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

[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.

[loosed]

Felassan knows this song. He knows how his part in it goes. He's supposed to grin wider and decline to apologize, aware Solas may make good on the threat but equally aware he doesn't have to be afraid of any real harm — and he's supposed to keep teasing him until Solas throws something at his head, only not about this. No more comparisons between Beleth Lavellan and anyone they know. Something that won't wound. There's never been any shortage of harmless things to make fun of him for, when the moment required, and that was before the Dread Wolf had apparently been domesticated by the mortal Dalish leader of a Chantry force —

Solas has had ten years to soften and reconsider, but Felassan didn't see them. Felassan's clothes still smell like the fire he lit to roast his last meal in a snowy forest clearing he knew he would never leave.

The smile doesn't drop from his mouth, but the amusement does retreat from his eyes, like an outnumbered force back into its fortress.

"I have learned," he answers, a touch too sharp to be deferent.

[arlathvhen]

It's at that moment that the jingle of pottery can be heard, as Beleth enters the room with a tray that boasts a kettle with steam curling lazily out of it, along with three cups, a bowl of little sugar cubes, and a larger one with hearth cakes that had been made yesterday, and quickly heated up along with the kettle.

"The hearth cakes aren't quite right without halla butter, but cow butter does a fine enough job. I've been planning on buying goat milk to see if it tastes--" She only stops talking when she steps in and notices the tension in the air. A moment is spent resisting the urge to roll her eyes--of course an old friend of Solas' means that they're arguing, undoubtedly about something stupid that they both feel very strongly about. "--But I'm guessing you didn't grow up on halla butter, did you, Felassan?"

The tray is set down on the end table that rests in front of the two chairs--oh, hmm. She leaves for a moment, and emerges back into the room shortly, dragging one of the chairs from the kitchen in. It gets set up, and she gracefully lowers herself onto it, trying to look the part of a hostess, even if it's to her idiot bondmate and whatever weirdo he's dragged in from his past.

"So," She says, leaning forward to pour the still steaming tea into the three cups. "Tell me all about your life in the Virnehn clan, and how you came to know this humble apostate from a small village." Her tone is too light and mild for her to be anything but irritated. Has she not suffered enough lying liars who lie? Or is she just uniquely cursed? This never happened to Rook. All her companions were sweet and kind and didn't hide crazy secrets from her.

[goethbeforethefall]

Beleth's timely arrival saves Felassan from another round of reflexive apologies, though not from a good view of the way Solas' expression shutters. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to find— he isn't sure what. Peace, or stability, or the grace to go on politely. He should have known, or remembered, that what stood between them was too wounded to bear old weight.

Ten years had passed, and that mere decade felt more filled with life than tenfold years had done, when Arlathan was new. But not for Felassan. Ir abelas, he says quietly, into the silence when Beleth leaves for the chair, expecting no reply; a courtesy, as much as anything. An acknowledgement.

Her anger is... deceptive, he knows. She is at her most dangerous when she is calm, and despite the warmth in her voice, Solas recognizes the towering anger in each word. She's giving them a chance to come out from under the executioner's axe. And yet... it would be wrong, would it not, to simply break Felassan's cover, and reveal all?

He opts to say nothing, and when she meets his gaze, he looks away, offering a helpless chance at honesty to the man leaning there by the window. Well? Tell us about the clan. The one you're definitely part of.

[loosed]

The apology softens the edges of Felassan's expression into something pensive, conflict turned inward, and it stays that way until Beleth reenters the room with her chair. He doesn't do her the disservice of pretending he's been smiling this entire time. One unfurls on his face more slowly as she speaks.

Annoyed. Clever. Calm. He was not lying to Solas when he said he liked her already. That doesn't mean he wouldn't lie to her, of course; a look from Solas, and he would conjure a half-plausible tale that required them both to be only as old as they look, whatever understanding her tone had previously implied. But such a look doesn't come.

So he says, "I did not 'grow up,' fen'vaslanelan," first of all, "but we had halla butter when the halla thought we deserved it."

He sounds fond. He is fond. Ghilan'nain did at least that one thing right. He steps closer to take one of the cakes, and he doesn't sit down in the chair she's been so kind as to leave empty for him, but he doesn't retreat back to the wall again, either.

"The first one I rode was called Tarasyldhe. One of many called Tarasyldhe," he amends. "She might as well have had wings. We lost her pushing back one of Falon'Din's incursions," comes quieter, "and the world has never seen another like her."

This is statistically improbable. There were likely a dozen like her at the same time she lived. But Felassan did have a childhood in at least one sense of the word: everything new, nothing calloused, first horses the best and first losses the hardest.

[arlathvhen]

As Solas broods and Felassan dodges her question, Beleth helps herself to her own cup of tea, staring into it thoughtfully. Then, she takes a long sip, eyes closed as if to savor the flavor of the brew--but it is not tea she is savoring. Rather, it is the mental image of taking her tea cup and hurling it right at both of their heads (somehow), then dragging the two of them by their stupid pointy ears into the woods and telling them to work out their issues there, lest they muck up her house with their rancid, angsty vibes.

It is a pleasant enough thought to soothe her, somewhat.

"I understand," And her voice can't help but reflect Felassan's fondness, even while pictures of bouncing crockery off his head dance in her own. "To know a halla is to know a friend. And to lose one is to lose a friend, as well. You have my condolences, for what they worth." The halla of clan Lavellan had adjusted to Wycome, when the clan settled into there. They were some of the few who didn't have any opinions to share with her when she visited, which was a welcome reprieve from those that did.

"So, would you like to answer my question? It is optional, of course, and I would hate to impose upon my guest." She takes another sip of tea, eyes turned toward window that led to the gardens. "Or if it would please you, I could fetch two sticks and let you hit each other until you solve whatever ancient grievances you've brought to my house." Her face and tone are still mild and calm, as she observes the wind rustling the vines that still have yet to be pulled down.

At least she kept the cup in her hand.

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas cocks his head slightly an acknowledgement of the blow rightly-aimed: if she would prefer not to impose on a guest, it seems pointed that she would indeed impose upon him. Implicit in Felassan's recital, too, is permission: if he is mentioning wolf-taming and old battles against the Evanuris, then that is blessing enough to speak of deeper secrets. He wonders if Felassan would have lied, even now, to cover for Solas' faults.

"Very well. Felassan was one of my closest and most trusted agents. In dreams of waking I made contact, and he worked my will upon the world before I had truly recovered. His particular task was the most vital of all; to secure the Eluvian Network," Which, he knew, she would connect to Orlais, to Briala, and indeed still further. As the crossroads connected each mirror, so too did it connect past to future, even as far as the Veilguard, "Which he did not."

And so Briala took nominal use of the Eluvians, and Felassan took a somewhat more direct weapon, in a more direct manner. But he knows that the end of the story will be obvious to her; with great effort, Solas keeps his voice steady.

"After millennia of plans in motion, we had come at the eleventh hour to disagree on the nature of the world, and the fate of the Veil. If there is tension between us, it is only to be expected, and there is only myself to blame."

As usual.

[loosed]

Felassan tips his head toward Beleth in gratitude for the condolences, which are worth plenty, and looks tempted, honestly, by the offer of sticks, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips in a playful pantomime of consideration. That's an idea. No way to know if it would help unless they try.

That expression, raised brows and thinned lips, serves him well enough through Solas' explanation, too, albeit with less amusement coloring its edges. Is it normal, to feel some impulse to take blame for his own death? Arguably, yes. He still has one foot in those millennia of dreaming that what was broken could be repaired. If someone had asked Felassan four thousand years before, as people he had loved for as long as he'd been alive turned grey and hollow and fell beyond anyone's reach, grasping his hand with their weakened ones, sending him away because the sight of his unchanging face was too unfair to endure, devoured by something worse than the Blight because it could not be contained — if someone had asked him then what should be done with anyone who knowingly stood in the way of unbreaking the world, he would not have paused to think about the answer.

And if it isn't normal, well. By no mortal measure has he ever been normal about Solas. It's fine.

"I was his friend," is a correction to agent, in part, but a gentle one. One that needs its own further correction: "I am his friend."

Not the way he had been. Not yet, maybe not ever again. Something was broken between them well before Solas struck him down; friends don't kneel and await their executions without resistance. He had not believed Solas might change his mind, and perhaps that was his failing. It's good to have been wrong. It's also an open wound: changeable, changed, just not — after so many thousands of years — for him.

Aside from a pinch of grief at the corner of his eyes, none of this shows on his face. He smiles at Beleth Lavellan, controlled and formidable in her chair.

"I assume the historians will never know enough to record that you may have saved all of Thedas by being charming and," with so much mischief it can only be a quote, "utterly indomitable. That is a shame."

[arlathvhen]

"He does that to me, too." She tells Felassan idly, because she ought to say something, even as she's taking in what they said. "Told someone that I was his associate. He stopped after I told him that associates get to sleep on the couch--And don't apologize, Solas. You've stopped it."

Even as she's preemptively scolding her heart, her mind is pouring over what is said, and not said. That he was close enough for Solas to bring him here unprompted, that his body language was so loose and relaxed around a man she had never heard of, called him an old friend, as she had noted, spoke volumes. Felassan had confirmed nebulous suspicions, and Solas pins them down.

That is what has been said. Solas speaks of differing viewpoints, and not the end of them. Tensions between them, that were his fault. You can't chase someone for ten years and not see what they are capable of, over and over. Following a breadcrumb trail of corpses. Solas had warned her, that she would not want to see the monster he'd become.

She would've gone to his side, anyway.

"Thank you for telling me." She will have to think more on what has been implied. What she has been told without saying the words, as Solas so often does.

Felassan's little quip about being charming and indomitable--here she throws a fond glance at Solas--leaves a smile starting to flicker to her face, before it fades, and she stares into her tea cup, a mood settling over her.

"I did not save Thedas from him." She corrects, feeling suddenly quite distant. Had they not had enough arguments to prove that she cannot dissuade him, not by herself? "I saved him from Thedas." There's a brief pause, a decision being reached. "People had come to oppose him and his machinations, of course. They made plans--a trap fit for a Dread Wolf." She had seen it--the false dagger held aloft, a near perfect replica. "All I did was beg for a chance to convince him to see reason."

Her expression turns to Felassan. The simmering anger is gone, at least, replaced by something harder to wave aside. "He doesn't remember it, of course," Because why would her life be made any easier? "and it took several women to all scold him simultaneously, but we did do it. They were all prepared to set the trap, if we hadn't."

They. She had refused to aid--but had not opposed. "And I told them to make sure there was room for two." Eternity in Solas' prison would have been an unpleasant ending, but she would have born it, even so.

[goethbeforethefall]

Solas' face is placid, a mask of smooth stone, grown only colder when Felassan says I was his friend. He looks away— not completely, of course, but so that he will not be able, quite, to see his expression as he says it, pretending to be watching for Beleth's reaction. But that only makes the surprise of the correction come more visibly when he looks up in shock. His friend, even now? Even here, after all that had— even now?

It makes only a child's sense. Wanting it to be so cannot make him worth forgiving; even now he is plotting against them, conspiring to bring the veil down around their ears, and...

Each time he thinks he has a grasp on the emotions of the moment, some new revelation comes; he is still contemplating the ramifications of forgiveness when Beleth tells them of the Veilguard's treachery. He is yet reeling from being mocked like a proper friend might be, when Beleth declares her intent to follow him into an eternal imprisonment.

"You are both impossible," He says, quietly, feeling shocked and superfluous. Allowing Lavellan and Felassan to meet had been a terrible error of judgement.

[loosed]

That's two members of the not normal about Solas club, then. And perhaps Felassan should stand aside and let Beleth be the president, because sticking with the man who destroyed the world for four thousand years and then letting him kill you is one thing, but agreeing to be trapped in prison with him for an indefinite and perhaps eternal period of time is entirely another. At least Felassan could always walk across the continent and ward away dreams whenever he needed a break.

He is opening his mouth to say something to Beleth. The thing he is about to say might be it was that good? with a friendly smile and not all that much lasciviousness — maybe he'd mean the conversation, maybe he'd mean the kissing — but they are both spared from this by Solas' interjection, which redirects Felassan into giving him a flat sort of glare.

Like attracts like.