#i was her secret keeper and carry the family lore that the others wish to bury forever

[jedi-bird]

Spent part of the day crocheting in honor of my grandma. Even after 15 years, I still miss her like crazy.

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP Meme from "Chapter One: Caliah (Lore)" in the Bastet breedbook from "Werewolf: The Apocalypse"

Once there was a cat who dreamed he was a man.

Like the morning mist, she appeared from nowhere, or so it seemed.

The winds have spoken of your dilemma and I have come to show you the way home.

Why do you call me brother?

We are family.

We have different parents but share the same blood.

You need to meet your people

You are my sister

I have no other family. Don’t leave me!

We all have family

What are the dreams of a cat?

Let us welcome each other and speak of hidden things.

If they come in peace, we welcome them.

I’m just a mutt.

Listen up and listen close, ‘cause this isn’t stuff you’ll hear from any old place.

I’ve got friends with friends, if y’know what I mean, and this is good stuff.

They don’t get along, y’know.

A good lorespeaker tells different stories every time, and she makes ‘em as cool as possible.

Sound like anyone we know? Nah! Couldn’t be!

So how do you trade secrets, anyway? After all, isn’t a secret shared a secret lost?

If you don’t play the game, you don’t learn a thing.

Each element of the message becomes a metaphor, and the message becomes a story.

Florid? Hell yeah! But ya gotta admit it’s more graceful — and exposes a hell of a lot less — than blurting out the truth.

You might say, “I heard a story about so-and-so” but you’d never say “I did so-and-so.” If your audience has a clue, they’ll catch on.

Everything’s told in metaphors.

A good obtuse metaphor makes you look imaginative if someone gets it, really stupid otherwise.

Everything is larger than life. People don’t just cry, they “explode in showers like the sea.” Folks don’t just get mad, they “turn into coals that burn through the floor.”

If what you’re saying is important, bigger is better.

Simple? Not if you don’t get the lingo.

A wounded cat can surrender without disgrace.

Not enough to go around.

Hey, don’t let on you know what I told you, huh?

It was a time before life, a longing when the dream of birth was yet to be.

This marked the end of peace and the beginning of struggle.

Such promises are soon broken.

Why does even the skin of my daughter flee from my hands?

Why must I always be alone?

Master, what would you have of us?

Nothing exists for him but annihilation.

Go across the world

Let that which is pure stand whole, but erode that which is impure from within.

He tells many tales, but all of them are lies. He is rage made manifest, and he coils within us all.

There was no want, no war, no anguish, and all living things gave of themselves to help others exist.

Until some cataclysm happened, everything lived in peace and plenty.

Life has ever been a struggle, my brothers and sisters. Life has always meant that some may die for others’ pleasure.

That pleasure may be as necessary as hunger or as frivolous as sport, but it has always been fatal and always will be.

Only through struggle can we progress.

Only through sacrifice can we succeed.

We were born from conflict and we grow through adversity. Our ancestors are predators, great cats and human hunters who rose above their surroundings and mastered them.

We know our place in the Great Order, and it is not passive.

Like the moon, our world waxes and wanes.

Each era glows brightly, then fades into night before rising again as some new age.

As creatures of light, dark and twilight all, we are not moved much by the vagaries of fortune.

Each tribe has its creation story, and they differ in many ways.

I have my own ideas.

We are a breed eternally apart, and we are rare.

Water runs silent, yet crushes with the power of an elephant.

Its depths hold secrets that only the brave can find.

The first of our kind were nearly the last.

Those it caught were devoured.

Let this be your legacy

My tears, shed for you, will boil in your veins.

All people will fear you, and all animals, too.

Begone and tend the flocks that need killing.

I banish you from sight!

They still live on in us, and we carry their curse to this day.

As the humans prospered, they grew quickly out of hand.

It was a bloody, useless time, and we fractured as a people.

Secrets became the only thing to bind us.

It’s hard to forgive these raging bastards.

Very territorial, and I know how that feels.

There are enough horrors in the night already.

Corruption has a million voices; sometimes they drown out the song of the moon and lead us over cliffs.

That song wails from nightclubs, boom boxes and televisions every day.

Stop up your ears, my friend and listen to the wind.

Those secrets led the wolves to our door — literally.

Gods damn the dogs for that!

