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hardly-an-escape · 24 days

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sola fide | Buck/Tommy | 1170 words | rated T

tags: Evan Buckley character study, sick fic, mentions of religion, dirty jokes, established relationship, lgbtq identity

“Hey, uh, Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you kind of a dumb question?”

“Of course.”

They’re posted up on Tommy’s couch, both with a weekend off at the same time for once. They’d planned to get out of the city, go for a long hike, maybe hit a winery somewhere. But Tommy’s been nursing a cold, so they’re taking it easy instead, and Buck likes that just as much as their adventures. So he’d made chicken noodle soup from scratch and brought over ginger ale and some of the violently red popsicles Tommy kept secretly stashed in the back of the freezer.

Buck’s quiet for another moment, gathering his thoughts.

“When did you know? That you were gay?” he says eventually.

Tommy looks up from the monster truck magazine he’s been leafing through.

“I don’t know that I can point to one particular moment,” he says, thoughtful. “On some level it was something I always knew about myself, even if I didn’t have the language to describe it yet. I guess… hitting puberty was kind of an awakening. Hearing other guys talk about girls we knew, or women in magazines, and realizing I just didn’t connect with what they were saying, like, at all. I guess there’s the fact that the first wet dream I had was about Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise.” He snorts. “That was a pretty big clue.”

Buck smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He realizes he’s twisting his fingers together in his lap and untangles them, rubs self-consciously at the tops of his thighs.

Tommy tosses his magazine onto the coffee table and takes one of Buck’s hands in his own, rubbing gently at the muscle between his thumb and forefinger. “What makes you ask?” he says gently.

“I dunno. I just.” Buck sighs. “I guess I’ve been feeling weird about it lately. Not – not this,” he adds hastily, “not us, not even a little. This is seriously one of the best things that has ever happened to me – you are one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, Tommy, I mean that.”

Tommy gives him a sweet little smile, one of the ones that’s just for him, and squeezes his hand.

“I just mean… this feels like such a big thing t-to not know about myself. You know, how did I make it into my thirties before it ever occurred to me, oh, you like guys, you might fall in love with a guy.” His voice rises in pitch a little as he picks up speed. “It makes me feel stupid, and – and out of touch with my own self. Like, what else is really obvious about myself that I haven’t realized yet, you know? Am I actually left handed? Am I secretly an Olympic gymnast? Am I some kind of Russian sleeper agent?”

Tommy squeezes his hand again. “I don't think it's that absurd to come to an important realization about yourself in your thirties, sweetheart,” he says. “I think that's a pretty normal thing, actually.”

Buck deflates a little. “Yeah. I know. I just... I've told you about my brother. That whole situation. Not knowing why I was born, never knowing that he even existed. I think all of this –” he gestures between them “– in a way it kind of reminds me of that? Like, here you go, Buck, here’s another big hole in your life that you didn’t know was there until someone tried to fill it.”

He catches Tommy’s smirk out of the corner of his eye and untangles their hands so he can give him a shove. “I know what joke you’re about to make, dumbass. Don’t even go there.”

“Okay, I’ll ask about filling your hole later,” says Tommy, deadpan, and Buck shoves him again, and for a minute their serious conversation devolves into the kind of ridiculous, juvenile wrestling match that Buck secretly loves, that he knows Tommy knows he loves. That reminds him they’re both strong and okay and in tune with one another.

They settle, eventually, with Tommy lying back against the arm of the couch, and Buck cradled against him, grateful that Tommy’s couch is wide and deep enough for them to press together, side by side.

Buck sighs again. Can’t help it.

“I knew a guy in the army. Jake,” says Tommy out of nowhere. “Very nice guy, not one of the assholes who joined up because he thought the uniform would make his dick bigger, you know? When we were in Afghanistan, he made friends with one of our interpreters, guy named Irshad. Mostly we didn’t get close with the locals, but those two – they really hit it off. Stayed in touch after we got shipped home and everything.” He shifts Buck slightly and absently kisses his temple. “When I saw Jake again, maybe a year after we were discharged, he’d converted to Islam. He said his friendship with Irshad had opened his eyes to something. To this faith. He said he felt like that something had always been there – like on some level, he’d always had that faith – it had just taken a while for it to be revealed to him.”

“Huh,” Buck says. He thinks about this idea for a while, petting randomly over Tommy’s chest and belly with one hand while Tommy’s thumb rubs gentle, firm circles in the meat of his upper arm. He likes it, he decides. He’s not a religious person himself, but faith feels like something… important. Fundamental. Feels like a Big Thing, the way sexuality is. It does feel better, he thinks, just to know there are other people who’ve discovered one of those Big Things as a whole ass grownup. He’s not sure how to phrase it. But it does make it feel better.

“So what I hear you saying… is that realizing I like dudes and getting into your pants could be considered comparable to finding God,” is what comes out of his mouth.

He can feel Tommy try to maintain his composure and suppress the snort that wants to escape. He does his best, abdominal muscles contracting under Buck’s hand, but the laughter wins out and explodes in a kind of barking cough that sounds, frankly, a little alarming. Buck sits them up and thumps Tommy on the back a few times, handing him the mug of honeyed tea that’s been cooling on the coffee table.

“Evan,” Tommy wheezes eventually, “I’m going to need you to never say anything like that again.”

“Sure, babe,” Buck says. “But just to be clear, does that mean you don’t want me to get on my knees for you?”

And Tommy is laughing again, and Buck feels so much better. Feels warm inside, because somehow, Tommy always knows how to make him feel better. How to take the disparate anxious puzzle pieces of him and turn the picture right side up so he knows how to solve himself.

(“Oh, my God,” Tommy gasps between coughs.

“That’s my line,” Buck says.)

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#my writing #bucktommy #911 abc #genuinely don't know how I feel about this one but I banged it out in record time so you get to read it <3 #tommy kinard #evan buckley

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himluv · 4 months

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DA: The Veilguard Predictions/Theories, pt. 3

Okay, last one, I promise. And this one is, uhhhhhh, real strong on the tinfoil. Bear with me.

Read part 1 here :)

Read part 2 here :)

3. DA:D’s Real Big Bad™

Okay, this is probably my most outrageous and unsubstantiated theory - but it’s also the one I’m most excited for. Buckle up, kids, because I think The Architect is back!

So, when Bioware released the Dragon Age Day 2023 Thedas Calls trailer, Mark Darrah mentioned in the corresponding blog post that there was more to the trailer than just location reveals, “for those who listen closely.” Well, lemme tell you, I listened real close over and over again until something struck me.

“All the world will soon share the peace and comfort of my reign.”

That voice… I know that voice, don't I?

“I do not seek to rule my brethren. I only seek to release them from their chains.”

The Architect told the Warden in Dragon Age: Awakening that it intended to use Grey Warden blood to return self-awareness and “freedom” to the Darkspawn, freeing them from their tethers to the Archdemons.

But this was not The Architect’s first plan. No, its first plan was much, much worse. In The Calling, Maric, Duncan, Fiona and the other Grey Warden’s meet The Architect in the Deep Roads and learn that its plan is to spread the Blight over all of Thedas, thus ensuring a “lasting peace”. Nevermind that two-thirds of the population wouldn’t survive the process. **stares in solavellan**

A “lasting peace.”

“The peace and comfort of my reign.”

Now, sure, The Architect has stated that it doesn’t want to rule over its brethren, but that was in 9:31 Dragon. It’s been working on this plan since at least 9:10 Dragon (when The Calling takes place) and Dreadwolf is likely to take place somewhere around 9:52 Dragon. The Architect has had 40 years to scheme and experiment and come to the bitter realization that – if there is to be peace – it may have to rule after all.

And I’m sure Corypheus’s rise and fall did not go unnoticed by The Architect. With Solas’s machinations putting a ticking clock on Thedas’s existence, perhaps The Architect feels the pressure to end the Blights once and for all, and bring its corrupted brand of “peace” to Thedas.

When you need to spread the Darkspawn taint in record time, what do you do? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe awaken two Archdemons simultaneously and unleash them upon the world? (as a treat?) After all, there can be no more Blights once all the Old Gods have been corrupted…

Which would directly pit The Architect against Solas AND the protagonists of DA:D. And, basically everyone, because no one wants a double Blight and/or to suffer a continent-wide Darkspawn plague.

So, yeah. That’s my super-duper tin-foil hat theory for Dreadwolf (now The Veilguard). Obviously, I could be completely wrong about everything. There’s so much lore in Dragon Age, and yet so little of that lore is unequivocally proven true. It’s all in-world texts that can be – and frequently are – wrong. So, even with exhaustive research and codex mining, there’s ALWAYS a chance that some fundamental piece of “evidence” turns out to just be… incorrect.

In my opinion, that’s part of what makes this series so. effing. compelling. The whole world feels like an excavation, one where every interaction holds the potential for yet another clue. So, even if I am wrong, I can’t wait to learn the truth.

#dragon age #da4 meta #dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: dreadwolf #the architect #the magisters sidereal #dragon age: the calling #dragon age: awakening

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weavewithshadow · 2 months

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she, the mender; he, the break (1)

solas/lavellan, rated T.

synopsis: The one unfortunate enough to take in the Mark has, astoundingly, survived it. Whether that is a miracle or a terrible omen remains to be seen.

content warnings: canon-typical violence, depiction of a canonical seizure, canon-typical profanity, canon-typical religious references, canon-typical depictions of depression.

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One Solas

Four hours after a Dalish mage stumbles from a tear in the Veil, a thumb runs across her limp palm. Its wielder furrows his brow.

A pair of eyes seeks to burn a hole between his shoulder blades, judging by the force of the glare behind him.

“I have no answers,” he tells the human without looking over a shoulder, though it’s not what she—or anyone who knows what befell the Conclave—wants to hear. It’s true enough, at least.

He has no answers as to how this Dalish mage survived what he knows, with grim certainty, should have killed her. Would have killed her lessers. He had counted on it: that his focus, pent up with millennia’s worth of neglected, unspent energy, would eliminate the one unfortunate enough to open it.

The first survivor is enough of a loose end. A walking, talking threat of peril upon all Thedas.

The second is a miracle, for she, at least, is mortal.

Probably.

Under his touch, the mark of his magic thrums, rattling up her nerve. Mercifully unconscious, she does not stir—but even through the thick robe covering most of her form, the summer-grass glow brightens her arm enough for the Seeker behind him to audibly wince.

The magic, from what he can tell, forges deeper into her tissue. Whether to twine with the fabric of her being or rip it apart at the seams, he cannot rightly say.

In these early hours, the only clue she gives is the quick rise and fall of her chest, her breaths shallow. Kept on the floor of a cell, robbed of dignity that she cannot fight to keep, much of her pale blonde hair has fallen free of its high braid. Sweat beads on her forehead one minute, only to cool before the hour’s up.

“You have no answers?” the Seeker behind him prods.

He forces his shoulders not to tighten, knelt by the Dalish’s side as he is. Smiles falsely, even where the Seeker cannot see, so his tone stays congenial. “Not yet.”

Would that he were alone, that he could knock on the bounds of this survivor’s dreams and ask.

What would she offer him, if he did? Would she confess to what ails her, or turn her nose up at his unmarked face, as so many of her kin? Or, so far from home, would she turn a kinder eye to the human behind him, paying an elven apostate no heed?

In the Fade, none might delay him much: none left alive can rightly keep the skies of their dreams from darkening with their unspoken fear. And when the realm folds around them, confounding mortal senses, none can truly flee far.

Whatever the truth of her prognosis, one thing is certain. Even under the press of his thumb, summoned by his silent call, the magic of his focus will not uncoil from her bones.

Whatever the Dread Wolf of her people’s legend has unwillingly given her, she is doomed to the consequence.

He could almost call it irony.

As day lapses into night, the Dalish survivor is unaware that every witness within a mile bickers over her fate.

They are calling her a miracle. They are calling her a monster.

It has not dawned on any of them that she could ever be a victim.

He has, in spite of the Seeker’s objections to flame and ammunition, been generously afforded a candle. Its light throws long shadows over the survivor’s drawn expression. Like this, he must lower himself from resting on his heels to squint, inches from her face, in order to track the movement of her eyes behind their lids.

She is dreaming. At least there is that.

His mark has buried itself into her left hand, the green of rifts lighting a slice in her palm despite her skin remaining unbroken. Thus he sits on her left, now, furthest from the cell door. A better vantage for the Seeker, who has left to argue, to scowl at him from all evening.

A poorer vantage to scowl back unseen, but one must accept their occasional losses.

At least like this, his back can rest against the cell’s rear wall, and he can watch the door when he is not watching over the survivor. He keeps it in his periphery while his gaze lowers, half-lidded, as he once again puts two fingers to her wrist to measure her pulse.

Two hours ago, he insisted to the human healer that he could count it perfectly well. The healer looked down at the survivor’s valasslin while he passed over a clipboard, mumbling a request that her pulse be measured and recorded every hour through the night.

That human healer neglected to leave any thanks.

The Dalish’s heartbeat is almost furious against his touch, pounding as though her limp body is sprinting: a pulse that would roar in her ears, if she could hear it. He counts sixty beats in thirty seconds, ignoring the twist of his insides when he releases her to record the finding.

Ten higher than last count. A battle her body has begun to lose.

The healer should be measuring more than her pulse, but his efforts are farcical at best: make a play of trying to keep the survivor alive, keep meticulous record of all the ways this prison has failed her, justify her death was unpreventable because so many watched it unfold. To those yelling over the Dalish’s fate beyond this row of cells, that would be enough to satisfy.

It would assuage their worry, to watch her fade to nothing. To some, it would provide relief. Their Chantry, no longer under threat—nor scrutiny.

They should be measuring her temperature. Whether she perspires. Whether, and how often, she stirs.

It is due diligence—and perhaps atonement—that an elven apostate from nowhere does all three in their stead.

Her brow is warm against his knuckles, but less than it was. Her body adapts to fight the mark. In the harsher chill of night, the cell damp and lightless, her brow is free of sweat, the loose curls once plastered to it hanging free over her temples.

He thinks the barest trace of a frown passes over her at his touch, but it vanishes, her face again serene at rest, too fast for his tired eyes to register.

Once he makes record of all three, writing in the margins of the healer’s notes, he rests his head on the cool stone behind him, allowing his eyes to fall shut until the next hour demands he rise anew.

The survivor screams before the sun can crest the mountains.

He must give her credit: it earns her the attention of all those who’d been content to debate her survival from afar. Within moments, the cell is crowded with everyone endowed with both local renown and an opinion.

