#solasast

Stop.

hc. ll accepting.

When Duncan said he would drag Aria kicking and screaming to Ostagar, the half-dead huntress simply hardened her eyes and recited a piece her people’s creed to him in icy Elvhen. Her place, her people, and her language were here – better to die free than to live in submission to this man’s people.It was a grand gesture, one that future Dalish generations will no doubt make into songs and tales. It will become an iconic use of the phrase ‘never again shall we submit.’

“hello solas,” she COUGHS to announce her presence and not surprisingly, he’s PEERING at the walls again. he seems very fond of them, she’s noticed, but then again sera’s fond of bees and bull likes being hit with a stick, so in short sidri’s learned just to not question. “do you have a few minutes to spare? i don’t mean to INTERRUPT.” pale hand gestures LIGHTLY towards the table in his makeshift study. “it’s nothing URGENT.” 

my muse is touch-starved as fuck.accepting selectively!

☕ - reassuring touch, gripping their shoulder.

         SERAPHINA FLINCHES by immediate instinct, and in her solitude and following lack of touch, her nerves are set to shock when they are touched, always, always, expecting some kind of harm. but when the pain doesn’t come, the emerald witch is now only hyperaware of the steady grip with which the dread wolf holds her shoulder, and by some small miracle, she doesn’t recoil. muscles are tense, but they remain steady – like a beaten dog learning how not to bite when approached.

        If there was one constant source of comfort in her life amongst all the chaos, it was painting; art as a whole, really. Admiring it, sketching, painting, even occasionally sculpting a ball of clay that she secretly kept in her pack. It all helped to sooth the near crippling terror that seemed dedicated to lingering within small frame. The gardens were an especially perfect place to paint, the Inquisitor taking refuge in a sunny patch of earth, hidden by tree and shrubbery. When it was nearly empty like it was today, those were her favourite times to paint.

         With her back to the rest of the garden, she was focused, brush strokes deft and precise, as if every stroke of her paintbrush would be it’s last. At the moment, she was intent on finishing a rather colourful painting of what looked to be the Frostback Mountains in spring. Of course, Emmaera hadn’t a clue what those mountains looked like in spring, given that it wasn’t spring yet, but still; she enjoyed imagining the frosty peaks melting slowly, revealing earthy stone and rock, with the base covered in wildflowers.

        She was so focused, Solas’s presence went unnoticed, even as he loomed. It wasn’t until his shadow past over her canvas that the Inquisitor tensed, freezing like a deer caught in the sights of a predator. Solas spoke though, words warm and complimentary and that fear subsided some, replaced with embarrassment and a very quiet pride. That was one thing she could accept; that her art was beautiful, that painting was her talent.

        “Thank you, ah..” She sputtered, moving brush away from canvas afraid trembling hands might cause a misplaced stroke. “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” She admitted quietly, stepping to the side to allow him a better view of the painting. It wasn’t done just yet, but even still, it was gorgeous. “I don’t think it’s worth displaying though, I-I wouldn’t want to trouble Josephine with making it fit with the Hall’s decor.” A silly notion, given that Josephine had been asking her consistently to paint something to display since their arrival to Skyhold.

I’m going to die and it’s going to be your fault, Bull.

volthen found solas separated from the camp, laying on the sand and staring up at the stars. 

it is quiet tonight, ma vhenan, she whispered as she knelt down next to him. he moved to get up and she gently touched his shoulder, before adjusting herself and allowing him to lay his head down on her lap.

then she started carding her hand through his hair softly, fingers massaging his scalp. even the lone wolf needs comfort from time to time, after all. 

you are looking very intently at something. tell me about it, she asked, and he hesitated for a moment, looked up at her.

i am–looking at memories, he says, which would be difficult to explain.

this was a first, as she thought solas never tired of speaking on his journeys into the fade and the memories he touched there. she sensed this was something which he was not ready to tell yet, and it was not in her nature to push. many nights she would look up at the stars, see some of the same constellations she did that night, and think on what solas meant. if only she had asked him to share it anyway–would it have been a lie? or would he have told her then? and then she thinks it is useless to view memories with the mind of changing their outcome, as time will not be mastered by any soul. 

in the moment, she does not think this. she thinks only that it must be a powerful memory, to hold someone with such strength so still, to hold someone so intelligent so enraptured. perhaps it was best not to intrude on his thoughts this time. volthen continues to run her hand through his hair, and whispers softly: