#fahlrian

Dorian let the corners of his lips curl into a smile to the elf’s groan and leaned back in his own chair, turning to the next page of the book he was cradling. It was part of the latest order, a gathering of texts exploring elven traditions and the few things known about the Dalish. He had issued orders for anything he could find on the elven right after they had set foot in Skyhold and he was sure his books would be at least protected by the blasted rain- there was not much on wandering elvhen to begin with which allowed traders to overprize the books quite a lot. Yet with a Dalish Inquisitor walking around, practically being a living, willing encyclopedia, what better time to indulge into a new obsession? Feynras had proven herself witty and humorous and was always ready to share and explain should her duties allow it.

Her brother, now. Such a different case Dorian had at first honest to the Maker doubts the two elves were related. Fahlron was snappy and had that glare glued to his face, like he distrusted you and eight generations of your family before you. He was, well, in general, much closer to the common image of the Dalish.

“Val- las- ni-in?” he tried his tongue at it again.

“Vallas - LIN!” came the angered growl from the neighboring chair, receiving a loud hush from the next library corridor for his trouble. Falhron’s ears trembled and lowered a couple of inches, giving him the look of a feral animal ready to pounce.

“Sometimes referred to as blood writing,” Dorian began reading in hopes that the elf would stay where he was and not leap after that poor, unfortunate shusher, “it is what the Dalish call the intricate facial tattoos worn by all adult clan members. The ink used to do so is considered sacred as we confirmed while attempting to trade with dalish merchants in some of the friendlier camps we came upon. The merchants refused to sell us a small portion of it or reveal the correct way to mix it.”

“Did they make it out of that camp alive? Friendly clan.”

“When a Dalish elf comes of age,” Dorian continued, “they prepare to gain the vallaslin by meditating on the gods and the ways of the Dalish, and by purifying the body and the skin. When the time comes, the Keeper of the clan applies the blood writing. This is done in complete silence.  Blood writing is at least in part a religious practice, and there are different designs representing deities in the Elven Pantheon.”

He eyed Fahlron. The elf had turned his attention to the book in his slender hands, a brownish, overused tome about astronomy Dorian knew like the back of his hand. He could make out some of the dark patterns on the hunter’s sharp cheekbones even as he watched him from the side. They curled and turned like vines, overlapping and creating a complex, beautiful net on the man’s forehead and higher cheeks, some lines extending as far as the lobes of his long ears. Hours, Dorian thought, it must have taken hours to complete.

“So. Which deity?”

Fahlron didn’t bat an eyelash away from his book. “Rude.”

“Rude?” repeated Dorian. “If asking was offending, the book would surely mention something. I did pay its weight in gold after all, I do expect it to be quite precise.”

To his surprise- and amusement- the Dalish swirled on his chair, now turning to stare at him face on. Their eyes met and they held each other’s gaze in a mutual fit of stubborness. Then Fahlron gave him a sly grin, lips stretching, and motioned to the leather bound tome with his chin.

“Doesn’t your precise book have diagrams of our blood writing, dear friend? Here.” He motioned to his forehead, brushing a few stray black hair back. “You can see it clearly.”

Dorian flipped a few pages, glancing at the elf’s face in between, pretending to ignore the arrogant curl of his mouth or the spark in those grassy eyes. Not stealing glances of his ears as they twitched slightly or the slope of his nose. Not noticing the curious way the hunter’s upper lip was plusher than the bottom one or how his aroma reminded Dorian of pines and soil and- the altus coughed.

Vallaslin. Yes, of course. There were drawings, masterfully sketched, but none quite fit.

“Now, they don’t seem to have come across your very specific clan.” he pursed his lips. “It is not in here.”

“Good luck getting a refund for that gold of yours.” Falhron tossed his ponytail over a shoulder before turning back to his astronomy journal.

Dorian flipped through the next few pages. He didn’t scowl - no, that would only lead to future wrinkles.

“You’re being an ass today, Fahlron.” he nagged instead. “Careful or our lady Vivienne will come at you wishing to claim back her rightful place in our merry little group.”

“Pfft!” A snort was all he got for an answer but he could see the elf’s cheeks puff out as he lost an inner battle against a smile.

The library was quiet with the gentle sound of scholars copying parchments and writing reports - the midday sun was shining brightly through the thin windows. Comfy on his chair, Dorian leisurely turned to the pages featuring the various entities of the elven pantheon - he had read about them before but hadn’t memorized their names or symbolisms. Dirthamen, Falon‘Din, Mythal. The names shined on the yellow page, written in expert cursive with rich black ink.

“Andruil?” he attempted. “You’re a hunter. The goddess of hunting sounds appropriate if not a tad typical.”

Fahlron gave him a thoughtful nasal sound, neither yes or no.

“Always glad to entertain.” groaned Dorian. “Ok… then. Elgar’nan.”

“The God of Vegeance?”

“Considering you look like you’re about to punch someone in the face twenty four hours a day, it sounds like quite the plausible choice to me.”

“Well, hunting and vegeance. I do not dislike the image you have of me, Dorian.”

“It’s Sylaise.” interrupted a voice near the mage’s chair. making them both jump a little where they sat.

“Feynras!” hissed Fahlron, glaring daggers at the blond elf now leaning over the altus, staring down at the book in his hands with interest. With her came a thin smell of something nauseously sweet, like decaying flesh.

“What?” she retaliated. “‘Tis only the truth. Can I borrow this book later, Dorian?”

“I can’t believe you-”

“Sylaise?” Dorian found himself staring down at the description of the deity with wide open eyes and a huge grin making his lips twitch. “You serve the goddess of the domestic arts?”

There was a flush on Fahlron’s cheeks now, painting his skin with a deep red. His eyes were shining dangerously as he glared at the pair of them- Dorian couldn’t tell if it was him that was at the end of that murderous stare or the Inquisitor or if the hunter was about to launch himself at both of them at once.

“It was the Keeper’s suggestion.” he hissed venomously through clenched teeth, averting his eyes and glaring at the brownish journal instead. “And mamae- ugh! Mother- I could not go against the traditions!”

“I think his vallaslin fits him perfectly.” The Inquisitor raised her shoulders and tapped a light finger over the passage referring to the goddess before taking a step back and stretching her back.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have quite a heavy bag of freshly picked, still-trying-to-claw-me demon remains for our mages.” She gave her backback a tag. “I’ll be back for the book around nightfall?”

“As long as you don’t let it anywhere near demonic intestines.” Dorian scrunched his nose. “Off you go now - these clothes are brand new and unless you can promise me a new outfit by tomorrow morning, demon stench is renowned for seeping into fabric as fast and persistently as the Fereldan King in a cheese storage. So, shoo.”

Feynras flicked him her tongue. “I’ll bring wine.” she promised before skipping towards the research table.

“Ah, finally.” Dorian laughed. “A lass after my own heart.”

--

Ferv… Fervev- Fervevial! Fahlron tried to concentrate on the unfamiliar letters on the paper. Commonly referred to... as "the Oak," the con… constellation Fervanis-

“So.” he heard the mage’s voice. It foretold of the expression he must have been wearing but Fahlron kept his head down. Creators, if he as much as caught a glimpse of that stupid grin, he would rip that precious moustache of his right off.

Many scholars believe this is a representation of nature... that hark… harkens back to the lore of the early Neromenians-

“Where was I? Ah, but of course. Sylaise.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “As told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish elves.” he read, his voice over coloured and pompous. “It is Sylaise who gave us fire and taught us how to use it. It is Sylaise who showed us how to heal with herbs and with magic, and how to ease the passage of infants into this world. And again, it is Sylaise who showed us how to spin the fibers of plants into thread and rope. In her youth, it is said that Sylaise stayed at the home-tree to sing and create art while Andruil hunted and played. Her path -”

“Her path is called the Vir Atish'an.” Fahlron cut him. “Her name is invoked before a fire is kindled and after it is quenched. Sylaise is seen as a protector of all who dwell close to a hearth, especially children and is also invoked during marital vows.” The words were not only of Clan Ralaferin - they were of all the Keepers throughout Thedas, on the lips of every Dalish elfling in a camp. He had heard them thousands of time, he had recited them himself another thousand, kneeling before the Goddess with offerings in his hands and the fire burning in front of her, with green grass at his feet or red crumbly leaves or thick, quiet snow.

He should have left. Dread Wolf’s balls, he should have gotten out of there the minute the Tevinter had as much as uttered his mangled version of the word vallaslin. It always came to this, to someone laughing under their breath and giving him the look and he would have to prove himself all over again.