@theharellan (continued from here)
Awake, the world is filled with the distant sounds of battle. His ears flatten against his skull with every clap of magic that rolls across the sky, tearing the Veil further in two. It presses like a hand against his throat, tighter each time. Dreams do not fare better, the all-encompassing silence more terrifying than the din of the waking world. Few spirits remain, most torn forcibly through the rifts or fled in fear. Those who yet linger are as foolhardy as him.
And so it is waking he favours, knowing here he may make a difference.
At the tail end of a day that had seemed infinite, Solas settles against an uneven stone wall. The magic that coats him is spread thin by his exertion. Time wears at his body, sands his joints ‘til they ache and pain seeps into his muscles, but it feels good to rest. His eyes are heavy in their sockets, aching to see the backs of his lids. He rubs at them, instead.
At first, he does not recognise the sound of his own name, but a shadow falls over him and he looks up with bleary eyes. A dwarf stands over him– or perhaps, beside him, breath misting from between smiling lips. Varric. The name comes to him in the sound of Seeker Pentaghast’s harsh accent, she did not speak it so much as spit it. His question is spoken with the same easy cadence as his smile, Solas cannot help but wonder if there is any desperation behind it, any fear. The world offers no answer, but dwarves have always been quiet, even before the Veil.
“Yes,” he answers, voice just loud enough to be heard over the noise around them, “and no. I have seen the Veil torn before, wheresoever cruelty and misery reach new peaks, they form. But as you may have guessed, this is no ordinary tear.” Solas had seen apocalypse before, the last gasps of a dying world before the dark plunge into forgotten history. This world, like the one before it, does not go quietly to its end. “Its scope is wider than anything I have seen before. Such a feat would have required great sacrifice, or else great power. Whichever the case may be, it is safe to say this is no accident.”
“Yeah… Sounds about right.” A heavy sigh escapes his lips, smile fading ever so slightly. With Bianca’s reliable support, Varric helps himself onto a nearby rock, though not before checking the area for ice and snow. As he sits down, a dozen complaints come to mind, each more elaborate than the last, but Varric chooses to remain silent. Not even he can bring himself to dwell on the frigid temperatures and less than ideal seating options, not while dozens of families were torn asunder somewhere not too far away. The thought alone awakes a sense of duty within him he’s not accustomed to, but Varric remains seated. He know he’s in no shape to fight. His limbs are heavy, his movements sluggish, even Bianca’s weight has started to slow him down, rather than comfort him.
He’s suddenly reminded of the first time Hawke dragged him through Sundermount, an experience that had only been made bearable by the good company they kept. Nowadays, sadly, good company seemed to be in short supply, though Varric still held out hope.
“So,” He began, itching for more conversation. The topic was easy to find. “I’ve been trying to figure out how an elven apostate ended up side by side with all these Chantry types. Somehow I doubt they wrote you a nice invitation.” His hadn’t been particularly gentle.
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