my Creator, judge me whole

“I agree, I don’t know why it’s us either. Josephine knows a dozen ways to teach a man to act noble, send them.” But instead they were here, a mage and a dalish elf. This was of course going to go smoothly. When he looked at her she felt herself stiffen, she was used to people staring, usually she’d start yelling but he was on the same side she was. “What? Not used to dalish?” 

“Not used to standing out.” Emil corrected. 

During the Rebellion’s height, no mater how proud one was to be a mage they didn’t carry a stave on their backs. But in the Inquisition it was a mark of something akin to pride. No, not pride--status. They were a part of the Inquisition’s agents here and they needed to show it in order to make a statement. Not for themselves, but for those they represented while they were here.

“There were many elves in the Circles I helped--formerly Dalish who had been captured by Templars and brought against their will. No, Alys. You aren’t my first Dalish.”

Any response of disappointment was quickly swallowed as the other mage took off into the Cafe and brilliant green eyes narrowed at the clear signs that Emil was looking for something. In the moment of hesitation that Miri spent lingering near the entrance, the other Inquisition Agent had already found what he was looking for and landed back in front of her where the only outward reaction was the raise of perfectly plucked eyebrows. 

“It would appear as though you know this city far better than I.” She relented, following after the other mage with only a small hit to her pride. After spending nearly a decade with the Valos Kas she’d earned her place as a leading agent when it came to missions, but with the Inquisition it was a hard lesson to learn that she was once again equals with the other recruits and volunteers when it came to the powerful enemies threatening to destroy the world. 

“How did you know that would be back there?” 

A light flashed in Emil’s eyes--a sudden hesitance, a wariness at her questions. But they were on the same side, weren’t they? She could be trusted.

“It’s not from the Inquisition,” he explained under a lowered breath, and gestured for the woman to follow him as they made themselves scarce from the cafe seating and towards the throng of the crowd, “it’s from my old friends in the Rebellion. We’d use certain spaces here as safe houses for refugees. But Rebellion or no--Val Royeaux is filled with clues if you know where to look.”

Subtly, Emil began to point them out to the vashoth woman: a bright blue scarf hanging from a linen string, an arrow shaft lodged in a seemingly forgotten wall nook, a red apple atop a basket of pears on the arm of a maiden strolling by. “Everything here is done in secret--even secrets.--

“It’s why I hate this place.”

the spirit slightly tilted his head, light blues that appeared a dark brown peered through golden strands and he quietly observed the tevene beside him. “ …is that what we’re doing? guarding? ” cole returned a heartbeat after, lightly ; childlike. he’d been told he sometimes irritated others with his relentless questions… but it was always difficult for cole to remember. hopefully, the people around him were simply patient enough.

“Probably.”

If anyone was going to out him to Skyhold, Emil had initially worried it was going to be Pavus. But the spirit beside him was quickly proving to be a much more prevalent threat. 

                       No, Emil. People aren’t threats, not anymore.

After a quick shake of his head, Emil reached out to stop Cole from continuing to walk straight into the fountain in the middle of the square. “Don’t... do that.”

Isabela laughed softly at his assessment – true enough, she was still along for the ride, this time, rather than follow a person, as she had back then, she’d followed what he’d taught her – doing the right thing. Whatever that even meant. “You may,” she nodded in response to his question, though she almost regret it when he continued on. She always felt so uneasy when people brought up her deeds with Hawke – at least, the people who hadn’t been there with her back then. She hadn’t been a hero, she never had been. That had been him. “Well,” she continued, going for light hearted. “I suppose I should be drinking for free then, if more people from Kirkwall turn up here.”

“If more from Kirkwall show up, we’ll have a much larger problem on our hands.” 

Some might have welcomed the kindred sufferers among similar kind, but Emil wasn’t one of them. He’d seen enough of Kirkwall’s rather explosive result on the mages of the world--seen it in their eyes, in their minds and hearts--and he wasn’t ready to deal with so many of them flooding to Skyhold like it was some beacon of hope.

But he knew they wouldn’t. They were in hiding now--he’d put many of them there himself. They deserved that peace at the very least.

