#eshalineva lavellan

Neva Lavellan & Cassandra Pentagast, for @dadrunkwriting​ & @midnightprelude​

“No, I don’t,” Neva replies gaze steadily and unwaveringly fixed upon Cassandra, challenging, reading her every expression and movement for her reaction. She’s said it before, of course, on the way back from Val Royeaux after they’d met with the sisters and had their run-in with the Lord Seeker. It was bound to happen sooner or later that she would eventually ask her outright, and look for a way to hear more of her views on the matter now she was staying and has a position of growing importance within the Inquisition.

The Seeker starts to offer up something about there perhaps being room in the Pantheon for one more before Neva loses the little patience she had for this sort of conversation and cuts her off. Isn’t it the Maker, the Chantry that doesn’t believe there is room for any other but their God? And anyway, she doesn’t believe in her Clan’s chosen deities either. This seems to take her by surprise.

“You don’t-” Cassandra manages, looking more than a little confused. 

Neva shakes her head. She knows how it must look from the outside. The tattoos on her face. Magic in her veins. The Second to the Keeper in her Clan. Though, in fairness, perhaps it is that very skepticism, her lack of faith and devotion that made the Keeper think her other student would make a better choice for her First. She knows all the stories of the Pantheon well enough, she simply doesn’t believe they’re anything more than legends, than people who lived once long ago, admirable, perhaps, heroic, possibly, but their fallibility erased over the years and replaced immortality as they were raised to pedestals of virtues and skills. Not unlike Andraste, although Neva is quite sure such a comparison would not go over well with the right hand of the Divine. 

To the Void with it, she makes the comparison anyway. It’s not as if she is anywhere near the top of the Seeker’s list of favorite people. Besides, there’s a slight satisfaction that comes in seeing her so ruffled after weeks of hearing her name absolutely butchered by all these Shems before she finally conceded to offer them a shortened version. What are they going to do, burn her at the stake? They may not often see eye to eye at the moment, but she’s reasonably confident Solas would have mentioned if they were anywhere near close to replicating or somehow riding her of this mark to set about closing these rifts without the help of a heretical and apostate Dalish Elf.

Tagged by: @sulevinblade Thank you! I love doing these. Since I have so many OC’s I’m going to do a post for each so I don’t have an incredibly LONG post, so sorry about what that’s going to do for your activity page. XD

I’m terrible with tags and I have no idea who else hasn’t done this yet, so if you see this and are interested in participating/sharing consider yourself tagged, and feel free to tag me so I can learn about your OCs too. :)

― your muse’s name:

Eshalineva “Neva” Lavellan

― one favorite picture / faceclaim of your muse:

― two headcanons you have for your muse:

Bitter from the perceived slight of being named Deshanna’s Second rather than her First, Neva begins looking for other ways to prove herself. Shortly after the announcement, she takes to secretly stalking the hunters and developing skills in both tracking and trapping. 

Neva deliberates for some time about what sort of specialization she should undertake at Skyhold. She is initially very tempted to learn more about becoming a Rift Mage, but is ultimately scared of history repeating itself- that she might be seen as less valuable or her efforts wasted with Solas already so proficient and knowledgable. She eventually opts for becoming a Knight Enchanter, supplemented with her own research about the Emerald Knights, because it feels like a means of reclaiming a bit of her people’s history and seems a more proactive way of defending her companions and the people/things she holds dearest.

― three things that your muse likes doing in their free time:

Hiking/exploring, singing, ice dancing

― seven people your muse loves/likes:

She’s often so prickly, I’m not certain she allows herself to get close enough to people to have seven... Solas, Cole, Leliana, The Iron Bull, Keeper Deshanna  (Bit of a love/hate there)

― a phobia your muse has:

Bold what applies, italicize what sometimes applies

Eshalineva Lavellan x Solas

Eshalineva Lavellan & Solas (Pre-relationship), for @dadrunkwriting

“A prayer for them,” Solas asks curiously as the young elf slowly rises to her feet once more, gently brushing the first from the knees of her pants. Neva nods softly, a small frown down at the bodies of the wolves whose blood is slowly spilling across the ground beneath them.

“Yes,” Neva confirms quietly, turning to face the other elf who studies her intently. Solas is not an easy person to read, not, Neva thinks amending her assessment, unless he wishes to be. Still, she can almost read the thoughts that flit across his face now. He has seen her slay countless demons, Venatori, bandits, rogue Templars, and mages. She has never faltered. Never showed a moment’s hesitation in cutting them down, nor a moment’s regret afterward. She has never stopped to say a prayer for any of them.

