#dethra lavellan

1.) What did she fear most as a child? What is it that she fears now?

As a child Dethra feared the stories Keeper Deshanna told in the light of the fire. She loved to listen, her eyes wide and her breath bated with every word while the stories of her gods and her people were woven before her. The stories of revenge and dark spirits and evil, trickster gods were always vivid and, in so, when the firelight dwindled and her clan began to walk back to their tents with gentle laughter and whispers of sleep, her eye would turn to the darkness. Sometimes she thought she saw a shadow move within the darkness and eyes stare back at her, other times as rested within her aravel she thought she heard the cries of the Dread Wolf hunting down her and her clan.

Nowadays, she doesn’t fear the shadows in the dark or the eyes that stare back. She’d seen what stares in the unknown and only feels sadness for its existence. Nowadays, she fears her choices and if they were wrong. She obsesses over her choices, going over each one while she tired to re-imagine different scenarios and outcomes and choices; praying to anything that would listen that she had done everything in her power to postpone her world’s end.

2.) What would be some musicians/bands she would listen to?

First Aid Kit

Ibeyi

Alt-J

The Civil Wars

Iyeoka

3.) What would she think of her teenage self?

Considering the events that Dethra has been through she’d probably view her younger self as naive or innocent, maybe even a little foolish. She might even consider her younger self free and unbounded to anything but her clan and the land. Truthfully, I can almost see her being jealous or envious towards her younger self and maybe even a bit sorrowful for the events she knows will befall herself.

4.) It’s late at night, what wakes her up?

It is the cool breeze that shutters through her open widows that pulls her from the embrace of sleep. The scent of elfroot, a dying fire, and dew covered leaves making her eyes flutter and her heart pause in confusion and wonderment. For a second she believes she’s back with her clan; as if everything she had witnessed had just been some terrible dream that Keeper Deshanna would hush away, but she is wrong and the shadowed curtains of her windows flap against the wall and bring with it the cool mountain air that forces the fire to bend to its will and die.

5.) How involved with politics is she?

Very. Being that she was the Inquisitor and was quite skilled with mastering the courts and blending in, she found herself in the middle of many things. For awhile it seemed her opinion was the opinion of the masses and her words were the will of the world... that is until years later and many feared her power and sway over some masses.

6.) Would she eat a live bug for 100 gold?

No. Simple as that. She may have been raised in a constantly moving clan but she never so desperate to eat a living bug.

7.) How does she react to magic tricks?

Magic is nothing new to her, and neither are tricks. But to see someone with no capabilities for magic pull a coin from behind her ear as her pleasantly puzzled and enthralled.

She leans in closer to watch, her eyes wide and her breath caught in her throat as if she is afraid she’ll miss something if she breaths. “Do it again, please.” she’ll ask in voice like a child’s or a “Teach me.” leaving her mouth so quietly as if she feared she would break the moment.

8.) What is her favorite snack?

Her favorite snack is probably frilly cakes or sticky buns. She loves sweets and on a bad day can be seen stuffing them in her mouth to drown the bitterness with the taste of frosting and cinnamon.

9.) How would she react to being trolled on the internet?

She probably wouldn’t get but would get progressively more annoyed with it the more it happened and would probably learn to never click links on any website.

10.) How would she type in a chat?

“hey, could u do me a favour? it seems i’ve locked myself out. “

“yeah, the # is 5555555555″

11.) How does she feel about sex?

As many would assume, Dethra isn’t a super sexual person. Yes she enjoys it, and no it isn’t her lover. Truthfully, Dethra isn’t that into sex and sees it more as a “when the mood is right” sort of action rather than something to be done willy-nilly.

To herself she is classified as demisexual.

12.) If something smells really good would she taste it? Even if it was body lotion or something?

Hell to the no. Yes it  may smell good but growing up with the intention to be the next Keeper teaches you that just because may seem(smell) good, doesn’t mean it is.

13.) How much does she care about her word choice? Will she feel bad if she offends someone?

Truthfully, Dethra is extremely careful when it comes to word choice but she has come to accept that she cannot appease everyone. If you do one thing, someone is going to mad at you because they believe their way is right.

Earlier, Dethra may have cared, worried that she would offend a great mass and cause more trouble but eventually once more people came to look for help from her organization she decided she couldn’t help but offend and try and set balance to the world gone sideways.

14.) How does she feel about religion? Does she follow any?

