Swatting at the fly that seemed resolute on landing atop the tip of his pointed ear, Solas silently observed the scrupulous evaluation of the animal in question. The short breeze from his passing hand did little to cool him. He'd forgotten the yearly onslaughts of the north, having long endured the chilly seasons of Ferelden that seldom rose above tepid. And to think that it wasn't even summer yet.
Already the skin of his face and exposed head had felt the first stinging burns of the overbearing sun, darkening the freckles on his cheeks and nose. When it could be managed he kept his head covered, but the hooded green coat that had seen him across the exhaustive miles of the Imperial highway was now too densely woven for the climate. The back of his tunic damply clung to his shoulders and hips, pressed beneath the small pack holding the elf's scant belongings. Refusing to tug at the uncomfortable clothing, the mage's hands returned to the small of his back, tucked one over the other as he waited.
The apostate's sweat-moistened brow knotted once more as the hforrid buzzing returned. His aggravation, however, was not entirely centered on the terrible afternoon heat that thickened every breath or the pungent waft from the crowded barn-sheds that offended his high nose. The irritant lay solely in the burly man scrutinizing every angle of limb, the musculature of each joint, and insect repelling flick of Da'dava's long black tail.
"Look at his feet, when were they last done? I'm not paying you eight-hundred coins for a horse you couldn't care keep shod." The trader growled lowly, dusting off his leathery hands after inspecting one of the Forder's massive hooves. The artfully constructed plates of iron had long since been torn away, leaving a snagged edge where the carefully placed nails had pulled through. They were not as appalling as many of the worn-down beasts' hooves that plodded the Imperial highway often were. Indeed Da'dava's dished soles were still well out of harm's way and unbruised. The damage the coarse shemlen complained incessantly about was all superficial. The horse was hardy and sound, Master Dennett would have never allowed a flimsy creature to bear the Inquisition's mark. Solas had done his best, when expediency allowed, to be as diligent as his former rider had been.
Turning his back to the gelding who was busy munching away at the small pile of fresh hay provided to him, the sharp-sighted buyer turned a critical gaze upon the travel-worn, bare-footed elf who'd happened by his stables.
"Not that you would know the difference."
Fingers balling into loose fists, Solas held his tongue as he felt the judging pass across his person. The callous attentions especially lingered on his tapered ears. It seemed his own conformation and breeding was more problematic than the steed he petitioned for sale. He'd only been in this town a few days, yet already the limited toleration for the elves here was apparent and no better than any other municipality. Far off the main thoroughfares, Perendale was not large enough to have a segregated alienage outright. The few elven dwellers he had seen were just as poor as any other city elf. Carving out a meager existence amidst those that did not care for their kind in the slightest. Earlier he'd spotted two elves, faces blank and utilitarian of spirit, employed as labor-hands for the stable master, mucking out the stalls and feeding the animals.
"Then I'm sure under your care that could be amended without constraint," Solas answered the horseman bluntly, keeping his sentiments well in check. He had no other goods to barter with and the other stable had already thoroughly rejected him, refusing even to hear out his offer before shooing him away. "Would you overlook a quality cloak because a button has come loose?"
"You're lucky I'm even talking to you." The man shook his head before fetching a canteen from a peg on the wall, handling the unseasonable heat unflinchingly. To the handsome horse, he had extended a bite to eat and a bucket of cool well-drawn water, but the elf who'd gabbed and weaseled his way into the barn was offered nothing. "This is a questionable business at best."
"Theft should not be of your concern. This creature belonged to my…" A soft term nearly passed across Solas' broad lips that had once again reverted to a permanent, joyless droop. It withered on the edge of his faltering tongue and rejoined the long list of words his own ears yearned to hear again. Definition of their entanglement had been denied though the Inquisitor had proposed to him such clarity before the cruel severance of his afflictions. Even now though, with countless miles between them and nearly two months time since he'd left her in Crestwood, Solas could not relieve himself of the strained pull upon his heart. "She would have understood."
"Sorry for your loss." Gruffly answered the trader after a silent moment had passed. One of his large hands brushed across other, rolling over an unadorned finger as if to twist a ring no longer worn. Forgoing the compulsive motion he quickly smoothed the dark hair on his temples, thickly braided and pulled cleanly away from his broad face.
Solas did not correct the misinterpretation, still mourning the forfeiture of all that could have been, even if only for a short while. "Can we make an agreement for the gelding?"
