A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
Fatality
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Denerim
He should have done something. He should have stopped Irving, summoned the guards, handed him over to the Chantry... something.
Instead, Alistair had kept his silence, and had merely watched as the first enchanter had walked away, a wry smile on the old man's face.
"You need only to pray," Irving had said.
It had been blasphemy through and through. Ten years ago - five years ago, even, Alistair would not have hesitated to do his duty like a good little Andrastian, and would have challenged the mage to explain his heretical statement.
Now, things were - well, they were complicated. Irving was not only the first enchanter of the Libertarian Circle, he was also a symbol of the reforms Alistair had been trying to implement in Ferelden. Evidence of Irving's fall from grace would have turned scrutiny upon the rest of the king's somewhat controversial policies; scrutiny that Alistair could sorely do without.
So he had allowed the old man to pass with nary a word, like a coward.
Alistair shook his head, as though to clear it. Worship of deities other than the Maker was not... illegal, per se. In a country as large as Ferelden, with elves, dwarves, humans and qunari living side by side, certain cultural traditions had to be accepted, or at least tolerated. But if one of the most powerful mages in the land was actively supporting the Child God, a being who was rumoured to be part demon, who was kept alive only by the blood of innocents, who sacrificed infant babes under the pale moonlight... well, that was just as bad as if Irving had calmly claimed to be a maleficar.
There were larger issues at hand than the first enchanter, however. The grand cleric had requested an audience, and try as hard as he might to delay it, Alistair could stall Her Grace no longer.
She was here now, along with two Chantry sisters and Knight-Commander Bayard of Denerim. On his side, Alistair only had one of his advisers, Chancellor Hernays. (He tried hard not to think of it as having 'sides'; ostensibly, they both served Ferelden, but he had never managed to impress his piety upon the grand cleric, and she in turn had never demonstrated the depth of empathy that he had expected from a person in her calling).
Two guards were stationed at the back of the room, standing as motionless and as silent as statues. When on duty during his brief stint as a templar at the Circle tower, Alistair had often pretended that he was a Tevinter relic, cursed into stone as punishment for daring to defy the magocracy of Minrathous. Dreaming of the daring adventures he would have experienced when made of flesh had whiled away many a dull moment, and he wondered idly what mind games his guardsmen were playing to alleviate their boredom.
The servants had removed all the chairs from the audience chamber. In the king's experience, this practice was invaluable in ensuring that meetings were kept short.
"Your Majesty," Her Grace began, "I will not waste your time with meaningless pleasantries. The Divine has called an Exalted March on the false god who surrounds herself with heretics at Redcliffe."
"We intend to march upon the Arling by the last day of Justinian, Your Majesty," Bayard added.
Alistair nodded. This news was hardly unexpected. "I understand. And I appreciate you taking the time to inform me personally, Your Grace."
"This is not simply a courtesy call," the grand cleric said with narrowed eyes. Behind her, one of the sisters shifted uneasily, politely stifling a cough. "The Divine wishes to send a thousand score of Orlesian templars to surround the false god from the west."
That was somewhat less expected. Two nations' worth of templars, and the Orlesian wardens who had already arrived in Ferelden... what did the Divine know that Alistair did not? Just what, exactly, was she expecting from this little girl, who was barely old enough to swing a sword?
"Ferelden is more than willing to cooperate fully with the wishes of the Divine, but surely Her Perfection is not expecting more than a token resistance from a few rabble-rousers and vagabond Dalish?" Chancellor Hernays asked. "We have already extended our hospitality to a full complement of wardens in Amaranthine - to send further reinforcements at this stage would appear to be... excessive."
"This affliction must be snuffed out before it corrupts more innocent minds, Sire," the grand cleric said. "A swift victory will ensure that the least number of lives are unduly affected."
"Five hundred score templars from Orlais," Alistair insisted. "They will leave immediately via the Frostback Mountains once the child is... suppressed."
To his credit, Hernays' expression did not alter significantly, but a slight tightening of his lips signalled his displeasure to the king.
"Your Majesty is most gracious," the grand cleric said, her eyes glittering coldly.
Bayard cleared his throat, and the sound grated on Alistair's raw nerves like fingernails down a slate. "There is talk that the Hero of Ferelden herself is one of the leaders of this blood cult, Sire," the templar said, his eyes carefully gauging the king's expression.
