When the chantry went up in a billow of smoke and screams, Anders was sure of two things: first, the chantry was a maggot infected carcass protected by the veneer of respectability , and second, in very short order he too would be a maggot infected carcass. It was only a matter of time and he knew it.

He also knew that his rotting body held meaning far greater than his life. A heartbeat means nothing in the wake of a righteous cause.

He was justice. He was vengeance. He was the fury of a thousand stifled screams.

He was the shivering child abandoned in the snow, left to the wolves. He was the girl in the circle, lobotomized for speaking the truth and he was the little boy, watching his mother dragged screaming from the house. He was the oppressed, lacerated with festering wounds of righteous indignation. Crying and pain and heartbreak could splinter the world.

And it had.

All he had to do was give a small nudge, and the house of cards fell. Push a little here, a little pressure there and the foundation came crashing down, exposing the wretched mire of truth for all eyes to see.

With every shattered dream, he felt their pain and their sorrow and he felt the unceasing, terrifying unjustness of it all.

Bricks the color of blood burst into the icy, uncaring night. Dust fell to the ground and one by one, the statues of ancient prophets toppled.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

The sound of justice crashed through the city of Kirkwall.

All of Thedas would see it for what it was.

A call to arms.

A call for justice.

And Maker save those poor souls who allied themselves against it.