Chapter 02: Her Own Plans


"There she is, the Herald of Andraste."

The men before her fell on one knee, their heads bowed low. Others followed their example, showing their respect and admiration as she passed. They seemed to lean into her path, possibly hoping for a chance to be brushed by her glowing fingers.

One of the women were so bold as to take her hand and kiss her knuckles. Sorschia was repulsed and wrenched her hands away.

"Don't disturb the herald," one woman chided. "We wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for her."

"That's right," another added from somewhere beside her. "Andraste brought her to us from the fade."

Sorschia sneered but said nothing, knowing that it was unwise to argue with a fervent crowd. Instead she made a quick escape, pulling her heavy hood over her face as snow began to settle on her shoulders.

She made a beeline for the chantry, hoping to find a moment of peace to herself, but Cassandra was waiting for her just beyond the wooden doors. Sorschia had almost feared she would be put in chains again, but instead Cassandra took her arm like a doting matron and led her to a room at the back of the chantry.

Sorschia felt naked without her mage's staff, but she could still throw fire if she had to. She hoped it would not come to that.

#+++

The stars were out by the time Sorschia left the chantry in a daze several hours later. She soon found herself back in the modest hut where she had awoken, staring hard into a well tended fire as she sat hunched on the bed, trying to come to grips with everything that had happened.

Despite her misgivings, despite her fear, and despite every rational bone in her body, she had ended up agreeing to be a part of this - what did Cassandra call it? Inquisition. The name had a menacing ring to it.

Admittedly, she didn't have much choice in the matter; they didn't really seem to allow her the privilege to decline. Clearly she was still on a trial basis with the seeker.

If they had only asked her, she would have informed them that she was already a part of something, and it certainly didn't have anything to do with snuffing out terrorists on a morally ambiguous, religious crusade for Justinia loyalists; Sorschia grimaced at the notion.

Of course she wouldn't have dared speak of the mage underground to such unfamiliar company, but she could have found some way around it ... if they had cared to ask if she had a life of her own.

Though many of her companions were lost at the Divine's Conclave, she knew they would never want her sullying their memory with a petty political witch hunt, not when the fate of mages had taken such an ugly turn. She had to at least send word to them, but she dare not use any of the messengers at Haven. Who knows who might be watching.

Surely Cassandra and Leliana were more than capable of taking care of this breach business without Sorschia; despite their own rebellion against the chantry bureaucracy, she had no doubt they could pull together their remaining resources and flush out the culprits ... most likely threatening a lot of mages on the way.

... There was just the problem with Sorschia's glowing, rift-closing hand.

She examined it in the firelight, watching the delicate tendrils of magic undulate beneath her skin.

She had never seen anything like it; it was almost beautiful, if it wasn't a powerful and potentially dangerous concentration of unknown magic fixed inside her right hand. The thought put a new crease to her already furrowed brow.

Sorschia sat up, listening and alert as she heard a loud thunk.

Someone placing what sounded like chopped wood beside her hut. She expected a knock, but instead the servant left her in peace, their soft footfalls becoming distant once more.

The small interruption had roused her from her thoughts; she felt as if a bucket of ice water had just been poured on her head. The fear took hold and she tensed, nervously surveying the room.

She had to get out. She was a mage trapped in a camp full of templars, and infected with an unknown magical artifact. She was going to be used as a tool for political gain, a convenient rift-closing puppet; a means for leverage, favors and alliances, and would undoubtedly be made into a weapon ... A weapon made to capture and kill the mages responsible.

Sorschia jumped to her feet, the adrenaline of her revelation rushing through her veins like lyrium, heightening her senses and causing her hands to shake.

There in a corner, leaning on the wall was a staff. The staff she'd taken off a fallen mage near the conclave. She had what she needed.

#+++

Within only a few minutes, she had quietly exited the hut, her staff tied securely to her back and a rucksack full of rations over her shoulder. She had taken the warmest jacket she could find, lined with soft red lion fur.

The camp was quiet as she slipped through the shadows, pulling her hood over her thick sanguine locks; it seemed most of Haven's residents were at the tavern, reveling in her small victory.