Their misbegotten crusade killed hundreds of our Kind and Kin.

She mated with serpents, wolves and great cats in an effort to become like them, but gave birth to monsters instead.

Some legends portray her as one of our kind, but we know this isn’t so.

If the tales I’ve heard are any measure, they have no pity for us at all.

We are where we are born.

I think our unique insights show us that humanity is a mixed blessing — especially where the earth and the wild are concerned.

Men are the cleverest monkeys, no doubt, but they don’t have much sense of self-preservation.

Our forebears fought to let humanity prosper.

We have an amazing world at our fingertips, but it’s filled with poisons and lies.

Honor seems to be a fading dream in lands where the rich starve their people and the poor kill each other.

We hold magic within ourselves, within our hearts and minds and spirits. To dishonor ourselves is to disperse that magic and scatter our souls.

It’s acceptable to lie to other creatures; they’re not of our blood and not bound by our laws.

We will flee to survive a fight, but will not run when others depend on our strength.

We must make restitution to those we deceive, in deeds, trade or money.

We may be exiled or branded.

Our weapons are many — secrets, claws, teeth and allies — and we will not hesitate to employ them for our world’s

survival.

Our people have walked too close to extinction for us to take such matters lightly.

We will not ally ourselves with shadow powers or drink corrupted wisdom.

We do not fail our Earth and mother. That path leads to death.

We are the keepers of secrets, and our fates depend on silence.

Each of us bears the hidden doom of our own people, and we know the cost of betraying that trust.

We also know that we have what others want — or what they think they want — and it amuses us to make them squirm.

Our knowledge is our concern.

We will not share it unless we wish to.

We will hide ourselves from outsiders; they will think they know us, but we will delude them.

We will wrap our lore in riddles and tales; let the clever ones puzzle out their meaning.

We will act as if we know even more than we do, for it keeps outsiders guessing.

Let them wonder at our insight; they value us more highly when they do.

We will cover our tracks with misdirection, pretend to be other than what we are, fill the air with idle rumors and hide messages in code.

There is no forgiveness for this crime.

Well, let’s just say I know what I’ve seen. And I’ve seen a lot.

His eyes were so filled with pain that I decided to help out.

I’d swear he was grinning as the semi ran him down.

That felt good.

Guess they’ve gotta live here, too.

I say they’re not as smart as they might think.

Maybe I’m the one who’s being fooled.

I could tell you stories all night, all week, all month and more.

As the temples rose and the hordes crossed through, our parents sat on the sidelines of history and observed the passing of kings.

The cultures we witnessed shaped our own ways.

Cities rose, each with secrets too tempting to ignore.

For a long time — 4,000 years — there was all the room in the world for us, and no lack of secrets to keep us entertained.

We should have seen the signs in the Classical Age, when armies swept across the land in the names of gods, kings and conquerors.

We should have met en masse when trade and crusades brought East and West together.

I will not belabor the point. We know what happened.

Explorers, slavers and great white hunters bounded into the wilderness and cast a chain around our kind.

Suddenly, we went from having all space to having little.

I can’t say I don’t share the sentiment just a bit.

We didn’t stop until a greater evil forced us to align, but that’s another story.

It’s a wonder anyone survived.

We studied their secrets, but could learn nothing from them.

We have no one to blame but ourselves.

For all our vaunted sight, we’re blind. For all our gathered lore, we’re stupid.

The world is falling apart.

I don’t know whether to believe it or not, but we are living in interesting times!

We must pool our secrets, combine our efforts, and bring the world’s secrets to light.

We must act on what we discover and disperse what we learn.

Do I lose my cool?

The modern age is the greatest puzzle we could want endless streams of secrets, enigmas, wonders and dazzles, wrapped up in an explosive package that could blow us all to hell.

Anywhere, at any time, the whole ride could fly off the rails.

Those who ignore the warning feed the vultures the next morning.

I’ll simply say the tigers are not where you’d expect.

People have begun to open their eyes, but they still need your counsel to see the cliff’s edge before falling off

Those stories are true — violently true — and they add up to an appalling picture if you string them all together.

They get an idea, work on it a bit, and try to rule the world. Typical. We’ve seen their kind before.

Look around you if you doubt it.

Surely the secrets you’ve uncovered have given you the idea that maybe, just maybe, something’s going on, something bigger than another plunder, another invasion, another city that falls to ruin in a century.

Discover what you can, but bury your tracks well.

We’re strangers to each other for most of our lives, and we like it that way — a few careful gatherings are all we

can stand.

The moon is our patron, but the shadows are our father too, and they call to us at our weaker moments.

Most of us dance on the edge, though, and that’s where we like to be!

Despite our pains, we’re spirited and wild, inquisitive yet careful, sensual yet refined.

Our beauty is our greatest pride, and our wits are second to none.

We know what we are.

To hell with them all!

Still, we cannot let pride blind us to the facts.

The morning it foretells is up to us.

We must come together, yet retain our pride.

We are the keepers of secrets.

Perhaps it’s time those secrets were revealed.

[sliptohk]

A Tale of Two Tribes

((I was about to send this but its three pages long. So I’ll snip it beneath instead.))

The Lohro

Proudly tracing their line back to when their ancestors first crossed the frozen seas to Eorzea, the Lohro are well aware that two distinct bloodlines were entwined together beneath the uniform name of their first Matriarch. Its expressed most commonly through the predominant coloration of the trbeswomen. Graced with chestnut hues from their grand ancestor Lohro and slate grey coming from her chosen sister Arentha, their oral histories record their genealogy through the generations. Hunting grounds have changed through the years, moving from the more hospitable woodlands of the Shroud outward further and further with the pressure of other families seeking more land, and the eventual rise of Gridania and its persistent pressure on the tribal Keeper communities that rejected their rules. The deadlier expanses of the swampland they have more recently come to call home resulted in a smaller number of children born to the huntresses. While their numbers diminished initially, they have stabilized once more.

Four key roles dominate the family structure of the tribe: Mind, Body, Spirit, and Heart. The mind typically falls to the most established huntress amongst their number, placing particular emphasis on cunning and survival skills. The body falls to the most prolific living warrior among their number, spear and bow serving as the primary choice of weapons due to their historically limited access to ore. Spirit, or lorekeeper, carries the full breadth of tribal lore onto the new generations with those filling the role tending to possess a significantly vaster wealth of knowledge of their people. The secrets of Menphina’s rituals are known to all tribeswomen, but only the Spirit passes them on due to their keen focus on remembering and reciting the purest recollections. Though seemingly the least valuable to outsiders, the Heart is embodied in their finest living artist. With the great interest in music, dance, carving, and painting that the tribe possesses, they turn to the works of their paragon to lift them up and ignite their pride. While some overlap can occur, particularly between holders of Mind and Body, the intense focus on filling these key positions within their home tends to prevent them from staying equally practiced in others. The matriarch is chosen from the four based on the current needs of the tribe. Presently, Mehhzi Lohro holds this role by way of her position as Mind, despite her advanced age.

The Lohro do not engage in ritual tattooing, though they possess a vast number of patterns when applying their paints. Each chooses the symbols most suited to what they wish in the task ahead, as well as their personalities before going out to engage in battle, dance, hunting, or mating. Color choice serves a lesser purpose, though certain patterns would never be drawn without the appropriate shades. At times, failure to get access to the proper shades have resulted in the activity being entirely forfeited rather than simply being applied with a different color. They see such things as a sign from the goddess that the activity to be undertaken does not have her blessing.

Unsurprisingly, their diet consists largely of wild game, fish, mushrooms, and edible tubers. While they will also collect any edible vegetation they find, or manage to trade for, it forms a smaller part of their diet. Typically a hunt would involve them stalking dodo, crocs, or deer within the wetlands. Few things would avoid a hunting party’s notice as they remain largely opportunistic, rather than stubbornly dedicated to limited sources of food. They subsist on a variety of herbal teas, with only the occasional juices when they find sufficient forage to produce it. The Lohro do not consume alcohol, having no means to produce it themselves. They have few truly sweet things within their land, with most fruits being more watery or tart to the taste. Due to this, they have been known to greatly overvalue such things and conduct poor trades in exchange for simple candies or sweets. Travelers that have shared food with the tribeswoman tend to complain its very blandly seasoned, the tribe having little access to salt, pepper, or other common spices that others take for granted.

