It is funny how quickly he has adjusted to shemlen life.

He'd never been suited to being First, and he doubted he would ever have made much of a Keeper. Cocky, loud, far too quick-tempered, he'd lacked the innate nurturing instinct and wisdom that made Deshanna such a beloved leader. She'd done what she could to teach him patience, promised him that he would grow into the role, but it had never been something he'd wanted for himself. Deshanna had sent him to the conclave to try and exorcise some of that restlessness, likely hoping that a taste of the unknown would be enough for him. Had things turned out differently, he supposed it would have had to. Despite his misgivings, he would have ignored his own desires and knuckled down to do his duty, put the clan's needs above his own wants. As the only other mage in the clan, he'd been the only possibility.

The first few weeks – months, if he was honest with himself – had been strange, stranded in this alien world with little idea how to act. While his clan had traded with the humans, openly mingled with them, he'd never slept a full night indoors before the conclave and he'd found himself embarrassingly claustrophobic at being restrained to the little stone cottage they'd assigned him at Haven. Ridiculous, considering how much more confined an aravel had been, but being literally walled off from the outside world had caused unquestionable panic.

Now he wouldn't trade the ornate, sumptuous Orlesian bed he'd had installed in his quarters at Skyhold for anything. Boots, too, were something he was unwilling to surrender, or proper cutlery and tables to eat from. Knowledge that was written down and wasn't constrained to the same, repetitive histories, trundled out time and time again at important events until even the da'len could recite the words from heart. At least his position as First had ensured that he could read and write; he wasn't sure he would have survived the embarrassment of having to be taught by any of his companions. The melting pot of the Inquisition had widened his world so much that returning to clan life would seem small and restrictive in comparison. Even if he did manage to survive whatever was to come, which seemed extremely unlikely, he would never willingly return to that life.

For now he just enjoys it, shamelessly exploiting whatever luxury he can get his hands on. He has armour broken down and remade because he does not like the colour and flavours his meals with exotic spices imported from Tevinter. While he cannot escape the fact that the markings on his face paint him irrevocably Dalish, he twists it to suit his purposes, taking advantage of those that underestimate him as a savage, ignorant knife-ear. He has taken to the Game like a fish to water, and he will not willingly discard any mask that might give him an advantage. If others are attracted to the exotic, well, his bed is never wanting for willing participants.

Despite all this, he has not turned his back on his heritage. While both Sera and Solas are openly derisive of the Dalish, he is still proud of his people and still keeps to some of the traditions. There is room in his life to include everything, old and new, and plenty that he misses about clan life. He has come to appreciate privacy, of finally being able to put down the masks and just be himself where nobody else can see, but he misses the closeness of clan that had made it unnecessary. Sometimes he finds himself lonely, even with a warm body snuggled up to his side, missing the familial closeness that clan had always represented. He has found something of a kindred soul in Dorian, who seems to yearn for the same tactile companionship for entirely different reasons, and it is not surprising that the rumours paint them as committed lovers. He supposes, given his other activities, that he has not yet attempted to seduce the other man, but he values his friendship far too much to cheapen it with meaningless sex, scared that it would change the dynamic between them. He loves Dorian, but it is far closer to family than lover.

No. He cares for a number of his companions, but so far he has abstained from getting to know any of them physically. Bull, he is sure, would not say no, but he is aware of the undercurrent of something between Bull and Dorian and doesn't want to be pulled into the middle of that. He and Dorian have a made a competition of flirting with the Commander, but so far the man has proven to be unswervingly straight. His attraction to the former templar is a purely physical thing, an appreciation of a body sculpted by a lifetime of training. The sinful little scar on his lip is just the cherry on the top.

His attraction to Solas is a strange, secret thing. He has not even revealed it to Dorian, unable to ascertain just what attracts him to such a stuffy, pompous ass. He judges everyone, everything, and while Ellias may have unwittingly won some sort of respect, he still finds himself often at odds with the other elf. At best, he figures, he is considered a clumsy child, a misguided da'len Solas has taken under his wing. Maybe that is the attraction. He has grown to like the power and prestige of being Inquisitor, and it burns that Solas still does not see him as an equal. Solas, though far different to Deshenna, makes him feel like a First again, and Ellias is done with subservience.

The idea of Solas on his knees, begging with broken words, has fast become a favourite fantasy.