Aqun-Athlok
By: Eva Grimm
Chapter One: The Wrath of Heaven (AKA, Consciousness is Overrated)

"I'm going back to sleep."

Chapter Summary: Hamasha, the internally ranty First of Clan Lavellan, is all but an outcast within her clan because she's not like other female elves. Sent on a mission by her Clan's Keeper, she finds herself thrown headfirst into the world of Outsiders after an explosion at the Conclave. She's more than a little confused by it all, which only reaffirms her belief that consciousness is overrated.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Dragon Age: Inquisition or any other BioWare intellectual property. Aqun-Athlok is a fan-based work and not sold for profit.

***WARNING: Past abuse is heavily hinted at and at some points outright mentioned. Reader be advised.

***SPOILER ALERT: Spoilers for any Dragon Age game — they're going to happen. You've been warned.

Consciousness is overrated. At least, I certainly think so, though in all fairness, my opinion on the matter has been shaped by nearly a decade of bad memories spent amongst the clan into which I was placed when I was young. The only good memories I have where I'm awake are those that feature either myself alone or me together with my clan's Keeper, Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan. She's got a bit of a long name, so I usually just call her "Keeper." Can I be blamed for that?

I probably shouldn't be blamed for much of anything, really, but that has never stopped my clan. All of them, spare my Keeper, either hate my very existence and actively seek to make my every waking moment miserable or treat me and my never ceasing torment with indifference. Never mind that I'm their First. Actually, if anything, I think that spurs them on even more. The thought of me becoming Keeper someday probably terrifies them. Truthfully, it terrifies me too. Sometimes, on the rare occasions when I have a good dream, I find a way to break free from the path that's been set out for me — the path to becoming Keeper of Clan Lavellan and thus obligated to ensure the well-being of the very people who haunt my nightmares and their descendants after them (Creators save me.).

The point I suppose I'm trying to make is that relations between the clan and myself… have always been antagonistic at best and violent at worst. Not from me to them though! Okay, that's a lie. I usually manage to keep myself in check, but as one might imagine, it becomes more difficult for me to do that around the seventh time Alerion or Mithra (They're the worst of my tormentors.) has made me bleed within a single confrontation. It might make you wonder why I've never resorted to blood magic.

The answer is my Keeper. It would upset her if I turned to blood magic to solve my problems, and I'm not sure I could bear to see her disappointed in me after all she's done to help me. She's the one who listened to me when I told her about my problem (I have many problems, but they all stem from one problem: The Problem, you might say.), who showed me which herbs to use and how often to do so, who allows me to be... me. She even does her best to stop the rest of the clan from attacking me, thought that only ever stems the tide briefly.

Sometimes… sometimes, I fear that deep down she feels the same as them and just doesn't show it. After all, a proper Keeper doesn't hate the members of their clan. Halam'shivanas ("The sweet sacrifice of duty"). That feeling never lasts long, thankfully, since all it takes to make it go away is hearing her call me 'Da'asha' ("Little Girl") once more. Normally, she calls everyone in the Clan 'Da'len' ("Little Child"), but I'm a... special case, so she makes a point to do it often, especially since she's the only person who does (Except, of course, the people in my good dreams.).

"Da'asha," I hear her say, calling me out of my reverie as she approaches.

"Yes, Keeper?" I reply, my light red eyes (They're pink in the right light, I'm given to understand.) moving to meet her gaze as she finally comes to a stop next to me.

"Da'asha," she repeats. This is often an omen, the precursor to bad news that invariably involves me, though I carefully control my reaction. "I have a very important task for you."

My eyebrows rise to meet my hairline. I have been charged with many tasks throughout my time as First, but never in my memory have I been given a 'very important' task. "Whatever you ask."

"The Shemlen have arranged a conclave between the mages and templars. You must go there and learn what you can, for I fear that what happens there will affect all elvenkind."

"Ah," I murmur, my hesitation evident in voice and expression, much as I wish it wasn't. "May I ask why you're sending me? Wouldn't one of the hunters be best? I have no training in stealth." It's probably very obvious that I'm wary of this task, but I never was very eloquent with words.

"As I said, this is a conclave that involves mages. Some of your brethren acquired clothing typical of a mage from a Circle, and using it, you could hide in plain sight in a way no one in the tribe but me could."

