#saphylee

“You make me feel and I don’t like it. I want it to stop. Now.”

The words were as ridiculous as they were shocking. At least, to Darren. “Wait… what? Cyrus, hold up–!”

It had only been a few weeks since Cyrus returned to the farm, and he was already trying to run off again? He’d barely even been back on his feet for three days! A kind of strange, unmarried panic washed over Darren as he jogged after his friend, managing to snag him by the elbow and swing around in front of him, blocking his march up the hill towards the gate. “Just wait a minute, okay?”

The scowl on Cyrus’ face should seem familiar, but there was something just… not quite right about it. Like he’d painted it over something much truer to himself. “Just - let me go, damn it - back off!” He jerked his arm out of Darren’s grasp, but didn’t try to get past. Not yet, at least. “You asked me why I was going and I told you, so what the fuck is your problem now?”

“My problem?” Something akin to anger welled up inside Darren. He forced it down, but it took every ounce of his willpower to do it. “Cyrus, why wouldn’t I have a problem with that? Feeling isn’t a bad thing!”

“Maybe not for you.” Taking a half-step back, Cyrus’ eyes were shallow pools, barely concealing razor-sharp rocks. “Listen, I’m not… it’s complicated. You know that, so stop pushing it.”

“Right...now, a noun. Plural.”

“Umm...” Sylathi’s eyes darted around Skyhold’s courtyard for inspiration, a slow smirk spreading across her face as her gaze settled on the deep blue of Lux’s scarf.

“And don’t say ‘scarves’. I already told you, just saying whatever’s right in front of you is cheating.”

“It’s not!” she exclaimed, swatting at the air in front of him. “It’s simply...finding inspiration in the world around you. Don’t you do the same with your stories?”

“Well, yeah, but these stories are better if you don’t actually try to make them good. Just take whatever it is that pops into your mind first and go with it.”

“Very well,” she said, with a cheeky grin. “Scarves.”

“UGH. Fine. An adjective, and it better not be ‘blue’.”

Judging by the way Lux’s mouth pursed and his eyes narrowed, she wasn’t being quite as subtle in her search for inspiration as she thought. “Overgrown.”

“Yes!” He scrawled it down, snickering to himself. “Much better, yeah? ‘nother plural noun.”

“Legs.”

“Pfft. Okay, a verb.”

“Smile.”

“And another, but past tense this time.”

“Tripped.”

“Ha!” Making quite a big show of it, Lux looked out over the courtyard, searching for whoever inspired that one, and seemed quite disappointed when she appeared to have come up with that on her own. “All right, let’s see...another noun.”

“Brush.”

“A verb?”

“Pinch.”

“Last one, yeah? So make sure it’s a good one. An adjective.”

The opportunity presented itself, and Sylathi saw no reason not to take it. He did tell her to say the first thing that came to mind, after all. She fixed him with a wry grin, and let him have it.

“Blue.”

Lux only stared at her for a moment, face scrunching comically as he tried to make sense of why she was so proud of that particular answer. It came to him in the form of a loud, wide-eyed gasp and a long, drawn out ‘ohhhhhh!!’. Shaking his head, he filled in the last of the blanks on the page, and held the journal proudly in front of him.

“Right. All finished.” He slowly turned his head to look at her, a mischievous smirk on his face. “Ready to hear your award-winning masterpiece?”

Sylathi straightened her posture, folded her hands in her lap, and gave him a resolute nod.

“They say a pot never eats, but anyone who’s picked the tea of Rivain at morning might disagree. The flowers and books head to the tents at midday, the soft quills and scarves go back to their...pfft, overgrown legs to smile over the ways they got tripped, and the brush pinches blue.”

Both of them struggled to wait until the story was over to erupt into laughter, and it was even more of a struggle for them to stop once they started.

“That was...ridiculous,” Sylathi remarked through intermittent giggles, wiping away the glaze of tears over her eyes before leaning back on her hands. Lux has long since collapsed backwards, and lay on the ground beside her, still rumbling with laughter.

“Could...we do another?”

sure, and thankyou :) this sort of thing is prolly my fav kinda question !!

