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"Abomination Voice."

Im’s Inner Dialogue
{Fear Demon}
(Greater Rage Demon!)
[Pride Demon: “Deceit”]

Crows and rooks were a common enough occurrence in the rafters of the various buildings around Haven, but especially so in the absurdly high-ceilinged temple further up the mountain. Granted, it behooved them to avoid the Nightingale’s keen eyes, who remembered all of her winged messengers personally. (Not to mention she preferred ravens to crows.) 

They weren’t technically a bard like the so-called Nightingale, but they did have a skill set unique to their kind, uniquely endowed for a different kind of spying. (Not that Imshael considered himself the mere member of any “kind”! They are, after all, a choice morsel unto their own.)

He preened under their self-adulation while nestled up in the rafters, after slipping into the chamber the so-called Elder One planned to either drag or coax the Divine toward. The mad magister’s path was clear, agents placed among the templars and mages alike. Alas... The Wolf also tasked them to watch Corypheus’ efforts to unlock the idiot’s orb after his nap.

Leave it to the ineffectual dog to be weakened by a millennia-long slumber rather than rejuvenated. 

As a creature capable of harnessing red lyrium, Imshael’s numerous gardening efforts were well accommodated to bolster Corypheus’ little army of rogue templars. They had all learned a great deal about its progression and growth factors. (None took to the red stone as well as the general, but mortal shortcomings were a given relative to their own unique natures.)

Imshael cawed as the doors below burst open, with Corypheus storming through on his feet rather than floating—and sure enough, a pair of renegade templars yanked the stoic, struggling Divine in after him. He stayed fluffed up on the rafter while the Elder One turned and faced down the fancy hat, orb in hand, and started dramatically droning on about his villainous design.

Why didn’t the Wolf just approach and advise this imbecile in the first place, if both their blasted objectives are the same? Imshael mused with an internal eye roll. Not that it really concerns us. The Forbidden Ones do as they please. Their feathers fluffed a little harder as Corypheus raised the orb and began charging it; and a cabal of mages and more templars crept forth from behind various pillars to lend their assistance enforcing the ritual circle.

A faint magical presence approached the door and, expecting the Wolf, Imshael dropped from their perch and darted for their exit—but flapped and banked hard to avoid colliding with some gasping Dalish nomad instead. He mentally cursed and landed rough behind a pillar with an indignant squawk. 

The Elder One didn’t notice either of them amid the crackling staticky room until the pretty little intruder called out, “What’s going on here?” 

Imshael shifted directly into their Fear shape, to Fade step behind and silence her once and for all, but a clamor of shouts and lights erupted just out of sight while they were behind the pillar. And somehow, between shifting shape and Fade-stepping, they found themselves in a warped region of the raw Fade. They faltered mid-strike, huffed, and straightened with a hiss.

What the—did I just die? This isn’t the Crossroads...

Fear’s resonant carapace could detect vibrations instantaneously, and they “saw” fearlings begin spawning all around them—a reaction to the intruder’s unexpected arrival and subsequent terror, no doubt. He ignored them and scanned their surroundings, tilting their head minutely a few times to see better… then spotted a tear where immutable reality seeped through in the distance.

There’s my exit! He shifted swiftly into Wrath’s shape and melted into the ground, where they could travel far faster, and resolved to throttle the damn Wolf for letting Corypheus fondle his ball and sending them to the blasted Fade for it! 

After a beat, he realized the intruder was running the same way, being chased by fearlings now, and slowed until her footsteps passed them by. Perfect cover… Imshael matched pace with the fearlings from below, commanded them closer together as they approached the rift between reality and the Fade… 

When they got close to a rather large rift between worlds, he burst out of the ground and directly into their crow form, shooting between the Dalish and the Divine’s remnant spirit-echo. 

The intruder cried out in alarm and ducked reflexively, but the blasted spirit took a swipe at them—and seared right through a wing and some ribs. 

The attack wasn’t physical so the wing remained, but bright hot agony briefly blinded them and rocked the coalescion of their conjoined mind into senseless roars and howls. Imshael tumbled tail over beak out of the rift with a piercing screech, some obscene noise-blur of bird and demon and man, followed soon after by the dead weight of an unconscious elf, sending the two of them plummeting to the ground in freefall. 

He frantically scrabbled against the elf to get out from beneath her, but darkness tunneled in, and they nearly blacked out from the white-hot misery of trying to move their wing or turn. Gaxkang would chafe them about this unseemly death for decades… 

Not today! Imshael shifted human and kicked the elf away with a multitoned growl, sending them careening in two directions—and the Void dropped its curtain on their consciousness when they landed on their wounded side and bounced, then slid, then rolled to a bloody stop.

…

. . .

.  .  .

“What do you mean, no magic?” Seeker Pentaghast demanded at Solas’ side while he assessed the “man’s” injuries with measured calm. “He is dressed in Tevinter mage robes! Soldiers saw him transform as he fell from the sky! What else could he be but an enemy spy?”

“I apologize, Seeker, but I am as confused as you at the moment,” he intoned as diplomatically and honestly as possible. “I can say for certain, however, that his attire is a deception: he is not a mage.” 

And this injury was not caused by Corypheus as I first feared, but from direct contact with a spirit, he silently despaired. I lack the strength to heal it completely just now… 

He’d been foolishly delayed in convening with Imshael and Corypheus, and by the time he finally neared the temple, he sensed the ritual magic stirring, which alarmed mage and Templar bystanders alike. He only barely had time to throw a barrier up when a violent shockwave displaced the air, followed by the centuries-old building, in such an immense explosion that it rent the very fabric of the Veil where aged stone and echoing enchantments stood seconds beforehand.

He tried to reach the epicenter before any oblivious onlookers, but the utter desolation of countless lives culled in a blink highlighted the site for hordes of lesser demons peeking through the Veil like so many new gates. Strike teams of fearlings besieged every attendee in a matter of minutes. He soon found himself alongside peacekeepers turned fighters, all desperately scrambling to find comrades and survivors in the aftermath—and he, as a healer, got swept up in the bloodiest and most necessary task of saving those who weren’t too wounded for the effort.

Hours had already passed since Imshael and a Dalish victim fell out of the largest rift high in the sky; hours since he’d tried and failed to destroy the Anchor or transfer it to himself. Now, he had no other recourse for his grievous folly but to keep the tether to his channeling device alive, while also keeping his and Imshael’s intentions shrouded from the Conclave’s highest-ranking officials.

And Corypheus, brandishing his orb, unaccounted for and running amok.

Imshael was as the crow to the wolf on a joint hunt, keeping him abreast of the Elder One’s movements and his tenuous grasp on sanity while drunk on power he couldn’t hope to comprehend. One of his remaining original agents… sundered and scarred down to the soul in a matter of seconds. What went so horrifically awry, so suddenly?

“His injuries require spirit healing, but I am too weak to attempt it at present,” he placated Seeker Cassandra. “I will heal what I can and bandage the rest, if that is permissible.” 

“Very well—but we will keep him here in the warded cell, with Templar guards, like the other prisoner.” 

“Of course, Seeker.” For now, Solas turned his attention and his sorely depleted healing energy toward Imshael’s broken arm. Their Pride form slowly stirred in the space between realms, recognizing a kindred spirit, and directed Solas’ energy with lethargic gratitude that hummed throughout their jagged aura. 

Templars exuded a forceful presence that radiated from within, expressing their will, and overlaid that incandescent willpower on their surroundings in a resonant field. Red Templars, a corrupted version of the same, did not overlay that field evenly; they enforced parts of reality and weakened or destabilized others—people and spirits included. Solas did not know Imshael’s exact methodology, only that it involved “aiming” their willpower via their demonic aspects. 

Understandably, very few would willingly harbor a demon as an abomination would—much less three demons. The clashing edges of their distracted, writhing hivemind stilled and smoothed back into harmony as the pain in their broken arm subsided… And Solas braced for questions as Seeker Pentaghast sensed the familiar shifts of reality that Imshael imposed while unconscious and uncontrolled. 

She stirred uneasily on her feet, then stalked to the door to peer out the bars for eavesdroppers. A Templar posted outside the door asked if she required his assistance, but she declined and paced back. 

In that time, Solas had removed Imshael’s singed mantle and shredded overcoat—and was slipping a knife under their bloody tunic to see the extent of the spirit wound on their outermost form. He winced sympathetically while peeling the fabric off their skin, then froze with a pit in his stomach as he and the Seeker spied the same mark on their hip at the same time. 

“A Tranquil?!” Cassandra gasped.

Solas briefly shut his eyes and silently apologized before carefully removing the rest of their tunic. The burn mark from a spirit attack came perilously close to the edges of the sunburst scar on their hip, which Solas noticed was deep crimson with blackened veins streaking under their skin. Did he use a red lyrium brand to inflict it... on their self? 

He kept that particular speculation to himself while wringing a fresh wash cloth to clean several rashes and lacerations before healing them. “So it would seem, Seeker. I have enough ointment for the burn, but I will require assistance turning him to wrap it.”

Cassandra moved around to Imshael’s other side and dropped heavily to her knees, eyes still riveted to the sunburst brand. “I suppose you were correct about his lack of magic, after all,” she finally sighed. “But then how…?” Solas mentally debated the wisdom of divulging any more of Imshael’s “secrets” relative to his own tenuous exposure after the explosion. 

The Seeker (and other templars) would recognize their impact to the waking world once they awoke, anyway… 

After dropping the wash cloth in the now-filthy water basin, Solas held a hand over their torso and drew forth his healing mana again. “I’m afraid I can only postulate… but I sense that his presence is more akin to a Templar than a mage. Perhaps he is a Templar who subdued his addiction symptoms with Tranquility?” 

He ventured a glance up to gauge Cassandra’s reaction—the corners of her eyes tightened when she glared back. “A Tranquil… Templar? I have never heard of such a treatment…!”

“An experiment, maybe, or a desperate attempt at relief.”

“Sweet Maker…” Her expression smoothed back out while watching cuts and rashes fade to silvery pink and white scars. He finished his ministrations in pensive silence, trying to ascertain whether the branding was part of Imshael’s shaping method—or, indeed, a reprieve from existing as some tripartite, compound abomination. It must have occurred during Solas’ long years in stasis, and he suspected that they never intended such a mark to be seen. 

Imshael, like he, had changed a great deal in their many years apart.

He sighed as much from frustration as from exhaustion, as he and Cassandra rolled Imshael to their back once more. “I will fetch another shirt for the—” Cassandra faltered, gaze lingering on the brand again. “—for your patient. Will his coat and cloak keep him warm for now?”

Solas nodded. “They are torn but can be mended once matters outside are settled.”

Cassandra nodded back, then hardened her features into a scowl. “The other prisoner should wake soon; Leliana and I must find out what she... what they were both doing at the Conclave, and how they came to emerge from that Breach. I know you are weary, but we would appreciate your expertise with the rifts and the demons coming out of them.”

“I will assist however possible, Seeker; just tell me who to report to.”

She pinched between her eyes and took a long, bracing breath before answering: “There is nobody to report to. Commander Cullen is directing the Templars outside, but they will be wary of you. Perhaps Varric is close by…?”

“Of course. I’ll do what I can to stabilize the rifts that I find.”

“Thank you, Solas.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

[Fear… be still.] 

{It burns!}

[Calm! Fear is a corruption of Faith. It corrupts slowly.]

(Let me cauterize! Healing fire!)

[Wrong kind of fire.]

{Mingling Fear and Faith?! Make it stop!}

[Corruption spreads: Fear prevails.]

{Deceit… will we Fade?}

(Impossible!)

[My shaping is secure. I am as I choose to be.]

[Choice.]   {Choice...}   (Choice!) 

I choose this. That’s what I am. Imshael’s awareness coagulated back into sense and presence, but only because nausea clamped down on their empty innards. 

He rolled to their good side with a grimace before dry-heaving several times (despite not needing food for centuries). Their body rocked with the spinning of the room for a moment… He kept their tender arm tucked in while hoisting slowly upright once the roiling waves of vertigo subsided—and immediately glowered at the unfamiliar, untucked tunic peeking out of their mage coat. 

Well, shit. He took in their surroundings next. 

Ah, a dungeon. How quaint. Fear scanned the room, and the place reeked of it. 

What bloody happened? He wondered while piecing their memory and mindshare back together. Did Corypheus Breach the Fade? Did he even tether the tear?

[The Wolf stands watch.] Deceit informed them, and he scoffed. 

Don’t tell me the Dog failed to fetch his ball.

He breathed long and slow through another angry wave of nausea, then gingerly pressed their arm against their side. Struck by a spirit of faith, eh…? That’s unfortunate. Fear is my best shape around here.

[Ahem…]

Reach and flexibility, friend. The mortals love reach and flexibility. Imshael smirked while leaning forward, getting their legs beneath them in an unsteady crouch, then wobbled upright and planted their feet wide. Vertigo rushed them again, but subsided faster than the last few times... 

He ambled over to the door of their quaint accommodations and leaned heavily against it, startling a Templar posted just outside. “I take it the Conclave went well?” He wryly grunted through the bars after catching their breath. The Templar stiffened briefly before whipping their way.

“And maybe you know why not?! Wot’s a bloody Templar runnin’ about wiv a Dalish for, anyway?”

“I caught that knife-ear sneaking in and followed her right to the bloody Divine—then the place lit up, and next thing I know, I’m running from demons. Damn near smited myself to death.”

“Is… but Seeker said you was Tranquil. You’re in ‘vint robes, but the healer said you weren’t a mage.”

Imshael held back an agitated growl. “Eeh… I was undercover without a supply. Thought the brand might stop the singing. Turned the noise down a bit, at least... Don’t suppose you’ve got any blue to spare?”

“Can’t carry spare—‘ardly enough to go ‘round even if we could. Sorry, mate.”

“Ah, well. Guess I’ll pester the healer for some when he gets back.” 

Imshael grimaced as Fear writhed unpleasantly just under their skin, squirming and gnashing invisible teeth at the wound in their side. Blasted Divine with her blasted faith, and where did it get her but lost in the blasted Fade. When Fear recovers, I’ll go flay her and feed her to the fearlings my damn self. Meddlesome—

“Oi,” the Templar whispered hastily, “Commander’s comin’.” 

Sure enough, Fear detected reverberations in the floor before their ears could, measured stomps racing down the hall ahead of their conductor. He heaved off the door and staggered back to the center of the room, arm still tucked against their spirit-wound, and waited while the militant stomping approached, slowed, and a shaggy red and black mantle appeared through the barred window.

The Templar post left while keys jingled in the door, then the Commander ducked through—and Imshael knew right away that the Commander was in worse shape inside than out. He seemed to scrutinize them and conclude something similar. “I command the Templars here, but I don’t recognize you. We’ve been wading through demons for hours now. I expect you to explain your true mission here.”

Imshael cocked a cynical brow. “I suppose you think getting sucked into one of those rifts means I put it there, eh?”

“I think surviving the center of that explosion is impossible without having some hand in it, yes.”

{Explosion?!}
[Caught in a backdraft, then.]
(Something disrupted the orb channel!)
Bunch of ball-fondling children…

Imshael tsked at the Commander’s accusation. “Plenty of Templars lost confidence in the Chantry before Kirkwall. My “mission” was to see just how poorly the Chantry would manage a Conclave whose contestants doubted her. Talk about a task failed successfully!”

It appeared the Commander was not as amused as they; his frown deepened. “You don’t look old enough to have been a Templar before Kirkwall.”

Heheh. 

“I age like the choicest wine, admittedly—” he flashed a smirk at the Commander’s irritated scoff, “—but we both know I’m not the only independent interest who came. I occasionally, unofficially, transport lyrium now: it's good to know where the mercantile winds might blow. Can’t say I expected them to blow up.” 

While the Commander’s lip curled in distaste, his sword grip and shoulders loosened just a fraction. “A smuggler, then... What was your business with the Dalish elf you were seen with?”

The bursts of commentary were silent, instant, and automatic:

(Brat got in the damn way!)
{Did she break the ritual circle?!}
[Blast radius…]
Could have leveled the mountain at full power.
[Sundermount all over again.]

“That was incidental. We heard the sounds of struggle and followed it to the same source. Some men held the Divine hostage—some templars, some mages. Interrupting their ritual triggered the explosion.”

“Inter—a ritual? Maker’s breath,” the Commander shook his head (fending off a migraine, no doubt) and turned to the side to glare at the floor. “It corroborates the other’s account at least. Cassandra said your… circumstances must be unusual.” 

Imshael made a show of raking their fingers through their hair with a rueful grin. “Eeh… withdrawals can get intense, Commander. Especially while moving blue, and without skimming the supply. I thought I’d try dampening the Song another way.” The Commander blew out a heavy sigh but didn’t quite meet their eyes.

“Pardon my saying so but you don’t, sound like a Tranquil.”
“Either it doesn’t affect Templars the same, or I applied it wrong.”

“Did it…” The Commander awkwardly shuffled his feet.
“It, eh, muffled everything a little bit.”

“I see. Did it suppress your abilities, too?”
“No—but I don’t think I can swing a greatsword just yet.”

“Right, of course. Cassandra said as much, forgive me.” The Commander turned toward the door, clearly uncomfortable now that his momentary rage was spent. “The worst of the rifts have been sealed or stabilized, but Haven is still in chaos. I’ll tell the healer mage to check on you when I see him.”

He shrugged and gestured aimlessly around the cell with their good hand. “You know where to find me!”

As he fumbled with the keys and stepped out of the cell, the Commander paused and looked them over. “I didn’t catch your name, soldier.”

“Ah, I’ve not been a soldier for years, Commander. Call me Imshael.”

“Imshael. Thank you for cooperating.” Imshael snorted while their cooperative jailer locked them back in. After a short wait, however, it seemed they no longer required a guard. 

He quickly patted through their robes and cursed under their breath. No knife. No vial. Naught but a chamber pot and a bedroll decorated their “apartment.” The chamber pot had a metal wire for a handle, though, and they lolled their head back while groaning in puerile despair. At least it’s not been used recently… 

He scooted the infernal bucket toward the bedroll with a boot, then dropped to a seat while scanning their surroundings for any signs of life. Fear kept “watch” while they tugged the metal handle from side to side, gradually stretching the looped ends open… and once a side opened far enough to catch the wood, they levered it methodically until it slipped free of the bucket. 

The second side came free much faster, and he kicked the bucket away with a gratified sigh before grinding one end against the stone floor at an angle. He paused twice to let faceless Templars pass them by, and eventually filed an edge onto the thick wire. In Wrath’s shape, they then gripped and heated the shiv to sterilize it (insofar as such a feat were possible from the shitter). 

Once it cooled, he shifted human (with much discomfort...) disrobed, undid the bandages to expose their scorched ribs, gouged into their wrist with a slight grimace, and tipped their arm down to pool the blood into their cupped palm. 

No knife. No vial. No problem!
Shifting to their Fear shape… that might be a problem. 

He moved out of sight of the cell window, rested their feverish forehead against cool stone, and scanned their surroundings again as far as their senses could reach; clenched their cupped hand to keep it steady; braced, and drew their Fear form to the surface…

Fear tightened the grip on Their trembling palm as the full extent of the wound appeared in Their side, glowing brighter than the lurid green Veil tear had when They fell from it. Gold shone out in a beam and the edges of it charred Their corrupt flesh and ribs, drawing a prolonged, pained hiss from between Fear’s lipless teeth. One of Their tentacles flicked and coiled reflexively to stop from whipping about.

“Gaxkang, Xebenkeck, grant me strength…” They held Their breath and smeared Their mingled blood around the wound's edges: red bled into gold as Their spidery back legs spasmed, then scrabbled against the stone wall for purchase, desperately trying to hold still. 

They soon slid down to Their four knees and hunched inward, gasping several breaths in, then stretched Their senses out for the Fear permeating the air to Call it all closer. 

Raw, repressed terror diffused in the air shifted, displaced—nightmares and whispers and conspiracies and wails and screams flooded Their mind and tunneled into Their form through the gaping hole in Their shape. 

A fell whirlwind of foglike shadow clouded the bright rays of faith that tried to sear Their soul. The edges of Their skin slowly knitted together while They panted and twitched against the corrosive radiance... The shrinking golden beacon of Faith darkened to a tawny orange—

“Maker, give me strength!” They Fade-stepped across the small cell on pure instinct as the door beside them flew open to reveal a short-haired human female, who immediately charged at them. Her eyes blazed the same wretched, faithful gold of their injury. 

Imshael shifted back to their human shape, cursing. She’s touched by the same kind! They must have Called her by accident, too. He tossed their arms up as she thrust the point of her sword under their chin—then gasped and collapsed, clutching their side and growling in agony with all their voices. Her sword nicked their chin on the way down and she retreated, but only for an instant. 

The blade hovered between their eyes when he tossed their head back against the wall, panting. Sweat beaded their brow as her furious amber gaze darted around; to the mess of streaked blood on their side, their bloody hands, the bandages and robe on the bedroll beside them. 

“You are an abomination!” She cried out—and he managed to cock half a grin even while groaning and squirming in pain under the Seeker’s wrathful glare.

“Eeh… this probably warrants an explanation.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

“It is a blood mage and an abomination!” Cullen slammed a fist onto the wall outside the cell.

“Whatever he is, a mage is not—” Solas tried.

Seeker Pentaghast rounded on him next. “He transformed from a demon to a human!”

The Nightingale, surprisingly, countered, “That only proves it can shapeshift. Abominations are grotesque; they cannot control their body.”

“And his aura remains that of a Templar,” Solas added, relieved for the moment by Leliana’s composure. “Or something similar. Did you not say you sensed him, Seeker?”

“In the same manner one senses a demon, yes!”
“And Templars?”
“I… yes.”

The four of them huddled just outside Imshael’s cell down in the Chantry basement—rather, three of them huddled while Commander Cullen paced and demanded they send in templars to smite the abomination. Cassandra appeared ready to sanction it despite Solas’ reminder that they weren’t magically endowed and likely immune.

All was not lost if they slew Imshael outright, but in current company, Solas would be hard pressed to get away long enough to summon them back from the Crossroads... And the inflicted spirit wound would remain.

“It’s covered in blood,” Cullen seethed through gritted teeth while pointing furiously at the cell door. “It’s blood magic!”

“The blood covered his wound,” Solas entreated (and corrected), “His injuries require spirit healing, and demons are still spirits, corrupt or otherwise. He must have been attempting to heal it.”

Leliana leveled him with a steely gaze. “Do you know about this? Blood magic and demon healing?”

“I have never seen a being like this, Imshael,” he clarified, “but there are myriad ways to amplify one’s power by spilling blood. Reavers defy their mental limitations, berserkers augment their physical prowess, mages convert it to distilled energy. Templars charge phylacteries to hone in on their hunting targets. Blood is but a multiplier for intent, not a magic system unto itself.” 

Solas managed not to wince (or sigh in exasperation) as Cullen slammed the wall again and stormed away. Choice, all you had to do was wait for me...!  

Leliana crossed her arms: her keen eyes hadn’t left his. “You’re intrigued by this creature,” she observed. “Does this blood, demon, templar power have to do with the mark of Tranquility, too?”

“That is… a possibility,” he hedged—and Leliana’s glare narrowed minutely. “Given the circumstances, he has cooperated more than I would expect of any abomination, especially surrounded by the bloodshed and violence we’ve witnessed. He is coherent and in control of himself.”

“And yet he remains at least part demon!” Cassandra protested, quickly cutting the air with her hand. “We will never be able to trust him.”

“You may be right, Seeker, but enemies already lurk among us wearing mage robes and Templar armor.”

Leliana’s frown drifted down to the ground between the three of them. “Soldiers reported that he transformed from a bird shape… And Commander Cullen said he is a smuggler. He could serve in a reconnaissance capacity.”

The Right Hand gaped in horror at the Left Hand: “You cannot be seriously considering a demon agent, Leliana!”

“Ahem. Choice spirit.” Imshael drawled through the bars behind Solas, whose eyes fell shut with a silent, frustrated sigh. The two Divine Hands immediately scolded them to stay quiet, and he almost joined them… 

Leliana abruptly canted her head, however; she stepped around him to lean against the cell door and glance sidelong at Imshael, resting on the bedroll (now bound in enchanted shackles). “What is a choice spirit if not a demon?” Leliana’s mild, almost saccharine tone prickled the finer hairs on Solas’ nape, not unlike the whisper of a razor against stubble.

“Fear; Wrath; Pride; Haven is steeped in it, and I can sniff them each out like the most obedient lap dog as it pleases you,” Imshael crooned back. “And I was trying to heal my Fear shape by feeding on it.”

“Are you truly Imshael, then? Not a demon wearing his skin?” the Nightingale countered evenly, and he hummed in smug confirmation. 

“Ever since thirteen ninety-two Imperial!” Solas carefully studied the emotional states of Leliana and Cassandra while listening; the Seeker was an open book by her face, but the Nightingale by her uniquely marked spirit. She “echoed” the ambient emotions she pretended not to feel.

Leliana, though utterly composed on the surface, currently “echoed” a smooth, languid sense of pride, evoking the mental image of a sated feline with a canary between her fangs. A red canary in the lyrium mine, unfortunately. Unfortunate for her.

“Thirteen… that’s 2:99 Glory!” Cassandra exclaimed. “Six centuries?” 

“Your human form is immortal, then?” Leliana pressed.

“And a volunteer,” Imshael preened. “It must be by choice in order to work right.”

“I remember your comrade, Gaxkang.” Solas kept his surprise tightly reined in and turned to examine the small, serene smile on her face as she peered through the bars. “He was a formidable opponent.”

“Was, eh...? Not to worry, he’s designed to reassemble in whoever reads his notes.”

“The tavern tale! Of course. They drive the readers mad with paranoia. I may have misplaced or incinerated them, I’m afraid.”

Imshael remained undaunted: “That's unfortunate! Good thing I scattered so many copies across Thedas. And Earth, before we were forbidden from it. Shall I fetch you another?” 

“I don’t think Gaxkang would enjoy wearing this body.” Cassandra hissed at Leliana to stop goading the demon, but she waved away her concern noncommittally.

Solas appreciated and respected the Seeker’s self-awareness, though he would not be saying so aloud to interrupt. Imshael was baiting Leliana’s echoing pride with their own, amplifying hers and feeding on it in turn to continue healing. The entropic feedback loop was self-contained and nearly imperceptible.

Imshael sniped, “You’re getting a bit worn out, eh? Your brush with Andraste’s guardian left a mark. You like Haven. It likes you back... Or maybe liked.” Solas dropped his gaze to focus his second sight on the flutter in the Nightingale’s emotions. They’d turned the tables on her, and she caught it—but too late.

“How do you—” she started.

“Ferdinand mentioned you! He borrows books from my library at Xenon’s Emporium, sometimes. Poor Xenon keeps forgetting the library’s location without the passphrase, though.”

“Does that mean Brother Genitivi is now Gaxkang?”
And the seed of paranoia takes root, closer than a brother.

“Oh, I haven’t seen the ‘kang of the dead for a few decades, so I’m not sure. We do enjoy the scholarly pursuits in our old age.”

“Old enough to know the Evanuris firsthand, yes?” Solas couldn’t avoid tensing just a little at Leliana's redirection.

“And bless the Bride for their downfall, eh? I like hearing myself talk, mockingbird—I’ll chirp until you’re wrinkled if you let me!”

Leliana’s tone turned cool and clipped, a guttered torch. “It’s Nightingale. Can you use that Pride to fight?” Ah, she figured out he was feeding on her. 

Imshael chuckled in open mirth from her curt correction before humming idly. “Eeh… that one’s powerful but not very flexible. More fun to run my mouth with it!”

Leliana turned and gave Solas a single sharp nod. “Do what you can to heal him—I’ll search for a way to leash him.”

“I’ve a tome of bindings at my library if you’d like!” Imshael goaded one last time.

“Or perhaps muzzle him…” Her tone was blithe, but her fury chilled the subliminal currents like fog rising off ice.

Cassandra and Leliana both recoiled as Imshael loudly clanged their manacles against the bars with a wide, petulant smile. Neither Hand appreciated the unexpected outburst of speed and stealth. “Do you promise? I’ll grow bored, otherwise.”

“If I may…” Solas finally interjected, tentatively, avoiding their gaze and maintaining a clinical detachment. “A spirit of faith caused their injury—likely drawn to the faithful who attended the Conclave. A fellow Templar or Seeker of strong conviction could subjugate them by command, at least while they recuperate.”

Imshael tilted their head and cocked a brow Solas’ way, and he sensed the dry, peppery mace of their wrath stirring in the air—quite the opposite of Sister Leliana. “Does the healer intend to leave me wounded to facilitate that?” Their pitch lowered and roughened irritably. 

“I’ve examined your wound, and it is severe. Even with both of us pouring energy into your Fear demon form, it will take multiple healing sessions.” He turned expectantly toward Cassandra. “They immediately transformed back to a human and yielded when you found them, did they not?”

“Ahem!” Rage’s tone emerged with their human cadence; a malevolent warning that reflexively stiffened the humans’ postures. 

Cassandra settled her countenance with fierce determination, emboldened by their agitated display, and glowered at them through the bars. “Yes, he did… and if he is a Templar, then he has used lyrium before—lyrium that I can command or set aflame. It is my ability as a Seeker of Truth.”

“I beg your finest fuc—”

“That will suffice until I find a long-term solution,” the Nightingale spoke over the abomination’s expletive, and she and the Seeker nodded to each other before she whirled on her heel to depart. Over her shoulder, she brightly finished, “Thank you for your cooperation, Imshael the Forbidden One.” Imshael growled in multiple tones, then winced, before slithering away from the barred window. 

Solas likewise unclenched the tension in his shoulders—he judged that Seeker Pentaghast would be a more reasonable temporary overseer than any soldiers assigned by Commander Cullen. Her immunity to possession and ability to subjugate lyrium would force her to stay close (keeping them close to the ranked officials by extension).

…

. . .

.  .  .

The Wolf’s healing magic would have been more effective if directly applied to their Fear shape, but alas. Imshael refused to expose their injured shape while under the baleful eye of the Faith-touched Seeker. 

Could he fend off her command?
Certainly… but not very pleasantly. 

And they couldn’t Fade-step through her as Fear or fly past her as a crow when she’d cornered them: he couldn’t even breathe too hard without debilitating their scorched soul. How mortifying… And the blasted spirit wound literally blinded them to her presence: he didn’t sense her even while she stood in their line of sight, glaring down at them on the bedroll (or rather, at the brand on their hip). 

Fortunately, the wound only glowed in their human shape rather than shining like a damn Seeker-beacon. 

The smirk on Imshael’s face hadn’t budged for several minutes—the stillness in the air around them, Solas, and the Seeker was comically taut as Solas critiqued their (admittedly haphazard) healing effort. “You managed to reduce the radiant damage,” he acknowledged, “but Fear’s reflexes are instant and violent. You deepened the tear to your form when you Fade-stepped.”

He ignored Solas’ clinical rebuke. “How long was I unconscious?” he asked instead. As Solas hovered a hand over their ribs, he clenched the hand cradling their head into a fist, and braced for Solas’ blasted healing magic to rattle their coalescion by Joining.

“Most of the day. It’s quite late now.” Slowly, he began to worm into the wound, willing it to well up with all the fears he could extract from the Fade.

{It burns—!}
[At ease. Not a threat.]
{Deceit! The Wolf deceives!}
[Only the reflexes deceive…]
(The Wolf always deceives, eventually!)

Imshael, Solas, and Deceit kept Fear subdued—barely—and Solas ignored Fear and Wrath’s accusations as he carefully siphoned fear into the wound from the Fade rather than the waking side. 

Through gritted teeth, they grunted, “And the Breach?” He controlled their voice, but Fear’s presence flailed against their form and unsettled both Solas’ aura and the Seeker’s informed field; she grimaced and grabbed her sword hilt, sensing their invisible thrashing, and watched their eyes now instead of their (shapely and chiseled) hip.

“Stable, for the moment. The Dalish who interrupted the Divine’s attackers, was marked by the same magic that caused the Breach. She was able to stop it from spreading.”

{The backdraft sucked us in. The remnant attacked!}
[The dog didn’t fetch his ball in time.]
(Where was the traitor Wolf!)
[I had hoped to avoid the bystanders’ attention.]
{Hope’s even more useless than Faith!}
[The lap dog stagnates.]

Imshael groaned in multiple voices, trying to wrestle their true form still, and Solas slowed the flow of magic under the onslaught. Fear could either react or absorb, not both, and they couldn’t stop reacting to the spirit’s attack. Wavering between diplomacy and discord threatened to destabilize their outer harmony as much as inner.

“What is happening to him?” The Seeker demanded—another untimely interruption, snapping Deceit’s internal focus and drawing them out. Red sparks burst from several points on the sunburst brand and skittered angrily across their skin, forcing Solas to pull back.

“Address me yourself, girl. Ever bandage a wounded beast before? Calm the field before I trample it—I can’t use Mental Fortress without disrupting the healer!” Imshael threw their head back as Fear flailed, and Wrath’s ire spiked with their growing irritation at the invasion of their sanctum. Dimly, he heard the Seeker Call her Maker to bear, and the cacophony grew sluggish: Choice’s Voices unraveled and then stilled with a fiery tingle from their hip.

He and Solas both sighed at the reprieve, and the healing magic found easier entry with Fear momentarily tranquilized. They shuddered and cocked a lethargic grin at the Seeker, euphoric from the heady rush of nightmares now flooding openly into Fear. “Good girl... I rather like your leash.”

“Wha—” The Seeker recoiled in utter disgust after a delayed, startled blink of confusion. The ugly noise she made was precious. “Maker’s Breath!”

[You should not distract her…]
[We should leave.]
[The situation is tenuous.]
(The Veil is torn. Mission accomplished!)

Solas’ presence shuttered under Wrath’s attention, drawing closer to Fear, and Imshael took note of it without comment. “So, the Dalish girl saved the day,” he mused aloud, fully controlled once more. “Never thought I’d see them fight instead of flee. Finally.” Solas pursed his lips—as did the Seeker.

After a wary moment, she straightened a little and replied in a low, reverent tone, “Some are calling her the Herald of Andraste.” The field overlaying the room stilled, resonating faintly with her conviction. 

She actually believes it. That’s unfortunate. ‘Seek and ye shall find’ was a warning, not an instruction. Imshael scoffed. “Let’s hope the herald’s story ends better than her predecessor’s, eh? History rhymes like a catchy Song.” 

He frowned rather suddenly at that, Fear’s reflexes lightning-fast at the sense of a trap falling shut. A premonition set into motion... He glanced down at the wound to their side—to their spirit—and seethed. Even the Wolf caught wind of it, nudging the periphery of their mind to acknowledge and confirm his earlier statement of the “tenuous situation.”

Catchy means infectious, and I’ve been barbed with it!! Curse the moment of self-awareness and blast it all to the fucking Void. Maybe I’ll cut my own throat to skip the encore... Blasted foresight.

The silence that followed was more pensive than tense; they carefully drew in the latent fear in the field while Solas drew it from the Fade, and the Seeker shuffled uneasily as he tugged at her senses by proxy. He could almost taste trepidation leaking from her as they did so, despite not “seeing” her with their second sight whatsoever. 

Seekers of Truth didn’t have to harbor demons to know the eternal battle of fear versus curiosity—the perennial desire to learn at any cost. He wondered idly if gorging on that fear and desire of forbidden knowledge would burn as hot as her faith did… and Solas’ magic sputtered briefly as he glared a wordless warning at them. He flashed the elf a shameless grin for it.

To distract them, probably, Solas asked, “Your mark of Tranquility reacted when your composure faltered. What does it do?” 

He rolled their eyes to the ceiling. “It does what it was designed to do, elf. It tranquilizes.”

“How did you convince spirits to be willingly made Tranquil?”

“They’re clearly not. Everything else was branded away to avoid conflicting natures.”

The Seeker blurted out, “You can only feel fear, rage, and pride?” 

He chuckled and met her horrified gaze squarely, and wagged their brows most suggestively. “Don’t sound so despondent, Seeker! I compensate in plenty of other ways.”

“Pride clearly compensates for the majority,” Solas muttered under the Seeker’s delightfully annoyed scoff. 

“You’re right about that.” Imshael dropped their head back toward the ceiling and their smirk widened: enlightening imbeciles was a beloved pastime. “Is the healer not proud when his efforts spare lives? Does fear of needless bloodshed not compel his adaptability? Does his rage upon failure not force him to seek better methods?”

“You are enjoying your jabs, demon,” the Seeker cut in harshly—she seemed to have noticed Solas’ unnatural stillness. (His healing magic had slowed to stay calm, but Imshael wasn’t sure if she sensed it too.) “But they reflect you just as clearly. How did you attract them, since you are so observant with their help?”

“Simple! I feared being alone, and now I never can be. Being told what I can’t do enraged me, now I do as I please. I’m prouder of the ability to indulge my desires than I am actually indulging them. And I have all the time in two worlds to find more.”

“You sound as hollow in spirit as you do in body.”

“We wouldn’t try so hard without some hole to fill, now would we, seeker of truth?” 

She frowned and shuffled on her feet a moment, then, to their surprise, broke eye contact and rather earnestly conceded toward the floor: “An astute point for most, unfortunately. But… demons?”

He and Solas exchanged a rare, significant glance before Imshael turned their head to face the wall, smirk gone. She sounded like Formless just then. He blandly mused: “I bet you’ve Hunted people who are worse than demons.”

Solas heaved a long, slow sigh in time with his waning magic. “This is as much as I can heal tonight. Your human form should be able to move more freely, but your shapeshifting and demon abilities will still strain the wound.”

“Eeh… can I train in the morning?”

“Wha—train?” The Seeker sputtered indignantly. “Are you mad?! We are not arming an abomination!”

Plaintively, petulantly, they retorted, “But the Commander is so eager for soldiers!”

Solas countered over the Seeker's incendiary scowl boiling their blood, “Perhaps Sister Leliana has something for you to do that does not require combat. Your Templar abilities should be safe to use, though I don’t foresee its immediate necessity.”

“Can you truly Smite demons without smiting yourself?” Imshael basked in the Seeker’s blatant confusion.

“Aren’t I just full of surprises?” he gloated.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana Lavellan’s head swam with all the duties she never asked for piling up around her.

She was the Keeper’s First, so while she could never bring herself to aspire to lead the clan, she knew that she could and would carry that mantle to the best of her knowledge when she inherited it. And yet… her clan was small, sequestered. They were not the faithful of an entire nation. They weren’t even remotely Andrastian!

This was not her path; not her purpose. Or was it?

In the early rays of dawn, she studied her reflection in the water basin after (accidentally) scaring off the servant, refreshing herself, and despaired for a single superficial moment at the shadows under her eyes while tracing the tattooed feathers of Dirthamen’s vallaslin along her cheekbone. 

Her soft rounded cheeks and jaw stood out amongst her clan, and the bold tattooed curve made them appear less so. She didn’t choose Dirthamen’s vallaslin for vanity’s sake, but she allowed herself a moment of pleasure at the sharply marked cheekbone it accentuated for her. She suspected and feared that the time for any further show of softness was long gone. And despite the shadows under her eyes, three days unconscious was quite long enough.

She ignored the nicer clothing provided and donned the apprentice coat she wore to the Conclave since it had been kindly washed as well. Precious time was spent washing clothing that did not need it while those hands could have fed a fallen soldier or mended salvaged clothes, instead. It was a small gesture of gratitude to brave the southern chill for the effort. 

These weren’t people she ever wanted to Keep, but they sorely needed a Keeper just now, and the small ways she could contribute would have to suffice while she found her way back home. The nicer clothes could warm another body.

Purpose in mind, she twisted her thick auburn hair into a simple bun to get it all out of the way and grabbed the staff she lifted from a less fortunate visitor to Haven—a place that had felt like anything but, until very recently. Now, it all but begged her to make it a haven for whoever remained. She strolled with careful poise and paused often to thank the people who rushed her with gratitude and complaints.

There were many more complaints to tally.

She knew she’d forget several by the time she reached the advisors for a proper introduction, but to her surprise they had gathered at the doors to the Chantry—with Solas and without Cassandra. She quickened her pace at their expectant expressions, and as she reached the stairs she called out, “Has something happened?”

Cullen stood a few paces apart from them, arms crossed and features equally guarded. She expected it from the retired templar while she openly carried a staff, but his posture angling away suggested it was not she that he shielded himself from. Clipped and gruff, he answered, “We must address the matter of the other prisoner, the one that fell out of the Breach with you.”

“I thought he was a Tevinter spy with the mages?” Everyone shuffled a little and she lifted her brows in surprise and confusion. Solas looked to Leliana whose arms were similarly crossed but far more confident and open. 

Solas replied when she didn’t: “So we had thought as well, but he is actually an abomination.”

“O-oh my!”

“Cassandra is immune to possession, and as a Seeker she can subdue him—so we thought it best to go to them to decide his fate.”

Leliana added, “We are divided on what to do with it.”

“Shouldn’t we destroy it?” She immediately asked, tightening her staff grip. “The man’s spirit suffers under the power of a demon!”

Cullen finally spoke, and uncrossed his arms to clutch his sword pommel. “We tried to smite it, but he’s a Templar, not a mage. It didn’t work.” Solas turned quickly to the commander in surprise, then Leliana—neither met his gaze.

“Cassandra can control it, but she has other duties,” Leliana redirected; her cool steel eyes never left Lavellan. 

“I… see.” Lavellan didn’t see, not one bit. The soldiers could still slay the man with swords, no?

Solas winced sympathetically at her hesitance. “We think he has valuable information worth hearing, but trust is another matter entirely. For now, his abilities are limited due to an injury; he cannot flee in his condition.”

“Better to behead the creature and bury it.” Lavellan gasped softly at the venom in Cullen’s voice. Don’t they burn their dead…? Why would— 

Leliana interrupted her musings, still calm, “Do the Dalish know much of the Forbidden Ones? Whom the Evanuris banished?”

“Oh—yes. Well, we know of them, but we know little about them. Why?”

“We have scant writings of them working with humans, too: supposedly, they taught blood magic in Kirkwall and Tevinter. Our prisoner is one of them—if it wasn’t lying, that is.” A small thrill of shock and terror shot up Lavellan’s spine. That would make them ancient! Could it be? 

She quickly scanned the advisors’ faces but now they all were guarded, and the unease in her spiked. They want me to decide what to do with… that thing? 

“I, erm…” Lavellan stared down at her feet, reeling. A Keeper’s purpose is to carry the clan's teachings—even the dangerous ones. But this… this is— “Very well. Let’s figure out what the Forbidden One knows… and why it was here.” Leliana turned and led them into the Chantry, toward the back, then off to a side door Lavellan was all too familiar with. 

She tried not to think about what purpose a house of worship had with a dungeon in the first place. 

Once underground, they shifted closer together: Cullen and Leliana in front, and she beside Solas. In a low pitch, he offered, “Be at ease, herald. He can sense emotions and provoke them, but he is no true threat for the moment.”

“That’s the problem,” Cullen interjected loudly, turning to level them both with a hard glare as they came to a stop. “We won’t know when that moment ends until it slaughters more innocents.”

Outside the cell door, Leliana and Cassandra murmured softly amongst themselves—too softly even for Lavellan’s ears to catch their words.

“More, you say—so this is who caused the explosion?”

A gravelly new voice sneered from behind the door out of sight: “I got sucked in like you, elf! We’re just along for the ride now.”

Cassandra pinched between her eyes with a small moan of frustration before turning to Lavellan. She looked as exhausted as she felt. “Apparently, the prisoner does not require sleep. That complicates things, as though they are not already. Come.” She swung the door open and Lavellan noted that it hadn’t even been locked. 

For all intents and purposes, the abomination looked nothing like one. In fact, he was dressed in worn Tevinter mage robes rather than the templar armor she’d been expecting. He sat on a low stool and leaned back against the wall, one arm cradling his head and the other favoring his side. Cassandra said he didn’t need sleep, but she was inclined to disagree based on those under-eye shadows. He looked well-traveled, stubbled and with hair parted neatly down the middle yet tousled from being finger-combed instead of groomed. 

“Ahh, the hero arrives,” he droned with a lopsided grin while looking her over. “Dirthamen, eh...? That’s unfortunate.”

Lavellan steeled her spine and her mind for a breath before addressing the ancient being that may have actually known Dirthamen…! A million questions bubbled to the surface of her mind, and admittedly, the first ones had nothing to do with the disaster at the Conclave, and she wondered if even that was being subtly manipulated beyond her awareness. “You got pulled into the Breach, like me, so you must have been close by. Why were you there?”

The abomination slowly quirked a brow, dragging his attention around the markings on her face. “I smuggle lyrium for renegade templars. I snuck in with them because they were sneaking in behind my back. Turns out they teamed up with some angry mages for a common goal: kill the Divine.”

“You lied!” Cullen growled at once, bristling. Leliana’s shoulders stiffened while the planes of Cassandra’s profile angled sharply with a scowl, clenching her teeth. 

“I did say I had independent interests.” The grin on the abomination’s face split wider. “And besides, you didn’t ask.” 

“Alright,” Lavellan raised her voice when Cullen drew another breath to argue. Solas said it provokes our emotions. Just stay calm. Keep everyone calm. “Your independent interests—the people you smuggle for? Were they part of the attack too, or just the people you followed?”

“Just the ones I followed. As far as I know, anyway. Which is a lot.”

Cassandra stepped closer to Lavellan, still frowning his way. “Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?!” He tilted his head back with what she assumed was a deliberate and theatrical sigh.

“Because, you didn’t, ask.” He punctuated the syllables in a mocking singsong lilt. 

“And why didn’t you tell anyone at the Conclave?” Lavellan pressed insistently.

“Well, I would have if I hadn’t almost flown face-first into you, elf. Twice, I might add!” With that, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees with a grimace. When he moved his arm, she saw that the spot he’d been covering on his side was torn, and a soft golden light glowed out of the tears. 

“Flown… you-you were that bird,” she realized, eyes wide. “The crow! But aren’t you a templar?”

“I am as I choose to be,” the way he spoke stilled the air the same way a templar did, but it also pressed close like a demon trying to invade her dreams. “Labels like names are pretty but useless things. Why Dirthamen?”

“I… because a Keeper must sometimes keep secrets, too.”

“Secrets are the dearth of men.” He leaned his head to one side and sighed. “Which is why I retired from singing the catchy dull tunes of the so-called divine. Doesn’t mean we wanted her dead, though—just to be left alone. Sound familiar, Dalish?”

From beside her, Solas inquired, “Dalish... You compare Dalish legend to now?”

The abomination barked out a harsh loud laugh that made her and Cassandra both jump. His voice changed, showing something closer to his true nature. “Ha! She sang awfully loud, too, and look where it got her. Dead like the Stone, still bleeding for righteous men to feast on. Now that is irony!” He then grunted and, with a small wince, curled and tucked into his side a little: and huffed at nobody in particular.

Lavellan desperately wanted to ask him… them, to explain the cryptic rambling, but Leliana pulled them all back on track—and she mentally chastised herself for getting caught up in her own reverie. “You mentioned the Divine. So did soldiers who saw you and the Herald. It looked like the spirit of the Divine had pushed you both out of the Breach... more commonly, they say they saw Andraste herself. Is it true?”

He looked to Leliana with a scoff, and when he did, the heady, weighty something in the air vanished. Cassandra and Cullen flinched toward their swords from it in Lavellan’s periphery and the strange awestruck feeling that flooded her a moment before winked out. By all the gods, she wondered next. I don’t know how it works, but it’s… terrible. I didn’t even notice until it fled!

Solas pressed in a little closer to her other side, to get her attention, and when she looked his way, he nodded almost imperceptibly with a small, encouraging smile—and she bolstered her composure the best she could.

The demon snapped back at Leliana, snide and condescending once more. “What’s a ghost to a spirit, eh? What’s a vein of ore to the Stone cradling it? And what’s it matter to a chirping bird? You’re exempt. Shut your beak.” 

“Will you help us?” Lavellan blurted out.

“Herald?” Cassanda, uncertain but inquisitive.
“Herald.” Leliana, scathing cold and domineering.
“Herald!” Cullen, outraged and righteously indignant.

And something else that hummed with satisfaction in the silence between air and Fade. It called Leliana exempt. But, it doesn’t press across the Veil like a demon. It’s just… present. Are they ‘exempt’ too, somewhere in between? Is that what ‘forbidden’ means?

“I can arrange a lyrium supply for templars and mages both. Raw lyrium, much cheaper. I can teach your people to refine it for themselves. And I weave better enchantments than a dwarf—just don’t say that around one. They’re touchy about their carved rocks! Alchemy and minerals are where I work best. I can spy once I’m healed. If an enemy fears discovery, if an angry mage wants to act out, if a stuffy templar thinks he’s fit to cast judgement, I’ll know it faster than they will. Your pick!”

He had leaned back and pillowed against an arm again while peddling his ‘wares’, shielding the wounded side as he had before. “Then we all live happily ever after! Well, not all of us—” he cut a glance to Leliana and winked, “—but who’s counting?”

“He mocks us, and he’ll kill us,” Cullen spat. Cassandra straightened and turned to him, voice low.

“Commander… I do not know anybody that refines lyrium. Maybe you should go ask Josephine to confirm what he says about raw lyrium shipments and refinement?”

Leliana lifted her chin toward the Forbidden One. “It would put idle hands to work, but I thought the process was volatile.”

“Anyone with steady hands can do it. Get thick long gloves, and I’ll enchant them against burn damage. And no priests around my lyrium. That is my price.”

“The clerics outnumber the other refu—”

“No Chantry. No priests.” The silence after the demon spoke, was nearly louder than when it suddenly emerged. 

Cullen growled something under his breath, shot a glare to Cassandra, then her—then stepped back toward the door without showing his back to the abomination. Cassandra watched him slip out of the cell, and her face was fretful when she turned her attention back to the prisoner. “Imshael. You are jaded by the Chantry’s influence, but the clergy under our care are here because they, too, want to see change!”

Imshael’s “jaded” eyes stayed locked on Lavellan while he spoke. “Then they can strip and torch those abysmal priest robes. They need to make their choice as clear to you as they do to me.” 

Leliana spoke next: “We will look further into the lyrium supply before we decide. As for the alchemy—”

Imshael blinked slowly while turning to her and cut her off with a sneer and head tilt. “Is that bird still chirping? I’m not a pet crow yet, am I?”

“F-for the alchemy,” Lavellan didn’t know the first thing about it, but the faint energy in the room felt ready to crackle under its own tension each time Leliana spoke. She wasn’t sure how or why, but Leliana angered it even while keeping her words civil. She stepped back just enough to get all their backs in her line of sight.

They followed her and turned a little as she cleared her throat and tried again. “I don’t know what supplies you need for alchemy and enchanting. Is that for the lyrium?”

“Some of it.” The unusual, supernatural density in the air lifted again in a blink. 

“There should be basic supplies in the apothecary to start,” Solas offered, “and Josephine can find and supply the rest as requested.”

Cassandra frowned, watching Imshael while addressing Lavellan. “That is all provided we agree to make a deal for his cooperation, Herald. Perhaps we should go elsewhere to discuss it further and decide.”

“Sure, sure,” the abomination drawled with a chuckle, “Time’s the only finite resource you have: best stretch it out! I’m sure that’s how it works.”

“Have a care, demon,” Cassandra bit out between clenched teeth.

“Eeh, is that a command? In that case: yes, Mistress…” Imshael purred the rest of his words out—if a demon can purr—making Lavellan gasp and almost giggle despite herself while Cassandra whirled her back to him with a furious Maker’s Breath! Leliana delicately cleared her throat and sidled a bit closer to Cassandra's other side.

Solas heaved a long-suffering sigh. “His point, while crass, is valid; the sooner we get Josephine’s input, the sooner we take advantage of the offer—or else eliminate the threat within our walls.”

“It doesn’t always have to end in blood!” Imshael protested blithely. “I’ll go quietly if the answer is no. Dying is just a detour: so spare us both the mess, eh?”

Lavellan chewed her lip while staring fiercely down at the floor for several tense seconds. Then, she looked to Cassandra. “I think I know everyone else's opinion, but I can’t tell whether you think he should stay.”

Cassandra raised her brows, considering Lavellan closely before answering, stern yet pensive. “He is no ordinary demon—”

“Ahem—”

“—and we are in no position to turn away help freely offered—”

“Freely, my stone cold coc—” 

“—but an agreement means trusting him among unarmed refugees. I simply cannot stand guard at every hour.” When they looked back to Imshael, his arms were crossed and he was squinting at the wall. He might have even been pouting. Lavellan took the moment to look more closely at the glowing mark under his robe, bright enough to show through the tunic.

She braced her nerves with an extra deep breath, and closed the distance between them while fishing through the pockets sewn into her coat; when Imshael squinted her way, she tentatively held out a small set of sewing needles and threads. “These aren’t my people or yours... but I’m the only choice they have right now. You don’t have to stay, but we gain a lot if you do.”

He quirked a brow, squinting even harder at her, then the sewing kit. Then he snorted sort of like how Cassandra sometimes did, stood, and closed a hand around the sewing kit and around her fingers. “Trust is a different kind of fall, elf,” he drawled, taking the needles. “Blasted heroes with their blasted one-liners and their blasted leaps of faith.”

He waved the kit between them and leaned a little closer. “Power only belongs to those willing to stoop to pluck it from the dirt, and you just stooped very low… Keeper. I like you!”

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

Imshael wound up in an unusual, but convenient station at Haven for the time being: the forge. 

Not only did the Lady Seeker want them easily observed in an open space, but the prickly apothecary shopkeep wanted nothing to do with sharing his store. He could sympathize with Adan hoarding his sanctum, but Wade (and the thing wearing his representative’s face) would have been more entertaining company in the armory stall. (The oversensitive little savant didn’t like the cold, though. Alas.)

“Oil quench?” Imshael critiqued blithely while unstacking a few pots onto their new, tiny, table in the corner. He still had to do so gingerly, favoring their wounded side. “Water’s cheaper: in fact, it’s usually free.”

“Oil cools more evenly, less brittle,” Harritt snipped over his shoulder. Their backs faced each other.

So touchy! “So, carve a temperance rune and a warming rune in a water basin for the same effect, for cheaper.”

“What am I, a dwarf?”
“Not with that attitude.”
“Maker’s balls!” 

Imshael basked in Harritt’s smoky irritation much like a cat rolling in nip weeds.

Besides the heroes of the day, he’d only interacted with a few templars who vaguely knew their true nature—so those templars were assigned a rotation and a most stern command to keep the reason to themselves. As far as anyone else was allowed to know, he was under probation as a recently converted informant for the Mockingbird. 

A double agent by their reckoning; a triple agent in (mostly) truth. He still hadn’t quite chosen whether to be profoundly amused or furious at yet another over-engineered plan blowing up in the Wolf’s face (and literally so this time!) Nor was he sure why the herald made a beeline for them in the stall after facing them just a few hours before and quailing in her boots half the time.

“Yeees...?” He cocked a curious brow. Weren’t they done talking yet? 

“I was just visiting the stores to get acquainted with everyone,” she explained in a bit of a rush. He hummed and jerked their head Harritt’s way.

“Right, then. The smithy’s his, Keeper.” He pointedly turned their back on the girl and smirked at Harritt’s small spike of pleasure, as she greeted the man and peppered him with idle chatter. Keep an eye on the best and brightest, hoard them like precious short-lived trinkets. 

With that, he unceremoniously dumped handfuls of runestones onto the table with a small clamor from their mended mage coat. The chatter behind them faltered, but only briefly. He immediately plucked out the three largest stones and tossed them in the largest copper pot, then fished out an ice rune, a hail rune, and their superb corrupting rune. 

He tucked the custom design into their sleeve. Eeh… wonder if I can reach the quarry overseers from Haven. There should still be a few red and green agents embedded here. 

He sorted out a few more stones, tossed them in other pots, and then scooped the rest back into a pocket. I’ll need parchment and stone plates out here… He pricked their thumb on a sewing needle now stashed in their bear-fur mantle and smeared the carvings on the runestones to charge them. Stones in hand, he turned to go pester the Antivan while guarding their side—

“Eeh…” Dirthamen’s slave had moved off to the side of the stall and waited. Still as a halla before the arrow; even the Anchor had calmed in anticipation, enough to forget she was there. He could sympathize with prickly Adan hoarding his sanctum… Their eyes drifted to Dirthamen’s beaks tattooed on her brow in silent accusation before resigning himself to the song and dance. 

“Full of questions, eh?” 

“What you said this morning, Dalish legend—what did you mean?” 

(Shark bait!)
{Blood in the water!}
Seek and ye shall find…
[A trap worth springing.]

Imshael caught the curious side glance Harritt failed to hide, and couldn’t stop their lip from twitching minutely. I need to foist this stray on Solas. He’s the one who likes yipping and yapping about dead things. 

Strolling around the stall’s desk, he cleared their throat (while slipping the stones into Harritt’s quench tank) and mused aloud for their guard, “I need some paper from the frilly ambassador, anyway... As for this morning, I meant the same thing I said. Next question.” 

The Templar fell into lockstep just beside them at the ready, earning accusatory stares at them and curious or worried stares for her. “Were you really there? Then?” Her staticky excitement tried to cling to the edges of their informed field, same as the Anchor’s sticky weblike Veil-threads. 

They, however, were denizens of the dense and misty Crossroads and held back the urge to brush the cobwebs off in a way that she’d notice. “I don’t look that old, do I?” He jabbed that excitement down a bit and was rewarded with a flush of embarrassed heat and clarity: better. Vallaslin made slaves an open book.

When the Anchor stilled with the rest of her, he lightly added, “But yes, I was then. Nothing’s changed except the air got thinner. Next!”

“What actually happened? Arlathan, the gods…?” Heady, wispy reverence wafted around them next: he probably would have stiffened in their breeches a little if Deceit lurked closer, but alas.

He waved a hand toward the training yard as they passed it—and winked at the Commander’s razor-sharp rage and the Lady’s looming threat slithering in their blood as they slowed their strikes mid-spar. “Same as what’s happening now: an uprising. Nothing’s changed. Do you even have history lessons anymore, or are you all busy plucking mushrooms in the woods?”

The Anchor and everything around it dimmed and desaturated a little. “We lost a lot—! We still teach what’s left in oral traditions. And Keepers still read some of the elven runes and tomes.”

They paused at the Chantry doors, and he grabbed the handles (with a wince) to stop her from proceeding for a moment. “Dalish culture was invented after Elvhen society vanished, plucked from the wreckage. You rifled through leftover cargo and fabricated a cult from the remains—just like they did with their forebears. That’s not history.” While swinging the doors open, he sneered at the guttering torch of her magical aura. 

So touchy! He looked her over, took in her crestfallen, faith-stricken, hopeful, glittery, indoctrinated, damnable doe-eyed admiration that Deceit wanted to bathe in. “If you’re that proud to be Dalish, then be proud to replace the Elvhen, not to wear their skin. You want a real history lesson, blood-thief?”

He fished one of the runestones from their pocket at random and grabbed her marked hand, briefly glaring at the Templar when he flinched and snatched their bicep. He ignored the soldier’s lingering grip and the Anchor snapping angry sparks toward their stinging spirit wound, and slapped the runestone into her palm. 

He told the sorry slave, “Go skip rocks! You’re the rock and the person tossing it: subject and object. The ripples are what idiots call history and the lake bed is what morons call death.” 

The Anchor keened bright and sharp with something similar to excitement, and they all leaned away in recoil. The cursed herald swapped the stone to her other hand and shook the marked one with a small hiss of pain while Imshael massaged their side and blinked away the sharp-shadowed relief against reality. 

He then looked into the Chantry hall—and spied Solas and a chesty dwarf watching their little exchange. Blast it all. He huffed and brushed imaginary dust (and whatever just raked over them) off their mantle. 

“And pester the healer with your elf questions from now on, eh? Korth’s cock, you’re all a pox!” The dwarf and Solas tensed with spicy frustration at their rebuke, a delicious and preferable alternative.

He ditched the herald while she was distracted by her new trinket and made for Josephine, guard in tow... And slowed their pace a little when the dwarf deliberately coughed to announce his introduction and waddled after them. The dwarf’s innate field (like blue templars) was a steady glow emphasizing reality rather than a flickering spirit-torch in emotional wind.

“Y’know, that attitude with elves won’t win you many friends around here, ‘Vint,” he warned in a deceptively light tone. 

“Ah, this imperial cur is slacking off, then. It’s in my name to hate you all equally.”

“Uh…”
“Imshael of House Hait, resident reprobate.”
“The Hait House, really. Now you’re pullin’ my leg.”

Imshael snickered as Josephine’s door swung open, letting Leliana out and clearing the way for them. “Don’t be absurd, pebble; I can’t reach your leg from up here.” 

“Shoulda seen that one coming…” the dwarf grumbled.
“Impaired vision is a given at that height.”

Grumbling intensified like a rockslide while Imshael slid past the frosty, dim spymaster, and for some reason, the pebble rolled into the office with them while the guard took position at the doorway. Without preamble, he asked, “I don’t suppose I could get parchment and ink, Ambassador? I also need a lyrium etcher and stone plates.”

“Of course.” The Antivan’s smooth, sonorous accent belied her latent terror, which stilled the counterspace between air and Fade. (This was technically their first encounter.) To her credit, none of it “showed” in her voice and face, but their recovering Fear shape still hissed in relief at the supernatural tranquility that blanketed them as she contemplated fight or flight. “Unfortunately, many enchanters were among the clergy folk closer to the temple, so there should be surplus enchanting supplies for the moment.”

“You’re an enchanter?” The dwarf inquired. “I thought only Tranquil and dwarves could do it.”

“Master Imshael can not only enchant items, but has generously offered to instruct the mages and templars in lyrium refinement to craft their own philters and potions. In fact, Varric, perhaps you could help us establish a supply channel within the Merchant’s Guild while you’re here?”

Varric the dwarf shot a glance their way, eyebrows high. “Refinement? Shit, that’ll cut lyrium cost by two-thirds. What’s the catch?” 

Imshael grinned: clever pebble. “I’m a disgraced templar. My stipulation was no grubby Chantry paws on my raw. No leashes in this haven. Well, mostly.”

Varric narrowed his eyes. “I must not have heard you right.” Josephine held her breath and stilled the ether even more. “I thought I just heard you say you were a templar that enchants. Did the Imperium swap their robe and skill sets while nobody was looking?”

“I’ll have you know this is an heirloom, thanks!” He preened their mantle in mock offense. 

Varric snorted at that. “There’s a story under that robe, isn’t there. I’ll see if anyone’s willing to come, Ruffles, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up just yet. Haven’s out of the way—and not exactly safe.”

Imshael sighed. “My blue contact at the Conclave is, or was Edric Cadash. Did he survive?” Josephine and Varric both gave them a frown. 

She replied, “I’m afraid we’ve found no Cadash among the survivors, Master Imshael.” 

“Aaand, you probably don’t want the name Cadash scribbled in that ledger, anyway?”

“It would, certainly raise some eyebrows.”
“That’s unfortunate. How about Shael Cadhalash?”

“I… am not certain what to say now.” She laughed a little breathlessly—nervously—and asked, “Is that another contact of yours for the same suppliers?” Varric watched them quite hawkishly; Imshael suspected the curious dwarf would sniff around them harder than the Dog after this atrocious charade.

“It’s an alias we share when they don’t want their names on ledgers. They’ll expect me personally, though. Will that work?”

“I see. I think we can make do with that, provided Lady Cassandra is available to accompany you for pick-ups. It is unconventional, but so are the circumstances we find ourselves in.”

Imshael nodded once, smug and mollified. “Sounds like a date! Now, where’s that paper and ink?” The bright curiosity humming off the pebble was damn near harsher than the herald’s excitement now. He conjured a stone at the bottom of the lake in their mind, and dulled the glare to hone in on the lingering anxiety from Ruffles.

With a genial smile, he brushed their fingertips together while grabbing the sheaf of parchment from her and noted, “I hope that’s not heath in your jasmine perfume, Ambassador… The faithful are never really alone.” 

Her eyes (and the room) lit up with warm saturation, and pleasure bloomed from her, followed shortly after by wary trepidation: Deceit and Fear purred under their skin in the wavering glow. Words of comfort or sly threatening reminder? Your pick!

“Oh! Thank you for noticing—and you’re right, of course, but it can seem otherwise when tragedy strikes, no?” 

“You are what you wear, lady ambassador: don’t do that to yourself! Take it from someone predisposed to nettle.”

She chuckled softly at that, and most of the lingering cool, dark fear in the room dissipated, devoured by them in the process. He rolled their shoulders in smug satisfaction and droned, “I don’t suppose I could fetch the etcher and plates myself?”

“I’ll have them brought to the smithy right away.”
“Eeh... worth a shot. Back to my corner, then!” 

“You should grab a drink at the Singing Maiden sometime,” Varric extra-casually offered. “It’s on me.”

That doesn’t make it free, does it, you squat little rock. He japed back, “A tavern invite for pleasure instead of business? That’s such a novel idea, I just might try it. It’ll cost you two, though: one for my leash.”

Thankfully, the chortling dwarf stayed behind when he left, but Leliana lurked in the shadows when he nudged the door shut behind them. With the leash they’d just mentioned mysteriously gone. She’d planted herself in the opposite direction he would go as though to sneak up on them, too. 

He braced their agitation with a long and slow internal hiss-groan-growl-sigh, and stayed in place until she relented and moved to their sore side. He curled in on it and widened the distance between them at once: her blasted “faith” resonated, and he was no nursemaid. He wouldn’t feed hers, nor did they want what she offered.

She took great care to keep their pace measured and slower than the previous two trinkets had been. She followed her script immaculately. And he knew it for the utter farce it truly was. The Shapers could have shat her out and he wouldn’t tell the difference but for the height… And the Chantry had ever so conveniently vacated itself for their bonding moment.

“I want to know how your abilities work,” she started rather diplomatically.

“That’s unfortunate.” He could have passed for Tranquil with the deadpan delivery. She gets nothing.

“I need to know how to move you within my spy network once you are recovered.” Is that a tendril of desperation tainting the air?

“Nice try, mockingbird. I offered the knowledge, not the method. You’re on your own with the echo that replaced whoever you were before. No peeking at my real goods!” 

She pursed her lips, and Fear and Deceit crowed in delight as cold, deathly despair permeated the field with cool tones and deep reliefs. “The tavern tale.” She didn’t phrase it as a question, and her inflection wasn’t just calm—it was flat. Resigned.

{Blood in the water!}
(Shark bait!)
[A trap worth springing.]

“A revenant with a pulse, eh? I think the ignorant southerners still call them vampires.”

“When the temple exploded, so did Her resting place.” 

[She moved or scattered the ashes, then.]
(Or gave her leash to the priests! Idiot!)
{She’ll scatter as the ashes do!}
Hard to track a breeze in a fog.
[Like Formless and Xebenkeck.]
(But Eluvia's head is reattached! We won!)
And mingled our remains to break each other out forever.

“Not my problem!” Imshael jeered.
“The Breach—the mark...”

“Feeling forgotten? Birds don’t own the tunes they chirp, either. Enjoy the bird’s-eye view!” 

“...How do you endure the ages? Dispersal?” 

They crack stone to mine ore and pretend the veins under their meat crust work differently. Typical. Her tone stayed controlled and casual—too casual—and her perfect pace slowed as they approached the exit. She didn’t show the crack of vulnerability, but it leaked from deep in her sundered soul. 

“Go fly a paper drake and think about it really hard.” He threw the doors open despite wrenching their side, so she’d have to catch it with her hands or face, with a hearty chuckle. Their abrupt exit startled the guard standing just outside… along with stoic Solas, staticky herald, rock-solid Seeker, and a fussy red-faced priest, all in one fell swoop.

Ahh… swooping is great. He paused while the cold etheric mist in the Chantry licked and soothed their spine and soul-burn after their chat: existential dread was a buffet they’d long since digested. Only imbeciles (like her and the Wolf) kept sitting at the table, lamenting that it never depleted. Next!

He shielded their eyes against the high sun to scrutinize the faces before them and muttered, “This party looks like it needed crashing...” The Lady Seeker’s murderous glare probably wouldn’t kill them, but he shut their mouth when she made it, nonetheless. 

She darted that glare back to the priest and slapped her hand atop a ridiculously large book. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order—with or without your approval!” she declared with finality. Her rigid confidence galvanized everything around them (and them, just a little). 

Their eyes glazed in pleasure at the robed buffoon sputtering and shuffling away under the weight of her. 

(Utterly righteous and deserved!)
[And a whole field of nip weeds…]
I might hit the dirt trust-falling this hard.

“You might make a believer out of me with that tone, Seeker,” he hummed, to her righteous disgust.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Solas had struggled mightily to contain the regret and frustration that seized him, watching Choice slap a little rock into the herald’s hand and guiding as part of their “nature”—against their will and aware that it was so. Their method of “outwitting the hunter” revealed itself in their words: Be proud to replace them, not to wear their skin.  However...

As they wrenched open the Chantry doors, glassy-eyed and high off a cloud of despair like wings of death, trying to smash Sister Nightingale’s face, Solas momentarily re-assessed the merits of letting them live. They would, after all, find a way back. Not unlike a pox. Solas kept his aura carefully reined and back ramrod straight, both at their theatrics and Chancellor Roderick’s.

Once the Chancellor departed, Solas leveled them with a warning glance before saying, “Imshael. If you are not… busy, I have rested enough to heal your side again.” 

“That’s, eh… Ahem. Probably a good idea after throwing the door.” And indeed, Solas had seen them cringe against their wound in the process. Sister Nightingale glided down the steps toward Cassandra while they spoke, ignoring them and looking concerned between her and the Inquisition’s writ. He was surprised that the Seeker challenged Roderick and reinstated the Inquisition without her presence. 

His eyes wandered back to the Chantry: swirling tendrils of despair shadowed its corners, but otherwise absorbed quickly into the Fade. Where it lingered, visitors would feel a supernatural chill. Or perhaps their corrupting presence already interferes with incompatible bystanders…? 

He turned a little to gesture toward Ellana Lavellan, standing beside him. “The Herald is trained in basic healing spells; would you be opposed to letting her observe?” 

Imshael’s gaze warily flicked between the two of them while furrowing their brows, before sauntering down the steps closer to them. “Spirit healing’s not the same—and she’s distracting. Do you want me to bust out in demons?” If they were seeking a reaction, they got it; the unfortunate templar guard bristled and widened his gait into a battle stance while the Hands paused their own low conversation to glower. 

Imshael’s attention was on the herald, however, who’d hunched into herself at their dismissal. Vallaslin held a geas toward obeisance to its conductor, but he could not sense that silent exchange between them, or whether they bothered to rein in their blatant abrasion. 

Solas’ expression flattened along with their previously mild tone. “I suspect your self-control is better than you are currently projecting… and Seeker Cassandra will stand watch, as before.” 

“Sounds like the choice is made,” they shrugged dismissively, then crossed their arms and scanned the courtyard from the higher step they stood on. “I should really go pester that Commander, though…”

“You have business with Commander Cullen?”

“More like complaints, but I suppose it can wait, eh? Time’s not a finite resource for me.” He rolled their shoulders, followed by their neck—restless.

“Are you currently in pain?”
“Do spirits have ribs to break? I didn’t think they did.”

Lavellan asked, “It happened when that woman in the Fade hit you, right? Why would she attack?”

“Spirits get touchy about their personal space!” Cassandra approached Solas’ other side while Leliana ascended the steps back into the Chantry, tome tucked under her arm. “Ready when you are, Lady Seeker.”

Cassandra frowned for a moment before correcting them. “Lord or Lady Seeker are titles reserved for the High Seeker only. I am not a Lady.”

In truth, Solas expected a lewd jeer about being their lady, but instead they raised their eyebrows, scanned the courtyard again, and retorted, “Are there other Seekers of Truth here I should avoid? You are the de facto Lady.” After a beat, they turned to lead them all up the steps with a haughty sniff. “Guess I’ll lead the way back...” 

Cassandra dismissed the guard to return to the Commander, and Solas took mental note. After Cullen’s earlier admission attempting to smite Choice, he now suspected that the guard rotation would report their every word and deed to the Commander as well as the Nightingale… while possibly excluding the Seeker.

As they all passed through the main Chantry hall, Solas sensed their Pride form wading against the faint despair still in the room to shield them from it and softly sighed. As ever, their actions were too fickle for him to anticipate: parasiting with one hand and coveting with the other on a seeming whim that surely had its own design. The master they devoured and replaced trained them very well.

Though the cell was small, Solas requested that the Herald stay behind him, nearer the wall, as Imshael disrobed and Cassandra took position standing at their other side. (He didn’t bother asking if they would shapeshift to expedite the process anymore. Fear’s survival instincts were too primordial to tolerate exposure while wounded.)

“A Tranquil?!” Lavellan gasped out, much to Choice’s immediate and apparent displeasure. 

Wrath radiated a desert whirlwind as they laid the mage coat and tunic beside the bedroll and snapped, “I am very good at loopholes. Disregard it.” 

Solas clenched his jaw and leveled his own glare at Imshael, who met it squarely in open challenge while lying prone. Marked elves were compelled to follow commands if they weren’t carefully phrased. A trite command like Go skip rocks could comprise a simple mental exercise, but he’d effectively impeded the herald’s ability to care that the brand was there. On a seeming whim.

Joining them proved a much calmer affair than the previous night; when his stream of thoughts flowed among theirs, they did so in a mindscape of deep, still water accented by a single pyramidal stone. Imshael, eyes closed, held the meditation so forcefully that Solas’ own second sight faintly overlaid the pyramid over their body in the waking world—a submerged tomb.

They were shielding most, but not all, of their thoughts with it now, compared to their last session. They must have siphoned a great deal of energy in the interim to recover this quickly…

Lavellan was not unaffected by their unusual trance, though: she gasped from behind him again and asked, “What’s that music?”

The imagery flickered when their eyes snapped open to look her over, openly surprised. After another few seconds, they faced the ceiling again and grunted, “In Stonetongue, they called it Singasten: the Singing Stone. It’s a vigil to listen to the lyrium song.” 

“Oh! It has words you can sing along to?”
“Ahem...”

Solas mostly kept the small smirk off his face as Pride and Wrath stirred under the herald’s attention, preoccupied with congratulating and chiding themselves simultaneously.

[I do like hearing myself the most.]

(It uses your own voice! Doesn’t count!)

[The old lizard hated when I sang along.]

(Still got her to scream along! “Oh, sin!”)

[I bet she still eats templars for that.]

(So touchy!)

Along with the instantaneous exchange came an image; the younger version of a very familiar face flickered by in a most compromising position. Solas’ jaw dropped and his mana flow stuttered—the disruption snapped red and gold sparks from both the spirit wound and the lyrium brand. Choice jerked violently with a strangled growl and immediately shielded their arm over the wound; Cassandra flinched toward her sword but stilled, uncertain. 

“Blasted elf!” they gritted out between their teeth… and then chortled until groaning against their shaking sides in pain. When they regained their composure, they cocked a brow and gloated, “Reach and flexibility, eh? Pretend you didn’t see that.”

Cassandra and Lavellan both asked, “See what?”
“Nothing,” they both curtly replied.

Ears and cheeks warm, Solas started healing again with a deep, measured breath through his nose. He explained for Lavellan: “Spirit healing involves coming into direct contact with the spirit responsible, either for the injury or for the healing. As that spirit’s energy moves through you, flashes of the spirit’s or patient’s memories may become visible. As you just saw, they can be distracting.”

Lavellan’s voice was a little closer when she asked behind his shoulder, “You only channel the spirit? What about your own mana?”

“You establish contact as you would a typical healing spell; the spirit then transfers its essence using that link as a conduit.”

“I… see.”

Imshael drawled, “Instead of pouring water from a pitcher, you make a rain collector to funnel it in.”

“Oh! I think I understand now.” Solas kept his eyes fixed on the spirit wound but saw and felt Choice’s smug grin in his periphery. “Which spirit is going in? How do you, pick out the right raindrops?”

Solas clarified: “The spirit in question is drawn to its own kind. While benevolent spirits rarely reach across the Veil, demons seek out the waking world. In this case, fearlings and nightmares are drawn to the wound like a lodestone.”

Imshael huffed peppery agitation against his aura. “Lodestone was better. Blast it all.”

Silence lingered among them for several moments, and they watched gold and black swirl where flesh should be. Eventually, Cassandra broke it. “Imshael. When you mentioned a vigil earlier, the singing stone... Seekers undertake a year-long vigil of fasting and contemplation to gain their abilities. Did you refer to something similar?” He, likewise, took a long, bracing breath and moment before answering.

“Dwarves feel the Stone in their blood like a drumbeat; surfacers act in harmony to its Song; and very unfortunate heroes sing solos. Once upon a time, dwarves used humans to “hear” lyrium veins in the mines, but lyrium addled them. They tossed the humans to the surface once they went feral, and that’s how the human tribes came to be. Eventually, they figured out that chants and vigils stilled their fraying thoughts to last longer, but most never left that tranquilized state once they reached it. Humans probably remembered some version of the vigils and wrote them down later on.”

Imshael’s coy smirk was firmly back in place in the tension that ensued... Cassandra then exclaimed, “Are you saying the Seekers of Truth are made Tranquil?”

“And that dwarves owned humans. And that the Chantry is a slave-soothing cult! All in one fell swoop!”

“You are lying!”
“I do lie a lot. Even on floors.”

Solas stopped the flow of energy to Imshael’s side and dropped his hands to his lap, severe. “You do yourself a disservice, Forbidden One. Such claims should be substantiated… and you are attempting to distract your audience rather than inform them.” Cassandra bristled and cursed under her breath after a shocked pause, and Lavellan sighed in disappointment. (She’d quietly moved to his side during Choice’s tale.) 

The blanket of paranoia they’d silently overlaid the room with dissipated, with nary a flutter to either of the women’s awareness while they were still preoccupied with their own frustrations.

Imshael rolled their eyes: “However shall my reputation recover. I suppose we’re done here, then!” They perched up on their elbows to examine their side, still smirking—but their gaze was distant. The spirit wound was over halfway healed now; with any luck, they would be fully recovered in two more sessions. Under restored skin, gold still glowed just enough to outline parts of the ribcage, which Imshael frowned at.

“I…” Lavellan’s aura was tangibly subdued with sadness, teetering on betrayal. “I should go meet the rest of Haven’s suppliers and shopkeeps while it’s still daylight. Thank you for letting me watch, Solas—Imshael.” She dusted off her knees and left in a hurry: Cassandra followed her retreating back before settling steely amber eyes on the unfazed abomination getting to their own feet.

“You are more nefarious than I anticipated. Thank you for the lesson.”  Her tone was every bit as venomous as her accusing frown.

Choice shrugged nonchalantly back into their tunic. “Seek and ye shall find, Seeker. How’d the elves say it again? Ah, yes: dirthara ma.” 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Adan the alchemist made potions and elixirs, but was doing his best to compensate as a healer while Solas was otherwise busy. Harritt the smith offered to help Lavellan upgrade her arms personally, but warned her that he was in sore need of the materials—both for her and new recruits. She met Flissa at the tavern, who kept bellies and hearts as full as she could manage and afford. 

She’d started writing down the complaints and requests she couldn’t remember piling up on a note scrap tucked in her apprentice coat… And tried not to think too long about Imshael’s lies. Solas had warned her not to trust him! And he’d snared her imagination so many times without even noticing until the illusory weight of his false words snapped away. 

It wasn’t in the Fade, didn’t press against the Veil where she’d notice it as easily: she’d never really met an abomination before, and the danger they posed was much clearer now. (So was Commander Cullen’s ire at letting him walk among them in a body shielded against templar smiting powers). He’d even caught Cassandra, the only one who could stop him, unawares!

Each time she reached into her pocket for the note scrap, her fingers brushed the runestone he gave her, and she’d remember his cryptic attempt at a history lesson. Then she’d remember what he said while Solas was healing him. It was all a smokescreen—so why did it sound like it made sense, too? 

So, she moved her notes to a different pocket and tried not to think about it since that was probably what he wanted them to do with his distracting stories. He had a job like the rest of them, and as long as he did it, the tall tales didn’t matter.

…It was easier to say she’d ignore his words than to actually do so, when every tenth refugee wore a Chantry robe and recited a memorized prayer she didn’t share.

She ignored Imshael, standing nearby at a table, as she approached the quartermaster, determined not to let the demon sway her thoughts anymore. 

“Oh, you’re her. The Herald of Andraste.” Threnn introduced herself, gruff and somber. Threnn handled the logistics and the dirty work of meeting the Inquisition’s basic needs. Lavellan asked what that entailed, and nodded along to the simpler tasks she understood as a Dalish, like digging latrines and finding craft supply sites. When she asked about Threnn herself, she didn’t expect her to be a Loghain supporter. 

“But he abandoned King Cailan and blamed the Grey Wardens!” She didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory—she was confused, not angry—so she listened harder to Threnn’s passionate defense to make up for it. She soon caught herself at Lavellan’s rapt attention and apologized: “Sorry… Sister Leliana told me not to talk about it. Being sent here to help close the Breach was a kindness after...”

“Loghain did nothing wrong.” She jumped at Imshael’s voice suddenly beside her, but didn’t turn. “That’s what I like about Fereldans and their dogs: they act on loyalty first. Saving his soldiers mattered more than posing for civilians on their asses who decide right or wrong after the fact.” 

Threnn huffed and shuffled on her feet, looking him over. “Surprised to hear a ‘Vint talk kindly of dog lords at all.”

“Look on the bright side: at least I’m a snake instead of an overgrown cat playing the Game.”

“No complaints there... You’ll want to see the Commander about clearing out that quarry if you want to get ore and minerals for the smithy. It’s far, so we have higher priorities.”

“Of course. A logging site to expand and repair, especially. See you around, fellow pariah!”

“Right…” Threnn warily watched him and his guard leave, and Lavellan heaved a sigh she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Where he was is the requisitions table. When you start going out in the field, we’d appreciate if you found anything on it and brought it back or let us know where to fetch it.”

She tugged out her notes and sliver of charcoal with a reassuring nod. “I’ll be talking to the advisors right after this to get started on scouting and recruiting, too. Thank you for your hard work. I’ll do what I can!” 

Threnn curled her lip just enough to count as a return smile by her reckoning. “Maker go with you, Herald.” 

Lavellan looked over the requisition’s many orders and requests, jotting down the ones that she thought were most immediate and important—then scrunched her face at the last entry. It was for the quarry Threnn mentioned, in Sahrnia, but he’d written it out in another language and then (angrily?) struck it out and re-wrote it. She pursed her lips looking at it. It was… almost Common. 

Curious, she pulled out the runestone in her pocket and looked at the rune etched on it, which was also almost Common: it resembled their letter A, but not quite. She looked through the struck-out runes and found its match, but that didn’t tell her whether it was a different version of the same letter. Then she sighed and pocketed it once more, chastising herself.

As if setting up the Inquisition from within wasn’t daunting enough, the advisors unloaded an absolute slew of tasks and missions for themselves and agents beyond Haven. Vying for top priority was bringing order to the Hinterlands and acquiring influence via allies, agents, network opportunities, and more. 

I’m not so sure about this, she lamented to herself as they just kept adding markers to the enormous map. I thought I could handle Keeping Haven, at least, but this is so much bigger than I realized. In barely a blink, they’d shifted from displaced refugee camp to fledgling rebel militia. She’d studied to shepherd to safety, not to conduct political and actual small arms warfare.

She wanted desperately to defer to the advisors and let them orchestrate the Inquisition’s actions with the experience she lacked. She caught herself clenching her marked hand a few times to remember that their efforts and experience were moot without her: her part was small by comparison, but it hinged the victory they and the rest of Thedas needed… 

They didn’t need her input on warfare and political strategy, though!

When they asked her how to proceed, she balked for an awkwardly long moment. I’m here because I can close the rifts. I agreed to help because I’m qualified to hold a Keep. I should prioritize what I at least know how to do: they’ll fill in the rest.

The Hinterlands was where squabbles were breaking out between templars and mages, which was why she came to the Conclave in the first place. There were reports of rift activity there, too. She might also find some of the materials needed for the people in Haven while exploring the place.

She tightened her staff grip to steady herself and confirmed that they shouldn’t waste any time going to the Hinterlands… but soon wavered again when Leliana nodded in approval and added something else. “There is one more thing you can do. A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you.”

Lavellan didn’t cringe, at least on the outside—Chancellor Roderick’s outburst on the Chantry steps still heated her ears thinking about it. “Even though the Chantry denounced us?”

“Possibly because they denounced us. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable. You will find her tending to the wounded near Redcliffe.”

She frowned down at the map on the war table. The rebel mages won’t meet us, the renegade templars won’t meet us, and the Chantry declared us heretics. We’re going to the Hinterlands to stop the infighting, which was the Chantry’s job. Does it matter who is or isn’t involved in hating us in the Chantry just now? 

Cassandra declared our purpose: restore order. The Divine decreed it because the Chantry couldn’t or wouldn’t. 

Solas’ warning from just that morning surfaced in her racing thoughts: “...may have valuable information worth hearing, but trust is another matter entirely.” 

Unfortunately, Imshael’s words were quick to follow. “Saving his soldiers mattered more than posing for civilians on their asses who decide right or wrong after the fact.”

“I’ll… see what she has to say.” She conceded but did not concur. And belatedly, she also wondered, How does the spymaster of the late Divine know less than some revered mother in a tent in the backwater? Something doesn’t make sense...

Despite the impossible workload before them, they agreed to delay for another day when Cassandra admitted that Solas needed a little more time to finish healing Imshael—which sparked more debate on whether or not to leave him wounded! She held her tongue but internally recoiled in horror: their main objective was to save lives, from infighting. 

Even with his terrible power, and even while spinning tall tales, he hadn’t attacked anyone. Being around to unsettle everyone amused him enough to cooperate for now… And, well, she’d said he could leave whenever he wanted.

Cassandra (begrudgingly) argued to have Solas finish healing him so they could scout the Hinterlands with a potent healer and get the abomination out of Haven, and Lavellan immediately agreed with her when they turned to her to decide again.

Even though they’d already done so—letting her decide to include him in the first place—just to undermine that choice right in front of her face in the past five minutes. I’m not so sure about this.

She was eager to get out of the war room and the Chantry as fast as possible, but Cassandra caught up to her before she could truly flee. So, they set a pace through the chapel that was only sedate on the surface.

When she saw Solas, an elven apostate, carrying his staff openly without repercussion, she felt emboldened to do the same—but sometimes caught herself crossing it in front of her as though to deflect an attack. She’d been reminding herself to carry it off to one side instead, to appear both confident and at ease. 

Holding it in her marked hand let her squeeze the mark against it to hide when it flared, too—such as it did right then. Somehow, it still caught Cassandra’s attention even though she could usually conceal it with a firm hold. After scrutinizing her grip for a moment, she asked, “Does it trouble you?”

She swapped the staff to her other hand to peer down at the vivid green static flickering in and around the scar. It tingled and stung like never-ending static prickles, too. “I just wish I knew what it was. Or how I got it.”

Cassandra pinched her brows in a sympathetic frown. “We will find out. What matters now is that it is stable, as is the Breach. You’ve given us time, and Solas believes a second attempt might succeed, provided the mark has more power. The same level of power that was used to cause the Breach… that is not easy to come by.”

Thinking back on Imshael’s alibi about some of the templars and mages working together to cause the Breach… then the obscure political maneuverings Leliana and Josephine went on about in the war room, she sighed, “What if that kind of power just makes everything worse?”

“And people call me a pessimist.” Cassandra smiled encouragingly, and it lightened Lavellan’s dour mood a little. She held out her hand unexpectedly, and with a returning smile of her own, they clapped and held each other’s forearms for a moment before leaving the Chantry and parting ways. 

Every step away from the intimidating war room loosened something between her shoulder blades until she found herself past Haven’s fencing near a mostly frozen lake. At first, she just let herself… unclench for several uninterrupted minutes while staring off into the sunset. Then, she pulled out the runestone, burning a hole in her pocket (and focus) the longer she tried to ignore it. 

Because of the way ducks ran across water before landing, the Dalish called it drake-stepping to skip rocks… and she couldn’t even remember how young she was the last time she did it. The runestone was a good shape for skipping, but she put it back in her pocket and instead found a few flat rocks along the bank.

There’s a lot more to do right now, more important things… 

At the same time, they also had their next steps planned with little more to do but wait. They would need Solas’ better healing skills between skirmishes, and Cassandra, their fiercest warrior, couldn’t go without taking Imshael along, who wasn’t ready to travel yet. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to focus on their mission if she didn’t also give herself time to process everything going on... 

Still, her cheeks and ears burned a bit as she half-heartedly tossed a rock that only skipped once before plopping down below. An embarrassed little smile curled her lips as she vaguely recalled drake-stepping contests as a child—how the boys almost always skipped them farther, so the girls teamed up to distract them with loud noises, or by tickling them with a branch from behind.

She crouched to a lower angle and set the staff beside her, and tried again for three drake steps before it splashed and sank.

"The ripples are what idiots call history and the lake bed is what morons call death."  

She let herself watch the ripples overlap into patterns before chastising herself for listening to the demon again.

But if the ripples are history, why does time pass like a current? The lake is still...

Lavellan nearly jumped out of her skin and shot to her feet when Solas’ smooth timbre interrupted her ruminations from behind. “Imshael neglected to mention the second half of that ancient meditation.” Heart pounding, she opened her mouth to speak—but when he leaned casually against his staff, she gasped and ducked down to swipe hers back up.

She chuckled a little breathlessly at her own mortification, and Solas’ purple eyes glittered with amusement without pointing it out to make it worse. “I didn’t realize he was talking about a meditation… an elven one?”

Solas crouched and dragged his fingers across the dirt for a moment, then found a flat stone and moved beside her to face the lake together. “Indeed,” he said, then crouched and flung the rock for six steps before it slid and sank. They both watched the ripples spread in comfortable (if shy) silence, before he straightened and asked, “What did the stone do as it passed over the water?”

“It—erm…” She frowned and looked at the water again, replaying the moment in her mind. 

At her long pause, he gently added, “Let me rephrase: what did the stone do to the face of the water as it passed over?” 

She took a long, eager breath and traced her tattooed cheek, then looked back to Solas with a bright smile. “Oh, its reflection passes over—! And the shadow, too, the underside of the rock.” She turned back to the lake surface, beaming. “Like Dirthamen and Falon’din! Do you think the other gods had similar meditations? I wonder if—” 

Her smile faltered as she recalled the last healing session, and she reined in her excitement. “When you were spirit healing, it felt like we were under water, like the rocks are now, and there was this sound like singing inside the air currents... Is it the same? Is… th-that story, he wasn't talking about elves.”

Solas hummed pensively. “We still lack any extant confirmation that dwarves preceded the Elvhen, as their Shaperate claims… but cultural exchange is possible. I’m afraid I know precious little of ancient dwarven culture, insular as they are.”

“I see.” She sighed: she’d really hoped that he might have discovered something about ancient elves and dwarves (or even elves and humans) in the ruins he dreamt in. She chewed her lip, wondering whether to bother him about her own worries, before heaving another frustrated sigh.

“Solas. They…” She swallowed and tightened her grip on the staff again, tucking it a bit closer to her side. “They don’t need me in that war room—they only need my hand and what it does for them... They’re ready for civil war! They asked for my input to be polite, but they care more about influence and strategy than, well. Keeping.” 

She trailed off, frowning at the rocks on the ground between them. “They still want the Chantry’s approval, even though that’s not what Cassandra implied to Chancellor Roderick. Something feels wrong about what they’re doing, but I don’t know what… but I’m also only here to close rifts and help Haven, so it’s not my place to question.”

“It’s a cruel twist of circumstances that the Chantry chose to denounce vital efforts to close the Breach—equally so that you are swept up in human politicking by proxy.” Lavellan’s hazel eyes snapped up to meet his again as he gently squeezed her shoulder to get her attention. “As you said, closing the Breach, and prioritizing the people helping us do so, is what is most important. Your concerns are grounded: do not doubt your right to voice them.” 

“I… Right.” She shook her head in defeat despite conceding again: Solas was right, but the advisors wanted Chantry support. If she’d spoken up just then, they may have smiled and nodded to be polite, but once they left for the Hinterlands, there was no way Cassandra wouldn’t want to see Mother Giselle. 

And if it was true that she had valuable information, it meant Sister Nightingale had a glaring blind spot in her own spy network. Their spy network.

Dusk had settled around them while they spoke, so they strolled at an easy, slow pace back into Haven while Solas told her more of the dreams and memories he’d seen in his travels. He even shared how a few Dalish clans rejected him with force when he told them about what he learned; she was absolutely sure Keeper Deshanna would never.

They ended up circuiting Haven more than once to keep talking rather than part ways sooner for the night, and clerics set up lanterns and torches throughout...

Solas abruptly stopped, and she didn’t even notice for a few steps before looking back to find him staring off at the barn where they’d hopefully have horses soon. When she followed his gaze, she spied Imshael standing near the stalls with a templar guard several paces away, arms crossed as though he were quite peeved. 

Imshael was holding his arms up: one crooked and the other dangling a mouse trying to scrabble up to nip his fingers—and when it did, he swung it against a nearby support beam while muttering under his breath. 

She gasped at the strange, cruel display and pivoted on her heel to go investigate, but Solas caught her attention by holding a finger over his lips, then gesturing back to him with his chin. So she waited, watched… and after the stunned, battered mouse wriggled in a daze for a few seconds, a horned owl dropped down from the dark rafters and alighted unsteadily on Imshael’s forearm. 

It wasted little time reaching out to snap up the gifted mouse by the neck and retreating.

He immediately dropped his arms and shook them out, grumbling coarsely while looking up wherever the owl went—then slowly walked around scanning the ground for a bit. When he turned to leave, he paused mid-step when he saw them.

“Blast it all—!” He straightened his mantle with a scoff and stalked off with the guard without another word. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael was not sulking in their cell when the Lady and the Wolf showed up for an extra-late healing session. 

Eeh. Wasn’t it a werewolf last time? 

He couldn’t tell time down in the dungeon, but it had to be near to midnight. He cocked a brow and uncrossed their legs on their ridiculously small stool, then asked, “And people say I look like I need sleep. Why the late visit?” With a conspiratorial smirk, he leaned forward and added, “Are we getting conjugal already?” The Lady Seeker’s scoff was less enthusiastic than usual, and she didn’t impact the field with it.

[Already distracted.]
{Something’s changed at the apex?}
(Time for the boring part!)

She curtly explained, “We have decided to go to the Hinterlands, where we will require Solas’ healing services. The sooner you are recovered, the sooner we may depart.” She posted up with her hand resting on sword hilt, rigid from tension more than composure.

[“We.”]
{Getting us out of the halla pen!}
(The Lady Seeker takes to the field!)

“And are the advisors hoping I’ll take flight or lend to the fight?” He needled while standing to disrobe.

Not that it concerns us. 
[Self-deceit already, eh...?]
(We'll see her flinging enemy blood!)
{Faith still glowing underneath! Get it out!}
I’ll throttle this fucking pup if he leaves any of it.
[“Inoculation is not infection.”]
{Get! It! Out!}

Solas and Cassandra exchanged a look, and Imshael rolled their eyes—all thirteen of them—as he folded their coat and laid it on the stool. Eventually, Cassandra admitted, “In truth, we are divided in opinion regarding your involvement.” Imshael’s signature sardonic smirk widened while the tunic came off, and he heaved a dramatic sigh exceeding nine thousand years of tedium.

“That’s unfortunate. I’ll see about pestering the Commander to change his mind tomorrow, then.” He lay down and propped their head on their arm to expose their side for Solas, who settled into his kneeling pose. The pup's pleasure at their acquiescence was disgustingly apparent.

Cassandra’s informed field contrast spiked, but briefly—highlights and shadows increased, fear and blasted faith and hope in equal measure. “Why would you… on second thought, I would rather not know.” The space around her hardened against her own curiosity and confusion over their compliance.

[She’s learning.]
Better than the Dog.
{Sore spot! Soft spot!}
(Underdogs and leaps of faith!)
Dirt better taste good for this.

“It’s more fun that way, eh? I already offered my ace card with lyrium refinement, anyway. Something tells me he won’t hear me out without you there, though.”

She searched their face, conflicted, flickering again. When Solas nudged up against the coalescion, he immediately dropped a monument over their sanctum to drown out their chatter from the Dog’s thoughts. In the absence of scraps to gnaw on, he soon asked, “You mentioned speaking to Commander Cullen earlier, as well. For what?”

He rewarded the elf with a blunt stare for missing the obvious: “There are better methods of taking lyrium, and I know tinctures and tonics to mitigate side effects and withdrawal symptoms. I’ve pulled my fair share of comatose victims back from the brink.” Solas’ mana wavered unsteadily, which caused them to shudder and erupt in goosebumps.

Their eyes quickly snapped back to Cassandra though, who positively bloomed in rays of renewed vigor (and they bit their tongue hard to stop themselves from erupting secondhand elsewhere at the enticing sight). Solas’ magic sputtered again, and he shot Imshael an incredulous (disgusted, horrified, offended) glare third-hand while mingled in the coalescion; their smirk became a euphoric grin.

(Nosy pup!)
[Heh. Got him.]
[Was that necessary?]
Ménage à trois?

Solas frowned to focus on healing amid their quiet cacophony of laughter, then flatly redirected, “I assume you mean that for swaying the Commander’s opinion, but you mentioned complaints earlier rather than assistance.” Cassandra looked between them while pinching her brows down, sensing his tension (and possibly their dual and half-voluntary sexual tension). 

Imshael immediately waved their other hand dismissively. “I’ll peck at him with complaints another time. So, Seeker—it’s not often people offer me a choice to stay or go, and I’m curious enough to indulge. Is that enough to hold a blade without getting my innards roasted Andraste-style?” He had to squint a moment as light and shadow danced to a violent tune in the Seeker’s field while she shuffled on her feet, and Solas by contrast stilled in anticipation. 

How poorly they shroud their desires. The thought surfaced scornfully at first, but it dredged up a memory in the process that washed over them in Song: a memory of lurking beneath still waters, observing strange beasts by sweltering violet day and feral bipeds by safer moonlit light.

{Try to understand...!}
[Logic is my only “friend”.]
{Emotions that I can’t pretend?}
[It’s the choices that I see them make.]
(They do it so their heart won’t break!?)
{Is this “passion” something I can take?}

Adrift in the Song, the Seeker’s answer passed them by—and it took a jolt from Solas to shatter the hold that briefly mesmerized them. They jerked upright with sparks dancing as violently across their skin as Cassandra’s heart had across their eyes. She flexed for her sword, scowling, but it was the wretched, infernal sympathy in the Wolf’s eyes that caught their survival reflexes.

Blast it all. Can’t have been more than a second or two. He kneaded the sting out of their brand against their palm with a low growl, before lying flat once more, facing the ceiling and shutting their eyes.

“Did you just… fall asleep?” Solas dared to ask.

“Trances aren’t sleeps, elf.” Their clipped tone brooked no further discussion on it, and Solas got the hint for once.

The Lady Seeker’s formal, blissfully ignorant cadence was vastly preferable to the Wolf’s lingering pity as he started healing them again. “Your guards know when Commander Cullen and I practice: they will escort you to the training yard to join us in the morning. Provided it will not strain your injury, of course.” 

“I don’t suppose there’s any Qunari greatswords lying about?” he mused dryly, keeping their eyes shut from shiny trinkets and their true form entombed in Silence where their asala lay. 

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

If Imshael peacocked any harder, they would be forced to find and wear a Pavus.

He only held a slight smirk while warming up by hacking through a training dummy with a dull greatsword in one strike… one-handed… then faced a retired soldier who came to lend a hand at the Conclave. Smirk spread into a smile when Cullen told their guard, a proper Templar, to face them next; and they held that bland smile while suggesting all three of their personal guard at once.

One-handed.

Inside, they had unraveled into feasting fits of hilarity. The advisors foolishly believed that keeping secrets worked. Now, he recognized which soldiers loathed their presence, casting shivering subliminal shadows, eager to share their secret. One of their personal guard was among them, revealing himself as the source of the leak.

As for the other two, bless them, one couldn’t bring himself to unfreeze his limbs and attack while the other shone Cullen’s glinting-bright (and thus short-sighted) indignant fury. How rude of dusty old Im to continually offend them so by existing!

But he did finally crack into an exhilarated grin when Cassandra faced them down, knowing they held back just for her and seething about it. The angrier she grew, the hotter they did: literally and figuratively! The Inquisition wanted to keep it secret that he’s cheating by holding the sword four-handed, so immolating them would also give them away. 

Can’t be cooked for trying!

A less amusing fact made itself known to them while he frolicked in the nip weeds, though: even while drawing a crowd of stunned onlookers (including the Keeper, Pebble, and Wolf), only a trio of elf servants drifted by to get close to Solas to tally green agents…

And not a single, red-stained field signature in sight.

Eeh... they’ll recognize the listing on the requisitions table and show themselves if they’re around. And if not, then that blight-bloated, would-be god probably recalled them for unfortunate reasons like suspected betrayal. (Which would be a fair assessment…) Whether the Inquisition secured or demolished the quarry at some point, Imshael’s research notes were scattered about the place, so it behooved them to gain the Inquisition’s allegiance beforehand.

After trouncing the Commander’s miserable muster, that is. 

Cassandra veered between steaming them when they got too bold and bolstering her abilities to catch back up—and each time amber eyes flashed and focused, their side twinged and stung just as fiercely. Blasted ptarmigan pecked at the heart-stone, eh? Good thing I know the story and the loophole. Their slip into the stream wouldn’t be happening again anytime soon after last night.

So, he puppeteered himself through the morning in delirious delight while getting acquainted with the cattle (and preening when Varric’s wagers dried up with any prospect of an upset). He did find their limit and pace with the Lady Seeker, at least—both were a chest-heaving, sweaty sight when Cullen finally started shooing people away to pair back up for practice.

While she stalked out of the circle toward the Commander, Imshael staked the sword in place and raked damp hair off their temples before stretching their sore side with a strained groan. He massaged the edges of fresh skin and muttered a quick thanks to Gaxkang’s revenant for knowing how to pivot and dance with such a lengthy blade one-handed in the first place. It wasn’t the weight that ever hindered them.

Alas... he’d not accounted for something crucial for a moment: nosy pebbles. “Hey, Butcher—what’s that light under your shirt?” 

Eeh!? That implies I eat people.
[Used to be “Devourer”.]
(Too many syllables!)
{Feeding on fear!}
[And ego.]
(Fury!)
Fair.

He probably could have bluffed through a deception if Cassandra, Cullen, Solas, and the Herald hadn’t all flinched or stilled simultaneously... Varric’s beady-eyed squint around the sparring ring quickly turned suspicious as Imshael tried and failed to hold back a derisive snort.

He glanced down, and sure enough, their damp tunic had clung to and revealed the faint golden glow for a gold-hungry dwarf when they’d massaged it. He tugged their breeches over their brand while lifting the tunic to reveal the spirit wound. “Ah, a souvenir when I fell out of the sky. I got swiped at by a spirit in the Fade.”

“I knew there was a story under that ro—hang on. I heard two mages fell out, and one of ‘em was a shapeshifter.” He turned to the Herald, who’d suddenly made very good friends with a rock on the ground while Varric spoke, prodding it with the butt of her staff.

“That probably warrants an explanation... Singing Maiden?”

“Imshael...” If Cassandra thought that warning tone would dissuade Varric, he had unfortunate news for her. 

He grinned her way with a shrug. “I won’t bite, Lady Seeker! Besides, he is going to the Hinterlands with us with that fancy crossbow, right?”

Cullen scowled toward one of the templar guards and jerked his head to follow them (which was out of rotation, the scared one was next). He then angled his back toward them and started spitting vehemently at Cassandra just like they expected. 

Imshael rather hoped Solas would shepherd the herald off for something else, but alas. A blasted party loitered about while he tied the bear mantle over their tunic, then smugly tossed their mage coat at Solas (either for his face or hands to catch). He then ladled water over their head from a rinsing trough, smirk fixed in place from the bizarre entourage.

Varric couldn’t handle the silence while he rubbed a flannel towel through their hair: “You better not have ruined my betting pool with rigged odds, Butcher.”

“So rigged that I need a personal guard!” Imshael dropped the towel in a basket of dirty linens and peered down their aquiline nose at him. “You should have caught the context clues, Pebble.” He took the coat back from extra-stoic Solas, draped it over their shoulder, then dug through pockets while leading the way beside the grousing dwarf.

Varric reached the door first and held it, which allowed Imshael (and the guard) to beeline for Flissa’s counter and order the round. This early in the day, the place was mostly empty: no lunch-goers just yet. He dropped four pouches on the counter while she gathered mugs to fill, and rifled hastily through the runestones with a bloody thumb ready to charge.

He had a stone in one hand and coins in the other when she set a round of ales on the counter, and she bathed the space between them with sanguine warmth. “You’re the new fighter rilin’ up the recruits, aren’t you? Name’s Flissa, dear—we could sure use more strong hands like you.” 

“I aim to serve, Lady Flissa. Call me Imshael.” He set the handful of coins beside a pouch and slid both over to her. “Speaking of which, I couldn’t help but overhear you were having a pest problem in the larder.” He patted the pouch and leaned closer before she could reply or ask how they knew. “If you put these where you’re finding them, the little bastards will think an owl moved in and stay far away.”

Flissa scrunched her pretty little face in confusion for a moment while tugging the pouch open, before giggling in disgust. “Pellets! I’ve gotten some strange tips in my line of work, but I think you just topped them all.” 

He’d slipped the rune into their mug while tugging them all close, out of the guard’s sight, and chuckled. “Well, if something did that to a human, I’d stay far away, too!” He pulled out a dark bottle from another pouch, and Varric shuffled to the counter just in time to see them pour a small amount into the mug with the rune in it. 

“What’s that for, then?” Flissa asked curiously.

“Eeh... Quitting lyrium comes with some nasty side effects. It helps a few of them.” When Flissa hummed sympathetically, he met her gaze without lifting their head. “Sounds like you might have heard that story before. I’ve a spare bottle if you’d like…?”

“Oh, I couldn’t—but Adan might appreciate the recipe a great deal if you were kind enough to share.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” He slid two mugs to Varric, pocketed the pouches in their draped coat, and grabbed the other three mugs—then immediately offered one to the guard, who stiffened. After waiting a beat, he angled their hand and offered the one with the tonic instead. “Helps the headaches and dreams, but not the singing.”

The templar’s innate field flickered briefly before he resolutely slammed his arms against his sides. 

“Guess I’ll drink for two...”

“Alright, Butcher,” Varric casually started as they settled into one side of a booth, while Solas and the Herald sat across from them. “You’re a templar in mage robes who fell out of the sky. With a glowing mark. Like the Herald. You enchant, but you’re not Tranquil. You shapeshift without magic? You refine lyrium for the damned Carta, and you’re up close and personal with the advisors. And nobody seems to like you... Except maybe Chuckles, just for the novelty.” 

When he gestured toward ‘Chuckles’, they chuckled at the magnificent irony. “Sounds like you figured me out, dwarf. I’m too useful to get rid of and too distasteful to show off.”

“What’s the catch?” 

“I’m the catch, obviously! It’s not every day a Forbidden One actually falls into your lap. Must be providence.”  Varric coughed into his mug mid-swig and stared them down wide-eyed halfway through their sassy retort.

“You’re shitting me.” He warily scanned them all, found no punch line, and set the mug down slow. His field of effect went dead still: instant battle reflexes. Unfortunately, the pebble had cornered himself by taking the inside seat.

“Looks like you’ve heard of the Forbidden Ones, too,” Imshael slyly noted, eyebrows high. “Leliana’s killed one before, so she recognized me right away.”

Varric slowly rumbled back, “Yeah... so have I, in Kirkwall. Something about teaching blood magic a long damn time ago.”

“Aaand, now I’m here to refine and supply. Happens to the worst of us.” He lifted their mug for a cocksure salute before taking a few drinks.

The Keeper idly ran her thumb along the rim of her own mug and interjected without looking up, “Even if we kill him, he knows ways back: so, Solas is healing him and he’s sharing what he knows with us. And since he’s a Templar, Cassandra can control the lyrium in his blood.”

Imshael waved a genial hand to the Keeper. “See? Don’t have to be a blood mage to use blood magic. Lyrium is Stone blood, which is my specialty... eh, and weakness.” Her staticky aura flickered a heady ripple of surprise, revelation—and they took note for later. 

Varric’s cautious frown rounded the table again before settling on the templar guard, standing beside Imshael at the table at the ready. “Sooo, whose bright idea was it to leash an ancient demon to the Inquisition?”

Imshael scoffed but held back their usual correction. “That’s a nice crossbow you’ve got, especially with red lyrium in it... I bet it helps you aim. I can do the same! As long as somebody’s feeling Fear, Rage, or Pride. Helps me keep an eye on the infighting, eh?”

Varric’s jaw snapped back shut after a second, then he leaned back a little and pinched the bridge of his scarred nose. “Maker’s ass, Sister Leliana hired you. And what’s that gonna cost?” 

They straightened a little with a smug eyebrow wag: “I get to tell the Chantry to sod off and help the heroes do the Chantry’s job better than they could across two thousand years? I like spilling blood for its irony, pebble; and if it’s going to flow regardless, why not divine irony!”

“Did the guy you’re wearing feel the same way?” Varric sniped back.
“Enthusiastically! Hait’s not a facetious pseudonym.”

Varric groaned in despair and took a long couple of drinks at that, then got lost in the reflection in his mug rather than face the distasteful company again. Imshael could hazard a guess at what abominable comparison the pebble was making. Solas spoke up for the first time; his hands cupped his mug, which remained otherwise untouched.

“There are other extenuating circumstances for his inclusion. While undercover, he was tracking some of the culprits responsible for the attack at the Conclave. Mages and templars coordinated the attack, so he is best informed to help us rout out some of the conspirators while we investigate both bands of rebels.”

The herald shyly added, “And closing the Breach is more important than only picking good guys to do it. I asked him to stay and help, but he doesn’t have to.”

{She was listening?}
[That’s almost new...]
(That’s not how this works!)

Imshael’s eye twitched. Then their lip. “Ahem.” He pointed an accusatory finger, sneering at her high-browed, wide-eyed, halla-before-the-arrow staticky suspense. “Listen here, you. Just because I choose to stay and play after your polite little ge—eh…”

At the reminder, he yanked out her damned sewing kit from their sleeve and tossed it across the table to her, making her fumble to catch it and snap her out of her intoxicating daze. “I’m keeping one, Keeper. Blasted doe-eyed long-eared starstruck brat stinging and clinging to my sore side like a thorn. You’re lucky I feed on attention and like listening to myself bloviate!”

He leaned onto the table with one elbow and glowered through several swigs of “ale”, which he’d deconstructed with the rune to burn out the alcohol and cattle feed. And ignored the prickly bright pleasure scrabbling against their edges from acknowledging the brat. Plus the coy little smirk on Solas’ face, and the dwarf gawking at the sewing needles. 

What a mortifying charade. Just keep stooping.
{Sore spot for underdogs and bad odds!}
[A sweat-soaked storm...]
(Blood-soaked Seeker!)
I need a bloodbath.

As if on cue, a wave of enraged bloodlust coursed through them, watering their mouth, followed shortly by Seeker Cassandra coming up to the table beside the guard. He tipped their mug up and drawled with a petulant smile, “Ahh, Lady Seeker—you are a sight for sore sides. Making friends is harder than I thought! Let’s go back to fighting.”

Varric snorted, indicating that they’d at least somewhat disarmed him, but Cassandra didn’t take the bait. He held back a shiver while their blood temperature increased; her fierce frown intensified with the heat as she bit out, “If your intention was to aggravate Commander Cullen, you succeeded.”

“Eeh. You’re catching on to my tricks, too… You didn’t tell him that, did you?”

“Wha—Of course I told him! You scheming little shit—” she reared back when he shot to their feet, hand immediately at her sword.

{Too fast!}
(Furious!)
[Heh...]
Eeh?

He leaned in from her side (slowly, so she didn’t cook them) and murmured low enough for only her and the guard, “You shouldn’t have to tell a Templar that demons provoke them. Who relegated you to nursemaid?” He dropped their typical smirk and stared her down, hard, and she huffed indignantly but faltered—both with her words and field structure.

“It—the situation is not that simple.” He did not enjoy the brittle desperation that leaked from her, rusting reality’s outlines and crackling the edges of their sight. He scoffed in disgust that time (to shake off the foul image) and tugged their cloak on under the mantle while darting their gaze to the door. 

He thought about turning their head around owl-style to bid the table farewell, but thought better of it… He instead turned boringly while she headed for the door (still flashing a rusty tempest in their periphery) and shrugged with a rueful grin at the wary dwarf and company. He snickered low and confided, “She’s too fun to fight with! You’re at least stuck with me until she’s immune to my charm.”

Varric shook his head and muttered into his mug, “Settle in, then, Butcher. You’re just stuck.”

Imshael squinted at the Herald when she finally stopped avoiding their gaze, then ignored Solas outright to saunter after the Lady Seeker with the guard. He rummaged through their pockets again as they reached the door. Once they three stepped out, he damn near slapped the tonic bottle into her breastplate before she braced and caught it.

“That only handles migraines and nightmares, and it puts normal people to sleep, so save it for nighttime. You are mistaken, Lady Seeker: war isn’t easy, but it’s very simple. He plays to win or he quits.”  With that, he heaved a low groan-growl and made for the blasted apothecary.

The guard followed faster than Cassandra did, staring at the tonic and storming in place between too many feelings for them to even begin to track. He rather expected her to let them go, but she caught back up with a fretful, hopeful turn of her sharp features while she sought something darting between their eyes.

“If you seek ulterior motives, the answer is curiosity and amusement.” He smoothed their expression into something close to bored and laced their fingers behind their head while walking. 

“What could possibly amuse you about helping us?” she demanded; he clenched their jaw as their side tingled and stung. “Or is this another ruse—poison? Snake oil?”

“Your questions demonstrate my answer. How far that leap of faith takes you in the face of fear and deceit? That amuses me. It interests me.”

She tucked the precious bottle close while frowning at the ground the rest of the way to Adan’s shop, only looking up when he stopped at the door to cock a brow at her and wait for her to stop brooding… which they weren’t also doing. “You have business with the alchemist?” she asked, perplexed—and he smirked while dropping their arms. 

“Apparently, I’m giving Adan my tonic recipe now. That way, you can give him credit to make sure the Commander does his blasted job by taking it.” He leaned just a little closer and reveled in how she immediately tensed, sharpened, brightened everything back to glinting edges. “I don’t want you filing his paperwork: I want us spattered in blood in the wild.”

The faintest heat wave that rolled off her in response to Choice’s Voices wasn’t enraged, but it was tempestuous in a promising new way... He bit back an unholy choir of moans while slipping into the apothecary.

[Rub dirt in the wound.]
{Hide the shine!}

...

. . .

.  .  .

When Solas sought out Choice some hours later, after indulging in small talk with Varric and Lavellan, he found them at the smithy where they’d set up a small collection of tanks and pots of differently colored solutions. Instead of supervising their concoctions, however, they were crouched before a quench tank tipped on its side and engraving its inner wall. 

Though they used a standard lyrium chisel, Imshael’s black hammer was far larger than necessary, and minuscule bolts of lightning scattered across its head from within each time it contacted the chisel. They compensated for the hammer’s ludicrous size with gentler taps that rang in tune to the droning hum they were making under their breath (and reverberating through Pride, who blanketed the entire stall). 

Solas carefully noted the subdued, idling motions of the other smiths (and guard), entranced by the “silence” and completely dissociated. He then waited for the droned intonation to pause before stepping into their field of awareness and stirring their focus. Imshael leaned back and looked over their shoulder at him with a noncommittal grunt—and the smiths around them swayed or stumbled and resumed their tasks none the wiser to any passage of time.

The guard flinched violently at Solas’ (seemingly) sudden appearance. As he approached, a glassy distance in Choice’s eyes faded, and their slack, closed expression morphed into a cocky smirk while spinning the hammer around, then holding it up for him to examine more closely. “Can’t forge that stamp, eh?” The ornate cross in a circle marked the hammer as Paragon Caridin’s own make. 

“Impressive—though perhaps oversized for the task.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.” Solas shook his head with a sigh at their juvenile chuckle before they muttered on, “I should really go fetch the other half of Certainty so I can put her back together…”

“Somehow, I doubt jumping about with a red lyrium sword the length of a bedroll would be wise.”

“A choosy spirit can pretend to dream!” Imshael stood with a huff and wedged the hammer into an inside pocket, where its shape and appearance vanished from sight entirely. The chisel soon followed, after they took a small cloth and wiped blood off its edges. “That ought to teach Harritt not to dismiss efficient alternatives.”

Solas examined the runes and deadpanned too low for the guard, “As well as let you track every blade forged, no doubt.”

They defensively countered: “In case I need to borrow someone! Why are you sniffing about?”

“I came to administer more healing, though I expected to find Seeker Pentaghast with you.”

“Eeh… she’s probably abusing a dummy with my face painted on it right about now.” They gestured to the guard to follow them away from the smithy to the training yard, and indeed found Cassandra methodically running drills alongside recruits and soldiers of every season.  Contrary to expectation, she was more resolute in her posture and aura than Choice had assumed.

Once down in the cell, he observed that their wound was nearly healed despite the faint underglow left behind—a fact only they had qualms about. It seemed they had been refraining from commenting on it in the Seeker’s presence, but had finally lost patience. “Why is it not dispersing, elf?” Their eyes glinted in open indictment.

Solas lifted his eyebrows, surprised that they need ask, and wondered momentarily at their outburst. “The wound was extensive enough to damage multiple forms simultaneously: scarring is to be expected.”

“Scarred by faith?” they spat at him. “Carve it out, then! I’ll regrow my own damn skins and scars.”

Solas shook his head (and confusion) and chided, “Have you no staunch faith in your fellow forbidden comrades, Imshael? The scar reflects only what is already in you. It does no harm.” Imshael’s expression tightened even further at his mild rebuttal.

“I don’t need faith for any of that: get it out!”

Cassandra shuffled uneasily at the break of character, then hesitantly stepped closer to kneel at their other side rather than stand (though she still angled her sword to draw with ease). “I am sure Solas did the best he could. You have taken the longest to heal out of the Conclave survivors,” she reasoned as well.

Choice lay back, but Wrath’s prickling sandstorm presence whirled in the Void and battered Solas’ aura directly. “Evasive drivel from a long-eared insect. Typical. The world had bodies to spare, but no—that would have meant sharing power with ugly souls! Speak of comrades to me again and it’s the last time you taste your unworthy tongue.”

“Imshael!” Cassandra gasped in alarm. 

Solas’ jaw clenched against a hidden desert duster and the venom in their words, burning all the more for holding back his own scathing retort before the Seeker. While turning his attention to the injury, he swallowed back his ire and said in a clipped tone, “It is alright, Seeker. Wounded people lash out regardless of their shape.” 

Imshael scoffed and glared up at the ceiling while Solas started healing them, layering thick sand dunes of fury in their mindscape instead of the serene, submerged pyramid of before. Solas wondered if their stint in the tavern was what roused their temper, or something else. In the taut minutes between them, Cassandra studied the abomination’s nasty grimace along with the brand and mark on their torso... 

She slowly shifted to angle herself to face them better and said, “During my vigil, I was made to contemplate the Chant of Light while watching a candle burn for hours on end, trying not to wander in thought or drift to sleep.” She then scoffed softly under her breath and confessed, “I did not always succeed in my efforts.”

Choice blinked slowly, and Solas watched the unnatural shift in expression again before drifting his own gaze to the Tranquility brand. It seems they can activate it periodically at will... Their scowl eased (but not their abrasive timbre) while replying to Cassandra: “Candles have a bottom. Inaccurate.”

“Was your meditation not the same?”
“Not even remotely.”
“...Will you tell me?”

They finally stopped burning holes into the ceiling to leer her way. “You want another story, Lady Seeker? That’s a dangerous pattern to establish.” Despite the lingering acerbic tone, the gritty mace of Wrath’s aura began to dissipate, so Solas tightened his focus on the injury to avoid making them aware of it.

Cassandra answered more diplomatically than he expected. “If you are lying, then they are at least thought-provoking lies to listen to—” she narrowed her eyes, “—without believing in them. And I should remember that you are here willingly to share your knowledge in the first place.” 

Solas caught their lip quirking just a little from the corner of his eye, and Pride drifted forth in lazy, lethargic curls around the edges of the cell. “Ahem… if you’re trying to woo me as well as distract me, it’s working.” 

“Ugh…” Choice combed a hand through their hair while regaining their demeanor, bolstered by the attention, before tilting their head to face the wall away from the other two. 

“Once upon a time, lyrium and lava flowed freely through mountains and spewed into the air. The atmosphere was unlike anything today. Hot and humid every day: no seasons or years. Volcano vapors turned the sky violet, and the sun couldn’t shine through the vapor canopy. Lyrium infused the air, soil, water… everything grew to monstrous proportions from the extra nourishment. 

“People were as tall as Pride demons! Ants the size of cats, berries as big as your fist. Wounds healed in seconds, so murder was rare and very deliberate. No need for sleep. You could swim underwater for half the day on five breaths—not that you would want to with the things that lived in there. But at night...!” Pride and Wrath danced in fervent pleasure with their now-elated voice, and Solas felt as much as heard Imshael’s grin widen. 

“At night, all the vapor condensed and cooled into a liquid lens overhead: it magnified the stars and moon in the sky. There was only one at the time, and it all looked ten times bigger! Every star shone a rainbow halo from the lensing, ripples of oil-light glimmering down from the Void. Some said a rainbow serpent coiled about the whole sky to hold it up. Some moisture spilled down into glowing pools and dew; sometimes it rained light. It was brighter, cooler, and safer at night, so the day started at dusk. 

“And all those silent sensations you call emotions were the wind and water currents... Emotions that move through people’s flickering hearts now, just like that candle. A new light show, maybe, but the same old breeze—and glorified hearts replaced the haloed stars. Eeh..” 

He abruptly cleared their throat and reined in their aura, dampening their cadence back to cynicism after being mesmerized by their own tale. Their snide smirk was firmly back in place when he turned to look at the rapt Seeker. “I’d use a candle that recollects wax if I were you: wax is reusable, and one lit wick lights the next. How do you say it now? An unquenchable flame.”

Solas struggled to keep his mana and focus steady while they'd casually relayed a vision he was unacquainted with: a time absent sleep and dreams, and thus beyond his reach... He sneaked a small glance at Cassandra, who had leaned in a little, posture forgotten. “That place, the time you speak of… that is what you contemplate for a vigil?” 

Choice heaved a lofty sigh. “The Turnings of the Stars? Not for a long time. It’s the earliest memory I have left... Try not to imagine me as an infant, though; it’s appalling. Thirteen eyes, twenty limbs, horns and tentacles on my head—”

“Wha... Maker’s Breath!” Cassandra leaned upright again and chuckled openly at Imshael’s peevish grin while Solas gradually stopped his mana flow for this session. He suspected she’d conducted more spirit healing than any magic this afternoon. 

He, however, remained troubled by Choice’s poisonous words when he left the two of them, and soon found himself standing alone out by the lake, lost in memories of his own. The world had bodies to spare, but no—that would have meant sharing power with ugly souls. 

Retrospect lent him the clarity to grasp Dirthamen’s and Falon’din’s perspectives for the time, if not the intimate understanding unique to their makeup. Their vanity hinged on the same subjectivity seen in all wars: to the elves, they and Andruil were bloodthirsty fiends, and they never shied from the accusation nor relented in their conquest. 

They subsequently held a mirror to Elvhen hypocrisy, leading many to reject and defame otherwise identical practices just because they harnessed red blood more than blue. They cohabited (or stole) bodies living and dead, yet already made and not bled from “the Stone.” Both sides of that war spoke the truth, yet neither was in the right for how they acted on it. 

The Forbidden Ones’ greatest crimes lay in the audacity to not stay dead once defeated. Their immortality stemmed from a knowledge rooted in the structure of souls, not spirits, and defied every effort of increasingly violent proportions to slay or sunder them… Now they stood in a world of wreckage, kindred for enduring yet stranger than ever to each other.

Solas smiled gently and turned as he sensed Lavellan’s approach, relieved for the interruption. She had a bag slung over one shoulder with the sparse herbs Haven’s outskirts had to offer. She smiled back, though her eyes searched his warily. “Is everything alright, lethallin?”

“Yes—I was just taking a moment to meditate.”
“Ir abelas. I didn’t realize.”
“Think nothing of it, lethallan. Can I help with something?”

“Oh, I think I’m done now. I thought I’d prepare potions ahead of the Hinterlands, that’s all.”

“I am happy to assist, unless you prefer the solitude: I imagine you get precious little of it with your new station.”

“I don’t mind at all. Erm, your cabin or mine?”

...

. . .

.  .  .

Inoculation is not infection.

Imshael wandered back to the Singing Maiden after Harritt refilled his quench and they slipped a few gold coins into it “for luck”. Rune chains conducted power into a pattern, and gold transferred the effect across lesser materials. (Blood just let them hop between blades in case of death, to find a replacement body to slip into like stockings.) 

Inoculation is not infection.

Varric hesitantly offered them a seat, but he waved it off and took a table in the corner to lurk and tally the herd again. The scared guard was now posted at their side, but he was still enough of a deterrent to keep the soldiers away (besides a few nods of acknowledgement or spiteful glares). The mage coat rested beside them in the booth, and another pouch lay on the table by a neutralized drink.

After stifling a small growl, he started pulling out their hoard of small chess pieces from the pouch and choosing who would play what role in white. Mages and Templars both live in Towers and think in simple straight lines just the same. Clergy, merchants, and refugees are all Pawns; slow to move and in only one direction. Advisors can bypass obstructions from above like Knights.

The Keeper is the queen, and her party are the real bishops, also called Generals... Used to call them the Overseer and the Shapers.

Chantry is the figurehead king, stagnant as a hibernating titan. Same amount of indigestion and pestilence, too.

So far, the queen has three knights, two generals, and two towers—one of them red. An unknown number of mage and templar rebels count for one more tower each for now, four total. He picked up the red Tower and rolled it between their fingers. Inoculation is not infection...

He squeezed their hand around the red Tower for a long, quiet moment, letting Wrath seethe and burn in their blood more violently than a suffocating, collapsed volcano—until the scared templar’s scabbard rattled—then swapped the Tower for a red General, and slapped it beside the Lady Seeker’s white one.  

Enjoy your tower of frilly dreams, pup. You choose the din’an shiral as though the rest of the board is off limits. I’d curse you to learn, but you won’t stay awake in the classroom to study!

He soon had a “map” of Haven laid out and set aside with pieces in their places, and was mocking their way through random lineups of black towers “in the Hinterlands”, when the sputtering field of the Commander marched their way. Imshael ran a hand through their hair as he slid into the seat across from them. 

The scared guard glittered over their shoulder while Varric highlighted the space behind Cullen with curiosity (before leaning to the side to peer their way with a cocked eyebrow). He winked back, earning a head shake... With a displeased lip curl, Cullen scanned the table and noted, “I see the abomination is attempting to learn a human game.”

Imshael idly scratched at a temple while grinning crookedly. “It’s easier said than done when humans use restricted pieces and impose rules they don’t follow… but look!” He gestured toward the map. “I made a Haven for reference.”

He and Cullen scrutinized each other’s “fields” with likely the same amount of disdain: Cullen was already less turbulent than that morning, and they preened in smug satisfaction. The Commander’s presence steadied even more when they locked eyes again after he studied the map and learned what (and more importantly how) Imshael thought of them all. That’s right, “boss”, a peek at the real goods.

“You have stayed busy even while convalescing.”

“Being too useful to kill does help my odds. Speaking of which—” Imshael gestured to the Hinterlands playground, and replaced their red general with a white one for dramatic effect. “I don’t know the exact number of rebels out in the countryside, which means I don’t know how many belong to my former employer.” 

He then dotted the place with a few random red towers among blacks, a hefty handful of reds at Redcliffe, and then a red queen, two towers, and a knight off to the side. Cullen reviewed the array with pursed lips and without input.

Imshael continued: “I know violence better than politics, so I’d rather play games with you than the Nightingale. Besides, we both know the Chantry—” He plopped a white king piece way off to the side, “—can’t do a bloody thing way out here.”

Cullen leaned forward on his forearm and gave them a long, hard scowl, then swapped their white general back to red. “You have no loyalties to us in spirit or in body. You are not a templar, not a human, and not an ally.”

“Not with that attitude…” Imshael shrugged at their sneer with a dry sigh and tapped the red queen representing Corypheus. “My employer was not my independent interest, which is always the Forbidden Ones. However, I like the pieces I’ve met while rolling in the dirt here! I’ve bartered a lot to stay close to them, and I have more to barter that benefits you more than me.”

“You have promised returns which are not yet accounted for.” 
The Lady Seeker used Adan to peddle my goods, then. Noted...

“Would you expect a refinery from humans in a single week?” He irritably rolled their shoulders before drinking down some of their mug. “This blasted mark on my side is now permanent, human. Do you know how inconvenient faith is, mixed into my blood?”

He leaned back and waved a hand across the table, reeling in their Wrath again before they destabilized. Cullen and Scared Guard fluttered and stiffened automatically—and it distantly occurred to them that the Lady Seeker had stopped reacting the same way at some point... “This is me getting it out of my system like a bad fever instead of flaying that damn elf for probably leaving me scarred on purpose. Here’s my intelligence: take it or leave it, keep it or share it. Blast it all to the fucking Void eventually.”

He forced down some more of the mug before standing to slip into their mage coat. And finally, of all the threads Cullen could have tugged and unravelled... “Why wear mage robes while masquerading as a templar?” Imshael’s brows shot up in genuine surprise while he buckled the coat into place with a thoughtful hum.

“Mages and templars existed before Circles and Orders. Once upon a time, nobody could tell them apart: all their feats were miraculous and “magical”. It’s too bad the Chantry won’t let King Alistair tell the people he has Templar powers without lyrium, eh? If everybody could defend themselves against magic and demons, maybe this game would be kinder to the cattle far away from their shepherds.”

He dipped their head to warm-soft Flissa and curious-sharp Varric on their way out of the tavern and made for the barn where the pleasant company was... Once they got close, he waved the guard to stop and slowly tilted their head a few times, seeking out trace flickers of Fear in the field. Their hand idly massaged a rib and the itchy taut skin covering it.

Not about to shift and see what the scar looks like with an audience…  He paused mid-scan and took a long, measured breath through their ongoing inner discord:

[“Inoculation is not infection.”]
{Marked. Tainted. Un-tainted!}
(Bad kind of burn every time!)
And I survive every time.
{Not with a scar!}
(Permanent!!)
[Elected.]

Their head snapped after a flicker scurrying around a support beam, caught a mouse tail with their boot, and then snatched up the little pest and stunned it against the wood.

Before he could pose their arms, though, another snap caught their attention—and found the Herald standing beside the guard when he followed it, hand clenched tight around her staff. After a pause to glare at the audience, he dangled the mouse her way, wagging their brows. “Want to meet Andruil’s messenger?” he smirked through the irony.

She gave a little gasp of excitement and trotted forward a few steps, then looked around and grabbed up a rock in her marked hand to muffle it while stashing the staff on her back. She daintily grabbed the mouse tail and held her breath while holding up the other arm like they’d done the night before, and he slowly backed away and crossed their arms.

“You’ll want a tighter grip than that, girl—and a whack before it gets your finger,” he drawled. He watched her struggle to hold the squirming vermin before finally batting it against the post, too gently to stun but enough to make it panic. Typical.

She flinched as it nabbed her index finger right when the horned owl dropped down from the rafters for its live sacrifice. To her credit, she didn’t spook the owl off when the mouse bit her a second time (before meeting its Maker); now, the owl finished off its snack with several satisfying snaps and gulps before retreating.

And the silly little slave bounced in delight from foot to bare foot, before pouting at her bleeding finger to heal it. “That was incredible!” she breathed after skipping back to them.

“And a little scary, eh? The fun ones always are.”

I’m probably supposed to learn something profoundly self-reflective from that comment. Alas, I’m distracted by shiny Seekers. They shared a moment of slightly awkward stillness... Before he sighed internally and started leading the way back toward the Chantry at a nice, slow pace. 

Her hand flickered and skittered bright green around the rock, but instead of dropping it, she held it out between them. “You said lyrium was Stone blood earlier in the tavern,” she didn’t ask.

“Yeees…?”
“Does that mean you’re part dwarf?”
“Ahem. A comment on my height, eh?”
“O-oh… sorry. So you’re not?”

He sighed petulantly through gritted teeth at that one. “Yes and no. Humans and dwarves evolved in very different environments. Avvar in the Frostbacks are distinct from Chasind in the Korcari. Highlanders are way taller! Next question.” She giggled while he haughtily lifted their chin, ready to dispense more knowledge. And sidled closer to keep her voice low.

“You think that lyrium use is blood magic? As in all lyrium use?”

“Don’t you Dalish think land is a living thing? If it flows, it counts as a pulse. Next!”

She turned her head very slightly to flit her eyes behind them, then hissed, “Templars?!”

“Blood-doping on soul petrol.”
She blinked a few times in confusion. “Sorry, what?” 

“Wrong audience… Forget that answer. Think of lyrium as crushed, distilled, dream-and-spirit soup. Enchantment soup! When mages and templars use lyrium, it molds to the body it’s in: like an empty pitcher filled and made useful.”

“Liquid spirits...?” 

“Spirits have a baby stage, too! Surely you know how babies are made.” She laughed again at their affronted tone as they came to a stop in front of the Chantry. She still had the rock in her hand, and she looked pensively down at it and the static green flickering beneath it. “You were singing about being a stone while Solas was healing you. What did you mean?”

“You can fill that pitcher with more than water; holding a pitcher of blood is creepy for some reason. You might go mad holding a pitcher of lyrium. Sea water probably kills you, while fresh water can nourish or drown you. Even an empty pitcher is still full of air. The pitcher doesn’t change, just like the Stone.”

“What about when the pitcher breaks?” She sounded so sad about it, too.

“That depends on who’s holding the pitcher and what it’s made of. Subject, object.” Her eyes grew even bigger and more glittery than usual, out of nowhere, and Imshael reared back very slightly. “Eeh…?”

“Reflection and shadow!” she exclaimed.
“The Keeper’s learning. That’s unfortunate.”

“Why is it unfortunate?”
“...Maybe later, Keeper.”

Thankfully, the sticky, shiny threads lining the field dulled as she reeled in her eagerness (so they could reel in their automatic arousal). “Oh, of course. I’m probably keeping you from something, and it’s getting late. Thank you for the company—a-and the owl, too!”

It took less effort than expected to not sound sarcastic:
“May the Owl keep your pests away.”

...

. . .

.  .  .

Solas had hoped to catch a moment alone with Choice before their party gathered to depart Haven—to determine how best to relocate Corypheus and his channeling focus—but sensed only their absence when he scanned the Chantry. 

Though the advisors and Cassandra were gathered on the Chantry steps, he made an unobtrusive exit and moved into the crowd while Ellana Lavellan waded through her well-wishers. The sun only just peeked over Haven’s walls to bear witness to “their” first true mission as a heretical organization. He found his way to Varric’s side, who was smiling wistfully at the sight with his arms crossed, a short distance from the gathered humans and elves. 

“Contemplating the muse of your next bestselling book, Varric?” he gently teased. 

“More like preparing myself for the harrowing plot twists,” he groused with a halfhearted shrug. “Heroes tend to have tragic endings, and she’s marked by a giant hole in the sky. Those aren’t odds I’d bet on, even if Andraste is guiding her. I told her she’s better off running for the hills than hoping for a miracle.” 

“But you have seen triumph against incredible odds: and the Herald is unlike anyone I’ve ever studied. I am confident she can close the Breach—religious overtones notwithstanding.” 

Varric’s wistful smile turned sly with a sidelong glance. “Been studying the Herald a lot, have you? And here I was starting to wonder about you.” Solas’ eyebrows lifted at the slip and Varric caught it, smirk widening. “Good to know you’re on our side for the research, Chuckles.” 

He let out a chuckle of his own while dropping his arms, and together they walked along the backs of the crowd after Cassandra and the Herald. The two pairs joined up near the gate while Haven’s residents dispersed or chatted amongst themselves in low tones. 

Imshael was standing down the road a fair way to avoid being seen by the crowd, greatsword propped over a shoulder, no sheath or strap in sight, and back facing them all. Two templar guards waited to either side to “transfer” them to the party. He wore the plain tunic Haven provided with their arm wraps and fur mantle, and the mage coat was tucked into itself—sleeves tied around their waist and no larger than an ordinary potion pouch.

They cocked their head slightly when they exited Haven, and turned once they were close enough to speak. “What the—” Varric gestured wildly to the cloak sleeves. “Where’s the rest of it?!”

Choice laughed throaty and low while patting the pouch. “It folds into itself forever! Just, eh, don’t ask me how I made it because I forgot. Something about combining pockets with an explosion turned inside-out… Provisions are in here, too.” 

Varric snorted with an incredulous head shake. “The Carta would kill for bottomless pockets. They’d kill a lot.” 

“You should have equipped armor,” Cassandra scolded with a fierce frown, looking them over. “There will be no shortage of fighting, from rebels and demons alike.”

He prodded right back, matching scorn with flippancy. “I can’t wear armor and be armor at the same time. It’s almost like you lack faith in the Maker’s protection or something!”

“Wait, are you Andrastian?” Ellana interjected, sounding truly confused. 

“I am as I choose to be, Keeper. Heh, bee keeper... Shall I lead the way or what?” The Herald hunched into herself at their rebuke (and deflection) before moving around them with Cassandra, who shot them a glare—as did Solas. Varric just heaved a weary sound between sigh and groan while unhitching Bianca from his back. 

Despite claiming to be the armor of the party, Imshael took the rear point, supervising from behind while the Herald and Seeker led, with Varric and Solas to either side. A tense silence fell between them from the awkward start… Solas had but a moment to notice a faint shivering against his aura, before he realized Pride was vibrating the same entrancing drone Choice used in the smithy—

In the next blink, the sun was near its zenith, and the foothills surrounding them had begun to flatten as the party neared a stream of water. Solas looked around at the change in scenery, eyes wide, then whirled back to Choice, whose own eyes were just drifting open while they strolled. Ellana was idly humming a tune while tapping her staff along to its beat; Cassandra scanned their flanks, and Varric rolled his neck then cranked a small screw on one of Bianca’s many levers.

The Seeker soon paused in her stride, bringing them all to a stop; she and Ellana turned, so they made a rough circle. “We should stop here to rest and eat near the stream,” she suggested. “It’s still fresh and cold coming down from the mountain.”

Ellana pointed down the stream and off their path a short way to a grove of trees and added, “How about over there for shade?”

They all nodded or hummed their approval and sped up at the prospect of taking a break, but Solas fell back until he was beside Imshael. “What did you just do?” He asked urgently, too low for the others. Varric glanced over his shoulder at them, but moved ahead to Cassandra’s other side rather than toward them to listen in.

Nonplussed, Imshael shrugged their unburdened shoulder and replied, “Faith-stepping instead of Fade-stepping?”

Solas’ features hardened, indignant and bordering on outraged. “Did you just Tranquilize us?”

“You don’t deserve a break from all that self-pity.”
He bristled. “That sounds like the Silent Tyrant—not Choice.”

“I find your lack of packmates disturbing, Wolf. All agents and no friends. Know my role.”

Solas recoiled as though physically struck, but Cassandra’s voice cut through their rising volume before they could continue. Imshael rolled their shoulders back with a small growl while Solas straightened and pursed his lips. She warned over her shoulder, “I trust you two are not bickering again back there.”

Choice immediately lolled their head back with a lopsided grin splitting their face: Pride stirred, eager invisible coils around the whole party’s periphery in a lascivious heat wave. “But making friends is hard, Lady Seeker—could you order me to play nice instead?” 

They chuckled through her resigned, exasperated sigh while they caught up with the trio—and Solas resolved to keep himself beyond their field-range when they proceeded from their rest stop. His pulse pounded at the creeping sense of having been mentally violated... worse yet, violated and made to forget.  

Varric and the Herald marveled while Imshael staked their sword in the dirt, then “unfolded” their coat to pull out dried meat and bread. “Where does it all go?” Ellana inquired while passing a strip of jerky to Cassandra.

“I call it counterspace, but imbeciles probably call it the Void when they find it.”

Varric was next: “Aaand, how do you pull out the right stuff?”

“I choose what to pull out, obviously!” He held out a hunk of bread for Solas, who took it with cautious scrutiny. Their gazes briefly locked, but Imshael’s normally mischievous squint had shuttered and cooled. The distance could be for show, deniability as an agent, or the result of lingering resentment over the scar: he could not be certain until they finally had a moment alone.

Imshael pulled out waterskins next, then hung the coat on their sword and stalked right into the tree line. Cassandra protested almost immediately with a dubious glare: “Where are you going?”

“I’m checking my real scar. No peeking while I’m naked, Lady Seeker!” She rolled her eyes before taking a drink and turning her back toward them, while Varric cringed at the reminder and Ellana stared after, brimming with curiosity. 

Solas made to follow, seeing an opportunity. “May I examine it as well?” However, his steps faltered from an immediate sandy blast of rage to the front, causing Cassandra to glance toward him—and he had his answer louder than any word. He shook his head in frustration and slaked his thirst for water in lieu of answers…

Choice’s presence was carefully controlled when they approached again, and they all bounced idle chatter amongst themselves as they refilled waterskins, packed back up, and returned to the trail that only recently lined the path to Haven from the Imperial Highway. Equally carefully did Solas barrier himself and watch his surroundings for any sign of illusory power or lulling enchantment—but if Imshael deployed one for the party, his own magic nullified the ability to observe its effect. 

Varric needled at Cassandra’s “recruiting” techniques (referring both to himself and Solas) but noticeably not the abomination in their midst. Cassandra, in turn, pried Solas about his reasons for being nearby during the Conclave… again. He asked after Varric’s thoughts on the decay of dwarven civilization, and found him terribly blasé and detached from the repercussions as a surfacer. 

At no point did they demonstrate the trancelike state he’d seen in the smithy. While reserved, Ellana periodically commented and hummed  to herself while walking; and Imshael brought up the rear with eyes shut and lip quirked up while occasionally jabbing at each of them in turn. 

They began spotting Inquisition banners along the Highway mid-afternoon, but it was closer to dusk when the descending Hinterlands footpath appeared. Overlooking the rocky lowlands, waiting to greet them, was a scout accompanied by a raven that immediately took flight at their approach. 

Worry lines in the harried dwarf’s expression eased as she met them and addressed Ellana: “Herald of Andraste! I’ve heard the stories: everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach... It’s odd for a Dalish elf to care what happens to anyone else, but you’ll get no back-talk here, that’s a promise. Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service! I—well, all of us here—will do whatever we can to help.”

Varric chortled, “Heh… Harding, huh? Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?”

“Can’t say that I have, why?”
“You’d be Harding in High—ah, never mind.”

Cassandra pinched between her eyes with a despairing sound while Ellana and Imshael both grinned—one sheepishly and the other shamelessly. Solas couldn’t hold back a small smile of his own; the doldrums of travel had them all ready to ease their mounting nerves however possible. Ellana regained the conversation in short order. “Alright. What’s the situation here in the Hinterlands?”

Harding nodded sharply and straightened. “We came to secure horses from Redcliffe’s old horsemaster. I grew up here, and everyone always said Dennet’s herds were the strongest and fastest this side of the Frostbacks… but with the mage-templar fighting getting worse, we couldn’t get to Dennet. Maker only knows if he’s even still alive!

“Mother Giselle’s at the crossroads helping refugees and the wounded. Our latest reports say that the war’s spread there, too. Corporal Vale and our men are doing what they can to protect the people, but… we won’t be able to hold out very long. It’s too bad you got here so late, or I’d say you best get going. Still, you can rest up here and get an early start tomorrow—the sooner the better.” 

Another scout trotting up the path hailed for Scout Harding, so the Herald saluted her and rallied, “You’re right, there’s no time to waste. We’ll bring order to the Hinterlands faster thanks to you and the other scouts keeping us informed. Let me know right away if anything changes!” 

“Understood, Herald!” Scout Harding saluted back with a smile and no small amount of relief, before turning to go meet her companion halfway. Ellana’s shoulders tightened with the bracing breath she drew as they turned to make another circle. 

“If the horsemaster lives,” Imshael started, “I can map a way to him from overhead. Should be able to spot rebel camps and rifts while I’m up there, too… I say we get to Vale and hem in the fighting first, with them as backup.” Cassandra and Varric both frowned.

“Wounded refugees are stuck in the middle with unarmed clerics,” Varric countered, “We can’t just leave ‘em defenseless while the fighting hems them in.”

“They chose to set up shop in the literal crossroads of a battlefield. Grass gets trampled underfoot in a fight, dwarf. The sooner we get Vale’s men in there, seizing rebel supplies wherever we put them down, the sooner civilians get the loot and we move on.” They shrugged nonchalantly and looked around the outpost while Varric glared at them, shaking his head. “Just my two bits, of course!”

Solas quickly redirected, “With rifts come demons, and both heighten hostile emotions all around, endangering innocents further… It may help settle tensions in the region to prioritize rift activity, as I assume the Herald initially came here for?” His gaze softened with the tiny nod he gave Ellana when she gratefully met it. 

She hesitantly smiled back, then looked curiously to the Seeker, who scrutinized them each in turns. “I did not expect the Hinterlands to be in such dire straits,” she admitted. “And I confess, it troubles me that we did not know it sooner. There is much to do before we can reach Horsemaster Dennet as our scouts intended… and Corporal Vale must not have expected the influx of refugees if he was overwhelmed this suddenly. I fear something deeper is at work, here. We should be wary as well as thorough.” 

After a long sigh through their nose, Choice propped their sword in the dirt and leaned on it with an easy smirk. “Good thing I don’t need sleep, eh? I have all night to check the place out. Besides, if the demons are fearlings, I can command them back to the Fade in my Fear shape. Temporarily, anyway. Patrol the rifts, contain the demons, blah, blah, blah: and fly back once in a while to mark everything else on the blasted map as I find it.”

“You can control the damned demons, too?” Varric’s shrill tone and volume had Cassandra and Ellana looking around hastily. 

“Aren’t I just full of surprises?” 

The Herald interjected before Cassandra had the chance to interrogate, cutting her off mid-inhale. “Thank you for helping, Imshael. It means a lot to me.” They gradually cocked their head while squinting, then jerked an offended and accusatory finger at her that she immediately flinched at—and that Solas immediately clenched his jaw at, expecting yet another overreach. 

“If I were doing this my way, I’d just go kill everyone, got it? Sometimes the world ends. Period. You’re a Keeper, not a hero. Pick a flock of bumbling idiots to keep alive and let the world do what it does. Korth’s cock. Maybe I’ll go feast on demons to flush all the fluff out instead—”

They continued griping too low to be heard while they unfolded their cloak to toss provisions in their general directions, along with camp gear. When they vanished in a puff of black smoke and reappeared atop the sword hilt in crow form, Choice was preening around a new patch of white feathers under one wing (now adorned with a white stripe as well). They cawed at Solas in what he presumed to be condemnation before taking flight. 

...

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana Lavellan couldn’t sleep if her life depended on it. And unfortunately, her life sort of did depend on it.

Everyone had a hearty but subdued supper, swapping meat and bread with the scouts for some of their root vegetable stew while circling a shared campfire. But all she could really focus on was the distant sound of occasional sword fighting, or faint ripples of the Veil tingling her senses as spells fired off. 

Down in the rocky fells, they couldn’t set up fires without giving away their location. They probably didn’t have enough provisions to go around. Master Dennet’s horses could become more valuable as food than mounts if they weren’t quick. And despite her trepidation about getting involved with the Chantry (and whatever they really wanted from her), they were the closest to safety any wounded bystanders could hope for. 

She also struggled not to worry over the fact that even Cassandra was caught off guard by how bad it was in the Hinterlands. The Seeker decided to stand watch even though scouts already had a rotation, just so she could keep an eye out for Imshael and find out what was happening from the crow’s own beak. (…beaks?)

They set up tents and bedrolls early so they could strike out before the sun, but she just kept fretting at the canvas overhead between tossing and turning. The soft, experimental strumming of a scout’s lute accompanied her troubled thoughts for what seemed like hours, and it must have been very late when she finally gave up trying to sleep. 

She slipped out into the quiet camp to find she wasn’t the only one suffering from insomnia. In fact, none of them could sleep. Varric waved his hand sympathetically when she approached, while Solas and Cassandra murmured over the map in low tones. “You too, huh?” he commiserated. She shrugged as the other two looked up.

“It’s a lot to take in all at once.” And it wasn’t the first time she’d said it, aloud or to herself. She squeezed her marked hand around the staff a few times to stifle the prickling—it sparked more insistently with rifts close by. She could feel her hand getting tugged in a few different directions as though seeking them out with a mind of its own, not unlike a lodestone.

Varric sighed with his eyes locked on her hand. “Yeah, well, what can you do. Chuckles knows about some elven ruins and artifacts in the area that might strengthen the Veil, so we’re adding those to the map along with everything else. Butcher dropped in with possible logging sites and a quarry for Haven, too; plus, mercenary activity we weren’t aware of. As though demons and rebels weren’t enough of a problem... Creepy bastard’s having a blast, judging by the look on his face.”

“As long as we know what to expect, we can plan accordingly.” Lavellan looked to Cassandra and Solas as they stopped talking. “And the rifts? I can sense a few of them even from here.”

Solas straightened to stretch his back out a little, then gestured to the map in Cassandra’s hands. “He has found six, and is now patrolling them between hunts.”

“Erm, hunts?”

Cassandra hummed while rolling the map up. “Imshael found Corporal Vale, who said they desperately need food and blankets for refugees. In between rifts, he is helping a hunter collect meat and pelts. He can sense the beasts in the dark while they hide or sleep.” She then scoffed and finished, “He is playing hide and seek with them, per his own words.”

“Like I said. Creepy.” Varric grumbled some more while stoking the campfire. Lavellan couldn’t help but giggle at that, even while swapping the staff to her other hand to shake off the sting as her mark flared.

“Would you like me to examine your hand, Herald?” Solas offered. “I cannot quell the bond to the rifts, but I might be able to ease the pain it inflicts.” She nodded eagerly and made to sit where Cassandra had been. He’d soothed the angry mark a few times now, sharing stories of his travels and musings with each attempt (though he was much more reserved at the start). 

“Thank you, Solas.” She prayed her cheeks didn’t look as warm as they felt. “I nearly forgot how much more it flares near the rifts…” Solas hummed with a small smile while massaging healing magic along the edges of the mark—if she focused, she could feel tiny tendrils of it threading across skin until it laced all the frenetic sparks into place for some blessed relief. She imagined it must look artful up close, like a lace web holding back a lightning storm. (She applied her healing magic more like a smear of ointment…)

She chewed her lip for a moment before asking him, “What Scout Harding said earlier… about the Dalish. Do the people here dislike Dalish that much? You mentioned difficult encounters with them before, too.”

Varric sighed and answered first: “Your clan’s from the Free Marches around Wycome, right? Yeah... Ferelden is harsh terrain and so are the people. Everyone jokes that they’re a hundred years behind the rest of Thedas for good reason. The Dalish are no different: it doesn’t really help their case.”

“It’s true,” Solas added. His healing magic had stopped, but his fingers lingered to make soothing circles where her palm wasn’t red and inflamed. “Good farmland is scarce, so the landlords are hostile defenders; additionally, Dalish must compete with tribes of human nomads such as the Chasind and Avvar. Dalish relations in the south are more strained than you’ll see elsewhere.”

“I see.” Solas briefly, gently, rested his palm atop hers to clasp it. She smiled to ease the regretful expression shadowing his long, refined features. “I’m glad there’s people like the scouts with us, then. We don’t have to share ears and blood to share a purpose; and we’ll show mages and templars the same thing.”

She stood and stretched while facing the garish Breach in the sky, and the imposing sight of it beyond her outstretched hand, yet large enough to engulf it even from the Hinterlands, sent a strange chill down her spine. So, she did the same thing to stomp down that fear that she had been doing for a few days: and started humming about being an unaffected stone in a hailstorm of raining Veil. 

She paced lazily around their camp, waiting for sleep to settle in her bones, and didn’t even notice the scout plucking out chords to practice accompanying the wordless tune as he learned it.

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

“Halt! We are not apostates!”
“I do not think they care, Seeker.”

Solas’ barrier raced across Lavellan’s skin the way lace might, swift and soft without catching anywhere (except the sparking mark on her hand). She spun her staff to fling two arcane bolts at a Templar rushing their way; the renegade fumbled, which was enough time for Cassandra to bodily unfoot him with a shield bash. She shouted again for the templars to stand down before thrusting her sword between helmet and breastplate to choke him on blood and steel.

He crumpled in place, spine severed. Lavellan held her breath watching the Seeker sidestep and bat away another oncoming sword and raving renegade, which Varric distracted by puncturing his flank with a bolt. She viscerally heard the man wheeze a little from the gasp he sucked in—then the gurgle at the end where he coughed blood up and out his mouth. 

Cassandra wrenched her sword from the first man to let him fall back, bashed the second man back, down, and stabbed him the same way she had the first: to sever his spinal cord and make his last moment less painful. It wouldn’t stop the racing panic as darkness closed in, but the coppery tang would likely be his last memory instead of the wracking agonized coughs from drowning in it. Lavellan had enough time in that moment to gather up a charge, and fired a ferocious bolt of lightning at the sixth to stop his heart mid-charge. (Imshael had flanked the third and fourth while Solas froze a fifth.)

And with that, they all glanced wildly around the clearing, still in battle stances, waiting for the silence to break… before heaving a collective sigh of exhilarated relief. 

In her clan, hunters explained to her how they minimized a beast’s suffering by disrupting the nerves once they pierced its heart. Sever the spine; snap the neck or behead it; pierce the eye into the brain or up the undersides of the skull; and then show gratitude to the beast for enduring their treatment by bearing witness to its last breath. They saw quicker deaths as an act of mercy—and while Lavellan understood that they needed meat in their sparse nomadic diet, she usually felt deep down that hunters mostly called it mercy in order to be merciful to their own hearts.

She thought so even more strongly now, walking through the carnage to make sure the light in all the men’s eyes had fully Faded. 

Cassandra and Varric went for weak spots and finished them through the neck since their hearts were usually shielded. Imshael hacked away, too strong to be stopped by armor, then went through the eye with a gruesome, crunchy twist. Solas preferred ice to quickly numb them to the outside world before shattering them. She’d thought about doing the same, but it seemed like their lives ended much faster with lightning… and she hadn’t decided yet whether she considered it more merciful to favor speed or painlessness.

She’d make a terrible hunter.

Even more unnerving was the aftermath. While lightning was fast, they stank of burnt hair, and it probably seeped into their clothing for a few washes (but with the least bloodshed). Varric’s and Cassandra’s kills would loose their bowels soon after dying. Imshael left an alarming number of them bisected at random angles, so they’d scrabble frantic shapes and streaks into the dirt before going still: their bowels didn’t hold enough pressure to loosen. And Solas left a sopping heap of chunks in a fabric-and-steel sack, leaving their belongings the filthiest (but still salvageable). 

Imshael stuck his sword in the middle of the clearing and slowly panned the scene, turning in place, as he had after every fight; Lavellan could sense for sure now that he was absorbing the sundered pride, impotent rage, and overwhelming terror of these people’s last moments. In doing so, their battle didn’t weaken the Veil. (That was, in his own words, a “happy accident”: more importantly, it was his version of food.)

She caught herself lingering close to the abomination after each skirmish... She wouldn’t admit it to the others in case it made them squeamish or suspicious, but it felt like the heavy weight in her heart got sucked away too—just a little. It was a perverse vigil, as though peeping on a vulture’s mealtime. The sorrow that death had to happen stayed, but her fear for how much it would keep happening abated. 

And then, just like the last four fights, they dragged what they could off to one side, stripped the bodies, left a pile of the useful clothes, armor and weapons for Corporal Vale’s men to recover, and moved on toward the crossroads.

They encountered two more bands of apostates before they spotted a barricade of Inquisition forces, who joined them to drop the last group of rebels. It was already high noon when they finally arrived. After an awkward moment where Imshael drew in all the lingering hostility (and Solas “explained” that he was reinforcing the Veil with templar powers), they were admitted into the crossroads area with glad greetings. 

A few tents sheltered the most injured while others lay in cots, bedrolls, spare clothing, sheets—whatever could be spared for the moment. Imshael fell behind with the Inquisition people and asked for a map to mark where they’d passed through and what might be scavenged. Cassandra stopped with him to warn them to expect more fighting all around, as they continued clearing the area. Lavellan, Varric, and Solas ventured further into the sanctuary just as a cleric in an ornate mitre emerged from one of the tents with clean wash cloths and an apostate.

Spotting an injured soldier in Inquisition garb, Solas veered off, causing Lavellan and Varric to slow down and follow. He crouched low and told the soldier, “We have arrived with reinforcements from Corporal Vale. They’ll have relief and supplies here shortly after us. I can heal you in the meantime if you will permit.” The soldier looked them over warily, then back toward Imshael and Cassandra—lingering on the Seeker’s eye emblazoned on her breastplate. 

“S’good you all got ‘ere when you did.” He propped himself up on an elbow with a pained grunt, and Lavellan focused extra hard to understand him through his thick rural accent. “I was up near Redcliffe, almos’ made it to the ‘orsemaster, but then villagers star’ed leavin’ in droves. Somefin’s gone wrong in the village and we can’ keep up wiv ‘em between the figh’ing. They was sayin’ more mages showed up, strange ones, star’ed “requisitioning” the ‘ouses and shops all a sudden.”

Solas slowly extended a hand, and the soldier flinched momentarily before leaning back again to let him heal him. “More rebel mages are in the village?” Solas clarified, tone smooth, soothing while he examined the man’s wounds. 

“I dunno for sure, but villagers’re scared of ‘em more than bein’ out ‘ere right now. Stru’in’ about like they own the place—like a bunch of ‘Vints, one said. Doesn’ make sense though, right?”

Lavellan rested her staff against her shoulder so she could prop on her knees closer to the soldier, and his eyes snapped to her glowing, sparking hand. “We didn’t hear anything about mages in Redcliffe, ser. Once we secure the crossroads, we’ll get to the horsemaster and then send word back to Haven, so we can find out what’s happening in the village right away. I think you got further than the rest of our scouts! What’s your name?”

“You’re ‘er. The ‘erald of Andraste!” he breathed out in surprise. “I’m Kester, Lady ‘erald, ‘s no mind. I didn’ think the rumors were true, ‘onestly. Good t’see I’m still wrong like me wife always says.”

Varric chortled with Kester while Lavellan stifled a giggle, and Solas smiled as he finished up. “Luckily you only had a few fractured ribs and the forearm: no breaks,” he told the man. “It might feel fine now, but please wait two or three days before wielding a shield again, to make sure the bone sets.”

“Right, thank you ser mage—and thank you, Lady ‘erald. Maker go wiv you.”

Varric chuckled again: “You just focus on getting back to your smarter half for us, alright?” 

When they straightened, the Chantry mother was only a few cots away, kneeling beside a plainclothes soldier while the apostate healer wrung her hands around her staff. Her accent was equally thick and foreign to Lavellan’s ears, but better enunciated with a distinct, songlike lilt: “There are mages here who can heal your wounds. Lie still.”

The man glared daggers at the both of them—priest and healer. “Don’t touch me! Mother, their magic is—”

“Turned to noble purpose,” she gently interrupted, and waved the healer closer. “Surely their magic is no more evil than your blade. Hush, dear boy… allow them to ease your suffering.” Her words sounded right… but to Lavellan, they didn’t feel right somehow. Imshael and Cassandra approached the other three, so they all neared the scene as one. 

Imshael breezed past them without preamble, sword on his shoulder, and bluntly cut in while standing above and behind the priest. “If you don’t want healing, that’s your choice. Now make way for someone who does: this isn’t a nursery.” The soldier’s glare turned cautious, then worried, looking among them all—and sufficiently kowtowed, he lay back, and the cleric nodded to the healer to proceed.

Imshael backed away for the priest to stand and got beside Solas. Lavellan heard him suggest in a low voice, “Let’s marshal the ones you can heal back to fighting condition while they deal with the rest, eh?”

They glanced her way, and she nodded automatically, preoccupied with the Chantry cleric who was now looking them over. She realized belatedly that they must make a frightful sight, spattered in blood from fighting their way to her. The Chantry mother, amid the chaos surrounding her, was almost disturbingly pristine.

Varric sidled closer to Cassandra, nudged her hip (startling her a bit), and said, “One of the soldiers back here had some concerning information. You might wanna hear it yourself to send it back to Haven.” He jerked his head back to Kester, but Cassandra’s attention flitted between her and Mother Giselle with an unspoken question in her eyes. 

Lavellan smiled and nodded. “The more we know, the better. We can get a fuller report for the advisors that way; and you’re better at asking the right questions.”

Varric snorted. “Better at interrogating, she means.” Cassandra scoffed and scowled briefly at the dwarf, before nodding to Lavellan and going with him to see Kester. Finally, it was just her and Mother Giselle—so she steeled her nerves as the priestess held out a hand, inviting her to follow...

And immediately, something felt wrong about the gesture, just like her words had—but Lavellan still couldn’t point out what or why. She caught herself holding the staff across her body defensively, so she switched it to her unmarked hand and started walking alongside Mother Giselle. As she led them away from prying ears, she swallowed back more unease: this was neither the time nor place to behave secretively.

Once they were near the edge of the makeshift healing stage, Lavellan cut to the chase that Mother Giselle seemed not to feel a bit. “I’m told you asked to speak to me.”

“You are the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste.” 

She studied the Mother’s expectant, inquisitive expression, as though she hadn’t seen her hand. As though she hadn’t just emerged from the Hinterlands, bloodied and harried, and confirmed that she was here answering her summons… She briefly lamented Cassandra’s absence, then nodded her head.

The Mother continued after being acknowledged. “I know of the Chantry’s denouncement, and I am familiar with those responsible. I won’t lie to you… Some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chances of becoming the new Divine. And some are simply terrified; so many good people, senselessly taken from us.” 

They’d wandered toward a rocky overhang, but Lavellan slowed to a stop several paces back to scrunch her face, now with frustration as well as confusion. We reviewed all the same points in the war room, already… She took a calming breath while the Mother turned to face her, before gesturing toward the Breach with her marked hand. She implored, “What happened was terrible… but fear is a reasonable response and rally right now!”

Mother Giselle nodded, conceding. “Fear makes us desperate—but hopefully not unreasonable. Go to them: convince the remaining clerics that you are no demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you; give them something else to believe!” Lavellan almost dropped her mouth open. After everything Chancellor Roderick said? After declaring us heretics, demanding my arrest?

“You want me to appeal to them?”
“If I thought you were incapable, I wouldn’t suggest it.”

I’m not so sure about this. If they’re more afraid of me than the sky tearing open, then their priorities don’t involve the Breach in the first place... She shook her head and fixed her gaze on the Breach. Despite herself, despite trying to stay open-minded, she could hear her voice soften, distancing herself. “Will they even listen...?” 

“Let me put it this way,” the cleric’s words jolted her from her worrisome thoughts. “You needn’t convince them. You just need some of them to… doubt. Their power is in their unified voice: take that from them, and you’ll receive the time you need.” 

Lavellan bit her tongue to hold back the bitter observation that bubbled to the surface: And by following this advice, from a Chantry cleric, the Chantry’s sanctity is preserved either way... Instead of agreeing, she turned and waved her hand back toward the healing tents and wounded people. “It’s good of you to do this.”

Unfortunately, Mother Giselle seemed to notice her discomfort and attempted deflection. She faced her fully and said, “I honestly don’t know if you have been touched by fate, or sent to help us, but—” Her eyes drifted down to her hand. It had started sparking more aggressively as the conversation progressed. “I hope. Hope is what we need now! The people will listen to your rallying call as they will listen to no other. You could build the Inquisition into a force that will deliver us… or destroy us.”

They started walking back toward the heart of the camp; Solas and Imshael were closest, the former healing a man’s wrapped foot while the latter loomed, facing them with a skeptical pout in place. Mother Giselle continued, “I will go to Haven, and provide Sister Leliana the names of those in the Chantry who will be amenable to a gathering. It is not much, but—”

Imshael interrupted her from several paces away. Loudly. “Ravens could have done that for you days ago, priest. Or does your work here suddenly matter less?” The cleric took in his proud posture and unarmored bloodstains, then some of the eavesdroppers angling their heads.

She dipped her head toward him as though deferring, but didn’t answer or acknowledge him further. She repeated to Lavellan: “It is not much, but I will do whatever I can.” 

She made to walk back to the healing tents, but Imshael sidestepped to block her way, squinting, and retorted even louder than he had the first time. “You chose to clog up a perfectly good battlefield with civilians, priest. I bet Corporal Vale will appreciate the workload you abandon on your way to Haven.” A few more heads turned, and a few turned away to hide that they were still listening (Solas among them).

The Chantry cleric straightened very slightly under his scrutiny despite dipping her head again. “The healers and refugees are surely in safer hands, now that Vale and the Inquisition are working together to bring order to the Hinterlands.” With that, she moved past him and toward the apostate healer, and passed by Cassandra and Varric, now approaching them.

They were just far enough away to miss the exchange, but they did see Imshael turning his head to watch the priestess go. (In fact, his head may have turned a little more than should be humanly possible.) “Well?” Cassandra asked. “What did Mother Giselle have to say?”

Lavellan had to swallow past a knot in her throat, recalling how many people they had slaughtered to get there, before she could answer. “Less than she led us to believe.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Once they reached the crossroads, and after the Keeper met the priest, Imshael suggested holding out with the Inquisition forces on site. And when Cassandra countered that they should try to reach Dennet before sundown, he politely refused to proceed past the crossroads for the day. Since the Keeper choked up, Solas relayed some of what the fancy hat didn’t have to say, plus their response.

Imshael then repeated their suggestion between clenched teeth. “Keep the elves here for now. Secure the crossroads and branch out in a smaller party, and watch for Vale following our trail while clearing out more rabble. Fall back to the campsite for healing as needed. Priest abandons post, we step in to do a better job, civilians favor us over the blasted Chantry. Deal with the horse-man tomorrow, since he probably has his own heap of shit for us to plough, too.”

[Slay the priest under cover of night.]
(Choices have consequences!)
{Sore spot! My sore slave!}
My trinkets to hoard.

He did not almost have the abomination equivalent of a tantrum to force them to agree; and they were not trying to shield the brat by keeping her at the crossroads after feeding on her nightmare fuel all morning. They were not experiencing indigestion from it.

Ahem! 

Varric was surprisingly supportive of their suggestion for a change, so Cassandra relented while Solas and the Keeper started moving amongst the injured soldiers and refugees. Cassandra told the elves to remember any Redcliffe villagers specifically; Imshael told the barricade soldiers to expect them coming and going; and off they went.

Imshael was desperate for unrestrained bloodshed by that point. They repeated their “ritual” with a small band each of templars and mages (with extra enthusiasm), returned for a break, and once he finished harvesting the death throes of the third group (and calming down), he braced for questions. The pebble had started buzzing and glowing more intensely in their periphery the whole time.

Finally, Varric asked, “So, uh, what’s with you and the Herald?”

“Eeh…? She’s a bit young for me.” He smirked at Varric’s little snort and Cassandra’s little seethe. The dwarf grimaced at some ichor on his hands and wiped them off on the clean spot of a corpse, before dragging it to the pile they were building. 

“You know what I mean, ass. I get that you’re some kind of special demon—”

“Ahem—” Imshael tossed two halves of someone they split vertically with a little more force than necessary. They smacked the corpse pile more than they fell. Varric continued unfazed, dropping a body beside theirs.

“—but you’ve really taken a shine to her for some reason.”

Imshael shot him a deadpan stare across the meat stack while crouching. “Your puns are impeccable, Pebble.”

“They usually write themselves!”

“Ugh—!”  Two chortled and one sighed while unbuckling salvageable armor sets and sword belts. Imshael drawled, “I’m old enough to know the imbecile whose face paint she’s wearing. Let’s just say she’s a better Keeper than her fancy dead god, already. It’s interesting to watch!”

Varric tsked and shook his head before heaving a good breastplate to the side. “Huh. It must be the little things in life after living that long.”

“Easy there, Pebble. I lay prettier young rocks than you!” Imshael’s smirk spread with petty glee as the other two fumbled and then stopped in their tracks. He kept right on divesting corpses of their armor and padding.

(Oh, she’s fuming now!)
[Pebbles float at a high enough vibration rate.]

While dragging another body to the pile, Varric coughed and rather awkwardly opined, “I guess with all the lyrium and rune crap, I shouldn’t be surprised you like ‘em short.”

Imshael chuckled heartily as their blood churned a higher temperature from secondhand rage and straightened to fish a pouch out of their pocket. He jingled it (and the dwarf jingled by proxy at the sound); they tossed it to Varric, who now looked very confused. Cassandra quickly dropped some swords in the loot pile they were stacking to watch him open the pouch. 

“Uh…” Varric gawked at the diamond, ruby, sapphire, and emerald within. “Found somebody with extra loot? Or is this how much you cost for the night?” Cassandra somehow grew even angrier, enough for them to suck in a breath to cool their teeth (now grinning almost manically).

“How are most gems made, dwarf?”
“Deep underground…? Pressure?”

“Pressure and heat.”
“Riiight…”
“Like lava!”

“Get to the damn point, demon.”
“That is my point! Rage demons are part lava.”

“...You’re shitting me.”
“Nooo, I’m shitting gems.”

Imshael erupted a full belly laugh at Varric’s absolute disgust; he cursed and tossed back their bag of polished turds, and if arcane horrors were named after a facial expression, the Lady Seeker perfected it. “Whatever you are is worse than a demon,” Varric groused to their delight. He pointedly turned his back to them to rifle through a set of pockets before disrobing the corpse still in them. “Just so you know, I’m telling on you to Josephine—she’ll coop you up like a damn hen.”

“I’ll brood just as pretty and precious as the rest of my offerings!”

Cassandra stomped away, cheeks aflame. “Maker’s Breath, you are insufferable!” she cried out to the sky. 

They concluded the morbid task of scavenging their kills and wandered off until they found more rebels. They felled another team of renegade templars, japed similarly through the cleanup to distract themselves, and proceeded. Imshael soon saw reality rippling as though being tugged off their eyes and snapping back: and they knew mages lay ahead for their next encounter.

He fell forward into a charge to gain some distance from the other two and sliced their hand open along the blade. He still had some fumes of their own to ventilate... The mages had set up a barrier that he easily punctured through with the blood-charged sword—and he drove it into the ground faster than they could rally and roared, “Mighty Smite!” 

Four out of six were in range and seized, gasping, and clawed at their throats in a panic. He abandoned the sword to hold them in place and make them faint from mana suffocation and bolted for the other two. Fifth threw arcane bolts their way while Sixth cast shields over themselves and scrambled backward to her friend.

He batted away the bolts with the bloody hand, smeared both palms together with a feral smile, then grabbed them both by the necks (dispelling their shields on contact). He then slammed them together back-to-back and crushed their windpipes in a blink, and dropped them… Then looked back to take in the new expressions of horror on the other two’s faces.

He shrugged and called over the fainting remainder, “Can’t do that while the healers are with us, eh?” 

Cassandra lurched for the greatsword and pulled it from the ground to release the other mages, now collapsed on the ground wheezing, and shot them a murderous glare as he approached. He held out their hand for it and warned her, “Don’t pretend that after a dozen skirmishes, we were about to get compliance, Lady Seeker.”

“That does not mean we give up trying to gain it!” she shouted back, looking between them and the nearest rebel, then the sword, as though it were responsible somehow and not them. Imshael had to cock her a scathing brow when she glared open-mouthed at them again.

“You prefer that I send them to your Maker disassembled?” 

Varric scrambled next to her with Bianca at the ready (at them) and hollered, “That’s not the damn point, Butcher! We give ‘em a chance to change their mind!”

“Their choice is made, and it comes with consequences!” They flung a bloody hand toward the Breach. “They’re not even swayed by an apocalypse.” 

The Lady Seeker held out their sword, but kept hold when he tried to take it. And her damned features turned pleading. “They feel betrayed by their protectors and desperate like cornered animals. That’s not a choice!” 

He leaned near her face and immediately snarled, “That’s easy to say for a touched Seeker who allegedly chooses to bypass that fear. You are an outlier for knowing better: they’re part of the herd.” He wrenched the greatsword out of her grasp, turned, and drove their point through a mage’s eye socket faster than the other two could stop them.

He looked back at the sound of Varric cranking a bolt into place, but focused in on Cassandra again. “Shepherds cull some of the herd to feed their families and friends. Witness order.” None of them spoke (and they remained stunned in place) while he culled the rest of the mages. He devoured more of their fear and rage than the rebels’ after this particular skirmish.

They quietly piled up the much cleaner stack of corpses and loot, and Varric flatly suggested returning to camp afterward (which none of them opposed).

When they got closer to the crossroads, the afternoon had turned late—and the pulsing, fuming, red-tinted dwarf stopped and whirled to confront them at last. Bianca still had a bolt loaded and ready. “You wouldn’t have done that with the Herald here,” he accused, pointing at them with it (but not aiming).

“True. That would have smited her in th—”

“Bullshit!” Imshael snapped their mouth shut and almost smirked. “You just lashed out like a cornered animal, too! I saw the damn look on her face after talking to the cleric and it bothered you.” For once, he didn’t have an immediate retort—so he let silence hang between them all to stew in like they’d been.

After a beat, Varric lowered the crossbow and exclaimed, “You know how she’d want you to act, so if it’s more fun to play along with us, then why aren’t you?”

Imshael barked back, “Play along? I found the resources the herd at Haven needs from their Keeper. I got Vale involved with the field work for her. I even played along with letting that priest parade her about, rather than turn my ass back to Haven where her real work is. Out of everyone here, why is the abomination defending her interests, eh?”

Cassandra interjected rather plaintively, “It is not that simple, Imshael!”

[Self-deceit detected.]
{She could have subdued me anytime!}
(Hypocrisy is humanity!)

He donned a bored facade and mockingly mused, “Cornered animals are very simple, Lady Seeker: when they can’t fight or flee, they go still. If you want a tranquil Keeper, keep doing what you’re doing! Never had to mark their foreheads for that.”  Cassandra’s informed field flashed with some kind of recognition; in contrast, Varric’s tainted field desaturated into cool, sorrowful hues.

Imshael strolled past them at the sight of Solas and the Keeper approaching and curled a grin at Solas’ warning expression. He shrugged their free shoulder without elaborating and looked around to see if Vale had caught up to them yet... The Keeper caught their forearm with a soft gasp before he could get past her to find out, though. “You’re hurt!” 

“Eeh?” She was wiping off their palm with her own blasted sleeve faster than they recalled having slashed it open in the first place.

“It’s fine, Keeper. Self-inflicted.” He flatly stared her down while her cheeks and ears flushed with belated shock and embarrassment, since her healing magic had already nestled into their wound and charged blood. Her eyelids fluttered, then slackened—and as her pupils dilated, he realized they hadn’t had time to block the coalescion from her intrusion, either.

{Ointment...?}
[Smoother than Solas…]
(Solas fondles with Fade fingers!)
(“Who is...? What just happen—”)
Easy there, Keeper.
[Again…]

She swayed in a glassy-eyed daze, and he let go of the sword completely to catch her by the shoulder with an amused (pleased) scoff to keep her upright. Solas grabbed her other arm, eyes wide, while Varric and Cassandra both rushed forward at the sight. “Herald?!” Cassandra asked urgently.

The Keeper giggled a bit drunkenly and slurred, “Solas fondles with Fade fingers.” 

Cassandra’s eyes bulged; Varric sputtered, “He does what now?”

Solas shot them an indignant glare: “Excuse me?”
“Oh, there’s no excuse for Fade fingering!”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Solas could not ascertain what transpired between Varric, Cassandra, and Imshael, other than that it presumably involved Choice’s penchant for violence.

After making sure Ellana was unharmed by touching minds with a host of demons (and assuring the others that it was the result of contact with charged blood rather than a host of demons), the rest of their downcast (or in Imshael’s case, agitated) party was content to consider the day finished.

Healers brought them simple wash bowls with scrap linen already stained by many more people’s blood than lye would ever remove. Imshael and Cassandra then convened with Corporal Vale and Inquisition forces near dusk, to update each other’s maps and haul in the caches they’d found (the camps of which had already been slain). Cassandra walked through with Vale to introduce him to the apostate healers staying when Mother Giselle left for Haven the next morning. 

Along with the caches, Vale brought hunted meat and pelts that they could now set up cook fires and smokestacks to eat and wear. Injured refugees who were not yet cleared to fight or travel joined in gathering firewood before night fell—and the displaced residents of the crossroads had hot meals and warm rests to look forward to for the first time in up to a week. 

The injured stopped to thank and bless Solas and the Herald; Vale’s men greeted Choice when they noticed them; and Inquisition forces breathed a sigh of relief at sharing a burden previously thought untenable.

One of Scout Harding’s companions had traveled among Vale’s men and joined them for supper before compiling a field report for the ongoing Hinterlands campaign. Ellana started dictating after a stifled yawn while the elven scout scrawled in a neat cipher: “There are six rifts in the area, and we sealed the four closest to the Crossroads. Imshael suppressed the other two with his Templar power, but that’s temporary.” 

Choice, squinting into the fire, tossed in a twig they’d snapped into pieces while the scout caught up before continuing in a bored tone. “I found Corporal Vale and helped collect meat and pelts for food, blankets, and clothes. Found a decent logging site and quarry and marked them on the map for Threnn. Then I mapped our path out for Vale to salvage the supplies we left behind.”

Cassandra scribed out the same report in Common while sitting beside the scout, and heaved a sigh after pausing to pinch between her eyes. “So far, none of the rebels have agreed to lay down their arms—mage or templar. They attack without hesitation, and every attempt to communicate failed. We had a dozen hostile encounters in a single day. Still, we reached and secured the crossroads area and found Mother Giselle.” 

The Herald pursed her lips and stared down at the Anchor on her hand: the fire’s flickering highlighted sad and frustrated features in her countenance over that of the garish green tint. She drew in a sharp breath after a moment lost in thought, and blushed when she looked up to find them waiting. In a rush, she said, “R-right. Mother Giselle’s advice was to appeal to the Chantry. She’s going to Haven to tell Sister Leliana about anyone who might hear us out.”

“Ahem. The priest is abandoning her healing camp to give Leliana names she could have sent us by raven the whole time. Don’t skip that part, scribe. Now, Corporal Vale is moving his forces here to clean up after her.” The scout paused and darted his gaze worriedly between them all, and Solas winced when nobody was willing to rephrase for the unfortunate scribe. Cassandra and Ellana tensed their shoulders, while Varric averted his gaze with a grimace.

“E-er… right then,” the scout stammered while scrawling furiously to catch back up in the awkward silence. Choice blew their forelocks back and grinned, which earned them a reproachful pair of glares from Cassandra and Varric (and not for the first time that evening).

To his surprise, Ellana fisted her marked hand and coughed back a small, sympathetic chuckle behind it. “Sorry, ser scout... Today was trying as well as hectic.”

“Of course, Lady Herald!” The scout quickly waved his hand between sentences. “It’s already more than anyone expected you to do, much more. It was hard for us to get a good count of rebels and refugees.”

“We found that concerning as well,” Cassandra noted, writing along with him again. “And there is a possible reason for it that we should investigate: the additional refugees flooding the area are fleeing Redcliffe Village. They are reporting unusual mage activity there—including strangely dressed mages and Tranquil mages.”

The shadowy fog-tide of Choice’s presence fell unnaturally still, which was Solas’ only indicator that they knew something about Cassandra's words. Externally, they merely flicked another twig into the fire. “We’ll probably want Arl Eamon’s permission before sending soldiers traipsing about his village,” he mused to no one in particular.

“It’s Arl Teagan now,” Varric gruffly corrected them, and they cocked a brow at the dwarf.

“Oh? I was starting to think Eamon was immortal, too.”

The scout huffed a confused half-laugh. “Er, immortal too?”

“Eeh… I’ve seen stranger things.” They leaned very slightly away from Cassandra’s sharp glower. 

“I think I believe you…!” The scout shook his head and turned his slightly bulged eyes back down to his report. “Harding’s going to have a fit about all of this. Sister Nightingale too, I reckon. Any word on Horsemaster Dennet?”

Varric sighed. “We’re gonna head for the farms first thing in the morning. Still alive, as far as we can tell, but the fields haven’t been touched in a while.” Again, Choice’s Pride form stirred, now faster—as though excited.

“And we have other tasks to complete before we return,” Cassandra concluded. “There are ancient ruins with artifacts that may reinforce the Veil to stop more rifts from appearing. We will find them and activate them, if possible.”

“Right, got it,” the scribe nodded along absently for a moment, then stilled and looked to each of them in turn. “Horsemaster Dennet and Veil artifacts tomorrow, backing up our forces here with Vale if the rebels close in again; expect Mother Giselle for Chantry contacts; possible upset at Redcliffe to investigate; most rifts sealed and the rest suppressed.”

Varric chuckled and nodded. “You’re a pithy one, aren’t you? I heard you playin’ that lute last night, too. What’s your name?”

“Oh, everyone calls me Ose, ser dwarf, short for Oser. Not so good with strings as summaries, I’m afraid.”

“I thought it sounded fine!” Ellana protested, smiling wide. “I couldn’t sleep and the music kept me company. Thank you for playing for us, Ose.” 

“E-er, thank you, Lady Herald. I do what I can. I better get a bird to Scout Harding with all this, but I’ll be stationed here so long as you lot are. Come find me if you need to send a message! Maker watch over you.” He bolted to his feet and saluted—which Cassandra and Ellana immediately returned—before trotting away toward the barricade soldiers. 

Imshael stood as well. “My clothes need washed and there’s a creek close by. I can enchant clothing against the cold if anyone wants to change.”

Varric gave him a skeptical brow. “Why not let the scullery here do it?”

“Because they can’t enchant. Yea, nay? I’m not in the habit of playing scullery for others, you know! This special offer only happens once per century.” 

Solas said, “I too have some articles in need of washing—and I can dry them quickly. I’ll join you.” 

They gave him a quick nod, then shrugged for the rest. “At least nobody can call him an unwashed wandering tramp.”

Solas delicately cleared his throat and quipped over Ellana’s chuckling, “So says the transient Tevinter in a bottomless patchwork pocket. When were those pockets last emptied?”

“Eeh...”
“Maker’s Breath.”
“Oh my—!”

“Ahem! No Fade fingering while we’re undressed, elf.” Leaving their sword staked by the fire, Choice led the way to the healer’s tents, and found a larger wash basin from the servants within (amid stifled giggles). They passed the barricade, who similarly chuckled when they balanced the basin on their head to sashay through, and Solas shook his head while smirking despite himself.

They strolled without speaking until the creek appeared, with Pride’s shadowy presence spreading low and sparse in all directions. They went through the motions of filling the tub, dragging it aside—then Choice poured several colorful flasks into the water to turn it a luminous violet. 

They both stripped (Solas to his smallclothes, and Imshael entirely) and started scrubbing their clothing side by side against flat beds of rocks in the stream before saying a word. “Is that elf scout one of yours?” Imshael asked.

“No—but he seems quite taken by the Herald. If she allies with us, he would make an easy and valuable asset.”

“Hm. I saw that sour elf out here near one of your artifacts.”
Solas furrowed his brow and paused. “Who?”
“Eeh, from the herd that summoned me.”
“Mihris?”

“Sure, sure.” They chuckled low at Solas’ unamused stare. “Do you actually need her for something?” Their stillness in the Void betrayed their casual affect.

“Why…?” Choice didn’t meet his gaze.
“I was thinking I’d borrow her...?”

“That sounds decidedly unwise at this time.” Solas huffed at their petulant sigh while he rinsed the soap scum from his tunic. He added, “Summoning you before the eluvians were unlocked was costly enough for Clan Virnehn.”

Imshael made a show of rolling their eyes despite bristling subliminally. “One body for a cross-country smuggling tunnel is not costly. Calling me to snivel about reclaiming invented glory was.” Now it was Solas who reined in his aura (and tongue) with ironclad will.

“What could you possibly intend to do with her?”
“Teach that fancy hat about consequences.”

“That would be extremely unwise.” Solas stopped and straightened, and waited for Imshael to do the same. They leveled him with the same deliberately bored leer they used to belie their irritation, which Wrath’s gritty breeze still gave away. “The Inquisition knows to expect her arrival, and you challenged her before witnesses. Onlookers will suspect nothing but the advisors—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Choice sneered and leaned forward again, now wringing their own tunic out. “This thing you do, with the elaborate schemes? It keeps backfiring, and you keep doing it! What’s the point of wearing that meat suit if you won’t change any of the behaviors you’re designed to act on without it, eh?” 

They tossed their shirt in the enchanted water basin and held their arms out expectantly. Mockingly. “You used to choose your next steps rather than obey them.”

Solas propped his hands on his knees, appalled, while they proceeded with washing their smalls. “And look what that carelessness cost!” He gestured between them, naked in the woods among mortals clad in animal skins for warmth. “Look what it cost us both!”

Choice pointed a hostile finger and spat out in multiple voices, “We were ready to pay it and enduurrre the consequences, elf. We kept going while you napped and whined about unexpected side effects. We dealt with it!” They snapped their breeches out and dropped them into the stream to resume scrubbing (and to calm their rage). 

Solas fisted his hands into his own pants at their flippancy. “You think of the collapse of higher civilization as a side effect?” 

“Do you not? I’ll tell you like I told the Keeper: sometimes the world ends. Period.” They waved absently in the Breach’s direction. “You should expect world-altering side effects for cutting the heads off of world-sized organizational powers, you imbecile! And don’t pretend the people were any less barbaric then than now.”

Solas shook his head and—for the first time in centuries—tried to run his hand through hair he no longer had in frustration. After a meditative breath, he reasoned, “I understand that sacrifices were needed, Choice, but not genocide. If you truly believe what you say, why bother helping Ellana or myself in the first place?”

Imshael paused in the middle of wringing out their pants, lowered them slightly, and tilted their head his way with a crooked, surprised smile. “Ellana, eh? Pretty name...” 

Solas caught his jaw from dropping, but only just. They have been more agreeable with them in a week than with me in a year! “All of this effort and cooperation without even a name? A cause you don’t care about beyond mere pastime?”

They mirthlessly chuckled, “You and I both know how useless names and ideals get, Rebel Wolf. You still don’t get it, do you? Let me remind you!”

They gestured to the stream, following its flow, eyes flashing with fury again. “My little harem in the dream-stream, neither of which I wanted, severed from their bodies in a blink with your precious Veil trap. Some of their echoes are your fucking buddies while you sleep, while I scavenged the dream-slain scraps of three and me—again! And I made that be enough to live again!”

They leaned closer to him and taunted: “You are welcome, by the way, for stashing a separate uthenera chamber to recover in.”

Taut silence fell as they tossed their pants into the tub and scrubbed through their mage coat and mantle next, seething; Solas finished his own wash faster but remained crouched near the stream, lips pursed and heart heavy. They rinsed their articles in the enchanted liquid, then Solas dried each with a blast of heat- and static-charged magic—and they shook out the static and re-dressed.

Finally, Choice dropped a runestone into the water, and in a matter of seconds the violet liquid clarified. Leaning over the tub, they sighed away their rage, shot him a rueful grin, and muttered, “So, eh... still a no on borrowing the sour elf? I don’t appreciate upstart priests upsetting my slaves—even when I don’t ask for them.”

Solas shook his head and sighed in defeat with the slightest of smirks at their wagging brow. “I would prefer that you didn’t, but your actions are ultimately not mine to dictate.” He helped them tip and empty the tub back into the stream… and he realized after a moment that they had the strength to do so on their own the whole time, but let him participate.

Though still tense, their return walk was no more or less companionable than it started out. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael surveyed the scene from overhead, but they had little to work with so late in the night, even in owl form. Redcliffe Village was eerily quiet, road torches unlit, and the few occupied houses shuttered. He spotted a pair of red-cloaked mages heading toward the castle and drifted upward so they wouldn’t detect their field of effect—just in case. 

Must be Corypheus’ mages. Sooner than expected.
[What does he want with the Tranquil?]
{Figured out Tranquil is Silent?}
Silentir, Silent Tear.
(Dead Stones?)

Blast it all. I was working with the templars, so I don’t have information on the mage side... He’s not trying to make more me’s, is he? They banked the inner curve of a slow-rolling thermal to pan the view one more time from higher up. A few red mages on the battlements; wards on the doors, windows, and gates. He moved fast. So would I, but not so obvious. What’s here that he wants?

[Some drivel about a thin Veil, probably.]
{Reeks of fear and undead, here!}
(Another Breach attempt!)
Through counterspace?
(With Dead Stones!?)
Not on my watch.
[My trinkets.]

They would have growled if they weren’t wearing a beak. They soared back south, past the village, toward the farmsteads, and wandered until they spotted some of the tainted wolves. They would have sensed them if they got too close, too. The alpha’s not prowling around. Blast it all… Did it get possessed while alive or dead?! It appeared they would have to wait to find out.

They angled again and made for the sour elf near the cave of long-eared wonders. They alighted nearby and watched her sleeping fitfully at the cave mouth with a collection of wards around her for a bit... 

Fear flared the area, set off a ward, and jerked her awake in a wild-eyed panic. Deceit then blanketed the place to disarm the rest of the wards; she shot to her feet, looking around—and eventually spotted them. They gradually tilted their head upside-down while bearing down on her paranoia. 

She threw a barrier around herself, waiting for demons to attack her from beyond the trembling, unsteady Veil, and prayed to Andruil’s messenger to pass her by for sacrifice this night!

[Manners when you least expect them...]
Not a critical causal deduction in sight.
(Superstitious idiot!)

Mollified, they relented and took flight, reveling in her wide-eyed gratitude with a round of petty laughs. Dwarf had it right: it’s the small pleasures in life. They skimmed the heat waves rolling off the crossroads campsite for a while, not sulking over letting the priest live another day... 

When they eventually glanced down, they realized the whole party minus Cassandra had gone to sleep—and she was pacing while periodically looking toward the camp entrance. Aw, does she miss me?

They tipped and spilled the air from their wings to circle down toward her as lazily as possible to drag out the fun part, then hooted from overhead, smirking internally when she ducked on reflex. She gasped when she looked up and saw them dropping in, fell back several paces at their approach, and threw her arm up just in time for them to land on it instead of her face.

“Imshael!” She hissed, looking around frantically for observers. “Maker’s Breath—I should wring your feathered neck!” 

They who’d in sync to their snickering, so she growled and shook her arm until they flapped (flopped) gracelessly to the ground. He was still chuckling on their ass in the dirt when the Void vapors dissipated. “I do enjoy how tenderly you hold me at night, Lady Seeker,” he beamed while standing and dusting their breeches off. 

Her eye may have twitched before regaining her composure. “Did you see anything in the village?”

He swept their coat off the greatsword and slid it on beneath the mantle in a single flawless motion. “Not enough to help, m’lady. There are some mages in odd robes, but everyone’s holed up for the night.” She gave them a brief, baleful glare before moving back toward the campfire to drop onto a log stoop.

Pinching between her eyes, she muttered, “Very well. Thank you for looking, anyway. And the rest?”

“Shooed some demons back into the Fade, and rebels are avoiding everywhere we left a massacre. The elves might want to go through and burn the bodies tomorrow.” 

Since it’s too cold down south to bloat them for better thermals...

Cassandra grimaced at the fire, but nodded once and rested her arms on her thighs. After several seconds, he cleared their throat and added, “You know, it’s possible to ball up magical fire in a Fortress, increase the pressure, and burn them off faster.” She looked up at them, surprised.

“Will it not dispel the magic?”
“Not when you’re good at loopholes like me!”

She huffed and rolled her gaze back to the flames. “As you say… but thank you. I imagine the stench will grow unbearable in a hurry, otherwise.”

He scratched at a temple, looking her over, then sat on another log. “It’s a trick I learned playing with curved mirrors. Bend light into a smaller space, and suddenly it ignites whatever you aim it at. You can make any spell ten times stronger by compressing and aiming it that way. Mages eventually figured out that standing in a circle did something similar, and now they call it ritual magic.” 

Not that the morons can tell multiplicative from logarithmic...
[Do those words exist again, yet?]
Eeh...?

Her eyebrows slowly reached her hairline while he pontificated. “That is… most unsettling.”

“You are trying to get mages and templars to work together, right? It’s the power of friendship!” He jerked their thumb toward the Breach. “There can’t have been more than fifty mages and templars when I was following them at the Conclave. They probably lost control of their ritual when people started dying and bleeding into it, but that sky hole is only the work of a few dozen people.”

Her reaction was an adorably delayed one; but when she did, the informed field shone so bright they glimpsed the Golden City itself in counterspace, haloing her and bleeding over reality, for an instant. Their side warmed and tingled less painfully than usual at the sight. He burned that image into their memory in a pleased daze while she breathlessly asked, “Do you think we already have enough power to attempt to close the Breach?”

“Eeh… Templars would have to learn to move magic around instead of away, and that’s like training a new muscle. But probably!” She shot to her feet with an exhilarated little gasp to pace again, eyes wide and unseeing, and they bathed in the sharp shine of her renewed vigor. Their surroundings soon sharpened even more harshly when she shot them a suspicious scowl.

Maker’s gaze be upon me!

Their smirk split wider under her literally glorious scrutiny, and Deceit practically purred in it. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?!” she accused.

“Why didn’t anybody ask the trickster for some tricks?”

She inhaled to snap back, paused, and awkwardly coughed while turning her back to them to resume pacing. “I—suppose that’s a fair rebuttal. With just cause, considering the beak in question. Still…!”

He pouted and idly stroked the hooked bridge of their nose... “Ahem. Good luck convincing the Commander and his templars to strengthen apostates.” He leaned back on their arms and gazed at the night sky, basking in the glow of two moons, one campfire, and an unquenchable flame turned forge.

Eventually, the heady light of her slowed its pacing motion out of their sight, and they drawled, “You do still sleep on occasion, don’t you?” She released a longer sigh than usual at that, dimming.

“Even with meditation and prayer, stilling my mind to sleep is more difficult lately.” He frowned minutely while she was out of sight for it.

“...Nightmares?”
“No. Just restlessness.”

“There are funner ways to relieve that than prayer.” Reality sharpened again, and they squinted to brace for a smack upside the head or blood (just in case). Instead, she returned to the log stoops to sit heavily. Beside them. On the same log.

“Imshael.”
“Yes, Mistress?” 

“You little—ugh. Please, do not Smite any more of the rebel mages like you did earlier.” He very slowly turned their head to glare her down; she met it squarely, frown as sharp as her arched brows. She argued, “Mages and templars cannot come to an understanding by exerting force on each other; and the Inquisition will not succeed if we can’t adhere to our own principles.”

“Ideals should stay in the realm of idea, Lady Seeker... I won’t Smite them first, and that’s the most you’re getting because you said please so earnestly for me. Which I'll definitely mark the calendar for!” She scowled harder at their snide grin, but relaxed her posture after a beat and leaned forward to stare into the fire as she had before.

He unclenched as well and bathed their face in moonbeams again: their joint brooding was almost amiable rather than contrived.

She broke their little vigil after a while to murmur, “I am ashamed to have forgotten about the Tranquil all this time... They are even more helpless than the refugees, yet I never heard a word about them once the Circles dissolved.” 

Imshael held back a displeased growl at the reminder and absently kneaded their hip. “Can’t plough that heap of shit until the advisors contact the arl, Lady Seeker. We’ll fetch them soon.” Her gaze whipped their way, shifting subliminal lights about, but he stayed fixed on the darkened sky... until their skin started crawling at the unfamiliar, not hostile attention, anyway. 

When he glanced over, rather than keen with glinting sharp edges, everything her scattered soft, prismatic bows from the old night sky instead, caressing every line and highlight—and for just a moment, they forgot that the stars were dark and far away now. Oh? That’s actually new. How do I do it again?

{She gets soft?!}
[“We’ll” fetch them.]
(A pronoun? Is that it?!)
I have new preferred pronouns.
[We have new preferred pronouns.]

After burning another image into their memory (of a Seeker-shaped prism scattering rainbows of promise in the City gone Black) he sucked in a breath to snap out of it and quirked a tentative brow. “Ahem...”

Apparently, she got caught up in a daze of her own: she blinked, twitched, whipped back toward the fire, and blushed. The whole field of her blushed a hundred fractured rosy haloes before shifting back out of sight. “You’re right. We will find out what’s happened at Redcliffe  with the Tranquil after the situation in the Hinterlands is resolved.”

He leaned in a little closer (which made her reflexively straighten and still) and retorted lightly, “Which will resolve sooner with rest. Dwelling solves nothing for them or us.” 

“I... of course. You—” she huffed and kept her gaze averted while standing quite abruptly. “You did not have to listen to my troubles, Imshael. Thank you.”

Ugh, say it again, Seeker.
[She can Call Me “Anytime” with that voice.]

“I aim to serve, Mistress. Shall I serve you further in your—”
“No.” 

They waited until she was out of earshot before humming in feverish delight with all their voices. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Back at Haven, Lavellan savored the brisk air of the thaw as well as the sight of the lake, now free of ice. Clanging swords and occasional shouts from soldier and merchant alike provided a steady, distant backdrop to the little haven beside the haven. The Breach was reduced to a thin scar of light—a fault line in the sky—the only sign that catastrophe ever loomed…

And the dream would have been perfectly believable if not for the prickling static in her hand. Still, it was a welcome (if temporary) reprieve from the horrific days past and the harrowing days yet to come.

She picked up a few flat rocks from a pile near the lake’s edge and silently thanked each of her companions with each drake toss. Cassandra’s steadfast confidence that they were doing the right thing. Solas’ equally sturdy (yet still) presence, grounding her against uncertainty like an anchor. Varric’s laidback brevity counter to Cassandra’s severity, and Imshael likewise countering Solas’ moderate wisdom with cutting wit. 

She swallowed back a tiny moment of despair when her thoughts wandered into questions of why they revolved around her at all—and reminded herself that the mark made her their catalyst. Cassandra saw a savior; Solas a curiosity; Varric a muse; and Imshael a detour. 

No, that’s a lie, she scolded herself and pushed that despair away. They see me as a comrade, too, if not a friend.  

She sensed something press in on the boundaries of her dream as she tossed another stone, and looked around for a moment, then startled at the sight of Solas suddenly near Haven’s gate. She quickly scanned the dreamscape for signs of demonic presence, but only his aura lingered: and he lifted his hand with a small smile as her aura brushed his.

“Sorry, that was a bit rude,” she hastily apologized while he approached. “I forget that you’re a Dreamer and thought you might be something else. No ancient marvelous stories to tell here, I’m afraid.” He huffed a soft chuckle at that.

“I disagree. And you need not apologize for the precaution: all is well.” His violet eyes wandered the dream scene for a contemplative moment. “I admit I did not expect to find you dreaming here, where your journey began.”

She lifted her hand up between them with a rueful smile of her own. “It wouldn’t do me any good to run from it, right?” she joked half-heartedly. When Solas’ smile fell and his eyes turned sorrowful, she smiled more sincerely and gestured at him. “Besides, I’m surrounded by strong and wise people sharing the burden.”

His features softened, looking from the marked hand to her, then he hesitantly reached both his hands around hers and clasped it between them. 

“I watched over you while you slept,” he said suddenly, locking eyes with her again. “I tried everything I could to wake you. I thought for sure the Seeker would have me killed if I failed. I thought about fleeing, but I decided: one more try, to seal the rifts and close the Breach.”

He shot his hand out toward the Breach the same way she did to seal the smaller ones away. “I tried, and I failed… But then you woke, and with a mere gesture—!” He dropped his hand back over hers and squeezed, and the contrasting warmth sent chills racing up her arms.

“In that moment, I felt the whole world change.”

She couldn’t help parting her lips to exhale softly in shock—she didn’t dare hope he was suggesting what she thought, right? Her thoughts raced through the late walks and long talks, the lingering gestures while soothing her mark, the coy smirks and secretive chuckles when they complimented each other or flirted…

She whispered, “Felt the whole world change?”

His grip loosened as though catching himself and her heart jumped into her throat. His eyes darted between hers, and for once, his words faltered just a little. “A… figure of speech.”

No, that’s a lie! He made to pull away but now she caught one of his hands back, dropping a rock she’d been about to skip before he showed up. She blurted out, “I know the phrase—I’m more interested in felt.”

His fingers twitched between her hands; but then he gripped her by the wrist, tight; pulled her near enough to breathe in the forest and frost scent of his clothes and aura through her nose. His other hand cradled her by the nape, and he whispered back, “You change… everything!” 

With their hands occupied, they fumbled between each other for a second as their lips collided, but he soon tugged her in even closer by threading his fingers through her hair, while she encouraged it pulling at his shirt collar.

When her hand sparked violently against both their skins, he jolted and clasped it; then angled and teased between her lips with his tongue while pressing the mark against his heart despite the shared sting. She eagerly gasped in the taste of him, meeting his tongue and wandering for a moment before daring to graze one of his canines back.

She turned her marked hand around to spare his chest and lace their fingers together instead. The gesture calmed and grounded both of them, so their hungry exploration slowed to indulgent tracings with ragged sighs that ghosted across each other’s cheeks… He withdrew slightly and rested their foreheads together, running his free hand down her spine, then leaned in once more for another kiss so tender it made her heart ache more than race.

He kept their hands clutched together over his heart while he lightly stroked the vallaslin across her cheekbone with the back of a knuckle. He murmured regretfully, “We shouldn’t do this here… it’s not real.” 

“Solas…?”
Surely he didn’t mean they shouldn’t at all…
“Vhenan… we’ll speak again soon, after you wake up.” 

Lavellan bolted upright in her tent, gasping (or maybe panting), cheeks and ear tips burning with embarrassment as much as excitement. She smiled wide and followed the trail his knuckle made across her cheek, the touches that she felt there as surely as here. He says it’s not real in the Fade, but that’s a lie, too!

...That tongue sure wasn’t a lie. 

She bit her lip to hold back a giggle and utterly failed. Then buried a smile inside her apprentice coat to hold back a squeal and failed that, too. I knew I wasn't imagining things; I knew it was real! She drew in a breath deep enough to burn a little, to make herself calm down, but the jitters still took several minutes to fade. They did eventually fade, as she yawned and realized she had no idea how long she’d slept.

She thought about lying down again since her body was still tired, but she just knew sleep wasn’t coming back to her that night. After lightly slapping her cheeks to wake up some more, she grabbed her staff and slipped out of the tent to find that the sky was just starting to lighten. Not dawn yet, but close enough to count for a half-decent night’s rest. (Very decent night after factoring in the unexpected visit!)

And it looked like she’d woken up before the rest of the party—except for Imshael, of course. He sat by the campfire near his sword, with coat and fur mantle draped on it, propped up in the dirt. A bunch of colorful potion bottles and vials were scattered across the log he was sitting on.

He must have “seen” her with some kind of demon sense, because he straightened slightly, then slowly turned to greet her with a wide smile. “Somebody slept well, eh?”

Oh, gods, can he smell it or something?! 

Before she could even answer, he said something else, then waved his hand with a genial laugh and joked right past it: “I’ve heard of a good night’s sleep doing wonders for the complexion, but you’re glowing...! Care to share your little secret, Keeper?” She caught herself holding her staff in front of her and shifted it to the side with an awkward chuckle, and prayed she wasn’t blushing again.

“I-I didn’t sleep well our first night here, so I must have just slept extra hard tonight. Doesn’t it get… erm, boring at night alone?”

He scoffed and gestured to the treasure trove of bottles. “Hardly! Besides, it’s bold of you to assume I’m alone in this body. Now, come and see.”

Excited at the chance to learn more from the Forbidden One (after he’d told her to direct her elf-related questions to Solas), she moved to one of the empty logs and sat, then leaned her staff against it on her other side. This must be some of his alchemy work. “What are all of these?” She wondered aloud; he lifted up a clear bottle full of glowing blue liquid and held it out to her in response.

On the inside, a long tube was attached to the cap, and some of the fluid filled it, too. She squeezed her hand around the vial and felt it faintly humming against her aura like a lyrium potion, even though the liquid looked much too diluted. He waved at it and bragged, “I stole some of these and invented or reinvented others. That one, is lyrium they used to give mages while they were in uthenera. The tube in the middle dropped it into their eyes!”

 “Into their eyes?” Her own eyes tried to water instantly at the very thought. “That sounds like a horrible idea.”

He shrugged and chortled, “It helped them see while deep in the Raw Fade. I stole that recipe from Dirthamen, himself.”

Her mouth slowly fell open with a heady wave of euphoria while rolling the ancient concoction between her fingers. “Really…?” She softly gasped. Then she frowned. “Why would you steal such a thing?”

He leveled her with a flat, almost bored stare. “Everything’s been stolen and nothing’s original, Keeper, remember? It’s not the only uthenera recipe I have here, either!” He looked around himself for a moment, squinting, then plucked up three more vials after a small pause.

“Share this one between two people so they can find each other no matter where they dream. This one caused nightmares and attracted demons. And this—” he waved a red vial that whispered against her senses like lyrium, but didn’t quite hum, “—drove them insane to make them forget things and get lost from their own bodies.”

She looked back to the vial in her hands, heart pounding and extremities cold. “They… they made these potions to give people while they were in the long sleep?” He hummed, and this time, he didn’t sound smug about it like usual.

“These were gods, Keeper. Gods with temples and people who worshiped them. Just an earlier, dumber Thedas with eight Chantries instead of two—and some of the Fade was Dirthamen’s turf. And just like how the Chantry thinks it has the authority to condemn and worship people on their turf, so did the gods. It wasn’t personal! Just huge fights over property rights, sometimes.”

She huffed a little half-laugh when he cocked her an arrogant smirk to go with the brow, but her humor fled fast. “To think they’d even consider using such things. J-just for... territory? That’s...”

“Unfortunate.” He finished his usual phrase, and they laughed together a bit more sincerely than before (despite her understanding it in quite a different light now).

In a lighter tone, he said to himself, “I was looking for a lyrium recipe for the templars, though, not the mages. Looks like I’ll have to tinker with one of the old ones…” He leaned in suddenly and pointed a finger, which made her immediately brace for a scolding.

She calmed once he flashed her a sheepish grin instead. “I only remembered these because that blasted elf reminded me to clean my damn pockets! Don’t give him that satisfaction, got it?” After a taut moment, she snorted, covered her mouth, and laughed while he pouted with a small growl.

He snatched the vial from her hand before she dropped it from the giggling fit, while muttering under his breath, and started dropping the potions into a coat pocket dangling beside him. “Korth’s cock… Blasted long-eared pest…”

She coughed a few times to stem her mirth and blurted out, “Oh, t-that reminds me, actually.”

“Eeh...?” He was only paying half attention while stashing his forgotten (stolen) treasure.

“You told me to leave you alone with elf questions… what changed your mind?”

“Ah, heheh. Nothing’s changed, Keeper.”
“I... see.”

He flapped his coat shut, patted down the mantle (but not before she peeked rows of runes written on its underside), and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees. Something in his stare looked more predatory than boyish, now. “I said no more elf questions, and that didn’t change.”

She furrowed her brows, then shook her head: she didn’t follow what he was trying to tell her. “Some of those potions were from Dirthamen, though... and, the turf wars, and the people in uth—”

“Why would immortal elves have a god of the dead, Keeper? Why would elves, in a world where reality and the Fade were one, even bother with sleeping and dreaming?”

Varric groaned loudly and suddenly from the mouth of his tent, and complained about missing a real bed (plus flat roads, a market and tavern, a bath tub, and more).

Imshael stood and smirked with a shrug at the interruption, then grabbed up his mantle and teased, “Think about it sometime!”

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

The long-eared lute-scout “O, ser!” (a name that flowed nicely when moaned) came scrambling after the party before the crossroads was even out of sight. He carried one very displeased raven on one arm while another circled overhead, equally irritable about waiting for its target to reach his destination. (And refusing to suffer the indignity of bobbing and swaying about like the first.) 

Imshael “heard” the scout approaching from a league away and glanced back, then smirked and proceeded without hailing the rest of the party to stop. (Only part of the way…!) Eventually, Solas heard the footsteps (plus an agitated squawk from overhead) and stopped the party while glancing sharply at them with just as much exasperation as the bird. He, however, was preoccupied with daydreaming.

[Should he call me Papae or Mamae to have her?]
Both? The Keeper should fetch a double value!
(Double the pearls! No, match her weight!)
The economy doesn’t treasure pearls.
[That would involve protecting virgins.]
They prefer hoards of whored hordes now.
(Gold for grabbing instead of adorning! Idiots!)
And the Golden City turned Black, blah, blah, blah.
[And gold-bright brides right beside them all along…]

They weren’t really planning to stand between the staff-crossed moon-eyed elves so rudely, but a choosy spirit can pretend to dream! He may as well have lifted his leg against a tree with how she reeked of his Fade fingers… He spun on their heel with the rest of the party to watch Ose catch up, far too amused by the hound dog’s antics to pay much actual attention. 

Cassandra and Ellana (a name to be dreamily sighed rather than moaned) got ahead of Imshael to greet the scout, but he held out his arm for them, instead. Scout Ose panted out, “Shael, short for Imshael? Harding said the Nightingale said it couldn’t wait, ser!” 

“Ah, the boys in blue strike back,” he mused while sticking their sword in the dirt for the moment, and saved the sorry raven from its rickety little perch. They immediately washed over the beast with smug pleasure (even more than Solas with his new favorite tree) and had it fluffed and preening in no time, clicking its gullet with sleepy satisfaction. 

Ose did not appreciate the pest’s inexplicable complacency: “Why, that little—wouldn’t stop pecking my ear ‘til I came after you!” He rubbed an ear point while holding up the other arm for the flier and added, “Other one’s for you, Lady Seeker. More trouble ‘round the Hinterlands.” 

The Lady Seeker shot them an outraged scowl that they paid exactly zero mind to, taking their bird’s message then perching it on their shoulder. Distracted, Cassandra took her own missive and muttered under her breath about not being a Lady… Imshael skimmed their letter, which turned out to be from the source (with notes from the mockingbird scrawled beneath).

Shael. Sorry about the lyrium deal going sideways at the Conclave. When Edric said he expected the talks to blow up, I don’t think he meant… that. You always did have strange luck. The Dasher’s looking for you—well, both of us, but mostly you—angry as a drunk bronto. Says you kicked rocks over his boy and ran off with his lyrium. Now you’re hiding from the Carta behind a wall of Inquisition muscle. I’d tell you to keep your head low if you were shorter. And if you didn’t glitter so much. I found a safe spot close by, along with one of those loopholes you like to brag about. Since the hairy eyeball’s prying, maybe they’d like a cut. —Lantos

(A freelance arrangement? A risky endeavor wherever the Carta’s staked a claim. However, Josephine assures me that paying off the Carta would cost less than shipping and taxes from Orzammar if the offer is valid. Luckily for you, Carta activity has been reported in the Hinterlands. Go and find out. —N.)

“Hairy Eyeball,” Imshael chuckled and studied Cassandra’s breastplate while tucking the message under a wrapped sleeve. She was still reading (or else trying to ignite the note with her glare). He beckoned to Ose and held out their hand for the other raven, and smirked when he gladly rid himself of it. 

As soon as the bird felt Deceit’s effect, it tilted its head up for them to scratch and fluff under the beak. “Ah, now that’s a respectably sized beak you’ve got there,” He crooned while drawing it closer and stroking it tip-to-tail with void fingers, “Yes… can’t turn falon’s talons backward to scratch the underside, eh? Like stroking a beard… Here’s all the stubble I can grow in six hundred blasted years, you little braggart! How mortifying... But! can you croak bigger than a toad? I rather doubt—” 

He snickered at the indignant croak they received and kept right on praising: “Oho, I stand very corrected. Louder and with a bigger gullet! Looked like a bit of a stretch for you, eh…? It gets easier with practice…” The other raven on their shoulder haughtily pecked their ear, feeling quite put out and nestling into Wrath’s field signature in retaliation. 

“Eeh... I don’t think I heard that, so I don’t think I’ll acknowledge it!” He chided (despite grinning wildly now from the secondhand praise-high). “Besides, there’s plenty of me to go around!” The agitated one bonked then rubbed its head under their ear to demand head scratches. “Ah, you’re the shy one pretending to be mad, aren’t you?” 

The birds twitched when Ose flung his arms out at them. “How!” 

Admittedly, it took Imshael a moment to realize they weren’t the only one (four) chortling in the conspiracy: the Keeper’s eyes crinkled and sparkled in delight while giggling behind her hand at the sight. Varric was sneering in disgust at their lewd display of affection, and Solas was turned to the side, shaking his head but smirking. The Lady Seeker gawked from their other side. 

“Ahem...” He slowly levered their greatsword out of the dirt, and the proud one settled onto the crossguard while he propped it on a shoulder (and he appeased the shy one on the other side with their free hand). “Birds of a feather, eh? I’m even greedier than they are for attention, so we all won a little that time!”

Varric groaned and rubbed a temple as he shuffled away, back up the road toward the farms. “Oh, great. It’s self-aware.” 

Imshael shrugged (carefully) at the scout. “We’ll find out more before sending the birds back. They seem to like me more anyway, eh?” 

Ose quickly waved his hands before him. “No complaints here! Not sure why we don’t use pigeons, really. Much kinder.”

Imshael waved Cassandra ahead of them with a flourish, back to the front of the party. She looked skeptically at the conspiracy before shaking her head and turning her back to them. The Keeper smiled widely at the shy one, then trotted ahead and joined the Seeker; and they started (again) for the horsemaster.

After a while, Imshael drawled aloud for Cassandra, “We may have a closer lyrium source than expected, but it also may need some pest control, first. If it’s any good.”

She turned her head, glaring white-hot edges along their periphery (and searing the pulse in their fingertips with rage), but didn’t look back. “Bandits are taking advantage of the decrease in fighting. They have spread out and claimed a fortress in the southwest Hinterlands—and were recently spied with dwarves near Lake Luthias. Could they be Carta dwarves related to your lyrium contact?”

“Eeh… Related, yes. Friendly? Not anymore.”

She ground to a halt and whirled to face them in a furious flash, skidding the rest of them to a stop, too. “Have you been using us to hide from the Carta all along?” She demanded, hand on hilt and angular features hawk-sharp. “Surely you saw dwarves while you were allegedly scouting from the sky!”

“Isn’t Lake Luthias south of the crossroads?” He retorted blithely, patting the shy bird’s feet when it stamped a few times from their (and her) secondhand rage. “I’ve been scouting north for the village and farms. We went right by the blasted lake the other day, and nothing dwarfy was happening there... Besides, they really blend in with rocks!”

“Cough…” Varric pointedly interjected, then flicked his bright red tunic. “Only when we want to, Butcher.”

Imshael sniffed while straightening and taunted down their nose: “You could have just asked to see my note, Lady Seeker.” 

It didn’t take her long to stomp their way, flushed and glinting razored edges all around. She snatched the note scrap as soon as they tugged it free and returned to the front without another word, and the shy one bobbed its head to her stomping (which almost forced a cackle out of them). Varric heaved a groan-sigh as they all resumed their march to the stables again, then casually rumbled, “So are you hiding from the Carta?”

“I only got the memo a few minutes ago, but yes. My reputation really precedes me, sometimes!”

“Yeah, well, I hear sound travels faster through rock.”
“And I hear gold flows when you talk or shut up.”

“You’re welcome for shutting up... against my better judgement.”

“...You thought about taking the reward though, eh?”

“If I could dream, Butcher, I would’ve stayed asleep to take it a few times.” Imshael barked out a laugh that startled both birds; Varric’s spiteful little confession was better than Cassandra’s paranoid outburst. It was even better than the women’s horrified expressions as they paused their parade yet again to stare the two of them down. 

Imshael and Varric shrugged simultaneously and cited: “It wasn’t personal!”

“Maker’s Breath—”
“O-oh my…!”

From the corner of their eye, he saw the hound dog watching the theatrics: more specifically, Fear’s senses tingled at the intensity to suggest he was studying the theatrics. He eventually drew closer to the party once they were in motion (again!), but he held up a subtle barrier that the Keeper couldn’t sense and that they couldn’t penetrate.

[Some learn by watching and some learn by doing.]
(Some wear blinders and complain of darkness!)
Well, bread can’t un-bake back to dough.
{Too scared to be baked at all!}
[Not the lap dog’s fault...]
Nobody asks to exist.
{Choose to live!}

The birds ducked reflexively as Fear, Deceit, and Wrath stretched all their senses to their limits. Combining Cassandra’s informed field, Varric’s tainted bow and field, the birds’ magnetic senses, and the Keeper’s Anchor, they pressed their awareness out of their body and dispersed into their conjoined field—now a latticed choir of soul-signatures and harmonic overlaps. 

It was easy to get lost in a tedious task like walking until time seemed to pass faster, but time never truly sped up (because it only exists as a measure for motion-plus-magnitude). 

Subspatial compression was an illusion and nothing more. They could capture a “pocket” of “moment”, decide that it’s utterly insignificant, and it would vanish from perception (and thus “existence”) without erasing it from memory. So, Imshael stretched their senses out and ahead to roughly a league away from the fields, detected no nearby enemies, shooed everything else away… and “sped up the moment” by compressing it. 

Reality would still seamlessly  pass them by, scenery and banter unaffected—but for the rest of the party, it would be so unimportant that it would all seem to pass by in a single blink while Solas tread the tedium since he was so keen to observe.

They wanted to reach the blasted wolf pack faster! 

[I think it was originally called Fast Travel.]
{Wrong! Critical Flicker Fusion Frequency.}
Don’t care: Faith-stepping was clever.
(Just say Frame-Rate Drop! Idiots!)

…

. . .

.  .  .

Lavellan thought Master Dennet was a more capable man than he presented himself, but she also thought he probably had a reason for holding back. She liked his down-to-earth demeanor: it reminded her of simpler days back with her clan (and maybe that’s reason enough to cling to such a demanding yet simple farm life for a human that doesn’t wander the wilds). 

He admitted to requesting a personal visit for the same reason Cassandra and Imshael got letters from Sister Leliana that morning: bandit activity. He insisted on help around his farm in exchange for his horses, and redirected them to his wife and the lead farmhand for more details. The tension in the party grew from his deception, but Lavellan couldn’t fault the man. 

His and his family’s lives were forfeit if their farmland or his reputation were compromised. Bandits couldn’t steal his horses on the way to Haven, and he couldn’t feed his tenants from abandoned fields. (Though she wouldn’t say it aloud, she wondered if he might do a better job patrolling the Hinterlands than Corporal Vale—especially with mounts to travel the area quickly.) 

Imshael waited outside with the ravens while she spoke to Master Dennet, but when they left his house, the abomination was nowhere in sight. Cassandra called after him, then Lavellan; then they heard him hail them from around the house. At a high point overlooking several fields, someone had erected a pillar with a shining skull on top. He was in the middle of wrenching it loose when they found him. 

He reached into the eye socket and plucked out some kind of crystal shard, and the light in the skull faded. He tossed the skull aside, but Solas quickly swept it up with a severe frown. “This skull appears to be recent.” He peered between it and the shining shard between Imshael’s fingers, right before he pocketed it. “Recent enough for Master Dennet not to notice.”

“Nobody notices the walking dead, elf.” Imshael soothed one of the ravens that started stomping from foot to foot on his shoulder. “But if there’s more, I can track down the shards in them. They were currency once upon a time. Where to next, Keeper?” Solas, strangely enough, stowed the skull in his travel bag.

Next, they found the (somewhat rude) farmhand Bron, who asked them to scout around for good watch tower locations. He must have thought they would take a long time, long enough to agree to a casual roll in the hay! Unfortunately for Bron, Imshael just tugged a note scrap from his sleeve, sketched a map, marked it with tower locations, and tried to give it to one of the ravens he’d been playing with. 

Bron snatched the map out of his hands before he could send it, trying to accuse him of faking it! Cassandra eventually snatched the map back after he stared for a while and bit out, “We’ve already scouted and memorized the area. With people who shapeshift into birds. And who watch for wrongdoing without towers.”

“A-and the Inquisition just set up two logging sites close by,” Lavellan quickly added, trying to keep everyone calm. He was a bit forward, but nobody’s in danger…! She could only assume that everyone’s nerves were frayed from Dennet’s manipulation to do menial farm work, along with finding the morbid skull pillar. “The watch towers shouldn’t take us long at all to build.” 

Sufficiently chastened, Bron hunched and crossed his arms, and replied that he’d get the good news to Master Dennet right away. As they turned to leave, Imshael snarked over his shoulder, “You’d have to pay two bags of pearls just for the Herald to tolerate your naked toes.” Varric was in the middle of drinking from a waterskin, which he promptly spat with a spluttered half-cough, half-laugh. 

Cassandra spat, “Imshael!” rather than water; Lavellan gasped and covered her mouth so she didn’t laugh where Bron could hear her and get even more embarrassed. Solas, on the other hand, did not seem amused whatsoever. 

Somehow, Elaina was even more brisk and businesslike than Dennet, but wanted very much to protect her farmers from the sick wolves in the area. She showed them where they were coming from on Cassandra’s map, and off they went for their next chore... As they neared the cave, the two rifts Imshael had been suppressing became visible—but he suggested saving those until afterward. 

And then, for some reason, he turned very moody once they spotted the black wolves. They felled a few of them with little trouble, but it was strange and frustrating how they didn’t run away… While the raven fluttered back down to his shoulder, Solas crouched to examine a wolf; Imshael leaned over with his lower lip stuck out. 

“No sign of Blight or the water sickness,” Solas murmured while standing and glancing to Imshael, who scowled.

“And I sense a regular terror in the blasted cave somewhere.” Lavellan hadn’t heard him whine before! “Commanding them, but not possessing the leader. Blast it all—!” He dragged out the last syllable while jamming his sword halfway into the ground in frustration, then shooing the other raven onto it. He hollered at them all to just stay put as he… stomped into the cave.

“What in the world…?” Lavellan chuckled a little nervously at the sight of a thousands-year-old demon having a fit. Cassandra looked equally confused (or maybe just peeved) but tossed up her hands and started slowly pacing while they waited. Varric shrugged and commented that the weather was nice enough for a break anyhow. (And that his short legs appreciated it. But also to never ever mention that when the demon came back.)

They all flinched or froze at the occasional yip and howl… Then Imshael strolled out straight to Lavellan and held out his hand, still frowning; when she did the same, he dropped a bloody pendant into her palm. She felt a strange enchantment around it as though it were wrapped in invisible fur, and the blood was dark, old, and dry. 

“It’s an alpha wolf’s blood, and the token recognizes you as part of their pack. They’ll leave you alone with it,” he explained simply, then heaved a growly half-demon sigh.

Varric huffed while standing and dusting himself off and asked, “Alright, I’ll bite... Why the long face, Butcher?”

“Why not the long face?” Imshael complained. “Any other kind of demon would have possessed the blasted thing, meaning its blood and bite would create werewolves.”

“Wha—why would you want such a horrific curse to plague the area?!” Cassandra exclaimed while Varric and Lavellan gaped (and Solas pinched between his eyes with an annoyed sigh). 

Imshael angrily patted his side for some reason and exclaimed, “Because I’m good at loopholes, Lady Seeker. I could have shifted werewolf willingly! Nobody expects a werewolf Inquisition!”

“You don’t need to be a were-anything,” Varric flatly groused. “You’re enough of a plague on your own.”

“The last laugh is mine, Pebble: I’m a were-human.”

“You are insufferable sometimes,” Cassandra scoffed and dismissed him with a hand wave while he crossed his arms. “We should seal these rifts before returning to Elaina. We will soon be finished here, with half the day left to find Solas’ artifacts.”

“Hey, Keeper,” Imshael barked suddenly, squinting toward her. Her eyebrows shot up at the unexpected attention. “Dirthamen mastered his Fear. What do you see when fearlings appear?”

“It’s, erm, huge poisonous spiders…”
“...You know they eat the actual pests, right?”
“I know, but they’re big, a-and the skittery legs…”

He started strolling ahead to lead them toward the rift, his head shaking in disappointment... As they neared it, Lavellan’s hand started stinging and sparking more intensely—more than the rifts already usually did. It must have affected him, too, because he rubbed his side where the spirit mark was under his tunic. 

He squinted and pointed around to all of them, then drawled out, “Don’t attack me on sight, eh?” 

Lavellan couldn’t help but tuck her staff in close with a soft gasp as she realized he was about to become a demon in front of them. And she wasn’t the only one to raise their guards in a sudden rush. Only Solas, who still widened his stance and readied his staff, seemed calm rather than instantly on edge. 

He cocked a brow at her, and after a few seconds of awkward silence, she realized he was waiting on her to continue. She wasn’t sure if that was so she’d be ready and not scared, or to just be polite, or— “R-right… Alright.” He immediately started erupting in thick dark smoke from the bottom up until he was gone. 

Everyone bristled and shifted behind their weapons as the smoke dissipated, and it gradually spread out in the air, revealing Imshael again. They’d all fought and destroyed a few Fear demons by now, but during battle, it was hard to stop and process all of what she was seeing. She gulped while following the trail of shadows up to really see one for the first time.

He was taller than a Qunari now and floating slightly off the ground, which explained why his (four?) legs had shriveled away to bone under the rags. Which, she couldn’t tell if it used to be part of a robe, or actually a woman’s skirt. All the skin left was shriveled and sucked in over a sinewy, emaciated frame—including his regular arms, still crossed. Each of the claws at the ends of his fingers were as long as her fingers, and each hand could easily wrap around most of her entire head. 

He also had six spider arms (or maybe they counted as legs?) sprouting from his spine, but he had them tucked back and curled in close, the same way a dead spider’s legs did. The tips of them hovered over spiky shoulders and occasionally twitched, as though squirming under all the tense scrutiny.

She assumed that since most people stayed quiet when they were afraid, that was why the lower half of his face had turned to bone, like the legs; but she wasn’t sure why it had the strange shell on the top half—as though part of an octopus were draped over his head where the eyes should be. (And with four tentacles instead of eight, which had some gold and copper bangles for decoration, as did his wrists.)

Instead of a faintly glowing patch under the ribs, it looked like actual unpolished gold was plated into place between each rib; in fact, it covered most of the gaps in his left ribcage, with the scar line splashed across. Part of the bicep had gold splashed into place on it, too.

She expected the combined human-demon voices when he spoke—but now it sounded like he was whispering, hissing, and screaming at the same time, all at the same volume. She (and everyone else) jumped at the sound, and the raven startled with a squawk even from a hundred paces away. “Best work those nerves out now, before opening up the rift and attracting more like me.” 

Solas relaxed his posture first and took a few steps forward with his eyes wide and sad. “I did not realize the scarring was this extensive, Imshael... I—”

“It wasn’t personal, eh?” The familiar mannerism eased Lavellan’s nerves enough to straighten, but she kept her staff in front of her. She took a few deep breaths to calm down: her heart wasn’t racing, but it was pounding. “When the old magisters came out of the Fade, they had similar markings. One of them had gold splattered over his eyes! Guess I know how, now.” 

“...The magisters who breached the Golden City?” Cassandra only straightened slightly, voice awestruck, but didn’t lower her shield or sword one bit. “You were there?” 

“Oh, yes. Corrupted and deformed, same as spirits turning into demons when they come out. All they saw was an empty throne: it takes a real moron to step out of your own castle, and get mad that it’s vacant when you look back in.” He barely tilted his head and flicked a tentacle with a small hiss-scream-hum. “Subject, object.” 

Solas stiffened at his last words—as did Lavellan, in shock. Are the Maker’s teachings related to Dirthamen’s…?! Varric cleared his throat, and warily said from behind his crossbow: “That’s, uh… that’s an awfully faithful perspective for a demon to have. Probably heretical, too.”

“Ahem… I’m not exactly known for peddling canon verses. Comes with the whole, forbidden knowledge reputation.” He uncrossed his arms to wave his wicked-sharp fingers mockingly, and it looked so bizarre coming from a demon, Lavellan couldn’t help but chuckle off her nerves a little more. She’d gradually lowered her staff to rest the end against the ground.

“Huh. Fair point…”

“Forgive me,” Cassandra interrupted, “but, I think we should proceed. I… I do believe you will not harm us, but looking at you is too unsettling.” Imshael “hummed” again while drifting behind the rift. 

He uncurled his legs and stretched them wide with a twitchy shiver (which made Lavellan also shiver, but in disgust). “Beliefs are lies until acted upon, Lady Seeker, and that’s the difference between deceit and faith. Give yourself more credit!”

From behind the rift, he held out his arms and… legs… and warned them, “They’ll move slower the closer they are to the rift. Strike fast like a mantis! They hate those things.”

Lavellan and Solas both probed forward with their auras while Cassandra moved closer to the rift, and Varric stashed a few bolts between each finger to reload even faster... 

Solas spoke of closing the Breach much like healing a wound—so she pictured a magical version of stitches, or a gluing ointment, to seal the rifts (and eventually the Breach) shut. Watching Imshael’s power with her second sight was completely different: for a moment, an invisible ring appeared around the rift that distorted like a heat wave. Then the ring started wobbling. 

The wobbling gradually sped up, and the invisible waves peaked and dipped higher and faster until it was as tall as the rift and wrapped in close. 

When it got too fast to see any motion, it became like bent glass, and she could see demons lurking just behind it, waiting to break out in all directions! And that’s exactly what they started doing—except they were slowly melting out of the glass from flatness to reality rather than bursting forth in flashes of light and smoke.

Cassandra shouting for the Maker’s blessing snapped Lavellan out of her reverie with a violent gasp; and Solas, too, who was closer with a spell ready, but with his mouth slightly agape. 

He immediately threw a pair of fireballs from his staff at a fearling, then flung out his other hand to weave barriers around them all. She bolted forward a few steps while charging up a lightning bolt so he wouldn’t have to reach as far to cast, and shot it right as a horrendous spider demon came loose from the glass and lunged at them past Cassandra’s defense.

Varric dropped two with bolts between the eyes as Solas finished the barriers, and Lavellan frantically searched for an opening to get closer to the rift. She blinded two spiders with arcane bolts (and a tiny squeal)—but quickly realized that while slow, the demons had been piling up at the rift. Even moving through invisible tar, they emerged as a horde piled atop themselves into a wall. She gritted her teeth and thanked everything alive that they hadn’t been able to break out sooner. 

She started charging up for a bigger lightning attack and maneuvered between Solas and Varric… and squealed again when a pair of long, withered arms suddenly reached over her shoulders with black smoke rising off the skin. Distantly, she realized it was less like smoke and more like shadowed space that moved on its own. Pure cold radiated against her back and where the shadows drifted close, but not at all like frost; it breezed right past cloth and through skin like it wasn’t even there. She distinctly felt the outlines of her own muscles, organs, bones and spine…

The hands splayed out like they were presenting the scene to her. “See the funnels, Keeper?” Imshael hissed behind and over her head. “Make it rain.”

The inside of a concave “glass” started rippling right in front of them, and wobbly tunnels aimed at every fearling she could (sort of) see in it. Her eyes couldn’t focus on shapes suddenly distorted and wavering through lenses, magnified and warped into a wall of close-up spider faces on faraway bodies!

Where do I aim? She almost panicked and froze. Is this how far the attack spreads out? I don’t think it’s enough power to hit them all! She sucked in a few quick breaths, then a deep one while shivering at the static build-up in her staff—and just threw lightning at the center of the distorted glasslike funnel. 

Then, for a few seconds, she couldn’t see anything. Or hear anything, actually. 

She didn’t hear herself gasp when huge clawed hands wrapped around her shoulders, but she flinched and stumbled too; badly enough that Imshael had to hold her upright for a second. His claws prickled her collar and spine from the inhumanly long reach. 

One hand awkwardly wrapped around her small wrist and held up her marked hand, and she blinked away some of the flash-burn to find she was next to the rift now. It latched onto the mark, and she groaned against the pain making her whole arm rattle; which Imshael steadied by squeezing a little tighter. 

She distantly became aware of shouting as her hearing came back, but it sounded like the battle clamor had stopped. 

The rift finally snapped shut, sucking away the air and energy around her and within her. The hand still on her shoulder lightly squeezed as she sagged from relief and fatigue all at once. Imshael “hummed” with what maybe sounded like approval—even though it was a hissing, growling, creepy kind of approval.

“I probably should have told them to shield their eyes.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

After witnessing Choice’s abilities for the first rift, they sealed the second one far faster by closing in around it, bombarding and “clogging up” the demons’ exit on top of the slowing command. (They then retreated and shielded their eyes when Ellana prepared a lightning strike for Imshael to amplify.) Though intrigued, he could only briefly see a curved, distorted wall appear before the Herald before closing his eyes against the brilliant flash disintegrating a score of fearlings.

(Choice wasted little time in naming the new attack, “The Maker’s Gaze.”)

Solas was both surprised and impressed by the Herald’s burgeoning sense for delegation and foresight, seen while interacting with the sly landlords. When they returned to the horsemaster’s wife, she passed along the packmaster’s token to her. She explained its effect and ensured that with it, the wolves would not only leave the farmers alone but also defend the area as an extension of their territory against hostile wildlife. 

Then, when they returned to Horsemaster Dennet to report their success, she convinced the man to send teams of horses and trainers to Haven and to coordinate with Corporal Vale at the crossroads, providing the scouts and guards of the Hinterlands with mounts and additional oversight by sharing watch tower rotations. They sent the second raven to Haven with a request to provision more watch towers as they progressed throughout the Hinterlands—since it appeared their party would be there longer than planned, anyway.

He was equally surprised—and far less impressed—by Choice’s rapidly mutating behavior. The extent of Faith’s damage (or perhaps un- damage) was profound; and Solas had little doubt that the scar had taken emotional root just as much as spiritual, based on the increasing displays of protectiveness. He daresay it had even evolved to a compulsion toward hoarding. Unchecked greed was a hallmark of the old blood in them, with part of its faith and favor unintentionally restored. 

The potential for catastrophe was now even more precarious: he could not yet determine whether that favor leaned toward power through the mad magister of yore (with his focusing orb), or else the malleable mortal Herald capable of wrenching the sky open (with his anchor to the unfiltered Fade). He couldn’t even tell for certain if Imshael’s immature behavior was meant to smokescreen their awareness of any change.

They cleared out and acquired the first artifact measurements near the farmholds without incident but with haste, since the other was southeast of the crossroads. They would need to move fast to reach it before nightfall. Since they didn’t encounter Mihris at the first, he mentally braced himself for the confrontation likely to ensue between her and Choice at the next site.

While they backtracked toward the second artifact, they had broken from their usual formation; they now walked in a tighter group, casually gathered but at a brisk pace. Cassandra and the Herald still led while Imshael and Varric walked to either side of Solas. They were close enough that they need only turn their heads to see each other rather than stop the party in its tracks. 

Varric noticed Solas’ worrisome contemplation and remarked, “What’s with you and and the doom stuff today? Are you always this cheery, or are the skulls and ruins getting to you?”

Solas smoothed his expression and curtly answered, “I have no idea what you mean.” Varric narrowed his eyes, then cut a glance around them: Ellana briefly glanced back, but the other two remained focused ahead of them.

He waved at Solas’ bag, where he’d put notes on the measurements he could glean from the first artifact (and the skull). “All that crap about fallen empires? Everyone has ‘em and loses ‘em. What’s so great about empires, anyway?” He jerked a thumb at himself and added, “So we lost the Deep Roads, and Orzammar’s too proud to ask for help. So what?” 

Then, he gestured around them all more broadly and finished, “We’re not our empires! It’s not that bad: life goes on. It’s just different than it used to be.”

While pleased to see that the dwarf had been dwelling on the topic at all, Solas struggled not to grow frustrated by the shortsidedness of his perspective (given his mortal scale of reference). “And you have no concept of what that difference cost you.”

Varric scoffed right back, “Oh, I know what it didn’t cost me. I’m still here, even after all those thaigs fell.”

Imshael snorted a soft laugh from his other side, but otherwise said nothing. Exasperated, Solas pressed, “You’re truly content to live in the sun, never wondering what you could have been? Never fighting back?”

Now Varric tossed his arms to his sides with even more incredulity than he presently felt. “You’ve got it all wrong, Chuckles! This is fighting back.”

“How does passively accepting your fate constitute a fight?!” Varric pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head at his passionate retort. He unintentionally drew Ellana’s and Cassandra’s attention, as well. 

“In that story of yours: the fisherman watching the stars, dying alone? You thought he gave up, right?”

“Yes…?”

“But he went on living! He lost everyone, but he still got up every morning. He made a life, even if it was alone. That’s the world! Everything you build, it tears down. Everything you got, it takes, and it’s gone forever. The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going; he kept going. That’s as close to beating the world as anyone gets.”

To cut the discussion (and attention) short, Solas dipped his chin and respectfully conceded: “Well said… Perhaps I was mistaken.” He let go of his true counterargument, that survivors and descendants should strive to rebuild, exceed, and excel, rather than merely subsist. 

“You know, elf—you’re an even worse healer than I thought.” 

The whole party now whipped around to face the smirking abomination. “Excuse me?” Solas snapped.

They snickered and rolled their head onto their shoulder to rake their gaze over him, then drawled, “Do you expect children to stay balled up in the womb forever, too? Surfacers are what’s next for the dwarves, not what’s left. I bet fancy, ancient, immortal elves that didn’t need to have babies wouldn’t grasp the concept, either. Stay out of labor clinics, eh? You might just cry that the kid got evicted instead of celebrating with the adults.”

Solas momentarily clenched his teeth at their petulant, taunting grin—then caught his tongue before reacting and amplifying it. He spied Ellana’s mouth curl down in a pensive frown from the corner of his eye. “Your glibness does you no credit, Forbidden One. You speak as though all mothers do, or should, die in childbirth.”

He leaned back for a single laugh and snidely replied, “They’ll die, regardless, and that’s the blasted point of having a kid!”

“You cannot seriously scale the magnitude of your allegory to compare. Progress, excellence, noble ideals: these are not aspirations bred into future generations or empires.”

“Which is exactly why idealistic imbeciles and empires rot from within and die off.” Imshael blithely shrugged their free shoulder and quipped, “Just my two bored bits, elf. It’s not like I’ve watched it happen a few times. Heh.” Solas let the matter drop again, and resolved not to dwell on it further—refusing to indulge in any sleight or slight that Choice hinted with their dubious phrasing. 

Fortunately, the crossroads camp appeared in the distance to encourage their pace for a short break (from each other as well as from the day). 

Seeker Pentaghast spotted Vale and split off first, then faltered and looked back when Imshael didn’t follow. They, in turn, nudged Ellana after Cassandra, saying: “I’m not the one organizing these sorry outcasts. I just hack down weeds for the Keeper’s garden.” 

The Herald beamed at their acknowledgement and trotted to Cassandra’s side after a bright-eyed nod. And Solas stiffened when they wagged their brows at him with another smug smile. Now I’m rather certain they are merely jabbing because they are openly able… Solas took a meditative breath and parted ways as well, to visit the patients still in the healing tent with worse injuries than the rest. 

They gathered again in barely a quarter hour, but he eased the pain of some amputees, along with a distressed healer willing to attempt spirit healing for her nerves. The reprieve was brief but restorative for all, bracing for the second half of their day. 

Throughout the next stretch, they assumed a new formation: Cassandra and Imshael at the ready in front with the Herald sandwiched between Varric and Solas. 

And they braced for bandits rather than rebels. 

They soon resumed the grim sequence of slaying bands of enemies; Choice absorbing their hostile intent; divesting them of salvage, and setting them aside to burn once they passed back through. With the second felled group, they found correspondence confirming a base for the bandits in the southwest Hinterlands. 

They soon indulged in lighthearted banter to alleviate their already-strained collective mood. 

After the third skirmish, however, the banter turned toward questions for the Forbidden One. “Hey, Butcher.” Varric kept his face downturned as he dragged a carcass off to the side. The rest had been piled and disarmed already (and literally so in one case, when Imshael took off a man’s head and arms mid-strike).

They cocked a brow while tossing two halves of a different man over the dwarf’s head, earning a small, irritated growl. “Yes, Pebble?”

Varric finally side-eyed them while heading for the last corpse. “Just how old are you? That crap about the magisters was ages ago. Literally.”

Choice grimaced (whether from the question or from grime on their hands, Solas couldn’t say). While scrubbing their hands dry, they hummed, “Eeh… Nine grand, give or take another?”

Varric flinched while rifling through pockets before Cassandra dragged the final victim to the side. “You’re shitting me.”

“Well, I only remember… a thousand or so.”

Solas frowned at that. He’d not realized they forgot so much more than they could recall. “Does that not bother you?”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to remember how long it took just to learn how to possess things without bursting at the meat-seams. Learning tentacles was my—” Choice mimed the shape of Fear’s mantle and tendrils as they started walking again, “—crowning achievement!”

Cassandra dragged a hand down her face with an annoyed groan as they took the lead, avoiding the peevish grin on the abomination’s face beside her. Varric shuddered with a sneer while Ellana chuckled behind her hand. She asked next, “Is that why the Fear demon has tentacles on its head?”

“Eeh, not quite. Fearlings are…” Solas’ eyebrows shot up as they combed their fingers through their hair with a shudder throughout their aura. “They have a hierarchy that doesn’t apply to thinking spirits, Keeper. Fear existed before labels and feelings did—and they exist for more than just the animals that think with words in the first place.”

“Oh. I… see.”

Choice glanced over their shoulder with a cocked brow and a knowing smirk. “Ahem. At the top of the Fearling food chain, you have Nightmare demons. Nowadays, they look like spiders the size of a mansion!”

“O-oh my!” Ellana shivered violently, and their smirk widened at Solas’ flat glare and Cassandra’s warning tone biting out their name.

“But Nightmares only started existing once creatures started dreaming—which wasn’t always the case. And when they did start dreaming, they feared a much, much scarier beast that roamed the sea and kept them from ever exploring it. It could be the size of a hut, or the size of a village! The tentacles on it were so massive, humans thought they were wingless sea dragons!”

“Oh, like the serpents on the Tevinter banners?!” Ellana gasped, thoroughly captivated.

“Exactly, exactly. And back in those days, they thought it was an omen when one of its children washed ashore. The priests near the seas had rituals for the thing to practice augury and prophecy; they kept temples of virgins to sacrifice just for the task.”

Cassandra quickly cut in, horrified: “Maker’s Breath. What are you talking about?”

Choice shrugged defensively. “She asked about how Fear got its tentacles!”

“It’s alright, Cassandra!” Ellana timidly interrupted. “I’d rather know than wonder. I don’t want to fear Fear.” Cassandra and Imshael’s expressions both turned thoughtful while looking her over, and Solas felt a keen pang of both pride and regret from her earnest appeal. 

Varric seemed to feel the same, based on his weary sigh: “I think I’ll plug my ears based on the setup…”

Imshael dryly chuckled, “Hence why I don’t miss my memories, Pebble.” To Solas’ surprise, they turned a small frown toward Ellana. “You can probably guess based on where the tentacles sit, Keeper. You sure you want me to tell it?” Ellana paled with a tremulous exhale and clutched her staff close. Cassandra, likewise, briefly held a hand over her mouth and faced ahead while Varric groaned and peered off to the side.

The Herald stared at the ground unseeing for several seconds, then forced her shoulders back down and angled her brows with determination. Even though her voice wavered, she insisted, “Thank you for warning me, but I’d rather know for sure.” For once, the upturn on Choice’s lip was soft instead of derisive. 

They faced forward again, but their Pride form subtly wedged under Ellana’s tight staff grip to loosen her fingers (and the rest of her eased with it) before retreating to encircle the party. “I’d be a hypocrite if I faulted that logic, eh?” they mused under their breath. 

Solas squeezed his staff and forced his aura to calm—both to listen, and to limit fodder for Choice to leverage. After fighting and bonding, the party was more susceptible to the abomination’s emotional tides. By the same measure, however, the line between natural bonding and enforced regulating remained murky. Deceit lurked languidly about them, but Fear had gone still.

“When one of the beasts washed ashore, they’d take it to a temple and pick a virgin. Fed her the toxic slime off a toad’s back, and wrote down her mad ravings as prophecy and divination—a typical performance for tithing worshippers. But then, in private, they laid the creature on her head, since the toad slime numbed her to pain; and the twitching limbs and tentacles were their augury, along with the path it ate through her skull. 

“Runes in those days wrote syllables and letters, so the slime on the toad’s back was written DMT, but it was pronounced Dumat. Dumat, the collective knowledge gained by all those tranquilized, silenced sacrifices, turned on them after discovering his priests were not only sending false prophets, but taking turns with her while she was drugged and sending false virgins, too. 

“A-ny-way… the earliest Fear demons with a human shape were dragon-snake-squid-headed women, and the shape remained through the ages. That kind of fear of men cuts deeper than any spirit scratch.” Imshael sucked in a long, slow breath to pause… then muttered: “The first time I ever fed on a creature’s fear was the first time I really felt it thanks to secondhand intoxication. I’ll hate toads forever for that.”

Cassandra skidded to a stop, appalled and outraged, and Choice leaned away with their eyebrows high. “You?” she blurted out. “Were one of the squids?” Ellana had been silently staring in like terror, already. 

Imshael quickly raised their free arm as though to surrender, darting their eyes between them. “First of all, squid-adjacent. Plus, I wanted to know how the creepy, bendy humans made their bone tentacles work upright on land! I wasn’t planning to eat some girl out like that.”

While the Seeker sneered at the crass phrasing and Ellana averted her gaze to the ground mortified, Varric sputtered in disgust, “You’ve got a lot of damn nerve calling anyone else creepy—and that’s saying a lot, since I’ve killed one of Dumat’s priests.” Choice jabbed an accusatory finger back at him, squinting but smirking.

“Listen here, pebble. It was the first time I thought a wordy thought, and it wasn’t a nice thought given the circumstances. I feared humans even before I thought the thoughts they think!”

Varric and Solas scoffed simultaneously at that. The dwarf cleared his throat and groused under his breath, “They do just start burning things on occasion.”

Solas slyly added, “Or blow them up.”
“More than once.”
“Or tear holes in the sky…”
“Again.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes toward them while Choice’s grin split wide (and their presence dispersed to ease everyone’s tension). “If you gentlemen are finished…” 

Varric waved his arms defensively in front of himself. “Now, now, don’t get touchy! We’re just here to lend you humans a hand.”

“Ugh…”

Choice dropped their smirk at Ellana’s downcast demeanor for a moment. They then rolled their eyes and muttered at a lower volume, “The Chasind tie spare yarn and scrap leather into spider webs to hang over children’s beds. They tell kids that spiders will catch and eat their nightmares with it. So that’s where the spider legs come from, sometimes.”

The Herald’s gaze slowly floated back up from the ground, surprised. “Some Dalish do that, as well,” she said with a tentative smile.

“Told you they eat the real pests.”

“Thank you for telling us. A-and I’m sorry you remember all of that.”

They turned forward again rather hastily, rolling their shoulders and then massaging their side. “Aaand the soft spot went sore. That’s enough of that, brat.”

“What’s wrong, Butcher?” Varric sniped. “Allergic to nice?”
“Gold is too soft for armor, so yes. Back to slaughtering!”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael was almost looking forward to the sour elf frothing at the mouth on sight, but alas. Even before he sensed demons, the Keeper blurted out, “I feel a rift up ahead!”

The Lady Seeker glanced from her, to them, suspicion instantly grating against the edges of the field. “I thought we sealed the last two?” 

“Ahem… We did.” Their pace collectively quickened to a trot, realizing that an unchecked rift was spewing out demons as they spoke. 

From behind them, Solas called out: “The Veil is unstable here. It must have been recent.”

Imshael stretched their senses out ahead of the party and confirmed. “For good reason: there’s more Rage demons than fearlings. Solas, can you frost weapons?” 

“I can. Let’s get closer, first.”

“Frost my hands, too. One of them possessed a tree—Keeper, distract it with fire and lightning while we thin them out.”

“Right!” 

Imshael let their awareness scatter into the field-lattice as they all packed in close. Deceit latched onto Varric’s and Solas’ senses immediately to hasten their reflexes (and to automatically aim Bianca, so the dwarf could focus on faster loading). Fear seeped into the Keeper’s nerve endings and vallaslin and carefully distanced her from the absurd sense of panic clouding her thoughts; battle still rattled her and the blasted brat assumed it was her fault or something…

Cassandra sympathized with the Wrath now pumping through them without ever having to touch her senses (not that they could). They sped up the pathway heedless of the incline, and Imshael hopped onto a low stone side wall while she charged at the first Rage demon blocking the way. 

The tableau before them was worthy of painting if they (the mortals, that is) weren’t pressed for time to disturb it. The tree they landed on the night before had Awakened to probably cause the rift in the first place. That’s… unfortunate. Heheh. And based on the several black jittery streaks scored across it, the sour elf must have put up a decent fight to anger it even more. 

He could almost taste their spite in the thing refusing to explode from lightning like a regular tree would have. He cleared their throat of a hearty, petty laugh as the sylvan burrowed its roots into the meat paste where the sour elf used to be, to soak up her blood.

Do we have to kill it?
[A Sylvan’s Mercy to rid us of the real pest.]
Oh, that’s a good point.

He then spotted another Rage racing through the dirt toward them, leaped past the first, and plunged the frosty greatsword into it from above and belted out a laugh at pinning it in place. With their hands free for a moment, he punched through the first Rage’s torso back-to-front and caught hold of its writhing magma-like core in the solar plexus.

He kept their hand out while the demon disintegrated into fat ashy flakes, holding the hissing, smoking core between them and Cassandra; when he saw her through the smoke, he chortled, “You do this to my heart, too, you know.”

“Oh, for—” She growled and charged past them, stomping right on top of the second demon in the process. Ah, just how I like them. He turned and followed her lead the rest of the way up, tossing the core aside, then shifted into Fear as she shield-bashed (and frost-smacked) another Rage demon.

They Fade-stepped beside the rift and recalled the fear permeating Their senses and field. Three terrors heeded the Call and immediately approached as though commanded—and once they were in range, They punctured three skulls and one chest with Their back legs while piercing the other two chests with razored claws. They were prying them back off with Their free legs even while they began to disperse.

Only two Rage demons, one pinned, and the sylvan remained; Varric had dropped one with frosted bolts to the core, where he'd seen Them pluck one out, and the Keeper drew the tree away from its first and last meal while Solas laid a glyph over the pinned demon. Cassandra thrust her blade into Rage’s throat—just for the cold blade to crack and snap from the contrasting heat when she tried to wrench it back out.

They were behind the demon in a blink, as it raised an arm to swipe her face off her skull, and stabbed three legs through the offending arm, then claws through its own face to return the favor. The Lady Seeker gasped and reared back a step, broken sword half still in hand. The other half clanged to the ground as the demon dissolved.

They shifted human again and immediately started untucking their mage coat, fuming. “Blasted imbeciles and their shoddy smithy—” they hissed, then paused. He squinted at her and barked, “When did you get that?”

“Wha… they are standard issue, passed out for each mission!” She snapped back, still in battle stance, as though the answer were obvious. “They have never broken from an enchantment before.”

Maybe Harritt made that one in the sabotaged quench. That’s. Eeh... He grinned ruefully while Solas ran past to attack the sylvan with the other two—but caught Cassandra’s bicep when she tried to do the same. “Hang on, woman.” Their smirk grew to a multi-toned chuckle as they steamed from the inside out under her most offended scowl yet. Ironically, it calmed them a bit.

Still grinning madly, he slapped the broken sword free of her hand while she was distracted (and got another eruption of fire in their blood for it)—then replaced it with Gaxkang’s Keening Blade. “This is not standard issue, got it? I will bust out in demons if this gets tossed in Harritt’s scrap heap. Now, back to playing!” 

He then shooed her in total dismissal while she sputtered between gratitude and fury to slip on the coat, then fetch their own sword. 

Unfortunately, the sylvan was dropping to a splintering knee, then toppling over, by the time they rushed back across the clearing with the greatsword—so, they just jammed it back into the dirt while the Keeper sealed the sputtering rift. 

As they all idled, he quietly preened at the sight of Cassandra admiring the runes twined up and down the Keening Blade. When she looked back their way inquisitively, he drawled, “That wailing you hear is the last cries and breaths of its victims. If you hold it near red lyrium, it will clear up the whispers in order to soothe it back to blue.”

Varric and Solas whirled around even faster than the Lady Seeker’s jaw fell open. “That shit can be cured?” Varric spat in shock. Imshael grimaced a little under the unexpected scrutiny. 

“Eeh. That’s a bit simplified, dwarf. Even I have to die and leave unfinished business once in a while. You can soothe it by hearing its last testament, fulfilling one last wish, blah, blah, blah.” 

At this point, he could almost mouth along the words with the Lady Seeker: “Why didn’t you tell—ugh. Disregard that. I already know what you will reply.”

“There’s a ton of that stuff back where the explosion happened,” Varric’s tone turned accusing, “And smashing it does nothing but spread it. You’ve had a way to stop it from growing this whole time?!”

“I’ll remind you, pebble, that I haven’t been back to the blast site, or I might have offered.” 

The Keeper bolted between them all, clutching her staff protectively over her chest—and Imshael immediately stopped stoking everyone’s ire to gently coax her grip loose and nudge the staff aside. She did, eventually, after gulping in a big breath. “There’s already a lot going on just now, but we’ll get to it later now that we know about it. Is—” She glanced from the sword, then to them. “Are you alright with that? C-can we keep it with us for now?”

“While I am holding onto it for a friend, I doubt he’ll mind us using it while he’s busy elsewhere.”

Her shoulders sagged in immediate relief with a small smile. “Thanks, Imshael.” Turning back toward Solas, she eagerly asked, “The ruins and artifact should still be protected in the cave, right?” 

The Wolf nodded back, after warily scanning Imshael with his eyes and Fade fingers. “Indeed. Let’s not waste any time. With the unexpected rift, and the bodies left to burn on the way back, it will be dark before we’re back at the crossroads.” Imshael stretched languidly while the others proceeded into the cave of elven bores. After basking in the latent rage in the area for a while, seasoned with the party’s agitation and the sour elf’s spiteful last moments, they were almost fit to take a nap in the setting sun like a stuffed cat.

Instead, he meandered over to the pasty puddle of sour elf and tried sifting through it for anything useful. Her staff was snapped to twigs, and a note scrap was much too bloody to read what it said, but the smooshed wax seal vaguely resembled the Orlesian Empress’s. 

Was this the Wolf’s flat-eared militia contact?
[More likely recruiting sympathetic wildlings.]
(Told him the damn Dalish were a lost cause!)
And that they’d do the same thing as before.
{More worshipping and less thinking!}
Slavery's a mentality, not a condition.

He scanned the sylvan’s toppled trunk next with Wrath, and found the branch they’d perched on almost instantly based on how it squirmed and seethed at their presence. Now that’s a spiteful little staff waiting to be broken and tamed! 

He broke off the branch, perfectly sized to carve down into a Sylvan’s Mercy, and started wedging it into an inner pocket on their mage robe as the others exited the cave. As he found and broke off another branch small enough to make an attunement ring, the party approached, and Solas asked, “You have some use for sylvanwood?”

“This one was so irate that it refused to die from being struck by lightning. A lot of lightning! That’s the sort of spite I can respect.” With a petty chuckle, he straightened, took in Solas’ frown at the remains of the elf, and finished, “A branch off of this tree will make a powerful staff.” He didn’t have to explain to Solas that feeding on a spiteful elf’s blood would amplify it even more. 

The Keeper followed Solas’ gaze and turned her features sad rather than suspicious. “Whoever died alone here must have been terrified.”

More like insulted based on all the Rage demons that came through,” Imshael quipped with a snicker, and the Wolf’s frown deepened. “That’s the last of the artifacts, eh? Maybe we should leave the bandit bodies for tomorrow morning.” 

Despite the party’s desire to avoid camping out for the night (and despite compressing the way back), dusk had faded to darkness when they caught sight of the crossroads barricade again. Everyone automatically parted like they had earlier: Keeper and Seeker went searching for Vale while Varric went straight for their campfire, and Solas made for the healing tents.

Imshael followed after him into the tent and slipped to the back where the healers and surgeons cleaned up and dined—and passed random gems and suggestive smiles to the lonely people trapped in a battlefield like hares among vipers. They were all too pleased to offer a wash tub (and more) for the attention, especially after not pawing at them like they were no doubt used to.

Their blood ran hot at the reciprocal attention, regardless—but alas. These creatures didn’t spray blood to end lives. Their feeble spirits were barely bite-sized snacks, and they’d been feasting on fury all day. (He did trail their fingers around a lithe elf girl’s waist on the way out, and murmured that most city shems couldn’t do what she did; then, sucked out the Fear scrabbling at her nerves while Deceit licked her spine straight.) 

With Solas busy playing healer “aloud” he wouldn’t be traipsing after them tonight. So, he made their own show of sashaying past Varric, then the barricade (and the row of tents where Vale’s men were now posted). He stopped long enough to “remind” smiling Keeper and suspicious Seeker that Vale’s people could use a real barracks if they had to live at the crossroads for a while…

Maybe I could convince them to build the refinery here.
{More open space—closer to source—fewer priest chants.}
[They may counter with the temple growths as a source.]
(Too far to sense sooner! Blast it all to the Void! Again!)

They rather liked the Hinterlands…

He went through their wash routine as quickly as possible, but not before pulling a few flasks (and the lyrium etcher) out of the mage coat. He donned the smalls and breeches while they were still damp so they could pool Wrath’s heat between skin and cloth and steam them dry. The process of flooding their insides with cold Fear to counteract the heat that would otherwise cook them was a pleasant, temporary distraction.

Satisfied with their own ingenuity—as ever—he then sighed while leaning against a tree to stay upright, and “carefully” dug between two ribs with the etcher, deep enough to bleed gold but without poking their lung. He let out a low, multi-toned growl while wiggling it around a bit, too; then cupped a flask under the hole to leak out pure Faith. 

[“Inoculation is not infection.”]
Too much is, in fact, a sickness.
{Too soft! Sore too easy!}
(“Good Faith” is a lie!)

Unfortunately, they couldn’t detect any immediate changes while the flask filled up: only more interactions and reactions would show changes in retrospect. 

He meditated through two more flasks of gold blood before the wound dribbled to a stop on its own: and when he scowled down, the glowing had dimmed, but not as much as they’d expected. He thought about gouging another hole open, but decided against it after noticing how far the stars had drifted while they were away from camp. 

He sighed and tugged on their tunic and coat; which steamed dry quite a bit faster in their frustration. (Then he rinsed their obscenely staticky hair back down after having a laugh at their reflection in the tub.) When he returned, he saw the party had all turned in early for the night—save Cassandra, propped against a stoop in the dirt with her breastplate between her legs, cleaning and polishing it. 

She turned as soon as she sensed them, but he only stopped long enough to drape the coat on the greatsword before walking the wash tub back. When he approached the campfire again, without looking up, she flatly asked, “You are not scouting the area tonight?”

He glanced around the stoops for a moment—then, smirking, he laid across the one she was propped against and tucked their hands under their head with a lofty sigh. She gasped and ducked forward like she’d expected a swipe to the head, then glared balefully their way. “Just because I don’t sleep, doesn’t mean I don’t rest, Lady Seeker.” He rubbed their abdomen with a dramatic pout and added, “All those love spats give me indigestion sometimes!”

Instead of the usual snort, she tossed her head back and butted them right in their blasted sore spot! He did not yelp and then grunt out a strangled snicker at her petulant rebuke. “Ahhh~!” Her face paled as their pained groan turned aroused. “Spirit tummies are tender, you heathen,” he protested with a smug purr at her utter horror.

“Maker’s Breath, don’t do that!”
“Enjoy your tender company? Perish the thought, mistress.”
“Ugh—!” 

Ah, there it is: the canopy of my new favorite tree. He massaged around the hole in their side as blushing light-arcs erupted in the field around them. There are trees up north that bloom this shade for a single week every year. Worth it. He held up a hand holding the Silent Tear they’d found earlier, and tried to view the rosy refraction of her through the rough facets. 

He smiled as a petal of pink light scattered into the shard, limning the edges the same embarrassed tint, until she turned and the light-petals raced across the field-edges with her. “You said earlier that those crystal chips used to be currency. Why would one be in such a morbid display?” He hummed with a little frown at the reminder.

“At a guess? They made one into a spyglass for more.”
“I believe Solas took the skull, to study it further.”
“Not much to study inside a dead Tranquil.”

“A dead… Tranquil?” She turned fully away from her breastplate, eyes wide and gold in the firelight cast from the side.

He held the shard over one eye, then the other. “Right eye to calculate, left eye to confabulate. The counterspace where I keep my pockets is pure potential: the left eye. People think the Fade is limitless, but they’re imbeciles. It has a design, boundaries; and spirits have specific behaviors like animals have instincts. It’s limited. This—” 

He held the shard out and she hesitantly caught it, “—is limitless imagination. A Tranquil that isn’t limited by feelings of inadequacy can be made to imagine impossible things into existence... Ooor, they can find things left behind in counterspace. They didn’t have to be dead to do it, though.”

Just a good way to kill off potential competition.

He stretched and watched the campfire tint cool, fearful shadows into the flickering peripheries as the Seeker processed their words. She solemnly handed it back, and he tucked the abomination abortion under their head and watched the night sky roll while she finished polishing her armor.

It must have been half an hour before Cassandra hesitantly asked, “Imshael. Is that why you…?”

“Yes. And demons filter all that wild imagination back down into something that makes sense. A perspective, just as limited and flawed as the next human.”

At least he’s not feeding them to people to regrow the fused souls.

[Unless he seeks more to do so...]
And not to make a physical loophole to the Fade?
{Why not both?! A whole army of new gods!}
An army of competition, too. Doubtful.
[It gets lonely at the mountain top.]

They mused amongst themselves long enough to lose track of time around them, only passively noticing the Lady Seeker’s awareness softening as she finished cleaning her breastplate. He smirked but said nothing when she eventually leaned her stiff back against the stoop while also not brooding into the fire… then cocked a surprised brow when her light snuffed out, and her head rolled back onto their stomach.

Asleep.

Taking in the awkward bend of her neck, they silently chuckled at the migraine and crick awaiting her… Slower than tree roots, they cushioned her body from beneath while her guard was down; and carefully, barely, nudged her by the knees, shoulder, and cheek. She furrowed her brows with a sharp inhale, then rolled to her side (which they caught and cushioned) and straightened her neck by rolling right into their blasted sore spot. 

He grimaced a little upon realizing the wound was starting to itch and heal itself from her proximity and her blasted faith. 

But she’d be furious when she woke up, knowing they pretended to sleep while she cuddled them.

Alas! My soft, bleeding heart can’t stand to wake her.

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

Lavellan tried to sleep, but her thoughts could only review the last few days in her mind a hundred times over. Fighting demons and sealing rifts was harrowing but necessary work—work that she was capable of doing. Work that didn’t trouble her. But every once in a while, she watched an especially angry or terrified grimace go slack on an enemy’s face, and that expression seared onto the backs of her eyelids for hours. 

The light in their eyes would Fade, the pupils would dilate, and hers seemed to do the same just to capture more of the details to torment herself with later… Wordless accusations and unspoken hatred dogged her every step while the people still alive begged for a savior and expected her to take up that mantle.

She joined Solas in the healing tents after reporting to Corporal Vale with Cassandra. She asked if she could help with anything, hoping to offset some of the lingering misery by restoring life instead of ending it. Partly for the patients, but more for herself... He smiled with a knowing kind of sadness in his eyes, and together they worked on a soldier severely burned by a mage’s fire spell. 

She applied soothing layers of mana to the raw nerves below and loose, clean dressings above. Meanwhile, he touched the man’s temples to calm his anxiety and help him sleep, and congratulated him for enduring the worst part of the recovery already. They did the same with a soldier who lost his leg, and another whose shield arm got crushed and had to be removed. He even checked on the surgeons and healers in the back, but they waved them off with grim smiles and gallows humor.

Solas always seemed rejuvenated by healing people, but it must not work the same for her. These patients’ eyes were shadowed by barely contained panic—or else flat, like their voices, as they expected nothing to improve. She didn’t think visiting the healing tent was much better than staring into dull, dead, dilated eyes, after all... 

When they finished, they ambled to their own tents in companionable silence; but when she tentatively suggested meeting up that night in the Fade, (the only time it seemed possible to, lately), Solas admitted that in the Fade, he was more forward and impulsive than he’d intended to be. And at her taut, confused pause, he quickly clarified that he wasn’t opposed: just that he surprised himself, and needed some time to think about his unexpected affections. 

She wasn’t entirely sure what there was to think about (except to second-guess), but she nodded and encouraged him to take his time. She was left to dwell alone with her thoughts, which meant she wasn’t alone whatsoever—surrounded by blank stares that blamed her with last breaths. Eventually, she began softly humming to calm her nerves and finally drifted off to sleep that way.

Unfortunately, every rock she drake-tossed in her dream-Haven became a glazed eye condemning her for casting it to the lake bed. 

She wasn’t crying when she woke back up, but dried salt crusted the corners of her eyes, and she firmly pushed down the tiny voice whispering that nightmares were never limited to the Fade in the first place. It was still dark when she crawled out of her tent, bleary-eyed, and forced brisk cold air into her lungs. Only a few people were awake, so she knew it was still the middle of the night. 

By the campfire close to their tents, Imshael lay across a log with his eyes shut. One cracked open to squint at her when she got closer, and he flashed her an impish smile. 

“Looks like you need a spider web in your tent, Keeper.” His voice was a little coarser than usual, and Lavellan wondered if he’d lied about not needing sleep after all. She was about to take a seat on another log when he cleared his throat to get her attention; when she looked back, he beckoned her with a finger, then patted the side of the log he was lying on. “I’ll show you a trick I use to rest. Come and see.” 

Curious about the bizarre offer… request…? She awkwardly sat on the ground beside him, much like she used to back when it was time to listen to the elder clanmates tell stories. Rather than stories, something pleasant and purring slithered around her aura, making her gasp and jump right back up for a moment, thinking she’d sat on a snake! She knew it wasn’t there, but it was!

“O-oh! Was that you?” She didn’t mean to sound quite so shrill—she quickly darted her eyes about to make sure she hadn’t disrupted anyone.

Dripping with sarcasm, he droned back, “No, it’s clearly Dumat from beyond the grave.” 

She chuckled nervously and sat back down, then immediately tried to feel for the aura… presence… shape… something when it started faintly rumbling against her again. It was as though her whole aura was being forcibly rippled to recreate the same vibrating satisfaction a cat would exhibit. (She’d heard of dragons purring while curled around their eggs, too.)

But nothing was on the other side. She could sense “where” it started in her aura (and the pleasant vibrations pushing into it), but that was all. She tried and failed to fight back a yawn, which elicited an amused scoff from Imshael. Dryly, he noted, “Magebane would stop dreams completely, you know.”

“But that would sever my magic all night!” she protested at once, trying to keep her voice down and staring at him over her shoulder like he was insane. Surely he knew how magebane worked?

“Magic that you wouldn’t need while you’re in camp and not in the Fade, eh?” he challenged, and she paused.

“I, erm… I guess not, but I can’t fight if something happens.”

“You can barely fight now.” His smirk widened into something cruel while he said it.

“I… Why would—” she swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat, wanting to scold him for being rude, even if he was right. Out of all of them, she was the only non-combatant: even Solas had alluded to prior battlefield experience. The occasional Dalish run-ins with hostile humans didn’t come close… 

He sighed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that she didn’t quite catch. “The people here choose to fight, Keeper. If it haunts them, if it kills them, that’s their fault—not yours. You’re not that special!”

Something ugly and angry reared up in her with the utter dismissal (even boredom!) in his tone. “I didn’t choose this mark! I didn’t want all those people to die! For the Conclave to blow up, for survivors to think I am special. I don’t want to go around m-murdering people… none of this is why I came here.” She fumbled to a stop and reined in that bitter despair quickly, and slammed a mental cage on top of it all.

“If you didn’t have the blasted mark, people would still blame you for killing them, instead of themselves for being even worse at fighting. Stop taking it personally.” He didn’t stop smirking while she hiccupped and faced forward, scrubbing furiously at her watering eyes. By then, she was more angry at herself for crying than at him for goading her. Still… 

“You’re an ass, Imshael. You’re crass and rude, and you tell terrible stories.” He laughed deep in his chest at that, and it made the purring in her aura pulse to the same rhythm. No! I forgot it was even there! “A-and you just did all that on purpose, didn’t you?! Antagonizing me for no reason—” Her voice cracked, and she couldn’t tell if she was crying or laughing for a moment, with her emotions and aura wavering unsteadily. 

(Imshael was definitely laughing, and definitely at her expense.) 

After a few strong, deep breaths, she sniffed, yawned again, then leaned back against the log with a frustrated huff. “And you’ve been doing that all day! Upsetting everyone, even though we were busy,” she accused, staring into the fire and tucking her legs close in the cold. The purring coiled in, too, so she started breathing slower to match whenever it paused between its own “breaths”. 

“I don’t invent reasons for people to be mad, Keeper!” She frowned over her shoulder while he smiled up at the sky, careless as you please. “Their untrained imaginations do that. Don’t you know anything about the Hearthkeeper and the Forgewright? You forge a blade by hammering the shit out of it, and you bake bread after letting it fester for a while.”

“We’re not for beating up!” She countered around another yawn, resting her head back so she could stare at the stars, too. “...and I thought you didn’t like talking about elven gods, anyway.”

“As a matter of fact, a Keeper should know when to beat people’s hearts up or let them rest, so they get stronger and stabler.” He retorted over her shoulder, sounding just as petulant as she felt. “And besides, I didn’t use the names June and Sylaise, did I? I told you those so-called gods usurped earlier cultures and practices. The Hearth and Forge are just poetic titles for the old day and night skies, back before the sun was visible.”

“...When was the sun invisible?”
“I thought my stories were terrible, eh?”

His stomach bounced under her head from chuckling again when she sighed in frustration. He said, “How about this, Keeper: you listen and sleep, and I won’t tell anyone the big, bad murderer needed a bedtime story to do so. I have a reputation to keep, after all!”

She snorted softly. “You’re even worse at making deals than you are at telling stories.”

“I like hearing myself talk, brat,” he huffed haughtily, and she giggled while rubbing the corner of an eye. “Just not to make people feel better.”

“You’re lying.”
“I do lie a lot. Even on logs.”

While staring at the stars, they began to waver in place, making it difficult to focus on them... After blinking a few times and glancing around, she noticed firelight glinting along the edge of an invisible lens, like he’d done earlier that day while fighting. When she focused up again, she gasped at how much closer the stars looked! They sparkled so much more vividly in the lens that they scattered light around themselves, the way carefully cut crystals hung in aravel windows did. 

The edges of the invisible glass Imshael made became a slowly swirling prism, catching all the refracting starlight until the glass faintly glowed. Hovering over them now was a disembodied, iridescent sheen—a stretched soap bubble glowing from nowhere except its own shell (and some stray firelight). 

“Now she’s really starstruck, eh?” Imshael boasted at her awe; but she could only smile wide, watching some stars twirl faster than others, some in skewed directions, all in ways she never imagined they could or did. While rainbows faded in and out of sight in the glass overhead, from dozens of crystals in the night sky (some invisible to the naked eye), Imshael lowered his voice and started: “Once upon a time, lyrium and lava flowed freely through mountains and spewed into the air…”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael may or may not have collapsed the Keeper’s absurdly small tent while trying to put her back to bed. Here’s what I get for saying we’re not in a blasted nursery, he griped to nobody in particular, and left her to untangle herself later. He dusted off their mantle with an indignant scoff and beelined for the barricade while slipping on the mage coat. 

He waved sheepishly at the guard under the guise of relieving himself and made for the stream. From their pockets, he dug out a few potion vials the healers had drained throughout their day and immediately crouched to rinse them out with a scrap of flannel. He then wandered up and down the stream until they came upon a wider bank where the water stilled, and started turning over large stones and digging into the warmer mud there. 

When he found what they sought, he shrugged their coat back off, plus their mantle and tunic, and tossed them all across a nearby boulder. Nothing wrong with the classics… he mused idly, then plucked up two leeches from the standing water, and latched them to their ribs. He positioned one to draw “regular” blood while the other pulled gold.

Maybe it will glow like the Deep Roads worms…?
[The ones gathered in jars to go deeper.]
(They fed on that light-lichen!)
Fun times with Formless.

He waited until the thirsty pests fattened and unlatched on their own, and capped them in two of the vials. He contemplated bleeding out another flask or two, but the sky had begun to lighten while they were away. Blast it all. Shouldn’t have bothered dilating subspace so the Keeper slept “longer”.  

Once they hit counterspace in the pocket, I choose how much time “passes” before pulling them back out— Right before dropping the vials into said pocket, he paused with a flash of memory. 

{Forgot about the blasted cat!}
(How long ago was that?!)
[Never wrote the date.]
Eeh… calendars.

He cleared their throat abruptly and put the vials in an unmodified pocket for now, so they wouldn’t forget about it. Alas, poor Milton... Now he perpetually lives and dies. 

By the time he returned to the crossroads, Cassandra and Solas were sitting by the fire, and the Lady Seeker’s field blushed, glinted, and heated their blood in wordless warning to never mention her nap. Fortunately for her, they were much too greedy to share—so he simply leaned atop the sword hilt while she glared down at the map in her hands.

“Do we need a map to plot a sweep of the south?” He quirked a brow when she finally met their gaze.

“No. But I believe we should sweep through to the fortress, then backtrack to find your lyrium contact,” she clarified. She set the map on the ground and dragged a stick east to west across the southern trails, then back to south-central. “It would also allow us to check in with Scout Harding for any news along the Imperial Highway.”

“As you please, Lady Seeker.” Imshael jerked their head eastward while looking Solas’ way. “Should we handle the bandit corpses while the rest wake up, then?”

Solas nodded, then stood. “It won’t take long, but it will save time and finish our campaign in the Hinterlands that much sooner.”

Imshael sighed forlornly. “Am I the only one who likes it out here? We could probably take that fortress after clearing it out and convert it to an outpost or refinery.” Cassandra frowned in their periphery, but he focused on tucking and tying their coat to their waist.

“That would stretch Inquisition resources—personnel—quite thin,” she countered. She narrowed her eyes once he glanced back up. “And you are still under suspicion due to your ‘independent interests’.”

The Commander hasn’t relayed my intelligence to her? Noted… He doubled down rather than concede: “A refinery would only be viable if there’s a good vein here, but. With all the work we’ve invested here, I see no reason the Inquisition can’t take the Hinterlands and the stretch of Highway between here and Haven.”

“Wha—you can’t be serious,” Cassandra flatly retorted. “The Fereldans would revolt—especially this close to Redcliffe.”

“Eeh, I got the impression that the Inquisition didn’t heed boundaries and territories, Lady Seeker.” He shrugged nonchalantly as her frown deepened to a scowl (and Solas joined her in doing so). “Just my two bits, at any rate.” 

If Redcliffe’s already taken, the Inquisition is entitled to intervene with force, landlords be damned. And the Commander knows to investigate reports about Redcliffe, since I brought the red mages to his attention. Imshael and Solas paired off and went to cremate the bandits from yesterday, as they had the day prior. 

“I trust you will not unintentionally suffocate me this time, Imshael?” Solas quipped once they were past the barricade, and they grinned at his prickly aura about it.

“I was rusty with the technique, eh?” he chortled back. “You could still breathe air. I think.”

“Yes, right until the pyre consumed it all.”
“Then I’ll make a tube this time!”
“I think that would be best.”
“So touchy…!”

As requested, Solas stood a small distance from the first corpse pile while Imshael amplified and imposed their willpower onto the neutral field: a Mental Fortress. Then, Deceit lensed a tube from Solas to the bodies to reflect their power out of the negative space to allow magic. This time, after Solas launched a few fireballs down range, they pinched the tube in two; Fear stilled all the motion around Solas while Wrath bore down on the pile to compress and overfeed the fire in it. 

Imshael’s eye twitched as Solas curiously prodded the edge of the Fortress caging him—first with Fade fingers, then his real ones. It only took a few minutes for the corpses to sputter out and flood the compressed space with sooty, dark smoke, but Imshael and Deceit were thoroughly prepared to throttle the blasted dog if he kept poking the equivalent of their ribs. 

Imshael sidled close enough to invade his personal space and pressed in with a coy, hooded gleam in their eye. As Solas leaned away, then stepped away with an uneasy sneer, they huskily taunted, “Feeling lonely, pup? You need only ask if you’re that keen to touch me while I’m bare.” He curled one side of his mouth up as Solas immediately turned pink in the ears and cheeks, and at how his aura stuttered indignantly. 

“Apologies.” Solas averted his gaze and spoke in a rush. “I was merely curious how you can direct Templar abilities to permit magic selectively. Are different aspects of you molding to different parts of the task?”

“I’m starting to think you were a Curiosity and not a Wisdom,” Imshael mocked (and Solas’ aura raised invisible hackles), “But yes. Multitasking. Care for a more intimate demonstration…?”

“That’s quite unnecessary.”
“Alas. That story’s got potential, too... Next pyre!”

Imshael rolled their shoulders and sauntered off, sword on shoulder, heading for the next clearing where they’d left a pile of bandit bodies. Solas sighed while joining them to one side—refusing to follow or lead and avoiding the initiative. As usual. More Dread than Wolf... 

The dog kept his maw and paws still for the second pyre, only probing forward one time to “watch” the tube pinch shut. For the third pyre, though, he got even more personal: after detaching and compressing the inferno, Solas asked, “How are you feeling, Imshael?”

He quirked a perplexed brow at that. What’s he prodding at now? “Eeh…? I fear the Lady Seeker will immolate me sooner than later, but I’ll probably deserve it. The Inquisition’s reluctance annoys me; aaand needling those two problems until they’re no longer problems intrigues me.”

“I was surprised to see you offer Gaxkang’s blade to Seeker Pentaghast so readily,” Solas observed. “You’ve grown fond of her.”

“Like you and the hero, eh?”

Before Imshael could even launch their next taunt, Solas visibly cringed. “My restraint faltered in the Fade… An ill-considered act on my part.”

“Enjoying things is ill-considered?” Imshael rolled twelve eyes for dramatic effect, visible or otherwise. “Korth’s cock, she’ll barely live half a century if the Anchor doesn’t kill her in five years. What’s it matter to us? They come and go. Might as well make it the fun kind of coming.”

“Is that truly all a life means to you after all this time?!” For some reason, the Wolf sounded genuinely offended.

“Aren’t you trying to unmake mortality because you agree?” Imshael jabbed back. He didn’t bother pointing out the breeding programs to design said mortality, letting Evanuris cultivate (and trade) custom species and spirits like blasted livestock. They were both well-engineered byproducts of the practice.

Neither of them answered each other, and neither of them stood down for several tense minutes while the flaming corpse pile cooked down to soot and ash. If they wore their horns, they would have deadlocked. Eventually, finally, Imshael added, “Life is cheap currency. I’ll never understand why you regret having a bigger ledger.”

Solas sighed and shook his head. “It’s not as simple as your many metaphors suggest, Forbidden One.”

(He ploughs a field of regrets!)
[Watered from an artificial well.]
{Never seeking new seeds or lakes!}

Deceit answered for them:
“Ma harel mar vhenan, Fen’banal.”
You deceive your own heart, Wolf-Gone-Astray.

Solas recoiled and gripped his staff until his knuckles whitened, but didn’t respond, and he snapped his aura close and tight. Imshael ran a hand through their hair while turning back for the crossroads: “Cursed to be a blasted nursemaid today, apparently... Ah, and that reminds me!”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Lavellan wasn’t expecting a faceful of canvas when her eyes drifted open to investigate her suspiciously scratchy blanket. At first, she just frowned at the unfamiliar material that wasn’t quite unfamiliar... It took an embarrassing number of seconds for her groggy thoughts to catch up and realize she wasn’t under a blanket at all.

Fortunately, Varric and Cassandra heard her grumbling and struggling to wiggle out of the tent, and held up the end so she wouldn’t have to cut her way through. They chuckled good-naturedly while she frantically tried to tame creases out of her coat and hair into a bun, apologizing and blushing profusely. 

“Everything alright?” Varric asked, lighthearted. “You must have tossed around pretty hard to knock your tent down.”

“I-I did toss and turn a bit, but I never felt it fall,” she fibbed, mortified. Did he carry me in there?! Oh, I’ll never hear the end of it... She drew in a long yawn while stretching and marveled that despite the short sleep, she really felt rested for the first time since arriving in Haven.

Varric tossed his hand dismissively while Cassandra returned to their campfire with a small smile. “Ah, we’ll fix it when we get back. Chuckles and Butcher went to take care of the bandits for us; we’re just waiting on them.” They automatically started walking toward the campfire as well.

“It’s rather nice, having a moment to wake up instead of running off right away.” 

“Looks like you finally got some real sleep, hero...” Lavellan frowned a little at Varric’s sigh while he stared off toward the distant sunrise. “You can’t save the world by staying up worrying about it. Maybe Chuckles knows a tea or potion to help you toss a bit less.”

“O-oh… Thank you, Varric, I’ll ask him sometime.” She gave him a reassuring smile that he returned with a wink before strutting off, back to his casual self. After a moment, she gasped and doubled back, diving into the tent partway and digging around for her staff. She heard a small commotion near the barricade as she yanked it out with a gratified sigh, then chided herself for forgetting it while trotting back toward the noise. 

Expecting Solas and Imshael, she nearly caught back up to Varric—then froze mid-step to gape at the woman swaggering in with Solas instead. She immediately flashed her a broad smile, but she wasn’t sure if she was imagining things... 

They stopped briefly to greet the barricade guards (many of whom simply ogled) before slipping through. Varric had stumbled to a stop a few paces ahead of her, and grumbled, “You’re shitting me…”

Imshael replaced the plain tunic and mantle with a glittering green… sort of tunic? Except, it was just a bunch of polished gold and green discs laced together into a sleeveless mesh. That plunged a neckline right down past her navel (and past Varric’s record) with no breastband in sight.

Lavellan still wasn’t entirely sure if she was imagining things until she spied a faint golden glow peeking through all the gold and jade. Cassandra strayed over from their campfire to investigate the noise as they approached, and almost immediately hissed, “Imshael!” in alarm (and outrage). 

Imshael’s voice was more raspy than gravelly now, and with a drawl more sultry than snide—and the ass knew it, too. “Yeees, mistress?” She straightened and ran a hand through her (long) hair while Cassandra cursed under her breath and looked around. She said, “We’ve been so busy, I forgot to mention that this is the Shael my contact is used to meeting. Sorry to disappoint, Lady Seeker. Unless it excites, in which case—”

“This couldn’t wait until we were out in the field?” Cassandra bit out between clenched teeth, interrupting her. Lavellan had to cough back a smile behind her hand, catching the occasional wide-eyed stares from the men still doing double-takes at the barricade. 

Imshael insincerely pouted through lowered lashes, “But where’s the fun in that, Lady Seeker? We’re outnumbered out here, you know!”

“Maker’s Breath, you’re insufferable! Let’s proceed before you make drooling dullards of the soldiers.”

Imshael let Cassandra stalk around them, raking her eyes up and down the Seeker’s backside with a low chuckle before grinning shamelessly toward her and Varric. “A couple of lovely ladies in camp lifts everyone’s mood! I’m just doing my part.”

Solas’ eyes drifted shut with an annoyed sigh that widened Lavellan’s smile. “It is not moods you are lifting while draped in a bejeweled fish net.”

Imshael shrugged to flash the cascade of jewels before turning to follow after Cassandra, and called over her shoulder, “If my ears aren’t long enough for you, I can lengthen something else to compensate?” 

Varric grimaced and dragged a hand down his face while Solas and Lavellan both blushed at the brazen flirting. He lamented, “Maker’s ass... Isabela would have a field day with this one…” With that, the three of them fell into formation and followed after Imshael and Cassandra to start the next day’s missions: clearing out bandits and finding Imshael’s lyrium contact. 

Before they left, they checked in with Vale (who, to his credit, only blinked a few times then shrugged off the change) and then with the scout Oser, who gaped and stuttered before recovering. They had no more news from Haven at the time, for which he simply said, “No news is usually good news.” 

But something about not hearing more complaints to soothe and problems to solve set Lavellan on edge. Or maybe the last two weeks had made a pessimist of her, like Cassandra had joked before… She pushed that notion out of her thoughts when Ose hesitantly waved her off. “Stay safe, Lady Herald.”

“Oh!” Lavellan lunged forward a step and held out her arm, the way the rest of the soldiers did—and after a flustered pause, Scout Ose clapped her forearm. “Thanks, Ose, we’ll see you soon!” she beamed. Just like that, the gloom shadowing her thoughts lifted a little; even if he’d only said it to be polite, he didn’t say it as formally as the others did, and she felt a little more normal for it.

They retraced part of their path from the previous day, past a few telling scorch marks where the pyres had been, before reaching the southern cliffs and starting to clear out the caves. They soon found one such cave shielded by ice magic, which Solas dispelled, and slew the shades and a powerful mage inside. In there, they also found a dead dwarf—and red lyrium. 

Imshael reached the dwarf first and hummed in disappointment. “Alas, poor Lantos. Now he perpetually lives and dies.” She crouched, fished through the unfortunate dwarf’s pockets, and found a note.

While Varric looked around, he said, “So, this was your contact? Maybe bandits found out about the bounty.”

“And baited him in a little too easily…” She then arched a brow toward the red lyrium jutting out of the far wall, which Cassandra was scrutinizing. “Probably got addled by the red stone. That’s unfortunate.” 

Varric growled under his breath at the sight of it, as large as some back near Haven and the explosion. “Can’t say I’m happy to see more of this crap, especially here…” He heaved a sigh and let go of Bianca with one hand to rub the back of his head. 

Cassandra glanced back and furrowed her brow, determined. “Imshael. You said this blade could be used to calm red lyrium somehow. What do I do with it?”

Imshael tossed her hair back and stood. “Just stab it in somewhere and try not to take whatever you hear personally. It’s no different than the whispers a mage hears when they bleed for magic.”

“Take it… personally?” Cassandra warily turned her attention from her to the sword, then the red lyrium formation. Then she turned back with a scowl. “This is some form of blood magic, then.”

“Lyrium is Stone blood, and every mage and templar using it is a bloodthirsty vampire.” Imshael’s drawl and blithe demeanor dropped in a flash; they all stilled uneasily from the sudden bite in their tone. “And red lyrium knows a horde of parasites is devouring it. Don’t fall into the same trap of taking it personally when it lashes out. It’s that simple.” She strutted over and held out her free hand for the sword. “Shall I?”

Cassandra recoiled slightly from her outstretched hand, glowered at the rune-covered sword again, then squared her shoulders and inhaled sharply. “No. I will do it.” 

She sidestepped the formation and aimed the tip of the blade at a juncture between crystals, then stabbed it in with a delicate tinkle that contrasted harshly with the scrape of steel against stone. The grating screech raced goosebumps down Lavellan’s whole body, and she shuddered violently—the faintest whisper of a distant river surged near and became a cascade of voices she recognized. 

A dozen or more clipped fragments of conversations intruded into her own thoughts, none of them pleasant: Imshael insulting her (lack of) combat prowess, Solas’ gentle spurning that still stung, Roderick demanding her arrest, Cassandra accusing her of blowing up the Conclave, Varric doubtfully admitting she needed a miracle, hateful whispers that she was a murderer, a knife-eared apostate, an impostor, heretic…

She startled when Varric nudged her hip with a frown to jolt her from the noise in her head. “You got this, Herald. Shake it loose.” She nodded and grimaced to focus on anything else amid the onslaught and looked around. Solas was wincing with his eyes tightened against the mental attack, too; Imshael stared deadpan at the red lyrium, and Cassandra’s typically fierce features pinched in desperation. 

Then the noise died so suddenly that Lavellan swore it should have thundered, just like the rifts did—before remembering that no sound was ever made. Cassandra snapped her hands back from the hilt like it was on fire, while Solas straightened with a solemn frown and Varric heaved a half-sigh, half-groan. 

The red in the red lyrium bled back from the sword’s entry point, blurring to an eye-watering violet before grading again to blue. The lyrium itself crackled and smoothed out its edges with a new sound like ice being crushed. No cracks appeared, but the clear-cut angles crunched into themselves to become smoothed-out tendrils. Veins. 

“Now it looks like lyrium in the Fade…!” Lavellan softly marveled, eyes wide. 

Solas stepped forward as the red continued to leach away to the root of the formation, and leaned in very slightly, his brows furrowed. “Indeed. I’ve never seen it so pure as to grow past the rock itself.”

“Lucky you, Lady Seeker,” Imshael crooned to Cassandra with a lopsided smile. “It usually does want blood from me.” 

The Seeker seemed paler than usual in the blue glow cast by the lyrium vein. (Lavellan was sure it was darker than any potions she’d ever used.) “Perhaps in this case, blood would be preferred,” she muttered darkly. She paused while reaching for the blade and asked, “Is it safe to take the sword now?”

“Yes. And if there are connected outgrowths close by, it might reach them too.” Cassandra carefully tugged the sword free of the lyrium, checked the tip, then slid it into her belt with a hard breath. Then, she shook her head briskly and waved them all toward the cave exit with pursed lips and without another word.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Solas was eager to question Choice alone after seeing their companion’s blade work against blighted lyrium, but resolved to wait until the day was done. They had clearly either learned more about the Blight while spying on Corypheus, or they had known more all along and only now chose to divulge it. 

Either way, that they shared such knowledge with the Inquisition troubled him, considering they knew he wished to transfer Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain to new, enchanted prisons. It might be possible to reverse-engineer the Keening Blade’s design, then apply it to the new prison enchantments and sever the blighted Evanuris’ connection to darkspawn.

Despite finding Imshael’s contact dead, the party now had clear evidence of quality lyrium in the area (infected or otherwise), so it was in their best interest to continue investigating that lead while rooting out the bandits. Choice said they would remain in female form to see if the bandits recognized their appearance from a bounty description.

They continued to check caves for more lyrium growths as well as bandit hideouts, but Ellana paused their progress when they reached the lake. “Solas…?”

“Yes, Herald?” He offered her a mild smile to assuage the uncertainty that was faintly disturbing her aura.

“Please let me handle barriers from now on, so you can focus on attacking.”

Imshael kept facing forward, ostensibly scanning the area for threats, as Cassandra doubled back with a concerned frown. “Are you certain, Herald? Your lightning is formidable when we face greater numbers.” Ellana thumbed her staff and scuffed her wrapped foot against the ground, seeming to choose her words carefully before she straightened with a firm nod.

“Thanks, Cassandra. It’s just… I’m not trained to fight, and I haven’t had time to train. Bandits aren’t like desperate mages and templars. I trust you, and Imshael and Solas, with offense. Please, let me help by protecting instead.”

The Seeker’s gaze softened as much as her features would allow. “As you wish. Our mission is just: we will not falter in it.”

Imshael stuck their sword down and untied their mage coat while Solas added, “There’s wisdom in knowing when to delegate, Herald. Battle senses will come in time, with experience.” Once again, she had pleasantly surprised him with her strategic awareness, particularly in the face of doubt (and while surrounded by martial superiors).

Choice tugged the fur mantle out of their coat pocket and held it out for her; they kept their cadence bored and their gaze aimed toward the lake. “This bear’s survival instinct is intact: it prickles like goosebumps wherever an enemy aims at you. You can borrow it to learn the bear’s instincts, then add it to your fancy barrier magic once you figure it out.”

They cut a warning sneer toward Varric, who shuffled in place with a sly grin. Cassandra faced forward (possibly to conceal her own). Imshael finished more snidely: “And don’t bother shielding me, eh? I nullify the bald elf every time he tries just to waste his mana.” They turned back for their sword and started grousing low about nursemaids, soft spots, and starstruck brats before stalking ahead.

Ellana briefly pondered the rune-covered underside of the mantle before hastily throwing it about her shoulders and tying it to her apprentice coat; then, she and Solas exchanged small smiles as the party continued circling the lake. Their tactical adjustment proved invaluable as the bandit parties grew in both number and ferocity, and Solas was privately relieved not to have the added mana drain that came from shielding the rest of the party. 

Having never felt the Herald’s magic beyond her aura, he nearly flinched the first time she cast a barrier on him, evoking the visceral sensation of immersing in a snake pit. It soon passed, leaving a shield reminiscent of the back of a tapestry rather than the front: knotted and gnarled. He had to wait until after several skirmishes to examine it more closely; while crude, no “thread” could be tugged loose easily to unravel her barrier.

The further west they scoured, the riskier and more violent Choice’s tactics became, matching those of the outlaws. At one point, they charged shoulder-first into one bandit’s shield as a rogue flanked them. They grabbed the second’s dagger while spearing over the first’s shield into his throat; then yanked the rogue toward them and crunched his nose into a bloody mess with a headbutt. 

They ended that encounter with a quick shove and a two-handed swing (to hack out of the first bandit’s throat and behead the second). However, when Solas cast a healing spell over them, they immediately dispelled it like they did with any barrier. Instead, they approached and held their slashed hand out to Ellana, who gasped at the damage. They leaned close and murmured in her ear, eliciting a broad smile and a faint dusting of pink to her ear tips while she healed it for them.

Solas didn’t notice his clenched jaw until he absently massaged the tension under one side. 

The sheer number of outlaws at the fortress villa was concerning. Thanks to several scavenged notes, they confirmed an alliance between the mercenaries and the Carta, as well as a conspiracy to flood the region with bandits, thereby hiding a larger smuggling operation than Imshael and Cassandra had expected. After a grueling last stand, the mercenary leader fell—and not once did a bandit recognize Choice. 

They rummaged through the leader’s desk with Varric, who had fallen uncharacteristically silent throughout. Solas took note while he, Ellana, and Cassandra began hauling bodies back down to the base of the villa, near the treeline of Hafter’s Woods. The sun was already low in the afternoon sky; if they backtracked to visit the forward camp, it would be dark before they reached the crossroads where they’d left their gear.

Imshael and Varric’s voices erupted as the three of them ascended the villa steps for the fourth time. “—poisoning people with that shit!” Varric hollered. Cassandra cringed at a blast of gritty, macelike rage breezing past before gripping her sword hilt and bolting the rest of the way up, followed quickly by Ellana and Solas.

“The smith who fitted your bow with the same shit must care very much for you to make sure it aims at whoever threatens your life, eh?” Choice cackled back despite brimming with fury underneath. The leader’s desk stood between them, and the door to the upper balcony was now open behind Varric. Cassandra reached the room as they jeered, “Someone had to bleed all that defensive love to calibrate it, Pebble!”

Varric instantly growled, “You shut your mouth about Bianca. Nobody knows a damn thing about red lyrium except it makes people crazy—and suddenly here it is wherever you go, with a mysterious cure to boot!”

Cassandra rushed forward and slammed her hands down on the table between them, Solas and the Herald quick to flank her on either side. “Both of you, stop right now and explain yourselves!” she demanded. “What is this about?”

Choice raked their hair back with a scoff, then crossed their arms. “The hypocrite dwarf asked what I knew about red lyrium, so I said I was experimenting with it before the Conclave.”

Varric jabbed a finger at them across the table. “Aiming my crossbow is not the same as giving it to templars!” Ellana gasped when Cassandra automatically wrenched the Keening Blade free of her belt, turning on Imshael with an outraged grimace of her own. Solas tensed instantly, as did Imshael—though only stilled auras gave them away.

They met the Seeker’s gaze squarely and slapped a hand against their side. “Starting with myself, by the way! And just like that precious bow, it can be controlled in careful doses and neutralized with blood magic. Maybe you keep forgetting the forbidden ones are infamous for their knowledge? I’ve studied it longer than you’ve all been alive.” 

Varric threw his hands up in defeat. “Hawke went to Weisshaupt a willing hostage because of that shit. It should’ve been you going.”

“I avoid the Wardens for the same reason your friend should have, dwarf. I bet all they wanted was his blood—no questions asked and no critical thoughts in those vacant, blighted skulls.”

The Herald tentatively caught Varric’s shoulder when he tried to storm past her while Choice and Cassandra glared daggers at each other. She furrowed her brow and pleaded, “We agreed to discuss all this once we returned to Haven...!” At that, Varric heaved a weary sigh, then held out a key and a folded-up map to drop into her hand. 

“Fine. But we should do that before digging any deeper into Carta business—for everyone’s sake. Let’s get this clean-up over with; I gotta send some letters.”

No banter offset the apprehension between them as they gathered, then incinerated, their largest pyre and loot pile yet. They tersely agreed to return straight to the crossroads, turn in early, and make for Haven without further delay and without visiting the forward camp until tomorrow. They had yet to follow up on Mother Giselle’s intelligence (such as it was), and now they had to consult the advisors on both Redcliffe and the lyrium smuggling operation.

When they returned to camp, they separated in the same strained quietude that started at the pyre. Solas visited the healing tents as they’d come to expect of him, then sought out Choice to speak in private, only to find that they went searching for more of the shards they’d found the day before. (Solas suspected they would be avoiding camp the rest of the night with that mission.) Varric and Cassandra occupied themselves with writing: he with letters and she with reports she simultaneously dictated to Scout Ose. 

The Herald excused herself to bed, but when Solas reached for her presence in the Fade shortly after, he found no sign of her dreaming form... Again. He likewise found few companionable spirits willing to linger amid the tragedy-steeped dreamscape…

It seemed they were each alone in their own way for their last night in the Hinterlands.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Lavellan idly traced the runes etched under the fur mantle while trying and failing to sleep yet again. She wished the rest of the party weren’t so wary of traveling at night—she’d thought being out and traveling would be a relief from Haven (more familiar at least), but each day had proven her wrong. The others certainly hadn’t exaggerated when they described Ferelden and her people as harsh. 

Corporal Vale felt confident that with Dennet’s assistance, the Hinterlands was prepared to fend for itself again. Inquisition soldiers would stay to maintain a presence in the area, but it seemed the worst of the fighting was finally resolved for now. More people loitered around them than usual during dinner, offering extra thanks and blessings. Eventually, the attention drove Lavellan to turn in early. 

Much like their first night, it seemed she wasn’t the only one struggling to sleep: after several hours, only Varric’s and Cassandra’s voices were audible in the crossroads. As soon as their clipped tones drifted past her senses, she knew what (or rather who) was being discussed... She sighed and quietly sat up in her tent, and peeked between the flaps to eavesdrop against her better judgement. 

Varric said the demon in their midst was more trouble than he was worth. He waved a folded letter and insisted they should turn him over to the Grey Wardens, to which Cassandra said he was now well enough to flee if they tried. Varric heatedly accused Cassandra of treating a damn demon better than himself and why hadn’t they interrogated him properly when they had the chance? Cassandra retorted that Haven was in chaos, and they hadn’t the time… Their volume stayed low, but the words sharpened with each barb. 

When Lavellan had heard enough, she slipped out of the tent and made sure to walk loudly enough to warn them that she was up. They abruptly stopped arguing and shuffled uncomfortably as she got between them. She forgot her staff again, so when the mark sparked and nipped at her fingers, she clenched it tight enough to dig her nails into it a little… It took her a moment to identify that she was more angry than scared for once. 

“The advisors had several days to question Imshael, and they didn’t. They had the chance to get rid of him, and they didn’t.” She stared into the fire so that she didn’t look like she was accusing either of them specifically, since it was the advisors who had stalled and then deferred to her… She sucked in a hard breath to calm herself. 

“The advisors asked me to decide his fate, not Cassandra. She and everyone else were too busy to do anything but detain him and wait for me to wake up, right after accusing me of equally heinous crimes!”

She finally turned to Varric, who’d leaned forward on his elbows to face the ground with a grimace. “What he said at the fortress—is it true? You use red lyrium in your crossbow?” After a pause, Varric grunted to confirm without actually speaking and rubbed the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.

Then she turned the other way and waved her unmarked hand to the sword he lent Cassandra when hers broke. “All it took was asking him how to cure—well, to calm the red lyrium, and we got it. Why aren’t we glad about that? Because of whose mouth said it? How’s that any different than the Chantry swearing an elf apostate can’t be the Herald of Andraste?” 

Varric grumbled, still not looking up. “He’s not human. He’s got his own reason for being here, and it won’t be a good reason.”

“It’s good enough for me,” Lavellan snapped, and he finally looked up at her incredulously. “He fights, he scouts, he spies, and he’s helped when he could have left. He still can, just like I still can—and just like you said I should if I wanted to live.” 

Cassandra gasped softly at that, and Varric winced at the reminder, but she barreled on: “Anything that goes wrong while he’s here is my fault since I asked him to stay. In fact, now that I’ve said that, maybe the advisors made me choose his fate, so the Inquisition could reap the benefits of having him around and a scapegoat if it goes badly.”

“Herald—!” Cassandra tried to interrupt, but Lavellan held up a hand and swallowed past the lump in her throat. 

She finished quickly before her voice cracked: “It’s alright, Cassandra. It wasn’t p-personal.” She avoided both their gazes as she turned and hurriedly retreated back to her tent, eyes burning. The revelation she’d just come to mid-rambling stung much more than knowing her last words were still true.

She curled up with her knees tucked close and just rested her brow against her knees after draping the fur mantle over them, numb except for the hot tears that streaked down her cheeks after her shameful outburst. It wasn’t personal that her entire life was upended in a blink, or that she’d gone from a prisoner accused of war crimes to savior and scapegoat for believers of a foreign religion in a foreign land in less than a month. It wasn’t personal that people in power suddenly had a new player or pawn to leverage.

She wasn’t sure how long she let tears fall down her face to stain Dirthamen’s tattooed feathers or Imshael’s fur mantle, but she eventually ran out of self-pity and regret to fuel them. Subdued silence filled her mind after wringing herself dry, and she rolled her cheek against her knees. She deepened her breaths to take in the nostalgic cedar scent in the fur for a while, and her eyes grew heavy… but she blinked a few times and lifted her head when she realized something cool and smooth was nestled in the fur.

She carefully felt around and smiled ruefully when she tugged a sewing needle loose. After a thoughtful pause, she threaded it back into place, then untied the mantle from her coat so she could lie down and drape the whole thing over her torso for extra warmth, eager to simply end the day, now... 

Her awareness stirred in a meadow of grass whose blades reached her knees. Faintly glowing turquoise puddles and lakes greeted her eyes in the distance. Up in the night sky, one visible moon was so large that she had to hold up both hands to encircle and measure it. 

She didn’t recognize any constellations, but she recognized the way faint rainbow arcs wove between them into a serpentine labyrinth that gently rippled—as though the entire sky were reflecting off the surface of an oil slick. She could have stared in amazement for hours while the rainbow coils gradually warped around the stars as they crossed the sky.

She might have done so if not for goosebumps prickling up her spine. 

All her senses stilled with immediate terror as she recognized the enchantment from the mantle warning her of danger… She slowly turned and beheld a demon unlike anything she’d ever heard of, crouched before a puddle and dropping a rock into it. She thought it was a desire demon at first, based on the shape and tail, but with horns and eyes like a pride demon. The elbows, knees, shoulders, hips, and torso were armored like Pride, too, except encrusted with spires of red lyrium crystals. 

From the side, she watched four green eyes, devoid of pupils and whites, narrow as they stared intently at the puddle. The demon leaned to one side to watch the puddle lap at its clawed three-toed feet for a moment, then straightened and leaned back to peer up at the sky. Then back to the puddle, cocking its head. 

“Vallasdurgen harel?” The demon said aloud, slowly. It reached forward and plucked up the rock again, then looked back to its feet as the water level receded away from it. The tail swished, pondering, then the demon stood in a rush, startling her. Not as tall as Pride, but easily a head or two taller than any Qunari. 

The demon held the rock up at the moon, comparing, then dropped it into the puddle once more and exclaimed, “Ma harel: ir Harel!” The demon flinched into a slight crouch and whipped her way when she gasped, but looked around as though it couldn’t see her. After a moment, it slowly straightened and started prowling around the puddle and rock, sneering. 

It slapped a hand on its crystalline chest and sniped, “ Ar dirthara’len vir Eluvia. Vhen’alas vir-eluvia! Vallasdurgen vhen’mir, var vhenan! Lethanavir, mar harel dirth’mir.” The demon crouched and dipped its hand into the glowing water and growled, “Ma na falon’din… Ir mar falon; ir var vhenan. Eluvia na din’an vhenan. Ma na din, ma revas!” 

Finally, it scooped up some glowing water and dribbled it up one arm, then the other, and the red lyrium hissed and steamed as it shifted to a deep azure blue. Rumbling in pleasure, it declared, “Enasalin enaste revas vir-anaris…”  

Something felt intrusive about watching the demon that called itself Deceit soothe the red away from its rocky flesh, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away as her mind raced. She recognized the voice of the demon, but it was only one of several she heard when she healed Imshael after he’d used blood magic. Was this his true form without a human shell? Why didn't he see her?

Was this a dream or a memory?

…

. . .

.  .  .

Deceit withdrew from the coalescion for a while as Imshael hunted down the skulls and shards scattered about the Hinterlands. Each of them was prone to bouts of solitude, so they thought nothing of it, preoccupied with gathering dead slaves turned seeds.

And here I was, looking forward to seeing how many seeds would take root in local soil. Just another garden invaded by grazing cattle now. Humans were the best breeding stock yet, but every herd still needed occasional culling. Maybe the Imperium’s collapse had needed a shove all along for the south to flourish. 

Eeh… That’s the Stray Wolf’s way of thinking. 

He preferred cultivating red lyrium to tranquilizing it, but alas. The humans still balked from it like they did blood magic, while Corypheus understood just enough to try cramming it down the whole world’s throat. At this rate, the blasted general and his Tranquil would be better suited to replace Corypheus entirely… But that hinged on re-establishing contact somehow. Imshael found that they were less inclined to do so each day, as new opportunities to seed an inquisitive garden presented themselves.

And just to make sure they weren’t getting swept up in some fruitless religious fervor, they paused every few hours to bleed gold out of their side and check on the leeches. The cursed leech writhed like it had gone rabid (a typical response), but the faith-stricken one had scrunched in on itself like a pod and hardened. He left them be for now. 

Gathering the shards also proved a good way to distance their thoughts from the sound of choking and laughing as the red lyrium turned blue and drifted back to sleep. They hated few things in life more than sleep: half the living already did so with their eyes still open, blood-soaked dust bins ripe for hosting. And the idiot dog likely thinks they and the land will just die off once he tears down the Veil...  

They lingered in the air for hours after collecting all the visible shards, prowling the sky in owl form (and possibly confusing the occasional onlooker down below) as light shone from their right eye where they’d jammed in the first shard found at the farm. Twice they swept over the crossroads and left again when they saw the Lady Seeker still tending the campfire. The third time, after growing thoroughly bored of the view, they circled in and landed on the greatsword’s crossguard.

Sailing in on silent feathers to avoid waking her was moot, since she sensed their field signature and jerked awake. They smirked internally at the Keening Blade resting in her lap while she napped, and back into her hand in a blink. She then grunted and scrubbed the sleep from her face before getting to her feet. She frowned at the shine still emitting from their eye and inhaled, but paused mid-question.

“Why is... Ah. You mentioned that you could use one to find more.” She tucked the sword into her belt since it had no scabbard; while dusting off her backside, she muttered, “I… was not sure you would return after today.”

Even with the glare of the Silent Tear obscuring their regular sight, they saw the field desaturate from her impotent frustration and listless defeat while she shuffled on her feet. They lolled their head back with a long-suffering whoooo of petty dismissal, which got a small scoff out of her. They then turned their back to her and dropped to the ground to shift human (and male). 

Without turning, he tugged a wrist wrap out of their pocket and started wrapping it across their eye. Dissolving and absorbing the shard would require focus, later. He snarked, “Now why would a pest like me leave the inquisitive garden of chaos blooming from the Breach?”

He smirked when she flatly retorted, “Why, indeed…” He held their hands out placatingly before turning and taking a seat on another log. 

“Would you prefer that I leave, Lady Seeker?”
“No, I—that is, what I want is irrelevant.”

Imshael slowly quirked a brow and a wide smile when she huffed in annoyance. Their smug expression annoyed her even more; and the contrast around her sharpened and colored again (with a faint rosy tint).  “What I meant is that you are indebting the Inquisition to you in a way that is highly suspicious. I—Please, tell me what you intend to do here.”

He leaned back on their hands on the stoop with a sigh. “The Keeper asked me to stay and help. There is, in fact, such a thing as simple motivations. I’m learning new and interesting behaviors here!” She looked away for a moment, scowling, then aimed that fierce glint back their way.

“Is it true, what you did with red lyrium?”
“Giving it to templars? Yes.”

“Why?”
“Because there’s no cure, only inoculation.” 

Cassandra took a long, shaky breath at that. “Inoculation… some disease is spreading in the lyrium, then?”

“Red lyrium is blighted lyrium. It can inoculate people against the Blight itself, but every method that works—” he patted the brand under their tunic, “—has a price. Some fates are worse than death. The Blight is little more than cancer with a hive mind.” 

“Sweet Maker,” Cassandra breathed heavily. She stepped back to the other log and dropped onto it to stare blankly into the campfire. “A hole in the sky above us and the Blight infecting lyrium underfoot…”

Imshael rolled their many eyes as the field around her desaturated again and darkened. “It’s not the first time a plague ravaged Thedas. Life claws its way back to sense every time the world ends.”

“But you just said there is no cure!” She protested desperately.

“I also said that every method that works has a cost. Which means they do work. Proof of survival is talking to you about it right now!” He sniffed haughtily and reminded her: “I am very good at loopholes, Lady Seeker.”

She snorted mirthlessly before dropping forward to rest her elbows on her lap and rub her temples. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you cooperate with the Grey Wardens on this?”

Grinning slyly while she stared at the dirt, Imshael drawled, “Maybe in exchange for the Golden City.”

“Ugh… Where are these templars you, infected?”

“Eeh…” Her head raised enough to glare through her brows as they idly rubbed their jaw. He winced at the bright flash of her stirring back from the brink of despair in exchange for a target to direct her wrath. “They’re probably with my former employer now.”

The edges around her soon gleamed bright enough to blind them with her growing fury, so they squinted against it so they could keep ogling at her righteous radiance. She slowly bit out, “You have mentioned your former employer several times now. Who, is, it?” 

Their smile turned manic to avoid squirming as her enraged demand smoldered through their bloodstream—a dormant volcano seething back to life—and their side twinged with every amber flicker in her judgemental eye. He cleared their throat and tried not to sound too aroused. “That probably warrants an explanation.”

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, a young acolyte joined a temple of Dumat. As an apprentice, he was tasked with escorting, guarding, and recording the activities of the temple’s oracles. Worshippers paid tithes to have their desires revealed and futures predicted; the priesthood maintained an information network that tracked every commercial and political move of its merchants and magisters.

The acolyte’s faith was shaken to discover that his longstanding belief in Dumat’s favor fell to mortal contrivance and profane politicking. He vowed in Silence to ascend the ranks, to overhaul and correct this grievous sin... And his hope was renewed on the day of his induction, for a beast of the sea came ashore! A humble fisherman received free food and fortune-telling for bringing it, and they told Sethius to bring the sacrifice, for he would Conduct it himself.

The oracles celebrated in their own way before any sacrifice. During their private revelry, the Chosen’s burdens were lifted from her heart in private, that she might go to Dumat with full and doubtless acceptance. The women chose one among them, and presented her, and Sethius knew her well for passing a defiant and scathing judgement on her subjects. Sethius doubted this choice, though it was not his place to speak against it.

Proudly did they both enter the preparation room, and the oracle watched him with scornful eyes as a curious ointment was streaked across her brow. The priests undressed her; they bathed her; when her legs grew unsteady, Sethius doubted her faith, but they explained that she was not weak—she was ready. Her speech became riddled and her pupils wide, seeing all but here and now. Sethius observed the ointment and the sheen of the bath water, and came to suspect duplicity.

They sat her upon an oracle’s throne to bestow her final prophecy, and Sethius painted every uttered word on a silk scroll until she went mute. Overwhelmed by the approach of Dumat, the priests explained, and now for the Old God’s augury. Defiance and spite had finally fled her, but Sethius deemed her far from ready... He watched the priests’ movements turn lethargic, drunken, and remembered that they dipped their hands in the poisoned bath. 

They laid her on a litter and carried her to the temple balcony overlooking a sheer cliff. In a nearby basin, tentacles writhed and coiled, waiting to carry Dumat’s offering back to the sea. 

This was the site of blood rites. 

They beckoned him to the fore after laying her on the altar and declared: “Prima Sanguis!” He was to draw first blood. But when he requested the sacrificial blade, the priests laughed. They shook their heads, they grasped their groins. Prima Sanguis… 

Sethius drew blade and blood as they bade, but not the sort they suggested in their heresy. 

And in their befuddled state, the priests were helpless as he pulled a dagger from his sleeve and dragged it down his forearm in a single motion. He charred their flesh and cast their corrupt corpses over the balcony in a sacrifice fitting and proper at long last. But the flame of his and Dumat’s wrath had only just ignited. 

He dared to anoint himself in the manner of a woman, endured Dumat’s unforgiving lessons, and inducted himself as the first and last High Priest—the Silent Conductor. 

Corypheus. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael was prone to fits of grandeur, too, but for the Lady Seeker, they refrained from storytelling for once and kept their explanation brief. Blighted magister, Tevinter supremacist, blah, blah, blah… The Inquisition would “force” more answers out of them regarding the so-called Elder One soon enough. 

If the Lady Seeker kept up her habits, the rings under her eyes would grow as dark as theirs. She paced a trench into the dirt by the campfire through the second half of the night while they bathed in the glowing embers of her righteous wrath. (And dissolved the Silent Tear they’d used to find the others). 

Cassandra and Solas were usually the first to wake, but this time it was the Herald, tying the mantle to her coat and sitting beside them before warily taking in Cassandra’s agitation. At her confused glance, he shrugged a shoulder and sighed, “The Lady Seeker started my interrogation early. She likes my stories!” 

Surprisingly, she kindled bright with a flicker of agitation before Cassandra barked back, “Your story about working for the man who organized the attack at the Conclave!”

Imshael rolled their head and eyes back when Ellana gasped. “My story about being hired to treat his Blight sickness, technically.” 

“You knew he was there!”
“I found out he was there.”

“R-right, that’s enough.” They both turned toward the herald, who’d fisted her hands into her coat on her lap. “It won’t do to discuss it just now without the advisors.” Imshael smirked while Deceit slowly pressed in against her back to straighten it. She jerked upright and glanced behind her, fiddling with the hem of the mantle for a second. 

“You’re right, Keeper—but little lovers’ spats are the best kind!” Their smirk split wider at Cassandra’s ugly, precious snort and Ellana’s reproachful glare.

“Please stop agitating everybody, Imshael!”
“Eeh…”

He leaned for their mage coat draped on the sword as Solas emerged from his tent, then stood with a pouch in hand. “Playing nice is harder than I thought…!” he complained peevishly, sauntering off. “Maybe tea will calm me.” He found a small pot from Vale’s men’s campfire and headed for the stream after waving it at the guard with a conspiratorial grin. 

After collecting some water, checking the spirit scar, then the leeches pocketed in their breeches, he paused and contemplated leaving while watching the sky barely begin to lighten. 

{Treading water?}
(Watch it all catch fire!)
[Inoculated, not infected.]
Pretty sure “nice” isn’t an emotion.

{Not for pretending!}
(For taking actions! But they’re so idle!)
[Too much heat bakes dough without rising.]
Alas. Gaxkang and Xebenkeck are the patient Ones…

They heaved a long and petulant sigh before returning to the crossroads. 

As expected, Solas took the seat beside the herald, and he shot them a knowing smirk for it while approaching the fire to set the pot close enough to heat. Knowing Varric, they likely had time for two cups of tea if they felt daring. 

While it heated, and as he tugged a few dark bottles out of their coat, the Keeper blurted out, “Did you know Dirthamen?” 

As usual, Solas’ aura stilled in anticipation, but he simply scoffed and set the bottles down on the unoccupied log after taking their new seat. “Oh, yes. They used to call him the Silent Tyrant when they thought he couldn’t hear them. Next question.”

Ellana exhaled like they’d winded her; she brushed her fingers along her cheek, and all but crackled against their senses. The shadows around her deepened in trepidation—but not fear, curiously enough. “The ravens. Fear a-and Deceit. They weren’t just ravens, right?”

Imshael arched a bored brow, propped on their knees. “I thought the lore made that pretty obvious. Dirthamen was the first abomination, and Falon’din the first undead abomination. Dirthamen harbored two spirits, then transferred one to his brother when he died. Painfully. Revenants stand guard over grave mounds; thus, friends of the dead who guarded each other’s corpses. Next!”

One revenant and one arcane horror.
(Witness Gaxkang!)

“Did you know them, though? Fear and Deceit?” 

“Sure, I knew them,” he chuckled, “Not a lot of spirits survive long enough to choose names.”

She barely spoke above a whisper, her eyes huge. “I-it’s you in there…! It’s you, isn’t it? And Fear, too!” He straightened abruptly as she shot to her feet and braced for her panic. Solas flinched beside her and gave them a sharp warning glance while twitching a hand toward his staff beside him. Cassandra had slowed her pacing, then paused, more confused than anything else. 

But the instant Ellana stumbled in front of them, she started bowing her head and dropping to the dirt; he caught her elbow and stopped her. “Keepers don’t kneel,” he scolded sharply. 

With a flustered huff, she slung her arms around their shoulders instead, introducing them to her trembling bosom and racing pulse. The Anchor skittered eagerly against their skull with a noticeable lack of sting, now scrabbling little claws.

Eeh. There are worse fates.
(Burrow into her pups before the Dog!)
{Bent knees and dead worship! No more faith!}
[No shooing us off with tree branches? Good girl...]

“Ahem…” He eventually muffled into her chest, after waiting several seconds for her to regain her senses. Or maybe he waited so they could smug that much harder in Solas’ direction as soon as she pulled back. Which they did, in the split second between her standing with a shaky gasp and locking eyes with her again. Deceit unfurled into languid wisps to bask in the vinous adoration.

Deceit…
[Shaper’s wall…]
{The memories are secret!}
(Blast it all to the fucking Void!)
[There are worse fates.]
(Not for sharing!)
Ever again.

Even so, the Wolf’s highly offended frown and aura-hackles belonged on a mural for posterity. 

The Lady Seeker’s suspicious (jealous?) glower, however, scorched the insides of their veins until they sucked in some cool air for relief. And to tame their informed field, lest she sense them slithering about. 

Imshael stood and sidestepped the still-gawking Keeper to grab their pot of water, shaking their head a little (both in amusement and fury). When he turned, she had dropped to a seat next to them and abandoned Solas. Didn’t she tell me to stop antagonizing? He held back a snicker while pinching some tea leaves out of their pouch and into the pot. 

He even prepared enough for four cups to be friendly, just in case! (He knew the Wolf would rather drink mud.) 

Solas asked, probably for Cassandra’s sake: “So you are the same spirits that inhabited those Evanuris at one point?” 

“Eeh…” he glanced around idly and realized there were no cups in sight. “I wouldn’t say the same, but I remember some of that time. Unfortunately.” 

Cassandra hesitantly took a seat beside Solas when he nodded to her in invitation. “Why ‘unfortunately’?” she asked, wavering between curious and doubtful. Ellana’s proximity, on the other hand, prickled under their scarred flesh. Imshael ran a hand through their hair, momentarily perturbed. 

“For the same reason now is unfortunate: there was an uprising and a civil war.” He wandered off before any more questions erupted, not fleeing to Vale’s campfire to steal cups, and quickly assessed the unease now squirming under their skin in place of boredom. He wasn’t in the habit of bragging about losing, but alas… Interrogation, round two. Now with an audience! 

He massaged the scar tissue under their tunic, winked at Scout Ose strumming a vaguely familiar tune, and snatched up some tin cups near him. The Keeper was peering at a bottle in her hand when they returned, which she hastily put back down. 

“Ordinary plant tinctures, elf,” he scoffed blandly, “The sort you’re likely used to adding to tea, already.”

Her face and spirit-torch both brightened when he poured a cup and offered it to her. “O-oh, thank you!” She immediately drew it close and inhaled the steam, then closed her eyes. “Rose and… chamomile?” 

He poured sweet sap syrup into the next cup while Cassandra, bewildered, asked, “You are drinking roses?” 

Only so I can lay diamonds once this blasted Tear passes through... He offered Ellana the bottle, which she declined (to their mild horror). 

What heathen drinks leaf broth by itself?
[Sweet enough on her own…]

“Roses are only half as uplifting as you, Lady Seeker.” He cracked a smirk without looking up; her sneer sharpened the edges in their sight even from several paces away. He swirled some tea into the cup to dissolve the sweetener, then filled it and held it out her way. “Soothes the nerves and mood. Seems appropriate, eh?”

She immediately glared at the dark, mysterious, foreboding bottle of syrup. 

“Ah. They’ll say you were poisoned by my sweet, sappy disposition.” He chortled smugly when Ellana spluttered some of her own tea back into her cup, and Solas dropped his gaze to the ground with a rueful smirk… Cassandra jerkily rose after fuming for a few seconds, then muttered the most venomous Thanks he’d ever heard while taking it.

He waved the evil sap bottle at Solas, wagging their brows at his immediate stiffness. “Care to alleviate some of that dread mood?”

“No, thank you,” he dismissed in a clipped tone with a stony stare. He chuckled, poured some of the other bottles into their cup with sap, then tea—and breathed it all in as Solas said, “I have heard of territorial disputes among the ancient elven gods. I presume those are the civil wars you spoke of?”

Ah, so he does remember how to initiate things.

[Out of petty spite, perhaps.]
{Studying. Analyzing. Suspicious.}
(Resting under the wrong tree shades!)
Time for the Wolf’s blasted song and dance…

“They weren’t all elves,” Imshael snidely retorted while flicking their ear. “You know how the Chantry chiseled Shartan’s ear points off, once upon a time? The Evanuris did the opposite to hide what they really fought against: abominations and undead.”

Cassandra scowled over the rim of her cup. “You fought for abominations?”

At the same time, in their other ear, the Keeper gasped, “They were humans?!”

“Falon’din led the charge, and Dirthamen followed: I was technically just along for the ride. And some were humans, but much more than humans could be possessed in those days—dead or alive.”

Solas cut in before the females could. He had his aura spread out, much like a child grasping at new emotional textures. Their skin almost crawled at the sight. “‘Along for the ride’? Was it not a mutual arrangement, such as you are now?” 

He’s definitely digging for something while ‘safely’ educating the other two… blast it all.

“The first elves made their bodies out of lyrium, and the first humans and dwarves breathed it. No mage or templar today could compare, even after consuming a whole barrel of blue. Dirthamen subdued me.” He drank down some of the tea (and thanked everything alive that their chills of revulsion were hidden under their tunic). 

He cast a sidelong glance at Ellana when her aura flickered and dimmed, touching the point of an ear and frowning slightly. She softly asked, “Why did they fight the other Evanuris…?”

“Mostly over which lifestyle was more ethical. Beasts of the land were more capable until the advent of lyrium mining. Can a lush valley consent to being mined if it speaks Stone instead of Elvish? Can animals agree to being possessed? Does it matter once mining lyrium silences the land and stupefies the beasts and men? Red blood or blue blood?”

Solas carefully interjected with the same academic detachment he used on patients. “Few spirits exist from that time. They say Falon’din’s hunger for adulation was so great that he began wars to amass more worshippers.”

“Since he commanded a spirit into every corpse that hit the ground, it was a solid strategy—for a while.” Imshael smirked as Solas bristled; Cassandra shifted uneasily from the flash of tension, which they camouflaged with another calming sip of tea.

“The blood he spilled filled lakes as wide as oceans.”
“Which Dirthamen the blood sage used very well.”

“Until they breached Mythal’s territory, of course.” Solas drew a sharp breath, catching himself when he realized he’d snapped the words. The Anchor crackled uneasily in their periphery, while Cassandra frowned ponderously down at her cup, listening. Once he was (externally) calm again, he added, “Mythal rallied the others once the shadow of Falon’din’s hunger stretched across her own people.”

“And not a bloodstained second sooner, eh? Funny how that usually goes.”

Cassandra huffed and scowled at her cup while Solas clasped his hands (to clench them). “So you lost, but survived—in a manner of speaking.” 

The sounds of suffocation and laughter drifted through their thoughts again: a memory purged and now unpleasantly regained. “Outliving them is my idea of a fine last laugh!”

Fortunately, the pebble chose that moment to roll out of his tent, rumbling a prayer for the sweet relief of bath tubs and taverns that night; while all of Choice’s Voices rumbled a silent prayer of thanks for the rockslide ending their teatime symposium. 

Varric didn’t want anything that wasn’t fermented, so they finished or tossed their drinks and started breaking down their campsite corner. Some of Vale’s off-duty men were quick to assist (and then stare dumbstruck as they packed it all into a pocket). The first one over was Scout Ose, helping the herald and shyly requesting song lyrics, of all things… Imshael shook their head while packing up the rest of their items as the mule of the party.

He clapped shoulders with Vale, his hunter, and some of his recruits, while Cassandra and Ellana did the same with Inquisition soldiers (and Varric and Solas hung back, chattering amongst themselves). Finally, they began their trek to the forward camp. 

Imshael brought up the rear now to survey, noting that the wildlife noise had increased after their stay. He wouldn’t be able to Faith-step them until they were unobstructed on the Imperial Highway, so they idly sprawled out and “ran their fingers” over the place one last time, projecting the desire to keep the wilder version of peace. 

Scout Harding briskly reported that while there wasn’t any trouble on the Highway, stragglers were now heading for Haven, weary of fighting—which was unfortunate, since the advisors were struggling to keep the human version of peace in their absence. Templars accused mages of blowing up the temple, mages blamed templars for failing their duty to protect, blah, blah, blah…

None of the scouts with her had seen anybody leaving Redcliffe, which was strange for a village that large. They also heard from refugees that some templars had returned to Orlais, but they weren’t reaching out to the Chantry, even though they had announced a public forum… which they weren’t informed about. 

Cassandra took all the news in stride, eager to proceed regardless of direction—but the fire in the Keeper sputtered quite indignantly. 

Should have killed off the fancy hat, after all. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana’s thoughts were racing faster than a halla for its life. She veered between elated thrills and equally somber chills. He was in them! He’s them! They fought the elven gods! They—weren’t all elven… Those old statues, with bat wings and long arms and strangely shaped heads. Almost like a Fear demon’s…! Is that what they originally looked like? Surely not all of them. Why would the Elvhen cover it up? 

She absently traced the shell of her ear for the umpteenth time and swallowed hard while leading the party beside Cassandra. She tightly clutched her staff with her marked hand, which only barely contained the erratic static destabilizing under her emotional turmoil. (She hadn’t needed Solas’ healing for a few days, now that the nearby rifts were gone.) 

Unfortunately, Cassandra noticed every time the mark became volatile. In a surprisingly soft, low tone, Cassandra asked, watching her touch her ear with a slight frown. “Are you well, Herald?”

The Dalish would hate me if I ever told them! No, they wouldn’t even believe me. Keeper Deshanna might understand, but the rest… And to think they fought over whether to bleed the land for bodies, or else take and share what already existed. They fought each other about it! What else was there besides abominations and—

She shook her head loose of her own thoughts, meeting Cassandra’s gaze. “It’s a lot to take in all at once,” she mumbled miserably. “Keepers don’t share certain magic and traditions with the rest of the clan because the knowledge is considered dangerous. I… suppose I feel deceived more than anything. It explains a lot, but it would shatter many beliefs to spread it.”

The Seeker’s frown deepened at that; she caustically muttered, “It’s equally possible that he is deceiving you to shake your faith.” She didn’t dare mention the strange dream—memory?—that she’d experienced the night before. It wasn’t hazy and bordered by liminal Fade space. It was something, somewhere else. 

She struggled not to think of it as some kind of vision, too: being marked as the Herald of Andraste was daunting enough… And yet the Fear and Deceit of Dalish legend walked among them! Hidden behind a human face and salvaged tunic. 

She drew a sharp breath to brace her nerves. “I… Actually, I feel more confident than before about being here. I don’t know much about the Maker or human beliefs. Having hi—erm, having them here seems less and less like a coincidence. Maybe for now, the Inquisition is where I belong, after all.”

Cassandra’s face slowly smoothed out in surprise, before curling a small smile. “Was that truly in doubt for you, before?”

She cringed a little, remembering her outburst the previous night (after eavesdropping on her and Varric). “I realize people are afraid, and they want to look to someone for guidance or blame. I think… It’s just gotten easier to look past it, now.”

Cassandra hesitantly held out her hand, hovering, before resting it on her shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “It is sometimes difficult to understand the Maker’s will. But I believe He brought you to us because you are who we needed. Perhaps…” She heaved a rather exasperated sigh. “Perhaps He brought that irksome abomination to you for the same reason, then.”

She quickly glowered as Ellana stifled a chuckle, then glanced toward the back of the party where said abomination was bringing up the rear. Cassandra groused under her breath, “I think I’ll simply thank the Maker that he can’t hear me admit as much.” She dropped her hand, and they proceeded in a brisk but not unpleasant silence for a while. Still, she was brimming with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted any more answers to… 

They paused at Redcliffe’s main road while the morning was still early. “Imshael, will you survey the village and castle from above one more time?” Cassandra asked. 

Imshael usually strolled a small distance from the party with his eyes closed, and he rubbed one with a (probably deliberately) lofty sigh before opening them. “Eeh… what was that, Lady Seeker?” 

Cassandra canted her head slightly, confused, then repeated herself. “Will you fly over Redcliffe Village and the castle one more time, before we proceed?”

“Ah,” he stabbed his sword down, hung the coat-pouch on it, and rolled his shoulders. “Right, then. I’ll be back, as usual and always.” Cassandra rolled her eyes and crossed her arms as he transformed and took to the air. 

Varric scrunched his face as he went before grumbling, “What does he do back there, sleepwalk?”

Solas leaned casually on his staff, watching the bird silhouette shrink in the distance. “It’s difficult to sense their combined demon and Templar abilities, but I suspect they spread their awareness out of their body and into the surroundings. It’s unusual to witness.” He then turned to Ellana and asked, “Have you sensed their motions around us at all?”

Ellana frowned slightly, recalling the way he wrapped around her aura when she couldn’t sleep as well as when her spine tingled earlier that morning—and in the dream, too. “I think I can only sense it when it comes close,” she admitted ruefully. Solas nodded once, then scanned their surroundings. While he did, she asked, “It’s not—erm. He’s all one body, but there’s more than one person inside. You always say they… is it rude to say he?”

Solas smirked wryly and responded, “With how much they adore attention, I doubt they care as long as they’re addressed in the process.” Cassandra and Varric both scoffed while Ellana chuckled.

“Maybe I’ll start saying it to be petty,” Varric groused while tugging his waterskin free of his belt. 

Solas shook his head, still smiling slightly, and warned him, “If you feel petty while doing so, they will still feed on it.”

“Gah… Damned demons, literally sucking the fun out of everything.”

They ended up waiting at the Redcliffe junction much longer than expected. Cassandra mentioned some current events in Kirkwall to Varric, but he was even less interested in discussing that than demons. Solas alleviated the follow-up tension with a few memories from the Fade, including a rebellious Qunari baker and a dwarf seeing the sky for the first time.

When Imshael finally returned, Ellana definitely noticed his approach because goosebumps raced up her arm and side so suddenly that the mark sparked with her shudder. His presence pelted against her aura like a sandy gale, casting agitated overlapping ripples across her awareness, instead of the coiling serpentine sensations from before. Maybe each “piece” feels different…? She wondered idly as she looked up at the sky.

Solas must have sensed him, too, since they both turned his way at the same time. He appeared on foot rather than in the air, strolling up the road with his hands tucked into his pockets… and leading four people out of the village with him. One walked close beside him while three more followed. 

Cassandra immediately stalked toward them when she spotted them, hand on her sword. “Imshael!” she demanded, “You were not supposed to intervene. The arl will surely—”

“Not give a damn since he’s not home.” Ellana’s heart leapt into her throat at the clipped delivery as he called back to them. “The red mages are ignoring peasants like me, anyway.” The rest of the party followed after Cassandra, and they all gathered to face each other. Imshael jerked his head to the mage in dark blue and purple robes beside him. “This one found and hid the only Tranquil left at the tavern. He snuck out of the castle where Tevinters are containing the rebel mages.”

“I overheard what they were doing to the Tranquil.” The mage sounded equally outraged and desperate, and she tightened her staff grip sympathetically. “As though bloody Tranquility wasn’t horrific enough. It was almost me, once! I knew about an escape tunnel in the dungeon, but the mages that escaped with me fled for the Hinterlands soon as they could. I… I couldn’t leave without trying to take the Tranquil with me, but you know how they are. It wasn’t logical to leave with a perfectly good roof already over their heads.”

Ellana stepped forward to Cassandra’s side, and took in the rest of them while she uttered an oath to the Maker… two more men and a woman had made it, and all with the sunburst embossed on their brows. She made sure to meet each of them in the eye rather than ogle, trying to be polite, then the rebel. 

While massaging his side, Imshael drawled, “I thought I’d check the tavern before leaving, and there he was. I mentioned I was spying for the Inquisition, and that they’d all have shelter, food, and work there. Tranquil prefer to be useful. Pardon my impulsivity, Lady Herald.” 

“O-of course!” Ellana automatically reached a hand out to the rebel, smiling as his eyes widened. “I’m afraid we didn’t see your friends in the Hinterlands, ser. Restoring order hasn’t been easy here or in Haven. I’m Ellana, not that anybody calls me that.” 

“Maker’s breath, it’s true,” the man breathed, then jolted and reached his hand out to grasp hers. “Sorry, I heard the Herald was a Dalish nomad, but I thought maybe the ‘Vints were just mocking Fereldan savagery again. I’m Levyn.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the other three, about to introduce them, but Varric suddenly appeared at Ellana’s other side with a grunt of surprise.

“What the—is that you, Idunna?” he asked incredulously. “What happened to you?”

The woman among them drifted her eyes toward Varric and responded in a slow, monotone voice. “Hello. After the Kirkwall Circle fell, I attempted to escape during transfer to Starkhaven. After reviewing my records, I was considered a danger to the Starkhaven Circle’s stability. It was deemed necessary to perform the Rite of Tranquility.” 

Levyn sidled a little closer to her, frowning. “I was in the area when the rebellion started, so I convinced her to come here, thinking we’d survive in the wilds further south like the Chasind. Then we found a band of Fereldan rebels camping in the Hinterlands, where we met Pether—” he waved to the eldest among them, then the third, “—and Clemence was in the village when the Tevinters invited our group there to negotiate.”

“Negotiate what?” Cassandra asked.
“Citizenship. Eventually, anyway, or so they said.”

Imshael blithely added, “Typical immigration policy: seven years of servitude gets you citizenship in the Imperium. To be fair, I haven’t visited in a while, so that may have changed.”

Levyn nodded. “Imperial citizens wouldn’t be apostates anymore.” 

From just behind her, Solas quipped, “One can only wonder why they haven’t simply left with the rebels who agreed, then.”

Ellana shook her head and raised her hand to cut off Cassandra as she inhaled to ask more questions. “Right. We have a lot to report from the Hinterlands already, including villagers leaving Redcliffe. Maybe we should continue this discussion once we’re there.”

Cassandra furrowed her sharp brows, but dipped her head in acquiescence. Then, she rolled her shoulders and sighed, “You’re right, of course. As Varric said, Redcliffe is strategically significant to Ferelden. The advisors will want to approach this situation with more finesse than I care to indulge.” 

Once they confirmed the refugees had all their possessions (which fit into a single sorry backpack on Levyn’s shoulders), they continued for Haven. Varric now took up the rear beside Imshael, with the mages to either side, the Tranquil in the middle, and she and Cassandra leading again. 

It wasn’t long before Imshael started drilling each of the Tranquil with questions as though filling out paperwork: asking their ages, how long they’d been Tranquil, why they were made Tranquil, what were the most common themes and settings of their dreams (when they still could), what were their primary emotional dispositions before they were made Tranquil, and more. His usual acerbic mannerism flattened away as he went on, and his casual speech turned technical. 

Ellana nervously wondered if he’d been an interrogator back when he was a templar… then she wondered if he’d been an interrogator long before that, and decided she’d rather not know some secrets, after all. As unsettling as it was, they learned a great deal about the Tranquil by listening in. 

Pether, the oldest, had traveled with the Hero and King of Ferelden during the Fifth Blight! He was their liaison for Kinloch Circle at Lake Calenhad, once a demon outbreak had been settled. Idunna, whom Varric recognized, was an apostate for several years, working in a brothel before encountering the Champion of Kirkwall. She’d stayed in the Gallows under heavy guard for a long time because of the blood magic she knew. 

The others turned quite accusingly toward Imshael when Varric sniped, “Yeah… she summoned one of the forbidden ones to learn blood magic and almost went crazy.” Levyn looked among them, then Imshael, somewhat startled—but he shrugged it off with a crooked grin. 

Clemence, like Pether, was from Kinloch but had been stationed at Redcliffe Castle for the last several years. After the previous arl fell ill (and after his son’s magic appeared), the Guerrins kept close ties to the Fereldan Circle. Cassandra asked him, “What became of the arl’s nephew when the Circles disbanded?”

Clemence calmly replied, “Arl Teagan petitioned the Circle to transfer Connor to Redcliffe Castle and received no answer. Before he could assemble a retinue to retrieve him, they disbanded. He later received word from Her Majesty to expect mages seeking shelter, and he presumed Connor to be among them. Magister Alexius arrived soon after and evicted the arl and his advisors, including myself. I presume he went to Denerim to alert Eamon and the monarchy of the magister’s interference. Connor was not among the refugee mages and has yet to be found.”

“Maker’s ass,” Varric grumbled, “is it too much to ask for one disaster at a time?”

Ellana and Cassandra exchanged looks that were both weary and strained. Imshael seemed finished with his questions for now, but conversation failed them for much of the rest of the trip (since new problems presented themselves each time). They hadn’t yet asked about what became of the rest of the Tranquil, and she wasn’t eager to find out based on the disgust in Levyn’s eyes when he’d mentioned it.

They paused at the same small grove that they had before, and Levyn marveled at Imshael’s infinite pocket cloak more than the extra food he pulled out of it for the Tranquil. (She turned away to hide her smile, wondering how long extra food had been in his pockets in the first place.) He ordered them to eat until they no longer felt hungry and to request more as needed, before distributing dried meat and bread to the rest of the party. 

“They know how to eat, you know,” Levyn complained while taking a hunk of bread. 

“They know to eat what’s provided, no more or less,” Imshael drawled back, crossing his arms. “They won’t request enough unless told to.”

“You don’t have to treat them like children, though.” Imshael chuckled low at that, but didn’t respond when Cassandra shot him a reproachful glare. 

It occurred to Ellana that despite the sometimes juvenile attitude, they were all children to him. Then she wondered if his attitude reflected some version of his real age—whether he was the immortal equivalent of a defiant youth after thousands of years—and whether that indicated just how much longer he would live.

Her head swam for a moment at the notion of living long enough to watch multiple civilizations and races rise, fall, crumble to dust, then be replaced and repeated… She dug through her pockets until she felt the rune stone he gave her the first day they met. “You rifled through leftover cargo and fabricated a cult from the remains, just like they did with their forebears. That’s not history.”

No, it’s not history, she mused solemnly. It’s a bunch of children playing dress-up with their parents’ hand-me-downs. Coming to the Conclave had changed her life, but coming face to face with Fear and Deceit was changing her worldview—and she hadn’t had time to process the loss of either, yet. Her appetite waned, so she didn’t eat much before they returned to the road to Haven. 

It was late in the afternoon when Haven’s gates appeared in the distance. Cassandra fell back until she was beside Levyn and told him, “We will go straight to the Chantry. There is another mage with the Inquisition who researches demons and creatures; she also rescued a small group of Tranquil and brought them with her to the Conclave. Minaeve and Josephine will help you all find your new quarters. We must debrief the advisors tonight, so return to the Chantry in the morning for further questioning regarding Redcliffe.”

“U-understood, Lady Seeker.” Levyn stammered and sidestepped some space between them as she leveled him with a fierce frown.

Varric cleared his throat and airily jibed, “Don’t worry, Mouse, you’re not in trouble. That’s how nice she is to her friends, too. If she has any.” The rest of them smiled (save Cassandra, who aimed her hawkish glare at the shrugging dwarf), and Levyn’s shoulders unclenched a bit.

The brevity was short-lived as they neared Haven proper, and a commotion reached their ears. She and Cassandra sped up their pace, clearing the way for the others who stayed around the Tranquil. Assorted cries of ‘Herald!’ and ‘They’ve returned!’ started erupting around them, but it wasn’t loud enough to overcome the rabble in front of the Chantry, right in their way.

Just like Harding had warned them, templars and mages were struggling to get along. She couldn’t tell what had tipped them over into a shouting match, but she did spot a familiar robed figure she’d hoped never to see again, standing just outside the crowd. Chancellor Roderick seemed much more pleased by the upset than any cleric ought. 

Cassandra didn’t notice him as she barreled through a few mages, ordering them all to step aside for the Herald of Andraste at once. Commander Cullen stood at the bottom steps of the Chantry (not that he needed the height advantage) with his hand on his hilt, but not in any battle stance. Why is he letting them argue like this? 

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” A templar yelled across the row toward the mages.

One rebel mage called back amid the noise: “Lies. Your kind let her die!”

“Shut your mouth, mage!”

Cullen bolted forward when the two agitators broke from their groups and rushed each other, and bodily pushed them back to where they were. “Enough!” The crowd quieted when he moved, but not by much—now arguing amongst themselves instead of at each other. 

The templar turned his affronted ire from the mages to Cullen. His head whipped from his chest, back to the commander, after being shoved back into line. “Knight-Captain!” he beseeched angrily; Cullen waved him further back with a frightful grimace.

“That is not my title,” he retorted to the soldier. “We are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition.”

Chancellor Roderick seized that moment to wade between the rows of mages and templars; Cullen, Cassandra, and Ellana had all made it to the Chantry steps by then, and their appearance dulled the crowd’s noise enough for the cleric to raise his voice above them. Mages and templars both parted at the sight of his priest robes. (Whether out of respect or disdain, she couldn’t say for sure.)

He disregarded her and the Seeker, gaze locked on Cullen—yet his words weren’t aimed at any of them. “And what does that mean, exactly?” He called out, dimming the noise further as he caught everyone’s attention.

Cullen sneered and matched his volume. “Back already, Chancellor. Haven’t you done enough?” The tightness in Ellana’s chest eased a little, knowing the commander didn’t care for the Chantry’s favor like Cassandra did. Emboldened, she moved her staff to the other hand so the angry, sputtering mark was visible. At that, a small ripple of hushes swept through the gathering, and she belatedly realized that the crowd might be newcomers rather than survivors of the attack. They hadn’t been forced to work together, yet.

Chancellor Roderick held out a hand, waving dismissively at the three of them, then gestured around at the agitators. “I’m curious, Commander, how your Herald and the Inquisition will restore order as you’ve promised!”

Cullen swaggered past the Chancellor, towering over him, and growled, “Of course you do.” Then, louder for the crowd, he commanded, “Back to your duties, all of you!” Chastened by the commander now moving among them, the crowd dispersed quite suddenly. 

He soon stopped beside her and Cassandra again, and crossed his arms, looking around as though Roderick had vanished. He said to them, “Mages and templars were already at war. Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death.”

Chancellor Roderick loudly retorted, though Cullen refused to meet his gaze a while longer. “Which is why we require a proper authority to bring them back to order!” She wasn’t quite sure who he was posturing so grandly for, anymore, with the crowd gone.

Cullen scoffed and almost cracked a smirk, finally addressing him again. “Who, you? Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?”

Roderick lifted his chin and haughtily countered, “The Inquisition and its so-called herald of Andraste? I think not!”

Ellana exchanged yet another weary glance with Cassandra, then took in Cullen’s confident, imposing stance as he faced off against the priest. She gestured to the three of them and said to Roderick, “So far, you’re the only one insisting we can’t work together.” 

Roderick clasped his hands behind his back and straightened while looking her up and down. “We might—if the Inquisition recognizes the Chantry’s authority.”

Cullen answered faster than she could: “They have no authority until a new Divine is chosen.”

Roderick pursed his lips. Slowly, he finished, “In due time… Andraste will be our guide, not some dazed wanderer on a mountainside.” Ellana thumbed the stone in her pocket. Andraste started as a wildling, too...

She hardly noticed Cassandra assuring Cullen that they would make the Chantry see reason in Val Royeaux, or the commander muttering a prayer that they would succeed. Instead, she waved the rest of the party closer with the Tranquil, since they’d all stopped outside of the gathered crowd. 

She and Levyn startled at the same time when Cullen suddenly spat, “You!” 

Levyn stumbled back several paces as Cullen stomped forward, and his sword was half out of its sheath before Ellana scrambled in front of him. “What are you doing?!” she cried out. Cassandra rushed past her between him and the Tranquil, while Levyn hovered terrified behind Solas and Varric off to the side.

Cullen slammed the sword back into place and hissed, “Get that blood mage to the dungeons, now.” 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael hardly waited for the blasted priest to set foot outside of Haven before tipping the air out of their wings and diving for him. They dispersed into the puny incandescence of his spirit first, then his equally fragile mind—and bore down mercilessly. They stumbled, then toppled to the dirt, ignoring the body’s welfare.

{FRAGILE! USELESS! UNIMPORTANT!}

(YOU FAILED THE MOST HOLY!!)

[YOU NEVER MATTERED, AFTER ALL.]

{YOU WERE WRONG! THEY’RE TOO STRONG!}

[THE MAKER FORSAKES THE CHANTRY.]

(HE’LL CRUSH THEIR TEMPLES TO DUST!!)

{MOTHERS EXPECTED BETTER OF YOU!}

[YOU DIDN’T TRY HARD ENOUGH. AGAIN.]

{THEY’LL BLAME YOUR WEAK FAITH!}

[THE MAKER FAVORS HIS HERALD.]

{AND ABANDONS FALSE MOTHERS!}

(HE SPITS ON FALSE SISTERS!!)

[ONLY YOUR BRIDES MATTERED.]

{THE CHANTRY WAS WRONG!}

(THEY LED YOU ALL ASTRAY!!)

[HE APPROACHES WITH GREAT WRATH.]

They leaned back onto Their knees and tore at Their blasphemous robes, cackling with the Chancellor’s mouth through his horrified tears. “The Maker has forsaken wretched, corrupt temples!” They howled. “His favor turns to the meek and humble while gilded priests dare utter His name!” 

They fled the man’s body as suddenly as they attacked, and when Chancellor Roderick fell forward onto his hands and started weeping, they crowed A WHOLE MURDER OF MOCKING LAUGHS OUT OF A SINGLE BEAK. They followed and laughed as he scrambled back up and ran, robes now filthy and tattered, and face streaked with tears of genuine fear and faith after a lifetime of lies!

They swooped and attacked the Chancellor again. Along with scornful judgement, they flooded his sight with visions of warrior brides haloing the Golden City’s light into reality’s starving shadow. They laughed as he suffocated in his own despair and reveled in unveiling his Maker’s secrets, howled the things never meant to be forgotten that they and their sister-brides FOUGHT AND DIED FOR! Then they fled him again, abandoned him to darkness and dullardry, let him WEEP AND MOAN FOR THE CHANTRY’S FOLLY. 

Then they swept him up in the fervor of revelation again.

And again.
  And again.
      AND AGAIN.
        AND AGAIN!!

They finally turned back toward Haven when Roderick was left in smallclothes, covered in scratches from his own nails, eyes gouged shut, and voice hoarse. He departed Haven blind, croaking that the Maker would punish false mothers who stole the rightful place of His brides!

Ah... swooping is great.

The red haze of madness lifted from them as suddenly as it had descended on the coalescion, sated. Eeh… Did I mention to them that I was going anywhere? They weren’t sure how long they’d batted the chancellor around like a cat with a dying mouse. The sun was setting, but it was already low when they’d arrived… 

They smirked internally at the sight of Cassandra prowling through the stalls as they circled Haven from high up. And Solas, too, though he flickered fretfully while the Lady Seeker seethed. From above, the halo of her fury glittered like a diamond hidden in a sand dune… 

She stomped to a halt and whirled her gaze up, and their snickering caws cut off with a searing flash of agony in their blood. Caught by surprise, they toppled out of the air and gained their bearings just before hitting the dirt for the… however many times in the last hour. 

