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.

3. Dreams of Nothing and Nobody

The world is green and black once more when I wake. My eyes flicker open to see a boundless sky above me, black and green entangled with one another in a vast spiral. For a moment I am reminded of the Breach, but I blink again and look around me. The ground here is stone, grey and cold, but when I touch a hand to the surface it warms instantly. There are things about, here and there; a desk, set with countless papers stacked a foot high. A bed, newly made with sheets folded to perfection. A bottle of some liquor lay alone on the pillow, crimson red within dark glass.

I stand. My body feels lighter than air as I look around, my feet barely touching the ground. Am I dead? Is this the afterlife? Why would the afterlife look so much like the Fade? Unless… am I a ghost? A spirit, or even a demon? I look down at myself. Two arms, two legs. I am wearing only a pair of loose brown trousers. Oh cool, I have a six pack. That's new, though not to Markus. I don't look like a demon… or at the very least, I don't look like a very interesting demon. Are there demons of boredom?

I turn around and look at a window, floating in the air as if set in an invisible wall. It shows me a very different landscape from the endless plain of grey stone beyond it; through the opening I behold mountains, looming high in a dark sky and spewing volcanic fumes high into the air, glowing a soft orange as streams of lava descend their sides. I step towards the window, but there is not heat emitting from the vista beyond. I peer around the side, head passing through the space where there ought to be a wall.

On the other side, the window shows me something different. Waves crash against tall pillars of jagged stone, a cruel coastline somewhere far away from those fiery mountains. A bird flies through the spray, feathers a brilliant white with a crest of yellow on its head as it swoops right past the window. I could almost reach out and touch it...

"I wish you wouldn't." a voice says, a kindly voice, soft and small like that of a child. "It would be… not good, to be pulled into a different dream so soon."

I turn, and see behind me a thing. A familiar thing, a ball of blue light with a contrail of wispy smoke following its every motion. It bobs up and down gently, observing me, but when it speaks again it glows.

"This dream is your dream." it explains, as if hearing the confusion in my mind. "It is the dwarf with one eye who dreams of home, her heart aching for the scent of salt. The mountains of fire belong to the warrior who is not, stories of distant lands told to her by a father who is not. All of them are what they are not. It is how they live."

The spirit's voice is blank without being taciturn, solemn without being dour. I am uncertain of its identity for only a moment.

"You're the Spirit of Calm." I note, blinking once. "The one Solas pulled from the Fade to help me."

"The elf who needs a hat saw me seeing you, sensing your unsettlement." it explains. "He pulled and plucked and let me through. But it was the blood in your blood that gave me shape. It tasted like lightning."

"The blood in my blood?" I shake my head, confused again. "What are you referring to exactly?"

"The blood of the mountains," the spirit says. "The dwarves dig it free, that which they can, because it gives them wealth and power to do so. They give it to you who live above, men and elves, and you drink and breathe it, make it part of you. It makes you better, and makes me real."

"Blood of the…" I pause. "Lyrium?"

"Is that the name men use?" it asks, and when I nod it bobs up and down as if to mimic me. "The lyrium inside you feeds me. Makes me real. I couldn't speak before. But the lyrium makes me real, and the key makes you real to me."

Now there's a key, but when I think about the word for a moment, I glance down at my left hand. The mark is still there, humming softly with power, glowing that dim green, but it doesn't hurt. I barely even notice it unless I stare directly at it.

"Is the Mark the key?" I ask, and the spirit bobs up and down again.

"The old one opened doors, too many, but the key closes them, it makes them no longer real." it replies. "But it makes you real to us, because it is a part of our side, now inside you."

"So I'm more… real, inside the Fade?" I stare at the Mark for a long moment, and the spirit floats closer to it.

"Yes." The little ball of blue nudges my palm, and the Mark tingles slightly at the contact, like an itch under my skin that fades quickly. "I saw you because of it, and then the elf who needs a hat saw me. He sent me to you, and I made you Calm like me."

"Thank you for that." I smile at the spirit, and it glows a little brighter.

"Being thanked feels nice." it notes. "On the other side I am still around your arm. The woman with angry eyes does not like that. She tries to make me go away. But the key and mountain's blood let me stay. Should I go?"

I shake my head.

"You're more than welcome to stay." I declare, reaching to touch it as if patting its head. "But if you stay, I don't think I can keep calling you "spirit". It would be rude."

"I would get a name?" it asks, a hint of excitement in its stoic voice, and I chuckle.

"Of course." I put a finger against my chin then, thinking. "But what should we name you?"

"You remember names." it says suddenly, floating upwards, higher and higher. "But they are not here, not where memories are meant to be. You remember so little that this place can reflect. Why?"

I pause, looking around. It isn't wrong. I have two… admittedly short, lifetimes' worth of memories to recall. Why wouldn't they have an effect on the Fade? This place should be full of memories of Marcus' world, of school and games and books. And where are Markus' memories, the Order, his training, learning and growing? Why aren't we reflected here, as we are meant to be?

"Beck." I say, testing a name, the first that springs to mind.

Nothing comes forth. No girl with perpetually half-lidded eyes and a serene smile on her face as she sits in the front corner of the room, hands folded beneath her chin. The spirit circles around me, peering at me with eyes that I can't see, examining my expression.

"That's a good name." it says, bobbing up and down a little. "Can I be Beck?"

Beck. Rebecca, but she didn't want people to call her the same name they called her mother. So she was Becca, or just Beck to me. And now… the spirit brushes my arm, rousing me from my thoughts, and I nod.

"Beck." I repeat, before running a finger along its top. "Beck is a good name. You can be Beck, if you'd like."

"I would." Beck declares, before pressing itself against my palm. "Beck. Beck. Beck Beck Beck. It's short and quick and rhymes with neck. I like being Beck."

"And I like being able to call you by your name." I reply, petting Beck again. "When I wake up, you'll still be there?"

"Yes." Beck nods with that little bounce in the air, and I smile, relieved. "I won't let the key hurt any more. That would be good."

"It would." I agree, before looking around the blankness of the Fade. "I suppose we'll have to find something to pass the time until I wake."

"No." Beck spins a little in place, and I realize after a second's confusion that it is meant to be a shake of the head. "You can wake up if you want. You just need to go to sleep."

I stare at it for a moment, and the little spirit helpfully floats past me, toward the bed behind me.

"The bed is you." it explains. "The part of you that connects you to here. You go into the bed and you, the part of you that can come here, goes back to your side. You wake up on that side while asleep here. And when you sleep there, you wake up here. I can go when I want, but you have to be in yourself to do that."

I stare at the spirit of calm for a moment, before looking at the bed. It was a stream of jargon, what it just said, but I think I grasp the basics. Or at least… my take on the basics. So I walk to the bed and climb in, moving the bottle over. That itself prompts a question.

"Wait… so the bed is me?" I ask, and Beck bobs up and down again. "So… what's in the bottle?"

"Wine." Beck replies. "It's good, I think."

I hold the bottle in my hand for a moment, and then shake my head, before laying down. I sleep on my side usually, knees pulled up towards my chest. I take that position, the sinfully soft pillow under my head, and close my eyes.

Then I open them, and am somewhere else.

I know this room like the back of my hand. This is the scene. That scene. With the elf who drops a box, runs off to talk to Cassandra and vanishes into thin air afterwards. I see her approaching me, box in hand, before realizing I'm awake and panicking, dropping it on the floor. Its loud.

"Ah!"

Her alarm is just as loud, as she staggers and falls backwards in surprise. I watch as she tumbles onto her backside, wincing a little as she gets up onto her feet again with nervous, jerky movements. She's a tiny thing, a little shorter than me and much skinnier, almost alarmingly so. Her eyes are a deep brown, her hair an auburn shade that is both red and brown at once. Her expression is one of terror, however.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry…" Her voice is flighty, afraid. "I-I'll clean it up right away I-I swear…"

"Please, be calm…" I say, raising a hand, voice dry and croaking. "There's no need to panic. It's a small mess, easily managed."

"My fault your grace, I'm so very sorry…" she says, before dropping down to her knees and prostrating herself, pressing her face against the floorboards. "I am unworthy, your grace."

It's an unsettling thing, having someone bow to you as they would in the presence of a god. She trembles where she kneels, barefoot and afraid, and I swallow back my nerves.

"Please… look at me." I ask, and hesitantly she raises her head, peering at me with eyes stick wide in reverence and fear alike. "Would you do me the honour of sharing your name?"

"Sh-Shanna, i-if it pleases your grace…" she stammers. "B-but y-y-you can call me whatever you-you please, your grace."

"Shanna." I say the name slowly, as if trying it out, and smile. "A good name. A simple name. A kind name. Shanna, why are you bowing to me?"

"B-because you are Her Herald, your grace… I-I am unworthy…" she explains, pressing her face to the ground again.

"Shanna, please don't do that." I say. "I am not the Maker. You don't need to bow to me."

She looks up again, once more hesitant. She is afraid of me, and it isn't just awe that brings about that fear. I extend a hand towards her, as if offering to help her up, but she stares at it as if I'm offering her a bar of solid gold, her own hands shivering.

"I-I should not…" she stammers. "I-I am but a lowly servant, unworthy…"

"What makes you unworthy, Shanna?" I ask, though I worry about the answer.

"I-I am a sinful thing, foolish and-and disobedient…" she murmurs, and I shake my head slowly.

