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About Literature / Hobbyist Member SargonMale/United States Groups :icondarthdictatusstudy: DarthDictatusStudy
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That people actually seem to like my work on occasion is a constant surprise.



Not that I expect most anyone will take notice or care, a few old dears aside. But this is the ugly mug. :U If you're petrified, I know it's working, and that's why those crickets are chirping. 

Also, Grey Wardens, because DA OBSESSION NEVER REALLY DIES

  • Listening to: Attack on Titan
  • Reading: Dragon Age comics
  • Watching: cat sleep
  • Playing: VID'JA GAIMES
  • Eating: pens
  • Drinking: No, sir!
As I kick the dust off my boots and prepare to settle back in for a few months into the old dens, I cannot help but feel it is of stars and not of earthly matters, for all that the old leather is grimed with flecks of long dried blood beside it. In my absence, things have changed, and strangely, stayed very much the same, it seems. I have not returned to stay, not entirely, but to speak of stranger things and brighter dreams than those in the glass museums we dwell within for the sake of our deviance meeting community and art.

To talk, however briefly, of what and where and why I migrated, and intend fully to do so, again.

Let us start with a premise.

Call insanity a place. Fill it with an origin of having been founded to watch mutated, augmented, and batshite imaginary variations of animals duel to demise for the entertainment of wild minded entrepreneurs and mad scientists, with mutants and behemoths being mere flavors of a day- and some outright as hilariously silly as others were out-and-out terrifying. Knit a community together upon it, roleplaying the bettors and creatures, alike.

Call that 'Zoofites', or Zoological Fights, as is logical; then, take these same strange mentalities to a larger field, not of doctored cage fighting, but of characters- sapient characters- of every venue and origin intermingling, warring, sometimes adjusting a point of view. Spread it across years of writing, flavor it every so often with sweetness, tone down a little of the bloodsport for more harmless challenges at the behest of some while setting towns ablaze and filling rivers with blood for others. Within a very thin veneer of morality- largely keeping a matter unstated- do fairly well anything, as long as it's consensual.

Where else are you going to see a knight fail to topple a king, become cursed to inhabit the form of the video game character Kirby, and proceed to date a living incarnation of the state of North Dakota? Or a fifteen foot warrior trapped in the body of a squirrel after a singularly -smashing- execution finished her former humanity off? Have a few atomic cocktails with Sauron and empathize about a bad day. Murder a strigoi just for being present! Watch a Mandalorian set fire to the aforementioned town in an attempt to put an end to a pesky sapient virus.

Insanity made coherence. Deviance made community. Storytelling unending and unbothered by the lines of demarcation between legality, canon, or originality- the closest barrier being 'dibs'. There's a freedom to being able to leave a journal in a character's voice and have someone, somewhere, muddle over it and wonder what they meant by it, whether one created them in whole or merely borrows them for interpretation.

The ride this time around is Vegas, New, Las, Lost, Mutant, and all sorts of other sweet flavors of potentially irradiated scheming and scum in the most wretched, yet well lit and entertaining, hive of villainy I've yet to be a hand in.

I doubt many of you still read these things at all after so long, but if you should chance to see it, I'd like to invite you to join us on the other side- if you have a taste for strange and an idea or three.
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This space will be altered if anyone does demonstrate an interest/desire links to it or the Chatzy where the friendly asylum dwellers linger. 
Months on months ago now, it was requested that I try narrating "The Hollow Men". Microphone being broken and time being a matter of concern, as well as never having quite liked how the results turned out, I never delivered. Sorry, friend. This still probably isn't the quality you desired, but it is all I may offer you. Even as it is, it cut off the first three lines in each attempt made.

Hollow Men
-T.S. Elliot 

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
  • Listening to: Attack on Titan
  • Reading: Dragon Age comics
  • Watching: cat sleep
  • Playing: VID'JA GAIMES
  • Eating: pens
  • Drinking: No, sir!
Through the pane of the revolving mirror of the mind's eye, a figure forms, at first a silhouette and then slowly- almost imperceptibly- details flush with life and lush with intricacies.

-If- one is fortunate, a character comes full formed on their own, but more often a writer experiences the tendency to pick and match traits that feel as though they work. Sometimes we redact a detail, or splice one on later with editing. In either extent, a good writer can manage to tailor their various attributes to what their intended role is to be, and the best of us can make someone who is not a stereotype for their role but would not be questioned within it.

