#for the strength of the wolf is the pack ( fen'amelan )

[theharellan]

Solas hasn’t always been bald, perhaps to some people’s surprise. His hair often tells a story, whether he means it to or not.

For a long time, he didn’t cut his hair. The tangled ends would be trimmed as needed, truth be told he had neither the means nor the inclination to care for it. More often than not it would grow unattended while he walked in dreams, forgetting his physical form for years beyond count until he found it again. A common ritual for him after entering uthenera beyond the bounds of civilisation was waking up and chopping off his hair, typically to his shoulders if not longer. He preferred to keep it long if he could, his hair kept memories and emotions the same as most things in Elvhenan could. Once, he could run his fingers through his hair and summon memories of secrets whispered to him in confidence or the contentment he felt in the wake of Miolvun braiding his hair (they always knew how to make him feel beautiful).

The first time he shaved his head was after the war which led to Elvhenan’s creation. The death they sowed haunted him, and the memories rang in his ears whenever his hair fell forward across his shoulders. Shaving his hair, leaving only the beginnings of the new, did not mean he forgot those memories, but they did not haunt him. It was an act of mourning and self-care, a means of moving on.

From there he returned to a routine of growing it out and cutting as needed. His hair is naturally thick and grows in long waves, easy to tangle and difficult to game. It’s auburn, redder in sunlight and brunette in shadows. He preferred to wear it half-up, partly braided and the rest worn loose, but would often wear it in a loose bun or braid when it was necessary to keep it out of his face. His travels kept his style simple out of practicality, and his care routines were sometimes lacking. On at least one occasion, he showed up to Elvhenan’s courts with dried autumn leaves still in his hair after a long nap in the woods, inspiring a trend in the nobility who wanted to mimic the appearance of Mythal’s favoured.

The second time he shaved his head was when he became traitor to the evanuris, eventually earning the name Fen’Harel. This second time it was part of forging a new identity. His old name rang false in his ears, a name every strand of hair on his head carried. Cutting it was a way to rediscover himself and the parts of his identity he lost to godhood. As Fen’Harel he grew it out and cut it much more frequently, sometimes wearing it in a crest with the rest buzzed short. Given the role war played in this part of his life he only ever wore it down when at rest or located somewhere which in those turbulent times qualified as safe, such as the Sanctuary the Inquisitor finds in Trespasser.

That brings us to the Dragon Age. Solas wakes with his hair longer than ever, tangled with nature after centuries of uthenera and dead around his shoulders. Rising from uthenera to a Veilless world is a traumatic moment for Solas, it’s the first time he experiences it himself from beyond the Fade, and one way he has difficulty coping is the dead hair around his shoulders. No memories, no secrets, just dead weight holding him down. Magic fails him, so he takes the nearest knife to it and shears it as close to his scalp as he can manage. The initial result is uneven, it’s only later after he’s able to have calmed down that he shaves away the last trace of it.

It’s a way of avoiding one unpleasant reminder of what’s lost, and so he keeps it that way. After a few months he finds he likes it, preferring the upkeep, which after the initial shave can be maintained with magic. On top of being practical, bald hair in Elvhenan was considered a gender neutral expression rather than inherently masculine (or, as some would have it, a sign of weak masculinity) and so as someone who identifies with no gender, it’s one way to express that aspect of himself.

In the wake of Wisdom’s capture and death, Inquisition members may notice that after his return he is sporting an unshaved head. The length isn’t significant, it has had at best a month to grow, but it is indicative that he lacked the willpower to take a moment in the morning to maintain that look. It doesn’t last long, either. Ian shaves it at his request not long after his return.

As of now Solas has no plans to grow his hair out again, although there may be times in the days ahead when he fails to take that time for himself as he did after Wisdom’s passing. 

[theharellan]

Word Prompt. Not Accepting.

@theshirallen​ asked: Druxy - Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside.

He stands within a place of worship, venerated offerings laid at his feet, glinting gold and scrolls spilling with obscure knowledge of forgotten corners of the world.

But it is the bowl of apples which first draws his eye. The very sight takes him to another place, another time, another him. He sits beneath a golden tree, one of hundreds, in an orchard which grows in every direction as far as the eye can see.

He seeks to recapture peace in the shadows of its branches and delight in the changing of the leaves, but as he reaches to reclaim lost innocence, he hesitates. Fingers reach, yet stop short of grasping, a sharp jolt jars him. He almost retreats. “Is it not to your liking, Fen’amelan?” A voice in his ear, speaking a name. His name.

He takes the apple.

The first bite is sweet, the skin breaks satisfyingly beneath his teeth. A trail of juice dribbles down his chin, the feeling of daybreak, the first glimpse of dawn, washes over him. On the tip of his tongue he tastes the pride of creation, the sweet words whispered to the saplings, assurances that coax the roots to dig deep in the earth and reach towards a kindly sun, to make it theirs as the People had. It leaves him empty when he swallows, its absence draws circles around what he’s missing, filled forgotten holes in him. What is left is not quite sadness, but something more.

Something less.

He takes a second bite. The skin is bruised, fruit soft, almost melting in the mouth. It tastes of late summer, lovers reclining in the shade, storm clouds gather and thunder rolls across an endless sky. He swallows, a bitter aftertaste chases the morsel. A lover lies alone, their own arms around their shoulders, a lonely comfort. Even melancholy is inviting, a welcome relief, but it leaves him, too.

The third bite is hungry, teeth tear into glittering skin and bare the core. This time it is black. The hopes whispered to the seeds, encouraging words that lifted it to the sky, they form upon lips marked with god’s blood. The sun which smiled gently upon apple blossoms, which granted lover’s respite from summer heat, bears down upon them all hours of the day, scorching the hopes from their hearts. He tastes absence, but not his own. Centuries spent nurturing from seed to sapling, pulling life from the earth and turning it into art, and they have never known its taste. Never dared to pry a piece of skin, just to sample, lest rebellion linger in the flavour.

He tries to swallow, but cannot. His throat closes, coughing, stomach turning. Memories sizzle in acid and bake into his being. It had never golden, never been good. He must consume it, savour it, own it-- has he not before? Even as he burned the blood from his own face? He has to finish, they are watching. Upon the wall the stones that mark the dead friend’s eyes seem to glow. He tries to swallow, but it sticks.

His stomach heaves, contents spew past the fingers that fly to his lips. Bile drips onto the altar, an offering of a different sort, more fitting than the rest. What remains of the apple splatters onto the floor, but the dead feeling is gone. A stirring in his chest rouses him, as if shaking off the dust from an overlong sleep. He does not know its name, but it matters not.

Dread will name him soon enough.

[theharellan]

@deathsreflection​ said:  “You cannot alter your fate. However, you can rise to meet it.”

“Fate must seem a trifle to you, tied to to Falon’Din as you are.” The Lord of Fortune holds no secrets from his Keeper of Secrets, or so they say. Between them the past and present are marked in clear lines, twining together like the horns of a halla. “To the rest of us I am afraid it is not so simple.”

Now, when he sets out into the world, his name comes to him as a prayer upon the wind. The stone wolves which flank Mythal’s likeness have offerings of their own, and when he plucks them from the altar he hears the People’s words, spoken in voices only he can hear. They beseech his aid, his protection, his wisdom, they ask of him favours he would not expect from his closest friends.

(He ought to be honoured, yet there is a voice inside his head which implores him to run.)

“Is it fate or circumstance which has inspired the People to honour my name? Perhaps it is neither.” Perhaps it is both. He can see a present where another soul with another name was called upon to join Mythal, a future where their name is honoured rather than his. To consider the thought elicits a curious feeling, one he has not given name.

Fen’amelan reclines where he sits, feet picking up to rest upon his seat, cheek resting in his palm. “I confess I am not comforted by the notion that this was meant to be. That no matter my course, the river would always lead me here. I would like to think my own merit played some part, I think too much of myself to truly consider the alternative.” A grin breaks behind his hand, teeth glimpsed beneath fingers which spread across his lips like a cage.

“It seems only time will tell whether I will rise or no.”

[theharellan]

Five times defended (from frcgment)

Five Times Solas Defended Mythal ( @frcgment )

one. The challenger falls to the ground at Mythal’s feet. Alive, but at her mercy. He stands over her, staff brushing the ground where it had swept under her knees. A self-assured smile steals onto Mythal’s face and her eyes lift, sweeping across the crowd. “Would anyone else care to try?”

Silence follows. Eyes wide with alarm now lower, falling as hands clasp in prayer. He straightens, staff in hand, only convinced the danger had passed when the challenger limps away. “I thought not.” She beckons to him, hand bracing his shoulder with a familial touch.

The moment is committed to memory, woven by one of her devoted. His elvhen shape is forgotten, in its stead, the wolf’s teeth flash, red with blood.

two. Time slows to a crawl within the palm of his hand, dust suspended between his fingers. The wings of a horsefly cease their drone, held in stasis before Mythal’s very eyes. “It was after your blood,” Fenara says with mock offense, though the lazy smile that turns the corners of his lips betrays him. “Does it not know who you are?”

“Evidently not, but what would a fly know of dragons?”

“A horsefly? Very little, I assume.” Time quickens, but only by a fraction, the buzzing sound swallowed as though heard from across a field. He pushes his palm out, wafting away thin air, and the fly is hurried along invisible currents, its wings humming the song of Mythal’s mercy.

three. Blood darkens the steps of her temple, the fright its bearer knew in his final moments lingers, heavy in the air. Mythal steps over the pool deftly, crimson red steals up her robes in streaks where the hem trails along the floor. She regards Fenara with a warm eye, hand reaching out to calm the magic still clenched in his fist. “It is over, lethallen,” she says. “The danger has passed.”

His fingers spread at her command, energy dissipating between them. The trespasser’s body lies broken at the bottom of the stairs. Glassy eyes hold the image of his reflection, expression twisted with the heat of a fight. He cannot bring himself to look long, face turning to stare at the still surface of the Vir’abelasan.

Mythal leans over to inspect his remains, hands tucked neatly behind her back. “You were overzealous,” she chides. “No trace of their motive remains, dread alone persists.”

Ears pin against his head, shame needling his conscience. He reaches out with his mind, grasping for some information he might have to offer and comes up with little. “He tried to speak before he breathed his last.” He gestures to the body, though his eyes do not move from their target. Whispers mist across the water, carrying secrets meant only for the chosen few. It had to be the trespasser’s goal, though to what end they may never know. “The sound may be caught.”

“I see.”

He catches her hand in the corner of his vision, palm up, waiting expectantly for him to answer her unspoken request. The dagger at his waist hums, so eager that it leaps into his fingers when he reaches to it. Mythal takes it and, kneeling upon her own temple’s floor, draws it over the dead man’s throat. A name breaks free from the jugular, its sound sweet and wanting: “Eshelan.”

They linger in its echo, each waiting for the other to come to a revelation. Mythal relents first, “Does it mean anything to you?” His head shakes in response.

“Nothing.” It replays in his head irregardless, equal parts awed and remorseful that a few short sounds can convey such affection. “Only that he knew love worth dying for.”

four. Her form tears at the seams, skin splitting at the joints as the essence of the Void bleeds through. The scream that rips from her lips turn his blood to ice. Secrets spill forth from them, filling his head with whispers, blackening the world in her wake. Over her cries, he tries to call her name– Andruil– but it is dead to her ears.

“She has forgotten,” Mythal says, her expression grave. Fear shines in her eyes, though it takes him a breath to recognise it (he had forgotten how it looked on her).

“I had hoped…” he begins to say, wondering if it even matters what he had hoped. Enough of her remained that their gambit had worked, mere rumours of a beast had brought her to them. Despite everything, some essence of the Hunter remains.

He tries to move forward, resolve swelling within him, ready to take the shape of a hunted beast. Her hand on his shoulder stops him. “Wait.” He stills immediately. “I am her quarry.”

An argument dies within him. What good is this body if it is not permitted to die for you? The question burns within him, begging to be asked beside a thousand others. Why do I wish for it? They howl like the secrets that erupt from Andruil, but his lips are sealed. He bows his head deferentially, stepping aside so that she may make her move.

Mythal takes to the air with an ease fitting of the First, dark wings pale against the black curse Andruil brought with her. He watches from afar, his name lessening with every blow struck against her.

five. Dressed in threadbare robes, he walks among the People, seeking normalcy in someone else’s life. The west remembers Andruil’s plague, but in the east it is a mere story carried forth by their heralds. Fountains sing praises to a new day, city streets gleam with the city’s prosperity, life is as he remembers.

Almost.

A great temple looms in the city’s center, nightshade vines twisting up its walls. The prayers of the faithful rise from within, as fervent and sincere as the day he’d first heard them, but their song disquiets him, apprehension flooding his veins. He evades the shadow it casts, hood pulled over his head to avoid the carved eyes of Falon’Din. Fenara begins to ask himself why, but kills the question in him before he can answer.

Beyond its shadow, shelter lies. He settles into a seat that had been saving itself long before his arrival and is served a warm, honeyed drink which quiets the fear in him. Yet around him, the world continues, ever forward. Conversations between friends, strangers whose faces he might never see again.

“They should have acted sooner.” One voice carries farther than the rest, loud in their cup. Day has only just broken, yet the quality of their opinion comes with the taste of wine. Suspicion tells him this has gone on for days. “Mythal tarried, and lives were lost. Convenient that she only cared to intervene when the life of her fellows were the ones at risk.” The gulp of wine punctuates their thoughts. “They should have acted sooner.”

His grip tightens around his cup, knuckles white against his skin. He tells himself not to speak, to let them have their blasphemes, that Mythal had bled for them to express their doubt, but his mouth opens as he turns in his seat. “Without her, we would all be lost to plague,” he says. The stranger’s eyes widen with bewilderment, in them he sees days of drunken stupor, each word of sacrilege deaf to the ears of their compatriots. Only he had heard them, only his heart had heeded them. Why? “You ought to be in worship, praising her name.”

Confusion fades quickly from their eyes, and in its place hard defiance sets in, drawn across a dark brow. “If you believe that, then tell me: why are you here?”

No answer comes, or none that will not give him away.

Defiance gives way to satisfaction, broadening their grin. “As I thought,” they say, “you agree.”

Cold doubt steals over him, and from afar he feels the statue’s gaze turn his way.

[theharellan]

28 for memory meme

28. A memory that strains a relationship | Not Accepting

“I am afraid not, lethellen.”

Five small words, and his faith is shaken.

When he first opens his mouth, no sound follows. Only the Fade speaks for him, reflecting the sense of betrayal he dares not let himself speak. It reveals his heart, the certainty with which he had believed she would agree manifesting in the trembling earth. Temple grounds move beneath him, expectations suddenly thrown into disarray. All her court look beneath them, save Mythal herself.

He remains rooted to the earth, knelt before her, afraid that if he were to pull himself to his feet his knees might tremble beneath his weight. His mind still swims with the memory of her trials, a golden path to her side. He would not ordinarily take it, having earned his place beside her long ago, but the effort felt worth the statement it would make. He cleansed his mind of its answers and walked it as any among her people would. A fruitless endeavour, in the end.

“We cannot go on as we have been,” he pleads, finding his voice. With heavy legs he pulls himself to his feet, standing to his full height. “Justice cannot be truly realised the way our world is now. If not for their sake, then your own. What if you lose sight of yourself?” It had happened before, he need not name when. Not to her. They both remember Andruil, slayer of beasts reduced to half a beast herself. “Your spirit may--”

“It is for their sake I refuse you!” Around them the air begins to sicken, the putrid scent of sulfur that heralds dragon’s fire coats his throat. Despite himself, despite the years he has fought for her, bled, fear steals into his heart. “I would sooner lose myself than risk them in open war.”

“We risk them either way.” Black plagues scar Andruil’s woods, and to the east Falon’Din has gone silent. “Or would you prefer to sacrifice them two by two?”

“Enough,” she seethes. He sees the veins in her hands bulge, knuckles white against the bone. “My judgment is final.”

His legs straighten, every muscle straining against the earth to keep himself aloft, breathing in and ignoring how his lungs burn with her magic. “Then what of my fate?” He has seen her reduce petitioners to black marks upon the floor for less than he had said, today. Their memory lingers, if he listens close, for even in death they still call to their All-Mother.

Mythal does not answer him, and he grows still. The fear in his heart is silent, though he cannot call its absence bravery. It will be quick, he thinks, and she will be beside him. In the space of a breath a day seems to pass, shadows shift positions until his points towards the temple door.

“Your methods may be flawed,” she says at last, “yet your motive is pure. You’ve the People’s interests at heart. I cannot fault you for that.” Her fingers fold before her, fingers aligning at her chest. The yellow atmosphere is siphoned slowly away, until the air breathes clear again. “You may leave in peace, Fen-- oh.” She stops short of his old name, the sound of it deaf to dreams. “I see.” Her eyes are sad as she regards him, mourning what was, unable or unwilling to hide her disappointment. Standing before her, knowing it was but a single woman’s judgment had stood between him and the final journey, he is not sure there was ever anything to mourn.

“Go, then,” Mythal bids him. “And may I know the delight of speaking your true name when next we meet.”

He nods, but does not echo her sentiment in voice or dream. Whatever his next name will be, he is certain it will not belong to her.

[theharellan]

we've seen like with gaius that many of solas' agents have never met him and were recruited by other agents. but do you think it's possible he has interacted with some of them without them knowing who he was, or is his status as figurehead too important for that?

In short, yes. Starting with the fact that there were probably some who knew him as Solas in Inquisition, not knowing he was Fen’Harel until much later.

My Solas has a long history of disguising himself to interact with the world as he would prefer it, and so does canon Solas, actually:

“Beware the forms of Fen'Harel! The Dread Wolf comes in humble guises, a wanderer who knows much of the People and their spirits.” (x)

This indicates that at least at the point of the rebellion, Solas is dressing in rags and approaching people as a normal person. My headcanon is that part of the  reason the evanuris were able to unearth this strategy means it’s something he did before he was Fen’Harel. People tell different stories to the random traveller who you’re giving shelter for the night than they do a god at a temple, and as we see in Inquisition Solas has a fondness for smaller stories. Divinity in many ways is actually deeply unhealthy for his personhood and sense of self, and disguises offer relief from that.

But I’m getting off-track. My point is that as evanuris and, later, Fen’Harel he absolutely does interact with people without them knowing who he is. Pre-Veil it takes a lot of suppression of his abilities, but it’s something he’s capable of doing. Fen’Harel was important to the rebellion (although I hc it began before he joined it, his influence just gave it more weight because unfortunately society be like that, one reason among many Solas says he got more credit than he deserved), but if they aren’t engaged in battle or performing other rebellion-specific rituals, his direct presence/personhood wasn’t necessarily important so much as his name. The rebellion is a curious time for Solas, emotionally, because while he is afforded more personhood than as an evanuris, he is still seen as a larger than life figure. Only a few interact with him person-to-person, an inner circle, one might say, which leads me to…

The first scene you have with Iron Bull in Skyhold! I think this scene parallels a lot of the ideas I’m trying to get across in this answer nicely. The Inquisitor, ostensibly the most important person in, well, the Inquisition, is able to put on a different outfit and take a new name and effectively disguise themself. And while the Inquisitor is likely to forge many lasting and important relationships as Inquisitor, they also have to experience people bowing to them, calling them dressed-up titles for the first time in their lives, depending upon the origin you choose. Even some of their closest friends believe them to be divine, regardless of what they say on the matter. Which sounds familiar, for some reason. In all seriousness, I do like to think about Solas hearing about this moment from Bull and the thoughts it provokes in him. He probably best knows of the Inner Circle what the Inquisitor is going through, but can’t relate directly without giving something away.

When time comes for Solas to leave the Inquisition and become directly involved with his agents– especially those he was not close to in Elvhenan (potentially because they weren’t born)– he has to take on the mantle of Fen’Harel again and in many ways it’s the disguise. Still, the chaotic way Solas runs guerilla operations indicates there’s a good possibility people could speak to him without knowing who he is, depending on the context of their meeting:

“You have already divided your group’s membership. That is wise. No one cell can betray all your secrets. The next step is to establish a rhythm. When your enemies pursue, you vanish. When they become complacent, you harass them. When they are weak, you strike in earnest.” (x)

Some, like my oc Bruno, land in a situation where they immediately know Fen’Harel, but take time to learn who Solas is. Others may never know, and others still may know Solas but only have heard of Fen’Harel, or have only learned to who they had a conversation with after the fact. Again, like in Elvhenan, Fen’Harel is important, but there’s enough weight to the name and armour that if he takes it off and wears a dull sweater and his real name for a bit, nothing will fall. Despite this, Solas is less likely to do this during post-DA:I than he is during the rebellion, simply because it’s sort of a coping mechanism and a means to more healthily express who he is, and after he leaves the Inquisition it becomes much harder to motivate himself to take care of himself. It still happens on occasion, sometimes on accident, sometimes because– as with the Inquisitor and Bull– it’s easier and more revealing to discern morale himself in disguise, and sometimes because there are people like Ian around who only see Solas as Solas.

[theharellan]

11. A memory that may or may not have happened

memory meme | not accepting

(The memory comes as a pretty dream, pleasant to remember, but linger too long and it seems too clean, its faces too perfect, its verses too rehearsed.)

They say the Wolf came to us from the woods, where he spent his days amassing great Wisdom to one day bring to the People.

From hollow bones he breathed life onto blank canvas, and in common dirt he saw the potential for great works of art. He might have stayed there, and kept these wonders to himself, dreamed and grown, and Elvhenan would have been all the poorer for it. But the wind in the trees told tales of the great Mythal so grand not even he could picture her.

He came to her bearing gifts, scrolls with paintings of roads lit by the soft light of stars leading to cities of twirling crystal spires and worlds that were meant only for wisdom. It was said he was asked where he had seen this in his travels, to which his response was: “I haven’t.”

It was a fragment, a dream of Elvhenan, and though some among Mythal’s people saw them as naught but a young Dreamer’s fancies, she saw their worth. He was welcomed to her side as an ally, then friend, the dreams in his eyes a spark that helped kindle what would become the place of our People.

(The memory fractures, doubt steals into what once was clear. A dagger is clutched behind the young Wolf’s back, then naught but brushes woven with hart hair. What was one fragment of nine doubles, then doubles again, until millions upon thousands of pieces come together to make a beautiful whole. A voice rings out, different and defiant from any heard before.)

This place of love is yours to take back.

[theharellan]

❝ Beware the forms of Fen'Harel! The Dread Wolf comes in humble guises, a wanderer who knows much of the People and their spirits. He will offer advice that seems fair, but turns slowly to poison. Remember the price of treason, and keep in your heart the mercy of your gods. ❞

solas’ fashion choices before & after the fall of elvhenan

please do not reblog

✧ template  ✧ board  ✧ art (1, 2, 3 )

[theharellan]

Watercolor Avatar

tagged by: @snowmcid​ thank u! <3

tagging: im so tired but if u wanna do this just @ me

they didn’t have a bald option b/c i guess that’s not chibi enough so you get like. baby solas.

[theharellan]

my patreon reward from @destinyapostasy! i ended up getting my concept of fen’harel. with more hair than he knows what to do with. no wonder he chops it all off.

[theharellan]

MUSE AS A DEITY.

rules : think carefully about your character and their development through their journey(canon or oc ) within their story .  fill out the chart and tag whoever you want !    repost , do not reblog .

tagged by :   no one, i just saw it and thought it’d fit.

deity of :   liminal spaces. betrayal (later).

 associated with :    travel, dreams/dreamers, beggars, thieves, rebellion, trickery, joy/pleasure, art, creativity. often when something does not fit within another god’s dimension, he will answer (if it interests him).

sacred plants :     sage, monkshood/wolfsbane, felandaris.

sacred stones / gems :     moonstone, ocean jasper, snowflake obsidian.

sacred animals :    wolves, bats, hyenas, river dolphins, porpoises. those who worship fen also hold dragons sacred due to his close friendship with mythal. post-veil, he is only associated with wolves.

colors :   earthy greens, browns, soft blues, bronze. as fen’harel he is chiefly associated with red and black.

food :   cakes / baked sweets, sweet fruits, fish cooked with honey and pepper.

scents :    honey, wet earth, clove, fire/incense smoke, sage, lavender.   

accepted offerings / ways to honor :    the best way to honour him is to engage him, share knowledge or wisdom or give him a difficult problem to solve. sometimes parties were thrown in his honour/for him. memories were a common offering, and while some believed only the most complex and lofty of memories would please him, some of his favourites were the satisfaction of finally perfecting a recipe.

modern offerings are never accepted, and vary from clan-to-clan. some offer oils and metals that are symbolic of the phrase “may the dread wolf never find your scent” due to the effect oil has on scents. some vindictive individuals offer something of their enemies, hair or clothing. the most common offerings are of sage and fruit (something that was not forgotten after most of his worship was banned once he rebelled) and other meats.

[theharellan]

Hair (i like to think i'm funny)

description meme | accepting

His hair– when he had any, was incredibly thick, and might go weeks (or years) without proper care. As a result its length varied, going from well below his shoulders to chin-length, though never so short as it is when he awakens a year before Inquisition.

During the years he spent Dreaming in deep, dark woods it would grow without so much as fingers to brush through it. Often when he awoke he would find birds who had nested and flown off while he was exploring beyond his form. Very rarely did he care to brush these out when he returned to civilisation, which resulted in a very strange fashion trend where nobles wore twigs and dead leaves in their hair. By Elvhenan standards, it was a short-lived trend, thanks to his friend and companion, Miraen, who detested it.

