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Found some old marker made man elf, rejoyce
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Hypnagogia
Serault is faded Orlesian finery wrapped around ancient apostasy. The gildings are all but stripped and the Seraultine stag belches glassworks smoke day and night: her shame is lifted and now hangs oppressively over the Tirashan and the villages alike. New glass windows for the Grand Cathedral did not let the Chantry see its people any more clearly before the Conclave.
Vhenaste hopes her friend is a more visionary Divine than Justinia. Judging from some of the hollow-eyed stares she receives peppered among the stolid and the suspicious as she leads her horse through town, Cassandra could bring more to this region than coin for the Marquisate’s coffers. The people are as remote and strange as the land, with a bone-deep loyalty to the place Vhenaste doesn’t quite understand.
Leliana’s rumors and the Well’s whispers have brought her through Serault’s crumbling-plaster streets, the sun occasionally throwing dagger-shards of light from the Marquise’s thousand-windowed castle, to the tumbledown hovels by a pig farmer. A curious tension rules here; it and the Seraultine contact unnerve Sera.
“Keeps their secrets well-tucked. They can stay tucked. But there’s also trouble, I’m told,” Sera said in Kirkwall. Vhenaste had earned some forgiveness. Now she can earn more. Follow up on all the whispers, even if they get her nowhere.
A green smell cuts through the glassworks cinders and rotted river boats. She lifts her head: the Applewoods are alluring, its leaf litter rustling like soft-spoken words.
“She is in Serault,” the tinker tells him as he is passing through to Jader.
“Eyes like the sorceress who visited years ago,” says the rough-voiced woman who sips the tea he brews. “She saw enough to want to push.”
Vhenaste’s restraint in questioning pleases and puzzles Solas. Neria has told him enough he would worry if he did not have weightier concerns.
“Masked and unmasked, bound and free,” the little spirit says, bobbing and dancing to a tune he cannot yet hear. “Woods whisper for me, thee, and we.”
Now he understands. The Tirashan is an inverted Halamshiral, where the danger comes from things far older than Orlais’s Game, and it will have its due. It calls and she answers.
“Hunt well,” he wishes aloud like a blessing. She had humiliated her opponents into defeat, once - he remembers her stalking Florianne at the end like wounded prey, the arrows of the traitor’s own words striking the Duchess mortally because all could hear. He should but he cannot forget dancing afterward, flush with drink and victory and the smell of ozone in her hair. Gavottes in blood. Her mouth at his ear.
Distractions. He coughs, draws his mantle close, and prepares for Hunter Fell.
She remembers entering the wood looking for answers. Evasions, missing people, curious blank spots all here. Spending time alone, listening to the wind, listening to the Well... well. One gets lost for a while before one is found.
She remembers those both like and unlike her. Elves, yes. But red fingers and red vallaslin uttering names Vhenaste has only read in faded histories, never heard, never allowed. All distorted. They both fear and revile her.
“Asha-” one says before another claps hand over their mouth.
Vhenaste has followed them, learned much digging in their bones. The Vir Abelasan is a friend at her shoulder, clear and wise. Here for this answer. There for a weapon. He must be found and stopped. It’s so easy.
She knows time passes as her hair grows long, limed and befeathered. Clothing comes to her from... somewhere. Offerings, perhaps, or the remains of finery from glories long past. Like Halamshiral... or was it the echoing drums of the deep? But she is done with dancing: she will have her due.
She enters her dream a huntress, circling.
The human hunter dangles the crystal in front of her and does not speak. The object is doing that for him.
“For Andraste’s sake, Vhenaste, you must wake up. Festis bei umo canavarum - can you hear me?”
She stares at the man and cocks her head. She doesn’t recognize him but finds him a little too brash.
“She can hear you,” the man says. His voice is rusty from disuse. “Keep talking.”
He should be kneeling, the Well says. Tell him.
She opens her mouth. Why should she care about this impudence? All she wants are her answers.
“Answers! Bless the Maker’s dimpled backside.” She must have said that aloud. The man in the crystal... Dorian. Yes. What was he- “Madame Vivienne has something incredibly clever and important to tell you. I traveled all the way to Orlais for this, I hope you appreciate my sacrifice.”
Sacrifice. The word rings so oddly to her. The hunter has stepped closer, watching her carefully, the crystal held higher. Swinging in front of her face. As if she should recognize it... and perhaps she does.
