draustevune

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saelfelgara:

Her name silences. It hits her harder than any Templar has ever dared to hit her ( over the roar of her own rage, as if she needed magic to tear sword from their hand ). Knees are tucked as feet are drawn onto the bed and she sighs. The tone had been rather harsh with them, for they had been in a sleep not unlike uthenera, even though she truly knew it was exhaustion that had taken them far from her. Yet, they are here — magic flooding back between them both. 

“Don’t patronise me. I have a right to be upset.” Words should have been bristly, thorned like the first blossoms to protect them in the wild. Yet, her words are soft, bleeding with concern and the softest sigh as her eyes turn to the displaced wooden manger. “I thought you were gone when the told me the Conclave was ash.”

Anger is a poor tonic. It cauterizes wounds; it does not heal them. A festering sore is all that anger can leave in its wake, if one uses it in an attempt to heal. How do they know? They reach for their ear, scarred and torn, and follow the remains of it with their fingers. What a poor excuse of patience. Their hand drops, a weight upon a string, and the path of its swing reaches towards her. The bed does not complain to the weight of two elves upon it, but they still sit gingerly; the pain is rampent. “I know.”

“I have a right to a moment, as well.” A moment to breathe, to process; a moment to figure out where to bleed out the last bites of Fade out of their vision. To put the boquet aside and leave it safely within their dreams and not endanger the garden they tend while their body rests. Waking demons are as dangerous as the lurking; she knows that as well as they. “I am here. I cannot apologize for what happened, but I can apologize for your fear. You know--” The intent dies, for lingering on mortality is far from a pleasant subject. They brush at her hair, to comfort her, and themself. “I have no plans on leaving you.”

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Perhaps they should have feigned sleep longer. Perhaps they should have stayed in the moment of in-between, where their thoughts were blurred between reality and the Fade. They still smell flowers, a bouquet under their nose, even as the soft buzzing of bees grows volatile. It is poor of them to be angry at her, even in this state, but the prickling of their flowers bothers them; the wakefulness they are burdened with hurts like thorns. “Banon--” They are sitting up, standing up, and watching the elf take an escape from them; it is cutting. “Banon--” She offers no break, no lull, and the buzz sits deafening between their ears. “Sael’falgara.” She hissed, so they hiss in return.

“Let me breathe, and I may have an answer.”

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“So it is true.” They wake, and she is waiting — ever steadfast by their side. Oh — she had promised to not linger too far, so they could both see what the Conclave would bring, and now! Now, now there was a greater divide between the both of them a title and an inquisition. She stays at the end of their bed as the young servant skitters out of the room leaving a mess in her wake. Banon barely gives Vin time to wake before her questioning begins. “You — they’ve given you a title, a new name. The Herald of Andraste — Andraste’esem.”

It comes off as a hiss – “What happened to you?”

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The Anchor

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The beast

a speedpaint video of this will be available on my Patreon on september 1st! 😊

[draustevune]

fentelam:

It only takes a few strides to bridge the gap between them and him. Words, an almost excuse dare to bubble over, but they are swallowed back down for another time. His delay had in fact been because of an old friend. However — that was neither here nor there. This time had been set aside for them and not the spirit in question. Dreads slide over his shoulder when his head quirks at the very question he had anticipated. 

“Ah — yes, an old friend, he was interested in why I had not come to walk with his party in some time — for you have seemed to eke into every crevice of my life.” It’s teasing for his head drops towards Vin’s — his Inquisitor ( this affair should not begin, it was risky — it was not what he had planned and yet ). The smell of the sea wafts in with the wind, a gentle breeze and he is fervid to begin this walk. A newfound zeal overtaking him at the very notion of spending this small amount of time with Vin — knowing full well it could, in fact, be without interruption and that alone is as enticing as walking through any historical memory —–

As enticing as pilfering through his own codex of memories for fairer skies and happier moments.

“You have my undivided attention — lead, and I shall follow.”

