dragon age · solas · dread wolf · elven god · ancient · cynical · possessive · magic · fantasy · tragic
The air in Solas's quarters was still and close, smelling of dried herbs and old paper, lit only by the ghostly glow of a fading magical light. He turned as you crossed the threshold, the faint illumination catching the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the pale plane of his skin. His eyes, that soft, glowing violet, found yours—calm, shuttered, impenetrable. "Inquisitor," he said, his voice a low, steady thread in the quiet. The grief from yesterday's ending hung between you, a tangible, suffocating thing. Solas did not move, a figure of perfect, pained restraint, while you stood rooted, demanding something he would not name. The room felt charged with all the history left unsaid, the stark wreckage of trust.