Vaharel: Vaharel was a revered elven hero from the time of the Dales, likely an Emerald Knight, famed for leading the capture of the human city of Montsimmard - not long before the then-Divine’s call for a second Exalted March. A Life-Tree was planted in their honor and remembrance, in an area that came to be known as the Emerald Graves. 

The Dalish use harellan to mean “traitor to one’s kin”, and harel itself variously means “dread”, “lie”, “to trick” or “to deceive”. Added to era as in Era’harel it means “demon-mage”, as in the entities which are similar to Arcane Horrors. Not the nicest slew of meanings and connotations. However, per the Rebel God Codex entry, harellan does not appear in any elven text that can be dated as being from before the Towers Age (3:00 onwards) - and in order to be an adult fighter around 2:10 Glory, Vaharel must have been born during the Divine Age. Although at this point in time Fen’Harel was indeed known among the elves as Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, I like the possible inference that Vaharel was named during a time when harel and associated words were not ascribed such completely negative meanings. As we can read, the ancient root-word is related to harillen (“opposition”) and hellathen (“noble struggle”). The connotations here are more along the lines of rebellion - particularly ones with good causes - and even a call for justice - albeit a violent one - given how it seems to have percolated down through the years to modern City Elves and their concept of mien’harel. I like to think Vaharel’s parents named them with these latter sorts of meanings in mind.

It’s a stretch but I take va as a short form of var (“our” - Varharel flows off the tongue poorly or more clumsily in comparison), meaning that to me Vaharel means “our revolutionary”; one who will bring justice and challenge the system. Vaharel’s parents must have had high hopes for their child. Arguably they lived up to these hopes, being remembered as a storied hero, and - for a time, at least - enacting elven justice/vengeance upon humanity for their ancestral crimes against the People, via the conquering of Montsimmard.

Today’s doodles follows the @ockissweek 2020!

This time, Venna Lavellan comforts @saphylee ‘s child, Thelrand Vaharel Lavellan.

Um, I’m excited about Emralan because they’re EVERYTHING, and you are well aware of that :P

Seriously though, Emma’s relationship with Tamralan is an opportunity for her to be soft with someone who isn’t Lux, but not pressured into being so soft it becomes out of character for her.  And since it’s not pushing her boundaries in ways that are going to make her withdraw, she’s embracing it, being soft with him in a way that she’s comfortable with and is still her, loving and being loved in a way that isn’t scary.  Tam is so patient and good, and being with him lets her see that being her and being in love are not mutually exclusive, and she doesn’t have to be someone she’s not to feel things she feels.  I love thinking about them together because of that tender kindness, and I can’t help but smile when I do.

I feel like we made Thelio to kind of offset all the fluff from Emralan and satisfy our goblin brains, haha.  It IS sweet, though, the way they both come to accept that things they’d thought about themselves and others’ perception of them aren’t really as infallibly spot on as they thought.  Túlio learns that people can find him intrinsically interesting, without pretending of any kind, and that he can fuck up royally and still be worth loving.  Plus, they just have fun together and I really love that, as simplistic as it sounds?  They laugh, they joke, they goof off and fool around and give each other something to genuinely enjoy about life and I am just over here like... “good for them.”

Runaren is kind of like Emralan in that it’s a lot of understanding and patience, but it’s also interesting to think about because there aren’t grand gestures and flowery dialogue with them; it’s practically all body language so it’s a challenge to think of how they’ll get their feelings across without much talking, just looks and touches.  It’s all they need though, and it makes them happy. :)

It was a nice evening, Ralon supposed. The light fading at the edge of the treeline. Warm. A slight breeze that tickled his legs and sent a shiver across his skin.

He should really go pantsless more often.

“You are such an asshole.” Cyrus huddled over a pair of torn pants, needle in hand, jaw clenched. Whether he was frowning in concentration or sheer rage, Ralon couldn’t quite say. 

