NEVER BREAK

Dog.

Hawke’s eyes, only slightly diminished by the amount of truly shitty alcohol he’d consumed in the past…however long he’d been in this garden, focused on the wolf with great intensity. Half of his words were simple muscle memory. He wanted to pet the dog.

“Do you have a name?” he asked the dog, before a slight course correction to: “Do they have a name?” He tried to keep his tone casual, and definitely believed he pulled it off. You can take the Champion out of Ferelden, etc., etc. He inched closer on the bench, reaching out his hand to the wolf/dog’s snout. “I have a dog,” he said reverently, doing his utmost to scratch under the wolf/dog’s chin. “A Ferelden refugee just like us. But he’s back home with Bodahn. Can’t keep up with all the traveling I’ve got to do now, but he’s Lord Amell of Amell Manor, so he’s not doing poorly.”

He stretched, feeling his fingers tingling with warmth. That shit alcohol good for something at least, since numbness would hopefully follow. He took another drink. “I - did not come seeking counsel, no,” he admitted with a wry, and certainly charming, half grin. “I came seeking someone to talk to besides the wind and the Seeker.” Cassandra had asked him to sign a book. Varric had nearly died laughing. It would’ve been adorable if Hawke hadn’t held a very understandable grudge against the Chantry at large.

“We’re just so high up here away from, well, everything. No town, no village, no one to talk to who won’t blab to the nearest Exalted Marchers or town crier. Don’t you get bored? Or miss your family? Unless your whole family’s here. Mine’s up in the blasted Anderfels. Or Kirkwall. And wherever Fenris is.” And where Anders was currently stashed, but the Inquisition did not get to know that info, no matter how many drinks he had. “Don’t you ever want to just let loose and have fun?”

Hawke ran a hand through his unkempt hair. Definitely in need of a bath, certainly not willing to get naked in this cold mountain air. “If I were seeking counsel, what would you have to offer for killing an undead darkspawn you already killed that’s now destroying the world as we know it? Not prayers, I hope, I’ve heard enough of those to last several lifetimes.”

He took another drink, scowling at the taste but again offering her the bottle. “Trust me, you won’t know what you’re missing til you try it. And you will be missing. On alcoholic tar.”

With the hand offered out, alerted ears flattened against their head as they peeked out of the darkness and weaved around Ellana’s calves. The animal’s nose twitched cautiously as she sniffed the fingers stretched out for her snout, and in time, the length of her tail slowly began to sway. As her companion interacted with the mage, Ellana stood stoically observing the response her companion had towards Kirkwall’s Champion, and that alone served as her basis on Garrett moving forward. Animals had a sense of knowing a person’s character, and if they could trust Garrett then so could she.

“They don’t, no.” She offered back, watching as her canine companion moved within reach, remarkably comfortable with Garrett’s presence and attention before seating themselves at his feet. “She is an ally, not a pet. I do not own her and it is therefore not my right to bestow a name upon her.” As if realizing they were being spoken of, the ears of her canine companion perked upward.

“Wolves are naturally drawn away from humans due to their hunting parties and lack of respect for nature—“ she paused, golden hues falling unto the canine at Garrett’s feet once again, “but she likes you, Champion. I suppose not all hope for humanity is lost.” The shadow of a regaled smirk pulled at her lips, and she moved to pace the garden with a mindful eye.

“I have plenty to keep me occupied. I, unlike you, am not held a secret within Skyhold’s walls. I am also not a renown hero.” She paused to cast her eyes up towards the sky, a fog blooming around her mouth as she exhaled. Her high, abrasive walls began to fall, and Ellana felt a sense of openness within the quiet courtyard. Her mind drifted at the mention of family, a moment’s reflection back to her clan. A place she was unable to return to. Family felt like a familiar, albeit foreign concept all at once.

Her attention returned to Garrett, his voice piercing her thoughts and grounding her in the present, and brick by brick, she built her defences back up. “You will not hear me uttering your chantry’s hymns,” she retorted, eyeing the bottle handed out to her, “it is... Somewhat amusing you think that I would.” Her arms found their place folded against her chest again, and she sighed as Garrett attempted to coax her into drinking whatever he insisted on ingesting.

