#Vir Adahlen

[dalishious]

Reading Three Trees to Midnight tonight struck me with a realization that the Vir Tanadhal is SO culturally comparatively Mi'kmaq...

We've heard two different versions of the Vir Tanadhal, and both are applicable.

Version one, spoken aloud by Ilen in Dragon Age: Origins -

"The first is the Vir Assan—the Way of the Arrow: to reach for our goal, unrelenting. The second is the Vir Bor'assan—the Way of the Bow: to bend, but not to break. The last is the Vir Adahlen—the Way of the Wood: we are as ancient as the forests, each tree a part of the greater land."

Version two, first introduced in World of Thedas vol. 1 -

"Vir Assan, the Way of the Arrow: Be swift and silent, Andruil taught. Strike true; do not waver. And let not your prey suffer. Vir Bor’assan, the Way of the Bow: As the sapling bends, so must you. In yielding, find resilience; in pliancy, find strength. Vir Adahlen, the Way of the Wood: Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Respect the sacrifice of my children. Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn."

This is literally just recycled concepts like M'sit No'kmaq, Wejisqalia'ti'k, Netukulimk, and Etuaptmumk!

M'sit No'kmaq means all my relations. It is the understanding that all living beings are related to one another. Even things that would not by western views be considered living; everything with a shadow has a spirit, and all spirits should be respected as you respect family. Just like the Dalish talking about being part of a greater whole.

Wejisqalia'ti'k means from this earth we sprouted. It is the understanding that we are a part of Mi'kma'ki; we are a part of our homeland, just as much as the land, the sea, and the sky. Just like the Dalish talking about being as ancient as the forests, and nourishing Andruil's children in death.

Netukulimk means seeking a good living. It is the understanding of how to maintain a sustainable relationship between the People and the Earth. When you gather or hunt or fish, you do not take more than what you need, and you always offer thanks for what the Creator has provided, honouring what you have harvested. Just like the Dalish talking about respecting the sacrifice of Andruil's children, and being mindful of the hunt's gifts.

Etuaptmumk means two-eyed seeing. It is contemporarily used to describe the relationship between combining western views and Indigenous views, but in general refers to the way in which people must seek understanding from each other, to grow but not assimilate. Just like the Dalish talking about finding strength in pliancy, but resilience in yielding; to bend, but not break.

Whenever I get around to writing the second edition of my great big Indigenous Coding in the Elves of Dragon Age essay—at some point after the release of The Veilguard in case there are new comparisons—I will definitely be including this.

[dragonageannual]

Meet the Legends: Andruil

Introducing the myths and legends of Dragon Age Annual 2025: Legacies! Andruil features in both fic and art for our calendar.

Click Here to order DAA 2025: Legacies NOW!

Orders Close:

Physical Copies & Merch: October 31st

Digital Calendar & Zine: January 31st, 2025

Codex Entry: Andruil: Goddess of the Hunt

Hear me, sons and daughters of the People— I am Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares, Lady of the Hunt: Andruil. Remember my teachings, Remember the Vir Tanadhal: The Way of Three Trees That I have given you. Vir Assan: the Way of the Arrow Be swift and silent; Strike true, do not waver And let not your prey suffer. That is my Way. Vir Bor'assan: the Way of the Bow As the sapling bends, so must you. In yielding, find resilience; In pliancy, find strength. That is my Way. Vir Adahlen: the Way of the Wood Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Respect the sacrifice of my children Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn. That is my Way. Remember the Ways of the Hunter And I shall be with you.

—From The Charge of Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt.

[dragon-age-codex-entries]

Codex entry: Andruil: Goddess of the Hunt

"Hear me, sons and daughters of the People— I am Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares, Lady of the Hunt: Andruil.

Remember my teachings, Remember the Vir Tanadhal: The Way of Three Trees That I have given you.

Vir Assan: the Way of the Arrow Be swift and silent; Strike true, do not waver And let not your prey suffer. That is my Way.

Vir Bor'assan: the Way of the Bow As the sapling bends, so must you. In yielding, find resilience; In pliancy, find strength. That is my Way.

Vir Adahlen: the Way of the Wood Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Respect the sacrifice of my children Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn. That is my Way.

Remember the Ways of the Hunter And I shall be with you."

—From The Charge of Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt.

[mako-designated-driver]

Codex Entry #48: Andruil: Goddess of the Hunt

Hear me, sons and daughters of the People—

I am Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares,

Lady of the Hunt: Andruil.

Remember my teachings,

Remember the Vir Tanadhal:

The Way of Three Trees

That I have given you.

Vir Assan: the Way of the Arrow

Be swift and silent;

Strike true, do not waver

And let not your prey suffer.

That is my Way.

Vir Bor'assan: the Way of the Bow

As the sapling bends, so must you.

In yielding, find resilience;

In pliancy, find strength.

That is my Way.

Vir Adahlen: the Way of the Wood

Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness.

Respect the sacrifice of my children

Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn.

That is my Way.

Remember the Ways of the Hunter

And I shall be with you.

—From The Charge of Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt.

[dragonologist-writings]

Title: Prayer and Ink Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: T Status: One-Shot Characters: Allys Mahariel, Zevran Ships: Mahariel/Zevran Additional Notes: Dalish Lore, Character Study, Quiet Moments Word Count: 1.4k Summary: A conversation about tattoos and vallaslin leads Zevran to reconsider what it means to have faith in something- and in someone.

read below or here on ao3

“Do they mean anything?”

The question catches Zevran by surprise. It’s been a long, tedious day of marching across the Imperial Highway, and the relative privacy and cool shade of the tent coupled with the rhythmic sensation of Allys’s fingers tracing against his skin has nearly lulled him to sleep. He slowly opens his eyes and turns his head, although Allys remains just out of view as she continues to lightly draw her fingertips over the designs that curl across his back.

“The tattoos?” he asks, and Allys hums thoughtfully.

“Is that what you call them?” Her fingers continue their journey, following the curves and lines of dark ink that wind between his shoulder blades, along his spine, down his hips.

Zevran gives her a half-shrug, gently so as not to disturb her inspection. “They are pretty. Must they have a meaning beyond that?” A grin creeps across his face. “And of course, they invite the attention of lovely Wardens.”

Allys laughs and ends her study of Zevran’s tattoos to reposition herself so that she is once again lying next to him, her bright brown eyes level with his. Her hair has been released from its typical tight bun and now falls past her shoulders, framing her face in a halo of dark curls. Even after a day of trudging through the Fereldan dirt and mud, her smile is warm as the sun.

She laughs at his compliments, but Zevran isn’t joking in the slightest when he calls her lovely.

“You know, when I first saw you, I thought they were a different type of vallaslin,” she says, resting her chin in her hand as her eyes roam over the tattooed path from Zevran’s brow down to his jawline. “I thought they might be meant for some god I didn’t recognize.”

“I suppose they still could be-is there a god for devilishly handsome sinners?”

Allys rolls her eyes. “I’m serious! Getting my vallaslin hurt like mad-but the pain is a sign of our devotion to the gods. That was the point, and the purpose made it easier. So it didn't make sense to me that someone would go through that without a reason."

