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Rook was chill. A rare and welcome surprise that was self-evident enough when he didn't immediately try to kill him upon learning what he was. It was a relief, honestly. An immediate confrontation with Rook would have made his goals that much messier.

Unfortunately, Rook was more or less alone in his chillness. His other companions each seemed, to varying degrees, ill at ease around him.

His attention fell to his stack of tomes. "Grimoires, mostly. And a few cursed works I'm fond of." He said casually, stepping toward them.

A couple of the books had visible titles on the spines.

Worm Blood. Hemogothica. The Third Vein.

He reached for an untitled book on the top of the stack. As it rose, a faint shadow bled from its pages, trailing it, like a smoky, languid tail.

"This one is an original. A memoir written by a recluse who called himself Lord Loss. In it, he describes being hunted by an entity he named The Lower Witness. A parasite of the mind. Though he could not see it, it fed on his thoughts, and warped them against himself." He extended the ancient-looking leatherbound book to Rook, shadows crowding around their hands as he handed it off.

"You can borrow it, if you like. It is fascinating, following his descent by each chapter. Just be sure to stop before the final chapter." He gave Rook a slight, knowing smile.

"Or if your eyes begin to bleed. Whichever comes first."

Rook gave a laugh as Nethra commented on the state of his staff. Most of what he owned had been repaired or patched up in some way. He was loathe to let something go that still had use, a habit from his Dalish heritage and then the years traveling Arlathan Forest alone. "My staff still functions perfectly well, thank you," he replied in mock hurt. "We've been through some hard times together, both got some wear and tear."

His eyes returned to sweeping over the items Nethra had unpacked. Rook could feel the blood magic around some of the items, the sensation similar to a pressure change right before a storm surrounding those touched by magic. There was the vague taste of iron in his mouth, magical awareness more linked to his senses than anything else.

"I wouldn't say it looks threatening. I'm not as squeamish about blood magic as others are, just don't feel that it's for me. So long as the mage is using their own blood, or that of a combatant actively engaging them, I'm chill. Magic is magic, it's the person wielding it that can be the issue."

A pause. "Hm, what books do you have? I've never been able to read many until the Veil Jumpers got a library, and even then I was away too much to really take advantage of it."

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"There are days now where I forget to miss it," Felassan admits, wearily. "Then I miss it more. " he sighed again as he turned down a narrow game trail, parting the underbrush with his steps onto moss-padded ground. There was a visible ring of sleeplessness around his eyes that ironically only felt heavier as the waning daylight pressed upon them.

He had been sleeping, but not well. His dreams were restless, often spent searching for Solas, though mostly for Rook's benefit. Felassan had stopped truly searching decades ago.

Until he'd found Solas' physical form in uthenera. Then his search began anew.

It was futile, he knew it, but he couldn't guarantee it. There was always a chance, however slim, that Solas could find himself in the surface Fade again. Doubt, instead of faith, kept him watchful and tethered.

"You're not eating enough." He said matter-of-factly. "We'll eat well before we rest tonight." He gave Rook a sideways glance before adding. "A bath would likely not kill us either."

As Felassan took a moment to strengthen the wards, Rook approached the barrier that kept the both of them from Solas. He knelt down, pressing a hand and his forehead against it before he whispered a few quiet words to his slumbering love. Already the ache in his chest was growing stronger, threatening to swallow Rook whole. He stood, gaze returning to Felassan, deep breath taken in and out as he let his dear friends presence steel his fractured nerves.

Rook caught up to walk beside Felassan, taking one of his arms in his own, leaning ever so slightly into the other. He squinted as they emerged into the outside world, eyes needing a moment to adjust as he took in a long breath of the fresh air. A series of caws reminded Rook that even without he or Felassan there Solas was still under the watchful eye of several of Rook's corvid friends. Three sat perched together, feathers fluffed to ward against the cold air.

"Thank you, friends." Rook called out to the corvids, earning a few reply calls in response. One of them left the perch to follow Rook and Felassan, a raven that would be familiar to Felassan as it often followed the elvhen where ever he went. It landed on Rooks shoulder, huddled close to his neck.

It truly was a strange new world they had found themselves in now. Even the air itself was different. Rook had always been uniquely attuned to magic and the Fade, the Veil's presence similar to the hollow feeling inside his very soul that grew with each step he took from Solas. He felt sick, wrong.

"I didn't think I could miss the Fade more but here we are." Rook spoke quietly. He had taken elvhen form like Felassan to follow Solas. It wasn't a decision he regretted, it was likely inevitable that the curious once-spirit would have chosen to do so without Solas' influence. Yet while Rook hadn't missed it as sorely as Solas, without its constant presence he was all too aware just how comforting it had been.

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(TES V: Skyrim, PC screenshot)

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God is telling me I need a fandomless oc

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He raised a brow at Anarchy. That answer was certainly more colorful than expected. But then, he hadn't particularly expected anything positive either. Still, 'bitch' seemed especially blunt. What he did know of Mythal was a mixed and murky review at best. She had ruled, protected, and owned slaves. That last part alone made Anarchy's loathing understandable. But this... sounded personal.

He opened his mouth only to promptly shut it again as he more carefully considered his words.

"I don't know what Solas can hear, actually." he admitted. "Sometimes it's like he already knows what I'm seeing. Other times, he presses for details." He shifted hesitantly, before continuing.

"But she can't have been everything. In the murals, in his regrets, he turned on her, despite whatever else she meant to him. So, what was it that was worth more to him than her? And what else fuels your hate for her? Besides the obvious, I mean."

Anarchy could not help the way his body flinched at the mere mention of her name, eyes closing as he looked away from Melchior. It took him a good few moments to process the rush of emotions that nearly overwhelmed him, a few stray sparks of his lightning skittering up Anarchy's arms that he shook off harmlessly as his eyes opened.

"Mythal... I guess before I answer I need to know just how much Solas is aware of while we talk. Can he hear everything?" Anarchy asked, head tilted to the side. He knew Solas would not be happy in the least if he divulged all he knew about the fellow elvhen's relationship with Mythal; which honestly he was struggling to care about in this moment.

"Actually, fuck it. Mythal's a bitch." Anarchy spat the words out, letting his venom come to the surface. "She is everything to him. Everything he does, it always comes back to her in some way, shape or form. He'd burn the world down if she asked, probably is right now without it. She was the best of the Evanuris but still it was never enough for me. I could tolerate her when she was just General during the wars but the moment she accepted the position of Goddess... All bets were off."

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"Is your ignorance in earnest or do you simply perform it for my company?" This exchange, like so many before it, sagged into futility. And worse than futile, it inspired despair. He had said already, and meant it, that Rook was not expected to understand.

But he had not quite accounted for the depth of misunderstanding. The fate of the world, he reminded himself grimly, was in this man's incapable hands. So far he'd come, so much work, so much loss... only to get here with him. Beyond anything he'd faced before, he was certain his greatest challenge was standing right in front of him.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to take a few deep breaths. Volatility served nothing. And here in his prison, the Fade enforced its petty constraints. He could not kill Rook no matter how viciously the thought teased him.

"You may be content to sit and wait for nothing to change," he began again, opening his eyes once more. "But I am not. Nor are those who suffer behind my Veil. The world has bore this scar too long already. I will not prolong suffering simply because it is more palatable. That is cruelty, not mercy. And Rook," his voice was tight and thin with strained civility. "It is my Veil. I created it. There is no one alive who could even hope to know it more than I." Nevermind that among his agents, there very much were people, mortals, who had helped him study it in the years since the Inquisition. But that was besides the point.

"You presume to know how I see your people. How I see my own. So clearly passionate are you for your beliefs. Yet you conflate that passion for clarity and your volume for insight. On every point you make, logic fails you. Truth evades you. Wisdom limps behind you. More so even than I had initially anticipated. It would be impressive, were it not so dismal." He raised a hand as if to pre-emptively cut off any retort.

"I admit," he continued without heat, fatigue left in place. "I had hoped, after some of our conversations, that you might grasp... something of my position. My own foolish desire to be understood. It is clear to me now that was a mistake, and I apologize for misjudging you. I will waste no more of your time with my attempts to explain myself. War lies ahead of you with Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain. Your attention, and anger, are best served there. To that end, I remain, as I have, at your disposal."

