A/N: So this series will be a set of ficlets that might help explain the things that go unexplained in the main story, which will provide everyone with a clearer vision of what lies behind some characters' motivations. So, I'll begin with Pascal, because I think he puzzles people more. (Also, because I'm too excited for this to wait until I've collated all the characters) Each chapter can be read on its own, with as little reference to Perspective as I can manage. If you want to see something or someone explained in this set, please let me know? I'll do my best to write them all :D

Pascal's Piece

He watched them go by, again, bringing in the tranquil who were in charge of purchasing goods from the market, their armor and helms gleaming in the light of the midday sun, keeping in stride with the robed mages. Clad in the same, he knew, was the man who was to be his mentor. Everyone knew him; Hugues was a tall man with intense eyes, a derisive gaze and dark humored person—who terrified all the other recruits with alarming success. Ser Hugues. The same man who had brought him to the Chantry ten years hence, having saved him from his village, before it fell prey to a single mage's corruption, which caused the whole settlement to burn, leaving nothing but ashes.

Pascal knew that he had to try and meet the man's gaze, before they were formally introduced as teacher and student in the coming days. He had heard rumors, but was certain that Ser Hugues was not as fierce as everyone said he was. The man was just stern, as per the teachings, no doubt caused by his continued posting in the White Spiral. Vigilance was key in their line of duty, ever-watchful in the presence of their corruptible wards.

"Pascal, stop gawking—we have to go," muttered one of the other recruits. The youth tore his eyes from the spot where the templar last stood, to find his fellows already leaving the main courtyard, into the training area, where they would engage in swordfights— working on that skill despite the fact that their future charges were men and women likely to be more skilled in fleeing than fighting their pursuers.

He sighed, and followed—his light-coloured hair glinting in the sunlight. This was not a favorite part of his daily routine.

The men waiting in the bare dirt yard were all stripped down to shirts and leathers—armed with a sharp-edged blade and a wooden shield. Sparring was on the agenda, evidently.

The only thing Pascal was good at was evading. His sword arm wasn't strong enough to stagger his opponent—the dreaded Constantin, his shield arm not strong enough to withstand the blows that rained down quite so rapidly, losing that wooden implement within the first five minutes. He sidestepped between the man's strikes, seeing the path of the steel clearly before it cleaved into his own flesh.

His feet moved, though evidently not fast enough, for soon, as his opponent grew tired at swinging the steel blade through the suddenly unoccupied space— and wood thunked on wood—Pascal felt himself forced to the ground, unable to bear the weight of that unexpected bash.

He barely rolled away in time, dropping the shield in his haste. Constantin glared fiercely as he relieved himself of the same burden, and charged, blade-first, at Pascal. No time to think, the youth dodged, and his own sword glanced the side of the other recruit, drawing a large spill of blood which stained the dirt black, the first injury of the day.

"Get him to the infirmary!" The sword master yelled at the nearby recruits, who had stared on in shock. For Constantin to have been bested—that was in itself, impressive. It was still more astonishing that the usually meek boy to have actually won a spar. Pascal was the absolute worst when it came to close-quarters combat.

This was the reason why Pascal tried not to look too triumphant, for both he and his opponent knew that everything that happened was a piece of luck, and not a result of skill.

Still, because of this, everyone was given the rest of the day free from the practice, free to peruse more tomes of dust and lore in the Grand Library. Pascal emerged a hero for this feat—but as the crowd of grateful boys surrounded him, a slow clap was heard, the sound coming from the templar who had been watching from the second storey window. It was Ser Hugues. The throng immediately scattered, hoping to avoid a harsh berating.

The youth blushed fiercely, trying to look nonchalant, despite this burning face. He tried not to bow like an idiot, and managed a half-nod, pulling back brusquely. Hugues continued, removing his helm as he leaned out the window. "Nice work— though I suspect that another set of weapons might suit you better."

Pascal felt a stab as that gaze pierced through him, flaming with a blaze of darkness— a path to the abyss that had formed in those eyes. He swallowed as his own countenance darkened, tearing his own eyes from the man's with immense difficulty. He must seem a right fool, rendered mute in this good-looking man's address of himself.

But still that voice haunted him, so deep and masculine that it thrummed in Pascal's skin. "Perhaps a crossbow— yes, I shall commission one for you." The half-smile appeared, almost in whimsy.

He fled. He could not stand it, even though he had to. A week before he would be trained personally by the man. A week for him to think. Something in him had been stroked awake by that voice, that demeanor, that hypnotic gaze—and he feared. He feared that he would lose himself. Pascal feared that he would be consumed by the midnight-black, the grotesque attraction that he saw in Ser Hugues.

Desire. This—he feared.

P.S.: Ah, I forgot to include a disclaimer. These might change your initial thoughts about the characters in Perspective, so… read at your own risk—not everyone who's a villain is evil through and through! Thanks for reading :D

Next up, Lazarus!