Dead End

The mighty dragon spiraled through a pair of dark clouds, breaking into the bone-chilling air beneath the high-noon sun. Far to the West, crimson glints of red lyrium twinkled from the mountains; somewhere to the East, the war cries of the Qun were echoing over the corpses of their age-old enemies. The bitterness of Winter seemed to have taken up permanent residence in Tevinter.

Where are you, Mother? Morrigan wondered. So much was happening in the world, and yet, there had been little sign of the Witch of the Wilds since they parted ways. Where chaos reigns, you are not far behind to gawk at the carnage.

Reluctantly, the shapeshifter turned back toward the ancient city where her companions had spent the entire morning investigating signs of the alleged temple to Fen'Harel. Whatever Dreams or myths had driven the Herald, they seemed to lead nowhere. Of course, Morrigan knew there was truth behind these legends. There was a temple in the city of Solas; the problem was finding it. There was no record by the contemporary locals that spoke of such a place. Their closest clue was that blighted statue in the square.

Within sight of the settlement, the dragon was interrupted from enjoying the tickle of the breeze by a most peculiar sight below: A dust cloud. And no normal dust cloud. This mass of murky air stretched nearly a quarter mile across, held an unnatural bluish hue, and was steadily beginning to enshroud the Southern gates, where they had found the petrified cultists only yesterday. At this rate, it would reach her company before her own arrival. Not if she could help it…


Inara Lavellan stood alone in the middle of the city square while the men broke down camp and built a fire to accompany their midday meal of dried meat and crusted bread. Fresh game was proving to be increasingly illusive in the unnaturally pervading frost.

A breeze caught the hood of the Herald's cloak and sent an icy spike of air down her spine. She halfheartedly pulled the thick fabric close. Resting her gloved hand over her left bicep, she habitually began massaging the area right above the stump of her arm. The phantom ache never seemed to quite disappear, no matter how gently her limb may have been taken or how well the scars healed.

I am not a monster.

It was more than just a lost limb – it was a lost power, a lost freedom, an incessant reminder of pain and love and failure. Wounds that could never heal, swept away by time eternal.

My love…

The elf stared emptily up at the ruby eyes of the white stone wolf. Few were left who knew of its secrets, and none were likely willing to share. Whatever its purpose, the sight of it only refreshed the dull ache of anxiety in her chest. All the what-ifs and possibilities and scenarios of both the past and the future competed for her despairing attentions.

I wish it could, vhenan.

Did Solas know what he took from her? Did he know how much she was willing to sacrifice just to bring the lost god home? Maybe it was an impossible hope. Maybe he was right to try undoing his mistakes. But how many disasters would it take for him to realize that the world could not be fixed on his whim? He was alone on this road of death…or at least he thought so.

"Inquisitor? Are you quite alright?"


Lavellan took a sharp intake of forgotten breath at Captain Fabria's query. She tore her eyes away from the statue, where she had been standing in solitary meditation for near half an hour. The Iron Bull had shrugged when Gideon voiced his concerns about the woman freezing away from their deconstructed camp – something about 'she has a lot to work out'. But the soldier refused to tell Magister Pavus that his dearest friend had transformed into an icicle.

Inara's unfocused eyes were slow to comprehend his presence, but she finally granted the man a warm smile as he stood at her side.

"I'm not the Inquisitor anymore, remember? I renounced that title, much to the entertainment of the Magisterium and the disappointment of my followers."

"Lady Lavellan, then? Is that acceptable?"

Her eyes narrowed in amused thought before she nodded.

"I do find that acceptable." Her smile was gone as quickly as it had come. "I can't believe we came all this way for nothing."

The Captain scowled up at the carved wolf. Morrigan had declared that there were magical wards placed around the statue – after they had scoured half the city for the alleged temple, and after Inara said she could feel her scarred arm tingling as they passed it. The problem now was that there was no apparent way to bypass these wards. The witch attempted to use her skills to poke around for cracks, which resulted in her being blasted ten feet into the air. She claimed she was unfamiliar with the magics used, and that was the end of that. No hint of its true nature. It only made Gideon more determined that this was their goal, or at least part of it.

"'Twas not for nothing," he shrugged amiably. "I may not be a mage, but I do have the connections and influence to get things done. Once we return to the city, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. If this statue is hiding something, we will find it."

"All of which involves the magisters, I presume," the lady sniffed disapprovingly.

"Not all, but some. Whether you like it or not, they are the reigning rulers of this land."

Humming in thought, Inara wrapped her cloak tighter and turned to face him with a rather determined expression.

"You will be returning to this place, Captain, with all your resources that I no longer have. When you do, I want to be there."

"How so? This could all be a dead end. You seem to think the trail of your lover leads here, but you may be wrong."

Her mouth twitched in restrained aggravation.

"Promise, Captain Fabria. Promise me, when you do find the Dread Wolf, whether here or a hundred miles away...I will be there."

Gideon nearly rolled his eyes. He knew bits and pieces of this woman's history with the world-destroying god. It couldn't possibly end well for her. If they were attacked by Fen'Harel's army first, there wouldn't be much time for discussion or keeping promises. Promises like that didn't matter in the heat of battle. And the stories of the Dread Wolf did not exactly paint him as the type of man Inara seemed to recall. He was a ruthless, empty deity who only cared about his goal of bringing down the Veil. It had taken months for most of the magisters to finally realize the threat and begin considering alternative ways to deal with the Qunari aside from brute violence.

"I promise I will do what I can. But how can you possibly believe…?"

"We got company, Boss!" the Bull roared, abruptly ending the conversation.

A bluish cloud was beginning to overcome the distant alleys of Solas. Voices whispered menacingly, but there was no way to tell how many were within. The party's mage was nowhere to be seen, naturally. One small mercy was that they had at least mostly prepared for departure – saddlebags were secure and the horses were travel-ready.

Gideon mentally said a quick goodbye to his favorite travel tin by the fire before grabbing the Inquisitor's arm and pushing her unceremoniously toward her horse. Seconds later, the trio was mounted and charging toward the distant East gates, their dinner abandoned.

As they reached the edge of the square, the Captain paused and dared to look back. A dozen dark elven figures leapt into view out of the fog, the twin-wolf armbands of the Cult of Fen'Harel visible. Unsurprisingly, the sight of their petrified comrades had not been taken lightly. One of the apparent leaders cried out in anger, shouting something about 'desecration' in the ancient tongue of the Elvhen.

That was all he needed to see. Knowing the Cult would soon be on their heels, the warrior urged his mount into a gallop, the packhorse trailing in his wake. Inara and the Qunari were making decent progress in their retreat, but the fog was catching up. If they could see their enemy and know their numbers, they could easily stand to fight; this was not the case today. And having a mage at hand would be nice… Where was Morrigan?!

Gideon's throat began to itch as the sweet bluish haze began to creep around his legs; Maker knew what sort of enchantments might be part of this mist… He could see the gates. They were nearly free! But he could also hear the padding of leather boots against the cobblestones far too close at his back. Any second, an arrow, a lightning bolt, or a spear could strike him from behind and end his adventures permanently.

Finally, the party charged through the outer gate and onto the open road, but the fog kept coming. Fabria was just about to reel his horse around to make a stand when a mighty roar shook the earth. Never had such a sound lightened his heart so much!

The runners were all inclined to shield their eyes when the dragon passed overhead, breathing a white-hot fire that burned away both the fog and the elves within. With screams of alarm, three dozen cultists – mages, rogues, and warriors – were buffeted by giant wings and blazing fire. Ten of the hunters were cooked by the dragon's breath, while the rest fled back into the city without ceremony. Had they expected the oversized lizard, perhaps they may have continued their pursuit; thankfully, surprise was on the runners' side at last.

Erring on the side of caution, the travelers continued on for three more miles until they reached a small grove of trees. Only then did they stop, waiting for the great shadow of the dragon to reappear. The moment its feet alighted on the ground, the creature transformed into their fourth companion. Of course, he could never say 'thank you' to this woman without her scoffing at his polite efforts. Instead:

"I thought swooping was bad."

Morrigan smirked while strolling up to her dancing steed.

"I don't see you complaining."

"Nah," Bull chimed in, a grin replacing his terror at the magic that had just been at their heels. "I'll take a dragon on my side any day."