Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.
Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.
Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand
Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope
Amell
Becoming a grey warden does not suddenly infuse the recruit with fighting prowess, nor does the organization hold any code of honor as Blackwall wished to believe. There was a reason why wardens in general did not complain when their accomplishments in history are repeatedly forgotten and viewed with a sense of mob apathy and it was not just because the commanders tended to recruit the criminals, the outsiders, and the eccentrics. When the world forgets their deeds, less eyes judge their choices - their typically amoral, grey choices. There is no burden of responsibility to uphold values of the common people; it makes their work easier when the endgame is the prevention of another Blight. All the men and women part of the group, each a little twisted inside, are bonded by a sacrifice that lasts thirty years.
Years ago when her group was on the road between civilizations, ambushed on a seemly daily basis by the hoards of genlocks, hurlocks, and, if they were not lucky, an ogre or two, she used to quip, "All roads lead to darkspawn," a staff in hand when the telltale signs of goosebumps and chills erupt down her spine.
"Untrue," Alistair used to amend after altercations as he wiped the gore off of his sword using looted pieces of cloth," All roads lead away from darkspawn," referring to the surrounding villages, sacked, and empty of people who had long fled.
Here is the question one should ask: while the sacrifice bonds wardens together to each other and their duty, do they ever extend further to the people that they're trying to save? As the organization keeps their secrets and grows more insular, with no one as a reliable moral compass, how skewed are their perceptions of the world to the point that they think that the ramifications of raising a demon army is acceptable to the losses of their fellow men in order to eradicate all future Blights and stop the false Calling?
Amell stared at the letter that had passed through so many hands that the edges were weathered thin. Scout Harding had reported that the parchment had slipped into the pocket of one of the less experienced members of her reconnaissance team somewhere between Halamshiral and Crestwood. (Leliana was not entirely pleased.) Amell had been skeptical of the veracity of the words but she knew the writer, Jean-Marc Stroud, from accidental encounters on her own travels to get a feel for his handwriting and his voice. Unlike Amell who travels due to constant wanderlust, the senior warden tended to travel to the corners of Thedas to avoid being trapped by the Great Game. And now, it seemed that he was on the run from his own people.
Resisting the urge to rub her face, she kicked at the snow drifts, feeling the mark of the rift crackling in her left palm, emitting green light into the darkness despite her hands being bandaged. Dog ran past her legs, sights set on a wild nug in the distance. As the snowfall eventually drowned out Dog's happy barks, she sought shelter in a nearby hut where she had found Adan's lyrium potion recipe, feeling neither the inclination nor the energy to stop by the tavern or head back to her bed. The sun had set hours ago; she contemplated the pros and cons of staying here for the night. On one hand, the entirety of Haven would flip if they found her missing in the morning. On the other hand, if she woke up early enough, she could sneak back later with no one the wiser.
She was loosing time: fatigue, days of restless sleep, a haze around her mind. A simple walk around the town outskirts to clear her mind had turned into a massive trek that had eaten up her afternoon and evening. She glanced at the letter in her hand and crumpled it, "Wardens on the coast... Wardens in Orlais... Warden Commander Clarel..." She collapsed onto the single chair in the room, drained. Stroud had informed her that this notice was his third: he had sent out ten copies to ten different trusted men and women. Communication was highly unreliable and he did not dare to disclose his location for fear of being discovered.
"My protests have earned me the enmity of my peers, even those who I have personally recruited and trained. It is a heartbreaking thought to think that our corruption in the ranks have driven us to do these unspeakable deeds and turn on our fellow men," Stroud's plea for help was desperate - she wondered how closely he was hounded, "Warden-Commander Amell: you strike me as someone who still have that bit of empathy within her. I wish for understanding. I cannot be the only one to think that this is madness." He could not even flee to her position due to the inherent risks - he could only give a one-way warning. "I have a plan in place - for the time being, do not worry about me."
She rested her elbows on the desk, pressing her palms to her eyes. Senior Warden Stroud was a good man and did not deserve the fate of a wanted man. Warden-Commander Clarel's rambling messages had stopped a week ago - she must've known. But according to her three advisors, there had been no overt threats or attacks on the Inquisition since then. Clarel must be biding her time... Or summoning demons.
Had Amell been in any other position, she would've dropped everything and led a one-man rescue mission to haul Stroud from whatever miserable cave he was cooped up in. But the responsibilities of the Inquisition held her back. "Priorities. Do not do anything radical until the Breach is sealed," Leliana had pulled her aside when she had been making her rounds, "Seal the Breach and we'll negotiate on setting aside time for personal quests. If you must need men, send out Blackwall."
That would've been a grand idea... If it wasn't for the fact that Blackwall isn't a grey warden. Amell's forehead hit the desk; the subsequent dull sound of contact did not ease her nerves.
Initially, hearing that there was a warden constable nearby and meeting the man himself had her almost hugging him out of sheer joy. She had been looking forward to the camaraderie that comes with being a part of something greater. She wanted someone who understands. Blackwall seemed to have all of that and more - he resisted the Calling, he wasn't under Warden-Commander Clarel's influence, and he was a talented warrior. But given a couple days of thought and endless questions and vague answers, her excitement turned into doubt, finally culminating into a confession earlier this afternoon that she was still not sure how to handle.
Amell shelved the small voice inside her mind suggesting that he should undergo the Joining since he already romanticized the organization to the extent that he had : that was an idea to be toyed with at a later date - a much, much later date. It was not as if the rest of her companions weren't hiding something. "You learn this from the Ben-Hassrath" Iron Bull had swept an arm to encompass the entirety of Haven's outer walls, "It's tragedies. If it's not tragedies, it's secrets. If it's not secrets, then its burdens. Everyone of your people has them. Except for that elf, Sera, but she's a bit of a special case." The qunari had tapped the side of his nose with a finger, "Don't worry, Boss. You'll eventually learn to read the little tells."
"You didn't kill the real Blackwall, did you?" She had asked, cornering him in the corner of the smithy, right hand twitching, ready to shoot out the most lethal spell she knew if he dared to do anything other than answer her question. You aren't colluding against the wardens, are you? You aren't conspiring against the Inquisition, are you?
The man did his best not to act the part of said cornered animal - her approval of him incrementally increased. "No," still, he looked nervous due to their public spot and private conversation - a bad combination if not for the fact that Harrit's men at the fire can drown out even the roars of a druffalo. "But he had planned to conscript me." She drew closer, gaze lingering on his eyes, his body language, trying to gauge his worth.
She had tilted her head to the right. "Why is that?" Blackwall, or whatever his name is, doesn't strike one as a criminal... Was he an outsider? Mildly eccentric? He did roam the Hinterlands alone as a proclaimed recruiter, taking pride in his isolation and how he did the thankless jobs of helping the common man. It seemed rather contrived.
"Because he saw something in me. And for that, I'll take up his name, honor his death, and discard my shameful past," his hands clenched at his side, his voice lowered and a bit of the Markham accent peeked through his speech. He was reliving some unpleasant memories, eyes glazed into some far away space, pupils dilated due to their dark surroundings. She waited patiently for him to resurface back to the present.
Blackwall wasn't a far cry from her own Ferelden Wardens in terms of tragic pasts - Sigrun was by all accounts legally dead. However, as much as he was a champion, he was a coward, and it takes time, sometimes years, to rid oneself of the coward. "Your resolve won't make it go away," she remarked, offering one of her rare bits of wisdom. Behind her, she could hear a workmen beating away at a standard issued sword and then the telling hiss of red hot metal drenched in water.
He straightened and bowed, an arm across his chest, and solemnly concluded, "I will wait for it. Till then, I'll put my talents to good use, Herald... Commander of the Grey." He had taken her statement to mean that she wasn't kicking him out into the cold - and she wasn't going to - but he was completely missing the point. Shaking her head, she turned on her heels to ruminate on the new information.
"Amell?" She jerked up from her position sprawled halfway over the desk and turned around to the voice, brushing hair away from her face. She pushed back her chair and stood, rubbing her eyes as she struggled to regain her bearings. Cullen's silhouette took up most of the open doorway, black against black, with the skies above him in that ethereal shade of green. With a solid grip on her shoulder, he gently pulled her forward, "Cassandra is searching for you. Were you sleeping here?"
"I-" she yawned into a knuckle and rubbed her stiff neck, "I think I was. I meant to." Walking to the door, she glanced outside, shivering as the windchill brushed against her skin. The Breach swirled high above, blocking out the starlight. His hands were tracing the impressions on her face that she had gotten from the uneven surface of the table. "Must I go back now?" She plaintively asked, unmoving as his thumb continued to brush against her facial markings. He didn't answer. Conceding to his unspoken demands, she let her head rest on his armor, "I didn't think that anyone would find me," She mumbled as a hand slipped under her back and her legs and lifted her into the air.
"I know," he said simply, adjusting his hold on her, "that you tend to equate distance with solace." She buried her face in the warm fabric and hummed softly. He walked around the frozen lake, the rhythm of his boots crunching against the snow soothing enough for her to stay in that in-between state of wakefulness and sleep. Haven was peaceful tonight - many had opted to stay with families instead of participating in revelries among friends. The shadow of a ram darted in the trees, fleet footed, sure footed...
She drifted off for an unknown amount of time. The whispers came, urging her to move underground and head for the Deep Roads. The voice in the Breach again demanded a sacrifice. Divine Jusitinia again begged her to warn the people. The howls of a wolf grew closer. In the Fade lurked a demon of colossal mass, of multiple elongated limbs, of a mouth of teeth and a face with no eyes. Little creatures crawled at its feet, scurrying up a cliff, scurrying towards an open fade rift. She heard the roar of a dragon calling for its master.
"Is your Calling getting stronger?" Cullen later asked her at the steps of her cabin. "You were restless." The cold from the snow was beginning to seep through her boots and to her feet. A part of her wished to huddle in the heat of the fireplace; a part of her wished to move closer to Cullen and his own emanating warmth. But her faculties were beginning to return to her and the more she awoken from her half-sleep the more she remembered how she allowed him to carry her in...
Maker have mercy: hopefully the shroud of darkness hid the blush that had spread across her cheeks. She carded a hand through her hair, "Only when I sleep," she admitted after a few seconds of heavy silence, "It's nightmares, mostly. I only get headaches when I'm awake."
"Amell," he stepped closer. She looked up and then averted her gaze. The door was behind her - at any moment, she could walk through and pretend that this never happened. But she stayed. (Why did she stay? Did she really want this?)
"Yes," she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The aborted movement to reach out and cup his face turned into an awkward pat on his shoulder. She let the hand rest there, curling her fingers into the feathers of his pauldrons. "They are getting stronger. It's fine; I'm handling it. You..." she blinked as it occurred to her that, "Cassandra wasn't looking for me, was she? You shouldn't worry too much."
He laughed, soft and mirthless, "I can't help it. Amell," he whispered. "You know why I care." She could feel his presence lingering close, his eyes pinning her down, his words seeping into her skin. If she tilted her head back... and he leaned down that last inch, he could...
"Commander?" Amell nearly jumped out of her skin in fright. Cullen shifted head rest against the crook of her neck and growled, his breath tickling her collarbone. From the beaten path, a soldier had appeared with a massive stack of files, unaware of the tension forming around the man. "I have papers from Sister Nighting-" The soldier looked up and faltered, "I'm sorry. Did I interrupt...?" Feeling hot and lightheaded, Amell muttered excuses to duck into her cabin, slipping through the door and closing it just as she saw Cullen turning around to confront the terrified soldier.
Well. She felt her forehead and sat (collapsed) onto her bed. Her mind was a mess; her heart even more so. She knew what Cullen wanted. Cullen knew that she wouldn't run, at least not until her embarrassment overcame her senses. In the morning - sometime in the future, between the duties of the Inquisition, maybe they will revisit what they had. Sighing at the memory of his heated gaze and of his touches (small, heavy, hungry), she closed her eyes and willed herself a dreamless sleep.
Hours later, Amell woke up on her bed in her cottage to the singing of warblers and the rising sun; unsure whether she had dreamed that entire encounter. There was an unopened note sitting innocently on her desk that she had missed in the night, next to the autographed Hard in Hightown series that Varric had gifted to her a couple days prior.
