#hallas

[radarwarble]

The Keeper.

[egy-lany-blogja]

[stephantom]

If you could only listen to music from one country from now on, which country would you choose and why is it Sweden?

[vintagerpg]

This week, let’s talk about the intersection of music and RPGs! Hällas, an “adventure rock” band from Sweden, seems like a good place to start. If you flip through the pics, that’s basically the cover of each of their releases. That’s the three full lengths: Excerpts from a Future Past (2017), Conundrum (2020) and Isle of Wisdom (2022); the self-titled EP (2015), the Tear of a Traitor/Carry On 7” (2020) and the Star Rider flexi (2018). Looking through those covers should give you a glimmer of an idea of how the band sounds. Which is unlike anything I’ve ever heard before, honestly. They cite a bunch of 70s prog bands like Uriah Heep and Rush as influences, but I don’t hear it. To these ears, the crisp, clean and bright science fantasy sounds of Hällas are entirely unique.

Which isn’t to say there isn’t some roleplaying nostalgia at play in their music, which for at least two albums chronicles the adventures of a heroic knight against the tyrants of his realm — there definitely is! But it’s a strange variety, a sort of nostalgia for nostalgia. It doesn’t conjure the feeling of actually playing a RPG at a table in a wood-paneled basement, or some similar specific retro gaming experience. Rather, it makes me nostalgic for WANTING to play RPGs, when it was all new and exciting and I just wanted to play all the time but couldn’t (that last bit hasn’t changed, I’ve just swapped newness out for deep familiarity).

Start with “Star Rider” and work out in either direction from there, and see if you don’t find yourself yearning to yearn adventure.

[rookfeathers]

consequences

[bysithis]

TESfest22 - confession/curse

that's right. two months late and i'm coming in with a TESfest entry. you love to see it.

anyway. sad gay werewolf hours! enjoy.

-

“Hallas?”

“Yes, my love?”

Somehow, Faelen can’t quite bring himself to meet his lover’s gaze. Instead, his eyes settle on his chest, flushed still and glistening, an amulet resting against his sternum. Made of tarnished silver, it shines dully in the candlelight: a curved warhorn, suspended on a chain of interlocking rings. Faelen’s hand moves, as if to reach out and touch it, before stilling atop Hallas’ stomach.

“There…—there was something I wanted to tell you.” 

It comes out quieter than he meant it to. More worried. He suppresses a wince, glancing up at Hallas’ face to find dark brown eyes staring back at him from beneath a brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you alright?”

“I—yes, I’m fine. It’s—I’m fine.” Hallas shifts beneath him, rolling onto his side. Faelen again finds his gaze drawn to the amulet, the interlocking rings whispering against each other when Hallas rolls over.

“Really,” he emphasises. “I’m fine.”

Earlier, he’d gone to Farkas about it all. Gods know he isn’t the smartest of the Companions, but he might just be the best-natured. 

I have to tell him, Farkas. Faelen was met with a steady gaze, with eyes so pale a blue they almost shone silver. It might be a horrible mistake. It might be the worst mistake of my life. But—but he needs to know. After all we’ve been through together, Hallas and I— 

I understand. 

Faelen blinked. You… you do?

Of course. A pause. Farkas smiled at him, his weathered and scarred face momentarily transformed. You love him. It isn’t hard to understand. 

Farkas’ gaze finally left him, sliding towards the shape of the dying Gildergreen, her bare branches arching towards the sky, pale and ghostly in the gathering gloom. The two of them sat on the steps leading up to Jorrvaskr, ale in hand, the sound of laughter, music, and clashing blades drifting through the cool night air.

If you feel you must tell him, then tell him, he continued finally, turning again to look at Faelen. This time, the elf did not meet his gaze. Instead, he stared ahead, mouth downturned at the corners. But he will not like it.

I know. I know. It felt as if the weight on his chest would crush his lungs; the night breeze stole the words as they left his lips. But I do not tell him to make him happy. I tell him because… because it is the right thing to do. After a pause, he added. I will not tell him about you and the others. Don’t worry. I won’t bring the Companions into it.

Farkas let a breath out through his nose, taking a deep drink from his tankard. I know. I never thought you would, Faelen.

It helped to hear. Faelen let out a breath, nodding, fingers tapping nervously against the sides of his cup. He could feel the nerves jangling in his belly, making him feel sick. It was a chill night, yet sweat was beading on his brow, his upper lip; he tasted salt.

Next to him, Farkas shifted, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt. For a moment, he stood and stretched, a strip of skin revealed beneath his tunic when he spread his arms. Despite his size, Faelen always felt he looked so vulnerable without his armour; despite his size, he was. The Companions are legend walking, yes, but they are flesh and blood, as well.

Faelen. The elf looked up to meet Farkas’ eyes. He looked serious—more serious than Faelen remembered ever having seen him before. He will have silver. 

“Faelen?”

He will have silver. Faelen blinks, coming back to himself. His hand smooths against Hallas’ bare side, dangerously close to the hanging amulet.

“Mm. I’m sorry.” The words are punctuated with a shake of the head. With a kiss, sweet and simple, pressed against the jut of Hallas’ collarbone. 

“Don’t apologise,” comes the soft reply. “Just… tell me what’s going on.”

Hallas’ voice is soft, scratchy. Achingly familiar. Faelen blinks hard, feeling his eyes prick and burn. He can’t remember where Hallas put his sword. By the foot of the bed? By the door? When they stumbled into the bedroom earlier, drunk on mead and one another, he could barely tell his hands apart from Hallas’. How is he supposed to know where he put his sword?

“Alright. Alright. But just—just promise me you’ll hear me out.”

Hallas nods, voice hushed and grave when he replies, “Of course.”

Faelen can tell how worried he is—and he can tell how hard he’s trying to hide it. His brow is creased, jaw clenched tight, and he just can’t seem to keep his hands still. They smooth over Faelen’s shoulders, down his back, over his arms. In any other moment, it would be comforting. But now, moonlight spilling in through the window, making Faelen’s blood sing, making the silver shimmer?

Letting out a breath, Faelen pushes himself upright, a lump forming in his throat when he feels Hallas’ hand slip from his shoulder.

He will have silver. Faelen blinks around the room, eyes damp now, stinging; Hallas’ sword leans against the table on the far side of the room.

“I—well, there’s no easy way to say it. So, I suppose—I suppose I’ll just… say it.” A pause. The bed creaks as Hallas pushes himself upright, too, knees bent under the furs. Faelen can’t bring himself to look at him, and yet he must. Surely, he owes Hallas at least that much? Despite everything, he finds himself thinking of earlier: Hallas’ breath loud and quick in his ears, nails digging into the nape of his neck. 

Faelen lifts his head and meets his gaze.

“I’m—a werewolf.” There’s a pause. A beat of silence. It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but then—

Faelen looks away from Hallas again before he can see the first tear spill over, cursing himself for his cowardice. 

“I have been all this time. Since before we met. Long before. And I never told you because—” He will have silver. Despite everything, Faelen laughs, soft and sad. “Because of that… thing around your neck. I wanted to. You know? Back then, I was looking for a cure. I thought maybe if I told you—if I told you I wanted to get better, you might try to help me. But, in the end, I—was too scared.

“I—I control it. I swear, Hallas. No innocents have died at my hands, I promise you that.” Silence. Feeling as if he might be sick, Faelen turns to look at him again, feeling a pang behind his ribs when he’s met with red-rimmed eyes, Hallas’ jaw working. This time, though, Faelen doesn’t look away. “You must believe me.”

“How can I? How can I when you’ve been lying all this time?” His voice is shaking. Anger? Fear? Faelen can’t place it. Nonetheless, he feels his stomach twist. “A werewolf… By the Gods, Faelen. You realise the position you’ve put me in?”

“Was I supposed to not tell you? Would you have preferred that?” 

“No—Gods, no. But that would have been simpler.” Hallas pushes a hand back through dark hair, eyes screwed tight shut. Faelen feels the need to reach out, to find his hands with his own, but he forces himself to stay still. Part of him fears that Hallas’ body will come alive like silver. That it will burn the skin from his palms.

Another part of him thinks that to touch him one last time—one last time before the inevitable severance—would be worth the scars.

“You know who I am. What I am,” Hallas is saying. “I am a Vigilant of Stendarr. I have a duty to Him, Faelen. A duty to—”

“To spread His mercy?” Faelen bites. “A curious mercy, that which comes at the point of a sword.”

“I do what I believe to be right,” Hallas pushes, voice raised to match his own. “Can you say the same? Why else would you keep this from me if not because you know it is wrong?”

“You cannot think that. You cannot think that.” The words come out a plea. “You know why I didn’t tell you, Hallas, and it had nothing to do with feeling wrong.”

“Then what? Tell me.” He will have silver. It is not all he has, Faelen thinks, hearing the unyielding hardness of his voice; he has steel. “Tell me why.”

“Hallas, enough.” He makes to push himself up out of the bed, at last, waiting for the moment Hallas will spring up from the bed, grab his sword and cut him down. Only, the moment doesn’t come. Hallas only watches him, eyes bright with tears still, though he no longer cries. Faelen turns away, looking for where his trousers landed earlier, and feels fingers curl about his wrist.

“No. Tell me why.”

Without thinking, he snatches his hand back, getting up so quickly he almost stumbles. “Because I didn’t want to be a pelt on your floor! Because I didn’t want to be a head mounted on your wall! I do not want to be anything apart from what I am, Hallas—but I do not want to die, either.”

A pause. Hallas is quiet for a moment, small and pale amid the furs strewn over the bed. Meek. That’s how he seemed when Faelen first met him, too. He remembers the first time he saw him hold his sword. Remembers thinking how little it suited him.

Finally, Hallas replies.

“Then you should leave.”

And, after pulling on his trousers, Faelen does.

[miss-nymphetamine]

This is gonna sound nuts -and probably is-, but every time a halla appears onscreen in a Dragon Age game, I put on my best baby voice and go HEWOW HALLAS, like the lost imbecile I am.

Every.

Single.

Time.

I fucking love hallas, man.

[arofili]

the line of elros ❖ stewards of gondor ❖ headcanon disclaimer

          Boromir was the son of Denethor I, and was the eleventh Ruling Steward of Gondor. Near the end of his father’s rule, the Watchful Peace came to an end when Sauron and the lords of Minas Morgul unleashed upon Ithilien a new and terrible breed of orcs known as the Uruk-hai. Boromir himself led the campaign to recover the land overrun and assailed by the Uruk-hai, defeating the Morgul host and regaining Ithilien, though Osgiliath was captured and its great stone bridge destroyed.           At Boromir’s side on the battlefield were his sibling Emeldir and his wife Amathael. They were all valiant warriors, but by the time victory was won Amathael had been slain and Boromir had received a Morgul-wound. Despite his might and strength, this wound and the loss of his dear wife sapped his life, and he died after a rule of only twelve years, sorrowful and shrunken with pain.           He was succeeded by his son Círion, who inherited a shrunken kingdom with many enemies. Emboldened by Gondor’s recent losses, the Corsairs of Umbar increased their raids along the coasts, while the populations of Calenardhon and Ithilien were diminishing. Círion fortified his borders, including the long-neglected forts along the northern Anduin, where he discovered new enemies, the Balchoth, creeping from the East.           Desperate to defend his people, Círion dispatched six messengers to ride forth and beg the aid of Gondor’s historic allies, the Éothéod who had once been Kings of Rhovanion and even wed their princess Vidumavi to Valacar, the twentieth King of Gondor. Círion had little hope of his message arriving and was uncertain how the Éothéod would respond, and so gathered as great a strength as he could and prepared to lead it himself against the Balchoth, leaving his son Hallas and his wife Hirwen in command at Minas Tirith.           The Balchoth soon overpowered the Gondorian armies and cut them off from aid, whereupon they were attacked by orcs from the Misty Mountains. Vastly outnumbered, Círion despaired—when suddenly the horns of the Éothéod were heard and the tides of battle reversed. Only one of Círion’s messengers survived the arduous journey, but Éorl, Lord of the Éothéod, had answered Gondor’s call, sweeping away the enemy and driving them across the fields of Calenardhon.           After this great victory, Círion returned to Minas Tirith to recover, but asked Éorl to meet him again in three months upon the banks of the Mering Stream. When the time came, Círion led Éorl and his men up the hill of Amon Anwar where Elendil was buried in secret. Círion offered the land of Calenardhon to the Éothéod in perpetual alliance with Gondor, and when Éorl accepted they swore an Oath even in the name of Eru Ilúvatar himself of everlasting friendship between the two realms. This solemn Oath was witnessed by Círion’s heir, Prince Zôrahad of Dol Amroth, two other Councilors of Gondor, and Éorl’s captain Éomund.           With the changing of the borders, Círion decided that the Tradition of Isildur for which the office of Steward was first created to protect was now made void, and removed Elendil’s casket from Amon Anwar to the Hallows of Minas Tirith where the other kings were buried.           Círion was succeeded by his son Hallas, who coined the name of Rohan, the land of which Éorl was now King, and its people the Rohirrim. He frequently visited Rohan, as he was great in friendship with Éorl, and it was on one such journey that he fell in love with his wife Thalieth. Though she was a woman of Gondor, Thalieth was common-born and would likely never have met the Steward’s son were it not for her great skill with horses allowing her to accompany him to Rohan. Hallas saw the completion of the Golden Hall of Meduseld by Éorl’s son Brego, and attended the great celebration, a feast he remembered fondly all his life.           Thalieth and Hallas’ son Húrin II, named for Húrin Thalion as well as his ancestors Húrin of Emyn Arnen and Húrin I, continued Gondor’s friendship with Rohan. Húrin collected many textiles from various lands, his favorites being silks from the East despite his nation’s historic rivalry with its people. He spent most of his time focused on trading for fabrics and communicating with the Kings of Rohan, leaving his wife Beldis to manage Gondor and teach their son Belecthor how to rule.