#ilanlas mahariel

[icy-warden]

Ilanlas Mahariel and Vergil Surana starring in a fic for @heniareth to celebrate the oc kiss week 💙✨

Vergil turns the corner and steps into a garden. It is a small private space with a couple of trees and a few bushes. There is a patch where he grows his herbs, a rectangular box of dirt that is insulated from the floor with wards. In the middle of a cobblestone path are two wooden benches and a low table. It is a place to unwind, listen to birds that sit on the branches and read a book, if the weather is nice.

There is also where Ilanlas made his spot for archery practice. Or more like, where he comes when he wants to practice alone, without anyone spying on him. 

Hone his skill or let out some steam.

Like he does now.

The bushes obscure the view, but the dull noise of an arrow meeting its target reaches Vergil. It repeats in semi-regular sequence, a background noise that Vergil closely listens to as he opens the basket of goods he carried with him. After a quick arrangement of its contents on the table, Vergil sits back. And waits, a small journal balanced on his knee.

Sometime later he hears soft clatter of arrows being put away with the rest of the equipment, water splashing and nearing steps. 

Ilanlas eyes Vergil, and the table - honey cakes on a plate, a bowl of blackberries on the side. He walks slower, but doesn’t stop or approach.

Internally, Vergil sighs. Stubborn man.

“Ilanlas.” 

Ilanlas stops with his back turned. The skirt of his armor brushes his thighs, leg wrappings mysteriously missing since their little spat. 

He turns slightly to Vergil, face suspiciously neutral. 

“A moment of your time,” Vergil says, gesturing at the empty bench, “if you would.”

Ilanlas hesitates, glancing at him and the food again. Vergil notices how he rolls his shoulders back before he makes the decision. With a swift precision, Ilanlas crosses the short distance and takes a seat. He stays quiet, arms crossed, legs comfortably spread - Vergil forces his gaze not to linger on the bare skin of his thighs shamelessly peeking in-between the stripes of his leather skirt. Instead he meets Ilanlas’ eyes, catches a flash of wicked satisfaction crossing his face before he is back to the annoyed-neutral one. 

With a tilt of his chin and one brow up, Ilanlas oozes the “What do you want?” question in spades.

Vergil smothers another sigh that wants to escape him, reaching for a cake closest to him.

“You were right.” He admits, tearing the cake in two and popping it into his mouth. It is spongy and very, very sweet. He might have put too much honey in the batter. 

“I know I was.” Ilanlas speaks with confidence, “I always am.”

Vergil bites his tongue, indulging the man with his silence on the matter. He is here to make amends, not to add more oil to the fire. After all, last night after the argument, Ilanlas went to sleep in another room, but he came back way past midnight to their shared bedroom. He barely spoke to Vergil and left as much space between them as physically possible without rolling out of the bed. 

Vergil doesn’t intend on sleeping like that for the next night.

“Are you ready to do something about it?”

“I cannot.” He holds his hand up when Ilanlas’ lips pull into a hard line. “Not yet. I need proof. Solid one. I can’t hurl accusations without hard evidence.” He should bring some water to wash down the taste of pastries. It lingers around his teeth. “Amaranthine’s nobles haven’t forgotten that I let half of their city burn.”

“He did something to the well. Only water source for the alienage.” Ilanlas uncrosses his arms, elbows digging into his thighs as he leans closer. “People say it’s because he’s got plans for space and needs to get rid of the elves. That the fire hasn’t spread far enough to touch their homes.”

“That is his work, without doubt.” Vergil agrees, “but we need to be patient. Think of it as a hunt.”

Ilanlas snorts. “If I were the hunter here, he would have already occupied one of the branches.”

A small smile blooms on Vergil’s lips at the venom colouring Ilanlas’ words. If only things would be that simple. “I sent a letter to consult a friend on the matter.”

Ilanlas hums, easily catching on the meaning.

“And in the meantime, I have secured a water source for the alienage.” Vergil wiggles his fingers, Ilanlas’ eyes following the motion.

When Ilanlas gets up without a word, the smile freezes on Vergil's face. Then, the man plops himself next to him, his thigh a solid press next to his own leg. 

The other half of the honey cake is deftly brought up to Ilanlas’ mouth, along with Vergil’s hand still holding onto it. Their gazes locked, a deliberate scrape of teeth on his fingertips just as Ilanlas’ lips close over the treat. Vergil’s fingers are sticky from honey and now wet thanks to Ilanlas. The man smirks at him, then chews and swallows, a slight grimace crinkling his eyes, “Sweet.”

“Have a berry then.”

“I might,” Ilanlas’ voice matches Vergil’s low tone, “If you pass it to me.”

Such simple words shouldn’t just make him so warm and reach for Ilanlas’ jaw, fingers caressing the soft underside as the man lets him tilt his head up.

“Any other wishes, when we are at it?” Vergil asks, mouth brushing the corner of Ilanlas’ lips that curls up under his light caress. A hand at his nape stops him from moving further and he stills for a moment.

“I have a list.” There’s a hint of playfulness in Ilanlas’ voice when he shifts his face away from Vergil’s, catching his eye. “But I’d really like those berries now.”

Vergil huffs, amused by the chase he is being set on. “Of course, starling. Coming up right now.”

Ilanlas looks pleased by his little win, firm warmth of his leg shifting impossibly closer to Vergil’s when he passes him the fruit bowl. Some of the blackberries glisten with spilled juices, staining Ilanlas’ fingers and mouth. Vergil watches him digging into them until almost nothing is left. Ilanlas knows he doesn’t like them as much, so he doesn’t offer to share. But what he doesn’t mind doing, is to have some taste straight out of those tempting lips.

This time, it’s Ilanlas who cups Vergil’s face, leaving a quick peck to his mouth before teeth close over Vergil’s lower lip. Not giving Vergil a time to react, when his tongue quickly soothes the sting then uses the distraction to kiss him fully, just as he likes to. 

One stronger breeze rustles the leaves and makes Vergil shiver, just as Ilanlas stops their kiss. 

Ilanlas glances at Vergil’s open lips, soft sigh shared between them before he stands up. Vergil’s eyes fall to the leather skirt, his hand following his gaze and resting on Ilanlas’ waist.

“Where are you going?”

“We are going.” Ilanlas tugs at his hand and Vergil gets up from the bench. “I need a change of clothes.” He sniffs, “and maybe a bath too.” Ilanlas adds with a smirk. 

The fingers of their clasped hands intertwine easily when they start walking towards the entrance to the building, “One of the things on your list? Maybe I can assist with that.”

“Oh, vhenan. I believe you definitely can.”

[heniareth]

Rating hugs - Dragon Age edition

Ages ago, @layalu tagged me to rate the hugs of my OCs, and now I can finally get to it. There will be two posts, one for my Dragon Age OCs and one for my Forgotten Realms peeps. Thank you for the tag friend!! Let's get into it ^^

Astala Tabris

Loves hugs and gives them freely. Will hug and squeeze, or hold gently, whichever is preferred. Is tall (for an elf) and has strong arms, so there's a lot she can hug with, but you will have to endure her leaning a good part of her weight on you. 9/10, especially if you like to be gently crushed.

Ilanlas Mahariel

Very choosy with hugs, and doesn't like to hug often. When he does though, it's a quick but firm hug. You are siblings in arms now! Unless you're an attractive guy and a mage, in which case the hug might linger. 6.5/10 if only because the rarity of the experience adds value.

Sulri Aeducan

Mission failed! She is grabbing your wrists in the best of cases and stopping you in your tracks. In the worst of cases, she immobilizes you and the hug turns into a backstab. 0/10, do not attempt

Khêd Brosca

He is uncomfortable. Why are you so close and why are you being nice. Suspects ulterior motives, but if given sufficient time and no further reasons for distrust, will become emotional over the hug even if it's long since past. 3/10. You made him cry!!

Marelas Lavellan

He is the First of clan Lavellan, and sometimes, physical comfort is necessary, but otherwise, he's not very touchy. Secretly desperate for receiving a hug, but it's fine, he can handle it. 7.5/10; he does his job well.

Sending hugs to all and sundry!! This was fun 😆😆😆😆😆😆 If anybody wants to do this for their OCs, do it and tag me

[bumblerhizal-art]

an attack against @heniareth of ilanlas mahariel and sulri aeducan just being rogues and doing rogue stuff, don’t worry about it ^_^

[icy-warden]

@heniareth 🌠💙❄

Lalique amethyst glass buckle

[jellydishes]

Rules: post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to ao3. if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics.

tagged by nobody, tagging anybody who wants to play

from Letters From Home: Mallory Surana was fussing with her riding gloves as she crossed Vigil's Keep's courtyard on her way back from a patrol.

from In a Twinkling: Isabela hummed along with the singing that rippled from one end of the Hanged Man to the other and back as she watched the company of grey wardens mix together with her friends.

from Diseased Awareness of Reality: Gerry didn't remember how he had gotten here, or where "here" even might be, beyond an endless, shifting array of corridors and mirrors.

from But with a Whimper: Sidonie Lavellan watched from where he was perched on the corner of his desk as his warden contact paced throughout his office turned bedroom like one of those big cats he had last seen glaring out at him from a cage in Orlais.

from Of Our Own Device: Tancred Hawke sat relaxing against the back of the rabbit run behind the Hawke family cottage, running their fingers through the soft fur of their favorite rabbit, Coney.

from Tumbling Through and Through: Ilanlas Mahariel looked down at the other warden beside him, bemused.

from Wintergreen: The heroine Sidestep had always been known to favor the color green.

from To Become Something Greater: One breath.

from Cascade: Artificial sunlight cascaded through the windows where by all logic, it should have been dark, as there was a building directly blocking the actual sun.

from Bone Meal: This story begins the way so many do, with a man walking.

[badartxd]

Hihihi!! I’m quite late to post here but here is my portrait commission of Ilanlas Mahariel (Dearly Beloved) , for @heniareth !! This man is full of snark and I love that so much for him😌

[icy-warden]

@heniareth a fic starring Ilanlas 💙 Zevraholics OC Kiss Week 2023 ✨

It’s good that the clearing he chose for the spell practice is far enough from the camp for anyone witnessing the spectacular failure of his own making.

Leaving him baffled and a little dizzied in the aftermath. Teeth chattering as the cold seems to greedily seep out warmth off his body. It’s never good to be wet and cold and he’s soaked to the bone, his clothes sticking to him like a damp paper. What was to be a successful test of a blizzard cloud turned into a cloud full of water. Freezing water.

His shocked shout must have scared away any living being nearby when the cloud fell on his head in a full blast. With Vergil gasping for breath and shaking in disbelief.

It’s not good that he has to trudge through the forest to the camp from the clearing, looking like a wet wrath.

He doesn’t spare a glance at anyone when he marches through the camp, ignoring surprised looks of his companions and their worried questions. 

“Did you fall into a lake?”

Or teasing remarks.

He narrows his eyes at Alistair, as the man’s trying and failing to stifle his giggle.

“Yes. A very deep lake. I can show you later.”

Vergil pauses before his tent, contemplating going in as he is. A puddle of water pools under his feet and he flicks at hair plastered to his face. He looks down at his clothes, still soggy and full of water. With a sigh he starts to unbutton his shirt.

“Oh, no need, thanks. But you know, you- What are you doing?” 

Vergil glances back over his shoulder at Alistair’s sputtering face. 

“What does it look like? I’m taking my clothes off.” He’s down to his trousers as he wrestles the shirt and vest off and they fall down onto the ground with a miserable wet plop. The shivers don’t want to let go and he clenches his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering audibly.

“Out in the open? We can see you!”

“Then don’t look.” He wrings out his hair and starts on his trousers. The fabric feels glued to his legs and he struggles to pull them down. They don’t cooperate and he can’t push the fabric past his hips.

“Oh no, no, no, you don’t do that here-”

“I told you to not look if you don’t wish to.” He stops his efforts only because he forgets about his boots and he curses softly, leaning down to untie them.

“Well, you don’t hear me complaining.” Zevran’s smirk is evident in his tone even if Vergil doesn’t look back to see his toothy smile.

“You’re all so annoying.” 

Vergil looks up at a man emerging from his, their, shared tent, his voice rough with sleep.

Ilanlas is rubbing at his eye as the tent’s flap opens, his braid messy thanks to his nap. He pauses mid-yawn, looking at Vergil, taking in his half naked body. Face carefully blank, he glances at the others. 

“Whatever you’re doing,” Ilanlas says slowly, noticing the state of undress Vergil is in. “Take it inside.” He gestures for him to go in, holding a flap up for Vergil. The mage uses the invitation without a word, slipping into the closed space. The entrance closes behind him as Ilanlas stays outside. Vergil can hear him walking away, answering curtly whatever their companions tell him. Alone, Vergil’s quick to shed off his remaining boots and trousers and quickly changes into a blissfully dry set of clothes. 

He’s drying his hair with a small towel when Ilanlas steps into the tent, a mug of warm tea in his hand.

“Here.” 

Vergil picks up the mug, taking a careful sip of spicy drink. “Thanks.”

The mug is warming up his hands. Ilanlas grabs his blanket, silently offering it for Vergil and he blinks at the gesture but nods in acceptance. He doesn’t expect Ilanlas to put it over his shoulders, his fingers brushing the hollow of his throat as he’s wrapping him up in a heavy fabric. He leans forward when Ilanlas doesn’t move, sitting on his haunches. There’s a strand of Vergil’s black hair between his fingers, his thumb gently stroking it. 

Vergil drinks his tea and Ilanlas eyes snap to his neck, watching it work as he swallows.

“It wasn’t a lake.”

“No.”

Ilanlas hums. “There’s no lake nearby.”

“How do you know?” Vergil shifts, uncurling his legs so they’re bracketing Ilanlas’ hips. Inviting him into his space. There’s a small smile starting at the corner of Ilanlas’ lips.

“I was hunting earlier. No lake in that clearing.”

“You saw me?”

He shrugs, rubbing at his arm. “Magic in the air makes most prey skittish.”

Ilanlas moves closer, his eyes never leaving Vergil’s own. He lets his hands sneak around Ilanlas’ waist as he kneels between his legs. The shivers slowly fade to nothing with a warm body so close. Vergil’s lids fall close halfway when hands gently cup his face. He lets him, looking at the lines of his tattoos, dark ink hiding half of his face.

“You still smell like it.”

He tilts his face up, almost closing the space between Ilanlas’ murmur. “The spell was complicated.”

Vergil kisses the corner of his mouth. He moves lower to his jaw before Ilanlas has the chance to respond. The hands on Vergil’s face fall down to hold on his shoulders just as Vergil’s fingers slip under the fabric of Ilanlas’ shirt. He twitches with a huff at the feeling of cold fingertips lazily stroking the small of his back. 

“I spent too much time weaving it.” Vergil nips the underside of Ilanlas’ jaw when he tilts his head to ease access.

“You know where you made a mistake?”

Vergil feels his voice under his lips when he speaks, going down the line of his throat. He only hums in response, licking a spot where the shoulder meets neck. 

“You’re trying again?” Ilanlas’ voice hitches a bit when Vergil gently bites and it tips Ilanlas into action. His fingers slip into Vergil’s hair, pulling him back as soon as he soothes the sting with a small kiss.

Ilanlas swallows his “Yes”  with a press of mouth over his own, unrelenting yet soft. Vergil answers with similar eagerness, drinking in the passion and warmth of Ilanlas body pushing him down. He goes down willingly, opening his arms to wrap them around the man over him, teeth catching and releasing Ilanlas’ lower lip as he breaks the kiss to breathe.

There’s a familiar shine of want in his eyes, burning low with a promise. One he doesn’t hesitate to reach for, running his hands down Ilanlas’ back, fingers curving over his nape, tangling in chestnut brown hair. Vergil leans up, teasing Ilanlas with a delicate brush of their mouths before he gives into it again. He sighs at a hand pulling at his shirt and shifts his hips up, meeting Ilanlas’s weight. He welcomes it and his warmth and he closes his eyes to let the feeling unfurl and spread over him, caressing the long ear of his lover in one light move just to hear a quiet moan slipping in between their kisses. Vergil smirks at the blush dusting Ilanlas’ cheeks when he pulls back. Eyes roaming over his slightly open mouth, reddened lips and half lidded gaze, the silver almost gone with the black of his dilated pupils.

He wants this man, he wants all what he offers and-

Suddenly, Ilanlas stiffens, head snapping up and there’s a question at the tip of his tongue when his ears pick up on someone’s feet shuffling next to their tent.

“Vergil? Ilanlas?”

Ilanlas doesn’t move, glaring at the tent’s opening like it was the one that’s responsible for Leliana standing there. There’s a gentle tap at the wall. Vergil closes his eyes with a deep sigh, his hands falling off Ilanlas’ body.

“I don’t want to disturb you, but I need to speak with you.”

“What-” He needs to clear his throat and that makes Ilanlas glance at him, his frown lessening for a second. “What is it?” He sits up when Ilanlas takes the cue to move and plop down next to him. 

“I’d rather talk with you in person, if that’s possible?”

“No, it’s not.” Ilanlas mumbles under his breath and as much as Vergil shares his sentiment, he rakes a hand through his hair, fixing his clothes.

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I appreciate that.”

They listen to her walking away in silence. Ilanlas picks up on the thread of his blanket, playing with it without a word. There’s a pout on his lips, one that he’d like to kiss away but chooses not to. He’s not sure Ilanlas would like to be touched right now, when the mood is ruined.

Instead he turns around. “I’ll go first. Join us when you’re ready.”

Ilanlas grunts but doesn’t move when he opens the entrance. Vergil glances at him, pausing for a moment and then lightly shaking his head at himself. He steps out of the tent, eyes squinting at the still bright late afternoon.

There’s a bruise forming at Ilanlas’ throat, high enough that the collar of his shirt isn’t going to cover it. 

He’s looking forward to seeing his reaction when he notices others noticing. 

The thought amuses him.

He stretches lazily, his shirt riding up, hair falling freely down his back. Unhurriedly he walks towards Leliana talking with Bohdan.

Whatever it is that she wants, there’s a chance to wrap this up quickly and go back to what they started with Ilanlas later that night.

[heniareth]

An OC Kiss week gift for the amazing @icy-warden featuring Vergil Surana and Ilanlas Mahariel. Enjoy, my friend ^^

🍁❄🍁❄🍁❄

Ilanlas eyes Vergil as he steps into the circle Sigrun has marked into the ground with the bottom of her axe. His weapons are at the ready, and there is a focused, calculating look on his face. Ilanlas hides a small smile and begins to step around him, assessing the angle at which he stands and the way he holds his weapons. The earth is solid under their feet, hard, but good. Less chance of slipping. Around them, their audience gathers with palpable and audible anticipation.

“All bets are closed and final,” Nathaniel calls out. “May the best fighter win.”

“Put those pointy knives to use!” Oghren hollers.

Ilanlas rolls his eyes but doesn’t deign to give him an answer. Instead, he checks his weapons: the spell Anders has laid on them to dull the blades and prevent harm holds. It’s nicer than using training weapons. The weight of those is just different enough. Idly, a corner of his mind flashes back to this exact same setup, three years in the past, when they had been at Zathrian’s clan and freshly returned from their victory against the werewolves…

🍁❄🍁❄🍁❄

“You are looking at knives,” Ilanlas said, stepping up behind Vergil.

Vergil looked up, surprised. He had once again not heard Ilanlas approach; upon seeing that, Ilanlas was torn between pride and the nagging doubt of whether he should start making more noise while walking. He didn’t want to scare Vergil away, after all.

“It seems like a good idea to learn,” Vergil mused, turning back to inspect the daggers master Varathorn had laid out for him. “There are places where I can’t do magic without attracting too much unwanted attention, after all.”

