#Dirth's face!

[webanglikethat]

an aftermath of episode 8, a life for a life. (a Devi and Ram oneshot)

also available to read here: ao3 published: 2024-06-06 words: 5,123 btw if you read this and don’t leave a comment a fairy will lose her wings

Devi held herself high, walking towards the garden, almost as if hiding behind dirt and leaves could alleviate her anxiety. she couldn't wrap her head around what had just happened, but she couldn’t let anyone know, she couldn’t let the truth slip … how ironic, how could she demand the truth, if she herself was a vessel overflowing with falsity? and yet she ran, for she knew how to do that the best after all. she had come out of the meeting with Mr Vaish, a meeting whose ending she could not have fathomed, not even in the wildest vision of her most ardent migranes. a meeting in which she had discovered a truth that had been eluding her for five years, a truth hiding right in front of her, a mindgame one might say.

Deviya Sharma was meant to die,and it was a fate she could not escape, for it had been demanded and forged by the Goddess herself.

Devi was going to die when she married Ian.

Devi was going to die, and it was going to be soon.

the prophecy had been clear and crystalline. the stars aligned to seal her destiny, perhaps even long before she drew her first breath, a victim of an inevitability that had haunted her before knowing it. this cruel revelation hung in the air like a haunting melody, echoing through the chambers of her mind, a symphony that could never cease to play from now on. tick tock, tick tock, so the clock laughed in her face, as time went on but she felt frozen in it, trapped in a glacier of her doing. the world seemed to shift beneath her feet, as if the dirth beneath the garden was stairs, and each step was an interminable reminder of the weight of the knowledge she now carried, opening and daring her to fall into the pit of her new reality. the truth, elusive and spectral, had finally unveiled itself. for half a decade, she had wandered through a labyrinth of uncertainty, her heart traveling alongside unanswered questions. but now she knew — and life would never be the same. so what was worse, she wondered, the not knowing or the knowing? which was more haunting, knowing she had been laughing and kissing her lover with an expiration date on her body, or now knowing the expiration date of not only herself, but their relationship too? how could she have not known? even a pig to slaughter would notice. the knowing was a double-edged sword. sure, it provided clarity, putting an end to the endless speculation and anxiety that had lingered in the back of her mind. but on the other hand, it brought a firm finality. the path ahead was now clear, but it was a path she had no desire to walk.

in those five years, she had seen it all; she had experienced deaths, some closer than she could process. she was lacerated with disappointment and she combatted grief, a companion that had accompanied her throughout it all, a constant reminder of that fateful night — the night her brother was taken from her and the flames of arson devoured their joint world, leaving behind an existence bereft of him and all the love she had ever known. her throat closed up as the memories surged back with a visceral force, just another force to add to the list of which she couldn't control nor possess. it was as if she were back in that burning mansion, on that damned mountain, that summer night. she could perceive it all again; from the heat searing her skin to the acrid smoke clawing at her lungs like a tiger approaching his victim. she could hear the crackling of the fire, feel the oppressive heat pushing her towards the brink of suffocation as panic gripped her chest and her heart pounded in her ears as the flames danced in her vision, a relentless specter from her past, an interminable hologram that repeated the same movie every. single. time. so welcome to the manuscript of grief, she said quietly to herself.

act one began, the lights dimmed and the flames rose. Devi could almost hear his voice, her beloved brother, beckoning her to Kamal, demanding of her to run, to just run and not look back, to hide in a safe place because it would be okay. but it wasn't okay, it surely hadn't been okay. Devi could almost smell the charred remains of their life, taste the bitterness of the loss that had settled in her mouth that night. the overwhelming dread, the frantic desperation, the helplessness, the screams, the pair of arms holding her back, scratches of nails as she fought, the clang of jewelry as she shook her face, rain mixing with tears —it was as if she were reliving the nightmare all over again.

but this time it was her life that was meant to flatline, and not his heart. (what a cruel twist, it seems the Sharma family is forever meant to star in a tragedy.)

losing her brother had felt like losing herself, as if a fragment of her soul had been cut away, shattered like their dream of a future in which they could live together in happy bliss. the taste of loss was more than a metaphor; it was a physical presence, a bitter, metallic tang that coated her mouth and refused to leave like a distant relative trying to claim what was hers. sometimes, in the middle of the night, she could swear she would sense it again — that smell of rotting flesh, the blaring and deafening gun, denying her brother of one last wish, an honorable death. and instead of running to him, she ran away, like she had promised him to, but that, my dearest goddess, didn't mean she was able to outrun the guilt. she knew it had been the right thing, the only route to ensuring her family legacy and her own safety, but it gnawed at her like a child tugging at his mother's skirt. she should've been with him that night. she should've protected him, she should've gotten him outside before anyone else, and she shouldn't have let Ram lead her away. this was her brother, half of her soul, the vessel of her blood, the echo of her existence, and she left him. and perhaps, she could have saved him, but the lasting fact is she will never know. and once again, she doesn't know what's worse: the not knowing, the guilt, or the what if, or the knowdlege that his presence had been forgotten, as she escaped the mansion with Ram. he hand't even been a thought in the back of her mind. and what is a sibling, if not the first to love you boundlessly, and the first to leave you shamelessly?

as she reached the end of the garden, hidden away from any gaze that would drown her with snotty remarks, Devi’s thoughts swirled like leaves caught in a tempest, and honestly, she thought to herself, comparing her life to a tempest was an understatement. it was a litote where each one was a fragment of the revelation of her path in life, or more accurately perhaps, the path to her death. the reality she had known, the life she had lived, now seemed like a mere fragile illusion, a puppet show designed for the immortals’ joys. how could she reconcile the world she knew with the truth that had just been unmasked? she couldn't hide it, not to herself at least. tomorrow she would wake up, raise her head proudly, wear her Sharma ring, adorn her body with jewelry others could only dream of wearing in the afterlife, participate in the Dozen's meeting, smirk and hold her foot down as she quickly remarked every word or action from the others, and she would smile as if nothing had happened, as if her life hadn't turned out to be a slaughtering transaction. she couldn't let them know and she wouldn't let them know — because any sign of weakness would be seized upon, a chink in her armor that could quickly unravel the balance of respect and authority she had fought so hard to attain along with the place she had so forcefully carved for herself in society. her presence was no longer personal, it was political. and she would do everything to not lose it, even if it meant losing herself first.

but that is the funny thing about attaching your existence to a role so strongly. the very armor you wear can become your prison. and sure, it gave Devi power and respect along with strength, but it subsequently isolated her from her own humanity. and yet, despite it all, she couldn't fraud herself into forgetting or into pretending this truth wasn't a ghost now living in her room and her mind, occupying every land and surface of her existence, as the British had done with her homeland.

and … how different truly, were the British from her destiny, she wondered. she knew it was a foolish comparison, one that could have her even imprisoned and exiled from the Dozen, because how could one compare the brutality of the invaders to the path forged by the merciful goddess herself? the British, with their seemingly insatiable hunger for power and domination, had carved a path of destruction through her land, leaving blood and hope behind every one of their footsteps. they had plundered and pillaged, leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. and the goddess — she was her creator. Devi was her child, but mothers often give birth to victims and not lovers, and Devi felt like a pawn in a game she hadn’t agreed to. so how different truly was the act of the British demolishing her country to the act of the Maharani demolishing her existence as she had known it? how difference is brutality truly, for isn’t it the same, regardless of names, status and history? the essence of brutality lies in its capacity to dehumanize and dominate, to destroy and relish in the chaos, to lead astray and drown the blindly faithful. power, whether human or divine, can be equally merciless. names and faces might change, but even a blind woman would agree that the suffering remains the same.

Devi had always been a fighter as her spirit was unbroken even by the worst trials she had faced. she hadn’t always been like this, but the death of her brother and the crowd of people beneath her, who urged her to give up her place in the Dozen, had turned her into a calculating woman. she had been a gentle and laughing child before, but she had to ice her heart because in a war between compassion and intellect, the winner was clear. “so this was no different”, she told herself. she could swim against the current, forging a new way forward. surely she could undo the reins of destiny, unstitch the tapestry of fate, and redo the prophecy. she has done this before, hadn’t she? she had showed everyone who told her a woman couldn’t possibly lead a family’s legacy that she in fact could. she could manage the finances, she could close a deal with the British Lord, she could gain the respect of Vaish, she could take part in meetings on her own without a guardian. she was Devi Sharma, head of her family, the last one remaining, a legacy standing longer than her grief so she would face whatever challenges came her way with the same stubborn determination that had carried her family through centuries. only time would tell whenever the manuscript of premeditated divine revelation would crumble first, or if it would be her stubborn heart.

as immersed as she was in her thoughts, she didn’t hear his footsteps, but she felt his presence and knew immediately who it was. she could’ve recognized him blindly, deafly even perhaps, though she wasn’t sure how that would work. after all, you do need ears to hear footsteps. she smiled to herself at her own joke. he hadn’t even approached her yet, and she was already joking around, if that wasn’t the premise of their relationship, then she didn’t know what it was. a lighthearted back and forth of teasing, of kissing between droplets of wine, of hiding behind curtains and dancing in front of thousands, of chase and run, of passion and a joy she wouldn’t have ever imagine.

Ram stood a few paces away, his expression a mix of concern and quiet determination, a mix she hadn’t seen before. his face used to be a shrine of teasing, of smirks and small smiles, which never truly left his face when she was around, but this time it was different. «Deviya», he said softly, his voice breaking through her reverie. he rarely called her by her full name, it had always been either Devi or Rakhasi — so called man-eaters monsters, his stupid yet loving nickname for her. but what better setting to use her name? so she turned to face him, her smile fading as the weight of the prophecy settled back on her shoulders. his fingers grazed her cheeks, as he often adored to do. that was the thing with Ram — he would always find an excuse to touch Devi; whether it was holding her hand to lead her somewhere, brushing his fingers over her cheek, cupping her face, putting a hand on her waist to surprise her, “trapping” her against the wall to kiss her, putting his finger on her lips, tracing words in her hair. it had always been a game of push and pull, of hide and seek. but it seemed now, they had been found and couldn’t hide, not from destiny, not from Ram’s duties as the goddess’s will’s interpreter, not from Devi’s imminent death. just uttering those words aloud asphyxiated the teasing out of Ram.

«Ram», she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. but Ram could see the turmoil in her eyes, the fear and uncertainty that had taken root — for it was a twin to the one in his own eyes. for how much she could try and hide it, Ram wasn't called a seer for nothing. he put his hand around her waist, bringing their bodies closer, as if the warmth of his body could ease the coldness of this reality, their new reality. «we can change this», he reassured her, but his eyelashes betrayed his calmness as they were shaking.

Devi let out a shaky breath, her eyes searching his, analyzing the face she had gone from finding annoying to being her only anchor in her slowly unraveling madness. «change this?» she echoed, a hint of her usual defiance creeping into her voice, the one he had learned to poke and to adore. "and how exactly do you plan to defy destiny, Ram? by charming the goddess with your smile? because that’s too egoistical even by your standards” she arched an eyebrow, looking directly at him with that signature smirk he had learned to trace even with his eyes closed at night, when he missed her the most.

