Morally Ambiguous

Melana wraps her arms around herself and shivers as she trudges across the beach, as close to the mountains as she can, hoping to shield herself from the falling rain. The world was so vast! She had known it was, but she remembered naught but the temple’s walls; any memory of the outside world she had once carried had been stripped by her Keeper ages ago.

She shivers again and looks up at the sky in mourning. This world was a nightmare, it was not what she had expected to wake up to; the temple in ruins and abandoned. The world felt numb and lifeless and it took her too long to realize the Fade had been pulled back from it, torn from the land she could walk upon, returning only when she slept. It felt as though she had woken into a nightmare.

Refusing to succumb to despair, she had left the temple and started roaming, and that was how she found herself here, walking across the wet rocks of the beach rain never ceasing soaking her to the bone. Lost in her thoughts, she had neglected to pay attention, neglected to notice the small camp before she had wandered too close to not be noticed. She contemplates turning back regardless, turning back and veering off at the first fork she finds. Anything to stay away from civilization. From those who were not Elvhen, those who she couldn’t trust, those the whispers told her were a threat.

Before she does though, she catches a glimpse of the man’s face and her breath leaves her for a moment.

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The words alone are enough to send a shiver down Dacien’s spine and make his pulse quicken with the promise. The promise of blood and pain, of torture and torment in a way only Mi’Enasalin gives him. When he was capable of thinking about it, he wondered at times if his talent with it had anything to do with his criminal activities.

But he wasn’t capable of thinking now.

“Please,” he begs breathlessly, tugging at his bindings, testing them. He trusted any knot Mi’Enasalin tied would hold trusted that he couldn’t break them even if he wanted to, but there was something pleasing about the way the rope slid against his skin, about knowing he’d have friction burns before he was released.

Existential Crisis Sentence Starters

Start over. The idea was appealing at times. Beginning fresh, beginning anew, erasing the mistakes of the past and preventing them before they happened. But if he was to erase one mistake he would have to erase them all, for he could not choose which to erase. And the idea of starting completely over hurt too much.

The fall of the Veil had claimed Fen’Harel’s life - had he known it would? The Dread Wolf had seemed so terribly sad toward the end, as his victory approached. How much power was required to tear down the boundary between the physical world and the Fade? Enough to demand his life, his being. Ethial accepts the news with a grief he’d not anticipated: Fen’Harel was his foe, after all; enemy to his gods. Traitor to the People. To give his life to undo his shattering of the world was the least he could do to salvage what had been done - And yet he had not been what Ethial had expected. He mourns not for the Dread Wolf, but for Solas, and the friend he might have been. So caught up in his own unexpected grieving is he that he - somehow - fails to recognize that with the wolf no longer guarding their cage, the Evanuris are awakened, released… until he is snatched from the ranks of his erstwhile companions among Fen’Harel’s rebellion and dragged away like a wayward hound.  You. You. Too dumbstruck to speak, too awestruck for fear, Ethial stares with wide, childlike eyes at the face of Falon’Din, a face he’d not dared to dream he might see again in his much-shortened lifetime. That the day would come when the Twins once more roamed this world he had taken for granted, of course; that they could not be forever sealed away from the world which was their right he had never doubted… but to see Him again, and to know His presence meant- Dirthamen. Are you free as well, my Keeper?  He must be; it must be so. He can not fathom a world in which one Twin walks free while the other does not. The electricity sparking dangerously in the air, setting his skin to tingling, is a warning, and it drags him back to the present. A god, his god, demands answers of him. He knows how this must look: he had been among Fen’Harel’s flock, a sheep among the wolves, and his loyalty is in question, as it must be.  Dirthamen will know. He will know my loyalty never strayed. My Keeper, I have never faltered! “Lethanavir,” he manages, scrambling from his disgraceful sprawl to a respectful kneel, touching his forehead once to the earth. “I sought the means to free You from the prison the Dread Wolf built; I sought information which might, in time, lead to Your freedom. I am as loyal, as faithful today as ever I was in Your glory - I swear it. By the Keeper’s Wisdom, I swear it.” Dirthamen will know. He must.

Falon’Din waits while Ethial pulls himself together enough to show his respects properly and give his explanation and his frown deepens as the air around them gains more static, the wind picking up slightly promising a storm should Falon’Din not control himself soon. If he had stopped to think for a moment he could have guessed that would be Ethial’s answer. The worst part of it was that it made sense both for Ethial and for anyone who had retained loyalty to him and Dirthamen. Collect information on the one who had locked them away, the one who would oppose them upon their return.

And that only upset him more.

“Both, perhaps.” Ethial tucks his hands into the ragged sleeves of his ruined cloak, feigning a comfort he does not feel. He had not anticipated engaging Fen’Harel in conversation; what was he meant to do? He could bow out, scamper away, lose himself as one more elvhen- elven face in a sea of gathering rebels; sooner or later, the Dread Wolf would forget him. And then he could begin gathering information. Yet here he stands instead, exchanging pleasantries with a being who once tore the world apart. For Ethial, who once conferred with gods, it is nonetheless a staggering thought. “Both,” he says again, tipping his head curiously to one side. “The world is much changed from what you once knew - I confess, I wish to see Elvhenan and Arlathan reborn.” Is that too much? Is he meant to know of Elvhenan, the long-dead empire of the elvhen, long before Halamshiral’s pale glory? No matter. The Dalish know some things, children though they are. “Yet I wonder what place you envision for us in your world reborn, Mirthadra Fen’Harel. Seldom do great men recall the small when they shake the foundations of the world.”

Solas folds his arms behind himself and considers the man in front of him. He seemed to get more interesting as the conversation drew on- many of the Elvhen that came to him didn’t have the courage to converse with a God on first meeting if ever. And here this man was, conversing and asking the right questions.

Solas finds himself interested in this stranger.

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