The woman who steps out of the fade is frost touched, ice frozen to lashes and lips like crystals. Even after stoking the fire as high as it would go it seemed impossible to warm the flesh back up. The mark crackles in time with the breach, but will grow quiet and hum in-between pulses. The body should be dead, yet a pulse still flutters in her chest.
The unnaturalness of it unsettles the townsfolk. The guards shuffle in their formation, sword hands clammy as they point to the figure between them. The frost has spread to cover the shackles on the floor.
The thing that wore her flesh would have laughed at their expression, would have sipped at their fear and plucked at their courage. But the thing in her flesh slept also, in time with the body, and the newness of sleep would not be interrupted even by the most decadent emotions.
It slumbered quiet in her mind, riffling through memories and personality traits until each breath they breathed was in sync. Until both minds were both less and more than they were before. It won what otherwise would have been battle of control for the sole reason of being the only thing still alive in her body. As the thing that used to be her freed itself from the constraints of flesh, the thing left behind got the strange impression of a crude hand gesture and wink.
A smile worked itself onto frozen lips and eyes cracked slightly open. Alone but not, the demon finally awoke long enough to lick chapped lips and flex limbs still asleep from the chill and from the constraints. Having a body was odd, different from possession but similar enough to trip all sorts of signals in its mind. It's shoulders rolled back, and it finally lifted it's head long enough to glance around the room. Maybe a human would be scared at awakening in a dim lit dungeon with swords pointed at them, but a demon only saw the waves of fear in the lines of the men's faces and felt powerful.
The Devourer had awoken.
The large wooden doors banged open, kicking up dust and debris. The tense forms of two women stalked in, hot on the tail of the dim light as it vainly tried to chase the shadows in the room.
The woman with the hood hung back, but the other one was more aggressive, prowling around its bound form and visibly vibrating with anger.
"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now" She hissed, like a dragon in human form. Her anger and desperation were sweet and tangy, and a shiver ran through its body involuntarily. How odd, to not have complete control over what its form was doing.
"I would need to know why you would want to kill me in the first place, wouldn't I?" It said. It wasn't what the woman would have said before, before the fade. But it wasn't that woman now, and there was no one here who would be able to tell the difference.
A choke of rage, a tease of greater emotion, before a hand roughly grabbed its arm and shows the mark.
"This! The conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended is dead. Except for you." Her voice said that that fact could be easily remedied. A woman seeking answers, but asking the wrong questions.
It twists its caught hand to more easily see the familiar glow of green, and grins up at the woman.
"Now, who ever said I wasn't dead."
There's silence in the room. The shuffling of the soldiers stopped by surprise. The well of emotions in the room shifts, uncertain.
"Your heart beats." This from the hooded woman.
It simply smiles. The sharp woman, the one with the sword, roars her frustration and goes for its throat. It might have had the new experience of learning what healing from decapitation would feel like. Instead, the hooded woman drags the other back.
"We—" A pause. "We need her, Cassandra." Ah, a name finally.
It's expression shifts, sharpens. "Need me for what? Surely not my stellar conversations." Smile, keep smiling. Keep them on their toes, keep them guessing. All the better for their emotions to rise. Sharp and acidic.
A disgruntled look. The taste of determination from the woman, and caution, and under it all the bitter sweet taste of anger.
"Go to the forward camp, Leliana, I will take the prisoner to the breach." And another name! Glorious. It wonders if they will ever get around to asking for its own. Whether it should use the one that used to belong to the body, or whether the name dreamers and mage's used to breath in fear and awe would be better suited.
A hiss of breathe from the sharp woman, Cassandra. It is pulled sharply upwards, onto unsteady feet.
"It will be easier to show you." This time she says it in its direction. It has a vague idea already, based off of the mini fade hole in it's hand, but it walks along placidly enough as she shoves it through the door. It hasn't been this drunk off of emotions for a very long time.
It walks out into the light for the first time. It breathes in the air, feels the crunch of dirt and stone under its feet. It feels, more somehow, out here where the fade doesn't play tricks on the senses. It's different from what few possessions its done before. Less muted. There's a pull in its hand and it glances up at the tear in the veil. Its smile widens.
