In my very first playthrough, Solas got a bit on my nerves. I punched him in the face once. Second playthrough was with a female Lavellan inquisitor, a mage herself. The feels hit me out of nowhere. Translations of elvish phrases are at the bottom.
UNDER YOUR SKIES
She wanders the endless planes of the Fade until the concept of time is but a distant memory. She grows restless. She grows careless.
A demon of sloth whispers to her one day.
You will not find what you seek, little elfling. Come, lie down. Lie down and rest. Are you not weary in your bones?
Fatigue settles on her shoulders and she shrugs it off. She cannot shrug off the demons that now shadow her path through the Fade. They are patient. They wait for her strength to forsake her.
Foolish girl. What are you hoping to accomplish?
Lay down. Lay down your burden with us.
Let us take it from you.
For a time, she fends them off easily. She carries hope in her heart.
Hope slowly morphs into despair. A different type of demon now haunts her waking thoughts.
You will never find him. He is lost to you now.
Did you truly think you mattered to a god?
They move closer, tightening the circle. Lash out when they dare, bleeding her slowly. She knows she is playing a game of chance.
She makes her stand under a tree hanging upside down where the presence of a spirit warms the air, though it flees as her pursuers close in. Roots rot and leaves turn brown. Icy fingers reach for her. She can sense their anticipation. They have cornered their prey. The hunt is coming to an end.
Trembling in the chill, she kneels down, places her hands on her thighs. Closes her eyes.
Find me.
She has seen his shadow.
Footprints in the snow.
Stalking.
Following.
Out of sight, always. But she felt his presence. Did he really think she would not notice?
Come. Find me.
A thin crust of ice covers her hair. Her breath comes in puffs of white mist. She can no longer feel her hands.
She knows he's coming.
Find me.
There is a whisper in the underbrush. A twig, snapping under the weight of heavy paws. A growl, so low it seems to shake the ground itself.
The demons scatter to the sound of breaking glass, a blizzard of shrieks. She keeps her eyes closed, not needing to see. Fangs rip through fabric and ice.
Then there is silence.
Almost.
She can hear the wind rustle in thick fur.
When he finally speaks, she can hear his voice in her head, achingly familiar, but with an echo that betrays the true extent of his power.
Garas quenathra, da'len?
A smile tugs at her lips. She keeps her eyes closed.
Ma melava halani. Ma serannas.
The sarcasm in her voice is biting.
There is a deep exhalation of breath that could have been a sigh. It washes over her, melting the frost. She relishes the warmth. She had already thought it lost to her forever.
Your strength is failing.
So it is.
You must return to your world. Now.
She listens to him pad through the snow, circling her, but never coming too close.
You asked why I had come.
His movements halt. Without opening her eyes, she can sense that he is behind her, but watching.
Well?
We need to talk.
A brief pause. Hesitation.
There is nothing to talk about.
The anger that had consumed her in the days following their last encounter flows back into her all at once. She rises to her feet in one fluid motion, eyes wide open now and whirls around to face him. The wolf returns her gaze steadily.
He is all that she had expected, the size of a bear with dark fur and fangs that struck fear into the hearts of the Dalish for generations. His eyes however she recognises in an instant, a shade of brown that she thought she knew so well. They seemed to soften whenever they fell upon her.
Tel'abelas, he says finally.
Banal nadas, she reminds him. You said so yourself.
His eyes close briefly and an expression akin to defeat crosses his wolf features. When he opens his eyes again, they are kinder than before. A decision was made. He steps closer.
Return to your world now. Restore your strength. I will find you in your dreams.
The invitation is unspoken but he inclines his head toward her when she touches his cheek, sinks one hand into thick fur.
Promise?
You have my word, da'len.
She wakes with a dry throat and a headache, one hand grasping her covers as if it was still his fur.
TRANSLATIONS
Garas quenathra, da'len? - Why have you come, little one?
Ma melava halani. Ma serannas. - You saved (helped) me. My thanks.
Tel'abelas. - I am not sorry.
Banal nadas. - Nothing is inevitable.
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