Ilanlas nodded. Vergil wasn’t mentioning what was probably the real source of this sudden interest in weaponry. But Ilanlas had seen him get sick after touching that gem in the ruins of the Brecilian Forest, had felt the Veil flitter and thin for a moment before settling again, and from that point on, the way Vergil fought had been… different.

Ilanlas had noticed, of course, because he had gotten distracted more than once by watching Vergil fight.

“Do you know how to use them?” he asked Vergil with a nod towards the daggers.

Something flashed over Vergil’s face, there and gone. Then he said, “I do not.” Then, he gave Ilanlas a look full of sly interest. “Are you offering to teach me?”

“Yes,” Ilanlas said, maybe a touch too quickly. He cleared his throat. “But not with those. Come. We will need training daggers.”

They got them when they asked, and then they walked over to a free spot just outside the Dalish camp. It was closer to other people than Ilanlas would’ve liked. No matter. He handed Vergil two of the training daggers, pieces of wood about the length of his forearm, and went to show him how to hold them. But there was no need to. Vergil’s fingers curled around the handle in exactly the way they should. Not only that: his stance was correct as well, and different from the one he held while casting spells. If his legs were unaccustomed to the position, he didn’t show it.

“The Circle taught you how to use daggers?” Ilanlas asked, surprised enough that his words came out as an actual question.

“Hah!” Vergil made. “No. They cancelled any weaponry training long before I arrived.”

Ilanlas frowned, but dropped the matter. Vergil was a private person, and they already had an audience. Zevran was leaning against a tree just at the edge of their space, watching them.

Irritating.

Ilanlas shook his head. It didn’t matter.

“Alright,” he said to Vergil, “I will teach you how to defend yourself first.”

He demonstrated the most basic movements to redirect a simple cut coming from above, the side, or below. The principle was always the same: block with the forearm of your off-hand weapon, sweeping the attacker’s arm away from your body. They practiced this several times, first slowly, then faster. Then, they reversed their roles, and Ilanlas showed Vergil how to execute the same cuts he had been defending himself against.

Their audience, meanwhile, swelled.

There were now several members of the clan standing at the periphery of their training field. Most of them were their age. Ilanlas knew some and liked none of them. Their stares burned, and there was no way to chase them off. No matter. It wouldn’t matter. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to focus only and exclusively on Vergil.

Vergil meanwhile stepped forward again, his training dagger making the motion Ilanlas had shown him. Ilanlas fluidly stepped aside and batted the wooden weapon away.

Vergil made a face and broke his stance. “Is there a way to get past you blocking me?”

Ilanlas’s hands now felt clammy. People were staring, and he was boring Vergil.

“Yes,” he said while he saw the elves watching them giggle and whisper among themselves. “You could try and swing at me with your other hand. Same motion.”

“Watch out! Don’t let him press you so hard you run away,” one of the onlookers called out in Dalish, and the rest laughed.

Ilanlas froze.

In hindsight, he couldn’t remember if the young man’s tone had been provocative or not. In the moment, it hadn’t mattered. He battled the urge to do exactly what he had been teased about, and lost focus. He only saw the movement when the dagger was already almost upon him, and then his body moved for him. Lightning fast, he stepped aside, let the dagger fly past, blocked the second incoming strike and simultaneously stabbed for his opponent’s throat—

He stopped himself just in time. A heartbeat later, he felt a dull stab in his lower back that made him stumble into the man in front of him. Wooden daggers clattered to the ground, and hands scrambled to keep him upright.

“I’m sorry!” he heard Vergil say.

Ilanlas stumbled past Vergil, away from his hands, holding his side. The cacophony of voices from their audience howled in his ears.

How had Vergil…?

“I don’t know what happened!” Vergil said over the noise, apologetically, and more than a little rattled.

Ilanlas grunted and straightened best he could. He wanted to cover his ears. He wanted to run. He did neither of those things, but shame burned in his ears and tightened his throat nonetheless. No word came out when he tried to tell Vergil that he was alright. Their little training session had thus found its abrupt end.

The next time Vergil asked for help mastering blades, Zevran turned out to be the better teacher. This stung.

But since then, three years had passed.

🍁❄🍁❄🍁❄

Nathaniel gives the go signal. Vergil doesn’t let him out of his sight, and Ilanlas waits two heartbeats and a half before he lunges without warning. Vergil meets him halfway, their blades ringing as the barriers placed around the steel clash. Vergil and Ilanlas part again, circling each other for a short moment, and then clash with renewed vigor. Their blades are a deadly whirl of silver.

“Watch out!” Anders yells.

“Use your magic, damnit!” Velanna curses.

“Make him eat dust!” Sigrun shouts.

Ilanlas doesn’t bother trying to decipher who they are each talking to; the fight has become a dance, and he knows the steps well. Both he and Vergil already grew so much in skill during the year of the Blight, and two years apart have honed them even further. Ilanlas longs to relearn the way Vergil’s feet hit the ground on the battlefield and match his own steps to that rhythm. He lunges again, twisting around Vergil when the latter tries to put some distance between them. His swords and longer limbs give Vergil the greater reach, and he is making full use of it, barring the way like one of his walls of ice. Ilanlas, however, is fast even after the last two years, and lithe, and very experienced in braving even the coldest of facades when it comes to Vergil. They break apart again, studying each other, trying to find an opening in each other’s defenses. Feet kick up dust when they move and steel rings against steel. The Veil hums, and Ilanlas jumps to the side as ice begins to form under his feet. He laughs and tosses a handful of dirt in Vergil’s direction. Vergil instinctively flinches back to protect his eyes, and there, there is the opening. Ilanlas presses in. Vergil tries to interpose his offhand sword between them, and Ilanlas bats it to the side as he swings his offhand blade around, zeroing in just behind Vergil’s neck—

He stops, blade inches away from Vergil’s throat, the sweet taste of victory on his lips. Vergil is breathing hard. So is he. Their faces are inches away from each other.

“Got you,” Ilanlas pants.

Vergil smiles. “And I you.”

Now Ilanlas feels the dull press of the enchanted blade in his lower back.

“It’s a draw!” Nathaniel declares from the sidelines to a chorus of groans from Velanna and Anders, who had apparently bet money, the whooping of Sigrun and the swearing of Oghren. They all don't matter. Ilanlas smiles up at Vergil, adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

“Good fight,” is all his mind manages to put on his tongue.

Vergil dips his head lower. “Good fight, starling.”

Creators—

“Vhenan.” Ilanlas smiles, and stretches up to kiss Vergil.

Salt on his lips, sweat on his brow, and a willing, eager answer. Ilanlas's hands find purchase on the back of Vergil's neck, blades forgotten on the earthen ground, and Vergil abandons them likewise, pulling Ilanlas closer by the waist. The voices of the rest of the wardens melt away.

He missed this.

Ilanlas rests his forehead against Vergil's shoulder, basking in the simple happiness of being back with him, no matter who is watching.

[bumblerhizal-art]

modern au mahariel and tabris r (reluctantly) looking for clues together

the mahariel in question belongs to @heniareth

[heniareth]

“Did you say the Dalish?” Astala asked. “Which clan?” “Uh… I don’t know,” Alistair said and craned his neck to try and read the upside down script of the parchment he was holding out. “I think… all of them?” Astala let out a low whistle. How many Dalish clans were there? At least ten, right?

Somewhere on his way to the Brecilian forest, Ilanlas is facepalming so hard

[heniareth]

Image Description: a post by tumblr user @/vaor that says "#alternatively this isn't the hill I want to die on it's the hill I want to kill u on 🥰"

“this is the hill you want to die on?” oh no i just love arguing. i fully intend to leave this hill once it gets boring. sorry for the confusion!

[heniareth]

Story of Astala Tabris: Height Chart!

I gotta say, this was very fun to make XD XD XD XD

This mainly started out as me cracking up about how teeny tiny Ilanlas Mahariel is next to Sten. Reaches right up to his waist. A literal child. And then it devolved into having a look at how tall everybody else is. I'm writing it out under the cut, from the tallest to the shortest

Sten: 250 cm/8'2"

Alistair: 190 cm/6'3"

Wynne: 177 cm/6'0"

Leliana: 176 cm/5'9"

Morrigan: 172 cm/5'8"

Astala Tabris: 167 cm/5'6"

Zevran: 165 cm/5'5"

Sulri Aeducan: 150 cm/4'11"

Oghren: 148 cm/4'10"

Ilanlas Mahariel: 147 cm/5'0"

Khêd Brosca: 137 cm/4'6"

(List will be updated when the rest of the Origins + Ainsley arrive)

(I love being mean to Ilanlas and making everyone taller than him)

(Also Sulri is not green it was supposed to be a cold yellow but yellow turns green as soon as you put a warmer yellow next to it. Maybe it's poetic. I'm leaving it that way)

[heniareth]

Inspired by @bumblewarden I did some playing around in the BG3 character creator and came up with some looks for my guys:

(Left to right, up to down: Astala Tabris, Ilanlas Mahariel, Khêd Brosca and Sulri Aeducan. I am not quite convinced with the following: Astala looks way too angry. Ilanlas's hair has more poof to it and his braid starts higher. Also, obviously, the vallaslin. I had to use the gnome race for Khêd because the dwarven model is way too beefy for his underfed ass. And Sulri has quite a lot body fat more. But overall, they look cool!)

Preliminary looks for the Origins I have not yet met in-story under the cut

(Left to right, up to down: Surana (they/them), Odile "Odd-ette" Amell (she/her), Edmund Cousland (he/him), Ciar Ainsley (all pronouns). Both Cousland and Ainsley should be fatter)

[heniareth]

Oh well if you're doing prompts...

C2 from the dialogue prompt list! :3

(sorry for the weird follow notification, I accidentally clicked the wrong button, oops)

Ooooooh THANK YOU!!! I see I have inspired something XD XD XD XD No higher compliment is there. I hope you enjoy this one too!!

"So!" Anders looked around the room strewn with still bleeding bodies and shook his hands out. "Well... That happened."

Astala loaded her last bolt into her crossbow. Just in case. "Sure did. Are you alright?"

"Me?" Anders tugged at his earring. "Oh, sure. This was nothing! Should've seen them dragging me off the last time they did. They've actually gotten worse at their job!"

His gaze was still lost somewhere between the bodies on the floor. Astala exchanged a quick look with Ilanlas, who finished cleaning his daggers and returned them to their scabbards before clapping Anders on the shoulder. Anders flinched.

"Sigrun and Velanna are waiting for us," Ilanlas told him, arms crossed, positioning himself direcrly in Anders' line of sight. "We should go. My cousin might set something on fire otherwise."

"Right." Anders' inhale was shaky, but he ripped his gaze away from the dead templars. "Uh... all of this?"

"I will have people clean up," Astala said.

"Right." Anders repeated, nodded, and fell silent. Then, he quietly added: "This will bring trouble, won't it?"

Astala shrugged. "They were the ones who came looking for it."

"And we will gladly hand it out." A toothy grin steetched over Ilanlas's face. The lines of his vallaslin curled with it. "Fuck the Chantry."

"Right!" Anders' laugh was still shaky, but it was a laugh.

Ilanlas made for the exit. Anders followed. Before he left the room, Astala could hear him quietly mutter "fuck the Chantry" to himself. Still shaky; but for the first time since she had arrived at Vigil's Keep, she heard hurt and rage burning in his voice.

(For reference: Astala Tabris is arlessa of Amaranthine while Ilanlas Mahariel is Warden-Commander. Astala has some serious injuries from the fight with the Archdemon that severely limit her fighting capabilities—she used to be a dual-wielder but has switched to crossbows since because she physically cannot chase enemies across the battlefield—and also almost died to the Archdemon. She figures she's done enough for the Wardens. Ilanlas enthusiastically took on the title until he discovered just how much paperwork was involved. He still enjoyes it far too much when humans have to treat him like an authority figure. Thank you for the ask!!!!)

(Also also Ilanlas may be standing in Anders' line of sight but he is probably a good head and a bit shorter than Anders XD XD XD His efforts are valiant but limited by circumstance. Also Ilanlas and Velanna are cousins because yes they have a similar bad temper)

[Ask game here]

[heniareth]

Two truths, one lie

Ilanlas Mahariel edition!! Thank you so much @arainayeet for the tag, I'm enjoying these so much XD XD XD XD

Rules: post two truths and a lie about one of your characters

Here are some cold, hard facts about Ilanlas Mahariel and one that is neither cold nor hard nor a fact:

I am tagging you back!! In case you have another character you would like to show off ;D Also tagging YOU!! All of you who read this and want to give this a go!! If you want to also pleade tag me on the post so I can nosey on in and vote 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Thank you again for the tag!!!

[heniareth]

The Battle of Ostagar

Chapter 3: The Battle Begins

(Full chapter on AO3 or continued below)

Wordcount: 4046

WARNINGS:

general darkspawn hivemind weirdness

some body horror (screaming blood)

death, description of death

the horrors of war (anxiety-inducing)

canon-typical violence

Sulri returned a while after, walking straight towards them. She looked solemn and somber, as if bearing bad news. Astala saw her expression with a twinge of worry. Were they in big trouble?

Sulri tapped Khêd on the shoulder. Khêd didn’t look up and flipped her off. Sulri let out an exasperated huff, crouched down in front of him and started signing away. Khêd avoided looking at her, but Sulri was insistent Finally, something she said made Khêd pay attention. Sulri said something more. Khêd’s mouth was a tight line, but then he relaxed. Forcefully. Astala had no idea someone could be relaxed in such a tense way.

“Fine,” Khêd said, shrug casual and not. “Let’s hear it.”

Sulri gave him a sweet smile and positioned herself so that all three of them could see her. As she started talking, Khêd translated:

“The battle is looking bad. The strategy they will use is solid, but the king’s armies are severely outnumbered, and he refuses to retreat and wait for reinforcements from his uncle in Redcliffe. I tried to help him see reason, but it didn’t work. Tonight will likely end in a defeat for the king’s army.”

Astala felt the palms of her hands starting to sweat. She exchanged a glance with Ilanlas. Maybe they could still leave?

“Fortunately,” Khêd continued his translation, “we will be away from the battlefield- we will!?”

Sulri threw Khêd a scolding look, which he didn’t even acknowledge.

“I’ll throw my beard into the Ancestors’ graves, this is the best bit of news I’ve had in years. Hah!”

He jumped up and pumped his fist in the air. Sulri crossed her arms, evidently not impressed.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, salroka,” Khêd said in a mocking tone. “I’ve seen enough 'locks up close for a lifetime and a half.”

“You are a Grey Warden,” Ilanlas said. “You will see many more.”

“Do you all have to dim the lights?” Khêd said and sighed. “I’m happy about this, okay? Let me have that!”

Ilanlas raised his eyebrows, but shrugged and said nothing more. Khêd shook his head as he sat down.

“I am glad to see the Warden-Captain didn’t catch you,” Sulri continued and turned to Khêd. “Although he will probably suspect it was you.”

Khêd sighed. “Of course he would.”

“Who is the Warden-Captain?” Astala asked.

“Duncan’s right hand,” Khêd said. “Pale. Bald. Tall, but all of you sods are tall.”

Sulri signed something, which Khêd didn’t bother to or didn’t want to translate.

“He was with us down in the Deep Roads and was the one to take over when Duncan left,” Khêd continued.

“You don’t like him?” Astala asked.

Khêd’s only answer was a shrug.

“Alright...” Astala turned to Sulri. “How do you know Teyrn Loghain?”

Surli made a shooing motion with her hand and shook her head.

Now that was forthcoming.

Astala leaned back on her hands to look up at the sky. Despite the strong wind, the dark, oily clouds above were progressing slowly. They crawled along like slugs, blocking out the sun and casting the world into an ever growing shadow. She didn’t like this weather. She’d seen a lot of clouds and storms—living next to the Waking Sea did that—but nothing like this. It felt off. The wind had a thinness to it that made her shiver.

“Aren’t they weird?” she asked Ilanlas, pointing upwards.

Ilanlas looked up and stared at the dark mass above them for a while.

“They look like darkspawn blood feels,” he said.

“Oh, great,” Khêd said with a wary glance upwards. “Now the void above our heads is acting weird.”

-

Shortly afterwards all wardens started to gather around the tent with the large map. Khêd suggested they keep to the back of the group, so they would be as far away as possible from the Warden-Captain. They sat down, mercifully overshadowed by a few wardens standing slightly in front and to their left. Alistair was in the middle of the group, being wrangled around by a huge blond warden saying something about ale and celebrating. The other wardens around him laughed. The air was filled with the dull roaring of mutliple conversations happening all over the group. When Duncan stepped up to the map, which had been hung up so everybody could see it, silence immediately fell over the whole fifty wardens.

She could feel it clearly now. The blood in every body answered to Duncan’s presence and the Blight in his veins. Behind Duncan stood the Warden-Captain, and the other warden with the brown skin and the grey eyes.

Duncan explained tonight’s strategy in quick, precise terms. King Cailan, along with all Grey Wardens, would meet the darkspawn horde at the front of his armies in the gulf that cut the hill in two. The king’s armies would feign weakness—and hopefully they’d have to put effort into their feigning—and gradually retreat up the gulf. Once the darkspawn had been drawn in far enough, Teyrn Loghain would join the battle with the rest of the men, attacking the darkspawn from behind. So far, so good.

Duncan then went into detail explaining where specialized taskforces would be; the warden archers, for examples, of which there were twelve, and their mages, of which there was… one.

“If the Archdemon appears, I want everybody to focus on it,” Duncan said. “We are the only ones who can slay the beast. Even if the king himself is about to be overrun, or I am about to die, I do not care. You will focus on the Archdemon. Understood?”

A murmur of assent washed over the crowd.

“How will we get the Archdemon to land?” somebody asked.

Duncan nodded at the brown-skinned, silver-eyed warden next to him. “I leave this to Palla.”

The warden stepped forward and let their gaze sweep over the crowd. When they spoke, their voice was quiet, but carried far.

“In my time as a dragon hunter, we tried many things. Chains, big nets, magic. Best method? Cut their wings. Beasts can’t fly on broken wings.”

They looked over the crowd again, eyes wandering from face to face. When they landed on Astala, it felt as if someone was running the serrated edge of a rusty blade along her teeth.

“You’ve all seen the beast,” Palla continued. “You know what it looks like. As soon as it appears, Herán and his archers will scatter and aim at its wings. Mahieu, you and the Circle mages will also engage as long as it is within range. As will the soldiers manning the ballistae. We have some hope that the ombined efforts will injure it badly enough that it will be forced to land. From there, approach until you are within range and fire at will. Do not worry about the horde; they will want us others dead first.”

“With all due respect, if I may.” Onastas clambered to his feet from the middle of the crowd. “This is not a dragon hunt. This is a battle. Our placement on the field will see us surrounded and overrun within minutes.”

As soon as Khêd finished translating that bit, Sulri nodded emphatically.

“It’s also the position closest to the archdemon,” Palla answered with a shrug.

“You are correct, Onastas,” Duncan said. “Unfortunately, the king commands this army, and we are under orders to be front and center in this assault.”

“Well,” Onastas replied, “did the king ever say if all of us had to be at the front? Couldn’t we-?”

“I suspect I know where this is going, and your idea is appreciated,” Duncan said. “But I’m afraid we can’t loophole our way out of this. The teyrn already thinks us little better than Orlesian chevaliers. We cannot afford to even appear insubordinate.”

Onastas seemed to want to insist. In the end, however, he shrugged and sat back down.

“Remember,” Palla continued, “dragons are weakest along the throat and the belly. Once the Archdemon has been forced down, aim for those spots.”

“What about the neck?” another warden asked. “I once heard a chevalier tell he chopped a dragon’s head off with an axe.”

“That chevalier was lying,” Palla said flatly. “Regardless, do not climb onto the Archdemon unless it is no longer moving. And if anybody somehow manages to stab it in the neck, they better make peace with the fact that they just dealt the killing blow.”

Silence hushed over the group. Duncan stepped up again.

“Our newest recruits will not be with us on the battlefield,” he said. “They have been given the task of lighting the signal that will tell teyrn Loghain when to march. Alistair, you will go with them.”

“What!?” Alistair jumped up. “I won’t be in the battle?”

“It is an important task,” Duncan replied. “If the beacon is not lit, teyrn Loghain will not know when to charge.”

“So he needs, what, five Grey Wardens standing there holding the torch, just in case?” Alistair said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“If that is the only thing you can think of doing while you wait to light the signal, then yes,” Duncan said.

“But why can’t we be in the battle and just leave early?” Alistair pressed.

“No,” Duncan answered. “Once the darkspawn and the king’s armies have made contact, you will have one hour to enter the tower of Ishal and get to the top. Once we give you the signal, you will light the beacon. After that, you will stay with the teyrn’s men and guard the tower. If we need you, we will send word. This is by the king’s orders. Understood?”

“I…” Alistair hesitated, and then his shoulders slumped. “Yes, Duncan.”

“Good.”

“But,” Alistair added, lifting his head once more, “if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the remigold, I’m drawing the line.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Khêd mumbled.

Astala set out to say something when the sunlight, choked as it already was by the clouds, became pale and sharp. A shadow fell over the camp—no. Not a shadow. It was more like a scream, or a call, vibrating through her bones. Her head snapped left, as did the heads of all the other Wardens. Something was humming in her blood, words that were none, an order: and her blood pulled.

Then it was gone again.

Astala let out a shaky breath. Khêd had gone pale, Sulri had grown still. Ilanlas had his hand on the pommel of his dagger, knuckles white as fresh ash. The other wardens exchanged uneasy and, in a few cases, knowing glances.

“Well, we have all heard that,” Duncan said. “Let us prepare for battle. The darkspawn are marching.”

-

Everything went very fast after that. People finished putting on armor and checked their weapons one last time. Somebody helped her with the chain mail after she’d pulled the fear-soaked gambeson, to which she'd add her own fear now, over her head. The metal rings dragged on her shoulders, heavier than any crate she’d ever carried, and Astala needed a moment to find her footing. Immediately, the breastplate was fastened to her. Her heart was beating a harsh thump-thump-thump in its new metal case.

People were saying goodbye: an embrace, a pat on the shoulder. Promises to stay safe and meet for drinks after the battle. Forehead pressed against forehead, eyes closed. Somebody was kneeling in a corner, praying quietly. A tear-streaked face; a tightly gripped shield; a dog scratched behind the ears as if it were the last time; shouts and screams and steps, marching, running, thousands of footfalls. The mass of people would’ve swept her away if it hadn’t been for Sulri grabbing her belt before she wandered off.

Astala took a deep breath. She had a sword, stolen as it may be. She had a dagger, taken from a corpse killed with the stolen sword. Maker preserve her family; she wished she could say goodbye to them again.

“Are you ready?” Ilanlas asked.

Astala took another breath and let it go. Shaky. It didn’t stop shaking. She shook her head.

Ilanlas gave her back a tentative pat. “It will be alright.”

“We don’t know that,” Astala choked out.

“Who’s the old ball of cheer now,” Khêd said. He knocked his shoulder into her back and sent her stumbling forward a few steps. “Shake yourself out of it, duster. Not the time to lose your head.”

Astala swallowed and nodded and rubbed her thumb over the pommel of her sword. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

The Grey Wardens left. Helmets on, so that their faces were obscured, they marched. The mage was passing his staff from one hand to the other, but his face was grim. Alistair stood at the edge of the wardens’ encampment. He got his hair ruffled once or twice, a squeeze on the shoulder, a nod, a few words. Duncan handed him something, which he tucked away. When Duncan turned around, Alistair looked like he wanted to run after him. He stayed. The wardens left. Alistair’s shoulders looked heavy. The expression on his face was downright miserable.

The blue and grey and the proud griffon banner disappeared into the gorge that split the hill in two. The rest of the army, grey and golden, or red, or green, each after their leader’s color, followed behind.

She hadn’t sent money back to Denerim.

Alistair turned around, and looked at the four of them in the middle of this now deserted camp. Astala rubbed the pommel of her sword. Should she do something? Say something?

“Right.” Alistair cleared his throat. “Well. We might be able to find a good spot from which to watch so we know when to start moving.”

Sulri signed something, which Khêd translated: “Will you be leading us?”

“Yes.” Alistair stood up straighter. “You all know me by now, and I know the way you fight. Not that we’ll encounter much to fight anyways, but…” He trailed off, looking down towards the bend around which the Grey Wardens had disappeared. He sighed, shook his head and continued. “Anyways, let’s go round once and see if we can get everybody’s skillset down. Astala, sword and dagger.”

Astala nodded.

“You’ll be with me at the front, then.” Alistair said.

“Me too.” Khêd heaved a big sigh and strapped his shield to his arm. “Should’ve learned how to handle a crossbow. My eyesight isn’t even that bad.”

“I will stay back,” Ilanlas said while he strung his bow. “But, should you have need of knives, I will step up.”

“I don’t think we’ll need that,” Alsitairs said with a small smile. “Surli has us covered, right?”

Sulri nodded and demonstratively held up a dagger and an earthen jar with a tight lid on it.

“Right,” Alistair said again, much more firmly. “Let’s move.”

 - 

They positioned themselves as close to the bridge as they could. One of the giant ballistae was about twenty steps to their right. Three soldiers were manning it, talking quietly amongst themselves. Despite all of the soldiers leaving, the camp was by no means empty. Servants, elven and human, were still running around. The sad-looking mage with the Andrastian sunburst on his forehead stood there. The infirmary was still up and running. It would probably be filled to bursting once the battle here was done.

Below them, the king’s half of the army, the Circle mages and the Grey Wardens were taking up position. The clouds had closed above them. The sky and the gorge both were dark; only the glow of thousands of torches and the slight sheen they left on metal armor told them were the army was situated. The wind shifted slightly. Astala caught a whiff of incense. From the darkness below rose the Chant of Light. The Revered Mother and her Chantry sisters were down with the soldiers.

Was this how the Maker saw the world? Terrified people, singing up to him from the darkness.

A slightly sour smell was the only warning they got. Shortly after, rain started falling down on them.

“Your void is crying,” Khêd said, almost accusingly so, and lifted his shield over his head.

The rain fell heavier, splattering against the stone, their armor, and onto the battlefield below. Fighting in the mud had to be exhausting. Astala was glad she didn’t have to wear anything in front of her mouth and nose though.

“Elgar’nan, wie la gus, anaris’ven haminfor,” Ilanlas muttered quietly.

As if answering him, a sudden burst of lightning illuminated the sky and the gorge below them, flashing over the armor of the king’s army. The roll of thunder that followed was deep, but still far off. The wind kicked up and blew the rain into their faces. Astala sought refuge behind a stone pillar.

Ilanlas, face turned up towards the churning sky, quietly sang to himself.

Another strike of lightning, this one much closer. The thunder crashed into her ears with a loud bang followed by a rolling as if of tons of stone. Shouts rang out behind them. A couple of elves were running to the nearest shelter, ducking and shielding themselves from the rain. At the infirmary, somebody was tying down the tents’ canvases.

Why were these people still here?

“Elgar’nan, pa-ada, din’heema elgara, ar dar’ara. Ma’en nan el.”

A third strike of lightning left her seeing nothing but white for a moment, and the following thunder roared with vengeance above them. Then Alistair peered over the crumbling balustrade, and Ilanlas did too. A heartbeat later, Astala could feel it: itching, creeping through her veins like a hum, her blood was singing.

Torches, small pinpricks of light, appeared in the darkness of the Korcari Wilds.

The darkspawn approached silently dragging some sort of mist with them out of the swamp. The torches tinted it a flaming red. The howling wind carried their stench all the way up to them. In the gorge, a dog started barking, then another. Then the whole pack joined in. King Cailan’s army greeted the darkspawn with a fierce war cry. Swords banged against shields and thousands of voices rose towards the sky: defiant, challenging, ready for battle.

The voices thinned as more and more torches rolled in, like a slow-spreading wildfire.

Her blood screamed.

For a moment, both armies stood still, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Astala felt it before she heard it: from within the darkspawn ranks came a deep, hoarse bellow of an order. Shrieks picked up, growls and howls pierced the air. Underlying it all was that faint, whispered gibberish she kept hearing in the back of her head. The deep, throaty laugh hummed through her bones. She pressed closer to the stone pillar, made herself small. Like a black wave, the darkspawn army surged forward.

A faint call from below. Something pulled, made her stand up straight again. Duncan. Another call, followed by sharp whistling as arrows rose into the sky like snakes and plunged down into the black mass of the darkspawn. Astala felt the impact. More arrows followed. A fireball drew a smoking arc through the sky and exploded in a cacophony of shrieks, sending darkspawn flying. More followed.

The darkspawn pressed forward.

Another fireball—but this one flew wrong. It detonated in the middle of the king’s army. Those people were dead. She could hear their screams, saw their bodies being flung up into the air.

Alistair cursed loudly. “Void take those emissaries!”

Hounds were let loose against the ranks of the darkspawn. At another barked order, the king’s army pulled itself together. Among fire and arrows, another battle cry rose into the air. The army moved. They followed their hounds into the ranks of the darkspawn army. The dark tip of their spear were the Grey Wardens. Her heart thundered in her chest as if she was holding the beating hearts of all fifty of them. Another strike of lightning, thunder, a fireball struck a nearby ruin.

More and more, the screams of the wounded and dying mixed with the clash of metal and the tearing of flesh.

“They’ve clashed,” Alistair shouted over battle, wind and thunder. “Let’s move! Across the bridge and to the tower, go!”

They ran. The wind hit them like a wave in the storm. Her hands started to tingle; she wanted to draw her weapons. Not now. Not while running. The bridge was lined with archers, trebuchets, ballistae. They ran past them. Something zipped past her and she only recognized it as an arrow when the soldier in front of her fell backwards, feathered shaft sticking out of her face. Astala’s feet carried her over the corpse before she realized it was a corpse, and then she ran for her life. The chain mail dragged her down.

She only stopped when she was safe in the shadow of the crumbling archway on the other side of the bridge, panting and gasping and tasting blood at the back of her tongue. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt. Astala leaned against the column. In front of her lay the long road by which they’d arrived at Ostagar only yesterday. It was covered in mist, beaten by wind and rain. Screams and the sound of carnage echoed up behind her.

She left the column, stumbled further away from the bridge, braced herself against her tree and fought to keep her lunch down.

At first she thought the two people running towards her through mist and wind and rain were her companions. Then she realized they were coming from the wrong direction; the bridge was behind her, the people in front. Astala drew her blades, backed away from the tree. The first was upon her. With a scream, Astala lunged towards the dark figure.

The man yelped and threw himself to the ground. Astala blinked and recognized the robes of a mage. The man hastily crawled away from her.

“Sorry!” Astala stepped away. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Maker preserve us!” the man whimpered, but stopped crawling.

Astala got a better look at his face. He looked like he was about a decade older than her, was soaked with rain, and deadly pale. His weird, pointy cloth hat was hanging askew, covering one of his ears while leaving the other along with the whole side of his head exposed to the elements.

Behind him, another figure approached—another soldier. Judging by the armor, he wasn’t part of the king’s army, or of any noble’s house. He roughly yanked the mage up, then fixed Astala with slightly wild eyes.

“You’re Grey Wardens, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Astala said and lowered her blades.

A slight hum in her blood, steps behind her, and then a rain-drenched Ilanlas appeared next to her. Alistair and the dwarves followed quickly after. Ilanlas looked past the two men towards the rampart that led to the tower of Ishal.

“Captain Walton,” the soldier said, pointing at himself. “The tower’s been taken.”

“What’re you talking about, man? Taken how?” Alistair yelled over the wind.

“The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers. They’re everywhere!” Captain Walton threw a fearful glance back. “Most of my men are dead!”

“Well, we have to get in,” Alistair said and set in motion. “Come with us, we might be able to save some of yours.”

That seemed enough for the captain and the mage. The seven of them made their way up the ramparts.

“Three close by,” Ilanlas said as they ran. He began to drift away from the group, pulled an arrow out of his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. “Some others further in.”

“Hurlocks and genlocks, and one alpha at the door,” Alistair added.

Astala felt it now too: one pull, faint, towards the battlefield. The other, sickening, towards the tower.

Alistair drew his sword and readied his shield. “Astala and Khêd, keep close. Let’s show these bastards.”

They rounded a corner. Screams greeted them. There were two soldiers, about to be overwhelmed by several darkspawn. Alistair roared and charged, Khêd hot on his heels, teeth bared, shield high. Astala followed closely. Silver streaked around her. She didn’t know if it was rain or more arrows.

---

TRANSLATIONS:

- “Elgar’nan, wie la gus, anaris’ven haminfor”: "Elgar'nan, wrath and thunder, strike our foes down." - “Elgar’nan, pa-ada, din’heema elgara, ar dar’ara. Ma’en nan el.”: "Elgar'nan, All-Father, Sun-Slayer, here I am. Let me have vengeance. 

All bits and bobs of elvhen constructed with the help of Dalicious’ Elvhen Dictionary