"Ah." Okay, I can be repetitious too. I never said I was faultless — just that I was often targeted because I'm different, which isn't my fault. Though then again, I suppose in their eyes… Ugh. I should stop while I'm ahead. "As you say, Keeper. Where will the conclave be held?"

She gestures at the nearby mountains — the Frostback Mountains, I believe the Shemlen call them. "At a temple in the mountains. If you join the masses traveling to it, then you will find it. You must leave soon, else I fear you will miss their meeting altogether. I have already placed the clothing with your belongings. Go as soon as you have donned them. Dareth shiral, Da'asha ("Safe journey, Little Girl")."

"Ma nuvenin ("As you wish")," I say before leaving, making my way to the spot I claimed as my own when the clan reached this location a few days prior. If I am lucky, Alerion and Mithra have not stolen my staff again. The sight of my staff greets me a minute later; it seems I am lucky. I then notice the clothes Keeper mentioned. Perhaps I am not so lucky...

"Fenedhis ("Wolf dick")."

How did I ever get into this mess? I think to myself as I glance around at my captors, doing my best to ignore the electrifying sensation of… whatever the mark on my hand is (Which, I might add, is hard to do when my skin is constantly flickering with green light, something it decidedly did not do prior to my reaching the Temple.).

Reaching the Conclave had been, as Keeper said, a relatively simple task. My unfamiliarity with the attire of circle mages might have made me stand out ordinarily, but the couple days' travel in them prior to my encountering the Shemlen hordes traveling to the Temple had gotten me acquainted enough to pass as normal. The problem was… I don't recall what happened after I reached the Temple. My next memory is being here in a cell, in shackles, on my knees, and surrounded by armed Shemlen with blades drawn and directed at me.

A thought occurs to me. Am I so wrong that even the Shemlen can tell? This understandably bothers me, but before I can continue to dwell on the matter, a door somewhere in front of me swings open with a mighty squeak, bathing the dark cell with radiant light.

I avert my light red eyes, the sunlight too brilliant for my presently darkness adjusted vision. The squeaky door (Are Shemlen so uneducated in the ways of the wild that they don't know about the natural oils that would eliminate such awful noise?) clangs shut soon after, and as I chance a look in the direction of the once again sealed door, I notice two women have entered the cell. One is raven-haired while the other has hair of a color halfway between a carrot and blood, and both of them are clad in attire that sets them apart from the homogeneity of the attending guards. Somewhere in the cell, there's a leak, drip drip driping away (Seriously. How can the Shemlen be this incompetent?). As they approach, the guards sheathe their blades, causing the sound of metal scraping against metal to fill the air.

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," the black haired of the duo says, her voice sharp and demanding.

Fenedhis! is my first thought. Very helpful, that.

"The Temple has been destroyed," she continues, ignorant of my inner exasperation with myself, "and everyone who attended it is dead." Her light brown eyes find mine and pierce straight through them, as if by doing so she could learn my innermost thoughts and secrets. "Except for you."

You think I did it, is my first thought, but years of experience in situations like this have taught me better than to voice that thought. The last thing I need to do is give them more reason to suspect me. Instead, I remain silent, carefully watching her and everyone else in the room as best I can, searching for even the slightest hint, the simplest observation that might help me escape.

"Explain this!" she demands when it becomes apparent I'm not going to answer, grabbing the hand bearing the strange mark I mentioned earlier.

Honestly, I'd like an explanation for that too, Shem. "I can't. I have no idea what it is," I answer with as much sincerity as I can muster, which was a lot in light of my truthful ignorance of what had happened to my left hand.

"A likely story," she scoffs.

"Likely and true, as it happens," I reply, doing my best to not sound accusatory. Antagonizing the person who seemed to be in charge of the guards was not a good idea.

Regrettably, she still seems to get angrier, but her companion steps in, physically grabbing ahold of the woman questioning me. "Stop. We need her, Cassandra."

Cassandra, I repeat to myself, ensuring I properly associate the name with my captor's face. And did they say "her?" So they don't know then?

The red-haired woman returns her gaze to me, her blue eyes hard as they too pierced straight through me. "Do you remember what happened at the Temple?" she asks, her words short but clear.

Okay, so maybe I was lying earlier. I mean, I really don't remember most of what happened, but I do have bits and pieces still in my head. I weigh my options then, and deciding it would be best to be cooperative, I provide what little I remember.

This seems to be enough however, if my avid listener's sudden exclamation of, "A woman!" is anything to go by.

Cassandra sighs. "Go, Leliana. I will take her to the rift."

Leliana, I repeat to myself as Cassandra steps forward and unlocks my shackles while the woman I now know as Leliana opens the door, slips through, and leaves it ajar. My hands are still tied together, but I'll take what I can get.

She leads me out after Leliana, and as I slip into the bright light of day, I wince and pinch my eyes shut. Any level of light can hurt when you're thrust into it after spending… How long was I in that cell? Well, whatever. The point is, sudden light hurts darkness adjusted eyes. I slowly ease them open as they readjust to the new level of light, and unwittingly, they're drawn skyward, where I see the scariest sight I have ever beheld. One must usually be trained in order to recognize the touch of the Beyond (Or the Fade, as the Shemlen call it.), but I'm certain that no one could mistake the massive rift in the sky as anything other than a portal into the Beyond.

The mark upon my left hand chooses that moment to flare, hissing and spitting like a cornered cat as it brilliantly flickers. I dimly note that the rift in the sky is also flaring, but I'm a tad preoccupied with the PAIN searing through me. A cry escapes my lips, which is uncommon given the pain tolerance I've built up from… Well, I'm sure you know by now. I think I'm… Yes, I'm being pulled to my feet by someone, which I'm not entirely sure is the best idea at the moment. My feet agree with me, if they're wobbly unwillingness to support my weight is any indication. Strangely, someone (presumably the person who pulled me to my feet in the first place) begins to support me. What is going on here?

The next couple of minutes are a bit of a blur, my senses dulled or otherwise impaired by pain, light, and noise. The feeling of the last of my bonds — rope bindings around my wrists — being severed draws me back into the real world.

"We need to test the mark on your hand," Cassandra explains when she notices my surprise.

"Test?"

"You heard Leliana before. We need you — your mark. It may be the only thing that can seal the Breach."

The Breach? Oh right. There's a huge rift to the Beyond in the sky. Yeah, that does need to be sealed, doesn't it? I guess I'm more distracted than I thought. Being held captive by Shemlen for allegedly killing everyone at their Conclave can do that. "And if I help you, will I live through it?"

"We have no way of knowing."

My reply escapes my lips before I can censor it. "Ah. Well isn't that reassuring."

My captor smirks — smirks! — at that and begins to lead the way up the path. Huh. Usually my jokes earn me looks of disdain and silent promises of pain later. Maybe I should ditch the Clan in lieu of living with the Shemlen. I'm such a good First. Truly. But really, can you blame me? Living in constant fear of pain is irksome, and it's not like a Dalish elf can just be claimed by some random Shem as a slave. Right? Yeah, I think that's a tad hopeful on my part too.

The mark goes into a fit again, sending pain searing through me as I collapse to my knees and then face first onto the ground. Maybe the Creators are trying to tell me that being a Harellan ("Trickster, traitor to one's kin") isn't necessarily the best idea.

Again, I'm caught off guard by Cassandra helping me to my feet. Her light brown eyes find my surprised light red ones. "The pulses are getting quicker. We need to move swiftly."

And we did move swiftly, at least until a bridge exploded beneath our feet, sending us slamming into the frozen earth (thankfully not far) below. The following confrontation with demons is harrowing, since I have never faced down a denizen of the Beyond before. The angry Cassandra approaching me at sword point afterwards is as well.

"Drop your weapon!"

Well, it's not really my weapon, I think to myself. My staff was lost at some point in the midst of the gap in my memory. Regardless, I am not stupid, and I know what this situation calls for.

"I'm sorry!" I cry in dismay, dropping the staff without complaint and rapidly backing away from it, my hands pressed together in front of my chest in a pleading gesture and my eyes tightly clenched shut, awaiting the coming pain. "Please, I was only defending myself from the demon!"

Silence. Nothing happens for a long minute, then quite suddenly, I hear her sheathe her blade and sling her shield over her shoulder. The snow covered ground crunches as she slowly approaches me.

Here it comes. I brace myself.

She stops within arm's reach, or so my ears tell me. My eyes are still tightly, tightly clenched shut. The color of my eyes always bothered the rest of the clan, especially Alerion and Mithra. Well actually, everything about me bothered them, but my eyes were the feature they taunted the most.

"No. It is I who is sorry," I hear her say.

My eyes pop open in shock. Something must be wrong with my ears. "W-w-what?"

