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galedekarios · 2 months ago

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down among the dead men

i finally finished reading sylvia feketekuty's short story in tevinter nights. sylvia feketekuty is also emmrich's writer in dragon age: the veilguard.

i wanted to compile what we learn about emmrich in sylvia's short story.

emmrich likes tea

"What happened then?" the older mage tilted a pot of tea encouragingly toward Audric.

his study is described in detail

Audric shook his head--he didn't feel like tea, particularly--while his eyes soaked in the room. He'd never been in a necromancer's study before. Ornately decorated skulls hung from hooks in the high, dark ceiling. One wall was made up of shelves with books and tiny labeled drawers. The other was fronted by tables full of bubbling flasks, scales, alembics, and tortured-looking glass. A smartly attired servant ground away with a pestle and mortar.

"Excellent question!" Emmrich swirled the tea in his mug, looking entirely too cheerful, Audric thought, for a man framed by so many racks of skulls.

the description of his study in down among the dead men is very, very reminiscent of his room in the lighthouse that bioware revealed a few days ago:

emmrich may have recreated the comforts of his study in nevarra within the lighthouse.

emmrich lets manfred mix tinctures

"Please, don't mind Manfred." The older mage refilled his own cup. "He'll finish mixing that tincture before you know it." Manfred, a clean-boned skeleton, held up a bowl. Audric read something helpful in the cant of its skull. The younger mage looked critical. "It needs half a cup more elfroot." The corpse pulled out one of the drawers on the side of the room, took out a withered root, and shook it inquiringly. "The royal elfroot, please." Manfred moaned and fumbled at more drawers.

emmrich compliments manfred's successes and is proud of him

"Yes! That's the one." The older mage beamed. "Very good indeed, Manfred!"

emmrich's appearance is described as well by audric

Audric dragged his gaze to the older Watcher across from him, with his silvered hair, tidy mustache, and long face full of concern. His expression reminded Audric of the Chantry scholars when they'd caught him reading by candlelight in the library. The good brothers and sisters had kindly tried to dissuade Audric from living in pages for so long he couldn't think straight in the morning.

i think they a phenomenal job bringing emmrich to life (no pun intended).

emmrich is quite informal, cares about putting someone else at ease, he treats audric as he would a living person, never forcing him to arrive at a conclusion or pressuring him

"Is there anything else you can recall about Lord Karn's funeral?" the mage asked gently. "No? I think... not much, sir. Another guard, she, well... Dellah even had to peel him off me, sir." The necromancer waved a hand. "Emmrich will do, please."

macabre sense of humour

"It's... sorry, it's a blur of screams, sir." "Some of it your own, I'd bet," the necromancer joked, but looked so sympathetic Audric relaxed by a degree.

he is indeed a professor/very scholarly

"Myra picked up the curved rib bone. One end was jagged from where Audric's boot had connected with Karn's rib cage. She handed it to Emmrich. "Excellent. Emmrich? This is your remit." "I'll have it ready before sunset." He sighed. "It would be faster if we'd managed to replace the librarian by now. The students have naturally left the books a mess."

this all fits so well with the blurb we were given about him not so long:

"Emmrich is as serious about his duty to protect innocents from the occult as he is about his studies and his interest in the mysteries of the fade."

don't leave the books in disorder, please.

emmrich is renowned to be good at what he does by other mourn watchers

"Myrna seemed content to leave things there, and took something out of a velvet purse. A rib bone. "Emmrich's prepared your trophy for us. His cathexis is very reliable." Audric felt the ground tilt downslope. "Madam?" "His magic." She tapped the rib bone. "This will now guide us to where Lord Karn's fled. Emmrich would join us, but he's been called to other matters."

i had to look up what cathexis means exactly and it's defined as follows:

In psychoanalysis, cathexis (or emotional investment) is defined as the process of allocation of mental or emotional energy to a person, object, or idea. [...] Cathexis comes to us by way of New Latin from the Greek word kathexis, meaning "holding."

myrna uses a skeleton to send a message to emmrich, presumably he might employ similar methods of communication if available

"Good." Myrna sent a mote of light into a nook in the wall. A moment later, a skeleton fell out, hissing and snapping. Myrna snagged it with a collar of green fire, tugged it like a leash. "Does that... hurt it?" Audric asked, more sympathetic to the shambling thing than he'd been a minute ago. "The sensations differ. With some of the dead, one must exert direct control." The skeleton subsided, making a strange whine. "A message," the Mourn Watcher told it. "Find Professor Emmrich Volkahrin. Tell him after some last business in the Winged Halls, we'll be joining him above without delay."

this description reminded me a bit of the brief glimpses we got of emmrich in the very first companion trailer:

emmrich appreciates punctuality & holding oneself to prior commitments

"You heard my message to Emmrich." She crooked a finger, gesturing to Audric. "We'll be expected. It won't be difficult to return from here. Audric looked around. "I can... I'm allowed to come back with you?" "Of course. Myrna lifted her skirts and stepped over a chunk of stone from the fight. "Emmrich will be put out if we don't show up for tea."

emmrich is incredibly kind when dealing with spirits and undead, no matter their rank or standing in life

"They were back in Emmrich's den. Audric had been astonished to see familiar tomes in a neat stack on the necromaner's desk. "Those... are those...?" "Yours, yes. From your home." Emmrich shook his head. "Forgive the liberty, guardsman. After you and Myrna left for the Necropolis, I had to search for a reason you might have returned so unexpectedly." "I believe we found it," Mysrna said, from where she was overseeing Emmrich's manservant transfer the contents of a bubbling beaker into a bowl. Emmrich handed the top book to Audric. It was a gazetteer of Nevarra City, stamped with a crowned skull surrounded by flowers. Audric flipped it open and read the blocky inscription. To our Son with Love. May you be Blessed in your Studied with the Chantry. "All this effort... for me? I'm just a guardsman, sir." Am? Was? Audric pushed doubt aside and held the gazetteer to his chest. He existed, knew what he loved, and that he had been loved, and that seemed enough in the moment. "The great leveler has no favourites." Emmrich smiled. "Neither does the Mourn Watch."

i found this reaction to myrna and audric quite interesting, and i'm not completely sure what to make of it yet:

"You are faced with a choice," Myrna said, coming over. "You have confronted your killer, and recognised your driving passion. You may rest now, guardsman." "Or?" "Or you may work under the auspices of a Watcher," Myrna said. "Under a modicum of magical control. To avoid anomie, the bond must be given freely." "To you, madam?" "If it's satisfactory." The guardsman ducked his head, and because that felt inadequate, knelt on a knee and held out a hand. Myrna, smiling slightly, took it. Emmrich coughed, looking away. "Please, let the poor fellow up. What position were you thinking?" "I thought it was obvious." Audric felt a slow excitement as he heard Myrna say: "We have a great need for someone to take charge of the library."

overall, i really liked this short story.

i loved how audric wasn't aware that he is, in fact, dead and has died a while ago. i loved how both emmrich and myrna didn't correct his assumption, but led him to the realisation. i love all the little insights we got into emmrich as a character, but also nevarra's culture, necromancy and the mourn watch.

it's definitely one of the best in the book. 🖤

#emmrich volkahrin #emmrich volkarin #dragon age 4 #da4 #dragon age: the veilguard #da:tv #datv #vg: dragon age 4 #series: dragon age #meta: myda4 #i also really liked myrna and audric #i hope they make an appearance in the game #ch: emmrich volkarin

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baphometsss · 2 days ago

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On Solas' Mythal regret

Alright so this is just one thing I wanted to get out there. I'm not gonna do one big meta post bc I wanna break down specific things more easily. I hope it's not too jumbled

Spoilers

The Solas / Mythal regret takes place in the Fade.

“What if you left the Evanuris, and remained with me? Surely you must want freedom from this struggle?”

Solas says it not just for Mythal’s sake but for his own; he is essentially begging for her to return to the Fade with him so they can be as spirits again... He doesn’t want to be a person, he never did, and now he can’t return to that life. He was happy in the Fade until she drew him out. Mythal says ‘love’ because she knows that he doesn’t want to be there and she needs to keep him loyal in order to keep the Evanuris at bay. We know that Mythal is manipulative af and this is just more evidence of that.

It’s a regret not just because he couldn’t get Mythal to leave the Evanuris but because it’s the moment he gave up on himself. He knew he couldn’t leave Mythal to do it alone, because he did care for her, but also he was likely bound to her after she pulled him from the Fade. We know that pulling spirits from the Fade makes them lose a part of themselves; in this case, Mythal did this to him deliberately so he would fight in the war.

It was a trauma bond, similar to the bond between Cole, the spirit of compassion, and the real Cole who starved to death in a prison cell. Solas needed to provide Wisdom to prove his purpose, and Mythal kept calling on that. In Veilguard, it’s explicitly stated that as a former spirit, he cannot resist appeals to his true nature. With trauma bonds, you do lose your agency. It’s what they hinge on. The two things combined make for a toxic dynamic.

(I don’t particularly like this personally, but it's what seems to be the intent, but I digress.)

The hidden codex in the Lighthouse’s music room—memories of a duet—is significant in understanding their relationship. To me this is very revealing of their dynamic; Mythal took advantage of Solas when he wasn’t used to having a body and moulded him to be a weapon. She moulded him into the image she wanted him to take, and strung him along the entire time. There’s a big parallel between Divine Justinia/Leliana and Mythal/Solas. Leliana’s personal quest in DAI is about her loyalty to Divine Justinia, whom she sees as a mother and great friend. You can ask her if they were romantically involved, and she says that they were many things to each other, but not that. She too carries a huge amount of guilt for her death, to the point that it can break her if you don’t soften her early on in the game, and she becomes utterly ruthless. The end scene with Mythal releasing Solas from her service has many similarities to Justinia releasing Leliana from hers. Leliana and Justinia were united in part because of their shared spirituality and hopes for the Chantry, and Solas and Mythal were united by the connection they forged as spirits. ‘Being wholly seen…’ Leliana felt the same way about Justinia.

Solas also wore Mythal’s vallaslin, and burned it off his face when he rebelled against the Evanuris. As we know, those are slave markings. He was made to become her servant, and rebelled against her too when he started the rebellion against the Evanuris. (As a side note, and especially if you’ve played BG3, you’ll know how the loss of agency can stick around even after the connection to the abuser has been severed. Astarion’s ‘you made me see that I never stopped thinking of myself as his slave’ really springs to mind here, albeit in a different context.)

This is a big part of why I don’t think he was romantically involved with Mythal. I believe his main role to Mythal in the initial war was as a kind of spymaster, similar to how Leliana is the spymaster for Divine Justinia. Mythal taught Solas to behave in exactly the way she wanted him to.

In fact, in the Inquisitor’s customisation screen when you pick your romance, Solas’s explicitly says that even he didn’t foresee what it would mean to fall in love. So… he canonically hasn’t been in love before. He was not in love with Mythal.

I wanna be clear here; I don’t hate Mythal as such. I mean, I do, because she’s pretty fucked up, but you have to consider her nature. She was a spirit of benevolence. She wanted to take a form because she was afraid of what Elgar’nan would do to the world if she didn’t stop him. Even after taking a body, she can’t change her nature. It became twisted into retribution when she couldn’t stop them from harming the elves or trying to leash the blight. Honestly I could write a whole essay about Mythal too, but I won’t because I still have a ton to write about Solas and Lavellan, but we’ll see.

