#solas pov

[vir-bellanaris]

Chapter 2 is here!! 3500 words babeeee Took me 4 hours but that's 20 mintues of reading time LOL please I hope you enjoy! I worked hard, comments are appreciate my loves :)))

Of course, Veilguard ending spoilers please beware.

[dreadfutures]

Unprompted, for @dadrunkwriting, inspired by working on painting Ixchel's scarred face more accurately in recent months. Solas & Ixchel's first kiss in Dead Pasts and Dread Futures.

16. / 17. He Who Hunts Alone

Her pain hit him like a shriek's hidden blade: by surprise.

The Behemoth should have pounded her into the ground with its arm of red lyrium, as big as a dragon's--but it instead met a pulsing green barrier. Ixchel had raised the Anchor and directed its energies into a brutal shield, and the red lyrium exploded when it met its target. Unable to break through her aegis of protection, the arm broke instead.

The sound was deafening, yet Solas still heard Ixchel's scream.

Rage, mind-tearing pain, it shot through him as if it were his own. The Anchor--his magic--responded to her will, but it had already begun its revolt. He felt it reaching for its true master.

He needed to quell its destruction before it was too late, but the other Red Templars had other plans.

-

When she collapsed, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth, he knew they had pushed their luck. He shoved the Iron Bull aside with all his might and reached for the Anchor. She was in utter agony, the Anchor clutched tightly to her chest and her other hand clamped at her elbow as if a tourniquet would cut off the pain--surely she had sustained other injuries from their grueling battle, but there was no time to be delicate.

She fought him as he pulled her hand free, but the very moment he began to siphon the Anchor's building power, she went limp. Her head tipped forward and landed on his shoulder--he felt wetness through his tunic, but whether it was from her sweat, blood, or tears, he did not know.

The hand that held the Anchor gripped his like a vice. He held her just as tightly in return.

Once the magic was pacified, his clinical concern did not leave him. She was shivering, and he pulled her closer with an arm around her shoulders as if that would shelter her--as if it were the cold, and not the pain of his magic undoing her arm atom by atom, that ailed her.

They appraised her other injuries, planned to find a healer, sent their companions to release the Red Templar's prisoners, but Solas never released her hand.

The sound of her sniffle sent him back to the last time she had fallen screaming into the mud, and her companions had comforted her and dried her tears. He found himself wishing that they were here to help her now; this pain, the danger she was in, the harm she had suffered and would suffer aplenty, bore his fingerprints. He should not be the one to comfort her. How could he?

"It's going to kill me," she said, turning his blood to ice with the smallest of voices. "Right?"

His jaw tightened, chewing on answers that all ended in hopeless apologies. He swallowed them all. He could feel her eyes locked on his face, but he could not meet her gaze to offer the truth or comfort this poor young woman deserved.

Comfort he wished to give.

Their brave leader, the hero who stepped up and stepped up and stepped up to every challenge, who threw herself as a shield between danger and the world as if death could not touch her--was so certain that his magic would kill her.

He had so often wanted her words to be right. He wanted the world and even himself to live up to her declarations of how things could and should and would be. But in this, he wanted her to be wrong.

He made a decision.

He brushed her hair behind her ear and left his hand buried in the warmth at the back of her neck, cradling her head like a precious thing.

"It can try," he said.

-

He went in search of her after seeing the healers leave their tent. They may have been able to heal her fractured collarbone, but he worried about the state of the Anchor. Had he truly pacified it? For how long?

It seemed that he had done well enough in saving her from its meltdown, but any relief he felt was stolen away when he overheard her tell Varric how deeply affected she was by the presence of red lyrium.

He could tell by the look on her face as he approached that she did not want to tell him that.

It bothered him to know she would keep her pain from him. It bothered him even more that when he reprimanded her for it, he could tell she was silently calling him a hypocrite. She could not know how small a secret her pains were, compared to the secrets he kept. He could not tell her rationally why he would never tell her what ailed him, and why she should never hide what ailed her.

