Cassandra was not a woman given to apologies. She was not so proud or delicate that apologizing was unthinkable. She firmly believed in doing what was right and took no issue being wrong, so long as the truth came to light. This situation was no exception...and, unfortunately, her apology needed to be all the more earnest for it.
Usually, when she was called to apologize for something brash or extreme that she had done, it was not an apology for...well...threatening to have someone thrown in chains and summarily executed.
Andraste guide her, this was difficult...and, yet, all the more necessary because of that.
Cassandra took a deep breath and, in her most casual, long-legged, military gait she strolled through the streets of Haven. It was cold enough to re-freeze the snow that gathered on the ground. It crunched beneath her boots and ruined any possible delicacy her approach could have had. She would have sighed but, instead, just gritted her teeth and ignored it.
Haven was not large and it took very little time to find the cabin Solas had taken residence in. That was a kind turn of phrase--it was the cabin they had all but locked him in. He was lingering outside the door, seemingly enjoying the breeze, and Cassandra nearly bristled.
No.
There was no sense to that--Solas was not Varric. In their travels through the Hinterlands he had proven to be both patient and kind, he was unfailingly polite and helpful. He was not so petty that he would take up a post outside his former cell just to remind them of their mistakes.
"Solas?" Cassandra hazarded. She had meant to simply say his name but had feared it would sound like a command, as most of her direct statements did. When she tried to soften it, it came out as a question, in the nervous timbre of some Chantry maid. Cassandra almost winced at how hesitant it made her seem, mostly because it was on par with how hesitant she felt, as though she'd scrawled her heart on her breastplate for all to see.
"Seeker," Solas replied, with no mockery - only a slight, amused upturn to his lips and a nod of welcome. Otherwise, his face was nothing save serene and sincere curiosity.
Cassandra paused in her approach at his question. It wasn't a stop, merely a hitch that disrupted her gait for a moment, but he had clearly derailed her thoughts. She blinked and her expression shifted, just slightly, as she recalled the last several tasks of the day. Seeing to the "Herald" had been among the first; her answer was swift.
"Ah--yes," Cassandra confirmed with a nod. "No, I mean."
This time, when she stopped, it was at a reasonable distance for polite conversation and, as she came to a casual parade rest, she closed her eyes and drew a deep, audible breath. Her embarrassment was easily covered by irritation and her expression was dry when she returned her gaze to him again.
It would never cease to rankle her, how poorly she did when assembling words. She was far too blunt and literal, it made everything more difficult than it needed to be.
"They are still resting but I have been assured that they are stable and well," Cassandra explained with a firmness in her tone, as though she could marshal her words and keep them in place as she did soldiers. "The apothecary's assistant is watching over them, when they awake I am to be informed immediately."
She paused briefly and, in an overture that was transparent but not unkind, said: "I...can have them inform you as well, if you would like."
Solas had gone to great effort to keep the prisoner--no, they were no longer prisoner, just as he was no longer prisoner. Which was what she came to speak about...though how to reach that point again, she had no idea.
Solas wasn't a talkative man in general, but ever since the incident in the Dales, he'd been even less so. Maxwell was happy that the mage had at least decided to return to the Inquisition after his abrupt departure, but he hoped Solas knew that if he needed anything - even just to talk, he was available. And not just as the Inquisitor.
Ensuring that Josie knew he wasn't to be disturbed, he made his way Solas' study. Knocking a knuckle politely on the lingering scaffolding to announce himself.
"Nothing amiss, I hope?" he asked gently. "We left it as you did."
Solas had been checking over his desk, carefully making sure that everything was still there, and intact, and thankful when he found that it was. He turned to the voice to see the Inquisitor, and nodded, letting his hand rest on his desk.
"... Thankfully, yes. I apologize for my abrupt departure. I needed some time to... consider."
"You don't have to apologize, Solas. You lost someone dear to you, we understood." Well, perhaps 'understood' wasn't quite the word for everyone - Sara had certainly had some other ones, as had Vivienne - but that was neither here nor there. "Have you reached your decision?"
Deep inside Bruce knew that eventually it would have been out one way or another, but he had hoped, somehow. Although now in hindsight, he supposed it was foolish to hope that things would turn out well. Nothing in his life had ever shown him that.
The cell was cold and the wind bit into his skin, but the chill was nothing compared to the mixture of emotions in his gut. The Inquisition had been the place where he had ever stuck in the longest, and he had come to know so many good people. To think of putting it all behind him, to leave it... it would be painful, but Bruce supposed that was the only way to resolve this issue.
