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 
Tʜᴇ Vɪʀ·ᴀʙᴇʟᴀsᴀɴ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ғᴏʀ ᴀ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʀᴇʜᴇɴᴅ.
Bʀᴀᴠᴇ ɪᴛ, ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜsᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪs;
ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ғᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғ Mʏᴛʜᴀʟ.
hey so i really like your interpretation of abelas, and i was wondering your take or headcanon on why he rejects the dalish. i know you've probably answered this somewhere but i have trouble navigating your blog layout. *sweats* my own headcanon hits a wall because i can't rationalize why he'd -scorn- the descendants of his people the way he seems to. and also i want to understand his perspective more because he's so fascinating and we didn't get nearly enough chance to talk with him in game.
Gosh, thanks so much !!! Seriously, I’m blushing hslkdafhlkh. It means a lot. And I’m sorry you were having trouble! The last ‘star’ brings up a navigation pop-up. You could also go here for future reference. I totally agree with you, though. Like Samson and especially Calpernia (and even Ser Barris imho), he was such a rich and tragically underutilized character. Here’s my understanding of his reasoning.
Note: tons of spoilers.
Her hair was like burnished copper, streaked with flaming shafts of radiance cast by the dying sun, bleeding red on the horizon. The splotch of freckles thrown across her dewy skin was filtered rubicund in this light, eerily reminiscent of splattered plasma thrown across the ridge of her nose, her cheeks. There were colorful feathers in her hair, woven into the straight waterfall of red, and these, too, (even polychromatic as they were) had caught the light and sparked crimson.
He did not even need to utter a command to his sentinels — those few that remained had already splayed out, moving wraithlike through the long shadows cast by the charred remains of the Dalish aravels. He knew already what they would find — or what they wouldn’t.
Abelas might have glanced down at the artifact taken into his care — an ancient elvhen device, older than himself. Older, perhaps, than Arlathan itself, but not even he could not ascertain all its secrets, not even from this artifact with which he had once been so familiar.
{ perhaps it was no wonder he had been led
here, to the ruin of the People, to this girl— }—But he did not need to look. The artifact had brought him to this place, and the girl would lead him in turn. He knew that she was the last of the People that lingered here, in this place that had once been full of life. It was now little more than a graveyard, and Falon’Din had long ago abandoned his charges to the Void.
Whatever could be gleaned from this smoking ruin of a camp would be information alone — the only survivor stood before him, her eyes bright and intelligent. Yet Abelas was old, and he could read in the youth that which was not advertised in words. Her eyes showed the fear that she would not admit, and he looked down at the blood on his hands. It was hours old, dried into pitch and flecked off the oxidized bronze of his gauntlets. The symbolism was already enough to twist his gut, to curl his lips into something bitter and cruel — but he did not. He was as stoic as a carved slab of veined marble, even as the metallic tinge of blood sat heavy in the air.
There was a pregnant silence between them, and the former sentinel knelt with deliberate slowness. His eyes were nearer to level with her own, and he captured her with the focused intensity of his gaze. The artifact had given him a vision of this girl, saved only by the virtue of luck - or fate - and pinned as her own mother had bled out over her. The enemy had not seen. And so she lived, even as the others had died. Abelas was not one to be moved by feelings of pity, but he did understand what it was to be alone and without a people. Without purpose.
“You’ve a destiny, da’len." He would not offer her words of comfort. Nothing he could do would censure the pain, the unjustice done her. The maddened apostate he had slain — possessed, and leading a bad of marauders — would not undo, in death, the horrors they had committed in life. There was only the assurance that they would trouble only her memories. Nothing more. "Nothing can take that destiny from you.”In his piety - or his z e a l o t r y - he was confident that Mythal’s hand had guided him here. He knew not what role this girl might play in the unfolding story that was yet to come — but he was certain of her definite place in it. Abelas had never believed himself the foci around which all things necessarily pivoted. He had been pledged to the goddess’ service as a youth, and in it he would stay, he felt, as long as he drew breath. Even when there was no clear place for him, not in this brave new world — he would stay.
Beneath long red lashes, her eyes were large and clear. There were doubts, he was sure, that must have churned within her, but any sign of it could not be seen. To his tremendous surprise, she reached out and enfolded his hand within her own, no longer afraid. She was not beholden to sorrows, as he was. Even in the midst of all this death, she had found reason to smile — she had seen a stranger do her a kindness, and she would see it returned in time. It was not something that Abelas could fully comprehend, this elasticity of spirit. This hope that she carried, burning brightly, in her breast.
“I know.” She said. “My name is Sanaa.”And her words were laden with the promise of change.
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.
ǀηɗєρєηɗєηт AвєƖαѕ тнє SєηтιηєƖ яσƖєρƖαу
𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓪 𝓼𝓾𝓵𝒆𝓭𝓲𝓷 𝓷𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓼⊰∬Mun 21+, open to mature roleplays
⊰∬ Dork mun with 10+ years roleplay experience
⊰∬ Flexible style: banter, but para and novella preferred
⊰∬Open to random starters/plots/asks, loves plotting and development
⊰∬ Skype chat available to mutuals; regardless, OOC talk is encouraged
⊰∬OCs welcome!
⊰∬ Well versed in Dragon Age lore, but always learning more!
𝐻𝑜𝓂𝑒 | | 𝒞𝑜𝒹𝑒𝓍 | | 𝐿𝒶𝓌 | | 𝒜𝓈𝓀
тαɢ; pαтнoғѕorrowѕgraphics courtesy of hallawhite
Second speculation. Your thoughts of after the Well is "destroyed" how you would envasion Flemeth/Myhtal personal meeting with her loyal sentinel a bit later time (ignoring the cut scene of the game with Solas now). How would such situation go by?
You know what? I’m just going to make a very short drabble and combine pinkymorty’s request because I had already been thinking of this. Otherwise, I would have been describing the exact same scene!
Abelas' reaction to 'I should never have loved you.'
There was a term, in the old tongue, for what he was now. A lost and bygone soul, a forgotten and broken remnant of the ancient glory that lived on only in dreams and memory. Like all that had passed into shadow, this word, too, was lost, and the once-Sentinel of Mythal had not even the comfort of a title nor an explanation to shape his being.
He wandered this new world, a world which he scarcely recognized, and his spirits faded with each new ruin he discovered. Old Elvhenan was dead, its spires jutting like bleached bones into the sky, and the first time he saw for himself what had truly become its legacy, he wanted to weep.
He could not say what pressed him forward, what drove him through the corpse of the Empire-That-Was and beyond the hovels of the shemlen, their stunted cities belching acrid smoke in the sky. These he gave a wide berth, and found little difficulty in doing so. Not only was he some knife-ear — { the word foreign upon his tongue } but also an apostate, as though the natural order of magic were a crime to possess. He was a man out of time; this he knew, and thus his dogged determination to carry on could not be explained, not even by himself.
{ Part of him wondered if it would feel like one last failure, were he to abandon hope— }
He found himself, drawn more than s e e k i n g, to an emanation of power not unlike that which he had once served. Time was meaningless to him now, and how long he had sought this font of energy he could not even guess. What mattered only was that he had come upon it, desperate to glimpse, if he may, whether his kin cried out to him. Who could summon him hence, but an agent of Mythal herself?
The moon was high. The waxing and gravid orb sat heavy in the deep velvet crush of night, a wan and pallid cast contouring the broken courtyards in stark relief against the ruined towers of the Elvhen stronghold. Whether it had fallen to warfare or to the ravages of time, none yet living could say. It was a lost and forgotten place, and few animals tarried long beneath its shadow. No browsing mammals rooted about in the long, tangled grasses, and no birds nestled into the multitudinous skeleton of crumbling towers, sensing the power that was woven into its very stones.
{ and yet there She was, a tall figure in the overgrown courtyard, as resplendent and proud as she had ever been, even in a place that had long since been claimed by the d e a d— }
Abelas’ heart leapt to his seizing throat, his breath catching, his lungs failing — surely he had fallen into eternal darkness, and now he walked the Beyond without so much as Falon’Din to guide him — the Friend of the Dead had abandoned his charges to the Void long ago.
But the sight of Her stilled his heart, and brought clarity to his broken spirit. Time and tradition once 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 were precisely the qualities that Abelas has lost. He had strayed so far from himself, embroiled in millennia of entropy, subsumed by the slow death of Elvhenan that time itself had decreed necessary to rip from him. He had failed Mythal thrice over — when she had fallen, when he had lost himself to sorrows and bitterness, and when her final gift to the People had been taken from him.
He saw Her now, and he knew Her, even though the form was different. She turned, head swiveling towards him, and captured his gaze with her own. She radiated power - and danger - as easily as she dispensed justice, her eyes bright with forgotten magics. He came to himself again only when he was at her side, as though summoned in a trance. Whether it was her mystical power or his own disbelief, Abelas himself could not say.
M y t h a l looked at him, looked beyond his Vallaslin, ever regal and beyond the ken of Elvhen such as he. Such was the nature of those with the power to become as gods.
Something played in her eyes, twin whirlpools of molten gold. He fell to his knees, his mind blank, disbelieving, unworthy of her. That glint in her eyes sharpened into amusement, but also to something distinctly regretful.
“Abelas.” She intoned, and how she knew the name he had taken for himself after her death, he could not even guess. She was…different. It was as though he was looking at the Protector’s reflection in a clear, deep pool, and reached one hand to disturb the water’s surface. Whatever, whomever She was, he knew this was the ripple of that reflection. This was, in some way, truly Mythal.
Words were beyond him. Thought was beyond him. He felt only pain, a great, stabbing pain, clutch his heart. Tears spilled from his eyes like diamonds, until her level stare stood even with him. That Mythal should crouch for elvhen’alas, for one promised to her service — was madness to him.
“You are a lost one, Abelas.” Her even gaze penetrated his withered soul, seeing in him everything that he could not bear to face himself. “You have served for so long I do not think you know how to be anything else.” Cutting words, but not said unkindly. It was an expression of the truth of his being, plucked from his mind as easily as the strings of a lyre. The gravity of her interest in him was immense, a dark wave of emotion and disbelief washing over him.
She sensed that too, of course, and she threw back her head and laughed, lunar hair white as the moon. Her mirth was hollow. Mythal cupped his cheek, as one would their beloved and dying dog. “I should never have loved you.” She said, and the contrition was real. It was no genuine affection, he knew. It was not of Abelas she spoke, not entirely, but of the dreams she had. He once helped fight for those dreams, for a shining empire, a Golden City, an ordered world without the petty infighting and squabbles of vain beings that thought themselves deities. She loved these things and more, and Mythal had lost all that she had sought to protect.
Mythal rose to her feet with deliberate slowness, and she comported herself with all of the dignity and grace he remembered. She pulled back his cowl, eyes sad and sharp all at once —- and leaned in to kiss his brow. “I release you, Abelas. Find a new name, a new purpose, one of your making that is your own path to tread. Until such a day, you are Suledin, and I hope you walk in light. Ar lasa mala revas. Dareth Shiral. We shall not meet again."
And like that, she was gone, leaving Suledin in the courtyard alone, wondering, hopeful. It might have been a dream…
but for the memory of cool lips upon his brow.
All right - I give this a go :> | How would you word the moment when Abelas shed his name for the second time when Mythal went to "rest"? What thoughts and feelings you can see behind his character when he made this decision (in respect of Mythal I assume) and decided to take the name Sorrow. Regarding from ingame lore " I will only be known by the sorrow that cuts my heart."
Untranslatable Elven Writing
This Veilfire script was hidden in the Arbor Wilds. It’s so old it cannot be translated into any known language.
There are whispers from the Well of Sorrows. It’s impossible to understand the entire text, but certain parts suddenly reveal a shadow of their original meaning.
“We are trapped. The ones born here do not understand the keenness of what we have lost, or why so many of their elders weep as they enter uthenera. The new ones are faithful to Mythal, but do not understand what she was in her fullness. Without the wise to lead them, they will lose what they should have been.
I will teach them. They must serve. We must prepare for those who cast Mythal down. I shed my name the day I began her service. I shed my new one again, now that she rests. I will only be known by the sorrow that cuts my heart.”
For a moment, there is a feeling of wrenching loss. Then it fades.
This is just my personal opinion!
Although set in time much later, you may be interested in this. It is my belief that Abelas was promised to Mythal’s service very young — perhaps he had always been promised, or perhaps he was given the vallaslin upon becoming a true servant in her name. It is very likely that he had always known what would be his purpose in life. It is easy, like the Qun. He knows who he is and what his purpose is for. He has been given a code, a common purpose with the other guardians, and a duty in which he genuinely believed. Mythal dispensed justice, or her high priests did, and while it was often harsh and unyielding, it was neatly ordered and compartmentalized. It served a purpose, arguably a good one, and why shouldn’t Abelas be proud?
It was no lord or lady whom he served — it was Mythal, the Great Protector — and looking at her importance in Dalish legend alone, her standing in Arlathan must have been tremendous.
Now, Abelas’ views on freedom are rather like the Qunari’s. Although we might consider slavery abominable, just look back to the Qunari saarebas in Dragon Age II — even mutilated and ‘imprisoned’ as he was, he was loyal til the death to his cause. It is all he has ever known. All he has ever wanted. He knows exactly what he was meant to do and he does it, even unto the end. Abelas shares much the same philosophy. His life must have been rather limited in a lot of ways, given the class discrepancies that we know existed in Arlathan. Mythal’s temple very well was his only home, its guardians his brethren, its goddess his lady.
We have seen that he is nothing if not devoted. He is just as sacrificing as the saarebas when he vows to destroy the Well before he would ever see it tainted. He cares so much about what he protects that he would rather end the one thing that keeps him anchored (to himself, to the past, to Arlathan and Elvhenan, to any cause or identity he’s ever known) than to let it be spoiled. This devotion extends to Mythal.
When she fell, from one cause or another, he must have taken it as a personal loss. Not only was she their patron, she was their idol. The Well was an extension of Mythal and everything that she stood for — and they, its sentinels, were helpless to raise a hand in her defense. How much culture, history, and will must have died with Mythal, as they believed? The loss would have been irreplaceable, and it stings all the more as she supposedly was betrayed (which would indicate someone close to her…most likely another god).
Her ‘death??’ was more than a humiliation — it was a loss, an agonizing loss. We can’t know whether Abelas’ inscription refers to her ‘rest’ as long-lasting or eternal, such as uthenera or death — or if she was simply forced….elsewhere, incorporeal. Who knows what she was capable of? A lot. In-game, he says she was murdered. Let’s take that literally.
To Abelas, presumably the chiefest sentinel or at least one who rose to the occasion as they slowly died off, more and more of what they dedicated their lives to preserving was slipping through their grasp. To lose both ground and heart slowly, presumably over (decades, if not centuries?) of decay and corruption and warfare, is quite possibly one of the most painful emotional experiences imaginable, particularly when it is not only your prime passion but your main reason for existence. Duty, resolve, and devotion were the only things keeping him tied to the Well, and to Mythal. With her death, he sensed the end coming.
The dream was already dying. This was the assurance that it would be gone forever. He took his name to honor Mythal, and to express the abject despair that he must have felt. He knew the Well was doomed eventually. And yet he stayed, even as everything he knew and loved crumbled around him. Thus was born Abelas.
