#lore: lyrium

[telleskyggene]

Lyrium

More than half the wealth of Orzammar comes from a single, extremely rare substance: Lyrium. The Chantry believes it to be the "Waters of the Fade" mentioned in the Canticle of Threnodies, the very stuff of creation itself, from whence the Maker fashioned the world. Only a handful of Mining Caste families hazard extracting the ore, finding veins in the Stone quite literally by ear. For in its raw form, lyrium sings, and the discerning can hear the sound even through solid rock. Even though dwarves have a natural resistance, raw lyrium is dangerous for all but the most experienced of the Mining Caste to handle. Even for dwarves, exposure to the unprocessed mineral can cause deafness or memory loss. For humans and elves, direct contact with lyrium ore produces nausea, blistering of the skin, and dementia. Mages cannot even approach unprocessed lyrium. Doing so is invariably fatal. Despite its dangers, lyrium is the single most valuable mineral currently known. In the Tevinter Imperium, it has been known to command a higher price than diamond. The dwarves sell very little of the processed mineral to the surface, giving the greater portion of what they mine to their own smiths, who use it in the forging of all truly superior dwarven weapons and armor. What processed lyrium is sold on the surface goes only to the Chantry, who strictly control the supply. From the Chantry, it is dispensed both to the templars, who make use of it in tracking and fighting maleficarum, and to the Circle. In the hands of the Circle, lyrium reaches its fullest potential. Their Formari craftsmen transform it into an array of useful items from the practical, such as magically hardened stone for construction, to the legendary silver armor of King Calenhad. When mixed into liquid and ingested, lyrium allows mages to enter the Fade when fully aware, unlike all others who reach it only when dreaming. Such potions can also be used to aid in the casting of especially taxing spells, for a short time granting a mage far greater power than he normally wields. Lyrium has its costs, however. Prolonged use becomes addictive, the cravings unbearable. Over time, templars grow disoriented, incapable of distinguishing memory from present, or dream from waking. They frequently become paranoid, as their worst memories and nightmares haunt their waking hours. Mages have additionally been known to suffer physical mutation: The magister lords of the Tevinter Imperium were widely reputed to have been so affected by their years of lyrium use that they could not be recognized by their own kin, nor even as creatures that had once been human.

—From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi.

[mourn-and-watch]

just want to remind y'all of some kirkwall-related details that are not at all relevant for the possible events of datv:

meredith stannard is alive and kicking and is also planning a war against tevinter

red templars are in control of the gallows; it's hard to tell what's going on in the city itself, but with varric absent it might be left with no viscount again

there's an elven graveyard on sundermount where ancient elves entered uthenera; it is also possibly dedicated/related to mythal

there was also a demon contained in an idol on top of sundermount who supposedly possessed a great knowledge about arlathan and eluvians

the veil in kirkwall has always been remarkably thin and tevinter magisters were weakening it on purpose during their reign; the whole city was built as an enormous blood magic ritual site

if the veilguard squad is going to travel through the eluvians there's still one in kirkwall. the one that has been plot-relevant since dao

[pinacoladamatata]

Retail Rifts meetcute in the juice aisle.....

[purplecritter]

I had a dream tonight that Bioware dropped a new video along with the elusive August roadmap. And after seeing it I remember saying "Do they have any idea the lore implication this has? It's huge!!"

And of course as soon as I wake up and ready myself to write it down. I can't remember a single thing

[haniebnie]

its cold i know, but where can i go? when i love this world but i'm out on my own i've hurt before and there's still a hole

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

Aight prepare for Primeval Thaig posting ✌️ Not many Thoughts yet (need to read up on lore again first.........), mostly just documenting Interesting Things for later but if anyone has thoughts feel free to shout!

n e ways

first things we see in this thaig is Tevinter and not Dwarven. Sounds about right!👍

also, might just be for the visuals but corrupted and regular lyrium are frequently in the same patches