Anyway I’m gonna leave this one here but I’ll be back with more meta. I have a lot of get through

#solas #dragon age #dragon age spoilers #mythal #solavellan

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mrs-gauche · 5 months ago

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Let's talk (some more) about the Red Lyrium Idol

So, if there's anyone who actually read all of this and is for some reason still interested in even more ramblings, here is Part 2 of my way too long tinfoil theory/summary post about the red lyrium idol, and I swear, it's the last one. 😂 Again, I just needed to get this out before we might get the first real trailer TOMORROW and I'm proven completely wrong, because that's just so funny to me. lol

(Note: This post was written before the title of DA4 was changed into "The Veilguard", so the implications of this title for the narrative were not taken into account for any of this. 💀)

The Phylactery Theory

"A phylactery is a vessel, often a glass vial, containing the essence of a magical being. The Circle of Magi and the Chantry use small phylacteries filled with blood, to track down mages that turn apostate."

"Phylacteries, ironically, are a form of blood magic. When a templar wishes to track down a fugitive mage they will use the phylactery as a way of homing in on the fugitive by way of a "hot and cold" situation, i.e., the phylactery glows, becoming brighter the closer it gets to its respective mage."

In Tevinter Nights, the Carta assassin described the idol to feel rather heavy, like there was "liquid inside". In the 2018 teaser, we see glowing cracks creeping up the idol's surface.

Inquisitor: "You don't need to sacrifice a slave's life to make a dagger." Solas: "I suppose it depends upon the dagger."

(- Solas when talking about blood magic)

In DAO, the Arcane Warrior specialization can be unlocked while doing the "Nature of the Beast" quest line, in the Lower Ruins of the Brecilian Ruins, south the Elven Burial Chamber. Inside a small chamber which looks like a ruined library, there is a broken stone altar. A phylactery is hidden in the far corner of the room. When you touch the phylactery you experience the memories of an elven arcane warrior who has remained trapped inside of the phylactery for centuries. It offers to teach you the secrets of the arcane warriors in exchange for setting its spirit free by placing the phylactery on an ancient altar.

In the "The Hunt of the Fell Wolf" poem in JOH, there is an idol that seems to possess a spirit that is connected to a demon wolf in a way that he can only be defeated if both him and the idol/spirit are destroyed and struck down at the same time.

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

The Black Vials are six small glass phylacteries that can be found around Ferelden. When the Warden takes a vial, the glass fractures and releases a hostile revenant. A revenant is a form of undead that is created when a powerful demon, usually that of desire or pride, possesses a corpse. Upon their death, each revenant drops a scrap of vellum/codex entry that reads:

"Bound by your true name, no mortal hand shall reach you."

In the Tevinter Nights story "Genitivi Dies at the End", Rasaan and the Qunari were searching for Solas' "true name".

In the final chamber of the Solasan temple, there's an ancient inscription that reads:

Faintly carved into the stone is a figure bound in chains. Two other figures have turned their gaze from the central image. "Pride in our accomplishments and in our hearts. That same pride became (a word meaning corrupted or altered) within him, he sought to claim (indecipherable), cast from favor and so he was bound." "Hidden from mortal eyes, death lies within."

A codex about an encounter with a revenant, 5:71 Exalted:

"[…] The descriptions of the creature's abilities were eerily similar to those our brothers at Marnas Pell encountered almost a century ago […]"

Solas' hideout in The Missing was located in the Deep Roads beneath Marnas Pell.

Cole's comments in Trespasser suggest that Solas was bound to Mythal.

"He did not want a body, but she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face."

While Solas seemed to have burned her vallaslin off his face, could there be a chance that he is still bound to Mythal by his true name? Could it be that he is still bound to whatever part of Mythal is trapped within the idol?

Again, the ancient spirit in DAO can only be freed from the phylactery if it is placed on an ancient altar.

So, the question is, if the idol is indeed a phylactery containing Solas'/Mythal's blood and a part of her spirit that needs to be placed on its original location/altar to free her, and if it was ripped off its original location, then where did it originally belong?

The Place Where It All Began

In 2018, we got the first DA4 teaser, showing the idol in various close-ups as well as the focal point of this mural.

Look at how the idol is suspiciously placed in the very center of the circle/tambourine which we assume to represent the Veil.

Now, what else sits at the center of the Fade that is ever present and visible but cannot be reached?

Right, the Black City.

Again, the idol is very likely depicting Mythal's death.

Now, tell me, where do you think was Mythal murdered?

Or rather, where do you think did the Blight originate?

I'm convinced that the Black/Golden City is/was Arlathan. The place where the false gods were imprisoned when Solas created the Veil. The idol/blade was likely forged after Mythal died. The 2022 cinematic clearly shows that the Blight started to spread from the center of the Golden City before it turned black and began to consume the rest of the world, but seemed to have then been contained by the Veil preventing it from spreading further.

"Had I not created the Veil, the Evanuris would have destroyed the entire world."

Corypheus is physically covered in red lyrium. We can assume that he turned into a blighted creature when he entered the Black City, which was already black and corrupted when they opened its gates.

Red lyrium only began appearing throughout the surface of all of southern Thedas in crystalline nodes following the opening of the Breach.

In Future Redcliffe, a year has past with the Breach still open and the red lyrium has spread everywhere.

It is proven that the Veil is inedvitably getting weaker alltogether, and that it will eventually come down at some point, regardless of Solas' actions.

The Veil getting weaker correlates with the Blight spreading further. If the root of the Blight lies within the Black City, and if the Blight was contained/prevented from spreading further through the creation of the Veil, and if the seven Old Gods are connected to the seven imprisoned, tainted Evanuris and serve as seals to the seven gates/mirrors of the Black City, then this banter and these visuals make a lot of sense:

Seven semi-circles with two of them still “lit” and the “tambourine”/Veil looking more broken with each new update….

Seven Old Gods/Evanuris that were banished when Solas created the Veil…..

Seven mirrors shattering….

Seven gates of the Black City, which Kordillus Drakon prophesied will someday shatter and cover both the mortal and spirit realms in darkness….

Solas: Your Order… the Grey Wardens… Blackwall: What about them? Solas: The Wardens see themselves as the world's defense against the Blight, do they not? Blackwall: Yes… why do you sound so skeptical? Doesn't everyone know this? Solas: When an Archdemon rises, they slay it. What will they do when all the Archdemons are slain? Blackwall: Retire? Solas: Without Archdemons, there can be no Blights. Is that the reasoning? Blackwall: Right. Where are you going with this? Solas: Nowhere. I hope they are correct.

Varric: Give [the Grey Wardens] some credit, it's not like you can study the Blight safely. I may not like everything they've done, but without the wardens, we'd all be blighted by now. Solas: They've bought us some time, I will grant them that.

DA4 will likely be set ten year after the events of DAI. And the Veil has gotten even weaker/Solas might succeed in tearing it down.

In Tevinter Nights, Solas claims that whatever he's going to do will "save this world".

Maybe the idol will solely be used to destroy the Veil and merge the World and the Fade, in order for him to, quote, "casually reshape reality".

BUT, you know what was proven to be the ultimate power source for Dreamers to reshape reality in a time before the Veil?

Say it with me.....

Great. Dragon. Blood.

So let's go back and assume that the idol is a phylactery that contains some part of Mythal/blood and that Solas is somehow still bound to by his true name. Mythal was likely murdered in the Black City, which might've also been the catalyst for the Blight. Solas might want to enter the Black City with the idol. Again, the ancient spirit in Origins can only be freed from the phylactery if it is placed on an ancient altar.

So… What if Solas plans to bring the idol back to its original location and free her spirit?

The Mother's Return

"Why did Mythal come to you?" "For a reckoning that will shake the very heavens."

At last, let me put on the tinfoil hat one final time and break this all down.

*takes deep breath*

The fact that it is Mythal's mosaic that is revealed to be on the platform in that final fight with Corypheus (symbolically surrounded by red lyrium!), the same ruins that were once the foundations of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

The Sacred Ashes of Andraste, which possesses healing qualities "unsurpassed by even the most powerful spells".

Andraste, who was said to be too weak to bear children, but then miraculously was able to give birth to two daughters later in life. Almost like something came into her life that enabled her to do so. Like, for example, drinking the blood of a Great dragon.

Andraste, who might have not only been a mage, but also an Old God Baby like Kieran, carrying the soul of Dumat.

Old God souls, which a certain person seems to be particularly interested in collecting.

Not the Maker, but Mythal being drawn to Andraste's Old God soul, like a moth to a flame.

Andraste becoming Mythal's host, but that host ultimately burned at the stake, so she had to find another one.

Fast forward a few hundred years. Mythal has found another host in Flemeth, who just so happens to make a bargain with Calenhad Theirin, making him, again, drink the blood of a Great dragon, to gain special powers, leading him to become the first king of Ferelden.

So she watches the Theirin bloodline, until the fateful day Alistair gets almost killed at Ostagar. So she swoops in again, nudging the course of history by saving Alistair and the HOF.

Next up is Hawke, whom she saves so Hawke could find the idol and free Corypheus, setting the events of DAI in motion.

In DAI, if the Inquisitor drinks from the Well of Sorrows and you listen very carefully to the super creepy background noises while playing the audio backwards, the voices of the Well will tell you to "Stop her" and something else that sounds like "She speaks the Calling".

The Calling. A voice, a song, dreams that will haunt the Grey Wardens. Just like a certain idol does.

The Calling, which will force the Grey Wardens to go mad and join the Darkspawn as a collective hivemind to wake the Old Gods, but only after they consumed the Archdemon's blood in the Joining.

A being controlling people as a hivemind?

Like the Titans guiding their children like a collective mind? Titans, whom Mythal was the first to kill and mine their blood and something else to create bodies for her own people.

"The First of my People do not die so easily." (- Solas in Trespasser)

An Archdemon cannot be killed, because their soul will just transfer to the nearest soulless darkspawn. Transfering the soul. The secret of effective immortality.

How do you kill an Archdemon?

By drinking their blood, slaying them and taking in their soul.

What is an Archdemon/Old God?

A dragon.

What WAS Mythal?

"The new ones are faithful to Mythal, but do not understand what she was in her fullness."

Mythal's entire image is based on that of a dragon, a form that in ancient times was reserved for the gods. Because before the Veil, it was the dragon's blood that gave those dreamers the power to shape reality, so powerful that they came to be worshiped as gods. But, I think, not only had Mythal the chief role in the pantheon because she had great dragon blood within her, but because…

Her true form IS actually a motherflippin dragon.

So. What did the Evanuris do in order to KILL Mythal?

They slayed her, drank her blood and each of the seven obtained a part of her soul, but instead of getting killed themselves, they sought to become essentially invincible through both Mythal's blood and the tainted Titan blood/red lyrium.

Let me quote this wonderful post by @virlath from a few years ago.

With her conquering of the titans, I think it’s likely that her blood is a part of the blight and the red lyrium corruption. Mythal ran the elves' lyrium operations. She had a connection to the titans and their children. She also stole knowledge of the Void from Andruil. Combining all this knowledge it makes sense that she could use this to her advantage once she was imprisoned and corrupted, because she had a connection to both dragon's blood and lyrium. She just needed a physical aspect- Flemeth, and now Solas, to act out her plans. The use of dragon fire in Dark Fortress is further indication that the combination of dragons and lyrium results in a massive power nexus. I think it’s possible that red lyrium is simply lyrium tainted with dragon's blood. More specifically, Mythal's blood. This is why dragons were strictly reserved for the evanuris in ancient elvhen times- because the key to their immortality and power was dragons and more specifically, great dragon's blood. Mythal had strict rules about taking on the form of 'divinity’. I think this was likely because dragons and dragon fire/dragon's blood was the true source of the evanuris' power, and is what allowed them to appear immortal. This could explain why the old gods are so inexplicably linked to the evanuris in the lore. I think the evanuris each had a dragon- an old god, and they each used dragon's blood and dragon fire to make their dreams into literal reality. No one could infiltrate their dreams because only they had access to the power of dragons, which they claimed was their right.

