#shartan-the-rebel

[butchofthewilds]

Toying with Rook concepts (even though I am literally in the beginning of DAO Act 1 and DATV hasn’t come out yet) and I just realized that my primary idea—an elf Shadow Dragon who is a brash, autistic lesbian with issues with authority and trans-lineage adoption trauma up to here—is. More or less mage Sera. I think I’m going to have to go with this concept because frankly sharing a psychic link with someone who reminds him strongly of both Sera and his younger self because he fucked up royally would be probably Solas’s personal hell.

[brekkie-e]

Genuinely can not imagine being a religious Dalish Inquisitor while meeting Flemeth with Morrigan. I mean, really. Really sit with that. One of the most beloved and respected gods of your pantheon comes and says hi to you. Tells you she kinned harder with a human's need for vengeance than she did with any of the living elves of that time. Then has the audacity to say "what could I have done/you dont know what you ask for" when you demand an explanation for why she's not answered the prayers of your people and helped in some way.

Idk, Susan. Shown up to the Exalted March in dragon form and given the Emerald Knights some back up?? Helped Shartan and the others rebel? Shown up to the Dalish and given them advice, history, hope? It's not as though Flemeth sits out of political or world wide issues. It just seems a little selective. And there's a huge difference between "fixing it entirely" cause thats impossible and doing next to nothing at all.

I wish there was a "Im asking why you didn't show up with a dragon!" Dialogue wheel 🤣

[eastern-lights]

I for one hope that the Veilguard devs were joking with the "Solas is bald because he's old" thing.

Because what had been implied until that point is so much more interesting - that he shaved his head when he rebelled to distance himself from the Evanuris (who had a thing for elaborate hairstyles if Flemythal is anything to go by). After the fall of Arlathan, the image of the archetypal rebel folk hero with a shaved head entered elven legends, and was eventually picked up by Shartan, who intentionally modelled his appearance on the stories from his childhood. Shartan's appearance would go on to be imitated by others (such as Zathrian) until shaving one's head became a symbol of dedicating oneself to a greater cause and protecting the innocent.

[mako-designated-driver]

Day #16: Bonus

Shartan 9

The rebel slaves flee

For twenty days and twenty nights the People ran,

With the footsteps of the legion ever at their backs.

No rest could they find, since their flight from Vol Dorma.

The People cried out in despair:

"Alas, that we ever left Vol Dorma!

Better we had died there than to be hunted like sport on the plains."

Among the People, some began to whisper of returning

To the city and throwing themselves

At the feet of their former masters,

And Shartan heard them.

Shartan rallies the elves

As the People paused to break bread at the foot

Of the hill the Tevinters called "the Lonely One,"

Shartan stood on the hilltop and spoke, saying:

"Some among you wish to flee back to your masters,

To throw yourselves at their feet and ask forgiveness.

You have left that path. It is already gone.

Your feet can never again tread the dust of Vol Dorma.

"He who asks for the mercy of the masters

Will stand accountable for murder and theft

And be made example for the slaves of other cities,

That they might not have the courage to rise up.

"They will taunt you and humiliate you

While they hang you in the marketplace.

They will pelt you with offal while they call you

Broken, a coward, and a failure.

"A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten

And be forgiven, but a slave never.

If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight."

And the People heard the truth in Shartan's voice,

And some cursed themselves and their fate and despaired.

And others began to fashion spears and bows

From the branches of trees, and girded themselves

With bark and scraps torn from their sandals

And dug pits in the earth with their hands.

The elves ambush the legion

Darkness fell upon the Lonely One,

A night without moon or stars,

As the legion followed, like bloodhounds,

The trail of the rebels.

And when the hunters reached the foot

Of the solitary hill, they found nothing,

The trail of their quarry vanished, as if the People

Had taken wing.

The officers began to curse their men

And blame one another for losing the trail,

And the soldiers fell to bickering among themselves.

In silence all around them, the People crept out

From holes clawed in the earth, and with harvesting blades

And arrows chipped from stones,

Fell upon the unwary legion and slaughtered them to a man.

The elves celebrate their victory

And the People raised the blades of the fallen soldiers to the heavens

And rejoiced. And Shartan said to them:

"No longer are we hunted! We shall never again

Be prey, waiting to be struck down!

Let us take up the blades of our enemies

And carve a place for ourselves in this world!"

The People heard him, and girded themselves

In the armor of the dead

And sharpened their blades and arrows

And prepared for war.

The army of Andraste arrives

As the People danced over the corpses

Of slain soldiers, a thunder filled the air

And the ground trembled, and a hush fell over them,

As they knew a terrible omen had come.

From afar, they heard the sound

Of ten thousand voices raised in song,

And the marching of a great host.

Shartan goes forth to meet the army

Seeing an army beyond counting gathered in the distance,

Shartan said to the People

"Let us not fall into the jaws of the wolf together.

I will go alone and see what army comes,

Singing, to the land of Tevinter."

Across the empty plains Shartan crept

To where the great host camped, the light from countless fires

Guiding him through the darkness.

Then a great hand clamped down upon Shartan's neck,

And he was lifted into the air. And he looked into the eyes

Of a towering creature, taller than any legion soldier, featured like a man

But covered in fur like a beast and bearing a mighty shield.

Havard the Aegis greets Shartan

The creature spoke in a stern voice, saying:

"Why are you to come upon us alone,

Wearing the armor of our most hated foe,

When I can see you are no man of the legion?"

And Shartan answered him: "If you hate the legion,

Then I am your friend."

And the giant laughed, and set him back upon his feet,

Declaring: "Then the Aegis of Alamarri bids you welcome!

Follow me to the side of the Prophet."

Shartan meets Andraste

The Aegis led him to the center of the great host,

And Shartan saw that they counted men and women of all descriptions among them.

Many bore the scars of escaped slaves, and some had come west

From the coastlands, and they stood as equals beside the wild giant men of the South.

There, in the heart of them, sang a Lady radiant

And clad in armor of bright steel.

She paused her song to look upon Shartan,

And said to him: "All souls who take up the sword

Against Tevinter are welcome here.

Rest, and tell us of your battles."

And Shartan told her: "I cannot rest

While the People wait in darkness and fear."

So Andraste sent him with three of her attendants

To invite the People to come to her side.

And the People came, all astonished

To stand among Andraste's followers,

And she gave them food and drink and bade them sit

While Shartan gave her the tale of their uprising

And flight from Val Dorma.

When the tale was finished, Andraste said to Shartan:

"Truly, the Maker has called you, just as He called me,

To be a Light for your People.

The host you see before you march,

Bearing His will north, where we shall deliver it

To Minrathous city of magisters, and we shall tear down

The unassailable gates, and set all slaves free."

And Shartan looked upon the Prophet Andraste

And said: "The People will set ourselves free.

Your host from the South may march

Alongside us.

The giants of the South rose to their feet as one

And bowed. And Andraste said:

"It is done. We march as one."

—Shartan 9:1-9:28, Dissonant Verse

Shartan 10

The armies clash on Valarian Fields

At Shartan's word, the sky

Grew black with arrows.

At Our Lady's, ten thousand swords

Rang from their sheaths.

A great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly, proclaiming:

Those who had been slaves were now free.

The legion fell before them

Like wheat before the scythe,

But the armies of Tevinter were numberless,

A sea of death which crashed upon

The Prophet and her army like waves.

Shartan rescues Andraste

The host of the Lady

Began to falter. The legion

Turned spear and sword, fire

And ice upon them, and the warriors

Of the Prophet were scattered,

Divided from their commanders

By magic, penned like cattle for slaughter.

Shartan saw that walls of ice

Surrounded Andraste and her warriors,

And he rallied the People.

And with arrows aflame,

The walls of magic melted

And the Prophet and her warriors were free.

Andraste names Shartan her champion

And the Prophet stood beside Shartan

And shouted to her host:

"Behold! Our champion!"

And gave to him the blade of her own mother

From her own scabbard, Glandivalis, saying:

"Take this, my champion,

And free our people forever."

And the Prophet and the People

Struck down the mages of the legion

And claimed the field together.

And before them, empty,

Outstretched lay the land

Which led to the gates of Minrathous.

—Shartan 10:1-10:7, Dissonant Verse

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

Shartan 9:5-7

Here's the next installment! Lilith is mean (we support women's wrongs) and Ava and Beatrice deepen their connection the best way they know how (by having an argument). I'm really proud of this one, so I hope you guys like it too! Not much longer now until we dive into In Hushed Whispers!

The late afternoon sun stings your eyes as your horses plow ever onward through the snow, but when Haven finally comes into view, you can squint through it enough to spot the changes.  On your return from the Hinterlands, you were greeted with a flurry of new residents, and now you are greeted with catapults.  Or rather, the skeletons of catapults still being constructed.  Workers clad in heavy furs scurry about the base of each weapon, carrying wooden beams and boxes of tools, while bands of soldiers patrol the perimeter in a uniform fashion.

“Dora works fast,” Beatrice comments as you ride past the platform of a work-in-progress trebuchet.  “Are we anticipating an attack?”

“No,” Mother Superion says calmly.  “At least not yet.  Dora and I discussed this prior to our departure.  Thanks to Josephine, we have been able to secure access to a steady supply of lumber and with it, the ability to fortify Haven into a proper base of operations.  There may be no immediate threat, but we must not leave ourselves vulnerable.”

“A handful of catapults will not stop an army,” Lilith contests.  You glance over at her cautiously, minding the distance between your horse and hers.  The Seeker’s dark eyes are locked ahead of her, her mouth is pressed in a tight line, and her expression is dour and closed off.

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth.  You thought her mood had recovered after you left Val Royeaux, but ever since you agreed to hire the Chargers and started your trek back to Haven, it has steadily declined.  Lilith was prickly at the best of times, but now she’s downright thorny, liable to draw blood at a single wrong word.  You aren’t the only one who’s noticed, if the look you share with Camila is anything to go by.

“Maybe not,” Mother Superion concedes, side-eyeing Lilith with a mixture of concern and annoyance.  “But it will make them think twice about the risks of an all-out attack.  And there will be more improvements over the coming weeks.”

You leave your horses in Dennet’s care at the stables and trudge through the chilled mud and slush up to the Chantry.  No one is waiting outside to greet you this time, meaning that Dora and Josephine are likely inside working.  Sure enough, you find Josephine laboring over a pile of memos and documents in her study while Dora pushes painted wooden blocks across a map of Ferelden, playing out troop movements in miniature, with Redcliffe and Therinfal Redoubt both surrounded by neat formations of blocks.  You usher them both back into the war room and shut the door so you can lay out everything that’s happened without interruption.

Neither are pleased to hear about the Chantry’s declaration, but Josephine gets a particularly worried furrow in her brow as she takes notes on her parchment board.  Dora curses softly when you tell them about the Templars’ desertion and rebels’ offer.  “I really thought they could be made to see reason,” she murmurs, defeated.  She mournfully shifted the majority of the blocks from Redcliffe to Therinfal.  “At least now we’ll know who to expect on the battlefield.”  Josephine talks in rapid sentences about how the Inquisition should approach the rebels.  Words like “emissary”, “tributes”, and “entente” fly circles around your head, but you can barely make sense of them.

The ambassador does express interest when you mention Madame de Fer.  “That was very clever, to bring her onboard.  Even if she isn’t our liaison to the Imperial Court, attaching her name to ours will put us leagues ahead of where we were in persuading noble support.  I will make arrangements for her arrival at once.”

Dora’s chagrin shifts to interest when you tell her about the Chargers  “I’ve never worked with mercenaries,” she admits.  “But if they’re serious about joining our ranks, then I will set them up with accommodations and add them to the rosters.”

“Their reputation precedes them,” Josephine comments.  “They are known for being professional and efficient, far beyond what most companies can claim.  If they are as competent as the rumors say, then they will doubtless be a boon to us.  I will make the arrangements for their fee.  It will not be an issue.”

Your friends grow fidgety by the time the impromptu meeting winds down.  Mother Superion doesn’t show a hair of it, of course, but the rest are shifting about impatiently.  Even Beatrice seems to struggle to follow the line of conversation, her eyes drifting off to the side with obvious tiredness.

“That’s all we have to share right now,” you say to the two advisors.  “We can talk about it more tomorrow.”

“Very true,” Dora concedes.  “You should all get some rest.  Josephine and I will hold down the fort until then.”

Your party drifts apart as you leave the war room.  Most of you start heading in the direction of your living quarters, but Lilith does the opposite.  Without more than a terse “see you later”, she marches out of the Chantry and down the steps toward the town gates, leaving the rest of you standing befuddled in her wake.  Camila rubs absently at her arms, biting her lip and looking very much like she wants to go after the Seeker, rolling anxiously on the balls of her feet.

“Let her be,” Mother Superion says.  “She’ll return when she’s ready to.”  She rests a hand on Camila’s shoulder and guides her to turn and continue moving toward her chambers, tutting at her when she tries to protest.  You watch them disappear down the hallway before turning to Beatrice.

“Are you going to be okay?” You ask her before you think better of it.

She tilts her head.  “Of course.  Why wouldn’t I be?”

You squirm a little in your spot.  “I just meant…”  Shit, what did you mean?  “We had a long trip.  I don’t know about you, but my ass still hurts from being in a saddle for so long.  Uh, I mean, I know we’re all pretty tired, so I just thought—” Shut the fuck up, dumbass.  “Sorry, maybe that was weird to ask.  I’ll be quiet now.”