The Seeker’s voice is loudest. He supposes he should have expected as much.

“Surely you know what this means, Adan?”

The healer—Adan—is clearly in the Seeker’s good graces enough that his sneer doesn’t earn him retribution. “I don’t understand. Her pulse is normal now. Her fever, gone. And the screaming comes in fits… but why?”

Then, naturally, he turns his puzzled frustration on the nearest apostate.

“You wrote her pulse was high through the night.”

That nearest apostate, still knelt at her side, commendably ignoring the bruising on his tailbone, keeps his voice perfectly level. “I did.”

“And that it didn’t change until the thrashing began.”

“I did, yes.”

“And after administering elfroot to hasten her wakening, it had stopped—”

“Very observant.”

That earns him a scowl from the Seeker and more than a fair few muttered insults from the other half-dozen people inside the cell. More soldiers, someone in Chantry robes convincingly pretending not to tremble behind them.

“Don’t play coy with me, elf,” Adan sneers, pulling the apostate’s attention back.

Before he can brace for some spit curse, the survivor’s hand jerks out from under his. Her spine arches, her ear scraping over the stone when her neck follows suit. His palm lands gently on her shoulder before she can tip herself onto her back, but does nothing to stop the kick of her leg.

“The grey,” she slurs, lips catching the dirt of the cell floor. “The grey…”

“Maker’s fucking breath,” Adan hisses, reeling back. “What is she…?”

“The grey,” the survivor groans again, muscles still tense, unconscious eyes screwed shut.

Every gaze in the room finds his mark on her palm—save for hers. The magic lights stronger, rift-green blazing up the veins of her wrist. Only when it dims do her convulsions ease.

“So it is true,” the Chantry member mutters, soft as prayer. “She is chosen.”

“Chosen?” Adan echoes, whipping back long enough to fire off what is probably a scowl. By the time his attention returns to the Dalish survivor, a more dangerous sort of ire has hardened on his features. “No. This—this mage shit cannot be a sign of anything good.”

“Is that what you call it?” Indignation burns up the apostate’s throat before he can think to smother it. “What you belittle with the profane may well be the only hope you have against the demons amassing beyond these doors.”

“Watch yourself, apostate,” the Seeker warns, a hand on the pommel of her blade.

This time, he meets her glare. “Are you so sure that I am wrong?”

“Enough of this fucking charade,” Adan declares, throwing up his hands in distaste. “Andraste’s ass—there’s not a healer alive who could understand what so possesses her. If she makes it past midday, someone pry me from my drink.”

With that, he shoves through a half-dozen humans, neither sword nor glare leveled against him on the way out. Instead, the prattling Chantry member follows on the healer’s heels, and the Seeker on the Chantry’s, and the soldiers on the Seeker’s.

With them gone, the cell falls silent. Not for the first time, death and the Dread Wolf loom together over the body of a mortal.

The next spasm starts: rigid spine, arching neck. This time, his hand finds not her shoulder, but her wrist. Thumb driven deep into the meat of her palm, he feeds the mark a morsel of his own magic, a beacon sent out over the churning forces inside the survivor’s skin.

A flare of dull green light, and the spasm stops.

Rather than a scream, she surrenders a murmur. “The grey…”

He eases her onto her back, careful not to relinquish her marked palm. Smooths hair from her face with his free hand, another sliver of his magic employed to mend her abraded ear. Dignities the Chantry, the Seeker, and the prison guards, for all their talk of prophecy, still do not afford their Dalish charge.

“I know. I know, lethallan,” he answers, once he is sure no human ears are near enough to question his tongue. “Ir abelas.”

The first attempt on the survivor’s life comes, brazenly, at dusk on the second day.

While the apostate takes a meal a floor above her cell—only at the Seeker’s stubborn insistence—the cell lies guarded by another. When he returns, that other is bent over her motionless body, a dagger unsheathed from their belt.

At his shout, the Seeker barrels down the stairwell past him, shield drawn. She collides with the would-be assailant a second after the noise turns their attention away from the survivor, pinning their body to the floor. Another soldier clamps manacles around the assailant’s wrists, but murmurs assurances that certainly, all was done with the best of intentions.

It is all the apostate can do to quell the urge to send a streak of rift-green sailing past both their faces, goading them to speak their so-called assurances for all the fortress to hear.

As they draw close to move up the stairwell, he meets the assailant’s gaze and mutters, “You know not what you trifle with.”

The Seeker, though she is in earshot, does not listen to the assailant’s bitter retort. Rather, she faces the apostate after several moments, dark circles under her topaz eyes, a hand raking through her short mop of dark hair.

“Do you really think…” she pauses, folding her arms. “Do you really think she could be our only hope?”

She will not look at the survivor, so he does. His mark burns bright even across the room, steadier now. If it hasn’t killed her by now, it won’t.

“I am certain,” he answers. Then, because it is what most everyone here has already decided: “She is a miracle.”

But they have not lived to see millennia wax and wane. They forget a crucial detail.

Miracles, be they borne of flesh or circumstance, have one thing in common.

They should never have been real.

The second attempt on the survivor’s life comes far past nightfall, when the apostate’s eyes are closed.

This time, her would-be killer is the very soldier to have clamped manacles on the first.

When heavy footfalls thunder down the stairwell in answer to the screaming, the apostate watches as they rush toward the soldier—only to reel back when their torchlight glints in the ice pinning their comrade to the wall.

The apostate claims it was self-defense with hardly more than a shrug, failing to flinch in the face of six pointed blades.

Afterward, the Seeker only leaves the cell to sleep.

The dawn of the third day is the last he has the survivor alone.

Bleary-eyed, he parts her lips with the knuckle of his thumb to administer three more drops of elf-root tincture on her tongue, disparaging the common name. When he does, he whispers its name in the language her people have taught her—vhenanalas, heart-root—because it is similar enough to the one he knows.

Once, it was said that all elvhen would wake to their own tongue, like a mother calling children home.

All the Dalish survivor has done, thus far, is frown.

Through the night, the roar of demons from beyond the cell climbed louder. Whiling away the hours, pretending not to hear, he found that the magic of his mark swims through her veins to follow his touch, unless he wills it not to.

Three days, and still he does not know if the mark pains her, or if she’ll do more than knot her brows together or press her lips white-thin when she’s conscious of the new power in her marrow. What he does know is that each hourly administration of elf-root twists her face the same way. When she stirs enough to tilt her jaw, the digits of her right hand curl, but not her left. When the mark of his magic flares brighter, a noise always rises from her throat—one that stops sooner if he makes a single sound, like it had only been seeking an answer. Any answer, he found, once he’d made a series of unintelligible syllables in reply to test the theory.

She fights it on her own, now, even though he no longer risks the press of his thumb over the gash-shaped green. He does not know her name, and yet is powerless to deny her stubborn will.

“Perhaps that is why they have marked you for the Keeper of Secrets,” he mutters to no one, watching the blood-markings beneath her lower lip smooth as she falls motionless once more.

No tip of the jaw, no curled fingers on right hand or left. She slips into relative peace, the ailment of his magic overcome, for now.

He almost laughs, but the sound cuts short. Instead, he whispers, “You will need that stubborn streak, with what lies ahead.”

She never gives him an answer. The next time she frowns, and the next and the next, he speaks in her language until the Seeker wakes.

Vhenanalas. Vhenanalas. Vhenanalas.

Ir abelas. Ir abelas. Ir abelas.

Demons encroach too close to the prison, nearer by the hour. The derisive look the Seeker snaps to him says that where she goes, so, too, will he.

He leaves the survivor because there is more he can do to ensure she lives by holding back the horde outside these walls. He swears she stirs at his hushed goodbye, mouth hanging parted the last time he looks back.

The sun strikes him too brightly, after days without it, worse for its glint on the snow outdoors. The first demon to fall before him collapses with a splinter of ice through its core, and the apology he cannot speak aloud sticks thorns in his chest. There is nothing he can do for it, or anyone, without the focus he’d so callously lost.

By the fifth, a haze settles over his awareness, a guard against the lapping tide of remorse.

The thrum of his magic outside his skin pulls him out of it. Every shriek of these unwilling spirits, painful against his eardrums. Worse, when crossbow bolts find their mark, when the Seeker’s sword sings as it is pulled from her sheath.

He cannot turn with a shade pressing its advantage, instead forced to arc his staff and pull forth the power behind another icy blast. The green of his mark careens into his periphery while he stands rooted, and then the survivor pulls it back—

To shove a lone blade through the demon with her opposite hand, crackling with violet energy.

Then, with his vision still blurred, his ears still ringing… quiet. The last demon of this rift, vanquished. Only his erratic pulse and the remains of his focus thrumming in time with it from the gash-shaped glow in the survivor’s palm.

“Quickly,” he gasps, already moving. Just enough to alert her to what is to come. “Before more come through!”

He has no time to process that she is awake, standing, before his grip curls around her wrist, thumb pressed into the soft of her palm. As with each time before, the magic within—his magic—follows his touch.

In a mockery of his every hope for the Veil, a verdant ray erupts from her skin. Its power plunges into the rift above them both and, under his guidance, sews it shut.

After, only wintry sky remains in its place: no touch of Fade nor lick of its magic. This time there is no great urgency to the quiet that falls. Only the rhythm of the survivor’s ragged breath, as fast it had been the first night.

She slips the mark—her hand—from his grasp. A sliver of warmth leaves his core as it goes.

When he pries his eyes from where the rift once existed, she is already peering up at him. The sight drives another guilty lance through his sternum before any haze can dull the blow.

The green of rifts is threaded around her pupils, tainting even her otherwise stone-grey gaze. His mark—the one that’ll end her life—rooted in her every inch.

Her white-blonde hair is still streaked with the dirt of her cell floor. Her ear’s still red from where he mended scrapes. Dark circles beneath her eyes betray the weakness these days have awarded her.

And under, her panting mouth curves into a disbelieving smile.

“What did you do?”

“I did nothing,” he answers, too fast, avoiding the Seeker’s cutting stare that looms behind the survivor. He neglects to append save for cause the curse that’ll end your life. Instead, amid the stench of slain demons, heedless of the cries of battle still raging on ahead, he summons a pleasing smile. “The credit is all yours.”

The Dalish lowers her eyes, brow furrowing. His world narrows on the way she studies her palm, her own thumb running over the mark, following the curve his had just taken. She concentrates on the motion, repeating it, a thin press to her mouth not unlike the one she makes when heart-root lands on her tongue.

Calculating, now that she is conscious. No longer a simple show of distaste, but an equation she visibly puzzles over.

Her eyes lift to greet his again, something in them hardened now. “You mean this.”

He tries to ignore the way the mark’s thrum strengthens in response to his own dogged pulse. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” he says, just as he’d told the Seeker hours ago. He leaves out and I’m sorry for my role in it. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.”

The Seeker seems just as pleased now as then: barely. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.”

“Possibly,” he says, just true enough. Something guaranteed, from millennia of knowing, is indeed also possible.

The survivor, meanwhile, watches him still with open curiosity—the sort that borders dangerously on hope. The expression is a dozen questions in itself.

He scrapes another apology from his tongue, searching for some other answer to her wordless prying. Something that will buy them all a little more peace, a little more time.

He manages, if only just, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know!” the dwarf from the cells near theirs interjects, striding closer to the survivor in spite of how her muscles tense. Bearing a wide grin, he jests, “I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

The survivor flexes her fingers around the hilt of her dagger, a mirror of the way her right hand would curl in discomfort. Deliberate, now. Alive. Alive.

The dwarf goes on, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

The wink he gives the Seeker is met with a scowl.

“It’s…” Blearily, the survivor manages a nod, a new set to her jaw she hadn’t had the mind to employ before. The line of it is sharper as she forces a smile. “Good to meet you, Varric.”

She hadn’t heard his idle chatter in the cell, then—or anything else, apology or otherwise.

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” the apostate asserts, suppressing a flinch at the line he knows he’s toed. He affixes that careful smile to his face as three sets of eyes land upon him, though only watches the survivor’s.

He’d assumed something of her. Too much. He looks for disdain in her raised brow, or perhaps for ire in the line of her mouth.

“Awww,” Varric mocks, wrenching him from the study. “I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

Chuckles, in truth, can do no else but blink, just once. The survivor weighs the expression, watching in silence—whether a haze like his, simple fatigue, or something else.

“Absolutely not,” the Seeker takes over, voice stern. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

The raven blood-marked in the Dalish’s face shifts as she borders on a smirk. Haughty, irreverent, when it is her braids pulled half-free from days of unconscious tumult, her ill-fitting armor stained with all manner of dirt and damp.

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” the dwarf goes on a distant two steps away. Neither the apostate or the survivor turn to watch. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

“Ugh.”

“My name is Solas,” spills from the apostate’s mouth, heedless of his will, near an entire minute too late. “If there are to be introductions.”

Varric and the Seeker stop to raise their brows in unison. The survivor, understandably, fails to mask her confusion.

“I am…” Pinned under three stares, he has no hope of uttering even a false explanation, nor an apology, nor anything to explain away the same dirt and damp staining his coat, three days and nights of foregone hygiene. “Pleased to see you still live.”

Pleased does not touch the bone-deep relief, nor the chill of dread that none of them can hope to grasp, but he still does not know her name. This will have to suffice.

Varric only laughs sharper, grins wider. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

That, too, Solas supposes.

The survivor hums the beginnings of a laugh, low in her throat. Her crooked smile dimples a cheek, undeterred by the biting wind tousling the knotted strands of her hair. The green of his mark blazes in her eyes, crinkled at their corners. “Then I owe you my thanks.”

And her wrath, but that seems inconsequential, with demons in uproar higher on the hill.

Everything does, outside of the fact that she still draws breath. That all this might yet be undone.

“Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process,” he tells her. And, because three days and nights with her life in his hands is too long not to know: “Tell me your name.”

Ithalia.

One of the many names rippling across Haven on whispering tongues. Ithalia Haleir Lavellan. Herald. Miracle. Divine.

They can afford to whisper, to do anything but run for their lives, because it is she—without his touch—that has sealed the Breach and mended the heavens.

Three more days and nights she sleeps, but this time, no seed of doubt roots in Solas’ core.

He is certain: she will live long enough to mend the very world he aims to break, before it can be made whole again.

#this is my first attempt at dragon age fanfiction #i am doing my best!!#i just had to figure out how these two nerds fall in love ok #solavellan #dragon age inquisition #solas x lavellan #solas dragon age #dragon age #da:i #da:inquisition

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dareactions · 3 months

Note

for a shorter request: what about pre and post breakup Solas reacting to a warrior inquisitor with the templar spec going through lyrium withdrawals?

Pre: He wishes he could do more, his hands gently rubbing circles on their back. It's not easy kicking an addiction- especially not one that clings so well to the bones like Lyrium does. It's not something you just quit cold turkey either, it's a mixture of careful dosage lessening for months and dealing with episodes of 'needing a fix' as Varric so wonderfully put it. Solas frowns as he feels a shiver pass through them, ripping him from his thoughts. ''Cold?'' He mumbles softly, they're underneath a pretty warm duvet so that's a bit concerning. He gets the most pathetic little noise in response and Solas heart shatters just a little bit. Maybe he should rip the Templar building apart brick by brick at some point, for getting the person he loves to this point? ''You're wearing that expression again.'' The Inquisitor mumbles, a cold hand on his face. ''No clue what you're on about there, I believe you're imagining that one.'' Solas tilts his head slightly, inspecting the way a smile tugs at their lips like he would any artwork. ''Sure, alright. I'll let you off the hook this time.'' They laugh, it's a bit of a shell of it's former sound but Solas loves it all the same. He makes a point to pull up the duvet the slightest bit, adjusting the teacup on the bedside table so it's handle is closer. ''I do think I have a spell that can soothe, even if just momentarily.''

Post: It's one thing to watch someone you love suffer, it's another to watch them suffer from afar. He never takes his eyes off them for too long whenever their health starts to decline. Solas knows it's an uphill battle to betterment and how he wishes he could be there for it. Watching them seek out Cullen for understanding and bonding makes him feel - annoyed? It's not the right word but not even he knows what it is anymore.

He adjusts the book in his hand, forcing his eyes back to the page he has re-read maybe six or seven times at this point. He's not even gotten past the first paragraph.

It's so frustrating because it's his own doing too. He knew they wanted to go on this journey yet he decided to not go on it with them- and it just makes him feel a million times worse.

Solas likes to pretend he isn't the one leaving small notes with tea blends or whatever else he knows helps. It's easier for both of them to pretend its someone else.

#dragon age inquisition #dragon age reactions #solas

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kaija-rayne-author · 1 year

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Why do people feel Solas has betrayed everyone?

I see a lot of impassioned reactions about him that consistently label his actions as betrayal, but none of it actually is?

I dunno if it's because I'm neurodivergent or because I'm an editor and words have actual meanings, or what, but I'm just not seeing it.

Post contains spoilers for DA:I, the books and games.

All definitions from here are taken from Merrium-Webster.

First, some definitions.

NT = Neurotypical

ND = Neurodivergent

Betray:

to lead astray

to deliver to an enemy by treachery

to fail or desert especially in time of need

to reveal unintentionally

Traitor:

one who betrays another's trust or is false to an obligation or duty

one who commits treason

Treason:

the offense of attempting by overt acts to overthrow the government of the state to which the offender owes allegiance or to kill or personally injure the sovereign or the sovereign's family

Treachery:

violation of allegiance or of faith and confidence

Seduce:

to persuade to disobedience or disloyalty

to lead astray usually by persuasion or false promises

to carry out the physical seduction of: entice to sexual intercourse

Action by action, it's really damned confusing to me that so many people label Solas as they do. I'm well used to my favourite characters always being misunderstood, but sheesh.

So, he wakes up from uthenera. He's a bit groggy and doesn't have access to all of his power. As someone who became disabled through illness, it's really obvious to me that he very likely panicked. Coping with a decrease in ability (physical, mental, magical, I doubt the specifics matter much) is horrific. You suddenly and inexplicably can't do what you've always done? That's absolutely panic territory. And because (only because) he thinks he knows what will happen, he allows his orb to be found by the venatori, who then take it to Corypheus.

He can't be delivering something to the enemy at that point. Despite him becoming an enemy, especially to the Inquisitor, neither the Inquisitor nor the Inquisition actually exist yet and Corypheus is not yet the enemy. At that point, Inky is still home, never dreaming something like the events of DA:I will happen to them.

It's rash, foolish, poorly thought out, arrogant... it's a lot of things, it's just not what people usually label Solas with.

Without Coryphifish blowing up the Temple of Sacred Ashes, there wouldn't be an Inquisitor or an Inquisition. It may never have been necessary. In the writing world we call that the 'inciting incident'.

The massive crater in the mountain clues Solas in to the fact that he fucked up.

Instead of running off, he finds whoever is fighting or setting themselves up to fight Corypants.

Solas takes responsibility for the fuck up, owns that he did indeed fuck up, even if it's only to himself, and does everything up to and including giving the Inquisition his home, (if you believe that Skyhold was actually his), to help. (I personally do, the circumstances point to it having been his.)

He supports Inky and the Inquisition even if you royally piss him off in a 'make Solas hate me' run.

He was actually difficult to get to hate me, he's so accepting.

So there's no leading anyone astray, not in any way.

I've pointed out before that he's probably mentally ill and struggling during, at minimum, the first part of Inquisition, but he still does what he can to help.

He doesn't reveal anything unintentionally to anyone, nor has he. Except for maybe all the many many instances of foreshadowing about his identity that he delivers because he really doesn't hide or lie very well at all. It's kinda hilarious when he tries.

Anything he learned that he may/may not use against the Inquisition he learned through observation. So even there, he's not trying to persuade anyone into disobedience or disloyalty. He's not even being disloyal or betraying another's trust, nor is he false to an obligation or duty. Is he spying? Yup! But someone spying isn't automatically betrayal.

We may/may not assume that he's tried to convince people to fight with him, because he does have agents, including double agents, but that's all that is, an assumption. It's never shown.

The only obligations or duties Solas could be disloyal to, especially at the beginning of the game, is his self-imposed obligation to fixing what he broke for the elves.

The world has moved on, developed, and grown through the disaster he created as a way to avoid an even bigger disaster. (The freed Evanuris is described as pretty damned disastrous.) If he did absolutely nothing more than help fix his Coryphifish screw up, it would be, if not admirable, at least understandable. Can you imagine how tired that elf has to be? Even though he just woke up from a millenia long nap?

No one else could really blame him if he just, didn't do it. He's likely one of the very few Elvehnan left. Few if any are going to A) Recognize him or B) Blame him for everything that happened over, at minimum, a thousand years ago. Even Abelas, who you can argue does recognize him (he says Inky's mark/the anchor 'looks familiar') doesn't sock Solas one. Doesn't Abelas say something in response to Solas hoping he'll find a new name with something like 'like you?'

'Yes, like me'. If I recall correctly is Solas's response.

Dude has been fighting for literal ages. He's likely rather sick of it by now. Just defusing his own spell (that created the veil) is the work of actual years according to the story in Tevinter Nights named Dread Wolf Take You. He's probably wishing he'd stayed asleep. I would be.

There's a cut scene that plays every time Inky swears a new agent in.

It's never shown for the original people who created the Inquisition, I doubt that's unintentional. We assume he's taken a vow of loyalty to the Inquisition, but it’s never shown. I take that to mean it never happened. No vow, no betrayal. So, despite people's assumptions, he doesn't actually betray anyone's trust nor is he false to an obligation or duty. The only thing he's false to is other people's assumptions. He's never sworn his allegiance to anyone since he woke up. So he can't very well break that allegiance.

Inky, despite their power, is not a head of state, and they don't have a family other than their clan. Solas never acts against them. The Inquisition is not a government, so he can't actually be accused of treason. Not accurately and fairly, anyway.

In fact, he hasn't yet actually acted against anyone but the qunari and other enemies of the Inquisitor/Inquisition. He's said what he thinks will happen when he pulls down the veil, (world may have to burn line) but just like he had no idea what putting up the veil would do, he has no experience in what taking it down will do. No one does. Just what he thinks is likely, and frankly, the Coryphifish situation clearly shows how wrong Wolfie can be. And he really could have done so much more to help himself while with the Inquisition.

Someone like him doesn't survive possible millennia in Elvehnan without learning how to manipulate people. It's basically something a lot of ND people learn out of a hard wired need to survive. Even though we're constantly dehumanized, we have all the same instincts and needs as any other human-ish type. He could have done so much more to help himself. He didn't.

He doesn't leave until after Corypheus is vanquished. Even as far as assumptions of loyalty go, he wasn't disloyal.

You can argue that he fails or deserts a Romanced Inky in a time of need when he breaks it off with her. But to be frankly honest, Inky has been throwing herself at him basically from the start if you're asking him stuff on a Romance arc. He didn't pursue her, she pursued him. It's honestly not on him if she didn't communicate her expectations for a relationship with him.

You can argue that 'Inky trusted him', but to my world weary perception, all I can say is maybe she should actually, I dunno, get to know someone before trusting them that much? Him telling her stories isn't really the best way to actually understand him. That takes two way communication. And as bad of a liar as he's shown himself to be, if she'd actually gotten to know him, she'd likely have seen through his wet-paper-towel disguise.

So let's address a Romanced Lavellan. Solas actually goes out of his way to not seduce her. His feelings for her are so shocking and fill him with such terror that he breaks up with her. Even when he breaks up with her, his words are 'I've distracted you from your duty'. So he's literally doing the exact opposite of seduction.

As of Trespasser, it's even confirmed that he and Lavellan were never sexually intimate, because 'he wouldn't lay with someone under false pretenses'. That's actually pretty honourable, in my opinion. Many people lie just to get laid, the fact that he does the opposite should probably count for something, shouldn't it?

Ah, but what about Felassan? Nah, that's not a gotcha. We know from Solas's voiced lines and his reaction to Blackwall's revelation that betrayal is anathema to him. 'Betrayal is always worse'.

And even though I love the character, if Felassan was actually working for Solas, (and it's never confirmed by name or even description that he was), he dies for disloyalty. And it's also never confirmed textually or in game that it actually was Solas who killed him. That's another assumption.

Weekes is an absolute master at manipulating people's assumptions.

I don't expect to change people's minds about a fictional game character, feel how you feel about Solas. It's cool. I just love breaking fiction down to analyze it and people's reactions to it. It's fascinating to me.

But y'all need to understand that words means things. I'd suggest that people actually use the words that describe whatever they're feeling accurately. I have alexithymia, please trust me when I say I get how hard it can be to identify and label emotions. It's still worth the effort.

I get that a lot of people feel betrayed by Solas because they assumed things about him, but you're really just annoyed at your assumptions.

Just because someone breaks your heart when no relationship talk has taken place doesn't mean they've betrayed you. A couple of kisses and an admission of love does not a life partnership make.

Not telling people about yourself immediately isn't treasonous. Where in the world is that idea even coming from? It's not anyone's right to know everything about another person. It's rather entitled to say it is. And like, would anyone have actually believed him?

Nope.

'Oh, yeah, uh, I'm this mythical freedom fighter with a really bad rep but um, I'm not really like that?'

Phhhffft.

I really hope it isn't his neurodivergent coding that makes a lot of people dislike him and not give him the benefit of the doubt, but I have an inkling it might be.

Gods know so many people treat living NDs badly. Why not a fictional one?

We do tend to set off the 'uncanny valley' effect in NTs. 'I don't know what it is about that person, but they're just creepy and I don't like them' is often code for 'that person is neurodivergent and bound to be rejected'. But we're just as human as you are.

Thanks for reading!

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#dragon age series #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #solas #solavellan #inquisitor lavellan #solavellan hell #solas dai #dragon age meta

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a-world-in-grey · 1 year

Note

I've been thinking about Spark verse!Prompto.

Being a kid with no training, she probably doesn't have the best control with her magic. She would have worked out how not to start random fires or shock people with lightning, but if magic users are able to sense each other. Well, she might not know that or how to hide herself before she meets Noctis. Which presents Opportunities :)

Because Noctis might actually notice Prompto's resemblance to his friend Luna, assuming the Tenebrae visit wasn't butterflied away, and ask her about it. Which might clue her in that she was looking at the wrong magical monarch when looking for her parent.

Or, which I personally find much more Fun, Noctis did not meet Luna in this timeline so when he's confronted with another magic kid. Well, he comes to the obvious conclusion. The same one that Prompto had. And being a cat of a person that he is, he just goes "I know it, you know it, Dad (probably) knows it, we're apparently not talking about it, let's just hang out and play King's Knights."

So. Normally I hc that magic users usually cannot sense each other unless the magic is brushing up against them or actively being used (Sola/Ardyn being the odd case) so Regis and Noctis wouldn’t sense Prompto if she’s hiding.

But.

This is Fantastic.

I haven’t decided if the Marilith attack will still happen or how the situation in Tenebrae will develop, but either way let’s say Prompto takes enough after Besithia instead of the Fleurets that she doesn’t immediately trip Noctis’ (or someone else’s) familiarity with Tenebrae’s royal family.

Prompto has spent years learning to hide her magic, suppressing it as hard as she can. Nope, no magic here, no siree. The scorch mark on the carpet is explained away as Prompto accidentally knocking over a candle, and while she’s bummed to not be allowed any more candles in her room, keeping her magic secret is a bit more important.

Thing is, suppressing her magic actually makes it harder for Prompto to hide it. Magic isn’t supposed to be suppressed, isn’t supposed to be bottled up and crammed into the deepest corner of her soul. Adopting a headcanon from @secret-engima’s Cyra-verse, in that having a build up of magic with no way to relieve the pressure causes health issues. I don’t know what kind of health issues I’d go with, perhaps something playing off of Oracle magic being heavily geared towards light and healing.

Paradoxically, despite her health issues, Prompto actually heals from injuries far faster than normal. It’s not to the point of noticeable regeneration, but those who look for it in hindsight can tell that Promto is healing anywhere from a 25-50% faster than what is normal, and Prompto is not yet so desperate as to re-injure herself to hide her magic. (Ironically, were Regis or Cor to ever learn of Prompto’s healing/health issues, they’d assume it the result of whatever experiment Besithia conducted, not magic.)

So Prompto spends about a decade trying to suppress her magic. A decade atrophying whatever innate control she might have had, a decade shrinking her reserves even as the slow build up of magic strains to escape its ever decreasing confines.

The first time she sees Noctis, in primary school, Noctis cannot sense Prompto’s suppressed magic. They are both young children with still developing reserves, and Noctis has no reason to look. Prompto is able to stay in the background even as she resolves to better herself so she can stand as her brother’s friend, because she can tell from a fifty paces that Noctis is achingly lonely.

(Of course, between then and the beginning of high school Prompto develops her health issues, but she hardly lets that stop her.)

She introduces herself to Noctis in high school, and to her surprise and delight, Noctis immediately accepts her overtures of friendship. (She tries not to think of how lonely Noctis must have been, to accept a new friend so quickly.)

On Noctis’ part, he is blindsided when one of the girls in his year comes up to him with an easy confidence and bright smile, brimming with magic to his senses. (Because as Prompto’s reserves got smaller with no outlet for the magic already there, it became easier and easier to sense her magic.) He accepts her overtures of friendship mostly to figure out who the Pyre this girl is, but finds himself liking her more and more as a friend until they’re practically attached at the hip.

Noctis mistakes Prompto for a Lucis Caelum instead of a Fleuret. After all, Prompto’s parents (to his knowledge) are Lucian merchants who have never left the country, and as far as he knows the Oracles haven’t left the Niflheimr continent since they were annexed by the Empire. No, it makes more sense that Prompto is his half-sister.

(Prompto and Noctis don’t acknowledge their presumed relation, not at first, but those who assume them to be dating (far more than either would like) are met with disgusted expressions and denials of ‘they’re like my sibling.’)

Of course, because Noctis can be blind as a bat when it comes to things he doesn’t want to think about, it takes him awhile to do the math around Prompto’s birthdate and realize that Regus would’ve been fooling around with Prompto’s mother when Aulea was only a couple months pregnant. That realization puts Noctis in a mood, especially when a couple offhand questions to Prompto reveals that Prompto’s parents stopped working for the Crown shortly after Prompto’s birth.

(I could make it worse and have Aulea’s death be a couple months after Noctis’ birth, so Noctis thinks that not only did Regus know about Prompto, but Regis also deliberately concealed and rejected Prompto. Due to grief, shame, or because Prompto wasn’t Aulea’s, Noctis doesn’t know, but the timing is too suspicious for him to think it a coincidence.)

Poor Regis has no idea why Noctis seems to be so cross with him all of a sudden. Clarus suggests it might be a simple teenage rebellious phase, and since Noctis isn’t getting into trouble Regis leaves it be and waits for Noctis to talk to him about it. Ignis and Gladio try to figure out what the Pyre is going on, but Noctis refuses to budge, and Prompto is equally baffled when they ask if she has any idea - Noctis hasn’t told her either.

Noctis not introducing Prompto to Regis baffles everyone too, until Clarus makes the observation that this is Noctis’ first friend that wasn’t chosen for him, so it stands to reason he wants to keep her for himself - dragons don’t exactly like to share. (Noctis is embarrassed by that assumption when he’s simply trying to help Prompto keep her LC heritage under wraps, but he can’t say that so the assumption stands.)

(Prompto thinks Noctis’ grumpy possessiveness is cute. It’s not like she isn’t grateful for the excuse not to meet Regis. She still thinks she’s successfully hidden, but that doesn’t mean she’s anywhere ready to meet her presumed birth father.)

Things come to a head when the four are hanging out at Prompto’s place - her parents out of town once more but she’s now old enough at 16 to not need a babysitter - and Prompto’s health issues flare unexpectedly, leaving her shaking in pain. It’s not the first time this has happened since she befriended Noctis, but this is the first time Noctis has been present for the flare up, and he has the benefit of being able to look at the issue with fresh eyes.

Specifically, Noctis feels Prompto’s magic surge against the steel grasp Prompto has on it as Prompto doubles over in pain and realizes that Prompto suppressing her magic is hurting her. And Noctis can’t ignore the catoplebas in the room anymore.

Prompto has a panic attack when Noctis reveals that he knows. Fortunately she’s recovered as well as she ever does from the flare up a couple days ago, but it’s not a great time for either of them. Noctis explains how he knew from the minute he met her a year ago, and how he’s tried to help hide her from his father because Regis would also notice. But Noctis tells her how she needs to use her magic, if only a bit, or her health is only going to get worse.

Noctis starts teaching Prompto to control her magic. It requires telling Ignis and Gladio about Prompto’s magic and swearing them to secrecy (Gladio looks poleaxed when he learns) because Noctis and Prompto aren’t sneaky enough to do this without help. Gladio also helps train Prompto in self-defense, because the thought of a royal being defenseless is stressful enough to give him grey hairs (he’s grateful the secrecy means eleven-year old Iris won’t be expected to take up Shield duties, but at the same time that leaves the Princess without a Shield).

Prompto proves to be a crack shot with just about any firearm she gets her hands on, and her Armiger means she’ll never be unarmed, which is one worry off Gladio’s mind. As for Prompto’s magic - it quickly becomes clear that she’ll never have more than the basics. Warping is beyond her entirely, to Prompto’s jealousy, as are shields. Prompto gets a passable skill in Elemancy for all that she’ll never match Ignis’ talent for it.

The only magic she really takes to is stealth spells. Refracting light to conceal herself comes almost as easily as shooting a gun. (None of them think to explore if Prompto can heal beyond making curatives, and the other Oracle magics are unknown to them.) She also manages to figure out a minor trick that lets her create a little night light that she can easily explain away as the flashlight on her phone if anyone nearly catches her.

Best of all, Prompto’s health issues fade. They don’t go away completely, probably never will with how much damage has been done, but any improvement is one Prompto will take.

Once Prompto gains enough control over her magic to successfully hide from Noctis even when he’s trying to sense her, Noctis grudgingly introduces her to Regis.

#ffxv #Spark!Ardyn au #Prompto Arengtum #Noctis Lucis Caelum #misunderstandings galore #which will blow up in everyone’s faces before the truth gets out #open to ideas for how that all goes down

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first-flower-of-my-house · 3 months

Note

hi! 6, 13, and 14 for the DA hype asks??

Thanks for the ask!!

6. Do you have your Rook(s) planned out to any degree? If so, would you share some details or ideas you have?

I’m currently tossing around ideas of a Veil Jumper elf mage named Kaylin, and a Qunari warrior named Rhaenyra (not sure what faction for her yet). No clue who either will romance yet!

13. What's one thing you've seen confirmed so far that you're a fan of?

The fact that Solas and the Inquisitor’s stories are linked has me absofuckinglutely feral I’m not gonna lie

14. What's one thing you've seen confirmed so far that you're NOT a fan of?

“Ancient elves go bald after a thousand years” stupidest new lore yet lmao

#Sam answers asks #ellstersmarh #datv

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hawkewild · 3 months

Text

Ok, wild theory time. Mild spoilers for a Tevinter Nights story below (not really but just in case).

I've been in 100% Dragon Age mode since the announcement and been rereading/catching up on side content, and something caught my eye. Now this is gonna be a VERY EXTREMELY fringe theory but hear me out.

So in the Tevinter Nights story "Brother Genitivi Dies In the End", we get this line from Rasaan:

To me, she's saying that Solas has yet another name other than Fen'Harel, one that is likely his original name. I have a feeling that while we don't have nearly enough lore at the moment to make any connections, the name has GOT to be one we've already heard elsewhere in codexes and conversations.

When I was refreshing my memory on the Evanuris, I was reminded of this entry for June (#58 "The Mystery of June", screenshot from the Dragon Age fandom wiki):

Again, total fringe theory conjecture, but maybe there isn't much information on June because he was eventually called Fen'Harel once he started his rebellion...? And if enough was lost to forget June's original identity and for it to be replaced with the "master of crafts" god persona, it's not the biggest stretch to assume that it would be possible to confuse the elven pantheon over time, and that two names of the same god were mistakenly represented as two separate gods.

It's true that Fen'Harel and June have conflicting depictions in myth, mainly that June cared for and helped the people, while Fen'Harel did not like them. However we have seen in the Trespasser DLC that what we "know" of Fen'Harel through myth has been completely wrong, and is likely slander by either the Evanuris he was rebelling against, the elves who survived the fall of Arlathan, or both.

I know that isn't nearly enough to make a strong connection (or even a weak one lol), but also see this codex (#84 "Vir Dirthara: Raising the Sonallium", screenshot also from the Dragon Age fandom wiki):

The "clever" June sticks out to me. Why specifically "clever" as a descriptor? Like yes, a master of crafts could also be described as that, but it also sticks out to me as a quality that has been ascribed to both Fen'Harel in myth and to Solas in his modern day real self 🤔.

This is also a really early codex from the time of the elves (found in the shattered library in the Trespasser DLC), which would clearly pre-date any depictions of June as a master of crafts, so I don't think that depiction is relevant at all here. I think this might be a first small clue to what or who June really was, before that record was erased by time and the fall of Arlathan.

Anyways, red string theory done. There's barely any evidence for this and I fully expect it to be disproven in an embarrassingly short amount of DA4 gameplay (or even in lore I just haven't read yet, that would be a fun L to take). Let me know if you think I'm on to something or just in the lore wayyy too deep 😭 lol

EDIT: yeah no I'm completely wrong which is what I get for writing this at 2am while wayyy too excited about the latest game info. It's very likely Fen'harel means something like "rebel wolf", not "dread wolf", and that's what Rasaan is referring to - the modern translation for "harel" is wrong

#da4 #dragon age #da:v #da:tv #trespasser spoilers #tevinter nights spoilers

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greypetrel · 2 years

Note

14 for Aisling? C:

Ooooh thank you for this! It’s been challenging but ultimately satisfying to write… And I think I may even re-use this, meheheh. <3

With some music recommendation! (and yes if you need it this is your clue to go and watch Master&Commander again.)

And since I’m a sucker, here’s Aisling’s dress .

Tis, on the other hand, is the prompt list!

14. Holding each other's gaze

Aisling is restless.

She doesn’t know if it’s still some lingering side effects of Adamant or the new balance in friendships that the aftermath has brought, the big question mark over Solas after her decision to rehabilitate the Wardens and their quarrel in Redcliffe, Varric who’s still struggling with Cole, Radha who… She doesn’t want to think about her. Or, some nerves for the upcoming Winter Ball, now approaching closer and closer.

Oh, she’s pretty ready for the Ball, or as ready as she’ll ever be. Josephine, sweet and clever Josephine, has organised a series of formal dinners with this and that fancy noble, to ease her into the environment and into the Game with far less at stake. This is one of those evenings: the great hall, now fully functional and polished to a shine is elegantly decorated with tables and candles to welcome guests, everyone in her inner Circle who wished to participate in their best clothes, the small string quintet Josie has found and hired to teach her dancing is softly playing in a corner a suite from a composer she really likes. It’s a nice evening, for a formal dinner, she didn’t mix the forks, not even once, the food was good and Sera has still not barged in with a full beehive.

And yet, she’s ill at ease in her skin and can’t wait to just jump on her horse and leave. Even if the next planned mission is in the Dirthavaren and it’s not going to be pleasant from the reports. She is irked by staying there and look pretty and play pretend and not being able to do what she wants. For example, her favourite passacalle just started and she can’t just leave Comte and Comtesse de Renard to grab Dorian and start dancing because she’d love to and they always have so much fun with passacalles.

But no, she reckons that this is all useful, so she puts up a nice smile, sips another bit of the sweet wine (the “stale molasses” in Dorian’s word, but he’s been scolded by Lady Montilyet to be on his best behaviour too) and just nods and reply something absolutely inconsequential over fox-hunting and riding in the countryside, shifting the topic to just riding with ease, at least.

The music changes to something slower, and the de Renards excuse themselves to go and dance, leaving her alone – for the wild luxury of maybe five minutes, if she’ll be very lucky and Josephine won’t notice her. So, she walks to the side, nodding to other people, gently raising her gown with a swish of green silk and petticoats underneath as she steps down to reach one of the tables and sit down for a while. The evil contraptions she has on her feet started to hurt, and between that and her growing antsier and more impatient… She needs to sit down. And so she does, placing her glass on the table as both hands discreetly fixes her skirt to sit on it without wrinkling the precious fabric, fixing the gown under her bottom before sinking on the chair and slipping her feet out of the shoes. Another sip of wine to hide the satisfied smile of toes blissfully splaying on the cool stones beneath them, pressing flat and wide and free, finally. Long skirts at least are useful to hide these little much needed moments of rebellion.

But it doesn’t last long, unluckily for her: not even the time to finish her wine, and Josephine’s there with her, looking like a jewel on herself in a dress of light, sheer silk that’s similar to what she usually wears but more forgiving and loose, more fit for a soirée.

“Josie!”

Mistake. Josie pouts, clicking her tongue over her palate.

“Lady Montilyet or Ambassador, now, Lady Inquisitor.” She chides her, softly. “Can I steal you for a moment, or has someone asked you to dance?”

“No, Dorian’s…” Where’s Dorian, exactly? Which is by now the only one who invites her to dance in these occasions. She looks around her, but the mage is nowhere to be found. “…Lord Pavus took flight.”

Aisling states, frowning and pouting in offence that he just managed to slip away from the room without her. She’s gonna put salt in his coffee, tomorrow. As a retaliation for not even letting her know the nearest escape route and leaving her there to envy him a lot.

“Yes, I think he slipped into the gardens…” Josie whispers, soft enough that just she can hear, before clearing her throat, with an apologetic smile on her face. “On that matter… Duc and Duchesse de Mourny expressed their… Interest in speaking with you directly.”

“Why would that be related?” She asks, suspecting something.

“They have expressed… Opinions on Lord Pavus’ upbringing.”

“I see.” Maybe no salt in his coffee, then. She sighs, slipping back into her shoes and raising up, gulping down the remnant of her wine -Josie scoffs but she cares not, she’s gonna need it- and leaving the glass on the table. “Let’s go.”

“You look lovely in this dress, by the way.” Josie adds, satisfied. She chose all of her formal dresses after all, Aisling just put some words in colours and in staying away from too many frills and ruffles, which is really not her style.

“You too, you look like you’re out of a painting! Yellow looks so good on you.”

“As long as I don’t look out of my sister’s paintings.”

“Why so? Is she bad?”

“No… It’s that she never finishes them. I would hate being here with half a gown, you see.”

They giggles together at that, walking on the other side of the room, close to the door that leads to the Undercroft. The Duc and the Duchesse are there, talking with Cullen and Leliana, and they may be the most richly dressed people in the room: the invitations to the soirée clearly specified it wasn’t that formal of an event, but they must have missed the line. They’re both dressed in the most precious and translucent brocades and silks, in clothes that would be fit for a gran gala. The Duc’s mask is made of pure silverite encrusted in sapphires, the same sapphires that adorns the heavy necklace and earrings of his wife, face hidden by a mask of ivory very delicately carved in a net of flowers and vines. Her raven black hair is up on her head and made even higher by a pair of ostrich feathers that looks as soft as snow and dwindles in every little minute movement of her head. They would make even Vivienne run for the prize of best-dressed, and Aisling suddenly feels underdressed and very much like the chubby and clumsy chick of a cuckoo, with her dress that yes, it’s silk and has a round of lace to embellish the wide neckline, but that’s it.

Rule number one, tho, the one Leliana always insists onto: don’t let them know, act like you’re in control. And Lavellan’s good at control. So, she just smiles and hints a curtsey to them both, checking her movement, not going too deeply down, just the necessary. They exchange with a nod of their heads, the Duchess waves her fan -ostrich feathers for that as well of course- and Aisling instantly knows they’re not there to have a good evening.

“Your Graces, it’s such a honour to have you finally here. Please forgive me for not being able to welcome you to Skyhold before.”

“Bien-sure, Inquisitor. Your advisers were just informing us of how busy you all are, no need for you to reiterate.” The Duc says, dismissively. The lack of Lady speaks volumes.

“This war won’t be easily won, Your Graces, but the busier we are, the quicker peace will be restored, hopefully. I am enchanted that it still gave us the chance to meet.”

“Such lovely words and such a lovely girl all for our pleasure, isn’t it, darling?” The Duchess chortles, mirthlessly. “So polite and charming, even speaking to nobles from the Empire she favours less!”

“Your Graces” Josephine speaks, as polite and diplomatic as ever. “I’m sure you’d realise that the Inquisition was founded by will of the late Divine Justinia as an organisation that’s super-partes. Lord Pavus’ presence is detached from the Magisterium, and honours that will.”

“Mais certainement, ma chère Josephine, the institution was never in doubt. One would wonder, tho, where the true master of its pretty head lies, seeing the lenience she has for Magisters and people who were in their service.”

Dorian ran, it was for his upbringing. So, that’s it. She can see in the corner of her eyes Leliana casually moving her eyes on her, without saying a word. Expectantly. And Cullen clenching his fist on itself, reaching for the pommel of a sword that isn’t there. At least she didn’t call her rabbit. And at least now she knows that the danger lies in the Duchess, not the Duc.

“I apologise for giving you the wrong impression, Your Grace. I’m really desolate my conduct led you to think so poorly of me, but your concerns aren’t founded. Lord Pavus is far from the Magisterium, and I just freed people who were unfairly tricked in conditions of servitude. I’m sure you learnt of Magister Erimond.”

“We did, Inquisitor.” The Duchess smile, a satisfied curl in her smile. “We learnt that the Magisterium gave you space to deal with you as you see fit. And after the disaster that was Adamant... The occupation of Orlesian forts in the Approach... One wonders.”

Oh, she hates this. She hates having to justify herself to a woman who never saw more than her own monthly blood. People who killed but never by their own hands, never in front of their eyes. Josie warned her. Josie knew. Aisling thought she was prepared, but she’s not. She schools herself as best as she can, smiling amiably as she tries to think of anything that isn’t an insult to reply.

But it’s not her who speaks.

Weirdly enough, it’s Cullen to step forward and clearing his throat, catching the attention of the pair.

“One would argue, tho, what would have become of the Approach should the Inquisition have chosen to leave the matter to Orlais, and whether the Empress had means to face that threat or the War without us, right now.”

"How quaint.” The Duc smiled, venomous. “Ignoring all our effort to end the Civil War and taking all the merit for yourself. It was me who conceded Citadelle du Courbeau to the Empress, after all, and the strategic position will eventually allow her Generals to win. But what would a Fereldan country boy know? If I’m not wrong, all your experience resides in the Circles of Kinloch and Kirkwall … A couple of remarkably positive examples.”

“A Fereldan country boy who’s responsible to the aid to your own lands, your Graces.” Chimes Leliana in, smiling sweetly at the Duc. “You should thank him and the Inquisitor for their effort in freeing them from the Civil War, so you will be able to spend the summer in Fort Revasan, which Gaspard’s troops luckily conquered with no damages at all to the structure. I heard there’s a lovely view over the river from there.”

And that line, sweet as honey and sharp as a knife, has the effect of silencing the two. The Duchesse’s smile grows strained at the corners, and the Duc just scoffs, clearing his throat and not able to reply anymore without confirming that they had, indeed, conceded the other fort to Gaspard. Josie gently elbows her, signalling that it’s her turn to calm the situation down, and Aisling swiftly replies.

“Our main effort, Your Graces, is only towards peace. People, soldiers and nobles alike have suffered enough in the last year, and this only enforces Corypheus’ and the Venatori’s threat. But I am sure we can all forget about War and just enjoy the soirée, now, all matters of War could be discussed tomorrow over tea.”

The Duchesse snaps to her, her smile widening with a threat and swaying her fan gently as she but turns to Josephine, without deigning Aisling of a direct answer.

“What a remarkable work you’re doing with her, Lady Montilyet. Your dear mother would be so proud! One would almost think her a Lady, and not the wild rabbit that she is. A pity you couldn’t do anything for her poor looks. Without the ears, those horrible marks on her face and the poor dress, the transformation would really be complete.”

It’s not the first time she’s been called rabbit. It’s the first time that she’s not being addressed directly with the insult, and treated like she’s not even there. It adds to the jab, and by the way the Duchesse’s eyes darts to her on the side, it’s all orchestrated. She freezes with a smile on her face, thinking of everything else and just reacting with her hands clenching slightly in front of her, over the little bow on the belt hiding the hem of the corset. They cut her out, and she can’t reply without-

“We have different opinions on what a Lady is, Your Grace.” It’s Cullen to interrupt, again, badly hiding chagrin in his tone as he pronounces the honorific. “We may all be too simple for your taste, but at the end of the day, modesty and humbleness will get you through the winter. It will get through the winter even the people you left on their own devices in your lands, left helpless and with no shelter or resources so you could afford gemstones and feathers. Our Lady has no need to cover the smell of rot with fancy ornaments, her actions shine brighter than the most precious of diamonds.”

Were Aisling able to move her eyes, she would see Leliana smirking, an amused glint in her eyes as she observes the situation unfurling, she would see the Duc and Duchesse grumbling and falling on themselves, hear their answer lose its bite. And yet, she’s fixed on Cullen’s eyes, grateful for the saving, with him looking back at her earnestly, steadfast and proud as ever, like a rock in a storm. Thinking better of it, it’s not the first time he saved her, even if she never saw him this polished and elegant, a fancy jacket in the place of the armour, under the usual cape, face neatly shaved – no, that’s a pity, some stubble really suits him better, as it suits him better his usual attire, rough around the edges and honest. Has he ever had such pretty eyes or it’s just his words? She muses, not able to look away as she feels even more restless than before. She can’t make up her mind whether she’s blushing for real or if it’s just an impression. All that exist, for a moment, is just him, the deep, warming respect in his eyes and words, and the look they’re holding on between them.

It's gratefulness that makes her heart beat faster, sure, but maybe it’s something else, a doubt in her thoughts creeping its way up.

Her train of thoughts is abruptly interrupted by Josephine, elbowing her again casually as she clears her throat. Aisling startles, suddenly even more restless and antsy in her skin, but snapping back to the present, as Josie finally concludes one of the most unpleasant exchanges in the last series of dinners and teas with aristocrats.

“Now, this is too lovely an evening to talk about War, Your Graces. Shall we forget all unpleasantries and enjoy the rest of the soirée? You haven’t told me how did you find the canard à l’orange. We heard it’s your favourite.”

Aisling doesn’t care of the duck. It was delicious and tart and she loves citruses in savoury dishes, now. But, she’s still with the deep need of running out and find the loose strand of her thoughts, unfurl them one by one and hopefully get a grip over herself. She answers mechanically at a couple of questions that are asked to her, frowns at Leliana who’s still looking at her like the cat who licked the cream, and politely excuses herself out of the group with an excuse, promising everyone and no one in particular that she’ll be back in no time, wishing a nice evening.

Dorian had an escape route. To the gardens, then. She struggles not to raise her skirt with both hands, launch the heeled slippers somewhere -she doesn’t care now, she doesn’t care that they were bought by Mahariel and she treasures the chance to wear them- and just run out and away. All her self-control gets in keeping her pace poised, smiling and nodding at people who greet her along the way, and finally -finally!- open the door to the garden and slip out in a swish of silk.

The air outside is chilly, Spring still too early to warm the evenings up. She doesn’t care about goosebumps, and now, just now, bends down to take both shoes in a hand and finally run to a quiet, dark corner where she can fold on herself and groan loudly, voice muffled by the green silk on her thighs.

It’s friendship.

It’s just friendship.

He did it out of friendship, she would have done the same in an inverted situation.

The word, tho, has now a crack in it. It’s friendship, she counts him as one of her best friends here, after all...

And yet-

She wonders, for the first time, how would it feel to thread her finger in his hair and undo whatever he did with so much pomade to keep it in order.

She shouldn’t think these things. He’s her Commander, they’re at war and he’s her friend.

And yet-

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cullavellan #cullen x lavellan #dragon age fic #greypetrel #aisling lavellan #cullen rutherford #forgive my French I studied it but I'm terribly rusty #writing petrel

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lairofdragonagelore · 2 years

Text

The Crossroads [DLC Trespasser]: Elven Mountain Ruins , Forgotten Sanctuary; Vallaslin Removal Chamber and Hidden Armoury

In the time of Elvhenan, this valley was a sanctuary created by Fen'Harel to give shelter to elven slaves. He rejected the divine mantle himself and taught the refugees the truth about the Evanuris in the surrounding towers. In the Forgotten Sanctuary, Fen'Harel removed the vallaslin, giving the now free slaves the chance to join his army in order to fight back against the pretender gods.

[This is part of the series “Playing DA like an archaeologist”]

[Index page of Dragon Age Lore]

The Vallaslin Removal Chamber

Here, we find one of the murals of DAI [I make a deep analysis of all the murals in “Murals in DAI”]. For now I can say, briefly, that I’m not so sure if this one was made by Solas.

We know his technique is not unique, it belongs to the ancient elves [proof of this is given by the archivist Banon of Skyhold in The Rotunda and the Fresco]. Technically, any educated elf of the past could have done it.

We already saw how much of a romantisation of Fen’Harel was done in the mosaics of Fen’Harel’s mountain ruins, so this mural may perfectly be part of them as well. My main argument to put in question this is that we never saw Solas draw himself in the way he is presented here, so I’m a bit sceptical about his authorship.

This mural pictures Fen’Harel as a person wearing a wolf cape and a fine robe. The intricate patterns of the fabric makes him look more important, more “Evanuris”, when he usually draws himself with the same kind of robes than the slaves are wearing: a black and green simple robe. I think there is an intent of idealisation of Fen’Harel by making his outfit fancy and more elaborated.

The figure is covering his face with a wolf mask [so, technically, anyone can take this role] and removes the vallaslin of the slaves. To me, this figure represents, ironically, a “priest” of Fen’Harel, a representative that embodies Fen’Harel’s (romanticised) ideas and shares and applies the power that Fen’Harel himself gave them [aka, the spell to remove the Vallaslin]. This figure could be a mage that knows the spell and removes the Vallaslin in groups of recently arrived slaves.

We saw the removal of the Vallaslin in the romance scene of Solas: it’s a mere spell that doesn’t need any great material or fashion to perform, it’s easy and doable if you know the spell. Another extra detail to support this suspicion is the figure’s staff. That’s not Solas’ staff.

We know his staff from his tarot card (number 1), it is a kind of a “halla profile” with a very messy set of horns. In the mural of the red lyrium idol, he painted his staff (number 3) closer to the design of 1 than 2. Staff 2 seems to be a generic branch made into a staff.

Continuing with the mural, the elves come from a blue water pool which contains inside the shape of an elven orb.The water is drawn with undulating blue lines that can represent mere water, or lyrium pools [if we want to link this to The Horror of Hormak]. These waters are a product of the Evanuri’s power: from these waters, the elves come out, slaved and branded. Similar undulation can be seen in the vallaslins coming out of their faces, and in the borders of the aravels, giving us some hints to point out to The Horror of Hormak. These undulating lines appear too in the spheres of the Mural of “The Creation of the Veil” that we find in the Shattered Library. The relationship between undulating lines, orbs, and vallaslin seem to be rather consistent, and I trust this interpretation more than others.

Now, something that I will owe, because I have no idea about yet, are those white drawings over the heads of the elves. No clue what those could be.

For some unknown and unsettling reason, this mural has the face of the The Strange Idol repeated four times, with its mouth stained in (dry, I assume) blood. We have seen this exact circle with his face in Emerald Graves: Din'an Hanin and in Emerald Graves: Din'an Hanin, Elandrin’s Tomb. One of these heads holds the brazier from where you can cast Veilfire.

Does this have any meaning? I’m not sure. We are not sure who this figure represents yet. The furthest we reached was Elgar’nan, thanks to the description in Signs of Victory as I commented in Ancient Elven codices; Vir Dirthara and thanks to the name of the zone [Elgar’nan’s bastion] where we find his statue in the middle of Elandrin’s Tomb. But we don’t know who named this place like that, so we don’t have anything truly reliable to identify this statue. So far, we can only suspect it to represent Elgar’nan, while some Tevinters considered it Dumat. More details about this unsettling figure can be read in The Strange Idol.

The Inquisitor and their companions make remarks about this mural: we are introduced here to the concept that the Vallaslin was a different kind of mark [this knowledge is only truly known by female inquisitors who romanced Solas]. For more details, check the post about “Murals in DAI”.

To activate the statue of Fen'Harel, we have to solve a small simple puzzle. Curious detail, in front of the Sitting Fen'Harel statue we find a Stone in Razikale-Ceremony-style. This combination of elements will be repeated along the Crossroads and the small pocket worlds we visit: The stone that gives us a clue to solve the puzzle of the Sitting Fen'Harel statue is a Stone in Razikale-Ceremony-style. Mere reuse? I'm a bit lost with this stone since it appeared in the Fairel's burials. More about this stone was discussed in Razikale Ceremony and Dumat’s Warrior tablets.

Once we solve the puzzle, Fen’Harel statue moves, opening the entrance to the basement. We have access to the last mosaic:

It narrates what we saw in the previous mural: the removal of the vallaslin. For more details, read Ancient Elven codices; Fen’Harel’s mountain ruins.

As the mosaic disappears, it gives us access to the Hidden Armoury, where we see the arsenal of weapons that the rebels had to fight against the Evanuris.

In the Armoury, we read a report left by a qunari agent about an elven artefact in the box laying between Fen'Harel's paws. However, if we return to it and inspect it, we realise it is not elven [this shows how little Qunari know about elves and elvhenan craftsmanship]. Here we find Arrowwood which is associated with ... well, many things.

It speaks of a Ciriane tale, an alamarri tribe from which Andraste comes from.

We don't know the race of the main char of the story, we assume is human [but we know that the Alamarri have been mixing with other races without much problem, so they could be a half-dwarf].

He removed his heart to have mastery in the bow. There are two stories related to a creature that removes their heart: Korth, and the story that the elves narrate with the mural of the Titan: “The Death of a Titan”

This char shot the Sun, causing eternal night. This concept links him with Elgar'nan who fought the Sun or pushed it down into the earth depending on which unreliable story you based this on.

The queen of the Ciriane [called gothi] sent a messenger to the Witch of the Wild to stop him.

Depending on the story, the messenger never found the Witch and made a deal with a demon. Or worked for the witch and her daughters for a year. Or found the Lady of the Skies. In all three versions, we can interpret the same: the messenger found Flemeth [since she is an abomination with certain anomalies she qualifies as a demon for many tales. She is a also a witch of the wild, and she has a big potential to be the Lady of The Skies in some shape or form]

In all cases, the messenger received a coil of silk that he used to replace the string of the bow of the Arrowwood.

When Arrowwood tried to use the bow, his heart shattered and he became dust.

The queen took the weapon, encased it in an iron chest, and dropped it in the Nahashin Marshes.

Now, how and why a weapon of Ciriane nature, that has some resemblances with titans, Korth, and Elgar’nan, ended up in an ancient elvhen chest, from a time before the arrival of humans to the world? If it's not an elven weapon, it makes no sense for it to be here. And one can argue that this could be similar to the case of finding the Chapter ??? of Hard in Hightown in the Lower Archives, but I feel that such chapter makes more sense as a way for the devs to tell the players that whoever was left in the Fade, died in peace. It’s closure to a narrative. Now, this doesn’t make sense in that way either. One could assume this is just pure game mechanics and thinking too much about it is wasteful. It’s a good weapon after all.

Hidden Armoury

The first thing we see when walking downstairs is, besides all the weapons, a curious statue of two birds in a strange amalgamation. So far I'm aware, we never saw similar statue anywhere in the game [I tend to overlook Orlesian stuff, but I feel this statue would have got my attention anyway] .

It's two birds [maybe ravens due to their beak?] joined by their backs, and struggling to fly. The first idea that came to me when i saw it for the first time was the two ravens of Dirthamen: Deceit and Fear [if we indulge in the unreliable Dalish tales]. But it makes little sense. It's true that Dirthamen is present in this sanctuary more than we have expected, and he is also present in the first tower where we enter [ the Vine-covered Tower]. But what would be the meaning of placing his ravens, fused, in the armoury? This symbol here escapes me.

This place is filled with elvhenan weapons and armours [similar to the ones we saw Abelas and his elves wear in the Temple of Mythal].

We find in addition to more Dalish supply boxes, Hallas statues that we know in game have been used by the Valmont family to create a system of locking doors in the Winter Palace, and three different kinds of rugs:

One red and black, with geometrical patterns and small "fishes" in it. It's a rug we can find in Skyhold under the basic option [meaning, Skyhold may have had a link to the activities done in here]. On its corners we see two small dogs [?] attacking a simple-horned halla/deer.

There are smaller rugs in the rooms, featuring stars of 12 points. These rugs are the same ones we saw in the Temple of Mythal, placed in front of the Mosaics, giving the idea of being used to kneel and pray. And a last carpet that, in a first impression, seemed to be Chasind, but it is not. It is an old red carpet which has a border pattern that looks like a half-sunburst [similar to the Chantry symbol indeed].

In terms of drapery, we find two main options: the typical Dalish drapery, with the "mask" that in DAO represented Mythal, with a pattern of spherical trees on the background. And the second drapery that caught my attention was a series of ragged, discoloured flags hanging along the entrances of the armoury. It had a very curious symbol on it that I retraced. I've never seen this design. It looks a bit [with a lot of will] like "tentacles", which is not a big thing in DA series anymore, since in DAO the option of making the Old Gods as strange Eldritch creatures was removed due to the limitations of the engine or to add dragons instead.

This symbol, however, appears in another place: in Skyhold, when you pick the basic decoration. Once more, it seems that Skyhold and this hidden armoury may have had some link in the past. Who knows if some of the broken eluvians in this place may have been related to Skyhold long ago. We also know that Skyhold was used by elves long time ago, and suffered strange damage, specially in the section of the jail, that the game leaves it free of any explanation [Prison Structural Evaluation]. At the end of Trespasser we know that Skyhold was Solas’ fortress at some point, so the link with this armoury is not that strange anymore.

The eluvian to gets us out from this Armoury is flanked by two archer.

Extra Details

Along the exploration of these ruins, we find details worth mentioning.

The purple fire

In some parts there is a purple fire that, no matter what you do, it kills you. The only way to cross it is through powers that provide you invulnerability for a while, one of them is the use of discharge of the Anchor. What this means lore-wise?

This fire is visually the same kind of fire that the Archdemon from DAO breathed and it’s now Solas’ current power. I fear so much to connect excessively things that are unrelated, but on the other side, DAI in particular has proven to be such a detailed game, that something of the like, so visual, has a good chance to be intentional. I’m not going to say that Solas is an archdemon, because we still don’t know what truly is an Old God [the non-corrupted version of an archdemon]. We only know that Urthemiel was worthy to be protected according to Mythal’s actions, so the relationship of these powerful elvhen mages with these old dragons is not clear yet but the relationship seems to exist.

The design in general

I like the design of the Elvhen banner and how it relates to Dalish and Tevinter design. That the Dalish banner is a more elaborated version of the Elvhen banner is not a surprise to anyone. It’s the same object with some extra “orlesian-like” ornamentation that can be justified for the years of coexistence between the Ancient Dalish and the Orlesians in the Dales, before the Exalted March.

However, I think it’s worth noting how Tevinter design is, yet again, based on Elvhen design, specially the one related to arcane. Tevinter banner has a shape on its top that resembles an oversimplified raising dragon [like the symbol of Emerius, ancient Kirkwall] but it also can be seen as a thicker and compressed version of the top of the Elvhen banner. Both of them inspired, at the same time, by the shape of a dragon or an owl extending its wings.

This comment is not meant to relate crazy lore stuff, but it is basically to highlight how the design of these objects is also related to the History they represents, and who co-opted what. Dragon Age Inquisition is such a detailed game in terms of design that, for that reason, I’m doing this extensive comparison and studies of the statues and art we see in it. It’s not mere whim, they truly worked a lot on this stuff. The director art and the artists who worked on this game, REALLY thought a lot how real life civilisations base their design, culture, and religion on previous ones, modifying them or mixing them with others, to the point that it’s hard to identify the original inspiration. And I’m truly convinced that DA series is a lot about the exploration of this concept in many levels and cultures.

#Playing DA like an archaeologist #dai trespasser #dlc #tevinter design #dalish design #skyhold drapery #rug #two ravens #Sitting Fen'Harel statue #strange idol #The Strange Idol #Evanuris Mosaics #fen'harel #murals #vallaslin #purple fire #elvhen design #undulating #DAI murals

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mrs-gauche · 3 years

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Hi! I'm playing JoH for the first time and I came across this codex entry "The Hunt of the Fell Wolf", which I'm pretty sure describes and encounter between solas and Ameridan. I feel like there's sooo much foreshadowing in that single entry. Idk if you've discussed this before but I'd love to hear your take on it :)

Hi! Ohhh yes! :O I do know that codex and I remember actually gasping out loud when I read it again on my second playthrough and AGAIN even more so after reading Tevinter Nights! 😂 Thank you so much for the ask, I hadn't thought about this in a while! *rubs hands*

There is quite a lot of super interesting stuff and potential hints in there, but I also feel like it heavily depends on how you interpret the story and I've actually seen many different interpretations in the past.

But let's reiterate real quick.

For those who don't know, "The Hunt of the Fell Wolf" is a tale written as a poem about former Inquisitor Ameridan and his friend Haron who fought and ultimately defeated a beast in the form of a demon wolf. The codex can be found in the Jaws of Hakkon DLC, near the location where you find Kenric's assistant Colette. It's also quite long, here's a link to the whole thing. So let's take a closer look. :)

First off, before getting into it, I think you're totally right in that it's only natural to conclude, after reading the entire thing, that the beast described in this tale is most definitely the Dread Wolf, right? It seems almost too much on the nose, looking at the words used to describe it, especially given what we know now after Tevinter Nights. So overall, like you've said, this has to be about Ameridan fighting Solas then, right? Well, I have to argue that a bit. 😁 Yes, the similarities and parallels are almost uncanny. But remember, this is only a tale. And this is where different interpretations come into play.

Because what I think this is (or what would be the most interesting possibility here imo) and what actually seems to be the most popular assumption, that this tale should not be taken in a literal way, in that Ameridan actually encountered and fought Solas once, as that would appear kinda strange, given that the story (talking specifically about Ameridan's part here and not Haron's, but we'll get to that 😁) seemed to have taken place in the waking world and not in the Fade, but what if this whole tale can instead be read as some form of metaphor or like you've said, foreshadowing for what might happen in DA4? (..And probably just the devs again having a blast to tease us with yet another vague hidden clue in some codex entry, goddamnit 😂).

The thing is, if there's anything that can be taken from all of Jaws of Hakkon, it's that Ameridan's story, now entirely misremembered by the history books, and the current Inquisitor's story mirror each other in many different ways.

That being said, there are three main characters in this story.

Ameridan, Haron and the wolf.

Before I go into the details of the tale, let's put on our tin foil hats for a second and assume that this whole tale really is a metaphor for what might happen in DA4, in which Ameridan's role is that of the Inquisitor (quite literally) and the wolf is Solas, which leaves us only with the question of who Ameridan's friend Haron is supposed to be.

Now, I'm not the first one to say this, but let's just go crazy and say that Haron's role in this tale is that of the next protagonist. Because it makes for some very interesting ideas and it's fun to think about (and DA4 is not coming out any time soon, so what else are we gonna talk about 😂)!

So, with ALL of this in mind (and the tin foil hat still on), let's dive into it.

Okay, so the tale starts off with a panicked woman running up to Ameridan and his friend Haron, telling them about a terrible beast they've seen in the moors.

"Upon the lonely moors," the runner cried, "A loathsome beast now dwells. As day gives way to night, it strikes. All in its path, it fells."

Ameridan and Haron are then being lead to the beast that turns out to be a wolf with very familiar features.

Favored like a wolf it was, In size like a Woodsman's Death. Within its eyes burned eldritch fire, The Fade in every breath.

So, to sum this up. A giant demon in wolf form, only striking at night when everyone's asleep, who has burning red eyes and "the Fade in every breath". If that doesn't sound like the Dread Wolf, I don't know what does.

Swift as thought, the hunters struck. The demon wolf fell back, But mortal strength alone could not Prevent the beast's attack.

So Ameridan and Haron try to fight it, but "mortal strength alone could not prevent the beast's attack". We've already seen a glimpse of what Solas is now capable of in Trespasser and Tevinter Nights and if that is anything to go by, it will need something far beyond mortal strength to counter these god like powers.

Ameridan is then struck by the wolf, sending him flying across the moor in a watery grave, leaving Haron alone with the wolf.

Jaws like a dragon's clamped down tight Round Haron's armored chest, And with the knight it sped away From moonlight, to the west.

The wolf then takes Haron with him, vanishing into the night, leaving Ameridan behind in the believe that his friend is dead, so he swears vengeance by killing the wolf and taking its head.

So I take it, Solas will just kidnap the next protagonist in DA4 like they're Bowser and Peach and Inquisitor Super Mario has to rescue them, only to realize that the princess is in another castle. lmao

Notice the dragon connotations here, much like the description of the Dread Wolf in Tevinter Nights. I'm curious as to why the wolf chooses to take Haron rather than killing him instantly though. A hint at Solas still being redeemable?

Whilst the wolf across the moor Bore Haron to its lair, A labyrinth of winding cave Any mortal should beware.

The wolf takes Haron to its lair and now it's getting interesting. The most popular assumption seems to be that "the labyrinth of winding cave any mortal should beware" is referring to the Deep Roads. But why would Solas go there of all places? Well, the answer might actually be right up in the next verses.

Haron manages to free himself from the wolf's jaws and strikes it in the eye, leading it to cry out in pain and flee into the dark.

The wounded knight in darkness Found within the cavern's gloom An idol of fade-touched stone, Which could prove the monster's doom.

Woah okay, WOW. This can't be a coincidence, right? It's so on the nose that it's almost baffling. Remember how we first found the red lyrium idol with Varric in the Deep Roads in DA2. And since then, the idol has only gotten more and more attention, whether it's the lastest comics, the very first DA4 teaser in 2018 or the entirety of the last chapter in Tevinter Nights. And here it is again, in a codex entry from 2015.

"An idol of fade-touched stone, which could prove the monster's doom."

Whether you believed the Bard's story at the end of Tevinter Nights or not, it is certain that Solas needs the idol for whatever he's planning. But what if he's so desperate to get it, because it's the only thing that could make him vulnerable? His weak spot so to speak?

Back to the tale, while Haron found the idol, Ameridan followed the wolf's tracks, which lead him to the cave where he finally finds the wolf again at the cavern's end.

With burning blade, Ameridan And monster met again Whilst elsewhere did Haron valiantly With demon-wards contend.

As demon-stone was shattered, Ameridan struck true: Beast and spirit—both felled at once, Though neither hunter knew.

This has to be the most intriguing part!

The way it's written, you would think that what's happening here is Ameridan striking the wolf with his sword as Haron elsewhere destroys the idol at the same time and only through this combined effort, the wolf can ultimately be defeated.

But what stood out to me here was this line:

"Beast and spirit - both felled at once"

It sounds like two seperate entities who are connected in a way they can only be defeated by killing both at the same time. Beast and spirit... in two different places... as in the physical body and the spirit maybe? As in the waking world and the Fade?

What if Ameridan struck the wolf's body in the waking world as Haron killed the spirit in the Fade? And what on earth could all this imply for DA4 then, if we are still applying all this to the Inquisitor, Solas and the next protagonist?? 👀 Is this how we can stop him? The Inquisitor confronts Solas in the waking world, while the next protagonist has to fight the Dread Wolf in the Fade? Or what if it's the other way around? Sooo many possibilities here. 😂

I won't go into the whole theory that assumes that the creation of the Veil lead to the separation of the ancient elves' bodies and their souls/spirits, assuming that before the creation of the Veil, the Evanuris somehow made bodies from the Titans/lyrium for spirits to inhabit and then enslaved/bound them to their will by marking those bodies with their vallaslin.

