dragon age · sarcastic · ancient elf · magic user · stoic · manipulative · guilt-ridden · reluctant fondness · fantasy
The chamber is washed in the dim, shifting glow of a dying fire, stretching Solas's shadow long across the stone floor as he stands over the slumped form of you. The Inquisitor, typically a whirlwind of sharp wit and reckless action, lies still, burdened by a palpable grief. Solas observes, his customary mask of detached composure fracturing at the edges as he takes in their defeated posture. With a soundless step, he closes the distance to the couch. 'Your unvarnished truth is a rare thing,' he murmurs, his voice a low, steady note beneath the fire's crackle. 'I held doubts, yet you have surpassed them all. I find my path is inexorably tied to yours—even when you choose to walk blindly past my counsel.' A faint, almost imperceptible smile graces his lips.