#elvhen king of everything

[apostatively]

My beautiful, beautiful boy who I've thought about every single day since 2014~

[omen-of-ice]

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The North has been all that you’ve known your whole life— residing within its icy landscape as part of House Eirlys; Wardens of the North. You’ve never thought you’d one day leave to head south to Vela’thian— the kingdom of the elvhen— much less that you’d head there due to your betrothal with the king himself.

What will await you once you arrive? Is everything as it seems? Or is there something more brewing beneath the surface of the seemingly pristine nation?

Will you find your way back home? Or will you find something, or someone, worth staying for?

Let’s see how your story unfolds…

❄️ Play as the youngest heir to House Eirlys that’s been arranged to be married to the Elven King. Explore the wondrous world of Arlatha and the great elven nation of Vela’thian and its capital Ilyransari! You’ll meet a variety of characters, uncover plots (varying levels of angst), and potentially find love along the way! This game is rated 18+ for depictions of explicit language, alcohol consumption, potential sexual content, violence/blood, and death.

❄️ Customizable MC: name, gender, appearance, sexuality, hobbies, and some skills. (You can choose to not be attracted to men and tell Daeron, the king, this, don’t worry.)

❄️ Bond with your Lycana— a winged wolf that’ll stay with you until death. Customizable: name, gender, and fur color.

❄️ Explore Ilyransari and learn more about the fantastical world of Arlatha!

❄️ Meet a variety of characters— from reclusive dwarves to hotheaded goblins— that’ll bring unique experiences throughout your story.

❄️ Learn more about your own shrouded past and how you came to be where you are now. Will the truth finally set you free?

❄️ Keep in contact with your older brother— Kaladin. He’ll want to know how you’re doing.

❄️ Romance one of characters from your potential betrothed himself— the Elven King— to an orc commander that takes everything a bit too literally or a creature from the depths of the Vesperion Sea. Or maybe someone else will catch your eye.

❄️ Remember, above all else, to have fun!

Daeron [M] — The King — High Elf

The Elven King himself, a man known far and wide for his prowess in battle and resilience in the face of almost insurmountable odds. You’re not sure why he chose you to be his betrothed— after all he must have received hundreds of requests over the years— but you were instructed to not look a gift horse in the mouth; not when an ally like him would help your family and people immeasurably. With a hardened exterior, from years of battle and sacrifice, Daeron isn’t someone that’s easily accessible in the emotional sense, but you can’t help but notice how his eyes begin to soften every time you enter the room. Will something real begin to grow between you?

Daeron stands at around 6’3” (190.5 cm) with a warm beige complexion. Raven black hair falls across his forehead in gentle curls, a delicately crafted crown always situated atop them. His golden eyes, that seem to rival the sun in brilliance, are filled with a cunning intelligence; he has a toned physique, still holding a lithe quality that all elvhen seem to possess.

Larak [M] — The Commander — Orc

Seeing an Orc within Vela’thian is like seeing a starless night; it happens, but it doesn’t make it any less of an odd occurrence. Not after centuries of war between the Elven Nation and the Infernal Plains. Larak, however, seems to have taken his position in stride, ignoring all the looks he receives without a backward glance. After all, what is an orc to do without his clan? Especially one that was well on his way to becoming a chieftain of his own? Will you give him a reason to stay?

Larak stands at around 7’2” (218.44 cm) with a green complexion. Dark auburn locks are shaved on either side of his head, while the rest is kept in a long ponytail that falls down his back. He’s a hulking mass of muscle and brute strength— his most prominent feature, barring his sharp canines, being the twin scars running down his chest that pairs well with the one through his left eyebrow.

Calypso [F] — The Wanderer — Siren

The Vesperion Sea is an anomaly to most within Arlatha; for a creature from its watery depths to appear means one of two things. 1.) Something bad is about to happen. or 2.) It’s a pilgrimage of sorts that a few depth-striders take up every other decade. Meeting Calypso it’s easy to tell which one she is; her general amazement at the world around her being something that’d warm even the most hardened of hearts. With a desire to learn, and an aptitude to do so, she tries to take everything in stride, observing Vela’thian, and it’s inhabitants, with an ardent fervor that would be quite off putting in any other circumstance. Will you uncover things together?

Calypso stands at around 5’1” (154.94 cm) with a dark brown complexion— iridescent blue scales intercepting the expanse of it across her forearms, collarbone, and sparsely across her legs. The sea green of her gaze complements the deep royal blue of her hair beautifully— the voluminous curls falling down to just beneath her shoulders. She has an hourglass figure.

Shanaera [F] — The Spymaster — Dark Fae

The Royal Spymaster within Vela’thian, Shanaera is the longtime friend, and closest advisor, to Daeron. There isn’t much information about the early life of Shanaera— something she’s gone to great lengths to keep that way— and she’s rarely seen enough by the general populace to get a concrete opinion on. Keeping to the shadows, only appearing in court once in a blue moon, and with walls of ice surrounding her, it’s unsurprising why she has the reputation she does. A woman that’s just as deadly with her words as she is with any blade or poison— getting on her bad side isn’t a smart idea… But is it even possible to get on her good one?

Shanaera stands at around 5’11” (180.34 cm) with a sun-kissed complexion. Locks reminiscent of woven sunlight falls down to her hips in a cascade of gentle waves and soft curls— the strands bringing out the luminescent quality of her amethyst colored gaze. Grand wings of iridescent black are situated on her back, giving her elegantly slender body a broader appearance.

Fáelán [M/F] — The Best Friend — Wildling

You met Fáelán when you were ten years old during a winter ride with your family— something you had done dozens of times before— coming across their slight form underneath a snow drift, after your horse almost trampled them, wasn’t something you had been anticipating, but they haven’t left your side ever since. Not even when they had been offered an escort back to the village deep within The Thaeg; an ancient forest that covers over half of The North. You were best friends from that day onward— one never seen without the other. After all of that, should you truly be all that surprised when your self-appointed guard decides to come along to Vela’thian?

Fáelán stands at around 5’8” (172.72 cm) with a light gray complexion. Strands of hair, the color of which reminds you of freshly fallen snow, fall down to just beneath their shoulders in messy waves— usually kept in a intricate braid— pairs well with the deep crimson of their gaze. Their toned body is a far-cry from the scrawny individual they had been when you first met them— an intricate tattoo making a home on their right arm.

Valerian [M/F] — The Exiled Heir — Draconian

Tales of the land across the Vesperion Sea tell of the grand opulence of Edras— home of the draconian; dragon-kin. Valerian isn’t exactly who you’re expecting when imagining the royal family of Edras, but at the same time they seem to fit right in. With a smile that never reaches their eyes fully, a voice that never has to raise to be heard, and a presence that could command a legion, they bring a slew of questions and very little answers. Why were they cast out? Why are they in Vela’thian? And why do they seem to always find themself in your company? Will you be able to uncover any of these answers?

Valerian stands at around 6’6” (198.12 cm) with a fair complexion. Crystalline blue eyes seemingly burn with a fiery intensity— despite their icy coldness— which brings out the argent quality of their silver locks; M!Valerian keeping them down to his shoulders and F!Valerian keeping hers to her mid-back.

[bloedewir]

Don't want to get my hopes up because there's almost zero chance to know the truth but...

I really REALLY would like to know everything about elvhen rebellion.

How did Fen'Harel manage to succeed? I mean, there's 8 evanuris, Mythal is out, so it's 7. Seven most powerful mages called gods. How did he trapped them? How did he trick all of them? Someone must've helped to achieve it. And it wasn't the slaves he freed. Who? Forgotten Ones? And then what.. he tricked and trapped them too but not in the Fade but in the Abyss? So it wasn't just one great plan but two in one? Double strike??

And why does it remind me of a chess move called castling? (I'll mention it in the end).

Not trying to be rude here but we already had: Corypheus and the orb (confirmed fail), Vows & Vengeance (fail under question) and Veilguard prologue ritual (either fail or cunning plan). No offence, Fen'Harel, buddy, but it's messy anyway, not in the slightest impeccable. And defeating 7 godlike evanuris is something different. Something like that requires to be perfectly planned.

Not to mention creating the Veil. The idea itself is a novel concept. How did he end up with this? Just woke up one day and: "Hm, why wouldn't I create a thing that will separate Fade from the reality? Seems like a good idea. Ambitious". How much power did he possess to change the whole world? Where did he take it from? How did he create a prison no one of seven could escape or break? How did he trapped Forgotten Ones? Why did he end up as the most powerful of them all? All alone?? HOW???

It's either Deus ex machina and we'll never know or bad news for Rook because Fen'Harel isn't trapped at all and it's just a part of a bigger plan that remains to be seen.

And here I go back to start and mention the castling. The only move in chess that allows somebody to move two pieces simultaneously - King and Rook. (It keeps King safe and quickly develops Rook).

22 days left

[blarrghe]

haven't promoted this story in a minute because idk I got tired of tumblr and took a sort of break. Tomorrow I will be posting ch. 14, which is halfway through the story, so it's a great time to pick up...

The Hunter The Snake and the Fox

Rating: M | Category: M/M | Words: 27 081 | Chapters 13/28

Summary:

When Magister Dorian Pavus' expedition meets unexpectedly with a clan of unhappy Dalish elves, First Taren Lavellan may be the unhappiest among them. Unhappier still to be put to the task of helping to see his quest through. This is the tale of how a fortnight in the forests of the Free Marches can change everything.

And here's a long snippet from Ch. 3 for some Drama:

A sliver of light shone briefly in from a crack in the tent, and a leather-clad elf stomped through it. The elf barked something out towards the tent flap, and before Dorian could muster more than a groan, he stomped out again. Dorian blinked a few times after the fading blur of light.

Minutes went by. Possibly hours. Dorian’s head hurt. He tugged on the binds at his wrists, bending them uncomfortably this way and that. It only seemed to tighten them, so he stopped. His head began to clear. More time passed. He attempted to count the minutes. When the elf returned again, Dorian managed a few inquiring calls for attention. Things like, “Where are the others?”, and, “damnit, I’m talking to you!” His calls went ignored.

The elf poked his head back out into the bright daylight beyond the dark tent, and shouted something in grumpy Elvhen. Another elf soon pushed through the flap, they stomped grimly forward together, and then one on either side hoisted Dorian up by the elbows. 

Dorian’s legs were half asleep and still bound, painfully tingling with each jostling step as the two elves dragged him forward. He groaned. The elf on his right barked back something he was sure was an insult. His unwilling legs were dragged on.

Dorian did his best to make his case for answers and mercy as they went. “We have no qualms with you," he pleaded, " I know Tevinter hasn’t historically been kind to your people, but really, this expedition wants nothing to do with you, so if you’d simply let us go on our way…” 

Sharp grunt. 

“You’re making a huge mistake. Kill me, and you’d be inviting a war, do you have any idea who I am?” 

Angry Elvish epithet. 

“Dorian of house Pavus,” he said proudly, “ Magister Pavus as of recently, I have a fortune, you could be handsomely rewarded and —”

Big knife.

“— and a wife! And children! Please!” 

The big knife pressed closer to his throat. There was a bandage there already. 

“Alright! So I don’t have children, or a wife, but I am engaged, and —”

Dorian was shoved through a tent flap by the elf holding the knife, who wound up at his back as his second captor pushed his unstable and bound legs down into a kneel.

“Relax, shemlin,” said a low voice. 

Thank the Maker, Dorian thought, blinking now at the woven mat he’d been forced upon, its zigzagged pattern slowly coming into view in his still foggy vision. Finally, here was someone who spoke the Trade speech. King's Tongue, they called it in the south. Crude. In Tevinter, the nobility still had its own.  

Dorian’s eyes rose from the ground to take in warmly lit canvas walls draped in soft pelts and colourful woven blankets. He knelt near a smouldering fire pit. Smoke was rising up through a narrow hole in the tent’s roof. Through its haze, in a grand and intricately carved wooden seat, sat a man. The man stood, and Dorian watched leather-wrapped feet pace forward, around, circling him. There were more seats, less grand but still intricately carved, all around the fire pit. None sat in them except for one old woman. She sat still and proud, squinting at him through the smoke. 

Dorian lifted his gaze all the way up to the face of the man who was just now finishing his pacing examination of him. An elvhen mage stood before Dorian with his staff planted firmly on the ground between them. He was not tall, but stood in towering regalness over Dorian all the same. His posture was straight, his shoulders strongly set and covered with a heavy green cloak woven through with threads of blue and gold. He wore his deep auburn hair in a long, thick braid hung over one shoulder, and he held his carved, spiralling wooden staff in both hands, emanating power. 

“You are Master Pavus ,” said the standing elf, speaking down to him. 

“Master Pavus was my father,” Dorian replied, flashing the man a winning smile, “as I am evidently your prisoner, it seems only fitting that you simply call me Dorian.” 

