Moving quietly through the all-too-familiar keep, Mythal observes the scene she comes upon with mild amusement. Her new daughter's birth-twin, and her shem best friend seem to be holding a bit of an impromptu competition...

"What about this one?" Tylaise inquires, drawing a deeply purple flame forth in his hand, eyes shining with the same fiery glow.

"Pfft," Dorian dismisses the spell off-handedly, "a parlor trick. Amusing, but pointless. Come now, surely if you've trained in necromancy, you know something more advanced than..." he waves vaguely at the now fading display of magic, a less than impressed expression clouding his features, "that. Show me something interesting, and I might consider teaching you a few things."

"I'd take him up on his offer if I were you, Tylaise; for a human, he's rather talented," Mythal supplies as she makes herself known to the pair, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

Tylaise and Dorian both turn toward her at her suggestion, Dorian offering a small nod, Tylaise a slightly more groveling bow of respect.

"All-Mother, I didn't expect to see you again, so soon. What brings you to this corner of the keep?" asks the still half-bowing elf.

Dorian nods slightly. "I must confess my own curiosity on that front; I hadn't thought you'd remain after delivering our fearless leader home. To what do we owe the honor?"

Mythal looks between the two of them with an apparently studious expression. After a moment, she gives them a wise smile. "I have many reasons to remain, for a time. As for why I'm here in particular," she specifies, looking to Tylaise, "I aim to speak to you, Tylaise. Alone," she adds pointedly, glancing up at Dorian.

Before Dorian can reply, Tylaise speaks up, "If I may, All-Mother, I know of a place we could speak with relative privacy, if that is your wish."

Her brow tilts just a hair in surprise, a tiny smirk forming before she acquiesces, tipping her head gently, "Certainly." She gestures toward the stairs. "Lead the way, da'len."

~O~O~O~O~

Tylaise turns, eyes wide once he faces the stairs, taking a breath to steady trembling nerves. He'd had enough happen in the past two days, without being pressed into a private conversation with one of the Creators, for Andruil's... fenedhis, that's really not helping! He leads the way down the stairs and across the main hall into the garden, doing his best not to simply implode on the spot. The weather being a bit miserable today, there are very few outside, so it's relatively simple to find a quiet, secluded bench to sit on. He stops beside it, turns and gestures toward it in obvious invitation. He waits until she chooses a spot and stiffly sits as far away from her as he can, without being rude.

"Do you think I'm going to bite, boy? I may turn into a dragon, but I'm not one right now," comes her sharp reprimand.

He looks at her briefly and huffs a sigh, deflating a bit as a pang of regret burns in his gut. "No, of course not, I just... well, I'm not exactly sure what the protocol is here. Not everyday you get asked to a private conversation with a Creator. Maybe there was a time that was a common occurrence, but it's not now."

A soft chuckle he barely catches rolls around in his ears before dissipating. "There's the truth, if I ever heard it. Well, not to worry child, I've come to you with an offer, nothing more."

Tylaise holds a hand up, already shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but I already told you all, I'm not ready to make that decision yet. I need time to consider—"

"Do you always assume people are going to beat their heads against the wall of a single question until either they or the wall breaks, Tylaise?" she evenly interjects.

He stops short, staring at her; hand still half-mast. "What?"

"You assumed I was going to offer immortality again, yes?" she clarifies.

He considers her query, eyes searching the spaces around her, slowly tilting his head in thought before returning his gaze to her. "I did... It seems I was wrong, however. Apologies. Please, continue."

She nods graciously, seeming somewhat bemused by him, for whatever reason. "Thank you. My offer is thus: that you become ambassador to the Dalish clans for my family, those you call the Creators. Our numbers may be diminished now, but that will change with time. It is high time the proper story is told, and your people prepared for what is coming."

He sits, blinking for a few long moments, then swallows firmly. "I... see."

Mythal's vessel reaches over, a gauntleted hand clasping over his knee and patting it gently. "I'll give you some time to think it over. If you have questions, write them on this." She procures a small book and charcoal stick from thin air as she stands and hands them to him. "When you are certain of your answer, I'll visit again. In the meantime, consider carefully."

He looks up at her and she smiles, before promptly disappearing, to his utter astonishment. He casts about for any sign of her, but there is none to be had. He frowns down at the tiny book in his hands, and opens it carefully to the first page, which seems to already have something written on it.

"Consider carefully."

He arches a brow at the page, once more foolishly looking around to see if she'd somehow reappeared. Finding only a few other fellow mortals, who give him no more consideration than a speck of dirt, he returns his focus to the paper. Again he frowns at it, this time in confusion, as he witnesses the now clean page before him. He flips to the next page, which is also blank, then back, before closing the book entirely in frustrated consternation.

