Things are only just getting started, and Hawke's stomach drops as she sees Varric running towards her on the battlements. She had spent the long road to Adamant praying to the Maker – something she hadn't done since Mother's death – that the Inquisitor would choose someone else to come to the Approach. But, just as the Chantry had told them, no one was listening, and Varric had shown up anyway ready to fight the good fight.
Hawke's jaw tightens, her fists clenching and unclenching as she follows the Inquisitor through the fortress. You shouldn't have come. She casts a nervous glance in Varric's direction. You should've just stayed at Skyhold. But Varric can't hear her thoughts, and he can't seem to feel the darkness radiating from the crumbling walls around them.
They manage to find the center of the Warden's activity, arriving in time to see Warden-Commander Clarel slice the throat of another unfortunate sacrifice. The woman is gaunt, her cheeks hollow, a determined pall cast across her face. Erimond stands at her side, his oily sneer twisting with anger at the sight of their fast-approaching party. "Stop them!" He bellows, motioning to the crowd of Wardens standing at attention underneath the balcony. He turns to Clarel, his voice taking on a new sense of urgency. "We must complete the ritual."
Lavellan charges forward, her thick white eyebrows pulled together in a frown. "Clarel, stop! If you complete the ritual, you're doing exactly what Erimond wants!"
"What," Erimond scoffs. "Stopping the blights?" He asks, the sarcasm dripping from his tongue like a poison. "Keeping the world safe from darkspawn? Who wouldn't want that?" He throws out his arms in a mock effort to concede. "And yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice. Blame me for that if you must. But don't blame the Wardens for doing their duty!"
Hawke notices the murmuring of the Wardens around them, and she can't help but commend Erimond for his strategy. He had taken one of the most distrusted groups in all of Thedas – an apolitical "necessary evil" that was constantly hidden in a shroud of secrecy – and preyed upon their resentment. If there was one thing she had learned from traveling with Alistair, it was that being a Warden was a fairly thankless job. Despite the notoriety that came with the title, boiled down, Wardens were strange. And Erimond had capitalized on their desire to be recognized for what they did.
Clarel's voice is solemn. "We make the sacrifices no one else will. Our warriors die proudly," her words are tinted by a hint of bitterness. "For a world that will never thank them."
"And then he binds them to Corypheus," Alistair barks from Hawke's side.
A hush falls over the Wardens, and a Clarel's sallow face pales even further. "Corypheus?" She replies incredulously. "But he's dead."
Erimond steps closer towards her, his face darkening. "These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarel."
A flicker of doubt crosses her face, and for a moment Hawke believes that she can sense the danger that they're all in, the dark, hungry energy whipping around them. But just as her faith in Erimond seems to tremble, she closes her eyes, a look of forced determination making its way across her face. "Bring it through." She says shakily.
This is not good. Hawke can feel the stirring of that damned presence from the darkness, feel its sour breath on the back of her neck. "Please," she hears herself croak. "Please, I have seen more than my fair share of blood magic!" She thinks of what that monster did to Mother, of slaying Keeper Marethari in that cave on Sundermount. She thinks of Orsino, desperate to protect his people from Meredith and her Templars, transforming into that, that thing and vanishing before their eyes. "It is never worth the cost." She finishes grimly.
Alistair's approach is one of impatience. "I helped fight the Archdemon in Ferelden. Could you consider listening to me?"
Clarel's mask falters, her eyes flitting uncertainly from their party below the balcony back to Erimond at her side. "Maybe," her shoulders drop as she turns to the magister. "We should consider putting these claims to trial."
His rage is palpable as he takes a menacing step towards her. "Or maybe I should consider bringing in a more reliable ally." He replies threateningly. Erimond rips himself away from Clarel, hurling a barbed look in Fynn's direction. "My master warned me that you might be coming, Inquisitor." He says, banging his staff twice against the ground. "He sent me this to welcome you!"
A deafening roar fills the sky, and Hawke looks up to see a dragon circling over head before it swoops down upon them. It didn't look like any dragon Hawke had ever seen. Its scales were molted, and the flesh appeared to be in a state of perpetual rot. An embodiment of the Blight itself.
As though a blighted dragon were not enough, Hawke feels the ground beneath her feet quake, the rift in the center of the platform crackling to life. Around her, the dread lurking in the shadow quivers – laughing – as a pride demon pushes its monstrous frame through the opening. The blood rushes in Hawke's ears as electricity crackles at its clawed fingertips. Pulling the sword from her back, she grimaces, knowing full well that they hadn't even scratched the surface of what was yet to come.