Fandom Dread Wolf Guide You [ValentineIllusion]

[Peryton]

Skyhold
When it rained, it poured.

That was especially true for Skyhold, high up as it was in the mountains. It usually snowed, but today that snow had shifted to mostly rain and sleet. It was true that Skyhold was slowly becoming a city in its own right, but this afternoon it stood like a silent sentinel, surrounded by fog. Most of the populace had stayed inside, and even their stubborn Commander had been forced to cancel the drills which usually took place on the tiered hillside below the main city. There was, for once, stillness and quiet. The pattering sound of the sleet on the roof and walls kept Solas company, while occasional flutters of movement drifted down from up above where Leliana and her scouts kept quarter. The silence suited him. It made it easier to think. To reflect.

Solas reclined in his chair. His was a carefully woven disguise of formality, but here, in his own room and with no expectation of visitors, he allowed himself some respite. One bared foot rested on the edge of his heavy desk as he leaned back in his chair, the front legs off the ground, a book balanced against his lifted thigh. He rocked himself mindlessly, back and forth, as he read, a finger curled around his chin, thumb against his bottom lip. The book in particular appeared well-loved: The pages were old and worn, and some had been dog-eared so many times that the corners of the pages had simply fallen off. He could practically recite the paragraphs by heart, but reading them (actually reading them), brought a warm sense of familiarity.

The sound of footsteps interrupted him, and Solas sighed. He lifted a hand to lightly scrub his fingertips across his face as he lowered his foot back onto the floor and sat square, back straightened in preparation of a visitor. Not many people actually sought him out here: Varric, unafraid of most things, did so on occasion. Cassandra as well. Cole slunk inside occasionally, and Solas was of course more than happy to host him. The others (save for Sera, who preferred trying to drop things on his head from a great height rather than engage in conversation) avoided him. That suited him. Lonliness had been his constant companion for years beyond counting. It only figured that his oldest friend would follow him here, as well.

Ah, to digress. He knew the sound of these footsteps, and he knew at once who it was. That did little to soothe him, unfortunately. Conversations with Atheril were at once both utterly engaging and maddening. She confounded him the way few other people did, and that was dangerous. Solas disliked losing focus. Losing vision. But he was here to serve and assist, and he'd refuse her nothing. Not now, at any rate. "There's no need to wait to be invited on my account," He announced once he sensed she was close enough to hear. "My space is your space. I hope you haven't been outside," He added, voice light and conversational. "The weather's only getting poorer as the day goes on."

 

[ValentineIllusion]

A t h e r i l

With so much of Skyhold's populace taking refuge from the weather indoors, there was no better place for Atheril to hide than outdoors. Rain poured and she was soon soaked, but she hardly minded.

She could have frozen the rain before it hit her, but it wasn't her magic she wanted to hone in the moment. Instead, in a corner of the courtyard overlooked by the fewest windows, she practiced with different weapons. Her whole life, she was used to the light weight of her ironbark greatsword. Now that she had the resources of an Inquisitor, however, Atheril had her own maul made. She struggled to hold on, as droplets of rain loosened her grip. The weight was so much heavier and distributed entirely differently, too. The whole thing was nearly taller than her. Atheril, however, was so much happier focusing on her swing than her new role as the Inquisitor.

The weight of all of Thedas was on her shoulders. It wasn't lost on her. She could fight, she could cast, she could close rifts, and she wanted more than anybody to rip Corypheus' head off with her own hands--or crush it, once she was better with her maul. Yet, Atheril dreaded just the idea of the posturing and politics involved, when all she wanted to do was protect her people.

"Aagh!" Atheril shouted, knocking the dummy from it's pole and sinking into the mud. Before anyone blew her cover, she marched her maul to the armory, begrudgingly handing it off to the blacksmiths who hurried to tend to her weapon. Inquisitor, they greeted her from every angle. Atheril pursed her lips and nodded and moved to leave as soon as she good--with good timing.

She stepped outside just in time to see Cullen hobbling back into his office. In the courtyard, a small band of his troops returned, a bandit leader in one soldier's hands and promptly lead to the prison. The rest left for the infirmary, and Atheril followed.

"Sophie?" Atheril called out, peering into the infirmary while she stayed mostly outside. Having her head poked in was still just enough for her hair to drip rainwater on the ground, however, "Sophie, I think Cullen's hurt and being stubborn about it. He's in his office--could you check in on him?"

Atheril slipped away about as quickly as she came. She hurried back to Skyhold proper, avoiding the patches of mud that her bare feet would drown in. At the door, she felt like she was staring her throne down, noblemen and women the only obstacle between her and her responsibility. Far too large of an obstacle for her to ever want to face. So, instead, she slipped into the library, trail of rainwater following behind her.

Her footsteps, between her bare feet on cobblestone and dripping water, were easily recognizable. At first, she entered quietly, finding a place to toss her rain soaked coat. Once he mentioned the weather, however, she chuckled quietly.

"You don't mind me hiding in here instead, then?" she asked, falling back into the nearest chair. As soon as she hit the cushion, Atheril found herself relaxing, shoulders falling and a sigh escaping her lips. Leaning her head back, she shut her eyes, if only for a minute. How she would have loved to slip into the fade in the middle of the day, and she nearly did. Once her mind started to wander, however, something there shocked her back to consciousness, back in Solas' company. Rubbing her forehead, she directed her gaze towards the ground even as she spoke to him, "Can we talk about elves? Or, actually, the fade? Just, just something that isn't...something."

C u l l e n

Only once Skyhold was enveloped in horrible weather did Cullen, begrudgingly, cancel the day's drills. Of course he wanted his troops safe from the rain and fog, but--pang--he didn't want to be sitting idle himself. Of course he wasn't excited that a band of bandits was harassing a small group of refugees, but he couldn't say he wasn't craving something to do. He only needed a small group of soldiers, only those who volunteered and only after they all ate a warm meal.

Once in the battle, it wasn't difficult. They were plain bandits, and the soldiers only suffered minor injuries and wet clothing. Pang. Cullen, however, found himself brought down by another beast. He struck down the last man who'd rather rage than run away, but as he did so, his gut twisted and he found himself lurching forward. With a sharp breath, he had to balance on his sword to keep himself upright. He wasn't injured--but he hurt. He wasn't ready to stand up straight and take back his own sword, but he couldn't leave his men waiting. However, cringing, shutting his eyes tightly and pulling back his blade, his party already took note of his state.

"Commander?" One of his men stepped forward, but Cullen waved him away with a short shake of his head.

"We're finished here," he insisted, "Let's head back."

Cullen lead his troops back to the gate, but left them to find the infirmary on their own, even when they insisted that he come with them. He was just sore, he told them. Pang. Just sore. Still fine enough to leave his men, drag his feet up every slippery step, practically collapse against the door to open it and shutting himself back in his office. Only once he was completely alone did he stride quickly towards his desk, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead even in the near freezing weather. Pang. Cullen fell over his desk, one hand on its surface while the other reached for and dug through his drawer, frantic.

It wasn't hard to find. It was on top of everything else: His lyrium. He snapped open the latch so quickly, the metal left an indent in his finger, but he was instead so focused on the materials in front of him.

It would be so easy, and his pain would be gone. He sat back in his chair to wonder if it was worth it. Of course he knew it wouldn't be. How he felt, on the other hand...it was hard to feel anything other than the pain.

 

[Peryton]

Sophia Trevelyan
Sophia looked up with a start. The day had been quiet, and most of her chores had been finished by noon. A day without training of any kind meant that it was a day to play catch up. With no new injuries to tend to, she and the other healers in the infirmary had managed to tend to the patients who required longer care, assisted some with exercise, cooked a morning meal, and laundered linens. There was, for once, not much else to do. They were still waiting on a shipment of Elfroot, but the latest caravan would likely be delayed due to the recent string of weather. What was rain down below quickly became impassible snow higher up in the mountains, and the rain would freeze the paths to ice. Not even the surest footed oxen or mules would be able to safely make the trip up to Skyhold, and certainly not pulling wagons. Her medicine would have to wait.

Or, so she thought.

No sooner had she sat to settle in to a book did she hear her name, and Sophie quickly set it aside. She unwound herself from where she'd been curled on one of the unused cots and promptly stomped her feet into her boots. "Yes!" She called, feeling rather like a child with her hand caught in the metaphorical treat jar. "Yes, I'm coming!" Supplies, supplies. There wasn't much to spare, but she did snatch up the small leather pouch which held her stitching supplies. Next, a small jar of elfroot salve. And, lastly, a flask with a nip of strong whiskey. She'd found that even some of the most stubborn of soldiers became more friendly if you put a drink in their hand, and more friendly meant more likely to let her do her job.

This, however, wasn't going to be a normal soldier. This was Commander Cullen Rutherford, and that knowledge send her stomach flopping.

Sophie would never consider herself easily spooked. She'd seen injuries that would turn other grown men's stomachs. She'd born witness to the atrocities in the Gallows, mages cut down by Templars on Meredith's orders as they attempted to flee. And that was precisely why she dreaded going to see the Commander now. Sophie had always conducted herself quietly, and she'd never been the sort of student to even consider putting a toe out of line. Therefore, she'd never had much contact with Meredith or her Templar Elite. She doubted Cullen would even recognize her, and she preferred it that way. "The best way to move is forward," First-Enchanter Orsino had always said, and she supposed that remained true now. There was no point in dwelling on the past. They were, supposedly, all on the same side now. Her rational brain knew that.

It was too bad, then, that her irrational brain was making her heart hammer nervously against her ribcage.

Sophie deposited her goods in a sack, pulled a cowl up over her head, and squinted against the rain and sleet as she strode outside. The Commander's tower wasn't far, thank the Maker, but each gust of wind thigh high up bit at her face and whipped her hair. She grimaced against it, and though it took less than ten minutes for her to make it to the Commander's door, her face was already numb from the cold, dark hair pasted against her forehead and cheeks, rivulets of rain dripping down her nose. She sniffed mightily, knocked thrice, and then opened the door a crack, just enough to let her voice filter into the room. "Commander Cullen?" She cleared her throat politely. "Ah, I apologize for the intrusion, but the Inquisitor sent me to look after you. She said you looked like you might need assistance, so..." She waited just a beat, fingers strumming nervously on the door. "...It's a bit nippy out here," She added after a few beats of silence, voice carrying a hint of a tremble. From nervousness, or from the cold? "And wet."

 

[Peryton]

Solas
Ah. So she had been in the rain. Well, he wasn't about to scold her. Lavellan wasn't a child, and she was more than capable of making her own decisions. He leaned forward to watch her for just a moment before he sat back in his chair and gestured lightly with one hand. "Please," his voice remained pleasant. "Make yourself comfortable." He hardly needed to give her permission. Skyhold was, after all, her place. Her victory. Still, he appreciated that she though to ask. He was used to his time and space being his own, and though he'd volunteered for this, being at someone else's beck and call was still something he was getting used to.

And it could have been worse. Atheril was thoughtful and resilient, curious and brave. She was more than what he would have expected of a random soul, plucked randomly from the mass of bodies present at the Conclave. There could have been so many people suited so poorly for the mantle Atheril was asked to wear. Perhaps that was the important difference: Others might have chosen to wear the mantle, but Atheril bore it. She recognized her place as a position of service, sought no fanfare, and acted on behalf of the good of all people (as much as she could define it as such).

And, surprising even himself, he admired her for it. Yes, she and her questions were quite welcome here.

"Those are all very different subjects," He couldn't help but laugh, albeit quietly. Briefly. "You weren't so keen on the conversation the last time we discussed Elves at any length," He reminded her matter-of-factly. There was no judgement there, only curiosity. "Unless you'd like to revisit the conversation?" He doubted it. And, frankly, he wasn't quite sure he wanted to return to it, either. Not as things were now. It'd only put him in a sour, melancholy mood, and his day had been rather nice so far. No need to spoil it.

"I'd like to ask--If I may--What you were doing out in the rain. The Inquisitor commands her armies inside, but she herself walks out into the storm?" He clucked his tongue. "There's no need to make such a sacrifice today. Unless," And there was a glint of something that was almost mischief in his eyes, "You'd rather be soaking and cold than cooped up inside. I know the feeling," He assured her. "Quite well. I spent most of my life walking the wilds. I often feel more at home out there," He jerked his chin pointedly toward the doorway, where rain dripped off the room and poured down onto the ground. "Than in here. Especially," And he lifted his voice slightly to be heard from above, "When one can't expect to sleep through the night without nightly disturbances."

 

[ValentineIllusion]

A t h e r i l

As Solas spoke, Atheril found herself relaxing back into her seat, lips curling up if only slightly. She never cared for lectures. Lectures on years upon years of elven lore only ever lulled Atheril to sleep, but that was never how Solas delivered it. She listened--sometimes, she argued. Often, even. Only once he'd finished his sentences and never to get a rise out of him, but if she said nothing on his opinions, how would the conversation ever continue? If she wanted a real shouting match, she'd be talking to Sera. If anything, she was looking forward to talking about elves once again, until he mentioned, Inquisitor. Atheril's smile fell once again.

"Please don't call me Inquisitor, not...not now. Not here." she muttered, looking up at the rest of the rotunda as he mentioned how noisy it was. She pursed her lips, "Maybe I would do better sleeping in here then..."

Before her being could be misconstrued, she shook her head, "I mean-" Atheril stood to her feet, "Honestly? I'd rather stay awake lately. None of my ventures into the fade have been...pleasant. You know what-" she strode towards him, leaning against his table and crossing her arms in a fragile veneer of respectability. She hardly lingered on her poor sleep, or her heavy eyelids, or her subtle shivering, "I'd rather talk about elves again, more than the fade. You didn't react at all when I wrapped my sword in halla leather, so..." She grinned again, "I'm happy to know you're not allergic."

Atheril practiced precious rare caution as they talked about elves. Even if they disagreed, she still empathized with his position--outcast by the very people she cared so dearly for. In Skyhold, she felt like even more of an outcast, even when she was meant to lead them. There was no one else who would listen so calmly, caring quietly but deeply about the world around him, even centuries of old elven history or years of new elven culture. Atheril sighed. Maybe it was only the exhaustion that kept her still for so long.

"Can I tell you a story from when I was younger? About the Dread Wolf," Atheril mentioned, letting go of a short laugh just remembering what she wanted to tell him, "It's a Dalish thing, but...it's when I was completely wrong. It's funny, I swear."

C u l l e n

Cullen spent his silence, staring at his supplies, frantically coming to different conclusions every second. Yes. No. Pang. Yes. No. Pang. Yes. No. He didn't have the mind to think straight, and realize that his knuckles had turned white from how tightly he gripped them. His arms, his entire body, were shaking, but he was still standing stiff, from what he could tell. He didn't want to move until he could make a decision in either direction for more than seconds. Eventually he was losing track of time, and only the constant wind and rain outside reminded the commander that it was still the same day. Yes. No. Pang. Yes. No. Pang.

The knock at the door interrupted him suddenly, and Cullen jumped, gasping for air that he never realized he was holding in. Her voice was so soft in the floor of thoughts and downpour, he wondered if it was there at all, or if he was imagining beautiful things he would never have in his condition. It was when he noticed light pouring through a crack in the door, however, that he really panicked.

Cullen shoved all of his supplies out of sight, off the desk and clamoring on the floor. That, however, was suspicious. So following them, he pushed off a stack of papers as well, hoping to bury the case under the work he found the most boring. Hiding his greatest disaster under some more manageable. Only then did he hurriedly shuffle to the door, opening it wide for Sophie to come in.

"Nurse? Come in, please. Out of the rain," the commander insisted, waving her inside and shutting the door behind them. Still, the open ceiling in the floor above welcomed in a somewhat comfortable draft, as long as neither of them stood under the spot where the rain came in, "I'm sorry for the mess, I haven't been back from our mission for very long. I trust your shipment has come in full? Let me know if it hasn't, and I'll ensure my men find the rest." With a polite nod, he sat back in his desk chair, hoping that settling in would hide his shivering. Or that it would be attributed to rain. He, however, didn't miss her satchel of supplies. The Inquisitor referred him to her. Of course it was the Inquisitor.

"I'm sorry, I never meant to be an inconvenience on you," Cullen apologized, brow furrowing as he observed how wet she was from just her trip here, a trip he never wanted her to take, "I'm quite alright, I assure you. But are you alright? I apologize for leaving you waiting out there," he glanced around the room, anywhere other than looking her in the eye, "I'm sure I have a cloth around here somewhere, something to get you dried off..."

 

[Peryton]

Solas
Ah. He'd forgotten. Don't call me Inquisitor. She disliked the title, and he couldn't blame her. With it came the burden of responsibility. He, too, sometimes wished he could escape someplace without that burden on his shoulders. He bowed his head briefly. "My apologies, Atheril. As you wish." He wished, briefly, that he could offer her something. He didn't drink tea, and so there was no kettle for hot drinks anywhere in his room. No Ferelden custom here, then. Water would have to do. He stood from his chair and paced easily to where he kept a metal pitcher and a couple of cups and brought them back to his table, set between them so that she could help herself.

"Ah. Well..." He sat and poured himself a cup, head tilted thoughtfully. "The Fade reflects our own inner turmoil-- Or lack of it. The spirits react to what we bring with us when we enter their realm. It makes sense that your recent journeys have been troubled. I can imagine the sort of stress you're under." He suffered no such trouble despite his own worries and anxiety. Solas was a master of the Fade, and it shaped and reshaped itself as he willed it. Atheril didn't have the luxury of simply walking away from a dream she didn't like. Pity.

Of course she wanted to talk about Elves. Solas managed to swallow down a soft sigh. Far be it for him to discourage any questions, even if he did find them tiresome. Painful. As prepared as he was to delve back into Elven culture (or the lack thereof, as the case may be), he wasn't prepared for her to utter that name. Most Dalish, as he understood it, scorned the Dread Wolf. They went so far as to set his effigy away from the camp, lest he intrude on their comings and going and change their luck. Madness, all of it, but there was no use in telling Atheril such. She took comfort in her people, and he didn't really have the heart to try and peel that away from her. Not when she had so few pleasures to herself already.

