Chain Lightning: Primal magic. Electricity-based. Precise. Requires little preparation and build up on the part of the caster. Appropriate for surprise attacks.
You remember the storms in Tevinter. Brutal affairs, arising from the calm. A flash and crash and the seeming breaking of the clouds. Torrents let loose upon the world.
You remember the other storms, just as violent, just as difficult to predict. The shifting of a Magister's favor, unexpected violence spewed forth from the veneer of seemingly benevolent grace. Death, pain, the inglorious inevitable made stunning only by the pomp and display of that awful, searing light.
Lightning heralded both. Splitting, searing, sudden – raising the hairs on the back of your neck, even when you were not the target. Even when you merely watched from the edge of the storm and hoped to the Maker its random wrath would pass you by.
Tonight had been going so well. Your contact had come through. His contacts hadn't run off. Your former master seemed to be within your grasp and freedom would finally be found in the pulp of his shattered heart.
But then.
She was one of many. Their leader: unobtrusive, unremarkable, largely unnoticed until the fighting started.
Then the air in the room tensed, readied, spun towards her, drawing the eye. The edges of her hair lifted and danced around her face, framing her slight smile, her clear eyes. Sparks of light twirled up her arms like a jealous lover, condensing, springing, spearing the hapless shades with that terrible, awesome, unforgiving shaft of storm bringing force and might.
A mage fights at your side. Now, no angle is safe. You struggle not to panic. Your contact has failed you. You are in danger. But you are so close.
You press on, intent on your target, new threat be damned.
He is long gone, beyond your reach. Still and forever the ghost at your back. Nothing gained, save the debt now owed those who fought at your side. To the mage.
Storm struck and shattered, you pick up your pride and turn your anger on her. Lightning bringer now Lightning rod, collecting the unfocused strikes of your wrath.
She seems to take it in stride.
Crushing Prison: Arcane magic. Force based. Focused. Requires a significant expenditure of energy on the part of the caster. Overwhelming versus a single opponent.
You find, more and more, there are factors beyond the simple calculation of debt keeping you at her side. Her causes are surprisingly just, with one marked exception.
Mages. Force made flesh and left to decay. She is unforgiving of their lapses, crushing blood callers and demons with a rage that parallels your own. Common ground. But she is determined to let them be free, to make their mistakes, to punish them accordingly after the smoke has cleared.
You have seen, too often, too intimately, the results of those "mistakes." A mage commands powerful forces, and attracts forces more powerful still. No one is above temptation.
No one.
So you are wary, watching, keeping her in your sights even as you cut down her enemies. For your sanity and her own good.
And so, watching, you miss nothing. A moment of panic, not for herself, beaten and bleeding she stands determined to ignore her own well being. No, panic for another, the emotion as akin to her self as breathing. One she calls "friend," the well spoken dwarf, backed against the wall and seemingly out of options.
She tenses, muscles unnoticed in her neck, her arms, her hands, flexing and pressing. A single slender hand, fragile skin and bones, curled in a fist. You imagine, in that moment, if she were to strike you it would be with the bone breaking strength of a golem.
No one, no thing, could keep their feet before her. No one, no thing, is safe from the raw, vital, unapologetic energy at her command.
Her target is lifted, held, eyes wide and bulging as barely seen bonds lock the offender in place. A present for the dwarf and his crossbow, wrapped in vile magics and broken ribs, a lovely target quickly dispatched.
The energy, the strength, the force, dissipates. She sways, mortal once again, bereft of that terrifying vigor, beaten and bleeding and back to ignoring her own well being.
You reach out a hand to steady her without thought. You pull back, quickly, but not before she shoots you a grateful smile. Wordless. Sincere. Volumes spoken without a single wasted breath.
You scowl, upset at your own lapse in judgment. Even unseen, you know that force and all is portends is still there, waiting.
It is so much easier when she shows it. When she stops being human.