[v-arbellanaris]

dragon age lore question: can the red templars still use standard templar abilities like smite / silence? is there any evidence one way or the other?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SOOOO there's technically NOT evidence one way or another in terms of game mechanics - the red templars in game don't seem to have the ability to nullify magic, for example. but!!! we do know canonically that the templars at therinfal redoubt took it in lieu of regular lyrium with the idea of it being an 'improved' formula, that meredith herself was infected with red lyrium but presumably was still functioning like a regular templar, so ive always been under the assumption that red lyrium is more effective at cancelling out magic than regular lyrium is.

i don't know if that necessarily translates to standard templar abilities like smite or silence - conceptually, i think it would be cool if it did, but there was some kind of corrupting damage a la corruption runes in dai instead of spirit damage. but then, in-game, those mechanics aren't there. and i suppose meredith must have used standard templar abilities, though i imagine it would have been a much more devastating damage output than regular lyrium intake.

so the way i have tried to bridge the gap between the game mechanic and the plot is that, following kirkwall, red templars actually use non-standard anti-magic abilities -- variants of the original abilities, but reflective of the order abandoning the chantry, and i suspect that red templars are (un?)naturally anti-magic themselves, and nullify magic just by standing close enough/getting in range enough to it.

[exhausted-archivist]

I hope your recovery is a smooth one!

Since you've mentioned that you're working on a dwarven lore masterpost, what is your favorite part of dwarven lore so far? And what is the thing you most hope gets explored in Veilguard for them?

Thank you!

Favorite dwarven lore is also by far the most frustrating for me. It is from the tabletop, but from what we can tell with the descent dlce it is carried through there. It is the depth of the Deep Roads and the fact that they are so cold you'll freeze and is why they use lava to heat and light the roads and thaigs.

It is my favorite because it is fascinating, frustrating because it is breaking some rules without really explaining why/how it works. So it is definitely something I hope is explored a little more.

Generally speaking, the deeper you go into the earth the more stable the temperature. There are a ton of factors that dictate the temperature of the cave/are you're in but generally from my research it is warm. And we know that Thedas does have geothermal activity, they built the older thaigs in magma chambers after all and there is a ton of volcanic areas in Thedas. So, I'm curious as to why its cold.

This folds into something that is more specific to dwarves themselves and not just their enviroment. One of my favorite things, that you only see in written lore and not in-game is the dwarven resistance to lyrium. Due to their proximity to it and constantly being around it while underground, they have a resistance. It is why they can safely mine it, yes? But they lose that resistance the longer they are on the surface. The game doesn't reflect this too much as you don't have non-dwarves dropping sick when too close to raw lyrium and mages aren't just getting sick when at a certain distance of processed lyrium and straight up dying when near the raw stuff (cause that isn't fun, casual game play.)

But we also see surface dwarves mining lyrium, both the red and blue stuff all willy nilly. Not all carta dwarves are underground dwarves. And we know there are lyrium mines in Tevinter, the Anderfels, and other areas away from Orzammar. Which implies that surface dwarves are doing the mining and transporting. Now, this can easily be explained that they're recently surfaced or they were miners/casteless that went to the surface and immediately joined the carta elsewhere. But, I really hope that this is explored/explained more in the future because if dwarves can regain the lyrium resistance that fades within their lifetime on the surface, that is huge and opens up the question of: What is the Stonesense, since if it connected to the Titans, why isn't it recoverable like lyrium resistance which is literally of the Titans. It is their blood. What is the difference, there has been suggestion that the Stone and Titans are two different entities, with Titans being the children of the Stone themselves and dwarves the children of Titans.

Big implications and big fun stories abound.

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Cullen has an invitation for Trevelyan.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,393. Rating: all audiences, bar one swear.)

Chapter 48: Playing Nicely

The light of sunrise trickled through the window, and stirred Trevelyan from her slumber.

It took a moment for her waking mind to recognise where she was—but when she did, she smiled. This was her bed. Her room. Her Skyhold. Her home.

No one came to dress her or tidy her hair. She did it herself, selecting from the clothes her wages had bought her in Val Royeaux. New attire, of leather and linen, for the work of an Arcanist.

In the reflection of her window, she admired her appearance, then that of the mountains beyond. With a smile and a kiss, she bid them farewell; gathering up her notes from the bureau, to leave for the Undercroft.

