From Sacred Ash

by Son of Caliban

Marcus Venier is a young student from Canada, who jumps off a waterfall and falls into another world entirely. Markus Venier is a young Templar from the Dales, who fails to prevent the death of the Most Holy. I am the man born of their convergence. I am the Inquisitor. And this tale is mine to tell.

1. Stumble From the Ashes

I stop falling seconds after I begin. The world around me is green and grey and black and harsh, light from a hundred sources that should not cast it reflecting off of crystal and stone and bone and flesh. Chittering black shapes move around, circling, hungry like carrion birds. Spiders, or an approximation near enough to count. My fingers curl, searching for a weapon. My sword.

My sword?

My hands rise to my head. My fingers tell me my face is young, squared jaw, strong chin, hint of stubble near the neck. My hair cut so short it may as well not be hair. My fingers are mailed in metal, armoured, as are my arms, my chest. I touch fingers to breast and feel metal touch metal instead. Why am I in plate mail, tracing the engraved symbol of a sword down my torso? Where is my helmet? Where'd the waterfall go?

"You must run!"

A pointed thought interjects into my own, breaking the train with a spike of panic. It is a woman's voice that says the words inside, not mine, fraught with fear. Like the spurs on a horses flank it sets me to motion, terror filling my own mind as I realize I'm surrounded by giant spiders wearing the armour of a medieval knight, when moments or minutes or hours before I was jumping off the waterfall with Beck on a date that was itself a dare.

The creatures let out cries of piercing anger, pursuing me. They aren't really a swarm; what I thought was a hundred was nearer to ten, but ten spiders of colossal size is more than none, which is itself the ideal number of giant spiders to exist in the world. Too many legs move too quickly; spiders are quick and I am not, my armour unusual on my body, pulling and pushing with weight I do not know. I stumble and twist helplessly, not quite so clumsy as to fall yet just imbalanced enough to make my flight ungainly and slow.

There is a hill ahead, or a cliff face at a gentle enough angle to be mistaken for a hill. Atop it, my eyes find a golden light amidst the sea of sickly green. This is familiar to me, in an odd way. Why? The creatures shriek and call, goading me on and up. Gold is good, sometimes. My mind supplies the back half of that thought and I blink in surprise before a spider screams and I remember I'm fleeing for my life.

The gold isn't just light. It has a shape, reaching toward me, vaguely feminine with a massive triangle rising from her head. I don't understand that, but the giant spiders are warning enough that things are strange around here. She reaches for me.

My foot catches a stone and I stumble, but my hands catch the ground and I prevent myself from breaking this foreign face of mine. I reach for the golden hand, the silent figure's desperation evident in how she strains to reach me.

I feel a sensation in my hand, itching and thrumming that grows to a dull ache, then a sharp pain. Emerald light engulfs my palm, tendrils reaching out to wrap around my fingers. A sound of a strange and vaguely ominous sort fills the air, a distant roar like water in a tunnel, a waterfall in the distance while Beck shyly takes my hand, leads me down the trail and I thank Marshal for calling me a coward the day before.

Green light flares, a flash and agonizing burn all over my hand, and I stagger as my feet touch solid ground and cold air surrounds me. I stumble again, but not from the armour. I'm so tired, limbs heavy, head pounding, a hammer slamming each of my eyes from within my own skull. Figures approach me, two men, a woman, swords in their hands.

"Help."

I utter the only word I want to speak, reaching for them, before staggering forward one last time and hitting the mercifully cold ground. My hand, my left hand, is stretched out before me, steaming in white snow, melting it as the pain and green both fade.

"Fade..." I hear the people whisper as they surround me, murmurs under their breath, spoken in hushed horror and surprise. "Templar... alive?"

Too many voices, none of them clear like the woman's. I let out a sound of pain, wordless and harsh, eyes shutting, and then slip silently into the blackness of sweet, kindly unconsciousness.

I awake with pain. Less pain, my body no longer aches quite so badly, my head is not pounding. But my hand, burning with green once more. That sound, the distant roar, now mixed with something catching and tearing a substance that is not meant to tear. I hear steel on leather, swords freed from sheathes all around me, let out a groan as the pain fades with the green once more.

My head comes up. I'm on my knees, arms shackled at the wrist, blinking blearily at the room around me. It's familiar. Not as it should be, not from this angle, but familiar. I let out a breath and I can see the two men ahead of me, one to the right and one to the left, tense, swords twitching in uncertain hands. They grasp them too tightly, squeezing the hilt, the sword trembles. They'll never strike true like that, the point twitches and misses, the edge failing to catch the desires opening and scraping from metal.

Idle thoughts, not my own, spring up unwanted. I am confused. What do I know about swords? I blink, look at the man to the left. He's young, freckled, a farmboy with broad shoulders who doesn't know what to think. He flinches away from my gaze. Afraid of me, but more afraid of something else, something bigger.

Their armour. Brown leather and dulled metal, strange collars that jut outwards and unfamiliar shapes. Unrealistic, almost silly... but familiar. So familiar.

"Where am I?"

My voice is clearer than it should be, but fortunately it is my voice that speaks the words I want to say. I'm surprised I'm not more thirsty; people who wake up in prison cells often are.

The men tense even more when I speak, swords trembling. The one on the right is more certain then his leftwards counterpart, older, smaller in build but with a grey beard that speaks to experience. His sword is loose in his hand, his grip canted slightly forward, angled to stab. An Orlesian style, turning an arming sword into a rapier. This one knows how to fight, better than the other.

Orlesian.

Fade.

Green light in my hand, aching and burning. Green light, in the hand, causing pain.

"Silence, prisoner."

The older man speaks but I've already fallen into the silence he commands, more stunned than submissive. The words. The voice. The sword on the breastplate, the green light in my hand.

Two words spring to mind, my words this time, not the ones about swords.

Dragon Age.

"What the hell?" I whisper, shocked and shaken, a sinking sensation seizing my stomach. "No. No. I'm not."

The door opposite me opens, and two figures step through. Cassandra. Leliana. Their names are in my mind. Cassandra is furious, Leliana hiding fear and curiosity behind disgust. Reading people. It easier than it should be. I'm good at it, Marshal says it's cool but a little freaky. My hands tremble. Leliana come close, closer than I'm comfortable with, stares into my eyes.

"Lady Leliana."

The words are mine again, and I can see a measure of surprise as she leans back just a touch. She's good at hiding her feeling, but she's shaken, foundation cracked, the mask has yet to be fixed. She did just lose her mentor to a massive explosion, so that checks.

"And Seeker Penteghast."

Cassandra freezes behind me.

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now."

Her voice is cold, angry. Leliana conceals her hate for me, and uses it as a mask all the same. But Cassandra is open with her loathing, plain in her voice and angry hand grabbing my wrist. The Mark, that's what the green is, it's the Mark, I know that now... it doesn't flare. I am spared the pain.

"Explain this." she commands, punctuating each word.

"It hurts."

I speak honestly, and she throws my arm away with disgust, circling around me. Her pants are oddly tight for a woman who fights from horseback, no armour on her thighs to shield from swords. Very strange, but her hand drops to her sword and all thoughts of that shift to survival instincts, my own hands tensing. I don't have a sword, I remind myself, I'm a prisoner.

She points the sword at my throat, the point hovering inches from my Adam's Apple. Her fury and sorrow are fire and ice in her eyes, and I watch as she debates killing me with herself.

"I'm sorry I was too slow." I say, and she pauses in surprise.

Shoulda spun a story. Varrick's words in my mind. Spin a story. Make a tale. But I don't have to. I remember now, coming backs in fragments and half-visions.

The Sergeant, his name was Tulane. We were part of Conclave, standing guard as ordered. He heard noises from down the stairs behind us, leading to the basement below. He ordered me to investigate and I went, creeping through the dark with my hand on the hilt of my sword, eyes scanning the shadows.

I heard a woman's voice call for help, familiar to me. Justinia. The Divine. I went, running forward, sword pulling free of its sheath, crashing through a door left what. She was in the air, tendrils of red light surrounding her, a malformed thing looming before her.

Corypheus, my mind reminds me. Part man, twisted and ghastly with metal shards embedded in his face and skin peeling back from his chest, exposing ribs. His garments were black as knight, a collar of raven's feathers, arms bare, long and twisted with fingers like the feet of a bird, ending in long talons. His voice was a fearsome rumble, declaring my presence an intrusion.

I rushed him, two things to his sides surging forward to protect their master.

"I didn't have any Lyrium." I murmured, as the memories came back. "I spoke the Litany, tried to stop the magic, but they told us no Lyrium, the Conclave was a peaceful gathering. It was so much, too much, I was alone..."

I'm speaking my thoughts now. Not spinning a story, just remembering aloud, telling the whole tale. I don't even see how they react, eyes locked onto the glow in my left palm as I continue the sordid tale.

"He had an orb, in his hand, black glass or crystal covered in swirling patterns. There was red in it, a glow. I thought it must be the catalyst, so I tried to take it from him. Take the catalyst, break the spell. I grabbed at it with my left hand, reaching, but I was too slow..."

The Divine screams as red overtakes her, turning to green partway through her combustion. I feel agony coursing through my arm, then and now, the hand the epicentre of it. The twisted thing curses me, calls me a fool as we are both flung far into...

"The Fade." I say. "I was alone, demons around me. I ran. Ran and ran, they were on me, I forgot the Litany and my sword and everything. There was a woman, gold light, she was reaching to me, told me to run. I tried to reach her... and then I was in the world again. There was snow, stone, ashes... I fell. Everything went black."

I whisper the last words in shame, shame I feel in my chest as memories of Justinia's demise echo in my mind.

"I was too slow..." I whisper, voice cracking. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I wanted to stop it but I was too slow..."

I stare at the floor as Leliana and Cassandra speak to each other. The first speaks softly, the latter curses and shouts. Leliana doesn't believe me, but she believes my story may be true. Cassandra is confused.

I failed. I couldn't stop it. The Divine was gone. Dead. I failed. I wasn't strong enough, again and again, like with Mercer and Marie. Too slow, too weak, too young. Always too little, never enough for what needs to be done.

"What is your name, Templar?"

Leliana asks the question, while Cassandra seethes and ponders, pacing by the door.

"Markus." I say, voice low, aching with grief I don't wholly understand. "Markus Venier. I'm sorry. I should have been faster."

"Markus." Leliana's voice is calm, collected, even. Impossible to read. She has answers. Uncertainty, some of it at least, has gone. The mask is back, and it's impressive to behold. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen." I speak truth once again.

"Young." Leliana murmurs, as if noting the fact in her head. "Why were you at the Conclave?"

"Our Circle didn't rebel." I explain, growing calmer as I remember more of this story my mind tells me is mine. "They were afraid we would hurt them, but the Captain said it was our duty to keep them safe. He sent Senior Enchanter Caldwin to the Conclave, along with Sergeant Hughes to guard him. I was sent as part of the escort, the Captain thought I should see the world a little."

I smile at the thought of Captain Vendrick Sarker, simply Venerable to most of the Circle. Old, and kinder than most Templars of his rank. He's a good man. I wonder if he's...

I don't know him. But I do. Why do I know these things? Why do I know any of this? How did I get here?

My confusion seems to pique Leliana's interest, interrupting her further questions I did not hear. But before she can question me further, Cassandra speaks.

"Is he telling the truth?" her voice is harsh, but I can feel the edge of desperation that rings beneath. "Leliana?"

"If he's not, then he's a better liar than any Templar I have known." Leliana replies, staring me down for a moment. "This changes things, Cassandra."

"Not the plan." Cassandra replies, her anger buried now by firm conviction. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will bring him to the others, test Solas' theory."

"I will meet you there." Leliana says, nodding, before sparing me a final glance. "If he causes trouble, be gentle. We need him alive."

She departs in a swirl of chain mail and leather, and Cassandra reaches down to pull me to my feet by my arm. I rise, legs stiff and sore but functional, strong enough to hold me. I stagger into her a little and she grunts, pushing me back an equal distance.

Then she leads me out of the room.

My armour is gone, I realize. I'm wearing the heavy clothes of a peasant who lives in the mountains, dense roughspun and a coat lined with rough fur. I have no weapons, my sword likely still lost to the Fade. My sword. The sword of a Templar. Which I am.

I ponder as Cassandra leads me on, barely paying attention to her words or the hateful stares of the many stunned refugees. She places a hand on my shoulder as we walk to guide me and I go where she bids, sunk deep into my thoughts.

Who am I?

I'm Marcus. Marcus Venier. Born in Vancouver, raised in Abbotsford, boring and plain with an edge of the modern geek. That much is true. Or am I Markus? Markus Venier, who shares my name and voice and some of my face but comes from another world? A fictional world?

Markus Venier. Born in a small town in the south edge of Orlais, sent to the Chantry as the fourth son of five. Sent from there to the Templars, trained as a warrior of the Order. Assigned to the small circle in the Dale, where he finished his training and became a fully fledged Brother. A good life, with much potential. But not my life.

Or is it Marcus whose life was not mine? It's confusing. Something to deal with later.

Cassandra speaks again, but I don't hear. Not for lack of trying; the Mark flairs and I let out a sound of anguish. It hurts, so much more, fire in my palm, fingers burning from tip to knuckle, pain needling and burning and aching all at once. I let out a sound, voice cracking, collapsing forward into the snow. Tears flood my eyes.

A hand on my shoulder, another on my arm. My left hand steams, melting the snow, the soldiers nearby watch with a panoply of emotions ranging from disdain to sympathy. Cassandra pulls me up, and I let out a quiet whimper.

"Sorry..." I murmur, voice weak. "I-I don't know why it-"

"The Breach is expanding." she cuts me off, pointing to the great green hole in the sky that looms over the whole mountain. "Each time it does, your Mark mirrors it, and it is killing you."

The words are ones I'd heard before. A few times, in fact; I wasn't given to playing the same game fifty times, but I'd given Inquisition three total runs. Hearing those words spoken to me? Not to Lavellan, or Trevellyan, or Adaar? That was terrifying.

"That's why you need me..." I murmur, as she pulls me to my feet. "You think, maybe I can... fix it?"

She stares for a moment, and I smile weakly.

"I'll do whatever I can." I promise, nodding. "I-I'm a Templar. This is my duty."

She stares at me a moment longer, and then a rare smile, or at least the idea of one, breaks through that grim expression of hers. She nods in approval, even, and in my mind's eye I can practically see "Cassandra Approves" in the bottom left of my vision.

"It is good to hear that." she replies, before reaching for her dagger.

For a split second, I panic, taking a fearful step back. She too seems to hesitate, before reaching out with an open hand.

"I'm cutting your bindings." she explains, and the panic in me dies at the sincerity in her tone before I offer her my wrists.

The knife comes up and saws for a second, before I'm pulling my hands away from each other and shaking the sensation back into them. My fingers prickle as the blood begins to flow properly, but compared to the agony of the Mark it is a sensation barely worthy of notice.

"Come now." Cassandra says, gesturing to the path ahead. "The valley is in chaos; we must make haste."

"Haste sounds good," I agree, following her.

We make it to a stone bridge, over a gully, and halfway across it I remember what comes next just in time to shout an ineffectual warning before a green meteor slams into the bridge behind us and sends us tumbling down amidst the rubble to land on the frozen stream below.

The impact rattles me, but Cassandra is up and moving the moment we land. Beside me a soldier moans his last breath in a pitiful cry for help, his upper body pinned under a chunk of stone the size of a dishwasher, a sword clattering from his hand onto the ice below.

Another comet hits the ground, a wash of black and green erupting from the impact point, and from the hole comes a monster. It's a human shape in theory, a torso and head and two arms, but it's lower half simply splays against the ground, sliding along like its coming from beneath the earth. It's face is hidden, thankfully, two yellow eyes peering at us from darkness under a ragged hood. It lets out a horrible sound and charges, and Cassandra rushes in to meet it.

"Shade! Stay back!" she calls to me, before slamming into the creature with her shield.

I fully intend to obey that instruction, climbing to my feet, until the ice a few feet in front of me begins to bubble and churn with that inky black as well. An eruption of green, a hideous shriek and a second Shade joins its brother in the effort to kill me.

I don't think. My body turns away, hands reaching, grasping the sword the soldier dropped. I turn again, the Shade raising its hands over its head, hissing at me as those wicked claws descend. I twist my body with the blow, sword in two hands, driving the edge deep into the flesh at its side. The Mark is pulsing with power, the ache back, the green glow expanding and growing brighter as the sword catches.

I pull, hear a wet sucking sound as black blood falls from the wound. My sword comes clear, and I step in and drive it deep into the thing's leathery neck. The Shade's wail of pain turns to a piteous gurgle as it falls back, dying on the end of my sword. It hits the ice and fades away, melting into black sludge that itself evaporates into green mist.

Cassandra has the other Shade managed, so I move around the side to flank it just in case. She catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye, and I murmur the Litany of Forbiddance as the demon brings its claws to bear, forcing it to become more real... and thereby, more sluggish. I don't know how it does this; my tongue feels warm in my mouth as I speak. Is this what Templars do? The stuff we never saw in the games

It's enthralling.

She rams her sword into its chest and kicks it away, but instead of watching it die she cleans her sword on the cloth dangling from her hip. I think of doing the same, until I remember that the blood vanished with the body. Ritual, then. Easy to understand.

"You aren't going to tell me to drop the sword?" I ask, and Cassandra shakes her head.

"If you wanted to kill me, you would have when the Shade was alive." she replies. "And you are a Templar. I am a Seeker. If we do not trust each other, we will not make it out of this valley alive."

I nod. It's reasonable, surprisingly so for a religious zealot. Then I remember that here, I too am a zealot, and fall silent before glancing at the path between the cliffs to my right.

"If we follow the stream..." I begin, and Cassandra nods.

"Stay behind me." she warns, as we carry on. "I have a shield. You do not."

The logic is something I can't debate, so I follow in obedient quiet. Marcus or Markus, whichever I am, I'm still human. I'll still die if I get chopped open by a Wraith or blasted by one of those green-ghost creatures. The sword in my hand is well made and evenly balanced in my grip, long enough for two-handing if needed. Markus is familiar with blades of its sort. Marcus is not.

Markus. Marcus. Marckus.

No, I decide. That's awful.

The journey forward is longer than it was in the game, and much less action-packed. The mountainside looms above us, and as we continue I feel the Mark pulsing with power. It's an ache now, not burning, and it glows brighter as we grow nearer to what Cassandra says is our destination.

We climb a set of stone stairs, the sounds of violence above us. Demons brawl with soldiers and two familiar figures. One is too short to be human, wielding a crossbow nearly as large as he is. The other, tall and bald and pointy of ear, strikes a chord in me.

Fen'harel, my mind supplies.

Solas.

Both are fighting for their lives, crossbow bolts and little bullets of magical energy blasting away at the demons. Cassandra lets out a war cry as she charges and I follow, sword in both hands. The Litany that springs to mind is Dominion this time, weakening and supplanting the demons with my own willpower and faith. The words are fire and brimstone, instating the absolute and undeniable might of the Maker.

My sword is quick, my feet are quick, I am quick. Markus was good at this, and I am a fast learner. The muscle memory helps, the motions automatic. A Shade charges, I backstep it's overhead swing and surge forward, slashing at its face to blind it. Turn away and take it from the side, then strike at the neck from above. Decapitation. These demons are mindless, might and anger without intelligence to guide it. It's almost sad to watch, knowing what Solas tells you about them.

Within a few moments, it is over. As the demons die they are pulled back into the rift before me, their corporeal forms vanishing into flecks of green and disappearing into that horrible hole in reality. And when they all die, Solas comes to my side and grabs my left wrist, thrusting my hand towards the rift.

In the game, this is a boring animation by the fiftieth time you watch it. Hand goes forward, beam of green light, several seconds of nothing, pop goes the portal. Easy and bland, something that probably should have been either shortened or altered as you went on.

In reality, however?

My hand screams in pain, the undiluted energy surging through the Mark causing a wash of fire to run up my arm to the elbow. Solas holds tight but he may as well not; I don't think I could move my arm from the shoulder down, tensed as it is from the anguish. I grit my teeth hard enough to make them creak, refusing to scream out in pain again, as the rift rebels against being unmade.

Then, finally, there is a pop and a snap and thrumming sound as the rift vanishes, leaving behind a gooey black substance that forms into a puddle on the ground beneath where it once hung in the air. Solas lets go of my arm as the pain fades and I stumble forward again, cradling my hand. It hurts, it still burns, and I press it against my chest and let out a weak whine against my will.

"It worked." Cassandra utters, shock in her voice, while hands larger than hers touch against my arm.

"You alright, kid?" Concern is evident in the gravelly rumble, and my head flicks to the side to see Varric Tethras looking at me with an almost paternal expression of worry on his face.

"Just… the Mark…" I groan, opening the hand and watching as the last of the green light fades. "It hurts sometimes…"

"My apologies for the lack of care, but the situation was desperate…" says Solas in that smooth, refined voice that had earned him a thousand and one fangirls. "Are you well?"

"I'll be fine." I reply, climbing back up to my feet. "It worked… this is actually good for something…"

I stare down at my hand, the mark visible as a misshapen scar of green on my otherwise pale hand, thrumming with inner light, specks of black running through the verdant lines. It still hurts. It'll probably always hurt. I figure I'll get used to it.

"I don't know about good, but it's useful." Varric offers, before offering me a hand to shake. "Varric Tethras. Author, rogue and occasionally; unwelcome tag-along."

He winks at Cassandra as he says it, and I can hear the disdainful noise she makes. I take his hand in my own and give it a firm shake, impressed at his grip.

"Markus Venier." I reply. "Templar."

Varric pauses at that, before chuckling.

"Oh, this is going to be one for the journal," he says, before stepping back.

"If there are to be introductions, I am Solas." the elf speaks from behind, and I turn to face him, though he doesn't offer me a hand to shake. "I am glad to see you are well."

"And by that he means, "I kept that mark from killing you while you slept"," adds Varric. "Looks like it was for a good cause."

"Thank you." I say to him, and he smiles faintly at the gratitude in my voice.

Even knowing who and what he is, it's hard to dislike Solas. He lets off this air of general politeness, a bit of mystery and that elven serenity that makes him seem so ageless and… well, cool. There's something badass about somebody who can be so unflappable in the face of armageddon. Suddenly, I consider, I understand where the fangirls came from.

"If we are all done making introductions, I believe we have a much greater issue ahead." Cassandra interjects, pointing to the Breach above us. "We will have to cut through the valley, and it is teeming with demons."

"Good thing we have Sirs Tethras and Solas then." I reply. "They seem to know how to handle themselves."

I can almost see her bite back a complaint about Varric, but Cassandra seems refreshingly more reasonable in person. That or she trusts me more than she trusts the not-yet Inquisitor, likely due to the being-a-Templar affair that still has me confused. Are Lavellan, Trevellyan, Adaar and whatever the dwarf-Inquisitor's name is still involved? Did they all die? Questions for later, I suppose.

The journey into the valley was uneventful. We killed some demons, searched a burning building for survivors (none present, unfortunately) and followed a side path to a frozen cave where a Shade of increased size but equal vulnerability to swords, magic and crossbow bolts died at our hands. I also found some gold on the ground and engaged in my own personal brand of rabid kleptomania, which Cassandra found mildly disconcerting until Varric noted that gold was gold and it wasn't as though I hadn't earned it.

It was on the path up and out of the valley that the question came to be asked.

"So, kid…" Varric spoke, using my new nickname he had so eagerly assigned when I had made the mistake of revealing my age. "Are you innocent? The Seeker seems to think so."

"I tried to stop it." I say, and the genuine pain in my voice surprises even me. "I just… wasn't good enough. She died in front of me. The explosion… I wasn't fast enough."

Markus or Marcus. I don't know which hurts more. Markus' pain is in the failure, the inability to prevent this from happening. Marcus' pain is in the realization. I'm here. Stuck. I can't just… go back. If this is anything like the stories, I'm trapped forever in this world. No more Beck, no more Marshal, no more video games, no more scouring the used bookstores for old pulp stories by Moorecock and Howard. No more buying little plastic men for exorbitant sums of money and painting them in a variety of colours. No more of any of that.

I'm stranded. Markus failed. Marcus is lost. I, both of me…

Tears flood my eyes and my breath catches in my throat. Up ahead I can already hear the next fight, the rift outside the forward camp. Before Varric or Cassandra or even Solas can say anything, I'm moving, sword in hand. I can think about this later. Angst can come when there isn't a sky to mend.

A Wraith rises from the earth, wispy and green and hardly real. I don't speak the Litany of Forbiddance this time so much as I shout it, forcing the ethereal to become material so my sword, its edge alight with a white gleam, can cleanly split it in two. I continue to chant, words coming to my lips unbidden, but mighty all the same. Killing with words. I am literally banishing demons by speaking aloud. This is addictive.

"Strike the bell the fifth time, speak the chant aloud," I call, as a Shade misses me narrowly with its jagged claws, smiting it across the back. "A cry to heaven, black as coal, a sin which we renounce."

Varric fires at another Wraith, and it lets out a whistling sound as it too is sucked into the Fade once more. The Shade twists towards me, arm outstretched, and I slice its twisted hand off at the wrist.

"Lament our loss in passing, now, but never shall we fear." My sword flicks through the air, cleaving a clean cut in the creature's collar, and making it reel back. "Our sovereign song, it echoes now, a music to His ear."

I call to the Maker for power as I drive my sword deep into the Shade's chest, its final cry in death pathetic to my ears. My sword is glowing now, the steel catching white light from within, a radiance I admire. The rift contracts above me, folding into itself, and I reach up towards it with my left hand.

Once again, fiery pain envelops the arm. Once again, I fight back against it, biting back a scream until the rift vanishes, and the world is made whole once more. Only then do I sigh, avoiding a total collapse to the floor this time around but otherwise still feeling that deep-set ache.

"Another rift sealed, and with such haste," Solas notes. "You are becoming quite proficient at this."

"Well, practice does make perfect." Varric agrees, eyes watching the Breach with a wary smile. "I just hope you can get perfect down before we take on the big one."

"I'll do my best." I promise, nodding to the both of them, before looking at Cassandra. "Is this the-"

"It's about time you all happened along!"

The voice that speaks in unnervingly familiar, dry and vaguely American, with a sense of quiet menace in it. A voice I'd heard speak some two-thousand plus lines of dialogue, directed wholly by my thumbs.

The large wooden doors of the bridge that the forward camp was built upon swung open, and a figure approached us with arms spread wide in amusement. A Qunari, female, with a warhammer in her grip that seemed almost uncomfortably large. Her skin is a rocky grey shade, her hair much longer than any Qunari I'd ever seen in the game.

"The Nightingale's up ahead, arguing with the old man." she declares, her smile fading a little at that news. "I was told to wait for you to warn you; the old man isn't too excited about this plan."

"Chancellor Roderick's permission is unnecessary." Cassandra replies, before shaking the Qunari's hand. "Thank you, Sergeant Adaar."

"Any time, Seeker." the woman apparently named Adaar grins at her, before those dark blue orbs flick to me, then down to my hand. "And you're the unfortunate bastard who's gotta close that thing, huh?"

I nod, and she laughs again.

"Good luck."

As Adaar walks away, I begin to think again. That's one potential Inquisitor accounted for… and apparently, it's a mirror of my last player character. If this is going to be a trend… I shudder at the thought. A female Lavellan.

Holy shit Qunari are real in this universe.

That thought hits like a hammer. I just met an actual Qunari. A dwarf was one thing, but I know short people IRL, so a dwarf is an easy idea to accept. Elves… Solas isn't that weird, and the ears are just that. Ears. But a Qunari is a few steps up from human… literally. I just spoke to a woman who was about seven and a half feet tall.

Marshal would have had a field day with this place.

"You will do no such thing!"

The agitation in Chancellor Roderick's voice is plain for all to hear, Cassandra very much included. I can hear her sigh in fatigue, before Leliana retorts with her point that it is crucial for me to make it to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Roderick's reply, that it is an exercise in futility, will be laughable in hindsight. At least, I hope.

"Lady Leliana, Chancellor Roderick." I make sure to greet both of them as I approach, saluting the Chancellor as is his due from a Templar. Markus remembers that.

"Ah, and here he is." Roderick draws himself up from his lean, standing straight and proud. "Seeker Penteghast, I order you to arrest this boy and take him to Val Royeaux for trial!"

"Order me?" Cassandra's disgust resonates in every syllable. "You are a glorified clerk! A bureaucrat!"

"And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!" says Roderick.

"We serve the most Holy, Chancellor," Leliana interjects. "As you know well."

"Justinia is dead!" Roderick's grief shows through the arrogance, and his hands hit the table with a loud smacking sound. "We must elect a replacement, and obey her edict on the matter!"

"And when will the Chantry hold this election?" I ask, gesturing to the sky with my marked hand. "Before or after the Breach has buried all of Thedas in demons?"

Roderick looks at me, eyes narrowed. Behind me I hear Varric chuckle, muttering about writing something down. Then, the Chancellor deflates, all pomp and pretense gone, and his despair shows clearly on his face.

"Call a retreat, Seeker." His words are less a command and more a plea. "Our position here is hopeless."

"There is still a chance to stop this," Solas says, stepping forward. "The young Templar has already sealed two of the rifts. I theorize he could seal the rift beneath the Breach as well."

"Theories from a hedge mage." Roderick scoffs, but there is no bite in his words this time. "I suppose the dwarf also has a scheme in mind?"

"Chuckles hasn't been wrong so far." Varric replies, shrugging. "If he thinks it'll work…"

"If we press up the hill with all our forces, we should be able to break through." Cassandra declares. "After that, Sir Venier can seal the Breach."

"Sending him in with the soldiers would be risky," Leliana shakes her head. "We can send our forces in as a distraction. You could escort him up the path through the mountains."

"We lost contact with a whole squad on that route." Cassandra mirrors her friend, before looking at me. "It's too risky."

Before Leliana can reply to that, the Breach emits a pulse of green energy, a terrible ripping sound filling the air for a moment and knocking me off my feet as the Mark echoes the effect. I scream this time, unable to bite it back; it feels like I dipped my closed fist in acid, while clutching a fistful of burning rags in my palm. The rest of them just watch, but I can barely see Roderick move towards me, around the table. Then the Breach pulses again, and the world goes white

The pain finally fades, and I realize I'm curled on the ground, in the snow, laying on my side. Varric and Roderick both stand over me, the former waving a hand in my face.

"Kid?" he says, and I let out a weak groan as I begin to uncurl my body.

I take his hand and let him help me up onto one knee, before letting out a broken sob. Nobody said this bullshit would hurt this much. The Inquisitor in the game just grunted and groaned, and only fell over once before Trespasser. This… I'm half tempted to ask Solas to chop my arm off now, and save me months of agony.

"If that happens while he charges with our soldiers, he will die." Leliana warns. "Cassandra…"

"The mountain path." I gasp. "It has to be the mountain path. If I don't get to that Breach… I'm going to die, and I can't close it if I'm dead."

"This is suicide." Roderick declares, and I look up at him through teary eyes.

"Please Chancellor…" I hold a hand towards him, the unmarked one, and without a moment's hesitation he helps me up to my feet. "Let me do this. The Templars… we've been failing the world since Kirkwall. I can't…"

Markus speaks. Marcus listens. Roderick listens too.

"I don't know how this happened." I declare, truthfully. "Why I survived when so many died. I don't know if it was providence, magic or just the foolishness of fate. But… I must do this. If I am to die, I want to die doing the right thing. Not running. Not hiding. Fighting for Thedas. For all of them."

Roderick stares at me for a long while, eyes searching my own. Then, impossibly, he nods.

"Go." he says, gesturing to the mountain. "Do what you must, Templar. And may Andraste watch over you."

"And you, Chancellor."

My fist claps against my chest, though the resounding clang that usually sounds is not present thanks to my wearing a coat rather than armour. But he bows his head, and I depart with the rest of the party having hopefully averted several future disagreements.

As we climb up the mountain, following a goat trail towards the abandoned mine, I let my mind wander again. Marcus. Markus. Am I both? Neither? I don't know. Markus spoke back there, but it was Marcus who knew why it had to be said. Markus fights. Marcus knows why we fight. Markus brings the Templar powers, but Marcus… Marcus knows what's going to happen. Just about every little detail.

People die in Inquisition. A lot of people. Not your party, but innocents perish left and right, try as the game might to hide that from your. Rape and murder are common in war, and even the mages and templars are willing to admit their conflict has gone beyond a simple war. Venatori are monsters. Demons are literally monsters.

I can't run from this. Markus would never and Marcus can't bring himself to.

Home is gone. I can accept that. Marcus can accept that.

But this world needs saving. And I'm the one with the agonizing magic tattoo that can save it.

"Fuck it." I whisper, words lost to the mountain winds. "Let's save the world."

End Chapter the First.

AN: This is going to be a weird one.

Is it a Self Insert? Not really. Marcus is like me in some ways, and unlike me in others. Markus is an OC completely, born of a very simple wish of mine that Inquisition had provided a more Origins-like opening where you could truly change your character's beginning depending on class, race and backstory. The opportunity to play as a Templar is something I've longed for in Dragon Age ever since learning of their order in Origins.

Aadar, Lavellan and Trevellyan will all make appearances in this story. No dwarf, though; I have never played as a dwarf, though it's on the list after the current playthrough wraps up and I play at least seven-thousand hours of Cyberpunk.

Other chapters may not be this long. They may stay this long. I don't really know yet.

If this beginning interested you, then please let me know. I thrive on feedback, always have. Positive, negative or somewhere in between, I love to see it. Criticism is how we come to understand our mistakes, after all.

Have a lovely day.