One Small Limited Edition Merrill

 obscure elven heroes! appreciation. post

The Pale Demon: after Orlais conquered Halamshiral in 2:20 Glory and the Dales fell, one of the Keepers of the diaspora clans became infamous for his vicious attacks on Orlesians. humans came to know him as the Pale Demon, for he set upon soldiers and even unprotected merchants with iceblasts and blizzards from his staff, even in summer. these attacks continued until chevaliers killed the Keeper and then slaughtered his entire clan. the staff he bore was called Yavanalis (it’s curious to me incidentally, that Flemythal named one of her daughters Yavana - any connection? maybe the two words share the same root word in elven).

Wenni di Ladia: a City Elf from Nevarra, she was one of the most famous elven heroes from the Towers Age. directly descended from one of the last Emerald Knights who protected the Dales, she took up her grandfather’s bow, Tenasarin (any relation to the river Tenasir, where shrines to the elven gods stood?), to fight when the Third Blight threatened Thedas. her deeds, skill and beauty inspired entire armies, such that I don’t think it would be a stretch to say Wenni was one of the Heroes of the Third Blight. after the Archdemon was defeated, her name launched revolts and rebellions in the alienages, becoming a rallying cry - mien’harel! human Marcher rulers were angered by this, and Wenni was forced to flee criminal accusations. she vanished into obscurity, not unlike some Wardens in some of the potential epilogue slides, but her legend still lives on in the hearts of City Elves. this is very important, because in the City Elf Origin elven children playing “Heroes and Humans” will tell Tabris that they don’t know any stories about elven heroes. I like to believe that Wenni’s story is one that every elven child knows and takes great pride and solace in, just like Garahel’s is noted to be. 

Rajmael: a great general. the elves of the Dales fought valiantly against the Exalted March, but defeat became obvious. in one last act of defiance, Rajmael threw his dragonbone waraxe, The Veshialle, at the oncoming enemy before committing suicide by jumping from the Forlorn Falls. his weapon is said to rebel against all but elven hands. Rajmael may have been an Emerald Knight. a verse in the Chant of Light insists that he recanted his faith in the Creators, but we all know that’s human bullshit. curiously, his tale bears some similarity to that of Nomaris, one of the last Emerald Knights alive after the Dales were destroyed. he too bore an axe - the Axe of Green Edges. he lodged it in a tree, declaring that it should remain there until his People were free, before flinging himself into a river, presumably to his death.

Iloren: the Keeper of a Dalish clan that wandered the Anderfels during the Second Blight, in a time when Keepers were priests that served as archivists and magical scholars. he was a hunter in his younger days, and as crafty as a wolf. he led his people in their flight from the darkspawn horde, staying always one step ahead by the grace of his wits alone. one night, the darkspawn cornered and ambushed them. but the dark ones fell into Iloren’s trap. he and the other hahrens called upon the old magic, and with lightning set fire to dry grass and kindling that the hunters had strewn around the camp in preparation. the area went up in flames, and not a single creature made it through the blaze to harm his clan. today his tale is preserved in its most cherished form in books.

Willem Trialmont: a City Elf who followed a company of the Legion of the Dead for three days through the Deep Roads, doggedly intent on fighting darkspawn with his family blade - a fine elven sword which would later come to be known as Topsider’s Honor in light of his deeds. he was quiet but insistent; the dwarves, confused at why someone from the surface would care to combat darkspawn underground, initially thought that he wouldn’t last, and threatened to kill him if his actions put them at risk. but he shocked them, for later, they witnessed him fight like a man possessed, with incredibly light, silent strikes and marked precision. they toasted and broke bread with him, and when he died in 7:5 Storm, they extended that which was sacred to them and conveyed him to the Stone as if he’d been born a dwarf. his epitaph reads that he served the Deep Roads better than a native son. many Legionnaires lived to see another day because Willem fought at their side and fell in their place. in death, the dwarves lauded his honor and claimed him as a brother in blood. his story is one of true family beyond kin and taking up arms against darkness.

