Solas considers that sentiment, the idea of this tiny, stolid little person standing against him. It is in many ways laughable, but in all others an undeniably noble idea. Whether or not it might work at all... He cannot say. Such arguments have not won the day, in the past.

He opens his mouth to say so, but the voice from the water comes first; cold and warlike, melodically beautiful for all its iron chill.

'Have you created what we need?'

Her face swims up from the depths, her face framed by a peaked diadem, crystalline spikes framing the sharp planes of an impossibly beautiful face. She seems almost carven, in her ageless, lineless appearance; as manufactured a countenance as one might imagine, with storm-grey eyes. She turns and looks at Solas, as if she can see him, and his own voice answers, as another shade comes into view.

'With this, the proper ritual will sunder every Titan from its spirit,' A younger man, frowning, sorrowed, but no less stern. In his hands a dagger of peculiar design that glows from within, forged from a blue, crystalline material, 'But you must know, those severed dreams will certainly be driven mad, a disembodied blight of pain and anger.'

His face twists, the blade loose in his fingers, half-turning away. Can he even be considering this? Solas' face, his own true face, is bloodless and wide-eyed, still caught with his mouth half-open to speak.

'It... is awful,' the specter says, 'What we're doing.'

But the woman's face is unchanging. She reaches out, quickly, and then with a gentle hand, takes the blade from him. And Solas lets her.

'And the only way to end this war.'