#blight-oath

[deer-with-a-stick]

I am actively trying to break my oath how is this so hard

[loredrinker]

“Every lapdog hides a wolf inside”

On the surface, it’s a sneer from Elgar’nan, meant to cut Solas down, to paint him as weak and servile. A lapdog is a creature of obedience and subordination. It sits at someone’s feet and does what it’s told. Elgar’nan mocks Solas’ deference to Mythal, reducing his wisdom and ideology to pathetic loyalty. To Elgar’nan, Solas isn't a peer - just Mythal's pet.

But "hides a wolf inside” reveals Elgar'nan's paranoia.

Wolves are creatures of instinct and cunning. To suggest that a lapdog contains a wolf is to suggest that something dangerous lies beneath the surface.

Elgar'nan is portrayed as the chief among the Evanuris: a tyrant and conqueror. In Dalish stories he's wrathful and jealous, a figure of unyielding control. He's also disingenuous, making oaths he never intends to keep. Solas calls him out on it: “You cannot do this, Elgar’nan! You swore that we would give up our commands when this horrific war was over.” but Elgar’nan’s word means nothing when power is on the line. When Mythal confronts the Evanuris about the Blight, he doesn’t compromise, he rejects her and joins in her murder. For him, there is no space for compromise. His answer to challenge is annihilation.

So when Solas, Mythal's annoying lapdog, speaks of wisdom, unity or peace, Elgar’nan doesn’t hear principle - he hears a threat. It's the logic and paranoia of a tyrant where no one is truly loyal.

This line shows that Elgar’nan sees in Solas the shadow of subversion and he's anticipating the moment when the wolf bares his teeth.

And yet, he still ends up being caught in the wolf's jaws.

[senseandaccountability]

the healer has the bloodiest hands

I wrote some thoughts after the finale of Veilguard. Solavellan heavy.

This is just me, parsing through some feelings. "My people had a saying long ago -'The healer has the bloodiest hands'. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it. You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better."  Solas to Thom Rainer in DAI.  ***

One can wonder, of course, what Mythal has to do with a Solavellan reunion and Solas’s choice to become the Veil’s protector, but hear me out. 

It is significant that it’s Mythal because she is the embodiment of his terrible past, the epitome of their brilliance and boldness and good intentions turned to terrible truths. The horrors they did, they did together. It is significant that it’s Mythal that sets him on this new course by removing the chains of his guilt and regret. Lavellan can’t do that, she didn’t forge them. Solas’s journey as the Dread Wolf begins and ends with Mythal. 

Mythal literally pulls Solas out of the Fade to use his wisdom, first to not lose herself to the other gods' vanity and brutality, then to gain advantage against them in an endless power struggle that breaks them both, I’d argue, though most significantly it breaks Solas. Retribution and revenge has no room for understanding, there is no wisdom in conquering. And Solas, for all his faults, isn’t brutal or cruel, doesn’t want power for his own gain. Instead he’s wise and creative, doomed to see the faults of his actions even as he carries them out, arguing in vain that the Evanuris too must see it - don’t cross these lines, don’t do it like this, don’t warp and twist your powers to forces of destruction. You must know this is madness! He objects to the creation of the bodies for the ancient elves, objects his own People’s physical creation. Did the earth not shake? It did, it was horrific and it was wrong and he knows this and it doesn’t matter. What he wants has never been part of the equation. 

Even when he breaks free from Mythal, when he burns her mark off his face, he never stops fighting for the world she once wanted. Because otherwise? Should he stop? Then all that he has done, all that he has given up, all that has been demanded of him both as Mythal’s lapdog and the Dread Wolf, leader of the rebel armies for centuries, cloaked in a persona of strategy and battle orders - all of that has been for nothing. He has made a ruin of himself, of the world, for nothing.  So he begins again, he picks up the pieces, he swears to make it right, to fix what he broke. That’s how he perceives healing, that’s what he thinks he is doing. But you cannot heal pain by hiding it. That’s why the Crossroads are falling apart with the manifestations of Solas’s greatest regrets, that’s why he needs Rook to escape his own prison, that’s why a Regret demon burns through Skyhold.

Solas traps the Evanuris as a final act of the ancient times, the creation of the Veil an embodiment of everything he and Mythal ever were - protection, benevolence, retribution, wisdom, pride. He ties it to the blood of the Firstborn out of spite and anger and it wrecks the world in ways he could not foresee. In ways he cannot fix because you cannot fix what has already happened.

You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better. He holds himself like a broken thing in front of Mythal and you can see it as submissive or as a man finally letting his grief out. There, at long last, he stands beaten and bloodied and blighted and he cries for all that was lost, all that he did and all that was done to him, all the things he cannot, cannot undo. And then: a new way forward.

In willingly binding himself to the Veil he embodies the best of those old myths, the All-Mother and the Breaker of Chains, as he breaks the cycle of punishment and grief and protects the sun and the moon. This oath, as opposed to the oaths of the empire that made him, is not to someone but to everyone, to all the innocents of the world. Instead of being the one who makes the terrible sacrifices of other people - the things I have done - he becomes the protector of the world that his people broke once upon a time. Instead of being the Creator of a new world without the Veil - the god he vehemently does not want to be, that he arguably thinks nobody should be - he becomes a caretaker, a guardian. A healer with bloody hands. And yes, it takes Mythal to break Mythal’s hold over him. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. And this one goes deep.  But it’s Lavellan who brings him the light in this story. It’s Lavellan who breaks through the dark, transforms it into something hopeful. 

His prison construct in the Fade was terrible, an abyss of regret made to hold a god. An ancient punishment for ancient crimes but times change, people change, the People change for better and for worse and here Lavellan stands in all her mortal imperfection, offering him not a way to change the past - where all these ancient beings are stuck - but a way to mend the future. It will be a terrible place, he tells her, saying I am terrible because the Fade shifts around our beings. It won’t be terrible, Lavellan argues. Because I’m there with you, walking the dinan’shiral with you, all the way. He doesn't have to fix anything first, he doesn't have to change for her, he just needs to stop hurting the world, hurting himself. Because she loves him, despite all the terrible mistakes he has made. Because she knows all his names, from Dread Wolf to Vhenan, she knows the power of his mind and the fires of his love and she saw more than most of the man he is. The man he wants to be. For a little slice of time there in Skyhold he was that man, he was seen and he saw. He saw the world filtered through her and could forgive it, he saw her through his own ancient, tired eyes and he fell in love no matter how much he thought he did not deserve it. You don't have to deserve love, or mercy, it doesn't demand anything in return, holds you to no oath. It is a gift, freely given. That's what Lavellan offers him by holding out her hand there, at the edge of everything. That's where the light slips in.

She’s real, which means everyone is real and she changes everything, because she can.  Ar lasa mala revas. 

[serpentface]

Three dolls made to shelter beneficial crop spirits after the harvest, a barley man and khait (left and right) and maize khait (center).

The practice of making crop spirit dolls is found in every contemporary group with a history of settled agriculture native to Imperial Wardi claimed land (and variations occur beyond), and is the result of centuries of synthesis between the proto-Finnic and proto-Wardi groups whose descendants make up most of the contemporary population.

Historical and contemporary folk traditions virtually ubiquitous in societies west of the Blackmane Mountains ascribe spirits to/associated with plant life, and groups that practice settled agriculture place heavy priority on the spirits of domesticated crops (particularly those of maize and barley, which are the staple grains here).

A crop spirit in this region is variously conceptualized as a discrete entity that lives in each field, or as the greater soul of the plant itself. In either case, there is a sense of reciprocal exchange with this being- it provides for people and must be cared for and treated with respect in return. Doing so ensures that the crop remains healthy and protected, and can continue to provide a steady food supply.

The act of harvesting requires special care, as it deprives the spirit of its home (if a discrete entity) or part of its greater being (if it is the crop itself). As such, the crop spirit needs to be given a home after the harvest, lest it abandons its dependents entirely and dooms the next growing season to failure. The crop doll represents a solution to this problem.

The spirit first must be preserved by leaving one stalk in every field unharvested. It then must be appeased before removing the grain, usually with offerings of sprinkled milk and spoken oaths swearing to its protection. Then, the last grains are taken into the home, and the crop's non-edible parts (the straw or husk) are used to make a doll. The grain itself is usually placed on or wrapped within the doll. This figure is always anthro/zoomorphic, and most commonly either a bull khait or a human man (sometimes a mixture of both). Maize on average tends to get the khait association, while barley tends to be given human form.

Whether or not this effigy is meant to represent a physical form of the spirit varies by tradition. The notion of the crop spirit potentially having a separate body is distinctly proto-Finnic influence, as these early migrants carried beliefs of (usually hostile, or at least dangerous) fae folk and beasts who lived among crops and could blight them on a whim. Proto-Wardi groups broadly saw each kind of plant as having a spirit (not discrete from the plant itself) that had to be communed with to ensure good harvests. Initial mingling between these groups and the centuries of cultural interchange that followed led to these different figures being synthesized to varying extents- some contemporary traditions see the crop spirit as able to manifest in a body outside the crop (where the doll is an effigy of this form), while others maintain that the crop spirit's body is Exclusively the crop (where the doll is the preservation of its body).

Where these discrete physical figures are accepted, they have their own associated mythologies. The maize-khait is often described as a big golden bull, who you can hear at gallop when a strong wind rattles through the fields and causes the stalks to sway when he performs a courtship trot for passing mares. The barley-man figure is described as a fat naked old man with a long beard (which is sometimes itself made of barley) who largely keeps to himself, but can occasionally be spotted peering out over the stalks at passerby. Both spirits are often used to frighten children from straying at night, particularly the barley-man (whose description ranges from mischievous to outright dangerous- in many traditions he carries a bundle of sticks to spank trespassers, and he's occasionally described to kill particularly naughty children and use their blood to water his plants).

Crop spirits here are predominantly reckoned as male, as part of a broader trend of conceptualizing a plant's growth as a procreative interplay between a masculine seed and feminine earth.

The symbolic sexual act taking place during planting is more explicit in some traditions than others. In most of the Hill Tribes, North Wardi, and among many Ephenni Riverlanders, the return of the crop spirit is performed in a form of abstracted mock intercourse. The specifics of this ritual vary, but the core outline is shared across these groups.

The whole family/community responsible for any given field will participate, but it is typically the duty of a single man to return the crop spirit to the ground (this is typically the eldest man, though some traditions reserve the honor for young men who have recently come of age). A hole is dug into the unplanted field and hailed as a womb (depending on the specific cultural context, this womb might be that of the agricultural goddess Od, or another personification of fertile earth). The man carries the crop spirit doll to the 'womb' and kneels over it, removing the seeds from the doll and placing them into the hole one by one, before refilling it with dirt. (This act is usually accompanied by a song). The hole is too deep for the seeds to actually grow, rather the act is treated as the crop spirit's insemination of the earth itself. The rest of the field is then sewn normally, and then given offerings to assist in its 'pregnancy', usually sprinklings of milk and rendered animal fat.

The sexual description of this rite is often mistranslated (or sometimes intentionally twisted), leading to a prevailing misconception among Imperial Wardi groups (particularly in the geographically distant south-southeast) that heathen northerners perform a rite where men literally fuck a hole in the ground.

Ironically, EXTREMELY similar rites are also performed throughout the South Wardi subcultural sphere. These variants also require a male community authority (usually a village's chieftain) to take the responsibility of returning the crop spirit. He carries the doll to its field and plants its seeds in a shallow furrow (in such a way it can be expected to actually grow). The crop spirit doll is then burnt, completing its yearly cycle of death to initiate its rebirth within the field. The gestating spirit is given offerings of milk where its seeds were planted, to show the community's gratitude and to ensure the spirit's health and continued benevolence.

This variant is usually performed to kick off the Imperial Wardi maize planting holiday. The crop spirit's return is immediately followed with the man singing a coullagri (summoning prayer) to effigies of the agricultural Faces of God placed directly in the field. The rest of the field is then sewn, offerings are made to each Face, and the festivities commence upon the completion of this labor.

The hosting and planting of crop spirits is a folk practice that long predates and exists independently of (though often interwoven with) the Faith of the Seven Faced God, which has lost much of the explicitly animistic elements of most of its native influences (with key spirits having been absorbed into the concept of the Face god-aspects, though retaining a sense of an conscious living world wherein everything has (God's) spirit). The doctrinal faith does not directly acknowledge nature spirits as distinct entities, rather than aspects of God's totality. The most staunchly orthodox take is that the growth and wellbeing of crops is entirely dependent on the proper flow of God's living spirit throughout and between Its Faces (which are physically the earth and everything in it, and symbolically can be reckoned as blood flowing through key parts of a body to sustain the whole).

The Faith's interaction with more directly animistic elements surviving in folk practice/among religious minorities is highly varied (ranging from condemnation as barbarity, to 'silly heathen/peasant superstition', to ambivalence, to full acceptance). The use of crop spirit dolls is generally accepted, in large part due to their sheer ubiquity, and the ease of reframing these rites to fit doctrinal views. Wardi folk variants of this rite are widely acknowledged among priestly authorities as a lesser but potentially valid means of carrying the flow of God's living spirit (rather than a more discrete crop spirit) through the off-season, even functioning as an effigy of God that can be added to a shrine and offered to in the interim. The broad consensus is that these rites acceptable if they aren't not used as a replacement for established orthopraxic crop rites or veneration of God Itself. That being said, the majority of people who utilize crop dolls at all fully experience the presence of spirits in the maize and barley, and see these as deserving of their own veneration.

[notebooks-and-laptops]

Why The Veilguard Handles Grey Wardens Better than Dragon Age Inquisition: The horrors of the Blight, the Calling and the Cauldron

Grey wardens are by far my favourite part of Dragon Age Lore. On the surface; knights in shining armor who protect the world against an unstoppable nightmare. Underneath; a messed up and dubious order who recruit from the criminals of Thedas and who are doomed to die the moment they sign on with the Wardens.

And while I have a problem with a lot of the factions in DAtV, I think the Grey Wardens are handled excellently, because they're far less sanatised than their counterparts.

Grey wardens are a dodgy organisation filled with dodgy people who the people of Thedas have to tolerate because they are the only people who can protect it from an unwise unstoppable evil force. We're shown this as early as the first act in DAO where Duncan casually stabs a man because he doesn't want to die via the joining. To save the world they make unthinkable decisions and then because those decisions are so unthinkable, they keep all those decisions secret. You, as the Warden in DAO, can do some truly horrific things in the name of stopping the blight.

And Dragon age the Veilguard gets this so right. Davrin is a hero, a monster hunter who wants to do right. And yet he is confronted with the horror of the grey wardens time and time again in his personal quests. He is made to see how the order hides even from its own members the horrific things they do in order to create an illusion that the sacred oath is valient and worth upholding.

The Cauldron was by far one of my favourite parts of DAtV. The fact that all the griffin bones are just unceremoniously thrown in there with absolutely no regard for the sacrifice; the fact that the griffins of old went crazy after they were blighted on purpose to oppose the blight...its horrific and horrible and maybe it was the only way to save the world but surely there was another way?

Similarly, we reach the end of Davrins quest and the blighted Wessinhaupt...this isn't some horrible devious plan, Issya has been driven mad by what she was ordered to do to the griffins, and she can't stand it. She's blighted by the blood in her veins, just like she blighted her griffins. And the idea that some who fall pray to the calling end up there in this fact Wessinhaupt, their minds so twisted that they can't tell whats real anymore...it's so messed up I love it.

And yet we still have good grey warden characters just like we always have! Antone and Evka were my favourite side characters in any faction in this game. Do I wish the Grey Warden Commander had a little more nuance to him? Yes. But that's literally the only thing I have a big issue with. It's so interesting as well that with Antone and Evka in charge they start to allow people to take the joining without signing up. We know some who have joined before no longer associate with the order (Anders) but this is on a whole new level. It makes sense that they'd make that decision, but the implications about what characters who don't know what to do if they start hearing the calling...its delicious.

But I promised you some juicy DAI vs DAtV on this one, so let me explain. I think DAI's grey warden lore is interesting, but the fact that they're just mindless puppets of an evil Tevinter magister takes the bite out of it. I long for a game where the Grey Wardens are working with Corphyesus of their own violition because it highlights how fucked up they can get. And there's president for it both in The Decent in Da2 AND you as a protagonist might have made that decision to support the archetech in DAI.