She’s rather indifferent about it. Yes, she was raised to believe in the creators but as time went on she began to see those stories her Keeper wove as just that: stories. Sometimes she finds herself praying to the creators and mumbling their names under her breath but it is more of a reflex, a charm then any sort of religious significance.

Nowadays, she really doesn’t follow any religion. She’s a bit jaded and truthfully believes more in the deeds of man than some great gods that existed in her childhood stories.

15.) How would someone that likes her describe her?

Her words are powerful, and full full of good intentions that always ring true from start to finish. She works herself hard and never seems to struggle, only faltering with humility and lives in her hands. She has a batch of her own humor, stale and sneaky but somehow always laugh worthy. Wise beyond her age she is an old soul, a tender motherly woman with her hand always extended to those she loves and calls friend; her only fault the betrayal and distrust that burns with in her like Hellfire.

16.) How would someone that doesn’t like her describe her?

She burns like a pyre. Rage and pride boiling through her like magma that threatens to spill from her lips like venom. She is a naive character, trusting her friends too much even when they’ve done nothing to prove it. She strives on her lonesome, yet her skill to speak is good enough to sway a court of mindless men and women. She believes in nothing and nothing more than a savage, but still the masses cry out to her like some queen when all she was was someone in the way.

Her existence was pure chance.

17.) If she had a blog what would she write about?

If Dethra had a blog is would probably be based around books and DIYs, her entire home page a complete mess because she has no clue how to code anything or make a website look presentable.

18.) Which of Howard Gardener’s intelligence types describe her?

Naturalist and Linguistics

19.) Does she believe in astrology? What is her star sign?

Probably not the fortunes but the idea that certain people with the same star sign have similar ideologies is something she is willing to go for. In fact her star sign matches her personality perfectly which is Gemini.

20.) Does she believe in life after death?

Dethra, in her own way, does believe there is more after death. She doesn’t know where it goes but she’s witnessed ghosts and the affects the living and recently deceased have on the land so there is little else she can believe besides there is more out there. Truthfully, she doesn’t really know and she really doesn’t care to just as long as she’s reunited with her loved ones in the end.

21.) What does she do with a drunken sailor?

Take them home or dump them on their poop deck.

[pause for effect... Did you get it?]

22.) Which sense would she get rid of to strength her other senses?

Probably taste. She’d hate it but she depends on seeing, hearing, and smell as of her life depends on them.

23.) Does she believe in extraterrestrials?

No.

24.) Does she tend to follow her heart or her mind more?

She tends to follow her heart. She is a very emotion ran person and in so tends to follow the whims of her heart even though she may scold herself for it later in life or later in the day.

25.) Does she like children?

She falls back in the grass with a disgruntled noise, looking up to the raven hair Seeker hovering over her. A look of disbelief and impatience is present in Casandra’s eyes, her thin lips taut as she extends a hand to the Herald of Andraste, the newly found Inqusitor.

“You’re not very good at this are you?” Casandra asks, heat rising to Dethra’s face as she grips her mentor’s hand and pulls herself up. Mud and mountain chill already working their number against her training gear: a simple white cotton shirt and a pair of dark slacks.

Picking up her sword again Dethra sighs, forcing herself into an inorganic stance that makes her feel like she’s waddling all while she moves. “I wouldn’t be so bad at this if you didn’t throw me to the ground every time I swing.” She defends as the eyes of soldiers and common folk alike bore into her. Their desperation and hopes weighing down on her back as she raises her dull sword with a tremble she barely notices.

 There are so many people depending on her, so many souls in her hands, so many places to go wrong…It is all her.

 The sudden force of metal meeting metal startles Dethra from her trance, a ringing in her ears as she stumbles back against the blow and stares in awe. The world around her is muddled, closing in on her as the sword in her hand feels like a weight attached to her wrist. Dethra tries to find her stability, that ability to keep going even after a mountain fell on her and hide her fear even after she came face to face to something from fable.

“Dethra! Pay attention!” Cassandra calls out as metal clashes against metal in an attempt to pull the Inquisitor from her fuzzy awareness. Dethra’s eyes blink, the fuzziness gone as her chest heaves and she throws her sword to the ground like its burned her.