Alidda of Halamshiral: the most famous elven criminal in all of Orlais. a City Elf, she was arrested in 4:45 Black for killing three knights - a deed which hardly makes sense to pair with the word “crime”, as chevalier initiation practices involve “testing their blades” by entering alienage slums after dark to murder innocent elves who happen to be out after curfew. Divine Clemence I presided over Alidda’s trial, where it came to light that she had actually killed twelve chevaliers, in justified retaliation for the abhorrent graduation ritual. she escaped and killed twenty more chevaliers - two in single combat - before finally being cornered. rather than be captured, she cut her throat with Knightslayer, her own dagger.

Orahn: A Dalish smith known to have created fine weapons such as the Dal’Thanu waraxe that was an heirloom in the possession of Deygan’s family. His grandfather passed it down to him. Family legend holds that it was used to fight in the service of Andraste herself, meaning Orahn may have been a contemporary of Shartan.

Corimae: Presumably a City Elf, she owned a beautiful dagger called the Voice of Velvet. She was an assassin - possibly an Antivan Crow? - and when a nobleman refused to take her as a lover, she used the dagger to open his throat.

Sendis and Iselle: A Dalish archer and blood mage respectively, this brother and sister pair were part of a band of heroes that saved the Free Marcher city of Kaiten, having aided Viscount Ravi in preventing an abomination from destroying the place. Their clan was led by Keeper Tianne. Over time Iselle and Ravi became lovers, and she eventually died bearing their elf-blooded son Eiton. Sendis later saved his clan from blood magic control by calling on Ravi for help.

Embri of Gwaren: A City Elf, she was a mage, though unfortunately one of limited talent. Testament to her brave spirit and selfless desire to help, Embri volunteered of her own volition to be made Tranquil. As a Tranquil she proved to be a skilled enchanter, despite her absent-mindedness. She always kept an array of magical herbs and other ingredients at her belt, and eventually the belt itself came to hold magical properties. Embri died of lyrium poisoning.

Temolai: A skilled craftsman who made The Long Sight, a helm which grants a strange and unnerving acuity. He made one more helm better than it, but that helm allowed him to gaze upon the Black City, and he was lost forever.

Korin: An elven king, from a tall tale Tabris can tell children in the Denerim Alienage.

Tathas: A sneaky elven bandit, from a tall tale Tabris can tell children in the Denerim Alienage.

Blargha: A mighty elven warrior, from a tall tale Tabris can tell children in the Denerim Alienage.

CONFESSION:

I know it's insignificant and unlikely, but I've been wanting to go to Tevinter since my family was sold into slavery in DAO and, like.... I just want to know if Valora is okay? If Bioware could put her name above an NPC's head or something, I'd be happy. My poor Tabris never got to rescue her, and I need closure.

i know bros had no money for a portrait but please let the tabris finally be happy,,,

The Owls of Falon’Din

Pairing: Solas x Lavellan, OC & OC  Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: G Chapters: 5  Status: Complete

Read on AO3

If the Friend of the Dead lies imprisoned, who then will lead us to our slumber?

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AND I ALSO COME BEARING MORE PROMPTS BECAUSE YOU KNEW I'D BE CHUCKING DING DONG DADDY INTO YOUR INBOX SO HERE IT IS: "it wasn’t just about needing someone tonight. it was you i needed." for Adaia x Duncan also if you need me I'll be in the corner being all :eyes: emoji af

dingdongdadaia? adaiaddy? much to think about.

thank you for the prompt, effe!

rated m. adaia/duncan. 828 words. @dadrunkwriting

*

The gates of Denerim were fearsome in the moonlight. Shadows played tricks across the wood making them look ever taller; staunch watchmen who promised to keep their secrets.

"Here," Adaia said, holding out her daggers.

Duncan turned to her with a frown.

