#even though he makes the distinction between the two in a conversation with Adaar going as far as to tell them they AREN'T Qunari.

[exhausted-archivist]

On the topic of the inherent racism in the Qun and its people, with how baked in racism is, you can't buff it out and reformat. You can't remove it, and BioWare has only been doubling down on it up to Tevinter Nights in 2020. Which means you need to be careful with how you interact and build on it. At least that is how I approach it, in general I don't like to engage with it because it's just so difficult and not in any thought provoking or insightful way. So I refrain from doing so as much as possible in public spaces anyways, because it is so inherently unsafe for me to do so. From an interaction with fandom level, but also on a personal level because some of it makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

I am extremely weary of how da4 is going to portray them, I hope it will be better since the writing team has been moved around and there have been some acknowledgements on poor writing of stereotypes and biases in 2020. Which I take with a salt mine worth of salt, especially with the way the new comics like the Missing having lingering themes and stereotypes remaining. How Patrick Weekes described the rebelling antaam in Three Trees to Midnight (Tevinter Nights 2020) was the biggest red flag, followed by the yellow flag from As We Fly short story by Lukas Kristjanson (short story 2023).

With how BioWare has racism and harmful elements baked into the Qun and people in general it is going to difficult for them to fully separate it, update it, or reformat it. But I hope they do. I hope that they actually attempt to make it better like they have suggested they would. Because it is so harmful and they should. I don't think they'll get it right on the first try, but I hope they try. It won't magically fix the racism in the fandom but I would like to not feel the need to crawl out of my skin when playing a vashoth. I would like to see the franchise grow and become better than it started out as. I don't want it to stay stagnant for the sake of "consistency" which it doesn't have by design.

[shift-shaping]

The Lioness and the Wolf - VII - Of Your Dreams

This work is also available on Ao3. If you enjoy my work, please reblog, leave a comment, or donate to my Ko-Fi. Thank you!

Rating: Mature

Genre: Slow Burn, adventure, talking

Pairing: Solas x Surana

Warnings: Gaspard, dialogue heavy

Part seven of The Lioness and the Wolf.  Part one.

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Everything was easier for him in the Fade.

Being surrounded by magic, by spirits and shifting landscapes and an entire world controlled by will, was all much more familiar to Solas than the ironclad reality of the waking world. He’d spent his last few visits scouring the endless twisting plains for some sign of his friend, for a shred of hope that Wisdom was not lost. 

Now he returned with a more concrete purpose. It was unlikely, but if Eirwen were sleeping, he could find her and explain where he was and what happened to him. Finding other mages over significant distances was not easy, especially if he did not have a strong bond with them, but finding Adaar had not taken much effort and Eirwen was at least as magically gifted. The raw power of another mage would draw him to them like a beacon draws ships in the sea.

When he fought at her side, he’d gained something of a sense for her magic’s signature. It was bright, as that of most powerful mages was, but tinged with fuzzy sparks owing to her innate storm abilities. Her experience in healing and shapeshifting made her magic more amorphous as well, its shape and structure ill-defined. The unusual combination of her training in creation, healing, shapeshifting, and combat magic was distinct, uncommon to him despite his countless years of experience. 

He did not find her, despite the hours he spent searching. Were he not so desperate for the distraction, for the act of hunting itself, he might have given up after only a few minutes. He thought that if he waited long enough she might go to sleep so he could find her, but her signal never appeared.

Even after the fruitlessness of his search became apparent, he continued sleeping and came up with excuses to stay in the Fade. A small part of him wished to look for Wisdom again, but he knew that quest would only result in disappointment. 

He did not have long to wander. A harsh hand shook him, the world of his dreams falling apart as the waking world re-materialized around him. He awoke with a start, magic jolting to his fingertips. His vision focused on the figure beside him, a dwarf with a greasy beard and small, beady eyes. 

“What? What is it?” He sputtered, sitting up as Sam leaned away.

The dwarf shrugged nonchalantly. “I got food. You said you’d cook.”

Solas took a moment to catch his breath, then nodded and set to work. They’d stolen a number of cooking implements from the prison during their escape, and Solas used them now as he started a fire and heated a pan. 

“I was scared you weren’t goin’ to wake up!” Sam sat on the other side of their small camp, picking between his toes. “You’ve been out for most of the afternoon.”

“Abelas. I was... searching for someone.”

Sam grinned. “What kind of someone?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re looking for someone in your dreams, right? So that would make them the man or woman of your dreams. That kind of someone.”

Solas sighed and poked at the fire. Whatever food Sam had found went into the pan with a small chunk of butter. “That is... not quite how it works. I can find other mages in the Fade if they are powerful enough, like looking for a camp at night by the amount of light it lets off.”

Sam nodded, looking down at his toes. Solas deliberately turned away as the dwarf picked something particularly grimy from beneath a toenail and suppressed a gag. “Did you find ‘em?”

“Unfortunately, no. She is likely awake, in which case I cannot locate her. She would need to be in the Fade consciously for me to find her.”

Sam considered this for a moment, pausing in his picking to frown at the fire Solas’s spell made. “What’s it like? Having magic?”

“Describing magic to one without it would be like describing sight to a blind man.”

“’Like touching, but better’?”

“I... suppose. In that case, it would more resemble a general use of all your senses, but better. You have access to an entirely separate set of skills through a force you can physically feel. I imagine a dwarf’s stone sense is along similar lines.”

“Don’t got that either.”

“You did not come from Orzammar, then?”

Sam looked up from his toepicking with a frown, his brows furrowed as if he were thinking very deeply about the subject. “I don’t think so.” 

“You aren’t certain?”

Sam shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I was born on the surface, but I don’t remember so I don’t know. My mom told me I was, but she might be lying.” He considered the middle toe on his right foot. “Just cause I’ve been told something is true, doesn’t mean it is.”

“Wise words,” Solas replied, impressed. Sam burped appreciatively. 

“You and me could be a good team, you know,” Sam said as he finally put his feet back into his shoes. “An elven mage and a dwarf that isn’t drunk all the time? We’d be unstoppable.”

Solas decided to ignore his idea, at least until he brought it up again. “You mean you are not drunk all the time?”

Sam shook his head and frowned heavily. “Nah. Hate the stuff. Alcohol, that is. Makes me real sick. Bread too. Wine is okay, though.”

“Are you allergic to wheat?”

“Why’s that matter?”

“A lot of alcohol is made from wheat. As is, obviously, bread.”

“I... huh...” Sam crossed his legs and stared into the fire, still frowning deeply. A long silence followed, during which Solas focused on finishing their meal. Finally Sam jolted upright, grinning, and spoke so loudly it made Solas jump. “See?! This is why we make such a good team. Your smarts, my skills and talent and fighting ability and good looks? We’d be unstoppable.”

Solas chuckled and gestured to their meal. “It is finished.”

“Thank the Maker,” Sam gushed. He poked at the meat and took it into his lap. “But listen, really. We could be bounty hunters or something. It’d be so good.”

“I am with the Inquisition. As... tempting as that is, my time is heavily occupied with my duties.”

Sam waved his hand as he tore off a piece of meat. The smell of the food tempted Solas to eat, but he couldn’t bring him to. “Just drop it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Who cares? There’s better horizons. More interesting shit.”

That made Solas smile, though he was getting tired of Sam’s insistence. “I assure you, my time with the Inquisition is plenty interesting.”

“Is it lucrative?”

Solas snorted. “I am living in a castle and the food is excellent. Gold is hardly a concern.”

Sam’s jaw dropped, his beard touching the middle of his chest. “No way. A castle?” Solas nodded. “Shit, can I join? I want to live in a castle.”

“I imagine you would be allowed. We could venture to the nearest Inquisition camp, as I have been attempting for several days now...”

“Days? Where are they?”

“I am not sure. I suspect something has pulled our troops from the region. It concerns me, but there is nothing I can do for the time being. I need to find my companion, and the camp. Barring either of those options, I will return to Skyhold.”

“Skyhold...” Sam smiled, softer now, and looked up through the trees. “It even sounds fancy.”

“It is.” A similar fond smile pulled at Solas’s lips, and he finally took some food from the pan. “It is an ancient elvhen fortress in the Frostbacks. For hundreds of year it stood empty, but now it sings with life.”

“Do people actually sing?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll fit right in, then.” Sam smiled, showing bits of food between his teeth as he tore off another bite. “Let’s find a camp, then. I want to see this fortress for myself.”

Solas nodded as he chewed and swallowed. “First I need to find Eirwen and ensure her safety. If I cannot meet her in the Fade, we will go on to a camp and attempt to send an emissary back to Fort Revasan.”

“Do you think your friend is okay?”

Though he hesitated a moment, Solas knew instinctively that she would be fine. “She is extremely clever, and a very talented mage. Few things would seriously threaten her, and I imagine none of them are at Fort Revasan.”

An uncomfortable grin took over Sam’s kind smile, and Solas grimaced at the seedy expression. “She must be pretty great.”

“She’s the Hero of Ferelden. She will be fine.”

---

Eirwen’s initial plan regarding Gaspard was not to have a plan at all. She didn’t think she needed one, as she had nothing to lose or gain by talking to him.

Nothing to gain or lose personally, anyway. She could use this meeting for her troops, if not for the Inquisition as a whole. 

Still she did nothing to improve her appearance beyond fixing her hair and putting cleaner clothes on. For days now she’d been living in the plains, bleeding and starving and relying on her magic for survival. She’d spent the last day sleeping in a prison under the supervision of a Templar. If she needed to dress up to meet someone, they would need to find her at Skyhold. 

Eirwen knew a little about Orlesian nobility from her travels. She expected duplicity, a literal mask, and a heavy dose of racism. She had no interest in “The Game” but knew how little her preference mattered. Regardless of whether she actually tried to play, any Orlesian noble would verbally destroy her. 

She figured someone would get her and take her to meet him on his terms, perhaps in his tent or office. Instead, the inevitable knock at her door brought her face-to-face with the Duke.

“I thought Orlesians wore masks.”

Gaspard was a formidable man, easily a head taller than Eirwen and broad even in his riding gear. He was significantly older than she’d expected, but she wasn’t sure why she thought he was younger. He bore heavy lines on his face, accentuated by the shadow of dark hair on his oval-shaped head. 

He smiled and she kept looking him over, not reacting. “There is no need for formalities. We are two former soldiers having a conversation.” He bowed slightly, and she returned the gesture with a spark of hesitation. “May I?” He gestured toward the table in her room, but he must have noticed her wariness because he did not enter; instead, he gestured behind him and Lezare stepped out from his shadow. She nodded to Eirwen. “I understand you are Ferelden, in culture at least.” There was an unmistakable note of superiority in his voice that nearly made Eirwen roll her eyes. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable with a neutral party?”

“No,” Eirwen said flatly, quickly, glancing at the Templar. Should something unexpected happen, Gaspard could not prevent her from escaping like Lezare could. “We’ll be fine.” She stepped back, showing the Duke inside. “Thank you for the offer, though.” Her eyes briefly met Lezare’s, but she couldn’t read her expression. She left the door open, mostly because her crow form struggled with doorknobs. She knew full-well that Lezare would most likely be on the other side waiting for disaster, but putting distance between her two main concerns would buy her valuable time.

“I’m surprised anyone in Orlais knows about the Blight,” she began, finding her flask by her bed and unashamedly taking a drink. It burned on the way down and she hissed, shaking her head. “I was worried Loghain told you all it was an elaborate myth, created by the Grey Wardens to take over Ferelden, or something.”

“No, he was far more concerned with Orlais spontaneously invading a darkspawn-infested swamp.” Gaspard looked at her flask, one brow raised slightly. “What are you drinking?”

“I’m not even really sure anymore,” she smirked and put the flask back down. “I just dump whatever liquor I can find into it.”

“La Félicité du Fantassin. The Infantryman’s Bliss.”

“Is that what you call it? A random selection of alcohols?”

“It was not uncommon to find half-empty bottles and split them among us. The truly desperate would pour it all into one flask, as I assume you do.”

Eirwen nodded. “It tastes like shit, though.”

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “That is irrelevant, no?”

She shrugged noncommittally. Instead of sitting across from him at the table, Eirwen sat down on the edge of her bed. “You said former soldiers.” She nodded to the sword at his hip. “You’re still fighting.”

“I misspoke. We are both still fighting, are we not? I fight for my countrymen, you for... yourself, I suppose. Or perhaps for another drink.”

“If only. I’d rather fight only for myself. It’s easier that way.”

“What is your fight now, Warden? The Archdemon is dead, you do not lead the Inquisition... you are not even fighting for mages, despite being one yourself.” He leveled his gaze, his expression respectful but confused. “I admire your accomplishments, and I have great respect for the Grey Wardens, however... I am not sure what brought you here.”

Eirwen’s eyes narrowed. He knew full-well what brought her there. She’d told Lezare, and Lezare must have briefed him. Why would he ask a question he already knew the answer to? “Do you know where my troops are, Gaspard?”

“I... assure you I have no idea what you are referring to.”

“Deserters from your army, from your war, kidnapped my men and took them somewhere. They left me for dead, and were it not for the kindness of a person your soldiers are keeping in the prison of this fort as we speak, they would have succeeded.” She spoke clearly, with no hint of slurring, and kept her voice even and low despite her accusatory words. 

Gaspard sighed heavily, as if exasperated, and looked away from her. “Those bastards... We should have hunted them down and killed them before they could cause such damage.” He shook his head and turned his gaze back to her. “They call themselves the Freemen of the Dales. It is absurd.”

The bed creaked as Eirwen shifted her weight, crossing her legs before her. “Mm. Why are Orlesian soldiers acting like common bandits? They’re harassing Inquisition troops and refugees passing through the area.” She’d nearly mentioned the Dalish, but caught herself. That clan struggled enough without Gaspard’s men harassing them.

“They are not our soldiers, not anymore. They are cowards. Many men took up arms to fight the Empress, whether they had the heart for it or not.” He tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk returning to his face. “Not everyone is fit for war.”

“So, what? No one takes responsibility? You let your ill-trained men run wild in the Dales, disrupting trade and attacking your allies?”

“No.” He was unexpectedly firm, and the disbelief on Eirwen’s face must have been obvious, because he leaned toward her and went on with sudden and alarming conviction. “I wish to make peace with the Inquisition, if not an alliance. I will work to eradicate the Freemen of the Dales, and you will take a contingent of my soldiers with you to destroy their base in the Exalted Plains and retrieve your men.”

A harsh reply buzzed on her tongue, but she held back. That was a suspiciously good offer. 

“Consider it an act in good faith,” he said before she could question him. He sat back and cleared his throat, looking towards the open door for a moment before turning his hard, dark gaze back to her. “I must admit to some curiosity on my part. Do you still hold the title of Warden-Commander?”

Eirwen swallowed and looked away, effectively giving him his answer. 

“In that case, I am certain you know of the insanity at Adamant Fortress.”

“What?” 

He stood and straightened his shirt. “I suppose they are Orlesian Wardens, in truth. None of your concern, really.”

“What is happening at Adamant?”

“Lezare!” He called suddenly, giving Eirwen a start. The Knight-Captain stepped inside with a quick bow. “Prepare a small group of our best men at Revasan and assist the Warden-Commander in getting her men back from the deserters.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“Gaspard.” Eirwen stood, her voice and posture hardened. She no longer cared about Lezare’s presence. “What have you heard?”

The Duke glanced at Lezare, feigning confusion. “My sincerest apologies, Warden-Commander, but that is confidential information. Perhaps we may speak again at a later time, in more discerning company.” There was a flicker of offense in Lezare’s eyes, but the schadenfreude did nothing to soothe Eirwen’s frustration. 

Gaspard bowed to her, and Eirwen’s jaw stiffened. “I need to know, Gaspard,” she insisted, unmoving. “Or at least the Inquisitor does. Send her a missive. You aren’t doing us any favors by withholding information.”

“Again, I apologize. I will consider the missive, but I cannot give you any more information at this time.” He bowed to her, deeper than he did before. “Another time, Warden-Commander. It has been a pleasure.”

She clenched her fist, but let him go. For now, she would take the soldiers and find her men. She would deal with Gaspard, and Adamant, in due time.