When she approached the gates, leaning against the wood posts to hide her form, she noticed that the guards on duty had momentarily left their posts to share a drink with the nearby arms dealer, leaving the gates slightly ajar, no doubt for the blacksmith sharing in their toast. She wasted no time as she slipped through the gates and out into the night.

#+++

The chill wind bit at her hands and face as she turned down the eastern road, braving the harsh mountain gale that Haven's high walls had blocked.

Sorschia was gifted with a good visual memory, and had recalled exactly the route she had taken with her retinue through the mountains when she had arrived at Haven. This would be the quickest road to a nearby village, and from there she could safely send word to her friends. They would find a way to undo this magic, hopefully while leaving her hand intact. If the inquisition came knocking, she'd use it as a bargaining chip. They weren't the only ones with big plans.

Suddenly she heard Haven's large, wooden gates open with a groan.

She was being followed.

Sorschia could see a nearby abandoned cabin a short distance ahead of her. The hut was nearly obscured by a patch of blue spruces. Even if she didn't make it inside in time, she could still hide among the trees.

Sorschia darted forward, heart racing in her chest, thanking the Maker for the wind whipping behind her, erasing her tracks and pushing her onward. Desperately she flung herself into the door, fumbling for the knob as the cold mountain wind pressed against her. The door burst open and she rushed inside, deftly closing it behind her with a flourish, leaving her in darkness.

She found a nearby window and wiped a small portion of dust from the glass; she watched and waited for her pursuer, but no one came. Several minutes passed, and still nothing stirred except the wind violently rattling the windows, and whistling through the walls.

Several more minutes passed and her shoulders eased. It was most likely the Smith returning to his cabin after a long night of drinking. Sorschia sighed with relief and leaned against the window frame. Her fear was getting the better of her; she had lived through the blast at Haven for Maker's sake, and knew herself to be a more than capable mage in combat. Unless Seeker Cassandra had intended to find her herself, Sorschia knew that she was more than a match for almost anyone.

A branch snapped just outside the door and she froze.

A rustle of fabric, feather soft, nearly lost within the howls of swirling wind. A hand was at the door, slowly turning the knob as she paled. She knew she should have barred the door.

Then everything happened at once. The door opened, and Sorschia phased through it, rushing past the intruder with inhuman speed to a break in the trees. She had nearly manifested at her destination when a hand reached through, gripping her mid-sprint with biting claws. She cried out in alarm but her voice was lost between the folds of the fade as the hand dug into her mark, and with incredible pressure the hand pulled, wrenching her back from the ether, sending her sprawling onto the dirt-coated floor with a groan.

Sorschia's vision blurred, her body having trouble keeping up as she tried to recover from the blow. Before she could sit up, a slender figure crouched over her, leaning against a simple wooden staff. As her eyes regained focus, she noticed the soft glint of starlight on pointed ears.

"Solas," she croaked, sounding much worse than she had hoped to, her head still swimming. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same question," Solas quipped. She noticed a hint of a smile on his lips. He was leaning over her slightly, looking mildly amused as she lay like a ragdoll beneath him.

A surge of anger and embarrassment swelled inside her but she could only sit up weakly on her elbows; the force of his grip on her in the fade had left her mana totally spent, and a throbbing was forming between her temples. All she could do was glower at him.

"Nice trick," Sorschia mumbled with a sneer, taking a moment to flex her hand. The elf only chuckled.

"I think you overestimate your stealth, with a mark such as that on your hand."

She balked. She hadn't even thought of that.

Sorschia had always been very good at hiding her presence when she chose to. The idea that she was now branded with a unknown magic that she can't even hide bothered her immensely. Sweet Andraste, how embarassing.

There was an uncomfortable silence as Sorschia tried to regain her bearings, finding it hard to form a proper sentence. Solas waited patiently.

"What would you have done in my situation?" she asked, watching him with intense green eyes.

Her anger stilled as she watched him in the darkness, the snow cast an eerie pale glow upon the elf, his eyes studying her for a moment.

"The very same thing," he offered finally, amusement replaced with a genuine look of empathy. He offered a hand to her and quickly pulled Sorschia to her feet.