ones we've been hearing stories of. And then I wanna explain the--well, everything that you gave me, so here," she added and handed over her notes. "I'm gonna explain all of that."

"And once she's explained it all, I wanna see if anything she's said fills in any gaps in what I've already learned," Billy said, absently, as he scanned the notes and scribbled notes into his book. "Or, like, if I can piece anything new together from all this."

"Great, whenever you're done reading, roll a history check," she said, and turned back to Robin. "Are you telling him everything?"

Robin smirked, "Of course not! I don't trust him, so I'm only giving him what I've gathered from the book, not the scrolls I've been using to translate it." As Billy glared at her, she held up another set of notes as proof.

Heather had been good about that, helping them figure out what their characters would know about the world that she'd created for them. Gave them pages of more and text for them to use. Steve had his own print out and the notes he'd taken as Robin had explained everything she'd learned, and he pulled it out to follow along. Or, rather, he intended to. Heather beat him to the punch.

"While they begin to compare notes, what's Ront doing?" she asked, easily.

He blinked, felt his cheeks go hot. "Uh, Ront is just looking around the temple."

"Meandering?"

He shrugged a little, "Exploring."

"Poking things?" Heather suggested, innocently.

He saw Billy pull a face, and walked himself back a little. "Only stuff that doesn't look breakable."

Heather narrowed her eyes, lips quirking up in amusement. "Roll a--hm, roll an investigation check for me, please."

"No," Billy said, firmly.

She gave him a wicked look, "Yes."

And Ront's intelligence score had a pretty little negative one above it. Which meant he was pretty dumb. Which meant Heather wanted to cause a little trouble. Meant she was going to let him have fun in order to terrorize Billy a little bit. Get a smidge of revenge for all the shit he's spewed the week before. Which, honestly, Steve could really get behind.

So he hoped, and he prayed--just a little--and threw the die into the little tray in front of him. The math wasn't too hard, thankfully, despite the distracting groan from Billy and snickers from Robin. It was a perfect roll, really. Better than anything he could have hoped for.

But, fuck, it was so hard to keep from breaking, to keep from laughing loud enough to wake the neighbors, that his eyes threatened to water. At his side, Billy had already slouched back against the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Calmly, he folded his hands in his lap, and gave Heather a serene smile. "Zero."

[thesixthstar]

Primes, character(s) of your choice

I'm gonna answer these for whichever character(s) I have the most interesting/relevant answers for:

2. Do they consider themselves an optimist? Pessimist? Realist? What are they like in actuality?

Nydra (drow moon cleric) is optimistic pretty much as part of her religion/is part of her religion because she is optimistic. She wants to believe the best of everyone and give everyone as many second chances as is practially possible

3. How do they carry themselves around strangers? Friends/Lovers? Family?

I'm not the *best* at roleplaying personalities vastly different from my own, so most of my characters, when they're around friends act as silly and rambly as I tend to be around my own friends. The main exception to this is HILDA (pissed off robot), who is the most different-from-myself character I've ever played, despite falling very firmly into the universal law of "DND is about projection". She is extraordinarily blunt, and always says things with as few words as possible. She's not comfortable with many people, but with those people, she's way more willing and able to admit she's not 100% confident and correct in her life philosophy, as opposed to the rest of the time, where she's not willing to entertain the idea that someone else might be right....

5. How does your character express they’re comfortable?

Leanora (chaotic stupid rogue) stops trying to impress people when she's comfortable. This is when all her worst ideas get to see the light of day.

7. How impulsive is your character?

As mentioned a moment ago, Leanora is a factory of the worst ideas you could possibly imagine. She doesn't just do stupid things without consulting the party usually (bc that can be a very un-fun table dynamic) but this is the character who goes to the local magic school, and buys the student's not-quite-right-but-not-disastrously-failed potions homework. This has resulted in hilarity and messes and she's been turned to stone by one of them.

11. How does your character blow off steam?

HILDA is definitely the character with the most steam to blow off, being filled with existential dread and rage at all times as she is. While she is in denial about a lot of it, you can really see a lot of that being expressed in incredible violence! There's a lot of grenades to be thrown, and a lot of uhhhhh needless cruelty in how she deals with organic life forms.

M'artha Stu'art, another half elf rogue, whose character concept is "housewife who finally fucking lost it and ran off to become an adventurer" also likes to indulge in violence, but also she does a lot of stress baking! Luckily her campaign setting involves a lot of access to ovens, so a lot of times she'll provide the party with delicious pies and cookies.

13. If they were a body of water, what would they be?

Nydra would be a lake, I think.

17. Does your character swear? What’s their favorite phrase/word?

Leanora has lots of reasons to go "oh sit. fuckfuckfuck noooooo" a lot.

19. How does your character act when they want to seem threatening?

HILDA goes with brute violence and a lot of looming over people. The rest of my characters tend go for leverage rather than "threats of bodily harm" when they need to intimidate, partly because I don't tend to play beefy lads (or beefy non lads).

23. Would your character want to be famous? Why or why not?

The only character I have that might want to be famous is my recently-created tiefling bard, Disco.

29. What does your character have too much of?

HILDA canonically has an endless supply of grenades. This may be too many.

31. Can your character visualize actual concepts in their head? Or are they just vague thoughts?

I personally really struggle to literally visualize images, and can't relate to people who can, so all my characters are like that too lol

37. What are some ways your character acts silly?

Leanora is trying to establish folklore about a minor god(dess) of soup. Any time the party is sleeping at an inn, she'll "spread the good word", especially if the inn serves a really good soup or stew.

Mercy (idiot Changeling sorcerer traveling with an evil party) will prank the warlock, by placing little toy spiders everywhere

41. What’s a texture/sound your character cannot stand?

I have misophonia and therefore so do all my characters. Disco hates anything dirty or slimy.

43. Is your character good at apologizing? Why or why not?

HILDA will never admit she has done anything wrong. Ever. Leanora will nope right out of the consequences of her actions mostly (or try to solve them by usually making a bigger problem).

Nydra can get a little single-track-mind, and when she realizes this in retrospect, she's usually OK about apologizing.

47. Do they consider themselves funny? How do they use humor?

Leanora truly uses humor as a defense mechanism. This is because DND Is About Projecting.

HILDA usually claims that humor is a stupid things that humans do, but when she occasionally has a zinger to contribute, she considers herself a comedic genius.

53. What does freedom mean to them?

One of Leanora's base ideals is freedom, in the sense of not letting anyone tell you jack shit about yourself. Her backstory is not Full Tragedy, but it involves a lot of her mentor and her social circle kind of telling her "this is how the world is, and this is how you need to act to live in it, and the fact that you're here means you're this kind of person", and the reason she's an adventurer is to prove to herself that it isn't true.

59. What’s something your character has realized?

We stopped playing this campaign shortly before HILDA actually realized this, but she was about to realize that, not only is gender fake even in general, but she's literally a robot and it doesn't even make sense for her to have a gender, she was just programmed with "female" as part of the concept of her existence. Her name is also uhhh, not a name. Its an acronym that stands for Household Integrated Live-in Domestic Assistant, and there are millions of HILDA units out there. The realization that she doesn't even have a name just a designated label, its like a toaster coming to life and continuing to just be called "toaster". The realization that she had been using a human designation that quite literally objectifies her, and the idea that this weird notion of gender had been foisted upon her without any input of her own and she had just gone with it without questioning that until now. That realization was gonna be a doozy.

I did not intend for HILDA to be this, but she accidentally became a way for me to look at my own agender feels. I really wish I had gotten to play more of that campaign for a number of reasons, but this is one of em. I also did a little bit of Agender Feels with Mercy the changeling sorcerer, but its less intrinsic to her character.

61. Who do they go to when they’ve had a nightmare?

It's cliche, but Nydra prays. Lately, though, the moon might be Fake, so she's not sure really where to go with things like that at the moment.

67. Selflessness or Self-Preservation?

Nydra is all about selflessness, and kind of struggles when she has to think of herself first, even when it means she's preserving herself so she can do More Good later. she's the asshole in the trolley problem who throws herself in front of the trolley to stop it, though she knows thats kind of also a flaw a lot of the time.

HILDA and Mercy are 100% self preservation, and M'artha is like 65% self preservation at least.

Leanora is very "por que no los dos" about everything, and tries to loophole her way into a Both answer whenever possible.

[timeforelfnonsense]

Daffodil

Astarion x Dafni

Fluff

Dafni is a spring fey eladrine as a point of clarity! I might add some Astarion perspective later if I feel like it but this was mostly to get a cute fluffy idea out on paper. I made a big post about the symbolism and significance of daffodils if you are interested. N'Tel'Que'Tethira: City dweller/city elf

The ground squashed under her boots. Dafni took in a deep inhale, letting the crisp air fill her lungs. She ran her fingertips absentmindedly along the trunk of a tree. While the future was uncertain she could at least find solace in the familiarity of the wilds. The Lylarth Forest felt like a distant memory after the troubling events of the past day. Had she not let her wanderlust get the best of her she would never have been in the city and perhaps this whole mess could have been avoided. Still, she could not bring herself to regret the choices that brought her to Baldur’s Gate. Though she had only been there for a short while she felt in her heart she was making Corellon Larethina proud of her work. 

“This seems like a good place to make camp.” She announced, “We were able to acquire some basic supplies from the grove. It isn’t much but I’m sure we will get by!”

Her newfound companions all wandered off into the little clearing. Some, with a polite word others in total silence. She let her breath out in a huff. Why were people so afraid of their feelings on this plane? She had expected tears, anger, perhaps optimism from at least one of them. Yet, she was met with only silent indifference.  She watched them all settle in. All but one. Astarion, the high elf who had introduced himself to her with a knife to the throat. Not that she held that against him. Holding grudges or harboring negative feelings was simply not in her nature. How was he to know she wasn’t with their captors. 

“Pardon, Ah -“ Astarion paused,  “Daffodil, was it?” 

“Dafni.” She corrected with a snort. 

“Apologize.” 

A shiver ran down her spine. He oozed charm and dignity but something about him felt dark. He reminded her a bit of the wicked fey of her homeland. Beguiling creatures who hid their dangers behind honeyed words and otherworldly beauty. This should have frightened her but she found herself rather intrigued instead. Spring eladrin were creatures of curiosity and Astarion provided her with plenty to be curious about.  

“No harm done.” She assured with a smile.

“So, we’re resting here? Turning in for the night?” His voice wavered a bit on the edges of his inquiry. His lovely, angular face was damn near sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. 

She’d taken notice of that habit- So far the only tell of his she could pin down. He always seemed to be on guard. His ruby-red eyes darting into every passing shadow when he thought no one was watching.  She wondered what he was looking out for in the inky darkness of the trees… It would be best however to quell her nosier impulses for the time being. 

“Have you never slept in the woods before?” She tried to swallow the giggle but it slipped out despite her best effort. “I’m sorry!”

She knew it wasn’t polite for her to laugh at his discomfort, but the idea of an elf turning their nose up at seeking refuge in the wilds was quite amusing to her. She had known nothing else until she had arrived in the city. Her youth had been spent in the enchanted glens and gardens of the land of faerie and her wood elf kin in the Lylarth Forest were also of the mind that stone walls and mighty towers were of little worth. 

“It’s all a little new to me, I admit.” He shrugged, “Curling up in the dirt and resting is… a little novel.”

“So you are N'Tel'Que'Tethira then?” She squeaked as she clapped a hand over her mouth, “Seldarine! My mouth! I hope I didn’t offend you. I know some elves in the city thought I was asserting some kind of superiority- coming from the wilds and all. I don’t think that of course!” 

“Oh, no offense was taken.” His tone was teasing with no hint of resentment. “However, I do recall you saying you were Baldurian as well?”

“Only recently!” She explained, “I live in the lower city, serving refugees as a healer mostly. I lived with the wood elves of Lylarth Forest on Gwynneth before that.”

“Wood elves? How charming. ” He raised a brow to her before flashing a dazzling grin. “Though I hardly think it’s fair for such a lovely creature to be hidden away in the wilderness.”  

She cast her eyes to her boots and chewed her lip. She felt her heart skip a beat or two in response to his flattery. A blush warmed her freckled cheeks. White flowers with peachy cups began to bloom in her blush curls. Daffodils. 

“Well is there anything I could do to make you more comfortable?” She asked as she prayed he would somehow not take notice of her little display, “I can make you an herbal tea to help you relax if you’d like?”

“Ah- no, tea isn’t really my drink.” The whisper of a sly smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be awake awhile anyway. I need some time to think things through. To process this.”

 He gestured to his temple. Reminding her of the rather dangerous predicament they had found themselves in. Things were dire to be sure but she felt in her heart they were far from hopeless. 

“Would you like some company? I don’t mind staying up for a bit.” 

“Oh no, darling.” He gave her a soft pat on the head, plucking a flower free. She watched transfixed as he rolled the steam between his fingers before bringing it to his nose. “You rest. I’ll keep watch.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Astarion. If you change your mind about the company you need only ask. I’ll be up for a while anyway. I want to make sure everyone is taken care of and set for the evening.”  

“Of course. Sweet dreams, Daffodil.” 

[jawsofhakkontranscript]

On Ameridan's Trail

(Previous quest - What Yet Lingers: Return to Kenric)

Main questline: On Ameridan’s Trail

Characters involved: Bram Kenric, Lace Harding

A spirit - in the guise of Inquisitor Ameridan's lover, Telana - revealed that Ameridan travelled upriver.

Part 1: Follow the river and look for spires. Follow the spire path to an ancient ruin.

(The Tevinter ruin can be seen in the distance.)

Party comments:

Varric: Well, we're up the river. That old Tevinter building must be what the spirit meant.

Sera: So. River, metal—just like the friendly spirit said. Great.

Cole: Yes. Upriver, spires, a place to pray and plan, one last night. This is it.

Solas: This must be the area the spirit referred to.

(Approach the ruin. It’s guarded by a large group of Hakkonites.)

Party comments:

Dorian: It seems the Jaws of Hakkon would rather we weren’t here.

Blackwall: Look's like we've stumbled on what they don't want found.

Cassandra: The Jaws of Hakkon must be guarding this place for a reason.

Iron Bull: We found something they don't want found.

(Defeat the Hakkonites and enter Razikale’s Reach.)

(Dorian has a unique comment about each Tevinter ruin. Here’s what he has to say about Razikale’s Reach.)

Dorian: Makes you wonder about the sad, mid-level bureaucrat who thought building an outpost here would be a career boost.

Part 2: Wait for Harding and Kenric to arrive. Investigate the area.

Kenric: This is brilliant! This must be what the spirit meant. Excellent find! From what I can see, this is an ancillary station, likely a scouting post for the larger structure to the east. What can it tell us about where Inquisitor Ameridan went? Hmm…

Harding: I got Professor Kenric here safely. The rest is up to you.

Kenric: Lady Harding was quite nimble in the wilderness!

Harding: I'll be watching to make sure the Hakkonites don't come back.

(Enter the main courtyard. There are strange tiles on the ground.)

Kenric: This is Tevinter, from well before the last Inquisitor's time. I understand they used such tiles as locks. Interesting, though not likely related to Ameridan.

(There are two closed doors on your right and left. In front of each door, there’s a smaller tileset, similar to the one in the center of the courtyard. They show two patterns.)

Kenric: I believe that shape relates to the tiles. If you could replicate the shape in the tiles, something... would happen?

(Once you press the tiles in the correct order, replicating the pattern visible in the smaller tileset, the corresponding doors open. Kenric has an additional remark after both doors have been opened.)

Kenric: Brilliant! Look at that!

(The following remarks appear to have been cut from the game, but they can still be found in the voice file connected to this questline. They might’ve been intended to occur during the investigation of the outskirts of Razikale’s Reach.)

* Kenric: Hmm, Dalish. Of course, modern clans often carry heirlooms—it may be from a Dalish clan passing through.

* Kenric: I've heard of such illuminations but only encountered drawings. Elven or the common tongue? It's not quite legible.

* Kenric: An Orlesian buckle. Unlikely to have been dropped by ancient Tevinters, wouldn't you say?

PC: Is this useful?

Kenric: (Laughs.) Merely interesting.

PC: That's... good?

(Continue exploring the ruin. One of the chambers is guarded by a magical barrier.)

Part 3: Find a way to take down the barrier.

(Investigate the inscription on the left side of the barrier.)

Kenric: This is elven. I believe it's the word for "light."

(Investigate the inscription on the right side of the barrier.)

Kenric: "Theneras." The elven word for "dream," I think.

Kenric: It's some sort of clue to this barrier. I'm not sure how…

(Find a veilfire source on the battlements. Use it to dispel the barrier.)

Part 4: Explore the chamber.

Kenric: Oh, well done. Well done, indeed.

Harding: That's something you don't see every day.

Kenric: A pair of shrines. This one is clearly Andrastian, albeit from a very early period, likely pre-Divine. But this is elven. One of their gods. Um, what was it...? "Every mother finds druffalo among sleeping juniper groves..." G-something, the one with the deer.

[1] Dialogue options:

Investigate: Every mother finds what? [2]

Special: That sentence is incomplete. [3] (Becomes available after following the dialogue branch [2] “Every mother finds what?”)

Elf: Ghilan'nain. [4]

History: Ghilan'nain. [5]

Special: Solas? [6]

Special: Sera? [7]

General: Focus, Kenric. [8]

[2] Investigate: Every mother finds what?

PC: What was that, every mother finds druffalo?

Kenric: Oh, it's, um, a memory aid to help me with the names of the elven gods. "Every" is Elgar'nan, "mother" is Mythal, "finds" is Fallow-something… (Coughs.) I was more focused on early Chantry history. I didn't really do elves. [Back to 1]

[3] Special: That sentence is incomplete.

PC: Are you sure that your memory aid caught all the elven gods?

Kenric: Well, there's only one "F", for Falon'Din. I suppose I forgot Fen'Harel.

(If Solas is in the party.) Solas: Most people do.

Kenric: This isn't him, though. It's one of the ladies, ah, obviously. G-something… [Back to 1]

[4] Elf: Ghilan'nain.

PC: That would be Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla. [9]

[5] History: Ghilan'nain.

PC: That would be Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla. [9]

[6] Special: Solas?

PC: (Looks expectantly at Solas.)

Solas: (Sighs.) Ghilan'nain. [9]

[7] Special: Sera?

PC: Sera, I don't suppose...?

Sera: I know things. It's Ghilan'nain. Ghilan'nain. Arse. [9]

[8] General: Focus, Kenric.

PC: Unless the deer points us at the final resting place of Inquisitor Ameridan, we can probably leave it for now.

Kenric: Right. Regardless of the deity, this is clearly elven. [Go straight to 10]

[9] Kenric: Yes, brilliant, thank you! That would have bothered me all day. [10]

[10] Harding: Two shrines for two lovers: Inquisitor Ameridan and Telana. Maybe Telana was an elf.

Kenric: Oh, yes, that's good! The Chantry expunged references to elves before the Exalted March on the Dales. They erased the Canticle of Shartan. They must have done the same to Telana. [11]

[11] Dialogue options:

General: That's offensive. [12]

General: That's normal. [13]

General: Is this where Ameridan died? [14]

[12] General: That's offensive.

PC: The Chantry should not rewrite history to cover up inconvenient truths.

Party comments:

Cassandra: Agreed. The Chant of Light should spread the truth, not suppress it.

Kenric: Regardless, the important thing is what this tells us. It's not a burial site, that much is obvious. [15]

[13] General: That's normal.

PC: It's only natural. History is written by the victor, after all.

Party comments:

Cassandra: Natural, perhaps. But not right.

Kenric: Regardless, the important thing is what this tells us. It's not a burial site, that much is obvious. [15]

[14] General: Is this where Ameridan died?

PC: Do you think this is where Ameridan died?

Kenric: No, this was a site of preparation, not burial. Ameridan and Telana put up this shrine together. [15]

[15] Harding: Look at those flowers. They're not native to the area. What if they were left at the shrine as an offering?

Kenric: Yes, a night of prayer before battle against the dragon. But then where, where… We're missing something. What are we missing? Where did you go?

Part 5: Look for more clues.

(Activate one of the veilfire runes in the chamber.)

PC: Professor, look at this: "Shartan 10:7" and "Transfigurations 10:1."

Kenric: Shartan is dissonant: "And before them, empty, outstretched lay the land which led to the gates of Minrathous." And Transfigurations is, "The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world." Why these verses? Why would Inquisitor Ameridan take the time to carve this before going into battle?

(Activate the other veilfire rune.)

PC: "The gates of Minrathous." Isn't there a Tevinter fortress in the area?

Kenric: Yes? ...Oh, of course, the ritual site! To seal the dragon away, Ameridan's elven mage must have used a spell, at a site of great power!

Harding: My scouts have checked the fortress. It's sealed behind a wall of ice. It has to be magic.

PC: Let's look around. Ameridan found a way through that ice, so that way should be nearby.

Part 6: Activate a trail marker.

PC: "The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next."

Kenric: Brilliant! When the Imperium abandoned this fortress, they left the wall of ice to—to... lock the door behind them?

Harding: And every lock has a key.

Kenric: Like these trail markers. Ameridan must have known how to use them. If they can melt through the ice, that must be where Ameridan sealed away the dragon.

PC: I'll follow the markers and see what we can find.

Part 7: Light all of the trail markers.

(Leave the temple and follow the trail of light across the Frostback Basin.)

Party comments when you activate the first trail marker in the forest:

First comment:

Cassandra: Are we certain these trail markers will burn through this wall of ice around the fortress?

Blackwall: Let's hope these trail markers can breach the wall of ice around the fortress.

Iron Bull: We sure these things will burn through the magical ice?

(If no companion makes a comment here.)

PC: Hopefully this removes the wall of ice around the Tevinter fortress.

Possible second comment:

Dorian: As long as the trail markers are still functional, we should be fine.

Vivienne: At least the trail markers appear to be functional.

Solas: Given that the trail markers retain enough energy to illuminate one another, I see no reason to worry.

Possible third comment:

Sera: No ice, still a wall. What about that?

Cole: But there's still a wall. Light doesn't make walls go away.

Varric: You think these things will get us through that giant fortress wall?

(After activating the third marker, you’ll have to cross the river by foot, which causes your companions to voice their dissatisfaction.)

Party comments:

Sera: Ugh, water everywhere. Everything is dank and chafy.

Dorian: Are we wading now? I'm so glad I came along.

Vivienne: It appears we shall be reduced to wading. Lovely.

Iron Bull: Looks like we're wading.

(If Varric is in the party, he always speaks at the end.) Varric: I don't know what you're complaining about. You're taller than I am.

(The path from the sixth to seventh trail marker is destroyed, so you’ll have to take a detour.)

Party comments:

Sera: The road is not a road anymore. Find another way, yeah?

Varric: 800 years is a long time to expect a path to stay pristine. We'll have to find another way.

Iron Bull: Rockslide took out the path. We'll have to go around.

Cassandra: The path is gone. We must find another way around.

Solas: The path has been destroyed. We will need to find another way.

Blackwall: With the path destroyed, we'll have to find another way around.

(Activate the ninth trail marker - one before the last.)

Party comments:

Cassandra: We are almost to the fortress.

Iron Bull: Not far to that old Vint fortress now.

Blackwall: That Tevinter fortress shouldn't be much further.

(The trail markers lead to the Old Temple where the Jaws of Hakkon burrowed in.)

(Dorian has a unique comment about each Tevinter ruin. Here’s what he has to say about the Old Temple.)

