[9:36:40 PM] Incendiium.: Emmett: 8 I . . . . So fire me from the trebuchet. [9:37:05 PM] Badship Central: El'u: No.

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@ellasin
[9:36:40 PM] Incendiium.: Emmett: 8 I . . . . So fire me from the trebuchet. [9:37:05 PM] Badship Central: El'u: No.
lethanaviir replied to your post
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OH HEY THE DIRTHA’NERD IS BACK HI DIRTHA’NERD
@ellasin
why are we yelling
ellasin
– full body colour commission done for ellasin of their gorgeous inquisitor! u v u commission information can be found here. ]]
urvun:
It is a late enough hour that even those last few, rather unfortunate souls stumbling in and out of the Chantry were gone. Their distracting noises, such as fresh tears or mutterings of false faith, was gone. Peace settles in the absence of it, resettling like a disturbed dove, and tucking it’s head against the other who sat within its nest. Were this dove real, es would stroke it’s weary head, though es does so in another fashion: with tea. The tiny kettle set before esh boils upon flames tinged green with the Fade and barely makes a sound as es drops carefully plucked leaves into it’s depths.
The sharpness of peppermint cuts the chill that threatens to descend upon the garden, for as sturdy as Skyhold was, it has grown cold. The spirits lingering within the walls still slept, mostly soundly, even as es reaches out to them. It was most concerning! So es brews and drinks tea, to warm esalin, and to distract the chill. And perhaps, if es may be so bold, to draw those who were far too reclusive for their own good out of their dens.
“Thu ea, El’las’in?”
To walk with mortals was not beneath him, but far from preferred.
Rising from a lack of death has proceed him before every step within these halls, the Hold filled with wary, buzzing distrust before he even entered. Then again, that was to be expected; the ones who called Skyhold their new home were fools. Distrust was pale to the fear and wariness he had once invoked in those who crossed his path. There was fear here too, but arrogance mixed within it, and those Shemlen who thought themselves grand enough to ‘intervene’ should he lose control. It was almost as if they believed their own weaknesses applied to him.
He lingers in the dark, reading and listening, for that is what best suited for him now. Rasdalelen maintains peace where he could-- but one voice is weak against the voices of many, at least in mortal terms. This was no rally, no uprising; it was a force. A force led by the child of slaves and burdened with the idiocy of Shemlen. He lingers in the basement library, reading and watching, waiting for the sun to set and the fools to tuck themselves in. Then there was only silence (a lie, for he can hear the dull roar of hidden secrets, scrabbling at dirtied stones to be known once more) to greet him; empty halls beckoning silent foot steps to lead him astray. The scent of mint tickles him before he enters the garden, for it had been led to him, and he to it.
After all, it was not wise to ignore the wishes of one who spun death.
“I am glad to see your manners have not failed you--” Yet his has, blatantly and far from mistakenly; he lowers his blow in time with his body. His staff touches the earth nary a moment before it roots itself, the wood so pure and old twining into the roots that hide underneath the grass. The fresh leaves blooming from the staff (their color pale with dark veins, as if still feeling leeched of sun after the eons spent locked away) reach towards the moonlight, basking in the calm even as his settling drags a weight into the air, and his sleeves drag pristine and silently against the ground. “Uil.”
urvun:
Up to esh toes es goes– all so es can point at the singular stray seed stuck in his teeth. “You’re an obvious eater, El’las’in.”
There is a pause, one where he must check the authenticity of esh words, before-- he feels the seed beneath his tongue.
“I concede your point, Uil.”
urvun:
“Your favorite fruit is–”
“Dewberry.”
“I question where you derive such an assumption.” Not that es was inherently wrong, but regardless.
naragukil:
marec was still so YOUNG in the ways of the world , brambles that clod and constricted about him , eviscerating flesh from bone as it was TUMULTUOUSLY revealed to him . his grasp was blind , walk unseeing , lands and places unknown unless of RENOWN . he thirsted , was so excruciatingly tired after a life of blindness . he wanted to be blessed to SEE again . to know and taste and touch this world that was still SHROUDED from him . yet in the raven , he found an unerring lull , a captivation that STOLE his senses and brought attention to only him . nameless , containing some OLD and unfathomable wisdom of which he could not place name upon . marec was still , a CRAWL tremulous upon the length of his spine , hunkering lowly some as though to avoid unwanted provocation . that something SINISTER was housed in so small a thing . energy rippled throughout the air , an ATMOSPHERIC dread perpetuated by himself , wary an untrusting of those that were not the seemingly KIND falon’din , the only contact he’d made with this pantheon still very NAMELESS to him .
‘ … who are you ? ‘
There is a period of prolonged silence-- as if the world grew quiet to listen too intently on what the raven might have to say. The air is still, the trees are calm, and one may be foolish enough to invest all their senses into this meeting. It is not wise to divest one’s self of their awareness however, even for a moment, and the raven looks away only once to inspect the woods around them. There, in that moment of contemplation, the raven ceases to exist. The shadows that had slunk like fox through the roots of trees and beneath fallen leaves rush forward, surrounding the beast in their cloying embrace, and only gold eyes remain. Perhaps if the child peers closely enough he may see wings lift and feathers recede, fingers spreading calmly appendages that were once mechanisms for flight. Eyes burning like the sun, the glory of wars past, of the Secrets lost centuries ago cut through the gloom; banishing the shade as surely as the lines of pure white that caress a revealed face. Words tumble from shimmering lips like life from a fabled well and he both teases the child as well as guides him with greedy, sparse syllables.
“El’las’in.”
falondiiin:
The orchard keeper The scryer The shepherd who is very rarely seen awake because they help guide lost souls back to Falon'din The guardian that keeps souls from returning All higher priests having intricate root like vallaslin Grounded but still free THROUGH Falon'din They have pale eyes in general contrast to Dirthamen’s priests having dark/vivid eyes (like gold and red) Priests who never seem to age Childlike in appearance and full of vigor They’re not actually alive Just Spirits returned with endless joy in their hearts at the peace of the cycle of life and death They lead back the elves who slept and walked in the protective patience of Falon'din Back to their bodies
( A discussion of the followers of Lethanavir, from ellasin )
on anon xoxo: *glitterbombs your bear form* perfect