To be quite honest, I think of myself as rather approachable and lenient regarding roleplays. Here are some guidelines, which can and will be updated as I see fit. Additionally, I would recommend that you read this for a brief introduction to the writer, and this for Abelas’ verses.
Basics;; Writer 21+, not selective or private. I don't want to exclude anyone on principle, so I am free to be approached by non-mutuals. multi-ship/multi-verse. standard rules apply, including remembering to trim posts and not reblogging asks. reply to asks as a new post for the thread. skype available to all (sunshinehalla)! open to all writing styles, from one-liners to para or novella.
Abelas is aromantic & asexual. what this means is while I’m open to multiple platonic ships with the same character, he is not open to romantic or sexual shipping.
On tagging;; I have no triggers, personally, but I’ll try to be as considerate as possible. The format will be -> trigger ///<- and -> nsfw /// <- and if I miss something, please don’t be afraid to approach me politely about it.
Regarding the story;; I will automatically assume that all interactions take place at any point after the Arbor Wilds/What Pride Had Wrought questline, unless otherwise specified. Accordingly, this is not a spoiler-free blog, and end-game plot points may be mentioned. This is a good reference for Abelas’ Inquisition verse.
Regarding characters;; Abelas will automatically interact with all companions as though they had been present at the Well of Sorrows and that he left in peace — again, unless otherwise specified. Every character will be treated as unique. There are no duplicates. Therefore, if you see me interacting with a like muse, don’t feel intimidated/threatened/disappointed, etc. Every player has a different perspective and approach, and they all bring something new to the table. Besides, each exists singularly for Abelas.
I’ll love you if;; you send me a meme, you strike up a conversation, you ask questions! Abelas might be super srs disagreeable, but I promise I try to be perfectly friendly. c:
Also, please note that I tend to use endearments -- sweetie, sweetheart -- because I am trying to show my affection. If these bother you in any way, let me know and I will accommodate accordingly!
Vita: : a brief biographical sketch; Latin ⊰∬ literally, L I F E
( spoilers to follow )
Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas
What once might have been known of Abelas’ life before the fall of Arlathan has been lost to the ocean of time. Indeed, it is likely that his very name, Abelas {Sorrow}, was given to him — or that it was a title which he, himself, took up years later.
He was a servant - slave ? - and guardian of Mythal’s temple in the Arbor Wilds for thousands of years, adrift in the long slumber of uthenera when not directly required to defend it. Each time he and his brethren awoke, a little more of the world they had known was lost forever, slipped from their grasp.
Their numbers dwindling and the treasures of the Elvhen nearly gone from this world, Abelas had little to defend by the time Morrigan and the Inquisitor reached his sacred charge — the Well of Sorrows. He was willing to destroy the Well to protect the Vir’Abelasan from the corrupting taint of unworthy shemlen and ignorant blunderers seeking to wrest away his life’s purpose.
His destiny upon him now, one way or another, Abelas relinquished his ancient duty at last…or fell into shadow and memory.
Mythal sulevin
{ If Abelas is dead in your world state, feel free to plot with me or otherwise assume that he clawed his way back into consciousness, and fled the Arbor Wilds after his singular purpose for staying there had been taken away. Otherwise, assume that he is quite alive. }
For the first time in millennia, he has no duty, no reason to exist or to linger in one place. He searches for any trace of the Elvhen; he searches for purpose…and for the Inquisition that dances on the knife’s edge, and which holds the power to change the very fate of the world.
—In time, he might seek out the Inquisitor,
his curiosity and his quest for purpose
providing him with few other options.
In the Inquisition, he might find a cause,
even if he could never bring himself to
pledge his services or his spirit fully to them.
He could never replace what he had lost — but
somewhere in his wanderings, it is not so
impossible a thing for his hope in the Elvhen
to be r e i g n i t e d.
- - -
The Sentinel;;
Born during the height of Arlathan and promised to the service of Mythal as a youth, his notions of freedom and slavery have a very different meaning to him than to just about every culture extant today. Freedom was never something he sought nor desired. He respects Mythal greatly, and was proud of the purpose he had while following her dictates.
His world crumbled as Arlathan buckled beneath its own bloated power, the treachery and warring raging throughout Elvhenan. { The Dalish and their infantile need to blame it all upon the humans brings but a curled sneer to his lips— }
Even when Mythal had been struck down, he knew that she endured in some form, and so he compelled his fellows to tend to their duties still, drawing them to the place that had once been her sanctum sanctorum. Only now, her temple was still and empty, barred from within to keep out a world that had gone mad.
His years spent awake passed much the same as those deep in the slumber of uthenera — only when he returned to consciousness, his rest stirred by something troubling the Vir’Abelasan, did he see how the world had changed that much more from what he knew. The death of Elvhenan didn’t end with Arlathan, although it had been its gem. The death continues, and a little more of some fundamental part of Abelas dies with it each time he wakes.
By the time the Well of Sorrows falls to the hands of the Inquisition, what had once been a force worthy of representing the Will of Mythal was reduced to a beleaguered handful. Those few that survived Corypheus’ assault scattered to the winds, each seeking to discover or preserve one last remnant of the People. It made sense, at the time, but while Abelas regrets it now, it is far too late to call them back.
Time and tradition are the factors which molded a young elven devotee into a cynical and wearied keeper. Mythal the Protector demanded justice delivered with clear minds and open hearts, and these are precisely the qualities that Abelas has lost. It is too great a blow for him to accept, and so he continues to dig himself deeper, channeling his disgust outward, disdainful of all the races infesting Thedas and repulsed by the Dalish in particular.
But it is not that simple. He sees the Dalish as orphaned children, shambling and ignorant, but what pity he might feel is tempered by how alien they are to one another — they have so little in common that the sting of it hurts him most of all.
—And while he might disdain of them, of the
vallaslin worn without comprehension, they
are all that was left to him of his kin.
Art credit to swevenfox, qissus and artemorte.
I love video games and leatherbound novels and mint. I’m 30% enthusiasm, 60% water and 10% everything else. I’m petite sized in real life but people tend to forget that I’m short until we’re all standing up.
I love science and know a little bit about a lot of things, although sometimes I wish my knowledge base was more precisely detailed. I think that the ocean and space are basically the coolest things ever and in an alternate universe I might have become a physicist.
I have a terrible memory, so sorry in advance.
Regarding Roleplays:
My skype is available to everyone, even non-mutuals. sunshinehalla !
I personally have zero triggers but if something I write or do makes you uncomfortable, come to me privately and we can talk about how to fix it.
Frequently Asked Questions
Who can roleplay with you?- Absolutely anyone, so long as I'm somewhat familiar with the universe and the character has both about and rules pages.
Even crossovers or like characters?- Sure, although having a DA or fantasy verse increases the chance of us interacting. Still, I do have a crossover verse page here.
Can I send an ask even if we've never talked?- Absolutely. I'm very friendly (more so than Abelas). You can send any questions to me or to my muse.
But what if I'm a Personal blog?- As long as it doesn't require me to create an entire thread, I have no problems interacting with Personals. I will answer asks (even in character) but I will not roleplay with them.
Do you still take drabble requests?- I do! Keep in mind that I have the right to refuse and that I may be slow, but I will write drabbles. Don't be afraid to send me some, although please note I will not accept romantic or sexual themes with this character!
He is young, but Arlathan is already in its prime. The vallaslin are fresh upon his face, and the towers stand gold and strong. He is Vallasvhen, and his are the hands fated to inscribe the runes upon the holiest of holies.
He is given purpose, finding a place in the Inquisitor's Inner Circle. More than completing the ancient rituals, the Inquisitor saw fit to spare his life and see the Well's Legacy continued. For better or worse, he has become a member of their companions. In time, their cause might give him purpose — whether for a new principle in which to believe, or a foul heresy he cannot allow to continue.✮☆ ( Abelas as companion. )
He has forged his own purpose, for although Elvhenan is dead, the People yet remain. ( May or may not follow the 'Wanderer Without Purpose' or 'Shadow of Tarasyl'an Te'las' trees ) — He has come to terms, as best he can, with this time and its peoples. He seeks to aid what remains of the elves and their true heritage, and they see him as one of their own. He is not so angry as he once was. He is not so sorrowful. He has taken a new name, Suledin, and for the first time, he is Followed the last one - a vision of "rebirth"? It can be anything what can give him a goal/destiny. I am mostly interested how his soul to reborn once he finds a goal he can "grab" and "feel" and by it "follow". That moment when the burden of the lost years of failing at last the well finally lifts from his shoulder. He lives with reasons and he finds that reason.
Going to combine this with armythus’ prompt.
"Dalish child offers the stranger a flower."
For his limited access to the world beyond the crumbling walls he knew, Abelas had seen much. These Dalish were no surprise to him, not when they had pawed at the seams of the Arbor Wilds since the fall of their vaunted homeland. It was a word worth spitting at. Abelas had been content to let them hunt the outskirts, flitting like ghosts through the dense vegetation, the lush, fragrant jungle. They could never pierce the forest here, to its heart, to the temple that was not, and would never be, their birthright. They where not the People. They were not his People.
For true ages, he had never once wavered in his faith. His belief defined him, delineated the grey spaces of the world, parsing them into compartments, into named things that could be referred to once and filed neatly away. And with the fall of the temple — the Well — he no longer had that luxury.
{ they had welcomed him, the dalish. in his travels, it was little more than weary feet and a wearier soul that had brought him to this place. he might have sneered, for it was his vallaslin that named him kin; vallaslin they wore in pride and ignorance. and yet they had asked no questions. demanded no answers. their scouts had cast their quivers aside, singing bowstrings cut. they welcomed him without any reservation, and greeted him in a tongue that, to his surprise, he still recognized. }
The outline of the rolling knolls of the plains was visible only by grace of moonlight’s kiss, limning the fields in starlight. Abelas chose to sit by the fire, saying nothing as Dalish tales, Dalish fictions were related to the little ones. He would not mark himself an outsider by shouting out and sloughing aside the centuries’ worth of lies and corrupted realities. That was not his place, his purpose.
{ what was his purpose, he could not say— }
He lost himself, for a time, to the susurrations of the storyteller’s voice, the dipping intonation and the grain of her timbre far more than to the words that fell from her lips. He wondered where he might go — what might call to him next, and found himself lacking in insight or direction.
Perhaps something in his posture revealed his thoughts, his doubts, more than he had anticipated. The back of his cowl was tugged just gently enough to fall backwards upon his shoulders, his long, single braid lunar white under the stars. He twisted, more bemused than upset, and espied an elven child, hair tucked behind ears narrow as his, one perfect flower in their youthful fist.
And then they offered it forward, the embarrassed flush over soft, yielding flesh of their cheeks and ears cast in an amber glow, the fire’s sparks reflected in their wide, dewy eyes. They were perfect. Sexless. As Elvhen in their red hearts as they were Dalish and they saw him, knew him, claimed him as their own.
He knelt, wordless, and the stoniness of his heart was broken by one sure strike of the hammer. He smiled, at last, transforming the hard angles of his face to something that was, somehow, indescribably softer. At such an urging, the child released a peal of laughter and pinned the flower into his braid, the small hands a truly alien touch, but not an unpleasant one.
The story ended. Or perhaps their interest in old legends had waned, and the children looked to the present — to the future — for suddenly they were all about him, lightly weaving wildflowers into his hair as their elders looked on, amused to see one of their kin kneeling so patiently as the little ones chattered about him. He had named himself Suledin to them, and this they had accepted without comment.
For the first time since he had left behind his once sacred duties, he felt a weight lift from him. Age old perceptions and belief would not leave him — neither would his biases, his hurts, his fears. Such were things that only time itself could chip away — and even then, he had proven remarkably obstinate. But this was truly a moment of liberation, of connection to what he had thought lost.
They were not the last hope for Elvhenan, he knew. Not even that moment’s sense of the past overlaying the present did he ever once forget. But that was not to say they did not carry the light of Arlathan in their spirits. That was what made them Elvhen. Perhaps this one clan would be the last. Their stories were no more accurate than any other’s. But their intentions were good, and they had met him with kindness, taken him in as though he had always belonged.
He still had no purpose, no goal to which he could anchor himself for the next thousand years. But, as he lived in the moment, his face broken in a wide grin, he wondered, perhaps, if it was not so bad a thing to embrace the People of today.