path-of-sorrows

Active; main.
Abelas, Sentinel of Mythal. Dragon Age.

lethanaviir

Active, main.
Falon’Din, god of Death and Fortune, of the Elvhen pantheon. Dragon Age.

ghiiilannain

Selectively active.
Ghilan’nain, god of halla, journeys and monsters. Dragon Age.

elvhenanrising

Selectively active.
Based on canon codex. The man who took wings, the fire of Arlathan. Dragon Age.

erainan

Selectively active, under construction. Side blog.
High seer of Falon’Din. Ancient scryer and priest. Dragon Age.

varshiral

Semi-hiatus.
Elven augurer of the Western Approach. Desert clan. Inquisition companion. Dragon Age.

veneficx

Semi-hiatus.
Morrigan, Witch of the Wilds. Originally an ‘escape blog’ from mains. Dragon Age.

strategus

Active. Slow.
Darth Revan, of the Old Republic. Star Wars.

imperatorvictus

Hiatus. 
Adrien Victus, Primarch of Palaven. Mass Effect.

ofwalks;;

It is the ground he walks upon, the way symphonies twine against
his ankles, that welcomes him the most. Feet lay half bare, the skin
resonating with each note, each softly spoken hymn of echoes now
forgotten. It is here he can glide in forsaken godhood, watch with
heavy gaze as the grey above shows him what he must pledge to
renew, what he must sacrifice to uphold. This is the burden he must
carry; a sanctuary condemned to hold it’s only soul.

            ( freedom to rid himself of crimson mask,
              yet crimson bonds reemerge to tether
              him, unrelenting in their pleas. if this is
              freedom, if this is truth, then he shall be
              labeled prisoner for life. )

Magic flows as if water, abundant  in this frozen land. Vines of the
ancients, of the lost, tangle through the air, puzzles taking their
place. They feed into the tragedy of this haven, give life to the chill
of olden bones and desperate souls. Mirrors shattered, darkness
hidden beneath once beautiful planes of glass. Only few remain 
here, the vines of sorrow that constrict even he merciful in such a
regard.

                       ( there will be no more. for mercy is
                         rare in these days of looming
                         revolutions, && he who lays claim
                         to such ideals will be the first to
                        succumb to pride. )

Lonely is this place, desolate save for the echoing life now submerged.
In the time since his escape, his cowardly dash to rid himself of Inquisiton
ties, he has come here often. It centers, calms       soothing the fire &&
tears that threaten to swallow him whole. It weathers the storm known as

                                 Dread Wolf

                                   && remains unchanged.

Yet he feels another, distant eyes now growing bright, beat of heart
that has remained quiet for so long growing to a thunderous sound. 
It quickens with feet, spurs the howls locked away into fruition. It
reignites the man he aspired to be.

It brings forth the man he wishes he could be.

      Whispers travel, frozen earth molding against fiery skin,
        the wind he knows does not exist rushing past his ears in
        memory. He does not sprint, does not pounce atop four legs.
        Yet he feels the song grow in strength, in tempo, as if he, truly,
        were apart of the harmony he has been denied so long.

             ( and a cry is torn from silenced lips, unused to
                  sound as if deaf to all. it rises to join the choir,
                  ascends the vines that trap him here && frees
                  the curses he had been born to bear. )

    Music fades, the angels that came to visit now fading as eyes
     gaze to the man he calls brother      
 
              ( and we only know them when they are gone. ) 

             ‘ It was not my intention, I can assure you. ‘

                                                     The silence is broken.

  He does not know what that means, when it has reigned in his life since the fall of the Great Dream, haunted by memories of flames, by the ashes of the old world.  This, as all he has known, has passed into shadow, where not even the echoes of the Beyond might stir the stillness of the past.  His People - their People - have been laid to rest in shrouded quietude, and he has mourned the death of his culture even as the pads of two fingers drape close the staring eyes of his fallen.

                               { this place, too, is a tomb }

   But he finds peace in this enduring calm.  Here, amongst the ruination of Elvhenan, he could trace the colors which bleed through formless grey.

   His hands curl, leather rasping beneath the cold curve of his vambrace.  There is an energy which pulses through tracts of blue-green vein, a prickling beneath the skin and the promise of something portentous.  Solas is not the same man he had been in the long shadows of the rotunda, dwarfed by the pastiche of the elvhen.  There is something darker in the man that he is, resolving against the clinging fog of time.

