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the-three-idiots · 1 year

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Tales of thedas: EPILOGUE #1; 2500AE

I am Master Prothis.

The year is 2500AE.

It’s been 700 years since the end.

Not many people know what happened and fewer even care. The elder races of the charr and humanity are nearly gone while the Sylvari have gone extinct. Except for one.

Raim, the last of his kind. The last born as some call him, I look after him and make sure he can continue the legacy of his people, maybe even find some way to bring them back.

I am a guardian of knowledge, like my father before me and his father before him. There are few of us but what knowledge we have gained will help those in who will come after us.

I am the last bastion of knowledge.

Today we are in the ruins of Rata Sum, no one has been here since the collapse of the Tyrian alliance, that was before the end. We look for any books, tomes or anything that can be stored and archived.

The Asura are gone, no one knows where they are. They Forsook this land long ago. To see an Asura now is rare, to most tribes roaming this land, they are mythical beings.

We roam the empty halls and destroyed labs of this ancient city. They mostly stored their knowledge on something called a ‘pad’ in a process in which they ‘digitized’ information.

By what I’ve read, they turned physical information into light and stored it into crystals, bloody magnificent stuff. If only I knew how to continue their work in any way.

“OW!” Master Raim shouted

He is quite clumsy, these crystals hold hundreds of books inside them. So they do get quite hot and Master Raim just touched it with his bare hand.

“Master Raim, what have I told you about handling dangerous objects?” I ask him.

“I am sorry, it's just kinda, I dunno.” Master Raim said rather nervously

I knew exactly what was worrying him.

“They spoke to you didn’t they?” I said, reassuring him

He looked at me with a confused look, I put on a glove and grabbed the crystal.

“These crystals hold so much knowledge, the ancient asuras implanted what we call code into these crystals to be able to think for themselves in order to store the data properly. A side effect is that during the fall, they put so much of their data onto them in order to preserve their knowledge that the crystals began to develop sentience.” I explained.

Master Raim looked at me in amazement.

“It can think?” asks Master Raim

This crystal is rather hot, even with a glove. I grab a glass jar out of my bag, i put the crystal carefully in the jar. It is made of cast iron and nornic glass, i could put lava in this jar and it would be like holding a cool glass of water.

“Well, anything can think given the amount it knows. Your people were once slaves to an elder dragon before one of your kind obtained enough knowledge about herself to know what she was doing was wrong. Began a rebellion.” I explained to him.

I hold the jar up, the crystal grows brighter as if it knows that it is no longer able to cause any more harm to either me or Master Raim.

“Woah.” Master Raim said

His eyes light up as he looks at the crystal, so I give him the jar. He holds it rather carefully, he seems to revel in the light. Its quite nice to see his almost childlike interest, I have not had a ward like him for some time.

He sits down and grabs a journal from his bag and a few charcoal stencils. He starts sketching out the crystal in his journal. I sit down alongside him and grab my own journal from my bag, i need to note the colour and density of the crystal.

I need to be able to categorize it, for future notes. He does it for fun, i think

“What colour would you say that is?” i asks

Master Raim looks at the crystal rather intently.

“Green-ish.” he replies.

“Which would it mean?” I ask him, I hope he noted that down when we were in Rata Novus.

“It was about ecological studies wasn't it?” he replied with an unsure tone

He was right, I grabbed a bag of lemon bon bons from my bag. I took one and then offered one to Raim. He likes sour sweets, I'm not sure why but Sylvari have a knack for digesting sugar at fast rates. Also weirdly makes him produce a lemon scent, not sure why that occurs.

“Can I ask you something Prothis?” Master Raim asks

I put my journal down to give him my full attention.

“Of course master Raim.” I replied

“We have travelled everywhere, seen the ruins of hundreds of cities. There are very few people around and well, there's not much else around. So why are you taking me to these places?” asked Master Raim

I stand up, picking up the crystal jar. I look towards Master Raim.

“Look around you master Raim, you see ruins but i see a story yet discovered. This crystal represents a part of greater knowledge our predecessors left behind and in essence, become our responsibility to make sure they are safe. It would be irresponsible for to let someone else's last effort to just fade away-”

“-Tieran of the Tales of thedas-” The voice cut off but i heard where it came from.

Master Raim stands up, walks over to the side of me.

“You heard that as well, right?” He asks.

“Follow me closely, master Raim.” I ordered

Me and Master Raim walk towards the origin of the voice. We pass a couple of large hallways before arriving at a single medium sized room, Which had a giant central crystal. The room was dome like with circles cut into walls, seemingly with no function. The crystal emitted a harsh blue light before projecting an image of a female sylvari.

“-I am Ashal Tirean of the Tales of thedas, we are-are-are-” the voice cuts out and the crystal light dims.

I look at Master Raim, he looks at me confused.

“I thought I was the last one.” I hear the pain reflected in his voice

“I’m sorry, She’s dead. This isn't possible.” i rushed to say,

I hate to crush his hopes but the last tree died hundreds of years ago but he is the last sylvari.

Raim walks up to the crystal and looks around, I see him grab an asuran pad on the floor. He looks at me and walks up to me. I take the pad from his hand, the pad is in asuran, a dead language. Luckily, one I can read.

“Ferak untakata, asuran technical language. Basically asuran basic but with a few different words and tense changes.” I explain

Ferak stands for signal, with un being a modern tense. Takata is interchangeable for any number of causes but in this context, untakata means active.

“Signal active?” i say out loud

How? No power source has lasted this long, even ley batteries have all run out by this time. There's just no way there can be an active signal.

I walk up to the crystal which glows bright again.

“-To anyone who can hear this-” the voice cuts off again

I look at the crystal, there's now way a signal can be transmitted. Even so, Sylvari can't live for hundreds of years. Can they?

I’ve been looking after Master Raim for fifteen years, since I found him as a seedling and he has grown like a normal human child. Granted this is abnormal for a sylvari but I have to assume that neither Master Raim nor the sylvari of old could live for hundreds of years.

I look back at pad screen and these words have been exchanged for numbers, 10 numbers. Grouped into two groups of five with a degree symbol on the end. Its coordinates.

“-of the tales of thedas, we are currently working on-” the voice is repeating a statement.

The projection of the female sylvari projects itself again, it looks down at us. No, she is looking at Raim.

“Hello Raim, its good to finally see-see-see.” the projection cuts off with sparks fly out of the crystal, the light dims.

“She looked at me…She mentioned my name.” Master Raim states

I show him the pad, he looks at the screen and understands the numbers.

“Master Raim, I hope you aren't tired of me taking you because there's one last place we need to find.” I look at him with a smile “We need to find Ashal Tieran.”

#tales of thedas #tales of thedas guild #epilogue #gw2 #gw2 sylvari #GW2 OC #fanfic #gw2 fanfiction #gw2 fanfic #Guild Wars 2 #Guild Wars #Guild Hall #epilouge

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vigilskeep · 6 months

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How do you think the Thedas holidays are celebrated in the circles?

because they’re andrastian holidays and circles are an andrastian institution, i would be very surprised if they weren’t celebrated! but a little differently, due to the circumstances. more sermons than getting out and celebrating, i fear. nevertheless, good plentiful food and a break from work are the typical markers of a medieval-ish holiday. i would certainly expect a day off from studies and a feast in the great hall for circle mages! perhaps performances and displays of their work... here’s a great canon letter from a retired knight-commander to his knight-templar grandson that gives us some insight:

“My Dear Boy,

Your pious outrage might earn you some approval with your knight-lieutenant, but I beg you to join the rest of us in the real world, lad. Do you have any idea just how wealthy the Circle of Magi can be? The amount of gold the nobility pays for enchanted goods would overflow a well. Many mages—particularly Lucrosians—are from good families, used to entertainments and the finer things in life... and Maker knows they can afford them. So why shouldn’t they indulge a little?

Besides, a few musicians and dancers and an elaborate dinner is nothing. There are a dozen acting troupes in Val Royeaux and Halamshiral who specialise in bringing plays and stories into Circle Towers. A little collapsible scenery, the right costumes, a sprinkle of artfully chosen scent, and they can transform a workshop into an enchanted forest, a cold courtyard into a war tent on the eve of battle, or a dining hall into a darkspawn lair.

It does the mages good, too. When you see the same dreary walls day after day, a change to the familiar is a taste of freedom.

