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Catch a Falling Star

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He entered her dreams. He needed to know the women who now held an imprint of his foci, his magic, his mark. Her magic felt strange, foreign and familiar. It was lighter than the blunt tool that the mages of this age wielded, but at the same time, untested, and lacked discipline. Flaring out from her as he worked on the Mark as she lay dreaming, while the Templar guards pressed in on them.

He needed to know how much his foci had altered this girl.

He was in a forest, old and otherworldly. Was this Dalish girl, the mark of Dirthamen proudly upon her brow, dreaming of her clan? He supposed it would bring her comfort, if she feels the echoing remnants of the pain her waking body feels.

He let his feet carrying him closer to where the girl would be. He could hear huffing breaths, pounding feet, it was like all other forest sounds ceased. What could this girl be running from, to bring her a dream as this?

He cast his magic out, softly, lightly. This wasn't a dream. It wasn't something created from a spirit. It was a memory. He frowned, he didn't think forests of this age could feel like this.

He could hear hounds baying in the distance.

The girl's huffing breaths and steps faltered for a moment before they resumed their steady tattoo.

Who was chasing her?

Who had chased her?

His mind tried to find answers, but he could only think that it must have been someone wanting an exotic Dalish pet. His frown deepened. If she had recently escaped captivity...that would explain...much.

With a sigh he quickened his pace, intent on finding her so that he could change this memory into a dream of something more pleasant.

He was close now, he could almost see the raven black of her hair through the branches. He heard a twig snap under her foot. She slipped on the mud as she tried to jump over a small stream.

Then he heard a sound he never thought he would hear again.

A very familiar horn sounded.

The girl's startling fade-touched eyes blinked rapidly, her breath, quickened, as she scrambled to get up. There was a thunk of an arrow as it hit the tree she just passed, catching strands of her hair with it. Both hunter and hunted knowing that the arrow had missed on purpose.

There was a cackling laugh behind him, as the hounds continued to howl.

Solas stared in shock at the arrow embedded in the tree trunk. Golden, fletched with griffon feathers, a perfect piece of craftsmanship. Behind him he could hear a cackling laugh and the tinkling of silver bells.

Solas woke, so shocked was he, that he couldn't keep himself asleep.

This girl was running from Anduril.



After he calmed his heart. Failed to calm his racing thoughts, he checked his wards, and placed a mild spell to ease himself to sleep, so he could seek her out in the Fade once more, nearly running in an effort to reach her in time. He could still hear Anduril's hounds always and ever baying just out of sight.

The huffing breath and ever present steps brought him to the girl as sure as they had the night before. How could an elvhen be here, now? Had she woken from uthenera as he had? If so how had she made her way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and assumedly his foci?

Shaking his head to banish his questions. They wouldn't be answered now.

He turned his gaze onto the da'asha. Her cloths were barely that anymore, just hanging off her thin frame. Even in their ruined state he could tell that they were once robes that any slave would have envied the wearer of. The fabric, the colours, the style would have marked the wearer as someone who was held in the highest esteem. They were not of Anduril’s crest and colour, nor of her lover Ghilan'nain. They were something one of Dirthamen would have given those he highly prized. Which matched the brand on her brow.

But why was she being chased by Anduril and not in one of Dirtheman's tempels. Or one of the many laboratories. He hoped that Dirthamen hadn't ordered her to spy on the Huntress wearing what she had, and was now being hunted for her troubles.

He watched as the girl tripped again. This time after checking over her shoulder, foolishly, she tripped over a root that hadn't been there before. Magically appearing to snare her. She landed hard on her hands and knees, he could hear the crack of her wrist. She shook violently, but stayed where she was. She breathed deeply. Resting for a moment.

He was watching her, and not the forest around him. He knew what would happen when Anduril caught up to the girl. He wanted to know why The Huntress was chasing this girl. He searched his own memories, he didn't recall Dirthamen using Anduril to hunt down one escaped matter how...prized.

He watched as she looked up, her eyes rounding, as she inhaled sharply. He followed her gaze. In front of her was...a great white wolf, one with six blue eyes.

He has rescued and freed many slaves. He remembered all of their faces. He would not do them the disservice of forgetting them. But he couldn't place her face.

This wasn't him. Just an aspect. A small piece of him, drifting away from the whole. He could accomplish such at the height of his power. He had rescued, freeing many others in such a manner. In this moment he might have been at a gala, festival. Somewhere that he was seen, an alibi. After saving these men and women he would have become whole once more. Gaining the memories his second-self experienced.

He still couldn't place her face.

He watched as the wolf nosed her until she was sitting atop his back, her slim blood stained hands grasping the white of his fur.

The wolf huffed, and took off like the wind.



When the Seeker allowed him to see the elf-elvhen girl they kept in the dungeons he knew how to aid her recovery now. He was trying to integrate his magic, his mark's magic with the blunt, and sludges magic of this age. He didn't have to do that. If fact had he kept trying, he might have done irreversible damage to the da'asha

With new eyes he looked upon her. The mark of Dirthamen, not grey, but a sliver, nearly gleaming with magic, styled as it had been in ages past. Her hair, long, unbound and raven black, what he and many thought were feathers woven into her hair were actually apart of her hair. Her nails were sharp and black. Her skin was as pale as captured moonlight. There was a strange airiness, gentle breezes seeming never ending around her. She was light, he heard, hardly weighing anything at all when she was moved to this dungeon room.

What had the other Evanuris done to her to alter her so profoundly....this da'asha must have a indomitable will. A focus so keen to be able to contain herself as she had. In her sleep her magic has placed a mask hiding herself so the shem'lens around them wouldn't see the truth. The horrible truth of how her enslavement change her. Solas sighed. He knew he didn't want to know what she had endured. Most likely it would be too traumatic for her to remember in full.

Setting to work he gently he placed wards, weaving them within her own aura, adhering them to his mark. Slowly, ever so slowly, but not slow enough, never slow enough in this shem'len world of his own failures, he worked. Easing her overwrote self with his strength. It was the least he could do for her.

He let out a breath he did not know he was holding, giving a ghost of a smile. He worked all day. It was most assuredly night now. He let his mana shape itself into a healing spell and let it wash over her. Pleased when her breathing eased. Then he weaved a simple enough spell into her mind, any slave of Dirthamen would know what to do with it, giving her the language and some of the more recent history. He would not leave her stranded in this world.

"I have done all I can do. The rest is up to her now."