Firestorm: Elemental magic. Heat based. Unfocused. Requires a significant investment of emotion on the part of the caster. Friendly fire likely. Use with caution.
The bitch pulls up another barrier and vanishes, cowardly to the end, jumping through the ether and away from your blade. She knows the fires of judgment have come for her, lyrium traced and anger fueled, and that any evasion is simply delaying the inevitable.
You scan the room. Most of the bitch's minions are dead or dying. Your companions have seen to that.
Your mage is the only other one watching, tracing the unseen path of your adversary. You follow her gaze and lock on the spot where the young Magister-in-training appears.
You raise your blade, ready to charge, only to find she has beaten you to it.
Her arms are lifted towards the heavens, body lean and stretched, tip toes and splayed fingers and eyes locked on some point beyond the rotting ceiling of the old holdings. A spark darts down from above, circling, flaring, igniting her hands, her arms, her body, veiling her in a halo of pure, writhing, vengeance-made-flame.
Your heart jumps, mesmerized. She turns her gaze to the other, your tormentor, all anger and rage, sharp and terrible and ignited on your behalf.
Her arms fall, sweeping the light lines of the flames with her, burning wings arcing, an aura of pure, powerful, potent light.
Heat and flame and sweeping vengeful death rain down, seemingly without pattern without control, yet directed unerringly at your Master's apprentice. The target writhes on the ground, screaming, dying.
You can do nothing but watch, in horror, in joy. It is nothing less than she deserved, it is your anger made manifest, it is everything you ever wanted to see befall her.
And it tears you apart, knowing that your hatred could allow you to find delight in a mage, even your mage, flaunting the horrors at her fingertips.
The once proud mistress begs as the flames clear. She bargains. You listen and play along and tear her heart from her chest.
How dare she come after you. How dare she try to manipulate you. How dare she and her kind have any commonalities with your lovely, dangerous, firebrand who even now offers a comforting hand, a friendly ear.
You shrug it off. Her touch is flame and you know it will consume you. All you taste is smoke and ash and you need time, need space, need air.
You flee, but not for long. The night is drawn and dark and cold and the inferno is also the candle, leading you back to yourself.
It was chaos, when she called down the flames. Yet, you and your companions were seemingly unscathed, unmarked, unburned.
When you seek her out, you suspect otherwise. You imagine the scars are there, under your skin, raw and burning and unseen. When you push her against the wall, when you accept her kiss with a hunger more acute than any you have ever known, you are sure of it.
She is flame and fire and want and you have been caught up in her, marked by her, burned by her.
It will consume you. Consume you both. The flames bring memories and fear and panic and you have no choice.
You flee.
You try not to think about it, after. How you still care, how tightly you grasp that flaring candle heat in the darkest corner of your heart. How you see it reflected, still, in the quiet hurt of her eyes. Sputtering and sparking and banked, hopefully soon to be extinguished.
Cone of Cold: Elemental magic. Cold based. Fanned. Requires close quarters. Has the potential to render foes immobile. Called at will, but can hamper one's ability to sense outside stimuli. Use with caution.
You were seemingly safely ensconced in yourself, at her side but far away. Iced over and cool and calm.
She seemed content, folded within, until the world fractured around her.
White lilies and fallen tears, betrayal and war. An impossible task, an impressive foe, stumbled into for a friend in need.
The duel unfolds like a dream. Laughable, were it anyone else. The mage mouse to the Qunari cat, caught in a deadly game of chase, circled by the witless nobles of the city and all their fragile hopes.
She is outside her element, given little room to move, to breathe, to find her bearings. To reach into the beyond and let loose the dancing demon dreams bent to her will.
You watch and wish your weapon was in your hand, knowing any action attempted will only make things worse.
The cat tires of his game. Light catches the edge of his blade as it finds her, sliding, singing, splitting cloth and flesh and blood.
She grabs the blade. Living death, she sweeps her staff, frozen waterfalls of ice cascading around her, dusting too pale skin and pooling blood with a clear crystalline sheen.
They are both embraced, encased, encircled with cold mist hardened ice. Fury refined and hardened, made sharp, brittle, cold.
The giant stumbles and falls. Final words and fogged breath, icicles sheathed in flesh dripping rose colored puddles on the floor.
She is implacable. Fierce. Cold and unyielding. Self appointed protector of her city, her friends.
Until she collapses. You do not hesitate. Do not question. You are at her side and she is in your arms and you are shouting at the abomination, witnesses be damned, to heal her, help her and the glass fragile ice that had shielded you shatters.
You know, in that moment. Sure as winter. If anything were to happen to her, you would never be warm again.
Heal: Creation magic. Curative based. Delicate. Requires a high level of focus and/or connection to the target. Draining. Best used when offensive measures are not immediately pressing.
The ground is hard beneath you, your master's voice ringing in your ears. You are betrayed, by your sister, by your senses, bleeding and broken and struggling to fight back the pinpricks of darkness fogging your sight.
The sounds of battle continue, muffled and distorted, metal singing over the gasping of boots dancing across the inn floor.
You do not have the strength to panic. Your only coherent thought is of her. She had jumped in front of you, an attempt to defuse, to deflect, to defend against the dark magics held in the Magister's hand. You needed her at your side and now you have led her to her death.
Her death.
The loss of your freedom, your vengeance, your master's continued life – fading facets of quickly decreasing value held in comparison to the question of her survival.
She could die and it would be your fault.
You force your hand to move, seeking her, desperately. She is there, at your side, where she belongs, but silent and still and you can think of nothing but how desperately you need to reach her, to cross that barrier between you, to touch and hold and hope.
Your hand is clumsy, shaking, but finds hers as the shadow of shambling corpses looms over you. Her eyes open, startled and wide, and the faintest breath of energy gathers around her.
She could have called forth her lightning, her fire, her ice. She could have shattered the corpses with the raw force and energy at her command. But it is not death that lights upon her, seeping, spiraling, shining.
It is life. Your head clears, your energy returns. The gentle caress of healing magic bringing you back into the fight.
Of course. She thinks of other first, always. She thinks of you. Your need, your vengeance, your fight.
She trusts you. To keep her safe. To finish what you started. To lay to rest your past and finally face your future.
You are on your feet, lyrium light, death come dancing, sending the corpses, the mercenaries, the demons, the shades, off and down and out of your way.
You face him. Tormentor. Master. Mage. Hatred haughty and high and finally, finally brought low with fear.
His heart's blood cools on your hand. Sweet sister shakes and trembles and is spared only by her voice, her reason, her unending selfless giving letting you set aside the hate.
It gives you pause when she tells you that you don't have to be alone. For the first time in your life, you are willing to consider what that might mean, what that might look like.
A future. Almost forsaken in exchange for your past.
Pull of the Abyss: Force magic. Gravity based. Variable. Requires will and influence. Be warned that any manipulation of gravity runs the risk of affecting a wider area than originally anticipated.
There are forces at work all around you. Inscrutable, inevitable, subtly shaping all that you are.
The laws of nature do not ask if we wish to submit ourselves to their mercies. They simply are and you can do nothing but lose yourself within them.
You understand, now, that she is simply one of these. A law of nature unto herself. How many times have you see her bend the very basic shape of the world to suit her needs? Willing a maelstrom of shifting gravity to spring to life, pulling and pushing everyone around her to the precise position of her choosing.
It was without malice. Effect innocently wrought, influencing the world around her with the same quiet right as the moon guiding the tides.
What choice did you have but to turn towards her, to follow her, to be drawn forward in spite of yourself?
The last law of nature. Cross paths with destiny and never be the same.
Folding her in your arms, you know you are caught in the event horizon of all she is.
Finding her forgiveness, her lips, her love, you wouldn't want it any other way.