“What can I say? We Antivans are willing to suffer for beauty.” Zevran flashes another smile, but it fades slightly as studies the vallaslin- the blood writing, they call it- across Allys’s face. He knows the lore behind the markings; his time with the Dalish provided him the chance to learn, and even to hear some of the legends of the gods. But his time with the clan was short and his education quick and basic, so there is much he still does not know. “What of yours, then? What purpose do they hold for you?”

With a gentle touch, Allys takes Zevran’s hand in hers and brings it to her face, so that his fingertips brush against the dark marks of her vallaslin. She guides his fingers across her features, tracing the lines of ink up her chin, across her cheekbones, over her brow. “These are for Andruil.”

“Ah, I remember her stories. She is the Huntress, yes? How very fitting.”

“I thought so, too,” Allys answers, pleased. She closes her eyes, leans into Zevran’s touch, and after a moment begins reciting something in elvhen. “Vir assan. Vir bor’assan. Vir adahlen.”

Zevran has no inkling what the words mean- he hadn’t stayed with the Dalish nearly long enough to learn any of the ancient language- but Allys’s voice, low and melodic, gives them a certain weight. It’s as if the meaning is right on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite capture it.

Noticing his expression, Allys explains. “It’s the Way of the Hunt- Andruil’s code. I started learning that code from the time I was tall enough to fire a bow. I’ve spent so much of my life in the woods, learning the teachings of Andruil. When the time came to choose my vallaslin, it seemed appropriate to honor her.”

Zevran is silent for a moment, thinking back to his time with the Dalish. He’s learned the legends and the names of their gods, but the reverence with which the Dalish speak of their Pantheon…that isn’t something so easily taught. “Do you really believe in all those legends? They are good tales to tell, I give you that, but…”

Allys’s voice betrays no doubt when she answers. “I do.”

“Even in the midst of…” Zevran vaguely waves his hand, motioning to the entire world of calamity beyond the quiet sanctity of their tent. “…of all of this?”

“Even so.” Allys’s smile turns thoughtful, and her eyes go distant for a moment. “Maybe the gods themselves cannot step in and stop the Blight for us, but their presence is felt- by the Dalish, by me. It is because of Andruil and her lessons that I am alive today, that I have the skills to bring this destruction to an end.”

And there it is again- that sensation of being so close to something, but not managing to grasp it enough to even identify the feeling. In a way, it reminds Zevran of the Andrastians and their Maker. Something that just almost speaks to Zevran, but isn’t quite his.

Perhaps Zevran’s contemplation is showing on his face, for Allys gives him a searching look and asks, “What do you believe?”

Zevran quickly banishes his muddled thoughts and gives her a wry smile. “I am an assassin. The only things we believe in are steel and gold.”

Yes, steel and gold. Things that are solid and real, if somewhat less poetic than songs and prayer. It could be that in another life- one where the Crows weren’t constantly on his tail, one where he was able to settle somewhere for more than a few short weeks, perhaps even one where his mother never separated from her clan in the first place- he would have been able to take the time to study and prove himself and become part of the Dalish in truth, earning his own vallaslin. Perhaps in that life, he believes in a purpose for himself, believes that a god may look his way.

But that is not a life that belongs to him, nor one that he can truly imagine.

And yet Allys looks at him with a softness in her gaze. She leans closer and tenderly presses a kiss against his temple, at the start of his curving tattoo, then follows the mark down his cheekbone, planting more soft kisses along the way. Finally she moves to his lips, and whispers, “I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t think you do, either. You’re a better person that you give yourself credit for, and you don’t get that way through greed and violence. Maybe it’s not the gods, but you must believe in something greater than what the Crows taught you.”

“What makes you so certain of that, dear Warden?”

“Because I have faith in you.” Allys kisses his lips, softly, and then pulls back, the previous mischief returning to her expression. “And just so you know, that’s why I like your tattoos. Because whatever meaning they do or don’t have, they’re yours.”

Zevran does not know what to say. He wants to tell her she’s wrong, to try and make her see that these tattoos she admires are nothing but decoration and embellishment, just as dashing and shallow as every other tool of his trade. But his throat is thick and the words won’t come, so he just kisses her again, deeper this time, and tries not to dwell too much on her words or the look in her eyes.

He thinks about it all later that night, of course. The thoughts simply won’t leave, and a part of him wishes he could go back to when things like this were easy. This should be easy. Just another mission, another conquest. But maybe…maybe Allys is not entirely wrong. Zevran is not a Crow any longer. In truth, he doesn’t know what he is. But when he thinks of the woman in his arms- the woman who not only spared his life, but showed him what his life could be worth- he realizes there is nowhere in this world he wouldn’t follow her.

It is terrifying, and exhilarating, and Zevran wonders if perhaps this is what it feels like to have faith.

[bittergossamer]

cipher talk: vallaslin

In Dragon Age Origins, Vallaslin is introduced as the facial tattoos of Dalish elves and translated as "Blood writing". The question I have is which part of this word means "blood" and which part means "writing"? vallas or lin? 

Theory 1:

Before they settled on what was in the cipher, they used both parts of this word in both ways which muddled things. So you get lin → len in a kind of "blood/kinship" way and vallas in a kind of "blood/life" way.

Theory 2:

Vallaslin means "my blood", vallas means "blood" and lin means "my (possessive)".

We know that these were slave markings. There might have been blood magic. I think there's some cases of how the Evanuris saw slaves/people with their vallaslin as extensions of themselves. Here's some other words that led to this theory:

1] Elgara vallas refers to a setting sun, which turns bright red on the horizon. So maybe this phrase literally means "sun bleeds".

2] Vallasdahlen is literally translated as "life trees".

dahlen: "tree", but probably "woods/forest". (see: Vir Adahlen). vallas: logically, this probably means "life", which has a loose connection to "blood".

3] da'durgen'lin means "my little stones".

da: "little", often as a prefix (e.g. da'len: little child). durgen: "stone" lin: as the untranslated part of this phrase, "my".

Some additional parts to this is that da'durgen'len is translated as "little dwarves", (durgen'len is literally "children of the stone"). It's posited in that codex that lin became len which could also be possessive in the sense of "children belong to their parents".

The issue with the second theory is really that I just have more clear examples of vallas meaning "blood" than lin meaning anything. Here's a bunch of words that have lin as a syllable and I don't know if they're related:

Arulin'Holm - An ancient elvhen tool used for woodcutting that is an old as Arlathan. Used by Merrill to repair the eluvian.

amelin - From something Solas says to Abelas, "Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas." 

lethallin - "friend", but also "lin" in this word is the one gendered ending in the entire language. Maybe a kind of "my love (platonic)" sort of way.

Halin'sulahn - The golden halla. "Sulhan" means joy, I have no idea about "halin". 

sahlin - "come", but in the sense that death is here. 

There's a couple other words that might also be related to vallas, which are Dhal Vallasan (a unique bow wielded by the Emerald Knights) and vallem (from a line of dialogue said by a spirit in Trespasser) but these also don't have enough context for me to guess.