Before BioWare settled on dragons, the Archdemons were supposed to look very different.

Meaning that, each of the seven Old God souls…. is what?

Yeah, I think it's all Mythal's.

Again, WHAT did the voices of the Well tell the Inquisitor? WHO speaks the CALLING?

It's the voice of the one who's the real owner of that soul. The one who for centuries has been trying to gather the scattered pieces of HER SOUL, driven by nothing but vengeance.

"So Mythal endures."

If the idol contains a part of Mythal, and if Solas used the idol/blade to trick the Evanuris like in Dalish legends, maybe it was because they were desperate to destroy the idol and get rid of Mythal once and for all.

Remember the visions described in Trespasser.

“Hail Mythal, adjudicator and savior! She has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People! Praise her name forever!“ “In this place we prepare to hunt the pillars of the earth. Their workers scurry, witless, soulless. This death will be a mercy. We will make the earth blossom with their passing.” “The runes say the Evanuris fought the Titans. They mined their bodies for lyrium and… something else. It’s not clear.” “They made bodies from the earth. And the earth was afraid. It fought back. But they made it forget.” "For a moment, the scent of blood fills the air, and there is a vivid image of green vines growing and enveloping a sphere of fire." “For one moment, there is a vivid image of two overlapping spheres; unknown flowers bloom inside their centers. Then it fades.”

A sphere of fire… you mean, like the SUN? You mean, Mythal actually creating a MOON, just like in Dalish mythology?

Bear with me here.

We established that Mythal mined the Titan's blood, which I believe was then used for centuries in combination with her fire to create bodies for her own people/spirits. On top of that, I believe that, after her victory, Mythal used part of a dead Titan and lifted it into the sky to use it as a "cornerstone" to build the capital city of Elvhenan, Arlathan, on top of her "enemy's corpse".

I believe that in the moment of Mythal's death, her blood altered the Titan's blood (which also sundered the Song) and that something happened to the moon that she had created, which in turn led to the unbridled power of the sun to corrupt part of the Titan that the Golden City, Arlathan, was build on, as well as both their blood. And that's when it turned black. That's when the Blight was created.

Elgar'nan is the God of the Sun in Dalish mythology. He was likely the main instigator behind the Evanuris' betrayal and Mythal's murder.

The sun imagery keeps appearing throughout DA4's promotional stuff.

If the Old God Lusacan is connected to Elgar'nan, they would represent two polar opposites. The God of the Sun and the God of Night and Darkness. Again, Kordillus Drakon prophesied that the seven gates of the Black City would someday shatter and cover both the mortal and spirit realms in darkness.

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

“Lusacan, the Dragon of Night, calls to you. He lives where it is darkest and waits for the day he will rise. Drink of his blood and know the power in darkness: either fear the Night or wield it.“ "The darkspawn yearn to awaken and corrupt Lusacan to start a new age of darkness.” “A night that will never end”

But why does this need to happen? Because Mythal needs to act out her vengeance upon the ones who murdered her and doomed the world with the creation of the Blight.

"She was betrayed as I was betrayed! As the world was betrayed!" "Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I will see her avenged!"

Solas wants to save his people no matter what, and for that, the Veil needs to be torn down, resulting in the World and the Fade becoming one again…

But, to truly restore his People, I believe that he needs the Mother to come back.

Mythal represents both Justice and Vengeance. If justice is corrupted, it will turn into vengeance. Solas makes no difference between spirits and demons.

"I am sorry as well, old friend."

That last line of Flemythal to Solas. It's so simple, but what does it truly mean? Why is she apologizing to him?

Is it because none of this would have happened if she didn't die and everything that happened to the people and the world was because of her downfall? Because it was her who started all this in the first place with the death of the Titans, stealing their hearts and corrupting their blood?

With her gone and no one left to keep the false gods in check, if it hadn't been for her death, Solas wouldn't have been left with what seemed to be the only choice?

Is she sorry for everything he had to endure, from her giving him a body against his will, twisting his original purpose, to him having to live with the guilt over the death of a world and an entire civilization for a thousand years?

Or is she apologizing for using him?

"An eclipse as Fen'Harel stirred."

"Cry havoc in the moonlight. Let the fire of vengeance burn. The cause is clear." (- Solas reciting Mythal's invication)

She knew that Solas would do anything at this point to undo his mistakes and save the people he doomed. She knew exactly what Solas would do when he came to her in that after credits scene in DAI. She knew that he would need that power and the idol to complete his ritual in order to tear down the Veil, but to what end?

Without the Veil, whoever controls the dreams controls reality.

#tinfoil time #da4 #red lyrium idol #solas #mythal #now on to being proven completely wrong about any of this! 😂

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emmg · 21 days ago

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share your wips

lol sure, here's something from that Emmrich yapping smutfic (it's literally titled Emmrich yapping in my livingwriter folder) I'm almost done with. It's honestly more like smut-crackfic but eh.

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But Emmrich? Oh, bless his thoroughly misguided soul—he’s taking a slow, respectful tour through this grand gallery of bullshit, inspecting each piece with a quiet reverence. He stops at her latest acquisition, a truly horrifying thing she pulled out of a ruin, and leans in, one arm behind his back, the other half-extended yet never coming into contact.

“I must admit,” he begins in that scholarly tone that always makes her wonder if he's actually part Chantry priest, part baffled academic. “I’m not entirely sure what this is, but the etchings… well, they seem to represent some sort of ritual…”

She just stares at him. Then at the thing. Then back at him, waiting for the punchline. There isn’t one.

She looks again at the monstrosity, which, upon further inspection, features two elves engaged in… well, anatomical exploration of the highest order. Carnal, no-question-about-it, “we’re about to break every surface in this room” kind of exploration.

“They’re fucking, Emmrich,” she says, completely deadpan, pointing right at where one elf’s face is very comfortably nestled between the other's legs. “Look. This one’s sucking that one’s—”

“We cannot know for certain,” Emmrich interrupts, still managing to maintain that scholarly facade like he’s discussing anything other than ancient elf smut. “There could be multiple interpretations of—”

“—and here,” she cuts him off again, gesturing to where the two figures are now enthusiastically going at it from behind. “They’re doing it from the back.”

"—or they are simply exploring— "

"—each other's holes," she says, because apparently this needs to be spelled out. "With their fingers," she adds, jabbing her own at the leftmost doodle. "With their mouths," she circles the middle with a flourish. "And their dicks—oh wait, look at that, it's two men. Nice. Good for them."

"Ah, well, physical love is a common subject in art," Emmrich replies, clearly deciding this is the hill he’s not going to die on today. He even flashes her a little smile. And, to his credit, he doesn’t flinch, just shrugs it off with all the grace of someone who has seen way worse and is already turning to the next piece of trash.

Now she’s feeling a little cheeky herself, so she glides after him, practically stalking his tall, oblivious form like a cat with a mouse. “And what’s your personal opinion on it?” she purrs, even throwing in a dramatic eyebrow wiggle for good measure.

Emmrich doesn’t even blink. "It could use some color."

Well. That’s one way to dodge the question.

She’s circled him more times than a vulture eyeing a fresh carcass—always shameless, always bold, and always armed with a tongue sharp enough to slice through steel. Her touch a little too accidentally-on-purpose. Subtle as a sledgehammer. She’s practically made a sport out of it, finding the most absurd excuses to invade his personal space. "Oh dear, this carriage is sooo cramped," as if the three feet of empty seat beside her have mysteriously evaporated and the only logical solution is to plaster herself against him like an overgrown barnacle.

She’s barged in on his private reading time more than once, settling in as if she’s been invited. Even exploited his love for teaching, feigning breathless fascination with any and all mundane, dry subject. "Oh, Emmrich, you must show me how you conduct an autopsy! I simply have to see it with my own eyes! And oh my, your hands look sooo fetching inside that cadaver’s chest cavity, teehee.”

#my asks #my writing i guess #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #emmrich the necromancer #da4 emmrich

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shift-shaping · 1 month ago

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please don't stop

enaste invites solas to join her on the roof. it's going to be a cold night, you see.

rating: explicit

pairing: solavellan

warnings: 18+, solavellan

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first fic in this series

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Enaste curled on to her side, blankets wrapped around her like a cocoon, and tried again to will herself to sleep. The air on the roof smelled like the ocean and carried the quiet murmurs of distant gatherings. If she looked out past the overhang that protected her from potential rain, she could see the dense veil of stars strewn across the dark night sky. She'd even had the chance to bathe before crawling into bed. It was cool and soothing and exactly what she'd pictured when she first climbed the ladder from her room.

So if everything was so perfect, if she'd gone so long without sleep, why wouldn't it come to her?

The situation on the ground was tenuous at best. The city guard and the nobles they protected were actively hostile to any attempt Enaste or her allies made to clear the wells; they believed themselves at the precipice of a major elven rebellion, bolstered by the support of the elf-ruled Inquisition. Even the Chantry presence in the city was entirely unhelpful, dedicated as they were to permanent neutrality.

Blackwall believed they would call for backup, and Enaste sent for her own in anticipation. The nearest resupply outpost Cullen had set up for them could supply reinforcements, though in what numbers she was unsure. She also sent a crow to Skyhold updating her advisors on the situation, but any help from them would take days, at best, to arrive.

She did not want to involve her clan any more than she already had, and in a third letter she'd urged Deshanna to move them out of the area.

The lower classes of the city had been more understanding, especially after one of the more trusted dwarven merchants recognized the danger of the red lyrium. He'd said something about Kirkwall, and Bartrand, and with that alone she figured she owed Varric her gratitude upon their return. Whatever he'd been through had made their efforts to sway many of Wycome's residents to her side much easier.

So with three letters in flight and half the city preparing for battle against her and her allies, perhaps she should have expected sleep to evade her. Her thoughts swam like minnows in her head, and try as she might to slow them they kept slipping from her grasp.

What did not escape her was the painful reality of how poorly she'd handled everything. The Duke was dead, the blood mage had escaped, and her face burned where the infiltrator's arrow cut her. The wells were still poisoned with red lyrium. Her allies were exhausted and the most powerful people in the city wanted her dead. Even now she was hardly safe, protected only by the density of the alienage and the unwillingness of her enemies to enter it.

And how long would that unwillingness last? Bran wanted to prevent a purge, but she feared she'd only brought it on them faster.

Perhaps she should have stayed out of this, let Jester and Lady Volant handle this matter on their own. Since when had her presence really helped anything? The Anchor was useful, she supposed, but maybe Isabela had a point: perhaps they would all be better off if Enaste cut off her hand and left it on Cassandra's pillow.

She needed to relieve herself.

Once she'd untangled her legs from her blankets, she stood with a wince and opened the hatch back down to her room. She was careful not to make any excessive noise as she eased herself down the ladder; Solas was a heavy sleeper, but not so heavy he'd sleep through her falling on her ass.

He snorted as she slipped past him, but did not wake. There was a washroom attached to her tiny quarters with a chamberpot inside, a feature that would have been unthinkable to her less than a year ago but now, compared to Skyhold's more elaborate waste disposal, was downright rustic.

She must have taken longer than she thought, because when she re-entered the room Solas was sitting on the edge of the bed and looking up at the hatch.

"Oh, sorry," she said quietly. He looked at her, eyes shining an eerie violet in the dark. "I didn't mean to leave it open."

He shook his head. "No need to apologize. The fresh air is appreciated."