“It’s just a shame,” she supplies finally with a heavy sigh. “You saw the demon. It possessed them, or maybe it drove them mad. But they’re wild animals, they can’t help but behave as such. They kill a sheep here or there when they wander too far out, and run at the first sign of torches. But this,” she gestures with a sweep to the bodies of the other wolves and the demon lying in front of them. “This wasn’t their fault. If there had been some other way,” she trails off sadly, thinking briefly of a previous conversation with the other elf- of a world where spirits and the living might try to find a way to coexist somehow or other. “They’re beautiful, majestic, incredibly intelligent creatures, wolves. They aren’t just mindless killers, that’s simply what the demon made of them.”

“The refugees,” Neva continues, turning her attention momentarily to Cassandra and gesturing to the dead wolves. “They were hungry. They asked for some rams, but they could put this slaughter to use if they aren’t too proud of picky. If not them, then perhaps our scouts or soldiers,” she suggests and the warrior nods. “Their deaths needn’t be wasted, at least.”

“I will go tell the scouts at the camp. Someone can come collect and deliver them to the Crossroads,” the Seeker replies with another nod before making her way down the path towards the two Inquisition soldiers they passed on the way up here.

She can still feel Solas watching her as she turns her attention back to him once more. “You disapprove?”

“Not at all, Da’len,” Solas replies shaking his head with the smallest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “On the contrary, I was just admiring your reverence and frugality.” Neva snorts softly shaking her head in disbelief. She’s not certain anyone has ever accused her of being either of those things before but there is, she thinks glancing down to the mark on her hand, a first time for everything.

“But,” Neva presses, sensing he is holding something back.

“But you have said you don’t believe in the Pantheon or the Maker, so may I ask whom it is you offer your prayers to?”

“Fen’Harel,” Neva replies with a small shrug and quite without pause as if this answer ought to be perfectly obvious. “They are pack animals. If there is someone, some higher power looking out for them, who better than the Dread Wolf?” Neva shrugs once more, turning her attention back to the damage she and her armor have taken in the fight and adjusting the bag on her belt where she’s collected some more Elfroot for future use. “I don’t know. I suppose in the end all we know are our stories, people’s versions of events and people long gone if they were ever real in the first place. I don’t believe in any gods. Not truly, certainly not with the kind of fervor or devotion that seems expected to be called ‘faithful,’ but I always liked the stories about Fen’Harel,” Neva admits. “I like to think he’d have a bit of a soft spot for the really clever creatures,” she continues with a final wan smile back towards the felled beasts as the group makes their way down the bank to the river to wash away what blood they can.

Eshalineva “Neva” Lavellan post “In Your Heart Shall You Burn” for @dadrunkwriting

Neva stirs, broken wood boards and various rubble shifting around her as she pulls herself upright with a hiss and agonizing slowness. A broken rib, perhaps two if she had to guess, she thinks with a wince, hand darting to clutch her side as she forces herself to draw slower, more shallow breaths, and pushes herself to her feet. She threw herself into the first hole she could find as the snow of the remaining nearby mountain buried Haven and any sign of the Inquisition, indeed perhaps even the Chantry of ever having been there. It was dark, late evening when Corypheus’ forces were first spotted. A glance upwards to the hole in the ceiling high above proves the same, but it’s impossible to be certain of how long she’s been unconscious.

She appears to be in some kind of cave beneath the village. The occasional unlit torch, carved stone steps and planks suggest it must lead out somewhere, although it doesn’t look as if it has been used for some time. Still, just because the Inquisition gave the signal of reaching a safe distance away, she cannot wait for any scouts to find her if they can even get to her. Time to do her part.

She is grateful for her boots when she breaches the surface again, but struggles against the new and unpacked snow, sinking a little more with every step. Her armor, however warm and well-crafted it might be, can only do so much against the biting winds that whip about her and seep into her bones as they become wet from snow and sweat. The remains of a broken cart atop the drift would be a far more encouraging sign were it not for the fact that the avalanche and still heavy snowfall making it impossible to see any farther than her outstretched hand, any possible landmarks lost to an endless sea of white.