"Many rumours exist around the false god and her companions," Hernays responded. "Once this unpleasantness is over, all the relevant parties will be tried for their role in inciting discord and violence, for the heinous slaughter of Chantry priests, and for the suspected murder of the Arl of Redcliffe and his family."
Alistair doubted whether it would come to that, in the end. A swift and quiet death on the battlefield would give the Chantry leave to control any residual outrage from certain factions in Ferelden about killing a person who had become a beloved figurehead. The passage of time and her apparent disappearance from the nation had only increased her notoriety, and during the first few years after the Blight, rumoured sightings of the Hero had cropped up like pestilent weeds. A public trial might appease the Chantry faithful, but the possibility of such an event inciting violence in the Alienages and amongst the Libertarians was too great to allow the Hero to survive the Exalted March.
"'The Maker will be her final judge,'" Alistair said vaguely, the old words coming to him with ease, drilled into his skull after years and years of lectures and endless sermons. They offered him as much comfort now as they had then, which was not very much at all.
Bayard began talking again - something about troop movements, but the king found his mind drifting away. The vague uneasiness in his gut was coalescing into something more distinct. Everyone knew mages were dangerous, and templars knew this best of all, but somehow, the abstract knowledge of the power which could be contained within a single fragile body was nothing compared to the reality.
It had been on the chilly slopes of the village of Haven that Sylvanna had really found her stride. She had been complaining about holding back for weeks, but Alistair had never quite understood what she had been talking about until she had finally showed them.
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Haven, eleven years ago
"Seven archers in the valley," Alistair said. "Ten swordsmen as well." He passed the spyglass to his fellow warden who sprawled next to him, lying flat against the ground in a most unladylike manner. She peered thoughtfully through the length of the scope, counting off their enemies in her head.
"Kind of them to cluster around like that," Sylvanna said. She handed the spyglass back to Alistair, dusting off her knees as she joined him behind the abandoned cart that served as their makeshift cover.
"You're not going to make me go out there, are you?" Alistair demanded. "Alone?"
Sylvanna sighed. The last time they had faced a similar situation, she had persuaded Alistair to serve as 'bait' by attracting the attention of a group of bandits. (He had tried to point out the numerous holes in this plan, of course - not least the holes it was likely to leave in him - but she had been convinced that it would be a triumph). Bolstered by a series of charms, he had survived long enough for Morrigan to bring a blizzard down upon them, with his very vulnerable self at the centre of the storm. Her timing must have sucked (or more likely she had released the spell prematurely on purpose), since Alistair had half-frozen to death before Sylvanna had managed to protect him with a well placed force field. It had certainly been a success though, Sylvanna had argued later, even if frostbite had necessitated the regeneration of one of Alistair's fingers; a rather painful process, for which he had yet to forgive her.
"No. I want to try something different today," Sylvanna said. Somehow, Alistair was not reassured in the slightest. His misgivings only grew when Sylvanna turned to her favourite swamp witch, affixing her with an imploring gaze.
"Can we try it now?" Sylvanna begged. "Please?"
Morrigan pursed her lips in a frown, her gaze flicking between the two wardens. "'Tis a pity. I was eagerly anticipating an encore of your last performance, Alistair. Your transformation into a human icicle must surely be classed amongst the highlights of this misadventure."
Alistair ground his teeth, his face flushing with anger. "I should have guessed that glaciating your allies to death is the only thing that gets you hot, shouldn't I? At least I have warm blood to freeze," he continued, "you frigid, witchy... comrade-killer."
Sylvanna and Leliana exchanged exasperated looks, Sylvanna rolling her eyes.
"I, frigid?" Morrigan exclaimed. "Clearly, your senses must be as defective as your manhood, if you believe me to be frigid."
Without taking her eyes from Alistair, Morrigan drew a bewildered Sylvanna close to her. The witch pulled sharply on her hair, tilting Sylvanna's face upwards as she kissed her. Morrigan's hands wandered down Sylvanna's body in a slow, calculated display of desire, designed only to tease the voyeur. After a moment's hesitation, Sylvanna's hands did the same, tracing lightly down the bare skin of Morrigan's arms and slipping deliberately beneath the thin fabric of her robes. They paused briefly for breath, Morrigan shifting as she ran a wicked tongue down the pointed ridge of Sylvanna's ear, nipping gently at her earlobe before she planted a series of kisses down her neck.
Alistair's face went bright red as he looked away, trying to ignore the sounds behind him. The moment was only broken when Leliana coughed.
"Ahem." Leliana gestured towards the valley below, trying hard to stifle a giggle at the sight of the flushed faces on both wardens.
"Yeah, killing cultists, right," Sylvanna muttered, self-consciously touching her fingers to her lips as she pulled away from Morrigan. Alistair noticed that she was blushing to the tips of her ears, as she deliberately concentrated on taking another look at the valley below. Miraculously, the men stationed down there had not moved an inch.
"So here's how this will work," Sylvanna instructed, returning to the situation at hand, her eyes not quite able to meet Morrigan's gaze. "Once Morrigan and I begin casting, we'll be vulnerable. Alistair, I need your shield to protect us from any stray arrows. Leliana, you'll need to pin down any approaching fighters before they head too far from the archers." Alistair found himself nodding along with Leliana as they readied their weapons. Sylvanna took a breath, steadying herself. The expression on her face did not fill him with confidence.
"Once the spell is finished," she continued, "Morrigan and I will release a series of glyphs to keep the enemy within the spell's boundaries. You do not want to be nearby when that sets off, or you will lose more than a finger, I promise you," she said, with a pointed glance towards Alistair.
"You don't need to tell me twice," he protested.
"If there are any stragglers, deal with them as you wish." Sylvanna turned to the last member of their team. "Morrigan-"
"I am aware of my role," the witch said, aloof once more.
Sylvanna took a breath, seemed to think better of it and merely nodded. "Leliana, will you count us in?"
The bard inclined her head in assent, notching an arrow loosely to her bow as she set up her sights. "On my word," she ordered.
"Three."
The mages began to chant softly, each drawing upon their reserves of mana and beginning to shape it to their commands. Alistair shuddered at the feeling of it, his training allowing him to sense the transfer of energy as it flowed through each practitioner. He set his eyes grimly upon the path ahead, trying to ignore the pin-prickle of magic coalescing behind him.
"Two."
Alistair felt the very fabric of the world around them starting to bend to Sylvanna's will. The crackle of overheated air sounded ominously, tendrils of electricity dancing blue-white between her fingertips and setting his teeth on edge.
Down in the valley, a man shouted and waved up in their general direction, now sensing the energies that had begun to gather around him. As he started to rally his companions to scale the steep slope leading up to the two mages, Leliana steadied her bow, loosing a single arrow that sang as it flew, curving downwards and striking the man through the shoulder. On impact, the arrowhead shattered outwards, the air filling with stunned cries of pain as tiny slivers of shrapnel scattered to find their marks amongst the man's companions.
Leliana had no chance to witness the impact of her shot, ducking swiftly back into cover once more as a hail of returning fire headed towards her. As an arrowhead lodged itself in the gap between two slats of the cart, dangerously close to her head, she finished her count.
"One!" Leliana shouted, notching another arrow to her bow.
One of the fighters had escaped the crippling effects of Leliana's barrage, gamely leaping up the steep slope of the hilltop to scramble up and around the side of the mages... right into the hard edge of Alistair's waiting shield. As he traded blows with the cultist, the mages unleashed their spells.
Morrigan went first, releasing a seething mass of ice and sleet down into the valley. Thick, roiling blankets of snow obscured their vision of the scene for a moment, churning with a relentless fury. There were screams of pain as men found themselves freezing in place, unable to move their arms or feet. The screams only intensified when Sylvanna finished casting, a dark, swirling vortex erupting in the midst of the cultists. Lightning crackled through the air, arcing brilliant and white-hot, seeking the surest path from cloud to ground.
With a final thrust, Alistair dispatched the fighter he had been entangled with, wrenching his sword out from the man's chest with no small amount of difficulty.
"Wow," he said as the corpse fell away from him, taking his first look at the scene below them.
"Maker have mercy on their souls," Leliana whispered.
The whirl of the tempest below created a freezing wind that blew upwards, chilling their faces and turning lips and ears bluish from the cold. Within the vortex, hapless figures danced, buffeted by the force of the unbridled storm.
Most of them stumbled and finally fell within the first few seconds of the spell, but one archer, caught near the fringes had managed to half-walk, half-crawl towards the edge of the tempest. Seeing him, Leliana began to half-heartedly string an arrow to her bow. As they watched, the archer finally stumbled to his knees, succumbing to his wounds before ever reaching the safety of the world beyond the edge of the spell.