“Yes of course, darling, be a dear and quiet down.” She can almost picture a face. A warm, trusted face smiling carefully but genuinely, giving her a ring. “Listen carefully, Vhenaste. You are in control of this power, do you understand?”
“Of course I do, do not be absurd,” Vhenaste snaps. Except that is not quite what she wanted to say. She struggles to try again.
“Apologies, I...” The voices rise up: it is time to work the will of Mythal. And what of my will?
“My friend would not be so rude, so I shall try again. A compulsion can be broken. Do remember what I told you: a leash works both ways. Take hold of it tightly. I know you can.”
Vhenaste thinks Vivienne’s voice wavered a little at the end, but that could not be right. She is strong, ruthless, cunning, like herself. She also cares! It’s like a scream in her mind. She does slowly feel as if she’s waking up to a battle of wills, one that she is losing.
“You’ve a will of steel and friends who care about your well-being. And you cannot find Solas buried in the woods of a backwater Orlesian province.” Vivienne says this so firmly, so matter-of-factly it is like a cold slap to the face. Solas. After... Vhenaste’s arm aches. The Anchor. It melted down. Solas used its power to...
Vivienne had never once mentioned Solas to her afterward out of respect for her feelings.
The strange hunter closes the final steps and puts the crystal in her palm. “You lost this.” He turns and walks away, leaving Vhenaste slow-blinking tears in a sunlit copse.
“What was that?” Vivienne inquires from her palm.
No one of importance, says the Well.
“I lost my will, Vivienne.” She chokes this out because it’s true. How long did she wander these strange woods, having given up all she had left in the hopes it would ease the pain and be the solution she sought?
The solution is still here, the Well promises. We have many answers.
And I will take them, Vhenaste promises back.
“Thank you, Vivienne. Dorian. So long as I still have you...” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You are my friends. And this is no dream. Not any longer.”
When I am recovered, I am coming for you, Solas. She recalls, as from a dream, faint memories of ruins in Hunter Fell and terrifying things that should have stayed forgotten. A race, now, to see who could get to them first.
Crystal in hand, she stalks toward the village.
Well, in Trespasser Leliana said:
And I was like “Well, it can’t be THAT big and threatening! And aw, look at it…”
…
“IT’S FUCKING HUGE!”
….
Ar Ghi’la Fen’harel aka Fen’ghilan (I Guide Fen’harel)
Fen’ghilan is an Elf from the Tirashan. In Thema’s story, the Dalish are descended from the armies and supporters of the Evanuris, while the Tirashani elvhen are descended from the armies and supporters of Fen’harel. Fen’ghilan is their leader, a young woman who has fought for and won the right to guide Fen’harel to her peoples’ city in the vast forest. She is the only one who wears the Vallaslin dedicated to Fen’harel, so that he may recognize her.
In the plot line of Inquisition itself, she tracked him with the aid of spirits to the Conclave where his magick is strongest, and in doing so becomes the Inquisitor, the ‘Herald of Fen’harel’. She recognizes Solas for what he is, and is quite taken aback by the man she finds. Fen’ghilan only stays with the Inquisition and puts up with the shem’len and Dalish because he wants the breach closed. Over time she shifts from being quite the fan girl to accepting that the legends that her people have of Fen’harel are somewhat wrong... and winds up falling in love with him.
Bless you. I can’t find anyone to talk about the Tirashan with me, because no one gives the Last Court a chance.
The Last Court is simultaneously the best and worst game I've ever played. like I actually love all the tidbits of lore, the characters are fascinating, and the events have such a twilight horror meets ruling simulator.
but Mythal's ass does it suck to wait Actual Days to complete the game and some of the repetitive events needed to win it are well repetitive and terrible.
I get super attached to the more obscure games in the DA franchise like The Last Court, Dragon Age Legends, and even DAI Multiplayer; only because they have some of the most interesting stories and best unexplored characters. Not to mention all the things about the Tirashan that are only uncovered in this particular side game.
Applewood Trails? Greenwood Hunting? Deepwood Spirit with Stag Heads and Living Mazes? Elves with Crimson Vallaslin Who Make Mortal Sacrifices to the Evanuris? YES PLEASE!
Tirashan interior shot.
Kurese Gloria UNPB
