My name is Miriana of Clan Lavellan. I am a hunter of the wandering Dalish clan. I am fifty-five years of age, recently turned. My best friend is…

At this, Miriana's thoughts trailed off, biting her tongue in sadness. She sat up in her bed, feeling immensely fatigued but forcing herself to relive her most recent memories anyway. More than a week ago, she remembered standing before the Keeper of Clan Lavellan, being instructed on the entrance of herself and the First to the Keeper into the Conclave created by the Divine Justinia V.

Normally, such discussions were not for her ears. She was only a hunter, after all. Despite the fact that she was relatively skilled in both agility and wisdom, she was still too young to be anyone of consequence even among her own people. Her best friend, Mahanon of the Lavellan, however, had used his skill in magic to propel himself upward among their ranks until he found himself to be the right hand of the Keeper herself.

The Keeper had been greatly disturbed by what the humans termed the Mage Rebellion. Despite the immensely isolated nature of the Dalish clans, word of the war had come to them and had even caused a small level of distrust between the mages and the hunters of Clan Lavellan. If there was a way to combat this dissension, the Keeper wanted to be aware of it, even if it was a human that resolved the situation.

So, in this moment, as with all other moments prior, Mahanon had been the important one. Miriana had accompanied him as a bodyguard and as the only hunter in which Mahanon would give his unwavering trust. She had watched their backs on the journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes just outside of Haven, as Mahanon could barely be bothered to watch his front if it had nothing to do with his own personal ambition, and made sure that they had enough to eat. As it turned out, she was also relatively skilled at the slaughter of nugs and fennecs.

However, about three-quarters of the way through the journey from the Free Marches to Haven, Miriana's memory became hazy and vague. She could remember arriving at the Temple but not how Mahanon had made sure that they both were granted entrance to the negotiations inside. She could remember walking through a stone building with corridors enough to make her dizzy but not the actual moment of carnage that had ensued.

Carnage that had obliterated her best friend, his body mangled and ruined.

After stabilizing the Breach, which she had done under some duress, Miriana had found his body. She had been subsisting on the thought that since his body had yet to be found, there was a possibility that he had survived. Perhaps, just as she had. If he was alive, there was no need to grieve for the one person that had made her feel as if she wasn't alone in all of Thedas.

However, just after stabilizing the Breach, just before the effort of such a feat pulled her down into sweet nothingness, she had seen him. The body had been lodged in a crevice as if a blast had forced it there and the presence of the Breach had asserted that nothing and no one could recover the bodies in this area. Even though Mahanon's slender limbs had been mangled beyond recognition and blood marred his beautiful but usually stern face, she could recognize in the mutilation the familiar essence of her friend.

As luck would have it, she did not have time to cry out, revealing her dismay to those around her. The blackness took her and she welcomed it, sorely wanting to escape the sight of the corpse in front of her before she could fully face the reality of what had happened.

Now, she had to face it. Mahanon was dead, had been dead for the better part of the last week, had been dead through that entire horrible day with Seeker Pentaghast when the only thing getting her through it was the idea of retelling it to her friend later. Because her father had been the Storyteller of their clan, Miriana often found comfort in repeating her ordeals as if it was a grand tale.

She shivered suddenly. She felt horribly alone. A flickering green light caught her attention and she half-glared at her own hand. "Just me and you now, huh?" she murmured derisively.

Miriana had a strange love-hate relationship with the Mark. While stabilizing the Breach had eliminated most of the debilitating pain that came with proximity to the Fade rifts, she could no longer look at her hand without feeling as if everyone around her blamed her for the death of the Divine Justinia.

Oh, in all reality, word would soon spread about what had been witnessed at the breach. Divine Justinia had called for her help, a call to which she seemed to have readily replied, implying that someone else was to blame for the Divine's untimely death. But the harsher aspect of that reality was that there was no one else to blame. It would be much easier to allocate all censure to the very real Dalish elf with the mark that controlled Fade rifts than to that of some unknown, unseen evil.

Closing her eyes against her new reality, where she was heartbreakingly alone and the world seemed to be crashing down around her head, Miriana finally stood and walked to the door. It was time to face the day and to face whatever the Seeker had planned for her.

After the meeting with what she was sure Varric would later dub the "War Council", Miriana felt as if someone had dragged her mind through the worst kind of filth imaginable. She had been called to confer with Cassandra as well as three others: Josephine Montilyet, Cullen Rutherford, and Leliana, an ambassador, a military commander, and a spymaster, respectively.

The meeting itself had a two-pronged purpose. The first was to inform Miriana that they had reinstated the Inquisition of old. Not a single one of them would be very clear on what exactly such a reinstatement would mean but it seems to be sanctioned through an old order, another aspect upon which they refused to clarify. The purpose of this Inquisition was to root out the cause of the Divine Justinia's death and the creation of the Breach that still hung ominously over their heads.

Miriana had a feeling that this "Inquisition" would end up becoming far more consuming than they first assumed.

The second purpose of the meeting was to inform the Dalish hunter of her new title: the Herald of Andraste. Despite the fact that she had only been in that deep exhausted sleep for no more than a few days, the nickname-come-title was known by every citizen in Haven and had even reached the ears of the Chantry in Val Royeaux. Because of this strange turn, the Chantry itself had declared the Herald an abomination of sorts and all that followed her, including every member of the Inquisition, to be heretics.

"Mythal save me," Miriana murmured, her footsteps taking her along the stone walls of Haven, desperately seeking for a way out. Trained as she had been to keep continually on the move through both the wandering nature of the Dalish and the rigorous training of the Master Hunter, she had been circling the boundaries of Haven for close to an hour. Even though she longed to be among nature, to be gliding through trees or clinging haphazardly to the edge of a rocky cliff, she didn't dare make a move that could be interpreting as leaving Haven in any form.

Who she had been raised to be meant certain things about her personality. Being Dalish meant an ostensibly untarnished belief in the Elven culture that had been long ago destroyed. Even though she doubted their superiority over humans and city elves in the quiet of her own mind, she could never voice that opinion. But being raised a hunter made her both restless and ruthless. She needed to hunt, to feel the spirit of nature around her but also felt the brutal truth of her new reality.

"Lady Lavellan?"

Her brow furrowed at the title, Miriana turned to look at who called her name. While it was certain that she was no lady, she was the only member of Clan Lavellan within these walls. She was somewhat surprised to find Cullen there. But since he had addressed her with a title, she felt that she should return the favor. "Commander Rutherford."

"You… uh, seemed upset in there."

At that, Miriana pursed her lips, suddenly feeling as if she had bitten down on a lemon. This was not something that she could discuss with a human. Humans with their Maker and Andraste, who they called the "Bride of the Maker", even though she was relatively sure that Andraste had been a mortal woman. Humans who had no idea of the millennia of history and culture inherent in Elven heritage.

So, rather than offending the human by declaring that she did not believe in Andraste, she told him the other item that caused her dismay: the feeling of being a rodent in a trap. "I seem to be the face of the Inquisition, don't I?" She smiled, attempting to direct derisive humor at herself. Despite the feeling that being perceived as a herald of any sort of human god left her with, she would not reveal it to her human compatriots.

This was, after all, a very precarious position. No matter how she disdained her own situation, such feeling clearly expressed would likely draw her into their trigger-happy crosshairs.

At her false proclamation, Cullen visibly relaxed. "Indeed," he replied. "That does seem to be the case." He tilted his head, offering her a simple and uncomplicated smile. "Does that offend you?"

She was quick to proclaim the opposite, perhaps too quick. "No, not at all. Just… unexpected, I supposed. With my clan, I had just recently come of age. I am merely a hunter. I am no one of consequence."

He opened his mouth, surely to comment on her own regard for herself, when he suddenly thought better of it. At the second thought, his smile turned wry and bemused. "I know you can feel a bit like a rat in a trap here. If you wish to hunt, there's no need to remain in Haven. But if you do, I must insist that you see Harritt."

"Harritt?" Miriana echoed uncertainly.

"Our blacksmith. He will see that you are properly outfitted." With the air of someone that had solved a problem beautifully, Cullen offered her an acknowledging nod and left.

Once he was out of sight, the Dalish elf sighed in relief, nearly leaning against a nearby building with the emotion. However, it seemed that her sudden relaxation was to be short-lived.

"You're a horrible liar."

With a jerking start, she turned to face the voice, which belonged to Varric, their very own Storyteller. Miriana understood from the conversations between Cassandra, Solas, and the dwarf himself that Varric was an author of sorts. He seemed to have quite the list of adventures under his belt and used that experience to spin tales. She felt a small kinship with him, connected with him in a way that was unlikely to be found in another warrior.

"I am that," she finally conceded softly. "Luckily for me, Cullen seems poorly suited to sensing hidden motives."

Varric chuckled, shifting from one foot to the other on the snow-moist ground around a sputtering campfire he seemed to have claimed for himself. "Also poorly suited to the realization that an elf would hardly wish to be the Herald of a god that rightfully belongs to humans."

At that, Miriana was intrigued. As a Dalish, she had very little opportunity to socialize with other races. Varric, of course, was the first dwarf she had ever seen. She found it interesting that he seemed to know some information on Dalish elves. "You know our culture?"

He shrugged, turning away her interest and excitement as if he had done little to earn it. "I was allowed to watch a Dalish clan once. I learned quite a bit from their Storyteller."

Smirking at him, Miriana allowed herself to finally relax and set on one of the large logs near the fire. "Not near so much as you would have wished, I think."

Varric guffawed loudly, a happy grin gracing his face. "Very true. They are circumspect about what they tell outsiders."

At that, she blinked, remembering the many lessons about why their way of life was not for outsiders to know. Turning her mind away from that sour thought, she asked another question. "I have to wonder, why did they even let you watch as much as they did?"

Again, he shrugged and she was beginning to associate it with the fact that he was feeling some not-so-nice emotions. "There was a time… Well, suffice it to say I was once very interested in the evolution of your people but it was not a story that would have sold well."

Miriana gazed around, feeling distinctly hemmed in by the humans that surrounded her. "There is a reason the Dalish have chosen to isolate themselves from humans."

"You know, I asked a question once but they never answered."

A smile played at her lips. While the Dalish likely would have been more congenial toward the questions of a dwarf than of a human, there were still certain questions that not even an elf should ask. "If I know the answer, I'll tell you."

"Were elves really immortal?" Varric's grin was as broad as ever, indicating that he found the question itself to be the height of disbelief. It was clear that he did not believe that elves had ever been immortal, merely that he was searching for an elf's perspective on the idea.

But this was one of those questions, questions that Clan Lavellan required all elves to leave to the Beyond. Even if they had once been, they certainly weren't now, even though their lifespans could be as much as twice that of a human. Mahanon, though, had asked the question in the dark and quiet of night, when most other members of their clan were disinterested in lengthy discussions. Mahanon even had a theory as to how to regain their immortality – through magic and Elven artifacts, of course – but it was a theory that had to wait until he was Keeper.

Which, now, he would never be.

"I don't know," she finally managed around the block of grief in her throat. With a glance at the dwarf, she realized there was no way to properly explain the things that Mahanon had told her, no way to give voice to the wailings of mourning that silenced her. "I must go."

With that, she stood quickly and scampered off in the direction Cullen had pointed earlier. Perhaps a successful hunt would help to clear her mind.

Varric stared at the retreating figure of the Lavellan elf, unsure what he had done and quite certain that she was upset. He had upset enough people of both genders and all known civilized races to know that he'd somehow managed to put his foot in his mouth.

Again.

Normally, he would laugh it off, using his humor against the dark and demented world. Right now, however, that would not do. Despite how her newfound title among the peoples of Ferelden and Orlais, she had saved them from the danger the Breach presented and would likely do so again. Even though he was well aware that she hated being the "Herald of Andraste", she was exactly the savior that the world needed right now.

"What did I say?" he finally muttered aloud.

"She grieves."

Varric could feel that he nearly jumped out of his skin, proper payback for having startled Miriana previously. He turned to glare at the owner of the voice, Solas the elven mage. After a brief moment, his mind latched onto the elf's actual reply and the hardness of his gaze melted away. "She's grieving?"

"I have spent so much time in the Fade, I can sometimes glean the emotions of others," the mage answered, also answering the question of how in the world he would know his fellow elf was grieving. "She is feeling a deep sadness, the kind that is borne of loss."

For a moment, Varric thought of Bianca, both the crossbow itself and the woman for which it had gotten its name. He felt the loss keenly then but also knew that it was not the same sort of loss that had caused their Herald to flee his company. "Someone died."

"That, I believe, is true." Solas leaned gently against this mage staff, clearly feeling the exhaustion of recent days but obviously careful about putting his full weight against it. "It is certain that a great many lost loved ones when the Conclave exploded." His face twisted slightly, indicating to Varric that he was not fond of using such simple terms. "Perhaps she lost someone as well."

"You know, Chuckles, you're always a bright ray of sunshine," Varric replied wryly. "There's no way we can help her with that, especially if she won't talk about it." The dwarven author was a great believer in facing your past, for good or ill.

Solas shrugged, half turning away. Varric knew that their conversation would soon come to a quick end. "She is a Dalish hunter. They are unaccustomed to help from outsiders but are the protectors of the clan. I do not believe she will allow herself to grieve for long."