#theharellan

[mournflame]

( frankenstein // accepting ) SOLAS [ @theharellan ] WROTE: ❝If I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge the other.❞

THE BOUNDARY BETWEEN WORLDS WAS thin here. The Lighthouse was like a fisher’s knife slipped between the skin and the flesh. Delicate, precise — but one false turn and both would rupture. There would be blood then in every river of the world. Though she had no tongue, Hezenkoss could taste it. Hungered for it.

But, that blade was beyond her grasp. The bonds on her were yet too tight to be slipped. One day, she would shatter them. For now, she had managed this: to press herself so close to the Fade in this place she almost dreamed. She could pull no power from it, but it was enough at least to find little surprises. Like another in bonds who sought his own freedom.

That did not inspire any feelings of kinship, however.

❝Is that what you call this? Indulgence?❞ She laughed and kicked at a stone in this dream of a shattered city. It crashed through panes of stained glass that had long ago bled of color the way she assumed its subject had bled of life. She did not mourn the destruction. They had failed and deserved to be forgotten. ❝Pathetic.❞

❝Do you know why I allowed those blight-addled loons to negotiate with me?❞ She dropped her foot into empty air, and gray stone rose to meet it. Because she demanded that it do so. Because Solas could flee her if he wished but he would not stand above. ❝Because they were bested by you. And, you were bested by Volkarin’s whelp. Clearly none of you are as fearsome as you pretend.❞

[theodosiani]

❝ It is hard to stop loving the ocean, even after she has left you gasping. ❞ for ghil naturally

I Lost the Meme || Accepting || @theharellan

Ghilan’nain is silent for a time, staring out into the crashing waves. There is something peaceful in the tremulous uncaring waves, there are no whims to cater to. The waves do not care for the begging for one’s life, the waves do not care if one needs air they will be thrashed all the same as the creatures who lurk below.

That is why she had gifted her children such immense bodies, the cetus' defense against the tumultuous seas. She is glad--Though she will not readily admit it that she spared them. They linger as close to shore as they may come without beaching themselves now. Sonorous wailing filling the misty air, longing for the days when their mother swam with them.

She is tethered to the shore now, delicate ankle caught in a trap that she had happily walked into. Andruil, her sly huntress of a million and one snares, had held her hand while it closed tight. Cleaned the blood away with her tongue and cooed that Ghilan'nain looked so very pretty.

Ghilan'nain knows of her beauty, of course, and there is beauty in all life. Beauty in the way that bones hold marrow like a secret, beauty in how blood pumps endlessly circling, beauty in vocal folds vibrating to bring song from nothing. Beauty in the vast churning sea which ignores all of those things and dashes a body relentlessly against the rocks.

She breathes deep, letting the salty spray fill her lungs. Perhaps if she stood here long enough she could drown from that alone. Well, no longer, she has escaped the limits of death--even from the sea. The Dread Wolf could do the same, she thinks, beloved of Mythal the way that he is. She would raise him up with them, need he only ask. It seems the least that the All-Mother could do, given the things she has asked of him.

"Neither of us will ever escape, you know," The Her is different, but Ghilan'nain knows they both revolve around women so powerful and so vast that no where they could flee would be far enough, "It's best to learn to enjoy drowning."

[thanflowers]

        “i have a question for you, solas, if you will indulge my curiosity.” it is more the curiosity of the spirit who hovers just on the other side of the veil at the moment, but elspeth herself is not without. she smiles as she offers @theharellan a small cup of coffee—a light antivan blend she had brought with her for special occasions. (and, having heard he wasn't particularly fond of tea...) “have you ever met any spirits of empathy during your ventures into the fade?” / sc.

[anecdotist]

@theharellan asked: The Inquisition cannot always afford to draw attention to itself. Such was the case today. A small village, a small lead, a less ostentatious presentation. One might be forgiven for thinking Solas was waiting for Dorian, with how he lingers outside his cabin, pipe hanging from his lips. As the Tevinter mage emerges in the humble garbs of a southern traveller, he turns and addresses him with a familiar refrain: "Ah, Dorian. You startled me. You're always so... nondescript."