There was no way the Inquisition would be willing to keep him, after this.]
i'm doing prose because i'm lazy but feel free to do brackets
The night was cold, thus so were the cells - the frosty wind rushing through the great chasm that mad the more dangerous exist of the prison cells at Skyhold. The majority of the castle was asleep, which was good. The Inquisitor had asked for his help, his opinion, and Solas had offered one in the most vague and uncommital way he knew how. He wanted to talk to Bruce himself. Alone.
Wanted to see whatever poor spirit had been trapped, twisted and corrupted, to make him what he was.
So when he came down the steps, a cloak of fur to keep out the winter wind, he paused only to dismiss the guards before walking up to Bruce's cell.
When there was nobody else in the dungeons it was easy enough to hear the sound of footsteps even with the wind howling through the area. Bruce forced himself to open his eyes despite the fact that the world was the last thing he wanted to deal with now; from where he was he could spot the sight of Solas coming towards him, and the fact that he was here was hardly surprising. Considering everything, Solas was probably the best choice the Inquisitor had.
"Hello." His voice was tired and dull and flat, a clear reflection of how his expression was right there and then. "I'm sure you must have many questions." Questions that Bruce probably wouldn't be able to answer, if he had to be entirely honest. Half the time even he himself didn't know the things that made him what he is right now.
Waking up in shackles with Cassandra stalking around her in a barely contained rage and Leliana's gaze measuring her to the ounce had been an extremely unpleasant experience. Waking up in a fine bed to a terrified stuttering elf dropping things who wouldn't even look at her straight and then finding everyone outside her door staring at her and whispering wasn't much better.
She'd closed the door immediately.
After a few long self-conscious moments of flipping through the packages the elf had dropped in the middle of her floor, flipping idly through all of the papers, and counting to twenty in elven--twice--she dressed herself in the armor they'd laid out for her (clenching her fist each time the mark throbbed), found a scarf to wrap closely around her neck and the bottom of her face, and then the Herald of Andraste slipped ignobly through a side window and clambered up the short snowy slope to freedom.
It hadn't been freedom. As she explored behind the buildings, it quickly became apparent that Haven was encircled by a sturdy wall; and thus, by the alchemist, she gave up and came out, only to walk directly into the one person in the budding Inquisition she hadn't been able to get a solid read on while unwrapping her scarf. Nahariel Lavellan froze like a halla scenting danger.
Fenedhis... uh... He's an elf but he's not Dalish--do I say 'ir abelas'? Is that stuck up? Do non-Dalish know elvhen? He's a scholar, isn't he? He must know it. How long have I been thinking? Far too long. Now anything I say is going to sound forced, and this is a really great way to make a terrible impression, I should have stayed in the cabin.
She realized she was holding her breath. When she let it go, it came out as an "irabelashahren", quickly followed by a pained self-conscious wince.
He'd turned when she'd nearly bumped right into him, and watching her struggle for several seconds before finally getting any words out was, at least, amusing. An eyebrow rose, with a half smile.
"You're forgiven, da'len, though you need not apologize. It is good to see you awake, and standing."
Her eyebrows raised at the elvish--but it was a common enough term. At the rest of his words, she smiled wryly.
"I wish I knew if it were good to be awake, and standing." Realizing that he might think her an ungrateful patient, she qualified quickly. "I'm glad to be alive, of course, but..." she peered past him, then pulled back quickly as someone caught her glance and saluted. "Everything has gotten very strange. The first time I opened the door, everyone stopped talking and stared at me--and then the woman who brought me my clothes fell to her knees and then looked at me like she thought I might eat her."
Nari clenched her fist around the ache of the anchor. "I thought I heard someone say 'Herald of Andraste'. Isn't she a shem'len goddess?"
Edited 2015-11-17 22:26 (UTC)
Somewhere in Skyhold, a curious elf wanders in and finds an egg in his natural habitat.
Salem had not arrived here until after the trek was made from the ruins of Haven to the slightly more intact ruins of skyhold. He wasn't with the city elves, evidenced by his armor, and the vallaslin that fanned out from his cheekbones. There was only a small population of the Dalish here, and he was determined to see who was here of them, whether any of them might be clanmates that he'd thought lost. After all, there were a few that had gone missing after the Conclave, and he needed to know what had become of them.
