#garahel

[the-rebel-archivist]

It took a minute to piece together why Davrin's armour was so familiar despite being such a unique warden design but then it finally clicked. And it's brilliant.

Davrin has griffon rider armour.

Modernized, of course - it's been almost 500 years after all. If Garahel's armour took some inspiration from WWI pilot uniforms, Davrin's pulls from WWII, drawing on the vibe of the classic leather jacket with the wide, high collar taking the place of lambswool.

It's debonair and cavalier, a griffon rider for these modern times of 9:52, but it keeps the same colour scheme and basic elements of brown leather on blue cloth with sparse metal elements. And there's even a nod to the leather scales on Garahel's shoulder on Davrin's.

[sky--phantom]

This made me both sad and glad that I'm reading Last Flight

[ghostwise]

I've been working on something exciting for @dragonageannual ✒️💚

[nightingaletrash]

I love the Last Flight so much tho, the way it truly encapsulates the horror of the Blight. How a single day of dawdling was enough for Antiva's royals to doom their people. The soul-rending endlessness of it, and how even the biggest victories are only temporary unless they can get you to the Archdemon.

It also shows how, by this point, the Grey Wardens have come to be so respected that its detrimental. When they say that a Blight is here, they're listened to and people react accordingly, but Antiva's royals really believed that the Wardens could save their city - its why they sent for them, they believed they could turn the tide of the entire horde and were shocked when the Wardens said 'we can't save your city, the best we can do is help to evacuate you and your people before it's too late.' And then that belief keeps them from listening to the Wardens when they say that they can't perform a miracle. And it costs them everything.

Then there's Isseya's blood magic, and how the novel shows us that while she never used it for malignant purposes, there was a huge cost for her... but it wasn't entirely her fault. The first time her blood magic had a horrible cost - when her altered Joining practically destroyed a griffon's mind and filled him with hatred - she swore off of using the spell ever again. It's not until the First Warden orders her to do it over and over again does the magic take its toll by accelerating the Taint in her blood. And when her spell proves to have created a blight disease unique to griffons, the fault lies largely with the First Warden as he failed to enact quarantines and he kept using the griffons as messengers. If Isseya had had her way, Shrike would have been the only griffon to have been changed, but the pressure from Garahel and the First Warden and Lisme and everyone else that insisted that the joined griffons were a solution made it so that she couldn't say no.

There's just a lot going on in the Last Flight that really communicates things better than the games do without diving into codexes. Origins doesn't really show just how soul-grinding and all-consuming a Blight is supposed to be because this is the weird one that only lasted a year. DA2 only shows the consequences of blood magic via the reactions to it as opposed to the real consequences of the magic itself. And Inquisition's attempt to portray the Wardens as flawed and sometimes misguided comes off as dismissive of the order itself.

The Last Flight describes how the Blight changes the landscape as it spreads and shows our characters changing and ageing as it goes on, with the protagonists going from a couple of fresh-faced recruits to aged veterans over the span of a decade. We see a real, tangible consequence of blood magic beside the societal reactions to it. And we see the Wardens at their best and at their most flawed; from evacuating and saving as many people as they can from the Darkspawn, to recklessly forcing blood magic on their griffons and failing to enact proper quarantines when the first signs of the problem began to appear. Its such a damn good book and I love it so much 💜

[inquisimer]

mer's arlathan eXchange works

Creators for the 2024 @arlathanxchange have been revealed and I'm excited to share the pieces I wrote! I was absolutely inspired by the wealth of amazing prompts and had a lot of fun creating all of these.