Nahele recognized that sharp look in Ellana’s eyes, a great protector. “Peace, lethallan,” Nahele said, squeezing her arm in reassurance even as she pulled her away from the prying eyes. She didn’t want any of them to see this reunion, or see the inevitable explanation. “It was all a misunderstanding at first. You know how shem get when there’s something strange they don’t understand.” She mimed sword play. They’d seen their fair share of innocent flat ears and even Dalish cut down by frightened and confused humans. “They’ve done me no harm. I sort of…did them harm, it turns out.”

She kicked the heavy wooden door shut behind them, a small moment of privacy in the dingy hallway of leading to the Chantry’s pantry and stores. She slept down here in the same place they’d kept her prisoner that first day, as it afforded light and, most importantly, space to think.

“They’re not holding me here, Ellana.”

It couldn’t be hidden, not when the crackling green of the sky matched the glowing and pulsing green light emanating off the hand wrapped around Ellana’s arm. She removed her grip, and pulled off the glove that hid most but the glow of the Mark. She held her hand up for Ellana to see.

The Mark looked like a rift in and through the palm of her hand. Sometimes, if she looked long enough at it, she could almost see something on the other side. She’d told Cassandra, who advised her not to look through. She’d told Solas, who’d suggested they find a magnifying glass.

“I can’t leave until I fix this mess,” she sighed, a bone deep sound holding all the frustration, confusion, and fear she’d felt since waking up in Haven. “Everyone at the Conclave died except me, lethallan, and I only survived because I somehow got that magic in me. Solas thinks if we close the rift in the sky, the Mark on my hand should go back wherever it came from.” He’d stressed it was a theory, but it was better than no direction at all. “The shem are saying its their god that did it. Isn’t that so typical? As if their god could create magic like this.” The Mark seemed to shimmer in response.

She gave a small smile, brushing an errant strand of Ellana’s hair from her forehead. “You came all this way for me?” Away from the prying eyes and with the truth out in the open, Nahele wrapped her arms around her kin, nestling close against her fur-lined chest. She took a breath, and to her, Ellana smelled like home and not the many miles of traveling she’d surely done. “Ma serannas, lethallan. I hope your journey wasn’t hard, but I’m so glad to see you.”

While Nahele had insisted she was neither harmed nor kept prisoner, the dark confines Ellana was led through told her otherwise. Damp, stony walls and the thick ceiling overhead felt unnatural, and she could not fathom how this hadn’t felt like a prison cell. The warrior wrinkled her nose in disagreement, and her muscles tensed in distrust—not towards Nahele, but towards the military force that took her kinsman from her in the first place. 

As they continued onward, the more concrete her opinion became. Hallways meant for storage opened into a hall of locked cages, and Ellana’s stomach dropped. In a swift motion, she turned to grasp Nahele with concern. 

“I beg of you, Nahele. Come home.” But as she did, her clansman pulled a glove from her hand to reveal a brilliant beryl glow, and Ellana proceeded with caution. 

Grasping Nahele’s hand with care, Ellana pivoted it at the wrist to examine the wound she had presented. Clear in her discomfort, she observed the swirling emerald hues as if peering through a looking glass, concerned for the other’s well-being more than the anchor’s potential. A rough thumb dragged over the edge of Nahele’s palm, and a sigh of defeat heaved from the warrior’s chest.

“Lethallan, I cannot imagine this is your doing. Whatever happened at the Templar-Mage armistice was not by your hand. I refuse to believe it.” She listened as Nahele continued to explain, none of which Ellana agreed with or rightly believed. Had their clan known the risk, they would not have sent her. It had been Ellana’s task initially, and her heart ached knowing what Nahele had been subjected to when it should have been her own burden to bear. 

“Solas?” She echoed the name, eyes lifting away from her hand. “I am confused, lethallan, why do you speak of pride?” She found difficulty in following the flow of the conversation. The glowing mark on her palm was enough to digest, let alone the verbal dichotomy of Ellana’s own point of view. 