She stepped closer to him. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," his voice rasped, and she smirked as he cleared his throat. "And you? Have you been able to rest, Inquisitor?"

"No," she said bluntly. She looked up at the hatch. "There's too much going on."

He lowered his voice. "Are you comfortable?" His words were gentle, kind, and the compassion in them warmed her heart.

"Yes. It's nice, seeing the stars, smelling the ocean." She leaned against the ladder, standing directly in front of him. He watched her, meeting her eyes, and suddenly she was hyper-aware of how little her clothing left to the imagination: her shirt was lightweight and tight, and her leggings were essentially underwear. That she was wearing something so revealing hadn't occurred to her until now; being seen in her nightclothes had never bothered her until he was the one looking.

"I... Imagine that would be comforting," he said slowly. Her face and ears felt hot.

"You should see," she replied, a little too quickly. She looked at the hatch nervously. "The roof, I mean. It's nice."

She kept her eyes off him as he spoke, but the humor in his voice was obvious. "You did say that." Then he paused, and she didn't know what would happen if she looked at him but she wasn't brave enough to find out. The silence lingered heavy and thick and a chill raced across her skin. "I suppose I could... have a look."

She smiled, still determined not to look at him. Then she climbed the ladder up to the rooftop alcove she'd made into her bed. It was a very small space, just big enough for her nest of blankets, with a small strip of space beside it for her shoes.

"How did you bring the blankets up here?" Solas asked, sounding impressed.

She smirked. "You're a very heavy sleeper." She collapsed on to her makeshift bed, legs crossed, and yawned.

He scoffed. "Hardly that heavy."

He was wrong, but she was only teasing. She nodded to a mechanism on the side of the roof. "There are pulleys on a lot of the windows and rooftops here. Once you know which one is yours, it's easy to just pull things up."

"Clever," he said, but he was distracted. She finally looked at him again, just fast enough to catch him avert his gaze.

He'd been staring at her. She narrowed her eyes, saying nothing as he looked out over the rooftops and held his arms behind his back. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the sound of breaking glass and cackling laughter.

"You should stay up here with me," she said, finally, softly, and drew her knees to her chest. "It's warm enough now but... it'll be colder in the morning."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and even when he opened them he still wasn't looking at her. "Inquisitor..."

"You don't have to call me that, either," she corrected gently. "I don't... I don't want to be that with you." A small, sad smile tugged at his lips. "Please, Solas." She wanted him there, wanted his warmth beside her and his breath at her ear and his arm on her waist. She wanted to sleep knowing he was alive and safe beside her, that no one could hurt them because they were together. "Stay."

Then he finally looked at her, and exhaled slowly, and behind him the stars spread out like a map against the endless void. She offered him her hand, already so close she could almost touch him.

And he took it, his long fingers so strong around hers. He knelt, easing into the blankets, still holding her hand as he sat down beside her. He shifted, her hand sliding to his forearm. He looked at it, then at her face. He gently brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and time itself froze around her. Her eyes traced the hard cut of his jaw and the soft fullness of his mouth. Then he turned his hand to cup her cheek, fingers just barely gracing the edge of her bandages. He eased her close, and she shut her eyes.

He pressed a careful kiss to her hairline. His lips were warm, and soft, and even when he pulled away his presence lingered on her skin.

Her brows furrowed, her chest filled with a strange mixture of happiness and dissatisfaction. He pulled back, searching her face, and he must have picked up on her confusion. He chuckled softly, and the sound alone –rumbling deep in the minute space between them– scattered her thoughts. "You actually have to sleep, da'len."

"Or I could--"

"Sleep," he was teasing now, playful, as though she were an unruly apprentice, and that imagery wasn't helping her get to sleep any sooner.

"Will you meet me in the Fade? We could... continue our lessons." He laughed more openly now as he pulled back from her. It was such a beautiful, frustrating sound.

"If you have the stamina for it, I will meet you in the Fade." He shifted so he was lying down on his back, putting more distance between them. The bed was so small, how did he manage to be so far away? "If not, I will see you in the morning."

She sighed and gave up. Admittedly, she was tired, and just having him close made her more comfortable than when she was alone. Yet exhaustion didn't stop her gaze from wandering over his broad chest, from taking in his large, elegant hands, from wondering how they would feel if he–

"Enaste," he started, but she cut him off.

"Touch me."

A demand, a plea, two words that split the night around them. He inhaled sharply, staring up at the sky. "Please, just... please." She lay on her side, facing him.

He was quiet, and the playfulness in his expression disappeared. He shifted to his side. His shimmering eyes flicked to her face, taking her in. He shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief.

Then he reached up and traced a delicate line from her cheek to her shoulder. Her eyes widened and her body flushed with heat.

Suddenly he pushed her down into the blankets. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened in shock. He leaned over her, the stars behind him, and for a moment she thought –was he scared?

"Please," she insisted. The weight of his hand on her shoulder set a fire in her core. "Please, Solas, I want you to touch me." She wrapped her hand around his wrist as he pinned her to the bed. He eased off, and in response she brought his hand down so that it cupped the curve of her breast. "I want you." Her nightclothes bore no padding –he was only a thin layer of fabric from her bare chest.

His free hand reached up to stroke her cheek, and it was so hot beneath his touch. She could see the conflict in his eyes, a turmoil she could not begin to interpret. Was this wrong of her? Was she too plain, too inexperienced, too desperate? Was she pressuring him into something he didn't want?

He leaned close and brought his lips to her neck and in his rolling, gentle tenor said: "you are so beautiful, Enaste."

The hand on her breast squeezed softly, and the thrill of his touch made her pulse pound. His teeth brushed the sensitive skin below her jaw and she shivered. She still held him by the wrist and felt the wiry muscles there tense as he palmed her full, heavy breast. His hand brushed across her hard nipple and she cried out –in need, in shock, in a bottomless hunger for more.

He paused, pulling away from her neck, and the concern in his eyes sent a wave of affection through her blood. "I'm, it's– don't stop," she sputtered, and his deep, rumbling chuckle made her feel like she was suddenly expected to survive without any bones.

"Ma nuvenin, da'len," he nearly growled the words into her skin. He grasped her breast again, its weight filling his hand, and a single stroke of his thumb across her nipple made her entire body shudder with pleasure. She bucked her hips involuntarily and a wet, desperate sound escaped her lips.

No one had ever touched her like this, except herself. That Solas was here, now, his hands toying with her breasts and brushing the skin of her neck with his soft lips was overwhelming, all-consuming. Then his teeth brushed against her ear and she briefly forgot who she was. She moaned, deep and low from somewhere base inside her. He teased her nipple between his fingers, over the fabric, making her squirm and gasp and push her chest towards him and the friction of her shirt on her skin only made it all stronger.

He pulled back from her neck, and her skin was damp where he'd marked it. He hovered over her, watching her pant and gasp beneath him. It took so little effort for him to make her weak. His hand lingered on her chest, his grip firm but not enough to hurt.

She reached up and cupped his cheek. His thumb trailed around her nipple, tantalizingly light. He leaned in to her, and she shifted to meet him.

Again he did not kiss her, and instead brought his teeth to the other side of her neck. She would have been disappointed were it not for the movement of his free hand: he stroked the bare skin of her lower stomach where her shirt had come up, and the feeling of his skin on hers was electrifying. He just barely touched her, the contact a ghost along her nerves.

Her eyes widened. The emptiness inside her cunt, the dampness she felt –he was so close, and her body was so sensitive, and she needed him to touch her. She grasped at the back of his head and pushed him into her neck, quickly, hungrily.

He groaned against her, sending shocks of pleasure across her skin. The sound reverberated through her body and sent a wave of slick between her legs. From their earliest battles together she'd wanted him, wanted to know how the hands that helped her off the ground could touch her, how the subtle music of his voice would feel against her ear, how the arms that so expertly wielded a staff could hold her.

His palm flattened against her stomach. She grasped his wrist, urging him into her leggings. He hesitated, halting as she pushed him.

"Don't stop, please don't stop," she breathed. "I want you, I need you, please don't stop." She let go of his wrist, and wrapped her arms around his back. "I want this. Solas, please."

He panted against her skin. His hesitation hung heavy in those scant millimeters between them. "Inquisitor..."

His use of her title made her heart drop. He couldn't do this, not now. "Don't go," she begged. She tried to hold him closer but he wouldn't budge. "Don't –don't leave me like this." His breath hitched against her. She gripped his shirt. "Please."

He pulled away. The force he had to use to untangle himself from her was like a knife in her heart. Her hands dropped away from him. "I am distracting you, Inquisitor. I'm sorry." He already sounded so far away in that cold night air.

It was more than that. She knew it. There was something about her that he couldn't bring himself to be with. She was too weak, too stupid, too ugly. If her magic was stronger, if she was smarter, if her decisions didn't hurt the people she was supposed to protect, if she was someone else–

But she wasn't. And she couldn't be.

"Fine," she said. He stood slowly, turning away from her. She stared off the edge of the roof, into the sky. "Go."

His presence lingered a moment longer, hovering in the space she'd made for herself. Then she heard the ladder creak, the hatch close, and he was gone.

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#solavellan #solas #dragon age #glimpses #fic: raven #normal healthy couple behavior 👍👍👍#_(:ι」∠)_#asdfghfdsa #🥲

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ghostwise · 10 days ago

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4 An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose. ohoho Yes Please

The full moons shine on Ferelden as they do on Antiva, keeping their eternal watch. Two owls call back and forth through the branches, their voices beckoning memories of old superstition in Zevran’s mind. It makes him think of home, but lately home has competition. Hamal grins down at him from the branches above, laden in silver glow.

“Scared yet?” he asks.

Zevran had boasted earlier, recounting tales of climbing Chantry towers and palace rooftops, boldly ascending across their cobbled exteriors, high enough to touch clouds. Hamal had countered these with a simple dare: to climb to the top of one of the centuries-old spruce trees in the area, if he could brave it.

Fortunately he’d offered to go first.

Bravery doesn’t even come into the picture. Zevran finds it quite easy to follow him.

“Not even a little,” he replies with a smile, and he pulls himself higher. His arms are burning. But it’s soothed when Hamal smiles appreciatively at him.

The Warden returns to his climb, seeking footholds among the evergreen. He makes it look easy. He’s grown up on such tree climbing, giving Ashalle her share of panic over the years.

And Zevran likes seeing him like this: singularly focused, relaxed, and having fun. With Orzammar less than a day's journey away, Hamal rarely gets to enjoy himself lately. It’s so captivating—he’s so captivating—Zevran barely notices when they’ve reached the half-point, already over the treeline.

He only notices when they reach a difficult point in the climb, where the next branch is just a bit out of reach for him, and the trunk has grown narrower, giving less room to maneuver. The ground, for a moment, tilts, but this he is used to; he pushes past it, calming his breathing.

His fingers grasp the coarse texture of the bark, missing the mark again, and he lets out a little puff of air, frustrated—

Hamal leans down to help him up at the exact moment he drives forward, and they collide in a graceless press of faces. The soft touch of Hamal mouth drags across Zevran’s lower lip and jaw. Clumsy. At this height, it frightens him.

They are both agile enough that falling is a distant risk. But what if.

Hamal startles first. He trembles violently upon the branch above. He is hanging on by his legs, one hand braced against another part of the tree, and he grabs Zevran by his leather cuirass to secure him.

By the Maker, he is strong enough to just carry him up the tree himself. Zevran laughs at this thought, the brief jolt of adrenaline giving way to euphoria.

“Careful!” Hamal hisses.

“I’m fine!” Zevran says. “Ah, but how thrilling this is. Just air and branches between us and certain death!”

Giggling now in dizzy mirth, looks up at Hamal. “Did I worry you, my Warden?”

Hamal stares at him, silent for a moment. He grips the branches in his right hand, squeezing, then leans down, pressing a measured kiss against his lips.

It is the most delicate thing Zevran has ever received. A kiss balanced on moonlight and spruce.

It lasts a mere moment, but it feels like longer. A soft, brassy whistle hoots out from the forest, soon answered by its pair. When Hamal pulls back, Zevran sighs and leans his face against the tree trunk.

“Shall we go back down now?” Hamal asks him.

Zevran nods. “I am ready if you are.”

#rinnywrites #dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #japi jaloguin here's a slightly spooky drabble i threw together to celebrate :)

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pondering-gales-left-orb · 2 months ago

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Sigh rambling about DA2 again nothing has captivated me as this middle child game

Any way

Sebastian Vael

I know alot of people hate him for being the annoying church boy but!!!!

I myself have been put off by his very loud attempts of conversion while just walking around kirkwall, hes all like "fenris,you will feel safe in the makers hand!! take mine and follow me to the light for you shall be delivered!! consider visiting the chantry once and try praying you will feel a peaceful stillness descent upon you" or something and im just like my guy this is a Wendy's... Hawk is literally buying toxins and fire bombs from a shady guy in a room in a shady tavern but ok go off prince

BUT

His story is actually extremely intresting because if you actually listen to him you find out he was sent away literally exiled from his home, his family gave him away because he was a drunken playboy and they didnt want to put int the time love or care he needs of them... They specifically asked for him to be locked in the kirkwall chantry( put like fifteen lines under kirkwall that is important for later) of all places and get the infamous andrastian reform (typical)...

And then you think on how strong his devotion is to the chantry during DA2 and realize that for this 180 drastic change to happen he has been hardcore brainwashed.

then you notice his mother son relationship with Althiena, and realize she probably was the one to reform him taking advantage of his anger and the hole his family left in him when they sent him away by shaping herself to that hole, fitting perfectly as his "found family" to easily manipulate him.

i mentioned "kirkwall chantry of all places" earlier because you have to realize, that with the horrid enslavement going on there, it was all by the approval of the chantry and not just during the events of DA2, but from the start of what was old kirkwall, remember the entire thing was built on slavery and glorified it for so long that they had gold statues made proudly to represent that.

And that were never removed by any of the authorities claiming to be anti slavery and despite things changing in kirkwall overtime.

Note how the kirkwall chantry is old its not a new addition its old and it didn't tear down the slaves Statues in the name of andraste which you would expect from a religion that preaches "Our Andraste died to free slaves!!!"

no it was built next to it, around it even...Elthiena and her elders were raised here, were educated here, were appointed here, and lived in agreement with all of this, rising up to the ranks to continue the cycle while gaslighting people into thinking they are neutral and convincing people that they will pray for this to get solved........

Sending him to kirkwall was not by chance they deliberately choose kirkwall to fully erase him, break him, and replace him with a "good son" without any chance of escape because kirkwall's systematic oppression is so strong in place there is no chance of escaping it unless you do somthing drastic.

Now think back to Sebastian being locked in all of this and getting reformed by these same people and you understand why he is the way he is.

so strong in his devotion with unwavering morals that are like concrete pillars to who he is, who he has become. he never once has any of his beliefs shaken never once thinks about abandoning his vows for love his belief in them is so strong that he welcomes love and embraces it into his beliefs when others think they have to abandoned them to love. he loves hawk understands his desire to enjoy her lovingly but never wavers because of it. He will marry her first and then enjoy her thus satisfying and fullfiling his vows to andraste and himself nothing less nothing more.

BUT, and this is what makes him extremely intresting, as much as he loves Althiena and the kirkwall chantry he is NOT like them, Sebastian is a true believer of the core of andrastism rather than what it has morphed into in modern thedas. (Some people say he believes in Andrastism the same way Devine liliana does and i kinda agree)

Ironically if Sebastian was responsible of kirkwall and its chantry non of this would happen the mages would never have been enslaved the templars would never had to be turned into prison gaurds, they also wouldnt have become monsters as a result of Meridith becoming the first red templar. He would enforce real andrastism and abolish what it has become and ironically people would hate him for it.

putting aside my love for Anders, at that end cutscene he is literally the only correct one he faces down EVERYONE including Hawk and defends both mages and templars by bringing back the focus to the current cause.

He is so baffled by Meridith blaming all mages and by orsino getting lost in the bigger picture of hating templars that he yells at them to try and remind them "your own differences dont matter you both personally dont matter the people who died - who will die, are the ones who matter!!!"

When no one listens he is forced into the same conditions that Anders was forced into (again how ironic but also shows you thatcthere was no other way for this to end but i digress) of using the last resort of threatening violence and invasion (and later in DAI acting on it)

he saw what Anders saw, finally he saw that they both (Meridith and Orsino) are too far gone that they dont see anyone but thier own hate, and you bet your ass if Althiena had survived and was present and started her Spiel about "we must return to the maker and pray" that Anders experienced when he was pleading with her and the devine for 7! Years, Sebastian would also have realized that she is full of shit too. that no one in this chantry actually cares. his faith in HER as his own devine mother would break and he would include her in his threat the same way his faith in HAWK broke (if hawk spares anders) and includes Hawk in his promise of pay back.

Somthing something he spent so long trying to heal from pain and abuse only for him to realize how much he has been lied to and betrayed by the people he trusted, and the religion he gave himself into, that nothing he thought was real was actually real, causing him to fall further into the cycle of Abuse instead of escaping, knowing non of the healing he did as a chantry brother non of his suffring non of his (suddenly realized) abuse under it non of his relationships non of his lived experiences mattered.

Oh Sebastian the tragedy that you are

#sebastian vael #he also has a sexy slutty waist and voice lol #but yeah once you look behind the curtain of religious good boy you will find a festering destruction of what Sebastian trully is #dragon age 2 #DA2 Sebastian #da2 anders #since he was mentioned and im an anders truther #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #DAI

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witsserviceablesubstitute · 3 months ago

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If nothing else, Dragon Age 2 is a story being told by Varric Tethras (pulp novelist, businessman, and self professed liar), while being interrogated by the Chantry secret police, while also trying to exonerate himself and the best friend he loves...

It could be true, some of it could be true, none of it could be true. Likely it is only half of the picture and the story and its players are Varric's Cassandra friendly version. There's room for so many interpretations of DA2 that I wonder how anyone comes to a single truth about the story and its characters at all?

Anyway, I've been thinking about a post that said taking a side strictly for or against Anders misses the point and I agree. However, I think because DA2 is too structuralist in its approach to the characters, players clung more to a humanistic reading of them. Ideally a story balances both but it didn't in DA2 and so the characters feel puppeted by a thesis that could be alienating at times. I mean, Anders isn't 'right' but he is more right then the story and the general response to his character allows him to be and so anyone with a grasp on the metaphors the DA mages represent, from religious and political persecution of queerness to authoritarian imprisonment, are going to see any attempt to justify the continued abuse of them as awful. They'll also cling harder to the character who represents resistance to *gestures at all that narrative mess*. Same with Fenris. Who is the bluntest fictional embodying of slavery ever. Right to the heart, really. Of course people cling to Fenris. Especially in an American story. (And then they pitted them against each other...)

As for characterization, though, they're assholes. I love them. I get them. I'd like them even if they were worse (and the criticism does tend to exaggerate how bad they are). They are in pain and have a lot of room for growth but they are assholes. Yet they're also flawless to me and that there's my point. The story didn't utilise them as it should, didn't think about them as much beyond being a blunt tool for the plot and so the players who felt the metaphors, who identified with their pain, plucked them away, filled them in, and shielded them from a narrative and public they felt misused or misunderstood them and by extension the people and issues they represent.

We're always saying here that representation is important but this is the reason why. This is the power it has and the pain it can cause when fumbled. This is why there was such a strongly divisive response to Anders— you had one side gleefully feeling justified killing him and all he represents and the other side feeling horror at how all he represents was handled and wanting to save him. This is why there's still Anders vs. Fenris drama years later despite them being mirrors, the story reduced them to being a mouthpiece for and against mages when the plot itself is about the rights of mages. It's a bit impossible to talk about the narrative of DA2 without talking about Anders and Fenris.

So I get it but on the other hand DA2 is a story being told under duress by an unreliable narrator. All the characters could be the way they are because Varric needs them to be in order to satisfy the magic fearing religious government. I think that could be a really interesting conversation to have too.

#varric tethras #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age spoilers #dragon age #anders da2 #fenris da2 #navel gazing #storytelling in games #cassandra pentaghast

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thevaelguard · 1 month ago

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Ignoring strange items, Sebastian's room in Knight Errant feels so. depressing, even ignoring he might be spending the royal coffers on other things than himself.

This is the room of the Prince of Starkhaven? What is said to be the richest, most powerful city-state in the Free Marches? I can't see his father or the Princes before him sleeping in such a tiny room, it's around the same size of the front area of Gamlen's home!

It makes me wonder if this was Sebastian's room before he was forcibly shipped off to Kirkwall, seen so unneeded and worthless by his family he got what could have been once a guest room and not a proper room for family members.

And the kicker is he still chooses to sleep there, in the Undesirable room, barely decorating it that it doesn't feel like a prince lives there. The only unique item is a tapestry of Maferath mercy killing Andraste on the pyre, possibly showing that the one thing he still finds comfort in is Andrastianism, in the Chantry, in the one place he was made to feel wanted.

Mr. Sebastian Vael are you doing well...

#sebastian vael #dragon age knight errant #I know it probably wasn't the comic writers intentions-#they made him out to be a weirdo who creepily kisses women when he's a respectful gentleman in da2 proper-#-but still through the lens of him feeling unwanted and the chantry feeling like a true home. it feels like he would live like this #mr. sebastian vaelll. you're so much more than what your family made you feel likeee #now come buy some plants with me prince this room is so bad #also apologies if someone has analyzed this before. very fresh to the fandom ✌️

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falmerbrook · 3 months ago

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TES Summer Fest Day 3: Hungry

Summary: In the months after becoming a vampire Vyrthur is still trying to maintain a sense of normalcy, but having not fed recently, he is struggling to keep up with his duties, and his brother grows concerned.

(warning for descriptions of blood and gore)

I’ve been working on and off on this long backstory fic for Gelebor and Vyrthur, and this is a scene idea I’ve had for the second half of it that I think could work alright out of context as well. These guys live rent free in my head. I think I have thought about them more than the people who actually made them.

AO3 Link

The sun had never been so oppressive. It was noon of the summer solstice, and it felt as if the eyes of Aurl-El himself were baring down on Vyrthur, judging him as he stood on the Chantry’s balcony. In front of him there was a wooden altar with Auri-El’s bow and a sunhallowed arrow laid out upon it, and beyond that his clergy gathered below him. He couldn’t see them as he squinted and tried in vain to blink the pain of the sun’s searing light out of his eyes, but he could smell the metallic scent swirling inside their bodies and feel the warmth radiating from their skin. The emptiness in his stomach was scratching at his insides as the feeling infected his thoughts.

“We thank our… exalted father for giving… giving us these long… w-warm days under his… merry—no, merciful light. We are, as always… undeserving of… of… of this,” he spoke out into the crowd as the sensations of Auri-El’s mercy bombarded him. He knew he was butchering the prayer, but every second in this moment was agonizing.

“May Auri-El continue to… to bless us with… peace,” Vyrthur looked down to reach for the bow and arrow, but everything was too bright. His hands felt like they weren’t his own, and the table below him was beginning to pulsate and sway. He fumbled for a moment to pick up the bow and nock the arrow.

“And may his brilliance protect us from… our enemies and… and…” Vyrthur drew the arrow back and aimed the bow at the sky. It was just a blinding white, so bright it pierced through even his tightly shut eyelids. The skin of his hands and face were on fire and prickled as if he were being poked with thousands of needles, “illuminate our path.”

He fired the arrow, unsure if it was even pointed at the sun if not for a sudden flash of light from the sky and the awed gasps from the crowd. It was too much, and Vyrthur finally brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the light; to shield his eyes from his beloved god like a coward.

With that, the festival had commenced, but Vyrthur couldn’t bear to be outside anymore. The ceremony had been a few minutes at most, but it had felt like hours. His skin was on fire and the world was so bright, the air so filled with the heaviness of the warm bodies around him that a primal hunger was seeping into his mind. He stepped off the platform and made his way towards the doors to the main chapel, stepping slowly and deliberately so as to not make it apparent how desperate he was to get inside. However, by the time he had reached the door, his attempts to seem leisurely had been cast aside as he nearly threw himself through the doorway and slammed the door behind him. The sounds of the festival outside were cut off with the crispness of the Inner Sanctum’s air. Stumbling along the walls of the room he made his way to a bench and fell onto it, heaving and shaking. The halls of the Chantry were lined with guarded windows that let in little light, usually meant for protection in the winter, but now protecting Vyrthur from the summer. The Vale outside was so blinding that he had found the darkest corner of the chapel to rest. Barely 10 minutes outside and his body was aching and burning as if he was completing his pilgrimage all over again, famished and weak. Only this time, he was starting to realize Auri-El might not greet him at the end of this one.

For 3 agonizingly long months it had been a repeating cycle of starving himself until he had no choice but to give into the temptation. Unable to be satiated by the normal food that had fed Vyrthur for the entirety of his life, he would eventually find his thoughts becoming wild and disjointed, only clear when he could smell the blood of his clergy; those thoughts being only of violence and the spilling of their blood. The feeling terrified him in his moments of solitude, and the growing fear that one day he would harm one of his own peers became an ever-present gnawing at his psyche. He knew he needed to feed to protect his people from whatever darkness had infested him, but the act made him feel disgusting. He had been targeting animals of the Vale, but the discovery of their bodies and the threat his hunting was doing to the precious few resources Auri-El provided to them in their haven made the choice to continue down that path risky. Risky and selfish. With every feeding he felt his sense of self and his connection with Auri-El slipping as it filled him with a sickly energy and satisfaction each time.

“Vyrthur.”

Caught up in the dizzying thoughts of his hunger, Vyrthur hadn’t noticed the opening and closing of the chapel door, nor the footsteps approaching him, and startled at his brother’s voice.

“Are you alright? You seemed… distracted during the ceremony.” Gelebor usually spoke in soft tone, but Vyrthur recognized it as particularly gentle and careful in this moment.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be back out in a minute. I’m just not feeling my best today, but it will pass,” he replied.

Despite avoiding looking at the other mer, Vyrhtur could almost hear Gelebor’s frown deepen as he crouched beside the bench.

“You seem like you’re quite beyond the point of ‘not feeling well’. You look pale. I think you may be ill.”

Vyrthur kept his eyes focused on the floor, but noticed a hand reaching out to touch him and pressing against his forehead briefly before he squatted it away with a huff.

“Seriously, Gelebor, I’m fine. I’m just tired. It seems like I must’ve overexerted myself in all the commotion around the festival preparations. We aren’t quite as young as we used to be, are we,” Vyrthur said, attempting a chuckle to lighten the mood.

Clearly this didn’t work, as Gelebor flatly ignored him and continued with his concerns, “You looked like you were burning up out there, but you feel so cold. You’re clearly—"

“It’s fine. I’ve felt like this often recently. It’s just my age.”

“That’s why I’m worried, Vyrthur. You have seemed so unwell and distant since you almost died. The others are noticing it too—and I don’t say that to embarrass you, but I know they worry you are becoming unable to fulfill your duties. I know you would never do that on purpose, and I understand that you may not want to be public about whatever it is plaguing you, but something is clearly affecting you and I wish you would at least talk about it to me.”

Vyrthur kept his gaze cemented to the bricks at his feet in silence. He could hear the concern dripping from Gelebor’s words, but he struggled to embrace the feeling as his brother’s physical closeness triggered the hunger pains again. He had been avoiding eye contact over the past few months, worried Gelebor would notice the change in his eyes. To make matters worse, now just being near him Vyrthur could smell and feel the rich blood inside him. The thought of attacking Gelebor and splattering it all over the floor was clawing at the back of his mind, with the revulsion of the thought’s existence at the forefront. He was worried that if he even glanced over at Gelebor he’d be unable to resist the temptation.

Perhaps he should say something though, at least lay out a hint out for Gelebor to muse over, but the fear of his own blood spilling to his brother’s mace petrified him. Gelebor had made a promise to bring down whatever beast was terrorizing the Vale, and Vyrthur couldn’t feel completely secure in the thought that he would forego that promise just because the monster was his family.

“Seriously. I’m alright. Please stop worrying about me. I’ve not felt like… I’ve not felt as good as I used to since the excursion, yes, but today was just a result of not taking care of myself recently. I just need to rest for a moment,” Vyrthur said, finally bringing his gaze up to meet Gelebor’s, “Go out and enjoy the festivities with everyone.”

The eye contact replaced the pain of the hunger with a pain of guilt as Vyrthur saw the sustained worry in Gelebor’s eyes. It was obvious that Vyrthur’s reassurances made no difference, but still, Gelebor straightened himself with a sigh, relenting.

“Just keep resting until you feel better then, ok Vyr? Take your time. Don’t push yourself. We can wait,” he said as he turned to leave back through the doors to the balcony. As the doors closed, Vyrthur was left in the dark and silence, his hunger finally leaving the forefront of his mind.

-----

That night, Vyrthur found himself crouched in the entrance of a cave along the side of the Vale’s cliffs, his jaw tightly clenched around the neck of one of the Betrayed. His robes and arms were drenched in its blood from his frantic feeding, but as he lapped up the blood gushing out of its neck, he felt a surge of power and energy. He was getting high off it. Even as he drank, it made his hunger stronger until eventually his stomach began to feel full. How bad was this, really? Better he hunt one of these inferior beasts than one of his own, right? The less of these disfigured abominations of Auri-El’s children, the better, and the safer. Safer for the Chantry, and safer for himself.

As the hunger began to subside as his thoughts began to finally clear, Vyrthur paused and pulled away from his feast, looking down at it. The neck and shoulder had been shredded and mangled, the head nearly decapitated. In the few breaks through the blood covering his hands and the Betrayed’s body he could see their skin was the same. This one was clearly young, not a child, but small and inexperienced enough to have been easy prey. As the blood sat heavier and heavier in his stomach, he couldn’t look away from the scene in his arms.

Unceremoniously, Vyrthur tossed the body of the Betrayed down a steep passage of the cave, out of sight before the disgust could truly settle in.

#tesfest24 #tes summer fest #skyrim #tes #the elder scrolls #skyrim fanfiction #knight paladin gelebor #gelebor #vyrthur #mine #my writing #apparently i enjoy writing people feeling ill

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shivunin · 3 months ago

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Absolutely gnashing my teeth bc there are too many really wonderful Arianwen prompts on that list, however I must go with: "When I saw my demons I knew them well and welcomed them." - The Lament of Eustace Scrubb

Thank you for this!! This one was lovely to write c: I've been meaning to write Wen going home again for ages, and this fit so perfectly <3

(OhHellos Prompts)

A Lament

(1,632 Words | CW: References to grief/parent death | Warden Tabris & Cyrion Tabris)

“We both know I’m the one to blame 'Cus when I saw my demons, I knew them well and welcomed them.” —The Oh Hellos, “The Lament of Eustace Scrubb”

Her father’s house hadn’t changed at all.

It shouldn’t have surprised Tabris that this was the case. There was no reason for the place to change, after all. The Blight hadn’t made its way here yet. The illness that had stricken the alienage, the slavers that had followed…all had done little to mar this place.

The clothing she’d removed so she could don her wedding gown was still folded at the foot of her bed. Arianwen, who’d stopped just inside the doorway, looked at the mass of it while her father welcomed her in.

Truly, there was little to see: just a threadbare gown in dull colors, patched neatly by her own hands or those of her cousins. The dress probably still covered the stockings with a hole she’d meant to darn after all the wedding nonsense was over with. Below that would be underthings she’d only worn a handful of times before she’d…left. They’d been an indulgence, purchased with money she’d saved by bartering harder with the traveling merchants in the courtyard outside. When she’d bought them, she’d felt embarrassed, ashamed, as if such a simple indulgence were a transgression her father would see right away, as if—

“You haven’t changed at all,” her father said, cutting through the unending ocean-wave rush in her ears, and Wen’s attention snapped at once to him. Greyer hair, tired lines around his eyes, new scars at his cheek and his throat—all this, yes, but in the end he had changed as little as the house had.

He flinched, just a little, when her eyes met his. Tabris saw that, too.

“You wear your hair the same,” he went on. His hands might have been shaking when he tucked them away in his pockets. It was difficult to tell. Neither of them stepped away from the door, and a cool, sticky breeze eased over the back of Wen’s neck.

“You never listened to me prattling on before you left, either.”

It was meant to be a joke. She was sure of it. Neither of them laughed.

“You’re well?” she managed after the silence had gone on far too long, heavy between them with all the things she’d done since she’d left this place.

“You seemed—” her father began at the same time.

Both of them grimaced and looked away again.

Her mother’s things were still here, too. Had been since before she’d died, always in the same place. His clothing was kept tucked carefully beneath the bed, organized into neat rows inside three wooden crates. Her mother’s things, though—they were preserved always as they had been when she’d stepped out of their house the last time. Wen knew because she’d made the mistake of opening the trunk once, lifetimes ago. She couldn’t remember now what she’d been looking for. She knew only that the lid had been too light by far, flying open at the slightest touch, and that she’d sat for eons staring down into it and breathing in the faint, sweet scent of her mother’s soap mixed with dust. The things on top were still folded the way her mother had folded things—messy, loose, without a great deal of care to the look of them, only the function—and Wen had only worked up the courage to touch them just before her father’d come home from Chantry services.

He’d told her she was engaged less than a week later. Somehow, this had blotted out the explosive fight they’d had over the trunk and its hallowed contents.

“I am well enough,” he said at last, and Wen realized that she’d walked into the room without realizing it, one hand outstretched for the clothing draped over the end of her former bed.

“I cannot say I am well,” he added, voice quieter.

The door clicked quietly shut behind her. She didn’t turn to look.

“No, not well. But I’ll do.”

“Alright,” Arianwen said.

The bedspread was the same, thick with every blanket that had been sewn into the mass of all the other blankets that had come before. They were all there still, layers and layers of winter and harsh spring and flooding in the streets. Through the holes, she could see shades of red and pink and girlish childhood pale blue, the color of the blanket she’d slept under in her earliest memories. The uppermost layer was a deep brown, nearly the color of her hair. The second to last gown she’d worn in this house lay slack as a corpse across it. Dull as the cloth was, it was almost shockingly pale by contrast.

Her hand, still outstretched toward the fabric, was darker with sun than it ever had been when she’d lived here. The world had been so frightening for so long—the shadows full of mocking laughter, the alleys full of fists, this house filled with ghosts that waited hunched in the dark to consume her dreaming. The back of her hand was crosshatched with scars now, the nails clean-cut and short, the forearm corded with muscle.

How many times had she huddled into the corner of this bed, shrouding blanket tight around her shoulders, faced pressed into the itchy wool? How many times had she wished she could be anybody else in the world, anybody but the Tabris girl that everyone despised, anybody but the motherless fool in the house near the end of the block?

“And you,” her father went on behind her. “Well. I suppose you aren’t quite the same.”

Wen couldn’t tell if the chuckle that followed was nervous or sad. She’d always had a difficult time telling the difference.

“The, ah…the armor suits you. Thought I was looking at your mother when you stormed through those doors.”

Tabris passed a hand over her damp face and turned from the bed, from the limp pelt of a gown there. Her father’s mouth was pursed when she turned, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deeper than they had been a moment ago.

The armor suits you, he’d said.

Any armor suited her fine. Even loose and wrought for someone else, it had all fit her like a second skin. Her blades, too—they had been more fingers, longer arms, an extension of her sight and her will. Taking the first set from the body of a guard had felt like becoming whole for the first time in her life. And the blood on her teeth—it had tasted as fine as wine, as pure as the cold clear water that fell from the clouds in winter.

“Yes,” she agreed.

Had he always been so short? She couldn’t remember.

“It does. I…am well too.”

He hadn’t asked. She realized as much the moment she opened her mouth.

“No, not well,” The words wouldn’t come correctly. They always fouled themselves in the net of her teeth, had always gotten caught in the same, even when she’d called this place her home. “I am…good. At what I do, I mean. I’m very good at it. Fighting.”

“I saw.”

The scrape of wooden chair legs over uneven wood floors. The soft sound of her father settling into it, the soft creak of bone on bone when he settled in. Outside, the clouds parted. Light filtered through the dust-streaked window and settled on the trunk away in the corner. It gleamed on the steel bands over the old wood, on the new lock fastened to the front. She could have it open in a moment now, if she really wanted to. She’d had enough practice these past months, had enough calluses from the training the bard had given her at it that popping it open now wouldn’t even hurt.

The wood of the chair’s back felt just as it had a thousand times before, but she thought her fingers felt it differently now. The same calluses, perhaps, or maybe it was just her own perception of it that’d changed. When she sat, her father looked at her and the Warden looked back.

She had her mother’s hair, her mother’s eyes, and she certainly had her mother’s long, tapered fingers. Adaia had been a fighter—that was what almost everyone said first about her. A fighter of rare caliber, they would say, and then, usually, she loved you very much.

Wen still carried parts of her mother in her body. Always would. Eyes, agility, fingers, grace, hair, always braided sharply back and out of her way. Little as she liked to admit, she also had her father’s nose, his stubbornness, his ears…Once, she might have wondered how much of her was hers at all.

Now, she did not have to wonder. Her strength was hers. Her steel was, too, and her hands, and her dogged determination. The joy she took in battle was her own, and her love of tearing her foes to shreds, and the thrill of victory—those were hers, too.

So were her friends, lost and broken and deadly as they were. Wen carried them inside her just as she carried her blood and bone.

If she’d lived in this room for a hundred years, she would never have learned that for herself.

“I’m not the same,” she said, and took the cup from the table. Her father watched while she took a drink and set it back on the table again. “But…I am glad to be here.”

His fingers lifted from the table, as if he thought to reach for her. The motion lasted less than a second, but she saw it. Saw, too, when his worn fingertips lowered again to the old wood.

“I am, too, my Wen,” he said. “I am, too.”

#arianwen tabris #warden tabris #cyrion tabris #shivunin scrivening #da fanfic #i don't write about them as often but man. wen and her parents.#wen and cyrion especially...like. god.#thank you again!

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sweetjulieapples · 2 months ago

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Dear Commander - Chapter 15: The Herald's Green Inquisition-issued Scarf

Cullen x Trevelyan

AO3 MASTERLIST

The Inquisition make their way to The Temple of Sacred Ashes to seal the breach. Cullen notices that The Herald is wearing a green scarf and proceeds to overthink that.

Full chapter below:

“And when the breach in the sky has been sealed, tell me - what happens next?”

This was the question on everyone’s mind. For most, it was a matter of duty. What jobs lie ahead after the breach and any left over rifts were done away with? What to rebuild? Where to next? For others, it was far more dire. The looming uncertainty of where to live and what purpose to have. What need has The Inquisition of hundreds of mages?

Chancellor Roderick asked the question, not out of curiosity, but of provocation. His words dripped with sarcasm, laced with condescending questioning in an attempt to provoke a reaction. The Ambassador, with all her grace, remained unfazed by his mockery. Maintaining a courteous smile and speaking with a gentle voice, Josephine responded calmly and with poise. “The Inquisition has plenty more work in Thedas, Chancellor. I do hope that The Chantry will come to see that in due time.”

“I will see that Val Royeaux puts an end to this heretical movement —”

“Roderick,” Juliette interrupted as she walked into the chantry. “It’s so lovely to see that you are working hard to do your part,” she stood at Josephine’s side and folded her arms. The ladies exchanged a subtle glance before Juliette continued, “Helping prepare to seal the breach and not getting in anyone’s way at all.” She smirked and with a sarcastic whisper added, “The Maker must be so proud.”

Roderick sneered with disgust. “Mock if you will. Your very presence is a blasphemous assault against all that is holy.”

Juliette's laugh burst forth abruptly, a harsh, cackle that seemed more of a snort than a genuine response. "That's a tad dramatic, no?" Roderick glared at her crude reaction. “It’s funny you should say that though, Chancellor,” Juliette said smugly. “I was actually sent here by Mother Giselle to fetch you. I doubt she’d appreciate waiting too long.”

He screwed up his face with frustration and snapped, “That is not what I meant and you know it.” He swiftly turned and made his way towards the exit, leaving Josephine and Juliette behind with amused smiles.

“I’m most grateful for Mother Giselle’s timing.”

“Oh, I haven’t the faintest clue where Mother Giselle is or what she’s doing. I just wanted him out of my sight,” Juliette confessed with a proud grin.

“Oh,” Josie laughed. “Very nice work, Herald.”

Juliette tilted her head to the side as they began to walk towards the war room. “Can’t you just do your thing, Josie? You know, a whisper here, rumor there…” A mischievous grin grew on Juliette’s face. “Could you start a scandal, get him booted from The Chantry?”

“Very easily,” Josephine laughed. “Believe me, I’ve thought of it more than once.”

“You have far more patience than I,” Juliette laughed. She stopped and gave Josephine a warm smile. “You’re really good at this, you know?”

“That means a lot. Thank you, Herald,” Josephine replied graciously. “I’ll be a moment longer yet but the others will be in soon. I’ll see you in the war room shortly?”

Juliette's smile widened in an exaggerated show of cheerfulness. “Oh, I’ll be there,” she said, the forced brightness in her voice not quite masking her exhaustion.

When Juliette pushed open the door to the war room, her heart skipped a beat at the unexpected sight. Cullen was leaning over the table, the soft glow of candles casting warm light and gentle shadows that highlighted the strong, chiseled lines of his features. He glanced up once hearing the door open. Their eyes locked in that instant—an electric, unspoken recognition passing between them.

The air seemed to thicken with tension as Juliette stepped inside, her steps hesitant as though she contemplated turning to run away. She could feel her cheeks flush slightly, a nervous warmth spreading through her. Cullen’s gaze, though steady, revealed a flicker of surprise and something softer, more vulnerable, before he quickly looked away to clear his throat. The silence that followed stretched out, heavy and awkward, amplifying the unspoken emotions between them.

Juliette made her way to the end of the table, her fingers grazing the map where The Western Approach was marked. Cullen offered her an awkward smile in lieu of a proper greeting.

“Tell me you haven’t been here all morning,” she said, mustering her best bravado.

Cullen, his head bowed as he flicked through reports, replied without looking up, “I haven’t been here all morning.”

Juliette’s laugh was a mixture of amusement and challenge. “Now, look at me and tell me again without lying.”

He answered with a soft chuckle, slowly lifting his gaze to meet hers. Guilt spread across his face as he admitted, “Not all morning.” Juliette narrowed her eyes and shot him a playful smirk.

“There is still much to do, however. Perhaps I should have come here earlier.”

“It will be over soon,” she said softly, a hint of sympathy in her voice.

Cullen’s expression fell, his face taking on a crestfallen look. The lines of exhaustion on his face deepened, and his shoulders drooped just a touch, as though the thought of closing the breach meant more than he was letting on.

“There will be plenty more to do moving ahead, Herald,” Cullen spoke quietly, his words laced with a touch of sadness as he busied himself and avoided eye contact.

Juliette caught the subtle shift in Cullen’s expression. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him, her gaze lingering on the signs of discomfort that flickered across his face. As she looked to his eyes she began to wonder when he might have last slept. The dark circles under his eyes and the pallor of his complexion spoke of fatigue. He seemed stressed—something not unusual for Cullen—but there was an added layer of unease, a sense that something was different this time.

Juliette wanted to ask if he was alright and offer her support, but the words caught in her throat. She decided it was better not to overstep and chose silence instead. She didn't want to intrude on his personal matters...again. She remembered how uncomfortable he had looked that night in the chantry when she had asked about his vows.

She observed the tightness in Cullen’s posture and the distant look in his eyes. It felt like there was a barrier between them, as though he was unapproachable. She took in a sharp breath, opening her mouth once again, only to let the words die unspoken.

The memory of their conversation in the chantry felt like a different world now, a time when laughter and lightheartedness flowed easily between them. Juliette recalled the moment when she could simply be herself, free from the weight of her title as The Herald of Andraste. The connection they shared seemed so genuine and effortless that night, a stark contrast to the distant and guarded demeanor she saw in Cullen now.

As she watched him , with his walls firmly in place, doubts crept into her mind. She wondered if their night in the chantry had been nothing more than a fleeting dream, a side effect of Adan’s potion distorting her perception. The warmth that had once sparked between them now seemed like a distant memory, obscured by the current coldness.

Juliette was distracted by a wave of uncertainty as she replayed their past interactions in her mind. The connection she had felt seemed so vivid, so real—yet now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it might have been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. She remembered the moment clearly, that fleeting spark that had seemed to pass between them, only for Cullen to retreat soon after. His sudden departure left her feeling disoriented and questioning herself.

She wondered if she had misjudged the situation, perhaps coming across as too eager or intrusive. The lingering doubts made her second-guess whether she had somehow pushed him away. Despite these uncertainties, Juliette held on to the significance of their shared moment. Even if it was brief and ended abruptly, it was a memory that she wasn’t willing to let go of.

She closed her eyes, and with a sigh, fell back on what she knows best - self depreciating humor.

“That’s a shame,” Juliette said with a forced grin. “I was hoping to take a really long nap after I saved the world.”

Cullen’s eyes slowly lifted from their downcast position, a glimmer of amusement flickering across his face. He allowed a small, playful smirk to break through, his eyes reflecting a subtle spark of mischief. “What is it they say? ‘No rest for the wicked’?” he said, his voice carrying a gentle, teasing lilt.

Juliette let out a sudden, high-pitched giggle that echoed through the room. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” she said, her voice laced with playful teasing.

Cullen responded with a soft, breathy chuckle. Before he could speak, they were interrupted by the sound of Chancellor Roderick’s voice booming from behind the door.

“Where is she?” his voice reverberated throughout the chantry, showing his irritation.

“Where is who, Chancellor?” Josephine asked, feigning ignorance.

“Trevelyan! That lying little…”

Cullen waved his hand towards the door with an amused smirk on his face. “As I was saying…”

“Oh, lovely. He’s back already,” Juliette muttered under her breath, her earlier lightheartedness giving way to a resigned sigh.

