Corypheus stalked the lavishly decorated halls of his lair like a hungry tiger searching for prey, his robes billowing ominously in his wake. Servants and slaves ducked out of sight at his approach, some normalcy at least he supposed, until someone at the far end of the corridor behind him yelled; "Sir!". He ignored the call and glanced into doorways as he continued his search. Still no sign of his quarry. Where are they?
At the sound of foot steps tapping their way closer on the cold marble floor, chasing him with the same frantic-ness of a small child after its mother terrified she'll leave him all alone, Corypheus ducked into the next room he came across slamming the old wooden door into his pursuers face. There was a thump and a satisfying grunt of stifled pain. Corypheus took in his surroundings, there were no other doors or means of escape or anything at all really. The room was empty. Bare stone brick walls and a green shiny beetle scurrying across a threadbare carpet. Fancy locking your self in a storage cupboard, idiot. A moment of blessed silence passed all too quickly as there was a polite, if hesitant knock.

"Who is it?" Corypheus asked, feigning ignorance.

"Me."

"Me who?" Corypheus really didn't want to talk to him.

"Samson sir. There are matters we really should discuss."

"I'm busy?"

Corypheus opened the door a crack and peered out. Sure enough, the Templar stood in the hall. Wiping at a persistent trickle of blood from his bruised nose with the back of his gauntleted hand and smearing an amusing red mustache across his lip. Obviously he was not buying his terrible lie.

Corypheus stepped back and let the door swing fully open on its own weight. He stood motionless, face expertly schooled to show nothing and arms tightly folded under his armpits in the now vacant door frame waiting for the smaller man to speak.

Samson cleared his throat several times before speaking. Hopefully he's choking on his own blood and I can gracefully step over his corpse. Corypheus thought impatient.

"As you can see sir, we have run out of supplies."

Corypheus simply glared at him.

"We have no coin to buy food, weapons or any other supplies. The men we have, came to us with nothing more than the coin in their pockets, clothes on their backs and the swords at their sides. I'm afraid we're broke sir."

Well shit. No money, no food, no army, it's as simple as that. Corypheus had no idea how to raise money, coming from a wealthy Tivinter noble house he had never needed to. He envisioned selling sweet-tasting drinks at a dusty roadside from a homemade stall like an urchin. That simply wouldn't do, and who would ever take a sweet-tasting drink from a Darkspawn? Oh, he was talking to one. The Taint infused red lyrium, the only thing keeping his rag-tag army from deserting, had that oddity. One for the scholars to look into one day, that.

Corypheus sighed inwardly and closed the door behind him, the catch sliding into place with a soft click was the only sound in the strangely quiet hallway. He supposed they could sell enchantments made by the remnants of the tranquil mages on the back market, as they would be using his own knowledge and methods the enchantments would be significantly more powerful and more likely to attract unwanted attention if sold openly. He could do that, if he could find the blasted mages. Usually all he had to do was follow the sound of some scrap or lewd song more suited to a tavern.

To plan B then, Corypheus supposed, he had a mountain of old crap stowed away somewhere, surely something in it had some worth if a buyer could be found.

"Samson," Corypheus began as he sidestepped the Templar and brushed a spiderweb, acquired from his most recent misadventure, from the hem of his silk sleeve. "Down the next hall, somewhere on the south side, there is massive pile of assorted ancient relics and decrepit crap. You are welcome to sell whatever you can carry out of there."

Samson practically exploded with joy at the chance to line his pockets, and the pockets of his master of course. But mostly his own.

"Go. Now. Off with you."

The shiny man flew off back up the hallway like the bolt of lightning onlookers saw. Finally free of his pestering shadow Corypheus resumed his futile hunt for his fellow mages. Since the light of dawn that day he hadn't seen a single one. No-one had set anyone's hair on fire or found an array of insects or something equally unpleasant in their beds either.

Distant screaming echoed to his ears. He had intentionally neglected to mention Tabitha had taken up residence in that cavern and really liked that particular collection of miscellaneous oddities. The scene he imagined brought a chuckle to his cracked lips and put a spring in his step, witch happened to be a not so good thing, as he hit his head on the ceiling. It was at the optimal height for everyone else but just this side of too low for him. Mood dampened he resumed his journey to his office more cautiously.

His office contained Samson's small desk, the scarred tabletop littered with the mundane day-to-day things, like the latrine duty roster. There was also one of the rare chairs capable of holding his weight and a lofty ceiling to accommodate his height. Looking up he saw the fearsome visage of the snarling high-dragon painted there, poised as if to eat him. The illusion of life was shattered by the deep fractures in the plaster splitting its torso in half. The long table at the back was stacked high with neglected reports, research notes and several heavy tomes. Corypheus leafed through them with disinterest, glancing over the summaries until one caught his eye.

This particular piece of creased parchment detailed his elven upstart's most recent adventures. It seemed his spy team finally found him, holed up in the mountain village of Haven, the last stop on a pilgrimage to an absent god. It also looked like he'd gained a title, 'The Herald of Andraste', and the ire of the Chantry.

They blamed him for a number of things, the destruction of the sacred final resting place of the Maker's chosen,- True, by interrupting my ritual. That was indeed his fault. -the Breach. The gaping maw in the sky vomiting out demons, a jagged rupture in the very fabric of the Veil itself. And lastly, the cold blooded murder of the most holy, the Divine. In Corypheus' opinion the Breach was also technically the Herald's fault, but offing the old Chantry hag? That was his own doing. Credit where credit is due, he would not be upstaged by that pathetic excuse for a mage.

Corypheus would not allow it, would not abide by it, as soon as he has had house in order he would march on Haven and get the recognition he deserved, and the Anchor. Corypheus' inner child, caged and well hidden in his soul as it was, was thrilled at the excuse to see the Herald again.