Though not at peak activity so early in the morn, the place already hummed. Workers skirted out of her way as Trevelyan wound around their benches, with a nod of respect, and a greeting of, “Arcanist!”

This greeting she herself gave, as she sailed past Dagna—who was, quite naturally, in the midst of an intricate-looking enchantment.

“Morning!” she replied. “You look nice. You okay with trashing that?”

“I count on it,” Trevelyan answered.

Dagna snorted. “That’s the spirit!”

Her laughter carried Trevelyan on her way, to a workbench of her own—and the assistant who anticipated her there.

“Good morning, Arcanist,” greeted Herzt. “I prepared for your arrival.”

“Thank you, Herzt.” She dropped her papers onto the bench. “Shall we?”

Their morning would be spent attempting to organise her many scattered notes into a coherent plan. The journey to and from Val Royeaux had been… ample, to put it politely, and Trevelyan had spent much of it thinking of her theories regarding red lyrium.

(And a smaller, yet significant, portion of it thinking of the Commander.)

No—Cullen! Cullen. By Andraste, such a simple request ought not be so taxing! She really should be more practiced, before she saw him again.

Speaking of which.

As morning gave way to noon, Herzt departed her side. Trevelyan thought nothing of it; he had come and gone all throughout the morn—scurrying off to collect materials, or put in an order for those in low supply. Yet, when he returned this time, he did not do so with a bundle of deathroot or a revenant’s heart, but a message:

“Arcanist, you have a visitor.”

Trevelyan glanced up, expecting Dagna—peeking over for the twentieth time—or the wonderfully nosy Dorian. Neither.

Instead, her gaze followed Herzt’s indication, to the entryway of the Undercroft. To where an unexpected Commander stood.

No, Cullen! Fuck.

Trevelyan thanked Herzt, and stepped away. He did offer to have Cullen brought to her, but no. Not when she worked with at least a dozen eavesdroppers. The sight of him alone would have their ears on alert.

“Cullen,” she greeted, forcing herself to get it right. “How may we help you?”

“Arcanist,” he replied. “You, ah—you’re busy?”

Trevelyan glanced at the workbench she’d left behind, and the papers strewn across it.

“No, not at all,” she told him.

“Oh, good—then, would you, perhaps, like to play chess? With me.”

Trevelyan smiled. Poor man. Josephine had done all the asking for him, ‘til now, and he was not one so accustomed to seeking out company. The effort was appreciated nonetheless, and the interruption was worth its purpose.

“Of course,” she said. “When?”

“I have some time now, if that’s…”

“Give me a moment, to finish my work.”

“Of course,” he told her. “I’ll wait for you, in the garden.”

“Perfect.”

Satisfied, and a little more sure on his feet, the Commander slipped from the Undercroft. A little unsteady on hers, Trevelyan returned to her bench.

She saw her papers into some kind of temporary order, and entrusted their guardianship to Herzt. He was offered a respite, of course—if she was to take one, he ought to, as well—but knowing his habits, it was best to leave him with a task. Just in case.

Free from her duties, Trevelyan hurried for the Great Hall. She would not keep Cullen waiting.

It was this very eagerness that caused her keen mind to momentarily lapse in its perception, however. For she did note, as she wove through the hall, the seemingly increased number of nobles who crowded its space. But—perhaps drowned out by the noise of their chatter—she paid no attention to the drumming against the window panes, and the streaks that marred the stained glass.

It was only when she threw open the garden door, that Trevelyan did realise it was raining.

Though not just raining—pouring.

The garden was devoid of life, save for the critters that thrived in such weather, and the occasional song of a rain-soaked bird who sought them. But through the downpour, Trevelyan could see another. On the other side of the garden, sheltered beneath the arcade, stood her Commander. Waiting; patient.

She offered a smile, and made her way—glad of the cover above. The rain trickled in rivers down the roof-tiles, and drained further into the garden beyond.

With the gift of their protection, she arrived quite intact. Cullen, however, had caught a little of the rain upon his mantle, and was attempting to pat it dry.

“Arcanist,” he said, “I’m sorry about the weather.”

“I hardly think that is your fault,” she told him. “Besides, I don’t mind.”

