TDM #5

[calderaevents]

ARRIVAL

It happens in an instant. A heavy weight in your gut, a trembling of your limbs, the world spins and you barely have time to register that you're falling before you lose consciousness. And when you awaken, it's not where you were last. Dark, unadorned oak walls surround you in a tiny room, the only furniture the bed you are currently resting upon, and the bedside table with a folded piece of parchment resting atop it that simply reads:

“The Tavernkeeper is awaiting your arrival downstairs.”

As you exit you find others like yourself emerging from the surrounding rooms. You are indeed in a tavern, but there is no hustle and bustle one might think to hear in such a place. The only person down on the main floor is a humanoid figure wiping down the bar, who smiles when they see you. They're familiar, but not, and you can't quite place their face. For some reason, however, their presence is comforting and warm.

“Welcome, Visitor. I'm sure you have a lot of questions.”

And you most certainly do.

Due to popular demand, the starter tavern and the drinks provided are available to in game characters via a portal accessible only to those with a faction gem.

DRINK MENU

FLAMEFRUIT SANGRIA a deep red wine based punch with chunks of softly glowing fruit floating in it. A single serving makes you feel relaxed, social, and maybe even a little flirty.

MOLTEN MEAD Though the thick drink itself is room temperature, it bubbles sluggishly, and feels very warm going down. The bold flavor affects your mood. You feel very bold! Like you could do anything!

BESALT BRANDY a hopefully staple drink for the brewery, this liquor is smooth and rich with a peppery bite. Ironically after consuming it, you kinda want to bite someone! Not hard! Just a little nip and nibble!

THAT ASHY ESPRESSO a single potent shot of dark espresso swirled with a gold-tinged cream. Intense and bitter with a hint of caramelized sugar. You are now very awake, hyper, and excited.

PYROCLAST'S WHISKEYa glossy black whiskey that turns a vibrant glowing orange when swirled. You now breathe fire.

EMBERMARK WINE a rich, velvety, spiced wine that immediately makes one feel mellow and calm.

CHOOSE YOUR DESTINY

As the effects of your drink wear off, the Tavernkeeper speaks once more:

”It is time, my friends, for you to find your new homes.”

You are compelled to walk through the only door leading out of the tavern, finding yourself not outside, but in a deep black, seemingly endless room with five portals arranged in a circle. As the last of you leave and the door closes behind you, gone when you look back again and replaced with nothing but that black void, three of the portals illuminate:

The first portal is surrounded by an almost blinding light, prismatic rainbows shining brightly in the dewy air outside of the tavern. A soft breeze may gently caress you, pulling you toward it. The portal seems to lead to a city in the clouds, airships and winged beings of all sorts soaring through the skies. Of the little bits of visible land, much of it boasts giant waterfalls that look like clouds melting into the land below. The portal calls to those who crave independence and freedom; and especially to anyone that wishes to find the strong bond of a family not forged in blood.

The second portal is encircled by a fairy ring of spotted white capped mushrooms, the faint scent of damp stone and rich earth wafting from within the faint green glow. Peering inside, one can see a sprawling harbor city of gray hewn stone, a melting pot of humanoid beings going about their day, and beyond, rolling green farmland and cottages clustered in small villages. This portal is destined for those who crave stability and solid ground beneath their feet. A simple life, an adventurous one, and everything in between can be found within.

The last portal is adorned with shells and seaweed, the glow of blue around it catching on droplets cascading down the circular opening. Beyond it you see a city housed inside a massive bubble deep under the ocean, spiraling towers encrusted with coral, and a variety of different creatures mingling about the streets. Outside of that bubble, merfolk swim, a massive squid engulfs the view from the portal as it smoothly glides through the water, and schools of fish disperse as it passes. A sanctuary in the sea that calls to those with a hunger for knowledge and a desire to aid those in need. Or perhaps it is the mystery that beckons you - the lure of the unknown in the depths that bids you explore it.

---

Upon following the pull of the breeze through the first portal, you are thrust into the beauty of a lively city that goes by the name of Heaven's Bow. Much of this main city feels exactly as you would expect on a city below, but there are clouds surrounding every direction you look. The walls of buildings are made with light-colored limestone, and buildings are generally built up to heights made even more grandiose by their position in the sky.

The Skyfall Docks are the first thing you notice, boasting hundreds of airships sailing in and out across the clouds with shouts that accompany a typical port city. Just outside is a fantastic market with goods not only from the other regions of Caldera, but from what some shopkeepers claim are other worlds--items sold or left behind by Visitors. Almost anything can be found in the markets if one is willing to look hard enough. Transport to other locations throughout the sky and even to the land or sea can be found here.

If the docks are too lively for you, you may instead find yourself roaming the underbelly of Heaven's Bow and finding brothels and gambling parlors filled with the promise of pleasure and fortune. The guild house for the Sylphs can be found here as well, giving out quests and training to prospective adventurers and guards alike--though none of them seem concerned with the illicit activities that surround them. Perhaps the freedom the Sylphs boast of extends to what others may deem an undesirable activity.

But most curious of all, you find a shimmering opal gemstone in your hand. When placed anywhere on the body, it will transform into a piece of jewelry with the gemstone set in the center.

---

If it was the second portal that called to you, you will find yourself in the busy city of Grey Ward, with its cobblestone streets and sturdy grey stone buildings. You are in the heart of the city, the Glass Market, so named for the colorful stained glass windows of the surrounding buildings. The scent of cooking food and the sound of barkers fills the air; watchful guards keep an eye out for pickpockets and thieves, and citizens go about their day. From here, one can investigate the rest of the city: the Sundown Docks, where both sea and sky faring skips transport people and goods. The Soot Spire, home of inventors and engineers. The Hearthstill, the main residential area. The Downs, a smaller residential area for those with less means.

Outside the city walls, one can explore acres of farmlands to the east and west, or follow Terra’s Pass to the less settled areas, but take care. Past the Skyward Range, out in the smaller burrows and villages, the influence of the city guard diminishes quickly, and you’ll have to keep your wits about you. Bandits along the road are always a risk, and the wildlife are less controlled by regimented hunting.

In your hand is a gemstone, a brilliantly green emerald that, when placed anywhere on the body, will transform into a piece of jewelry with the gemstone set in the center.

---

If the last portal beckoned you through it, you find yourself within that bubble covered city beneath the sea, the city of Salt Spire. Your ears pop with the change in pressure, and the smell of the salty sea fills your nostrils. All around you buildings made of dark stone encrusted with coral and seagrass tower high above your head, the backdrop outside the dome a deep blue, seemingly endless sea filled with fish and merfolk and all other manner of creature swimming through the water. You stand in the heart of it all, surrounded by people with gils on their necks and scales upon their vibrantly colored skin, all of whom seem intrigued by your arrival. You have many options of where to visit in the city under the sea, but where oh where will you go first?

The Salt Spire Library is right before you, an impossibly large building housing thousands upon thousands of books of all genres. Fiction, non-fiction, romance and mystery and all between. You may even find books from your world and others! Oddly enough though, no Calderan history books are to be found, and if you ask for them, the librarians and locals all choose to ignore your questions.

If scholarly pursuits aren't to your interest currently, perhaps a trip to Bluetide Market would be more your style? The marketplace is host to every manner of shop one might ever need: artisans of all varieties, apothecaries and healers in the Shimmer Quarter, the most in fashion undersea clothing shops, food stalls, and all between can be found in Bluetide. There are also the Tideshore and Fogbottom docks on either end of the city. The former allows transport to the surface via large, magical bubbles for those that cannot hold their breath or make the swim themselves yet. The latter allows people to venture further into the sea. Those without their underwater abilities are offered rebreathers for travel that last for four hours before needing to be replaced.

In your hand is a gemstone, a shining sapphire that, when placed anywhere on the body, will transform into a piece of jewelry with the gemstone set in the center.

IGNACIA'S CRADLE/EMBER VEIL

Months ago, a piece of land from Heaven’s Bow fell from the sky and scarred the land below, damaging a part of the city. From that chaos and ruin rose new life, a new ruler, and a new city: Ignacia’s Cradle. Just a short walk from the edge of Grey Ward, the gates of the city are guarded by two massive obsidian golems, and any who did not rise from the lava itself are warned at the entrance that to travel about the city will be most difficult, unless they have obtained a way to mitigate the extreme heat: be that with a charm, an ability, or a potion. The very streets themselves are paved in slabs of volcanic rock, tall spires of buildings constructed and shaped by rapidly cooled lava. The main method of travel are the mine carts, with tracks that wind through the spires ready to take one to almost any location.

Currently, the main feature of Ignacia’s Cradle is the Lava Flats, home of skilled smiths that use the extreme heat of the lava to melt the strongest metals and create unbreakable weapons, glassmakers and jewelers who fashion elaborate headpieces, rings, and amulets. These items are sold at the Ember Market on the outskirts of the Flats.

At the edge of the city lies the Ashfall Terrace, where a small farm using the rich volcanic ash and soil is in its infancy, as well as the Basalt Brewery where clever alchemists are researching ways to use the extreme heat to craft new and unique beverages that they are eager to find folk to test them out on.

---

The hot spring of Ignacia’s Cradle is a breathtaking anomaly located just beyond the Ashfall Terrace, tucked into a secluded crater formed by the celestial impact that gave rise to the city. Here, molten veins from the Lava Flats weave beneath the earth, heating a natural reservoir that bubbled to life amidst the chaos. The spring’s waters shimmer with an ethereal brilliance, hues of deep turquoise blending with molten gold and fiery orange, as though Heaven’s Bow itself left behind a fragment of its essence. Steam rises in curling wisps, carrying the tang of minerals and faint traces of sulfur.

The spring, known to locals as The Ember Veil, is both a sanctuary and a marvel of natural wonder. Its soothing waters are reputed to heal wounds and fortify the spirit, with the temperature kept in perfect balance by an intricate system of naturally formed vents and channels. The edges are lined with intricately carved obsidian benches, where patrons can soak their feet or meditate in the rising steam. Plants resistant to the intense conditions—vivid fire lilies and ash ferns—dot the perimeter, their resilience a symbol of life’s ability to flourish even in the harshest environments.

Sometimes, when two or more individuals share the waters, the spring creates a subtle connection between their minds, allowing memories to surface like ripples on its surface. These shared memories appear as glowing, translucent scenes that hover above the water, visible to all within the spring. Participants can relive moments from their lives, experiencing them through each other’s eyes, fostering profound empathy and understanding.

Another of the spring’s mystical properties occurs when bathers who enter the waters feeling drained, injured, or burdened by grief often find their vitality restored. The waters seem to draw out negative energies and emotions, replacing them with a warm, invigorating sensation that spreads through the body. In rare instances, the spring has been known to accelerate physical healing, mending minor injuries and soothing chronic aches, as though the magic itself is stitching the body back together.

A lesser-known but equally fascinating effect happens on particularly clear nights, when the moonlight reflects on the spring’s surface, some bathers report fleeting glimpses of potential futures. These visions are often cryptic, appearing as brief, dream-like flashes, but they have guided many to life-changing decisions. The alchemists of the Basalt Brewery believe this effect stems from residual cosmic energy, and they have begun experimenting with enhancing it through the addition of rare minerals and lunar elixirs.

RADIANT SUN

The day begins like no other, with the skies painted in hues of golden-pink as the Radiant Sun ascends. Its light spills over the world, warm and soft, caressing the land and filling every heart with a sense of peace. Beneath its glow, emotions of love and connection bloom like never before. Strangers exchange heartfelt smiles, old friends embrace as though no time has passed, and lovers find their feelings deepened, their bonds strengthened.

Even the air feels different—lighter, sweeter, as though the universe itself is celebrating. The songs of birds harmonize with the melodies of impromptu musicians who feel inspired by the sun’s radiance. Those with magical abilities sense their powers of healing and creation magnified, as if the sun itself lends its strength to their intentions. Long-held grudges seem to melt away under the sun’s tender gaze, replaced by tears of reconciliation and words of forgiveness.

The Radiant Sun touches every heart differently:

◾A widow finds peace as memories of her late spouse no longer bring sorrow but gratitude for the love they shared.
◾A timid youth finds the courage to confess their feelings to the person they’ve admired for so long.
◾A gruff warrior lets down their guard, laughing freely with their companions for the first time in years.

For a fleeting moment, the world feels as it should be—unified, harmonious, and drenched in love.

But as the day wanes and the Radiant Sun dips below the horizon, an unease begins to settle...

JEALOUS MOON

The golden light gives way to deep purples and silvers as the Jealous Moon rises, its glow pale and cold. Its light pierces the heart, not to warm it, but to expose the insecurities that lie buried within. Where love had flourished during the day, doubt begins to creep in.

Under the Jealous Moon’s influence, emotions twist and darken:

◾A once-reconciled pair of siblings argue over old grievances, as jealousy over perceived favoritism resurfaces.
◾A couple, who had spent the day lost in each other’s arms, now question each other’s loyalty and intentions.
◾A nobleman, inspired to be generous during the day, grows suspicious of those who received his gifts, fearing they may exploit his kindness.

The air grows heavy with tension, and the magic of the Radiant Sun fades, replaced by the sharp sting of distrust. The moon’s pale light seems to follow people like a judgmental gaze, amplifying every fear, insecurity, and lingering resentment.

Worse still, the night seems endless, as though time itself has bent beneath the weight of the Jealous Moon’s envious glow. For three long days and nights, the moon lingers high in the sky, its pale, piercing light casting a shadow over hearts and minds, amplifying discord and despair. Its power sows strife among even the closest bonds, driving some to dangerous extremes. Yet, when all seems lost, the scholars of the three factions unite their wisdom and uncover a glimmer of hope—a means to dispel the moon’s cruel influence. For those who have not yet succumbed to jealousy’s grip, there remains a chance to reclaim harmony, a chance for redemption before the damage becomes irreversible.

The solution lies not in complex rituals or rare relics but in the simplest and most instinctive actions: physical connection. To weaken the moon’s hold, people must embrace one another—offering a hug, a handshake, or even resting a hand on someone’s shoulder. These gestures of closeness disrupt the isolation and mistrust that the moon thrives upon. Sitting side by side or holding hands creates a barrier against its oppressive light, reminding the afflicted that they are not alone. Even small acts, like sharing warmth through proximity or clasping arms in solidarity, build a shield of connection that the moon cannot penetrate.

As these actions ripple through the night, the Jealous Moon’s light begins to dim, its sharp, cold glow softening until it fades from the sky entirely. The tension in the air lifts, replaced by a quiet calm that feels almost foreign after the chaos of the past three days. Slowly, the world seems to exhale, and the darkness that clung so tightly to the hearts of many begins to loosen its grip. People step back from the brink of despair, their minds clearing as if waking from a long, disorienting dream. Relationships strained by the moon’s influence begin to mend as apologies are exchanged, tears are shed, and bonds are reaffirmed.

ALL IS WELL(?)

With the Radiant Sun rising again, its golden-pink hues spilling across the horizon, life begins to return to normal. The birds resume their morning songs, markets reopen, and the hum of daily activity fills the air once more. Though traces of the moon’s influence linger in whispered memories, there is a collective sense of relief and gratitude among the people—gratitude for the light, for connection, and for a second chance to heal.

In the outskirts of Ignacia's Cradle, Aella and Terra, two of the three leaders of the factions, come together to address the gathered crowds. Together they assure the people that this celestial event was a rare anomaly, something never before recorded in the annals of history. They explain that while the Jealous Moon’s influence was unprecedented and deeply unsettling, it was a unique alignment of cosmic forces that is unlikely to occur again in their lifetimes—or ever.

The leaders thank the people for their resilience and compassion, emphasizing how their acts of unity—simple gestures of closeness and connection—proved stronger than the moon’s envy. They commend the scholars for their quick thinking and the Visitors for their role in guiding others through the chaos. Finally, they urge everyone to move forward, not in fear of what has passed, but with the knowledge that even in the darkest moments, their strength lies in the bonds they share.

QUESTBOARD

Settled in? Good. It's time to make your way to the Questboard located in every city in numerous, easy to access locations. That is, if you want to make any kind of impact on the world or just get some Bones for anything you might wish to purchase. Visitors are given a very small stipend in which to survive every month, but all it does is keep you fed and housed. These quests will assure you greater wealth, and they're the main reason you're here: each finished quest helps the Calderans fix their shattering world.

Quests can be accepted at the questboard via magically signed parchment upon the board. Just sign your name to accept and the paper will be whisked away... somewhere. You're not actually sure. Probably nothing to concern yourself with.

Once quests are completed, earned Bones will be dropped off at the character's residence by Bonita, the mysterious artisan who has supposedly handcrafted every Bone circulating in Caldera. Please do not speak to her, she startles easily.

*February will be the last month to complete quests for this rotation. New ones will go up on March 1st.

OOC NOTES

Welcome to Caldera's fifth TDM! All characters awaken in a strange tavern with nothing save the clothes on their backs, all of their powers stripped, and a piece of parchment directing them downstairs to the Tavernkeeper. There is a thread of all questions answered by the Tavernkeeper here, and if you have more, feel free to ask there for what would be offered ICly.

For OOC questions, please direct themhere.

All locations are available to be explored! Ignacia's Cradle and Ember Veil have been added, along with details about the Violet Drop regarding the Cult of Triton.

The TDM is game canon and all completed quests can be carried over once accepted into the game.

Participation in the Radiant Sun/Jealous Moon effects is not mandatory.

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Comments

Hello!!!!!!!

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas manages all of three steps in the door, and finds himself unable to continue. It is not possible— should not be possible. Except that there, like a shadow cast from his own memory, stands a living testament to that memory itself. There is a drink in his hand, and he is in the act of throwing back his hood; were Solas to avoid him, now would be the time to act.

But he cannot. He simply stares, feeling a vague, troublesome hysteria bubbling up behind his breastbone. Of course, of course the masters of this place would choose him, of all people.

Who better, indeed, of all people, than Felassan, the Dread Wolf's own slow arrow?

In a moment more, he will be seen, staring, and Solas considers very seriously the option to simply turn on his heel and be gone. And then he inhales, firms his jaw, and steps out towards the opposite wall, where his friend, his brother, his enemy leans waiting. There is no going back.

"I expect you will have some questions," He says, when he is close enough for a modicum of privacy, "Much has happened in your absence."

Which is about as good an understatement as he can manage.

hiya! (also recording for posterity that that should have been "comfortable enough")

[loosed]

"My absence?"

Felassan has watched the tail end of his approach with a faintly friendly smile that's served as a base for an entire series of muted microexpressions. Surprise at seeing him — at all, and then looking like this — tucked into an eyebrow twitch. Confusion and calculation in the shift of his attention from Solas to their surroundings, as if to confirm whether anyone else can even see him, if they know what he is, if they care. A touch of wariness, but not too much. Not half an hour ago, he'd been ready for this. The only reason he isn't now is that he doesn't know what is going on and would prefer to find out.

"We were just talking."

On his knees. Back turned. Mid sentence. The weight and trembling and spinning that preceded his arrival had made him think, ah ha, this is death. But he didn't expect death to have much after it, and certainly not Solas.

His tone is less an argument, more a question. What.

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas blinks, and cannot quite suppress the thoughtful expression. Ah, but then, that would make sense, would it not? To die was the end of things, and so naturally that would be Felassan's last memory.

"A decade or more has passed in war and fury, since last we spoke," He says, into the accusations lying unspoken between them, "Though the veil still stands, by all accounts."

Which is, as peace offerings go, neither nothing, nor nearly enough. But it is all he has.

[loosed]

Considering that is more or less what Felassan was ready to die for (or what he did die for, maybe; it's still hard to tell) he should probably look more relieved.

But thousands of years of waiting and working are not set aside so easily. Only days before he let her leave with the eluvians in her grasp, Felassan had been ready to kill Briala if he had to. He had stood before Imshael and promised a cataclysm without remorse. Restoring their lost world had been his dream, too, for a very long time, and if Solas told him now that it was done, he would feel almost the same as he does now being told it isn't. Relief and regret, the only difference being which is the sixty percent and which is the forty.

There's a table near enough that Felassan can reach it to put his drink down without stepping away. Without showing is back. He does that.

"You have not seen for yourself," he observes. By all accounts. Could be obfuscation — this is his clever old pal Solas — but the only way out is through. He raises his newly drinkless hand to swirl a finger at the ceiling, a loose gesture toward the entirety of the situation. "This isn't you."

He does not imagine Solas powerful enough to create a world. But overpowering Felassan enough to create a dream around him and render him powerless inside it — maybe.

[goethbeforethefall]

His wariness is apparent in the motion; Felassan's eyes do not waver, even as he affects a casual air, nor shoulders bear a careless angle. That is— painful, yes, but no more than he deserves. Solas nearly laughs when he does at last ask the important question, and his voice has deep bitterness living in it.

"No. The leaders of this place are as it seems," And if they are not as openly cruel as the Evanuris, it is the velvet of a cat's paw, with the sharpness resides underneath, "They require labourers, and are unwilling to be denied. For all of Caldera's wonders, still we find ourselves in a familiar position."

Under a boot, more or less, with only two ways to go: up, or down. Still, Solas does not answer the other question, the one barely-asked. It's bad enough to have lived it, to explain it all for one who could understand some shade of the humiliation that his time with Rook had been... That would be the crowning embarrassment.

[loosed]

Felassan nods. It's a nod that starts shallow, muted, but gets deeper as understanding seeps in. Understanding and something else, sparked between the flint and steel of Solas' phrasing. Maybe Felassan has more recent familiarity with leaders who won't be denied.

"Sure," he says. The dryness in his tone isn't skepticism. More why not. More this might as well happen. "But before we get into that — "

Friendly. Breezy. He'd been the same in the clearing, the dream of the clearing, all why not's and what's the harm's. He suspected he would die. He insisted on doing it talking as he always had, for thousands of years, beginning in a time when Felassan thought it was their rebellion. When he could tell Solas what to do, every now and then. When he could threaten to viciously mock him. When he'd never imagined he might raise a hand to harm him.

" — why have we not spoken in a decade, lethallin?"

[goethbeforethefall]

Sound in the tavern seems too-loud and too-quiet. Solas closes his eyes against the memory of it, the anticipation of it, the inevitability of pain. He looks down, and then up again, and determines there is no escape.

It is done. Over and gone.

"Because you are dead," He says, simply, and hears the grief in his own voice, like the shadow of a raised blade, "Because when you turned away, I killed you."

Fool that he is, he cannot deny it. He killed his friend, who had been loyal, because he had come to represent a threat— a threat to the plan, the cause, the People, as Solas saw it. As it was. He cannot even say, truthfully, that he would not do it again. Ruthlessness was a shining road that cut across all others, and a tempting one; Felassan, once turned against him, would have been a potent enemy, knowledgeable of all his secrets and capabilities. The risk had been too much to be borne.

And so Solas falls silent a moment, knowing Felassan will have anticipated that answer. Knowing he will want a breath to think on it. The conversation is, not unlike either of them, temporarily dead.

"I woke in a weakened state, and alone," Solas continues, eventually, "Working with what little I had, I eventually restored myself to something resembling strength and power enough to affect my old tools— despite the complications."

If indeed the Veilguard's interference and predations of the last of the surviving Evanuris could even be called so mild a name.

"There were... many setbacks. Some were nearly catastrophic. I..."

He cannot quite finish it. He had missed Felassan. Everything was harder, more lonely, and less certain, without his most constant companion. Without his friend. But that was unearned: there was no one to blame for the loss, other than himself. Solas closes his mouth, and says nothing more.

[loosed]

Expecting he would die and knowing he died are two different things. More importantly, suspecting his friend would kill him and knowing it with certainty are two different things. Any splinter of lingering hope that he might still have meant enough for Solas to listen to him — not even agree with him, perhaps, but hear him out, answer him, consider him worth the possibility of persuading or being persuaded by him — is yanked out, leaving only the concrete knowledge that he didn't.

It matters.

It would matter more if it weren't held against a backdrop of millennia of bickering, scheming, laughing. Brotherhood. Less of that and he might disregard the too-public setting and interject into Solas' stumbling story: look at me, coward. Less of that and he might — for lack of magic to let him do much else — shove him. As it is, he does still briefly consider it, hand curling into a fist and uncurling again in the next breath.

A quieter anger, close to resignation, wins out. He doesn't move from where he stands. He doesn't open his mouth to say anything. He lets Solas trail off, and he lets silence follow, without question or joke or reassurance offered to bail him out of whatever thought he can't finish.

[goethbeforethefall]

He is expecting it. Wanting it, actually— it would be better, cleaner somehow, to receive anger, even violence, than this seething, stunned disappointment. The silence reigns for a few minutes, between them. He looks at his friend, at the stoic, silent face, once so well-known; it now seems like that of a stranger.

"I am sorry," He tells him, and it is true, "It can change nothing, and I cannot deserve forgiveness. But I am sorry."

There is, ultimately, nothing more he can say. There is, even still, so much more he would say if he could. To tell him of all that had come to pass. The shards of Mythal, the fate of Orlais, Corypheus, and his own mistakes. And the Inquisitor, of Lavellan, what would Felassan would think of her?

All foolish hopes. Stupidity, and spoilt by his own hand.

"You were right."

[loosed]

I am sorry does nothing to move him or animate his face. Even imagining Solas would probably kill him, Felassan had never imagined he wouldn't be sorry about it; Solas has been sorry about something or other for thousands of years. A few more millennia of that and they'd have to start calling him Abelas.

You were right, though. That's a rarer thing.

Felassan inhales, shifts the angle of his head, exhales.

"Did that hurt?"

The question and the amused half-smile accompanying it are not friendly, exactly, but they are familiar, like a sharp elbow in the ribs of someone who's trod on his foot — but more serious. Of course. Serious, but a crack in the blank-faced anger. All is not forgiven; all's not lost, either.

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas shakes his head, a mute denial, an echo of a joke shared among brothers. But it's pointless: it did hurt. It hurt probably more than anything else had, since the death of Mythal, to reckon with the personhood of mortal elves.

"Yes, it did," He admits, with teeth living in every consonant.

It hurt too, to admit it. That he had been, not merely wrong, but so wrong, and so fundamentally, and so passionately that... He had willingly done the unforgivable. Again.

"What will you do?"

[loosed]

At the admission Felassan makes a noise in his throat, a nonverbal substitute for good. Were they not what they are — were Solas not what Solas is — it would do much less to balance the scale against an execution. But he is, and being wrong and admitting it are their own kinds of wounds, so the crack grows a little wider.

"I don't know," he says, without too much distress.

Not knowing what to do is one of the least uncomfortable aspects of this situation. He holds his hand out, palm up, in a gesture he assumes Solas will understand: no fire or ice swirls into sight, nothing at all responds to the call. He'd grown accustomed to being the most powerful person in a room, in a two-hundred mile radius. Some amount of his careless confidence was earned through rarely having much to fear. Now any fool with a sword could finish what his arrival here interrupted.

"Is there somewhere we could talk that's less — " Occupied. Enclosed. Even with the soaring heights and endless skies around the Lighthouse, even as much as he cared for the rebels and refugees who crowded in, Felassan would slip away somewhere even more wide open whenever he needed to breathe. " — rooved?"

Solas wasn't wrong. He does have questions.

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas can't quite help the soft sound at the back of his throat, a scoff, stillborn. Some things never change.

"Come," He says, by way of invitation, and turns towards the door.

The Dryad lands, ruled by Terra, goddess of the earth, were a lush and elegant forest, the air fresh and rich with the breath of trees and the movement of wind through branches. But this is also a city, populated by all manners of peoples, with paved roads and buildings, and all the crowds that that implies. Solas leads him away from the city-center, out onto more and more sparsely-populated paths, until they are walking through forests not quite wild, but neither are they tamed.

A small, squarish building, tiled roof overgrown by trees, and bearing no small resemblance to a ruin, sits alone in a clearing. The sun is bright here, tending golden in the late-afternoon, and someone has begun painting the wall at one corner of the ruin in umber, green, and white. The ghostly shape of a halla is barely visible, still unformed, in the work already done.

"We will not be disturbed," He says, looking back at Felassan, still within the shade at the edge of the clearing, "None but Lavellan have reason to come here."

[loosed]

"Lavellan," Felassan echoes. "The one who says she led an Inquisition?"

They've met. The hint of wine-dry skepticism in Felassan's voice is not for her, exactly, but for the whole concept of Inquisition — and it's only a hint, muted by the smell of the air and the sun filtering dappled green through the trees. This is better.

In another time Felassan would have tossed himself onto the ground to run his fingers through the grass while they spoke. To look for bugs, maybe — ephemeral little things blissfully unaware that he's endured speeches that went on longer than their lives. But there's a part of him, half-conscious and wholly separate from the logic that says Solas has no reason to harm him here and now, that's still braced and waiting for a strike. He stays on his feet and keeps Solas in his peripheral vision, even while his gaze is tracing the lines of the house and the smudges of the mural in progress.

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas sees his wariness, and makes no comment. It is a deserved slight against him that he can no longer be trusted, and he has no right to object. It still hurts, of course, but that too is deserved. He simply focuses on keeping himself still, an easy point to track; what else is there to do?

"Yes. When I first woke, I found that through the centuries my orb had been slowly absorbing ambient power. I was too weak to unlock it, and so I sought... a proxy, a Tevinter mage by the name of Corypheus. I expected the resultant explosion to kill him," He says it all calmly, his manner almost rehearsed. He has thought about how to tell this tale before, "What I did not expect, was that he had already discovered the secret to effective immortality."

And when his dragon had revived him, he would have in his grasp the Orb of Fen'Harel, the Wolf's Eye itself, and all the power any god could want. This much, he knew was obvious.

"Lavellan was the only survivor of the blast, aside from Corypheus himself. She was marked by the Orb's anchor, and the Inquisition formed around her. They had no choice but to do so: she was the only person in Thedas with the ability to stabilize the resultant Veil tears," And if he sounds a little bit proud of that, then you'll have to forgive him. He is proud of her, "She has performed admirably as the Inquisitor. Against all odds, she defeated Corypheus, and reclaimed my orb. It was an impressive feat."

[loosed]

Felassan listens to this without moving, one long ear angled in Solas' direction, his friend at the edge of his vision and the rest filled with treetops and the sky. He doesn't say, what a shame there was no one for you to workshop that plan with, because that's the thing, isn't it? There was a plan before it. A solid one, he'd say, after thousands of years of consideration before it could even be put into motion. Step seventy-nine: secure the eluvians. He ruined that one himself.

He's not quite sorry. But he's not going to bully Solas about this specific thing. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

Solas' tone, on the other hand. The pride in it. Impressive feat, about a mortal woman whom the Solas Felassan last spoke to would have called a sleepwalker, a shadow. And touch of something more in his voice, in the fervency of the respect, that Felassan has heard from him before.

For that he turns to look at Solas head-on again, eyebrows raised.

"Was it now?"

[arlathvhen]

The house that is all but a ruin wraps itself around a central courtyard, which without doors or walls, leads directly out to the path that winds through the clearing up to said house. This means that Beleth, working in the garden, trying to turn over the compacted and neglected ground, can easily see people approaching. This was by their design, of course, wary even now about who might take issue with either of them.

Solas might think it was his own enemies that only needed fretting over, of course, but Beleth had seen dead men rise and walk Caldera's streets, and there were many dead men who had found themselves in such a state due to her actions.

So the movement of the approaching men catches her eye, even at a distance, though her nerves are saved by the quick recognition of her beloved's silhouette. The second doesn't come as easily to her memories, but Solas is escorting them, so it can't be an enemy. She rises, aware that she's dressed in clothes suited to her task, already covered with dirt, and there is little to do but try to clean her hands by rubbing more dirt on them. A few moments spent getting her hair in order, and then she goes out to greet whoever he's brought home.

"Vhe--"

The word cuts off mid-syllable as she recognizes just who it is that is tagging along. And then she looks from Solas, to Felassan, back to Solas. The body language between the two, the way Solas holds himself far more casually than he would with a random Dalish--The fact that he just decided to bring a random Dalish to their home, without alerting her.

There is something going on here. Violet eyes narrow at Solas.

"You've brought a shemassan to my door, I see."

[goethbeforethefall]

He sees her coming and winces a little at her expression. Ah, yes, now they've really been caught. Solas is already opening his mouth to greet her in turn when shemassan penetrates the cringing panic like an unexpected blow. Helplessly, he turns away, struggling to control his face, to not laugh because— of course, of course they've met. And of course Beleth already has the depth of Felassan, enough even to mock him, though she may know nearly nothing about him at all.

Don't laugh. Do not laugh. Breathe. There you go. Alright, then: dignity.

"Vhenan," He says, not quite able to mask the good humor in his tone, "I see that you have met Felassan: he is an old friend. Lethallin, this is Beleth Lavellan, formerly of the Inquisition."

He knows 'vhenan' will already have given all pretense away, but he hesitates, casting a weather eye over Felassan's wary pose. No, it is better to be sure, and though he is leery of the impact the truth has, he cannot deny it. All of Thedas knows what they are to one another.

"She is my heart."

And anyways, he might as well hand Felassan something to hold over him. He cannot say it hasn't been earned.

[loosed]

Shemassan makes him grin — mocked, yes, and good job of it, too. He likes it. Guessing precisely what's going on with Solas' face when he turns away to hide it makes him grin wider, eyes crinkling in a way that would have left him with deep crows' feet something like six thousand minus fifty years ago, if it ever were going to.

His stance stays as it is: casual, loose, but too far away from Solas to elbow him in the ribs. Too far to touch at all. Lurking beneath his grin, the open wound of his narrowly-averted execution and his quiet, watchful mistrust of the entire world he has found himself in now do not fall away. They only have competition, in the form of kneejerk relief at seeing Solas seem happy about something for the first time in quite a while, and the source a woman with dirt beneath her fingernails.

"Quick work," he says, not even knowing how quick. Forgive him for imagining it might have taken the better part of the decade he missed for Solas to come around to the ideas he'd cut Felassan down for having, rather than only a year. Forgive that this remark may be nonsensical — nothing said so far has confirmed Inquisitor Beleth Lavellan knows what either of them are, and perhaps from her perspective she has spent an exceedingly respectable fifteen years charming someone whose lifetime might be only four or five times that long.

Forgive him, too, for holding aside the possibility of worse: that Solas didn't come around, only found the ideal position from which to guide someone powerful and regain what he'd lost. Maybe he'll ask — but not in front of her.

[arlathvhen]

"An old friend?" There's an emphasis that should let Felassan know that at the very least, Beleth is aware that an old friend for Solas is not something to measured in the brief years of mortals. She turns to Felassan for a more thorough inspection. Her eyes linger wonderingly on the vallaslin, but--not the time for an interrogation on such sensitive topics.

Their stances are telling an interesting story, and she feels like she's missing the pages that make it all make sense. But the old friend--well. Confirmation that there was something unseen, unknown to her, that would shed light on her confusion.

"Thank you," This is directed to Felassan. Quick work, even on a mortal time scale, indeed. "I've always prided myself on my efficiency." That's a joke, probably. Maybe Felassan isn't the only one who thinks they're funny.

There is a softening in her eyes, however, when Solas openly calling her his heart. The look on her face could only be described as enamored. Whatever is going on here, his open declaration of his love for her still gives her a quiet thrill. It is only after this that she remembers that she's supposed to be quite miffed at him for whatever nonsense he's thrust on her and her house, and her eyes go back to being narrowed.

"Vhenan." An acknowledgement that the sentiment is returned, even if it doesn't mean that he's out of hot water. And speaking of hot water--"I'll go put on some tea. Why don't you take your old friend to the library while I get things together."

Back to Felasssan. "Well, Felassan, of clan Virnehn," Still gonna go with that, buddy? "I hope you will forgive the lackluster accommodations, I fear that we are still attempting to tame this place into something of a home. And I wasn't expecting old friends to drop by." Another pointed look at Solas. Then she nods politely to both of them and turns, trying to run her fingers through her hair and tame the curls as she walks off towards the kitchen. It isn't quite put together enough to do the cooking that an important guest calls for, but it will manage to heat the water for tea well enough.

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas watches her go with a strange sense of satisfaction. It had been a conversation, her annoyance, spoken underneath code words and shared history, right under another's nose— and yes, she was annoyed with him. And yet

"It would seem we are in trouble," He says, remembering belatedly that Felassan, actually, can see and hear them both. Solas does not sound very concerned about any trouble he might be in— on the contrary, "Come, be welcome in our home."

So saying, he crosses toward the open doorway, in no hurry at all.

The house is a low, blocky ruin from the outside. The stone exterior is at turns rough with age and damage, and shows some signs of slow repair. The roof is newer, made from carefully-shingled terracotta, and the doors are solid oak, gone dark with age. A fortress in miniature, if not for the disrepair and the trees near-enough to make scaling the walls easy.

The interior is wide halls and stone floors, and a brightly-lit courtyard visible beyond. Solas leads him to the right, where the room has been filled with an optimistic number of bookshelves, and a growing collection of literature. Cushions for seating and a view of the outside through two gaps in the wall still not quite finished being converted into windows. One day, it will be lovely, but at current moment it is merely filled with potential.

Felassan will not, he thinks, want to sit and make himself vulnerable, and so Solas makes a show of taking one of the two chairs, and makes himself comfortable.

"Where shall we begin?"

[loosed]

Felassan does not want to sit. He stands near one of the gaps in the wall, eyes traveling here and there to take in the details of the room. Homey. There was a time he'd consider it humble — not a single wall covered top to bottom in a glittering golden mosaic — but he's been living rough for some time, quite happily, and he never liked the mosaics to begin with.

So it's a fine house, as far as houses go, but it's strange to see Solas in it like this, only a few hours removed from him being a silent, looming presence behind Felassan in the Fade, a force of nature coming for the entire world. Now he's making a home. Building a library.

"I like her," is where they shall begin. He doesn't imagine Solas cares, at this point, but he smiles anyway, arch, like it matters what he thinks. Like Solas ought to be relieved to have his approval. He's listening for footsteps, any clatter of dishware, but even though he doesn't hear them, he keeps his voice low enough anyone sitting farther away from Solas would need to strain to hear him. "Is it real?"

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas gives the question due consideration, but it doesn't take much.

"Yes," He says simply, and then falls silent for a moment, searching for the way to begin, "But not at first. At first, I only sought a foothold in the nascent Inquisition. A path back to my Orb, and its power. What I thought of then as her infatuation was merely convenient."

He is quiet as well, but not for the sake of secrecy. She knows this part, as well as he does— it's only, he is ashamed. Stupidity does that to a man, when you look back on it after the fact.

"She is, however, utterly indomitable. As time went by... I became more invested. By the time I realized how distracted I had become, it was too late," Solas offers a shrug, one-shouldered and a little sheepish, "You had been right all along, and I could no longer deny it. She is real. They all are. And I was in love."

[loosed]

All of this could be a lie. They have, so far as Felassan is concerned, recently and definitely established how much Solas trusts him and his judgment and how included Felassan might be in any further world-restoration endeavors. If Solas harbors any hope of returning to Thedas to finish the work, this Inquisitor of his attached by puppet strings and pet names, it would be reasonable enough — not necessarily correct, but reasonable — to fear Felassan might take a shine to her and give him away in the meantime.

It's possible. But Felassan's always had a good sense for people, what they're thinking and feeling, even when he hasn't been following them around for six thousand years, and Solas' reputation as a liar was always somewhat exaggerated. Solas seems genuine. The possibility of this all being a ploy seems distant enough for Felassan to set it aside. Not to throw it away, no, but to pocket it in case something else arises to warrant pulling it back out, and in the meantime carry on more or less as if it isn't there.

His smile is guarded and wistful and wry. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he's close enough to the wall that he hardly has to tip back to rest his shoulder blades against it, the stone cooling even through his layers of shirt and tunic and cloak.

"Congratulations," he says. His tone is dry, but it's the dryness of any happily unattached man in history, mortal or not, saying you're in for it now to a friend with hearts in their eyes. "You always did like a woman with an army."

[goethbeforethefall]

If you did not know Felassan, you might take it simply for a listening pose, the expression of a man turning over the idea in his head. Solas, who has watched him scheme and joke and lie his way through six millennia can practically hear the gears grinding inside his skull. Is he lying? Is there a way to tell? Does it make a difference? What to do about it?

He waits, to see where the arrow will fall. Then it inevitably does, the barb strikes true, and his instantaneous, sour expression is unfeigned. He fights against it for a moment, and then— ugh.

"She did not have an army when we began," He sneers— or rather, he wants it to be a sneer. It comes out a bit whinier than that, and he has to actively resist the urge to stand up and go do... something. Throttle him, perhaps, "Make that comparison in her presence and you will earn the fate you receive. What is that Dalish proverb? Dirthara ma."

You spend ten years wallowing in grief and regret, missing your friend, and when by some miracle you finally get him back? You immediately want to shove him into the fountain. Felassan hasn't changed one bit.