#inan lavellan

[liaragaming]

*Throws shitty photoshop edit to the Void*

She pulls the sheet she’s kept covering the outline of the wolf and dragon off for the final time. It unsettled her before Solas explained what it was, and since then her feelings haven’t changed. Solas’ final piece is a sketch of desperation and despair. The story it tells and the reason he created it only serves to upset her. If she could wipe it off the wall she would.

But she can’t… no more than she can take Solas’ path from him.

She steps toward the mural and places her spirit hand against the plaster. She pushes against the wall and lets her concentration fall, allowing her hand to phase through. She summons veilfire, and the wall erupts in blue-green flame, radiating from her wrist. The plaster colors and cracks. Pieces of it fall away.

When she pulls back her arm, a handprint remains, cracked through the fingers and palm and wreathed in smoky flame. Her mark stands between the wolf and the dragon - between Solas and his mistakes - exactly where it should be. Solas’ final mural finally takes its place among the others - a testament to Inquisitor Lavellan and her deeds.

Good or bad, the world will see her stand before him, and history will record the rest.

[liaragaming]

Inan Lavellan. Varric calls her "First" because she was First of her clan before joining the Inquisition, and he knows how much she misses home.

Quick!! Reblog this with a picture of your Inquisitor and the nickname Varric gives them! (I'm honestly so curious!!)

[vir-bellanaris]

Someone likened Solavellan to Tristan and Isolde and how they couldn't find happiness in life because of duty and honor but they found each other after leaving their earthly bodies behind in death and I DONT WANT THAT

[plasticfreckles]

🌙 sleepless solavellan enjoy 🌙

He finds her on the scaffolding in his rotunda, a heavy wool coat over her layers and layers of silk and velvet and chiffon, sipping at her ever-present honey lemon milk.

"On Dhea."

"How do you always know it's me? You haven't even looked up here."

"Do you not feel the Veil move with my arrival? Your Mark swirling patterns into the fabric every time you move your hand?"

"...no?"

"...I suppose it must be more difficult to notice, if one was not schooled in magic."

"I thought you said I had an - how did you put it - an inane susceptibility to the Fade."

He hums as he climbs up the ladder toward her.

"As most elves do, yes. That does not necessarily translate into weaving magic, however."

"I guess that makes sense." She pushes a platter between them, the frilly chocolate cakes with the pink frosting, some sandwiches. a cup of coffee on a warmer. "I got you some breakfast. An apology for skipping the waking meditation." The candlelight of the warmer casts even deeper shadows under her eyes.

"I missed you in the Fade." Her hand reaches over the platter, rubs at his thigh.

"I couldn't sleep. I thought, if I just went somewhere else, at least you might get to dream a little." Even as she pats his leg, she does not meet his eyes.

"You could have woken me," he says, quietly. "You did not need to be alone." A squeeze now, sipping at her mug.

Still, she won't look at him.

"Then we'd both be sleepless and irritable."

"Or the companionship might have soothed your worries and lulled you back to sleep." He did not intend for the bite to be in his tone, but at least it makes her look at him.

"..Fair."

They eat in silence for a while. Lavellan's hand never leaves his thigh.

"I don't know that there were worries to soothe," she concedes, eventually. Checks to see if the paint behind her is still wet before she leans her head against the wall. "It just felt like my mind decided sleep was not for me tonight. No dreams for you."

"If the issue persists, please wake me. At the very least, I would not let you hold vigil alone." He takes her hand from his thigh, holds, presses it to his chest. When he lets her go, the jawbone necklace has left the slightest of imprints on her freckled skin. "We do not share beds to sleep apart, after all."

Her smile makes wrinkles in the circles under her eyes.

"You make compelling arguments."

"I've been known to do that."

Silence passes between them, for the rest of the day. She ends up falling asleep next to him as he returns to painting.

The Seeker passes through the rotunda searching for Lavellan thrice before she even considers looking up the scaffolding.

🌙

I haven't written this much in this short amount of time in literal YEARS [exept uni papers but we dont talk about that] shame it had to be after i drag myself to work for 8.5 hours while sick and without any sleep 🫠

[cityandking]

5, 35, 54, 62, 83 for dai, minah and narayani!

ty my dear! // 93 fun oc asks

5. What’s their relationship with their parents like? What about other relatives?

DAI — dai's relationship with his dad is good! they're incredibly similar and dai has always looked up to t'velle as a role model and an inspiration and a source of wisdom. it's been a little strange to come home and have that moment of realizing his dad is also just A Guy. dai's relationship with his other parent is largely nonexistent, as they were an earth djinn who used their final Wish to wish daichi into existence as a fuck-you to dai's horrible grandmother, and dai has some very complicated feelings about that—some pride, some guilt, some grief. he's been reading through musa's diary and it's bittersweet to see parts of himself reflected in someone he's never going to get to meet. beyond that, dai gets on well with his uncle, does not get on well with his grandmother (the bitch), and is fond of (if often exhausted by) his cousin lhoris. (and of course, he loves his other dad pelor so much, and historically he's gotten on well (if awkwardly) with his other other dad tempus) MINAH — minah was absolutely a daddy's girl growing up and wanted to be like him and do him proud. her family got along well, though they had their usual spats and arguments. unfortunately her parents are dead, so there's not much of a relationship anymore. (she misses them horribly) NARAYANI — rani's birth clan is gone and she never knew her parents, but she was taken in and raised by clan lavellan as a sort of collective village+child thing, and she loves—loved—them all very much. she was closest to one of the elders who was something of a grandmother to her and really took her under her wing, but she considered the entire clan her family. it wasn't their fault she grew apart, not really. she just spent so long being the thing that protected them that she forgot to be their da'ayani

35. What is the easiest way to annoy them?

DAI — insist on things being true when they aren't. the more inane and stupid the better. dai would have hated the lolz so random era of internet humor. MINAH — complain about helping with things that everyone else is doing. she doesn't mind some kvetching but there's a time and a place, y'know? also, nosiness NARAYANI — every single unthinking, unconsidered word out of a shem's mouth is annoying to her. "the elves" she's already tuning you out.

54. What is their current hairstyle? What have been some of their past hairstyles? Which was their favorite hairstyle?

DAI — currently he's got cornrows capped with little gold beads and a sorta black/gold ombre thing going on (it gets lighter at the ends). in the past he's had long locs, a buzz cut, and natural hair. when he has a minute to restyle it, he's gonna go back to locs, but shorter this time. this vibe MINAH & NARAYANI — answered!

62. Have they ever been betrayed? How did it affect their ability to trust others?

DAI — he's definitely been screwed over and is far less trusting of people than he was before the campaign, but I'm not sure he's been in a position to trust anyone enough for being turned on to feel like a betrayal. he felt a little betrayed when zaref first revealed he was a void tiefling/got them trapped in the void, but he's level-headed enough to know that wasn't actually a betrayal. MINAH — yes. as we've all seen, she's totally normal about it (girl has intense trust issues) NARAYANI — absolutely, but she's slow to take it personally. she's got plenty of other stuff going on that makes her wary of trusting others; past betrayals don't change much. (she also insists—once, firmly, when someone brings it up, and then it never comes up again—that what solas did wasn't a betrayal. it was a lot of other things, but she never felt betrayed by his actions. she is, perhaps, a little biased)

83. Can they swim? How well? Do they like to swim?

DAI — yes, mostly just enough not to drown. I think he probably learned from one of the soldiers during the rebellion (I'm not sure his dad even knows how to swim? I guess there might be underground lakes in Il'hesa but I'm not sure I'd trust them). he's ambivalent about it; the water is nice but he tends to sink like. well. like a stone. also he's died underwater twice now and that kinda puts a damper on beach days. MINAH — yes! she grew up near a river and enjoys swimming. one of the best parts of traveling with the troupe was camping by a lake or a river and getting to take a dip. NARAYANI — yes, very well. she enjoys swimming on a hot day and the freedom of moving through the water. it's a pity the south is so cold

[deeply-concerned]

Eralen Lavellan was never a person. She was just a useful tool.

