#fatesown - dhavihal

[hoboblaidd]

@fatesown liked for a starter - Dhavihal

Solas rested against one of the many bare boulders littering the Exalted Plains. He watched her careful approach to the Golden Halla with a mix of amusement and frustration. A breach in the sky, a magister wielding the power of a "god" - his power - and the only one who could end the onslaught was trying to herd a deer.

He removed his pack, grateful for the relief of its weight from his shoulders. He dug into its somewhat organized compartments and removed a bit of bread. This endeavor, futile as he believed it to be, would likely take some time. He let his gaze wander to the imposing stone carving of the Wolf atop a distant mountain. This land had been so different once, but echoes of its past could still be felt in the stone, the river, and the remnants of trees not scorched by the Orlesian civil war.

"You have a way with the beasts," called Solas, even as the Hanal'ghilan worried before Dhavihal, torn between its instinct to flee and her calming guidance. "Perhaps you may even corral her by sundown." It is both jest and a sigh. Stolen moments of mundane joy were a thing to be treasured, but there were rifts abundant in the Plains that had once belonged to his People, and far bigger problems to solve than the care of one halla.

[dreadwxlf]

@fatesown sent: “lucky for us, we’ve got a knack for miracles.” - from dhavihal

~ " That is one way of putting it, I suppose," Solas replied wryly. " Though I am I not certain we should place our trust in some grand, unknowable power. It will be our actions alone that will be responsible for closing the Breach. " His eyes travel to the swirling emerald mass of clouds above them: an ever present reminder of his mistakes. His hope now rested in this Dalish quickling, unknowingly wielding the power of the ancients. They would need a miracle indeed. ~

~ " ...Do you truly believe you were sent by Andraste, as the humans say? " ~

[hoboblaidd]

[ lean ] sender slowly leans into receiver's shoulder and rests there for a while - from dhavihal but never any pressure <3

Biting cold stung the skin of the refugees fleeing the burning and buried remains of Haven. The Frostbacks were an unforgiving maze of jagged rock and howling wind. None of them were impervious to it, Solas included. The train of survivors stopped frequently to warm themselves and their mounts. Even the brontos paused to huddle together to share their warmth.

Solas guided Dhavihal north. He typically avoided the circle of advisors that had sprung up in the wake of the Breach. He had no desire to act as they did, directing the Inquisition this way and that beneath their Herald. But on the journey to Skyhold, Solas and Mother Giselle found themselves added to the inner circle.

Cassandra and Cullen sniped at each other when Dhavihal approached the makeshift war table, which was little more than a cask with a crumbling map of the Frostbacks laid out. Solas didn't need a map, but he humored them.

This was the typical meeting of the expanded group of advisors. Cullen griped about the pace of their march and the concern over rations. Leliana relayed the reports she received by raven. Josephine was quiet - not much for a diplomat to do but try to fight the cold. Cassandra paced. Mother Giselle preached. And Solas typically sat on a crate, waiting for their gripes to peter down before offering estimates on the time it would take them to reach Skyhold.

Solas inclined his head at Dhavihal and nodded to the spot next to him on the crate. She, too, bore the stinging redness on her nose and cheeks that came with the cold, something he was certain was reflected on his own face. Leliana joined the Cullen-Cassandra fray, and Solas shook his head with a wry raise of his eyebrow.

"If this persists, I expect you'll receive another song from our Revered Mother," he said to Dhavi with a dry chuckle in Mother Giselle's direction. "Best prepare to be sainted again."

He expected the sigh from their Herald, and even the exhausted set of her shoulders, but he did not expect the slump of her head against his shoulder. His smile, unseen from her vantage point, was surprised but soft.

Mother Giselle watched them with narrowed eyes, but Solas returned her gaze without relenting. A challenge. She may attempt to deify this Dalish elf, and the 'Herald' title may benefit from a larger perspective, but here they were all of them simply people.

"It's not long now, lethallan," said Solas gently in Elvhen as Mother Giselle finally looked away. His words were only for Dhavihal. "Take the rest." He did not move to rise, and though he had little warmth to offer, he could, at least, provide a shoulder to lean on.

[hoboblaidd]

"i won't let anything happen to you." - from dhavihal uwu

ask meme - feeling safe / expressing comfort - @fatesown - dhavihal

Her words draw a genuine, if subdued, smile. The Orlesians congregating around their camp had made no secret of their disdain and distrust of an apostate in their midst, regardless of the fact that all mages were apostates now. But to them, he was a rabbit who had evaded the proper course of things even before the little bother with the mages and templars. "That is...certainly a comfort," Solas said, "and appreciated. But I would not come between your Inquisition and its goal. For this Inquisition to maintain its growing power, you must be prepared to make sacrifices. I am happy to stay out of the way of their ire to ensure that."

[hoboblaidd]

[ listen ] sender listens to receiver explain something they're passionate about - from dhavihal ^u^

ask meme - ordinary things that feel intimate

“That the Chantry ever declared them to be the ‘Maker’s children’ is predictably near-sighted, but it does them immense discredit. 

“Indeed, they only truly take a form we might recognize when in the presence of a mortal with the same shape. Even in dreams, when we are no more bound to a body as a spirit, they intuit their form from our subconscious mind. So it follows that demons, when pulled into our world as they are by the Breach, take our shape.

“Add to that, the - ”

Luckily for Dhavihal, at that moment the last rays of the setting sun slid across the thatched rooftop opposite his usual haunt in Haven. He distinctly recalled the sun being comfortably in the sky when she’d first approached him.

“That I seem to have worn out the day. I apologize,” he said, inclining his head. “I hope that long-winded response answered your…question.” Which he did not remember.

[hoboblaidd]

"Trust does not come easily to me," Solas said with a wry smile. "But, we have traveled months together, and in that time you have been called a herald, a prophet, and in some hushed whispers, close to a god. That that has not changed you, that you still wish only for the simple pleasure of herding a halla to a safe home, that has given me hope that you are better than the titles they heap upon you. If that does not earn even a small degree of trust from me, then I am more of a fool than I thought."

He took the wine cask with a slight nod of thanks. It was a decent vintage, one of those that Dorian had insisted the Inquisition acquire upon reaching Skyhold. Solas was grateful for it, as the two of them sat and watched the sun set behind the watchful statue of the Wolf high up in the mountains. It made the moment almost feel normal. As if they were nothing more than two elves finding solace in each other along the banks of a quiet river.

"I don't dislike the halla," he finally admitted with a light chuckle. "They are simple, as most beasts are, but they are beautiful. And perhaps your legends are right, to a point," he added softly, a weighty admission from him given how hard he typically came down on the Dalish. But he remembers when this place was lighter and happier. Even a small remnant like these little creations was a welcome, if bittersweet, echo. "They are what's left of a world our people created. Perhaps they even remember it, if only through their guidance. It is good to see something that survived unchanged." 

She grows pensive at his response to the story. Never before has she considered whether these tales were simply legends or more truthful, though she supposes she did think of them as real events, if nothing else. Strange things unfold in this world every day; is it so hard to believe a god turned her favored devotee into a Halla? Or is she a fool for believing that?

Her thoughts only twist further as his line of questioning continues, and then there is the mention of power, and Dhavi's gaze lands on her left hand. Even at rest like this, the mark thrums, foreboding and grim. Does it matter where the halla guide her clan, if she never gets the chance to return to them? She closes her fist around thoughts of what it could be, and why she has it, and what will become of her, glancing away in time to see the flask of wine offered to her—and process his words.

A wry smile, humble and sweet, pushes through her grim expression to meet him. "You trust me not to abuse it," she observes, reaching to take the wine, to wash down the bread. Escaping her fate as Inquisitor is not something she can manage, but she can try to find some silver linings. These conversations about her people, their beliefs—another might be insulted by them, but she appreciates the way they make her think..

She wouldn't have met Solas without this Inquisition, bittersweet though it may be.

"I get the feeling not many would earn such high praise from you," she says, passing the wine back.

[hoboblaidd]

Solas couldn't help turning up his nose at her recounting of Ghilan'nain's 'legend.' "Be careful not to give legends the weight of history," he said. It danced a little too close to the truth, but he could hardly sit by and listen to this nonsense without a careful response. "History may have given rise to such legends, but they are rarely the truth of the matter."

He frowned. "Where do they guide your people, I wonder? They may find you safe refuge, true, but the Dalish remain disparate clans that meet once a decade to do little more than grouse. Would it not be more helpful to your people for the halla to guide you together?" But Solas sighed. "It is fortunate they found you," he admitted begrudgingly. "It is good that Clan Lavellan found you, if only to usher you to this moment in history. There are few who have held so much power that can be trusted not to abuse it."

Despite his preaching, he remembered her wish to simply be normal for a moment. As such, he removed a flask of wine he'd secreted from Skyhold and held it out to her. "It's late enough in the day," he smiled. "I'm certain the Inquisition can afford a moment of rest."

One's self is usually the first thing lost when stepping into such a role. So perceptive. She wonders how many stories like hers he's watched play out in the Fade, how many Spirits he's met with their own versions of some long-forgotten 'hero'. Has he met such a hero, who had forgotten themself along the way?

His grin over the breadcrumb comment pulls a soft chuckle from her, but she takes the morsel with a soft word of thanks, tearing off a piece to chew on as she mulls over his question.

"I suppose that's more or less it for most of us," she answers after a moment. "They're neither steeds nor pack animals, for us. They're guides." She clears her throat, preparing to recite the end of a story her Keeper had told her, one she would one day tell her First. "Thus, Ghilan'nain became the first halla. She returned to her sisters and led them to the hunter who had maimed her, and ever have the halla guided us." A small silence follows as she brushes some breadcrumbs aside.

"But... A halla's what found me, the day Clan Lavellan took me in. My parents were attacked on the road when I was still just a babe. A halla guided a few members of the Clan to where they had hidden me. So I suppose my attachment to them is a bit more personal. It only feels right to pay them back for the life they gave me."

[hoboblaidd]

Solas watched the all too expected reaction of the halla impassively. At least some in this world remembered how it used to be, no matter that the memory was negative. Perhaps he would conveniently sleep in tomorrow if Dhavihal tried again, to give her a fighting chance without his presence disrupting things.

He listens to her in quiet contemplation. "There is no shame in trying to remember yourself outside of the monumental task at one's feet," he said finally, eyes lingering on the large carving of the Wolf high on the mountain. "No matter how pressing that task may be. One's self is usually the first thing  lost when stepping into such a role."

Solas tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his ratty coat, redirecting the conversation away from the world-shattering events they found themselves in to the more mundane. "I've never understood the Dalish fixation on halla," he admitted. "They have a beauty, yes, but they seem less efficient than other methods of travel. They're more wild than horses, and less sturdy than oxen. Is it simply their supposed connection to your gods?" He kept his distaste from his voice, focusing instead on her with genuine curiosity, no matter how laced with his disappointment the thought was.

He tore off a large chunk of the bread apart and gestured for her to take it. "For the breadcrumbs," he said with a sly grin.

Dhavi tosses a playful glare over her shoulder at his comment about a trail of breadcrumbs before turning back to the creature. With soft thuds, the halla's hooves stamp the ground, followed by a heavy snort. Backing up, Dhavi tries to keep her body language loose, relaxed, to avoid further upsetting her mark, but it's too late. The snort allows the halla to take a deeper sniff of the air, and something old and instinctual settles in from Solas's direction.

Her head raises suddenly, pointing almost directly at the Fade expert, and she sniffs again. This time, her alertness is abruptly followed by an anxious whistle, before she bounds away, her tail pointed high behind her. With a glance at her lengthening shadow, Dhavi sighs and also retreats. Tomorrow, she thinks.

She goes to settle beside Solas on his boulder, choosing to lay back on it and watch the sky darken, a faint smile on her face despite the defeat of the day. "The Inquisition has as much use for that animal as the spirits do," she says lightly. "I suppose that's exactly why I wanted to catch her."

A deep breath through her nose, not unlike the halla's, but she doesn't frighten off—there is nothing but comfort for her here—just sighs it out before continuing. "At home, I tend to the halla." She doesn't explain that's not a role expected of her as Keeper or even First of her clan. "Catching her was a chance to be Dhavi again, to be—selfish." Her throat catches around the last word, and her smile turns a little sad as her dark eyes move to look up at him.

"Perhaps it was a waste of time."

[hoboblaidd]

"My mistake," he said, the amusement not leaving his voice. Nor did he leave the relative comfort of his seat. He had no useful experience in taming halla, and those remnants of Ghilan'nain's creatures would bear no love for the Dread Wolf. Though few in this world would recognize what he was, especially without his power, he would not put it past a halla. They were, after all, old enemies.

"Ah," he laughed as the halla bucks. But he did, at least, keep his voice even. Fruitless as this pursuit may be, he wouldn't actively sabotage it.

"It has not," he chuckled. "The Fade is remarkably silent on the methods of taming wild halla. I suppose spirits have no need to communicate with these animals, while the Inquisition clearly does. Why else would we be wasting daylight?" Though it was sarcastic, his words were light. Despite thinking this was a waste of time, he seemed in no hurry to chase the next rift, or undead fortification, or outfit of the civil war. He looked all too comfortable perched against the boulder and idly chewing his bread as the sun waned on the Exalted Plains. "Perhaps your Dalish legends are more illuminating on the subject. Or I could leave a trail of breadcrumbs for her and any errant ants in need of a clan," he added, bemused. 

The creature shudders, shaking its head even as Dhavi tries to approach, her head low, shoulders slumped, holding her right hand out. Can it sense the unnatural magic that marks her left palm, she wonders—is that why this one resists her so, when the ones at home seem as drawn to her as she is them?

This must seem like a foolish endeavor to her party—silly or even childish. They must see someone who faced a challenge and feels the need to rise to it, and maybe that's part of it—she doesn't bear the mark of the Mother of Halla for nothing. More than that, though, Dhavi needs to know she's still herself. If she can get this halla to trust her, Dhavi isn't completely lost to the Inquisitor. Not yet.

Solas's voice carries across the field to her, pulling a wry smile even as the creature grows uneasy at the interruption. His jest, at her expense as it may be, eases some of the tension that had pulled between her shoulders. With a buck, the halla struggles backwards, bleating its uncertainty.

Dhavi sighs, smirking still, and begins her approach again. "It's not about corralling," she explains, trying to keep her voice calm enough as not to startle the creature but loud enough that Solas can hear her. "It's about communicating."

She glances over her shoulder at him, mirth in her eyes. "Unless the Fade has taught you a better way of doing this?"