bad wolf

'o young man, did you make a deal with the wolf inside your soul? solas the apostate as adored by elisa est. 8.4.2017

[ineskew]

So rot, ferment and decompose, So all the things can grow, Or wallow in a drinkless world, And wither on the bough.

Oh what a dusty burden, That nectar and that pollen. Like Atlas with the heavens, On the back of his head, And what if they should falter And shrug their little shoulders? Well time she’d pass all the same.

[crypticbarmpot]

hey look it’s concept!solas being beautiful in my game…

leal’s gonna romance the shit outta him

[fentelam]

the idea that the library of arthalan is akin to the baghdad house of wisdom guts me deeply

[eowynwise]

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Eurus | The Oh Hellos

you can’t take any gold or rings further than the grave nothing we make can we bring but still the bait hanging from the string is calling my name and like the wind it slips again out of my fingers

[fentelam]

they painted him as a monster, in fresco. alas, he was not a wolf seeking them as a meal; for he did not see them as sheep. for his kin were not ewes that took to the moors. no, he saw the people as stars flickering out before his very eyes. in the vastness they faded among the few, becoming pallor and sallow among those few who held too much. thus, the wolf sought the moon and bayed for advice. hallowed moon drew low and lent power unlike any other. a shallow divide sealed those away who sought to harm his people. with such a power came a great price, and so fen’telam slept and his name travelled with his power, perverted through time. fen’harel he became. his great deeds twisted and when he woke he realised fen’harel crucified himself. 

a private, slow and lore & concept based solas the apostate, or more famously fen’harel as adored by elisa 

[sindria-remade-deactivated20190]

seeing glass

[theprinceofdiscord-3-blog]

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[memelythingers]

Invade my muse’s privacy by asking them questions about their relationships romantic or otherwise.

Start it with “Kindly tell me” and they’ll be forced to answer (and truthfully).

[fentelam]

bornpariah // sheered sheep still are foolish lambs, lying in any appeasing pasture. 

            ❝ —— mas —— ah, dorian? are you alright? ❞             ❝ perfectly fine, shora. just going on a little trip. ❞             ❝ a … a trip. ❞             ❝ i’m going to end up offended at this rate !! yes, yes, i’ll be gone for several days. two weeks, at most. ❞             ❝ i —— very well. at least let me send you off with some food. ❞

                The south has tainted him. Irreparably, perhaps. He, the one and only D.orian P.avus has wandered into the Tevinter wilderness. Of his own accord. Entirely leaving Minrathous behind. Not that he needs to be in the city constantly ; the real kicker here is that he’s GALLIVANTING ACROSS THE WILDERNESS WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A BY YOUR LEAVE. Shora had been shocked. He hadn’t bothered to say much of anything to his mother, though he assumes she would have laughed.

                Nonetheless, he finds himself picking his way across the forest, alone. It’s eerily reminiscent of all those years ago, when he had been on his own and trying to find Redcliffe. When he had been with the Inquisition —— well, at that point, he rarely traveled alone. Now he is solitary, left with only his thoughts and his magic and the sound of the forest. And the crystal, ever hanging around his neck.

                All this because someone mentioned an Ancient Elvhen temple in passing. Dorian hadn’t even been part of that conversation, and yet here he is. The compulsion to find it had been strong, for all that he didn’t understand it, and with little more than a rough idea of where the ruins are and his own wits about him, he set out to find it.

                It feels as if there are eyes on him, the further he wanders into the forest. As if someone is watching him. Something. He forges on nonetheless, effortlessly confident in his ability to defend himself. Never mind that minor kidnapping. Near countless attempts on his life have been made —— he’s hardly going to perish in a forest. He refuses to. On principle.

                He finds it, nearly a week into his journey. He finds it and makes a modest camp and settles and watches it and wonders. Fingers absently curl around the crystal and then release it ; it’s no use, really, when he hadn’t even told anyone where he was going. He rubs his thumb along the familiar gold band, instead, and feels WATCHED.

                        ❝ ——— You’re not nearly so subtle as you think. ❞

@fentelam // let’s fucking go

There is something soothing about the temple, something familiar --- something that almost feels like then and no longer like now. It’s her --- it’s always her, even when he had left he had found solace in her temples and among her followers ( even with the marks gone, he can feel her on his cheeks and on his lips, even now she’s nestled between his breasts, and the power rests in his veins and in his hands ). Now, he carries her, and how he regrets how they had met their end, how the goddess, infinite and lovely had placed her hands on his lochs and with kindness she loved him, and he took from her every modicum of magic to do his own bidding. 

He rests at her temple, for even though she is no longer among the mortal realm, she is still the woman who reared him as a teacher does ---- taught him and clothed him. At the dried pools of anointment, he wades --- feet moving towards the centre and dragging water in with him, enough to pool around his ankles. It’s nothing like her beautiful wells, but it’s home ( he dares to graze the water with his hands, thumb bringing it to his forehead where her mark once sat, and he is reborn for a moment ).

         ‘ Fen, you are not appointed to my halls, you are anointed. As such, you must be wise.   ’ 

There are motions, holy oils and rights -- coals on feet and the blessings of the ancestors, but all of that lays forgotten on a broken slab of marble which he has enchanted to spill water, life was always a gift of her ( but now --- with her magic, he does not know what she would think of what he’s become and the love he had hurt without any remorse ).

