Azazel was out hunting when it all started, attempting to avoid his father's disapproving frowns and drown the memories of his mother's passing with the adrenaline that came from a thrilling hunt.

He watched his prey from the tree branch in which he perched, emerald eyes glittering like a cat's. They wouldn't give him away, not so high above his quarry at this time of night. Below him, the stag -not a halla, thank the creators- grazed gingerly on a small bush. Soundlessly, the elf reached for his quiver, an arrow shaft between his fingers. He ignored the itch of his fresh vallaslin, marks showing his connection to the guide of the dead. The arrow slipped quietly against the bow, both well oiled, and he took aim. The stag would never know. Falon'din would peacefully take it, and the clan would eat well tonight.

However, just as he went to release the arrow, a scream, harsh and shrill echoed through the forest. The shot went wild, and the stag bolted. The hunter gave up immediately, worry overtaking him and hunting forgotten as he leapt out of the tree, bow in hand. That sounded too much like Azni, one of the village elders for his liking. She watched the children most days, when their parents or siblings were out on hunts.

He quickly took off, darting through the trees and in the direction of camp while his ears strained to hear anything off. It was unnerving, the lack of birdsong. And often a bad omen.

Just as he was closing in on the edge of camp, he smelled smoke. Noise now assaulted his ears, more screams and the sounds of fighting. It hurt to listen, and his breathing sped up, fear overriding his thoughts. By the time he got there, the aravels were burning.

Several hunters had fallen, their blood painting the clearing. Some appeared to have fallen by blades, others crude clubs and arrows. Azazel bit back the bile that rose in his throat, covering his mouth.

It was then that he looked closer, forced to make his way through the corpses, when he noticed that some weren't members of his clan at all, but humans. The fear was quickly replaced by anger, and he remembered an argument with the Keeper the other day about camping so close to the Tevinter Imperium's border.

The Lavellans was a lot less isolated than some of the other Dalish clans in the Free Marches, so he grew up with a more positive opinion of humans. But during the Winter months, the clan traveled closer to the Tevinter border, and the risk of attack was higher. There were slavers in abundance throughout this area, the worst of the humans. Shemlen. It made his blood boil to realize they'd walked into an attack.

"Azazel!" He heard the shout of his name and realized it was Istimaethoriel, the clan's current Keeper and formerly his mother's First. She was older than most former apprentices, and took to the Keeper role in stride. He quickly darted in her direction, to find her treating Azni. The elder was unconscious, breathing labored while the Keeper worked her healing magic.

"Keeper, what happened?" He asked, straining to keep from yelling and showing his rage. The Keeper looked up at him sharply, seeing stress and barely suppressed anger in her eyes. So she was angry too. "You have to go find them, da'len. Feladara went after the slavers against my warnings. They stole many of the children. I sent some hunters after him to help, but I fear something has gone wrong."

By the time she finished, he was already turning to run, aware that such a large group couldn't have gotten far and would be easy enough to track. "I'll do so, hah'ren. Stay safe."

Something glittered in her eyes, an emotion resembling sorrow. She nodded once in acknowledgement. "May Fen'harel never hear your steps, da'len. Now go."

And go he did, whirling like a force of nature to follow the worst of the destruction.

When he finally reached the end of the slaver's trail, what he came to find was something out of a nightmare, worse than what he had come from. The camp might have been on fire, but the destruction there was clear cut. Understandable, even.

This was horrifying.

The bodies of dead children littered the ground, some still alive but not for much longer. They called weakly for mamae, for brother and sister, little bodies twitching and beyond help. Some of the slavers also lay dead, a stray arrow to the throat or frozen solid by ice that Azazel knew to be Feladara's magic. However, another thing he disliked was that he soon found the bodies of the hunters sent to help the First, but no sign of Feladara himself.

His heart constricted in his chest as he stepped through the carnage. This would be forever stuck in his memories, the sickly sweet smell of death. However, a small part of him felt relieved and ill when he found an intact cage. The atrocity was despicable, but it meant some children were still alive and maybe unhurt.

As he stepped towards the cage, he swallowed harshly, realizing there were only a few kids in there from his clan. Maybe three or four. The others he didn't know, and they were all too young to determine if they were city or Dalish children by vallaslin. Nonetheless, he was quick to run to the bars and attack the lock, trying not to look at their little faces and glad he had learned more skills than simply the way of the bow.

It was while he was messing with the lock that one of the children got the courage to push his way through the others to the front, crying in a familiar voice. "Azzy! They killed mamae! Ma Halani!" Help me!

That got his attention just as the lock finally gave in, and he looked up sharply to meet wild emerald with big, fearful brown. It was Sulahn, a kid who's mother had been friends with his own, before the illness had taken her. Sulahn had taken to him like an older brother, looking up to the hunter and idealizing him much in the same way that Azazel himself had at his age with the Mahariel of Sabre. It made his heart lurch again with sympathy, the loss of his own mother fresher than the vallaslin on his face.

He wrenched the gate open, scooping Sulahn up into his arms even as the other children stirred, some sobbing as they all scrambled out of the cage and attached themselves to his legs. He was quick to hoist the boy on his hips and shepherd the children away, to the forest. "Don't worry, da'assan, my little arrow. You're all free. I'll make the shemlen pay."

That was when Sulahn tried to stop him, struggling suddenly in his hold until Azazel was forced to set him down with the other children. The raven-haired elf's brow furrowed, crinkling the vallaslin in an almost comical way as he crouched to the boy's height. "What is it, da'assan? I need to get all of you to the Keeper."

Sulahn's eyes were wide for his tiny face, shiny with tears. The boy pushed him lightly. "Dara came! He was too busy fighting to free us. He's hurt, they were hurting him! Gilas halani!" Go help! Azazel's own eyes widened at that. But the children needed help, and the clan needed their First-"Gilas Halani!" The boy repeated, firmer. "I know where to go! I'll lead the others!" Azazel looked torn, but even though the kid was too young for vallaslin, he was old enough to hunt. And the boy was one of the few who understood how he felt about the Keeper's First. A fierce look given to him by the boy made him cave in to his heart.

Azazel finally nodded, a slow, hesitant motion as he reached a hand to brush back the boy's greasy brown bangs, and kissed his forehead. Then, he stood. When he spoke, it was strictly in elvhen, words tight and formal but strained with a lot of emotion. "Ma serannas, da'assan."

My thanks, little arrow.

Out of respect, so much understanding and responsibility in a tiny body, he pretended not to notice that the older elf had been trembling.

Notes:

This was a little brain child of mine that for once, I'm quite proud of. I've seen so many other people come up with backgrounds for their Inquisitors, and it was high time I've shown mine.

It's set about a year or so before the Conclave, and shows that my Lavellan's been with someone before Dorian, and used to hate people from Tevinter for a reason.

He's much calmer and more good-humored during Inquisition, but I imagined this wasn't always the case. It wasn't until after the first person he loved taught him a few things before the Conclave, and the huge clan that the Inquisition became helped him heal.

Warning, I use a lot of Elvhen in this. Tell me if I forget to translate anything, but usually the translations are in the words.