#hoboblaidd

The Warden-Commander was in a dark mood. 

For Asha, dreams are not respites. They're usually reflections of the past, new angles he couldn't see before in his own flesh, allowing him to puzzle over problems and push pieces until they were solved. A year without dreams and then even less once Solas' presence made them evade sleep just meant that when they did dream-- well. They were a lot. Asha had unfortunately found a comfortable place in the Crossroads, lounging in tree branches and listening to the market not far away, and had been found by sleep so quickly they hadn't even realized it. The chaotic scene that unfurls is commonplace enough for them, but maybe not the other dragged into the dream with them.

The dream starts in-between caravans. There's people yelling, bodies moving, and bright colors swirled with the mud and dust of travel. There's gaggles of people moving all about, carrying boxes or supplies, or carrying each other. Some are dressed for labor, working on erecting the Big Top and the other tents. Some are dressed for practice, walking past on their hands or practicing smaller tricks as they moved. A former Harlequin limps past, their mask emblazoned with the Ringmaster's design, tweaked to hold a semblance of their past glory-- a glory stolen with their leg. A qunari with both horns cut far too short brushes past the interloper, leaving an opening in a crowd. An opening taken advantage of as an elf with docked ears darts up, the half mask on her face also marked with the Ringmaster's design, but also overlaid with... more. The mask is made of leather, odd for most Orlesian masks, and extends past her face. The leather cups around her scarred ears, carefully cut and shaped to look like cupped, purple frills, adding whimsy to the horror of what had been done to her hearing. "Monsieur! Come come." She's grabbing the interloper, leading him through the crowd to a brightly painted caravan, and pulling him inside.

Inside the scene changes some, obviously still influenced by the troupe, but blurring the lines. The inside is far too large, cluttered with costumes and weapons, but also more familiar uniforms. One of Neve's prosthetics if laid across a desk, (one of the ones with magnifying glasses fixed to it that Asha had quickly claimed from the Lighthouse) the top opened up and new leather pads waiting to be sewn in lying next to it. Next to it is more leather work; the bases of masks that still needed to be completed. The epicenter of the 'controlled' chaos is on the floor, next to one of the murals in the Lighthouse, even as they paint masks obviously meant for the troupe. Open pots of paint surround them, with somewhat neatly lined up brushes resting on an oil cloth between their uses. The interloper's presence is acknowledged once a fine line is finished, the hunched elf straightening their back and mismatched eyes falling on Solas without a conscious hint of recognition. Leave it to a dream to obfuscate the obvious inconsistencies.

Despite the branch being so narrow, it seemed to hardly move as the figure above shifted their stance on it. There was only the slightest rustle of the tree’s acknowledgement of their weight, with only the soft scraping of bark against their bare feet . She spoke, but not in response to him; an idle murmur mixed in quiet accord with the whisper of wind that moved the tree more than she did. Whatever was said between them, no one could say, but a new insect suddenly began winding its long body around the branch above.

A dim light broke through the shadows of the leaves as Ghilan’nain considered him, head cocking so far to one side that it sent the wavy tumble of her white hair spilling into the leaves. Watching as Wisdom trailed Curiosity from beneath the winding branches, his auburn hair a trail for their eyes to follow against the shifting green of the summer wood. 

He was.... a curious one, this follower of Mythal.

Sufficiently distracted from her creatures, Ghilan’nain let themselves slip like rain between the branches till their feet planted firmly on the ground right before this follower of Mythal. She leaned in, their heavy eyes fixed on his reaction. 

“Do you like the sea?” she asked, unprompted. And wordlessly turning on the ball of her foot, fled into the trees toward the shore.

There is too much movement around him. There is a hand in his, and it’s all overwhelming. He squeezes that hand, and a sharp voice clears that noise. He finds himself in too much pain, gasping, but it is air. Is it air in his lungs? Lung? He’s not sure and not sure if he can ask, as his voice is rough and claimed by disuse, and he is a kind of weak he’s only ever written about. 

solas, as a spirit of wisdom, is noted as being gentle. there is nothing about him during as existence as a spirit that would ever hint at the dread wolf, at the desperate and viciously determined solas we see throughout all of veilguard and its many flashbacks. at mythal's request and out of love, solas makes the decision to alter the very core of his essence and take on a physical form. to be clear, solas wholly has his own agency and makes the many decisions that we see in flashbacks and as are revealed throughout veilguard, but there's no denying he is coaxed along by mythal to overlook his hesitations, worry and outright disapproval over the many actions he decides to take part in. the solas we see at the end of veilguard, to me anyway, feels recognizable from that gentle spirit: hardened by war, brutal if needed, and undoubtly driven by the profound, aching regret of countless centuries. solas changes because of and for love, for mythal, in a way that breaks him from that core he once was.