   Abelas does not know if this is more truly the elvhen he knows him to be, free from the yoke of a fledgling Inquisition                   

                            or if Solas has lost himself, subsumed by the memory of a dead empire.

   Words are insufficient to fill the void, where the echo of that eternal song yet lingers.  There is magic, still, in this place.  Bound to these living stones, it endures, no less a sentinel than he. The air is sharp with ozone, with the sense that his world will fall away once more.  His is not the hand to shape the destiny of nations.  Abelas must serve.  It is all he knows, all he has ever known.

                            { but what is there to serve but the skeleton of a dream? }

   What is left of the empire but the ruination of their temples, the bleached bones of ribbed spires, crumbling beneath the inevitable crush of time?  And Abelas has not forgotten – You must teach them.  Teach the lost children, as he had ever taught his own.

   His throat catches, and sorrow is in his breath.  He has not forgotten, but he clings to the hope he had been given.  A hope he had not dared entertain in all the years of his service, tethered to the Vir’abelasan.  Blind to the world but for the loss of all he had known.

                                                                                           Elvhen yet  _{l i n g e r.}

                                                                                                                             _{Elvhen such as you?}

   _{The words dance, unvoiced, behind his teeth.  He must find what he can of them, any shred of the People he had known, the People whose legacy he had devoted the full sum of millennia to protect. He must find them, sifting through the dead whispers of the empire’s forgotten places, through the scars unhealed by time.} 

                  _{‘ Is there anything left ? ’} 

   _{It is all he can ask, grating with the rawness of his pain.  It is not his place to ask of the elvhen’s plans.  He cannot know the fullness of his vision, cannot hope to guess it.  But he has a sense, and he lays his hopes, bleeding through the Crossroads, at his brother’s feet.}

                             _{‘ Is there anything left of our People ? ’}

I’ve skipped a few milestones since my last, but it is well past time to make a new thank you to all of my followers. I am so grateful to all of my followers, roleplay blogs and to all of the many personal blogs as well! (Frankly, I’m particularly flattered about you guys – that you find me worthwhile reading is so incredible to me!  Whether it’s crack, serious writing, or simply the pictures I put up –t h a n k   y o u.)

I will be releasing a giveaway soon, open to all who follow me.  It’s small, but it’s something!!

As many of you know, I have decided to stop posting my follower count (although you can ask if you’re really curious ????), and in addition, I have decided upon no more releases of follow forevers/bias lists.  I follow many people and many more follow me, and so in the interest of being inclusive, I took a randomly generated number per page of the people that I follow.  I’ll write a little blurb about each one of them.  Again, these are randomly generated, so I’m not favoring them over anyone else – because I follow all of you for a reason!  Here are a few nice words for some of you:

Keep reading

^warxborn;;

Different didn’t even begin to cover it.

Skyhold could easily be considered one of the most diverse keeps in all of Thedas. Avvar, Qunari, Marcher, Tevene, Orlesian, Dalish, Rivani, through their trials they had garnered companionship and support from dozens of peoples across the nation, most of which, at present, fondly considered Skyhold their place of residence and rest. And even amidst the variance of lifestyles and the blend of cultural differences, her congregation lived together in near seamless unity. Brothers and sisters in arms under the charge of a common goal. Most assimilated quickly, friendships formed over stories told in the firelight or the welcome burn of a shared bottle of liquor. That’s not to say that all related in such extroverted interactions, others held their companionship’s at arms length; soft spoken words uttered over the binding of old books, connections tied together through passing smiles and fleeting good morning’s. For every one there seemed another, not a single soldier left to bare the burdens of this war alone. For even the Inquisitions most reclusive companion, Mythal’s loyal sentinel an elf shrouded in mystery and mystique’s, had come to find a companionship within these walls. Albeit an intimacy with his own solitude.

Be it fate or chance their journeys had led them to the temple, but nothing could have prepared them for the trials and tribulations they’d face or the slumbering ancients they’d come to wake. Archaic Elvhen warriors, bound by their gods in eternal servitude, keepers of the ancient histories, and faithful guards of the Vir’abelasan. War was waged there and for all they gained, the knowledge and power that coexisted in the waters of the well, this was no victory. For too many seemed obliged to overlook all the ones lost. A single elf would stand alone amongst the wreck and ruin, once holy ground blood soaked and tarnished with the mangled bodies of his slain brethren. The sole survivor now coming  to live in a world long since lost to him. The pilgrimage back was silent they say. That he was all but mute in his manners. Only a handful of Companions had actually been at the Inquisitors side through it all, few knew the full truth of what exactly had happened inside the temple. And for that which they did not know, they were content to talk. Word of mouth spread like wildfire amongst the forces, petty rumors catching tongues like kindling  and setting each tale ablaze with misinterpretation.

The elf.

So they started.

Untrustworthy. Greedy. knife ear.

So they said.

Apostate. Deceptive. Blaspheme.

So they lied.

Abomination. Maleficar.  Demon.

Perhaps these petty rumors were why the elf was so alienated. The masses passing him without sparing a glance, sans the few brazen enough to approach him in search of answers or guidance.

No one should be subjected to solitude. Perhaps in his youth he understands this better. Perhaps children are more adept to empathize with feelings they perceive as loneliness. He felt for him. For all that he was, at his core Emmet Callighan was easily shyed. It took him about an hour to work up the nerve to climb the stairs leading to the secluded area on the battlements where the elf brooded. It took another half hour of flustered pacing to carefully pick apart what exactly he’d say. He’d prove his intent at greeting. Having heard the elven here speak, what phrase they repeated in respected acknowledgement of one another, he’d simple parrot.

Andaran atish’an.Andaran atish’an.  Andaran atish’an.

A tentative glance is cast sideways as he takes his
place beside the sentinel, honeyed gaze quick to
flicker back to the safety of the familiar stones under
foot. He empties his lungs and in a single breath will
voice his greeting.

❛ Audrion atashi shan…… ❜

Nailed it.

He had haunted the dreams of mortal mind for true millennia, combing through the shadows which yet lingered there.  He had seen the old world’s subsumation by the new, youthful orders and creeds rising in the ashes of those which had fallen before them.  It is an old song, and he is tired of hearing its like echo through the crush of ages.

Abelas well knows that the world has changed even as he has not.  Life blooms within the bones of this place; tender buds sprouting from the ribs of Tarasyl’an Te’las.  It is a name which exists now only in living memory, or in the flecked and ink of an ancient scribe’s brush, touched long ago to yellowed and curling paper.  This is not his world, and so he has kept away from all else who live in it.

Sometimes, when he stands upon the battlements and closes his eyes, the bite of thin, mountain air washes away like a breeze half-remembered.  He imagines, instead, the humid press of jungle air, the scent of leaf litter and dampened, dark earth.  It is not so effective an illusion as it might have been, this moment of reflection.  It is an indulgence, and offers little.  His arms brace, unlock, and push off from the pitted stone.  He had lost himself in thought, and for all that Abelas remembered his sorrows, he would gain nothing from dwelling upon them.

And he pauses, considering the child who stands before him now.

Fumbled words.  Nonsense words, spilling from a clumsy tongue as it butchers the poetry of his language.  He is tired, suddenly.  Abelas wishes to turn upon his heel and seclude himself in his meditations, but he is compelled to stay.  That the boy - ears round like a robin’s egg - had even attempted to address him in the language of his people is a thing not not insignificant.

With great reluctance, he pushes aside the rising contempt, recognizing it for what it is.

“Words not commonly heard from a shem tongue.  You seek to speak to me in my language?  Tell me, then, why it is that you have approached me.  I am listening.”

{ ofwalks }

The silence, the break of words as the mind begins to understand,
to plan, is deafening; a noise quiet yet not rising in his ears, roaring
as time goes by. It is but a slight trickle in his life, these seconds of
nothing, of silence, yet he feels them the most, aware of each shift,
each breath drawn upon ever changing bodies, ever changing minds.

It is a sound he is all too familiar with, yet it crushes bones and skin
alike, the flames he can so easily command now eating at his flesh,
hungry in their shadowed purpose. It is a memory, another echo
etched into his lips, finally emerging from within. They have spoken
too much, too fast, secrets normally whispered between that of
lovers now divested, no matter how shrouded they still seemed. Is
this hollowed knight, at last, opening his eyes to what corruption he
holds? Does his pondering forsake his own being? Is this where the
shadow at his side, the man of darkness and protector of salvation,
turns an armour-clad back, gaze no longer respectful, full of the
resignation that the elvhenan, the last of their People, lie within the
grasp of the man they say slumbered in glee as the harmony began
its descent?
 
           ( and oh what freedom there is to have the mask
             fall, forgotten face forever seen as it should have
             been, as it always has been. fen'harel, it reads, a
             message to those amongst his kin. unbound, he 
             is imagined as monster         a wolf with bloodied
             teeth and paw, stalking the grounds for those he
             will send to the heavens, to hell. is it worth it? to
             be seen? solas, he knows, is but the image of a
             man he wishes to be. the identity, the falsity of
             such a being, cannot be allowed to continue. he
             is misleading them            lying to them. it is time
             the curtain falls, and the final act begins to play. )

Fingers itch for the brush, the cool motions that bring peace, no
matter how used the bristles become. Left to right, a sigh is given
to the night, weak candlelight fading with each stroke, each release
of the tremors he keeps under check. The darkness wraps its hands
across his wast, his neck, and he does naught but breathe. Time
continues its spiral into nothing, and he is left to gaze at unfulfilled
depictions of a future he is prepared to break.

         ( forgive him. forgive him for his deceit. none may 
           know of it yet, but time, as always, will make it
           known. the cover upon thedas will be raised, a
           new battle waging across its lands. forgive him,
           he will cry, for his cause will demand the blood
           of those they will save. perhaps, even, the man
           at his side’s. )

That is a thought he does not wish to dwell upon, words of a future
yet to be pushed aside just as the words of the present, of the inked
sentinel he will never understand, never truly comprehend, are whisked
into the space he now sees as something akin to sacred.

                  ( it has been quite some time since
                    anything has been sacred to a man
                    such as he. )

Words leap at tongue, the grin he now wears growing, spreading 
as warmth infuses such cold fingers, such cold hands                 

             Why is it that your path must take you elsewhere?

                     It falls.
The cold has never felt
quite as torturous as it
does now, he thinks.

                 ( no words, silence bringing forth a new kind
                   of darkness, of hurt. it festers inside of him,
                   tongue tied between that of his heart and
                   that of his mind. freedom or friendship? a
                   person he can confide to, or a man he fears
                   will turn to dust the moment the truth, not
                   the words a pawn believes as such, is no
                   longer hidden beneath jagged bones and
                   forgotten names. )

Why must he leave? The answers, abundant as they are, remain hard
to utter. His cause has wavered enough, he knows, whilst his time had
been spent playing teacher at the heel of the Inquisition. And, like all
things, it will falter. He must not allow it to happen, must not watch as
all that he is, all that he wishes desperately to be, is forgotten amongst
the dust and bones now laid to rest. His heart yearns for those around
him, a familiarity now turned to something he dares to call kinship. Yet,
as his beat grows louder, larger, the instrument grows heavy. There is
much to do, much to resolve. The others must no fight a battle they do
not understand, their lives already within the range of risk. If he stays,
if the foci is returned, ready to tear the sky asunder once more, they
will surely fall. One way or the other, he will hurt those he cares for.
He has dealt enough pain, enough conflict, for a lifetime and more. In
this, it will be his last great battle, last heart-wrenching sacrifice. For his
cause, for his People, that of the time of pride must be forgotten, left to
rot with the lies of his past.

                                      He is the great, noble wolf.

                                           He is Fen'Harel.

                              No wishing, no amount of regret nor
                                        grief, can change such a damning fact.

(  it nearly saddens him to think of what might become of this man of sorrow.
    the curtain falls, flames licking at their feet, and who is he to say that he will
    live to become the teacher he will never be? who is he to dictate who remains
    and who falls? this is his cause. this is his purpose. and those who fall in the
    heat of battle will be remembered. he promises that for it is all he can give. it
    is all he can assure. )

              ’                  You would not understand. ’

            He has known what it is to feel alone.

    He and his sentinels had stood by as Arlathan had burned,
    unsure of their purpose for the first time in true centuries,
    stripped of their goddess and of all that they had known.
    Their duty had been clearer, then, to some; the fires of an
    empire in its death throes cast the Vir’abelasan in cutting
    contrast; the soul of Elvhenan and of Mythal’s wisdom the
    last legacy of the People.

                   { the lost ones, the Dalish, had drifted too far,
                     had forgotten too much. theirs was a legacy
                     only of dead empires and a wandering people }

    But even when they stood apart, helpless before the fall
    of Elvhenan, wounded as they repelled the enemies of
    Mythal, they had been bound in their service, together. In
    this, he could not comprehend the life that Solas led. The
    Weave of magic in the world that had been is a tangled &
    distant thing,  subsumed,  instead, by the heavy warp of
    the Veil.  What stories he learned of Solas’ travels he had
    learned through osmosis, and Abelas, alone, might pluck
    from them the threads of a time when everything had been
    the same.

                  { he does not miss the fluted white fingers, the
                    smile as it ghosts from Solas’ lips.    It is gone,
                    fleeting, lost, as all things are lost in their time. }

    Abelas waits beneath the heavy silence that has fallen, like
    a dusting of ashfall, between them.  He knows best, perhaps,
    of anyone who walked the walls of Tarasyl’an Te’las what it
    is that drives the man named Pride, but even then, understand-
    ing falls short.  Only so much may be spoken between them,
    and Abelas well knows that it may not be enough. For all that
    the words were not given in cruel censure, they arrested him.

     His head bows, cowl hooding his eyes from the flicker of waning
     candlelight, & he stands before Solas now as he had once stood
     before gods.  It is not that the lost sentinel is cowed, digits itching
     beneath burnished armor, brow burning beneath the fir green of his
     vallaslin, but respectful, for all that the declaration had denied any
     hope of understanding to him.  He cannot guess – will not venture,
     but he is reminded of a service he had begun long ago.

             “ If I am to understand anything, it is that your heart stands still
               with the People.  For all that I might teach them of our ways, I
               cannot help those who deafen their ears and harden their own
               hearts against it.  If your path is to be tread alone, any words of
                comfort in the old tongue will not be sufficient. Even as Elvhenan
                fell, and I felt lost, I had my purpose and my duty. I had those who
                were bound, as I was bound, and it was enough.   I cannot force
                from you that which you cannot share.  I will not try.

                                                 Tuelanen ama na, lethallin.
                                         You give me a foolish hope, half understood,
                                                               but a new one. ”
                          

[c - since I’m trying to sneak in as many extra promos as I can, much thanks to my beloved swevenfox. I’m honored to call you a friend and I look forward to many more streams, skype chats, and general blogging together.  You are so important to me and I’m grateful for all of the times that you’ve been there for me.  I will forever be in awe of your incredible art and I treasure every single thing you’ve made for me and for others.  You are one of the kindest and most considerate people I know, both online or in person.  It was one of the first things which struck me when we first began to talk – how genuinely giving and loving you are.  Thank you so much for your kindness.]

Let me just get weepy here for a minute.  I’ve been roleplaying off and on for a little over a decade.  It started out very informally – little more than chat rooms and IMs, then to forums like proboards or invisionfree.  I discovered tumblr roleplay a year ago and I’ve joined a few fandoms since then.  I generally have extreme loyalty to my muses once I’ve created them, but I realize I really only stick around when I care about the community.  DARP has really been that kind of community to me, and I’m even more grateful to the many, many blogs that are from other fandoms (and the fandomless ones, too, for that matter). 

When I made this blog a few weeks shy of four months ago,I never would have expected the reception I’ve received here.  I genuinely look upon many of you as friends (roleplay blogs or not).  I’m grateful for CAH games and movie nights.  I’m grateful for the people that have listened to me when I was feeling down, or who reached out to others in kindness when I could not.  I really enjoy and respect you all, and I feel respected in return.  Thank you to EVERYONE who follows me.

I thought about making a follow forever but I ultimately decided that it goes against the inclusiveness that I try to foster.  I’m human and I get overwhelmed, so I can’t always accept every roleplay or follow back everyone who follows me.  I also can’t list everyone that I follow, but I still felt that a blogroll was too distant.  I took a randomly generated number per page of the people that I follow.  I’ll write a little blurb about each one of them.  Again, these are randomly generated so I’m not favoring them over anyone else – because I follow all of you for a reason!  Here are a few:

Keep reading