There were so many shems here. He bristled whenever one of them brushed by him, nearly snapping at a dirty look an Orlesian noble had given him, but he kept himself civil, at least for now. But he had to find a quiet place or he might haul off on someone. He was actually relieved when he found Solas at his wall of murals only partially finished, turning in place with an awed sound. This was the first he'd seen of the lower half of the rotunda since coming here and with the quiet it offered, he didn't look to be leaving any time soon. At least, not until food came about.
i have no idea if this is their first meeting or not so :')
That is the thought foremost in his mind, as he padded silently through the trees. The mist hung heavy around him, dampening all sound, and making the forest seem more lonely and more dreamlike for it.
He thought about doing this in the fade. Coming to Beleth in her sleep, to offer the same warning, the same plea, that he did before. But in the end, he found that he couldn't keep himself from coming to this place. If she kept reaching out for him...
He had to do this in person. For her sake, if not for his own. But it was a sacrifice he had to make, gently placed with all the others that he would be forced to face. He'd waited until she'd made camp far from any others - he did not want to be interrupted, or to be forced into violent action, if this went ill. He just wanted to see her. Tried to ignore how much he wanted to see her, for the sake of it, just to look on her once again and instead focus on the need that presented itself.
She had to stop following him. Stop helping him.
He would not allow her to sacrifice what he must. Would not allow her to throw away the scant years of peace that he could offer.
She knew that much, though what it was, she couldn't say. Out of a habit that was built up for decades, she reaches for the bow at her back that wasn't there. There's that familiar pang when she remembers--it takes two hands to shoot a bow. So she shuffles the papers on her lap--reports and letters she's been writing, all surrounding a certain figure--and reaches for a dagger on her belt instead.
The noises are quiet, moving through the forest, and she's not even sure if she's hearing them or not. But she rises anyway, purple eyes glancing around as she slowly turned, searching--
And then he emerges, and the dagger slips out of her hand, falling onto the grass with a soft thump.
She wants to run to him, just as she wanted to those few months ago, when she finally found him by the eluvian. But even now, she holds, staring at him as if he truly were a ghost that had emerged before her eyes.
"Ma lathbora," She countered, voice quiet. "You've gotten my messages, then."
It'd be hard work--Solas had not made it easy, and neither had Leliana. Trying to find him without alerting the spymaster had proven difficult. Her only saving grace was that Leliana thought that Beleth was on her side. Humans always underestimated her kind, even when they had run an entire organization. So Beleth had tracked down the one agent she knew about, and searched out the rest. Humans were used to overlooking elves, but as one herself, she was able to move amongst them easier--able to search out the Dalish clans.
And she'd gone to them with information, kept Leliana's feelers away from them. She'd brought in others who were likeminded. She had decided that she would help, whether or not Solas had wanted it. And she wondered if he'd ever find out. Well, here was her answer.
Quietly shoves a post-trespasser thread all up in here.
They were not to be seen, they were to be cautious, and they were never to travel unarmed. Seeking out the mirrors had been done quietly, quickly, and without even the name of the Inquisition at their backs. They'd hunted with little more than whispered words, scattered and spoken in the darkness, between agents that would not have appealed to Solas.
Or was he the Dread Wolf, now?
Lavellan had given them an account of what had transpired in that last field. He'd explained it all with a sort of hollow distance, as though it had been something he watched as it happened to someone else. Cassandra had dressed his arm, what was left of it, and she'd been the one who caught him when he tried to use the missing limb to help him stand.
Her fury was, perhaps, too great. It was unwarranted; of that, Lavellan had been entirely certain. He'd assured her of it gently, as though she were a child who had to be talked down, and reminded her that Solas was their friend. They were trying to save him, not slay him.
Perhaps that was why she had been sent to the desert.
The web that wound the eluvians together was beyond her, but as time passed she had learned to feel the disruption they created. It was subtle, if her abilities were any less she would not have sensed them at all, but they pulled on the world like weights on a tarp. The ones that were dead did not. So a mystery that had persisted for millennia was reduced to a simple game of hide and seek; they would find the mirrors and secure those that worked.
So far there were a total of three that did. It was not encouraging, despite what Lavellan claimed.
When she'd been left to guard this mirror, she hadn't thought anything would come of it. There had been mirrors beyond counting in the crossroads, the idea that this one was of any importance was ludicrous...or so she thought until Solas strode through it.
Neither of them had been prepared to encounter the other, that much was painfully obvious. Her sword and shield were across the room, far too great a distance for a mage of his skill. He was not wearing the armor Lavellan described, nor did he have a staff. In his hands he clutched a paper but she could not read it. She could feel the weight of the rune Dagna had crafted against her chest, beneath her breastplate--if it could not ward off his new-found abilities, then she would be immortalized in stone.
She stood only a few feet from him and when their eyes met, for one terrible moment, everything froze.