“Still. Know it’s awkward, someone... coming up to you and all. But I needed to say it. And you get a free drink out of it so--” Emil raised his glass to her with a smirk.

He pressed his brush gently against the fresco, watching as it created a stroke of color on the wall. His eyes watched as the colors merged with and accented each other. He enjoyed the act of painting, the peace that it brought. 

He hardly noticed the human enter his space, though his wards did notify him. He was far too hyper focused to turn to greet him. Until he spoke. Then, Solas paused, raising his brush off of the the fresco.

“This is the tale of our Inquisitor. They will do a great many things, and I wish to chronicle those accomplishments, good and bad. History is often told incorrectly if written down wrong.”

Emil couldn’t help the soft chuckle that fell from his lips. “That, I figured,” he gave in answer, and took the elf’s answer as permission to step forward but stay back in caution so as not to warily ruin such beautiful art.

He was used to tales in books, or paintings telling one story while others were lost or reserved for the art of a tongued tale, but this was...

“What of this one?” Emil asked, and gestured with a delicate wrist to a section of the wall depicting darkness, shadow, and a man towering over what seemed to be a broken castle.

“Got it in one,” they replied, a devilish smirk on their face. “Beautiful elves are all that matter, my dear boy,” she teased, her voice taking on a deep hoity toity accent. “Beautiful elves and tons and tons of money.”

Sora frowned at Val Royeaux. To her, the Orlesians were no better than the Vints. Their slavery was less direct, but then again, the Orlesian courts weren’t direct. Her master had been to many an Orlesian summer home in Tevinter. Bastards.

“Then again, this is Orlais. They may not start a fight, but they might try to kill us. Orlesians love their murdery assassin plots.” But then, they nodded and followed behind Emil. “Ooh a missive. Spooky.”

Emil knew from personal experience that money wasn’t everything--but to those who had possibly grown up with little to nothing he knew that it was a great deal more than they knew so he opted to keep his mouth firmly shut. It was only when people had more money than they knew what to do with that it became a danger.

“Better than a messenger--that might lead to a proper murder.” Emil explained, trying to both keep an eye on Sora and push his way through the crowd that was awfully thick this time of day. Then again, he wasn’t used to an Orlais that was divided by royalty.

                  “And don’t worry,” he muttered, “they don’t kill you outright. That’s bad form.”

Finally, Emil tired of the games and gave a hearty shove of a masked man who knew Emil had been trying to move around him but simply refused to step aside. The Orlesian cursed under his breath, but stepped aside to try and get a better view of the sight that made Emil’s heart sink.

There, on the perch of the fountain, was a seemingly random elf spread-eagled dead on the stone with a letter crumpled up in her dead palm. There was a distinct mark on her face; a dark twirl of rose thorns underneath her left eye--that signaled her as the messenger sent to deliver the very missive Emil and Sora were sent for. An Inquisition soldier murdered in the capital of Orlais--said to be an ally of the Inquisition itself.

Emil ran his gloved hand over his face and gave a sigh, eyes squeezed shut.

“So much for an easy mission...”

DRAGON AGE INSPIRED HEADCANON MEME - EXTENSIVE LORE EDITION

Send one for my muse’s opinion on:

⚡️ Magic and Mages in general;

⭐️ The Circle of Magi;

🔥 Blood Magic;

☀️ The Chantry;

❇️ The Divine;

🔵 The Templars;

✳️ The Rite of Tranquility;

🔴 The Mage-Templar War;

☯️ The Order of the Grey Wardens;

🔱 Spirits and the Fade;

🐶 Ferelden;

💎 Orlais;

🎲 The Grand Game;

🌱 Tevinter;

💢 Slavery;

🌺 City Elves;

🌿 Dalish Elves;

⬇️ Underground Dwarves;

⬆️ Surface Dwarves;

❌ Caste system;

📖 The Inquisition;

❓ Religion (one or more of them);

💋 Sexuality and marriage;

One of the last things Dorian excepted to see was another Tevinter, especially since he’d not been told. Generally he’d assume if another evil Tevinter mage showed up he’d be informed. But when he saw the man it did make sense. Emil had probably spun some story of him being from… well anywhere other then Tevinter. “Ah a rare sight I do say. Another Tevinter! And another heir to the wonderful title of magister!” If he spoke a little louder than necessary he’d deny it.

The wine in Emil’s hand choked straight through his throat and up his nose--suddenly far less appealing once it landed back in his goblet. Normally he’d go about his conversation--and what a wonderful conversation it was, not every day one could speak with a skilled Nevarran Mortalitasi--but with the other Tevinter practically screaming into his ear, he couldn’t be ignored.

The Mortalitasi looked between Emil and Dorian with a raised eyebrow, and Emil quickly shook his head with an adamant frown. 

“Poor, drunk thing.” he admonished, to which the Nevarran nodded and gave Dorian a frown of disapproval. She whispered something about continuing their conversation later in his chambers before skirting away. Emil gave her a wide berth before turning on his heel and grasping Dorian by the front with a fistful of his rather bondage-adjacent leathers.

“Pavus,” he snarled, “I’m going to kill you if you don’t shut your mouth.”

At his question, Frey bristled a bit. “Not under these exact circumstances, but—” before she could finish, she was interrupted by his (admittedly fair) evaluation, and found she couldn’t argue his points. Didn’t mean she had to be happy about it, though.

For a rogue and a spy, Freja was woefully unused to the Game. Growing up under the Carta’s thumb in Dust Town required a rather different set of skills; one that required less deception and cunning, and more ‘who could draw their dagger faster in the heat of the moment’.

Still, when he continued, she shrugged. “Sometimes sticking out is the best way to be ignored,” she answered. A young beggar girl in rags, with a casteless tattoo on her cheek, stumbling along the merchant streets: everyone noticed her and yet no one did, always choosing to turn their gaze away. She drew attention, but they chose not to see.

“But, different places, difference rules, I guess. Whatever the case, I figure they made this decision for a reason.” She continued down the roads of Val Royeaux, this time pointedly ignoring another stare their way. “Might as well find out what it is.”

He could have understood sending one of them separately, or both of them on either side of the city. With their shared contacts--his in what was left of the Mage Rebellion and hers in the Carta--they were a formidable duo to be assured. But together... Emil simply couldn’t see the silver lining of the whole thing. 

But one simply didn’t question Lady Nightingale’s orders, especially when they were given in person.

Before Emil could speak again, there was a shriek, followed by another--a noise that stirred old wounds in Emil's gut and made him flinch without warning. But rather than terror beginning to blossom around them, the high-pitched noises turned into peals of laughter followed by clapping that eventually grew into outright applause.

With a frown of confusion at his companion, Emil looked towards the noise and noticed a gathering beginning to form in a plaza. 

“Looks like a circus.” he muttered with the greatest disdain he could muster. 

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse…

☁ = being caught in the middle a storm with them            @iscbelas​

“Under here!”

Emil grasped the pirate’s arm and tugged her under the awning just as the cart passed with a fury--had they continued their walk along the muddy side road, the driver in his ignorance wouldn’t have stopped for two “bumps,” and bumps Isabela and Emil would have been.

The rain continued to thunder down in torrents on the cloth awning above them, but the mage took the moment to wring his hair out while they had it.

“So much for the storm passing to the North. We’ll need to find a place to stay--no way our carriage is leaving tonight.”

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse…

❂ = wiping blood off their face            @lvllcn

“Stop squirming, or you’ll just get it everywhere. I need to see where your cut is.”

Emil held the elf’s chin with the firm grip of a healer. He wasn’t trying to manhandle the young woman, but he knew how mud could sting in a wound on the face and he wanted to make sure it didn’t get infected with anything these bogged-down bodies were carrying.

He inhaled through his nose and gave a slow exhale through parted lips--hoping she would mirror him out of habit. When the shivers finally slowed, Emil was able to lick his thumb and brush the blood and mud from her pale skin proper. -- It wasn’t a deep cut, lucky for her. Something easily mended back at camp.                             ... When they found it in this wretched Southron bog.

After wiping Leonie’s blood on his coat, Emil grabbed his waterskin from his side satchel and squeezed a bit onto his hand, wiping her cheek and forehead clean.

“Next time I say duck, please duck.”

