May I present, my attempt at illustrating the last four pages of Tevinter Nights. 😁 (Also, the first time I'm posting art on here!)
As the whole thing was quite literally too long to post on tumblr, I uploaded the full version on a customized site made for reading webcomics (via ComicFury). Feel free to check out the link above if you like to read the rest! Also, if you're on mobile, there's a "Scroll View" option for easier navigation. :)
And, obviously, HUGE spoilers for those who haven't read Tevinter Nights!!
On a personal note though, I can't believe I actually finished it... As it had been a *very* long time since I drew (and finished) anything, let alone a 31 page comic and reading Tevinter Nights again finally sparked my motivation (and the courage to post it lol). So I want to thank Patrick Weekes for helping me overcome this massive art block and over two decades of Case Closed mangas for inspiring me how to draw an overly dramatic "exposing the imposter" moment. 😂 I tried my best to be as faithful to the book as possible and it took me forever, so... hope you like it! :D
You are a hand of joyful child - and I am your nettle
Let a river of innocent tears flow since so beautifull
Tarnish of aureate kisses turns red
Accompanied by the sound of precious woe
The flowers of my ancient burns bloom over you
Omen of ancient and loving will is over head of glorious @ohmyarda - as their sight has no possible price, and themself are a treasure, and my adore is immerse to the end of the darkest worlds;ззз
I don't think words can express how STARVING I am for Solas content. They could show a picture of his ear at the Summer Game Fest and I would print it out and put it on an altar.
seeing swen wearing this armor one more time's making me emotional. im just thinking back on all these previous panels from hell we had during EA where they'd dress up and present the next patch, all of us rejoicing with whatever they'd throw our way...
Greatest hits from the second-best character in The Masked Empire.
(Spoilers. Page numbers are based on the paperback version.)
Felassan plucked off a bit of bark, popped it into his mouth, and chewed.
“What are you doing?”
“The Dalish know many medicinal remedies that the humans have forgotten,” Felassan said, chewing. “Certain types of bark can be chewed to ease headaches.” He paused. “Not this kind, though. Sadly, this is just bark.” (p. 73)
—
“How are the Dalish?” she asked. “You have not spoken of your people.”
Beneath his cloak, his face lit up with enthusiasm. “They have a wonderful new plan! It ends with the shemlen killing each other off, leaving the Dales free for the elves to rule.”
Briala raised an eyebrow. “How does it begin?”
“Riding around in wagons pulled by deer. They’re still working on the middle.” (p. 81)
—
“Do you ever tire of it, Briala?” he asked then. “Walking among the fools, bending them to your will with a word here and a gesture there?”
Briala started to answer, then stopped at Felassan’s stare. It was intent, almost angry, his eyes glittering inside the shadows of his cloak.
She thought of the chatelaine, the captain of the palace guard. She thought of the countless nobles who ignored her or called her “rabbit.”
She thought of Celene’s soft fingers trailing down her bare arm.
“I believe I am doing good work,” she finally said.
Felassan nodded and looked away. “Yes, that lasts for a while.” (p.82)
—
“It’s hard to impress someone with the absence of a negative,” Felassan said without looking over. “Look you say, did you notice how nobody came into your house and beat you to death for not bowing fast enough yesterday? You’re welcome!”
“It’s getting better.”
“Of course it is. I’m here.” As Briala chuckled, Felassan added, “And you’re doing good work. And the day when you can accept that they’ll never really understand, or appreciate it, or know just how much you did…”
“What?” Briala asked. “Is that the day it gets easier?”
“Mythal’s bosom, no!” Felassan chuckled. “Honestly, it makes your heart shrivel up and die inside you. Put it off as long as you can.” (p. 82-83)
—
“Have you ever wondered how hot someone’s fingernails have to get before they melt right onto their fingers?” Felassan asked as he leaned against the bar, pulling his hood back slightly. “Because it’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.”
The barman looked at Felassan’s tattooed face and went pale. He lifted his hand back from the counter very slowly.
“Thank you.” Briala moved toward the table and caught a trace of a sour, acrid scent. She occasionally used poisons in her work, and she recognized the hint of deep mushroom that suggested choke powder.
She nodded at the barman, then at Felassan. “Come on.”
He nodded and led her outside. “Trap?”
“It looks that way. He was attacked by a group and then taken down with poison.”
“Poisons. Charming.” Felassan made a face.
“Yes, they’re so much less dignified than melting someone’s fingernails to their fingers.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Felassan said, waving her words away. “The fingernail just turns black and falls off, and usually the finger swells up and bursts long beforehand.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, hahren.” (p. 83-84)
—
Briala looked at the maze of crates, then scrambled up one makeshift wall. Moldy wood crumbled under her fingers, and the whole stack of crates swayed dangerously, but moments later she had reached high enough to look down upon the rest of the warehouse.
