#lavellan dragon age

[5queerducksinatrenchcoat]

cole is truly the funniest fucken person in this game

[lavelluvian]

Im gonna vomit i can’t stop thinking about solavellan & tenrose parallels

[pupkinpumpkin]

Headcanoning (?) that after Solas binds himself to the Fade, he can go wherever he wants, he's just focusing on the Black City RN so my Lavellan can come through the Eluvians and finally be able to fucking hug him without the world ending

She'd hug him, cry, tell him she forgives him, that Varric would've forgiven him, maybe make plans to introduce him to her kids, tell him everything that's been going on, and just tell him how happy she is that he's okay

She may not have romanced him, but he was one of her closest friends in the Inquisition and I'll be damned if Solas dies or lives alone

[varricscheticles]

[cullenssweatyballsakk]

That stupid ass gorilla walk my Lavellan be doin piss me off so bad BITCH WTAND UP STRAIGHT

[exalted-dawn]

Big OC collab I did a while ago for the DAFF server, where all of our OCs meet in an interdimensional tavern and vibe :3 pictured below, from left to right:

Siobhan Hawke ( @inquisimer ), Virelan Lavellan ( @rosella-writes ), Pravin Talavera ( @monocytogenes ), Ixchel Lavellan ( @dreadfutures ), Thalia Trevelyan ( @nirikeehan ), An’da ( @about2dance ), Amaryllis Lavellan ( @arlathmacully ), Talenna (MY QUEEN MY WIFE), Connor Trevelyan ( @plisuu ), Moira Amell ( @effelants ), and Saeris Lavellan + Efa ( @oxygenforthewicked )

[nadas-dirthalen]

she, the mender; he, the break. (2)

solas/lavellan, rated T.

previous entries: (1)

synopsis: The Dalish elf that closed the Breach has woken. Immediately faced with a world that no longer looks at her the way she expects, Ithalia must piece together what transpired.

How did she survive at all? And who, if anyone, has an interest in her life?

content warnings: canon-typical violence mention, canon-typical depiction of racism, canon-typical profanity, canon-typical religious references, canon-typical depictions of depression.

read on ao3!

Two Ithalia

Something is wrong, deep in her bones, when Ithalia wakes.

Some things, plural. A gap in her memory where, apparently, a trip to the Fade should be. A mark in her palm whose cold burn she cannot pinpoint as coming from… anywhere.

A hole in the sky that she can feel, somehow, from her place on a too-warm bed in a too-comfortable room, is… gone. The quiet left behind is jarring.

Before—there’s no way to know if it’s been days, weeks, a decade—the quiet would’ve been a boon. She’d wanted it, before, a Dalish spy in the Conclave, a watcher sent from home. She’d been meant to watch. That was it. The quieter, the less imposing, the better.

She’s an explosion or two past less imposing, probably.

But what could take a Dalish elf from a prison cell to the plush of a clean bed?

One thing at a time. She cracks her eyes open—those still see the same, even after the last flash of blinding green she remembers. To her right stands a wall, simple wood planks. To her left, everything else: a bedside table, a desk, a flaming sconce, several pelts hung around a small window, a bookshelf—

A tray that clatters on the floor, dropped by an elf standing frozen in her wake. 

“O—oh,” they stammer, sweat beading on their brow. Young, no valasslin—probably not Dalish. At the sight of her, their head starts shaking. They backpedal, one step and then another. “I—I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

An elf, of all people, ready to run as soon as she props herself up on an elbow.

“Don’t…” Mythal’enaste, her temple throbs. Her hand, moreso. “... Don’t worry about it. I only—”

The elf falls, and Ithalia jolts upright.

They collapse to the floor—not to faint, but to kneel.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing,” they plead, palms to the floor, even their brow touching the stone. “I am but a humble servant.”

A servant. A city elf, bending to kneel before one of the Dalish, as if Ithalia is something… more. Something else.

Some things wrong, indeed.

