fiorilavellan

[fiorilavellan]

Ambivalence was not what she had expected. What sort of leader wavered in front of a prisoner of war? Certainly not the kind she had grown up with, in the gruesome fables and cautionary stories told around the fireside. Not all of those tales had been told by overeager hunters to frighten children; there were many told by her Keeper and the elders as a didactic conversation. What would you do in this situation? Why do you think the Dread Wolf acted as he did? Is it simple malice, or was there a greater purpose? The first lesson: There was always a greater purpose. To assume otherwise was to leave yourself open to deceit. Even if he was genuinely at a loss, she couldn't afford to trust him. But for the first time in her life, she had no greater cause to play for. For the first time, she didn't have to play the game. It was a feeling like relief. 'Your agents chose not to take my head off when my treachery was discovered. That was a kindness.' She refuted him smoothly. 'And you've been a gracious host. But if you were hoping for information, I'm afraid you'll find me sorely out of date.'

Uncomfortable with standing, she sat down on the ornate stone bench.

'The Nightingale ensured that I would know nothing in the event I was captured. Anything I could tell you now would only be current to the time I joined your organisation.' She made herself meet his gaze. 'If we both agree that I make a poor spy, why would you think I would have anything valuable to offer? I don't know Leliana very well, but I think she's more clever than either of us.' The nerves came in waves. Despite herself, she was falling into the rhythm of conversation. Every so often some little movement, some tell of his, would remind her of who she was speaking to. But it was such a normal negotiation it was difficult not to feel left-footed. 'The last I knew, the Inquisition was researching that mirror they came across in the Wilds. They asked me if I had any knowledge of them, and I said no. Given the Inquisitor's character, I think we can expect he won't stick with anything for long if he doesn't see results.'

Without her magic, there was no way for her to channel her nerves. She picked at the cuffs at her wrists, though they were too light to be forming any welts. Without a chain linking them, they didn't even restrict her movement. It was unsettlingly easy to forget.

'That's it. Even if I could tell you troop movements, they would be months stale. You know what I studied: I can't match up to you as a mage. What else is there?' Her tone took on a vicious edge. 'Stories? You know them better than I do. And I don't like the idea of playing around for your interest while you decide an execution date, so if there's nothing else?'

@fadewalking

The laughter, she expected. What was not expected was the way he laughed: as if it took him by surprise. It simply came from him in a short, staticky burst, though it was quickly hidden. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of feeling there, something like embarrassment. For what? Laughing at her laughable bluster? She had expected coldness, or glassy, aristocratic disdain, or simple indifference. At the least she expected mockery for her petty attempt. Fiori hadn't expected anything close to normal, and that sparked her interest. And where that curiosity flared, the fear faded a little, despite her better judgement. Despite her knowing it was all part of some larger gambit. Though when she saw him visibly relax the hard line of his shoulders, the crease between his brows vanishing, making his eyes seem a lighter hue - the fear came flooding back. It was in that instant she became aware of her own wariness fading, the instinctive dissolution of tension that came from thinking the lion had left the room. It was a wolf making himself look small, so he might pass unnoticed in the warrens, forgetting the sharp ears of the watchful birds.

But just because she heard the wolf in the underbrush didn't mean she knew which path he was taking. There were so many possibilities it was difficult to glean exactly what, specifically, he was aiming for. That he continued to speak as if he knew her was baffling. He could hardly have spent the resources it would take to look into every single connection to the Inquisition, given the sheer scale of the organisation. Why then? Because she was elven? Was he making a judgement call based on her appearance alone? Her field of expertise? It seemed awfully risky. She kept her silence, looking for tells, for some thread she could pull. But it was the last bit, about how to 'handle' her, that sparked her temper. Normally, it wouldn't have. But there was something about how he phrased it, as if… 'So your momentary interest has saved my life, has it?' There was nothing in her voice to suggest anger, or even sarcasm. Sometimes a light, amiable tone was all the more withering for its inconsistency.