Neva hopes, rather than actually believes she is headed in the right direction, not having shared Chancellor Roderick’s privilege of making a summer pilgrimage to Haven, or having him as a guide as the rest of their forces did. By the Dread Wolf, things must be dire if she finds herself even half-wishing for that infuriating Shem’s company. A shiver finds the mage drawing her coat in closer, ignoring the pain it sends through her ribs as she draws her arms across her chest and hugs herself tightly, in a vain effort to keep out the cold.

Why didn’t she bother applying herself more to learning fire-related spells? Why had she given Dorian and Solas the last of her Lyrium potions while they had been fighting off the Red Templars, she thinks cursing with another shiver.

There are trees now, getting gradually more sparse as she continues to trudge onward, or at least, so far as she can see, which is admittedly very little. Still, she thinks that she must be well shot of Haven by now to be seeing so many of them. The shadows are beginning to play tricks on her, or perhaps her mind is as she’s slowly begun to submit to the freezing cold, exhaustion and her injuries. Neva swears for a moment she saw something else out there, darting in between the trees, watching her, following her. She’s quite sure she heard something howling shortly after she had emerged from the tunnels beneath the village, but that had sounded many miles away. The elf allows her remaining magic to collect in her palm, ready to strike. If it is a meal this creature wants, she won’t go down without at least attempting to put up a good fight.

Her teeth begin chattering as the trees and air begin to thin when she spots it again, and the shadow finally reveals itself to her. A wolf, though far larger than any she has ever seen before, with fur as black as midnight and two many sets of eyes.

“Fen’Harel,” Neva whispers, lilac eyes widening a little in shock.

Neva knows she’s been getting progressively weaker, weary, the temptation to simply lay down in the nearest bank and slip away becoming increasingly more tempting with each passing minute, but she must be truly close to death now to be seeing fairy stories come to life before her. The wolf simply waits, staring back at her, as she takes a tentative step towards him, then another, one hand reaching out for him even as she holds the other back, gathering her mana to strike should it prove necessary. But fingers meet fur without incident, indeed, the wolf doesn’t even blink.

“You’re warm,” she whispers softly, chapped and frozen lips sticking a little around her words and now uncontrollably chattering teeth. Neva isn’t sure she will ever be warm again. How much farther must she hike before she reaches a scout, a camp? How much farther does she have left within her? How much fight that the Dread Wolf would come to her. And what might he want? What sort of promises has he come to make her? And at what cost?

Eshalineva Lavellan x Solas for @dadrunkwriting

Eshalineva “Neva” Lavellan x Solas “In Hushed Whispers” angst, for @dadrunkwriting

Neva does her best after she and Dorian find Fiona to let the atrocities and injustices of this future world strengthen her resolve rather than weaken it. Willing herself to channel it into anger, directing it at any Venatori or demons foolish enough to get in their way. She keeps fighting. Keeps pushing forward. They have to get to Alexius. Get the amulet. Put this all right. It’s a mistake. A kind of dream: unpleasant, surreal… It’s when the pair of them find the dungeons where her other companions are being held the nightmare suddenly feels all too real.

He’s quiet, though, she supposes to a certain extent Solas always has been. But the way he stares blankly at the walls of his cell as if he’s not really seeing them, unnerves her. He doesn’t even turn around at the sound of her and Dorian’s approaching footsteps. He doesn’t have anything growing out of him as Fiona had, but there’s a kind of unnatural red aura that glows in his eyes and seems to emanate from him making her heart clench in her chest.

“Solas, what have they done to you,” she whispers horrified, shaking her head as she sets about freezing, then kicking at the lock until it breaks. He jumps when he finally turns around at the creaking protest of the iron door being swung open, eyes wide.

“You’re alive! We saw you die.”

“The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time. We just got here, so to speak,” Dorian offers as she distractedly looks the other elf over, cataloging his injuries and indignities he has been made to suffer with growing rage.

“Can you reverse the process? You could return and obfuscate the events of the last year. It may not be too late,” Solas says quickly with growing hopefulness and excitement taking over where before there had been only empty despair.

“Solas,” Neva interjects concerned, because it seems she simply cannot help herself from doing so, “You look… bad. Is there anything I can do for you to help?”

“I am dying, but no matter,” Solas replies dismissively shaking his head. “If you can undo this they can all be saved. But you know nothing of this world. It is far worse than you understand. Alexius served a master, ‘the Elder One’, he reigns now, unchallenged. His minions assassinated Empress Celene and used the chaos to invade the South. This Elder One commands an army of demons. After you stop Alexius, you must be prepared.”

“You are just brimming with good news, aren’t you,” Neva replies, though her usual attempts at wit and banter seem to fall painfully short now, eyes still brimming with too much sorrow and concern to meet his gaze for long.

“If you can return to your present, you might find it helpful to know what the Elder One plans. This world is an abomination. It must never come to pass.”

He’s right, of course, and she knows it. He often is, she thinks, but that pride which had seemed to rub off the wrong way and come between them before seems to have been stripped away from him in this last terrible year. She’d never expected to miss it, not expected to be so affected, but seeing him now…

They’d butted heads now and again in the present she is more familiar with, times when she’d been furious with him, but it’s been a long time since she thought she might hate him if she ever truly did. And this? This slow, agonizing decay and descent into death isn’t a fate she’d wish on many. Certainly, not Solas.

Varric’s warnings about the evils of Red Lyrium and the dangers of touching it, echo in the back of her mind, but as ever Solas has often criticized sentiment overwhelms her reason. She and Dorian have been walking around surrounded by the stuff for hours now. Surely they are already at risk if this is catching. Solas blinks, staring at her hand where it’s reached out to clasp his own as if he’s once again questioning whether he’s actually just imagining her being here.

“You’re wrong,” Neva offers softly as Dorian steps away to examine a few notes and books on a nearby desk, perhaps sensing the need to give them a moment.

“Mm,” Solas hums, raising a curious eyebrow while still managing to look somewhat impatient with her causing any sort of delay in going after Alexius. “What am I wrong about this time?”

“It matters,” Neva replies softly, forcing herself to drag her gaze up to meet his infected and glowing red eyes again, even though it hurts. “That you’re dying,” she clarifies. “I know if we undo this it will never have happened, but it did happen to you. It was real for you. You suffered. That matters. It matters to me,” Neva concedes finally.

“I- thank you,” Solas nods finally, though his eyes darted once more to where her hand is still clasping his. “I thought perhaps you simply tolerated my presence for my knowledge of the Fade and the Breach.”

“I thought so too, at first,” she admits nodding. “You challenge nearly everything I thought I knew. Knowledge and skills I once took great pride in. That- that wasn’t an easy thing to adjust to.”

“And I wasn’t especially patient or empathetic in my approach,” Solas acknowledges softly with a nod. “Ir abelas, lethallan.”

“I know,” Neva nods as Dorian returns to their group with a map he’s uncovered, which may help them to find where Cassandra and Leliana are being held, and a way to Alexius. “As am I.”

The ground and very walls around them seem to quiver in the minutes that follow Alexius’ defeat. The Elder One knows that they are here. He is coming. They are out of time. This world is wrong, an abomination, and soon, if all goes according to plan it will never have existed at all, except to her and Dorian. Cassandra and Solas share a look before nodding to each other, and Neva’s heart clenches once more, instinctively knowing the agreement that has passed between them before Solas even speaks.

“We will hold the outer door. When they get passed us it’ll be your turn.”

When, not if. He and Cassandra have fought admirably against the various Venatori and few guards they encountered on their way to Alexius, but the Elder One will not make the same mistake. They will die. This whole world will, but somehow the thought of losing him… He will have Cassandra at his side, of course, but the thought of him fighting without her, of him falling. It’s a mercy she won’t likely have to see it happen, but a torment the thought of letting any of them suffer for her sake. She knows her protests are foolish even as she voices them, but she’s lost so much. To lose him now, only just having realized so many new hopes and dreams where she’d given up on having any, of how much he’s come to mean in the last few months of traveling and fighting together, after everything she has already lost, feels unbearable.

“Look at us,” Leliana gestures. “We’re already dead. The only way we live is if this day never comes. Cast your spell, you have as much time as I have arrows.”

“Wait,” Neva blurts out, rushing forward. Solas doesn’t react at first, no doubt surprised and still taking it all in as the younger elf hurls herself into his arms and smashes her lips against his own, but it doesn’t matter. “Ir abelas… vhenan,” she whispers pulling back, testing the name as wide glowing eyes stare back into hers. “We will make this right, I swear it,” she promises, reluctantly letting him go, and rushing back up the dais to where Dorian stands preparing his enchantment on the amulet to take them back to their own time and world.

My angry little baby Eshalineva “Neva*” Lavellan (*Because there’s no way she’s going to trust any Shems to pronounce her name properly) rendered once again by the terrific @the-tevinter-biscuit . If you have the means to do so, please go support this incredible artist and human being with commissions and reblogs, they’re awesome. ^_^

Neva’s Stories