“I…” Ithalia lets her voice fade to nothing. She what, exactly? What does this elf, or anyone, think of her? Why is she here? And where is—

“You are in Haven, my lady,” the younger elf says, lifting their head to meet her eyes. They swallow when they spot Ithalia still watching them. “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

She turns her attention there, to the mark, if only to… spare… the younger elf from it. It lights with the twitch of a finger, the same way a person might look up at the sound of their name. It thrums, warm yet impossibly cold, in an arc from the heel of her palm to the curve between her thumb and forefinger.

It looks like an open wound, the color of the Veil.

What she thinks is the Veil.

Probably.

“It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

Three days. The Breach, gone. Three days.

“So you’re saying…” She tries another look at the elf, who winces. She doesn’t hide her own stammer, as she’d learned to do under Keeper Ishmaetoriel’s guidance. Let this elf hear her disbelief. “They’re… happy with me?”

“I’m only saying what I heard. I didn’t mean anything by it!” The elf rises, standing on shaking knees. Again, they step backward, hands raised like at any moment, Ithalia might lunge. “I—I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. She… she said, ‘At once.’”

Lady Cassandra. Ithalia grits her teeth before she remembers the younger elf would flee for less. She pauses, finds a smile, rubs a temple. Lady Cassandra…

Seeker Cassandra.

She fights to rise, stifling a groan. “And… where is she…?”

“In the Chantry,” the younger elf answers, their full-body tremor in their voice, now, too. “With the lord chancellor. ‘At once,’ she said!”

They all but fall into the door as they push through it, and then they are gone.

Quiet blankets the room again—but just outside, a wave of murmurs rises, rippling out from this lodge. This Haven lodge, now that the Breach has been closed for three days.

Haven. Breach closed. Three days. She can cling to those, even when…

She will have to face the outside. Soon, probably.

In the meantime, maybe someone has left something behind more informative than the elf who somehow dropped down before her in worship. With precious little time and through the haze of a headache, though, little stands out save for a pile of loose papers left on the room’s only desk.

She chews a lip, looks down at her fingertips. Hands this clean—washed? By whom?—won’t leave any obvious prints that she’d need to make excuses for. If she did, would she have to make them? Or would anyone besides that lone elf drop down and do…. That?

No time to ponder long either way. She tests her steps, finding her own knees shaking, and ambles over to the desk. Elbow on the wood, she bends down and lifts the paper close to her eyes, cursing her headache for at least the third time in as many minutes.

Day One: Clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse over-fast. Not responsive. Pupils dilated. Mage says her scarring "mark" is thrumming with unknown magic. Wish we could station a templar in here, just in case.

Ithalia sucks in a breath, releasing it only at the end of the passage. Mark must mean her—and unknown magic, while it ties her stomach in knots, matches her assumption.

Mage—she does remember, tangled insides tightening. A flash of green: once, twice, again, then for good before all went dark. A hand clamped over her wrist—no. Loosely. It’d been the Seeker’s grasp that was rough. Cassandra’s, not—

Solas’.

Where is he, now? Where are any of the others, aside from Cassandra and…

Lord chancellor. Haven. Breach closed. Three days.

She sighs, closing her eyes to keep the words from blurring on the page. It takes a moment for the room to return to stillness, for her stomach to stop threatening a heave.

Under the page of notes, there’s nothing discernible. Only a collection of pages with a series of numbers in two columns, marked with what looks like the time over the course of several days and nights. The measurements have no labels. The notes in the margins are packed too tightly, in too intricate of a shorthand to attempt deciphering.

Even one in elvish, which is all she really gleans from the pages. Multiple pages, packed with writing on both sides.

He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’

The dwarf’s voice—one of precious few things Ithalia remembers. Varric Tethras: rogue, author… something. He didn’t look ready to cut her down, for either her heritage or mark. He didn’t look ready to collapse in reverence, either.

“My lady?” a voice—soft, high—asks outside the door, scarcely audible over the rest.

