A forgotten lord of a forgotten kingdom. Born the eldest of a large family, the one be held prisoner, slave, to watch the rest of his family fall to the sword and blighted magics, to watch his kingdom burn. Elgar’nan ensured that he saw it all. How dare they call themselves royal, to be more than the Evanuris? A lesson spelt out in blades and whips on skin time and time again until the once boisterous, loud, happy creature could do little more than shudder and serve in obedience. Never would he forget who brought them to heel; Which heel exactly it was that crushed.

Princelings fall.

Strength and grace stolen. Face, hands, and forearms decorated in the vines of a god who only held oppression for him. There was not a sound from him as they were applied. It was the last shred of dignity that he could hold on to. Never again would there be a cry of pain from him. He would not give them the satisfaction. Compared to all else he endured, this was nothing. Let them make their gilded marks.

Let them believe he was harmless.

There was one who didn’t. One who saw through the facade of obedience and reserved natures and saw the fire that still burned within. He came in dreams, turned them, befriended the sleeping elf. Solas gave him purpose. A promise of freedom made if he was willing to help others in turn. A friendship that deepened over the course of 2700 years. The voice in the darkness that kept him sane. His work was straightforward but no less dangerous. Help the others escape. Be patient. Retain hope.

Hope comes in the strangest of forms.

Silas was an enigmatic thing, courting danger with the gods and kings alike. An elf with the most brilliant green eyes he’d ever seen. Who bargained for his freedom like an object to be owned, but met him with welcoming arms and compassion. Silas took him away from the pain he had endured for milenia and let him feel the sunlight on his skin once more. Who showed him the beauty that still existed in the world he’d almost forgotten existed beyond the confines of his imprisonment.

Freedom had come at last.

With freedom comes hard conversations. A weariness had settled into his bones where love for Silas had warmed his heart. ”I’m tired, Solas… so tired.” he’d once said to perhaps the only friend he’d ever truly had in those long stretching years. ”It is time my watch ends. I have no more to give and I want to see the beautiful things in the world. I want to love and be loved. But I will always be here, I will always answer your call if I am needed again.” Never would he turn his back on his friend but the time had come to walk away from the existence he had led, even if his history was painted on his skin.

History is something bound to repeat itself unless studied.

Free to do as he wished with a life that was suddenly his again, Faelyn found himself in the study of the arcane where he could no longer draw a bow. A nose stuck in tomes alongside his newfound friend in Cian and Hollis, Silas frequently dragging them out to the meadows to relax. It was in these bright days that his love grew, the eventual nights curled up into both of their sides were some of the sweetest. There had been promises made that these days would come, and for so long he had been so patient.

4,600 years of weariness has a way of catching up with a soul.

”I’m tired, sweet one… I need rest.” had been the words that bore repeating, though it was not Solas this time that needed to let go. It was Cian’s hand that he held, his side that he leaned into and whispered those words. Though it was in Silas’s arms that he closed his eyes and greeted uthenera, wrapped it around him like a well worn blanket and slept. He dreamed, so peacefully, sometimes reflecting on the past thousand years that he had found happiness in, sometimes he couldn’t help himself in the urge to revisit all of the things he had learned as he walked the fade, never quite minding how far he had truly gone.

The earth screamed.

She screamed and shook in her anger and pain, and the world around Faelyn snapped his eyes open, ripped him from his slumber. The stone of the alcove where the lovers had laid sleeping cracked and crumbled. It was instinctual for the small elf to try and shield the still sleeping Silas, fear ripping through him as the stone fell, pelted his body without a care to those it fell upon.

Nature does not care if you live or die.

It seemed like eons stretched before him before the earth finally stopped her tormented anger. And still Silas slept. Battered and bruised, ribs cracked under the pressing of stone, it seemed that the final ”I love you.” before he closed his eyes would be the last he would ever get to utter. Screaming pain bubbled up in his chest, echoed off of the ruins around him, filled his mouth with a horrid sound. All of the air in his lungs turned to anger, to pain that he couldn’t allow himself to feel in slavery, to the injustice of it all. He would die as he spent most of his life.

Trapped.

”Get up.” came the hissed words through his mind, a voice that he had come to know over the thousands of years of studying his magic. A voice that had kept him going through the years. A spirit that edged him on and reminded him that there was more. ”Get up and move, princeling. You are not to die here.”

”I can not move.” the stone that pressed against his back weighed more than he ever could have imagined.

”MOVE!” his voice was thunderous in its command.

Movement had not been Faelyn’s strong suit since the early days of his existence. But he pushed upwards, the pain searing across his broken ribs and leaving him lacking breath but there was no going back.

This would not be their tomb.

Turning his head up, there was only a small sliver of light that leaked through the rubble, dust traveling across it, promising a current of air. Stone by stone, root by root, Faelyn clawed his way to the surface, an agonizing process that took days, but he did not remain on the surface. Once more he returned below, his muscles aching for so long that he could no longer feel his limbs. Now came the task of dragging Silas to freedom with him, despite the fact that the elf was more than a foot taller than he.

He would not leave his lover to die here.

When he’d finally reached Arlathan, Silas pulled along on a makeshift sledge, he was on the point of collapse, though it was his shock and horror that his words spoken in his tongue of elvhen were not understood, striking fear into his heart until he could still find some common ground in the old trade languages. Eventually healed of his wounds, fed, and given water, he found himself among those far younger, slowly piecing together the vast length of time that he had slept, and the horrors that the world had faced while he had.

Cian was out there, facing this alone.

The grief of it ripped at his heart, though he could not abandon their still sleeping husband to search for himself. His nights were spent curled up next to Silas, finding what comfort he could in what warmth he had to give, his days spent in the archives, putting his knowledge of the old ways to paper, and sending word as far as he could that he was searching for his husband.

An effort that for four years, has been in vain.

Alone be continues his studies in the depth of the archives in Arlathan, hardly paid much mind to those around him in his reserved and closed off nature, for there are very few who would take the time needed to see the warmth beneath his scars and gilded vallaslin.

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Uncommon Shift - Red Lion
Note from 4/26 leveling - there are 34 unused foci to be assigned later after discussion with Bach to figure out new foci for Faelyn

A note to others: This character speaks both the common tongue and sign language with fluidity, and will use sign language in places where he may feel vulnerable or untrusting of his voice. Assume unless otherwise noted that he is speaking the common tongue and verbally.