Like heavy blinds pulled up in a dark room, my connection to the Fade goes online. A trickle of mana comes through. The brightness and saturation crank up. And suddenly, I'm alive!

"Finally! I'm me again!" I summon fire onto my palm, extinguish it with a snap of my fingers, and break into a celebratory jig. "Whoo-hoo! I'm back, baby! I feel like all I've been doing lately is wallow in misery. Let's find a villain and kick their ass!"

"I think you are about to get your wish granted, Shiny." Varric gestures at a scout in the standard Inquisition garb — leather and cloth in different shades of green and a funny grey helmet — guarding the gate to the East Road. The expression on her face spells trouble. "She looks like she's in need of your special brand of assistance."

"Hi there." I wave as we close the distance. "What's going on?"

The scout takes in my horns, staff, torn and slightly bloody coat — strangely, Fereldan merchants don't have a stock of Qunari-sized clothes on hand at all times. Why is that, I wonder — and salutes with a fist to her heart. "Recruit Belette, ser. An honour to meet you. There are bandits up ahead — or something, anyway. They barricaded the road," she reports without prompting. "Watch yourself, Herald."

"You don't think they are bandits?" Cas asks, and I get an inkling we are talking about the comrades of not-bandits. My hands itch with the urge to cast something destructive. I go up on my toes, roll back onto my heels.

Belette crosses her arms over her chest; her fingers sneak up to fidget with a strap of her coat below the collar. "They don't act like it — show themselves too early, don't care about loot. It's like all they want is to drive travellers off the road."

"Anything else?" Cas says.

"Several groups, some with bows. They are better armed and have better armour than most around here. Watch your flank — they don't take prisoners."

Though my lips attempt to split into a wide grin, I school my face into seriousness. "Thanks for the heads-up, Belette. We'll look into it."

The East Road lies between a hill on the left and a mountain range on the right. Sparse pine trees and an abundance of rocks of all sizes fill the valley. The first group of outlaws stacked boxes and crates at the curve of the road, so we don't see them until we are upon them. The lack of sight, however, means nothing when you have my range of hearing.

Gesturing for a stop, I pause near the boulder preceding the curve and tilt my head. "Four of them," I whisper and cast a barrier. Magic comes at my call, surging to my fingertips faster than light, sings in my veins like it missed me too. Exhilaration floods me to the points of my horns, and finally, I smile without restraint. A deranged expression, no doubt.

Varric disappears in a cloud of smoke. The rest of us charge ahead, spells or sword at the ready.

One archer falls before he can loose his nocked arrow, three of Varric's bolts sticking out of his body. I take care of another, freezing him in place and adding lightning for good measure. The two remaining not-bandits, as their uniform black armour confirms, warriors with swords and shields, gang-up on Cas. She holds her own just fine, parrying and taking blows on her shield when she can't move away. She doesn't actually need our help, but teamwork cuts down the time in direct proportion to our numbers. Without communicating, Solas and I cast a Winter's Grasp—Fade fist combo on the left not-bandit. A bolt pierces the sword arm of the right. In under a minute, both men are dead.

Manoeuvring between stacked crates, I go to the three pallets lying around a campfire and rifle through backpacks. Trinkets, spare clothes, jerky… A letter.

"This says —" I wave the parchment in the air "— they are 'paid to keep things quiet and trade away from the East Road.' Curious, isn't it?"

"The stuff for a mystery novel," Varric agrees.

I don't like it a bit.

"According to my research," Solas says as we trudge down the road, "the ancient elves put wards around here. Perhaps, we can find the artefacts that we can use to straighten the Veil."

I nod. "That would be useful."

A few minutes later, a crumbling stone arch towers several hundred feet ahead to our right. Spells flash with purple light: an elven mage is battling a shade in front of it. We speed up and, like any concerned citizen should, help send them into the Void.

"Thank you for your assistance," the mage says as we join her on the paving stones forming a loose approximation of a staircase. Three thick black wavy lines cross her forehead, coming down the sides of her face. A vallaslin dedicated to Mythal, my mind suggests. The edges of the lines are blurred and uneven as if the tattoo artist was drunk. To be honest, they don't look much like a permanent addition to her skin. More like she sketched them with an oily eyeliner. Her dun hair is more grey than brown but coupled with the lack of wrinkles, I gather it's her natural colour. Then again, I can't remember ever seeing a wrinkled female elf. They all must age well.

"I'm Mihris," the mage says, addressing me in a respectful tone while ignoring the rest of my team. "By your weapons, I see you come ready for battle. Perhaps we face a common enemy in these demons."

I snort. "As far as I know, the whole damn world faces a common enemy in these demons."

She changes the subject. "I've heard of elven artefacts that measure the Veil."

"Funny. So has Solas." I indicate him with a nod.

Barely sparing a glance brimming with disdain at my bare-faced elven companion, Mihris continues, "They may tell us where the new tears will appear. I was not expecting so many demons, however. One of the artefacts must be nearby. Will you help me reach it?"

"This morning I had no idea they exist. Now you are the second person to bring them up in the last ten minutes. Isn't it interesting?" I raise an eyebrow. "We're looking for the same thing. You can join us" — pausing, I turn to my companions — "if nobody has objections." Nobody does. We start up the stairs toward what looks like a temple. Two pillars framing the entrance have collapsed and now prevent anyone from getting inside. Huh. I'm about to explore one of those scattered around Thedas ruins I heard about. Cool!

"So tell us about yourself," I say, out of politeness mixed with curiosity.

"I was — am — the First of Clan Virnehn," Mihris says. "I left in service of my clan and saw that great rift on my journey." An interesting slip of the tongue. To pry or not to pry? Ah, well. Not my division. "I know more of magic and the Veil than any shemlen, so I hoped to help."

"Ma harel, dalen." Solas' grave tone of voice raises the hair on the back of my neck. Mihris stiffens. I make a wild stab at a guess: he didn't thank her.

Near the entrance, he steps forward and lifts his arms. A greenish-blue glow suffuses his hands, expands outwards to the pillars. Like a conductor leading an orchestra, Solas directs the broken pieces to their correct positions. This isn't a spell. I take a moment to stare at him like a simpleton. The ease with which he shapes raw magic and bends it to his will is incredible.

He notices the attention and, tilting his head to the right, motions at the temple. "Shall we?"

I swallow. I wanna be like Solas in terms of magic and a badass MOFO like Cas on a battlefield when I grow up. "Um-hum."

A shade and a wraith loiter at the far side of the darkened… hm… let's call it a lobby. We, mages, dispatch them with a quick volley of spells from the doorway. Primal school — ice, lightning, and stone fists — for the win. Another wraith ascends the stairs on the left, splashing the small room with sickly-green patches of colour, just as we step inside. Solas and Varric attack at the same time, taking care of it in the span of a few moments.

The outside light barely reaches halfway in, but I make out a torch in a sconce mounted near the staircase. Something compels me to cast a spell I have no idea I know until the moment it takes form. I shiver.

"That's not normal fire." Varric's eyebrows hit his hairline as he stares at the flames the same colour as the magic that moved the pillars.

"Veilfire," Solas voices my thought. "I have heard of it before. It is a form of sympathetic magic, a memory of a fire that burns on this side of the Fade when the Veil is thin." Regarding me through eyes gone dark in the low lighting, Solas says, "It's interesting that you should know it when so many don't."

I shrug with one shoulder and pick up the torch. "'Interesting' is one way to put it."

"So we are taking the magical fire with us?" Varric's tone hints at his disapproval like a raging inferno on a kitchen stove implies a bit of a problem.

"Whyever not?" I smile. "It's pretty."

There's a sculpture of a man — from the waist up — in an alcove at the end of the room. Headless, he holds a bull's head, his outstretched arms raised high.

