Abelas
the Sentinel

Independent Dragon Age roleplay blog.

est. Jan 2015 !

prayers

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.

# ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵃ ᵍⁱᶠᵗ ᵒᶠ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ { ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ }   # swevenfox   # look i'm actually writing what a miracle   # slavery ///   # ask to tag.  
swevenfox

Abe, Abe! I made some breakfast for you and the rest of the sentinels,some boiled eggs with toast! I swear I used only a handful pan of Vir'abelasan for making those eggs! owo

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                – I’ve suddenly lost my appetite………………..
# swevenfox   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵛᵉ { ᴏʙʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵐʸᵗʰᵃˡ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ᵃˢʰᵃᵐᵉᵈ { ᴡʜɪᴍsʏ }  
swevenfox

Oh wait, what about if we water them with the Vir'Abelasan then rename it to "Mythal's Grace" in honor of the Goddess? Just think about the depth behind the idea; Mythal may blossom once again in this unique and special plant, the seed of Life! And just imagine, intruders coming for the Virabelasan and all they find some plants and leave the temple in frustration. It is a win-win scenario!

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The pool is as she left it.  It will remain such.  I will not name a weed after my goddess.
# grumpgrump   # swevenfox   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵛᵉ { ᴏʙʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵐʸᵗʰᵃˡ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ᵃˢʰᵃᵐᵉᵈ { ᴡʜɪᴍsʏ }  
swevenfox

Abe, hey look I bought you some quality royal elfroot, they say elves go crazy over it - so maybe we should plant some at the Vir'Abelasan too! It would totally rule every Thedas market! Are you in game? ;D

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I’m not interested in making investments right now. I’m going to have to reject your business proposition.
# i can't believe   # i cannot be l i e v e   # swevenfox   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵛᵉ { ᴏʙʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵐʸᵗʰᵃˡ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ᵃˢʰᵃᵐᵉᵈ { ᴡʜɪᴍsʏ }  
swevenfox

Abe! Lets play sentinel card game, I am bored, dont let your honorable guest be bored, he may try to kill time by taking bath in the Vir'abelasan ! ;D

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Please do not take a bath in the Vir’abelasan.
Please use courtesy wash basin that has been delivered to your room. Please.

Now how about a round of Fen’Harel’s lament? I’ll shuffle.
# oh my god   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵛᵉ { ᴏʙʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs }   # swevenfox  
swevenfox

Ç , Φ , Θ , ▒ v_v

  • ▒ - Do you need certain things to help you sleep (nightlight, fan, stuffed animal or blanket)?

Answered!

  • Θ - If you could have three wishes, what would they be?

uhhhghghkgh i’m taking this as selfish wishes, so….

1. The freedom to pursue my interests at my leisure – academically, personally, etc, and in extension, I suppose that means having the resources to do so. Speaking of…

2. Infinite resources! Money would be one, haha. But also other essentials, like infinite love and affection. (although I already have the last two, and I’m grateful)

3. The happiness and health of my loved ones – friends and family.  It’s a little selfish, because it would make my life easier in certain ways…but I’m not being snide of facetious when I say it brings me joy to know that my loved ones are thriving. (Similarly, I hurt when they hurt)

  • Φ - If you could pick three people on tumblr to meet irl, who would they be?

Answered!

  • Ç - Tumblr crushes?
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dalishfreckles theharellan vigiilance
fenxshiral lyriumsmercy inquisitormaiwe
durxns overshadovved zevranofantiva

(this is the most unsurprising list to me tbh)
<3
# swevenfox   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉʳ { sᴄʀɪʙᴇ }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵇᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵛⁱʳ'ᵃᵇᵉˡᵃˢᵃⁿ { ϙᴜᴇᴜᴇ }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵇᵉʸᵒⁿᵈ ˢᵒʳʳᵒʷˢ { sᴄʀɪʙᴇ }  
journey-over-mirrors

As this was requested - finding purpose after Sanaa's death (AU) ? :>

He had known this day would come.

He had not thought to face it so soon.

Abelas had been a witness to the inevitable crush of the passing of ages, time wearing away at the foundation of all he had ever known.  Time had swallowed away whole worlds, erasing even what rebellions and wars could not.  Time had been denied to the elves born after the sundering of Elvhenan – what had been the feature endemic to all the People had been denied in the legacy of all their children. They were mortal, now.  They would die, in their turn.

So many lives, like the sparking of dying stars.  Even the most ancient sun in the celestial firmament must, in its own time, fade away.  He had known the skies over Mythal’dhru’an as he had known himself.  Should but one star blink away from existence, its loss would have been keenly felt.  The Dalish were like such stars, but they were stars with which he was unfamiliar.  Some perished with great fanfare, brightening before the end, as always, claimed them.  Most simply…faded away, lost within the sparkling multitude.  They would be replaced, their stories forgotten.  It was the way of things, now, and Abelas had lived a thousand lifetimes, unchanging even as the world beyond the Temple did nothing but change.

And so the lifelines, worn thin and ragged, eaten away by the slow rolling of years, snapped ! –He was cast adrift into the void, purposeless when it had been purpose, alone, which had kept him aloft for so long.  What few of his brothers and sisters remained chose to stay by his side.  Abelas never knew, but it had been for love of him, and not the faded memory of a distant goddess, that had bade them stay.

What else had been left for them, then, but to wander the earth like the shadows they had become?  They were no better than the restless, homeless Dalish – distinct only in their sacred traditions and the knowledge, the memories they carried in their breasts.  They might have wandered like this for a thousand years or more – or else allow themselves to be claimed by the eternal sleep of uthenera. and this time, never to wake again.

But Abelas would not lay himself down for rest, not when the shadows of the old world still clung to the curvature of space.  Whispers of Elvhenan were locked in the secret places of the world.  The ruins, the temples, the hidden realms which opened only for those of the People.  It was not his way to abandon himself to mourning without cause.  He carried sorrow with him forever – but he would not be stopped by it.  Not even when he lacked a guiding principle to anchor himself through the ages.

{ And then she had given him reason to believe that purpose yet existed. } 

She had called herself Sanaa, and she had given him hope by showing him how he might, himself, find it on his own.  Mythal’s vallaslin had marked her as sure as the branches, green like a winter fir, reached across his own brow.  For a time, they had traveled together.  For a time.

There was a finality to everything is this world.  There was a beginning and an end, where once there had been eternity.  Once, long ago, Falon’Din might have eased the passing, guiding souls not to an end but to a journey begun anew.  He, above all the Creators, had known the liminal paths and the transitory nature of all things.  And then the Guide, himself, had been led astray.  He was a shepherd no longer.  The People struggled, living - and dying - alone.

So, too, had Sanaa been lost.  Abelas knew why she had felt she must, but hers was a life departed too early from this world.  He had come to love her, a pure, platonic love that bloomed with the thanks of being alive, being whole. She sought to save him – from the past and from himself, laying the foundation for the chance to make a life from the ashes of the old world. 

He had known, from the moment of their meeting, that he would live only to see her die.  He had not thought it was to be like this.  For a time, Abelas and his sentinels grieved.  They mourned her as they mourned for all their own, and swore themselves to the duty of honoring her enduring spirit. 

Yet, while his grief was real, Abelas had learned.  He had grown.  

He held on to the memory of her in his soul, along with all of his many dead.  She had been a light among the Dalish, challenging his long since held beliefs, forcing him to question all that he had not questioned.  The Dalish were still not his People, and could never be again.  For all that his life would extend into the ages, it was no longer his time.  But he might turn aside his sorrows and look to the future of this world, guiding the Children of the Dales as he had once guided the children born into a life amongst the sentinels.  Both had been born after the death throes of their empires existed only in living memory.  Both lived in want for someone with the heart and knowledge of the elvhen to guide them when their Creators could not - would not.

It was for their sake, and for his own, that Abelas knew what he must do.  In the wake of all his losses, he endured and would always endure.  Emma him Suledin.
# [i'm not too confident with this ... i hope it's what you wanted]   # [omg i'm exhausted]   # journeyovermirrors   # swevenfox   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵃ ᵍⁱᶠᵗ ᵒᶠ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ { ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵛᵉ { ᴏʙʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs }   # death mention cw   # long post   # long post for ts   # journey-over-mirrors  
swevenfox

It is a start of a new week, and want to be the first who tell you how wonderful person you are - and what a treasure you are to this community but also for those who can call you a friend. I wish you a wonderful week with luck and health and that your upcoming finals wont give you too much stress. Nothing better then have a good start of the week :>

fhsdklahffiwoehfsklhsalkhfsio you don’t know how much I needed this today.  <3  you are an absolute treasure.  thank you for being the thoughtful, kind, wonderful person you are!
# swevenfox   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵛᵉ { ᴏʙʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʳⁱᵇᵘᵗᵉ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗᵃᵇᵉʳⁿᵃᶜˡᵉ { ᴏғғᴇʀɪɴɢs }   # [afsdhlfhdsakfnhi THANK YOU SWEETIE]  
swevenfox

since I adore your voice, I gonna ask for my url ;D

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send me your url and I will record my opinion about you  (accepting!)

Oh my goshyhdklfhalkfhisahff

Just take it.
# swevenfox   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ʰʸᵐⁿᵃˡˢ { ᴍᴇᴍᴇ ¦ ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵇᵉʸᵒⁿᵈ ˢᵒʳʳᵒʷˢ { sᴄʀɪʙᴇ }   # ;meme response   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵛᵉ { ᴏʙʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs }  
swevenfox

Time changed, the world changed. Not only in its structure but also in its colours, smell and feels. Having now this bitter freedom over his own life felt more of a burden then a blessing came from his Mistress. This night was one of those dark nights where the starless sky called for him to end this unasked life of his. But from this dark moment a thin golden light smiled upon him as a mysterious Golden Halla approached to his campfire out of ... nowhere. A Gift. | continue please :>

Hanal’Ghilan, they called it.  The Pathfinder.

The Dalish said it came to them in times of great need — a thing wrought by the Creators, woven of old magics.  It was a legend, in truth, that had preceded even them.  Abelas remembered a boy with a different name, in a different time, with vallaslin green as a fir in winter and fresh upon his face — even then, the name of the Pathfinder was invoked in reverential whispers, uttered like a benediction.

It was said that it left its cloven mark upon the earth before even the teeming beasts of the land and sky and sea, and it was said that it would remain, even after the meanest of such creatures had breathed its last.  The more daring braved to suggest it was no halla at all, and that it was not of Ghilan’nain’s making; a thing beholden to no one man nor god, but to all the People, unto eternity.

In his youth, Abelas had believed in the existence of Hanal’Ghilan with the same dubious superstition so common in the hearts of all the elvhen.  It was not so impossible to subscribe to such beliefs, in a time that breathed magic as effortlessly as air, and wove it as fine as corded samite.  But he had never seen it.

Not even when all Arlathan burned had the Pathfinder come to offer succor.

And so, like magic, love and belief had dimmed in his heart, until only his duty remained.  Now, he had not even that with which to sustain himself.  For millennia, his service to Mythal had been the tether which kept him anchored; which kept him from slipping headlong into that dark abyss, ever yawning beneath his feet since the fall of the world that he had known.  He had failed Mythal twice over; first, in saving her life, and in keeping whole and sacrosanct her great and final gift to the People.  Her temple breached, made profane in its ruined sanctity, and finally usurped.  There had been nothing left for elvhen such as he.

And yet he could not deny the beast that stood before him now, its eyes dark and round like polished stones of jet — yet deeper, somehow, than all the oceans of the world.  Abelas was never one to be surprised, and yet, impossibly, this animal had nearly come upon him without his knowing.  It stood without fear, and the dying light of his campfire threw a symphony of colors over a hide that was, unmistakably, golden even beneath the great void of starless black.

His breath catches, tongue cleaving to a dry pate.  He had thought himself beyond such moments of awe, he who had swept aside oceans of time like a curtain as he surrendered himself to uthenera.  Time, he knew, would come to claim the temple eventually - and it had - but Abelas had become an embittered and aching soul, doggedly pressing on even as his spirit begged him to rest, to submit himself to the waking dreams of the Beyond one final time, never to awaken.

Age and tradition were the factors which molded a young elvhen devotee into a cynical and wearied keeper.  Mythal the Protector demanded justice delivered with clear minds and open hearts, and these were the gifts inherent to his being which she treasured in him, the gifts Abelas had lost.

And yet it was he, above all others, to whom the Pathfinder had come.  What words finally do come to him are a soft stream of uttered elvish prayers, whispered oblations lost to all the world’s memory, but his own.  Those wide, intelligent eyes consider him as the elf reverentially approaches, his head bowed.  This is a significant moment, more precious to him than starlight over Arlathan, than all but the grace of Mythal, of the chaste press of her lips upon his brow.

Hanal’Ghilan utters no sound at all — no soft whickers nor trumpeting cries of distress.  Even as it stands before him, more resplendent in its wild simplicity than those ancient halls of burnished gold, Abelas cannot come to understand its nature.  It is an ancient thing, a gift, and its presence here is mystifying to him.  He yields, movements arrested.  He cannot bring himself to dare lay a hand upon the creature, not even in devotion.

And yet he does not have to.

The Pathfinder steps forward, nosing into his palm.  He is slow to react, the world around him lensed by water.  It is only when hot tears stain the dry earth beneath his feet that he understands why.  The title, he thinks, is suiting.  Even in all their willful ignorance, the Dalish have not distorted this name over the long march of time.  Some things, like spirits of Purpose, will always be clear.  Some meanings, too.

I will endure.

He knows it with a certainty in his heart, an assurance that had eluded him, slipping through his hands like the cool waters of renewal, the waters of the Vir’abelasan.  He is blinded for all his tears, and it is only when the heat of the animal, and the touch of the magics of the Beyond have faded that he knows that Hanal’Ghilan is gone.

Abelas’ vision is restored, and his eyes tell him that he is alone.  But his heart, and his spirit, revived after so many years spent withered, know that he is not.  There are others, elvhen who yet linger.  Elvhenan is a lost and forgotten dream, a corpse whose crumbling towers sit like bleached bone against the sky — but the People remain.  For the People, he will, too.
# swevenfox   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ʷᵃⁿᵈᵉʳᵉʳ ʷⁱᵗʰᵒᵘᵗ ᵖᵘʳᵖᵒˢᵉ ᵒʳ ᵍᵒᵈˢ { ᴠᴇʀsᴇ ¦ ʙᴀɴᴀʟ sᴜʟᴇᴠɪɴ }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵃ ᵖᵘʳᵖᵒˢᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ˢᵘˡᵉᵈⁱⁿ { ᴠᴇʀsᴇ ¦ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ sᴇᴇɴ ᴀɴᴇᴡ }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵃ ᵍⁱᶠᵗ ᵒᶠ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ { ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ }   # ✮ ┅ ❛ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵛᵉ { ᴏʙʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs }