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𝐈𝐦𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐜 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐉𝐚𝐫 𝐈𝐝𝐞𝐚 ❄🕯🌿

Blessings everyone!!🌸 I want to wish you all a blessed Imbolc full of love, light and peace☁️ As some of you already know, I love making these magic jars for every sabbat, dedicated to welcoming the energy of the season and honoring nature. I use them as a mini altar and they are great if you don't time or energy <3 For this year’s Imbolc magick jar (my first since 2021) wanted to focus more on the color purple, as it represents the whimsical energy and the revival of spring, while still honoring the winter we are in. My very first magic jar had a similar vibe, so I wanted this one to reflect that while also adding a bit of authenticity and making it resonate with the energy I feel now. I’ll be lighting it on February 1st and 2nd, and I might change the candle color at some point. ♡🍇☀️🐑

Here’s the list of elements I used for it 🌿 hope you like it! ♡

• Coins – Wealth, abundance

• Crystals – amethyst, pink quartz and ruby

• Fire elements for Goddess Brigid: a piece of wood and Carnelian (symbolizing her flame)

• Rosemary – Love, good memory

• Snail shells – Patience, good luck

• Lots of salt – Purification and protection

• Himalayan salt – Love and purification

• Dried rose petals and crocus flowers (I meant to add dried snowdrops from last year, but I forgot where I put them oops!)

• Seashell – Emotions, love, protection

• Purple candle (I wasn’t sure whether to choose this or a pink one, but I decided to keep a whimsical purple energy. You can use any candle that feels right for Imbolc.)

• Bay leaf with a sigil of Goddess Brigid ♡

🌸🐑🌸🐑🌸🐑🌸🐑🌸🐑🌸🐑🌸🐑🌸🐑🌸🐑

And here are the items that I used <3 I forgot to add some dried lavender too, but maybe tomorrow ☀️ Of course, you can use any element or item that works best for you. Wishing everyone a happy Imbolc! I hope it brings us all joy and everything we wish for. Stay safe 🍇

Paradox of perspectives

An essay about a variety of my arthropod experiences, and how I go about linking / provoking temporary cameo shifts.

I do not talk about my arthropod experiences much. I am arthropod-hearted, that much is very blatant about me from what I study to how I spend my time and what I love to read about.

I do not consider myself a spider. I could have. A lot of my experiences line up with the average therian; I feel shifts, I've felt phantom limbs, once or twice, similarly few to how my bird phantom present themselves when I don't coax them out, I've had a similar "rightness" to some kinds of spiders (and a few other arthropods) that roadrunners, and things that look like roadrunners, elicit in me. However, I am not a spider. I'm a few feet to the left of being a spider, and if I squint and tilt my head, perhaps I could have been one, or perhaps have been and that's a bit of leftover from that time past, if souls exist, but I am not one, not in the way I am a bird. And while I would choose to have feathers if I could, I am fine with now observing spiders as a separate entity to myself, more than a reflection of what I should be.

However I still know what it feels like, to be a spider. In fact, it is from this experience that I started to amuse myself to see if I could also provoke shifts from other arthropods I enjoyed learning about, a stepping stone into shapeshifting as a amateur hobby. I'm not sure in what box to display that spider. Not a kintype. Not a linktype, as it is the only one of my arthropod experiences that was not voluntary. A little bit more than what's typically expected of a heart-type. If I got fancy, I could call it an antea-type, a past life still leaving a mark, but I am not very spiritual, so that feels shallow as well. I suppose it will stay "the spider".

There's few arthropods around. Not none, I've talked to a few, most notably a cockroach, a few moths, a few wasps, at least one centipede, and a variety of chimeric insectoid monsters. A few spiders, as well I think, but never enough to compare my experiences to. I've found it unsatisfying, to try and seek out arthropod experiences, as a lot of it tends to simply stay in the clear water of the experience : rudimentary "i looked at that picture, and it felt right", or "i felt wings, and it was similar to a moth". Not that it's a bad, incorrect way to experience it, but it doesn't tend to leave my curiosity sated. So here are all the notes I've had about being a variety of arthropods, from my spider, to the ones I shed into to my leisure, to others like me who like unnecessarily long descriptions of Being.

First of all, title drop. Why a paradox of perspective? To me, the red line between all earthen arthropods (and affiliate) I've been is that alien feeling. Yet the world very much is not! It is all things I can still interact with, still find if I try. Noemata of being a spider involve a complex, labyrinthine world of crossing shadows and movement. Noemata of being an endoparasite involve warmth and pulsating rhythm. The centipede was mostly touch and speed and grasp in lush-moist hidden places. When I try to depict them, to a human scale, I easily end up with fantastical worlds. The rotten vale of Monster Hunter, for the filarial worms that migrate through the body. More decayed, but I feel in it that pulsating warm rhythm, although perhaps there are better analogues. Pandora and it's web of vegetation are a human-sized version of any small woods, when you're a half a centimeter long predatory beetle. Being something so small does feel alien, when I am now part of the megafauna. Every snapshot I get, when applied to human size, becomes gargantuan and unfathomable to see on earth.

Maybe that's one reason why they're so rare. How do you realize you were something so small, when it feels so grandiose. It's hard to drop to your knees, angle your eyes, and realize your Yggdrasil was never even the biggest of it's kind. It is why I love becoming insects, though. It has a way of making you treasure the small.

When it comes to being a spider, I can only approximate. I have not chosen, so I must piece back what I was given. It was also shared with a long gone person who shared my mind, so I can only keep what belonged only to me. Some pieces were rather vague. I could not explain why I know I should have venom. I just knew it was how something like I was, killed. Perhaps I would not even, at the time, have known that's what it was, really. Simply a part of life. The sun lifts in the sky. Water is wet. My chelicerae pierce and liquefy. It wasn't really even the most important part of the hunt for what I was, just the finale. My hunt was not making something delicate and vicious that would ensnare for me, nor was it a brutal rushdown. I was mechanical. A biological bear-trap. Becoming More Spider meant patience to an inhuman degree (although inhuman is to be expected), it meant reactive more than proactive. I only had bribes, but it was almost meditative, to be a spider, and I quite liked it.

In symbiosis with that other-mind, I could feel his phantom book lungs (like gills upon my ribs), and the phantom pattern of his eyes upon my face (not that much vision. shades mostly, clear and dark. movements.). Long, grasping limbs to each side, set apart like a jaw (strong, sensitive, like a gun-trigger). Able to fold itself flat, to become the wall it stands on (pneumatics of inner workings, fluids in and out). Whatever it was, it liked shade and coolness and moisture. It disliked movement above it, but did not exactly flee it, it simply hid better and waited. It could be fast, when it was time, but for the most part, it was simply silent.

It's a bit hard, to make a whole from bits, especially something i'm not all the time. With being a bird, I can simply reflect on myself anytime, and that is simply what I am. With the spider, I kind of had to vivisect bits and pieces when and where they happened, and that was kinda all, unless I provoked more of it, which is what I ended up doing. I played dress up with a variety of creatures that felt similar enough, to see what felt right. I tried tailless whip scorpions, but while the grasping of the forearms were right, and Feeling more than any other sense was too, the long thin whips were not quite something I'd felt before, and it lacked that inherent Venom that my brain informed me I should have. Huntsman and wolf spiders were fun. So fun that I kind of hoped that would be it, for a long time. They were something very interactive to be, perhaps not as much as a jumping spider, i've never tried that, but a lot more of a rush than mystery spider. But that feeling of being something fast wasn't right, and the feeling of grasper, while more right with Heteropoda, did not fit wolf spiders at all. I actually realized the most likely culprit pretty recently, while watching the woods near my house. There is in fact all matters of little lethal biological bear traps littered all over the flowers, like decadently dressed death angels for bees and flies alike : Flower crab spiders. I adore them, now that I know where to look for them. I've lived near these woods all my life, yet I'd never spotted them. Thomisus onustus, Synema globosum, Runcinia grammica, Heriaeus hirtus and probably more i've not met yet. I don't quite think my mystery spider is one of them, but almost. If I had to guess, it was some sort of Xysticus, or something analogous. A ground crab spider. I might be wrong, this not an exact science, it's hard to interpret what could very well be figments of my mind. But I am quite satisfied with that answer, at the moment.

So that's arthropod number 1 I've been, the one I've been the most and the one who taught me how to shapeshift.

It takes me some time to manage to decent attempt at something I've never even slightly been. It's easy to have parts. I can feel a wasp's ocelli, a dragonfly larva's mandible or a pair of earwig wings just fine, as long as I have references for it. It's just a matter of visualization, really. I draw as a hobby. I see provoking a shift in myself just like drawing, just with sensations. Take a mantis's raptorial limb. Pull up an anatomy drawing. My upper arm becomes a coxa. The elbow, the trochanter, then the forearm, the femur. My hand fuses, and becomes the tibia. I cannot fold it right, but I can feel the weight of the spines along the ridges, I can feel where it should fold and lock together like well oiled machinery. Then the tarsus, which currently feels like it should erupt from my middle finger, feeling strangely appropriate to type with. Too short, in a human body, but similarly bendy, lacking the two hooks at the end. It's a vague one, and as I am writing this, I can simply shake it out and come back to a more neutral state of human-bird confusion, a more comfortable mix when it comes to operating a keyboard.

It tends to become tricky when it comes to adding everything up. I can have a mantis's arm, but then I must maintain it, and add it's head, with it's complex set of mandibles, of antennas, of eyes-made-of-eyes. One limb needs to become six, and my body starts to glitch. A bird, a tetrapod, is already somewhat complex, my human arms are both wings and bird feet analogue. What's an analogue to that third pair of limb, where do they go? I tend to prefer to lie down when I figure out how to optimally place and draw those feelings, eyes close, so my human feelings do not overlap too much. Even better in the dark. Once it's set, i can then usually trigger it again later, and it'll put itself in place naturally.

It was easier with something as simple as the Filaria worm, although highly dependent on me doing... not much. I did not really need to focus on phantoms then, just on the mind. The mind is not something you can easily find reference from, and to be honest, I would say whatever I feel is most likely a simulacrum of what it's like, after all I do not stop having human neurons during the experiment. But that's not really the point, is it, the point is just that it's fun. The Filaria, amusingly enough, I provoked out of loneliness. I wondered what it must feel like, to be something that is never lonely, because it lives inside something else, constantly surrounded by both it's peers and the thing that nourishes it. It was mostly sensations, what I felt, strangely easy to slip into, perhaps because I have experience with writing parasites for myself.

Back when I was not medicated, I would see the world breathe, sometimes, pulse and writhe, walls tensing and releasing, floor moving beneath my feet. The nematode felt something similar, in my mind. Warmth all around, each heart-beat a pulse, world around you contracting flowing writhing singing. Many-many others around you. Forward, without reason. Not much with reason, simply following the song. It is honestly one of the most pleasant shifts i've ever had. No fear. Nothing to flee. Death is simply a possibility of the world that also nourishes you. You cannot escape it, as there is no other world to escape too, and you are simply here, and you must go forward, and that is all. So no fear. It changes nothing. Blissfully nihilistic. The only glimpses I get are of the stage inside the body, perhaps another would be a different tune, but I'm satisfied with what I saw.

I'd say the mind will be easier to reach for writers than for visual artists. You can cross reference, after all, since I do consider I am channeling a soul, I do not find it particularly less interesting to build that mind through readings of scientific papers that, too, try to imagine what it is like to be something else. To go back to the mantis, I suppose I chose an easy one for me to be. It is once again something that stays in wait. However, it is a lot more active, a lot more visual, than my spider. How would that feel? What colors would I see? Where are my sensors to the world in that body? What would I fear? What would I seek? That's when having the body down gets handy, to me. I simply provoke it, sometimes I do little rituals, to tie it to certain accessories or knick knack, as I find it helps me focus. Shapeshifted, feeling the foreign limbs and foreign sensations, I find it easier to slip into a foreign mind. Everything becomes new. The woods near my house are discovered for a thousandth time with new eyes. The spider sought out moisture and shade, and silence. The centipede sought warms, long coiled body spanning meters, then a hunt, but everything was too small, so it waited, touch-tasted, inquisitive. Perhaps the mantis would seek an elevated zone, with luxurious foliage to hide itself, and would observe. I should try it sometimes.

Perhaps my experiments with arthropods will help some new people attempt more impermanent forms of linking, quite frankly i do not think it is the time spent that makes the serious of an identity, but it is hard even for me to separate the two sometimes, with how tied they were in old forum culture (not even touching on the idea of, gasp, voluntary identity and experiences being worthy). Honestly, I recommend trying it because it is fun. So a little challenge to readers : I would love for you to pick something, become it, and come back to tell me about it. Bonus points if it's some flavor of arthropod-like. Good luck!

On Sapience, Longing, and the Lack Thereof

Written by Max on August 12th, 2024.

So I was at Othercon 2024 this past weekend - and like many who attended, I came out the other side with a new piece of my identity to chew over. This essay is me chewing over my thoughts on archaeosapience, as it connects to my velociraptor paleotheriotype, and why I genuinely don’t feel like I fit the label.

One of the panels I attended and thoroughly enjoyed was “Not Humans, Still People: How Inhumanity Interacts with Personhood,” by Goratrix bani Tremere of the Draconic Wizard Workshop and Chaiya Askari-Vykos of the Treehouse System. During the panel, Goratrix and Chaiya argue that personhood is different from humanity, defining personhood as, essentially, sapience - the ability to understand oneself, to make rational choices, to comprehend the world in not only physical ways, but also the abstract and symbolic. All humans are people, but not all people are humans - nonhuman personhood is experienced by many, many alterhumans, and this is an important distinction to keep in mind.

Another panel I adored, presented by Sivaan of Candlekeep, was “Archaeosapience: To Awaken as Ancient in a Modern Age,” in which he discusses the label and the intricacies of his own experience as an archaeosapien. Once again, nonhuman sapience is a key feature here - as Sivaan writes in xyr coining essay, “[t]he “sapience” in archaeosapience exclusively refers to our awareness of our existence as ancient beings,” as opposed to an inherent connection with the species Homo sapiens. Archaeosapience does not require one to be human.

An archaeosapien is defined as “an individual whose alterhuman or nonhuman identity is intrinsically rooted in prehistory, antiquity or mythic accounts of history.” And funnily enough, here lies my personal disconnect with the term, even though I identify as a velociraptor - a prehistoric animal well known to be extinct. To experience archaeosapience requires personhood, requires sapience, an understanding of oneself as an ancient being. And this is one thing that my theriotype utterly lacks.

Now, I’m not saying that I lack sapience. I am a person, one who reads and writes and learns about the world around me. I also identify as human, separate but intertwined with my personhood, and my humanity is as important to me as my animality. Both of these core parts of myself contribute to where I stand today - as a prehistoric animal person who is, somehow, completely at home in modernity.

Throughout this essay, I’m going to refer to my raptor self in the third person - it thinks this, it wants that. I separate myself from my theriotype in this way because I do not feel like I’m myself in a mental shift. My raptorial mind is not a person, but an animal. It is incapable of understanding abstract concepts or philosophical thought, living in the physical world where it gets food, water, rest, shelter, and enrichment. This does not make it any lesser than my sapient mind - it does mean that it has a different way of understanding the world.

My raptor brain, the instinctual animal side, does not feel like it’s an animal from another era. It doesn’t even know what time is, beyond the regular cycles of day and night. It doesn’t understand common features of modern human society, like computers or elevators or money - not because those things didn’t exist back in prehistoric Asia, 75 million years ago, but because it’s an animal. I could be a gecko from the modern day and still feel the same mentally shifted apathy and confusion about the things I need to live day to day as a human being. The raptor doesn’t know or care about its status as a long-extinct relic, because as far as it’s concerned, it is alive and well, healthy and fed and comfortable in a house with people it knows.

In fact, my raptor brain doesn’t even feel attached to a habitat. Early on in my awakening, as someone who knows where velociraptors used to live in the spacetime continuum, I felt a sort of connection with deserts - I’d look at them and think, that’s like the place my species lived! This was the part of me who’s a person, putting a label to a place that I’ve never been, thinking fondly of it despite never having lived there.

The part of me that’s not a person, that knows nothing but pavement and grass and many-walled shelters keeping out the wind, looks at the desert and bristles with distaste. It doesn’t like the idea of being somewhere it doesn’t know, with sand and scorching sun and no food it knows how to catch. It knows its home territory, a place with cooling wooden floorboards and a comfortable nest of mattress and blankets and a cache of good food that never runs out, and it likes its territory. It doesn’t like the desert or understand the significance of it. It can’t comprehend the idea of wilderness enough to miss it. It doesn’t want to be wild and free, it wants to live in a building with air conditioning and clean freshwater from the sink.

As you can see, my raptor self is perfectly content to be a modern animal. How about my human self, the part of me that can think about my theriotype and know that it’s a prehistoric animal? Do I long for ancient deserts, grieve and yearn for a world I never experienced because I know it might have once been home?

Well… no. I don’t. For better or worse, my humanity feels inexorably linked to modernity, to cities, to technology. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without running into electronics. I use the internet every day of my life to learn, entertain, engage with the world around me. I couldn’t imagine living a life where I didn’t have it. There’s no disconnect from the modern day for me, no longing for the past - only the sense that I’m right where I want to be.

As a person, I’m content with where I am today. As an animal, a raptor can’t yearn for a time it has never lived.

50 Lamb Questions

1. Does your lamb go by any name other than The Lamb? If so, what?

2. How old was your lamb when they were sacrificed?

3. How long was your lamb held captive by heretics before their sacrifice?

4. Did your lamb kill anyone prior to their first death? If so, who?

5. When your lamb mourns a dead loved one from their past.. who is it?

6. Who raised your lamb?

7. Where was your lamb raised? A village? A prison? Constantly on the run?

8. Did your lamb have any specific skills pre-sacrifice?

9. How or where was your lamb caught?

10. How did your lamb feel with their head on the pedestal? Afraid? Relieved? Angry?

11. Does your lamb have any notable or unique features?

12. How tall is your lamb?

13. Is your lamb petite? Curvy? Fucking jacked?

14. Is your lamb’s wool pure white?

15. How does your lamb prefer to keep their wool? Short and shorn neat? Wild and untrimmed? Be honest are there branches in that bitch?

16. Do you base your lamb on any specific species of sheep? If so, which?

17. Do they use their own wool for anything?

18. On a scale of one to ten how floppy are their ears?

19. Do they bear any traits of forced domestication? Is their tail docked? Was their ear tagged? Do they have scars from being shorn (and nicked) against their will? Were they ever painted with or assigned a number rather than a name?

20. What do their horns look like?

21. Was your lamb born male, female, intersex, or do you have no opinion on their sex at birth?

22. Does your lamb use pronouns other than they/them? If so, which ones!

23. Are they capable of having children and would they want to have children?

24. If they were to be a parent or are, what epithet would they have their child use? Mom? Mama? Dad? Baba? Nony? Abba?

25. Do they wear something other than the canon cloak?

26. Does your lamb wear jewelry or makeup?

27. Is your lamb flirtatious?

28. Did your lamb have any partners pre-sacrifice?

29. Did your lamb take any followers as a partner?

30. Who is your lamb’s second in command or closest follower?

31. Is your lamb ever honest about their feelings or past? With who?

32. Is your lamb merciful? Did they ever refuse to spare someone? If so, why?

33. Is your lamb trustworthy?

34. Is your lamb quick or slow to trust others?

35. If your lamb could pick a cult job other than leader what would it be?

36. Is your lamb a good cook?

37. Does your lamb let cult members cook or heal or do they restrict them from certain duties?

38. What is your lamb’s favorite food or dish?

39. Does your lamb eat meat/fish/eggs?

40. What is your lamb’s stance on cannibalism?

41. What about their stance on torture?

42. Would your lamb ever kill a cult member?

43. How does your lamb deal with dissenters?

44. What is your lamb’s favorite weapon? Their least favorite?

45. Would they ever let a follower embrace their dark desire to eat poop?

46. What is your lamb’s favorite season?

47. Is your lamb’s favorite color something other than red?

48. How does your lamb really feel about death?

49. Does your lamb use substances? Are substance banned from cult grounds?

50. Freebie! Tell us any headcanon you want!

A Murmur / Like Milk Was the Flower

by Mary Herbert (2021)

Soft pastel on paper.

They’re so cute!!! I feel like Daphne and Angelica would be kindred spirits (the would be total glam queens together). I love their looks, you did a great job with their designs and expressions @lovelybakerandconstructionworker !!

Ok! I made all of the children of Yssa and Rex. Meet the little chicks of the Sandovals!

Meet Esmeralda Miranda Sandoval! The firstborn and most reckless! She's had more accidents than all her siblings combined! Just like her papa. ( born October 24th )

Meet Nunzio Luis Sandoval! The second born book worm. Quiet little guy who just prefers books over playing. He takes after his mama with his looks. ( born May 17th )

Meet Angelica Bella Sandoval! The third born and the total glam girl. She gets along great with her aunt Miranda (Rex's older sister) and looks just like a younger version of her nonna Angelica (Rex's mother). ( born July 12th )

Meet the twins, Vitaly Antonio Sandoval (left) and Violeta Ysabella Sandoval. These cheeky twins are always pranking the family every chance they get. They live up to their birthday title of April Fools. ( born April 1st )

Disney doodles

@cityelfweek has been going on all week. Seeing the new and old works on my dash has been absolutely fantastic!

I didn't think I would have time to participate, but all the love for city elves got me excited, so I whipped up a quick story with my OC Loran from his childhood in the Starkhaven alienage.

This story does include fishing and a brief mention of animal death.

--

When he finally came home out of the rain, knees muddy and hands scraped, Loran went to hide with the only quiet person in the room. His grandmother had spent the storm next to the stove, swaddled under their best blankets. She’d grown so old that she looked young again; she resembled her newest grandchild, born only a fortnight ago, more than she did any of her black-haired daughters. Still, she smiled when Loran kissed her waxy cheek, and her bony grip was strong when she took his hand.

"Oi, Fish Fingers."

Caught, Loran met his brother’s bright eyes. He hated the nickname even though Ru always sung it out like a compliment. 

"We're going to the river tonight," Ru told him then went back to poking the cook pot. “Eels are out.”

Only Talea, looking up from the table where she was rolling biscuits, found room to argue with Ru. With long brown curls and an upturned nose that was now dotted with flour, she was called one of the prettiest girls in Starkhaven before she married Ru. He’d heard his brother call her beautiful every day since their wedding, but Loran always thought her face was too small. Whenever she looked at him, her eyes and mouth shrank tighter.

“Can’t you wait til morn?” she asked, voice pinched. “They’re so slimy.”

"Nay, this storm will have them all riled up.” Ru spoke with an easy confidence that matched his broad shoulders. Any elf could nail two boards together, but if an elf in Starkhaven wanted their home to be standing for their grandchildren, they put the work in Ru’s hands.

Loran watched his brother reach out and wipe the flour from Talina’s nose. Ru went on.

"The guard took all the traps up, broke 'em to bits, and said no more nets either. It's the blasted slow poles now. But Fish Fingers will pick them out of the water - won't you?"

He mimed a fast pinching motion and grinned at Loran. 

Sometimes, when Ru smiled, Loran wondered if he looked like their father. His cheeks were marked by the pox that had taken their mother and a sister, but there was plain handsomeness to his face; no one had doubted Talea’s decision to marry him. Her family was happy with the match too. With his good sense and unbroken promises, many understood that Ru was building a reputation worthy of a Haren.

Loran could imagine his brother among the Elders. When they first came to ask Ru favors, he had served them weak tea, and Loran was allowed to linger if he sipped his cup in silence. These days, when the Elders came through the door without knocking, Ru brought out a bottle and sent him away.

"I don't want to go for eels," he spoke up.

Ru’s look of disappointment, Loran knew, came from their mother. “I’ve got these lines all mended, food in eight bellies, roofs patched all the way up the hill – what’ve your fast fingers been helping me with lately?”

“I helped fix Karsi’s place.” Loran slowly began to work his hand from his grandmother’s grip. With her deaf ears, she’d already dozed off.

“That take all day?” Ru raised his brow, and Loran knew his brother was calling him a liar. “Go fetch bait.”

Loran answered with sullen silence, looking at the hot, half-made supper that would be cold by the time he returned.

“Now.”

-

After night had set in, the brothers put baskets on their backs and set off down streets swollen with water and filth. The storm had sent all of Starkhaven’s dirt spilling onto the doorsteps of the alienage. Come morning, when the sun broke through the gray clouds, the smell would be worse than the bag of chum in Loran’s hand. He kept his other hand on the knife tucked into his belt. Ru, carrying their old poles tucked under his arm, moved through the mess unbothered. Loran was careful to step in his footprints.

Not many people knew the old path they took to the river. Ru said their father had shown him the way; he kept some secrets for family. Tonight the narrow trail was slick, with the cool mud coating Loran’s toes, and he slid to his knees twice before they reached the bank. They didn’t stop until they were knee-deep in the wide, flat water.

Ru moved upstream in the shallows, but never so far that Loran couldn’t catch the glow of his eyes. He was right that they venture out tonight; the eels were quick to bite, and the brothers dragged their long, whipping bodies from the stillness of the river. After a short move with their knives, the wriggling struggles of the fish ended. Even in the dark, Loran could see that after each eel Ru put in his basket, his brother made the sign of thanks across his forehead like their mother had taught them. Loran tried to copy him until his hands became thick with eel slime.

When Loran’s basket was beginning to grow heavy, Ru waded over to him.

"Your fingers aren't feeling fishy, eh?"

"I've caught more than you." Loran mumbled, trying to thread fresh chunk onto his hook.

Ru peered into his brother’s basket. "All the wee ones, looks like."

When Loran only scowled in reply, Ru stretched his arms tall.

"You used to catch the big ones - bigger than you! With your hands." 

Loran cast his line with a sharp flick of his wrist. "I'm not a kid anymore."

"Okay, okay, if you don't think you can do it.” Ru pressed his palms together in a show of exaggerated sympathy. “It's a shame you got slow in your old age." 

“I’m not slow,” Loran snapped, although he knew his brother’s game. "I can do it. It's not hard."

"If you say so."

Loran shoved his pole into Ru’s hand with a glare, grabbed a handful of bait from the bag, then knelt down in the river. He reached his arms out in the black water. Even though Ru kept his smile, he seemed to understand the seriousness of Loran taking his challenge, and he stayed still. They waited.

After a time, when all he felt against his hands was the black push of the river, Loran began to worry. He worried no eel would come. Or if one finally came, with Ru’s eyes on him, he would miss it. The cold river ran faster around his neck. Ru believed he could catch one; what if he was wrong?

Then he felt a sliver flash over the back of his left hand. He held his breath. When it came again, he struck. He pulled the eel out of the water and it began to thrash, but it was too late. Loran had his grandmother’s grip.

Ru whooped. “Gods! You’ve caught a water dragon.”

Loran giggled as he juggled the slimy beast. The eel wasn’t the largest catch that night, he knew, but when Ru grabbed his shoulders and laughed, it felt like it could be.

My Katerina Tabris for @cityelfweek Day 5 Prompt: OC

She was the first warden I made when I first played the game back in 2018. She's a dual dagger rogue, romanced Leliana, sided with the dalish and made Alistair king.

City Elf Appreciation Week

Day 7: Free Day

While the Battle of Denerim overwhelms the city, the families of her elven smugglers wait in the tunnels beneath their alienage for either death or salvation, and in their midst, Soris keeps a dangerous secret from the rest that may put his standing among them in jeopardy. 1513 words.

event hosted by @cityelfweek

Pairing: Charter & Agent(s) of Fen’Harel (gen) Characters: Charter, Lace Harding, Agent(s) of Fen’Harel, Original Magister Character Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: T Warning: Discussion of Tevinter slave trade Summary: Charter attends a Tevinter party, hoping to deny the Dread Wolf another ancient Elvhen artefact. My gift for @dreadfutures​ as part of the @arlathanxchange​! Thank you again for the opportunity to write this!

Charter has never been one for parties. The air, always thick with the smell of incense and perfume, draws like a rope around her neck. Her high-collared uniform is doing her no favours, either, fabric drawing tight against her skin as she cranes her head to look around the room. Orlesians gossip from behind porcelain masks, their painted smiles jeering like actors in a play. They mingle in a crowd of Rivaini merchants with a wealth of gold rings hoarded on their fingers, and, of course, Tevinter magisters who seem indifferent, at best, to be in attendance at such an affair. Even if it was hosted by one of their own.

She’s loath to admit that, at least in this, they are in agreement.

She’s no stranger to them, but had always preferred attending them as a ghost than as a guest. Here, eyes stick to her before they slide away, lingering a second longer than she’s comfortable with.

For most of the evening, she listens. The conversations are light, any allusion of war and unrest veiled. An Orlesian and an Marcher commiserate over the difficulty of procuring Rivaini goods of late, any mention of the invasion implicit in the complaint.

And no mention of the Wolf that closes in on them all. Tonight, he may as well not exist.

Charter, however, does not have the luxury of feigning safety. She knows a race when she smells one, she only wishes she could tell what she’s racing to. Rumours swirl in crowds far below the one she swims through now that the Dread Wolf’s aim has turned to their host. An unenviable place to be, and she will lose no sleep when that arrow finds its mark, but what turns the Dread Wolf’s gaze now turns hers, as well.

When she finds herself engaged in conversation, she coaxes words from their lips that might trick the best-practised accent, but so far she’s learned nothing but the latest fashions from Val Royeaux.

Hopefully, Lace is faring better than she is.

The crash of a plate cuts through the chatter like a knife through a nobleman’s purse. All eyes snap to the sound, drawn to a gangling elven servant who now stoops over the mess in barely-contained panic.

Read the rest here on AO3!

City Elf Appreciation Week

Day 6: Original Characters

The week is soon coming to a close, so while i rush to finish what i can of the other two fics i hope to be able to post for this, i thought it'd be nice to bring back out Novhen's retelling of the city elf origin! Who doesn't love a wedding? 30,069 words.

event hosted by @cityelfweek

In Death, Sacrifice.

City Elf Appreciation Week

Day 5: Alienage

As the eldest Tabris cousin, it is Novhen's familial duty to show his younger cousin Shianni the ropes around Denerim, and in his rogueish mind, this obviously includes how to scam the city's human population. 2666 words.

and a thank you to @cityelfweek for putting all this together (and giving me the motivation to finish this fic) ^.^

The Owls of Falon’Din

Pairing: Solas x Lavellan, OC & OC  Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: G Chapters: 5  Status: Complete

Read on AO3

If the Friend of the Dead lies imprisoned, who then will lead us to our slumber?

Keep reading

Alienage Lullaby

Part of the Alienage Soundscapes series created for @cityelfweek

“They changed that old nursery rhyme ma used to sing! Heard it yesterday. Why'd they add stars and wolves?” “Are you daft? Do you know nothing of what that nursery rhyme actually is?” “Well… no. Was it supposed to be anything else?” “Not here. Wait until we get home and I'll tell you.”

—Conversation between two elves in the fish market of Denerim (This song could not have been created without @bumblewarden , whose warden Novhen Tabris is a joy and an inspiration and the best Dark Wolf the Denerim Alienage could ever ask for)

(Lyrics and song without sound effects under the cut)

My darling, my darling, come lie down to sleep. You see through the window the darkness in creep. In here it is dry and in here it is warm. No darkness can touch you, no fire, no storm.

If dogs come, my darling, go run and go hide. Come to me, run past them, strike a path well wide. I will keep you safe and I will keep you warm. The dogs will not touch you, will not bring you harm.

My darling, should you find yourself lost in night, Don't cry and look up at the stars shining bright: The stars, they will lead you back home here to me The stars, they will guide you once you can run free.

If you find yourself beneath trees deep at night Go run on, my darling, to fireshine bright. Round fire there's music, and dancing, and song. Go run there, my child, that you may sing along.

If you find yourself amid ashes and scars My darling, don't fear, take the brightest of stars. The star in the gold field of daylight's bright dawn, That star is the place where free people belong.

If you find yourself in a darkness and fear, Then listen in case there's a wolf you might hear. The grey wolf is stronger, the dogs are his prey. And if you then call him, he might come your way.

City Elf Appreciation Week- Day 5 - Alienage

Day 5 - Alienage for @cityelfweek

- The only home many city elves ever know.

>Post Tabris origin scene<

The dawn had barely made a break of the horizon when the alienage began to wake. The lazy watch stumbled through their version of a patrol, the nightly curfew at an end. (Not that it stopped whom the lord wanted, just the innocent scared of what the humans might do to them and theirs.)

The first to stir were the hawkers, workers gathered, booths propped up, baskets and crates of goods set out. Next came the errand kids, their mothers at home stoking the hearths. Coin and trades swapped hands, bread and eggs for a coin, apples for a “found” silver knife.

Chatter begins. News from the night prior making its way through the people. Ears prick up, eyes cast wary glances.

‘Trouble up at the Keep’

‘Someone did what? Couldn’t have been an elf.’

“This better not bring those guards back here. Stirring up trouble.’

‘Mamae, I want a honey roll!’

'Hush child!’

The sun continues to rise, more people come out, news continues to spread.  Cicadas scream as the heat swells and the din of the market picks up to a fever pitch. Guards patrol, no more than usual, yet. The elves of the alienage are apprehensive, waiting for the angry shouts, the unjust punishments to be doled out. Even the cut purses seem leery. But it is yet to come, almost normal.

If the patrols notice the ‘knife-ears’ acting especially cautious, they turn a blind eye. There’s ale and cards to get back too.

Whispers of a Grey Warden add further fuel to the gossip as the sun begins to set. The wariness of the day sends the shops into early closure, more goods then coins in their coffers. The errand child called home before the lamps were even lit.

A crier shuffles hastily to the announcement board, stained parchment and hammer under arm. The lamp lighters spare him a curious glance, then continue with their nightly work.

Hammer falls against creaking boards disturb the dusk, shutters cracking open to watch, wait. He stops, nodding at the notice posted, then shuffles back out. The alienage gate slamming shut, loud as a thunder clamp.

[ NOTICE: DENERIM ALIENAGE TO BE KEPT BARRED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE!]

Andraste and Shartan

Part of the Alienage Soundscape series created for @cityelfweek

“Hahren, Take better care to instruct the Alienage's children to avoid blasphemy and gross irreverence. Shartan is not a canonical figure of the Chant, and he certainly was not our Prophet's Lover. I will let the matter rest for now, but I will not be able to ignore future occurrences. That such an insinuation was made at all in the birthplace of Andraste would be enough cause for a public outrage.”

—A letter from Mother Boann of Denerim to hahren Valendrian of the Denerim Alienage

WARNING! The following song is explicit and irreverent.

(Lyrics and song without sound effects under the cut)

The Maker loves Andraste, does Andraste love him back? And Maferath is fine I guess, except that he does lack A certain girth and attitude, so when she got to pick, Andraste chose the elvhen man with long and lovely… ears!

We all know that Andraste loved Shartan! We all know that they made love in her tent! We all know that Andraste loved Shartan! We all know that Andraste fucked an elf!

And when Andraste went to sleep into her tent at night, A shadow would approach the flap and enter it and hide. And when the ‘ooh's and ‘aah's began, Andraste's hound heard some. He rolled his eyes, he heaved a sigh and left them to their come.

We all know that Andraste loved Shartan! We all know that they made love in her tent! We all know that Andraste loved Shartan! We all know that Andraste fucked an elf!

When our Lady was in chains and dragged upon her pyre, When Maferath had sealed his fate and stoked the Maker's ire, Shartan and hundred elves ran fast to save our Lady bright, And when they died Andraste cried: “I knew it, I chose right!”

We all know that Andraste loved Shartan! We all know that they made love in her tent! We all know that Andraste loved Shartan! We all know that Andraste fucked an elf!

Marital Duo: A Performance

Part of the Alienage Soundscapes series for @cityelfweek

"TONIGHT, at th VHENADAHL: "Love, let me in" performed. BRING FRIENDS & DRINKS!"

—One of many haphazard posters distributed around the Denerim Alienage. The paper is thin, the ink cheap, and the words have been chosen with care to reduce the amount of text and thus the cost of printing the posters

WARNING! The following song talks about alcohol abuse.

(Lyrics and song without sound effects under the cut)

Love, let me in! Love, let me in! Love, it's dark and cold outside. Love, it's dark, and deep at night! Love, please let me in.

Let you in? Let you in? Won't your friends then take you in? Is the light out at the inn? Let you in? Let you in? Sleep outside, you bloody din!

Love, please don't shout. Love, please don't shout. The neighbors will wake and hear us be loud. The neighbors will ask why I am still out Love, oh please, don't shout.

Please don't shout? Please don't shout? I don't care if they see you out! Be proud that once you made me loud! Please don't shout? Please don't shout? Well, don't anger me, you lout!

Love, you’re mad? Love are you mad? Love, just hearing that makes me sad. I don't want to make you feel bad. Love, please don't be mad.

Don't be mad? Don't be mad? You drank away what coin we had! My patience has worn out, my lad! Don't be mad? Don't be mad? Leave me alone, you fucking scad!

Forgive me! Forgive me! My guilt is as deep as the sea, We can make up, love, can't we? Love, please, I'm sorry.

I will not forgive you yet. First, you will pay off your debt. Go and wake your brother up, Sleep in his house, sober up. I don't want you back again Til you got coin to sustain Us. Now go! I need to sleep! At least I got a job to keep. Think about what you've done!

The Rose on My Cheek

Part of the Alienage Soundscapes series created for @cityelfweek

WANTED ALIVE for the murder of ser Bern and lady Emmeline Farthin of Edgehall: the elf Falma of Edgehall, scullery maid at lady Emmeline's estate. 5’3”, brown hair and eyes, brown skin, about 20 years of age. Reward: 100 sovereigns.

— Wanted poster in the market square of Edgehall

(Lyrics and song without sound effects under the cut)

A rose on my cheek sits since yesterday morn. A wardog has placed it, the rose had a thorn. The rose has a red crown and a red dress torn, the thorn a cruel gauntlet with gold rings adorned.

There’s violets singing all over my chest. A lapdog has placed them where it thought was best. From green spring the violets, from pink and from blue, and yellow among them, and bold purple too.

A foxglove has just found its way to my hands. It came from the gardens that grow on my lands. It’s meant for the lapdog and the dog of war, it will find them soon when I’m under the floor.

The floor it is sprouting all flowers, like spring. The flowers, they make such a colourful ring. They care not for war dogs or lapdogs no more, they need not to watch them or keep any score.

Who Will Your Lover Be?

Part of the Alienage Soundscapes series, created for @cityelfweek

“If I was strong, I would just hit them back!” “That's the point of this song, dummy. You can hit them back as much as you like, they'll always hit back harder, until you're dead.” “Oh… What's it the one who gets away does?” “Fly? I don't know. It's just an old song.”

—Conversation of three elven children playing, overheard by hahren Sarethia of the Highever alienage

(Lyrics and song without sound effects under the cut)

Who will your lover be? Marry me! Marry me! With whom will you bind the knot underneath the tree?

I am strong and not afraid! I am fast and slight! I am smart and know my trade! I am beautiful and great! I will teach you flight!

Who will your lover be? Marry me! Marry me! With whom will you bind the knot underneath the tree?

Strong gets cracked over the head, Strong is strong but strong is dead. Fast is caught and cannot bite, Fast is fast but cannot fight. Smart does not last very long, Smart is smart but smart is wrong. Beautiful will draw a look, they won’t let them off their hook. Only Flight can get away, get away but cannot stay.

Who will your lover be? Marry me! Marry me! With whom will you bind the knot underneath the tree?

City Elf Appreciation Week- Day 4- Customs and Traditions

Day 4 -  Customs and Tradition for @cityelfweek

- Andrastian? Dalish? Somewhere in between, or something all new?

I... had a silly idea for a codex for Fenris for this one......

Record what I say. There are no gods. Forgotten, elder, elvhen, andrastian. Spirits, demons, wraiths, yes. But gods, never. Gods are capricious. Too mortal. Too willfully selfish and evil to be anything other than the creation of those hungry from power, or those suffering from their hunger. Men make gods. I rip their hearts out. Steal the life out of them that was stolen from others. I believe in my own abilities. My own will. Stop laughing, Hawke. It is not funny. Don’t you dare show that to Varric. *Then end has a hastily drawn figure holding a stylized heart and a grumpy face* Crumpled note found on a Venatori spy, interrogated by the Inquisition.

Day 4: Tradition

Written for @cityelfweek day 4! For anyone who knows my other OCs: Margery and Ghilad are the parents of my Agent of Fen'Harel OC, Bruno. They both lived in the Denerim Alienage until the events of DA:O.

When Margery was a child, she had thought pregnancy a game. She had watched her mother’s belly swell with life, and gift her a baby brother. A little friend for life.

Now that it is her turn, she understands why her mother had so often looked like she had swallowed a lemon. As if the trials on the body are not enough, the tests of one’s patience will surely wear one down.

She muses this to herself as she sits outside the cemetery, hand resting idly on her stomach, thumb stroking up and down when something kicks inside. How strange it feels, to reach for another while feeling the brush of her own skin over her skirt. She turns the thought over itself, making it last longer than it had any right to, and wishing she had brought something to do with her hands while she waits.

At some point, when a shadow falls over her, she almost mistakes it for the tiring sun, until it speaks with her husband’s voice: “You’re still here?”

Margery’s head snaps up. “‘Course I’m still here,” she says, a little cross. “If I cannit be in there with you, the least I can do is be out here.”

Ghilad’s smile is both sympathetic and affectionate, face almost forgetting the red rings around his eyes. “You know I would have you by my side, but—”

“Aye, I know.” She waves off his explanation, heaving a sigh through her lungs. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Death must feel like a faraway thing to an expecting mother, lest she invite it upon herself and the child. Tradition does not dictate how she can feel about the matter, however.

“How were your parents?” she asks, voice now as gentle as the hand that soothed her unborn child.

“Still together.” He lets out a strained chuckle. She had never seen the gravestones, but she could picture them, ashes interred in the graveyard alongside their neighbours. When the soil has settled, they’ll need to mind the earth that keeps them. Once the bairn has come, of course. Her late mother-in-law would not abide weeds, even in death. “I cleaned the gravestones, spoke to them about our girl.”

“Your girl?” Margery scoffs. “You know, Mhairi reckons it’ll be a boy. She told me you’d be getting fatter if we were having a girl.”

“Wh- I don’t see what I have to do with it.”

“At least half as much as me, if I recall.” She reaches for him with both hands, kissing them when he offers her his. “It’ll be what it’ll be. Nowt we can do about it now. We’ll love it the same.”

“That we will.” Ghilad squeezes his fingers around hers, skin warm like sunlight. “Shall we head home for tea?”

“I’ll need a little help, first,” she says, tugging expectantly at him. Margery grunts as he hoists her up. She keeps one hand tethered to his, fingers interlocking as they turn their backs on the great gate overlooking the cemetery.

City Elf Appreciation Week- Day 3- Community

Day 3 -  Community for @cityelfweek

- Close-knit family, or claustrophobic little box?

I had the idea of Merril being accepted by the alienage...or at least the kids... and this is what come out... lol

Merril’s strings hung about the Vhenadahl, the children of the alienage's new past time when she was lost. She smiled up at the tree, the knotted bits hopelessly tangled about it’s branched fingers.

‘Miss Merril! MISS MERRIL!” A cacophony of children's voices called out, each young ones hands full with wads of twine, different colors and weights. Adults going about their duties glance and shake their heads. Their kids' antics with the Wild One are none of their business if no harm comes their way.

‘Hullo, children! I seem to be lost! Could you all help me find my way back to my house?” She crouched to the level of the closet, a young freckled girl. She smiled warmly, accepting the twine she handed her.

“This way Miss Merril! This way! The young girl grabbed her hands and all the children began tugging her back through the alleys towards her home and hearth.

“Do you have any stories for us, Miss Merril?”

“Is Mr. Sparkles coming again?”

Giggling, Merril let them lead her, their questions and smiles warming her heart and making her think of the Clan she lost.

“Now, don’t go letting Fenris hear you call him that, Thomas, he might get extra sparkly.” She ruffled Thomas’ red curls.

“But he does sparkle! Specially when the shems get surly with yah, Miss Merril!”

“Everyone gets surly with her. Thom”

“That’s cuz she’s one of us now! Them shems just don’t get it!” Huffed one of the older kids, her name at the tip of MErril’s tongue.

A looming shadow caused the children to abruptly stop. “She’s one of you lots, now, ey?”

Merril tilted her head back and smiled. The children all quickly turning to stare up at the newcomer.

“Of course! Mr. Sparkles!”

Glare

“-er, Mr. Fenris, sir.” Thomas scuffed his toes in the dirt. “Here, you can help her find the rest of the way home.“ He tossed the string in his hands at the scary elf and ran, laughing as the other children did the same, the voices echoing down the alley.

Merril turned, covering her grin with a hand. Fenris stood there, face impassive, tangled in a rainbow of threads.

“Hullo, Mr. Sparkles, I think I can find my the rest of the way myself…” She tilted back on her heels, mirth in her eyes.

Day 3: Community

Mi amor,

By the time this letter reaches you, if it reaches you at all, I will be far away.

I tire of shadows, yet I am more weary of danger, or to be more precise, the danger my presence puts others in. My time among the Dalish was short, and were it not for the intervention of another, may have ended with blood. Innocent blood, that is. There was no shortage of Crow blood to be had. Pray my time in Ansburg is peaceful.

The city’s elves have made me feel quite at home. The elder herself has given me shelter under her roof. Each morning I find children at my doorstep, coveting my attention like I am a hero worthy of their aspirations. I do not tell them what I truly am, though I suspect their elders know.

They live humbly here, but I think you would enjoy yourself— the Minanter flows more freely than your beloved Drakon, and we are far enough north that all manner of fruits and vegetables come through the city’s markets. True, I have not the coin to buy them, but what is the harm in relieving a merchant of a peach here and there?

I will beg the Maker for forgiveness later.

I once told you I considered myself lucky for an orphan, and in many ways that still holds true. I often wonder, however, what would have happened if I was trusted not to the brothel, but my people. I do not remember the Alienage in Antiva City, or, indeed, in Rialto. Would they have guarded me so closely there, as they do here? Would I have been safe? Would I have been happy?

Ah, but what use is there in wondering? You know poverty’s sting as well as I, mi amor. I might have been happy, yes, but I am happy now, knowing your warm embrace awaits me in cold Amaranthine.

Con cariño, Zevran

Written for @cityelfweek day 3!

Day 2: Folklore

Written for @cityelfweek day 2!

An excerpt from a correspondence between Lady Aalis of Montford and Professor Rolant, lecturer at the University of Orlais.

Indeed, it is reductive even to refer to the elves of Thedas’s city as a collective. Would one categorise Orlais and Ferelden as one? Some, perhaps, but only if one wished to sound Tevinter. Even the Dalish, disparate as they are, will convene in what is known as an arlathvhen every ten years. The elves of the Alienages are connected by a line of merchants and travelers, and the occasional blending of families through arranged marriages, but little else.

Thus, you will not hear the same stories told in Kirkwall’s Alienage as opposed to Val Royeaux’s.

(...)

I think know just what you mean, Professor.

Do you remember my visit to Edgehall in Kingsway? Dreadful place, I would steer clear were I you, but while I lay in afternoon repose I could not help but overhear my servants whispering outside my door. The Alienage there is outside the city proper, you see (I can see the vision in the idea, though I cannot attest to its success). The elves of Edgehall are quite particular about mushrooms. When they grow in a circle, they say the gods will whisk you away.

I overheard Cateline wish the gods would intercede on her behalf, and whisk her away, but they needn’t bother. I have done it on their behalf.

Day 1: Vhenadahl

Written for @cityelfweek day 1! One of my favourite parts of DA lore is how many of our Elvhen companions cannot be neatly categorised into one of two boxes human society designates for them. I wanted to start the week writing about that overlap with Merrill and the city elves she lives among for, at this point, most of her adult life.

“Ir abelas,” Merrill mutters as she makes the first cut. The sapling branch surrenders easilyl to her shears, falling to the earth with little more hurry than a feather from a bird’s wing. She pats the trunk fondly. “I promise we’re almost through.”

When the wind stirs, it’s almost like it’s answering. She smiles, satisfied, and moves onto the next branch. Though she had promised to be done soon, she does not rush the task before her. From the rare traveller that passes through, she has come to learn the vhenadahl is the beating heart of the Alienage, and unique as the community it represents. Some exist only as stumps, sitting places for elves to gather and chatter, others grow in impossible ways, defying the desert sun to offer shade to the People on hopelessly hot days. As she understands it, the one in Hossburg is just a cutting, the old tree felled in a mighty storm.

Merrill, for her part, has become quite proud of Kirkwall’s. Mighty it grows, and tall. The paint they had decorated it with on Summerday has begun to fade in the fierce sunshine of August, pigment clinging brightest where the boughs gather the darkest shadow. Soon, the elven new year will be upon them, and they will hang ribbons in her branches and paint patterns in her bark once again.

She reaches for the next branch, snipping deftly. The slice of the blades are so sharp, she doesn’t hear the quiet gasp behind her.

“Why are you hurting the tree, hahren?” A small voice asks. Merrill pauses her pruning to look down, met by the sweet face of Libi, Elara’s daughter. Her wild blonde hair is freshly tamed and combed into two thick plaits. She’d broken from a pack of nearby children to accost Merrill with her question, dolly held limply by her side.

“Oh.” Merrill’s teeth drive into her lower lip, impressing a faint line. The Alienage’s children don’t often address her, content to let her be an oddity. The strange, Dalish lady they could imagine all sorts of things about, as children are like to do with things they do not understand. It doesn’t trouble her, she had been no less strange to her clan, and no better with their children. “I’m not hurting it, da’len. I’m helping.”

She lifts her hand, rubbing the trunk of the tree like she strokes the side of some great, friendly beast. “You prune the branches to help it grow. Think of it like… if you had an arm-” Merrill sticks her thumb against her forehead, fingers splaying out like leaves on a branch- “growing out of your forehead! Or… a leg in your ear.” She tilts her head, like the imaginary appendage weighs it to one side.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Libi remarks, perhaps considering the extra toys she could tote around with her if she had an extra arm.

Merrill laughs. “You might be alright,” she says, “but trees will tip over.”

Libi nods with a stoic understanding. She steps over to the pile of sticks Merrill has gathered through her morning’s work. “What will these be for?”

The shoots are still green, flush with water, and will make for poor kindling. Among the Dalish, it had made them the ideal spit to roast their dinners on, but there is no shortage to their use. “They may dry clean laundry, or make for a little slingshot.” She strays in her task to pluck one that diverges like a fork in a river, separate ends just far apart enough to tie something between them. “Maybe a little loom?”

“A sword,” Libbi declares, leaving no room for argument. With her free hand, she reaches out, but thinks twice before snatching it. Merrill can almost hear mamae’s voice reprimanding her for her lack of manners. “May I have one?”

“Uh, of course! But choose wisely, da’len.”

Libi takes her words to heart, deliberating until she finds the narrowest stick in the pile. She brandishes it like a rapier, then, apparently satisfied with her decisions, bounds back to her friends as though no time has passed. A little ‘thank you’ follows her retreat, manners not entirely abandoned now that she had what she came for.

Merrill smiles, taking heart in the fact that they had parted as friends. The parents had taken to calling her hahren for her knowledge, but without children to teach, it often felt an empty title. It’s only when she hears the whip of a twig against bare flesh that she realises her mistake. That afternoon, the shade of the vhenadahl nurses many a skinned knee as a little war plays out beneath its boughs.

City Elf Appretiation Week- Day 1 Vhenadahl

For @cityelfweek Day 1 - Vhenadahl

- A pillar of many alienage communities. Firewood in others.

Crimson eyes stared up at the Vhenadahl. Old and sickly, this silly tree was one of the few constants in her life in the Denerim Alienage. Always there, its crooked bones creaking and quaying when warm and musty breezes drifted through the alleys, the stench of shem and elf alike crinkling the nose and stinging the eyes.

‘You’re going to be here longer than I am, huh you ol witch.’, patting the gnarled trunk, the young elf rose from the crouch she was in, her wedding dress already dirty like everything else new in this place. “Protect them, if you can for me. I’m leaving and not looking back.” She pulled the ribbon from the end of her plait and tied it around on the gnarled branches. Nodding decisively, she set her face into a mask of grim determination, long white hair escaping her cousin's carefully braided plaits.

“Izzou!” A cheerful voice carried out from behind her, rapid feet kicking up dust as a carefully raised hem avoided the bulk of the street's muck.

Sighing, Isobeaux Tabris let out a soft huff and turned to glare playful daggers at her cousin.

“You’re going to make us late! What are you even doing here?” She looked her cousin up and down, tsk’ing at the dirt on her hem and her stray hairs.

“Just saying goodbye to our old friend.” Glancing over her shoulder, she stuck her tongue out at the ancient tree.