Dorian: Tevinter architecture at its finest. This just screams "I hated my parents and had no friends as a child," doesn't it?

(Activate the last marker and dissolve the magical wall of ice. You may attempt to attack the Hakkonites defending the battlements, but they’ll just keep coming and one of the male Hakkonites will mock your efforts.)

Hakkonite taunts:

Your gods are weak, Inquisitor! You will see the power of Hakkon when we destroy the lowlands! Can your lowland magic melt stone as well as ice?

Will you stay and wait, lowland fools? The walls are stone. They will not melt! (Laughs.)

The Jaws of Hakkon can hold this fortress until the winter snaps your bones!

The Jaws of Hakkon will bring death to you all!

Will you bring an army to breach these walls? We will destroy you all!

Your mother was a nug and your father smelled of elfroot!

Party comments:

Solas: This fortress is too well-fortified for a direct assault! We must find some other way inside! Perhaps Kenric will have a suggestion! (Or) Perhaps the Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold will have a suggestion!

Dorian: I don't see us breaching these walls. Could we try something else? Perhaps Kenric will have a suggestion! (Or) Perhaps our new friends at Stone-Bear Hold will have some ideas!

Cassandra: The fortress is too well-defended! We must find another way in! Perhaps Kenric will have some idea! (Or) The Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold may have ideas!

Blackwall: We cannot take this fortress in a direct assault. We must find another way! Perhaps Kenric will know something! (Or) The Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold have no love for these Hakkonites! They may have an idea!

Sera: Up the front isn't working. Find a different hole! (Laughs) I hate other people's arrows! Tell Kenric this won't work! (Or) We need friends! The Stone-Bears hate this lot—get them!

Varric: I don't think we're taking this fortress with a direct assault! Can we talk about it with Kenric maybe, somewhere we aren't being shot at? (Or) Anybody got a better idea? The Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold might have some ideas!

Iron Bull: No way we take this place by force! We need another plan! Maybe Kenric can tell us something! (Or) What about Stone-Bear Hold? Anybody can get in, it'll be them!

Cole: Too strong, too many! We need a different way! Kenric sent us here! He can send us somewhere else! (Or) The Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold! They want to help!

Vivienne: We are ill-equipped for a siege, my dear! Perhaps a change of tactics? Perhaps Kenric will have a suggestion! (Or) Our new friends at Stone-Bear Hold may be of some use!

(In case you have come across the Old Temple prior to this questline, you’ll still find it protected by a wall of ice, but with no clues how to dispel it, so you might hear some comments from your companions.)

Party comments:

Dorian: A wall of ice. Lovely. I don't see any way through for now.

Sera: Well. Not your normal... giant wall of ice. Maybe leave it alone?

Solas: This wall is magical in nature. Curious, though I see no way through at the moment.

Vivienne: This is obviously magical, and just as obviously impassable for now.

(Report back to Kenric after you took care of the ice-wall.)

General: I disabled the fortress wards.

PC: I used the trail markers to disable the wards on the Tevinter fortress. Unfortunately, the Jaws of Hakkon hold the fortress.

Kenric: The Hakkonites? Oh dear. That's going to make it difficult to study the area. Lady Harding discussed the other Avvar. They haven't been hostile. Do you think they might help? I'm sorry I don't have anything more useful. I like battles when they've been over for a few ages.

(Go to Stone-Bear and plan the assault with Professor Kenric and Svarah Sun-Hair.)

(Next quest - Ameridan's End: Assault the Jaws of Hakkon)

[honest-tree]

Legolas x fem!Reader ~Lemon Verbena Tea pt.3

A/n: Figured I may as well post this now. Hope you like it ❤

Warnings: Blood, non-graphic injury

Words: 898

Over the next few months, Legolas would regularly visit Y/n with the same excuse that he liked the tea better fresh, and she was his only source. 

Echuihel had her suspicions that there was a relationship growing between the prince and her friend but eventually decided that it was of none her business. She was just glad Y/n had someone to visit her more often. 

Y/n had also started to go into the palace more often to deliver her herbs. Echuihel had asked her why she began to visit more all of a sudden.

"I'm more than willing to come to you... unless there's something else you come for? Or maybe someone?" The healer smirked at her suggestion. 

"No! It's not like that!" Y/n looked away from the knowing eyes of her friend. Y/n was just so fun to tease. She made it too easy. "I get bored all alone in the forest." She looked back at Echuihel. "I just wanted to visit you more often."

"Whatever you say, I'm just glad you're here. I missed you." 

--------------

This was the third time just this month that Legolas had gone to visit Y/n. There was still something so alluring about her that pulled him in over and over.

As he walked to her cabin, he made up his mind to talk with her about what they were becoming.  Some of the more gossipy elves were beginning to question who the prince was visiting in the forest. He wanted to squash the rumors, but they were partially correct on his part, at least.

By this point, he had traveled to her garden so often that he knew the path by memory. So when he saw something that didn't belong, it quickly got his attention.

The basket Y/n used to carry her herbs in was lying haphazardly just off of the trail. When Legolas moved off of the path to pick it up, thinking she dropped it by accident, he found a small amount of blood not far away.

Y/n often cut herself while caring for her plants, so at first, he wasn't all that worried. But when he looked at the foliage near where the basket was sitting, he saw signs of a struggle. There were snapped tree limbs, kicked up dirt, and more blood. 

This caused Legolas to go into a panic. There were many dangers in the woods surrounding the palace, and it wasn't hard for him to conjure up ideas of what could have happened to the gardener he had grown to care for. 

Following the trail left from the scuffle led him further into the forest. He made out evidence of multiple large male creatures and one small female elf. Every broken twig and spot of kicked up dirt was accompanied with a concerning amount of blood. 

Legolas prayed to every heavenly being he could think of that Y/n is still alive. While also planing the torturous death of any who dared to hurt her. 

His panic is peaked when he spotted a familiar worn cloak ahead of him. He rushed forward and found Y/n with a gaping head wound and already forming bruises littering what he could see of her body.

The prince dropped to his knees next to her. Y/n turned her head in an attempt to look up at him. She looked like she was trying to say something, but all that came out was a hoarse rasp. 

He looked over to assess her injuries and found enough to make him boil in rage. The cut on her head was the worst out of all.

Legolas knew he had to hurry. Head wounds could be deadly if not attended to quickly. Carefully he began to run in the direction of the palace. Silently cursing himself for not being able to move faster.

"Who did this to you?" His voice shook with the amount of emotion rushing through him. Whoever did this would pay.

Legolas could feel Y/n's hand grip his shirt. Finally leaving the forest, he glanced down at her. He almost tripped in shock when he saw the tears rolling down her cheeks. 

But before he could pursue an answer, he made it to the palace gates. When the guards saw him running with a figure in his arms, they quickly opened the gates for him. Giving him questioning looks as he ran past into the palace and towards the healer's rooms.

"Echuihel! It's Y/n!" He set Y/n down on the nearest cot as the healer ran to the aid of her friend.

She gasped at the sight of blood covering the elf. Recovering from her shock, she moved quickly to begin the healing process. Shouting commands to any healers nearby to bring anything necessary. 

Legolas was escorted from the room by an apprentice healer. He said nothing as he walked down the hallway and towards the nearby room set aside for waiting on the healers. 

Collapsing in a chair, he felt all of his worries crash upon him. What if he hadn't gotten there in time? Was he even in time? Would the healers be able to save her? What if she didn't make it? 

No, he refused to consider the possibility. Y/n would make it. 

[c-is-for-circinate]

“What the Fuck is Up with the Elves” (or, more worldbuilding for C’s D&D game)

So the thing is, I call myself an ecologist, and I am, really, or at least I’ve been working as one when I’m not working as a general all-math-and-science teacher for the past ten years.  But that’s not, quite, technically, what my degrees are in.  Technically, as per my master’s thesis, I’m an evolutionary biologist.

Which means that when I run a D&D game?  We start from a place of hominid evolution.