Last instance of this word is bana'vallaslin from Where Willows Wail. The bit that probably corresponds to that is "failing of our markings", so this is probably the cultural idea of vallaslin. In this text, vallaslin might not refer to the markings but instead the people who wore those markings.

[greypetrel]

HI <3

For the "Questions about creating your OCs" meme:

Radha (bc I never ask about her and it's plain disrespectful towards an absolute queen): 12, 19 Alyra my beloved: 15, 18 Bonus, for another of your babies you want to talk about: 14

HULLO!

Here i aaaaaaaam!

Tis the prompt list

Radha

12. What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC (any form of art: writing, drawing, edits, etc.)? 

Honestly? Her romance, LOL. Anyone here around from more than 5 minutes may have noticed I like Solas as a character, and quite a lot. I do! But not much as a romance option. He's much more interesting to write, for me, if there's not romantic feelings in the middle. Also, I can't pinpoint her style of clothing, somehow. There's always something that doesn't fully convince me, I should sit around and make a character sheet for her.

19. What is your favorite fact about your OC?

She's the most caring of all my blorbos. She doesn't talk much and she can look unapproachable. It's really not like that at all. Alyra won't jump into a fire for you, even if she loves you. Radha would. She feels stuff a lot, even if she shows it little, and as Aisling, she's emotional too, in her own way. Not that people around her really knows, if they aren't paying CLOSE attention. She just needs to be hugged the most.

Alyra

15. What is something about your OC can make you laugh? 

Her being basically a young, anarchical version of Yzma.

(imagine this with "nobles" instead of "peasants", and that's exactly what she'd love to say in every single Landsmeet, 10 minutes in.)

She's just fun to write, ok, she would be a villain if she wasn't raised Dalish and with the Vir Adahlen well stamped in her mind.

18. What is the most recent thing you’ve discovered about your OC? 

That out of all the Awakening gang, she has the most troubles dealing with Justice. She can't stand Justice.

Also, that if she had been in Kirkwall, she would have worked to give the city to the Arishok and would have accomplished it by the end of Act I in DA2, most likely. "And do you want to keep that Viscount because...?" *vaguely gestures at the poor state of the streets, the big group of incompetent pickpocketers she gave instructions on "how to steal from people without getting caught". The other group of thugs she killed because they were organized crime. The whole of Hightown. Elthina. Meredith. Orsino. The Hanged Man.*

14. If you had to narrow it down to 2 things that you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be?

I already answered for Raina and Max, I'll do the rest of them.

Alyra: 1 - She's a machiavellian prince(ss), with all the pros and all the cons. She can and she will protect you if you're in her social circle and she likes you. But if left unchecked, she tends to gravitate towards ending justifying the means. 2 - She is judgemental, but the times she actually becomes hostile are always towards people in power being incompetent or taking advantage of their position. With normal people she is more lenient. Complaining, but more lenient. She taught more than one pickpocketer who tried to rob her how to do the job. And she honestly has a soft spot for the Blighted Orphans. Again, she's an anarchical, at heart.

Garrett: 1 - He is a farm boy inside. Demons have little to no power over him, because all his wishes are relatively little and stuff he wouldn't accept to do with magic (he really wants to grow the biggest pumpkin in the country. No point if it's a demon doing it.) 2 - He is chatty and genial, and appears to be extremely easy-going, even more than Raina (who has a layer of sarcasm and sharp wit that keeps people away). The people he considers friends for real, tho, are very few.

Aisling: 1 - She is absolutely terrorised of loneliness and being alone. She will people please herself away not to be left alone. At her core, she is a sad character. 2 - She is one of contrasts, tho: in spite of point 1, she is prideful. When pushed outside her boundaries, she won't back up before being dead, she will stand up for herself, and she won't apologize if she's not really sorry. It's just difficult reaching that point.

Radha: 1 - She is naturally extremely curious. She thrives in knowledge, she will read about everything, if given the chance. She doesn't like to speak a lot, but she's observant, and good at reading people. Too good. 2 - She hates being perceived and works best in the sidelines. If a person perceives her and shows interest in her, tho, she's loyal to a fault. And grudgy if her hard-earned trust is betrayed.

[patheticnugbaby]

Hunting Ground I

I decided I wanted to do a multi-chapter Halamshiral fic and boy did I pick a lot of fucking work. I wanted to go more in depth over how my particular inquisitor (Adahla Lavellan) felt at the Winter Palace. Later chapters will probably have Solavellan fluff but this one’s mostly just about Adahla learning the rules of a new hunting ground.

After the introductions Adahla felt exceedingly flustered, her hands were sweating under the thin gray gloves, only softly diffusing the harsh, green glow from her left hand. She had never felt quite so obviously marked by it until now, predatory eyes glancing surreptitiously at her from behind gilt masks. She took great care to hold herself firmly, with a straight spine and her shoulders back, taking slow breaths through her chest.

She was careful in the way that she walked, trying to project the easy grace of a confident woman. Dimly, she heard whispers, ‘Dalish barbarian’ ‘knife-ear’ ‘pretender’, each one slowly mounting in her chest, like the pressure of an ever rising firestorm.

She took a soft breath and hardened that hot rage. As she walked back out to the vestibule she gathered the strength of it around her like armor, out of the corner of her eye she caught the tiniest nod of approval from Josephine. She allowed herself a soft smile, let the expression tug at her lips with the slyness of a fox.

“Inquisitor, a word?” Leliana approached her, gently taking her arm and leading her towards the top of the stairs, “May I say first that you did very well, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you, Sister,” She replied, gently patting Leliana’s hand.

“You are most welcome,” Leliana paused, leaning to take a glass from a passing server, “I should tell you that in the absence of Madame de Fer the empress has seen fit to employ a new court enchanter. We knew each other some time ago, she is ruthless and has seemingly charmed the entire court, as if by magic,”

“I will keep that in mind,” She answered smoothly, trying very hard not to show how much the idea shook her, “could you excuse me, Sister?”

“Of course, my lady Inquisitor,” Leliana let go of her arm, seeming to disappear almost immediately.

“Right,” She whispered to herself and sauntered through the next hall, the Hall of Heroes, she thought they called it.

As she passed she caught the smallest whispers, her ears flicked and she stopped, just out of sight behind a statue.

“-commotion in the upper levels.”

“The one off the garden? Statuette?”

They stopped speaking. She heard the sound of hurried footsteps retreating down the stairs. Adahla sighed and closed her eyes.

“Andruil, blood and force, I pray to you. Ma lasa ghilan, ma las Vir Tanadhal: Vir Assan, Vir Bor’assan, Vir Adahlen. Ma lasa ghilan, ar dar’misu.” She did not say the words aloud, only mouthed them.

She knew the gods no longer heard her but the muttered prayer, one she had whispered before every hunt not so long ago, settled some of the wild, nervous fluttering in her chest. She may be bound and trussed tightly in layers upon layers of shemlen clothing but she was still a hunter. This was not the forest, yet it was not so different from it. Instead of trees, there were gaudy pillars and statues, her prey did not hide in the brush or the grass, but rather behind glittering masks and lacy fans.