She wanted to be close to him, she wanted to know him--and he could not allow it. But more than anything he wished to.

"If not me, then speak to Varric," he said. It was meant to put distance between them, but it came out as too-earnest an appeal, and his feet drew him closer despite his words.

She flexed her hand as though the Anchor hurt her again. That was why he reached for her, trailed his fingers across the tear in her palm where his magic was concentrated in a potent well.

There was no excuse for lacing his fingers with hers.

There was no excuse for how his chest tightened when she returned his gentle grip.

His chest was against her back, and he held her gently captive with a touch on her waist.

Acquiescence after acquiescence he was giving her: I will stop prying, I will give you the closeness you want, if you can do the same.

But of course, she had to throw his own hypocrisy in his face. Blessedly the barb was a gentle one.

"You do not know what you ask," she said, and he felt her swallow a laugh.

He spoke his answer into her ear, admiring how it twitched as if she had been tickled. She still had not pulled away, still had not moved to put distance between them again--the dance that he had pulled her into in the first place.

He leaned closer, catching a glint of the golden ink on her cheeks, the tip of her nose. Despite those marks, he had not ever imagined her as one who could be broken... but the danger today had been real. His fear had been real.

In the dark, that fear was magnified. She felt ephemeral beneath his touch; the pulse in her hand was painfully mortal.

Words poured from him, as if they would conjure an immutable truth from her frailty:

“You have an indomitable spirit, Ixchel. Your… Your faith in those around you is as a pole star in the night.”

She sighed, every word putting a weight on her shoulders that he regretted. "Stars die," she rasped.

In that moment, he thought he could accept that truth. His need for her to be resilient, to be a guide, was selfish, his desire for a shared eternity was impossible--and yet there was merit in this moment, and every moment they had together. There was merit in the attempt at heroism, even if she were to fail--glory in a life lived, even if it were to end.

He knew the darkness that haunted her, and he realized now that he loved her not just in spite of it.

Stars die.

“And the best navigators may steer off course," he said, his lips brushing her cheek with every word. It was a truth for a truth, and an offering of peace. He wanted to follow where she would go. In Elvhen, he offered her even more:

“[[Not all those who wander are lost.]]"

When he kissed her, she filled his arms like she had always been there, or as if they were missing pieces who never should have parted. She leaned into his chest with the confidence that he would steady her, welcomed his kiss as something necessary, something precious.

Kissing her was a reminder of everything he had just been willing to accept. Her lips had been torn under dragon's claws long ago, leaving hem twisted and scarred--but still soft. There was no way to touch her face without encountering the harrowing evidence of her brushes with death. Pitted scars, raised markings, sagging skin, every sensation was new, though not unpleasant.

She turned in his arms and held him gently, as conscious of not trapping him as he had been in holding her.

She had kissed him as if they had all the time in the world, as if it were the long-awaited coming-together that would never see them parted. But the way she pressed her head to his chest to listen to his heartbeat, the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath shuddered on the inhale told him that she knew it would not last.

He had put that fear into her. An apology rose in him, but she cut him off.

“[[You are one who will never learn]],” she mumbled into his sweater. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”

The pain in her voice, her certainty that he would think better of this delicate moment, made him feel as cold as she must think him to be.

She pulled away, and he could not find the strength to hold on to her. To pull her back and deny what she believed to be true.

But he could not.

In putting only this little distance between them he saw what he had not before. The dim glow of the Anchor caught on the edge of every scar and marking, it was reflected in her eyes.

They were not reminders of fleeting danger or distant mortality. They were reminders that he was the one who had shaped this world, and that whatever future harm befell her would bear his ownership.

His thumb brushed her scarred lips once more. An acknowledgement, an apology.

“In another world,” she said wearily into the murk between them. “[[Your love is like a knife in my chest that I twist with my own hand...]] Good night, Solas.”

He took a deep breath to steel himself against the tears that gleamed in her eyes.

“[[Good night, Ixchel. May the Dread Wolf never hear your footsteps.]]”

[queenaeducan]

Var Shiral'vhen - Chapter Three: Echoes

The sight of mages mingling freely at his doorstep stir old memories in Solas's heart. He finds himself still a stranger to the world he now inhabits, catching only glimpses of the familiar in the faces around him.

They had arrived in Redcliffe a humble party of five, and left in numbers beyond his reckoning.

Haven now groans beneath the weight of its new occupants. Mages, young and old, mingle in her snow-lined streets, finding their bearings and reconnecting with faces they had missed in the fog of war.

Solas walks in their midst, yet does not number among them, his plain robes and homemade staff are enough to mark him as an outsider. Instead, he observes, as he has through countless dreams in the past year and change since waking. For their part, they are no more receptive to his presence than the memories, parting around him as though he were not there.

A disarming thought gnaws at him as he recognises that he’s seen this all before. In their eyes, he beholds uncertainty, unsure if they have arrived at their future or another false hope. Others beam with promise so potent spirits press through the Veil to feel their warmth.

Echoes.

Echoes is the word he comforts himself with. Like the farthest ring in a ripple of water resembles the hand that moves the waves.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” the Herald’s voice resonates with the present, dispelling his stupor with a few warm words. She draws level beside him, her close proximity easy, undaunted. He looks down at her. She looks healthier this morning than she has in several days; her eyes bright and the sides of her head freshly shaved, leaving only a patch at the top that lifts in tight curls. More notably, Redcliffe’s wounds have begun to fold back into her skin, unmaking the memories of the false year. One mark remains, a deeper cut that has the makings of a scar, carved beneath the Carta brand under her right eye. Leaning against the side of a building, she says, “I think they’re settling in nicely.”

(Read the rest on AO3!)

[amaryllislavellan]

Need | 590 Words A study in how words feel as they exit the mouth, or maybe over analyzing is just a defense against really feeling what they mean. (Best if the words he's analyzing are said out loud!)

"Need is such a weak willed word. It’s short, callous, and overall falls fast in the mouth as if you’re trying to hide the vulnerability of yourself behind your front teeth. No. I do not need her."

Need is such a weak willed word. It’s short, callous, and overall falls fast in the mouth as if you’re trying to hide the vulnerability of yourself behind your front teeth.

No.

I do not need her.

I could brace myself against the flowery tones and the roll of my tongue when I say desire. The way the breath escapes in an attempt to flourish the thought, extending it out within the room on heated breath and a softly opened mouth. But that too, would be inaccurate.

I can attempt to articulate my feelings into words but none of them resonate with the way my heart bursts when I see her. The gentle moments we spend together that make my blood burn up through my chest and the air escape my lungs without being exhaled. Her smile traps the air there, held in the embrace of her warmth. Instead of searching for an escape I draw in a deep breath that comes out as a tremble and I fight back against my heart, losing my true purpose. My composure.

I-- I don’t need her.

Perhaps I simply want her. But want is a curt word, ending on a pop. It’s a short term proclamation that ends in a puff of air that resides in the forefront of the mouth. It is a word begrudging of neglect once obtained and my body would not do me the courtesy of abandoning her. With fevered fingers I indulge in tangling in her hair by the fistfull, pulling it back until she makes that golden sound. No. Want is far too small a word.

It falls as short in tone as need.

I can’t begin to define what happens when she looks into my eyes with genuine affection. She trusts me and my council, and I shatter. I shatter into thousands of tiny fragments that reflect back the many truths I have withheld to show me who I am. Who I was? No. The deep pools of trust she gives me--- I feed off of them. I drink it in and spill myself in turn, overflowing with greed. I am her reservoir of knowledge, always guarded and protected by the unseen corners of my mind. But, I find myself allowing the real truth to slip through the dam, like tiny cracks and rivulets that condense on the surface. She’s been clever, and attentive, and strong. I both fear and long for her to see the truth I have laid out for her in tiny admissions.

I refuse to think the word that rushes through my pulse. That rolls my shoulders forward with longing when she comes too close. I will not say the word that makes clever use of its consonants. The word that pushes the admission out of my mouth by forcing the tone across my lower lip held back and then permitted across my upper teeth. It betrays me. The movement of my mouth releases the end of the word in a way that almost vaults the confession faster to her ears. It leaves me open and willing to tell her anything.

I want to tell her everything.

I need to fight this feeling with all of who I am; hide my weakness tight in my throat. I have to rebuild these walls she so easily collapsed and make myself again in iron. I have to find the right words that will force this wall to collect between us. But the thought of losing her--- I.

I don’t want to need her.

[vivispec]

My first entry for the 14 Days of Dragon Age Lovers! Go check out @14daysdalovers if you’re interested in joining, or want to support some amazing artists/writers. 

hart

fandom: dragon age inquisition

pairing: solavellan, solas/viera’vun

tags: fluff, cuddling, short and sweet, solas pov

“Then, with a glint in her amber eyes, she leaned forward to ring it round his head, so close in reaching that he could smell the smoke from last night’s campfire still clinging to her leathers. Affixing it deliberately with what he could only assume was a bow, she tucked the loose tails of the ribbon behind his ears tenderly, letting her fingers trace the curve of his jawline to come to rest, cupping his cheek.

'Are you implying I’ve the qualities of a hart, vhenan?’”

[actual-lich-queen]

graphic by bearlytolerable

Chapter 32:   But not even the wisest of men do not always see the truth in front of them, nor do they wish to. -Hahren Sarel

read on Ao3

Excerpt: “Begging your pardon, Herald,” one of the Fereldan soldiers said, “But I could swear I know you from somewhere.”

“Could be, Lieutenant Ilsa.” Ayla answered, already scrapping her bowl, “It wasn’t so long ago I lived in Denerim. Ever buy flowers in the market?”

“Not that I remember.” The soldier who was apparently named Ilsa answered, “Don’t have a place to put ‘em in the barracks.”

“Get your washing done?” Ayla tried again.

“No, army has people for that.” Ilsa said.

“Well, it wouldn’t have been the Pearl, would it?” Ayla was smirking. 

There were several choking sounds around the campfire [...]

[evanhereonearth]

Slowly, as slow as the glacier upon which he sits, Solas pieces himself back together. There is time yet, and he will love her. He will love her with all the brightness she possesses and more. Solas will pour into her every drop of truth he can, every piece of every facet of his soul, store himself in her like secrets, give someone all Solas is. This someone. His someone. His da’lath’in. Because he is Solas, that is the secret. That is the deepest place of his deepest self, the curious spirit, the dreamer, the wondering wanderer. The world forgot him when they remembered Fen’Harel. They remade him in rebellion and betrayal, worked his image from Wisdom into Pride, painted every brushstroke with dread. Perhaps that is why he loves her, one of the myriad reasons. She sought him because she instinctively felt he was like her. Curious and dreaming and wondering, wandering. Forgotten and alone, pasted pieces of someone else’s thoughts sloughing off like dead skin. She is his da’lath’in, and he will love her as long as he can. He will love her forever.

(From a brief Solas POV chapter of my longfic that's back to living rent free in my head after basically being confirmed as canon after all this time.)

I've seen it said that Rook is a better romance option for Solas because unlike Lavellan, they know who he is from the get go. So let me make something clear:

Rook does not know Solas better than Lavellan does. They know his history, his crimes, even his regrets, but what he shows when they talk to him is very much a mask.

Fen'harel is not who Solas is. As dishonest as he was about his past during his time with the Inquisition, he also came the closest to being himself ever since he took a body.

In sappy terms, he hid his deeds and plans from Lavellan, but not his heart. With Rook, it's the opposite.