The clothes are clean and that's really the only thing he can say is going for them.

No, no, that's not exactly true. The clothes are fine, suitable for anyone who needs to be clothed in something lightweight for hard labor. Which is not something he needs. Ever. Well. Except right now, which is surely another of the Inquisitor's cruel jokes. He could, probably, attempt a glamour. Remain in his own clothes for a bit, long enough to get the job done. It wouldn't hold up to touch in the slightest…

Who was he kidding? Yes, he loved his silks and his leathers and his gold, but he could go a day or so without. He'd be annoyed, perhaps a bit itchy, but he'd survive. As he changed, though, he realized the clothes were really only half the battle. Sure, donning simple cottons would hide him at a quick glance, but Dorian was a proud man with the demeanor to match. He hadn't slouched since he was six. He looked people in the eye—his eyes, still kholed, but there was no way to wash that off without making him stand out even more by looking like a drowned cat—and spoke with a confidence that kept him apart. They didn't need someone bandying about, utilizing every word in their rich vocabulary. This was an occasion that called for someone to be plain, straightforward, and so wholly unassuming as to be forgotten.

In short: he was going to have to let Solas do the talking.

Finished changing his clothes, the only piece of jewelry on his person now was his family birthright tucked beneath his shirt. His staff and his clothes he'd leave behind, but he was not going to risk losing that again. It felt strange to leave the cabin so lightly adorned, but if it's what the mission requires, then he'll oblige. After glancing around briefly, Dorian looked curiously at Solas nearby—

Ah.

Dorian squinted, holding up his hand in front of his eyes as he looked at Solas. His voice rose unnecessarily, "Sorry, I can't hear you over the glint of your bald head!"

[lostinquisitor]

❝ surely a knight knows something of love. ❞

the green knight starters !!

“a knight,” ameridan repeats listlessly. then, with shocking vitriol: “a knight! he should serve his kingdom, should give his life for his kingdom, should he not? yet here i remain and the kingdom is gone!”

for foolishness — for selfishness — for paranoia!

why didst thou question? hadn't he already been told of betrayal and destruction? this calamity was old when this man's grandmother's grandmother had not yet been born! what could be done now, what couldst thou do now?

his heart stutters in its new painful way and he knows he must calm himself. he must draw a deeper, fuller breaths without any of this agitated panting. must still his fretting hands and not ask for answers he knows will not satisfy him, such as: ma'sseren, tell me truly. how did the dales fall?

the man before him is not responsible for any of ameridan’s losses — if anything, ameridan is responsible for his. does he know any security in this land, an elvhen mage? if drakon's son (he had held that boy; he had sung to him!) could betray them, had the green dales of the north been ravaged as well? does the imperium march again?

thou'rt a failure, ameridan scolds himself viciously. that all thy ancestors built could be lost in a single generation!

he draws one breath with force and holds it until he can bully his pulse into a pattern less alarming. on his next inhale, he bullies his tone likewise. “i apologize, ma'sseren.”

“of love this one has been over-blessed indeed,” he mutters, tilting his face to a frostback draft in the air. it is hard, to look these people in the eye. he cannot stop wondering what they see in return. “it is not the presence of love in this tale that deserves interrogation. it is the apparent lack of any other virtue.”

[valorcorrupt]

a rushed kiss before one party leaves for work . inara x teagan this is my penance my apology

Get Ya Kisses! Platonic Kisses. More Kisses.

Everything was ready. 

Redcliffe village was as ready to stand against the undead as they will be, Inara and her companions having spent the day helping prep and recruit fighters to the cause. They found useful supplies, roused the blacksmith. They have a chance. Even if it’s not a great one. 

Inara said her goodbyes to Bann Teagan in the Chantry after informing him of it all, wishing him luck protecting those inside. The Chantry was a sturdy building, filled with children, the elderly, and the injured. He will be the only warrior inside. The last line of defense.

He caught her hand before she could turn to leave, to move up the hill with the others. 

     “My lady, before you go–” 

Inara looks up at Teagan with curious eyes, her hand caught in his making her blush bright and warm. As she watches, the nobleman hesitates a moment, his throat pulsing as if he is weighing words on the back of his tongue. 

