#return to halamshiral

[invinciblerodent]

[A codex entry reading:

"Elsewhere, around an anatomical sketch:

Reclaimed. Though damaged beyond repair, the Anchor's condition-- used both to mend and destroy-- is fascinating. A detailed study will consume what remains. But it may also yield the final elements that have eluded me."]

Solas stole my fucking hand

[extravagantfool]

♤ — my muse in a specific location ( asker’s choice ) halamshiral

Send one for party banter from... // Inbox Open!!

Asha: We went to Halamshiral once-- the troupe I was in, I mean. It was rough. Asha: The troupe I was in specialized on dazzling shem nobles, they were a bit lost with all the elves. Asha: It was kinda nice though, I got some good food at the market stands you can't sell if there's too many shem around. They hate bugs for some reason. Asha: There was a pair of elves I remember -- a hot one with Vallaslin and a short one without. Maybe related? Or maybe the lady was his kid or something. I don't know. Asha: I just know the guy saw right through me and my Ringmaster; first time I've ever seen someone do it on first meeting.

[callahanisms]

inquisition companions react to the inquisitor missing half their arm

because bioware didn’t wanna give it to us, i decided i’d just do it myself. (insert thanos meme) even though i am like years late to the hype.

the game is like 9 years old at this point, but spoilers ahead.

do keep in mind this is my own personal interpretation of each character. it may not be accurate to your own interpretations. (also i know leliana is technically not a companion in inquisition but i included her anyways)

cassandra pentaghast

if cassandra could plunge a knife into the heart of solas, she would. she would not let him get away with betraying you and taking the anchor along with your arm. you had basically fallen into her arms when you emerged from the portal and she had to carry you back to halamshiral. for the days you were unconscious, cassandra was anxious and extra prickly. there were many times where cullen would have to talk her down from her anger. even varric did too.

dorian pavus

the first thing he did was crack a joke. the atmosphere was tense and it just slipped out. “i asked you to come back in one piece, not missing one.” safe to say, the other companions did not approve of his joke. dorian was set to return to tevinter after being notified of his new position as a magister, but he delayed the return to his homeland for you. he sat in your room as you lied unconscious, barely breathing, leg anxious bouncing up and down. when you awoke, you were immediately met with a large and tight hug from him. he knocked the air out of your lungs from that.

blackwall

blackwall admires you. in fact, everyone would go so far as to say he adores you. he thinks of you as strong, capable, almost infallible. you closed rifts, you closed the big green tear in the sky, and you defeated corypheus! what couldn’t you do? all your feats proved to him that you were the strongest leader he could ever know. and yet, you were still mortal. you left the eluvians mortally wounded and exhausted beyond belief, your eyelids so heavy and ready to close so you may drift off into the black void of sleep. blackwall would not let you, not until you were taken away to be cared for. you found him sitting besides you, awake and on guard. your mortality was his reminder that you and him were the same, even if your lives appeared to be completely different. and he understood that the world would need a leader like you and that is dangerous.

iron bull

the bull could feel a stronger kinship with you that day. it appears that the both of you lost something. he betrayed the qun for the inquisition, thus losing a part of himself, his people. you lost a literal part of yourself, something you had to come to terms with after having the anchor for two years. to say iron bull was shaken up would be an understatement. he was getting cassandra to hit him with sticks for days on end while you lied unconscious. he wondered what would’ve happened if he was with you, if maybe...he could’ve stopped solas. but reminiscing never did anyone any good.

cole

as much as he wanted to help you, cole couldn’t. he also understood that you wouldn’t accept his help, no matter how much he insisted. so instead, he did the best thing he could do: help tend to your injuries. what was curious was that he could feel very little of your pain. when he felt your pain two years ago after forming the inquisition, it was concentrated in your hand and forearm. with it gone, you felt at peace. the primary source of pain for you had been washed away. perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, he thought.

sera

sera’s immediate reaction is, like dorian, to crack a joke. everyone is used to her eccentricity. but it felt different this time around. while you laid unconscious, recovering from the long battle, she occupied herself. she had to busy her hands and her legs, keep moving, keep her mind busy. because if she sat too still for even a second, then her mind would think about the worst outcome. she would get images of you, dead, because solas had betrayed you, betrayed her, betrayed the inquisition. hell, he betrayed the world! that knob! thinking he knew what was best! sera’s all the more relieved when it’s revealed you survived. she bursts through the door to see you and hug you tightly, complaining about how much you scared her.

varric tethras

in all honesty, varric should’ve been more prepared to expect...well, the unexpected. he had expectations of you coming out unharmed, untouched. obviously, that was not what happened. and he wondered if he was responsible for this. he had been one of the many people to support you as the inquisitor two years ago, suggesting it. he wondered if he made the wrong decision. but also, part of varric was relieved. he lost someone close to him two years ago. he didn’t know if he could handle losing you too.

vivienne de fer

the court would devour tales of the eluvians and how you managed to survive. that was vivienne’s first thought. people would be talking about you for centuries to come, certainly. and yet, she knew in her soul that was not what you would want. she does her best to minimize what rumors spread when you first emerge from the eluvians and help give you privacy. behind closed doors, vivienne checks on your injuries. part of her is amazed that the anchor was removed so cleanly.

josephine montilyet

josephine has seen many things ranging from serious to just plain absurd. when she was alerted that you had returned with many serious injuries, including the loss of half your arm, she sent messages to get the best possible doctors in all of orlais to help attend to you. the woman was definitely stressed beyond belief. but when she wasn’t trying to get everyone from backing off from you or getting people to look at you, josephine was attending to you herself. you awoke to find her wiping some sweat off your face and when she noticed, she muttered about how great andraste was and embraced you tightly.

cullen rutherford

your knight-commander appeared to take the news very well, much to the disapproval of cassandra. but the moment cullen was alone, in private, he flipped a table, causing everything to crash. all he could feel running throughout his body was regret, guilt, and anger. regret and guilt for not having gone with you. he should’ve. because if he did, maybe you would have came back alright. anger directed towards solas because the apostate had betrayed you, the inquisition. and everything you and him had worked towards was going to crumble. all of his hard work, leliana’s, cassandra’s, josephine’s, it’d all be for naught. cullen ends up spending a lot of time alone while you’re unconscious. he prays to andraste and the maker to distract himself from any wandering thoughts going towards lyrium. certainly the new mabari hound he decided to adopt on a whim helps with distractions at least.

leliana

the woman has seen many things in her lifetime, having experienced the fifth blight itself and been part of that fight against the archdemon. still, things aren’t easy when you come back from the eluvians missing half of your arm. even if it goes against all her duties, leliana stays with you until you wake up to make sure you’re alright. you’re the inquisitor after all and it’s vital that you’re still alive.

solas

he’s the one who took it. you think he cares?

in all seriousness, it gave him no pleasure to remove your arm for the anchor. even if his plan was...well, shoddy we should say, the anchor was going to kill you. he had no choice. carrying your hand and forearm around felt heavy. he could carry it just fine but what made it heavy was the burden that came with his plan to tear down the veil and bring doom upon the world in a desperate attempt to bring it back to what it once was. and also, the burden of having harmed you.

[evanhereonearth]

VEILGUARD ENDGAME SPOILERS

He collapses the moment the rift closes behind us.

I fall with him to the floor, my own strength giving out after these long years, and I draw the Fade around us like a nest. In a heartbeat we are surrounded by soft grass, growing shamrocks, plush moss. A bower of branches cradles us, gentle and alive.

My arms pull him to me, into the embrace of my form and the forgiving earth where I can enfold him in every bit of love I have stored away for him. My hand smooths his face where Elgar’nan’s archdemon battered him. Traces the tear tracks in blood.

“Are you—truly here?”

His voice is hoarse with the ravages of what he has endured.

“Where else would I be, vhen’an’ara?”

The softness in my words seems to shatter him, and his eyes fill once more. “I did not want you to see—”

“I have seen all there is to see of you, my heart. My spirit recognised yours all those years ago. There is nothing you have done that makes you unworthy of my love, Solas. Nothing you have endured, nothing you have survived, that could make me love you less.”

“Vhenan…”

“You found my messages.” I watch his eyes, tinged with violet amid the grey-blue. He blinks, but no tears fall, only soak his lashes. He nods. “I found yours.”

He doesn’t speak, but his throat bobs as he swallows.

“I learned our first time at Halamshiral your other names,” I tell him. “I learned your true name not so very long after Halamshiral the second time. How much it must have tortured you to see yourself written on my face every time you looked at me, inked there in service of the one you loved who returned such abuse.”

Solas flinches from the word, but he is past dissembling. I remember Cole, in a panic, begging Solas to bind him. “It’s not abuse if I ask!” And I remember Solas’s rebuke.

I touch the scar above his brow where he burned Mythal off his face.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” I say to him, the phrase he once said to me when he removed Mythal’s vallaslin from my face, the phrase she was too cowardly to use herself. Too proud to say she was sorry even as she set him free.

Something in him unfurls, unclenches.

“I told you once why I chose her vallaslin,” I say.

He dips his chin to say he remembers. “A reminder of what we do not know, you said. That we can learn.”

“Yes. But I did not tell you all of it.” I pause, sliding closer so my face is level with his—I do not wish to be looking down on him. “In that temple, everywhere I looked, your wolf statues sat adjacent Mythal. Anuon told me I was blaspheming to say perhaps we did not fully understand you; I chose that vallaslin because of you, in a way. Because even before we met, you challenged what I believed to be true about my world, about my history, about myself.”

He reaches out and places his hand over my heart, like I once did for him in our bed high above Skyhold. I mirror him with my own. His face relaxes in increments, whatever remnants of the mask of Fen’Harel that linger melting into an aching tenderness so wholly for me that my own eyes prickle.

“I never left your side,” I say, my soft words barely above a whisper.

“Nor I yours.”

For the first time since Dragon’s Breath, Solas reaches for me. The gentle firmness of his touch brings with it warm tears spilling over my eyes to cool upon my cheeks. Without a word, he tilts his head upwards to kiss them away.

“The spirits have named you,” he tells me after a moment, almost bashful as he searches my face, still looking for any hint of regret. “That was the single hope I have clung to, the only one I allowed my heart when I thought of you, vhenan. It is why—it is why I left you the letter. So you would know that…so you would be certain my heart was still yours, regardless of your choice.”

I know what they have named me, but I want to hear him say it.

“You have always been Sileal,” I tell him. Wisdom. “What is it they have called me?”

He touches my face like I touched his, tracing my freckles, my dimple, my scar.

“They call you Enaste, da’lath’in,” he says. “The spirits of the Fade call you Grace.”

[lana-writes]

a soft, silly dream

A Solas x F!Lavellan fanfic

Word Count: 2.3k

Rating: Teen & up

Tags/Warnings: Some suggestive content, kissing, fluff, angst

Summary: After the ball in Halamshiral, Inquisitor Lavellan indulges herself in private by reminiscing about the better moments from that night when she receives an unexpected but not unwelcome visitor in her chambers.

Read on AO3 | Masterlist | Character Letters (Etsy)

They had only returned from Halamshiral three days before but after taking a day to rest, Althima spent the next two in meetings with her council as they planned for their next operations. There were still the Grey Wardens at Adamant to deal with among what felt like a never ending list of other tasks awaiting her attention. It was Josephine who chose to break for the evening, noticing they were all weary but that their Inquisitor was also visibly fatigued. They had already decided on the council’s tasks and given Althima their recommendations for where to direct her attentions next. She accepted them graciously and would determine her own next steps in the next day or so. For now, she was tired. Tired of talking and correspondence and people asking her for judgement or opinions or favors or blessings or whatever else. 

She took her supper in her room and afterward, paced around the space as she mulled over the day, allowing her mind to wander for the first time since they returned. Memories of the ball in the Winter Palace were still fresh in her mind. Gaspard and Florianne were dealt with. Brialla and Celene were allied once again, now with the Inquisition as well. And all that was a relief but she still thought about the sight of it all. The grand ballroom and her announcement and presentation to the court. The fine silks and brocades and jewels glistening in the candlelight. Music, laughter, and whispers alike all drifting through the air like smoke, as potent as it was transient. In another context it might have seemed like a fairy tale or something out of a novel she’d picked up while traveling with her father to sell his wares near some human settlement. 

Solas standing in a shadowy corner, out of the way and observing, glass in hand. He seemed somehow more at home there than most other places she’d seen him. He lit up at the machinations of the court. His comments about the power, danger, and sex that permeated events like this had lingered with her. If they had more time and perhaps less eyes on her, she might have asked him to elaborate, but they hadn’t the opportunity. 

Their dance, though, was the sweetest way that night could have ended. Not only had they achieved their goals, emerging victorious, leaving Orlais safer and more stable, gaining a powerful ally in the process, but after all was said and done, she still got to sweep around her own private dance floor in his arms. A small moment of joy amidst the chaos and danger. She felt safe there with him, without fear or worry. Their mission didn’t exist for a short while. 

Alone in her chambers, she tried to recollect the tune they’d danced to. As she hummed it to herself, changing her pitch or the melody as she searched for it, she swayed in place, then took a few steps back and to the side. Before she realized what she was doing, she was retracing their steps with her arms slightly raised as if on his shoulders, her hand in his again. Her eyes closed and she could feel it again, almost. The rhythm and sway of their movements. The cool breeze coming over the mountains and the vibrations of the crowd and orchestra just on the other side of the doors. 

When she opened them again, she wasn’t alone. Her hand flew to her heart as she gasped at Solas leaning back against the railing in front of the stairs. He had that same gentle smile on his face and his hands clasped together in front of him. 

“I apologize,” he said, “I did not mean to surprise you.”

“I didn’t expect you,” she breathed. If she was still catching her breath from the dancing or the shock, she wasn’t sure. 

“I had not seen you today, but when I arrived, I did not wish to interrupt,” he said. “It was beautiful to watch you move so freely.” Heat filled her cheeks as she smiled.  

“It feels silly almost,” she said, shaking her head, “to be dancing and daydreaming when everything is so dire.” 

“Perhaps,” he said, standing again. He began to walk towards her. “I would not recommend dancing in the throne room or a council meeting, but myself and the birds,” he glanced towards a crow sitting outside her open balcony doors, “do not mind.” He stopped and bowed to her, offering his hand as he had that night. “May I?” With a grin, she let her hand slide into his. 

“But we have no music,” she said. 

“That has not stopped you before.” He drew her close, his hand on her waist. His face inches from her own. It took nearly everything in her not to lean forward and kiss him. “Besides, I believe I can recollect a tune or two.” He smiled and began to hum as he took the first step. 

Like the birds rising and falling in the clouds outside her window, they glided about the room. His tune was not one they heard in Halamshiral nor one she’d ever heard before, at least she didn’t think she had. It was quicker and brighter than the dance they’d shared before. After a minute or two of it, the tune was nearly forgotten but for the guiding rhythm it offered them. He continued humming intermittently and she began to pick up a few notes of it, repeating the melody where he faltered. Breathless and grinning ear to ear, they twirled a bit more beyond where their breath began to fail them. Finally though, she spun away and back into his arms again, her back against his chest and both their arms wrapped around her. With that he stopped and they stood there, their breathing quick and light. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, eyes closed but her lips parted in a smile. 

It was as she imagined. It felt that way, at least. It’s so simple and childish, she thought, to find such joy in a man’s arms like this. But she was grateful for how indulgent he was. 

“Where did you learn to dance?” she asked. Her hands in his refused to let go and leave this embrace, not that he was trying to release her. 

“You remember I spoke to you of my witnessing balls like those of Halamshiral while in the Fade,” he began. His breath brushed against her ear and cheek as he spoke. “I found an echo of one long ago near where Denerim is in the waking world. A spirit of love still lingered there and saw me watching the couples dance and court one another. They offered to teach me so that I might know how to court someone similarly one day, when love should find me again.” 

“I should thank them,” Althima chuckled. 

“If we cross paths once more, I will be sure to thank them again,” he said, pressing his lips against her flushed cheek. She loosened her grip and turned in his arms to face him. Leaving his hands on her hips, she brought her palm to his cheek, resting her other on his neck. 

“And what of the song’s origin? Where did it come from?” She studied his face, endlessly fascinated by him. There was so much he knew and had seen through his walking in the Fade. 

“That is a similar story but far more precious and rare,” he said. “I happened across the echoes of a pair of elven lovers separated by circumstance before the Fall of Arlathan. Memories that old are extraordinarily rare, but this one was guarded by a Spirit of Hope that never let the young maid lose faith her lover would return to her. He did, eventually, but for a very long time, she sang that song given to her by the spirit in the hopes that it would keep the joy of their love alive even as their world seemed to crumble around them. As with a memory so old, the words have been lost as the shadows of the lovers have dwindled and all but disappeared except in the memory of that spirit, but the music persists, as music often does long after its lyrics and composers have been forgotten.”

“That’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s good that they found each other again.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m very glad you found me,” she added. “For a number of reasons.” 

“As am I.” His hands spread across her hips further, pressing her more firmly against him. Her thumb stroked his cheek as she studied his face. For as much as she felt that she knew him, he was still so much of a mystery. The breadth of his experience continually felt both fascinating and far more extensive than she could ever truly know. There was so much uncertainty about him too. He hesitated so often and yet, they’d still shared such bold flirtations, such fiery kisses. He’d expressed an uncertainty and indecision regarding their relationship followed by confessions of love. What else was she to take from this dance but further confirmation of his affection? Regardless of his wavering though, she knew how she felt and in that moment, with her golden eyes meeting his grays, she couldn’t not speak what was in her heart. 

“Ar lath ma,” she let the words tumble from her lips. He had not heard them from her before. He hadn’t given her the chance after walking away as soon as he had said them himself. The softness ever present in his eyes shifted for a moment as he smiled at her again. There was a sadness in him. She’d seen it before but he had not spoken of it, and it seemed as though he would not speak of it. It scared her but like his uncertainty, it did not deter her. There was enough between them already that she knew whatever else he might carry with him would not sunder it. Her feelings were that strong even now. 

“Ma vhenan,” he whispered as he leaned forward. His forehead met hers and he took a deep breath. Their noses met, brushing back and forth. She wanted to kiss him so badly, she crept forward until his lips met her own willingly. Gentle and closed at first until his reluctance left him once more, then his fingers grasped at her hips and he lurched forward hungrily into her. She had a hand on the back of his neck and one clutching at his tunic as she parted her lips for him. For as strongly as they felt, they’d spent far too little time just like this for her tastes. He felt similarly though he was loath to ever admit it. 

She had never wanted someone like this before. Physically, completely, desperately. Little had ever felt so thrilling as his hands upon her body or his breath meeting hers. His tongue reached for her own as she allowed him in. Their breath was hurried yet stilted and their hearts pounded as his hands dipped up beneath her tunic just enough to feel the bare skin of her back. She wished he’d pull it off as her own fingers reached beneath his collar, eager to feel any ounce of his skin she could reach. What little he offered wasn’t enough to satisfy her then. She wondered if any touch of his could ever satisfy her if that touch would always end. 

Their lips broke apart and though their noses still touched, she felt him shake his head. For fear he’d pull away, she pressed forward and kissed him again. He didn’t, not at first. He kissed her again firmly, intently, while holding her against him with more force than he’d dared before, only to release her and take a step back. His hands drifted from their place at her back to the sides of her hips. Her own fell to his arms and down to his wrists as he backed away. She wouldn’t hold him there if he wished to leave but her wide eyes and soft, parted lips were begging him without saying a word. His hands found hers and held them tightly, thumbs drifting back and forth across her knuckles. Was this meant to be soothing? Would he leave again?

“Solas,” she said. “Will you–” She shouldn’t say it, she knows, but she can’t stop the words now. “Will you not stay,” she continued, “here tonight? With me?” His face, his eyes, they looked so sorrowful but then his smile returned. The sweet, gentle look he offered still couldn’t hide the other look in his eyes and that was the one that scared her, that left a pit in her stomach instead of butterflies. 

“I should not,” he said. “You need your rest, vhenan.” He brought her left hand to his lips and kissed the mark. 

“If you do not wish to,” she began, but wasn’t sure where she was going to end that sentence. 

“That is not– I–uh,” he stopped and sighed, looking down at their hands. “It would not be appropriate now. The last days have been long, and I should leave you to your rest.” His eyes met hers once more, careful in their expression as he sensed her unease and disappointment. He gave her a smile as he took another step backward towards the stairs, hands slipping from her own. 

Hands and arms that were once so full of love were now left empty as she watched him walk to the stairs. He seemed good at that, she thought, making the world feel so full and alive and larger than she ever considered, then leaving it feeling so small and dim and bare the moment he turned away. It seemed a trend with him, offering her understanding and affection then pulling away the moment that things became too real, too intense, the moment that she reached for him too. He stopped at the top of the stairs, giving her one final, loving look before he descended.

“Sleep well, vhenan,” he spoke softly and sincerely as though he were apologizing.

“Goodnight, Solas.”

Check out my other works on my masterlist

[loquaciousquark]

[Fic] Lavellan, A., Pavus, D. [1/1]

Rating: G Characters/Pairings: Solas/Lavellan, minor Dorian/Bull Fandom: Dragon Age Word Count: 6.2k Summary: Dorian and Adahla exchange letters and write an academic paper. Set post-game, pre-Trespasser.

—

Dear Dorian,

I’m glad to hear you’ve arrived safely in Minrathous. Leliana’s scouts informed us some of the caravans north had been waylaid by bandits, but I should have known with Bull and the Chargers along, nothing could delay you. Everyone sends their love except Sera, who’s instead defaced every page in this sheaf and then run laughing up to the roof. The rude gesture in the corner is from her.

Varric has asked twice now in his offhanded way if the Inquisition might be traveling along the Imperial Highway in the next few weeks. He’s eager to return to Kirkwall, even if he’s allergic to saying it straight out, and Vivienne has wished to speak with a band of Aequitarian mages in Val Royeaux for some time, so I expect we’ll bivouac our own way north shortly. Please post your next reply to Halamshiral and we’ll pick it up on the way.

As regards your last letter: I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite all right. I know I was unlike myself on our recent adventure into the Deep Roads, but your forbearance with me (and my uncharacteristic impetuousness) was very generous. I’m fully recovered now, I assure you, and have put all distractions behind me. My solemn oath to stop jumping off ledges without looking is inscribed here for your approval.

Speaking of approval, please look over the changes I’ve made to the Ameridan paper (enclosed). The green ink is addition, the red revision, and the blue strikethroughs have been cut. In particular, please review the section on Ameridan’s known—and most incontrovertible—history, especially the citations from Renaures and Bescond. There’s a Genitivi monograph I’m trying to track down which would do a great deal to preempt Chantry objections, but I’m having difficulty laying hands on an unaltered original. I have high hopes one might be hiding in a University of Orlais library, but until I can coax the librarian to pack it in goosedown and ship it east, Renaures is our strongest advocate.

—

Links: FF.net, AO3

[lafaiette]

The level of disappointment I feel for the new dragon age game is just so consuming. Like I'll admit that after so many years, I didn't think it would hold true to what the previous game set up. But I hate that I was right, and I hate that a game series I loved so much sas turned into what it is now. I didn't buy it at launch because I wanted to wait for a sale, but with all that I'm hearing I'm wondering if it's even worth it. I'm just so sad for how this all went and I wish it hadn't happened. It even makes replaying the old games feel like scorched earth because nothing I do will have an effect on anything. It never mattered. The game that said my choices matter has now said "actually you never mattered" and I'm so heartbroken about it.

It even makes replaying the old games feel like scorched earth because nothing I do will have an effect on anything. It never mattered. The game that said my choices matter has now said "actually you never mattered" and I'm so heartbroken about it.

This is also one of the most painful parts for me, together with the way they handled - or ignored - a majority of the established lore.

In Veilguard, we learn that the majority of the South is basically gone: Denerim is lost, Redcliffe is under siege, getting help from the dwarves of Orzammar, who are already stretched thin. The ruler of Ferelden is never addressed - what happened to them? Are they still alive? Are they defending Redcliffe? We'll never know.

Orlais is also lost. Val Royeaux and Halamshiral are barely holding on, and a noble faction decided (for some stupid reason) to join the Venatori and spread even more chaos. The ruler of Orlais is never addressed - are they dead? Did the rebel nobility kill them? What happened to Briala's elves? We'll never know.

Kirkwall has fallen, and Aveline has been forced to evacuate the city and move the few survivors to Starkhaven. We know that Varric is dead, so Aveline or someone else will have to take his place, if Kirkwall can even be recovered (doubtful at this point).

The Blight is back in Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds, too, with only some Avvar and Alamarri clans keeping things under control while in a temporary truce with Ferelden.

Everything we ever accomplished in DA:O, DA2, and DA:I is gone. They turned the South into a blank state so they can leave it there, ignoring it, now that the focus will be on Those Across the Sea, as the secret ending slide shows. This blank state will also allow them to return to the South, should they ever wish to, but without the need to take into account the players' past choices, because everything we knew, everything we built and fought for, is gone.

"Oh, Ferelden changed so much in the last twenty years or so, ever since that terrible Blight caused by the elven gods!"

"Orlais isn't the same anymore, there is another civil war because we lost our previous ruler. Who was it? Oh, I don't know, I wasn't born yet, I couldn't care less."

"Pity about Kirkwall. I heard it was a shithole, but the beer at the Hanged Man was apparently pretty good."

^ This is what we will get in the future.

[dalishious]

Reclaiming Independence of the Dales

Before anything else, I’d just like to clarify that that vast majority of this is made of my own ideas, based on interpretation from the little canonical information provided, and a little inspired by my own people’s history and governing structure. Additionally, what I am presenting here is an ideal situation, not necessarily what I think is an immediately realistic outcome in the world-state established. So, please keep that in mind.

The Dales were established as a homeland for elves—a small piece of a continent that was once called their home in its entirety, before the humans colonized it—by Maferath in -165 Ancient. This was in reward for the eleven people’s participation in the fight against Ancient Tevinter. But in 2:10 Glory, Divine Renata I broke this treaty and declared an Exalted March against the Dales, ending in its annexation by Orlais.

[Related Post: All You Need to Know about the Exalted March of the Dales]

If Solas has very low approval with Inquisitor Lavellan, and Lavellan accuses him of not doing enough to help their people, he will say the following: “You could order Halamshiral returned to the Dalish, if you wished. But ultimately, you know that would fail. That even you cannot solve this.” I hate this with a burning passion. The reason I can’t do that, Solas, is because it’s not an option in the game! Why are you as a character angry at me, the player, for not doing something that is not an option for me to do? Why was this written? Just to push the point that it’s not worth it to try and fight back against oppression? Because if I refuse to accept hopelessness in real life, why would I in accept it in a video game where the story is made-up, and therefore anything is possible if the developers so wish it.

Regardless, according to Solas, the Inquisition has enough power to support the reclamation of an independent Dales. I imagine this would require a lot of political maneuvering within the Orlesian governance, and therefore I think the best opportunity to do this would be with Briala ruling through Gaspard. This would then later open the door for Briala to be the leader of the newly independent Dales, too. I would like to see Briala as ruler of the Dales not just because she is a favourite of mine, but because I genuinely believe she is the best established character fit for the job. She was trained in everything Celene was trained in, has first-hand experience in court, has extensive connections, and has demonstrated her ability and desire to utilize these skills and assets for the benefit of elven kind.

Briala’s blackmail on Gaspard may help prevent Orlais from invading again while under his rule, but to last longer, the Dales would need to establish itself as a strong, independent Nation with allies. This is why I believe it would also be important to have Leliana as Divine Victoria in such a world-state where this could happen. Leliana re-canonizes the Canticle of Shartan, and in making it available for the common person to understand, would ideally help sway the minds of the average Andrastian into supporting the Dales’s independence. The nobility would of course be much trickier, because they and the Chantry are the ones who actually benefitted from its annexation—but there is little they would be able to actually accomplish if they did not have the power of the people behind them.