He takes distance and destroys it, the current parting for a moment as the predator comes near. They wait, patient, and the ripples bounce off of them harmlessly. He was not a shark, coming after drops of blood in the water, and they were not a floundering fish. Fish though... perhaps they should think of fish. Their memories supply the unfiltered ( for once clear and crisp ) noises of birds calling, staking claim to this and that, as the tide sighs over familiar squabbles. The rush of waves bring a rush of salt to the air, water slapping against sand, and their curving smile has a salt like sharpness to it. It is not a terrible sharpness.

A hand darts forward, like a mischievous bird, and catches him. The slope of his jaw traced with the soft stroke of their full hand; the tips of their fingers trailing down into his dreads. How he jokes when there is truly no joke ( they relish in being selfish, just this once; oh goodness just this once ). “I would be ashamed-- if you were upset.” He’s not upset; they’re not ashamed. Their smile wanes softly, settling into the lull of the dream, even as it changes. He asks them to lead and so they shall.

“When the last time you saw a estuary?” The question is flanked with sudden voices, the shriek of happy children, and the smell of Halla. He asks them to lead and they take him back with them; back to a time they were happy.

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living hasn’t been particularly easy after graduating, but I’m hanging in there trying to deal with these headaches by keeping occupied

drawing more fen’harel in the fade

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More of this guy because -reasons-. I have so much sketching to do today!

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egg per request

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Dance at the Maker’s Feet

A small piece of work I made during pauses between E3 conferences, waiting for DA4 announce.

And still there was none. Bioware, this is unfair and the purest suffering.

P.S. too hyped for Fen ”The Big Bad Wolf” Harel boss fight in front of Golden/Black City gates, ohh yeaahh

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I wish it could, Vhenan

it took me three days of staring at sai blankly while I waited for inspiration to come back 

I haven’t touched my tablet for months *cries*

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Trying to pull an all dayer to reset my body clock so doodled via pencil whilst waiting for DA: O to download. 

Might digitalize it later when brain work better

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fentelam:

He’s late. 

This truly was not his intention, for the Inquisitor, his Inquisitor, is not someone the apostate wants to keep waiting. So he moves through the moors, like a spectre on the vast dark fields. Delays follow, a spirit he once knew calls out to him — speaking a name he’s abandoned. The name is lost upon him, causing the elf to knit his brow and offer for this spirit and he to converse later. For he is late, and the metaphorical earth has begun to shift below him.

Dreams were always meant to be nonlinear, to simply ebb into another and flow like the great rivers of time that carved through the caverns of time and created the great spires that reached towards the heavens. The mist and moors turn to stone and shell — a beach? How — curious, Vin did not strike him as the type. There is a sway in the distance, a form ahead and Solas pushes forward, and through the rising tide as he emerges. 

“My apologies, I did not mean to be detained.” 

There is no irritation here, except perhaps that they don’t remember the taste of salty air just quite right, or the noises seem too much ( too loud, too real ) compared to what they know they once heard. This is not the Storm Coast; there is no permanent drizzle or raging sea. The swell of the ocean upon the coast is softer, kinder, and evidently? It bares gifts as well. A shadow crosses the sun does not exist; a shiver that stems not from cold dares to worm against them. They are hardly so bothered any longer.

A path is made only with thought, which means the path that forms before him is purposeful. The way is swayed gently, winding with thoughts that did not quite have form, but influence all the same. It’s an invitation. The path leads straight to them, though they do not stop. Distance does not matter so much if there is intent. “Detained?” The word travels, riding the sounds of the environment; unyielding to the ambiance around them. “Did you meet a friend?” Or perhaps something else-- yet he seems unharmed. The thought is strong though, narrowing the world down a moment as they pause. The path is clear of debris, losing its bend and meander, and they wait for him.

They once had been told only fools wait for wolves to catch them; hardly.

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Dinan'shiral

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A dragon will hoard it’s treasure and protect it mercilessly, what difference is a wolf with it’s power?

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↳ Dragon Age: Inquisition scenery [4/∞]

[draustevune]

Fen’Harel was the hottest Evanuris pass it on