Her light brown eyes had already softened somewhat from their earlier hardness, but now they somehow soften even more. "I did not mean to…" She trails off for a moment then tries again. "Ideally, you shouldn't need a weapon, but I must face the truth: I cannot protect someone who is unarmed."

"Ah," my voice says. I didn't really mean to say it, but I am… surprised. No one in the Clan besides Keeper has ever been comfortable with my having a staff, so hearing a Shem apologize for trying to disarm me is shocking to say the least.

Cassandra bends at her knees, leans over, and scoops up the staff before she rises to her feet. She holds it out to me (To me!). I numbly accept it with my lightly shaking hands.

A silence falls over us again as we continue on our way. We encounter yet more demons, and I follow her shouted instructions during the battles as carefully as I can. It's very obvious from the way she fights that she is a seasoned warrior, and I find myself wondering how exactly she thought she couldn't protect me if I was unarmed. Yes, that one demon had escape her notice earlier, but we had just had a bridge crumble beneath us, so I imagine she was flustered. Every other enemy has stayed focused on her without exception; she commands the battlefield. Sure, my fire and lightning is helping kill the demons a tad quicker, but her sword and shield are like their own kind of magic.

Eventually, we come upon what appears to me to be a smaller rift that is spitting out demons that a small band of people is trying desperately to contain. What catches my eye though isn't the handful of soldiers clad in armor akin to the guards from my cell but rather a dwarf with a crossbow firing bolts at a speed that simply shouldn't be possible and a city elf deftly casting spells I've never seen before. Cassandra throws herself into the fray without hesitation, so I follow suit. The more helpful I make myself, the less likely they are to decide I should be in shackles again or to notice that I'm not like other elves. Or so I hope.

After a solid minute of slaying demons, the tide seems to abate, and the city elf abruptly grabs my left hand. I instinctively flinch away and begin to retreat into my mind for the coming pain, but I notice something odd: A beam of magic is shooting out of my left hand, and I'm not telling it to do that. Years of ingrained instinct screams at me to reign in my magic. An out of control mage risks becoming thrall to a demon, a threat to their Clan. I must stop this! But nothing I do is stymieing the tide of the beam, however; it's like my left arm is no longer my own. I realize then that this magic doesn't belong to me but rather the out of control mark on my hand.

My struggle seemed to last for a long time, but when the rift finally burst into nothingness and the beam evaporated, I knew it had been, in truth, mere seconds. My control over my left arm finally returns, and I snatch it away from the strange elf like I'd been burned. I fall to the ground in my haste, but I still push myself away from him, turning to lay on my side as I cradle my hand to my chest and gaze at him with wide, fearful eyes. He's clearly caught off guard by my behavior, but I can't help it. Others touching me, especially elves, always leads to pain. Except for Keeper, but she's not here (I desperately wish she was.).

"My apologies," he says, his calculating, pale blue eyes watching me carefully. "I did not mean to harm you — only to close the rift."

My panicked eyes flick over to where the rift had previously been hanging in the air. True enough, it was gone. "Ah," I manage to say before falling silent once more.

Cassandra and the strange elf share a look, speaking through only their eyes, while the dwarf begins to chuckle. "Ha, aren't you a panicky one?" he says as he slings the crossbow over his shoulder and onto his back.

"S-sorry," I mutter as I slowly push myself into a sitting position, my eyes darting between the three of them and the soldiers watching me with undisguised interest.

"Well!" the dwarf continues, apparently immune to the awkwardness pervading the situation. "I suppose introductions are in order. My name is Varric." He presses his hand to his hairy chest, which is plainly visible because his dark red, golden trimmed shirt has a deep V-cut neckline and his gray jacket is unbuckled and wide open. "And this," he continues, patting the butt of his crossbow, "is Bianca."

"You named your crossbow Bianca?" I ask in confusion, the strange name catching me so off guard that I can't help but reply.

He laughs, a pleasant sound with his baritone timbre. It occurs to me that he was probably trying to diffuse the previous tension, but I can't bring myself to care because I do feel a bit better now.

"Varric and Bianca," I repeat to myself before my self-preservation instinct kicks in, causing me to quickly rise to my feet, clasp my staff in front of me between my hands, and give him a bow, proclaiming, "I am pleased to meet you, Varric, Bianca."

He laughs again. "No need to be so formal! So what's your name then, my skittish elf friend?"

I blink in confusion. "Friend?" I have never had a friend among my own kind, much less one of the Durgen'len ("Children of the Stone"). The notion is so foreign that I find myself unable to reply.

"Well, sure!" he replies as Cassandra and the elf share yet another look. "You just sealed the rift, which means we won't be ass deep in demons forever. As far as I'm concerned, that means you're all right."

"Ah." I've never said that word so much in one day before. Then again, I've never been surprised so many times in one day. Living amongst the same Clan for most of your life lends itself to a repetitious existence. I'm beginning to fear that I will say nothing but 'ah' over and over again if I continue to spend time with these outsiders. In an effort to not sound quite so mindless, I resolve to say something — anything — besides 'ah.' That's when I remember that Varric asked for my name. "My name is Hamasha," I volunteer, "First of Clan Lavellan."

The strange elf who grabbed me before takes the opportunity to insert himself into the conversation. "And I am Solas," he says, "if there are to be introductions. I'm pleased to see you still live."

"He means," Varric adds, "'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'"

That catches me off guard again, but I control the urge to say 'ah' in response, instead managing, "Then… I owe you my thanks." Oh good. My self-preservation instinct seems to still work when I'm surprised. That's good for staying alive, that is. "Ma serannas ("My thanks")." Oh. Well, maybe not. Why did I go and speak to him in Elven? He's clearly a city elf. I've probably gone and insulted him, or made him think I'm challenging him, or, or… Ugh.

"Hamin," he urges, noticing the panic that had begun to overcome me once again. "I take no offense, Hamasha."

"Ah." And I was doing so well too! Oh well. "Ir abelas ("I'm sorry"). I had not expected you to speak our tongue." The thought strikes me then that he said his name was Solas. "Though I should have realized that from your name. 'Solas' isn't likely to be the name of a city elf."

He smiles enigmatically at that but says nothing in return, instead moving his attention to Cassandra, who seems to be growing impatient. See? Yet more proof that I need to work on my self-preservation skills. "Your prisoner is a mage," he says to her, "but I find it difficult to imagine that any mage could have created the Breach. More likely, whatever opened the Breach is what created the mark."

"Understood," she replies begrudgingly. She glances at me, and I resist the urge to flinch away. Creators, she can be scary! "Yet it seems your theory about the mark being able to close rifts was correct, meaning it could also potentially close the Breach itself. We must hurry on to the forward camp."

And so we begin to trek once more. Needless to say at this point, we encounter more demons along the way and even another rift. This time, Solas wisely elects to not touch me, which is good because it's a miracle that I haven't collapsed from the stress I'm already feeling — no more, thanks. It turns out, he needn't have urged me to close it anyway, since the mark seems to have a mind of its own. Well, maybe that's not entirely true. I certainly feel the attraction between it and the rift, but until I elected to thrust my palm at it and forge the beam between them, it was an entirely controllable urge. Which is good because I'm not a fan of uncontrollable magic. I don't fancy becoming a demon thrall, after all.

The threat of the rift safely past, we enter the gate of the forward camp and soon find Leliana arguing with a man in peculiar robes. As he, Leliana, and Cassandra argue over what's to be done, I stay silent and pray to the Creators that I'll live through this day. Incidentally, it seems the robes indicate this man is from the Chantry, or so I'm gathering from their conversation. Again, I'm not going to ask. Silence is the key to avoiding pain, so silent I am.

As it turns out though, the Creators must not be listening, since the three Shemlen are now all looking at me. Having tuned out a half minute prior, I have no idea why they're doing that. So I say that: "I may have missed something. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Leliana doesn't miss a beat, which makes sense. She doesn't seem like someone who's easy to catch off guard. Though maybe that's just because she wears a shroud? I've only ever seen one Shem wearing one, and he was rather unflappable. Then again, that's probably not the best assumption, given how few Shemlen I've seen wearing them.

"—ich way do you think is best?" she finishes, making me realize I foolishly got lost in my thoughts while she spoke. Perhaps my self-preservation skills require a certain amount of time to recharge before being used again? That would explain some things.

"Ah," I begin, already cursing myself internally. "Whichever way you think is best." I have no idea what I've just agreed to, but at least I'm not suffering a second embarrassing moment right after the first one. I'll stick to looking like an idiot once per conversation where possible, thank you.