The woman blathers on as both of them walk. Its eyes keep bouncing from one thing to another. Look at that rock and how it doesn't sing. Look at that building and how it stays rooted in the ground. Look at the people and how they don't change.
The world feels constant and unchanging and it quickly falls in love. The people feel so strongly and quickly and the potential in all of them makes it want to reach out and mould them until they resemble the best configuration possible.
This soldier here would become great with a polearm. This baker here would have legions under their thumb with words alone. This child here could grow up and sing kings to act.
A feast in front of it and it can't help the hunger that claws at it. No wonder Desire waits by the edges clawing to get into the peoples minds. No wonder Pride dances along the steps of great people. No wonder Wrath lingers in the fields of war and broken homes.
The world beyond the veil is ripe, and they are the starving wolves at the feast.
Of course, whatever kinship it shares with it brethren doesn't stop it from stomping them to bits when the woman and it inevitably stumble upon them. It smiles at the incoherent form of Despair and gently tugs the half corporal form closer, before bringing one leg up and kicking the bundle of rags and bones to the ground, where one hearty stomp splatters muck and dust.
There's a staff in the rubble of the broken bridge, but it doesn't bother. The body might be used to magic, but it doesn't feel steady enough to attempt it. Magic outside of the fade will be different, and although it is eager to see how it will work, it also wants to do that in private where it might heal the no doubt disastrous first attempts.
Cassandra finishes killing her own demon, and it tries to look innocent as she turns back towards it. It lift's its hands up in a gesture of good will, and scuffs the fading remnants of ooze and bones further into the mud. Her eyes are suspicious, but she sheathes her sword.
"The others should be up the hill, come, we should hurry." Her voice is flat, but her emotions bubble like champagne. It sighs as she walks away, eyes on her muscles and sword. What rage, what potential for destruction.
Like a puppy it follows.
The story starts like this:
There was once a spirit of Potential. It was the bright flames of possibility in the dreamers that wandered into its territory, and if the story was interesting enough it would help guild those flames to reach farther.
Sometimes it would be as simple as inspiration to a frustrated artist. Or an extra boost on the training field for a young warrior. Sometimes, it meant changing the path of the story altogether.
A thief turned hero, and king turned rogue. What people thought they were meant for sometimes isn't what they truly excelled at. Potential could see what others could not, and it could lay the foundations for success in even the most unlikely of situations.
Of course, just because something has potential, doesn't mean that it is used. As the years went by and dreamer after dreamer turned away from the hand of Potential, cracks started forming in the foundation of the spirit.
It's true that the one we are the most blind towards is ourselves. And the potential of Potential was much greater then a simple spirit.
Or maybe the story truly starts with a demon.
Hunger was a weak offshoot of Desire. Although every being hungered, and instincts can be a powerful thing, it was also much too simple a concept to really hold form. The thing that would make it powerful also kept it weak.
Hunger could be satiated by being fed, and it is instinct to do so. Although one might starve, and therefor hunger strengthened, when full one forgot about it completely. Unlike Desire or Greed it didn't multiply.
But, there was a strangeness to Hunger despite all that. A feeling that there was much much more to Hunger.
What happened, when Hunger could not be satiated?
Or perhaps, it truly begins with a human.
There was once a young girl who thought she could talk to ghosts. She lived in the dark where only spiders slept, and she told stories to the dust motes in the air. She was a mage, but she didn't truly understand what that meant.
The stone was cold, and the food that came even colder, but she could light a small flame in her hands and be content to tell the stagnant air fantastical tales.
She was a very good storyteller, and if magic hadn't run through her veins she might have grown up to be a bard or a writer. But her family was afraid of magic, and afraid of Templars crashing down and ruining their reputation, and so the basement was her home and her home had ghosts.
They spoke little, and moved even less, but the stories she told sometimes made them smile, and as her only companions that was much more important then questioning their validity.
Maybe if she had been sent to a circle, or had an apostate mentor, she would have known not to talk to strange apparitions in the dark.
But demons and spirits prey on the weak and the uninformed, and she was both.
Or more likely it starts when the family of the girl, in debt and in trouble, is slaughtered by a rival business when talks of alliances fall through. Those that aren't killed hide away in different cities, and soon forget about the metal door that holds the families secret. The house that once held a family of seven, plus servants, suddenly holds only one.
As the days pass by, and the girl hears no new footsteps outside her room, as her lips chap and her body grows weak, as she first waits patiently, and the worryingly, and then desperately, her shadows grow stronger.
By the end of the week there is blood on the door as she breaks her skin trying to get out. The door is metal and heavy and locked and she is small and weak and flesh.
She will die in the dark and no one will know.
Hunger has come.
The ghosts have become more animated the closer to death she is. One will run its fingers through her thin hair, even though neither of them can feel it, and whisper stories of who she could be outside the doors of starvation.
The other claws at its mouth in between hissed moans of hunger, twisted up inside of itself. Sometimes it draws a claw through her belly and whines, in sympathy and in malice.
The two shapes ignore each other, almost like they can't even see the other, despite the fact that she speaks to both. It feels like both pull at her on opposite sides, playing on her fears and wishes like two competing orchestras.
It feels like they are waiting for a tipping point. She feels like she will tear in two.
If it was any other girl on the ground, any other spirit or demon twisting themselves up inside her mortal shell, this story would end up being very different.
That last day, when she closes her eyes and lets the two in, too broken by Hunger and too desperate for the Potential outside, it is not an abomination who wakes up.
Indeed, as the two competing forces battle for space in her body, a strange thing happens.
It is impossible to be possessed twice over after all, and there is only so much room in a mortal body.
She lets go.
Ravenous Potential wakes up.
That is one beginning of course. The death of one girl becomes the starting point for the birth of something more. Immortal beings in a mortal body. Feeling mortal fears and mortal needs. Growing, not only through each other but the body they inhabit.
What was once Potential strengthens what was once Hunger. What was once Hunger corrupts what was once Potential. Together, they grow into their human body. They use the basis of what was once a child and mould it to their own will. The sensation of being outside the veil slowly breaks them down till they are less then demon, less then spirit, less then human.
They lose things, gain things, slowly drive themselves mad. The day they grow strong enough to break the door of their prison is the day that things truly start.
…
Or is it?
Ravenous Potential might be a singularity on the metaphysical plane, but it is not, truly, where this story starts. What Ravenous Potential becomes is where the true tale begins.
The Devourer.
All the worst features of Hunger and all the strength and complexity of Potential. All the human flaws and strengths of the little girl in the dark. A conglomerate. A patchwork doll. A being that feeds off of others potential, tempered by a humans ability to think ahead. A being that's only grown stronger, only learned more, since the birth of Ravenous Potential.
And one day, years after the girl, comes another.
Another young mage in the dark. Crying out. Lost little lamb in the fade, running from the Nightmare.
The Devourer opens its maw and swallows her whole.
Lyn Trevelyan is an awkward looking woman. Tall, taller than most of her family with sharp angles all over. Very little about her screams woman, and in her youth she used to scandalise family members with short hair and grass stains. Nowadays she keeps her hair long but peppered with beads and feathers. Every few years she cuts it all off. She goes through cycles, jewellery and war paint, sword fighting and dresses.
Her eyes are grey, her hair is black, and her skin is somewhere in between pale and dark; all those adjectives together make her ordinary, drab. She is singular in her actions and ignored in her being because that's the way the world goes. She makes no waves, rarely initiates conversation on her own, and ends up walking the halls of the circle as a ghost. Some of the Senior Enchanters might recognise it for what it is; depression. But what are they to do about it? A gilded cage is still a cage for a wild bird, and she has never dealt with captivity well.
She had few friends in the circle, not because of a lack of social grace but because of a lack of social need. She faded into the background, and that was how she liked it. Not to say of course, that she didn't have personality. On the contrary, she is mostly pent up rage and frustration smothered under good sense.
She is the perfect host for a demon wishing to keep under the radar.
The Devourer − now Lyn − wakes up after the failed closing of the breach with a smile on its − her lips. It stretches sore muscles and thinks back to the very entertaining few days it has had as a mortal.
First it was the extremely unstable fade rift that let it consume its current form, and then the entity was falling into the path of some very interesting humans. It was a reluctant alliance on the part of the Seeker, as the Devourer poked at exposed emotions while keeping to vague answers.
And then there was a smattering of encounters with its lesser brethren, followed by a meeting of even more interesting mortals. As the Devourer, it had very little use for distinction between races, but somehow it felt these ones were singular even outside all that. There was a chance to taste something it would never get the chance to in the fade.
Dwarves taste something like blood. Metallic and damp. Iron shavings left to smolder in dark spaces.
Varric himself tastes of wood varnish and paper. Lyn rather liked him, and figured it would (or at least who she was before would), even if it couldn't taste his emotions like wine on its tongue.
Solas as an elf tastes like mint and willow bark. There's something faint about him, washed out. Under all that, though, is what feels like a river of old blood. There's almost an undercurrent of mulch, composting flesh mixed with wood.
He makes it hungry.
And of course there's dear Seeker Pentaghast, its favourite simply because there's something so simple in her hunger. Righteousness and frustration. She runs hot and she tastes like apples and spice and death. Dragonblooded at it's finest.
It opens its eyes in its little hut and watches lazily as a little elfling creeps into its space. If it was still the demon that snared the unwary this would be where her teeth would close around the paleness of flesh and her tongue would lap at the fear.
As it is still playing at human, it simply moves to show its awareness and tugs at the surprise and adrenaline that follows.
"Oh! I didn't know you where awake, I swear!" The elf says, flustered and afraid.
It teases at the fear until a thread hangs loose and reveals itself— hero worship and an indoctrination of fear under humans. The people outside say that Lyn is some sort of prophet for closing the gap between realms.
It licks cracked lips and tongues at the blood that follows.
"It's ok, don't stop on my account." A genuine smile. "I'm sure people are saying outrageous things out there, but that's no reason for any special treatment."
Despite the honey words the elf keeps walking backwards, though slower as the prophet doesn't move from its spot on the bed.
It teases a little more of the fear away, until the tension in the shoulders relaxes slightly and a watery smile flashes its way.
"I should – I should go. Seeker Pentaghast says to meet at the Chantry. It's really important she says." And away they go, basket forgotten on the ground.
Lyn flops back into the pillows and smiles some more. It starts humming a little tune that it remembers from its host's memory. If it recalls far enough back, to the time of Ravenous Potential and the little girl, it thinks it might knows the words.
It's smart. It knows that it has landed in a body of importance. The mark on its hand has some significance; not only in closing rifts but in whatever odd religious meaning the mortals have imposed on it.
Later, after a thorough exploration of the camp, of seeding honeyed words and teasing out flavours in the townsfolk, it walks up to the steps of the Chantry with a certain amount of languid amusement.
Despite supposing to be a beacon of peace and solitude, the religious building is actually the center of a veritable maelstrom of negative emotion, no doubt because the leaders of those responsible are gathered there. The strangest thing is that underneath all the newer emotions, and under the passive feeling of what can only be called fanatic harmony, is the stench of old blood.
The white stone is pretty though, and that makes up for a lot.
Lyn pushes the heavy oak doors open and prepares for war.
The chancellor tastes like ink and dead ends. Not very pleasant. Part of the Devourer that is still potential wrinkles its nose at the heavy feel of lost possibilities and moral blackmail that has made its mark. At some point he could have been much, much more, if things hadn't conspired to land him in a matriarchal religion based on guilt.
Here it pauses to examine Lyn's memories once more, because the whole Chantry/Circle thing still confuses it. It then thinks about all the other people it has consumed through the ages and gets even more confused.
Lelliana on the other hand, despite what their first frantic meeting in the dungeon would say tastes like fancy chocolates and blood. She might be a creature of logic but her emotions taste of a razor edge of aggression and determination. Her secrets inhabit her very being and tease at its hunger like little pinpricks of flavour.
Lyn watches the humans argue and stays out of it. It could probably sway opinion either way, or at least capitalise on the raging emotions flying around, but too be truthful, it's feeling a little…
Bloated.
Rare has it been able to feed off of such strong and diverse emotions for so long. Its meals beforehand were far and few between.