This was not the domicile she'd anticipated, it didn't match the homely dress or the quiet nature of the man she'd followed halfway across town. The neighborhood was long-standing and opulent, homage paid on every street corner to what had once been the richest and most powerful empires that had ever come into being in Thedas. Marble porticoes that had to be centuries old, manicured gardens—each with a fountain or statue as a central ornamentation, columns of narrow cypress trees placed to block the immediate view. Wide-spread manors dotted the breezy coast, settled in artfully and naturally like they had always stood there, but those luxurious centuries were slowly falling away.
The abolition of the slave trade had gutted Tevinter, leaving only old-money to cling on the dying lavishness that was no more. Entire towns had dried up within a decade of the decree, leaving empty hulks like ravaged clams scattered along the beach. The meat and pearls were gone, polished shells left to dry and crumble in the salty sea air. Considering the expansive age and complicated history of the northern country, Chiyo wondered how much longer houses like these would stand before they too were left abandoned.
Instead of entering the stately home through the gated front door, Solas led his curious visitor around to the rear, slipping through an unlatched lawn gate without a word. From his bag he procured a set of heavy keys, the elf flicked through each on the ring and then back-tracked to the one that would fit the lock.
"Shoes." He lifted each heel to pry off his own footwear. "Please?"
His eyes meet Chiyo's as she stood in the open doorway, staring out into the deceptively eccentric room. Normal enough under a passing glance, but she had an eye for detail and was more than certain that the various, stored-away pieces of art were not meant for the common gaze. Stacks of passionately colored portraits, boxes of uncanny pottery, rolled up canvases composed of what she could only imagine to be limbs and torsos in an erotic display were shoved into every corner.
"Worried about the floors?" She asked, pulling the door shut behind her. The single painting mounted on the wall was bizarre to say the least; she'd never tried to understand some of the more modern movements in art though it was refreshing to see a nude male instead of the buxom counterpart.
Solas peered down the dim hallway while she worked her boot's laces. "No, only the noise. He keeps strange hours, and is not one for announced guests."
"This… isn't your house, I take it?" Chiyo dropped her voice to a low whisper. A dead ruin was one thing, but entering a private estate entirely another.
"I stay here while in the area, to come and go as I wish." Solas motioned her to follow through another doorway and down a flight of stairs. Little blue-white lights came to life as they passed, softening the darkness of the windowless inner quarters. They went beneath the first level and down into what Chiyo could only assume had once been a cellar though refurbished into a more serviceable sitting room. A low couch, a squat table, several sitting chairs and a cross-hatched case stacked with bottles of wine. In the corner was a block of tall curtains affixed to the low ceiling, she could just make out the edge of a workbench between the parted folds.
The walls, however, held far more interest than simple embellishment. As her eyes adjusted she could see hundreds of photographs pinned to every available surface, all neatly arranged in perfect rows. Some of them Chiyo recognized immediately, of temples and palaces and caves she herself had visited or studied in books. Others were either too closely shot to give away enough clues or utterly unknown, but she identified most them as being elvhen, dwarven or Andrastian, all ancient and almost forgotten by the people of the present.
"Traveler indeed, when do you have time to even pause…" It took everything to keep her jaw from dropping, and her pesky little fingers away from the glossy pictures. Chiyo turned around sharply when the already low lights in the room dimmed even more. She barely knew this elf, and now she was alone with him in a dark chamber. There was a utility knife clipped on her belt, but she'd never had to use it as a weapon before.
"Perhaps we will be in luck and I will have something more interesting to show you than such empty images. I'll need that film, though." He held out his free hand, the other still manipulating the lights. Solas was unmoved by the tension that had clamped around her shoulders, his voice boded no concern or ill-will.
"Fine, no tricks. I'm not one to be fooled by slights of hand." She drew out the smuggled canister and placed it squarely in his palm.
"Are you going to watch over my shoulder the entire time, writer? The dark room is far from exciting." He nearly teased as he inspected the small object, looking for cracks that may have damaged the contents. Solas entered the curtained corner, exhaling lowly as the small woman forced her way inside the cramped conditions. A trifling red light came to life with a touch, just enough to work with. "These chemicals do have an odor, you might as well wait outside."
There was certainly a smell as he opened several bottles and poured their contents into jars and pans. Alcohol and vinegar hit her nostrils first. Chiyo closed the curtains tight and stood firm, undaunted by the warning, "I take it you've never been to the Sulfur lakes then."
"Third row by the door, almost your height. I've been meaning to revisit these last few years." The room secure, Solas removed the film and began to prepare the various baths. Donning gloves and a mask, he looked quite the technician. Deft fingers removed the perforated black ribbon that he gently uncoiled and submerged into a watery cylinder. "I spent a month there exploring old tombs preserved in the back of eroded caverns. Have you seen the runes painted on the walls of those vaults? A sadness permeates that place, it weighs against the soul far more than the air's odor."
"Our people have been driven to many desperate acts." Chiyo stiffened as his fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, shoulders shrugging for freedom. It wasn't all that warm in the basement, but she could only guess as to what spills he worried about on the already damaged fabric.
"Our people?" He laughed singularly, removing the wrinkled outer layer, remaining only in a thin undershirt that left his arms bare. "The elves have not been unified in millennia."
Through the reddened obscurity, she could see the outline of a dark shape drawn into his skin. Most of the Dalish had forgone the traditional practice of tattooing. And here was a man who claimed no allegiance, but she'd be damned to think that those black lines did not spell almost discernable words in the all but lost language of her race. Eolas… She was sure of that one, the letters poked out from the deep-dipped hem at the base of his neck. There was a shape there too; if she squinted it almost looked like a beastly face.
"There are still clans that worship, some even that roam. Not all have submitted to domesticity in full." She stared at that obscure shoulder while the film was developed and cleansed, made ready for the exposures that would translate onto paper.
"And what of the city dwellers, the former slaves and the disbelievers, the ones who joined the Chantry or the Qun?" Solas continued his careful work, hanging the worn shirt off of a small hook on the table's edge. While the film soaked in the next emulsion he prepared several sheets of paper and the solutions needed for the subsequent step. "What parts qualify? Ears alone do not make the man."
"Our differences do not make us less elven either." She was surprised by her own firmness in the matter. His tone had set Chiyo's arms to tightly cross over her chest. "Maybe we should just stick to the history and ruins. I don't see what my race has to do with your pictures."
"Of course you do not, they aren't finished yet. Patience." A crinkle formed around his eyes, his smile not fully hidden beneath the papery mask. The writer in her wanted to ask more questions, to redirect the conversation into something she could actually use instead of a political debate. At the moment, she would accept a bit of silence to cool the insult.
For a time, Chiyo was content to watch the technical process. Her observant focus became transfixed by the way he managed the materials. Rubber covered fingers and delicate metal tongs, with surgical precision Solas transformed the negatives into something viewable in the span of an hour. Soon he was clipping several wet sheets of paper to a line, allowing them to partially dry while he poured out new fluids into a tray.
Chiyo had crept closer, sneaking away from the safety of the curtained exit to survey over his shoulder once he'd taken to the only stool. Her eyes swept across the black and white photographs, all of the ruin she'd been trying to delve deeper into. The arches and the murals, he'd even ventured out into the crumbling inner courtyard where the outlines of tiled promenades still stood. Interesting, but expected, there was nothing notable that warranted such adamant protection.
An unlabeled, heavy metal black canister had been pulled down from the shelf, Solas had set aside with a pair of accompanying tweezers. He barely noticed, or perhaps only chose to say nothing of the ever encroaching figure who stood now just inches behind him.
"Is that lead?" Chiyo asked, reaching out to inspect the unsealed lid. She gasped when her hand was suddenly blocked, long fingers wrapping around her wrist and palm.
"Gloves. Unless you want to go mad." He warned, cocking his head towards the box against the table's back corner.
Instead of wearing the protective gear, she used it instead to lift the top gingerly. A cursory glance in at the glowing, blue contents, however, told her exactly what volatile substance the photographer was making use of. She dropped the lid like it was heated on coals. "How did you get your hands on raw lyrium? Are you insane?"
Lyrium was rampantly used in every trade and industry, becoming increasingly prominent as advances in technology soared. The recent decades were not coined the Lyrium Age without good reason. But commonness did not supersede danger and legality. Unprocessed, the mineral made people terribly sick when handled. Only dwarves had the right, and ability, to mine and control the stuff. They dictated the distribution and market singularly with no competition. Humans, elves, Qunari, even the smallest amount ingested or absorbed had the occasional lethal consequences. Those who didn't die outright suffered long, slow, mentally dissolving deaths filled with days of pain and ceaseless babble.
"I need it for my work. As long as it goes untouched there is no concern. Now, if you would please look at this image." Solas carefully selected a single grain of the lyrium and dropped it into the mixture, stirring it gently until it melted.
"There is nothing there but old architecture probably formed before the destruction of Arlathan." Chiyo had pulled her shirt over her mouth and nose. But curiosity drew her close once again. She held her breath as Solas unclipped a picture of the stairway and submerged it into the questionable liquid.
"Still looks the same to—" She stopped herself as what she had assumed was the finished image began to change, subtly at first, and then a shape on the stone steps appeared. Thin, transparent as light streaming through a window. But she could make out the form of a head and shoulders, an elongated torso with the hints of armor, and bent legs caught in motion.
With the tweezers, Solas drew the picture up again, taking mind to let all the water drip back off into the dish. "They only reveal themselves while exposed to raw lyrium. Once this dries the capture will vanish unless re-introduced."
Chiyo swallowed, her throat becoming tight. She'd been on those very steps, how could she have missed something so frightening? A terrible shiver surged down her spine that made her bare feet clench to the stone floor. This was the stuff of children's stories told late at night to spook one another into fits and shrieks. "W-what do you mean they?"
"Spirits," Solas answered, watching as the figure on the page slowly vanished and left no trace behind as the air cured the black ink. "Those who linger. Pressed between this world and the next."
"That does it. You are insane."
He turned in his seat when the curtains abruptly parted and his guest took off, the soles of her feet slapping up the steps. When the distant door slammed he sighed and selected another image. This one, of an empty archway. He had high expectations for it, considering the last time he'd photographed that location there had been the most peculiar haze that filled the space, much like glass in a giant mirror.
"I guess she does not wish to write about ghost stories. Pity."