Check out the entire collection here for more amazing works! Thank you to everyone who created lovely gifts for me💜

a sky full of stars - gift for @about2dance | Rated G, Alistair/Female Surana, 2512 words

what has been forgotten - treat for @kiastirling-fanfic | Rated G, Avexis & Cassandra Pentaghast, 2523 words

show me your thorns - treat for @amarmeme & @kiastirling-fanfic | Rated T, Alistair/Avexis, 2059 words

what time does with us - treat for @kiastirling-fanfic | Rated T, Fiona & Female Surana, 1672 words

gatekeeper of an endless war - treat for the collection | Rated T, Garahel (Solo), 1145 words

I still use velvet gloves - treat for the collection | Rated T, Alistair & Female Surana, 3324 words

summaries and more below the cut!⬇️

a sky full of stars - gift for @about2dance

Rated G | Alistair/Female Surana | 2512 words | No Archive Warnings Summary: On their way to Haven, Alistair and An'da share a moment under the stars. An'da is about2dance's OC and she has SO many layers!! It was an absolute joy to dig into her lore and craft this bit of fluff for her and Alistair. Dorks in Love, my beloved😌

what has been forgotten - treat for @kiastirling-fanfic

Rated G | Avexis & Cassandra Pentaghast | 2523 words | No Archive Warnings Summary: Cassandra seeks an alternative means for the Inquisition to fight the red lyrium dragon. Kia rolled in with SO MANY good Avexis prompts and this one snatched me up right away, I just had to write the Dawn of the Seeker reunion that we never got.

show me your thorns - treat for @amarmeme & @kiastirling-fanfic

Rated T | Alistair/Avexis | 2059 words | No Archive Warnings Summary: Over a cup of tea, Avexis confronts Alistair about his intentions—and finds common ground she wasn't expecting. The Alistair/Avexis ship was another genius idea of Kia's and it was so fun to play in that sandbox! And to see other people there as well :3 I loved the idea of Avexis getting to have some of the first crush/love emotions she lost to Tranquility, and in the process found a link between post-Tranquility Avexis and formerly-Drunk Alistair that just clicked.

what time does with us - treat for @kiastirling-fanfic

Rated T | Fiona & Female Surana | 1672 words | No Archive Warnings Summary: At Leliana's behest, Surana makes a detour through Skyhold before heading West in her search to cure the Calling. Two elven Circle mages-turned-Wardens, one who was somehow Cured of the Blight and the other in search of a Cure? Yeah, this was just another pairing too juicy to pass up. They're so similar!! And Fiona is right there, and Leliana definitely can contact Surana, and you can see how I ended up here. I haven't thought much about Surana as a Warden, since my Surana is not, so this was a fun one to dive into!

gatekeeper of an endless war - treat for the collection

Rated T | Garahel (Solo) | 1145 words | Major Character Death Summary: The Wardens sent him and Isseya to the Anderfels. Garahel would not forget. Even though this didn't quite fit anyone's specific requests, I've been all up in my Last Flight feels since reading the novel a couple months ago and couldn't resist. Garahel, the city elf Warden hero, his legacy of lifting up and protecting the lowest in society lost to a history that didn't want to remember his ears. I broke my own heart a bit exploring how his knowledge of that legacy might have worn him down by the end ;-; (also check out the quote that I used to title this fic because DAMN if it isn't Grey Wardens to a T, especially elven and/or mage wardens)

I still use velvet gloves - treat for the collection

Rated T | Alistair & Female Surana | 3324 words | No Archive Warnings Summary: The Landsmeet wounded Alistair and Catrin Surana in ways only time can heal. This piece was inspired by some of the prompts in this year's exchange, and even though it ended up not quite fitting anyone's requests specifically, I'm still quite please with it! An exploration of the broken friendship between King Alistair & Warden Commander Surana after she spares Loghain, and how they come back together over the years. Not gonna lie, I did not have a Warden Surana OC before I dove into this fic but. uh. now I do 😂 it was a lot of fun to look at this friendship dynamic from a more turbulent angle!

DAFF Tag List: @warpedlegacy | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @effelants | @bluewren

@breninarthur | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @dreadfutures | @theluckywizard | @nirikeehan

@oxygenforthewicked | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @melisusthewee | @blarrghe | @agentkatie

@delicatefade | @leggywillow | @plisuu

[dragonageannual]

Meet the Legends: Garahel

Introducing the myths and legends of Dragon Age Annual 2025: Legacies! Garahel features in fic as part of our zine, Sagas.

Click Here to order DAA 2025: Legacies NOW!

Orders Close:

Physical Copies & Merch: October 31st

Digital Calendar & Zine: January 31st, 2025

Codex Entry: Garahel's Helm

I watched from across the battlefield as Garahel struck the final blow against the Archdemon and a great wave of energy surged out from the beast. It was enough to level what buildings were not already destroyed by the endless battle we had fought, enough to knock horses and ogres aside as if they were little more than parchment. Even at my distance, the force struck me like the blast of some great storm. The darkspawn around us felt it too, as savage desperation turned to sheer terror. A great pillar of energy rushed up into the dark clouds, the blackness that had gathered with the horde and blocked out all glimmer of hope. When we stood again, we saw the first rays of sunshine peeking through those clouds and we let out such a cheer of joy and relief that it shook the very earth. I joined the others as we searched for Garahel, but as the eve approached all I found was his enchanted helm. It was not until much later that I heard his body had been retrieved, flung to the far side of the battlefield by the Archdemon's death throes. My friend, this elf who helped us unite the lands and cleanse Thedas of the darkspawn scourge will always be remembered. I swear it.

—Excerpt from a letter written by the Grey Warden Prosper, 5:24 Exalted

[verenalattanzi]

Isseya and Garahel from the dragon age novel "Last Flight" written by Liane Merciel.

Reworked her portrait. Sometimes I stare so long at something that my view gets totally scewed. Always good to get up more often.

Still far away from what I want, so it will be portraits for a while. Enough characters left in those books that no one yet has visualized.

[cactusnymph]

[ID: a digital drawing of Garahel and his grey griffin Crookytail from Dragon Age The Last Flight in front of a red background. He's in full armor, his face hidden behind a helmet. His bow is drawn and an arrow is pointed directly at the viewer. His long, blond hair billow behind him. End ID]

Garahel and Crookytail

[attractthecrows]

let it also be said that I love the Mahariel + Lavellan worldstate. It's so haunted. You are Dalish, you are not a part of human culture, but by happenstance you're dragged into it and to the forefront of hell to save a world that hates and fears your people. You have no choice. You can never return to your home, to the familiar, to anything you've ever known. You will be an echo; Mahariel echoing Garahel, Lavellan echoing Mahariel. You're so proud of your Dalish heritage, but your identity doesn't matter at all. Doomed to be a martyr for a people that do not respect you and cannot understand you, while your clan mourns, lamenting that they cannot bury you, no life-tree to stand as your memory. You're a hero. You're already dead. You died the moment you left your clan.

[theaologies]

I am once again asking the Dragon Age fandom to read Last Flight for your Griffon Lore

[lizzybeeee]

Before the game and before learning anything about it I thought Assan was like 2nd gen griffon idk like maybe Davrin's griffon's baby. It takes 5 years irl for both lions and eagles to mature! why the hell griffons take apparently the same amount of time as a human! They're magic!

VERY TRUE!

They could have made them 2nd generation griffons - and, yeah, magic exists! I did a quick check of the wiki to see if there was any details on griffons growth (couldn't see any) and then had a look at dragons since they're also this mythical flying beast - so it's kind of as close as we can get? Not a lot either - just that they have large broods, most die, but the few that survive are scary as hell.

I think it potentially could have upped the stakes a little bit more - this very critical breeding program is suddenly upended and a decade of planning is suddenly thrown out the window. The genuine hope of restoring the griffons is outright robbed, since there's proof that it's possible to to accomplish. Killing all the griffons hatched in the Last Flight off-screen is unnecessary (also cruel!), so maybe have them simply fly off to find the babies on their own after they're taken?

(Maybe Assan's parents could be killed - so that's why he stays with Davrin? Then it gives Davrin this genuine drive to save the griffons if possible or avenge them if not?)

Instead of conveniently having characters drop by who just happen to have the relevant information to find the griffons you can have the wardens and Davrin track them down? Which works a bit better since Davrin has a background as a monster hunter. What better person to hunt down a bunch of elusive griffons than him?

But, yeah, hard agree that it's weird that the griffons are still babies after all this time.

[sky--phantom]

This one was pain

[ghostwise]

ten hours, five coppers

Rated T, 2.3k - Written for @dragonageannual 2025 ✨ AO3 link After a powerful storm strikes the alienage, Garahel finds his life altered in unforeseen ways. A story about the man who would become the Hero of the Fourth Blight.

Garahel’s body ached as he trudged into his home, and the silence that met him there was the first peace he’d felt in days.

A sliver of moonlight illuminated sights worn smooth by the years: the crate that served as a table, the cot in the corner, the antiquated wood stove. Tonight it all seemed new to him somehow.

Looking at his home, he was keenly aware of how fragile everything was; it was nothing but wood and stone, really, and the dreams of whatever elf, decades ago, had taken it upon himself to build. That every window pane was still whole was a blessing. Most in the alienage could not say the same.

It’d been a week since the storm had swept through the alienage, leaving behind a wake of destruction. Not a soul had slept through the howling winds and drumming rain that night—nor the deep, brassy crack that tore through the din, louder and more resonant than thunder.

That following morning they realized what had occurred.

The vhenadahl at the center of the alienage had been struck by lightning, and a portion had fallen upon the little ramshackle apartments near the courtyard. Black scorch marks stretched upwards along what remained of the great tree. It was, the hahren said, a bad omen.

Garahel had joined the repair efforts, asking for nothing in return, save what the people could spare. He was resolute in this. Even now, on this weary, hungry night.

At his side he carried a sack of flour—payment for the day’s work—which he gingerly set upon the table, beside a half-penned letter.

Isseya, the letter read.

Repairs are underway since the storm swept through our home. Believe it or not, shemlen visited yesterday, offering work. The pay is low, but regretfully I am considering the offer. A man cannot get by on goodwill and flour alone.

We ’ve heard tell that the Circle is sending mages to help in the shemlen cities that were affected. I understand the knight-commanders’ priorities. But we could use all the help we can get in the alienage.

And it would be agreeable to see you once more, sister.

The writing stopped there.

He never quite knew what to do with sentiment, and with the way he missed Isseya, even now. She was all the family he had. They were orphans, both abandoned to the streets, where they had lived and survived together—until Isseya’s magic manifested, and she, too, was swept away.

Briefly, Garahel considered finishing the letter. But his eyelids felt heavy.

He promptly climbed into his cot and fell into a deep sleep.

.

He and five others answered the call for work the next day. They made their way to the alienage gates, where a brief discussion with the guards granted them access to the city.

Ansburg had fared no better in the storm. People everywhere were industriously mending fences, patching roofs, or clearing debris. Most paid them no mind, though there were a few startled looks of suspicion.

The disparity never ceased to amaze him.

These streets were familiar to him, but he was a stranger to them no matter how many times he’d walked them. He’d lived his whole life less than a stone’s throw away, but it may as well have been another world. There was a rule of behavior that was expected here: eyes down, voice quiet.

Still, Garahel kept a trace of a smile for himself.

Their work brought them to a warehouse on the river, where the waters still ran muddy with the storm’s residue.

“Good, you lot are here,” the foreman called gruffly. He scanned their faces, his mouth twisting. “Only six? Never let it be said the elves of Ansburg are known for their work ethic.”

Garahel bit his tongue as they were led into the warehouse.

“River overflowed during the storm,” the foreman explained. “Damaged some merchandise. Your job is to sort the ruined crates from the undamaged ones—do not open anything or you’ll be losing more than just this job. Undamaged merchandise gets loaded onto the bulker. We need to reestablish supply lines; we’ve more shipments coming. You’ll be supervised, so no funny business.” The man paused to spit a piece of tobacco on the floor. “You’ll do ten hours today. Five coppers.”

“Five!”

The foreman’s eyes snapped to Garahel.

Anger, hot and startling, filled the elf for a moment. They had been promised ten. But he could feel his fellow workers tense up at his side. Some had families to provide for. They needed this.

“Apologies,” Garahel said tersely. He lowered his eyes and the moment passed.

The foreman nodded, satisfied, and the elves got to work.

It was bitter work. The crates were covered in splinters, with old nails that were beginning to rust. The ground was muddy and slick. Worst of all, the boarding platform was just a few paces wide.

But they stuck with it. The ship slowly filled with boxes of salvaged merchandise.

As the shadows grew short, then lengthened again, Garahel felt a deep weariness settle over him. It wasn’t the ache in his hands that bothered him. It wasn’t the mud that caked his trousers to the knee or the hunger he felt. It was the shemlen dockworkers, who viewed him and the others as beasts of labor, no more.

It was clear in the way they talked about them, the way they kept their distance—they may have been poor but at least they weren’t elves.

And it was clear in the way they laughed when the youngest among Garahel’s group slipped upon the platform and hit his head against the corner of a crate.

Garahel set down his load at once, and rushed to help. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders, steadying him upon the platform, which threatened to overturn.

One of the crates landed in the river with a splash. Thankfully that was all they lost.

“You’re alright,” Garahel said gruffly as he got the boy back onto shore.

“What’s this?”

The chorus of laughter from the human workers settled into silence at the foreman’s approach.

“He’s injured,” Garahel said. “If we could have some gauze—”

“Not him,” the foreman clarified. “The crate full of wine that is currently floating downriver! Who is responsible for destroying my merchandise?”

“Ser,” Garahel tried again.

“Quiet!” he hissed. “Get that bleeding oaf taken care of, and when you both return, you may begin working to pay off the losses!”

Garahel shut his mouth.

Part of him wanted to slam his fist into the foreman’s face. Another part wanted to jump into the rushing river and let it take him—maybe taste some of that watered-down wine, since it was apparently worth so much more than elven blood. He did neither. Instead, there came upon him a stark clarity, something past the anger and hunger he’d felt all day.

“Well?” the foreman pressed, as Garahel silently bandaged the boy’s wound with strips torn from his own tunic.

“He needs to rest,” Garahel said curtly. “I will take him back to the alienage. But first, pay him his day’s wages.”

“What?”

“I take responsibility for the wine. But you need to pay him.”

The foreman stared, mouth ajar and still full of chewing tobacco. “Maker damn you,” he said slowly. “I’ll show you what happens to thieving elves, you shite-”

“Someone here, serah.”

Garahel blinked.

He had been so caught up in his numb rage, he hadn’t noticed anything else. He was now startled by an unusual sight: blue banners with a silver griffin, and a group of armored warriors to match. But most unusual of all was the sight of elves and dwarves among them. Of these impressive figures, a tall blond woman with icy blue eyes stood out.

“I am Senior Warden Senaste.” She spoke in a clear, commanding tone, cutting through the mud with assurance. “Our carriages were damaged in the storm. We require transport along the river. Who is the person in charge?”

“Harbourmaster’s that direction,” the foreman grunted.

“Thank you.” Senaste turned her blue gaze upon Garahel. “Your man is injured.”

“He hit his head!” Garahel said hurriedly. “Nearly fell in the river.”

“We’ve a healer who can see to him,” she said, signalling to the others.

“Hang on-”

The Senior Warden snapped a glance at the foreman, who visibly shrank under her look.

“The elves,” he explained. “They damaged some merchandise. They must pay.”

“What exactly was damaged?”

“A crate of wine. Very fine bottles-”

He paused gain, visibly blanching as a mage Warden, staff in hand, healed the injured worker. In a moment the cut was gone as if it had never happened. With a mumbled thanks, the young elf rushed off.

“Wine,” Senaste repeated. “How very dire. Well, I trust the use of my healer more than compensates for the loss. Good day.”

As the Wardens turned away, Garahel stood rooted to the spot.

He’d heard of the Grey Wardens, of course—had grown up with stories of their heroism like most children. As the foreman stood in mute shock, Garahel felt his legs moving of their own accord.

“Warden Senaste,” he called.

He followed the Wardens away from the muddy job site. Away from his five coppers, the leering dockworkers, and the abusive foreman.

He almost thought she was ignoring him, but then she said over her shoulder: “Speak. I’m in a hurry.”

“I wish to be a Grey Warden!”

The words came out in a rush. He hadn’t even realized he was thinking them until he said them—but now they were out, and to his own surprise, they were honest.

The Senior Warden slowed, then glanced back at him to regard him properly. Garahel had the impression that he was being assessed. She cleared her throat.

“It’s a death sentence,” she told him.

“Life is a death sentence,” Garahel countered. Senaste laughed. Seeing an opportunity, he pled his case. “I am hungry. Haven’t eaten nothing but hardtack in days. My family’s gone. I have nothing keeping me here.”

“Ser,” the mage Warden from before said. “Harbormaster has passage for us tomorrow on a vessel transporting materials to the Circle.”

“Thank you.” The Senior Warden then glanced at Garahel and said, “Go home, young man.”

“But-”

“Go home, and think on it. A Warden’s life isn’t easy. It’s full of sacrifice and toil. You’d be leaving everything behind. You may not even survive the process. But if tomorrow you feel the same… come find me.”

With those words, she was gone.

.

That night, Garahel returned home for the final time. He didn’t bother packing his precious few belongings. His letter to Isseya sat unfinished. He didn’t sleep, didn’t write, and was still awake when a knock came upon his door.

“Hahren,” Garahel said when he answered it. “What’s wrong?”

“Do not join the Wardens, da’len.”

“So you heard.” Garahel sighed. “I know, it is a life of hardship. I might die before I even join—”

“More than that.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll be missed.”

Garahel’s brow furrowed. “I will miss you too,” he said softly. “All of you. As I miss Isseya, every day. And my parents, though I never met them. I think life must be like this; gathering more people to miss with each passing year. But, hahren, I can do more for our people this way. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going. Here-”

He passed a few coins into the hahren’s wizened hands.

“The money I made today. Thank you for everything.”

For some reason, those coins were still on his mind when the Joining chalice met his lips.

The fire that poured into him was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. But it was too late to renege. Among the Wardens, he took into himself a corruption beyond language, beyond thought.

It was the storm. The river. The vhenadahl burning. The Templars dragging Isseya away. The chewing tobacco in the foreman’s mouth. Every sorrow and terror in the world condensed into a cup.

Then, Garahel was lost to the fire.

.

He was on a ship when he awoke—he could tell that much—gently rocked by the current.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I’m dreaming.”

“No, you reckless fool,” Isseya said. “You’re finally awake.”

It made no sense. Isseya was in the Circle; she couldn’t be here, wherever here was. He frowned at her, confused, and this earned him a roll of Isseya’s eyes. But when she embraced him, he knew she spoke true.

“What-?”

“I boarded this ship on an aid mission for the Circle. Didn’t expect to share travel arrangements with Grey Wardens, and I certainly didn’t expect to find my own brother among them. How do you think I felt when they told me? Really, Garahel!”

Stunned, Garahel laughed. She was certainly right to be angry. He couldn’t begrudge her that; he was simply happy to see her, amazed by how she’d changed so much yet stayed exactly the same. Then the door to the cabin opened.

“Warden Garahel,” Senaste said. “I’m relieved you’re well… and in good spirits. I have something for you.”

“What is it?” Isseya asked.

She handed over a large item, wrapped in brown paper.

“Unsure. It was waiting for us at the Circle,” Senaste said. “When you are ready, come see me. We have much to discuss.”

He opened the parcel. “Now I surely must be dreaming.”

Within was a beautiful hand-carved bow. There were tell-tale marks upon it that hinted at its parent tree.

Garahel would carry it with him thereafter: the bow the hahren had sent to him.

A parting gift carved from the fallen piece of his vhenadahl.

[nightingaletrash]

Garahel: wait, you've not been with anyone at all after all these years? Isseya: no Garahel: really?! I thought you and Calien maybe- Isseya 'I'm too aroace for this shit': absolutely fucking not

[inquisimer]

for garahel! 'If they wept for him, he couldn’t hear it.'

ro I just 😭😭 I MADE MYSELF CRY AGAIN, I'm so fucking emotional about these two 😭 where do I put all these FEELINGS

for @dadrunkwriting | Isseya & Garahel | wc: 716

-

His mind made the same leaps as Isseya’s, at almost exactly the same time. For all that they thought differently, they had spent their lives together and sometimes they thought just the same. He saw the last of the Tainted griffons fall, Edelys, frozen and incapable, and he saw Isseya, lips pressed together, gather Revas’ reins for one last dive.

No.

No sooner had he thought it than Crookytail was moving under him, drawing alongside Revas so that they could stop Isseya before she gave herself up.

If it was to be one of them—and it was, there was no other way, this could not all be for naught—Garahel would not let it be her.

His beloved sister. He’d seen the light in her eyes when they first saw the griffons; the bright joy that bubbled up when Revas wrapped her up in a wing. Of course he’d felt something similar with Crookytail—but none of them ever felt the griffon’s beating heart as Isseya had.

And now the griffons were dying.

He did not know exactly what dark magic Isseya had worked on Strife, those fateful years ago, but he recognized the blame in her eyes. The self-flagellation and disgust at the sight of their great beasts with bloodied beaks and pure, unadulterated rage in their eyes. Whatever she had done to save the griffons had condemned them just the same. Perhaps even worse. And she would never forgive herself for it.

But it was not only her fault. He could have stopped her.

It was his Joining kit that she took, back when he was a Field Commander and she was not. His supplies that she used in that first experiment. If he’d stopped to question her, listened to the nagging in the back of his mind that something was not right, he might have saved her so much of the grief and corruption that weighed on her now.

And beyond that—he had given her secret away. He had been the one to tell the First Warden what she had done, given him the knowledge he needed to issue the order that killed them all. It was necessary, it had to be done, he would do it again—and that did not change the fact that it had hurt his sister, and he regretted that alone.

She was dying. Her hair had long since fallen out and in the rare moments that he saw her unwrapped from all the scarves, Isseya looked more like a ghoul than his sister. But he knew the shape and feel of her as well as he knew his own. He had known her all along and he knew her now still.

Which was why he knew she could fix this.

Isseya had worked impossible magic in her own right. She had a brilliant mind and so many people of the Free Marches owed their lives to her alone. It was her well-intentioned mind that poisoned the griffons and Garahel did not doubt that it was her mind alone that would find the answer, given a chance. A chance she would only have if she lived beyond today.

So even though it was, by rights, her blow to take, Garahel pushed Crookytail past her. They rarely flew the griffons so close, for risk of collision, but he could not stop himself from reaching out to brush bruised and battered knuckles against her shoulder one last time.

Be strong, Isseya, he thought as the wind whipped his hair about his face. You are strong. The strongest of us all. I love you. And I’m sorry.

“Give my love to Amadis, and my weapons to the Wardens,” he said. “And, Isseya, be kind to yourself.”

He prayed that she listened.

As he stood on Andoral’s spine, barely daring to think for fear that he would lose this precious chance, Garahel’s eyes caught on the dark speck that could only be Isseya on Revas, watching it all play out. He raised his blade in a salute she certainly couldn’t see, and drove it down through the Old God’s skull, deep into its Blighted brain.

And as the archdemon’s soul sought him out, as it ripped fire and agony and anguish through his mortal soul:

Isseya, be kind to yourself.

[vigilskeep]

when they still have a mabari labelled ‘sick mabari’ in the pen but you’re playing cousland and already have a mabari so it won’t let you interact