In the face of your idiotic babble, she actually smiles.  It’s small, just an upturn of the lips, but it’s soft, and it does something alarming to your heartbeat when you see it.

“I’m fine, Ava.  Thank you for asking.”  She takes a step closer to you, and she rests a hand on your bicep.  “Are you going to be okay?”

You beam brightly at her.  “I’m great!  In fact, I’m golden!”  You say, wiggling your arms about to add to the effect.

She snorts.  “If you can still make silly puns, then it must be so.  I’ll see you at dinner, alright?”

“Oh!  Yeah, totally!”  She squeezes your arm and then lets go.  With another gentle grin, she takes her leave, and you stand alone in the vestibule as the full weight of your exhaustion drops on your shoulders.  You desperately need a nap, but as you meander to your quarters, a thread of anxiety weaves persistently through your thoughts.  It wraps itself around your brain and tugs, pulling it in the direction of a steely-eyed Seeker and the way she stormed out of the Chantry without glancing back.  It tugs and tugs until you give up on napping and instead force your wet noodle limbs to carry you to the dinner table.  Most of your friends arrive and find you there.  Mary pats you on the back, and Solas inquires about your journey with casual interest, but Lilith is nowhere to be seen.  You keep scanning the entrances and exits to see if she’ll suddenly appear, but she never does.  You eat your food half-heartedly (it’s delicious, but you weren’t really hungry) and trudge back to your room as night begins to fall.  You fiddle about for a while, looking for something to occupy your mind with, but you keep glancing out the window, peering in the direction of Haven’s gates, beyond which lay the stables and training grounds.  You see soldiers and workers leave their posts for the night and head for the tavern, but you see neither hide nor hair of Lilith.

Huffing, you make yourself get ready for bed and climb under the covers.  “She’s a big girl,” you tell yourself.  “She can do what she wants.”  It’s a true statement, but it sounds paltry to your ears.  That thread keeps tugging, keeping you from rest.  You squirm about, turning your body away from the window and forcing your eyes closed.  She’s a big girl, you repeat.  She can take care of herself.

Just when it feels like you’ve finally fallen asleep, the door to your room bursts open with a bang, startling you awake again.  You instinctively reach for your staff right next to you, but are greeted with nothing but your bedspread, because you’d thought that being back in Haven meant you didn’t have to sleep with a weapon in arm’s reach.  Your head whips toward the door, intent on identifying where the attack is coming from, only to be left blinking stupidly at the woman standing in the doorway.

“Lil—?”

“Get up,” she barks at you.  “Training started half an hour ago.  Get dressed and follow me to the training grounds.”

“Wait, why are—”

“Up, Ava!”  She barks again, doing a very good impression of an angry Mabari.  “Now.”

She’s scary this morning.  You’re not too proud to admit that.  With her shining armor, rigid posture, and cold expression, she’s as frightening as any Templar that ever stalked through Aeonar.  She’s more frightening, actually, because you’ve seen what she can do to Templars.  And mages, and bandits, and wolves, and bears, and bushes.

As such, it’s fear that drives you to obey her.  You scramble out of bed and pull on your clothes and armor, all while she stands there glaring at you, only looking away when you strip down to give an illusion of privacy.  “You won’t need your staff,” she tells you curtly.

“What are we doing?”  You ask as you lace up your boots.

“You’ll see.  Let’s go,” she commands, turning and marching out, leaving you jogging to keep up.  Outside, the sun is still hiding below the mountains, leaving the dawn sky blue and dim.  Despite the early hour, there are people already hard at work.  Lilith leads you past the stables and the forge, which are both alive with activity, and takes you straight to the training field, where soldiers of all stripes are stretching and exercising.  She takes you to an open space at the end of the line before turning to regard you with cold appraisal.

Your fear is starting to turn into irritation, a familiar emotional progression for you.  “Lilith, what’s this about?  Why are we out here?”

“We’re out here because you’re a weakling without a shred of strength or stamina in your bony little body,” she snaps.

“You dragged me out of bed so you could berate me for not working out in prison?”

“I brought you here so we could fix your pathetic state and turn you into a half-way decent fighter,” Lilith retorts, crossing her arms over her chest.  “Difficult as that may be.”

“Why only me?” You ask.  “Solas is just as skinny as I am, I don’t see him shivering out here.”

“Solas knows how to fight, and he isn’t the face of this Inquisition.  For better or worse, you are, and if you can’t march worth a damn or take on a single opponent in a fair fight, you’ll make us look weak.”

Okay, fuck that.  “For the hundredth fucking time, Lilith, I didn’t ask to be some fucking symbol, especially not for a bunch of Andrastian fanatics who would’ve killed me if I didn’t have a spooky Mark on my hand.”  You throw the words at her like rocks.  The concern you felt for her the previous day is fading like smoke in the wind, replaced with anger.

“Be that as it may, you and that Mark are what these faithful have chosen to rally around, and that means you have to be someone they can believe in.”

You shake your head.  “Nah, screw this.  I’m going back to bed.”  You turn to stalk away through the snow, but you don’t make it two steps before something knocks into your back, shoving you to the ground.  “What the fuck?”

“You can’t even take a single hit,” she taunts.  When you scramble to your feet again, you find her holding a long, polished stick, a training weapon if you had to guess.  It’s evident that this is what she hit you with, and she throws a longer version of it into the snow at your feet.  “Your little phasing trick won’t work every time.  What will you do the next time you face a Templar who suppresses your magic?  They won’t give you an opening like that fool in the Hinterlands.”

You realize with a start that she’s doing that to you right now, suppressing your magic and cutting off your access to the Fade.  You feel frantically inside yourself for your Friend’s presence.  It’s there, but blocked, the way it was when the knight-captain had you by the throat.  You won’t be able to use spells, your blast ability, or even phase outside of a life-threatening situation.  She’s taking away all of your options to force you to fight.

You pick up the training stick at your feet, realizing that it’s as long as a staff.  That must be why she didn’t have you bring your own.  You brush the snow off the polished wood before gripping it in your cold hands, out in front of you in an instinctive guard position.

“Strike at me,” Lilith demands, her sword arm relaxed at her side, blatantly mocking you.

“No,” you defy, stepping back from her.  “I’m not playing this game.”

“This is not a game,” she snarls, chasing you.  “This is war!”  She swings at you, and you block the hit, only for her to use the opening to shove you into the ground again with her free hand.  You roll with the momentum, struggling to get back up as your feet slide through the mud.  She moves to hit you again, aiming for your head, in a move disturbingly similar to how she struck at the knight-captain.  You duck beneath it and attempt to retaliate by thrusting the end of your fake staff toward her gut.  She parries you lazily and drives her foot into your shoulder, kicking you onto your back and pressing the end of her stick into your neck.  “Just like that, you’re dead,” she says.  “And I haven’t even broken a sweat.”

“Fine,” you spit through gritted teeth, batting her weapon away.  “If you’re so worried about my life, then shut the fuck up and teach me something, asshole.”

She drags you to your feet and pushes you back to the spot where you started.  “Lesson one,” she spits.  “Learning to block worth a damn.  Let’s go.”

You hate Lilith.  You really, really hate her.  You hate her with the throbbing fury of every bruise that litters your body.  You hate her with the radiating sting of each blow she lands on you.  You hate her with the heat of the burning sun as it climbs through the sky and bathes the unsettled mud of the training field in light.

She’s relentless, merciless, almost cruel.  All the rage you’ve ever seen her direct at an enemy is now directed at you, restrained only by the thin veneer of trying to teach you something.  What that something is, you’re not sure, because it doesn’t seem like she really cares if you learn how to block and dodge the way she claims to.  In fact, you’re increasingly confident that she’s hitting you for the sake of hitting you, which is so very Templar-y of her that for a second, as her stick comes down to strike your body for the hundredth time, you see a flash of Sir Francis with her sword held high, ready to bury it into your chest.

You scream, quite unable to help it, and throw yourself back on your ass, dropping your staff in the process and crawling backwards away from her.  Acting on instinct, you shield your face with one arm and pull your knees up to your chest, curling inward to protect yourself.  Lilith’s attack hesitates halfway through its motion as surprise flashes over her face, but it is quickly replaced by scorn.

“Screaming and sniveling like a child?”  She sneers.  “You really are pathetic.”

“Lilith.”  Both of your heads turn at the sound, finding Beatrice standing at the edge of the circle.  She looks the way she did in Val Royeaux, beautiful and intimidating like a lioness, her shoulders rigid and her face set in an icy glare.  “That’s enough.”

Lilith’s sword arm drops to her side, but she only scoffs at Beatrice.  “It will be enough when she—”

“No,” Beatrice asserts harshly, marching toward her without a care for how her robes drag through the mud.  “You’ve made your point.  It’s done.  Release her magic.”

Your eyes dart between their faces as they stare each other down.  For a moment you are transported back to the cabin where you first awoke, watching them argue about how dangerous you were.  As before, a silent, but heated conversation passes between them, before Beatrice says something to Lilith too quietly for you to decipher.  Whatever it is, though, makes the Seeker flinch and step back, abruptly tamed out of her furious obstinance.  A moment passes, and you feel your magic return as though someone lifted an invisible weight off your chest.  You instantly feel your bruises fading and the ache in your muscles ebbing away as you struggle back onto your feet.

Satisfied, Beatrice softens minutely, but doesn’t speak further, turning instead to you.

“Are you alright, Ava?”

You swallow and nod, massaging your left side to relieve the tingling sensation you’ve come to associate with your body repairing itself.

“Good,” Beatrice says simply.  “Let’s get you back inside and cleaned up.”  She places herself between you and Lilith as you shuffle off the circle, casting one final, forbidding look back at the other woman as she leads you away.  You don’t look back, but as you trudge past the gates, it becomes clear that you aren’t being followed.

Instead of going back to your quarters, Beatrice takes you there only to grab spare clothes before heading to the Chantry.  She guides you through the vestibule and down the stairs into one of the various rooms carved into the bedrock, a small bathing area.  A large wooden tub sits in its center, with a pipe positioned above it ready to dispense water at the pull of a lever.

“Take your time,” she says quietly.  “I’ll wait upstairs for you.  We should talk.”

“Um… okay,” you respond, regarding her with uncertainty.  She seems more frustrated than angry now, but the lingering tension in her stance still makes you nervous.  “I-I won’t be long.”

“It’s not a problem,” she says, perhaps more firmly than she means to, because she immediately winces.  “I mean it, Ava.  Take what time you need.  I’ll just be upstairs.”

She leaves you then, and you start stripping down out of your dirt-caked clothes in a half-hearted, mechanical fashion.  You pull the lever for the tub without bothering to light the accompanying fire to heat it up.  Now that your magic is free again, you call it forth, warming the water yourself.

You wash up without putting much thought into it, mainly focusing on scrubbing the mud away, and then you allow yourself to sit placid in the water for several minutes.  It’s not even noon and you’re already tired.  Lilith worked you all the way through breakfast without a break.  Any time you tried to protest, she just hit you harder.  You have no idea why she was lashing out at you, but you’re grateful to Beatrice, not only for her interruption but also for the mysterious power she holds to make the Seeker back down.  You’re still not clear about the full dynamic of their friendship, but it’s clear that Beatrice has a taming effect on Lilith that she isn’t afraid to use, and if things weren’t so shitty right now, you would ask her about it.

As it is, you pull yourself out of the tub when the water starts to cool and dry off.  You gather up your dirty clothes in a ball and set them aside as you pull on the clean set, then let the tub drain out through the floor, sending the water to be cycled back through the cistern.

True to her word, Beatrice is waiting for you at the top of the stairs, leaning silently against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest.  When you approach her, her eyes drop to the ball of clothes in your arms.  “You can leave those here to be washed,” she tells you.

You blink.  “Why?  Who’s going to wash them?”

“The Chantry has workers who handle things like that,” she says.  “Before the Conclave, many clerics lived and passed through here, so they hired some of the townsfolk to handle things like cleaning, maintenance, and laundry.”

“Oh…”  Perplexed, you follow behind her when she leads you to another small room full of baskets.  She directs you to drop your pile in one of the baskets and then fill out a piece of parchment to help the workers keep track of your clothes and return them when they’re finished.

She looks deep in thought as she waits for you to tie the parchment to the basket.  “Do you feel better?”  She asks.

You shrug.  “I guess.  I healed as soon she let go of my magic.”  Your anger from before rears its head again.  “Can you believe she wouldn’t even give me a break to do that?  The crazy bitch.”

Beatrice frowns, but whether it’s about Lilith’s behavior or your choice of words is unclear.  Her fingers tap a thoughtless rhythm against her biceps, and she seems to be chewing on her cheek as she thinks.

"Lilith’s anger isn't about you," she says, after a minute of quiet.

Your lips twist downward into a scowl.  "No, she’s just chosen to direct all of it at me," you respond sourly, because yeah, you guessed that already, but knowing it doesn’t make your body ache less.

She gives you a quelling look.  "She's having a difficult time.  She’s acting out of hurt."

"That doesn't make it right for her to lash out at other people!"

"I never said it did," she responds firmly.  "I'm not defending her actions, Ava.  I'm merely trying to explain them."

"Explain why she chose to beat me with a stick to vent her anger as opposed to a training dummy?"