But, keeping all this in mind.. you have to wonder.. in all the murals, tarot cards and illustrations, the Dread Wolf and Solas are always depicted separately.

I always liked to think that the Dread Wolf we see in the murals is a form that Solas himself can take on, but maybe that's not the case? Maybe the Dread Wolf is literally like his spirit animal (or demon animal, if you will lol)? Like a separate entity, that is still somehow part of him, connected through the Fade. We also have to keep in mind that before the creation of the Veil, the nature and connection between spirits/demons/physical forms/elves had to be something completely different than it is now... And who knows, maybe if Solas manages to tear down the Veil, it will all be reversed and everyone becomes one again? 😂

OR could all of this just be a metaphor for the Inquisitor in DA4 keeping Solas occupied to distract him from the next protagonist, while they can figure out another secret way to deal with him? It would definitely fit the whole "finding someone Solas doesn't know/never sees coming/underdog" narrative they've been going for.

OR am I just overthinking all this SO hard, because I'm so desperate to get some answers after such a long time and DA4 is not coming out any time soon and I'm slowly turning insane. 😂

Anyway, the tale ends with the wolf's death, Ameridan and Haron reunite and argue over who takes full credit for the defeat of the wolf.

So to conclude, there's a lot to take from this tale as far as speculations go, but it all depends on how you interpret it, really. 😁

Maybe some of this really happened after all and it was just Ameridan who had a really bad dream one night and all these parallels are just the devs messing with us. lol

(Oh and btw, it's also interesting to note that the location of this codex entry apparently moves to the final temple where you meet Ameridan if you take too long to complete the quest from Kenric's assistant, where you can find it originally. Seems like the devs went out of their way to make sure we would definitely find this tale, so there's that. 👀)

Again, thank you so much for the ask though! I hadn't really thought about this for a while and to revisit it after everything we know now was super interesting! :D But what do you guys think?

#oh no this got so long 😖#but some super interesting stuff to think about!#The Hunt of the Fell Wolf #jaws of hakkon #solas #ameridan #da4 #dragon age 4 #tevinter nights #tevinter nights spoilers #I'm always a little nervous when writing super long texts like this because english is not my first language and..#..I feel like my english gets worse the longer the text becomes 😂#but thank you so much for the ask <3333

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for-the-ninth · 3 years

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Thinking about Solas and babies bc like...were there children in Arlathan? Everyone was immortal so it seems like there wouldn't be a need to make more of them and also if they never age/age very slowly, then how does that work? I def subscribe to the fan theory that the elves of Arlathan were once spirits too, so all signs point to childbearing being unnecessary right?

Anyway whenever I imagine Solas with a child, either his own or interacting with someone else's, I can't help but giggle bc I am 100% certain the man has no clue what to do with a fucking baby

I can see him holding it in the air like bro wtf am I supposed to do with this helpless creature?? Or being utterly mystified when children do weird kid shit and somewhat frantic when an infant - especially his infant - starts crying. I picture him running around like omg omg omg the tiny helpless creature is in distress yet it cannot tell me why WHY ARE YOU YELLING WHAT DO U WANT

Oh and when that kid becomes a teenager and starts doing teenager things, like mom grounds them for being a shit and Solas lets them go out bear hunting or something stupid bc he has no concept of consequences and assumes a 16 year old can take care of themselves bc that's basically an adult right???

And can you *imagine* Solas having The Talk with his kid? Sspspsp like

Solas: *awkward throat clearing* so Dorian lent me this book, should explain everything you need

The Child: Uhh Dad, this is just like, a book full of tiddy pics and sex positions

Solas: *comes back the next day with a science textbook* mk so this here is a fallopian tube, and it says here that-

The Child: maybe I should just talk to mom about this

Solas: *slams book shut* oh thank fuck, off you go kiddo

#like he wouldnt be a bad dad in the way careless sitcom dads are #i just feel like he'd be a little stupid about it until someone showed him the ropes

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kittynomsdeplume · 2 years

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Embers Of The Sun

Summary: Ellana Lavellan makes her periodic pilgrimage to the Dales; to the scene of the final bloody battle against the Evanuris. Here she remembers her fallen comrades and waits for night to fall, so that she may once again see her greatest love. Rating: Teen+ Pairing: Solas/Ellana Lavellan Word Count: 2142

Preview:

Ellana tugs at the weeds that strangle the headstone. It has been too long since her last visit and the vines have taken stubborn root. It is difficult work one-handed, but she perseveres. After all, she is Ellana Lavellan - Herald of the Inquisition; scourge of demons and blighted Magisters; vanquisher of Red Templars, and destroyer of would-be Gods. She does not yield to an obstinate bramble.

“Ha!” she crows in victory, as the last tangle pulls away. Panting and flush with sweat from the effort, she reverently brushes layers of dirt and grime from the weathered stone marker. Decades it has been, since she first laid this stone and yet, the memories of that time remain eternally vivid in the corners of her mind. Forever itching and restless; just like her phantom left arm. It still wakes her some nights; burning with the memory of the Anchor that once possessed it.

‘Lucky’ - that’s what Varric had dubbed her when they’d first met. Even then she did not feel particularly so, and the passage of time has done little to change her mind. It is a hard, painful curse, to always be the one left behind. The one that has to carry on alone. Shouldering all the burdens of the world, even after watching her friends fall, one by one.

Cassandra, Cullen, Dorian - Varric himself, and so many others. All the nameless innocents that perished in the war with the Evanuris. Ordinary people, with simple lives and simple dreams - that wanted only to live in peace, but were nonetheless swept into oblivion by the madness of a powerful few.

Ellana’s hand trembles agains the headstone as the memories wash over her. She remembers their laughter; their tears; all their adventures together. But their faces have slowly faded in time. Her heart aches, that she can no longer remember what they looked like. Only his face remains sharp and clear; the face she sees each night in her dreams. Or in the worst of times, her nightmares.

Most of the time her dreams are pleasant however, and he appears to her looking very much as he did the first time they met. Quietly dignified, his eyes clear and bright; crinkling at times with a gentle mirth. So often she looks back upon those happier days, scouring her memories - searching for signs of his inner turmoil; wondering how she could have missed the clues. The answer is obvious of course - she did not want to see it. She was falling deeply, helplessly in love.

Continue reading at AO3

#kittywrites #solavellan #solas x lavellan #solas #Ellana lavellan #dragon age fanfiction #fic back friday

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plazmafields · 4 years

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“You asked to see me?”

Cullen lifted his head from his work to lock eyes with the mage in his doorway. He sighed as he gestured for Dorian to sit.

“Yes. I have a…problem, of my own creation, that I could use some advice on.”

Dorian lowered slowly into the seat across the desk from Cullen, curiously raising an eyebrow. “I’ll see how I can help.”

“Thank you,” Cullen smiled softly before clearing his throat to continue, “There’s…a person who I continue to find catching my eye, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’d really like them to know how I feel, but I don’t think I have the confidence to tell them with words.”

Dorian blinked several times, a bit taken aback that Cullen was so upfront with his ask for romantic help.

“Well,” he began, shifting forward in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, “I am certainly no expert in women—"

“I never said they were a woman.”

Dorian’s mouth still hung open from his comment. He shut it quickly and nodded, silently asking Cullen to continue.

The Commander sighed, running a hand through his groomed curls. “I’ll be honest: I’ve never really…courted anyone before, so we’re essentially starting from scratch here.”

Dorian gave a comforting smile, “That’s perfectly alright. Perhaps a blank slate is best.”

The mage pulled his chair up, resting his elbows on the desk. “Now, you don’t want to come off too strong too soon. So let’s start very basic: what is something almost anyone would like to receive?”

Cullen looked down at his hands, clasped and nervously twiddling. After a moment of thinking he replied tentatively, “Praise?”

Dorian chuckled, “Yes, that’s true, but let’s think most simply. Something superficial, to start. Something physical…?” he guided.

Cullen’s eyes bounced around Dorian’s features for clues. “Gifts?”

Dorian nodded encouragingly, making a rolling motion with his hand to encourage something specific.

“Such as…flowers?” Cullen said it like a question.

“Perfect!” Dorian Tossed his hands up. “Now the next step is easy, what flowers do they like?”

Cullen sighed, rubbing at his scruff, “No idea. And I’m not sure I have the nerve to ask them.”

“Well you wouldn’t want to do that anyway, you want to bring it up casually. Otherwise, they might catch on to what you’re planning.”

Cullen was still looking away, distracted with his own anxiety. Dorian offered a gentle smile and a friendly suggestion. “Why not get a bouquet? A little mix of everything? That way there’s bound to be something they like in there. After all, it’s the thought, not the gift, that matters here.”

Cullen nodded continuously, deep in thought of what to get for his muse. “Yes…a little of everything. That’s…that’s an excellent idea! I’ll go to Orlais, to a florist, pick out the most exotic things they have, the most colorful, most pungent. It’s perfect!”

Dorian couldn’t help the grin that stretched across his lips at Cullen’s excitement.

“Thank you, Dorian. You’ve no idea how much this helps me.”

“Glad to be of service, my friend.” Dorian rose from his seat, gave a friendly bow, and left Cullen to his plans.

__________

As Dorian sat in his little alcove, reading over a new study, the sound of quick and precise footsteps drew closer. Soon, the Inquisitor, ever nimble on her feet, ran into his nook, a massive smile on her face.

“Have you been out today?”

Dorian glanced over the edge of his book. “Not yet, no.”

She bounced on her toes, “So you haven’t seen the garden?”

The mage raised a brow, closing his book with one hand. “Should I?”

The rouge practically squealed as she gestured for Dorian to follow her.

They were in the main hall in no time, Vivienne calling down from her balcony, “It's simply exquisite, darling! Who knew our Commander had such taste?” Varric shrugging as if to say Not me.

Once outside, Dorian had to push through a wall of onlookers, all gawking at the sight before them. The Inquisitor slipped through almost effortlessly, turning to check for Dorian every few seconds.

Finally, they broke through the crowd and Dorian’s jaw nearly dropped. There were flowers everywhere; no patch of dirt in sight. Flowering ivy spiraled up and around the pillars and railings, columns tangled in vines. Each plain tree had been replaced with a flowering fruit tree; one apple, one cherry, one pear, and one orange.

The Inquisitor squeezed his hand to bring him back, saying in a sigh, “Isn’t it beautiful? Like a magic forest!”

Before he could turn to acknowledge her, the red head was already frolicking like a school girl, skipping and bounding through the garden, hoping to find every flower she could. Dorian watched her with a smile, shaking his head at how adorable she could be.

A sudden realization washed over him as he watched the young woman stand on her toes to reach an apple: she must be Cullen’s secret muse. Watching her enjoy every last bit of the garden, even the new insects that had been attracted by the plants, cemented this truth in his mind. Cullen was head over heels for Lyann Trevelyan.

After spending time with his friend amongst the flowers, admiring every scent, Dorian slipped away to consult Cullen on his next move. As he poked his head into the Commander's office, he saw Cullen excitedly pacing, grinning to himself.

“Do you know what a bouquet is, my friend? Perhaps something was lost in translation last we spoke.” Dorian teased, grabbing Cullen’s attention.

Cullen’s head shot up and he smiled widely, rushing over to Dorian to get his reaction. “Well? What do you think?”

Dorian chuckled at Cullen’ childlike glee. “I think you did an excellent job. Maybe a bit over the top, but I can certainly say it made an impression.”

Cullen nearly melted, “Oh, Dorian, I am so glad to hear it. Your advice was invaluable!”

Dorian grinned as he said lowly, “The Inquisitor especially liked it, might I add.”

Cullen’s eyes went wide as he blushed, straightening his back, “O-oh! Well, I suppose I should have run it past her first, but it’s a bit embarrassing to tell her my intentions. Josephine was good about keeping it confidential.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, glancing to the floor.

Dorian gave a hardy chuckle, “Oh I understand. Now, what did you have planned for the next step?”

Cullen froze. “Next…step? How many steps are there?”

Shaking his head, Dorian grabbed the blond by the shoulders and lead him to his desk.

“May I?” Dorian snatched a quill and paper.

“Step one: a sweet but generic gift to show your interest. Something to casually say ‘I might like you'. You already did that one. Following?”

Cullen nodded, leaning his elbows on the desk as he watched Dorian write.

“Alright. Step two: a more personal gift. Something you know they like. This shows them not only are you interested in them, but you’re interested in their interests as well.”

“Right…” Cullen chewed his lip.

“What is it?” Dorian sighed.

“I don’t know much about their likes. They aren’t very…direct. Ever.”

Well that doesn’t sound like Lyann… Dorian thought to himself.

Dorian had to restrain from rolling his eyes. “Well, in that case, an easy thing to get for someone indecisive is sweets. Candy, chocolate, biscuits, pastries. Things like that. Just get them sweets that remind you of them.”

Cullen looked utterly concerned. “Am I supposed to…guess what they…taste like?”

Dorian stared at him with a blank look, completely astounded. “No. What does that even—no, never mind, please don’t attempt to explain.”

After drumming his fingers on the desk for a moment, Dorian tried to be more clear—though he thought he had been plenty clear before. “Think of how they act, yes? Are they kind and sweet? Flowery and fun? Warm like spice?”

Cullen nodded along, seemly understanding this time.

Dorian smiled, placing a tender hand on the blonds arm. “I’ll leave you to it then."

__________

Several days later and not a word from Cullen, Dorian felt a bit anxious. Had he not been clear enough still? Did Cullen get too nervous to continue? Oh no, did he have a falling out with Lyann; she didn’t return his feelings?

Just as he began to lose himself in his nerves, despite having research to focus on, Dorian caught a subtle whiff of something delicious. It was warm and baked, but chocolatey and rich, and somehow tart all at once. Cullen must have asked the cooks to do their damnedest.

After a while the scent became too much, it was too intriguing, Dorian had to go to the kitchens and see for himself what was being baked. As he descended the stairs to Solas's area, the elf came from the main hall with a plate of goodies. Tarts and cookies and all sorts, laid out decoratively on a porcelain dish.

“My my,” Dorian quirked a brow, “Someone has a sweet tooth it seems.”

Solas didn’t look at him as he replied, “There is a spred out there. I would be a fool to turn down free food. Especially Orlaisian pastries.” He popped a fruit tart into his mouth.

Dorian exited to the main hall and was greeted by long dining tables over flowing with every dessert imaginable. Full cakes, cup cakes, full pies, hand pies, everything he loved and things he hadn’t tried before, but was more than eager to.