She was not a hunter who came back empty handed.

Adahla set off with a greater purpose than she had felt in months. To anyone watching she wouldn’t even look like quite the same woman that came into the palace. She suddenly stalked the ornate halls like she owned them, more akin to a red lion than an out-of-place dalish.

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted her as she strode into the next room, “you have adjusted well.”

“Thank you, Solas,” She paused, tilting her head, “How do you find Halamshiral?”

“I adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events,” He admitted, leaning on the statue next to him, “the nobles don’t know what to make of me, though the servants are happy enough to refill my glass.”

“Seems you’ve drunk enough already,” She teased, glancing down at his half-full glass, “how many will that make when you finish it?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t been counting. Besides,” He gave her a wolfish grin, “I am entirely too sober for this.”

She chuckled, “Will you save me a dance?”

“I can only imagine the scandal of the Inquisitor dancing with an elven servant,”

“Before the night is done I intend to shock them with greater concerns than my choice of dance partners,” She felt a fox’s grin slip onto her face, Solas slightly lifted his glass.

“Good hunting,”

She sauntered further down the hall, she caught snatches of useful conversation. Things she would relay to Leliana at a later date, assuming her illustrious spymaster hadn’t already heard. She turned, nearly running into an agitated Orelesian man.

“Where is Phillipe? Leaving me to deal with Gaspard’s vitriol!”

“That’s awfully rude of him to leave you here with all the work,” She managed to hide their near collision with a gentle, reassuring touch on the shoulder.

“Exactly! Leaving me to relay Gaspard’s death threats to the Council while he rolls some elven maid!” He huffed, then patted her hand, “My sincerest apologies, Inquisitor, I did not mean to shout.”

“You’re quite alright, Ser,” She smiled gently, “It sounds like you have a busy night, especially being down on help.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor, you are too kind. I really must be going,”

“Of course,” She demurred, allowing him to pass her before she made her way to the balcony.

The greenery was lovely, in a well-groomed Orelesian sort of way. She very much preferred the wilder growths of the forest to well-trimmed lawns and hedges. Abandoned in the lawn, something glinted in the moonlight. She chanced a quick look around, satisfied that she was alone, she hopped over the banister and snatched it up.

Clara — kitchen staff — entered servants' wing by main stair 1:30

Vernon — undergardener — entered servants' wing from hall 2:45

Sophie — chamber maid — entered servants' wing from hall 3:22

Marius — footman — entered servants' wing by main stair 3:45

Briala, we need immediate support down there. Something's gone wrong.

How curious. She tucked it into the pockets of her silver cloak and quickly slid back over the banister, smoothing her dress before re-entering the room. She picked a small cake from a tray, nibbling on it at she pressed through the door to the guest gardens. People milled around, chatting, drinking, eating. At least, if you didn’t look any closer that’s what they were doing.

A few clandestine letters exchanged hands, rumors were placed and exchanged, sabotages planned, deaths requested. These people weren’t the prey she was seeking, though the interesting pieces of gossip she heard were hoarded and saved for later. She tried not to flick her ears too much, as much as she wanted to hear everything. After a little searching, she found a door up to the next level.

She hurried up, upon arriving finding it deserted save a few smears of blood on the marble. She kneeled, careful not to get any stains on the silvered embroidery on the hem of her dress. At the end of a long hour of arguments, Leliana and Vivienne had decided on black, white, and silver, not unlike the clothes she wore to greet ‘important’ guests at Skyhold.

She shook her head, removing one of her gloves to touch the blood with her fingertips, wet, but cold. Recent. Adahla licked it from her fingertips. Elven.

Something akin to a thrill ran up her spine and she smiled a hunter’s smile. She stood, gathering her skirts to lift them above her ankles as she stepped over the smeared blood. It led to the library but she wanted to check outside first.

She did not want to walk out of the library only to be ambushed by another hunter. Along the opposite side, laying on the banister were two things, a tiny halla statuette, and a love letter.

She pocketed both and stood there for a time, listening.

The soft din of the people on the lower levels, the steady hum of the Anchor she rarely noticed anymore. Glasses clinked and people laughed. The silver sound of a coin being flipped through the air.

Unsuspecting jackals below her. Scavengers more than predators, scrabbling with each other for scraps of power and reputation. They were not hunters the way she was.

She retreated back the way she came, spying a door. Other halla statues were placed in little alcoves around the doorframe. One such alcove was empty. Adahla smiled and pressed the little statue she had into the empty space.

Silver-blue circles of light sprang from the door. Her ears flicked at she detected the sound of stone grinding on stone as the door swung open.

A tiny room, cluttered with books and papers and chests, lit by one solitary veilfire candle. She shut the door behind her, flipping through the papers on the desk, her eyes reflecting the pale blue-green light.

She found nothing on the desk and started going through the papers that seemed to have been thrown to the floor. Someone didn’t like these letters. She grinned when she found the one she was looking for.

Celene,

We can discuss this like adults, can't we? We both know the weapon at Briala's disposal could not only turn the tide of our war but every war. The empire must control it; I do not believe you disagree. She is now a greater threat to Orlais than anything else. If you and I work together, we can wrest control away from her. Do not deceive yourself that she will be open to negotiation or diplomacy. You know her better than anyone—you know that's impossible.

Gaspard

“A weapon to turn the tide of every war?” She mused, pocketing the letter, “You might just be after my own heart, Briala.”

She stood and pressed her ear to the door. She heard nothing and pulled it open.

The upper balcony was deserted, as it had been when she left it. She stalked to the large double doors leading to the library, being sure that the heels of her shoes didn’t click on the marble. The doors swung open silently and she swept inside. Adahla was suddenly assaulted with the scent of parchment, ink, and old leather with the gentle mustiness of dust.

She ran her hands along the books on the shelves, gently pressing her fingers between them to see if she could find any hidden letters or documents. She pressed one particular book, its title faded beyond recognition and heard a soft click. Her ears perked up, then flicked backward at the sound of doors opening. Pride swelled in her chest as she slid into the secret room. A veilfire torch lit the room, illuminating the one letter left out on the desk.

Lady M,

I need you at my side tonight. The unpleasantness in the royal wing has convinced me there is no safety within the palace. I do not expect my cousin to employ magic, but I would hardly be surprised if he provoked another infestation; since my court enchanter is not here to assist me, I must rely entirely upon you. There is no one else I can trust.

Celene

“Lady M’s on good terms with her majesty,” She said aloud, ears pricking at the sudden whoosh of wind.

“She is confident and sure. She knows more than Vivienne ever did.”

“Good evening, Cole,” She smiled, turning to look at him, the veilfire lit his pale face eerily like he was a ghost.

“This place has no good evenings. Just blood.”

“Co-” Her ears flicked when she heard the tolling of a bell, “Fenedhis!”

“They will like you better if you wait until the second bell. Making an entrance, clad in black and white and silver. Starry nights on snow-covered mountains.”

She smiled and gently clasped his hands, “Try not to get overwhelmed here, Cole. I do not know if you can help them.”

