mercysought

[mercysought]

I'm still not around, but it's my birthday, here have an anger 2am frog ❤️

[mercysought]

Taps the sign

[mercysought]

Orla Mercar (Rook), Inquisitor Asharen Lavellan and Magister Maxima Aurum discuss what to do about Fen'harel now that they have an opening towards Elgar'nan previous drabble

Asharen knew the room was warm, but she felt herself burning while standing there. Morrigan to one side, Émilie to another. Rook and some of her companions pouring over the maps of the city. The copy of the dagger at her hip alongside the real one. To her center and front Magister Aurum stood by the fire, to the left of Dorian and Magister Tilani who spoke in quiet whispers.

Magister Aurum, the only person so far that had made their way from the Archon's palace, seemingly having survived something that had lead all within this room believe any attending magister had died in Elgar'nan's attack. It seemed that it too more than an ancient elvhen God to kill one such as Maxima.

It was her that the Inquisitor followed most closely. The bandages around her wrists and arms growing darker with each passing moment that they spoke. It was not her place, but it was clear that the woman was pushing the luck that had been graced to her upon her survival.

A clicking of the tongue. Maxima Aurum turns from her colleagues and looks squarely at the table, taking a step forward until she is against the surface.

   "After everything he has done, I cannot believe we are seriously discussing giving him a potential out." the Magister's voice is loud, louder than one would expect and firmer too, given the woman's injuries. Her face drowned in the darkness as she cut against the flames of the fireplace opposite to where Asharen stood. Quiet, carefully taking notes from time to time, trying to keep her hands and her mind busy to keep the panic and the want to speak out of feeling than her mind with firmer arguments from spilling from her mouth.

But the Magister looked at her, directly, unflinchingly. And Asharen could nothing but stare directly back. Her tone and eyes hold nothing but pure accusation and indignation "To meet him with mercy?"

Her face had started bruising. Her clother simpler, far simpler than she had ever seen anything Maxima Aurum wear. The deep purple and reds on her face, the swelling, the unbrushed hair - for a figure that had been larger than life any time Asharen had seen her, she now looked as she truly was: as fragile and frail as any other person within those same walls. For all the glitter and gold, she bled just the same as the red of them.

Asharen pauses. Placing the quill down. Her light eyes stare back at the Magister's, darker now due to the shadows that sink deeper into her face.

   "To meet him with an open mind." the Inquisitor corrects, her tone kept even.

The Inquisitor had, as she would continue to do, brought up the hope that they would not need to trick Solas. And that tying him and his life to keep the Veil up would not be necessary. She hadn't had an answer when asked what other solution could they hope to have. That was what occupied her mind the most now. The swiftly growing panic alongside bile in her stomach.

   "He aided multiple groups of wounded into the saf—" she hears Emmrich's voice raise softly. The Inquisitor doesn't look towards him, however, keeping her eyes on the Magister as she saw her expression twist.

   "I care not for the mortal conscious or redemption of a would be God that only cares for the people he harms when he is arms deep in their blood!" the magister snaps, pushing herself up, straightening her shoulders with a sneer. Barely giving Emmrich a glance, the human pushes herself off the table, slowly circling around slowly. Bare and dry lips taught into a thin line as bruised hands raised to her forehead.

   "Killing him will not fix this." she repeats the same thing she had said to Orla and sees the same flash of anger flash before the Magister's eyes. The truth was simple and cruel, but it was still worth saying. The Inquisitor simply followed the woman with her eyes; however, she felt her knuckles growing colder, the hold upon the quill tighter "Binding his life force to the Veil as it has been discussed will not fix it either."

And with this, she turns to give a significant look to Rook. The Inquisitor holds the gaze, her own lips growing into a thin line that she tries hard to suppress alongside the sadness that pools in the back of her eyes, in the tightening of her throat. It would not fix it, but it could end up being the kindest of the options.

It is cruelty but using a different name. And she knew this. She understood the aspects of it likely better than anyone in that room. But what could she do?

Is this something that I could do? Her eyes fall on the dagger, the real one, for but a second. The terrible thought dawning on her mind like a terrible sunrise. Her eyes fall back down to her own brass hand, resting atop the table. Was it necessary the blood of an evanuris, or adjacent, to bind one's life form to the Veil?

And, if so, could the Well mimic the necessary ingredients and strength well enough? Would she be enough?

   "And therefore all is forgiven?!" Magister's Aurum's hoarse voice brings her back to the conversation at the table. The magister's face twists beyond just the swelling and bruising. Finally, she turns to the Inquisitor after glaring at Orla from across the table. Leaning into the wooden surface and maps, "I do not want your Fen'harel dead, Inquisitor."

The magister inhales sharply, painfully, it tenses her body as she keeps talking.

   "I want him to be judged for the harm he has done," she keeps talking, but Asharen's eyebrow arches, her lips tightening "the destruction he has wrought upon us all."

Her eyes meet the Magister's, expression slowly shifting, brows furrowing. That was not happening as long as she lived. He needed to restore what was lost, yes, aid in whatever capacity, but not in Tevinter chains.

Émilie softly moves forward, her hand over the pommel of the thin blade and eyes darkening, landing on the Magister. Rook's steps are not audible, not until she steps fully between the Inquisitor and the Magister at the corner of the table they all stood in.

   "We have a plan. Magister." Orla's heavy accent echoes across the silent and tense room. The Inquisitor can only see the back of her head, the dark hair pooling at her shoulder. Magister Aurum's eyes remain on the Inquisitor, only after her title is called her dark eyes motion to stare down Rook. Asharen keeps her lips tightly shut, the thin outline of the quill's spine snapped in the closed palm of her flesh hand. Orla continues with a firm tone "Whatever you say isn't going to change it. The Inquisitor has said her piece."

Maxima's brows arch. Her mouth hangs open in a twisted, angry smile for a second. A scoff, pained in nature, is dragged out of her mouth.

   "And you—" she turns on her heels, Maxima's voice is kept low accusingly glaring at the two other magisters in the back of the room. Dorian and Maevaris who look at her "— you both agree to this?" she sneers, not waiting for the answer, instead just shaking her head, pushing herself off the table "Un-fucking-belivable!"

And with it, she walks with intent and with the vigor of someone that shouldn't be bedridden out of the door towards where the rest of the injured and dying were. From the outside, she could hear her voice still. Calling for whatever templars were still in the city to form a perimeter outside of the Archon's palace. To get and organize more beds. Her voice cutting through the crowd as she moved beyond the corridor.

Asharen's eyes only move from the door when she feels a warm hand on her shoulder. Dorian looks at her with a worry that makes her stomach drop. It made her feel small, and the shadow that fatigue held over her mind and body grow "I will handle this."

He says simply and then he too is gone with Maevaris in turn. Émilie watches them go and only then does she move once more to Asharen's side, quietly watching the shadows dance from the corridor as more and more people hurried.

   "Her father was a cunt," Orla cuts into her vision, her gloved hand motioning to the Inquisitor's flesh one. With her palm up, she asks the Inquisitor to lift it. When she does, Rook takes the broken quill from her hand placing it back on the table without so much of an acknowledgement of the act "I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the cunt tree."

Orla gives the Inquisitor a small smile, meant to give her assurance, perhaps, and yet the Inquisitor felt nothing but a growing sense of dread. A small smile is still given, though her mind is far away and her eyes motion once more to the corridor that would lead them out into the destroyed city. Orla follows her eyes and gives a small sigh "Some fucks really just have nine lives."

[mercysought]

As we all fall down In London town, shaky ground Carries me, war rains down Blindingly loud Never surrender

Sunflowers by ren

[mercysought]

Was it obvious to everybody else? That I'd fallen for a lie? You were never on my side Fool me once, fool me twice Are you death or paradise? Now you'll never see me cry There's just no time to die

Time to die by Billie Eilish

[mercysought]

YOUR MUSE . . . IN BATTLE. (asharen lavellan)

bold what applies, italicize sometimes. repost, don't reblog.

fights honorably  /  fights dirty

prefers close - quarters / prefers ranged combat

chats during  /  goes silent

low  pain  tolerance  /  high  pain  tolerance

attacks  in  bursts  /  attacks  steadily

goes  for  the  kill  /  aims  to  disarm  /  fights  defensively  /  strikes  first

is  provoked  easily  /  provokes  their  opponent  /  teases

gets  visibly  frustrated  /  shouts  while  attacking

uses  strategy  /  focuses  on  the  battle  /  experiences  conflicting  thoughts  during  battle

rushes  in  recklessly  /  tries  to  read  their  opponent  before  engaging

fights  wildly  /  fights  calmly  /  fights  apathetically  /  fights  with  anger  /  fights  with  excitement

fights  because  they  have  to  /  fights  because  they  want  to

fights  without  regard  to  wounds  /  runs  away  when  wounded  /  hides  wounds  /  takes  a  blow  to  protect  another

prefers  a  blade  /  prefers  a  gun  /  prefers  hand  to  hand  combat  /  prefers  a  bow  /  prefers  a  shield  /  prefers  a  personalized  weapon  /  prefers  magic  or  spells

their  greatest  weakness  is  physical  /  their  greatest  weakness  is  mental  /  their  greatest  weakness  is  emotional