It turns out that what Leliana thinks is best is the path through the mountains, and perhaps most importantly, it's the path Cassandra does not wish to take. Blessedly, she appears more focused on leading the way up the ladders leading to the cave above us than on sending hateful glares in my direction. Still, I stick to the back of our party of four, hoping to avoid her notice until she's calm again. Varric seems to be keenly aware of this, if his grin is any indication, but he takes mercy on me and says nothing. I'm truly beginning to like this dwarf.

In the cave, we come across more demons (Surprise!) and yet another rift (Surprise again!). The Shemlen soldiers we save voice their gratitude to me, which is odd because, as I stated earlier, I am not even half the fighter of any one of my three companions. To put that in perspective, I am essentially the equivalent of one person in a group of seven, and they are each two people in that group of seven; such is the gap in our contributions. If there were no other mage to compare me against, then I suppose I could have understood, but with Solas burning, electrifying, freezing, and whatever-elsing (Seriously, he casts magic that creates strange, temporary rifts. How is he doing that?) every demon in sight, one would think that it would be obvious how inadequate I am. Nevertheless, I am the sole person around with a strange mark that shoots beams of magic that make demon-spitting rifts explode, and that seems to be the only thing that anyone cares about. I really shouldn't be ungrateful. It's definitely true that the mark is important, and consequentially, I am as well. This is good because being useful means they'll be less inclined to hurt me later. Really, I should be encouraging their thoughts that I'm important, but I'm much too shy to do that (I talk a speak with myself a great deal, but not as much aloud, as should be obvious by now.), so I'll have to make do with the Shemlen singing my praise (Something I doubt I'll ever grow used to.).

Soon enough, we reach it: The Temple of Sacred Ashes. Objectively, I know that I've been here before — this is where they captured me, after all — yet it still feels strange and unfamiliar. That may have something to do with its current status as a smoldering ruin with red lyrium growing out of the walls. Varric is currently discussing this strange phenomenon with Cassandra, but at this point, it just feels fitting. Nothing that has happened to me all day has made any sort of logical sense, so why should strange, unnatural lyrium be surprising? Honestly, it's a bit of a letdown if anything. Massive portals to the Beyond in the sky? Definitely stranger than red lyrium. A magical mark on my left hand that makes rifts to the Beyond explode like a vastly overfilled waterskin? Definitely stranger than red lyrium. Outsiders who apologize for frightening me, who ask my opinion about what path to take, who thank me for doing all the work that my three vastly more battle experienced companions do most of? Well, maybe that isn't definitely stranger than red lyrium, but it's up there.

Setting aside my inner musings in the fear that I'll miss something important again, I hop down the ledge after Cassandra, Solas, and Varric and carefully listen for instructions.

"Okay, Hamasha," Solas directs. "This rift here is the first and therefore likely the key to closing the Breach. It has been sealed improperly, so you need to open it. That will draw the attention of demons on the other side, but once we have dealt with them, you should be able to close it properly."

"Ah." I give up. "That's a big rift… Won't that be dangerous?"

"More dangerous than the ever growing Breach in the sky?" he counters.

Good point. Bracing for the coming attack, I point my left palm at the breach and concentrate on opening the rift. That's not to say that I know what I'm doing because I assure you I certainly do not. Rather, that's the only thing I can do, in light of the circumstances. Fortunately (Or unfortunately; take your pick.) for everyone involved, it seems that is the correct process for opening a rift to the Beyond. Either that or the enormous pride demon now before us just forced open the rift all by itself. Actually, that does seems plausible. It's a very big pride demon, you see. I think I may have mentioned that. My own, diminutive size probably contributes to that perception, but I imagine that even the tallest of Qunari would agree that, yes, this Pride demon was particularly large.

Oh, it's stomping towards me. That's bad. I dash away, casting a barrier upon myself and Varric, who is running alongside me. I mentioned this earlier, but I'm beginning to grow fond of this dwarf. Luckily for us, the two shortest of our quartet, the demon turns its attention to Cassandra as she does what she seems to do best — command the attention of everyone and everything in the area by being absolutely terrifying. I'm likely not doing her justice with my inept description of her, so I will simply add that you do not want Cassandra to be angry at you. It's bad for your health.

