#mythal came in clutch

[blushouyo]

holy moly. revenant dragon down too 👍

[ashenlavellan]

Lucretia Elena Mercar - Rook of the Shadow Dragons [Major Spoilers]- BELOW THE CUT

Full name: Lucretia Elena Mercar

Nicknames/Aliases: "Luce" - Close friends and relatives call her by this nickname / "Rook" - Given to her after some heists and rescue operations she led within the Shadow Dragons / "Mi corazón" - an endearment that Lucanis calls her by, but most of the time when it's just the two of them.

Age: 28 [The 1st day of Firstfall during 9:23 Dragon | The 1st day of Umbralis in the year 2017 TE]

Zodiac: Scorpio Sun | Capricorn Moon | Aquarius Rising

Nationality/Ethnicity: Tevene [Paternal] | Starkhavener [Maternal]

Faction: Shadow Dragons

Class: Mage - Evoker

Romanced: Lucanis Dellamorte

Closest Friends: Lace Harding, Bellara Lutare, and Taash

Friends: Emmrich Volkarin, Neve Gallus, and Davrin

[MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW]

Lucretia had made the tough call to rescue the city of Treviso from Ghilan'nain's clutches - it had come at the cost of her own faction's trust, the Shadow Dragons, as well as Neve Gallus. However, she pulled through by providing as much assistance as possible afterwards. Although skeptical, Neve came to trust Lucretia once more as time passed and helped the Threads take back Minrathous. Luckily, after their fight with the gods had come to an end, Neve had taken charge and cleared out Minrathous of whatever remained.

Lucretia's analytical thinking allowed her to successfully clear out the entire Crossroads of the corrupted blight - as well as managing to gain Mythal's favor without having to cast a single spell and persuading the fallen goddess.

She always offered a shoulder to cry upon and had been there to encourage Taash to discover who they truly wished to be - she had also encouraged them to pursue a relationship with Lace Harding. Taash embraced Rivaini culture and found love with a fellow companion, thanks to Lucretia's support and encouragement. However, towards the end of their journey, Taash had lost their beloved partner when Lace sacrified herself in the fight against Ghilan'nain.

It had come at the cost of becoming a lich, but Emmrich had listened to Lucretia's perspective and had sacrificed his dream to bring his beloved assistant, Manfred, back to the realm of reality. In turn, Manfred had manifested magical prowess and could speak!

Only time could tell, but Lucretia had suggested that the future of the griffons should be changed after Davrin left the decision to her - Assan and his siblings would become guardians over the Arlathan forest, a new purpose as the blight would soon come to an end... permanently.

Lucanis expressed eternal gratitude towards Lucretia for not only helping him come to terms with the demon, Spite, trapped within him, but rescuing his beloved grandmother and putting an end to Illario's egotistical power-trip. Thanks to their shared efforts, Lucanis became the First Talon and Lucretia was proud to witness it firsthand.

In the end, when the Evanuris had finally fallen, Lucretia had begged Solas to reconsider tearing the Veil once more - only with the assistance of his closest mortal friend, Inquisitor Juniper Rutherford, and Morrigan bringing forth a projection of Mythal, thanks to the fact that Lucretia had garnered Mythal's favor...

He had relented and tied his life-force to the Veil, returning to what once was and allowing the calamities that wreaked havoc upon Thedas to come to an immediate end. Once and for all.

[EPILOGUE]

Soon after the death of Elgar'nan, Lucretia realized that she no longer had a home within Minrathous when she came across the wreckage of the estate and the corpses of her adoptive family, as well as her biological mother. Lucanis had been there to catch her and cradle her within his arms as she crumbled at the sight; he had offered to take her home with him, to Treviso, and they could share their lives together. The couple swiftly gathered their belongings from the Lighthouse, after emotional goodbyes with their friends, and traveled through the eluvian that would lead them back to Treviso.

As months pass, however, Lucretia and Lucanis find their rhythm within their cozy apartment in Treviso - they will spend their time with cups of coffee and curling up in each other's embrace; Lucretia is relaxed as Lucanis holds her close to his beating heart, while he melts underneath her touch with every word that slips from her mouth.

Lucanis is quick to cradle her close when the nightmares threaten to overwhelm her, whilst Lucretia easily quells his worries and allows him the respite he desperately needs once he crashes from the caffeine. However - whilst he falls into deep slumber, Spite is quick to appear and he constantly challenges Lucretia to a few rounds of Wicked Grace before growing bored and allowing Lucanis' body to rest.

Teia and Viago are delighted to witness the adoration and loyalty that Lucanis reserves for Lucretia once they return - even more so when Lucanis musters the courage nearly two years after the end of the war and proposes to Lucretia. It had been a small, intimate ceremony with their closest friends and family, but Lucretia was delighted to be welcomed as the newest member of the Dellamorte family.

[Thank you for reading all the way to the end! I wanted to create an updated post since I have finished Dragon Age - The Veilguard and I wanted to include what had happened within my playthrough and all of the companions involved! As well as the undeniable chemistry between Lucanis and Lucretia and felt it was crucial to write an epilogue for them...] Please be on the look out for future fics involving these two! I'm excited to breathe life and flesh out their stories! <3

[anneapocalypse]

Raw as Hell Shit Felassan Says

Greatest hits from the second-best character in The Masked Empire.

(Spoilers. Page numbers are based on the paperback version.)

Felassan plucked off a bit of bark, popped it into his mouth, and chewed.

“What are you doing?”

“The Dalish know many medicinal remedies that the humans have forgotten,” Felassan said, chewing. “Certain types of bark can be chewed to ease headaches.” He paused. “Not this kind, though. Sadly, this is just bark.” (p. 73)

—

“How are the Dalish?” she asked. “You have not spoken of your people.”

Beneath his cloak, his face lit up with enthusiasm. “They have a wonderful new plan! It ends with the shemlen killing each other off, leaving the Dales free for the elves to rule.”

Briala raised an eyebrow. “How does it begin?”

“Riding around in wagons pulled by deer. They’re still working on the middle.” (p. 81)

—

“Do you ever tire of it, Briala?” he asked then. “Walking among the fools, bending them to your will with a word here and a gesture there?”

Briala started to answer, then stopped at Felassan’s stare. It was intent, almost angry, his eyes glittering inside the shadows of his cloak.

She thought of the chatelaine, the captain of the palace guard. She thought of the countless nobles who ignored her or called her “rabbit.”

She thought of Celene’s soft fingers trailing down her bare arm.

“I believe I am doing good work,” she finally said.

Felassan nodded and looked away. “Yes, that lasts for a while.” (p.82)

—

“It’s hard to impress someone with the absence of a negative,” Felassan said without looking over. “Look you say, did you notice how nobody came into your house and beat you to death for not bowing fast enough yesterday? You’re welcome!”

“It’s getting better.”

“Of course it is. I’m here.” As Briala chuckled, Felassan added, “And you’re doing good work. And the day when you can accept that they’ll never really understand, or appreciate it, or know just how much you did…”

“What?” Briala asked. “Is that the day it gets easier?”

“Mythal’s bosom, no!” Felassan chuckled. “Honestly, it makes your heart shrivel up and die inside you. Put it off as long as you can.” (p. 82-83)

—

“Have you ever wondered how hot someone’s fingernails have to get before they melt right onto their fingers?” Felassan asked as he leaned against the bar, pulling his hood back slightly. “Because it’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.”

The barman looked at Felassan’s tattooed face and went pale. He lifted his hand back from the counter very slowly.

“Thank you.” Briala moved toward the table and caught a trace of a sour, acrid scent. She occasionally used poisons in her work, and she recognized the hint of deep mushroom that suggested choke powder.

She nodded at the barman, then at Felassan. “Come on.”

He nodded and led her outside. “Trap?”

“It looks that way. He was attacked by a group and then taken down with poison.”

“Poisons. Charming.” Felassan made a face.

“Yes, they’re so much less dignified than melting someone’s fingernails to their fingers.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Felassan said, waving her words away. “The fingernail just turns black and falls off, and usually the finger swells up and bursts long beforehand.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, hahren.” (p. 83-84)

—

Briala looked at the maze of crates, then scrambled up one makeshift wall. Moldy wood crumbled under her fingers, and the whole stack of crates swayed dangerously, but moments later she had reached high enough to look down upon the rest of the warehouse.

“I know you want to embrace your heritage,” Felassan called back to her as he darted into the maze, “but we don’t all climb trees. You’ve confused us with squirrels again.” (p. 86)

—

“I don’t answer to you, knife-ear,” Michel said, his stolen dagger clutched tightly in one hand, not yet raised. “If our mistress had questions, she would not send her handmaid to ask them.”

“No, you fool. She’d send her spy.” Briala turned to Felassan. “Knife-ear.”

Felassan stifled a yawn. “I was offended. Were you offended?”

“No. Because he has never called me that before, not when giving orders to the servants, not even when he was in a rush.” Briala smiled. “Which means he’s covering, trying to distract me. What is it, Michel? A scandal in your family history? No. Urgent news would not bring you away… Ah.” His face paled as she nodded in satisfaction. “Falsified family title. Comte Brevin must have seen something extraordinary in you.”

“Not his ability to hide his facial expressions, obviously,” Felassan said. (p. 89)

—

"You’ll never make it to Val Royeaux on your own,” he said. “This Gaspard fellow really wishes to find you.”

“I imagine he does.” Celene smiled. “But even if he does not, he will turn to Val Royeaux and claim it in my absence, at which point you will lose any chance you have of winning my favor.”

