the man in the circle

@keepschoice sent: The form Imshael has taken to preferring for this era saunters down the steps of Haven's ruined Chantry towards the mold-infested dungeons that lie down below, dripping with snow-melt. They smile a little to themself, as they approach the shimmering barrier. Just faintly, in the lines that mark the edge of the Wolf's leash, they can make out her signature butterfly motif. "Ooh, she's good," they intone, more to themself than to Solas.

In the stone of the floor, they recognize an even more familiar magic. The Arrow's. That brings a dark grin to their face. "Wish I could have seen it," they hum. "That must have been a terrible Choice." Their hands fold in front of them, the tips of their thumbs slowly circling one another, as they begin a predatorial march around Solas' prison.

"I'd heard you had been caged," muses the Spirit of Choice in a light voice. "By a mortal, no less." A hand raises, and they wag their finger at him, their nose scrunching. "I knew playing with the food was a bad idea. You should have let me have her when we had the chance, you know."

Although they appear to be taking in the Wolf, Choice takes the measure of the prison as they walk. It is a sturdy thing, the little mage's skill with barriers on full display, as well as her connection to Mythal's Well, her passionate emotions that had drawn Spirits to her aid, and the Arrow's own magic bolstering it all. But what really intrigued them was the force that kept the whole thing up.

Imshael grins when they recognize it.

"Ah, so that's why you're still in there," they say.

"How hard can killing one mortal be, old friend? And she's so small, too. Almost frail at that age." A blatant, pitying pout overtakes their expression, for but a moment, and then a grin that only barely hides the eagerness with which they ask, "Would you like me to take care of her for you?"

// from @keepschoice if it wasn't obvious. also imshael has no idea how mortals age. a young adult is just a few grey hairs away from death's door.

The prison had undergone a transformation since Solas first hatched this scheme. Books had been organized by topic, author, and age, and neatly stacked on the side of the room. The bed was tidied, with the blanket neatly folded over the cot and the pillow placed at its head. Plates and casks were gathered and cleaned, though the honeyed candies remained untouched atop them.

Most striking was the painting. The chaotic mess of manic streaks of color had coalesced into a portrait of a long forgotten mountain somewhere in the north, the colors forming a dual sunset and rise. It was admittedly a bit avant garde, but there was order now in the madness. A purpose.

Solas waited for them in the center of that mountain. The state of his humble clothing he could not help, but he made the best with what he had. The wraps around his wrists and feet obscured some of the Veil’s ethereal scarring. His vest had been smoothed, and its high collar covered some of his neck. The ensemble was kept together by the red, threadbare scarf that sat on his hips.

His toes dug into the grooves of the destroyed Chantry sunburst. His shoulders were straight, his chin held high, and he laced his hands behind his back. He was the picture of composure - the rebel general, the Dread Wolf. 

Behind his back his fingers ran over the fading symbols of Clan Lavellan.

The sound of someone else’s voice nearly broke him. A rush of feeling washed over his careful composure - relief, need, fear, and exhaustion. It took all his willpower to seem unmoved. His emotions ran faster than his thoughts could hope, and he struggled with every breath to focus his mind.

Rage flared, as Imshael spoke, but Pride most of all. Solas’ fingers tightened in the scarf, and he warred to keep his feelings in check.

“I made my choice,” Solas said. The constant rasp of his ragged throat remained, but his tone was even and calm. “What a pleasure it is to see you again, lethallin.”

He didn’t rise to Imshael’s baiting - well, he did rise to it, but he tamped it done, his fingers twisting in the scarf until it pained him. He made himself hear every other word from the spirit’s mouth, and did not allow their poison to seep into blood. 

“You are getting ahead of yourself, friend,” Solas tutted. Calm, collected, reasonable. Calling them friends was Imshael’s peculiarity, and Solas had never been quite sure whether or not they were joking. 

“The barrier is one part, yes,” he continued. He was not Ser Michel de Chevin, nor the countless others Imshael had duped over the centuries. Solas was a careful negotiator. As long as he maintained control over his cascading emotions. “Felassan’s wards are the other. If we are to reach an agreement, I fear I must insist on the breaking of both barrier and wards.”

The Spirit's eyes narrow slightly, considering, and then they stoop to examine the Arrow's handiwork. It is undoubtedly a stronger circle than the one they had once found themself stuck in, in with—whatever the name of the clan had been. Regardless, breaking a single stone will hardly do the job. Felassan had known what he was doing, and worse, he knew who he was holding. The god of tricks and treachery would hardly accept such bondage easily, and the Arrow built in redundancies on redundancies.

And the whole thing was rigged, it seemed, with some sort of alert system.

"Given time," they say slowly as they stand straight again, "I may be able to." Not entirely untrue, but given time the snow-melt and rainfall will also simply erode it, without someone checking on it. "You know your second's work better than anyone, though. It won't be easy."

Something like a glower passes their face, a reminder of the offers Felassan and Solas have made to them over the years—the reckonings and worse they had promised as glorified I-owe-yous. If Corypheus had been Felassan's promised "threatened" worse, then they feel they are at least owed the woman who stopped it as compensation for the disappointment. And the promises Solas had made to keep them away from her had never borne any fruit.

The release of the full Blight had been enjoyable, but that they owed to Khima, not to Solas. Khima had always been such fun, that short period of time they were around. Had they died? Seemed young for a mortal to die, but the passing of time is always a bit hazy for Imshael; the months they had spent with Khima may very well have been decades, for all they knew.

The point is: "What's in it for me?" they ask, though it is nearly a statement. "And if you try to coerce me with promises of a reckoning or another disaster that you would enact anyway, or try to claim that killing that girl is a fair payment, I will leave faster than you know." They turn and begin walking again, staying in Solas' line of sight. "I want a Choice, Wolf," they growled. "As many as you have made, and as much as I loathe to see yours removed like this—by a mortal no less—you will find I am not interested in being duped a third time." They stop, standing directly in front of him, the entrance behind them. Where he stands tall with his shoulders square and back, Proud, they hunch forward, as if ready to strike.