Beatrice huffs, beginning to sound a little irritated.  "Lilith is a Seeker," she says plainly.

Your brow furrows.  "I know that."

"No," she sighs.  "What I mean is, Lilith has been living a very specific way for nearly her entire life.  Potential Seekers are given to the Order as children, not unlike mages being given to the Circles.  They undergo rigorous training that would make soldiers twice their age balk, and they do so while the Order's mission and code are impressed upon them every waking moment.  Only the most worthy, the ones who devote themselves fully to the cause are allowed to become true Seekers."

"So?"

"So," Beatrice continues.  "How would you feel if you devoted your entire life to a particular mission, only to have it thrown back in your face by the very man who should epitomize it?"

It makes you grind your teeth, but you are unable to deny her point.  "I suppose I would be pretty fucking angry."

"Exactly," she agrees.  "She shouldn't have done that to you.  That was wrong, but I ask that you not hold it against her.  She’s reacting to the upheaval of her entire life, the way she's been taught to.  We all have a past, Ava.”  Beatrice pauses.  “You of all people should understand that.”

You go very still, turning to look at her slowly.  “What is that supposed to mean?”

Beatrice looks conflicted, like she isn’t sure she wants to say what she’s going to.  “I know that you were in Aeonar before the Conclave,” she eventually states, and the implication, while unspoken, is deafening.

Shock hits you like a blast of winter air.  Did she really just say that?  Did she seriously just…?

She’s watching your face, waiting for your reaction, and you give her one.  “Beatrice.”  You hope your voice sounds steady because your body is shaking with fury.  “Do you believe, really believe, that they sent me to Aeonar because I had committed a crime?  When I was eight years old?”

Now it’s her turn to look shocked.  Her jaw actually drops, and she leans back as if physically recoiling from your question.  “Eight years old… how is that possible?”  She’s not faking it.  She’s actually, genuinely surprised.  Somehow that upsets you even more.

“Second question,” you barrel on, voice raised, taking a menacing step closer to her.  “Do you think my death was an accident?  That I just had a bad fall or died in my sleep?  They killed me, Beatrice.  The same Templar who tormented me for 11 years shoved her sword through my chest and left me to bleed out in my cell.  Do you think she did that in self-defense?  Against a girl who couldn’t even walk?!”

“Why would she do that?”  She asks, sounding sick.

You throw your hands up in the air.  “Is it not obvious?!  Because I’m a mage, and she’s a Templar.  They live to kill us, Beatrice!  They always have!”

Beatrice shakes her head feverishly.  “That’s not true,” she insists, raising her own voice and standing her ground against your ire.  “The Templars protected us, and protected others from us.”

“The Templars protected themselves,” you retort hotly.  “And they did it by caging us.  How many crackdowns, suppressions, and purges would it have taken for you to see that?  Even during peacetime, they took any excuse to make us Tranquil when they couldn’t execute us outright.  And now that they’ve started a war and broken from the Chantry, there’s nothing stopping them from trying to kill every mage in Thedas.  That Seeker bastard Lucius said so himself.  You heard him, Beatrice!”  You take another step closer to her, and you aren’t sure whether you mean to intimidate her or simply get your point across.

“They’re only responding to the extremist actions of the rebels.”  She persists, matching your approach beat for beat.  “The Hinterlands are proof enough that mages cannot be left unchecked!  Even before that, the uprising in Kirkwall and the corruption of the Ferelden Circle shows—”

You see red.  You can’t remember the last time you were this angry.  How dare she?  How dare she!  “Do you think you’ll be spared if you lick their boots hard enough?” You spit savagely.  Your Friend is suddenly flush against your back, stroking your face, trying to make you stop, but for the first time in your life, you ignore Her.  “That if you throw yourself at their feet and beg for mercy like a coward, then they won’t string you up in the square?”  Your lip curls, and venom may well start dripping from your teeth.  “You’re not as clever as I thought you were.”  The scorn in your voice rends the air like a whip crack.  Beatrice flinches back as if struck by it, and you see a flurry of shock and hurt pass over her face.  Unexpectedly, it gives you no satisfaction.

“Okay enough!”  A shout rings out, interrupting before either of you can say anything else.  You both turn to see Mary standing in the doorway, glaring with hard reproach.  “If you two don’t take it down a notch right fucking now, I’ll shoot you both!”  She stalks further into the room and steps solidly between you.  “Back the fuck up,” she growls at you, pushing you away by the shoulder.  Then she turns to Beatrice.  “And you, get your ass to the vestibule and stop Suzanne from killing Duretti.  Now,” she says when Beatrice doesn’t immediately move.

Beatrice’s eyes meet yours over Mary’s shoulder, some emotion in them you can’t decipher, before she leaves the room in silence.  Once she’s gone, Mary rounds on you again.  “Girl, what the fuck was that?”

“None of your business,” you snap weakly.  With Beatrice gone, your righteous fury ebbs away, leaving you drained in its wake.

“You just made it all of Haven’s business,” she counters, unimpressed.  When you don’t snark back again, fully starting to close in on yourself, she lets out an aggrieved sigh.  “Alright, you’re coming with me.”  She grips you hard by the shirt and starts dragging you out of the room.

“W-where are we going?” You ask, trying to shake her off.  After a few seconds it becomes clear you won't succeed, and you must instead resign yourself to being man-handled wherever she wants to take you.  She pulls you through a side door in the Chantry that doesn’t make you pass through the vestibule, leading you forcefully out into the snow and down the path toward the houses and tavern.  It’s to the tavern that she hauls you, kicking open the door and pushing you inside.  All conversations stop when you enter, but Mary pays no attention.  

She leads you over to a table in the far corner, a small round one with two unbalanced chairs, and pushes down on your shoulder until you sit in one.  “Your ass better stay in that chair until I’m back, you understand?”  Then she turns and marches toward the bar.  You fix your gaze on the wood grain of the table and focus on ignoring the gawking of the randos milling about the tavern.  You spent so many years being ignored by almost everyone, and you hated it, but now it seems you can’t escape being the center of attention, and you hate that just as much.

Mary returns eventually and thunks a wooden tankard in front of you before taking the other chair.  You peer into the mug suspiciously, seeing only an unfamiliar frothy, amber liquid inside.

“It’s just beer,” Mary elaborates when it’s clear you don’t know what you’re looking at.  “Try it.”

You pick up the mug gingerly and take a sip.  Which you promptly spit out onto the floor next to you.

“Hey, no spitting!” Flissa the bartender shouts at you.

Mary, meanwhile, is laughing into her own pint at your expense.  “Okay, that was funny, not gonna lie.”

“That’s beer?!” You squeak, looking at the tankard like a demon might pop out of it.  You knew what beer was, of course, theoretically.  The Templars were always talking about it.  Drinking beer, running out of beer, “when are we getting more beer in?” etc.  Some of the other prisoners would talk about it too, always with a wistful or nostalgic tone as obviously they weren’t allowed to have any.  “Why would anyone drink that?!”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Mary responds, still chuckling.  “Give it a few more sips.  It might grow on you.”

“I fucking doubt it,” you say, to which she shrugs.  She doesn’t say anything for a time, instead listening to the bard wrap up her current song, something about an “empress of fire”.  When it does, she looks back at you, and the lighthearted mood becomes serious again.

“Now, clearly the subject makes you a little touchy, but I’m gonna need you not to clam up about this until I’ve at least asked the question.”

You grip your tankard tightly and shrink back from her.  “No promises,” you respond, earning a sigh.

She takes another gulp from her beer.  After nearly another minute of silence, in which you pray that she’s changed her mind, she asks, “Why were you really in Aeonar?”

You let the tankard go before you give yourself a splinter, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.  “You already heard why.  They sent me there when I was just a kid.”

“And they wouldn’t just do that for no reason.”

You scoff.  “Shows what you fucking know."  She holds up a hand to stop your tirade before it can start.

“Baby girl, I do know.  I know what the Templars have been up to, I lived in Kirkwall, remember?  Anders was one of my best friends.”  She leans forward, holding your gaze.  “My point is that the Templars can’t act without official justification.  Or couldn’t, I suppose.  Even in Kirkwall it took years to get as bad as it did because Meredith had to go through official channels, up until the point she really lost it, which is when we took her down.  What I’m saying is they couldn’t have sent you to Aeonar without written approval, some evidence and documentation.”  She taps her fingers idly against the side of her pint.

You stare at her, hard, searching her face.  She holds your stare, undeterred, until you snort darkly, quietly, and drop your eyes to the table again.  “What more evidence do they need in the wake of a purge?”  You ask.  “And what documentation would they have filed in the middle of a Blight?”

She stills, her fingers ceasing their steady beat.  “What are you saying?”  You can see in her eyes that the pieces are starting to fall into place.

“I don’t think you want to hear it.”

“Fuck that,” she denies, leaning further forward.  “Tell me.”

It’s hard to think about and harder to say, even after 11 years.  You feel as though a burning coal has taken up residence in your throat as you struggle with the words.  Your Friend is still there, holding you tight, letting you draw strength from Her.

“I was in Kinloch Hold,” you reveal.  “At the Circle Tower.”

“...Shit.”  She curses, leaning away until she hits the back of her chair.  She stares at you, as if hoping you’ll suddenly change your answer, then, “Shit!”

“Yeah,” you say dully, taking a morose sip of your drink.  The taste doesn’t magically improve, but you are able to keep it down.  You push away the memories of that night, of hiding with the other children, watching Senior Enchanter Wynne battle demons outside the protective barrier.  You were the last child she had rescued, and the only reason you had survived at all was because she risked her life to carry you to safety.

"You were one of the survivors?  One of the kids Wynne saved?"  You nod.  Mary sucks in a breath through her teeth.

Although you hadn't recognized Mary at first, you do remember them, the Hero of Ferelden and her friends.  How they burst into the room after the Senior Enchanter battled a relentless line of demons to defend you.  You remember thinking that the Hero, Shannon, looked really pretty and cool, in her Grey Warden armor, with her shining sword and a bright red braid whipping behind her.  You'd thought the same of Mary, and still do (not that you will ever say so).

"They really sent you all to Aeonar after we left?"

You shrug.  "First Enchanter Irving had no power after you guys left, and Senior Enchanter Wynne went with you, so there was no one to object.  Apart from us, and who cares what a bunch of kids thought?"  You swallow.  "They didn't even wait a week."

There's silence for a minute or two, in which Mary continues to stare at you and you struggle to swallow another bitter sip of beer.

Finally, she says, "Fuck.  I'm sorry, kid.  I really am."

You shrug again, a little stiffly, trying not to question if this is the first time anyone has apologized to you.  "You don't have to.  I mean, I get it.  I do.  You guys kinda had more important stuff to worry about, like saving the world," you joke mirthlessly.

"Still, we should have said something, done something… I don't know.  We wouldn't have agreed to it.  Shannon wouldn't have agreed to it."

"She seemed pretty cool," you admit, because the wistfulness and regret decorating her face makes you uncomfortable.  "You all seemed really cool.  You just sort of busted in and started kicking ass.  It was kind of awesome."

She snorts, lips lifting in a small smile.  "When Shannon gets back, I'll tell her you said that.  Or better yet, you can tell her yourself."

You both finish your drinks, and the air feels a teensy bit lighter.  When Mary finishes, she thunks the tankard back on the table and turns serious again.  "I'm glad we talked about this.  But now we have to address the Qunari in the room."

"Should you be saying that when we're literally working with Iron Bull?"

"Beatrice," Mary insists, ignoring your deflection.  "I mean it when I say you two were about to let all of Haven in on your shit before I walked in.  Now I don't know who said what first, and I don’t care.  The two of you need to get it sorted.  Apologize to each other, and stop assuming you know each other's shit."

You cross your arms petulantly.  "She's the one assuming things!  I didn't start anything."

"Not my point," Mary growls.  "You both said some messed up things, and now you need to work it out.  This Inquisition can barely get off the ground as it is.  We can't have this kind of tension breaking up the ranks."  She drums her fingers along the table.  "She doesn't know what you've been through, but you don’t know Beatrice's life either, okay?"

"And you do?"

"I know enough to know that calling her a coward and a bootlicker is bullshit," she says confidently.  And okay, yeah, you do feel bad for saying that.  It’s incorrect, first of all, and you know there’s more to her story, just like there's more to yours that you still haven't said, even after giving the gist to Mary.  "She's been through stuff too.  Different stuff, maybe, but not lesser.  Talk to her.  Civilly," she adds, as if that wasn't clear.

"Fine," you agree, only a little begrudgingly.  You can do civil, totally.  "Just don't ask me to do the same with Lilith."

"Baby girl, I would never set you up for failure like that."

Your opportunity to talk civilly with Beatrice comes quicker than you like.  You manage to avoid each other for a full day, no small accomplishment in a place as small as Haven, but by the end of afternoon the next day, your luck runs out.  You walk into the Chantry’s tiny library, wanting to see if they have any books at all on magic, and find her already sitting at one of the tables, pouring over a small tome with that fervent concentration you’ve come to know well.

You debate walking back out again like a scaredy-cat, but it’s too late.  She hears the sound of your footsteps and looks up.  You are comforted just a little to see the same surprise and apprehension you feel reflected in her wide eyes.  She stands as you slowly approach, being sure to keep a yard or so of distance between you.