Fiori was angry. But it was a familiar sort of anger, and therefore easier to conceal. Dance for my amusement, and perhaps I'll grant you a moment longer. Time, resources, and sometimes her life. She was always playing for something, with the weight of a person's indifference and superiority stacked only against her wits. That he would be one of them stung somehow. The same behaviour from a should-be god, from someone who claimed to be on her side.

'What will it be then? Information? A lively debate on the merits of my people, against yours?' She laughed, and it was brittle and breathy, from the fear still squeezing her lungs. 'What would it take to interest you?'

[fiorilavellan]

@fadewalking

The laughter, she expected. What was not expected was the way he laughed: as if it took him by surprise. It simply came from him in a short, staticky burst, though it was quickly hidden. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of feeling there, something like embarrassment. For what? Laughing at her laughable bluster? She had expected coldness, or glassy, aristocratic disdain, or simple indifference. At the least she expected mockery for her petty attempt. Fiori hadn't expected anything close to normal, and that sparked her interest. And where that curiosity flared, the fear faded a little, despite her better judgement. Despite her knowing it was all part of some larger gambit. Though when she saw him visibly relax the hard line of his shoulders, the crease between his brows vanishing, making his eyes seem a lighter hue - the fear came flooding back. It was in that instant she became aware of her own wariness fading, the instinctive dissolution of tension that came from thinking the lion had left the room. It was a wolf making himself look small, so he might pass unnoticed in the warrens, forgetting the sharp ears of the watchful birds.

But just because she heard the wolf in the underbrush didn't mean she knew which path he was taking. There were so many possibilities it was difficult to glean exactly what, specifically, he was aiming for. That he continued to speak as if he knew her was baffling. He could hardly have spent the resources it would take to look into every single connection to the Inquisition, given the sheer scale of the organisation. Why then? Because she was elven? Was he making a judgement call based on her appearance alone? Her field of expertise? It seemed awfully risky. She kept her silence, looking for tells, for some thread she could pull. But it was the last bit, about how to 'handle' her, that sparked her temper. Normally, it wouldn't have. But there was something about how he phrased it, as if… 'So your momentary interest has saved my life, has it?' There was nothing in her voice to suggest anger, or even sarcasm. Sometimes a light, amiable tone was all the more withering for its inconsistency.

Fiori was angry. But it was a familiar sort of anger, and therefore easier to conceal. Dance for my amusement, and perhaps I'll grant you a moment longer. Time, resources, and sometimes her life. She was always playing for something, with the weight of a person's indifference and superiority stacked only against her wits. That he would be one of them stung somehow. The same behaviour from a should-be god, from someone who claimed to be on her side.

'What will it be then? Information? A lively debate on the merits of my people, against yours?' She laughed, and it was brittle and breathy, from the fear still squeezing her lungs. 'What would it take to interest you?'

[fiorilavellan]

After the first day or so, Fiori found that as her anxiety faded, her greatest obstacle was simply boredom. The Inquisition had initially held her captive for a few sparse hours, soldiers pacing in their armour, metal beating on metal, in a crude attempt at intimidation while they waited for the Herald to arrive from a far-flung corner of the region. But sitting in the middle of the wilds, by a campfire, watching people come and go, had been infinitely more interesting than staring at the ornately wrought ceiling.

Immortality must give someone a lot of time, she thought, if even their dungeons are gorgeous. Then came the sharp, aching pang, when she thought of the reality of Arlathan. Of the slaves that must have carved these walls. The constant reminder that everything she had ever been told, the things her elders painted in the air, the tales sung into stories and lullabies which hung in the air like campfire smoke ever since she was little�� It wasn't magic at all. It was just more pain. Another Tevinter. Another slave empire.

It was a wonder she had never put the pieces together herself. Fiori had thought herself immune to the romanticisation of Arlathan so many of her people fell into. Her failure of imagination was almost more painful than the lesson itself. It made her feel like the foolish child she sometimes feared she was, even approaching her third decade.

A sound outside in the corridor brought her to her feet. A quick glance outside told her it was early morning, before she remembered the false window. How even time was an illusion, here. There was a soft rushing sound as the brazier lit up, not with ordinarily fire, but the eerie green kind all the mages of the Inquisition quickly learned to conjure when exploring old ruins. She had a brief moment to wonder at the choice, and then-

Later, she would marvel that she had not prepared herself for the possibility. But in the moment her mind was a screaming void of empty, vicious chaos. Her pulse began to pound, roaring in her ears until there was nothing else she could hear. Her heart was kicking itself into overdrive trying to give her the power to fight or flee. There was nowhere to run to. Just walls, the empty space between them, between her and-

He was only a man. Only a man. But she remembered the stories told to her when she was a child, by the hunters new to their bows looking to flaunt their power and freedom by terrorising the children with stories of the Dread Wolf. He eats the hearts of those he catches. Red and raw. Plucks it right out from beneath your white ribs. Better ran fast, little one. Her Keeper had put a stop to those particular stories. But it had always haunted her, and even as an adult she had never quite gotten over her fear of wolves. When they howled at night, she had to stuff her ears with cotton, or share a bed with someone who had similar nightmares. Away from her clan had been the hardest, when there were only humans and no one who understood her instinctive flinch. Fiori had long ago learned to freeze her expressions, to not give herself away when caught out. So she didn't scream or cry. But she couldn't hide the way her eyes widened, or the way her blood drained, her lungs froze to avoid hyperventilating. Her spinning mind tried to grasp at something.

He knows my name. That nearly sent her into another spiral, but she pulled air into her lungs, blinked away the spots dancing at the edge of her vision, and kicked her miserably gibbering animal brain into high gear. Knowing her name didn't mean anything, and his familiar comment was a tactic she might have used, if their positions were reversed. An attempt at conversation, a comment that invited an answer without his having to exert any force. She might agree or disagree, but the way in which she did so would probably tell him a lot. Ordinary, mortal tactics. So far, so simple. The knowledge let her breathe easier. I can do this. Fiori straightened her spine, and made herself look at him. Not at the armour, the impressive regalia that he wore like a second skin, that exuded power and pride. At his face, the features she had never been close enough to really see, and tried to place him in those threadbare tunics and leggings he had worn. Reduce him back down to the arrogant scholar everyone complained about. Her imagination failed her. It seemed impossible he could have been anything else. But at least she wasn't darting her eyes about like a frightened animal. What 'Dread Wolf' - Everything we thought we knew was another lie. And that anger, that rage at being taken for a fool, at her people having fought and died for a dream that had never existed, that got her her voice back. He's not a god. He's just a fucking man. And she'd helped fight men who would be gods before.

'I wouldn't have chosen me, either. But you know the Inquisitor.' Arrogant, prideful, clever, reckless, ignorant, stupid. She would let him fill in the blanks where he wished. She could play familiar, too, even if her voice still slightly shook. Her hands too, which she kept hidden away, pretending she was mirroring his posture. 'I wouldn't have expected Fen'harel to take the time to see one wayward spy. Do I frighten you that badly?' The attempt at bluster, at humour, made her want to scream. At herself, for still talking, fighting against the urge to shut up forever. At him, for frightening her so badly just by standing there. At the Inquisitor, for having done this. And herself again, for not being better. You always were a gods damned coward.

@fadewalking

Fiori was a scholar. She had spent her life chasing the threads of old magic, spells woven so deeply they still left echoes in the world long after their empire had fallen. Once they were poets, warriors and kings. Even reduced, they had history and culture to be proud of. What they had kept may only have been a fragment of a splinter of what was, but even those splinters shone so brightly it was hard not to dream of what the whole might have been.

The Inquisition had given her resources she had never imagined. Old texts, stories and songs from around the continent in so many languages it made her head spin. Old spells, magical constructs, ruins so old it was a wonder they didn’t crumble at the touch. Places where their people had once walked, protected for once, for careful study. Artefacts left in place rather than plundered, so they could be understood. She had learned a lot during those years, and even if she had rarely contributed anything of value, the Inquisitor had barely noticed such a tiny drain on their resources. 

That had ended when the Dread Wolf had revealed himself. Suddenly she was noticed, as an elf who specialised in old stories and songs, how they connected to history. She had been made to explain, over and over, the significance of the tales, why Fen’harel was feared, why the Dalish spent their lives guarding against his influences. And then she was sent to spy on him. It was ridiculous. A waste of resources and time. She knew how to play the Game as well as any other elf in even the smallest position of power, had played it well during her time in the Inquisition in order to secure resources for her clan and passage for her people. But she wasn’t any good at hiding who she was, or sneaking around, or sending secret messages. It was absolutely no surprise at all that she had been caught.

Fiori remembered very little about the reclusive scholar of the Inquisition, might have heard his voice in the distance, or perhaps replied to a note. In fact she was sure, now, that he had once asked her for a particular volume on star charts, written by sailors from Tevinter. 

She couldn’t remember anything he had written or what she had said in reply, but in retrospect it chilled her, to know she had been that close. The Inquisition had told her what they knew about him, but there wasn’t much to go on. A long-ruined home, something of a sweet tooth but a distaste for tea, esoteric knowledge of the Fade and spirits. How had they missed such obvious holes?

Leliana had worked carefully to insert her into Solas’ rebel army. They both knew she would likely fail, the Nightingale had pleaded her case to the Inquisitor, to no avail. She was unknown to Solas, despite crossovers in their field of work. She was an elf with strong ties to her culture, and she was something of a rebel herself, so they should have a lot in common. She was beginning to regret lying about the hair thing. Clan Lavellan was known for dyes and weaving, and blue was a common choice for hair in her family. But humans always liked a rebel rather than an elf too devoted to their culture, and it had smoothed the way to say she was on bad terms with her Keeper. The Keeper who had taught her the spell for colouring her hair in the first place. That spell was the only one on her when they put the shackles around her wrists. It kept crackling and fading, so that she looked like she had fallen into the dye vat for the first few hours until the shackles finally cut off her magic entirely. Clever really, to have a visual indication of a prisoner’s mana reserves. Now her hair was its natural wheat blonde, in long waves down her back where it had broken free of its braid. The shackles were lighter than those the Chantry used; more like glowing bracelets. They left her hands free in the hours she was left alone in her cell. There was a window high up on the wall, and she had latched her fingers onto the sill and hauled herself up for a look only to discover it was magic. There was a view, but it changed hour by hour. It was a pity she had nothing to stand on to watch it go by. She was expecting execution. She had already confessed exactly who she was. Fiori couldn’t stand pain, and owed the Inquisition nothing for putting her here. It was only a shame their only spy was so damned inept, it really didn’t bode well for the world. 

[fiorilavellan]

@fadewalking

Fiori was a scholar. She had spent her life chasing the threads of old magic, spells woven so deeply they still left echoes in the world long after their empire had fallen. Once they were poets, warriors and kings. Even reduced, they had history and culture to be proud of. What they had kept may only have been a fragment of a splinter of what was, but even those splinters shone so brightly it was hard not to dream of what the whole might have been.

The Inquisition had given her resources she had never imagined. Old texts, stories and songs from around the continent in so many languages it made her head spin. Old spells, magical constructs, ruins so old it was a wonder they didn’t crumble at the touch. Places where their people had once walked, protected for once, for careful study. Artefacts left in place rather than plundered, so they could be understood. She had learned a lot during those years, and even if she had rarely contributed anything of value, the Inquisitor had barely noticed such a tiny drain on their resources. 

That had ended when the Dread Wolf had revealed himself. Suddenly she was noticed, as an elf who specialised in old stories and songs, how they connected to history. She had been made to explain, over and over, the significance of the tales, why Fen’harel was feared, why the Dalish spent their lives guarding against his influences. And then she was sent to spy on him. It was ridiculous. A waste of resources and time. She knew how to play the Game as well as any other elf in even the smallest position of power, had played it well during her time in the Inquisition in order to secure resources for her clan and passage for her people. But she wasn’t any good at hiding who she was, or sneaking around, or sending secret messages. It was absolutely no surprise at all that she had been caught.

Fiori remembered very little about the reclusive scholar of the Inquisition, might have heard his voice in the distance, or perhaps replied to a note. In fact she was sure, now, that he had once asked her for a particular volume on star charts, written by sailors from Tevinter. 