“Of course I came for you.” The embrace had been unexpected, and had caused the warrior to stumble. She caught herself with ease, and welcomed the camaraderie. Ellana had been the first to offer herself, and her elders had agreed the decision was wise—not only because she was strong enough to endure the journey on her own, but more so for her to re-evaluate her decisions while benefiting the clan. “We sent a missive and we were met by scouts of your Inquisition. Our Keeper wishes to keep the peace with them, these shemlen, but still we were fearful for your safety.” A strong arm lifted to press her palm against the back of Nahele’s skull, agile fingers combing through her hair before settling at the nape of her neck.

“I will not leave you here alone.” She decided. The journey itself was meant to challenge her decisions and temper her will. But all Ellana was left with was an embittered outlook, that despite Nahele’s supposed safety, their clan was more than willing to simply allow these humans to do as they pleased. It was one thing to punish Ellana, but another to allow these humans to disregard their authority in regards to one of their own. 

███  CENAH; //.   EYES WOULD ROLL & SHE WOULD smile, head tilting to the side as she spins on her heel to walk beside ellana. amused words leaving her under her breath,  ＂ they already do !＂ a bounce in her steps.  ＂ you missed a show just a day ‘n a half ago you know ! one of the riding hallas escaped out the stables, running around until it found its way to the pens where a merchant had its goats. 

             silly thing ate so much of goats hay ! ＂ a laugh.  ＂ wasn’t hungry or fussed by any means, just wanted a bit of mischief apparently ! far more entertaining than any of the meetings i had that day. lady montilyet had me in a dress so tight i thought i would pop out ! what of the outside ? how did everything go ?＂

“They shouldn’t.” She responded firmly, Ellana’s own pace brisk as she swept through Skyhold’s courtyard. “They already believe us to be savages, do not give them any more reason to.”

Ellana listened intently to her sister’s stories while she was away, and she moved towards the battlements with Cenah bouncing at her side. She kept her gaze forward until mention of Josephine, and the comment made her bristle visibly.

“Masal din’an,” she cursed, “she will do no such thing again.” To be dressed about like a doll and presented about during her leave—Ellana would have words with her, none of which their ambassador would like to hear.

@sulahnnan did not ask for this

It was nearly sunset, the tavern was full and rowdy, and Garrett Hawke had to slink around Skyhold’s shadows like a common slinker. He’d be in the tavern trying to outdrink the giant Qunari if the Inquisition wasn’t keeping Hawke’s involvement under wraps. For some strange reason, they thought the Champion of Kirkwall being in Skyhold might cause bad press with, well, everyone.

Varric had offered to slink around with him, but Hawke was too good a friend to pull him from his nightly court in the tavern. Varric did manage to get him covert directions to and from the Inquisitor’s alarmingly well-stocked wine cellar, at least. With a dusty bottle of Very Old Liquor under his arm, he sought a place where a man could drink away from eyes that might report his presence to Orlesian nobles.

“I’m very popular with Orlesians,” Hawke muttered to himself, pulling the cork out with ease. It popped loudly as he made his way into the garden, echoing off the stone archways lining the atrium. Somewhere out in Crestwood, his very dear friend the disgraced Teyrn was probably shaking in his boots. 

As expected, the garden appeared very deserted. The old Orlesian Chantry mother was on a garden bench, but Hawke could hear her quiet snores. “Alone at last,” he said, sounding perfectly miserable. He leaned against a statue of a man with dreadlocks or something, and took a long pull off the bottle. He made a face, even though he wasn’t sure he was even tasting it. Everything tasted like ash to him anymore. “Gross,” he decided, taking another swing. “Reminds me of that time me, Fenris, and Varric discovered The Hanged Man’s wine cellar,” he told the statue.

He heard a rustling of leaves, may have just been the wind, but it was enough for him to turn and see an elf. One of the Big Wig elves of the Inquisition, as he understood it. Someone high enough in the pecking order to know that the Champion was here.

Hawke beamed.

“Care for a drink?” he said, clearing the space between him and the elf in about three long strides. “It’s absolute horsepiss, try it,” he offered, holding out the bottle as he all but bounded into her space. “Course after a swig or two, even horsepiss is worth it if it gets the job done. Anders had this poultice that made your lips numb, but if you could keep it down you started to see new colors.” He took another drink, and scrunched his nose. “Awful. For a castle this size and a larder that well-stocked, you’d think they’d get some Rivaini ale or that Nevarran shit that makes you see the dead.”