In the end, her anger was greater than her caution. While fury was a poor weapon, it was a powerful fuel. In an act that was, undoubtedly both brash and foolish, Cassandra threw the whetstone in her hand at his head. When he ducked, she dove at him and, as they fell and her fingers fisted into the fabric of his tunic, she heard the resounding, glassy crack of the Eluvian.
It hadn't meant to be a long journey - just a quick trip, a slipped message, and then back whence he came. But the room that he stepped into was not the place he expected, and within a heart beat something was crashing toward him -
His eyes flashed white at the same moment he recognized his attacker, so whether it was the rune on her breast or that recognition that kept her from turning to stone... was impossible to tell. He wouldn't, now that he recognized her. Not unless he had absolutely no other choice.
That didn't mean he couldn't immobilize her without it. And as she threw them both to the ground he raised a hand, ready to freeze her where she stood - when the crack of the Eluvian broke through his thoughts and interrupted his spell. It was, in of itself, no great a loss - he knew many would be destroyed, ere the time came. But in this particular instance, the difficulty of his escaped suddenly multiplied sevenfold. He would have simply backed out, and locked it forever behind him. But now the only way out was through Cassandra--
That was enough. No more playing. He threw up a barrier, strong and fast, to shove her back and off him, the power sizzling in the air as it had never done in their time before this.
The thought that Solas was here, that he was physically present again, was so strange and so familiar that Cassandra had trouble remembering it. The base wasn't large enough for either of them to truly stray out of sight of the other, but it was enough that if she fixated on some alternate task, she could almost forget he was near. Almost.
He had stepped out once, into the blistering heat and the whipping sand and Cassandra had felt her heart contract sharply in her chest. She'd suspected that he was simply getting his bearings or, at least, attempting to, but her treacherous heart had assumed he was leaving for good. It would have been better, she reasoned, if he left and wandered into the wilds alone...but the idea upset her. For all her mind rebelled against the it, her heart would not be swayed.
She loved him.
It was a stupid, wretched, foolish thing, but it was true. Maker help her, she had let herself fall into his polite smiles and his wistful tales of the Fade. Now, even knowing his lies and the bite of his betrayal, she couldn't pull herself back out of them. She looked at him and she should have seen an enemy, a traitor, someone who wished darkest violence and despair on the world...but she didn't see that. Perhaps that was why she was so angry, why she felt such a twist of rage as she watched him.
He'd returned and sealed the entry behind himself. Whether he'd contacted his people, determined a course, or sought information she couldn't say. Whatever had stayed his departure was beyond her...but even as his presence grated against her nerves, her heart rejoiced. There was a thrill in his being near; it was a feeling she had almost forgotten over the last few years.
If only she had.
It twisted her gut just as the thought of slaying him, of breaking him against the floor had. She was sickened by herself, by the still-sharp edge of her feelings, and it hurt to look at him. It hurt to look away, but denial was something she had grown used to. Sadly, what finally bent her resolve was little more than a sound in the darkness.
The winds raged and howled against the exterior of the base, blasting sand against the walls like plumes of fire. She'd settled to sleep through the storm and, in the biting cold of the desert, Solas had taken up a space near to her. It was practicality, she insisted, as she drifted toward sleep. That was when she heard it--he'd drifted off and, as always, there was an impossibly quiet, nasal sound. It was too light to be a snore but too soft and senseless to be something made with intent. It broke her heart to hear it. That sound meant he was safe, that he was comfortable, that he still lived; it was the same sound she'd listened for during their travels, and the same one that she marked nightly for three years.
Cassandra sat up and, without the energy to resist it or anyone to witness her weakness, her face crumbled into an expression of fond sorrow. She regarded him for several seconds, sleeping as he was wont, before she gave in to her traitor heart and leaned over him. Solas had always slept heavily, or so she believed; she did not expect he would feel her lips and so she didn't hesitate to brush a kiss against his brow.
He had sworn to himself that he would not lay with her under false pretences. He had sworn. But it was getting more and more difficult to turn aside the touches, the glances, or his own deepening desire. So the definition of 'lay with' had gradually shifted further and further from its original intention, until it had arrived at this:
He would not risk a pregnancy by penetrating her. That was about how far his ability to resist had dropped, and why - in this ramshackle little cottage in the hinterlands, while they were taking rest on their march back to Skyhold - he currently found himself half dressed, with his head between Cassandra's legs, and his mouth and tongue currently (and completely) engaged in her pleasure.