     “I simply… must.”

And then he leaned forward. As her heart leapt in her chest, his lips graced hers. She froze. He was a noble, a bann, and she was– well. A Grey Warden, now. But… Inara could hear Leliana giggling somewhere behind her. As she blinked her surprise away, her heart strangled her throat. 

     “Good luck, my lady,” he whispered, head low against hers. “I do hope we meet again.”

     “Me too,” she blurted, and the words felt clumsy. Not enough.

He squeezed her hand, and her chest felt warm. Almost… uncomfortably hot. 

     “It’s time to go,” a hand on her arm made her turn. 

Alistair wasn’t looking at her, but he was pulling. 

     “Goodbye,” Inara bid the bann, and went with her companions to the windmill on the hill.

[orxna]

❝ Weave this into the story of you. ❞

I lost this meme || @theharellan

Orana wants to scream, it rattles her teeth in a way that is so foreign. She wants to throw things, thrash an entire room and not clean up a single broken bit. She does not want to stand here in Minrathous, keeping civilians calm while Solas and the Shadow Dragons wage a losing war against a God she never believed in. The Herald has spent so much time hidden away, for her safety, for her political sway, for her own good.

Her own desires secondary to her protection as a holy figure. Now, that strange holiness is one of the few boons in morale left within the city and even that creaks dangerously. She does not want to work with The Dread Wolf, she does not want to look at him and know that his actions now are saving so many.

The world, however, has never cared for what Orana wants. Instead she grits her teeth so hard her molars ache, instead she speaks in hushed comforting tones to the huddled refugees, instead she lets her nails form grooves in her palms so deep she may as well slice flesh.

Would he care that she bleeds? Would it make him sad, ever so briefly, before he convinces himself that it was a necessary tragedy. Was Varric angry, when he realized the knife in his chest was Solas’ or did he feel resigned—Orana used to feel resigned, sure that anything Solas could accomplish was nothing she could fight.

Now she is just so very angry.

“My story has no use for more dead parents. I think Varric would call it an overused trope at this point.”

[ingllvarchived]

he  sits  hunched,  back  to  her,  smaller  than  she's  ever  seen  him.  defeated,  or  grieving.  she  advances,  the  grey  landscape  solidifying  around  her  into  the  now-familiar  graceful  arches  of  ancient  elven  architecture,  but  she's  reasonably  sure  she  hasn't  been  to  this  part  of  their  empire  before. 

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪🗡ྀ࿔ 〖 and other stories . . . 〗, always accepting!

@theharellan made solas cry

❝     solas?    ❞  she  asks  as  she  nears  him,  &  can  see  the  haggard  lines  of  his  profile.  valeria  doesn't  expect  him  to  react  -  half  the  time,  no  one  in  these  memories  hears  her  at  all  -  &  she  certainly  doesn't  expect  him  to  shatter  when  he  does.  head  in  his  hands,  the  tears  come  freely,  &  she  wonders  whose  skin  she  might  be  wrapped  in  this  time  that  he  would  allow  himself  to  collapse,  to  show  his  vulnerable  underbelly.  or,  maybe,  he's  so  tired  that  he  doesn't  care.  a  glance  at  her  gloves  yields  no  clues;  to  her  eyes,  they  remain  hers.

cautiously,  she  moves  to  crouch  by  him.  she's  never  had  to  confront  the  raw,  jagged  edges  of  him at his lowest,  &  she  finds  herself  missing  the  distance  provided  by  the  lighthouse's  murals.  this  suspended  moment  has  already  played  out,  its  course  predetermined,  but  even  still, something twists in her gut &  she  has  no  idea  what  to  do.  &  she  can't  help  but  wonder  if,  like  herself,  the  figure  she's  impersonating  was  also  entirely  in  over  their  head.

after  a  protracted  moment  of  hesitation,  she  pats  him  twice  on  the  back, gently.  or,  tries  to.

❝     you...  okay?    ❞   

the  point  of  these  memories  is  to  find  something  they  can  use; he  may  be  hurt,  but  she'll  need  to  stick  her  hands  into  the  wound  &  pry  it  open.