#inan lavellan

[liaragaming]

*witnessing Solas freeing slaves in a Fade memory*

Bellara: It's strange seeing Solas as the hero.

Harding: I wish Solas had just told us some of this stuff.

Lavellan: *still in shock* ... he had hair.

[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

[evanhereonearth]

Thank you for opening prompts! I have one that has been bothering me for a long time, but i can't write it myself, so i need help( ...

Solas healing the unconscious Lavellan and helping and protecting her in her dream in his wolf form like in this codex by Adan.

https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Patient_Observations

I know I know this is pretty popular topic for fics and art, but it's actually canon and I love this idea soooo much... I need all the details I just can't resist

Interlude, Tarasyl'nin

Day One

It was not supposed to happen this way.

Solas fights to keep his visage still despite being the only person within twenty paces of the prisoner. She is, after all, the only one in the Chantry dungeon.

Her hand spits and sparks with the Anchor's power even now, flashing green light through the cell. Even with layers of earth and rock between Solas and the open sky, he does not need to look to know it responds to each and every one of the Breach's fits and starts.

It will kill her; it is only a matter of time.

Yet, somehow, it has not killed her yet.

For all his years and experience, Solas is at a loss.

She should not have been able to walk physically in the Fade, not one of these creatures of today's world. Even a mage, or what qualifies for one here. His lip curls with the thought; it is akin to calling an Orlesian poodle puppy a wolf. He has awoken in a time where every living soul simply thinks Orlesian poodle puppies are wolves.

Yet she is elven. Perhaps that can explain it. Some remnant of the People in this distant shadow.

Her body thrashes as the Breach expands, and Solas instinctively reaches out to take hold of her left hand. His mana reacts to the touch even as his skin bursts into tingles where their skin makes contact. The Anchor jerks with such violence that he can almost hear it screaming.

"Need a Templar over there, mage?" one of the guards calls out, perhaps alerted by the sudden burst of light from the Anchor.

"No," Solas replies shortly. "This is no new development. A Templar negating magic would only seek to mask her symptoms, and for there to be any hope of understanding, I must see her symptoms as they arise."

It will not be long before Adan returns from his rest break. The apothecary has also suggested Templar involvement. Solas grits his teeth with the frustration of the thing. He could easily be overruled if something here does not improve.

The Breach once more wobbles back into equillibrium, at least as much as such a thing can be said. Solas places his thumb on the prisoner's wrist.

Her heartbeat flutters in her pulse, fast as the beating wings of a bat clawing its way through the air. Solas removes his thumb, using it instead to push back first her left eyelid, then her right. Pupils still dilated, so black they engulf all but a ring of verdant moss green at the edges of her irises. They remain evenly blown, however. A small mercy that this woman at least escaped without a concussion.

No small feat, considering she tumbled approximately twenty feet out of a rift to hit the ground.

As usual, she responds to none of his minstrations.

The Anchor ought to be his, but Solas has long since learned the futility of clinging to what ought to be instead of what is. What is dictates what is possible to change.

What is stretches his patience and his fortitude as tight as the veil itself around the Breach. He stifles an ironic chuckle. His own handiwork, the veil, the product of his own cleverness battling with his relative inexperience with blood magic and pure desparation. Even a year after waking, he can scarce believe he succeeded--and even scarcer believe the price.

For now, it is moot. He is weak. He was never equal to his ancient foes, and he is not, apparently, equal to this modern enemy.

Nor is she.

Solas gazes upon the prisoner. He has avoided looking at her face, only allowing himself to see blurs of pale skin and a smattering of freckles cast with green the colour of her eyes in lines he does not wish to acknowledge.

But he must. Acknowledge what is.

Here is what is.

First: He failed to appropriately caluculate the possibility of his orb not killing Corypheus. Corypheus lives, Solas's orb is in his possession, and this Dalish woman somehow thwarted Corypheus's ritual to claim the Anchor.

Solas would be a fool not to be thankful for that twist of fate.

Second: The Dalish woman has survived, despite all odds to the contrary. Survived the blast by instinctively using the Anchor to tear open a rift into the Fade and close it behind her--there is little other possible explanation--and survived walking in the Fade even with her middling connection to it after millennia of this world leaching away everything that made the People his People.

Third: She lives still, and the Anchor, while spreading, while certain to kill her eventually, is not spreading as quickly as he thought it would.

Fourth: The Anchor is far from the only threat to her life. The human Chantry in all their blind hubris may well murder her out of their own hysterical fear; they may do the same to him if he cannot help her sufficiently to keep her alive long enough to attempt to seal the Breach.

Fifth: The Breach is an abomination. Solas cannot linger too long on the emotions of its effects; if he allows himself to feel the pain of every spirit torn through the rifts or the Breach itself, he will tear himself to pieces.

Sixth: This woman is the best and only chance they have to seal the Breach at all. The Anchor may consume her, but she is no longer expendable.

A final thought, more fancy than finality, is that ironically, she may also be his single best hope for surviving this calamity.

He forces himself to look upon her face.

Her features are delicate without being dainty, the grace of a rapier against one of the Seeker's broadswords. She carries forward the strong nose bridge of the Elvhen, high cheekbones, a jaw well-defined with a chin that almost makes her entire face appear heart-shaped. Her lashes flutter in her fitful sleep, crescents of black against her too-pale skin. Despite her flesh being sallowed by her body's struggle to live, her freckles stand out in warm relief. Not unlike his own, Solas supposes, a dusting of them, invisible even at a few paces, but up close, they soften her. It's oddly charming. A single darker freckle dots the upper right corner of her lip. Not far from there, the indentation of a dimple rests.