"You do not fight for the elvhen, and only consider those today your people when it benefits you. You've made that clear multiple times through your language. Just as you watch and listen to me, I do the same to you. Even if I believed you, bringing down the Veil will kill a hell of a lot of the People. Not to mention humans, dwarves and qunari as well; spirits who become crazed. The world has changed, Solas. It doesn't belong to the elves, it never did. It is shared. And quite frankly you do have a choice, don't take the Veil down, not in the way you are. Not when the cost is so high."

Rook ran a hand through his hair in frustration, untying his braid so he could rebraid it, needing to fiddle with something to help ease his anxiety. It didn't feel great to be arguing with Solas again, but it was inevitable. Unrelenting force meet immovable object.

"You're immortal, Solas. I don't give a fuck if it will take you another thousand years to figure out something else, you do it. I bet you haven’t even expanded your circle far to find experts alive now. Those who have been researching the Veil in its current state. You barely see those alive today as people after all."

His eyes narrowed at the elvhen across from him, hands gripping the edge of the canyon tight enough that his knuckles were beginning to go white. Rook had to look away, shaking his head as he took a slow breath in and out. Just as Solas was passionate, Rook was equally so, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension; a stray little skitter of lightning dancing across his torso. He looked back, still guarded in expression.

"The sacrifice you speak of bearing is not yours, it's everyone out there who will die because you've lost hope. Your guilt at being the killer is just that, guilt, not some sort of noble sacrifice for you to look ashamed about and flash those puppy dog eyes after. I'm not saying everything that you have had to do wasn't the only option, I'm saying this time it isn't. You still have time."

A pause. "And maybe, just maybe, as the one who wounded the world it isn't your place to fix it. The Evanuris needed to be stopped certainly, Veil might not have been the best outcome but you did save the world. Don't destroy it in the end."

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"From Solas..." he echoed dryly, shaking his head. Rook spoke his name as if it meant something to him. But whatever image he had conjured came from Varric's stories, and Varric never knew him either. No one had.

"It is not a mask when I bare my teeth. Nor is it simply circumstance that divides us. Though, I grant, that is the more obvious chasm." The meta-literal chasm the Fade provided between them proved as much. But despite the circumstance, he doubted he would've otherwise found Rook as someone to place his trust in.

He supposed, at least, he could trust in Rook's hatred of the Evanuris. Not it even mattered; he had no choice.

"Still," He added, flourishing his hand in a vague, open gesture. "You want an audience? You have it infinitely. So ask whatever you like."

"No, not from the Dread Wolf. From Solas." Rook replied easily with a small smile. "Not that I don't appreciate all facets of your personhood. I just find the moments where Fen'harel slips away, when you drop one of your many masks, to be... Hm, it's difficult to explain exactly. There are just moments between us that feel lighter than others. When both of us don't have our hackles raised and teeth bared."

There it was. That painful honesty that seemed easy for Rook at times. He spoke what was on his mind, for good or ill. He looked thoughtful at Solas' posed train of thought, head tilted to the side akin to a curious puppy.

"Hm. I think we both know I've got the more obstacled path." He spoke with a smile. "I know I'm a bleeding heart. Honestly all that matters to me right now is that I trust you want Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain dead. Past that, well things get messy and since there could be no true trust between us the idea of your loyalty is purely hypothetical. In short, circumstance is a bitch."

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"No? Hindsight makes for a foolish prophet." Nethra remarked, sucking his cheeks in and biting back any sharper tell of discomfort.

"You can claim all you'd like that you are so above it all, but perhaps all that spared you was luck and circumstance. I cannot say whether Fen'Harel might have swayed me had I not been made to serve under the Evanuris. But neither can you say the opposite. Anarchy has never been monolithic. Some of Spirits of your same cut did stand with the gods, few though they were. Regardless. A lot has changed. We've lost so much... Some more than others..." At the threshold of his chamber, Nethra pushed open the door and gestured him in with a loose wave of his arm.

"Nahash misses you. And I have whiskey."

