#pathofsorrows

“Why didst thou choose Mythal?” Roland asks, as blunt and as golden as the sun peeking through a cracked window in the middle of morning. His inquiry is innocent, and devilishly curious, and such is the nature of his curiosity toward this ancient, ancient creature. Expelling white dust of the sacred tombs with each exhale, and the sharp points of his vallaslin glinting like blades. A beautiful being, fit for poetry and old songs.

and @magexkiller​ 

What I find easiest about playing Rilla is her time in the Denerim Alienage. I think, at a subconscious level she was always going to be a standalone character. I’ve built an important part of Emmailen’s personality, history and behavior around her time spent as a member of Rilla’s group, so actually writing about those events from Rilla’s point of view was very much of an expected step. 

   WEEKS they’d spent, mapping one small labyrinth -- every eluvian so painstakingly secured. they had no alliances, no funding, no soldiers ( no hope ), but none of that had stopped them when first they’d gathered and it certainly wouldn’t now. thedas still needed the inquisition, and they would protect this world, even if it would rather see them dismantled.

    but perhaps this was a blessing. a culling. cut out the rot and begin anew. the events at halamshiral had proven to them that they were no more immune to corruption than the templars or wardens, and fenriel was only too glad to have bowed out gracefully before they could suffer the same fate.

    yes, he decides, it’s better this way. with cassandra, leliana, and her most trusted agents, they had everything they needed. the change in roster left only fenriel to reconnaissance, but he had always worked better alone. without anyone to slow him down, he made quick work of the crossroads, committing to memory the shattered pathways and dead ends, passing like a shadow beneath the stony gaze of the monoliths that loomed ‘round every bend.

    but this path -- these scattered stones -- he has no memory of them. he’s run this course a dozen times and not a single obstacle had changed. straight on, jump the gap, take the stairs and then veer right. past the wolf and over the gate is -- nothing. this should be nothing. 

     bare feet stalk across the rubble, silent, as any good hunter should be. he keeps to the edges, careful and quick, taking to the cover of an upturned statue. gilded eyes spy a lone figure. familiar. armor like the sentinels at the temple of mythal. ( there is a place for you, lethallin, if you seek it. ) forged fingers pluck the bow from his back, arrow aimed and nocked in as much time as it takes to blink.

    ‘are you into all that artsy stuff too?’