In DAtV the wardens aren't morally dubious because they're working with Elganan or being mind controlled or tricked. The wardens are morally dubious because that's what they've always been. They're also heros because that's what they've always been. It's such a wonderful faction and I think they've done incredibly well with it.

In DAI all wardens are hearing the calling but we never really feel the horror of that properly, perhaps because we don't see wardens going down into the deep roads or perhaps because we don't have a (real) warden companion. In DAtV because we go into the deep roads and see these messed up wardens who have been on their calling, it's made more apparent just how terrifying the calling is, how individuals lose their minds and become more and more ghoul like if they don't die first.

And on top of that the Aesthetics! I love the blight boils coming back from DAO, I always found them so creepy and really giving you the full idea that the land is blighted as well as the people, so no crops can grow.

I really loved this part of the game and I'm glad we got it!

[tagedeszorns]

Marine Meat Monday: Malakris

The fucking feral gremlin!

Captain Malakris wore his ruination like a cloak of glory. He had scoured his armour clean of the purple and gold of the Emperor’s Children and replaced it with a wild array of colours. Some of the shades that glistened upon his plate had no human name, having been culled from the warp itself. He had anointed himself with the blood of daemons – taken in combat or given willingly in esoteric pacts and unholy oaths – till he seemed to glow with the immaterium’s fickle light. Tiny rows of needle teeth had begun to push themselves from the edges of his pauldrons, undoubtedly terminating as bony barbs within the armour itself, to scrape and cut at Malakris’ flesh with every movement. His gauntlets were a set of matched lightning claws, once artfully rendered, now hooked like the talons of some exaggerated raptor. His helmet, long since brazenly fashioned into the screaming rictus of a bird of prey, was mag-locked at his hip, revealing his remade face.

Marc Collins. Eidolon: The Auric Hammer

This will be my last Marine Meat Monday-pic for a few weeks - maybe a few months. I don't know yet. This Friday I'll go into hospital, to fight the blight. And this will take some time. Hopefully I will emerge victorious. But as long as I'm there, I won't be able to draw.

[epiphany-jones]

Swear an Oath of Suffering

A Rookanis oneshot

Rating: T Relationship: Rookanis Words: 1,915 Warnings: Standard-issue Rook Thorne self-loathing. Apart from that, this is very nearly fluff (kinda/not really)

Summary: "Rook’s assassin." She's turned to Lucanis, startled, before the words have fully landed. He is already looking at her. His face is as cold as slate. They stare at each other as the blighted god continues in a voice quavering with umbrage, "His flesh could be given true wings. And a face that better suits one who carries a demon."

This exists within my larger Rook Thorne/Lucanis context but can absolutely be read on its own.

Answering @rookanisstuff's call from this post 🫡. I owe my life to @flowersforthemachines for this extracted audio post which I mediated on....... a lot... while writing.

Read on AO3

"Talk to me." His voice is gentle, a warm rasp of sandpaper across her jagged edges, and his fingers dig in to the knots and ropes under her skin. In just a few short weeks she's become used to this touch easing her down from the tension of the field, but nothing can scrub away the low horror of Ghilan'nain's thoughtful tone that clings to her like tar, the revulsion that makes her want to recoil from her own head for housing the memory. Her hands flex with the need to touch him, to assure herself that he's whole, but she can't let herself seek softness when that's what made him a target in the first place. "What she said," Rook begins haltingly. "What she wants to do to you…" "Wings and a worse face," he says, a little grin in his voice. No big deal. "Not much different than what you have in me now." Ghilan'nain was not speaking idly. They've seen what she can do to flesh: reavers, dragons, the darkspawn that are now nothing like what once stalked the Deep Roads. He knows that, Rook knows he knows. He's not saying it won't happen, but he's shrugging at it all the same. She twists away from his hands to face him full. Her shoulders protest. "That's not—Lucanis, you're in danger." "I'm a Crow. I've been in danger my whole life," he says reasonably, and her fists clench. "Not like this," she hisses. "A god wants to pull you apart and play with the pieces, and she wants to do this because of me. Because I've been careless enough that she apparently doesn't need eyes to see that the best way to strike me down is to hurt you."

[polar534]

I've been thinking about what after means for my Rook and Neve. Writing it out as an exercise more than anything. Then I remembered that before there was an after, there were two weeks of hell. Those two weeks sticking with Neve on some of her darkest nights even when after seems to finally stick.

Because of course there are nights where Rook is out late. That Neve's normal exhaustion from the cases she works during the day finally hits her shoulders. The weight of the never-ending work she puts in with the remaining members of the Veilguard to try and patch up the world left behind finally catching up to her. She passes out at her desk, not remembering where Rook said she'd be. She wakes to find herself alone...

And suddenly Neve is thrown right back to those two weeks of waiting in the Lighthouse. To the quiet aftermath of Tearstone Island.

Thrown back to the days with Emmrich consulting her on ways to narrow the search, his hair an absolute mess. Blood hastily wiped across his face, his cheek cut from the shaking of his hand as his razor reminds him just how uncertain he really is. Books tossed and piled high in his office, all dead ends. She hears Taash's rage, throwing furniture that always seemed to mend itself back together. Hears them roaring into the night, trying to get their voice to carry far enough for Rook to hear. To just find them already. Remembers Lucanis locking himself in his room, his eyes bloodshot from wrestling control between him and Spite. Both unable to do anything but wait. Both blaming themselves. His questions seem to echo her own. Why had Rook called out to him before she disappeared? He was right behind her. He was the closest. Why didn't he catch her before she fell?

She's brought back to Harding's quiet sobbing hiccups and the scout swiftly drying her eyes when she saw Neve approaching. Inexplicably trying to hold it together all for her sake. Even as reports came in from all over Northern Thedas. As the news breaks of the world to the South falling to the blight. The deafening silence coming out of Minrathous, from Dock Town, somehow echoing even louder than the world's cries for help.

She's brought back to the times she was asked to enter Bellara's room to find something. Maybe an artifact that Bel had been tinkering with would help. Of course Neve would find it, she understood Bel's system better than anyone else. Nevermind the fact that her hands shook as she picked it up. That the entire room felt wrong, and her stomach flipped to stand within it.

That unease never leaves her, even as her eyes are unable to look up at the decaying nest of feathers and fur that Assan had left behind in his favorite spot. Closing her eyes only makes her see Davrin. Makes her think of just how much she would give to hear his confidence one last time. To see the determination he carried in his shoulders with everything he did, inspiring the rest of them to keep going.

His never-ending faith in Rook.

The Grey Warden's oaths her uncle taught her echo in her head.

In death, sacrifice.

She's brought back to the nights where she shakily entered Rook's room, taking care to make sure no one else would see. Neve isn't one to hope for anything, she's played that game and lost too many times. But maybe, maybe she'd catch the world off-guard. That this nightmare would come to it's end and she'd walk in to see Rook, passed out on the couch in her room, snoring loudly enough to cause an echo down the hallway.

Telling herself she knew better when the room is empty, letting the door shut behind her and ignoring the frost gathering on the glass, preventing her from seeing the water beyond...

[stone-stars]

here is a post with the lyrics for every song from lullabies for the wild side! (thanks to alli @operationslipperypuppet for transcribing half of these)

Serpent’s Serenade child, don't listen to their words you're not a monster no matter what you've heard you're everything i dreamed you'd be a miracle to me they don't get to tell you what you're worth

darling, you're native to the night so take these wings i gave you and take flight don't ever be ashamed of your claws, your bite, your strength they don't get to tell you who you are

honey, don't ever change a thing your fire breath, your many heads, your poison serpent sting just because they're afraid doesn't mean that you have strayed they don't even get to have a say

i can not give you their love but i can make you strong and brave and i can make you tough their swords and arrows cannot pierce the hide of one so proud, so fierce they don't get to tell you who you are

they tell you you're a prophecy but you're a possibility they don't get to tell you what to be and let them write their histories clinging to their legacies you and me, we know just what we're worth

The Moon’s Elegy Oh, how I love you, though you’ll never know. Anywhere I go I’m in your shadow. No, I will never find the nerve to broach, anywhere you go I will follow.

