#hoboblaidd

[avrorean]

No. It was a simple word, small, hard edged for all its soft sound. But it carried indescribable weight here. Nanna didn’t know how to describe it, but something about that ‘no’ settled like a weighted blanket over her shoulders, and the world felt like it was sinking. It felt like validation. She released a shaking breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding so tightly, and she felt like sinking as well, her forehead finding a place to rest where his hand held hers. 

It felt small and childish, clinging to such a comfort for hurt she might never have even seen if not for this string of misfortunes. But it was him, and the wound had been exposed deep within the halls of Skyhold. And there had always been something about this fortress that made her feel at ease, more than the Tower or Amaranthine ever had. Redcliffe and the Templar suddenly felt a thousand miles away.   

“I do not think I have ever…” Despite herself, Nanna laughed at the suggestion. It was a short huff, her breath light and warm against their locked hands, and was an end to the thought where words had once again failed her. It wasn’t funny, not really, but there was a certain nostalgia to the confession that strangely tickled her through the weight of the mood. Art had never been considered a necessity for apprentices in the Tower, and Nanna recalled a similar conversation taking place with Leliana long ago when the bard had caught her staring at her instrument with too much intensity. Not unlike the days she’d caught herself watching Solas at his frescos. There was a strange comfort in that.

But the thought of reaching for Cole again sombered her. Knowing the spirit-boy, he likely already knew of something happening, especially now that he embraced his nature. Nanna wouldn’t be surprised to find him outside her door this very minute. He would help, she had no doubt. And Nanna found she didn't want it right now.

“Can I…” She paused, her eyes falling again as she searched for the words she could knot together to say what she meant. “Have some time?”

She knew she didn’t need his permission, nor would he ever expect it of her. But in the rawness of this moment, Nanna wasn’t sure how else to express her need. She wasn’t closing herself, not this time, but this was a wound she only just now realized was bleeding—Nanna found she wasn’t ready for it to be bound and smoothed out yet.

Solas had watched fragments of memory when he first woke near a year ago. A child’s tentative steps through a winding prison tower, the look of fear on her face as the Circle betrayed her for helping a friend, and the devastation as she stepped over the corpses of her family to save what remained of her home.

“No,” he shook his head. “It does not seem fair at all.”

Nanna looked so much the child lost in a grove, seeking a path through a forest of dreams back to her home. But then, she always did to him. Solas closed his fingers around her hand. 

“I don’t know, da’lathin,” he said. “I wish I did. Perhaps Cole can help.”

It wasn’t enough, but Solas could claim no secret wisdom on wrestling with an unrealized pain that cuts so deeply.

“When I struggle with memories that threaten to overwhelm or emotions that are difficult to grasp, I often paint them. It can be difficult to focus on the subject, but it allows you to put those feelings somewhere else, and to…” 

Solas paused, searching through his Common for sufficient words. It was deeper than reflection, and more cognizant than disassociation. None he could think of conveyed what he wanted, so he concluded in Elvhen, “Sina emma taren sir sinan a’penshra.” In essence, the feeling of looking at oneself with another’s eyes.

“It will not heal the hurt as Cole could, but it is the best I can suggest.”

[extravagantfool]

[ @hoboblaidd ] said:

"why be ashamed? power should be respected, not swept under the carpet."

Sometimes, they like to think they'll be able to sleep and actually rest. It's a funny joke, considering the cushions of the couch in their room are dry and stiff with age, and the giant glass observatory window is constantly illuminated. Sure, there were beds in the makeshift infirmary they could steal for their room, but something feels off about that. They could make a hammock and string it up and sleep aloft, but the stone rafters rejected that notion pretty quickly. So they settle listlessly into the shallow couch and close their eyes, pretending they believe they'll be able to catch even a moment's rest.

The bells on their earrings ring as they shake their head -- as if they could drown out the smarmy voice.