Everyone in Skyhold, and a few visiting nobles, huddled around the tables making sure to heap their plates, and at the front of the room, with a towering plate nearly spilling down her shirt, was the ever graceful Inquisitor, shoving candied dates into her gob.

“Well aren’t you looking marvelous today,” Dorian laughed as he approached.

“Hm? Oh, Dorun!” Lyann mumbled through half chewed food.

She took a second to chew and swallow before nearly shouting, “Isn’t this amazing?! Cullen and Josephine planned this in only a few days! I don’t know how they got it all here and kept it so fresh! It taste like it just came from the ovens, or maybe the Maker's own kitchen.” She swooned as she crammed another treat into her mouth.

Dorian chuckled, picking up a plate to load up himself. “Cullen planned this, did he? Any idea why?” He feigned curiosity.

“No idea,” Lyann shrugged, nearly dropping a pudding, “He usually doesn’t care about impressing nobles, so I don’t know who he’s trying to impress. Maybe he just felt like the troops deserved it!”

“Oh, I’d bet he’s trying to catch someone’s attention...” Dorian hinted, but the Inquisitor was already going in for seconds. Well, more like fourths.

Dorian shook his head with a smile as she walked off to her chambers with a mountain of sweets. Just as he began picking out his favorite treats, a soft voice spoke up behind him.

“Have you tried the jam biscuits yet? They’re heavenly. I might actually die if someone doesn’t stop me.”

Dorian turned around just in time to see Cullen with a jam cookie half way to his lips. Just as it was about to touch his tongue, Dorian snatched it away, downing it in one bite.

Cullen looked at him in shock, mouth still open to receive the sweet. They laughed together as Dorian tried to chew the mouthful.

“So? What do you think? Did I hit all the right flavors?”

Dorian chuckled, “If everything under the sun reminds you of them, then yes.”

Cullen sighed dreamily, “Everything…”

Dorian had only seen that look a handful of times, but by the Maker, it was his favorite expression on the blond. That look of complete adoration, losing himself to a daydream. It looked beautiful. He looked beautiful…

Dorian shook his head, reminding himself he was helping the man court someone else. The Inquisitor, of all people. But they seemed like a good match, both very…Ferelden.

When he looked back, Cullen was staring at him with bright eyes, an innocent smirk lopsided on his lips. Dorian smiled back.

“Is everything alright?” Cullen asked so gently.

Dorian swallowed hard before clearing his throat, “Yes, of course. Just thinking about your next step.”

“What’s that?”

Dorian led Cullen to a less crowded area of the hall. “Well, everything you’ve done so far has been very…grand. You may want to think about doing something one-on-one with them, personally.”

Cullen sighed, rubbing his neck. “Right, one-on-one…If you couldn’t tell, I’ve been trying to take an indirect approach.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, “But how are they ever supposed to know it’s you?”

“Well, I thought it would be rather obvious.” Cullen gave him a very confused stare.

“Listen,” Dorian sighed and shifted his weight, “they know it’s you, but you have to show that it’s for them.”

Cullen’s eyes lit up, “Oh! Oh, of course, I should have—I’m sorry Dorian I didn’t understand—”

“That’s alright, I just hope you’ve planned for something one-on-one, because I can’t help you with this next bit.”

“What?” Cullen’s eyes seems almost terrified, losing his only advisor.

Dorian wraps his fingers around the back of Cullen’s neck, pulling him closer so he could hear the whisper, “You must make this personal. I’m always willing to help, but I can’t tell you everything they like and how to fit it all together. That’s up to you, my friend.”

Cullen sighed and let his head fall forward, forehead almost leaning against Dorian’s. “Alright. I’ll try to do you proud.”

The mage smiled reassuringly, “You will, Cullen. Don’t worry.”

__________

After nearly a week without any word, Dorian received a surprise visit just as noon struck.

“Glad to see you haven’t given up. I was starting to wonder if you had gotten cold feet.” Dorian teased, slapping Cullen’s arm playfully.

Cullen grinned wide and chuckled, “Well, I’m not actually here for advice this time. I was wondering if you might come with me. I think I’ve found the perfect place for a date!”

“Oh?” Dorian was shocked by the confidence in the Commander’s voice. “What are we waiting for then? Need I pack a bag?”

“No, it’s not too far.” Cullen eyed him up and down, considering his outfit. “Though I might wear something more casual, were I you.”

Dorian looked down at his attire, about to ask why, when Cullen called back to him, already on his way, “I’ll meet you at the gates in an hour. Don’t be late.”

So he dressed down and packed a bottle of wine to sip at on the ride there. Where ever “there” was; Cullen was being awfully secretive about their destination, only repeating that it was the perfect spot for a date.

Just as the two had run out of things to banter about on the ride, Cullen stopped his horse by a gap in some trees.

“Through here. We’ll have to tie up the horses, I don’t think they’ll make it through the foliage.”

Dorian sighed an exasperate sigh, “Are we in for much of a hike? You know I get more exercise than I truly want while adventuring with the Inquisitor.”

Cullen chuckled and held some leaves out of the way for Dorian to duck under. After a short walk, Cullen looked back and smiled, “I think it’s beautiful out here. Tell me what you think.”

Dorian stepped forward through the last bit of trees to be greeted by the most sparkling, clearest, gentlest lake he’d ever laid eyes on. The water rippled steadily with the slight breeze, waves barely formed yet still enough to rock the lily pads and fallen leaves. The sun was just visible through the trees, but not enough to blind them, slowly lowering in the sky, ready shine orange and pink light across the water when dusk came.

“I…” Dorian couldn’t find his words, “Cullen, this is gorgeous…”

He looked back to Cullen who leaned confidently against a tree, pleased with the mage's reaction.

But as he turned back, Dorian remembered who all this was for, and it put a heaviness in his heart. His eyes dropped as he said “She’ll love this, Cullen. I know she will.”

Long moments went by with no response before Dorian felt a gentle hand on the small of his back.

“Who?” Cullen asked softly, seeing Dorian was upset.

“Lyann, silly. She’ll find this all so lovely, I’m sure.” He had a hard time keeping eye contact with the Commander, curious eyes meaning no ill intent.

“Lyann?” Cullen pulled back slightly. “Why would I bring her—”

Cullen’s eyes went wide as he muttered, “oh no…”

He stepped away to pace, continuing his “no”s under gus breath, thinking of something to say or do to make it right.

“Cullen? I don’t understand, what’s wrong?” Dorian followed his pacing, trying to grab his arm.

“I’ve screwed this up royally, that what’s wrong! Lyann?! You thought this was all for the Inquisitor?”

Dorian stopped in his tracks. “Yes? I saw how much she enjoyed everything you did, so I assumed…”

It struck him like a charging druffalo. “No.” He whispered. “For…for me?”

Cullen looked over his shoulder sheepishly, waiting for a better idea of Dorian’s reaction.

“All of it?” Dorian’s words were hardly voiced, sliding out along a whisper of disbelief.

Cullen turned around fully and began taking cautious steps toward Dorian, trying to gage if his surprise was good or bad.

As Dorian continued to stare forward, slack jawed, Cullen placed a warm hand on his neck, the other finding the mage’s chin and tilting his gaze up to lock eyes.

“Everything. Every flower, every tart, everything. I wanted to give you the world, but I didn’t know how to start. I wanted you to see I would do anything for you, Dorian. You want flower, I’ll plant you a garden. You want sweets, I’ll bring the world’s best bakers to you.”

Dorian’s eyes only showed more confusion. Cullen leaned forward, stopping just before their lips touched to whisper, “I love you.”

“You—” But the words were stolen from his lips as Cullen pulled him in, chest to chest, arms around his waist, surprisingly deft lips making him melt into the blond.

He lost track of time. It could have been seconds, minutes, maybe an hour, before they pulled away, each out of breath and shaking from a single shared shiver down their spines.

“That was…electrifying.” Cullen sighed, hugging the mage close.

Dorian could hardly think straight, just hugging Cullen back as he gathered his thoughts.

After a moment of silence, Dorian finally relaxed against Cullen and said, “I…didn’t think I could be so dense.”

They laughed together, Cullen pulling back to plant a gentle kiss to the mage’s nose.

“But in my defense,” Dorian began, returning to his regular self, “who asks the person they plan on courting for advice on how to court them?”

“Well, you liked everything, didn’t you?” Cullen teased back.

Dorian shook his head, still feeling like this couldn’t be real. But those eyes, those golden eyes…

“I…feel strongly about you, Cullen. I’d dare say I’m smitten.”

Cullen smiled even wider before placing a quick kiss to Dorian lips, stripping off his shoes and tunic with impressive speed, and jumping like a cannonball into the lake. Dorian put his hands up to shield his face from the splash, but his casual clothes soaked up the water on contact.

“Looks like you’ll have to let those clothes dry. What should we do in the meantime?” Cullen called over smugly.

“You little southern…” Dorian shook his head before stripping down and diving in himself, making sure to get Cullen in the face.

They laughed together as they splashed the other back and forth, stopping only to share a passionate kiss.

#da #dai #cullen rutherford #dorian pavus #cullrian #dragon age inquisition #dragon age

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redinkofshame · 3 years

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1. How many works do you have on AO3?

17! My favorite number.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

178,176. Dang!

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

@theDuckPond Solavellan slow burn? smlungst, 62,553 words

New Life papae!Solas with lots of smut, 6606 words

Marigolds in the Hanged Man Varrigold! :D Varric/Marigold, 43,527 words

(3.5 is Dreaming With You (Solas x Reader), but I’m only a partial writer on that one so I’m not counting it.)

Labor and Loss papae!Solas with lots of sad, 4097 words

Kirkwall Karaoke f!Fenhawke drunken shenanigans, 7023 words

Wow I wasn’t expecting my karaoke fic to be on this list! And you guys really like your papae!Solas :D

4. Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do, yes, because when I leave comments it gives me anxiety that only seeing them reply fixes and I want to do that for other people. Unfortunately back when I updated every week (lol) I got in the habit of replying to comments when I posted something new... So now when I go a long time without posting a new chapter I leave the comments on read for a long time. Sorry guys!!

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Honestly? This Nonsense. (Link is to a long series of messages to @keturagh at 3am, no joke.)

But, since then, I’ve figured out an alternative ending that’s much happier. I can’t help it. I want happy endings.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

As per #5, all of them lol. The first one that came to mind was Marigolds, but honestly my soulmate au Vhenaslin feels the fluffiest to me.

And, of course, there’s this one ;)

7. Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I haven’t, not yet :( Like, I like the concept but no combination I’ve thought of has given me even the slightest bit of inspiration.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yep! I received one that was something like “Congrats! You’ve written the most insufferable OC I’ve ever read!!” and it was fucking hilarious because it was on, like, chapter 6? You read 6 chapters about a character you didn’t like and somehow it’s my fault?? lmao

There was another one I can’t remember, too, and twice people have called Elle a bitch. All of these happened to Elle from Duck Pond, so if that’s not a glowing recommendation~

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

ROFL yeah that’s why I’m here. Like literally why I joined the fandom.

Everyone I’ve written is m/f and not particularly kinky but pretty damn explicit. Sometimes I do fade-to-black or gloss over for pacing, but mostly... Yeah. There’s smut. let Solas nut

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of. Sure af hope not.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope. At least, not that I know of!

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! There was a Solas x Reader post on tumblr that people were reblogging and adding a little more too, and I guess that the foreplay went on too long because @keturagh sent it to me like ‘you’re the expert of getting the P in the V!’ and I’ve never written Reader fic before (or since) but who am I to disappoint!!

Then someone compiled it all and put it on AO3 here. I don’t have a damn clue where my writing begins -- other than I got the P in the V lol. Every once in a while I get a notification of a comment or kudos on it and every SINGLE time I’m like

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Very clearly Solavellan. Though I’m also very into Opal/Nik from the Minimum Wage Magic books by Rachel Aaron. I listened to the audiobook because Patrick Weekes shared their reading list on twitter once and it was on there and I’m a HUGE sucker for juxtaposition. Gets me every time.

I’ve since read uuuhhhh almost everything Rachel Aaron/Bachs has read, and there’s lots of great stuff in there, but MWM is still my favorite series of hers by far. My own personal Couch AU.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Uuhhhh.... So many? Or more like I’m scared I never will, in any case. I started drafting a list of my WIPs and it got... long. I can’t think of any I made a deliberate choice to never finish. There’s only 1 fic that I wrote that I didn’t post.

15. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue, pacing, and sex~

I consider my dialogue my biggest asset as a writer tbh

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

WRITING THE WORDS DOWN and also how do plot?

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

In the fandom there’s a tendency to write lines in elvhen and then put the translation at the end and yeah no it drives me bonkers. It completely destroys the immersion and pacing for no pay off. I’m not going to scroll down to understand your story. I just read it straight and try to figure out what’s going on based on context.

I stick with the well-known canon lines that most of us obsessed fans know by heart. I think sometimes I put a translation in there for newcomers, maybe? One time I used a feature on AO3 where you can hover your mouse over the work and it has like a footnote? that you can use to translate. But I immediately stopped bc #1 I don’t know how that works on mobile and #2 it really doesn’t seem like that’s going to work with screen readers. But otherwise I just say ‘they said in elven’ or have the narrator translate it themself for the reader.

Also, a lot of people use the elvhen translations from that BNF’s project and like... If you WANT him to say ‘I want to paint you with my cum’ then just have the courage to say it straight!

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

lmao Harvest Moon. Yeah. After that was Tamora Pierce (modern girl in Tortall yep). Then was like a 15 year gap until I got frustrated at the slow pace of the romance with this egg in this game so I wanted to see if there was smut... (Cue Googling: Is FanFiction.Net still a thing?)

19. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Oh gosh. Hmm. I love all my girls, but Duck Pond was/is a major work of love. Unlike my short works I really had the chance to explore more in a full length fic, you know?

(Marigolds is also full length but it was my first fic and there’s some spots that I’m not too proud of.)

That’s all the questions but I’m adding:

20. What’s a fic you’re proud of that hasn’t gotten much attention?

because I want an excuse to mention how hard I worked on Kirkwall Noir and how I’m surprised how little readership it’s gotten. It’s Varric! It’s Marigold! It’s super short, unlike most my stuff. Maybe that’s why people don’t like it?

Hmm, I also used a AO3 pen name, but it would still show on my page, right?

Thank you for the tags, @roguelioness and @thevikingwoman !! Consider yourself re-tagged so you can answer #20. Also tagging: @blarfkey @broomclosetkink @elveny @bardinhightown @keturagh @luzial

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