‘Cause we share a sky but I still can’t seem to catch your eye. And try as I might, I’m a pale reflection of your light. I tied my life to your chariot of fire— why? Oh, why?

And the prettiest nights are the ones I cry the most, teardrops turn to stars and start to glow. And an endless chase of your golden blaze I go, hiding just behind but all alone.

Cause we share a sky but I still can’t seem to catch your eye, and try as I might, I’m forever half a day behind. I crave your light like a moth to the fire— why? Oh, why?

And you burning brightly and me so blue, how can I get close to you? And you with your fire and me with my gloom, what’s a moon supposed to do when everyone wants to be with you? That’s why I’m so blue.

Ballad of a Green Knight Darling I can’t see you anymore, I’m afraid they’ve summoned me to war. Promises I have made to the Queen and to the Fae, and I intend to keep ‘em with my sword.

Darling if I never make it home to you I’ll visit you as butterflies and dew. In another place and time, I swear I would have made you mine But I have got a duty to strike true.

Green though I be, remember me, and who I could have been if we lived in peace. Married my blade to the fate of the Fae, traded my days for honor and fame.

Green be my steel, be my bow, be my shield, Pledged to defend the vine and the hedge. Remember me when the leaves, and the breeze, and the trees start to tease the first breath of spring.

I would’ve loved to pledge myself to you, but that is not the world that I was born into. A knight is always forged in the crucible of war, And that is what I gave my word to do.

So I will fight with all my verdant might, the blight of night will never dim my light. Though the memory of you makes me turn a shade of blue, a Green Knight has a duty to the Wild.

Green from my head, to my toes, ‘till my death Pledged to protect the vine and the hedge. Green is my blood, I’m sorry my love, remember us after I’m gone.

Oh, that I could be in love and be good, But I made an oath to the fields and the wood. So think of us all when the snow starts to fall, and though we may fall, the order lives on.

Darling, in another place and time I’d have been content to make you mine. And in the dream of death, I’ll dream the life I could have had if I hadn’t pledged myself to hedge and vine.

A Gloaming Lullabye In the gloaming of the night court, the queen calls you to sleep, she blankets you with moonbeams, she beckons you with dreams. So surrender to her majesty, and heed the queen’s decree, she’ll swaddle you in starlight and beguile you with peace.

So meet me in your dreams and we will never be apart. I promise I will find you in the shadows and the dark. The day is gone, the nights are long, and this is just the start. So meet me in between the moon, the galaxies, and stars.

As the scene begins to set, the queen collects her debts. She comes to you with heavy lids to tuck you into bed. As the day turns into night, the queen demands a tithe, you cannot run, you cannot hide, but you can close your eyes.

So meet me in your dreams and we will dance across the sky, a minuet, our heart’s duet, a tango improvised. And who’s to say what lays in wait when day turns into night, so look for me in your dreams, I promise so will I.

And when the sun returns, we’ll savor all we learned; the tutelage of dreams, the alchemy of sleep. And if we spent our dreams in pleasant company, then you will wake in harmony.

So meet me in your dreams, cause I can’t get enough of you. I’ll climb the stars, I’ll scale the moon, there’s nothing I won’t do. And when we meet in sleep so deep, I think that you will find, the day is nice, but nothing beats the night. The days are nice but, oh my god, the nights.

Winter’s Mantle Winter’s Mantle, heavy with fur and snow Icy, still, until the north wind blows Frost on the panes, darkness pervades, rest my pretty babe

Flowers grown shy, dirges and lullabies

Rest, my darling, there’s no work to do Sleep, my child, night is calling you

Sunlight estranged, darkness remains, rest my pretty babe Flowers grown shy, dirges and lullabies

The Giant’s Lover gather round the giantess, beaming with tale to tell listen as she weaves her web of a lover that did excel, small though he was, the way that he loved was enormous stature be damned, he was two times the man that a giant was

met him down in irondeep, sailor of sky and sheet navigated expertly her every last giant need never before had a lover performed like this tour de force titans and ogres rendered mediocre by this tall dwarf

small folk, big fun, sure-foot, hard-won giant lover like no other thick of quad, colossal heart, his size belies a huge surprise

so she waits by window side, dreaming of his return never to be satisfied, inside her his memory burns smallfolk take heed, this tall dwarf has pleased with enormity a small folk she met but a titan she wept for when hardwon left

[stayatsam]

i love the grey wardens so so so so so much, they're an order of knights that undergo a creepy blood ritual to become the very monsters they swear to hunt on an eternal losing battle in which they're all sworn to die to.

they hear the eternal song of old buried gods that visit them in their dreams,

they kill for their secrets and don't tell their recruits they could die in the middle of the joining,

they've saved the world 5 times over and incidentally have killed 5 ancient elven gods in the process, they're awful and incredible at the same time. everyone deserves a second chance but also the second chance is a bloody and violent death

no one wants to see a grey warden since they mean there's monsters nearby, you're walking by a black cat unless they're saving you, they're heroes

if it means destroying the blight they'll use blood magic they'll summon demons they'll sacrifice each other because sacrifice is the name of the game embedded into their oath.

[scotianostra]

On May 11th 1685 the ‘Solway Martyrs’, Margaret MacLaghlin* and Margaret Wilson were put to death.

*Note the elder woman's name has several different spellings, depending on the source.

One of the saddest events at a time when there was no shortage of brutality, The Killing Time, is a part of our history that is a blight on our nation, a shameful period where many died because of their religious beliefs.

The Wigtown Martyrs or Solway Martyrs, Margaret MacLaghlin (in her 60s) and Margaret Wilson (in her 20s) were Scottish Covenanters who were executed by Scottish Episcopalians at Wigtown,, by tying them to stakes on the town's mudflats and allowing them to drown with the rising tide.

Margaret MacLaghlin and Margaret Willson were sentenced to be tied to stakes in the tidal channel of the River Bladnoch near its entrance to Wigtown Bay to be drowned by the incoming tide. Their "crime" was they refused to take an oath of loyalty to Charles II that acknowledged his authority on everything, including religious matters.

The ploy was that the younger woman might be persuaded to change her mind after watching the older woman drown. The strategy failed and both died. This execution was carried out by dragoons under the command of Major Windram in the presence of Sir Robert Grierson of Lag who held the King's Commission to suppress the rebels in the South West.

The soldiers first went to MacLaghlin and give her the chance to pray for the King, but she refused. Some men were incensed at the impudence of the old woman, and one cursed and told the soldiers to, “Let her gang to hell”. As the tidal race worked it’s way higher up the body of old Margaret, one of the town soldiers took his halberd and held it over her throat, bringing her to a quicker end. A reprieve had been sent from Edinburgh but never reached Wigtown.

It was not only women who died, William Johnstone, John Milroy and George Walker were hanged in Wigtown the same year, for refusal to take the oath, but Margaret Wilson, due to her young age has become the most famous of the martyrs and is the subject of a famous painting by the English artist John Everett Millais called The Martyr of Solway. The stake out on the Solway Firth at Wigton is replica set as a memorial to the women, there is also a memorial in the graveyard at The Kirk of the Holy Rude at Stirling.

[himluv]

All Stomach (no heart?)

I'm back with more Lucanis! And also a little cameo from my favorite Crow power couple ;) . Enjoy!

@vorchagirl

Everywhere Lucanis looked, Treviso was either coated in ice or burning. Everywhere he looked, his heart shattered into impossibly smaller pieces. His city. His home. He’d just got it back and now a blighted dragon was going to destroy it all. And what the dragon did not freeze, the Antaam’s cannons would destroy. 

Antiva had no army. Treviso was a port city protected by the bay at her front, the remaining nation at her back, and the Crows who called her home. But what good were crows against a dragon?

They’d pressed what few advantages they had. Word of the attack spread quickly, civilians fled and hid until only black and purple leathers filled the streets. It was a start, but if they didn’t get that dragon to land soon, the blight would reach the canals and Treviso would be lost. 

Lucanis growled, gripped his rapier and dagger tighter, and sliced through another Antaam warrior.

“There’s too many of them,” Viago shouted. 

“It’s a distraction,” Teia called. She spun, kicking one Antaam in the face before sinking her blade into another’s throat. “Keeping us busy while the dragon blights the city.”

“Mierda.” She was right. “And the Antaam are helping?”

“I’m sure they have their orders.” Viago’s voice carried a disdain as potent as wyvern poison.

The conversation died down as another wave of Qunari kept the Crows busy. Lucanis wasn’t sure how much more of this they could take. If something didn’t change they would lose Treviso.

“Is Rook coming, or not?” Viago stood panting over an Antaam gunner’s corpse.

Lucanis and Teia shared a grim look. He didn’t have an answer. Between Minrathous and Treviso, he didn’t know which she would pick. She didn’t have strong ties to either city, and while he’d started to trust her, had started to think of her as more than just a client, he simply didn’t know Rook well enough to say which city she’d choose defend. 

The silence was too much for Viago. “Is that a ‘no’, then?”

Lucanis shook his head. “We shouldn’t count on it.”

Teia nodded. “We’ll do what we must.” She looked at Viago. “The Crows rule Antiva.”

His mouth pressed into a grim line, but he finished the oath. “And Treviso will be free.”

Behind them, someone said, “Then we’d better do something about that dragon!”

Lucanis spun to find Rook and Bellara approaching. 

“You came,” he said, jogging to reach them. “Minrathous–”

She shook her head. “I sent Harding and Davrin. Hopefully they can hold out long enough for us to deal with this.”

“You have a plan?” Viago didn’t sound like he had much faith, even if she did.

She shrugged and marched further into the garden. “We’ve got to get it to land.” 

Viago shot him a dubious look. “I’m still not hearing a plan.”

Lucanis wasn’t sure planning was one of Rook’s skillsets. He shrugged at the Fifth Talon and hurried after Rook. The garrison was empty, the majority of the Butcher’s forces deployed into the city, so it was the perfect place to face a dragon. Plenty of room. But as they moved out into the frost covered garrison, Lucanis saw it wasn’t just the dragon. 

Up on one of the crow parapets of the Old Crow Road, stood… mierda. What was that thing?

“Despair. Ignorance.” The thing cried, in a strange, multi-toned voice. “Mortal confusion. Yet this city offers nothing better than a pawn of the Dread Wolf.”

Rook cursed. “Ghilan’nain.”

That was Ghilan’nain? That monstrous, giant thing writhing with blighted tentacles was an ancient Elven god? He was supposed to kill that? Beside him, Teia cursed and Viago put an arm out to keep her from moving any closer to the god. 

As if that would protect any of them if she really wanted to reach them.

The god continued, “Your patron could not stand against us in ages past. He will not help you now.” The dragon flew around her, a low, grumbling growl echoing over the city. “Give us the Dread Wolf’s dagger.”

Rook climbed up onto a marble bench –which still only made her a head taller than Viago – and gripped the lyrium dagger tight. 

“Come get it!” She shouted at Ghilan’nain.

“Mierda,” Lucanis breathed.

“This woman is insane,” Viago said. 

“Retrieve the knife,” Ghilan’nain ordered her dragon. “And whatever else remains of these mortals!”

The dragon’s head snapped to look at Rook, and then it banked right and headed straight for them. 

“That worked?” Viago yelled, just as Rook jumped down to join them, a grim smile on her face. 

“I can’t believe that worked!” She said. 

“We cannot celebrate yet,” Teia said as the dragon landed in the center of the icy garrison.

They didn’t kill the dragon, and while Treviso was safe for the moment, Minrathous was in shambles. Not only was it burning and blighted, but the Venatori had finally made their move. Lucanis didn’t want to leave Neve there. She was hardly an unknown to that cult. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill her like they had every other Shadow Dragon they’d found. 

Lucanis pulled his dagger and rapier from their sheathes, and nodded at Rook. “Let’s kill a dragon.”

But she refused Rook’s sympathies, and when Lucanis tried to speak she’d raised a hand to forestall him. She needed time, she said. 

So he and the others followed after Rook and returned to the Lighthouse. After a much needed bath and a change of clothes, Lucanis made a fresh pot of coffee. 

Spite stood by the percolator, watching the coffee bubble and spit its way through the tube. Even the demon seemed resigned after the day’s events. He turned his head to look at the door and sniffed. 

Rook, he said.

And then she walked in. She still wore her armor, streaked with gore and and ash from the fight against the dragon. She didn’t meet Lucanis’s gaze as she slumped into the chair closest to the fire and put her head in her hands. 

He said nothing. What could he say? Yes, he was grateful she’d saved Treviso. Beyond grateful. But even to him that victory tasted sour after seeing Minrathous. So they shared the silence and listened to the coffee brew. 

“I don’t regret my decision,” she said after a long moment. Her voice was thick and tremulous. “I did the best I could with what we had.”

He poured them each a cup of coffee and set hers gently on the table. She looked up at him and the shine in her eyes glinted with firelight. 

“You don’t have to convince me, Rook.” He wanted to soothe her, to offer some warmth, but he couldn’t convince a smile to claim his lips. “I know you did.”

She closed her eyes against a fresh wave of emotion, the corners of her mouth trembling. She shook her head as a single tear escaped down her cheek. “But it wasn’t enough,” she whispered.

Her voice was a punch to his gut, the devastation and hopelessness, when all he’d ever seen in her was hope and optimism. Before he could think better of it, he crouched before her. His hand hovered above her knee, but he couldn’t bring himself to put it there. Instead, he cradled his cup in both hands. 

“Rook,” he said. His voice was firm, but gentle. 

She looked at him, her eyes darting around his face, looking for what he didn’t know. 

“Could you be in two places at once?” he asked. 

She frowned. “… no, but–”

“–And if you could, do you have two lyrium daggers with which to taunt the dragons?”

She sighed. “No.”

This time, he managed the flicker of a smile. “We did our best,” he said. “And it wasn’t enough. Could never be enough.” He tilted his head. “So, how do we get better?”

She considered him for a long moment, fresh tears in her eyes, but they did not fall. “I don’t know yet,” she said. 

He nodded at that and stood. “Yet,” he said. He tilted his chin toward the door. “Now go. Clean up. When you come back, I’ll have something for you to eat.”

She shook her head. “Lucanis–”

“Please, Rook,” he said. This time it was his voice that threatened to break. 

She looked up at him, surprised by the show of emotion, and in the firelight she looked radiant. Even with tearstained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, Lucanis struggled to look away from her.

She reached for him, but stopped just short of taking his hand. He wanted so badly to close the distance, to feel her palm against his and know that they were both impossibly alive. That, despite a god’s best efforts, they had managed to save at least one city. 

And look what it had cost her. Beaten and bruised, grieving and doubting herself. How selfish was he that he wanted to add to her burdens? Rook deserved better than the mess that was his life. 

Lucanis cleared his throat and looked at the floor. “It’s the least I can do.”

For several heartbeats, there was silence. Then Rook stood and nodded. “Okay,” she said. 

Lucanis headed to the stove and rummaged around until he heard the dining hall door open and close again. He took several deep breaths, then decided on a hearty pasta with mushrooms and greens. 

He might not be able to take her hand, but Lucanis would comfort Rook the only way he knew how. She would never go hungry while he was around, and with each bite maybe someday she would come to understand just what that meant. 

[divinecrashingcourse]

This post from dr-Zeddy had me thinking thoughts (I am sorry) I enjoyed reading it.

Why would Mohg even want Miquella?

He wouldn't need to be empowered or appointed by Miquella, as he was already sponsored by an outer god. He wouldn't require a consort to help him with any specific tasks to achieve lordship either, unlike Rykard. 

It's not even so innovative for a non-empyrean to side with an outer god directly, without the need of using an empyrean as a god vessel. Rykard and LoFF were on similar paths, directly tapping into the main sources of power, which, if you chase power, would be the best deal you could get in the lands between.

He wouldn't need Miquella to win the formless mother's approval, as she wouldn't have bestowed power upon Miquella anyway.

By her standards, the golden child loved by many, the "unalloyed", would not be worthy of her favour. In fact she has only ever considered an omen who was tortured and imprisoned since birth, and some subjugated and enslaved tribal people, worthy. She never even shared her power directly with Mohg's followers - none of the blood affined ashes of wars or incantations referred to her - nor did dynasty members worship her necessarily.  

A common misunderstanding is blood loss in battle is always an offering specifically made to her, but by that logic the cleanrot knights with halo scythes, Jerren with flamberge, imps with hatchets, the virgins and Ghiza with their wheels, the omen killers, Yura, Morgott, Malenia… could all be accused of following the formless mother because their weapons were efficient at bleeding enemies dry.

The thing is, weapons are made to hurt and kill, and bleeding and wounding usually does the job. Hemorrhage is simply one of the status effects in ER that represents one of the outstanding techniques to harm and shouldn't be automatically taken as an affiliation with the formless mother. Unlike sleep, madness and death blight, which are explicitly associated with a certain power source.

In fact, the descriptions of blood oath skills and incantations expressly said that they were created and granted by Mohg to share his own power with followers. They then channelled his power to perfect their own skills and invented new weapon arts personal to them.

He wouldn't need Miquella to attract followers. After all, he was the only demigod who used his great rune to bless his comrades. 

He wouldn't have any reason to try to somehow shove the formless mother into a flesh shell. We knew she "desired a wound" specifically from both sacred spears and bloodboon ritual, which were all related to how her children may pierce her formless body with the spear or an arm, for her to rain down flaming blood on their enemies.

It's quite obvious that, literally speaking, the wound her children created when they called upon her was the one she craved. She must stay formless to protect them this way. It wouldn't make sense if she just resides in a massive, solid body that floats above them, nor would she desire such an arrangement. 

Nothing ever said she demanded offerings from her children and I don't think we should assume that's the case. It was entirely her children’s own choice to reciprocate, offering any bloody battles to her. Blood was simply one of the things that could be taken as an offering as it contains power in this world.

According to Lord of Blood's Exaltation, the offerings were made specifically to Mohg instead of her, and specifically, made for Miquella’s awakening. 

An "age of blood" led by a god vessel wouldn't have worked, as the relevant outer god was a passive protector, providing guidance in most extreme circumstances - and perhaps only if people were lucky enough to find her. She didn't actively seek out worshipers: Mohg came across her deep underground, potentially when he was desperately lost; bloodfiends saw her when they accidentally glanced through the corpses of their ancestors.

She never desired to lead or control - bloodflame was her gift to Mohg, and it was entirely Mohg’s decision to distribute his strength and run the dynasty, just like how it's entirely the bloodfiends’ decision to keep the power within their tribe and not to set up any organisation. 

Mohg's plan, making a "dynasty", was distinct from making an "age", exactly because his faction was intended to be led by non-gods. Age is for gods to manipulate, whereas a dynasty is a man made kingdom. This is not to say it'd be a peaceful sanctuary free from cruelty, but that no matter what age it is, which god is in charge of the grand design, he wished that it would stand strong, everlasting, in its own corner.

It would align with Ansbach's final advice to us - be a lord, not for the gods. A lord for mankind wouldn't necessarily be healthy, but it would be something new in these god driven lands. 

Mohg's Remembrance made it very obvious that "raising Miquella to full godhood" was his goal, and "becoming Miquella's consort and lord" was the way of achieving said goal. He wished to be Miquella's consort, and a lord befitting the god Miquella would be, because he wanted to help Miquella ascend.

If it was intended to be the other way round, it would have literally been worded the other way round. 

The DLC doubled down on this by telling us Miquella used Mohg's power to enter the shadow lands, to ascend via the gate of divinity. It makes sense that Mohg would be the only one who could help because, Mohg, as an omen, represents both the oppressor (hornsent pre Messmer) and the oppressed (omen and hornsent post Messmer). Miquella, as an empyrean, the spitting image of Marika, also represents both (the oppressed shaman, and the oppressive crusade and golden order).

Mohg and Miquella together therefore resembles the vicious, endless cycle of abuse across both lands, the hidden, metaphorical “wound” to which the formless mother would be drawn, and the buried truth of which she would be keen to reveal to them as its mother.

Cruelty has always been the truth behind righteousness and glory. The portal must be drenched in blood, to match the blood spilt on the other side. 

Therefore even though Mohg may have no need for Miquella, ultimately, Miquella needed the two of them to be united as one, in flesh and blood, in order to go to the LoS. Personally I don't believe Miquella had such knowledge all along, otherwise why bother embedding themselves in the Haligtree?

Either way, no matter the reason behind Miquella's want, in order to get him Miquella must strike first, as otherwise Mohg would have no compelling reason to approach them. 

Based on what we know, Mohg shouldn't have loved or revered Miquella at all.

Asking him to lend a hand to the golden child of the golden order should have been an insult. Calling Miquella his dearest should have been a severe case of low self-esteem but that's not him. His great rune was literally soaked in his devout love towards the defilement he was born into, or in less discriminatory words, he was proud, prideful even. He fully accepted the crap cards he had been dealt with and turned it into power instead of feeling insecure and self loathing for his unfair birth.

It would take lots of love, or an exceptionally strong charm (which I'm not sure Miquella could quite conjure) to get past his disdain if he was just asked to plead loyalty to someone who had been treated way better since birth under the same wretched system just because they were lucky enough to have been born as a member of the oppressor race in their day and age, unlike him.

Miquella was pained also for their own reasons, but it could not be compared to the sheer scale of soul crushing horror he had experienced since birth.

Many have concluded based on Morgott's Remembrance that Mohg was also never loved (by Miquella) yet he loved (Miquella) nonetheless. But the thing is, just like their great tunes, they are similar but supposed to complete each other instead of being exactly the same.

We do know that formless mother loved him and she answered his calling and granted him a second phase right in front of our eyes. We know he loved her back, devotedly, in return for her favour. He had only loved in a reciprocal manner, as opposed to Morgott’s love that was selfless and not in return. He would not just go out there and take upon himself the duty of a protector, unlike Morgott.

The difference was he eventually found a mother who considered him worthy, and Morgott didn't. 

So I could only imagine that Miquella had reached out to him and done something significant for him that was so endearing on a personal level to have convinced him that Miquella truly understood his suffering, and they deserved his love. Abandonment by parents is the greatest betrayal one could experience. Miquella must have reassured him that they were not and would not become Marika, and he would never be betrayed by them.

This is not saying Miquella must have intentionally deceived him. 

If love was Miquella's weapon and Trina was Miquella's love, did she also dull Mohg’s senses and grant him velvety sleep?

Was that how Miquella enchanted, travelling into dreams as Trina, bewitching the dreamer when their defence was low, and slowly drowning them in the quagmire of her sweet oblivion?

Mohg's heart was also cleansed, more or less, by such love Miquella wielded. It is terrifying because, it's the doubt and distrust towards Miquella that would be plucked away first and foremost. From then on, everything about Miquella would be pure, and good, and right.

Miquella must have loved him first. 

[mllemaenad]

I wanted to throw a thought at you. You mentioned that it's really good luck that Thedas came up with the Grey Wardens. If Mythal's goal really IS to stop the Blight, who says it's luck? If we take the codex entry about Andruil's armor as evidence, Mythal already had an idea about how to fight the taint before the Evanuris were imprisoned. And the known ingredients for the Joining: darkspawn blood, that seems reasonable. Lyrium - a fairly reasonable conclusion if you're doing a magic ritual, though it is notable that it's being used to tie the Grey Wardens to the Titans. Archdemon blood - It seems to me like it would be pretty darn hard to get hold of unless you either saved some from a previous battle with an archdemon or you knew where someone had stored some. How did the Grey Wardens during the First Blight know it was needed and get their hands on it, unless someone who was around before the Blight was initially locked away told them?

I mean, yes, absolutely it's possible Mythal was responsible for the creation of the Grey Wardens, regardless of what I think. Her activities in this period are basically a blank slate, so honestly she might have been doing anything. There's a whole chunk of history there that, barring the release of more games or lore books, can just be filled at will with head canons.

That said, I think there are two parts to this idea to explore and they need to be looked at separately:

The idea of Grey Wardens

Gathering the ingredients

Hey – what if we tried blood magic?

Honestly, I don't really think Mythal is necessary for coming up with the basics of this plan.

The first Blight had already raged for 90 years. The world was in chaos. A god had risen, twisted and corrupted. The remaining gods of Tevinter were silent, withdrawn. What writing we have recovered from those times is filled with despair, for everyone believed, from the greatest archons to the lowliest slaves, that the world was coming to an end. At Weisshaupt fortress in the desolate Anderfels, a meeting transpired. Soldiers of the Imperium, seasoned veterans who had known nothing their entire lifetimes except hopeless war, came together. When they left Weisshaupt, they had renounced their oaths to the Imperium. They were soldiers no longer: They were the Grey Wardens. The Wardens began an aggressive campaign against the Blight, striking back against the darkspawn, reclaiming lands given up for lost. The Blight was far from over, but their victories brought notice, and soon they received aid from every nation in Thedas. They grew in number as well as reputation. Finally, in the year 992 of the Tevinter Imperium, upon the Silent Plains, they met the archdemon Dumat in battle. A third of all the armies of northern Thedas were lost to the fighting, but Dumat fell and the darkspawn fled back underground. Even that was not the end. The Imperium once revered seven gods: Dumat, Zazikel, Toth, Andoral, Razikale, Lusacan, and Urthemiel. Four have risen as archdemons. The Grey Wardens have kept watch through the ages, well aware that peace is fleeting, and that their war continues until the last of the dragon-gods is gone. —From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar – The Grey Wardens

I think it's worth remembering that the first Grey Wardens were veteran soldiers of the Tevinter Imperium. While they no doubt hailed from across Thedas, Tevinter was the dominant culture at the time, and everyone would have absorbed a few of its ideas whether they liked it or not – like most of modern Thedas has absorbed some of Orlais's weird ideas about magic.

And I mean ... blood magic is very much Tevinter's thing. They are the all time experts on the subject. I'd be willing to bet "What if we used blood magic on it?" was one of the first thoughts to enter their heads. They might have tried that before they even got to "What if we stabbed it with swords?"

What they would have discovered over the course of that first century is that using blood magic on an Archdemon doesn't work. Or, well, it probably works in the sense that you can unleash a lot of raw power on it and kill it ... but that doesn't stop it from popping back up again. And meanwhile your soldiers are still sickening and dying from taint, or surviving it and wandering off to join the enemy.

So now we're at Plan B: what if we used blood magic on ourselves? And I think there's pretty good reason to think that drinking blood, and specifically drinking dragon blood, was pretty high up on Tevinter's go-to list of solutions.

For a start, we know Reavers exist, and that dragon cults are weirdly prolific among humans:

Let us suggest, for the moment, that a high dragon is simply an animal. A cunning animal, to be sure, but in possession of no true self-awareness or sentience. There has not, after all, been a single recorded case of a dragon attempting to communicate or performing any act that could not likewise be attributed to a clever beast. How, then, does one explain the existence of so-called "dragon cults" throughout history? One dragon cult might be explainable, especially in light of the reverence of the Old Gods in the ancient Tevinter Imperium. In the wake of the first Blight, many desperate imperial citizens turned to the worship of real dragons to replace the Old Gods who had failed them. A dragon, after all, was a god-figure that they could see: It was there, as real as the archdemon itself, and, as evidence makes clear, did offer a degree of protection to its cultists. Other dragon cults could be explained in light of the first. Some cult members might have survived and spread the word. The worship of the Old Gods was as widespread as the Imperium itself—certainly such secrets could have made their way into many hands. But there have been reports of dragon cults even in places where the Imperium never touched, among folks who had never heard of the Old Gods or had any reason to. How does one explain them? Members of a dragon cult live in the same lair as a high dragon, nurturing and protecting its defenseless young. In exchange, the high dragon seem to permit those cultists to kill a small number of those young in order to feast on draconic blood. That blood is said to have a number of strange long-term effects, including bestowing greater strength and endurance, as well as an increased desire to kill. It may breed insanity as well. Nevarran dragon-hunters have said these cultists are incredibly powerful opponents. The changes in the cultists are a form of blood magic, surely, but how did the symbiotic relationship between the cult and the high dragon form in the first place? How did the cultists know to drink the dragon's blood? How did the high dragon convince them to care for its young, or know that they would? Is there more to draconic intelligence than we have heretofore guessed at? No member of a dragon cult has ever been taken alive, and what accounts exist from the days of the Nevarran hunters record only mad rants and impossible tales of godhood. With dragons only recently reappearing and still incredibly rare, we may never know the truth, but the question remains. —From Flame and Scale, by Brother Florian, Chantry scholar, 9:28 Dragon – Dragon Cults

Brother Florian here is deeply frustrated, because he can't find any halfway modern source to explain why people are running around drinking dragon blood. But ... well, I'd like to point the good brother back to his very own Chant of Light:

On the shores of the Nocen, in the lands of Neromenian King Antoridus girded his people for war. A thousand strong Carried spear and bow to the East. To be forged anew And rise on burning wings, heroes of Neromenian. Mighty were the Inghirsh, who returned numbers beyond counting To the lands of their fathers, carried on the shields of their kin. Antoridus demanded victory, and so his many Oracles Consulted the stars and drank the blood of unclean beasts, Seeking counsel from the Maker that they might deliver To their king the lands of the Inghirsh people. And the Maker gave them signs and portents That no victory was theirs to claim. – Threnodies 6, The Chant of Light

This is an account of a war between the most ancient human tribes, so it predates even the founding of the Tevinter Imperium, let alone the First Blight. And according to the footnotes in World of Thedas Volume 2, the "unclean beasts" referenced were probably wyverns. Wyverns are the close cousins of dragons and their blood can sometimes be substituted for that of dragons if you don't have access to a dragon just now.

My general feeling is that drinking blood, and specifically dragon blood, to empower oneself and defeat one's enemies was an idea that humans brought with them from their ancient homeland. I suspect that this was their outright equivalent of the typical use of lyrium in Thedas to augment one's abilities.

So, really, I think the ancient Tevinters were actually more likely to come up with this idea on their own than Mythal was. We absolutely have evidence of Mythal being able to defeat a tainted Andruil in her own dragon shape, but we don't have evidence of anything like ancient elven Grey Wardens. Our best evidence on her suggests she was quite touchy and protective about dragons, and pitched a fit when Ghilan'nain turned some guy into one:

There are whispers from the Well of Sorrows. It's impossible to understand the entire text, but certain parts suddenly reveal a shadow of their original meaning. "His crime is high treason. He took on a form reserved for the gods and their chosen, and dared to fly in the shape of the divine. The sinner belongs to Dirthamen; he claims he took wings at the urging of Ghilan'nain, and begs protection from Mythal. She does not show him favor, and will let Elgar'nan judge him." For one moment there is an image of a shifting, shadowy mass with blazing eyes, whose form may be one or many. Then it fades. – Ancient Elven Writing

I think Mythal had it in her to understand that a dragon might defeat the blight, but I think it took a Tevinter mind to make the leap from that to "... and therefore we should drink dragon blood" because that was a much more natural progression of thought in their culture.

So ... is this stuff safe to drink?

Of course, this brings us to the whole problem with Plan B, which is that drinking tainted blood is almost certainly lethal. Our problem isn't figuring out that we need dragon blood ... it's actually consuming it without dying.

Fenris will tell us that the mabari hounds were originally bred in Tevinter. While that's not a definite origin story, there's a certain amount of logic to it: they're eerily smart, and their habit of "imprinting" so exclusively is odd. They do seem to be at least a little bit magic. And, obviously, they are resistant to the taint. We know that, at least in some cases, a mabari can swallow darkspawn blood and live.

So if Fenris's tale is correct, the first Grey Wardens may well have seen that, with the right magic resistance, it was possible to drink this stuff.

Which makes me wonder very much about the role Archdemon blood is actually playing in this ritual.