"I almost want to know what you're implying with that." Mismatched eyes open and the cold-not-cold of the Fade hits them with an imaginary chill. There stands Solas, always at full height, but folded into himself. Not hunched up and wounded, like he almost had the right to be, but still far too huddled up and still. An odd pose for a wolf. Mournful memories splashed with paint are fresh on their mind, and they temper some of the irritation -- but not a lot. "I mean, isn't that hypocritical of you too? Varric told me you used to pose as just an 'elvhen apostate'." They tilt their head, as if it will give them a new angle to see him in. They they like to think up funny jokes.

[anextravagantliar]

He opens his eyes. 

There is too much movement around him. There is a hand in his, and it’s all overwhelming. He squeezes that hand, and a sharp voice clears that noise. He finds himself in too much pain, gasping, but it is air. Is it air in his lungs? Lung? He’s not sure and not sure if he can ask, as his voice is rough and claimed by disuse, and he is a kind of weak he’s only ever written about. 

But there is air in his lungs, and perhaps he is not a regret after all. His hand curls into the quilt, one of the few things in this room he recognises other than the face at his bedside; no, there are fragments of life in this room, soothingly so, like the scratching of quill against parchment or the crack of an open fire. It allows him peace, peace enough until a healer comes and rips him wide at the seams and sticks him in all the uncomfortable and painful ways.

It’s exhausting, and the edges of darkness find him before he can fully complain or explain his misery and his apologies. The blotting of sleep claims him slowly, settling behind his eyes rather than an ache in his bones. So it’s sleep that finds him before his voice, a hand still in his, a story still ongoing and the voices of the world ( a bar maybe? ) below them. It’s soothing, and the world does not bleed into a true dark to find a distant memory; rather, it bleeds in a world of technicolour hues he only sees in the day, and it is not the foggy haze over a memory. 

It is clear, it is familiar and a tavern long ago. But the place is full of friends, some who have never met - some who would never meet. So, for a flash, he wonders, maybe he was a regret after all of this, the last dying flame of his soul summoning those who had gone before him and those who would never walk the long march. Then there are two, a laugh that cuts through him like a knife and the other like a bell - two sounds together he never thought he would hear again, and he knows he must be dreaming. 

He has to be dreaming. 

High water has not claimed him, nor wound or world; he has not drowned, he has not starved. But they are there and talking. There are others, just as surprising - the laughter of children who should be far from here, friends long lost to fade or madness, a brother well and whole. 

It’s a dream, it’s a dream. It’s repeated until it’s cemented in his mind as Bartrand claps him on the back, reminding him to lighten up. 

He’s dreaming. 

He’s dreaming. 

Everything is too vivid, much like the words someone would summon on a long trip, and Varric summons his own will. Pushing past the crowd and cutting into the middle, the inner circle awaits. That bell of laughter and that dry wit is heard again, a sharp laugh and giggles softer and full of wonder, Hawke’s voice, his mother’s perfume…the smell of hot metal as it comes out of the fire. 

When he pushes through and into the circle - it’s not that, and the world does shift again; it’s not sawdust on the floor, not a room full of people - it is a rotunda and a desk, plaster on walls, wet lime and freshly pressed ocher mixed with oil. This place is more than familiar. It is quiet, and he finds himself at the desk quickly enough, pulling out the bottom drawer and finding it still locked. 

Even in dreams, locks. 

Why not? 

It’s easy enough to open, as he finds his hands still work and the lock pops.

“You could have asked.”

“More fun this way.” Varric posits, pulling the drawer open. There are no papers to pilfer through; rather, he’s after the bottle and glasses left at the bottom. “You think in dreams the bottle would at least be full.” 

“That is not how it always works.” 

The bottle of amber something is fished out and thunks against the desk. He leaves the glasses and stands, nudging the desk closed with a booted foot. Eyes narrow on him, and he shrugs. “Must you do that?” Solas asks, Varric has heard those words before, as he’s done this before - years ago. 

“No, but I will.” It’s not a proper reply by any stretch of the imagination. Instead, he’s already made himself busy with the decanter of amber swill. “Besides, it’s a dream.”

“So it seems.”

“Lighten up, Chuckles; it’s like you’ve seen a ghost.” Varric punctuates the statement with taking a swig of the liquid. It’s warm, tastes like cinnamon and has hints of oak. He’s never asked where it comes from, and he’s sure he’ll never get a straight answer. The glass is offered with a flourish, a gentle shake before offering it across the divide. There is that hesitation, as if the elf is still sizing him up. 

But Solas takes it, taking a swig himself before he speaks, “Haven’t I?”

“Depends on how you interpret a ghost, Solas.” Varric shrugs and falls against the chair in the rotunda, eyes drawn up, and he’s met with the empty cages, once filled with all of Leliana’s birds. “Did they ever shit on your work?” He says it as Solas tips the decanter to his lips, timed intentionally. 

“I beg your pardon, Varric?” It’s sputtered, and Varric laughs, a full laugh, one drawn out of him like when a bad hand is intentionally played, when a job goes well, when a joke lands somewhere over a fire, like when he is home and warm. 

“Nightingale’s birds. Dorian said they would peck his papers; I never asked you.” It’s a dumb thing to ask in the scheme of things; there is plenty to say and plenty to be sour about over a missed life and missed chance to help. 

“Of all the things to ask?” 

“You asked about my views on humans and dwarves, answer the question about shit.” 

“Why do you think I would tarp the floors?” That pulls a laugh from Varric, one that causes him to slap his knee, and the conversation flows, like whatever noxious mixture they face fished up out of his memory, their memory, whoever’s memory. They pass that bottle again, and Varric swears the level never drops - even if his memory warms and things become hazy. There is ink on parchment, and the colour finds the walls; two things left undone begin again in that rotunda as they continue to prattle, aimlessly as it always was before.

But the ink blots on his paper and falls like blood from a wound, and it pools there like the anger in the pit of his stomach. “Hey, Chuckles?”

“Yes, Varric?”

“Do you realise how much you missed?”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying by that; there are spans of time I have—”

“Not that, too cerebral. I’m asking about something more tangible. The lives you entwined over the years - I knew you - do you know how much you missed, even of my life?” It does not rip out of him, not like thunder or the rage he once knew to bubble in his belly when he dared to call Skyhold his home. “Do you even know me anymore?”

There is a timing to frescos, and Varric is cutting in front of it, forcing his time to talk, forcing a hand he never got to play, stealing the cards Solas always had tucked in his damned sweater. The words are drying the plaster, and Varric can watch the elf grapple with each word as if they are the very valleys and hills etched into wet lime that crave colour. So pen taps paper again, another blot of ink - another word on the page. 

Another silent moment. “Rook’s a good kid, not the first one I’ve taken in. Did you know that?” 

More silence; it’s not surprising it’s a dream after all, a fucking dream of all things.

“Varric, if you are looking for something…” 

That causes a dark laugh to rip out of him, one that he has not heard come out of him in some time, a decade - two? So anger ripples through him like a stone against a still pond. “I was, I did, for ten years, hoping that somehow - some way I could get anything through your skull. I have children, Solas, and a family. Did you ever consider the people around you the people that held you dear? Even if just for a moment?” 

Of course not - it’s just a dream after all - just his body and mind reacting to something he helped undo. It's just another time he’s released another evil onto this world. So he pulls himself from the chair, leaving ink on parchment and the man standing there in his thoughts in the endless well of their own regrets. He moves through them, leaving the elf behind. There’s a door, the door to the great hall - where it is warm and his work awaits if his memory serves him well, “Don’t answer; you’re just a dream after all.”

“Varric.” 

“Naw.” He replies, and the knob turns in his hand. “Stew in it.” After all, they are both men just trying to get home, which angers him more.

He opens his eyes.