sidri, at her core, is gentle. to be clear, gentleness doesn't equal naivete as often as this site and fandom generally wants it to be, but this to say she doesn't want power or glory. her primary desire that guides her actions throughout the first quarter of inquisition is a revenge born out of fury for her brother as well as the goal of creating some sort of justice in an inherently inequitable world. however, instead of losing herself to that and losing herself to the endless brutal, miserable choices required of war like solas did, @extravagantliar reminds her time & time that she's more than her title. he reminds her to consider her own thoughts, her own feelings, time and time again when she begins to lose herself to the inquisition. she takes the first steps towards the well and is fully ready to change irreparably change herself because she thinks its not a unfair trade, just who she is for the knowledge needed to end this war, but it's varric who takes her wrist and begs her not to do it, that she as herself, not as the inquisitor, is worth saving and preserving. sidri is reminded of who she is at her core because of love and does change because of it, for varric.

The uncomfortable air of whisper and gossip following Harlan since his strategic exposure as a Crow turns into a quiet buzz much easier to ignore just as soon as the novelty wears off. The distrust that remains is reasonable in a place like Skyhold, filled to the brim with all sorts of hidden motives, so it's hard to be offended when assigned with seemingly random tasks while they're not in the field. Harlan knows this dance well, so he politely ignores being tested, minding his own business while his hands are carefully watched.

arcane season 2 // @hoboblaidd // accepting

There is much that we have forgotten. I have come to accept that, one way or another, we - the dalish - are not the last of the elvhenan. How could we ever be if such a place (A place for Our People) was broken so long ago? I think a lot about something I was told, upon first discovering that some of the People still walked and protected those same spaces that we had tried so hard to recover.

They never sought us out, they knew were lived in forests and in Clans and yet simply watched on, thinking of us like Shadows wearing vallas'lin. Shattered pieces of a past that had once been their present.

Despite the oath at the Dales, the reality is that whatever empire the elvhen once had - it is not something we can recover; nor should we. I have had enough time to think about it and, truthfully, while I believe the vallas'lin no longer carry the meaning of old, if I were to be asked once more, I wouldn't be able to carry it, to keep it. Not after learning what I have. It is an uphill battle that every dalish person will have to reckon with: to preserve the past and poison the future, to remember what has happened with nuance of knowing how fickle memory can be.

Or perhaps, to allow ourselves the nuance and the grace that comes from change. In the end, however, it should still be each of that Dalish person's choice: To keep it with its changed, new meaning, with a shameful past but a brighter life. Or to leave it behind and allow memory to destroy it too.

The Vallas'lin were markings with which the Evanuris branded their slaves, both high and low. But they are no longer. The Evanuris are dead and we are not.

   "You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you." She had said, almost in disbelief when he had spoken almost as if he had seriously been considering leaving. This new title, Inquisitor, still felt like a fresh wound against her. Raw and impossibly larger than any life that Asharen had ever known. Solas was the only person that had seemingly cared whether she lived or died regardless of the anchor in her hand. However, this much she knew, understood: Cassandra, Leliana and Cullen, they listened to her. She wasn't sure how far she could push it. But three humans, non mages, listened.    "How would you stop them?" she hears him ask and his eyes are on her. Her brows arch as if she doesn't understand the question. And perhaps she doesn't. How did you defend the younger ones of the clan when you knew templars were marching in the surrounding clan areas? He was bare faced, but so were many in Antiva City, many that had come to her defense too.    "However I had to."

The First Inquisitor of the Chantry's Inquisition was a dalish elf - a mage - who worked alongside humans in Orlais. He died holding another world shattering threat, hoping that would keep the dales safe. It didn't.

It should not surprise me how frequently history repeats itself and yet we stand at the closing of another cycle: I too am dalish, a mage and Inquisitor during the fight against Corypheus. It does not escape my thoughts that this too is likely to be my fate. Even as I write these in the hopes of clearing my mind, I know that one way or another they will likely find themselves in hands that are not mine.

While I know that is outside of my control, my wishes, I instead find myself hoping that while it will be the interest of my title (and, hopefully, name) which will draw eyes to the writing, that it will be its contents and the History within that will keep it being repeated and passed on.

Those who hold the records of History, true or not, are the same that will control the new path the Dalish will take moving forward. The Oath of the Dales has promised that we shall never submit again. We are more than our aravels, our halla, our arlathven. We are more than our oath. We are more than our loss, our grief.