The rain fell like a waterfall, drawing a translucent curtain over them, creating an air of precious privacy. Its soothing sound provided accompaniment, in the pitter-patter of droplets against ivy leaf and the once-dry earth.

She did not mind at all. Indeed, she quite liked it.

“Good. Then, shall we?” Cullen gestured to the chess table, neatly prepared. Its armies stood to attention, hungering for battle. Trevelyan took her seat, and the command it bestowed.

Her mind passed over the pieces. Though she had had some opportunity to play against Giles and Erridge before their departure, she was certainly not to the level of her Circle days. And Cullen came to sit with such predictable confidence, that she wondered if she had been too hasty, in her provocation to play.

“Would you like me to begin?” she asked.

He encouraged her to, with a wave of his hand. She trotted a cavalryman forward.

“I must admit, I had not expected an invitation so soon,” she told him. “It was quite the surprise.”

“Oh”—Cullen rubbed the back of his neck—“forgive me, I thought it best to remain in the habit.”

Out came his own cavalry, opening the line for his chanter and knight behind.

“I think that sensible,” Trevelyan said.

“I hope I did not trespass upon your work.”

“These are the early stages,” she reassured him. “There is little to trespass upon.”

Opening gambits played out between their words. Chanters shifted and knights lanced forth. Castles came to protect their emperors. Empresses watched from on high.

“I read Dagna’s initial report regarding your aims,” Cullen said. “I was fascinated by your ideas.”

The cavalry Trevelyan was in the midst of moving almost tumbled over. “Oh—good. Well, if there is anything I could elucidate further for you, Commander—Cullen—please do say.”

“What did you mean,” he wondered, searching for a place to land his knight, “when you spoke of directionality in lyrium?”

Trevelyan’s brain buzzed with excitement. “Oh! Well—as I’m certain you know—lyrium energy is directional, and its users are a conduit. Templars direct it towards our world, and mages toward the Fade...”

She trailed off, and glanced at his face. With Dorian and Dagna, she could well assume interest, but for him—she simply wished to check. He met her gaze, and smiled.

“Go on.”

She continued: “Well, too much lyrium, and it overwhelms your ability to direct it. Your mind is pulled apart. Tranquil and dwarves may handle more potent raw lyrium because they lack connection to the Fade—therefore, it is harder to be torn asunder. Mages’ strength of connection results in the opposite.”

“So, what about red lyrium?” he asked. “Which direction does it take?”

“Both.”

“Both?”

“It nullifies magic, yet thins the Veil where it grows”—Trevelyan recalled that feeling, of being near it; of confusion, and haze; of a distant song, crying for help—“it’s almost as if it’s tearing itself apart.”

“Why would it do that?”

“To fight the infection,” she told him. “In our own bodily response to infection, inflammation is caused not by the sickness itself, but the body. Blood flows to the infected area, which causes the flesh to redden and heat.”

“Like red lyrium,” Cullen muttered.

“Like red lyrium,” Trevelyan echoed. “Lyrium is no ordinary mineral. Whatever has adulterated it, I do not know—but the lyrium is trying to cure itself of it. It may be pulling in one direction, and the sickness in the other.”

“The sickness could be magical, then,” Cullen mused. “The lyrium may be trying to reassert reality to nullify it.”

“Indeed—which may be an avenue to curing it,” Trevelyan replied. “If we could weaken the sickness, even aid the nullification, the lyrium may have the strength to overcome it itself.”

“At which point, we could entreat Orzammar to remove the cured lyrium safely.”

Trevelyan smiled. There was never so great a feeling, as feeling understood. “That is the hope.”

“A good thing you were made Arcanist, then.”

With that, Cullen’s eyes returned to the board. At last, some attention for the poor, neglected thing. No piece had moved in some time. They had sat and listened, just as their leader had.

It was somewhat difficult to recall if it was truly Cullen’s turn, but Trevelyan cared little about that. She was more concerned with the analysis of the words he had just spoken—for there was a little suspicion she’d held, and had been waiting to confirm.

He was distracted with his chanter, capturing a cavalryman. The moment was opportune.

“I wonder, Cullen—did you, perhaps, know I was to be made Arcanist?”