He does not linger and moves from the well before he loses himself to his own grief. He’d seen the good of this world and what it had to offer, but in his recklessness, he’d executed the masses and left them without a direction. For this life, he had given up the very people who had accepted him, who had loved him without question and that great knot tightens again ---- but he cannot live with this guilt or pain, so they must be left behind ( even those who he dared to call family ----- oh how he was wretched to do it and now...even now he aches for more than this, but a path has been laid, and they were a moment in time ). 

A second.  a distraction. 

So without grandeur, he moves through her temple, hands grazing it as he leaves, bewitching what he can with magic to protect its grounds ( the guardsmen have already woken and rejoined him in their huddled masses, they wade other waters, elsewhere ). He bends, his form shifting as his magic moves within the halls and feet finally meet the lush carpet of greenery that hides her temple from prying eyes. 

and there is prey in these woods. 

The lush garden hides it, but he does not protect himself or the form he takes ( the shadow of a wolf cloaks him, but the eyes he was bestowed by his mentor shine through that cutting darkness ). Smoke in the sky is high enough to prove the fire has left to burn itself out and there is someone around her temple --- 

an old friend. magic betrays him.

He pulls himself together in the shadow, undoing the mass of fur and glowing eyes ( replacing them with billowing cloth and that jawbone, the own bone that his people claimed to pluck him from ). 

“And you are as astute as ever, old friend.”

[eaterofnightmares]

The Howling by workweak

[herssian]

you know my da4 wishlist

[yoongiahs]

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I Know I’m A Wolf - Young Heretics

[fentelam]

the shoe debate is why solas put up the veil 

[fentelam]

solas is split on shoes, sometimes he wears them. sometimes he does not.

[kirstycatastrophe]

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The world has no right to my heart The world has no place in our bed They don’t get to know what I said I’m burning the memories Burning the letters that might have redeemed you

[fentelam]

i’ve stated this several times in replies to mimi but here a few more solas things.

one. he paints without the jumper and in bare feet, his hair pulled up on the top of his head. he is not shy or concerned with only being in an undershirt or without a shirt completely while painting. he is a man with few things and would hate to see his clothes be ruined by oxidising lacquer. 

two. the frescos are buon frescos. solas has one shot at getting them right. you lay one layer of plaster then another, and you have to get everything transferred and coloured before the plaster sets. the colour goes almost transparent and due to the lime or other minerals in the stone, the colours deepen and oxidise. the lacquer would be kept in jars and bowls. solas has twelve hours at maximum to get the colour on the plaster before it dries. wanna ruin a day’s work? stick your hand in the plaster! typical frescos brighten in 48 hours and set, touchups can be done with other paints but it’s generally frowned upon. all of the colours solas would use would be those found in nature. i’m considering adding a war table request. 

three. he doesn’t mind company while he’s setting colours, however, if it’s something that requires his full attention he might politely request the person in question return in about fourteen hours. it really is a race against the clock.

four. according to the world of thedas his style of buon fresco is a lost art and these frescos are his gift to the inquisitor. the fact that he leaves the sword and the dragon unfinished is a tragedy and means he had placed the plaster and then decided to leave. it can be considered his great lost masterpiece, like graham sutherland’s lost impressionist pieces. however, unlike the burned pieces of mr. sutherland the inquisition has to see the plaster and the outline caked onto the wall unless someone tore it down. 

[fentelam]

fadescar: // location not available 

                    the tower is noisy and the main hall is even louder but he sits on the desk nonetheless, at ease. one leg dangling the other propped chin atop his knee and watching, watchful, watches. solas is painting —— it seems he always is, here in this tower. painting or reading or pacing. etheran finds that his company is almost pleasant in how little he, himself, is required to speak. merely silence and companionship and vague, quiet notions of conversation.

                    he makes himself small so as to avoid paint splatter. quite the juvenile thing to do, but his posture is notable to those who want to see. so often he stands tall, broad, wide. as wide as slight shoulders could be —— in spite of this he is not uncomfortable, here. merely uncomfortable with the idea of paint-on-skin. something that solas does not share, clearly.

                 ❝ you don’t find spirits a concern, ❞ he says plainly, quietly, barely heard over the noise all around them. a statement, hardly a question. it is a fact. just as his feelings are a fact.

One only has so much time to lay colour after the wet plaster of intonaco has been laid, if he was lucky ( the weather being damp and cold ) he could have twelve hours. However, if the weather of Skyhold was unforgiving, if a warm front had moved in and the air was dry he could only have six to eight hours if that. Any mistake would have to be scraped away and he would have to start anew. 

Many would not want to work in such an area, especially with the noise and the lively neighbours above, alas ---- he found some kind of calm in the noise, perhaps it had been a reminder of the years gone by when he was younger and fresher at the craft. The noise was cathartic, and as long as pesky hands did not mess with the plaster or dip their fingers into the jars of colours cast around him, he was fine with company. 

Jumper had been cast aside, along with jawbone ( hair had long been piled upon the top of his head ) to avoid the splatters he was known for. 

“No. They are quiet company, much like yourself.” Colour is laid in between breaths, as brows knit and he turns to sketch by bare feet before laying more translucent colour. Brush is discarded back into his cup as he carefully evaluates his work before laying anything more. “Will my friendship with spirits be an issue?”