Solas cleared his throat and took a long swallow of water before he finally looked up to meet her gaze, calm and collected. "Alright," He invited, one corner of his lips twitched slightly upward in amusement. "A funny story about the Dread Wolf. Consider me intrigued." They hadn't talked much about Atheril's views on her people's chosen pantheon. He had his own strong opinions, of course, but he had quickly learned that what he knew and what she believed didn't usually align. Not in this sphere. Still, he did so love to hear about Dalish thoughts on their gods. He set his drink aside and leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands lightly clasped. "Did the wicked wolf chase you into the woods and eat you up?" He teased.


Sophia
She hardly waited for him to finish his sentence before Sophia let herself inside, trailing water onto his floor. "I'm not a nurse," She corrected him gently. "Just a healer." Nurses relied purely on medicine and surgical ability, but mage healers could do more. Or less, as the case sometimes was. Sophia had been aghast at how absent traditional medicien was from her course of study when she'd been in the Circle. Spirit Healers in training were watched day and night by Templars due to their strong connection to the Fade, and in spite of that, no one had thought to maybe teach them practical medicine in order to decrease their reliance on their magic. Bizarre. Thankfully, Sophia'd had plenty of time to learn from field medics during her time in the Hinterlands. Now, she could tie a stitch as well as any practiced doctor.

Sophia slung her pack from her shoulder. Picking through it gave her an opportunity to take stock of the room. She'd never been in the Commander's tower before, and she could admit to herself that she'd expected it to be a bit less messy. Papers on the floor, papers on the desk... Then again, she couldn't imagine the mountain of reports and letters the Commander had to sift through every day. His comment about the supplies surprised her, but maybe it shouldn't have. It only made sense that the Commander might have a hand in assisting caravans up the mountain. Merchant trains could be easy prey for ambitious bandits. "They haven't come in," She admitted, but continued quickly. "But it's not a worry. We have enough poultice to last a week at least, Maker providing. The last I heard, the train was delayed a couple miles out and turned back. I don't blame them. The road gets icy quickly. I wouldn't want their oxen breaking legs just to get up here."

Was he stalling? She had a hunch that he was stalling. What was it about soldiers that made them so reluctant to get care? "But, um." She managed a hesitant smile. "Rest assured, I'm not here to judge the tidiness of your room or complain about supplies. I'm just here to make sure you're alright. You're not an inconvenience," Sophia continued. "This is my job. Do you want to have a seat? Tell me about what happened? What hurts?"

Alright. She could do this. He was just another patient, and she certainly knew how to care for patients. This conversation was beginning to settle into a familiar rhythm, and it put her at ease. She opened her mouth to speak, and then frowned. She could feel empathy in the back of her mind, which was unusual. She hadn't even touched the Commander yet, let alone asked him about his symptoms. But she knew that sensation like the back of her hand, and-- shivering. Uncontrollable tremors beneath her skin. She could feel it as keenly as if she had just been standing for hours out in the wet cold, and she rubbed her hands together without thinking, teeth clenched together to keep them from chattering. "I'm sorry," She interrupted suddenly. "Are you very cold? You're shivering."

 

[ValentineIllusion]

A t h e r i l

At the offer of water, Atheril graciously accepted, pouring herself a glass while she paid attention to him. Inner turmoil felt like an understatement. While she wondered, her glass, starting from her fingers, slowly began to frost over, while that side of the glass started turning to ice. With a sigh, she started taking sips at it before it was completely frozen.

But Solas didn't immediately recoil at her introduction, even if he teased, and that was enough for her. Atheril grinned at his comment.

"I think he tried. Anyways," Setting her water down, she leaned further back on the table, looking up as she reminisced. These were rare moments for her, so she reveled in them. Sometimes Josephine would ask questions, if only to combat rumors that her Dalish childhood was really full of savages. Nobles would even ask her directly, only to use her answers for later gossip fodder. But the story still made Atheril laugh, even before she started telling it.

"When my mother and I were running from the templars, she hid me behind the nearest statue. Didn't care what it was. Found a child sized spot, stuck me in it, and ran like hell," Atheril pursed her lips, turning to Solas. She didn't linger on the running for long, "It was our statue of the Dread Wolf. The Templars never found me, but my brother--one of the Dalish--he did. When I asked what it was, he just said Fen'Harel--I didn't know any elvish, I didn't know what else to ask, all I thought was that the statue was of something good. Great hiding spot, at least.

"So when we were all playing hide and seek later, where the hell else was I going to go?" She shook her head, "Solas, they didn't find me for hours. I thought, when they did, they were just worried about the sun going down, and I mean--they were. But they were so worried about me running up to the Dread Wolf, and I got an hour long lecture after that...they were so worried about my dreams already. They were convinced I was going to get taken."

Atheril pursed her lips, but her story soon turned solemn--and into questions, "They told me if I started wandering too far into the fade, the Dread Wolf was going to get me. I never knew what it was going to do when it did, I was just...they were convinced." She shrugged, "Have you ever seen it, Solas? In the fade. I don't know what it can do, but, if I've never had dreams this bad before..."

C u l l e n

The commander was quick to remember the difference between nurses and healers. He was used to nurses tending to his wounds in Kirkwall, who tended to many of the Templars while healers studied inside. Injured or otherwise, he kept his distance, even a step behind the other Templars. Spirit healing was nothing but benevolent, did nothing but help and heal, until it didn't. It was an even greater, quieter gateway for Demons to find and enter. Cullen took a sharp breath, covering his mouth as he watched her poking through her supplies. Maybe it was medicine in general, magical or not, that made him somewhat squeamish.

"If you haven't received your shipment, we just rescued some merchants from bandits, I could check and see if that was them-" Cullen insisted, standing to his feet and stepping towards his window like he might be able to catch a glimpse of them. At the same time, he felt a different pang in his gut. It was more nervous, full of energy ready to flee, but it had nothing to do with lyrium. A response to magic, maybe? He assumed it was just magic, "There's no telling how long this weather could last, if it lasts longer than a week, then..."