What kind of god offers such an important position to someone like him? Certainly not one in their right mind. He'd never been known as a particularly... diplomatic elf. Oh, he could certainly talk or bluff his way out of many situations, but that was usually only after he'd gotten himself into a fix that needed getting out of. Otherwise, diplomatic relations were not exactly his strong suit. The only real reason he could see for Mythal's offer was his relation to... well. Her new.. daughter?

Not attempting to wrap his head around that one just yet, thank you. Soon, but not now.

Regardless, it seems the most likely candidate for Mythal's reasoning. It certainly isn't his glaring lack of any other qualifications. He opens the book after a reluctant moment, and poises the charcoal over it, pressing down to write...

"I'm not my sister. I'm no diplomat. Why me?"

It's a moment before the rough charcoal scrawl fades from the page, replaced by,

"We don't need a diplomat. We need a First who has a stake in spreading the truth about the Creators among the clans. That's you."

He pauses, mulling that over in his head as he slides the tip of his tongue over the edges of his teeth. He looks back down, preparing to write again, tongue captured between his teeth.

"So you need a puppet."

The words are burned from the page this time, the ashes of the charcoal falling down and turning into the next lines to appear,

"If I needed a puppet, I could raise a corpse and speak to them through it. I have no need of a mouthpiece. What I do need is someone who's seen the truth first-hand, has been convinced of its veracity, and can relay it honestly to others of his kind."

He nibbles his lower lip thoughtfully, then lifts an eyebrow and puts coal to parchment.

"Then it's a missionary you need. And an intermediary. The medium of contact, as it were."

This time, his text calmly falls into the next words,

"You're starting to get the idea now. Still think you're not the elf for the job?"

He peers up at the cloudy sky, pondering her question. He responds with a few of his own.

"What would the job entail, in precise terms? What's in it for me, exactly? How long-term would this be? Would I be visiting all the clans? Some of them are outright hostile to strangers, you know."

He waits a bit longer than usual for the response. He spends the time watching the clearly Orlesian couple snogging on the bench across from him, a slightly amused smirk on his lips. When he finally tears his eyes away from them, there's a reply waiting for him.

"You'd be traveling to all known approachable clans, and speaking directly to their Keepers and Firsts, as a representative of the Creators. It would last for as long as you are able to complete the task; whether that is your entire life, or merely a portion of it, depending on your eventual life span. The benefits would be the favor of my family, and the ability to frequently see your sister. I imagine there would also be a fairly high amount of prestige derived from being our ambassador, amongst your peers.

I won't lie to you: this will be no easy task. I know convincing them will be difficult, especially given the centuries of outright lies that have been circulated regarding us. But I believe that, if there is anyone who could be persistent enough to manage this task, it is you, Tylaise of clan Lavellan."

He purses his lips as he reads it over again, taking a slow breath, then letting it flow from him unregulated as he once more searches the heavens. He bobs his knee impatiently while he weighs his options. His still pinched lips tug to one corner of his mouth as he bends to press charred coal to paper once more.

"I'll need to speak to my Keeper before I give my answer. I've no second to replace me, but... I have to admit, it's a unique situation. There's a lot to consider. If I could beg some time to think on it all, I would be most grateful."

The response is almost immediate.

"I'm not the one with limited time, Tylaise. But take what time you need. Take your sister with you, when you speak to your Keeper. She insists."

He huffs a minute laugh at the last bit, shaking his head and closing his eyes, resting back against the wall. Of course she does.

~O~O~O~O~

Fen'len groans her frustration into the air, shaking her hands out and taking a breath. "Again," she demands, determination in her tone.

"Te," Fen'harel denies, slashing the air before him with his hand. "We are finished for now. You can resume training in Uthenera."

Lavellan seems taken aback, confused, then annoyed at his refusal. "Resuming tonight is all well and fine, but should I not train as much as I possibly can?"

He flashes her a fond smile, shaking his head slightly. "You have more than enough time to train, 'ma sa'lath. You need to start thinking in terms of your status. Your lifespan is infinite now, barring a violent death. It is true that we need help on the front lines, and I wish you to be prepared before you join us there, but impatience will get you nowhere in training, with anyone but father." He pauses, gaze sliding up to the ceiling as he ponders, before dropping back down to her. "..And possibly Dirthamen. The rest value patience and learning a concept thoroughly before proceeding to the next. It would behoove you to display such patience now," he concludes, in a gentle, instructive tone.

He watches as she eyes him speculatively for a few moments, then dips her chin infinitesimally, looking as if her concentration is a thousand miles away. She doesn't seem particularly displeased, at least. "Alright. I do want to practice something before I go, at least. You don't have to stay, if you'd rather not," she adds, waving him off as she turns, taking slow, ponderous steps toward the heart's foci.

He tilts his head, naturally curious. "I can stay if you like, of course. What is it you wish you practice?"

Fen'len tosses a faint smile over her shoulder at him, along with the answer. "My wolf. She doesn't... feel right."

He frowns slightly, belatedly following her, observing as she trails her fingertips along the grooves in the foci. "What is it you believe feels wrong about her?"

She shakes her head, her worried expression more visible now as she comes to a halt on the opposite side of the foci from him. Her eyes lift from the diamond to meet his gaze evenly. "I'm not sure. It felt like there was something missing, for some reason. I'm not sure what she looked like, other than huge, so I'm not entirely certain what would be missing, if anything. It just felt... odd."

He chuckles softly. "She—you, rather, were not so large as you assume. No larger than I, at my first attempt with my own wolf. We change our size to suit the situation; there is no set size that a god's true self must take. As for her appearance, I can describe it to you... or, I suppose, we could adjourn to our quarters, and you could simply use the mirror there to see for yourself." He shrugs gently, smiling at her in quiet peace.

It's an expression she doesn't echo. Her features remain pinched in the slightly worried, morose form she'd pressed them into. "Yes, I suppose that might help," she supplies, nodding.

Somehow, he's unconvinced. He takes a step closer to her, mild concern allowed to display itself in his visage, despite the thudding of his heart behind the facade. He reaches out hesitantly, not quite touching her arm as he inquires, "Is something the matter, vhen'an'ara?"

Her sight lifts from her hands where they rest on the foci, to level with his once more. "No, I'm just worried." She smiles softly, one hand dragging his over to rest on her arm, placing her hand over his and giving a reassuring squeeze; her gaze settles on their point of contact. "The future is an uncertain thing now. This could change everything I know about, or only alter what comes after." She lifts her hand, her fingers tracing the patterns of the lines on the back of his hand. "I can't see it, yet. It troubles me. It's difficult to lead without knowing the steps of the dance from here."

He purses his lips on a smile that threatens to tug at his mouth, though he can do nothing about the softening around his eyes which truly gives him away. He lifts his hand and hers in the process, threading his opposite hand between her arm and waist, coming to rest on her side. He lets the smile form on his lips as he replies, "Then let me lead, and you won't have to worry so much."

She arches a brow skeptically, a half smile, half objection rising on her lips before he shushes her with a quick, chaste kiss.

He carefully starts to lead her from behind the foci, taking slow, gradual steps as if already dancing. When they clear any obstructions, he begins the steps in earnest, showing off a bit if he's honest, leading her in a dance he'd learned in his youth.

To his only mild surprise, she follows quite well, though she obviously doesn't know the steps. She chimes in as she looks up from their feet, eying him with a curious expression as it makes its way to her face, "What do you suggest then, sa'lath? Would you become my advisor, officially?"

He tilts one eyebrow, interest piqued. "You don't believe that alone would alter events significantly?" He smirks, shaking his head. "But no, that is not what I meant. I simply meant that you allow me to shoulder some of the burden of planning and contingencies. To help you prepare for whatever outcomes may persist from this change. There will be consequences of this, though what they are, I cannot say. It is never obvious, in the beginning."

"What were the consequences of you being raised?" she asks, her eyes reflecting his face back at him from their depths.

He answers with sorrow in his voice, "I could not prevent my sister's arrogance from destroying the best of us in the height of her madness. I firmly believe that is the consequence I personally garnered for my power. As for the lot of us, look around you, at the world we live in. Our hubris broke this land, and suffered it and its people to live a half life—not even that, really. We fight to make it right, but... we are worn ragged. You've seen us; we are in no fit state to rule anything, nor do we deserve to."

She shakes her head at him, confusion evident in her pristine features. "But that was only the versions of you that are in Uthenera. Your bodies are unchanged from their original states, are they not? Well, apart from Mythal's, I suppose."

He sighs, looking her over as if considering his answer carefully. "True, to a point. But when one's spirit is broken, it is unlikely one will be in a fit state to rule."

Fen'len frowns, peering up at him with concern, the hand that'd rested on his shoulder lifting to cup his cheek. "Is your spirit broken, Fen'harel?"

The old wolf smiles down at his not-so-little wolf. "Not when I look at you, 'ma fen."