Cullen froze. “Well, I…” He sank back into his seat, and sighed. “Yes. Whilst you were in the Dales, Josephine and I discussed finding some way for you to remain at Skyhold—if you wished to. Then, when Dagna returned, she proposed your new position.”

With the tip of her finger, Trevelyan slid a castle forward, and toppled his knight. “Whilst I was in the Dales?”

“Yes.”

“But we were… not exactly on the best of terms, whilst I was in the Dales.”

Cullen stared at the board. “Your safety was priority. We could not, in good conscience, return you to Ostwick without presenting another option first. Had you refused Skyhold, we would have found you employment elsewhere.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “That didn’t concern you?”

“As I say”—a chanter avenged his knight—“your safety was priority. My greatest concern was that you would refuse our help.”

Strange, his ability to say the sweetest things, whilst sounding so business-like. Trevelyan contemplated her next move.

“You don’t mind, then?” she asked.

“Mind what?”

“That I’m a mage?”

The words resounded as they fell, and shattered upon the ground. Whatever Cullen’s reaction, Trevelyan avoided it. Her eyes remained upon the board, as if in ponderance of her play. But her move consisted of a cavalry’s banal march, and any illusion that she thought of chess was dispelled in an instant.

“Why would I—?” He spoke under his breath, in a tone of confusion, yet continued aloud: “No, of course not… that’s not—”

“I have just reclaimed who I am, Commander,” she told him, some kind of explanation. “I would not wish to suppress it again.”

“I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t ask you to.”

She toyed with one of the captured knights. “So it may seem. But, it’s… it’s simply that, when you were suffering with your withdrawal, you said, ‘no magic’.”

“Oh.”

There was nothing, for a moment. No moves made. No words said. No bird’s song. Only quiet breathing, and the staccato rainfall of shifting clouds. The world knew, that whatever should come next, it was important.

“There was a time I was afraid of mages,” Cullen said at last. “The rebellion at Kinloch Hold left me scarred… in more ways than the physical.”

Pain contorted his face, as if the thought alone reopened those wounds. Trevelyan murmured: “I’m sorry.”

“What I suffered… it was hard to recover.” His eyes shut, his head shook. “I no longer harbour that fear of mages—but I cannot seem to shake the fear of what magic might do in the wrong hands.”

The last ten years of history had certainly been no panacea to such an ill. “I see.”

“But,” he added, “whatever I might still fear of magic—I see none of it in you. I’m sorry for how I reacted that day. I wasn’t… myself.”

“So you don’t mind, then?” She turned her palm, and kindled a young flame within. “That I’m..?”

He gazed at that flame, the reflection of its light dancing in his eyes. “No, I…”

His words trailed away. Instead, he shifted. A hand moved to the other; teased at the the fingers of his glove until the entire thing could slip away.

His rough skin laid bare, he reached for her palm. His hand mirrored her own, hovered above. The very tip of the flame touched his skin.

But there was no pain. Just warmth.

As if drawn to it, Cullen’s hand sank. Trevelyan let the flame lull, ebbing ever further as he came ever nearer. The pads of his fingers brushed upon her own, and there came to rest.

His hand lingered no more than an inch from hers. The flame yet burned between them.

Trevelyan smiled.

She fidgeted her fingers, puppeting the flame to lap at his hand, a streak of gentle heat sent skimming across the surface. That warmth repeated on his face, in the smile that blessed it.

Yet, it sombred. Cullen’s fingers curled in on themselves, and receded.

“I… should admit,” he muttered, “of the man I was in Kirkwall.”

Trevelyan’s flame flickered its last. Her quieted heart gained pace once more.

“I was Knight-Captain,” he told her, “of the Circle. Our Knight-Commander, she—she allowed atrocities to occur. Committed them herself. She claimed she was protecting people, and I believed her. I did nothing stop her, until it was too late. Until too many had already suffered—”

His breath quickened; his hand twisted and strained around the glove it had abandoned. Before any more words could leave his mouth, Trevelyan stretched over the table—hand yet warm, from the flame—and enclosed her fingers around his fist.

“Cullen,” she said, “I know.”

He glanced up at her, eyes searching. “Know what?”