Within their family unit, all woman of the same age are considered sisters, while all save their blood-mother is called an aunt. Any older than their mother’s age are simply called grandmother, or any number of greats attached to it depending on their generation. They remain aware of, and differentiate between, their blood-grandmothers, but for little reason outside their careful attention to their family lines. All children are raised by the entire tribe, so while one’s blood-mother does tend to share a unique bond with their offspring, their devotion is still to the family as a whole first and foremost. Outside of their neighboring rivals, the Ooja, a Lohro tribeswoman will refer to any other Keeper huntress as their sister, aunt, or grandmother depending on the age difference. While not sharing nearly the same familial attachment to them, they do consider them equals, provided they respect the territory and culture of their family. Seekers, and the Ooja, are invariably called cousin regardless of age difference, in reference to their oral histories initially referring to those families that formed the first twenty-six Seeker tribes as their cousins.

The Ooja

The offshoot of an unknown Keeper family, the Ooja do not trace their family name back to the frozen crossing. Placing little value on their ancestral line, these swamp dwelling miqo’te direct the majority of their efforts toward the present, having long since settled in the marshes of the Shroud. Unlike other tribes that found their lands shrinking or stolen, they claimed their territories a long time since in search of particularly virulent toxins that could be cultivated from flora and fauna deep within those lands. Due to their poor records, its difficult to tell which families formed the Ooja, or if it were just the single line. They almost inevitably possess the telltale violet eyes of their ancestor, though not always through natural means. Children born with others shades find themselves subjected to an alchemical treatment that forcibly alters their natural eye color to that easily identifiable violet. They share little other traits. While aggressive towards other Keeper women, they retain proper behaviors toward Wanderers and have always maintained a stable population roughly two to three times larger than their rival Lohro.

Personal value within the Ooja is determined entirely by one’s poisoncraft. Whenever a member of the tribe masters a particular toxin, they are granted permission to have a stylized form of it tattooed upon their body with a touch of the poison mixed into the ink. This results in older members, or particularly accomplished ones, having vast gardens or menageries decorating their skin in any number of shades. Its rarely the most talented poisoners that become the matriarch of the tribe, the title instead going to the most talented brewer of anti-toxins. After all, its only proper for their mother to be capable of curing her children should they overestimate their abilities, the miqo’te filling this role tending to be one of the most compassionate amongst them. While they possess warriors and hunters as any other tribe would, they coat all of their weapons before heading out for an engagement. Their neighboring tribes know that the Ooja need only nick the skin to achieve victory, tending to be quicker and more patient combatants. When one needs only a single wound to win a fight they can take their time going about it. The current matriarch is Sehkrah Ooja, one of their finest antidote mixers of all time. She possesses no tattoos.

Ritual paints have little variety among the Ooja, serving to properly honor Menphina when hunting or going to war, but they grow more and more uniform as a tribeswoman grows their collection of tattoos. Generally just a collection of circles, or slashes, that do not cover those symbols of achievement. They believe strongly in the goddess, and follow her rituals strictly, but do not believe other Keepers are beloved by the goddess as strongly as they are. Mockery of Menphina before a tribeswoman usually results in a particularly painful death by vial spilled into the offending parties food or drink, if not outright thrust into them at the point of a knife.

The Ooja eat a similar diet to the Lohro, but will apply poison to any that they encounter. There is no sanctity of guest right among them, tending to dose any food or drink they provide with a concoction of their making. Only Wanderers are spared from this treatment, with most merchants opting not to travel near the tribe’s lands once more if they recover from the initial experience. They actively clash with any who intrude upon their lands, despite repeated attempts to force out their own Keeper neighbors. Gridanians find themselves directly targeted and any victims stripped of valuables or foodstuffs before vanishing into the swamp. Despite rumors, they do not eat any spoken that they kill. Typically, they have access to more foreign foods and spices than other tribes in their region, as they will actively course farther afield from their home just to raid traveling merchants.

All children are raised by the tribe, and taught by whoever will show them what it means to be of the Ooja, though usually the birthmother fills this role. All of the same generation are considered sisters, while subsequent generations being aunts, grandmothers, and so on. One’s position within the tribe is entirely based on merit, one’s bloodline earning them no special treatment. At least in theory, in actual practice direct relatives often work to assist their kin even at the cost of sabotaging the work of others. While rarely crossing a line into truly dangerous behavior, it can lead to loveless rivalries between tribeswoman of the same generation. Or lingering resentments toward older ones. Other Keepers are disdained, finding little sisterhood with their fellows, though Wanderers are welcomed among their settlement. Any that poison a male Keeper are put to death by the tribe, not wishing to alienate themselves with such practices. They feel no kinship toward Seekers.