He fluffed the leaves of the nearby plant, certain that Anders would have been able to identify it. Once, maybe, when Anders had still been a mage. Or a man. “Who knows what demons know about flowers,” Hawke mused. “Actually, I suppose you would know. Aren’t all you Inquisitions experts on demons at this point? For better or worse, I expect. Is demonology something you ever thought you’d spend your time focused on? I can’t say I did, and I can’t say I care for it. Tiresome,” he declared. “Demons are tiresome.”

He took another drink. Ash. “It’s all getting a bit tiresome, isn’t it?” He sat down on a bench, an old relic that managed to survive centuries up here while the roof by the war table sported a massive hole. “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, doing anything you want, where would it be?” he barreled on, his voice anything but quiet. “If you say the Blooming Rose, I’ll respect you, but I will have questions.”

He took a final drink. “What’s the point of my hard-earned tolerance to shite alcohol if I can’t go beer-for-beer against the Qunari in the tavern?”

Warmed in her secluded space, Ellana worked by candlelight. She worked to remind herself of her origins, by tending to herbage and verdure; remembrance of her mother’s poultices, of warmer climate, of home. A place she was too ashamed to return to when everything came to pass, but thought upon with fondness despite her folly. Still, she invoked her clan’s name easily as if she still belonged, as if she was still able to return home, and she repeated the tenants as if she still had something left to prove. Fly straight and do not waver; bend but never break; receive gifts of the hunt with mindfulness.

She took a clipping from a mature royal elfroot as a distant muttering drew her companion’s attention. The accompanying loud pop beyond her walls drew her wolfish ally onto all fours, which roused Ellana from her preoccupations. Stepping out of her quiet quarters into the atrium, now largely undisturbed by the chantry’s most devoted, Ellana pressed forward with caution, each footstep was soundless as thick, calloused feet pressed deeply into cold stone. As she skulked around the stony architecture, the one-way cacophony of conversation continued and she reached for a thin Dalish knife concealed in an ornate hilt at her thigh; habits of survival buried deep within her blood. Skyhold was secure, however its walls didn’t render her safety as absolute, and that was no fault of the Inquisitor’s. Until she could put words to a face, which had currently been obscured by a tall garden statue, she remained alert. 

As the warrior rounded into the garden fully, an amber gaze shifted unto her form. She knew exactly who intruded on her state of peace almost instantaneously despite any official meeting, and it was with a heavy sigh that Ellana came to fold her arms across her chest, abandoning the need for self defence. An indisputable presence and stature that was easy to place, Garrett’s reputation preceded him, and while she hadn’t expected him to be quite so large and so absurdly unaware of his own spacial awareness, there was no mistaking the Champion of Kirkwall.

He continued on, drink after drink, unfiltered thoughts rolling off his tongue. As he found temporary solace against an aged, ornate bench, it was wonder how it hadn’t buckled beneath his bulk and brawn. But Ellana considered that she had, perhaps, been the first person he’d spoken to in quite some time. At least, it seemed that way. Varric refused to betray even a hint of information about Hawke save for the flourished publication of his victory over the incidents in Kirkwall. With a gentle tilt of her head, the warrior continued to observe him, her eyes reflecting with her shift in position within the dark. 

“So you have come seeking counsel?” She responded evenly, moving towards the bench with slow, calculated steps. Her neutral expression faltered with the quirk of her brow, electing to simply ignore his inquiries. Her time with the Inquisition had softened her some to humanity—just enough for an ember of sympathy to warm her core to whatever he prattled on about. Not necessarily the incessant groaning over terrible alcohol or the whining about demons and the world’s state of affairs that she stood on the front lines against, but she had enough sympathy for a man who wore the burden of a shackled city like a mantle. Garrett was a shem she had a modicum of respect for, even if he was behaving like a pouting infant. 

███  CENAH; //.   BRIGHT, BEAMING. WARM SMILES DRESS her as she rushes down the steps of tarasyl’an te’las, little steps but oh so many making sure she wouldn’t trip—- moving to jump the last several to land on the soft earth. a giggle on her lips, oh so bubbly as she then moves toward the grand gate to meet that of ellana fresh & back from an excursion.  ＂ aneth ara, asa’ma’lin ! ＂ her mood no doubt infectious to most around her. hands would fold behind her,  ＂ i take it everything went well ? you aren’t covered in blood so that’s a good sign.＂  /  @sulahnnan​

Snow crunches beneath her feet as she approached Tarasyl’an Te’las, her personal retinue of companions not far behind her. As the gate was drawn open to reveal her sister, Ellana released a quiet breath which was made visible by the brume that formed around her mouth, dissipating the further it rose into the frigid air.

@sulahnnan​ is here to protect clan lavellan

An emissary of the Dalish, that’s how Josephine had announced their guest. Solas had words - several paragraphs’ worth - disparaging the title, and for once, Nahele had to agree. The shem spoke of “the Dalish” as a monolith, as if one person could represent all the scattered clans across Thedas. 

Nahele felt out of place in the middle of the Chantry-turned-headquarters of Cassandra’s Inquisition. It had no throne, no dais, but they managed to center Nahele smack in the middle of it, the only elf of the bunch of Andrastians would’ve been the natural fit to “welcome” this guest, even if she hadn’t been Herald. Her toes curled on the cold stone ground. She felt the eyes of courtiers, chantry sisters, and refugees on her ragged old hunting clothes and muddy bare feet. She felt their gazes linger on her ears, her vallaslin, and the pulsing green mark curled in her fist. Her amber eyes sought a familiar face, and was surprised to see Solas lurking near the entrance, unobtrusive behind one of the many pillars. He did not often come to these diplomatic meetings, but this “Dalish emissary” had sparked his curiosity as much as her own.

As the emissary strode into the great hall, there was no fanfare or pomp. Nahele’s keen eyes recognized her before she stepped into the light, and her heart skipped. “Lethallan!” she gasped, shoving off the Inquisition protocol and taking the hall in a few large steps. She skidded to a stop before her clan mate, hands clasping her strong arms. 

Damn their eyes, for this was, at last, someone she knew, and trusted. Someone real in this foreign artifice that had consumed her.

“Tuelanen i'na,” she said. Creators be with you. “Are you hungry?” she continued in Elvhen. “You must have traveled for weeks. Are you well? Is the clan?”

Her fingers tightened on Ellana’s arms, wanting to embrace her but not willing to give the court and Chantry that precious glimpse into her private life. “Let us speak elsewhere,” she said in a low voice, still in their native tongue. “Away from these shem, so we can speak freely.”

Nahele turned to Josephine, her eyes catching Solas’ for a moment. She offered a small nod, all is well, and he offered one in return, slipping back into the bowels of the castle. “This is an emissary of Clan Lavellan,” Nahele said in Common. “We will take food in my room, please.”

Josephine bowed her head, muttering “In your ‘chambers,’ my lady,” before ushering the gawkers away. 

Nahele grinned at Josie’s futile attempts to domesticate her, and tightened her grip on Ellana’s arm. No need now for human formalities. Ellana was here, and Ellana meant home. “Come with me, lethallan,” Nahele said in Elvhen again, pulling Ellana gently toward the side door to her private room, near the old Chantry dungeons. “You can tell me why you’ve come, and I can show you our horses.”

Wrapped in furs, Ellana pressed through the snowy mountain range and followed the incline towards Haven. Her arrival on the Chantry’s doorstep was an unexpected one, and truthfully, she was not met with kind eyes. Wary gazes like daggers leered at her approach, weapons readied with the adjustment of heavy limbs made stiff from the templars’ uneventful watch. With a lift of her chin, Ellana cast her gaze across the training yard where the exhausted beginnings of a militia stared at her with incredulity. Locking eyes with a soldier for but a moment, the warrior exhaled abruptly in a disgusted huff before marching forth irritably. 

“I am an envoy of clan Lavellan,” despite her irritation, she kept her composure and pulled back the hood of her cloak to expose her face. With her head held high, she maintained prolonged eye contact with a heavily armoured soldier on guard before the chantry. “I have arrived on behalf of Keeper Istimaethoriel. I will speak with your Inquisitor.” Came a firm demand, and after some deliberation and a delayed missive received, she was granted entrance. 