"Cousin," the note said, writing decorated with ink blots and blood spray, "If you are still searching for leads of Senior Warden Janeka, I suggest you ask Varric for the story of Warden-Commander Larius and a darkspawn named Corypheus. I am making my way to your Inquisition and am in a bit of a quandary. Not to worry: the blood is not mine. Rescue missions are tricky like that and of course Senior Warden Stroud has to hide in the most inaccessible cave in Thedas. It's a bit hard to sit and write when all your daily spiders have turned into corrupted spiders by the red lyrium. Where did all the bears come from? I don't remember Ferelden having this many bears. - Hawke."
Iron Bull
A white sun surrounded by white clouds, immediately shaded by the silhouette of three people when he groaned and squinted, "He's awake and lives to fight another day!" Varric announced on his left, peering at him critically, "How many fingers am I holding up?" His horns felt like someone had taken a razor and shaved them down till they drew blood at the quick. The scent of burnt hair wafted into his nose; he coughed out a small cloud of smoke and winced as all of his nerves from the neck down screamed.
"Thank the Maker, we don't have to carry him," Boss muttered as she began rummaging in her pack, listening for the tell-tale clink of glass hitting glass. Iron Bull stiffly accepted the proffered vial of elfroot potion and chugged it down like ale. Immediately, open gashes began to close, bruises disappeared as the familiar warmth slowly mended his broken bones. She clasped her hands together as he gingerly sat up, "Congratulations Bull, on delivering the killing blow to the Dragon of the Hinterlands and then knocking yourself out when said High Dragon collapsed onto you." He braced himself on a hand and knee and waved away Blackwall's offer to haul him up and instead reached for Dragonbrand, still in one piece if not a bit scorched around the pommel. "There's a nasty bump on your head," she cocked her head to the side and raised a hand in a silent offer to use a healing spell, "Do you remember the fight?"
"It's slowly coming back, Boss," he grunted, rubbing his throat and reaching for his waterskin. He waited for the tendrils of light pouring from her hand to gently dim and for his headache to disappear before taking a long draught. "We're going to do this again, aren't we?" he asked with a grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just because I fainted doesn't mean that I'm not raring to have another go at another dragon." While he got duo looks of shock and mild horror from his companions, the boss slyly winked at him. Chuckling, he offered her a small nod in acknowledgment: it was good to know that the Herald was as crazy, if not more, than he.
"Andraste have mercy," having not seen their exchange, the dwarf groaned, ripping off the edges of his tattered sleeves and throwing them to the ground, "I swore to myself back in Kirkwall's Bone Pit that no more: Varric Tethras is not going to fight another one of those beasts if he could get away with it. Another dragon down and Tiny wants to look for more." He leaned over, hands on knees, still regaining his stamina and breath, and uncorked a vial of healing potion.
"You only have two under your belt. Stop whining," Boss laughed as she threw a bundle of gauze at the rogue's feet, "Wait till you get to five." She wasn't bothered by Varric's gripe. In fact, she glowed with the post-adrenalin rush and the more he scowled the more she beamed in his direction, wearing her own scrapes and bruises like stylish accents on clothing, though the smears of blood running down the corner of her mouth gave her the impression of a wild animal.
"This is the fifth dragon you've slain," Blackwall clarified with an undertone of incredulity. Iron Bull made a happy sound at the back of his throat that had him descend into another coughing fit. Scout Harding emerged from the grotto where she had been critically observing the battle and stopped a few paces away from them to survey the carnage. With a blow from her horn, more scouts arrived from the nearby Inquisition camp with an armful of equipment to dismantle and salvage the bodies of the dragon and dragonlings. Many stopped in their tracks to gap at the bloody scene.
Boss flipped her hair back and retied it with her collection of string and ribbons, "It's not as impressive as you'd think. Cassandra stopped four dragons from eating Divine Beatrix III. The Hero of Orlais, the Right Hand of the Divine - where did you think she got those titles? Anyways, depending on how you look at it, it's more like four and a half, seeing that my second dragon that I thought had died recently visited me, turned into Flemeth, praised me on a job well done, then turned back into a dragon, and went on her merry way." She picked up her greatsword (comically too big for her size and stature) from the grass, deftly wiped the blood off with a piece of cloth, and frowned when the red streaks refused to come away. Though she was unsatisfied, she still proceeded to tie the weapon to her back.
Varric had meanwhile choked mid-swallow, "Wait, did you just say, 'Flemeth?' You killed the Witch of the Wilds?" At her absently given nod of assent, he stared down at his vial with intent, as if his own will power would change it to the strongest liquor Thedas had to offer, "that explains so much." Amell glanced up, raising an eyebrow at the non sequitur.
Fortunately, years of training in the Ben-Hassrath has enabled him to move through the puzzles of people with ease. With all the research he had done on his fellow fighters of the Inquisition and of the Herald, it did not take him long to connect the dots that the boss had missed. Seeker Cassandra had once expressed her frustration at the fact that the world does not operate on happenstances any longer - connections between men and women of importance that people would not have initially guessed are pushing the world into change. In his more spiritual, perceptive, drunken moments, Iron Bull can admit that yes, change was happening (- greater change to those who ride the coattails of the destined and fated heroes). The Qun does not put weight on any of the legends south of Seheron, but in times of weakness, when the Orlesian debaucheries had died down to their respective pockets of festivities, he wondered.
"You might want to open Tale of the Champion when we get back to Haven." Iron Bull placed a hand on her shoulder when her expression turned into one of confused bewilderment. "Read it front to back, not just the ending. It would explain why your second dragon came back from the dead."
"I'll tell the story to you myself later, over drinks when we aren't stinking in guts and gore," Varric sighed, tucking his favored crossbow back into its holder and rolled his shoulders. "Maker's balls. You cannot make this shit up," he mumbled though everyone could clearly hear him as he made his way, a faint limp and favoring his right side, back to camp.
She rubbed two grimy fingers together, making a pained expression of disgust as dried blood smeared with fresh blood. After a few seconds of gathering his gear, Blackwall followed Varric back to camp to restock on his inventory of potions. She gave his retreating figure a considering look, varying visible emotions ranging from suspicion to curiosity. The news of Blackwall's mistaken identity had spread no further than the Herald's closest contacts. Speculation on his past history had only invited cloudy answers - despite his upfront personality, he was very good at hiding. But he was an ardent warrior. If bonds of brotherhood are not built upon words, they are at the very least formed slowly in blood.
Iron Bull breathed deeply and allowed himself some time to bask in the afternoon sun. Clashes of steel and magic echoed off the mountains in the Hinterlands; the mage-templar war was vast and endless. Redcliffe sat in the northeast, gates barred shut from anyone who was not an apostate seeking asylum. He closed his eyes. A momentary vision flashed past his memory: the back of a raging dragon, thick plumes of smoke suffocating and causing his eyes to water, grip via thighs tightening as he was swung side to side, as he raised his sword with both hands and plunged into its crest. He could still hear its screams.
"Bull?" He opened his eyes. She had craned her neck back to stare questioningly at him, "You following?"
"Right behind you, Boss." Satisfied, she turned around and jogged back up the steppe caverns. Another vision pushed its way to the forefront of his mind: her back facing him, sprinting towards the High Dragon, left hand wielding fire, right hand wielding ice, and a thick miasma of power pouring from her body. "You know," he began conversationally, "if I was anymore truthful in my reports to Seheron, they might order me to convert you into the Qun."
"They can try," she slowed her pace till he caught up to her side and blinked twice, "You know," she parroted, with a reflective tone, "I had a friend, Sten, well, Arishok now, who told me the same. I told him that me joining the Qun was as likely as him becoming a Ferelden warden." Her inquiring stare reminded him of the assessing gaze she had given him when she had first met him and his chargers, pants worn from sliding down the cliff side of the Storm Coast.
Krem had good things to say about her; but it took seeing her to be struck by how young she still was (younger than him, younger than the people at her side). Barely entering adulthood when she stopped the Blight, barely resting after her first set of heroics before rebuilding the Ferelden Wardens from nothing but an abandoned keep - word traveled fast, whispered with a tint of fear. But she wasn't her titles, in fact... She would be more receptive to the odd quirk than staunch mannerisms. With this in mind, he had bowed with his good-will and respect paid for someone of her position, an arm over the chest and promised with a small tilt in the corner of his mouth, "Whenever you need an ass kicked, whenever you're getting your ass kicked, The Iron Bull is with you."
