Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it, think of anything else but that. Corypheus was having a difficult time keeping his mind off off- DON'T THINK ABOUT IT. Focus! Right, what was he doing? He was hidden away in his study, reviewing several new reports. One of his scout teams had been relatively successful in achieving their objective. They had found a High Dragon, but several of them didn't and had gotten eaten. Stupid sods. The report said where and when they had found it but not much more. And that it was, a direct quote, ''fucking huge.'' Yeah, no shit. Corypheus thought to himself sarcastically. Plans for his tribute to Dumat and possibly one of his most powerful weapons was coming together splendidly. He had the majority of the needed materials loaded in carts, perhaps slightly overloaded, and ready to move out. Subduing the beast would be no small feat and may require some more specialized magics, and a hell of a lot of bandages. Not for himself or the creature, but for the troops unfortunate enough to be selected to tag along.

Such spells might be found in his library. The shelves were lined with various books, scrolls and other literature he had collected and stashed in the Deep Roads an age ago, before the Grey Wardens had locked him away. When he had returned to his cache of knowledge he had found it had been rifled trough with scrolls and pages askew, some were even missing, and an apologetic note from the only other man who knew of it's existence. Whatever that daft bastard was up to now it was of no concern of his. If the Architect wants to 'borrow' something else, he can stick it where the sun doesn't shine. Corypheus' thoughts snarled, remembering all of his things his fellow magister had 'borrowed' and never returned.

He headed to the library and perused the dusty stacks of tomes. Some newer, modern books had been slipped in with the last few shipments. Corypheus plucked a brightly coloured one from the stack and was drawn in by the words of praise on the back cover. With his original reason of why he had come here forgotten he threw a cushion off a chair onto the floor and plonked himself down in its place. The wood groaned under his weight.

Enthralled by the first few chapters he was severely disappointed when the story took a turn into the extremely dull. His bored mind decided to add its own embellishments.

The heavy wooden doors trust open making a loud booming noise like a thunder clap as they swung inwards and struck the cracked stone walls, the sound filling the abrupt silence. Its dying echo rolling though the empty spaces of the decrepit ruin as the elf barged into the room with his pale straw colored hair dancing behind him in the cold mountain wind-

Damn it all, he thought had of it. Might as well go along for the ride.

-a vision of a conquering hero in a child's tale. Corypheus idly speculated what that hair would feel like, sliding though his fingers. Would it be soft and smooth as silk, or rough and wiry like a stray dog? Stray dog? Where did that thought come from?

"What's going on here!?" He demands, a staff in hand. A mage. Upon reflection, Corypheus thought, the elf loses points as a brave hero, for his staff was little more than a large, twisted stick. Even as an apprentice I had the most exquisite- Corypheus' thought's reached back into a thousand years of memory and got lost there for a while, recounting every staff he ever had in excruciating detail and made a mental note to get his favorite remade before eventually circling back.

Eyes of the same swirling fiery green hues as the orb in Corypheus' grasp met his own bitter grey gaze. Such intensity and determination he had seen in those eyes. Something reached out from those fathomless depths, trailing a phantom finger-tip across his ancient blackened heart and left an ember of something he had long ago forgotten. The sensation was just as jarring as the initial interruption, perhaps more so, for in his unguarded state the binding magic on the sacrifice relaxed and she smacked him hard across the face, sending the elven globe tumbling to the floor to roll to a stop at the elf's leather boots with a soft tap. In the split second after he scooped it up, a delicate crease appearing between his brows as he began to frown, the artifact exploded in a cataclysm of heat and blinding light, blasting the elf into the presumed mists of the arse-end of the Fade.

It wasn't like Corypheus liked the elf, as in like like. At least he didn't think so. It was just that the elf was always in his head, lurking in the background just out of sight.

I wonder if he's still alive? Corypheus pondered. After all he himself had survived the cataclysm, as well as his accompanying entourage. Well, except Gerald, he's pretty toasted, but no one liked him anyway. He'd been cheating far too well at Wicked Grace of late.

"I have to find him." Corypheus said quietly, words tinted with something distantly related to longing.

"Find whom, sir?" Samson inquired looking up from frantically scribbling on parchment, sat at a desk in the corner.

The Templar's rough voice snapped Corypheus out of his reverie, unaware that he'd said a word or that anyone else was even in the room with him for that matter. He peered over the open book in his hands that he had completely ignored for the past half an hour. He sat up, closed the book and set it down upon the small table beside the armchair he'd been lounging in, sideways with his legs dangling over the chair arm and his back resting on the other. It was a comfortable way to sit but it also leaves him with a crick in his neck when he stands up.

"The rattus who stole the Anchor, maybe I can get it back. Even if I have to skin him." Corypheus said annoyed that he'd been oblivious to the shiny man. He also hoped that Sampson hadn't noticed he had been reading something called 'Hard in Hightown.'

"Oh him. Haven't found hair nor hide of the lad." At Corypheus' scowl he hastily added; "But I'll send word to our operations, see if they've heard anything."

"Good." Corypheus snatched up his book from the small table and strode out of the room towards his private chambers.