“Dethra?” Cassandra calls in disbelief as the very woman she calls out for backs away slowly. “I’m sorry. I...” Dethra’s voice is distant, her eyes on the ground as warmth floods her eyes and flows down her cheeks like magma. Wiping at her eyes, Dethra remembers where she is; who she is, and without so much a thought Dethra turns on her heel and moves towards the throne room of Skyhold like the very demon she fears is at her heels.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra calls to deaf ears, heads turning and lips moving in wonderment as Cassandra watches the retreating figure bump shoulders with a confused looking commander. He watches Dethra for a minute, his papers in hand and runners pausing behind as Cullen tries to make sense of the weakness in the Inquisitor’s apology and the water shimmering on her cheeks. After but a moment Cullen’s eyes return forward, a crease in his brow as he finds Cassandra and approaches her.

“Is something the matter with the Inquisitor?” Cullen asks while Cassandra picks the tossed sword from the ground up slowly. “I can’t be sure.” Cassandra sighs, “She was fine when we first started sparring but she just grew disheartened… I wonder if I was too rough.” She mumbles the last bit under her breath, looking to the sword she had just picked up.

Both warriors are silent as they look to the general direction of the throne room, Cullen’s frown melting away as he looked back to his friend and placed a hand over her shoulder. Patting the armor in what he hoped was comforting. “Do not worry, she’ll cool off soon enough.” But the commander’s words did little to comfort Cassandra.

 The Inquisitor had locked herself away in her room it seemed. The last sights of her being of her rushing past nobles and Varric alike to get to her room and close it behind her. “Sweets moved in a hurry, didn’t even spare me a wave. Seemed real upset, you do something Curly?” The dwarf complained once Cullen had come over to ask him of the Inquisitor. “Of course not.” Cullen scoffed, a grimace pulling at his lips as he moved away from the dwarf and to the back of the throne room.

Cullen moved through the first door with no hesitance, his steps slowing as he reached the inner door to the main room. His knuckle hovered lightly over the dark wood the door, a nervousness keeping him in place. What exactly was he going to say her once he saw her and she was crying? As history will have it, crying girls, or women in general, have never been a strong suit for Cullen. Yet, even as he contemplated leaving the Inquisitor to her own devices couldn’t bring himself to turn back.

  He wanted to make sure she was okay.

 Knuckles knocking against the wood, he paused, listening for the gentle permission Cullen to let himself in. However, everything was silent beyond the door. Not even the sound of shuffling picked up by the strained ear of the commander.

“I’m coming in.” Cullen called out to the silence as he opened the unsurprisingly unlocked door. Really, she had to be more careful, less trusting or else someone might just take advantage.

“I didn’t know I was expecting company.” A voice chuckles, the gentle tone causing Cullen’s guard to lower slightly as he scanned the large, though mostly empty room. The afternoon light was spilling through the decorated glass, a chilled wind rustling through the room and disturbing the training clothes Dethra had been wearing earlier and the papers upon her desk. Still, the Inquisitor was nowhere to be seen in her room.

 “I didn’t mean to barge, but I was...” Cullen stalled, his eyes wondering so that he could catch a glimpse of the Inquisitor, “wondering if you wanted to talk?”

“There is nothing to talk about.” Dethra responds forcefully as Cullen grimaces, her voice leading him to one of the opened balconies that overlook the courtyard.

When Cullen finally reaches the open doors, he sees her. She’s leaning against the stone railing, her eyes facing the setting sun as the orange light shrouds her is a warmth Cullen finds ethereal.

“Please,” Cullen sighs as he moves himself beside her, elbows rest against the stone as he watches Dethra rub at her eyes. “Talk to me, Inquisitor.” Cullen tries only to hear as Dethra chokes on a sound he knows to be a sob.

“I hate that title.” She mourns, “It’s all that’s I am now. A damned title.”

“Inquist— “

“Please, call me Dethra or Lavellan or Rabbit or Knife Ear! Anything…” her voice chokes, her bottom lip quivering like something from a sappy romance novel made in Orlais. “Anything but Inquisitor.” Dethra tries again, as Cullen is left silent and confused. He can feel his eyebrows pulling together, his hand raising to rub the confusion and tension from the back of his neck.

“I don’t understand.” Cullen tries, trying to will the woman to speak even if she just grew angrier with him. “I guess you wouldn’t.” the elven woman scoffs sadly, her words falling low in her throat as she tries to fight off the onslaught of red colored emotions that grasp her.

"I'm just a woman." She seethes, hands curled into fists against the stones like she wants to hit something or hold something in. Her teeth are gritted closed, eyes open as they look to the world that depends on her, to the men and women below her that look to her like she was anything but "just." She can feel their hopes and fears weighing down on her even from her perch upon the balcony, her eyes rushing with warmth all over again.