"Elves who have swords will die upon them," she smiled wryly, shaking the weapons insistently.

"I know," he muttered. He always hated stripping her of her own blades, and his mouth was a grim line as he slowly reached for them.

His hands carefully closed around the hilt of the first, the metal cool against his skin. Adaia didn't let go right away. They held each other's gaze for as long as they held the dagger, before Adaia's small hand slid off and she looked away.

He secured the swords on his hip as she walked towards the gates. He needed to follow, to flash some Grey Warden authority to the guards and explain away why they had been out so late. But he stood rooted; transfixed.

Adaia had always been beautiful. She was beautiful when they'd met, a cut on her face and a snarl on her lips. She was beautiful each time he invited her on a mission, each time she skipped out of the alienage with a laugh and a wave. But in the night, lit by all the stars and the moon, the torchlight bathing her in an amber glow...

"Are you coming?" she smirked, looking at him over her shoulder.

He swallowed, clearing his throat before following her.

As they stole through the quiet streets, Duncan couldn't help but wonder how long they could keep it up. It had been a year since they'd met, fighting their way out of the Brecilian Forest together. How much longer could he ask her to go with him on his less important missions? How much longer would she want to?

The looming alienage gates always sent dread burrowing into his stomach – though he had to assume it was significantly easier for him than Adaia. This time, though, it felt worse somehow. He couldn't pinpoint why. Perhaps it was his closer brush with death than usual that night, or Wintersend knocking on his front door. But Duncan knew that this night couldn't be the same as all the others. He couldn't just say goodbye, watch her head home, and sleep alone in a grim little camp he'd sleepily set up on his way back to the Wardens.

"Well," Adaia smiled, leaning against her front door. They looked around quickly before he gave her back her blades. "Thanks again!"

"Thank you," he replied earnestly.

Her smile widened in a quiet laugh as her hand reached behind her for the door handle.

"If you need anyone again, you know where I am," she grinned.

He heard the door start to open.

He couldn't let it happen that way again.

"It wasn't about needing just anyone," he rushed out, for once not letting his brain filter out what he wanted to say.

Her smile faltered, and the door clicked shut.

"It was you I needed."

She blinked up at him with her big brown eyes, like autumn leaves in the sun. Her dark skin looked flushed in the candlelight that streamed through the window.

He held her gaze, as he could do nothing else.

Adaia was looking at him in a way he'd never noticed. Her eyes flicked between his, down to his lips, and back. Her breath was shallow, her chest quickly rising and falling. He shuddered.

"Good," she whispered.

She was on her tiptoes before he knew it, and he quickly bent down to meet her halfway. He could feel her breath on his lips as they neared, neither daring to push farther just yet. Duncan could feel her mouth against his, the barest brush as they danced around each other.

When the pounding of his heart and the rush in his ears was too much to bear, he brought his hands up to either side of Adaia's face, easily threading his fingers into her hair... and they kissed.

It built up quickly. A year's worth of tension overflowed from both of them, bruising and tender. Passion thrummed in his veins as he felt her tongue against his lips and he opened, deepening their kiss. It was hard, fast, and desperate, and her trembling hand blazed a fire under his skin as her nails dug into the back of his neck.

Her other hand fisted into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he gladly obliged. Duncan pushed Adaia against the door, his hand trailing down her body, grabbing at her helplessly as she gasped into his mouth, tugging him to the present. They were being loud. Soft moans and gasps, the rustle of swords and daggers as they desperately gripped onto each other.

Adaia pulled away suddenly.

"It's getting late," she panted.

"Yes," he murmured, blinking nervously.

"D'you want to come in?"

"...Yes."

beardy and fuzzhead

i love these two and their friendship <3

In Death, Sacrifice.

Day 1: Vhenadahl

Written for @cityelfweek day 1! One of my favourite parts of DA lore is how many of our Elvhen companions cannot be neatly categorised into one of two boxes human society designates for them. I wanted to start the week writing about that overlap with Merrill and the city elves she lives among for, at this point, most of her adult life.