Something brushes against the opposite side of the wood, then stops.

“Shhh! Are you mad? Leave the Herald be!” another hisses.

The Herald. Haven. The lord chancellor, with Lady Cassandra. 

Scarring “mark” thrumming with unknown magic.

The Breach, closed, three days.

She’ll have to face them all, now, with nothing else to go on. No blade to ready herself for anything that might not be instantaneous adolation.

How many, in Haven? To what end?

She can’t know, until…

Ithalia opens the door with a tremoring hand and finds a parted sea. Rows of onlookers, standing politely to each side of a cobbled path, some with heads bowed, some with eyes shining. None of them notice the icy wind that shudders down her spine. None of them care for anything but what is in front of them.

A Dalish elf, Dirthhamen’s valasslin upon her brow, down the bridge of her nose, across her cheekbones, under her lip. Unmistakable from every angle as not them, a probably-Veil-green gash pulsing visibly on her palm. Washed by hands that were not hers, dressed in clothes she’s never laid eyes upon, emerging from a lodge she never chose.

Stepping out under a sky scarred the same as she: a waving line of green to split the blue, like a scar over pale skin.

I am not this, she fights not to say, for they should already know.

Have they forgotten?

She has learned, all her life, to run from human worship. To see the sight of red and learn from the bull’s mistake, fleeing opposite, never giving in to anger when survival is never not at stake.

Her Keeper has told her stories, since she was old enough to catch their meaning, of forests made of graves, canopies thick enough to blot out the sun.

Yet this tableau—this human tableau, scarcely an elf and not one Dalish in sight—stays perfectly still. They bow, not for the red of their Chantry, but for the green of her palm.

A magic that is not hers, a name—Herald—that is not hers, a mended sky that is not hers.

For if it were hers alone, she would be dead.

It is because of one that she is not.

[luckyjak]

Three of the most problematic men in Thedas (dumped her to become King, possessed/blew up the church, literally the Dread Wolf)

and Bellara

precious cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure.

Bellara is there, asking Solas and Lavellan all the questions. Hawke and Alistair are trying to out-snark one another: it is the battle of white boy humor. Amell would like to ask Lavellan questions about Blackwall and Cullen but is too polite to interrupt Bellara. Ingellvar attempts to ask Anders questions about Andrastian funerary rites but it ends with Solas and Anders fist fighting in the parking lot. While watching Solas and Anders fight, the rest of them eat popcorn and talk about how cool Varric is (Amell is sad to have never met him).

[nipuni]

Ever after

A speedpaint video of this will be available art my Patreon on jan 1st, you can also find prints of my art at my RB store 😊

[westlywheatly]

45yr old woman discovers mpreg

[arcane-gold]

the inquisitor has far too much on his plate these days

[5queerducksinatrenchcoat]

i think they should retroactively make solas bisexual in veilguard

just let you set your male lavellan as having romanced him and don't acknowledge the change at all

[the-upper-shelf]

He makes her age ten times faster

[pupkinpumpkin]

Headcanon that after Cullen gives Lavellan the lucky coin, she gives him a Dalish promise ring her parents gave her for whenever she got bonded. She isn't ready for marriage yet, but she suspects Cullen will miss fiddling with his coin and she wants to give him something to remember her by while she's adventuring.

Cullen doesn't know what a Dalish promise ring is until Leliana sees him messing with it and drops that fun little lore bit, which causes him to go to Lavellan and ask if she proposed to him and it just completely flew over his head

In Trespasser, when they get married, they turn the lucky coin into a ring and use that and the Dalish promise ring as wedding rings

[monderette]

Somebody….stop me before it's too late -

.......I think it's too late... /(U////U/ /)/

[secretsimpleness]

Inquisitor Orlesians-Can-Burn-In-A-Ditch-For-All-I-Care Lavellan. + Josephine, Leliana, some noble / Dragon Age Inquisition (c) Bioware