“I tried but they kept getting angry with me. They’ve forgotten now.”

Adahla gave his hands a reassuring squeeze before she breezed past him. Her heels clicked unabashedly on the marble as she closed the doors behind her and slunk down the stairs. As she passed through the gardens no one seemed to note her long absence. She smiled to herself as she swept back into the palace, greeted by the warmth of a fire and the scent of alcohol and sweets.

She detected a few whispers, ‘A dalish?’ ‘One of those barefoot vagabonds?’, Adahla let herself shrug them off. She was Dalish and she was proud. She was proud of the pale vallaslin over her left eye, her ears that flicked and turned to hear better, her eyes that saw more in the dark than any shem’s would. She sauntered back through the vestibule, her head stretched to open the door when she heard the soft sound of human shoes trying to be quiet on the marble.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Adahla turned to face the voice, coming down the stairs, “The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled herald of the faith.” A pale woman, dark hair piled on her head wearing an extravagant red gown, “Delivered from the grasp of the fade by the hand of Blessed Andraste herself.” The woman said it like it was a joke, yellow eyes glinting at her, “What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial Court, I wonder? Do you even know?”

Adahla settled back on her feet, giving the woman a coy smile, “We may never know, My Lady. Courtly intrigues and all that.”

“Such intrigues obscure much, but not all,” The woman paused and briefly bowed her head, “I am Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane.”

Morrigan walked by her, not waiting for Adahla to follow but seeming to expect her to. She did, after a moment, as though she wasn’t sure about her just yet.

“You... Have been very busy this evening, hunting in every dark corner of the palace,”

“I am a hunter, Lady Morrigan. This is not the forest but it is a forest,” She replied, smiling at the other woman’s chuckle.

“So it is. Perhaps the two of us hunt the same prey, Inquisitor?”

“I hope so, M’lady,” Adahla bowed her head a little, “I would be honored to share my hunt with you.”

“Vir Adahlen, Inquisitor,”

She carefully schooled her face to not show any surprise, “Together we are stronger than the one,”

“Indeed,” Morrigan began walking again, seeming to lead her around the stairwell, “Recently I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest within these halls. An agent of Tevinter.” She stopped and turned to Adahla, pulling something from her sleeve, “So I offer you this, Inquisitor: A key, found on the Tevinter’s body. Where it leads, I cannot say. Yet if Celene is in danger, I cannot leave her side long enough to search. You can.”

“I may find the time to try a door or two,” She smiled and bowed her head, “Ma serannas,”

Morrigan chuckled, taking her arm and leading her back towards the door the ballroom, the second bell sounded, “Proceed with caution, Inquisitor. Enemies abound, and not all of them allied with Tevinter,” She paused her hand on the door and gave Adahla a sidelong glance, “What happens next, will be most exciting.”

[heniareth]

and! 49. nightfall for Ilanlas! 😎

Sorry for the long wait with this one! I've had a bit of time today and was finally able to finish this. Have an Ilanlas fresh out of the battle at Ostagar! Hope you enjoy ^^

CW for mention of blood and mention of a massacre.

Ilanlas sought out solitude at the approach of nightfall, as he always did. The southeastern edge of the Brecilian Forest was barely visible in the distance, and their small camp was quiet. They had made halt in the depression between two hills. Ilanlas climbed one of them and sat down in the dusk-red blaze of the sun. It was already half hidden behind the horizon. Nightfall was fast approaching.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Vir Assan. The Way of the Arrow. Be swift and silent, strike true and do not waver. Ilanlas called to mind his wavering during his last encounter with darkspawn. Shemlen ruins had echoed a different set of ruins, ruins with a mirror and monsters, ruins that had swallowed the body of a friend. The memory had gripped his throat with panic; if not for the shem, he would be dead.

Vir Bor'assan, the Way of the Bow. As the sapling bends, so must you. In yielding, find resilience; in pliancy, find strength. Ilanlas was not used to yielding. He was not used to an emotion vibrating in his body for days like this one did. The panic had been overwhelming, and it had dragged him away like a petrified piece of wood.

Vir Adahlen, the Way of the Forest. Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. What had his last encounter with the darkspawn brought him other than panic and more corpses? What did a hunt bring other than the body of an animal to nourish him and his? He had already tasted darkspawn blood, had survived its corrosive nature. Still, he felt it eating away at his very bones.

This whole hunt was poisoned.

The sun was a mere sliver of red on the horizon. The smoke rising from Ostagar from fires still burning days after the slaughtet tinted the sky an ugly black. He was clanless in soon-to-be blighted land, and still intent on finding his friend. Ilanlas closed his eyes and let the dying sun tint his vision red. Red with fire. Red with blood.

“I parin boralen din’hanal inan, ma’en nan el.”

Before I die alone, let me have vengeance.

The sun vanished and night fell over the camp.

[m-m-m-myysurana]

WIP Wednesday

Ok I got tagged by @blarrghe like at least 2 weeks ago to share a wip. (I’m sorryy!) I am notoriously bad at this sort of thing. So anyway it is actually Wednesday for me now and look who has a WIP to share!! 

This is a snippet which will, in some form or another, make it into my long fic, A Cage We Share eventually. But it insisted on being written right now ty! Kept me up last night until it was out on the page. First rough draft of course so be kind ;)

Neria and Zev spend an evening in the Dalish camp after resolving the conflict between the Werewolves and the elves. 

A Night to Remember, (1500 words)

It was like no performance he’d ever seen. The singer was not dressed in any elaborate costume, nor did he even hold himself above the others, instead he sat close to the fire and sang into it. There were no instruments backing him up, though he did not seem to need it, his voice rang out clear and strong. Some sang or hummed along softly, harmonies and echoed lines fading in and out around them. From the cadence and verse, it seemed to be a story. Zevran recognised the name of one of the elven gods, though he could not pick out enough words to make sense of it. Neria’s eyes sparkled in the firelight as she listened with rapt attention. 

“What does it mean?” he whispered.

Neria looked over and smiled softly before leaning in to whisper next to his ear, “It's the Charge of Andruil. My father used to sing it. I don’t know that I’ll be able to translate it with much grace, but I can try.” 

Zevran nodded, and she settled closer to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. He kept very still, as if any sudden movement might scare her off. He felt more than heard her low words as she echoed the song. Her translation was spoken, not sung, but her voice was no less beautiful for lack of a melody.

“Remember my teachings, Remember the Vir Tanadhal: The Way of Three Trees That I have given you.

“Vir Assan: the Way of the Arrow Be swift and silent; Strike true, do not waver And let not your prey suffer. That is my Way.

“Vir Bor'assan: the Way of the Bow As the sapling bends, so must you. In yielding, find resilience; In pliancy, find strength. That is my Way.”

More voices joined in, and soon it seemed the entire camp was reciting the verse. Not every voice was as strong or beautiful as the first, but together in harmony it did not matter. As the sound filled his ears, an emotion he could not name expanded in his chest, swelling until he felt it might burst right out of him. 

“Vir Adahlen: the Way of the Wood Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Respect the sacrifice of my children Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn. That is my Way.

“I am Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares, Lady of the Hunt: Andruil. Remember the Ways of the Hunter And I shall be with you.” *

When the man finished, and Neria had echoed the last line, there was no polite applause or bows taken as Zevran had expected. A moment's silence passed, in which Zevran felt sure everyone would hear how wildly his heart beat. Then a drum was struck behind him, and he startled, whirling round to face it. The man pounded the drum a few more times, then began a rhythm that had many quickly cheering and standing. Neria stayed where she was on the log they were sitting on, so he remained with her. She twisted around and watched, delighted, as more of them joined in, bringing out more drums, tambourines, bells and fiddles, something that looked like a lute but wasn’t quite, and instruments he had no names for. Others joined in with the voices, not singing any particular lyrics he could pick out, just adding to the ever changing melodies with their voices. People started dancing, forming circles around the fire, and soon the camp was thrumming with the music so that even his heart seemed to beat to the rhythm. 

Neria swayed her head from side to side, eyes gleaming as she clapped along. Zevran stood, grinning as he held his hand out toward her. 

“Shall we?” 

“Oh, but I haven’t danced in years!”

“Shocking! I think it's time we remedied that, don’t you?” 

Neria laughed and let him help her up. He had not even had time to release her hand before a woman had his arm and was pulling them both along toward the dancing. With little ceremony, she broke a space between two dancers who, once they realised what was happening, very happily made space for the three of them. The dancer’s movements didn’t cease once as they attempted to join the circle, and the ensuing chaos created much laughter. The woman wrapped Zevran’s arm around her shoulders and wrapped her own around the woman beside her. A taller man wrapped his arm around Neria’s shoulders and Zevran shifted his arm under her arm and around her waist. 

Zevran had danced before, many times, though it had been nothing like this. Most dances in his country were made for two people, even in groups the dancers were in pairs. And of course most of the ones he had learnt had a focus on romance and seduction. These movements were made not in any effort to appear graceful or attractive, and indeed he was neither of those things right now. He stumbled over his feet many times as he attempted to copy the steps. They seemed to constantly shift and change, he would only just begin to pick up on one set of movements before they had moved on to another. Neria laughed, stumbling nearly as much as he did. She, however, seemed to pay no attention to what her feet were doing, instead her eyes were up and her head thrown back, as if she were simply feeling the music. 

It took him a while to realise the voice closest to him was hers. He had never heard her sing before, her voice was low and soothing and sweet like honey. Something glimmered on her face, reflecting the dancing light of the fire. Tears? Once he noticed he could not tear his eyes away. This was the happiest he had ever seen her, and yet she was crying. It confused him, but he did not dare interrupt. 

Soon the circle broke apart, though the dancing did not cease. He and Neria were separated, and he was guided through a sort of weaving dance. Each person he passed linked arms with him and spun before sending him off to the next person. This continued until he was quite dizzy, laughing as hair flew out of his braids. 

Then suddenly it was Neria who was swinging with him. He knew the next part meant he had to let go, but he didn’t want to. So he held on, using their momentum to throw them out and away from the fire. Neria screamed with laughter as they whirled, spinning wildly until they were some distance from the other dancers. 

He wrapped his arm around her waist, bringing her closer as he slowed them down. When they’d finally stopped, Neria’s grin was wide and open, and both of them breathed heavily. Their noses nearly touched, and couldn’t help but remember the last time they were so close. Heat flushed through him unexpectedly, and something sparked in her eyes, a look he recognised from that night. They were out in the open, the whole clan could see them if they looked the right way, but he couldn’t care less. He dared to lean into her lips and was delighted when she responded with far more enthusiasm than he’d expected. There was a loud whoop followed by whistling and laughter, but Zevran did not want to pull away to see if it was aimed at them.  

The kiss was clumsy, all teeth and breathless laughter, but in that moment he wouldn’t have had it any other way. She pushed her hands into his mess of hair, destroying what remained of his braids, and he tugged at her waist until their bodies were flush against one another. Her foot caught on something, and she stumbled, falling against his chest. He was still so dizzy that they both went over. He caught himself before they hit the ground, and managed to lower them down, almost gently. Neria lay on his chest, wide eyed for a moment, but then she burst into a fit of laughter, rolling off of him and onto the damp leaves. He couldn’t help but join in. 

After some time their laughter faded as they focused simply on breathing again. Neria looked up at the sky, and Zevran followed her gaze. Framed by the clearing in the tall trees, clouds had parted to reveal a glimpse of the night sky. For a second he was taken back to the time he’d spent stargazing with Talisen and Rinna, out on the roof of their tiny, crumbling apartment. Those nights were always accompanied with so much cheap wine that his memories of them were hazy and faded. This night he hoped to keep clearly in his mind for as long as he lived. 

“Thank you.” Neria whispered the words so quietly, he wasn’t sure he was meant to hear them at all. 

He turned his head to look at her, watching her breath rise and fall as she stared up at the stars. A soft smile tugged on her lips, and her lashes came to rest on her cheeks as she closed her eyes, more peaceful than he had ever expected to see her. 

No, he would not let this memory fade.

*The song was adapted slightly from this codex entry about Andruil.

You can read about the beginning of Neria and Zev’s relationship here! <3

[tanadhal]

Falls asleep in his lap, leaning on his chest. Probably drools on him a little? Yuck.

it’s not just the campfire that warms his cheeks. even when she’s gross, ahvir is relentlessly adorable, and fenriel smiles down at her with something both fond and amused in equal measure. it’s late. still, he can’t bring himself to wake her. this is as peaceful as their inquisitor has looked since the last time she’d slept and he’d have to be a monster to take that from her now. he closes his eyes, hears only the crackle of the kindling and ahvir’s quiet breath. feels only her weight in his arms and the fleece blanket that warms them. 

this is fine, he thinks. he’ll just sleep right here.

[dragonologist-phd]

Prayer and Ink

A conversation about tattoos and vallaslin leads Zevran to reconsider what it means to have faith in something- and in someone.

Written for ZevWarden Week 2020, a combination of the prompts "faith" and "tattoos"

(AO3)

“Do they mean anything?”

The question catches Zevran by surprise. It’s been a long, tedious day of marching across the Imperial Highway, and the relative privacy and cool shade of the tent coupled with the rhythmic sensation of Allys’s fingers tracing against his skin has nearly lulled him to sleep. He slowly opens his eyes and turns his head, although Allys remains just out of view as she continues to lightly draw her fingertips over the designs that curl across his back.

“The tattoos?” he asks, and Allys nods.

“Is that what you call them?” Her fingers continue their journey, following the curves and lines of dark ink that wind between his shoulder blades, along his spine, down his hips.

Zevran gives her a half-shrug, gently so as not to disturb her inspection. “They are pretty. Must they have a meaning beyond that?” A grin creeps across his face. “And of course, they invite the attention of lovely wardens.”

Allys laughs and ends her study of Zevran’s tattoos to reposition herself so that she is once again lying next to him, her bright brown eyes level with his. Her hair has been released from its typical tight bun and now falls past her shoulders, framing her face in a halo of curls. Even after a day of trudging through the Fereldan dirt and mud, her smile is warm and genuine.