A fleeting thought hits him like a lightning strike, that if she were to smile, that dimple may bury her right into the heart of him.

Absurdity. Solas shakes off the thought.

Black hair tangles in waves and loose curls around her head, a single curl remaining defined just behind her left ear. A perfect ringlet, pristine despite her predicament.

An odd detail to notice.

He is avoiding the rest, but he must let himself see.

The green inked into her face. It dances across her cheekbones, up the bridge of her nose, fans out over her forehead. He's heard the guards snort and scoff at the "tree" on the "knife ear's" face, but Solas knows it is no tree.

Even the Dalish think it is a tree, branding themselves slaves in their ignorance. Fools. And she is, very obviously, a Dalish fool for doing the same.

But Mythal's vallaslin is no tree.

It had to be hers, did it not? Perhaps he could look upon any of the other Evanuris' blood writing without flinching, but Mythal's? One would think that after ten millennia of struggle, the pain of it would have subsided somewhat. Mythal is thousands of years dead.

Yet here she is again, reminding Solas of how deeply her bindings worked their way into the flesh he never wanted. His still bears the scar; even when he cast her out of his skin, he needed the reminder to never allow someone such power over him again.

Mythal's vallaslin is no tree. It is not even veins, blood or lyrium or otherwise, despite its resemblance. It is neither of those things.

It's him. It's every spirit like him.

Mythal who nearly emptied the Fade of its Wisdom, built bodies for all like him, branded them all with their own self-portraits. "We are the best of both physical and Fade," she told him once as she wheedled him into following her into the depths of despair and ruin. Out of love. Love she always professed to return, but like a mother overrun with children beyond counting, his place as her favourite mattered little when all were only tools to her.

Solas tightens his lips, staring down at the prisoner. He seldom allows himself to even think so candidly; his love for Mythal, her turning away over and over to become what he despised, the glimmers and scraps of hope she tossed him until that final dreadful day, the reminder of his failure to reach her. All this time.

His own vallaslin had hardly healed on his face before he knew it to be naught but a reminder of everything he'd given up, everything he'd lost. Everything he sacrificed.

And now here it is, branded again on unwitting skin.

It was not supposed to happen this way.

For a moment, Solas is not certain what he means. His own existence? The Anchor? Corypheus? This tragic creature sleeping before him?

He has no answers. He does not even know her name.

Only that he must save her life.

His mana stirs as he delves through her, seeking any remaining injuries that could impede the progress of her healing mind. If her body strengthens, perhaps she will wake.

For this moment, at least, they share a fate.

***

Thank you so so much for this prompt!!! I got carried away and will have to probably do a Part 2 and Part 3. >.>

My little hearrrrt.

[gxldencity]

most of the people writing all these inane takes about why rook is a terrible protagonist are from #that group who really just wanted to play their lavellan again. No not even the inquisitor again bc that implies that they think about the Inquisitor as anything but a female lavellan who romances solas. (They don't actually because if they do then they'll see how many people have their inquisitors be fucking retired after trespasser and have no interest in chasing after Solas).

And see I really don't mind any of that ngl bc we all have our grievances towards this game. maybe I'll question why you're writing screed after screed about why rook is horrible and needs to die....like that's so wierd about a ROLEPLAYING GAME protag that you can choose to be whoever you want them to be. I mean when ppl are fucking creating OC children of their HoF and LI and making that their Rook and u can't even imagine a Solas ass kisser Rook who's a fen'harel agent, who would would officiate the solavellan wedding. Did u spend all of your creativity on making solas's perfect girl that you ran out of creative juice for the protag that you wanted for da4?

Anyway, the actual point i was trying to make is that I do draw the line when they say that the inquisitor is a compelling protagonist, unlike Rook who is a mere insert for casuals. I'm saying this, I'm saying this as someone who booted up DA:I for the first time in 7 years after finishing a gameplay session of Veilguard and the difference is so night and day. I was prepared for the Inquisitor to sound so flat but I did not expect that it was that bad 😭. I'm trying my best to give my Inquisitor any sort of personality by selecting the middle options mostly so she sounds more than just bored and polite and bored and direct. Now, she's cracking co worker at a party jokes. It's honestly so jarring coming from Rook who has so much personality all around and the Inquisitor who does not. Better voice direction could've gone a long way tbh bc even Shepard was pretty flat for most of ME1 but u hardly notice that. both Mark Meer and Jennifer Hale had good diction and knew which tones to emphasize and when.

[inquistors]

it wasn't a formally authorized treaty that saved ferelden's people. it wasn't careful diplomacy that ended your inane civil war, it was never about the organization.

an independent & mutuals only portrayal of INQUISITOR TREVELYAN and INQUISITOR LAVELLAN. penned by august. minors DNI. triggering themes may occur. 25+. they/them. EST. an exploration of : becoming a symbol. found family. do you remember who you are? whether you believe that you are a herald or will you reject the call? following your heart, the weight of the world on your shoulders. how different people walk different paths.

carrd.

it was about people doing what was necessary. now, if you'll excuse me, i have a world to save. again.

[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, Lady Herald. Kill it, the First. Save me, Inquisitor. Kill them, our 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)

[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

[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!)

[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.

[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 ! ”

[renegadewolf]

[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.”