“I know you want to embrace your heritage,” Felassan called back to her as he darted into the maze, “but we don’t all climb trees. You’ve confused us with squirrels again.” (p. 86)
—
“I don’t answer to you, knife-ear,” Michel said, his stolen dagger clutched tightly in one hand, not yet raised. “If our mistress had questions, she would not send her handmaid to ask them.”
“No, you fool. She’d send her spy.” Briala turned to Felassan. “Knife-ear.”
Felassan stifled a yawn. “I was offended. Were you offended?”
“No. Because he has never called me that before, not when giving orders to the servants, not even when he was in a rush.” Briala smiled. “Which means he’s covering, trying to distract me. What is it, Michel? A scandal in your family history? No. Urgent news would not bring you away… Ah.” His face paled as she nodded in satisfaction. “Falsified family title. Comte Brevin must have seen something extraordinary in you.”
“Not his ability to hide his facial expressions, obviously,” Felassan said. (p. 89)
—
"You’ll never make it to Val Royeaux on your own,” he said. “This Gaspard fellow really wishes to find you.”
“I imagine he does.” Celene smiled. “But even if he does not, he will turn to Val Royeaux and claim it in my absence, at which point you will lose any chance you have of winning my favor.”
The Dalish elf grinned. “You wear stolen armor and a ride a stolen horse, shemlen. You have no empire at the moment, and your big offer is your favor?” He turned to Briala. “I like her.” (p. 179)
—
"I swore an oath.” Michel sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Honor and duty? Of course not. I’m an elf, and honor and duty are concepts exclusive to heavily armored horsemen.” (p. 201)
—
"It's a bit hard to take in," Felassan said, "especially when almost every elf you've ever seen is a servant in secondhand clothes or a peasant in the slums." He shook his head. "We had an empire. It was… everything one thinks of when one hears such a word. Do you understand? Take the richest district of Val Royeaux. That was our people."
Briala smiled to think of it. "It must have been beautiful, if they had the power to craft a world between the eluvians."
"From what little survives among the Dalish, it was." Felassan sighed. "Take the richest district of Val Royeaux, and add the magic that was part of our everyday life. Every statue fountain could speak through the water that poured from her mouth. Every column glowed with runes that the fools in Tevinter copied by rote like children tracing letters. When night fell, the roads were lit by stones like these, bright enough to find your way safely, but soft enough that you could still see the stars."
"I can only imagine."
"Can you?" Felassan looked over sharply. "Can you, truly? Then tell me, da'len, who scrubbed the floors?"
She blinked. "I… if the stone is enchanted, then… perhaps it cleans itself. Or if our people had golems, like the dwarves…"
"We were an empire," Felassan said again, and this time she heard the anger in his voice. "It was not the Golden City. It was not the peaceful afterlife of this Maker the humans have made for themselves. Take the richest district of Val Royeaux, and tell me how many fools are scheming against each other at every ball? How many servants are flogged for improperly arranging the silverware?"
"We were the nobles." It hit Briala like a blow. She remembered a slow trickle of blood winding toward the spot where she had hidden in the reading room of Celene's childhood estate, where her parents had died on the orders of Lady Mantillon.
"We were everyone. There were no humans, no dwarves, no race but the elves. Every atrocity you seek to avenge for your broken people in the alienages, elven nobles committed upon elven servants."
Briala swallowed. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Your empress," he said. "You trust her. You believe she will free your people."
"I do," Briala said without hesitation.
"Then who's going to scrub the floors?" Felassan asked, and smiled.
"You distrust her because she is human."
"No." Felassan paused. "Well, all right, yes, but more than that, I distrust her because she has successfully ruled an empire. No one who does that cedes power. Even if they are wise. Even if it is for the best, in the long run. Even if failing to do so will destroy everything."
(p. 283-284)
—
"In part,” he said. “But the faithful would also come here in supplication.”
“To what? Your heathen gods?” Remache asked, the scar as his cheek twisting as he sneered.
“Our elders, who had entered uthenara [sic].” If Felassan was offended by Remache’s interruption, he did not show it. “Supplicants would walk the labyrinth,” he said, gesturing at the twisting mass of runes, “and the songs say that if they were worthy, they would find the answers they sought in their dreams that night.”
“Walk the…” Remache stared at the runes encircling the pedestal. “Is there some pattern to that?”
“Oh, you cannot see it?” Felassan asked, and smiled. “Perhaps you are unworthy.” (p. 328-329)
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