suledinharillen

[suledinharillen]

commissioned a brush sketch of my dragon age oc, bruno, from @lonicera-caprifolium!!! thank you again ❤

[suledinharillen]

(bruno voice) oh how the turntables.........

[suledinharillen]

peace headcanons

peace’s memory is long, but there are aspects and periods of history he has forgotten as a means of staying true to his purpose. this is not the result of war, as one might think, but typically results from smaller incongruous details. the exalted marches are something he has only a vague memories of, the term “holy war” is something he cannot quite register (at least in a veiled world). he remembers the peace in the hearts of emerald knights as they outfitted for a battle, but not the hatred and discord that resulted in the deaths of two lovers. - typically these moments of history are things he can discuss, but it may not be a conversation he remembers.

when perceived as a demon, his name is discord, and represents doubt. the flaws he notes in the characters of those he comes across they are perceived by the listener not as obstacles to be overcome, but insurmountable condemnations.

related to this, in battle he can be used to cause discord in the hearts of enemies. this is not something he does willingly, and is typically done via mages with less concern for his desires. or the desires of any spirits for that matter.

[suledinharillen]

☄ theshirallen | ian

“No. Wolves don’t do that to each other. Only–only people do.” His right hand falls to his left wrist, rubbing a slow circle almost without realizing it, and his teeth catch at the inside of his cheek. 

Bruno’s expression grows distant, for a moment, in a way that Ian recognizes. There are many stories Bruno might tell, if he felt they were worth speaking–or if someone indicated that those stories were worth being heard.

“Just because you don’t speak stories doesn’t mean–doesn’t mean you don’t have any.” Ian points out. “You have seen as much as any wolf. Different things, perhaps. But you have lived a longer life than they, and–and every day offers a story.” 

He thinks of one Solas is fond of telling–of the Qunari baker and her sugar–and smiles softly. Little stories have as much merit as stories of the stars, and the story of the baker is as significant as any tale Ian has ever heard of Andraste.

“They don’t really have the hands to do it with if they wanted,” he remarks. That’s not what Ian means by it, but he’s not so sure animals wouldn’t do the same to each other if they could. Still, he’s seen enough of what people do to each other that he’s a little jealous Ian can just be something else, even part-ways, even for a little while. Maybe it’s pretend, maybe he’ll never be  a real wolf, but being half a wolf sounds like a better deal than half a person.

“Maybe,” he says with a noncommittal shrug. “Boring stories, mostly. And some sad, y’know, in hindsight.” At the time they’d just been life, and no mother wanted to explain to her child that his life wasn’t his own. “The only story I’ve got that’s worth telling is the one where Miraen just kinda... melted out of the mirror, which-- um, I don’t know. Seems pretty normal here.”

“A wolf’s probably got better stories s’all I’m saying.”

[suledinharillen]

This is a bit of an oldie, but the Dragon Age 4 hype is SUPER REAL an’ I figured I’d touch it up an’ chuck it out into the world.

Who’s ready to give this egg a fuckin’ swirly

Also! Want to color this? Feel free an’ @ me when it’s all finished up!

[suledinharillen]

(within the Crossroads)

Bruno: So, how is it you exist in these places? Peace: How is it you exist? Bruno: I dunno, I sort of just do. Peace: Interesting. And how do you know you exist at all? Bruno: Oh no... Don’t do this. Peace: I’m not sure what you mean. Bruno: Just, never mind. Forget I asked.

Peace: I think, therefore I am. Bruno: What? Peace: It is a statement, a philosophical proposition, first uttered in the ancient days of Arlathan: I think, therefore I am. Bruno: So, like, if you think about stuff, you exist? Peace: Put simply, yes. That you may doubt your existence confirms it, although there are other interpretations. Bruno: I like it. Simple.

Bruno: Do you have any more, uh, what did you call them? Peace: A philosophical proposition. Bruno: Yeah. Peace: You wish to learn more? Bruno: I mean, why not? Peace: You would do better to ask Solas, or else Miraen, I was not welcome within the empire’s heart. The peace I sought was not one they permitted. Bruno: They were missing out, then. Peace: (laughs) My thanks. (beat) I will think on it, my mentor had his own teachings, you may appreciate them, as well.

[suledinharillen]

[suledinharillen]

♢ bruno

banter meme | selectively accepting

Bruno: So, your name is Solas?Solas: It is, yes.Bruno: But it’s also Fen’Harel?Solas: For our purposes, yes.Bruno: So which do I call you?Solas: Whichever is preferable for you.Bruno: I don’t think that’s how names work– oh, uh, I mean. Not in Tevinter, anyway.