When mages entertain themselves, now, that’s a sight. No mere “tricks” there. I’ve seen ones who could juggle fire into ice or breathe a word into one hand and release a song from the other. I once saw a mage build a cathedral out of playing cards, upside down, yet it was impossible to knock it over! Even a game of battledore and shuttlecock takes on a new dimension when the players can move objects with their minds.

It isn’t all idle entertainment, either; most mages I know are eager to put their hands to useful work. Those gorgeous wooden panels in the teyrn’s castle at Ostwick? The ones that show the Qunari Wars on the Waking Sea? All carved by an enchanter at the city’s Circle, over the ten years he spent there. More than a few palaces have benefited from the artistry of mages: tapestries, stained glass, anything that takes time and patience.

In some day, some knight-captains frowned on mages spending their time and magical power for “frivolous ends.” Frivolous? Any mage with enough fine control to keep an audience enthralled, or to build a mosaic of Andraste, has better mastery of their magic than one who only uses it to destroy. Leave the moralising to the revered mothers, my boy. It’s not for us to say how a person should stay occupied in their own home.”

as for the more specific festival traditions, i wouldn’t be surprised if city-based circle mages were asked to send talent to perform magic for some festivals. the fires on funalis, perhaps. and i wonder if the most lenient circles ever have some kind of templar mage role swap for the day on satinalia lmao. or at the very least have a little apprentice be first enchanter for the day. i wouldn’t imagine they have much of a coming of age for summerday because maturity is much more marked by your harrowing

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kintheartist · 1 year

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Swan Lavellan

So, for those who don't know or don't remember him, I'd like to help you get to know my Inquisitor, Swan Lavellan!

Tumblr tag | Spotify playlist

Swan--whose original name is Samahlas ("giving laughter")--never wanted any of this.

He was an incredibly sweet bean,

a little dumb and feral, in the best way,

and incredibly proud of his Dalish heritage.

He had a complex understanding of the gods and strove to follow both the Vir Tanadhal and the Vir Atish'an--the latter of which was the reason for his Sylaise vallaslin.

He had a back tattoo in honor of all the gods, including Fen'Harel. He felt that Fen'Harel may have had some kind of motivation for what he did and had a great deal of sympathy for him.

As such, Swan hated being called the Herald of Andraste. The song of The Dawn Will Come terrified him.

He didn't like Skyhold and all its lonely, stony halls. He didn't like sitting on the throne, being called "your worship," or having as much responsibility as he did. But he took it seriously and did his very best to help everyone he possibly could. Keeping everyone safe and happy was all he ever wanted.

It made him very tired.

His only consolation during this time was his friends and his time in nature. He loved exploring Thedas and all its beautiful landscapes.

He also met and fell in love with Dorian.

But it was hard to keep his spirits up. The things he learned about the Inquisition's past horrified him. Nothing was more terrifying to him than the idea that his legacy might be twisted into something to hurt his people.

So when, in the end, he finally learned the truth about his people... he didn't take it well.

Swan has disbanded the Inquisition and gone home to a clan that no longer feels like home. His time as Inquisitor destroyed him...

... and brought him back mad.

#:)#swan lavellan #dragon age #dragon age fanart #dragon age inquisition #lavellan #inquisitor #dragon age spoilers

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transandersrights · 8 months

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Would love to see some m!Lavellan x Dorian with the prompt "It's so easy to forget that there's magic in all of this" -Sleeping at Last, Body

(I take prompts! See info here)

Thank you for the prompt to this lovely song! (I wrote most of this p late at night two weeks ago so I don't remember how this premise was linked to the song. It is, though!)

For @dadrunkwriting, 1k of post-canon Pavellan angst into fluff :)

The end of the day rolled around, and Dorian was alone yet again.

It was like that yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that… endless halls of an endless legacy-palace-prison, echoes of past crimes baked into the shining bricks that welcomed him home. It would be like that tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that — constraining walls and the same office floor to pace over and over again.

He was tired. He was always tired, at the end of the day, what with the endless wheedling and scheming and all those things he used to think would be so exciting if he actually got to use them for something he believed in. Turned out it was just dangerous, and that wasn’t nearly as thrilling as he used to think it was when his father came home in the rose-tinted robes of boyhood idealism with another tale of an assassin in a covert meeting place.

Dorian could walk through to his library, if he wanted. Ages of history watching him, judging, and a book he could lose himself in if his eyelids weren’t already drooping. If he wanted to walk instead to the garden there were the plants he had to hire a gardener to take care of, roses he chose but had no one to give to.

At least, no one who’d be able to receive them before the flowers shrivelled into nothing. Funny, how long a distance really was. The other side of Thedas was the same as the other side of the city when it came to someone as busy as Ilassan, but endlessly more of a chasm when Dorian just wanted to know what he was doing today rather than three weeks ago.

If he went to the kitchen, he could eat a meal alone, prepared by the chef he hired on the weekends to cook his meals for the week. In the sitting room, he could sit with no one at all, just like he had for the last few months because his friends were usually around for business, not pleasure.

In his office… no. Not so late, with the moon already high in the sky and half the city in bed. There was always work to do — he had to draw a line.

Bed it was. Just like yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. Just like tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. The endless cycle of his life, so rarely interrupted by anything worth noting. The wheel he’d turn for the rest of his life in the hope that someone, at least, was feeling the effects of his hard work.

At least he was tired enough to sleep well. Probably.

So Dorian climbed the lonely stairs, walked the lonely landing, and opened a lonely door to his lonely bedroom and tried, really, not to feel too sorry for himself. He wasn��t good at it, but he had to try. For his—

“Amatus?”

For a fraction of a moment, Dorian was convinced someone had replicated Ilassan’s form in a perfect doppelganger meant to catch him off guard. And then Ilassan smiled, that tiny, wry little thing, and everything else in the world melted away.

“Surprised?” Dorian’s feet moved unbidden towards his voice. His face had to be an absolute picture in that moment. Yes, he certainly was surprised.

“You didn’t say a word!”

Ilassan’s face creased again, and in the lamplight his freckles were as constellations to a sailor, guiding Dorian home again. “I didn’t know when I’d be able to get into the city,” he admitted. He gestured to the pack on the ground, which almost certainly did not contain anything resembling his official credentials as former Inquisitor, one of the most important southern figures in the entire Imperium.

“I could have got you in with a click of my finger,” Dorian pointed out. Ilassan shrugged. He looked good, happier than the last time Dorian saw him. That wasn’t hard, seeing as last time they were parting, and that always… well, it never got any easier.

“And then everyone would know I was here.” Rather than just Dorian. And rather than having all their time to themselves, this would turn into something else entirely. Dorian could understand.

“So you… how did you get in?” Dorian knew that, when it came to the man in front of him, assuming there was anything he couldn’t do was ludicrous. Still, there was always something. Another surprise stacked on top of the near-impossible feat, his brightness so blinding Dorian could almost imagine what dwarves felt, coming to the surface for the first time.

“Oh, you know.” Another shrug. Always the shrug, the nonchalance, like he wasn’t about to say something utterly ridiculous and make Dorian fall in love all over again for the thousandth time. “Climbed over the wall? Disarmed an enchantment. Unlocked the door with your key.”

Unbelievable. Wonderful. And his Ilassan, same as ever. Dorian could only make a noise of exasperated fondness, ripped straight from his heart up through his throat, and jolt towards him like he was no longer in control of his body. “Come here already.”

They always waited to close the distance between them. Dorian didn’t know why; the tradition had developed at some point, over the years, and he’d long since missed exactly when it just became what they did. But now Ilassan launched forward right into his arms, letting Dorian lift him (just a little) and spin him around (not all the way — Dorian had never quite had the upper body strength for that).

“I can’t quite believe you’re here.” He’d thought it would be months before they’d manage to carve time out of their respective schedules to get any time worth having.

Which begged the question: did Dorian have the guts to ask how long he was planning to stay? Would he rather count down the days, or wait until Ilassan felt it wouldn’t be too sad a prospect?

“Well, I am.” Ilassan smiled again, leaning in until their foreheads touched and their lips were only a whisper apart, and Dorian decided he didn’t care.

The night stretched out ahead of him, and he wasn’t alone anymore. Nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age #pavellan #dai #dorian pavus #da drunk writing circle #ilassan lavellan

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ausetkmt · 4 months

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Knights of Liberty - Wikipedia

Pictured here is Moses Dickson, from the frontispiece illustration of the 1879 book A Manual of the Knights of Tabor and Daughters of the Tabernacle. In 1872, the Rev. Moses Dickson founded the International Order of Twelve of Knights and Daughters of Tabor, an African-American fraternal order focused on benevolence and financial programs. Dickson was born a free man in Cincinnati in 1824, was a Union soldier during the Civil War, and afterwards became a prominent clergyman in the African Methodist Episcopal Church. Dickson showed an interest in progressive fraternal organizations early on – in 1846 Dickson, with others, founded a society known as the Knights of Liberty, whose objective was to overthrow slavery; the group did not get beyond the organizing stages. Dickson was also involved in Freemasonry – he was the second Grand Master of the Prince Hall Grand Lodge of Missouri.

Dickson’s International Order of Twelve of Knights and Daughters of Tabor – or Order of Twelve, as it’s more commonly know – accepted men and women on equal terms. Men and women met together in higher level groups and in the governance of the organization, although at the local level they met separately – the men in “temples” and the women in “tabernacles” (akin to “lodges” in Freemasonry). The Order of Twelve was most prominent in the South and the lower Midwest. The major benefits to members – similar to many fraternal orders of the time – was a burial policy and weekly cash payments for the sick.

What many people today remember about the Order of Twelve is an institution founded in Mound Bayou, Misssissippi in 1942 – the Taborian Hospital. Michael Premo, a Story Corps facilitator, posted his appreciation for the impact that the Taborian Hospital had on the lives of African-Americans living in the Mississippi Delta from the 1940s-1960s. The Taborian Hospital was on the Mississippi Heritage Trust’s 10 Most Endangered List of 2000, and an update to that list indicates that the hospital still stands vacant and seeks funding for renovation. Here are some photos of the Taborian Hospital today.

Want to learn more about the Order of Twelve? Here are a few primary and secondary sources that we have here in our collection (with primary sources listed first):

Dickson, Moses. A Manual of the Knights of Tabor and Daughters of the Tabernacle, including the Ceremonies of the Order, Constitutions, Installations, Dedications, and Funerals, with Forms, and the Taborian Drill and Tactics. St. Louis, Mo. : G. I. Jones [printer], 1879. Call number: RARE HS 2259 .T3 D5 1879

—-. Ritual of Taborian Knighthood, including : the Uniform Rank. St. Louis, Mo. : A. R. Fleming & Co., printers, 1889. Call number: RARE HS 2230 .T3 D5 1889

Beito, David. From Mutual Aid to the Welfare State: Fraternal Societies and Social services, 1890-1967. Chapel Hill, N.C. : University of North Carolina Press, 2000. Call number: 44 .B423 2000

Skocpol, Theda, Ariane Liazos, Marshall Ganz. What a Mighty Power We Can Be : African American Fraternal Groups and the Struggle for Racial Equality. Princeton : Princeton University Press, 2006. Call number: 90 .S616 2006 (1)

(1) From The National Heritage Museum - http://nationalheritagemuseum.typepad.com/library_and_archives/2008/05/moses-dickson-a.html

SOME ADDITIONAL INTERESTING INFORMATION ABOUT MOSES DICKSON

Moses Dickson, prior to the Civil War was a traveling barber. Later he became an AME minister and was known as Father Dickson.

He was one of the Founders of the Lincoln Institute, now Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Misouri.

In 1879 along with others such as James Milton Turner, John Wheeler and John Turner he helped create the Committee of Twenty Five, organized to set up temporary housing for the more than 10,000 travelers who passed through St. Louis each year.

He was President of the Refugee Relief Board in St. Louis which helped to shelter and feed 16,000 former slaves who relocated to Kansas.

Moses Dickson was the first Grand Lecturer of the Most Worhipful Prince Hall Grand Lodge of Missouri upon its foundation in 1865. He was the second Grand Master of this Grand Lodge and the Grand Secretary in 1869.

In 1876 Companion Moses dickson was elected Deputy Grand High Priest of the Grand Chapter of Holy Royal Arch Masons of Missouri and Jurisdiction.

Moses Dickson wrote the Ritual of Heroines of Jericho penning the “Master Mason’s Daughter,” the “True Kinsman,” and “Heroines of Jericho” degrees. It was sold and distributed by the Moses Dickson Regalia and Supply Co., Kansas City, Missouri and entered into the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. in the year 1895.

The Knights of Liberty was organized by 12 Black Men in secret in August, 1846 in St. Louis, Missouri. They were also known as the Knights of Tabor or the International Order of Twelve. Tabor is a Biblical mountain in Israel where the Israelites won a big victory over the Canaanites.

Moses Dickson was a leader of the Underground Railroad. He and 47,000 other Knights enlisted in the Union Army as soon as Linclon authorized Black men to sign up.

Disbanded by the Civil War many of the Knights of Liberty reformed after the War was over into a benevolent fraternal society named the International Order of the Twelve Knights and Daughters of Tabor. Moses Dickson authored “International Order of Twelve 333 of Knights and Daughters of Tabor,” a book outlining the Constitution, Rules and Regulations of the Temples of the Uniform Rank of Tabor and Taborian Division.

Moses Dickson died on November 28, 1901. A truly remarkable man!

Originally published at the National Heritage Museum’s blog. The National Heritage Museum is an American history museum founded and supported by 32° Scottish Rite Freemasons in the Northern Masonic Jurisdiction of the United States of America.

#Moses Dickson and The Knights of Liberty #Moses Dickson #Knights of Liberty #Black Revolutionaries #International Order of Twelve #Twelve Knights and Daughters of Tabor #International Order of Twelve 333 #Committee of Twenty Five #St Louis #missouri #freedom #Freedmen #Refugee Relief Board in St. Louis #Ritual of Heroines of Jericho #oes

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contreparry · 2 months

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happy friday!! 'Stubbornly waiting for them before going to sleep' for the pairing of your choice?

I really wanted to use this opportunity to write some Bethany and Carver twin stuff set in the modern!Thedas AU, so here's some of the Hawke twins with their older sibling for @dadrunkwriting!

"Shhhhhh!" The sharp whisper cut through the silence of the dark living room like a blade, and Bethany nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound right by her left ear. Fear gave way to fury, and she jabbed her elbow into Carver's stomach as revenge.

"Don't 'shhhhhhh!' me, Carver! You shhhhhhh!" Bethany hissed, even as she nervously glanced back to the stairs, where ma and da were sleeping. But the lights remained off and she didn't hear the creaking of bedsprings, so everyone else was still asleep. Good. If ma and da woke up and saw that Marian wasn't in bed... Bethany shuddered at the thought.

"I'm not stompin' around like a nuggalope," Carver grumbled, but he slipped his hand into Bethany's and squeezed it firmly. They were a little old for that usually- too sappy for eleven-year-olds- but tonight was different, and they both needed the comfort that only a sibling could provide.

Bethany woke up from a nightmare, a hospital nightmare, and the smell of bleach and air freshener lingered in her nose like a curse. Carver woke up too, even though he claimed he was already awake, and after some discussion they resolved to cross the hall and see Marian. She might be bossy and over-bearing, but Marian was... she was Marian! She could fix anything. She always knew what to do whenever there was a problem. And she could drive away nightmares with a laugh and a story and a mug of hot cocoa, no matter the season.

But when Carver and Bethany pushed Marian's door open, she wasn't there, and the awful stone that was sitting in Bethany's stomach only grew heavier as she realized that her older sister wasn't in her bed. She was never gone before- not without notice- and it felt wrong. Was wrong! She'd never leave without telling them. She never would! This was Marian, and she loved them! Marian promised to take her and Carver to the library tomorrow! She'd never run away, especially if it meant breaking a promise!

But Bethany kept thinking of all the terrible things that might make Marian leave them for good: ma and Marian fought last week, a terrible row about dressing for Chantry services. Carver spilled a whole glass of orange juice on Marian's mathematics workbook two days ago. Da told her that she would have to wait until next summer to take driving lessons earlier in the month, and Marian was still upset about it (Bethany could tell by the tightness in the corners of her mouth whenever Marian's friends talked about their summer courses). And Bethany played Marian's makeup- all her eyeliner and eyeshadows, all those dark and cool colors that made Marian look so serious and grown-up- and made a complete mess of everything. And sometimes Bethany saw the way Marian looked out past their familiar neighborhood and towards the skies, as if she wished she could grow a pair of giant wings and leave everything behind.

"We'll sit here," Carver whispered, sounding confident even though his hand felt a little clammy in hers. "And we'll wait for Marian to come back." Even though Bethany felt as if she was spiraling, Carver's faith in their sister was unshakeable. They sat down on the couch side by side and stared out into the dark, waiting for... for Marian to come back.

"Where d'you think she went?" Bethany asked, both terrified and eager for an answer.

"Probably out to see a friend," Carver whispered. "She'll be back." Visiting a friend made sense, Bethany thought. It was a reasonable idea, yet she couldn't shake the bone-deep fear that Marian would never return home.

"What if ma or da finds out?" Bethany asked, even though she already had a good idea of what might happen if ma and da woke up and found out that Marian wasn't home. They'd fight. Ma would cry. Da would run off to search for her. And Bethany and Carver would have to... have to wait. And waiting was the worst.

"She'll be back before they wake up. And we won't tell 'em," Carver replied stubbornly. They both fell silent then, though Carver reached up and grabbed the plush blanket that served as a decorative throw and wrapped it over their shoulders as they waited. And waited.

It felt like an age of waiting, but Bethany heard the soft metallic click of a key in the front door before it swung open and closed with a soft thud. The lock clicked again, and then quiet footsteps (so quiet, even in those heavy leather boots) walked down the front hallway and towards the stairs. Marian, Bethany thought as relief swept over her. Marian was home. She hadn't run away!

"Marian," Carver whispered, and a startled squeak of alarm echoed through the living room.

"Carver?! What's wrong, you should be in be- Bethany too?!" Marian exclaimed in a whisper, and in a few quick steps she was kneeling by the couch. She smelled like cigarette smoke and night air, and her hands and leather jacket were chilly against Bethany's bare arms, but Bethany hugged Marian fiercely and breathed her in. Marian hadn't run off. She was back, just like Carver said she would be.

"Had a nightmare," Bethany sniffed, relief breaking what her fear and nightmare hadn't. "About... about the hospital again."

"Oh, Bethany..." Marian said, sympathy heavy in her voice. "And you stayed up to keep her company, Carver?"

"Couldn't sleep anyways," Carver insisted, and Bethany felt Marian shift and drag Carver into her embrace. He squirmed half-heartedly for a second before he returned the hug.

"You two..." Marian sighed, and her breath ruffled Bethany's hair. "You're too good. Both of you. C'mon, up to bed. I'll tuck you in."

Bethany followed Marian's lead and the three of them crept up the stairs. Tomorrow, when she and Carver and Marian went to the library, Bethany would ask why Marian snuck out at night, why she smelled like cigarettes, and why she hadn't told either of them where she was going. But that could all wait for tomorrow, because now... now they were going to sleep.

#modern!thedas roommates au #my writing #da drunk writing circle

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partystoragechest · 9 months

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan makes a request of Josephine.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,237. Rating: all audiences, except for a few swears.)

Chapter 11: Rumour Mill

Wooing the Commander, actually, was the second most difficult task in all of Thedas.

The first, it seemed, was getting up before the other Ladies.

Trevelyan did not even wait for her ladies’ maids to arrive that morning—though she didn’t particularly feel like seeing the little rats, anyway. She was up and ready and out of the door before her continued existence could even occur to them.

Two quick glances down the hall assured her the other Ladies were not yet awake, lurking in some corner to pounce on her with conversation. Though she liked them well enough, Trevelyan needed privacy for her purpose.

Rising with the sun had been the only way she could think to guarantee it. As she descended into the main hall, the evidence of this hour was laid before her. Guards changed over, night shift to day. Serving staff scurried about, preparing for the new morning. The air was filled with the quiet bustle of a castle blinking open its bleary eyes.

Trevelyan crossed quickly through, to Lady Montilyet’s parlour. This was why she’d needed such earliness. Had she left it any later, there wouldn’t be a moment alone; the parlour would be filled with the scent of tea and the silly gossip of those sweet Ladies.

But she needed that moment alone. A moment alone with Lady Montilyet herself.

“Is she awake?” Trevelyan asked to the guard by the outer door.

They nodded; she knocked.

“Come in!” called Montilyet.

Trevelyan entered, to find the Ambassador already at her desk and busy, sifting through a stack of papers intimidating in height.

And yet, she carried no sign of weariness—no sign of a late night or early morning. Her hair was perfectly in place, her clothing crisp and carefully contoured. Lady Montilyet fluttered bright, and somewhat surprised, eyes at Trevelyan.

“Your Ladyship!” she said, standing. “I had not expected to see you so early. Dagna must be working you hard!”

Trevelyan laughed—shakily—and made her way further into the room. “No, no, that’s not why I’m here.” She fumbled with her fingers for a moment, then added: “I wished to speak to you.”

With a wave of her hand, Lady Montilyet invited Trevelyan to take a seat before her (done with utmost unease and discomfort), and then took one herself. “What is it you require, your Ladyship?”

“Well, um, I was rather wondering if I could perhaps see the Commander again. As part of the… you know.”

Lady Montilyet stared at her.

Trevelyan had guessed she would.

She’d had plenty of time to think about what Montilyet’s reaction might be, of course, whilst waiting for sunrise. That was, naturally, only after she had finished thinking about whether or not she should do it—whether or not she should acquiesce to her parents’ wishes, and join the competition once more.

Her mind had rocked back and forth on the subject for some hours. Really, what could they do to her here? she had argued to herself.

It’s not here that matters, she’d answered, it’s back home.

She at least had to put on effort. Make it seem like she was trying, really, to get the Commander’s attention. So long as her ladies’ maids saw her try, her parents would know she had, and their hunger for her suffering would be sated.

“I thought you had ‘very little interest’ in the Commander?” Lady Montilyet asked. Trevelyan suspected she might point that tidbit out.

“Yes… but, I thought I might try again.”

Montilyet placed her elbows on the desk, and clasped her hands. “May I ask why?”

“Well, the other Ladies have been rather complimentary about him,” Trevelyan lied, “and he seemed pleasant when we spoke the day before last.”

“You spoke the day before last?”

There was a genuineness to this question that Montilyet’s others had lacked. Like she was almost… surprised. Had the Commander not told her?

“Yes,” Trevelyan admitted. “He didn’t mention?”

“He mentioned that he had seen you, but not that you had spoken. I assumed it had been from afar.”

Oh. “Oh. Well, he visited the Undercroft—to ask some things about the Arcanist and I’s project.”

This seemed to satisfy Lady Montilyet’s curiosity well enough. She nodded sagely, clearly already understanding this to be perfectly in character for the Commander.

“I see,” she said. “I am glad to hear of it, then.”

Trevelyan made a noise of agreement, and gave a smile to conceal the thoughts swirling her mind. She had expected the Commander would have told Montilyet about their conversation—revealed that she was indeed one of the missing Ostwick delegation. But if he hadn’t even mentioned that they spoke?

“Did he… not say anything of our meeting at all?” she asked. It was a dangerous question, but she would not settle until she knew.

Montilyet’s eyebrow cocked. “Should he have? Did something happen?”

“No, no!” Trevelyan hurried to say. “I simply… found it curious that he had not said a word.”

Lady Montilyet’s expression did not change. “Very well.”

It seemed that would be all the answer Trevelyan would get. Though, from the plainest interpretation, it appeared the Commander really had not told Montilyet anything of their conversation. She had told him she wished not to speak of it, and speak of it he had not.

That, or Lady Montilyet had a face of stone. And that was all too likely. The woman reminded Trevelyan of the best Wicked Grace players Ostwick Circle had. Sitting across from them was like trying to read a novel in a language one didn’t know—even if you could manage to translate any of the words, you’d likely lose the meaning along the way.

“I do wonder,” said Montilyet, “why this conversation caused such a change of heart now, Lady Trevelyan, and not upon the day on which you had it?”

She could almost see Lady Montilyet moving the cards around in her hand.

“I had been contemplating it this last day.”

Montilyet tipped her head. “I had thought, perhaps, if all this had anything to do with the letter you received yesterday?”

Cards on the table. A very good hand.

Trevelyan smiled. “A letter?”

Feigning innocence was hardly going to win her this one, but it was the only move she could think to make.

The rest of her mind was at work, on theorising how Lady Montilyet might have discovered it. It couldn’t have been Lady Samient, surely? Was Trevelyan so wrong to trust her, after all?

But Montilyet said:

“Oh? Did the runner I sent not deliver yours?”

Fuck.

Not Samient, then. Lady Montilyet had known of the letter’s existence before even Trevelyan had. And if she had seen the envelope, a diplomat such as she would have the ability to know the seal, and therefore the sender.

Trevelyan relented. “Yes, that letter. I received it.”

“Was it from Bann or Lady Trevelyan?”

Sighing, Trevelyan said, “The latter.”