[skyheld]

self-indulgent question but reading your post about how much a parent ameridan is to dhavi made me realize - how would ameridan feel to learn that dhavi ends up having a kid with solas 🥶

unprompted | always accepting | @hoboblaidd & @keepslore

so i had to talk to lou about this because what i've said about ameridan post-veilguard is that hakkon is willing to stick around for just about a month so he can say goodbye to those important to him (and less if there's no one around who's that important) so he wouldn't know. but i really really want him to have time to find out she's with child, so we decided dhavi will find out via a healer mage very early on in her pregnancy, and ameridan will be first to know.

he's... really happy. really, really happy.

yes, he'd have preferred if it was someone else than solas. he doesn't understand how she could stand to interact with him while rook was in the regret prison. have sympathy for him is one thing, this is another he'll probably be confused for a moment as to who's kid it is when did she meet someone new-. it makes him feel like he doesn't know her or doesn't want to know her, and that's painful. but solas is in the fade now and he will definitely never get out. dhavi is safe from him. that leaves her free to mourn him and enjoy the one good thing that came out of meeting him.

and it is good! as long as she's happy he's happy, he's not thinking about the logistics. he's so joyously shocked at dhavi becoming a mother, at himself becoming a grandparent. if he could he'd stick around for another eight months just to see sula born, but at least he gets to find out, he gets to die knowing dhavi will have what he always wanted for himself and what he got in her, that she won't be alone or purposeless. and after the destruction in veilguard he dies knowing life goes on and will thrive. and i think, since he does have sympathy for solas now that he's definitely never getting out, he's glad that solas' child will grow up free and loved, that something of him gets out.

we're not talking about him getting to hold a newborn baby like it's the most precious thing in the world or holding her hands as she begins to walk it's not happening

[martyrmarked]

so i know there's a lot of comparisons made between the player characters of all of the da games but i've just mostly taken interest in the parallels between solas & sidri & the eventual difference between them that i think leads to solas have a story that's largely defined by regret and sidri with a story focused on peace. while i could go on about the numerous and (i think anyway) narratively rich parallels going to choose to go on about that primary difference that becomes so important: solas decides to change the essence of who he is for love and sidri decides to maintains the essence of who she is for love.

solas, as a spirit of wisdom, is noted as being gentle. there is nothing about him during as existence as a spirit that would ever hint at the dread wolf, at the desperate and viciously determined solas we see throughout all of veilguard and its many flashbacks. at mythal's request and out of love, solas makes the decision to alter the very core of his essence and take on a physical form. to be clear, solas wholly has his own agency and makes the many decisions that we see in flashbacks and as are revealed throughout veilguard, but there's no denying he is coaxed along by mythal to overlook his hesitations, worry and outright disapproval over the many actions he decides to take part in. the solas we see at the end of veilguard, to me anyway, feels recognizable from that gentle spirit: hardened by war, brutal if needed, and undoubtly driven by the profound, aching regret of countless centuries. solas changes because of and for love, for mythal, in a way that breaks him from that core he once was.

sidri, at her core, is gentle. to be clear, gentleness doesn't equal naivete as often as this site and fandom generally wants it to be, but this to say she doesn't want power or glory. her primary desire that guides her actions throughout the first quarter of inquisition is a revenge born out of fury for her brother as well as the goal of creating some sort of justice in an inherently inequitable world. however, instead of losing herself to that and losing herself to the endless brutal, miserable choices required of war like solas did, @extravagantliar reminds her time & time that she's more than her title. he reminds her to consider her own thoughts, her own feelings, time and time again when she begins to lose herself to the inquisition. she takes the first steps towards the well and is fully ready to change irreparably change herself because she thinks its not a unfair trade, just who she is for the knowledge needed to end this war, but it's varric who takes her wrist and begs her not to do it, that she as herself, not as the inquisitor, is worth saving and preserving. sidri is reminded of who she is at her core because of love and does change because of it, for varric.

i just think that dragon age, over and over again, shows that when you fundamentally alter the essence of something you irreparably wound it, that when you rip something from its core you break it in a way that is almost always beyond repair. sidri makes the choice to preserve herself and recognize that there's something beyond the inquisition and being the herald of andraste because of and for love. her life becomes defined by the decision to seek peace over power. for solas, he makes the decision to change himself for love and makes so many choices that go against his true nature in furtherance of an end. poor solas then has a narrative all but wholly marked with regret and the desperation to undo those very many mistakes and there's just a quiet, aching tragedy to that and him because of it.

[mercysought]

❝ there's one thing i know in my bones. there is no force in this world that can control you. ❞ - dealer’s choice

arcane season 2 // @hoboblaidd // accepting

There is much that we have forgotten. I have come to accept that, one way or another, we - the dalish - are not the last of the elvhenan. How could we ever be if such a place (A place for Our People) was broken so long ago? I think a lot about something I was told, upon first discovering that some of the People still walked and protected those same spaces that we had tried so hard to recover.

They never sought us out, they knew were lived in forests and in Clans and yet simply watched on, thinking of us like Shadows wearing vallas'lin. Shattered pieces of a past that had once been their present.

Despite the oath at the Dales, the reality is that whatever empire the elvhen once had - it is not something we can recover; nor should we. I have had enough time to think about it and, truthfully, while I believe the vallas'lin no longer carry the meaning of old, if I were to be asked once more, I wouldn't be able to carry it, to keep it. Not after learning what I have. It is an uphill battle that every dalish person will have to reckon with: to preserve the past and poison the future, to remember what has happened with nuance of knowing how fickle memory can be.

Or perhaps, to allow ourselves the nuance and the grace that comes from change. In the end, however, it should still be each of that Dalish person's choice: To keep it with its changed, new meaning, with a shameful past but a brighter life. Or to leave it behind and allow memory to destroy it too.

The Vallas'lin were markings with which the Evanuris branded their slaves, both high and low. But they are no longer. The Evanuris are dead and we are not.

   "You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you." She had said, almost in disbelief when he had spoken almost as if he had seriously been considering leaving. This new title, Inquisitor, still felt like a fresh wound against her. Raw and impossibly larger than any life that Asharen had ever known. Solas was the only person that had seemingly cared whether she lived or died regardless of the anchor in her hand. However, this much she knew, understood: Cassandra, Leliana and Cullen, they listened to her. She wasn't sure how far she could push it. But three humans, non mages, listened.    "How would you stop them?" she hears him ask and his eyes are on her. Her brows arch as if she doesn't understand the question. And perhaps she doesn't. How did you defend the younger ones of the clan when you knew templars were marching in the surrounding clan areas? He was bare faced, but so were many in Antiva City, many that had come to her defense too.    "However I had to."

The First Inquisitor of the Chantry's Inquisition was a dalish elf - a mage - who worked alongside humans in Orlais. He died holding another world shattering threat, hoping that would keep the dales safe. It didn't.

It should not surprise me how frequently history repeats itself and yet we stand at the closing of another cycle: I too am dalish, a mage and Inquisitor during the fight against Corypheus. It does not escape my thoughts that this too is likely to be my fate. Even as I write these in the hopes of clearing my mind, I know that one way or another they will likely find themselves in hands that are not mine.

While I know that is outside of my control, my wishes, I instead find myself hoping that while it will be the interest of my title (and, hopefully, name) which will draw eyes to the writing, that it will be its contents and the History within that will keep it being repeated and passed on.

Those who hold the records of History, true or not, are the same that will control the new path the Dalish will take moving forward. The Oath of the Dales has promised that we shall never submit again. We are more than our aravels, our halla, our arlathven. We are more than our oath. We are more than our loss, our grief.

Do not forget the lessons of old, but do not allow them to destroy the joys of the present.

[theodosiani]

Something something Ghilan’nain would be So Petty about Solas’ ability to remove vallaskin that the ones she gives his daughters would be spelled on ten different levels. Spells that will injure him if he attempts, spells that will injure them is he attempts, scarification beneath the tattoos themselves so that it will be more difficult to fully remove any remnants, enchantments that leave the scar tissue reactive to magical light so the vallaslin is visible under veilfire(thanks @wayan9an), basically removing them will have Consequences and even if you can manage it Solas will never be able to take the memory of receiving it at all from them.

[orxna]

All of us ready to wait patiently for however the fuck Solas is going to respond to that.

@extravagantrook & @hoboblaidd

[avrorean]

𝐼t wasn't what she expected of a place in the Fade, but Nanna should know by now the limitless creation here when it came to a matter of one's will. Still, now that she felt recovered enough to explore this place, this Lighthouse, she felt a little in awe. Time was hard to gauge here, but it felt like the perpetual ease of an early morning, a soft glow in the sky that promised new starts. A will for a home. @hoboblaidd 's home, for all that she could tell.

And while she had heard the others express some initial unease with this place and its peculiarities, Nanna had found it... strangely welcoming.

"Your 'village far to the north', I take it?" she mused to herself, ascending the gilded stairwell of the Lighthouse's expansive courtyard.

Slowly, some pieces had begun to fall into place. Accounts from those in the Inquisition after the Summit, and what she had heard from Rook and their company since her arrival, the echoes of his voice in a sealed memory... It was a lot to process, after her ordeal with the Wardens. A feeling that only amplified as her eyes fell from the ancient, towering architecture to the statue of a wolf that seemed to oversee it all.

Fen'harel. The name reverberated over and over in her mind as she approached it, tentative even as it remained unmoving. It was hard to place such a name over the one of her friend, even with all she had heard. Even as she tried to match the two, it always shifted back to Solas. And yet...

"Fen'harel ma ghilana." The words came back to her with ease, a vocal recollection as the mage leaned back against the Wolf, watching the strange shifting sky. They had never discussed it, that night in the undercroft, but Nanna remembered. The pull of his voice calling her back from the draw of Corypheus' false Calling, a guide in the dark of the taint. And the blessing of a talisman in a dream wood long ago. She smiled lightly then. "It makes sense... That it was the only name you ever invoked. It was only ever you."

[extravagantfool]

sometimes love isn't enough.

INQUISITION PARTY BANTER // Inbox Open!!

That hadn't been what Asha had expected her to say. What she and Solas had, while they definitely don't have all the facts, wasn't a secret. Not with Varric's letters and late night stories connecting dots and painting a verbal picture for them. So their stance of how they wanted to free Solas, how they wanted to find a way to sell him on some better option, is met with-- this. They blink at her, the table between suddenly feeling like a moat.

"But you love him."

They say it like it is the answer and not the question. Dark eyes crinkle with something mixed between regret, anger, and just-- resignment. "Like I said--" They stop her with a gesture of their hand, palm held up as their body reacts faster than their brain can. They're young, they know, but they know what love is. Love is the smile lines around lips, the sparkle in familiar eyes, and a soft voice telling you pointless stories. Love is a warm embrace, ignoring the shake of a crossbow and misstep of a bad hip, and standing in your blind spot that you never disclosed. Love is letters, so many letters, and stupid machinations to try to keep people safe and fucking up every time. Love is enduring through wolf howling nightmares, sleepless nights, and magickal mishaps. Love forgives, even if it has to cuff you on the back of the head first.

They're getting up, the empty room echoing something they can't quite put their finger on. Shock, sure, but... maybe a touch of resentment? They shush that away, shoving it under their masks as they smile, even if it's a sad smile. "Sorry, but I can't agree." They shouldn't end their meeting like this, but it's like plunging into deep water-- they will be gasping and grasping for solid ground for a while after this. They consider her, the bare skin of her face, and the soft tapering of her pulse that stops at one shoulder. "I...get it? I think." They shake their head, because this is a pleasantry; the don't get it. "But I can't give up on him."

Not because they liked Solas or what he's done. Not because this shit show wasn't part of a big series of missteps of his that they now how to untangle and right. But because-- "Varric wouldn't give up on him so I won't either." They can watch her forehead crinkle as her eyes fill with a familiar sadness. A sadness they see all too often when they talk about Varric, when they-- They blink away the distance, forcing themself back into their flesh, and away from the ache. They shake their head, the bells on their ears silent with solemnity. They consider reaching out to her, but they can feel the distance between them. Like Kirkwall's Twins, chained together, but never truly together.

"Everyone deserves a chance, you know that, right?" This is quiet, murmured more to themself than her, but... "We deserve a chance and so does he. I can't make him accept it, but I have to offer it to him, because he won't let himself even think about it." ( he likes being the villain, because that means these weren't mistakes, but choices. choices he was in control of. ) "I'm sorry." They are, they truly are. Their hand grazes across their side to rest on their hip, to grasp the ring of the dagger-- the idol. "But I have to try."

he's my friend rook.

[anextravagantliar]

work has been throttling me with things, but Karen got me and now that revpar is done I can stand on a box for a few minutes, you all signed up for it.

I have so many questions, and all of them lead back to the same heartache place - so we all know I live in a canon-divergent space, but I'll step out of my box to hurt myself.

everything boils down to love. if i am to just stand here and wait for you all to yell at me, why don't we look at trick's romance route for a moment, what happens to lavellan? what does varric see happen? anyone in the class? anyone?

no? okay.

lavellan is for lack of better terms jilted. we have no canonical text to thing that varric was actually jilted but let us continue to unpack things, varric was in a fifteen year whatever, situationship is a shitty thing to call it but like it was letters mostly as he's got a bounty on his head ( real replay well shit and tell me what that stabbing line is about - then go play all new faded for her and sob ) so I have nothing better. varric watches that happen and sees his friend go through one of the hardest times of their lives back to back to back to back, again. so seeing all of this fucking shit, and his own fresh in his mind, why wouldn't he help. for someone so scorned by love he does believe in it. and he's on those stairs for two of his friends, getting involved as sometimes we shouldn't. glass hearts always break.

now, any other romance/nonromance - in a canon space - why would varric do it? solas is still worth it. that's his friend, maybe not a good time pal anymore, but he is someone that varric still cares about and he's bad at putting people down. Especially lost causes, especially black sheep, especially loners, and people who have given up and do not think they are worth it.

when it comes to sid? varric has a debt to pay, and he doesn't let a debt go unpaid. his friend needs help, and he's bad at leaving things alone.

[skyheld]

plotted starter for @hoboblaidd

It must be because he once lost all that was his old life, all that he knew, that Ameridan now tries to hold on to anything that becomes familiar like he needs things to be just so and cannot bear them changing again. This is not the first time he's sat with Solas at a inn in some small, nameless town and ignored the looks at their backs from the human patrons, and his heart yearns to go back to those days, that year or so, those simpler times—which, of course, were never simple. Corypheus was still threatening to tear open the sky, the Venatori and red templars and countless other enemies were still at their backs. He was in mourning. It's only that he remembers the glimpses of joy between everything else; he sees that year like a tapestry depicting a past event, all the figures lined up neatly, all colours bright and beautiful. A rest at a inn, Blackwall laughing at a crude joke of Sera's, Dhavi smiling into her cup beside Solas.

At that, the tapestry it torn. He remembers a trail of blood on the tiled floor of the Winter Palace, a darkened room with the fire roaring to keep her warm, her sleeve pinned up over layers and layers of bandages. He remembers Abelas confirming the truth she'd been told. Fen'harel. The Dreadwolf. He means to do what Corypheus tried, he's going to destroy us just as surely.

And he's reeling, suddenly, wondering how he can sit here in silence while Abelas lays out the reasons they want to stay together, with Solas if possible, or at least not against him. Never against him. How can he think this is right?

Abelas has done most of the talking—he knows Solas better, or maybe it is closer to the truth to says he knows him at all, while Ameridan never did—so it's not obvious the way he suddenly feels removed from the conversation, like a glass wall shot up between him and the other two. Or not a glass wall but a mirror in which he sees himself, seated opposite a man who is working towards tearing his world apart, who lied to and betrayed his daughter—making pleasant conversation in the hopes that he will be allowed to stay with one of his closest allies.

He squeezes the hand he's been holding all this time, to feel that it's there and real and not on the other side of a glass wall, and Abelas squeezes back. Immediately, without thinking, only to look over a moment later with a small, questioning smile to see if there was anything he wanted. It is that look which reminds him. That support without a second's delay.

"I was thinking—" there was nothing he wanted to say to them, he just wanted to feel their touch, but with the break in conversation he remembers what he meant to bring up with Solas as soon as he had a chance to. "I was thinking Solas and I should talk, just the two of us. As I am sure there are things you two will need to talk about without me."

Abelas studies him for a moment, but they cannot say there is nothing they and Solas may speak of Ameridan must not hear; it has never been so. And while Ameridan and Solas should not have secrets in the same way, it's not in Abelas' nature to question. "I will be in our room until you need me, then", they say. Ameridan leans in to kiss them before they stand up, and gets another kiss to the top of his head once they've done so. As Abelas walks away, they hold on to each other's hands, letting their arms stretch out between them before they let go.

Ameridan turns back to Solas. Once again the chorus rises in his head—Fen'harel, the Dreadwolf—and there is the image of blood on the tiled floor.

"I wanted to ask", there's so much he wants to ask, but very little that he thinks he will get answers to, "about Abelas."

[mercysought]

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

KISSES // accepting . @keepslore & @hoboblaidd

   "It is not the way we do things."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "Lost faith in you?" she repeats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "Do not make an enemy of me too."

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

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

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

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

[theodosiani]

APPROVAL + asking the Caretaker to make sure that Kasaanda doesn't stab any artifacts that might explode the Lighthouse. Or damage the artifact. Or really, just don't let her stab anything except Rook and their companions.

Approval Meme || Accepting || @hoboblaidd

Kasaanda isn't a CHILD she doesn't just stab things for fun. It's absolutely ridiculous that Solas would think so poorly of her self-control that she would do something so careless. She is a trained professional, a former priestess of the Qun, and an agent of Fen'harel she would never do something to interfere with her mission--

But she will listen if the Caretaker asks her to stop juggling her knives in the conservatory.

Kasaanda Disapproves.

[orxna]

Sulhan'Harel's Vallaslin designed by Ghilan'nain herself and named the Da'Fen Vallaslin, was carefully crafted from Orana's own memories of Solas' frescoes in Skyhold. The border being ripped to use as tear tracks representing the wolf's suffering and inability to defend his children and the eyes indicating the women's familial inherited relation, regardless of biological status. Used by the remaining Evanuris to mark Fen'Harel's daughters, Orana and Nanna.

[martyrmarked]

𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐖, enough so that she knows it is him standing in the doorway without even lifting her eyes from the sprawling map. it's a subtler presence. it lacks the immediate force of cassandra and the air does not seem to shift the same way as when cole appears. no, solas is entirely himself and wholly unlike the others in both this and each way she has seen thus far. ❝ if you'd like to state your disappointment, solas, you may as well just come out and say it. it's quicker to just get to the point than try and bury your meaning in too many words. ❞

finally, exhausted gaze lifts from across the war room. of all of the horrors they have seen thus far, adamant had been the worst. worse than the fade, even, worse than fear, and the fury and disgust at the wardens still seems to cling to her skin despite all but clawing at her skin in the bath. all that needless death couched in righteousness. her mouth opens only to shut a moment later and sidri sighs, lifting a gloved hand to rub at her temples. ❝ i'm sorry. that was... unnecessary. ❞

as much as she loathes that vaulted chair at the head of the hall, despises the decisions that must be rendered from it, worse yet are the opinions that all but immediately follow. it isn't that she wishes to go without them, she is neither ruler nor regent, but the seeds of doubt they plant too readily grow. her voice quiets, grows neutral. ❝ i suppose you would've executed erimond? just gone and swung the sword to have it all over with rather than have him locked away like i've chosen? ❞ @hoboblaidd