In the corner, his eyes landed on his storage chest, where he kept his linens away from the exposed room up above. He retrieved whatever was on top, something heavy and warm, and handed it over to Sophia.

"Please," he started with a short nod, "I insist."

As she continued to insist that he sit down and be examined, however, he stiffened up again, "Serah, nothing is the matter, I promise," he insisted, taking a step back, "I am quite alright. We fought off bandits, but, we handled them easily. Most of us are unscathed." Cullen shook his head, "Nothing hurts, nothing happened, I'm thankful for your concern but there really isn't..."

Taking another step back, however, he felt glass shattered beneath his boot, and he stopped. She was right--he was shaking, even when he tried to stand still. With a deep breath, he sat back in his chair, holding his head in his hand, "I...Sorry, yes, I am. It's honestly freezing outside, I'm really surprised it hasn't been snow," he said, looking up towards her, "I suppose...if you have the time, I wouldn't mind."

 

[Peryton]

Solas

"It appears he made a better first impression on you than most Dalish," Solas observed. "Their superstitions run deep, but ask them why, and they seldom have a good response. "The Dread Wolf is a trickster", they'll say. But then, so are crows. Magpies. There's no rhyme or reason, it's done because that's the way it's always been. And sometimes," He continued on, forcing his voice into an easier, gentler tone, "A statue truly is just a statue. I am glad it was there to safeguard you nonetheless." He wasn't sure to make of this story. It wasn't funny, really, but Solas knew that was due to his own discomfort surrounding the topic. "I daresay the other children thought you quite daring for hiding someplace they wouldn't dare to go. Or annoyed." He smiled slightly, though it faded slightly in response to her question.

"Have you seen him, Solas?"

"Have I seen Fen'harel in the Fade?" Solas asked for clarification, eyebrows raised. How to answer? "Many times, when I was younger. But you must remember," He pressed as he leaned forward, earnest, "The Fade shapes itself to images and scenes it knows will affect us. If you ruminate on any one thing for too long, it will undoubtedly hunt you in your dreams as well. Have you tried meditation?" He asked curiously. "I find that sometimes meditation before I sleep helps to clear my mind and makes passage through the Fade easier. There are ways for even those born without the ability to navigate the mists to develop it within themselves-- Albeit in a lesser capacity. I've heard of humans, even, who've been known to take control of their dreams and reshape them." This was a much more comfortable space, now. Solas could talk about the Fade for hours. Once you'd experienced it, and truly experienced it, not many other things held a candle to the experience. "Or, perhaps I could give you a demonstration." He'd never taken her with him on his Walks before. And, he realized suddenly, perhaps he had never really intended to. Traveling the Fade as he did was an intimate experience, and he'd never thought to share it with another person before. But, perhaps now was the time. She had questions, and maybe a guided journey through the Fade could answer them. He extended his hand.

"Join me?"


Sophia

The tinkling sound of broken glass made her blink. He'd obviously stepped on something, and, wanting to be polite, Sophia didn't try to look. She really didn't want to embarrass the Commander, and especially not when he was acting so... spooky. She almost felt as if she were trying to get close to a nervous horse. She had no idea what he could possibly be uneasy about, either. Maybe he'd had a bad experience with injuries in the past. She knew that some people came to dread medics and healers, associating them with pain and discomfort rather than the relief they tried to bring.

Or, was it because she was a mage? He'd been a captain under Meredith, hadn't he? He'd always been in a position to be more powerful than mages. What reason could he have to fear?

She smiled at him regardless, hoping to ease some of the tension in the room. "I'll try to be quick about it. If nothing's wrong, I wouldn't want to eat up too much of your time." Pang. She felt it as keenly as if it were happening to her, a sharp ache in her head and her bones. It was nothing like she'd ever experienced before, nothing like a migraine or even really like fever chills. It made her brow knit, and without thinking (and without asking), she reached out to touch. She stopped herself halfway, however, and instead curled her fingers back toward her palms. "I, um." She cleared her throat as she tried to shake herself away from the discomfort. "I'd like to read your pulse, if you don't mind. You can just turn your hand like this--" She demonstrated, rotating her arm so that her palm was up, "And I'll touch a point on your wrist." Having contact with his skin would also let Empathy get a better feel for what was going on with him, but there was no need to disclose that information. Templars, she knew, were less than comfortable with spirits of any kind. She doubted he'd thank her for letting one look at him.

"Are you having any headaches?" She asked, and then quickly followed, so as not to seem suspicious, "There's a bit of a bug going around, and the headache usually happens before the fever. If you've got both, we'll have to sit you out of commission for a while." She grinned. "As much as we can. Soldier types always fight us every step of the way, there." She touched her fingertips against his skin: Quick pulse. Not worryingly so, but combine that with the headaches-- Something going on, but Empathy could only emphasize the endless throb of pangs. Maker, he must be uncomfortable.

 

[ValentineIllusion]

A t h e r i l

Before the subject could move on, "Wait, you really have seen him?" Atheril asked, ears twitching upwards ever so subtly, "I mean, I tried hunting him down, I tried to find him, but I never..." She pursed her lips, her gaze falling on the wooden ring she wore on her right hand. It had belonged to her keeper, and it was only meant for proper keepers, but her's had sent it to Haven once they received news of the anchor. Something to remind her she was still Dalish, still elven at all--and to remind her of her duty. Protect the clan, protect her loved ones, from the big bad carved into it's wooden surface. Atheril sighed.

"No, I've never tried meditation," she admitted quietly, looking up at him again. Her lips curled into a smile listening to him explain the fade. Even if she'd been spooked by the realm in the previous days, there was no denying the raw magic of the fade, or how much Solas reveled in it. When it wasn't turning itself into a realm of nightmares, Atheril loved it, too, but she admired him for the way he could put the fade and everything within to words. Atheril toyed with reshaping the fade, when she was able. Most of her nights, however, she found herself drifting through, like it was an ocean pulling her over the waves. She found peace without taking control of the tides, but if she tried...

Atheril's cheeks were always rosy--She was pale, Skyhold was freezing, and she was still dripping in cold rainwater. Once Solas extended his hand, however, more warmth rose to her cheeks. She wouldn't acknowledge it and prayed no one else would, either, but nevertheless, took his hand, "Of course, I-"

Atheril stopped, pursing her lips, "Wait," she started, "What if my nightmare is still there? I want to learn how to control it, I want it to go away, but..." Atheril took a deep breath, furrowing her brow, "Solas, it's bad, it...it's just bad."

C u l l e n

Pang. One for the withdrawal and, pang, one for his nerves. He could only thank the Maker knowing the burden was his alone to bear.

"Don't worry about me, really. We've all been troubled, but I wouldn't want anyone expending more worry over me," Cullen insisted, cautiously moving his arm in the way she instructed. He'd watched healers finish this same first step many times before, and watched the benefits it could bring, but never on him and he remembered how quickly the situation could turn. Watching Sophia work from across his desk, however--he recognized that expression. The nerves. Cullen moved his head upwards, to watch her face, instead of the magic her hands were making. He relaxed further back in his seat.

"Headaches? I...yes," he finally admitted, retreating his arm back as soon as he could, letting his hand rest on his knee. Well, maybe not rest, per se--they still bounced with nervous energy, "But, um--honestly, Seeker Cassandra has been keeping an eye on me, lately. In case I do have to be taken...out of commission," Just the idea earned a sigh from him, but he didn't linger on it long enough, "It isn't a part of a bug, I promise you. It's more of a...personal injury. I've dealt with it for some time now, but as long as I'm still able to work, it is manageable."

Cullen narrowed his eyes--not quite suspicious, more curious, "Hold on," he started, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his desk, "Have I seen you somewhere before? I could swear, I recognize you..." He had seen many mages in his lifetime, between the circles. Much of his time as a Templar was spent in Kinloch Hold, and while he never dwelled on the faces he found there, they were ingrained in the part of his memory he did his damnedest to forget. That left Kirkwall, the Gallows, bustling with mages even though it only served the city state. Either way, though, if he was remembering her from a Circle Tower--he sympathized with her nerves.

"I...I should be more concerned for you," he said, "After Kirkwall, I...Were you there? Under Meredith?"

 

[Peryton]

Solas

"Yes," Solas said again, patiently. There was no harm in telling her so, he felt. The Fade held many mysteries, and this could be one of the lesser ones. As he'd said, Spirits acted on the subconscious. If she'd had a positive experience with a wolf statue in the past, that would be reason enough for Spirits to try and make something of the association. "I have." What she said next bothered him, however. I tried hunting him down, she said, as if that wasn't one of the most bizarre things a Dalish-raised elf could say. The Dread Wolf was portrayed as a trickster and a betrayer, set apart from camp to keep him from interfering with daily life. The Dalish had no songs for Fen'harel, no markings, no ritual. He was indeed treated like stone: Cold and impartial.

"Take care in hunting for things in the Fade," He heard himself say, and was relieved that it was as calm and collected as ever. His voice fell into a rhythm, and from here he could relax. This was easy. He'd been doing this for a long time. "There are forces there even I wouldn't like to contend with. Present a challenge, and you will find a challenger-- And usually not the one you were looking for." Solas firmly believed that there were only Spirits, and more Spirits. The concept of demons was foreign to him. Spirits could be kind, wise, childlike, or serious. Some were spiteful, envious, and hateful. They were, like people, endlessly varied and impossible to predict. To make the attempt was foolishness.

"No more talk of wolves for now," Solas decided as he grasped her hand. Her cheeks were flushed, and he wondered briefly if he had embarrassed her. That did seem out of character for her, and as such he graciously made no comment. He lifted his free hand, meaning to ease her into sleep, but instead, he paused and rested it atop the one he held. She was nervous, and he didn't need to see the furrow in her brow to know it. "Wait," she insisted, and so Solas stood patiently, head turned down to watch her, curious and concerned. Bad dreams? He knew what that was like. He knew what it meant to fear to close your eyes and sleep, to wonder what would torment you once your consciousness was abroad. Solas had learned to master his fear, but--

"I'll be with you," He reminded her. "Every step of the way. If your nightmare yet lingers, we'll confront it together." He squeezed her hand gently. "Are you ready?"


Sophia

Oh. He did recognize her, after all.

There had been several things she'd wanted to ask: When the headaches started, and what made them so terrible that he feared being unable to work, for one. There was plenty to unpack, most of it left unspoken on his part, but Sophia had dealt with enough nervous, prideful soldiers to know when someone was keeping secrets. She'd never understood it: Chances were, she'd seen worse than whatever it was that was plaguing the Commander. Broken bones showing through skin, missing teeth, head trauma, and yes, embarrassing pubic rashes. But all of that curiosity fled the moment he mentioned Kirkwall, and Sophia felt her face flush.

Oh, she remembered. How could she possibly forget? The screaming, the blood, the smell of smoke and burning skin and hair... She couldn't forget it. Who could?

She realized, after a moment, that she'd been staring wordlessly at the table between them, unblinking. Her expression was firm and transfixed, and she curled her fingers slightly before she was able to make herself glance up and look him in the face. "I was in Kirkwall," Sophia confirmed, voice carrying only a hint of a tremor. Don't let them know that you're afraid. "I escaped with the First Enchanter when the Templars began to attack." Or slaughter, more like. Most of the mages had been unprepared for battle. In the first few minutes before anyone could understand what had happened, it'd been a massacre. She tried not to remember it too fiercely, but it was difficult with one of Meredith's former captains staring her in the face.

"Does that make you uncomfortable?" She regretted the edge in her voice immediately, and fought to temper it. "We haven't been causing trouble," Sophia promised. "None of us. We've been helping the refugees. The First Enchanter has everything in hand."

 

[ValentineIllusion]

A t h e r i l

Atheril did try her best to stifle her smirk when he warned about challengers in the fade. She didn't do so very well.

Her expression only softened once again as they prepared to enter the fade. It was rare, she knew, for Solas to come close to anyone. Usually, she, similarly, would try to avoid those outside her clan, those she feared already held malice towards her, although she did so through humor, aggression, or a combination of both. It took effort, trust. Atheril wasted a lot of things--usually time, but she wouldn't waste his.

"Thank you," she said, squeezing his hand back as her black painted lips curled into a smile, "I'm ready."

⋆⛧*------------❋------------*⛧⋆

In the Fade, Atheril opened her eyes mid swing, and she didn't question it. The momentum she carried knocked her onto her side, falling against a raw vein of red lyrium. Redcliffe Castle was barely recognizable in it's current state--its disrepair was drastic, even for the dungeons. All around her were bodies, many of which were covered in Vallaslin, while the others were members of the Inquisition. In between them, red lyrium festered. Out of the corner of her eyes, where the roof was crumbling, she could see how the sky was swirling with shades of green, but she was stricken with the fear that was all that was left.

"Aah!" she shouted, aiming once again at Corypheus. However, with a wave of his hand, magic sent her backwards, as her sword slipped out of her grip and she crashed against another wall. Shrieking in frustration, she summoned whatever magic of her own that she could, but there was hardly a chill in the air before her ice was melted. Atheril pulled herself onto her feet and lunged at him, lunged at whatever she could reach, but with his claw like hands he could reach her first. Grabbing her by the neck, he held her against the cobblestone wall.

"You have failed, Atheril. How many more need to die before you admit defeat?" he taunted, ignoring her frantic kicking, vain attempts to get out of his grip, "Stop this. Admit defeat, join me, bargain with me, and I might grant you the power to save them yet."

"You son of a bitch!" she shouted, and he threw her into another vein of lyrium.

C u l l e n

"I think it should make me uncomfortable," Cullen admitted, quietly drumming his knuckle on the surface of his desk, "I mean, with the Templars--with my actions, not your's. I know you're not causing trouble...you never were."

With a sigh, he stood from his chair, moving to pile together the papers strewn across the floor so he would keep from sitting idle. He tried focusing on the mess, rather than the memory. So much of that night in Kirkwall was a blur to him. Instead, as he fought, he more clearly saw the maleficarum from Kinloch Hold, those who backed him into a corner and forced him into helplessness. He'd been a Templar, he was supposed to be able to stop them. If he couldn't, who could? Cullen couldn't return to there. He was desperate to never return to that place, to that state of mind, and if he needed to strike them down before they lost themselves, if the only time to fight them would be while they were still human, still something he could recognize, he needed to remember what monsters they would become and stop them before they could.

He was losing himself in that endless train of thought. It took watching Meredith losing her mind for him to realize how wrong he was. Once he pulled his papers back together, the fallen case of Lyrium supplies was revealed, including the shattered vial of lyrium. He stomped his boot over the spilled puddle of blue, rubbing it into the wood and rendering it useless. As he spoke, he started putting the supplies away--bottom drawer, mixed in with the rest of his useless junk.

"I am sorry." Cullen lamented, his voice solemn as he addressed her. He looked her in the eye, only as long as she was comfortable with his gaze. Saying sorry was only going to do so much, but it would be nothing if he couldn't even look at her when he said it. He needed her to know--he needed himself to know--he was sitting across from another human being. Someone he hurt, when he was meant to protect them.

He couldn't apologize to them all--but he could say it to her.

"I've left the Templars. I...want nothing to do with that life any longer." He told her. Pang. "And I'm no longer taking their lyrium. Here I just want...to do good." His eyes drifted, until he found her bag of supplies, delivered swiftly to his door at the slightest semblance of injury, even through the pouring rain. Cullen looked back to her, "Like you."

 

[Peryton]

Solas

Ah. This nightmare again.

He knew it at once. He'd seen it in her mind's eye when he'd wandered the Fade at night, attracted to vivid dreams and active spirits. He'd always respectfully kept his distance then, as horrific as her visions were. He'd watched the same cycle played out night after night: Her defiance, Corypheus's insistence, the violence, the struggle-- This spectre of Corypheus haunted her dreams night after night, relentless in the pursuit of her terror. He didn't intend to let that happen again. Enough was enough.

When Atheril was again tossed aside, it was Solas who offered her his hand to pull her to her feet. The lyrium's song did nothing to distract him. These were illusions, made manifest by Atheril's own fear and memory. They could not (would not) hurt him. "You cannot let your fear master your senses," Solas told her, calm and quiet. A staff erupted from the ground, summoned to his patiently waiting hand. It thrummed with power, and with it Solas knew he could destroy this spirit's illusion and end the dream. In the end, however, that would solve nothing. People needed to master their own fates and fears. He could not do this for her. Instead, Solas handed the staff to Atheril.

"He was ready to attack you when you were laid there, unarmed and at a disadvantage," Solas told her, "The behavior of a coward. Let us see how powerful he is when he is evenly matched. Remember--This is your dream. You must be the one to change it, to master it and turn it to your desires." He gestured to Corypheus, looming and powerful. "Now-- Take back what is yours!" He gestured to the spirit, eyes hardened with determination. This was not the first nor the most powerful aggressor he had met in the Fade, and Solas was not afraid. "I am with you, Atheril. Block his words from your ears, and listen only to me." Listen. Trust. Believe. "You are more powerful than you know."


Sophia

"You weren't causing trouble. You never were."

She wasn't sure why that made her angry. It should have made her relieved, put her at east, calmed her. Instead, she remembered the faces of the mages who'd been her friends, who'd feared and fled and were summarily punished. What could a Templar define as "trouble", anyhow? Anything that wasn't a nervous glance, murmured submission, and devotion? She clenched her hands and then just as quickly forced herself to relax. Being angry now wasn't worth her energy. What could it solve?

She allowed herself to be distracted, her eyes following his line of movement to his boot and the spilled lyrium. It was a sufficient distraction: Everything made much more sense, now. She knew why he had head and body aches. She knew why he shivered. She also knew why he was afraid that he might soon be unable to service the Inquisition. Lyrium was highly addictive. Sophie had often wondered how many Templars actually stayed just to have access to it. She thought immediately of Samson, the man who'd left the Templars and become an outcast, begging for lyrium in Lowtown.

And look what had become of him now. All the lyrium he could want, and more. The Order destroyed people.