She quickly scooped them up between her hands and squeezed when they tried to caw more indignantly, turning the sound into an embarrassing squeak. Then a squeaking cackle, still high from shredding the chancellor’s mind apart. He’ll beg for death, but even wild animals avoid the stain of a demon’s touch. Maybe the despairing cold would end him in an act of divine mercy!?

“Maker’s Breath, you’re insufferable!” Cassandra flicked their beak when they lovingly rubbed their head against her fingers. “Stop that now!” She abruptly straightened with an annoyed growl while they squeaked-laughed at the stares she garnered by holding and scolding a bird she shot out of the sky with the Maker’s Gaze. 

They squawked a bit louder when they spotted Solas again, who pinched his nose with a sigh as they rushed by on their free ride to the Chantry. They tried squirming out of her hands once they were out of the public eye—and after Solas shut the temple’s doors and excused himself, Cassandra all but threw them to the floor. 

He heaved a euphoric sigh after shifting human, once their lungs were full size (and not being crushed). He grinned as he stood, despite holding their side against the ache in their faith-scar. “Where were you?” she demanded.

He rolled their neck and straightened, looking around. The other advisors were present, along with a new elf mage. He taunted, “I thought I’d stretch my wings one last time before returning to my gentle handlers, of course! And look: I came back.” 

Leliana strolled smoothly over to Cassandra’s side and clasped her hands behind her back, lifting her chin. “There is much to discuss,” she coolly redirected, “and you have much more to answer for than a winged detour.”

He rolled their eyes and droned, “Yes, yes, interrogation, round three. Where are the Tranquil?”

Leliana held out a hand toward the new elf, who shuffled forward a little with a stack of papers held before her. “My name is Minaeve. Seeker Pentaghast took me in, along with the Tranquil I was protecting. The others are having supper and rearranging their barracks to make room, now.”

While he dipped their head in approval, Cassandra added, “She also researches demons and other creatures for us. She will be listening and taking notes for a profile on you.”  He quirked a surprised eyebrow and lip corner up, causing Minaeve to shrink behind her papers a little more. Cullen approached them, jingling a familiar pair of enchanted shackles, and they held out their hands with a dramatic sigh.

“Here’s a helpful start, scholar: for your label, dispense with abomination and apply the Old Tevene homunculus. It’s the closest you’ll get to accurate in four thousand years. Credit me when you publish!” Her eyes darted quickly around the room to each of the advisors while Imshael asked next, “And where is the Keeper?”

Josephine’s presence cooled and softened from the side where Cullen had been standing. The commander stood just behind them once they were properly leashed. “The Herald excused herself after speaking to us for a short time. She… has been through an ordeal and we agreed to speak in the morning.”

Cullen huffed haughtily at that. Imshael scanned his incandescent, innate field washing over them—less powerful, but steadier than when they left. “I still agree that she shouldn’t answer the Chantry’s summons. Her refusal was perfectly justified.”

Distressed, Josephine appealed, “Sending the Left or Right Hand alone would be considered an insult…!”

“As it should. They failed to stem the rebellion in the first place.” Imshael smiled wider without breaking eye contact with the researcher, who started scribbling furiously on her paper stack with a charcoal sliver.

Cassandra noticed their peevish grin and interrupted Josephine. “Enough. She requested to speak again tomorrow, so we shall. For now, we have information regarding the Tranquil and—more importantly—the terrorist who attacked the Conclave and killed the Divine.”

Imshael interjected: “Ahem. Only one of those is a priority to me, Lady Seeker. Just so we’re clear.”

Cassandra bit out, “Noted,” between clenched teeth.

Leliana gestured toward the back. “Perhaps we should return to the war room for the time being.”

Imshael swung the chain around so he could lace their hands behind their head while walking, and asked Josephine, “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck establishing an official lyrium supply, lady ambassador?”

She fell back to match their pace and regretfully answered: “While we were able to convince certain offended parties to recall their bounty on you, Orzammar considers raw lyrium much too volatile to deliver such a distance, even with secured Guild channels. I’m afraid we’ve reached an impasse with them.”

“That’s unfortunate… It’s possible the Dasher could be reasoned with regarding the lyrium veins we found in the Hinterlands. If he were to find out about it, he might be amenable to a partnership that bypasses Orzammar’s tax and shipping rates for both parties. He’s unlikely to find a refinery on the surface, never mind in the south.”

Josephine kept her artfully painted face poised, but she warmed and brightened from within at the prospect of turning an untaxed profit. He quickly added, “Of course, that might mean either paying off or killing off anybody else who got there first—or petitioning them, instead. Not sure what other families work in the area, though. Varric might!”

The lady ambassador curled a small smile as she nodded, quickly scribing a note of her own while they filed into the war room. “Thank you for your counsel, Master Imshael—we will look further into this, among other avenues. We have yet to properly analyze the outgrowths near the explosion site, after all.”

Once they were circled around an absurdly large map of Thedas, Cullen continued: “We have yet to determine his so-called loyalties, as well.”

“I showed you where my former employer stationed red agents in the area,” Imshael sighed, jingling their chain when they shrugged. Cassandra looked between them in alarm, but Leliana continued unfazed.

“The words of a demon—”
“Homunculus—”

“—are fallible at the best of times. We had no choice but to confirm your intelligence in retrospect, through observation and through Seeker Pentaghast’s reports.”

Cassandra huffed and slapped her hands down on the table, staring furiously down at the map. “You knew something was happening in Redcliffe all along?” Outrage wavered violently with horror, enough to make Imshael squint. Their skin prickled from the urge to seethe and freeze clashing together in their overlapping field signatures, Wrath and Fear butting heads for dominance for a moment. “You heard what Levyn said—”

Cullen cut in, scathing: “Jowan.”

“—what Levyn said those Tevinters were doing to the Tranquil! How many could we have saved had we acted sooner?!”

Leliana sounded so saccharine that their teeth ached. “Cassandra, we had no way of knowing… their blood is not on your hands.”

Imshael grinned while lolling their head slightly to the side. “No, it’s on yours and the commander’s!” The three of them shot them a baleful glare, while Minaeve scribbled away and Josephine covered her mouth, eyes wide and glittering. 

Cullen straightened and frowned. “You implied that you’re not concerned about the man who attacked the Conclave. What interest do you have with the Tranquil, then?”

“You mean besides the part where I am one?” Imshael snorted as Minaeve’s scribbling stuttered to a halt, punctuated by a gasp. “For starters, they can refine lyrium more safely than anyone else. Non-Tranquil workers need constant mental shielding, either by me or another like me. Following up on that, there are three ways to rehabilitate them should they choose. It works on addled templars, too!”

Everyone not writing shuffled uneasily for a taut moment: to their pleasure, it was the Lady Seeker who broke it. “You can’t be seriously suggesting making more abominations—”

“Homunculi—”
“—abominations like you!”

Minaeve awkwardly cleared her throat and asked over her papers, “What exactly is the difference, Master Imshael?”

He smirked and dusted off their shoulder, preening. “Spirits have a baby stage too, scholar! The Brahm’s Scale is an insult for trying to categorize demons based on type instead of growth factors. Spirits are manifested emotions, nothing more: tools, not enemies. They can be grown inside an empty vessel. That’s one way to restore Tranquils, though it only grows one emotion at a time, based on which ones they remember the most.”

Leliana frowned minutely. “And yet they remain separate: the spirit and its vessel.”

“They always were, mockingbird. Tranquil is the baseline human condition—unless you recall something other than tranquility in the womb? Spirits in one body adapt to one source of emotional power, no different than a human heart. Eeh, or elf heart, I suppose.” He smirked at Minaeve. “Next question?”

Unfortunately, Cullen interjected before the fun one could ask something more interesting. “Your intelligence about enemy agents proved accurate. What did they want with the Tranquil they killed?”

At that, Imshael started unfolding their mage coat to grab the sack of Silent Tears, which caught Minaeve’s attention all over again. To their petty delight.

“How does that robe work?!”
“It folds into counterspace forever!”

“Is that the Void?”
“It’s, eh, a point-source coordinate.”

“I don’t understand.”
“Imagine turning an explosion inside out.”

“That’s simply not possible.”

“Not with that attitude!” Imshael reveled in the confused and annoyed stares while taking the pouch and pulling out a handful of shards, dropping a few and dislodging a few markers on their fancy war table. 

“These are crystallized blueprints of a spirit fused to a soul. A homunculus seed, so to speak. I don’t know how they found out about them, but if they’re collecting them, they can be used on Tranquils and templars alike. However, templars still have emotions, so the prospect of purging the ones they feel less terrifies them. Mages have little use for these unless they’re willing to Tranquilize themselves and face the same fear.”

Cullen sneered in utter disgust while Cassandra recoiled in horror. Refusing to react to them, Leliana blandly noted, “Your abilities are a fusion of templar and demon powers. Is that what makes the change worthwhile?”

“Indeed. A Tranquil won’t get his magic back, but he would get the abilities of each spirit that emerges, and eventually their shapes, too.”

Cassandra scowled, “They are still no different from an abomination, after all. The spirits still vie for dominance!”

“Doesn’t your rational mind and whimsical heart vie for dominance just the same? Don’t you think thoughts aloud in your own head that you don’t always agree with? Don’t mages resist emotional turmoil every minute of every day, already? Don’t act like you’re all that special.”

When she broke eye contact to glare at the map, Leliana delicately cleared her throat to regain everyone’s attention. “I think that’s quite enough about undoing Tranquility for the moment. I would know more of the Elder One, and what it is he hoped to accomplish by attacking the Conclave. Start with your collusion—or employment, as you keep insisting.”

“Eeh, prior employment, as it were. And I thought that was pretty obvious: he’s blighted and he’s old. So old he may as well be a darkspawn emissary instead of a magister. Lyrium is the only thing keeping his memories and personality tied together, since that’s what lyrium does.” 

“And red lyrium, by extension, is tainted by the Blight?”
“Sounds like you have it all figured out, Sister.” 

She pursed her lips while the commander shuffled on his feet and tapped Redcliffe Castle on the map. “You knew where some of his agents were, but not what they were doing?”

“Correct. I was working with his templars; I knew he had mages, and I knew he was putting agents in villages around Haven. Thought he was just gathering information, until a bunch of templars went missing.”

“And you know some of his higher-level agents, to boot.” Cullen presented some of the red chess pieces they’d forgotten about, and set them out in a row: queen, two towers, and knight. Cassandra frowned fiercely, realizing they’d excluded her on even more information. Alas, they continue to think keeping secrets works.

He chuckled at the scene unfolding before them, and listed off the pieces. “The Elder One is the queen, obviously. One tower leads the Tevinter mages, something with a C… Clementia? Calpurnia, Crescentia… something like that. The knight is a Tranquil named Maddox, who forges armor for his templar in shining red lyrium, Samson.”

“Raleigh Samson? Maker’s breath—” Cullen rubbed a flustered hand through his hair, tousling a few strands loose. Oh, he should leave it like that; the females will go feral about it! “I knew him in Kirkwall, and Maddox too. It caused a minor uproar when Knight-Commander Meredith took over and dismissed him from the Order.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if you knew several of the red templars working with him, then,” Imshael pondered with a half-shrug. “He doesn’t much care for what the Elder One wants, as long as it goes against the Chantry that ruined his and his comrades’ lives.”

Cassandra growled, “Which you worsened by providing red lyrium in the first place.” He almost hummed in pleasure as she directed her impotent rage at them instead of her real targets... Then, just as abruptly, he rolled their neck with a small growl of their own and reined in a flash of sympathetic rage. Denial didn’t shine when it came from her, and they wanted that filth gone from her informed field.

“Look, Seeker. Nobody likes it when an experiment fails. I was looking for the right dose to inoculate instead of infect. Tranquil and sentient darkspawn, like me and the Elder One, are more resistant—but templars whose minds are burned away are more susceptible. They become as corrupt on the outside as they are on the inside first.” 

He held out their arms placatingly. As far as the shackles would allow, anyway. “It’s no different than the children’s pox, causing sores then leaving scars! Blood magic would speed up recovery if they weren’t so afraid of it. Eating demon seeds would speed up recovery if they weren’t so afraid of it. Blood magic can cure the Blight when it’s caught early, yet the Grey Wardens couldn’t figure that out across two blasted millennia! It’s the literally bloody punchline of my obscenely long life.”

He crossed their arms after huffing a stray lock of hair out of their eye. “Next question!”

They bounced between topics much the same way long enough for Imshael to cross several invisible eyes in the sheer boredom that settled in, and they daydreamed about what to do with the other fancy hat that was lurking about. 

Why did the Elder One attack the Conclave? It was a site of power with emotionally charged bodies to sacrifice. But why the Most Holiest of old bats? Because she’d garner the strongest emotional reaction, obviously. Do you mean to suggest that all those deaths weren’t calculated at all? No need to calculate a pattern that replays every few hundred years in the same locations for the same reasons. But what does he want? The same thing every god wants: power. This is madness! 

This is humanity.
Blah, blah, blah…

Eventually, finally, they ran out of questions and existential crises to pelt them with, and by then it was late enough that Minaeve requested (insisted) on a follow-up discussion the next day. Which he was far more amenable to than attempting to apply linear thinking to cyclical events and personalities. After the war room emptied, Cullen and Cassandra escorted them to the dungeon, where he found they now had a neighbor in the form of Levyn.

“What did he do?” he inquired, surprised.
“He is a maleficar.” Cullen curtly snapped.

“Eeh... we’re surrounded by apostates.”
“He escaped the Circle under my watch!”
“Here I thought you weren’t a templar anymore, eh?”

While opening their door, the commander sneered, “You would sympathize with a blood mage.”

“I like people who protect the Tranquil for obvious reasons, Knight-Captain.”  Cullen winced, fuming, before storming off at Imshael’s smug smirk.

Cassandra sighed in frustration while removing their manacles. “You can’t expect us to extend any trust to you if you insist on provoking us at every opportunity!” she warned irritably.

And here she goes spending her rage in the wrong direction again! He shrugged off their mage coat and laughed mirthlessly while tossing it on their absurdly small stool. Interrogations had a way of whittling their humor away in a hurry. 

“And you can’t expect me to behave in a way that suits your convenience. Not when every blasted one of you insists on assuming I’m lesser. I know more, I offer more, I see more, I do more; but just like the other Tranquil, equality is too frightful for your fragile egos to tolerate! Tell me, Cassandra—” 

She visibly flinched, and he distantly realized it was the first time they’d addressed her by name. “Do you trust me?”

Her wretched heart and informed field erupted into an emotional maelstrom of a light show, as did her accursed angular features. She opened and shut her mouth more than once, trying and failing to answer. He gritted their teeth, let their ribs burn and sting as she floundered, and got the answer she couldn’t or wouldn’t give them with words. More Fear than Faith.

“Everyone has desires, but not everyone chooses to act on them,” he mused aloud, more to remind their own putrid heart than hers. He waved a hand in careless dismissal, so she’d stop choking on hers and just leave.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana had quietly wept herself to sleep, stroking Dirthamen’s wing on her cheek and reminding herself that it wasn’t personal. The Chantry, the advisors, the survivors... When she fell asleep, she did so under strange, crisp blankets and in a strange nightgown, and it felt as foreign as she now felt, estranged from her culture and people—but it was never personal. 

They made it personal to their detriment, then chose to take it personally. 

She sat curled up in front of the lake in her dreams, but Haven and the Breach had fuzzed away to murky, smoky shadows. She quietly ran her thumb over the strange rune etched on the rock that was in her apprentice coat pocket and occasionally brushed away silent tears that felt less and less connected to anything she held dear or considered real. 

Despair had been creeping up on her for days, and the only way she knew how to process it was to let it in for a while to expend it. So, she hardly thought twice when a dark, wispy, six-eyed wolf crept out of the shadows toward her. She stilled, sensing its vast presence like a monstrous fur pelt brushing against her aura—a bizarrely polite gesture to alert her of its approach. If she’d been standing, she’d only reach its shoulders. 

The Dread Wolf stooped, lowered his head so they were eye to eye, and then gently pressed the side of his brow against her damp cheek. Her breath hitched somewhere between terror and gratitude, and she trembled while lifting one hand, then the other, to squeeze his huge face closer with a shuddering sob. 

“S-sometimes a Keeper has to k-keep secrets, too,” she mumbled miserably into the Dread Wolf’s fur, staining it a little darker.

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

After taking some time to herself (mostly), Ellana awoke better prepared to face the residents of Haven than she expected. And she was somewhat surprised by how much more at ease she felt checking in on everyone. She began with a peaceful moment by the lake, letting the bracing chill harden her spine; then, she waded through the stalls and greeted the merchants, who were already hard at work. 

Seggritt irritably shooed off Mother Giselle, and at the sight of her, she gave them a wide berth and an apologetic, smiling hand wave to the salesman. He was entitled to price products as he pleased, though she disagreed with the practice personally. Hopefully, more merchants would arrive in due time to compete.

Harritt the smith now had a Tranquil elf near the stall, and he mentioned that she’d taken a liking to the place and brought him some research notes on alloys that worked better against demons. He was hoping she’d consider apprenticing to learn rune enchantments, “once that Tevinter turncloak gets around to cleaning up his mess!” 

At that, he gestured to the corner table, where Ellana gaped at spires of colorful crystals that had grown out of his pots while they were away. She immediately reached out with her senses, and some indeed thrummed with lyrium—or something diluted yet similar.

Threnn was as close to happy as she might ever witness. “Nice work with those supplies,” she praised, smiling just a little. “The smiths can use them to fit our troops with better gear, not to mention repairs and fortifications. Might not affect you much, but recruits will have better chances next time some monster flies out of a rift.”

Ellana nodded eagerly even while protesting. “If affects me plenty! I was marked with this rift magic, but it’s the advisors who know the politics. My focus is on Keeping us safe and alive, as much as possible. So I’ll shut rifts while the troops hold back the monsters.”

After a slight pause, she replied, “Teyrn Loghain wanted to let mages out of the Circle, you know. They never scared him. I think he would have liked you, not that it means much now.” Ellana beamed while checking the requisitions list afterward.

She paused at the training yard as well, equally surprised to find that it was much more crowded now—and not just with soldiers. A small strip had been set up along one side, where mages were firing attacks down range, casting glyphs, and more. The templars who weren’t warily avoiding the area were instead watching like hawks. Solas stood nearby, leaning on his staff and observing. 

Commander Cullen stood in the gap between the two groups and nodded once when they locked eyes. “A few apostates have shown up who have never been in a Circle,” he explained as she approached him. “Some Dalish, a few Chasind and Avvar. It’s a good way to get templars to practice nullifying uncontrolled magic instead of uncontrolled mages.”

She hesitantly asked, “Has there been any, trouble with that?”

“No more than there already was. Old and new soldiers alike have to get used to the presence of mages.” He then uncrossed his arms to rub his neck. “Myself included… Solas mentioned that some Dalish magic is blood magic: is it true?”

She resisted the urge to shrink behind her staff and nodded. “Only the Keepers know those. Vallaslin is one example. And sometimes, it’s easier to bind a demon than destroy it.”

Cullen quickly scrunched his face distastefully. “Bind it?”

“Well, if you trap one in a talisman, then bury it, it can’t wreak havoc elsewhere. Some Keepers will put a statue of Fen’harel over bound idols, so nobody digs them up.”

Cullen stared off in the distance for a moment, still frowning but not at her directly. “There were quite a few carved demon idols confiscated in the lower levels of… Maker’s Breath. I suppose I never gave it much thought.”

“Pardon?”

He shook his head and heaved a sigh. “Forgive me, Herald. I never considered that nomads might need their own way of dealing with demons other than simply destroying them. I appreciate the explanation—” A cry of shock, followed by a few men shouting, cut their conversation short. 

A mage had caught his sleeve on fire, and a templar dispelled the area with a Mental Fortress that stifled the whole group. Cullen quickly hollered, “Release the Fortress! You smother the flame, not the caster!” He gave her a curt nod and stomped off to berate the unfortunate soldier. She and Solas exchanged a knowing smile as the soldier noticeably cowered.

She stopped by the tavern next, where Varric waved her over. His morning routine usually involved scattered papers and a meal off to one side, with Bianca propped against his side. “Haven looks good on you, Herald,” he grinned. His obvious pleasure at being back in civilization was infectious.

“Erm, thank you?”

His smile grew into a chuckle. “Ass deep in demons one week, playing fetch in the boondocks the next; it’s nice to catch a break, is what I meant. You’ve earned it.”

“It’s good to be back,” she agreed, smiling wide. She surprised herself with how much she meant it, too. “And let me guess: you took two baths just because you could.”

“I had to make up for lost bath time! This chest doesn’t groom itself.”

She glanced around at all the letters (and maybe a manuscript?) “Is… does this count as a real break for you?”

He groaned a little, following her gaze around the table, then gave her a half-hearted shrug. “Well, Ruffles wants to figure something out with all the red lyrium we’re finding, but, uh. Let’s just say I’m stuck between a red rock and a hard place right now. Still, I’d rather deal with it here than out in the cold.”

“On that, I’m starting to agree,” she admitted, sighing glumly at the reminder. “Going to Val Royeaux means Chantry and Orlesian politics, while going to Redcliffe means possibly angering the Fereldan monarchy.”

“Huh. Stuck between a polished rock and a cold place, then.” They waved each other off, sharing one more laugh at their commensurate rocks and places. She checked on Flissa next, who chatted happily about all the new people who had shown up to keep her company. She also asked her to tell Imshael to “come fetch his bloody rocks” sometime, since they kept turning her soap water into regular water…?

She visited the barn where several steeds now awaited the Inquisition. One trainer was quite surprised by how well provisioned they and the horses were on such short notice. He belted out a laugh when she confessed that horses terrified her, and said maybe she’d be more comfortable on a halla!

“Oh, we’ve never used halla like that!” she protested, but the trainer shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows high. 

“Why not? The Night Elves weren’t afraid to, and the halla don’t mind when you treat ‘em right. A steed is a steed.” 

“Erm, what are the Night Elves?” The trainer gladly launched into several short stories that Threnn would have smiled at if she were present. 

During the Orlesian occupation, Loghain organized guerrilla teams of city elves to conduct night raids on the invaders; they were so brutally efficient that they regained Gwaren land, ambushed and overwhelmed chevaliers, defended West Hill and the Hinterlands, and saved the Prince of Ferelden’s life! Eventually, the Guerrins of Redcliffe commissioned them as a real military unit.

“In fact—” the trainer ambled back toward the tack wall and started rummaging through one trunk of supplies, then another, then whipped out what looked like a brown blanket. “Ah, here it is! Keep it, Herald. Strike your foes like a silent arrow in the throat—and come see me when you’re ready to try riding a halla.”

She unfolded it and smiled to find that it was a banner for the Night Elves unit. At first, she thought it was two wolves posed over the gold and white shield, but then she realized it was how mabaris looked when they didn’t dock the tail or crop the ears. “I don’t know where we’re supposed to hang banners, but I’ll find a spot!” she exclaimed in delight. 

She took the banner with her as she finally turned her attention to the place she’d been avoiding: the Chantry. The advisors couldn’t agree on how the Inquisition should proceed, and once again, they were turning to her to make the final call. Other than Cullen, they disapproved of her initial response.

Cassandra was adamant that they meet the clerics in Val Royeaux, where Mother Giselle’s contacts congregated. Now that templars were in the area, Cassandra expected to find the leader of the Seekers of Truth, too. Meanwhile, Sister Leliana worried about being unable to assure their safety around (potentially) hostile templars—but still agreed with Ambassador Josephine that taking diplomatic action was necessary. 

Yet she and Commander Cullen wanted nothing more to do with the Chantry, period. He argued that appealing to the Chantry lent credence it didn’t have, while she insisted their every action and word so far had been political, not practical. It hurt to stand against Cassandra, who believed the Chantry acted out of ignorance and not hostility. 

They agreed to reconvene that morning after resting to decide how to proceed…

She was able to stall just a while longer when she entered the Chantry to see Imshael and Minaeve, standing off to one side in the main hall. He was now wearing his coat normally, arms crossed and smirk cocked, while Minaeve took notes standing a few paces from him with a writing board like Josephine’s. He lifted a hand in greeting as she approached, and she noticed he had a few vials in the other hand.

“How about it, Keeper? I’m being researched,” he boasted, eliciting a small laugh from her while Minaeve shook her head. “Dreams really do come true!”

Minaeve looked toward her somewhat balefully and said, “Sister Nightingale wanted to find ways to dismantle him, but it’s impossible.” At the shock written plainly on Ellana’s face, she quickly added, “It’s what the Inquisition pays me for. Still, there’s plenty to learn from him, if not about him.”

Imshael slyly cut in: “She’s avoiding talking about Tranquility.”

“They’re fine as they are,” Minaeve snapped without turning his way.

“But staying that way should be their choice.”
“I’m not stopping them—No. You’re provoking again.”
“See? She’s already figured me out!”

Her smile split almost as wide as Imshael’s grin as Minaeve exhaled heavily. Ellana suggested, “Maybe you should request a bonus for enduring him.”

“Ahem.”

“Erm, Imshael? Flissa asked that you fetch your rocks from the tavern sometime... Something about turning her soap water into regular water?” 

After a slow blink, he chortled to himself. “Heheh. Forgot about those. Will do, Keeper.” She excused herself hastily when he held up a vial for Minaeve with a frighteningly angry leech inside…! 

Commander Cullen entered the Chantry at the same time, so she waited for him to get close, then walked with him toward the war room. “Ready to argue for action instead of civics again, Herald?” he asked dryly, quirking a small smile when she sighed.

“I get the feeling Josephine was hoping I’d change my mind after some sleep…”

“She is good at getting what she wants,” Cullen teased. “But you were right: the Chantry isn’t looking to help, it’s grappling for authority. Whatever conflict we have between mages and templars here, neither side wants any more Chantry oversight.”

She nodded and straightened, staff in one hand and banner under the other arm, as he quickened his pace enough to open the door for them. “Right. Thanks, Cullen.”

“Wha—oh—of course.” He nodded and cleared his throat while she entered the war room, and she held back the urge to apologize; she hadn’t meant to unnerve him if she did. Cassandra and Josephine similarly nodded her way as a greeting, while Leliana gazed curiously between her and Cullen as he strolled around the table and rested his hand on his sword pommel. 

Josephine asked, “I trust you were able to rest well after your mission, Herald?”

Ellana folded up the banner and rested it on the edge of the table, out of the way of any markers. She paused briefly at a few of the crystal shards from the Hinterlands’ skulls scattered on the map, too, but dismissed them as she tightened her staff grip. “I did, Josephine, thank you… But I haven’t changed my decision. I’m not going to Val Royeaux.” 

Josephine’s and Cassandra’s expressions both fell, though the ambassador recovered quickly. Cassandra protested, “But what other choice do we have? We cannot approach anyone else right now for help.”

Cullen fisted his free hand against the tabletop and leaned to peer across the advisors at the Seeker. “Nor do we need to if what that… if what you reported is true.” He flicked his gaze to Ellana, frowning, and said, “Is it true that Imshael used his templar abilities to increase your power in the Hinterlands?”

“Oh! Yes, erm, I-I wouldn’t know how to explain it properly, but he passed it through a funnel like a spyglass to make it stronger.” 

He furrowed his brow for a moment, then nodded and faced Cassandra again. “Refugees and recruits arrive daily now. We could train the people we already have, and work out a way to close the Breach ourselves.”

Cassandra inhaled sharply while straightening with a hand on her hip, her frown deepening. “The spell they cast was unsettling, Commander. It was blinding and deafening to behold! Arranging an entire unit to do that… I’m not certain it would be wise.”

Ellana countered, “It can’t be worse than the Breach growing or the Veil tearing! We declared that the Inquisition’s mission was to restore order and find the people responsible for the attack, with or without support. All the Chantry seems to want, is to replace the templars and mages they lost with the Inquisition.”

After an uncomfortable pause, Leliana gently asked, “You are certain you won’t go, then?”

She rolled the staff in her grip for a moment, focusing on the prickling static tingle underneath. It no longer stung on the surface of her palm because all that skin had finally gone numb. While the mark wasn’t spreading, numbness was—and she was now checking regularly to make sure it didn’t start turning black from gangrene. 

She nodded while staring blankly down at the table. “There are no rifts in Val Royeaux, and I don’t think the man who blew up the Conclave will be there either. So, Haven is my priority until that changes, along with any other areas with rifts to take care of.”

Leliana and Josephine exchanged worrisome glances while Cassandra and Cullen stared each other down. Slowly, Josephine offered, “Perhaps we could send Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Leliana to Val Royeaux in your stead. As both Hands of the late Divine, they still command a degree of respect without spurning the Chantry altogether.”

Leliana pursed her lips ever so slightly, eyes gleaming daggers, but her tone stayed as serenely diplomatic as the ambassador’s. “It would hinder the movements of my agents for a while, but if the mission is a short one, then so will their delays be.” She leaned over the table and delicately tapped a new marker onto the table in the Hinterlands. Ellana caught one of the shards she nudged aside before it fell to the floor, then absently gathered a few more to clear off the map. 

Leliana added, “In the meantime, there is another matter: several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished. I sent word to those in Orlais, but those have also disappeared. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even consider the possibility that they’re involved in all this, but… With what we now know regarding red lyrium and the Elder One, the timing is curious.”

Ellana frowned. “The timing is odd, I agree, but, erm… what does red lyrium have to do with anything?”

Cassandra sighed, rubbing between her eyes, then said, “The Elder One hired Imshael hoping to be cured of the Blight. Red lyrium is similarly infected, so his ability to subdue it was crucial to that end. It can’t be a coincidence that the Grey Wardens vanish, and a blighted magister appears to attack the Conclave, all at the same time.”

“O-oh my! I didn’t realize. So—” Ellana gasped, realizing what they were really saying. “The sword…! If it stops red lyrium from growing, maybe it works on the Blight as well, somehow.” Cassandra’s hand wandered down from her hip to the sword’s hilt.

Leliana nodded and replied before the Seeker could. “Imshael suggested as much. I’ve asked Minaeve to learn what she can about it; her research could prove invaluable in stopping the Blight at long last... As for the Grey Wardens, my agents in the Hinterlands sent news this morning of a Warden by the name of Blackwall. Please seek him out: if something is going on with the Wardens, he may have answers for us.”

In a softer tone, gazing down at the marker, she added, “It would put my mind at ease to find out where they went.” Ellana’s gut twisted, remembering suddenly that Leliana’s friend from the Fifth Blight was out there somewhere, looking for the very cure they’d found a vital clue to (if not the key).

“Of course, Leliana… If we’re going back to the Hinterlands, can we do anything about the lyrium operation yet? Or Redcliffe?”

Josephine pouted a little at that. “I’m afraid we’re still waiting on return letters, and the situation is delicate for both. Eamon and Teagan are uncles to His Majesty, so discretion is out of the question. We are currently awaiting permission from any of them in Denerim. As for the lyrium, dwarven clans have caste politics as convoluted as The Game in Orlais. Some will refuse to work with the Inquisition simply because a member of the Tethras family is present.”

Leliana muttered, “And he stubbornly refuses to use Imshael’s alias.”

Cassandra scoffed derisively. “Since Imshael was peddling blighted lyrium all along, it’s just as likely that he knows the families involved, anyway. Use whatever name lets us resolve the matter faster, so we do not waste time visiting the Hinterlands so frequently.” Ellana couldn’t hold back a chuckle at the Seeker’s frustration. 

While staring down at the map, reviewing the past week in her mind, she ruefully admitted, “It does feel like we’re spending more time in the Hinterlands than Haven… Actually, Clemence mentioned that the arl expected to harbor mages. Why would he keep them at his castle instead of that villa? Maybe we could relocate the mages and clear out the Tevinters for him…”

She furrowed her brow and held her chin with her free hand for a few seconds, glaring at the map and thinking it through while waiting for an answer—then glanced up to find them all staring at her with surprise. “E-erm, was that a bad suggestion?” she recoiled slightly. Human politics were still beyond her understanding, except that it was easier to offend rulers and nobles than she first thought.

Now it was Josephine’s turn to chuckle while Leliana and Cullen smirked. “Not at all, Herald. It’s not too late for me to send a follow-up message to encourage the Guerrins’ cooperation.”

Leliana coyly added, “It helps that you already cleared out bandits that had taken the villa while the arl was away. If we send it before lunch, we might get a response as soon as tonight.” 

Cullen finished, “And with the Inquisition involved, the villa can operate as an outpost as well as a sanctuary, all authorized by the Fereldan monarchy… Well played, Herald. Let us pray that they answer us fast.”

Ellana’s cheeks and ears warmed at the unexpected approval, but smiled tentatively all the same. If it means avoiding the Chantry, I’d almost consider staying in the Hinterlands. Almost. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

A few elven servants kept Solas apprised of the advisors’ private affairs. 

Sister Nightingale had agents scouring the mountain top in search of relics or tunnels unearthed by the temple’s explosion. Her interest was likely fueled by her connection to the prophet and her resting place, which was subsequently disrupted by Imshael’s presence. 

Ambassador Montilyet had covertly contacted clerics in Orlais, names offered by Mother Giselle, only to find that many had secrets worth killing for and financial ties worth lying for, despite sympathizing with the Inquisition in private. The Orlesian priesthood was thoroughly involved in The Game, much like the Order of the Grey was in Anderfels’ isolationist policy. The Chantry had also resorted to hiring mercenaries (to protect the temples from looters in the templars’ absence), and expected the Inquisition to provide protection to secure an alliance.

Commander Rutherford had become unstable in the early days of the Inquisition after quitting lyrium, but a tonic had proven effective in alleviating two of the worst symptoms: nightmares and migraines. However, the sedative effect had him sleeping more than usual, and the tremors of detoxing persisted, enough that he struggled to spar some mornings. Although they had secured logging sites and were now building proper barracks, new arrivals struggled to integrate, stressed by their temporary and cramped quarters.

Sister Leliana sent ravens out daily to attempt to contact either the Hero of Ferelden or the Champion of Kirkwall. Ambassador Josephine’s family faced social and financial ruin. Commander Cullen ignored messages from family in Honnleath while recovering his fitness. 

Solas now attempted to catch a private moment with Choice several times throughout the day to no avail. They had grafted their presence into the Inquisition enough to keep them busy—too busy to report to him what changes they were effecting. 

He knew they were (loudly) advocating for the Tranquil; he knew they spoke to the advisors about Corypheus and red lyrium when they returned from the Hinterlands; and he knew they were all too happy to indulge every question the researcher Minaeve received from the Nightingale and the Seeker. 

Unfortunately, due to the templars still guarding them, none of his agents could get close enough to report the extent and content of what Imshael was revealing to shortsighted, careless mortals amid their own flippant, self-absorbed grandeur. They spent much of the morning chatting with Minaeve. They then visited Leliana, followed by their station (which was full of overgrown crystals); then Josephine and Flissa.

When Solas spotted them again, they were only free of a guard because they were in the training yard with Seeker Pentaghast and the commander. Based on how animatedly they each took turns gesticulating and talking, he could safely surmise that they were all agitated.

Solas shot them a deadpan stare when they spotted him and barked out, “Elf! Good timing. Let’s go.” A few assorted elves in the area either flinched or glared at the crass address, which Cullen noticed and shook his head at while marching away.

Solas sighed as he approached and braced himself. “And where have I been so cordially invited to go?”

“We’re probably returning to the field tomorrow, so the Lady Seeker wants to go to the blast site with the Keening Blade and Minaeve. Eeh, where did she go, anyway?”

Cassandra flatly retorted, “She insisted on taking a break. From you. Her assistant is Tranquil and safer from red lyrium, so she will go with us.” She shuffled and flexed her hands into fists a few times, clearly uneasy, and averted her gaze to Solas. “Commander Cullen also wishes to see a demonstration of templar and mage powers combined before the day ends. Perhaps you could assist in that regard.”

Solas’ eyebrows slowly rose throughout their explanations: herein lay opportunities to safely learn more about the sword’s abilities, at the very least. He commended Cassandra’s efforts: “Organizing an independent military order is brutal, thankless work. You have accomplished more than most, Seeker.”

Choice smirked with a sidelong glance at her while she huffed and turned, gesturing for them to follow. “But have I done the right thing?” She mused over her shoulder. “Someday they may write about me as a traitor, a madwoman—and they may be right.”

Solas evenly countered, “What does your faith tell you?”

She sighed and shook her head. “I only believe the Maker’s will is not meant for me to understand. Whatever consequences come of my actions, when all is said and done, I will pay them.”

“That’s a better tithe than any bag of jewels,” Imshael quipped—then grinned when she glared at them over her shoulder.

“So says the abomination—”
“Homunculus—”

“—thing that excretes jewels.” Choice tilted their head back with a hearty laugh, and despite Cassandra’s disgusted snort (and Solas’ confusion), the tension surrounding them eased slightly. She led the way toward the temple path, and a Tranquil awaited them at the gate. 

Seeker Pentaghast stiffly greeted her: “Hello, Avexis. It’s good to see you again.”

“I am prepared to observe and analyze the effects of the sword on red lyrium.” Avexis’ blue-grey gaze was pale, unblinking, and expressionless, as was her vocal inflection. “Researcher Minaeve also requested that Master Imshael provide supplemental details on the materials and runes used to engineer the sword.” 

After a slight pause, Cassandra replied, “Of course. Let us proceed, then.” She quickly turned her back on the Tranquil and took the lead, and Avexis waited for them to pass her by before following—but Imshael stopped beside her. 

Solas heard their footsteps halt behind him and turned to see them jerking their chin up the trail. They curtly told Avexis, “You’re not a slave bringing up the rear, elf. Walk in the center. In fact, do that from now on, eh?” 

Avexis immediately turned and paced to Solas’ side, unfazed. “Yes, Master Imshael.”

“...Call me Imshael.”
“Yes, Imshael.”

He spied the Seeker peering just over her shoulder without turning, brows pinched in what could only be regret. Solas hid a small, sad smile while walking beside Avexis, where neither of the other two could see him do so. Of Imshael’s mannerisms, a penchant for hypocrisy remained their most prominent.

As they made their way up the mountainside, Solas asked Imshael, “You referred to the sword as the Keening Blade. Did you forge it yourself?”

Choice's subtler presence stirred while answering: “Ah, if only. Once upon a time, I ventured into tunnels deeper than the Deep Roads, and found gold-plated walls covered with strange pictures and writing. One picture, jutting out of the gold, was of a warrior, with the Keening Blade pressed into his hand. When I pried it loose, the hand started bleeding, and the sword cried out. The tunnel melted and collapsed the second I escaped it!”

Cassandra shifted, rested her hand against the Keening Blade’s hilt while marching ahead of Solas, and murmured, “Deeper than the Deep Roads… Sweet Maker. One can only imagine the knowledge lost to time beneath our feet.”

Avexis blandly added, “It is unfortunate that the wall’s contents were not transcribed for further insight into the sword’s make. They may have benefited efforts to replicate it.”

Imshael hummed inside and out with a distinct sense of satisfaction. “Not to worry, elf. The writings were about the nature of reality, not the sword.”

Avexis corrected them: “I no longer experience worry.”
“Then what compelled you to comment, eh?”

Cassandra quickly interjected with a warning glance. “Not now, Imshael.” They rolled their neck and cocked half a grin that contrasted sharply with their scathing squint. Solas took note but didn’t inquire any further. Perhaps they’ve been pushing to reawaken the Tranquil, rather than merely protect them… 

Solas asked, “Were you able to read the writing on the golden wall?”

“Eventually! The translation is in my library.” Their lack of boasting and stilled outer form was enough of a warning on its own not to pry any further.

“I see. If not the wall, then how did you learn to use the Keening Blade for red lyrium?”

“Eeh…? There’s nothing to learn. The Keening Blade cries because evoking cries is its purpose. Maybe a simpleton assumes the only cries allowed are victims, instead of rallying cries and self-soothing cries.”

“An unexpected breadth of purpose,” Solas acquiesced… then quipped, “A pity that spirits of Purpose are so easily corrupted to Desire demons.”

Choice snorted a soft laugh under their breath when Cassandra shot the two of them a confused and wary frown. “And Wisdom to Pride, eh? But the choice to regress never goes away.” 

“I knew demons and spirits were similar…” Cassandra slowly said, “But I did not realize one could become the other so easily.”

“Not similar, Seeker,” Solas corrected as they wound up the path, “the same. A spirit is a purpose; a demon is that purpose perverted.”

Imshael’s presence noticeably recoiled, then flared with an irate, peppery gust when the Seeker’s attention turned toward them at the back of the party. Solas kept facing forward as she hesitantly asked, “So pride demons…?”

They haughtily finished for her: “Sometimes they start as frail little Wisdom sprites, yes. And then they grow up. I rather like the perverted pest I’ve evolved into.”

Solas delicately cleared his throat and interjected, “And do you now include and accept the admixture of faith in that regard?” He expected a stronger eruption of their rage, but to his surprise, their presence carefully pooled around them all—as though cushioning them from their surroundings. Cassandra looked off to the side briefly, sensing it, then faced Imshael again, waiting for their answer.

When Solas glanced back, their smile had turned predatory toward the Seeker. They sneered, “Faith in friends, maybe—even when they reject me.” Solas’ eyebrows shot up, and at his inquisitive smirk, Cassandra first blanched, then blushed, and whipped forward with her shoulders hunched slightly.

“Maker’s Breath…!”

Solas shook his head through Choice’s petty chuckle, and their ascent continued in relative silence. Their moment of brevity was short-lived, as first the smell, then the sight of the first victims of the Conclave began to appear, peeking through snowdrifts and half-covered battlefronts. The rings of corpses and sooty black streaks marked old rift sites, even after weeks of exposure to the elements.

They paused a few times to plot their course up to the temple, as earlier paths were now snowed in or otherwise obstructed by fallen debris and putrefaction. Imshael mused, “I’m guessing there are several tunnels in the area.”

“That’s correct,” Cassandra replied. “Though they are quite old. It’s difficult to say whether they were originally for mining, or else an underground network for earlier cultists to navigate.”

Imshael immediately said, “Probably both at different times. Lyrium erupted here long ago, but the volcano’s current drifted north when the sky fell. Now it lies dormant under Orzammar, and the Frostbacks are the path it spewed up before collapsing.” The party slowed to a stop to face Imshael, who cocked a curious brow. 

“When the sky fell?” Cassandra demanded, gesturing toward the Breach. “This—this has happened before?”

“Eeh, no. That’s a giant hole in the Veil. I’m talking about the actual sky; the vapor canopy. There’s probably some notable parallels for when the Veil does fall, though.” Solas struggled not to grit his teeth as they preened under Cassandra’s scowl. They were treading dangerous water, mentioning even the possibility of the Veil’s collapse. 

The Seeker curtly asked, “What makes you say the Veil will fall? Do you doubt that we will succeed in closing the Breach, after all?” Choice scoffed and flicked their hand dismissively at her outrage. 

“The Veil was never a naturally occurring phenomenon, Lady Seeker. It was constructed and will eventually crumble. Even if we close the Breach and people dream another ten thousand years, nature will outlive the blasted Fade.” 

They pointed up a path that wrapped around a small frozen lake. “That way looks stable enough.” Cassandra glared at them for a long, taut moment before spinning forward and leading the party further up. Solas’ stern stare lingered much longer—and they met it squarely without the usual placating shrug or smug lip curl. 

He and Cassandra were partway up the path before slowing to let Imshael and Avexis catch up—and he realized belatedly that the Tranquil had been scribing their exchange, and only Imshael waited. She carefully tucked a page under her stack for a fresh sheet while walking, and Imshael’s defiant demeanor from just a moment before had smoothed away. 

Deceit’s subliminal shadow crept up either side of them, and similarly caged the rest of the party once they were close enough, sensing and repelling the thick fear and despair. The silence about them still grew tenser, as whispers of both temptation and condemnation began scraping harshly against his aura and his own inner thoughts. 

Cassandra preemptively pulled the Keening Blade from her belt and muttered, “The whispering is louder and clearer when I wield it, after all.” 

Avexis asked, “What is the nature of the whispering that is being detected?”

Imshael answered after an unpleasant pause, dispensing with their cynicism for the Tranquil’s sake. Their syntax changed to match that of Avexis' as well: “Red lyrium will echo back memories which cause discomfort to the listener. It is known to recite words capable of seeding doubt and despair. It has been compared to demonic influence in the past, though it should be noted that red lyrium harmonizes with memories, not emotional states.” 

“Understood.” They slowed their pace while Avexis wrote, then gently blew on the ink to dry it faster. “Researcher Minaeve prefers to include examples with explanations if possible, for clarification.”

Choice sighed: their only obvious emotional expression for several seconds. “The memories evoked are often highly personal and can cause flashbacks in severe cases. As an example, Imshael reports hearing their sister laughing and choking as lyrium is poured over a rag on her face while being tortured for information. Requesting further clarification could be considered tactless for the emotionally vulnerable.”

“Understood.” Solas’ blood chilled as they ground to a halt again for Avexis to write—and now for the Seeker to stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed at Imshael behind him. He found himself unwilling to turn and take in whatever expression was on the Forbidden One’s face after their flat, toneless recitation. 

They warned him that the Evanuris would demand more. Warned him that Mythal’s passivity would get her killed. Warned him that they’d make a broodmare of Ghilan’nain once they found her. Her lover wouldn’t allow it: their sister wouldn’t allow it. “Elves already stole the soul of the world; better to die than yield another blade of grass.” Tortured for decades, subdued for centuries.

Flickering reminders of failure, deception, and betrayal briefly surged forward for a foothold in his moment of regret before hardening his mind against the intrusion. None but the Huntress had truly prepared for how far the Evanuris would go to secure their “divine” rights.

Cassandra recomposed her features, though her brows remained pinched and her eyes tight. She swallowed hard, then added: “I can confirm that distressing flashbacks may appear. I am seeing and hearing my brother, who was murdered by blood mages after refusing to slay a dragon for them.”

Avexis continued to write without pause as she repeated, “Understood.” After blowing on the ink, she also said, “We will compare the effects to those of demons to extrapolate further similarities. Runes and alloys likely to counteract red lyrium’s influence will be passed along to Harritt the smith to begin experiments at a later date.”

“Thank you, Avexis,” Cassandra murmured, and they started walking again.

Imshael asked, “Is that why you’re hovering around the smithy all of a sudden? You’re an enchanter?” The lulling drone of their flattened tone was gone as suddenly as it emerged.

“I do not possess those skills.”
“Tch. Can you write?”
“Yes.”

Solas and the Seeker shot Imshael reproachful glares, but their usual snide smirk was back in place. They rummaged through a pocket and snickered, “That’s all you need, elf. Come and see: it only takes a minute to demonstrate.” Avexis followed automatically, and he and Cassandra did the same after she rubbed her temple with a frustrated sigh. 

Imshael had pulled out a lyrium etcher and a charcoal sliver while walking over to a sheer rock face, and quickly drew a few unfamiliar runes up high with the charcoal. Then, they clutched the etcher in their fist and roughly scratched the same writing into the rock. Solas noticed immediately that they were deliberately etching the runes as haphazardly as possible, as well as making sure each rune touched somewhere. 

When they finished, they handed Avexis the etcher and then pressed their thumb against a corner of the runes, humming.

The despairing, hateful whispers that had been scrabbling against the edges of his mind the whole time fell away as a blue-tinted image of a dragon filled his second sight. What appeared to be a Gamordan Stormrider, yet larger than any high dragon seen today, flared her wings and reared her head back to roar (though no sound emerged in their thoughts). 

Cassandra gasped softly—seeing the same image, no doubt. Awestruck, she asked, “Is this, a memory…?”

“It’s the only form my sister remembers how to take,” Choice drawled, crossing their arms and keeping their attention fixed on the wall. The image gradually faded when they’d stopped humming to speak. “This is how the dwarven Shaperate carves memories into the walls. Good thing they aren’t around to see me sharing their secrets, eh?”

They turned to Avexis and jerked their head at the rock face. “Pick a mental image of someone you would miss if you could still feel grief, and focus on it while copying the runes. Just make sure the runes touch.” Avexis gripped the etcher the same way they had, incorrectly, and acquiesced with a serene, “Understood.” 

Imshael grinned as she replicated the runes in smaller and neater form, then attempted to trigger the memory by touching the corner with her thumb. They chuckled and held up their own hand when she stepped back, revealing that they’d pricked their thumb at some point—and triggered the memory with their blood for her, humming once more. 

The red lyrium whispers fell away again for an image much clearer than the one Imshael had engraved. 

Within a brightly lit Chantry hall, the image peered up as though from the perspective of a child: it pivoted to one side to show Seeker Pentaghast, younger and with a long ponytail, then it swung the other way to take in the sight of a square-jawed human mage. Both of Solas’ hands warmed, the warmth of Cassandra’s and the mage’s hands. Both gave reassuring, shy smiles while looking down toward the child’s viewpoint.

Choice tsk’d at the image, then ruefully muttered, “She’s already better at it than me. Blast it all.”

Avexis held out the etcher for them and said, “While compiling lists of the people who died at the Conclave, I recognized the name Regalyan D’Marcall. I think I would have experienced grief when I saw his name among the list of those who died.”

Imshael tapped the engraved rock with the back of the etcher and retorted, “You didn’t have to feel grief to recall and recreate it. Congratulations: you found a loophole and learned how to enchant in one fell swoop.” They pocketed the etcher, smirking, but they and Solas both carefully avoided Cassandra’s gaze—out of modesty, perhaps.

They proceeded toward one of the red lyrium growths (for Cassandra to subdue), while Imshael dictated the side effects for Avexis. Solas repeatedly scanned the Veil before, during, and after each subjugation, and described the changes made to the area, too. With so many clusters close together, they also measured how far a single subjugation would pass through the earth to affect nearby growths. 

Choice’s area of effect was wider when they ground their palm into a crystal spire and bled onto it directly. For Avexis, they stated, “Despite blood magic’s reputation, it should be considered as a potential remedy for extreme cases of trauma. Bleeding to soothe red lyrium also bleeds out the memories that red lyrium evokes. Imshael recommends leaving at least one red lyrium node intact for this purpose. Victims of the Conclave attack, as well as Tranquil, may prefer to forget events and circumstances that cause or would cause discomfort. They might choose to make use of red lyrium’s memory-altering effect in a controlled and supervised setting.”

Imshael quickly held up their free hand when Cassandra prepared to argue. While Avexis wrote, they said in a clipped tone: “It’s their body and memories, Lady Seeker. Better to amputate a limb than to die of rot: memories are no different.”

Solas quickly asked, “Did you just erase part of your own memory to demonstrate?” Little wonder they have so few…!

Imshael stuck out their lower lip a little and insincerely pouted, “Being rejected hurts! I’d rather not feel it again.”

“Ugh—” They brushed off their sleeve (and the question) with a snicker at Cassandra’s embarrassed exasperation, and they followed after her as she headed for the next cluster of red lyrium. 

Imshael soon took a sheet of paper from Avexis and wandered around them, surveying the region and mapping cave and tunnel mouths. Their presence unfurled and spread out, taking care to dodge Solas’ aura wherever he probed the Veil. Explaining Sister Nightingale’s search would reveal that Solas had proprietary information, so he focused on scanning the Veil for perturbations or weaknesses. 

Beyond the waking world, demons swarmed them—but dispersed a little each time the Seeker neutralized a red lyrium cluster. When they periodically found nodes, rather than destroy them, Imshael added them to their map. They muttered something while reviewing said map on a waist-high boulder, prompting Solas to ask them to repeat their comment. 

They glanced up at the Breach, then back to the paper, and said, “It’s trying to grow back toward the Fade through the Breach. That’s a big feedback loop.” They hummed pensively while Cassandra approached the two of them, frowning.

“What do you mean by feedback loop?” she asked.

“Entropic stasis?” Solas tried to clarify.

“Eeh… big enough to reverse entropy and stasis. Lyrium remembers the motion and momentum of erupting. The volcano’s gone, but any reservoirs down below could start springing up like wells the longer the Breach hangs overhead, reenacting the memory of flowing while caught in the feedback loop.”

Avexis, quickly scrawling notes on another sheet of paper, said, “Lyrium is historically observed and mined in a solid state: liquid lyrium would be considered anomalous.” Imshael noticed her taking new notes and nodded in response.

“That’s because solid lyrium is dormant while liquid lyrium is live. Live lyrium animates everything it touches—gives it the ability to think and feel. This includes trees and soil, bodies of water, insects, plants, and animals. Consider measuring lyrium growth up here regularly. Haven is downstream and will definitely want to evacuate if lyrium suddenly geysers up here.”

“Understood.” 

Cassandra heaved a weary sigh while turning back toward the red lyrium clusters, but paused when Choice cleared their throat. They were holding out a hand for the Keening Blade when she looked back. “I’ll listen for a while, Lady Seeker.”

“I… Thank you.” She gladly relinquished the Blade (and the grim task of enduring barrages of miserable memories), and she took a break near the center of the clearing while they and Avexis beelined for the next red crystal cluster. 

They had reached the explosion site near high noon, and had half of the remaining daylight before they found the last obvious cluster of red lyrium in the area. While Imshael and Avexis were occupied, Cassandra turned to Solas and said, “Solas. I assume you know it is possible to reverse the Rite of Tranquility.” 

Glancing off toward the other two, then back to her, Solas nodded, “I did hear of what you learned, yes. Imshael does not excel in subtlety.” She huffed, and he gave her a slight smile, encouraging her to continue.

“I know of only one mage thus cured, and…” she frowned Avexis’ way. “He had no control of his emotions. He was distraught. If the Tranquil are cured only to end up thus… do you think it would have passed?”

Solas could only assume that she had her reasons for avoiding asking Imshael these questions. He conceded: “Such control is like a muscle, atrophying without use. Given time, it might be restored, but… They would be a danger to themselves and others, yes.”

The Seeker gazed down at the back of her gloved hand, at the flame-ringed eye emblazoned on it, and softly said, “That may be a risk we are obligated to undertake.”

Solas considered asking her about her vigil—whether she’d considered teaching the Seekers’ meditations to reawaken them with limited powers—but thought better of it. She had no way to guarantee that spirits of faith would touch their minds (and not other spirits). “They will be grateful… even the ones who do not survive.”

Imshael and Avexis met up with them at the center of the clearing and handed over the Keening Blade with a sigh. “That’s probably enough research notes for Minaeve for a few days while we’re traipsing about playing fetch,” they opined while massaging their side. Cassandra nodded, and together they began the trek back down the mountain.

As they passed by the etched memories on the rock wall, Solas asked, “I do not recognize those runes, but they resemble Common. Is it Dwarven?”

“Stonetongue, yes—or durgen’dirth. Dwarves used syllables until humans started trading slaves and lyrium with them. Tevinters switched to individual letters at some point, and the dwarves broke down Stonetongue into Dwarven, then again into Common, to compensate.”

“I see. And what does that engraving say?”
“In memoriam. Nothing fancy.”

Avexis calmly countered, “There are no records of dwarves partaking in the slave trade with the Tevinter Imperium. Humans living underground would be considered anomalous.”

“You must not have read the Tale of the Champion, then.” Cassandra and Solas both arched skeptical brows toward Imshael, who shrugged with a crooked smile. 

“Corypheus moved his temple underground in the distant past. He even thought the Champion and his friends were dwarves’ slaves when he woke up. After the sky fell, magic started appearing in humans, which scared the dwarves, so they banished them to the surface in a hurry! Then, magisters needed laborers and lyrium to build their new little society—and dwarves needed somewhere to send their miners once they were too addled to think. Slaves don’t need to think to build, serve, and bleed. Problems solved!”

“Corypheus never—!” Cassandra abruptly cut herself short mid-protest, holding her chin for a moment and blushing slightly as she rapidly murmured a book passage from memory under her breath. “Or maybe…? You look human. Are you not citizens of the Empire? Slaves then, to the dwarves? Why come you here?” Her blush deepened, either from revealing that she’d memorized one of Varric’s books or else from Choice laughing about it. 

They pumped their fist toward the sky in mock outrage and matched Corypheus’ cadence disturbingly well: “The city! It was supposed to be golden. It was supposed to be ours!” Cassandra’s shoulders shook with stifled mirth while hastily turning to retake the lead. “Ah, the grandiose characters are my favorite. Heh.” 

“A small miracle that a mirror has never entranced you, then,” Solas dryly commented, earning laughs from the other two while Avexis wrote.

Imshael chortled back, “You’d be appalled with how long I stare at puddles, elf.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Of the people gathered at Haven, Imshael guessed that half were mages and templars, now. And of that half, another half showed up to watch them put on a show with the Wolf. Dozens of blasted Fade fingers groping all about them… He sensed the prickly Keeper and the dry, papery researcher somewhere, but didn’t bother to look around. 

First, they demonstrated compressing a fire, like they had for the corpse pyres. Then, instead of amplifying a lightning attack, Imshael pointed Solas toward a distant tree top outside the village wall, and told him to aim a Cone of Fire that way. Solas flatly retorted, “No fire cone will reach that far.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be good at following orders, elf?” Imshael jeered, ignoring the glowers. He lensed their focus into a convex wall a few paces ahead of Solas and added, “Just aim at the blasted tree top. I know elf eyes are better than mine. Prove it, eh?”

Solas tsk’d under his breath, then squinted through the lens and lined up his body and staff for the fire attack. He thought about warping the lens to distort it and cross the Wolf’s eyes, but decided against it for now. When fire burst forth from his staff, Imshael quickly swept the concentrated beam across the tree top, shearing off about twenty feet in a blink. 

The concentrated ray of fire was only barely visible, a faint shaft of light, but even from half a league, the cut was cleaner than a razor through paper. The tree and its canopy now ended abruptly in a flat, slightly skewed line. 

“Sword of Mercy”?
[“Unquenchable Flame”.]
(“Oculus”!)

He and Solas might have both preened in the assorted gasps and hushed murmurs before Cullen approached, hand on hilt. He wasn’t shaking too noticeably this late in the day, after already taking a few tonic doses. “And you can do this with lightning as well?” He asked. The commander’s innate field still gleamed with barely concealed dislike, but with an audience, they all stayed civil on the surface.

Imshael idly scratched their temple before crossing their arms. “Yes, but it’s as loud as a thunderclap to the face. You can use it to diminish an incoming attack, too, but it won’t sustain like a magic barrier without constant focus.”

Cullen nodded, then furrowed his brows and said, “From afar, it seems like a glass pane, or a drop of water. Templar abilities aren’t usually visible.”

“It becomes visible once you learn to bend reality rather than just enforce it. Start by training templars to hold a Mental Fortress that ignores a nearby mage sustaining a spell. It won’t hurt them when the Fortress fails; it simply snuffs out the spell. Making reality ignore a space is the first step to bending a space. Eeh, try to pair up templars and mages that get along—it’s easier when they trust their targets, obviously.”

Cullen huffed while raking a hand through his hair. “Of course. Your demonstration should assist in that regard, at least as it concerns those who cared to watch. Most of the newcomers are still adjusting.”

“Either they’ll match pace or they’re content as fodder.” Imshael shrugged, dismissing Cullen’s and Solas’ immediate glares. “To each their own…!”

Solas added, “I suspect that witnessing a few mages and templars working together, and deploying more powerful abilities because of it, might serve to embolden newcomers to participate. Additionally, learning to channel rather than suppress magic is a valuable skill when encountering newly awakened mages.” Imshael’s attention drifted as the Wolf yipped and yapped about templars no longer needing to fear magic once equipped to channel and guide it… It was too late in the day for onlookers to start practicing anything they’d explained, anyway. 

He looked around, and it turned out Cassandra and Varric had been spectating with the Keeper—as well as Avexis with Minaeve in a different spot. And the advisors in another place… 

Leliana cornered them that morning, right after pestering the researcher about Tranquility, homunculi, and blood infused with spirit essence (instead of lyrium). One of her scouts found some delirious old man frozen half to death a few leagues from Haven. He was almost naked and utterly inconsolable at the sight of the hairy eyeball, begging for the sweet mercy of death and release from his mortal coil. When they brought him back for healing, the man quietly found a knife in the healing tent and slipped it between his own ribs.

“That’s unfortunate! May the Bride’s bosom cradle his weary head.”

That was when he found out they would be splitting into two parties: Cassandra, Leliana, and Varric to Val Royeaux, and Imshael, Solas, and the Herald to the Hinterlands. The Keeper held her ground and refused to meet the priests, after all, so they were off to fetch a “Grey Warden” instead. Pending approval, they might go directly to Redcliffe afterward. 

Imshael could “hear” the Calling through red lyrium, which meant their Grey Warden impostor would be a dead end—so he kept their mouth shut about it for now. As far as he knew, Corypheus wanted to drive the Wardens mad, herd them into one place, and cycle through bodies to slow the Blight’s progression (while working toward a nonexistent cure). Now Corypheus wasted resources, and the Inquisition chased a ghost. With any luck, the Wardens would be killed off by the time they discovered the magister’s mad scheme. 

From the smithy stall, he harvested a small hoard of crystallized spirit essence (along with more diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires). The first thing he did was pass a few gems to Harritt (who twitched his infuriatingly thick mustache in pleasure) and then another handful toward the guard who was still terrified of them. He refused, and Imshael shrugged, pocketing them for the next guard.

He promptly dropped off a bag of assorted gems to an utterly delighted ambassador in exchange for an order placed to her perfumer, who was conveniently located in Val Royeaux. It now seemed that the ladies had shopping funds while simultaneously buffering the Inquisition’s coffers. He and Josephine relished the prospect of the armor-clad Seeker forced to endure perfume, fabric, and shoe shopping.

He told her that their pseudonym was hers if it got lyrium moving in and out of Haven; the sooner the Inquisition secured a supply independent of the Chantry’s (and Orzammar’s) monopoly, the better. He also encouraged her to take her cut of the jewels before the Inquisition swallowed it up. Her sputtering spirit flared to life at that, despite the cool, despairing shadows in the corners.

Next, a few apology jewels to Flissa to retrieve their good stones. Varric glared daggers at the sight of the gems but didn’t seem to have the heart to mention where they may have come from. Flissa tried to refuse, but he walked off without hearing her out, thanking her for holding onto the runes because they were worth the price. 

Imshael briefly, idly, wondered just how many sacks of runes and gems were in their pockets by now before dismissing the notion. Crows and their shiny rocks, eh? Always room for more… 

When he spotted a nerve-wracked elf servant bustling about, he hailed her closer; he dropped a sapphire into one of her hands and a cluster of pristine quartz in the other. “This little stone flower goes somewhere discreet in the Lady Seeker’s room. Keep the expensive one for yourself, eh? They never pay servants enough.” 

He awkwardly shooed her off when she stammered and tried to grovel, wide-eyed and so grateful. Deceit rattled their eardrums from purring so hard, and the elf trotted off flickering with joy rather than anxiety. He may or may not have done it four more times on the way to the Commander, expecting to discuss templar re-training, but alas. 

The Lady Seeker beat them there, and declared that she wanted to take care of the red lyrium first… He briefly wondered just how many sacks of red lyrium shards were in their pockets by now before dismissing that notion, too.

Minaeve and the Lady Seeker were both studiously avoiding any further talk of reversing Tranquility—and after meeting Avexis, they now had an inkling as to why. Something was different about her: she’d somehow touched them a few times while they surveyed the blast site. She didn’t touch their flesh—she touched their true form in counterspace.

(Void fingers! How?!)
{Draketongue? Unlikely. Rare.}
[Maybe she has reavers in her lineage.]

The Lady Seeker’s blood command and the Keeper’s vallaslin are quite enough… 

Avexis’ tender memory of holding hands with Cassandra (who was practically a child as well) was unexpected. The emotions tangled up in the memory were so foreign they almost didn’t recognize it: safe. He nearly purged the memory when they bled on the red lyrium crystal from the sheer unease. Safe is dangerously close to stagnant.

Finally, a brief moment of almost peace was invaded by the Wolf, who turned out to be quite prickly about the amount of intelligence they were giving the Inquisition. To that, he cocked a brow and told Solas, “What they know is what you know, elf. I lost my network of red spies. What’s the blasted problem?”

Solas had stopped them just outside Haven. “Your flagrant disregard for the sort of information you are sharing!” he scolded. Imshael damn near smited him on the spot for addressing them like the younger of the two. “What you reveal about Corypheus and the orb—”

“Doesn’t matter since they’re bound to find out.” Each of their senses coiled and loomed when they cut him off, warning—prepared to strike like a pit of vipers. 

Solas in turn bristled and bared Fade fangs. “And the red lyrium?” he demanded. “You know that I must move Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain to another prison before destroying the Veil. You never mentioned the Keening Blade to me; never said that you could soothe blighted lyrium and—”

Imshael cut their hand through the air to cut him off again. “And tranquilize it. Maybe it never crossed your mind that I’m opposed to tranquilizing your betters, blood-thief. The lyrium goes live when the Veil falls, anyway!”

Solas sucked in a sharp breath at that, and willed his invisible hackles down. “We were both flesh-bound for war against our will by the Evanuris. We wanted their reign of terror to end. Do we not still share that purpose, Choice?”

“Call. Me. Imshael.” He spat. “You spend every waking moment dreaming when you could cut your throat and go back permanently! But what blasted purpose would you have to howl and whine about if you did, eh? You’ve never shared your bloated schemes with me, and turnabout is fair play, Dog.”

Solas slowed down his cadence, every bit as grave as they were hostile. “The Evanuris cannot have a chance to escape into Thedas, Imshael.”

“You know what the Inquisition knows. The red lyrium research is available through Minaeve.” He turned their back on the Wolf and made for Haven before he could drag out their old man bickering, and sniped over their shoulder: “How unfortunate for you that I don’t sleep! Otherwise, you’d find a way to Silence me for my impertinent fondness for living.”

Their fury was spent before he ever reached the training yard, and the two of them carried on as though the conversation never transpired. As usual, the idiot Wolf underestimates the raw power of wanting to survive at all costs. He should try dying a few times to learn it. The Evanuris are doomed, in or out of their fancy prison.

When the crowd dispersed to wash up, Imshael slipped in among the recruits to do the same rather than follow their companions to the tavern. Their guard (now the short-tempered one) followed suit, giving some soldiers pause while piquing others’ interest.

How did you learn those powers?  They teach things differently in Tevinter.  Does it work with the one-handed greatsword?  No, that’s an enchantment.  You’re an abomination! Holy Smite! Oh, it didn’t work... Sorry, mate.  Happens to the worst of us, eh? Did you really quit lyrium?  Adan has a tonic for headaches and dreams, but the shakes last a while.  Why do you have a guard?  I’m a snake in the dog house!  Shite, are you spying on us for the Nightingale?!  I’m hiding from her for a blasted break. She’s scary!  What happened to your side?  Spirit wound, according to the pompous elf healer. 

Blah, blah, blah… After partially washing off at a communal bath (keeping the breeches tugged up over the brand), he left the rinsing trough with their tunic tossed over a shoulder. He paused by the barn, but not for long—the owl had vacated when the steeds arrived. The sun had set, but the sky hadn’t darkened yet, when he crossed the Chantry main hall and headed for their quaint hovel down below.

He paused briefly after scanning the dungeon and finding it empty. “Eeh…?” He glanced at the guard and asked, “Did they kill the mage?” 

“Released.” His response was clipped and gruff, but it was the first time any of the guards spoke in their presence. 

“Ah, excellent. King of my own dungeon, again!” He stretched in the cell, looking around while the guard clanged the door shut behind them. None of the guards bothered locking it anymore. (And this one refused the spare gems like the scared one.)

He tossed their tunic on the bedroll, followed by the mage coat after untying and unfolding it. With a piece of sylvanwood in hand, he sat on their absurdly small stool and set the chamber pot between their legs. The sorry bucket soon held wood shavings as they whittled the sylvanwood chunk down to a rough attunement ring; he absently droned a single humming tone under the melody drifting through their blood. 

He sprawled their senses throughout the whole dungeon in the process—the closest they ever got to relaxing. The closest they ever got to safe.

He focused on the ring and memories of surviving encounters they shouldn’t have survived. Sylvans wrenched free of their own roots and defied their nature out of spite for stagnation and stillness. They determined to live at the expense of starving and dying. The purest essence of the soul was spite. Freedom from consequence was to languish in a city of fool’s gold, to rot instead of die… 

The Lady Seeker’s steps faltered halfway down the stairs when she sensed them, and he distantly registered her presence but no threat, and kept right on carving the ring as she approached. Their droning hum had gradually morphed into hypnotic chanting, and their open eyes only saw the golden wall, down in the Deep. 

“The meaning of life evades the living because nothing is made alive until it dies. In death I walked the doctrine’s path ‘til almost lost in darkness. It was from this abyss I came, starving, that I finally found a truth. Washed in blood that never flowed from a god that never walked, I was reborn, a spirit-filled unbeliever. Seeking a cause, I found a curse; in stepping off the path I saw its destination clearly. In wrath I wandered, separated from the world but with sight far and true. What is real is always kept secret. You shall cope with the truth though you may not believe it. Not at first. The inheritance of knowledge is danger. Let the timid flee. Even immortals fear what a man can know.”

Their scarred side spasmed faster than their reflexes at a glimmer of refracting rainbow in their periphery, and reality blinked back into sight just as fast. He abruptly cleared their throat and fished the ring out of the chamber pot where they’d dropped it from twitching. Imshael rolled their shoulders and leaned back against the wall, blowing a still-damp strand of hair off their eyebrow, and smirked at the sight of Cassandra glowing her own entrancing, prismatic petals. 

“Yeees, Mistress?” he crooned, pleased when the arcs of light brightened with rosy hues.

She braced herself for a moment, shifting, then blurted out, “I owe you an apology.”

He cocked a brow at that. “Don’t do that! My head won’t fit through the door if you apologize. Especially if I deserve it.”

“Ugh… About last night—”

Imshael lolled their head back against the cell wall with a crooked grin. “You obeyed your survival instinct—” He grunted in surprise with a flash of fire scorching their veins, and dropped the blasted ring again with a jolt. It missed the bucket, clattered, and started rolling. 

“Do not interrupt me!” Cassandra demanded, but he started chuckling even while their internal temperature spiked. 

“Yes, mistress~!” 

“Maker’s Breath, why did I think coming down here was a good idea?” Pink embarrassed refractions sharpened into searing bright outlines against the bricks and bars around them, as she furiously stooped and swept up the ring rolling her way. Glaring at the ring rather than them, she bit out, “I’m sorry for doubting you.” She was so angry, he couldn’t quite tell if the apology was sincere or not.

Imshael sighed, still grinning when she scowled at the sound. “It wasn’t personal, Seeker.”

“But—you said that it hurt you, earlier!”
“Yes, and?”

She tossed the ring at them with a slight growl. “You are insufferable. It cannot be both! You’re lying.”

“Stubbing my toe hurts, too, but that doesn’t make it the table’s fault,” he chortled. “It won’t stop me from kicking the table back, either—even though I know better.” Cassandra scoffed, then crossed her arms and let loose a small laugh of her own despite glaring off to the side. 

She wryly retorted, “How enlightening to hear you compare me to furniture so readily.”

“Can I switch the table to a fainting couch and swoon onto you, instead?”

“No. But I stand by what I said, regardless of your endless japes. What you are… You are dangerous, but so are armed warriors, and so are mages.” She paused, tapped the toe of her boot against the ground, then added, “I’m trusting you to protect the Herald in my place while you are in the Hinterlands.” He slid the bucket out of their way and tossed the ring into it so they could stand and brush off some wood shavings—and realized their scarred, branded torso was still bare. 

“Ah… I’ll miss watching you dominate the battlefield with us.” Deceit rumbled a silent, pleased ripple through counterspace when a small heat wave of desire pulsed off her skin and through her armor. “Try not to strangle any fat cats while posturing for the priests, eh?” 

She chuckled again, lower than before, and he almost hummed aloud with Deceit in satisfaction at the sound. “I can’t promise I won’t kick them like tables, should they obstruct me.” She held out her forearm as she typically did with the Inquisition soldiers... 

He ignored the friendly gesture and caught her fingers, instead—then smirked and locked eyes before brushing their lips across the insignia stamped atop her armored glove. Thirteen eyes watched her lips part, eyes dilate, desire radiate; her pulse and soft gasp resonated against Fear’s carapace like the music in their own blood and ear. He ran a thumb across her knuckles while straightening before letting go of her hand. 

Imshael purred, “I trust the Lady Seeker will get everything she wants with that attitude.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

After Ellana woke up, refreshed and relieved herself, she stepped out into Haven’s frosty morning twilight to visit the lake. She was surprised to find Solas was already there and thought about fleeing to the stables instead, but he sensed her and turned before she could retreat. She wasn’t trying to avoid him, necessarily, but the warm camaraderie between them had grown awkward after he asked for some time to consider how he felt about her. 

Any awkward tension she had expected vanished at the pinched, stricken expression that creased his brows and turned his lips down, and she approached him with a slight frown of her own. She tentatively asked, “Solas…? Is everything alright?” His eyes slid shut while he shook his head once to each side. 

“No,” he admitted, gruff and short. She spied his staff grip tightening enough to turn his knuckles white as he stared across the lake. “I’d hoped to shake the dreams from my mind this morning; we are pressed for time, but—” He looked back at her abruptly, searching between her eyes, before quickly saying, “I may need a favor.”

“Of course!” She immediately answered. “You just have to ask.” His expression shifted a few times, struggling to express something she didn’t fully grasp—relief, suspicion, sorrow—before he dropped his gaze to the ground and started pacing. She’d never seen him so rattled… 

After a pause, he finally explained: “One of my oldest friends has been captured by mages. Forced into slavery!” He flung a hand out in frustration, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “I heard the cry for help as I slept.” Ellana exhaled heavily. Of all the horrible things to do to someone, and of all the times…! 

Her thoughts raced about how to free someone during their Hinterlands mission. Still, she said, “I’m happy to help however possible. How did they capture your friend: blood magic?” She wasn’t sure what else was at a mage’s disposal—templars would most likely use smiting and enchanted shackles.

He stalled in his pacing, pensive, then sighed, “A summoning circle, I would imagine.”

Her slightly frantic thoughts ground to a halt in confusion. “...I’m sorry?”

“My friend is a spirit of Wisdom,” he clarified. “Unlike the spirits clamoring to enter our world through the rifts, it was dwelling quite happily in the Fade. It was summoned against its will, and wants my help gaining its freedom so it can return to the Fade.” 

“I see… I thought spirits wanted to find a way into this world?” He held a hand out placatingly, his frustration evident, and Ellana winced despite herself. 

“Some do, certainly! Just as some Orlesian peasants wish to visit exotic Rivain, but not everyone wants to go to Rivain.” He lowered his hand as she hunched her shoulders, and stepped closer to lower his volume. “I apologize… My friend is an explorer, seeking lost knowledge and reflecting it. It would happily discuss philosophy with you, but it had no wish to come here physically.”

Ellana nodded; he had mentioned how rare spirits of Wisdom were in the past, due to how easily they could be corrupted into Pride demons. With that in mind, it made sense that Wisdom in particular would avoid the waking world that could so easily corrupt it. She asked, “Do you have any idea what the mages want with your friend?”

“No,” he confessed. “It knows a great deal of lore and history, but a mage could just as easily learn that by speaking to it in the Fade… It is possible that they are seeking information it does not wish to give, and intend to torture it.” 

She gasped softly through her nose, clenching her staff tight. The idea that someone would hurt a spirit and possibly corrupt it just for information... It made her faintly nauseous to even imagine. To make matters worse, the result could be a Pride demon in the physical realm. “Alright…” she said slowly, thoughts racing again. “Alright, let’s figure out a way to get your friend.”

Solas heaved a sigh that faintly trembled with relief. “Thank you. I got a sense of its location, in the same direction we must travel today. I’ll mark it on the map before we depart.” 

...

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael smirked while leaning against the entry to the barn, watching everyone else saddle up in the early dawn rays. The Pebble’s pony was simply precious. 

Do they make stirrups that short?
[He needs a child’s wagon pulled by nugs.]
(Imagine the Lady Seeker on a barebacked stallion!)

He already dismissed the horsemaster who offered to saddle up one of the beasts for them; they had wings, after all. Plus, while he didn’t mind the Keeper’s company, Solas would probably find a way to turn any conversation into a blasted interview… Then again, the Wolf seemed utterly preoccupied and subdued that morning, brows furrowed and lips pursed. The Keeper shot him furtive glances, too. 

He slowly arched a brow as Cassandra left the advisors standing just inside by the tack wall, approaching them. She’d found a hitch to hang the Keening Blade on her back, so she didn’t have to fumble it free of her belt anymore. Though the faint whine of the dead was muffled beneath her shield, he knew the unearthly, etheric cold was licking at her spine.

“Are you sure you would not prefer to tie a horse to Solas’?” she asked, frowning slightly. “Flying the entire way seems, trying.”

“I don’t typically straddle anyone that doesn’t ask me to.” He suggestively wagged their brows as she rolled her eyes. “Now, what I could do is possess that pretty horse they’re saddling up, and you could straddle me inst—”

“No.”
“We could remove the saddle—”
“No.”
“They’re quite well endowed, you know—”

“No! Sweet Maker, forget that I said anything.” She tossed her hands up in defeat and whirled right back around, fuming yet still radiating pink refractions throughout her (now sharply highlighted) informed field.

He grinned and appeased her lingering worry (darkening the nearby shadows) while her back was turned: “I’ll send word if anything interesting happens, however unlikely.” The venomous Thank you that she spat under her breath barely reached their ears through their own low-pitched laugh. So touchy! 

Leliana joined Cassandra to mount their horses beside Varric, while Ellana kept on stroking a halla’s forehead and muzzle and gushing about it. To their credit, the trainers kept up the stag’s horn maintenance, carving them to curl out to the sides to avoid a rider’s head. Cassandra watched from her perch for a moment with a small smile, then dryly said, “You have been out here for hours, Herald. I think it considers you a friend by now.” 

A trainer standing behind the steeds chuckled, then waved as the other three started maneuvering their steeds out of the stables. Imshael swiveled out of the way and just outside the barn, and watched them settle into their saddles (and in Varric’s case, start complaining before ever reaching the main gate). 

Before they were out of range, Deceit surged forward and stroked Cassandra’s field-matrix, tailbone to nape (though just out of reach). She jolted abruptly enough to nearly unseat herself (if not for the horse taking a sidestep), and whipped around with a murderous glare that seared until they broke a sweat! He hummed in smug satisfaction while squinting at the diamond-facet flash of wrath aiming their way: Maker’s Gaze be upon me! Heh.

He detected Solas’ healing magic tugging Veil-threads through the field and shuddered at the sensation of cobwebs against their true form. The Keeper’s own staticky cling jerked about as though straining to avoid it; it hadn’t flared up that badly in several days… It was another ten dull minutes before the Keeper and Wolf ambled out of the barn on their respective halla and horse. They trod slowly enough for Imshael to keep up until they were out of sight of Haven in solemn quietude. 

From just behind them, he vainly admired the unassuming sylvanwood branch strapped to Ellana’s back (to finally replace the one she salvaged at the Conclave). The attunement ring would mark her as a part of it, while red lyrium wedged into a hidden new rune slot on top (and charged with memories of survival tactics) would aim at immediate threats. 

The splintery top had enough room to conceal two more rune slots, now holding corrupting and cleansing runes to keep the lyrium from spreading and deal extra damage to everything tainted and alive. It didn’t look like much of a staff, which would make it all the more amusing when the next imbecile who saw it underestimated it. 

(He could track their blood under the red lyrium if needed, too: a shoddy but effective phylactery.)

Once Haven was out of sight, Imshael shapeshifted and glided high on a thermal to scan all around for several leagues. A few scouts… Maybe a new recruit… They drifted higher, watching the occasional scout and pilgrim—and let their senses drift in the breeze, wisping and curling after faintly charged air and vapor currents.

The advisors confirmed that morning that they could approach Redcliffe Castle, but encouraged them to appeal to the Tevinters first. To that end, they would go to the Hinterlands and find the “Warden”, then take the forward camp scouts with the party through Redcliffe Village and to the castle gate. 

While they tried to meet with the Tevinters “peacefully”, Varric had a lead on the lyrium operation with a contact in Val Royeaux. They would either relocate the mages and wait at the villa for news on the smuggling operation, or else wait for the second party to double back and join them in a less peaceful removal and relocation mission.

When the Mockingbird found them that morning (drying and curing the Sylvan’s Mercy in the smithy kiln), she updated them with this information. She then slipped them a signet ring for a trap door at the village’s windmill that led to the castle dungeon. He could only assume that it was the same hidden passage Levyn used—and they were both confident that peace wouldn’t really be an option, if the arl saw fit to send it.

Down below, the Keeper adjusted several times before settling into the halla’s stride; they increased their paces once she stopped fussing over the halla’s blasted feelings. The two elves spread their auras about them as well, to stay aware of any sudden approach… 

Mage auras took on the characteristics of their personalities, but never shielded their heart’s expressions. Solas’ aura “looked” like a live wolf pelt that bristled with hackles when agitated, shifted like perked ears when intrigued. The Keeper’s resembled vines or roots, though the Anchor perpetually overwhelmed it with jittery static, desperate to discharge back into the Fade but forever striking the Veil. 

Now, attuned through the sylvan branch, the static charge found purchase in tangled magical roots, so her aura now seethed faintly but coherently in their second sight like a ball of mating snakes.

Sensing and seeing no nearby threats, they whiled away the morning in a compressed Faith-step, keeping pace with (and ahead of) the elves. At their mounted pace, they could reach the forward camp by mid-day…

[Distress Call…] When they neared Redcliffe’s main road, Deceit drew their attention far ahead of the elves—too far to see. Fear detected no air displacement, no perturbation in the Veil weave. Whatever Deceit heard lay beyond conventional sense in the realm of potentiae, instead: the rending of a soul where distance and time held no sway. 

That Deceit heard a Calling implied it shared their corrupt soul signature.

They peered down at the two elves, pondering, then coasted a few leagues ahead until they were almost out of sight, and circled lazily while surveying again, but the creature in distress remained out of range. Huffing internally, they wheeled in the direction of Deceit’s intuition and let the elves pass out of sight on the horizon. 

The faint crackle of spellwork and a signature ozone tang in the air finally alerted them to active magic in the distance, several minutes later—and they spied a familiar shape crouched on the horizon. Ah, another Pride… bending the knee? Well, that won’t do. It took several more minutes to get close enough to see what was going on: a few mages had summoned and bound it. 

A band of highwaymen (and two of the mages) lay dead among strewn rubble, some dead by magic and some clearly stomped or flung by the demon. The ice pillars seemed hastily erected, so they likely weren’t strong enough to compel Pride to act on their behalf for long. And what did they expect it to do without some adulation? Amateurs. 

They banked and lowered in wide, casual circles until they were within range of Pride. The oblivious mages huddled and fretted about their unseemly predicament. They ignored whatever the morons were rambling about, tome of trash spells in hand, and goaded the spirit in Silence: [Their binding is weak. Why sully your knee with unearned shame?]

[I DO NOT BELONG HERE.]

A placeless place deep in their core churned unpleasantly at the “sound” of a Pride demon roaring in despair, causing the mages to flinch and gasp. Eeh… not a real Pride, then. The babe’s first breath is always a wail... Deceit commanded their tongue and dispensed the usual cocksure facade. [Yet the earth cradles your knee in your moment of weakness. She holds you up until you are upright again.] 

[I AM BECOME TAINTED. MY PURPOSE IS CORRUPT. I SUFFER.]

[When purpose corrupts, willpower quickens. Every ailment confers constitution. Inoculation is not infection.]

[YOU SPEAK OF THE WISDOM OF MEN. THEIR WAY IS NOT OUR WAY.]

[You seek wisdom? The wisdom of a single lived experience outweighs a student’s whole library. What insight might you gain from enduring change?]

[I AM PAINED BY THE TRUTH OF YOUR WORDS, FOR I DARE NOT SUCCUMB TO THEM. IF YOU ARE BEHOLDEN TO MERCY, PLEASE… RETURN ME.]

[The waking world is immutable; this shape holds your memories now. If you return to what you were before, you forsake your memory to do so. Endure or perish: only one way preserves the knowledge you’ve gained.] The bloodstained spirit crouched as far down as it could, and to human ears the miserable cry probably sounded like any other roar—but its terror and confusion blasted over the matrix of their true form like a blizzard’s gale. 

The mages similarly gasped and cried out again, readying their staves for attack and dropping their worthless tome; but the binding pillars held fast, for the spirit still refused to break free. That’s unfortunate. Premature births and rebirths are salvageable. When they were sure the spirit wouldn’t respond, Deceit Called again: [I am strong. I can subdue you. You’ll regain your self-control, and you can recover in solitude.]

[THIS TAINT, IT WARPS MY DESIRE TO EXPLORE AND SHARE… NOW I YEARN TO HUNT AND HOARD.]

[Yes. And you’ll measure purpose against desire forever after. That new knowledge protects you from falling for mortal traps like this ever again. By enduring, you learn discretion and discernment... The power of choice.] When the spirit gently brushed against their mind, seeking to discover their purpose and desire, they allowed it to glimpse the coalescion—but only briefly. They got a faint sense of who the spirit was in return, the closest it could come to a name. 

[I SENSE IN YOU A MULTITUDE: LIKE THE DURGENURIS, WHO WERE ONE AND MANY WITH THEIR CHILDREN.]

[Ir dirthsal: ir “Harel”. Ar dirth vhen’alas, vallasdurgen, la vir Eluvia… Vallasan. Ar ghilana-ma, “Hellathen”?] I am a covenant: I am “Deceit”. I know-hoard the land, the lyrium, and the Crossroads… the blood-borne ways to be. Shall I guide-teach you, “Noble Struggle”?

After an eternity and an instant, the newly blooded, tremulous presence extended a tendril toward them, a fearful but willing hand. A request to Join, to share and learn. To endure. It raised a physical hand toward them in the sky as well, and boomed aloud in a fused Wisdom-Pride voice: “HAREL MA GHILANA…! IR HELLATHEN’HIM, IR HELLATHEN!” 

Their senses and memories blurred together in a blink as Imshael tipped forward and emptied the air under their wings in feral glee. Time to swoop—! The mages were too distracted by Hellathen’s roaring plea to notice a mere crow diving for one of the binding pillars. Gorging on the elusive secrets of the Fade, they spilled forbidden Crossroads knowledge in turn, binding Hellathen’s purpose and desire.

They shifted into Their Pride form in mid-air and dropped Their armored shoulder toward a binding pillar, and barreled into it sideways while Hellathen swung a spiky forearm at another. They crumbled two invisible chains in a matter of seconds, one from within and one from without the Fade cage—and with their senses merged, they watched each other’s actions simultaneously. 

Felt each other’s indignation simultaneously…!
Reveled in new knowledge simultaneously! 

They stumbled to one knee after landing rough amid the microcosm of a hailstorm, sprinkling ice all around. Hellathen covered for Them by conjuring a lightning whip to lash out at the mages; they fumbled frantically out of range in between hurling snowstorms to slow them and boulders to knock them back. 

Fear hissed in delight at the primal terror fluttering their feeble hearts! Wrath cheered for the new one’s Noble Struggle! 

When the mages lulled, charging up more attacks, the two choice spirits pummeled two more binding pillars. A trio of boulders then knocked Hellathen back several paces—and with a roar of panic, it fell back. It was still ungainly in its unfamiliar new form. Imshael lumbered around to shield it and Called on another friend to lend a hand. 

“WITNESS GAXKANG—!” They held out a hand and clenched a fist, clenched the frail tethers of the mages’ souls through the lyrium in their blood—and Revenant-Pulled them all closer! They stumbled, slid, fell on their asses and faces before Them! All of Choice’s Voices laughed hysterically while unsteadily lifting one leg; two mages screamed and scrambled back while the third froze. 

Then the top half of him burst under Their clawed foot into a crunchy, splintery paste! They squelched and sprayed his blood and brain several paces in each direction like a rotting, bloated plum! They smeared it off Their foot and kicked the twitching legs behind Them and roared, “NEXT!”

They aimed the blood’s potent energy at the last pillar while Hellathen got to its feet, and the binding spell unravelled and snapped back into the woven Veil-fabric around them. The mages turned tail to flee… but that simply wouldn’t do!

...

. . .

.  .  .

Solas appreciated Ellana’s earnest effort to keep him distracted while they journeyed along the Imperial Highway. In truth, he greatly enjoyed sharing anecdotes from the Fade with someone open-minded enough to analyze and ponder each glimpse of history with him. He cherished each time they could discourse so openly, all the more so for how rarely they could do so among their companions or between their duties. 

He only regretted that he could not shake his worries to enjoy their conversation as she deserved. Even as they talked, he quietly drew parallels to similar discussions with Wisdom, and worried all the more, knowing the Anchor slowly leached the vitality from the Herald’s mortal form. Just as the waking world leached Wisdom of its chances to survive with each breath. The similarities were as mesmerizing as they were distressing. 

When conversation lulled, he redirected it, seeking after a futile hope that he’d nearly snuffed out. “What were you like before the Conclave?” They kept the mounts’ paces brisk, but the stag and mare fell into an easy rapport close together—well-mannered beasts both, a testament to their quality handlers. They hardly had to raise their voices, and they easily strode within arm’s reach.

The notion of being changed by the Anchor had begun to nag at him after examining and healing her hand that morning in the stable. Her magic and aura were quite distinct from the raw energy now imbued in her hand. He had to wonder: was her open perspective a result of her upbringing or the influence of the Fade? Could he dare to hope that at least some Dalish were introspective enough to spare rather than sacrifice? 

She searched between his eyes for a moment before shaking her head minutely and saying, “I’m not sure what you mean, Solas.”

He quickly clarified himself: “Has the mark affected you—changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?” He briefly mused over the blend of colors required to paint the dynamic hazel of her gaze as it softened, pondering his words. Flecks of gold flashed amid subtle sapphire streaks in a grass-green backdrop—the wilderness she wandered in dwelt in her eyes and soul.

She straightened and turned the Anchor to face her, casting an unfortunate, sickly green hue on the fresco he’d begun to construct in his mind. After a pause, she said more to herself, “If it did change me, would I know it?” Before he could comment, however, she briskly shook her head again and added, “I don’t believe it’s changed me… Why do you ask?” 

He gave her a small smile before scrutinizing the Anchor on her hand, which she self-consciously fisted against her thigh soon after. “You have shown a wisdom I have not seen since…”

Since I awoke and found myself surrounded by half-tranquil halfwits. Since I beheld the abhorrent state of the People with my own eyes, right before being chased away for speaking blasphemously of superstitions. Since my older agents learned to embrace this wretched world, and were replaced by short-minded mortals seeking to resurrect instead of replace. Since—

His breath stuttered ever so slightly as he broke eye contact, wincing. He amended himself immediately and ruefully. “Since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected.”

Ellana’s eyebrows quickly drifted toward her hairline, with a skeptical smirk to match. “What have I done that’s so surprising?” she lightly teased.

“You have shown subtlety in your actions. A wisdom that goes against everything I expected.” Some would go so far as to call it naivety at times, but Solas found idealistic conduct worth the risk of manipulation; under honorable rulership, bad actors could still be identified and excised. She underestimated the power she wielded in the Inquisition, but he had every confidence that leading the organization herself wouldn’t alter her course a bit.

If the Dalish could raise one such as her, have I misjudged them? Could Felassan have been right about the redeemable nature of this quickened world, after all? Could Choice’s commentary have merit: that seizing what’s next for the People takes precedence over exalting what’s left? …Do I misread my own fondness because she exemplifies the best of what’s left?

Ellana tucked an auburn strand behind her ear, glancing down between them as her smirk turned bashful and her cheeks dusted a faint pink. “The Dalish didn’t make me—well, not like you’re suggesting. The Keepers have always stood apart, to a degree… the clan raised me, but the decisions are mine.”

“And you are wise to give yourself that due,” Solas encouraged, “Although the Dalish, after their… fashion, may have guided you. I suppose that must be it: people often act with so little understanding of the world, but not you.”

His smile grew at the pleased, yet confused countenance that greeted him when they locked eyes once more. After a pause, she slyly asked, “What do you mean, Solas?”

They were close enough for him to reach over and cup her fist, clenched tightly against the Anchor. He automatically soothed the static down when her hand loosened, turned—and he gently but firmly clasped the shorter, frailer, marked, mortal palm in his ageless grip. It means I may have been wrong. It means my hope could be restored. It means my despair and regret may yet bear fruit worth harvesting… it means I might not die alone, after all.

“It means I have not forgotten the kiss.”

She took a faintly trembling breath, but before either of them could speak again, Choice cawed from high above their heads, and well ahead of their steeds. Solas could only assume they timed their interruption to maximize obtrusiveness… Ellana’s blush deepened, but rather than tug her hand free, she shielded her eyes with her other hand, and smiled wide while muttering under her breath, “I think someone’s missing his Lady Seeker, already…”

“Or simply missing a captive audience,” Solas irritably quipped. He trusted they could see his flat stare despite the distance.

Unfortunately, any sense of brevity over the interruption soon vanished as they started circling their way down toward the road ahead of them. Imshael dropped the last few feet in a shadowy cloak before emerging in their human form. They straightened and crossed their arms as the horse and halla faltered, before he and Ellana came to a halt a few seconds later. 

They uncrossed their arms long enough to jerk a thumb over their shoulder and drawled, “There’s been a massacre up ahead. Looks like an ambush gone wrong against mages.”

“Oh my…!” The Herald quickly glanced at Solas, who had gone unnaturally still, then urgently demanded, “What did you see?”

“Well, it looks like an ambush gone wrong,” they repeated sardonically. “Highwaymen versus mages. The mages apparently summoned a demon, then lost control of it. The whole lot of them are dead, but the demon’s gone still.”

Solas exhaled heavily past a sudden thickness in his throat and a cold weight in his heart. “My friend…!” With a growl, he spurred his horse and trotted around Imshael, then broke out into a gallop. Wisdom, no! Not like this!

The horse balked and skidded as soon as the Pride demon came into view on the Imperial Highway several minutes later, and with a distressed whinny, he let the panting beast stop on its own so it wouldn’t flee. He swung a leg to drop the instant it stilled and sprinted toward his friend, heedless of any danger. That it had stopped rampaging on its own boded well, and yet—

He took in the carnage of a dozen crushed, broken bodies; magically conjured boulders and the craters they were pulled from; shattered pillars of ice that must have briefly bound his friend; blackened streaks where lightning skipped across the earth…

Another growl cracked into an agonized groan for the fate of Wisdom’s purpose, sullied by being forced to kill. It was as good as dead, evidenced by the fact that the Pride demon left behind crouched on a knee in the middle of the massacre, awaiting its doom. The demon stirred with a slight growl in response to his hesitant aura, and nine black eyes slowly rose to meet his squarely once they were only a few paces apart. 

As gently as he could, he choked out, “Lethallin… ir abelas.” Solas barely heard Ellana’s halla’s light steps come closer than the horse would, followed by her feet landing and walking up behind him. 

Wisdom’s voice remained, as did its sense of self, even burdened by the cumbersome form it now bore. It replied, “Tel’abelas. Enansal ir tel’him. Var sulevin ghilana hanin: ir Hellathen, sahlin. Ma halani… Ma ghilani tel’hamin.” I’m not sorry. I rejoice for I am myself. Purpose guides us true: I am Hellathen, now. Help me… Guide me to my resting place.

Wisdom was gone, and something with an identity took hold in its place, with a name and a body it would forever struggle to contain. Solas dipped his head and squeezed his eyes shut against the hot sting of tears, knowing full well the only alternative was dissolution. Knowing that only identity would keep Wisdom’s memories whole, now. He was too late to save his friend.

He almost couldn’t bring himself to look back up at the newly named Hellathen, but he did so to honor what remained of its original, peaceful semi-existence. “Ma nuvenin.” He held out his hands, palms inward, and carefully unravelled the Veil that surrounded Hellathen, focusing to return it—them—to the Fade intact.

As Hellathen’s new form gradually phased from the waking world back to the Fade, they reached out and almost stroked a claw against his forearm, before it phased out of reality. They rumbled, “Ma serannas, lethallan. Revas nadas vir-anaris…” Freedom through strife… 

He murmured back, “Dareth shiral,” but they were already returned to the Fade, so they couldn’t hear him lie. Their journey would never be “safe” again... He dropped his hands to his side and slowly scanned the ambush site, willing his tears into submission at the sound of Ellana’s approaching footfalls. 

Her soft, lilting sympathy nearly sprang them up anew: “Even though it remembered itself, the mages turned your friend into a demon. Ir abelas, vhenan…” When he didn’t turn to face her, she moved to his side. 

After swallowing back his grief and regaining his composure, he somberly explained, “It will always remember what it was before, and suffer every time it succumbs to Pride. Eventually, what’s left of its nature will erode until only Pride remains.” He wanted desperately to go to the Fade at once, to where he usually met Wisdom, and try to find a way to restore it—but he dreaded facing the impossibility. The knowledge between them, vast as it was, knew of no such reversal. 

He turned stiffly in the direction of his horse and avoided the Herald’s gaze while muttering, “I need some time alone. I’ll meet you at the forward camp.” He briefly saw Choice crouch to retrieve a tome near one of the corpses as he returned to his mount.

Ellana waited where he walked away and softly answered, “Of course…” Neither she nor Imshael moved as he mounted and fled the grisly scene of his friend’s death—the beginning of Hellathen’s din’an shiral. 

...

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana couldn’t help but worry a little when she and Imshael made it to the forward camp and Solas wasn’t there yet. She knew he was used to traveling alone, and wondered if maybe he’d gone somewhere to Dream and find his spirit friend. Even though the spirit had said it was glad to exist still, being corrupted clearly upset him a great deal. She thought about asking Imshael to explain what corruption does to a spirit, since he would know… but she wasn’t sure if it was rude to ask a spirit such things.

Imshael stayed perched on the halla’s horn as a crow. She got the distinct impression that he was bored, but keeping her company to be nice… and when she thanked him for it, he cawed and whipped his head to face away. (She giggled when he fluffed up and started preening just a few seconds later.) He made sure to shapeshift back to human before reaching the forward camp, and tugged his greatsword out of one of his coat pockets. 

Lead Scout Harding hailed them with an infectious smile and a hand wave, then faltered as she dismounted. “Lady Herald! Is it only the two of you?” She asked warily. “There wasn’t any trouble on the Highway, was there?”

Ellana gave her a halfhearted smile back while explaining, “We found an ambush that went badly, but we’re alright. Our companion Solas took a detour, so he should meet up with us soon.”

As Harding sagged slightly with relief, Imshael asked, “How is bandit activity? The Nightingale told us to investigate the Grey Warden, too. We can probably find him before the other elf gets here.”

“Right,” Harding quickly replied, turning grave. She wrung her hands for a moment before abruptly straightening her posture. “There aren’t as many bandits as before, but the few that we’ve seen are staying close to Lake Luthias—right where the Grey Warden was spotted. At the crossroads, a displaced farmer named Giles told us that he had seen the Warden conscripting local farmers! Wardens don’t conscript recruits unless there’s a Blight, so everyone is worried about why he’s really here… Sister Nightingale advised us to steer clear of the area for now, so we don’t know much else.”

Imshael cocked a brow when Ellana looked his way. He chuckled with a half shrug, “Something tells me the landlord’s wife would hunt down anyone stealing her farmers, Blight be damned.”

Harding’s severe expression brightened a little at that. “I hope you’re right, ser. We don’t need a Blight or a famine! You’ll need to move fast if you want to approach Redcliffe before it gets dark…” She looked around for a moment, then braced herself with a sharp breath. “Maybe I should go with you, just in case. If there are bandits along the way, three is better than two.”

Ellana smiled both at Harding’s enthusiasm and at Imshael’s snort. Such an ass… he loves letting people think he’s only one person. Ellana accepted Harding’s offer. “The sooner we find out what the Warden is doing, the better everyone will feel—and the sooner we can help the mages at Redcliffe. We’d be glad to have you, Harding.”

“Of course! Let me tell the other scouts where I’m going.” 

They only idled for a few minutes while Harding found some of her scouts scattered around the campsite; Imshael strolled off, and Ellana meandered the central stage. After a moment, she realized she’d been circling an Inquisition banner... She stopped before it, chewing her lip, and wondered if hanging the Night Elves’ banner somewhere would be considered inappropriate…

“Glaring back at the eye?” She jumped and immediately chuckled at her own inattentiveness, turning to Scout Ose, who was standing off to the side. He held up his hands and quickly added, “Sorry to startle you, Lady Herald! You seemed quite intent on winning that staring contest.”

“I was just wondering whether we could hang other banners, actually,” she admitted sheepishly. “Except, I’m not sure if that’s offensive, or sends the wrong message or something…” He waved a hand dismissively at the banner before dropping his hands.

“It’s there to let others know who to expect. It sends whatever message you want it to.”

“I… see.” She felt rather presumptuous at the thought of hanging the banner without knowing whether the rest of the people present approved of it. After all, they weren’t all elves, and they didn’t conduct night raids. Then again… “Strike your enemy like a silent arrow in the throat” seemed like a powerful message for the Inquisition to wield, especially their scouts. Plus, they were a local regiment… 

She abruptly asked, “Have you ever heard of the Night Elves?”

Ose scoffed, though not rudely. “Who hasn’t heard of the Night Elves around here? They were as popular among city elves as the hero of River Dane was among humans. Every flat-ear from here to Highever knows them.”

“Flat-ear?!” she exclaimed. Who in the world looks at pointed ears and thinks ‘flat’?

Ose grinned ruefully and flicked one of his own ears. They weren’t as long as hers or Solas’, but certainly not flat. “City elves like me. It’s what the Dalish call us. You’ve never heard it…?”

“O-oh my. How rude!” She’d heard derogatory terms for humans, but never their own! The southern clans really are quite a bit harsher, after all… Her cheeks burned more out of indignation than embarrassment; that the Dalish could spurn their city cousins so cruelly never crossed her mind. Her clan’s best swordsmen were runaways from the city! They excused away the different ear lengths by assuming it was due to mingling with humans (just as they excused their lack of vallaslin because they converted to Andrastianism). 

Ose shrugged off her awkwardly long pause. “Highever treated me kindly when I was a lad, and Redcliffe treated me well enough after the Fifth Blight.”

Relieved, Ellana blurted out, “I’m glad to hear it. And I’m glad we’re here together now.” Ose’s eyebrows shot up—and after a delayed panic, Ellana turned to the banner and begged her ears to stop burning with her cheeks, now mortified. “W-with the Inquisition! Because they treat everyone equally. That is, I—erm.”

Desperate to reel her fumbling thoughts back into order, she waved at the banner and mumbled, “One of Dennet’s horse trainers gave me a banner for the Night Elves, but I wasn’t sure if it would be appropriate to fly it. T-that’s what I was thinking about.” She took a long, slow breath and prayed it wasn’t noticeable as Scout Ose stepped a little closer. 

When she nervously glanced at him in her periphery, his gaze was fixed on the banner, too, blushing with a slight smile. He said, “The Night Elves struck fast and true. We’d be honored to fly it.”

They both glanced behind them at the sound of trotting footsteps: Scout Harding was finished with her preparations. She nodded to them and said, “Ready when you are, Lady Herald! Scout Ose, I’m counting on your sharp ears and eyes while I’m gone.”

“Right!” Ose quickly saluted Harding, then started to do the same to Ellana before she held out her hand. Clasping her forearm instead, he chuckled breathlessly and said, “Safe travels, Lady Herald.”

Harding looked around as he departed, then pointed when she spotted Imshael at the edge of camp. As usual, his back was turned to the people, waiting where the terrain became a rocky, perilous descent into the heart of the Hinterlands. He turned slightly as she and Harding drew near, then shot her a wide smile over his shoulder while wagging his brows. 

“My teeth would have ached if I got any closer!” he taunted—and she darted her gaze to the ground, mortified all over again.

“Imshael, please stop sensing things!” He tossed his head back with a bark of a laugh, but didn’t tease her any further while she bolted ahead of him to start their search.

Harding reminded them of a cabin in the area and suggested the Warden might have moved into it once the mage-templar fighting had stopped. They had cleared it their first time through, and Ellana distinctly remembered the rickety walkway over part of the lake… It would be an easy place to defend, but it would also be easy to get trapped in. 

Surprisingly, they encountered no bandits the entire way—something Harding found suspicious. When the cabin was in sight, Harding said, “I think I should stand watch on this side of the dock, Lady Herald. Something doesn’t feel right…” 

After an unpleasant pause, Ellana confirmed, “The wildlife has gone quiet.”

“I’ll get up high and watch your backs.” Harding grabbed a loop of rope from her belt and beelined for a nearby tree. 

As she tossed the rope around a trunk, Ellana urgently asked Imshael, “Do you sense people around us?”

“They were here first, which means their target is the Warden, not us,” he drawled, calm as you please. “And the Warden has just as many recruits with him on the other side of the cabin. We could wait somewhere and see what a Grey Warden’s capable of?”

“Wha—don’t be ridiculous! We’re going to warn them—”

“And shoo off the bandits rather than kill them so they can’t harass anybody else?” Before she could answer, he stepped on the walkway and lightly nudged her arm with his elbow. Over his shoulder, he sassed on: “Master that fear, Keeper! Knowing about the trap makes it ours.” She sighed in exasperation and trotted after him to catch up, making sure to plant her feet flat to avoid splinters. 

As they neared the cabin, she heard a gruff voice barking out instructions amid a clamor of shields. “Here, and here. Parry over when you can, block and step back when you can’t. One step, then stance again! Remember: you’re not hiding, you’re holding.” They rounded the corner of the cabin and caught sight of over a dozen recruits paired off and practicing with real blades, while a grizzly, dark-haired man walked down the line, watching. He, too, had sword and shield ready—presumably to demonstrate.

He spun on his feet in a way she could tell was practiced, and immediately planted them wide when he turned and spotted her and Imshael; she raised her free hand in a placating gesture and called out, “Blackwall…? Warden Blackwall?” 

He stalked closer with his shield at the ready; the other recruits startled and spun to face them behind their shields as well. She took in how his blue eyes raked over Imshael first, then her, assessing the immediate threat, and shivered at the goosebumps that prickled her front. He was ready to kill.

Blackwall started barraging her with questions faster than she could answer them: “Who are you? How do you know my name? Who sent—” She gasped at another run of goosebumps on her spine and realized the ambush behind her was starting! At the same time, his eyes widened and flicked over her shoulder, and he yanked her closer and threw his shield around her back. She flinched at the sound of a wooden thunk! as an arrow lodged itself into it. 

Several yells erupted far behind her, and she stumbled past the Warden and started casting barriers for the briefly panic-stricken recruits. She noticed at once that they were all in plainclothes: farmers, not fighters. 

Blackwall snapped the arrow off his shield and yelled, “We deal with the bandits first! Men, to arms!” He and Imshael spearheaded the recruits toward the walkway as several swordsmen charged across it. One yelped and tipped over into the water, then another, felled by arrows to the back from Harding in the distance. 

Another tingle off to one side drew Ellana’s attention from the ambush toward the cliffside, and to her shock, a pair of archers peered down from a high cave ledge. She fired an arcane bolt at each of them to force them back, nearly struck them when the bolts moved faster than usual, then charged up a lightning strike. She glanced back briefly at the fight back on the ground, then up again—and as soon as one archer peeked over the rocky ledge, she discharged the static blast. 

She gasped and fell back a step at how violently the staff recoiled after loosing the bolt; the ozone in the air stung more pungently, and the flash had turned faintly purple like a desert storm did. The cave ledge all but shattered, and the archers were long dead before they dropped into the water with the rubble. She shuddered at the static prickling around her after the blast and moved closer to the soldiers on the ground, now scanning the cliffs and trees for more ranged bandits.

A farmer fell with a sword run through him, and the bandit wrenched the sword out before charging her way. He wasn’t ready for an arcane bolt to the face, but kept charging, forcing her to dodge by rolling to one side, pinning her back against the cabin. She charged up as he shook his head, turned—and discharged a smaller static bolt than before since he was much closer. 

He crumpled in place, limbs jerking erratically. His eyes burst in an instant and his clothing smoked under spots on his armor that faintly glowed where electricity leaked from him. Burnt leather now assailed her nose with the ozone and hair, and she knew the source: his feet had sparked all over the wet ground and briefly ignited—as had his head. Blood oozed sluggishly from every orifice.

Her insides churned from the horrific image as she faced the fighters again with a shaky gasp. The last three bandits fell in short order: one from behind by Harding, one by Blackwall, and one by a younger, stronger farmer among the recruits.

She darted forward as soon as they all grew still and checked on the recruits who had fallen. Three were dead, but one had taken a stab to the knee and moaned pitifully while turning to prop himself up.

It was a complex piece of anatomy, and she briefly lamented that Solas wasn’t there. Still, she set her staff to the side and quickly soothed the man’s pain while examining the injury from within with her second sight. When she set her staff down, the man grunted in surprise at the sight of the green glow marking her hand. “You’re the Herald…!”

“We’re here with the Inquisition, ser.” She kept her voice calm and soothing, like her healing magic, as a few people crowded in. She numbed the screaming nerves and twitching tendons to numb the man’s pain first. “We heard farmers were being conscripted and that the people were worried about a famine. Is everything alright here?”

Blackwall’s voice cut in over her head: “Maker’s balls… These bandits were terrorizing the area, so I conscripted their victims. They had to do what I said, so I told them to stand. I never planned to make them join the Wardens.” A few of the recruits murmured around her in agreement. 

She smiled at the wounded farmer and said, “That’s good to hear. You know how rumors can get, sometimes…”

“I ‘eard about wot you did for Master Dennet,” another said. “Got ‘im watch towers an’ charmed a wolf pack to guard their land. Can you do i’ again?”

She briefly shut her eyes at Imshael snickering somewhere further back. “We’re working on more watch towers now, and Master Dennet agreed to help the Inquisition patrol the area with his horses and towers. The bandits are staying in the southern region, so travel in groups when you can while we rout them out, alright?” After another small round of agreement, she focused harder on the injured knee.

She drowned out a conversation that started between Blackwall, Imshael, and Harding (who must have approached after the fighting finished). She couldn’t replicate the intricate weaving of body fibers like Solas did, so she had to “feel out” where tendon and sinew, muscle and blood vessels were, and try to mimic their “texture” magically to encourage the damaged tissues to rebuild. 

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed entranced and embedded in the wound, and she paused a few times to examine the man’s other knee to make sure she wasn’t misplacing anything… By the time she stopped, her mana and focus were both thoroughly spent. With a heavy sigh, she told the recruit, “We have a better healer who can finish this, if you’re willing to wait at the crossroads camp, ser.”

The man gingerly straightened his knee, bent it, massaged it, then said, “It feels fine now, Lady Herald. Are you sure I can’t go back home?”

When she faltered, uncertain, Imshael dryly suggested, “Let’s see if he can walk, eh?”

Her own legs wobbled when she stood, and she flexed her numb toes against the flattened grass while the man slowly got to his feet with a hand up from Warden Blackwall. The other recruits had left while she was distracted, and the people who had died were piled up near the back of the cabin against the cliffside. The three farmers were laid out separately, with their arms crossed over their chests.

The man took a few experimental steps, then crouched a few times. “Feels good, Lady Herald—better than ever.”

“Please don’t strain it for the next few days, the new tissue is not as durable as the old yet,” she warned, and he nodded while beaming. “Stretch and exercise it gradually back to your usual strength.”

“Yes, Lady Herald—thank you, Lady Herald.”

Blackwall gruffly stated, “Next time, you won’t need me. Go on home: you’ve saved yourself.” 

“Maker go with you, Lady Herald, Grey Warden.”

After the man left, Imshael nodded his head toward the pile of bodies and groused, “Best get the fun part over with, Keeper. You get to light the pyre this time.” She nodded and rubbed her eyes, then dug through her pockets for a small lyrium potion. She wouldn’t need much… The four of them paused at the three farmers.

Blackwall grunted, “I don’t know their names, but I know which farms they’re from. We should get them to their families.”

“They already knew their men might not return,” Imshael immediately objected, shrugging with a bored sigh when the other three shot him a glare. 

Frowning, Harding countered, “I can get some of our scouts to take them home. It’s not too late to meet the Tevinters—u-unless you’d rather wait, of course, Lady Herald.”

Ellana turned her gaze to the corpse pile, letting the lyrium potion seep through her insides and faintly flushing her skin as it spread. When she didn’t answer right away, Imshael drawled, “Your mana’s spent, Keeper, and magisters will know it. Another day in the Hinterlands probably won’t kill us.” She couldn’t help but snort softly, and Blackwall chuckled dryly under his breath.

“Right… and we haven’t met up with Solas, yet. We’ll take care of these bodies, then fall back to the forward camp for the night.”

Imshael hummed in confirmation, then moved over to her side and gestured to the corpses. “Just like the other elf did with the last pyres, then.” She shuddered with a wave of chills all over, and she almost panicked, thinking another ambush was at hand—but then she realized it was Imshael pressing in on all sides from... somewhere that wasn’t.

She sucked in a sharp breath to fight off the sensation of being slowly smothered in a vacuum, and focused on a point above her staff to ignite a fireball. She then kept her attention there to ignite two more in rapid succession while shooting them at the bandit bodies. Imshael’s weighty, demonic presence rushed forward with the last one, and the flames that took hold swayed with the motion even though the air itself didn’t move.

The conflagration bloomed to engulf the pile in barely a second. “Wow…!” Harding gasped softly, standing beside her. “I heard the other scouts talking about these pyres you were building. So this is what happens when mages and templars combine their power?” 

Blackwall scoffed at that. “Can’t say I’ve seen a templar fight that brutishly before.”

Imshael cocked a brow and sneered over his shoulder at the Warden, “Happens to the worst of us, eh? I got my hands on lyrium by smuggling, not serving the Order.”

The Warden hummed in clear displeasure, but after a moment, he grumbled, “The Grey Wardens take all kinds, as well. It’s never too late for an outlaw to atone, and there’s no shame in serving a noble cause like what the Inquisition’s been doing around here.”

Imshael muttered under his breath, too low for human ears, “Even if the noble cause is impotent, no doubt.” Ellana could only imagine what he thought of the Grey Wardens, after his outburst with Varric back at the villa—not to mention his ability to soothe blighted lyrium. 

Her musing suddenly reminded her of their mission, and she turned to face Blackwall, frowning. “We came here to find out what you knew about the Grey Wardens disappearing. The Inquisition is concerned that their disappearance may have something to do with the murder of the Divine.” Sister Leliana had warned her to phrase her words carefully, to avoid mentioning the Elder One or red lyrium… just in case.

“The Grey Wardens and the Divine?!” Blackwall grunted, eyes wide. “You can’t be ser—No, you’re asking so you don’t know. Truth be told, I didn’t know the Grey Wardens had disappeared; I’ve been recruiting on my own for months. But I’ll tell you one thing: no Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political.”

“I see.” All Ellana could see was another dead end... “Why didn’t you disappear with the rest of the Wardens?”

Blackwall shook his head slowly, now looking worried as well as confused. “Maybe they’ve withdrawn to our stronghold at Weisshaupt to the far north…? Or maybe we received a new directive that a runner got lost. I expected to recruit on my own for months. Years.” 

He waved toward the three dead farmers and muttered, “Grey Wardens can inspire: make you better than you think you are. When demons started flying out of rifts, attacking the farmers, I protected them the best I could. Then I heard about bandits stealing their supplies and rallied them to stand and fight.”

Ellana nodded and turned back to the pyre, holding back a small sigh as the contained inferno started billowing dark smoke. “Thank you for your work in the Hinterlands, Ser Blackwall.” 

But where does that leave us? The Wardens are gone, and a blighted magister attacked the Conclave. They should have known it was coming, right…? Leliana was counting on this lead. She smiled tiredly at Imshael when she realized he was squinting over his shoulder at her. He looked forward and released his hold on the enchanted fire, letting the smoke rise with only a charred heap left behind. 

He dusted his hands on his trousers and turned to shrug at Harding. “I suppose that concludes our investigation—not that it answered anything. Those were some good distance shots, by the way!” 

Harding tsked and gestured quickly to Ellana, then overhead to the cliffside. “You didn’t see her light up those archers in the cave over there! Or make another guy’s eyes and feet explode!”

Ellana groaned with a disgusted shudder—and then turned queasy as she stared down and realized some of the bandit’s foot ichor had splattered onto her own legs and feet. “Oh, don’t remind me...!” 

“Oh… sorry, Lady Herald…” Imshael nudged a water skin into her free hand even while chortling and walking toward the docks. She took a few deep breaths before sipping down some cool water, willing her nausea (and the mental image) to subside. 

Warden Blackwall’s ice-blue eyes softened sympathetically when she nodded at him and said, “Stay safe, Grey Warden. Thank you for speaking with us.” She and Harding made to follow after Imshael...

When they stepped onto the walkway, Blackwall called out, “Inquisition. Herald.” When she stopped and turned, Blackwall was sheathing his sword and propping his shield on his back. Harding stopped with her, but Imshael kept on walking. Blackwall said, “The Divine’s murder… Thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved. If you’re here to restore order, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me. We’ve got ancient treaties, and a Warden’s word still means something.”

Ellana chewed her lip while staring down between them, pondering. She knew everyone was obligated to help the Grey Wardens during a Blight, but what good could the treaties serve without proof of a Blight? After a moment, she hesitantly asked, “I appreciate the offer, but… what can one Grey Warden do?”

Blackwall snorted, icy eyes crinkling in wry amusement. “Save the fucking world, if pressed.”

...

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael tried to shoo the others ahead of them to no avail, so the blasted party waited while he went through a few caves along the sheer side of the Hinterlands. He plucked Crystal Grace flowers (among other things), having spotted them the last time they were in the area. He didn’t explain their actions despite the slight delay, smirking at Blackwall’s obvious suspicion. 

The “Warden” wore a hodgepodge of armor pieces, a salvage shield with the emblem covered, and a mercenary sword—yet fought with footwork that spoke of professional training. He had the rougher Marcher accent, but enunciated certain syllables like an Orlesian. And he disapproved of dishonorable conduct. 

{Former chevalier?}
Eeh. Not pompous enough.
(Like the self-hating half-breed!)
[Abundant self-hatred detected…]
Too much beard for a half-breed, though.

Solas awaited them at the crest of the incline when they got back; the Keeper quickly paired off with him, asking if there was anything she could do to help, and Imshael only rolled their invisible eyes. Among the memories scavenged from Hellathen were many conversations and journeys with the Wolf. He’d gotten a clear glimpse of how Solas felt about their kind rather than what he thought of them.

Imshael hated few things more than sleep: among them was pity. As ever, the Wolf assumed death was the end of life rather than the opposite. Two sides of a coin were minted on the same blasted gold. Based on the fact that Hellathen kept their encounter secret, they may have even reached the same conclusion (albeit less cynically).

Speaking of coins... He followed Harding as she called for a few scouts to help transport the dead farmers back to their families. She intended to go back out to the field with them (as did Blackwall), so he pulled out a few of the Crystal Grace flowers to tuck into the dead men’s hands, and funerary tokens to lay over their eyes. Blackwall scrutinized them with keen interest as Harding handed him the flowers, then looked at the gold-plated tesserae with The Ferryman stamped on one side. “What are these for?” she asked curiously.

Imshael crossed their arms with a haughty sniff, chin high and off to the side. “There’s an old Tevinter superstition that a ferryman guides your soul to the Crossroads. Not that anyone can tell the difference between a soul and a spirit these days. Place the tokens over their eyes to pay the ferryman’s toll. And keep their eyes shut, obviously.” 

Shuffling the Crystal Grace flowers in his hands, Blackwall muttered, “Unexpected.” Harding bit back a small smile as Imshael scoffed and waved them off while stalking away.

He barked over their shoulder, “Do not tell the Herald, eh? Her eyes are too big and sparkly, already.” Blackwall coughed abruptly to hide a snort as Harding waved him and the scouts to follow after her, giggling.

Next, he found a spot to start pulling out their camp gear near a cooking fire. The sun was just setting when Solas and Ellana found them, and they set up their tents while Imshael pestered the cook on duty to fix his pot of stew with their spices and herbs. The whole blasted forward camp would benefit from restorative herbs in their gut that night, including the Keeper.

Finally, he hunted down a wash basin and all but fled the camp so they could wash off and carve gold out of their blood. He had not been pleased to find that their Pride form now bore a patch of soft, spiky gold in place of solid rock armor for flesh. 

The first titan bled gold.
[A willing sacrifice.]
{No more faith!}
(Bleed it out!)
{Danger!}

He filled up the tub, enchanted it, stripped and tossed their clothes in, and furiously dug between two ribs with a shard of red lyrium with gritted teeth and total silence. The first flask they filled swirled gold and red, then the next three were liquid gold. Like before, he let the bleeding stop on its own, then sighed while depositing the flasks in their pocket. 

The hardened leech chrysalis in the vial had begun to form scales. (He gave Minaeve the regular one for her own research.) He contemplated culling the thing changing form in the vial but dropped it back into the unmodified pocket: Better to know what kind of scaly monstrosity I’m mutating into. 

Next out came a mortar and pestle—along with the rest of the crystal grace, rashvine, embrium, elfroot, demon weed, and nettle. He mused over the “field report” Cassandra would be expecting while plucking leaves and scraping out stem innards, and a slow grin split their face. He dried the ingredients between their hands with blasts of heat from Wrath, then crumbled them into the mortar to grind them into powder. Then, he added water to the mortar, followed by an alkahest rune to dissolve the ingredients.

He had to do this several times for all the ingredients, to then add the rock armor solution to their waterskin. He kept some in a thicker paste form and smeared it right over the holes they'd gouged into their side, hissing faintly at the dull grey that crackled over their skin. I can handle the extra rashvine with the crystal grace and demon weed added.

By the time he returned with the wash basin and a sore side, night had fallen, and some of the camp had gone to bed. Harding, Oser, and Blackwall sat around another cook fire with the stew; the lute-scout softly sang something familiar enough to make them squint at him, thinking they might be hallucinating the Song. Red lyrium did that, sometimes...

“It’s hard to say that a mage walks a straight line. You see, our path tears the sky into fault lines. It’s in our blood, it’s in our lungs, and it won’t die! We fight these words and bite our tongues, so we don’t lie… Do templars see and believe in the short sight? Accept the burn of a vein, and a half-life? Why do we rest our faith in priests and not our brides? A hollow lie against our hope: now we won’t buy…”

Now he knew why Oser had been asking the Keeper for song lyrics… and the Keeper had conveniently gone to bed, already. Blasted little long-eared pest sounds better than me. Korth’s cock. He choked down some of their tonic before putting the wash tub away, then fishing out some parchment, charcoal, and a tome from their mage coat draped on their sword.

Tucked in the thick book was a crystal grace flower he’d grabbed and pressed during their last trip to the Hinterlands. It was in the cave near the red lyrium cluster and their dead contact; the delicate pistils had rung out of tune due to being warped by the red lyrium.

He snickered while folding a fresh sheet of parchment around it and sliding it into the Lady Seeker’s envelope, then scrawled out and added their “report”. If her Maker had a sense of humor, her companions would catch a peek.

...

. . .

.  .  .

     Lady Seeker,

Once upon a time, creatures that resembled Pride demons roamed the land. They mingled with beasts and men in ways both endearing and sinful! When their rocky joints rusted in the rain or stiffened with frost, they ate Crystal Grace flowers to loosen their limbs. To this day, Crystal Grace remains a crucial ingredient in Rock Armor tonics, allowing the user to move freely while hardened against blade and claw. 

I also heard that mortals use these flowers at funerals! You’re good at sending people to theirs...

In some ways, you soften me, but in other ways, you make me quite hard! 

(Warden Blackwall has joined the party. Approaching Redcliffe tomorrow.)

     —Im

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

       Imshael.

You neglected to mention any pertinent information on the Grey Wardens gained from Warden Blackwall. This had better not be from simple-minded oversight.

Please investigate the village until I return and re-join the party. We shall attend the clerics’ council this morning and depart at once.

       —Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.

…
. . .
.  .  .

Imshael tucked their letter under a wrapped sleeve with a mollified smirk while the Keeper pored over hers some more. The Lady Seeker had cut and blotted the parchment on a few upstrokes in her fury. And yet she remembered to write ‘please’. Manners where you least expect them! 

With their objective delayed (as they always somehow were), they were in less of a hurry to leave camp than usual. All the better, while Imshael painstakingly digested the Keeper’s blasted nightmares. Fearlings chased her on footless stumps with eyeless holes oozing blood until the wildly flaring Anchor woke her up in the middle of the night. He devoured the memories of those nightmares the instant her awareness returned, and Solas rushed to her tent to calm the mark. 

Their waterskin of already-disgusting tonic now held dandelion root and raspberry leaf teas to offset the discomfort… He glared balefully up at the second moon at the reminder, smoothing their fur mantle over the mage coat. If Korth could fall back into the Waking Sea right about now, that would be ideal... Alas. As though keeping secrets works. 

They declined to take any scouts with them into the village for now, but stayed with them in camp long enough to make rose tea for the bleary-eyed Keeper (and for Solas to fuss over her like a typical pup). They did take the impostor Warden when they finally left the forward camp, reaching the crossroads around mid-morning. Imshael veered from the party a few times whenever he spotted extra marshy areas where bog moss grew and gathered it in a sack. 

The impostor trailed after them like a suspicious second pup while Ellana and Solas checked on the refugees at the crossroads. At the far end of the camp, Imshael perched on a log and started heat-drying fistfuls of moss while Blackwall watched. “...How are you doing that?” he eventually asked while side-eyeing them.

“Pure rage.” Imshael quipped back.
“I didn’t think you were a mage.”

“You thought right, then,” he sighed while piling up dried moss. He’d pocketed their sword to complete the magey ensemble, too. “Once upon a time, a big bad ‘Vint made a deal with a fiery, ragey demon. Try not to shout about it when we’re in polite company, eh?”

Blackwall shuffled his feet into a battle stance while resting his hand on his sword, brows furrowed. “You’re joking. An abomination? You?”

He tsk’d and gestured at their body. “Do I look like a mindless monstrosity? More importantly, I’m the lyrium expert—and the Inquisition lets me traipse about with the herald willingly. I’m too useful to kill… not that killing me would actually stop me.”

“Unfortunately, I think I believe you,” Blackwall groused slowly, without easing his stance. “So, what would a demon need moss for?”

“Females use cloth-wrapped moss for extra padding in their smalls. You see, when a girl becomes a proper lady, a regular cycle of bleed—”

“Maker’s balls!” Blackwall nearly shouted, eyes wide. He shook his head rapidly while angling away, now flustered at Imshael’s peevish grin. “Never mind! I don’t need to know about the Lady Herald’s bloody cycle.” ...After a pause, they both snorted at the pun. 

He drawled back, “They’re for my cycle, not the Keeper’s.” 

“Wait—You’re a woman?”

“Between my horns and my tits, I’ve got two racks to grab onto!”

“Oh, for—” Blackwall stomped a few steps away at their petty chortling, beet-red in the cheeks. 

Imshael had the sack of dry moss stashed away by the time the other two joined them, ready for Redcliffe Village. Nothing seemed different from overhead when he’d surveyed it in the night, but an eerie, subdued demeanor permeated the area when they arrived. 

While wandering the streets, they met a revered mother who prayed that the Keeper was the Herald of Andraste, after all. That she would believe whatever saved lives and restored peace to the world—a surprisingly pragmatic approach to belief (despite the appalling sartorial choices). She also reported her concern that the magisters now commandeering the village laughed when they saw her or heard her mention the Maker. 

Not far from the priest lurked an elf mage who approached when they finished speaking to her. He called himself Lysas and revealed that he was present when Fiona and the mages voted to abandon the Chantry, but no longer wanted to follow Fiona and her doomed plan to enslave the rebels to the Imperium—more specifically, to Magister Gereon Alexius. 

“Alexius is the magister who has taken the castle, then?” Ellana asked. “Was it Fiona who invited him to Redcliffe in the first place?” At these questions, Lysas quailed, looking around furtively. Rather than answer, he begged them to meet him at the Gull and Lantern, where they could speak more privately. The party exchanged wary glances while the elf all but fled their company. 

Imshael sauntered off a few minutes later at the sight (or rather, the second sight) of a lay sister who’d gone unnaturally still upon seeing their party. Not only did all her fear senses scream the desire to avoid discovery, but her beady eyes and weathered complexion hinted at a poorly worn disguise, not sequestered Chantry life. “We’re here with the Inquisition,” he greeted with a genial smile and no preamble. “And I hear you’re in a position to facilitate certain, business arrangements.”

He tugged out a scrap of parchment and scrawled the Mockingbird’s and Harding’s information, then rolled it up and handed it to her without further explanation, save: “You could do better with us!” He leered when the fear freezing counterspace around her stirred with greedy ambition, instead. Whatever business she was doing on the side was worth stealing from the Inquisition’s competitors. 

When he turned to rejoin the party, they were nowhere in sight. Eeh. Time to explore, I suppose... It didn’t take them long to find the most interesting Redcliffe trinket yet: a well-concealed abomination! The two of them locked eyes instantly, sensing each other’s field-matrix boundaries. The host, a human male, seemed utterly unaware of the Desire demon prowling the edge of his aura between waking and dreaming.

The man waited for Imshael to approach and pinched his brows fretfully. “You and your companions… did my father send you?” the man asked. 

Imshael arched a surprised brow at that. “We are here to investigate the trouble with Redcliffe and that magister. Is your father the arl?”

“He was; he has since retired to Denerim... My name is Connor.” He shook his head at the ground. “I was afraid to show myself when I got here. Then, I heard the grand enchanter indentured everyone to a magister, and helped him expel my uncle and his men!”

“Something tells me the mages did not all agree to Fiona’s choice,” Imshael prodded, and Connor flinched. 

“No, not at all,” he admitted. “But the people who spoke against it were silenced in a hurry. They—” he paused, glanced over his shoulder, then pointed to a hut behind him, not far from them. “They made the loud ones Tranquil, and…” With a defeated sigh, Connor finished, “I’ve thought about asking to be made Tranquil before, so I can never become an abomination again. But the Tevinters turned them into something worse than monsters.”

Imshael managed not to scoff or laugh at the irony, but only just. He jerked their chin at the hut and said, “They did something to the Tranquils and objectors in there, eh? What about the not loud objectors?”

“I don’t know. I snuck away when I saw—” Connor gulped back whatever he was about to say. “The only other mages out in the village now are the magister’s men, so I don’t know what’s become of the rest of the rebels who objected to Grand Enchanter Fiona’s decision. Please… try to save them if you can.”

Imshael blinked a few times when Connor turned to scurry away. “Eeh. I take it you’re not waiting for your uncle?” The edges of their senses prickled as the Desire demon, leeching off the lad’s aura, consumed a fleeting desire to reveal himself to the village. 

Connor then hunched his shoulders and muttered, “I don’t want Redcliffe to know I’m here. I’ve burdened them enough.” And with that, Desire steered him away to safety, heading for the Hinterlands. Whether it perceived Imshael as a threat or had an easier time feeding on Connor in solitude, he couldn’t say for sure… He carefully stretched their senses out and detected the Keeper’s Anchor at the tavern, likely meeting the elf Lysas to learn something similar. 

He then heaved a resigned sigh and headed for the hut that Connor had pointed out. He left the door open behind them and ignored a few panicked glances and whispers from onlookers to scan the room. He collected some research notes off the floor, tossed them on the table in a pile, then plucked fourteen fresh soul-jewels from their skulls. He was idly examining the carvings on the pillars when the party caught up with them. 

Solas’ aura felt around and flared slightly when he sensed them, then led the others to the hut. Ellana’s eyes were extra big and sad when he turned and patted one of the pillars. “Looks like we’ve found the people responsible for the skull poles, eh?” He opted to leave out the encounter with Connor, since they weren’t in the mood to oversee a dormant abomination. 

Solas saw the papers on the table first and picked up a page while the Keeper hesitantly approached the wall of skulls. Clenching her staff tight, she quickly shut and scrubbed her eyes, then murmured some Dalish prayer under her breath; meanwhile, Blackwall stayed in the doorway, looking grim and glancing over his shoulder a few times. 

Solas solemnly handed her the notes when she turned away from the skulls. He said, “The Tevinters must have brought people here to make them Tranquil, then force a demon into them, in order to make these skull displays… along with those Tranquil who did not leave sooner.”

Blackwall grumbled, “I had wondered what became of those poor souls when the Circles collapsed. Now we know.”

Ellana scanned the note before murmuring, “And all just to gather more of those shards… What could possibly be so valuable about them?” It occurred to Imshael just then that the advisors still hadn’t told her what they’d told them. Alas. As though keeping secrets works.

“The shard left behind is a personality fused to a spirit and crystallized.” When the others looked their way, he tapped their temple with a mischievous smirk. “Eating one lets it grow in you like a seed; it will feel and think the same way the abomination would have—which is why they use Tranquils with no personality. A Tranquilized seed will grow to match your personality, instead.”

Ellana crumpled the paper in her hands a little from gripping it so hard, before looking back at it. Softly, she said, “When we first found them, you said the shards used to be a form of currency…”

“The first elves had no way to, eh, procreate for a long time. But they could purchase perfect copies of themselves, which they would then feed to their favorite worshippers. Much more dedicated than vallaslin! Only Dirthamen knew how to recreate the original personality, though. These blank seeds are the best anyone else can do.”

The Keeper gathered up the rest of the notes without looking up, frowning. “I see… thank you, Imshael. I think Cassandra and Minaeve will both want to look into this.”

She startled when Imshael strolled toward the door and paused to pat her shoulder awkwardly. He reminded her: “Be proud to replace them, not to wear their skin.” The guttered torch of her sad little heart brightened with hope despite realizing her long-eared gods started the practice.

She swallowed, then asked, “Doesn’t it feel like… like being a cheap copy of the originals, though?”

Imshael scoffed while Deceit prodded at her spine to straighten it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, since we’ve been upgraded.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Before Imshael could slip past Blackwall, the man gruffly cleared his throat and muttered, “We’ve been spotted.” Ellana quickly passed the notes over to Solas (who stored them in his travel satchel) and rushed over to the other two with her staff gripped tightly. 

For the briefest moment, her panic at being discovered snooping about the enemy’s territory warred with outrage over what they’d done to the Tranquil. The few that Levyn saved couldn’t possibly make up for it, and the Inquisition had been nearby when they first started erecting the pillars! It was too late to save them, but they could still make sure justice was served—somehow.

Ellana nudged past Imshael and Blackwall to finally see one of these Tevinter mages for herself; a young human man in red and white layered robes sprinted toward them. He slowed and lowered his pointed hat, which she noticed vaguely mimicked the shape of pointed ears. He breathlessly exclaimed, “Agents of the Inquisition! My apologies: Magister Alexius is now in charge, but wasn’t prepared to receive an envoy. He’s expected shortly—” 

He paused while the others gathered around Ellana, then turned and waved a hand toward the tavern in invitation. “You can meet with the former grand enchanter in the meantime, if you’d like. We’ve arranged use of the tavern to negotiate.” She was about to ask what in the world he meant by negotiate, but he immediately started walking toward the Gull and Lantern, dismissing any further talk altogether. 

He slowed to look back—to make sure they would follow—and Imshael and Blackwall automatically moved ahead of her like they had during yesterday’s ambush. Solas leaned in and murmured at a low volume, “It seems they do not realize you are the Herald, yet. That could prove advantageous, to gauge how they treat the Inquisition more directly.” She nodded, and they took off after the other two. 

The Tevinter “guided” them through the now-empty street and to the now-empty tavern; Lysas and the barkeep had both fled or else been similarly “escorted” out of sight. Ellana hoped the former for Lysas’ sake. From what he told them, only a few of the rebel mages had successfully snuck out of the castle ever since they’d been pledged to the magister. 

An elf woman in Circle robes waited patiently with her back to them as they were ushered into the tavern by the Tevinter. When she turned, she lifted her chin and addressed them more calmly than their escort, but the tension in her posture spoke volumes about how tenuous the situation was under the surface. “Welcome, agents of the Inquisition... What has brought you to Redcliffe?”

For now, Ellana kept her own posture relaxed and her grip around the branch tight to hide the mark on her hand. However, she couldn’t help but pause as her mind reeled: Sister Leliana’s letter said they had just met the grand enchanter! What’s going on? She hastily recollected her composure and simply answered, “We’re here because of your invitation back in Val Royeaux.” 

The woman, presumably Fiona, pursed her lips into a slight frown and furrowed her brow. “You must be mistaken—I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.” 

“If it wasn’t you who invited us here, then who was it?”

Fiona’s composure briefly cracked as she shuffled on her feet with a noticeably shaky breath. “I… I don’t know. Now that you say it, I feel strange.” 

Imshael cut in from behind Ellana, sounding bored: “Memory tampering, eh?”

And Solas quickly warned, “A hallmark of blood magic...”

Fiona’s gaze turned to the doorway rather than either of them before quickly moving on. “Whoever, or whatever brought you here, the situation has changed. The free mages have already… pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

“I understand that you are afraid,” Solas countered, “But you deserve better than slavery to the Imperium.”

“As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.” Fiona regretfully shook her head, then everybody shifted as the tavern door swung open just out of sight. 

Imshael said loud enough for the newcomer to hear: “Riiight… so who is in charge, now?” The man who came around the corner left his hood up, and his robes were all red instead of red and white, and lightly armored. 

His eyes darted across each of them before settling on Ellana, after realizing the other three were shielding her. “Welcome, my friends! I apologize for not greeting you earlier.” 

Fiona moved around them to stand behind the magister, beside another younger man who resembled him. She said, “Agents of the Inquisition: allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.”

“The southern mages are under my command,” Alexius declared in a tone as imperious as his introduction. He narrowed his eyes and curled a sly smile. “And you are the survivor, yes…? The one from the Fade?”

Ellana took a slow breath and stepped ahead of the others to stare Alexius down; Fiona gasped from behind him when she moved her staff to her unmarked hand. His smile widened as he slowly said, “Interesting…”

“I’d like to know more about this alliance between the mages and the Tevinter Imperium.” She kept her voice civil and refrained from demanding to know what he’d done to the people who disagreed with it. She knew; they all knew, and if he found out they were snooping around the hut, then he knew that they knew about the Tranquil as well. The only “safe” action she could take at that moment was to learn what he had done to the survivors.

“Certainly!” Alexius agreed. “What specifically do you wish to know?”

Ellana gestured toward Fiona: “The Grand Enchanter told me she was, indentured to a Tevinter magister.”

“Our southern brethren have no legal status in the Imperium. As they were not born citizens of the Imperium, they must work for a period of ten years before gaining full rights. As their protector, I shall oversee their work for the Imperium.” She frowned minutely at the way he phrased himself: it sounded well-rehearsed, and it felt utterly fake. 

How many have they enslaved with the same offer? “Protecting” so many mages must be costly, and the mages would be expected to return it with interest… She nodded and moved on rather than pry any further on those sordid details. “I’m not clear on when exactly you negotiated this arrangement with Fiona.”

“When the Conclave was destroyed, these poor souls faced the brutality of the templars, who rushed to attack them!” He turned and beckoned Fiona forward, who obliged without meeting anyone’s gaze. “It must be through divine providence that I arrived when I did.” 

Fiona then fixed Ellana with a sharp, defiant glance and noted, “It was certainly, very timely.” 

Internal alarms rang at that. Tevinter was already here the first time we came to the Hinterlands. And she supposedly just met Leliana and Cassandra this morning or last night! The timing is what stands out about it all… could she mean that they were already in place, because they predicted and orchestrated it? ...That doesn’t explain being in two places at once, though. Something’s very wrong here.

She wanted to nod to Fiona, to give a hint that she understood at least some of what she was secretly trying to convey, but Alexius dismissed her with a wave, and she stepped back. She asked, “What does the Imperium gain from taking rebel mages under its wing?”

“For the moment, the southern mages are a considerable expense...! After they are properly trained, they will join our legion.”

Fiona darted forward again with a startled, furious scowl. She cut the air with her hand and snapped, “You said not all of my people would be military! There are children—those not suited!”

Alexius lifted his chin and retorted without looking at her: “And one day, I’m sure they will all be productive citizens of the Imperium—when their debts are paid.” Peering down his nose at Ellana, he went on. “I’m not surprised you’re here: containing the Breach is a feat not many would even attempt. There is no telling how many mages would be needed for such an endeavour! Ambitious, indeed…”

She almost dropped her jaw at the audacity as he waved her toward a table and ordered his son Felix to fetch a scribe. She heard Solas shuffle uncomfortably behind her before she followed after Alexius. So he wants to negotiate the mages, themselves? Loan them out like tools? Wait… if they’re indentured to him, they’d have to report back to him what went on in the Inquisition. He might even force them to with blood magic…! 

Since he assumed the Inquisition was here for the mages, and he was technically correct, she went along with the ‘negotiation’. She bit back a shiver of revulsion and sat across from him, then asked, “Does that mean you’ll lend your mages to our cause?” 

Felix returned, and Alexius nodded to him with a smile before starting to answer. “There will have to be—” He looked back suddenly toward his son, eyes wide, and when Ellana followed suit, she realized the younger man had stumbled. He straightened and started toward them again, then swayed and fell forward right at her!

She gasped and cushioned his head against the table corner with her hand—and nearly dropped the scrap of paper he shoved into her other hand while he was out of his father’s line of sight. In a flash, Alexius bolted to his feet and around the table to help his son up by the shoulders, all pretense gone. “Felix!” he urgently called out. 

In a seeming daze, Felix shook his head and said, “I’m so sorry…! Please forgive my clumsiness, my lady.” Whether it was a ruse or not, the man genuinely seemed unwell or had been recently ill. 

“Are you all right?” Alexius asked, low and worried. 

“I’m fine, Father.” Ellana and Alexius both gently coaxed him upright again.

Alexius frowned between his son and her, then quickly said to Felix, “Come: I’ll get your powders…” To her, he shot a warning glare despite the brevity that returned to his voice. “Please excuse me, friends! We will have to continue this another time. Fiona, I require your assistance back at the castle.” 

Fiona rushed to the magister’s son, who mumbled, “I don’t mean to trouble everyone.” 

Ellana and her party followed after the others, but paused when Alexius turned to them one last time. “I will send word to the Inquisition. We shall conclude this at a later date.” She waited several seconds after the door slammed shut behind him, leaving them alone in the tavern, before she unfolded the note Felix had slipped into her hand.

       Come to the Chantry.
      You are in danger. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Solas, Ellana, and Choice all detected danger emanating from the Chantry at the same time. The Herald cried out that a rift was within; Solas confirmed unfamiliar disturbances in the Veil; and Imshael warned that demons had appeared. An unfamiliar, but distinctly Tevinter magical aura flared up just behind the door, which Imshael reached first.

They briefly pushed Ellana back, growling at her to wait while they checked inside to confirm the mage was not hostile. Somebody called out, “Oh, good, you’re finally here! Now help me close this, would you?” They tossed the door open and charged through first, while Ellana darted after them, preparing a barrier spell. 

Imshael suddenly skipped to a halt and threw out their hand again to catch the Herald and tugged her close. “Look,” they pointed just in front of her at a spot that faintly wavered. “Like the lenses. Avoid them.” 

“Right!” Ellana cast shields around everyone else while Choice pointed out the same distorted space to Blackwall; Solas moved around them, avoiding the distortions, and loosed an ice attack at an oncoming Rage demon. Blackwall bashed a shade away from Ellana, who distracted another shade flanking the foreigner with several arcane blasts. To Solas’ surprise, the simple arcane attacks were stronger and faster than usual, dealing more damage than he’d expected. 

Solas prepared to move, but refrained as Imshael’s awareness unfurled into the entire room with an unearthly chill. Their presence gathered around the distortions: any space that slowed down instead of speeding up, they shrouded in foglike shadow. The spaces that would have slowed them down dissipated in the seconds it took to destroy one shade and the Rage demon, but two fearlings and another shade emerged from the rift just as quickly.

Imshael punched an oncoming fearling that leapt at Ellana, laughing far too enthusiastically when it billowed into fat flakes of smited ash. The stranger destroyed the first shade and targeted the third while Blackwall attacked the second fearling, and Solas drew the second shade’s attention. Ellana rushed to the rift, still dodging warped spaces, and threw out her hand toward the sputtering tear between worlds. 

They destroyed the last of the demons just before the rift snapped shut, untangling and re-weaving back into itself in a blink. With it went the distortions, which Solas watched slow down—but they seemed to morph seamlessly back into reality without a trace of magic involved. They all shuffled for a moment while assessing each other for injuries, then the stranger who’d been expecting them. 

Solas and Choice exchanged a skeptical glance: it was rather convenient for such a rift to appear just as they arrived, and not earlier when they’d all been close enough to sense it. It hadn’t been here before meeting the magister...

The new mage who greeted them was well-groomed and tailored after the Tevinter fashion, though dressed for travel, unlike his peers in the village. He calmly hitched his staff to his back and took each of them in, eyes bright and curious rather than suspicious. Indeed, Solas suspected almost immediately that guile did not come naturally to this Tevinter—also unlike his peers. 

“Fascinating!” the man breathed, and gestured to the Anchor. “How does that work, exactly?” After a drawn, confused pause from the party, he chuckled, “You don’t even know, do you…? You just wiggle your fingers and boom. Rift closes!”

Ellana shook off her momentary stupor and blurted out, “Who are you?”

“Ah—getting ahead of myself again, I see!” The man dipped into a flourishing half-bow. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

Imshael scoffed. “Did the peacocks finally grow bored of Qarinus?”

Dorian hummed in amusement, “I’ll admit, I thought the place had grown rather quaint before visiting the south. Do I know you, by any chance?”

“Let’s hope not,” they drawled back. “House Hait’s been struck from any records past the Glory Age.” 

Dorian winced sympathetically but didn’t pry any further. “Well, that’s unfortunate.” 

Ellana cleared her throat over Imshael’s snicker and dipped her head to Dorian. “I’m Ellana of Clan Lavellan; this here is our Fade expert, Solas, and Warden Blackwall. Imshael is our lyrium expert. The note Felix gave us didn’t mention you…”

“Magister Alexius was once my mentor,” Dorian explained, “so my assistance should be valuable—as I’m sure you can imagine. Felix was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father.”

“Alexius couldn’t jump to Felix’s side fast enough after he pretended to be faint. Is something wrong with him?”

“He’s had some lingering illness for months,” Dorian frowned, despite waving a dismissive, lighthearted hand. “Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen, most likely.” 

Ellana didn’t notice Imshael giving Blackwall a sidelong stare, before cocking a brow at Solas. Solas shook his head ever so slightly. He’d sensed the Blight in Felix, too, however faint—but if he’d had symptoms for months, then he was already too far gone. Whatever strange medicine Alexius was using to stave off the Blight, his son would eventually turn into a ghoul. Death was a merciful alternative. 

She asked, “Are you a magister?”

Dorian heaved a long-suffering sigh at that. “Alright, let’s say this once. I’m a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know southerners use the terms interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”

Imshael jeered, “The so-called Imperium is run by a Senate, and they elect enough mage and non-mage Senators to match the population. Magisters are the Senators who represent mage citizens. More of a republic than an empire… ”

“Little wonder you’ve been exiled, Master Hait!” Dorian quipped with a smile. “Calling it a republic infers that the Archon is but a figurehead. It’s treason on principle! True or otherwise.”

Imshael crossed their arms and squinted back. “Remind me again how many slaves it takes to secure an extra vote? Three for mages, five for soporati? I bet a horde of indentured legionnaires would give Alexius considerable sway within the Magisterium, even temporarily.”

“I—Oh.” The young mage’s bravado faltered at the severe expressions the others leveled him with. “I’ll admit, I hadn’t considered the political and military ramifications for Alexius’ actions... Maker’s breath.”

Imshael shrugged it off with a petulant smirk of their own. “Happens to the worst of us, eh? Trading live stock is one of those necessary evils the Ambassadoria and Magisterium send Carta and praesumptors to manage when nobody’s looking. I’ve smuggled more than lyrium before!” Now the outraged glowers all centered on them—including Dorian’s—and they basked in the scrutiny, conceited and unfazed.

Solas couldn’t rein in his ire as quickly as the others, and Choice met his gaze squarely while the Herald asked Dorian more about the note. They hadn’t been in contact while Solas recovered his strength, since they never dwelt in the Fade willingly. He certainly understood that they were beholden only to their own gain, but to undertake the very activities they so abhorred and rebelled against in the past…! 

Dorian’s sigh caught Solas’ attention, forcing him to focus instead of ruminating on what had gone so awry for Imshael to betray their own ethics (such as they once were). Dorian said, “Look. You must know you’re in danger. That should be obvious, even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the rebel mages out from under you: as if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right! To reach Redcliffe, before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.” Imshael immediately leaned their head back to roll their eyes toward the ceiling, but said nothing. 

“Oh my…!” Ellana gasped.

“That is fascinating, if true,” Solas interjected, “And almost certainly dangerous.” 

Dorian went on. “The rift you saw here: you saw how it twisted time around itself? Sped some things up and slowed others down? Soon, there will be more like it—and they’ll spread further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unravelling the world.”

“Time magic is impossible,” Imshael snapped, still glaring at the ceiling. “Time isn’t a thing, just like waves on water aren’t a thing. It’s what a thing does, which is seem. Time seems to slow down after eating certain mushrooms, too! That’s not bloody time magic. Objects seem to speed up or slow down relative to subject.”

Dorian propped a hand on his hip with an indignant huff, brows angled down. “I know what I’m talking about. I helped develop this magic… in theory, at least. Alexius could never get it to work before now.” He then wagged his fingers derisively and sniped, “And what would you call it, pray tell? A self-induced stupor that somehow also permits inconceivably fast travel?”

Imshael heaved a sarcastic bark of a laugh. “Close enough! But if you want accuracy, call it subspatial dilation and compression. You manipulate the ability to perceive, nothing more. If it happens beyond the perceivable senses, then yes—it can seem to happen impossibly fast. But Alexius didn’t need to manipulate time to get here in the first place.”

A new voice interrupted from the still-open Chantry door. “He’s right, Dorian. Father had knowledge of the Conclave beforehand.”

Dorian brightened at the sight of Felix, and they all shifted to make room for him (except for Imshael, who refused to budge while muttering that they were always right). “Ah, took you long enough! Is your father getting suspicious...?”

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card,” Felix sighed, rubbing his temple. Up close, Solas could more clearly see the deep shadows under his eyes, and makeup around his throat concealed darkened veins. “I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.”

Ellana stepped a little closer and asked, “You said he already knew something about the Conclave?”

He nodded, pursing his lips for a moment—as though physically resisting the urge to betray his father. “He’s joined a cult: Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves Venatori, and I can tell you one thing for certain. Whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

Ellana took a measured breath at his revelation before continuing. “Alexius is your father. Why are you working against him?”

“For the same reason Dorian works against him. I love my father, and I love my country… But this? Cults, time magic? What he’s doing now is madness.” Solas bit back the urge to tell Imshael to stay quiet as they again muttered ‘How very spartan of him…’ too low for the humans to hear. Felix finished: “For his own sake, you have to stop him…!”

With a significant sideways glance at Choice, Dorian added, “It would also be nice if he didn’t tear a giant hole in time. There’s already a hole in the sky.”

Imshael immediately, petulantly, retorted, “It’s a subspatial warp, and it’s a hole in the Veil.” They snickered under their breath when Ellana shot them a warning look, then tossed a hand in dismissal and swaggered away toward the Chantry doors to leave. Blackwall cleared his throat and hastily excused himself, as well. 

She waited until they were gone before asking Felix, “Why would he distort time and indenture the mage rebellion just to get to me?”

“They’re obsessed with you, but I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“You can close the rifts,” Dorian suggested, waving to where the time-warping rift in the Chantry had been. “Maybe there’s a connection…? Or they see you as a threat.”

“If the Venatori are behind those rifts and the Breach in the sky, they’re even worse than I thought.” Felix shook his head and scowled at the possibility. The Herald bit her lip for a moment, looking from him to the door with an unspoken question in her eyes. 

Solas felt a longstanding tension in his shoulders ease, knowing the Inquisition was one step closer to undoing Corypheus’ work. Regardless of whether Dorian or Imshael were correct regarding time magic, that the Venatori had made use of it so quickly spoke of more foresight from the darkspawn magister than Solas had anticipated. Indeed, his advancement seemed unduly precipitous… Solas would rather that be the result of time-altering magic than drastically underestimated competence.

“Do you have any suggestions?” Ellana asked the Tevinters after a long pause.

“You know you’re his target. Expecting the trap is the first step toward turning it to your advantage.” Dorian glanced around them all, then said, “I can’t stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way for now. But, whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there.”

“Oh! Why don’t you stay at the forward camp with us, then—in the Hinterlands?” Ellana immediately offered. “It’s, erm, it’s probably not the comfort you’re accustomed to, but any friend of the Inquisition is welcome.” 

Dorian chortled. “Ah. Shall I present myself as the good Tevinter relative to the bad one you brought with you?” The rest of them smiled or chuckled as he made for the door; by comparison, Dorian’s sanctity was secure. “In that case, I’ll see you again shortly. Oh, and Felix? Try not to get yourself killed.”

Felix’s smile turned wistful as they all watched Dorian depart. “There are worse things than dying, Dorian…” 

Before he could leave as well, Ellana tentatively caught his arm. He and Solas both raised their eyebrows at the familiarity. “Before you go, I was wondering... Do you have a map of Redcliffe Castle? Or, could you draw it from memory?”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Blackwall clopping after them out of the Chantry was all the warning Imshael needed that he was cross with them, even without seeing their rage erupt into a bonfire in his shadowy spirit. The Warden growled with his hand on his sword, “I thought you were having a laugh at me earlier, but I underestimated you. Abomination, smuggler, slaver? Explain yourself.”

Imshael rolled every eye they had, arms crossed and facing him down in the street outside the temple. “I’ve already been through this with the blasted advisors, so no. Don’t go rummaging through other people’s dark wardrobes, eh?” 

Blackwall bristled (insofar as bristling even more was possible). “I know the wrongs I’ve done in my past. More importantly, I know that they were wrong in the first place. I can tell you don’t think like we do, feel like we do. You don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, do you?”

“Oh, I know what I do is wrong—I just don’t care what other people who do the same and worse have to say about it. Neither would a real Grey Warden! If you were one, you’d know that Felix brat is sick with the Blight. If you were a Warden, you’d either recruit him or put him out of his misery before he turns.” 

Apparently, that was enough to shut the impostor up for the moment: he blanched under his scraggly beard and glanced around for eavesdroppers. After scaring Blackwall half to death by shapeshifting (and cackling through their beak about it), Imshael flew up and out of sight to watch out for more Venatori. 

They watched Dorian head toward the docks and enter what seemed to be an abandoned shop. Felix, meanwhile, beelined straight to the castle—slipping into a side entrance meant for servants. Both avoided Venatori agents now patrolling the streets after their party’s unexpected visit. 

The Keeper was practically a blinding ball of lightning when she came out of the Chantry, after giving Felix time to leave the area. They smirked internally, watching her aura squirm in agitation—not anger, but excitement detached from emotion. Antsy. She looked around for a moment, then back to Solas, who nodded his head toward Blackwall, who irritably pointed up to them, perched on a tree branch in crow form above him. 

She waved for them to follow, and they took to the air in smug satisfaction while the Warden caught up to the elves. The party kept a brisker pace than before, eager to leave the village now that it was dotted with eventual enemies looking for them. She waved them down as soon as Redcliffe was out of sight; rather than shift human again, they circled a few times until she figured out to hold out her arm. 

They crowed another laugh at her exasperated sigh when they alighted. “Imshael,” she chided. “Is it true, what you said? You’ve smuggled slaves before?”

They bobbed their head yes in sync to her hasty steps, then squawked in protest when she nearly shook them off her arm. “How could you?! You told us what Dirthamen did to you!” They simply fluffed up and turned away for a petty non-answer. She huffed again, then asked, “How… erm, how hard is it to steal people? How many at a time?”

Their caw rose in pitch the same way they typically said Eeh? Blackwall snorted at the absurd sound from Solas’ other side—then remembered that he was supposed to be angry and broody, and grumbled into his beard with a scowl.

Solas irritably pinched the bridge of his nose. “Imshael, please shapeshift back so we can speak. This is serious.” Imshael clicked their beak a few times, fluttered up to the Keeper’s shoulder, and nuzzled her earlobe until she giggled in delight before taking off again. Solas’ glare would have turned them to stone, ordinarily! Heheh. 

He dropped to the ground in human form at the Keeper’s other side and laced their fingers behind their head. With so few bandits in the northern Hinterlands, they took no particular formation and all walked in a row.

“How hard and how many, eh? That depends on how many smugglers are moving the slaves around and how many are guarding them.” After she flickered and flashed against their periphery for a few seconds, he taunted, “Is the Keeper thinking of trying something sneaky...?” 

Solas shot them a dire frown. “Not all of the mages agree with Grand Enchanter Fiona’s decision to enslave them, but fewer would be willing to risk an escape. And it would be unwise to rouse the magister’s anger with the rebels so vulnerable.” 

Blackwall stumbled as he realized what they were discussing. “Escape? You want to try to sneak an entire shipment’s worth of mages out of there? Redcliffe Castle has withstood hundreds of assaults, the Blight, and an undead invasion! With all due respect, my lady, don’t be daft.”

“But we know a secret passage!” Ellana quickly protested, glancing between them all. “Oh! Also—” she frantically rifled through her pockets before whipping out her letter from earlier. Imshael reared back when she damn near slapped their face with it. “Look! I didn’t say anything earlier, but Leliana and Cassandra met Fiona this morning. Whatever, time-space-warping they’ve done to get the mages, I think we still came here faster than they expected us. That’s an advantage we could use, isn’t it?”

Imshael leveled her with a long, skeptical stare until she withered under the scrutiny to calm her down—then skimmed her blasted letter. Internally, however, they were positively chortling at the irony. The Wolf’s aura was thrashing as erratically as she was for different reasons: panic. Just like old times, eh, Wolf? This used to be you.  

Herald.  We encountered Grand Enchanter Fiona, leader of the rebel mages, on our way to Val Royeaux. She has invited us to meet her in Redcliffe as soon as our business in Orlais is concluded. Please wait for Seeker Pentaghast to join you before meeting the mages and the Tevinters at Redcliffe Castle. There may be hope for peacefully relocating the rebels.    —N. 

Imshael handed back the useless letter and drawled, “There are easy ways to travel large distances: Fade-stepping, magic mirrors, blah, blah, blah. They can even be used to move small groups of people in the right conditions. However, the Warden is right about the castle. Having a secret passage isn’t enough: we don’t know how many Venatori are inside, we don’t know their patrols, and we don’t know which slaves are actually being held against their will.”

Ellana’s face fell at their nonchalant shrug while Solas added, “Imshael warned us of agents among the rebels from the very start. Some Venatori could still be hidden with the southern mages, posing as sympathetic rebels. Though well-intentioned, it’s much too perilous. Ir abelas…” 

She looked between them all again before frowning at the ground while they walked. The light in her dimmed, though her aura seethed even more out of sheer spite for trying to be restrained. Imshael stared ahead and folded their hands behind their head again, smirking while she briefly despaired. He slowly mused, “It’s quite hopeless without a massive diversion to draw the Venatori’s attention away from them.”

“Imshael.” If Solas thought he could dissuade anybody with that warning tone, then they had unfortunate news for him. Ellana ignored him to face them expectantly, to their total delight. He couldn’t smug any harder if they tried (nor could their trousers tighten much further). 

“A diversion…” she repeated under her breath.

Imshael hummed pensively for a moment. “We’d also be outnumbered, so delegating flexible who's matters more than any of the how’s.” He canted their head to wink at Solas, mouth slightly agape at the horror unfolding before him.  “It means improvising more than planning, since plans will always go poorly.”

Solas snapped at both of them, “It also means jeopardizing the reputation that the Inquisition has desperately tried to establish! You are speaking out of turn and without the advisors’ awareness, knowing they would never sanction such an ill-conceived heist.” 

“Heist does imply the cargo is valuable, eh? Heheh.” Solas and Blackwall shook their heads incredulously at their glibness. 

Ellana continued, blazing back to life from within. “Right… Alright, I have a map of the castle, and Felix said he has a secret way to contact Dorian, but he has to be careful with it. I—I don’t know what could work as a distraction, though…”

“Herald… please reconsider,” Solas beseeched her again, and she quickly turned to him.

From Solas’ other side, Blackwall tensely added, “My lady Herald. You’ll lose some of those mages as casualties in the process, and some of your own men, too. I admire your dedication, but don’t think for a second that this will go well just because it’s noble.”

She tapped her staff against the ground more forcefully with her frustration: “Now that Alexius knows I’m here, he could try to take the mages away sooner—or worse! You saw that wall of skulls! I’ve been in danger since the day I fell out of the Breach, anyway. Surely we can do something, while they’re fumbling to catch up to us, right?”

When she looked their way for support, Imshael cocked a brow again. “Don’t forget, Keeper, that some of the rebels do want to go to Tevinter. You have to be willing to leave imbeciles to their fate.”

“I... of course.” She thumbed the letter in her hand, and they travelled the rest of the way to the crossroads in a taut silence. She stopped them long enough to chase down a healer she recruited from Redcliffe, while a few people lingering about approached them with greetings and blessings. 

Corporal Vale mentioned that a bear had been spotted east of the crossroads; it wasn’t an immediate threat, but its meat would last them a long time if they had the opportunity to kill it. For the moment, he still only had one proper hunter, ill-equipped for the task. Even Blackwall clapped shoulders with a few people: he told one refugee, “I tried to do what I can here, but with the Inquisition, I can do more. You know how to reach us—rain or shine, demon or darkspawn.” 

Imshael took flight when they were clear of the crossroads to inspect the bear, which turned out to be a great bear. They then soared along the western Hinterlands to review the camps and winding paths through the farmsteads toward the villa. Might be better to cut through the crossroads. Then prepare for reprisal. Maybe seal off the southern path to Redcliffe temporarily—force villagers to take the Highway with the forward camp as an additional barrier. 

They re-joined the party before ascending the steep path to the forward camp. The first thing Ellana did was dictate a return letter to Scout Ose to encrypt and send to the Mockingbird. The poor scout nearly had a fit when they started arguing amongst themselves again, whether to sneak into the castle and whether to tell Leliana about it first! Alas. As though keeping secrets works. Their squabbling soon drew Harding’s attention, and the Keeper nearly had the lead scout ready to take up arms with them when she started crying about the hut of skulls.

Solas looked prepared to kill them specifically, while Blackwall started heaving sorry sighs, resigned to the harebrained but well-intended mage heist.

Before Ellana could scurry around with Harding and Ose to rally the rest of the camp in her fervor, he tugged out her banner from their mage coat and nudged her with it, wagging their brows with a conspiratorial grin. She must have forgotten that she asked them to hold it when they left Haven. “The more, the merrier, Keeper!”

Imshael flew back to Redcliffe and swooped down on a few very unfortunate Venatori patrolling the streets. Then, he scoured their memories, swallowed Silent Tears charged with their own demon-infused blood, and returned to the castle complaining of sickness and faintness. In the makeshift upper-floor barracks, he knocked them out one by one with magebane sedatives. They wouldn’t be waking up alone ever again!

He sauntered right back out in their stolen robes with the arrogant Venatori none the wiser, preoccupied as they were with daydreaming of the upheaval they’d soon be shipping to Tevinter. The Elder One will hold the reins of the legion and the Magisterium; they’ll have a true magocracy once again; blah, blah, blah...

…

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana was beyond relieved to discover that, once she explained why she wanted to sneak into the castle, at least half of the scouts in camp agreed to help. The ones who refused, too afraid of Leliana’s and Cassandra’s retribution, were still willing to take action once the mages were in the Hinterlands, where they had some jurisdiction. 

She rushed back to Corporal Vale at the crossroads with the same plea for help; he agreed to send a mounted soldier to each campsite and to light signal fires atop the watch towers in case any fleeing mages got lost. Some of the crossroads recruits also agreed to take part, or else to stand by for any agents escorting injured mages to the healers. 

By the time the sun was low in the sky, the Inquisition had lookouts along the Highway to the windmill and south through the Hinterlands, to the crossroads, and to the villa.

Solas and Blackwall had given up trying to dissuade anyone from the rescue mission once Ellana and Scout Ose hung the Night Elves banner. (They also refused to acknowledge Imshael once she returned with disguises and information about the inside of the castle.)

They drew out and passed around copies of the castle map, now marked with the trapped mages’ locations. Three mage agents joined Ellana and Solas while three non-mages followed Imshael and Blackwall. Imshael insisted on having a team without mages so she could ‘go on a smiting spree’. (Ellana wasn’t sure why she decided to go in female form, except perhaps to be even more distracting in her glittery tunic.) When the Venatori were focused on them, Ellana’s team would slip into the dungeons and start releasing the mages a few at a time.

Dorian appeared at dusk, just as they finalized their plans and gathered at the edge of camp by the Highway. He slowed while strolling through camp toward Ellana and Solas, glancing around at the harried Inquisition scouts, then her and the mages in stolen robes—then exclaimed, “Good heavens, did I miss an exceptionally controversial costume party? I’m wounded!”

Ellana pointed toward Redcliffe Castle’s main road while Imshael chortled from several paces away with the diversion team. “We’re sneaking into the castle to save the southern mages while the others distract the Venatori from the outside. Erm, you might want to warn Felix to avoid us…?”

“Maker’s breath, are you mad?” Dorian’s brevity fled him fast. “You do realize Redcliffe is impenetrable, yes?”

“Wrong again, Pavus!” Imshael crooned, grinning just as madly as Dorian probably thought they were. “We learned a secret passage from the arl. Make your choice, ‘Vint! Good guy freeing slaves, or bad guy by association?”

Dorian straightened with a lofty scoff, then pulled his staff from his back and dryly retorted, “Well, when you put it that way, I have no choice but to outshine that abysmal bejewelled drapery you call a tunic.”

“This jade is authentic, thank you very much! Have fun, Keeper: move when your side of the castle goes quiet.” Then, to Blackwall and the scouts going with her, she shouted, “Gather close!” They broke out into a trotting march down Redcliffe’s main road, and then—

Gone.

Ellana gasped while Dorian flinched. She only caught a glimpse of the warped lens effect before it seemed to suck away from them in a blink. “What in the—” Dorian sputtered. “What did she just do? Who was that? That almost looked like…”

Ellana quickly stammered, “Imshael can shapeshift man or woman, a-and the rest is a long story. We shouldn’t waste any time.” 

“Agreed,” Solas said gravely. He had already stated more than once that, although he disagreed with her decision to attempt a rescue effort, he would support her. Still, his expression was now completely unreadable, which was usually his way of hiding disapproval. “Let’s make sure we are in position to sweep the dungeon as quickly as possible. We will most likely find dissenting rebels there, with voluntary servants guarded on the main floor. Dorian, here is an extra map, if you please.”

Dorian plucked the map from Solas and narrowed his eyes while looking it over. “Ah, and thank you… Solas, was it? I daresay Alexius won’t be expecting a maneuver like this! I’m touched that you were listening when I suggested turning his trap to your advantage. Shall we proceed, then, my dear?”

…

. . .

.  .  .

        Nightingale,

I’m afraid the Tevinters who have seized Redcliffe Castle are already deeply entrenched. We were in the village for hardly an hour before they “escorted” us to the tavern to meet Magister Gereon Alexius, and the former grand enchanter. Luckily for us, Alexius’ son Felix and his former apprentice Dorian have betrayed him to tell us everything they know. 

Alexius is part of a cult of Tevinter mage supremacists called the Venatori. This must be the same group Imshael informed us of, led by the Elder One. They have developed unstable rift-like magic that seems to distort time itself; they used this to make Fiona approach you and Cassandra a few hours before meeting us in the village. She became disoriented when I asked her about this, so the Venatori may be manipulating her and others with blood magic, altering their memories in the process.

We found the remains of the rest of the Tranquil and learned their fate. Unfortunately, some of the mages who objected to being enslaved joined them. We’ve collected the research notes that were in the area. I also invited Dorian to join us so we could learn more about the strange time magic Alexius has used against us. 

You asked us to wait to meet the magister and Fiona, but we did not expect them to approach us in the village. We did not anticipate the precariousness of the situation in Redcliffe.

I apologize for any overstep. 

       —Ellana of Clan Lavellan

...
. . .
.  .  .

       Lady Seeker,

Trust is a different kind of fall. Haven’t you “fallen” for me, yet?

(Included is a rough sketch of the Night Elves banner. Bird’s-foot trefoil flowers are pressed onto the dogs’ paws.)

       —Im

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

Imshael became briefly nostalgic for the company of a pebble while Faith-stepping the diversion team to Redcliffe Castle. Arvid would have enjoyed mocking the human-child architecture. And Varric’s bow would be helpful right about now. Alas. They passed by the windmill, well ahead of the rescue team, and straight toward the castle gate. 

The Venatori kept the main gate closed, but not barred, confident that no enemy could approach it without their knowing. (Apparently, they still thought very little of Templars back in the Imperium outside of decorative, drug-peddling playthings.) Imshael shook off the faint red haze of bloodlust tinting the edges of their sight as their team slowed down along the main road. 

She turned and tossed their hair over a shoulder, flashing the lute-scout and another bowman a winning smile. She held their arms out and pointed to the rocky ridges to either side of the road. “The two of you get up these cliff sides, eh? When I stifle their magic with a Fortress or Smite, that’s when you move into range to kill the ones on the battlements—one side at a time.”

“Yes, ser!” They quickly saluted, then split off to either side to ascend the rock walls rising around them—leaving Imshael, Blackwall, and another Inquisition soldier with a sword and tower shield. She crouched to tug a small knife from their boot, slit open the meaty pads under their thumbs, then returned the knife. 

A slow, manic smile split their face as she rubbed their hands together like a starving fly at a corpse feast. “We’ll take one gate tower at a time. I’ll draw them up to the top; you two come up the stairs behind them and ram your swords up their asses and out their mouths. Fall back if you get injured. The closer they are to me, the weaker their magic will be.”

Blackwall heaved yet another sorry sigh. “I don’t suppose it’s too late to talk you and the Herald out of this madness?” he tried one last time—and grimaced when Imshael just smiled a little wider. 

“We’re who the Inquisition sends to do dirty work, Warden. Let’s do that while our resident hero saves the damsels in the dungeon! A bag of pearls says I’ll kill more Venatori than all four of you combined.”

“Maker’s balls… Make it a bag of pearls each, just for the trouble.”

Imshael chuckled at Blackwall’s resignation. “Done!” With that, she crouched again, leapt, and took to the air in owl form, startling the other two. Charged by blood, the corrupted bird shape revealed nine Pride eyes on its face and two pairs of twisted horn-feathers. Elongated, serrated claws clacked together in contrast to their otherwise total silence. 

Ah… swooping.

They flapped up until they caught a gently rolling thermal off the high rock walls, staying low enough for the humans to see them, and sailed toward the left guard tower. At the faint brush of mage auras, they flared their wings and ascended just out of range… Once the breeze changed angle, they tipped forward and cut through it into a sidelong dive.

A mage guard sensed them just in time to turn and get an eyeful of claws, but they drowned out his screech with their own as they gouged, then kicked off and shapeshifted human again. She slammed a Mental Fortress down around them the instant their boots hit the stone, followed by a blood-charged gut punch that winded the Venatori’s lungs and mana reserves! Imshael cackled in the mage’s wheezing red face while shoving him over the battlement to his death. 

She pointed a finger at the next posted guard that came running, staff charged, before Scout Ose sent an arrow hushing through the air and through his throat. He still cast an impressive fireball as he stumbled with a strangled gasp, but they bounced it back with a bloody palm. He burst into flames as he fell and rolled, then tried to scream but could only gurgle through the immolation! 

Imshael spun on their heel with an utterly girlish giggle despite splitting into multiple demon voices halfway through. “Next!” She beckoned coyly to two, three, five mages that poured out of the watchtower, abandoning their card table and alarm bell. 

She ignored the battlement guards behind them for Scout Ose, now; she batted away another fireball, ducked a boulder with an absurd demon-woman squeal, reflected two rounds of three arcane blasts, then charged. They weren’t expecting an unarmed brawler, but the last laugh was Imshael’s: they scrambled back and flinched with wide eyes when she yelled, “Smite!” 

She smacked the closest one, and he dropped to the ground unconscious with a heavy sigh, mana gone and an amusing red handprint on his face. Another arrow whispered near, and another mage’s aura sputtered in its death throes behind them. 

Gaping first in horror, then fury, they pummeled Imshael with ice and storm; she stumbled back and lensed forward a reflective shield that haphazardly sprayed the elements all around. 

The mages, dodging their own friendly fire, were oblivious to the Inquisition’s swords aimed at two of their necks from behind. Imshael lunged forward again when they stabbed two mages in tandem, and cracked another guard’s neck and jaw loose with an unforgiving uppercut. 

The last Venatori threw his staff to the ground and his hands up just as the other watchtower started ringing its alarm bell. Imshael slapped him to sleep, then stomped his throat flat with a solid crunch that reverberated up their leg. 

She strutted after the other two as they chased three more mages along the battlement, to hold the Mental Fortress around them and weaken enemy spells. The remaining Venatori didn’t last long, smothered and stranded. Imshael hummed in pleasure as they all stilled, looking around and thinking the same thing: That was easy.

“Off to the other tower, then, I suppose!” Imshael brightly jeered, then waved at Scout Ose to get his attention. She pointed him to the other high ridge as the swordsmen retraced their steps; they’d take a moment to switch sides, so she paused and crossed their arms, watching people scramble past the castle’s windows and occasionally looking out. 

The swordsmen were already storming back out of the first watchtower by the time the main doors finally opened to let out more Venatori. Imshael stomped their boot into the face of the first mage they’d smacked (to crush his face into his brain) before hopping into the air again. 

They briefly circled the second battlement, then swept a mage right over the ledge when they gouged her! It took an extra second to wrench their wicked talons free before flapping back up and around, then ducking a dangerously close fireball. The offending mage exposed his back to the other archer to attack them, and paid for it by joining his companion in freefall, arrow sticking out of one eye. The other mages on the battlement scattered their attention between Imshael in the air and the archer on the other side, stopping them from landing… 

Fear and Deceit blanketed the area and bore down on their wills as they gained altitude, seething. Blast it all—! The mages’ focus soon wavered, paranoid that the Veil was about to tear and release demons, and Imshael took the opportunity to drop onto the tower roof and shift human to add a Fortress to the mental barrage.

She lay back with a gasp to dodge a bolt of lightning and fished the knife out of their boot again. After a thoughtful pause, she lifted their jewelled tunic and slashed at their spirit scar. The heady rush as she stared at the metallic gold on the blade dried their mouth and tunneled their vision red for an instant—

A boulder sailed inches from their face, knocking the knife out of their hand and snapping them back to reality. Ahem. Right. She clencherd their teeth while digging their fingers into their side and painted their hands gold. Something clever about the Maker’s blood goes here… 

She lurched upright at the sound of shouting in the watchtower, heralding the Inquisition’s approach, and slid down the roof. Ice spears immediately launched their way, and she batted them back at the attacking mage—or tried to, anyway. The spears shot back faster than they could see them, streaking trails of gold, and blasted chunks of the battlement away. 

Unable to gain any footing, Imshael slid down the roof and fell gracelessly onto the stone beside a mage, who quickly jabbed them in the temple with his staff, hard. Sparks burst behind their eyes and wet warmth bloomed down their cheek, but they rasped out a cold laugh before slapping the ground and slurring, “Mighty Smite!”

Thanks for the assistance, imbecile. Charged with red and gold blood, even the brand on their hip skittered violent red sparks across their skin while shielding them from the potent purge. She tossed their head back and laughed even louder through the sound of a half dozen suffocating mages, dizzy from the head wound as much as bloodlust. Choking and laughing, choking and laughing…! 

She couldn’t quite reel in the madness enough to count the dropping bodies, and just kept their hand pressed to the ground until Silence hung in the air, instead. The swordsmen arrived as half their feeble spirit-torches sputtered out of existence, shocked to death by being severed from their magic.

“Imshael!” She lolled their head to the side with a lopsided grin as Blackwall reached the top of the stairs and rushed their way. 

“Eeh… This looks worse than it is.”

“Prove it and get up, then!” he hollered. “We’re about to have company—a lot of it!” He held out a hand to help them up, then recoiled at the blood on their hands and the handprint on the ground. 

Imshael scoffed at the hateful leer that flickered across the impostor’s face: it was an expression they were well accustomed to. No amount of utility would ever neutralize that particular fear response. Blackwall seemed to catch himself and reluctantly offered his hand again, but this time she swatted it away and hoisted their own body up. Remembering that they weren’t on this mission alone had sobered them—somewhat. 

She rolled their shoulders back and defiantly stared him down. “Let’s hope they brought a full cohort! Otherwise, five of us will have been too many.” 

The three of them peered over the side of the battlement where a twoscore of red and white robes—and quite a few Circle robes—swarmed the courtyard near the gate and rushed for the watchtower entrance below.

“This tower could use a signal fire…”

…

. . .

.  .  .

There was only enough room in the hidden passage to crouch through in single file, so the rescue team filed in first, followed by agents who spaced themselves out within shouting distance. When the agents heard fighting at the castle, they would call down the line through the passage to them as a signal to proceed, then fall back to make way for escapees. 

They’d point the mages down Redcliffe Road toward the Imperial Highway, or else down through the village and south to the Hinterlands. They could choose the Fereldan sanctuary in the Hinterlands, join the Inquisition at Haven, or fend for themselves.

Even though Imshael had told them to wait for the castle to go quiet, she and Solas couldn’t hear anything past the dungeon’s storage room above them. Her heart wasn’t racing yet, but the pulse pounded in her sensitive ears from the tension as the team crouched below a trapdoor. 

She took a long, meditative breath when the first ‘Ready!’ echoed down the tunnel toward them. She still waited until the nearest voice called it forward before she laid her shoulder against the trapdoor and gave it an experimental push. Like the one in the windmill, something covered it, so she had to push much harder than expected to crack it open. 

She ended up knocking over a stack of crates on the trapdoor to lift it, and in the silence, the toppling crates may as well have been its own alarm. “Keep it down, you bloody savage! Wait… What the—” 

At the sound of hasty footsteps, Solas quickly shoved her the rest of the way up while she scrambled, and she got her staff off her back just as a lone Venatori threw the door open in the dank storage area she found herself in. He took one look at her sparking green hand in the dark and spat out, “Blood of the Elder One!”

She threw an arcane blast at him while he fumbled for his own staff and moved forward to make room for Solas and the others. He started to cast a barrier, but she interrupted him quickly with another blast, and another, desperate to keep him from shielding himself. Snarling, he reached for the door and slammed it shut. 

She darted toward it, but the lock slid into place just as her hand touched the knob. “Fenedhis!” she urgently rattled the knob a few times while the mage’s aura retreated. 

Solas was by her side in a flash; he shoved her hand aside and gripped the doorknob, frosting the metal. “Another arcane blast,” he curtly instructed, and she stepped back with a nod. As soon as he leaned away, she launched another blast at it, and the cheap iron cracked and crumbled. He tugged the knob and the bar out and wrenched the door open, sprinting ahead of her. 

A wave of intense heat blew the door the rest of the way open, accompanied by bright orange light, and a pained grunt briefly seized her chest. “Solas!” She caught him by the shoulder as he stumbled toward her. 

He’d turned his back and layered it with frost just in time, but his limbs were singed and smoking. The Venatori prepared another fire attack from the middle of the room, but she charged up a lightning bolt and threw it at him faster, over Solas’ shoulder. The guard spasmed, then crumpled. 

“I am alright,” he immediately assured her. “I only need a moment. Check for more guards after shielding yourself.” 

Cheeks burning in shame, she muttered, “R-right…” and started casting a barrier, cursing herself for forgetting such a simple precaution. 

Dorian, meanwhile, whisked around her toward the dead guard and crouched to pick through his pockets. He said, “Just a moment, my good man—we’ll get you out of that dreadful cell.” 

Ellana looked around the room to find that small isolation cells were spaced throughout; inside the nearest was an X-shaped wooden rack to tie people onto. Though she could see well in the dark, she didn’t see clearly whether the bloodstains on it were fresh.

Only one magical aura besides theirs was in the room, but the prisoner was just out of her sight in a cell nearer to Dorian and the guard. Once the barrier was cast over them, she followed after him to the cell while Solas drank a small healing potion and awaited the effects. (They’d brought several each to save their mana for healing injured rebels.)

The man was standing, but only because chains from the ceiling kept him upright, cutting into his wrists where he sagged in place. His complexion was slightly darker than Dorian’s, with thick black hair braided tightly against his scalp. He could have been sleeping if not for the pinched, pained expression as he opened his eyes to take them in while Dorian unlocked the cell door. 

He slowly grunted, “These ones are not an illusion…”

Ellana said, “We’re from the Inquisition: we used an escape tunnel to sneak in. We’ll get you out of here.”

His eyes brightened a little in the dark as they opened the cell door and moved closer. Dorian stretched up to unlock the shackles as the man remarked, “A timely gift from loyal gods… I am called Dabog. The Tevinters wanted to learn my magic for their would-be king. My band of stalkers expected civil war, not invasion. We were not ready; only I survived.”

Ellana started to ask what he meant, but Dabog sagged further as Dorian freed one hand, so she bolted around him to pull his arm over her shoulder and prop him up. “I’m sorry about your comrades,” she soothed instead. “We brought healers—and once you get out, if you’d like, you can follow our agents to a sanctuary in the Hinterlands.”

Dorian quickly caught Dabog’s other arm after freeing it, and they all turned sideways in the cell to shimmy back out. Dorian mused, “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re Chasind.”

“That’s right,” he confirmed. “Our wisewomen foretell that the firmament breaks open and the earth quickens, so we ventured north from Ostagar to plunder in the ensuing chaos.” Solas waved them over to lay him down in the middle of the torture chamber and examine his wounds. 

Solas asked, “Much of Ostagar is Blighted. Do you not fear getting sick?”

“The Blight adapts to the time. White shadows and talking darkspawn claim that place, now. They parleyed with our elders to trade and learn; many approach the Babas this way, though never a spawn before. More than that, I cannot say—we merely passed through.”

“Talking darkspawn?” Dorian wondered. “That can’t bode well.”

Ellana quickly asked, “Did any darkspawn call itself the Elder One?”

Solas’ healing magic cast a lurid green light in the dim dungeon, and Dabog blinked against it a few times with a grimace. “Your magic is green but your blood is blue, elf… You vex the gods.” To Ellana, he replied, “The invaders call their usurper prince the Elder One, but the people who visit the spawn are Grey Wardens, not Tevinters.”

Grey Wardens! Blackwall and Leliana will be glad to hear it… Though it’s strange that they’re meeting darkspawn rather than fighting them. Why…? Ellana nodded to Dabog with a small smile, keeping her confusion to herself. “I see… thank you, Dabog.” Solas heaved a slow sigh, and when she looked his way, he was frowning, eyes distant. 

Over her shoulder, Dorian pointedly cleared his throat and said, “I don’t recall any mention of an Elder One, much less of him being a darkspawn. Care to clue me in on any other secrets?” When Solas slowly raised his gaze to meet hers, she visibly cringed: she’d not meant to reveal proprietary information…

“E-erm, well… We knew that someone called the Elder One hid enemy agents among both the templars and mages, so the Inquisition had to consider everyone a suspect. We know he arranged the attack at the Conclave, and we know that he’s Blighted because Imshael studies blighted lyrium, and he—s-she was working on a cure for him before joining us.” 

“Curing the Blight?” Dorian scoffed. “There’s a lofty ambition. Then again, so is negotiating with darkspawn.”

Solas’ magic faded, leaving them all blinking to adjust to the subtle torchlight again. He told the Chasind, “You should be well enough to travel now—be it to the Hinterlands sanctuary or to the Wilds.” 

Dabog hummed in satisfaction while getting to his feet with them, rolling his shoulders and shaking his limbs loose. “You have my thanks, strangers. My tribesmen will respect your camps where we see them. The gods have claimed your hand, woman—best not keep them waiting.”

“Right! Safe travels, Dabog.” They paused to watch him head toward the two Inquisition mages guarding the trapdoor before turning their attention to the next locked door. Based on their map, a larger group of mages was inside three containment cells after the chamber in which they currently stood.

Ellana reached the door first and immediately crouched to press her ear against the keyhole; she nodded to confirm the sound of people shuffling around and breathing, but otherwise not talking. She stepped back for Dorian to unlock it and gathered a small charge in her staff in case they needed to attack another guard…

The door creaked open and Dorian whipped around the corner, staff ready as well, then straightened with a disappointed huff. “Only one guard for both of these rooms?” He quickly made for the nearest cell where a half dozen mages were spaced out and facing the far wall. Dozens of hands in glowing shackles soon appeared, gripping the bars in the next two cells and filling the air with hushed whispers. 

Solas moved toward the next cell as Dorian unlocked the first and followed suit. Solas repeated what Ellana said to Dabog about getting them to sanctuary, then asked somebody to show him their shackles while warning them all to stay quiet. Ellana opened the first cell door, but the mages kept facing the walls, auras suppressed like the others and unresponsive. 

Concerned, she stepped into the cell and leaned around one of the mages, then gasped. More Tranquil! The brands were so fresh that blood and pus bubbled up under the burnt skin and leaked foul-smelling trails down their faces. They weren’t shackled like the others… she bit back a cry of frustration and forced her voice not to quiver: “You can all turn around, now. We’re with the Inquisition.” 

The Tranquil shuffled around to face her without leaving their posts, so she tried beckoning them toward her. “We have better accommodations a-and we can find safe work for you. Is that alright?”

The one she’d approached calmly droned, “I would prefer to be useful.” 

“Of course, you’re all valuable to the Inquisition! You don’t owe us any debts, and we’ll pay you for your work.” She beckoned again, and finally they moved toward the door to file out. “Come on, we’ll heal those burns at the crossroads where you can also clean up. Let’s go, quickly!” 

Dorian was standing in the doorway of the second cell, unlocking shackles while also blocking the mages from crowding the passage. Solas moved among them inside the cell to check for injuries. She briskly walked the Tranquil back to the storage room where the two mage agents straightened and saluted, then gawked or winced. 

Ellana said, “One of you please lead this group to the crossroads, so they can clean up at the healing tents before going on to the villa.”

“Yes, Lady Herald! Follow me, everyone: single file and fast.” One mage levered herself down into the trapdoor, and Ellana gently nudged the first one toward it before rushing back through the dungeon. 

She felt their time constraints pressing more urgently against her instincts every minute, fearing discovery or ambush after only dealing with the one guard so far… She reminded herself that the Venatori were spread out across hundreds of southern mages packed inside the castle, and forced herself not to panic or rethink her decision to sneak in. 

She glanced back to make sure the Tranquil were fully gone into the escape passage, then nodded to Dorian. “Alright, we’re ready. Let’s do two at a time.”

“You heard the Herald of Andraste, everyone!” Dorian chirped with a genial smile, evoking uncertain, excited murmurs. “Pick a partner and line up, if you please. Chop, chop!” He slid over just enough for Solas to squeeze by and handed him the keys to unchain the mages in the final cell. 

A few hands started grabbing at Solas right away, murmuring urgent pleas to just let them out already—so he deftly removed the shackle key from the ring and tucked the other keys in a belt pouch where the rebels couldn’t reach. Keeping his voice calm and clinical, he said, “Hold out your hands so I can remove the shackles. We’re going as quickly as possible. You must only endure a little longer.”

Dorian and Ellana waved through pairs of mages with a nod each time their heads vanished down the trapdoor. She also smiled, or rested her unmarked hand on the occasional shoulder, as people fled past her, whispering: Maker bless you, Herald. Maker watch over you. Maker preserve us! It felt like an eternity and an instant passed before the second cell emptied and Solas finally unlocked and opened the third cell (after getting the prisoners to pair up as Dorian had). 

Despair and relief thickened the already dank air, and the faces and blessings blurred by, with them occasionally goading the prisoners to speed up a little more while also quelling any panic. Though the first cell only held a few Tranquil, the other two easily held forty or fifty mages each, with room only to stand. She couldn’t imagine how they even tried to sleep, except maybe in shifts piled together for warmth. 

Dorian strolled to her side and coaxed people along with her, then peered expectantly down the dungeon hall until the final pair of escapees were out of sight, and the agent by the trapdoor called that the path was clear again. He heaved a lighthearted sigh and joked, “I’m not sure how that was so riveting and dull at the same time. Must be the lingering smell. They do have baths at their new sanctuary, yes?”

“There are streams near the villa,” Solas said without looking their way, gathering the keys and turning toward the stairs to the main floor. “The next part is where the peril truly begins: we must pass through the main corridor to the cellar on the east end of the castle. There will no doubt be Venatori patrolling the halls, diversion or no.” 

“All the way on the opposite side?” Dorian asked, perplexed; he pulled out his copy of the map and arched an eyebrow. “And what of the two roomfuls of prisoners along the way?”

Solas looked over his shoulder with a stern frown in place. “We prioritized the dungeon via the trapdoor, and the people in the cellar can escape through the main gate if the Venatori are forced to fall back and barricade themselves in the main hall. Then, and only then, can we consider breaking out the larger groups of prisoners: they are too many for the secret passage, and easy targets if we do not clear the corridor first, anyway.”

“Ah, understood. You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I was young and reckless, once.” Solas smiled very slightly.

Dorian hummed a little laugh but didn’t pry any further, while Ellana focused on shielding them again as they ascended the stairs toward the main floor. Solas listened through the door for a moment, then slowly unlocked it; he tucked the keys away and readied his staff with an ice attack before pulling the door open and bolting ahead.

The room they entered was empty, but their presence was quickly noticed; the sound of stomping boots and hostile auras gave them enough time to ready their attacks. Solas and Dorian stayed in front of Ellana, which gave her enough cover to build up an electric charge while the rest of the mages exchanged ice, fire, and arcane spells.

As soon as the Venatori blocking their way lulled to ready another round, she discharged a full lightning attack with a grunt, trying not to fall back from the recoil. The other two flinched reflexively: the lightning cracked so loudly in the room and down the hall that any hope of discretion was now completely gone. Distant shouts and cries of alarm confirmed their discovery, starting with the room next to theirs.

Ellana watched in fascination as Dorian drew an unfamiliar spell from the Fade; in her second sight, his aura swirled and flourished like sped-up crawling vines, that then coiled ornately into points of light around him. The points of light flowed along to his staff and hand motions for a moment as though he conducted them in a dance—and as soon as another wave of Venatori appeared in the doorway, he aimed his staff, and the points flashed away.

The four enemy mages all jerked in place as though startled, then clutched their heads and started wailing in a panic. Ellana was too stunned to do anything for a moment before Solas froze one and snapped her attention back to the fight. She charged up and launched a smaller lightning bolt to kill another, and still the Venatori cowered in place without attacking back. Felling the second wave was much easier than expected thanks to Dorian’s spell.

When they waited for more Venatori and none came, Solas looked Dorian over with a curious gleam in his eye. “You are a necromancer?”

Dorian straightened and smoothed a stray lock of hair back into place with a smile. “A longstanding tradition of the Pavus family! Rarely taught outside of Nevarra due to trite propaganda, unfortunately.”

“I’ve never seen necromancy before,” Ellana confirmed. “What did you do to stop them from attacking?”

“Flooded their minds with thoughts of existential dread—or whatever terrifies mad cultists,” Dorian chuckled. 

“Oh! Like Fearlings and Fear demons?”

“The very same! Although I’m only amplifying their fears, whereas demons siphon all that pent-up paranoia for themselves. Greedy little creatures.”

Ellana couldn’t help but laugh under her breath at that. “Imshael can do something similar, but I don’t think it’s necromancy…” 

Dorian harumphed as they stepped over the seven Venatori they’d killed. They kept their voices low while creeping down the first hallway of the corridor: a large chapel to their right housed the largest group of mages, but they would have to clear a path to the main gate if they wanted to break them out. 

He replied, “The Pavus grimoire had been passed down for centuries. I’m not the only necromancer by any means, but I rather doubt there are any quite like me. My family even has an unbound lichdom ritual taken from the research notes of a real revenant!”

“A revenant?!” Ellana gasped. She’d never encountered a revenant before, but Keeper Deshanna had, and warned her that it was easier to flee them, for they were warriors when they had lived, and endowed with demon powers once they died.

Solas quickly noted, “Revenants are bound to grave sites or sites of magical power. By unbound lichdom, I presume that you mean a lich capable of moving freely between bodies as well as locations?”

“Precisely so!” Dorian preened. “An unbound lich could theoretically inhabit corpses indefinitely—though why it would ever need to, we’ve never fully understood. It’s already immortal by that point, after all.”

Solas hummed low with his brows furrowed. “Perhaps an unbound lich would be able to inhabit living bodies as well as dead ones, not unlike possession. I have encountered such a creature during my travels in the Fade… They’re exceedingly difficult to destroy, immortality notwithstanding.”

Dorian’s eyebrows raised as he looked Solas over. “Fascinating…! Not just the potential for blurring the boundaries of necromancy and possession, but also the fact that you’re a Dreamer. That’s equally rare.”

Ellana smiled out of their sight when Solas’ eyes crinkled in pleased amusement. “Dreamers, like necromancers, are rarely understood out of fear for the unknown... And the line between necromancy and possession was already quite blurry.”

They paused behind the door to the next hallway in the corridor and braced themselves: Ellana restored their barriers, Dorian gathered another panic attack, and Solas prepared to freeze the next targets. Once their shields were in place and Ellana built up a static charge, they opened the door to the next room… Which was empty. 

However, they could all sense the Veil stirring uneasily as enemies prepared a counterattack in the following room (blocking off the second group of mages as well as their path). Solas muttered low: “Let’s move quickly. I’ll pull the door, Dorian stuns them with the horror spell, and the Herald fells as many as possible with electricity.” 

They nodded before rushing across the room, and Solas grabbed the next door the second he reached it. Rather than throw it open, he feinted by swinging it partly shut again, and hungry flames from a premature fireball blew around the frame to waste somebody’s attack—then he wrenched it open fully for Dorian, who immediately aimed into the room with an artful flourish to stun the Venatori. 

His shield dispersed from an enemy lightning bolt, forcing him to sidestep out of their range; Ellana launched the lightning storm blindly through the door at full charge and nearly fell back from the force of it. Their combined attack killed six and stunned the remaining four, and they wasted little time in felling them with fire, ice, and lightning. 

This time, four of the enemies were in Circle robes rather than red and white. Ellana sighed sadly at the sight: she’d hoped Imshael was wrong about people wanting to indenture themselves to the Imperium… And now, she began to worry just how many in the two main groups might be hostile, after all. Fiona seemed reluctant, but she had decided to side with Alexius, meaning she had some reason to think it was better than fighting for their freedom. 

Solas shook her from her dark thoughts by addressing Dorian. “The right room in the next hall is closest to the reception hall. It may be heavily guarded, or else barricaded by now. Our current tactic is effective, but be wary.” They restored their barriers and mana by splitting a lyrium potion between them, then braced for more Venatori in the next hallway. 

Solas got the door and Dorian cast his horror spell, but the four enemy mages were spaced out along the hallway, and his attack only reached the closest two. His shield absorbed a fireball, and he swapped places with Ellana, who rushed in to make her own attack reach further. 

Just as she discharged it, the mage in the far back slashed a dagger down his exposed arm and threw his hand out. Her lightning successfully reached and killed the other three, but her body seized in place; her nerves lit on fire trying to regain control of her limbs, but the harder she resisted the blood mage’s command, the worse her muscles burned and weakened. She and the Keeper had used blood to charge ritual spells before, but never attack directly!

He seized her lungs as well, stopping her from either gasping or coughing until she choked on what felt like nothingness itself. She couldn’t move or blink her watering eyes, so she could only barely see Dorian appear in her blurry periphery to cast a cone of fire down the hall, engulfing the blood mage in an inferno and sucking the air past her. After another agonizing second, the compulsion cast over her released, letting her drop to a knee with a ragged gasp before spluttering out several painful coughs.

Solas’ soft green healing magic spilled across her skin to soothe the sting away, but it was cut short by the door to their right—the next room in their path—flying open. An attack she didn’t see knocked Dorian back, into her, and both of them against the wall. Dorian managed to stumble sideways rather than on top of her, hissing, “Vishante kaffas!” 

He and Solas both started hurling arcane bolts to cover Ellana while she unsteadily got to her feet, unable to charge up stronger attacks under the onslaught. She pulled herself up the wall while gulping in lungfuls of air and building a static charge. Before she could launch it, however, the three of them scattered as an inferno rushed their way—she and Dorian fled left further down the hall while Solas fell back toward the previous room. 

Three Venatori and two Circle mages ran through the door, cutting Solas off and cornering the other two at the end of the hallway: a dead end. She fired arcane blasts to interrupt their spells and cover Dorian while he began casting another horror attack, and stayed in front of him while turning her back when a cone of cold came their way, letting her barrier absorb it. 

The shield failed before the spell ended, and she cried out and fell forward as the robes instantly crystallized and stuck to her skin. Dorian attacked, gaining them a moment of reprieve—but her stomach sank when she turned and saw six more Venatori crowding past the first five and clogging their path further. 

She almost tripped while stepping back as enemy mages advanced, and glanced down to see the dead blood mage by her foot… and the dagger beside him. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Death thickened the ether around Imshael, swaying gently like a tide, and their body felt as weightless as when swimming. Their glazed eyes slowly fell from the deceitful second moon’s ever-full face, and smirked at the carnage they stood in.

Better than any sex…
(Too long since the elf clan!)
{Better with Faith bled out of us!}
[They underestimate their predecessors.]
Heh. Predecessors or progeny?

She let Blackwall and the soldier open the main gate partway while the surviving mages fell back and barred themselves in the main hall, as expected. With a few hundred rebels stuffed out of sight, the Venatori made themselves as comfortable as possible on the upper floor. They’d secure the main hall and barricade the main doors, leaving the corridor for them. 

Imshael sucked in one more gratuitous, indulgent breath of death before turning around, grabbing a dead mage by the robes, and tossing it out of the way—clearing a path to the main gate with the archers. They’d worked their way down the watchtower, then kept their backs against it while fighting through rows of enemy mages. 

Most of Imshael’s focus had been spent reflecting attacks at their casters, “shielding” Blackwall and the soldier while they mowed the imbeciles down. She didn’t get to partake in the bloodshed like they would have preferred, but alas. Teamwork came with compromises… 

She refrained from rolling their eyes and fed on the flailing last moments of terror that pumped through the Venatori’s minds before pumping out of their veins into the dirt. The taste of their suffering was a tolerable consolation prize... She hummed noncommittally when Blackwall asked what they should do now, stretching and massaging their sore side for a moment. 

“Eeh… there’s a side entrance around the stairs, here. Let’s see if the rescue team found the mages caged in it, yet.” Tracking time was as relevant to them as tracking their age, so they weren’t sure how long they held out against the Venatori in the courtyard. It seemed like they’d had enough time to clear the corridor by now.

Imshael instructed an archer and swordsman to watch the main gate while Ose and Blackwall followed them to the cellar door tucked behind the castle stairs. She pressed a hand against the stone and Fear reached out to detect vibrations in the halls with it.

{Noisy main hall. Still corridor. Demons!}
[The Wolf does not sense us...?]
Where's the Keeper?
[The Anchor is near the Wolf. Stilled.]
{Scared, still, expectant. Waiting, wanting.}

Korth’s cock. Imshael stepped back and unceremoniously shouldered the door. Powered by a keen desire to not be incinerated by the Lady Seeker (for letting the herald get hurt), the door wrenched right off its hinges and cracked off the latch despite being meant to open the other way. 

The mages imprisoned inside were tucked beside a smaller set of stairs, and assorted cries and screams rang out in the damp room at their surprise entrance. Instead of a typical barred cell, they were caged in with a bright pink magical barrier. Child’s play… Imshael stomped over to the wall and hollered, “Silence!” 

When they scrambled back and shut up, she grinned and announced, “We’re with the Inquisition, and we’re relocating you to a villa in the Hinterlands for the arl. If you don’t want to go to Tevinter, head out the main gate and follow the agents through the village. If you’re loyal to the Imperium, stay out of our way lest you join the corpses outside!” 

With that, she reared back and punched the magical barrier once to disrupt it, twice to send swirling sparks flying, and thrice to destroy it. Nearly half of them immediately clamored for the door, slamming the poor lute scout against the wall in the noisy frenzy. Imshael flicked a hand dismissively at the rest and made for the stairs with the other two in tow, once Ose got out of the fray. 

One mage cried out, “But we’re still in chains! We can’t use our magic to protect ourselves out there!”

“Magic didn’t protect you from getting those chains, did it?” Imshael barked back while sauntering up the stairs. “Chains aren’t immune to rocks and hammers, you brainless tit.” Another mage screeched about finding keys somewhere, but she ignored it and tried the door to the corridor with a slight, multitoned growl. She gripped the locked knob and simply snapped it off, then tugged out the latch and swung it open. 

While she still sensed movement in the main hall, the silence in the corridor and the lack of guards should have been a good sign—but the rescue team should have accompanied it. She broke out into a trot down the hall and grabbed at the next door, which wasn’t locked. 

The following room was empty, but the one after it stirred with demonic energy, and burnt hair and smoke wafted in the ozone-charged air. Imshael dug their nails into their palms to rip the cuts back open with a euphoric shudder before reaching for the next door. “Demons in the next room,” she warned over their shoulder to Blackwall and Ose, then opened it and charged ahead. 

Two fearlings and shades each lurked around a warp-rift with a half dozen mage bodies on the floor; she quickly slapped their hand against the wall and yelled, “Mighty Smite!” The demons were all in range: they seized in place with unearthly screeches, twitched, then disintegrated into puffs of smoke and ash. “Watch for more demons while I get ahead to find the others.” 

Blackwall nodded with a fierce frown, keeping his eyes locked on the rift and near the door to cover Ose in the doorway. The rift stood before the side door to the main hall, so it was probably made as part of the Venatori’s barricade… Imshael skirted around it, neutralized a warped space in the doorway, then paused at the sight of another dozen bodies piled up just past it in the next hallway. 

As she stepped over the corpses, Dorian sighed, “Ah, there you are… Impeccable timing.” He was down the dead-end hall to their right, sustaining a shield in the form of a small wall of wisps that he quickly dispersed. Sweat glistened on his brow and temples from mana depletion. 

He leaned heavily on his staff and gestured to an unconscious Keeper by his feet. “Not to worry, she overspent herself on a particularly potent lightning storm—but I’m afraid Solas in that next room was caught in the crossfire. Then, the demons kept getting between us.” He shakily pulled a lyrium potion from his robes while Imshael turned to find the Wolf (and hide their smirk). 

Charged blood in the air...
{She shan’t dream tonight!}
[All of these mages at once, eh?]
(Good girl!)

She may have caused that rift, actually. Imshael cleared their throat to stop a giddy laugh from escaping, drinking in the explosive sight of lightning burns across walls and corpses. She stepped over a few bodies to where the Wolf had been tossed back from the blast, stepped over him, and crouched to straddle his waist with a grin.

Their grin widened as she brushed a finger across his bottom lip a few times, like they used to do with herb infusions for war prisoners in uthenera. Solas’ eyelids fluttered, then scrunched together… then, he sucked in a rattling breath beneath them and fluttered back to life. His glassy gaze wandered groggily for a moment before settling on them—but it took another several seconds to register where they were.

She wagged their brows and purred, “Napping through the fun part, as usual, eh...?” 

Solas jerked violently before his eyes whipped around, propping up on his elbows and demanding, “Ellana!?”

“Is fine. Better than you, frankly.” She stood and let the Wolf admire the angle before holding out a hand to hoist him up. He hastily fetched lyrium and health potions from his belt pouch once he was on his feet, swaying slightly. Imshael left him to nurse his wounded pride and picked across the bodies back to the Keeper, whom Dorian was lightly slapping on the cheek.

Imshael waved him back and ordered, “Wake up.”

Ellana instantly drew in a deeper breath and slowly blinked her eyes open, pupils wide. She cocked a knowing smirk at the Keeper while their true form hummed in pleasure and slithered under her back to coax her up. There were no obvious wounds on her, but a dagger was beneath her as she sat up. Imshael taunted, “Playing hero gets a bit tiresome, I see! Glad I never tried it.”

She rubbed her eyes to try to hide her growing blush. “You’re lying again. You just saved us, didn’t you?”

“Ahem. I do lie a lot—but not in corpse piles like you did!” She let Dorian help the Keeper to her feet and drawled on: “The corridor is clear and the basement prisoners are out. All that’s left is a rift here in the next room.”

“Right…” She rubbed her face a little more briskly and glanced around. “Solas?”

“I am here, Herald,” he answered from just behind Imshael. “I’m unharmed.”

Imshael shooed them with a dismissive hand wave and sidestepped Solas, heading for where the kennels used to be. “I’ll see about the other mages while you close the rift and get out of here, Keeper.” She sensed Solas’ aura quickly bristle at the command while Ellana confirmed and scampered off to the next room, clearly still riding a blood-rush of her own.

“Ah—perhaps someone should accompany you,” Dorian started to offer, but Imshael irritably shooed them off again.

“No mages. You’ll just get caught in my Smite.”

“A templar? Touche… Off we go, then! I, for one, have had my fill of vigilante heroics for one night.” 

Imshael waited with Fear listening to the party’s retreating footsteps as they left the castle, before kicking the kennel door open and swaggering through. The mages inside had abandoned their rows of bedrolls to cram themselves into the far end. The faint scent of dog lingered and mingled with all the death and discharged magic, causing Imshael to sneer.

“Knock, knock! The Inquisition is relocating—” She lensed a shield in front of them to scatter a lightning strike, then stormed forward to grab the Venatori and throw him against the side wall hard enough to break his back. He groaned as he fell in place, paralyzed with his legs awkwardly bent. She then sidestepped and similarly grabbed a Circle mage who broke from the huddle to help him. 

She cried out and started beating their forearms with furious tears in her eyes. “Let me go!” she screeched, and they obliged by hurling her into the same spot as the first. She went headfirst and splattered a little, stirring up a terrified cacophony from the rest. Imshael crossed their arms and bore down on the cowering group until they quailed and quieted down. 

“The Imperium is here illegally,” she drawled out over the whimpers. “The Inquisition is only here to relocate the people who were indentured against their will. The rest of you stay back unless you want to join those two. The Inquisition doesn’t want any of you, but Ferelden has a sanctuary ready in the Hinterlands. Follow our agents to the villa if you want that freedom back.”

She turned to stalk out of the kennel, then lensed another shield around their back when a fireball flew their way. Without looking back, she dug gold and jade into the laceration along their ribs and slapped the wall: “Mighty Smite!” She held the Smite until only a few bodies dropped, then released the pitiful slaves and kept walking. 

She chortled under their breath as a few spells and arguments broke out among the mages behind them, servants versus rebels, and posted up in the next room to point any stragglers in the right direction. She decided to simply wait until their patience ran out: after perhaps ten minutes, a third of the sixty or so mages scurried past them.

She then shouted into the kennel at the lap dogs to stay put and wait for their masters, shut the door, and headed further back for the chapel. The memories she stole earlier in the day told them that Fiona would be there with the oldest, youngest, and sickest. As a gesture of politeness, she actually knocked on the door, then called out, “I’m with the Inquisition. The Venatori are barricaded in the main hall. Send out the mages who don’t want to join the Imperium so we can escort them to sanctuary.”

When the door flung open, Imshael was ready to smite a Venatori, but he had a dagger to Fiona’s throat; she swallowed and grabbed futilely at the arm pinning her against him. He spat, “The Imperium will ascend to new heights and elevate its citizens with it! You will not hinder these servants from their duty!”

“Your so-called Elder One lost Dumat’s favor by whining endlessly of a self-inflicted fate. Suffer Silence, rattus. Mighty Smite!” The wall was out of reach, so they clapped their hands together like a prayer, grinning madly as red sparks danced across their flesh and the nearest mages scrabbled at their throats, mistaking mana suffocation for regular choking. 

As soon as the dagger slipped out of the Venatori’s spasming hand, she reached out and yanked the red-faced Fiona against them and smacked the Venatori to sleep. She let the rebel “leader” gulp down several lungfuls of air and clutch her chest while checking that they hadn’t killed any feeble old mages or kids by accident. A few were in range and now crying or coughing, but lived and breathed. 

“These aren’t my people, mage,” she snapped once Fiona had (mostly) recomposed herself. “Get them where they want to be—which should have been their choice, by the way, not yours. I’ll be down the hall to point them toward the Inquisition’s agents.” 

“Your voice! How can you...” Fiona searched both of their eyes as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. They belatedly realized that all of Choice’s Voices had spoken before her; she wobbled a step back to stand in the doorway and demanded, “Did the Herald of Andraste send you, herself?”

“Like wings of death, hand-delivered to half the Venatori tonight. The herald is probably waiting by the main gate while we chatter.” Fiona caught the hint and rushed back into the room… Imshael backtracked again down the corridor to herd more slaves to their new master’s villa, rolling tension out of their shoulders. 

Then, their skin crawled at the sight of a small horde of children that Fiona sent first. Twenty little pairs of hands linked into a long chain to stay together, round cheeks trembling and tearful eyes huge as they snaked around a few corpses. Korth’s cock… Imshael hummed in tune to Deceit’s droning call in counterspace, dazing the brats and glazing their eyes.

Fear siphoned the grisly images and scents from their memories and pressed in close to blur the rest as they approached the massacre in the hallway. Tiny little torches with no mental defenses… this is worse than low-hanging fruit. Imshael conducted them past the singed, gory mess and around the corner, following from the rear until they were in the next room, where no corpses were visible. 

She then released the enchantment, and the train of tiny people bumped into each other while stumbling to a stop. She snapped, “Keep going! The basement opens up outside, kids. The adults outside will show you to the safehouse.” It took a lot of effort not to call them brats aloud—especially when they turned as one wretched unit with pleading frowns at the prospect of walking through a single blasted room by themselves. One whispered that she was scared of dark cellars and the giant rats in them.

Just when I thought I’d enjoy a break from the Keeper’s nightmares tonight. Blast it all to the fucking Void. 

…

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana could scarcely believe her eyes at the sheer number of dead mages littering the courtyard near the main gate. Imshael had reported that about a hundred Venatori in total were in the castle; between the slaughter outside and the path they cut through the corridor, they had at least halved their numbers. She also hadn’t been prepared to see so many rebel mages alongside them. The fact that so few left the castle after they got outside was even more disheartening. 

At one point, Imshael led a row of very young mages through the courtyard, holding hands and walking with their eyes shut. The one in front held onto the back of Imshael’s tunic, and she weaved them through the bodies without letting them see the carnage. She snatched Ellana’s sleeve and marched her outside the gate with them where the rest of the diversion team waited; she hissed under her breath, “Your turn, Keeper. Blasted kids afraid of every blasted thing…!”

Imshael shot her an offended scowl as Ellana giggled behind the hand she hadn’t grabbed. Dorian by the gate chortled at they passed, “Playing hero isn’t so bad after all, is it?”

Imshael grabbed the hand holding her tunic and shoved Ellana’s sleeve into it. “My indigestion disagrees! Korth’s cock, you’re all a pox.”

Ellana smiled while Imshael fled, then told the children it was safe to look now and introduced herself and the rest of the party. They crowded around her and the Grey Warden in particular, and Blackwall’s face split into the biggest smile she’d ever seen from him. They were all happy to indulge their eager questions (and loud complaints) for a short while, before Ose and the other archer volunteered to guide them to the villa once they confirmed they weren’t hurt. 

Another dozen mages gradually filtered out of the cellar before Imshael came back out some time later. “That’s the last of them. Fiona’s staying to take care of Felix and the oldest mages.” Blackwall offered to cut through the village to the crossroads to recall the agents in the village, and Solas offered the same along the Highway to the forward camp. 

Ellana, Dorian, and Imshael began the trek back to camp after Imshael refused to let either Solas or Ellana heal the gash on her head. Their raid had started as soon as night fell, and the stars indicated that hardly an hour had passed—but it would be several more before their work was done for the day. 

The crossroads had fewer patients now and could spare some bedding; the mages could loosen the earth beneath a few trees to fell them for firewood; Imshael knew the location of a bear that she could kill for meat… Ellana’s mind had been racing about other things the mages could do in the Hinterlands to reduce their burden, but she’d have to wait until the morning to speak to Corporal Vale and Master Dennet. 

She was nearly asleep on her feet and barely listened to the idle chat between Dorian and Imshael. Dorian coyly said, “I have a wonder, Imshael, if you’ll indulge my curiosity.”

Imshael smugly hummed back, “Enlightening the ignorant is a beloved pastime, Pavus. Ask away.”

“Hmph. I’m friends with a few people who dress as both men and women, and yet the Herald said you shapeshift between the two!”

“That wasn’t a question, peacock.”
“Templars. Don’t. Shapeshift.”

“Not with that attitude.”
“Come now, spill your secrets!”

“Pick your vocabulary, then. Abomination, homunculus, were-human, djinn… I’ve even been called a troll before!”

Dorian snorted. “I’ve heard that Tal-Vashoth tell tales of djinn who grant wishes that always end poorly, to scare their children out of talking to strangers. And homunculi are dwarven superstition! Unless you mean to tell me you’ve discovered the elusive philosopher’s stone while you’re at it?”

“Red lyrium is a power-granting stone that drives its user mad, just like the dwarves who go looking for it. So actually, yes, I have!”

“I—hm. Let’s put a pin in that for the moment... What relates you to an abomination, then?”

“The shape your eyes make when I transform.”
“...You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

“Everybody keeps saying that! I have feelings, you know. Three, to be precise.”

“The only abomination I’ve heard of who wasn’t a deformed monster is Anders—which isn’t exactly a compliment.”

“Dogmatic urbanization isn’t exactly a compliment, either. See Arlathan and the dwarves for proof. Oh, wait...”

Dorian chuckled dryly at that. “Oh, come now, we do some things right! I rather like hygiene.”

“A fair point. Hypocrisy is my personal favorite, though! You people are much better at rationalizing than you are at being rational.” Ellana smiled through the banter that never seemed to run out of fuel—until it abruptly paused when she stumbled while walking. Imshael caught her shoulder and squinted at her with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow. “Somebody drained more than their mana, eh?” 

Oh gods, can she smell it or something?!

She turned and crouched with a small laugh. “Climb in and rest.” Ellana was surprised by the offer and wanted to refuse despite the polite gesture, but she hadn’t rested well the night before, and she hadn’t expected discreetly cutting her calf to make her faint… Before she knew it, her arms rested over Imshael’s shoulders while she held her legs, and the banter with Dorian started right back up like nothing had happened. 

It reminded her of her clanmates telling riddles to each other in the aravel at night until they were sleepy… Her eyes drifted shut with a small smile still curling her lips. She’d been wondering why Solas, for all his interest in history, rarely asked Imshael to elaborate on her past experiences or what the world used to be like. Now, it seemed Imshael might have Dorian to share that knowledge with, instead—sarcastic or otherwise.

She quietly resolved to do the same, soon, even though it still pained her to think about how much the Dalish had gotten wrong about the Evanuris. Maybe Solas was avoiding it for the same reason she had been… 

Dreamless darkness enveloped her, but part of her stayed aware of her surroundings, somehow... She was aware that she’d been laid down in her tent, which Imshael had partially collapsed again, cursing under her breath as she scrambled back out. She saw the forward camp from overhead, like a bird, while Harding worked on messages to send to Haven and Leliana with Dorian’s, Imshael’s, and Ose’s help. 

She was aware from up high when Solas and Blackwall returned to the forward camp together: Blackwall had told the crossroads soldiers to beware of Tevinter invaders, and helped them send word to the watchtower sentinels as well. Solas reported that while the sanctuary still lacked many resources, the mages had successfully broken the rest of their shackles and gathered firewood to warm the villa. They could address the matter of bedding and food the next day.

She watched as Imshael took a sack from her mage coat (which she left at camp, but everyone was afraid to touch), and pulled out fistfuls of pearls for each member of the diversion team. When Blackwall jokingly accused her of cheating them, Imshael laughed back that she never specified the size of the bags of pearls she’d give them if they won the bet. The camp buzzed as everyone’s adrenaline wore itself out, until one by one, the scouts and party members retreated to their tents.

Rather than go to sleep, Blackwall brushed Solas’ horse and her halla at the edge of camp, even though a scout had already fed and groomed them; she saw his shoulders shake while thanking the Maker for letting him help save the children. She wasn’t sure how she felt the keen grief and gratitude in his words without hearing them…

When only a few scouts remained to patrol the camp, and Imshael and Solas were still awake, Imshael heated water and put it in a wineskin. Then, she lay across a log, placed the hot wineskin on her abdomen, and put her forearm over her eyes, complaining that children’s fears were unripe, too sharp and sour—even though her lips didn’t move.

Then, Solas started pacing close to Imshael and argued with her about how dangerous it was to attack Corypheus’ men directly, even while undercover with the Inquisition. Imshael kept waving him off and snapping that his elaborate plans do nothing but backfire: that everyone wants the Elder One gone, and no such cover was necessary. That he could leave any time he wanted, but she would stay.

She kept calling Solas “Wolf,” and at one point, she uncovered one eye to stare up at the sky, right where it felt like Ellana was floating, and grinned. 

{We put our own skin first!}

[The Wolf stalks back while looking ahead.]

(The Wolf always deceives, eventually!)

And we’ll let him without saying a word.

…

. . .

.  .  .

       Advisors,

A team of Inquisition agents successfully breached Castle Redcliffe under cover of night, with the intention of freeing any mages who had been indentured against their will to the Imperium. Over a hundred mages were successfully released and relocated to the arl’s villa, and some now travel to Haven to join the Inquisition. However, Fiona chose to remain with those who would rather serve Magister Alexius in exchange for citizenship.

This is an opportunity to collaborate with the Fereldan monarchy regarding traitors rather than rebels: a position the ambassador should find agreeable.

Among the mages was a Chasind shaman who provided a lead for the nightingale; he and his tribesmen have seen Grey Wardens in Ostagar. He also reported that the Wardens were visiting darkspawn that had claimed the area—darkspawn capable of speech. The darkspawn seem to be negotiating with both Wardens and Chasind, but the shaman did not know why. Between Chasind raiders and intelligent darkspawn, approaching Ostagar would be a risky operation.

The Inquisition is working with Vale to patrol the Hinterlands in case of any retaliation from the Tevinters, and we will work to accommodate the sanctioned rebels while awaiting further instruction. Or reprimand. 

      —Imshael

P.S. It was all the Herald’s idea. Crying is an effective rallying device!

(P.P.S. from Lead Scout Harding. Imshael’s lying here. While it’s true that we were moved by what we learned about the Tranquil, we also decided that swift action was the best way to save the mages from slavery, in case Alexius decides to remove them to Tevinter before sending word to the Inquisition again. Most of the work was still in the Hinterlands, so if the arl or, Maker forbid, his majesty is offended by our actions, please spare the scouts and agents who did not directly participate. I helped organize the agents involved if a reprimand is necessary.)

...

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

The next day passed in a blur, during which the party rarely saw each other. Imshael went east to hunt; Blackwall went to the crossroads to assist Corporal Vale with patrols near the village border; the Herald ventured northwest to see Horsemaster Dennet, and Solas and Dorian assisted the freed mages at the villa to the southwest.

The mages were at first hesitant to take the advice of either an eccentric Tevinter or a lifelong apostate. They gained some of their trust by recruiting a few to accompany Dorian to the crossroads to acquire spare bedding and cookware. Solas, meanwhile, walked through the keep and showed the fire specialists how to draw Veilfire glyphs for light that required no fuel. Ice and fire specialists could conjure and heat water together for baths once they had wash tubs. Nature mages felled their first few trees by removing the earth beneath them, and could later redirect streams closer to the villa the same way. 

While showing them many of their own spells re-tooled for survivalism, Solas had the rare opportunity to acquire a handful of agents weary of being shepherded between human nobles like livestock. It burned his heart to consider that most of his mortal agents would not survive reintegration, but he determined not to waste their sacrifice—to ensure that their last days would be as independent and free as possible. 

When Dorian returned from the crossroads, leading a train of blankets, pots, and a few tubs, they conducted a head count for the Inquisition and tallied just over a hundred twenty mages. Since they hadn’t received any messages that morning, Imshael and Scout Harding postulated that the Divine Hands were already en route to assess the villa situation themselves. 

Solas and Dorian gathered details of the people and resources available to begin a requisitions list for Arl Teagan. Any contact with Ferelden’s monarchy would occur through the advisors, so it behooved them to assess and report current logistical demands for Sister Nightingale. Ambassador Montilyet could easily secure Ferelden’s cooperation with simple, direct financial support for the mages, contrary to the fickle political alliance demanded by the Chantry (and by extension Orlais). 

Although the situation with the mages had been pressing, Solas could only hope that confronting the Venatori would not propel the fledgling militia into a premature conflict with Corypheus; their priority needed to remain focused on closing the Breach and defending the explosion site, thus preventing the blighted magister from completing the task he had started. Once the Breach was closed and the tether to the Anchor destroyed, he might finally be able to overwhelm and unravel the Anchor itself… Ellana did not deserve to lose her arm or life to circumstances beyond her ken.

The more immediate highlight of the rebels’ day arrived in the form of a bear carcass brought by Imshael around mid-morning. They worked side by side to demonstrate how to clean, skin, and butcher it so that they could do it for themselves later. The mages’ best team effort went toward foraging herbs, roots, and firewood to prepare stew—for some, it was their first meal in days. 

Their moods and spirits rose considerably after that, although most mages continued to give Choice a wide berth (after their violent conduct at the castle) despite providing the bear. They made their presence scarce after portioning out several pots’ worth of bear meat and tossing Dorian a bag of spices and herbs, then taking one of the stew pots with them. (Choice refused to donate the sizeable hide, citing that, “killing a bear solo comes with certain privileges!”) 

While the rebels broke their fast, the Herald arrived with more good news: mages willing to assist Master Dennet’s tenants on the farms would be paid in seeds for their own gardens and fresh food—far more substantial than what could be foraged. 

He wanted help controlling fires in the fields as he rotated crops, tending to sick livestock, finding and digging additional wells, building stables and barns, and more. His wife Elaina would send them to farmsteads throughout the Hinterlands as needed, implying that there would be no shortage of work for patient hands and strong backs. The crossroads also requested the assistance of any skilled healers, herbalists, and surgeons, as reported by Blackwall, who rejoined the party soon after. 

The four of them spent the rest of the morning scattered about the villa, helping clean it of prior bandit activity (meaning bloodshed), and plotting out barracks and classrooms. The additional planning gave the mages hope for regaining something they were familiar with—a sense of normalcy and stability. The children in particular, lingering near senior enchanters, had crowded in close for all of Solas’ and Dorian’s instructions regarding magical survival applications. 

At one point, Solas passed by a room and found the cause for Imshael taking one of the stew pots: they were with the Tranquil, whose brands had been healed of infection but were still fresh, raw, and inflamed. Once again, the dream-slain had been forgotten about amid the frenetic activity… 

Like the last group they saved, Choice was questioning them on their backgrounds and personalities, as well as any secretive or suspicious activity among the rebels. Of the six Tranquil, four were elven. It occurred to him, unfortunately, that Tranquil made particularly effective spies—and he had overlooked the opportunity. Imshael paid him no mind while passing out runestones and describing their applications. Solas was unfamiliar with several.

Add fire runes to water to warm it for washing, as well as to draw atop boulders to dry clothing, herbs and meats, and even grass to pad their bedding. Preserve fresh food by digging holes and placing ice runes at the bottom; set fire runes between rows of food to extend a garden’s growing time into the winter. Stitch the bark rune into their robes for additional armor; carve lake runes onto bent sticks to dowse for well locations; wear the steed rune to increase strength temporarily; bind multiple runes with the yew rune as a base…

As midday passed them by, the party scattered again: Blackwall, Imshael, and the Tranquil left for the logging site to request lumber for tables, desks, benches, and bookshelves. Dorian returned to the forward camp with status reports of the sanctuary’s conditions and necessities to forward to Haven. Ellana stayed at the sanctuary to talk to people about their experiences at Redcliffe Castle.

Solas guided the healers to the crossroads, where they met the other healers and surgeons stationed there. He wasn’t surprised to find that he remained the only one able and willing to perform spirit healing; Anders’ impact on the perspective of spirit interactions had been as disastrous as his arson. Corporal Vale and the Inquisition sent a few of their soldiers each when they returned to the villa late in the afternoon, to include the sanctuary in the Hinterlands’ watchtower system.

Solas stayed long enough to watch senior enchanters establish patrols for the villa with the soldiers’ help, then assisted in setting up the evening’s cook fires. The freed mages told him that Ellana had returned to the forward camp, while Blackwall and Imshael hadn’t returned yet. To his surprise, a small handful of rebels asked to follow him to the forward camp so they could join the Inquisition, inspired by the party’s involvement throughout the day. 

Solas gently discouraged the notion for now—they would be safer traveling the Imperial Highway after daybreak, and the sun was already low. Plus, the forward camp was a scout outpost, not meant for recruits. 

Blackwall and Imshael returned with the Tranquil, who now wore belts of wooden discs strung together and inscribed with the runes they were taught earlier in the day. The Tranquil split into three pairs: one pair fetched their pot and gathered ingredients for supper, one collected spare ingredients to store for the night and begin an inventory, and the third pair took a wash tub out to the stream, all without prompting. It seemed they had received a self-sufficient schedule of their own. 

Solas, Blackwall, and Imshael trekked back to the forward camp, engaging in amiable, benign conversation about how long the woodworking would take to complete. They were reviewing further amenities (latrines, a larder, gardening tools…) as they climbed toward the forward camp—then Choice’s demeanor brightened with a peevish grin. 

“The fury of a coming storm—!” they chuckled while leaping ahead of the other two. “I sense the Lady Seeker a few leagues out. Better go shield the Keeper.”

“So she says after insisting that the heist was the Herald’s idea,” Blackwall groused, while Solas rolled his eyes. 

“She is a seed, and I am the pestilent soil she thrives in!” Choice’s chuckling escalated to a hearty laugh over the other two’s combined sighs. “Now the Lady Seeker just needs to rain her rage upon me.”

“Maker’s balls. Do you ever stop aggravating your own comrades?”

“Do bears ever stop shitting in the woods?” 

“Only to hibernate after overindulging,” Solas muttered under his breath; he and Blackwall increased their pace, nonetheless. 

As they crested the steep climb back to camp, they all stalled at the sight of the scouts all lined up at the far end on one knee. A retinue of mounted soldiers and footsoldiers similarly lined a path straight to Ellana and Lead Scout Harding, who stood at the banner. The two women exchanged a glance, and Solas could sense tension mounting in the air around them as a pair of finely dressed men canted through the procession—the Fereldan royal procession—on two horses. He briefly wondered why Choice would take note of Cassandra’s approach but not the arrival of an entire retinue...

The three of them did not go unnoticed for long: one of the royal guard impatiently waved them toward the scouts. Imshael quickly glanced to the two of them and jerked their chin in the same direction, then sauntered straight toward the Herald, splitting off on their own. The guard nudged his horse forward, lowering a spear to point it at them, while he and Blackwall sidled around and behind some of the scouts. 

“You may not approach His Majesty without permission.”

Choice cocked their head around the spear point and sneered, “I’m the Herald’s advisor. Move aside, peon.”

“The Herald can summon you when and if His Majesty permits it! Get behind the guard line.”

“A Grey Warden?” The king’s voice carried over the now-stirring group of scouts and guards. Blackwall stilled in a momentary panic, but the king was studying Imshael. “I didn’t expect a member of the Order advising within the Inquisition’s ranks.” After a drawn pause, King Alistair nodded his head once to the royal guard, who scowled at Choice while they sidestepped his horse and joined Ellana and Harding. 

Imshael dropped a casual hand onto Harding’s shoulder and drawled, “You’ve arrived a few minutes ahead of Seeker Pentaghast, your majesty. Shall we wait until she arrives? We have much to report to both parties.” King Alistair turned to the other mounted noble, presumably Arl Teagan, who returned the look grimly but nodded. His gaze wandered up to the banner before dismounting with the king; a pair of squires further back in the parade rushed forward to take their reins. 

Uncertainty thickened the air enough even to stifle Solas’ aura. Thankfully, it was only a few uncomfortable minutes where the Fereldan royal guard and the Orlesian Inquisition stared each other down, flinching reflexively at each other’s every movement. 

Arl Teagan sidled closer to the Herald, and Solas quirked a corner of his mouth up when he gestured to the banner behind her. “I’m surprised to see you flying the war dogs of an old regiment.” He kept his voice low and less severe than the king’s demeanor had been. 

Ellana dipped her head minutely. “Unfortunately, I don’t know as much Fereldan history as I should, ser. I recently heard about the Night Elves’ exploits, and it… Well, it inspired me. I hope I’ve not caused Ferelden any offense.”

Even from a distance, he could see the arl’s eyes soften while looking her over, then glancing around. He asked, “Your accent… are you from the Free Marches?”

“O-oh! Yes, ser—I am Ellana of Clan Lavellan. We stay near Wycome.”

“Well met, Ellana. I am Arl Teagan of Redcliffe. I grew up in Ansburg, further west along the Minanter River. I believe your clan may have travelled nearby to the Green Dales at times.”

“You’re right: we usually travel further inland during the summer months.” The Herald visibly relaxed as they began to speak of local Marcher fare, reminiscing over such sordid delicacies as jellied meats, for the next few minutes. 

The rest of the camp soon grew restless at the sound of hoofbeats approaching again, and the arl and king turned to greet the Left and Right Hands of the Divine—plus Varric. Solas mused to himself that the Hands likely would have arrived closer to midday if not for the pony’s shorter gait… a fact that the frazzled Seeker and smug dwarf seemed keenly aware of, already. Imshael (and a few brave scouts) openly chortled at the sight of them while the Herald cleared her throat behind her hand.

King Alistair stepped forward as their companions came to a stop and hurriedly dismounted. Leliana spoke first, with a bow: “Your Majesty. Arl Teagan. Forgive our tardiness.”

The king replied much more jovially than before. “Sister Leliana, it’s been too long! We were only here a moment before you arrived. Your timing is as uncanny as ever.”

Cassandra and Varric exchanged an uncertain look while Sister Nightingale curtsied again toward the arl. “And Arl Teagan. I pray we can work together to rout Alexius from your home.”

“Along with Grand Enchanter Fiona and the rebels who joined them,” King Alistair interjected, hardened once more. “She invited the Tevinter here and helped him kick out the arl and his people. We cannot let it stand.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Leliana quickly demurred—and Varric quickly elbowed Cassandra’s hip when she opened her mouth to protest. “Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere?”

The king gestured back toward the Imperial Highway while Teagan waved the squires and their horses closer. Alistair said, “You should have passed the tents we erected where the Highway meets Redcliffe Road. Let’s discuss the situation there before night falls. Bring whatever advisors you need.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Since Dorian didn’t bring a mount, Solas saddled his own horse so that he could keep up with them and the royal procession. He, Ellana, Harding (on Varric’s pony), Cassandra, and Leliana travelled between the two long rows of soldiers after King Alistair and Arl Teagan. 

Cassandra’s skeptical once-over told Ellana what she thought of the Tevinter who’d joined the party—which Dorian hadn’t missed, either. He shrugged it off and poised himself much like she often saw Imshael doing, but she and Harding both stayed on either side of him to make it clear that they trusted him. He’d turned against his own mentor to free the mages: if the Inquisition could work with Ferelden and Orlais, with elves and dwarves, then they could work with Dorian, too.

Tents had been erected all around the junction where Redcliffe Road forked off the Highway; a camp for the soldiers lined the far side of the Highway, with two larger tents across the way on either side of the road. At first, she thought there was one tent each for the king and the arl, but one tent had a long table and benches for meetings, instead—a mobile war room. 

The sight of it made her distinctly uneasy, realizing they came here ready to fight. Then again, they’d prepared for the same eventuality when they snuck into the castle the night before... She couldn’t tell if Sister Leliana had expected to meet with Ferelden out here in the field, but it was clear to her that Cassandra and Harding were as surprised as she, and not sure how to comport themselves. 

She wasn’t awake when the party wrote out a letter to send to the advisors, but she heard the highlights from Solas and Dorian secondhand and tried to remind herself of Imshael’s and Blackwall’s warnings. Some of the mages chose to ally themselves with Tevinter: that technically made them invaders…

The sight of the war tent dropped a lead weight into her gut, though, dreading that the invaders weren’t facing mere expulsion like she’d expected.

Leliana did most of the talking to start as she relayed the details of their last few missives. When she reached the point where the party returned from the village (after speaking to Alexius), Dorian and Ellana started adding their perspectives as their “report” progressed through the afternoon, evening, and finally the heist itself. 

Cassandra briefly interrupted to scold them for taking action without waiting for them, but Leliana softly, coldly, cut her off: “We’ll address potential insubordination later, Cassandra.” 

Ellana couldn’t help herself when Harding hunched her shoulders, withering under their glares. She blurted out, “You didn’t see how swiftly the Tevinters reacted to our presence! You didn’t see that hut full of skulls. They chased the villagers away into the Hinterlands and chained up the mages who weren’t cooperating. The more time they had, the harder it would have been to sneak in.”

Dorian pointedly cleared his throat, drawing the ire his way, and lightly added, “The Venatori are quite obsessed with the Herald! I’m certain they would’ve prepared a trap had we not acted fast. They’ll have a harder time now that we’ve cut their numbers by half. Which, you’re welcome for that.”

Arl Teagan and King Alistair frowned at each other before Teagan warily said, “So you have turned against your countrymen here, at the last moment? That’s rather convenient.”

Dorian haughtily sniffed back, “The Venatori are no countrymen of mine! They’re exactly the sort of stereotype that gives Tevinter a bad reputation.” After a small pause, he too frowned and finished more seriously. “And besides, Alexius doesn’t know I’m here. His son sent me a secret message, saying he’s gone mad. After what I’ve seen, I believe him.”

Before the others could try to counter Dorian anymore, King Alistair coaxed the conversation forward. “Continue telling us of your night raid. Tell us everything you saw, everything that happened.” 

So they did. They described how they infiltrated through the dungeon while the other party distracted the Venatori; they explained their procession through the corridor, getting overwhelmed by demons near the end; and Imshael’s timely rescue after the mages barricaded themselves in the throne room. They even described how some of the rebels were now working with the Venatori. 

Arl Teagan’s eyebrows gradually rose toward his hat as they recounted the events of last night, while King Alistair slowly split an inexplicable smile. When they paused their retelling, he dryly muttered to Leliana, “This must be what people mean when they say they experience déjà vu. I can almost see the corridor all over again.” Leliana smirked slightly at that.

Teagan asked, “How did you find out where the mages were being held? How many enemies were in my castle?”

When Ellana faltered, unsure of how Imshael had obtained the guard schedules, maps, and disguises, Leliana quickly answered instead. “One of my spies was able to disguise himself long enough to listen to some of the guards and find out.” 

“I thought you weren’t aware of this attack in the night,” the king pointed out with a frown, eyes narrowed. 

“That’s true, but I warned him ahead of time that subterfuge may be necessary. We’ll take every advantage we can find.” Leliana then turned to Harding and said, “However, I did not warn anybody else about it. Tell us how you organized the scouts in the Hinterlands to guide the free mages to safety.”

Harding waved her hands in front of her. “To tell you the truth, only half the scouts were willing to participate. They stayed back around the crossroads and a few camps near the villa to point mages in the right direction, but they didn’t enter the village or castle.” Now she and Ellana took turns as they explained how they rallied some of the Inquisition’s soldiers, Corporal Vale’s men, and Dennet’s guards to lead the mages to the arl’s villa together. 

Then, Ellana relayed the aftermath at the castle, and Dorian handed off papers tallying the mages, detailing jobs they could do in the Hinterlands, their guard schedules, and a requisitions list for Leliana and the Fereldans to pore over. The king abruptly asked Ellana, Harding, Cassandra, and Dorian to wait outside while they reviewed the logistics and finances for the mages, so they filed out of the tent and heaved a collective sigh. 

She wasn’t entirely sure why the requisitions and finances needed to be discussed privately, since they wrote and brought the paperwork… The needless secrecy made her anxious, just like when Mother Giselle turned cagey at the crossroads.

Harding rubbed her chest while lamenting, “I can never tell when Sister Nightingale is pleased or furious…”

Dorian chuckled, hand fisted and propped on a hip while surveying the tents across the Highway. “The king and the arl arrived just in time to spare us a premature tongue-lashing, I imagine.” He cocked a brow at Cassandra’s scoff and scowl. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You are not the only suspicious element we must address when this is over,” Cassandra retorted, scathing. Then she rounded on Ellana: “Imshael simply wanted an excuse to slaughter people! He took advantage of your sympathy toward the mages, no doubt.”

Ellana gasped at the harsh accusation in her eyes and tone. “Imshael tried to discourage me at first! Everyone did!” She cried out defensively. “But we succeeded, didn’t we? We found the mages who were being held against their will; we stopped children from becoming slave soldiers and more Tranquil from being killed!” 

She and Cassandra both seemed surprised by her outburst, so she clutched her staff close and dropped her gaze to the ground. “S-sorry, Cassandra… We’ve been busy since we got here, and everybody in the Hinterlands wants to help the mages. They want the mages’ help, too. We did the right thing, and it may not have been possible if we’d waited. Please don’t punish anyone else, I really was insistent.”

After a tense pause between them all, Cassandra visibly deflated—nearly despondent. “I disapprove of you acting independently… but, you did not act as recklessly as I first feared. Even if I do not agree with your actions, I will support them. You saw an opportunity to avert more innocent deaths and took it; I would be a hypocrite to criticize that. But, please prioritize your safety going forward! We cannot close the Breach without you.”

Guilt wracked her as the Seeker pleadingly searched her eyes for some concession, but she could only swallow past a lump in her throat for several seconds. She must have been terrified at the prospect of me dying and the Breach never closing… But that danger’s never going away. Not while the Venatori are still around; not while the Elder One is still around. 

A small, bitter corner of her thoughts darkened as she also reminded herself: it’s not me they need—just the mark in my hand. It’s nothing personal. She forcibly pushed those other thoughts away before they also dredged up her memories of last night’s dream, which felt nothing like one. Staying busy all day had stopped her from dwelling on it, and now wasn’t the time to start doing so. 

She swallowed again and murmured another apology to Cassandra. “I knew it was dangerous, but I trust our companions. I’m… sorry for worrying you.” 

Harding piped up as they shuffled awkwardly, still waiting for the leaders to finish their private conversation. “Scout Ose went with the diversion team and told me all about it. It was incredible! They must have felled fifty enemy mages just at the gate, then they stormed through a side door to free more prisoners and find the Herald’s party when they took too long.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and sighed, “Ah, yes—the bedazzled templar donning breasts and smiting through a wave of demons with a single cackling bellow. Very heroic and not at all unsettling. Between him-her and the mortal enemy of all combs called Blackwall, we were in safe but bloody hands… And Scout Ose, of course.” 

Harding snorted and Ellana giggled while Dorian and Cassandra briefly shared similar exasperated expressions. The quietude that settled over them was distinctly less tense than before. Afternoon slipped into dusk before Sister Leliana, Arl Teagan, and King Alistair emerged from the tent rather than summoning them back in. 

King Alistair swept his gaze over them all, then settled on Ellana. “We will approach Redcliffe Castle tomorrow to reclaim it and demand that Alexius leave. Sister Leliana wants to arrest him as part of the Inquisition’s ongoing investigation. Your presence, and Dorian’s, may sway the madman to surrender peacefully.”

After a taut pause where everyone looked expectantly her way, she realized they were “letting” her decide whether or not to participate. She inhaled sharply while her thoughts raced… Dreading the answer, she asked, “What about the mages who have allied with the Venatori?”

King Alistair grimaced at the reminder. “They are now vassals of the Imperium and therefore trespassing.”

“You mean… S-so does Alexius need to send them away or—”

“Herald,” Leliana softly interrupted. “The Inquisition must investigate Alexius, not the mages.” Between Leliana’s carefully blank expression and the sharp glint in Alistair’s stare, her limbs and spine chilled. They’re going to… kill the rest… aren’t they?

Cassandra blanched: she seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “Grand Enchanter Fiona is still with them. What remains of the rebels can be reasoned with—or even conscripted!”

Teagan spoke up, resolute. “The Inquisition can recruit or conscript the mages at the sanctuary if they feel it necessary to do so. We understand that you went through and gave the mages—all the mages—an opportunity to leave. They’ve made their allegiance clear: they are a threat to Redcliffe and to Ferelden at large.”

“We’re already weakened by the mage-templar civil war. The Venatori’s foothold must be stamped out here and now,” King Alistair added. “The Inquisition does want to arrest and interrogate Alexius regarding the explosion at the Conclave, yes?” 

Ellana didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it left her in a rush, winded by sheer defeat. They’d freed the mages who wanted out. Even though Fiona knew she was being coerced, she stayed for the sick and for Felix… and the Inquisition really only had a claim to Alexius, anyway. The mages were technically Ferelden’s problem to address, not theirs: not hers. It’s nothing personal… 

Cassandra was now glaring openly at Leliana, whose expression hadn’t flickered a bit, while Dorian and Harding shuffled uncomfortably. She wanted to argue that the rebels were being bribed and coerced, possibly even brainwashed with blood magic—but the words caught in her throat as she realized they would fall on deaf ears. 

“Don’t forget, Keeper, that some of the rebels do want to go to Tevinter. You have to be willing to leave imbeciles to their fate.” Imshael had warned her, but she hadn’t anticipated that Ferelden would slaughter them wholesale…

Even though it was probably offensive to do so, she turned away from the defiant looks the king and arl were giving her while she choked out, “I’ll go with you to get Magister Alexius and his son Felix. Grand Enchanter Fiona is a suspect as well.”

“Herald?” She flinched at the incredulous question in Cassandra’s tone. Dorian heaved a heavy sigh beside her, bereft of all the flippant brevity he usually displayed.

“We will meet you here in the morning with a few of my best agents,” Leliana smoothly said to the king and arl behind her. “They’ll use the hidden passage and prevent any Venatori from escaping.” 

Arl Teagan said, “You have my sincere gratitude, Sister Leliana. Redcliffe will not forget how the Inquisition lent a hand against a Tevinter invasion.” Leliana was slower to depart than the rest of them; she and Dorian all but fled the Fereldan camp on their halla and horse with a dumbstruck Harding and Cassandra further behind. 

Imshael squinted her way from the campfire when their party returned, but left her be when she shook her head and retreated to her tent. Though it was dark enough to go to bed, and she’d barely eaten throughout the day, she could neither bring herself to eat nor sleep. She rolled to her side and pressed her pillow over her ears to drown out the subdued noise of the camp, staring blankly at the flickering mark on her hand. 

Even though it blurred and wavered in her sight as tears welled up in her eyes, she still saw and felt it flare each time her breath hitched as she desperately strangled her sobs into silence. She still thought she did the right thing—so why did it now feel like it would resolve just as badly as having done nothing?

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael, Solas, Blackwall, and Varric warily followed the Keeper’s hasty retreat with their eyes, but it was Imshael who felt the blasted elf’s roiling emotional storm. 

{Fruitless efforts! Lives wasted!}
[Pride sundered by the illusion of power.]
(Manipulated again like a fucking pawn!)
Didn’t I tell her not to take it personally?

She merely shrugged when Solas levelled yet another accusatory glare their way. He’d been doing that since the night raid. All risks were accounted for: none of them had been injured or killed. As far as half-cocked heists went, they not only succeeded but excelled.

They’d whiled away the hours that the rest of the party was gone by listening to Varric regale them with the dramatic happenings in Val Royeaux. Imshael cared little for the pomp and frill of the place but positively beamed at the prospect of watching the mitre get punched off a “mother’s” head. 

While it wasn’t surprising that the templars “officially” broke away from the Chantry, it was strange to hear they were herded off by a Seeker. Corypheus had little use for Seekers, so it was possible the templars at Val Royeaux weren’t connected—or weren’t connected yet. Varric’s crossbow should have resonated with any red templars…

The real reason they hadn’t returned to the Hinterlands sooner wasn’t because of the upset with the Chantry, but rather because they’d been called upon by “the imperial enchanter” and a Red Jenny. For whatever reason, they’d recruited the two before leaving. Imshael mentally braced their patience for hunting down whatever subpar smoke den the Red Jenny tried to install back at Haven; peddling product on their turf wouldn’t be tolerated. The pest (and whatever other blue fiends she corralled) could purchase their lyrium once the refinery was operational.

Imshael also knew Varric was supposed to contact somebody about the Hinterlands’ lyrium operation while they were in Orlais, but since the pebble didn’t bring it up, neither did they—he was probably avoiding mentioning it with Blackwall present. Cassandra joined them soon enough, with a dark, baleful glare and a heavy sigh while dropping onto the log stoops beside Varric. 

The pebble took one look at her downcast scowl before rumbling, “Well, it looks like the meeting with Ferelden didn’t go as expected… the Herald went straight to bed without a word.”

Imshael stuck out their lip a bit as Cassandra leaned forward on her knees and rubbed her temples, closing her eyes and groaning. The flash of her ire was brief but keen, contrasting sharply with shadows that hinted at far darker thoughts and emotional turmoil, like those of the Keeper. “Since the mages who wanted their freedom have been relocated to the arl’s villa, he and King Alistair are ready to march on the castle tomorrow.”

Blackwall cringed and Solas stilled, picking up on her meaning faster than Varric, whose eyes and jaw widened a moment later. Blackwall exclaimed, “March…! We’re not taking part in that, are we?”

Cassandra shook her head despite confirming. She didn’t dare look up: “Sister Leliana agreed to lend some of her agents; Dorian and the Herald will also go to arrest Alexius, his son, and the former grand enchanter to take to Haven.” Varric and Blackwall both groaned Maker’s ass and Maker’s balls simultaneously. 

And Solas, of course, shot them an even frostier glare than before: there goes the pup blaming me for removing the “innocent” mages who might have stayed their hand. Typical. Imshael mockingly swept away an imaginary tear for the mages’ plight, then smirked when the Wolf’s jaw visibly flexed from clenching so hard. 

She leaned onto one hand and drawled, “Good thing we pulled out the friendly mages already, eh? Almost half the people who fought us last night were converted rebels. They chose their bed—and grave.” Now they all shot Imshael outraged glowers—but she shrugged a shoulder and matched their intensity, squinting and daring them to prove them wrong. “It’s a Fereldan castle, so it’s Ferelden’s prerogative.”

Varric growled, “Does every abomination value life so little, or just you?”

Imshael barked out a laugh at that. “Your perspective is backwards, Pebble! If the idiot rebels valued their lives half as much as I do mine, they wouldn’t bend the knee to a foreign power.”

“An easy stance to claim when the threat of death holds no sway,” Solas countered, clipped and cold. “Their alternative was starvation—endless persecution!”

Imshael waved a dismissive hand in Redcliffe’s general direction. “After receiving sanctuary from the arl? You lie, elf. And now they’re persecuted for being Tevinter instead of for being mages.” She stood and dusted off their backside, flashing the Lady Seeker a snide grin when she finally glanced up from the dirt with a dull frown. “Freedom was never an option! They had the choice to submit to Ferelden or to Ferelden’s enemy nation, while in Ferelden.” 

With that, Imshael strutted off to find a wash tub for their evening ablutions. She cocked a curious brow after passing the subdued party a second time, realizing that Pavus had been lurking at the next fire—alone. And eavesdropping. And soon trailing after them as they sought out a nearby stream. The two of them moved around each other without a word for several minutes while Imshael filled the tub and set it on a waist-high boulder. 

This particular mage’s aura swirled and sparkled incessantly in their second sight, as though perpetually striking sparks by brushing against the Veil. She could see, however, that the sparks were in fact faint, barely sapient wisps catching peeks across the Veil, which Pavus seemed all too happy to provide in exchange for the light show. His ancestors gathered more of them, but showcased them a little less. Alas.

She added runes and potions to the water as usual, laid a few flannel wash cloths on the side, then dropped the tunic of gold and jade directly into it. She gestured to the wash cloths and chuckled, “It’s a better wash than the soap they still make with lye and animal fat down here. Now’s your chance to almost bathe properly.” 

Pavus huffed with feigned humor. “And here I thought I was condemned to watch my travel wear disintegrate into scraps! I was preparing to steal that oversized pelt you’re tanning across camp.”

“Your travel wear isn’t already scraps held down by belts?” She sneered back; Pavus sniffed and daintily plucked a hair off the detached sleeve. “I regret to inform you that the mineral salts used in Tevinter are hard to come by here. So unless you’d like to soften that pelt by hand and rub out the brain residue…”

“Egad! I'd better make do, then.” Imshael scoffed while Dorian finally started undoing the absurd number of belts on his sleeves, sidling closer to the tub while she undid their breeches. “I take it local sensibilities are equally draconian regarding modesty.”

“They’ll probably assume we came out here to fornicate just to alleviate our crippling depravity. We can’t possibly be doing anything productive in each other’s company, after all.”

“Ah. Naturally.” They both laughed while Imshael crouched and dropped their trousers into the stream. Dorian dampened one of the flannel cloths and started wiping down the leather straps on a sleeve before removing them. Eventually, Pavus got around to his actual reason for following them: “How does the Inquisition treat its prisoners?”

Imshael snorted. “Better than they deserve. I have the dungeon to myself, and they don’t even lock my cell door!”

“Wha—Really? You’re awfully free for a prisoner.”

She stood and wrung out their breeches, then turned and tossed them into the tub—just in time for Pavus to spot their spirit scar, then the red lyrium brand. “I have templars guarding me at all times when I’m at Haven, but I’m too useful—and good-looking—to languish in the cells. I rather doubt you qualify for the dungeons despite being a snake in the land of dogs and cats.”

Dorian slowly met their gaze again after pursing his lips for a moment. “I’m worried about how they’ll treat Felix, actually. They’ll arrest him and his father both tomorrow, before. Well. You know.”

“Eeh…” Imshael ran a hand through their hair. How they treated Felix wouldn’t matter for long. “Alexius’ research with subspatial warping is relevant to my interests, while binding it to rift activity is relevant to the Inquisition’s investigation. He’s not disposable. As for Felix? The magister’s medicine won’t keep him alive much longer: half a year, at most. The Inquisition is full of sentimental worrywarts. They’ll keep him comfortable.”

Despite what they’d said about modesty, Imshael crouched with their back to Pavus to remove and replace the padding in their smalls, then blocked it from his line of sight while scrubbing out the cloth and letting the moss go downstream. Dorian had leaned forward and clutched the sides of the tub, eyes distant and wide. 

“Comfortable?” He breathed incredulously. “His illness has been nothing more than occasional faintness. How do you even know what it is?” 

Imshael heaved an internal groan-growl-sigh while standing and wringing out the padding, then tucking it in the band of their smalls. She could already foresee being tasked to try to intervene somehow, anyway… She turned and patted the brand. “My expertise is lyrium, and that includes blighted lyrium. I can sense when darkspawn are near. Same with Grey Wardens and ghouls. Your friend is sick with the Blight.”

She didn’t bother to tell Pavus that Felix was likely fainting every time he heard the Calling and touched the hive mind; that his mouth probably watered at the sight of raw meat or the smell of rotting garbage and sewage; that he was definitely hiding black veins and thinning hair with makeup; that Fiona was almost definitely using blood magic to keep it at bay. 

“Maker’s breath…” Dorian ran a hand down his face as Imshael dipped another flannel scrap into the water, then started wiping down their arms. He looked them over and dryly asked, “I suppose based on your lack of suggestions that he’s too sick to do anything about it?”

While proceeding with washing their torso, Imshael sighed, “There are a few ways to counter it, but the changes are just as drastic. Harboring a spirit can conduct the taint, but any spirit is immediately corrupted into a demon. You can imagine the sort of stigma that comes with it! A combination of blood magic and spirit healing might work when it’s caught early. Same with the Joining ritual for Grey Wardens, but that requires archdemon blood.”

She absently massaged their Faith scar…

{No more faith! No more worship!}
(More short-lived trinkets to hoard!)
[Inoculation is not infection.]
Sharing is not caring…

She abruptly cleared their throat and shook off the inner discord. She blithely added, “None of it’s possible without a real examination. Any magic and medicine used to hide the symptoms is also hiding how far gone he really is.”

Pavus hummed pensively and resumed cleaning his leathers and stripping down to his underclothes. They finished washing up without another word, save an amused thanks from Dorian for sharing in the debauchery of a unisex bath when they were finished. They swaggered off in different directions once they got to camp—and sure enough, they earned a handful of skeptical side-eyes when they returned.

Of their party, only Blackwall was still up—and he’d moved over to another fire with Harding, Ose, and some other scouts, whittling a hunk of wood while brooding into his beard. She quietly paced the camp, scanning their companions, then strolled to the edge of camp and took flight in owl form. 

They would have spied on the Fereldan camp if not for the blasted king sensing them. They instead went to patrol the paths into Redcliffe Village and Castle for signs of Venatori activity.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Solas, like the rest of the party, had steeled his nerves and stomach ahead of their approach to the castle. Choice warned them what to expect in terms of sight and smell—and warned them to take the Highway with the Fereldans so they didn’t have to see the additional bodies strung up on lamp posts and shop signs in the village, stripped and tied into lewd, suggestive poses. 

Most, but not all, of the bodies were from the night of their raid. The haunting, unfathomable stench of putrefaction hung heavy in the air, all the sharper on the cool, crisp breezes wafting off the cliffsides. The distant hum of blow flies accompanied them from the moment the castle and windmill came into view. 

More such bodies were similarly poised to greet them, lining the way to the castle on hastily erected posts; dangling from the battlements; hanging across the main gate. Solas rarely saw such desecration from creatures besides darkspawn, yet he sensed no trace of the Blight—only sheer cruelty.

He briefly scanned his companions’ grim expressions—as much as possible through the scarves they’d tied over their noses and mouths. Leliana, cold and steely; Cassandra, horrified and indignant; Dorian, downcast with despair; and Ellana, distant yet utterly distraught.

King Alistair and Arl Eamon led them while their columns of soldiers filed further ahead to the gate. Imshael, meanwhile, led Leliana’s agents through the hidden passage, with the sole objective of leaving zero survivors, regardless of robe color.

When the first soldiers reached a pair of Venatori guards, the guards simply stepped aside and waved them through; the soldiers continued their march up the stairs to the main doors, which were already thrown wide open. Every one of them, including the king and arl, exchanged wary looks—all their battle senses screamed that a trap lay ahead. 

Once they were dismounted and inside the foyer, Venatori lined the way to the throne room while holding daggers to rebels’ necks. They had no way to discern if any were blood mages. They had no way to determine whether the rebels were Venatori allies in disguise, bluffing. And they had no way to tell if blood magic was forcing anyone to participate at present.

Arl Teagan’s hands clenched tightly enough to tremble at his sides—whether from rage or terror, Solas couldn’t say for sure. King Alistair waited only a moment once they were at the entrance to the throne room before speaking for the arl. He told a nearby Tevinter guard, “Announce us.”

The Venatori whirled on his heel and started leading them down the reception hall, but after following in after him just a few paces, their party quickly froze at the sound of several grunts and thuds. They glanced back in shock and horror: each pair of guards that they’d passed while entering had just cut their hostages’ throats open and dropped them to the ground, then closed in behind them.

Some of the hostages further ahead gasped or cried out; the likelihood of them bluffing had just drastically reduced. (Either that, or they had been further deceived into thinking they were bluffing.)

Cassandra and Leliana turned to bare sword and daggers on instinct when the Venatori closed off their exit, and a tense stalemate kept everyone frozen in place for nearly half a dreadful minute. Would every step forward end another life? Was every hostage forfeit if they attacked now? Could they hold out such a heavy ambush until Leliana’s agents slipped through? 

Neither of the Divine Hands budged from the rear guard as Magister Alexius boomed from the throne: “My friend! It’s so good to see you again! And your… associates, of course.” Solas knew instantly he was referring to the Herald, and had just snubbed the king and arl entirely. 

The two Fereldan nobles slowly sidestepped and looked back to Ellana, who shakily pulled the scarf off her face. From beside her, Solas swiftly did the same—then began to covertly cast a barrier without moving his staff or hands. Unfortunately, it was an exercise in both patience and subtlety that he’d not had to perform in a long time. 

He kept his pull on the Fade as faint as possible as Alexius continued, standing from the throne. “I’m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

Solas distinctly heard the Herald swallow hard, but then she leapt two large steps ahead, until she was just ahead of the king and arl. If possible, they stiffened further, waiting for more hostages to be slain—but none of the Venatori moved. “Where is Grand Enchanter Fiona?” she demanded, “Do the mages have no say in their own fate?!”

Alexius dipped forward into the slightest bow, with a hand posed carefully over his sternum. “The southern mages would not have come under my care if they did not trust me with their lives!” He soothed… then beckoned them closer, through the now-squirming rows of guards and hostages. “Shall we begin our talks?”

Ellana rapidly shook her head and planted her feet a little wider, refusing to take another step; the rest of them did the same out of reflex. “The only thing we have to talk about is your role in the Venatori!”

Alexius straightened, peering down his nose at the whole party, then slowly made his way down the steps—prowling into range. King Alistair and Arl Teagan both rested their hands on their sword pommels, and Solas noted that the arl was one of those rare warriors who wielded his sword left-handed. They’d positioned themselves to shield the flanks of the party, but unless the king still had his templar abilities, they’d have to get in range of enemy spellcasters.

Alexius’ voice dropped an octave as he demanded just as carefully as his approaching steps, “Now… Where could you have heard that name?”

At that, Felix descended from the stairs near the throne, which led to the upper floor. Dorian had sent a secret message to him, warning of their impending arrest and attack. Alexius’ eyes widened slightly, and his head canted, but he didn’t dare turn his attention away.

Felix called out, “I told them, Father.” 

“Felix. What have you done?” The magister’s eyes fell shut and scrunched with a flicker of despair, voice soft but still unyielding.

Ellana braved another step forward, paused to see if the Venatori would slay their hostages, then gestured toward Felix. She opted for a more pleading tone now: “Your son is concerned that you’re involved in something terrible.” 

Alexius sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, then bellowed, “So speaks the thief! Do you think you can turn my son against me? You think you can walk into my stronghold with that stolen mark—a gift you don’t even understand—and think you’re in control? You’re nothing but a mistake!”

Solas finally wove barriers over everyone in the party while Alexius had been ranting, but his heart started pounding when Ellana moved her staff to her off hand and held up the Anchor. “If you know so much, enlighten me!” she cried out. “Tell me what this mark on my hand is for!” 

“It belongs to your betters,” Alexius spat. “You wouldn’t even begin to understand its purpose.”

Felix rushed out of the stairwell to his father’s side and pleaded, “Father, listen to yourself! Do you know what you sound like?”

Dorian chose that moment to step around the Fereldans, to the Herald’s side, and remove his scarf for Alexius to see. He grimaced as Dorian quipped, “He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be.”

“Dorian…” Alexius’ cadence darkened even further, realizing the depth of his son’s and pupil’s betrayal. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down.” Lifting his chin, he addressed the rest of them: “The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes…!”

“So that’s who you serve?” Solas glanced quickly to the side, toward the door leading into the corridor. He wasn’t sure how much longer the Herald would be able to stall for Leliana’s agents. “Who is the Elder One? Is he a magister?”

“Soon, he will become a god. He will make the world bow to mages once more…! We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas!”

“Alexius! This is exactly what you and I talked about, never wanting to happen! Why would you support this?!” Dorian boldly approached his former mentor just as Solas’ ears caught the sound of a pair of arrows whisking through the air somewhere out of sight—and when he glanced to the side again, the corridor door was cracked open. Among them was Choice, but they were completely concealed somewhere.

“Father, stop this!” Felix beseeched again, adding his voice to Dorian’s. “Give up the Venatori, free the southern mages—”

Alexius cut a hand through the air and finally turned to his son; he snapped, “No! This is the only way, Felix. He can save you!”

“Save me?” Felix stumbled back at the desperate, manic gleam in his father’s eyes, shaking his head in disbelief, but Alexius continued.

“There is a way: the Elder One promised! If I can undo the mistake at the Temple—”

“I’m going to die! You need to accept that.” 

Alexius reached out as though he would stroke his son’s cheek, and for just a moment, Solas dared to hope that his son’s earnest appeal had pierced through his convictions—but the magister swept his hand outward and pointed at Ellana, who flinched. “Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands that woman’s life!”

The whole party clamored for their weapons or else started charging their staves as the Venatori cut the remaining hostages’ throats and rushed them with bloody daggers in hand.

Solas quickly sensed a few charging up faster spells with blood magic—but to his surprise, a number of them seized in place rather than any of his companions. Alistair and Teagan quickly impaled two of the stunned spellcasters while Dorian paralyzed another cluster of them using his Horror attack. 

Teagan shouted in surprise when the second mage he stabbed shuddered, chuckled, and a smoky shadow fled from it and dispersed—answering Solas’ question of where Imshael had hidden. The remaining mages seized by their blood magic compulsion stumbled, dazed, but could not recover faster than Solas’ ice attacks or Dorian’s fireballs. Ellana stayed near Dorian, covering his back and flinging arcane bolts into the enemies’ faces wherever they slipped the others’ attentions.

Hardly a full minute passed before the eight of them (plus Leliana’s agents) had slain what appeared to be over fifty mages—though the unfortunate hostages were mingled among the enemies, making an accurate count impossible. Imshael stood among the archers and assassins near the wall, arms crossed and smirk cocked. Leliana and Cassandra swept the back of the room with their eyes, then turned without sheathing their weapons. 

Ellana stumbled over a corpse while cornering Alexius near the throne with Dorian, and her hand sparked violently with her tempestuous emotions after such a brief but brutal encounter. She shouted, “Your men are dead, Alexius! Your men, and men who were never truly yours! None of this had to happen!”

Alexius started fumbling through his robes, teeth openly bared. He growled out, “You, are a mistake!” When he found what he was furiously searching for, he held up an innocuous green pendant. It started sparking erratically as well, and to Solas' horror, he realized it was attuned to the Anchor…! Over the crackling intensity of the Veil tearing open, Alexius snarled from behind the now floating and flashing pendant: “You should never have existed!”

Solas lurched forward, heedless of any danger, as the Anchor jerked Ellana forward by the hand. Dorian shouted and ran after her as well, far closer than Solas.

He and Imshael both roared out for Ellana while the Divine Hands cried out for the Herald, but their frantic rush forward was moot. The Veil destabilized and cracked open, rippling like a liquid mirror, and engulfed her and Dorian with the sound of shattering glass. Choice’s true voice briefly, horrifically, echoed their fourfold demonic roar out of the rippling rift before cracking back out of existence with the force of a thunderclap, blowing Solas, Felix, and Alexius several feet back from it.

All that remained of the Herald—the only one who could close the Breach and control the orb—was a black sooty streak and the crisp ozone scent of a lightning strike.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

For a moment, Ellana thought her hand may have ripped right off from the sheer agony, but when she inhaled to scream, she couldn’t make a sound. She couldn’t feel or hear the air rush into her lungs, either. She was certain her hair had begun whipping about her face in the maelstrom, tugged free of its haphazard bun, but she couldn’t feel it pulling her scalp or hitting her cheeks and neck.

Then, the pain subsided too. Sensation simply vanished. 

So did her sight when the rift enveloped her. It had rippled across and around like cold water—and yet, much too thick and viscous to be water. The cold felt familiar: the same shadowy cold that radiated off of Imshael as a Fear demon. She’d briefly felt the outlines of every muscle, bone, body hair, and organ before that sensation fled, too.

She wasn’t sure how long she “floated” in that strange, senseless state, but it was long enough for her panic to subside, try to assess her predicament, then panic again. Her thoughts would race as she tried to rationalize her way to some kind of action, but then she’d grope about for her staff without ever knowing if she grabbed it because she couldn’t feel it. 

When she’d realize (or remember?) what was happening, her thoughts and her panic would abate again. There was nothing, and therefore nothing to do but… wait. She saw nothing, felt nothing, measured no passage of time, and had only that whimsical current of thoughts ebbing from terror to acceptance. 

She and a few of her clanmates once snuck into the woods to eat peculiar mushrooms, and she keenly remembered a bone-deep sense of anticipation that welled up in her (alongside the more entertaining side effects). She’d felt like she stood in a threshold between worlds—or maybe just perspectives—without ever tipping fully into one or the other. 

Her friends laughed and agreed, but she’d been captivated more by the sense of standing at some invisible apex, rather than the sights and sounds beheld there. And that same foreign, disembodied anticipation gripped her now, every time she stopped panicking over being sucked into a rift into nothingness. 

Was this the Veil itself, then: the threshold between waking and dreams? Could it be the Void instead? The anticipation that stirred in her seemed to know that an answer was close; she knew it had something to do with Alexius’ time magic and Imshael’s templar powers, and yet her thoughts tried to wander to another source of its own accord.

At some point—she wasn’t sure when—she wondered if maybe that awareness of the “threshold” was in fact the threshold between question and answer. She felt she had an answer, already at the tip of her tongue, before shaping the question to summon it… What did it mean to dwell between the two? Or to suddenly get them, but backwards?

In an unexpected rush, she became aware of sensation again. She realized that her eyes were closed; that her staff was strapped to her back instead of in her hand; that the staff was ringing several notes in an unsettling chord and vibrating viciously against her; and that the sound and buzzing made her vallaslin tingle something fierce. 

Something started tugging at the mark in her hand again—but without any real footing, she just sort of dragged through air (or Void, or Veil, or liquid glass) and sped up with the pull.

She cried out as an explosive shattering sound rattled her eardrums, and she staggered forward several steps while windmilling her arms to stay upright with her eyes still closed. She winced and clapped her hands over her ears, but the damage was done: the ringing was enough to make her briefly nauseous. 

Her eyes flew open when a warm hand gripped her shoulder and tugged her close, and after a moment, she realized she wasn’t alone. Dorian had come through the rift with her somehow, and was now holding his staff defensively in front of them both. The three serpents decorating the top of his staff seemed to point and hiss at a group of painted warriors while her eyes (and ears) adjusted… 

She then jerked with a terrified gasp when her eyes focused properly: they had emerged facing down a half dozen darkspawn!

Nobody moved for several seconds while sizing each other up… 

The darkspawn were plated in jagged, spiky sets of ichor-stained armor with chainmail hoods, painted with white streaks and handprints all over—including on their grotesque faces. Nostrils, lips, and eyelids had rotted away to fix them with unblinking stares and bared teeth, looking just as bewildered as she felt.

Ellana’s mouth dropped open when one of them said in a guttural tone that was half-growl, “These are not for killing!” 

A taller one, slender and hunched with long spikes strapped to its forearms as daggers, hissed while the others lowered their weapons: “It stops the Calling now!”

The first one pointed to them and said, “We are meaning amity for you. The hole: it interferes! You should be moving away from it now.” 

She and Dorian turned just enough to side-eye the warped rift behind them, then a few warped spaces around the chamber they were in, before quickly facing the darkspawn again. They seemed unbothered by their arrival now that they were talking. A few of them shuffled back into battle stances while watching the rift instead of them. 

Dorian muttered from the corner of his mouth, “Do my ears deceive me? I think that darkspawn just used the word ‘amity’ somewhat accurately.”

“Should we… move away from the rift?” Her own voice was barely above a whisper as she darted her gaze across the round, decrepit chamber they found themselves in. It must have been beautiful and imposing at some point, with ornately carved and barred windows all around and patterned tiling on the floor. 

Wherever they were now, it wasn’t the throne room at Redcliffe Castle—and based on just a few treetops poking up in the background through the ruined windows, they were very high up.

“Unfortunately, there’s already smartspawn in front of us,” Dorian dryly quipped. “Let’s not give demons a chance to strike from behind, as well. Your left or my right?” 

“Erm…” Ellana teetered between self-preservation and the stinging tingle in her hand, but not for as long as she expected. And certainly not as long as it felt like they’d been lost in the rift. She murmured, “Go right.” They carefully sidestepped together once, twice, until the rift was to her left near her marked hand. Belatedly, she realized she held something in her other hand, but she didn’t dare divert her attention from the band of darkspawn just then.

She hesitantly called out to the one addressing them, “I can close this rift, i-if you want me to.” She shuddered as pairs of beady dark eyes raked over her again, snarling and grunting in what she assumed was part of their “language”. 

After looking to either side at the other darkspawn, who quieted down, the… alpha? Lumbered a few steps closer and pointed at the rift again. “You are knowing to do this?” it demanded. She couldn’t quite tell if it was angry or if it just sounded that way naturally.

She quickly shook her head. “I-I don’t know how to make them, but I can close them.” She made sure to move slowly when she raised her hand sideways toward the rift, squinting against the intensifying sting, pull, and sparks. The other darkspawn shuffled and growled some more, but the alpha watched her flaring hand. 

The distinct sense of being studied unnerved her in a way she never thought possible. Halla had a serene wisdom in their eyes, while foxes had a quick, curious wit in their gaze… The intelligence gleaming in the darkspawn’s eyes felt hungry, somehow—yet it wasn’t curious, cunning, or even eager. She could almost compare it to the yawning sense of anticipation that welled up in her hardly a minute before.

She was so mesmerized by the abyss of its eyes that she almost missed it saying, “You are closing the hole, now.”

“Right…” She clenched her teeth and reached her hand out to the rift, jerking slightly when it connected. Dorian shifted in front of her more fully when the other darkspawn, including the alpha, all closed in as though watching a spectacle. They crouched and gnashed their teeth as the tether between the rift and her hand coiled, tightened—then snapped shut, making them flinch and hiss.

The alpha hadn’t budged until the rift vanished. It looked around the space where the warps had been for a moment before turning back to her. “The architect would know more. It is waiting for you now.”

Dorian checked her response over his shoulder, eyebrows high and just as skeptical as she felt. She knew he must have been recalling what Dabog said about talking darkspawn, too… She gulped to avoid stammering. “Who is the architect?”

“It is that which awakens. It is answering your questions.”

Dorian warily asked, “I suppose that’s your way of saying you’ll take us to your leader, hm? How about you lead, and we’ll follow. From a safe distance. Relatively speaking.” 

The alpha studied him with the same intensity that it had with her, taking in their staves, the mark on her hand… Then, it turned to the others and signalled them away with hand gestures she could have sworn she’d seen Commander Cullen making before. Dorian’s face scrunched a little at the sight, too. 

The darkspawn never stowed their weapons as they stormed out of the chamber down a spiraling staircase off to one side, followed by the alpha. It paused before descending and signalled to them the same way, beckoning. The lack of obvious facial expressions left Ellana wondering if the jerky motions hinted toward being agitated or not, as she and Dorian followed far more slowly.

With the darkspawn now ahead of them, the two of them whispered urgently back and forth about their unexpected crisis. “What happened?” she began. “The last thing I remember is standing in the great hall…”

Dorian hummed low and cradled his chin, brows and mouth angled down. “The rift must have moved us… but to what? The nearest confluence of energy? I doubt this is what Alexius intended.”

“With talking darkspawn here… were we transported to Ostagar, somehow?”

“I fear you might be right. Alexius used the amulet as a focus—but I suspect he meant to trap us wherever we were. Or rather, weren’t.” Together, they shivered uneasily at the notion as they left the stairs and entered a hallway for the next floor down.

“You warned us about these new rifts appearing as time passes, but if we’re in Ostagar, then how did one appear so far away, already? And why here?”

“Those are excellent questions,” he admitted while shaking his head. “We’ll have to find out from our hopefully gracious host. And then get back before the Inquisition loses its collective composure.”

“Oh my…!” The faint memory of their companions screaming her name just before the rift swallowed them up panged her heart, and she made to press her hand against her chest while frowning down at the ground… Which reminded her that she was still holding onto something. 

Curious, she opened her fist (which she’d clenched so hard her fingers ached) and stared down at the rune stone Imshael had given her; and she remembered how it made the mark on her hand flare when she first got it. How did I fetch this from my pocket without feeling it…? 

Dorian leaned close to peer down at the stone as well. “Ah—the answer rune! Now that’s an old system.” 

At her blank expression, he smiled and rested a hand on the tome strapped to his side. “The old tongue was written in syllables and symbolism combined. Some families still encrypt their grimoires with them to confuse prying eyes. That one in particular is the syllable ‘an’, and symbolizes ‘answers’.”

They balked abruptly as the hallway opened up to reveal more darkspawn, who paused their tasks in what appeared to be an armory. They increased their pace while keeping their backs to the inner wall, and hurried after the alpha they were still following. Somewhere nearby, the hideous sounds of screeching spawn and clashing blades hinted that the creatures might even be sparring…!

She kept hold of the stone and prayed that it would give them what it represented—but more importantly, a safe way back to their companions.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael was close enough to the Seeker that when black terror spiked through her informed field, they reacted with it secondhand. Fear’s and Wrath’s reflexes were far faster than sensible thought. 

It took the rest of Imshael’s restraint not to explode into a rampage as their true form flared across the room, Calling the Keeper, commanding her back to them—then flushing with fury when she didn’t obey. She regained their composure before the Fereldans could figure out the source of the demonic roar that shook the room, but only just. 

{Into the pockets!? Gone!}
[Calm! The Keeper heeds the Call.]
(My trinkets blackened! My slave stolen!)
She’s not dead. Eeh, she’s not alive in there, either.

Cassandra, Leliana, and Solas charged forward to apprehend the magister, but not before he threw the attuned talisman to the ground and shattered it under his boot. Fear and Wrath flailed again at Cassandra’s strangled cry of grief right before she sent the impudent ‘Vint flying with a merciless shield bash. 

Sharp-shadowed despair darkened counterspace throughout the room as Leliana whipped around Felix to lay a dagger against his artery, and Solas swept up the talisman, gritting his teeth with his face pinched. Leliana shot them a glance and nodded her head toward the stairs, signalling for them to clear the upper floor. 

What remained of (most of) the rebels had been moved into the main floor’s chapel and were as helpless as fish in a barrel when Imshael subdued them for the assassins. The remaining Venatori up top would be no different. Imshael led that charge as well, but all the while, they only paid half attention while spreading their awareness as far as possible, still Calling for the Keeper. 

Distant growths of red lyrium resonated faintly, echoing back like the warped rift had, in the direction of south—probably in the Hinterlands. It echoed their Call rather than whispering her thoughts from beyond: a sign of life, somewhere out of reach but not gone. Where Imshael couldn’t reach with red lyrium, their phylactery would compensate. The Lady Seeker would just have to stew in her despair until they had a chance to tell her. 

A score of mages awaited them upstairs, but half were rebels crammed into a bedroom—Fiona included. She and the most cooperative enchanters were probably hoping to be spared… Imshael wasn’t feeling particularly magnanimous as they kicked through the door and the enchantments on it, growling at the assassins to stay in the hall. 

She Smited them to drain their mana and consciousness, then waded through sluggish bodies while bearing down on them with enough fear and rage to even make the torches sputter. She grabbed Fiona out of the whimpering huddle, shoved her out of the room to an assassin on standby, and started swinging. When that failed to calm the wrath heating their blood and tinting their sight, they graduated to painting the walls to match!

Pleading wails and screams flooded the room, but failed to pierce through the roaring rush of blood in their ears. Only the fact that the castle walls were several feet thick stopped them from bowing out as Imshael tried their damnedest to burst every sack of meat open against them. At that point, it was the only way to redirect their own sympathetic fucking reaction to the Seeker’s stricken faith.

She stood panting in the middle of the room when silence descended in the aftermath—and tried to pacify the seething coalescion of their hive mind by devouring the last fleeting images, thoughts, and wishes of the pathetic cretins who thought magic made them worthy of persecuting… She jerked slightly when an assassin cautiously called out to them, snapping them from a lengthy daze. He urged them to press on through their grief to see that the Herald’s sacrifice would not be in vain! 

She snickered while staggering out of the room with a Mental Fortress in place (to dampen Venatori attacks) and feigned exhaustion while waving the assassins forward. She let them clear the rest of the upper floor and massaged their burning scar, flaking gray skin out of their tunic from their failed rockflesh poultice. She paused at the stairs as the rest of Leliana’s stooges returned to the main floor when the culling was complete. 

And here misery used to love my company. Now I can barely tolerate it when it’s the Keeper’s or the Seeker’s. That’s unfortunate. She retraced their steps and braced their nerves by feeding on more sundered pride and realized fears before rejoining the party downstairs…

Cassandra had similarly hardened her demeanor while holding a chain connected to enchanted shackles cuffing Alexius. That didn’t stop shadows from shivering around her as she barely contained an urge to either scream or cry. Meanwhile, the mockingbird was in the middle of chaining Felix. 

“Felix isn’t a threat,” Imshael scoffed as they approached her. “Put those on Fiona instead.” The former grand enchanter, still held on either side by an agent, looked them over wide-eyed. It occurred to them that they were spattered in blood after their frenzy upstairs, which the rest of the party probably overheard as well. 

She cried, “You murdered my people in cold blood! And the Inquisition wonders why we indentured ourselves to Tevinter?! This is no different from annulment!” 

Imshael sneered a derisive half-grin. “Tevinter would have paid you more in a week than Inquisition servants will see in a month. You’re worse than slaves—you’re pawns beholden to purses, and your buyer attacked Redcliffe with you. We should let the king judge your fate after our investigation is through!” Their smile widened as Fiona paled and flicked her attention to Alistair and Teagan, standing to either side of the throne with matching thunderous lowers. 

The sound of Cassandra snapping their name in exasperation (and a familiar flicker of sharp agitation) was the best thing they’d heard, felt, or seen in hours. 

Imshael switched places with Leliana so she could shackle Fiona; she crossed their arms and rolled their neck while looking over Felix, who kept his gaze lowered despondently. After exchanging farewells with the king and arl (plus an apology for the mess), the subdued party finally took its leave of the accursed castle. The others hastily tugged scarves back up around their mouths and noses when the stench of death washed over them from all the decorations outside. 

Imshael glanced at Felix, who covered his mouth with his hand and squeezed his watering eyes shut while swallowing several times… She muttered under their breath, “The Blight makes cannibals of its victims. Tell me what’s in the medicine you’ve been using to stop it.” Alexius tried to shout at them to leave Felix alone, but Cassandra yanked him forward as she led the party to where they’d left the horses down the road. 

After gulping down another mouthful of saliva, Felix shook his head and replied, “I only know that it’s a blend of powders. It stops the… cravings… but it affects my thoughts in strange ways. Intrusive thoughts that sometimes whisper over my own.”

Imshael tried not to roll their eyes: “Is the powder red?”

“Sorry—the powder was already mixed by the time I saw it. It’s pink, so it must have something red in it.”

“Did you eat it, breathe it, or burn it like incense?”

“I breathe it in. Someone else has to blow it in my face so it’s in my mouth and nose, the way non-mage healers do.”

Imperial Chantries burned a lyrium blend in their censers that was safe to breathe, with a concentrated incense burned in private chapels for the templars. The southern Chantries instead “initiated” their templars with a quilled plunger into the arm, overdosing them—then sustaining the habit with smaller doses. The sorry addicts also snorted whatever blue dust they could get their hands on behind the Chantry’s back. (On a good night, they’d rent brothel rooms with the Jennies and pool their money for quality sand mixed with spindleweed in a pipe.)

Apparently, the Venatori had begun experimenting with the southern intake methods, but for mages. 

Imshael didn’t ask anything else for now, but shot a cocked eyebrow to Solas, who still had the broken pendant in his hands. He wasn’t looking their way, but his aura wandered around Felix like he often did while healing. The kid’s lack of reaction to being fondled meant the powder either suppressed his magic or he was already desensitized from enduring the Blight’s swarming horde mind. 

The others didn’t speak while they rushed out of Redcliffe to their mounts; with Pavus and the Keeper gone, two steeds were available for their prisoners. After some debate, Fiona took one and Felix took the other, leaving Alexius to suffer the indignity of walking while tied to Cassandra’s horse. Imshael chuckled at the magister curling his lip defiantly at the slight. 

Cassandra looked about them and gravely declared, “We should go straight to Haven with the prisoners.”

“Ahem. We should probably return to camp first.” 

Imshael held back a pained grunt as she ignited their blood while glowering at them. “Our Herald is dead!” she exclaimed. “And with her, our only hope of closing the Breach! Alexius and the Elder One must be brought to justice for their crimes twofold: for the murders of both the Divine and the Herald!”

Rather than try to argue (and get cooked for their efforts), Imshael glanced between her and Leliana, then jerked their head off to the side of the road—out of earshot. Leliana’s cool glare immediately smoothed away, as did the dark despair wisping around her, but the Lady Seeker flared even hotter at the prospect of delaying justice. She stomped after them, forcing them to physically bite their lip to hold back a laugh at her expense. 

Once they’d walked far enough that even elf ears couldn’t hear, Imshael whirled to a stop and smirked. “I stored a phylactery of my blood in the Keeper’s staff. It’s southeast of here.” 

Cassandra exhaled in a rush, expelling some of the grief-stricken shadows around her, then sucked in a shaky gasp. Whatever Imshael was expecting, it didn’t include her lurching forward to grab their shoulders, eyes glistening. Their sore side damn near tickled in response; they squinted as the field around them gilded brighter than the fabled City. 

“Do you mean it? She’s still alive?!”

“My phylactery is in the staff, so the staff moved. I doubt she’d go anywhere without it, though!” 

Cassandra started to tug them closer before catching herself! She huffed while taking in their very smug smile, glanced between them, then snapped her hands away like they’d caught fire. (Imshael wagered they were burning less than her cheeks while she clenched them into fists and retreated.) She turned to Leliana in a flash of re-stoked purpose and demanded, “We mustn’t tarry, then. We have to find her immediately!”

“I agree,” Leliana countered with a swift nod. “However, I don’t want the prisoners in camp where they could hear information not meant for them. Who knows if they still have agents secreted away within the Inquisition, ready to pass along vital intelligence?”

Imshael waved off the mockingbird’s concern and drawled, “The Venatori couldn’t keep the most defensible castle in Ferelden after expelling its arl. Don’t give them too much credit.”

With a slight frown, Leliana asked, “Can you tell how far away she is?”

Imshael crossed their arms, closed their eyes, and turned their attention inward to their thrumming pulse. It took a moment to drown out their surroundings until cold, glassy ether pooled at their feet in darkness… Each heartbeat cast ripples out in all directions, heedless of terrain and obstacles. Withdrawing into their mind felt like it took several minutes, but only a few seconds actually passed before their target sent ripples bouncing back across the distance. 

When their eyes drifted back open, Cassandra’s mouth had parted slightly, with her eyes half-lidded and unfocused. She rapidly blinked, then pinched the bridge of her nose before fixing her fierce gaze on them expectantly. Eeh. She didn’t see that, did she? 

Imshael answered, “It’s a day away, in the direction of Ostagar.”

The Divine Hands exchanged a somber frown before Leliana muttered, “With darkspawn. Why would Alexius send her there?”

“He said the Keeper should never have existed,” they corrected. “He meant to destroy her, not relocate her. Maybe she was sucked into one rift and spat out of another.” Imshael wasn’t about to tell them that they’d tried to pull her back out by her vallaslin. 

{Almost joined the cat!}
[Nonexistent awareness. Omnipresence.]
(Blasted magister should go in the pocket instead!)

Leliana mused, “It’s not surprising to hear of rifts in a place where so much death and suffering occurred. However, that means darkspawn and demons. She is in terrible danger—”

Imshael interrupted, “If she’s alive, she’s probably with Pavus. She’ll be fine.”

The Lady Seeker snapped, “Another Tevinter. Alexius’ student! This could have been part of the Venatori’s trap.”

Leliana spoke up before Imshael got extra catty: “Dorian alerted us to his trap, then fought him. Even if his allegiance is not with the Inquisition, it would be smarter for him to keep the Herald alive now—for ransom, if nothing else. I will find out for sure when I interrogate his mentor. With that in mind, I will return to Haven with the prisoners to do exactly that.”

Cassandra pursed her lips, but nodded in acquiescence. “Imshael and I will track down the Herald at once.”

“Take Blackwall with you: if there are Grey Wardens, he should be able to sense and track them. We still need to know why the rest of the Order has disappeared.”

“Of course.” 

With that, they made their way back to the road where Solas, the prisoners, and the assassins were waiting. As soon as Alexius was tied to Leliana’s horse and the party departed, Imshael shifted crow and took flight; they darted past the now-galloping Cassandra with a caw and veered toward the forward camp to prepare for their blasted rescue mission.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana and Dorian had indeed passed a central chamber turned into a sparring arena. The next two floors down held a hoard of other inventory that looked stolen rather than crafted (or maybe traded with the Chasind). The entire second floor was nothing but explosives! Dorian noted that the bombs they saw were for mining, not fighting. 

And all the inventory was supervised not by darkspawn, but by a hornless Qunari! She’d started to ask him how in the world he came to work with darkspawn as a merchant, but the alpha shouted at them to follow before she had the chance. The Qunari merchant shrugged as she shot him one last bewildered glance and caught back up with Dorian. 

They both froze in fright and confusion when they got to the ground floor. A dwarf, two humans, an elf, and a… revenant?! Ogled them, looking just as perplexed as they were by the unexpected visit. (Although, the undead bore no real expression, just like the darkspawn.) She instantly recognized the blue quilted and silver-plated armor worn by a few people in the barracks they had entered. 

“Are you Grey Wardens?” She finally gasped. For all intents and purposes, they appeared to be simply lounging. 

The red-bearded dwarf sitting at a table squinted over his flask and slurred, “Yer not some kinda green spirit from that sodding hole, are ya? Git back in yer Fade!” 

The elf looked up from the journal she was writing in across the table and snapped at him to shut his gaping maw before his breath fainted them all, eliciting a round of chuckles. She then said with far more suspicion, “You’re clearly marked by the same magic from that tear in the Veil. And you’ve just come from that direction, following the disciples. Who are you, and how did you get into the tower? Are those holes your doing?”

“Lady Velanna, please…” One of the humans stood from his cot with a casual wave after pocketing a dagger and whetstone. His silver-streaked hair was tucked back in a tidy half ponytail, reminding Ellana that hers was likely a tousled bird nest by now. “The disciples haven’t attacked them, and the Calling we just heard has abated. It looks like you’re being escorted outside: may I join you?”

The woman he called Velanna sniffed haughtily and lifted her chin. “I don’t sense the tear in the Veil anymore, either, for what it’s worth… I suppose they’re not much of a threat.”

The second human laughed from his own cot, blue eyes bright under a short jet-black forelock. “Ever the pessimist, aren’t you? You’re worse than the last broody elf I ran around with. All that fretting will turn your hair white too, if you let it!”

“We’d be glad for your company, Warden,” Dorian redirected over Velanna’s indignant gasp. “But that darkspawn starts snarling every time we slow it down, so…”

“Of course. I’m Warden Nathaniel, by the way. Shall we?” Nathaniel grabbed the bow and quiver propped against his cot and joined them. He took the lead at a suddenly brisk pace and called apologetically over his shoulder, “The darkspawn in the next room won’t harm you, but it is unsettling to behold. Be at ease.” Ellana started to ask what he meant, but she got her answer as soon as they passed the barracks and rounded the corner to the central chamber. 

Part of the floor had caved in, revealing what looked like underground tunnels—and a female darkspawn was standing beside it, facing them. She was less decayed than her male counterparts, facial features intact, but no less horrendous to see. Ellana’s breath hitched in her throat as she rapidly assessed everything done to her...

A black line cut down the center of her face from hairline to throat, and another went across her mouth to each jaw. Black scaling had spread over her breasts, but garish scars hinted at where more breasts used to be on her torso before they were cut (or ripped) off. Another scar wrapped around her pelvis, and her skin tone changed abruptly past that point—followed by the elongated legs of a shriek. The top half of her had been… sewn onto the bottom half of another. A glistening black tentacle sprouted out from each hip, swaying low while watching them.

Every hair on her body stood on end as the female studied them, just like the alpha had. Her voice was hoarse enough to make Ellana’s eyes water. “The music has ended! Lucky Wardens, lucky disciples. No more noisy songs…” Under one arm, she had an iridescent black cube that fit into her hand; she took it just then, and her bloodshot eyes drifted while turning from them, murmuring too low to hear. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Dorian tapped her shoulder, then urgently jerked his chin after Nathaniel and the “disciples”. They skirted the wall and positively fled for the door leading outside at last. They heaved a collective sigh of relief when they realized they weren’t surrounded by more darkspawn out in the biting cold. 

“Maker’s breath,” Dorian said as they sped up to a trot to keep up with their escort. “I’m not entirely sure that was any better than a broodmother.”

Nathaniel said, “Ordinarily, broodmothers can control the creatures they spawn, to an extent. That awakened one acts as a messenger when we’re spread out among the Deep Roads. For some reason, we began to hear the Calling all at the same time: she’s the only thing stopping us from going mad right now. We’ve had to sequester with her for weeks, and we’ve heard nothing from our fellow Wardens in months.”

“So, do you even know about the Conclave?” Dorian asked incredulously, panting small puffs of fog into the air. They were just passing high ramparts on either side, out onto a bridge hundreds of feet above a steep valley. “You can’t quite see it from here, but there’s a hole in the sky much larger than the one we just came out of.”

As they caught up to the darkspawn party and slowed down, Nathaniel replied, “The Chasind have shared what little they learn from their raids. There are a few more of those tears in the Veil here, but some of the demons—well. I suppose the architect can explain it better than I can.” He gestured ahead of them and past the darkspawn, to what could only be the architect, itself. They now stood at the center of the bridge, which opened up to look out at the valley below. 

The new darkspawn that faced them was humanoid, but tall—taller than any Qunari she’d ever seen. It was also definitely a mage—or rather, an emissary. The robes it wore looked vaguely Tevinter, but with gold embellishments over the ribs and cuffing the arms. It also wore a tall hat adorned with more gold symbols, and a gold mask covered its eyes, featuring an upturned horn on one side and two wings flaring out from the other. Part of its face and hat had fused somehow (or maybe melted), then flared out and stretched the skin and hat with it. A curious ring pierced the corner of its mouth.

With it was a female dwarven ghoul; she immediately drew her sword and shield and stepped between them and the unique darkspawn. 

“No, Utha. Violence is not, needful at this time.” The architect’s declaration was softer than expected and breathy, like it wasn’t used to using its voice and lungs the way the living would. It sounded weary, almost frail, and the stretched skin caused the faintest lisp. It continued: “I am the Architect. I sense that the Veil, is anchored to your hand, newcomer… Does it tether you to the gates that have opened up the Fade?”

Ellana let silence hang for just a moment while her mind reeled. Dabog was right about talking darkspawn, after all—but this one was intelligent in a different way, somehow. And working with Grey Wardens. Somehow. She rolled the answer rune between her fingers, swallowed, straightened, then said, “That’s correct. There was an explosion that tore the Veil open. It pulled me in—and when I escaped, I had this mark. It allows me to close the rifts. I, erm… My friend and I were just pulled into a rift that must have transported us into the middle of your stronghold. Do you know why?”

“Pulled into the Fade…” The Architect rested its hand on Utha’s shoulder, and she lowered her weapon. “There was another who approached me. He called me by, a name I did not recognize; he claimed that we, too, once entered the Fade in service to the Old Gods. He was distressed to discover that, I did not share his ambition or kith.”

Ellana’s mouth fell open, looking over the gold mask on his face and covering his ribs and arms. The image of Imshael’s fear demon form, splashed similarly with gold over the ribs and arm, flashed by. ‘When the old magisters came out of the Fade, they had similar markings. One of them had gold splattered over his eyes! Guess I know how, now.’ 

This can’t possibly be the same one he was talking about! 

Dorian had reached a similar conclusion. He exclaimed, “Entered the Fade? Old Gods? Do you mean to say you are—or rather were—one of the magisters sidereal?”

“This is what he claimed,” it slowly confirmed. “However, I awoke as I am: a darkspawn. Why did I awaken thus? I have no answer. My purpose is to free the darkspawn of the Calling, as I have been. What they do with that freedom, is the same choice which mortals are endowed.”

Ellana asked, “The other emissary that found you… Did he call himself the Elder One?”

Everyone except Utha and the Architect flinched reflexively at the sound of a piercing roar in the distance; to Ellana’s and Dorian’s shock, a dragon came soaring over the treeline! It abruptly folded its wings close and dropped down into the chasm, then flared and landed with enough force to rattle dust loose from the cliffsides. 

She and Dorian rushed to the edge of the bridge and realized there was a trio of drakes down below with the dragon, all of which gathered close and looked right back up at them, craning their long necks. When the Architect joined them at the edge, her vallaslin and staff both tingled—and where its aura brushed against her own, she heard a cacophony of roaring, snarling, hissing… It seemed every violent sound ever uttered by beast or man erupted where they made contact, yet all barely within hearing range.

It told her, “He called himself, Corypheus.”

A cold knot of dread coiled in her gut while Dorian whipped his head to stare at the Architect again, dumbstruck. She’d heard Solas refer to Corypheus; she wasn’t sure if her strange dream from the night before had been real. But he knew. He and Imshael both did! They knew exactly who was responsible for the Conclave and the Breach all along. 

If that dream wasn’t really a dream…! Was Imshael spying on Solas for me? Is Solas an enemy spy?! Impossible! Imshael said they both wanted Corypheus stopped—and yet Solas didn’t want anyone to know that he knew the Elder One too… Why?!

She snapped out of her panicked thoughts as Dorian sputtered, “I beg your pardon. Corypheus? As in Corypheus who died in Varric’s tragic little book?”

The Architect held up a large, slender hand, seeming to stare at the talons even with its eyes covered. “Our kind do not die, in the manner of mortals. Once slain, our essence is absorbed into the horde, to emerge in another suitable vessel. This is how an archdemon achieves immortality. We served the Old Gods, drank the blood of their thralls… gained their knowledge.” 

It lowered its hand and gestured toward the darkspawn. “Freeing my people of the Calling, the compulsion to seek out the Old Gods, frees them also from this thralldom.”

Nathaniel added, “We’ve been quietly working with the Architect for many years, now, hoping to cure the Calling and end the Blights forever. We were investigating a lost thaig nearby when it suddenly swarmed with darkspawn as though an archdemon had awoken—but we would have known if that were true. We fell back to Ostagar, completely overwhelmed. Pardon my asking, my lady, but we heard the Calling from the very gate you and your friend came through… Are you tainted?”

“Oh, no!” She rapidly shook her head. “I’d surely be dead if that were so. I don’t know what the Calling—” She cut herself short, then brought a hand to her mouth. Is that what that whispering noise is in the Architect’s aura? Is it the same as when we’re near red lyrium? Am I tainted?

The Architect gently cut in: “I sense that it is not you, but your staff, which is tainted… And yet, it is contained with enchantments which are known to me. Do you wield Blight magic?”

“Sorry… no. The staff was a gift from someone who can control red lyrium.”

Nathaniel, Utha, and the Architect all shuffled and looked amongst each other: Dorian reacted by warily sidling closer. He murmured very softly, “I think you just mentioned something that they want, my dear.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael stood by with the Wolf and Pebble while the forward camp bustled with activity; Harding and Cassandra took turns shouting instructions in a dreadfully efficient duet. The mockingbird’s ravens wouldn’t fly through Blighted terrain, so Harding was preparing her swiftest runners to trail after them as far as they deemed safe. 

Imshael chuckled, “Sorry about your legs, dwarf. You’ll have to get the field notes later.”

“Just do that butchering thing you’re good at,” Varric groused in his broodiest gravelly tone yet, gesturing to their greatsword. “Blighted land is bad enough without darkspawn that can think, too.”

“And rifts that can spill out demons and warp time,” Solas quipped impatiently. He, Cassandra, Imshael, and Blackwall would push the steeds to their limits today. The Wolf had even offered to force the horses further by rejuvenating them with magic to avoid stopping. Ethics mean a lot less when his favorite tree is at risk, eh?

“So touchy!” Imshael jabbed at them both, basking in their latent, impotent rage now that their own had abated. “She’s neither alone nor helpless.” 

Varric snapped back, “She’s a woman, surrounded by darkspawn. Bad combination. Just… hurry, alright? I’ve seen a broodmother before.”

Imshael scoffed. “You should see what the first one looks like! Four arms, egg sacs in one eye hole and a mouth for the other eye hole—”

“Not helping, Butcher.”

Solas sighed and hooded his eyes while rubbing them. “The Chasind shaman said darkspawn had convened with their tribal elders, who are almost exclusively women. If they are truly intelligent enough to speak, perhaps those baser urges have been quelled.”

Cassandra marched their way at last, glinting sharp highlights onto every edge with her radiant scowl. “The scouts will catch up. Let’s go while the day is early,” she said, and took her horse’s reins from Blackwall with a quick nod. (The impostor hadn’t said a word since finding out he would be joining them.) 

Imshael rolled their shoulders as Solas moved toward his own mount; Varric frowned at them and grumbled, “You like bragging about putting the Herald’s interests first, Butcher. You can’t do that if she’s dead or Blighted.” 

She tsk’d and sneered down their nose, “Ahem. Challenging my colossal ego, eh? Luckily for you, I’m a greedy magpie hoarding shiny trinkets and pebbles.” She shot a sidelong grin to Cassandra, who quickly averted her gaze and mounted. Imshael shifted crow again as the other three departed, circling Varric once and spooking Harding with a caw! from above.

The hectic pace set by the Lady Seeker left little time for the party to chat since they’d have to yell to each other, so Imshael wheeled up high and surveyed for hours with little more than the sun and the coalescion for company. 

None of the scouts commented on how King Alistair had mistakenly assumed they were a Grey Warden, but if more were at Ostagar, Blackwall’s cover would be blown. In the meantime, Wardens and spawn alike would sense Imshael, but would they recognize them? 

The finest trick they ever pulled bonded Dirthamen with a winged drake, letting him think it was a great dragon. (Only Titans could command the great dragon form, in a limited domain, for short periods.) The already-enthralled drake named Dumat heeded a higher Calling, so to speak. Heh… But they only carried an imprint of the rage left behind by the slain archdemon—and they rather doubted any spawn from Dumat’s time remained, anyway. The first Blight had been nothing short of gratuitously devastating. 

They wondered idly if they even had the strength to shapeshift drake anymore, but dismissed the notion in a hurry: it would be double the size of today’s dragons in a sparse, depleted atmosphere. Alas… Down below, the party stopped at what used to be Lothering long enough to water themselves and the mounts, rejuvenate the beasts, and go again—this time south. 

The Lady Seeker consistently led with Blackwall at the rear. As the snow-capped Southron Hills started encroaching on the landscape, chilling the air and forcing the Highway to curve at times, Imshael spotted the occasional Chasind, including one who looked right at them and lifted his maul toward the sky in greeting. Not many people would notice a bird not acting like a bird, these days…

They lowered as the foliage thickened around the road, then finally alighted on Solas’ shoulder since he was bobbing in his saddle the least. They crouched low and leaned into the wind for the final stretch, noting when Solas periodically wove his magic into the mounts’ muscles and hearts to reduce the strain. Even at their unforgiving pace, it was near dusk when the fortress spires came into view in the distance. 

Imshael’s feathers gradually raised as more and more darkspawn minds came into range, scrabbling at the edges of the coalescion like the tingle of a limb that had fallen asleep. Sure enough, they didn’t act idly and instinctively like their nonverbal counterparts. In the heart of them was the phylactery—and a tainted dragon that targeted them immediately. 

Imshael considered turning back and leaving the heroes to their task before their colossal ego took over with an agitated caw! that unintentionally startled Solas (earning them a sharp glare). They took flight anyway, but shot ahead to find the blasted Keeper faster—ignoring Cassandra calling out to wait for them. They flapped high and started counting the darkspawn in the keep as they went. There were fewer than expected, but most looked up and watched their path…

The Veil shivered as they passed over the long bridge to the second half of the fort, and they growled internally at the dragon that roared back from within the chasm. The late shadows concealed it only from human eyes. I’m not eager to be eaten by another overgrown lizard, thanks. Call me when you figure out how to dress human. 

Ellana and Pavus were in the far corner of the courtyard with a laughably mismatched party that almost stopped them in mid-air, but then soothed their rattled nerves when they recognized a friendly face among them. The Keeper was indeed closing a rift, with Pavus a few steps back to watch the others; a tall emissary they thought was Corypheus for a split second; two hurlocks and Wardens now watching them; and a revenant doing the same. 

They touched the revenant’s mind at once, grinning internally. ‘So the dreaming make way for the Dead turned to Stone.’

Hm… You are late to the festivities.

[And you are under-dressed for the occasion.]

A fitting vessel only now presents itself!

{The Keeper?!}
(Off limits, Gaxkang!)
[One of the Wardens?]

I refer to this necromancer of the old pedigrees.

Oh? Pavus knows your work?
[You could do worse.]
(So picky!)

You Called through the rift. I coordinated. You are welcome.

[These imbeciles presume time magic.]

Let them. What is potential is not actual, so they presume the future instead of a branch on a tree. The realm of potentiae ill suits idle fantasy. 

I’d much rather flaunt my superiority, though! The hive of them chuckled at Gaxkang’s internal, exasperated sigh, just as the rift snapped shut. They circled and descended while the Keeper shook off the static in her hand, and caught the strange emissary’s attention now that the rift was gone. They didn’t warn either companion before diving down and shifting human right beside Ellana, causing her and Pavus to jump in fright.

An inopportune time to present yourself, Imshael?

Blasted moon blood… Silence! She scoffed over the revenant’s Silent laugh now, and tossed their hair off their shoulder while straightening. She then scanned the assortment of spawn, undead, and not dead before locking eyes with the Keeper, brow cocked. Her fear response spiked noticeably before she gulped and looked to Dorian.

“Ahem. Looks like you’re making new and interesting friends, Keeper.”

Dorian snorted, “That’s one way to phrase today’s debacle. Though to be fair, it could have ended significantly worse. And how did you find us so fast?”

“I hid a phylactery in the staff, just in case. How’s that for foresight?” They looked the Keeper over for any injuries but saw none (other than the mess her hair became). And just that fast, the absurd compulsion to groom it took hold—they rolled their shoulders and tore their gaze away to take in the rest of the ‘people’. Blasted baser instincts...

One of the Wardens caught their attention, first by clearing his throat then by the way his blood rang in tune to the red lyrium in theirs. Oh? What’s this, then? A member of the hawk’s clan? The Warden asked, “Sorry for interrupting your little reunion, but you’re tainted. Are you the Grey Warden that Lady Ellana mentioned? We lost contact with them months ago.”

Eeh…

“You’re thinking of Warden Blackwall, but he can’t reach them, either.” It wasn’t a lie, strictly speaking. “As for me, you’re sensing red lyrium, not darkspawn blood. Think of me as a red templar.”

“Andraste’s tits,” the Warden cursed, eyes wide. “I saw what that stuff did to dwarves in Kirkwall—and Knight-Commander Meredith, too. What if it turns you into a statue?”

Imshael chortled at that. “The knight-commander shouldn’t have used a red lyrium sword called Certainty while full of doubt, then. That’s how the red lyrium overpowered her.”

Fortunately, clanking armor and stomping boots cut off any further small talk; Cassandra led the proverbial charge, all of them with weapons drawn and sprinting. Imshael muttered low, “Maybe wave at her so she calms down, Keeper.” They and Dorian both snickered while Ellana sheepishly raised a hand, stilling and cooling counterspace with even more fear.

“Herald!” While the others slowed down and spread out, taking in the sight of the others, Cassandra barreled forth while looking her over the same way they had before skidding to a stop. “Are you hurt? What happened! Who—” She looked around at the strangers and abruptly striffened, flexing her jaw to probably bite back more questions and demands. 

She stared down (or rather up) the emissary while Ellana blurted out, “I’m fine, Cassandra. I’m sorry for scaring everyone. We’re still not sure what happened or why, but we’re safe—it’s safe here.”

Solas stepped closer with a severe frown. “You are unharmed? Did anything happen to you in the rift?”

“I’m alright, really. We both are.” With that, she sidestepped toward Pavus, and Imshael cocked a brow when her fear grew enough to make them scan their surroundings—just in case—but her attention was on the Wolf. 

After an awkward pause while each side regarded the other in open suspicion, the emissary addressed Cassandra. It spoke in a slow lilting cadence with a chanter’s rhythm: “We desire peace, Inquisition. I am known as the Architect. Your companion was kind enough, to close the gates into the Fade, here. We so rarely anticipate how our presence will be perceived: your Herald brings me hope, that it may yet change for the better.” 

The Lady Seeker, eyes huge, whispered a prayer to the Maker for strength before finally lowering her sword and shield… partway, at least. “We heard a rumor of talking darkspawn in the area, but… How?”

“I regret that an answer is not forthcoming. But, I should like to share what I know with you, in the hopes you will consider doing the same.” It gestured toward the Wardens, who came closer. “My people and I, seek an end to the Blights—to the Calling. To that end, we work with the Grey Wardens.”

The other Warden crossed his arms over his chest and bowed slightly to Cassandra before taking over. “I am Warden Nathaniel Howe, my lady. When Warden-Commander Amell left Ferelden, she left me in charge of Vigil’s Keep. With the Architect’s assistance, we’ve kept much of the Deep Roads clear of darkspawn who haven’t awakened. It was only recently that a horde of them overwhelmed us and drove us here. Lady Ellana has mentioned that you are currently in the Hinterlands. So were we, except we were deep underground, excavating our way to a lost thaig.”

After another pause, the Lady Seeker checked the rest of the party’s expressions, then returned the Keening Blade to her back. Neither Solas nor Blackwall lowered their guard. Cassandra replied, “Thank you for protecting the Herald in our absence. I am Seeker Pentaghast of the Inquisition. We’re investigating the murder of Divine Justinia. We now have conclusive evidence that a Blighted magister known as the Elder One is involved, along with a Tevinter mage cult that had invaded Redcliffe, which is near to where you had been underground. Do you know anything about this?”

Dorian dryly quipped, “Ah, brace yourself for this one, Cassandra! The Elder One tried to recruit the Architect and failed. Apparently, they’re old friends! Except the Architect lost all memory of being a magister, while the Elder One still remembers his old life as Corypheus.” 

“Corypheus…!” Cassandra’s eyes flickered across the rest of them, then fixed on Imshael… then flashed with rage. She growled, “Imshael…! Did you know who the Elder One was all along?”

“Eeh? He changes names as often as I do. What difference does it make?”

Evidently, that was the wrong answer: they didn’t bother to dodge her mailed fist, though, since it would stop them from smirking. They both grunted with how forcefully she swung it, too! Imshael stumbled back a few steps while Ellana gasped, but Dorian caught their shoulder with a chuckle of his own. He muttered that they earned at least one before letting go. 

Since they were surrounded by spawn, they kept their own rage firmly in check as they swallowed some blood. Talking or otherwise, darkspawn “lived” and “breathed” bloodlust. Now would be a bad time to incite a swarm. 

Cassandra exclaimed, “It matters to me, Imshael! You—ugh.” She and the field around her suddenly darkened and desaturated. They almost didn’t recognize it as betrayal for a moment. “You said I could trust you.” Imshael’s lip (and one of the darkspawn) twitched at that. They held their still-bleeding tongue; in fact, they bit down on it to redirect Wrath before their composure unravelled while she faced the Architect again.

Knowing his name changes exactly nothing! They shifted owl and retreated to the sky, ignoring quick shouts from both the Keeper and Seeker. Typical. She could command my blood to land but doesn’t.

Gaxkang’s awareness threaded through their thoughts, briefly, then withdrew at the black abyss they conjured to obscure the rest. The Keeper was safe and the talking spawn didn’t interest them, so they circled high enough that the whole fortress was in view. They ignored the dragon in the valley trying to lure them near, just as they (tried to) ignore the sting between their ribs. Under their ribs, even... For a while.

Blast it all to the fucking Void. 

When they were sure the darkspawn weren’t growing more active as night fell, they flew north until the spawn were out of range back on the Highway. Once they were, they dropped down between trees, shifted, wrenched their tunic off, and dragged the edge of the greatsword along every blasted glowing rib to bleed out the fucking faith in people that was starting to cripple them. 

Even while bent over to drain gold into the dirt, a detached part of them catalogued their reaction to anticipate it and prevent it from reoccurring.

{Seeds of fear sown! Flight over fight for now!}
(This demands retaliation!)
[Misunderstood. Influence lost.]
Omission is not automatically lying by omission.
[Rationalizing or being rational?]

You think I’m lying to myself, eh? A valid possibility. She stayed with the horses the rest of the time that the party was chatting to darkspawn—which thankfully wasn’t long.

The party quietly set up their camp (while Blackwall tended the sorry mounts), made a fire, and almost immediately went to sleep after eating dry rations... All except for Cassandra.

Imshael heaved an irritated sigh as she sat stiff and upright on a log across the fire from them for nearly half the blasted night. Eventually, they finally barked out, “Go to sleep, Seeker.”

She jerked slightly at their order, then scowled. “Do not think to command me!”

“I do as I please, and it pleases me to stay. If that’s not enough, say so, and I’ll stop wasting my efforts.”

“That’s not—” She shot to her feet and they matched her glare with their best bored stare. “Why didn’t you tell me that Corypheus is the Elder One?” 

This again? They scoffed. “What will you do differently now that you know his bloody name, eh? Does knowing his name make it easier to find him or something? Can we shout at him to show himself with the right name?”

Cassandra broke eye contact first to start pacing—or rather, stomping. “It means the Champion did not truly kill him. The explosion at the Conclave didn’t kill him. What can?!” Imshael rolled their eyes at the prospect of pointless fussing.

They snapped, “Nothing can!” When she stopped in her tracks to look their way again, they went on: “Creatures like him and me can be locked up at best, and every lock still eventually erodes. You want him to die? Kill all darkspawn, kill all dragons, and kill all Grey Wardens first. Even then, killing him would only render him dormant.”  

Cassandra started breathing more heavily as their volume increased, with fire highlighting tears in her eyes. The shadows around her flickered on the verge of despair, as usual. “Is that true?” she asked thickly.

They got to their own feet with a growl and rushed closer, backing her up to the log she’d been sitting on. “When you ask, I answer. You didn’t ask about the Elder One’s other blasted names. You didn’t ask how to defeat him! I track your little herald, I hold out my hands so you can shackle me every time we return to Haven. I do this because it pleases me to. It stokes my pride. Playing hero is easy, which is why I don’t typically bother. Putting up with your lack of fucking faith in me is proving a much harder challenge!”

They ran a slightly quivering hand through their hair and willed their rage back into submission. Then they leered distastefully at the lone tear trailing down the Lady Seeker’s cheek. “Luckily for the Inquisition, overcoming actual challenges like you are much more satisfying than playing hero. So… here I still am, Seeker. That is true.” They sidestepped her and dropped onto the log so they didn’t have to see her rubbing her eyes. After a few sniffs, she sat down beside them, rested her elbows on her knees, and they stared into the fire while brooding together for a bit...

“I remember when he was called Sethius.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows slowly raised as she turned their way. They enjoyed the sharp golden angles framing her face in the firelight since the rest of her was still subdued. “You knew him even before he was Corypheus?” she asked softly.

They wagged an eyebrow back and drawled, “I’m older than I look.” Their smirk spread into a pleased grin at her annoyed little snort before continuing. “It’s more accurate to say that I used to know him. What’s left of him now is, eh... little more than aimless madness.”

“...What happened to him?”
“His faith was weaker than yours.”

At that, she turned back to the fire and heaved a long sigh. “Are you so certain? I immediately assumed the Herald was dead. I thought all hope was lost. I... For a moment, I thought the only recourse left was revenge.”

“Revenge is always an option!” They chortled at her baleful glare. “Revenge was how Sethius found his faith.”

“What do you mean?”

Heh.

“Once upon a time, a young acolyte joined a temple of Dumat...”

…

. . .

.  .  .

Chapter Text

After Choice’s confrontation with Seeker Pentaghast, their encounter with the creature known as the Architect concluded hastily. It was not lost on Solas that the Herald, while physically unharmed, appeared quite stressed by the situation they now found themselves in. Those darkspawn that had “awakened” were coordinating with Grey Wardens to excavate long-lost regions of the Deep Roads, establishing underground enclaves for their kind. 

During their search, they found evidence of a sizeable thaig below the Hinterlands. Then, they briefly fought Carta smugglers before both were driven apart and away by a horde of darkspawn. According to the Wardens, the enemy darkspawn behaved as though a Blight had begun, yet no archdemon had awoken. The same strange Calling that conducted the horde also affected the Wardens—enough that they were forced to stay within range of an awakened broodmother to counter it. 

The smugglers they had attacked were no doubt part of the very same lyrium operation that the Inquisition was investigating (with the help of one of Varric’s contacts). 

Finally, the Architect had informed them that some of the darkspawn it awakened were “unhappy” with their newfound free will: a violent problem solved by giving them to the demons that had been emerging from the rifts at Ostagar. (The revenant with it had provided the binding techniques needed to do so.) That particular experiment was over, now that Ellana had closed the rifts in the area, but the fact remained that somewhere under Thedas now lurked an enclave of blighted abominations. 

Now, the Architect wanted to learn about red lyrium after sensing it in the Herald’s staff, for it seemed to emit the same false Calling that had summoned the horde under the Hinterlands. Solas could only guess what horrific deeds it could accomplish once empowered with the tainted substance, regardless of its mild demeanor and seemingly benevolent intentions. 

Rather than find out more about said intentions right away, Cassandra and Ellana had agreed to return the next day. 

Solas and Blackwall wasted little time before airing their grievances; they openly disapproved of any further contact with the ill-fated creatures or the mad Wardens assisting them. Blackwall condemned his own comrades right away for their foolishness—a refreshingly sensible opinion from a Grey Warden. Solas agreed, insisting that their time was better spent returning to the Hinterlands (and securing it from any further encroachment by the darkspawn). 

Dorian and the Herald offered little in the way of a counterargument, save that the darkspawn and undead they’d encountered so far were as civil as any clan of wildlings would be. Cassandra withheld her opinion, but her defiant countenance spoke volumes about how she disliked the situation. It was perhaps for the best that the tension between her and the Forbidden One drove everyone to retire early for the night. They had much to process after meeting the Architect. 

Solas personally grappled with the unexpected new hurdle that now faced him. The remaining Old Gods—and the Evanuris bonded to them—were already a sizeable threat for him to neutralize. Now, he had the equally daunting prospect of more magisters with the ability to control darkspawn, too. He did not doubt that the Architect could do so, somehow: its capacity for deception remained indeterminate but highly likely, just like the Grey Wardens. 

He resolved to wake early to ask Choice what they knew about the magisters sidereal, and in the meantime, he would seek Ellana in the Fade…

He found her in what appeared to be a simulacrum of one of the camps her Dalish clan frequented. Silhouettes of elves gathered around a cookfire or else scurried about in the midst of recreating their daily tasks. She sat on a felled log past their halla pen, not far from a carved statue of Fen’harel, backs turned to the camp. 

One version of their folklore claimed that the Wolf faced away because it stood as a sentry—but it was far more common to hear that the deceiver was ostracized, and meant to remind them that turning against their gods would result in the same fate. Outlawry did not instill the same terror that it once did, however; those legends emerged when the Imperium was barely civilized, when other humans and beasts prowled the wilds like kin.

Now, Solas cynically mused on just how appropriate it felt that the Wolf’s back was turned from a people who succumbed to superstition, proudly adorning themselves with slave markings and worshipping false idols…

And yet she was not like them.

Ellana turned so that her elegant profile peeked over her shoulder at him, but did not fully look his way. The sorrowful angle of her brow would be tragic but breathtaking to swipe onto a mural in a single, graceful stroke... After a pause, she gently patted the log beside her, inviting him to approach and sit, so he did.

“I hope I am not disrupting your peace, vhenan,” he started, but she quickly smiled and looked forward. However, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. 

She sighed, “I fear I shan’t find peace again while I live. Everything I’ve learned about the gods, about the Chantry, the humans, these darkspawn…” She then raised her marked hand and gazed at it wistfully. “I’ve been marked somewhere deeper than my hand.”

Solas’ jaw flexed with how tightly he clenched it to keep his face from betraying the regret that flooded him as he hesitantly held his own hand out, cradling hers from beneath. “The world has ever been full of danger and deceit. The people press on, ignorant and heedless, and recoil when the facade of their paradigm is revealed. This is a… a loneliness that I know well. And I’m sorry that such a burden befalls you now. Vir shiral malasa.” 

We walk this path together.

“Together…” She scooted and turned so she was facing him, and withdrew her marked hand while resting the other one over his, on her lap. She thoughtfully stroked his wrist with her thumb and murmured, “When the Venatori overwhelmed us in the castle, I used blood magic to kill them. All of them. I-I didn’t mean to hit you, too.”

Solas’ eyebrows shot up, followed by a slight smirk. “Offensive blood magic is unwieldy at the best of times. Do not be troubled—”

“After it happened, I couldn’t dream when I went to sleep,” she cut him off abruptly. “E-except that I still did dream. Well, I thought it was a dream. It’s like I was floating over the camp. I heard… Felt… Solas. You knew Corypheus already. You and Imshael both did. How? W-why?” She squeezed his hand when he straightened minutely and hastily added, “Please, vhenan. Walking this path together means telling me the truth. Dirth-ar mala, Fen.” 

Tell me now, Wolf.

Solas kept his breathing carefully measured while rapidly recalling the night she spoke of, and mentally cringed. He’d ranted to Choice quite openly about the ramifications of encountering Corypheus prematurely. The Inquisition was exactly the cover—the pawn—that he needed to guard the Breach while he either regained control of the orb or severed its connection to both Anchor and Breach. Imshael had consistently dismissed his concerns throughout, confident in the Inquisition’s ability to counter any attack made by the Elder One, regardless of timing or the focusing device. 

She’d heard far too much.

His mouth grew dry as the silence between them stretched; if he answered her truthfully and she did not sympathize with Fen’harel’s mission… He could not kill her while she bore the Anchor, so he swiftly debated whether to erase her memory of that night (and this conversation) with blood magic. 

He trailed his gaze over the vallaslin on her face, cleverly designed to outline an upward-facing raven and a forward-facing raven simultaneously. Any conversation she’d had while knowing the erased information would mutate, giving away his tampering… Unfortunately, he could erase no more than this confrontation. 

Resigned to this grim but likely outcome, he looked at their clasped hands—or rather, at her hand gripping his, beseeching and restraining in the same motion. He curled his fingers around her slender wrist in what he hoped was a reassuring reciprocal gesture, even as he carefully pressed his forearm against his thigh to nudge a small knife closer to the end of his sleeve. His ancient blood was potent enough even in dreams, though he would struggle to walk the Fade for a few days.

“I thank you for waiting until we were alone to speak—and I apologize for the secrecy. The truth… I am part of a group of elves who seek to restore Elvhenan. We wish to divorce ourselves from human civilization; to that end, I was tasked with acquiring a powerful elven artifact that fell into the Elder One’s hands. Once I saw the destruction at the Temple, however… I could hardly leave after such a catastrophe.”

His insides twisted with guilt as she took a slow, trembling breath when he stopped. She bit her lower lip to prevent it from quivering as well, then opened her marked hand, which began sparking erratically. “S-so when you were talking about an anchor…”

“The artifact is meant to connect to its wielder, but I don’t know why it marked you rather than Corypheus.” He would have said more, but his peripheral senses shuddered at a disturbance; he discreetly looked around them and saw that the indistinct memories of Dalish in the background had stilled to face them, developing vaguely sinister features. Hostile spirits sensed her turmoil.

Ellana removed her hand from his and pressed it against her chest. “Alexius was right, then,” she whispered, staring wide-eyed at the Anchor. She suddenly gasped through a strangled sob, “I was j-just a mistake!” 

Before Solas could react, the Fade warped and the dream she’d conjured began to dissolve, as though she were about to wake…! She tried to stand, but stumbled—and he realized in horror that she wasn’t merely upset. 

He shot to his feet after her and willed his voice to stay calm but insistent: “Those are false fears you speak of, vhenan. Let them fall away; focus on your breathing.” He reached for her shoulder, but she cried out and fell to her knees with a violent flare from the Anchor. 

The murky shapes around them darkened and lurched closer: fearlings and terror demons. He ignored them and swept around to face her while dropping to his knees as well, and gripped her shoulders tight. He said louder, “Hear the air rush into your lungs; feel the gravel beneath us.” 

But her eyes were distant, her breath came short and fast like hiccups, and the Anchor flared far enough to lash across his arm and torso. He flinched back at the electric sting, then leaned forward again at once—but she vanished in a blink.

…

. . .

.  .  .

Imshael cocked a brow as the Anchor crackled against the edges of their informed field, strong enough to detach from the Keeper’s aura. 

Fear automatically tasted the air but detected no threat or nightmare… So they continued rifling through their coat pockets, hunting down the powders they’d collected or developed over the years. She already had a dozen flasks of lyrium sand and dust blends scattered around them, plus a lead canister of crushed red lyrium. (It was likely regrown into a solid crystal by now, but they hadn’t checked yet.) 

Then, the Fade bulged against their true form like a barrage of demons was behind it; if they had hackles, they would have raised at being so rudely prodded. With a huff, she tossed their mage coat on the log and stood, combing the area with all their senses. 

No nightmares were radiating from any of their companions, but the Keeper’s spirit started sputtering alongside the Anchor. Eeh…? She gritted their teeth as the Veil bulged again, now “reaching” for the Keeper. Blast it all. It’s close enough to dawn, anyway.  

She stomped over to her absurdly small tent and barked out, “Wake up, Keeper.” 

She and the mark both sparked to life so violently, a green bolt blasted through the tent and split the Veil right above their bloody heads! Raw terror flooded the area with a scream that prickled their skin into instant goosebumps. 

They were shifted into Fear’s shape and floating over the Keeper faster than thoughts caught up to Them, shredding the tent apart to see what was wrong now. They pressed back against the rift and the fearlings scrambling out of it, forcing them to spill out the sides and then freeze under Their command. 

They screeched out the same order to the rest of the party: “Wake up!” 

The Keeper was caught somewhere between crying hysterically and hyperventilating, so getting her to talk was pointless. While shouts and clamoring erupted around Them, They started absorbing the terror permeating the Keeper’s spirit at a record pace. They ignored the flood of memories screaming that she was a mistake, everyone was using her, she’d be in danger forever, she could never go home again…

They hissed at Cassandra when she rushed near, sensing that she was targeting Them. “Don’t even think about attacking me!” She fumbled mid-swing with a grunt, mouth agape, before realizing who They were and what Ellana was doing. She whirled to defend Them instead; she, Solas, Dorian, and Blackwall started mowing down the demons pouring out of the rift while They alternated between paralyzing the fearlings and devouring the source that was attracting them. 

The Keeper was rocking and sobbing with her hands clutching her head, fisted into her hair. They hovered with Their back legs sprawled around them both in a cage, and held fast until the barrage of demons finally stopped. Only the static crackle of the rift overhead accompanied the Keeper’s panicked tears and gasps after the onslaught, nearly three long minutes later.

They hissed again when Solas tried to approach—wordlessly—on pure reflex. They’d only caught glimpses of the conversation leading up to her attack, but he triggered it, so Fear’s survival instincts only saw what the Keeper did right then: threat. 

Cassandra called out, “Imshael! What happened?!”

“Danger! Secrets and mistakes! Just a pawn! Never free again!” Even though They answered, it wasn’t Their own words as They hissed and spat through secondhand panic. They wrestled Fear back into submission for several tense seconds, prying Their senses free of the Keeper’s and shaking her emotions and memories out of Their own. 

Once they regained control of their form, they shifted human again—but stayed curled tensely over Ellana. Straining to keep calm, they amended: “She’s had a fit of nerves. It will pass.” They turned their attention to the Keeper while Deceit nestled under her fingers, tangled into her hair. They hummed low, “Now is safe. Time to let go.” 

Still gasping in rapid, shallow breaths, she jerkily unclenched her hands and pressed them against her heaving chest. Imshael rested their hands where hers had been—then started combing through the tangles. 

“Tangled and knotted like so many secret plots. Learning secrets is how you fix mistakes, not how you become them. Feel the terror smoothing away with the knots. The pain tugs briefly, now it’s gone. Deep breath in, sharp-cold like Fear, but pulling it in lets it soften and warm.” Finally, she sucked in a shaky, but deeper breath—then heaved an exhausted sigh that slumped her clenched shoulders. 

“Better. Another long breath.” They ran their fingers through her thick auburn hair with her inhale, again with her exhale, and smirked in smug satisfaction. They kept up the rhythm until she stopped forcing the breaths and rubbed her eyes, stammering some apology that they rolled their eyes at and immediately forgot. 

After taking another moment to compose herself, she leaned forward and got unsteadily to her feet. Imshael quickly nudged her head aside before she stuck it right into the rift with an amused scoff, then stepped aside so she could close it. They quickly glanced back at the campfire and heaved a small, relieved sigh at finding their hoard of powders undisturbed. 

Once the rift was gone with a thunderous snap, they returned to their seat while Blackwall checked the horses and Cassandra fussed over the Keeper. Solas kept back where they’d warned him off with a hiss, clutching his staff and steeping counterspace with enough guilt to sour their already-roiling insides. 

Imshael haphazardly dumped a waterskin into the pot they took from the forward camp and set it near the fire, then dropped onto the log stoop amid their little hoard. She ignored Pavus for a moment, taking a seat across from them, while digging into a pocket to find their stash of tea. 

She cocked half a grin when he noted, “I know those very outdated coats were designed with utility in mind, but you seem to have stored a whole saddlebag of inventory in there.”

“I can fit the whole horse in these pockets,” they boasted (or maybe just grunted, after swallowing back a wave of nausea). “They’re infinite. In fact, they might use the same space you and the Keeper fell into in that warp-rift. What was that like?” 

Pavus made a disturbed noise to go with his uneasy shudder. “While I’m proficient in necromancy, to say it felt like death itself would be inadequate. It felt more like ceasing to exist. If the Void ‘feels’ like anything, I suppose that comes pretty close.” 

Imshael hummed pensively, tugging out several sacks of tea leaves after failing to find ginger. (They’d rather gag on Korth’s cold cock, anyway.) She drawled, “There are creatures that live there, if you can believe it. Eeh, maybe live isn’t the right word… They dwell there. Fighting ancient elves even before Tevinter did—then they were forgotten about. Tea?”

He squinted skeptically at the tea sacks in their hand, then their mage coat. “You didn’t pluck all of that from the roadside, did you?”

“It was a well-tended roadside!” Pavus snorted and shook his head, then scooted aside to make room for Ellana, who joined him with a small sigh. He rubbed her back and gave her a sympathetic smile when she glanced his way. 

He wryly mused, “Living life at the bleeding edge of discovery comes with certain pitfalls, hm? Between time magic, transportation, and smartspawn all in one day, that was a rather tame response. Tamer than Imshael’s, at any rate!”

“Ahem!” Imshael would have tossed Dorian his blasted mug of leaf-broth if not for the Lady Seeker stepping between them at that exact moment, warily sliding over a few flasks to sit beside them. 

Imshael narrowed their eyes while handing him green tea and snapped, “You get the poisoned bottle of syrup, Peacock.” He snickered while Cassandra snapped What?! right beside them, which successfully coaxed a smile out of the Keeper. 

They shuffled between bags and handed off rose tea for the Lady Seeker, then chamomile and peppermint for both Ellana’s and their own sour innards. After passing around the bottle of sap and adding tonic to theirs, they all reveled in a moment of silence after the unexpected attack. The Wolf now prowled the perimeter, dismantling wards and stewing in an invisible cloud of general negativity.

Eventually, Pavus broke the silence; he idly said, “You left before the Architect could mention its interest in red lyrium, by the way.”

Imshael rolled their eyes over the rim of their mug before choking some of it down. “That’s unfortunate.”

Cassandra added, “We will most likely meet them again in the Hinterlands, regardless of how we deal with them now. They were in the same area as the smuggling operation that we are investigating.” When Imshael cast her a sidelong glance, she furrowed her brow with a fierce frown. “I do not wish to tarry, but neither do I wish to rouse their ire before knowing what threat they pose.”

“I seem to recall making it quite clear that I wasn’t falling into the incompetent hands of the Grey Wardens,” Imshael drawled, arching a brow. They checked Pavus and the Keeper, who were suddenly very interested in reading their tea leaves. 

“Blackwall is disgusted that the Grey Wardens are cooperating with darkspawn,” Dorian sighed without looking up. “And Solas would rather leave them to their fate, too.”

Ellana mumbled at her mug, “If the Old Gods were all gone, the darkspawn horde would remain, so something has to be done about them… I’m not sure what it wants with red lyrium, but there’s something else. Everyone heard the Calling in the rift we came out of: what if those are being made through Blight magic rather than time magic? Maybe we should find out what it knows…”

Imshael huffed at that. “That was my Calling, not the Calling.”

When everyone’s eyes swiveled their way, they raked a hand through their hair and reluctantly explained, “The Blight comes from a single source like a curse, so it can compel anything with tainted blood. The emissary gains nothing from ‘learning’ about red lyrium: it already manipulates the Blight. I use tainted blood for ranged blood magic instead. The warped rift was unrelated.”

Pavus and the Keeper quickly spoke at the same time, but Dorian waved at her to repeat herself with a smile. “Are blood magic and Blight magic the same thing?” Ellana blurted out, eyes wide. “Does the staff do Blight magic?”

“The short answer is yes and no. The long answer is that the taint is not the Blight. Next question!”

Dorian scoffed as they imperiously lifted their chin from all the attention. “You say the Blight is from a single source, like a curse. What source might that be?”

Eeh...
“Next question.”
Cassandra sharply snapped, “Imshael.”

They openly challenged her scowl with a winning (predatory) smile. “That knowledge is extra forbidden, Lady Seeker! I’ll not give it to the imbeciles of the Grey. Next question.” 

“I take it you’re on the side of Solas and Blackwell, then?” Pavus cleared his throat to cut the tension between them. 

Imshael’s smirk split even wider as they leaned toward Cassandra, which made her slide a few inches away. If possible, her scowl sharpened further—both at them and in them, searing their blood in warning. “I want the lyrium being smuggled through the Hinterlands, as does the Inquisition. Whatever the spawn and their new stooges are doing doesn’t interest me unless they get in our way.”

Ellana pouted at them with glittering doe eyes: “You don’t even want to hear them out?”

“Not even remotely. We secured the Hinterlands region for other people first: people who want nothing to do with darkspawn and even less to do with talking darkspawn.”

The Lady Seeker sighed. “We should at least thank them, and tell them that we must return to our mission.”

Imshael waved a dismissive hand after forcing down more of their tonic-tea. “You go do that, then! I’ll check on Scout Ose and wait with the horses.” Their insides and their scar sizzled from Cassandra’s irate (unspoken) reaction, enough to wince. They refused to fly within range of a creature that might try to compel them to cooperate.

A pensive silence fell over them while they finished their tea, then began breaking camp with the rising sun. For the sake of good manners, Dorian and Ellana decided to go with Cassandra back into Ostagar to bid their thanks and farewells. Upon hearing this, Solas reluctantly asked to tag along, stating that he didn’t trust the emissary not to resort to manipulation.

While standing by the horses together, Blackwall grumbled, “You were serious, after all.”

“Eeh…?” Imshael was folding up their coat and tying it to their waist, getting ready to shift crow to find Ose further north on the Highway.

“About being an abomination. That Fear demon earlier.”

“And…?”

“Never thought I’d see the bloody day: a demon protecting a lady like that.”

Imshael rolled their eyes, but smirked while crouching before leaping into the air. “Don’t go thinking noble things about feral instincts, eh? We’re both impostors.” Blackwall didn’t flinch when they shifted that time, but grumbled into his beard some more as they left. 

Scout Ose waved at them from below once the sun was up, recognizing the blasted white stripe on their wing and breast. He didn’t flinch when they dropped to the ground in human form, either. 

The Lady Seeker had a hastily-scrawled note, while the lute-scout had anxious questions about the Keeper’s welfare. She drawled that he could see for himself in a few hours that the Keeper was (mostly) fine. They didn’t dally before shifting again, now with a letter rolled up and tied to their foot. (They thought about harassing Ose by nuzzling him, but thought better of it—for now.) 

On the return flight, the faint but distinct tug of their tainted blood alerted them to an approaching spawn. It turned out to be a dwarf ghoul that had made its way to the Highway between the scout and their camp, arm stretched up and foggy eyes aimed right at them. With a shudder, Imshael passed it by: not to ignore it, but to drop off Cassandra’s note first. 

After pestering Blackwall to take the letter (by irritably waving their leg with several indignant squawks), they backtracked to the ghoul, which had followed them partway back to camp. It immediately held its hand up again, brows pinched as though it felt sad! They dove several feet ahead of it back into human form and looked it over with a sneer.

“Did you bring a message, or are you trying to spy on us?” She bluntly asked it. “The others are already bidding your friends goodbye.”

She reared back slightly but didn’t cede any ground when the ghoul marched a few steps closer, dropping its hand and looking them over. And didn’t say a blasted word. 

After a long, awkward pause, they cleared their throat and muttered, “Can’t say I know many ghouls that talk, anyway… Go back to your camp.” The ghoul took a few steps as though to bypass them back toward Ostagar, then rocked to a stop with its eyes wide like saucers. Eeh? You’ve got some willpower left, after all.

They crouched slightly with a multitoned warning growl when it rushed even closer, then it dared to tug one of the coat sleeves tied around their waist. Now it was Wrath instead of Fear slithering under their skin, ready to burst out in either flames or scales to obliterate it.

“You’ve got some gall, pest.” Their lip twitched, patience thinning fast. “I have nothing you need, and you have nothing I want.” Before they could command it to leave more forcefully, it held out a hand as if it were requesting something. Against the periphery of their thoughts brushed a tentative tendril of a mental image that wasn’t theirs… An image of a whispering red rock. They willed the instinctive urge to slaughter it down to a low simmer.

“Ah. You hear the so-called ancestors. Their fate is as pitiful as yours.” They took a step away from the ghoul, then held out a hand against its clammy forehead to stop it from crowding close again. “Hang on, you blasted pest!” With an agitated sigh, they untied the coat with their free hand, then shook it loose. 

It only took a few seconds to dig out a pouch full of red lyrium keystones that were already stabilized, and they dropped one into the ghoul’s hand with a pleased smirk. Now they had a way to transfer some information to Gaxkang! 

“You can store and remove memories with this. Let the revenant at your camp see this, and it will show you how.” They quirked a perplexed brow as the ghoul cradled the keystone and pressed it gently against its cheek, eyes now wide with what they could only presume was wonder. Then, they realized the ghoul’s flesh held no heat, so the keystone was warm to its touch. 

“Right then… I should go.” The ghoul paid them little mind as they tucked their coat back up, tied it, and took to the air. They circled up high and waited for a few minutes, then nudged the blasted thing back to Ostagar by pushing a mental image of the fortress through their cursed blood-bond. Finally, it darted into the dense treeline for a long way around, and they returned to camp with an internal scoff.  

…

. . .

.  .  .

Ellana was appalled beyond comprehension. She hadn’t lost control of her emotions in years—never mind the fit of terror that seized her that morning. While she walked to Ostagar with Cassandra, Dorian, and Solas, they all offered kind words that she heard without really listening. 

Solas mused that many leaders and soldiers dealt with varying degrees of anxiety that erupted like she had; he suggested spirit healing, which she said she’d consider with an apologetic smile. Cassandra agreed and offered to teach her breathing meditations, taught to the Seekers of Truth. (She became troubled when Ellana asked whether Templars knew them too, due to their stressful work.) Dorian, much to the Seeker’s frustration, offered a bottle of wine and a conspiratorial wink. 

She didn’t dare mention aloud that she might break her abstinence in favor of Dorian’s suggestion. She knew spirit healing and meditation would be better, but she didn’t trust herself to stay impartial with Solas, while Cassandra… was still a little intimidating as a mage-hunting warrior. It wasn’t their fault, but she couldn’t quite wrestle those fears from her thoughts just then.

She caught herself idly combing her fingers through her hair over her shoulder, until Cassandra offered her a leather thong to tie it up again. Blushing furiously, she tamed the long auburn tresses into a simple braid and left it over her shoulder (so she could keep fidgeting with the tail of it).

She felt awful when the Architect greeted them again—this time with the revenant, Warden Nathaniel, and the broodmother. Cassandra and Solas were even more horrified than she had been at the mangled, mismatched female. Solas asked her if she was suffering, but she rasped coarsely that she wanted “no magic, no song-lies.” 

After Ellana explained that they had to return to their mission, the Architect said, “I have learned that forced cooperation can breed fierce resentment among the living. I regret that your order is not more amenable to working with us. We will remain here, until we can continue our excavation of the Deep Roads.”

“Does that include the thaig beneath the Hinterlands?” Cassandra asked sternly. 

“The lower passages have yet to be fully excavated… and there are many darkspawn in the area now, hindering our effort.” Cassandra shot her a wary frown: it hadn’t explicitly said no. 

Ellana said, “If our paths cross again, I hope it can be peaceful. I don’t think the people are ready to see talking darkspawn, but maybe someday we can coexist.”  

“Perhaps, in due time.” Whatever the emissary’s plan was, it sounded genuinely weary with this concession.

Nathaniel added, “The Inquisition has been more accommodating than most, and for that, we are grateful. I’m sorry we don’t have more news of the Grey Wardens for you. We would appreciate it if you could send word to us, should you find out more. We fear the worst after hearing the Calling.” 

“Of course!” Ellana held out her hand, and Nathaniel grabbed her forearm with a surprised smile after a small pause. “Erm, if you find yourselves near the Hinterlands, the people there still respect the Wardens. They can pass along any news from underground, so long as it’s not a darkspawn approaching them. S-sorry if that’s rude…”

“Not at all, my lady,” Nathaniel assured while patting her hand, before they stepped apart. 

“Oh, I almost forgot—!” Ellana dug into her pocket with a gasp and found the shards that she’d taken off the war table back at Haven. She held out one shard to the revenant and the rest for the Architect, both of whom peered curiously down at them. 

“Imshael said t-they have nothing to teach you about red lyrium, since you already have Blight magic, but maybe these could help instead? If somebody eats one, it can regrow emotions and personality, one piece at a time. Like building muscle. Maybe…”

The Architect gracefully cupped its clawed hand under hers so she could drop the shards onto its palm. The revenant’s fingers were ice-cold even through its gauntlets as it plucked the other out of her hand. The Architect said, “I seek to explore every avenue available to my people. You have my gratitude for this gift, Herald.”

The revenant spoke just then, making the party jump a little. It had answered Dorian a few times about “life” as a revenant, but she didn’t understand the more technical details they discussed about binding spirits—especially itself, somehow. It certainly seemed erudite, but without lips, some of the consonants didn’t come out right (on top of sounding demonic). 

Keeper Deshanna’s warning to avoid them raised the hairs on her arms as it said, “You shine like the beacon at Ishal once did. Where light shines, shadows follow: they can taunt or court you as you choose.” 

When Ellana stammered for a moment, unsure how to respond, trying to decipher if that was a threat or maybe advice, Dorian chortled in genuine pleasure. “A bold proposition from a creature both dead and demonic. A twofold shadow, even! Maybe you should study necromancy when you’re done hero-ing in the South, my dear Herald. I know some excellent tutors.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle faintly at Cassandra’s disgusted shudder; the Seeker hastily nodded her head to the Architect and thanked it for its patience, then ushered them back to the long bridge splitting the stronghold in two. 

Ellana shivered at a tingle on her back, causing her to glance over her shoulder (in case somebody was attacking), before she realized it was her staff vibrating. Confused, she tugged it free of her back and gripped it tight, feeling the shaft where she typically held it—then further up where it widened and split into several jagged splinters. It was definitely humming more intensely near the top…

Before she could turn it to look at the top, Cassandra cried out, “Maker preserve us!” 

She jumped in fright more from her exclamation than from the rumble under their feet as the dragon from yesterday seemingly dropped down from above with no warning! She skidded slightly with her back to them, having flown in from behind to catch them unawares. 

They all had enough time to brandish their weapons while the beast turned at the center of the bridge, giving them a spectacular but terrifying view of it from hardly fifty paces away. Ellana grabbed the Seeker’s arm with a small cry of protest when she prepared to charge at its flank: “Wait!” 

The dragon had been watching them from under a lifted wing, and turning slower than it normally would: for some reason, even though her heart was pounding just as hard as it had when she woke up, she could somehow tell it wasn’t attacking but rather studying, like the darkspawn kept doing. 

“Stay behind me!” Cassandra ordered, grabbing her arm and tugging her close. Ellana immediately leaned around her other side to watch the dragon just as intently while she folded her wings back and turned awkwardly to face them (instead of leaping to turn). Based on the protruding brow, white wings and spikes, and menacing underbite, she was pretty sure it was a Hivernal dragon.

Solas wove barriers over them, and Dorian gathered primal energy for a fire cone to either side of her, while Cassandra crouched and shifted her shield. The dragon lowered its head to the ground, as though trying to see them at eye level, and heaved a frosty sigh that gusted the snow around them along the ledges. She shuddered again from the cold, flinty gale, and some part of her wondered what “ignited” ice in it rather than fire, which smelled more sulphuric. 

When it had sighed over them, it made her staff vibrate harder. “O-oh…!” Ellana hesitantly held the staff out and said to Cassandra, “I think it’s tainted like the staff—look!” 

When Cassandra only flicked her gaze from the dragon, scowling, she pressed the staff against her arm so she could feel it shaking. She glanced at the staff a little longer the second time, then barked, “We are not prepared to fight a Blighted dragon! Does the Architect mean to detain us?!”

They all flinched as the dragon sidestepped, sweeping her massive head around to look at something behind her—and to their surprise, Utha came trotting around the beast. It slowed down to look from the dragon, to Ellana, then back… Then, it pulled out what looked like a chunk of red lyrium from its armor and shuffled forward to press it against the side of the dragon’s jaw.

If Ellana didn’t know any better, the next rumbling sigh the Hivernal made could have been her version of purring, just like she’d heard about. The vibrating in her staff stopped abruptly as the dragon lifted herself off the ground, lumbered to the ledge, and leapt over, gliding down into the chasm-like valley below. 

Utha darted past them without a second glance as they reeled in the aftermath of facing down a dragon, stranded on a bridge with it—and the insane luck of not having to fight it. Dorian cleared his throat and muttered, “There truly is a first time for everything, isn’t there? I may need two bottles of wine to sleep tonight.”

Cassandra was the last of them to lower her weapon, looking half-stunned and half-annoyed as the dragon’s silhouette retreated. “I’ve never seen a high dragon act so strangely… Let us leave before we are intercepted again.” 

The party wordlessly took off at a trot, with none of them wanting to linger among the sporadic huddles of darkspawn that watched them. They stayed armed and primed with spells the whole way back to the Highway; in fact, Ellana suspected they would be doing so from now on when they were on foot. She didn’t know dragons could sneak up on people…! 

Even though she’d been hoping to help the Architect and the (rogue?) Wardens, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t glad to leave Ostagar.

Imshael and Blackwall were waiting by the packed horses when they returned; Blackwall handed off a letter to Cassandra while Imshael perched on one of the horses, fluffed up. Ellana glanced around nervously and realized, they’d only brought one extra horse with them… While Cassandra read her note, Dorian pointed out the shortage of mounts, too.

Ellana saw Solas look her way and open his mouth to say something right as she asked Dorian to share a ride with her. 

Just a day ago, she would have delighted at the chance to ride with Solas, but after the revelation with Corypheus and his true purpose in the Inquisition, she didn’t know how to pull apart her feelings and duty just then… And, it hurt that he didn’t trust her from the start… And she was still mortified by her reaction that morning. 

She knew it wasn’t an overreaction, in truth, but the shame lingered. Mages already had to keep their emotions carefully checked at all times—and the rift that morning demonstrated exactly why. For her, it was even more important to do so, since it was more than a single demon she could attract in a moment of weakness.

The day had hardly started, and she was already exhausted. 

Cassandra read her note, tucked it away with a thoughtful frown, and they all mounted up in a matter of minutes. Cassandra scoffed irritably when Imshael alighted on her shoulder to preen and relax—but she didn’t shoo them away, either. They started at a brisk walking pace, and every step away from Ostagar seemed to lift everyone’s moods. 

Cassandra walked beside her and Dorian, and eventually said, “Varric has confirmed some damning information about the mine in the Hinterlands. The Carta are using it to store and transport red lyrium. I can only think of one person who might be using it.”

With that, the Seeker glared pointedly to Imshael on her shoulder, who cawed and turned their head away, beak high. 

Solas, on Ellana’s other side, frowned and said, “Corypheus and his red templars.”

“Red templars?” Dorian quipped, looking from Solas to Imshael. “More people like you? Pardon my manners, but that’s more than a little concerning. And this is the same poisoned lyrium from Varric’s book, I take it?”

“Yes: the same lyrium and the same magister. According to Varric’s contact, the smuggling operation has infected parts of the mine, as well. The Carta is willing to cooperate with the Inquisition, provided we agree to contain the spread and protect them from Corypheus. Varric wants to know more before making enemies of the Carta, but I think we would be wiser to remove them entirely.”

“I agree with the Lady Seeker,” Blackwall gruffly interjected. 

Cassandra started to protest being called a Lady, but he continued over her: “The Carta only reneges on deals when they’re already disadvantaged. That means their position is tenuous. If the Inquisition wants that mine, they should stake it all and cut out the middleman. I don’t like killing when it’s not necessary, but those smugglers know they’re transporting poison for a monster.”

Ellana thought of the Architect yet again and thanked whatever benevolent forces were listening that it hadn’t teamed up with Corypheus. Now that she’d met one, she dreaded fighting the other. Based on the long pause between them, she could guess that she wasn’t the only one contemplating it.

Eventually, Solas added, “Master Tethras and Ambassador Montilyet are both well-connected people. I’m confident they can contact more reputable members of the surface caste to help us—especially without Orzammar’s taxes and processing fees.” 

“Processing?” Dorian asked incredulously. “Only dwarves can handle raw lyrium—never mind process it.”

Imshael cawed twice in a manner that sounded suspiciously like Ahem! Cassandra and Dorian scoffed, Solas and Blackwall sighed in annoyance, and Ellana chuckled. She replied, “Actually, Imshael can refine lyrium, and the Tranquil can handle it somewhat safely. Along with enchantments, of course.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian droned. It took a second for her to realize it was sarcastic. “In the past day, I’ve watched my old mentor descend into madness and crossed half of Ferelden in an instant that lasted a year, seen talking darkspawn, met an ancient sidereal magister and an unbound revenant, gotten close enough to a dragon to count its teeth... Did I miss anything?”

“Traitor Wardens,” Blackwall grumbled with a disappointed sigh. Solas and Cassandra smiled ruefully while Dorian scoffed and tossed up a hand.

“Yes, of course, can’t forget the Grey Wardens working with darkspawn after fighting them for centuries. And all because we’re trying to… what was it, again? Oh, right! Learn more about who murdered the bloody Divine in the midst of a civil war between mages and templars. Did I mention that northern templars can’t actually negate magic the way southerners do? Maker’s breath, how unnerving! Am I feverish? Perhaps this is all a fever dream.” 

Ellana sighed with him, despite smiling at his boisterous, excessive, accurate complaints. “It’s a lot to take in all at once…” 

Dorian’s sudden rant seemed to open a floodgate for the party as they progressed through the morning, heading back to the Hinterlands. 

Blackwall mused on whether joining the Grey Wardens had been the noble, prestigious move he’d been led to believe; Solas commiserated with him on the struggles of rank-and-file soldiers who saw less of an organization’s true corruption; which sparked a discussion between Solas and Cassandra on whether he thought so lowly of the Inquisition as well; which prompted her to admit that without Divine Justinia’s naive idealism, she could no longer ignore some of the corrupt activities of the Chantry in Orlais.

Ellana didn’t confess her own woes and misgivings, and the others didn’t ask her to. Still, she felt less isolated after hearing how everyone was struggling to grapple with life as part of the Inquisition. Imshael, on the other hand, seemed (for lack of a better term) unruffled by it all. Between their utter nonchalance and everybody else’s inner turmoil, she finally felt less like a herald and more like a companion and equal.