The Joining requires darkspawn blood. Recruits are typically sent out under the watch of an older Warden to slay darkspawn and collect the blood. This is a test to see if the recruit has the courage and ability to fight darkspawn. Once the blood is collected, the Wardens add a single drop of Archdemon blood and use magic to make it at least remotely possible to consume. Archdemon blood is among the rarest substances in all Thedas, and it makes the Joining all the more exclusive a ritual. Older Wardens carry a small amount of it with them at all times. Normally, the taint within darkspawn blood can be lethal. Adding Archdemon blood only intensifies the effect, rendering the mixture instantly lethal to most. A recruit who survives drinking the blood is considered worthy of the Order. Should the recruit survive, he or she will forever share a deeper connection to the darkspawn, sensing them when they are near and, in a Blight, hearing the call of the Archdemon. This gives them a great advantage in combat with the darkspawn, but also dooms them to a horrible end. – World of Thedas Volume One

I mean ... why are we making Grey Wardens in the first place? The tactical advantages are cool and all – and they do let a Warden go "Ah, yep, this is an actual Blight, not just a random darkspawn party" – but they hardly seem worth all the trouble. And if you just want some insight into the power of the Song of the blight ... it'd be easier to just quarantine and observe some ghouls.

No, the big thing is immunity. Grey Wardens are functionally, though not literally, immune to the taint. They do not sicken or die from it; they do not become ghouls; they do not spread it. With the arrival of Grey Wardens, the people of Thedas finally had an army that could wade right through the ranks of the darkspawn, and then be capable of doing the same thing again tomorrow. Yes, after thirty years or so that resistance wains ... but for the purposes of stopping an apocalypse that will more than do.

And what are dragons? Dragons are resistant to the taint.

Within the carcass of the Abyssal High Dragon, we found cysts of hardened flesh. Sister Brigette, a scholar from Nevarra, said she had seen, once or twice, similar nodules in other beasts. To protect itself, the body grew a barrier around a foreign object that could not be removed. Naturally, of course, we cut into the cyst. The flesh within was blighted. We immediately examined all other cysts found in the other dragon carcasses. Each time, we found the blight. The only conclusion we can draw is that dragons can stem the spread of the blight within their own bodies. They cannot do this indefinitely, as the existence of Corypheus's dragon suggests, but they are more resistant than other creatures. – War Table: learn more about dragons

Dragons, like Grey Wardens, can be exposed to the taint and live. But, like Grey Wardens, their resistance is not infinite. Archdemons are advanced dragon ghouls, much like Grey Wardens on their Calling can be sophisticated humanoid ghouls.

I recognise that the conventional wisdom on using Archdemon blood is that ordinary darkspawn somehow to not have "enough" taint in them. But if I'm honest, that's never made much sense to me. Westley Vallen declined really fast, from nothing more than an encounter with ordinary darkspawn. And he didn't drink their blood. There just doesn't seem to me to be enough difference there to warrant Archdemon blood for the taint alone.

I would put forward that, while it is important to get a solid dose of taint in the mix in order to connect the Warden to the Blight, the important thing you are taking from the Archdemon blood is their inherent resistance to that taint. An Archdemon is deeply, horribly tainted ... but their bodies are also always fighting to contain it.

I think this is something that the first Grey Wardens probably could have known, or at least guessed. Blood magic experts all round, after all.

Could they have got Archdemon blood? Eh, hard to say. Defeating an Archdemon is no easy task (I mean, okay, except in Veilguard where we took one down in the first engagement ... ), but the war had raged for a century at this point. They must have "killed" Dumat multiple times, and it's not unreasonable to think that samples could have been taken off bloodied weapons. If they didn't have any ... well, they could very well have sent volunteers to get some. The first Grey Wardens pledged to do anything to stop the blight, and if "anything" means "suicide mission to get Archdemon blood" ... well, that's how it goes.

But I wonder if they needed to. That's the thing. It's the First Blight. You've got ... plenty of taint. If that's all you need, well, stick your head out the front door. That crap is everywhere.

What you need is the resistance part of the dragon. So ... does it need to be tainted? In future Blights, the Archdemon is obviously going to be your one-stop-shop for this concoction. Lots of taint, high dragon resistance built in, and you had to kill it anyway, so it's right there. But the first time ... yeah, you either have to scrape some off a sword, or you have to "kill" Dumat again to get it.

I do think the Grey Wardens could have pulled this off on their own: their willingness to go to any extreme to defeat the blight is a hallmark of their order.

But if the question is ... could Mythal, the dragon, the only surviving truly great dragon from the dawn of history, have contributed anything to the creation of the Grey Wardens, as part of her commitment to resist the blight?

Yeah, she could have given them a drop of her blood.

[colormepurplex2]

On Wings of Mist & Memories | JJK

▻ On Wings of Mist & Memories ↳ DragonRider!Jungkook x FieldScribe!f.Reader ⤜ Exiled Royalty, High Fantasy AU ⤜ Enemies to Lovers | Angst, smut, fluff ⤜ Rating: MA ⤜ WC: 39,753 ⤜ Summary: You’re a Psion—disguised Field Scribe—of the Golden Kingdom of Bolas, attached to the Front Wing Infantry. After an ambush from the sky rips down the safe walls around you, you find yourself at the mercy of a brutal man, his dragon, and his shadows. ⚠️ Crass language, combat/violence, minor character deaths, talk of war, brief nudity (nonsexual, mostly), sexual references and feelings, flashback minor character death, mild sexual tension, suggestive inner thoughts, lots of sexual tension, crude banter, fingering, kissing, dirty talk, teasing, shadow penetration/sex (it's exactly what you're probably thinking it is: fun af), lots of praise, sexual pleading/begging, endearingly awkward sexual tension, shameless flirting, oral m. receiving, shadow clit play, nipple pinching/teasing, v. sex, mild cum play & eating, multiple orgasms, sad feelings/thoughts of the future, fighting, mild violence, implied minor character death, minor character terminal sickness that leads to off-page death, talk of forced bonds, heartache, pregnancy, off-page childbirth Each chapter will have specific warnings listed.

Chapter 1: Shadowsword

Chapter 2: Oath Breaker

Chapter 3: Burnished Heart

Part of the Bangtan Writers HQ August 2023 “A Love Like War” Writing Event.

A special thank you to @hisunshiine @downbad4yoongi & @peachiilovesot7 for being the best betas!

Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad

Glossary/Map Mave - dragon rider who can wield magic, tethered to the soul of their dragon when they bond (death for both if one dies) Psion - infinite memory/recall Reaver - a dragon that can wield magic, tethered to the soul of the rider they bond (death for both if one dies) Noks - infantry soldiers, humanoids who can enter berserk/rage mode Rider - regular dragon rider, no magic, uses bows or scouts Brute - riderless dragon, usually wild and very dangerous Wielder - magic user, no dragon needed Signis - the designated/specific type of power someone wields Helnite - metal ore that can cut off magic from its user Golden Blight - incurable blood disease

◅ Back to Main Master List ©️   2023-08  ColorMePurplex2

[fallonturing]

Corypheus never worked for me as a villain, and one of the main reasons is that he talked too much. His pontificating was annoying as hell to me. So I propose: He should have been a silent antagonist. He was the high priest of Dumat, the Old God of Silence, so why does he never shut the fuck up? Shouldn't the high priests of the OLD GOD OF SILENCE like. ritually remove their own tongues or something? Take an oath of silence at the very least?

I genuinely think Corypheus would have worked better as a villain if he was just visibly monstrous, did monstrous things, and never spoke a word himself. MAYBE he could speak by possessing someone. That would have added some extra villainy.

Imagine with me. A Corypheus so utterly taken by the Blight that his face is properly melting off , his vocal cords don't work anymore, and he can't speak. He moves like a corpse and the only thing holding his body together is red lyrium. His power comes from the magic of the blight itself, which not even Grey Wardens fully understand. Corypheus should have felt like he came from Silent Hill.

Also, frankly, in terms of allegory, Corypheus is an ancient DA version of a white supremacist. An ancient immortal-ish Nazi who uses slurs for elves so old that no one else in Tevinter still uses them. It should not have been hard to make that kind of villain scary or even just villainous, but every Corypheus scene falls flat to me. When he was first introduced in DAI, my first playthrough I was like, "Wait, why is that monster from that random DA2 DLC here?" He feels like an annoyance to get past whenever I replay DAI. The big bad is the least engaging part.

But the thing is, I know they CAN write a villain like that and make it engaging because I watched Absolution! I wanted that fucker dead the whole time! Which just makes Corypheus extra disappointing to me in retrospect. He could have been a great villain. But alas,