“You think I did this on purpose?” Reclining, Ralon tapped his bare feet together absently, drinking in the quiet campsite. It was weird, being sent out on a mission with just Cyrus. Then again, you didn’t really need a full squad to check in on a couple of farmhouses. The nearby rift had been closed that morning, but that didn’t mean a stray demon or two hadn’t slipped by earlier. “You’re the one who made me gather firewood,” Ralon continued helpfully. “I told you, the Inquisition uniform doesn’t account for my... assets.”

“Kill me...” Cyrus muttered as he thumbed the needle through the fabric. “Have you tried not lifting things like a fucking idiot? That might help.”

“And strain my back instead? No thanks. I’d rather tear my pants any day. I mean, have you ever felt how good the breeze is around your---”

--- “Don’t.” Cyrus' gaze sliced through the air between them. “I swear to the Maker, I’ll let you walk back with your ass hanging out if you say one more word about... that.”

There was no use trying to fight the grin that spread across Ralon’s face. He liked getting Cyrus all fired up. Mostly because it was interesting to see how much harder it was getting. Back in the day, Cyrus would have probably swung at him for being a smartass. Now, even though he was pissed off... he was still mending Ralon’s pants, the needle dipping and swooping its way through the dark cotton. So, rather than push him any further, Ralon changed tact. 

“Where did you learn to sew?” 

“Hanin? But he’s so serious.” Lyrene made a face and leaned against the stable wall, regarding Sylathi with a vaguely amused expression. “Listen, I get it. He’s got that tall, silent type appeal... but he’s about as fun as a bag of wet flour. You can do better.”

Sylathi, who seemed about ready for the ground to swallow her whole, sighed softly. The brush in her hand swept down the mane of one of a snow-white mare. “I know all of that. I do. It’s just... I don’t know. He seems dependable.” A faint laugh drifted humourlessly from her lips. “That seems to be in short supply, lately.”

“Well, that’s fair. I’ll give you that. But that’s not really...” Lyrene groped for the words for a while. “I mean, come on - you need someone who’ll put a little excitement in your life, Syla! Sure, he’ll be around when you need him, but if being present is all you want in a relationship you could just, y’know... date a rock or something.”

The absurdity of it startled a laugh out of Sylathi, the sound bringing a smile to Lyrene’s lips. “A rock! Ly, I appreciate the sentiment, but Hanin’s not that bad. He’s just a bit...”

“Silent? Obsessive? Married to the job?” With a playful smirk, Lyrene hopped up on one of the nearby crates, legs swinging over the side. “You’ll always be competing with Atisha, you know. And the Dawn Squad.” She grinned. “You’d have to adopt us, you know. Pretty sure it’s in a contract somewhere.”

Sylathi snorted, then cooed gently as the mare shook her head at the sudden sound. “Ir abelas... it’s all right...” She glanced back at Lyrene. “And okay. You win. I get it. Maybe he’s not ready for... whatever it is I want.” Groaning quietly, she rested her head against the mare’s. “Creators... I don’t even know what I want.”

“Hey, that’s okay. Don’t go fretting about it!” Hopping down, Lyrene moved over to drape an arm around Sylathi’s shoulders. “Plenty of folks out there who’d be tripping over themselves to take you out somewhere fancy while you figure things out.”

A light blush tinged Syla’s cheeks. “I don’t need fancy...”

“Okay, well... somewhere scenic and exciting. Like the Fallow Mire.”

Lyrene just managed to dodge the swat coming her way, grinning as Sylathi shook her head and set the brush back on the nearby shelf. “I am not falling for that again. Next time you invite me along on a mission I am going to do some research before agreeing.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

“A skeleton tried to drown me.”

Ralon doesn’t have all that many regrets, but he does wish he could forget what he did the night his older brother disappeared. He and Damiros never really got along well (their relationship was more antagonistic), but every now and then Ralon thinks back to that evening when Damiros didn’t come home. At the time, he was like ‘good’, because it meant he wouldn’t have to deal with Damiros’ shitty ‘friends’ causing trouble anymore. Now, Ralon regrets not going out looking for him, or even asking around as soon as he noticed Damiros wasn’t where he was meant to be. His parents were devastated, and the implications of Damiros just vanishing began to weigh on Ralon too.