She couldn’t remember anything he had written or what she had said in reply, but in retrospect it chilled her, to know she had been that close. The Inquisition had told her what they knew about him, but there wasn’t much to go on. A long-ruined home, something of a sweet tooth but a distaste for tea, esoteric knowledge of the Fade and spirits. How had they missed such obvious holes?

Leliana had worked carefully to insert her into Solas’ rebel army. They both knew she would likely fail, the Nightingale had pleaded her case to the Inquisitor, to no avail. She was unknown to Solas, despite crossovers in their field of work. She was an elf with strong ties to her culture, and she was something of a rebel herself, so they should have a lot in common. She was beginning to regret lying about the hair thing. Clan Lavellan was known for dyes and weaving, and blue was a common choice for hair in her family. But humans always liked a rebel rather than an elf too devoted to their culture, and it had smoothed the way to say she was on bad terms with her Keeper. The Keeper who had taught her the spell for colouring her hair in the first place. That spell was the only one on her when they put the shackles around her wrists. It kept crackling and fading, so that she looked like she had fallen into the dye vat for the first few hours until the shackles finally cut off her magic entirely. Clever really, to have a visual indication of a prisoner’s mana reserves. Now her hair was its natural wheat blonde, in long waves down her back where it had broken free of its braid. The shackles were lighter than those the Chantry used; more like glowing bracelets. They left her hands free in the hours she was left alone in her cell. There was a window high up on the wall, and she had latched her fingers onto the sill and hauled herself up for a look only to discover it was magic. There was a view, but it changed hour by hour. It was a pity she had nothing to stand on to watch it go by. She was expecting execution. She had already confessed exactly who she was. Fiori couldn’t stand pain, and owed the Inquisition nothing for putting her here. It was only a shame their only spy was so damned inept, it really didn’t bode well for the world. 

[fiorilavellan]

[fiorilavellan]

Woodland Realm

enrico.fossati

[fiorilavellan]

DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION | REPLAY ➤ Redcliffe Village

[fiorilavellan]

endless video game scenery [20/∞] ↳ dragon age: inquisition (2014) ☛ the hinterlands

[fiorilavellan]

fadewalking​:

“I have seen more in my dreams than you could hope to experience in your lifetime in the waking world. And that you are so reductive only speaks to your value of my expertise.  If my studies in the Fade are enough for you to accept what I have learned of magic, then why would it fail to suffice where the Dalish are concerned? If you are different from the Dalish I have met in the past, who are stubborn to the point self destruction, then prove me wrong.” He stopped, checking his temper and took a moment to consider what she had said. He was right, and he knew it because he had lived it himself; But that wasn’t anything he could admit to. Arms still crossed tight over his chest, he drew in a deep breath, continuing with a slightly more leveled tone.

“And yet, you are right about one thing. I did draw my own conclusions of you from the start.” He conceded. It didn’t take much reflection to see that as obvious. “But not that you were not worth listening to, only that you would never accept all that I have to say. And how could you, when all you have known of the past have been scraps of scraps obscured by countless lifetimes?” He shook his head. “Tell me that after time and time again of trying to share what you had learned, only to be met with scorn at best, you would not also form your prejudices? I do not offer my opinion where I have no knowledge,” He insisted. “I offer it because I have walked the deepest areas of the Fade. And if you believe that could offer anything valuable, then you would believe that I might be able to see a bigger picture than what your people have managed. And if not, then what exactly is it that makes you different?”

What he was saying made a great deal of sense to her and confirmed much of her suspicions about prior encounters he had had with her people. Fiori exhaled deliberately and sat cross legged on a flat stone. This wasn’t a conversation for standing. She rested her staff over her knees and considered for a moment how best to phrase her response. He had apologised, so starting with a concession was probably the best course.

‘… I admit I assumed much about you on our first meeting. My people have a lot to say about those who don’t wear the vallaslin and not much of it is kind. I like to think I’m above that, but that’s not always true. When you said you had ‘crossed paths’ with my people, I took that to mean what it usually does: That you had killed some of my family.’

She shrugged, as much to ease the tension in her shoulders that thought gave her as to reassure him. ‘It’s a common enough greeting. ‘Hello little miss Dalish! I killed some of your kin last week, that was a laugh!’ So my response was somewhat… terse. I’m sorry for that.’

Fiori took a deep breath in though her mouth, curling her toes in the grass to ground herself. It wasn’t that she was about to panic, or even that this discussion was particularly gruelling. She was just… tired, and needed a moment.

‘As for accepting what you say as the truth… do you suppose that you’re the first?’ She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. ‘How many do you think come to us in the name of wisdom, claiming some secret knowledge that will rock the very foundations of our culture? How many do you suppose were telling the truth? How many do you suppose were secretly Chantry Missionaries? Or Templar spies? Or just misguided?’

She looked up through the canopy of trees, not wanting to think about the expression that must be crossing his face. That he was different, that she hadn’t let him prove otherwise, that she was letting past experiences cloud her judgement. All of that might be true, but it didn’t help.

‘Suspicion is how we survive. If we believed everyone, even those we were sure weren’t lying, we would have no culture left. Scraps of scraps might be all we have left, but it’s better than nothing.’

When she looked at him again, she was much calmer, laying out her argument as logically as she could. This was at least familiar territory, because she knew enough about Dreaming to form a decent rebuttal. ‘The Fade shows you many things, it doesn’t make them real. The Fade is shaped by our perceptions. Truth there has as much meaning as an earnestly believed lie. Even if you are as skilled as you say, you’re asking me to take a lot on faith. I cannot possibly believe that everything you say is factual. I have no way to test your theories, no way to gauge your skill, and I certainly don’t know you well enough to tell if your intentions aren’t sinister.’

Fiori spread her hands, lifting her arms in a wide shrug. ’Look at it from my perspective. I don’t know you. I don’t know your sources. How do I distinguish between what you say and something a con-man would tell me? Wisdom isn’t something that can be given, it has to be found. As for the rest…’ She sighed. ‘I came to you and I asked, without prompting, for you to share what you know.  Isn’t that proof that I want to listen, at least?’

She made her voice soft again, as it had risen a little in frustration at the last question. ‘And the Dalish have more to offer than remnants of a dead empire. What we have, we made for ourselves. Consider what you see as wrong is just different.’  Fiori grimaced. ‘Though that is a radical opinion, so don’t go repeating it.'

[fiorilavellan]

When she heard him stop, she stopped as well, but did not immediately turn to face him.

‘And what do you believe, Solas?’ One of her ears twitched slightly, showing through the curls of her hair. ‘The moment you saw me, you ‘knew’ who I was. What I am. You didn’t even know my name before you’d decided I wasn’t worth listening to, because you knew better.’

She turned stiffly, and it was obvious that she was furious. She tapped her cheek with two fingers, indicating the pale lines of Mythal’s branches on her skin.

‘You saw this, and you decided I was ‘a child acting out a story,' believing your dreams to be of more truth than my life. To you there is no difference between me and whoever attacked you in the past.' Her voice was still even, still soft, but very far from friendly.

‘You talk about perception as if you are above such frailties. But you only got hostility from me because that was what you expected.’ She stood there a moment before she sighed, leaning on her staff.. 'Look to your own house before you tend to mine.'

fiorilavellan​:

While it was frustrating, she could hardly fault him for stepping over a weak trap rather than obliging her by stepping into it.

‘Nothing about you challenges my perceptions, Solas. Only my patience.’ Her tone was too even to be entirely calm, the kind of nonchalance that came from long practice rather than actual peace. 

‘I welcome your insight into history and magic, as you clearly know a great deal. But do not pretend knowledge where you have none.’

He scoffed at her words and halted, crossing his arms over his chest as he spoke. “What would you know of me and what knowledge I possess? You welcome my insight so long as it does not oppose what you already believe. Or you write off my experience if it would require you to consider that the Dalish are not the saviors of Elvhen history they believe themselves to be.” 

[fiorilavellan]

While it was frustrating, she could hardly fault him for stepping over a weak trap rather than obliging her by stepping into it.

‘Nothing about you challenges my perceptions, Solas. Only my patience.’ Her tone was too even to be entirely calm, the kind of nonchalance that came from long practice rather than actual peace. 

‘I welcome your insight into history and magic, as you clearly know a great deal. But do not pretend knowledge where you have none.’

fiorilavellan​:

Fiori had come to expect a quick response, and a barbed one, so she didn’t flinch and replied smoothly.

‘Oh? Cassandra introduced you as such, was she wrong?’

She was under no illusions about what he meant, they had argued about the accuracy of Dalish culture before. But that wasn’t history, exactly, that was him having a problem with what they made of it. There was a difference.

“Ah! And again, giving weight to an opinion other than your own, perhaps I have misjudged you?” His voice dripped with sarcasm now. He didn’t expect whatever thoughts Cassandra had on his expertise to influence Fiori’s judgement of him. “Or not. I suppose it is easier to pretend that you have an open mind until the moment you hear a voice that challenges your perception.”

[fiorilavellan]

Fiori had come to expect a quick response, and a barbed one, so she didn’t flinch and replied smoothly.

‘Oh? Cassandra introduced you as such, was she wrong?’

She was under no illusions about what he meant, they had argued about the accuracy of Dalish culture before. But that wasn’t history, exactly, that was him having a problem with what they made of it. There was a difference.

fiorilavellan​:

The stories about this place didn’t do it justice. It was so beautifully green and peaceful it was easy to imagine drifting to sleep under the vast canopy of leaves. But the silence had an edge to it, a humming sort of mournful song that was partly her imagination and partly the spirits she knew were hovering just on the edges of her senses. It meant she was constantly bouncing between melancholy and excitement. ‘What’s so surprising? You’re our history expert and this excursion promises a lot of it.’ She smiled at him as she stepped over a large log, her toes curling in the moss. She knew what he was referring to, or had some idea, but she was determined not to be the first to bring it up.

“More that you are suddenly interested in a point of view on Elvhen history that is separate from your own.” He answered her without dropping a beat, keeping his tone casual as if commenting on the weather. Until this point, she hadn’t seemed particularly interested in anything he had to say beyond defending the Dalish.

 “That you are here now considering me an expert is… unexpected.” 

[fiorilavellan]

The stories about this place didn't do it justice. It was so beautifully green and peaceful it was easy to imagine drifting to sleep under the vast canopy of leaves. But the silence had an edge to it, a humming sort of mournful song that was partly her imagination and partly the spirits she knew were hovering just on the edges of her senses. It meant she was constantly bouncing between melancholy and excitement. 'What's so surprising? You're our history expert and this excursion promises a lot of it.' She smiled at him as she stepped over a large log, her toes curling in the moss. She knew what he was referring to, or had some idea, but she was determined not to be the first to bring it up.

@fiorilavellan

“I believe we should be getting close.” Solas commented as he surveyed the landscape. The land of the Emerald Graves had changed so much from what it used to be, he was surprised he still had any sense of it at all. Though he felt no reason to say it out loud, he suspected Fiori had a firmer grasp of exactly where they were. “In earnest, I am surprised you asked me to accompany you here.” 

[fiorilavellan]

[fiorilavellan]

CAN YOU LIKE OR REBLOG THIS IF YOU ARE A SAFE SPACE FOR MUSLIM ROLEPLAYERS?

YOU WILL BE ADDED TO A MASTERLIST TO MAKE THIS COMMUNITY A SAFER PLACE FOR US. 

[fiorilavellan]

An interesting discovery

I found some old books in the Fallow Mire today. Mildewy and half rotten in places, but somebody cared enough to wrap them in oilskin.

Where ever they are now, they couldn’t take these with them.

What I can decipher are illustrations of strange animals. Could they be Fade beasts? Creatures from parts of Thedas unknown? Or did they once exist, but no longer? 

Maybe one day I will be able to travel where I wish. To see the slopes of the Anderfels or the port of Rivain. Llomerryn. It’s an odd name. It feels awkward in my mouth. Maybe our library has tomes on Rivaini language...

[fiorilavellan]

Bacton Wood