Who we see in Veilguard is not some kind of "Solas unmasked", it's Solas who has returned to wearing the mask he was allowed to shed for a little while and hide the fact he'd ever worn it.

The raggedy apostate who plays mental chess with Bull, trolls Sera, beats Blackwall at diamondback, who nerds out about magic with Dorian and approves of helping every single hinterlands peasant you encounter, that's the real Solas. Keeping his past a secret is what allowed him to stop being what his service to Mythal and his people made him into, even if for just a little while.

[thessaralka]

seeing people hate on Solas for being ethically inconsistent like??? yes??? that's the whole tragedy of his character. he literally cannot be ethically consistent in the world state HE CREATED. that's why he's so damn sad. it's impossible for him to live with good conscience in a broken world that is a byproduct of his error. the veil put the world on mute and the veil is deteriorating. and he's supposed to just let it come down on it's own (causing certain mass destruction)??? or he could pull it down himself in his own way (with at least a slightly larger chance that something good might come of it in the future), something he at least has control over.

the plotlines of each game have reinforced the idea that the veil is certainly deteriorating.

solas's spell cannot hold back the fade forever. he fucked up. he either has to sit back and watch the world burn because of his error (again), or he has to somehow try to make things somewhat right. ethically inconsistent? it's literally the train problem. kill one person to save five, or kill five people to save one? no one can be perfectly ethically consistent when they have no ethical choices left. solas's choice to bring down the veil aligns perfectly with his character when you consider that he has more access to information than we do about what exactly he is doing. he's not telling us the whole truth. he's not going to sit back and let things happen naturally, he's going to do what he can to mitigate the damage and make it better (which is ethically consistent with his character).

just like he chastises us for siding with the grey wardens or drinking from the well - he does so because he knows more about the elven gods and the nature of the blight than we do, not because he's a bitter hypocritical douche who hates fun. solas has made so many mistakes that he destroyed his own people, in his mind the only way to right that is to correct his mistake as best he can, even if it causes mass destruction, because the alternative in his mind is certain doom. the veil is an unnatural mage-made construct. it was never meant to be there in the first place and was never meant to be permanent.

[foxx-queen]

there's something fascinating to me about the fact that mythal's fragmented spirit went on to try and help the world. we don't know how much her spirit was fragmented, or how many pieces there were, but I think this appeals to me because it does connect with lore from the previous games

veilguard all but confirms the popular theory that andraste carried a piece of mythal's spirit. people have been talking about the mythal/flemeth/andraste similarities for years! morrigans cryptic comments seem to tell us that that same fragment later came to flemeth after she was 'betrayed by those sworn to love her', which is I think confirming the version of flemeths backstory that she was married to a poor poet who sold her to a lord, who then killed the husband and imprisoned her.

whatever her faults, flemeth has frequently popped up to help when the world needs it. we know she's spent time with the dalish over however many centuries, since they have their own name for her. even just looking at the previous games - we wouldn't be here without her. the warden? dead. hawke? dead. inky? lasts a little longer maybe, but still dead. I defs wouldn't say she was a 'benign' influence like emmrich says, but if not for her intervention, we simply wouldn't be here.

but there's other stories throughout the history of thedas that have been attributed to mythal.

there's yavana, an antivan witch thought to be a daughter of flemeth, who's protecting high dragons since they'd vanished from the world prior to the start of the dragon age, who is implied to contain a fragment. (this also makes me wonder, if this is a separate fragment of mythal, did flemeth go around finding her fragments and putting them to use? is this a fragment of the fragment flemeth contained? many questions)

there's tyrdda bright-axe, the mother of the avvar, who led her people to fereldan at the advice of her lover, a spirit in the form of an elf, who was said to be the lady of the skies. nice that mythal had a gf for a while, as a treat

in the hissing wastes in dai, we find the remnants of an ancient dwarven thaig built on the surface, the only known of its kind, that pre-dates the first blight. the codex entries imply that when they left because of a civil war between the dwarves, they knew to be wary of dragons, even though they'd never seen one before. there's a statue of mythal watching over the tomb of paragon fairel (the dwarf who led them to safety). did mythal lead these dwarves to the surface in a hope to help them given what was going to happen once the first blight happened? it's not hard to imagine she had regrets over the dwarves and the titans, and that she might've wanted to atone by helping in some way.

flemeth tells us in da2 that 'regret is something I know well'. while we don't know exactly what regrets mythal has, it's clear she has them, and it's easy to see that she might be watching over this world to make up for her part in breaking the one that came before.

is the fragment you meet in the fade a bit of a bitch? sure. I probably would be too if I'd spent hundreds of years unable to do anything but watch the world, when my very nature was to help it, and my only friend had never visited me but instead went on to try and destroy the current world out of a very misguided attempt to make up for our mistakes. and still, even though this is the fragment that's never grown from spending time in the world, she still helps us. of course she does.

however much I'm not really satisfied with the conclusion of her story (I wanted to see that vengeance that would shake the very heavens, I wanted to see her fight with us against elgar'nan, and instead it culminated in her just being used to persuade solas) I do think that the fact that she cares about the current world has always been there in the previous games. it's funny actually, because as much as the writers keep telling us the dalish were wrong about their gods, mythal ended up becoming what they believed of her. protecting the world as best she could.

biggest complaint was she should've been voiced by kate mulgrew tho

[carlsdraws]

uno reverse bitch

[nokdunal]

Forehead flick

[eeriemothz]

how I feel with this fucking Solavellen fic I'm writing

[dreadfutures]

Happy Friday! How about "The black ocean of trees seethes under a fretful night-wind." for Solas or Merrill? Or both!

for @dadrunkwriting

An elven fairytale, in Serault

Rating: G

Pairing: Solas & Merrill

Words: 1200

Modest but airy, with views of the forest—that was the Heron Tower, according to the Marquis. Long-term guests were given rooms in the tower, modestly-furnished, and the Inquisition’s entourage had been placed close together in the center of the tower. It was true that each room had a view of the forest, but none were the view that Solas required: a high vantage point with windows overlooking both the forest to the west, and the marshes to the east.

Everyone spoke of the Applewoods and its Twilight. Everyone overlooked the dormant secrets of the Nahashin.

Solas was not one to turn his back to danger. Hence, while the Marquis’s court fawned over his new, illustrious guests, the simple elven hedge mage made his way to the height of Heron Tower to take the lay of the land.

He reached the observation deck just as the sun was dipping across the horizon, the perfect introduction to the land that would be Solas’s home for the next several months. The Marshes were aflame in the reflect light of dying day, just as he remembered them: an eternity ago, craters left by earth-shattering war burned with dragon fire. The Applewoods—a quaint name for a forest that had stolen so many lives beneath its shadowed boughs—were still and silent, like a predator lying in wait. He knew not what the trees obscured, though the Tirashan had once been part of Andruil’s domain, and he had plenty of guesses.

“Oh!”

Solas startled upon hearing Merrill’s voice behind him, and he ripped his eyes away from the forest to face her. She had just come up the stairs and she hovered on the landing, uncertain if she should leave, but he gave her a gesture of welcome.

“Did you grow bored of the festivities?” Solas asked.

“I didn’t even bother,” she said with a laugh. “Took a nap, had the strangest dream, and… I just had to come up here.”

Merrill joined him at the railing, and as her eyes alighted on the gilded wetlands of the Nahashin, she drew her hands to her chest in awe.

Solas watched her curiously. “Should I be wary of the Fade here? What did you dream?”

“I’ll certainly be more cautious. It’s been a long time since a spirit has reached out to me like that,” Merrill said gravely. “Even after Valor… I’ve always sensed them coming, but this one just appeared in my dream like they were always there.”

“Was it a danger to you?” Solas asked with a frown. “It is indeed concerning that a spirit would find your dreams, as blood magic has kept your mind far from the Fade.”

Merrill nodded, brow wrinkled with concern as well. “It didn’t threaten me,” she said. “It appeared as a halla. A talking halla. A black talking halla. And all it wanted was to tell me a story.”

Solas did not try to hide his bewilderment, and Merrill shrugged helplessly. He had no idea what manner of spirit or being might appear as a black halla, though he thought it did not bode well. He lay a hand on the railing and glanced out at the forest, eyes skimming the Applewoods and delving deeper into the Tirashan to the west, as if he might see the creature there.

“What story did it tell you?” he asked.

She drew his attention from the trees and gestured at the marshes. The burning light of the sunset was swiftly fading, and the reflective patches of the marsh were darkening as if ink had been spilled in them, or oil.

“The halla said that the marshes are Fen’Harel’s dancing footsteps,” she began, sending a chill down his spine. “Long ago, the Forgotten Ones and the Creators were one family. But the Forgotten Ones committed a great offense, and the Creators wanted to cast them out. The Forgotten Ones were powerful and didn’t fear the Creators at all, so they refused to leave. In her wisdom, Mythal enlisted Fen’Harel’s aid. She asked him to lead the Forgotten Ones far away from Elvhenan, so far away that they would never return; in exchange, Mythal offered Fen’Harel a place at her table.

“Fen’Harel agreed, and he insulted the Forgotten Ones and goaded them until they had enough of his antics. They hunted the Dread Wolf across the land, but he was too swift, and their arrows could not pin him down. Arrow after arrow, he dodged out of the way and lead them on chase to the ends of the earth. He led them to a dark place, where they got lost; Fen’Harel was no stranger to the shadows, and he found his way back to Mythal safely, eager to claim the honor and power she had offered him.

“But Mythal did not wish for Fen’Harel to join the family of gods, and the place she offered him at her table was that of a leal hound. He would always be beneath the Creators, accepting whatever scraps of power they gave him. Fen’Harel turned up his nose at the insult and left.

“Fen’Harel thought he’d go back to the Forgotten Ones and lead them out of their darkness, so they and the Creators could resume their squabbles. He set out along the path he had lead them, and he saw the evidence of their chase:

“Every arrow that missed Fen’Harel had struck one of the People instead. Countless elves died by the time the Forgotten Ones lost their quarry, all of them innocent of the Forgotten Ones’ and the Creators’ quarrel. Fen’Harel saw the destruction he had caused, and wept. His paw prints filled with his tears, hiding the bodies and creating the marshes to the east. And that day, Fen’Harel swore he would unmake the gods.”

Merrill’s story was told with none of her usual cheer, and Solas could not decide if that made it easier, or more difficult, to hear his own history twisted through such a farcical lens.

He gripped the jawbone against his chest tightly. Teeth dug into his palm, as painful as the memories.

“Merrill,” he said, so sharply that she took a step back from him, “this land is very, very old, and its soil is soaked in blood. The forest’s thirst has not been sated by the passage of time, and there are many tales of what its denizens will do to find fresh prey.”

She shivered. Solas thought that her eyes held an appropriate amount of fear, considering she could not possibly know the true extent of the danger.

“I know,” she said. “The last thing that halla told me… It said the Masked Andraste will return to her forest. I don’t know what that means, but—”

She was cut off by a sudden gust of wind, a gale, a howling rush of air that buffeted them dangerously close to the balcony’s edge. They both pressed themselves back against the outer wall of the tower for stability, heads turned in search of the source of the unnatural squall.

Their eyes watered against the brunt of it, but they could see the black ocean of trees below them seething under the fretful night-wind.

“—it can’t be good,” Merrill finished.

[thelastgaywarden]

I just think it could be neat if we got new solavellan romance scenes set during inquisition time...

[bearlytolerant]

Played around with a different, easier style and with lighting. Okay byyyye

[andrewknightley]

viv has very good points about being agaisnt the mage rebelion such as "have you guys seen we are severely outnumbered and gonna fucking gonna die"