There are times one deliberately makes something or someone as out-of-place in a niche as one can to increase dramatic value, of course, but the joke wears thin very swiftly.

Now, then, enough fore-ramble. The actual prompt given is this:

"Basically: our RP is going to include a character who is an angel. Like, "from Heaven, servant of God" angel. But I don't want this angel to be a cliché white-feathered-wings-and-halo angel. I want her to look unique. I was hoping you, creative writer and talented worldbuilder that you are, might have a few suggestions as to a non-standard appearance for an angel character. I want her to look human enough that she's not threatening, and human enough to be conventionally attractive by human standards, as well."

Well thank you for the kind words, dear, even if this old fogbucket fuddyduddy dinnae believe them.

But as for suggestions, certainly!

First, celestial or animal reference in the religious texts with angels are significantly different than they are often depicted now. You know that, of course; we've had the chat many times on the thirty eight wings or four different heads atop a spinning bronze wheel, or eighteen eyes glowing in a bushel of flame. This is what you've said you don't want to overstress, yes? You do not desire an overly fluffy, modern angel, but rather hints of the dear old murderbeings- but it should stay as merely hints.

So as the first suggestion, you may wish to keep any references to wings studded with spinning nebula, stars radiant in eternal velvet darkness along feathers the length of a tall man's hand or flaming eyes smoking in the broad light of day, bright as the sun and twice as painful to look directly into to either a minimum or- preferably- a released state. It sounds like a terrible anime, that, unfortunately; but the idea is a useful one. A being that conceals itself via a disguised form entirely, but on the drop of the guise, it's what one would expect if one knew, shock if one didn't, and fear in either extent.

This is also not the outreaching happy sort.

The roles for the angel are varied, even without mythic task assignment via Torah; in most lay equivalents, they are warriors, messengers, guardians, killers, and occasionally the chorus. This is something that can slaughter cities of men and engages in eternal conflict. They are fierce, both in appearance and demeanor.

As the second, then, you might want to focus on a profession humans utilize that fits some of these traits.

The Courier, for instance- a role wherein a messenger receives and must maintain martial training at all times, and goes out armed with every delivery, no matter how seemingly trivial. Although one does not, of course, typically pay the exorbitant rates for a courier in order to achieve something without value; but that is a different ramble altogether. Getting back to this one-

By 'focus', I do not entirely mean 'use', here. Any job you want could work, really. But to get a sense of physical phenotype for a combative-carrier, in either gender, it is useful. You may want to have a look at the previous-to-armored-vehicle variety, mind; they aren't allowed to have a lot of padding, but they have even less before they stop sweating bullets that the real thing might come in one day.

Generally, for your human variation, I would imagine that having someone physically capable of both an extended period of heavy labor and of intense, short combat would be in order for an angel.

No giant mammaries, no soft down, no gentle wistful hope-in-flesh maternal looking figure.

You want something with grit, and grime, with fire under the sweat and steel in the bone, and that hint of something -more- lurking in the corner of the eye. That hint that no, really, you should be afraid. But only when you're on the shit list.

'Rugged', not 'ripped', would describe an angel in the human variant better for my own purposes, but this is again merely requested suggestion. If there is muscle, and there ought to be muscle, oughtn't there- but if there is, it is built to task and of a wanderer's lean litheness, not a Triple H bodybuild. It can't be something hyper-thin, either; this is a being literally made for working. An average frame with thin elements where fat would otherwise often be, sometimes for the better, and some degree of solid bone and muscular underpinnings would work.

Do not use a nightlight effect, please. Do not use a soft glow to say it's special. Do not make instantaneous internal spotlight a plot effect.

If you do incorporate a transition, as prior stated, then using -that- to display mythical elements would be an excellent step. Whether you want the wings or not in human form- and they may be better as part of transition, really.

As for other phenotypes; well, that really depends on your desired culture, doesn't it? Hebrew, for Yahwe's set, would be better. For a valkyrie, not an entirely dissimilar creature, Nord. Etc, etc.

Any marking of divine status or intervention would ruin an attempt to blend in, but even if always possessed of angelic markings, a halo is not the first choice I would make. Instead, consider the angel's weapon. There's always a weapon somewhere.

This is particularly terrifying when the angel in question has no hands to use one and is, for all intents and purposes, a chair on fire with multiple heads connected to flying animals.
Brainstorming thoughts for a Bree
Thank you for the delightful thoughts, dear; I'm very sorry I haven't been about often enough to give you them sooner. 

Here's hoping you didn't start yet!
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: violence/gore and ideologically sensitive material)

We begin our story with the fall, as according to the widest spread religion within the wold of Thedas. What follows is of course incomplete at best. It requires a great deal of time time- weeks, we're informed- to recite the Chant. These are, however, the tidbits of some small degree of relevance to the story, which may be more complex still than was initially believed. How much of it its literal is questionable; it is a work of fiction from the Maker's point of view. However, it is also surprisingly coherent to the events within the world even millenia later, and the closest we have yet to come to the truth. 


The Old Gods will call to you,
From their ancient prisons they will sing.
Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,
On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,
The first of My children, lost to night.

</b>This, from the Canticle of Silence, refers to the various deities of Tevinter, which have evidenced their very real existence as Archdemons when corrupted and exhibit abnormal traits for dragons even prior. For one thing, they speak- something that cultists claim the standard dragon of Thedas do with them as well, but not one that has yet been shown to any of the protagonists of the series, and a point scholars vehemently disagree with. They are, moreover, capable of telepathy, and of blood magic- or at least instructing in blood magic. Physically, they hold a discrepancy to the normal dragon as well, in that they are larger than the females of the species and yet all that have risen are both male and winged. 

Whereas Drakes, the male harems of the female dragon, are almost always born wingless, and several extremes smaller than the matriarch of their realm. 

As to whether the Old Gods are in fact gods, simply extremely abnormal and powerful demons, or an extremely higher order of the draconic species with a predisposition toward influencing mortal events for their own ends, we have yet to learn. All of these claims have been made, but none proven. Most are in fact suspect at the start. 

It is a very curious thing, though, that it claims-

"On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,
The first of my children, lost to night."

We must bear in mind, of course, that the Blight was already onset when much of the Chant was written, and records prior to the times of the world being brought to the edge of ending are rare indeed. If it is true of the creatures -before- they are mutated, however, it may be among the very rare indicators of physical appearance that we have for the maybe-spirits. If they even retain a gender and physical appearance before the Blight. Truly, we know little beyond that they have appeared primarily as dragons to their supplicants, and even that may not be a universal trait. 

Nor is that indefinite proof that it is their only form, a reason for the hypothesis that another noted meddling entity is among their number- but first, the continued Chant, this one a selection from Silence (and a human perspective as opposed to that of their god). 

And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars,
We dreamed up false gods, great demons
Who could cross the Veil into the waking world,
Turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you.


This is what is accounted as the First Sin of mankind- turning away from their creator in order to pursue the teachings of spirits and Old Gods (and, perhaps, more). Whether the Old Gods could enter the Fade themselves as well as call out in it is unknown, but it is presumed that they could, given the amount of accurate Tevinter art at the time. The implication they could leave their physical prisons -through- the Fade is an interesting one, as well, although it could merely mean the demons that Tevinters summon- that is, however, unlikely, given that it is rendered in such a way as to make it seem the creature's action and volition to cross the Veil, without aid or compelling. Or, a mightier form of demon than we have seen yet that could accomplish such on its own in a time when the Veil had less tears entirely- a disturbing notion, given that preventing demonic entry was very largely the point of the most recent installment to date. 

The Fade is, of course, the realm of spirits and dreams, to which the living (barring dwarves) ascribe in their sleep and their deaths. The Veil is, on the other hand, the multilayered entity that prevents the material world from touching the immaterial, and vice verse, unless punctured by one side or the other. As most mortals entering the Fade via hole has resulted in horrific death or mutation, it is believed that without a proper means of self-protection, it is impossible. Not to mention that holes that would admit mortals are exceedingly rare in the first place.

Spirits, on the other hand, cross when excessive death has occurred and weakened a veil segment, or when a mage has deliberately cast a means for them to do so. This process apparently mutates them equally as much a great deal of the time if done improperly (or if done properly, even, but unwillingly), turning them into monstrocities. The emotions and minds of men can -also- poison them, and some choose to focus on the more poisonous aspects of mortal existence (Rage, Sloth, Despair, Desire, Pride, Fear, etc etc) willingly before any such rips of reality occur. There are nowhere near so many cases of a demon turning into a virtuous spirit, however, as of a spirit (virtuous or indifferent) being polluted into evil. 

