#solas x female inquisitor

[gaqalesqua]

Asking someone for their thoughts after a night of political intrigue and murder is one thing. Lusia has another question she wants to ask.

[an-established-butt-dent]

Soooooo after the new details that have been revealed about Veilguard, how do we all imagine a Solavellan reunion is going down? Trapped in the fade together? Lighthouse makeout sessions? A very sad mural dedicated to his Vhenan? My brain is infested with new headcanons.

[aldruiel-scribbles]

In this link there is definitely not a folder with every Dragon Age eBook, numbered in order of reading plus the two Encyclopedias about the world. Please do not use the link, there are not free books in there.

[seffie-jade]

This would be hilarious to watch

[ayamikasai]

Come back to me, Vhenan

Love the angst in this one 😭✨

Commission for @zevswarden done ✔️✨

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[nadas-dirthalen]

I see halla-coded Lavellans and wolf/predator-coded Lavellans everywhere — and I love them! I love all of you!

Today I wanna talk about shepherd-coded Lavellan. The one who wanders, guarding her flock. Because she has so many people she loves, and who love her in return, but they don't understand. Not the way she does, seeing what she has seen. Looking the Dread Wolf in his eyes, watching him turn away, every line of his form cusping on turning back, coming back, coming back.

They are her flock, and so she must tend to them. Not because the shepherd is worth more than the sheep, but because their roles are different. Without them, she would not be herself.

But no shepherd is a shepherd without the wolf, either. The shepherd may guard her flock, but that is not where her eye must remain more often than not.

Always, the shepherd must watch the shadowed treeline. Always, she must await the wolf. It is her purpose: to be of use to her sheep, she must turn away from them, again and again and again, to watch for the monstrous. To warn them away.

To convince the fanged beast, whether with word or weapon, not to attack.

To be the shepherd is to be the in-between, as inextricable from the flock as from the wolf. And, if she does her job well, the sheep will never understand why she watches for threats that never seem to befall them.

But the wolf—the wolf will always know.

[nerd-elf]

Has this been made?

[molokokoart]

Waiting for Dragon Age: The Veilguard ...

[sinizade]

I noticed that I only drew Bellum and Solas a few times, so here's some more of them because I'm PERFECTLY NORMAL about Dragon Age 4

[jibberjibbsart]

Solas and Lavellan reunite

[an-established-butt-dent]

What always intrigued me about the storyline with a romanced Solas is that Lavellan was so close to finding out the truth.

She must have had some suspicions before, but she never pushed him for the truth. She gave him time to open up on his own terms, to share when he was ready, which we know he almost did in Crestwood.

I wonder about the demons he fought in his head, the times duty came before love, while at the same time she made him question everything.

Such a tragic lovestory and no I’m still not over it it. :(

[zevswarden]

When you’re a Solasmancer and your inquisitor is a Knight Enchanter 🥲just came across this text at Emerald Graves

[rosieofcorona]

Fellchaser

Hi my sweets, I bring to you some freshly baked Solavellan yearning. Also posted on Ao3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

This is how he remembers it, the first night Solas knew that he loved her. 

He cannot say with any certainty, after all these lonely years, what had happened directly before or directly after, cannot make out the finer details in the grand tapestry of things. But he knows by heart the shape of that hour, the way she had come to him after a victory, flushed with wine and the chill of the evening, her hair curling up in the damp autumn air.

*****

He declines, as he always does, their invitations for a celebratory drink, preferring the relative quiet and solitude of his own quarters.

For many hours, he can hear them– Bull and Sera and the rest– their cheerful noises bouncing off the castle walls like skipping stones. It annoys him for a time, disturbs his solitude, his study, until he hears (or thinks he hears) her voice among them. 

Solas can picture her then, in the tavern. Bright mind, bright eyes, bright laughter. Vibrant even in the dimness of the room. And there’s a flicker of a thought he can’t keep smothered– that he should’ve gone down there with her, despite his judgment. 

It makes no matter how he tries to keep his distance. She seeks him out, as she always does, as he knows she will. When he doesn’t stop her, he tells himself that it’s because she’s their Inquisitor. He tells himself she can go where she likes, that duty alone compels his counsel. 

He knows a lie when he hears one. 

He’s nearly talked himself into making an appearance when she shows up in his doorway, hazy and loose with the aura of drink, the tips of her ears and her cheeks turned rosy. 

He does nothing to discourage her entering. He says nothing to send her away. 

“Hello,” she says simply, when he sees her. Her head tilts against the frame, her gaze fond and unfocused.

“Hello.”

“You never joined us.” An accusation. Lightly leveled, lightly slurred. The syllables tumble in her mouth like stones in a river.

He wants to say, I could not bear you being so close and sweet and real. He wants to say, You are a distraction I cannot afford.  Instead he says, “I was preoccupied,” knowing that answer is insufficient.

She makes her way into the chamber, weaving an unsteady path to the table where he has laid out all his books, his quills, his ink. 

“With what?” she murmurs, curious even in her state.

Solas knows he should excuse himself, conjure a reason to stay at a distance. But he finds himself wanting to– what? Talk to her, tell her, keep her close?

“Translating a record,” he says at last. “Of ancient practices in Arlathan. Ritual offerings to the gods in exchange for their…favor.”

Solas stumbles on the last word, something bitter in its taste, and where she would normally probe him further she takes no notice. She’s busy poring over the largest book, its contents all in Elvhen, the ink and vellum faded by the centuries. “I can’t make out any of this,” she frowns. “Perhaps I’m worse off than I thought.” “Perhaps,” Solas huffs out a laugh. “Although the language has shifted with time. Some words may yet be familiar, if not–”

“Oh, here!” She gasps delightedly when she finds a phrase she knows, though she says the syllables slowly, as if they are new. “Sa-lath. One’s love, one’s only love. Something like that.” 

“In the modern parlance, yes. But here,” he says– and he leans over her to tap the page for emphasis– “Here it means something like ‘beloved.’ The words come together, see. Salath.”

It’s the wine he smells first, that rich, warm scent that floats from her up close, but there’s something different, something distinctive hiding beneath. He wants to taste it and find out, to slip his tongue into her mouth, and– 

“They would offer something beloved, then?”

Solas clears his throat.

“Or someone,” he nods, breathing deeply. “A high price for favor.”

She goes quiet for a moment, tracing the small shapes of the letters with her finger. Such a fine movement is made imprecise by the drink, but she repeats it as if she is carving it into her memory. “Salath,” she whispers, tasting the word. “Salath, ‘beloved.’ I will remember that.”

He very much doubts that she will, come morning. But it stirs something inside him all the same. Beloved, beloved.  

“What would you demand?” She says, sweeping the thought from his mind. “If you were a god.”

If, he thinks, that one word louder than all the rest. 

“I suppose it would depend what was being asked of me.”

“Your favor,” she tells him. “Your love.”

“Ah.” There’s a twist in his chest, like an arrow wrenched free, pain and relief all at once. “The heart of a god is not easily won. I would require yours in return.”

She laughs a little, as if he’s jesting. “That hardly seems equal. A mortal heart for a god’s?”

“Your heart,” Solas says, in a gentle correction. “For mine.” He does not kiss her, like he wants to. He does not stop her kissing him. 

The press of her mouth is a summer fruit, warm and sweet and bruising lightly beneath their wanting, their mutual hunger grown apparent. 

Only once has he kissed her before this. A dream, an impulse, he’d told himself then. A mistake that he wouldn’t repeat, no matter how tempting. 

So he’s grateful, now, that she’s been drinking, that she’s given him an out. He can call this her impulse, even as he takes more, tastes more. He can call this next part chivalry. He knows a lie when he hears one. 

“We can’t,” he says, when they come apart. “You are not yourself, and the hour is late. You should get some sleep.”

She’s disappointed, he thinks– and is it cruel to hope she is? To hope she still wants him as he wants her, even as he turns her away? 

Best not to dwell on it.  

“I will help you upstairs,” he tries again, and she brightens a little. “Can you manage the walk?”

There’s a part of him that wishes she’ll say no, give him an excuse to lift and carry her to her quarters, to feel the weight of her pressed against him. But she says, “Yes,” and, “I’m not so far gone,” and Solas breathes out another laugh. 

He knows a lie when he hears one.

All the same, he takes her hand in his, lets her lean on him as they make the long walk to her quarters, each step its own little feat. She stumbles more than once; more than once, he catches her gently. 

It is worth being gentle for her. 

In her room he removes her boots, knelt at the floor as if an altar. He hardly knows the last time he knelt, only knows that now he wants to.

When he rises she says, “Thank you,” and the following word may be his name, or another entirely. Solas tries to ignore it, tries to let the sound be lost in the lingering silence but he needs to know, as he always does, needs to be certain. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘thank you,’” she hums, laying back on the bed, and this time he leans in close to hear the rest. 

“Salath.” *****

The walk back to his quarters is longer, somehow. 

He thinks of her all the way, her hair in a dark spill across the pillows, the way she rolled the old sounds of his language around in her mouth. He thinks of her when he undresses, when he slips into his own bed, when he indulges in the fantasy of feeling her under and around him. Just this once, he thinks, as his hand begins to move beneath the covers, slow at first and then more desperate. Just this once won’t hurt, won’t hurt, won’t– 

Ah.  

He is in love, he knows it now, as he shudders and gasps out her name. How tragic it is, and how lovely. How foolish, how sweet. His love for her could level cities. It could grow flowers.

A mortal heart for a god’s. Beloved, beloved. 

He imagines what he would sacrifice for her, if he has to, when he has to. The answer surfaces in his mind like something dredged up from unfathomable depths, some unknown factor which demands to be accounted for, and which fills him with dread.

“I would give everything,” he says aloud, to himself, to no one. 

The words hang in the air like ghosts, the same lament in all their mouths.  Beloved, beloved. Tags by request (thank you, angels!): @meg-does-art, @lavellanart

[seffie-jade]

You can't change my mind on this

[ayamikasai]

Solas x OC commission~

Really pleased with how this turned out ✨

Solas got that Prince Charming “cherry flavored, want a taste?” lips

Thank you so much for all the likes and reblogs on my previous posts. I’ve never received so much support for my art before and I am just so so grateful to everyone as well as the people that commission from me. It really means the world to me. I hope I can continue to pump out art that the DA community enjoys ✨💕

❤️Discord (junyami) for commissions!

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[pocket-solas]

In Trespasser romanced Solas calls Lavellan "Inquisitor" the whole time. Until the last scene:

"What of the anchor? It's getting worse."

"I know, vhenan. And we are running out of time."

It's like he is TRYING so effing hard to distance himself emotionally from her and can't fucking manage it especially when she's in pain like that.