Back in the solitude of her clan, from when she was but a wandering child, she was took in and raised only because of her unnatural abilities even among the mages. She is "Touched", Keeper Istimaethoriel had said while she carved sharp intricate lines into her back. Her movements were deceptively gentle and firm, like she was just drawing on a blank canvas instead of bloody fingers leave behind torn fleshes and open bones. The Fade itself had burrowed deep into Eralen and it is a curse that can be of use.

So Eralen was allowed to live. She was allowed to grow. At seven years old she became her clan's medium, its guidance, its paths. She walked with the spirits and demon, conveyed with the dead. She was taught of the natural and of the ancient ways by Keeper Istimaethoriel, fed and clothed by the others survivors in her clan. Even if they had never looked into her eyes, even if they had never talked to her softly like how they were with each other, only curt orders and sideways glances and mumbling words behind her back, Eralen still understood.

Later, when she became older but not that much wiser, larger yet not that much less smaller, when she started to become restless and bold, excitable and full of curiosity, wishing, yearning to leave the confines of her clan and its heavy burden even just for a moment to take a breath, Keeper Istimaethoriel had allowed it again, soft to the wimp of her inane beast. "Go." She has said with a tired finality and a twinkling of amusement. "And don't stray too far from the path back home."

Among all the chattering and the muted deafening tension inside the Conclave, of corners animals and vultures pretending to be civilised, Eralen had heard the familiar song of the Fade and followed it to where the hymn of a desperate cried for help echoed. There she met the fiery shadow of a rotten man, there she met the blinding light of a faithful woman and there she was chained down again like the obedient mongrel that she was.

Eralen's curse found her once again and this time it took the physical form of a long jagged scar that seared onto the palm of her hand.

She fell out the rift and into the ruins of blazing corpses. Unfamiliar hands caught her, faraway voices shouting muddled and slurred. She was captured and unable to wake up, unusable, worthless yet the strange elven man stayed close by her side, pulling her back from passing through the veil of the Fade. He could see her, could see her flickering mirage yet pretended like he had not, even when they were seemingly alone in the cold dark cells.

She asked questions, he answered in vague prayer to a wayward god that she knew he didn't believe in. Garas quenathra? ( "Why are you here?) Viran se lan'aan? (Who are you?)

Solas, he said, and he was here to help. It was a lie and they both knew it.

___

They all praised her, needed her, begged for her because to them, she was their salvation. The Herald of a God she held no faith in yet still had to carry all of its subjects' life and blood, sweat and tears. Shatter femurs, scorching carcasses. Distorted mind and a discarded soul.

She had wept for her companions when she knew she was the only survivor. Her clan mates, her protectors, her executioners. Gethran, Samron, Zathdis. A helpful spirit guided her to where their charred bones remained and she sent the part that she could still pick up back to Keeper Istimaethoriel so she could give them proper burial and let their family griefed.

Eralen Lavellan was never a person. She was just a useful tool. Dutiful, altruistic, moral and kind just like how Keeper Istimaethoriel had taught her. The Bringer of a new age, the stringless puppet on the thrones of bones. Kill, kill, kill, smile, repeat. Humans, beasts, creatures, undeads, ... all become blurry. Wherever you lead us. Save us, Herald. Kill it, the First. Save me, Inquisitor. Kill them, Worship. Save them. Kill them. Save them. Kill them. Save them. Kill them. Save them. Kill them. Save them. Kill them. Save them. Kill th...

Save him, Eralen.

The second time she saw him was on the snowy ground. Crisp wind scratching on the skin of her cheek, painted it redden and her vallaslin burned. She still hadn't gotten used to the cold yet. He stood between the fumbling chaos of the desperate and forming orders, sharp observant eyes watching diligently and for such a large imposing man, Eralen somehow instantly knew he was just as much of an instrument as she was. A useful tool, a well trained warhound struggling with its collar unchained.

Seeing him had made her teeth ached and she clenched them unconsciously. For the first time ever in her life, a feeling of nervousness ran across her spine.

Then day had turned to night that turned to weeks that turned to months. Something in him unnerved Eralen so she stayed away, only talked with him when it was required. So as with the others, she just smiled and nodded and did what was asked of her like the useful thing that she was, like how she was taught. Yet Varric stories always piqued her interest, he lent her books and told her tales that were so absurd it had to be true right? There was no way someone could make up something as ludicrous as those. And Cassandra was a very reliable woman. Her gifts and unwavering resolves gave Eralen a much needed comfort that when she did eventually become unstable, when all of her training failed and Eralen needed to be put down before she put others in dangers, Cassandra's sword would remain firm and swift like Keeper Istimaethoriel's blade.

Solas's presence soothed the restless caged beast inside Eralen. They were similar, their connection stretched far beyond just of blood and race. He was a Dreamer, she was Touched, they were both belonged to the Fade. In the first few weeks, when she laid sleepless at night, tossed and turned, haunted by the smell of burning flesh, Solas had often taken Eralen for a walk across the veil. Haven was warmer there, more quiet, more serene and Solas taught her even more about the old way of the elven, about how to form even deeper connections with the wandering spirits and voracious demons. He reminded her of Keeper Istimaethoriel in some way but he was much older, far more ancient, like the wards that were carved onto her back. Solas had added to the patterns later when he knew about it. A finished product was what he said, fresh sharp lines laid atop old scars, and she would be much safer now.

Eralen thanked him, truly genuine this time and he gave her a small smile back. Some resemblances of acknowledgement flashes across his features before pain took over momentarily. Despite his calm demeanors and facades, she knew he was just as cornered as she was. She briefly wondered if she had become real to him now?

Time trickled by, the sky was still torned and hurt and unwhole. Some more faces joined the Inquisition, key pieces of a chess board that she could vaguely see the connections between. Not that she minded, not that she cared about their agendas, their secrets, their motives, their faith. They were all here to aid her usefulness and that was supposed to be all.

But Iron Bull was an amusing guy and always had an excuse to hook Eralen into drinking with his mismatched crew when possible. Deep down he was actually uneasy and afraid of her, of what she was more than just a mage, of how easily and casual she was with conveying demons and spirits. Yet despite his fear, or maybe even more motivated by it, he made . to be comfortable around Eralen. Sometimes when they sparred, Iron Bull even actively used his towering figure and thunderous roar to scare Eralen back and it worked. Seeing a mountain of a man charging at her in full speed, none of her attacks properly be able to stop him and with the condensed metal in his hands that weighted heavier than even her own weight? It was frightening. And fair she supposed, now that they both have something to be scared about the other.

Sera was a demanding oddity. She was loud and abrasive and when they first met she immediately disapproved of Eralen's whole existence as an elven apostate mage that practiced hedge magic and talked with demons. She could see Sera's fingers twitching sometimes, instinctively reaching for her bow or her side dagger when Eralen said something odd or unorthodox. She knew she was stressing Sera out intentionally but it was just nice to know that there was another person out there that wasn't blinded by her titles or her usefulness.

Blackwall's shadows still haunted him even in the waking hours. It lingered in the way he talked, how his brow furrowed and his eyes became hooded and cold. A lost man desperate for atonement yet knew that he would never deserve it. Too grave, too late now. The candle flames that had been snuffed would never be able to burn again. The spirits warned her about the righteous Grey Warden and Eralen listened.

With each day passed by, Eralen grew eager and frightful of the day her muzzle would be unbound. The leash still tied unyielding around her throat just like him. Only one more move and she could be free. No more burdens, no more prayers, no more chess pieces to be gutted and killed in her name.

Then she went into that fallen fortress and she saw men and women alike, twisted and howled out in agony. They were being consumed, eaten alive by the living red. They hardened organs grew and burst out from their ragged skin and the red forever bound them to it, never to be free again.

The Envy demon tore its claws into her mind and pulled her forward. She fell into a room full of blazing carcasses and the acidic smoke was choking her, ghastly sunken skulls with distorted features screaming in silence abandonment.

Eralen woke up screaming that night in her tent, the earth sinked and swallowed her down under her weight. She screamed till her voice became hoarse and her throat burning, till the incoherent mumbling whispers in her mind faded into oblivion.

___

Whoop damn I just write and don't think much, that was fun.

[exhausted-archivist]

Archi's Worldstate and OCs Masterlist

These are the personal worldstates I've built (or play with), going to link back to them when I do choice break-downs and such. Mostly wanted to get them in one place as well as my ocs I designed as companions or npcs.

First Playthrough

HoF: Thranduil Mahariel Champion: Marian Hawke Inquisitor: Everlinna Lavellan

Keep World State

HoF: Lyna Mahariel Champion: Garret Hawke Inquisitor: Evalyn Trevelyan

Main Canon

HoF: Brynne Varahel Tabris Champion: Elizabeth Hawke Inquisitor: Isala Revassan Lavellan

Tragic Lovers

HoF: Aenor Mahariel Champion: Verena Hawke Inquisitor: Pemma Lavellan

Salt and Burn

HoF: Katiana Cousland Champion: Garret Hawke Inquisitor: Trevelyan

Ambitchious

HoF: Atisha Surana Champion: Alessandra Hawke Inquisitor: Evelyn Trevelyan

Andrastian

HoF: Lancey Cousland Champion: Garret Hawke Inquisitor: Camillus Trevelyan

Recovery

HoF: Esha Amell Champion: Marian Hawke Inquisitor: Ramisa Trevelyan

Other OCs

Anea (Frostbacks Dalish)

Alsen De Fiedricis (Orlesian)

Anjou Baskar (Surface Dwarf)

Ashara Valmorte (Orlesian Elf)

Atisumis Anastasio (Nevarran)

Beatrice Butters (Nevarran Elf)

Caius Gaius (Anders)

Creme (Orlesian Elf)

Eshtarylin (Tevinter)

Inan Shalelan Lavellan (Fereldan Dalish)

Lichen Baskar (Surface Dwarf)

Marel (Frostback Dalish)

Milena "Greenie" Gundaar (Surface Dwarf)

Mooralya (Anders Elf)

Petunia Sataa (Markham Vashoth)

Rogelan Shalelan (Fereldan Dalish)

Tasi (Fereldan City Elf)

[feyrianedoesart]

Inan Lavellan for @liaragaming !  Yes, even when in this new world, he cares, and can’t help but feel. ”Solas has a huge, beautiful heart. I wish he took care of it better.”  This is beautifully put, and so true. Thank you for your posititivity! ___________________________________ My askbox is still open if you guys want to spread some Solas positivity! Send me one thing you love about Solas and get a sketch of your Inquisitor! Don’t forget to tell me your Inquisitor’s name and the tags where I can find pics of them! (Open for Solavellan and Inquisitor friends, of course!)

[the-emerald-halla]

Inan Lavellan 

Inan was born in another clan and transferred to clan Lavellan when her magical talents came to light. She has few memories of her parents, but considers clan Lavellan her family and felt born to her role as First.

The events at the Conclave changed all that. She didn’t want to become Inquisitor, but she did want the chaos to stop. She accepted the role because she felt she had no other choice. Someone had to lead, and circumstance put her at the center.

She does find happiness in the Inquisition. She forms new friendships and is fiercely loyal to them. She enjoys traveling and finds fulfillment in helping the people they meet. Leadership suits her more than she thought it would. But she always thought one day she’d return to her clan.

The more that’s uncovered about the elves and the Creators, the more she questions everything she thought she knew. Even after disbanding the Inquisition, she isn’t sure she can go home. She’s left questioning her own identity.

Want to participate? Submit your OC!

[gedwimora-arc]

ASTARION ( @vampirespawn​ ) said " you wanna know what i’m good at? i’m good at killing people. " 

Slightly crazed laughter spills out of her -- something between nervous and incredulous and far too loud. " Well hey !  It’s a handy skill to have ! Good for you man ! ”

[liaragaming]

OC-tober - Day 7: Spirit

cw: grief, major character death

Author's note: I cried writing this - you might cry reading it. Playing on one of the possible sad ending theories for Solas where he comes back as a spirit.

- - -

Inan Lavellan has never cried so much in her life. She cries until her eyes burn, until her sobs are dry and she's desperate for water, until her chest aches... and then she cries more. She cries until she's too exhausted to remain awake. And when she wakes, she has barely a moment of peace before she remembers and returns to sobbing once more.

The moment itself doesn't haunt her. She knew what had to be done. And the deed was quick, thank the gods. But the emptiness it left her with... She's never felt pain like this before.

She'll never forget seeing the light die from his eyes. At that moment, it was like something within her died along with him. She gave a horrid cry - a sound she didn't know she could make. A sound that chilled the bones of everyone who heard it.

She ran to Solas as he fell, taking him into her arms. It was too late to say goodbye, but she whispered to him anyway. "I love you... I'm so sorry... I love you..." over and over and over.

She'd wanted to save him. Not this.

Not this.

They had to pull her from him. She's not even sure who it was who picked her up. It didn't matter. She was crying too hard to see. And her mind was only on Solas, reaching for him even as she was carried away. She kicked and screamed and hit her captor. If they felt her blows, they didn't show it. They carried her with sure and steady steps.

She doesn't know what to do with herself anymore. He friends come by to check on her. To make sure she's eating and taking care of herself (she's not). Some of them bring food she doesn't touch. Some of them offer words of comfort that only ring hollow. Some of them hold her and let her sob into their shoulder.

But nothing changes for her. Nothing seems to affect the gaping hole she feels in her chest. Nothing makes the crying stop. She wonders when her friends will start dropping hints for her to pull herself together. She wonders how many of them she'll snap at hard enough to drive away.

None of them get it. None of them understand. It was Solas who comforted her when she felt she was losing herself to the Inquisition - to the image of the "Herald." It was Solas who listened when she lamented not being able to do enough for the elves. It was Solas who offered her love and hope and the glimmer of a future in a time and place she'd thought such things impossible. Whatever he had become, whatever dark and twisted path his insecurities and regrets had led him down, nothing could take away what he had meant to her.

And now he's gone.

Nearly a decade without him, and somehow the hope that she might see him again - the thought that he was out there somewhere alive, that she might be able to coax him back had kept her going in ways she hadn't truly appreciated until now.

Ten years of hope...

She could easily repay ten years of grief.

- - -

Her dreams are rarely kind. It's like her mind won't let him go. She finds herself walking with him, talking with him, sharing a gentle touch or whisper - things they used to do before it all became complicated and wrong. Happier times.

But to wake and realize the truth...

It's torture.

Tonight is different, though. Tonight... something breaks through the images. There's a pull... like the words to a song just barely out of reach. There's a flicker in her chest of something... something she doesn't dare put a thought to recognizing.

But she follows that pull passed the dazzling memories of her dreams into the unknown and shifting landscape of the Fade. She walks through mists and perilous pathways guided by an invisible thread.

At last, she finds it. A bright, glimmering sphere small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Her heart recognizes it immediately.

Solas.

She goes to the tiny ball, cradling it in her hands. A strange mix of hope and trepidation fills her.

It's him.

Or at least, a piece. A tiny piece. But him nonetheless, and she is never letting him get away from her again.

She hugs the tiny sphere to her chest, not truly considering her actions. The sphere absorbs into her body.

For a few moments, she can't breathe. The gaping wound in her chest fills. All the pain and doubt and fear she's carried over the past nine years finally receives an answer.

She is not alone.

She is whole.

[plasticfreckles]

🌙 the F is for fadesmash solavellan enjoy🌙

Being with her shapes his world, waking and dreaming.

At least, it shapes the few nights he dreams of his own accord, instead of wandering and lingering in the dreams of other's and spirit interpretations of past events alike.

Love and Curiosity visit him there, tugging along their wraith and wisp friends to play out the fiction of his subconscious. A version of the world that can only exist there, because they would not have found each other as they are in a world this perfect. Their flaws and failures shape the real world, but if it were another world, their flaws and failures would never have taken shape.

He never lingers on these thoughts, not in this fantasy of peace and love and companionship.

Recently, he lingers in the same scenario: Skyhold but a fraction of its size, the libraries and his frescos right underneath their rooms, kitchen beneath that, and the west door of the rotunda leads directly into the gardens where Lavellan so loves to spend the sunny days under the stone pergola to sew.

They're wholly and utterly alone in it, save for the distant chickencall.

He starts to notice he can only dream up robes he's seen her wear or watched her sew in the waking world; his sense for arts never did transfer to fabrics. He'd held her hand aloft to close that first rift so long ago and known immediately how to flick his brush to perfectly transfer the hairs of her brows onto that first fresco, but when she'd told him how she would dye samite in blood lotus and make it a short cloak to protect from sudden rainshowers, he could picture little more than stained shreds of cloth over shoulders.

It is summer there, in his imagination, and she wears the small, revealing tunic variations she prefers; high, snug waist held by layered belts, a deep cleavage that runs down between her breasts until Solas realizes she folds the fabric closed underneath the belts, the sides of her hips and legs bared entirely. Between her and the ground, the hurriedly-woven straw sandals that she never lifts her feet in.

He even leaves his frescos in this dream; maybe he's finished them, or maybe he feels content - compelled - to pull out an easel and sketch out the scene of his love wielding her crafts like magic, in the romantic surroundings of their gardens in the late summer.

This time, when she spots him here, in his own dream, she grasps him by his bare arms and pulls him away from the easel, into the sun.

"We could just throw everyone out and move the libraries over here if you want," she jokes, as she lays them down on the grass and makes him rest on her scantily-clothed chest. "Your frescos would still be over there, but you could paint the rest of Skyhold."

"I would hide the entrance to here behind wards and spells and barriers, and we would make the rest of the castle a gallery for our crafts."

"Oh, but then we wouldn't be alone, Solas. Ever."

Solas kisses the side of her breast.

"If it meant you were contented, I don't think I would mind." Much. Not enough for it to matter, in any case.

The world shifts around him, and she sits on top of him. She kisses him so deep she may as well swallow him whole. He holds her to him as tight as his arms let him. He can feel her core, wet and hot over his navel.

"Oh, good. You're already topless." He wasn't, not until she stated so.

He stalls her hands once she rises and he realizes her intentions, notices her eagerly loosening the knot on his leggings, behind her, blindly, with skill that should no longer surprise him so.

Though he supposes it is partially his fault. She is no mage, no dreamer, but she picks up easily on the slightest changes in their shared dreams. Whether it is her inane affinity for the magical or the influence of the mark on her, he neither knows nor really cares.

-

He did slide both hands under the rare lace-up shirt (one of his that he does not enjoy wearing) she wore that night, massaged her breasts and licked her breath out of her mouth while rutting against her until his seed made the hem of the shirt stick to her skin.

Will you stain all my sleepwear until I have none left? She'd asked, breathlessly, grinding up to meet him, amusement in her words rather than accusation. When he opened his eyes and regarded her for a moment, her tangled hair, her flushed face, the shining eyes and swollen lips, the saliva on her chin, she'd turned her face toward the crate by the door to their dressing room, overflowing with clothes she insists to launder herself, and atop it all, her favorite red nightgown, painted with their desire so much a so-inclined maid would be able to deduce every position from the stains. He slid an arm through the neckline of his shirt on her, to grasp her chin and hold her there. It was uncomfortable in his forearm, and his elbow must have poked her somewhere, but they were both too caught up in each other to care. She grabbed his wrist and pulled the hand down, around her throat.

Yours, mine, the sheets, the furs, your skin, he'd huffed into her mouth. If I had my way, you'd never leave this bed. And she'd laughed, at his words, at his commitment to her, at his helpless whine when she clenched herself and her thighs around him.

Oh, I don't know. You seemed to enjoy yourself when we did it over the balcony handrail. He had, and her dedication to flippant conversation, even as she reached around them and lightly squeezed at his balls, made him fall that much harder for her.

-

He shakes off the memory. He could already feel the humidity in the air, see the skies tinge red behind her head, above trees and castle walls. If Desire could smell his excitement, so could Lavellan - she'd evidently felt it behind her -, and if she played his pipe here, there would be no turning back. He would forsake all he came awake to do, let the Veil be torn down around them and spend the rest of eternity fucking her in the Fade. And worst of all, she would let him.

"Vhenan. Not here. Let us not invite Hunger, Greed and Desire into our idyll." She huffs, blows hair out of her face, and nods.

"You're probably right. Though I'm starting to see Iron Bull's stance on the matter. We should be allowed to take each other whenever we like, without risking possession." It makes Solas laugh out loud, despite himself. He gently turns them again, and her thighs settle around his waist as he leans over her, kisses her nose, her cheek, the underside of her chin.

"Return to your body, my love, and know I shall wake you before long, to finish what we started here, away from prying eyes and misguided virtues." If she notices his charm that makes her muscles heavy and eyes droopy, she never tells him.

"Hunger and Greed and Desire have their purposes, you know. You taught me that, not so long ago." Even as she retorts, her eyes remain closed, her thighs slide down past his until her calves are loosely draped over his.

"I did. Everything, this side of the Veil or the other, has a time and place. Just as our desire for one another has a time and a place." He knows he can still hear her, even though her face darkens into the lines of her vallasin and her fingers on his chest start to turn cold. "Would that we could, I would spend every waking moment chasing your high, and every resting moment here with you." Her lips are soft and sweet, even if they don't move to follow his.

He will whisper one more thing to her before moving away from her and waking himself. She is already sleeping by herself again, will not even remember the words, but still, they will make her shower him in praises all the more.

"I will wake you with my fingers inside you so deep you can feel them in your lungs, and then you shall mount me and claim your prize, and never will there have been a more perfect joining than ours, with red streaks of my nails on your hips and kiss bruises on your breasts, and you will never have been more beautiful."

And if he were to look at himself in the mirror after and spots the marks of her oddly pointed corner teeth, he will cast no magic on them.

🌙

not to toot my own horn [beep beep choo choo], but I like my own filth

im so single can u tell lmao

also not really calling parts by their names is a plot device, bc i feel Solas would either talk his way around the words or just go straight up like the most unhinged filthiest slang word you've ever experienced

also i *have* to stop writing all my ficlets in tumblr drafts, the fact that the amount of times I accidentally published half-finished, not grammar corrected brain rot is more than 3 is just straightup embarrassing

[renegadewolf]

[old-archivist]

Face Claim Meme// Dragon Age OCs

I was tagged by @vir-ghilani and have been sitting on this till insomnia struck and I could throw it together. Thanks for tagging me <3 I feel relatively productive.

Only a few of my OCs really have face claims. Most of them I create by picking features I like that day and mix it all together. Though I tend to drift towards features of certain ethnicities as inspiration, especially ones I share a similar heritage background with. Though I try to keep my OCs as diverse as possible, at least with ethnicities I’m familiar with and have researched properly. I like to know about the ethnicity that I’m referencing and keep within the realm of plausibility for that ethnicity.

However, it wasn’t till recently that I started searching for specific people to reference for OCs instead of a pool of people, so it’s mostly my new OCs who have specific face claims. Though I do have a rather loose face claim for Isala and Deshanna, though she isn’t really an OC but rather an ambiguous persona I can design.

From Left to Right

Aenor Mahariel - Dudley O’Shaunessy

Elizabeth Hawke - Cintia Decker

Inan Lavellan - Daje Babour

Aenea - Maliaka Firth

Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan - Samile Bermannelli

Rogelan Shalelan - Nykhor Paul

Isala Revassan Lavellan - Emily DiDonato

Marel - Frances Bean Cobain

Samile shares a face claim and a visual persona that I see Deshanna having.

Emily shares a similar bone structure that I envisioned for Isala, the jaw line, cheek bones. Though I envision Isala with fuller lips, wider eyes, and the high nose bridge of Drahon Age 2 elf designs.

Not many of these face claims share the hair I chose for the OC, I think only Elizabeth, Aenea, and Marel have similar hair to their face claims.

I’m not sure who hasn’t done this yet that I can tag. So if you want to, please feel free to do so and tag me so I can see! :)

[tricksterkathoard]

i had the sudden need to draw inan playing one of his instruments so HEY i did

[namorian]

i’ve been on and off writing something that’s theoretically for oc kiss week today that’s literally just “uthvir watches in horror while inan duels and tries not to have an aneurysm while they watch.”