Incidentally, it seems to be bad for the pride demon as well, though not nearly on the same scale as it would be for me. Oh, and Varric and Solas are also handily contributing to dealing the demon pain. Solas in particular, which seems fitting to me as his name means 'pride.' To be fair, I imagine a one on one fight between the pride demon and Solas would probably result in both Solas and his pride being wounded (Ha! Wounded Solas, wounded pride. That's a good one; I should remember it.), but he's doing quite well with his strange spells (I make a mental note to myself to get around to inquiring about that before I drive myself crazy).

And once again my habit of getting caught up in my own thoughts comes back to bite me as the pride demon's sweeping hand smashes into me, sending me flying away. Luckily for me, my barrier absorbs the worst of the blow, but I'm confident I will feel this acutely in the morning. Actually, it seems that this is becoming a very lucky turn of events, as Cassandra is currently taking advantage of the demon's distraction. I watch in wonder as she jumps with incredible force onto the demon's arm, pushes off from there into yet another jump, and plants her sword straight through its eye and into its brain. Incredible! That's like... wow!

Oh. It seems that all good luck comes at a cost of corresponding bad luck. Namely, the now brain dead pride demon is collapsing straight in my direction, which is very bad in light of the size difference between us that I mentioned earlier. I hastily scramble across the ground as best as I can (I am still on the ground, the unwitting victim to being awestruck by Cassandra's earlier acrobatics.), but of course, I'm only able to get half out of the way, my legs still in the line of fire (crushing, whatever). Maybe it will evaporate quicker than the rest of the demons? Yeah, that seems a bit too hopeful.

A split second before my bottom half gets crushed, I feel a magic barrier encompass me — doubtlessly Solas' doing, Creators bless him — which somehow holds against the pride demon's weight. Barely cognizant of what I'm doing, I twist my upper half in the direction of the still open rift to the Beyond, and I thrust my left palm at it.

As the rift explodes, sending a flash of green light shooting upwards into the Breach, I fortify Solas' mighty barrier with my own, much more modest version then decide that I'm done being conscious today, thank you, and promptly black out.

The first thing I notice as I wake up is that I no longer seem to have a dead pride demon corpse laying atop my legs, which is good because the second thing I notice is that there's no barrier protecting me anymore. Not content to only notice two things (Once you get started, it's hard to stop, you know.), my light red eyes blearily open and take in my surroundings.

Huh. It seems I'm in a... What do Shemlen call these things... A hut? A cabin? Something like that, anyway. Regardless, that explains why the ground feels extremely soft; namely, it isn't the ground but rather a Shem's bed. Incidentally, these are much more comfortable than I would have suspected, but I'm still fairly certain they aren't nearly as portable as the mats my clan uses. Ah well; give and take.

As I push myself up from beneath the covers so that my back is against the backboard, I hear the door to the... the whatever Shemlen call this kind of building is open. I immediately turn to check who's entering, and I lock eyes with a city elf at the precise moment that she notices I'm awake.

"Ah!" she cries, dripping the box she was holding and backing away, her arms unconsciously rising up defensively. "I'm sorry! I didn' mean ta wake ya," she hastily apologizes in an accent I can't quite place. Is that what I look and sound like when I do that? Because she's making me want to reassure her, and I've never been able to get my Clan to do reassure me. Maybe I just do it wrong.

"It's okay," I shyly reply, "but, ah, could you tell me where I am? And how I got here?"

Rather than answer my sensible questions — at least, I certainly think they're sensible — she collapses to her knees and begins to bow to me, muttering, "Forgive me, Your Worship. I'm not worthy."

I am rather nonplussed at the moment. Is this elf confusing me with someone else? She must be, since I'm not anybody's 'worship' that I'm aware of. I open my mouth to explain this to her, hoping to bring our conversation back into the realm of normalcy, but she's already scrambling to her feet, saying in that implacable accent, "Seeker Cassandra needs ta know you're awake. 'Righ' away,' she said!" as she scrambles out the door before slamming it shut in her haste.

Now at this point, I think the sensible thing to do would be to get up and follow the strange elf, since she's apparently about to sic Cassandra (Who is apparently a 'Seeker,' whatever that is.) on me. Unfortunately, there are two problems with this: First, this Shem bed is mightily comfortable and practically begging me to go back to sleep. Second, I've just realized that someone changed my clothes at some point while I was unconscious. The later of the two is especially troubling, since people may have seen something, and that just makes the first all the more tempting.

Have I mentioned that consciousness is overrated? I'm going back to sleep.