“I’ll handle it,” Cullen said with a calm, dutiful tone. His smile suggested he was more amused than bothered by the interruption. He stepped out the door and called loudly, “Chancellor! Haven’t you done enough?”

Juliette listened to the bickering unfold from behind the closed door of the war room with a faint giggle, muffled behind her hand.

“Now, now, Chancellor. Let’s be civil,” Josephine chimed in, her voice carrying a slight patronizing edge as she attempted to reason with the irate chancellor.

“I demand an answer, now!” Roderick yelled.

“Do not raise your voice at our Ambassador!” Cullen retorted, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “This is a place of worship.”

Roderick twisted his face in disgust. “Oh, don’t give me that garbage, Templar. You’re running your rebel Inquisition from here, corrupting Thedas under Andraste’s name. You should be ashamed.” He stepped closer to Cullen, his voice rising with urgency. “Now, let me through. I need a word with your so-called ‘Herald’!”

Cullen shook his head and lied, flawlessly, “She’s not here, I haven’t seen her at all today. Perhaps you should try the stables.”

Roderick's eyes narrowed as he took in Cullen's response. His expression shifted from fiery resentment to a cold, calculating suspicion. The crease between his brows deepened, and his lips pressed into a thin line, revealing his doubt.

“Really now?” Roderick said, his tone dripping with skepticism. “The stables, you say?” Roderick shot Josephine a sharp look before returning his gaze to Cullen. “Very well. I’ll check the stables,” he said as he turned on his heel with a brisk, almost exaggerated stride. “If this, too, is more deceit, you’ll be hearing of it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Cullen mumbled as Roderick slammed the chantry door shut with a resounding bang.

The room fell silent for a moment, the tension dissipating into a mix of relief and bemusement. The door to the war room slowly cracked open, revealing Juliette peeking out cautiously with a guilty grin on her face.

“Leliana should hurry herself, we need to get this war council underway before he comes back,” Cullen said, gently pushing past Juliette as he moved back into the war room. She froze, as though a bolt of electricity had shot through her when his gloved hand brushed against her arm.

Cullen, now focused on the scattered reports on the table, barely noticed the effect his touch had on her. “We’ve got work to do,” he said, his tone now practical , as he shifted his attention back to the documents.

Juliette blinked rapidly before shaking herself out of her daze. “Yes, absolutely,” she said, attempting to regain her composure as she followed him into the room. The faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her efforts to appear poised.

The breach thundered and boomed far louder at the temple ruins, its noise competing against the howl of strong winds and the sickening song of the red lyrium crystals. The sky above was a tumultuous swirl of colour that seemed to mirror the chaos below.

Cullen looked down from the terrace by the temple entrance, or what was left of it. While his men assembled below as instructed, he watched with unease as debris and broken remnants of the temple’s structure floated in the air, suspended by the will of the lyrium’s force. He slowly glanced up to the sky, squinting at the light that shone down from above. Much like the breach, Cullen’s thoughts were a chaotic swirl of a mess.

Grand Enchanter Fiona led the mages into position, each group lining up along the crumbling parapets of the temple at various elevations. The explosion months earlier had left parts of the building exposed, in such a way that the structure now resembled an amphitheater.

The noise of the gathering crowd grew louder as more people arrived to fulfill their duties. All these people. If something were to go wrong...

Will the mages have sufficient control over their magic? What if the power overloads? Could it overwhelm her? What if—

Cullen’s thoughts splintered like broken glass, each shard a new worry. The crowd around him seemed to move in slow motion, their faces blurring into a backdrop of anxious noise. I should have asked her if she was ready. If she was feeling alright about all of this.

An officer stepped into his field of vision and greeted Cullen with a dutiful “Commander.”

Cullen flinched at the unexpected interruption, then forced a nod of acknowledgment as his men marched past, heading to their designated positions within the temple. He shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts, but the pressure in his mind felt like a vice tightening with every passing moment.

Not that it would matter if she was ready. It has to happen now.

He stepped closer to the edge of the terrace, peering down at the rows of soldiers below. They stood in precise lines, their uniforms immaculate and their postures rigid. They look impressive, Cullen thought, his eyes scanning the disciplined ranks. Harritt’s done an excellent job commissioning those weapons. The soldiers’ readiness seemed to contrast with the turmoil in Cullen’s mind.

But is it enough? Have I overlooked something? Are they truly prepared for what’s coming? They’ve yet to face demons. What else could escape that thing? How much power will it take to close - but what does she mean ‘It will be over soon’? There’s so much more we could — argh, that red lyrium!

Heat radiated from the lyrium crystals embedded in the walls at the entrance where Cullen stood waiting. The noise, a rhythmic, pulsing song, vibrated through his body like a heartbeat or a war drum, trying to exert its will over him. He took a few steps back, suddenly aware of the dryness in his mouth and the aches in his shoulders and legs.

Perhaps I should have said something earlier today. Did I seem too cold? I likely did. I’d hate for her to think that I wasn’t interested in speaking with her. I should have … what are they doing? Those will break!

“You there!” Cullen shouted over the howling wind, his voice barely cutting through the storm. He squinted against the stinging snow that lashed his face, the fur coat that sat atop his shoulders flapping wildly in the gale. Striding towards the nearby officer, he pointed urgently at the healers struggling with supplies down the stairs on the opposite side of the temple.

“Tell those healers to use both hands when carrying the crates, or better yet, send some men to assist them. We can not afford to damage the supplies at a time like this!”

“At your order,” the officer said with a fist raised to his chest.

Cullen folded his arms and looked to the sky once more. Every swirl of green light and thunderous crack that boomed above felt like a grain of sand slipping through an hourglass, each moment amplifying his anxious anticipation for The Herald’s arrival.

I should have asked her if she was ready. I never asked. Is she feeling alright? She must be nervous.

A sudden jolt of pain seared through Cullen’s head, as though a sharp, electrifying bolt had pierced his skull. A wave of excruciating pain surged through him, immediate and overwhelming, making him clutch at his temples. Determined not to let the routine headaches blur his focus, he fixed his gaze to the mages as they waited patiently for the ritual to begin.

That lyrium. The first thing we need to do is clear it out once this is …why did she say ‘It will be over soon’? Surely she cannot be thinking about leaving. Not now, not after —

Cullen’s eyes widened with alarm when he spotted someone veering off course. “Stop!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “You’re going the wrong way! It’s not structurally sound—you must use the western staircase! Has your lieutenant not informed you?” His gaze was fierce, reflecting his frustration and urgency as he tried to correct the mistake before it could lead to disaster. He shook his head in disbelief.

I asked them to barricade that exit. What else could they have neglected? I should go down there, make sure everything’s in order before she arrives… No, I must wait for her. I need to talk to her—set things right. I’m distracted. I can’t let this, her, cloud my judgment. I can’t fail them. I must give—

Cullen’s thoughts abruptly halted as he caught sight of Juliette approaching the temple’s entrance. His gaze snapped toward her, and for a heartbeat, everything else seemed to fade away. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes locked onto her with an intensity that momentarily silenced the tumult in his mind.

With Cassandra by her side and Solas trailing close behind, The Herald laughed as a gust of wind swept in, embracing her with its wild energy. Her hair flew in a chaotic dance, and the fabric of her coat billowed around her. Reacting swiftly, she reached up to secure the scarf that had been draped loosely over her shoulders, her fingers gripping it tightly to prevent it from being whisked away by the gust. The scarf was green, the same hue as the fabric worn by the soldiers in their uniform. It was a vivid reminder of her role within The Inquisition.

She chose to wear that today. What could that mean?

Cullen’s stance softened, and a flicker of something—hope, anxiety, or perhaps a mixture of both—crossed his features. The stern lines of his face softened, if only for a moment, as he prepared himself to address her, his focus now solely on the figure that had captured his full attention.

“Herald,” he greeted with a firm, formal voice, his posture now rigid, with his arms folded across his chest.

As she stepped closer, he noticed the worried expression on her face. Her dark brown eyes gazed into his, revealing vulnerability and nerves that momentarily disarmed him. Cassandra, standing by her side, tapped her arm with two quick, successive taps—a silent gesture of acknowledgment, signaling their readiness to move forward without further words. With that, Cassandra and Solas began to descend the stairs, leaving Juliette behind to speak with The Commander.

As the wild wind roared around them, Juliette’s lopsided smile quickly gave way to a look of frustration, her face partially hidden by the billowing strands of her hair and the scarf she struggled to keep in place. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she squinted against the force of the wind, her attempts to shield her eyes and maintain her composure evident.

Cullen's features tightened as the wind whipped around him, the gusts pressing against his stern expression. “Are you alright? You look—” he began, but his words were swallowed by the howl of the wind. He grimaced as the wind tugged at his coat and hair, making it difficult to keep his posture steady.

“Pardon?” Juliette yelled, her voice nearly lost in the roar of the gusts. “I didn’t hear you!”

She quickly moved in closer to him, and he slightly lowered his head to make himself heard above the wind. “Are you feeling alright—”

Before he could finish, another strong gust swept Juliette’s scarf from her shoulders, causing her to release a surprised squeak. Instinctively, Cullen lunged forward, his quick reflexes allowing him to catch the scarf mid-air.

He took a moment to steady himself before turning back to Juliette, his expression softening despite the harsh conditions. He extended the scarf toward her, their hands brushing briefly as she reached for it.

The touch was brief but electric. Juliette's fingers lingered against his for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and she looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and something deeper—an emotion she had been trying to keep hidden. Her heart skipped a beat as she met his gaze, feeling a swirl of unspoken attraction and vulnerability.

Cullen’s own eyes held a fleeting softness, a stark contrast to his usual stern demeanor. He noticed the tremor in her touch and, without thinking, placed his gloved hand over Juliette’s, as though to ensure her grip on the scarf was extra secure.

Juliette’s cheeks flushed deeply, a vivid contrast to the chill of the wind. She looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and fascination. The contact, though muted by the gloves, was still electric, sending a rush of heat through her. She quickly withdrew her hand, her heart racing as she fumbled to adjust the scarf around her neck. Even amidst the wind’s chaos and the surrounding noise, the moment they shared felt oddly quiet and serene.

Cullen stepped back and moved around the corner of the entrance, finding a small nook that offered some shelter from the wind. He drew in a deep breath, his pulse racing from the lingering of Juliette’s touch. She followed him, her gaze expectant, waiting for him to break the silence. Deciding to avoid the awkwardness of asking about her a third time, Cullen pressed forward with the conversation.

“The best of the mages are ready, Herald. Be certain that you are ready for the assault on the breach. We cannot know how you will be affected.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the reassurance I was hoping for, Cullen,” she said with a nervous laugh, glancing down at her hand. The glow from the mark was erratic, flashing and pulsating as she neared the breach. Cullen followed her gaze, their eyes meeting again. He offered her a soft, sympathetic look. “Am I shaking?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling. “I’m shaking.” She exhaled deeply, the breath coming out in an exaggerated puff as she turned away from him. “Let’s do this before I change my mind,” she said with newfound determination.

As she moved towards the stairs, the wind hit her with a fierce gust, making her cry out in surprise. “This weather!” She glanced back at Cullen with a faint smile. “Looking forward to clear skies and warmer climates.”

“Good luck, Herald,” He shouted.

“Thank you, Commander!” she called back, her voice just barely reaching his ears as she descended the stairs.

Cullen stood at the top of the stairs, his gaze lingering on the spot where Juliette had vanished. A heavy, disheartening weight settled on his chest as he watched her disappear from view.

So she is leaving.

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