The man began to walk away with his thumbs hooked into the sides of his loose vest, but after a few wide strides he paused and spoke without turning. "I can do four hundred, but only because his back is too nice to be put to the plow. Wait here."
Alone with the horse, the apostate approached the stout beast who had carried him so far from the only place that had ever begun to feel like home. A gentle pat to the creature's tall shoulder and a pleasant scratch high upon his withers, just where the end of his black mane stopped, was all Solas could offer for the horse's troubles. The animal had accompanied them on so many journeys since the prior spring, having first been given the duty to bear their ailing Herald back to Skyhold after being pierced by a bandit's arrow. Charging into battle or fleeing from avoidable perils, the mount had seldom ever hesitated in his given tasks. Unless gurguts were involved. He was just as responsible of Chiyo's safety as Solas himself had often been. Da'dava had borne them both through to the Emprise du Lion, the Arbor Wilds, to the camp near the hidden cave in Crestwood… and now he was being handed over to a stranger for a trifling amount of coins.
Another lamentable extent of the disgraceful depths he would sink to. There seemed to be nothing left untouchable if it furthered his goals. He'd already expended every copper lifted from the Inquisitor's coin purse, spent on provisions when none could be scavenged and the toll roads when no other crossing could be found. Entering Nevarra had cost him nearly everything left in his pockets even though he'd brought nothing to trade or of tremendous value, no one crossed the border from Orlais without paying the steep levy.
The returning sound of boots crunching across the yard caught the mage's ear. He looked at the fine bay horse one last time before accepting the payment that, though correct in amount, still felt too light in his palm yet incredibly burdensome once set within the pouch on his hip. Each piece of gold and silver rattled as he set off on foot, leaving behind the unworried animal and the custom saddle made to the Inquisitor's exact specifications. Although his journey was far from over, he had no use for either without attaining the information so desperately sought.
The shop door's bell tinkled sharply, but the small attendant behind the low counter had already turned the window sign for the day. With a sour scowl from under a pale brow, the Dwarven woman sweeping up the scraps of hard leather and the tiny tips of trimmed iron nails snapped at the late in the day visitor before resuming her menial task. "We're closed. Come back tomorrow morning."
But when the door clicked shut and the soft padding of wrapped feet crossed her otherwise immaculate floor, the cobbler glanced up from the tidy pile of the day's work to see a tall, broad-shouldered elf somberly approach. "You again! I told you the first time that if you weren't here to buy then you had to get your blighted arse out of my store!"
Leaning with her dust pan, she glowered, hurriedly brushing the remnants up. With conscientious fingers, the metal fragments were picked out and pocketed, but the rest was dumped into the collection bin in the corner. After casting the tools aside roughly into their customary spot by the leftover basket she instinctively searched for the wooden mallet used in her common trade. She was more than prepared to escort the bothersome vagrant out of her abode if necessary. "I don't know what it is that you want but—"
The woman paused, her skilled fingers stretched for the hammer kept beneath the counter as the shabbily dressed apostate slowly placed several short stacks of coins in a row on the work table. He straightened each and began to place them together till they were nearly as tall as his slender palm. The mage kept his cold blue eyes narrowly fixed upon the presented sum, taking his time in creating the peculiar hoard.
"Perhaps we should start over." Solas imperturbably began, allowing the dwarven shopkeeper to make a quick, rough count of the money laid out before her. "You have information about a pair of mages that were using your wares to smuggle correspondences past some very watchful eyes."
"And what makes you believe I would know anything about damned mages?" The short blonde queried as Solas carefully removed a solitary coin from the tall stack once he had stopped speaking. He slipped the shining pence back into his pocket and replaced his long, pale fingers on the edge of the counter. "I make shoes here, nothing magical about them."
"Because this town is the first of many postmarked before an expensive pair of boots were shipped to another shop in Hossberg, then rerouted to Val Royeaux before being delivered in Ferelden. That seems like an awful lot of misdirection for an inconsequential pair of shoes." With that said, he took another coin and repeated the return to his person.
As the piece of silver vanished the cobbler crossed her arms over her aproned chest, but her eyes continued to count, noting the slow and steady diminish of what was being proposed. More than a month's worth of raw materials could be purchased with the current costs of quality, sturdy leather. "My cousin in the Anderfels is of the same trade… sometimes I send peculiar work for him to manage when I have enough on my hands."
