Tagged by the wonderful @sportsugarplums to describe what inspired Abora - which I interpreted to be similar to the character aesthetics post? But with more ‘this is what made me think of her’ which includes a shot of me studying all night (there’s an accompanying picture of the sun rising). Abora started as an alternate playthrough, but quickly developed into something else entirely, and not all at once.
What inspired me was more - music, or rather Marika Hackman’s and Audio Fauna’s music. And also a desire to combine pragmatism with social anthropological interest in a character. idek.
I took all the photos except the last one, which a friend of mine took. Which you can probably tell because I’m not a photographer. But as Abora’s got more than a little of myself woven into her, I thought it would work if I put in my own photos. I <3 the welsh troll.
On photo choice: I wanted to add more grey cityscapes, but I don’t have any decent ones.
Yes to make sure the formatting wouldn’t screw up I put all the pictures in a post, took a screenshot of that, then cropped and uploaded it as one image. :x I have the original post in my drafts...
FORGOT TO TAG PEOPLE um
@andruillest @flabbadence @spacetango (it’s guaranteed that I’m always going to tag you two I’m sorry you can tell me to stop :x) @jessicapendragon @ithesalesman @irrewilderer @ejunkiet @oddmoy @mastcells @liriann-raven @arlavellan @lillotte17 @pyrrhy and... whoever wants to do it. no obligations of course. :)
The sky churned above him, clouds sundering before the drag of the breach, the glow of the fade casting a pale green pallor across Solas’ skin, his upturned face. He stood, one of many, outside the tavern of an inconsequential town, watching as magic rent sky and reality apart. The pressure of the rupture pulsed out in waves, shuddering through the veil so thickly that even the half-drunk humans around him seemed to feel it – a tremor of weight that sank into flesh and bone.
His gaze roved from the rift to its point of origin, eyelids fluttering faintly in thought, fingers twitching at his sides.
The magister had decided to stage his attempt at the Conclave, after all.
An unfortunate choice.
There were renewed screams as the shock of the initial blast finally reached them, slamming the shutters of the surrounding hovels and wrenching the ground from beneath their feet. Solas staggered with the impact before he found his footing again, refocusing on the faint smudge smoke now visible curling down the mountain above them. Chunks of debris were strewn across the mountain side, smears of ash against the snow, limned in red as residual flames gnawed at their edges.
The temple had been completely destroyed, then, alongside its occupants.
(raven-eyed, you languished in the hunt, didn’t you? Sacrificing the wolf and the hounds alike)
His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The activation of the focus had unleashed its residual wards as anticipated - the magister successfully extinguishing his own blighted existence with the fruits of his labour. The simultaneous murder of a hundred peace-keepers was a... regretful consequence (more blood to stain your already drenched hands) - but the breaching of the veil…
His gaze flicked briefly back to the shredding sky, concern creasing his brow- before he shook himself into action and weaved unnoticed out of the frantic crowd.
It was done. There was no more time. He had to collect the focus – all else would wait.
He slipped into the virgin forest that surrounded the village, melting into the trees as chaos erupted behind him – soldiers clambering up the Temple road, heraldry unfamiliar; bells pealing frantically in the small chantry’s steeple. The pressure of the rift above swelled again- spirits now welling against the breach, slipping inexorably through. He increased his pace, bare feet sinking into the soil until he was almost running, stumbling along the ridges of chasms and frozen lakes, the jawbone thudding against his chest in mimicry of his heartbeat. The path would’ve been more direct, but he skimmed his steps through the weakened veil, barely pausing for breath, despite the strain the magic exacted.
The focus wouldn’t- couldn’t return what was lost. He knew that the past was immutable, his regrets his legacy - he was no longer the hasty, foolish young man he’d once been.
He could do something for what remained of his people, though. They’d find a new existence in this alien world.
(selfish, felassan)
It was several hours before he crested the edge of the crater where the Temple had once been, chest heaving, splattered with mud and blood from the tormented spirits he’d been forced to confront as he passed. He was not the first here – he could hear the hushed voices of a scout party exploring the outer limits of the site, the booted steps of more behind them. They had yet to broach the inner halls, however - so he pressed onward, averting his gaze from the smoking husks that littered the area.
(oh what you trail behind you, harellan)
The focus’ magic was strong here, his skin tingling with the force of it, its shudder through the air. The apex of the shock lay nearby and he drew towards it, extending his magic in turn, hunting, scenting.
It had been here; it had burnt its existence into the bedrock of the mountain itself, slashed apart the heavens-
But where was it?
He stretched out the web of his magic further, sinking it into cracked stones of the temple, tracing back every aftershock. He followed the shadows of power through the winding remnants of halls, snow blowing in once lofty ceilings. Close, so close - his pace quickened as he drew closer to the source, pulse matching, and he climbed into the well of the crater itself-
The breach spasmed above, fractals of reality crumpling in its grasp, the flashes of pale light splashing across the blackened ruins, as bright as a sun. But Solas’s gaze was reserved for the molten growth of rock that speared from the centre -and the absence he could now feel in its heart, though the rock still hummed with the memory of its passing.
He fell to his knees, strength leaving him.
(what else did you expect, pride?)
The focus was gone.
His mind was whirling, calculating – could the humans…? No, still too far; the magister – was dead – could it-?
But the voices of the scouts rose anew, accompanied by others - all around now, another disturbance shearing the veil, and Solas withdrew, returning to the forest, slipping into a new skin as easily as breathing.
(fool wolf)
The ash-covered slush welled beneath his every step, the warm melt rising between clawed toes like cooling blood - he couldn’t stop the tremble that arced through his limbs, the keen that threatened to break from his his chest.
It was gone.
A breath caught in his throat, shudders running down his spine.
The focus was gone. And with it…
He retreated beneath the trees, away from the clash of human voices, surrendering the thoughts that clawed through his mind to the wolf - the pain that wrenched in his chest, the lead of sorrow in his lungs.
And when he could hear nothing other than the pant of his breath, the muted thud of his step, the whistle of the wind in the leaves - he threw back his head and howled.
First attempt of hopefully many more at capturing Solas’ perspective - SPOILERS ABOUND, sorry about that. I did try to tag for it. Expect more of these - his POV at the beginning of the game is particularly engaging me atm, in light of the foundations it establishes for the solavellan relationship as well as all of the juicy character study opportunities it provides. I’m still working the kinks out of my writing, as you may be able to tell, but god it’s nice to be doing it again.
Ten guesses which artist the title comes from. ;D I bought the deluxe edition of her album two days ago, actually- it comes with 27 of her songs for only a fraction of the cost more, I really recommend it.
1. Describe yourcharacter’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? Were they spoiled rotten, ignored? Do they still get along now, or no?
Their home tent was always filled with the heady scent of embrium, no matter where they travelled. Even with the cords of deep mushrooms they’d thread across the tent to dry when the clan edged around the Vimmarks, and the hours that the three of them would spend with the mortar and pestle, grinding elfroot and prophet’s laurel, the subtle spice of embrium would always linger, steeped into fabric and skin. Abora had disliked it out of principle, during her childhood. It drenched her memories, undertoning the hours spent memorising plants by sight under her mother’s patient, expectant tutelage - latent with a certainty that with her elder sister having safely ensconced herself amongst the clan hunters, she would be expected to pick up her mother’s mantle instead, clan lavellan’s healer-in-training. But to be bound to the camp boundaries, ensnared in the petty politics and concerns of the clan - she could think of nothing worse. Why settle for this when there was a whole world out there, one that the Dalish were a part of whether they liked it or not?
Yet that stability had been something she’d hoped for, too, when she’d been younger. The home-tent’s spice had been a promise that she’d accepted without thought, clumsily mimicking her mother’s gestures and imagining that she too could feel the prickle of magic in her palm, feel the brush of a spirit between her enclosed fingers, waiting to be coaxed into easing a hunter’s fever. She had been seven when she’d noticed that her mother’s lessons had shifted their focus to more practical medicine; nine when she finally accepted that she could never truly follow her mother’s footsteps. It was a few weeks before her 14th name day when she’d finally carried her belongings from the family tent to be taken formally under the tutelage of one of the clan’s scouts, the daggers her sister had given her four years before clutched protectively to her chest. Yet the smell of the embrium had still lingered months later, implaceable no matter how many times she scrubbed herself raw.
The scent had decidedly soured for her after that.