“Ir abelas,” Merrill mutters as she makes the first cut. The sapling branch surrenders easilyl to her shears, falling to the earth with little more hurry than a feather from a bird’s wing. She pats the trunk fondly. “I promise we’re almost through.”

When the wind stirs, it’s almost like it’s answering. She smiles, satisfied, and moves onto the next branch. Though she had promised to be done soon, she does not rush the task before her. From the rare traveller that passes through, she has come to learn the vhenadahl is the beating heart of the Alienage, and unique as the community it represents. Some exist only as stumps, sitting places for elves to gather and chatter, others grow in impossible ways, defying the desert sun to offer shade to the People on hopelessly hot days. As she understands it, the one in Hossburg is just a cutting, the old tree felled in a mighty storm.

Merrill, for her part, has become quite proud of Kirkwall’s. Mighty it grows, and tall. The paint they had decorated it with on Summerday has begun to fade in the fierce sunshine of August, pigment clinging brightest where the boughs gather the darkest shadow. Soon, the elven new year will be upon them, and they will hang ribbons in her branches and paint patterns in her bark once again.

She reaches for the next branch, snipping deftly. The slice of the blades are so sharp, she doesn’t hear the quiet gasp behind her.

“Why are you hurting the tree, hahren?” A small voice asks. Merrill pauses her pruning to look down, met by the sweet face of Libi, Elara’s daughter. Her wild blonde hair is freshly tamed and combed into two thick plaits. She’d broken from a pack of nearby children to accost Merrill with her question, dolly held limply by her side.

“Oh.” Merrill’s teeth drive into her lower lip, impressing a faint line. The Alienage’s children don’t often address her, content to let her be an oddity. The strange, Dalish lady they could imagine all sorts of things about, as children are like to do with things they do not understand. It doesn’t trouble her, she had been no less strange to her clan, and no better with their children. “I’m not hurting it, da’len. I’m helping.”

She lifts her hand, rubbing the trunk of the tree like she strokes the side of some great, friendly beast. “You prune the branches to help it grow. Think of it like… if you had an arm-” Merrill sticks her thumb against her forehead, fingers splaying out like leaves on a branch- “growing out of your forehead! Or… a leg in your ear.” She tilts her head, like the imaginary appendage weighs it to one side.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Libi remarks, perhaps considering the extra toys she could tote around with her if she had an extra arm.

Merrill laughs. “You might be alright,” she says, “but trees will tip over.”

Libi nods with a stoic understanding. She steps over to the pile of sticks Merrill has gathered through her morning’s work. “What will these be for?”

The shoots are still green, flush with water, and will make for poor kindling. Among the Dalish, it had made them the ideal spit to roast their dinners on, but there is no shortage to their use. “They may dry clean laundry, or make for a little slingshot.” She strays in her task to pluck one that diverges like a fork in a river, separate ends just far apart enough to tie something between them. “Maybe a little loom?”

“A sword,” Libbi declares, leaving no room for argument. With her free hand, she reaches out, but thinks twice before snatching it. Merrill can almost hear mamae’s voice reprimanding her for her lack of manners. “May I have one?”

“Uh, of course! But choose wisely, da’len.”

Libi takes her words to heart, deliberating until she finds the narrowest stick in the pile. She brandishes it like a rapier, then, apparently satisfied with her decisions, bounds back to her friends as though no time has passed. A little ‘thank you’ follows her retreat, manners not entirely abandoned now that she had what she came for.

Merrill smiles, taking heart in the fact that they had parted as friends. The parents had taken to calling her hahren for her knowledge, but without children to teach, it often felt an empty title. It’s only when she hears the whip of a twig against bare flesh that she realises her mistake. That afternoon, the shade of the vhenadahl nurses many a skinned knee as a little war plays out beneath its boughs.