He was (and is) a tender-head, and when he or someone else styled his hair he felt tears prick the corners of his eyes almost without fail. Still, he enjoyed the look of braids, and was fortunate enough to have people willing to braid his hair when he could not be bothered to do it himself. Even as Fen’Harel, when there were no more servants, but rather friends. He often wished he could return the favour, but he has no talent for styling hair and anything he attempted lasted a very short time. However, even though he rarely/never wears make-up or nail varnish, he’s actually quite good at applying it, so he often suggests that, instead.

The choice to shave was made because after at least a thousand years of uthenera, his hair was beyond saving and he was in a delicate state of mind, but he doesn’t not regret it for an instant. Haircare is difficult on the road, moreso with the Veil stifling his magical techniques, and it just so happened that he had a nice head shape. Solas physically shaved his head with a razor (and knife just to cut off the bulk of his hair) the first time he cuts it, but from then uses magic techniques to keep it from growing. Occasionally he uses a razor, but otherwise it’s magic and skincare products.

Also– since somehow I forgot to mention this– he’s a redhead. More of an auburn colour than ginger.

[theharellan]

🙌

npc meme | not accepting

The kiss is quick and clumsy, but earnest. She likes how he links his hand with hers, fingers squeezing tighter when he pulls away. His heels sink to the ground, as if weighed down by his feelings. When she laughs, the tips of his ears flush like a hot iron.

“All that wisdom, and no one has taught you how to kiss?”

“I had hoped it would not be so obvious.” Beneath all his pride, she feels a seed of shame. It curdles like month-old milk, and it doesn’t take long for her to miss the butterflies the kiss had inspired– in both of them. “I am sorry it did not please.”

“Did I say that?” she asks, humming with feigned thought.

It’s a bit of a relief, but she doesn’t say it. He visits with stories about faraway lands, women who have learned to be dragons, and while she’s the reason he won’t fall out of his saddle, the thought of teaching him something special, something ascendant, sends thrills up her spine.

She lifts his chin up to meet her eyes, stepping closer so their toes meet. The world changes when they touch, growing smaller, private. A world of their own, some might say. She brushes her lips against his, teasing a smile from him.

Time turns slower around them. The world is young, and kind to new affections.

name: enavunapronouns: she/herrole: a young woman he meets while he serves mythal. she is a rancher, the daughter of a spirit who took form to breed and raise harts. he was infatuated with her, and after he was too proficient a rider to ask for lessons, he spent time helping her. life took them in separate directions, and when the war with the titans broke out they lost contact.

[theharellan]

You've talked before about how Solas assists with trauma response when it comes to others (forever sad about that cut content) but what about himself? Is he equally aware of his own dissociative moments and trauma responses? How does he deal with them and practice self care?

send me a topic to write a meta about my muse on | accepting

General content warning for talk of mental health.

To address them quickly, so more potentially triggering stuff can go under a cut: yes. He doesn’t always practise self care, however, and rather allows himself to stew in it. Sort of as a way of punishing himself.

For the long answer: yes, but it was a journey getting there. After he fought in the war that created the evanuris I think was the beginning of most of his mental health issues. Before there were… cracks, I suppose? Moments of anxiety over having his interests dismissed that resulted in him leaving the village he began in to find people more like him. More or less, however, he was healthy, and once he found people who appreciated his interests more those anxieties had mostly subsided. It wasn’t until during the war that he started getting worse.

We know Solas doesn’t enjoy killing, and when he was young he could bear it much less gracefully. But he mostly dealt with the trauma by suppressing it: before the Veil, emotions could be felt, and as he rose to a title such as general it wouldn’t have done for people to know exactly the effect the deaths of their enemies were having on him. Suppressing his feelings, never giving them voice, seemed to be working for him. The closest he would get to dealing with them is talks with Wisdom, who would often offer small acts of self care, even if he didn’t necessarily recognise them as such.

And then as evanuris it became all the more important that he didn’t… feel too much? People saw him as protector to Mythal, justice herself, as well as qualities that were eventually attributed to his own “godhood.” Since I tend to see him being associated with things like joy, a sort of Dionysus/Hermes cross, it became something of an issue for acknowledging his own issues. Being evanuris was unhealthy for him, personally, and he went centuries without working on any of his issues. It was easier being what people believed him to be.

As his life becomes entangled with the rebellion, and he begins to distance himself from the title of evanuris, all of the stuff he built to keep himself functioning collapses. During the period between evanuris and Fen’Harel, when he doesn’t really have a name in my interpretation, he goes through a period of depression that culminates in him trying to drown himself. He’s stopped by someone who doesn’t recognise him, and not long after that he joins the growing rebellion under a new name. As far as I’m concerned, by the way, Solas by no means began the rebellion against the evanuris. Rather, it was something he joined, hence why he believes even his allies give him more credit than he deserves.

It’s under the rebellion that he begins to better deal with his own issues as well as those in others. There are some desires he denies himself– as evanuris he basically convinced himself he didn’t desire romance, now he can admit to himself he desires it, but (rightfully, imo) believes it’s improper to act upon any feelings. Due to the kind of fragile state he’s in he does develop crushes on a lot of people in the rebellion. It’s the first time in a while where a lot of people value him as a person, and not as a god, while before there were only a few (Mythal and Wisdom, namely) who couldn’t be expected to sort out his issues. Being around people who were healing themselves helped him heal, and admit his own struggles with depression and depersonalisation. This later helps him recognise that he’s disassociating throughout Inquisition, though even that, itself, is a journey. At first he thinks his perception of the world not being real is correct, and it takes connecting with people like the Herald, Ian, Cassandra, what have you, to recognise the fault lies within himself.

As for how he deals with it, well…

Cole: It’s brighter here. Glittering. Glaring. Glinting. I can’t…Solas: It’s a mild tremor in the Veil. Nothing to worry about. Focus on what is here, in this world.Cole: But… what is here?Solas: Feel the ground, the breath in your lungs, fabric rustling against your skin.Cole: (Breathes.) Thank you.Solas: It’s nothing. It can be overwhelming for anyone.

Cole seems to experience issues of derealisation due to being a spirit, and I think Solas has some similar issues to Cole, but is better at dealing with them so he can appear functional. Most hints that he even has issues come from Cole, funnily enough. I think his advice for Cole is telling of how he deals with it himself.

Bare feet are, in part, a way to help him connect with solid ground. Comfortable clothes, he’s wearing what he wants to wear– even when the Inquisitor hands him something, he makes it his own like every companion. And practised breathing is a pretty common way for people who experience anxiety and panic attacks to cope. Meditation is a big one, sleeping is another although that can lapse into oversleeping if he’s not careful (and towards the beginning of Inquisition I do think he sleeps a lot more than later, Ian worries he interrupts Solas’s sleep schedule when in reality he makes it more stable lmao). Painting, sketching, casting spells– anything that requires expressing himself, and Solas’s magic is as much an art for him as his murals.

Touch is another form of self care, one that he’s done since he was an evanuris with Mythal, who he was quite affection with. Among the rebellion I often headcanon the people in his “inner circle” often slept in kind of a pile. It’s something he denies himself a little more in Inquisition, because he does have moments of touch aversion, but with Ian he does eventually find that form of self care. We don’t see him touch many people in Inquisition in general– aside from a romanced character, we see him touch Cole and Flemythal to my knowledge. So I do think he’s a little more touchy with Cole than other people, but Cole’s a little more familiar.

Also, without going too much into post-Inquisition and post-Trespasser stuff, Solas denies himself a lot of this. He wears armour, his feet don’t touch the ground, and by my interpretation he doesn’t even allow himself his own name. His touch aversion is worse, to the point he often doesn’t want even Ian touching him. It’s sort of a manner of self-punishment. Solas is taking effort to make sure that the lives of the people of Thedas are their most comfortable by doing things like stopping a qunari invasion, but isn’t doing the same for himself, even though, assuming he’s not stopped, the time they have left is likely to be more or less the same.

[theharellan]

kindly tell me how you became friends with mythal

invade my privacy | accepting

“Would you believe me if I told you it was fate?”

He laughs, and the wisps that have settled in his hair glimmer softly in response. Of course, he does not believe in fate. Whatever brought him and Mythal together, it was not meant to be. He could have just as easily wandered left one day instead of right, and found himself in another place entirely.

“You would have to ask her what I did to impress her. I was a mere wanderer, and she a woman with a dozen people vying for her attention at any given moment. Perhaps it was my distance that caught her eye, perhaps it was the skills I demonstrated as a Dreamer– all I know is now we are friends, and that if I had the chance to do it again, I would not change a thing.”