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 So, hey. There is a lot to say - too much to fit into one ask. First of all @you - an amazing friend who saved my hide in so many ways. You are a strong, bright influence on those around you. DARP is a lucky community to have you. And now from the dearest host to other adorable people who are all inspiring in their own ways and make my day a little better: @zennaphobia, @dalishfreckles, @theharellan, @hoboblaidd, @theeternalsun, @warxborn. Dumps cute them and their children on you. Yes. You. <3
POSITIVITY MEME | ALWAYS ACCEPTING
@me, @chestoftheages, @dalishfreckles, @theharellan, @hoboblaidd, @theeternalsun, @warxborn
HELIG, UNFAIR! I’d say nice things about you, too, but this is really about the people you listed here and tbh rightly so. I’m so honored and delighted to consider all of these people such dear friends. Although there are many factors that have led to varrying levels of activity in recent months between them all, the impact they’ve had on both me and this community really lingers. Each one of these people has a wholly distinct style of writing that I admire so much – if I could, I would integrate some of their voice into my own. I appreciate their perspectives on the world and what they can bring to it.
It’s always the hardest to talk to these people, in some ways – I always want to give them my best. I want to interact with them on the level that they challenge me to reach for - whether as a writer or an individual, I feel I always have something to learn from them, simply because they all have so much to give.
"So, Abelas- I mean do you have any questions? About anything that's happened since you shut yourself in that temple? It's been more than a handful of years I take it. Are you curious about the way anything turned out? Anyone?"
Experience does not color the pulse of his heart, does not lay it bare. Experience weighs old, heavy. It pushes down the working muscles of his swallowing throat, the folds of ageless eyes. He does not show his wounds before the ravening pack. He will not even show them to a child. Warmth bleeds from his tone, leaving only hard edges and the great distance in his eyes.
‘ No. I have seen enough to know this is a world unwelcome to me. I have seen enough to know what became of all that might have been familiar to me. Guard well your tongue, boy. It wags incautiously. ’
"Do you find the Shemlen world to be ugly?"
There was a term, in the old tongue, for what he is 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.
He remembers the beauty of crystal spires, of whole cities uplifted by the magic that had been as natural to this earth as air. He remembers, too, the legions of slaves that had labored to keep that empire alive.
‘ More than aught else, it has nothing to hide. It appears as it is, reflective of its nature. ’
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.”