transforms  for  battle  /  fights  as  they  appear

relies  on  strength  /  doubts  their  strength  /  relies  on  speed

uses  everything  they  have  /  proceeds  with  caution  /  hides  their  full  potential

exhausts  quickly  /  has  high  stamina

behaves  arrogantly  /  brags  after  landing  a  hit  /  belittles  their  abilities

uses  psychological  tactics  /  uses  brute  strength

avoids  civilians  /  strikes  down  civilians

damages  surroundings  /  avoids  damaging  surroundings

signature  fighting  style  /  makes  it  up  as  they  go

mastered  skill  -  set  /  learning  their  skill  -  set

fancy  footwork  /  sloppy  footwork

messy  fighter  /  elegant  fighter

accepts  defeat  /  refuses  defeat  /  begs  for  mercy

compliments  their  opponent  /  insults  their  opponent

uses  unnecessary  movements  /  moves  efficiently  /  barely  moves

prefers  to  dodge  /  prefers  to  block

defends  their  blindside  /  has  no  blindside  /  leaves  blindsides  vulnerable

uses  all  available  advantages  /  strictly  uses  one  main  method

plays  around  /  holds  back  /  fights  ruthlessly  /  shows  mercy

waits  for  an  opponent  to  be  ready  /  strikes  when  opponent  isn’t  ready

fears  death  /  fears  pain  /  fears  killing / a secret fourth thing

has  ptsd  /  avoids  fighting

has  lost  a  fight /  has  won  a  fight

has  killed  /  refuses  to  kill

wants  to  die  standing  /  would  succumb  slowly

tagged by: @wakesleft (who knew that manfred was such a scoundrel). tagging: @ab5olution (alara) @keepslore @weptfreedom (for alanari!) @magiikwoven (drynne!)

[mercysought]

Being around and seeing so much amazing art is so inspiring but also I'm steeling myself for the next coming days because I cannot fall into the trap of comparing myself to others or I'll be booting braincells off my head one by one

[mercysought]

we go from tropical storm with lighting to heatwave to lightning storm that takes down the electricity. This is swell

[mercysought]

drabble in early post-trespasser where Asharen is the target a crow contract

The ringing that spreads from the base of her neck is inaudible for anyone by the elven woman, immediately snapping her from her slumber.

In total there were a total of thirty runes spread across the small house; all of them drawn into the wood features, easily forgotten, easily missed, easily mistaken to be part of the wood grain. On the bottom of a door frame. On the bottom of a windowsill. On the steps of her stairs up the front door. On her back door. Between her bedroom and small living space, covered in books and a litany of loose sheets of paper in small piles. A small black board hanging from the center column from which all walls sprouted from. Instead of a shopping list, multiple diagrams were drawn, some half erased and written on top choppily with chalk.

The small house, with forest green window sills, where the Inquisitor, the once Herald of Andraste slept, stood still in the warmest night this summer had seen. And shadows grew larger.

Three runes across different parts of the house call upon their creator. Her hand grabs the prosthetic that had been next to her head, the metal resting against her skin. Fingers pull at the set strings. Still loose. One last time, pulled and held.

She does not dare attempt to move the metallic fingers.

Eyes dart across the darkness in the room. The green light refracted by the pieces of glass atop her staff from the outside allow for a sea of constellations to be cast upon her ceiling. Just as those constellations, the weapon was too far for her to reach.

Getting up on top of the bed, she rests her back against the wall, the one that shared the opening towards the rest of the house. Knees bending down to a crouch. Breath held.

There are templars in the area. You need to make yourself small, blend in with the environment. Wait until they are gone before you move.

Her hand moves to the inner seam of her pants, from within she pulls out the thinnest shard of translucent glass, thin, flat, straight like a needle on one end, hook like on another.

Her father's voice rings in the back of her mind and she feels nothing but cold chill fall upon her. Her hands clammy. Templars had not worried since she was a young adult freshly out of the clan. And these shadows that moved through her home made no sound.

The house creaks under the soft breeze outside. Asharen feels the sweat against her back, sticking her loose shirt to herself. Sweat that had little to do with the heat.

Another rune. At the entrance of her room, an outline of a person.

Releasing her breath, Asharen pinches the air in front of the figure, needle pressing against it. To an unfamiliar ear, nothing could be heard besides the rippling of the wind outside, and yet Asharen had come to hear it, the ripping and the humming that came form it. Where the room opened up, the air twists upon itself. If the figure is shocked at the small rift opening, at the rippling of the air as it grew warmer and streaks of sharp teeth seemed to call to it.

With her metallic hand she moves it the same way she had done so many times, but instead of closing it, the rift grows in size. Jumping down the bed, she runs across the room, now lit by the green glow and swiftly rising, roaring of the rift.

