Hello! 3, 7, or 14 for the Aldwir asks, if you want!
Thank you @hyperions-light for the asks! I finally have the spoons to work on this one. The full list of Aldwir Story Time prompts is here.
I chose 14, "Rook coordinating with the Dalish to help reconstruct more of the Elvhen language."
This happens some time after the end of Veilguard, when things have begun to settle down, but Vel is not one to stay still.
“Okay, so did we hear from Clan Sabrae?” Vel asked brightly, leaning over the wicker table in her study—floating in the air, with her own private waterfall, and tiny grove of trees, where the Elvhen once sat—surrounded by elves from all over Thedas.
Well, most of Thedas.
And that was the issue at hand.
“Not yet,” Irelin replied, checking her notes, “But they are known to range quite far south this time of year. A reply could take time.”
“Right, no worries,” Vel tried not to bounce in her seat with impatience. “So we’ve got a couple dozen clans agreeing to work with us?”
“And the city elves of at least Starkhaven and Kirkwall—what’s left of it anyway,” Merrill, her cousin Elanna’s friend from her travels and eluvian expert, put in. Her Southern accent always made Vel smile. “City elves have their own traditions, I’ve learned, and they’ve kept different parts of the old ways than the Dalish. We should contact the others.”
“Yeah,” Bellara agreed, “That’s what Antoine was saying, especially in Orlais near the Dales.”
“We should write to Marquise Briala,” Loranil suggested, another of Elanna and Harding’s friends from the Inquisition, “She’s quite a hero in the Dales, to Dalish and not alike, after saving so many lives during Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain’s Blight. Many elves there want to rebuild a free life there.”
“Or here,” Strife nodded. “We’re already seeing Orlesian migrants coming to resettle in Arlathan, now that it’s gotten out what we’re doing.”
“Resettling Arlathan,” Bellara said in an awed whisper. “For the elves. For better lives for everyone.”
Vel’s heart skipped a beat at the thought too. They were doing it. The dream that she’d never thought could actually come true.
With the resealing of the Veil, all magic was less potent, including that which had long slumbered in Arlathan. Now, it slumbered again. The ancient magic tech could still be reawakened with enough spell-work, usually, so the Veil Jumpers still had their job in scouting and securing the safety of Arlathan for others.
But the worst and most confounding hazards of Arlathan were at the very least tamed, if not eliminated all together.
There were still some magics, like whatever kept Vel’s office and nearby home floating amid a tangle of ancient trees and waterspouts, were too stubborn even for the strengthened veil. Perhaps the Veil would always be thinner over Arlathan.
But a homeland wasn’t the only thing Vel was going to help the elves reclaim. Their civilization needed a language to bind together the elves from all over Thedas, to tie them to their past, and to carry them towards their future.
“And reclaiming our language: Elvhen,” Vel said firmly, “Everyone has their own bits and pieces. We all know some greetings and slang, but the keepers have kept fragments of our language alive over the ages for this day.
“The old songs from your clan that you don’t know the full meaning of, maybe someone else does. Maybe the spirits do! Let’s ask all who are willing, and fill in the gaps ourselves, for us,” Vel found herself on her feet, fist raised in enthusiasm.
“The spirits of curiosity draw near, as do those with affection for Arlathan,” Taís Merevar said, a Dalish keeper and seer from Rivain who brought her clan to Arlathan after the Blights settled. “Surely among them are those who know words from our ancestors.”
“And I got as much language as I could from that stubborn archive spirit before I freed it,” Bellara waved a heavy tome of notes over the table, “Plus all the history it deigned to share.” There were two more volumes on the table beside her.
“For once, I miss having the Fen’harel in my head,” Vel laughed and sank back into her chair. “He’d love to teach me about old Elvhen, but he’d probably lord it over me for a while first. Nah. Elanna can have him. I hope they’re enjoying the fade.” Finding all eyes on her again, she cleared her throat, “Anyway! We’ve heard from most of the Dalish clans, but Merrill is right. We should send people to visit the human cities to see what the elves there can teach us.. Loranil, you can write to Briala?”
“It would be better coming from you, Rook,” he deflected, “I’m a nobody who used to fight for the Inquisition.”
“This is your chance to be a somebody,” Strife argued. From everything I’ve heard of the woman, she does her best to do good for the elves.”
“And Taís, you can connect us with settlements in Rivain?” Vel asked.
The dark-skinned woman nodded.
“I’ll work with the Shadow Dragons to contact other Tevinter elves,” Strife offered, “We’ve got a long history, separate from the South.”
“That leaves Rivain, Nevarra, Ferelden, and the Anderfells,” Vel counted off on her fingers. “I bet Tea has connections to at least the elves in Treviso.”
“I will speak with her,” Irelin volunteered.
“And I’ll take the Anderfells,” Davrin looked up from his whittling.
“Assan and I need something new to chase after. And I’ll see if I can catch up with Antione and Evka. Antione might already have something, what with his hobby of story collecting.”
“Thanks.” Vel would miss him, but Davrin was a man of the hunt. There was no keeping him in one place for too long, and his stay in the Lighthouse had been pretty considerable already.
“I think,” Loranil started hesitantly, “Sydony, another elf from the Inquisition, has some connections in Nevarra. I could write her too, and see if she could help.”
Vel nodded. “That would be great!” Emmerich wasn’t going to be of much help. An expert in the fade he might be, but his network was rather limited to the Necropolis. Though maybe there were some very old dead that remembered the language of the elves! Maybe he could be of help after all! Vel made a mental note to ask him next time she popped in for a visit.
“Carver has been wanting to visit his homeland in Ferelden, now that the Blight has receded,” Merrill named her surly human partner, whom Lucanis was currently entertaining with knife throwing lessons below, “And I’d like to check in on my old clan, Sabrae, too. Are there any Eluvians positioned there for travel?”
Bellara thought for a moment. “The closest I can get you is Skyhold, I think.”
“Wonderful! I’ve always wanted to see Skyhold,” Merrill beamed, “Though I suspect Carver might dislike the cold.”
“And when you get back,” Bellara interrupted eagerly, “We can keep working on that eluvian research. I think we almost have the basics figured out. Maybe if Magister Pavus—I mean Archon Pavus lets me borrow his sending crystal, I can examine the similarities and—“
“Someday you two will outdo June,” Strife chuckled.
“Ma serannas, ma’falon,” Vel concluded with a grin, “We are Arlathan. We are our language. And someday, we’ll all know how to speak it, too.”
As the others said their goodbyes and filed towards the ladder, a tall, graying elf who had spent the meeting silently against the wall broke from the shadows and approached her.
Holding out a pair of halla leather journals, a slow smile spread across his face. “You do me proud, da’len.”
“Father,” Vel took the books reverently, but stood tall before him, “I wasn’t sure if you got my invitation until you showed up.”
“What you asked of me takes time,” he nodded to the journals, “But that is all I could recount on my way here. There may be more later.”
Vel’s eyes widened. “This is—“ She flipped through the top volume: songs, tales, sketches, Elvhen words and phrases. “Wow!”
The smile reached his eyes. “As you said, this is a day we Keepers—and all that have come before us—have kept the ways for. We may make a Keeper of you yet. But,” he said, drawing her into a sudden embrace, “You didn’t have to save all of Thedas, defeat three gods—“
“Technically two,” Vel cut in, “Elanna and what’s left of Mythal helped convince Fen’harel to stand down.”
He chuckled. “Just listen to yourself! But you didn’t have to do any of that, lead the resettlement of Arlathan, or knit together the fragments of our language for your mother and I to be proud of you. We already were; just for being you and staying true to your heart.”
He released her, but Vel hugged the journals and the freeing warmth that came with his words close to her chest. “Ma serannas a hundred times over, Father,” she babbled. “There is still so much to learn, and—“
“And I think I’d like an introduction to that handsome Antivan down below,” His eyes narrowed mischievously, “I believe your friend Bellara said that he was also with you as one of your ‘Veilguard.’”
“Uh, Lucanis?” she squeaked, face growing suddenly hot. “Sure. I’m sure he’d love to meet you too.”
“I thought as much,” her father chuckled as he retrieved his staff from where it leaned against the wall. “Well, lead the way, da’len.”
For DWC, from "Sensory Prompts": Red wine stained lips.
Solavellan, post-Crestwood, PREPARE FOR PAIN. for @dadrunkwriting
If he did not do something, his resolve would crumble. It had been his castle once: his battlements, his tower, his balcony. How he longed to climb its heights and stare in private solitude at the vista beyond, the crowns of the mountains where once he cast the Veil over all things.
But it was her tower now, her balcony. The battlements, then, would have to do.
He had come into the tavern looking for Cole, unthinking, careless. He should have entered through the attic. Cole preferred to linger in the rafters, and it would have spared him the curious looks of the patrons of the Herald’s Rest when he’d come through the door—he had a reputation for being ascetic; it was unusual for him to make an appearance there.
(If only they knew what he had been like in his youth: a slut for opulence, a whore for luxury, draped in fine furs and the brightest of metals. Those days when he could enjoy the music of softly played lutes in the company of Mythal and her attendants, and hear not beneath the delicious plucked chords the screams of those who had far less, who sacrificed and toiled so that he could live such a life. He’d only been too eager to give it up.)
But worse than the stares of the tavern patrons was the sight that greeted him on the second floor: rounding the corner to reach the attic he saw her, side-by-side with that Dalish youngblood they’d recruited from the Exalted Plains, a goblet of wine held delicately in hand. He’d hardly taken any notice of the boy before; he wasn’t sure he’d ever learned his name.
But then, Thanduwen laughed, loudly, as she liked to; she threw her head back and revealed the white of her teeth, her lips (crimson, stained with wine) pulled back to reveal her smile. Something in the sound of her laugh like she was attempting to use her mirth to crowd something else out, some deep sorrow. And then she reached out, as if to brace herself against the force of her own laughter, and her hand touched the hand of the Dalish hunter, and Loranil, Solas thought, the blood rushing in his ears at even that light touch, the boy’s name is Loranil.
She had caught sight of him staring at the stairs, mouth open, fish-like; she’d simply stared at him through her laughter, through the next sip of her wine, as if daring him, (imploring him) to interrupt her.
He couldn’t.
Up the stairs, into the attic, past Cole and then, here: out onto the battlements, cold mountain air on his face, bracing. It helped.
The wound was still so fresh; he had left her at the waterfall and she had been both full of sorrow and full of anger, unsure which one she felt more keenly, vacillating between the two. In the ensuing days she had compromised: she was icy with him, curt. Hurt. He’d hurt her, he knew it, and he had no right now to do anything, to feel anything, at the sight of her enjoying the company of another man. In all likelihood it wasn’t even like that. Far more believable, anyway, that she’d sought his company for the reassurance of something familiar: the customs and tales of her people.
For a long time he had told himself that if she loved him enough, that would be sufficient. He would not abandon his duty, but she would fold herself, effortlessly, into it, as if she had always been a part of it. It was a beautiful lie that he had told himself for too long. He was alone. He had always been. Gone were the days when he could bury himself in her warm embrace and hide from that simple truth. It had been unkind of him to do so for as long as he had.
And if small touches and familiar conversation helped her to staunch the bleeding—lessen the pain that she felt at their parting—he had to give her that.
whenever I see Loranil in Skyhold my brain goes "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO LORANIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LET'S FUCKING GO BOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" which i think is about as much affection as that character has ever received. shoutout to extremely minor dalish characters. you're doing amazing darlings