[liaragaming]

Andaran Atish’an Ch2

The second chapter of my Lavellan’s return to her clan post-Trespasser is up. Making the shift back to Roleplayer for my next fic update..

Inan Lavellan returns to her clan after years with the Inquisition, but coming home is even harder than she thought it would be. She’s changed in more ways than her family may be able to accept. And there are secrets that may turn even her best friend against her.

ArchiveOfOurOwn FanFiction.net

When she awakes, she's not sure what to do with herself. Everyone has a role within the clan and daily duties to carry out. She hadn't given any thought to what she might be doing until morning came and Nani left to carry out her role as one of the clans hunters.

She meets up with the Keeper like she used to do before the conclave happened.

“Why don't you,” Istimaelhoriel suggests. “Give the children their lore lesson today?”

"Sure." She'd be more than happy to. “What are they learning?”

“The Slow Arrow.”

Her heart drops into her stomach: The story about Fen'Harel using cunning to save a village from a great beast, but not before it kills the parents and elders of the town.

“When did I say that I would save you?” floats through her head in Solas' voice.

“Inan?” asks the Keeper. “Are you all right? You've gone pale.”

She tries to swallow, but there is no moisture in her mouth. She tries to speak but emits only short gasps. Istimaelhoriel approaches her, his arms outstretched in concern.

“Is-is there another story?” she asks when his hands are on her shoulders and she finally finds her voice. “S-something else?”

“Well,” he says, his eyes searching her face for what ails her. “They've been going over Fen'Harel. One of the other stories might–”

Her stomach tightens into several knots. Istimaelhoriel's eyes alight with alarm.

“You're turning colors.” He tries to guide her toward the aravels. “Perhaps, you should lie down.”

She digs her heels into the ground and attempts to tell him she's fine. But the moment she moves to speak, she knows it won't be words coming out of her mouth. She turns from him and empties the contents of this morning's breakfast onto the grass at her feet.

Silence greets her as she straightens, shaking, and wipes her mouth. She can't bring herself to look at him. “I'm going to lie down,” she says and hurries toward the aravel where she and Nani slept.

She breaks into tears as she packs up her belongings. This was such a stupid idea! She never should have thought she could belong here again. How could she walk among her people when she's become so different from them? When she knows things she could never explain? She should just leave. She's useless. There's no value she can give here.

There's no value she can give anywhere. She has no place to go.

She puts her face in her hand and sobs. Then she slams her fist against the ground.

She hates this feeling of brokenness, of helplessness, of the sudden wash of tears she can't overcome, of the voice in her head that tells her tomorrow won't be any better. She'd give anything to push away the dense fog that weighs on her, but she doesn't know how.

“You know what I like about woodworking?” Thom Rainier says just a few days after she disbanded the Inquisition, and her companions are doing everything they can to keep her occupied. “It focuses the mind, takes away everything else but you and the wood.”

They sit on a bench, and he hands her a small knife.

“You know this is pointless, right?” she says. “I have one hand.”

“Nonsense!” he chuckles. “Do you know how many times I've whittled with a sprained wrist?”

He presents a plank of wood with holes in it and a rope strung through. He shows her how to position it against her leg and use her foot to adjust pressure on the rope to hold a piece of wood in place and maneuver it. Then he demonstrates how to use the knife, to guide it along the wood's surface.

“You don't even have to make anything if you don't want to or if you're out of ideas,” he tells her. “The act itself can be enough.”

She wishes she could tell him how many times that strange plank of wood has saved her sanity since losing her arm. She pulls it out of her pack and inserts the chunk of wood she's been working on through the ropes. As she's sitting there, working the wood with the knife and trying not get shavings on her bedroll, she realizes what value she can contribute.

But when she emerges from the tent, Taren, Istimaelhoriel's First, is there to greet her.

“Inan!” His eyes met hers and then look away. “The, ah – Keeper asked me to check on you.”

“I'm all right,” she says, hoping to brush past him and continue on her way.

He steps in front of her. “That's good, I, uh...” He sighs and looks at the ground. “It's me, isn't it?”

She blanches. “What?”

“I… well, I… took your place.”

She lets out a breath of air. “Taren, that's–” It's been two years since Istimaelhoriel informed her Taren had taken her previous role. It wasn't a surprise. She was with the Inquisition for so long and no one knew if or when she'd return. Did Teran think she didn't understand?

“You would have made a better Keeper,” he says.

Now she knows what this is about. “Taren, that's not true.”

He finally meets her gaze. “You always had a better head for lore.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Being Keeper is about more than lore. It's about guidance... and you can do that better than I ever could.”

Everything she knows – Mythal, Solas, ancient Arlathan… She would change everything her clan knew and probably destroy it in the process. As First, she'd looked proudly toward the day when she would lead her people. But if the state of this morning's breakfast is any indication, Keeper or even Second is not the role for her, not any longer.

Saying it out loud, though, for the first time breaks her heart. Tears spring to her eyes.

“It is me!” Taren exclaims.

“No!” she tells him. “It's just–” She turns away from him and tries to compose herself. “Being back is just hard, Taren. It's not you. I swear.” But try as she might, she can't get the tears to stop. “Tell Istimaelhoriel… I just need some time. That's all.”

Taren leaves her, his mousy brown curls bouncing as he walks away. She's not sure she convinced him, but there's not much she can do about it now.

Instead, she gets her tears under control and crosses the camp to the Master Craftswoman and gives her proposal.

“Are you sure something with the Keeper wouldn't be–?” Lorien starts.

“I can do this.” She holds up a wooden halla she finished days ago. She's made at least two dozen of the things since Rainer first showed her how. She left them scattered all over the Winter Palace.

The master craftswoman blinks and inspects it closer. “And you did this with…?” She trails off, her eyes brushing over Inan's missing arm.

For once the glance doesn't bother her. “Yes.”

Master Lorien rubs her chin. “I… think I can find something for you.”

It's simple work, beginner's work, but she doesn't mind. It calms her, gives her focus, distracts her from all her other thoughts and emotions that threaten to overwhelm her. And she doesn't feel like an invalid doing it one handed because she never attempted the work when she had two and thus has nothing to compare it to. Master Lorien's apprentice keeps glancing at her like he has no idea how he would do anything if he only had one hand to do it with, and that makes her feel accomplished too.

Finally, something since chasing the Qunari through those damned elvuians seems to have gone right.

Master Lorien runs out of simple tasks for her to complete by midday. So, after lunch, she spends the rest of her chores helping the Herdsman with the clan's halla. She's always had an affinity for the creatures, as most Dalish do, but the work is less satisfying. Gathering feed and water or milking takes her twice as long as it might otherwise if she had both hands. She feels like more of a burden to the Herdsman than a helper, though he assures her she's doing just fine.

The Keeper approaches her once chores are done. He's smiling. “You found other roles to fill it seems.”

“I did,” she says. And she feels accomplished for it in a small way.

His eyes seem to sparkle. “Am I correct in gathering that fulfilling Second is no longer desirable for you?”

She sighs. “This isn't about Taren,” she assures him. “I just…” She can't meet his gaze and drops her eyes to the ground. “I'm not the same person I was three years ago.”

“I see.”

But he doesn't really. No one in her clan could possibly understand what she's been through the past three years. For now, they seem willing to aaccommodate her. But what happens once the homecoming is period passed and she still hasn't conformed to their expectations?

Would it be unprecedented among the Dalish for a mage not to serve as Keeper, First, or Second? She's sure it must happen sometimes... though she's never heard of it.

Her mind wanders to Minaeve – poor, sweet Minaeve. Cast out, rejected by her people. Would that happen to her? Would her clan tire of her? With only one arm and no desire to fill a conventional role, would they see her as useless? Would they find her no longer worth the effort of providing for?

Her distress must show on her face because Istimaelhoriel lays a hand on her shoulder. “Do not fret, da'len. We do not abandon family. We shall find a role for you.”

“Are you all right?” Nani asks her when she returns from her duties. “You seem… distracted.”

“It's been a tiring day.” With the up and down of her emotions, she's already looking forward to nightfall and rest.

Nani looks past the avarels into the forest. “Want to get away for a little while?”

“Please.”

The chestnut tree is much taller than she remembers. But three years of growth on a young tree will do that. As she lays a sprig of lavender at the tree's base like always, she realizes the passage of time has changed something else. The word vhenan no longer lingers for her here.

When Varahel died, it was the worst pain she'd ever experienced. Now, she once again finds herself trapped in a grief she doesn't know if or when she'll recover from. And this time, she knows it has the potential to grow worse.

She sighs. “Do you think we could have stopped him? If we'd known?”

Nani scoffs. “Stop Varahel? From running off alone? No.”

Inan smiles. Varahel had been young and confident – foolhardy, she supposes would be a more accurate word. But at the time his plans for himself and the clan had shown so bright in her eyes. He'd wanted nothing more than to prove himself and make the clan proud. Telling him it was foolish to hunt a boar by himself as his first kill would have only sent him off faster.

“He was so sure of himself, and I loved that.” She shakes her head. “I guess that's my type.”

Nani's eyebrows shoot into her forehead. “Your type?”

She groans and turns her face away, hoping Nani will take the hint and drop it.

“You've met someone!”

“Nani, please.”

“Who? When?” Her friend steps to her and turns her around to face her. “Is he–?” Her pain must show on her face because Nani blanches.

“I really don't want to talk about it.”

Nani blinks. “Okay.” Her eyes search her friend's face for answers she won't find. Her gaze hardens, and she squeezes her shoulder. “Just tell me who and where he is, and I'll put an arrow in his face.”

Inan laughs. Then the image in her mind of what Solas could do to someone who threatened him brings her to tears again. She tries to choke them down, but they only pour down her face faster.

Nani pulls her into an embrace. “What did this guy do to you?”

“It's nothing like that,” she says as she tries to dry her eyes on her friend's shoulder.

“You don't know what I'm thinking.”

“Trust me, whatever you're thinking, it's not that.”

Nani pulls back and squeezes her friend's shoulder again. “When you want to talk about it, I'm here.”

She doubts she's ever going to want to talk about it but says, “Thanks” anyway.

A twig snaps.

Both women look up. An elf stands frozen forty feet away from them. He's wearing vallaslin, but he's not one of theirs, and his clothing isn't Dalish.

“Andaran atish'an,” Nani tries.

The elf blinks, shifts his eyes as though considering, then turns and runs.

“Hey!” They both start after him.

He scampers deeper into the forest, away from the direction of the Dalish camp and into dense undergrowth seldom explored. Brambles scratch at the women's legs and arms. Rocks roll under their feet on uneven ground. At one point Inan flips head over heels in a tumble before recovering herself and continuing after Nani.

He loses them, and Inan runs straight into her friend before realizing she's come to a stop. They tumble to the ground together. Nani is the first to pick herself back up.

“By the Goddess!” she curses, spinning around in circle. “Where did he go?”

They search the underbrush until Nani finds some trampled weeds and compressed dirt she's certain wasn't caused by the two of them. The trail heads off in a different direction than they'd been running.

“Are you sure?” Inan asks her. “Why would he lead us one way and then head off in another?”

The answer comes to her before Nani says the words. “Because he didn't want us following him back from where he came.”

Inan follows her friend blindly as they make their way through the undergrowth. She may never understand what Nani sees in snapped weeds and indistinct impressions in the dirt, but she's followed her friend through the woods more times that she can count. And Nani's never led them astray.

At length, the brambles and underbrush thins and they find themselves on a narrow trail, likely created by countless treks of forest animals. They follow it a ways until Nani holds up a fist to signal a stop.

“What is it?” Inan asks.

“His trail ends here.”

The animal path continues on before them. To their left stands a cliff face and the forest expands to their right.

“I don't understand,” says Inan. “Where could he have gone?” The cliff face is sheer. There's no way it could have been climbed.

Nani turns in circles again, searching for what she's missed. “I don't...”

Inan reaches for the vegetation on the cliff face, wondering if it might be able to hold someone despite its thin appearance. But when her fingers grasp the vines, she doesn't find a sheer face of rock.

“Um, Nani?” She pushes her arm through the vines and meets only air.

“Creators, what–?” Nani steps next to her and puts her own arm through.

They look at each other, then walk through the vines together.

The base of the cliff face is actually a cave. And inside it, staring blankly back at them, sits an eluvian.

Inan curses under her breath. The Maker it seems has a sense of humor.