#extravagantliar

[avrorean]

Hi again! Me here, I have a question about music and Nanna, mainly for you, Sunny. I feel like many of us have a way we think about our muses tonally, and you've mentioned Nanna and music previously, so is there music that speaks to you as part of Nanna's evolution? Is there a song or a theme in music that follows her tonally throughout? How does Nanna's relationship with music affect, or not affect, her story? How does her story tonally evolve throughout the story, and can it be seen in the music you pick for her?

Hi ok so I have so many thoughts about this specifically and unfortunately I'm going to inflict all of them on you, because they involve Nanna, but they also extend beyond her. And this is where I out myself as one of those people who reads super deep into the themes of asoiaf ok

bear with me. this got very long

So I'm of the opinion that, regardless of intent and/or execution, music is integral to the overall theme and narrative of Dragon Age, and I think it's strongest in origins.

We see it in how the Chantry and the Chant are always referred to as being sung(again, regardless of execution). The core encounter of the Chant of Light where Andraste meets the Maker, humanity reaching the divine, is achieved through singing. The Calling is referred to as a song, as is the 'song' of lyrium(should have been our first hint). The corrupted figure of Blight that the narrative wants you to save with the dark ritual is the elvhen god of craft and the arts, and people who hear him in Urthemiel are constantly referencing music. Even on a smaller scale, in the mage origin, Jowan says that it's the way that Lily sung the Chant that drew him to her, thus setting off the entire chain of events that puts the Mage Warden as the prime contender for Duncan.

Music is fundamental in the narrative of the world of Thedas. And I think that's why—in the narrative that lives exclusively in my head—the primary evil faced in Inquisition has to be Corypheus, the high priest of Tevinter's god of silence.

Silence in its absolute state is a lack of life. It falls when life ends, at the final chord of a song, in someone's last breath. Dumat is also notably a death god in all but name, which I think adds to the overarching theme of silence being a theme for death—even the Andrastian adaptation of his holiday, All Soul's Day, demands practitioners spend the day in silent remembrance for the dead(and specifically Andraste).

Doubly speaking, I think it's also notable that Leliana, in the era of her grief over Justinia, has all but given up singing. It's why the choir practice scene is (in heavily debated theory) in itself an act of defiance from their perspective. A cry of life when silence fell upon Haven.

In contrast, the red lyrium future where Corypheus wins is almost completely silent, because the world is dead. It doesn't even seem as though there are any remaining spirits that weren't twisted into demons. If you listen to the In Hushed Whispers track of the OST, it is 70% ambience. Save for, specifically, the occasional haunting overtures of a cello, and the music only increases and slowly involves other instruments the closer you get to leaving that future.

A cello whose motif is shared by one other person with similar motivations-

Hi Solas, welcome to the extension. We see in the small glimpses of his possessions in Inquisition(mostly in Haven) and the trail of items that follows him through vg until we officially find the music room that Solas has always inclined to music as well as physical art, and its something he treats as more personal. Solas, as a musical and artistic being(and a yapper), shuts his music away as he locks himself into his plan to destroy the world himself. This plays into how the destruction and "lone wolfing" is antithetical to the core of himself.

Music is a narrative player from start to finish.

ANYWAY, ONTO HOW THIS AFFECTS NANNA.

So I think of the Circle as a place that's run a bit like an ominous library, often run in mandated silence. The only music that would exist is the Chant of Light, and similar to themes explained above, the people inside are not thriving and its something you see that follows the mages that leave it. It's why loud noises can make Nanna uncomfortable, but so quickly was drawn to Leliana.

The world outside of the tower is a sensory explosion. Leliana, whether platonically or romantically, is so important for Nanna's development and how she learns to navigate the world, because she introduces music to her in the same way she introduces her approach to faith: unconstrained and from the heart. Neither of which are things Nanna even thought were allowed, but are concepts she gravitates towards in how her worldview develops. It becomes something she wants, more than she thought she was allowed to want.

And I feel like there's something to the fact that the only other Circle mage we engage with that isn't part of the hierarchy, Anders, also actively pursued music. Notoriously not good at it, but that he tried anyway says something I think.

Now for your actual questions LMAO

So ever since her pre-vg lore update a few years ago, I have solidly enjoyed giving her a harp association even before I had her playing the instrument herself—and a lot of this comes from how I see a kinder Warden overall.

I feel like despite the image of the Big Damn Hero that they're depicted with, that's the role the Warden tends to play. I have a post about it somewhere, but they're an extremely uplifting character in a literal sense, and that's the idea I shaped Nanna around. She's the harmony between others' melody, and that's something reflected in how I talked about her magic—at its most natural, her magic and her musical themes would represent that nature of support (timmy's dad's vc: IF SHE HAD ANY).

But i also associate her a lot thematically with a violin, especially as she learns to enforce her sense of self. Its sound is a lot more singular and bouncy, and able to express a different range and volume of emotion than she was able to before. A violin can solidly take the lead in a song and be a directional note that can create that harmony around itself as much as the harp being a unifier. Which is the sort of point she steadily strives to reach. It's not better or more important than the harp motif, so much as its an expansion of the range she gradually learns to express.

I dont have a singular motif to follow, but I do have some examples of music with these specific instruments from my yt playlist(s) for her:

harp: [ one ] , [ two ] , [ three ] violin: [ one ] , [ two ] , [ three ]

I think tonally speaking, there's a thruline in regards to balancing those two different aspects of herself. It's not a conscious thought that she has, but considering the fact that Nanna is a very liminal character whose themes and motifs tend to surround two contrasting aspects inhabiting a singular person, Nanna's ultimate goal aside from a general freedom from the layers of narrative that quite literally has her bound in the plot is harmony. And tonally I think that matches.

[lostinquisitor]

For this open ended question can I entice you to talk about khima more? that's all I ask.

watcher ingellvar KHIMA !

ameridan leaps the steps two-three-four at a time, darting his way around mountains of rubble and massive craters, but he knows without even a glance that the darkspawn gain ground. the terrible cacophony of them echoes against the stone until he’s deaf to anything else, any sense of time or place or hope. he's tiring too quickly. he won’t make it. maybe this is how he was always meant to die. blood an' force, he entreats. be thou merciful to thy prey! “hey! this way!” that was — that was a voice — ameridan startles by reflex, knows his mistake immediately, senses more than sees a blade just miss him, braces for a following strike, but from some shadowy crevice he hadn't seen before a person is grabbing onto the ridge of his breastplate and dragging him away and along, through what may have once been a doorway, into a tall narrow hall radiating light from the walls, blue light — “lyrium!?” “emissary!” his savior shouts back, which makes no sense until it does. unholy screaming somewhere behind, and the festering burn of foulest magic, and the ground shaking under his faltering feet. “c’mon!” ameridan finds new energy to run.

khima is a young nevarran exile, cast from the kingdom for violating the sanctity of the noble undead during the war of the banners. in an effort to avoid renewing disputes about divine rights and jurisdiction, the crown offered a sentence of banishment instead of execution. the mourn watch accepted these terms.

besides, it wasn't like anyone was going to miss a foundling.

abandoned infants are a gray area of nevarran law. most orphans have someone to claim them, even if kinship is distant and convoluted, and lacking that still legally belong to their lineage itself as an abstract entity. khima had nothing. no name, no bloodline, no generous family friend, nothing and no one... unless one were to count the undead who found them. in the end, with the chantry being certain that no normal child could be produced by such strange means, the decision was made to raise khima within the necropolis' circle. it was as near to an orphanage as the mourn watch could offer.

the years passed and though khima showed no signs of magecraft, they developed... other oddities.

ostracization by the other children led to borderline inappropriate bonds with the spirits of the necropolis. isolation from the outside world led to an ignorance of basic social customs and knowledge. generalized neglect by an uncertain roster of guardians granted them a free-range lifestyle typically forbidden to other necropolis residents, of which khima took full advantage.

at some point the mourn watch grew tired of finding khima where they had no right to be and they were formally recruited to train in the order, where the idea was that at least in a less crowded setting a better eye could be kept on them. what followed was a number of disconcerting discoveries:

an integration with the necropolis residents that defied typical order. an inherent sense of direction no matter what uncharted path. an apparent lack of any common self-preservation impulse, and an apparent abundance of luck to make up the gap. and, one day during a routine course in which the mage-students were learning how lyrium is mixed to craft potions, the most disturbing discovery of all. khima, neither tranquil nor dwarven, has what seems to be a complete immunity to the effects of raw lyrium.

the instructor nearly had a heart attack when they cheerfully informed the class that the undiluted material tastes like creation. whatever that means.

to avoid any assassins the unsatisfied noble families might put on their trail, khima departed the necropolis the same way they entered it as a baby; via the unmapped lower levels, where the necropolis merges with the deep roads and nevarra's not-quite-secret war against the darkspawn has been waged by the undead for centuries. they took next to nothing with them and left next to nothing behind. they'd never had much luck making friends among the living, and so they didn't feel especially jilted by their new circumstances. and those glowing blue mushrooms never made them sick anyways, so it's fine!

eventually, this is where they met ameridan, who was investigating a portion of the deep roads where it merged with an ancient elvhen temple. after a narrow escape, khima and ameridan became quickly acquainted with each other as they drew together a plan to re-route the darkspawn horde pinning them in, utilizing a combination of fragile lyrium sigils and ameridan’s notice-me-not wards.

by the time they made it back to the surface, ameridan extended an offer on another allied group’s behalf: and on that recommendation, khima travelled to arlathan forest and took auspice with the veil jumpers there, where unorthodox magical theory was more welcome and someone who could safely handle any of the many lyrium-worked artifacts was never going to be turned away. not for that, at least.

SPECIAL RED LYRIUM EDITION:

halestia keeps her distance as khima works, ears a-swivel, eyes flickering between the tangled shadows of the canyon and the runes those thin hands have carved upon the stone. it looks painful. their hands, what they've done with those hands, what they’re doing now. daybreak is still a while off. “hartho aenes,” she whispers. they don't stop. fingers trembling and tracing blood over the lyrium, red on red. every couple lines they press their fingers to their opposite arm to get more. halestia repeats herself, a little louder, for failing human ears. “mith'dinis,” khima says. their voice has an echo that isn't just sandstone. she'd asked before, how the lyrium worked, why it took blood, how they could do what they do without magic. it wasn't really that she hadn't understood the answer. it was just that she'd hated it. “inquisition's getting closer,” halestia says now, eyes on the horizon. “and they hate venatori.” “so let them kill each other,” khima mutters, pausing to squeeze the cut on their arm. it's slow, thick. they need water. they need a lot of things. “it's nothing to do with us.” “they might help us out. the others have been talking about it. you can't keep doing this forever.” “we don't need forever,” khima says. when they tilt their head her way, their eyes catch a bright cast on the moons' light, nearly elvish. “just longer than them.”

caught in the crossfire of impulsive whims and family conflict, a young khima pavus is adopted by a visiting altus and moves to the tevinter imperium. this is the first of several escalations within the family over the next year, and for khima that conflict ends the day they are sold into slavery by the head of household. things get worse from there.

some time later and khima, roughly aged twelve, is one of the many blood-slaves bound for western orlais, fuel for corypheus' plot against the grey wardens. desperate to survive, they call on the only resources they can find there in abundance: lyrium, blight, and blood.

the results are disastrous, but mostly for the venatori.

with nowhere to go and no means of getting there anyways, the survivors fortify themselves within the cave systems. khima... enhances these encampments with red lyrium runes, primed with blood and set to activate at any spike in the ambient magical energy within range. these traps are intended to target the venatori, and do so with great success, but draw inquisition attention when scouting parties inadvertently set them off.

[fenanera]

🪵🌴

TIME FOR SOME POSITIVITY! | @nekrotisch

send 🪵 and i'll say a positive thing about my own blog

[thousand yard stare] this is torture fjdkgh i think some of my headcanons are cool! i like reconstructing the idea of the dread wolf as an emblem of rebellion and how it's carried down to the dalish, that wolves have stayed consistently a symbol of toothy protection.

send 🌴 and i'll recommend a blog i haven't spoken to yet but admire from afar

@extravagantliar. i swear i can hear varric in my walls anytime they talk about his character. AND!! they seem very nice c:

[martyrmarked]

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐃 over her bones like a sodden cloak, sleep proves illusive. she tosses and turns restlessly in her small bed within the small room that feels more like a prison cell than her quarters until her blankets are thrown off in a moment of pure frustration. throwing on clothes that were hastily tailored only a few weeks prior, sidri grabs a cloak and fastens it around her shoulders before quietly shutting the wide oak door behind her.

the chantry is quiet at this hour and she makes her way through the halls quickly, easily. though it has proved a shelter from the charred wood and thick ash of the valley, this place still leaves her feeling ill at ease, like somehow the stone itself knows that the title that has suddenly overtaken her name should belong to another or, at the very least, should not belong to her. sidri wonders as she steps out into the night if that feeling will ever fade, if the strange and hungry magic curled around her fingers will ever feel like it belongs.

careful to avoid the rows of tents housing the chantry faithful, her boots crunch over a blend of matted snow and earth as she makes her way through the camp now spreader further and farther with each passing day. there's no intended path save for her to walk, to try and have the cold, crisp air soothe the frayed and disjointed thoughts clouding her mind, though sidri finds herself not entirely surprised that she leads herself to a familiar tent and towards a familiar form outlined against a leaping fire.

it's become a habit of late, truthfully.

❝ if you're working on the first draft of whatever tale this mess turns out to be, please do try and show me a bit of grace in the retelling. it turns out being suitable heroic has a dreadfully sharp learning curve. ❞ she offers varric a faint but genuine smile as he glances up from rows of careful lines pressed into parchment. his gaze flickers bemused in the firelight and the sheer relief of seeing neither fear nor awe for once is enough for her breath to briefly catch in her chest.

she continues after a pause to steady herself, a bare hand gesturing towards his quill as her smile grows easier. ❝ there's certainly enough material for you to work with if you ever do decide you care to write about the inquisition. the problem is that most people will find it all too absurd to be believable. ❞

varric has been a welcome companion these weeks and even from the very beginning. he somehow, impossibly, seems to bring a certain ease to even the most tense situation or scenario that neither solas nor cassandra, nor even the others they've assembled thus far, can manage. more than that, however, even from those first few hours in the valley, he had treated her as someone rather than something. it had felt like a lifeline. it still does even as she steadily learns how to tread dark water.

she glances over shoulder towards the silent rows of tents. there are a few fires flickering against the darkness but his feels, is, inviting in a way the others don't. before she turns back to him and lowers her head, she briefly wonders if that's simply because it's his. ❝ can't sleep either? ❞ @extravagantliar

[mercysought]

from here by @extravagantliar

At his question, the assassin's fingers flex in insistence that he follow through with the request. Expression neutral.

Would it make him feel better if Orla was to tell him that it had been neither? Le Mat had been concerned and the magekiller had seen that concern. Or perhaps that Orla had seen him unfold that same piece of paper at least twice, with an expression that Orla had a hard time to describe, and pretended otherwise? Unlikely, further, there were things that Varric didn’t need to be concerned about at this moment.

They pause when the letter is finally handed over. Giving Varric a last glance before resting the back against the rock she’d been using as rest, unfolding the piece of paper.

It was shorter than she had expected.

The last stretch of the short letter makes brown eyes roll, allowing for a disgruntled scoff to escape. Typical of mages that just knew better than the rest of them. It seemed at least that things weren’t quite so different outside of Tevinter, even in this.

Yet, the letter gave her pause: what was the point of leaving a letter behind if the true intent was to have someone stop following their trail? Would continued, consistent silence not work better?

Leaving a letter signed as ‘Solas’ when one went by ‘the Dread Wolf’, addressing him by name and sending him off in a wild chase? That would just spur Varric on. Orla turns the letter, making sure there was no more script on the rest of the parchment.

Who was Solas trying to convince here? Varric or himself?

Orla is careful, folding it exactly as it had been before - leaving no kink or blemish that could have betrayed that the letter had ever been on her hands. The letter is finally handed back just as it had been given “No questions.”

Not on that moment, she had to think. The letter didn’t give her anything she could work with, but given their treck and the job so far - what she knew about Solas, she also knew there was little hope to have him slip on this. That being said, he did leave a letter - and that was something.

The magekiller just didn’t know what yet.

Orla glances back to Varric with a small smile, moving the pipe from one side of the mouth to the other, resting against the rock again. Eyes fixed on the horizon once more. Thinking back on chuckles, on princess, frown deepens but instead the pipe is moved from one side of the mouth to another. The back of their head resting on the warmed stone “You have some interesting choices for bedfellows.”

[extravagantfool]

father's day shout out to the OG dad shaped dwarf @extravagantliar

[theodosiani]

Honestly, Varric’s soul being stuck in a knife would Offend Kas on like a theological level because excuse you his soul should be in Bianca.

[weptfreedom-archive]

Inquisition to Alanari feels more like a jail sentence. I wrote this, it's my line, but I have questions about it. Was there a time that felt more suffocating than others? How did this time shape their later years, leading up to the ritual and post the ritual? Was there ever a time when they actually enjoyed it? Obviously, not being the Inquisitor, but was there a moment with people or an action that sticks out in their mind that made it worth moving forward at the time? How did they unpack this? If they never did, will they or will it be one of those many sore points from a time they never had a real choice?

Of anything, the time after Corypheus was most suffocating, as you say. Prior to that, yes, terrible experiences compounded onto each other, but at least Alanari had no choice but to keep moving. This is no time to collapse, you can do that when either you or he are dead.

But, surprise, it is him relegated to dust at their hand.

And I do think they collapsed — sleeping fitfully for days. Like when the magic was first burned into her hand, it took a toll. Alanari would've been pale, shaking, quiet, at best. Celebrations and crowds of faithful simply needed to wait.

And after? Perhaps they'd intended, hoped to had slipped away with the threat gone — but it was not gone. Rifts lingered for years, a danger to the living and incoporeal alike. Immense bureaucracy had to be handled: the Inquisition had overstepped and needed to answer for it.

None of which touches on Briala; that's another post entirely.

So, a time in which there was not a singular hell-bent enemy to focus on was the worst of it. It left them restless. And as the anchor degraded with time and further use, irritable.

If there were respites (there were), they came in the form of moments of normalcy, even with people they'd leave behind eventually. Snippy debates between Dorian and Solas. Varric taking time to write to people he loved. Sera's pranks. Hulwen and Alloine repairing their fractured relationship. Felassan's Wintersend gift. Cassandra and Sidony's...everything. Stolen moments with Merrill, days in which their hands were stained blue from applying the indigo to each other's hair.