Languidly, he crossed the room toward a nightstand, lifting a stopper from a bottle on a silver tray. He poured a glass and offered it to Anarchy.

"Past the ruins of our civilization, beyond our culture and our sense of belonging... we have lost. You know what I've lost. The doctrine with which I made sense of everything...So, what about you, Anarchy? What else have you lost? Don't make me mourn alone."

"Ir abelas, Nethra." Anarchy replied as he followed along. "Different connotations when either of us are called by our spirit title. Found it easier to go by Anarchy here, considering the honestly amusing fact that Varric dubbed Melchior to be Rook as well."

The storyteller had only known him as Anarchy so it was just pure coincidence that Solas was now trapped connected only to someone else named Rook. A sweet and painful irony.

"Temptation is in a lot of aspects of life. Some good, some bad. But you are probably right that it was circumstance that led us to be on opposing sides, somewhat. If you had met Solas first do you think you would have been swayed by his vision of the world and the Evanuris? I certainly would not have for any of them."

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saw this post and now im thinking about porn in ancient Elvhenan

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"lock in, vhenan."

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"Felassan." He answered, voice smooth and easy as he leaned against a nearby tree. His eyes flickered over them with idle interest, observing more than he let on. "I am... from too many forests with too many names to keep track of, at this point. Intentionally vague, vaguely true. He could have lied better.

He had a decent tale tucked somewhere in his back pocket that he'd stuck to more faithfully in the past, but these days it hardly felt worth the effort. Let them guess. Mystery suited him. The Vallaslin on his face drew its own conclusions from most people, anyway. It saved him the trouble to be assumed Dalish, and typically he found that people were inclined fill in the gaps with something easy to believe.

"I like to keep moving, before the trees get too restless." He offered with a shrug, as though that settled it.

Then, with a grace that bordered on theatrical, but was still very much earnest, he dipped his head in a bow toward the wolf, minding his manners. "A pleasure, truly. Not every day you see a pair like the two of you. Admittedly you've got me curious," his gaze lifted back toward Muirwen.

"How did such a thing come to be?"

Alasfen sets the pace, as usual, Muirwen following along behind her wolf companion until they come to the edge of the lakeshore — an outcropping of rocks providing a perfect place for them both to sit and take in the view of Arlathan across the way. It is rare that she has a day to herself, at least for the most part, only needing to patrol the woods around the Veil Jumper camp to make sure no threats are in the area. Venatori in the region has them all a little on edge, even if Muirwen took it upon herself to wipe out a small group of them the day before. "Injustice will ever be answered with justice," echoes a voice inside her mind that is not her own, that of the spirit instead; what she'd done was just. It was necessary to protect the elves, their people, and if she just so happens to get a little bit of pleasure from slaying magisters? So be it. Thus she's not expecting anyone at all to come along and interrupt this brief moment of downtime, not until she hears Felassan's voice from behind her and her head turns sharply to observe him. He's certainly something of a mystery, yet there's also a touch of recognition she feels at seeing him that must not be her own. His translations he's done for them so far were so effortless it gave Muirwen pause, however no matter where he's from any aid for the Veil Jumpers is certainly welcome by them. "Strife thinks I can't do a patrol on my own now?" she finally speaks, brows furrowing as she lets out a sigh. "He's never going to let that one incident go, Mythal'enaste..." The wolf looks up toward the other elf, seeming to sense that he means no harm before he stretches out beside his mistress. "Well, you may join us if you really have nothing better that you could be doing. I don't think I've caught your name, just that you're new. I am Muirwen, and this is Alasfen," she introduces them both. "What should I call you? Are you from these forests or lands elsewhere?"

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me making my oc a worse person

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im gonna reply to something 😌

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having blood on the face will make anyone hot

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@bloodlaurel liked the one-liner sc. for Evune'lia

“By all means, ignore wise counsel. It has served you so well in the past.”

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@scvcnofswords liked the one-liner sc.

"To be honest, I am surprised she agreed. How did you pitch aiding my efforts to Harding that saw your success?"

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@todrawblood liked the one-liner.

"Your naiveté is almost poetic. By all means, continue your verse."