The Dalish elf grinned. “You wear stolen armor and a ride a stolen horse, shemlen. You have no empire at the moment, and your big offer is your favor?” He turned to Briala. “I like her.” (p. 179)

—

"I swore an oath.” Michel sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Honor and duty? Of course not. I’m an elf, and honor and duty are concepts exclusive to heavily armored horsemen.” (p. 201)

—

"It's a bit hard to take in," Felassan said, "especially when almost every elf you've ever seen is a servant in secondhand clothes or a peasant in the slums." He shook his head. "We had an empire. It was… everything one thinks of when one hears such a word. Do you understand? Take the richest district of Val Royeaux. That was our people."

Briala smiled to think of it. "It must have been beautiful, if they had the power to craft a world between the eluvians."

"From what little survives among the Dalish, it was." Felassan sighed. "Take the richest district of Val Royeaux, and add the magic that was part of our everyday life. Every statue fountain could speak through the water that poured from her mouth. Every column glowed with runes that the fools in Tevinter copied by rote like children tracing letters. When night fell, the roads were lit by stones like these, bright enough to find your way safely, but soft enough that you could still see the stars."

"I can only imagine."

"Can you?" Felassan looked over sharply. "Can you, truly? Then tell me, da'len, who scrubbed the floors?"

She blinked. "I… if the stone is enchanted, then… perhaps it cleans itself. Or if our people had golems, like the dwarves…"

"We were an empire," Felassan said again, and this time she heard the anger in his voice. "It was not the Golden City. It was not the peaceful afterlife of this Maker the humans have made for themselves. Take the richest district of Val Royeaux, and tell me how many fools are scheming against each other at every ball? How many servants are flogged for improperly arranging the silverware?"

"We were the nobles." It hit Briala like a blow. She remembered a slow trickle of blood winding toward the spot where she had hidden in the reading room of Celene's childhood estate, where her parents had died on the orders of Lady Mantillon.

"We were everyone. There were no humans, no dwarves, no race but the elves. Every atrocity you seek to avenge for your broken people in the alienages, elven nobles committed upon elven servants."

Briala swallowed. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Your empress," he said. "You trust her. You believe she will free your people."

"I do," Briala said without hesitation.

"Then who's going to scrub the floors?" Felassan asked, and smiled.

"You distrust her because she is human."

"No." Felassan paused. "Well, all right, yes, but more than that, I distrust her because she has successfully ruled an empire. No one who does that cedes power. Even if they are wise. Even if it is for the best, in the long run. Even if failing to do so will destroy everything." (p. 283-284)

—

"In part,” he said. “But the faithful would also come here in supplication.”

“To what? Your heathen gods?” Remache asked, the scar as his cheek twisting as he sneered.

“Our elders, who had entered uthenara [sic].” If Felassan was offended by Remache’s interruption, he did not show it. “Supplicants would walk the labyrinth,” he said, gesturing at the twisting mass of runes, “and the songs say that if they were worthy, they would find the answers they sought in their dreams that night.”

“Walk the…” Remache stared at the runes encircling the pedestal. “Is there some pattern to that?”

“Oh, you cannot see it?” Felassan asked, and smiled. “Perhaps you are unworthy.” (p. 328-329)

[wanderingstormjen]

Sharing

So...having never posted on tumblr before ever but being a longtime lurker of others, I thought...just do it.  This has been bungling around my brain for a few days.  Please excuse any mistakes as I literally have no idea what I’m doing.  Also, I suck at titles.

Sharing

It had taken awhile for Solana to convince him to share her quarters.  They’d shared his often enough since that first time, but he’d been hesitant to join her in her room.  He still slept in his own quarters, sometimes, when she was gone on missions or one or the other worked late and he didn’t want to disturb her.  Sometimes, too, when he was having a particularly bad night and the nightmares came, he stayed away, still not ready for her to see him like that. 

Cullen rubbed at tired eyes as he climbed the stairs.  Maker, I should have left those reports for morning.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, a soft huff that was a mix of amusement and annoyance leaving him before he could stop it. 

Solana was already asleep.  She lay on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow and the other still clutching a book.  The red hair she usually kept braided was loose and curled around her face.  He liked how the color of her vallaslin seemed to complement her hair and her features. He reminded himself yet again that he should ask her more about the markings and her people.  About all he knew of her vallaslin was that they were for Mythal and even that he only knew because Luna Surana had had the same.

Cullen shook himself as he realized he was still standing at the top of the stairs staring at her like an idiot.  It wouldn’t do for her to wake and see him hovering there.  It would do even less for him to be caught by the man currently asleep on the bed with Solana, his head nestled into the crook of the Inquisitor’s hip.

This was not the first time Cullen had found Dorian Pavus here.  The Tevinter mage was as often in Solana’s room as Cullen was.  Cullen still wasn’t quite sure why the pair had become so attached to one another.  With the exception of being mages, Cullen had at first though they had little in common.  This was not to say Cullen didn’t like Dorian.  He was nice enough, good for a game of chess, and seemed genuinely loyal to the Inquisition.  Cullen wondered, however, if Dorian was really more loyal to her.

Solana was friendly to everyone and seemed capable of making friends with anyone, if her rag-tag group of followers was any indication. She was perhaps the kindest and gentlest person Cullen had ever met, which was saying something as she was also capable of raining pure Hell down on anyone who threatened the people she loved.

That was it, of course.  She loved Dorian.  Cullen knew it.  Not the same way he hoped she loved him, naturally.  They flirted with each other relentlessly.  They spent hours together in the library or here reading, researching or just talking about Maker knew what.  If she left Skyhold without him, an increasingly rare occurrence, Dorian had for awhile been the first person she ran to see upon her return.  Cullen had actually noticed when that person had switched to him instead.  

There were people here who did not trust Dorian and probably never would.  But Solana trusted him completely.  And despite the way Dorian feigned careless ease and indifference , it was obvious to Cullen the altus trusted very few people.  Except Solana. 

Varric had had the gall a few days ago at the tavern to ask Cullen if he minded sharing her with “the Vint”.  He’d made the mistake of asking within hearing of Sera, who’d chimed in with a suggestion of a different sort of “sharing”.  Cullen had left without acknowledging either of them.

Cullen went to the bed and shook Dorian gently.  The altus woke with a soft, annoyed grunt.  He started to glare at whomever had woken him, but stopped as he saw Cullen.

“Ah.  Commander.”  Dorian sat up, not at all embarrassed.  He stretched luxuriously, smoothed his moustache into place, then turned and eased the book out from Solana’s hand.  

“Mmm?” Her emerald eyes slit open but she didn’t move.

Dorian whispered a good night to her, nodded to Cullen, and was gone without another word.

“Ma Vhenan,” she breathed, not wholly awake, as Cullen settled beside her a few minutes later.  She snuggled herself into him, her head tucking under his chin, her unmarked hand curling into his shirt.

Not that he would ever tell Varric or anyone else, but no, Cullen didn’t mind sharing Solana with Dorian at all.  

[alyssalenko]

Snippet Sunday

I was tagged by @spaceprincealenko, @guileandgall, @a-shakespearean-in-paris to share a little snippet. And it is still Sunday in my corner of the world for another 1 hour and 5 min! How about a little Solavellan hell? XD

I will tag @obvidalous @pikapeppa @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold @swaps55 @charlatron @naromoreau @foofyschmoofer @starsandskies @lauraemoriarty @rpgwrites @ma-sulevin @randomlygeneratedstring @natsora @ooachilliaoo @illusivesoul @seigephoenix @spaced0lphin @citadelsushi @soldiermom1973 and anyone who wants to play!

Newti’s scream echoed around Skyhold. Her advisors found her in the garden on her knees, with tears in her eyes as she clutched her stomach. The only conclusion she could draw was that something had happened to Mythal, the bond between them strange and unheard of. Cullen held out a hand to help her up, Newti clutching desperately at it, struggling to get her breath back as she staggered to her feet. This was not what she’d expected when she’d chosen to drink from the Well of Sorrows, that was for sure; her servitude to Mythal had been a calculated risk, one burden she wouldn't let anyone else shoulder--especially Morrigan. The woman had a son who needed her, and Newti had nothing to lose...not since Solas had removed the Vallaslin and left her. Then they’d found out it was Flemeth, and Morrigan--who besides Solas had put up the biggest fight that she be the one to drink from the well--had been relieved when everything was said and done.

Just as suddenly as it came, the pain was gone, the bond feeling different now...more powerful than before and vaguely familiar. She worried what that meant since she hadn’t been able to stop Flemeth from using her to stop Morrigan from trying to kill her when they’d chased Kieran through the eluvian. Thank the gods Morrigan had been stopped--the pain moments before had been almost unbearable. Thanking Cullen for his help, and Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine for running to her aid when they did; she hadn’t meant to worry anyone, the scream unwillingly ripped from her throat. She glanced around, quickly, feeling her Vhenan’s presence clearly, as if he stood beside her. But that was impossible; he was gone.

Solas had needed the Old God Soul Mythal had been carrying; her soul in combination with Urthemiel’s had been just what he needed to bring himself back up to full power after sleeping for so long. Ironic, that he’d put up the veil to seal the old Elves away because they had killed Mythal, and that was exactly what he’d just done. He hoped it had been a necessary evil. He’d taken no joy in her death, but allowed himself a moment to mourn the loss of his oldest and most treasured friend and lover. Suddenly, he felt a familiar tug of longing for the one woman who could destroy everything he was trying to accomplish...and if he wasn't careful he’d let her. It was almost like she was beside him, and he let himself wallow in the feeling, remembering the feel of her skin as he made love to her, her silky flame red hair between his fingers, and her lips against his, breath fanning his face. She was the one good thing about the world in front of him.

Newti Lavellan--the one person in Thedas who could make him rethink his whole plan--was now bonded to him instead of Mythal.

That wasn’t what he’d wanted...he’d been unaware of the magnitude of the contract she’d made by drinking from the Well of Sorrows. And now faced with a deep connection, a type of bond he’d never encountered before, he felt himself being drawn back to her. He’d admit, while part of him needed the souls, he knew another part of him had thought he was helping save her by killing Flemeth so that she wasn't bound in servitude to an Evanuris, but he hadn't realized the gravitas of his actions; guilt claiming him. He now had the power to make his Vhenan do anything he wished--a power he neither coveted nor needed. She was headstrong, selfless and independent, and he loved those qualities about her...he didn't want to take that away.