Lady Montilyet nodded. She withdrew her hands from the table, seeing her opponent had folded, and sat more relaxed in her chair. “So,” she said, “are you able to discuss its contents?”

“You don’t already know them, your Ladyship?”

Lady Montilyet chuckled. “I know plenty about other people, Lady Trevelyan—but I do not resort to tampering. Usually… it is just observation.”

Definitely not Samient, then. Trevelyan had been rather lucky in her choices of who to trust.

“My mother simply reminded me of my reason for being here, given that I had become… distracted. She wishes me to take the opportunity provided.” Trevelyan added: “Oh, and she wished me to thank you for your hospitality.”

The last comment flew by Lady Montilyet, in the face of something more urgent: “She would like you to resume seeing the Commander?”

“In essence.”

Montilyet frowned. It didn’t look right on such a pretty face. “But do you want to, Lady Trevelyan?”

Maker, no. But Trevelyan shrugged, and said, “It cannot hurt.”

“Lady Trevelyan. I will not allow you to do something you do not want to do.” She fixed her with a stare of firmness, yet also warmth. “And more to that—the Commander would not wish you to, either.”

“I am not opposed to it, Lady Montilyet. I would do it.”

“We do not have to. I can write to them and tell them that—”

How to make her understand? “You know, Missy and Cara are such wonderful chaperones,” Trevelyan interrupted, “and they are ever so loyal to the family.”

Montilyet stopped herself. She took a moment, and a slow breath. “I see.”

“So do they.”

She was a woman capable of talking to anything and anyone; and yet, at this, fell silent. Trevelyan could rightly tell why. Such a diplomat as she should hardly wish to be defeated by this conundrum. There had to be something.

But there was nothing. At the very least, Trevelyan smiled to see the effort. She put a hand on the desk to bring Montilyet round, and told her softly, “It’s all right. Truly. I was not lying when I said the Commander had been pleasant, and that I was not opposed. I will see him again. Contentedly.”

It was now Montilyet’s turn to relent; though the slight grimace on her face lingered. “Very well. I am afraid I cannot disturb the Commander’s schedule today, for I had given over your time with him for his work, and he is already to see Lady Samient. But, I may find time for you tomorrow.”

“That would be much appreciated.”

“If you change your mind…”

Lady Trevelyan stood. “I would inform you.”

“Thank you.” Lady Montilyet stood as well. “Very well, then. I will send word once I have a time and place for your next meeting.”

Trevelyan curtsied. “I look forward to hearing of it,” she lied.

At least this time, Lady Montilyet did not call her on it. She gave instead a slim smile, and curtsied back. Grim work done, Lady Trevelyan turned, and left.

***

It ought be noted that Lady Montilyet’s parlour did not exit out into the hall itself, but a small landing. Either side, a set of stairs—one ascending, to the private quarters of the Inquisition’s finest, and one descending, to the audible bustle of the kitchens.

Between these two worlds, Trevelyan gave herself a moment. She let Montilyet’s door shut closed behind her, and did not yet push open the one before her, to the hall. Instead, she paused, and breathed.

At least Montilyet understood. Though the woman could’ve written the playbook on nobility and its fascination with prosperous marriage, it seemed she did not entirely agree with its rules. She had not denied Trevelyan her relutance, as certain others might. And she had cooperated. That was all Trevelyan needed.

For Trevelyan had learnt the rule whilst living with her parents, and she had all too quickly forgotten it on arrival to Skyhold: first and foremost, you must keep up appearances.

So, she would keep up appearances of seeing the Commander. And while she was doing that, she would find some way out of it. Out of the competition, out of her parents’ hair—all of it. As her mother had told her in that letter: this was time, and she would be wise not to waste such an opportunity.

And, even if she failed to do so, she’d at least have an alibi on return. She’d have tried.

The tinkling of crockery on a tray warned Trevelyan that a servant was ascending the stairs, and her moment alone was over. She made her escape into the hall before they arrived, and put on a face of absolute inconsequence. Nothing could be hidden behind such a placid smile.

She thought of returning to her room, since there would be little to do for an hour or so, but decided against it. This decision was in no way influenced by her lack of desire to see her ladies’ maids, either… though she did consider them conniving shits and would rather have nothing to do with them.

Instead, Trevelyan made her way to the next door along—the garden, which she thought might look quite nice so soon after sunrise.

She wasn’t wrong. The pale, yawning light of the still-climbing sun cast a warm glow on the garden. Plants sparkled with the dewdrops that had accumulated in the cold of the night. Trevelyan pulled her jacket a little tighter around herself, and began to wander through.

“Good morning, Lady Trevelyan.”

Maker’s bloody breath. Truly, truly an impossible task, to rise before a single one of the other Ladies. For if Trevelyan was not mistaken, she had just been greeted by the voice of Baroness Touledy.

She looked to the bench the call had come from, sheltered beneath the covered walkway surrounding the garden proper. Sure enough, sat elegantly upon the stone, one hand resting on a cane that obviously matched her outfit, was the Baroness.

Trevelyan accepted defeat, and headed towards her.

“Good morning, your Ladyship,” she said. “You are awake early.”

Baroness Touledy smiled. “I never slept.”

Trevelyan ought to have guessed as much; she thought the Baroness’ outfit was quite recently familiar. “Oh?”

“I had plenty to do. I thought I might stop in the garden and see the sunrise before I finally retire.”

Trevelyan smiled and nodded along and privately wondered if the things that the Baroness had to do were anything related to those two mysterious letters that had arrived for her. She had already assumed they were the reason she’d barely seen the Baroness at all yesterday—even her appearance at dinner was muted and brief.

“What a lovely way to spend the early hours,” Trevelyan said, instead of all that.

“Yes. Would you be so kind as to help me bring my night to a close?” the Baroness asked, pushing herself to her feet. She grunted with the effort, but stood tall regardless. “Let us walk.”

“Of course.”

Trevelyan fell in step with the Baroness, as they began to trace a path around the walkway. With the castle still waking, and ambient sound at a low hum, the loudest thing around them was the rhythmic tap of Touledy’s cane upon the cobblestone.

“Since you know why I am awake so early,” the Baroness said, “may I ask the same of you?”

There was little point in concealing her purpose now. It was done, and like all things, the Ladies would discover it sooner or later. “I went to see Lady Montilyet, to rejoin the ‘competition’.”

The Baroness’ eyebrows flew upwards, and she stared at Lady Trevelyan. “I see.”

“I had gotten carried away, and forgot my duty to my parents. I shouldn’t have forgone it in the first place.”

“Oh, worry not, your Ladyship. I certainly would not assume that you chose to participate again of your own accord.”

The lilt of venom in the Baroness’ voice both intrigued and slightly scared Trevelyan. It was a hint of a side she suspected the Baroness possessed, but not one she was ever willing to see. However, in this case, she likely knew the cause.

“Would the reason perhaps be the same one as to why you have not spoken of your meeting with the Commander?” Trevelyan asked.

For it was true, the Baroness had hardly spoke of it. She had deflected everyone’s (mainly Erridge’s) questions with the same flat ‘fine’ responses Trevelyan herself had relied on. And then she had avoided them all yesterday, to make further inquiry impossible.

“Perhaps,” Touledy replied. “I did not wish to talk much of it in front of Erridge; her Ladyship is quite… invested in the Commander’s goodness. However, I cannot report the same success that Lady Samient had. Indeed, I found him quite… unimpressive.”

At least the feeling between her and the Commander was mutual. “I am the same,” Trevelyan admitted. “And I have spent the last two days attempting to reach some explanation for how Lady Samient had such a pleasant time.”

“Oh, I can think of one explanation.”

“So can I. But I shouldn’t like to.”

Touledy glanced at her, to give a sympathetic look. “I know Orlesian nobility. Unfortunately. Fabrication is a part of their arsenal.”

And there it was. Touledy believed that Samient had lied too. But now, the question remained: why?

“Yet it’s so contradictory to what else I have seen of her,” Trevelyan said, attempting to sound as general as possible, to reveal nothing of her moment with Lady Samient over the letters. “She seems perfectly amiable, and rather honest, on all other accounts.”

Baroness Touledy sighed. “I would simply tell you that is the way of the Orlesian court—to appear one way and act another… but I too, am confused. This is not like the Lady Samient I have known.”

Their walk halted, as they found themselves a neat little corner, where none of the passing staff or patrolling soldiers might hear.

“The Lady Samient I have known,” Baroness Touledy said, “is brutally honest. She wields this as a weapon. I do not know why she would blunt her blade now. All I know is this: contradiction is the domain of someone with something to hide.”

Trevelyan found herself quite agreeing. She wondered, perhaps, if Samient’s brief moment of vulnerability showed something of what she was hiding. Something about mages and Circles, something about freedom?

But Samient was not the only contradiction Trevelyan had encountered. So soft and sweet, the Commander had been with her, just the other day. Despite finding her unimpressive, despite struggling to remember her name, despite ignoring her and all the other Ladies—so soft, so sweet.

What was he hiding?

Trevelyan stowed the thought, something to rattle around in the back of her mind later, when she became bored copying out runes. She said to Touledy, “Have you any idea what her Ladyship might be hiding?”

Touledy leant in close. “Have you seen her ears?”

Though it was not a feature Trevelyan tended to pay much attention to as a general rule, she could not remember having seen Lady Samient’s ears. In fact, “I think the only time was when she first entered—but her hair covered them almost immediately.”

“Such gossip as I am about to disclose is distasteful… but it may be pertinent,” Touledy told her, “that the late Duchess Samient left home a year before the Lady Samient’s birth. The Duke claimed she had been sent away for her health. But... there are rumours that the Duchess left of her own accord, with one of their servants—and returned only to bear a child.”

Illegitimate and elven; that was what the Baroness implied. In the throngs of Orlesian nobility, it would certainly be something to hide.

But this was Skyhold. And even if it were true, Trevelyan could not see how one led to the other. What good was lying about finding the Commander pleasant, to hide one’s heritage?

“I’m afraid I don’t quite see the pertinence,” Trevelyan admitted.

“I confess, neither do I,” Touledy replied, “but I feel it has something to do with it.”

“Why?”

“Why else would she take such efforts to conceal her ears?”

“Perhaps she knows of the rumours,” Trevelyan suggested, “and enjoys toying with those who engage in them.”

The Baroness laughed. “Yes,” she said, “now that sounds like the Lady Samient I know.”

#cullen x trevelyan #commander cullen #cullen rutherford #unwanted #unwanted fic #i had SUCH writers block for this chapter that i'm just glad to have it out and done #im hoping that the fact cullen appears in pretty much every chapter moving forward will help cure it lmao

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illusivesoul · 5 months

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WIP Word Search Game

Was tagged by @marythegizka to find the words LIGHT, FRIEND and DANGER. Thank you :)

I'll tag @quietborderline @drelldreams @judithmactir and @nowandthane to find the words Memory, Darkness and Arrival. Only if you feel like doing this, of course.

My answers under the cut.

LIGHT - From "You Make Me Feel Good Enough" an ME fic of Ashely growing up with internalized homophobia (cause of that line in the game, "I've spent my whole life fighting to get what I want. To get it done... I had to bury a lot of things" just screams closeted to me), and eventually managing to push through it in a rocky process and ending up with Samantha.

“Anyone waiting for you back home, Williams?” the woman asked before letting out a grunt of effort as she lifted the plate. “Is there anyone waiting for you?” “I asked first”’ Pennyloafer placed the metal plate against the wall, giving it a few tugs to make sure it would hold before attaching the small lightbulb into the socket and turning it on, showering that part of the trench in a dim red light. “And you already know the answer to that. Not sure why you keep asking” “Maybe it’s cause I still can’t believe it. I mean, I'd wait for you if I had met you back on Amaterasu” “Right. Very funny” Ashley replied between grunts as she sped up the pace of her pushups, telling herself that it was just the exercise that was giving her that tingling feeling coursing through her body. “I’m serious. Pennyloafer Williams has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

FRIEND - From a wip called BarrisBlackwall, in which Blackwall and Barris get close after the events of Champions of the Just

“Are you alright? You seem troubled” “Just… pondering on the events that transpired. How most of my friends and companions who were alive this morning now are laying on the main garden waiting for the fire of the pyre. And how if it wasn't for yours and the inquisitor’s timely arrival, we would all be crimson monsters marching at the tune of a demon across Thedas, bringing death and destruction to the land. The group that’s supposed to protect the common folk against the dangers of magic being puppeteered by a demon for Maker knows how long fills me with a sense of… I can’t even describe it” “Like realising that your superiors lied, and that the original goal that you fought for has been buried and forgotten by the lies and deceit of corrupt men?” Barris remained silent for a moment before answering “Is that what all of us men of arms have to come to terms with?” “It’s easier just being a pawn and following orders. You were fortunate in that you realised that what you were being told to do was wrong and took actions to stop it. Not all of us soldiers are so lucky”

DANGER - From a wip called Templar Stamina, which started as a small smut piece of Fenris, Carver and Bela but now is getting more deep than that lol. And cheating a little cause i have "dangerous" instead of "danger".

“Orlesians. Can’t build a hallway without turning it into a maze” “Keep going. I’m sure your training will kick in any moment” Fenris said as the templar kept tugging at the gate locking their way. “Still don’t like me? I’ve tried to change” Carver answered as the gate finally came loose from the wall, the man tossing it to the side shortly after. “You have” Fenris answered, his eyes tracing the veins that ran across the muscles in the man’s arms “Now you’re dangerous” The templar turned his head around, just in time to notice the elf quickly move his head, seeming suddenly very interested in the wall of the hall “Let’s go” Fenris uttered, quickly stepping through. “After you” Carver followed Fenris inside, the slightest curve of a smile forming on his lips.

#tag meme #illusivesoulwriting

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merrybandofmurderers · 3 months

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WIP Wednesday

was tagged by @transfenris-truther last week. here's a little more from the assassination attempt chapter

When Dorian left his room that morning, there was a gray cloud in the sky. Then, the acrid smell of burning reached his nose. He looked up. The cloud was coming off Lavellan’s balcony. Not a cloud, Dorian realized. Smoke. He spun on his heel and dashed to the great hall. Dorian was accosted by a soldier the moment he crossed the threshold, which did nothing to ease his concerns. “What’s going on? What’s happened?” The soldier put a firm hand against Dorian’s chest. “No one allowed in the hall.” “What? No, I need to see the Inquisitor.” Thoughts still racing with worry, Dorian attempted to move around him. He applied a bit of pressure. “Orders from the Nightingale.” Dorian glared at him. “That’s a plume of smoke coming from the Inquisitor’s chambers. I’m coming through!” He took a step to skirt around the soldier and found himself pinned against the wall. “You deaf, Vint?” the soldier growled. “No one—” “Thresher!” Charter’s uncompromising voice cut through the words as she appeared on the walkway. Dorian quickly snuffed the half-formed paralysis glyph from under the soldier’s feet. “Let him go,” she ordered. “The Inquisitor will want him.” Dorian did not bother to hide his smug sneer as the soldier let him through with a sour scowl. “How is he?” Dorian asked as they descended the stairs. “Alive,” was all Charter said. There was a palpable tension in the air. The hall had been cleared of nobles, pilgrims, and workers. Soldiers were stationed at every doorway, while agents moved about with single-minded purpose. Lavellan stood on the dais with Leliana, Cullen, and a large unknown elf bristling with knives.

@mrs-theirin, @calicostorms, @fade-and-loathing-in-thedas, @championsofthejust, @thegingerjedi, @ringneckedpheasant

#sammael cameo at the very end there #my stuff #my fic #fic: the time has come

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lairofdragonagelore · 8 months

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Dragon Age Iconic Patterns: The single spike

The single spike or horn has been a constant pattern throughout all games of Dragon Age in general and in DAI in particular. There are several things that may be linked to it, from Mythal and Andraste to Dragons. In this post we explore how many of these objects present such pattern and how this may be related in an integral way.

This post contains the following statues:

Andraste

Wyvern

Mythal

The red lyrium idol

Tevinter or Venatori outfits

Tevinter Dragon

Tevinter golems

Tevinter Colossus

Andrastian Free Marches warriors

[This post belongs to the series “Analysis and speculation of Statues”]

Andraste

The main figure we see with a single-spiked helm in DAI is Andraste, who is depicted in numerous pieces of art along the game and books. Although she doesn’t wear this single-spiked helm in all of them, it’s an iconic representation of her [to the point that some followers are depicted with similar tiaras/helms such as Meredith]

In DAO we only have one unequivocally representation of Andraste, which is the statue we see at the end of the Temple of Andraste where her ashes are supposed to rest. In this case, the helm has the shape of a “moon” or similar. This form will be changed since DA2, and it will turn out to be the iconic single spike. We can attribute this inconsistency to the many difficulties in resources and environmental telling that DAO had.

Most of the time, Andrastian art represents Andraste with this single spiked helm/tiara [more details in Andrastian Statues].

In the illustrations found in the Chant of Light we can suspect that such a single spike is related to the shape of one single sun ray.

Wyvern

These animal statues appear all over Ferelden and in some parts of Orlais and in the Frost Back Mountains. In the tag Ferelden Wyvern we can track their presence along DAI. That they appear in Ferelden is not surprising, but the fact that they are inside ancient Pre-Blight Tevinter ruins [check Western Approach: The Still Ruins, Main Chamber and Hall of Silence and Western Approach: The Still Ruins, Viridis Walk and Inner Sanctum] is very disconcerting, specially taking into account how central it is in The Still Ruins, which appears even in the loadscreen of the zone. One could suspect this may have been product of the Dragon fascination that Tevinter culture had/has. Still, it seems odd to honour a lesser creature such as a Wyvern when they usually worshipped the true Dragons.

This statue appears in the Fade as well, but it has a clear design choice: the game shows us a wyvern in front of a head of Andraste, pushing us to ask why such an irrelevant statue would be in front of something so important as it is Andraste. The answer is solved later in the book World of Thedas, where we find that there is a Ferelden Tale which related wyverns with Andraste:

Now, this Tale is quite curious. If we always keep in consideration that this piece of lore is highly unreliable since it’s a tale spread in a population via oral narration, and subjected to changes over ages without records, we can highlight several details:

Andraste goes to the Mountain to “reach the Maker”. In the Chant of Light, we know that she speaks with the Maker, who is described Mountain-like. This reinforces the idea that Maker=related to Mountains. I assume this is a cultural remnant of the alamarri/avvar origin of Andraste, who had a deeper relationship with Korth, the Father-Mountain.

Andraste sang, and with this song, a “wyvern” appeared. This may potentially bring some relationship with the Dragons and the original song I talked about in posts like The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak, and Until We Sleep. We can even suspect that maybe instead of a Wyvern, the original event that inspired this Tale may have related a true Dragon. After all, we know that this single spike in the wyverns may, potentially, have some relationship with the dragon shape of Mythal. We also know that Tyrdda had an elf lover who sent a dragon to help her people, so I wonder to what extent the Alamarri and Avvar had also some level of relationship with mountain dragons.

It’s still a big question to understand how this wyvern statue, so related to Ferelden culture, appeared in pre-blight Tevinter buildings, when Ferelden did not exist as it is now. This is what reinforces my question: are these wyverns potentially creatures related to the Great Dragons? So far, we have no answers.

Mythal

Mythal, in all her representations and shapes, also wears an iconic single spiked helm. Even in the Concept Art, where we can see wavy sided horns that did not make it into the game, we cannot mistake the single centred spike. In dragon shape or in her humanoid form, this spike is constantly present.

It is unclear how this design choice may potentially speak to the player to relate Mythal to Andraste. One can speculate that, maybe, a fragment of Mythal appeared to Andraste. Maybe the Maker that Andraste claims to hear was, in fact, Mythal’s fragment. It would have been very convenient for Myhtal to instruct Andraste to make her Exalted March on Tevinter if we keep in mind that Flemeth [another fragment of Mythal] has been altering History to push it into a direction she has been planning for ages.

Flemeth’s Tiara

Flemeth’s tiara also has a structure that shows a single central spike in a very prominent way. The relationship is obvious: Flemeth is Mythal. Or at least, a surviving fragment of her.

Her dragon shape is different in DAO than in DA2. In DAO it’s the model of a general high dragon [as usual, DAO didn’t have the most variety of visual resources so we can’t read too much in it], while in DA2, Flemeth has a clear dragon shape with a single spike in its horns that can be related to that tiara.

The red lyrium idol

The Red Lyrium Idol also shows a prominent central spike in the head. It’s a constant symbol that allows us to do some speculations: in the post Attempt to rebuild Ancient Elvhenan History I speculated that Mythal's assassination may have inspired this idol, and therefore, this single spike seen in the idol is what relates it to Mythal herself.

It’s curious that even when Meredith turned into a piece of Red Lyrium, she also displayed a single spike in her head. This may have been just a consequence of the helm she was wearing in that last battle, which was clearly a helm trying to emulate Andraste’s.

From a design point of view, I think it’s clear that the game is telling us that this idol is related to Mythal/Flemeth, even though we are still blind about the “how”.

Tevinter or Venatori outfits

I already spoke about this in the section “outfits” in Patterns and Styles: Tevinter. We know that Tevinter has a long history of dragon cults, and until the moment the nation turned into the Andrastian Faith, the Old Gods Cult was its strongest religion. The fact that a dragon [Mythal] has a single spike horn, and Andraste also has this icon in her art, makes us hard to understand the origin of the symbol in Tevinter Design. It could have been due to the Dragons, but also, as a design choice once they were converted into the Andrastian Faith. Let's remember that Dorian tells us that Tevinter thinks that Andraste was a mage, so more reasons to have her icons among the Tevinter Warriors since they have mage-inspired armours.

I also explained that it's hard to differentiate the Venatori from non-Venatori Tevinter design simply because the Venatori are nationalist, so they will always use the most iconic symbols of their nation.

There is a strange link between this design and the one I called “The Free Marches Andrastian Warriors”, which display a strong Tevinter-like style, but remaining Andrastian. These statues may keep that single-spiked helm as a representation of Andraste, but also as a remmant of Tevinter design [more details in Andrastian Statues].

Tevinter Dragon

For completion’s sake, I add this detail: these typical Tevinter dragons display a single horn. At some point one wonders if these statues are related somehow to the design of the Wyverns or are a development of worshipping Mythal-dragon.

Tevinter golems

These Tevinter golems trigger the codex the Gate Guardians . They are metallic statues that, we are told, were powered at some point by bars of lyrium.

They also display a single spiked helm, that, due to the general looking of the golem, looks like a Tevinter representation of Andraste herself.

The golem in general has resemblance to some pieces of the armour of the Humanoid Mythal.

Let’s remember that Golems were developed by Dwarves during the First Blight, and due to their trade relationship with Tevinter, they sold some [Golem and Legend of the Juggernaut] that were displayed on the entrance of Miranthous, inactive. So it seems that, historically speaking, makes sense that these golems may have been developed into resembling Andraste since Tevinter embraced the Andrastian Faith after the beginnig of the First Blight [check all this in the integral post The Chantry and the Mythology of the Chant of Light]

Tevinter Colossus

Among the Tevinter sculptures, we find one of the most mysterious one: the colossus. They are found closer to the structures that belonged to Tevinter in pre-blight times.

In game there are three different Colossus, found in Western Approach: Coracavus; Front Corridor and South Entrance, in the open of Hissing Wastes: scattered objects and ruins, which was being co-opted by Orlesians to make it into a sculture of an Orlais Emperor, and inside the Frozen Gates in Frostback Basin [DLC]: Frozen Gate.

The book World of Thedas gives us more concept art about these structures, which seem to be related to “guiders” and, maybe, to astronomy too.

The fact that we can see one of these in a concept art, showing up a certain star over its hand, makes me suspect these statues belonged to the ancient Dreamer times, that the codex Astrariums claims that Tevinter was under before the Magisterium was the mandatory political system.

The heads of these colossus are not exactly single spiked heads, but one of them [The Coracavus' one] has one single spike that fuses with the bridge of its nose, while the other two, have "horns" backwards. Maybe we can suspect some dragon inspiration in them? I find their profile very similar to the Qunari ones’.

Andrastian Free Marches warriors

These were seen for the first time in DA2, and they decorated The Chantry of Kirkwall. They look similar to the Tevinter Warriors thanks to this spiked helm and pointy shapes, but this may be attributed to the fact that Free Marches have a strong Tevinter influence.

However, these statues have an unmistakable robe identified with the ones worn by the Chantry priests in DA2.

This single spike in their helms may be related to Andraste herself and her own helm/tiara, but also having some inspiration from Tevinter.

Conclusions

I think it’s fair to say that the “Single Spike” is an unequivocally symbol of Andraste that may have an inspiration or a relationship with dragons in general, or with Mythal in particular. By extension, and due to Mythal’s dragon nature, this Single Spike also appears in Tevinter culture, even in elements that are suspected to be pre-Blight, and therefore, impossible to be inspired in Andraste herself. So, as it happens with DA lore, and assuming what we did in the post Attempt to rebuild Ancient Elvhenan History, everything comes to primordial dragons that may have inspired this icon in Tevinter Culture and later, in the human tribes, from where the Andrastian Myth and her religion raised.