He was not wrong. She had laughed and poked him in his midsection, "You," she declared, trying to speak through her mirth, "I like you."
She knelt down to pluck a royal elfroot, smelling it to test its quality, "We're still on good terms due to a mutually beneficial trade of scented candles and baked goods. Apparently, you don't have cookies in Par Vollen." An easy grin stretched across her face, headless of the small cuts littering her visage.
At the camp, people bustled about in frantic movements, gathering firewood, repairing equipment, fulfilling requisitions, and healing the wounded. Boss's attention was called by Lead Scout Harding and they began to discuss further plans of movement for the Inquisition troops. They wandered to the side, seeking the shade of a nearby tree. Varric, having been tended to, sported an impressive band aid clearly slapped hastily on his cheek - but he looked more refreshed than he had before standing in knee deep amounts of slaughtered dragon. The dwarf side-eyed him, "If you keep salivating like that, you might get into a bit of trouble. Curly wouldn't appreciate you fawning over her."
It wasn't quite salivating, it was more like minor hero worship. Regardless, Iron Bull snorted, "If he is that upset, then the Commander should fight harder."
Leliana
Leliana's clothes still smelled faintly of the candles from her vigils that she partakes in every time the news of a scout's death reached her. "Honor the sacrifices," Amell had said when she first suggested what would become almost a nightly ritual, "No man or woman is expendable. Become the person that they see, embrace the qualities that inspired them to follow you." She had an armful of blood-red simple make, wax and wicks, sold wholesale at the Chantry that she claimed were used whenever a mage failed their Harrowing. "Or you can bathe in the blood of your enemies," She had shrugged then cursed when a candle slipped her hold and rolled onto the ground, "I might be selfish. The Inquisition might see you as Sister Nightingale, but you're always Leliana to me." So the Seneschal, Spymaster, Advisor, Bard, Archer, and Left Hand of the Divine continued her rites, if for nothing but a peace of mind and a practice to fall back on in hard times.
She had barely finished her prayers and farewells before she was being called to the war council. En route, she was given a hefty dossier on the situation at the arling. "It's pretty terrible," Amell warned as they walked side by side through the Chantry doors, "half of the inhabitants there are reluctant rebels. All of them have suffered from the war. It's more of a refugee camp than a sanctuary. And... Well, you're reading the more complicated bits."
"We've already agreed to reach out to the mages and I am not going to change my mind," Leliana reaffirmed as she flipped through the pile, eyes locking on keywords such as Tevinter Imperium and indentured servitude. "You need to distribute the magic in the area when you close the Breach. I will not have you risking your life without conduits."
"I'm not going to blow up, Leliana," Amell assured her. "If I do, I'll be sure to aim far from your shoes."
The glare that she got for that quip was scathing, "Don't joke..." A beat: the spymaster sighed, "Wait, of course you would. You didn't stop your black humor even the night before the the Battle of Denerim." Vivienne momentarily stopped her work at her table to glance up at them; Mother Giselle inclined her head in a greeting. High in the alcove, her ravens flew from perch to perch, staring down at the people below them with inquisitive eyes. "As long as you know what we are dealing with in Redcliffe and the ramifications of Grand Enchanter Fiona's decisions..." she trailed off, "You wanted to discuss something about her?"
Amell tilted her head to the side in thought, "Ah, that. Yes, I did," she leaned over, voice hushed, "I, er, want you to observe her" The spymaster raised an unimpressed eyebrow as Amell hurriedly gestured towards her face, "She looks familiar around the eyes. I have the strangest idea but," she shrugged, "It would be better to hear your thoughts first. Just keep it in mind - it's not an emergency."
Leliana pursed her lips, "Perhaps when all of this is over. Come, let us meet your new ally. I heard that he is quite the character," she opened the door and beckoned Amell through, "What was his name again?"
"Dorian Pavus," Amell said as she walked into the chamber, "of House Pavus," waving in the direction of the man standing opposite of the war table, flanked by Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra. Lady Josephine sat off to the side outlining a letter to King Alistair. Leliana assessed the newcomer silently: tanned skin, groomed hair, clothing that looked outright impractical for anyone, even a mage (when armor schematics rely upon the type of runes threaded into the cloth instead of the physics and durability of the material, designs evolve in the way of fashion instead of reason, but even Dorian was an outlier in Tevinter tastes) with an impressive number of buckles holding down his pieces. While the Spymaster was giving the man a hard glare, Amell's gaze contained overwhelming curiosity - examining him more like a specimen than an actual person. Then again, Amell used to stare at Zevran the same way when he had just joined their group all those years ago so really she shouldn't be surprised if this moment was going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. "He doesn't look Tevinter," Amell offered after nearly a minute of silence.
The man seemed to regain his composure with that comment, "Were you expecting a vision more monstrous? Elongated teeth and a set of horns perhaps." He huffed, crossing his arms, looking fairly affronted.
"Sorry," Amell looked mildly contrite as she crossed the room and peered over the map of the world, "the only people I've ever met from Tevinter were slavers who were kidnapping elves. They were an unpleasant group and, well, there wasn't enough time to sit them down for tea and ask them about themselves." Her fingers danced lightly over the map pieces, "Got some good gear from them," she mumbled just loud enough for the Spymaster to hear. Leliana resisted the urge to do something childish like stamp on her toes or poke her ribs.
Dorian leaned over the table, frowning as he followed their path of reasoning, "And you believe that all the mages of the Thedas are unintentionally selling themselves into slavery," he mused, propping his chin with a hand.
"You can't deny that as a possibility," Leliana pointed out with a cool tone, "I would put down saving the entire mage population from slavery as a high priority of the Inquisition. And the time magic that you said Magister Alexius used. He was purposely maneuvering around us, he wanted to reach the mages first."
"So you will help," Dorian concluded as he straightened. The tiniest bit of hope leaked through his tone.
"Against our better judgment," the Seeker muttered, eyes narrowing into a baleful glare. The stark light from the small fires encased her in an even more intimidating air.
"Before we go any further, I want to clarify," the Commander's grip tightened on his sword, "Are we really comfortable with sending the Herald into Redcliffe? We all know that we are willingly springing Gereon Alexius's trap by seeking negotiations with him," he demanded, sweeping an arm over the war table, "Not to mention, that even if everything goes well and we secure their services, the amount of mages in Haven might cause a backlash onto the Herald when we seal the Breach."
"It's either not enough power or too much," Amell countered, flicking her left wrist, revealing the layers of bandages around her hand that hid the mark from view, "Both options are quite horrible." Closing her eyes and minutely relaxing her stance, Cassandra grudgingly agreed.
"Going to Redcliffe would let us learn more of this Venatori cult that Mage Pavus mentioned," Josephine added. "Officially, they are not sanctioned in any capacity by the Tevinter Imperium, which limits our understanding of them." She made a flourish with her feather and let her draft aside to allow the ink to dry, "If we learn more through exploiting Magister Alexius's alliance, then we can further investigate who was responsible for opening the Breach."
"I will come along," as Dorian interjected, the Inquisition as a whole turned their heads in eerie synchronicity. Their actions did not deter him as he insisted, "I have insight into the magic that Alexius uses. You need me there." Amell looked like she was considering the offer.
"No," The Commander's voice echoed strongly against the walls with its intensity, "If you think it's that easy to trust you, you are very much mistaken." Leliana mulled over Dorian's offer, weighing the pros and cons. While he would be in close proximity to the Herald, he has pointed out the deficiencies in their knowledge about their new opponent. His reasons for helping were made abundantly clear. Did the risks outweigh the benefits? She stared at Cullen until he met her eyes, blushed red, and turned away. For the Commander, probably not.
"We've closed a fade rift together. That is as good as exchanging drinks," Amell laughed, tapping her fingers against the wood of the table. "However, Dorian Pavus" her eyes half-lidded, an unsettling smile spread across her features as she turned towards the man in question, "of House Pavus," she added as an afterthought, "if you betray the Inquisition, I must warn you that Leliana eats Magisters for breakfast." It was clear he didn't know how to make of the threat. This time, Leliana did reach out to pinch her friend in the side. Amell jerked away but otherwise seemed unfazed.
Josephine hid her smile behind a closed fist and a polite cough, "Come then, let us plan."