"A Minotaur?" I bring the torch closer. Light reflects on the naked torso, licking his abs and pectorals with blue-green tongues. Proportions aside, the muscles are rather realistic. Streaks of something dark — blood? — bisect both sides of the bull's face from eyes to chin: permanent tears. An icy, invisible hand caresses the skin of my back. "And here I thought it's an elvhen temple."

"It is," Solas confirms. His voice is quiet and flat. I look around. Banners with tattered edges lined with silver threads hang from the rafters. I scrutinise a depiction of a… dragon? Griffon? Some kind of bird of prey with two heads breathing fire on a black field. Search my patchy memory, but alas, nada. Not that I expected to know its origin, but still. Disappointing.

A pile of skulls materialises before me as I reach for the candles clustering on the alcove's stone border. The top tier scatters across the floor with a rattle. "Oops."

Without turning, I feel several glares pushing at my shoulders like a physical weight and hear a sigh. Cas', no doubt. I imagine she also looks heavenward, asking for patience. Fine, no candles. It's not like we need them all that much.

The way ahead is treacherous with skulls abound, so I choose the left of the two symmetrical staircases and start to descent.

"Something is odd about these ruins, but I cannot determine what," Solas says in the middle of the stairs that end with a balcony. Bones and shattered tiles crunch under our feet. Cobwebs cling to every corner. Tree roots crawled through a hole in the roof, opening a way for natural illumination and a light breeze that freshens dry, stale air.

Skirting broken pieces of rectangular pillars, I come to a staircase leading to the ground floor and a bunch of demons keeping vigil in front of the masterpiece of this temple — a tall sculpture of an enormous skull sitting on a trio of large skulls resting on a pedestal surrounded with regular-sized and likely previously belonging to actual people skulls. The main skull gapes in a wordless greeting. Oh, and there are identical sculptures of a vaguely humanoid shape in a cloak that has a skull on its shoulders and is leaning on a sword. Two of these sculptures hold up the last intact pillars.

"Skulls, skulls, skulls…" I mutter, surveying the chamber and seeing — you guessed it — more skulls. "What the fuck? Someone had an obsession?"

Before anyone can answer — if they were going to, that is — a pair of shades glides from the darkest corner. Coming into and disappearing from view, they move between yet more ruined pillars. All right, back to business. A barrier springs over me.

"Thanks, Solas."

I drop the torch and go for my staff, cast a lightning chain. It hits the right shade and jumps to a wraith trailing unnoticed in its wake. The battle commences with spells whooshing through the air. Cas charges another wraith. Varric does his thing. A thump sounds to my left.

"Watch it, flat ear," Mihris' irritated voice drifts from the same direction. Guess Solas accidentally introduced his staff to a part of her body.

I suppress a smirk — she earned it fair and square. "Mind your words or take a hike."

Twirling my own weapon with a flourish, I freeze the last wraith for Cas to shutter, pick the torch up, and descend to the main floor. In the sudden absence of noise, the clicking of my heels on the granite sounds like gunshots.

A rust coloured diagram consisting of a triangle, circles, dots, and different lines covers the better part of the floor underneath the hole in the roof. Whoever painted it — I sniff and grimace — in blood liked to work in good lighting.

"This place gets better and better, doesn't it? The creep factor is up to eleven." A dark spherical object sitting at the base of the main attraction blips on my magical radar when I get near. "Think that's it."

Close to inaudible footsteps announce Solas' arrival. He stops next to me, head to shoulder, and sends a tendril of magic toward the object. Rotating parts come into motion, and the artefact lights up, iridescent aura with predominantly rift-green and golden hues settling over it.

"Yes," Solas says with an air of satisfaction about him, "the wards are helping to strengthen the Veil. This area should be safer for travellers now."

"That should prove useful," Mihris murmurs, wandering past.

Of course, I can't tell the difference. All I can say is the artefact does something, but whether it influences the Veil, powers up the lanterns, or shoots fireworks at night is up to debate. Good thing I've got an expert on hand.

"Excellent." I pat Solas' shoulder. He doesn't even flinch, and I smile. "Time to loot!"

Dust and cobwebs cover rusted chests like dirty laundry every surface in a bachelor's pad. I don't bother with floor vases — skulls sit atop most of them, so I doubt I'd like their content. A lot of chests are empty though a few have rotten fabric with threads so old they might crumble into noting if I breathe on them wrong. The only valuable catch is five battered gold coins with a woman's bust on one side and a dragon on the other. I don't recognise them. Tevinter? The 'Vints have a dragon fetish, I remember. I pocket the coins anyway. If nothing else, they'll do as souvenirs.

"Looks like the ancestor left something for me. Interesting." Mihris crouches beside a casket with a splintered lid, smirking. As she gets up, a round disc on a thin silver chain dangles from her fingers. She looks at me, disregarding everyone else, as usual. "I believe our alliance has come to an end. Go in peace, stranger."

"Ma halani, ma glandival," Solas says in the same grave tone he addressed her before. "Vir enasalin." His voice is deeper, lower when he speaks elvhen. Heat pools in my stomach. Damn, if he wasn't an elf… I sigh, for the first time ever regretting his slight constitution. He's taller and broader in shoulders than anyone else I've met of his race, but that doesn't add to much. I prefer to bed partners I can't break with a careless move of my pinky.

Whatever his words mean, they cause Mihris to hesitate.

"I…" she trails off, glancing at the amulet and biting her lower lip. "Perhaps, you are right. Here, take it. Go with Mythal's blessing."

The trinket changes hands, and Solas inclines his head either in acknowledgement or in a simple farewell. I wave at her, but she's already turned. Whatever.

Intending to follow Mihris' example, I take a final sweep of the place. A hint of green glints on the wall to my right. The fluorescent paint gleams in the torchlight, matching its colour.

"The veilfire must be making it legible," Solas says, following me to the drawing.

We all study it in silence. Varric scratches his chin. "Looks like a rune schematic."

I squint, but the design fails to become meaningful. No idea how six wavy lines that resemble a stylised flame could be translated into something comprehensible. On the other hand, I'm a noob at any schematics, not just runic. "Would be useful if we find someone who can work with this stuff." I sigh. A matter for later consideration. "I know I don't have anything to write with."

Opening his backpack, Varric pulls a leather-bound journal and a pencil and sketches the symbol, and thus concludes our business in the temple.

I stop to cut an elfroot on the way to the East Road and spot a flag peeking out from behind an extensive collection of boulders: white on black, a fist squeezing a snake.

Muttering, "And I hear herb gathering is a thankless job," I lean over the side of the right boulder. The camp sits in a small clearing. The hillside at its back is carved into high vertical blocks. Nobody can sneak up on the not-bandits from that direction. Or from any other direction, for that matter, since the camp's location smack-dab in the middle of the path between rock walls provides excellent visibility to whoever stands watch.

"Great!" I conclude my survey. "Frontal assault it is." Well, for most of us. Varric's just going to puff in a cloud of black smoke and stick his literal bolt — mind, get out of the gutter! — in some unlucky sod's soft and vulnerable part. Fine by me. As has grown into a habit, I cast a barrier over our group while we are still close to each other.

I turn to Cas with a half-smile on my face. "Attack?"

"Attack." She nods, matching my expression.

Taking a running start, we charge into the open. Almost immediately one of the not-bandits shouts in alarm, alerting the others to the inevitability of their impending doom. He screams, "We are und—" and shuts up, biting his tongue as currents of electricity make rounds through his body, blood trickling between his lips.

A warrior charges at Cas, meeting her halfway. Blades clash. That's all the attention I'm willing to spare. Not going to be caught with my pants down and my ass up in the air, inviting to fuck me over, and not in a good way, again, thanks. Instead of admiring Cas' work, I set another archer on fire. He flares up like a bonfire liberally flavoured with gasoline. It's quick and will cut the clean-up time. The downsides of this strategy, however, are the horrific screams of the dying man, who rolls on the ground, trying in vain to put out magical flames. I shudder and look away. Also, lost profit, my inner voice points out. Ugh. But yes, there's that.

Since no more archers appear, I focus on a warrior, freezing him on the spot. The spell flows like a charm, and with a thought, I overpower it to unbearable temperature. If I'm right, the not-bandit should be dead in a matter of moments. I look around. Varric and Solas took care of three more warriors as evident by the smashed and pincushioned corpses. A black-armoured figure streaks past the stone blocks, intent on fleeing into the ravine I somehow know lies behind them. A bolt puts a stop to his progress.

"That wasn't all of them," I say. Going by the number of pallets and sleeping bags, at least four more members of their crew are missing.

"I agree," Cas says, unfurling a note she found under a flat and frankly incredibly sad pillow. "They must be hiding in the Rebel Queen's Ravine."

Ah, so that's where the not-bandit was running.

"Another letter. This one is regarding patrol patterns." Cas frowns, gaze darting over the lines of uneven script. Her tone hardens. "They want to keep the refugees away from the area."

"Make it two." Varric joins us with a note of his own. "This operation's well organised and, if I'm to judge, equally well funded."

"We should investigate the ravine," Solas says.

I roll my eyes. Capitan Obvious strikes again. "Like it wasn't our next stop."

Barriers cast and weapons drawn, we creep through a gap between two hillsides carved into narrow stone blocks. Only four not-bandits loiter in the ravine, stocking a campfire and generally looking unconcerned with the world. One of them is a huge mountain of a man, easily as tall as I am and twice as wide. He's the only one wearing a helmet — matte black, same as the rest of his armour.

I adopt my most commanding voice, which, as it turns out, sounds a little deeper, and bark, "Stop right there, you criminal scum!"

The not-bandits startle, honing in on me with identical expressions that say, Is she out of her mind? A snort and a quiet mutter, "Only you, Shiny," comes from somewhere ahead to my right. Then, one of the two archers bolts off the bench, shouting, "Kill the warrior!" like mages are nothing to worry about and nocks and looses an arrow. It bounces off Cas' shield, and the fight is on.

Varric disposes of him while Cas tangles with the warrior toting a sword-shield combination. The man-mountain's grunt is more of a roar. He hefts a big-ass maul — it's taller than he is, seriously! — and goes straight for me. In a last hooray, the low sun casts a patch of light on his path. Its rays catch on the maul's two snarling stone heads, snag on the sharp teeth, and glide to the massive counterbalance on the shaft's end. The man stomps forth.

"Fucking hell." The sight alone is enough to weaken my knees. I rea-ally don't want to test my barrier against his bloody inferiority complex of a weapon. I bet his dick is the smallest of them all. Lightning, then. That should do it. I nod and cast the spell, not quite believing it will work. The man might shrug it off and go on the offensive like that first berserker— He doesn't. His muscles lock and, rooted to the spot, he convulses. It's awful to watch, but I repeat, again and again, and envy his endurance as he shrugs off the effects and kicks up his pace in between my casting. The final bolt is a little too slow in coming. I'm running low on mana after the last two battles. By now, I'm pretty good with not overexerting myself, but it's still a work in progress.

The man roars, his maul flies up. I backpedal. My grasp on magic evaporates along with my concentration. This is, however, not the biggest problem. I'm not gonna make it from under the swing in time.

Fear doesn't get a chance to grip my insides: the maul freezes in the air. Ice encases my attacker from the snarling heads of his weapon to the heels of his boots. A rock makes the ground under my left foot uneven, and with a splash of my hands, I lose balance. The momentum carries me to the natural conclusion of the move.

"Good timing, Solas!" I stare at the glittering in the waning light sculpture. From down here, it looks incredibly menacing but also beautiful. Huh. I should have thought of Winter's Grasp.

"I do what I can." Solas sounds startlingly close, and I glance up. The angle of sunlight casts his features into contrasting shadows, sharply outlining his head and long, pointed ears. A thought pops into my head: they do look like leaves. Upon consideration, I don't give it voice and wordlessly accept his help. Clasping my hand, he hauls me up.

A short survey of the loot brings us another letter.

"Maker damned fools!" Varric spits out. "They are mining red lyrium!"

I scan the message over his head. An organised party consisting of dwarven families, plural, hired bandits to keep their activities out of the public's eye.

"Great. The idiots are distributing it like contaminated heroin in a trashy nightclub." I scrub my face with a palm, sighing. "We'll need to be on the lookout for that stuff. Send patrols here. Hey, can you reach the guild's members? Put a word out that this shit is poisonous and whoever so much as touches it goes batfuck insane?"

Varric nods. "I will do what I can, but don't hold much hope. Looks like they are determined to make a profit no matter what."

I squeeze his shoulder. The level of tension drops a notch. "Someone will listen. It won't be for nothing."

With a look of gratitude, he puts his hand on mine.

"This is a good place for a camp," Cas says, interrupting the moment. Indeed, the ravine is out of the way, tall walls surrounding it on all sides. But instead of providing a sense of security, the stone is closing in on me. I shiver and glance at the sliver of the sky, feeling like I'm at the bottom of a well. Now that the sun has set, darkness descends rapidly. Soon, we'll have to stumble along the road with makeshift torches and lighted staves. A wave of exhaustion crests over me just at thinking about the trek back to the Crossroads.

"All right, let's stay here."

The clean-up doesn't take long. By luck, I draw the shittiest — third — shift and crawl into my sleeping bag without bothering to set up a tent. And no matter how uneasy I feel, I'm out like someone turned off the switch.

-[break]-

In the morning, when sun rays barely touch the horizon, we pack up and traipse to the elven widow's house.

"No need to lose daylight," Cas says to my complaints of an early rise.

We take an unconventional route. By which I mean that instead of following the roads, we cling to the hillside and visit every cave along the way. This tactic brings bountiful results: two apostate caches and a large deposit of drakestone.

The widow — Maura, the name surfaces in my mind — opens the front door cautiously. Her eyes widen like she didn't expect to see us so soon. Or at all.

"Good news! We found and killed the bastards, as promised." I pull the velvet pouch out of my pocket. Her gaze slides to it. "Bad news. There are so many rings, it'd be impossible to track down their owners. Find your husband's and take anything else you want."

"I— Thank you." She takes the pouch, riffles through it. Up above, long, low clouds drift like flattened and stretched cotton candies. Next to me, Cas stands motionless, waiting at as close to parade rest as the shield at her back allows: she keeps her hands on the hilt of her sword instead.

"Here," Maura says, returning the pouch. The fingers of her other hand curl around a simple gold band. "Thank you for your assistance, again. Maker watch over you."

"Gods be with you," I return. She blinks, twice in quick succession. Yeah, when you think of a Herald of Andraste, you don't imagine her pagan. I do so love blowing expectations to high heaven.

"You need to stop doing that," Cas says as we back away. She is sporting only a mild frown, and her lips aren't pressed together, so I'm not too worried she's pissed off by my polytheism. "People expect you to believe in the Maker."

I shrug. "People should expect less. It makes life more interesting."

Cas sighs. "We — you — are representing the Inquisition—"

"And?" I arch an eyebrow. "I don't deny the existence of your god, do I?"

"Nor do you believe in him, I suspect."

I have to grin. She does know me. "Naw, why would you say that?"

"The existence of the Maker is a theological matter, which cannot be proved or disproved," Solas says, and his next words make me stop in my tracks and stare: "It is the perception of his worshipers that is important since the Inquisition draws support from them."

I clutch at my heart, feigning a grave injury. "Et tu, Brutus? Varric, I beg you, tell me you support any of my quirky beliefs!"

"All right, Shiny" — he pats my arm — "I support them."

"Thank you," I say on an exhale, putting a lot of feelings in my tone.

The corners of his eyes crinkle, hinting at the humour otherwise hidden in his expression. "You make a good protagonist, and besides, I'm here to help close the Breach, not pamper to noble officials."

"Uh!" With a disgruntled huff, Cas storms off, picking up speed, the sound of her footfalls especially pronounced like she is stomping on the faces of her enemies, and Varric chuckles. Not surprisingly, Cas reaches a man pacing along a low, crumbling stone wall first.

"Excuse me, have you seen another Inquisition scout? An elven woman, answers to Ritts?" he asks, pausing.

Cas growls in the negative.

"She's investigating apostates in the area," the man continues. "She should have reported back by now. I'm on duty here, or I'd go look for her."

The rest of the group and I catch up. A hundred feet ahead, half-sunken into the earth, a fallen head of the dead prophet stares at the sky with huge unseeing eyes.

"If we meet her," Cas says, "we will relate your concern."

"Oh, look." I point at the remains of a fort behind the scout. All that's left is a part of a round tower, now a semicircle. "A good camp location. Cas, mark it up!" I say, bouncing toward the ruins.

Cas doesn't roll her eyes, but it's a close thing.

-[break]-

"I have heard your books are very popular, Master Tethras," Solas says a while later.

Varric sends him a guarded look. "I do all right."

"I am glad of it."

"Really? No sarcasm, no superior attitude?"

Solas regards him evenly. "We live in a dark and angry time, child of Stone. So much of what people believe has come crashing down. If you bring them a little peace with the worlds you make between the pages, you have done more than most."

I turn to Cas, nudge her in the ribs — Ow-ow-ow! My elbow! — and stage whisper, "I think he is a fellow fan."

"And I think we should investigate this cave," she says, staring straight ahead.

Judging by the wooden planks leading up to it and carts and a pick lying around, I'd bet good money on it being a mine. The glowing blue surface of the barrier covering the entrance is a spiralling mirror. A focused stream of fire makes it brittle. With a sound of glass breaking, it shatters into tiny pieces that dissipate not reaching the ground.

Inside, two shades spring to life as a deranged apostate — dirty clothes, matted hair, a maniacal gleam in his eyes; the whole stereotypical shebang — summons them from his spot at the back of the cave. We make short work of them all and spread out. There's a large red lyrium growth in the furthest nook on the right.

"Probably drove him nuts," I decide aloud. The growth pulses with eery light. It sparkles; the colour shifts inside the appendages of the crystalline thing, creating an impression of blood running through veins. It looks alive and evil, unnatural. I shudder. "Although, you need to be a fruitcake, to begin with, to stay with such a lovely neighborino." How anyone can willingly mine or consume it, I can't even start to comprehend.

Destroying it isn't enough. In the interest of being thorough, I ask Solas to collapse the cave entrance.

"Is it true that the entire dwarven economy relies upon lyrium?" he asks Varric when the dust settles.

Varric's right shoulder makes a minute twitch. "Mostly. We've got the nug market cornered as well."

"And the dwarves of Orzammar have never studied lyrium?" Solas says. An excellent question.

"If they have, they certainly haven't shared anything up here." Giving the cave one last glance, Varric turns away. "Why?"

"It is the source of all magic, save that which mages bring themselves. Dwarves alone have the ability to mine it safely. I wondered if they had sought to learn more."

"The folks back in Orzammar don't care much about anything but tradition," Varric replies, tone like a sackful of lemons.

"A pity," I say. "We could use a little more intel just about now."

-[break]-

After climbing a tower with a lot of mabaris in decor and crossing a wooden bridge, we get to the hill where the Winterwatch Tower reveals itself as a fort fallen into disrepair. Its left tower has partly collapsed. The walls framing the path leading to the gate are missing big chunks of stone. The portcullis is down, covering the remaining one-fourth of a door.

"I sense another elven artefact nearby," Solas says out of nowhere.

"Good. Because I don't feel a damn thing, aside from hunger and the chill on my back. When will I get new garb, Cas?"

"As soon as the merchants find something to fit your stature," she says, voice dry as dirt under our feet.

I frown. "Damn, that can be either never or not in my lifetime."

"Don't be so glum, Shiny. I've already ordered you a cloak from a local seamstress. It won't be so fine as your current, but she can repair it later."

I send Varric a look full of admiration, imagining myself a cartoon character with hearts beating in my eyes. "You are a marvel!"

One corner of his mouth tugs up. "And don't you forget it."

"I know you," a woman says, accompanying it with a sceptical once-over. Dressed in a long dress with elaborate ornaments on the sleeves and waist and a belt with a large oval buckle that can stop a bullet in its tracks, she stands outside the portcullis. Weaponless. Moronic, if you ask me, given the crime rate and danger levels. "You are the one they call 'the Herald of Andraste' for what you did in Haven. But are you? The Maker hasn't told me."

"Speak with him often, are you?" Before she can take offence, I add, "I've no idea, but someone saw fit to give me this" — I flash my palm, and it turns green like on command. If I'm doing it, it's not a conscious decision — "to seal the rifts. So."

The woman's severe expression stays put. "Prove it. Show me that the rifts bend to your will, the will of the Maker. Show me the power you wield."

Crazy or not, business is business. "You've got something nearby?"

As it turns out, not only do they have a rift — in their basement, no less — but the cult congregating in this fort is worshipping the bloody thing. What the actual fuck?!

"What next? Sacrificing virgins and newborns to demons?"

Solas shrugs. "I suppose, it was inevitable that some people would take solace in thinking it is the will or their Maker."

"No, I get there are 'the end is nigh' types. Just didn't expect to meet them here."

A statue of a woman with a sword and a shield in her hands and a face so fugly she can't be Andraste — though the 'halo' behind her suggests otherwise — is the centrepiece of the courtyard and the local forum. Nobles and peasants alike mill around, chatting or listening in on conversations. Tattered, faded Ferelden banners sway on the gentle wind up on the battlement connecting the farthest towers.

The rift is visible even from the gate — a green glow emanating from the opposite side of the fort. We march there, going through a passage with statues of grave men hiding their faces in their hands, crying or despairing. People in what I recognise as clerical robes of this cult kneel before them, praying.

I stride down the steps and get bowled over in the middle of the long and hard staircase. Thank gods I have a barrier. Bruised tailbone is nothing compared to what I'd have gotten without its protection. A distinctive feeling of dread settles in.

"Fucking terrors." Lesser terrors, but still. Unpleasant.

Not getting up, I turn and jam my staff's blade into the demon's stomach, preventing it from teleporting, and send a load of lightning down its gullet. The thing shrieks. I add more mana to the spell and watch Cas cut it down severing its back. The terror disintegrates into green mist that gets sucked into the rift. Behind Cas, Solas has frozen the demonic version of a grasshopper who jumped Varric, and Varric is peppering it with explosive bolts. Silently, Cas gives me a hand up.

The next batch consists of three terrors. I get to watch them appear, so without further ado, I freeze the first one the moment it materialises in full. A stone fist shatters it to smithereens. While I'm busy dealing with that fucker, the second jumps Cas, appearing behind her back. She must have an extra pair of eyes or preternatural senses because she turns her shield in time to block an incoming tail. Since Varric and Solas deal with the third and final demon just fine on their own, I lend my assistance to her.

Time to try out a new spell. Scraping the memory bank for an incantation that goes along with intent, I think the words and imagine the desired effect. Not sure about the rifts, but the magic bends to my will without a hitch. Lines of white light encase the demon in a cage; hoops of the same light run from the ground up in rhythmical pulses. The demon freezes. Can't be certain with that parody of an octoface, but I think it's hurting. I hope it does. Either way, Cas finishes it with her sword while the terror is paralysed.

With no new threats, I close the rift in a practised move.

"Crushing Prison? This is a new one," Solas comments.

"Expanding my repertoire. Thought I'd put to use my theoretical knowledge."

"You've been avoiding glyphs."

"Have I?" I think back to the last couple of day. Hm. "Indeed. That's a lapse. Will try to cast 'em more often."

"Does anybody else smell that?" Varric wrinkles his nose. "Seriously? Just me?"

"If you mean sulphuric stench mixed with ozone, then yes, I smell it too. Same goes for dog fur, shit, and sweat. Those are kinda commonplace around here."

"I was talking about the smell of demonic leftovers, but thanks for reminding me of the famous Ferelden qualities."

I sketch him a bow. "You are welcome. Also, aside from fur, I was talking about people."

The disgusting sludge the rift left behind is Spirit Essence. I grimace but dutifully gather it into a stray piece of cloth. Another one, Solas is quick to educate me, is Lightning Essence, which, at least, reminds me of the air after a storm and not something less appetising. An image of wet asphalt and a laughing face of a young girl, a strand of blonde hair plastered across her forehead and freckled nose, overlays the dwarven statues. Before I can focus on the details, it dissolves like the terrors we destroyed.

The place we are in is not so much a basement as a backyard with bare earth as a floor and familiar stone pillars forming a square room. A massive breach in the roof allows sunlight in. Sunbeams, filtered through the foliage and tree roots coiling down like lianas, catch dust particles and dry leaves lifted in the air during our fight. It's pretty in here with the green menace gone.

Walking into the courtyard, I notice a notable shift in the atmosphere. Not ten minutes ago, people were reassuring each other about their safety. And now, they are celebrating. Smiles and friendly expressions greet us at every turn. "The Inquisition is here!" "The Herald has closed the rift!" "We are saved!" are the prevailing exclamations. In a way, it makes me responsible for them, too. And the weight keeps piling on.

The reverential stares from the clerical part of the cult, however, are harder to stomach. I feel like a slab of meat on a platter of a hungry cannibal, ready to tuck in. To avoid them, I follow my nose and duck into the right wing of the fort where a drinking establishment sprawls over two storeys.

Smells of strong spirits waft through the doorway all the way to the front gate. I guess, everyone nowadays has a reason to get shit-faced. A couple of enormous barrels lies under the staircase to the second floor to accommodate the demand. On the first floor, people in less pretentious attire occupy two of the three available tables that can seat six, or eight if there were more chairs. A friendly waitress deftly deposits tankards for the chatting patrons. The abundance of space and fresh air — thanks to a hole in the wall over the stairs — coupled with the crackling of the fire and the warm lighting makes this place actually nice.

"If you see my beloved, tell her I'm waiting for her," comes a voice of a young man as we climb up. As soon as my eyes are over the floor level, I spot its owner accosting another tavern-goer on his way out. He's a nobleman for it's impossible to take him for a peasant or a well-off farmer, not in that garb. The material of his robe is of the best quality I've seen on any of the cultists. Treated with golden thread and trimmed with fur, I'd say his ensemble'd fetch enough to feed an average Fereldan family for a month. So: noble. A handsome one, too. Barely in his twenties, with a strong, lightly stubbled jaw, full lips, and straight nose. His only flaw is a frankly appalling haircut. The short patch left on the top of his head is like a dark island on his shaved skull.

"And how would I know her from a sack of grain?" I mutter without thought as an answer to his plea.

"Well, she is his beloved, Shiny," Varric says, glancing around and making a quick assessment of the place, "so, at a guess, she's female shaped and probably somewhat attractive."

The left corner of my mouth turns up. "That's assuming he's into females and not grain sacks."

Varric snorts. "You know how to paint an enticing image."

"Lady Vellina should be here," the nobleman says as we draw closer. "We need to be together when the Maker comes."

"Oh, look, he's also a cultist." I can't quite contain a shudder. "Wonderful."

Despite my expectations, the second floor is no more crowded than the first. Several couples sit at the tables for four, others just stand around the room or enjoy the excellent view of the courtyard and the mountain behind the fort from the wooden balcony. A dark green rug runs from the stairs to the three enormous barrels propping the far wall under a tapestry of a pissed-off bull. I think. It can as well be a shitty depiction of a mabari.

"How does your lady love look like?" I ask, jumping to the heart of the matter. Screw the pleasantries. "We might have seen her on the way here."

"She has the most beautiful blue eyes," the nobleman says, going starry-eyed, "and her luscious blonde hair flow in golden waves to her waist."

Not a very helpful description. "Anything else?"

"She promised to wear my favourite cloak, the colour of forget-me-nots with a fennec fur trimming."

Oh, fuck. The merriment of moments before drains away. My mood goes down with the grace of a lead balloon. I'm a complete and utter asshole. Going by the rate of Varric's expression turning sombre, his thoughts mirror mine.

"I'm sorry. We passed her body earlier today. Bandits got to her first." I swallow, watching the man pale. "We've given her the last rite and a nice funeral. With flowers," I add. It seemed a small thing at the time. She was so young, younger than her Romeo. The first sight of her, hair splayed out like a halo around a pallid face, made me stumble over nothing. My heart lodged in my throat, I took off at a run to get a good look at her features. I didn't recognise her, of course, but she reminded me of someone. The loss of a bunch of embriums wasn't that big of a deal, anyway.

"But… We are meant to be together." The nobleman's eyes glisten with a sheen of tears. "The Maker wouldn't keep us apart!"

"I'm sorry," I repeat inanely. What else can I say to that? Shouldering off my backpack, I fish out a deep blue ribbon and a golden ring on a black leather string. The ring was hidden under her clothes. Probably the only reason whoever killed her didn't take it. "Here. We were hoping to find a family member, so…" I shrug. "I think it should belong to you."

"What am I to do now?" Resembling a lost puppy, he looks at the keepsakes in his hand. They have no answer. I do.

"You can join the Inquisition. Fight for the side of the angels. We need people who want to make Thedas a better and safer place."

He nods. "Yes, I will do that. I and my men will join your cause, Herald. Lord Berand, at your command." He bows, fist to heart, and I return the gesture, wondering, why the hell didn't he arrange an escort for his girlfriend if he has warriors at his disposal?

Leaving Cas to speak logistics, I venture forth. A fat crow perches on the balcony railing. It caws, flapping inky wings, when I stop beside it. One beady, black eye glares at me, daring to encroach on the bird's territory. Since there is a distinct lack of elves, I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender, intent on returning inside.

"Fine, fine. You may keep your place."

"Her-rald," the bird says, startling me into flinching, "of Andr-raste."

Spinning so fast I almost tumble over the railing, I shout, "Wait," but the raven has already taken flight, and all I'm left to do is watch it become a smaller smudge against the backdrop of pine trees and blue sky.

"Did you hear it?" I ask Varric, whom I see in the doorway as soon as I turn around.

"Hear what?" Taking in my agitated state, Varric raises his eyebrows.

I jerk my head to the side, hoping to unscramble my brain into order. "Nothing."

"Come. A hot meal is what you need right now, and yours truly has already arranged it." He smirks. "It's your favourite — a mystery stew."

"Thanks, Varric. You are a true friend. If I die of food poisoning after consuming undercooked rat, I'll make sure Cas blames it on you."

"Anything for the Herald."

"But no sexual favours." I nudge his shoulder.

"Alas, that is off the table."

I sigh. "Fine, continue to ruin my dreams."

-[break]-

After looking at everyone on the ground level and asking every male elf if he left a mother with a lung decease at the Crossroads, I finally find Hyndel in the opposite wing. He isn't the only elven cultist either. We have to climb a precarious ladder to the top floor and walk around the piles of rubble on the crumbling battlement to reach him, and the asshole has the gall to disbelieve my words.

"Look," I say, glaring him into shutting up. The man's — boy's, really — ears twitch and droop at the tips. "I don't care whether you believe me or not. We got your mother her medicine and brought you the news. What you do now — break her heart by staying here or not — is up to you."

He sputters, but I'm in no mood to listen.

"My task is done. Good luck communicating with the Maker."

With the last meaningful glare, I stride off. It would be even more impressive and pointed if there wasn't so much broken masonry. Kinda hard to look majestic when your nose damn near ploughs the ground, but I manage.

"Varric, I've noticed you haven't mentioned yourself in the Tale of the Champion," Cas says a couple of minutes later, trailing in my pissed-off wake as we traverse a passage back to the right wing.

Varric hmms, glancing at her sideways. "I don't want to bore people."

"You don't want to incriminate yourself, you mean."

"Oh, same thing really."

"Nah, that's not it." I slow down and give him a knowing look. "You are just too modest."

"Who, me?" Varric's eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. "Have you met me? You must be thinking of a different dwarf."

"Nuh-uh. Deny all you want, cupcake, but the thought of a horde of screaming fangirls racing after you, waving their smalls like flags, to pet your chest hair scares you to the Void."

Lifting his shoulders, he swallows, a distant look in his eyes. "That… is a disturbing prospect."

-[break]-

On a balcony of another tower, an elven artefact rests on a low accent table like a cheap vase. In the daylight, the gunmetal grey stone of its body seems cold and industrial, especially in contrast with the warm bronze of its stand. If I didn't know it belongs to a different culture, one glance at its angular form would have clued me in, though I'd guess dwarven.

"What, they thought it's a sculpture?" I give activating it a try. A little magical nudge lights the thing in a yellowish-green halo, iridescent currents not unlike lightning run over the whole sphere, crackling.

"Excellent." Solas actually smiles. "Now if you find another artefact without me, you can activate it yourself."

"I feel so proficient. Sure, I won't have a problem making it work." I pause and, layering my voice with a thick slab of sarcasm, add, "If I ever stumble over it. In a dark cave or something equally ill-illuminated. My poor toes."

-[break]-

Back in the courtyard, the woman from the gate, the cult leader, mentions Maker's tears and introduces herself as Speaker Anais.

"Is there a Listener?" I arch an eyebrow.

"We all listen for the word of the Maker," she says and then proceeds to offer their service.

I think about it, confer with the group, and decide: "Have your people help the refugees, spread the word of the Inquisition, and gather any secrets or information pertinent to our cause." Why choose when you can have everything, right?

"As you say, Herald. We will do our part, and when the Maker calls you to your great purpose, remember that we served you and meet us at his side," Speaker Anais intones, solemn like a gravestone.

"Sure." I nod and wave in farewell, and, turning, mutter under my breath, "I'll even say hi for you to Andraste when we have a tea party."

"Herald," Cas says with extreme reproach.

"What, you don't think the Lady Prophet likes tea? No problem, I'll bring wine. Or not. She was a slave, right? And a barbarian. Hmm…" I pause and tap my lips with a finger. "Varric, make sure to get more moonshine just in case!"

With a huff, Cas throws her hands up. "You are impossible."

"Not true. I'm here, aren't I? Therefore, possible!" I bite my lower lip to keep from laughing at her frustrated expression. "Just not very probable."

Cas makes a face like she's naming her hellish headache after me and speeds up, putting six feet between us. Still together, but with enough space to distance herself. She's in a mood, all right, and I'm not even sure it has anything to do with me in the first place. As we clear the gate, I glance at Varric, who shrugs in response, as if to say, 'How should I know?'

"Hey—" I start, but the sounds of a commotion snatch my attention. Honing in on the angry voices, I jump over the lowest part of the wall on our right. A short distance ahead, near the cliff, an Inquisition archer fends off a trio of templars hurling insults about consorting with blood mages or some such. I don't really listen. What can I say? I see one of my people in trouble, and that won't do.

I hit the ground before her feet with the Glyph of Repulsion, and the tin cans sail backwards like they are tied to an elastic band stretched too far. It gives the archer a chance to use her bow as intended and not as a blunt instrument of dubious reliability against sharp steel. With the addition of my team's firepower, the templars expire rather fast.

"Thank you," the archer says. "They came out of nowhere, looking for apostates. I simply got in the middle of it." Her voice is unsteady, and her fingers tighten and loosen their hold of her bow. Her gaze skitters around the clearing and arrives at the body of a mage lying on a blanket slowly turning pink with her blood. Beside the dead woman are an overturned picnic basket and two metal goblets. A dark green glass bottle is spilling its content, dyeing the last unstained grey corner a rich burgundy.

I lower my head. "I'm sorry for your loss."

The archer startles but doesn't deny the obvious. "I, um, maybe was passing the time with Eldredda."

"Do you want our help with the funeral?"

"I— No, thank you, Herald." She swallows.

I turn to go, then stop, regarding her in a new light. I'm making her nervous, and not because of my rumoured close to divine status. "Are you Ritts, by any chance?"

Her back tenses into wooden rigidity. "Yes, ser."

Investigating apostates, was she? Cas frowns and opens her mouth, but I shake my head. While shirking her duties isn't something to overlook, Ritts did lose her lover only minutes ago, and Cas would chew her into a paste. "We'll let your partner know you are fine."

Not meeting my eyes, Ritts stutters, "At first, Eldredda was just an apostate who didn't shoot at me, and then, well… Are you going to report me?"

"Not this time."

Varric shifts. Glancing at him, I inch my chin down in a minuscule gesture.

"Look, kid," he says, "if you can talk an apostate out of her pants in the middle of a war, you have a gift. Use it. Gather information, use that ability to do good."

"All right." Ritts' expression brightens a smidgen. "Thanks for not reporting me in."

"Just so we are clear," I say, and she tenses back. "You get a free pass only once. Don't let me down."

Ritts nods, her head bobbing up and down like Chinese porcelain figurine's. "Yes, ser. Sorry, ser. I won't, ser."

I pitch the timbre of my voice low. "I will know if you do."

Whatever she makes of it, Ritts pales. Good.

From where we stand, I see part of the valley below, and what would be there if not a green halo of a rift? I wander to the edge and point at it.

"You said something about the Veil in the area being stronger now, Solas?"

"It must have appeared before we activated the artefact."

"Mm. As long as you are sure they actually work." I sigh and instead of trekking back to the bridge, choose a convenient sloping path. Flat stepping stones placed a foot apart and framed with the dwarven variation of garden gnomes form stairs.

The mist around the rift shifts, dissipating and expanding as the hourglass-shaped tear rotates. Interestingly, it hangs directly in the middle of two rows of columns with fire burning in braziers on top of them. We meander closer. It won't activate till we are in proximity, and for once, I see no reason to rush into battle.

"Nice weather, isn't it?"

"Good for sunbathing," Varric agrees with a half-smile. The temperature dropped sometime during the night, and now our breaths cloud in the air.

I chuckle, pick a tune at random, start whistling. After the second rendition, I recognise it as Genghis Khan, mentally shrug, and murmur the words along with the melody.

The rift coalesces into a crystal and spits two wraiths, backing them up with a pile of lava. A rage demon. How wonderful. If the books didn't lie, now all three are immune to fire. Nice of my staff to have the affinity with a different type of magic.

A barrier. A Winter's Grasp at the first wraith, simultaneous with Solas' aimed at the second. Varric and Cas choose their targets and get on destroying them without delay. As a team, we work so well, it's like we are in tune.

"To hell with you, motherfucker!" I scream at the rage demon, snowballing it with blasts of ice. Out of all our enemies, it's in the least hurry to be slain. While the surface of its body cools, it takes actual freezing to stop. A glittering cage holds the demon in place. As one, we gang up on it and smash the rage into tiny icicles.

I throw my marked hand up, and what da ya know, the green fucking crystal spews the second party. At first, I mistake it for identical with the previous, but as I renew the barrier, I spot two shades drifting in my direction and the third wraith.

"Why so many all at once?" I mutter, drawing a glyph. Is the tear widening? What changed?

Focusing on blasting the shades, I fail to notice the rage until the smell of scorched earth and waves of heated air get too close to comfort. I turn and here it is, rising sharp-clawed appendages for a swipe at my precious and entirely flammable self. At this distance, it's hard to miss the resemblance of the shape of its head with that of a krogan. Rage's serpentine body is weirdly defined — chiselled muscles of torso and arms and sinews with veins of cooling black make way for a piling mass of layered lava-like substance where legs should be. All in all, this demon is a lot less ugly than many of its brethren, but just as — if not more — deadly.

Frantically gathering mana for a Winter's Grasp, I back up a few steps. The demon's arms descend, meeting the resistance of my barrier. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cas sprinting to my aid, but the shades I haven't finished get in her way. My barrier pops at the same time as I finish the spell. Ice crusts over the rage. A green energy ball hits my chest.

A wave of weakness crashes me like I'm a pebble in a storm. I lower my staff, unable to keep it aloft. The barrier I manage feels like it won't hold against a prick of a paperclip, let alone a demonic assault.

"Back me up!" Cas shouts. A shade and a wraith are pushing her backwards, herding her to the walking volcano barf. A fine tremor in her arms says all I need to know about the progression of that fight.

Solas and I cover her with barriers at the same moment, his reinforcing mine. Turning to my opponent, I catch it shaking off the last of the melting ice that sploshes to the scorched earth and starts to evaporate. Fine. A quick gesture sends a glyph under its… Base? It's sure as hell not a tail — too short for that. In any case, the rage crawls onto the glyph, but the thing with wraith's magic is that it influences every aspect it possibly can. Instead of going airborne, the demon slides about five feet back.

"A little help here?" Feeling the strength of my paper-thin protection draining away, I renew it and switch to the snowballs. I might as well fling mosquitoes for all the damage they cause. A shift in the Fade — Wha—?! Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me! — and the rage pulls magic around itself like a cloak. The next snowball hits a wall and dissipates without reaching the demon. For a long moment, I stare at it like a total imbecile, my mind completely blank. It has created its own barrier. How in the world is this fair?!

The fucking bastard goes right at me. I trace glyphs, laying paralysis before repulsion, turn tail and hobble in the other direction, my legs doing a decent impersonation of overcooked spaghetti. Fifteen steps in, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My stomach drops. With glacial slowness, I turn back, using my staff as a prop. And come face to fugly mug with a shade. It screeches and swipes at my chest. I lean backwards. Not far enough. The sharp points of the claws rip my barrier along with my clothes, all the way through. It stings. Thank gods, Harritt, and whatever animal had so graciously donated its hide for my coat, the shade reached only the surface layer of my skin.

A sudden increase in strength brings a smile to my lips.

"My turn," I say, baring my teeth in a feral grin, and jab the bladed end of my staff into the shade's midriff while casting a lightning bolt with my other hand. Impaled on the metal, the demon convulses; its outstretched arms twitch as it attempts — and fails — to reach me.

In the background, Cas, having shaken off the effect of the wraith's magic as well, hacks at the rage, dismantling its barrier for Solas to freeze the fucker. Excellent! One less to worry about.

The shade shudders and dissipates right off my staff. And then, it's over. Jogging to the rift, I close it. The accompanying whining sound, which I habitually tune out, breaks off like an aborted dial-up connection. There's a pile of dark purple goo left behind — Shadow Essence. I pull a face but dutifully gather it up.

Cas is cleaning her blade with a piece of brown cloth. There is a smear of blood on her cheek, half an inch above her old scar. Her hair is singed at the ends, but otherwise, she appears unharmed. Solas is fine, if ruffled, and Varric—

"Where is Varric?"

Cas' head shoots up. She glances around, turns to Solas. "Wasn't he with you?"

"Master Tethras disappeared before I joined your fight with the rage demon," Solas says. "I assumed he went to help the Herald." His voice is calm, but he also looks at the battlefield. The wide, empty road lying between a hill and a mountain doesn't offer many hiding places.

My heart drops into my stomach as images of Varric's broken body — torn apart with sharp claws or burned to a crisp in a gout of unnaturally hot fire — assault my inner eye.

"I'm here," comes a croak from somewhere to the left. I hurry there, assuming the worst.

Varric is on the ground, leaning against the base of a column. Blood spurts out of a deep gash in his abdomen, no longer even soaking the shredded remains of his shirt. His perfect abs are in danger! A bottle of elfroot in hand, he pours its content on the wound. The tissues are slow to knit.

"It's just a scrape," he rasps as I dive to my knees, heedless of the pain of impact.

"Merely a flesh wound, is it?" Pulling bandages, waterskin, and more healing potion out of my backpack, I swat his hands away, discard my gloves, and get to work, cleaning his skin as close to the edges of the wound as I dare. Flinching, Varric hisses through his teeth. A glimpse at his internal organs raises bile to the back of my throat. I swallow it down.

"Varric?" Cas asks. I spare her a glance. Her face's even paler than Varric's.

"I'm all right, no need to fret."

"Of course, you are," I mutter, pouring the potion down his throat and tasting copper on my tongue. Funny how all blood, regardless of race, smells almost the same. Mine has an undertone I'm not sure about. "You aren't allowed to be anything else." His blood keeps on pouring out.

Solas kneels beside me, and finally, with a nudge of healing magic, the internal damage begins to repair. We watch Varric's injury in reverse.

"Well" — Varric picks a piece of crimson silk, stained and ripped beyond any hope of salvaging — "shit. This shirt was my favourite. At least, the blood might come out of the sash."

I smack his shoulder. Without force, of course. Just to make a point. "That's for not wearing armour, you fucking idiot! We are buying you a proper blighted coat that will meet over your perfect fucking chest hair. And you will button it down before a fight because if you don't, I'll stuff you into bloody buggering plate mail!" — out of the corner of my eye, I see Cas nodding along — "And add a fade-touched lazurite chastity belt just for the hell of it." She nods, catches on to the meaning of my words, and blushes scarlet. A rare smirk touches Solas' face.

"All right, Shiny." Varric raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Anything you say."

"Why didn't you say something?"

He shrugs and winces as the move pulls at his new skin. "Everyone was busy."

"Next time, don't be stupid. Holler like a fishwife." I sigh, bunching up the dirty linen strips, and gather empty potion bottles. "You know, I'll be the happiest camper in the world as soon as we close the Breach and these fucking rifts stop appearing."

"Hear, hear." Varric smoothes a hand over the bandages on his stomach, sighs too, and goes for his backpack.

I wander off a ways and, holding my waterskin between my teeth, wash my hands as he changes clothes. Red specks stubbornly cling to the creases in my palms. I rub them extra hard until my skin darkens to deep Davy's grey. When I finish and put everything away, Varric asks,

"You all right?"

"Fine."

He nods. "All right."

We walk in the direction of the Crossroads.

"So, who do you think is the toughest: Josephine, Leliana, or Cassandra?" he says.

Cas glares at him. She's been doing it extra hard for the last five or so minutes, to compensate for the concern she's shown earlier. "I'm right here, you know."

"That doesn't rule you out, Seeker."

"Cullen's not up for consideration?" Solas asks.

Varric chuckles. "Curly? They just keep him around to look pretty."

"I'm pretty sure any of them can hand you your asses." I smile at Cas and see her lips twitch. "But if I have to choose? Leliana."

Varric nods, a contemplating expression on his face, and even Cas agrees.

A chance glance up reveals what resembles a giant swing on the hill we so recently vacated.

"Let's check it out." I point at the structure, then look at Varric. Despite our best efforts, he is by no mean back to full health. A thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead. The way he holds himself is too careful and deliberate. His smiles don't negate the lines forming around his lips when he grits his teeth. I frown at him. "Not you, though. You take a break and think of all the awesome action you're putting into that book you aren't writing." He opens his mouth — to agree or argue — but I plough on, regardless. "Cas'll keep you company. You can discuss the plot or something." Varric takes a breath, and I add, "Create a romance arc together." I waggle my eyebrows and leave to the sounds of Cas' sputtering and Varric's coughing fit.

When we are out of earshot — I still hear their voices, but the words are merging into an indistinguishable buzz — Solas says, "That was kind of you," with the slightest hint of surprise in his tone.

I raise an eyebrow. What, did he expect me to drag my injured friend up the fucking Eiffel Tower worth of steps? Just out of curiosity to see a new sight? Damn, what a low opinion he must have of me. I lift my chin. "I'm not actually an asshole." Most of the time and rarely to important to me people, I should hope.

We reach out destination in silence.

On closer examination, the structure is a really creepy altar with a thankfully wooden ribcage hanging off a… hm… I'd say an idol of a bearded, moustachioed man in a crown suspended on chains between two carved pillars that look pagan in design. Statues of mabari in BDSM collars sit guard on either side of them.

A templar is lying on the ground between fruit baskets full of slightly withered and frost-bitten apples. Going by the smell, he's been here for at least a couple of days.

"If I have somehow offended you, I apologise," Solas says, at last, his voice and posture stiff like he's walking the plank off a pirate ship. "That was not my intention."

Huh. Nice to have a confirmation him being a condescending prick is a natural, easy as breathing state of affair. And I thought he's thawing out.

"Kudos to you. Now, you can either stand around or help me search the body." I crouch beside the corpse to go through his possessions; Solas chooses to riffle through a backpack lying nearby. "Damn. I'd like one day— scratch that, one bloody hour without stumbling upon the dead."

"With the rifts closed and the Inquisition patrolling the area, it might happen," Solas offers, moving to examine the shrine.

"Nah, we'll be out of the Hinterlands too soon for our soldiers to finish the clean-up."

Of all the worldly possessions I expect to find, a tiny vial of dark glass filled with — I uncork it and sniff — blood is the last on my mind. A letter to Ellendra, a mage staying at the Crossroads, confirms that it's a phylactery.

"How hypocritical, the Templar Order using blood magic. Can't say I'm surprised."

"The ones in power often use all available tools at their disposal to remain in their position," Solas says.

Pocketing the empty bottle of poison that fell beside the body, I sigh and stand up.

After a quick foray for wood, we give the templar to the fire. My mouth recites all the correct words on autopilot. This man took his own life so he wouldn't harm innocents or the woman he loved when his mind was slipping. He deserved respect.

Rest — of Cas' presence — did Varric's complexion some good. When we return, his cheeks have more colour, though it could be the fault of the exchange I catch. Cas — quite sincerely, I might add — asks about Prince Sebastian invading Kirkwall. Predictably, Varric doesn't take well to the reminder and snaps back. So when Solas and I walk up to them, Varric is glaring daggers at Cas, who's studiously examining the scenery like the rocky hillside is the most riveting view she's ever come across. Wonderful. At this rate, they are going to resort to literal hair pulling in a month, tops.

I clap my hands, startling them both, and announce in the most obnoxiously cheerful tone I can manage, "Break's over. To the Crossroads we go!"

"Finally," Varric grumbles. "I was starting to think you'd gotten mauled by a swarm of angry bees."

"Without you to chronicle it? Never!"

-[break]-

Ellendra takes the news of her lover's death with resignation. I've only seen her in passing and at a distance, and even then she didn't look all that great. Now, the dark circles under her eyes are indistinguishable from bruises. I return her phylactery, the letter, and all of her paramour's belongings we managed to salvage, and recruit her as a — surprise, surprise — healer for the Inquisition. She promises to report to our forces in Haven since there are enough healers here for the infirmary to feel crowded.

Meandering through the village, I notice small changes. The refugees' faces aren't so gaunt anymore. No one is on the verge of fainting from hunger. Tents are crammed between houses, around the pond, and next to fortifications. Looks like Whittle worked hard, distributing the haul.

Finding Corporal Vale near the training dummies, I ask him to put a message out about all the trinkets I've gathered from corpses of non-combatants. Maybe their families will get a memento. And if not, the corporal can always sell everything to fund our fine organisation.

Cas has already finished with the maps — marked all points of interest for the scouts — and is waiting with a handful of scrolls in hand. The leather tube in her other hand is of the type Leliana's ravens usually carry.

"Mail?"

"The Inquisition has been offered the service of a mercenary group." Cas gives me an unfolded parchment, and I scan it. Leliana wants us to pick them up.

"Huh. I thought we'd go to Orlais next. Isn't getting the Chantry's support more important?"

She makes a put-upon expression. "The Chantry clerics can argue and squabble until Andraste's second coming. This is time sensitive — if we leave today, we will arrive there on the exact day they want us to."

I shrug. "All right. Point me in the right direction, and I will follow you to the edge of the world."

"That won't be necessary." Cas looks at me sideways. "Though the Storm Coast is somewhat dreary and can be seen that way."

I snort. "Yeah, I can imagine, with a name like that."

We buy supplies — food and potions — and meet with Solas and Varric.

"Look at you, healthy and hale," I say, sizing my favourite dwarf up. The pallor is gone. Cleaned up and out of the bandages, you'd never guess he was banging on death's door so recently. The wonders of magical healing. A new forest green shirt makes the amber of Varric's eyes brighter. I gesture at his coat. "Nice digs." Though Varric keeps it open, it seems wide enough to do the job of protecting his front. A thin, almost invisible white line bisects his abs. Thinking of what it signifies, I shiver.

Oblivious to my thoughts, Varric looks at himself, a wry smile curving his lips. "Between that and a chastity belt, it wasn't much of a choice."

"Oh, I don't know. Some people find them kinky enough to try."

Varric scrunches up his nose. "Not this dwarf." And I laugh. All is as well as can be. With a lopsided grin, he presents me with my new clothes, so I change into another coat, too. It fits well enough.

The hardest part is saying goodbye to Groot. We've been apart only a day and a half, and I already miss him. So when I tell him he's to stay with Keith for a while longer and his branches droop like he is about to collapse under the weight of despair, only Cas' resolute refusal to bring him along allows me to remain firm in that decision.

"Aw, my precious little tree. Don't be sad. It's not for long. As soon as it gets warmer high up in the mountains — in a month or three — I'll take you to Haven. Besides, you won't be able to keep up with a horse, will you? I'll be sure to find you a cart for the trip." I pat Groot's trunk extra affectionately. The branches lift up, and after a moment, a flower falls onto my palm.

"Thank you, sunshine." My heart swells like I'm a Grinch — three times its size — and a lump lodges in my throat, making it hard to swallow. "I will treasure it forever and miss you till we meet again."

I descend the stairs without a glance back. It would only make the situation harder. Cas, waiting at the base of the staircase, blinks several times, her eyes suspiciously bright.

"Admit it, you'll miss it too."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Groot grows on you, sweetheart. No need to deny it, I should know." I bump her shoulder, and together, we climb the road to the former forward camp. Scout Harding went to the Coast ahead of us to establish a new forward camp.

I greet Handsome Jack with a hug and an apple. "Missed me, buddy?"

The horse snorts, munching his treat. I take it as agreement.

I'm about to get into the saddle, mentally fortifying myself for the return of the pain, when a soldier stops me. With dishwater hair, mousy moustache, an average height and physique, he's wholly unremarkable, bland like unsweetened oatmeal. The type of man you won't be able to pick out of a police lineup.

"Herald," he says, inclining his head and lowering his green eyes, the only remarkable detail, and thrusts a small cloth sack into my hands. "Commander Cullen has us scouring the Hinterlands for supplies for you. There's not much to gather, but this might be of help."

The commander thought about me. Well, duh. It's his job. Nevertheless, a strange warmth fills my chest, coalesces into a ball in my stomach. "Thank you." I consider adding something profound, but nothing comes to mind. "I'm sure whatever you found will be of use."

Inside the sack is a pouch with a handful of gold coins, a lot of bottles with healing potion, and a glimpse of something dark at the bottom. I shift the bottles out of the way and bring the sack closer to my face. Stuck between the threads by its tip is a long inky feather.

When I look up a moment later, a female scout is carrying a bundle of arrows without fletching to a table with all kinds of incomplete weapons. Another scurries by with an armload of scrolls. But the green-eyed soldier has disappeared without a trace.