Cullen apologized, and Sophie glanced up to meet his eyes. He sounded sincere. He wanted to do good, he said. Like her. Sophie shook her head. "I'm just doing the best I can, Commander," She told him. "All of us are, I think. And that's really all we can ask of each other-- To do the best we can." Maybe this was his best. She couldn't accurately judge. "I've never heard of a Templar who was able to overcome the addiction," She added gently. "But.. That just means there needs to be a first sometime. I'll read what I can," She promised. "And see what I can do to help." A pause. "..I think it's honorable, you know," Sophie added. "What you're doing. It's not easy to leave it behind. But I think you'll be better for it. And I'll help if I can."

 

[ValentineIllusion]

A t h e r i l

"Aah!!" Atheril shouted again, grabbing Solas' hand by the wrist and moving to bite--until she realized it was him on the other side. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she let her hand fall into his and squeezed it tight. He felt real, to her. Real enough that he could pull her to her feet, even if she was still shaking, reeling from a losing fight. She pursed her lips and listened to him until her gaze wandered, watching as Corypheus prowled towards them, soon overshadowing them both. Atheril narrowed her eyes at the magister, full of contempt, hatred, and a cautious rage, and accepted the staff from Solas. She held it differently from him--parallel to the floor, gripping it tightly with two hands, closer to it's blade. All of the staff's weight was on one side, concentrated in it's decorative orb.

"He is lying, Atheril. You know Haven was real. You know Redcliffe was real, proof of what is to come," he taunted, his voice low. Atheril, staff in hand, stepped towards him, but made no move to attack. At first she held her weapon close to her chest, but slowly started to lower it. While she listened to Solas, she stepped up to Corypheus, who towered over her by at least a few feet. "How many more chances can you afford? Lives are lost every time. You've already been given so many," With every word, he leaned forward, keeping his eyes on Atheril's as he brought his marred face close, "A mage. Your clan's first, their future keeper. The Inquisito-"

Before he could finish her title, in a swift, angry swing, Atheril practically threw all of her weight behind her staff, bringing it against his head and hammering him to the ground. Shards of lyrium tore off his face as he fell. The monster struggled to stand back on his feet, but before he could, Atheril lunged at him, pinning him down and continuing to fight him, melee, with her staff.

"You son of a-!" She brought the blunt end of the staff down on him, "You coward-!" Slowly, he began to shrink, but she didn't notice, "You killed them-!" The walls of the dungeon began to crumble, while the bodies melted into the ground, leaving grass in their wake, "Get out of-!" The lyrium evaporated into dust, blowing away with soft gusts of wind, "-my damned dreams-!"

Only once the demon had completely shrunk to its original size did it escape her clutches, and began to flee. A low growl boiled in the back of Atheril's throat, but she focused her attention on her staff. She took a moment to breathe, gripping the handle so tightly that her knuckles turned white, until she swung the weapon towards the demon like it was a club. Though it never left her hand, within seconds, the demon was frozen and shattered--leaving nothing but a wisp to flutter away in utter terror.

With a deep and heavy sigh, Atheril dropped down to her knees, landing on a soft patch of grass under the green sky. Inquisitor, a tiny voice whispered. With a furrowed brow, she ignored it, rubbing at her face in exhaustion, turning to Solas.

"It's really you?" she asked, rubbing her eyes again, "Wait--shit--yeah--we're in the fade." The illusions of her dream had vanished entirely by now, even as stray thoughts brought new ones to light--trees, hills, aravels and halla. It was her home. Nevertheless, she focused on Solas, standing to her feet with a light sway in her step, "Just a--just a dream--sorry about that. That was..."

Approaching him, she raised her hands, if only momentarily, for a hug--until she moved to put a hand on his shoulder, instead--until awkwardness and exhaustion took over too much and she found it easier to just drop it. Still, she smiled, "Thank you. For what you said."

C u l l e n

Hearing that no Templar had overcome their addiction made his heart sink. Cullen knew. He was painfully aware that no Templar could bear the headaches, the exhaustion, and the temptation he put himself through long enough to see the other side of the addiction. Maybe there was no other side--maybe it was only at the side of the Maker in death. As his mind wandered to darker ideas, he shut his eyes tightly, while he listened to Sophia. There had to be a first. He had to be independent, strong again. It had to be him.

"I don't want to cause any more pain for anyone because of it. Enough came from taking it, I...I don't want to make things worse trying to give it up," he admitted, taking a deep breath before he opened his eyes, looking towards her with a warm expression, "But, thank you, I appreciate your offer. And for--for coming all this way to help in the rain. Thank you."

As he spoke, another knock came to his door. Once he gave Sophie a curt nod, he addressed them, "Yes? What is it?"

An Inquisition scout opened the door just enough to see inside, "Commander? Lady Montilyet is calling for a war meeting. Some missions have concluded and she'd like to discuss some matters before the celebration tomorrow."

The celebration for the Inquisitor. After having a whole conversation either dodging or addressing his past service and addiction, he didn't think there would be anything else to fill him with dread so soon. It was still a day away and it was only a reminder, but it certainly wasn't anything he was looking forward to. "Thank you, please, let her know I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Of course, sir," The scout responded promptly before leaving the two of them alone again. For a minute, Cullen didn't move at all, or say anything. He couldn't say he enjoyed discussing his past, lyrium, and talking about Kirkwall. Magic still made him nervous and he'd been praying to the Maker minutes ago to give him a moment to himself, to deal with his pain on his own. Instead, he was silent. The storm continued on outside the walls, rain hitting on the stone and thunder booming in the distance. He wasn't avoiding the war room meeting, as he knew he'd have to attend eventually and there was work that needed to be done. Yet he still wasn't moving. Not until an idea came to mind and he turned back to Sophie.

"Your name is Sophia, right? I'm sorry, but it looks like I need to excuse myself," Cullen insisted as he stood to his feet once again. There were things to do and conversations to be had, and while there was still a faint throbbing in his head and a tightness in his chest, by now, it was fading. Some time had passed and it often came in waves, so he never questioned the moments when it waned--he was just thankful for it, going about his day with a rare lightness, "Can I walk you back to the infirmary?" He offered, pulling his cloak from it's hook on the wall--and reaching for a second one, if she would accept it.