“I think you’re more than just a woman…” Cullen speaks cautiously, his hand coming to rest over one of Dethra’s closed fists. He can feel her shake beneath his touch, her breath leaving her as she squeezes her eyes closed in an attempt to block him out or the entire world he didn’t know. “Yes, you may be one person, but you are also the only woman I know that would face an Archdemon and a Chantry legend by their lonesome." Cullen can hear the scoff Dethra produces beside him but he smiles all the same, watching as her eyes open and look to him. Her eyes of hazel warm and blotched red with the tears she had wiped away as she looked to Cullen.

“But you’re not alone.” Cullen adds, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. Her eyes are wide and the warmth she’d been fight behind her eyes rushes forward, Cullen’s words acting as a trigger as the weigh on her back seems to lighten just a bit.

“You have Cassandra and Josephine and Leliana, their always there to offer an alternative and a shoulder.”

“What about you?” Dethra asks, gold clashing with hazel as Cullen looks to her in bewilderment. He stares, lost as he swallows down the lump that forms in his throat. A sudden intensity is in her eyes as they keep eye contact, the life and fire in her eyes making Cullen’s cheek warm and his hand raise to rub the back of his neck. A nervous habit.

“Of course you have me. I made that pretty obvious, didn’t I?” Cullen tries to huff away his confession, eyes glancing to the tiny world below them. “Yes,” Dethra sighs, a gentle though small smile on her lips as she moves closer to Cullen. “I just wanted to hear it out loud.” Cullen meets her eyes, his own smile pulling at his lips as he nods.

There is a breeze from snow topped mountains that flows down to the glistening city, the cool wind chilling the bones of all who hear the cry within the gale. The cry of a woman whose name has been long forgotten to the changing times. Her voice is said to corrupt the spirits of the city into something dark, something twisted and no longer of this world. Though the crier has no name many say she is a being of a world long since burned away.

With fear there is the desire for simplicity so the people gave their fear a name: Nan’asha, woman of vengeance.

None knew why they saw her as a spirit of vengeance but many swore they felt the anger in her voice. Flames of rage licking at their subconscious as if someone had done them a great wrong, as if the listener themselves were Nan’asha. Her anger becoming theirs as the listener’s sight went red with rage. If she was not a spirit of vengeance she was a spirit of unfathomable rage.

Many of the sparkling city’s young would whisper and spin stories of Nan’asha. They said that she was a young woman who died in the mountains, mourning her own loss as she no longer had a life to live. Others, women especially, claimed her to be a spirit of a woman who had lost everything. Many claimed her to be ugly. Others said she was extremely lovely, with hair of midnight and eyes of hazel. While none agreed on who she was, all agreed on one thing: upon her face she had a tattoo; the wings of some great creature spread upon her forehead and cheeks.

Through the nights many feared Nan’asha, they feared her blind rage and her tattooed face. They feared her eyes, hazel turning red against the darkened shadows of their houses. They feared her cry, the sound that spurred such an emotion not many could make since of her feelings. But Solas, the scarred elder,  understood.

Solas heard her cries many a times and he could not understand why he felt guilty. When he listened he felt his heart clench, his throat tighten and burn. He could not fathom why he was not invoked with the same feeling of anger but instead pity, guilt.

On certain nights while he slept and Nan’asha was crying with the wind he dreamed, if you could call it that. He dreamt of beige walls covered in vivid shapes and bold lines of black and a friend with too many questions. Of watching a friend smiling at a golden eyed man, her fingers lingering on his hands as she wished him good health and safety before she left for some unseen danger. He dreamed of a spirit who became too human and hung on every word a storyteller spun.

He dreamt of the past. A past from a world that was swallowed up by green flames. On nights such as those Solas cried, curling his fingers to his palms as he wiped away that tears that streamed down his face.

“Forgive me.” He would whisper as if those he had killed could hear him. But he knew they could not. They were gone, even their spirts would not have been able to survive, he had barely survived.

In the mornings he would move slowly, water blue eyes staring over a landscape he had worked so hard to rebuild. He could not let ghosts of the past haunt him now, it was at least a millennia in the past now. And yet, things were still uncertain, his work was not yet done.

To his mirror Solas walked, bags of sleepless nights hanging heavily under his eyes. He would blame his dreamless nights on his constant worry of the Evanuris but now he couldn’t be sure. For a while Nan’asha had grown louder and constant. It was an issue for himself as well as the common people who hurried into their houses as soon as the sky began to darken.

