Mistress Leliana,
I am forwarding you an excerpt from a letter written by the new Dalish recruit Loranil that I thought might be of interest. As you suspected, he has no qualms about apprising his clan of our activities, although his devotion to the Inquisition—or at least, to the Herald—seems genuine and, I daresay, enthusiastic.
-Charter
My work with the Inquisition has lately brought me to the village of Crestwood. Upon arrival we were directed to a large keep called Caer Bronach, which we were told Inquisitor Lavellan had just seized from the clutches of group of shem bandits calling themselves "Highwaymen." The Inquisitor and her companions had already departed by the time we got there, ostensibly to eliminate any remaining bandits, but it is rumored that she is looking for someone in particular: a Grey Warden. What such a person might be doing in this remote place, I cannot say. Then again, the Wardens often seem to turn up where you wouldn't expect.
The keep itself is unprepossessing, a blocky behemoth crouching among the hills. I could not sleep on our first night, despite being tired from the journey. Even sleeping outside in the courtyard, I felt as if the stone were pressing in on me, a feeling the other Elvhen here have assured me will fade with time. Nevertheless, I was restless that night, and I could not resist stealing away to have some time to myself.
I was not expecting to encounter anybody; the population of the nearby village was decimated by attacks from undead, and although they had been liberated from the menace by the Inquisitor, many of the villagers are still too afraid to venture out at night. Indeed, many of them have relocated to the keep, and even that large place seems full of the warmth (and stench) of many bodies. I was surprised, then, to come upon the sight of distant campfires. Realizing I must have walked farther than I meant to, and unsure whose camp I had stumbled upon, I made to turn back. I had just scaled a small hill and was preparing to descend the other side when at its foot I the Inquisitor, a lone figure standing in a small clearing surrounded by large stones. A torch was wedged into the ground, but it glowed with a greenish, eldritch light instead of fire. The moon was full and it was very bright, and I stared for a few moments at her in dumbfounded surprise before I scrambled to conceal myself behind a boulder, escaping notice only because her back was to me.
She was dancing. I recognized the steps from one of the traditional dances performed at the Arlathvhen. She was dressed only in breeches and a loose tunic, her feet bare. Reaching out as if in yearning, she skipped lightly back, then stopped, kneeling forward in a graceful lunge, her arms flung out behind her. Then she sprang up, lifting one leg high in the air, before releasing to whirl away, her hair coming loose from its coil atop her head and flying behind her like a banner. She dropped to her knees, and in her face I saw mingled rage and grief so raw that I shuddered. There was something both alien and familiar about her. The next instant she was up, brushing herself off, and peering suspiciously into the darkness.
"I know you're there."
I felt she must be speaking to me, although she was facing me in profile, and I had been careful not to make a sound. She no longer looked angry, but rather sheepish, if somewhat defiant. I was about to reveal myself and offer apologies when another figure stepped into the clearing. I recognized Solas, the strange elf who had accompanied the Inquisitor when she came to our camp in Dirthavaren. Remember how we thought at first that he was just another flat-ear? I don't think that's right, but he's certainly not Dalish either.
"You were watching me," the Inquisitor said accusingly.
"Eyes are always on the Inquisitor," he replied, and for a moment I could swear he speaking directly to me, although he gave no indication that he had detected my presence. "You didn't mind dancing for an audience at Halamshiral."
"That was different. I'm practicing; I make mistakes and look like a fool. Did you follow me?"
"No. I thought I sensed one of the elven artifacts nearby, and wanted to try and find it."
"Oh."
Solas stretched out his arms and stood at attention, then made a series of quick, jumping steps.
She laughed. "Almost, but you're doing it wrong. Your knees should be straighter when you rise, and your heels should align. Your legs need to come together in the air, and your shoulders should stay relaxed."
"That is not what I would call 'almost.' Then again, I last attempted those steps in the Fade," he said. "Some things are easier there." For some reason, that made them both laugh.
"Now I have the image of you in the Fade, disporting yourself alongside dancing spirits."
"They were Spirits of Patience, you may be sure. That dance of yours is very old, you know. I have seen its like echoed in the Fade, fragments of lavish productions sumptuously staged. I am glad to see the Dalish have preserved it."
She ducked her head slightly. "If our keeper hadn't chosen me as her First, I would have been trained in all our dances. I was unofficially apprenticed to one of the hunters, who had similarly been taught when she was a child. She was a living catalog of our art. You'd hum a tune to one of the dances, and her hands would start twitching. Whenever she thought I was trying too hard, she'd tap my head and say, 'Forget this. This is nothing. The dance lives in the muscles and bones. Your mind must be calm.' She was never sympathetic when my magical studies interfered with remembering the steps of a dance. 'We do not make excuses,' she used to say. 'We do not complain or avoid. We simply do.'"
"She sounds…formidable."
"The discipline of learning the steps helped me learn to control my magic. There are paradoxes in dance that apply also to being a mage. You must be humble yet confident, controlled yet free. You must give yourself up and find yourself all at once. If that makes any sense. It's possible that I've been spending too much time talking to you and Cole." The Inquisitor stopped, perhaps aware that she'd been babbling a little. She had drawn closer to Solas, but was not touching him as she gazed into his eyes, her neck like the stem of a lily.
"If you know the dance, do you know the story it tells?" She asked. "We call it Ghilan'nain and the Hunter."
As soon as she spoke the name of the goddess, I realized why I thought I had recognized the Inquisitor as someone other than herself; in the tales, Ghilan'nain is said to be as graceful and fair as a halla, and so now the Inquisitor seemed, standing silver-haired in the moonlight.
"How do the Dalish tell the tale?"
"In the story, Ghilan'nain is one of the People, a mage who loves every living creature. She uses her considerable power to create new animals, and she worships Andruil."
"Andruil. A strange choice, is it not? The Dalish believe Andruil to be the goddess of the hunt."
"The story doesn't really say why."
"And you never thought to ask?"
"I never really thought about it. It just seemed like a feature of Ghilan'nain, like her snow-white hair. They say that Ghilan'nain loved her creations deeply, so perhaps she hoped to appease Andruil, to stop her from hunting them."
"Or perhaps Ghilan'nain did not care for the creatures themselves at all, but simply reveled in the power of creating them, the pride she felt over their mastery. Perhaps she made things that should not have lived in this world, but was allowed to continue because Andruil liked to hunt them."
"That's an…interesting theory. Anyway, Ghilan'nain is in love with a hunter. He loves her, too, but even more he loves the thrill of the hunt, of capturing his quarry. One day, Ghilan'nain discovers that he has killed a hawk sacred to Andruil. So, she curses him. Never again will he take the life of another creature. That's the part I was practicing, where she's just found out what he's done. She reaches for him because she still loves him, but she knows it's too late; what is done cannot be undone. It's more than just the death of the hawk, it's the fact that the Hunter put his pride above their love and the respect due the goddess. He tries to apologize to Ghilan'nain. 'Banal'abelas! Banal'vhenan!' she tells him."
"I take it the story does not end well."
"It's less exciting when people resolve their differences with thoughtful conversation. Basically, the Hunter tricks Ghilan'nain into meeting him alone and blinds her, leaving her to die in the woods, wounded and alone, because the curse prevents him from killing her outright. She prays to Andruil and the goddess offers her power and protection in exchange for the creatures she made. Ghilan'nain agrees, asking only that the halla, her favorite among her creations, be spared. The Hunter's crime is revealed and justice is served."
"Is the Hunter truly at fault for acting in accordance with his nature? Is his need less compelling than that of Ghilan'nain? It seems that the only thing that separates them is the favor of Andruil."
"The Hunter betrays Ghilan'nain. He's supposed to love her, but it's more important to him to show that his arrows fly so high and so true that he can fell even a hawk with a single shot. Then, instead of facing the consequences, he uses lies and deception to try and kill her."
"She expects him to deny his nature to please her, to turn away from what makes him himself. We do not know his intentions. What if the hawk he killed was a monstrous creation of Ghilan'nain's, not sacred, but simply a beast that Andruil wanted the pleasure of slaying herself, while meanwhile it terrorized those around it? Maybe Ghilan'nain is not angered by the affront to her goddess, but merely indignant because she cannot control the actions of the Hunter. Among all her creatures, only he belongs to himself, and not to her. Perhaps the Hunter rages, not against the curse itself, but for what it represents: the loss of his freedom."
"If Ghilan'nain is so terrible, why would anyone love her in the first place?"
"She is powerful and beautiful, full of wisdom and grace. Such a combination is difficult to resist. Yet as the tale tells us, when two unrelenting forces meet in opposition, tragedy must follow."
"I don't think so. I think it's meant to be a warning against putting pride above all else. Everything that's bad comes from the initial act of the Hunter bolstering his ego."
"And what were Ghilan'nain and Andruil doing? Are their intentions so pure? Andruil wasn't going to help her follower without exacting payment. Ghilan'nain didn't love her creatures so much that she wasn't willing to sacrifice them for personal gain."
"It's just a story, Solas. And if it's all the same to you, I'll stick with the Dalish telling. All the people in your version are horrible, and that would ruin the dancing."
"Well, we can't have that," he said lightly.
"I had to give it up, finally, you know. I couldn't fulfill the duties of the First and devote enough time to training. Ghilan'nain and the Hunter was the last dance I learned."
"It must have been a difficult choice."
"Not at all. My clan had to come first."
"A noble sentiment. Do you really have no regrets?"
"I did not say I did not regret it, I said I did not hesitate. Uncertainty can be a problem, but sometimes knowing what must be done is even worse, because then you have to do it."
The horizon was beginning to lighten, and I could see a few new fires being lit as the camp in the distance began to stir.
"I suppose we'd better go back," she said. Neither of them moved; both seemed to be waiting for the other to turn away first. Then, she reached out and brushed his arm with her fingertips. "I'm glad you got to see me dance."
"As am I," he said, and it seemed like he was trying to put much more weight into those little words than they could really hold. He offered her his arm, and they continued to banter as they receded from me, their figures merging as they became enfolded in shadow. When it was once again silent I started back for the keep.