Gnomes and dwarves evolved on the continent of Nokomoris, where most of our game takes place.  Some 50,000 years ago, humans came up out of the neighboring continent (which has a dozen different names, but we can call it Kekiris, that’s as accurate as any) and joined them, and together the three races learned to master fire and metalwork and gods and demons and the four Great Schools and the two Minor Schools of arcane magic (for those were the days before the elves, before the discovery of abjuration, when it was thought that only the gods could conjure and transmutation was limited to minor tricks and divine crafts).

Elves, and their cousins the orcs (though no elf alive today would admit that they are cousins in truth, and the orcs themselves have all but forgotten it) evolved side by side on the continent of Priyl, a fifteenth the size of Nokomoris and isolated in the middle of the ocean, beset by storms and reefs on all sides.

Well.  The elves of the Ascendancy call it Priyl, and so does everybody else, these days, in respect to them.  The orcs and half-orcs remember that it was Getirka, and still is to those of their brethren still living there.  The people of Nokomoris have all but forgotten the days when they called it Thidoris, when it was nothing more than a myth.

(There are other continents, beyond those three, of course--but time enough for that later.  Nobody on Nokomoris remembers the continent of Calladia these days, and that might be for the best, for now.  But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.)

Six and a half thousand years ago, the continent of Priyl, called Getirka by the orcs and Thidoris by the gnomes and humans and dwarves, disappeared from the ocean.  Five hundred and twelve years it appeared again.  And that was enough to change the world.

.

Priyl, then, because we’re talking about elves.  Priyl is such a small continent, really, surrounded by such very storm-like oceans, full of so much desert and so many mountains and so very, very many things with sharp teeth and venom spines.  The spiders and snakes can kill a beast a thousand times their size.  The fish on the reef around the continent, who look like stone or coral or sand or squirming tentacle-beasts, have spines and teeth with venom that can kill ten times faster than that.

Half of Priyl is worn thin between planes, or at least it was so many hundreds of thousands of years ago, when lithe thin agile elf-ancestors took to the trees and the mountains to run from their fierce unstoppable orc cousins.  They were barely more than beasts themselves, either of them.  The elves were perhaps a little more clever, but perhaps they were only quicker, lighter, lither in the branches of trees.  The orcs were more determined.  They invented fire first.

Fire doesn’t mix well with trees, particularly not in the long dry drought of a Priylan summer, and the elves died, and died--and survived, some of them, always.  Through trickery and luck, some elves always survived.

And the fey noticed.

There are a thousand different ways planes can brush up against each other; a million years later, in the present day of 512 HA, the scholars of Nokomoris will have names and categories for half a dozen.  One of those is what they call a seep--a place as small as a few square yards, as huge as a dozen square miles, where two planes wear as thin as over-used linen cheesecloth next to each other, and ooze one into the other in bits and pieces and fragments of magic over years.

It’s not meant to be possible, for an entire continent to be a seep, but many things that are not meant to be possible are nonetheless true.  Priyl was thin before the elves and orcs even came to be there.  Fey roamed the lands, called them home, before they ever took forms with two legs and two arms and a face that could speak a language of people.  They noticed the thin little cousins-of-orcs fleeing through the trees, and they saw the invention of fire and the forests that burned, and a few of them decided--well.  There’s a game worth playing.

Half a million years ago, the fey taught the first True Elves about magic.  Nothing has ever been the same since.

.

Fifteen thousand years ago, when dwarves and humans and gnomes were only just learning to turn stone tools into plowshares and turn goats and sheep and aurochs into tame animals, the elves of Priyl had cities that stretched halfway to the sky.

They made war, of course, of course they did.  They waged it against each other, because nothing else was worthy of their conquest.  Ten generations of orcs could live and breed and die before an elf could even count themself arrived at adulthood.  The world beyond Priyl was strange and distant, far beyond notice or care.  The vast universe of the planes, and beyond--that drew the elven attention far more than anything on the world of Onde.

There were in those days two kinds of elves, or perhaps three, or perhaps a thousand.  In fact, perhaps the easiest way to divide the elves of that time is by how many sorts of elves they themselves believed existed.  In that case it was the three-sort elves who were correct, which makes their fate even more dark irony in the end.

They were the Day Elves, the Night Elves, and the True Million; High Elves and Bad Elves and those fuckers in the woods, I guess.  They were, according to a third of their number, the elves of Sun, Moon, and Twilight; and this is how the self-styled Moon Elves would explain the difference:

During the day, with the sun bright and desperate overhead, it is easy to believe that light and dark are opposites, the only two options.  It is easy to believe in sun and darkness and no other in-between.  It is easy to believe in Your Own and then also The Rest Of Them.  It is easy to believe in your own power.  And so the day elves, the sun elves, as silver and gold as though no other color existed in the universe, studied the foundations of their own powers and ignored all else.  They were wizards and full of magic, and they built the cities that towered to the sun, and they wrote the laws and warred each other, and they gave polite nods to the fey if they passed but they did not bow to them, for they accepted only the opposing ideas of Subservience and Mastery, and they refused to be servants.

At dawn and dusk, with all the shadows grown long and small lights flickering from every direction, it is easy to confuse lies and honesty everywhere, to lose sight of any firm reality.  It is easy to believe that nothing is quite real in the first place and anything is as good as anything else.  It is easy to believe in tricks and riddles, and to toss aside that belief a moment later, to cling to nothing but artifice and bargains and boundaries on trust.  The twilight elves, the wood elves, red and green and brown and gold and silver and white and black and gray, ran with the fey who’d once taught and married their ancient ancestors.  They were warlocks and full of trickery and half-truth, and they studied math and logic and ventured from city to city slipping in between the bounds set by the daylight elves as though they had not spotted them in the dark.  They wrote contracts and twisted reality around themselves, for they believed in everything and nothing, just like their masters, and could not see far enough to grasp the reality of anything.

At night, in clear moonlight, it is easy to see the truth: there is light, and there is dark, and there is everything in between.  There may be master and servant, and that may be firm and unchangeable, no matter how the shadows hide it--but for every servant on his knees in the dirt, there is always one more, lower still than them.  Every master lording over her servant has yet another master.

So it was that the moon elves discovered the gods.  Priyl was not a good land for gods, with the blurring of its boundaries, its fade between reality and not.  They did not often feel welcome there.  Still, in the middle of the night, with one or two or all three moons full and bright overhead, they could find their way down.  Even the fey had to be overmastered by someone.

There were three gods that the Elves of Night found, as they searched and studied and prayed, there in the moonlit dark on the continent of Priyl, where the smallest creatures were full of venom and might.  They found the queen of spiders, and the king of serpents, and the prince of fish and tentacles and uncharted depths.  The elves of the moon went to their knees and prayed.

.

In those days the elves had boats, of course.  They had not quite mastered the art of teleportation that would join their cities in the future, and they did not most of them quite care about the world beyond the boundaries of their reefs, but curiosity has always been an elven trait.  The moon-elven worshippers of the god of the sea, and the twilight adventurers whose fae patrons implored them to spread chaos and wonder, they learned to sail and venture forth.  They mapped the world of Onde while the humans and gnomes and dwarves of Nokomoris were still just learning to put stylus to clay and charcoal to tanned leather, while the humans of someday-Calladia were singing their sky-song and building empires of ritual and sound.

(Orcs invented boats first.  Orcs have been on Nokomoris for tens of thousands of years, coming few by few, interbreeding with humans until barely any sign of them was left to meet the next ship to arrive.  Few enough of them ever made it back over the reefs to return to Getirka, even before the High Elves Ascendant erected the Stormwall.  But we’re getting ahead of ourselves again.)

.

Here is the thing that every elf known on Nokomoris today will say, to anyone who asks them, about their history: 6,703 years ago, by the calendar reckoning of humans, gnomes, and dwarves, the Elven Ascendancy rose to shepherd all of the elves of Priyl, and closed the continent away from all the world to protect--

And that’s where the story will pause, because what protection could the elves ever have needed from the rest of the world?  The elves appeared in Nokomoris five hundred years, and shook the world on its foundations.  Every kingdom on Onde was tumbled before their power.

‘To protect you all from us,’ so many elves would say.  They would be correct, of course, and altogether wrong, all at once.

.

Spiders are not evil.  Neither are serpents, or stonefish, or krakens.  Neither are the gods of them.

They shed their skins, though, all at once or piece by piece.  And sometimes they demand the world do the same.  Sometimes they demanded apocalypse and rebirth.  It wasn’t such a very far stretch, really, after all.

The dark elves of black and white and gray believed in nuance as an article of faith.  They also believed in duty, and truth, and fortitude across an ever-changing night.  They believed in a lot of things.  That was, a little bit, the point.

It took a thousand years of war for the cities of Sun Elves to come together to agree, at the very last, that even should it take all their power they must see the Night Elves driven entire from the continent of Priyl.  They must see it done, and they would unite themselves to do it.  It took another century of war first, with all the united might of the Elven Cities bent against the god-worshippers, the moonlight elves with their huge pale eyes and their unglowing skin.  It could be their only salvation, before the gods of venom and rebirth called for the destruction of everything they loved and knew.

And so it was, 6,602 years ago, that all of the very most powerful wizards of the Elves of Day, the Sun Elves, high and ascendant and triumphant, joined their power as one to join nature and force and illusion all bound together in one great wall.  The Stormwall, sixteen thousand miles long, encircling all of Priyl in its arms.

(Did the Wild Elves, the twilight elves, the forest warlocks, did they help?  Oh yes, my friend.  Oh yes, of course they did, for the Sun Elves--they only ever saw two sides, don’t you remember?  Two sides, dark and light, and the twilight elves trapped on the in-between--well.  They always did know how to deal oh-so-very carefully with a master that little bit stronger than them.  So the wild elves helped, and the Stormwall--the Stormwall worked perfectly, to keep anyone outside of Priyl from venturing in.)

6,703 years ago, the Empyrean Ascendant became the very first sovereign on the seat of the Elven Ascendancy.  6,600 years ago, the elves of Priyl found peace.  More or less.

.

And what became of the moon elves, the night elves, the elves of the dark?  What became of them, and their spider-queen, serpent-king, fish-prince?

They went to Calladia, of course--though it was called Thiel then, once upon a time.  They went to Thiel-that-would-be-Callida, and Thiel found itself unmade.

There is a great deal to say of old mythical Thiel, and the lands it became and then unbecame again, and again, and again, cycling once and twice and more and more over the thousands of years between now and then.  There is a great deal to say, and some of it is about the elves that live there, and some of it is about the humans they found when they arrived, and some of it is about the changelings that sprung up between them, faceless shapeshifters learning to live just as everyone else.  Right now, in the year 512 HA, five centuries after the fall of the Storm Wall, the continent is nothing but a thousand-island archipelago.  It remembers, barely, that it was Callida nine centuries ago, and had merchant ships and commerce to the east and west, with Nokomoris and Kekiris and beyond.  It remembers being shattered to pieces in hopes of rebirth.  It does not remember that it ever was Thiel, not in the deepest dimmest history, save in the oldest of records.

There is a great deal to say, but what I will tell you now is this: the fish around the continent that once was Thiel do not sting with venom spines that kill in the space of a breath, and the tentacle-armed creatures that swim their bays are small and soft and cannot kill at all.  There is very little for the Prince of Depths to do here, little space for him to make himself known.

There are frogs here, instead.  They do not bite except ants and flies, but they glow bright, red and yellow and violet and blue.  They poison nobody except the unwary hunter who does not leave them as they sit.  (The unwary hunter, they will kill.  The wary hunter learns to use them, instead.)

They change, from fish-spawn to frog-grandmother, to eggs, to spawn again.  It’s easier to believe in the Frog Daughter (who is also the mother of all, wide-mouth frog devourer of all) than any unfamiliar lord of depths and venom.

The Frog Daughter is, perhaps, a kinder god than her predecessor-brother.  There’s some kindness in all three of the dark elves’ gods, if you know where to look.  They’re all three of them gods of transformation, and that can always be a kindness, for some.

.

And what of Priyl, then, in their absence?

The Ascendancy has held strong for six thousand years and nearly another thousand after that.  Eleven elves Ascendant, after the Empyrean, each of them chosen and sworn to the good of all before more than two centuries of life have passed them by, each of them sworn to rule for a thousand years if they can.  Each of them have made that oath, and under them the Ascendancy has flourished.

Throughout Priyl, throughout its mountains, there are the Cities of the Ascendancy, and each city is vast and towering, halfway up to the skies, and each city is within itself world and shining garden.  Each city is full of sparkling crystalline fountains and waterfalls, parks and fresh water to drink, home to a thousand sparkling silver fishes that are art and food and life all at once.  Vines climb up the dazzling towers from terrace to terrace and grow fruit and berries and grain.  Shimmering pigeons of red and purple iridescence bred for perfect accent color beauty soar between golden bridges and balustrades, and lay their eggs, and nobody in an elven city ever goes hungry.

(And what became of the twilight elves, then, when the sun elves rose up on high and claimed their world?  They retreated to shadow and stayed in the in-between, of course, just as they always have.  Their feytrap labyrinths deep in the mountains and deserts and woods of Priyl are sprawling and inescapable temples to artifice and knowledge and math, and their acolytes strike deals and take powers from their Lady Whispered and Lord Gloaming, and their children grow in the shining towers of the cities of the ascendancy and pay their dues to the elves on high.  The warlock elves, the fae-friends, the elves of the woods, they have always understood the needs of survival.  They remember the dark elves.  They remember the price of loss.  Even if the high elves themselves won’t.)

And so it was for six thousand years, until the Halcyon Ascendant rose to power, five hundred and twelve years ago.  And the Halcyon Ascendant, who was wizard and diviner, who was young and brave and as wise as she was clever, who looked into the world and saw the future--

the Halcyon Ascendant said, it is time to lower the Stormwall and venture forth to know the world.

.

Nobody knows, exactly, why the Halcyon Ascendant gave such an order.  Few elves know exactly what it cost to fulfill it.  Fewer still would ever admit it.

What is known, by everybody on Nokomoris, is this: the elves appeared on their great silver ships out of nowhere at all, five hundred years ago, and changed everything in the world.  Cities and nations rose and fell.  The elves knew magic nobody had ever heard of before.

The elves brought transmutation and conjuration and abjuration that could be studied and learned from books instead of summoned from gods and the incomprehensible overwhelming power of nature.  They brought potions and alchemy and science.  The elves brought to Nokomoris the very first teleportation circles (and Nokomoris as it is now, with the Nine Cities and their reign, could not exist without teleportation circles.)

Today, the elves live in every major city on the continent.  They live west of the mountains of the Western Wall, and in cities on the continent of Kekiris.  Always in sweeping, curving, tall shining towers, in their own elven enclaves, part of every city but not beholden to it.  Always full of wonders to sell, perhaps, if their leaders in the Ascendancy deem it proper; always rich with the wealth of their nation, which is free to all elves, and nobody else.

There are elven advisors and elven investors and elven ambassadors.  There are elven students in the universities, and professors there, as well.  There are no elven kings or governors or lords, of course there aren’t--no elf could truly be a citizen of Nokomoris, not honorably.  Every elf born is a subject of the Ascendancy. 

.

And finally, here is what the orcs know of elves.  The orcish story is their own, and long and varied and rich, the orcs of Getirka-called-Priyl and the orcs of New Gettik on Nokomoris, and it is also long, full of diaspora and resilience and art and culture and many, many thousands of generations of twins.  It is another post for another time.

But what the orcs know of elves, for they do come from the very same land, from its opposite sides, is: there are whole universes beyond what the elves consider worthy of their attention.  It’s true that no ship or desperate swimmer arrived on the continent of Getirka or Priyl for all the six thousand years that the Stormwall soared.  It is not true that no ship ever left.

The orcs say it, and the orcs know.  The orcs of New Gettik and Clure, here on Nokomoris, know it especially.  They were here before the elves arrived.  Even the rest of Nokomoris realizes that.

Every gnome, dwarf, and human on Nokomoris knows that all elves everywhere in the world belong to the Ascendancy.  Every orc knows that there are worlds below the elves’ notice, that they forget about conveniently, that they pretend not to see.  Some orcs may think to wonder whether they’ve forgotten about other elves, too.

[blarrghe]

@midnightprelude sent me the prompt “Full Moon” for some autumnal vibes like a full-on month ago and this has been floating around in my brain ever since. In my defence, it is still fall and I wrote this during Sukkot so we’re even more on theme. Yes that is why it took me so long and no other reason... Anyway, spent all of yesterday obsessed with this idea and it’s not going away. Incredibly liberal liberties are taken with the nonexistence of Dalish lore and/or holidays. Influenced in part by that one post that said that Thedas’ two moons could orbit in such a way that they’re both full in the sky during Satinalia. ---

“Solas, you coming?” The Inquisitor peered his face into his tent with an expectant smile, rousing his attentions from where they’d settled in the pages of one of Varric’s books. They weren’t much his sort of thing, these tales of simplistic crime-fighting and antagonistic partnership, but sometimes even he needed something easy to read. He tried to find some memory of whatever task he might have already agreed to which could have the Inquisitor tapping at his tent walls at dusk. The days spent cleaning up rifts and wraiths in the aftermath of Orlais’ ill-thought civil war in the Exalted Plains had drained most of his energy. 

“Coming where?” He closed the book and gave the Inquisitor a long, curious look. He seemed bright and wakeful, which shouldn’t have surprised him - he’d been in the field alongside him enough that the Inquisitor’s seemingly boundless energy wasn’t exactly new - but the smile still never failed to confound him. This grey and harsh world shouldn’t have been able to produce such a lively spirit, but not only had it done so, Taren Lavellan was not even the only one. 

“Is he coming, boss?” Solas heard the Iron Bull call out from some distance behind his tent, eager energy in his voice as well. The Qunari was always arranging some kind of rowdy festivity, usually in celebration of some flimsy cause or another. We killed a dragon - hurrah! We took a Keep - hurrah! We closed all the rifts in the southern section of the map - hurrah! It’s raining - hurrah! Solas pursed his lips. 

“Satinalia?” The Inquisitor answered his question like it was something unforgettable that he should have already been excited for, “the full moons?” 

Ah. The holiday was popular in all parts of Thedas, but no doubt the Inquisitor had it in mind to celebrate according to the Dalish custom. He knew of the tradition in an abstract sense; his dreams had shown him pilgrimages of elves up onto high cliffs, dances and prayers offered up in misguided thanks to “creators” who did not deserve them. He sighed, and his displeasure appeared to disappoint the Inquisitor. Solas felt an unwelcome stab of guilt for once again meeting the Inquisitor’s attempts at relating to him like one of his own with refusal. He was a good Dalish elf, despite the Chantry's best efforts, and he had every right to be proud of that, even if he was wrong about all of it. 

“Your traditions are not my own.” He explained apologetically, and he was surprised to see the Inquisitor’s smile return. Then, Taren was laughing - not with cruelty, but with a sort of exasperated disbelief. 

“So?” 

Solas opened his mouth to speak, but found that he had no further protest ready. 

“You don’t have to believe, Solas, holidays are about more than that.” Taren shook his head like a parent correcting a child - how ironic - and left his tent without properly closing the flap, clearly expecting him to follow. Reluctantly, Solas obliged. 

“Where are you climbing to?” He asked as he stepped out into the cool evening. The camp was set up in a valley sheltered between rocky ridges and grassy hills, and fog settled into the crease of it like a blanket. To the east ran a path toward an ancient Elvhen ruin, and if he stayed to dream he would find battles raging bloody through the night. The land still bore the scars which the Chantry had burned into it; buried ruins and desecrated tombs. And it bore scars from even further back than that, in the shapes of the cliffs themselves. 

“Up there.” The Inquisitor pointed due north, toward a distant high hill of misshapen stone. Atop it rested a great and ancient statue; the figure of a lone wolf that seemed to survey the entire valley below. 

Solas chuckled, following the Inquisitor’s gaze up to the effigy of Fen’Harel. “Very well.” He agreed, noticing that along with The Iron Bull, the Inquisitor had apparently recruited Dorian, Varric, and even Sera for the expedition. They stood by, dividing bottles of wine and blankets into packs to carry between them. “Lead the way.”

The Inquisitor did lead, finding footholds with sharp eyes and scampering ahead to scout out the most secure paths as needed. Solas fell to the rear of their line, watching as the Inquisitor’s other elven companion hopped up the rocky cliffs behind him. 

“I’m surprised you agreed to celebrate something Elvhen, Sera.” He remarked, “has our fearless leader inspired you to reconnect with your people, perhaps?” He knew that he hadn’t, and though he was a little curious as to how the Inquisitor had managed to convince the disrespectful rogue to participate, mostly he just knew that the comment would annoy her in a way that might prove amusing. 

“Shut up, it’s not even elfy.” Sera didn’t miss a beat, snapping back with crass annoyance. “Everyone does Satinalia.” 

“But the pilgrimage to a high cliff at moonrise, that is most certainly elfy.” He replied, pressing her on cooly. 

“Hey, we all do it in our own way. No harm in trying something new.” Varric, always trying to keep the peace. Or maybe he was simply reassuring himself, the trek upwards did have him panting already. 

“Right,” Sera cut in, “and my way is: you drink until the moons blur into one.” She thumped the pack on her back with a grin. 

Solas sighed, and continued walking. 

The statue of Fen’Harel seemed so much larger up close. The Inquisitor settled himself down at the great wolf’s feet, leaning his back against one large toe of the Dread Wolf’s left paw, and began removing blankets and other supplies from his own pack. He unstrapped a bundle of thin branches from where they’d been fastened to the underside of his pack and with Dorian’s help began assembling a small fire. Solas laid his own supplies down nearby, and walked a few paces out to the very edge of the cliff, turning his face toward the shining full moons. 

Once a year, both of Thedas’ moons rise in the sky together, two full round circles of light, filling the sky and diminishing the light of any star that dares shine alongside them. Every culture across the world has devised some way to honour them, and always the holiday is associated with tricks and devilry, but also raucous behaviour and celebration. He had seen in dreams the festivals of ancient Tevinter, where the god of chaos was worshipped with the rising moons, and the celebrations in Antiva that set the whole city alight in lanterns while masked revellers danced wild in the streets. Dalish elves take to high cliffs, singing loud and howling songs up toward the heavens, and dancing round their fires. 

Dark had fallen as they climbed, night spreading over the valley on cool winds through the dry grasses. Moonlight shone through the fog brought in by the wide river that snaked through the planes, so that the ground below appeared even further away than it was; as if they’d climbed all the way to the heavens, leaving the valley under clouds. Above, the two bright moons had filled the sky, hanging before the eyes of the great wolf like distant jewels. They looked, every year, like they might in their paths across the sky collide and bring down ruin and destruction upon all things, but they never did. 

Suddenly, a loud howl broke the peace of the quiet night, and Inquisitor Taren Lavellan was standing next to him, one foot up on an outcropping of rock, his face high and his neck arched back, hands cupped around his mouth to amplify the sound. Solas nearly jumped, and the Inquisitor finished his howl by dropping his hands away from his mouth and grinning, turning to watch Solas’ stunned face with laughter creasing at the corners of his eyes. 

“You know, I always sort of liked Fen’Harel.” Solas looked into the Inquisitor’s eyes searchingly and swallowed with dry uncertainty, surely the Inquisitor was not testing him. “Not to emulate, of course, but I mean as a story.” 

“You like the story of your people’s betrayal?” 

The Inquisitor mostly ignored his question, opting to explain his clan’s customs in observance of the holiday as an answer instead. 

“The songs we sing for the moons, do you know them?” 

Solas shook his head. He had seen the dances and the singing in dreams, made out the names of the tyrants that this world’s elves honoured without sense, and turned his face away. He had studied enough of the Dalish lore to understand how they had fallen into such folly, but to watch them cry out in joy and worship for all that he had fought against, year after year, was too much to bear. 

“On Satinalia, we sing for Fen’Harel.” Taren continued, and Solas turned his attention from the lights in the sky back to the Inquisitor’s smiling face in shock, “it’s the only holiday that honours him.” 

“Honours him for what?” He couldn’t help but to be curious. Fen’Harel was an outcast figure in Dalish lore, a trickster and a fiend, depicted as being entirely without honour. 

Taren shrugged, “for all his mistakes, he was still one of the Creators.” He explained, “we sing a lament - literally speaking, it asks him back.” 

“It...what?” 

Taren sighed. “Well it’s symbolic, really. We don’t really pray for Fen’Harel to return, it's for those who leave, whether they are taken or led astray. A hope that they find the People again.” 

“That doesn’t explain what there is to like about Fen’Harel.” Solas replied, shaking his head over the explanation. “Is it not a Keeper’s job to protect the clan from the influence of the Dread Wolf?” 

The Inquisitor shrugged. “Fen'Harel ma ghilana.” He said, pointing the expression at Solas with a touch of sadness, and Solas chuckled despite himself. 

“The Dread Wolf leads me astray?” 

“It’s what we say when someone has been misled,” Taren began to explain, and Solas cut him off, still smirking. 

“I know.” 

“The story of Fen’Harel, it’s not something to protect people from like a warrior, waiting to be attacked by savage wolves in the night. That’s not what Fen’Harel is.” 

“Oh, then what is Fen’Harel?” He asked, unable to help himself. 

Taren avoided the concept of a straight answer once more, instead answering Solas’ question with one of his own.

“Do you know much about how a wolf pack functions?” He didn’t wait for the answer, “the idea that there’s a head wolf, a leader stronger than the others who determines the direction of the rest of the pack - that’s wrong. A wolf pack is like a Dalish clan.” He explained, “a wolf pack is a family. It works together. The old teach the young, the strong protect the weak, and the pack moves according to patterns as old as the land itself.” Solas nodded along, he knew well that wolves were misunderstood creatures. The Inquisitor continued. “Sometimes, a wolf will go off alone, either because of scarcity or fighting within the pack. But a lone wolf is vulnerable; it’s no way to live. They have to find other packs to survive, or perhaps find what it was they were seeking and return…” Solas listened patiently, watching Taren’s eyes drift toward the shining moons in thought as he spoke. The Inquisitor was a lone wolf in his own right, having left his clan well before the events of the conclave in his own quest for knowledge - Solas had been surprised and impressed to learn that history from him. “So the story of Fen’Harel, it isn’t just about lies and deceit. It’s a reminder of what’s important.” He finished. 

“And what’s that?” 

“Honesty, community.” Taren shrugged, “we protect the clan from Fen’Harel by upholding those things. There will always be evil in the world - that’s what it means, for the Dread Wolf to be incapable of leaving his tricks behind. Every culture has a figure to explain the inevitability of darkness. But there’s a reason he’s represented as a wolf, and not some other creature.” Taren went on, “a lone wolf, vulnerable because he forgets the purpose of his pack.” 

“You think that Fen’Harel is vulnerable?” He felt almost completely stripped away, standing awash in the bright moonlight. 

“We think he is lost.” Taren answered, seeming not to read the full extent of the stunned expression on Solas’ face, “just like any of the People who are left to fend in the world alone.” 

“An interesting interpretation.” Solas furrowed his brow and covered his raw nerves with the facts of what he had seen elsewhere in the world, “though I don’t know that it holds true in every clan.” 

Another shrug. “Of course it doesn’t. But the message is there, and every Dalish storyteller finds it. That’s why we tell the stories. Fen’Harel may be a hopeless figure, but he is hopeless because he is the lone wolf, not the other way around.” He turned to Solas, reaching out an arm to grip his shoulder warmly. “Your mistake is thinking we take to every story so literally, Solas.” 

Solas shook his head, ready to argue back against the Inquisitor’s odd reasoning. He had seen Dalish clans scar their faces like slaves to gods they didn’t understand, and been disrespected and shunned for daring to speak against traditions they followed blindly, when he’d tried. If anything, the Inquisitor - fearsome figure that he was - was closer to him than to the true Dalish he claimed to love. “I’ve certainly never met any Dalish elves who could view the tale of Fen’Harel so favourably.” He said cooly, and the comment left a slight frown over the Inquisitor’s face as it registered.

“And how many clans have you visited, exactly?” Taren pointed the argument back to him, but he didn’t answer. He had seen more clans rise and fall as he slept than Taren could have visited in his travels, no matter how extensive they may have been. 

“So you, First of Clan Lavellan, did not spend your life training to defeat Fen’Harel when he comes to rip the world apart?” He asked, trying to sound lighthearted, but even if the jab was clever, he found no joy in the teasing. 

“No.” Taren shook his head. “Though maybe I should have, if Darkspawn Magisters are real.” He chuckled dryly, “some stories about monsters are true, and some are just symbolism. Some are both. If the Creators were really betrayed by Fen’Harel, then he was a powerful god indeed, and we’ve seen all too well what a lone power bent on destruction can do.” He returned his gaze to the moon. “But the stories depict him as a wolf, and wolves don’t succeed alone.” 

“You’ve thought a lot about this.”

It wasn’t the first time that he’d heard the Inquisitor give unexpected and thoughtful consideration to his own traditions. So much was wrong with what the Dalish passed down through the generations as their history, and yet rather than rejecting it, the Inquisitor continuously surprised him with interpretations that seemed to set it right. 

“I was thinking of writing a book.” Taren admitted sheepishly, and Solas realised that he was looking to him now for approval. 

A book. The studious Inquisitor wished to leave his mark by sharing his loving study of Dalish lore with the world. Interpretations of the scraps left to him in a broken world. Wrong interpretations, Solas reminded himself, though it was becoming harder and harder to convince himself that they were. His heart sank with the secret realisation that he would never get to read them. He nodded approvingly, unable to help himself from returning Taren’s look with a small smile. “Of course you were.” 

Taren returned his attention to the moons and howled once more, the grin spreading back over his face as he did. Behind him, the small fire crackled and his companions laughed. Bull and Sera raised their voices to join his cry, sending wild and yelping howls off into the night. In the distance, a howl was returned, and Solas couldn’t tell if the sound came from real wolves, or the small Dalish clan they had met wandering the valley. 

“You act like a lone wolf, Solas. You spend all this time wandering, seeing all of our history in dreams, and you think you know, but how can you? And… what's the point? Who is it for?" The Inquisitor turned to him with something careful in his gaze, and concern tipped his words. 

Solas frowned. How like him, this impossible Dalish accident, to be concerned about his being alone. "Well, I suppose my knowledge has been useful to you, if knowledge must have a purpose." He contended, and the impossible Dalish accident shook his head.

"And before the Inquisition? After?"

Inquisitor Lavellan, who knew better than most what it meant to be lonely. If only he knew that the lone wolf he saw had no pack to return to in this world. If only he knew what the cost of that return would be. 

“I have never been Dalish. There is no clan to which I wish to return.” He said correctingly, and Taren shook his head at him again. 

 “You could have a place, lethallin.” Taren gave his shoulder another warm squeeze, and Solas’ heart grew heavy with the name that meant friend. 

“In your pack of wolves?” He smirked a little, hiding the spreading guilt with his indignation.

“In my family.” Said the Inquisitor, turning his back on him with one last firm and friendly pat to his arm before he returned to the fire.

If only he knew to whom it was he offered his friendship; what ruin Fen’Harel would bring to his world to escape the loneliness of his own mistakes. 

That night, as the Dread Wolf slept, he had uneasy dreams filled with the sounds of distant howling.