Alyn Shir,

Since the defeat of Gadflow, Fate itself has vanished. Not a single fateweaver I have spoken to can read the threads. While this in itself is damning proof, there is still a problem. I can still fateshift.

In the light of this evidence, I propose the idea that Fate has simply evolved. One that branches out, and changes on a whim. Every choice from every individual affects the outcome. Fates that are not set in stone, but drawn into the sand; easily washed away. It explains why it is more difficult to collect strands of fate, since they are no longer as condemning.

I suppose we can only hope for the best, and that the people of Amalur will be responsible with this new development.

-Eola of House Drynne

I spend most of the morning in my room. Paperwork, even on an island of shipwrecks, proves to be a fearsome foe. Requests to clear out caves, to beat down faer gorta, to collect supplies, and so on. Always something to do. No matter how much we hunt the creatures that inhabit the island, they always seem to spawn back up somewheres. Especially the scavs. Nasty creatures, always lurking about and spitting acid.

That is not even mentioning the Niskaru that continually spawn from the beach. Every few days I go out there to kill a Niskaru Tyrant. It keeps returning and for the love of Akara I cannot figure out why. It isn't like I could just let them keep spawning. They'd crush Cape Solace, even with the walls we built around the village.

Hm. Collapsing the cave might be for the best, but any who might wash up there would die horribly. Plus, there is no telling if the niskaru might find a way around regardless. What if they breed? An army of niskaru is nobody's friend. I run a hand through my dark brown hair. Overthinking leads to nothing but mistakes. I should take a break.

After changing out of my nightgown and into my casual green mage robes, I strap my chakrams to my back, and my daggers to my hip. Then I stroll out of my room. I walk to the bannister and look down at the hall. The Watchers are lingering near the door, prepared for my inevitable escape attempt. My eyes turn towards Myfa, who is clearly enjoying her new role. She is conversing with Sunhilda, the previous ljosalfar ambassador to Gallow's End.

Sunhilda's presence was very, very awkward when she first arrived. I have no idea where her people got the idea of an arranged marriage, but I put a quick stop to that. Now I am only glad that she does not continue insisting for my hand. Just… no. Sweet girl, but not my cup of tea.

I see a stack of paperwork sitting on the corner of the bar and deflate. It is truly the bane of all sentient life. I really need an assistant. Or a secretary. Damn it, ruling is hard! I miss adventuring and just generally doing what I want. Honestly, help a gnome once and then you're suddenly a ruler of an island. Actually...I helped another gnome and she gave me a mansion. I helped another one and was resurrected. Sensing a pattern here. Hm.. Maybe I shouldn't help Bertrand find a new herb collector. Who knows what will happen.

"Hni, Eola!"

My eyes shift to the otherside of the bar, to see our four visitors casually lounging at the bar, dishes long empty. Varric is waving at me enthusiastically as he beckons me down. Pushing off the railing I make my way down the stairs. Myfa offers me a small smile as I pass her and Sunhilda. I nod my head to her and casually make my way towards the bar. I hop up on the stool next to Dorian. "Toomy, something to eat, please."

The traveler nods, a smirk growing on his face. "You hear the rumor about Lady Myfa?" His voice grew quieter, almost non existent. "She was sleeping with Cirillian back on Cape Solace. Turns out she thinks he isn't good enough for her anymore."

I blink. That was random, and I did not need hear about that. "Ah. Well, thanks for the information."

He smirks and nods to the pile of paperwork. "Speaking of information, you have another round of requests from Cape Solace."

I let my head smack into the wooden counter. "Ugh."

The stack of paper is pushed towards me. Toomy smiles cheerily. "Have fun!"

I blame Paddy. This is all his fault. If it wasn't for his weird dream I wouldn't be the mistress of Gravehal. Damn gnomes, always being so tricky and sneaky. This is what I get for being a good person. "Toomy, find someone to sort through this monstrosity and I'll pay you." I groan, not wanting to spend hours pouring over papers.

I reach into my purse and drop a generous pile of gold on the table, pushing the stack of papers towards him. "Take it away. Don't want."

The dokkalfar bastard laughs, swiping up the coins. He quickly counts them and then stuffs them into his pocket. The pile of papers is removed from my sight. I raise my head, only to find Varric grinning at me madly. He remarks something to his comrades and looks pointedly at me. "Vejari!"

I only raise an eyebrow as Dorian coughs lightly, a smirk growing on his face. I look at Varric. "What does that mean?" A crease forms between my brows. I hope he isn't calling me names. Mahanon lets out a light chuckle, and even the ever solemn seeming Solas twitches with the tiniest of smirks for a second.

Toomy sets down a couple pieces of toast and a small block of cheese down in front of me. I pick up the plate and gesture for them to follow me. I lead them to the library, devoutly ignoring the presence of the Watchers.

Deirdre greets us with large, sleepy brown eyes as we enter the building. She blinks, a smile growing on her face. "Ah, good morning. Welcome to the library."

Both Solas and Dorian are looking around at the books with mildly excited eyes. I usher them to the table, looking over the papers set out on the table. A graph of numbers up to one hundred, the alphabet written out, a couple of books for children. Nothing history orientated, as requested. I nod approvingly at Deirdre as I take a seat opposite to them. The cheery dokkalfar begins her instructions, starting with them writing down their alphabet and numbers. Once finished, she demonstrates them writing simple words down. 'Book.' 'Chair.' 'Fire.' 'Shoes.' Are the first ones on the list. I observe while eating my breakfast, watching the linguist as she furiously scribbles and splatters ink everywhere. Adeline gravitates over to us, standing next to me as she watches Deirdre with amusement.

The Watchers hover near the door. They shoot glances at me from time to time, checking that I haven't mysteriously disappeared. I suppress a snort. So suspicious. Not that I blame them of course. I do have a tendency to run into crazy situations. Mostly because of gnomes. (Hughes, Ventrinio, I am looking at you.)

My thoughts are broken by a smooth voice. "Hello, Eola." I blink and look up from the table. Solas is looking at me with expectant blue eyes.

"Hello, Solas." I reply, mirth clear in my tone. I turn to Deirdre, who is nearly vibrating with excitement. "Good, Solas! Well done!" She praises the ljosalfar. She barely refrains from patting his head like a well behaved pet.

Dorian huffs and turns to Adeline. "Good mooring, Miss."

Adeline, Deirdre and I break into light laughter. The almain woman speaks up. "Morning, not mooring. Morning." He flushes slightly, before repeating the correct phrase.

"Good morning." Adeline replies with an incline of her head. "I am Adeline Kirk."

Deirdre claps her hands. "Yes, let us move onto introductions. She looks over at me and bows shallowly. "I am Deirdre Gwint."

I put on my best haughty expression. "I am Eola of House Drynne, Scion of Akara." I formally bow. Deirdre breaks out in giggles.

Mahanon clears his throat, directing our attention to him. I tilt my head, silently asking 'what?'

He pulls a piece of parchment from his bag, and rolls it out onto the table. A map. I prevent myself from jolting, sending a warning glance at Adeline. She seems to understand and only hums passively. The terrain displayed on the map is wholly unfamiliar.

I look it over quickly, committing it to my mind. Then I rise, going to get a map. One that displays only the island. Might as well play to their expectations. This is also a good thing, now I can make sure all the maps are taken down. It wouldn't be any good if our deception was discovered so easily. That also means we cannot give them unfiltered access to our library. I will have to get Paddy to go through the books.

This is nearly more effort than it's worth. But, if that map is correct… There are many civilizations. From the size of them, ones that can easily crush a small island worth of people. I cannot allow that to happen. Maybe it would be best to… My gaze turns to the group speculatively. No. Not yet. If they prove themselves a threat, then I will act. No sooner. We are not the Tuatha, killing senselessly and without due cause.

I pull out a map of Gallow's End, one excluding Amalur and any surrounding islands. I pass it to Mahanon and sit down. His companions all lean over to take a look at the map. He turns to look at me, and gestures, trying to imitate something larger. A larger map. I frown and return to the shelf, finding one that included some of the smaller islands and a large expanse of water that stops just before hitting Rathir. With I frown I turn towards them, handing the larger map over. Mahanon frowns, frustration on his features. He gestures again.

I shake my head, pointing at the map I had just set down. I will not give up information on Amalur that easily. Just as Mahanon turns his disenchanted expression to me, the doors of the library burst open. The Watchers are startled, one of the male ones stumbling as he turns to face the culprit.

Zefwyn balances on one leg, the other sticks out behind him and his arms spread upwards. One of his hands holds a tan coloured pack. The pack has delicate green and purple stitching and a silver clasp. Zefwyn grins. "I have returned!" The Watchers glower behind their faceless masks. He sways a little and drops his leg back to the ground. "And I found this!"

Perfect timing.

Dorian jolts up from his chair, trotting over to retrieve the bag with a gleeful expression. It seems Zefwyn did find something useful after all. At least he didn't bring seashells home this time. The almain man turns to Deirdre, making a gesture to himself and then to Zefwyn.

Deirdre's eyes light up with understanding. "Ah! It's 'Thank you, Zefwyn.'" She looks in between the two with an approving nod. "Thank you, Zefwyn."

Dorian parrots the phrase, a flourishing bow accompanying the carefully pronounced words. He then snatches the bag after Zefwyn offers it to him, crushing it in an embrace as he opens it. He flips the top down and takes out a few tomes. He places them on the table, carefully inspecting the covers. They seem to be in good condition, and as Dorian lets out a small exclamation of joy.

I can practically see Deirdre spark with excitement. She stretches her hands out in a 'Give me, give me!' motion. Her face turns to Dorian, her wide eyes blinking pleadingly.

"Pieris, Dorian?" She asks, in what I assume is their language. It seems I was absorbed in my thoughts longer than I thought.

He slides the tome over, much to the cheery dokkalfar's delight. "Thank you, Dorian!"

I clap my hands, drawing everyone's attention. "It is time for a practical lesson. As in, we are going to collect reagents for Bertrand." Mostly to distract them from the map situation, otherwise because Mahanon was practically yawning at the lessons.

"An excellent idea! I shall go too. It has been awhile since I've left the keep." Deirdre agrees, shutting the book gently. "I can teach them colours and the names of landmarks this way."

I nod and turn to Adeline. "Will you becoming as well?"

She shakes her head. "I have a quiet afternoon of tea and books planned. But you all have fun. I imagine I will be seeing much more of you lot in the near future." She waves her hand briefly in farewell as she strolls back to her padded chair.

"What of you, Zefwyn?" I ask my partner in crime, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Reports to write, Eola. No rest for the mischievous." He smirks, his eyes flickering to the Watchers. "We can cut and run later."

The faceless warriors stiffen, but otherwise do not react. I wave my hand at the Watchers, telling them to disregard the comment. "Watchers One, Two, and Three may accompany us for protection." I step over to Deirdre and pat her cheek gently. "I will not risk your safety."

She smiles brilliantly. "Thank you, Eola! I am quite handy with my daggers though. I should be alright." Her brown eyes light up before she speaks again. "Let's bring a picnic lunch, it's almost noon."

I pat her head before stepping away. "As you wish. I suggest you bring a book on plants, I suspect they will have to learn what not to touch." I turn towards the Watchers again. "One of you go get a picnic lunch, please. Enough for… nine, if you three are eating." You know, I have never seen the Watchers eat. Who knows, maybe the reason why they are so obsessed with the Scion is that they absorb energy from her. I have seen stranger.

"Oh, and take this plate back as well, please." I push my plate towards the Watchers with an innocent looking smile. Number 3 (I can only tell because he is slightly taller than Number 2) slides the plate into his hands and and vanishes out the door.

I shrug at the amused expression Zefwyn gives me. "If someone else will do it, why bother?"

He pretends to consider for a moment before nodding in agreement. "That's fair. Anyways, unlike a certain someone, I don't have the gold to make paperwork mysteriously disappear. Damn paperwork…" Zefwyn is out the library doors and gone.

After Deirdre flits about and collects all the texts she needs (After discarding most of the precariously tall pile she wanted to bring) I herd everyone outside to wait for Watcher number 3. We find ourselves lounging about the common area, trying to improve the strangers vocabulary.

Sky. Grass. Dirt. Butterfly. Fence. Cloud. Sun.

I struggle to make them understand 'Wind' as I gesture my arms in wavy motions in the air. Varric gets it first, laughing gleefully at the gesture. He seems to have snagged some writing materials from somewheres, and a leather bag. The gnome scribbles something down on his parchment, mumbling something absently.

Number Three arrives with two picnic baskets and a large plaid blanket thrown over his shoulder. It lends him a rather ridiculous look, the neutral tones of his armour thrown off by the red and green lines of the blanket. A fashion catastrophe. I stifle my amusement as I look to Dorian, similar thoughts written across his face plainly.

I am content to leave the Watcher with his burden as I lead our group outside. Being a pack mule is a good punishment for the babying they force me to endure.

Once outside the keep, I direct us into the tunnels Paddy cleared out to make travelling easier. I plan to put the picnic blanket down within seeing distance of the Dark Harbour. To give them the impression we had tried to build boats, but were overrun with Faer Gorta. Makes sense with the whole 'isolated island community' angle I am going for.

The rock golem that is usually in the area will show them that it's dangerous to wander. Plus, I will be able to show them the many plants in the area. As in: What not to eat else you will die painfully. Hopefully the lesson will stick.

I begin by pointing out the scarlet flowstone, sitting inconspicuously on the side of the cave wall. I make an eating gesture, and then shake my head. Because children, do not eat mysterious red rocks. Pulling on a pair of leather gloves I keep in one of my many pouches, I demonstrate how to harvest the mineral. Little chunks are chiselled off and wrapped up in cloth. Bertrand will later refine it into power to make potions with. Dorian and Solas seem particularly interested in the scarlet flowstone, but weary of touching. All for the better, these stones are nasty for beginners. Sharp and jagged, they have their name for a reason.

Deirdre is happily chatting with the foreigners, teaching them a plethora of new words. Solas is on his way to stringing basic sentences together, Dorian and Varric not far behind. Mahanon seems significantly less interested in both language and alchemy. Though that is of little matter, academics cannot be everyone's strong suit. (Gnomes.)

We come to the opening of the cave. I signal everyone to stop, hearing the thuds of a rock golem. Number Three sets the picnic baskets down silently. The picnic blanket is dropped on top. I crouch, more than confident in my ability to take a golem down alone. After defeating Tirnoch single handedly, not much offers me a challenge.

Sneaking around the corner, I unsheathe my daggers and slowly stalk behind the golem. Springing off the ground, I leap onto its back, stabbing it multiple times with my ice enchanted daggers. Then I teleport away, leaving the Watchers to claim the creatures attention. Then I take on a more passive position, casting heals and barriers. No use in letting the opportunity go to waste. I wish to see what these outsiders are capable of.

Mahanon rushes into the fray with his greatsword swinging about wildly. He utterly destroys the battle flow the Watchers had established. I quickly cast a barrier on Watcher one as the golems' fist slams onto her. The golems hand glances off the barrier and the beast stumbles away in surprise. Solas and Dorian start flinging magic at the creature as Varric loads up his mechanical bow.

Mildly disapproving of their tactics, I cast a heal on Mahanon. He is too slow with that huge sword to effectively dodge. A damage absorber type. I turn a speculative glance towards Solas and Dorian. It seems they are both competent with offensive magic, but true talents lie elsewheres. Unless they're just competent and nothing more. However, both of them hold themselves with the utmost confidence, and no one who is just okay at magic would have such posture. Unless they're egomaniacs.

Varric seems like more the charming and persuasive type of rouge rather than the sneaky stabby sort. Both are just as dangerous as the other. A well weaved rumor is deadly as the poisoned blade.

With the eight of us fighting (Deirdre had chosen stay by her books near the picnic supplies) the rock golem falls quickly, crumbling apart. I turn to Mahanon with a mild frown. He had endangered Number One with his recklessness. I may be annoyed with them, but they are citizens of Gallow's End. Mine to protect and guard.

I allow my eyes to narrow. "Be more cautious in the future, boy. In Rathir you would be punished for such carelessness." Someone with that lack of caution would not have even passed the *Rites of Introduction, let alone been permitted out of the city.

Then I let it go. He would not understand what is being said. When he has a better grasp on the language I will revisit the topic. I heal up the other Watchers and instruct Number Three to pick up the baskets and the blanket. Mahanon looks a bit taken back, as if someone hasn't had the audacity to scold him in a good long time. Pfft. Spoiled kid.

Blue. Green. Brown. White. Black.

Deirdre breaks the awkward feeling in the air by teaching them colours. Fortunately we reach a large open plain void of any foes. No boggarts, brownies, or other annoyances in sight. In the distance, the wooden platforms of Dark Harbour is visible. Watcher Three spreads the blanket down, and Deirdre uses some of her books to keep the wind from blowing the corners up. It is an idyllic day. A few large, fluffy clouds roll by in the sky. Said sky is a vibrant blue. It is warm, but not overwhelmingly so, and the winds are strong enough to keep the little pests away.

Deirdre opens her book and starts on her lesson as the Watchers go to collect reagents. The simple ones, of course. They would be unable to gather things like scarlet flowstone and scarwood bark without injuring themselves.

I find myself laying back on the blanket, watching the clouds float by. Absently, I find my mind wandering. I wonder if before my resurrection I did things like this. Cloud watch, maybe with Ayln Shir? I bet she would have. Such a softie underneath all that snark. Perhaps I had siblings, who would argue with me bitterly but stand by my side when needed? Parents. Surely, I have parents somewheres? What do they think? That their daughter is... gone?

"Eola?" Deirdre's questioning voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I have been getting too caught up in my mind this last while.

I sit up, brushing my bangs behind my ear. "Yes?" I look at the five of them curiously.

"Solas asked you a question." Deirdre replies, looking to the ljosalfar encouragingly.

Blinking, I smile sheepishly at him. "Forgive me, I was lost in thought."

"Is this… fence, world? Away from Thedas?" He asks, struggling to find the correct translation.

I nearly flinch, but carefully conceal my reaction. "We are indeed fenced off from Thedas." Not a lie. "All of us were shipwrecked here at some point, or our ancestors were. We tried escaping but…" Not a lie considering there is a barrier around the island. We were too cautious to try anything with only our small rowboats. (The Requiem had been smashed up by the Tuatha.)

I gesture to the Dark Harbour. "The Faer Gorta keep reappearing, no matter how many times we clear them out." Also not a lie. Lies are too easily discovered. Tell them the truth in a twisted manner and allow them to make their own conclusions. Only lie when there are no other options available.

He seems to understand the gist of what I said. "Are you Elvhen?"

I laugh lightly, willing to give this easily explained bit of information away. "Elvhen? No, we're Dokkalfar. At least Deirdre and I are. Zefwyn is Ljosalfar."

He looks confused. I cannot help but smile at his puzzled face. Such an amusing facial expression. Grim and thoughtful. Stretching out my hand, I poke his nose, a smirk growing across my face. "I can practically see your thoughts racing. Just enjoy the moment, worry later."

Solas visibly startles. His hand raises to his nose, all most as if he thought he had imagined the poke. He frowns.

I laugh again, cheerily getting onto my feet. I step off the blanket and kick off my boots. "Deirdre, let's make flower crowns."

Her face lights up, and she clasps her hands together with glee. "What a marvelous idea!" She leaps up, forgetting about the book on her lap. It topples to the ground with a thud. Her face becomes one of horror.

"No, no, did I damage it? If any of the pages are creased it will be unforgivable!" She reaches for the book in a hurry examining its pages. I stifle a laugh at her clumsiness.

Fondly, I take the book from her hands and set it down on the blanket. "It is fine, Deirdre. We have other copies of this particular tome."

She pouts, still protesting. "But-"

I give her a small push off the blanket, towards the patch of blue and yellow flowers a few feet away. "Fret about the book later." I place a hand on her back and nudge her towards the flowers.

The two of us make our way to the flora littering the plains, the four strangers watching with curiosity. Deirdre and I gather up as many flowers as we can, gently breaking the stems. Once we have an acceptable amount, we return to the blanket and deposit them. Deirdre demonstrates the weaving pattern, shoving some of the flowers towards them. Mahanon's eyes light up. He begins weaving with practiced skill.

Heh. The warrior likes flowers, hm?

Solas also seems to know what he is doing, carefully placing each stem together in elegant twists and braids. Varric on the other hand… He seems to have managed a knot of sorts. The gnome grins sheepishly as I raise an eyebrow at him. He laughs, pointing a crooked finger at me. "No word, vejar."

I raise my eyebrow questioningly. "...Vejari?"

He looks to Deirdre. "To, hm, anyied? To beriar…"

"Vex! That's the word you want. Vex! It means to trouble, bother, or annoy." Deirdre replies with her boundless enthusiasm.

"Vexie."

If there was a wall to bang my head against… But I only blink at him, a dismayed expression taking over my face. Did he just call me vexing? Way to be rude to your hostess.

Deirdre shakes her head patiently. "No, it's vexing not vexie. See, as an example: "Eola finds the Watchers vexing."

Varric shakes his head. "No. Eola is Vexie. Two name."

Ah. A nickname. Lovely. Praise the gods that Agarth isn't here. I would never, ever, hear the end of it. Or Akara forbid, Onwing.

Deirdre completes her flower crown, and drops it onto my head. I startle a bit, but offer her a soft smile as I adjust the crown a bit. As I run my fingers over the stems I can tell it is clumsily woven, but it matters little. I focus on weaving my crown, passing it to Deirdre once I finish. She smiles brilliantly, gently placing it atop of her head.

With a snort Varric puts down his knot of flowers, throwing his hands up in the universal surrender motion. Dorian, however, has made some sort of bouquet of tastefully arranged flowers. I take a glance at Solas and Mahanon, who have both finished their crowns. Mahanon's is a simple, but neatly woven pattern. I nearly choke as I look over the bald alfar's flower crown. It is nothing less than a masterpiece, elegant braids, delicate twists, and careful patterns make a truly exquisite example of what all weavers should strive for.

"If this was a contest, then you've surely won." I stated blankly, still surprised at the amount to effort he put into such an inconsequential thing. Solas understands the majority of my words, smugness radiating off of him with a small complacent smile.

Out of the corner of my eyes I see the Watchers returning with various common reagents. As the plants are deposited, I carefully show them which ones are edible and which ones to avoid. Dorian and Solas are fascinated with these 'new' plants.

I roll my eyes at their ill disguised glee and reach for the to picnic baskets. I flip the woven lid open. A couple loafs of bread are wrapped in sheer white cotton, and a moderately sized cheese wheel beneath. A few sprigs of grapes lay on top of the bread. There is also a wrapped package of what seems to be smoked antelope meat. The second basket holds a few pewter plates, goblets, and two bottles of wine.

Carefully, I set everything up. We all proceed to eat our midday meal, though it is now late afternoon. Hopefully this outing has sufficiently distracted them from the map incident. The atmosphere is light and casual, practicing more words. The Watchers sit some distance away with their share, hiding their faces from view.

Bread. Grape. Wine. Basket. Flower. Rock.

Deirdre teaches them more words over lunch, her happiness overflowing into the atmosphere of the group. It is something I always admired about Deirdre. She can make anyone feel at ease by simply being herself.

I find myself participating. "I like bread." I say slowly to the group. "I dislike bread."

"Like, is to enjoy or approve or something. Dislike is the opposite." Deirdre jumps in, informative as ever.

Dorian tilts his head. "I like… Wine. Yes?"

I nearly break into sniggers. Of course that is what he decides to say. Flamboyant must be his middle name. Dorian would get along well with Commander Owaiglyn.

As the others continue the lesson, I begin packing the dishes back into the baskets. Solas takes one of the papers used to wrap the bread and carefully places the reagents inside. He tucks it into one of the satchels attached to his waist.

"Deirdre?" I ask, mischievousness growing in my voice.

She turns her attention to me, snapping so quickly I am surprised she doesn't have whiplash. "Hm?"

"I am going to run from the Watchers now. Please get everyone back safely." I speak cheerily as the Watcher's attention from their huddle. I blink. Watcher One is an Alfar with curly blonde hair. I… was not expecting to see her face.

I spring up from the ground, spry as a fox. Then like said fox, I flee as the hounds (Watchers) attempt to converge. Once I gain a good distance I wave to our new castaway friends and disappear into the tunnels.

Honestly. The Watchers never learn.

Nothing makes me feel more alive than the chase. I let out a huffing laugh as I keep sprinting, easily losing the Watchers.

Truly, an endless source of entertainment.

Solas Interlude

The first thing he noticed about this island is the magic. It is not hidden behind the veil or diminished in the slightest. It roams freely. It practically saturates the air, the water, and the earth. Naturally entwined with the world. Solas felt it as one feels a punch to the gut. He had missed the ease of flowing magic. Yet. It felt off. Not quite what he remembered. Powerful, but not as wieldable. Not as easily manipulated as it was in his time. His weakness, perhaps? Yes, that must be it. He must not be strong enough to pull on the strength he once had.

Hope. The slightest ray of hope shines through. Perhaps some remnants of the People are here. It makes sense. They work to bring the veil down in a contained area. It works, the magic returns, and their immortality with it. Ideally, this would be the best of possibilities. The Evanuris were not the only great mages in Elvhenan. With research and great effort it could be possible. Surely the Dalish are not all that remains. Solas scoffs at the idea. No. This place is a sign. It has to be.

Then an elf plummets from the cliffside, blindsiding both his party and the odd aquatic creatures on the tiny patch of land. She surfaces, a small laugh echoing through the cave as she starts to swim towards the nearest surface. Then a bolt of electricity is thrown across the water, and the elf let out a shriek of pain. She swiftly reaches shore, throwing a few ice and fire spells at the creatures. Solas is quick to interfere, infuriated at both her carelessness and the creatures hurting one that might be of his kin. In the back of his mind, he is pleased to note she needed no staff to cast magic.

He cannot help the elven words that spill out of his tongue scathingly. "Iras nuvaea mar ghi'lan, da'lan?" Where is your minder, girl?

She only blinks blankly at him. His heart sinks. Was he wrong?

So, my laptop has gone to nopesville. You never know fear until you can pull half the screen apart and still have it work sometimes. (Terror, I tell you. Utter terror)

Anyways, the Rite of Introduction. The Dokkalfar have three Rites you must pass in order to become an adult. One tests the persons' integrity, the second their ability to endure pain, and the third their perseverance in the face of danger. Eola is basically calling him a reckless child.

The elvish is from Fenxshiral, Fen'Harel's blessing on you for your excellent work!

There. I'll try to have another chapter up in a few weeks. *Squints at laptop suspiciously.*