"The same could be said of all the righteous, and then no one would be worthy." I reply, before leaning forward to take her hand in mine, feeling how it shakes in my grip. "Please, Shanna. I'm still rather stiff from the fight at the Breach. Will you help me?"

I don't want to play this world's dumb games of race and righteousness. Elves, dwarves, humans, even Qunari; I'll need all of them if I'm going to win the war that's coming. I can't afford to have the Inquisition divided along preconceived lines of racial tension. It's time to break a few barriers; and this will be the first.

"You are the one who was entrusted to watch over me." I continue, squeezing her hand gently, as reassuring as I can be. "If Seeker Pentaghast and Lady Leliana trusted you with this, then I trust them as well."

"The Lady Seeker…" Shanna says suddenly, her eyes going wide. "Sh-she wanted to know when you woke. At once, she said."

"Take me to her." I ask, standing and immediately regretting it as my legs begin to tremble, and I nearly join Shanna on the floor, instead falling back into the bed. "Please."

She stands, realizing that I won't be going anywhere any time soon without her. She's weak, but just a little help is enough to keep me on my feet. I lean against her, just a little, and she suffers my weight without complaint. I do keep hold of her hand though, in hopes it will ground her just a little.

A part of me wonders if I shouldn't be freaking out a little more, now that the danger is passed. I mean… this is still weird, right? I'm in a world that's meant to be fiction. There is an actual elf helping me walk out of a small house on a mountainside, in a town that thinks I'm the chosen one. This is all really strange.

But then I feel a warm hum against my wrist, and remember Beck. Of course. A Spirit of Calm would help me deal with the madness of this new reality of mine. Beck squeezes a little tighter around my wrist and I chuckle, before looking at a confused Shanna.

"Just remembering a friend." I explain.

She takes that in stride, about as well as she's been taking everything else. We reach the front door and she hesitates when the sound of voices from outside becomes audible. I squeeze her hand, and she swallows back her fear before opening the door.

There are a lot of people outside. Nobles wearing the finest regalia, Orlesians in masks and Fereldan in heavy furs. I see Templars here and there, mages too, keeping distance between themselves as would be expected. Peasants both local and foreign. Soldiers of the Inquisition, weapons sheathed or hung from belts, though two warriors in heavy plate armour stand outside the front door, greatswords braced point-first against the snowy ground. Both watch as Shanna helps me outside.

My presence silences the crowd immediately. Men and women go silent, the hush spreading like a virus, tense quiet filling the air. I watch as they watch me, staring back at them while they observe. Then, one man falls to one knee; a soldier, with a freckled face and a heavy brow. Another drops down beside him, then another. Mostly soldiers, and a few peasants. Here and there a noble bows their head, a Templar salutes me, a mage nods respectfully.

The legend of the Herald has spread, it seems, but it has not yet been cemented as standard. Good. I don't want to be idolized. That leads to all manner of bad things if one isn't careful, and as careful as I intend to be it's nice to have a bit of leeway. The good thing is, the crowd is so enraptured with me, most seem to overlook poor shaking Shanna completely. The crowd clears a path for me, and I know where I must go. The Chantry, and the founding of the Inquisition… both await me up the hill.

Shanna is a godsend. Er… Maker-send. Without her, I'd probably topple over in the snow and make a rather impressive embarrassment of myself in front of countless judging eyes. Instead I hobble along, humbled by the Breach, but not beaten. For a moment I look to the sky above me. The Breach still looms. It too has been humbled, it seems. But I will close it soon enough. I just need the Templars. Or the Mages.

I'm not looking forward to that particular choice, in all honesty.

Shanna and I make our way up the steps to the second level of Haven, past Varric's campfire and the admiring eyes of a dozen Templars. They all salute me as one, and I come to a halt to return the favour, clapping my fist to my chest and bowing my head. I see Lysette among them, Knight-Captain Rylen as well. So they both made it out of the Temple. Good to see.

Around to the Chantry, up the snowy escarpment. It's been cleared, recently too, something I'm grateful for. I see a crowd by the doors of the Chantry itself; men and women in robes of red and white, and a familiar figure with a heavy fur mantle and plate mail on his arms. Their voices are loud, and growing louder as we approach.

"Whether he is Herald or not, Sir Venier is not fit for travel to Val Royeaux." Cullen declares, his voice filled with a fire you don't usually expect from the calm commander. "You cannot drag him there for trial until he has recovered. Or has the Chantry chosen to disregard the accused's right to medical care before judgement?"

"I must agree with the Knight-Commander." I hear the familiar, scratchy voice of Chancellor Roderick argue, and I come to a full stop for a moment. "When we met on the mountain, Sir Venier was insistent that he close the Breach. I do not believe him guilty of any crime."

So, I have the Chancellor's support. That's surprisingly comforting to know. Shanna hesitates at the sight of all those figures of authority, but once again I pull her forward, holding her hand a little tighter.

