By Gods Forsaken

by inwardtransience

One day, the shadows will part, and the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see. (How do you do a summary for something this big? Total retelling, Mahariel!Warden, mage!Hawke, Dreamer!Trevelyan!Inquisitor, worldbuilding, too many OCs, serious plot edits, primarily F/F.)

1. By Gods Forsaken

9:30 Pluitanis 17

Kibannan Circle of Magi, Ostwick, Confederation of Free Cities

---

Evie might only be nine, but she wasn't stupid. They were afraid of her. She could tell.

Which she thought was rather silly, honestly. She was nine. She was all little, in her stupid pretty dress her parents had gotten her for the occasion. Which was extra stupid. It was a silly thing, all white and gold and frilly. She guessed her parents had thought if she was going to die she should at least be all pretty for the occasion. She had absolutely nothing on her she could hurt anybody with.

And she was the only person in the room that was true for. There was First Enchanter Jeria standing right there, looking all slightly nervous, but Evie knew Jeria could set people on fire with her thoughts if she wanted to. And five Templars all standing about with their shiny armor and big swords. The only one she recognised was Knight-Captain Severin, but he never wore his helmet, and most Templars did, so she wasn't sure if she knew the others. But they were all very dangerous people, she knew that. Not that that particularly scared her. She'd been around Templars a lot, so they weren't anything new. The mages were slightly new, she guessed, but they'd all been fine so far, and Jeria was really nice. So, she wasn't scared.

But they were afraid of her. She could tell. Which was just silly.

"Have a seat, Evie." Jeria was trying to sound normal, but there was a slight wiggle, her fingers shaking. She waved Evie to a chair, faded cloth and scratched wood. Old, Evie thought, not beaten up on purpose. Once she had dropped into the chair, Jeria kneeled in front of her with a little groan. She was an old person, after all. Not really old. Somewhere between Evie's parents and grandparents in age, she thought, her oddly brown face marked with a few lines here and there, a touch of grey starting at her forehead. She leaned toward Evie, spoke in an urgent whisper. "Remember, child. You step into dreams. The only thing that is real there is you. Your thoughts, your feelings. Remember that, don't let anything trick you, and you will be safe."

Evie tried not to frown at Jeria. That was a silly thing to say. So far as she understood this Harrowing thing, it was just going into the Fade. Like going to sleep. Though...she had a feeling other people didn't experience the Fade the same way she did. She was pretty sure even mages weren't...she didn't know, completely aware of themselves? Something. She didn't expect this Harrowing thing to be that different from what she did every time she went to bed. But there would be no point to arguing about that, would probably just make them even more scared. People were weird about Fade stuff. So she just nodded.

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him." Evie blinked, turned to the Knight-Captain. He was talking in a weird, dramatic voice, being even more silly than before. That was from the Chant, she knew, but she couldn't remember where. "Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children." The Knight-Captain was walking closer to her now, coming into the light thrown from the sunroof, so Evie could see he was carrying a stone chalice. There was something inside, something giving off a sharp blue glow. Even from here, it made her tingle, sparks dancing on her skin. "They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.

"But the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction. The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next." She recognised this from the Chant too, one of her aunts said it sort of a lot. And now the Knight-Captain was kneeling in front of her too, with a lot of jingling of mail and clanking of metal. From this angle she could see inside the chalice, see the stuff that looked sort of halfway between water and fog, there and not-there, all glowing blue, her skin now on fire with tingles, nose filled with metal and blood She shifted in her seat a little. "For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire, and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

"Drink, child," the Knight-Captain said, holding the chalice up toward her. "Cast yourself into the abyss, the well of all souls. Among those emerald waters, face the Maker's first children, and find your way back to us."

Despite the serious mood they were all going for, Evie couldn't help giving the chalice a frowning pout. They wanted her to drink that? Ugh. It hurt just looking at it. The tingling on her skin was getting even worse as it got closer, just plain painful now, an ache growing gradually in her head, like when her uncle Renault tried to sing. But, fine, she guessed she could do that. She grabbed at the chalice, barely finding room to hold it around the Knight-Captain's big metal gloves. Wincing as the fiery tingling got worse, she lifted the chalice toward her head.

She never actually drank any. She tried to, but before she could get it into her mouth it kind of sprang over her, like steam lifting from the pots in the kitchens, and started sinking inward, burning like fire and crackling like lightning. Evie only had long enough to let out a short scream as the blue whatever-it-was sunk into her eyes, her nose, her ears, forcing its way into her head, pouring down her throat and—

Evie sprung to her feet, hands going to her face, fingers running over her chin, her cheeks, her eyelids, even checking the inside of her ears and mouth. Nothing. It was gone. Well, she was gone, technically. There was this sort of...floaty feeling? Like she wasn't as solid as she should be, like she had partially transformed into water, might just flow away at the slightest thought.

Because she could flow away, slide what felt like hundreds of feet, miles in an instant. She'd learned how to do that here. She thought it might be possible to do it in the real world too, but she only knew how to do it here. She could do nearly anything she wanted here. The Fade was like that.

She glanced around, and found herself frowning. This didn't look like a very nice place. The air was made of greenish fog, as it always seemed to be, but was far darker, looking gloomy and murky. Not the pretty, bright glow it usually was, like sunlight passing through leaves, but instead looking gross and slimy. She didn't like it. The ground under her feet was neither stone nor metal, yet sort of both, hard and craggy and matte black. It wasn't just under her feet, but poking up around her in a few places, bits of it floating in the air at random here and there, as always happened here. But it was such a bad colour, heavy and hard and dark, she didn't like it. The only thing the same as usual was the Black City directly over her head, upside-down, the thin, tall spires of glimmering metal and glass visible through the green murk very familiar. But of course it was, it was always in the same place, upside-down above her, no matter where she was, no matter how far she traveled in her sleep.

She'd known where she ended up in the Fade depended somewhat on where she'd fallen asleep. It didn't seem very consistent, like a mile in the real world was twenty miles here, but on other days only a few inches. And what kind of day it'd been seemed to matter too, how she'd been feeling, how her family had been feeling. She'd only slept for a couple days in the Circle so far, but she'd never seen anything like this yet.

She only had to look around for a few seconds before she decided she didn't want to be here. She really didn't like it. So, she was just going to wake up now. She closed her eyes and concentrated, reaching deep inside herself, groping for her body. It was easy enough to find it. She'd forced herself back to the real world many times, when she found something scary or she'd simply been here long enough, felt her body waking up without her. But...she couldn't get in. It was the weirdest thing. It was like there was a wall between them, glowing a hard blue, that wouldn't let her pass.

She frowned to herself. That wasn't good. That was probably that blue stuff, keeping her out. Watching it, she thought it might be shrinking, weakening, but slowly. She'd have to wait, then. And hope nothing bad found her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, kicked at the hard black ground at her feet. She winced at the pain racing up her leg, then imagined her climbing boots around her feet, shaking her head to herself. Idiot, should have thought of that first. Another kick at the ground, this time she hardly even felt it. Better. And she grumbled to herself, muttering about the stupid Templars and the stupid Circle and her stupid parents, making her do this stupid thing...

"Don't let yourself get too carried away now, child." Evie jumped at the voice, spun around on her heel. Sitting on a nearby outcrop of blackness was a boy, right around her age, dressed in simple robes of white and green. Well, it looked like a boy, anyway. Since this was the Fade, though, it was probably a spirit, and she didn't think spirits could even be boys. "The power you have bound around you from the rarefied lyrium makes you far too attractive. Unkind things are about. It would do you best to avoid notice as long as possible."

That was as long as it took for Evie to recognise this spirit. Not because of how it looked — it never looked the same twice — or even the sound of its voice — that always changed too. But more how it was talking, the way it was looking at her. How it felt. She couldn't even say exactly how. She just knew. "Oh. Hello, Mystrel," she said, giving the spirit a smile.

It frowned back at her, but she could tell it was fake. This spirit really liked her, for some reason. A lot of spirits liked her, she wasn't sure why, and she sometimes ended up crowded by them until she had to force herself awake, but this was the one she saw most consistently. Mystrel, as she'd decided to call it, had explained it was a spirit of knowledge, of learning, and found no greater joy than to learn as much as it could, then share what it knew with anyone it could find. For some reason, it'd decided to teach Evie, tracking her down and lecturing at her almost every night.

She wasn't complaining, not at all. Mystrel always had interesting things to talk about, far better than any teacher she'd had in the real world.

But anyway, Mystrel was saying, "You never did tell me why you decided to call me that."

"What fun would it be if I told you?"

Mystrel gave a long-suffering sigh at that, but Evie could tell it was smiling on the inside. At least, as much as it could smile on the inside, spirits didn't really feel things like normal people. "You can conjure a more comfortable seat for yourself, just be careful not to change too much. You don't want to draw attention to yourself. Do not reach for any dreams." It meant memories, hiding preserved just under the surface of the Fade, it always called them that for some reason. "Also, try not to be afraid."

Evie gave it a look at that. She wasn't afraid, really. She had been at first, but that had just been that blue stuff — rarefied lyrium, apparently, not that she knew what that was — it had been all getting all over her, that was scary. She was fine now. It was just the Fade. It might be spooky and bad-looking right now, but it wasn't that bad. Maybe it was just general advice. Mystrel didn't think she was afraid, necessarily, just telling her it would be bad to be afraid, so to try to avoid it. She could do that. "Why would it be bad to be afraid?" She didn't make a seat for herself, she didn't need to. She wasn't really in her body right now, so it was impossible to get tired.

"This is a place of fear," Mystrel said, its voice soft and low. "A mage's fear of the Harrowing. A Templar's fear of the mage. Fear from both of them of demons, the Fade, the unknown. A mage's fear of herself. All that fear, penetrating through the Veil, weakened by repeated use of lyrium, until it is as a beacon, drawing spirits like moths to flame. Surrounding them with fear until it is all they know, the only way they have to interact with your world." Mystrel gave her a sad sort of smile, shaking its head a little. "They don't understand, you see. They see one thing about your people and, since we are in many ways simpler than you, they think the one thing is all. They think the only thing there is is fear. That the best service they could do you would be to fill you with terror until your mind breaks from it. They don't understand. So it is best they not realise you're here until after you've gone."

A shiver tried to come over her, but Evie just ignored it. Which was really easy. This wasn't her real body, it only did what she told it to, so if she wanted to not shiver with horror — to just let the black, sticky feeling wash over her and fall away, like waves crashing against the hard shore to slide away again — then she could. It was a Fade thing, it was best to not think too closely about it. "Why are they making me do this, anyway? I really don't like that lyrium stuff. Feels kind of..." She trailed off, frowned for a moment, then shrugged. She wasn't really sure how to describe what it felt like, the squishy wall of blue light cutting her off from her body. And she really didn't know how to describe it in a way that would make sense to Mystrel, who'd never even had a body. Oh well.

"I think you know that."

"Well, they were obviously scared of me, but I don't know why."

Mystrel just smiled at her again, a sort of look Evie knew it wore when it was...teasing her, sort of, but she wasn't sure the word was right. "I think you know that, too. After all, you've certainly figured out by now that other human children don't make friends with spirits."

Somehow, Evie stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Maybe "teasing" wasn't such a bad word.

"It is truly quite simple, child. You are a Dreamer. They are frightened."

Evie tried to stop it, but she still ended up pouting. That wasn't helpful. "Okay. And what's a Dreamer, then?"

The spirit stared at her for a moment, so still a real person wouldn't have been able to do it. Must have forgot it'd never actually told Evie this. "A mage is to a Dreamer like a hill is to the greatest of mountains. Like a pond is to the raging seas, like a soft breeze is to the sky eternal and all the storms it brings. Like an ant to a dragon. Mages are so far beyond normal men, so much greater in the power they wield, normal men fear them. Dreamers are so far beyond mages, the mages fear them in turn."

Yeah, that wasn't making Evie pout less. Not even a little bit. "Okay, but why? What makes me a dragon? I don't get it."

Mystrel just kept smiling. "All mages can consciously enter the Fade through the use of certain substances, or participation in certain rituals, but even then they are as children. Stumbling, weak, vulnerable. All mages, in their waking hours, can pull the essence of dreams through them into the physical world, and work magic on their surroundings by their will.

"But you walk in dreams. Every night as you sleep, you are here, and you are more comfortable here than most any of your kind would be. You bend our world to your will with nary a thought, shape yourself as you see fit, speak and play with spirits with all the ease you would any person. You are at home here, with dreams and magic, in a way no normal mages are. And when you are awake, your dreams come with you. When you learn to affect your surroundings in the physical world as you do here, you will do so with graceful ease and overwhelming power few will ever be able to match. You are more powerful than they could ever be, both in our world and your own.

"So they fear you, child. And, no matter your youth, they are right to fear you. You are a child now, but the smallest of hatchlings may become the fiercest of dragons, given time."

For a long moment, Evie could only stare back at Mystrel. Well. She hadn't realised she was that special.

She meant, she'd always known she was different. She'd learned very young that other children didn't play with spirits in their sleep. Other children didn't have spirits of knowledge teaching them things their tutors could hardly imagine, other children didn't go exploring through memories long forgotten by men. She'd quickly learned to not talk about spirits and magic and the Fade, because other people were afraid of them. The Chantry said very silly things about them, things Evie knew by now were mostly wrong.

Demons were bad, of course. Some mages did bad things. But saying all spirits and mages were evil was like saying all elves were evil because some of them had done bad things. But people didn't say that, did they? Elves counted as people. Why didn't spirits or mages?

Evie had been very young when she'd come to the very peculiar realisation that her parents were wrong. The Chantry sisters was wrong, the Chant itself was wrong, even the Templars and mages were wrong! They were wrong, about spirits and magic, very simple things about how they worked, why they were the way they were. And that made her think. If they could be wrong about simple things, why should she assume they were right about anything else? If they were so wrong about something small, how wrong could they be about something big?

Like the Maker, for example, and Andraste. It was certain Andraste was real, she was a real woman who really lived, she was in books and on monuments, Evie had even seen memories in the Fade. Historians knew for a fact that there had been a slave revolt, over a thousand years ago, and the wife of an Alamarri chieftain had had some prominent role. But the details? What she'd believed, what she'd said to her followers, any specific facts about her life? All of that came from the Chantry. And the oldest verses hadn't even been written until over a hundred years after her death. And they were wrong about so much.

Evie wasn't certain she believed anything the Chantry said anymore. It was rather hard to, when they said her best friends weren't people, that Evie herself was a monster in the making, could turn on her family at any moment.

Evie wasn't even certain the Maker was real anymore.

"That is heresy you are thinking, child."

Evie jumped, whirled on her heel, stared out into the greenish murk of this icky part of the Fade. But there was nothing. Nothing new, anyway, nothing worth noting.

"They will find out what you are thinking. They will know."

"Evie?" Mystrel was looking at her, almost frowning, as close as the spirit could truly get to concerned. "Is something wrong, child?"

"You can't hear that?" It wasn't until Evie heard her own voice that she realised she was afraid. It was higher than it should be, slightly shaky, which was a bit odd, because she didn't really feel like—

"You know what these people do to people like you. You are an apostate in heart if not in action. And you know the Templars hold no mercy for apostates."

Evie whirled on her heel again, looking for the source of the voice, but there was still nothing. And she noticed in the whirling that it wasn't just her voice that was shaky. She was almost shivering, her fingers twitching and her breath hitching and stuttering. But that was wrong. She didn't really feel that bad at all. A little uncomfortable, yes, a little nervous, but not scared enough to be shaking with it. That was just silly...

It only took her a second, thinking about what was supposed to be going on here, that she realised why.

"Is this supposed to be difficult?"

She turned over her shoulder to Mystrel, finding it just in time to catch it blinking with apparent confusion. "You are resisting something's influence."

Evie shrugged. "Well, yes, I suppose I am. It's just...easier than I thought it would be. I barely even noticed it was there. Just a whispery voice, and my fake body thing is acting all like I'm scared, but I'm not."

And Mystrel frowned, not with any real frustration, or confusion, but more an academic sense of curiosity, of picking through its not-brain to try to make sense of this interesting new fact. "Curious. Perhaps you were fortunate enough to have been assaulted by a weak one. Or perhaps a stupid one. You are a Dreamer — history has shown that the best way to overwhelm a Dreamer is to manipulate them into cooperating, and then stab them in the back once they have turned it. So to speak. Your kind are too strong-willed to overpower directly, especially with lyrium running through your veins. A direct assault, as this seems to be, would be most ill-advised."

"Hmm." Well, that was just lucky for her, she guessed.

The demon seemed to realise it wasn't working too.

It came as a wave of blackness, pouring over the icky, scraggly ground like a river of oil, but not splashing as it should, sticking to itself all gross. And it washed over her feet, up her legs, nearly to her waist, all thick and sticky and stringy, and it smelled rather bad, like fruit that had been left in the sun too long. It pooled around her, rising up to curl above her head, the parts touching her turning sharp and scratchy, thousands of little fluttering scratches, like too many insects crawling against her skin, rising up into a vague pantomime of a face, glaring down at her with eyes green and black and red, angry and deadly and terrible.

And she felt its magic, pushing down on her, trying to get inside of her, thick and heavy and sharp. But she just ignored it. This wasn't real, this wasn't really happening, and it had no power to hurt her. Not if she didn't let it. So she didn't let it.

"They will turn on you one day. You are but a child, and already they fear you. The day will come, the day will—"

"That's nice." Evie glanced down at where the demon was clawing at her legs, all itchy and squirmy, it was really quite unpleasant. "Could you stop that? It's a little weird."

The demon let out a hiss, high and low all at once, stabbing into her head that wasn't really her head, making her fake bones shiver. "I can save you, child. When the day comes, I can be there, I can—"

"That's just silly." The demon hissed again, but Evie ignored it, frowning up at the phantom face of black and light glaring down at her. "If you were with me like that, that would be possessing me. That's what abominations are." And since she was apparently a really scary mage, she'd be an even scarier abomination. Sounded bad. "And, really, you think they'd be less scared of me if I were an abomination?"

"I can help you fight ba—"

"But they'd have no reason to fight me if I stayed me. All unpossessed."

"They will, they will one day, they WILL—"

"Mm-hmm." Really, she wasn't certain the demon was wrong. Mages could be scary to begin with, and she was apparently very scary. And Templars were supposed to protect people from scary mages. It was their job. And, sometimes, people can go too far trying to protect people.

Thinking it, she was seeing her mother, bringing her to the Circle, just a couple weeks ago, crying and stroking her hair, telling her she'd be safer here. It might not be very nice, home was much nicer, she might be lonely, and it would be okay, they would visit, they would visit whenever they could, but it wasn't safe for a mage out there, people might be scared and hurt her, she could learn to control her powers here, she'd be safer...

But it wasn't like Evie had ever not been in control of her powers. She'd heard those stories about other mages, not being able to stop from doing things, and she didn't understand. She'd hardly done any magic ever, but she'd also hardly ever tried. She didn't think she'd ever done anything without trying. Because magic was all about trying. It was wanting the world to be some other way, then forcing power in it to make it that way. She couldn't imagine doing anything on accident. How did that even work?