Nevertheless, years later, after months, seasons and eventually years spent away from the clan, she’d find herself drifting away from the roadway upon a simple shift in the wind, drawn to that heady scent once more. An association of home still imbedded in her consciousness, potent after the years had smoothed away the old hurts. It was with a touch of self-mockery that once, on her way to a distant conclave arbitrating a debate she would never be fully equipped to understand, she picked an early bud and pressed it between the thick paper sheafs of her notebook, steeping her belongings in the scent. A recognition of the child that had fought to craft herself anew, to escape disappointment and inadequacy. She had, in the end, found the purpose, the fit that she had sought those many years ago. It was just not in her mother’s image, but in her own.
…
Rusty EBK is rusty! And this is after midnight. Let’s just say I’m doing this east coast time for @ejunkiet. :))) I’ve typed this on my phone so pleaaaaaase forgive my typos and misspellings- I’ve been through this loads but am too tired to catch anything new right now…
Fuller headcanons:
Her relationship with her mother and sister is actually very good, much better than this implies. :x No father in the picture - he died when Abora (god I need a new name) was 4 years old, so she has no concrete memories of him. She has the stories her mother told her, though. She was very close with her mother when she was young - her sister is around five years older, so there was a sizeable period when she was the ‘baby’ of the family, as it were. Particularly when it appeared that she could potentially manifest magic (her mother is the clan’s second, and healing woman, and her father had magic, the potents were positive…), her mother took a particular interest in her. When it turned out she wasn’t a mage, then her mother was accepting of this (although not all the clan members were, there was talk about a more suitable apprentice and young ears hear more than people think). Combined with Abora’s semi-worship of her mother… she set out to find something she could fully be, rather than just pose as; felt guilty for not being more. Hence the revolt against embrium. XD she grew more distant from her mother in that period out of choice - not fully, but her guilt went unspoken, made her a little beligerent…
She got over it, eventually. It was her mother that imparted in her a love of knowledge, of history and culture. Will be exploring this more to see how exactly her pragmstism makes its appearance. In part perhaps due to her early ‘reality check’? You can’t always get what you wish for, need to strive- combined with a natural pessimism… we’ll see. Thanks for putting up with my babbling. :3
@shadoedseptmbr - you are awesome, thank you for the prompt!! :D I love the ones you’ve chosen, and will have a go tomorrow. :)
Title from the brilliant ‘Run the Banner Down’ by Shearwater
Let's talk about my Amell Warden's facial expressions: his neutral expressions are either concentrated with his lips a bit pursed and kinda squinty eyes, or a curious one with his eyes wide open (chews a bit on the the side of his bottom lip).
He's not one for big toothy smiles, he may grin a bit but his eyebrows do most of the work. Same with angry look, grits his teeth, mouth in a thin line and concentrates all of his expressiveness in his eyes. But only when he's really really angry. Overall just some eyebrow wiggling and squinting.
People have called him inexpressive since forever but he a problem with it until he started romancing Alistair. He was worried he didn't look happy enough when he was around him. So there where a lot of out of the blue hugs, intense/wide eyed stare with firm shoulder squeezings and awkward back patting before they talked about it.
God fucking damnit Alistair why is it so hard to build you up as a tank?? I need your pretty ass to take all of the blows of the team. That's your only use in this team goddamn.
I started to play with my female Surana even if I'm not done with Amell, I just can't escape the mages in this game 😒 And it's really interesting because I usually go with close range face-to-face warrior types in games and either slither around enemies or go fucking tank and slowly take them down one after the other. I aaaaalways stay away from archers, marksmen and magic types because they're either too hard to co-ordinate or I take 30 years just to find a a engage a long range target, don't mention actually hitting one. My game style is just... Barrel through enemies and pray they don't overpower me lol But mages are fun on da and I can totally concentrate on tanking plus damage dealing while having another mage in the party completely leaning on healing and boosting party members.
I kinda accidentally romanced Alistair with my male Warden... I've never used mods or stuff like that so I was reaaaally curious and I tried the Equal Love one and a few others (cuz, they looked so complicated like wtf) And I uhm, kinda liked Alistair a lot and accidentally got too far and now I can't go back. He's too precious. But also now that I know the mod works even too well I can romance Morrigan with my female Warden next time..... how am I even gonna keep her happy is a mystery, every time I do something nice she gets annoyed at me :(