Asharen throws the window open.

If you are outnumbered and you do not know what to expect. Just run. It is not cowardly to hide, it is best that you survive another day a coward than a brave, dead fool.

Climbing up the window, a cowled figure stands just outside. Pulling herself down, an arrow flies through the now open window.

Turning towards the open rift, hands slapping against the floor, metallic hand loosening its hold against her skin; the wooden floor cracks where the figure stood in front of the rift, being pulled inside. The flesh hand, holding the needle, pulls it vertically - the humming comes to a stop and the rift collapses on itself. Crawling on the floor, she pulls herself up as soon as she is out of the immediate vicinity of the window, though she hears the figure come in.

Asharen does not turn back to confirm. Dashing instead into the living room and counting two figures. When she lowers herself once more, resting her arm against one of her shelves as she hears the steps of the assassins make their way towards her, the prosthetic dislodges itself and she curses.

The needle rips into the air around it, with a quick weave, the air around it tightens, pulling the brass closer, tightly against her skin. A perfect fit, one that was incredibly hard to do manually.

Drawing the needle once more on the floor, three runes are written, ripping the floor open into a scene of jagged rocks, where the sky that reflected from beneath was grey and clouds rolled under a cruel mistress of a silent wind. The untamed, wild sections of the Fade was not for the faint of heart.

A stack of book falls within, they are immediately fluttered away, the leather bounds torn asunder.

Red hair is pulled from the loose braid, throw up as the rift opens and the two figures stop on their tracks. The Inquisitor looks beyond, to the pile of books and research and feels regret for a single second. One second, before an explosion of fire pushes both figures in. The screams as silenced as soon as their heads touch the space beyond, Asharen tries not to look. Tries not to think as she feels her face just close enough to the flames that roared, the explosion had torn through the wall of her small bedroom, the front of her house.

The rift was becoming unstable.

Holding her back against the wall, crawling, she dashes as quickly as possible to the small crawl space beneath her home, towards the basement. She catches the reflection of a blade as her hand pulls up the crawl space door. She needed to reach the eluvian.

One warm hand felt chillingly cold against her neck, holding her in place. Lyrium. Heart pounding, the brass hand presses against the blade directly, holding it and keeping it from her body as she struggled to keep her magic from draining. The sound of the metallic fingers struggling against the sharp blade pierced through the flames, a screeching loud enough to erase the sounds of effort pouring from her lips.

Her light eyes move up, finding the eyes of her attacker who glared at her with a single tracked focus. No insignia, but she could take a guess as to who they might be by then.

What was the saying? That crows must fulfill a contract, if the did not they would forfeit their lives with it. With her flesh hand, she presses the needle deeply into their right foot, pressing through leather, through flesh, jabbing it as far as it would go. The scream is drowned by the sound of the flames now erupting and consuming the air around the house.

It had been enough for the blade to be lifted and so she throws herself down into the dark space of her basement. The air grew heavier, as the smoke poured down. Above her she heard struggle and talking but she pushed through it, into the depths.

With her now empty hand, she starts working through the runes. cutting through the multiple runes that enveloped the eluvian. Her prosthetic hand came loose, focus pulled to the matters of unlocking and allowing her through before it was too late. Without her tools, this was a fool's errand, it would take too long, but there was no other way out. It would take too l-

   "Interesting trick."

She turns towards the voice, a trail of blood from his feet, now standing before her. One hand holding the blade, the other holding the small piece of glass. The same piece of glass that they dropped on their pocket after considering it for a second. The prosthetic hand falls, clattering on the floor.

He moves quickly and she avoids the first thrust, the fabric at her shoulder torn. The second, however, the blade pierces through her ribs. An explosion of pain ripples through her. Eyes close and she forces them open, open through the smoke that now filled the space, through the heartbeat and the scent of iron in the air.

Her hand touches the pocket he had dropped the needle in, it pulls through the fabric, ripping through it. The familiar humming fills the air and she does not care to make it stable. The air shimmers around them both, the needle pierces him through flesh, up into her flesh hand. The rift formed between them both roars with hunger for the blood it feels in the air and the blade is pulled from within her.

Half mindlessly, absently, mind swimming she attempts to move her left hand to press against the wound. Only to find nothing.

Lifting her eyes, she looks at her attacker whose eyes are wide with terror as their stomach and arm are tied, woven against the rift that crackles. Pain twists their expression. Lowering herself, she drags her prosthetic, fitting it as best as she could, quickly. Pressing the brass fingers against her wound, she feels less alone.

Keeping her focus, she attempts to heal herself enough, enough that she may not pass out before crossing beyond. Before darkening this eluvian so that no one else could follow.

She does not turn her back to him, instead, with the bloody needle, she unlatches the final runes. The eluvian is opened before her and she stumbles towards it. With blood dripping from her hand, from her chest, she presses against it. Her shoulders touch the cold fabric that separates what had once been her home from the crossroads.

The shimmering grows purple, and then red from her wounds.

   "Dirthara-ma (may you learn)."

[mercysought]

[ NEEDED ] I was thinking maybe for American and asharen as she disappears into the research of the well? Before the ritual!

𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒. | not accepting | @mercysought [ NEEDED ]:     a letter that the writer wrote for the recipient after learning of their recent struggles in their personal life, and which contains uplifting words of encouragement, support and other things they feel they should hear to help them through.

Asharen,

after all we have been through, I should not have to write this letter. You should trust me enough to speak to me in person. I do not care if your house is messy or you have forgotten to brush your hair for three months, I do not care if you have locked an Antivan crow in your basement or raised an army of dragonlings in your bedroom. Nothing you say or do or think could make me think less of you.

I am not angry. I am frightened. I want to know you are alright, and I know under the circumstances you are not, because if you were you would talk to me. I am the same and that worries me too. How alike we are. I think about the things I have done out of desperation, knowing those who love me would try to steer me from that path if they knew about it, and I know you would not hide yourself without good reason, so I can only imagine you are doing something equally insane.

But, Asharen—I also you know you would do nothing insane without good reason. Whatever you are doing, I would likely try to stop you first but once you had told me enough times you meant to pursue the course whatever I think of it, I would support you. I could do nothing else. I wish you would tell me what you are doing so I could help you. But if you will not come to you and I cannot come to you then a letter will have to be enough. Whatever it is you are doing I love you. I love you more than I can say in a letter or in person and I will continue to whatever idiotic genius you are currently working on. I cannot wait for you to come back so I can berate you for being such a brilliant fool.

Whatever you are doing you can do it. I know. You would not have to do with alone, but you can. I know.

[there is a small water stain here, blotting out the ink]

Asharen, come back to me. That is the only thing I ask. As your sibling in all but blood, I can't allow you to leave me like this.

Ameridan

[mercysought]

what tragic death do you suffer?

MUSE: [ ASHAREN ]

the sudden. it happens so quick you won't even realize it. like being hit by a car, or having a heart attack. one moment you're here, the next you're not. you don't get to prepare. your family will spend months sifting through your belongings, not knowing what to do. your friends online will never know why you don't come back. you die thinking you're alive, face still preserved with your last emotion. you don't get to say goodbye.

tagged by: @tragedia tagging: @ab5olution ( joy! ) @valorcorrupt @saovaene ( kara! ) @chanticle ( miriam! )

[mercysought]

post-crestwood, post removal of vallas'lin partially inspired by this post by @skyheld!

Some measure of posturing will be necessary.

Inquisitor Asharen Lavellan was tired. Tired of all this posturing. Asharen's eyes focus on the freckles on her face, on the redness around her eyes and the swelling around the thinner skin of her eyes. There was no level of posturing that would be able to hide this. Asharen's jaw tenses. And she places the comb down on the wooden surface, carefully, measured though she feels like throwing it down. This comb was likely more expensive than most things she had ever owned, and yet it was a pittance in comparison to the room that she now slept in.

Each morning since arriving to Skyhold she had sat alone on that chair; brushed the waves from her hair to make it more amenable to braid. Careful and methodical, before the sunrise, she had pinned the braids around her head in the same fashion that her mother had taught her; and that her grandmother had taught her. Josephine had told her too, that her dalish ancestry would always draw the spotlight but that they could use this too in their favour - that Asharen had not quite known how but at this point it didn't matter.

Her hair was still made in its natural waves and she looked at her face. It was her face. It was her face and it was not. The same way that for the past year, with her hair loose, it had been her but not. The braids were a necessity, they were an indicator, they were part of what bound her into the shape of the person that she was. And now she stood before this mirror: loose hair and bare face with burning tears in her eyes and an anger that can do little but tighten one's throat and quieten one's tongue.

  

   "What I'm saying is that I think June's would fit you better."

   "Well, I think you should shut up your math'vian (mouth hole)."

Renehn snorted, rolling his eyes as she is hovering over by the quiet waters of a stream, with a paint brush in her hand weaving the different patterns of the different vallas'lin over her face. Renehn had called it vanity, that the patterns themselves shouldn't matter - but she could hear her father's voice in his - and she thought (at the time) that he had been full of shit.

   "Wise. Full of grace, definitely fit for the All Mother's vallas'lin."