Ram chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her, a sound she wishes she could trap into a bottle, perhaps a box, so wherever she went, she could have him with her. «if only it were that simple, my dearest demon. it might have worked with you, but I don’t think it will with her» he murmured, his hand sliding up her back to cradle her head. «but I’m serious. together, we are stronger than any prophecy. we will find a way. there is no way we were connected by Mahakali, if not because there is a way, an escape. nothing she does is ever a mistake, our connection is inescapable» his fingers grazed her lips and she leaned into his touch, her fingers gripping his shirt as if holding on to him could anchor her in this storm. «always the optimist„ she teased him, «you know, despite all the fun you make of my rule breaking streak and finding trouble even with eyes closed .. if this were a game, you'd be the one breaking all the rules». «and you'd be right there beside me», he countered, his lips brushing against her forehead, letting out a barely audible sigh. «my partner in crime, my rakhasi.» Devi's smile widened, her heart lifting slightly at his words. «well, someone has to keep you in check», she quipped. «we can’t have you, Mr Doobay, running off and getting us into more trouble than we are already in.» he laughed again, a rich, warm sound that made her momentarily forget the prophecy, as she wanted to just drown in it. Devi knew how to play many instruments, knew many dances, but she had never came across a tune she liked so much that she wanted to replay it and replay it until she went deaf from it. «I wouldn't have it any other way, miss Sharma», he said, his eyes locking onto hers with a determination that sent a shiver down her spine. «we will face this together, Devi. no matter what comes. I will be by your side, even if it means abandoning everyone else’s.» 

Devi shook her head slightly, as if he just told her a joke, «how can you be by my side, when we are akin to spies in the shadows? we can’t shine in the daylight. you can’t be seen with me, I can’t be seen with you .. well not like this. we are both heirs to different legacies, so how can you promise me this?» she said, her voice shaking on the word promise. what were promises, if not meant to be broken? her brother had promised her it would be alright, but it hadn’t been. it hadn’t been, not since, not ever again. so how could she trust another promise, from another man, once again? but what she didn’t say was how she deeply dreamed to shine in the light, to raise her head proudly, him beside her, and shape her own destiny so whatever they had wouldn’t be a secret but kept akin to a prayer. for what distinction exists between the tender caress of a beloved upon her visage and the heavenly benediction bestowed upon the devout? what semblance does religion bear if not the tender embrace of her lover in the nocturnal hours? and what is prayer is not if not the fervent plea of "remain with me" uttered in the hushed dawn's embrace? what is love, if not the first religion you put your faith in?

«what are promises worth, Ram?». she continued, her tone filled with a bitter edge, shaking away her thoughts. «my brother promised to protect me, to keep our family safe, and look where that got us. promises are just words, easily broken and forgotten when the weight of the world comes crashing down. why should I believe that your promise is any different?», she asked him, almost immediately regretting the vulnerability she had let slip, like a secret she couldn’t contain. but it was alright, for she knew he would keep this moment their secret, as they already did with their relationship. it seemed they were both amazing liars and thieves of truths, just how ironic.

Ram didn’t hesitate for a single moment and pulled her closer, his embrace a fortress against the world, as if the weight of his body against her could calm her turmoil, as if that nearness could be healing. (to him it was). his gaze softened, as it often did when his thoughts traced back to her. «I can’t promise that it will be easy, or that we won’t face more challenges. we both are too smart to believe that. we could die trying, our names could be dragged into the mud if this was ever revealed, but I can promise that I will stand by you, fight for us, and never let you face anything alone. I know that together we have the power to redefine what our legacies mean and rewrite the story. lion and falcon, remember? we can take both the earth and the sky.»

Ram couldn’t believe his own words, since when had he become so sentimental? since when did he began thinking of offering himself to bear her weight? when had his mindless teasing turned into emotions he couldn’t put a label on? all his life Ram had known one thing; relationships weren’t meant to amuse or to revere. they were to carry their surname, carry the weight of their household, carry their legacy. relationships weren’t personal, they were political. an alliance, a partnership, a confederation of sorts, an union for a greater good — a good that was never considerate of his own. 

but with Devi, everything was different. her laughter, her fiery spirit, her unwavering determination, her endless teasing, that raised eyebrows accompanied with her smirk, her eyes when she felt passionate about something, her quick remarks around him — she had so quickly become more than just a fleeting companion in his hidden world. he always joked that she was caught in his trap, but he now realized that if she was flame, he was the moth. the more he tried to distance himself, the more irresistibly he was drawn to her light. that was why he always searched for her in a herd of people, that was why he searched for her condescending smile during the Dozen’s meetings. Ram had always prided himself on his control and his ability to navigate the dance of duty and expectation with precision. but with Devi, all of that seemed to fall away. her presence ignited something within him, a longing he had never known, a longing he couldn’t put a name on. or maybe he could, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself. Ram had always believed that his life was predetermined, a series of obligations and roles he had to fulfill. it wasn’t a matter or if or when. it was a clear road ahead, made of stones he couldn’t turn around and demolish. he had to carry their name, get married, have an heir, and watch the story repeat, unfold in front of his eyes for decades to come. yet here he was, offering promises he never thought he’d make, driven by an impulse he couldn’t ignore, standing in front of a woman he shouldn’t pursue. now he knew; being trapped by her was more freedom than he had ever known.

Devi looked up at him, taking in the scent of lavender and sandalwood, a scent that already felt like her own when he pulled her towards him, «those in charge bend the rules to their will. you are my equal, and .. don’t you dare laugh», she interrupted her sentence, thinking Ram would make fun of her, of little miss Sharma comparing herself to a Doobay, but he didn’t tease her so she continued «we have enough power to change rule to suit ourselves.» Ram's eyes softened as he listened. there she was, the Devi he knew, the one who was able to find escapes in the darkness, solutions to problems no one else could. that was his girl, but for how much longer he wondered. «Devi, I've never doubted your strength or intelligence. you’re not just my equal; you're my partner in every sense.» Devi smirked, raising an eyebrow. «in every sense, huh? so does that mean you'll finally start taking my advice instead of just pretending to listen?» Ram chuckled, a teasing glint in his eye, «only if you promise to stop 'accidentally' forgetting our religious rituals.» and what he didn’t tell her was how often he found himself thinking of her during those, how his eyes searched for hers, just to catch a glimpse of her walking past him. in those moments of chanting and solemn tradition, Ram’s mind often wandered to her, more often than he’d probably admit to anyone, himself at the top of the list. while others were lost in prayer, he found himself lost in thoughts of Devi. (and what is love, if not a prayer? what is a prayer, if not thinking of the one you love?). he would remember the way her eyes sparkled with defiance and mischief, how her laughter could light up even the darkest of days. he would remember how she awkwardly flirted with him when she lost the bet with the Basu twins and how he enjoyed teasing her and seeing the pink in her cheeks, a shade of roseate he could wear everyday. he remembered hearing the wildest stories about her; of her running away riding a horse and getting injured, of closing a deal along with the British Lord, of creating trouble when she couldn’t find any. so he sough her out, lingered between doors to catch a glimpse of her, pretending forgetfulness had put roots in his mind just so he could turn back and linger in her presence again. catching her had become quite a challenge, one he was willingly participating in. in his almost thirty years of life Ram had never known a sentiment even coming close to this. he had always deprived himself of feelings, for he knew he was but a pawn in a game out of his reach, and he had accepted it. as a Seer, he was expected to support Mahakali’s will, under any circumstances or situation, but here he was, defying this one simple rule for a girl he knew he couldn’t have. but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t die trying. after all, Doobays are known for being stubborn. (so in a way, he is carrying the legacy by being stubborn, isn’t he?)

Devi chuckled and nodded, «I suppose I’ll attend, as long as you’re there too» and what she omitted was how grateful she was for him. she knew he was a mere mortal like her, but sometimes it felt like he possessed a healing power in addition to his Seer skills. a power that she could feel flow in her vein whenever he reassured her, a power as intoxicating as his words were, and she was but a drunk girl, hanging onto every word, the way a spider hangs onto its web.

Devi flashed a mischievous grin, and added «you know, Ram, for someone who's supposed to be the great interpreter of the goddess's will, you're looking a bit too serious today. did you forget to consult the stars this morning, or did they just refuse to cooperate with your grand plans?» she chuckled softly, her teasing tone a welcome relief amidst the weight of their conversation. «or perhaps I’ve been spending too much time daydreaming instead of focusing on my duties», he countered, a playful glint in his eyes, leaning in closer to her. «who needs duty when I can have the thrill of chasing after you instead?» he replied, watching the pink glow on her cheeks reappear and gods, he swore he’d love to die in a sea of that same shade. Devi arched an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. «well, in that case, you better keep up, Mr. Doobay. because this rakhasi isn't one to be caught so easily», she declared, her voice lowering, as she challenged him.

and so he took the challenge, as he finally kissed her, her lips on his, her arms around his neck, anchoring themselves to each other like doomed lovers drowning. their lips met with an urgency born of desperation, of “stay with me” hidden on their eyelashes, of “I will” on their noses grazing axis. Ram’s lips, soft and inviting, were a sanctuary that Devi sought refuge in, her own lips a testament to the depth of his longing. how could they kiss like this, if their relationship was a mere fleeting teasing object of foolish affection? they held onto each other as if they were dissipating colors and it was okay, as long as their shadows were inked together, imprinted on an immortal book of their story. each movement was a silent plea for their love to defy the cruel hand of fate. and as she felt his smile against her lips, his fingers tightening their grip on her waist as he could transcribe his fear of losing her in that simple act, Devi knew that whatever happened, it would be alright. if her past was engulfed in flames, he was the soothing stream, quenching the fires of uncertainty. if all she had ever known was a lie, the shadows of them in this moment were the only truth she believed in. «it will be alright», she told herself, and she didn’t realize she had said it aloud until she heard Ram whisper «it will be» back.

and so, at her soon to-be-grave they stood. they knew better than to beg or fall on their knees, pleading to the sky, to their creator. but that wouldn’t stop them from trying to redo the prophecy. destiny after all is just a tapestry made of stitches, and even the greatest pieces can be undone. and if not, if the threads refused to be shattered, at least they would live with the certainty that they, in this exact moment, had existed. Deviya Sharma and Ram Doobay had existed on this day, on the day where life and death had swirled into one. they had existed on this day, and they had tried, for love is trying, trying and trying, until your last dying breath. even as the threads of their existence began to unravel like cards, they knew they would have had each other on this day. and though the threads may never break, and their love may fade into a non existence, lingering between expiration and life, in this moment of certainty, they knew they'd never be bereft of love, even if they refused to utter those four letters — those two vowels and two consonants they weren’t ready to concede and confess. all came in pair of twos — vowels, consonants, mouths, eyes, hands, promises; Deviya and Ram.

falcon and lion, sky and earth, wings and roar — Deviya and Ram. the game has just began for in death one learns life, in drowning you learn the shore, in a trap you learn resilience. their fight had just started. but for now, they would hold onto each other, for their embrace was a temple of their crafting, a religion they wouldn’t let crumble. if their destinies were anything but not each other, the pen was in their hand and they’d craft another.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳

taglist: @liykaii

[wegotisms]

Sweet Panacea (Solavellan Fic)

Another one from forever ago I can't find on my blog anymore. Super fluffy fluff for the dragon age feelies.