As far as allies go, Ferelden could only gain from Orlais losing control of the Dales, because it would mean cutting Orlais off from a lot of Ferelden’s border, therefore reducing the threat of another invasion. Additionally, a leader with just plain good morals like say, Alistair, would easily accept the elven kingdom’s return. But even Anora is willing to grant part of the Korcari Wilds to the Dalish if Mahariel requests it, and while this sadly doesn’t last, it does show a positive sign into her potentially being open to the idea of an independent Dales as well.

I sincerely doubt that all Dalish clans would return to the Dales and re-settle down. After all, they have developed differentiating cultures over the years of wandering in separated groups, with different ideals and different ways of life that they might not want to give up. But many would return, and that would likely create conflict between the elves coming from the Dalish clans and the elves coming from the cities. We know that some prejudice exists against “flat-ears” as some Dalish call those from the city, and we know that city elves have adopted a lot of misinformation from humans into their views of the Dalish. It would take time and positive leadership to reconnect the people, without risking falling into some sort of hierarchy based on origin. This is why I do not believe one group or the other should single-handedly rule alone. Rather, I think there should be a Grand Council of High Keepers made up of those voted into the position each to represent a single district of the Dales. (I like the idea of there being seven High Keepers, not just because there are seven traditional districts of Mi’kma’ki, but because it works out that there seven of the Creators. So it makes sense that there would be seven High Keepers.) The Grand Council would meet and make decisions together, with one appointed leader at the head to act as the Council’s chair.

In terms of protection and order, the Emerald Knights should be reformed. This would include the Fade Hunters, to protect the people against demons and maleficarum, with there being no Circles or Templars.

Restoring the independence of the Dales would lead to a revival of elven culture in ways that could never happen before, because they would actually be free to pursue re-learning the language, re-discovering the history and culture, and sharing it all amongst each other. They would not have to fear arrest the crime of simply being an elf.  

But what of the other races presently living in the Dales? I see no reason why they would have to leave, so long as they would be willing to follow the Grand Council’s leadership. I imagine many nobility would flee to Orlais, simply because they would not stand for it. But for the average human or surface dwarf, their life wouldn’t really even change much; they’d still be managing their farms the same as always. Hell, it might even improve things for them, assuming the Grand Council gives fairer treatment than the nobility previously.

[daitranscripts]

Emerald Graves Area Introduction

Get Your Comfortable Boots

Emerald Graves Masterpost

Harding: Good to see you again, Inquisitor. Hope you’ve got your comfortable boots on. The scouts have seen a number of Fade rifts, all over the forest. We’ve located this mysterious “Fairbanks.” He won’t share his information with anyone but you. He and his men are camped out at Watcher’s Reach, on the path ahead. From what we can tell, they’re refugees from the war. Peasants, mostly.

Dialogue options:

Flirt: I do like these little chats. [1]

Investigate: Tell me about Fairbanks. [2]

Investigate: Anything about the area? [3]

General: I’ll be going then. [4]

1 - Flirt: I do like these little chats. PC: I do enjoy these encounters. It’s like we’re getting to know each other. Harding: We are, aren’t we? Such a shame our meetings are so brief. But, you know, saving the world and all that. Busy, busy! [Return to dialogue tree.]

2 - Investigate: Tell me about Fairbanks. PC: Tell me everything you know about Fairbanks. Harding: We don’t know much about him. He appeared after the civil war started, helping people fleeing from the destruction. “Fairbanks” is likely not his real name. [Return to dialogue tree.]

3 - Investigate: Anything about the area? PC: Do you know anything else about the region? Harding: They call this place the Emerald Graves. Legend says that a tree grows here for every elven knight of Halamshiral who perished in its defense. Makes you sad, doesn’t it?

Dialogue options:

General: Yes. Truly. [5]

General: I don’t let it bother me. [6]

General: It’s history. [7]

Dalish PC: “We are the last elvhen…” [8]

5 - General: Yes. Truly. PC: What was done to the elves here was unforgivable. Harding: Never again. At least, I hope not. [Return to main dialogue tree.] 6 - General: I don’t let it bother me. PC: Thedas is soaked in blood. If I worried about those who’ve died in every place I went, I’d be a sobbing mess. Harding: That’s… one way of thinking about it [Return to main dialogue tree.] 7 - General: It’s history. PC: It’s in the past. I care more about the future. Harding: Then let’s pray something like this never happens again. [Return to main dialogue tree.] 8 - Dalish PC: “We are the last elvhen…” PC: “We are the last elvhen, never again shall we submit.” Harding: Oh, I… I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I spoke thoughtlessly. [Return to main dialogue tree.]

4 - General: I’ll be going then. PC: Thank you for the information. I’ll head out.

Harding: Ah, one other thing.

If PC has been to the Exalted Plains: Harding: You’ve tangled with the Freemen of the Dales before. They have a presence here.

If PC has not been to the Exalted Plains: Harding: A group of deserters from the Imperial armies has established itself here. “Freemen of the Dales,” they call themselves. They are hostile to the Inquisition… and everyone else.

Harding: Watch your back, Inquisitor.

[rhoxxia]

95 for the prompt! 🤭

Oh lovely lovely this one! Thanks for the ask! Please send more! Also this is gonna be blasphemous lmao

Prompt was: kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed.

She stands with back turned to door- to him- long hair like ink pulled over one shoulder; dark against the light tan of his tunic. Wearing this only, he feels heat grow beneath his flesh as he watches her.

She looks to the statue of Andraste- the one with whom the shemlens have declared she heralds, whether it be willing or true. The figure, with arms raised, might feel welcoming to her followers- to her children but there is nothing to see here for Solas except her.

Ellana.

This is blasphemous.

Solas steps silently toward her but she knows; knows in the way that only two parts of another can know that he is there. Only hours back from the Winter Palace, he returned from bathing to find his tunic gone; replaced by Ellana’s fine clothing and a brief note.

The Inquisitor requires her Elven serving man in the room of prayer.

A challenge. An invitation. A promise.

Solas had seen the way her eyes had delighted at the title at Halamshiral: the same shimmering desire they displayed now as she turned to him. He had known then she would call for him. The V of his tunic laid low between the valley of her breasts, nipples hard- long front stretch of clothing over his beloved place between strong thighs.

“I need you.”

Lips meet like crashing of waves, hands grasping where they can; nails biting and teeth- oh. His tongue is pulled into her mouth and it is too much.

Staggering over half-melted candles, he leads her to outstretched arms and marble skirt. She stumbles on step two and three, fingers on erogenous ears and it is his turn to stumble now- step one.

Solas leads her back, a broken chandelier butted away with heel so that he may press her to winding vines on false Bride. The sound she makes is worthy of more than he shall ever be. Down to his knees in supplication, hot lips press to thigh as eyes ask of her a question- permission.

“Serve me.”

It is blasphemous.

What his Inquisitor commands, he joyously obeys.

[songofamazon]

A Circle Unbroken

This was inspired by a prompt from @thedissonantverses Challenge Weekend: "A Circle Unbroken." That was begging to be a later scene in "Iron and Ice," my new-ish Neve Gallus x Vivienne de Fer fic.

It will definitely be edited to reflect whatever happens between chapter 1 and this once I get there, but I had fun imagining this bit today.

(1612 words)

Vivienne gazed down from her balcony near the peak of the White Spire of Orlais. The imperial palace had fallen, and soon after the Grand Cathedral. Smoke, Blight, and chaos wreathed the streets below, but somehow, the Circle still stood.

Somehow?

No.

Vivienne knew exactly how. She had seen to it that the White Spire would hold against the torrents of terror and violence outside its walls.

Leveraging Divine Victoria’s influence and her own authority over the Circle’s mages and templars, Vivienne transformed the fortified tower as a place of refuge for all who wanted it and were willing to leave any conflict at the gates.

Now, hundreds of clerics and other chantry staff tended hundreds more refugees from all races and walks of life right alongside the Circle’s mages. Templars and mages from more remote loyalist Circles, and even some from the so-called College of Enchanters, joined to their numbers. Living quarters were cramped. Blankets and curtains made temporary living spaces in the dungeons for those who wanted more privacy.

Mages healed the sick and renewed the wards against the threats outside. Templars guarded the gates and more precious storerooms, now that their duty of collecting and tagging refugee weapons was complete. There would be no fighting in this tower. The Divine’s most trusted clerics worked alongside Vivienne’s most level-headed templars to insure that. Existing Spire staff as well as capable refugees saw to food, sanitation, and cleaning in the tight spaces. And a single Gray Warden who had been traveling through Val Royeaux when chaos struck offered her services in ensuring that no Blight found its way inside.

Their operation was carefully monitored and adjusted at each level, and, so far, it worked. Sealing the gates five days earlier had been both the most important and most soul-wrenching act under Vivienne’s command.

Could they have fit a few more? Perhaps.

Would allowing entry to more have reunited more families and brought more supplies? Also perhaps.

But it could have just as likely brought conflict and Blight into their midst.

Vivienne already had too many in her care. She owed those charges security and well-being. She could not risk it.

She gazed past the smoky haze to the east. There had been no reply to her missives to Halamshiral in too many days. Fair few of her messenger birds from anywhere returned. Could the awakened Blight snatch a raven out of the sky? She shuddered at the thought.

And to the north? The horrible red light of the weeks-long eclipse cast shadows of blood.

Only divine-like power could have moved the moon and held it in such perfect, obscuring orbit—divine like magic already demonstrated by the unleashed Evanuris.

Vivienne would not speak those suspicions aloud. She left interpretation of the signs to the sermons of the Divine and her clerics. It was better that way. Let people have hope in their Maker.

As for her?

The Maker and his Bride felt more distant now than ever, with the earthly presence of the two ancient elven gods claiming divinity, power, and dominion for themselves.

Even Solas’ awakened power far out-stripped her own.

While Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain took their seat of power in the North, it would not be long before they cast their blighted gazes South. Neve and her Veilguard would need all the power they could get to hold it back—without Vivienne.

Nothing good moved on that northern horizon. No messenger birds there, either. Only blood, fire, and death.

“Worrying about your allies?” the Divine observed as she approached.

Vivienne’s fingers went to the intricately worked though false gold and brocade collar necklace that Neve had bought off a hawker in Minrathous what seemed like an age ago. Vivienne had changed back into proper Orlesian fashion upon her return to the Spire weeks ago, but she couldn't seem to bring herself to put away the trinket.

Fine robes rustled at the doorway between her suite and the adjoining suite she had lent to the Divine.

“Always, your Radiance,” Vivienne admitted, “And my charges, the refugees, and the state of the world.”

“Vivienne! How often must I tell you? It’s Leliana in private,” she chided. “But as you say, it falls to all of us to worry, to pray, and to serve those who need us.”

“As we do here.” What did Leliana want from her today? Or rather, what need had the clerics—or her spies—identified within the Spire? Neither woman had the luxury of idle chatter these days.

Leliana smiled knowingly at her. “You express more than you think, Madame de Fer. And I was once an accomplished player of the Game.”

“But I think,” Leliana started impishly as she joined Vivienne at the balcony railing, “You are missing your lady love most of all.”

Vivienne jerked her hand away from the necklace. “I have uttered no such—“

“You never stopped, my dear.” Vivienne favored her with a weary smile.

“Just don’t tell my clerics. But you’re deflecting,” Leliana teased, then sobered, “But there is never anything wrong with worrying for those you love—or in loving at all.”

“My dear Leliana, you know as well as I do that women of our responsibility have naught the time nor the risk of vulnerability for love.”

“So you say,” Leliana hummed to herself. “Don’t fear. I hold secrets close. But, you haven’t heard from them recently?” She shifted subjects so quickly, Vivienne had not time to protest. Leliana had that infuriating knack, which she deployed so cheerfully.

“No,” Vivienne admitted with a sigh, her gaze tracing north again, in some desperate, frivolous hope of a messenger bird. “Not since the eclipse started. All of us—those of us mages with sufficient skill to sense it—are certain the power that wrenched the moon from its place came from the north. Likely Tevinter.”

“Where your Scout Harding and the rest of her team have been working,” Leliana nodded solemnly. “I have heard nothing from her or any of my people outside of Orlais either. I don’t think my birds can get past the miasma.”

Vivienne forced herself to turn away from the balcony edge. “And so we focus on what is here, and try to plan for a future past this ruin, do we not?”

“One day at a time,” Leliana agreed, then drifted back towards her suite’s door. She paused suddenly, half-way across the common room. “Vivienne? I believe your closet is knocking.”

“What?” Vivienne strode towards her, hearing the polite knocking of a hand against wood as well. The eluvian! Her fingers shook as she pulled the keys from her belt and rushed to the doors. Drawing them open, her heart sank.

A young woman with Dalish tattoos not unlike the Inquisitor had once worn stood silhouetted in the dreamy shimmer of the elven mirror. She wore the colorful, gilded leathers that Vivienne had come to recognize as one of the Veil Jumpers.

Looking only a little shaken, the Veil Jumper announced, “Correspondence for Grand Enchanter Vivienne de Fer.”

Masking a disappointment that she would not name, Vivienne replied coolly, “I am she.”

“Then this is for you,” she produced a folded letter addressed to Vivienne with a shaky, childish penmanship.

Rook.

Vivienne broke the seal and skimmed the note. There was no mention of Neve, but the child who called herself the leader of the Veilguard yet lived, and the ‘god’ Ghilan’nain was dead. There was hope.

“What is it?” Leliana asked, drawing nearer.

“A council of allies is being called to the Lighthouse in the crossroads,” Vivienne replied, “To plan a final assault on Elgar’nan’s seat of power, to which I have been invited, as Grand Enchanter of the southern Circles.”

“Do you wish to send a reply,” the Veil Jumper asked, adding an awkward, “My Lady.” This one had obviously only ever heard of court.

“You will go, obviously,” Leliana said.

“You assume much, your Radiance,” Vivienne countered, “My people need me, here.”

“Your allies up north are going to assault the throne of a god,” Leliana stepped closer. Her playful lilt had been replaced by the steel of a spymaster. “They need you! Maker, Thedas needs you! They need us, the whole White Spire.”

“But—“

“I will not be interrupted, Grand Enchanter,” Leliana’s hair fell freely around her face in the privacy of their rooms, but all the regality of the sunburst throne hung on her countenance. “Your system of care for the refugees here can practically run itself, and what cannot, I will see to. The mages, templars, and any others who would wish to fight this new world order deserve a chance to do so. Your eluvian crossroads and ‘council of allies’ provide the chance to do so. Would we not regret giving all we could to save this world we love—who we love—if our help could tip the balance from defeat to victory?”

Breathless, Vivienne’s heart raced. She pushed away the memory of a Tevinter woman’s wry smile, those lips on hers.

“If that is what the Most Holy decrees,” Vivienne dipped her head in a bow. It was a show for their visitor, of course, but perhaps just the reminder she needed.

“It is.”

“Then,” Vivienne turned back to the messenger, “Please inform dear Rook that she can expect my presence as soon as I assess our resources and settle matters here.”

The Dalish woman gave a shaky smile of relief. “I will convey your reply.”

“And we will make ready.” Vivienne waited until the messenger retreated back into the Eluvian to lock it up again.

There was much to do, but—

I’m coming. Neve, I’m coming.

[tevivinter]

Hiii

For Marel Lavellan/Dorian from the pinning list: actual hearteyes

- asexualtabris 💜

thanks for the prompt! <3 here's a pre-relationship pavellan for @dadrunkwriting

Dorian had expected a peaceful, quiet afternoon in the gardens; just him, his glyph studies, and perhaps a glass of wine later. Birds chirped in the distance, dipping into the fountain. The sun bathed Skyhold in a warm, golden light, and Dorian found a pleasant spot beneath a tree, the shade cooling his skin as he opened his book.

It would have been the perfect setting to focus — if not for Marel.

Of course, it wasn’t as though Dorian’s entire attention gravitated towards him. That would be ridiculous. Clearly, the reason he had read the same paragraph five times was that the glyphs were particularly intricate. It had absolutely nothing to do with how the Inquisitor moved across the garden with Josephine.

They were practicing dance steps again, a necessary preparation before Halamshiral. Dorian had heard about their sessions in passing, but this was his first time witnessing them. And now that he had the chance to observe, it became clear that Marel would need more than a few days. Perhaps a few months, at least.

Dorian winced as the Inquisitor stepped on Josephine’s toes for the third time, his movements possessing all the elegance of a drunken nug. Josephine, ever patient, guided him with gentle corrections, but Marel remained stiff as a door, his steps forced and unsure.

It was almost physically painful to watch. And yet, Dorian couldn’t look away. Not because of the dance, per se, but because of the rare vulnerability hidden in Marel’s face.

The Inquisitor’s brow furrowed with concentration, his gaze fixed downward as if this would stop him from trampling Josephine. His grip on her hand was careful, as though he feared he might hurt her. For all his intimidating presence and sharp tongue, there was a gentleness beneath it all. A man who tried, despite his discomfort, because he cared.

Dorian’s chest tightened. He forced his gaze back to his book, though he read nothing.

Josephine eventually stepped back, offering a polite smile. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I have a meeting to attend. Shall we continue tomorrow?”

Marel nodded, though his frown deepened. “Of course.”

As Josephine disappeared into Skyhold’s halls, Marel exhaled heavily, running a hand down his face. Dorian considered returning to his studies, but then Marel’s voice drifted across the garden.

“Am I doing that terribly?”

Dorian blinked, meeting his gaze. “Pardon me?”

“You’ve been watching the entire time,” Marel strode toward him, arms crossed. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Dorian opened his mouth, then shut it. He composed himself, closing his book with exaggerated calm. “I'm afraid I don't. I was quite busy.”

Marel glanced at the book, then back to him with a deadpan expression. “You’ve been on the same page for half an hour.”

Dorian felt heat creep up his neck. “Well, these are very complex glyphs.”

“Sure.” Marel arched a brow but let it slide. He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen — Josephine is a wonderful teacher, but she’s... too polite. If I must dance at this damned ball, I need someone who will tell me when I look like an idiot.” He paused, scanning Dorian’s face for an instant. “Will you teach me?”

The question caught Dorian completely off guard. He recovered quickly, however, masking his surprise with a smirk. “How could I refuse when you ask so nicely?”

Dorian stood, brushing off his robes. He approached Marel, positioning his hand on top of his arm, the other holding his palm. He glanced up, meeting eyes that were the color of molten gold.

“The first rule to survive Halamshiral is knowing how to waltz without offending anyone,” Dorian explained. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Marel pursed his lips and started to move, his form decent but stiff. His eyes soon flicked to their feet.

Dorian squeezed his hand lightly. “Keep your eyes on me,” he instructed. “And do try to relax. You look as if you’re bracing for a demon attack.”

Marel’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Isn’t that what dancing with Orlesians is?”

Dorian chuckled. “Perhaps. Although, with demons, you can stab them and call it a day. Sadly, that won’t be an option at the Winter Palace.”

Marel exhaled, his shoulders finally loosening. They found their rhythm, the dance slowing into smooth rotations. The small distance between them was maddening — with their hands linked, Marel’s warmth seeped into Dorian’s skin, his heartbeat racing with the contact. Dorian’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to keep his composure.

The Inquisitor was an attractive man, surely. But it was the way he softened in these rare moments that made Dorian’s chest clench with something unknown. Beneath the hardened exterior and the scowl was someone who cared deeply. And when Marel smiled like this, genuinely pleased, Dorian felt the rest of the world fade away.

They danced until the sun began to dip below the mountains, laughter following their steps, teasing remarks filling the spaces between. And for a little while, there was no Inquisition, no Orlesians, no looming threats.

Just them.

And the quiet rhythm of their feet in the garden.

[luzial]

WIP Wednesday

Yet untitled Halamshiral business:

Solas paces, clipped footsteps on tile floors, around the periphery of the ballroom. He intends to walk slowly, to make it less obvious that he is circling the room with a gravity that should cut a trench into the marble beneath his feet. But each time he slows himself, his feet involuntarily rush to return to the tempo of the waltz a few paces later. He breathes through his nose, holds it for as long as he can, releases it. He does this again and again though it provides no ease from the pounding of his heart against his ribs. His eyes are on his boots. His eyes are on shadowed alcoves. His eyes are anywhere but on the ballroom below. Hunt well, he told her. And she has. She may as well wear their pelts like trophies across her shoulders.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

20 Questions for (Fanfiction) Writers

Tagged by @serbarris thank you!! :)

How many works do you have on ao3? 20 published! don't... just don't ask how many are on my computer hard drive.

What’s your total ao3 word count? 187,071. I'm going to be honest guys I did this with a calculator from my 'Works' page and only after the next question did i remember the 'Statistics' page exists and i did not have to do all that.

What are your top five fics by kudos?

Fallout from the Fade | DAI | 780 kudos F!Hawke x Fenris; 90k; In progress/hiatus: what if Hawke manages to survive being left in the Fade, but then has to deal with the aftermath? -- My angsty longfic darling, my outlet for cliffhangers and torment. This fic is on "hiatus" in that I have decided to stop posting chapters until I finish writing it to the ending. But it's not abandoned, just secret progress only due to the Agonies and Horrors and all that (grad school).

Provided it tied you down first | DAI | 527 kudos F!Trevelyan x Solas; 17k; Complete: Solas & Trevelyan have to go undercover in a Tevinter sex dungeon, and Trevelyan can no longer hide her secret desire for Solas -- what? yeah. i wanted to try writing porn for the second time and just looked through the kink!meme prompt list until i found a funny but challenging one. sometimes the fun of writing is taking something unbelievable and working backwards like, ok so what WOULD it take to actually lead to this otherwise out of character situation? also i ran out of birth control and became Compelled to write something horny. to everyone who asks for a sequel i'm sorry i went back on the meds too fast.

Lost to Night | DAI | 227 kudos Solavellan; 11k; Complete: Solas and Lavellan slip away for some alone time after the events at the Winter Palace, but before the party really ends. -- Obligatory Halamshiral hookup fic. This was my first attempt at writing smut, i would do things somewhat different now but I like the fic. The most important thing of course is the Angst is still in there.

Less a man than a wild cat | DA2 | 263 kudos F!Hawke x Fenris; 15k; Complete: Hawke & Co are out drinking while Fenris is away on business, but then a grey cat with white markings that look extremely familiar turns up hissing at Anders and demanding attention from Hawke. -- this is the closest thing to fluff I'lll ever write, probably. just some silly fairytale style fun.

Letters to Fenris | DAI | 200 kudos F!Hawke x Fenris; 1.6k; Complete: a selection of letters that can be found in Fenris' room, after Hawke leaves to help the Inquisition. -- Short & sweet, my favorite hobby is making readers smile and then punching them directly in the gut. Yay!

What fandoms do you write for? Dragon Age and Mass Effect (look... i know I only have one ME fic posted, but I did write a lot more than that. just never shared it). For me personally... fanfic is most interesting when it's for exploring customizable characters & their relationship to the world of the setting. Or the NPC characters in a world that's shaped by the choices of the player. I've never really gotten into fanfic for things like books/movies/tv for this reason, just rpg's.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Hoooooo so like... i do wish i was the kind of author who thanks everyone who leaves a comment and replies thoughtfully within a reasonable timeframe. I wish it!!!!! however the 6-12 months after I started writing fanfic, pretty much every weekend for me looked like this:

stay up all night Sunday writing a chapter

Once finished writing, reward myself with respond to comments on the previous chapter

post the new chapter at 4am with minimal edits if any

sleep for 2 hours then drive to the USGS office, get in the fieldwork SUV, and take a Car Nap on the 6 hour drive to Death Valley or wherever

spend 5 days wandering the desert measuring plants with NO cell service or internet

return to Civilization covered in sand and sweat on Friday, terrorize the locals of Vegas/Moab at the grocery store, and spend 1 day recovering and checking the internet/reading all the comments left over the last week/getting filled in by friends on whatever internet memes i missed while away

now it's Sunday again and repeat this entire process

Anyway this got me in the habit of like... commenting was something i did only after i finished the next update, rather than as people leave them (since I only read them in bulk when I got home). like as a reward to keep me motivated to finish the next chapter so i can talk to people back!! and it's been 3 jobs and 10 years(🙃) since then but the habit persists. but then if it's been more than a month the last update it feels like i'm Too Late to reply anyway so i often don't. idk! maybe part of it's also that i take a LONG time between chapters nowadays bc of Life, so, i am also hiding from the fact that i'm not ready to post the next bit yet. like if i don't reply maybe you can't see me spending 7 hours per day on tumblr wasting time, and be mad that i'm not writing. i know i'm the weird outlier about a lot of fanfic things and processes haha. i do love getting and reading people's comments, sorry i'm so shit at addressing them!

What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Probably Reunion, my pre-DATV release (so no spoilers) Solavellan one-shot where I wanted to make myself as sad as possible imagining a potential outcome for them. What's worse than one half of your ship dying? Maybe both of their psyches getting locked together and one subsuming the other, so what remains is neither fully the individuals or someone new, just a shattered amalgamation left to cope with all that.

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Staring at this like. do i ever write happy endings?? probably the Fenris-is-a-cat fic, but even that i left kind of open. i think my Hawke-deals-with-Leandra's-death fic has a pretty hopeful ending, but the fic itself is a grief exploration, so...

Do you get hate on fics? Every now and then someone leaves a comment like "I'm so sad this fic was abandoned" which, is not really a very motivating way to phrase that. and i've only really abandoned like 1 fic, i consider the others just "perpetually on the back burner", but once you get past a year with no updates I don't blame people for the assumption. my writing and hobbies are on a geologic scale rather than the fast-past biologic scale of the rest of fandom. sorry to make this about geology again.

Do you write smut? Yes... though I've only published 2 pieces and have a 3rd currently being posted. A dozen or so more exist but don't yet have fully fleshed out stories to put them inside lol (sorry Rookanis...). whoops!

Do you write crossovers? I have not. Actually wait, one time I wrote like 2000 words of Mass Effect x Animorphs in a tumblr reply and then the page refreshed and i lost it all and the Murderous Rage about that was too overwhelming to rewrite it. someday though...

Have you ever had a fic stolen? I don't think so. I don't think my writing is popular enough to get noticed like that. Though I also write more than I read so if it did happen, I probably would never notice.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! Both Fallout from the Fade and Letters to Fenris were translated into Russian by a very kind reader :)

Have you ever cowritten a fic before? Nope. I think I'd be pretty miserable to collaborate with. I don't even use beta readers for this reason.

What’s your all time favourite ship? Listen. I know this is my dragon age blog for dragon age things but I'm breaking character for a moment here. for all my love of sollavellan and shakarian and fenhawke. My real otp is FitzChivalry Farseer x The Fool from the Realm of the Elderlings series by Robin Hobb. these books broke me. they changed how i think of storytelling and how i think of love. i cannot emphasize how insane the relationship between these two characters is, and i read the last trilogy AS IT WAS RELEASING, i waited YEARS for the resolution #iykyk. there is no greater love story in my heart than this one. "is it actually gay" it would take me 10 years and 10,000 words to answer that don't worry about it just trust me and read them. yes there's 16 but that's not relevant just read the first trilogy at least and if you have the brainrot you'll be happy for the rest and if not you can just stop there and be satisfied with a solid fantasy story.

now. i do not actually read OR write fanfic for this series. this is because it does not need it. to me the frustrations and agonies and disbelieving joy i get out of FitzLoved are part of what makes it perfect. I have basically nothing to add that is not already covered in the books and the ending, to me, is perfect.

this is the second time ive used this image in 3 days AND I'LL DO IT AGAIN as often as needed!!!!!!!! until everyone in my life gives in and reads them

What’s the wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Of things I've somewhat posted: the Trevelyan x Corypheus fic i got off the k!meme randomly-generate-a-pairing-and-situation post. I wrote a chapter or two more, realized it was shaping up to be Way too long to actually commit to at the time for crack-treated-seriously, and it's been backburner ever since. I would like to go through and sketch out something that is at max 15-20k so i can put a cap on it because i DO think it was really fun as character exploration for Corypheus who is otherwise a CRIMINALLY underutilized villain. he's great ok. the timing in DAI just... doesn't do him justice. also his best dialogue is locked to the Templar route which almost everyone else in the tumblr DA fandom skipped.

Of things i've never posted, a ME: Andromeda fic focusing on the relationship between Ryder & Sam. I got like--15k? or so into that and again realized it was gonna be a 100k endeavor for something probably no one but me would read, due to weirdness and tiny number of people who stayed active in MEA fandom. so i tabled it for a future ME obsession period that has not yet come to pass.

i'll also sneak in here my confession that I now have over 20k of words written for Rookanis and yet have not posted anything to AO3/only a 500 word snipped to tumblr. and probably several of these starts/sections will never get fully formed fics. but i DO intend to finish and share... something for them at least.

What are your writing strengths? I think I am pretty good at building tension, and making the reader feel invested enough to be sad/stressed/nervous when i want them to. my favorite compliments are often the ones like "i don't usually care about this character/trope/whatever but you sold me on it" because that's a harder target than someone already invested.

What are your writing weaknesses? Editing and then sharing it lmao. I'm GREAT at writing as in typing a bunch of things all in a row. everything after the process itself is done? not nearly as interested. I also have a hard time transitioning between sections/scenes and tend to overwrite the in-betweens to get from bit to bit--something that could probably be fixed more in editing if i bothered to do that part.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic? I think if it's more than a few short phrases or single sentences you can guess from context it can get annoying, reading wise. if there's some sort of in-line translation or hover-over-alt-text that makes it nicer. however i do write this anyway myself bc i love the idea of lost language/reverting to old habits or selves/etc too much, so like, just because it's kind of annoying to have to read through doesn't mean i think people shouldn't do it/it's not worth it. i sure won't stop.

First fandom you wrote for? Dragon Age: Inquisition lol. the first fanfics I ever wrote are still on my account. i wince at them now, but i think it's nice to have that proof of my progress/growth there. i don't need my AO3 to be a greatest highlights reel, just an archive.

Favourite fic you’ve ever written? Like Teeth Against His Heart, my Solavellan DAI-era prose poem weirdly formatted ficlet ♥︎ (on tumblr as the zine pages here, and on AO3 here). I am slowly Marinating the Trespasser & DATV sequels to this in my heart, but it will be slow to get them fully formed on paper.

whew 20 is a lot and i talk too much, this got long oops! Anyway tagginggggggg @baejax-the-great @m-m-m-myysurana @sageadvice @songofamazon @loquaciousquark @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai but i love reading writing-meta stuff like this so if any followers wanna do it, go ahead and do so & tag me so i can read everyone else's too :)

[evanhereonearth]

Ilaana thinks she knows, but she doesn’t.

She will.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral, she traces the lines between the map of hints, learning, always learning. A stray word from Cole, her intuition strong enough to work out the impossible secret her love was hiding and instincts loud enough to scream that if his secret were simply names, he would have told her here.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events,” from the mouth of Fen’Harel the night she lets an empress die for the genocide committed against an alienage.

Through the Temple of Mythal, through the whispers of the well, through Morrigan explaining the ancient elves to the ancient elves themselves, her love among them, through Crestwood when he walks away, through the second Breach and broken orbs, through her naked face where Mythal’s vallaslin once lay like spring green upon her skin, through Wisdom to Pride and back again, into the depths of the titan’s truth, through his silence in the blue glow of lyrium, through Ameridan and Telana dreaming, dreaming, searching, grieving.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral, quiet whispers in the Inquisition as spies from outside trip over one another, no sign of Solas except what she senses in waking and in dreams, that there has to be more, and everything she has pieced together points to the veil.

“What would you have me do?”

“I would have had you trust me!”

She thinks she knows, but she doesn’t. She still doesn’t know. There is a difference between knowing and knowing, and she is still years off knowing.

“Let me help you, Solas.”

“I cannot do that to you, vhenan.”

“But you would do it to yourself? I cannot bear to think of you alone.”

“I walk the din’an shiral. There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.”

She thinks she knows. She will learn what she does not know.

But he also thinks he knows. He will learn too.

Banal nadas. Ar lath, ar lath, ar lath.

He takes her arm; he frees her from the Well’s compulsion, what remained after he broke the unwitting bondage of her vallaslin. She feels something different but does not understand what, not yet.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral and then beyond. Into the depths of the Fade, seeking as he taught her to seek. Into the depths of the earth, seeking as he feared she would seek. Into the depths of her heart, seeking a truth he dared not seek himself.

Echoes of a dead empire.

Spirits who know his names.

Memories. Remnants.

Those she does not trust fall away. Varric she lets return to Kirkwall, where she visits, pushing at the edges of his stubbornness where she can, fruitless against what he feels to be true about the world. Vivienne she keeps as close as an enemy should be, Vivienne who front-loads her barriers and calls Cole a demon because she understands so little in her expertise. Sera she helps flit away, never challenging, never letting closer than a prank or two.

Cullen, she treats with gentleness. She helps him with his templars, teaches them a softer side of magic, how to breathe through their fear, why their blood sings out for connection to something they don’t understand, how they can find that connection in transcending the terror. Tiny challenges, chips in the bulwark of the Chantry’s prison of lyrium, slow healing with the hand of a friend between their shoulder blades.

The Seekers sow new seeds with Cassandra, and she helps them, too. Helps them understand that their existence is intrinsically touched by the Fade, that their discipline and their training circumvents the fears of the templars to remake them, shows them that their incorruptibility is built upon the foundation of spirits who are and always have been here to help.

She sends Thom on with grace, receives a griffon feather in a letter, closes her eyes against the knowledge of the Wardens’ weaknesses and prays that little feather is a symbol of rebirth.

She seeks from Amaranthine to the Anderfels, from the Avvar to Antiva, and she finds out, crumb by crumb and step by step, what she didn’t know in Crestwood. What she didn’t know the day the Anchor almost killed her.

Cole comes to her to say goodbye, lets her see him back to the Fade. “I need to go where I’m needed the most,” he says, and she knows who he means and sends him with a message in the form of Compassion.

She shares this only with Merrill and Leliana and Dorian, and that only reluctantly. Trust grows with their sharing of knowledge. A circle within the inner circle, and when the Iron Bull can no longer tolerate Dorian’s growing trials in Tevinter, Dorian lets him go with the Chargers, to a simpler life without the Qun but without fear of what may be coming next. She holds Dorian while he weeps, as he has held her so many times.

They walk this path together.

Josephine connects her to places her remaining hand could not otherwise reach, annals and archives locked behind luxury and privilege. Josie knows there is much she herself does not know, but the Inquisitor is an arrow fired from a bowstring stretched between two points in time at Halamshiral, and while Josie may not understand, something in her whispers that she must trust.

The Dalish feel so distant to Ilaana now, but she goes to them. She goes to Keeper Hawen in the Exalted Plains, to Keeper Deshanna and Clan Lavellan, to the Arlathvhen and gathered clans, to the Dalish who have faded into forests. She shares what she can, knowledge gleaned from walking the Fade just as he did in the Inquisition. Some chase her away as she tells them the truth of their gods, sometimes with words, sometimes with arrows.

But some listen.

Whispers reach her over the years of some few vanishing, of ventures into Arlathan Forest, of villages.

And that is where Morrigan finds her.

Like Ilaana, Morrigan has been humbled by learning she did not know what she was sure she knew.

“You were justified in making me the fool,” Morrigan says to her one night as they observe the fledgling Veil Jumpers, unseen by the elves. “And you were justified in demanding the Well.”

Morrigan is…more now. A fragment of Mythal. She tries once to compel Ilaana, at Ilaana’s bidding, and fails. Ilaana’s triumph feels hollow, regardless of the relief.

“Fen’Harel was adept at breaking every bond but his own,” Morrigan murmurs. “But to be certain your will is your own, allow me to release you from my service.”

There is nothing left to release, but in that moment, Ilaana finds another ally.

“I would not see him fall,” Morrigan tells her softly. “’Tis monstrous to mould Wisdom into a weapon. I have her memories, tempered by lives lived through a human lens. I would make what amends I can.”

She is beginning to know.

The moment of epiphany comes on the back of betrayal, as it so often does.

Precious possibilities stolen from her soul, Solas all but lost in an instant, and oh, what follows is knowledge.

She walks the trail of the Evanuris, released rabid from their prison, watches the monsters they leave in their wake. She watches as an unrelenting nightmare blooms in blight from Arlathan to Antiva and beyond, and she cannot stay her hand.

Ten years of searching, seeking, learning. Ten years of quiet coded messages, of desperate trust, of Dorian and Leliana and Morrigan and Merrill and Hawke. Ten years of rebuilding Ferelden, Orlais, the Free Marches. Ten years of midwifing the birth of elven rights and free mages. Ten years of defending those left defenceless while powers parade about in privilege and audacity. Ten years of learning, living, bleeding.

Ten years of messages left in the Fade for one who will find them, in hope he would hear them. Ten years of trying. Ten years of deciding. Ten years of indomitable focus.

And now…ruin.

Rivers roiling with blight, Antaam and Venatori making a mockery of the red lyrium fever dream Corypheus brought to Redcliffe: a real nightmare is born when the blight takes Denerim. Hard-won recover bashed to bits against boils of poison and death. The healing herbs of the Hinterlands she once gathered for refugees wither where nowt will grow again.

Ten years of fighting for the people of this world turned to ash in a matter of weeks.

Ten minutes of fidgeting, waiting for the person who loosed it on the world to wade into a truth she’s waited ten years to tell. Dorian held her again, held her together, preparing to let her go even now but holding her close just a little longer. He has been beside her, always. He knows.

So she sits down with Rook to talk, to sow seeds of hope. Not to shame, not to blame—those impulses, Ilaana keeps locked away. She dances around the topic as if tiptoeing, watching Rook’s amusement turn to genuine surprise at Ilaana’s words.

“Or maybe I’m the prideful one, imagining his broken heart so that I never have to face my folly: that I loved someone who made such grave mistakes. That I may love him still.”

Twisting her words like he does, the truth twining between hedging phrases that bury the ache of her bone-deep exhaustion. She will save this world first, clean up someone else’s mess yet again, but now…only now does she finally know.

Why he walked away. Why following had to be her will and hers alone. Why he would not do such a thing to his heart, to allow her to follow when she did not know what she does now.

So she fights. And she waits. For a little while longer.

To show him she is not alone. To show him he is not alone. Ten years for her to hear the truth in what he told her once.

“If you are cracking, vhenan, it is does not mean you are about to shatter, but that you are about to be reborn.”

[mercysought]

the judgement of Florianne de Chalons in Skyhold

   "First, this wasn't my idea. It is an issue born of titles and heir apparency and…“ the heavy sigh from the Lady Embassador is the first thing that truly pulls away Asharen’s attention from the box that had been brought with great effort to the throne room.

It was large, taking at least give or take five different men, all orlesians, to carry it up the stairs, around the corner to the large doors. Asharen had watched, before she had climbed up the stairs to the single chair with the Inquisition’s eye, as they had made their walk. Aligning to make sure that they would not drop it - looking at their expressions it had been clear that they should not drop it.

And to mind specific parts of the box that were wet. To mind the leakage.

Asharen, who had been studying the box now for a solid five minutes before the Ambassador had walked beside it, was starting to have a deep sinking feeling. Especially as the soft buzzing of flies was now starting to settle as the silence followed.

   "Halamshiral is having difficulty freeing trade routes formerly controlled by Duchess Florianne.“ and Josephine looks to the box. Asharen’s brows shoot up her forehead as her light eyes follow suit. Both hands resting on the side of the throne, feeling the blood drain from her face ”Had she been tried her assets would be forfeit and considerable bureaucracy avoided. So they ask that we judge her.“

Josephine is looking at her. As is the rest of the throne room. Asharen is looking at the box. The box she is meant to be judging. The box containing Florianne de Chalons. Her mouth hangs open for a moment. A brief moment as she waits for Josephine’s face to crack into a soft smile, a follow up to complete a joke. A bad taste joke, but a joke.

When silence follows, the Inquisitor’s stomach sinks further.

   "This is a joke.“ it is all that she can muster to say. Her voice is a whisper. If there is hope that there would be humour to come still, it is completely devoid on the elven’s woman’s face - especially now that the blood was swiftly returning to her face. Her hands growing cold and clammy. The Inquisitor blinks when no one says a thing. When Josephine remains quiet with a mouth hanging open much like her own.

She glances towards the crowd, past the box and towards Vivienne who also looks upon her with a grave expression. Her eyes return to Josephine ”This is not a joke?“

Josephine had started talking but Asharen is not listening. Her back stiffens and she holds onto the side of the throne, softly mindful of keeping her fingers from digging into the material. The Judgements had always been a sort of theater that she did not fit into; Josephine had given her a justification as to why she should be the one doing so but each time - thankfully few - she had sat upon this chair with the intent of casting down judgement she felt only sick. Sick and ill-equipped.

It was entertainment. And this box, this theater of a judgement illustrated it clearly. Asharen’s eyes return to Josephine who had fallen silent once more. It was likely what Empress Celene was attempting to illustrate with all of… this.

Asharen cannot even begin to fathom what mind would have conjured up such a herculean task with the single point being cruelty. A game. This was a waste of her time, a waste of her efforts. Above them and through her nation demons and rifts still opened and this… this is what was fit for the Inquisitor - the only person who could do something about it - to waste time on.

   "Empress Celene seems fit to waste…“ her throat is dry, realising she had kept her mouth open in stunned silence for longer than she likely should. Than Josephine would approve, but Asharen kept talking. And as the thoughts and words came to her, the more she thought that Josephine would disapprove of those too ”to waste my time, her gold and… and her people’s time to bring a box with an orlesian’s noble corpse all the way to Skyhold…“

Her eyes fall on the soldiers who look now to her. Nervous. Uneasy as the conversation turns in tone. The yellow plumes on their head do not escape her. They looked small, ridiculous in their armour having carried this box for the Creator’s knew how long in the snow.A body that was decomposing and eating through the material. A body that had been dismembered or contorted unnaturally.

It stunned her, truly. There was no other word to cover it, no other descriptor that coud completely fit the desdain and outrage she felt for the disecration of a body and a soul when she herself had taken.

   "To butcher the body of someone that is of her blood.“ even if that of a traitor. Asharen soothed her anger, the boiling that was happening in her lungs. This human should mean less than nothing to her, and yet with this action they had made it her problem too ”And do so, in the name of… avoiding buraucracy.“

It was a betrayal, of sorts, she might expect it from Orlesians and their nobles and games but it was Josephine who now bore the deepest sections of her disappointment. To be so blindly guided and to be left blindsided in front of a crowd.

Asharen doesn’t see them though, she doesn’t see even Josephine though she hears how thinnly they all breathe. The expectation and hanging upon her words and opinion in the air. She considers if she should keep her mouth shut - she should, to provide any sort of reaction was surely into playing whatever game Celene had placed in front of them. Asharen did not want to play, not like this. Light eyes return to the box and she feels the same anger raise at the back of her mouth.

How many people had not have their loved one’s bodies recovered from the conclave? She had thought of herself, back in Haven, locked inside a small room in the chantry and despite it all, all she could think was whether Ren was somewhere, gravely wounded, tired, cold. Alone. That he would be wondering if she was alive and cold too. The thought that each time they went up, looking for survivors or otherwise in the cold and in the snow, that they would ask to speak to her. Before she had become the Inquisitor, before she was anyone to them beyond a potential criminal.

Not even body parts. There would be nothing to be buried.

What level of abject cruelty must one carry to feel this was a levelled and good decision? Asharen’s jaw tenses and her fingers smoothe over the fabric. The thought that she should have let that woman die by Florianne’s mind crosses her mind.

It is a dangerous thought. Especially as they all sat there, waiting for her judgement. The Inquisitor’s eyes return to Josephine.

   "If the Orlesian Empire has issues with considerable bureaucracy, then perhaps we should suggest that Empress Celene takes the time she has been afforded to fix it.“ this was not something for the Inquisition to fix. She speaks the words through gritted teeth. It was not for the Inquisition to help smoothe over. To improve over.

Their goal was clear, and Asharen was to make sure that while others would attempt to paint them as dangerous for amassing an army that they should remain focused: to destroy Corypheus, prevent him from destroying this world, close the Breach.

Nothing more. Creators, if she was just allowed to continue her research she might not even need to be Inquisitor. There may be others that might help fix this - if given the right tools. And instead they were here. Playing as rulers and as judges.

   "Now that she doesn’t have a civil war on her hands and that she still breathes were it not for our intervention, she should be inspired enough to put such gratitude into action.“

She can see Josephine’s face fall, but Asharen’s shoulders sag upon the words finally leaving her. Her back resting on the soft back of the throne, the tightly woven traditional braids against the stuffed fabric. What was she doing? What was the point of this?

   "Creators—“ she sighs. The word comes out as a breath, exasperated and tired. Frustrated she pushes herself up from the throne with a decision, not for the box that deserved no judgement but for who she would be moving forward.

The dead walked with their Friend to the Beyond where even the All Mother’s judgement was waved - these words would mean nothing to them but to her? These were guidelines, though she didn't need them to know that this was foul. This was where the line was drawn.

   "That’s it.“ she gets up, her mouth dry, scratching her forehead as she feels her body float down the flights of stairs ”I’m not doing this again.“

This. This judgement. All of it. She was not doing it again. They wanted her to make more assertive decisions? Let this be amongst the first, then. It was a waste of her time. A waste of resources. Unless direly, sorely needed, she would not sit upon that throne again.

Her eyes lie once more on the box. That damned box and she feels her feelings roar up once more against her throat.

   "Inquisitor?“ Josephine approaches and her voice, hesitant and half confused. Bewildered, perhaps.

Asharen just wanted that box sent back and to forget about this all. The bitterness in her mouth would linger long after, however. They would craft a letter - Asharen’s eyes fall on the Diplomat - one that would not land them in hotter words than the ones that she had so carelessly spoken already. They would do it, but first - first - Asharen looked upon her friend with a deeper bitterness than the one that was promised for tomorrow:

   "A word, Josephine, please.“