She laughs at his compliments, but Zevran isn’t joking in the slightest when he calls her lovely.

“You know, when I first saw you, I thought they were a different type of vallaslin,” Allys says, resting her chin in her hand as her eyes roam over one of the tattoos on Zevran’s cheek. “I thought they might be meant for some god I didn’t recognize.”

“I suppose they still could be-is there a god for devilishly handsome features?”

Allys rolls her eyes. “I’m serious! Getting my vallaslin hurt like mad- I'm not sure I would have gone through with it if not for the gods. At the very least, I think it would've been much more difficult.”

“What can I say? We Antivans are willing to suffer for beauty.” Zevran flashes another smile, but it fades slightly as studies the vallaslin- the blood writing, they call it- across Allys’s face. He knows the lore behind the vallaslin; his time with the Dalish provided him the chance to learn, and even to hear some of the legends of the gods. But his time with the clan was short and his education quick and basic, so there is much he still does not know. “What of yours, then? What do they mean to you?”

With a smile, Allys takes Zevran’s hand in hers and gently brings it to her face so that his fingertips brush against the dark marks of her vallaslin. She guides his fingers across her face, tracing the lines of ink up her chin, across her cheekbones, over her brow. “These are for Andruil.”

“Ah, I remember her stories. She is the Huntress, yes? How very fitting.”

“I thought so, too,” Allys answers, pleased. She closes her eyes, leans into Zevran’s touch, and after a moment begins reciting something in elvhen. “Vir assan. Vir bor’assan. Vir adahlen.”

Zevran has no inkling what the words mean- he hadn’t stayed with the Dalish nearly long enough to learn any of the ancient language- but Allys’s voice, low and melodic, gives them a certain weight. It’s as if the meaning is right on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite capture it.

Noticing his expression, Allys explains. “It’s the Way of the Hunt- Andruil’s code. I started learning that code from the time I was tall enough to fire a bow. I’ve spent so much of my life in the woods, learning the teachings of Andruil. When the time came to choose my vallaslin, it seemed appropriate to honor her.”

Zevran is silent for a moment, thinking back to his time with the Dalish. He’s learned the legends and the names of their gods, but the reverence with which the Dalish speak of their Pantheon…that isn’t something so easily taught. “Do you really believe in all those legends? They are good tales to tell, I give you that, but…”

Allys’s voice betrays no doubt when she answers. “I do.”

“Even in the midst of…” Zevran vaguely waves his hand, motioning to the entire world of calamity beyond the quiet sanctity of their tent. “…of all of this?”

“Even so.” Allys’s smile turns thoughtful, and her eyes go distant for a moment. “Maybe the gods themselves cannot step in and stop the Blight for us, but their presence is felt- by the Dalish, by me. It is because of Andruil and her lessons that I am alive today, that I have the skills to bring this destruction to an end.”

And there it is again- that sensation of being so close to something, but not managing to grasp it enough to even identify the feeling. In a way, it reminds Zevran of the Andrastians and their Maker. Something that just almost speaks to Zevran, but isn’t quite his.

Perhaps Zevran’s contemplation is showing on his face, for Allys gives him a searching look and asks, “What do you believe?”

Zevran quickly banishes his muddled thoughts and gives her a wry smile. “I am an assassin. The only things we believe in are steel and gold.”

Yes, steel and gold. Things that are solid and real, if somewhat less poetic than songs and prayer. It could be that in another life- one where the Crows weren’t constantly on his tail, one where he was able to settle somewhere for more than a few short weeks, perhaps even one where his mother never separated from her clan in the first place- he would have been able to take the time to study and prove himself and become part of the Dalish in truth, earning his own vallaslin. Perhaps in that life, he believes in a purpose for himself, believes that a god may look his way.

But that is not a life that belongs to him, nor one that he can truly imagine.

And yet Allys looks at him with a softness in her gaze. She leans closer and tenderly presses a kiss against his temple, at the start of his curving tattoo, then follows the mark down his cheekbone, planting more soft kisses along the way. Finally she moves to his lips, and whispers, “I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t think you do, either. You’re a better person that you give yourself credit for, and you don’t get that way through greed and violence. Maybe it’s not the gods, but you must believe in something greater than that.”

Zevran raises an eyebrow. “What makes you so certain?”

“Because I have faith in you.” Allys kisses his lips, softly, and then pulls back, the previous mischief returning to her expression. “And incidentally, that’s why I like your tattoos. Because whatever meaning they do or don’t have, they’re yours.”

Zevran does not know what to say. He wants to tell her she’s wrong, to try and make her see, but his throat is thick and the words won’t come. So he just kisses her again, deeper this time, and tries not to dwell too much on her words or the look in her eyes.

He thinks about it all later that night, of course. The thoughts simply won’t leave, and a part of him wishes he could go back to when things like this were easy. This should be easy. Just another mission, another conquest. But maybe…maybe Allys is not entirely wrong. Zevran is not a Crow any longer. In truth, he doesn’t know what he is. But when he thinks of the woman in his arms- the woman who not only spared his life, but showed him what his life could be worth- he realizes there is nowhere in this world he wouldn’t follow her.

It is terrifying, and exhilarating, and Zevran wonders if perhaps this is what having faith feels like.

[dragon-age-codex-entries]

Codex entry: Vir Tanadhal: The Way of Three Trees

"Be swift and silent."

—Vir Assan: The Way of the Arrow

"As the sapling bends, so must you."

—Vir Bor'assan: The Way of the Bow

"Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness."

—Vir Adahlen: The Way of the Wood

[smutnug]

Day 3: Bow and arrow

Dawn brought tendrils of mist over the hills and valleys of Crestwood; the ground was still sodden underfoot as Rhia padded quietly away from camp. 

Petrichor, crushed herbs and flowering embrium. Save the pungent scent of wet druffalo, she might have been home in the forests of the Free Marches. 

Home. She snorted quietly to herself as she bent to harvest a patch of elfroot. It had never felt like home, except the moments she could steal to herself. Quiet hours spent gathering plants and mushrooms, her feet bare and her bow slung over her shoulder. 

The merest rustle, the snap of a twig breaking and she had an arrow nocked and ready to fly. It was a hart, blinking slowly at her through the mist. Curious, wary, but not quite fearful. 

Beautiful. With his long, graceful neck and dark-lashed eyes. Guide my arrow, Lady of the Hunt. Bring him a swift death. His hide would be cured for leather; his flesh would feed the soldiers of the keep and the embattled villagers. It was the Vir Adahlen: she would mourn his loss, but not regret his sacrifice. 

Sudden wrongness: the hair rose on the back of her neck. You are prey. She spun, her steel-tipped arrow aimed squarely at this new threat. 

"Peace, vhenan." If Solas was alarmed, he did not let it show. Mildly affronted, but that was show - no, he was amused. A puzzle for later: the hart had taken fright and was bounding away through the undergrowth. So much for her clean shot. 

"Fenhedis."

Beside her - how had he crept so close? - Solas raised a hand, and with a crackle of energy the hart fell dead on the ground. 

"Cheat," she said, and he raised an eyebrow. 

"I use the tools at my disposal, as do you." Clasping his hands behind his back, he stared down at the fallen creature with a detached sort of sorrow. "Without magic or a bow and arrow, the hart may have had the advantage. One party always does. There are no fair fights."

As if he needed to tell her that. She could project confidence all she liked, but he had a way of making her feel like a child negotiating her first steps. Here, her bow and arrow were useless. She had only one weapon at her disposal and she used it now, claiming his space and tilting her face up for a kiss.

His eyes softened; he reached out and pushed back a tendril of hair, stuck to her skin in the damp air. 

"Cheat," he murmured before claiming her mouth, and she wound an arm around his neck to disguise the fact that her lower body had apparently begun to melt. The kiss had the desired effect. When he pulled away his eyes were glassy, his breath irregular. 

"There are no fair fights," she reminded him. "Vhenan, if you've ruined this hide I'm going to be very displeased." She skipped to the hart's side, or did she float? A quick murmured blessing to Andruil. It truly had been a beautiful creature. 

She looked up to find Solas regarding her with a small frown of displeasure. 

"What is it?" 

"Nothing, vhenan." With a shake of his head the expression was banished, fast enough to make her doubt it had ever existed. He extended a hand. "Shall we make our way back to camp? You can send the scouts out for the remains."

Steam rose from the wet ground, caught golden in the light of the risen sun. He seemed almost otherworldly in the warm light; from the look in his eyes, so did she. 

I will solve you, vhenan, she promised, and brushed a quick kiss across the back of his knuckles. His laughter rang out, rich and clear. 

"You are full of surprises," he said approvingly. 

She tugged his hand, leading them back towards the cluster of Inquisition tents. "Just you wait," she said lightly. Just you wait.

[dirthenera]

Master Prompt List For Dirthenera Pairings: Solas x Lavellan or platonic anyone.

General prompts list from this post.

fluff/general

“how much did you drink?”

“aw, you’re so cute.” Read here

“what did you do?”

“i asked if you were having a party. i didn’t tell you to have a party.” in backlog

“this is the opposite of what i told you to do.”

“well, it’s the thought that counts.”

“wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me.”

“okay, where are all my jumpers?”

“oh, you’ve started stealing my socks now?” In backlog

“yeah, okay, but i’m cooler.”

“you owe me a kiss.”

“how did you get in here?”

“for starters, that’s impossible.” in backlog

“how did you fail a survey?”

“yeah, well, if you weren’t so drunk maybe i would.”

“that’s not even fair.”

“you promised me a cookie!”

“did i ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?”

“ew, that is so sappy, i might vomit.”

“i’m not playing truth or dare.” Read here

“you’re not very intimidating.”

“i love you.”

“well the probability of that is 0, but you go ahead.”

“that was, by far, the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” Read here

“why don’t you take a picture? it’ll last longer.”

“maybe not.”

“why the hell is there glitter everywhere?”

“well, i’m pretty irresistible.”

“how much money would you give me to flip this table, right here, right now, in the middle of class?”

“detention? again?”

angst

“why don’t you just go?”

“no, it’s not like that.”

“if you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this.”

“it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“what’s the point?”

“fuck you.” Read here

“you should’ve said that yesterday.”

“don’t lie to me.”

“i swear, if you say another word, i’ll leave.”

“change in mind or change in heart?”

“it’s over, it’s done, just leave it be.”

“why do you keep bringing it up?”

“we can’t go back in time, so stop trying to reverse what you said.”

“you say you’ll stop, but then you keep doing it!”

“maybe in another world.”

“why are you like this?”

“stop making empty promises!”

“what about us?”

“don’t say that.”

“i’m done. we’re done.”

From Misc Prompt Lists

1.  “ There is nothing quite as sublimely unsatisfying as infatuation.“ Read here

2. “Bite me” Read here.

Prompts from @the-solavellan-archive​

We are the Dalish, found here.

And never again shall we submit.

 Fly straight and do not waver. –  Vir Assan (“Way of the Arrow”)

Bend but never break. –  Vir Bor'Assan (“Way of the Bow”)

Together we are stronger than the one  –  Vir Adahlen (“Way of the Forest”)

 Keepers of the lost lore – The Keeper teaches Lavellan the history of the Dalish.

“(The Vallaslin)  reminds us that we will never again surrender our traditions and beliefs.” – Lavellan chooses and/or receives her Vallaslin.

“The end of the journey" – Lavellan sees what the Orlesians did to Halamshiral.

Someone to look up to. – An elven hero Lavellan admires.

Harellan – A young Lavellan hears a scary story about the Dread Wolf.

Lethallen – Lavellan’s closest friend.

Andaran atish’an – Something that gives her peace.

Dareth Shiral – Lavellan says goodbye to a loved one.

Prayer – Lavellan asks the Gods for advice.

Hahren – Lavellan’s favorite elder.

Shemlen – Lavellan’s first encounter with a human.  

“We try to keep hold of the old ways, to relearn what was forgotten.” – Lavellan enters a ruin of her people.

Among our people – Lavellan attends the Arlathvhen.

Da'len – Lavellan takes care of the clan’s younglings. Read here

Nuven'in – A childhood dream.

Vhenadahl – Lavellan meets city elves for the first time. In backlog

[rowhanna]

Writing Prompts

Below is a list of Writing Prompts I am actively doing. Choose one and send it my way and I’ll do my best to write it from the POV of my Lavellan Rowan/Rowhanna that my fanfic is based off of. (Crossed out ones have already been done or already requested)

1. And never again shall we submit.

2.  Fly straight and do not waver. –  Vir Assan (“Way of the Arrow”)

3. Bend but never break. –  Vir Bor'Assan (“Way of the Bow”)

4. Together we are stronger than the one  –  Vir Adahlen (“Way of the Forest”)

5.  Keepers of the lost lore – The Keeper teaches Lavellan the history of the Dalish.

6. “(The Vallaslin)  reminds us that we will never again surrender our traditions and beliefs.” – Lavellan chooses and/or receives her Vallaslin.

7. “The end of the journey" – Lavellan sees what the Orlesians did to Halamshiral.

8. Someone to look up to. – An elven hero Lavellan admires.

9. Harellan – A young Lavellan hears a scary story about the Dread Wolf.

10. Lethallen – Lavellan’s closest friend.

11.  Andaran atish’an – Something that gives her peace.

12. Dareth Shiral – Lavellan says goodbye to a loved one.

13. Prayer – Lavellan asks the Gods for advice.

14. Hahren – Lavellan’s favorite elder.

15. Shemlen – Lavellan’s first encounter with a human.  

16.  “We try to keep hold of the old ways, to relearn what was forgotten.” – Lavellan enters a ruin of her people.

17. Among our people – Lavellan attends the Arlathvhen.

18. Da'len – Lavellan takes care of the clan’s younglings.

19.  Nuven'in – A childhood dream.

20.  Vhenadahl – Lavellan meets city elves for the first time.

These come directly from The Solavellan Archive.