For the first time, he wondered if he shouldn't leave Evanuris sealed behind the veil, and that was her influence.

[pikapeppa]

Piper Lavellan & Rynne Hawke: Friendversary

A little modern bartender AU fluff. WARNING: SAP AHEAD. 

*******************

The front door snicked open, and Hawke stepped into the condo. “Pipes!” she yelled. 

Piper looked up from the piece of toast she was buttering in the kitchen. “I’m right here,” she said. “What’s up?”

Hawke kicked off her flats and bounced into the kitchen with two stuffed grocery bags in her hands. “Good, you’re home! You don’t have plans this afternoon, right? Let’s play games and eat shit and get day-drunk together.” 

Piper watched with interest as Hawke started unpacking the grocery bags; their contents seemed to consist entirely of junk food, cider, and wine. “Day drinking and snacks? You spoil me.”

Hawke laughed. “We’re celebrating!” she announced. She cracked open a beer and handed it to Piper with a flourish. “It was one year ago today since you came to Kirkwall and wandered into the Hanged Man.”

Piper dumbly took the beer. “You remembered that? The date, I mean?”

“Of course I do!” Hawke said. She twisted the top off of a bottle of cider while she continued to talk. “It was the day before the Blightfall concert that just happened to be on the same day as Anders’ birthday. He got so drunk and tried to hit on you–”

Piper snorted. “–and he didn’t remember the next day, so we didn’t tell him. Mythal’s ass, that was fucking funny.”

“Exactly!” Hawke laughed. “Aw, I’m so glad you decided to come with us. You looked like you needed a good cheering-up when you sat down at the bar. I don’t usually invite random strangers to concerts, but I figured you were a good risk.” 

Piper looked up from her beer. “You don’t?” she asked.

“Don’t what?” Hawke said. She took a swig of her cider and offered Piper an open bag of popcorn. 

Piper took a handful of popcorn, but continued to stare at Hawke in surprise. “You don’t usually invite strangers to concerts with you?” 

Hawke laughed around her mouthful of popcorn. “Maker’s balls, no. You never want to make the mistake of inviting someone who might not be any fun, right? But you, I just – I dunno, I had a feeling. We just, like, you know.” She gestured between herself and Piper. “We just–”

“Hit it off,” Piper finished. 

Hawke grinned at her. “Exactly.” 

Piper smirked and awkwardly tugged her ear, and Hawke punched her arm affably before offering her a bag of spicy Cheetos. “Now come on, get started on this. We have to finish at least one whole bag of junk before Cullen comes over.”

“He’s, uh, not coming over tonight,” Piper said. She plunged her hand into the bag of Cheetos.

Hawke’s eyebrows rose. “He’s not? How come?” 

Piper shrugged and tugged her ear again. “I just thought we could, you know. Hang out or whatever.” She jerked her chin at the counter and avoided Hawke’s keen gaze. “Good thing you bought all this. Saves my lazy ass a trip to the store.”

“Awwww, Pipes,” Hawke cooed. “You knew today was our friendversary too, didn’t you?”

Piper rolled her eyes and. “Friendversary’? That’s not a word.” 

 Hawke gasped and clutched her hands to her chest. “You remembered! You did! Aww, that’s so fucking sweet—” 

Piper snorted. “Ah, piss off, don’t get sappy about it. Are we getting day drunk or what?”

“Piper,” Hawke said loudly, “I love you.”

She was grinning, but her words were obviously genuine, and Piper laughed and ran her hands through her hair. She could feel her big dumb ears getting hotter by the second. “Mythal’s ass, you’re already getting sloppy and you haven’t even finished a single drink yet?”

Hawke laughed as well, but grabbed her hand. “I mean it, you idiot! I love you. I know we’ve only known each other for a year, but you know all my embarrassing shit and all my sad shit and seriously, you’re my best friend in the whole wide world–”

“Okay, okay,” Piper interrupted. “I love you too, okay? Calm down.” She laughed and rubbed her nose to try and ward off the stinging in her eyes. 

Hawke beamed at her, then fanned herself playfully. “You love me? My my, if I knew you were holding a torch for me all this time…”

“Fuck’s sake,” Piper said fondly. “Just get over here, okay?” She waved for Hawke to come closer. A second later, Hawke was hugging her tightly around the neck.

Piper hugged her back and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t fucking cry and make an idiot of herself. A long moment later, Hawke spoke to her in a gentle voice.

“Pipes,” she said, “is that a dildo in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?”

Piper scoffed and poked her hard, and Hawke cackled as she released her and turned back to the counter. “Come on, let’s get completely wasted,” she said cheerfully. “If Cullen’s not coming over, he won’t be around to witness his girlfriend getting it on in Kadara.” She winked salaciously as she turned on the PS4. 

Piper cackled. “Oh, Cullen knows where he stands compared to my video game husbands. Now come on, give me a controller.” 

Hawke grinned and plopped down beside her on the couch. “Eager, are you? I don’t blame you. Find that sexy smuggler and flirt away.” She held the controller out dramatically. “I’ll live vicariously through you, both in real life and in Andromeda.” 

Piper snickered as she started up the game, and within minutes, they were shooting down enemies and making crass comments about the hypothetical sizes of their favourite character’s dicks. As much as Piper loved Cullen, some things were better shared with a friend, and talking about videogame boyfriends’ cocks was one of those things.

And whenever Piper needed a wild night of dancing or a fresh listening ear or a really good, hard laugh that made her belly ache with mirth, she knew Hawke would be there – just as she would be there for Hawke. 

After all, what else were best friends for? 

*****************

Dear @schoute: I love you. That’s all. I have no further feelings. NONE AT ALL. ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 

[bigfan-fanfic]

Vir’abelasan

~A story detailing the repercussions of Tash drinking from the Well of Sorrows~

Tagging @darlingrutherford​ 

“I can feel it... it’s... hungry.” Tash shuddered. He winced, the echoes from the Fade swirling around him. He had always felt the comforting presence of his guardian spirits swirling around him, but now... they were outnumbered. There was a throng of spirits out there, angry and vicious. But a presence beyond that nestled in the depths of the Well. 

Morrigan scoffed. “How could you possibly know that?”

Tash raised an eyebrow, although he kept his eyes fixed on the Well, as if it might reach out and grab him with a watery hand. “Abelas said that the priests put their will into the Well, right? What if it’s some sort of magical compulsion? A geas or something?”

Solas gave a soft noise of affirmation. “It is said that Mythal’s priests were exceptionally powerful, granted magic by their mistress…”

The witch seemed disconcerted that the child before her had thought of that and she hadn’t. “It is... possible. But that is all the more reason that I should take the power of the Well. I assume the risks.”

“The risks... and the rewards.” Vivienne scoffed. “I would sooner trust the Well to the false Warden than to the witch, my dear.”

“And you would have a child risk binding himself to the lingering will of elf priests?” Morrigan sneered. “And I thought that Madame de Fer could sink no lower.”

“Careful, darling, your famous husband isn’t here to mind your tongue for you.” Vivienne said tartly.

Blackwall huffed. “Can you two quit bickering? This isn’t a tea party.”

Tash nodded. “Play nice.”

Gale knelt next to him, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “What will it be, Tash? I hate to rush you, but Corypheus is coming, and we’ll need to get out of here.”

Tash glanced at Cole. “Can you sense the others? Are they safe?”

Cole closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes. Aura and Lottie are helping them take Samson. But… I can hear him.”

“We should go, then.” Tash sighed. “I wish Henry was here. He’d know what I should do.”

Morrigan clicked her tongue. “My husband is from the same world. He has told me that often the events here are changed from his foreknowledge. The choice is yours alone, young Inquisitor.”

Tash gave a soft whimper, his gold eyes looking from Morrigan to Solas to where Abelas had vanished, and finally to the Well. “It’s mine. I’ll drink.”

And despite Morrigan’s protests, despite Solas expressing his misgivings, Tash waded into the Well, the water rising up to his chest. He did not look back as he moved to the center of the Well of Sorrows, but his voice carried clearly to the others. “Mythal… if you’re real… mythal’enaste. Er… I don’t know the elvhen for it, but please… just don’t hurt me.”

And as soon as he reached the center, he shuddered, and then went limp, slipping into the pool as though he was a marionette and his strings snapped.

The Well exploded, water turning to dense blue fog, swirling around and around where Tash had fallen. Solas and Vivienne held up a barrier as Gale and Blackwall attempted to approach, unnerved by Cole’s mutterings of “He’s talking to her… she shouldn’t be there.”

Blackwall went charging forward as soon as the barriers were dispelled, Tash lying still at the bottom of the empty, dry Well. “Lad! Lad, are you alright?”

He scooped the boy into his arms, trying to determine what to do. And Tash’s eyes flew open.

They were blue. An unnatural, glowing blue that seemed to be bleeding from his irises across the rest of his eyes. Glowing blue lines etched themselves across his skin and up around his horns in a mimicry of the pattern on Abelas’ face.

”Vallaslin.” Gale murmured in awe. “Fenhedhis.”

Tash took a shuddering breath, but a strange chorus followed his voice, the whispering bass and tenor tones of men and an alto tone of a woman. His eyes, now completely a glowing blue, flashed as he stood and looked at Solas, head tilting.

The elf gasped and reeled back.

“Solas.” Tash said softly, in a strange way, as if he had not seen the elf for a long time. The chorus repeated his speech, just slightly out of sync, a few soft trailing whispers after his mouth had closed. “Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir-anaris. Emma enasal, lethallin.”

But any response was lost in the arrival of Corypheus. Tash smiled cryptically and waved his hand toward the eluvian, and it shimmered at his command, opening the gateway. He turned his back on the rapidly approaching Elder One and moved at a stately pace towards the mirror, blue light streaming behind him to become water that formed the shape of an elf woman, rising up to combat the darkspawn magister.

Morrigan chanced one glance at the boy as they tumbled from the eluvian, safe in Skyhold. His eyes were still bleeding blue, his face lit up with the unnatural light.

Something was wrong.

- - - 

“It’s been three days! There is something terribly wrong with Tash!” Blackwall roared. And he was right. The young Inquisitor had not left his room in the intervening hours, not eaten a scrap of food nor a sip of drink. He had launched a terrible and powerful display of magic upon exiting the eluvian, breathing an unnatural fire in all the colors of the rainbow, blue light manifesting around him as a second pair of horns.

Awful sounds came from behind his door (he would not let anyone in, not even Gale), sometimes inane singing, and sometimes a babble of rapid-fire Elvhen, and most disturbingly, screams utterly devoid of the strange echo Tash’s voice had taken on, consisting only of the child’s cries. Cole had only approached the stairs to the Inquisitor’s tower when he collapsed, clutching his head in agony, repeating over and over, “Get her out get her out get her out get her out get her out.”

Varric had sent forward inquiries to Tash’s status, ones that Morgan could not answer. Morrigan had stated that there would be shouts from the Well, but this was something more. Even Henry couldn’t answer the question of what was happening.

“Solas…” Henry whispered to the elf, in the dead of night on the third day. “Mythal… is alive. Well, more like a shadow. Is it possible that she’s… possessing Tash?”

The elf cursed. “Why didn’t you say this before?”

“I didn’t want to change anything!”

Solas grabbed Henry’s wrist and dragged him up to the Inquisitor’s quarters, hurling open the door with magic, forcing their way past Gale, who had sat at the door with red eyes from worry and sleep deprivation.

Tash was perched on the railing of the balcony, staring at them with eyes that were now normal, except for the fact that they were ice blue. The vallaslin had vanished. And Tash cackled, the sound having no business coming from such a youthful throat.

“Mythal. Let him go.”

Tash leaned over the railing and let go.

“No!” Henry screamed, charging forward. But Tash had simply vanished. The Outworlder turned to Solas. “Kieran. Morrigan’s son. He’s in danger!”

 - - -

Kieran sighed as he walked away from his mother. He hadn’t been able to sleep since the Inquisitor returned. Mother usually let him stay up if he had nightmares, and he would sometimes play among the magic lights glowing in the night while she studied in the garden.

Morrigan felt a cold wind tingle the back of her neck and shuddered, suddenly realizing that she had lost sight of her son. “Kieran?” she called, standing up.

- - -

The Inquisitor was… different. He loomed out of the shadows, a finger pressed over his lips. “Hello, Kieran.”

“Your eyes are blue.”

They were. Tash didn’t have blue eyes. He was bright, and happy, and had gold eyes. This was… something else. This wasn’t Tash.

“I want to show you something, Kieran. Something amazing.”

“I… I don’t think so.”

Not-Tash’s face twisted in anguish for a moment and he looked terrified. “Run, Kieran!” he screamed. But almost instantly he resumed his oddly Tranquil-like state. “No, stay. I can help you, Kieran. I can stop the dreams. Just take my hand.”

“Kieran? Kieran!” Morrigan’s voice drifted on the wind, sounding oddly far away.

Not-Tash smiled. “I can help you, but you need to come with me. Now.”

- - - 

Morgan breathed a sigh of relief, even as he ran with his wife through the Fade, accompanied by Henry, the boy from his world, and Blackwall and Gale. Morrigan had been frantic, unable to find Kieran, until Henry had shouted that he had been led into the Fade, through the eluvian. Which technically shouldn’t have been possible. But his fatherly instinct made him relax just a bit when he saw his child.

Although, seeing Kee accompanied by Tash and … oh no.

“Ah. Morgan. Long time no see. Still consorting with my daughter, then?” Flemeth chuckled. Tash spoke with her, their expressions identical.

Morrigan gasped. “Then… you…are Mythal?”

Gale immediately knelt in shock, and Blackwall yanked him to his feet. Mythal and Tash looked on in approval.

“See, girl?” they said. “Those are manners.”

“You will not have my son!” she yelled, advancing.

Tash and Mythal held out their arms, and extending from Tash came a pulse that rocked the Fade, barring Morrigan’s way with spikes of crackling green energy.

“This boy-Inquisitor is a Dreamer, you know. And he gave himself to my service because you couldn’t convince him otherwise.” Mythal-Tash taunted. The spikes faded. “But you need not worry. I mean neither him nor my grandson any harm. Merely to… exchange.”

She knelt to Kieran, and they witnessed her remove the Old God’s soul from him, promising no more dreams and letting him run to Morrigan and Morgan. Then she turned to Tash, who stilled.

“You came to me, honoring the old ways. With a clear mind and pure heart, you petitioned me for aid and drank from my Well. Though you are not of the People or my blood, you are mine, and I shall strike down your enemies for all your days. You have the knowledge from the Well, but now I shall grant you the wisdom to contain it. The voices shall not overwhelm you.”

She waved her hand over the Inquisitor’s face, and he sighed. Blue light flashed from his eyes before they faded back to gold, the only sign of his ordeal a thin blue ring just around each pupil.

“The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing, boy. And it must be treated with caution.”

Tash’s eyes widened. “You… you hear them too?”

“They are the voices from Beyond, Tash. Pay them heed, for they protect you even as they evaded the grasp of the People’s gods.”

- - - 

And they exited the Fade, where Solas was waiting. “Holding open the gateway,” he had said. The elf looked to Tash. “Tash… are you well?”

“I think so…” Tash said, pensive. “I hope so. I’m worried, though. Flemeth…Mythal… she has power over me now. I’m worried about what she can do with it. But… either way, I know what we have to do next. I can hear the voices of the Well, but I’m in control. I can shut them off.”

Solas looked pale and deeply concerned, but nodded, his eyes scanning Tash’s face as if he could still see the vallaslin etched on his face in glowing blue lines. “I shall help you, Tash. I promise… I shall free you...”

[ranawaytothedas]

Codex Drabble: The Twins Meet Solas for the first time - 

The snowflakes stung Mathras’s face as he grabbed Tamaris’s hand. She was out of breath from fighting back the demons that had fallen from the breach. He knew she was trying her best, his sister was never one for fighting. “You are doing very well.” He encouraged softly as he followed the Seeker who had taken them captive. 

The sounds of the distant fighting grew louder with each step. Mathras let go of his sister’s hands as he drew his daggers. “Stay here…” He cautioned. Tamaris nodded as Mathras and the Seeker joined the attack.

The cold air stung against Tamaris’s exposed hands as they clutched the staff she had picked up only a short time before. Her eyes focused on the battle playing out before her. It was over quickly. An elven man, who appeared to also be mage came striding over to Tamaris. “Now is not the time to sit by ideally like a child when you are the only one who can do anything.” He chided as he snatched her left hand that bore the mark and raised it towards the small breach in the Veil. “Now close it!” 

“How?” Tamaris asked unsure of what to do. “I am a healer, not some battlemage.” She cried. 

The elf glared at her. “The same as healing a wound…” He pointed out his tone softened when he saw how nervous the woman was. 

Tamaris closed her eyes and focused on healing the rift. Her hand began to tingle, then it was like it was aflame. Her hand was pulled back by the stranger and when her eyes opened. The rift had been sealed. “How? How did I do that?” 

The man let out an amused chuckle. “You are a healer, are you not?” 

Tamaris smiled, her cheeks flushing pink as she gave a short nod. The moment was spoiled when Mathras came running up behind her. “Mythal’s Mercy, Tamaris… you… you….” He stammered still in shock over seeing the feat that his sister had just committed. He cupped her face with both hands looking her over. “I can’t believe you did that! Oh maybe Mamae was right and you are really Falon’din reborn!” He laughed and Tamaris looked horrified at her brother’s joke. 

“That is not a jest to make, Mathras.” Tamaris scowled as she pushed her brother’s hands off her face. “Please just stop, there is some logical…” 

“Magical..” Mathras quickly corrected cutting his sister off.

“In fact there it is likely a little of both…” The elf who had helped Tamaris seal the rift noted. “I am Solas.” 

“Like your sister, he is an apostate. He helped stabilize the mark and save her life.” The Seeker noted to Mathras who looked rather confused.

Tamaris beat her brother to the question they both had. “But you are not Dalish, you do not have the Vallalsin, so are you one of the Elves that live among the shelmen?” Tamaris asked curiously as she had never seen another elf that was not Dalish. “Did you escape from… Mathras what are the mage prisons Babae always told me about called?” 

A dwarf off to the side laughed. “Mage Prisons, Anders would have liked you..” He muttered to himself. “They are called The Circle, sweetheart..” 

Tamaris glanced over at the dwarf and smiled brightly. She had never seen another of his kind before. “Oh, thank you! You are a dwarf? My Babae told me that you all live in the earth and you don’t dream… that must be so horrible…” 

“Focus, Tamaris..” Mathras said putting his hands on her shoulders. “Forgive my sister, she is what we call i've'an'virelan, so she has spent most of her life just with our clan, so this has been a journey of many firsts… she gets a little excited..” The Dwarf smiled at the smaller of the two siblings recalling his own experience dealing with a somewhat sheltered Dalish woman. 

Solas’s interest was instantly piqued. “You are a Dreamer?” He asked Tamaris who nodded unsure of how she should have answered. For most of her life, she had been told to keep that fact to herself. Her fears diminished when Solas spoke.  “I am as well..” He added with a soft smile. “It has been many years since I have met another outside the fade.” 

Tamaris’s eyes grew wide, she had never met another elf with the same gifts she possessed. “I have so many questions!” Tamaris exclaimed excitedly. 

Mathras let out a low sigh, “Two fade-walkers… this bodes so well because what we need are more powerful Mages..” knowing no matter how it played out, two dreamers was bound to invite trouble. 

[theharellan]

11. A memory that may or may not have happened

memory meme | not accepting

(The memory comes as a pretty dream, pleasant to remember, but linger too long and it seems too clean, its faces too perfect, its verses too rehearsed.)

They say the Wolf came to us from the woods, where he spent his days amassing great Wisdom to one day bring to the People.

From hollow bones he breathed life onto blank canvas, and in common dirt he saw the potential for great works of art. He might have stayed there, and kept these wonders to himself, dreamed and grown, and Elvhenan would have been all the poorer for it. But the wind in the trees told tales of the great Mythal so grand not even he could picture her.

He came to her bearing gifts, scrolls with paintings of roads lit by the soft light of stars leading to cities of twirling crystal spires and worlds that were meant only for wisdom. It was said he was asked where he had seen this in his travels, to which his response was: “I haven’t.”

It was a fragment, a dream of Elvhenan, and though some among Mythal’s people saw them as naught but a young Dreamer’s fancies, she saw their worth. He was welcomed to her side as an ally, then friend, the dreams in his eyes a spark that helped kindle what would become the place of our People.

(The memory fractures, doubt steals into what once was clear. A dagger is clutched behind the young Wolf’s back, then naught but brushes woven with hart hair. What was one fragment of nine doubles, then doubles again, until millions upon thousands of pieces come together to make a beautiful whole. A voice rings out, different and defiant from any heard before.)

This place of love is yours to take back.

[not-all-shemlen]

A theory about The Dread Wolf Rises and the plot of the new Dragon Age game

A huge plotpoint is hidden in this image, I think! Let’s take a good close look at this image..

We obviously see Solas and his monstrous form, Fen’Harel. We see the world around them burn and go to waste. We know how important nature and trees are in Elven artwork, so to see a barren, burnt, dead tree.... says enough about the world as it is now, or maybe how Solas sees it.

We see the monstrous form of the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel, separate from Solas himself. (My guess is that something is not allowing Solas to fully become Fen’Harel again. )

We also see the red lyrium idol from the DA2 storyline. I do not yet know what significance the idol has (perhaps it was elven? In da:o we find ruins of elves living underground. Or it was stolen/taken afterwards. Or maybe it is the remnant of the first Blood Magic ritual done by Ancient Tevinters, presumably at the behest of one of the Old Gods....)

What we do know the significance of is Red Lyrium. The Idol was the first known red lyrium item and it has caused a huge interest in the stuff (red templars and all...). We now know that red lyrium is alive and has the Blight. So the blight might be involved in what is preventing Solas from achieving what he wants.

But we have to go deeper! Look at the circle around the lyrium idol. It has seven bumps on it, of which 5 grey and 2 gold.

In another post, I theorized what the bumps might be. Nations, Elven gods/Evanuris, Major Plot Points.... none of those theories matter anymore, because after discussing it with @haewke we came up with something even better!

What are there 7 of in Thedas, that have huge significance to the world and its history, of which 2 are different from the other 5? The Old Tevinter Dragon Gods!

There were originally 7 Old Gods that the Tevinters worshipped. Read the Dragon Age Wikia page about the old gods for more about their relationship to history and the world as Thedosians know it.

What you need to know now, is that the Old God dragons are asleep (almost like Uthenara.........👀✨) deep beneath the surface and through the ages, get tainted by Darkspawn/The Blight and become Archdemons, leading their Darkspawn breathren to the surface to wreak havoc and destroy the world!!!

To defeat an Archdemon, a Grey Warden must kill the body of the Archdemon to release its Old God soul, which will try to enter the body of its killer, but since there’s already a soul in a Grey Warden, both souls and bodies are destroyed in the process and the day is saved..

However, if the Archdemon is killed (somehow) by someone who is Not A Grey Warden, the Soul will transfer to the nearest (soulless) darkspawn host, where it will transform the body slowly to a more desired form. (Where have we heard or seen that before? Blighted creature dies and transfers to another host to transform back into its old self...... Hmmmmm....) The dragon may be dead, but it will return as soon as it is strong enough and the Blight will not be over yet...

In DA:O, Morrigan offers you a way out of certain death; have one of the wardens make a baby with her. This unborn child will have the mark of a Grey Warden’s soul, without the deadly side effects of the Blight. The Archdemon’s Old God soul will transfer directly into the unborn child and will be safe there, without causing a Blight and without killing its host. However you play the game, Morrigan will eventually get what she wants, which is a child (Kieran) with an Old God Soul.

Skip all the way to DA:I. Flemeth is revealed to be a host to the essence of Mythal. She takes the Old God Soul out of Kieran and into herself, for... whatever reason. Morrigan is now free of Flemeth’s clutches, unless you let her drink from the Well of Sorrows, I suppose.

No matter, because we will continue to go to the scene after you won the battle against Corypheus.

In that scene, we see Solas approach Flemeth/Mythal. We learn that this wasn’t all supposed to happen this way and that Solas has some form of regret about what happened and what’s going to happen. He takes the Old God Soul from Mythal and she (seemingly) perishes.

Well, that is one Old God Soul for Solas. Perhaps this is why she took it away from Kieran and Morrigan, so that Flemeth’s family would no longer be involved in Mythal’s plans... Flemeth might not be so uncaring after all.

But!!!! Back to the image and the circle with the seven bumps and how all of the above has anything to do with it.

For every Old God/Archdemon being awakened, there is a Blight. In da:o your Warden becomes the Hero of Ferelden, Defeater of the Fifth Blight. So we know that it is the Fifth. This means 5 Old God Souls may or may not have been destroyed or scattered. 5 grey bumps on the ring. 5 down, 2 to go........ like the 2 gold bumps on the ring. Lit, maybe, because Solas has acquired those? Or maybe those two are the only ones alive? Perhaps, once all Old God souls are gone, Fen’Harelncan finally be his old self??

What does all of this mean?! I don’t know for sure, but I had to share the things I saw in/thought about the artwork in the teaser trailer! What I do know is that this game will be the one where the events of DA:O, DA2 and DA:I will finally all come together in one big epic story. I think Solas is on a quest to retrieve all the Old God Souls to become some sort of overlord God who has the power to shape the world..... or tear it asunder, to recreate the old Elven world.

Will we have to find the Old Gods before Fen’Harel does? Commit the same Sin the darkspawn do, but without tainting the Old God Dragons? Will we need the Wardens? What does the Lyrium Idol have to do with this? And how many Old God Souls are still scattered throughout the world, and will we learn what the truth is behind all the gods, pantheons and supposed rulers of this world? I PERSONALLY CAN’T WAIT TO FIND OUT!!

[tk-duveraun]

The Tower (Inverted) 24/?

Inquisition fic: Ancient Elf AU

Parts: 1-18 - 19 20 21 22 23

The Fade

The memory overwhelmed the senses. The green, hazy sky disappeared: replaced by a stone-walled room. Four Grey Wardens in full, formal regalia stood, one at each of the cardinal directions. In the center was Divine Justinia, her arms bound in red chains of magic. The red color of the magic swirled with a viscous, black ichor: blood magic. She struggled against the unnatural bonds and turned to her captors. “Why are you doing this? You, of all people?”

Corypheus’ gross, grating, inhuman voice cut through hers. “Keep the sacrifice still.” He held out a ball. It was black, with swirling lines like a fingerprint cut into the surface. It crackled with green Rift magic. The closer he brought it to the Divine, the more the magic sparked.

She cried for help as the magic began to push and pull at her chest, the struggle visible even to those unable to see magic.

The only doors to the room opened with a crash that was nearly drowned by the crackling magic. Kirtida ran through them. “What’s going on here?” Magic was spinning in her bracelets before the Divine batted the orb from Corypheus’ hand. Kir dove to the floor to catch it, her magic pushing it into her hand.

And then everything exploded.

Kir gasped for breath as the memory released her. She clutched Varric’s shoulders to stay on her feet. Everything Corypheus said at Haven made sense. She’d interrupted his ritual to anchor the spell. The Anchor would have given Corypheus free passage into the Fade: the thing he’d conspired with the other ancient magisters to gain. Free passage and power. There was no denying the massive store of magic the orb had left in Kir. When her vision cleared, she looked at the others.

Cakara was waving her hand in front of Vasili’s face - she may not have even seen it, with her resistance. Vasili swatted her hand out of the air and looked her over for injuries. Hawke was muttering to himself about Wardens ruining everything and Varric was mostly concerned with Kir’s condition, silently offering her the waterskin on his belt. But Aquila…

The anger and hatred that had tensed her mouth and pulled at her eyes was gone. Her face was as emotionless and regal as the ancient statues of Mythal. Though there was no movement in the air, Aquila’s cape flowed and snapped around her ankles. Frozen gasps of air rose from the cracked ground under her bare feet. She turned her head, but not enough to look at any of them. “Let’s end this. I have more pressing business to attend to.”

“What could possibly be more pressing?” died unvoiced in Kir’s throat. She nodded, unseen and pushed off of Varric. She pushed the waterskin away. “Thanks I’m fine.”

The Nightmare was unmoved by Kir’s recovery of her memories and continued its onslaught. “What good is a guardian that cannot even look at her charge?”

Without hesitation, Cakara lunged into the next wave of demons. She left the Despair demons and fearlings to the others and focused her daggers on a spindly Terror demon. “I’ve never been afraid of demons. And that includes you.”

“Of course not. It’s not what comes out that scares you; it’s what you abandoned inside.”

Something in the Nightmare’s retort froze her faster than Aquila’s magic. A second terror demon appeared under her feet and speared Cakara through the back with a spider-like appendage. Vasili howled and the magic burned Kir’s skin as well as dissolved the terror demons. The glow from his blood pact marks didn’t fade as he flashed next to her and picked up Cakara before her body could even go limp. He breathed out slowly, as if he were a child trying to make his breath fog, but instead of an icy cloud, a red mist left his mouth and sank into the wound in Cakara’s chest. The bleeding stopped, but aside from the soft rise and fall of her breathing, she didn’t move.

“Fear,” Aquila said, her voice as cold and unwavering as her locked expression. “I thought we were old friends playing a game. Is this what you do after coming so far?”

The Nightmare laughed. “And you came to be so full of fear, Arthiel. How far Andruil’s general has fallen.”

Blinded by tears, Kir was so overwhelmed her knees buckled again. Choking on half a sob, she stumbled over to Vasili so she could feel the rise and fall of Cakara’s chest for herself. The vallaslin on her forehead, unique and dormant, itched and burned at the demon’s words. It couldn’t be possible. None of this was real. It couldn’t be. The Creators were gone, locked away by Fen’harel.

“You know better than to threaten something a mortal loves, Fear.”

“You’ve never been mortal.”

“Nor have you, yet we can both die.” She raised her chin and the pure magic of the Fade itself made an unearthly glow halo her face. “You saw me threaten the humans with an Exalted March of the Dalish. You can release the Wardens and your pet demons and perhaps live to glut on the fear of every human in Thedas.” She raised her sword and it grew with icy magic. “Or you can perish here.”

The great, undulating, spider body of the Nightmare demon paused. Its two front legs tapped the ground as it considered the offer. Its fangs retracted into its chelicera, which it clacked together. The oppressive heaviness in the air faded and the clacking sound was… plain and clear. Like a child smacking sticks together as it debated dropping them for a treat. Also absent was a ghostly moaning Kir hadn’t noticed until it was gone. Even Cakara’s wound seemed less severe.

“I have better things to do, Fear.” Aquila took a step and the ground froze and cracked with a hiss of cold air. “Your petty game with this magister is at its end. Whisper the true fear of my coming to him, if it pleases you, but you serve me now.”

Arthiel’s vallaslin burned themselves across the Nightmare’s head, searing many of its eyes shut. It lowered itself in a bow. “Your way is clear, my lady. You will feed me well.”

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

DADWC prompt: silver, alienage, light through a window

For @dadrunkwriting. Thanks for the prompt! Here’s some Carver and Merrill goodness!

Carver shivered beneath his coat. His arms clutched a the bundle of blankets and other coverings to his chest and he swore under his breath when he almost missed the last stair into the alienage, unable to see where he put his feet beneath the pile.

He hated Kirkwall winters. The nearby sea turned everything to slush, staining every piece of clothing and each pair of boots with stubborn salt, taking hours to maintain and keep in good working order. Carver hated the damp that pervaded everything. He missed Lothering, with the winters that knew which way they wanted to go, bucketfuls of snow that blanketed the hills and farms that surrounded the town. Not the gross, inconvenient, inconsistent slush that formed sheets of black ice on the staircases and cobblestone streets of town. 

He knocked on the door and lost a pair of gloves for his trouble. Grumbling, he bent awkwardly to retrieve them, leaning forward against the doorjamb for leverage. 

“Mythal’s mercy, it’s so early! I hope it’s not some emergency,” came her soft brogue, audible through the thin walls of the house. “Just a moment!”

The door fell out from under him a second later and he tumbled into the house. 

“By the Dread Wolf!” Merrill yelped, caught beneath him and the bundle of clothes. “Who the--oh, it’s you!” She laughed slightly and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I didn’t expect you, little Hawke.” 

He snorted, his face flaming. Carver averted his eyes from her flushed cheeks, the way her hair spread riotously around her head in sleepy waves. Merrill made no efforts to rise, instead sprawling idly beside and beneath him where they lay tangled. 

“Merrill,” he said, his voice giving a slight waver. Carver cleared his throat and tried again. “Merrill. These are for you. For the alienage.” He straightened up and held out his hand, helping her to her feet. 

“What is all this? It’s--oh! That’s so kind of you!” Merrill beamed as she took in the sight of the assembled clothing. “This will be so helpful, Carver, I can’t say how much this will be appreciated. Oh, you!” 

She all but leapt into his arms, throwing her own around his neck in a tight hug. He stiffened instinctively before relaxing and returning the embrace. She smelled of something floral and woodsy, something soft and delicate but strong, like her. Carver couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Merrill rubbed her cheek against his own and kissed it before slipping through his grasp. 

“Oh, these are so good.” Merrill knelt to gather the clothes, taking them to the nearby table. “Look at this, this is a perfectly serviceable cloak! Why would anyone want to throw it away? And these gloves! Humans are so wasteful,” she intoned. 

He shut the still-open door behind him. “At least it helps you,” he pointed out. “There’s a saying about that - ‘one man’s trash is another’s treasure’.” 

“Well,” she said with a slight huff, sorting through the newfound treasures, “that is just silly. Why throw away perfectly good things? This coat is probably worth--” She paused, a look of horror growing on her face. “Creators, this coat alone is probably worth more than my house!”

“Oh, that one, ah, let me see that one.” Carver crossed the small room to snatch up the offending garment. His cheeks flushed again and he brushed imaginary lint from the cloth. “This one, actually, is for you,” he muttered.

“I thought you said these all were for me?” she asked with a slight squeak.

“For you, personally.” Maker, this woman. He held out the long coat, wool dyed a deep cobalt blue and trimmed with silver. “I thought--I thought you might like it. I mean, it’s warm,” he said defensively. “You always seem to be cold, so I thought--”

Merrill covered his hand with her own. “Carver,” she said, just this side of breathless. 

He raised his eyes to see her bathed in the morning light that peeked through the rough windows. Her smile transformed her whole face, the lines of her tattoos creased in happiness, her eyes shining. She was... so beautiful, he thought. Not in the same way as Isabela with her worldly swagger, or as Fenris with his steadfast ferocity, but somehow so beautiful, and for a moment he wanted--

“Carver, it’s beautiful. Thank you, little Hawke; you are a good friend.” 

Friend. Right. 

He coughed to cover the kick to the gut her words gave him. “You’re welcome,” he muttered, dropping his eyes from her face. “Of course. It’s what friends do” 

[athenril-of-kirkwall]

Rivka Lavellan - The Herald of Andraste (Aether Effect)

Alive (sans Anchor) as of 9:45 Dragon (2186 CE)

An Inquisitor’s work is never done.

Be it by random chance or divine favour, Rivka Lavellan found herself at the heart of world-shaking events when she took a wrong turn at the Conclave and found the ancient Tevinter magister Corypheus about to sacrifice the Divine Justinia, gaining the Anchor between this world and the Fade in the ensuing explosion which killed everyone else present, opening the Breach.

Initially viewed with suspicion and marked for execution, she proved her valour by first arresting the growth of the Breach, then sealing it with the aid of the renegade mages, freed from servitude to Corypheus’ lackey Alexius at Redcliffe. However, celebrations were brief, as Corypheus struck at the newborn Inquisition at Haven and driving it to the ancient fortress of Skyhold, where Rivka was unanimously acclaimed as Inquisitor.

There, she found herself commanding the Inquisition’s forces across Thedas, gaining allies from all over Orlais and Ferelden. In the former case, she became kingmaker when agents of Corypheus struck at the peace talks in the Winter Palace, and Rivka ensured the rights of her elven kin by reconciling Briala, Celene’s erstwhile lover and companion, with the Empress.

Corypheus’ corruption extended even into the Grey Wardens, heroes of the Blights, and it fell upon Rivka and Hawke to liberate them from the clutches of his Venatori, with the disgraced general Loghain Mac Tir gaining his redemption by taking on insurmountable odds in the Fade to ensure that they escaped to continue the fight against Corypheus. Following the Wardens’ expulsion, it came to light that her companion Blackwall was no true member of their order, which hurt the Lady Seeker Cassandra even more deeply than it did her her.

Their next steps against the ancient magister shook Rivka’s beliefs to their very core, as Morrigan, so-called Witch of the Wilds and advisor to the Imperial Court in Orlais brought them through the Temple of Mythal, deep in the Arbor Wilds, where numerous truths concerning the gods which Rivka worshipped came to light, culminating in the rediscovery of the Well of Sorrows, a medium for the ancient power and knowledge of ancient Arlathan.

Drinking from the Well despite her lover Solas’ objections, Rivka became bound to Mythal’s will, and furiously ended her dalliances with the elven apostate when he further challenged her on her Dalish beliefs, eventually finding solace with her advisor Josephine, who comforted her in those trying times with the impending final clash with Corypheus soon at hand.

Ending Corypheus’ threat to the world proved to be only the beginning of her troubles. With no major menace left, soon the relevance of the Inquisition’s continued existence was challenged by the leadership of Orlais and Ferelden alike, and the disruption of a qunari plot, in which Rivka was forced to slay the Iron Bull, only revealed an even more portentous fate for this world.

Reorganised into the Divine Victoria’s honour guard, the remnants of the Inquisition led by Rivka as Paladin-Commander must vie against the machinations of the Dread Wolf and step up to save Thedas once again...

Full OC List / Roana Tabris / Wilfred Hawke

[alyssalenko]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @pikapeppa @schoute and @starsandskies to share a snippet from a current WIP so how about a little Solavellan? Tagging you three back as well as @natsora @inquartata30 @juleshawke @seigephoenix @kenshi-vakarian7 @foofyschmoofer @bardofheartdive @lauraemoriarty @poweredbycoffeeandwine @a-shakespearean-in-paris @shretl @bardofheartdive @soldiermom1973 @obvidalous @briarfox13 @forlornmelody @vorchagirl @naromoreau @hawkeykirsah @amarmeme @rpgwarrior4824 and anyone else who wants to play! As always no obligation!

Newti’s scream echoed around Skyhold. Her advisors found her in the garden on her knees, with tears in her eyes as she clutched her stomach. The only conclusion she could draw was that something had happened to Mythal, the bond between them strange and unheard of. Cullen held out a hand to help her up, Newti clutching desperately at it, struggling to get her breath back as she staggered to her feet. This was not what she’d expected when she’d chosen to drink from the Well of Sorrows, that was for sure; her servitude to Mythal had been a calculated risk, one burden she wouldn't let anyone else shoulder--especially Morrigan. The woman had a son who needed her, and Newti had nothing to lose...not since Solas had removed the Vallaslin and left her. Then they’d found out it was Flemeth, and Morrigan who besides Solas had put up the biggest fight that she be the one to drink from the well, had been relieved when everything was said and done.

Just as suddenly as it came, the pain was gone, the bond feeling different now...more powerful than before and vaguely familiar. She worried what that meant since she hadn’t been able to stop Flemeth from using her to stop Morrigan from trying to kill her when they’d chased Kieran through the eluvian. Thank the gods Morrigan had been stopped--the pain moments before had been almost unbearable. Thanking Cullen for his help, and Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine for running to her aid when they did; she hadn’t meant to worry anyone, the scream unwillingly ripped from her throat. She glanced around, quickly, feeling her Vhenan’s presence clearly, as if he stood beside her. But that was impossible; he was gone.

Solas had needed the Old God Soul Mythal had been carrying; her soul in combination with Urthemiel’s had been just what he needed to bring himself back up to full power after sleeping for so long. Ironic, that he’d put up the veil to seal the old Elves away because they had killed Mythal, and that was exactly what he’d just done. He hoped it had been a necessary evil. He’d taken no joy in her death, but allowed himself a moment to mourn the loss of his oldest and most treasured friend and lover. Suddenly, he felt a familiar tug of longing for the one woman who could destroy everything he was trying to accomplish...and if he wasn't careful he’d let her. It was almost like she was beside him, and he let himself wallow in the feeling, remembering the feel of her skin as he made love to her, her silky flame red hair between his fingers, and her lips against his, breath fanning his face. She was the one good thing about the world in front of him.

Newti Lavellan--the one person in Thedas who could make him rethink his whole plan--was now bonded to him instead of Mythal.

That wasn’t what he’d wanted...he’d been unaware of the magnitude of the contract she’d made by drinking from the Well of Sorrows. And now faced with a deep connection, a type of bond he’d never encountered before, he felt himself being drawn back to her. He’d admit, while part of him needed the souls, he knew another part of him had thought he was helping save her by killing Flemeth so that she wasn't bound in servitude to an Evanuris, but he hadn't realized the gravitas of his actions; guilt claiming him. He now had the power to make his Vhenan do anything he wished--a power he neither coveted or needed. She was headstrong, selfless and independent, and he loved those qualities about her...he didn't want to take that away.

For the first time, he wondered if he shouldn't leave Evanuris sealed behind the veil, and that was her influence.

[pikapeppa]

For DWC: "Good, Chasing, Prayers," for Blackwall and Arya?

Thank you for this prompt! I realized recently that I don’t really write much of Arya and Blackwall talking - I just go straight to the sex LOL??! So here is them having a lil’ conversation BEFORE the sex. Bahaha.

For @dadrunkwriting Friday. Read here on AO3:tinyurl.com/baewall3

*****************

The hour is late, and Skyhold’s grounds are silent and still. The chapel is deserted at this hour of night, and Blackwall is grateful.

He gazes at the candles. Their tiny flames flicker and dance, casting shadows across Andraste’s granite robes. It’s silent and peaceful here, and of course that’s the point; the people of the Inquisition come here for peace, for answers, for comfort and for hope.

Blackwall awkwardly folds his arms. He has not set foot in a chapel or a Chantry for years. When Thom Rainier was a boy, he prayed before bed every day - the kinds of selfish prayers only a small boy could provide: Please, Maker, make me big and strong. Make me the best swordsman in all the Free Marches.

Then Thom became a man. He became big and strong, and he won the Grand Tourney. And he had no use for prayers anymore. He was a hero, a lauded swordsman across the Free Marches. Prayers were for people who didn’t have the strength to take what they wanted, and Thom Rainier was nothing of the sort.

Then Thom became a murderer. He became a coward, and he abandoned his men, and he hid behind another man’s name instead. And he had no right to pray anymore. Prayers were for those who sought forgiveness, and Thom Rainier deserved nothing of the sort.

Then Thom became Arya Lavellan’s lover, and more importantly, her shield.

Now, many years after his last foray onto sacred ground, these two crucial roles have compelled him to pray once more.

He heaves a heavy sigh, then lowers himself to one knee and looks up at Andraste’s stone face. I don’t remember how to do this, he thinks. It’s been so long, and the only canticles that stick in his mind are ones of glory and battles victorious. He supposes they might be appropriate; the Inquisition begins the march to the Arbour Wilds in the morning, after all. But glory is the last thing on Blackwall’s mind.

Safety and protection. These are his greatest concerns, the ones that nibble at his mind and make his heart tremble in his chest. These are the wishes he has for Arya, the ones that sit in his clasped hands and the tip of his tongue, and these are the favours he finally asks.

He bows his head. Please, he thinks. Please, Lady Andraste, if you are there… watch over the Inquisitor tomorrow and keep her safe. Don’t let any harm come to her.

He trails off, feeling awkward and unsure. It almost feels like he’s telling the Maker’s Bride to do his job; Blackwall is Arya’s shield and her shelter, after all. It’s his responsibility to keep her safe.

So he bows his head once more and tries again. Lady Andraste, he prays, Give me the strength to keep her safe. Let me stand between her and her enemies, and let any injuries fall on me instead.

The chapel is silent, and the candles flicker still, and Blackwall lifts his head to study the statue’s still and stony face. Then he hears the creaking of the door.

He swiftly rises to his feet and turns. The heavy wooden door inches open, and Arya pokes her head inside.

Her gamine face creases into a smile, and then her slender elven form is slipping through the door. She’s wearing her favourite red dressing down, and her bare feet are silent on the stones as she makes her approach.

“Here you are,” she says. “I found your note on the pillow. Then I got too cold to wait. You’re my favourite source of heat, you know.” Her smile grows mischievous as she sidles up to him.

Blackwall bashfully scratches his beard, feeling oddly caught out. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he says. “I was just…” He trails off, feeling more embarrassed by the moment. Arya has always denied being the Herald of Andraste, and she’s not particularly adherent to Dalish beliefs either. What if she thinks him strange for coming here? He thinks himself strange, after all.

She wanders over to Andraste’s statue and takes a seat on the dais, and her words address his very thoughts. “I haven’t seen you come here before,” she says. “I didn’t think you really believed in the Maker.”

“I… do,” he says hesitantly. “I think. It’s… hard to say.” He rubs the back of his head. Of all the strange and unsettling things they’ve seen and done, nothing has disproven the Maker’s existence. But nothing has proven it, either. And yet, Corypheus had told Arya that the Golden City was empty…

She tilts her head curiously, and Blackwall sits at his lover’s feet on a lower step of the dais. “I don’t know, Arya. I don’t know what to think half the time. But… it doesn’t really matter, does it? I just…” He shrugs. “I suppose I thought that praying can’t hurt.” He drops his eyes to his hands, feeling more foolish than ever.

She leans toward him, and her slender archer’s fingers slide across his hand. “Blackwall, what’s wrong?” she says softly. “Are you worried about tomorrow?”

Yes, he thinks, but the words remain locked behind his lips. He doesn’t want to add his worries to the weight on her shoulders; she carries enough burdens already. The dark circles beneath her lovely amethyst eyes are proof of this.

He places his hand over hers, engulfing her hand in his large and callused palm. “Do you never feel the need to pray?” he asks.

The concern in her face heats into a cheeky smirk. “To this human goddess, you mean?” She jerks her head at the statue of Andraste.

“No,” he says. “To your elven gods. You never want… I don’t know… a little help?”

She leans back on her elbows and shrugs unconcernedly. “No,” she says. “If our gods are around anymore, they’re not doing my people any favours, so I shan’t waste my time.”

Her words are confident and calm, and Blackwall marvels at her conviction. “What makes you so sure?” he asks. “The tattoos on your face… They’re religious marks, aren’t they?”

“Ah, my vallaslin,” she says. “They’re more a mark of adulthood, but yes. Getting my vallaslin was the last truly Dalish thing I did before I gave up on the religious stuff. My Keeper despaired of me, I can tell you,” she adds. “‘Taking our history lightly’ and all that. She would have disowned me if I hadn’t been the second-best hunter in the clan.”

She winks at him, then gestures grandly toward her face. “These are the marks of Mythal,” she says in a mockingly dramatic tone.

“Who is that?” he asks.

“The mother of the other elven gods. Well, most of them,” Arya says, and she stretches out on Andraste’s steps once more. “The protector and defender of our people. Or so they say. She doesn’t seem to have done much good in protecting us elves from you humans, though.”

Her smile is teasing, but Blackwall bows his head all the same. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he says.

She chuckles. “It’s all right. I’m just giving you a hard time.” She sighs and tilts her head back. “I don’t have much faith in the elven gods. But I have faith in the Inquisition,” she says firmly. “I trust our people. I trust our army and our scouts and everyone here who’s been preparing us to head out tomorrow.”

He admires her tattooed profile. Arya has always placed greater stock in the goodness of her people than the grandness of the gods. As Blackwall studies the determination in her face, he can’t help but think that Thedas would be a better place if more people were like her.

“You know who else I have faith in?” she says softly. She sits forward and cups his bearded cheek in her green and glowing palm.

“You,” she says. “I’m not afraid of tomorrow. I can face down anything that comes at us, because you’ll be there with me.”

Her eyes are warm and deep and bright, and Blackwall exhales heavily as he presses his cheek into her palm. She is right about that; he will be there by her side, with his sword and shield in hand and his heart on his sleeve. He’ll defend her until his dying breath, because she’s the woman who gives him life.

He rises to his knees and pulls her close, and she slides to the edge of the step and parts her legs so he can settle himself between them. He wraps his arms around her waist and savours the tightness of her arms around his neck. Arya presses her cheek to his, and he lets his eyes drift shut as he breathes in her embrace.

She rubs her nose against his own in a sweet and slow caress, and Blackwall releases a long and leisurely sigh. The tightness in his shoulders is easing, loosening and lightening with every second he spends in her arms. As he clutches her close, he realizes that it was foolish to come to the chapel, but not for the reasons he’d thought.

He came here in search of comfort. He wanted reassurance in the light of the battle to come. But in the bed he shares with Arya, in the uninhibited heat of her arms, he had that reassurance all along.

He kisses her cheek, then buries his face against her soft and fragrant neck. Her loose robe is sliding apart, and he presses his lips to her exposed collarbone. Without opening his eyes, he smoothes his hands carefully from her bare calves up to her knees. “I thought you were cold,” he murmurs; indeed, her skin is cool beneath his palms.

“I was,” she says. She shuffles closer still, her legs parting wider as she strokes the back of his neck. She places a kiss on his hair, then presses her lips to his ear and whispers. “I’m not anymore.”

His palms are on her thighs. He slowly slides them higher, and his eyebrows rise with growing surprise as he notices something unexpected: no other fabric is meeting his fingers. No linen tunic, no slippery silken slip…

He swallows hard. His errant fingers slide higher, his thumbs stroking her tender inner thighs, and then her breath catches in a tiny gasp.

Desires blooms in his belly. His eyes dart up to her face. “You’re… you’re naked beneath this robe?” he rasps.

She nods. Her fingers tighten in the hair at the back of his neck. “I didn’t think we’d be down here this long,” she breathes.

He exhales heavily against her neck. Heat is spilling through his limbs, trickling down his throat and swelling between his legs, pulsing through his palms and spurring his hands to untie the loose belt of her wine-red robe.

She leans back slightly, palms braced on the statue’s steps and her eyes steady on his face. Carefully and breathlessly, he slides the two halves of her robe apart.

The candlelight flickers across her body, casting shadows and shades of gold across her bare skin. Blackwall stares at her, scanning her from her throat to her thighs in a slow and reverent sweep. She’s exquisite, a beautiful gilded figure of perfection, and he drinks her in until every birthmark and every scar is captured at the backs of his eyes.

His gaze comes to rest between her legs, and she lifts her hips and slides her thighs apart. It is a clear sign of welcome, an invitation to do more than look, but to Blackwall’s surprise, his Arya doesn’t speak. No carnal commands fall from her carmine lips, none of the usual demands for satisfaction or for his torrid touch; she simply looks at him, silent but for the deep and eager breaths that ghost between her parted lips.

He reaches toward her and reverently strokes her breast. She lifts her chest toward his hand, pressing her budded nipple toward his palm, and still her eyes stay on his face, waiting and watchful for his next move.

His fingers roll across her nipple, tugging the tender bud until she whimpers softly with need. He strokes her other breast, then slides his hands along her ribs. Blackwall’s hands are brutish and blunt, but Arya’s skin is soft and smooth as the silk he was expecting to find beneath her dressing down. With every breathless second, every tender stroke of his hands, she arches toward him more, and Blackwall watches the hallowed waves of her hips with an aching appreciation.

She bites her lips and twists her hips, and his gaze falls between her legs again. Her lower lips are slick and shining, glittering in the candlelight like an offering to entice his humble mouth, and Blackwall takes his cue.

He slides down to kneel on the lowest step of the dais. Reverently he places his palms on her thighs, then bows his head over Arya’s perfectly presented form and kisses the heavenly heat between her thighs.

The plumpness of her folds against his lips… Maker’s balls, he’s unworthy, and he always has been. But Arya has offered herself to him night after night and month after month, and he’s powerless to do anything but accept her precious gift.

She gasps and rests her hand on his hair, and her soft caress is like a benediction. He kisses her again, deep soft kisses that worship her heated flesh. He savours her nectar on his lips like the blessing that it is, then devotes himself to her pleasure, lapping deeply and carefully until her flavour anoints his tongue.

Arya bows her back and spreads her legs as he worships her with his mouth. The sharpness of her breath is rising, and her fingers are tightening in his hair, and with every sign of her rising need, he presses forth with the fervency of his devotion. His kisses are his offerings and his tongue on her flesh is a heated prayer. He has no need for gods, for the Maker or His bride. All that Blackwall needs is splayed before him, his lover’s flesh beneath his hands and the privilege of her pleasure on his tongue.

Here in Andraste’s chapel, kneeling at the Herald’s perfect elven feet and chasing the pleasure that lives between her legs, Blackwall has never felt so close to the divine.

She presses her fist to her mouth to muffle her cry of rapture, and Blackwall holds her hips as she shudders beneath his mouth. He eases her down with gentle kisses and careful little licks, and when her body grows still and lax, he places one last light kiss below her navel.

She strokes his beard, and he lifts his face to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are red, and she’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.

He sits back on his knees and offers her his hand. “May I take you to bed, my lady?” he asks.

That cheeky little dimpled smile flashes across her lips. “Always so polite, Ser Blackwall,” she purrs, then her face grows serious again. “You’re sure you’re finished here?”

He nods, then rises to his feet. He offers her his hand again, and as he pulls her to his feet, he doesn’t bother to look at the statue of Andraste.

He slides his arm around Arya’s waist. “Yes,” he whispers. “I got exactly what I needed.”

He admires her mischievous smile, then gallantly ushers her toward the door as she securely ties her robe. He opens the door to let her pass, and as she slides past him, she gently strokes his cheek.

He lets the chapel door swing shut behind them, leaving them in darkness, but Blackwall has no need for candles when he follows the glimmering light of Arya’s verdant palm.

There is only one woman he worships, and it’s the one who holds his heart.

[ps-nippets]

Excerpt from WIP (TEL)

Yan dreamed of the time, when he was a child, curled up in his blanket, a flickering candle that his grandmother placed on his bedside table and she sat on the edge of the bed. He would ask for the same story. Because it was The Story. His grandmother would smile that sad but loving smile, trying to save him from the darkness, The Demon, that preyed on his dreams. Each night she would chase it away, with her words.

“A long, long time ago,” his heart was overflowing with the delicate beating of a bird’s wings at the memory of her voice, “When all you could see was earth, water and the stretch of the empty blue sky, not a single breath of life. They appeared. No one knows where they came from, or what they were. But they were there. Erumilan and Morghes. The Light and the Dark. Erumilan burned bright with its power of the stars while Morghes was humbled by its pull to the earth. One day Erumilan decided to challenge Morghes.  ‘Morghes,’ Erumilan called out, ‘Let us see who has the greatest power but not by the feat of strength but by the feat of mind. Which one of us can create the powerful.’ Morghes, suspicious as it all was, agreed. And so Erumilan created the Mythals, the creatures touched by magic, just like your favorite Belozemlian Fire-bird, their power blinding. Morghes on the other hand, collected the outcasts ones that Erumilan believed not worthy and gave them Shades, the desire to stay alive because the Mythals could never die, because Morghes’s gift was different from Erumilan’s.”

But they did anyway, his thought echoed, the Mythals died and the only things that are left are their memories, their Relics. He saw himself clutch the blanket closer to his chest, twisting it. His grandmother’s perfume, his own Relic, shaking her story into focus.

“So now the world was alive. It still felt empty, out of Morghes and Erumilan none was the better of both. Time passed. The more Morghes grew distant the more Erumilan got curious. What was Morghes working on, from day to night and night to day? Will the new creation be superior? Erumilan sneaked up on the crouching dark figure and a pile of dirt?

‘I can see you,’ Morghes dulled, ‘You have no need to hide, sibling.’

Erumilan moved closer, his light reflecting from the spun carcass of dark thread that he mistook for mud,‘What is this?’

‘The Masterpiece, sibling…’ Morghes unfolded stretching its own oozing darkness, creaking,‘But it is not at all like the vision in my head. The metals from the darkest caves, I collected and wove into a vessel. I gave it veins of steel, spun gold for its hair and eyes, skin of obsidian... But it is not alive. I am at loss.’

Erumilan contemplated and took in a deep breath. Tendrils of star dust stretched into him from the night. And that is why those lights in the north, the ones Grandpa tells you stories about, are called Eraelia, ‘Erumilan’s breath’. The taken Starlight he places in the vessel and its veins fill up with life. And the first man opens his eyes.’

Yan jolted in the swinging hammock, the stuffy salted air of his cabin, hitting him straight to his groggy brain. Heart heavy, his feet thunked against the wooden planks. He could not remember her voice anymore.

So yay! This is the first excerpt of my wip that I decided to publicly post . (not counting the time I had a wattpad... oof those were the dark days for this story) Decided to abbreviate the wip Tunnel at the End of the Light as ‘TEL’ cause ‘TatEotL’ reminds me of the word axolotl and that word scares me even though the creatures are adorable.(I also should probably make a wip page but I am so sorry I really don’t have enough time and enough brainspace to learn how to make one, with uni and everything, I’m about to cry)

Anyway I hope that it at least feels coherent, but yea, its still in the works but I feel confident enough to publish this vague timeless section of The Creation Myth of my World. Its so goddamn difficult to understand the semantics of religions as they are but to make a completely new one, hoo its a tough one.

Please tell me what you think! I would really love to know and I will appreciate any feedback on this. THANK YOU! LUV U, BYE!