Solas: What did you see in the eluvian? I am curious.Bruno: Nothing. Uh, I mean… mostly nothing.Solas: Then it was hardly ‘nothing.’Bruno: I just mean, I mostly just saw shapes moving in black, sometimes it looked like leaves blowing in the wind. I used to think maybe I was nuts, that I’d stared too long at it, or something.Solas: You believe you saw impressions of the Crossroads?Bruno: I mean, maybe. Or maybe in hindsight I’m sort of… projecting. Maybe that sounds stupid.Solas: On the contrary, you are wise to question your memory. Only fools believe they remember everything with perfect clarity, but take care. Not all doubts are made equal.Bruno: Maker, it sounds so much easier to be a fool.Solas: (laughs)

Solas: I would prefer ‘Solas,’ if you truly wish to know.Bruno: Hm? Oh, is this about– okay, Solas. No, ‘messere’ or anything?Solas: No.Bruno: I never thought I’d be on a first-name basis with the Dread Wolf.Solas: More impressive than to know Solas.Bruno: I mean, I barely knew who the Dread Wolf was not too long ago, so.Solas: You have a talent for flattery.

[suledinharillen]

The bagh naka is a claw-like weapon from India designed to fit over the knuckles or be concealed under and against the palm. It consists of four or five curved blades affixed to a crossbar or glove, and is designed to slash through skin and muscle. It is believed to have been inspired by the armament of big cats, and the term bagh naka itself means tiger’s claw in Hindi.

[suledinharillen]

☄ theshirallen | their beloved

He is remembering it wrong, he knows. The city had been closer–he can smell the stone walls baking in the sun–and there had never been much coastline for lounging. The ocean kept Sundarin alive, for the sea was not so blighted as the land, and trade and fishing kept the beaches busy from high to low tide. And it was no place for an elf. At least, not an elf with vallaslin on his cheeks and no employer to vouch for his validity.

He’s remembering it wrong, but he could smell the ocean from his apartment, from the rooftop where he grew his garden, and he had always thought that maybe there was a place just down the way from all the commotion where he could watch the moonrise over the waves. He had never really made it a priority to find it. Maybe he should have. It’s nice here, where he can still smell the city and the sun and the spices, but it’s quiet except for the whisper of water against the shore.

He’s remembering it wrong, and it smells of ocean and lavender and it’s quiet except for–

Except for the sound of chimes, which ring harmonious to the ocean’s murmur. Ian blinks and sits up slowly, pulling his hands from behind his head to push against the sand until he can draw his knees almost to his chest, hugging them with one arm.

“Hello.”

He wonders in an absent way if he should be concerned, but he can’t bring himself to feel it. Looking the spirit over, breathing the scents of lavender and spring budded herbs, he feels as if…as if he’s forgotten something. It lingers just beyond memory, a fond, familiar sensation without name.

“You didn’t. Startle me.” Which–distantly–strikes him as odd. “I didn’t know you were here, but–have…have we–I feel like I should know you. I’m sorry, if I should.”

The heel of his hand against his eye is a fidget of a world where things follow different rules, and no sand rubs raw at his lashes. “I’m having a hard time keeping things…keeping things sorted. Please, you can–you can join me, if you want. I don’t know what I might offer you, but–” He gestures. “–but I don’t mind the company. I think. I’ve been lonely.”

“My name is Peace,” he replies, “and I am easy to forget in times like these.”

Whether he means the threat posed by Corypheus or the dreamer’s inner turmoil, he allows Ian to decide. He has little regard for Corypheus, a false god who knows nothing but how to sow discord, but in the hearts of those that have risen to oppose him he has seen something worthy. Contentment, clarity of purpose, peace to balance the chaos in Thedas. He sees the same in Ian, who plants seeds of calm in those he loves, and allows weeds to grow in his own garden.

“Company for company is an even trade,” Peace says as he settles closer to the earth, even if he never quite touches the ground. “We have an acquaintance in common-- two, in fact. I have known Solas since his heart was not so tender and his outlook less bitter.” When his name was less of an impossible dream. He folds his hands together in his lap, a soft pulse issuing from the center of his palms that disturbs the sand and sea around them, until it returns to its natural course.

Sitting side-by-side, he can see the difference between them. His skin is smooth, flawless, and does not show the wear of the ages he knows he has seen-- Ian’s is marked by the sun, fitting for a sibling of the sky, and, the corners of his eyes wrinkle as he squints against daylight. “If it would make you more comfortable, I do not have to look like this,” he says, “the power to perceive me as more lies with you.”