"And why would a Tevinter native even bother purchasing footwear from Nevarra, the tax alone would have been better spent in Orlais or Antiva. I have not seen anything here that is unavailable elsewhere." She immediately began to feel unnerved by the flat, false smile that curled at the corners of the elven man's mouth. She'd ignored his slouched, yet now incredibly intimidating size, the night before last when he'd first entered her shop. The surface-dwarf hadn't noticed anything as cunning or sly about him then as he'd almost too easily been urged out the same door he'd first strolled through. Shoeless and not even considering her wares, the strange elf had been an unfortunate waste of her time. Another coin was lost, but the growing dread in the pit of her stomach made her wish that he would just take all the money back and leave.
Her hand crept deeper beneath the counter, just barely in reach of the rounded mallet and the honed trimming knife kept there. "You don't look like a Tevinter slave-trader to me. How do you know about the packages?"
"I am answering their letter." Solas placed a finger atop the dwindled stack, resting it against the thick, engraved currency. "Whatever trouble they are in is none of my concern."
"…They don't live in the city limits." The dwarf answered as the elf began to lift the coin, but then he set it back down with her forfeited answer. "Not that mages are supposed to be away from the bigger cities to begin with. But they don't go about zapping folk or slinging curses."
"How long have they been here?" asked the calm apostate, idly straightening the circular amassment once more.
"Why does that matter?" The cobbler nearly kicked herself at the sudden loss of another coin when she failed to divulge promptly. The silvers at the top of the first stack were nearly gone, leaving a few larger pieces of gold next in line to be reclaimed. "Fine. A few months. They arrived with the last caravan that came through on their way south. Odd pair. Looked like they hadn't stuck anywhere for more than a day or two, but they kept asking around town about places to shack up for the winter."
Solas leaned over the counter, keeping his baited voice disconcertingly low. She could see a precarious severity building in his half-lidded gaze that set her heart into a thundering rhythm. His steely eyes locked with hers, but they stared into her as if the emotionless black pupils were about to draw her very soul into the Void itself. "And if one wished to find them now?"
"There's an abandoned farmstead to the west of here," The shopkeeper nearly stuttered as her instincts screamed out in warning. She knew she should never have gotten involved with the northern dissidents to begin with, that somehow it would lead back to trouble. And now she had a bizarre elf looming over her, threatening enough without having ever said a harsh word. "It's not far off the old footpath that leads through the goat hills. Trust me; you'll smell the place before you see it. Nobody heads that way anymore."
"Thank you." Solas said graciously and with a polite nod before slowly turning away from the counter he'd been leaning upon. Leaving the unclaimed coins behind, he quietly opened the front door of the shop and left just as silently as he'd entered, collecting his staff and pack before resuming the nearly unoccupied street. Once he'd passed by the unblocked windows, the cobbler slowly slumped onto the nearest stool, resisting the unbearable urge to shake.
She hadn't lied. The whole area stunk, and to spare his senses Solas had done everything to stay upwind of the desolate farm. Sharp, acrid and nearly caustic enough to make his nose scrunch when the breeze blew just right, the apostate had tucked himself behind the remains of a dilapidated shed. Hidden amidst overturned crates and fallen walls, he studied the lights issuing from the boarded up windows of the tiny house and the workshop connected to the ramshackle building, listening for the number and tone of the voices within.
There had to be a good way to plan this approach. The tactics he'd employed within the town would likely only cause him more misfortune considering the attested abilities of the mages in question. He had never trifled with blood magic beyond academic study or ever met a true practitioner of the widely feared art. The Templars of the south had a long standing procedure enforced with any accused of maleficarium—immediate execution. Be it an apostate or a circle mage, the allegation warranted death. There was no tolerance for the secreted art outside of the Imperium, only prevailing assumptions of madness, depravity and desperation.
To Solas though, magic was magic in any of its forms, only the source differed. From the Fade, lyrium, or from the blood coursing in a mage's own veins, it was not inherently evil. Only in the way it was used was the magic changed; all power could be used for ill or become corrupted from original purpose. In the right hands, anything could be a weapon. But knowing as little as he did of the matter, the elven apostate nevertheless remained wary. He was more than skilled enough to hold his own if it came to blows, however experience told him that caution would be the better route than open hostilities. They were wanted offenders after all, likely armed and ready to fight for their lives if needed.
