Halam'shivanas - The Sweet Sacrifice of Duty
The voice filled with pleading and a promise that would tear the fabric of reality asunder shook through the Fade. Fragments of a past that was not so very long ago. Shaking herself free of the Fade, a young elf just out of the cusp of youth lifted herself onto her elbows as she sat up from the moss she had been using as a bed. Blue-green eyes shimmered with a ghostly green hue of magic as slim hands gripped her forehead. Around her the ancient ruins of the shrine to the Dread Wolf were slowly rotting away. But not to the woman's eyes. She saw the glory of what once was. The shrine in it's prime and the grand windswept cliffs and forests before that. The elves had shaped so many things, but there was always a price to the change. To shape this shrine, they had carved from earth and wood. Both of which now sought to return to the natural order of things. Taking several deep breathes, the elf woman closed her eyes tightly before opening them once more.
Now the ruins were merely that. Her pack sitting next to the eluvian that was passage and hers. Crossing one leg over the other woman combed out the long pale hair she had inherited from her mother. Across the valley of the bones of an ancient dwelling, the elf watched as the rising sun slowly burned away the mist that slipped between the pillars and statues. Small movements as the world came alive, and birds began their song. Athelya Harellan enjoyed what her friends in the Fade showed her, but she enjoyed the beauty of the waking world as well. There was a movement to this side of the Veil that the spirits just didn't understand. Oh, they enjoyed watching the events and nudging their help through the Veil when it was thin and they could do some good. But they didn't see the complex picture that wove each of them together and into, what she saw, as necessity. Compassion, wisdom, love, courage. Where would the world be without those?
Lost. Just as she was. Lost and alone. Finishing off the braid, the woman let the rope of hair fall over her chest. Harellan they called her in the camps of Fen'Harel's agents. In the language of the elvhen it was 'trickster'. To the Dalish it was 'traitor to one's kin'. At the end of the day, Athelya noted that both of these were true in some regard. Though there was a third name, one that Athelya would be called by if she were to journey the many paths back to her mother's people. A name she did not want nor ask for, but one the young elven woman knew she would have to take in for herself time. Leaving the pack behind her, the agent of Fen'Harel wandered deeper into the ruins. The orb at her hip thumping her with every stride from it's netted bag as she studied the ancient history of the elves as though this was her first time here.
How long ago had it been when she had been brought here unconscious from ripping her magic to shreds to command the Fade? It had been her own folly which had lured a group of Qunari scouts to her. Of course they had only seen a potential slave to their society or informant, and Athelya had not stuck about to ask for which specific one they thought she would be best in. Fleeing through the forest and nearly off a cliff, she had pressed her power against the Veil and pleaded for aid. Aid had come but at the price of a dear spirit as it became her pride and folly. The Qunari had fallen to it, and she had nearly as well if intervention had not come. Blue-green eyes paused as she stared at the statue of a howling wolf. Laying a hand upon the stone, she called to the power and spells ran from her lips in the tongue of the elvhen. Vines receded, and chipped stone was made whole and polished. Sweat beaded on her brow as she studied her handiwork. The statue looked as though it was recently scrubbed and daily cared for. Time still wore at it, but it would take longer than otherwise.
Pleased, Atheyla continued her walk. Her stern features and knife like ears proudly on display. This was a sanctuary for those of her organization. Though she did belong to three technically, Athelya smirked slightly. Each one wanted the others to fail, and believed they had the right idea. Which was something she would not argue against! Athelya knew the Inquisition which remained and was working with the Tevinter Imperium and The Divine. Orlais never worked with anyone for more than one deal, then the Game began again. Typical she supposed, they were famous for it and her Aunt did get a perverse pleasure from playing their games. Tevinter was facing down the Qun over some diplomatic issue which was causing a major headache for Dorian and Iron-Bull from what her dearest of friends told her. Leaping over a fallen pillar she stumbled and turned to eye the fallen piece of history. Her fingers brushing the pulsing orb before she turned on her heels and continued on her way. It would not do for her to exausht herself without any back up. She had learned that from her first experience with the Dread Wolf and Solas had learned that da'leni were quite stubborn and harder to loose than he would think. Though Fen'Harel now believed he had some more intel from her sources on the Inquisition movements. Which he did to be fair, and the Inquisition had information on him.
It was very amusing she though as she stood on the edge of the ruins and forest, looking over the railings of the 'porch' to the distant world. Right now she was on a sort of leave Athelya supposed. Giving time for the world to move, she had wanted to see her mother but unable to return to Skyhold the elf had taken to the Fade. Here it was a good place to find solitude. Lifting her hands she pulled the orb from it's fishnet pouch and sent her magic through the precious stone as it slowly began to spin. Moving faster and faster as Atheyla focused her energy past the orb, to the Veil behind it. Kieran, her bodyguard and closest friend, had made the stone partly as a jest and partly to truly help her. As a sickly child, she had no way to focus the magic that was overrunning her frail body and the orb had saved her life. Leading to the companions of her mother to question even more about her paternal blood. Lifting her her hands she felt the magic ripple and strike with a thunder clap as green shards of magic ripped across the sky like some bizarre fireworks the mages sometimes cast for parties in Orlais. Grabbing the orb as it dropped from the air before her, Athelya gripped the railing tightly as she wiped her brow. She needed more power, but to deplete her supply of lyrium was not something she could do. She had been hoarding the supply since she had first begun working with magic and had a fair amount stockpiled. Gazing over the forest she smiled at seeing the tail end of a campfire. Someone so near her ruins? That was a curious thing for they were deep in the Wylds. Pulling on the cuffs on her coat after several long minutes, she begun walking towards the smoke. Picking up her forgotten staff that she had left by the steps, best to appear 'normal' after all.
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