“Ehm, apologies,” she says.  “Were you hoping to read here?”

“Well, no… not really,” you respond, feeling sweat grow on your palms.  “I was going to browse a bit, but I can come back.”

“No, please,” she denies, gesturing at the shelves.  “Stay.”

You don’t move toward the shelves, and she doesn’t sit back down.  You both just stand there in excruciating awkwardness, unable to do more than glance at each other.

Come on, Ava, stop being a loser.  Just buck up and say it.  Now that you’re standing face to face again, you find it difficult to speak at all.  You clench your sweaty fists, pulling together all your courage.

“Look, I’m sorry—”

“I wanted to apologize—”

You snort, unable to help it.  Of course you two would start saying the same thing at the same time.  She lets out a breathless chuckle that makes you bite your lip.

“Should we try that again?”  You ask, half-joking and half-serious.  “I can walk out and walk back in again, and we can start this over.”

She graces you with the tiniest smile.  “No need to walk back out again, but I wouldn’t say no to a do-over.”

“Right,” you nod briskly.  “I’ll start.  What are you reading?”

“Oh, this is…” She runs her fingertips along the open pages.  “Well…” She looks sheepishly at you, but then admits, “It’s a report.  On Aeonar.”

You freeze up.  “O-oh?”

“Yes,” she confirms, nodding ardently.  “I wanted to see if the records the Inquisition had collected included any… investigations.  Any inquiries,” she explains haltingly.  She worries her bottom lip, tension and uncertainty evident in every inch of her.  “After what you told me… I wanted to know more.”

“I see.”

“Not to prove you wrong!” She exclaims quickly.  “I believe what you told me.  I just wanted to see if anyone else had ever looked into the matter.”

Your eyes dart down to the book.  Now you want to know too.  “What does it say?”

Beatrice sighs, looking back down at it.  “Not much, to be honest.  The Templars denied the investigators access to many parts of the prison.  But even so, they noted appalling conditions inside, and prisoners facing unreasonably harsh punishments.  The Veil was also so thin there that many prisoners became possessed through no fault of their own, as far as the investigators could tell, though blood magic was reportedly present to some extent.”

“Yes, it was.”

She looks pained by your frank confirmation.  “As I said, it’s not comprehensive, but it does show that the Chantry was aware Aeonar had problems that then went unaddressed.”  She sucks in a breath, clearly mustering her own courage, and then meets your eyes.  “Ava, I’m sorry,” she says simply, sincerely.  “I was ignorant of your circumstances, and I made an unfair assumption about you.  I don’t know what you’ve experienced, and you don’t have to tell me.  But… I hope you know that I will listen, if you want me to.”

Hearing her say that, so honestly and openly, makes your eyes sting.  Fuck, now is not the time.  “Thank you,” you say, immensely relieved when your voice doesn’t crack.  You take a deep breath too, and say your piece.  “I owe you an apology too.  I made some unfair assumptions myself.  I don’t know what you’ve been through, Beatrice, but I’ve seen enough to know you’re the furthest thing from a coward, and you aren’t some groveling sycophant either.  You’re incredibly brave, smart, and just, like, a total badass.  And you don’t have to tell me anything either, but…” You smile, praying your eyes aren’t too obviously wet.  “I’ll be here to listen too, if you want me.”

She smiles back, a small, hopeful thing that makes your stomach flutter.  “I’d like that,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” you murmur back, just loud enough for her hearing.  “I’d really like that too.”  Then your smile becomes a smirk, an idea suddenly springing to mind.  "So, it turns out beer really sucks.  But if you’re interested, we could go grab a drink of plain water at the tavern."

She laughs.  "I think we can do better than that, but let's go and see."

That’s how you wind up tucked into the quietest corner you can find in the small building, nursing two steaming cups of tea and talking as the sun sets behind the trees.

“Can I ask you something?”

She nods.

“Why didn’t you join the rebellion?”

She frowns.  “I already told you what happened when the Circle fell—”

“No, no, I know that,” you say quickly.  “I know why you didn’t go around attacking anyone.  I just mean… they say there were rumblings for months before the rebellion actually started.  Jillian apparently tried a few times to call a vote for independence?”  She nods again at this.  “So, I guess, why… did you not want that?”

She bites her lip, rubbing her finger against a knot in the wood, contemplating her answer for several long seconds.

"My parents are courtiers in Denerim," she says.  "Diplomats.  They act as ambassadors to Orlais, and have been mediating relations between the two nations since the end of the last war.  They take their role very seriously, and have become accustomed to that lifestyle."  She pauses, her gaze dropping to the table.  You wait, sitting as still as you can while she decides what she wants to say.  "As such, image was, is… very important to them.  More important than anything else."

She falls silent again, but you keep waiting.  A terrible feeling of dread is settling over your shoulders, but you stay still, letting her speak at her own pace.

Beatrice's fingers tap against the table before she seems to stop herself, pressing her hand flat against the wood.  "So," she continued after taking a shaky breath.  "When their young daughter started showing signs of a magical gift, they were… displeased."  Pain radiates off of the very word, and her voice, even-toned up until now, falters.  She quiets again, and takes a hasty sip from her cup to distract herself.

Meanwhile, you feel anger stirring, hot and heady, inside your stomach once again, for what feels like the thousandth time in three days.  Staying still is no longer an option, because your palms itch with the tingle of magic.  It’s responding to your emotions, sitting at your beck and call, and suppressing it takes active effort.  As such, you stretch your hand across the table toward hers, rubbing against the grooves.

"They sent you away?"  Your fingers brush against hers, the contact sending an electric zip up your arm, chasing the sparks of inferno away and replacing them with something else.  She stares intently at the space where you’re touching, and you wonder if she's feeling the same bolt traveling through her blood.  Between fire and lightning, lightning travels faster and burns far, far hotter, and that difference in magnitude is more palpable in this moment than it’s ever been before.

"It was all very secretive," she says, so quietly that you have to lean in to hear her.  "But at the same time, very neat.  They sent a letter to a contact in Montsimmard and arranged for me to join the Circle there.  They didn't tell me until a week before I was supposed to leave."  She chuckles mirthlessly.  "They informed me over dinner, as if it was an entirely mundane topic of conversation."  She licks her lips to stop them from quivering, but you notice all the same.  "So, every night that week, I prayed.  I prayed to the Maker to take my magic from me.  I hated it.  I was scared of it.  I thought it was a curse, a punishment for some sin I committed, so I made every promise I could think of to persuade Him to forgive me, but he didn't."

Hearing her talk like this is nearly too much for you.  Anger and sadness both threaten to turn your stomach over, and self-restraint be damned, all you want to do is to cross to the other side of the table and pull her into your arms.  You settle for moving your hand up further until it rests lightly on top of hers.  You’ll let her decide if she wants it to stay there.

She smiles just a little, and turns her palm upward to twine her fingers loosely with yours.  "I'm sorry," she says with a wet laugh.  "I'm being terribly dramatic about all this."

You shake your head vigorously.  "No, you're not.  Trust me, I've seen what dramatic looks like on you, and this isn't it."

She rolls her eyes at your playful jab, but her expression brightens by a degree.  "The carriage to Montsimmard left before sunrise, to avoid most of the servants bearing witness.  My nanny woke me up to dress me, but I didn't see my parents until they came to see me off."  She ran her thumb absently over your joined knuckles, warming them with each pass.  "My mother kissed me on the forehead once, while my father knelt down to speak with me.  'Go to the Circle,' he said.  'Become an Enchanter.  Excel and rise through the ranks, so that we might speak of our daughter with pride.  Do this for our family,' he told me.  At the time, I thought he really meant it, that he would be proud of me if I did as he asked and became an Enchanter.  It wasn’t until he wrote to me, once, a year later and told me to stop sending letters to them that I grasped the truth.  Sending me to Montsimmard was just a way of hiding me away, ridding themselves of the shame of a magical child.  Even monthly letters were too much of a risk to their reputation if someone found out."

"What happened then?" You ask.  You’re breaking your rule to let her talk at her own pace, but it’s an emergency, because if nothing comes to distract you right here, right now, you're going to go to the stables and ride Mud Pie all the way to Denerim to set both of her parents on fire.

"What happened… is that I arrived at the Circle.  And I learned about my magic, how to harness it, and how to use it in service to the Maker.  I did excel, and I did rise through the ranks.  I was praised, lauded… my colleagues looked up to me.  And I thought that that must be what it means to be a good mage, a proper mage.  To practice my craft safely and prudently within the protection of the Circle, where it could only do good instead of harm.  Where I could use my power as the Maker intended…"

"But then?"

She sighs.  "But then, the talks of independence started creeping in from the other Circles.  The idea of rebellion took root, small and quiet at first, but growing louder and stronger with each passing day.  And it scared me.  When even my most sensible colleagues started taking it seriously, it terrified me.  Mages living outside the Circle, wielding magic with no caution, no oversight?  It threatened every principle I had rebuilt my life on, every ideal I tried to embody.  I began to fear my magic again, the way I hadn't since I begged the Maker to take it from me.  After all, how could I expect to serve Him by using his gift for selfish gain?  I began…" She stops again, sucking in a tremulous breath.  "I began to hate what I was again.  So I closed my ears whenever anyone mentioned independence.  I ignored the discussions, and let the situation get worse around me until I was forced to confront it in the smoking wreckage of the Circle tower, in the face of one of my own colleagues who I murdered in self-defense.  And I felt like the monster of every Fereldan horror story my nanny would whisper to me at night, the evil mage that courted demons and burned down villages.  If Mother Superion and Camila hadn’t found me at that moment, I don’t know what I would have done.”  

She takes a slow, deep breath, her chest rising and falling like a wave on the ocean.  “I’ve always struggled to accept my lot as a mage, to remember that the Maker made me this way for a reason.  Magic was his gift to me, so I could serve Him in the way he intended, but there are times when I just can’t see His path for me as anything but a curse.  It shames me to say it, but it’s true.”

“Well…” You measure your words with great care, contemplating the best way to get your point across without upsetting her or sounding dismissive.  “You know my thoughts on the Maker,” you say.  “But if there’s anything I agree with the Big Guy on, it’s that magic is a gift, one that we’re meant to use to make things better, to make the world better.”  You press your hand against your chest, and Hope responds in kind, wrapping Herself around you until the glow of your skin starts reflecting off the table.  “If I know anything, Beatrice, I know that.  So, please, don’t hate what you are.  What you are is beautiful.”

 A tear escapes from the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her cheek, but she smiles again.  It quivers on her lips, unsteady, but enduring.  “Thank you.  For saying so.” she whispers.

“I’ll say it again.  However many times you need me to.  You’re amazing, Bea.  Anyone who doesn’t see that is a fuckwit.”

She laughs as though you’ve knocked the wind out of her, her shoulders shaking hard enough to make her chair rattle in place.  There are more tears, but they seem to spring now from happiness rather than pain.  You join in with her, unable to help it, because making her laugh like this, open and unrestrained, makes you feel like a god.  

And then, when she settles again, she does something that absolutely knocks you off your feet.  She squeezes your hand in hers and stares deeply into your eyes.  “You are extraordinary, Ava.  I see that clearly.  I’ve seen it every day since I’ve met you.  I know you hate the title you’ve been given, and I know you don’t believe in the Maker.  But I do, and, if you’ll allow me to say so, I don’t think there’s anyone else here more deserving of His blessing, or of being His champion.”

Your entire body feels suddenly suffused with heat.  Your eyes sting, your cheeks light up like a bed of coals, and your chest feels impossibly warm.  You look away, unable to bear the sincerity of her gaze lest it smash through your ribs and steal your heart from the cavity.  “You need to stop being good at that,” you tell her solemnly.

“Being good at what?”

“Saying nice shit to me.”

She snorts.  “If I have to stop being good at it, then you need to do the same.”

“Great, it’s agreed.  We’ll only give each other stupid compliments from now on.”

That sets her off again, and keeps her laughing through another pot of tea and all the way through the evening until Flissa kicks you both out so she can close for the night.

[lairofdragonagelore]

Chant of Light - Part 2

In these two posts named “Chant of Light - Part 1 and Part 2″ I try to analyse the context associated with each group of canticles, the social and political situation in which they are written or compiled, the author(s) and their intentions, and a brief summary of the main concepts expressed in said canticles. 

The whole Chant of Light can be found in the Wiki for anyone who wants to interpret it by their own. I will also add some comments and appreciations of how the concepts in the Chant of Light serve a very clear political agenda in the world of Thedas, idea which is usually reinforced by the social-political situation that surrounds the creation or acceptance of the canticles. 

There will also be personal speculations about how certain parts of the Chant of Light seem to belong to other cultures’ tales which were modified in order to make this religion appealing to other races [mostly, elves]. This is an hypothesis I’ve been working on in all these analysis posts of the Chantry history and the Chant of Light verses. I’m not saying the Chant of Light “is” a unique piece of hidden lore; quite on the contrary: the idea I’m trying to display is that The Chant of Light reflects modified versions of pieces of historical events from Thedas, Elvhenan history in particular, maybe even Titan/dwarven history, and Alamarri folktales; all these elements combined in a way to pursue a political agenda in a given historical moment of Thedas. 

There is also a compilation of all the art I found in these pages of the Chant of Light [World of Thedas Vol 2], which will be analysed briefly to give more context to the study of the Chant of Light using the hypothesis explained above.

The canticles of the Chant of Light [Cumberland edition] are:

Cosmogenesis and First Sin: Threnodies 5-6

Creation of the Blight: Silence 1-3

Epiphany of Our Lady: Andraste 1

Andraste’s Teachings: Transfigurations 1, 10, 12

Hymns: Trials 1

Rallying the Armies: Shartan 9-10

Betrayal and Death: Apotheosis 1-2

Prophecy: Exaltations 1

Disclaimer: The Chant of Light I’m focusing on belongs to the Cumberland Edition [World of Thedas Vol2], which lacks of several verses that appear in the games in different codices. All these verses are compiled in the wiki though and, in general, provide the same idea than the verses of the book.

[Index page of Dragon Age Lore]

Rallying the Armies: Shartan 9-10

Context of Shartan Verses:

Written by an unknown author, the first versions appeared around -140 Ancient [1055 TE], 30 years after the death of Andraste.

These verse have been removed from the Chant after the Exalted March of the Dales, erasing the contribution of the elves in human history.

Shartan was supposed to be a slave that may have led rebellions inside Tevinter and helped Andraste in her Exalted March. However, historically speaking, there are no proofs that he truly led any. This puts into question if Shartan truly existed. On the other hand, we could assume that Tevinter would have cared little to record the name of an elven rebel, but there are proofs that Tevinter has always been very careful in their bureaucracy, and if we don’t find records on something is mostly because the books have been destroyed, as it has happened in Kirkwall [more details in Kirkwall history and design]. However, some documents survived the many rebellions in Kirkwall, and we can know  that they recorded names of important alamarri rebels [for example, in History of Kirkwall: Chapter 2] or in the prison of Coracavus;  Records Room, where we find a list with some elven names in it. Thanks to these examples I find it very strange that Shartan did not appear in a Tevinter record of any kind. Maybe that’s documentation that we will see in DA:D?

Shartan’s tale has many common elements with elven folktales related to a “trickster” warrior. There are many different versions of this canticle that put Shartan in different places, suggesting in my opinion that his symbol has been replicated across history, and it’s not as if the person was in different places at the same time, if he truly existed. Some scholars suspect that Shartan was a title or an ideal, and I can see that. 

“Maybe every rebellion had a Shartan”, and we, as players, can see the common points between Shartan and Solas, so it seems pretty safe for me to assume that most of this tale is based on Solas’ ancient rebellions, that fellow slaves passed down through generations, orally [as they were slaved and unable to keep a written history of the fallen elvhenan empire], until Fen’Harel’s tale changed into “Shartan’s tale”. Again, I’m not saying Solas was Shartan. There is no way he may have been around by that time, since he was slumbering. But clearly his legacy during the Elvhenan empire was preserved as best as his followers could and ended up inspiring modern tales in the shape of Shartan.

Since slaves could not write, this tale may have been preserved through oral tradition, being victim of a lot of changes and inaccuracies. 

Divine Justinia I was the first one transcribing this tale, and what she allowed to be transcribed by Chantry clerics is very fragmented, suggesting that some stanzas or even verses have been removed or “lost”. Considering how suspicious Justinia I was of altering historical tales to fit the political purpose of Kordillus Drakon [that is, unifying Orlais], one may suspect that part of the “lost” stanzas may have been her decision. 

Between the stanza ninth and tenth several verses or perhaps an entire stanza is supposed to be “lost”.  

Historians still can’t prove the existence of Shartan. I think he may have existed in any elven rebel, embodying the symbol of rebellion that Solas left in his time as Fen’Harel. Shartan seems to me a symbol similar to the Emerald Knights [Emerald Graves: The open] who had a wolf as a companion, guardians and protectors of “the people”, leading rebellion and war if needed. 

However, in some way, the players have a unique “proof” of Shartan via the Gauntlet [Temple of Andraste] where we see that someone like him existed, and looked a lot like an elvhen. Maybe that’s the elvhen that existed and met Andraste, and embodied the Shartan title.

Shartan 9: 

Shartan rallied the elves when they began to despair and wish to return to their masters since they could not endure being hunted down by Tenvinter forces.

Despite the words of encouragement and truth about the reality that slaves face [ there is no forgiveness for them] some elves despaired while other prepared weapons made of what they could find: trees, sandals, etc.

Curious symbol: the day the elves ambush the Tevinter that were chasing after them, it was a night without moon or stars.

Their ambush was successful, so they celebrated afterwards, but from the distance they heard “thousand of voices in a song, marching”: Andraste’s army.

Shartan propose to make contact first, alone, and he is caught by Havard, the avvar warrior. Then, he presents Andraste to him.

In this way, the Alamarri forces join power with the elves, and head to Minrathous. Scholars suspect that after this verse and the following one there may be more content that was lost. As the story goes, it seems to imply that the lost verses would have spoken about how Andraste and Shartan may have tried to understand each other, develop a relationship of any kind, or simply spread the word of the elves, and for some of these reasons, the verses “disappeared” as they were not approved by Justinia I. Maybe Shartan’s role in the advance of Andraste’s troops was key in this point. The thing is that from this point on and the reach to the Valarian fields there is a big distance that may imply the existence of more content narrating the interactions of the Alamarri with the elves, but it was never approved, so it was “lost”. I think this is very ironical “loss” because this tale had big chances to have been preserved by the elves if the alamarri did not, meaning that probably some Dalish clans may have preserved these “lost” verses. Besides, we know there are versions of Andraste’s Exalted March much closer in time to the events than the ones that the Chantry picked, so I feel quite sure that these verses were not entirely lost but ignored or hidden. 

The illustration in this part of the Chant of Light is described as “the Elves ambush the legion”. Unlike a quick glimpse would make us consider, the elves in this illustration are not represented by the deer [that could be considered an oversimplification of a halla]. Instead, they are represented by the wolves! The wolves here are the rebels, killing the Tevinter legion [a deer, which is strange; I would have expected a snake]. The fact that the elves are the wolves makes a lot of sense when we keep in mind that decades after, when the The Dales were established, the Emerald Knights would still keep the wolf as a symbol of protection. Somehow, the elves of this time had not lost completely the elvhenan concept that the wolf [Fen’Harel symbol] was a positive figure of protection and rebellion. This also makes me think in the codex The Rebel God, where we learn that after the Exalted March against the Dales the word associated with (Fen’)Harel started to morph its meaning into “betrayal”, instead of being “rebellion” as its etymology seems to point out. We keep before that time, a lot of elven symbols where the wolf was a synonymous of Rebellion. It’s also curious that this illustration depicts black wolves [more reinforcement of the black wolf aspect of Solas] but they also wear a sort of Vallaslin similar in style to those we saw in ancient panting that were worn by halla-like creatures in Nation Art: Elvhen.

Shartan 10

This verse describes the battle on Valarian Fields, close to Minrathous.

It seems that alamarri always sing hymns during battle. This makes us connect some events described vaguely by Solas in his travels through the Fade.

The fight against Tevinter was hard: Tevinter armies were numberless and fought with magic.

Shartan and his elves melted walls of magical ice that had trapped Andraste and her warriors with “fire arrows”. Clearly here there is something about magic going on, among the alamarri and the elves that the Chant hides constantly, since the mages are only present in the Tevinter side, while Andraste and Shartan always fought with non-magical people. This makes me laugh. 

Here, Shartan is named Andraste’s champion, and she gives him her mother’s blade: Glandivalis. Now, this sword is a big mystery, because it seems that, historically speaking, it belonged to Andraste's mother, who was no special apart from being Andraste's mother. However, in DA2, this sword is part of the loor of an ancient pride demon at the end of the more mysterious quest called The Awiergan Scrolls [which also has additional blood-magic bound-based magic related codices to it]. It is a sword that causes an "enslave" effect [why Andraste’s mother would have such item?]. Nothing of these elements make much sense lore-wise without going too wild into assumptions. In any case, Shartan acquired a sword that could cause and “enslavement” effect, ironically. 

The Illustration of this part is described as “Andraste names Shartan her champion”, and we cannot miss the obvious looking of Shartan wearing an ancient elvhenan golden armour. It’s curious he is depicted with white hair, while in The Gauntlet he is bald, as all elvhenan seem to be with the exception of Felassan. His shield reminds me a lot the usual fence decoration we see in several ancient elvhenan temples [see Patterns and Styles: Elvhenan]. Andraste is, of course, drawn with her one-spike crown as usual, as she has been represented since DA2 and all over DAI. What I found curious is that both of them are drawn with yellow eyes. I doubt the drawing per se has a “historical value” inside the world of Thedas, since it seems to be modern illustrations to decorate this edition of the Chant of Light, but from a dev’s point of view, I wonder if they are giving us a hint in this illustration. The fact that Andraste hears the Maker in dreams [at night] seems to have some common element with Mythal’s methodology. If Andraste was a vessel for Mythal for a while, maybe her eyes would have been yellow. I’m not putting high expectations in this detail, but it certainly made me wonder about it. It’s also curious how many illustrations in different styles we see along this Chant of Light. Sadly, this book says nothing about the theodosian person or persons that give these illustrations to this Chant of Light.

Betrayal and Death: Apotheosis 1-2

Context of Apotheosis Verses:

This song appears around -165 Ancient [1030 TE], 5 years after the Death of Andraste, and 5 years before Archon Hessarian uncovered Maferath’s role in the death of Andraste.

This canticle narrates the betrayal and death of Andraste.

Its authorship is attributed to the original Justinia, an escaped Tevinter slave and “Andraste’s closest friend” and confidante. It’s not clear if she composed them. It’s certainly strange because there are no proofs that Justinia witnessed the meeting between Hessarian and Maferath, while, in fact, we know that the one present at the time was Havard, the Aegis; according to the tale, of course. 

There is no original copy of this canticle from that time, so it’s not clear if the original and this one share resemblance. It’s more likely that this canticle was written by Andrastian groups after Masferath’s betrayal was known, absorbing the original one.

The current version of this canticle dates to -100 Ancient [1095 TE], and appears around the time of the old Inquisition.

Apotheosis 1:

Maferath looked at the battlefield covered in dead and heard the cheers for the Maker and Andraste, as his heart “grew colder”.

With Havard, Maferath and Archon Hessarian have a meeting, arranging a deal in order to establish a long-lasting peace.

Andraste’s armies reach Minrathous, and they see the inactive golems at the entrance of the city, fearing them. [I suspect these are the same or similar golem to the ones we saw in DA2 [at the Gallows] and in some ancient Tevinter facilities in DAI; they are compiled under the tag Tevinter golem].

She gives a speech to infuse valour in her army.

Before the battle, Maferath and Havard accompany Andraste to a hill where Maferath said that the voice of the Maker could be heard better.

When she kneels to pray, the Archon’s servants surround her. She drew her sword and killed one of them, but Maferath struck the blade from her hands with his axe. In this part we can see how much emphasis is put on Masferath’s determination to hand over Andraste to the Tevinter.

Unable to fight his warlord Maferath, but wanting to defend Andraste, Havard stood between her and the tevinters until he fell from his wounds.

Andraste gives up and Maferath ties her hands and delivers her to Hessarian.

Apotheosis 2:

In the city gates of Minrathous, Andraste is brought and shown chained, mining the morale of her army. Her pyre is set.

The “Liberator”, probably Shartan, charged into the pyre to save Andraste, but he was killed by Tevinter Archers. It’s curious how in this part the Chant removed Shartan’s name for a title in common language, and removes him from the story forever with a useless, meaningless death. With this ending, the Chantry does not need to worry about the “Shartan’s legacy”, as it does with “Havard’s legacy”, who basically founds the sect that will evolve into the Chanty later.

Hessarian lights the pyre, and Andraste remains silent as she burns while suffering.

Taking pity on her, the Archon kills Andraste with his sword, piercing her heart.

The armies of Maferath returned south while the Tevinters hid inside their cities, fearing for the anger of the gods.

Wounded, crawling his way, Havard reaches the pyre and presses her ashes in his chest. Andraste appears to him as chorus fill his ears. She heals his wounds, and here is where the tale of Andraste’s ashes healing any illness comes from.

Healed, Havard takes her ashes and brings her to the Alamarri lands. The player will know that this place is Haven and the Temple of Andraste. I always wondered who truly was the real “guardian” of this place. If we remember, he kept a very out-of-day knowledge of the Tevinter Imperium state, and his existence was “bound” to the ashes [we know that bound procedures are a top-notch knowledge from the elvhenan]. The Guardian clearly is or was a human since he is bearded, but wears nothing that looks like Avvar. Could have been him the true figure who gathered the ashes? And if he were, who was he?

I can’t stop repeating how curious is that the “Liberator”/Shartan dies, watching Andraste being set in the pyre, without any use or meaning, while Havard, who had been “killed” in the scene of Maferath’s betrayal, returns to the narrative, crawling, in order to be the one who collected Andraste’s ashes. The truth in this scene is impossible to be glimpses in my opinion. The level of manipulation to force some figures to remain alive while other are killed out of the blue is a bit obscene. I would love to have access to see the true historical event unfold on its own with some time magic.

The illustration here is described as “Our Lady is sacrificed”. She is depicted in the pyre, black smoke coming up from the base of the pyre, with some small fire-like flames in it to emulate a fire with “dark” connotations. When it reaches her, there is a semi-circle in yellow with an intricate pattern of triangles. I have no idea what this may represent. It looks good, though.  She is extending her arms up to the air, as a gesture of communion with the Maker, while the sword of Hessarian is pierced into her heart.