[suledinharillen]

☄ cvrnunnos | bedic

   The anger he might have had leaves as quickly as it had come, leaving him tired. “ It’s complicated. ”  It was always complicated, & Bedic seemed to never do anything about his problems until he was neck deep in red lyrium and scarcely a word to anyone who loved him. Bedic knew how his relationship looked to outsiders. He could parade around all day how different it was, but it didn’t really matter much when you looked at it deeper.

   We. Them. What did it matter ? He almost scowls at it. That sense of community he never got to have because he was too busy pretending the points of his ears were rounder in a tinderbox of humans. Resentment simmers under the skin, grinding in his jaw until she takes the coin and he takes the mittens. The old ones he sheds without a second thought, shoving them into his pocket as if he’d been burned.

   “Funny,” He remarks, deflecting her words & his anger at the same time. “ Help always seems to run out when I need it. ” Bedic taps the side of his head. “ I’ve got corruption in my head and a lifetime of struggles to make up for it. ” But he puts the gloves on, & they’re so soft he’s grateful she took the copper. He sighs, looking off to the snowy ground. “ Thank you, Adélaïde. ” Sincerity creeps into his voice, coloring the warmth which normally made his voice lilt. “ Hard to trust when everyone wants to burn you. “

“Complicated,” she echoes, almost smiling with memories of her own youth. “I am too old to pretend I understand the appeal of ‘complicated.’”

She is no old maid, but she’s long past the age where ‘complicated’ sounds more tiring than thrilling. Too many affairs with women who could not say the word ‘love’ not even if she paid them. Simple is best, though hard to come by in Halamshiral.

Adélaïde narrows her eyes, trying to discern the expression upon his face. He seems bitter for someone so young. Perhaps the world wears the youth down quicker than when she was a girl, or perhaps she has just forgotten what it is to be that age. “That is when you ask for it,” she says, firm but not cold. “There are too many masks in Orlais, it can be difficult to tell a noble struggle from a cry for help.” Too often it becomes clear only in hindsight, and that is how they lose people. “We do not have much, but never too little to not offer a thing.” She gestures towards the gloves, two coppers still held between bare fingers.

[suledinharillen]

☄ theshirallen | their beloved

@suledinharillen :: Peace

Dreaming alone is uncomfortable. Ian stumbles into an empty bed, pushing against his weariness as long as he might. Two days, sometimes three. The tea that Solas taught him to brew sits untouched on their shared table, steaming with the promise of a dreamless rest, and he watches it with bleary eyes as he tries to decide if tonight he is brave enough to forgo it.

He could just wait, he tries to tell himself. Solas will be back soon. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next day.

He could drink the bitter tea and sleep empty, and try again when Solas has returned. He could busy himself with something menial–he’s too shaky, too distracted to do anything more than sort herbs or fold linens–until morning, and spend the next day much the same as this one.

Both choices feel heavy. He’s tired, and he misses dreaming with Solas. Solas will be tired, too, when the Inquisitor and he return, and…and there’s no reason to believe that Ian’s dreams will be any more mild than…

It isn’t fair to wait, and then to keep Solas awake when his dreams turn dark and cold. He could drink the tea tonight and sleep, and drink again tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever Solas is back, but…oh. He misses dreaming together.

He leaves the candle burning, but he crawls to the far side of the bed, to where the pillow smells like soft memories, and pulls the blankets to his shoulders. He doesn’t close his eyes, not really. He lingers, watching the steam from an untouched mug spiral into the shadows cast by the flicker of the candle, until his eyes close themselves. He’s so tired.

He dreams of an unbroken sky, and hot sand that blows rough against his cheeks. The only pillow here is the fold of his arms behind his head, and when he breathes in he smells the ocean and the city, mingled with the spices from someone’s kitchen.

It’s quieter than he remembers, but that realization is distant, almost unobserved. He doesn’t mind quiet so much, these days. It feels rare, or forgotten.

It’s quieter than he remembers, and the sky is unbroken by anything but clouds, and when he breathes he smells the ocean, and he tries not to think too hard about anything but that.

It is uneasy to know someone you are a stranger to. He wonders if Love felt the same with Solas, who stumbles into them as though they are new when they are as old as elvhen kind. Perhaps Fear knew the people first, but Love knew them best. Even him.

For some time he has watched Ian in their place-- how long, he cannot say. Months? Years? Hours? The Veil has stolen time from him, he only knows it must have passed. Moving, though not always forward, like the tides he arrives on. It ebbs and flows, progress undone by the way of the world. The dream itself is a step back into a simpler time, though emptier than he expects. As though Ian must isolate himself from even his memories.

Foam washes Peace ashore, the petals that cradle him unfolding to meet the stand. His feet do not quite reach the earth, and when his hands fold together the skin beneath them is not quite alive, but something in-between person and thing. The realisation lessens him, but his name, at least, is still his own.

They grey tide carries the flower away, the last burst of colour swallowed by the sea. He sees now why he was called, as he gazes across sands that stretch as far to his left and right as Ian’s imagination allows. It is peaceful here.

His first words he considers before he speaks, knowing that knowing might cause him undue stress. Peace is a stranger, even if he knows Ian’s heart, and his nature compels him to proceed with care. He does not speak his greeting, it comes on a breeze that smells of the colours the dream lacks, the lavender he had woven into his sleeves and the healthy green of an elfroot sprig.

“Greetings,” he says, in a voice that echoes with the sound of wind chimes. He tries to remember how they speak in a dreamless world, the words that fill empty air. Here they are a show, done to make the dreamer more comfortable. That, and he feels it will make Love glad. “I hope I did not startle you. I only wished to ask if I might join you?”

[suledinharillen]

☾ himsulem

   “Funny-” his hand wraps tighter against the pole arm, if he is phased by the way that his reply is received he does not express it. Perhaps they did not understand, the last thing that they wanted to do was fight. They seemed young, much younger than he was and there was one thing that they were tasked to do if they caught intruders: drag them out if they refused to comply with orders. Which was something Himsulem did not want to do. He inhales sharply, a simple, gentle smile on his lips “But I am serious, you need to leave. What is your name?“

It doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s funny, the air is stiff and full of stuffy duty. He smells of higher callings, of purpose, like those that served June, only– not. They fade somewhat, their defiance not so great that they would risk imprisonment. Still, he asks their name, and to give their name is to be defiant. “You won’t like it,” they answer with a sigh of air between the leaves.

[suledinharillen]

☾ himsulem

 He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when patrolling that area, those areas are restricted and protected and yet there he was, staring at all the protections down and looking at the small group that stared at him like does at a hunter. They were lucky that he was alone, had he not been alone this situation would have been very different. He stands beneath the door frame “You are not meant to be here.”

starter call ( accepting ) | @vherlen

This place was sacred, and every step they took defiled holy ground– they loved it. Their feet had been washed in the pools around Fen’Harel’s sanctuary, but were still blooded with the deaths of June’s devoted. His warning pleased them, lips turning upwards into a guilty smile. “I am not meant to be anywhere,” they say with a voice that is apart from themself, stirring in the grass, as if the earth itself speaks.

[suledinharillen]

☾ nydhisa

She knows. What Vherlen says is nothing she hasn’t told - scolded - herself, though their tone lacks her reproach.  She won’t deny a lingering sense of displacement here, as she’d feel anywhere. But here is where she’d been welcomed, and here was what she’d protect. Nydhisa didn’t know how else to exist. She’d try, though. 

“Not yet,” she agrees, almost, and in her a wall begins to crumble in the simple act of sitting beside them.  

She looks more like a statue than a person, shoulders broad against the darkness. Sitting, she’s smaller, but it’s no less strange. It’s like a trick, soft cat paws that hide retractable claws. They’re not sure they’ve ever been surrounded by so many people who could kill them in an instant (but then, they’re a killer too, aren’t they?).

“Do you… want there to be a fight?” they ask through the fire, which rises higher, stoked by their thoughts.

[suledinharillen]

Nydhisa is tall, but never makes them feel small. Decked in armour beside their soft cloth, shining in the freshly stoked fire, it’s all a little strange. Vher pulls a blanket around their shoulders, casting the warrior in a sideways glance.

“There’s no fight here, you know.”

☾  @sulahnanor | @nydhisa

[suledinharillen]

WHAT’S YOUR SOCIAL LINK?

MAJOR ARCANA: THE HANGED MAN

The Hanged Man Arcana is associated with self-sacrifice for the sake of enlightenment, the bindings that makes one free, paradoxes and hanging between heaven and earth. You should take the time necessary to reflect over one's upcoming actions. You are sometimes self-sacrificial, but are more often notable for being caught between two different extremes, parties or stages in life.

SECONDARY: THE STAR

The Star Arcana is also commonly associated with hope, self-confidence, faith, altruism, luck, generosity, peace and joy. You are filled with hopefulness and joy.

TERTIARY: THE PRIESTESS

The Priestess is a symbol of hidden knowledge or other untapped power, wisdom, mystery and patience. Usually quiet, reserved, and very intelligent. Often modest and shy, and won't open up easily to others.