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 As requested by @swevenfox - a short little drabble for you !
This temple swallows him.
Light bleeds through the narrowing embrasures, but it casts the ribbed vaults in an unfeeling, frozen glow. Too much light for it to be wholly real, wholly bound by so petty a thing as the laws which govern the workings of this world. What is law before that which exists beyond it? It is a vastness he cannot grasp, could not try to. The light issues with a searing whiteness that devours all it touches, furnishing the pooling shadows into dizzying abyssal chasms of an unending black. His eyes swim, spots blinking in his vision, and he must tear his gaze away, eyes pinched tight against a red seam of hungry illumination. His skin does not rise to chilled gooseflesh even in the cold bath of this searching brilliance. It does not burn his cheeks a shivering pink, and he is emptier for it.
He feels, lurchingly…nothing, not heat nor chill, and the vacuum of sensation passes a tremor through down his shivering vertebrae. He is glad for that - it reminds him his body is grounded, is here. How easy he finds it to drift into mindlessness, suffocating in this smothering void of being. He could forget himself, his duty, his life. This temple - and the god who claims it - press down upon him, cloying, greedy, grasping. The Will is impossible to disobey - it is all that seems tangible, a living entity beyond death itself, witness to the birth of the only world he has ever known. Creator and guide, whose hand ushers its end. In the shadow of the exquisite, that which offends in their insignificance - personality, thought, will - are scorched away.
Before it, Mythal’s sentinel kneels in penitential devotion. Love and fear taste the same to a god.
He is bent and bowed in genuflection, head drooping like an overripe fruit, fecund and ponderously weighty upon the branching arc of his neck. His tongue cleaves dumbly to the pate of his mouth, working uselessly, a bloated and numb organ. And it feels right, although it does not, that a thing so small and base as he should know the mercy of having the burden of words taken from him.
This place is sacred, yes. He can sense that what makes it cruel makes it holy - there is a terrible rapture in his wonderment. He knows there should be currents vortexing from the airy windows, bearing the heady fragrance of syrupy honeysuckle and nitrous earth. He knows he should hear the covetous murmurings of the Orchard trees, swaying to a windless breeze. But that which has narrowed to his only world - this temple - is consumed by callous silence. Perhaps this is a blessing, to be spared the drowsy languors of the white grove, the slow lethargy that renders him sluggish and thick, and so tempted to just lay his head upon the mossy vegetation, invitingly lush, and rest a while.
He cannot but tremble, humiliated for his weakness laid bare, profane and scaled large against the perfection of the infinite. He has knelt at altars of the gods, offered each their burnt offerings of sweet-smelling things, and he was firmed and consecrated before Their presence. And yet, his fear betrays the Great Mother now, all strength failing him, humbled and laic as he is.
Amusement ghosts unseen in the threads of the Weave, the brush of a thing so sibylline and immense that he knows it can be nothing else but the the shadow of the presence of the divine. And the fabric of the world ripples - a laugh without form or sound, unheard but deafening. He cannot dampen or escape its resonance, teeth ground chatteringly together in an aching jaw.
The words he was meant to deliver flee him, a shame so profound and so crude that he can taste it like a bitter scorbutic closing his throat. He drowns in the sorrow and fractured ruin of his duty on his goddess’ behalf, poisoned hubris of this worthless priest to convey Her words, a mistake, a mistake, a mistake, a—
GO TO YOUR MISTRESS. YOU DO NOT YET KNOW WHAT SORROW IS.
He starts, scrabbling untidily to a drunken stagger, casting about in sheer, animal terror. He is alone, and the memory has already left his body. Only the reverberations remain - some hollow echo in the cavity of his chest that sharpens his breath and leaves him reeling as though struck by a terrible blow. His breast heaves, brow puckered with beads of sweat, and the mortal stench of it sours the air. He recalls nothing but the memory of ruthless light, of the spiritual glimpse of something grander beyond all knowing.
The sentinel stares sightlessly with hooded eyes, the fresh fir green of Mythal’s brand shining with perspiration upon his brow. Lost, nonplussed, he pays his obeisances to the great temple of Falon’din, and cannot but shake the whispers of the woods he leaves behind.