#single spike #single horn #mythal #Humanoid Mythal statue #Dragon Mythal statue #tevinter dragon #tevinter #free marches #free marches design #the colossus #tevinter golem #venatori #red lyrium idol #flemeth #andraste #andrastian design #andraste statue #Ferelden Wyvern #Analysis and speculation of Statues

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breadedsinner · 9 months

Text

Mark of the Red Death

A sebhawke Necromancer AU for @persephoneggsy. Happy birthday!

“Do you know what the most powerful force in the universe is?” Hawke’s mentor once asked her. She shook her head in uncertainty. “Love,” he said. She still did not understand, at the time.

By the time Hawke entered the castle, blood had become part of the walls, oozing from the cracks. Red handprints smeared across the castle walls, crisscrossing over one another until they became a single beast, clawing for release that never came. Banners and carpets torn, tossed in every direction. A few abandoned weapons were strewn about. Anyone could see this was a struggle, brutal and very recent, but to someone like Hawke, a mage so in touch with death, standing in the middle of it was like being in the belly of an animal, and feeling it die all around her. The clangs of steel still echoed in the halls, shadows of victims running to an escape they would never reach danced in the shadows. Their final heartbeats still hung in the air.

As foul as it was, the gore was not especially notable for Hawke. Every known nation in Thedas worshipped death in some way or another, and mages such as her were its disciples. Of course, some feared what she could do, some outright reviled, and yet she found herself highly sought after. Everything from mixing potions to communing with the dead; if it involved magic, Hawke could do it. It was the only way a simple Ferelden farmgirl could ever mingle with Tevinter Magisters and Orlesian Chevaliers. It was the only reason she was here, in this gutted Starkhaven palace.

It was not the blood that disturbed her this day, but whose blood it belonged to.

She proceeded down another hall, torn carpet under his feet, sunlight refracted through broken glass. As the chamber door appeared, she hurried, an anxious lump in her throat. She knew what she would find, but still hoped it was not so.

She threw the chamber door open and found her student, Dorian, standing over caskets. He loomed over her, she being a petite woman, but he looked upon her with reverence. He was of high Tevinter lineage, but even with all his expensive education, his own dabbles in Necromancy never came to more than raising a few long-dead corpses to stumble for a few moments. There was a reason his former mentor sent him to her.

As she walked, she looked at all the caskets, lined up in a row. Some of them were very small. All of them were closed, though Dorian was peeking inside the one at the far end.

“Is that him?” she said, her usually blunt voice cracked.

“Yes,” he said with remorse. "He is the only one in decent condition."

Dorian open the casket and they both studied the person inside. A young man--could not have been much older than either of them--lay still, with eyes closed. They could see the bronze sheen of his skin still leaving his body, the luster of his slicked brown hair coming undone. Plush lips formed a faint, serene smile, but the color was fading by the moment, cracks forming.

Hawke ran a finger along the slope of the prince’s slender cheekbone. "This is him, the youngest of the three Starkhaven princes. Did you examine the body? What did you find?”

“I did,” said Dorian, his voice solemn but with a tinge of eagerness, wanting to perform well for his renowned mentor. “He was lucky, in a way. Got an arrow in the chest while trying to lead others to a secret exit. He was so close, too. Another second and he might have made it."

Her finger ghost down the outline of his face, lingered on his chin, then she made a fist. A purple light, wafting and warbling the air, illuminated her fingernails and surged through her skin.

"You're going to bring him back?" said Dorian, trying to suppress to excitement in his voice.

"For a moment," said Hawke, her icy blue eyes turning like frosted amethyst. "long enough to ask him what happened here."

Hawke opened her palm and pressed it against the prince's chest. Purple light washed over her body and passed through him, as though she were transfusing her own energy into him. Dorian tensed, looking for color to return to the corpse, betraying his logical mind, knowing that's not how Necromancy worked. At least not any form that he or any journeyman mage was aware of, though there were tales of spells that could keep resurrected corpses near perfectly alive again, at a great cost to both caster and corpse. But not even an esteemed sorceress like Hawke could perform such a feat.

Hawke pushed harder, a bead of sweat against her pale brow. Her fingers clenched against the prince's blood-stained tunic when his eyes popped open. Dorian and the prince gasped at the same time, both shocked at the spell's success.

“Ah…” the prince’s cloudy blue eyes looked about; his body twitched as if waking from a long slumber. When his eyes cleared and found focus, they immediately locked onto Hawke, a wide, elated smile followed. “Marian!” he cried; his arms opened for her.

“You know the Prince of Starkhaven?” asked Dorian.

“He courted me briefly,” Hawke said, voice casual and flat.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, Marian,” the prince’s voice was deep and sorrowful, his eyes pouring over Hawke. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I’m sorry, Sebastian, but there’s no time,” said Hawke, still steady. “Do you know what happened?”

His smile immediately faded. “I … I do.”

“If we’re going to get any justice for you and your family, you need to tell me everything you know. And hurry, I can’t keep up the spell forever.”

“Those … people who stormed the castle. They had no flag, but I heard their whispers, as I tried to escape. Lady Johane Harimann hired them. If you search them, I’m sure you will find further proof.”

“That’s a good start. Walk me through your last hours.”

The prince only seemed to move his upper body, his hands clearly aching to reach for Hawke. His eyes still foggy with death, yet they almost glimmered at the sight of her, like stars glittering through clouds of night.

As he finished, Hawke placed her hand over his. The purple light around her slowly dimmed, she sighed, and the prince began to fall back.

"Dorian," said Hawke, the last of her magic faded. "Start examining the mercenary bodies. Take account of all that are in decent shape."

"Are you going to 'interview' them, too?"

"I might, though I'll need to restrain them first. But let's see what we can find on them, first."

"Very well," he took a few steps out the chamber. "And... for what's it's worth, I'm sorry about..."

"Please go, Dorian," she said, her words blunt as stone. "I need to think."

"Of course," and he hurried out.

Hawke sighed as she heard the door clack, and the footsteps faded. She tried to collect herself with deep, slow breaths. She had walked battlefields and massacres, bloody accidents and cruel forces of nature. The sight of blood stirred no emotion after a time, yet the smell of death, the force that hung like heavy fog, still became overwhelming if she lingered too long. All the worse, that it was someone she knew. Someone she loved.

One more steadying breath. She has already made her decision when she first heard the news, and she was never one to go back on a decision once she made it.

She brought her hand to the prince's chest again, this time with a crackling red light. When she touched his skin, he shuddered and buzzed, like streaks of lightning consuming his heart. Blood rose in his face, spreading color throughout. Crackles of red light crisscrossed against the arrow wound; it did not heal to become normal skin again, but the blood and the gash were gone, replaced with a jagged crimson patch. A memory of death.

He groaned, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Marian sighed in relief but was immediately stricken by a sharp pain in her chest; the magic taking its due, boiling a patch of her skin, parallel to the prince’s.

"Marian," he said softly, less a jolting rise, and more a gentle awakening, as if stirred slowly late in the morning by a lover's touch.

"Oh, my sweet Sebastian," she said, her voice cracking. "I never should have left your side. If only I had..."

"Shh, it's all right, my love," he leaned into her palm and kissed the inside. "I know you'll make this right."

"I will," she said, and she leaned into the casket to kiss him. She felt the magic as it worked, re-threading muscles, erasing the cracks. A healthy dark olive hue poured over his face, spilling into his neck, then his chest. If anything, his kiss was even more tender than she remembered. “Listen, dearest one. I can’t bring anyone else back. I have given half my life to fuel yours. You feel pain, I feel pain. You die, I die.”

“I always wanted for us to share in everything,” he said, his voice as slow and sweet as honey, as if nothing in the world was wrong.

"I'll make sure everyone even remotely responsible pays dearly for what happened here. We shall wreak this vengeance together, and I will never leave your side again."

The prince looked upon her with clear, piercing blue eyes. "Never."

Hawke did not understand her mentor’s words about love in her youth. Even now, she was not certain if it was meant to be encouragement or warning. But on this day, she chose her own meaning for it.

#Dragon Age #Hawke #Sebastian Vael #sebhawke #Marian Hawke #Soulmark AU #Kind of?#Fanfiction #Writing Tag #alternate universe #The more I think about this AU the more I like it so hopefully this won't be the last of it

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