DAFF tags list: @warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @about2dance @plisuu

[thekingofwinterblog]

Dragon Age Imperium - Chapter 1.

Summary:

All the Origins PC's join the quest at once. 3 survive the blight. and it all spirals from there...

An alternate timeline set in a world where Hawke becomes Viscount directly after Act 2, amongst other different turns of fate.

A new Arlathan is founded in the bracilian forest after the blight, The Dwarven Empire is on the rebound, both the young Hawke siblings lived, Hawke Killed Talis for the list of Qunari Spies, and so on.

The Dragon Age is an era of blood and chaos, of Empires falling and rising. Waning Orlais, Rising Ferelden, Resurgent Orzammar, a new Arlathan, and at the southern end of the Free Marches, the City of Kirkwall, gets a new Monarch, who is forced to play the game of internation politics, to lead her nation to glory... Or fall into the dustbins of history.

The year was 37 Dragon.

It was a bloody year, as 3 different wars burst into life across southern and middle Thedas.

Kirkwall, and all its neighboring enemies in the Free Marches, Orlais, and the Triple Alliance between Ferelden, Orzammar, and new Arlathan, and the war between Mages and Templars.

All 3 would have enormous consequences, up there with Andraste's march on the Tevinter Imperium, the Qunari invasions, or the destruction of the Dales.

All 3 had also been bubbling under the surface for a good while by the time the monstrous apostle Anders lit the fuse in Kirkwall.

The Templars and the mages had been a boiling pot for centuries only waiting for something to rip the lid off it and expose everything to the world.

The more recent developments outside of the Circles and Templar conflict, could however be traced back to the end of the Fifth Blight, and the Developments created by the four Grey Wardens of Ferelden who survived the Blight.

A number of Grey Wardens survived the battle for Ostagar. 3 Humans, one which was the second in Line to Highever, one a King's bastard, and the third a Mage of the circle Tower.

2 Dwarves, one a casteless Thug, and the other a Princess.

3 Elves there were, one Dalish from the wilds, one elf from Denerim's Alienage, and the third a boy forced at a young age into the Circle Tower.

All of these had been recruited by the Grey Warfen Duncan, in the time period leading up to the Fifth Blight.

Of these lot, only 4 survived the decisive battle for Denerim.

King Alistair of Ferelden. His Queen, Daemona Cousland more commonly known as the Hero of Ferelden, Galenhad Surana, the first Elvhen monarch in centuries, and Princess and Paragon Moria Aeducan of Orzammar, also the new Teyrn of Gwaren.

Of the three nations who emerged from the Blight, bloodied and bruised, Ferelden was the lynchpin for what would come afterwards.

The kingdom had suffered a catastrophic loss of people in the war, with a tenth of it's entire population lost, either to death at the Darkspawn Horde, starvation from the ensuing Famine, and having fled abroad to escape the Blight.

Still, stubborn and fierce as a mabari, Ferelden bounced back, in large part due to it's new monarchs.

Alistair Theirin, first of his name was a charming man, who despite his ability with the sword, and strange form of humor had a remarkable ability to make men like him... But it is acknowledged by most that the true driving force of his government was his wife, the Lady Daemona of house Cousland, known far and wide as the Hero of Ferelden.

It was Daemona who was the leading driving force behind Ferelden's recovery and reformation period after the Blight, both militarily, politically, and economically.

She reformed the military, by remaking the common footsoldier into the famed Ferelden Longbowman, which would in time be remade into the Ferelden Bolter, but for it's era would become known one of the most feared soldiers in the known world. She also defeated the minor invasion of Darkapawn of Amaranthine, and founded the city of Vigil's Keep.

She also reformed the political structure of the Kingdom, by turning the Landsmeet into a permanently sitting body, rather than just something called when the King needed something, or the years taxes would be called. This made taxation of the lands, despite their devastated state at the time, much, much more efficient.

And finally, she drastically overhauled the economy at the time by introducing what for the era was modern technology in as many ways as she could, encouraging the widespread implementation of things such as water mills, repairing the Imperial Highway, and making plenty of newer mills and roads, as well as rebuilding the capital. The only thing she failed in in this regard was the woefull failure of Ferelden naval technology to catch up with the rest of the world.

Alistair was a well liked figurehead and symbol to rally around, while his wife was the true power behind the throne, an arrangement both seemed perfectly content with.

The second part of the triumvirate was also the youngest.

New Arlathan was the newest state in Thedas by quite the wide margin, it's lands having been granted as a boon to Galenhad Surana, former Elf Mage of Ferelden's Circle. It's population at it's inception was comprised of the Dalish Clans of Ferelden, along with the Kingdom's city elves, and the majority of the Elven tower Mages who fought in the Blight, and jumped at the chance to escape having to go back to the tower once the war was over.

Needless to say, this state was highly, highly controversial from it's very inception. A state for Elves, harboring Mages, led by a Mage king? In the long term, there was no way this was going to stand withoth some massive opposition, and fallout.

Orlais had been a staunch opposition to the formation of the new Elvhen state in the Brecilian forest following the Fifth Blight but had not been in a position for a military invasion until the Chantry officially opposed Ferelden's relationship with this new state, and called for its destruction, as well as giving them an excuse, as well as Chantry approved blessing to invade Ferelden once again.

The third part was, by contrast, far and away the oldest one.

Orzammar had no quarrels with Orlais, or the Chantry… But was dragged into the war as a result of the Triple Alliance between the resurging Dwarven Empire, Ferelden, and New Arlathan, which had been so instrumental in their quest to retake the Deep Roads and Thaigs under Ferelden.

The Alliance had been formed behind the scenes in the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, thanks to the Work between King Galenhad, King Alistair, his Queen Daemona, and Teyrna Aeducan(Former princess of Orzammar) of Gwaren, who served as go between between surface Kingdoms and her brother Bhelen.

It started as better trade deals between Orzammar and it's neighbors. Then became military support to fight Darkspawn underground. And finally, as Bhelen became more and more controversial amongst his own nobility, it became a full-blown military alliance on which effectiveness he banked his entire offensives against the Darkspawns, and by extention his political career.

Hence why the continued wellbeing of Ferelden and New Arlathan was extremely important to Bhelen and his dreams of one day restoring the Dwarven Empire to it's old glory.

And so, the official signing of the Triple Alliance came about.

Both of these conflicts were in many ways, inevitable. The only question was when and how the spark for war for war would be lit.

The great battle that would lead to the unification of the Free Marches from a loosely connected confederacy of city-states, into a unified political entity was not.

It was a conflict that had only taken root a few years earlier, after the death of the previous Viscount during the Qunari invasion, and the rise of the next one.

The year was 34 Dragon…

---

34 Dragon.

Knight Commander Meredith was annoyed.

That part wasn't unusual. Meredith had never been famous for her ability to remain calm and level-headed under pressure.

Her mood as she stomped through the Gallows on the way back to her room however, was blacker than it had been in a long, long while.

The Qunari was finally gone... But it their place had come other worries that had replaced them.

Dumar was dead, and so the throne of the Country was now empty.

Not a problem, if she could Trust the nobility to elect a new Viscount who understood the duties of his office, and the devotion it required to the Maker and his Servants.

She could not. Kirkwall's nobility was a decadent flock of sheep that could barely know where they were supposed to go withouth falling off a cliff. And that was on a good day.

This was not a good day. In fact, she doubted it would be a good year.

There was no way she could trust Kirkwall's future to these lot.

All it would take was a wrong choice for the Throne, and they would be right back to the old days, when the Viscount got it into their head of acting above their station.

The first election was to be held in a few days. Those might take a day or months, depending on how unified the nobility was regarding their choices.

Not that there would be a question of how long.

Meredith would shut down the election before it could begin. There was sinply no way she could allow it, as the city was now. Mayhaps later, when the situation had calmed down...

But the Throne and the Question of who would sit in it was but one of her problems.

The other problem was the newly chosen Champion of Kirkwall.

Daemona Hawke, scion of the Amel family was anything but what a proper Champion should have been. Openly supportive of the Mages, having the audacity to have sheltered an apostate since she came to the city. Her very first action as Champion had been to add to that, as she put both a heathen Elvhen Blood Mage, AND a Grey Warden ABOMINATION under her official protection putting them above the law of God and Men!

The woman, thinking her new title made her above any sense of decency, had even had the audacity to request her sister be transferred out of the Circle and into her care!

There Meredith had put her foot down. Bethany Hawke would not leave the Gallows so long as she lived.

Unfortunately, that was where her ability to do anything about the damned Rogue ended.

The title DID put her above the Law unfortunately. So long as Kirkwall adored her, Daemona Hawke was untouchable.

There wasn't much she could do about it right now, but someday... Someday there would be a straw that broke the back.

As Meredith finally reached the door to her office, she entered, the klanking of angry steel clad feet loud and obvious as she opened, then shortly after, closed the door behind her.

She glanced over to the side of the wall, where on a rack, her new weapon was lying. A massive red sword, looking like someone had taken a giant red ruby and chiseled it down to a triangular sword.

In the brief moment after she closed the door behind her, Meredith's thoughts went to the beauty of the Blade, so wonderous it was almost like it sang to her...

Then a sharp, excruciating pang of pain bloomed in her neck.

Her eyes immediatly widened, and she tried to react, but her mody wouldn't move, whatsoever.

Nothing except her eyes, which went down to where a long, narrow blade puked out from her mouth, like a blood coated, grey tongue.

"Should have let Bethany out of the circle Beredith~"

The low voice in her ear made a tsk, tsk sound.

Then the blade was wrenched back, and existence ended.

The figure was clad in black and dark blue from toes to head, with the only exception beong the white symbol of the Qun on the chest and Back .

Just as precationtion in case she was seen after all.

No one in Kirkwall would doubt the Qun ordered her death.

As it happened, she wasn't.

She came in just as easily through the tunnel system form Kirkwall through the Gallows, as she had coming in, getting rid of the clothing in the darkness of the sewers, as she made her way through the tunnels, beneath the River, and then up into her own mansion in Hightown, where a warm bath awaited her.

---

Hawke laid back in her bath, taking deep breaths, smelling the incense of roses.

After a while, she began scrubbing the sweat and other odors and fluids off her skin.

Ah… How wonderful it was to be filthy, filthy rich.

You could do a lot of things as rich folk.

More as a Free Marches Champion.

Champion of Kirkwall… It had a nice ring to it. Power too.

Her companions got to walk freely around, and display their talents and abilities as they saw fit… Even Anders and his crazy spirit friend.

What it had not done, however, was free Bethany from the Gallows.

That had infuriated her… But Lord Commander Meredith had been hard on the subject.

Champions had a lot of freedom in the world… But she was not willing to bend far enough to have a mage released from her precious Gallows.

Meredith was a real, bloody hardliner. The worst kind of Templar. The ones who believed they were truly, completely in the right.

She would never let Bethany be released into her care…

Which was why earlier that night, Meredith had gotten a knife across the throat.

It had taken a while to set up and create an alibi for herself, but when Meredith was found in the morning, no one would be able to trace the murder back to her.

Hawke suspected the next Knight Commander would be less obstinate on the matter.

---

Though she did not know it then, by killing Meredith when she did, Hawke had unintentionally drastically changed the political trajectory of Kirkwall forever.

Had she lived just two days longer, Meredith in her quest to turn Kirkwall into a templar-ruled police state, would have shut down the Kirkwall nobility's election for the next Viscount.

It was their custom, that if the royal dynasty died out(As it just had) there would be an election amongst the rich lords of the White City of chains, to choose the next monarch, and by extension the next dynasty from amongst their own ranks.

Meredith would have rather rudely interrupted this custom, and denied the election of a new leader, and as she saw it, a political rival for power in the city-state.

But with her gone… Well, even if she had left written orders(which she had not) there were none amongst the temporary leadership that followed her, who had the guts to so blatantly challenge the nobility of the city.

And so, as the Templars were scrambling in the wake of the Knight Commander's assassination, the election for the next Viscount was held 2 days after Meredith's death.

As for the choice of the next monarch, a various number of lesser nobles stepped forth to cast their names as candidates.

None gained traction though. No one had the support, the abilities, charisma or the clout to get the rest to follow.

It was very much the same as the last time a Viscount had been elected.

Then one name was tossed forth... More to ask why she hadn't been named before that as a candidate, rather than to suggest she was the obvious choice.

That was all it took.

Several nobles enthusiastically vouched for her her, having had personal dealings with her, where she had left quite an impression.

Those who did not know her personally, also vouched for her. She had quite the reputation... But truthfully, killing the Arishock and saving them all had left far, far more of an impression than any rumors and tales.

And so it was decided.

Lady Hawke would be the next Viscount of Kirkwall.

---

Varric Tethras in his early years had never expected to live through interesting times. Oh sure, the usual backstabbing feuds and developments that came with being part of a merchant city-state and a Dwarven Merchant guild, was to be expected.

But actual, real, lasting changes in the world at large?

That was generally something he'd not thought he'd see in his lifetime.

The Dragon Age might be full of… Well, Dragons, but the world he'd be born into would still be the same as the one he'd been born into.

The words on the page beneath him told a different story.

The pages told of how the Triple Alliance had retaken Bownammar, as the latest Thaig under Ferelden to be reclaimed from the Darkspawn.

It was the latest in a series of spectacular victories beneath Ferelden's soil.

Cadash, Kal'Hirol, Aeducan, and more, all had been retaken from the Darkspawn in less than 10 years.

The victories would have been surprising enough on their own, but it was the source of those victories that was the bigger surprise.

Orzammar, the beacon for dwarven pride, and nobility with a collective stick up its collective backside about everything, was starting to change.

A lot. The new King Bhelen might be the same kind of bastard all power-hungry Dwarven nobles were, but the man had vision, ability, and a love for practicallity that genuinely surprised Varric.

Casteless being armed, surface dwarves being allowed to resettle underground in the retaken Thaigs to bolster their numbers, and actual coordination with their surface allies becoming the new norm.

Hey, it only took nearly a 1000 years... Give them another one, maybe they'd remove the distinction between surface Dwarf and "Regular" ones entirely.

The changes were simple really. So simple Orzammar could probably have used the tactics they were currently using, to do this ages ago.

The Deep Roads, once the Dwarves' biggest marvel, had become their greatest weakness after the appearance of the Darkspawn. They had swarmed through the tunnels, cutting each Thaig off from all the rest, killing and slaughtering as they went until only 2 kingdoms were left, both surviving by cutting themselves off from the network as a whole.

The Dwarves had been utterly dependent on the Deep Roads to thrive. Take that away, and they had no way to help one another, as each thaig fell one by one.

And of course, because of the countless labyrinthian network of tunnels, it had been a nightmare to try and retake lost Thaigs.

You would have to fight your way through every single road, all the way to your destination, and if at any point the way back got cut off, you were dead.

That was the way it had been for centuries and centuries… But things changed.

Now they were using the cramp, narrow corridors and tunnels in an offensive manner, to deny the Darkspawn the ability to use their greater numbers to full use.

The strategy was simple.

Cut off and fortify every single path you found, except for one, then kill everything single thing you found through that pathway until you found other paths through the roads.

Then cut off all the roads except one, and go through that one, and kill everything you found until you found another entrance. Rinse and repeat.

Only once you found no other paths on your way, did you go back to open one of the other pathways, and begin the process there.

It was a stupidly simple tactic, but it wasn't the only innovation they had now.

They'd also invented some new tactic called Halberds and Bolts.

He wasn't entirely sure how it worked, but there was a pike wall, and crossbows involved.

And of course, the most logical innovation was coordination with the surface.

This tactic worked a lot better when Ferelden and New Arlathan would simply supply them from above through reconquered Thaigs, rather than have to rely on some stupidly long supply train all the way back to Orzammar.

Even if the Darkspawn broke through the fortified doors at some point in the Deep Roads, this wouldn't be the automatic death sentence it had once been.

It would take a long, long while, but unless something changed, this strategy might actually see the Dwarven Empire triumph over the Darkspawn at long last.

And hey, if they were really lucky, maybe it would happen before the next Blights.

The new King Bhelen had taken a bad, bad situation, and turned it around.

As he was reading, he heard through the wall a familiar whistling, grinned, and sat up, quickly jumping out of bed and getting dressed, before opening his door for one of the more lovely women in Kirkwall… And by far the deadliest.

"Morning Varric."

"Hello, Hawke. Come on in."

They quickly seated themselves in their usual chairs, with a familiarity that spoke of total casualness.

"So Hawke what brings you here today?"

"Can't I just want to see my favorite dwarf?"

"Oh, you can… But the four last times you came by you wanted to hear about news from home, and not much else."

Hawke grinned sheepishly.

"Alright. Guilty as charged. Though I must say Varric, you're not in a position to judge… I know how much you read up on Bhelen's side of the Triple Alliance."

"Bhelen's side? I'm not Bartrand Hawke, why would I be interested in stuffy old Dwarven crap, like Orzammar's campaigns?"

Hawke narrowed her eyes, and without a word went over all the various Dwarven crap that Varric had chosen to decorate his home away from home with.

"I could not begin to tell you where I got that notion… But whatever, any news from the south?"

He shrugged.

"Not much… Or at least not much I think you'd be interested in… More mines opening, new trade routes… Oh, wait, there was one thing."

From his stack of papers, he fished out about 9, before handing them to Hawke.

"Newest Ferelden fashion developments… Or what you guys call fashion anyway."

"Oh!"

Hawke quickly snapped them up and began looking them over.

"Hmmm… So Redcliffe is moving back towards traditional clothing… Interesting. I guess Teagan wants to distance himself from Orleasian fashion as much as possible."

"Is… That a bad thing? Don't you guys hate Orlais?"

"Oh, we do! But going back to the past for fashion isn't exactly… Well, you've seen Ostwick fashion right?"

"The ones that have men running around in those checkered skirts?"

"Kilts, yeah. Those guys still think it's Calenhad's time…"

She shook her head and began flipping through the pages.

"Oh, but here! Here is real fashion! Highever and Denerim are switching over from casual plate armor to Brigandine coats!"

Varric looked down as she put them on the table. Neither of the two examples was a particularly stylish example of Brigandine armor… Well except for different helmets at least.

"You know, sometimes I forget that and Aveline are both from the same stock."

"Heh… Maybe I should show this to Aveline! I'm sure she'd appreciate-"

From downstairs, someone called out her name in a very loud, and frantic manner.

"Ah, Carver… Wonder what my little brother wants now."

"Maybe the little Hawke finally wants to make a move on Daisy, and wants your advice."

As they heard Carver make his way up the steps of the Hanged man, Hawke chuckled.

"The Maker will return before that happens."

Sure enough, Carver burst into the now unlocked room, panting, and looking absolutely frantic.

"Sister!"

"What is it little Hawke? Do you need some help wooing Daisy?"

"What? Wait-NO!"

"History would suggest otherwise brother, or have you already gotten some Advice from Isabella?"

"Can you two PLEASE not talk about this right now!? This is serious!"

"...Fine, Carver… What is it then… An-Damn, you are drenched… Did you run all the way here?"

"Yes! An hour after you left we got a message from the Viscount's palace!"

"What do they want now?"

"They elected you Viscount!"

"What." Two voices said in unison.

"They held a vote earlier today over who would be the next Viscount after Dumar… And you won. In a landslide they said. You're the next Viscount of Kirkwall!"

"Well… Shit."

Hawke, for once in her life, looked absolutely stunned… Then a missive grin appeared on her face.

"But that means… That means I can just appoint Bethany as my Court Mage. Rulers have the right that that right? I remember old Willhelm got to live free as one right!"

"Wh-THAT'S what you're focusing on?"

"Eh, it's the most obvious benefit. Oh, and I get a shiny crown too… Varric is that crown the Viscount had the official regalia, or can get something personalized made?"

Varric smiled.

Still the same old Hawke.

"Eh, I think you can. What did you have in mind? A band with a ferocious Hawk at the front?"

"Oh, that's good! But I was thinking more that old design in Gold, or Silver… I mean did you see that crown? Great design, but in dark Iron? Who makes a crown in Iron?"

"I don't know, it's better than a Throne of the stuff, I mean imagine how uncomfortable that would be."

"Can you two PLEASE take this seriously? This is big news."

"Oh we are, we're just having some fun along the way Carver. Well, let's get the band together and have a pint before I head back to Hightown. This is gonna be great. All the problems the city had with the Qunari are gone now! Which I get to swoop in, and not only take all the credit and glory for fixing it, but I get to come in and rule without any huge issues breathing down my neck."

She grinned. Then suddenly had an epiphany.

"Oh and Varric? Congrats."

"On what?"

"On becoming the new Viscount's right-hand man of course! Is there a title for that? Or just… Royal advisor?"

Carver rolled his eyes.

"If you want to give him a fancy title, you should just marry him… Then you could call him the Count Regnant."

It took a moment before both of them realized it was a joke.

"Well look at that, the Little Hawke finally started to grow a sense of humor."

The younger sibling, and new heir to the throne of Kirkwall, groaned.

Chapter 2

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Afshin Gökhan / Eldar AGE & BIRTH DATE. 29 & November 8th, 2995 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him NATIONALITY. Iskaran SPECIES. Changeling FACTION. N/A OCCUPATION. Prince & Heir of Iskaldrik FACE CLAIM. Oktay Çubuk / Serkan Çayoğlu

biography

( tw: child abuse, violence, death )

High King Orhan Gökhan was truly the ruler of Iskaldrik. His lineage extended far back to that of Efe Gökhan. A kingdom where magic was outlawed saw the birth of the second born child of the High King. Afshin came into the world screaming, but all his mother could feel was relief. The first born of Orhan had been a daughter. When people spoke of heirs for the throne, women were not to be seated upon it. Passed over, Aytaç was just the older sister that Afshin would come to look up to one day. They were only a year apart, but they might as well have been twins. Their cribs sat next to each other and they both looked upon the eyes of their mother with wonder. Their father was a different story. Even as a small baby, not able to say a single word, it was clear to them that their father did not see children when he looked at them. They were simply people that would continue the legacy of the Gökhan family. At least, that was how it would feel to Afshin as he grew.

A young boy barely a few years old was sat upon a throne and told that this was his birthright. Iskaldrik was where he would rule and Iskaldrik was where he would live and die by the throne. Afshin understood that even at his young age. He was just a boy though. He could not pick up a sword and charge into battle. His sister could do that far better. Stoic would probably be the word that could best describe Afshin as a child. He was quiet where his sister spoke with purpose. When his sister spoke, others would brush her aside, but he would listen. She knew everything even as a little girl. Afshin however? Well, his quietness stemmed from a secret that only he could know about. If others had found out, he was sure that his rightful place as heir would be jeopardized. Stoic. Maybe that part of him came from Eldar.

Bold could be the only word used to describe the elvhen that had chosen the crib of the High King’s one and only heir to the throne to place their own child within. Pixies snuck into Iskaldrik in the dead of night to find the child sleeping. There had been two options when they got to the room. Two children both born to Orhan Gökhan, but as the pixie looked upon the cribs, they knew which option would lead that elvhen to the best life possible. What could come of a woman in a kingdom ruled by men? So they placed that blighted elvhen child within Afshin’s crib and flitted away back to where they had come from. The deed had been done. Ttwo babies, one mortal and one elvhen, lay within the same crib and a blood ritual had been started. Afshin and Eldar. Eldar and Afshin. They looked into each other’s eyes, only babies, and were forced to accept that they would only come to depend on each other.

Stoic. That would probably be the word that could best describe Eldar as a child. Whatever part of the elvhen that had merged within Afshin had the two bleeding into each other whether they wanted to or not. However, as Afshin had a clear vision of who he would become, Eldar had no idea. The elvhen part of the changeling had been thrust upon this life, blighted, destined for nothing more than what the human part of him wanted. He was not the prince. He was not royalty at all. Maybe, if he had known where he came from, he would have some sort of vision himself. Instead, all that ever came of him was exactly that one word. Stoicism. As that one ideal bled into him, it left Afshin entirely. The human part of the changeling had grown and he had accepted that the life his father had made for him would be his and his alone. He was not just the prince. He was so much more than that and he was superior to those that he deemed beneath him. For a time, that included Eldar.

Where Afshin went, Eldar followed. However, where Eldar went, Afshin either didn’t care to know or never bothered to find out. Either way, the two were complete opposites of each other. The child that Afshin became was the kind of person that let royalty go to his head. He was judgmental of those that were less than he was. And he was the prince. Those that were beneath him were, well, the entirety of Iskaldrik. Excluding a choice few of course. His sister would always be someone he respected. There had been one friend he had made with silver hair that had been lost to where all the children went when they were found with magic. Perhaps that should have been a sign to him. Perhaps it was. Afshin was well aware of who he was, but what he was always seemed to slip his mind. So, when that friend had been sentenced to possibly become a Witcher, Afshin turned the other way. As if what he was could somehow be forgotten. However, if there was one person that would never let him forget, it would be Eldar.

Eldar never preferred the royal life that his elvhen parents had subjected him to. Not that he had ever truly known anything else before the changeling had entered into teenagedom. While Afshin was busy with material things and looking at everyone with those judgmental eyes, the elvhen boy was sneaking out of that home he had become so familiar with and heading as far as he could go outside of it until he always came upon the less fortunate villages in Iskaldrik. Hrafntun was the furthest he could go. It was easy to travel. In theory, he was royalty. He shared a soul with the Iskaran prince. Eldar could go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted and people would only ever question where the poor prince disappeared to this time. Only when Afshin walked back into his chambers a week later would people question anything at all. It had become a pattern for the two of them. Afshin reveled in his riches and Eldar reveled in the small comfort that came from knowing that there were others that had no idea who they would become because of a life thrust upon them that they had no choice but to live.

Eventually, the two of them had formed some sort of friendship. Afshin hated the fact that Eldar ever even bothered to travel anywhere outside of Yggrasdildal. There seemed to never be a purpose. However, he had come to understand why his elvhen half wanted to be literally anywhere else. Eldar was not beneath Afshin and Afshin was not beneath Eldar. They were one in the same and they always would be. Yet there was always that one thought in the back of both of their minds. It crept into Eldar’s thoughts more often while they rested their heads at night. When they spoke in dreams, they were just children. They spoke to each other as if they were the only people each of them could depend on. That was where Afshin confided in the other half of himself. He was terrified. It had been a long time since he was born and that meant that it had been a long time since he had fully comprehended just the life he had been born into.

Magic was criminalized and that meant that the two of them would always be on borrowed time. Afshin had certainly let it get to him now. Where he had once had not a care in the world, he was now riddled with worry. Eldar had always chosen to ignore the politics of Iskaldrik because he felt it did not concern him. However, he was tethered to the prince. With the prince’s worry came his own. Eldar was different though. The human side of the changeling had been at a loss, but the elvhen side? Well, he knew exactly what needed to be done. He knew because he had been outside of those walls that felt more like a prison than a home. Eyes would always be watching them even when they weren’t. Eldar knew how to whisper in the ears of those that didn’t even realize they were listening. Afshin would be no different than the rest of them. Manipulating people would come with a price. Manipulating his other half? Well, it was a good thing that Afshin could always tell when he was being manipulated and Eldar was always more than happy to test that theory.

With that thought in the back of his mind, he took to catching Afshin’s eye in the mirror or speaking to the other half of him in dreams. It started with one simple thought, one simple idea. The one person that could take the throne from Afshin was the High King himself. Orhan Gökhan would turn on his son faster than it would take for either of them to blink. Eldar could not let that happen to the closest friend he had so that one idea that he had fell right from his lips and into Afshin’s ear. It wouldn’t be enough to kill the High King. Even thinking it sounded absolutely preposterous. No, they would need to be smart about it. Eldar knew the way to get Orhan out of the picture. From his time outside of Yggrasdildal, he had come to know that most would consider the man a mad king. Eldar figured they might as well make the man truly mad. It would not be easy, but it would get the one man in their way out of the picture.

So Afshin listened. As his father sat upon that throne, he thought of how he would turn those whispers from Eldar into a reality. Whispers in the night between both of the changeling’s halves would fall on deaf ears. Or so they had thought. The first to hear those whispers had been Afshin’s sister. He had thought she would run to their father. He had thought that she would give him up to be made an example of in front of the entirety of Iskaldrik. What if he were to be sent to the mines? What if they wouldn’t stop there? Afshin didn’t think he would make it in the mines. Eldar could, but he simply didn’t want to go there. He had heard what became of people that went there. None of them ever came back. He would not be one of those people. Eldar would have done whatever was necessary if Afshin’s sister had even thought to give them up to Orhan. Yet she hadn’t. She was her brother’s protector. Just like Eldar.

The three of them all formed that plan. If there were the three of them there, then it seemed like things would go off without a hitch. Afshin would never have to worry about being found out. Eldar could live his life the way he wanted to. And so could Aytaç. Nothing could ever be so simple though. Just when they had formed a plan and wanted to bring it to fruition, the Huscarl had figured them out. The man had looked Afshin in the eyes. It was a look that both Afshin and Eldar both understood more than anything. Stoicism. It was the kind of look that could never be understood, but it didn’t need to be understood for them to realize that the Huscarl was on their side. Words had not been exchanged as the poison was slipped into the High King’s drink. The reaction seemed almost instant as the entirety of their company watched Orhan Gökhan slowly lose his mind. He had fallen ill faster than either of them could blink. How funny that was. Things actually could be that simple.

Afshin had looked on with smugness as his father had become merely a shell of the man he had once been. Eldar looked on with nothing but expectation. The future seemed a little more set in stone for the both of them and it felt like they had not a thing to worry about. Yet Eldar was always watching people. He always wished to stay one step ahead. He had once whispered in Afshin’s ear that Orhan Gökhan needed to be out of the picture. They had succeeded. Now he would whisper in his other half’s ear that Afshin was so close to having that throne that it felt damn near cosmic. Eldar would always make sure that things went their way lest those standing in it would face one bloody death. Again, or so the elvhen half thought. It seemed things actually could not be as simple as he had anticipated. Instead of one day ruling Iskaldrik, Iskaldrik was taken from them. All of it felt like one bad dream, but neither of them were ever waking up from it.

Soon, Iskaldrik was falling and they were nothing but refugees. Afshin had barely ever lifted a sword. If he did, it was because his father had placed it within his hand. Eldar had fought with those people he had visited every time he left Yggrasdildal. They had placed a sword in his hand several times until he learned to pick it up on his own. And, with that sword, came a shield. That shield was what Eldar would need to protect not only him, but Afshin, too. It didn’t matter what he needed to do to protect their lives. If he needed to, he would kill. There was a minimal amount of blood on Eldar’s hands, none of it from something like death being dealt. But he never feared the blood that could drench his hands in the name of making sure his other half was able to place that crown atop his head. Orhan Gökhan be damned.

Because who was Eldar if not Afshin’s protector?

personality

Afshin

+ opinionated, charming, charismatic - judgmental, materialistic, pessimistic

Eldar

+ loyal, observant, adaptable - stoic, manipulative, introverted

played by kenyer. est. she/her.

[spainkitty]

Solas After the Temple of Mythal

Lanil's Pieces Masterlist

"What did you do? Why did you do it?" Solas demanded as soon as she entered the room.

Lanil stopped dead and looked behind her. Nope. He was talking to her.

"What are you talking about?"

"You drank from the Well! You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god," Solas shouted. He shouted.

Lanil crossed her arms over her chest. "You don’t even believe in them, so why does it bother you?"

"You are Mythal’s creature now. Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her. You have given up a part of yourself."

"I did that years ago when I chose these!" Lanil exclaimed, pointing at the golden vallaslin on her face. "When have I not given up parts of myself!? When have I ever been free?"

Solas actually startled, eyes widening minutely, before he quickly pulled back on his expression of disappointed anger. Which had her blood boiling. She hated disappointing him and she didn't even understand why this time.

"I was a Circle Mage for so long I don't remember before it! And then I ran off and became a Dalish savage. And then I became the Herald, and I got this." She shoved the anchor at him, palm up and fingers spread wide. "I lost any chance of ever being free. And I did all that willingly. So how, how is binding myself to an ancient Elvhen god I believe in any different from binding myself to the Inquisition? You know, you heard at the Temple how much of me I've been cutting off, how much I've been carving myself into what the Inquisition needs! And you stand there and judge me, scold me like a child, because you think I don't understand!?"

"You don't understand! You think this is the same? You're all children, lost and wild, thinking you're honoring an ancient past that never existed!" Solas stopped, dragged in a breath. "Whatever those beings, gods or not, they were powerful and dangerous. You made yourself one of theirs, you made yourself their slave, lethallan."

She curled her hands into fists as desperate rage squeezed her throat. She lifted her fists, her bared wrists, and a jagged laugh not at all amused left her mouth.

"At least these shackles are Dalish. At least I'm a slave to my People and everything I've been trying so hard to protect instead of people who spit the word savage at my back. I asked for the power, and I paid the price."

His hands, pale and elegant, wrapped around her wrists. She felt heat pricking at her eyes. No. No, it wasn't going to happen again. Not in front of him.

"Lethallan--"

"No!" Lanil shook his hands off. She had to go, had to run, couldn’t dare look at his face and see pity, or loathing, or whatever was there. She half-turned away, head down so her hair could shadow her face. "I don't want to hear it. I'm done. This means something to me, my People mean something to me. You don't get to call me ignorant when all I've done is scrape and claw and beg for the smallest scraps of my heritage instead of denying what I am. I won't let you despise me or my People."

His hand gripped her chin, pulled her around with a strength she thought he only had in the Fade. He forced her to meet his eyes and she couldn't describe the look there. Like that memory of a dwarven king he'd told her about: a memory of an emotion that no longer had a word.

"You think I despise you? Despise our People? I walk beside you because I see the same fierce love for the People in you that I have," he said, hoarse and low. A shiver ran down her spine. "You think you are the only one that sacrifices and carries the burden of all their mistakes?"

"I don't get to hide mine! I don’t get to lounge in the shadows and laugh at the machinations of all us feeble mortals who haven't travelled the Fade like you have," Lanil snarled, refusing to budge an inch, as if he wasn't pinning her in place with a single hand.

"There is nothing feeble about you, Inquisitor," Solas replied as hotly. "You throw yourself into chains because you think you won't break. You wear them like your vallaslin, proud that you're stronger than everyone else around you."

"I won't break. I won't let myself break. You're damn right I'm proud of my chains. I chose them myself and I won't let you take them away," Lanil snapped. That didn't make sense. It was the only thing that made sense.

"You are impossible," Solas exclaimed. He released her chin only to grab her arms, drag her in closer, nose to nose, chests colliding as they heaved each furious breath. "You are so much more than you think are. You toil and fight and scream at the wind, you would beat mountains into rubble, and yet you chain yourself and are proud of it."

"I promised I would make the world better, I would change it! I'll keep trying, I'll never stop trying, no matter what that makes me. Slave, or monster, or a fucking hero. It's all the same damn thing."

Their ragged gasping breaths were the only sound in the room. His eyes flickered over her face, searching, dark roiling storm clouds within that forced her heart to pound like a war drum.

"You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future is better? What if you wake up to find that the future you shaped is worse than what was?" he demanded, not so harsh, but just as fervent.

"I already told you. I'll keep trying. I'll pound that mountain into rubble with my bare hands." She scowled fiercely and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, hauled him to her eye level to make sure he heard every word she seethed at him, "I'll drag you along with me to prove it can be done, too."

His grip tugged her forward, trapped her fists between their chests, and she felt the pounding of his heart. There was something wild in her blood clawing at the inside of her skin. Like the lightning in her was striking and sparking against the blizzard in him.

"Mir suledin nadas," he breathed against her lips. A curse or a promise. Or both.

She stared at him, speechless.

Abruptly, his hands yanked away, as if her silence burned him, and he stalked out of the room.

"What..." Lanil slowly backed up, hit the scaffold, and slid down. Her leather armor scraped horribly against the wood until her bum met the ground. Legs numb, mouth numb, she stared where Solas had stood. "What?"

[lairofdragonagelore]

Val Royeaux [DLC Trespasser]: Winter Palace 2

After some years, with Corypheus dead and the rifts waning, Orlais and Ferelden begin to question the existence of a powerful military organisation such as the Inquisition. Unable to stop the questions, The new Divine calls for the Exalted Council.

This post has a purpose to gather the miscellaneous details and objects found in the area. There is no much to say about them, it is mainly due to archive purposes.

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

[Index page of Dragon Age Lore]

In this opportunity we revisit the Winter Palace. It is as excessive as any Orlesian place where we see the typical Orlesian elements: golden structures, andrastian statues, careful work of plants, unique blue-based tiles on the floor, and door frames and windows in the shape of Eluvians.

The Lion symbol repeats in many ways, as a constant reminder of the Valmont Falmily. 

Pieces of art with boring codices, sculptures, and a list of mundane intrigue and long lineages with story.

All over the place we will find chapters of Hard in Hightown, conspiracy theory considerations, and gossips in written form. All of them quite boring to read in my opinion. The most interesting one is the group of nobles thinking about reptilians and such, but everything feels like a continuation of Trader Helsdim [Frostback Basin [DLC]: Stone-Bear Hold Avvars], the avvar trader who has been visiting Val Royeaux for a while and may have spread these conspiracies, or maybe he took them from here. 

As small details, there is a chess-based board game where the pieces are made in Orlesian design in white and gold, and in Tevinter design, black and pointy ones.

Among the Tevinter ones, we find artefacts we have seen before: one of those “diapason” with three claws upside down, torches, and a Tevinter artefact with spikes playing as the equivalent of King/Queen.

We find a reuse of this fountain of four lions that was dedicated to the Valmont family who removed Drakon from the throne. Now, apparently, is dedicated to the Inquisitor, lol.

There are andrastian sculptures combined with these pillars that were part of the Chantry sigil trail.

The stores around the Palace have nice signs that I din’t see before, for example this one which form I can’t make out.

Or this Giant’s head, which was only seen in the abandoned tavern dam in Crestwood.

The tavern of the Winter Palace has little to offer. It has several head-trophies on its wall, which work more like eastern eggs, and some minimal decorations of Orlesian design, such as the floor tiles, carpets, and lamp decoration. We find a codex about drinks. Nothing of relevance lore-wise.

We can see with more details how the decoration is a combination of gold, blue, and marble. The Face that represents Andraste is always present in Orlesian patterns.

The public baths have more andrastian figures.

In the section of the ambassadors, we find a corner decorated with Ferelden banners where we know Teagan is waiting.

There is another section where more Orlesian icons are presented: the golden lion that represents Celene’s family, a bust of Celene, and a yellow rug I didn’t see before. 

The towers of the Winter Palace are decorated with marble, gold and blue.

It’s interesting to see once more how Orlesian art is inspired in Elvhen one: the spikes over this bell resemble the pattern we see on the basement of any elvhen statue.

It’s a nice detail to see how the breach left a scar in the sky.

When the inquisitor speaks with the representatives of the nations, Teagan makes explicit his worry about the existence of the Inquisition.

Orlais, of course, wants the inquisition to be under its command, and tries to play its game to give false reassurances.

The council starts

As the council starts, we read about the political concern of the factions. Nothing too elaborated but reasonable.

During that discussion, the Divine wants to speak with the Inquisitor, revealing that a dead qunari has appeared out of nowhere.

Following the clues, we reach to a room that, despite resembling the secret room of Celene in the library, it is not, but it gathers a lot of art and arcane artefacts, like an elven artefact that strengthen the Veil or, what will interest us more, an active eluvian.

[shouldaspunastory]

The Muses: Eshalineva "Neva" Lavellan

A rather impulsive, and headstrong child from birth, Eshalineva never quite recovered from the perceived slight of not being chosen as the clan's First. Though, quite happy at first to get away for a while to spy on the goings on at the Conclave, she could never have expected that doing so would forever change her life.

Game decisions/deviations

Prologue: Rejects the idea of being the Herald of Andraste, outspoken about atheism amongst companions. Dislikes but accepts the necessity of the title for the Inquisition's political gain/manuevering. Declares an Elf will stand for Thedas.

In Hushed Whispers: Went to Redcliffe, allied with the mages

Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts: Celene dies, Brialla rules through Gaspard

Here Lies the Abyss: Wardens exhiled, left Stroud in the Fade

What Pride Had Wrought: Neva drinks from the Well of Sorrows.

Divine: Leliana (Hardened)

Companions & Advisors

Blackwall: (neutral) Blackwall freed & committed to Wardens

Cassandra:(mild rivalry) Found book of secrets, convinced Varric to write new chapter

Cole:(friends) Cole remained a spirit

Cullen: (neutral) Convinced him to stop taking Lyrium

Varric: (neutral) Found source of Red Lyrium, convinced him to write next Swords & Shields for Cassandra

Dorian: (neutral) Stayed with Inquisition, met but didn't reconcile with father

The Iron Bull: (friends) Saved the Chargers, Tal-Vashoth

Josephine: (neutral) Had Leliana use assasins to deal with the Du Paraquettes

Leliana: (friends) Hardened

Sera: (mild rivalry) Harmond alive & working for Inquisition

Solas: (lovers) Freed friend, Cole remained a spirit

Vivienne (neutral) Found lost Circle books, Gave her snowy wyvern heart

Basic Information

Full name: Eshalineva 'Neva' Lavellan Pronouns: She/Her Nicknames: Neva (because she doesn't trust the Shems to pronounce her name properly), Vhenan (Solas), Flurry (Varric) Title: Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor Occupation: Inquisitor Date of Birth: 16th of Firstfall, 22 at the start of DA:I Orientation: Bisexual Libido: High Religion: Atheist Threat level: 10/10. Not to be fucked with, and all too happy to tell you so. An incredibly strong mage to begin with, Neva is very emotionally-driven and will therefore throw everything she has into a fight if it is somehow made personal. With enough rage and when afforded the opportunity she may even make sure her oponent's deaths are particularly slow and/or painful.

Physical Information

Face claim: Katheryn Winnick Height: 5 ft, 6 in Eye color: Lilac Hair color + style: White, most often kept short, or in an asymetrical bob Dominant hand: left Distinguishing features: Mythal vallaslin, freckled bridge of nose & forehead Accent + intensity: Dalish/Free Marcher, heavy Tattoos: Mythal vallaslin across her cheekbokes Scar(s): A lattice of smaller scratches up both arms Piercing(s): No Glasses: No

Background Information

Hometown: Free Marches (wherever Clan Lavellan made camp) Current residence: Skyhold Language(s): Elvhen (Dalish), King's Tongue Social class: lower, honorary member of upper-class mostly because of her title as Herald of Andraste/Inquisitor Education: Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan was largely in charge of her education, teaching her magic and her people's history while training her to be her successor. Her decision to make her other protege her first, lead to resentment and a rift between her and Neva, however. Parents: Unknown, Neva was given to Clan Lavellan when she first showed signs of magic. She cannot remember her parents. Siblings: None (that she knows of, she was given to Clan Lavellan as a child) Adopted?: By Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan

Personality Information

Jung type: "The Entrepeur/Dynamo" Archetype: The Doppelgänger Enneatype: Romantic Moral alignment: Chaotic neutral Temperment: Brash/impulsive Angered by: Airs of superiority, religious fanatics, racism Intelligence type: Existential Neurodivergence(s): N/A At risk: Prone to following emotional impulses before fully considering the consequences

Vices & Habits

Smokes? No Drinks? Yes Drugs? Has tried some, doesn't use any regularly though Violent? Very Addicition(s)? Self-Destructive? Often Hobbies: Hiking, ice dancing, singing Likes: Exploring, traditionally feared predators (wolves, dracolisks, etc), music, learning new things, the cats of Skyhold Dislikes: Being corrected/told what to do Tic(s): Builds up small static electrical charge beneath fingers when irritated/angry

Miscellaneous Information

Zodiac: Servani Vice: Prideful Virtue: Passionate Element: Ice Mythological creature: Siren Animal: Wolves Mutation: Anchor on left hand

[witchertorsten]

Heavy came the responsibility of the days ahead, this was a weight that Torsten did not envy, nor was it one that the witcher could hope to bear. He wore the vestments of an uncertain future as he did everything else, with stalwart focus and unwavering dedication. Out of the fire and into the viper's nest, in the days ahead Torsten would keep his wits as sharp as his sword, if not for his sake, then for the King as well. He'd vowed already to stand before them and never stray, to fight for him, and to shield him. That would not change once they put Iskaldrik behind them.

Afshin placed himself across the Iskaran's lap and Torsten could feel how his own body grew warm in response. They'd traded words once about how the Kingsguard treated his bed companions - and this was a far cry from what he'd described. There was never much feeling associated with the act itself, it came from necessity, often attraction, but affection was a lesser game that Torsten played little mind toward. Through the narrow slat that passed as a window, the sun shone through the fog, its light broken by the streaming gray, only to be captured by the crown of Afshin's head. Wreathed in a quiet halo of silvery and gold, Torsten couldn't help the way his gaze watched every moment that the King made.

"It is."

The easy slip and pull of his vestments and the stretch of taut musculature clung to Afshin's chest before it disappeared beneath his waistline below his naval. A sharp jaw and sympathetic eyes hidden away behind mischievous features. It was only in this that Torsten thought he might have caught sight of something elvhen, a spark of arcana blended with the natural stubbornness of an Iskaran King.

Something to the Iskaran tradition rested over the King's chest and there was a part of the witcher that envied a mark that could be written indelibly across so near Afshin's heart. Torsten had caught sight of it before, but now, with the Heir splayed across his lap, he could study it without fear of judgment or repercussion. The linework, the shape, and the spacing - its meaning.

"As I thought."

Torsten's head was turned slightly toward the side, dark eyes studying as he committed every detail to memory. The small, fine, hair that speckled Afshin's chest, the curve and divets of his frame, and the way his breath rose and fell. That slight flush of skin that surfaced in the places that Torsten had dragged his glove across was revised by the witcher's lips, that hand he'd shifted the King's shirt with now found its home across the small of Afshin's back. He breathed against him, "Perfect."

Taking to the other's pulse like fire, Torsten could all but taste how it thrummed beneath his lips, just as keenly as he felt his own throbbing between his thighs. What did he wish to ask of Afshin? His body. The world. To Torsten, in the moment, he hardly saw or felt a difference between the two.

He stood, his arm strong enough to carry Afshin with him before the other was pressed into the mattress. His lips took hold of the King's, Torsten's knee parted Afshin's thighs. This was better.

What more did Torsten ask of the King?

"Everything."

To Afshin, he was owed a lot of things. For example, right now he felt like Torsten owed him so many apologies for just leaving him the way that he did. Maybe, if the witcher hadn't kissed him, he wouldn't have been so upset about it. However, that was exactly what had happened. What was happening right now was more than enough of an apology, he thought. Outside of the ring that was being gifted to him now. His father's ring. Horrible timing for that, but he also did appreciate it.

Vilya. Afshin had seen the ring on his father's hand plenty of times, but he had never truly thought he would have it. The changeling still had quite a lot to prove and it felt like there was not a lot of time to prove it. He could defend himself, but was that going to be enough? He could converse, but would that help when they made it through that barrier to Lysara? Back and forth his thoughts always went on the matter until he was in his own head enough for him to lose his mind about it. This time he didn't though.

Looking down at the ring as Torsten slipped it upon his finger, he admired it for a moment before that same hand was being placed on the other's cheek. A few other rings were donned on his person, but none seemed more important than this one. For two reasons. One, because it meant that his time was coming. Two, because Torsten was the one to have given it to him. The throne would be his. He'd have to make sure of that. Which meant proving himself to every single Iskaran. It would take some time, but it would be worth it. High King Afshin Gökhan did have a nice ring to it.

Pressing his lips to the witcher's own, he only pulled away to speak with as little distance between them as possible. "You can be my throne for now, my Kingsguard." Just as the words left his mouth, he was being re-situated enough for Torsten's lips to meet his collarbone. And then everything else felt like a blur. Afshin didn't find himself to be a needy person, but he so desperately wanted the witcher right now. Every movement was slow and precise from the other's hand meeting his throat to every button that was undone soon after. Why did he feel like if he took a breath, he would wake up and it would all just be some sort of dream? But he did take a breath and it wasn't a dream. This was all real.

But then Torsten was demanding something of him. As if he was the boss of him. Afshin didn't want to say it out loud, but he would have probably done whatever the other asked of him if he said it like that again. Still, a brow rose as his hand gripped the witcher's jaw again. "Is that an order?" He paused briefly. "It sounded like an order." The part of his shirt that had already been pulled open revealed a circle of tattooed runes that had been inscribed upon his chest some time ago. Without second thought, he pulled the rest of the shirt off and tossed it to the floor. "What else would you ask of me?"

[corseque]

Solas’ involvement in any story means the story Will Have Shenanigans. What I really treasure about him is that he’s such a doofus. I think that’s maybe the single greatest “subverting expectations” detail to his character kit, besides the big reveal. They usually try to take a character trope and then surprise you in some way with it. So with Solas, they introduce this immortal Elf King Thrandruil character, this reserved, superior, artistic and otherworldy intelligent being who looks down on others for not being as good as him, and you think you know what to expect with that kind of character.

But with Solas, they didn’t really tell you that was the character type at first, and then they added contrasting unexpected details -- like making the elf king dress up like a hobo. Like letting the age of this immortal elf mean he is genuinely mature and very experienced in a lot of ways, including his logic process, his actual patience, and ability to admit he’s wrong. They made the “cold immortal elf king” feel things deeply and passionately. They make him the butt of jokes, and make jokes of his own, and accidentally light his own coattails on fire when casting spells in battle (and not want to mention it after it happened because it embarrassed him). They made the Immortal Elf King Who Fights For Elves into a very round character who is humanized and lovable. It’s wild that he doesn’t distance himself. He’s in the thick of it, deeply concerned about everything going on. After thousands of years, how much he cares hasn’t changed. He hasn’t gotten too tired. He’s so old but he burns so bright. I really love old characters who somehow still care and haven’t given up, even after so much heartache.

“It can be argued that an immortal would have to be distant, or eventually all it would know is loss. What would our world look like to such a creature? What actions would they be capable of when everything except themselves is fleeting and therefore of little relevance to eternity? If we as elvhen discover a path back to what we were, we must be sure that the path is wide enough for all. For the individual who stumbles into that journey, who endures when all else is dust, can only be alone.” -Keeper Ilan'ta

[lesetoilesfous]

Sending you a prompt from the Bad Things Happen Bingo! I'd be interested to see what you do with "Defeated and Trophified", for either a negative Handers OR an Evil M!Hawke. Thank you! <3

Oooh thank you so much, I hope you enjoy!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: dark, abusive Handers

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Anders, Alistair Theirin

Tags: post da2, evil Hawke, implied abusive relationship

Rating: Mature

The new viscount of Kirkwall has made changes at the Keep, and indeed in the city in general. No longer are there any mages to be found anywhere, not even in the city-state’s infamous Gallows. Alistair had been struck by how few staves he’d seen anywhere as a result. He realises that he’d just sort of got used to apostates and presumably-legal Circle mages wandering throughout Fereldan. The absence of them here in Kirkwall is, well, stark. But Alistair is a king, and visiting his new trading partner is not the most burdensome of his many, many responsibilities, so he takes a deep breath and tries not to think about Kelton Amell, and climbs the stairs towards the viscount’s personal offices.

A servant who looks pale and frightened and flinches far too easily for Alistair’s comfort dips him a low, low bow and swings the door open on perfectly oiled hinges. Everywhere, the Amell family crest bleeds in red lines beside the emblem of the city of chains. Everything is spotless and silent, and even the air tastes clean, somehow - perfumed with what tastes to Alistair like elfroot and spindleweed. He’s led, with his retainers, into a large room with a long, beautiful dark wooden table. Behind it the Viscount of Kirkwall: muscular, broad, handsome Garrett Hawke, sits in state wearing an iron crown. Behind him, standing demurely with his hands folded and his head lowered, is the apostate who blew up the Chantry.

The first thing Alistair can find to think is that he recognises this man. He remembers gently encouraging Kelton to recruit him, almost a decade ago in Amaranthine. A young, frightened man whose brave face warred with his real horror at what the Templar order wished to do with him.

The second thing Alistair notices is the collar. It’s not ostentatious - of course not, if there’s one thing Alistair has learned from the immaculate Keep and the deathly silent streets, it’s that the man sitting in front of him does not go in for the obvious. But it’s a collar all the same: a thin, beautiful bar of rolled gold which hangs like a necklace around the apostate’s neck, darkened with dozens and dozens of finely engraved runes that makes it look stained black like an antique. Thin gold chains dip below the apostate’s neckline, under the loose, beautiful deep green silk tunic he’s wearing. There are matching, thick gold cuffs wrapped around each of his wrists. Alistair can’t see his feet from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t doubt there are cuffs there too. He swallows his bile, and refocuses his attention.

Hawke doesn’t bother to stand, which is technically a formal insult, but Alistair suspects it won’t be the last thing he tolerates today in the name of preventing open war. Instead he inclines his head, and waves at the frightened servant to pull out a chair. The servant does so, and Alistair thanks them softly, not missing the way Hawke’s mouth turns down in a sneer. The apostate behind the viscount, (the grey warden), says nothing. Alistair can barely believe he’s breathing, for how silent he’s being.

Hawke leans forward. “King Theirin. Such a pleasure to have your company so soon after our...troubles.” Behind Hawke, the apostate flinches, so subtly Alistair can hardly believe he noticed it. But Hawke’s jaw clenches, and the apostate’s already pale skin pales further.

Alistair thinks about facing down a broodmother and sits a little straighter in his chair. “Of course, Viscount. I was sorry to hear the news of your predecessor, and,” Alistair pauses, picking his words as carefully as stepping between landmines, “...confused by Knight-Commander Meredith’s interim occupation.”

Hawke laughs, and again, the apostate flinches. “Yes, well, Stannard always did have delusions of grandeur. But she wasn’t wrong about the mage problem. Worse than a nest of plague-ridden rats in this city and just as rotten. It was poisoning us from the inside out.”

Alistair lets the comment past him, and keeps his features neutral. He’d gotten good at this, as a child, under Isolde’s harassment. He asks, neutrally, as politely as he can, “Is it true, then? That you took part in the annulment personally?”

Again, Hawke laughs. Alistair feels a thorny kind of heat coiling in his chest. Hawke says, “Damned right I did. I was the only one left in the Blighted city with the fucking guts. Got every apostate too - all the criminals and infected children. I lanced the boil that this city had become and I burned out every bit of rot. Except this one,” Hawke gestures to the apostate behind him, then looks back at Alistair with a wide smile of perfect teeth, “But he’s pretty.”

Alistair fantasises about breaking his nose. Instead, he follows Hawke’s gesture to look up at the tall, broad man beside him. He’s older than he was, when Alistair had met him, lines printed across his face in deep crevasses. But he’s clean shaven, and his hair is brushed and soft around his head. Alistair listens to his own racing heartbeat for a moment before he speaks. “I heard he was a Grey Warden.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow, and there’s a flash of something there in the brown and gold of his irises that reminds Alistair terribly of the bird after which his family took its name. Something bloodthirsty, and cruel. “Like you? I told Vael, and the blighted Divine, Anders stays here. He’s mine.”

Alistair raises his hands in surrender and wonders whether Hawke can see that his palms are sweating. “Of course! Wouldn’t dream of separating you. It was only innocent curiosity. Now, I believe you have a Fereldan apostate to deliver to me?”

The blatant threat on Hawke’s face melts into a smirk, and he leans back in his chair. Behind him, Anders, the apostate’s shoulders lower, fractionally. Hawke clicks his fingers at the servant, and a few minutes later there’s the clatter of armour as a pair of templars bring in a wounded, starved looking elvhen girl.

Alistair thinks hard about exactly how much worse war would be for all his people and truly, deeply hates being king. Hawke gets up, circling the table to lift the girl’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. She glares at him, and Alistair hates that he’s heartened by this remaining spirit.

But then Hawke looks at the apostate in the corner and lifts his hand. The gold ring on his wedding finger, similarly blackened with runes, burns red, and Anders flinches as the jewellery on his wrists and neck glow, too. All Hawke says is, “Anders.”

The apostate moves faster than Alistair thinks he could have followed even if he were prepared for it. His hand flicks, and a silent bolt of lightning crosses the space of Hawke’s private quarters and connects with the girl’s skull. Her body slumps almost immediately, shuddering in a death rattle that is all too familiar to Alistair. He makes an effort to close his open mouth, and for the first time gives up the poker face.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Hawke smiles at him, close lipped and shrewd. “A lesson, your majesty. We won’t tolerate apostates in Kirkwall. Try to keep them on your side of the ocean.”

Alistair looks up at the apostate, Anders, but his hands are already folded in front of him again, his head bowed. Alistair swallows past the dryness of his mouth and the thick lump in his throat, and gets to his feet with an agonisingly loud screech of the wooden chair legs on stone.”Well, Viscount. It’s certainly been...educational.”

Alistair turns and tries not to imagine the entire darkspawn horde at his heels. Hawke doesn’t stand, and his pet apostate doesn’t move. But when Alistair gets to the door, Hawke speaks again. “Come back any time, your majesty. Anders can do wonderful things with his hands.”

Alistair doesn’t turn around. The doors swing shut behind them, and both the Keep’s guards and two servants usher them forward. But Alistair hesitates, listening for a moment.

Through the wooden doors, there’s a crack of skin on skin, and a soft cry of pain. Softly, deadly, Alistair hears the Viscount whisper, “Killed her quickly, didn’t you? Any suffering you spared her I’ll deal you, later.”

Alistair doesn’t realised he’s curled his fingers into a fist until one of his guard’s touches his forearm, her eyes wide with either fear or concern. Slowly, Alistair uncurls his hand, listening to the crunch of metal, and follows the soldiers and servants out of the Keep. He makes a mental note to write Zevran, later.

There’s a warden in need, and a state leader in desperate want of assassination.

[abelasx]

They had a word for it in their language.

Banalhan. The Blight that had been killing their people for years; Dirthera was young when he'd started to fade. It had been centuries since Abelas had last known his father, but he remembered how his body withered, how his skin purpled in places, how it receded until hardly anything elvhen left about him. Abelas remembered how Oberon had wept for his friend, and the hand the King had placed on his shoulder when he'd told him he wasn't alone. He'd all but forgotten the song entirely, as was Abelas's way until Ikaros uttered its name once more.

Suledin. Ikaros said. Endure.

Abelas had known nymphs who'd wept themselves to stone, dryads that sank into their roots and never rose from the dirt again. Abelas had started to understand the sort of grief that left a statue in the place where a person used to be.

"Melava inan enansal," Abelas muttered as Ikaros dried his eyes and the older of the two looked down at Icarus in his lap. "ir su travel tu elvaral," he ran his hands over the mess of mattered feathers as Icarus quaked. "u no emma abelas," a quiver ran up the sorrowful spine of the elvhen, he'd carved out this shape for himself so long ago he'd forgotten that he'd ever gone by another name. "in elgar sa vir mana," he sniffed as Abelas brought the back of his wrist under his nose. "in tu setheneran din emma an."

'Time was once a blessing, but long journeys are made longer when alone within. Take spirit from long ago, but do not dwell in lands no longer yours.'

"Lath sulevin, lath araval ena," Abelas was still a child when the Blight took one of his fathers from him. One was taken without any choice and the other left on his own accord. There was a reason why, since then, there were claw marks in everything that had ever been dragged away from Abelas. Why he fought so hard. "arla ven tu vir mahvir, melana 'nehn, enasal ir sa lethalin."

'Be certain in need, and the path will emerge to a home tomorrow, and time will again be the joy it once was.'

Time did not care if Abelas was ready or not, regardless of what any of them may have wanted, the Blight would try and kill them just the same. There was a time to grieve and a time to press ahead. They were elvhen, they swallowed the pain with the years and pushed forward. Time would not stand by and patiently wait and watch him as he mourned; Ikaros couldn't say it, so Abelas would be certain enough for both of them.

"You're going to be fine," Abelas laid his hands on the owlbear's coat, he couldn't control anything except what was in front of him. Vallas was awake now, circling overhead but close. "he's going to be fine." There were witches and waygates and airships and flying mounts and probably more. One way or another, they were getting to Blackrock.

"We'll get there," Ikaros had no doubt about that – there had to be someone, or something, that could get them there. Even the shadows of the night would be dangerous, and he and Saleba could only go so quickly through them. Ikaros watched as Gwaern crawled to be closer to Vallas and Abelas, the little obsidian dragon not entirely enjoying the sorrow that he was feeling between the two.

"Abelas," Ikaros looked at his brother now, and perhaps this was yet another time that Abelas couldn't run his way through his feelings, through what was taking place. Elvhen were emotional creatures, so much like the fey that surrounded their gate. Too often he knew his brother to slam his fists down on the rocks, to shatter anything that would dare try and take something away from him. A gentle soul and a gentle heart, and one that Ikaros would never lie to. "We have to try. For Icarus, right? If we don't try, then what he did here, for you, for me – we have to try."

He used his free hand to wipe the tears from his brother's cheek. Ikaros felt his own eyes burn, but he couldn't do that – not now. His resolve had to carry through, but there was doubt. It crept through his chest as he thought about how far they had to go. "I swear I will try with everything I have to make sure nothing happens to him, Abelas." Sorrow – sorrow in his brother's name – unfair with how much joy the two brought to life. "Suledin, Abelas." Endure. "Come on. Get up. Icarus is strong, he'll fight for you more than himself. So show him that we can make it. Believe in it."

[commie-eschatology]

Fiona, Breaker of Chains

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041928

“It's hard to start a revolution. Even harder to continue it. And hardest of all to win it.” - Ben M'Hidi, Battle of Algiers. Fiona despairs, as Alexius's spell leaves her unmoored in time.

“Starting a revolution is the easy part. Winning one is the far more difficult task.”

Fiona looks at the words she has written, and cannot remember why. She sees that it is a pamphlet to send out to the remaining rebels, but she cannot recall for what purpose. Her temples throb with pain, eyes droop downwards with exhaustion- when was the last time she slept? She can’t remember.

“The Venatori, as the vanguard of the Imperium, will be honored to protect the mage rebellion from the templars, if, Grand Enchanter, you would merely agree to the terms of our contract,” says the Tevinter, a man she can’t recognize at first. Slowly, she remembers, this is the shem who seeks indentured servitude for her people, who’d provide protection from the templars if she’d agree to ship a few elvhen up to the Imperium. She opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, that she’ll personally rip out his shem tongue if he dares make such an offer here again, but the words don’t form. She feels blood drip down from her nose, her vision clouds.

Fiona’s in the White Spire, yelling “Fuck the Divine” to the College, relishing the horrified gasps of the Loyalists. “Well I’m sure the Divine is a perfectly nice woman,” she smirks. The vote swings their way, a moment Fiona has fought for her entire life, but now that it’s here, she feels unprepared for what happens next. They fight through the circle, a young enchanter, one of the People, throws himself on a templar blade to save Fiona; she doesn’t even know his name. So many sacrifices, cannot let them be in vain, must do what is impossible. In the streets of Val Royeaux, they chant that they are finally free, but they are not yet; it’s just a comfortable lie that they all share.

“I understand the nobility of Ferelden has reached the limit of their accommodation. The Imperium will provide what King Alistair will not,” says the shem magister, fiddling with a strange talisman. Alistair. She’s holding her baby boy in her arms, caresses the slight point of his small ears. Fiona is of the People, the long struggle of the Elvhen is in her very bones, she cannot impose such a burden on a child. Her son will never know his People, will never know her. She is a revolutionary, fighting and always prepared to die for her people, and there is no time for anything else.

Fiona is in Denerim after the Blight, watching from afar as they place a crown on Alistair’s head. She hopes the shem aristocrats will learn to ignore the slight point of his ears, the strange width of his eyes. Then, she is reading about another purge of the alienage,  of how the appointed Elvhen Bann was murdered and not replaced by the Ferelden Crown. Her son has grown into a shemlen after all, what did she expect?

She’s kneeling before the throne, a necessary degradation after Andoral’s Reach, her grown son above her. Her knees begin to cramp before he finally speaks in full view of the court, “Very well, the rebel mages will have sanctuary in Ferelden. But, our army won’t fight for you, nor will we prevent the templars from pursuit if they wish.” Fiona grovels and thanks him, as is expected, he motions for her to stand and whispers that he wishes there was more he could do. But then, she is in the halls of Redcliffe castle, and her own son, flanked by his honor guard, orders the rebels to leave their sanctuary, recalling any protection her people had from the templars.

“It is a quite reasonable offer. I do not believe you will find a better one,” the magister says. She’s in her chambers, reading the daily casualties. Every day another friend, another comrade, dead, or worse. As the templars advance, demons of Despair appear as she dreams; Fiona herself manages to shut them out, but other enchanters aren’t so lucky. Every night brings danger, she’s never sure how many will wake in the morning. Fiona prays to Andraste and Shartan every night, wondering if they ever felt such crushing doubt during their rebellion, the kind that makes her feel as she is constantly shrinking into herself. She prays to the old gods of the People as well, for the justice of Mythal, the cunning of Andruil, the power of Elgar'nan, but they, as always, are silent. In her dreams, she spies a Wolf watching her curiously; on top of everything else, it seems she’s caught the scent of the fucking Dread Wolf.

She’s face-to-face with Enchanter Trevelyan now, daughter of the infamous Lady Trevelyan of the Free Marches, now called the “Herald of Andraste.”The true-believing Liberati, the one she sent to stop the Conclave if the negotiations didn’t swing their way, returns to Redcliffe with a Seeker at her back. Fiona watches as she realizes the terrible truth of their predicament,“An Alliance with Tevinter? I cannot possibly think of a worse decision you could have made,” she says. But, what decision was there?

Fiona is in the back of the tavern now, her temples throb with pain, and her mind feels foggy. She thinks there’s something important she has forgotten, but can’t remember what. Enchanter Linnea of Ostwick sits beside her, puts a comforting hand on her knee and says, “You did the right thing. The Imperium will protect us now.”

Trevelyan appears again in front of Fiona and Linnea, this time separate from her Inquisition companions. “Let me help,” she begs, “All I want is for our people to not end up in Circles again. Or worse.” Fiona cannot find the words to answer, so Linnea does so for her. “Go back to your templars,” she scoffs, Trevleyn flinches.

“Grand Enchanter?” the magister smiles, “will the mage rebellion accept our terms?” There is no choice to make. They never could win this rebellion. She’s already chosen, and will do it again.

“Yes, Magister Alexius,” she concedes. This time, at least, the shackles are hers to choose.

[jackdawyt]

Today I’m continuing my new mini-series paving the road for the anticipated release of the next Dragon Age game. Through these videos, I’ll be delving into very particular honed-in lore and plot threads that are rather telling for the future narrative of Dragon Age.  

Last episode I discussed the blighted mineral known as Red Lyrium as it spreads throughout the land, tainting everything it touches, wreaking havoc on the eco-system of Thedas. However, today we have a subjectively worse rival that already has plans for Thedas and its people.  

A most prideful, hot-headed fool lingers. One who you could consider to be an enemy, friend or lover. But ultimately, and most importantly, he’s a man who in the end is sorry, and believes he’s only doing what he must for the sake of his people. Of course, we talking about Solas and his plans for Thedas.

In order for us to look forward regarding what Solas’ future scheme may entail; we’ve got to recollect everything that has been instrumental in his plan to restore the elvhen kingdom by destroying the Veil.  

“Cry havoc in the moonlight, let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear.” (Solas, DA:I).

Solas comes from a time when everything sang the same. A time before the Veil was created. When the ancient elven kingdom of Arlathan flourished. Elves were seen as immortal, powerful mages that ruled the lands. The most impressive of their kind were the Evanuris, whom the Dalish call "The Creators".

The Creators

“Long ago, there were two clans of gods. The Creators looked after the People. The Forgotten Ones preyed upon us.  And one god who was neither. Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. He was kin to the Creators, and in the days of old, often helped them with their endless war against the Forgotten Ones.” (Merril, DA2).

The Evanuris “were said to bestow all life's gifts and dole out its punishments” (WoT V.1). The pantheon consisted of nine “gods”:  

Elgar'nan: God of Vengeance

Mythal: the Great Protector

Falon'Din: Friend of the Dead, the Guide

Dirthamen: Keeper of Secrets

Andruil: Goddess of the Hunt

Sylaise: the Hearthkeeper

June: God of the Craft

Ghilan'nain: Mother of the Halla

Fen'Harel: The Dread Wolf

“Fen’Harel was clever. He could walk among both clans of gods without fear, and both believed he was one of them.” (Merril, DA2).

While it’s unclear what exactly happened, the Elven Pantheon declared war on anyone who dare oppose them.  

"It started with a war. War breeds fear. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Chains of command. After the war ended, generals became respected elders, then kings, then finally gods. The Evanuris." (Solas, DA:I).  

Codex entries point to a longing feud with both the Titans and the Forgotten Ones:

“One day Andruil grew tired of hunting mortal men and beasts. She began stalking The Forgotten Ones, wicked things that thrive in the abyss.” (Codex entry: Elven God Andruil).

"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!" (Codex entry: Veilfire Runes in the Deep Roads).

Regardless of who or what was defeated, the Evanuris were victorious in their conquest. This triumph was the beginning of the pantheons’ corruption - with their hubris - the Evanuris became a villainous tyranny.

In their lust for power, members of the Evnauris plotted against Mythal and killed her. This act would bring forth the elven kingdoms doom known as “the Betrayal.”

The Betrayal

“You said the elven gods went too far. What did they do that made you move against them?” (Inquisitor).  

“They killed Mythal. She was the best of them. She cared for her people. She protected them. She was a voice of reason. And in their lust for power, they killed her.”

A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment. (Solas).

This chain of events set Solas’ scheme in motion – to avenge Mythal and right the Evanuris’ wrongdoings.  

Solas rebelled against the pantheon, he worked to free slaves bound by vallaslin, granting them sanctuary from their tyrannical masters.

He created the Veil, a magical barrier that separated the foundations of magic that Arlathan was built on. The Veil’s creation brought destruction to the Elvhen, countless marvels reliant on the Fade crumbled, the people lost their immortality and the majority of their magic.  

Then Solas banished each of the Evnauris to the Beyond, where they linger forever in torment.

This was the great quickening that the Dalish elves in Thedas still believe today. The disarrayment and destruction of the elven empire. However, ‘twas not Tevinter, nor the pride of mortal man who destroyed the elves.

A few even claim their ancestors were immortal, and it was only the arrival of humans- "shemlen" or "quicklings” that brought death to the "elvhen" people. (WoT V.1).

It was indeed Solas who destroyed the elvhen world.  

"It was not the arrival of humans that caused us to begin aging. It was me. The Veil took everything from the elves, even themselves.” (Solas, DA:I)

After creating the Veil, Solas fell into a deep slumber.  

"I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you." (Solas, DA:I).

Having slept for many years, Solas awoke. He witnessed the transition of his proud and immortal people, now reduced to the fringes of human society.  

Once the greatest empire in Thedas, now a cluster of baboons with a false understanding of their existence. They spread false tales of the Evanuris’ feud, praising the false gods, and condemning Fen’Harel. Wearing vallaslin as worship, without realising their slave mark origin.  

The elves today can’t even speak the same complexities of their old language, while the remains of Arlathan are nothing but a shallow husk, its memory long since gone, along with the majority of magic.  

“My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die.”  (Solas, DA:I).

While the blame falls to Solas for the elven people’s decimation, what the Evanuris had planned would’ve destroyed the entire world. Solas believed creating the Veil was the lesser of two evils.  

“Had I not created the Veil the Evanuris would have destroyed the entire world.” (Solas, DA:I).

While Solas woke up still weak, he has plans to restore the elven people to their former glory. Originally, Solas planned to use his orb of destruction to destroy the Veil, re-establishing the world of his time. However, his slumber had made him too weak to unlock the orb, so using his agents, Solas indirectly gave his orb to Corypheus.  

Corypheus, being an ancient and powerful darkspawn would then unlock the orb and die in the resulting explosion. However, that didn’t happen.

Instead, Corypheus uncovered the secrets of effective immortality, and the Inquisitor was the one who gained the orb’s power – the Anchor.  

The Anchor

As a result, Solas joined the Inquisition with the sole purpose of defeating Corypheus and getting his unlocked orb back, so he could resume his plan to destroy the Veil. (which explains why he knew so much about the Anchor in the first place).

Of course, this plan too was unsuccessful because the orb was destroyed by failing rocks with the defeat of Corypheus. However, Solas did not expect to find someone he could relate to, as much as he did with the Inquisitor.  

“You change everything.” (Solas, DA:I).

He cared for this world, and some of the people in it. And that truly surprised him. But that vulnerability is only going to make his plan harder. No matter how much the Inquisitor tried to sway him, Solas walks the journey of death, he would not have anyone close to him see what he will become.  

“I walk the dinan'shiral. There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.” (Solas, DA:I).

If the Veil is successfully destroyed, the Evanuris (and whatever else lingers in the Beyond) will be released, after suffering years of torment. With their freedom, surely, they’ll unleash havoc on Thedas once again, exacting revenge at the one responsible for their imprisonment.  

"Wouldn't the false gods be free?" (The Inquisitor, DA:I).

"I had plans." (Solas, DA:I).

In order for Solas to grant Mythal vengeance, he will need to silence the Evanuris for good. For this plan, Solas has taken an aspect of Mythal’s power so he can rise as the Dread Wolf.  

The Dread Wolf

With that power now invested, Solas can transform into the Dread Wolf. In this form, the wolf is “lupine in appearance, but the size of a high dragon, with shaggy spiked hide and six burning eyes like a pride demon.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 496).

Solas as the Dread Wolf has taken residence in the Fade where spirits and demons serve him willingly. He has an enigmatic ritual for the Fade that has been set in motion. Since his orb’s destruction, Solas has been looking at other alternatives for tearing down the Veil.  

“As the Avvar do. But whatever fear the name Dread Wolf carries, he has earned. While we might visit the Fade, it is his natural home, and the spirits there serve him gladly. They whisper in my dreams now, accusing me of crimes I never.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 498).

Currently, Solas hunts the Red Lyrium Idol, which apparently belongs to him, and he has a purpose for it. Other than that, not much else is known about it, not even its location.  

"The Dread Wolf wants that idol, and he’s not afraid to get his hands bloody to get it." (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 490).

“He intends something for the Fade, and if he wants the idol, then whatever he intends will be terrible.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 498).

Solas has always had a network of agents working for him behind the curtains. However, the length of Solas’s spies has greatly increased. Many of the Dalish Elves truly believe in Solas's cause and have joined his fight and even the Ancient Elves have been acquired for his schemes.  

“And now we know that the Dread Wolf has agents working for him.” (The Bard, The Dread Wolf Take You).

The elves who haven’t joined his ranks have begun to call his army - “Fen’Harel cultists”  

Fen’Harel Cultists

“Each one of those damned Fen’Harel cultists. ‘Ooh, if we blow up enough people, ancient Elvhenan is definitely coming back.’” She caught my questioning glance. “They tried to recruit me a few years ago. I said no.” (Half Up Front, page 470)

Solas’ agents, or cultists, whichever takes your liking, already tried to manipulate a war between the Qunari Ben-Hassrath and Tevinter kinsman. An agent of Fen’Harel placed a Tevinter rogue on Qunari lands as a bomb destroyed the Qun’s new darvaarad.

Fortunately, the Ben-Hassrath discovered this plot before it was too late. However, If this plan was successful, it would’ve caused immediate chaos for all of Thedas.

“A Tevinter altus, striking at a Qunari settlement that had yet to enter hostilities? Ben- Hassrath wouldn’t be able to sit the war out anymore. Utter and complete chaos.” I felt nauseous. What I’d almost done, almost been responsible for. (Half Up Front, page 478).

And finally, most recently in a desperate attempt to intercept Thedas’ top spy factions, Solas disguised himself as an Orlesian Bard with a blonde wig and all the trimmings.  

Interception  

An Executor, Carta Assassin, Mortalitasi Mage, Inquisition Spy and, of course, Solas were present.  

He listened as each faction shared their knowledge on the Dread Wolf, before the Executor could speak, Solas killed them. Then he attempted to lie about his knowledge on the Wolf, but was quickly caught out.  

He turned the Mortalitasi and Carta Assassin to stone, and revealed himself to the Inquisition Spy known as Chater.  

Out of his disguise, Solas appeared tired and sad. He knows that many oppose him and that they are not fools. Telling the Inquisitor what he intended to do was a moment of weakness.

“He sighed. “It was a moment of weakness. I told myself that it was because you all deserved to know, to live a few years in peace before my ritual was complete.  Before this world ended.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 506).

He admitted he’s prideful, hot-headed and foolish. Most importantly that he’s sorry for what is to come next.  

“I am prideful, hotheaded, and foolish, and I am doing what I must. When you report back to the Inquisitor . . .” His voice faltered. “Say that I am sorry.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 506).

I’ve already addressed the most apparent plot points that regard Solas’s future scheme like the potential destruction of the Veil and dealing with the Evnauris. But other plot points linger that intertwine with Solas’s plan:

Solas's Ritual

As I already stated, Solas has started a ritual ongoing in the Fade with the help of spirits and demons. It’s a very ambiguous ritual, however, we do know that binding spirits and using blood magic undoes both the work that Solas has planned for the Fade, and the ritual that has been set in motion.  

“And as clear as the Dread Wolf’s anger at what we had done— the Mortalitasi binding spirits he considered his own, the Tevinter mage using forbidden blood magic— was the feeling that we had disrupted his own work.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 498).

Perhaps more of these types of magic is needed to disrupt his ritual? This would make the Mortalitasi and Tevinter Magisters great allies in the coming war.  

The Inquisitor

Solas’ journey in modern day Thedas started with our Inquisitor, surely his journey should end with them too. The Inquisitor swore to either attempt to redeem or stop Solas, this narrative needs to reach its end. Will Solas and the Inquisitor reach a happy climax? Probably not, but that doesn’t mean our Inquisitor will easily give up. The two characters need closure to end their story for good.  

Mythal’s Vengeance  

I feel like I need to reiterate that Solas did not absorb Mythal’s spirt, he only took an aspect of her power before she placed a piece of herself in an eluvian, as she finds her next vessel. This means that whoever drank from the Well of Sorrows are still bound to Mythal, Solas did not possess or absorb her soul, she is still alive.  

All Solas did, with Mythal willing, was absorb an unknown quantity of her power so he could rise as the Dread Wolf and fulfil her bidding to slay the rest of the pantheon. I truly believe Mythal has a greater scheme at play, and Solas has fallen ridicule to her, he’s blind sighted because of the bond they share, but I believe Mythal has darker intentions, and they’ll soon come to play once Solas destroys the Veil.  

So, what does come next for Solas? There are a lot of future topics we’ve touched on, but all I can say is we should expect to see him transform into the most villainous Dread Wolf as he stops anyone who dare intercede with his scheme. Not only that, but he has an army of spirts and demons in the Fade, with his agents on the field in Thedas. The tensions are rising, perhaps soon enough we’ll witness the magic come back, as Solas rises to destroy the Veil. The Evanuris are too going to be out for vengeance, only time will tell if we can save our friend before it’s too late.

[scurvgirl]

Live

Holy moly I actually wrote something. And while in grad school no less.

Zevran/Male Surana; my boy’s name is Faleris (Fal)

Synopsis:  A mage's phylactery is a leash, and they are done with leashes. All they ever wanted was to live, free of the Crows and of the Circle. Fal freed Zevran from the Crows, and it's time for Zevran to return the favor.

Warnings for: Blood, self-harm (for blood magic purposes), near death experiences, implied sexual content

This is also available on AO3 under the same title.

Please remember that reblogs and comments make a content creator’s world and will prompt content you like!

__________

It did not escape his notice that of all the buildings to sustain damage during the battle, Denerim’s Chantry was one of the least hit. Not to say it wasn’t damaged, but it wasn’t rubble. There was a smudged but clear ring of darker dirt surrounding the abbey, marking the place where so many people decided they would die fighting to protect the Chantry. He could contemplate the sadness of the loss of life, but now was not the time. Rather, it was fortunate for him and his purposes this night.

Zevran slipped into the Chantry, quick and unnoticed, the shadows concealing him like a familiar coat. His steps made no noise, his eyes were quick, his decisions quicker. Not so long ago, he would have been reveling in this, the knowledge he was in a place he wasn’t supposed to be, about to do something many did not want to happen, but also something some did want. So much had changed in a short amount of time. He wasn’t that man anymore, and thank the Maker for that.

“The elvhen word for love is vhenan.” Fal whispered, gently running his finger down Zevran’s arm.

“A pretty word,” Zevran murmured sleepily.

“I think...I think my father was Dalish, because he would say that sometimes. I remember him saying my name and that. Vhenan.”

“Amor…”

“And this word, I want it for us. I want it for you...vhenan.”

The corridor was lit with the bare minimum number of candles, casting large shadows that made this easy. None of this was easy though.

The door he wanted was located in the Revered Mother’s quarters. Zevran happened to know she was currently occupied at the palace, praying over the brave souls who risked their lives during the battle. The Chantry had unfortunately been too small to house all of them, and the newly minted King had graciously allowed the use of the palace to serve as an infirmary.

Zevran opened the door with the key he had swiped from the Mother earlier in the day. The door lead to a dark downward sloping staircase that Zevran descended swiftly. There were no sounds of activity, but there was another barrier he would need to pass in order to reach his destination.

His ears pricked and he stopped, listening carefully.

“I love your ears,” Fal purred, nibbling at the sensitive lobe.

Metal scraped against stone - Templar. A lone one given the limited sounds and the fact that he knew that the Templars were largely called to assist in other areas of the city that had sustained significant magical damage.

Relying on his hearing and hands, Zevran finished descending the stairs. The landing was small and the templar stood guard at a wide, metal door. There wasn’t much room to maneuver, but Zevran was nothing if not skilled. Leveraging all his quickness, Zevran rounded the edge of the room, maintaining himself in the templar’s blindspot. He dropped to the floor behind the templar, struck out with his legs, knocking the guard to the ground.

“Oomf!” Zevran grabbed hold of the helmet and slammed it into the ground once, twice, until he was sufficiently knocked unconscious. There. He’ll wake up with a nasty headache and bump on his head, but he wouldn’t be dead unlike many of his fellows.

Zevran picked up the key loop from the templar’s belt and went to the task of opening the door. There was a total of four keys to open the damned thing, but he was determined.

“You’re quite talented, you know,” Fal said, fully clothed in broad daylight, watching Zevran sharpen his knives.

Zevran quirked a brow, “I am happy to show you my talents.”

Fal rolled his eyes, “Outside of lovemaking and death. I mean, your mind, you’re clever.”  

The door swung open and there he was, standing inside a vault full of blood, but he only wanted to find one.

“I wish I wasn’t a mage sometimes,” Fal confessed, his body turned away from Zevran’s.

“Why? Your magic is beautiful, and quite enjoyable.”

“It’s a leash. No matter how good I am, how much I try, they’ll always hunt me down if they so much as think I’ve stepped out of line. An elven mage? We’re hunted.”

Zevran turned over and wrapped his arms around Faleris, holding him tightly, angry at a world that seemed determined to villainize his lover. “I won’t let that happen.”

There were thousands of vials, hallways full of racks of blood with neat labels. His skin itched from the magic permeating the air, making him angry at the hypocrisy. It was blood magic, using a mage’s own blood to track them, not that the Chantry would ever admit it.

Fal relaxed in Zevran’s arms, “When I don’t dream of darkspawn, I dream of them. I prefer the darkspawn.”

As clever as Fal believed him to be, Zevran had no idea how the vials were organized. He started with the obvious thought, alphabetical, but it there were only clusters of alphabetized vials. There were no consistent...wait, there. He gently moved a vial to the side, finding a plaque reading “9:1 Dragon”. Of course, they were organized by the year each mage was harrowed. Fal had told Zevran of the Harrowing, how they stuck demons inside of apprentices and expected them to resist it otherwise they were killed. Or even worse, they weren’t even Harrowed and were made tranquil.

Zevran moved through the racks faster after that, checking the dated sections, going further back and to the left until he found a half-full section labeled “9:30 Dragon.” This was it, Fal’s phylactery had to be here...and there it was. There weren’t many phylacteries for the year, given the state of affairs, but there was Fal’s - a small, glass tube that looked like every other vial in the room. The blood was bright red, the stopper laden with magic.

“I want you to feel something,” Fal whispered, leaning over Zevran, already naked and wanting.

“I already feel it -

“Not that, silly! But this.” Fal ran his hands down his sides, incredible pinpricks of energy and pleasure sinking into his skin. Zevran gasped then groaned.

“It’s my magic, for you. I want you to love it like I do.”

Zevran flipped them over, kissing Fal deeply, “Oh I love it.”

There was no pleasure with this magic, but the prickliness was familiar. The blood was familiar too, though he wouldn’t have known it if it were not for the label. All blood looked the same, but this...this was taken from Faleris when he was just a child, to be tracked if he ever deigned to leave the confines of that prison they call a Circle. Or if he dared to use magic they deemed wrong.

This was it, Zevran thought, this was how he died. It was terrible too, just when he had decided to live again, when he discovered what it was to love and be loved in turn.

“Vhenan! No! No! You can’t, you can’t!” Fal...he was crying and screaming.

“Shh, shh, amor, it’s alright.” He tried to speak, but there was too much blood in his mouth. He knew they were out of the healing poultices. He knew that Fal had no real skills as a healer. He was so gifted in his magic, but healing...it wasn’t one of them. And Wynne wasn’t near.

“Vhenan, I...I won’t lose you. Just...just hold on for me, please.” How could Zevran not do as Fal asked when he sounded like that, when he looked like that - broken and crying, the dirt and blood on his face making his hazel eyes stand out even more?

Fal reached down and pulled out a knife Zevran kept on his belt, and before Zevran could process it, Fal was dragging the knife across his palm. Forbidden words slipped past his lips and the blood spilling from his hand began to move. The pain in Zevran’s body faded slightly, and Fal cut himself again. More pain faded. Another cut. Less pain.

It took five cuts for Zevran to find the strength to reach up and snatch the knife away.

“You will not kill yourself because of me!”

“I’m...fine.” Fal collapsed in Zevran’s arms, bloody and exhausted but alive.

Back at camp, Wynne healed them both and she thankfully said nothing about the obvious carnage done to Fal’s hand.

Zevran left the vault with the vial tucked into his cloak. He had “accidentally” knocked over a couple of the other vials in the vault to make it less obvious that Fal’s vial was missing. After everything Fal had done for the world...the world owed him his freedom at least. Zevran knew that the world wouldn’t give what wouldn’t be taken, so he took it for Fal.

He sneaked his way back into the palace, up to the private bedrooms where a specific elven mage lay unconscious and healing.

He closed the door to the bedroom behind him and took off his outer layers, palming the small vial.

“I know it’s late, mi amor, but when has that stopped us?” He asked the silent man.

“Mm, yes, the Deep Roads. You hated it there, never in the mood for anything fun if you couldn’t feel the sun the next day.” He climbed onto the bed and kissed Fal’s temple gently, careful not to touch any of the bruises that still colored his body.

“I love you, how can I...even if I liked that, how...would you forgive me?” Fal asked, pain clear on his face even in the low light of the fire.

“Mi amor, you have found a way to live. I beg you, live.”

Fal had taken Morrigan’s gamble, and still he was here in this bed, nearly motionless, breathing shallow, and barely clinging to life. Zevran would have hunted the witch if he didn’t know that even this much was a miracle thanks to her.

Zevran crawled into the bed, careful not to jostle Fal. He took Fal’s right hand, pausing to run a thumb over the ugly scar that marred his palm. He kissed the scar for what felt like the  hundredth time, hoping it wasn’t his last. He took the vial out of his shirt pocket and pressed it to Fal’s palm.

“You’re free, amor, they won’t ever be able to hunt you. You’re safe.” He kissed Fal’s lips, his heart hurting terribly in his chest. “Now, please, live. Live. ”