AO3 here

---

The cold of the stone floor seeps through the soles of her bare feet, but it is not why she shivers. She feels the weight of the purple bags under her eyes, the slump of her shoulders, the heaviness of her head; her body aches for sleep, and yet she pads silently towards the rotunda, one hand gripping at the fabric of her tunic, the other worrying at a lock of long, blonde hair.

Dalla pauses in the doorway, watching the elf hunched over a wooden table, his head in his hands as he digs through some ancient tome. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and wraps both arms around her waist. She should go. She should turn around and drag herself back up to her quarters and close her eyes and try to forget it. He has better things to worry about than her nightmares.

And yet his name slips from her lips, so quiet she hopes he doesn’t hear.

“Solas?”

He looks up at her and his face falls, concern etched across his features. “Vhenan,” he says, pushing away from his desk to stand, “what’s wrong?”

Dalla whimpers, the words caught in her throat. Tears sting at her eyes and she shifts her gaze to the floor. He deserves better than to see her facade of strength and confidence crumble. She really shouldn’t bother him with this. She should go. But her legs are so heavy and then his arms are around her, and she sags against his chest and the tears come. In one swift movement Solas bends and hooks an arm behind her knees, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her over to the white couch on the far side of the room.

He sits and cradles her against him, his cheek resting on her head, a hand tangled in her hair and massaging her scalp. His chest rumbles as he begins to hum for her, a melody slow and sweet. It is an old elvhen lullabye, she knows. She had sung it for him once, asked what the words meant, but she can’t remember them now, as her tears soak into his shirt, as she clings desperately to him, shoulders heaving. He holds her tighter and she loses herself in him, in his strength, his warmth, the soft scent of elfroot and ozone.

He feels like home.

He’s still humming by the time her tears stop. Her eyes are puffy and red and she buries her face in the soft wool of his shirt, sighs against his chest.

“Ir abelas,” she mutters, pulling away from him. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Vhenan,” he says, hooking his finger under her chin and tilting her head up to look at him. “Ar lath ma.” He kisses her nose and then rests his forehead against hers. “Dirth ma, what troubles you?”

“Mmhmm?” He runs his fingers lightly over her arm, tracing the crimson lines of her vallaslin.

She can’t say no to those dusty blue eyes. “Mnh.” She rests her head against his shoulder and nuzzles into the crook of his neck, her lips brushing against his skin. “I had a nightmare.”

Dalla sucks her teeth, searching for the words. They stick to her ribs, but Solas’ gentle touch coaxes them from her. She wrings her hands in his shirt as the words spill from her lips, barely a whisper. “I dreamt I couldn’t remember her face.” She sniffs. “My mamae.”

His hand moves to her cheek, his thumb brushing across her tattoos. “Can you remember her now?”

She nods.

“Tell me about her.”

Dalla closes her eyes. “She… her hair was the color of the moon. And long.” She brushes her hands down her chest. “She always wore it down and loved to have me braid it.

“Her skin was the color of the earth, like mine. She chose Mythal for her vallaslin, green like the forest, like her eyes. I would trace them and she would tell me old elvhen stories….” She takes Solas’s hand from her cheek and clutches it in her own. “Babae always said I took after her, but her nose was smaller and she had… these big lips and round cheeks.” She relaxes against him. “She was soft and warm.”

“She sounds beautiful.”

“She was. She was the most beautiful thing in my world.”

“As you are in mine.”

Dalla smiles and spreads his fingers, kissing each one before clutching his hand against her chest and lifting her head to press her lips against his. He kisses her back, gently, his mouth demanding nothing, allowing her to melt into him with a soft sigh.

“You will not forget her, vhenan,” Solas says, breaking from the kiss and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, “I promise.”

“‘Ma serranas.” She pecks him on the nose and settles back against his chest, curling up against him. “Do you mind if we stay like this for a while?”

 Dalla awakens to sunlight trickling into her quarters and she stretches across her bed, yawning and running her fingers through her hair. She doesn’t remember coming to her quarters -- though Solas is stronger than he looks. The thought of him carrying her to bed makes her heart beat quickly in her chest and she smiles. She feels like a lovestruck teenager, but, she thinks as she stands and walks over to her wardrobe, she can allow herself this indulgence.

“Of course, my heart,” he says, planting a kiss atop her head and humming, his arms strong and warm around her, the melody soft and sweet on her ears.

--

She hums an elvhen lullabye as she begins pulling her tunic over her head, but pauses when she notices something leaning against the wall near her desk.

Her hands fly to her mouth. Did he really…? How could he have known? Had he walked the Fade for this? For her? Tears sting at her eyes. She had known he painted, but had never known he could create something as beautiful as this.

The canvas is stretched in an oaken frame and she bends to touch it, recoiling her hand slightly before ghosting her fingers over the paint. The colors, the shapes -- it’s just as she remembered. Dalla is a child again, gazing at her mamae in wonder as she pulls back the string of her bow, as she bends to scrape bark from a tree, as stories spill from her lips.

It’s almost like her mamae was never gone.

Dalla runs from her room, sprints down the stairs and bursts into the rotunda, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Solas is standing towards the wall, paintbrush in hand, and he barely has time to turn toward the rapidly approaching footsteps before she crashes into him, throwing her arms around him and nearly sending both of them toppling to the floor.

“Thank-you,” she mutters against his skin.

He smiles and wraps his arms around her, smearing paint down the back of her tunic and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

[cutelibrariangf]

I dont know if anyone caught this and I really hope people see this but I have come to a realization:

"Solas" in Dalish quite literally translates to pride, further more there are common phrases within the Dalish language that speak of pride ruining everything and blah blah blah here's my source.

What I find funny is that Fen'Harel/Solas shows up and is like "YEaH iTs ME, YOuRE LocaL ELVen ApOSTAte PrIDe" and if your playing a Dalish inky they don't question it or mention it, it's even funnier if your a Dalish Mage because then you're the First of your clan and you're supposed to know this shit. Like they're literally like "Suspicious amount of Fade knowledge, weird ass name, able to drag me into the Fade... Yeah isn't shady at all lemme continue to trust this guy."

Furthermore, Solas' fear is dying alone and the Dalish sayings are quite literally "Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din." Which roughly means: "Your pride is responsible for everything that has gone wrong; you will die alone." And there's another one thats: "Dirth ma banal. Mar solas ena mar din" which means "You have learned nothing. Your pride be your downfall." The wiki also says that these are common Dalish phrases so...

This likely means that Solas is probably super self aware and we, the fandom, can take this a bajillion ways. One way is that past Fen'Harel was often told that he was prideful and that it would lead to his misfortune and so in DAI he brands himself by his shortcoming to stick it in the faces of his fellow mages but fast forward to DAD, pride will be Solas' downfall and the DAD protagonist will leave him to die alone and pondering what would of happened if he wasn't so arrogant because he wouldn't have lost his friends, his lover (if romanced), or his future.

[docgold13]

Profiles in Villainy

Vulturo Prince of Darkness

The villainous Vulturo accrued a fortune from an unspecified source.  This wealth financed the development of a series of specialized vulture-themed weapons, which he used to operate as a high-priced assassin.  Vulturo was hired by the agents of FEAR to do in the high-flying Birdman after the hero had thwarted many of the organization’s villainous schemes.  Wirth his mechanical wings, repulser shield and cobalt ray emitter, Vulturo seemed the perfect adversary to take out Birdman.  Furthermore, the villain had devised a mechanical vulture called Dirth to battle Birman’s trusted golden eagle partner, Avenger.  To make matters worse, Vulturo chose to attack Birman at night when he hero’s solar-based powers were weakened.

Vulturo’s meticulous planning aside, Birman and Avenger managed to prevail and the villain barely escaped being apprehended by the authorities.  It would prove the first of many altercations between the two avian-based adversaries.  

Some time later, Vulturo earned a license to practice law and became a prosecutor who faced off against Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law, on many an occasion.  

Actor Dick Beals voiced the villain in his original appearances on Birman and The Galaxy Trio; while actor Neil Ross voiced the character in Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law.  Vulturo debuted in an episode that aired on November 4th, 1967. 

[dreadfutures]

'a ring of gold hanging from a chain of iron, untouched by weather, unmarred by time, a warning, a monument, a curse' for dirthamen and solas, maybe??? 👀

It's been months!!!!!! since i did a prompt let alone wrote Dirth. For you, just for you, the start of a mystery in elvhenan.

for @dadrunkwriting

Dirthamen & Solas (#elvhenan au) (this Solas is Inquisition Solas, gone back in time to stop Andruil from spreading red lyrium)

-:-

Dirthamen is accustomed to the dark; since his inception, he has only felt curiosity for what a shadow might disguise. He knows well there is sometimes danger there—after all, his brother is Falon’Din—but he is assured of himself and his power and rarely has he ever feared what he might discover lurking in the dark. Any such risk is worth it for the occasional golden secret.

This golden secret, he is not so certain of.

The chain that keeps it elevated groans softly in the cavern, though if it moves, he cannot detect it. There is no breeze to stir the device, as far as he can tell, and they are so deep below the earth only the moving Stone should have been able to disturb it. Perhaps he is mistaken and the groan is not due to this monument’s movement. Perhaps it is alive, and in pain.

The chain would imply some need to tether it.

But it appears to be just a ring: the cut-out eclipse, the golden disc missing its heart. It is made, like all the others, of stone and gold and dreamstuff, a halo of mosaic pieces for the All-Mother. At its empty center, green and gold magic spins and dances in a locus, but it seems to be disconnected from any larger mechanisms. A power source with no application.

Dirthamen’s mind spins, too, as he considers why his sister might have need of such a thing in a place as strange as this. They are miles below the forest, and there are no major cities nearby—not a single sign of civilization, as far as he has estimated, at least. And why would Andruil chain the thing?

He eyes it from the safety of the shadowed archway, wary of stepping into the wide-open chamber. It is bare of all else but this ominous pendulum, chained in four places to keep it still.

A wolf’s feet pad quietly behind him as Solas returns.

“We were not followed,” says he. “Nor were there any wards upon the entrance…even in the past. Is the Huntress so convinced of her illusions that she would not take a single other precaution?”

Dirthamen frowns, never taking his eyes off of the power source. “It is just as likely that the illusion was meant to entice,” he murmurs. “We have come so far off the path, it could only be in search of her secrets—why not dangle them before us, bait for her prey?”

He sees Solas’s face in the corner of his vision, twisted into a lupine snarl despite having returned to his elven form.

“Careful, old friend,” Dirthamen says softly. “Do not let your pride blind you. She has caught you in her traps once before.”

Solas sweeps into the room in a way that might seem brazen and careless, were it not for the thick cloak of wards he had drawn around him in the same motion. “I cannot say I recommend the experience,” he drawls over his shoulder to Dirthamen, who nevertheless can see through his mask of calm. Few know how deep Andruil had sunk her claws into Fen’Harel. Even fewer know the deeper truth: even countless ages later, even after the death of the world, those old wounds still haunted Solas.

Dirthamen’s concern deepens.

He does not know if this mystery is meant to entice the Dread Wolf’s nose for trouble—or if, perhaps, Dirthamen’s sister has marked him as her prey at last.