“Mages talk.” And they had talked to her plenty, whenever she had done runs to their tower. “I never sought out any information about Kirkwall; that would have gone against your wishes. But there is much I was told, without ever asking.”

“Ah.”

“Varric, as well…”

His notes on red lyrium had not merely covered the subject of red lyrium. There were other parts of Kirkwall’s history that he had believed she ought to know.

“I see,” said Cullen.

Something of defeat settled upon his face. And yet, their game was still at play.

For there was little of his past that was of her concern. What concerned her, truly, was the Cullen who sat before her at this moment. The Cullen she knew. The Cullen she told:

“Whoever that man was, I see none of him in you.”

He did not shift, did not stir. Only murmured, “If you’re certain.”

“The first time I saw you playing this game, your opponent was a Tevinter mage.” Trevelyan withdrew her hand, and smiled at him. “I am certain.”

The corner of his mouth finally twitched upward. “All right.”

The last of a lingering uncertainty washed away, replaced by a familiar sense of comfort and ease.

“Perhaps we needn’t be merely a mage and Templar, here,” Trevelyan mused. “What if we were Cullen and Trevelyan, instead?”

“I’d like that,” Cullen said.

“So would I,” she replied.

The fall of the downpour began to wane; the cloud began to break. Sunlight pierced through, glittering over the rain-soaked garden. Trevelyan invited Cullen to make his next move.

Simple enough: he took her misplaced cavalry. She attempted to convert this mistake to an advantage, and laid a trap for his empress—but there was little use in it.

His confidence seemed to return with the sun, and he detected her trap before it had even sprung. Though it was dismantled with the demeaning ease she could expect from a player such as he, she took no offence—to know he was at peace was all she required.

Though ‘peace’ was not quite the word for how he played. Any of her attempts to regain an advantage were expressly forbidden. Her empress was taken, her cavalry line broken. The knights she brought to her aid were cut down by castles and chanters. Though pieces were lost on either side, hers were lost to defence—his, to noble sacrifice.

He ought to have had her, then and there—yet he brought himself to heel, and moved at disadvantage. Her pieces lay bare for his capture, and yet, he seemed to avoid them.

“A bold new strategy,” she said, with a smile. “What is this gambit called?”

He hesitated, and sent his castle off marching to the east—where none of her troops did stand.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Are you stalling the end of our time together?” Trevelyan wondered. “Or do you think by allowing me to win, I’d be more inclined to play again?”

Indecision rumbled in his throat. “...Both.”

Trevelyan sent a knight far from the battlefield, and placed a finger purposefully on the tip of her emperor, to rock it back and forth.

“Do it,” she told him.

Reluctant, Cullen slid his empress forward. He had Trevelyan’s emperor caught, between her, and a chanter, and a castle. No escape.

Trevelyan waited. “Say it.”

“Checkmate.”

Trevelyan let her emperor fall, a grin spreading across her face. “Well played, Commander.”

She hadn’t forgotten that time. She simply thought he might like to hear her say his title, right now.

He relaxed in his seat. “Thank you, Arcanist.”

She reached her hand across the table, to shake that of her victorious enemy. “We shall have to do this again, sometime. Perhaps you can teach me a thing or tw—”

Oh.

Cullen had taken her hand, to be sure. But he had not shaken it. No, he raised it. To his lips. And kissed it. Square upon the knuckles.

Trevelyan blinked. Cullen’s eyes flicked up. He saw the shock of the moment upon her face, and the bravado—as well as the colour—drained from him in an instant.

“Forgive me,” he blurted, “I thought—”

“No, no!” Trevelyan hurried to say. “It’s, I, um—”

She wasn’t—she wasn’t upset, at all. No, no. It was very… nice. Quite warm, and pleasing, and he must have wet his lips beforehand because she felt it upon her skin even now and—

Oh, Maker.

“I should, I should return to my duties,” said Cullen, abandoning his seat.

“No, no,” she pleaded, rising from her own. “I was—about to ask if, that was, perhaps, how we are to say farewell, from now on?”

He stifled a laugh. Though his eyes could still not meet her own, and his hand sought the back of his neck—his embrassment was, at the very least, somewhat assuaged.

“Well...”

“Let us consider it a possibility,” she teased.

“All right.” He shifted, and asked, “Would you like to… play again, another day?”

“Yes,” she answered, “please.”

“Good. Good. Then… another time, Arcanist.”

“Another time, Cullen.”

The rain having ceased, Trevelyan was able to make her return over the garden path, as the first brave noble souls ventured out from the same Great Hall she headed for. Among their growing chatter, she slipped a glance back to the table, where Cullen tidied away their pieces, oblivious to her gaze.

Her thumb ran over the spot his lips had touched. She longed for that feeling again.

[vigilskeep]

HA there are fereldan traditions about singing the chant so you cannot be led astray by spirits’ whispers while in setheneran!!! i never fucking lose

[pinacoladamatata]

no one is matching my freak on twitter when it comes to geeking out over the lore. you guys promised. am i alone? am i alone?

link to some of my copied crazy spreadsheets bc i'm finally sharing some

[merrillapologist]

I think one of the funniest things is that after like a half a month of Rezaren discourse upon release everyone just collectively stopped talking about Dragon Age Absolution immediately after the hype died down. I never see posts abt it anymore. Its kind of funny . I wont lie . I miss you Miriam

[rockaberryx]

Me at the end of watching da absolution:

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

can't believe oculara/shards and runes get to have cool ominous sound effects but not red lyrium 😔

[danielnelsen]

Hey first I want to say that I really like your in depth posts on Dragon Age! Can I ask if you have any information and/or insights on the Jainen Circle from Legends? And do you think it's canon?

Everything That Happens Involving the Jainen Circle of Magi:

The First Enchanter is Jendrik whenever DAL is set (it's canonically sometime after the start of the 5th blight, but imo it's more specifically set somewhere from 9:34-9:37).

Sometime before you arrive in Jainen, the Circle is overrun by demons.

The leader of the local dragon cultists, Deymour, sends his lieutenant, Guillen, to kill Jendrik. If you head too far into Jainen without going to the Circle, Jendrik will die, otherwise you save him. If you save him, he's too wounded to help you so he just...leaves, I guess. He doesn't get any dialogue or a sprite or anything.

When you fight through the Circle, you fight both templars and mages (who are fighting together). I don't think you fight any demons until the very end, which has one desire demon as a boss.

The source of the demon(s) is Deymour who, as part of the overarching plot of DAL, is hosting a shard of a pride demon's soul in him. It's not explicitly stated that he summoned the demon(s), but his whole pride demon thing and also his general involvement (asking Guillen to kill Jendrik) is a pretty good indicator.

No matter the outcome, none of this is ever mentioned again.

Is the Jainen Circle Canon?

Nothing from DAL is canon.

That said, most of the game can be stretched to fit into canon (even Eiton being 'born Tranquil', fight me), and the Jainen Circle isn't any less realistic than anything else in DAL. Honestly, the main potential conflicts with canon are probably:

The times when we've been told how many circles there are (either 14 or 15; it's not even consistent). There are more than that listed on the wiki, even without including Jainen. However, quite a few of those Circles only have references from hundreds of years ago and may not exist anymore, so even 14 is enough to include Jainen as one of them.

Kinloch Hold is generally discussed in canon as THE Circle in Ferelden, replacing Denerim's Circle in 3:87. Maybe Jainen's just smaller or too remote or something, idk.

[danceswithdarkspawn]

So I had a thought the other day about making Leliana Divine if you killed her in Origins. Like, the running theory is that the 'Leliana' in DA2 and Inquisition is a lyrium ghost, right? (or a spirit ala Cole but anyway)

Like...do lyrium ghosts...die??? Or dissipate? Or whatever???

So like, if you make a lyrium ghost Divine, is it just gonna sit on the Sunburst Throne for a hella long time? Or after a while does the lyrium ghost create some circumstance to dispose of itself (faking death, disappearing, etc.)?

And that's the other thing: do they age? Do they die? I imagine after a few decades on the Sunburst Throne people are gonna look at their Divine and go, 'Gee Divine Victoria sure looks young to be in her 70s/80s'

Anyway these are thoughts that would not leave me alone