It was about as far as he could get from the spirit of the rule he'd imposed upon himself, he thought vaguely and he moaned lowly against her, gripping her hips to pull her closer, his tongue thrusting as deep as he could manage. But the taste of her was enough to drive him near to insanity, and so that's how he justified it to himself.
Temporary insanity. Just to give Cassandra some form of joy in these few moments he could offer her.
It had absolutely nothing to do with him giving in to his own heart, his own weakness, or his own need - even though his cock pulsed with a regular beat, his trousers drawing tight against him only to make the friction worse.
Varric, despite all his tact and savoir faire, was at a bit of a loss. He needed a favor, from Chuckles of all people, but he had no idea how to ask for it. Normally, he'd have offered the usual: money, friendship, favors, but Solas didn't really seem like the type who wanted the first, he had the second, and the third?
Andraste's ass, this was tricky.
What did Chuckles even like? You know, apart from the Fade and sleeping in general. Art supplies, maybe? That was a bit on the nose, but maybe it'd work...nah.
Shit, he'd figure this out.
Varric rapped his knuckles on the door to the Rotunda and the sound carried much farther than he'd expected. Apparently, without a gaggle of Orlesians meandering around bitching about everything, the acoustics in this joint were superb.
There was a long pause before Solas came to the door - he certainly seemed
dressed for sleep, his outfit far looser and finer than his usual garb, but
he didn't look tired. In fact, when he saw Varric, he couldn't help but
smile.
"You have excellent timing, Varric. I only just arose from a journey into
the Fade. Please, come in."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Hell, let's roll this back to Haven.
Usually, when she was called to apologize for something brash or extreme that she had done, it was not an apology for...well...threatening to have someone thrown in chains and summarily executed.
Andraste guide her, this was difficult...and, yet, all the more necessary because of that.
Cassandra took a deep breath and, in her most casual, long-legged, military gait she strolled through the streets of Haven. It was cold enough to re-freeze the snow that gathered on the ground. It crunched beneath her boots and ruined any possible delicacy her approach could have had. She would have sighed but, instead, just gritted her teeth and ignored it.
Haven was not large and it took very little time to find the cabin Solas had taken residence in. That was a kind turn of phrase--it was the cabin they had all but locked him in. He was lingering outside the door, seemingly enjoying the breeze, and Cassandra nearly bristled.
No.
There was no sense to that--Solas was not Varric. In their travels through the Hinterlands he had proven to be both patient and kind, he was unfailingly polite and helpful. He was not so petty that he would take up a post outside his former cell just to remind them of their mistakes.
"Solas?" Cassandra hazarded. She had meant to simply say his name but had feared it would sound like a command, as most of her direct statements did. When she tried to soften it, it came out as a question, in the nervous timbre of some Chantry maid. Cassandra almost winced at how hesitant it made her seem, mostly because it was on par with how hesitant she felt, as though she'd scrawled her heart on her breastplate for all to see.
Aw yeah I'm all in for it
"Our ward is fully recovered, I trust?"
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"Ah--yes," Cassandra confirmed with a nod. "No, I mean."
This time, when she stopped, it was at a reasonable distance for polite conversation and, as she came to a casual parade rest, she closed her eyes and drew a deep, audible breath. Her embarrassment was easily covered by irritation and her expression was dry when she returned her gaze to him again.
It would never cease to rankle her, how poorly she did when assembling words. She was far too blunt and literal, it made everything more difficult than it needed to be.
"They are still resting but I have been assured that they are stable and well," Cassandra explained with a firmness in her tone, as though she could marshal her words and keep them in place as she did soldiers. "The apothecary's assistant is watching over them, when they awake I am to be informed immediately."
She paused briefly and, in an overture that was transparent but not unkind, said: "I...can have them inform you as well, if you would like."
Solas had gone to great effort to keep the prisoner--no, they were no longer prisoner, just as he was no longer prisoner. Which was what she came to speak about...though how to reach that point again, she had no idea.
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Ensuring that Josie knew he wasn't to be disturbed, he made his way Solas' study. Knocking a knuckle politely on the lingering scaffolding to announce himself.
"Nothing amiss, I hope?" he asked gently. "We left it as you did."
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"... Thankfully, yes. I apologize for my abrupt departure. I needed some time to... consider."
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"You don't have to apologize, Solas. You lost someone dear to you, we understood." Well, perhaps 'understood' wasn't quite the word for everyone - Sara had certainly had some other ones, as had Vivienne - but that was neither here nor there. "Have you reached your decision?"
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hu hu hu
Deep inside Bruce knew that eventually it would have been out one way or another, but he had hoped, somehow. Although now in hindsight, he supposed it was foolish to hope that things would turn out well. Nothing in his life had ever shown him that.