Alistair saw Sylvanna turn to Morrigan, and the look on the elf's face was enough to make him feel queasy. He knew he ought to glance away, but he found himself watching in horrified fascination as Sylvanna leaned forward and clasped Morrigan's face with both hands, pressing her lips to her in an eager kiss. It seemed to go on forever, and he vaguely wondered if either of them needed to breathe at all, or if that was just one of the human foibles that mages managed to do without, like empathy or chivalry on the battlefield or the common decency to allow a man to fight for his life instead of slaughtering him on the spot.
To his senses, the mages' bodies practically glowed with an unnatural pulse, radiating magic like dry heat between them. It was... disturbing, and kind of weird, and maybe, just maybe a tiny bit stimulating in all the wrong places. (This was Morrigan, after all - Morrigan, and a woman whom he had started possibly thinking of as a very annoying and very dangerous little sister - anyway, whatever it was, it was wrong.)
Dragging his attention away from the entirely shameless display going on behind him, Alistair stared grimly at the valley below, not even deigning to wipe the blood splatter from his face. Silently, he watched the snow settle in a delicate veil upon the half-frozen corpses, their limbs contorted painfully into unnatural angles.
Surely no mortal was ever meant to wield such power.
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Denerim, present day
In the intervening time between listening to Bayard natter on about logistics, and thinking about the curious nature of a Maker who would allow mortals to have enough firepower at their fingertips to wipe out a whole squadron of their fellow men in an instant, Alistair managed to gather himself sufficiently to make his farewells to the grand cleric and her retinue.
"I confess that you surprised me there, Sire," Hernays said.
"Oh?" Alistair knew that his feigned innocence was fooling no one, even as he fell back onto the expression like an old friend. Hernays' lips quirked into a wry smile, but the chancellor's eyes were as chilly as the morning frost.
"Am I to understand that First Enchanter Irving advocated a peaceful solution? I was under the impression that Your Majesty wished to avoid bloodshed-"
"Violence is a solution, sometimes," Alistair commented. He wondered where he had heard that phrase before, and it came to him with a snatch of melody and the wafting scent of the small, white wildflowers that grew across Ferelden. "Look, the Chantry and I may not always see eye to eye, but in this, they are right - we can't let this continue. And somehow, I don't think that having a little chat and trying to resolve our differences over a glass of merlot is going to help."
Hernays nodded absently, but he failed to catch the king's eye. An irrational stab of fear suddenly struck Alistair's heart - was his closest adviser secretly a devotee of the Child God as well? Was there no one he could trust?
The moment passed, and he stuffed the doubts far away in the back of his mind. The chancellor was one of the most level-headed, thoughtful, eminently sensible persons that Alistair knew - and if he was perfunctory with his prayers, and tight-fisted with his tithes, then at least he was also not the sort of man to leap onto any two-copper cult that sprang up from the ashes of discontent.
"You have a meeting with the Alienage hahren before lunch," Hernays said, his eyes skimming over a slate board he held in his hand. "Then, I suggest you take some time to consider with myself and perhaps a select few others how you intend to inform the rest of the banns and arls that they are to expect more Orlesians on their borders. After that..."
As the chancellor's dulcet voice droned on and on, Alistair privately wished that the day was already over.
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Denerim Outskirts
It was a warm summer's night, and Knight-Commander Bayard felt stifled in his full plate, a bead of sweat trickling down his face. The sound of crickets penetrated the air, repetitious and endlessly annoying. He swatted a mosquito away from his cheek, shifting uneasily in his armour.
He had brought his men to an abandoned clearing, some three miles or so from Denerim. It was the secrecy that made him nervous, that caused him to wonder what was so sensitive that it could not possibly be conducted within Chantry walls. A handful of templars had accompanied him, most of them keeping a close eye on a Loyalist mage who had also tagged along, for reasons that were so far unclear to Bayard.
The mage had kept to himself for the whole journey out of the city, staying silent as the templars had laughed and traded jokes around him. He was a scrawny little thing, barely old enough to be allowed out in the open. His thin shoulders were hunched against the slight evening breeze, his hands tucked deeply into his sleeves, despite the warm night air. He gave no indication that he was here for any reason other than to serve the Maker, and most of the other templars had already relaxed their guard around him.