And as she was showing at this very moment, she clearly didn't have to worry about demons. This was supposed to be hard, apparently. She could feel its power pushing at her, and she guessed this was kinda scary, but it was too easy to ignore. She couldn't imagine ever being possessed. She couldn't imagine how other people could. This was too easy.

She didn't understand why her parents had sent her here. This was stupid.

It was at that very moment, the demon around her screaming a hideous scream as it realised whatever it was trying wasn't working, swirling and shuddering above her in frustration, that she felt it vanish. That blue lightning, the squishy wall separating her from the real world, it was gone. It was like a weight lifting off, something tight around her neck suddenly gone. She glanced around at the rushing black and green and blue walls around her, but she couldn't see Mystrel. So she just said, raising her voice a bit, "Okay, that lyrium stuff is gone now, and it's not very nice here, so I'm gonna go back."

She didn't wait for a response. She wasn't certain Mystrel was even there anymore — a couple times in the past, it'd disappeared when things got too un-knowledge-y, Evie thought things too different from what it was made it uncomfortable somehow. Still ignoring the demon around her being pointlessly annoying, Evie reached deep within herself, groping for her real body back in the real world. And, digging mental fingers in, she pulled—

And she abruptly wished she'd stayed in the Fade. Her head hurt, stinging and pounding, she couldn't help the tears leaking from her eyes. Jeria was holding her, stroking her hair, shushing into her ear, but that didn't make it not hurt.

She wouldn't remember what had happened afterward very well, it was too blurry and painful. But she was certain she'd met Knight-Captain Severin's eyes at some point.

Deep inside, hidden, she swore she saw fear and despair smoldering like fire, green and black and blue.

---

9:30 Pluitanis 17

Lothering, South Reach, Chasingard, Kingdom of Ferelden

---

She wasn't sure what had possessed her to do it. It was a less than wise thing to be doing — he would surely have Templars about him somewhere, it wouldn't do to be detected. Perhaps it was simple curiosity.

Marian's father had spoken of King Maric Theirin, called the Savior. A man of unimpeachable principle, fierce honor. A good and just man, who was kind when he could be, an unstoppable warrior when needs must. They had never met, of course — Malcolm Hawke had been young when he'd left Ferelden's shores for the Circle at Kirkwall, and, once he'd returned, had had little opportunity to meet a King. But despite his youth, he'd taken a love for his homeland with him to the Free Marches, had followed the news of the Rebellion against Orlais ravenously, and had continued to be one of the King's most outspoken supporters in Lothering.

Father had taken ill shortly after King Maric's demise, hadn't lasted the year. She'd had occasion to wonder, half-seriously, if he hadn't been too heartbroken by the death of his childhood hero to endure. Her father had always seemed a painfully idealistic sort, it wasn't out of the question.

So, here she was. Standing in an alley, as deep as she could in the shadows while still being able to see out. Eyes fixed on an open tent at the edge of town. Inside of which stood a table, around which sat the Arl's son Gareth, the most influential of Lothering's elders, Mother Vichiénne, Knight-Captain Bryant. On the other side of the table, flanked by his closest lieutenants, His Majesty Cailan of the House Theirin, King of the Alamarri, High Lord of Ferelden.

It was hard to tell from here — Marian was hardly part of the conversation, couldn't hear what was being discussed. But she found herself faintly disappointed. He just seemed too...

She wasn't certain what word she was looking for. Clean?

In any case, he looked more a boy dressed up in his father's armor — formal armor, finely wrought and polished to a shine, not intended for battle at all. The way he smiled and bounced and paced, and laughed, he just seemed...

She didn't know. It was hard to believe that boisterous little man was her king, that was all.

Perhaps she was distracted, watching the conversation from a distance, less attention paid to her surroundings than truly should be, with so many more Templars in town than usual. Whatever the reason, she jumped when a voice spoke from just behind her, her heart leaping into her throat. "Well, aren't you a sneaky little thing."

Marian forced some measure of composure into herself. Instead of whirling about to face whoever it was, she glanced over her shoulder, her face cool and uninterested. She almost lost any sense of ease when she saw the man.

She couldn't explain how she knew, exactly, she never could. It wasn't like she could see it. Not exactly. But she knew, immediately, viscerally, that this man was a Templar.

Not that he was dressed like one. He was wearing armor, and not inexpensive armor at that, but the color and design were all wrong. Not the burnished silver or the fiery sword of the Templars, the familiar signs were nowhere to be seen. Instead his steel retained its natural grayish color, a griffin carved into his chest plate, not ornamented in any way, but done with such detail the craftsman would have to have been both incredibly skilled and passionately dedicated.

This man was a Grey Warden. There were few enough in Ferelden, every single one of their paltry numbers moving south to meet the intensifying rumors of surfacing darkspawn. He must be a former Templar, then — the Grey Wardens recruited from all walks of life, their people severing all former loyalties to serve all of Thedas. It would still do to be cautious. Marian couldn't know how this particular former Templar felt of mages these days, couldn't know how he would react to finding an apostate skulking about.

Better than an average Templar, certainly, but that wasn't saying much.

Assuming he could feel her just as she could feel him, which she thought was almost a given. Best to play it safe in any case. "Forgive me, Ser, ah..."

The man's face split into a crooked smile, eyes dancing with some unspoken joke. "Alistair."

"Ser Alistair," she said, nodding. "I'm sorry, but it's not very polite to sneak up on a lady like that, you know."

The smile split wider, wide enough she could make out his teeth — too white, noble-born? — his eyes practically sparkling by this point. "Well, it just seems fair game, doesn't it? Sneaking up on somebody being sneaky." Before Marian could say anything to that, he rambled on. "And forgive me, but I didn't realize they'd made a habit of ennobling apostates in the South. My bad."

Marian didn't think. She reached inside herself, grasping for that secret place hidden deep within, that wellspring of power, whispering forever at the edges of her thoughts. She pulled a handful of magic into her grasp, not to strike but to hide, remove herself from the Templar's perception. It might not even work on a Templar, but she had to try, she had to get home, she had to warn—

"Hey now, hey." The Templar had raised both hands up to a level with his head, empty gloves facing outward. "No reason to start throwing spells about. I didn't come here to fight."

"And I'm supposed to believe you're going to just walk away from a free apostate?"

One of the Templar's eyebrows started slipping up his forehead. One of his hands moved, a single gloved finger tapping at his breastplate with the slightest of metallic tinks, right at the edge of the griffin carved into the surface.

Despite herself, Marian's concentration lapsed, and the uncast spell broke apart. She got the message clearly enough — this man was a former Templar, and dealing with apostates wasn't the responsibility of the Grey Wardens. In fact, she'd heard they'd sooner recruit an apostate than hand them over to the Chantry, innocent or not. That didn't necessarily mean she could trust this particular ex-Templar sight unseen, but it was...possible she'd overreacted. Maybe. "If you don't care, why'd you track me down in the first place?" That had to be how he'd found her, followed the faint trace of her innate magic to the source. It couldn't be a coincidence that the person who'd spotted her just happened to be a Templar.

The man shrugged, his hands again falling to his sides, apparently deciding the danger had passed. "I felt a mage, seemingly spying on His Majesty. I've been charged with keeping an eye on him during our trip south, and an unknown mage lurking about is a potential threat, you can't deny that." His face tilted into a smirk again, eyes dancing. "But, I suppose I can safely assume you're not here to assassinate the King, are you, Marian Hawke."

It took a few seconds for her to find her voice again. "How do you know my name?"

Another shrug. "Bryant told me about the Hawke girls. I've already met Bethany, she was in the Chantry when we stopped by, so you must be Marian."

"But..." She blinked at him for a moment, the implications of that simple statement nearly making her dizzy. "That would... The Knight-Captain knows we're..."

"Well, yes. I understand his predecessor made a deal with your father ages ago. Something about helping with any magical or demonic issues that come up, I expect, Lothering is a bit in the middle of nowhere. No Circles around, you see, if the locals need magical help for something they might not have time for official aid to come all the way from Kinloch Hold. So, arrangement with local apostates. Happens all the time, in places like this. Just don't tell the Chantry mothers, though, they get all snitty."

That...made an odd kind of sense. And explained Dad disappearing for a week at a time here and there — must have been off helping the Templars out in the hills somewhere. No idea why he wouldn't have told her. Or why Bryant hadn't brought it up yet, either. Wouldn't he want her to fill in for Dad, now that he was gone? But anyway, "You had far too much fun, springing that on me like that."

The man's smirk stretched wider. "This isn't the cheeriest profession in the world, you know. I take my entertainment where I can find it."

Yes, well, he was the one who'd join the Grey Wardens. Sounded like his damn problem. Though, she couldn't imagine being a Templar was really any better. "You know, you're a bit of a dick."

"Actually, you must have forgotten, I go by Alistair these days. Not sure if it's an improvement. Bit-of-a-Dick — just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

She almost laughed at that one, but thankfully managed to control herself. If she'd cracked up at that thin of a joke, delivered by a Templar no less, she would have been a bit embarrassed with herself. Must be the adrenaline coming off, yes. "With every word that comes out of your mouth, I find myself struggling with the urge to punch you in the face."

And that just seemed to make him even more amused with himself, his eyes practically dancing. This guy, honestly... "Oh, you're not the only one. Happens all the time. Can't imagine why, how could anyone want to do any damage to this..." He trailed off, face taking a more sombre, serious cast, gloved fingers slowly slipping over his face. "...singular work of art? What has this world come to, travesty, I say!"

Okay. That one was actually kind of funny. She was starting to get the odd feeling she might not actually mind this idiot, if it weren't for the whole Templar thing. Uncomfortable. "Yeah, you're really just making it worse." She managed to keep her own lips from curling into a smirk. She was pretty sure.

"Oh, don't strain yourself trying to hold back, I'm used to it by now. You wouldn't even be the first Hawke today, seriously, all the time."

Aaand now she entirely failed to contain a smirk. She couldn't help herself, the mental image she'd gotten was just too funny. "You really shouldn't have flirted with Bethany in the Chantry. She hates that. Did you catch the echo? She gets a good ring out of it in there."

"That does sound like fun, but, alas, I managed to control myself. It was your brother, actually. Kid has a mean right hook," he said, rubbing at his chin with a pained grimace.

Marian tilted her head a bit, getting a better look and, holy shit, he did have a bruise there, just starting to come in. Carver had actually hit him! Yeah, definitely smirking now. "Maker's breath, what the hell did you say? I can count on my fingers the times Carver's gotten into a fight." Mostly over people being, ah, untoward with Bethany — Carver could be a pain, but he really was quite adorable sometimes.

"Oh, I don't remember," the strange man said, with the unmistakable tone of someone who definitely remembered. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad. Might have suggested he'd been taught to hold a shield by one of his sisters. But I mean, really, after having met both of you, can't see why he should have taken that personally! You're very intense women, you know that?"

She was momentarily confused, wondering just why this idiot would have any reason to comment on how Carver held a shield, of all things. Far as she knew, they didn't even have a shield in the house. By the time he was done talking, though, it'd clicked.

And, in an instant, her chest had gone tight and hot with rage.

The King and his army weren't just stopping in Lothering on the way south as a courtesy, after all. They were recruiting. To fight against the Blight, they said, though Marian personally doubted it was a Blight at all. There were old caves and shit all over the place down there, darkspawn popped up from time to time, it wasn't unheard of. There was a reason the Crown hadn't managed to convince the Banns to call the levies. But anyway, a full week before they'd arrived, word had been sent ahead. Carver had started talking about joining up, but before he'd even gotten a full sentence out Marian had forbidden him to go. They'd argued, and argued, getting angrier and angrier — Bethany had actually forced them to opposite sides of the room when they'd started shoving each other, which was quite a thing, Bethany avoided using magic at all if she could help it. They'd gone on for hours, until Mother had gotten home, and settled the issue by telling Carver in no uncertain terms that he was not leaving, she would never forgive him for abandoning them if he went.

But, apparently, the issue hadn't been settled. Carver, this idiot had just implied, had joined up with the King's army. And he hadn't told them, he was just going to vanish with them, without saying a word.

And she was angry. Ooh, she was angry, her fists clenching without her meaning to, her teeth aching, the tension so great she was nearly choking with it, could barely breathe.

But, even when she was this overwhelmingly enraged, she thought of her father without thinking, remembered what he'd taught her. Because getting this angry could be dangerous, for them. There was a razor-thin line between being filled with rage, and becoming Rage. So, without even really thinking, she let the feeling fill her, and flow through her, like casting any spell. Her anger radiating off of her, like steam rising from a pot, he'd said, like fog flowing off a lake.

It wasn't feeling an emotion that was dangerous for a mage, he'd said. It was letting it build up, carrying it inside, letting it consume you, that's what drew demons flocking into your shadow. That's what would turn your dreams into nightmares, that's what could make you weak to their influence, that's what might see you Fall one day. She couldn't bottle it up. She had to let it out, she'd been taught to let it out. For the safety of everyone around her, not just her own happiness.

Though, of course, Dad being Dad, he had joked that everyone would be happier if they didn't go around bottling everything up, so he'd probably be giving her this advice either way. Sure, Dad, if you say so.

The idiot had backed off a step, face creased in a frown, hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. Probably feeling the anger slipping out of her, hot and thick like steam. She didn't doubt that might be a bit scary to a Templar. But that didn't really matter right now. Her voice a low, thick snarl, she said, "Excuse me, ser. I have to go drag my stupid, self-righteous, selfish, cowardly little cunt of a brother back home. By his ear."

He blinked at her, his hand falling away from his sword. "Um... Have fun with that? I guess?"

"I will, thank you." And she turned on her heel, and sprinted off for the army camp, just to the south of the village. She hardly even noticed the packed dirt flee under her feet, hardly noticed the dingy wooden buildings whip by. She knew she passed people, some even calling out to her, but she didn't spare a thought for them, just kept running. Perhaps too fast, her rage was still burning high, it could be too easy for emotions to pull magic without any conscious choice, which probably wasn't smart, with Templars about, but—

She tore into the camp, passing figures in leathers or scale, a few rare flashes of plate here and there, staring at her, some jumping out of the way, swearing to each other, she slipped through the maze of tents, not sure how she knew where to go, but knowing, she knew, she ran right toward him, he was just past this—

At the southern edge of the camp, where the sea of tents ended, the ground had been trampled even flatter than usual. The field was filled with soldiers in light leathers, each bearing a sword and shield. Not a real sword, she noticed at a glance, but length of iron wrapped in sheepskin. Drills, it only took seconds for her to decide these were recruits in training. Without a thought, she darted into the crowd, slipping around duelling pairs, a few times even ducking under swinging metal, following a feeling she couldn't quite describe.

And there he was. In tattered and rusted old scale armor, it had been their father's, fallen to disrepair since his death. His black hair heavy and sticky with sweat, not even looking at her, trading blows with a larger man, a lord's son, judging by the look of his clothes, the coat of arms on his shield.

It took long enough for Marian to get to him to notice Carver had the other man on his heels, scrambling to defend himself under a rain of blows. Not bad, she had a feeling the other man had even been properly trained, which Carver certainly hadn't.

She wasn't any less furious with him, of course, but she was almost impressed.

With ease born of practice, Marian relaxed something deep inside, something more mental than physical, letting a sliver of the Fade slip into her. Directing the power toward her arm, believing herself to be harder, stronger than she truly was, she reached up toward Carver's ear, barely visible through the thick nest of soggy hair. And she grabbed.

And she pulled.

Carver let out a shocked groan, tipping backward with the force of her magic-assisted strength, latest swing aborted as he stumbled after her. Her ears deaf to his protests, deaf to the muttering and laughter of the men around them, Marian turned north again, back toward the village, yanking her idiot brother along with her.

She could barely hear a thing, her own blood pounding in her ears, could see little but a wide blur of red. She was hardly even aware of what she was doing. And she might have continued on that way for some while if her right arm didn't quite suddenly explode into piercing agony, a flash of white breaking apart her vision. She cradled her arm, nearly summoned the magic to suppress the pain before remembering there were certainly people around, that would be far too obvious. Her breath coming in short, harsh hisses, she waited for the pain to lessen some, enough to properly figure out what just happened.

They were standing in the middle of the army camp, she could see that, dirt turned muddy, the tents flapping in the inadequate breeze. Inadequate because this many men packed into one spot could get quite smelly, some of this mud was probably piss, when she thought about it. This little path between tents was narrow enough, likely not meant for traffic, they were alone, she and Carver. He was panting, stubble-speckled face glaring at her, rubbing at one ear, in his other hand—

Marian blinked. That length of iron, an imitation of a proper sword, the padding had been stripped off, exposing the metal to the air. The sheepskin was instead draped over Carver's elbow. "You..." Marian frowned at her little brother, struggling to form the words. She glanced down, a reddish welt already showing on her bare forearm. "You hit me." Carver had never actually hit her before. He'd yelled at her, yes, those rare times he'd gotten especially annoyed with her, insulted and cursed her. Threatened violence before, yes, but never...

She couldn't quite wrap her head around what had just happened, the last remnants of her anger sputtering out. It just seemed...unreal somehow. Like she had to be dreaming this, it couldn't actually happen.

To Carver's credit, he looked nearly as dazed as she was, eyes wide, mouth working silently. Finally he drew himself up, brow dipping into a frown, with an unsteadiness that told her he was consciously forcing it into place. "Well, you weren't listening, and you weren't letting go."

"You were leaving." Just saying the words brought the anger flaring back. Still small, just a hot ember deep in her chest, but there. "You were just going to run off, you weren't even going to say anything."

His face twisted into a scowl. "There was no real point to saying anything, was there? You never listen."

"I never listen?!" Marian couldn't help a derisive laugh, shaking her head to herself. "After what I said, after what Bethany said, after what Mother said, you were still going to run off! You selfish little shit, don't you care what—"

"Oh, yes, I'm the selfish one, I forget! I'm the selfish one, for wanting to do something about the Blight before it kills everyone I care about! Of course, how selfish of me!"

Marian ignored the bit about the Blight. If it were a Blight, he might have a point, but she wasn't convinced it was. There were caves leading to the Deep Roads all over the place down there. Darkspawn popped up all the time. This was nothing new.

(The more she told herself that, the less convincing it sounded. She pretended not to notice.)

"This isn't some game, Carver, this isn't one of your stupid stories with knights and and whatever nonsense. This is real life. If you go out there, you could die, and I really don't want to find out how Mother would take that, do you?"

"I know I could—" Carver broke off, letting out a frustrated growl. His free hand raised to his face, fingers slipping through his hair, rubbing at his cheek. "Yes, I might die, but it's a fucking Blight, Marian! And we're standing between it and the rest of civilization! If nothing is done about it, who do you think will be the first to die? Which village is going to be wiped off the map first, hmm? Because I'm betting it's Lothering."

Marian grit her teeth, her fists clenching without meaning to, pulling at the throbbing ache on her right forearm. There would be no point to yelling at him though, Carver wouldn't be swayed by yelling, so she drew a long breath through her nose, then another, trying to keep herself calm. "They say it's a Blight. People say a lot of things are a Blight, Chasind and Wilderfolk can get a bit panicky sometimes. How is this scare different than any other?"

The answer came instantly, flatly, confidently. "Because, this time, it's the Grey Wardens calling it a Blight."

Marian hitched, her response frozen in her throat, then leaned back, frowning to herself. That...was actually a good point. There were darkspawn scares in the far south all the time, but they were generally ignored by...well, everyone who didn't live there. But it wasn't being ignored this time. This time, the King and Teryn fucking Loghain were marching south with an army, Grey Wardens leading the way. If anyone should be able to tell a true Blight from a false alarm, it was the Wardens.

The rumor was the Warden-Commander was pretty damn sure.

"Then we should run."

Carver jerked as though stung, blinked at her for a few seconds before finding his voice again. Even then, all he managed was, "What?"

"We should run." Marian nodded to herself, more energy slipping into her voice the longer she spoke. "It could be a Blight, fine, but if it is, it won't be stopped before reaching Lothering. The very thought is absurd, no Blight was ever halted that soon. No matter what happens at Ostagar, everyone here will be in danger. So we run. We go back, we get Bethany and Mother, we pick up everything we can carry, and we run."

Still frowning, staring at her as though she had gone completely insane, Carver said, "Run where?"

"I don't know. Up to Highever or Amaranthine, take a ship across to the Marches. Mother has family in Kirkwall, right? I'm sure we'll be safer there than—"

"For how long, though? Do you really think the Blight will stop at—"

"What else am I supposed to do?!" Her throat already hurting from that one sentence, Marian bit her lip, stopping herself from saying any more.

She'd been taking care of everything. Father had died, and Mother had basically fallen apart. Oh, she'd recovered by now, but she'd been completely useless for a couple years, weepy and empty, and they wouldn't have survived a couple years. Carver and Bethany had still been little, then, not even yet ten, and it had just been Marian. She'd kept the farm going, she'd maintained all of Dad's old traps and nets. Using magic to cheat, healing plants that she'd accidentally sabotaged somehow, fixing the traps she'd managed to break, which just made things worse more often than not, she didn't understand the mechanisms involved, he'd died before he could teach her.

More than a few times, she'd been reduced to hunting with elemental magic. She'd wait for an overcast day, rain just on the horizon, track down something, anything edible. Lightning from fingertips, she'd gotten pretty good at hitting the heads, leaving as much of the meat salvageable as possible.

Eventually, eventually she'd gotten a routine down, eventually she'd gotten good enough at this farmer thing that she hardly needed to use magic any more. After a couple years, Carver and Bethany were old enough to help, and that made it far easier. They weren't on the edge anymore, one minor mistake wouldn't see them starve.

But it had been a close thing. One year, the harvest had come in light, they hadn't had enough to sell to cover all the things they needed to buy. Marian had had to steal. A few simple spells, to distract attention, to levitate coins from purses. She'd only had to do it a couple times, but she had. She still hadn't told anyone about it — not Bethany, not Mother — even thinking about it was...unpleasant, she just wanted to forget it ever happened.

She'd been taking care of everything. The food, the house, the money. She'd made sure, in the worst of her depression, that Mother was properly taking care of herself, that she wouldn't unthinkingly starve herself to death. She'd made sure Bethany learned what she needed to, that she could control her magic, that she could keep it secret, that she would be safe from demons. She'd made sure Carver had actually gone to his lessons — and that hadn't been easy sometimes, it was a damned miracle that rebellious little shit could read.

She'd taken care of everything.

She couldn't take care of a Blight.

The Maker really had to be a sadistic little shit, when she thought about it.

When she finally found her voice again, it came low, weak, a whisper barely above silence. She was aware of herself enough to be a little embarrassed, the sound of it far too thin and breathy and childish. "What else am I supposed to do?"

A glance up showed all the frustration had been wiped from Carver's face. That didn't mean she was any more happy with what she did see, though. She wasn't sure how to read the sudden softness there, the light in his dark eyes, but it put something squirmy roiling in her stomach, she couldn't put words to exactly what. "Come with me." Her dumbfounded disbelief must have shown on her face, because Carver stepped closer, dropping the fake sword still in his hand to grip both of her shoulders leaning close over her.

It still annoyed her that the little shit had gotten so much taller than her, over the last couple years. The lot of all elder sisters, she guessed.

Whispering low, thin and high enough it wouldn't carry, he said, "I know you're powerful, Marian. I may not be a mage, I may not know much about such things — shit, I've never even met a mage I wasn't related to — but I'm not an idiot. I don't need Bethany telling me about some of the things you pull in your little lessons to know that. Don't tell me you don't think you can help, don't tell me that."

She couldn't help wincing a little. She did know she was...well, so far as such things went, she was closer to the top than the bottom. Not, like, absurdly gifted or anything, she couldn't hold a candle to some of the stories she'd heard of Dreamers and the like, but she knew she was significantly more powerful and talented than average. Of course, the only reason she knew this was because Father had told her so. Much as Carver had said a second ago, Marian had never met a mage she wasn't related to, but Father had grown up in the Circle at Kirkwall, so he'd met plenty. He'd said she was a far better mage than he was — it'd taken her some time to believe that, since the first time he'd said anything about it she'd only been seven or eight, hadn't known nearly as much magic back then — would have matched the best of his generation back in the Circle. Shit, he'd be shocked if, were she in a Circle, she wouldn't make Enchanter by thirty.

Not that she really knew what that meant. She had virtually no frame of reference for what other mages were capable of.

Point was, she would be far from useless, in practically any situation. But it wasn't quite that simple. She could be far from useless and still not contribute enough to make a difference. If it were anything other than a fucking Blight, Carver might have a pretty good point. "Carver..."

"It's not hopeless, Marian!" He looked slightly irritated again, mouth curving down and eyes narrowing, his fingers had tightened on her arms a little, but his voice stayed cautiously low. "Every Blight has been shorter than the last, every single one. It's not impossible we could stop it. Now, before it even gets this far north. Every little bit of help the Wardens get makes it just that much more likely. I mean, Maker's breath, if the Blight is going to be stopped at any point in Ferelden, do you really think anyone is more likely to pull it off than Teryn fucking Loghain?"

Marian frowned a little. "Darkspawn and chevaliers are hardly the same thing." Even as she said it, she knew it wasn't a great argument. He was... Well, he was Teryn fucking Loghain. There was a reason he was widely considered the single greatest living military tactician in all the South. She'd heard rumors scholars on the subject in bloody Tevinter had been studying a few of his tricks back in the Rebellion, seriously...

By the look he was giving her, Carver didn't buy it any more than she did. "It can be beat. I know that, that's why I have to help. But you could do..." He broke off with a huff, shaking his head to himself. She could see a shred of bitterness there, envy that had burned so long it had nearly sputtered out. "You would make so much more of a difference than I ever could. You can't tell me I'm wrong."

"I..." Marian sighed, glaring up at him. Damn the little shit, he just had to go and be not entirely wrong. The chances of the Blight being beaten so quickly were slim to none, of course, but they were non-zero. And the two of them going would make those chances greater. By a tiny margin, yes, but it was still something, and Marian going with him would do more to help than the idiot on his own. And, really, running away wasn't even that great of an option. They had trouble enough getting by here, if they let themselves be reduced to refugees they might never get back on their feet.

Not to mention, she realized with a start, Carver getting out of it alive was much more likely if she was there to make sure of it. And if he was going to run off like a bloody fool no matter what she did...

Her heart suddenly pounding hard in her throat, Marian ran her tongue over her lips. "Well," she said after a long moment of silence, "it's not quite that simple, Carver. We'd be leaving Mother and Bethany on—"

"They'll be fine."

"With planting season coming up—"

"Do you really think we'll be here long enough to harvest if the Blight isn't stopped?"

She winced. No. No, she didn't. "Well. This might have slipped your mind, Carver, but I am an apostate. If I start practicing magic openly..." She trailed off, shrugged. "At my age, I probably won't be sent to a Circle. They'll just execute me."

Carver jerked back a bit at that, a surprised frown crossing his face. Apparently, he had forgotten about that. "Ah... Well, there aren't any Templars going, that I know about..."

Firstly, there were Templars going — the Circle had sent mages to support the army, and that number of mages went nowhere without Templar escort. But that didn't even really matter. "There will be plenty of other people. Even people from Lothering, people who know who I am. If they see me throwing magic around..." She wouldn't be able to come back. If she went with him, and she fought, really fought, and if they won...

He was silent a second, eyes flickering back and forth, clearly thinking. Then, his face cleared, brightened, like the sun spilling from behind the clouds, suddenly seeming far more cheerful, voice even rising a bit too high. "The Wardens! Tell the Wardens you're an apostate, they'll protect you!"

Marian frowned. That was true. The Wardens were infamous for using any means they deemed necessary to oppose the Blight, nowhere more obvious on a regular basis than their recruitment habits — outcasts, apostates, criminals. Shit, according to rumor the new Warden-Commander in Ferelden had been conscripted at his own execution. The Wardens would certainly shield her in exchange for her help, but she wasn't sure how far they would go without demanding she join them. If it got bad enough, if the Templars were demanding she be handed over, she would probably have to. So, it would be quite a risk. If she did end up having to become a Warden, she'd never be going back home.

There was no leaving the Wardens. It was a commitment for life. Everyone knew that.

Her heart pounded harder, almost painfully, her blood heavy all through her head, a cold rock sinking into her stomach, as something finally sunk in. It was inevitable. She, at the very last, wouldn't be staying in Lothering. She didn't truly believe the Blight would be ended before it reached Lothering, the whole family would have to flee. If she went with Carver — and he would go whether she went with him or not, the little shit would surely sneak out no matter what she did — she would either have to flee the Templars or join the Wardens to shield herself from them. Even if the Blight was held back, she'd just learned today the local Templars already knew full well what she was. If the Knight-Captain was replaced at any point, there was no guarantee his successor wouldn't be told about her, there was no guarantee he would leave her unmolested.

She couldn't stay. Even in the best case scenario, be it two or five years from now, she would have to leave eventually. She would have to leave Lothering.

In that moment, even while the horror of the realization still chilled her, she... Well, she didn't think that was too much of a bad thing. She'd admit she'd gotten a bit...tired. Was tired the word? She'd never even let herself consider leaving home, she'd never even let herself consider, she didn't know, getting married, or, or, whatever it was people who didn't want to be farmers ended up doing with themselves. She had to stay, her family needed her. Only now, even if they could stay in Lothering, they didn't truly need her anymore. It might be difficult at first, but they would make it. She could...

Well, if she were being perfectly honest with herself, running away wasn't an entirely unpleasant thought. Even if she had absolutely no idea what she'd do with herself. She just...

Marian bit her lip, frowning up at Carver. She doubted he'd put together what she had. She wasn't sure how he'd feel about it if he had. But, in the end, it didn't really matter. He was right, she could help. He was right, Mother and Bethany would be fine for a few months without them. He would be going no matter what, but she could make sure he came back alive. She might be forced to leave, but that was inevitable, no matter what happened. She could help, it would be better if she helped.

And, well, as insane as it sounded, it could even be fun. Joining the King to fight darkspawn would certainly be the most interesting thing she'd ever done in her entire life.

Forcing a sigh through her yet uncomfortably tight throat, Marian shook Carver's hands off her shoulders, stepped around him to start back toward the village. It took a moment for Carver to move, only starting after her once she'd already passed the next tent. "Hey, Marian! Where are you going?"

Without breaking step, Marian glanced over her shoulder, throwing him a glare. "I'm going to go track down Warden Alistair and offer my services. You should go back to playing soldier." With a dismissive flick of her fingers, she turned away, continued on.

She pretended not to hear her idiot little brother's shout of victory.

Somehow, as she left the army camp and stepped back into the village, tracking down that aggravating ex-Templar, she just knew it. There was no way this wasn't going to blow up in her face.

---

9:30 Pluitanis 17

Brecilian Wilderlands, Kingdom of Ferelden

---

The first thing Lýna thought on waking was that she would rather she hadn't woken at all. Her blood was aflame, an agonizing heat setting her flushed and shivering, every inch of her consumed with an unyielding ache. Rather like exhaustion, the heavy burn that could set into muscles overused, but evenly throughout her whole body, so universal no exertion could have caused it. Her throat was dry, so severely parched her breath held a slight hint of blood, her stomach roiled with almost dizzying force.

And the hissed arguing from nearby really wasn't doing her head any favors.

"Ooh, you're awake. I was worried you wouldn't."

That was Mẽrhiļ, she recognized her voice after only a moment. She forced her eyes open, and immediately regretted it — the faded light of late evening pierced deep into her skull, blinding and setting her teeth to aching. She couldn't help a groan, reflexively trying to turn away. Which really didn't ease the pain everywhere else.

"Shush, shush," Mẽrhiļ muttered, her voice almost uncharacteristically soft and warm. A short pause, and Lýna felt hands on her, head and chest, only making the pain worse, but just for a second. The talented First didn't hesitate at all, healing magic radiating from her fingers before Lýna could barely twitch, soothing the agony with exquisite suddenness, like cool spring water spilling down a fiery throat, forcing a moan of relief through her lips. "It's okay, Cousin. I have you. You'll be okay."

Despite the clearly dreadful circumstances she'd woken up to find herself in — she had no clue what was happening, but how much it hurt it couldn't be good — she felt a thin smile pulling at her lips. She and Mẽrhiļ weren't actually cousins. They weren't related at all, so far as they knew, from two entirely different clans, in fact. Clans they had both left for this one, for their own reasons. They'd ended up close, Lýna couldn't even remember how it'd happened anymore. She'd been young at the time. "I don't feel so great."

"Well, no, obviously." She was trying to keep her voice light, but Lýna could feel her dread, too powerful to be entirely contained.

Something very bad was happening. She was still dizzy with whatever sickness had struck her, not yet entirely awake, she didn't remember. But she knew it. "What happened to me?" If she were more herself at the moment, she might have cringed at the fearful quiver on her own voice.

"We were hoping you might be able to tell us that."

When she heard the unfamiliar voice, despite the pain it had brought her last time, she couldn't stop her eyes from springing open. Luckily, it wasn't nearly as bad this time. It only took her a second to spot the stranger. He was tall and broad, hair a shiny black and skin a deep brown, eyes dark and sharp. He wore glittering armor of an unfamiliar whitish metal, built of tiny scales that shifted and sparkled in the dying light. Two blades hung from his belt, one significantly longer than the other. Despite that he was obviously a warrior, despite the intensity in those glimmering eyes, his face was pulled into something surprisingly gentle, concerned.

Her first thought, when she'd heard the suspiciously thick, deep voice, fluently speaking Alamarri, hadn't been wrong: the man was human. Even more shockingly, he was human, standing free among the clan, and still carried his weapons.

She had absolutely no idea what was going on.

After staring at him in uncomprehending silence for a few seconds, she noticed the older woman standing just at his shoulder — shorter, slighter, hair a bright silver, features pulled into a worrying look of trepidation, but clearly elven. It took Lýna a moment, her vision still blurred and thoughts still sluggish, to recognize her. "Keeper? Who is..." She trailed off, working her throat to clear the muck from it. Even with Mẽrhiļ's magic running through her, her head spun, and she collapsed back to the ground. Huh, she hadn't even realized she'd tried to sit up...

"His name is Duncan, child." The Keeper was speaking Alamarri as well — surely for the stranger's benefit, Lýna was far from fluent in the local human tongue. "He is a Grey Warden, searching for recruits to stand against the rising Blight. He found you in the forest, deathly ill, and returned you to us."

Lýna felt her face pull into a frown. "How did he know where to find us?"

Somewhat to her surprise, despite that she had spoken in Deluvẽ, the Warden answered without pause. "I assure you, Lýna, your people are in no danger from me. There are persistent rumors of Dalish in these lands, and I made a few guesses where you might be, considering the geography of the region. It was merely good fortune I found you so quickly." His eyes dancing with a hidden hint of sly humor, he said, "I've shared these guesses with no one, nor do I plan to."

For a few seconds, she could only blink up at the man, caught by a few things. For one, he'd pronounced her name...almost correctly — better than any of the few humans who'd ever had the opportunity to attempt it, anyway. For another, assuming he could be taken at his word, this man fully intended to shield them from the locals, or he would if it should ever come up. For another, though his continued use of Alamarri suggested he couldn't speak it, that he could answer her at all meant he could understand Deluvẽ just fine.

She'd only met this man a few seconds ago, and she already had no idea what to think of him.

It took a few moments to collect her thoughts enough to actually speak. It was a little embarrassing, actually, but she was sick with...something, no matter how much Mẽrhiļ's magic was helping, so she couldn't really help it. "Well. At the least the Wardens are doing something about the Blight. Finally."

This Duncan gave her an odd, confused look at that — maybe his Deluvẽ wasn't good enough? When he shot the Keeper a questioning frown, she released a sigh, heavy with all the grief and exhaustion of the last couple years. "Until recently, we've made the Wilds far to the south our home. The Blight may be just reaching Ferelden, but it has been rising in the wilderness for over a year now." Her voice wavered, the minimal accent on her Alamarri strengthening. "Many were lost."

Also switching to Alamarri, her voice sharp and angry, Mẽrhiļ said, "Lýna lost her husband."

She was a little taken aback by the hard glare Mẽrhiļ shot the Warden, intense enough the healing spell flickered a little. Mẽrhiļ being a bit...protective of her wasn't new, in itself. Lýna had still been young when, shortly after bringing her with them to the clan, both of her parents had died — for reasons she still didn't entirely understand, her old clan had a very nasty reputation, and if Mẽrhiļ hadn't decided to look after her she would have had almost no one. But, just how personally angry with the Warden she seemed didn't entirely make sense. If he'd brought her here, hadn't he just saved her life? Shouldn't she be pleased with him?

No, something else was going on here.

To his credit, Duncan looked appropriately sympathetic at the news, mouth drooping and eyes sparkling. Voice low, thick with compassion, he said to the Keeper, "I'm sorry, I had no idea. The Wardens have little presence this far—" He broke off with a hum, clearly deciding his excuses would do them no good. He turned back to Lýna. "I'm truly sorry, Lýna."

Lýna just stared back at him, eyes wide with shock. That last bit, he'd spoken in Deluvẽ. His pronunciation was atrocious, barely understandable, but still...

Not that his sympathy was necessary. She wasn't that broken up over Muthallã. They hadn't been close before they'd bonded — he'd been one of the kids who'd bullied her when she'd been younger, actually — and he'd only died...two months later? It hadn't been long, anyway, she hadn't much time to grow attached to him. Really, she and Tallẽ weren't even officially bonded yet, and she already—

Without thinking, Lýna sprung up to sitting, nearly striking Mẽrhiļ's head with her own. Mẽrhiļ jerked out of the way, the healing spell cut off. The pain did come flooding back, but it wasn't as bad as before, just the muscles she was actually using at the moment cramping, only a little. Her voice so thick with panic she could barely get the words out, she hissed, "Tallẽ! Tallẽ was with me! Where is he?"

The Keeper's expression turned even grimmer, looking almost stricken. "I'm sorry, child. He has not returned. The hunters have been scouring the area, but there's been no word."

She grit her teeth, but shook the thought off. "Did you tell them to stay away from the ruins? They have to stay away!"

"The ruins?" That was the Warden, looking somewhat unsure. "Which ruins?"

Her voice going soft again, pleading, the Keeper said, "Please, child, tell us what happened. If we are to find Tallẽ, if we are to save you..."

She blinked at that. "Save me?" She turned a confused frown to Mẽrhiļ. "Aren't I already...?"

"Well, no, I'm afraid." Face gone stony, Mẽrhiļ was looking a bit away, down at the ground between them, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. "I can delay Blight sickness, but I can't..."

The realization struck Lýna as ice, running hard and sharp through her veins, so sudden and so intense she felt herself on the edge of shivering. Blight sickness. She'd seen it before, of course, several in their clan had died of it over the last months. She knew what that meant, without a doubt.

Even with all their power, all their knowledge of the Ancients, even the Keeper and her First couldn't cure the Blight.

But Lýna forced the thought off as well as she could, drawing a long, slow breath that shuddered only slightly in her throat. If it was the Blight, and she trusted Mẽrhiļ enough to know it was, there was nothing that could be done about her, she didn't matter anymore. Keeping her voice as calm and level as she could, Lýna told them about the ruins she and Tallẽ had found, the mirror they had found deep within, black and sick and so thick with magic Lýna's skin had tingled with it.

"A mirror?" For a second, Lýna had thought her Alamarri was just bad enough he needed to ask to clarify what she'd meant — she was trying to accomodate the Warden, since he'd be the one taking care of all this, but she wasn't very good at it. A glance up at him, though, how he'd leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought, no, that was something else. "Corrupted, obviously, but I hadn't even known they could be corrupted..."

After a bit more frowning to himself and muttering, the Warden jerked, seeming to suddenly remember he wasn't alone with his thoughts. He cleared his throat, shooting the Keeper an odd smile. "Yes, sorry. I'm familiar with these mirrors. Elavúm, they're called, an old Tevinter invention. I've seen one before, though it was long shattered. It is curious they could become corrupted, though, only living things can carry the Blight."

Lýna opened her mouth to argue that, while that hadn't been an ordinary elven ruin, it had no doubt been elven — chances were that mirror had been made by the Ancients, not Tevinter. But she caught the significant glance shared between Mẽrhiļ and the Keeper. She knew, somehow, that not only did they know the Warden was wrong, but they knew exactly what that mirror was. They knew better than she, and they clearly felt no need to correct the human. So she held her tongue.

And she didn't open her mouth again. It really seemed her participation wasn't necessary for this conversation.

፠

"Ooh, I knew it, I knew it, I was right!" Despite how weak Lýna had grown — she could barely keep her eyes open, her head pounding with each beat of her heart — she couldn't help a smile at the childlike glee on Mẽrhiļ's voice.

The ever-energetic First had kept an almost constant monologue ever since the ruin had come into sight, alternately rising with excitement and falling with awe. As Lýna had, she'd noticed the odd design of the place, its frequent elven symbolism in statuary and friezes but too thick and rough with too many hard angles to have been built by the Ancients. But, unlike Lýna, Mẽrhiļ actually had an explanation: this place dated to the time of the Ancients, but had been built by dwarves. A sort of gateway, a bridge between their worlds. The Keeper had told her such places existed, she said, but she'd never seen one herself.

The Warden had just said that would explain why there were so many darkspawn here. Such a place would have naturally had access to the Deep Roads, after all.

And there had been darkspawn — which was odd, there hadn't been when Lýna and Tallẽ had been here — and quite a few of them, at that. But they hadn't posed any issue at all. There was a reason they'd brought Mẽrhiļ along. She incinerated darkspawn after darkspawn with fire from her fingertips, almost casually, seeming to pay more attention to the ruins, eyes focused on the faded images and inscriptions on the walls. More than anything, she'd just seemed annoyed with the mindless monsters trying to kill them, summarily destroying them with impatient little huffs, waving a hand to blow away the sickening smell of burning flesh. She had handled them so easily, the Warden had long since sheathed his blades, focused entirely on supporting Lýna as she shuffled and stumbled.

Sometimes it was all too easy for Lýna to forget just how scary Mẽrhiļ and the Keeper could be. Mages seemed all too mortal most of the time.

It hadn't taken long at all for them to reach the room with the mirror. As the Warden gently lowered Lýna to her knees, she aimed a glare at the thing. It would be pretty enough, the elegantly curving frame silver and gleaming, untarnished by age, if it weren't for the taint infecting the glass itself. It was black and purple, the non-colors slowly shifting, as though the mirror were filled with some gelatinous goop. The magic was so thick Lýna could feel it, prickling at her skin and making her eyes itch, but it wasn't just magic. There was something...off about it, something that was just wrong. She couldn't put words to exactly what it was, exactly what it felt like, but it made her eyes water, her stomach clench. The fever Mẽrhiļ's magic had temporarily held back was rising again, leaving Lýna flushed and shivering, breath biting at her throat.

As she watched Mẽrhiļ approach the mirror in a reverent daze, her ears started ringing, low but growing louder, clearer, ever so slowly.

"Do you know what this is?" Mẽrhiļ's voice was low and breathy, so quiet Lýna almost couldn't hear her over the ringing. She reached toward the Blighted glass with one hand, fingers shaking. Before her skin could meet it, a blue-white glow suddenly blossomed at her fingertips, Mẽrhiļ snatched her hand back as though scalded. "Corrupted, of course it had to be. Creators damn whoever made the cursed thing."

She winced. Of course they would be speaking Alamarri. She'd be lucky to understand every word on a good day, and with her headache getting worse this was hardly a good day.

"You mean the Blight?" That was the Warden, gradually nearing Mẽrhiļ's back. She couldn't see his face from here (not that that would necessarily help, human faces were shaped weird), but by the tension in his shoulders Lýna was guessing he was very uncomfortable about something. "Nobody made the Blight."

Lýna did catch the exasperated glance Mẽrhiļ threw over her shoulder. "Where did it come from, then? Nature does not destroy itself, not on its own."

"It is a curse from the Maker, for daring to go where no mortal should."

Mẽrhiļ shook her head, turned back to the mirror. Her voice light, "Not at all an evil god you worship, this Maker. Seven idiots break into his house, punishes all the world with the Blight. No, that seems the just and proper thing to do, I agree."

That had always bothered Lýna — she didn't see how the humans could worship a god they claimed was responsible for the Blight, especially one who had released it over something so...trivial. She doubted that was a very tactful thing to say to a believer's face, though. At least the Warden didn't rise to the bait at all, just let out a little huff. He almost sounded amused, actually.

"This is odd, though."

The amusement on his voice growing ever more obvious, the Warden said, "Is there anything about all this that isn't odd?"

"Well, no, I suppose not, I just mean— See, here." Mẽrhiļ reached up, pointing at the swirling shapes making up the top of the mirror. "These are wolves. See?"

Lýna frowned, tried to force her bleary eyes to focus. She was right: the top side of the frame had been carved into the shape of wolf heads, a few smaller, but one larger, turned downward to gaze at those standing before the mirror, its bright eyes gleaming. She glanced around the room, the odd feeling only intensifying. The colors had long faded, the shapes blurred, but there were still things to make out. She spotted a few vague shapes in the mosaic on the floor that seemed to be more wolves, though some might be dwarves. The wall to the right, those were dwarves, she thought, it was hard to tell, but the hard lines, the beards, yes, dwarves, but to the left? The scene depicted there was...well, odd. There was a man, an elven man, in green and white robes, holding a long staff, longer than he was tall. Kneeling at his feet were more elves, their heads bowed, curving lines that were probably a spell of some kind flowing from his hand down to them. Behind the man, his shadow rose somehow above them, but it wasn't a natural shadow, threaded through with red and blue, curling over his head in what seemed the maw of a wolf, stretching behind him, contorting and twisting, near the back corner forming into black wolves, a whole pack of them, their eyes blue and their fangs white.

Now that she thought about it, a disproportionate number of the statues out in the rest of the ruin had involved wolves somehow. A couple of dragons, yes, a few that were clearly supposed to be dwarves, or dwarven things, but mostly wolves. One, most curious, an elven woman, with wings of a dragon spread wide in place of arms, curled around her feet, tall enough its head reached her waist even sitting, yet another damn wolf.

She had a suspicion, heavy like a wet cloak draped over her shoulders, who that wolf, who this man was supposed to be. But...that didn't make any sense. It made less than zero sense, it was all wrong.

"Is there a problem with wolves?"

Mẽrhiļ turned to give the Warden an impatient look. "Yes," she said, switching to Alamarri, "there is a problem with wolves. Well, I mean, they're not bad, it just doesn't make sense. This is an elven ruin, see, an old elven ruin."

The Warden nodded, shrugging a little. "I suppose it must be. Seems a little off to me, but..."

"Yes, a little. The dwarves were involved, too. But, see—" Mẽrhiļ broke off, face scrunching in confusion, forcing her lips into a pout. "It doesn't make sense. The wolves everywhere, those could only be one thing. I even saw, there was an inscription that wasn't too faded, it said something about friendship with He Who Walks Alone. That's another name for the Wolf, you see."

"I don't, I'm afraid."

Mẽrhiļ gave the Warden a flat sort of look, disbelief he wouldn't know something so fundamental written all over her face. At least, Lýna was pretty sure that's what that was — her vision was slowly getting blurrier, she couldn't be certain. "The Wolf. The Dread Wolf."

Joining her in front of the mirror, the Warden let out a long noise of realization, one hand coming up to rub at his scraggly chin. "I believe I've heard of this. That's the evil god who betrayed and sealed away the rest of the elven gods. Right?"

"Yes, precisely. Well—" Mẽrhiļ tilted her head, raising her shoulders in a shrug. "—evil, maybe too strong a word. Doesn't matter, close enough. But, see, the weird thing— Did you see this place! No, this is all wrong. The People do not worship He Who Walks Alone. Give Him wary respect? Yes. Fear? Sometimes. But veneration? No, no, this is all wrong." Mẽrhiļ spun on her heel, loose stones cracking under her feet, started off toward the mosaic on the wall seemingly depicting the Wolf, though not in any fashion Lýna had seen Him. Fingers floating an inch over the surface, Mẽrhiļ rambled away, theories pouring over her lips about what this place was for, what relationship the Wolf might have had with the dwarves, wondering if certain myths had been misinterpreted over the years, maybe—

While Mẽrhiļ's back was turned, distracted by her thoughts, the Warden drew the shorter of his weapons with a tight flourish. Blade pointed back toward his elbow, he twisted, jabbing the point straight for the center of the mirror. At the harsh scrape of a sword drawn, Mẽrhiļ had whipped back around, eyes going wide with shock. "No, don't—" She reached out, fingers glowing with rising magic.

But she was too slow.

The metal of the blade, silver glimmering greenish in the thin magical light, struck glass with a tinking sound, reverberating unnaturally deep. A flash of blue light rose from the impact, so dim Lýna was half-convinced she was imagining it, raced across the glass toward the edge. With a high snapping noise, the mirror didn't crack so much as explode, dozens of razor shards flying out in a rush of sudden motion. Lýna ducked reflexively, wincing as she felt a fragment whip past her ear. Even halfway across the room, Mẽrhiļ was only spared by the flickering green halo of protective magic she'd summoned around her, cursed glass sparking as it struck.

When it was over, glass raining to the ground with a chorus of tinkling, Mẽrhiļ dropped her barrier, immediately whirling on the Warden, face flushing red. "You— What are— Why— What is wrong with you?!"

The Warden stared down at her, face pulled into something hard and severe. Casually returning the blade to its sheath, he said, "The mirror was and would remain a threat to any unlucky enough to stumble across it. It had to be destroyed."

"Destroyed? It was the taint that was dangerous, not the mirror itself!" Even in her fury, there was a slight hesitation over the Alamarri word mirror, Mẽrhiļ apparently deciding not to use the proper term at the last instant. She held out a hand, then clenched it into a fist, a sharp sense of magic snapping in the air. Bits of glass slid across the floor, all yanked to pile in a single spot, gathered haphazardly at a spot halfway between the two of them. Lýna could see the shards were still black, sick magic still wafting off of them in a haze nearly visible. "Hmm, still seems tainted to me. Do you have any idea what that was? How valua—"

"Dammit." The Warden had raised a hand to his head, armored fingers rubbing at his temple, an tight look directed at the pile of Blighted glass. "My apologies. I thought that would release—" He broke off, shaking his head to himself. A rueful smile tilting his lips, he muttered, "I suppose I should take these with me."

"You will not." The way the big Warden startled at the sudden sharpness on the tiny woman's voice was really quite funny. "I will keep them. I'll cleanse them myself." Mẽrhiļ hissed, a grimace twisting her face. "I'm going to need a lot of nugs..."

"Nugs? What are you going to—"

"Yes, hello?" Both Mẽrhiļ and the Warden jumped at Lýna's voice, turning to her with matching sheepish winces. Summoning her less-than-perfect Alamarri, she said, "This...fun, but, will cure me now, maybe?"

It only took a minute for the two of them, now that they'd been startled back into motion, to put together the potion that would save Lýna's life, if only temporarily. She felt her lip curl with revulsion as she watched the Warden draw some blood from a nearby grey and black corpse into a goblet he'd pulled from his back. Not that it was a surprise — the rumor among her people was the Wardens used some kind of blood magic to empower themselves against the darkspawn, though nobody knew the details. He'd actually told Mẽrhiļ shortly after entering the ruin to leave at least one he could get blood from. She'd expected it would involve darkspawn blood, it was still disgusting. The Warden poured a couple other things into the goblet, one a glowing blue liquid that had to be lyrium, swirled it around a bit before asking Mẽrhiļ to prime it with a quick bit of lightning.

And barely a moment later, Lýna was holding the heavy, tarnished goblet in her hands, frowning down at the potion inside. It was black, the magic within flickering like rainbow reflections on the surface, the stuff was thick enough it stuck to the sides where it'd sloshed, only slowly slipping back down. And she hesitated.

The deal had been made, back before they'd left. Lýna would show the Warden to the ruin. In exchange, he would give her the Wardens' very secret almost-cure. It wouldn't cleanse her of the Blight entirely, but it would push it back, delay it. For years, possibly decades. Or it might kill her instantly — darkspawn blood was horrifically poisonous, and magic could be unpredictable, it didn't always work. But with how quickly the Blight sickness had struck her, unusually quickly, she'd be dead soon anyway, it made little difference.

But, even if she lived, she wouldn't be going back to the clan. This not-quite-a-cure was the Grey Warden initiation ritual, he'd said. Once she drank, she would be one of them. And there was no leaving the Grey Wardens. It was a commitment for life.

Everybody knew that.

So she hesitated, but only for a moment. What reason was there to not go through with it? She'd be dead if she didn't drink, in maybe a couple days. The life of a Grey Warden didn't sound entirely pleasant, but it was better than nothing. She'd rather protect people from the Blight, even be they perfect strangers, than be dead. When it came down to it, it really wasn't a choice at all.

With a last shaky smile at Mẽrhiļ, ignoring the clenching of her own stomach, Lýna raised the goblet to her lips and threw it back.

The Song overtook her so quickly she was gone before she hit the floor.

---

[Magic exists...world or beyond.] — Transfigurations 1:2

[But the one who...and her sword.] — Transfigurations 10:1

[the abyss, the well of all souls. Among those emerald waters,] — Paraphrased from Andraste 14:11

Mẽrhiļ — Yes, this is supposed to be Merril. I really don't like the conlanging done for the games, so I've taken my usual touch with it. Modern Dalish in particular is a bit...odd, from an English-speaking perspective. To not be too overwhelming for people who aren't such conlanging nerds, I'll actually be using Dalish as infrequently as possible. When DA2 stuff does come along, and Merril is around a lot, I'll be using the canonical spelling. At least partially because those scenes will be mostly narrated by humans who mispronounce her name anyway, but still.

Deluvẽ — By the way, this is the name for Dalish (i.e. elvish) in itself. Derived ultimately from "Dalish" and canon elvish "nuvenin". (I'm assuming canon "Dales" has nothing to do with the English word, mostly for convenience.) The term technically doesn't refer to a single language, but any one of the various closely-related languages spoken by the diaspora originating from the shattered nation in the Dales. It wouldn't apply to, say, ancient elvish, or the languages spoken by various elven communities in the north (Rivain, Tevinter, the Donarks). Which are all related, of course, but more than distinct enough to be considered different languages.

Going on a ramble here, but it's completely unreasonable to depict modern-day Dalish elves even partially understanding ancient elven, considering the millennia separating them. I'm not even certain Dalish clans should all speak the same language anymore, given the seven centuries since the fall of the Dales and how far they range. The Arlathvhen alone shouldn't be enough to prevent their dialects from drifting. But I'm a linguistics nerd, don't mind me.

Tallẽ — Tamlen. And yes, Lýna really does lose a husband and then a fiance to the Blight before even joining the Wardens. I'm an evil bitch like that.

Elavúm — The Classical Tevene word for eluvians.

---

(Minor edits: 9/7/2020)

Here's a thing that amuses me, because I'm a nerd. There we had the Inquisitor, Hawke, and the Warden. Scenes are going to run more or less chronologically, which means the events of Origins/Awakening are going to overlap with Act I of DA2. There will be an occasional scene from Evie, but not much for a few years, given she's tiny and the Inquisition won't be formed for over a decade. There will be stuff setting up the background for Inquisition that will be concurrent with Act II and III, we'll be bouncing around the South a bit.

I am taking a hatchet to the worldbuilding, because that's a thing I do. I'll be doing the alterations I always do with settings I have issues with, with a special focus on things that I think are artifacts of gameplay. For example, lore suggests mages are completely terrifying weapons of mass destruction on legs, but the classes needed to be more or less balanced, for gameplay reasons. Which isn't to say mages will just curbstomp everything, they do have limits and weaknesses, dealing with them just requires very careful planning (or anti-magic). It also means the rifts in DA:I are going to be some serious Lovecraft-esque mind-screwy shit when (if) we got to that, it's fun.

Much as I'm not limiting myself to the games where worldbuilding is concerned, neither am I doing so when it comes to the plot. Characters will be making decisions the games don't allow, and there will be significant alterations to the plot, minor and major. For example, the Urn of Sacred Ashes plotline in Origins is excised in its entirety, mostly because I think it's stupid. (So, we found fantasy Jesus's urn up in the mountains, and it's totally her, see, her ashes healed this nobleman's inconvenient coma poison! Because that's a logical thing to happen in this story! I can get it to work in my magic system, but ugh, I'm not writing that.)

So, uh, if at any point you're thinking of saying, Hey! You can't do that, that's not a thing that can happen in the game! yeah, I know, I meant to do that ;)

Let's get this crazy mess on the road.