He walks closer. They had been in Ferelden then, still, before all things had turned. Before the Fifth Blight. She remembered it clearly, how she had been shaking and biting into her teeth but determined. Before they used to trade consistently with humans, they had no mirrors in the clan - using her (lacking) artistic skills, she had painted the different patterns over her face and washed it with frigid water; and done so again.

   "Ren!" she shrieks, glancing to him as a straight line had been drawn completely away from where it should be "I think Mythal's is the prettiest so far, leave me alone—" glancing back at the stream Asharen narrowed her eyes, focusing once more on what she was doing "Or I'll tell mamae you've let the fabrics drying an extra two hours in the sun."

   "You did that." she barely remembered his face anymore. His was still lingered but the scene was starting to fray at the edges. She remembered the stark scene of clean water and the paint. The moss on the nearer stones.

She remembered the sound of his face twisting into a smile but not quite the smile itself.

   "And who is the First? Who is responsible for me? My actions? Am I the eldest?" her head swayed and Ren's steps approached, arms folding and pulled against his chest as he leaned over to watch her work.

   "Maybe I should tell papae instead that you're not ready for vallas'lin. Much less the All Mother's. Especially for that reason."

   "I think she would approve." she hums absently. Finishing the last lines of the Dirthamen pattern before dipping her hands once more in the extremely cold water. She looks to Ren from the reflection in the stream. His red hair, as long and wavy as hers, tied in a braid style that her father still wore to this day "You just want to be the only one of us that has hers! And that's just as bad of a reason to try to convince me not to get it!"

  

And now Renehn was dead. She had been the only one of them that had Mythal's vallas'lin. And now she had nothing. Now she looked just like any and all elves out in the world; without her vallas'lin what place did she have? What would she tell their father when she returned? Taking a deep breath, allowing her body to relax from the holding of breath, she feels instead a sob ripping through which she stifles too with the back of her left hand. Her head bowing, eyes hidden behind two freckled hands that looked exactly like that of her siblings, her father's, her mother's.

They are slave markings.

How could she have kept them then? Reclaimed or no. How could she willfully keep them when faced with the possibility to remove them? Perhaps she should have given it more thought, but given what happened after?

Breathing in, she holds the breath there until the shaking stops. Light eyes face the mirror, pushing the tears away. The sun would rise and she was needed out of her room. Tired or no; she didn't have time to focus on that, not now.

It was like a stranger was doing her hair, the same way that she had refused to allow anyone to aid her, she now faced herself in the mirror doing the same movements that she had done before, pinning the dalish styled braids the same way that she had always been taught. And yet it felt like someone else doing it. Someone that shouldn't be doing it.

And once finished, she looked at the mirror, at her bare adult face and she felt wrong. All wrong. They had all been wrong, another thing they had gotten wrong and another part of her memories with her family that she would need to sit with, dissect and tear apart. How would she be able to truly weave through that?

And worse, mind racing towards the now, to continue facing the rest of the Inquisition, the questions, the judgement. And to know that she would need to face Solas and everyone else that knew that they had once been together. And now they weren't. And her face was bare. And the pity. She felt sick thinking about it all. And what would she say? How would she tell other dalish about this? How could she be a good example to them?

Warm tears fall down the same threaded paths they had made before, now collected and destroyed by her fingers before they are allowed to roll down her cheeks. Tying the single eye with a sword piercing it brooch around the centre of her robes, she gets up.

As the day goes on, in another time she would have made sure that the braids remained carefully pinned. The same style of her mother's. Of her grandmother's. Of her great grandmother's. But by late afternoon, when part of her fringe comes loose, she lets it be.

[mercysought]

Reminder for myself for later to talk about how asharens anger at Solas revelation about what the vallaslin originally were can easily parallel his own experience in finally having to rip the bandaid when it came to comfort of the familiar re. Mythal and the evanuris

It's not that the truth isn't important and that she is not one to accept it. It's that he not only hurt her feelings by breaking up with her but at the same time removed the single source of comfort that she felt still tethered her to the life before

[mercysought]

can i request ' a kiss that seals a promise .' for mythal and elgar'nan

KISSES // accepting . @keepslore & @hoboblaidd

   "It is not the way we do things."

   "Isn't it so?..." his voice rumbles from the deepest sections of the sanctum that the All-Father and All-Mother share as an apartment. The white furniture with glistening gold veins shine brightly from the bright light that pours from the stars in the Goddess' hair, and necklace. Her figure, skin, is drawn in the deepest of blacks, seeping from the darkness of the voice that comes from the opposite side of the room. She watches him through the mirror, his seething form taking to the floor to move closer to her vanity "Since when, All-Mother" the title slithers out of his jagged teeth and his eyes are bright enough to wipe the smallest of stars from her hair, each step enough to thunder and not enough to crack the floor beneath "do you dictate how we do things in times of war?"