As the chanty’s towering doors opened inward, gold hues glanced up at the high ceiling and dark aisles. With a disinterested shift in her attention, Ellana focused her gaze ahead of herself, finding a familiar face at the far end of the nave. An overwhelming sense of relief washed over her as Nahele dipped out of the far room and sprinted through the quiet halls. A shadow of a smile pulled across her lips as the Inquisitor reached her, both of Nahele’s hands welcoming her. 

“Do not concern yourself over me, lethallan.” She settled a gloved hand over Nahele’s grip, choosing their shared language over common tongue. From her terse appearance, the words that rolled across her tongue were far more gentle than expected. “We are worried for you. Have they harmed you?” Ellana gave the hand on her bicep a concerned squeeze, her second limb lifting to grasp Nahele’s chin, turning her face left and right to examine her features for any sign that she might have been in danger. 

—But her eyes narrowed as Josephine spoke, head whipping in the scribe’s direction. Ellana bristled, as if the comment alone was enough to ignite her suspicions; that the conditions and this cage Nahele was being kept within proved the clan’s concerns to be true. Nahele’s redirection, however, drew the warrior back mid-pounce, and Ellana pushed the bubbling fury into a roiling simmer. 

The hunt had been plentiful, but all that was taken was what was required. A mix of harvested edible and medicinal components by younger, more novice hunters who had yet to earn their titles as such, whose satchels overflowed with herbs and floral ingredients. Alongside them was Ellana, and few others whose jobs were to mentor, as well as to feed and supply their clan for some days to come. She knelt and pressed her hands into the fur of the animal who became the source of their livelihood, the object of their hunt, and to it she gave thanks. With precise and methodical actions, Ellana sighed the Way of Three Trees beneath her breath as she prepared the animal for transport. “Fly straight and do not waver,” she breathed as her palm pressed into the ram’s dense fur, fingers curling firmly around the shaft of the fatal arrow that had been shot. “Bend, but do not break,” came another muffled prayer as she moved unto her knees, strong body positioned above the creature, and finally: “receive gifts of the hunt with mindfulness”. With her body poised, the arrow was withdrawn and set aside; a gesture meant to appreciate, but also respect the dead — for the sacrifice made meant the well-being of many more.

The young hunter rolled back and her toes pressed into the earth once again, but it was with such an action that she felt her body tremble — as if the earth itself had frozen beneath her. A looming sense of danger surged through her body as she lifted her head and strained her ears through the chatter of her clan’s companions. A faint scraping of metal upon metal and cries of agony muffled by the wind through the trees brought Ellana to her feet, and instantly she drew the attention of her allies to the faint sounds in the distance obscured by the forest’s sighs.

With the younger hunters left with the Andruil’s gift and a singular, seasoned clansman to lead them back, Ellana pressed through the foliage alongside several others to investigate the sounds that had cut through the rustling of leaves. Their movements were silent across the earth and through the underbrush, but their intrusion into what they discovered was to leave an everlasting impression.

The clattering black armour of foreign men highlighted by summoned magic and wisps that pressed through the edges of the veil drew her attention first. Second had been the blood pooled around lifeless forms and stained the weapons held high within the air. Third was the source of ire; a defenceless but still surviving soul surrounded by an overwhelming force. A conflict that, without hesitation, Ellana and the hunting party alongside her readily jumped into. 

A flurry of unseen arrows cut through the din of night, effectively drawing the attention of the unknown assailants, and Ellana burst from the foliage into the moon’s glow with a fighting force at her heels. While many stayed back and nocked more arrows to keep the unfamiliar forces at bay, she dashed into combat like a feral animal. Her skin shone and her eyes glowed like a predatory feline; a golden hue beneath wispy tendrils pulled loose from a tight braid. With her bow long-since discarded, she opted for being a physical force of raw strength and the use of her hunting daggers for close combat should she need to strike through into any weak points in the skirmish that was to come.

ANIMAL: stag COLOUR:  yellow / gold MONTH: July SONG: Golden Embers NUMBER: twelve DAY OR NIGHT: day PLANT: lotus SMELL: damp earth, moss & floral undertones SEASON: summer FOOD: lotus root MUSICAL INSTRUMENT: violin ELEMENT: earth DRINK: green and herbal teas