Taking a sip of her wine, she let her eyes settle on the man beside her, mind running wild as she tried to place him – true though, it had been many years since she had been considered a hero, that time was strictly reserved for her adventures with Hawke. And even then, she hadn’t really been a hero, that had all been him. Reluctant or not, that was the truth. “Oh,” she nodded, setting the glass down on the bar. She turned to face him properly, giving him more attention. “I’m glad we could have been of service.” She paused, then let out a small laugh. “Though, admittedly, that was more of his doing than mine, I was just always along for the ride, so no thank you necessary, please.”

“Along for the ride seems to be everyone’s motto these days, save the chosen few.” The mage gave her what he hoped was an empathetic smile and a friendly wink as he took a sip of his wine. Terrible, rotten stuff--the kind of liquor that would turn tongues back in Minrathous to ash--but it did the trick when one needed a drink... or a thank you.

“May I...?” Emil gestured to the stool beside her before taking a seat. 

the spirit of compassion looked down–a nod in return–allowing his hat to cover his eyes. he could hear the paranoia sparking off the man like the crackles of a fire. he could always hear them–a hint, at least–coming off of him whenever he was near. a nervousness. but cole suspected it was just him. he made a lot of people nervous. at his continuation, light blues crept over to his opposite ; the wording catching his interest. “ …why would picking up a package require messengers, and not agents? ”

He understood on some level--some very strange level--why the Inquisition wanted him to be the one to acclimate the... pseudo-spirit to the world around them. Emil was a Spirit Healer by nature; he could sense spirits, could bring them across the Veil easier. They were far more attracted to him than any regular mage.

                         But Compassion? Why Compassion?

“All depends on what’s inside,” answered the mage under his breath, though he knew the spirit would hear him, “and if it needs guarding on it’s way back to Skyhold.”

Frey wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to ask. The answer was clear enough in the other’s manner; she supposed even she could feel uncomfortable enough to want to fill a silence with idle chatter. Where her companion turned his gaze away at the masked noblewomen, Freja met their curious gazes with a steely one of her own, having to refrain from baring her teeth in a snarl. Gossip-prone nobility always had a way of raising her hackles.

The dwarf arched a brow at his question. “I wondered the same thing herself,” Freja muttered, “Or, more accurately, why is there a need for two agents? One’s gotta be enough to handle it alone.” The spy wasn’t told much, beyond that this was not a regular package and that she had to be on her guard; why she needed a human escort, however, was beyond her.

Emil glanced down at his companion as they walked through the streets--the crowd growing into a tighter throng.

“Have you ever been to Orlais before?” asked he--the question genuine, his tone on the matter taking on a sarcastic lilt. “One’s fine enough if you want a knife in your back, or your parcel stolen with you none the wiser. And this is Val Royeaux so the stakes are higher than anywhere else in the Empire.”

And the mage hated the lot of it. Moreover, he hated how familiar it all was to back home in Minrathous, just without magic and slavery being practiced openly in the streets. Hypocrisy was everywhere if one just knew where to look.

“I am yes. Quite familiar considering the last Blight spawned in my woods.” She remains crouched behind a pillar, staff lightly dragging in the dirt as she surveyed those before them. Over the crest of the hill laid a small camp of Venatori, hardly a match for them with how easily they could take them apart. Still, she wanted security and they’d been picking off the last few scouts sent off from a distance. “It’s best we strike first, keep the high ground and get them scattered. Make it hard for them to regroup as the grunts can’t find their masters for orders.” 

The Blights were things only briefly touched on in Tevinter educations. The Chantry Brothers made sure everyone knew they did not start the Blights, as the rest of the world would have everyone believe, and that no one really knew what started them, but that was it. Of course, with Corypheus about, Emil would love to know what was really being taught up there now... but that was for a different time.

To stand in the presence of a woman who had seen one begin with her very own eyes... it was an opportunity, surely.

“You really think the Venatori are trying to, what, control the Darkspawn? Even they aren’t so foolish.” Emil chided with a look of deep concern etched into his brow. But she was right.

“You flank left. I favour my right, it’s for the best.”

They separated--two mages at the height of their crafts, and began to circle the encampment in the dark. He had to rely on her word that the witch would attack at the signal. Or else he was a sitting duck.