It was time he faced Nan’asha. A spirit of compassion he theorized that had been corrupted by someone. Perhaps he could bring it peace.

 “Do not go there, elder.” Warned a young woman, though her eyes spoke the age her skin did not prove in wrinkles or graying hairs. She paused in front of Solas, her stance rigid as she stopped the elven man from continuing on with his journey. It was odd how firm the woman was even with her knowledge of who he was.

“I am sorry?” Solas inquired, hopeful that the woman was more insightful then those he had asked about Nan’asha. He watched the woman shake her head, short locks of sun colored hair catching the light.

“All who wish to brave Nan’asha never succeed. I don’t think there is anything you can do to calm her.” She said no more, looking up at the towering mountain, eyes dimming for a moment as a gust of wind ripped through them though the song of the spirit was silent. “The things she looks for are no longer here I believe.” The woman sounded sad, and for some reason Solas seemed to feel that way to.

The wind was silent, the voice of Nan’asha still as Solas waved the woman goodbye. The woman did not wave back. She only stared up and sighed, turning her back on him as she went along on her way as if she had hoped that Solas had taken her advice against walking the paths of unkempt moss. Yet, Solas continued to walk, leather boots meeting the dirt with a certainty that kept him going. 

Yet, as Solas walked up to overgrown pass to the peak of the mountains where Nan’asha was thought to dwell the wind was dead still, silent and with a tense that made Solas’ stand at the ready. It felt as if the spirit was waiting for him.

“You’ve come.” the wind whispers as Solas reaches a level upon the mountain. The field is rich in green, grasses and flowers of spring sprouting despite the chill that nips at Solas’ ears and nose.

“Who speaks? Show yourself.” Solas can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand, eyes wide and searching around the grasses. It isn’t long before something crackles in the air, waves of magic laying against his skin in familiar tingles; the bust of a spirit appearing among the swaying grass.

“Do you remember her?” the spirit echoes, red magic glistening against green as deep, depthless eyes of white starring back. Solas looks to the spirit, taking in the indistinguishable facial features, the face blurry like it couldn’t make up its mind. “She remembers you, Solas,”

“How did you..?”

“You were her friend, companion, confidant, Hahren,” the spirit pauses, a sudden distressed cry escaping the spirit as it seems to fall in on itself. “Murderer! You murdered me! My family!” the spirit cries in anger and suddenly Solas is sick to his stomach, wheezing and holding his stomach as he tears his sights from the spirit. “You were my friend! She trusted you!”

“Be still!” Solas yells but spirit only continues, crying into the wind with a song of grief and betrayal. “You cannot be her!” Solas tries to rationalize, his heart thudding and his throat tight as his fist tighten around the stave that holds him upright.

“It is she! It is me! It is her... my memory! She... I remember everything; the sky green and burning. The wounds I had closed falling apart like stones and falling to the earth in fire. I watched as it all crept closer and all I could do was,” the spirits voice breaks, the grass around it singeing as the smell of fire flitted in the air.

“Stop, please.” Solas cries, falling to his knees in the dirt unable to hold himself up against the grief that held him.

“All I could do was hold my beloved close while he held our weeping son! He never got to see his third year!” the spirit roared, Rage erupting like lava as fire spilt over the grass; the first demon Solas had seen since the start of this new world charging at him as embers swirled behind it.

“You killed them!” it screamed as it raised its fire molten claws over Solas’ head while Solas stumbled back, throwing his hands up as icy crystals bit at his finger tips. With hurried words Solas threw the ice at the demon, the beast frozen solid as it stood over the his panicked body.

He stared, the lava and fire frozen and dead beneath the ice. He knew the ice wouldn’t hold much longer but he didn’t know if he could do it, if he could kill her again... but he had to. To bring her peace as well as the poor spirit that empathized with her.

“I am sorry, lethallan.” Solas chocked as he slowly rose to his feet, whispering the words of a spell under his breath as he watched the demon break from the ice only to fall in a puddle. The beast clawed at the ground, scratching at the dirt as if it not yet done until it stopped and went away with the magic that created it.

“Dethra.” Solas mourned, falling to his knees again as his visioned blurred with hot tears, “I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”

The elven man cried, fists curled into the dirt as he remembers the friend with too many questions; the friend smiling at a golden eyed man, her fingers lingering on his hands as she wished him good health and safety before she left for some unseen danger; the friend he cared for; the friend he had killed.