[darethxshiral]

@aeliamaia​ location: Lupercalia notes: after dark, elsewhere the wedding has begun

There was an array of snacks on either side of the drow as he sat in the bleachers, Dirthara all but hissed when people got too close. He had no intention of sharing as he continued to watched the spectacle below. Aelia was a familiar face, they’d met at the bar when he was... Pathetic, to say the least. “Here,” Dirth said as he cleared some room, “you can sit beside me, I claimed the best seats here.” 

[nightmarist]

9, 10, 7, 6, 12, for whichever characters you want to talk about!

Hell yes, I'll do my Inquisition OCs !

Dirthadin, a former Dalish Keeper, Kasakos, bearer of the Anchor, Aribas, Tal-Vashoth spear thrower and leader of the Inquisition (leads for Kasakos), and Saarkadan, a Tal-Vashoth assassin and friend of Aribas and Kasakos from the same (former) mercenary Tal-Vashoth company.

9. What do they do with their free time? Do they have any vices?

Dirthadin is a bit of a workaholic so his archaeology and undertaking are his usual day to day life. He searches for Dalish treasures, artefacts, and corpses usually. He reburies corpses in proper burial sites when possible, using necromancy to move them. Sometimes it's creepy seeing an army of the dead walk up a mountain following a gaunt, dressed-in-black elf. Whatever he can't physically take, like carvings or paintings in a mountain or things too fragile to move, he draws them in a journal. No real vices, he's pretty straight edge. Talks with Dorian, Maeve, Vivienne, and Alexius about magic theory. Sometimes Solas though they butt heads about opinions on Dalish historical importance. Enjoys Blackwall's company quite a lot <3 Especially woodworking with him.

Aribas loves to drink. Anything, even if it tastes like nug piss. She's loud and obnoxious when drunk. Dances on tables (that won't break) when drunk, and learning silly human drinking songs. It's one of the few times she doesn't have to be so stern and intimidating (well, still intimidating). Makes bets with Sera, sometimes, mostly whether or not Sera can do XYZ and Sera always wins. Not that she ever minds. <3

Saarkadan likes quiet in his free time. Avoids taverns, usually, but might hang around the outside wall if there's a bard inside to listen. He bird-watches often, and likes to be in the trees. Volunteers as a target for Cullen's troop training, occasionally to Cullen's dismay but Saarkadan has proven very efficient at evasive maneuver. Also provides insight on how to kill Large things. Vices mostly just smoking in his free time.

Kasakos is still learning how to enjoy things. It's been about 11 years since he left the Qun, but it still takes so much time for him to get comfortable with new things. If he's not hanging around Saarkadan like a lost puppy, he's drawing things in the sand or doing macrame knots. He likes pretty things, and likes to stare at the paintings Solas makes in Skyhold. He likes the stories art tells. He can't read, but wants to. Usually tries to talk with Solas, Varric, or bards that aren't scared of him since he likes listening to stories and learning new words. Doesn't mind Cassandra's company, she's usually nice about the fact neither of them quite... "do" free time or basic life enjoyments. She tells him a little about the Chantry since he's curious, but he doesn't really believe in anything. Never really got a chance to. Not really looking to, though.

10. Have they ever been seriously injured? What was the outcome?

Saarkadan has a few scars on his stomach for being stabbed and arrow-pierced. His throat was cut, but the dumb human who tried to kill him didn't cut deep enough. He has a scar over his jugular for it now.

Kasakos has been injured by the sheer fact he's a former saarebas / qunari mage. His horns were sawed off, his mouth sewn shut, he has some scars on his face and body where restricting armor dug into his skin. His horns have grown back but they're gnarled and twisted.

Aribas and Dirthadin have yet to be seriously injured, just a few knicks here or there. Dirth has broken his ankle before, but it otherwise healed fine.

7. Did they ever work a normal, everyday job?

Hmmm yes and no? Dirthadin provides research for the Inquisition and Maeve, and sort of just does rogue archaeology work. kasakos, Saarkadan, and Aribas were mercenaries before, all left the Qun around the same time and just banded together for it. In the Qun they were simple soldiers in the same unit as Kasakos. Aribas occasionally elects herself as bartender. Otherwise, not really, their circumstances don't really let them pursue a normal job.

6. Which aspects of the culture they were born into holds the most significance for them?

Dirthadin is a Dalish mage. he used to be a Keeper, so it'shis duty to hold all the knowledge of the Dalish and pass it on. In pursuit of higher knowledge, he just.... Abandoned his clan. He trained his First and Second but only very briefly (for a Keeper), gave everyone the warning, and left. His clan is still bitter about it. Some worry about him since he was family, but others not so much. Because of his Dalish ancestry and obsession with Dalish history, he's made it his (impossible) life goal to collect it all.

Aribas and Saarkadan are both fomer Qunari turned Tal-Vashoth. Saarkadan doesn't hate the Qun, but thinks it only works in particular circumstances. It didn't for him. Aribas hates the fucking Qun and named herself "Aribas" in mockery of the triumvirate (Arishok, Ariqun, Arigena). "Bas" meaning "thing" and is a slur against anyone who isn't Qunari.

Kasakos doesn't mind the Qun. But he was miserable. He's a mage. He hates that the fact of his birth is something that means he is a horrible thing, a Saare Bas. He wants to have purpose, but doesn't want to become tranquil either. He is still navigating his feelings. He wasn't allowed to have feelings, so it's not just metaphorical for navigating his culture, but a literal trauma placed against him.

12. How efficient are they with things like crafting potions or repairing their own armor?

Dirthadin is very efficient at potion crafting. He's good with cloth and leather work but metalworking is beyond him, he has to get it professionally repaired or (usually) just gets new pieces.

Kasakos isn't very adept at much anything. He is proficient in Casting Dangerous Spells. He knows how to tie knots and weave, though. Macrame, baskets, armor... Shibari.

Aribas isn't very good at making things. She throws things.

Saarkadan is good with poisons. Occasional grenades, but prefers poison. He's a good cook. if you trust him not to poison you. Honestly, he's such a good cook you wouldn't mind being poisoned. He can patch a hole in his armor and with Gaatlok/Qunari Balck Powder can solder a patch in armor in a pinch.

Thanks !!

[magioffire]

I JUST THOUGHT OF SOMETHING AWESOME!!!

You know, how Dirth likes to just smoosh his face into Vali's softness, whenever the physical noise, as well as the mental noise get too overbearing and cause him migraines? I just remembered, that moths are evolved to be fuzzy to trap/diffuse echolocation pings from bats, to avoid getting detected and eaten.

So Vali's softness, and fuzziness is literally making him a noise-cancelling boyfriend!!!

oh my fucking god

pros of dating vali: -soft -noise cancelling to hide from predators -warm

cons of dating vali:

-nothing

[thiefbird]

Made my Dirthail Mahariel in this picrew:

Look how cute he is!

[noverturemusings]

The God, the Guide, and the Guardian

Click for better resolution, it got murked :’)

This thing took me almost a month good god. Anyway, been wanting to do a triptych for a while because how could I not with these three?

List of symbolisms under the cut because a lot of thought went into this piece. (spoilers for ITFOYL)

Solas and Dirthamen are facing Lavellan’s panel, but their eyes are hidden. Since Lavellan is meant to stand as a guide in this piece, it shows that they’re unable to fully see and follow his guidance. Solas is blinded by his duties as Fen’Harel (the wolf head) and Dirth is blinded by his duty to his family (the crown) and later, blinded by his grief (the funeral veil).

Since Lavellan is often referred to as Dirthamen’s raven, having a raven skull in Dirth’s hand symbolises his death at Dirth’s hand. Also, the key items the three are holding are in the same colour and haloed to show their connection to each other. Both the orb and the raven skull are omens of death, symbolising the hurt they’ve inflicted on Lavellan (his heart).

The raven skull is crying blood to mirror Lavellan crying gold in his panel, and also because it’s crying for Dirth since he wasn’t able to grieve properly. Also, it’s hella cool.

Speaking of crying, why is Lavellan crying gold? Well I was inspired by religious triptychs and the depictions of the Virgin Mary crying. Also, he’s got quite a few things to cry about, we’ll give him a pass pffhaha.

Lavellan has a halo to establish him as the guide, the light. The daggers pointed at him also shows how being worshipped is hurting him. (the entire thing looks sort of like a compass -- “compass of my heart” anyone?)

The fire design at the bottom of Lavellan’s robes is a nod to his trial. Also, Andraste’s death by fire.

Lavellan has no vallaslin. Mostly because I didn’t want the gold of his vallaslin to clash with the gold tears but let’s pretend I did it for symbolic purposes. Freedom! Huzzah!!

The stars! As some of u know I’m a sucker for celestial imagery and both Dirth and Solas have a star-related nickname for Lavellan. (The corvus and lupus constellations are also hidden in Lavellan’s cloak btw. They’re on the side respective of where Dirth and Solas are)

And to end on a happier note, there’s also the wisteria and dogwood that were present in the story! Both have a ton of symbolic meanings that are very varied, but I noticed that a meaning they had in common was love and renewal! Which I thought was pretty neat.

Yeah, there’s quite a bit. I may have overthought this.

[dragynkeep]

Been seeing some discourse about this on TikTok recently and was curious of your opinion; which do you think has a better written female cast, demon slayer or MHA?

demon slayer, 100% hands down.

the women are actually allowed to affect the story without being killed off in like two chapters. even when the women are killed off, like shinobo or lady tamayo, their deaths do still leave lasting actions that affect the story; & overall a lot of characters died with their gender not really impacting it.

mha may technically have more women in the main cast but they very rarely impact the story & are always made to face off against each other when they do fight, over a boy no less in context for uraraka & toga. the treatment of toga & suma regarding their bisexuality also has a dirth in how they’re actually handled.

[fennharel]

where? Senate-Controlled Catacombs who? @titaniaoftheseasons

The breeze of fall follows them as they sweep through the catacombs with their expression as inscrutable as autumn was colorful. There is a song of victory crowing on her veins, the understanding that all she had ever worked for was withing reach. A month and two weeks before the trial, a month and two weeks to change the system she has wanted to tear down for millennia. It's work, but work they will do gladly. Perhaps if they submerge themselves on the art of the compromise, on the give and take of the dialogue, they will forget the part of them that despairs at the wrongness of the situation. The part of her that is truly aware of the dangers in the horizon and that worries for her kind.

Titania's worse fears are true, her actions righteous. They need to prepare, to beware, to stop the shadow of death from consuming them. They need to be strong to survive what is coming, and yet, she has done her best to weaken their defenses at every turn. Clandestine meetings with the Eye, secrets of what lies beyond whispered in the dark, the destruction of the fragile peace between the Senate and the Courts. One way or another, their hand had helped the pieces for the now.

Her kind is in danger, and she helped them put them here. Fen'harel fears she has gone to far, but a cornered animal can only wait so long before they get desperate and she had waited too long. At her feet lay the consequences of her actions, wearing the faces of long gone friends.

Dirth, Suhlahn.

They had been a shock, not quite a wake up call but a warning, and now they find themselves in front of Titania's cell. Fen'harel blinks at the withered form of the Queen, and bows respectfully.

Her resentment is gone, now that her goals are within grasp, an emptiness left behind. They had been a being of anger and spite for so long, they do not know what they will be after this is done.

"I must thank you for putting our kind before all else," they begin, voice devoid of their usual mischief. "I will ensure the courts thrive in your brief absence, Your Majesty."

She pauses briefly.

"I will also protect our people, including your sons, from any harm, you have my word."

[5lazarus]

This Fucking Guy

Solas drives Adan and Minaeve crazy, and it's his bathing habits that finally break them both.

The spiritual, non-sexy sequel to Salt, Flesh, Heat: Adan is not nearly as appreciate an audience as Iron Bull. A Dragon Age: Inquisition story, set in Haven. Read on Archive of Our Own here.

The elf with the glowing hand is locked up in the office in the great hall with the Lady Seeker, Sister Nightingale, and the templar, which leaves Minaeve and Adan to interface with their so-called “Fade Expert.” Expert in the Fade he may be--Adan and Minaeve can’t quite tell, they both took to the practical, material, very firmly real aspects of their training, rather than weird philosophical exercises with demons and spirits. What he definitely is, though, beyond any and all doubt, is a prig, and he doesn’t even have the decency to be moderately good-looking about it.

“Waste of a lovely voice,” Adan mutters to himself.

The apostate, who is still dressed in patched-together homespun despite his Inquisition salary, is lecturing Minaeve on her methodology for examining the fire essence that dropped out one of the rifts the glowy-elf closed. He sounds very nice doing it, as long as Adan does not listen to the specifics. Minaeve, who has “interfacing with other Inquisition experts as needed” written in her job description, looks like she disagrees. Her expression is flat, her eyes narrowed.

“That is all well and good,” she finally says. “But do you have any citations for this—assertion? Because I do need to justify any shift in practice. But if you can provide the text,” she spreads her arms out, “by all means, I’ll discuss it with Mistress Valima and see if shifting our approach is useful.”

The apostate flares his nostrils in one short breath like an angry horse. Got ‘im, Adan thinks. The apostate bites off, “I saw it in the Fade.”

Minaeve says, “Yes. But can you replicate it here? So other people can see? Under the material conditions of reality?”

“The Fade is real,” the apostate says. “And imminently material, as the Breach well shows.”

Minaeve pinches the bridge of her nose. “I can see that. Most of the world can see that. But I cannot justify a change in my methodology by writing ‘An agent of the Inquisition saw this in a dream, once.’”

The apostate laughs. Minaeve glares at him. Adan hides a smirk, busying himself with a book. She never tries to be funny. Merrily the apostate says, “I have seen much in dreams that holds up well in this reality, if only you are willing to dig. And it is a kindness of spirits, I think, that they preserve the motions of experiments unrecorded by mortal hands—or whose records have been burnt. Perhaps you may write—‘An agent was instructed in this by a spirit of wisdom in the Fade, lurking in the ruins of the library of the Dirth.’”

“No,” Minaeve says flatly.

The apostate does not blink. He says something in Elvhen that makes her flinch and leaves, expression unreadable. He does not so much as even glance as Adan as he goes, which is fine. Adan gets enough of him in that stupid fucking hut they’re stuck in, with the dwarf. He’d signed up with the Inquisition to get fed and end up on the right side of the Divine, no matter what happened with the war. Dealing with bratty apostates is out of his pay range.

Minaeve says, “This fucking guy. Fen’Harel take him.” She makes a rude gesture at the door.

Adan says, “He’s such a fucking prick. Nice ass, though.”

Minaeve says mournfully, “Nicest pair of thighs I’ve ever seen on an elf, wasted. That face! That fucking attitude! He looks like a corpse, and smells like one too.”

Adan says fervently, “Maker. Don’t I know it. I live with him!” He clearly only has the clothes on his back, and in the chaos of both his capture—or voluntary surrender, as he needles the Seeker—the elf’s not had the chance to wash them, or order new clothes. To be fair, Seggrit is offering itchy woolens clearly snatched from the corpses down the road at ridiculous prices, but Adan is not inclined to be fair. The man stinks like a dead wolf—probably because of the freshly-tanned wolfskin he wraps himself in.

Minaeve says, “You know, they’ve come up with a basic uniform for the Inquisition soldiers. He could wear that instead. And get those…skins washed.”

“I think we should burn them,” Adan says. “He’s so annoying to live with. He goes to bed as soon as he can and shushes Master Tethras—the Master Tethras—whenever he gets too loud. As if his—beauty sleep—is more important than the tales of greatest living writer of Thedas! Varric’s taken to just hanging outside at the campfire, you know the one near the tavern? Because Solas demands absolute silence for his rest.”

“Ah yes,” Minaeve says sourly, “so he can commune with the spirits of the Fade who tell him ancient Elvhen methodology for recording scientific experimentation and bear that knowledge to the scornful audience of the flat-ears and Dalish wildings.” Adan blinks. She has announced that in one breath; she’s had this pent up for awhile. Minaeve breathes in quickly, trying to catch her breath.

Adan says, “I mean. You can’t really see a demon taking possession of him, at least. At least he’s obviously not an abomination.”

Minaeve says, “Not even the Dread Wolf would try to tempt him, he’s such a prig.”

Bitch session wonderfully cathartic, Adan heads to the tavern to water himself until he can’t walk straight. His plan is unfortunately ruined by Maryden the Minstrel, who keeps singing depressing lullabies about the plight of the elves. He starts booing her, and a girl upends her drink on them all below. Flissa kicks both of them out. To add insult to injury, she takes his half-finished beer stein from him too.

“You can’t be mean to Maryden,” Flissa says. “Yes, I know it’d be great if we could get a proper band in, someone who knows a rhythm we can all dance to. But she’s friends with Sister Nightingale. You don’t want to get on her bad side, Adan. You might find yourself without a tongue.”

Adan sticks his tongue at her and marches through the snow with dignity. He stops by the apothecary and picks up a lavender satchet to place over his face, to avoid the stinky one. Speaking of the stinky one, he’s not standing outside the hut like he normally does, brooding up at the Breach. Maybe Minaeve lost her temper and killed him. Maybe Varric finally won and dragged him to the baths. Maybe the glowy-elf yelled at him for being rude about the Dalish, or fucked him. There has been a generous amount of sexual tension in their conversations outside the hut lately. Adan does not like it, but then again, the glowy-elf herself smells as well.

“No one knows how to wash their fucking clothes,” Adan grumbles to himself. “Gore and grime and rotting flesh still stuck up in their armor. Ugh.” Bracing himself, he opens the door.

A wave of heat nearly bows him over. Then the heavy stench of eucalyptus sticks its fingers into his throat, and he gags. In a large wooden tub sits Solas, glowing gold, rubbing himself furiously with oak leaves. Adan gasps.

Solas, voice liquid, says, “Ah. Shut the door, if you would.”

Adan gapes at him. He has a thin golden down on his chest, following a trail to a cock plumper and larger than he expected.

Solas, more firmly now, says, “Adan. The door. If you would.”

Adan shuts the door. He says lamely, “You’re naked.”

Solas puts down the oak branch and stares at him like he’s an idiot. “The bathing facilities in Haven are primitive.”

Adan blinks.

Solas says, “We do not have the wood to spare for a proper hunter’s bathing house, so I improvised. I can purify the water when I am done, if you still need a bath.”

Adan thinks, well good now you just smell like city mage who’s recently discovered herbal magic. But what about your clothes? He looks around. The horrible wolfskin and the even worse sheepskin are gone.

A bit sheepish, Solas says, “Lady Montilyet is preparing the advisers of the Inquisition for a dinner party with an Orlesian official tomorrow evening. We must, of course, all appear at our best. I have seen such displays in the Fade, of course, but it has been a long time—there are not many opportunities for a woodsman such as I to dine with such luminaries.”

Delight sneaks into the humidity of Solas’ improvised bath house. Adan grins as he translates Solas-speak into real people talk: the Lady Ambassador stripped him down and ordered him to scrub himself into something resembling polite company. That explains why the other bitchy elf was so mad at the tavern. He cannot wait to tell Minaeve.

Mischievously, Adan says, “Got room for one more?”

Solas’ eyes glimmer and he rises, allowing Adan a full look—a redhead then, going gray, a bit older than he thought. Then he strides to his cot and sprawls on the bed, carelessly picking up a book. He is unutterably elegant, with those long limbs, and the fire catches the glow of skin alight. Adan feels suddenly very small.

Solas says, “Surely there is nothing keeping you from your ablutions, Apothecary Adan?” He lounges, idly paging through the book. “Do not let myself at my studies disturb you. The water is quite hot, and the tub itself I inscribe with a sigil to keep it clean for at least another wash.”

Adan thinks, this fucking guy. Maker’s Breath. Is this a flirt or a challenge or telling me I’m so ugly I’m beneath his notice? What the fuck?

He says, “I’m good, thanks,” and flees the sweating room, nearly bowling over Varric.

“Solas’s naked!” he blurts as he runs in the snow.

Varric says, “What?”

Adan slides down the path towards the campfire, where Minaeve is skimpily dressed and attempting to seduce Seggritt, who has his eyes only on his wares. If she tried to fondle one of those rusty daggers, she might have more luck. A better fiddler than Maryden, some scout from the Hinterlands, plucks at their violin. People are gathered by the fire. Adan skitters to a halt, and Minaeve glares at him, annoyed.

Seggritt says, “Need new boots? Got a, uh, new shipment from the Crossroads this morning,” which means some smuggler from the Hinterlands looted the boots off all the corpses and sold them to the Inquisition for a pittance.

Adan says, “No, I like my leather without the spirits of the angry dead, thanks. Minaeve, he was naked.”

Minaeve says, “Who?”

Seggritt says, “Oh, I don’t deal in flesh. You have to ask…” He trails off, and then suddenly leans forward. “Well, if you’re looking for a warm night, I can ask around as to who does—for a price.”

Adan says, “He was taking a bath. He turned our hut into a bath house. He was hitting himself with an oak branch! And he still didn’t smell good!”

Minaeve issues one short breath from her nostrils, like an angry horse. “What did he smell like?” she says very calmly.

Adan says, “Eucalyptus. Stunk of it. I like eucalyptus fine, mind you, but this—“

“That was my eucalyptus,” Minaeve says, “I was researching the magical effects of eucalyptus when paired with essence of embrium and Prophet’s Laurel, because Sister Nightingale.” She stops. Adan and Minaeve turn to Seggritt, who is picking at a scabby scabbard and unabashedly listening.

Seggritt says, “I don’t know shit about herbs.”

Minaeve sighs. “This fucking guy,” she mutters. “This fucking guy! He can’t even take a bath without fucking up my night!”

Adan says, “He glimmered like gold, Minaeve. And he was hitting himself with an oak branch. It was—who bathes like that?”

Minaeve says, “Fucking stinking Fade Experts, that’s who, who come tumbling out of nowhere with perfect Elvhen and the most decorous ancient discipline clearly learned from Dirth’ena Enasalin themselves—from the fucking Fade. Fuck!” She stamps her foot. “Fen’Harel take him, I can’t stand the bastard!”

“And Andraste take care of the rest,” Adan agrees. “Maker hear us on that.”

[dreadfutures]

For the DADWC: “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?" for Dirthamen x Ixchel, perhaps?

i feel so out of practice x_x but that's what @dadrunkwriting is for right?

-:-:-

Dirthamen will not allow his family to wander through his estate freely, not like Andruil in her bluster or Falon'Din in his hubris. Dirthamen keeps nothing politically interesting here at home, and certainly nothing that any of them would find useful—against him, or otherwise. Nevertheless, his insides shrivel at the thought of his siblings opening the books he has taken such care in illustrating, or his adopted father sneering at the flowers he has cultivated, or his mother commenting on the disarray of his cellars.

He knows that Deceit and Fear would never willingly lead their guests to his private affairs, but they likewise would be unable to resist the All-Mother, should she request something. Thus, Dirthamen must accompany his squabbling, bored family to and fro across the estate as their whims shift, to make sure they do not see or enter where he does not want them to.

Dirthamen would like to do anything other than play host and tour guide to his family. But most of all, he would like to be alone with Ixchel.

He sees her very little when his family vists. They had mutually decided that it was best she steer clear of Andruil, even now, many years removed from the Huntress's suspicions, and to draw the eye of the All-Mother usually means one is about to fail some sort of scrutiny. It is for the best that she flits about the estate in an opposing orbit to the path of the squabbling gods. And it is for her safety that she does not sleep alone.

At some odd hour of the day, she sleeps while Deceit guards her. At night, when the Dreamers lay their heads to rest and venture into the Fade—to squabble, more, of course—she stands outside his door as guardian to the threshold.

He knows that he is watched, that they are watched, in every interaction. Long ears and keen eyes can see far even in this place he presides over, and so their interactions are brief and formal in a way they have not been in what feels like a long, long time.

They are bonded partners. But she is his Champion, his vassal, first; her vows were for her sword to his name before they were ever promises of eternity and affection. It is custom, it is proper, it is safer, for her to play that role for the others.

Plus, she hates the Evanuris, and she is very bad at controlling her face. It just would not end well.

But Dirth can know all there is in the world, and still, he would hunger for more. He knows all of this, and yet he aches to have her in his arms again.

When his family abruptly decides to depart for Sylaise's palace, likely out of sheer boredom, Dirthamen is ecstatic. He sees them off through the eluvians and seals it behind them almost before they have quite finished walking through, but he cannot tame his eagerness. He must at once tell his household that the Evanuris have left, and they can drop these silly pretenses of pomp and circumstance at last.

He tells Fear, then goes in search of Deceit and Ixchel. But he does not find them in their quarters, nor in his private library, so he searches further, casts his net wider. He goes to the orchards, to the lake, but still he cannot find a trace of their path.

He is beginning to worry that perhaps his family left in such a hurry because something has happened to his Champion—but then he reaches the center of his estate, the very heart, where the training yard lies, and he finds his friends hard at work.

They are sparring, and it seems they have been for some time. As Ixchel has grown into her strength here in this world, she has become an even more fearsome warrior than ever. She and Deceit are whirlwinds on the battlefield, stopped only by heavy impacts between their bodies. He can imagine how the bruises will blossom across their shjins and forearms from blocking brutal swings—and this is only hand-to-hand combat he witnesses now. Training weapons lie discarded across the courtyard.

Further evidence of their intensive training is plain to see. Both of them are drenched in sweat, hair and clothing plastered to their forms. Droplets darken the ground with every sharp movement, shaken free from the ends of their sopping wet hair. He can hear, even at a distance, the heavy breaths and gasps that escape them as they dodge and dance around each other.

They are familiar sounds. Dizzyingly familiar.

Dirthamen waits in the shadows above the courtyard, unnoticed even by Deceit at this distance. But he has a great view, enhanced by magic, of their battle, and he is enraptured.

He does not actually see the battle after a while. Instead, visions consume him of dark bedrooms filled by the warmth of his body and his Champion's. He recalls the bounds of her stamina, tested against his insatiable desire for her and her pleasure.

From his high perch, he begins to feel as warm as if he had been training alongside her. His flowing robes and his feathers feel uncomfortably tight against his skin, and his mouth waters with anticipation. He longs, and he plans.

Deceit will play along.

And though he doubts Ixchel realizes how much he has missed her company, he is fairly confident that she—his impatient, fierce vun'ean—has been similarly frustrated by the distance that they have maintained during this time. He knows that were he to give her the word of their freedom, all her restraint would snap (as would his), and they would find themselves confined to bed for several days to make up for it,.

That will certainly happen, but it can wait—just a few hours more.

Just a few.

-:-

He strides down the hall toward his rooms and finds Ixchel waiting for him to retire. Just like he had hoped, she stands on guard, unaware that his family have departed and the need for this act has passed.

The one act she has never mastered is the disinterest in his movements. A good servant would stand stoically, ignore his every move, pretend as though their only purpose is to stand frozen in time, a wound trap waiting to be set off.

Ixchel, instead, watches his every move. Her eyes are hawkish as she notes every aspect of him, and he is certain she is able to tell his heart rate just by looking at him. It makes him feel tall, strong, the way she looks at him. Though she scorns the stoicism of others in her role, she does remain professional; there is no heat in her gaze as she watches him. She assesses, she is aware, she is doing her job in the best way she knows how.

He wants to be worthy of her dedication and her strength and her fearsome beauty—and to shower her with appreciation that she deserves. And he thinks he knows how.

Dirthamen allows his eyes to slip past her, and he enters his rooms. The door shuts behind him, which allows him a few moments of privacy as he ensures the room is ready for her return. With every fastidious detail he puts in place, he feels his own anticipation mount. It is delicious denial that keeps him on task and holds him back from leaping upon her as he wishes.

But he wishes.

He wants.

And at last he is ready.

Dirthamen readies a spell in his fingertips, and the door opens silently at his bidding.

Ixchel does not notice, her eyes fixed forward to watch the hall for intruders.

She has bathed and dressed in fresh clothing since her sparring match in the courtyard, of course, but he imagines that if he were to bury his nose in the space behind her ear he might smell the toil of her afternoon still clinging to her skin. So he does. His lips find the shell of her ear, and remarkably, she does not startle too badly—thankfully, too, she does not attempt to kill him on instinct. He feels her whole body go stiff at the unexpected touch, but as his familiar scent envelopes her, she releases a breath of relief.

"My lord," she whispers. "What are you doing?"

"What I have wanted to do for a month," he says, his voice barely more than a breath given the faintest shape by the lips he trails to the point of her ear. A full-body shudder wracks her in the wake of his words, filling him with the satisfaction that she was just as wound up as he was.

She is silent, but he can almost feel the disapproval that must be on her face. It makes him chuckle, a ghostly sound against the side of her head as he tucks his nose into the spot he has desired all along. Her skin is blessedly warm and she smells so intensely of her, revealing just how faint and sad the remnants of her scent that she has left in their shared bed are. He cannot refrain from taking a taste thereafter, lips finding her pulse in a brushing kiss before returning for something more substantial.

If she were any other woman, he is certain she might collapse into his arms then and there. But she is his Champion, and she has not been released from her duty, so she stands tall and unbowed by his advances.

"I saw your match with Deceit today," he says, teeth brushing her exposed neck with every hard syllable. He wants her to shiver again, but she seems too prepared for him now, and he knows he will need to try harder. "I thought of swooping down then and there to carry you off… If I tasted the sweat off your brow, would I taste the fire that drives you to such perfection, such diligence?"

He has been so careful to keep his hands to himself, waiting for the perfect moment to touch her, to pluck her like a string and loose her. It grows more difficult with every moment that passes, but perhaps he can preoccupy himself for a while longer…

The moment he presses his hand against the line of his cock, he knows he is on a countdown to a complete loss of control. He has fantasized, dreamed, of her hand around him, and even his own does not compare. It will do, in the interim, but he wants the callouses of her fingers, the shape of her palm, her grip—

He takes a shaky breath, and she mirrors him in exact harmony that makes his heart swell.

"My lord," she says more firmly. "If it is diligence you admire, then allow me to practice it for one day more."

He almost laughs agian, but chokes instead at the hard edge of her voice. She might turn around and shove him back into his room—and close the door—to preserve his station in the eyes of his family, stomp out the flames of both their ambitions until a more appropriate time.

It would be so easy to simply tell her the truth, that his family is long since hence, but now a challenge has presented itself and he cannot resist trying to ply her with his wiles and pure, unfiltered desire. What might it take to break that unyielding will of hers, until all she can do is pin him against the wall and ravish him?

He strokes himself as he considers the strong, square line of her shoulder.

"Oh, vun'ean," he purrs, "you do not know what you do to me, do you? The longer you hold yourself apart from me, the more I am drawn to you. The more plate armor between us, the more I imagine touching your skin…"

"Go dream, then," she grouses. "Do what I cannot."

Dirthamen tuts at her. "No, no. Not when you are right here, and I…"

At last he reaches for her, slides one hand languorously around the swell of her hip, follows the line of her hip bone and follows it slowly, painstakingly, toward the juncture of her thighs—barred by skirts, but no matter. With his hand cupped around her, he pulls her back against his erection, so that he is certain she feels just how badly she affects him.

"…I am here…"

Her breath is trapped in her throat for a moment. He can feel her chest heave with thwarted words—but as he wraps his other hand around her to find a generous breast, to clasp her back against him more securely, all the air in her lungs is released ine one, shaking gasp.

It is a perfect sound, and he wants to hear it again.

His fingers tighten, and he cannot help how his hips tilt up to drive him closer, to earn the friction he so desperately desires.

"…and my dear family have departed at last…"

"—Dirth."

She rounds on him in a flurry of skirts and hair and heated breath, and disbelief, annoyance, and good humor are plain in the light of her eye. She grips his wrists and tears him away from her body—only to crowd him back, chasing the heat of him against her all the way back against the closed door to his rooms.

Their lips collide, and he whines into her mouth as she tears into his hair, his clothes, seeking his warmth and flesh and perhaps even bone with a hunger that twists his gut.

There is a split second in which she pulls him by the hair to bare his throat, and he peers at her from eyes half-curtained by his long lashes, and she gives him a look that might make him combust. In that split second, he conveys a simple, taunting request:

I told you what I wanted. Now it's your turn.

[guigz1-coldwar]

'One bullet' : New chapter for "Redemption in a Spirit in a Cold War" is out !

'One bullet'

"Sometimes, I just want to be in an peaceful place with only you and no more work to stress us for good !"

Chapter Summary : After having an talk with Lazar's vision, Yirina is finally feeling determined to avenge her fallen friend and face Naga.....

To read it on AO3, click here !

Words : +3600

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Lazar...He is far more different than Adler and when I saw him even if it was only an vision, I know that I could have an better talk with him, knowing that his words towards me will bring me some kind of hope I'm trying to find in myself since the crash, something that's giving an chance to give Garrett the retribution to kill every man serving under Naga's cartel and every Perseus soldier also protecting him. Our discussion couldn't last too many time and it was in an bit of sadness to see Lazar vanish in front of my eyes before I could reconcentrate myself.

Before actually leaving the place to get myself deeper in the jungle, I have to check the map to see where the house was and what direction I needed to take to get to Naga's HQ without trying to make too much noises along the way as we were close to Naga and I was alone without any means to contact the others. With that in mind and after finishing to check the map, I was in my way to get to Naga's HQ, ready to find Adler & avenge Garrett above all, it has to be done.

During my walk through the jungle on an little dirt path that was indicated on the map, I was wondering if the radio I stoled from the first patrol that wanted to check the crash, was going to emit at one moment, been shut down since I taunted Naga himself over it in an moment of rage. I have maybe blow out an chance to know more about what are Naga's moves in the area but I will now know as I was arriving next to his HQ.

"Shit, an sniper's nest." I whispered to myself as I was arriving at the end of the dirt path, marked on the map that was actually leading to an little place guarded by an sniper. "Gotta use my knife." I took out my knife of my boot, slowly advancing to get behind the guy and then, I moved to stab right in the neck side, getting my left hand on his mouth.

"Mmfff..." His voice was hopefully muffled by my hand, avoiding him to scream and to reveal to his friends that someone was getting killed. When his body went limp, I quickly get on the ground before getting to cover.

This little nest based on an little hill for that guy was in fact, overlooking the entrance of Naga's HQ and finally able to discover more about who was awaiting me & the others. Now, it was mostly Perseus soldiers that we were going to face, meaning that it was this place Adler was to be. But with those new pieces of informations, I couldn't risk to make an solo attack on that place. Even filled with rage, it's suicide to do this. I have to wait the others but when they will be here ?

"Patrol, it's been an hour that your radio went off." An voice said through the stolen radio I had with me, breaking the long silence from it and this voice...it was Naga. "Patrol, did you check if any survivors was there at the crash ?" He demanded again, apparently forgetting that someone else did respond to him an hour earlier.

"No one survived." I started, speaking at the dead guys place, making my voice clear to him while I was staying out of sight of the entrance. "Your guys are dead, Naga." I added.

"Who is this ?" He asked, sounding confused to hear an stranger's voice, he must have forgetten my taunt.

"Someone that you pissed off too much." I replied, my eyes focused on the dirth path I arrived in.

"Ah, you must be one of the survivors of that crash." He said, sounding like he had an revelation in his head. "How was that little fall ? We didn't see too much from my camp." He scoffed and I wasn't laughing at all, nothing came out of my mouth.

"I lost an friend." I breathed, blinking with my eyes, seeing that scene again. "Do you think it's funny ?" I questioned in an serious voice.

"In fact, it's not everyday that you brought down an Huey." He told me as I quickly look towards the base entrance, trying to find if the others were there.

"You always has been like that, Naga ?" I asked him rhetorically, remembering the memory I had when I met the guy. "Without an heart ? Merciless ? Brutal ?"

"Been an warlord isn't an line of work to have emotions." He decided to give me an answer anyway. "You know, I think you're all coming from your CIA friend....Russell Adler, I believe." He continued, almost sounding funny in his voice. "I'm afraid that...you are too late."

"Meaning ?" I whispered.

"Well, you have to come to my base to see." He replied, his voice clearly saying that my attempt to know more was useless "There's something that is maybe interesting you here....an little smell from the past." He joked at the end, hearing an laugh through the radio. Why is he telling me all of this ? Do he know that I was alone ?

"You're out of your mind." I said, giving my thoughts on that man, honestly.

"Wait !" He called me an bit loud, sounding to have something in his mind. "Your voice, it's sounding...familiar." He added before hearing him sort of getting up from an chair. "Ah...so, you're our Yirina Grigoriev but I think that people around you is calling you 'Bell', is that correct ?" He demanded, knowing that he was talking to 'Bell'

"That is correct." I responded, 'Bell' is the one talking right now. "Naga, you're going to release my friend or I will personally make sure that you and all your men will suffer." I threatened him in an dark voice, also giving me pain to still call Adler an friend.

"You aren't believing those words but it seems that Adler did really messed you up." He exclaimed, an noise of surprise in his voice.

"I don't know what you are talking about." I expressed, fainting to not know anything.

"Well, you will soon find out." He affirmed in an serious tone. "To make you know, you're the first person I will not personally have my hands around their necks." He admitted to me, making some noises through his radio. "You're our Queen of Hearts alongside the MI6 agent, Helen Park." I wasn't seeing him from my position but his words meaned that he was looking to the playing cards representing me & Park.

"To be captured alive." I whispered. "Yes, I saw them too." I continued, thinking that he was maybe looking surprised on his side.

"So, you learned that Perseus has ordered everyone to put their hands on you and that MI6 agent but instead, you decided to be on the field." He wondered to me

"Why we were going to hide ?" I demanded rhetorically. "I'm not intending to hide, Naga...I will find you and I will kill you." I confessed, putting all my fear in that threat to him.

"We'll see about this, you're probably still trying to find your way in here alone, it's going to be long." He said, not thinking at one second that I was having my eyes on his camp. "We'll be the firsts to capture you and before that, your friends will suffer another fate." He added. "Stitch will...."

"Sir !" Another voice came through his radio, cutting him and surprising me in place. "We spot the CIA strike team, they're almost at 200 m from the entrance." Those words caused me to quickly check the nest, finding some binoculars near the dead sniper before looking away from the entrance. They were all here : Park, Woods, Song, Sims, Wolf, Rivas along with others survivors from the latter team.

"Shit !" I muttered at their sight, mixed between been happy to see them after all these times but also because they were going into an trap.

"I'm sorry but I will be busy to cut the skins of your friends and hang them on the trees." Naga taunted me again. "Bye bye !" He added before the radio went off completely.

I couldn't stay useless here, only watching the others getting trapped by Naga's men at the entrance. Just after the radio went off, I could see that they were preparing to ambush the others, getting in cover and opening widely the gates that are leading inside the camp. I needed to do something and since I was in an sniper nest, I should prevent the others that they were walking straight into Naga's trap.

I quickly moved to grab the SVD Dragunov the dead sniper was using before getting in position, switching between looking at where Park and the team were walking and the entrance, trying to find if anyone was going to make an move and everyone was basically in their nerves about what will happen...including me. Everything can happen at the moment this ambush will occur but, it doesn't need to have an ambush....

With an thought crossing through my mind, I couldn't let the occasion for Perseus soldiers to attack first, meaning that I will attack first. I took an deep breath, staying steady to stabilize the Dragunov and then, I pulled the trigger. The first bullet I shot flied to hit an Perseus soldier that was hiding behind an wall with his friends and seeing him getting hit send an moment of panick in the soldiers. I took an few seconds to check Park and the team, seeing them running towards the entrance.

Once I was done, I resumed to fire with the Dragunov towards the numerous enemies that was keeping the entrance before the real gunfight began, starting the fight to get Naga for real. At my position, I was providing cover to the team below me but after an few moments, I saw through the scope of the sniper rifle that an RPG was aiming at my position and when I tried to shoot him, the sniper rifle ran out of bullets....shit !

It took me an second to react and the only thing I could do was to jump off from the sniper nest, not forgetting to grab my AK-47 to get down before the rocket hit my former position. I found myself to slide on the cliff, trying to not hurt myself before I was finally at the same level about the others, quickly moving to get to them in cover.

"Hey, Yirina !" Woods exclaimed, surprised to see me as I was now in cover with him, Park & Song while Sims, Wolf & Rivas were in another cover at a few meters from us with some of Rivas's men. "Shit, you've been through hell, it seems." He stated, looking at my clothes.

"I know." I whispered, after getting myself fully in cover next to him.

"Yiri, I'm been worried." Park said, going back into cover, her eyes true to her words.

"We've been trying to contact you but you weren't responding at all." Song expressed before firying some bullets from her XM4, killing some guys in the process. "What happened ?" She asked suddenly worried, returning in cover.

"Shit...I don't know but it seems that Naga was able to see through that our helicopter was something belonging to us." I replied, focused on also blasting with my gun to provide some cover to allow Sims, Wolf & Rivas to advance an little to another protection. "We've been hit by an RPG and we crashed....an hour ago." I added, closing my eyes after getting to cover again.

"And...and where's Garrett ?" Park questioned me and it caused me to look down, my eyes still closed.

"He...he's dead, Park." I responded, feeling the pain of telling them where's Garrett now and in an instant, I could see the pain on their faces, their eyes going wide and Song at the urge of crying while Park was speechless and in the same state as Song.

"It's...no....it can't be possible." Song breathed loudly after hearing me, getting her hands off her gun, dropping it on the ground.

"I'm sorry..." I told both in an very low voice.

"Damnit." Woods chuckled, mixed between shooting with his XM4 and listening to us, he was also feeling bad.

"He...." I stopped myself, starting to hear his voice again, telling me to kill Naga with the bullet I did make before leaving to get here and it was not by staying in that cover that I was going to do it. So, I reloaded my AK-47 and then, I suddenly jump out of cover, having spot during my suppressing fire an way to maybe get to Naga rapidly.

"Yirina !" I heard Park shout as I was running to get to the way I saw before : an entrance inside an house at the left of where Sims, Wolf & Rivas were located.

I passed in front of them before arriving into safety inside the house that was more looking an armory but I wasn't really in safety as there were an Perseus soldier in it, firying through an window. We both met eyes and I made the first move, literally throwing my own AK-47 to his face before starting to run over him to try to stab him but he managed to block my attempt with his right hand but since I wasn't able to stab, I took out my M1911 to shot at him in the chest two times before finishing him off with an bullet in the head.

At this moment, another door from the house at a few meters from me was force opened by an Perseus soldier, I tried to quickly shoot him but in fact, my M1911 was out of bullets, not having reload it after that attack that killed this 'Swift'. I was then going to throw an knife at him before someone fire multiples bullets in his direction, killing him and discovering Sims with his M60 in hands.

"For fuck sake, Yirina..." He said, putting himself in cover as I was moving to get to the broken door. "You almost got yourself killed."

"And ?" I asked him, grabbing back my AK-47 in hand that I threw to the first guy. "You're striking them from the front, I'm taking Naga." I explained to him.

"It's too risky, we need to...."

"Maybe but isn't our line of work ?" I cut him straight like that, blinded by my rage to finish off Naga. "He killed Garrett but I will be the one to kill."

"Yirina, I can't let you do this." He exclaimed, sounding sure of his words.

"He got Adler and you want me to let him live ?" I questioned him, finally moving to get in cover next to the broken door in case there were someone. "Don't follow me and don't try anything, Sims." I ordered before he resign himself to let me walk away as he was reloading his M60 before going out.

"Give me back Adler !" He screamed, along with his M60 as he was going out of his cover from the house, leaving me alone.

Surprisely, the little yard that was separing me from an sort of old temple was empty of enemies, maybe all focused to battle with the others, leaving me alone to get myself prepared to face Naga himself, maybe awaiting for his men to do the job for him but knowing Park and the others, he will wait very long and it's sure that he isn't going to wait long until I put the engraved bullet into his mad brain....for Garrett.

Despite facing no resistance from Perseus soldiers, I quickly move towards the yard to enter that old temple but it wasn't the main entrance of it and of course, I continued my advance inside of it, discovering an lot of gold bars stored here....like that. What all of these things are doing here ? I didn't let myself distracted until I arrived in an sort of main room with an sort of fountain in the middle but then....

"AAAAH !" A sort of war cry came inside the room, discovering Naga charging me with an knife, dressed in the same clothes that he was wearing in my memory. "Die !" He shouted again before I could avoid that strike from him.

"You're first !" I exclaimed towards him, taking out of my knife from my boot.

"Oh, here's our 'Winter Soldier'." Naga said, discovering me in person again, saying that stupid nickname linked to me. "I'm sorry to dissappoint you but your friend Adler...isn't here ! I can say that you & me, we're the same." He added as we both started to turn around each other, pointing to each other with our knife.

"So, it was an trap ?" I snorted.

"And of course, you all fall in it." He scoffed, sounding happy of having us in here. "You know what ? Enough of the talk and...fuck Perseus's orders." He looked at his knife before having his eyes hidden by his sunglasses looking at me. "I'm going to enjoy killing you slowly." He then start to attack first with his knife.

He directly tried to make an swing with his knife but I step back, avoiding the blade of it to touch me, not even making an cut through my clothes. However, he took the advantage that I wasn't attacking to charge me again, throwing himself against me and smashing my back against the stoned wall of the temple. He continued by kicking me in the chest with his knee before throwing me next to the fountain, still making sure that I wasn't going to make an move.

"Let's see how much time you will hold your breath." He taunted me before he grabbed my head to put it in the fountain, trying to drow me. I couldn't do an thing while he was having his left hand on my neck and the other controlling my hands, making me impossible to move before he removed my head from the fountain. "You know what ? Before killing you and after killing your friends, I will surely have an big taste on what's inside those clothes."

"Go fuck yourself !" I shouted, catching back my breath.

"Shut up, little slut !" He cursed, making my head going back inside that fountain but when he put my head inside, I could hear Garrett's voice again....'Kill him'....'Kill him'....and it did gave me more strenght as he pull me out of the water. "So, you're going be my favorite whore and all my men will certainely have an chance to see how much you'll begging before you plead me to end you." He scoffed, sounding certain to have win.

"In your fucking dreams !" I exclaimed, moving my legs to kick him in the waist, breaking his control over me and allowing me to grab back my knife that I dropped after he smashed me against the wall.

At this moment, I took the occasion that he was still trying to get up from my kicks that I approached him rapidly, making an single swing towards his left hand and I managed to cut off his left hand, making it drop in the ground before I start to punch Naga in the face multiples times as he was on the ground, breaking off his sunglasses, removing his green hood to discover his face and it didn't stop me to continue my moves.

I finally stopped to punch him, letting him to bleed, leaned against the fountain on the ground, breathing anormally after my numerous punches against him. Me, I was taking out the empty mag of my M1911 to insert the engraved bullet in it.

"You & I, we're not the same." I told him, inserting the bullet in the mag while looking at him, it was the words he used before our fight. "I'm not like you." I affirmed, loading the mag back into my M1911. "His name was Garrett Donovan." I added, aiming my gun towards Naga's badly hitten head.

"Yirina !" An male voice came in and I saw Woods with Park, Song & Sims. I wasn't paying attention at outside that the fighting was done. "Don't do it !" He ordered, making me look at him with an deadly glare.

"And why that ?" I demanded from him, my voice cracking. "He killed Garrett, why I would let him live ?" I said, looking at Park & Song that was still sad about that news, they were looking to be with me, wanting me to shoot that piece of shit on the ground.

"We got orders, Yirina." Sims called me out but I wasn't looking at him, focused on seeing Naga. "He might be useful for us to have intels of where's Adler ?" He added, trying to convince me of that.

"And you really think that his fucking shithead will help us ?" I shouted, angry.

"Yirina, if you shoot, we will have no chances." Woods joined Sims in his argument as Park & Song were staying silent, feeling that they wanted to shoot Naga too, hoping to have me do it. "Please, lower the gun." He suggested again, slowly approaching me to grab my gun away from me.

"I...I..." I started, getting confused inside of me about shooting him or not but I had to shoot him...for Garrett. "AAAH....Fuck !" I screamed, angrily lowering my gun, realizing that I wasn't going to shot Naga like when I wasn't able to shot Adler's vision. I couldn't look anyone in the eyes as I was having some tears coming from mine, starting to walk towards the path I came in here.....

"Leave me....I just need to be alone....I fucked up, Garrett !"

[dinrenan]

Explaining my characters. Dinrenan and Dirthrenan

This is basically why my character gets called Jules instead of Dinrenan, and why Dirthrenan took it instead. This explains how and when she gets adopted because that is when the whole name-changing started. I hope this helps to understand!

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Name meanings:

Dinrenan: Din(death)renan (voice) I translated as Voice of the dead or Dead's voice - I prefer the first

Dirthrenan: Dirth(used for knowledge or secrets)renan(voice) I translated as Voice of secrets or Secret's voice.

Ashallen/Asha'len: I translated as Child Woman. Mother of Dirthrenan, Healer of clan Lavellan. Her family had always had the gift of magic but she doesn't know from what clan they came from.

Adahlin/ Adahl'lin: Tree's blood or Blood of the tree (am not sure). Father of Dirthrenan. Hunt Master of Clan Lavellan.

Amelan'lin (Mentioned): Blood of the guardian or Guardian's blood

Backstory/Info (If one can call it that) for the sisters

Dinrenan was the High priestess of Falon’din, she was but a child that people thought to be an adult thanks to an amulet she wore that held the Evanuris magic, an illusion in shorts, the "God" couldn't let the People think a child was given better treatment than them, she wears no Vallaslin for she wasn’t a slave but a precious child Falon'din wanted to keep near because of her voice, it soothed the man once the war came. She was called Priestess by the People because it was known for her to go around the Uthenera temples and sing to those who were going into Uthenera and those already asleep, they could hear her in the beyond and knew someone was there to watch over them, it gave them a sense of peace and comfort. Slaves were wary of her because whenever she was near, Falon'din wouldn’t be far away. When Falon’din's vanity made him sacrifice his people, she sang to them, hoping for their spirits to forgive and forget, in that moment she knew her beloved Master had gone too far, but he cared for her, to the child, that was enough to forgive.

She met the Dread wolf once, young and rebellious, dangerous her Master told her but the Wolf did not harm her, his men did, they tried to capture her before she could give the alarm, to them, she was but a noblewoman going to alert the whole temple of their presence, She knew how to shapeshift into a dragon, the Master wanted her to learn it, but in the moment of panic, she forgot everything, how to focus on herself and shape her form. The wolf took the temple, the Master had fled, there was no one to protect the child now. Many slaves told the wolf that if the High Priestess was to live, Falon'din wouldn't cease his search of her, the god was like a madman treasuring his vanity and jewel. The wolf had refused to put an end to someone's life only because they were used as a tool, his men did not agree and when the time came, the leader away on a mission, they forced her into Uthenera, she cried, pleaded even, her Master was coming for her after all, she had to be awake, they did not listen.

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When the World of Elvhenan fell and the magic with it, the illusion broke and she was a child again, sleeping in a tomb, silent and dark. Millennia later she was awake again, confused, in pain, but her memory was hazy, she started to sing and cry, she couldn't remember much, she had a Master, the one who treated her like his own child, then what was after? A rebellion of sorts maybe, some evil men looking down at her like she was the worse child on the planet....only, she wasn't a child? She could feel the presence of Spirits, but they were twisted, they did not harm her, her voice kept them enraptured. This is how a hunter found her, and from there, the rest is history.

Joining the clan- The Keeper knows

It had rained the day before and the soil was full of mud puddles when the hunting party came back, some of the hunters had caught hares and some even wolves and deers, one of them though, the hunt master, had no prey in his back but a little girl who didn't appear more than 7 years old with brown shoulder-length wavy hair, in his arms, she clung to the man's neck like she was afraid to look around. Keeper Deshanna asked her first, Dirthrenan, to go and bring some blankets and prepare a bed in the healer's tent. Once the order was given the girl sprinted towards the Healer's tent, not even giving a glance towards her father or the strange addiction in his arms. The keeper greeted the Hunters back she asked Adahl'lin where he found the girl and he seemed all too wary to answer.

"She was in the ruins in the north, Keeper, she was surrounded by demons and she was...singing to them...as soon as she noticed us the demons vanished and she started to talk, but she seems to not know any trade..."

The woman then put her gaze on the child's back and started to speak in Elven, although she found it difficult.

" Turn around, child, no one is going to hurt you"

The child sniffed once and turned her head around, that's when her greenish eyes met the beautiful sky blue of the keeper.

"The same the wolf said but then the Master was no more and everyone lied, so why would I believe you?"

The woman looked confused for a moment, what the child had told made no sense to her, but then she asked her name. The shock hit her like a wave once the name was out of the child's lips. Keeper Deshanna had heard of The High Priestess of Falon'din in the legend Keeper Amelan'lin told at the last Arlathvhen after his hunters found new ruins. He had told of the role the figure had in Ancient temples and Keeper Deshanna couldn't believe the child, the legend says it was a woman, but again, the legend could have been wrong.

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Keeper Deshanna had left the child with Asha'lin and her family, the girl showed ability in magic and bonded quickly with Dirthrenan, referring to her and Asha'lin as kin, Deshanna had yet to tell everyone the girl's name and wasn't sure on how to proceed, there were city elves among them who would certainly think of the girl as nothing more than a demon, she wasn't sure as to how even the other Dalish clans would react to such a thing.

When the time came to announce that the new girl was to be kept as a member of the clan Deshanna said that her real name was a mystery, so from then on, the clan could call her Jules, the girl was to answer only to that name.

To Dirthrenan that made no sense, so she chooses to apply the name to herself, fearing to forget it in the years to come, the Keeper always called her Dirthrenan but she refused to answer toward that name. Jules appreciated it and always made sure to keep her sister from danger.

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In the years to come, the name Jules was the name she always told people that met her, it was the name the clan gave her, although she refused to take the Vallaslin when she was ready for it, the clan was in dismay, she fought both in elven and trade, then explained in the Keeper's Aravel that she wasn't going to put a slave mark on herself, and then explained to Deshanna what really those tattoos were for. The pain in the Keeper's eyes told her it wasn't what she wanted to hear but understood her point of view, so suggested another option.

Dirthrenan was told to reach the Keeper's Aravel and once inside saw the ink that was used for the Vallaslins, only it was different. She was left alone with her sister, the Keeper had to go out and attend daily matters in the clan.

"So...why is this?"

"I refuse to take your sl-... Vallaslins, the Keeper understood and proposed you paint it on my face instead of....you know..."

Dirthrenan only smiled and shook her head, she didn't ask the reasoning, she took her Vallaslin just the day prior and did not want to know whatever trespassed between the two.

"Alright, so I just have to paint it on your face?" "Yes, it's the same ink you used yesterday, but instead of Dirthamen's...I wish for Falon'din's...the Ink has to be dried as soon as it settles and then I shall cast a spell that basically fixes it and stop it from fading for few months...can you do it?"

While Jules laid down and closed her eyes Dirthrenan took a thin paintbrush and started to work, when both girls exited the Aravel the whole clan was waiting, once seen the Vallaslin they clapped and hugged her, not knowing of the trick.

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I probably have burnt the keyboard. I really hope this made sense to you all! (Also sorry for the bad English)