The cell was cold and the wind bit into his skin, but the chill was nothing compared to the mixture of emotions in his gut. The Inquisition had been the place where he had ever stuck in the longest, and he had come to know so many good people. To think of putting it all behind him, to leave it... it would be painful, but Bruce supposed that was the only way to resolve this issue.
There was no way the Inquisition would be willing to keep him, after this.]
i'm doing prose because i'm lazy but feel free to do brackets
Wanted to see whatever poor spirit had been trapped, twisted and corrupted, to make him what he was.
So when he came down the steps, a cloak of fur to keep out the winter wind, he paused only to dismiss the guards before walking up to Bruce's cell.
"Bruce."
wheee prose
"Hello." His voice was tired and dull and flat, a clear reflection of how his expression was right there and then. "I'm sure you must have many questions." Questions that Bruce probably wouldn't be able to answer, if he had to be entirely honest. Half the time even he himself didn't know the things that made him what he is right now.
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Haven, yo!
She'd closed the door immediately.
After a few long self-conscious moments of flipping through the packages the elf had dropped in the middle of her floor, flipping idly through all of the papers, and counting to twenty in elven--twice--she dressed herself in the armor they'd laid out for her (clenching her fist each time the mark throbbed), found a scarf to wrap closely around her neck and the bottom of her face, and then the Herald of Andraste slipped ignobly through a side window and clambered up the short snowy slope to freedom.
It hadn't been freedom. As she explored behind the buildings, it quickly became apparent that Haven was encircled by a sturdy wall; and thus, by the alchemist, she gave up and came out, only to walk directly into the one person in the budding Inquisition she hadn't been able to get a solid read on while unwrapping her scarf. Nahariel Lavellan froze like a halla scenting danger.
Fenedhis... uh... He's an elf but he's not Dalish--do I say 'ir abelas'? Is that stuck up? Do non-Dalish know elvhen? He's a scholar, isn't he? He must know it. How long have I been thinking? Far too long. Now anything I say is going to sound forced, and this is a really great way to make a terrible impression, I should have stayed in the cabin.
She realized she was holding her breath. When she let it go, it came out as an "irabelashahren", quickly followed by a pained self-conscious wince.
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"You're forgiven, da'len, though you need not apologize. It is good to see you awake, and standing."
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"I wish I knew if it were good to be awake, and standing." Realizing that he might think her an ungrateful patient, she qualified quickly. "I'm glad to be alive, of course, but..." she peered past him, then pulled back quickly as someone caught her glance and saluted. "Everything has gotten very strange. The first time I opened the door, everyone stopped talking and stared at me--and then the woman who brought me my clothes fell to her knees and then looked at me like she thought I might eat her."
Nari clenched her fist around the ache of the anchor. "I thought I heard someone say 'Herald of Andraste'. Isn't she a shem'len goddess?"
Somewhere in Skyhold, a curious elf wanders in and finds an egg in his natural habitat.
There were so many shems here. He bristled whenever one of them brushed by him, nearly snapping at a dirty look an Orlesian noble had given him, but he kept himself civil, at least for now. But he had to find a quiet place or he might haul off on someone. He was actually relieved when he found Solas at his wall of murals only partially finished, turning in place with an awed sound. This was the first he'd seen of the lower half of the rotunda since coming here and with the quiet it offered, he didn't look to be leaving any time soon. At least, not until food came about.
i have no idea if this is their first meeting or not so :')
"Is it so strange a sight?" Solas asked him, finally standing up to turn to the visitor. "To have memory writ on walls, rather than spoken in tales?"
I'm running with nah, Salem's never run into Solas before and Solas probably wouldn't remember him.
"Not strange," he replied as his hand came up, fingertips inches away from the paint. "Remarkable, though. You're the one that did all this?"
sounds good to me!
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rubs fifty pictures on you
/rubs them all over self
That is the thought foremost in his mind, as he padded silently through the trees. The mist hung heavy around him, dampening all sound, and making the forest seem more lonely and more dreamlike for it.
He thought about doing this in the fade. Coming to Beleth in her sleep, to offer the same warning, the same plea, that he did before. But in the end, he found that he couldn't keep himself from coming to this place. If she kept reaching out for him...
He had to do this in person. For her sake, if not for his own. But it was a sacrifice he had to make, gently placed with all the others that he would be forced to face. He'd waited until she'd made camp far from any others - he did not want to be interrupted, or to be forced into violent action, if this went ill. He just wanted to see her. Tried to ignore how much he wanted to see her, for the sake of it, just to look on her once again and instead focus on the need that presented itself.
She had to stop following him. Stop helping him.
He would not allow her to sacrifice what he must. Would not allow her to throw away the scant years of peace that he could offer.
He stepped from out from the fog like a ghost.
"Aneth ara, emma lath."
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She knew that much, though what it was, she couldn't say. Out of a habit that was built up for decades, she reaches for the bow at her back that wasn't there. There's that familiar pang when she remembers--it takes two hands to shoot a bow. So she shuffles the papers on her lap--reports and letters she's been writing, all surrounding a certain figure--and reaches for a dagger on her belt instead.
The noises are quiet, moving through the forest, and she's not even sure if she's hearing them or not. But she rises anyway, purple eyes glancing around as she slowly turned, searching--
And then he emerges, and the dagger slips out of her hand, falling onto the grass with a soft thump.
She wants to run to him, just as she wanted to those few months ago, when she finally found him by the eluvian. But even now, she holds, staring at him as if he truly were a ghost that had emerged before her eyes.
"Ma lathbora," She countered, voice quiet. "You've gotten my messages, then."
It'd be hard work--Solas had not made it easy, and neither had Leliana. Trying to find him without alerting the spymaster had proven difficult. Her only saving grace was that Leliana thought that Beleth was on her side. Humans always underestimated her kind, even when they had run an entire organization. So Beleth had tracked down the one agent she knew about, and searched out the rest. Humans were used to overlooking elves, but as one herself, she was able to move amongst them easier--able to search out the Dalish clans.
And she'd gone to them with information, kept Leliana's feelers away from them. She'd brought in others who were likeminded. She had decided that she would help, whether or not Solas had wanted it. And she wondered if he'd ever find out. Well, here was her answer.
Quietly shoves a post-trespasser thread all up in here.
They were not to be seen, they were to be cautious, and they were never to travel unarmed. Seeking out the mirrors had been done quietly, quickly, and without even the name of the Inquisition at their backs. They'd hunted with little more than whispered words, scattered and spoken in the darkness, between agents that would not have appealed to Solas.
Or was he the Dread Wolf, now?
Lavellan had given them an account of what had transpired in that last field. He'd explained it all with a sort of hollow distance, as though it had been something he watched as it happened to someone else. Cassandra had dressed his arm, what was left of it, and she'd been the one who caught him when he tried to use the missing limb to help him stand.
Her fury was, perhaps, too great. It was unwarranted; of that, Lavellan had been entirely certain. He'd assured her of it gently, as though she were a child who had to be talked down, and reminded her that Solas was their friend. They were trying to save him, not slay him.
Perhaps that was why she had been sent to the desert.
The web that wound the eluvians together was beyond her, but as time passed she had learned to feel the disruption they created. It was subtle, if her abilities were any less she would not have sensed them at all, but they pulled on the world like weights on a tarp. The ones that were dead did not. So a mystery that had persisted for millennia was reduced to a simple game of hide and seek; they would find the mirrors and secure those that worked.
So far there were a total of three that did. It was not encouraging, despite what Lavellan claimed.
When she'd been left to guard this mirror, she hadn't thought anything would come of it. There had been mirrors beyond counting in the crossroads, the idea that this one was of any importance was ludicrous...or so she thought until Solas strode through it.
Neither of them had been prepared to encounter the other, that much was painfully obvious. Her sword and shield were across the room, far too great a distance for a mage of his skill. He was not wearing the armor Lavellan described, nor did he have a staff. In his hands he clutched a paper but she could not read it. She could feel the weight of the rune Dagna had crafted against her chest, beneath her breastplate--if it could not ward off his new-found abilities, then she would be immortalized in stone.
She stood only a few feet from him and when their eyes met, for one terrible moment, everything froze.
In the end, her anger was greater than her caution. While fury was a poor weapon, it was a powerful fuel. In an act that was, undoubtedly both brash and foolish, Cassandra threw the whetstone in her hand at his head. When he ducked, she dove at him and, as they fell and her fingers fisted into the fabric of his tunic, she heard the resounding, glassy crack of the Eluvian.
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His eyes flashed white at the same moment he recognized his attacker, so whether it was the rune on her breast or that recognition that kept her from turning to stone... was impossible to tell. He wouldn't, now that he recognized her. Not unless he had absolutely no other choice.
That didn't mean he couldn't immobilize her without it. And as she threw them both to the ground he raised a hand, ready to freeze her where she stood - when the crack of the Eluvian broke through his thoughts and interrupted his spell. It was, in of itself, no great a loss - he knew many would be destroyed, ere the time came. But in this particular instance, the difficulty of his escaped suddenly multiplied sevenfold. He would have simply backed out, and locked it forever behind him. But now the only way out was through Cassandra--
That was enough. No more playing. He threw up a barrier, strong and fast, to shove her back and off him, the power sizzling in the air as it had never done in their time before this.
"Enough, Cassandra!"
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Just gonna tag this onto this thread so I can keep all my AUs in line.
He had stepped out once, into the blistering heat and the whipping sand and Cassandra had felt her heart contract sharply in her chest. She'd suspected that he was simply getting his bearings or, at least, attempting to, but her treacherous heart had assumed he was leaving for good. It would have been better, she reasoned, if he left and wandered into the wilds alone...but the idea upset her. For all her mind rebelled against the it, her heart would not be swayed.
She loved him.
It was a stupid, wretched, foolish thing, but it was true. Maker help her, she had let herself fall into his polite smiles and his wistful tales of the Fade. Now, even knowing his lies and the bite of his betrayal, she couldn't pull herself back out of them. She looked at him and she should have seen an enemy, a traitor, someone who wished darkest violence and despair on the world...but she didn't see that. Perhaps that was why she was so angry, why she felt such a twist of rage as she watched him.
He'd returned and sealed the entry behind himself. Whether he'd contacted his people, determined a course, or sought information she couldn't say. Whatever had stayed his departure was beyond her...but even as his presence grated against her nerves, her heart rejoiced. There was a thrill in his being near; it was a feeling she had almost forgotten over the last few years.
If only she had.
It twisted her gut just as the thought of slaying him, of breaking him against the floor had. She was sickened by herself, by the still-sharp edge of her feelings, and it hurt to look at him. It hurt to look away, but denial was something she had grown used to. Sadly, what finally bent her resolve was little more than a sound in the darkness.
The winds raged and howled against the exterior of the base, blasting sand against the walls like plumes of fire. She'd settled to sleep through the storm and, in the biting cold of the desert, Solas had taken up a space near to her. It was practicality, she insisted, as she drifted toward sleep. That was when she heard it--he'd drifted off and, as always, there was an impossibly quiet, nasal sound. It was too light to be a snore but too soft and senseless to be something made with intent. It broke her heart to hear it. That sound meant he was safe, that he was comfortable, that he still lived; it was the same sound she'd listened for during their travels, and the same one that she marked nightly for three years.
Cassandra sat up and, without the energy to resist it or anyone to witness her weakness, her face crumbled into an expression of fond sorrow. She regarded him for several seconds, sleeping as he was wont, before she gave in to her traitor heart and leaned over him. Solas had always slept heavily, or so she believed; she did not expect he would feel her lips and so she didn't hesitate to brush a kiss against his brow.
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lmfao god i'm so sorry
He would not risk a pregnancy by penetrating her. That was about how far his ability to resist had dropped, and why - in this ramshackle little cottage in the hinterlands, while they were taking rest on their march back to Skyhold - he currently found himself half dressed, with his head between Cassandra's legs, and his mouth and tongue currently (and completely) engaged in her pleasure.
It was about as far as he could get from the spirit of the rule he'd imposed upon himself, he thought vaguely and he moaned lowly against her, gripping her hips to pull her closer, his tongue thrusting as deep as he could manage. But the taste of her was enough to drive him near to insanity, and so that's how he justified it to himself.
Temporary insanity. Just to give Cassandra some form of joy in these few moments he could offer her.
It had absolutely nothing to do with him giving in to his own heart, his own weakness, or his own need - even though his cock pulsed with a regular beat, his trousers drawing tight against him only to make the friction worse.
He was a fool.
UH apologize for *nothing*.
*cracks knuckles* WELL THEN
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Taggin this in here because I can.
Andraste's ass, this was tricky.
What did Chuckles even like? You know, apart from the Fade and sleeping in general. Art supplies, maybe? That was a bit on the nose, but maybe it'd work...nah.
Shit, he'd figure this out.
Varric rapped his knuckles on the door to the Rotunda and the sound carried much farther than he'd expected. Apparently, without a gaggle of Orlesians meandering around bitching about everything, the acoustics in this joint were superb.
"Hey, anyone awake in there?"
Re: Taggin this in here because I can.
There was a long pause before Solas came to the door - he certainly seemed dressed for sleep, his outfit far looser and finer than his usual garb, but he didn't look tired. In fact, when he saw Varric, he couldn't help but smile.
"You have excellent timing, Varric. I only just arose from a journey into the Fade. Please, come in."
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