What ruse would he try this time? Would he knock on the door and cry lost on the road, too weary to travel further until they allowed him entry? Or should he be more brazen, with their letter held resolutely out as proclamation. They had offered their aid if he were to find them before their pursuers, certainly if he stated his intent they would refrain from immediately attacking him. He should find out more of these mages before directly approaching them, perhaps if he were to look around a bit…
Solas crept towards the rear of the abode and pressed his back to the weathered siding, hearing the soft chatter from between the thin, uninsulated sides of the boards. Peeking through a small outlet, screened only by a tattered rag, he caught a glimpse of a large metal vessel over a low, open pit of hot coals, steaming and bubbling out a noxious smelling odor from the brewed blue contents within. The steam wafted up towards a simple flume and allowed the horris smells into the open night air. But the pot was left unattended and the room dark except for the embers contained inside the round brick pit. It was enough light for his sharp eyes to declare the room void of danger or persons. Continuing on to the back door, he fought the terrible urge to sneeze as a tickle built high inside his nose. The mage snuck his way around the workshop and felt the door's handle, finding it unlatched he dared give it a gentle push as he cautiously poked his head within.
But just as he moved to slip further inside he heard a startling yowl as his toes stepped upon a small, bony structure that immediately lurched away. Solas felt something small rush about his ankles and clamber its way up the back of his wrapped leggings in a panic, causing him to stumble and do much the same as he tumbled into the dark room. While he kicked and spun to relieve himself of the tiny demon clawing into his thin linen trousers his shoulders careened into the unseen nearby shelving, sending a cascade of small bottles and jars tumbling down about him. As the flasks broke and the canisters unplugged, his clothes, head and feet became slick with whatever oily liquid had been stored inside.
Shouting issued from the adjacent room as he wrenched the hissing creature from his attire and slipped across the floor, nearly stumbling into the boiling cauldron in the center of the workspace. Solas' eyes began to water and his chest grew tight as he fumbled to make it back to the exit but it snapped shut and bolted itself just as he reached for the worn handle. The connecting door was thrown open, immediately brightening the dark room and revealing a willowy woman with a staff raised at the ready in the doorway.
Dropping the furry, sputtering animal caught in his grasp, Solas lifted his empty hands. He watched through his rapidly swelling eyelids as the cat that had attacked him fled for the open door. The feline—no longer a cottony white but streaked with damp reds, purples and greens— left behind a multi-colored trail of hurried paw prints in its wake.
"Who the fuck are you!" Yelled the dark-skinned woman as the tip of her staff began to glow, her voice sharp as desert glass. Solas didn't struggle as the foreign weight of her magic crashed around him, threatening to snap with the slightest provocation. A young man cowered behind her, huddled and pale, but he held a steady blade against his offered wrist.
"You wrote to me." He wheezed as he tried to remain calm, the air in his tightening lungs had grown too thin. The bleeding scratches up the back of his legs, on his hands and arms burned hot.
"How did you find us!" The woman sneered as she traversed the short steps down into the workshop. Already her eyes glowed and the defensive spells she'd wrapped around herself pulsed at the ready.
"My name is Solas, should there be any introductions." His head dizzily spun as he pulled himself together, wiping at the crimson dye that had leaked onto his bald head. The remembered words were issued near naturally and for the briefest of moments Solas recalled saying almost the same amiable phrase to another unintroduced mage. It was strange now, to hear his own name from his tongue. It sounded hollow without the gentle cadence of the elf who had cleansed the word of the original, self-inflicted punishment he'd assigned himself to.
He slowly reached for the front of his robes, seeking the document that had finally forced his decisions in Crestwood. "You offered me aid through a mutual friend."
"Oh no you don't!" The blood mage barked, using her magic to forcibly restrain the creeping hand. "What kind of shifty trick is this?"
Solas sneezed repeatedly into his shoulder, succeeding only in turning his nose and cheek a terrible shade of violet. "I have no intent of attacking you. The letter you sent is in my clothes—" was all he managed as the crystal-end of her weapon was thrust upon his constricted throat. The woman's dark brown hand slid up the staff as she drew near, keeping a threatening eye upon the intruder. With her free hand she pulled the anterior of his ruined vest aside and rummaged for the record in question. Finding the now crumpled and worn sheet, she backed away, resuming the distance before handing the letter off to the nervous assistant that had followed her down the stairs.
"Read it Marlo." She ordered to the gawky youth, thrusting the paper in his direction. With shaky hands, the boy she commanded opened the folded sheet and turned it around, having started upside-down.
"It's m-my handwriting, Edolie." The lad confirmed, still clutching the knife. His lanky, sleeveless arms were covered in scars in varying degrees, some faded and pale, others a new, glaring red. "This is the letter we put in those boots."
"I was not told that these were being relayed to an elf." Edolie spat as she glared at the puffing apostate trapped in her now disheveled dwelling. The colorants that they had worked on all winter to sell in the upcoming market were completely ruined, the contents soaking into the dirt floor. "You are not the Altus my friend described, the one who was supposed to have gotten us clemency!"
"If there was an arrangement made I was not aware of it." Gasped Solas, trying not to rub at his itchy wounds or sway on his rapidly unsteadied feet. Why couldn't he breathe, he'd been perfectly sound just moments before. The air he sucked in rattled in his throat and a deep cough refused to be abated. "But I believe you are referring to my colleague in Ferelden."
Shaking her head angrily, the tense mage poked at the wilting elf with the end of her staff. "So what? Did they send you to help us? Maker's balls, what kind of moron are we dealing with here! You look like you can barely stand, how are you going to help us cross borders or evade capture!"
Leaning back into the wall, Solas slowly lowered his hands and inspected the red, streaky gouges the animal's claws had made. "Your cat… is it… venomous?"
"He's a cat, don't be daft. Haven't you ever seen one before?" Edolie righted her staff and placed a hand on her narrow hip. The elf before her looked absolutely miserable and just about as unthreatening as he could get. Covered in dye, scratches and struggling just to draw breath, she could only feel sorry for the incompetent interloper as he slid down the wall and into a seated position on the floor. "Just because I'm a blood mage doesn't mean I have the power to turn everything and anything into some vile weapon."
"Marlo, fetch the kit." She groaned, rubbing at her temples with her staff-less hand.
"Yes ma'am!" squeaked the boy, more than happy to get as far away from the stranger as possible.
The delicate bracelets about her wrists jingled as she soothed the dissipating tension. She crouched to give Solas a better look, leaning into her weapon for support, as her assistant skittered off. "Looks like they only send sickly strays out of the South. Wonderful."
Codex:
Not many people take the road west into Perendale for the sake of pleasure. Few living things inhabit the rocky countryside save for silver miners, wyverns, and an astoundingly pugnacious breed of mountain goat. In far-off days, the mountains around the city were full of dragons, and perhaps this was what first brought it to the attention of the Pentaghast kings.
Certainly, it was not the goats.
Although the region has belonged to Nevarra since the late Blessed Age, travelers here will find much that reminds them of a provincial Orlesian town. A great carving depicting the Lions Slaying the Dragon adorns Perendale's gate, and many Orlesian lions decorate the city's buildings. And there are still many citizens who cling to the hope that the empress will restore the city to the empire.
Historians mostly agree that it was not the dragons, nor the silver, and certainly not the goats that began centuries of warfare between Orlais and Nevarra. It was Emperor Etienne Valmont and the Pentaghasts.
In 7:82 Storm, the Pentaghast family, fresh on the throne again for the first time in generations and eager to build up the alliances lost by the Van Markham dynasty, approached the emperor to solidify a peace treaty through marriage. The emperor, who was under great pressure to produce an heir, set aside his empress of 17 years and wed Princess Sotiria Pentaghast, theoretically cementing a promise of peace and cooperation between Nevarra and Orlais.
Promises are hard to keep. By 7:97 Storm Sotiria was still childless, and the emperor sent her to a cloister so that he might marry his mistress. As anyone other than Etienne might have predicted, the Nevarrans took this poorly. Angry letters arrived in the Imperial Palace by the cartload. A small war party of Pentaghasts rode into Orlais and reclaimed Princess Sotiria. But the Nevarrans did not take military action yet. They were strategists, and knew to bide their time.
In 8:46 Blessed, while most of the Orlesian army was committed to a war in Ferelden, the Pentaghasts began their war against Orlais. The Orlesians rallied a defense and drove the Nevarrans from Ghislain and Arlesans, but at the cost of much of their northern territory. Perendale was lost and never recovered. A lingering sign that peace between the two nations was impossible.
—From In Pursuit of Knowledge: Travels of a Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi
