As Hissrad entered the world covered in blood, so he prepared each day to depart it.
It was a certainty that he had always prepared for, a cold and unyielding fact that had greeted him with the sunrise. It had not bothered him; he was but one piece of a greater purpose, one small ripple in the ocean of existence. Death was one of the many necessities of order. His would be one of many required to achieve the stability that the Qun promised, and so he did not mind. Asit tal-eb.
Hissrad's arms resisted the strain of his bindings as he prepared for the day. Grunting softly, he wrapped them around his torso. His hands moved from memory; as they dutifully tied symbolic knots with the cords of his station, he allowed his mind to wander. Counter-intuitive to most Qunari, Hissrad found daydreaming to be an efficient method of mulling over information taken in passively. This was not to say that he never paid rapt attention to the world around him - had this been so, he might never have ceased being hissrad - but he embraced the machinations of his mind. It enabled him to explore concepts beneficial to his people where others could not. His superiors had not always considered this trait an asset.
But much had changed since the Veil came down.
During their investigation of the Vir Dirthara, the Viddasala's operatives had learned that among the ancient elves, spells could take years to cast and end. Of course, none of them were able to give further details: Hissrad learned later that all had met Fen'Harel, but none survived him. When the steady flow of reports became weeks of complete silence, the Viddasala and her team were declared dead. Scouts attempting to re-enter the Crossroads found the ways heavily guarded by the elven mage's people.
The Viddasala's replacement, tasked with learning more about Fen'Harel's burgeoning movement, had returned to Par Vollen alone. No one knew how, since she was not seen near raft nor ship, and her frayed armor was dry. She kept muttering about a six-eyed wolf, expressed an irrational fear of shadows, and unleashed blood-curdling screams in her sleep. After the Ben-Hassrath finished studying her, not even a second round of qamek could calm her; she spent her last days in the temple rocking on the floor, begging for her mouth to be sewn shut. Hissrad had executed her himself, shortly after he was named Rasaan. During his time with the Inquisition, the quiet gratitude in the Viddasala's dimming eyes would have unsettled him; at this stage of his life, he pitied her. How torturous, to live twisted beyond one's purpose.
A sharp rapping sound came from the other side of his door, interrupting his thoughts. The walk to the edge of his quarters seemed to take an eternity, but he refused to drag his feet. Cool steel greeted his hand as he turned the handle.
A tall woman with tumbling silver locks stood before him, arms crossed firmly behind her back. Calm, calculating eyes glittered in the morning light as she regarded him.
"Rasaan."
The woman before him nodded curtly. Rasaan was not one for formalities now, deeming them inefficient. In days past, her tongue had been covered in honey, especially when dealing with bas. As the war raged on, the honey dripped slowly away. Only a sharpened razor remained.
"It appears you are not ready for the meeting with the others."
"Indeed, Rasaan." His hands fell to his side, burning slightly from working with the cords. "Time is the price of looking this good, at my age."
"Time better spent on morning exercises to warm up your joints, old man," she sniffed in Common Tongue, striding past him into his quarters. A slight smile played about Hissrad's lips as he closed the door behind her. Not a single member of the Salasari would have been able to take the liberties that she did. But he had not chosen her to be at his side because of her charm, and he valued her opinions regardless of how she delivered them.
Hissrad resumed dressing, drifting over to his armor stand. "I take it you're not here to admire the view," he snorted, lifting a heavy silverite paudron from its perch. Since the war began, he had broken decorum by donning armor instead of robes. None protested, considering the circumstances surrounding the death of his predecessor. Wearing heavy armor seemed like home, besides.
Rasaan's eyes sharply assessed an ornate wooden stool before she lowered herself gracefully into its seat. "You would assume such," she said, adjusting herself. "I was actually here to see if you were still alive. The Arishok is dead."
Hissrad couldn't tell if it was the weight of the paudrons or the news that made his shoulders slump. "Fucking Dreamers," he hissed in Common Tongue, turning to face her. Rasaan nodded, crossing her arms.
"He knew the risks of sleeping without wards. I recall him recently crowing that he would slay the Archon himself, if he dared to show up in his dreams."
"The Archon comes from a line of Tevinter magisters who have far more experience with the Fade than us. Every Arishok since Kirkwall has made the fatal mistake of being prideful in a time of crisis." He stepped towards the table near his armor stand, reaching for a tall jar of vitaar. Rasaan clicked her tongue, rising to take it from his hands.
"You can't reach all the way back, remember? I will apply it." Hissrad attempted to stifle a shudder as the ice-cold substance touched his skin. "His replacement is young, inexperienced," Rasaan continued, applying the vitaar in sharp strokes. "The Tamassrans swear that this one comes from different stock than the rest. I suppose we'll see."
"We cannot afford anything less, Rasaan," he replied. A slight throb began to pulse at his temples. Despite the state of the world and the challenges it brought, the Qunari had to remain resolute.
Although, if he was to be honest, the rest of Thedas fared far better than Qunandar, having already underwent their trials by fire. Prior to the war, Southern nations appeared to be in no better condition than the broken Viddasala. The Qunari learned - much too late - that Fen'Harel had begun to undo the Veil shortly after seizing the Eluvians for himself. The effects began to magnify as the years passed: streams of information turned into rivers, with reports threatening to flood his desk. A full-blown war between mage factions had erupted while demons ravaged the land. One of the holds in the Free Marches had collapsed onto itself after a series of devastating earthquakes. And - perhaps more intriguing than the uptick in conflicts among the other basra - the Qunari's dwarven contacts had begun to disappear, abandoning their posts for reasons unknown. Except for dwarves born on the surface, there were hardly any left above-ground.
The Ben-Hassrath also determined that, despite Tamassran efforts, more and more children were becoming saarebas, with magic manifesting in them at earlier ages. A child of five had severely burned other children in her cohort, hands suddenly aflame during play. The Tamassrans quickly started proofing children's quarters against elemental damage, although that did not hinder the possessions. After months of heated debate amongst the Salasari, it was decided that the mages were to be used in large numbers against Tevinter. The move would cull their saarebas population and inflict a greater range of damage to the Imperium's infrastructure.
What happened after would be one of longest streams of horrors that Hissrad had ever witnessed.
As Rasaan silently painted the vitaar onto his back, he reflected upon what would become the Qunari's most grave miscalculation in the campaign against the Tevinter Imperium. By their count, the bombings of Minrathous, Teraevyn and Marnas Pell had been successful; their utter decimation of the Imperial Highway had interrupted the coordinated flow of supplies, including the lyrium that their mages so needed. But the Archon had responded by sending a company of animated Qunari corpses right up to the shores of Par Vollen, each holding a bloodied, severed head in a box. The corpses were felled by neither magic nor cannon. For thirty days they stood, rotting and blotting out the coastline, before lurching forward to explode on the hot summer sand. So began the true Qunari-Tevinter War.
The Arishok of that time had been a level-headed man, and familiar with Southerner ways. Subordinates whispered that it was his experience traveling with the King of Ferelden that made him soft, but no one dared to utter this within earshot of the Salasari. This changed after the Battle of One Thousand Flowers, in which the Imperium used giant carnivorous flowers in the Seheron jungles - devouring both the young beresaad soldiers and refugees fleeing the skirmishes. In a brash move, the Arishok revoked the honorary title of Basalit-an from all living mages who held it. The iron bench of the Arishok had been cold and hard ever since - chilling whoever sat upon it.
As Rasaan finished painting, unbidden came the images of the war: Tevinter mages opening up the earth to swallow their soldiers; charred and dismembered bodies strewn across silent fields; saarebasra ripping their stitches as they screamed. As the Imperium brought out their strongest mages to crush Qunari lines, none of the Qunari soldiers could be treated for asala-taar, however much the sickness plagued their ranks. They could not be spared. Hissrad wondered if pushing the soul-sick into battle to die was an act of mercy.
"You are tense." Rasaan slipped the vitaar brush into the jar, closing it tightly. "But we must push forward with our plans. The city is all we have now. I would not gamble with it."
"You're right. As always," Hissrad sighed. He flexed his arms; the blackened vitaar was painted as a serpent on each one, and wrapped wrapped around him from bicep to wrist. He was unsure why he'd adopted that style. It no longer mattered.
Hissrad turned towards the door. "Let's go," he said. "We have a war to finish."