Prophecy: Exaltations 1

Context of Exaltations Verses:

They were written in -12 Ancient [1183 TE] by Kordillus Drakon, the man who will become the founder of the modern Chantry [as we know it] and first emperor of Orlais. These verses have the clearest authorship in the entire Chant, so there is no doubts it was he who wrote them.

Prophetic verses were popular back then, and many writers tried to imagine the return of the Maker. This seems to be a useful tool for Drakon in order to establishing the Empire of Orlais and the Religion that will homogenise and control the territory. 

Likely, Drakon rewrote this canticle several times before letting Justinia I to introduce it to the Chant.

Probably these are the most interesting canticles for the Players, since they may inform us about what happened in DAI and what will happen in DA:D in a very, very vague way.

Exaltations 1:

Here, Andraste is called “Lady of Sorrow” which is unavoidable for us, the players, to wonder if there is no an intention from the devs to keep relating her with Mythal. This is not a proof, but from a design point of view, seems to look like a small hint left by the devs [similar to the one related to Andraste’s and Shartan’s eye colour]. I’m not saying Andraste *was* a vessel of Mythal, there is little lore to even consider it but certainly the devs left some details here and there to allow us to think in the potentiality of it.

In these verses, we read about “the symptoms” in the world with the Maker’s return. 

Portents of the Maker's return'

Seven times seventy men of stone immense Rose up from the earth like sleepers waking at the dawn, Crossing the land with strides immeasurable, And in the hollows of their footprints Paradise was stamped, indelible.

This verse seems to imply that 70 titans will wake up and walk on the surface of Thedas, destroying the land with their steps. I’m not sure we can survive this situation in any game. Is this what’s coming in DA:D?

And I heard from the East a great cry As men who were beasts warred with their brothers, Tooth and claw against blade and bow, Until one could no longer be told from the other, And cursed them and cursed their generations.

The East is one of the biggest mysteries of the map of Thedas. It is filled with legends of fantastical places and stories of pirates that never were seen again. According to this verse, and keeping in mind DA lore, we can suspect several situations that could be described in similar fashion:

A situation with Lycanthropy, similar to what we saw in DAO with the werewolves. It’s described as a curse, as men who are beasts and fight each other, succumbing more and more to their bestial side. If the werewolves in DAO didn’t have the Lady of the Forest to calm them down, they would have looked similar to what this verse describes.

According to Cassandra and the lore she shared about the Pentaghast family, dragon blood drinkers may turn into beasts [scaled skin] and succumb to madness. If these humans bred over time, the features may have stuck and they may have developed a new specie. This situation also has a soft, potential link with the Scaled Ones.

Making a connection with The Horror of Hormak, these beast-men may be creatures created by ancient Evanuris that survived over time, breeding one another until the curse remained through the generations.

This could also mean the origin of the race of the “Qunari”. I mean, the Kossith. This makes a bit of sense since some codices of unreliable narrators consider that the East is the original place where they came from. We also have from Iron Bull the not too reliable comment that the Kossith were nothing alike the Qunari, and with the Qun, his race became more civilised. As if the Qun were the tool that tamed a bestial nature that used to inhabit the Kossith. If all these details can be truth, the Kossith can also be a good option of this situation.

And those who slept, the ancient ones, awoke, For their dreams had been devoured By a demon that prowled the Fade As a wolf hunts a herd of deer. Taking first the weakest and frailest of hopes, And when there was nothing left, Destroying the bright and bold By subtlety and ambush and cruel arts.

“Ancient ones that slept” seem to relate immediately with Uthenera elves. It may be related to Evanuris too, since via Murals in DAI, we have concluded that they may be slumbering/sealed inside the Black City, double isolated from the Waking World and the Fade. 

Apparently, Fen’Harel’s wolf aspect, who roams the Fade, consumes the dreams of those who are in Uthenera. There are several interpretations for these lines. One of them is that maybe the Evanuris isolation, unable to reach any dreamer despite being in Uthenera, is caused by the wolf aspect of Fen’Harel who blocks that communication. Honestly, this interpretation is strange because via the murals we already saw that it was more about a magical barrier [maybe fed by the Fade energy of the uthenera elves] than a wolf what makes the Black City unable to be reached even in the Fade. 

In a more integral interpretation, this could mean that the Evanuris have been slumbering and being consumed by the wolf in the Fade. However, the tone in which this is narrated, where the wolf is a cruel and trickery creature, seems to imply this is from an Evanuris’ point of view. Could  this image have been given to Kordillus via an Evanuris or a follower of an Evanuris? I’m surprised how negatively the symbol of Fen’Harel is presented in this verse, which I cannot read in any other way than being an interpretation from an Evanuris perspective.

In any case, I think this verse presents what we will see in DA:D; the awakening of the Evanuris trapped in the Black City, extremely corrupted I guess.

The ninth sacred mountain upon which rests The mortal dust of Our Lady ascended Whole into the heavens, to be given high honor In the Realm of Dreams forever. And around it, a chorus of spirits sang: "Whatsoever passes through the fire Is not lost, but made eternal; As air can never be broken nor crushed, The tempered soul is everlasting!"

This may have been what we saw in Frostback Mountains: Somewhere North, where Corypheus raises a castle I never truly understood what that was. Clearly by the iconography seen in there it was Chantry-based. At the end, in the last platform where Corypheus is, we see a golden ring with a mosaic of Mythal in it, which keeps pushing the player to make a vague relationship between Mythal and Andraste. However, in that scene there was no fire despite looking like a kind of “ascension” of a place dedicated to Andraste.

It’s interesting that the process of the fire removes the body, which is something that, according all our analysis about Vallaslin and undulating lines [Murals in DAI and Fen’Harel’s mountain ruins], it’s something that restrains elvhen and makes them slave to the shape. “Through the fire you are made eternal” makes sense when you are a spirit trapped in a fleshy shape. The immediate comparison with Air reminds me the codex The Deepest Fade, where a spirit is described as “brethren or the air”.

Despite all these comments, I can’t say this verse makes much sense or can be related to something that happened or will happen in DA:D. It has a similar flavour to the one we saw in the Temple of Andraste, in DAO. 

And I looked up and saw The seven gates of the Black City shatter, And darkness cloaked both realms.

Here, Drakon seems to coincide with the information shown in Murals in DAI: the Black City seems to have seven gates, or seven guardians. The coming of the Maker is when there is no more protection in these gates, which seems to coincide with the time we are going to see in DA:D.

It also speaks of a darkness, that may be the Blight, or something worse than the Blight, since the Black City seems to have been containing Red Lyrium and Blight at the same time.

Andraste gives Drakon his destiny

I covered my face, fearful, But the Lady took my hands from my eyes, Saying, "Remember the fire. You must pass Through it alone to be forged anew. Look! Look upon the Light so you May lead others here through the darkness, Blade of the Faith!"

This is a weird self-insert of Drakon. The Lady tells him to pass through the fire in order to be purified [everything on brand with what we saw in the Temple of Andraste in DAO and its rituals]. This reeks to manipulative self-insert to reinforce the idea that he is the “right” leader while he unifies Orlais through politics and religion. Drakon “Blade of the Faith”, pfft.

The Maker returns

In dread I looked up once more And saw the darkness warp and crumble, For it was thin as samite, A fragile shroud over the Light Which turned it to ash. And the Maker, clad in the majesty of the sky, Set foot to earth, and at His touch All warring ceased. The vicious Beasts lay down and were quieted; The meek lambs became bold And rose up, casting aside their shepherds To dance at the Maker's feet.

The maker returns, as a Light that destroys darkness and turns it into ash. This looks like standard religious tale. Maybe the devs wanted to add also the idea that the Maker will destroy the Blight=darkness for good.

The Maker appears wearing “the sky” [it’s not clear if he is wearing the sky as day or night, and I’m not sure that would matter. This part of the Chant feels mere standard religious bullshit.]

And as he walks, war stops and beasts calm down, and curiously, the symbols of submission such as a lamb, become bold, rise up, and cast aside their shepherds. This is a detail that speaks more about encouraging rebellion, and it’s a very vague concept of what Fen’Harel represents. Maybe this is the last bit where there is a soft connection between the tale of Fen’Harel and The Maker’s [as I explained in Threnodies 5-6].

This would reinforce my previous interpretation of the Maker being a piece of altered elvhen history, narrating Solas’ actions. The symbol of rebellion is still attached to the Maker [inspired in part by Fen’Harel’s tales] even in his return, at the last part of the Chant.

From every corner of the earth The Chant of Light echoed, And the Maker walked the land With Andraste at His right hand. And they reached the gates of Minrathous, Where once a terrible fire swept The Light of redemption from the face of the world, And there, the Lady of Restitution Drew her shining sword And plunged it into the ground at her feet, saying: The sins of creation are redeemed

"All sins are forgiven! All crimes pardoned! Let no soul harbor guilt! Let no soul hunger for justice! By the Maker's will I decree Harmony in all things. Let Balance be restored And the world given eternal life."

A verse of Chantry propaganda, not much to say than yadda-yadda stuff.

That the Maker has Andraste at his right hand sounds like a metaphor of what we saw at the end of DAI if Solas represents the Maker and Andraste, Mythal. 

It’s not clear why Miranthous would be key in DA:D, but considering this image from a Chantry perspective, it’s clear that Minranthous is the capital of the “Evil” and where sin has been commited with the death of Andraste.

Andraste is also named as “Lady of Restitution”.

Andraste’s flaming sword in sunken in the ground and some things are granted: forgiveness of sins, justice, and eternal life. Standard rewards for any religion.

I don’t think these last two verses have much to offer than a natural closure to the religious text.

[Speculation] Why did Kordillus have these visions?

Since these visions seem to be “more or less” accurate with the existence of creatures that no human knew about at that time, such as the Titans or the evanuris, I’m inclined to believe that maybe Kordillus truly had visions that he used in the creation of these verses. 

How this could be possible? Thanks to Hakkon’s DLC, we can assume that “having visions” is an ability that avvar Augurs have, which is basically what Solas does with spirits: talk to them, learn from them.  The information obtained from the spirits have their perspective, and sometimes it can be a bit cryptic and metaphoric, as we saw it happens with Cole. They see and understand the reality much better than mortals, but it’s hard for them to describe it in the same  terms that a mortal needs to fully comprehend. So, if Kordillus spoke about immense creatures of stone raising and walking on the surface, and ancient ones, slumbering, which dreams were eaten by a creature compared with the behaviour of a wolf, I have the impression that the story is telling me that Kordillus had some access to spirits. How so? 

In terms of lineage, Kordillus Drakon has all the chances of having been a man who could have had some weak level of magic. Let’s see his parents:

His father came from a minor noble Tevinter family, and had no magical talent [this implies that the rest of the Drakon family had magic to some degree]. We know that if a person who comes from a magical family does not present magical abilities, it does not mean that future generations would not show magical powers later. So from the side of this father we can see that there is come magical power running in the blood.  

Kordillus’ mother belonged to a Ciriane tribe who, thanks to the political expertise of Kordillus’ father, worked her way to ascend as chieftain. Ciriane are an ancient tribe loosely related to the alamarri tribes [Andraste was Ciriane], and since they have alamarri roots, I’m inclined to think they also may have similar beliefs and treatment of spirits than the Avvar [who came from the Alamari]. We learnt a lot about the Avvar in the last DLC, so if there is a chance for the Ciriane to treat their mages as the Avvar do, I think that Kordillus, if he manifested low magical powers, had a very positive environment to connect with spirits who may have informed him about these details written later in his “prophetic verses”.

There is also a very curious context by that time in which, despite all the anti-Tevinter propaganda that Kordillus [and Justinia I] started to build as he founded the modern Chantry, there was not a strong sentiment against magic yet. Why do I say this? because by that time, Kordillus had no problem to show his deep friendship with an Dalish mage [Ameridan] to whom he gifted a very unique dagger, and gave him the immense responsibility of leading the first Inquisition. When Ameridan went to the Frostback Basin, his group was compounded by two mages [Ameridan and his lover Telana] and one of the first Templars back in the day that had no power over these mages.

So the cultural context of the time and Drakon’s own background make me suspect that maybe part of these verses have a hint of truth just because they can be pieces of information given by spirits. He may have taken these pieces in a positive way to use them in his verses without the usual negative connotation that this will have years later, when the Second Exalted March destroyed any relationship with the Dalish and started a campaign to demonise any magical ability in order to solidify the current Chantry vision which is so averse to magic and spirits. 

Still, nothing of this can be truly confirmed, so it remains in the field of speculation. However, I cannot deny that it’s quite curious that Kordillus could see things that we, as players, know with some degree of certainty thanks to our meta-knowledge of the games.

[adastreii]

shartan, attempt number two 

[corseque]

(Spoilers) One day I need to collect the evidence for my suspicion that before Gaider and Weekes came up with the idea of the Solas romance, the writing direction may have been that Solas would have been in love with Mythal. There are many reasons I think this, and I’d need to replay the games to gather my evidence - it seems to kind of seep through the cracks in the writing as they (presumably) transferred his romance to Lavellan.

That he isn’t romantically involved with her in the current game makes little difference to the plot, but I’m sort of glad that it isn’t where they went. If his back story is anything like what I think it is, it would have been fucked up for him to be in love with her. I wonder if the devs would actually answer “was it ever the plan for Solas to be in love with Mythal?” since it seems like they aren’t going that direction anymore. That’s like the only question I’d personally ask them at this point, besides asking to see their elven dictionary. Did anyone else get this undercurrent feeling from the writing, or is it just me?

[feyriane]

Solas thought he was playing DnD with spirits in the Fade but his OC, Shartan, ended up being real.

[gloriousonemahanon]

Thanks to Chantry propaganda, we all forget that Andraste, as in the woman, was a rebel and a freedom fighter first and foremost. She was taking down empires, not building them like Drakon and his cult. She kicked ass and took names. She freed the elven slaves with her bff/maybe lover Shartan. Her quote was likely more towards the abusive, self-serving magisters rather than mages in general. If she ever DID come back, she'd have a LOT to say about both the Orlesian and Imperium Chantry, and I GUARANTEE you that none of it would be good. Especially since the Orlesian Empire was every bit as abusive and controlling as the Tevinter Empire.

[mrs-gauche]

So BioWare posted a tweet today on Father's Day and clearly the devs seem to be also full on board with the DAD jokes, and I love it, but it also prompted me to write this open letter lol:

Dear people who are convinced by the theory that Solas is Shartan,

I just have three quick questions for you guys, without wanting to disprove you or anything, because even though I personally might not be fully in that camp, I totally see where you're coming from and I actually think there are almost way too many uncanny parallels between those two (and Mythal/Andraste/Flemeth of course) to be coincidental (you know, aside from the fact that they're both bald elves lol)... BUT I keep thinking about it and I do have to ask...

1.) So this has been asked a lot already, but how do you think that would have worked exactly? Do you think Solas' alarm clock was still set on "rebellion time" when he woke up from Uthenera, just in time to quickly team up with Andraste, start yet another following/religion and liberate the slaves of Tevinter, only to then immediately go back to sleep again? lol

(I mean, literally Varric's comment in Trespasser when he hears about Fen'Harel's story: "Ordinary guy saves people, accidentally founds religion... Sounds a lot like the Chant actually." Then you have Shartan being entirely scratched out of the Chant and Solas being essentially "cancelled" by elven mythology as well.)

Then there's also that other theory about Andraste being Mythal's previous host, which makes me think that Mythal just really loves to continuously wake up her favorite wolf throughout the ages whenever it's time to rebel? lol The question is though, did Flemythal even have a hand in Solas' awakening (not like she has a hand in basically everything else in this story)...? 👀 I always wondered what even made Solas wake up *now* of all times and why is no one talking about that, anyway? 😂

2.) Solas, Mr "There’s a hint in basically every single dialogue", never once talks about Andraste in a way that indicates any connection or deeper relationship there? 🤔 I’ve seen people argue that it’s more likely that Solas, rather than being Shartan himself, was actually just influencing Shartan through the Fade, like an advisor?

3.) Are we on the same page that there's like a 99.9% chance that Shartan was the real father of Andraste's daughters (of which the youngest, Vivial, had children who apparently carried on that lineage, so it's possible that there are still descendants of Andraste living in the present day 👀), which is why all these Dreadwolf/Solas DAD jokes keep reminding me of the Solas/Shartan theory now and maybe you guys are really onto something here?? 😂

Sincerely,

A genuinely curious fan

And Happy Father's Day lol <3

[sunxxblessed]

I’m curious, what does your muse name their Mabari companion? Here are mine:

Brennon Cousland: Loghain (after his childhood hero. He thinks it’s hilarious when he introduces dog Loghain to human Loghain at Ostagar. Human Loghain is not amused)

Amara Cousland: Gil (after her childhood best friend and first boyfriend, Ser Gilmore)

Lauryl Cousland: Moira (after the Rebel Queen, Alistair’s grandmother)

Rosalie Amell: Ser Thrask (after a kind Templar who helped her adjust to life in the Circle as a little kid in Kirkwall)

Theron Mahariel: Fen’Harel (he’s just a little shit and thinks it’s funny ok)

Aurelia Tabris: Shartan (after the legendary elf that fought with Andraste)

Pyke Brosca: Barkspawn (they just think it’s cute and also fitting)

[commie-eschatology]

Fiona, Breaker of Chains

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041928

“It's hard to start a revolution. Even harder to continue it. And hardest of all to win it.” - Ben M'Hidi, Battle of Algiers. Fiona despairs, as Alexius's spell leaves her unmoored in time.

“Starting a revolution is the easy part. Winning one is the far more difficult task.”

Fiona looks at the words she has written, and cannot remember why. She sees that it is a pamphlet to send out to the remaining rebels, but she cannot recall for what purpose. Her temples throb with pain, eyes droop downwards with exhaustion- when was the last time she slept? She can’t remember.

“The Venatori, as the vanguard of the Imperium, will be honored to protect the mage rebellion from the templars, if, Grand Enchanter, you would merely agree to the terms of our contract,” says the Tevinter, a man she can’t recognize at first. Slowly, she remembers, this is the shem who seeks indentured servitude for her people, who’d provide protection from the templars if she’d agree to ship a few elvhen up to the Imperium. She opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, that she’ll personally rip out his shem tongue if he dares make such an offer here again, but the words don’t form. She feels blood drip down from her nose, her vision clouds.

Fiona’s in the White Spire, yelling “Fuck the Divine” to the College, relishing the horrified gasps of the Loyalists. “Well I’m sure the Divine is a perfectly nice woman,” she smirks. The vote swings their way, a moment Fiona has fought for her entire life, but now that it’s here, she feels unprepared for what happens next. They fight through the circle, a young enchanter, one of the People, throws himself on a templar blade to save Fiona; she doesn’t even know his name. So many sacrifices, cannot let them be in vain, must do what is impossible. In the streets of Val Royeaux, they chant that they are finally free, but they are not yet; it’s just a comfortable lie that they all share.

“I understand the nobility of Ferelden has reached the limit of their accommodation. The Imperium will provide what King Alistair will not,” says the shem magister, fiddling with a strange talisman. Alistair. She’s holding her baby boy in her arms, caresses the slight point of his small ears. Fiona is of the People, the long struggle of the Elvhen is in her very bones, she cannot impose such a burden on a child. Her son will never know his People, will never know her. She is a revolutionary, fighting and always prepared to die for her people, and there is no time for anything else.

Fiona is in Denerim after the Blight, watching from afar as they place a crown on Alistair’s head. She hopes the shem aristocrats will learn to ignore the slight point of his ears, the strange width of his eyes. Then, she is reading about another purge of the alienage,  of how the appointed Elvhen Bann was murdered and not replaced by the Ferelden Crown. Her son has grown into a shemlen after all, what did she expect?

She’s kneeling before the throne, a necessary degradation after Andoral’s Reach, her grown son above her. Her knees begin to cramp before he finally speaks in full view of the court, “Very well, the rebel mages will have sanctuary in Ferelden. But, our army won’t fight for you, nor will we prevent the templars from pursuit if they wish.” Fiona grovels and thanks him, as is expected, he motions for her to stand and whispers that he wishes there was more he could do. But then, she is in the halls of Redcliffe castle, and her own son, flanked by his honor guard, orders the rebels to leave their sanctuary, recalling any protection her people had from the templars.

“It is a quite reasonable offer. I do not believe you will find a better one,” the magister says. She’s in her chambers, reading the daily casualties. Every day another friend, another comrade, dead, or worse. As the templars advance, demons of Despair appear as she dreams; Fiona herself manages to shut them out, but other enchanters aren’t so lucky. Every night brings danger, she’s never sure how many will wake in the morning. Fiona prays to Andraste and Shartan every night, wondering if they ever felt such crushing doubt during their rebellion, the kind that makes her feel as she is constantly shrinking into herself. She prays to the old gods of the People as well, for the justice of Mythal, the cunning of Andruil, the power of Elgar'nan, but they, as always, are silent. In her dreams, she spies a Wolf watching her curiously; on top of everything else, it seems she’s caught the scent of the fucking Dread Wolf.

She’s face-to-face with Enchanter Trevelyan now, daughter of the infamous Lady Trevelyan of the Free Marches, now called the “Herald of Andraste.”The true-believing Liberati, the one she sent to stop the Conclave if the negotiations didn’t swing their way, returns to Redcliffe with a Seeker at her back. Fiona watches as she realizes the terrible truth of their predicament,“An Alliance with Tevinter? I cannot possibly think of a worse decision you could have made,” she says. But, what decision was there?

Fiona is in the back of the tavern now, her temples throb with pain, and her mind feels foggy. She thinks there’s something important she has forgotten, but can’t remember what. Enchanter Linnea of Ostwick sits beside her, puts a comforting hand on her knee and says, “You did the right thing. The Imperium will protect us now.”

Trevelyan appears again in front of Fiona and Linnea, this time separate from her Inquisition companions. “Let me help,” she begs, “All I want is for our people to not end up in Circles again. Or worse.” Fiona cannot find the words to answer, so Linnea does so for her. “Go back to your templars,” she scoffs, Trevleyn flinches.

“Grand Enchanter?” the magister smiles, “will the mage rebellion accept our terms?” There is no choice to make. They never could win this rebellion. She’s already chosen, and will do it again.

“Yes, Magister Alexius,” she concedes. This time, at least, the shackles are hers to choose.

[roseategales]

SOLAS & ORPHEUS I: YOUR NAME IS LIKE A MELODY. (THE POWER OF EPITHETS, TITLES, & NAMES.)

                                                           EPITHETS & TITLES:

VGS: Where do you see a character like Solas ending up? Patrick Weekes: [Sighs] Musical theatre.

The above exchange is from an interview with Video Game Sophistry, where Patrick Weekes goes into detail about the creation of Solas and how we ended up with the character and romance we got. Although said in jest, I do believe Weekes honestly recognised that Solas is a character who could easily be adapted to the medium of the stage musical, due to how musicality is baked into the foundations of his story and the world of Dragon Age. In fact, Weekes compares the fantasy and romance of Solavellan to The Phantom of the Opera earlier in the interview, and anyone familiar with Phantom can see the parallels, as Solas and his arc share many tropes and archetypes in common, not just with the Phantom, but with other male characters in musicals. If I told you I was going to see a show about a Morally Conflicted Soldier, a Trickster in Disguise, a Rebel Leader, a Decadent Noble, a Mythic Legend, or a Monster Boyfriend, I’m sure several examples would jump to mind.

Solas is all of these. Layer upon layer, stitched together, and then taken apart, whenever he needs to be whatever he needs to be. And he is also, if we are borrowing the epithets from Hadestown, The King and The Poor Boy Working on a Song.

It has to be noted that Hadestown’s use of epithets is itself a nod to ancient oral poetry, particularly in the vein of Homer. In Homeric convention, important characters, settings, and objects weren’t described by adjectives, but with epithets that would change based on context. (e.g. Much-enduring Odysseus, who is another paradoxical Trickster figure in ancient myth.) The use of epithets is a signifier of the origins of Homer’s works, serving as a mnemonic device and a way to fit the scenes of the stories to dactylic hexameter, as they were first oral poems that were composed and sung in front of audiences before they were written down. However, because of our modern understanding of the English language and what the word epithet connotes to us, what Anaïs Mitchell has done by using this device in Hadestown, is turn it into something that’s closer to the definition and function of a title rather than an adjective. Hades is always “The King.” Orpheus is always “The Poor Boy Working on a Song,” or “The Poor Boy With a Gift to Give.”

Solas bears his names in a similar fashion. When introduced to us as merely Solas, he is the “Humble Apostate” (or “Unwashed Apostate Hobo,” if you have Vivienne and Dorian in your party), or the “Fade Expert”; he is nicknamed “Chuckles” by Varric and “Fade Walker” by Iron Bull. Descriptors that comment on his lowly, outsider status, beaten and betrayed in this strange new world, that endear us to him. When he again dons the badge of Fen’Harel/Dread Wolf, he is “He Who Hunts Alone,” “Lord of Tricksters,” “The Great Wolf,” “Roamer of the Beyond,” and “Bringer of Nightmares.” Bynames that, of course, evoke those given to deities in ancient cultures (e.g. Hades is also known as Plouton in Greek myth, “The Rich One.”), that make him out to be fearsome, malevolent, and unknowable beyond the legends.

When I separate Solas into these two personas and archetypes, of Solas and Fen’Harel, The King and The Poor Boy, I don’t want us to make the mistake of thinking he is someone who bifurcates himself so completely that one part of him is unrecognisable from the other. His is not a situation of one identity hiding another or two identities battling to control the fore. He is Solas and he is Fen’Harel; the way Lavellan is “The Dalish Elf” and “The Herald of Andraste.” He is simply someone who has some impressive compartmentalisation skills (displayed in a conversation he has with Sera on the tactics of the Red Jenny group), and who has a thorough experience of a line he says to Cole:

“We all have a face we want to show, and a face we do not.”

                                                                      NAMES:

Perhaps the best way to convey Solas’ complexities coming together to form the whole of him, is by examining the construction of his name. How cyclical it is, beginning and ending with the letter S, as effortlessly smooth and slippery as he. The L in the middle like a delineation, a fork in the road of choices before him. O and A on either end like they’re mirrors or masks. How it’s composed of five letters, the way iambic pentameter is composed of five syllables that you must stress and unstress—like the two syllables in his name itself. And depending on which syllable you stress in your pronunciation, your voice will either rise and fall or fall and rise when you say it.

I may be giving Gaider and Weekes too much credit here, but Solas’ name is quite literally perfect for him. Change any single one of these components or his characteristics, and you will no longer have Solas but someone else in his stead.

There are layered meanings to the sound of his name, too. Solas is a homophone for Solace and Soulless in the English language. The former recalls all the times he might’ve provided solace to his friends or lover, or received it from them; and the latter recalls how he does seemingly soulless things to achieve his goals, or becomes someone who is soulless altogether if you don’t reach out to him with kindness. Angela D. Mitchell explores this wonderfully on her blog Dumped, Drunk and Dalish, along with homonyms in other languages. Among them are:

Latin: Solus Meanings: Solitary, alone, sole, only, uninhabited.

Irish: Solas Meanings: Light, Bright, Clear; Brightness; illumination; lucid, intelligible; light-giving, lamp flame; enlightenment, insight; revelation, disclosure; the light of existence; vision. Also: self-interest; limelight.

Old Irish: Solus Meaning: Light.

Scottish Gaelic (derived from the old Irish "Solus" or "light"): Solas Meaning: Light.

Old French: Solaz, Sollas, Soulas Meanings: Joy, pleasure, enjoyment.

She also explores the Latin root of ‘Sol’:

Lone, alone, solitary, lonely, desolate, dismal, gloomy The sun (also can refer to the Sun in a personified sense) A source of comfort, calmness, soothing "To be accustomed" (as found in such words as: insolent, obsolescent, sullen)

These are all such apt descriptors for various facets of his personality and story, it shows the amount of thought and care given to him in the writing process. And of course, there are the Elven meanings: ‘Pride’ or ‘to stand tall.’

Because of the level of thought involved, I wondered how far back Gaider chose his name and decided it would mean ‘Pride’ in Elven, and how that might’ve informed Weekes’ writing of his character. @maythedreadwolftakeyou, @felassan and @lesbianarcana (my heroes!) helped me out and did some top-notch digging.

The first instance we have of the word Solas was found in a codex acquired from Dragon Age II’s Black Emporium, which was released on March 8, 2011. After that, it appears with its Elven meaning and on a map in World of Thedas Volume 1, released on April 30, 2013.

Since we have an enormous amount of foreshadowing for him by way of Shartan in Dragon Age: Origins and Merrill in Dragon Age II, I think it’s safe to say the first concepts of what Solas would mean and who the character who would wear the name would become began as far back as DAO. (Note: I believe Gaider or another Bioware dev confirmed this on social media, but I couldn’t find the post anywhere. If it crops up and you see it, please let me know. I’ll amend the post and credit you.)

In any case, the power of names is yet another running theme that links the storytelling of the ancients, Hadestown, and DA:I. Orpheus pays attention to the composition of Eurydice’s name, and remarks on how it’s “like a melody,” and his arrival in Hadestown reminds her of it when she’s been stripped of it and has forgotten who she used to be. Solas tells Abelas he hopes that he finds a new name after he leaves the guard of the Vir Abelasan, because it means Sorrow. The Qunari in Tevinter Night’s Genitivi Dies in the End have a special interest in finding out what they believe to be Solas’ “true name,” so they can then “track [him] back through the best and worst of [himself]”; “find flaws”; “exploit weaknesses”; “know what [he] failed to be.”

To be named is to be given an identity, personality, and, in most cases, personhood. To be named yourself and to be able to name others is power. Whether that comes as the name you’re privately called, your title, or your epithet.

[5lazarus]

My Dragon Age Fanfiction Masterlist

In chronological order, from Arlathan to post-Trespasser.

There Is No Ithaca Three moments where Solas loses his home: Solas wrecks his revolution on the altar of Mythal. Solas returns from war to find Ghilan’nain incubating the Blight within their own home. Fen'Harel negotiates the end of the world with the Thaig of the Bastion of the Pure. Answers to various asks from brightoncemore’s wonderful promptlist.

Overheard at the Hanged Man Thirty-one stories written in Nightmare-mode for Beyond the Veil’s 2020 Artober Challenge, ranging through the entire series, from Arlathan before the Blight to the Chargers in Serault.

Alistair the Accidental Heretic Alistair gets bored during morning prayer and starts changing the words of the Chant as he sings. Mother Prudence and Knight-Commander Greagoir are less than pleased, and soon he finds himself tripping up over accidental heresy even within the kitchens of Kinloch Hold. It’s not easy, being a half-elf templar with a conscience, because even having a sense of humor is heresy.

The Starkhaven Crier A portrait of two future apostates at ten-year-olds: Jowan and Surana are bored, get dragged to the Chantry for the good of their souls, and accidentally make the new girl from Starkhaven cry. Featuring Surana determined to be the one Dalish against letting the Maker come back, the self-hating mage in the Surana/Amell origin as the Starkhaven Crier, and the same Mother Prudence who sent Alistair to bed without supper. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Morrigan at the Crossroads Morrigan reaches her breaking point, confronted with the one person she cannot flee: her six-week-old son, who cannot be soothed back to sleep, struggling in the Crossroads. From a prompt musettta3 sent me.

Shartan’s Riddle Surana talks Mahariel through writing Leliana, after Leliana leaves to work for the Divine. Shartan promised them a home, and Mahariel worries Leliana, devout as she is, cannot give it to her. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Winter in Amaranthine The Wardens’ companions decide to leave, and Warden-Commander Arana Mahariel cannot find a reason good enough to tell them no. Meanwhile, letters between the Warden and Leliana get lost in translation, and Arana makes it worse. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Phosphorescence A Despair demon in the Foundry district is clogging up the whole city with a miasma of misery. Justice runs into an old friend of his, during Anders’ first few weeks in Kirkwall, and the three set to work. Heavy-handed allegory abounds, but, Justine opines, that’s the Dreamers’ fault. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Labyrinth "Anders made no attempt at escape during the years they were together." This story is meant to explore everything absolutely horrible about that statement. If the core part of Anders' identity is his refusal to submit to imprisonment, then perhaps listening to Karl was a violation of his sense of self. Things get better, and then things get worse.

Kirkwall Thunderstorm Family squabbling as the storm sets in, Hawke flees to face the thunderstorm head on, and laughs, because what’s more to life than this, chasing a storm all the way down to the harbor? From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Debutante Leandra manages Hawke’s debut ball, and surprises herself by having a lot of fun. From an OC ask I decided to turn into a prompt.

Dregs Anders baits Varric, or Varric baits Anders, both drunk at the Hanged Man. There’s no resolution to an argument when they’re both just angry, thinking about dead mages. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

The Scent of Pomegranates Merrill brings a pomegranate to the Hanged Man, to try and capture some of the way her clan celebrated the new year. Fenris is oddly moved. Written for the DA Den’s 2020 Holiday Gift Exchange.

Anders in Autumn Anders and Fenris, over the course of one gorgeous autumn in Kirkwall, find common ground, a common goal, and even tenderness, as the city grows cool and vibrant in the changing of the year. Justice returns to the streets of Kirkwall, one way or another, and it is as transformative and loving as justice truly is. An answer to an Artober challenge from cozy-autumn-prompts.

Warp & Weft Anders wakes Fenris up in the middle of the night talking, and then not wanting to talk, about weaving. What they remember and what they have forgot climb into the bed with them. A gift for potatowitch.

Landlocked Merrill goes looking for Isabela after a night of drinking at the Hanged Man, and finds her considering the sun rising over the horizon at the docks. They're landlocked and the salt's drained them both dry, but maybe it's not all been a waste. They're shipless, not shipwrecked. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

Catabasis Kirkwall’s in ashes and Hawke and their friends are on the run. Varric might have ended the story at the docks, but the conflict continues. The question persists: should they separate? And what brought them together in the first place? From a series of prompts ellie-effie and musetta3 sent me.

Dead Man Hiking Solas broods over what has been lost. Dorian interrupts, and Solas dangles hidden knowledge in front of him like a carrot. They both take the bait, because, as irritable and sad Solas can get, “he wants to give wisdom, not orders,” and Dorian loves to learn. Written for Beyond the Veil’s 2020 Satinalia Gift Exchange.

Dirthara Ma! May You Learn After the Exalted Council, Solas stops for a drink and a sulk in a quiet tavern in Ostwick. He is convinced no one will ever recognize him with a full head of hair and a beard. Then the Inquisitor walks in. The first in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series.

White Nights A year after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a new lover to a quiet inn in Val Royeaux. She steps out to the balcony for a quick smoke under the stars, looks over to the balcony adjacent to hers–and who is there but the Dread Wolf himself, slightly disguised, with a glass of wine? Despite themselves they talk, and do not stop talking. “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.” The second and most comprehensive in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Ligaments Briala has loaded her dice when playing the Game. Gaspard throws her in prison, but her message goes out to both the Dread Wolf, keen to better his reputation for catastrophe amongst the elves of Orlais, and the Dalish Inquisitor, who is still reeling from the loss of her arm. “We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” The third in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Out From Under the Dread Wolf's Eye Briala and Merrill try and steal an eluvian out from under the Dread Wolf's eye. It doesn't quite work, but that doesn't mean the day's a failure, not when there's dinner to be had and a connection to explore. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

The Domesticities Solas adjust to a new, gentle love that has gripped his heart and will not let him go: a Lavellan who heralds a world he did dream of, and learns how to survive grief and his own betrayal, learns how to surrender the high moral ground and focus on the domesticities. A series of Solas-POV ficlets from my story, Fen'Harel’s Teeth, where Lavellan is a mother and leader in her own right, and barely keeping her head above the water of her own deep grief. Not in chronological order!

He Who Hunts Alone Solas will restore the Elvhen People as he knew them, even if this world must die. It is his only purpose as he understands it. But a magical accident leaves him in another world, where a version of himself has made a very different choice. Solas is forced to reckon with a desire he has never let himself explore. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan, both his friend and adversary, is dragged with him, as they move from their world, to a world where Solas seems to have won it all, to another that seems both their worst nightmare. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan: the rebel apostate mage, romanced Josephine Inquisitor Imladris Lavellan: the Dalish First, romanced Solas, featured in Fen'Harel’s Teeth Inquisitor Brigid Trevelyan: the faithful Andrastian prophet, rogue and noble, Tara’s sister, romanced Blackwall and then Cullen Written in tandem with my partner, batsy22-me, and likewise abandoned when we got bored of it.

Fen'Harel’s Teeth First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, thought that her audience with the Divine against templars’ harassment of Dalish mages would be a token protest, and that her people would use it to draw the city elves closer to the Vir Tanadahl. She didn’t think her Keeper’s calculations would catapult her to the top of the Chantry’s leadership, manipulating the powers of Thedas to leave her people be. Meanwhile, Briala foments revolution in Halamshiral, using the eluvian network to sabotage the armies of Orlais. A new movement erupts in the Dales, and elves across Thedas look at this so-called “Herald of Andraste” and see Mythal’s vallaslin. Fiona breaks the chains of mages across Thedas, and Fenris starts whispers of a new age in Tevinter–one where the slaves throw down their masters. A new age is coming, and all of Thedas look to Lavellan to usher it in. My baby, my never-ending story, my current work-in-progress.

[dalishious]

What do you think the long-term effects of a hardened Leliana Divine would be? As far as I can see, a softened Leliana Divine is unambiguously good, as she enacts reform and convinces all the doubters to at least give it a shot. But if she's hardened, she doesn't convince anyone, she just kills some and terrifies the others into silence without changing any minds. A thought I had was what happens when she dies, for whatever reason? I feel like there's a good chance that someone else (1/2)

could very well come in and undo all her reforms, because now that she’s gone, the conservatives that she’s forced to be silent are no longer afraid of her. (2/2)

That’s probably the strongest, legitimate argument I’ve heard for softening Leliana, actually. In Trespasser, Giselle comments that an Inspired (Softened) Leliana has won allies, whereas a Steeled (Hardened) Leliana has made people afraid to disagree with her. In judging this alone, it sounds like an Inspired Leliana would be the best for long-term change. However, looking at the whole picture, I still think that while overall there isn’t much difference between Inspired or Steeled–the only important thing being to complete her quest period–but with personal preference for Steeling her.

Regardless if Inspired or Steeled, Leliana as Divine Victoria makes the same changes; she ends the Circle of Magi, opens priesthood to all races, rededicates the Chantry to the principle of charity, restores the Canticle of Shartan to the canonical chant, and allows marriage within the priesthood. Whether she is Inspired or Steeled only affects the response that follows. When people riot over these changes and “declare her rule a threat to the faith,” a Steeled Leliana quickly shuts this down, whereas an Inspired Leliana meets with the leaders of the rebelling sects, and “for now” settles things. And then come Trespasser, the epilogue says that yet again rebellion rises and several assassination attempts are made, Inspired Leliana does nothing but feel her faith will protect here. A Steeled Leliana will wipe out the rebellion until it’s all gone.

Because of this, I think a Steeled Leliana has a better chance of making more lasting change. She does not try to appease or ignore the hatred, but acts against it. And in this way, change in hearts can happen in time because changing the culture in which hatred is not tolerated means less breeding hate. Whereas with an Inspired Leliana, I fear she’ll inevitably be assassinated, then things will go right back to how they were.