Her eyes lift from the toothed comb. The seashells now completely bleached white are place down on the table as she turns once more to the mirror. Dark eyes hold his form for a moment and then return back to the bone white comb.

   "We are not at war, ma'vun (my sun)." she says simply, her voice as even as a calm and soothing spring. Long fingers start picking at the long lines of silver that weave her hair together.

His hands fall on her shoulders. They are cold. Mythal's arms stop the word they are doing and she meets his eyes through the mirror.

   "This is not something even you can weave into existence, vhenan." he whispers and from within her there is a soft thrum that rises. His fingers are soft against her flesh, holding her in place simply, but her heart races. The stars in her eyes disappear as the sky within starts towards the sunrise "And try as you might to repeat it as a prayer, it will not stop war from marching into your temples."

Her mouth twists as her arms come down. The comb is carefully placed in the same place that she had plucked it from. It is worn, aged, useless now that it was put next to other utensils that still held into their fragile glimmer and reflections. The soft browns and teals are gone as the All Mother shifts her weight, when her long fingers finally leave it behind. His words taste too closely like a promise. They sound too much like a wish "Must you wait until there is blood on your doorstep to take action?!"

   "What you do with these reckless displays of power do not make the people less inclined to fight you." her hand covers his, holding his fingers. But that is part of the plan, is it not? It is by design "Give attention to any and all dissatisfied revolutionary and you give them legitimacy." which was, in part, why she abhorred such public displays, detested having to be dragged into Judgements where she was there to do nothing but provide some level of legitimacy to the acts being done there.

It was not that she thought he was always wrong, but the methods left much to be desired and he left her no choice. What choice was there when she had to stop him in a public setting? What would that say to those that watched for cracks between the two of them? What would that do to their People? Elgar'nan left her no choice "No one doubts your power and abilities, Elgar'nan, all I am asking is that we do not rush into—"

The man in front of her weaves itself into the form he had once made for himself. Carved still to perfection and exactly as he had seen it. The shape of the man that she loved. The hand on her other shoulder moves to cover the one over her the other. Moving it away from her body, his cold hands hold hers - freezing - between and Mythal shifts in her seat.

   "I do not know when it was that you lost faith in me." and his eyes lift to her face with bright accusation in his golden eyes. Anger yes, but it was the hurt that gave her pause. That gave her shivers, it made the world around them shiver, it made the floor beneath them rumble "When it was that you lost complete trust in my actions and wisdom, but it is grating and embarrassing to see it." he releases her hand, closing his hand, disgust twists his expression as his eyes find Mythal's "I will not suffer it for no one, not even you."

A pause. Mythal's eyes grow darker as the silence grows only heavier. When she rises from her seat, her form of darkness weaves itself back into the shape of the woman with dark hair - within there are no stars, there is no silver line that might guide her back. In her eyes there are only the growing clouds of a storm.

   "Lost faith in you?" she repeats.

Before him the woman is the same one that he had found in the middle of a broken forest. The woman at the end of the largest spring of a cracked mountain where its blood had turned to liquid. The storm never left her "I have been nothing but faithful to you. Stayed by your side through all of the tasteless cruelty and painful displays of power." she pulls in the air and they are back on the snow bank.

The sky above is red and so is she. She feels herself red, she feels herself burning as she takes a step closer to the other. To the face of the man that she loves. To the shape of her heart that knows no rest and knows no cage except the one named peace "You want to talk about humiliation, Elgar'nan?"

They stand before a group of seven, them and the centre overlooking down. There is a boy with his Vallas'lin who had stolen the rites to the Dragon Shapeshifting and she has been left with no choice but to make sure that no one would ever repeat the mistake. That is what he did. He left her no choice - and that was by design too.

They are standing by a mountain overlooking the sea. There is a small group of people that return home after being away in Elvhenan for so long. She had once mentioned how much she enjoyed that sensation: the warm hug of returning to a place where you heart was from, even if that place was so far away from the heart of the Empire. The ability to know that one was safe to finally rest their heads home.

After she had refused him in a request, many years after, he had hunted down every single spirit that had known that feeling in memory, burnt through them like he had burnt through her comb. Made sure she knew that their obliteration was on her hands.

So she had found the first mountain that had she had found him in. Him after taking a body and her, in love after hearing him take his first breath. She found that mountain again. And she made an island out of it.

   "Know I take no joy in being seen as your handler." that he should be seen as a beast when he paints himself in the only shades that would make one "The only one that is able to hold the leash. I cannot feel anything but sorrow when I look at you and see nothing but the shadow of the man that plucked the sun from the sky to have me wear it alongside the stars in my hair."

He had woven it into her hair, the crowning jewel upon her head. It had burn through her vision momentarily, burn through each and every single constellation she had found and raised and created. Her eyes had turned as bright and blue as the skies that he so dearly loved. When the darkness returned, it was only hurt that was upon his face when she told him the People needed the sun in the sky "I see only the beast that did not understand why I would not want it because it threatened to burn all other stars and wipe out the darkness they need to survive."

   "I have kept you from destroying yourself through your senseless want for blood since the Titan's died and all you have ever given me as thanks is your resentment." she now stands before him and her lips curl into a mean grin "Did you think I did not notice?"

It had been as clear to here as the very heart she has beating in her veins. As if he had whispered to her in her ears his most deep and direst flaw: He could not stand the thought that they were God, and that his hands were idle, that the blood was dry. That there was no more fighting. And so he turned inwards, and he turned against her "I know your heart, vhenan."

   "Do not make an enemy of me too."

The silence settles like a heavy cloud that starts to slowly pour above them. She breathes heavily and he simply looks back. He hated her. He hated her as intensely as she hated him - she could see it drawn in the way that her eyes looked at him. His hand touches the side of her face and he leans down until their lips touch together. The rain falls all around them but there is no sun to part the clouds this time. The remain in darkness and her lips are the sharp edges of the cliffs against the ocean and his are of the ruined mountains as stars collapse against the earth.

They bring life into this world. And so it continued to pour.

This is how the story would always go. And he loved her the most for it, how she reminded him time and time again that she was still in there.

   "I know your heart too, ma'lea'vune (my moonlight)." he says simply, taking a moment deeper into the darkness that borders the moonlight that pours into Mythal's form. His body undoing itself into thin slivers of darkness once more "The People do not understand, I never expected them to." not the Evanuris. Not the other first drawn from the fade. He had never expected anything out of them, least of all understanding "I thought you did."

[mercysought]

❤️ this and I'll send you some memes

[mercysought]

yep, my favourite art contest has started and it's 30 days of daily, fully finished pieces. Last year I was still on hiatus from rp so I had a bit more leeway and also a lot less going on.

I'll be around, however, the queue is frozen for the foreseeable future, likely a month. I will make some exceptions from time to time and post off order from the queue. This is just a warning that I will be more absent and take longer to get to things.

[mercysought]

   “This will change you.”

The hand is light, pressed against the inside and perhaps a heartbeat could be felt if it was not the cold brass that answered instead of flesh and bone. Asharen is all bright light, tied together by the worn strings that were kept together by the same embroidory that had followed her Clan’s name for generations. The heavy scent of oranges envelops the place until there is nothing but it. Well. It, and the two other figures, cast against the large looming shadow of a crooked tree.

There are countless unsent letters that have been sent nowhere and to no one. Where they stood was the culmination of words that had only been known to paper and to her heart: she had been taken from the natural order of things, and there is both love and violence in that too.

Spirits of Longing are fickle creatures. They sway with the wind and with gifts. They are attracted to grief and to strong memories. To words that repeat until they lose all meaning except itself. And they look at her, and Asharen’s eyes move from the bright orange that washes them both.

This will change you. Spoken to her by her grandmother as they marched north in Ferelden’s wilderness without a plan for camp beyond avoiding darkspawn. Spoken to her by her father when she actively participated in the burial of her grandmother. Spoken to her by Ren as they entered the Temple that looked so oddly familiar it could have been torn from their history books if they had any to speak of. This will change you. Spoken not in words but in actions across the Inquisition.

It is a shadow of her brother that looks at her, a brief glimpse of a wish of him tearing at chains and allowing her to escape her fear in Haven. It is a shadow of Solas as she wonders once more into a world without full understanding and acting with hearts upon sleeves like that same patterns of embroidory. It is her grandmother whose veil she wore.

There is no heartbeat beneath the spirit’s hand, but the tree beyond them beats softly as Asharen covers Longing’s wrist.

   “You don’t have to wear their faces.”

And so they don’t. Their form softly drawn and pulled like the waves that Asharen cannot see or feel. They look to her with a vague concern that is not visible beyond the distant warm around her shoulders. The want to hug and have no arms to do so in a meaningful manner - a language that they were all still trying to understand. Another gap to reach.

   “Change is coming,” the thin threaded line is pulled from one of the thinner lyrium needles, taken from the inside of her sash at her hip. Either Solas was successful or he was not, this place would feel it “preparations need to be made, if the worst comes to pass.”

Thin fingers, made out of flesh and bone and warm meet their form. There is fear, there will always be fear. Asharen could not promise that everything would be fine, everything would be ok. This will change us, but I’ll protect you. You. This place. I’ll try.