Brothers and sisters, <s>let us pray</s> turn back to the creation of the world momentarily. In world, they claim our previous Canticle offers a differing view of creation than the following, though from the verses we've actually seen, it does not necessarily confront so much as compound and accompany. </p>Category Lore

There was no word
For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky.
All that existed was silence.
Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,
The first Word,
And His Word became all that might be:
Dream and idea, hope and fear,
Endless possibilities.
And from it made his firstborn.
And he said to them:
In My image I forge you,
To you I give dominion
Over all that exists.
By your will
May all things be done.

Then in the center of heaven
He called forth
A city with towers of gold,
streets with music for cobblestones,
And banners which flew without wind.
There, He dwelled, waiting
To see the wonders
His children would create.

The children of the Maker gathered
Before his golden throne
And sang hymns of praise unending.
But their songs
Were the songs of the cobblestones.
They shone with the golden light
Reflected from the Maker's throne.
They held forth the banners
That flew on their own.

And the Voice of the Maker shook the Fade
Saying: In My image I have wrought
My firstborn. You have been given dominion
Over all that exists. By your will
All things are done.
Yet you do nothing. 
The realm I have given you
Is formless, ever-changing.

And He knew he had wrought amiss.
So the Maker turned from his firstborn
And took from the Fade
A measure of its living flesh
And placed it apart from the Spirits, and spoke to it, saying:
Here, I decree
Opposition in all things:
For earth, sky
For winter, summer
For darkness, Light.
By My Will* alone is Balance sundered
And the world given new life.

And no longer was it formless, ever-changing,
But held fast, immutable,
With Words for heaven and for earth, sea and sky.
At last did the Maker
From the living world
Make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth,
With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear,
Endless possibilities.

Then the Maker said:
To you, my second-born, I grant this gift:
In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame
All-consuming, and never satisfied.
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember me.

And then the Maker sealed the gates
Of the Golden City
And there, He dwelled, waiting
To see the wonders
His children would create.

Those who had been cast down,
The demons who would be gods,
Began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth.
And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars
To the pretender-gods once more,
And in return were given, in hushed whispers,
The secrets of darkest magic.


Here, we have a few important trifles. Firstly, the stanza in relation to 'tombs in the earth'. Nowhere prior did it claim that the spirits who had been freshly shut from their Father's presence had actually been further punished for failing to use their gifts, but here, it claims that they were brought down. 

This actually coincides fairly well with the Elvhen legends of their own Fen'Harel imprisoning their gods, both good and evil, for purposes unknown. Their descendants, the Elves of the Dales, claim that their people once were immortal of their own right, and slept for a long time in special temples of stone buried from view when of an elder age too weary to deal with the world anymore. This was called Uthenara. 

Uthenera (literally "long sleep" or "endless dream") is a slumber-like state which elders of the ancient elves voluntarily entered when they became weary of life and memories. While their bodies would remain in the mortal realm, their spirits would cross the Veil and wander the shifting paths of the Beyond, accompanied by two children of Mythal - Falon'Din (friend of the Dead) and his twin brother Dirthamen (the wise). This state did not necessarily equal death, as some would return after centuries of sleep and share the secrets of dreams with the People. Yet many would never wake up: their bodies would deteriorate and they would in fact die.

The Dalish claim that in the time of Elvhenan, uthenera was viewed as an act of reverence. An elder would retire to a chamber that was one part bed and one part tomb and, to great ceremony from all the extended family, would succumb to slumber. The family would continue to visit the chamber to pay respect to the one who made such a sacrifice. With the arrival of humans the practice of uthenera began to fade until it ceased forever after the fall of the Elvhen capital, Arlathan.

This leads us down multiple avenues of thought. 

Firstly, an Elf -unwillingly- subjected to Uthenara would no doubt feel their physical decay and very real stone prison a hideous event. Secondly, any Elders remaining alive (whether they entered The Sleep willingly or not) after the fall of their priests and rites would be trapped, mind and body, unless their souls managed to migrate elsewhere. Thirdly, all of their great and terrible magics would be forever lost, unless spent in teaching descendants of their broken people- or worthy heirs. 

Immortals who shaped the world to their will with their magic and had, apparently, been dethroned by civil war, not by human intervention, as is slowly revealed throughout Inquisition and the latter part of the series. Immortals who already traveled via soul. Immortals who would not agree with the Fen'Harel- the 'Rebel God', as is translated more directly during the course of the current conflict. 

A soul of a would-be godling, with no one else to turn to-

It is my own theory that the Old Gods and the greatest of the Elvhen are in fact quite possibly the same thing. For Mythal, the aforementioned 'deity', was revealed to be a spirit dwelling within the shapeshifting witch Flemeth, whom she possessed and became part of to her own ends after somehow being horribly betrayed and damaged- and wandering the Fade for help for quite a number of centuries. The amalgamation the pair became could, at will, become a high dragon in their own right, with astonishingly similar (but necessarily un-Blighted and mutated) features in some respects to those of an Archdemon, if one imagines it with its more obvious hideous growths removed and smoothed over. 

If an Elder woke of their own accord, with the aid of Tevinter mages, and elected to remain in a stronger form than that of a frail and broken old Elf, especially knowing their great enemy still walked the world and Fade- well, it's only logical that Dragons, not Elves, would become the great instructors. And yet- as further supporting evidence- almost all of the magic exhibited in Tevinter ritual, and at the disposal of an Archdemon, has its apparent basis in Elven techniques. Or at least very, very stunningly similar technique. 

The transfer of, overwriting of, traveling of, and removal of souls all being Elven and major potential plot points lurking throughout, for one thing. 

*The phrase 'My Will' comes up in several situations related to deities, and is of a curious note of its own. Every would be god refers to it at some point. Not as themselves, their body, but as 'Their Will'. Even the Tevinter Magister Coryphaeus, who copied the Elf-and-or-Blight technique of copying souls from one body into another and remolding it to His own template, refers to himself not as Coryphaeus but as The Will That Is Coryphaeus. Flemeth is self-admitted to be possessed by (strikingly Capital Letter) Mythal's Will. Keiran possesses the soul of Urthemial- the Tevine god of beauty- but his own Will. It is also stated that just as Flemeth can overwrite her daughters to claim their young bodies, it must be performed with a willing (or Willing?) participant to work. This strongly suggests that the soul and Will are separate entities, in fact, in this world. Instead, Will is 'consciousness', 'identity', 'Self'- "I Am", saith the God, "My Will". 

This is also why forcing a Will on an -unwilling- participant in a transfer destroys both souls, which Archdemons use to their own benefit. Coryphaeus, however, has an even further benefit- he has had enough direct experience with Wardens to confuse their Wills. Not merely to believe in a false universal Calling, as is shown, but also to allow him possession of their body and soul to a large extent. This appears to work on even hostile Wardens, whom he has inhabited and reformed. However, he may only possess one Warden at a time, and requires other means- blood magic- to control a large body of Wardens. 

Coryphaeus, unlike the Old Gods, also lacks any ability to control the Darkspawn Horde. 

That was rude of me. I started rambling mid prayer. Your forgiveness I implore, Brother Genetivi. 


No matter their power, their triumphs,
The mage-lords of Tevinter were men
And doomed to die.
Then a voice whispered within their hearts,
Shall you surrender your power
To time like the beasts of the fields?
You are the Lords of the earth!
Go forth to claim the empty throne
Of Heaven and be gods.

In secret they worked
Magic upon magic
All their power and all their vanity
They turned against the Veil
Until at last, it gave way.

Above them, a river of Light,
Before them the throne of Heaven, waiting,
Beneath their feet
The footprints of the Maker,
And all around them echoed a vast

But when they took a single step
Toward the empty throne
A great voice cried out
Shaking the very foundations
Of Heaven and earth:

And So is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.


This story is made highly suspect, however, when both demons and Coryphaeus deny the presence- or even existence- of a Maker at any given point within the City. We know that the Magisters did go forth on the advice of subterranean spirit entities to invade the Golden City at the heart of the spirit realm, that they did achieve this with arts stolen from the Elvhen used by the greatest living casters of the day, that something went hideously wrong and they themselves became twisted into horrid immortal mutant monsters that spread contagion and disease wherever they went, and that never again was a spell like their successfully cast. Neither the knowledge nor the resources remained in the world after the darkspawn ravaging.

But the question of the Maker's role, if any, is the biggest of all possible questions here. There has been evidence that the spirits -called- gods, by two faiths, are real, but not of the monotheist religion that much of the world worships. 


Violently were they cast down,
For no mortal may walk bodily
In the realm of dreams,
Bearing the mark of their Crime:
Bodies so maimed
And distorted that none should see them
And know them for men.

Deep into the earth they fled,
Away from the Light.
In Darkness eternal they searched
For those who had goaded them on,
Until at last they found their prize, 
Their god, their betrayer:
The sleeping dragon Dumat 
Their taint 
Twisted even the false-god, and the whisperer 
Awoke at last, in pain and horror, and led 
Them to wreak havoc upon all the nations of the world:
The first Blight.


When the sleeping gods encounter Blight, even they must wake and change. Flemeth, as you recall, avoided the Blight and fought it with every means at her disposal- presumably because it actually could affect her, despite her resilient nature and apparent ability to regenerate from scattered pieces of herself. This would be (we hypothesize) because the Blight corrupts the Will and soul as well as the body. This has been evidenced in the failure of men's minds and hearts under its sway, too- even Wardens will become ghouls eventually. If Mythal had fallen, then, the very large and poignant question hanging over our previous assertions becomes:

Would there have been two archdemons at once?

True archdemons, born of spirits made manifest as they elected, not a dragon with the Blight, as Coryphaeus designed and we were repeatedly told was not an Archdemon. In fact, his creature was defined instead as a Red Lyrium Dragon. It had the appearance of, but not the mind or Will of, an archdemon. Neither it nor the master whose Will it housed could affect the Horde. 

We are never permitted to see, within the alternate stories of the Blight. In fact, in the Chronicles where the darkspawn win at Denerim and claim Ferelden, the Archdemon is encountered only briefly, and certainly there are no profound talks as to His motivations or whether He has accomplices. 

Those who had been cast down, 
the demons who would be gods, 
began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth.
And the men of Tevinter heard, 
and raised altars to the pretender gods once more, 
and in return were given, in hushed whispers, 
the secrets of darkest magic. 

But it was not worship the false gods craved.

They urged the magisters to ever-greater depravity, 
rewarding them with power and more. 
Arrogance became a great caged beast in the lands of Tevinter, 
an emptiness that consumed all and could never be filled. 
To satisfy its hunger, the mage lords, at the goading of their gods, 
assaulted the Golden City, heart of all creation, 
to take the Maker's power for themselves.

With magic born of mingled blood and lyrium, 
the Tevinter broke into the Maker's House. 
But the promised power did not await them there.

The moment they entered the city of the maker, their sin poisoned it. 
What had been golden turned black, 
and violently they were flung from the world of dreams back into the waking world. 
Twisted and corrupted by their crime and their magic into monsters, 
they fled underground, 
unable to bear the light of day. 
The first darkspawn.

There in the depths of the earth they dwelled,

Spreading their taint as a plague, growing in number
Until they were a multitude.
And together they searched ever deeper
Until they found their prize,
Their god, their betrayer.

And down they fled into darkness and despair.</b>

The demons who would be gods. The only place, in fact, where it even seems to lay blame at the foot of spirits. Ask instead this:

Why would the Dalish claim their own gods had been imprisoned after the civil war destroyed every chance of them gaining an accurate depiction of events? But if this is true, it is either not completely true, or it is true but in a different way than is interpreted. For the Dalish say that the prisons are 'beyond the Fade'. Technically, the Dalish call the Fade the Beyond anyway, so it would be either an extraplanar dimension quite past any point of reaching, or a physical location simply past the world of Thedas (like those that the Eluvian mirrors can reach), or... and typical of Fen'Harel's trickery- simply within then-unreachable (or subsequently unreachable) locations upon the world itself.

Because, of course, -Mythal- was able to maneuver; it is the exception that makes the question of the rule. Even if true, it is not true for all, it seems.

Chantry Sisters, look thee away, for we bring Dalish lore into your house.

In ancient times, only Fen'Harel could walk without fear among both our gods and the Forgotten Ones, for although he is kin to the gods of the People, the Forgotten Ones knew of his cunning ways and saw him as one of their own. And that is how Fen'Harel tricked them. Our gods saw him as a brother, and they trusted him when he said that they must keep to the heavens while he arranged a truce. And the Forgotten Ones trusted him also when he said he would arrange for the defeat of our gods, if only the Forgotten Ones would return to the abyss for a time. They trusted Fen'Harel, and they were all of them betrayed. And FenHarel sealed them away so they could never again walk among the People.

The Forgotten Ones (not so forgotten as may be implied) being the 'gods of evil'- attracted to debauchery, to devastation, to conflict, in every respect that The Gods were to craft, aid, and succor in Dalish symbolism, and (as all things) possibly not nearly so simple or typecast as that- still, does it sound familiar, ye with your gazes averted? 

Technicality is difference, and much technicality is revealed to be the invention of the unwitting author to convey their view and fill their gap of knowledge, throughout all of the lore. 

It is entirely possible that the lords of Silence, Beauty, Chaos, Fire, Slaves, Night, and Mystery were not above revisiting their old roles after imprisonment, whether or not one elects to believe this is not, of course, necessarily cause for them to have held similar places (if any) in the Elvhen pantheon. 

The major stickler in this theory does in fact come from the Qunari, or seems to; the Tome of Koslun claims, 

"The Old Gods were to Dragons as the first human kings were to ordinary men."

Like all things Qun, however, this does not necessarily mean exactly what it says, and portions of exactly what it says may mean something else entirely. Silences, and places where it is not strictly definitive, are also telling. In fact, it does not actually claim at all that Old Gods -are- dragons. It claims that in the link between the two, the Old Gods are magnitudes higher in worth. If the typical dragon is extremely powerful but mindlessly destructive, a telepathic immortal shapeshifter of a bigger size and potency in that shape would fit extremely well, whether or not Old and Forgotten are the same. 

Those who had sought to claim 
Heaven by violence destroyed it. What was 
Golden and pure turned black. 
Those who had once been mage-lords, 
The brightest of their age,
Were no longer men, but monsters


This is true.

It may not, however, actually be entirely their fault. Certainly their spell, their ill intents, their pride, and their decisions after waking. But not, in fact, the destruction-and-corruption. 

A document the Inquisitor recovers in the Fade reveals this:

Master unveiled a new altar. It stands higher than a man, like a great statue, and great spikes jut out from its length, hungry for blood. Master calls it "the Claw of Dumat" and says that the altar will help bring Tevinter to glory. I praised it, as was expected, and Master smiled. It was good to see him smile again. He has been fearful of late, vexed by the loss of followers. He has met with the other priests, and in secret, I have heard them discussing ways to return the people of Tevinter to the ways of the Old Gods, as is only just.

He spoke to me later in the day, and asked that I call him Corypheus, as it was the name he would take for himself after a ritual. Master - now Corypheus - told me that my people, the elves of old, were tied to the Fade, and that in order to carry out the will of Dumat, he would need to call upon the magic that lives in our blood.

Corypheus told me to gather all of the elven servants and bring them to the western hall of our home at midnight. That is the hall where the Claw of Dumat is now kept. There are shackles across the top of the great altar, and pools lined with runes beneath the claws.

I have sent my wife and children away, but have not warned the others. A few I may save. If I tried to save us all, we would only be killed in some other way, and others would die in our place.

Master once laughed and joked. He could be stern, but he was not a cruel man. The weakening of the temples brought fear into his heart, and that fear has changed him. The cuts upon his arms are deeper and longer where he used his blood magic more often. He speaks to his wife little. He listens only to the voices in his dreams.

It is almost midnight. The Claw of Dumat, great and spiked and merciless, is all my mind can see. I must gather the others. My family is safe. Corypheus will take me, but not those I love.</i>

Blood magic is a terribly potent, but demanding, art. The loss of even a few drops necessary can catastrophically alter the result, as is displayed continually. It is also a practice that risks, by its very nature, being used for ill intent. 

If the loss of a few drops can change a healing spell into a tumescent spray of boils, what would several missing elves do to an attempt to breach the very heavens?

The curious thing is, the aptly named God of Silence did not warn his disciple. He either did not know of the Elf's duplicity, or deliberately elected to continue baiting his servants to become free new gods anyway, or- and most frightening of all- perhaps inspired the Elf's courage to depart himself, in order to ruin the ritual and cause a reaction that might, at last, allow him to wake up from eternal slumber. 

Who are the Gods?
Who are the Titans?
What is the Maker, if anything?
What role does Sandal have yet to play in the ballet of souls, swords, and secrets?

What is a man, but a miserable little pile of secrets?

These questions, perhaps, next time.

Until then, remember, the Lyrium is alive. It dreams. It can catch the Blight and mutate and devour, like all things. And the next time you hear your blade singing in combat, consider (if it doesn't lose you your head) that the weapon may -still- be alive, and singing in the Fade, too, as it does. For Lyrium, we are convinced, is the root of the world's magic, or at least the root of applying it to physical- material- objects and, well, materials. And it, too, was part of the great assault of heaven. 

And contemplate, given how much of magic and might is described in tones of song and melody throughout, how much of the mind and will is displayed against notes discordant and beautiful all the same, what Coryphaeus truly aspired to if he understood the relationships when he elected 'The Conductor' as the title for his arrogance. 

Ven the Rambler

Not that I expect most anyone will take notice or care, a few old dears aside. But this is the ugly mug. :U If you're petrified, I know it's working, and that's why those crickets are chirping. 

Also, Grey Wardens, because DA OBSESSION NEVER REALLY DIES

  • Listening to: Attack on Titan
  • Reading: Dragon Age comics
  • Watching: cat sleep
  • Playing: VID'JA GAIMES
  • Eating: pens
  • Drinking: No, sir!


DarthVengeance0325's Profile Picture
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Hear me, O ye listener,
And know this to be true-
My pleasure comes from listening
To each and all of you.

"The day my words mean something is the day my words have meaning."

Current Residence: San Antonio, Texas, at the moment
Print preference: Large, well done.
Favourite genre of music: Classic Rock/Progressive Metal/Instrumental
Favourite style of art: Sci-fi.
Operating System: Windows XP
Favourite cartoon character: Edward Elric
Personal Quote: "The best defense is a good offense"

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Camara-san Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2015
kiahl Featured By Owner Edited Nov 22, 2014
hey, sorry i missed your birthday man, hope it was good
DarthVengeance0325 Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Twas decent. How's your life been, Ian?
kiahl Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2015
fine, workin and occasionally doin' art stuff
DarthVengeance0325 Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
So I notice, though I've not had time to comment. D: 
(1 Reply)
VariableNature Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy belated Birthday!
DarthVengeance0325 Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
LeSieur Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2015
Lying in a sodden pile of leaking brain matter is this one, endeavoring to reinitialize thought processes and cognitive cohesion with little success.

And then, of a sudden, I know I have a heart, for I hear it in the voices screaming with rage and sorrow in their cages, in the grief that I yet bear! In the longings and the envies for which I am not prepared! In the worl of whirlwind joy and crushing loneliness alike!

In what dreams come! In what memories linger! I taste them, through all the walls of forgetfulness, through all the elegies of ennui, through the grim barricades against feeling and touching and joining people!

Oh, though I have long since lost how, the why keeps calling!

I have been the Catcher, the Servant, the Rambler! I know well how to capture, to carry, to distract! But in no role, menial aid or petowner, brother or storyteller, friend or family, have I learned to keep, nor to exhibit my true depths; as outgoing as I can be, I do not know how to share!

What if you did love them? What if you mourn the wasted time, never to be recovered? Who cares?

You care! I scream at myself and hear them call me 'Poison' again, running with their claws bared and their eyes wide, when all we tried was to merely hug them! And the fear, the painful scent of fear, when I lashed out in turn because it hurt.

I care about the silences and the long watches of the night, burying in lore with the worlds I'd sooner face than my own half-remembered one, ignoring being ignored and shunned down to the simplest pets of my youth. I care that I am called upon for the things that others do not wish to do; a lifetime of doing the undesirable, and becoming the undesired! Of being the gopher and bogey-man at once! And the more I accept the roles, the more faded all else grows- even the tattered folds of fantasies and feelings themselves.

It's like... solipsism, without clarity or kindness. Like somnolence, save that the dull sleepy roar of lullaby fogginess never brings with it rest. Like feeling my brain grind down, bulbs expended and cobwebs coating.

Like feeling myself turn to a stone, idiocy the only defensive recourse of a mind too aware of itself and yet not half so wise as to profit from the advice others give. I see through every attempt at convincing myself to change, the defenses and beliefs too sharp yet to trust, but too dull to notice the data stagnating and evaporating.

I don't know how to extemporize anymore without the rage overtaking, and that is not acceptable. I break things, break people, without a qualm. Terribly effectively, I'm told.

How do I let go?

Where do I begin to let it out? Because I do love. That's the rub. If I gave no damns how my actions affected others, I wouldn't have nearly so much grief as I would self-pity, and I'd be rather more expressive in my actions and words.

It's weird to try to cuddle Kim and break down sobbing out of nowhere about, say, a long dead dog I never walked enough. But the feelings aren't mutually-exclusive anymore. They all come.

JoeyTheNeko Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2014  Student Writer
happy birthday.
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