#vehiron

[fluffomatic]

And some Dragon Age tickles! I've been playing it again, AND DESPERATELY wanted to draw my babies! It's nothing special. Just wanna throw some more art at my blog :)

Dorian likes to suprise Vehiron by sneaking behind him then grabbing his sides, squeezing them while he peppers tickly kisses along his neck. Poor elf doesn't stand a chance!

(My art don't repost but please reblog)

[asexualsandbox]

Been playing Dragon Age Inquisition again cause I wanted to be happy again lmao. While scrolling through Pinterest I found a reference for a mother holding her kid and immediately wanted to draw Vehiron's mom! She doesn't have a name yet but she's pretty~

(My art don't repost but please reblog)

[iathrimchronicles]

Fic: Hope Beyond Reason

Title: Hope Beyond Reason

Series: The Iathrim Chronicles

Author: African Daisy

Canon characters: Thranduil and Oropher

OCs: Vehiron, Rhoven, Linwë, Veassen and Nestorion

Warnings: Mention of discipline

Summary: Hope is what sustains life, but in the middle of war the King of Greenwood doesn’t know how much longer he can hold onto hope.

 ………………………..

 It was difficult to concentrate when one was being watched. The eyes that lingered on Aran Oropher were a single shade of green darker than his, but they were identical in shape. Almond-shaped, like their father’s had been. The King of Greenwood still remembered a tiny version of himself, solemnly telling his father in the days leading up to the birth of his younger brother that he was sorry he didn’t look much like him and he hoped the new baby would. Lord Celepharn had laughed, which even now Oropher remembered clearly because it had startled him so. He recalled feeling offended that his father, of whom he had thought so much, would laugh. As far as he had been concerned, it was only right for an heir to be like his father in all ways.

 Little Oropher hadn’t announced that he was upset, for that wouldn’t have been proper, but Celepharn must have known it. He had told his son to follow him in that way he’d had – commanding, firm, not to be disobeyed, yet somehow not at all frightening even for a seven year old boy – and he’d led the elfling to the tall looking-glass in the master bedroom. Oropher had been well acquainted with that mirror, for he had often watched his beautiful mother twirling in front of it in one of her lovely gowns, but that moment had belonged to him and his father. Celepharn had knelt behind him and patiently pointed out all the features they shared; the shape of their eyes, the colour of their eyes when the light touched them just so, the curve of their ears, and fine strands of hair even though Oropher’s was dark like Neldiel’s and Celepharn’s was the silver gold of the royal house.

 Three thousand years later, a similar conversation had taken place between Oropher and his own little son. It had never bothered him that Thranduil at first glance looked like Felith with their shared sunshine golden hair and eyes that gleamed like starlight off a still lake. He and Felith had lost four babies before Thranduil had been given to them. Son or daughter, dark or blonde, serious or full of mischief – they hadn’t cared, as long as their child survived. And so he had, but the apparent differences between him and Oropher had upset him enough that one day he had anxiously asked his father if it was quite all right that they didn’t look the same. Oropher had loved the happiness that had bloomed in his little boy’s eyes as he had shown him all the smaller, subtle ways they were alike. He wondered if Celepharn had felt the same way. He hoped so. He had finished that lesson with Thranduil by placing his hand over the elfling’s chest, and telling him that it didn’t matter what they looked like on the outside, for on the inside their hearts were one. Thranduil had smiled at him so brightly, so lovingly, it had made his heart soar. Now it just made his heart clench when he looked back at that moment.

 Now, every memory of Thranduil hurt. Saying his name hurt. Holding his pillow close in the dark of night and inhaling his sweet, wild scent of berries and brambles, that hurt too. Just thinking of him hurt, so Oropher made himself stop. Even that hurt, feeling like a betrayal to force his thoughts away from his poor son, but the alternative would bring him to tears. Letting out a breath and tiredly pushing his hand through his hair, the King looked at his brother across the pavilion. The Lord Steward of Greenwood intently returned his gaze from the cushioned bench he was sitting on. “You want to say something,” Oropher acknowledged with a sigh. “You might as well get it over with.”

Lord Vehiron smiled, his warrior braids glittering with pearls, black opals, moonstones, and silver beads. “I thought you might be interested to know how many times you have swept your hand through your hair in the last twelve minutes.”

 “Does it make a difference to you if I am not?” Oropher asked.

 “Six times,” Vehiron promptly informed him. “That is excessive.”

 “You came into my private space uninvited. Do not then complain about the way I behave in here,” Oropher said irritably.

 “Not even Cousin Luthavar touches his hair that often,” Vehiron added.

 “Good for Cousin Luthavar,” Oropher retorted, raising his hands defensively. He picked up his quill and tried to return his attention to the requisition order the healers had asked him to authorise for none other than Elder Luthavar himself. He had been making good progress on his work before his younger brother had come in, but now the words swam on the page. Anger threatened to overtake mere annoyance, but then he made himself stop and think. For the briefest of moments, Vehiron had made him forget. He hadn’t been a weary warrior or a desperate father or a tired King. He had just been an elf annoyed with his little brother, and right then that was simpler than any other role he had to play. He looked up, and met the younger ellon’s beryl green eyes. “Thank you.”

 Vehiron just nodded, smiling slightly. He understood. “Go. See your son.”

 “Muindor,” Oropher sighed, feeling exasperated all over again. “I would spend every hour of every day with Thranduil if I thought it would make a difference, but it hasn’t and it won’t. The world hasn’t stopped turning just because he…” The words wouldn’t come. They stuck in Oropher’s throat, paining him. “I will see my son when I have time,” he finished quietly, when he had steadied himself. “At the moment, I do not. I still have to be Aran Oropher.” Even when all I want to be is Ada.

 “The world hasn’t stopped turning,” Vehiron agreed quietly. “But yours has.”

 Oropher looked down and organised his paperwork into a neat pile, for no reason other than he needed the distraction to hold tears at bay. He had shed enough of those over the last eleven days and fourteen hours, alone or with those few elves he trusted implicitly. Vehiron was one of them, but Oropher was tired of tears. They couldn’t save his son and so they served no purpose. He looked up again only when the papers were perfectly linear and to do anything more to them would just be excessive. “I might delegate this to you,” he said offhandedly.

 “You might,” Vehiron agreed.

 “Very well,” Oropher said, rising. “But do not work past midnight.”

 “I will work until the work is done, muindor,” Vehiron replied.

 “No, you will work until midnight and then you will stop and seek your rest, and I will deal with whatever is left in the morning,” Oropher said firmly. “It isn’t up for discussion, muindor-laes. I need you healthy.”

 “Then let us compromise, and say that I will stop when I reach a natural break,” Vehiron suggested. “Else you won’t make sense of your work when you return to it.”

 Oropher conceded the point with a sigh and a nod as he picked up his forest green cloak, but he made a mental note to have someone check on Vehiron after midnight. His brother was good at promising to take care of himself, but he wasn’t good at following through with it. Much like Oropher himself, and their father from whom they had inherited it, and Thranduil who was just the same. It was a family trait that the Queen of Greenwood had often despaired of along with stubbornness and recklessness. The King gave Vehiron’s shoulder a grateful squeeze on his way out of the royal pavilion, and the Captain of his guard fell into step behind him as he walked away, a steady yet reassuring presence at his back.

 The ground crackled lightly beneath their feet as they walked. So close to Mordor it was often sweltering and uncomfortable even for the elves when the sun was at her highest, but at night it wasn’t unusual for the temperatures to plummet so much that layers of frost formed. Most of Oropher’s elves who weren’t committed to patrol or other duties were already sheltering in their tents. Some yet remained around the campfires, and he paused to briefly speak with them. His heart was elsewhere, but he was still their King. He still had a duty to them. None of them kept him for longer than a minute though. That late at night, it was obvious where he was going. None wished to deprive him.

 His ears ringing with so many good wishes for his son, Oropher finally reached the healing tents. They were quiet but not truly silent. They never were, not even in the dead of night, and Oropher knew that because he had spent many an early hour there. If it wasn’t the footsteps of a healer making their rounds, it was a feverish warrior tossing and turning or a traumatised soldier waking from a nightmare with a shout of fear. It was impossible to escape the war even for a second. It was always there, an inescapable fact of thousands of lives.

 The sight of the two ellyn standing guard outside the private bell tent where Thranduil lay sent both fondness and exasperation rushing through Oropher. Not three days before, a serious conversation had taken place between the three of them in which he had made it abundantly clear to Linwë Carandirion and Veassen Taldurion that he expected at least a few hours of their free time to be spent in bed. He didn’t expect it every day, for sometimes the requirements of war prohibited rest. He also didn’t expect them to sleep every time they sought their beds, for sometimes the nightmares of war made it impossible, and he knew that all too well. He had, however, expected some measure of obedience from them, especially the generally sensible and well-behaved Veassen, but it seemed they had both developed selective hearing. It was almost a relief to Oropher that his wife’s little cousin Fileg Halmirion had fractured his ankle the week before and, confined to bed, was one less young elf for him to worry about.

 “I find myself surprised by your presence, my young warriors,” he remarked. Linwë stood a little straighter but steadily met his eyes, while Veassen dropped his chocolate brown gaze to the floor. The King thought that was less to do with him and more to do with Veassen’s grandfather standing just off to the side. He had heard the slight creak of leather armguards as Captain Rhoven folded his arms, and he knew that wasn’t usually a good sign. “I seem to recall discussing this with you both very recently.”

 “You did, your Majesty, and we listened,” Linwë said. “But when we left from visiting Thranduil this evening, we offered to relieve his guards so they could get dinner.”

 “That offer was well made,” Oropher acknowledged. “When are you expecting them to return from dinner?”

 “They…they returned already, your Majesty,” Veassen said nervously, looking up.

 “Ah. And where are they now?” Oropher asked calmly. “Having dessert?”

 Nearby torches illuminated the rosy blush that coloured Veassen’s cheeks. “Perhaps they are, sir.”

 “Enough of that, elfling,” Captain Rhoven snapped from behind Oropher.

 “Lieutenant Carthalon and Lieutenant Angtheldir came back from dinner two hours ago, and we told them – or rather, I told them – to leave again,” Linwë said, taking pity on Veassen. “They didn’t want to, but I didn’t give them much of a choice, so you can’t blame them.”

 Oropher put one hand on Linwë’s shoulder and the other on Veassen’s, and he drew the young elves in closer to him. “I know,” he said quietly. “You miss him. You want to be near him. Believe me, I know. Your dedication to my son, your heart-brother, is something that I have always treasured but I need you to take care of yourselves as well. The two of you are doing too much, especially now that you are both looking after Fileg as well. If Thranduil wakes and finds you both exhausted…”

 If. It was just a turn of phrase, but it stopped Oropher dead as he realised what he had said. Linwë was suddenly as stiff as a statue, his expression stony, and Veassen looked in dismay between the two of them. “With your permission, sire, I’ll escort our young warriors back to their pavilion myself,” Captain Rhoven interjected. He clapped a hand on Veassen’s shoulder, making his grandson squirm unhappily. “I’ll see to it that they get their rest. And that we don’t have any more of this nonsense.”

 “Very good, Captain,” Oropher agreed distantly.

 He didn’t watch Rhoven leave with the lieutenants, or pay attention to their receding footsteps or the quiet scolding his captain was delivering. His eyes were fixed on the canvas door to the tent. He had lost count of how many times he had stepped through it over the last couple of weeks, but it never got any easier. The fear of what he might find on the other side never changed. Taking a deep breath, the King of Greenwood put his hand out and swept the flap aside. He stepped into the tent only to immediately stop, caught off guard. The raised bed that his son had been in since that fateful day was still there, and Thranduil still occupied it, deathly pale as if Mandos was only just out of reach. A healer was present, as always, but tonight he wasn’t making observations or administering medicine or whatever else he and his fellows did to keep Oropher’s child alive. Tonight, the healer was asleep.

 Oropher felt as though he had stepped into a private and intimate scene as he gazed at his son’s fingers entwined with the healer’s, but he didn’t begrudge Nestorion those close and quiet moments alone. Six yéni of standing in for Oropher when he couldn’t be Ada because he had to be King had earned Nestorion the right to them. He had loved Thranduil, taught him, disciplined him, laughed with him and wiped his tears, healed his hurts, and taken as much pride in him and his accomplishments as Oropher and Felith had. He belonged at Thranduil’s side. Feeling like an intruder, Oropher hesitantly took a step back. He wasn’t used to being the one to leave. Still, Thranduil would be there tomorrow. Unless he dies before then, said a nasty little voice somewhere in his head that made him catch his breath.

 It made Nestorion wake, and he sat up slowly. “Forgive me, aran-nín,” he murmured, brushing strands of pale chestnut hair out of his eyes. “I did not know you were there.”

 “No, I was at fault. It was not my intention to disturb you. I…” Oropher’s eyes went back to his son. He couldn’t deal with niceties and pleasantries when he had to know. “How is he?”

 “I wish I could tell you something new,” Nestorion said quietly. He tucked Thranduil in more securely, and gently passed a hand across his patient’s pale brow. “There is no change.”

 Oropher hadn’t considered it before, but now he reflected that it seemed cruel to make the Master Healer say out loud every day that there were no signs of Thranduil waking. It must pain Nestorion to say it as much as it pained him to hear it. “But he has still been breathing by himself?” the King asked.

 “Yes, and that is more than we had expected,” Nestorion replied.

 The poison on the edge of the blade that had sliced through a gap in Thranduil’s armour had succeeded. He had died in his father’s arms on the battlefield. Oropher had felt it. He’d felt that spark go out, the breaking of the bond that had tied them together as father and son for just short of a thousand years. For a minute that had felt like an immortal lifetime, there had been nothing. But Thranduil had come back. By the grace of the Valar, and his father’s love and rage, and the skills of the healers, he had defied the odds and returned to life – if life it could be called, when he lay there as if he had remained dead. It had to be better than nothing. That was what Oropher told himself. If he let Thranduil go, that was it. Over. Finished. But if Thranduil was breathing – and he was, and there hadn’t been any breathing complications for nearly a full week now – then that meant there was hope.

 “I will leave the two of you alone,” Nestorion said softly, as he got to his feet.

 “Don’t go,” Oropher replied. “Please. Stay with me. With him. You have every right.”

 Nestorion paused for just a moment before resuming his seat at Thranduil’s bedside with a quiet nod of gratitude to Oropher. King and healer sat opposite each other, both holding a pale hand in theirs. “I remember the first time I ever met him,” Nestorion murmured, breaking the silence. “It was twelve days before your coronation. You came to the palace with Thranduil and the Queen. Your brother was there, and his son, and Lord Herdir and Ivoniel. Elder Faelind and Elder Aermanis were showing you around and introducing you to your new staff. Elder Serellon and Elder Thavron were there to point out interesting facts about the structure of the palace, and Elder Luthavar…why was he there, again?”

 “To this day I don’t know,” Oropher admitted, with a small and reluctant smile. “He took great joy in showing us all the hidden doors and passageways, and planting all sorts of mischievous thoughts into Thranduil’s mind. Poor Faelind was trying his best not to show us how vexed he was, when all he really wanted was to haul Luthavar across his knee.”

 “A sentiment felt by all of us to varying degrees of regularity.” Nestorion’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but he stopped short of laughing. It was hard to laugh when Thranduil lay like a marble statue between them. “Anyway…you didn’t make it to the healing wing until the afternoon. Thranduil stood between you and the Queen, with his hand in hers. He was so little. Not even waist-height. And he’d met so many new people and heard so many new names, and he had behaved so well all day, that he was too tired to even look at me. I was afraid that you would scold him for it but you didn’t. You just put your hand on his head. That was all it took. He stood straighter, as if he had drawn strength from you, and he met my eyes and gave me the sweetest smile. I knelt before him, and promised him that he could always come to me for help when he needed it.”

 “And you have been keeping him alive for me ever since,” Oropher said quietly.

 Nestorion nodded, his gaze going to Thranduil’s snow-white face. “Yes,” he agreed after a pause. “But you know, he took my words quite literally. He didn’t need healing the first few times he came to me for help.”

 “He didn’t?” Oropher repeated, his voice heavy with longing to hear more of the son he could never know enough about.

 “The first time he came to me it was because he had got lost trying to find his way to your study,” Nestorion recalled. “The second time, he wanted someone to help him finish a jigsaw puzzle. And the third time, he asked me to hide him because he was in trouble with Bereth Felith for inadvertently frightening one of her ladies with a mouse he wasn’t supposed to have. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was a healer and not an all-round helper in all things. It was only on our fourth meeting, when he came to me with a splinter in his finger, that I had cause to actually heal him.”

 “Times were much easier then,” Oropher said, stroking his son’s cheek with the back of his finger. “He was easier to protect. I wish splinters and trouble were all he had to fear, and that I could still strengthen him with the touch of my hand.”

 The two ellyn met each other’s eyes across the body of the poisoned prince. Oropher had done everything in his power to bring his son back from the brink, but seeing the gleam of hope in Nestorion’s leaf green gaze and the unspoken plea to try again…it gave him hope, too. Slowly and carefully, just like the earliest days when he had been afraid of damaging his tiny infant son, he moved his hand to Thranduil’s head. Golden strands shifted like silk beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and poured his strength into his child, willing him to take it, waiting for a sign. It didn’t even have to be a big one. A little one would do. A squeeze of weakened fingers, a deeper breath, the flutter of lashes, a touch of life in white cheeks, something, anything, he didn’t care what. There was nothing. Just a fool’s hope, Oropher thought hollowly, taking Thranduil’s hand again as he sat back for another night-time vigil.

[fluffomatic]

Tickletober Day 2, Accidental

Varric just wanted to give Vehiron a pep talk! Too bad the poor elf is too ticklish for his own good. Varric was a little shocked when Vehiron straight up screeched but he figured it out real quick lmao

(My art don't repost but please reblog)

[fluffomatic]

Tickletober Day 11, Squeal

Sera would 100% tickle the Inquisititor whenever she pleased. She at least understands he's still a person and needs some time to relax~ Unfortunately for Vehiron, her version of relaxation is a bit...unique~

(My art don't repost but please reblog)

[fluffomatic]

Finally able to finish this piece! Been like 3 daaaays! But after august-anon's dragon age fic I know I had to make more Dragon Age tickle art! Vehiron needs so many tickles after Trespasser. That dlc really puts ur character through it. Luckily Dorian visits to wreck his dear inquisitor

(My art don't repost but please reblog)

[asexualsandbox]

Just started playing daI again and wanted to redraw this pic of my inquisitor

(My art don’t repost but please reblog)

(Edit: Forgot his vallaslin whoops)

[iathrimchronicles]

Fic: A Sunlit Promise

Title: A Sunlit Promise

Series: The Iathrim Chronicles

Author: AfricanDaisy

Canon characters: Celeborn, Galathil, Oropher

OCs: Celepharn, Neldiel, Vehiron, Baraves

Summary: A young lord discovers how rewarding it can be to break the rules, and a promise is made.  

Notes: This isn’t the very first story in the series as we won’t necessarily be posting chronologically, but we hope people enjoy it all the same!

 …………………… 

Once upon a time the young Princes of Doriath had been the most sought after ellyn in the kingdom, the greatest and most coveted prizes for any ambitious parent seeking matches for their daughters. But that was no more. Galathil and his cousin Celepharn were husbands and fathers, and all knew it was the Lady Galadriel who held Celeborn’s heart though he was Sindar and she was not. Still, that did not spare them the occasional flirtatious look or coy smile from a hopeful elleth trying her luck. They had learned to smoothly navigate such currents and manage the disillusioned few, but there was one elleth none of them could dare defy: Lady Baraves.

 If the sudden slew of hasty bows and wide-eyed curtsies hadn’t alerted them to the arrival of their mother and aunt, her familiar scent of morning glory would have as she swept through the salon with a trio of handmaidens trailing behind her. “What are you boys doing?” Lady Baraves asked by way of greeting, her silks of lavender and sky blue settling around her as she stopped by their table.

 Celepharn thought it was obvious as Galathil moved a piece of polished white marble on the Warriors board set between them. He held his tongue, and watched Celeborn rise to kiss Baraves’ cheek. “Naneth,” the older ellon greeted her smoothly. “We just came from a visit to Daeradar Elmo and Daernaneth Aerdis. We thought to have a quick Warriors tournament and hear Minstrel Lindril’s latest composition before leaving. Would you care to join us?”

 “Thank you, no,” Baraves said briefly. “Your father is attending the King. I’ve a mind to return home. I thought my sons might escort me.”

 It sounded like a suggestion, but all three ellyn knew that Baraves only ever gave commands. “I had best stay with Celepharn,” Galathil attempted. “It would be rude to leave him mid-game. You don’t want me to be rude, Naneth.”

 “You may bring him with you if you like,” Baraves offered, glancing at her nephew. “Celepharn, I trust that is acceptable.”

 Celepharn thought he had best make the effort to be gracious. He took a breath, but his aunt had turned on her heel and was already halfway across the salon, scattering a group of young lords and ladies dancing to the minstrel’s song. “You may bring him with you if you like?” Celepharn repeated, getting to his feet. “That is what I tell my children when they don’t want to leave their favourite toy at home.”

 A reluctant smile touched Celeborn’s lips, but Galathil laughed out loud as they abandoned their game of Warriors. Two minor lordlings and their hangers-on were quick to replace them at the gaming table. “I am sorry. If it’s any consolation, at least she knows you’re our favourite toy.”

 “Thanks ever so,” Celepharn replied dryly.

The three ellyn didn’t tarry, for that was never the way to respond to a summons from Lady Baraves. Even so, by the time they emerged from the caverns of Elu Thingol’s subterranean palace, Baraves was astride her silver mare wearing the expression of an elleth who had been kept waiting half a day. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly as she waited for her sons and nephew to mount up, but soon enough – though surely not soon enough for her liking – they were off. Galathil and Celepharn rode at the front, while Celeborn stayed next to his mother and sweetened her mood like only a favoured son could. The handmaidens and a couple of guards brought up the rear, each of them grateful that they had been saved from keeping their lady happy.

 They hadn’t been riding for long before the sound of a distant commotion reached their ears. Galathil stopped his horse, and Celepharn brought his to a reluctant halt as shrieks and jumbled exclamations drifted onto the path. “What is that racket about?” Baraves demanded from behind them. “Can you hear it? What is going on?”

 A less polite ellon than Celepharn would have pointed out that they couldn’t see through trees. “I’m sure it is nothing,” he said instead. “But I shall go and check to be sure.”

 “Take a guard with you,” Baraves commanded him. “Thalamir, accompany my nephew.”

 Somewhere, that less polite ellon was rolling his eyes. Celepharn settled for the tiniest of sighs that barely lifted his shoulders, and rode off the path with the guardsman at his side. As his horse picked a careful route through the bushes and trees, over a fallen log and around the holes of a rabbit warren, the disturbance that he had heard became clearer – laughter, splashing, the sound of joy. He didn’t need to hear it to know what it was. He could feel it in his heart, three distinct bonds becoming stronger and surer with every step his horse took. The young lord’s heart swelled with anticipation, and his breath caught as he emerged from the trees into a sunlit glade with a lake of sparkling silver-blue at its centre.

 He stopped at the treeline, unwilling to disturb the scene in front of him until it was committed to his memory. His usual expression of noble indifference was gone as he gazed upon his beautiful wife, clad only in a soaking wet shift that clung to her every curve, as she lifted their youngest son above her head. Celepharn watched her playfully threaten to drop the child in the water, while little Vehiron shrieked and giggled without restraint. Their eldest, fifteen coronarí old Oropher, jumped up and down in excitement, clapping his hands and begging Neldiel to let go of his baby brother so he could have his turn.

 “What’s happening, gwador? Oh…” Galathil had followed, and he tilted his head in mild interest as he stopped next to Celepharn. “That looks remarkably like your wife and heirs playing in the lake.”

 Celepharn rolled emerald eyes towards his cousin. “You are as observant as ever.”

 “Do you want to stay?”

 Yes, Celepharn longed to reply. I want to stay. I want to be with them. “Best not,” he said instead. “Your mother.”

 Galathil gave the younger ellon a smile that was both sympathetic and encouraging. “Say no more. Come back after escort duty and perhaps Neldiel will still be here with the boys. I’m sure she will be.”

 “I’m sure you are right.” The reluctant nudge that Celepharn gave his horse should have seen them turning back to the road, but the grey stallion’s ability to read his master’s moods prevailed. “Now isn’t the time to be perceptive, Aranuir,” Celepharn quietly scolded his horse, who ignored him with not even a flick of an ear. “I shall blame you if Aunt Baraves loses patience and comes to find us. Let’s go.”

 It was too late. Lady Baraves had already lost patience. She rode out from the trees with Celeborn while Celepharn was mid-argument with his horse, and irritably swatted away a branch that had dared to snag on her silken sleeve. “You may look as dismayed as you like, Celepharn, but if you insist on taking your time then you cannot be surprised when I come to make sure you are not dawdling or getting into trouble. I know what boys are like,” she said haughtily. She glared at her nephew and youngest son, but her expression turned to one of horror as she looked past them. “You said you were sure it was nothing, Celepharn. It does not look like nothing to me.”

 “Well, in the grand scheme of things,” Celepharn began.

 “No,” Baraves interrupted severely, raising a hand to silence him. “Your wife is splashing about in a lake wearing nothing more than a shift – though it is a small mercy she is wearing anything at all, knowing Neldiel as I do – whilst your heirs frolic and roll in the water as if they were common urchins. This is not acceptable behaviour, Celepharn, and you ought to be doing something about it. Are you not going to control your wife?”

 “Not really,” Celepharn said flatly.

 Galathil promptly turned a snort of laughter into a cough, and Celeborn just sighed as he resigned himself to the inevitable clash between his mother and his cousin. Lady Baraves wasn’t paying attention to either of her sons; her incredulous gaze was fixed on her nephew. “Not really?” she repeated. “What is that supposed to mean? You are Neldiel’s lord and husband. Don’t you think you ought to at least punish her?”

 “For what?”

 Diamonds sparkled in the sunlight as Baraves jabbed her finger in the direction of the lake. “For that.”

 “For what?” Celepharn asked again. He looked calmly at his aunt. There was no acceptable answer to his question; no matter how personally offended Baraves was, she couldn’t provide a legitimate reason for Neldiel to be punished. Celepharn knew that, and what was more, Baraves knew it too. She stayed coolly silent, refusing to be baited. “My wife is being a mother to our children,” Celepharn said finally. “I was unaware that such a thing is an offence.”

 “That is not the way a noble lady should be a mother,” Baraves snapped.

 “My sons seem to have no complaints,” Celepharn remarked.

 “Then what will you do? If you approve of this behaviour so very much, are you going to join them?” Baraves demanded. Her eyes narrowed as the young lord tilted his head thoughtfully. “Don’t you dare.”

 “But your suggestion was so well made, Aunt Baraves,” Celepharn replied, turning his horse toward the lake.

 He didn’t have to see the fury on his aunt’s face to know it was there. He could feel it as she pierced his back with her sapphire stare. “Your father will hear about this, and we shall see what he thinks about such conduct,” Baraves said sharply. “Lord Gwathion would never approve of you turning your back on me and riding away without so much as a by your leave. It is as though you have completely taken leave of your senses.”

 Celepharn paused and turned back. “By your leave, Aunt Baraves,” he said politely, bowing from the saddle. He didn’t wait to see her expression. He didn’t need to see it and he didn’t want to. He spared an apologetic look for his friends as he rode into the glade, and he was secretly relieved to see no disapproval on Celeborn’s face. His eldest cousin could be even more a stickler for the rules than he himself could. Galathil always had his back, but breaking protocol in Celeborn’s presence tended to carry with it some risk. Dismounting, he tethered his horse next to Neldiel’s white mare and Oropher’s little pony. He assumed that Baraves had left in disgust, for as his wife and children noticed him and came out of the water, they only had eyes for him.

 “Ada, you’re here!” Vehiron exclaimed, looking like he very much wanted to throw his arms around his father’s legs.  

 “Have you come to take us home?” Oropher asked, sounding resigned.

 Kneeling between his children, Celepharn took a small hand from each of them. He ran his thumb lightly over the tips of their fingers, smooth and unwrinkled by the water. “Well, you have not yet started turning into raisins. I think you have not played enough in the water.”

 Oropher looked doubtful. “Really?”

 “Really,” Celepharn confirmed. “You should play some more.”

 Vehiron didn’t need to be told twice, and he ran back to the lake with an excited whoop while his elder brother smiled and followed at a somewhat more sedate pace. Splashes and laughter immediately filled the glade once more as Neldiel turned to her beloved. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

 “Nor I you.” Celepharn pulled her close, uncaring that she was soaking wet against his body. He ran the tips of his fingers from her neck down to her lower back, smiling as she shivered pleasingly. “I thought you had a gown fitting this afternoon with your mother. And what happened to Ivoniel?”

 “The couturier had to rearrange for tomorrow,” Neldiel replied. “Oh, and I fired Ivoniel.”

 Celepharn blinked. He drew back and looked down into his wife’s lovely eyes, attempting the impossible and trying to figure her out. He had known Neldiel for most of his nearly nine hundred years, and loved her for almost as long, but still she could confound him with no effort on her part. “You…fired our children’s nurse?”

 “No, silly,” Neldiel laughed. “I gave her the day off, and extra wages, and I told her to go buy herself something pretty.”

 “How generous of you,” Celepharn observed.

 Neldiel smiled sweetly. “It is good to be kind. But you haven’t been kind. How cruel of you, to hold your wife yet fail to give her even the tiniest of kisses.”

 “Oh, but of course I am so terribly cruel.” Celepharn leaned in to steal one of the kisses he loved so much. His lips had barely grazed Neldiel’s when he sensed that they weren’t alone. He opened his eyes, and the sight of an elfling standing a respectful distance away made him draw back from his wife. “What is it, Oropher?”

 “Nana told us that when you come swimming with her, you throw her in the water,” Oropher reported. “Is that true? I think you ought not to throw ellith. It’s rude.”

 “I applaud your sense of decency, hil-nín,” Celepharn said seriously, while Neldiel stifled a husky laugh with the back of her hand. He removed his cloak and unbuckled his boots, dropping them to the ground as he spoke. “You are quite right. It is entirely inappropriate to throw ellith. You must never do that. Unless, of course, you have married the elleth in question and there is an agreement between you both – spoken or not – that you may throw her into lakes.”

 “Do ellith agree to that?” Oropher asked uncertainly.

 Celepharn shed his tunic and his shirt of blue silk so he stood in just forest green leggings, and gave his son a half-smile. “Your mother did.”

 With her hands on her hips and her head cocked, Neldiel took a step back, and then another, daring Celepharn to follow. He responded to her challenge, and swept her into his arms with one deft movement that made Oropher’s eyes widen in shocked delight. In the shallows of the lake, Vehiron giggled as their father strode past with his willing prisoner squirming and wriggling in his grasp. Neldiel’s protests were only token ones. She was breathless with laughter, helpless as her husband effortlessly lifted her above the water.

 “Drop her, Ada!” Vehiron crowed, splashing his feet. “Drop Nana in the pool.”

 “I’ll get you back for this, Celepharn Gwathionchil,” Neldiel gasped.

 Celepharn smirked. “I cannot wait.”

 The boys cheered and clapped as Neldiel was summarily thrown into the water, but the moment she surfaced and sent a great splash of water at Celepharn, they switched sides and joined in. It wasn’t often that the proud young lord indulged in such playtime, so his small sons took advantage of the opportunity and he took it in good humour. He snatched up an elfling in each arm, holding them close and dunking them underwater. They emerged spluttering but howling with laughter, shaking droplets of water from their dark hair.

 Finally, Celepharn declared it time to get out of the lake. The children hesitated, but it only took a raised eyebrow from their father to make them sigh and reluctantly splash their way back to shore. “Were we starting to turn into raisins?” Oropher asked, examining his somewhat wrinkled fingertips.

 “I’m afraid so,” Celepharn replied, settling the boys together on Neldiel’s cloak. “Lie there and dry off, both of you.”

 The playtime had well and truly worn the brothers out. Their energy of moments before was replaced by yawns, and they curled themselves into balls beneath the warmth of the sun’s rays. As it lulled them to sleep, Celepharn covered them with his own cloak. Kneeling beside them, he rested one hand on Oropher’s head and the other on Vehiron’s, silent as he idly stroked their hair. He could feel Neldiel’s eyes on him, and he looked up with a small smile. “What?”

 “Nothing. I like watching you with them,” she replied, smiling back.

 Celepharn had seen that smile a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, but still it took his breath away and made him feel weak. He thought he would never stop marvelling at his wife; at her beauty, her strength, her power. He stood and went straight to her, taking her into his arms and burying his hands in her damp hair with a sigh of longing. He couldn’t be happier that he had defied his aunt to be with those he loved most, and yet…uninvited, the harsh words and callous criticisms of Lady Baraves came back to sting him. How could her vision of him and Neldiel be better than their reality, he wondered. “Will you promise me something?” he asked of his beloved. “Promise me you won’t change. Promise me that we won’t change.”

 “Many have tried to change us, and they have all failed,” Neldiel replied, her voice gentle. “Why do you ask this now?”

 “Just promise it,” Celepharn softly implored her.

 Neldiel tilted her head up and gave him a sweet kiss. “I promise.”

[fluffomatic]

Could you post your ocs again? I have forgotten most of them besides the ones that have been interacted with recently. I feel like there is more of them

Okay so I was trying to find the original but I can't find it anywhere so just gonna redo it

Anna Grace she/her

Dylan Grace he/him

Athena Grace she/her

Jedrek Grace (Currently in the process of redesigning him so this isn't the final design but it gives you and idea) he/him

Tanner Ward (I need to make like, and actual full body for them. But for now these work!) they/them

Hikora Turay she/her

Delilah Brooks she/her 🏳️‍⚧️

Maeven Kolgrim she/her

Demora Angevin he/him

Paislee Aperlha she/her

Enchantress Sedona she/they

Two he/him

Dip the Imp he/him

Erzrind he/him

Erric he/him

Ariessa (Slight nsfw warning!! She is topless here, she is a succubus after all. So i included an sfw pic of her as well.) she/her

SFW

Lucifer (No design yet. Tho he is based off of actual Lucifer he isn't actually him. Lucifer is more of a title and not his real name.) he/him

Dylan's Birth Mother(Again no design yet. She's currently married to Lucifer and rules Hell beside him.) she/her

Ok so those were all my ocs in the same universe! Here are some other random ocs

Crow (Among Us) he/him

My Long Furbies (I'm not sorry for this one)

Triscuit he/him

Cool Whip she/her

Pudge he/him

King Potato Bug he/him

Xavier Alexander (Harry Potter the mobile game) he/him

Hadreona (Bakugan) she/her

Dr. Alban Cackle (The Tickle Forest) they/them

Dr. Zayne Grimm (The Tickle Forest) he/him

Braeden (Animal Crossing) he/they

Vehiron (Dragon Age Inquisition) (I really need to draw more of him too but rn I only got this.. tw for intense pain? Injury, burn.) he/him

[fluffomatic]

who are all the lers or switches you have?

Op Here we go!

The percentage splits should be read like (lee/ler) So if someone is 10/90 that means they're 10% lee and 90% ler

Anna: Switch (bout 50/50)

Dylan: Lee. 100% lee

Hikora: Ler-leaning switch (bout 30/70)

Delilah: Lee-leaning switch (bout 80/20)

Tanner: Ler (10/90)

Maeven: Ler-leaning switch (30/70)

Demora: Lee-leaning switch (80/20)

Erzrind: Switch (50/50)

Erric: Lee (90/10)

Two: Lee (90/10)

Paislee: Ler-leaning switch (20/80)

Dip: Ler-leaning switch (30/70)

Ariessa: Switch (50/50)

Athena: Lee 100% Lee

Jedrek: Ler (10/90)

Enchantress Sedona: Ler 100% Ler

DIFFERENT UNIVERSES!

Varras: Lee (90/10)

Braeden: Lee 100% Lee

Vehiron: Lee-leaning switch (70/30)

Hadreona: Ler-leaning switch (20/80)

Crow: Lee (90/10)

Alban Cackle: Ler-leaning switch (20/80)

Zayne Grimm: Lee 100% Lee

Okay! That should be all! At least off the top of my head

Edit: HOW DID I FORGET ALBAN AND ZAYNE????

[fluffomatic]

Vehiron is a good dad

[iathrimchronicles]

Fic: Hope Beyond Reason, Chapter 2

Series: The Iathrim Chronicles

Author: African Daisy

Warnings: Mention of discipline

Chapter summary: The morning after Oropher’s vigil at his son’s bedside, the lords of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men meet to discuss Thranduil’s fate.

………………………..

It was the twelfth day.

Aran Oropher didn’t recall falling asleep, but he must have because he remembered the sky outside being an inky black and not the purple-grey of dawn that it was when he opened his eyes. Nestorion was no longer there either. Alone with his son for another precious few minutes as the war camps awoke, he spoke quietly to him. It made him feel better to speak to his child and imagine that somehow Thranduil could hear him. “Lots of people will be talking about you today,” he murmured, stroking Thranduil’s golden hair. “Everyone has been thinking of you and asking after you, but today we are to have a meeting all about you. You pretend not to mind but you hate being the centre of attention, don’t you. Still, I think you would find this funny. All the lords and commanders coming together just to talk about you? You would laugh. Ah, my Thranduil, I miss your laugh. I hope...”

And he had to stop then, because he didn’t know what he hoped. His heart was torn. “I hope we make the right decision for you,” he whispered finally. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Thranduil’s brow, his hand tenderly cupping the young prince’s head.

It pained Oropher to turn his back on his son, but so he did, returning with a heavy heart to the royal tent where the air inside was redolent with citrus. Grateful to whichever of his attendants had thought to arrange a bath for him, he paused by his desk. What he saw made him roll his eyes. All of his work was done, at least everything that he had set out to do the night before and some that he hadn’t as well. He wondered what time Vehiron had gone to bed, or if he had at all. Probably not. He pushed it from his mind for now, and made his way slowly through the pavilion. It was tall enough for even the tallest elf to stand straight, with silk hangings dividing the tent into rooms and intricately carved wooden screens to block out noise.

 There was the lounge area with comfortable seats, a table for dining, and a chest containing books, games and other treasures from home. Beyond that was a makeshift study where Oropher did his work and received visitors who wished to speak with him privately. At the back of the tent were the sleeping quarters. They had originally been divided into two, with a bedroom on either side, but last year the hangings had been taken down to make them into one large space. Lately a prisoner of war and captive of the Dark Lord, Thranduil had suffered from violent night terrors worse even than those that had plagued Oropher after the Fall of Doriath. Thranduil had needed to be near his father when they came, and Oropher had needed him near. The night terrors hadn’t stopped after that, and perhaps they never would, but they had at least lessened. That was something.

 As Oropher reached the bath set behind a screen on the other side of the bedroom, he paused and stared through the swirling steam. Four days ago he had asked Nestorion if Thranduil could still dream. Nestorion hadn’t answered right away, letting out a slow and deep breath as he considered his answer. Finally, he had explained that not enough was yet known about a comatose state to be able to say with any certainty whether or not a patient could dream. That hadn’t been any comfort to Oropher, because he didn’t like the thought of his child being shrouded in darkness, but as ever he had valued Nestorion’s honesty. Now, he suddenly found himself hoping that Thranduil couldn’t dream. If he was unable to dream, there would be no nightmares that he couldn’t wake from. The King couldn’t help but dwell on those thoughts as he undressed and began to scrub away the dust of Mordor.

 Fresh clothes had already been laid out for him, but he didn’t look at them and his hands worked methodically. It was only after, when he stood before the mirror in the bedroom and stared at his reflection, that he noticed the colours. His leggings and light cambric shirt were the hues of a storm-washed afternoon sky, and the just above knee-length tunic he wore over them was a richer shade of sapphire blue. His sigil, the great oak tree beneath a winged moon, was embroidered across the chest in delicate silver thread. They were his clothes, but they were Thranduil’s colours. His son loved blues and silvers, and they were one of the many things that Oropher automatically thought of when he thought of Thranduil.

 “Are you satisfied with the clothing, aran-nín?”

 Oropher didn’t move, but his eyes shifted slightly. He watched in the mirror as his wife’s cousin Lord Halmir Dagorionhil stepped into the room with various accoutrements in his arms. “The choice was well made. Thranduil would approve.”

 “I know I have done well when my sartorial arrangements pass the exacting standards of the Crown Prince,” Halmir murmured, setting down a pair of dark grey leather boots and a set of silver vambraces engraved with a pattern of leaves and vines. He met Oropher’s gaze in the mirror, his sky blue eyes twinkling, and began wrapping a white and silver silk sash belt around the King’s waist. “When they pass Elder Luthavar’s, I know I have done exceedingly well.”

 For the first time that day, Oropher managed a smile. “Eru forbid Lutha disapproves of a fashion choice. Of course, he wouldn’t say anything about it. His eyes would just…you know.”

 “Do that thing,” Halmir agreed.

 That made Oropher’s smile turn into a little chuckle as Halmir knotted the belt at his side. Everyone knew when his cousin Luthavar saw something that offended his fashion sense, for he could never quite control the incredulous flicker and flare of his dark eyes. Sitting down to pull on his boots and fit the silver vambraces around his forearms, Oropher reflected that it was likely an automatic reflex that Lutha was unaware of rather than something he did on purpose. Lady Aiwen, the youngest daughter of Halmir and twin sister to Fileg, had once publicly scolded Lutha for being rude and judgemental after one such look made a lady of the court burst into tears. Lutha had looked genuinely appalled by the accusation, but then he had snapped at Aiwen that he was only ever rude and judgemental in his head, but for what it was worth, anyone who paired fuchsia and lime – in a dress with frills, no less – ought to be tried for outraging public decency. The two hadn’t spoken for a month after that.

 “Speaking of elflings,” Oropher said, sitting at the dressing table and starting to prepare the braids at the left side of his head while Halmir started on the right, “I am afraid I haven’t had a chance to visit Fileg these last few days. How is his injury?”

 “Ah. His injury.” Halmir fell silent with a frown as he deftly wove beads and gems into the first of Oropher’s braids. There was the pattern of the royal house of Doriath – pearls, black opals, silver beads and moonstones, which Lord Vehiron and Thranduil wore as well – interspersed with some that were personally meaningful to the King. He wore lapis lazuli in memory of his parents, blue larimar for his wife, and star sapphire for his son. “Fileg’s injury is not greatly concerning,” Halmir said finally. “It is just a broken ankle. He will be fine soon enough.”

 Oropher had been afraid that the younger ellon would say something like that. “Do you remember when Thranduil broke the little finger of his right hand? That was the year before last. He had spent the evening in Elendil’s camp, accepting the most foolhardy and reckless challenges from the young men until finally he landed awkwardly during some stunt and injured himself. I was so cross with him. As soon as he returned from being bandaged up, I embraced my fatherly duty and began to scold him.”

 “Did he not tell you that it was dishonourable to use violence against a maimed war veteran, so you had to wait to punish him?” Halmir asked.

 “Yes, the insolent bratling,” Oropher laughed, tying off his braid and starting the next one.  

 “And you summoned Healer Nestorion,” Halmir recalled.

 “I did, and he was quite willing to inform my son that warmth to the muscles would stimulate blood flow and speed up his healing. Thranduil isn’t often lost for words, but he had no rebuttal to that. My point, Halmir, is that despite my exasperation and the punishment I gave him for showing off and behaving recklessly, I still felt awful for him,” Oropher said. “Every time he knocked his finger or stifled a cry because he’d tried to pick something up without thinking, my heart ached for him – even though it was just a broken finger. So don’t tell me that Fileg’s injury is not concerning. I appreciate your thinking of me, but just because my son is…the way that he is, right now, that doesn’t mean you should feel guilty for worrying about your son. Now please, mellon-nín – how is Fileg?”

 Halmir exhaled in relief as he picked up a handful of gems from a pot on the dressing table. Of course the injury was nothing. Fileg was his son, and that meant it was everything. “Healer Nielinyë went to check on him yesterday evening. Now that the swelling has gone down, it seems that the break is a simple one and it should heal quickly enough if he takes it slowly. In himself, Fileg is…well, struggling.”

 “How so?”

 “Oh, he is angry with himself for causing the injury. And he’s not wrong, it was self-inflicted, but I can hardly blame him for being upset about Thranduil. Veassen told him to kick a pillow next time instead of a rock, but I don’t think Fileg is ready to hear jokes yet,” Halmir replied. “He is quiet and he grieves for Thranduil. He wants desperately to visit him, but the ground is too rough for him at least until he is able to walk with crutches. Healer Galad is going to bring them tomorrow.”

 “I hope he will be in better spirits soon,” Oropher said gently.

 Halmir smiled at the other ellon in the mirror. “As do I.”

 They finished the braids more or less at the same time, and the outfit was completed with a silver circlet upon the King’s brow. He thanked Halmir, who responded by quietly wishing him luck. It was time to go, and there was no putting it off. Part of him just wanted it to be over with even as the thought of what was to come filled him with dread. Waiting for him outside the royal pavilion was his brother, along with their best friend and Oropher’s most trusted Chief Advisor, Lord Herdir. He clasped the arms of both ellyn in greeting as he stepped out to meet them. “Well,” he sighed. “I suppose we must go.”

 “Yes,” Herdir said sympathetically. “The others are gathering. How are you feeling?”

 “I…I have no idea,” Oropher admitted, realising that he truly didn’t.

 “That’s fine.” Herdir gave his friend a small but reassuring smile. “You don’t have to.”

 “We are with you, muindor,” Vehiron added.

 They had always been with him. They had seen him through the very best of times and the very worst of times, sharing in his pain as easily as they shared in his laughter. Oropher shared blood with only one of them, but Vehiron and Herdir were both his brothers and best friends. It had been important to him that Thranduil experience that same level of loyalty and friendship, for a life lived without friends was a lonely one. Oropher knew he wouldn’t have got far without his. He gave the two of them a strained smile, and he drew one final deep breath before taking his first step in the direction of the camps of Ereinion Gil-galad and Elendil, where a command tent in blue and silver with green and gold trim lay on the border between the two.

 When he arrived there, most of the seats within were occupied. The High King of the Noldor was at the great round table with Captain Glorfindel in his golden armour, and Lord Elrond, to his left. On his right was the King of Arnor and Gondor, with Elendil’s proud son Prince Isildur and eldest grandson Elendur to his right. Sitting next to Elendur was the new King of Lórien, young Aran Amroth. That still startled Oropher sometimes. He missed his beloved cousin Amdír terribly, though he thought Amdír’s son would do well enough at ruling with the right guidance. Much of that guidance would come from Amroth’s great-uncle Lord Celeborn, who sat to his right. Then, there were three empty seats. Herdir took the one next to Celeborn, with Oropher in the middle and Vehiron on his other side next to General Rochendil and Captain Curulas of the Greenwood army. Finally, completing the circle between Curulas and Elrond was Master Healer Nestorion.

 “We have come together today to decide the fate of Prince Thranduil,” Ereinion said quietly, when everyone was settled. “If all are ready, we shall begin.”

[rebel-mages]

Sooo now that I’m well-rested and can actually think in English, I had the time to dig these up. This will probably be very long, so I’m tagging it accordingly so people can block these kinds of posts in the future.

Tagged by both @rebel-feathers and @necrochet (tag war hell ye). And before I delve into my favorite pass time (talking about my precious Vehiron), I’ll have you guys know that these are like an addiction to me, so I can keep going for ages, but if you choose not to continue it, I totally understand! Just don’t reply and that will be it! 

Anyway, here we go. For rebel-feathers’ questions:

1. Does your Inquisitor have any “bad” habits or socially awkward quirks? If so, what? Vehiron always envisioned himself taking up the role of Keeper - he was the First of his clan, after all - so he always knew that he would be some kind of leader at some point. However, with his clan, it was easy: he knew everybody and everybody knew him. They were family at the end. With the Inquisition, it wasn’t typically the same, so he had a lot of troubles adjusting. 

He never got used to eating with spoons and forks. Whenever he doesn’t have to put up an image, he still eats with his hands, and sips any soup directly from the bowl. He also hoards food in his room, for whenever he wakes up feeling hungry, so he could avoid going to the kitchen and making a fuss there. Though that kind of backfires whenever he forgets something before a long trip, and he has to come back to rotten fruits smell and foul meat. Also, considering that his favorite pass time was drawing or admiring the stars, he still feels more at ease whenever he’s asleep underneath them. Though now there’s a paranoid feeling gawking at the back of his mind, so it was kind of ruined for him. The last thing would be going days without bathing; even when the luxury is available to him. Vehiron doesn’t like water much - not saying that he doesn’t know how to swim, he does, just prefers not to - and kind of just… avoids it for as much as he can get away with it. (Except after one of his and Bull’s… sessions. He really, really needs a bath after these.)

2. Are they snarky, aggressive or diplomatic? Why do they interact with others they way they do? Usually, Vehiron tries to act diplomatic, because it’s what everyone expects a leader to be, but he always ends up being a mix between snarky and aggressive. At the very first, he didn’t even bother at all, because he projected his annoyance at the situation he found himself in. If he’d have a choice, he’d pack the little things he had and return to his clan right now because the shems are different, he doesn’t understand them, and he’s scared. Some of them are calling him an icon of a religion he barely knew of, there’s a strange mark on his hand that can apparently seal rifts and what is this how did he ended up in this mess he was never prepared for this Creators be damned. 

Later on, when he gets named the Inquisitor, he knows his companions a little bit better, things get a little clearer. He starts to take his position seriously, sees it as the equivalent of being the Keeper of a very, very large clan, made up of people with diverse background and reliefs. So he tries to do the right thing, because he wants to.

But how can someone be patient and diplomatic with those fucking Orlesians? 

3. Regardless of what spirituality their people subscribe to, is your Inquisitor religious? If so, do they believe in their own people’s religion or one that originated with another group? If not, why not?

Vehiron starts off like any Dalish; firmly believing in the elven Pantheon. His vallaslins were Sylaise’s, the Heartkeeper, often praying to her to guide his steps with only his clan’s best intentions in mind. After the incident at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he started to pray even more ferociously than before - he started to pray for the whole Pantheon - for their guidance, or just a sign of what he was supposed to be doing, to just tell him where he stood in this mess. When things started to move faster, Vehiron slowly stopped his prayers, and started to trust his advisers and companions - and more importantly, himself - to do the right thing. 

After the events of the Temple of Mythal, and after meeting up with Flemeth, and even after Trespasser, his faith in the creators shatters slowly. He has so many doubts and so many questions, and he starts to pull away from his faith. Though he still doesn’t believe in Andraste or the Maker, because many of his questions could be directed to both religions, and the answers he receives from chantry priests and priestesses are cryptic and doesn’t makes sense. More often than not, he just stops thinking about this altogether, since he has a thousands more important things that requires his attention; people, real people, in need of his help, and not hypothetical all-powerful beings.

For lack of better words, Vehiron is more Agnostic than anything else.

Now, for necrochet’s questions:

1. What is one or a few of your Inquisitor’s hobbies? With the very important and busy role they have, how often are they able to enjoy their hobbies? Welp, I already mentioned this in one of the previous questions, but I’ll launch into this. One of Vehiron’s favorite hobby is drawing or admiring the stars. Whenever he had time to put aside his duties - or ditch them - he would assemble his gear and sit underneath the open sky and just draw. Sometimes he tries to map them, but it’s a tad too complicated, so he ends up admiring their complexity instead. He sometimes wonders if the afterlife is nestled between them, and thinks that if there was an afterlife at the end, he wouldn’t mind spending eternity like this.

Another hobby of his is story telling. Not Varric’s intense, cleverly-worded stories whom sucks your attention, since his is more directed to the younger audiences. Vehiron adores kids (because for them, everything is simple and bright and he wishes he could see the world in their eyes again. Plus, dealing with them is still far easier than the cursed Orlesians) and he tends to sit them down and spin them a story. Sometimes its legends, sometimes its a fable. He often uses magic for effects, too. He particularly likes hearing their opinion of certain characters’ actions, and whether they were right or wrong with their decisions. 2. What was their favorite place to explore? Skyhold, Hinterlands, Hissing Wastes, etc…? Vehiron’s favorite place was probably Skyhold. It was almost mythical to him, a place that stood for so long, whose walls seeped with magic, and he swore he’d discover every nook and cranny in the new place. Skyhold was also one of the things that gave him hope; that the Inquisition still had a chance to fight after Haven. It especially gave him strength that he may be able to pull the whole Inquisition thing after all, since he saw it as the representation of the people living inside of it; the soldiers, the smiths, the staff, his friends, the travelers… All those people saw something in him worth following, so maybe he wouldn’t mess things up too much.

3. What was the one thing that your Inquisitor and their LI fundamentally disagreed about? That one thing in your LI’s personality that your Inquisitor disliked / hated? (If not an LI, then their closest friend). Vehiron’s in-game LI was Bull, and well, they didn’t fundamentally disagree on anything particularly. Bull was understanding, and even if Vehiron had some troubles in connecting with his lover, he’d try his best at the very least. However, the one issue that always popped up was Bull’s adrenaline-seeking stunts in the battlefield. Vehiron can be a worry-wart, and though he knows that Bull doesn’t really need anyone’s help in battle and can probably more than handle his own, the big doofus had no calms in loosing an eye to save a stranger, so he reserves the right to be a little worried each time Bull disappears in the middle of the battlefield.

OKAY SO MY TURN.

First things, the questions:  1. If you had to encounter your Inquisitor’s fear along the others’ in the Fade cemetery during Here Lies the Abyss, what would it be? And why? 2. What is the thing (or the person) that your Inquisitor misses the most about their past lives, before being sent to the conclave? 3. Regardless of the events of Trespasser, did your Inquisitor ever think about what would happen after defeating Corypheus? If so, what did they envision their own future being? 

And now, I tag: @rebel-feathers, @necrochet (muwahahaha), @elvhenpirate, @fadebitching. and anyone else who takes an interest in character-developing questions. Like I previously mentioned, if you do not prefer to do this, just ignore this, no hard feelings!

[rebel-mages]

Answer the 3 questions, ask 3 of your own, and tag some friends! (including the person that tagged you might be nice) You can reuse questions if you can’t think of anything new or ask more than 3 too.

Tagged by @rebel-feathers like, a week ago. But then I was snowed under exams, so I couldn’t complete it until now.

(I’m going to go and answer these questions with my male Mage Lavellan, Vehiron. Since he’s my favorite baby between the two of them)

1. If the Inquisitor were a spirit or a demon, what would they be? Which emotion would they embody? Vehiron would most probably be a Spirit of Valor, as it is one of his few qualities. Vehiron’s the type of man whose not really nice; but is always there when it counts. He started off with really rigid views about shemlens, taught to him by his clan. He didn’t despite them; the Lavellan clan was human-friendly, but he had a deep mistrust in them, holding somewhat of a prejudice that all humans thought less of the elven people. To say the least, he wasn’t the best choice you could pick for a Herald, the title to which Vehiron was all too happy to snap and deny. However, the one thing that redeemed him was his ability to act under pressure, especially facing danger. Though I was torn between Demon of Rage and Spirit of Valor, I think Valor suits him best, since he isn’t all that short-tempered.

2. What dreams / future plans did your Inquisitor have to give up when the role of Herald / Inquisitor was thrust upon them? Do they return to these ambitions after it’s all over? Vehiron was actually really looking forward to being the Keeper of his clan. Being a proud Dalish, it was a role he cherished since he was a kid; to care and look after his closest loved ones, to be the one to make sure they live well and happy. His clan was his family to him, and to lead them was a both a great responsibility and an honor. He was also betrothed to Arla, another dalish elf of his clan. She was a rogue, and thus one of the hunters. She was the fierce one between them, if a bit irresponsible, but playful and brash. Vehiron loved her for it, and especially loved the contrast they made. He isn’t a solemn person per se, but he took his responsibilities very seriously, and she made sure to remind him that life isn’t supposed to be grim all the time.  After he’s made Inquisitor, they broke things off of course, though stayed close friends. I headcanon that she would meet Bull, Vehiron’s in game LI, at some point after defeating Corypheus.

3. What was the hardest choice your Inquisitor had to make, and why was it so difficult for them? Vehiron’s hardest choice to make was allowing the Grey Wardens to join the Inquisition. He did so with gritted teeth and well-kept anger, since he was torn between giving them what they deserve for betraying their main purpose and sacrificing their own for naught (to which he considered a betrayal to their own brothers and sisters), and keeping them for the greater good. The Grey Wardens are the only ones able to terminate a blight, and thus he needed to think thoroughly, since his decisions could impact the future for good. He needed to think past his frustrations and anger. Warden-Commander Clarel tried to rectify her mistake at the end, and many Wardens saw the light, but their behavior still almost condemned Thedas entirely. At the end, he allowed the wardens to join the Inquisition, even if he, personally, would have them exiled and to never come back.

My Questions:  - What do your Inquisitor do when they are particularly angry or homesick? Do they resort for time alone or seek comfort from their friends / LI?  - I really, really adored rebel-feathers’ second question, so I’m going to include that: what dreams / future plans did your Inquisitor have to give up when the role of Herald / Inquisitor was thrust upon them? Do they return to these ambitions after it’s all over? - What was the one thing that your Inquisitor and their LI fundamentally disagreed about? That one thing in your LI’s personality that your Inquisitor disliked / hated? (If not an LI, then their closest friend).

I tag @rebel-feathers, @necrochet, @sten-disapproves and @elvhenpirate and all you Inquisitor OC-lovers out there!