At the back of their party trudged a young woman, her head despondently bowed. Her wrists were bound in front of her, and she took each step with all the enthusiasm of the condemned. Bayard had glanced into her eyes, once, and then hastily looked away, not wishing to lose himself in the depths of her despair.
A carriage drew close to the group, and Bayard looked up, seeing the golden sun of the Chantry emblazoned on its side. Once it had slowed to a halt, he walked up to it, opening its door. He was horrified to see the grand cleric herself emerging from its confines, as he offered her his arm. Two more templars descended from the front of the carriage.
"Your Grace, this... is an unexpected honour," Bayard managed. His orders tonight had been vague, indeed, and he had expected to be met by one of the revered mothers, at most. His eyes immediately scanned the rest of the people assembled; none of them were likely to prove a threat to the priestess, but Bayard did not like to take chances.
The grand cleric inclined her head towards him. "Let us be done with this swiftly, Commander," she ordered. She walked towards the young woman, the surrounding templars parting at her entrance. "Is this she?" the priestess demanded, her thin fingers lifting the prisoner's chin up firmly to gaze at her.
"Yes, Your Grace," Bayard said.
She released the girl, who slumped back, her head bowed as if she were hoping that the ground would swallow her up. "Show me the artefacts," the priestess demanded.
A templar walked over and emptied a sack in front of the prisoner. A handful of clumsily sculptured statues tumbled out, the clay twisted into vaguely humanoid shapes, grinning faces marked into their rough surfaces. The statues had been broken into large pieces, still recognisable here and there as representations of the female form.
"These idols were found in your quarters, Sister Nerys," the grand cleric said. "Do you deny that they are yours?"
The girl raised her head slowly, her face dirty and tear-stained. "No. But Your Grace, I never intended-"
"Do you deny that you are an illicit follower of the one they call the 'Child God'?"
The girl shook her head mutely. Wetting her lips, she glanced around desperately for support, or even a kind face, but the templars surrounding her offered no sympathy.
"You are an initiate, Sister Nerys," the priestess continued. "You have taken holy vows of obedience and fidelity. You have pledged yourself, body and soul to the Maker, and to further His glory."
Nerys began to cry silently, her body trembling. "I never wanted to betray His trust. But my little brother was terribly sick, and I needed to do something..."
"Have you considered, Sister Nerys, that your brother's illness was a punishment for your lack of faith?" the priestess asked. "That perhaps you needed to meditate on your failings in His eyes, instead of looking to the false god of a perverted blood magic cult to solve your problems?"
"He has no one else," Nerys insisted. "Our parents passed away when he was a baby - I'm all he has left."
Bayard noticed the mage shifting uneasily in his place, the boy's narrow shoulders tightening even further. The templar quietly moved his hand to his hip, leaving it hovering just above his sword hilt.
"Punish me, Your Grace, but please - please don't hurt my brother," the girl begged, falling to her knees.
The grand cleric's lip curled in distaste as she looked down at her. "We are not monsters, Sister Nerys," she said. "Your brother will be raised by the Chantry, and any trace of your wickedness will be cleansed from him."
Nerys sank lower onto her knees, her body almost doubled over, her hair falling across her face. The priestess made a sharp gesture, and a pair of templars walked over to the sister, taking her by her arms and dragging her to her feet. She sagged against them, and would have fallen if not for their support.
"Sister Nerys," the grand cleric began, "you have abandoned your vows. You have disgraced the Chantry, and brought sin and corruption into the holy house of the Maker. Due to the severity of your crimes, the only fitting penalty is death."
Nerys' eyes stared out at a point far away, as if her spirit was already yearning to be free from her mortal body. Bayard caught himself feeling sorry for her, then shook himself out of it. She was an oath breaker; she had destroyed the sacred covenant between her eternal soul and the Maker. This was the fate she had chosen for herself.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" the priestess questioned.
Nerys bit her lip, her eyes passing across each of the men surrounding her. Bayard met her gaze unflinchingly, but the sister's bleak look of resignation would prove to haunt him in the nights to come.
"Ishantha will draw me to Her heavenly side," she said slowly. "My body will feed Her everlasting glory."
The grand cleric made a graceful gesture, and the two templars at the girl's side suddenly released her, stepping back. The circle around Nerys widened until she was left alone, with bare earth stretching around her to a radius of five yards. Bayard's gaze drifted uneasily to his left, seeing the mage step forward to stand by the priestess's side. He gripped the hilt of his sword firmly, but the grand cleric seemed completely unconcerned, and merely nodded to the mage.
"Your body will provide no sustenance for the false god who plagues these lands and corrupts the children of the Maker," the grand cleric pronounced. "You shall be cleansed by the same fire that raised the prophet Andraste to the eternity of His blessed peace."
The mage raised his thin hands, and Bayard found himself holding his tongue, any words of support or pleas for mercy on behalf of the sister sticking in his throat.
"No," Nerys shook her head in horror, her eyes staring imploringly at Her Grace. "No - please, I beg you-" she cried, and began to back away, her arms raised protectively in front of her face.
When the mage began casting, each of Bayard's senses felt as if they had been set alight, the tug of magic pulling at him, demanding his attention. He stilled his nerves, watching as Nerys let out a surprised shriek, her hair and body becoming drenched in a glossy, waxy fluid that shimmered in the light of the torches held by the surrounding templars.
The mage increased the volume of his chants, and Bayard's knuckles turned white as the hilt of his sword bit deeply into his palm. Suddenly, gouts of flame emerged from the mage's hands and Sister Nerys' body lit up like a torch, burning green and orange as it blazed against the night sky. Her scream was a horrible thing, barely recognisable as human, and Bayard noticed a number of his templars placing their hands to their ears, glancing away in horror as the grease fire continued to burn.
The heat washed against Bayard's face, and he felt himself sweating under his armour, his breastplate radiating an uncomfortable warmth. Soon the screaming trailed off, for which he was grateful, and the mage lowered his hands, looking worn. The charred thing that had once been a living person collapsed to the ground, covering the remnants of the idols with soot.
Bayard found that the image of the girl's melting face seemed to be etched permanently in his mind. He blinked, and the vision receded, though not without a great deal of effort on his part.
The grand cleric turned abruptly on her heel, striding towards her carriage without a further word. The two templars that had accompanied her followed silently in her wake, and after a moment, the snap of the reins sounded through the air, and the carriage was on its way back to Denerim.
Bayard cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had descended upon the waiting templars and the mage. "Clean this up," he ordered, and his men came to attention, beginning to prepare a shallow grave for the remains. Bayard shuddered, and avoided looking at the blackened ash, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead.
"You. Mage," he said, addressing the only other person who was standing still. The young man looked up at him with empty eyes, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin chest. Bayard swallowed, and stepped closer to him, lowering his voice. "Were you aware that this would happen?" he asked.
The mage considered his words for a moment, his sharp face tilted slightly to one side. "It was inevitable. The righteous will be rewarded for their faith, and those who corrupt His kingdom will burn, just as the blessed Andraste was sacrificed in holy fire."
Bayard turned away, unnerved despite himself. It was not so much the mage's words as the look in his face, the utter lack of remorse at having immolated a defenceless young woman not more than a few moments ago. True, he had been instructed to do so by his superior, but it was still deeply... unsettling.
"We're done here, Commander," one of his templars said, wiping his brow. He had discarded his breastplate to assist with burying the remains, and his tunic was damp with sweat.
Bayard nodded. "Good work," he said, pitching his voice to be heard by the entire group. "Let's not linger here any longer."
They reverted back to their travelling formation, the mage kept always in the centre, unable to move without at least three others watching him at all times. He seemed content enough with his lot, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him, his hands clearly in view. Once again, he ignored the conversations that started up around him, and seemed to be lost in meditation or prayer, his face as immobile as a statue's.
Bayard beckoned his second towards him, and they drew a slight way ahead of the group, though still within clear sight of the others. "That mage," Bayard began, "who is he?"
"Some nobleman's brat, I think," the other templar offered. "He's been pretty good. When the word came that a March had been finally called, he was the first to volunteer. He's one of the most pious pieces of demon bait that I've ever seen."
Bayard risked a glance over his shoulder. The mage had not changed expression, walking forwards stoically with the same distant air with which he had performed the execution. "What's his name?" he asked. There was something familiar about his features; no doubt his father had been a fixture in Denerim, obsessed with toadying with the king, like all nobles were...
His second coughed and searched his memories for a moment, before coming up with the answer.
"It's Connor," he said.
"Connor Guerrin."
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A/N: I recently went back to Haven to try to get the extra cultists to spawn (once you've spoken with Genitivi), but it didn't work. In any case, I've taken some liberties with the terrain/set-up in that flashback.