"It's okay." I murmur. "If they're angry at anybody, it'll be me. Don't worry."

I smile for her, and she seems to take strength in that. She's an odd one, Shanna. I think I might keep an eye on her, if only to figure out just what has her so afraid of me, and the world around her. It can't just be a flighty personality. She was terrified a few minutes ago. That's not a sign of anything good.

"Knight-Commander." I greet Cullen first as we approach, bowing my head. "Chancellor Roderick."

"And here he is." Cullen says, sounding almost a little annoyed that I'm finally here. "Esteemed Sisters and Mothers of the Chantry, Sir Markus Venier, also known as the Herald of Andraste."

Shanna trembles again, violently, when the assembled Chantry folk look at us. Chancellor Roderick's eyes immediately flick to my Mark, then the elf holding me up. The others, an assembly of priestesses and acolytes, all women, eye me up with expressions ranging from curiosity to disdain. Shanna earns only the latter, and a tiny whimper of fear escapes her.

"It's alright…" I whisper, before bowing my head to the women in robes. "An honour, mothers and sisters."

"One could mistake it for such." one older woman speaks, her expression sour as they come. "Markus Venier… which Circle did you serve in before the Conclave?"

"Chanson, in the Dales." I reply. "Under Knight-Captain Sarker."

"Ah, I have not heard of the Chanson Circle…" another woman interjects, one of the disdainful ones. "A smaller Circle, I would suppose?"

"Yes." I nod. "I was trained there."

"And Venier…" a third woman rubs her chin. "A peasant name?"

"Descended from a Marquis in Val Firmin, but my mother was an Enchanter of the Montsimmard Circle." I say, a little surprised at my own words. "I was sent to Chanson for training when I did not display any magical talent of my own."

Commander Cullen watches with a curious expression as I explain myself, and when I admit my parentage he almost seems to choke on something. I suppose an admission of that sort of thing is frowned upon.

"How… unique." the eldest of the assembled clergy notes, frowning at me. "So, we are expected to believe a bastard born of a mage was chosen by Andraste to lead us all?"

"I make no claims to divinity." I shake my head, holding up my marked hand for them to see. "I was saved from certain death. Whether this was an act of providence or fickle luck, I have no idea. But I know what I can do."

I point then to the Breach, my hand flaring with green light for an unintentionally dramatic effect. I feel Beck slide further up my arm to hide from their eyes as my sleeve also rides up my arm.

"The Breach is halted in its expansion, and this Mark is the cause." I explain. "And this I know; when I was lost in the Fade, after the explosion, it was a figure of gold who guided me to safety, who showed me how to use the Mark to free myself of that place. She spoke with a voice like that which I have never heard before, and at her words demons trembled and fled."

"He walked from the Fade," I hear a Templar agree from behind me, Lysette. Her voice is strong, clear, the Spirit of Calm still glowing about her neck. "It was seen. I fought by his side against a Demon of Pride, bled with him."

"The words of a few addled peasant conscripts and one Templar cast-off are hardly worthy evidence." the Chantry Mother rebukes, scoffing at her words. "Were Andraste to choose anybody, it would be a worthy Herald, not this boy. To claim otherwise is heresy."

That word brings silence to our surroundings. Even a few of the younger Chantry clerics are shocked by the declaration. Chancellor Roderick is stunned, mouth agape. But the Templars, Lysette and the rest, are incensed.

"The Order has fought in Her name for centuries!" one of them shouts, stepping forward with his hands curled into fists. "Who is more worthy than a Templar?"

"Perhaps Sir Venier was chosen because Andraste knew a Cleric would be too busy cowering behind books and Chantry walls to do what needed to be done!" another agrees, standing beside his brother.

"Call it heresy all you like," Lysette declares. "I know what I saw in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Sir Venier took a blow meant for me, dealt by a demon more powerful than any I had ever seen before. Then he suffered to seal the Breach, while you all cowered here in Haven. If Andraste has chosen a Herald, I pray it is he."

"You lot would make for miserable replacements." Knight-Captain Rylen scoffs, looking at the Clerics before turning his eyes to me. "I've known Venerable Sarker for years, brother. He's a good judge of character. If he chose you to come to the Conclave, I'll take his word over that of a bunch of clucking hens too busy pissing themselves to take up arms against demons."

The Chantry Mother is utterly shocked by this show of solidarity, though not as much as I am. I've never known this sort of loyalty before; to have men and women I've never truly met stand up for me, declare themselves my brothers and sisters… I can understand now the appeal of an organization like the Templars better now, I think. I bow my head to Rylen, who grins.

"You Templars truly have lost your way, speaking to us in such a way," one of the other clerics interjects, her disgust plain in her expression. "We are clerics of the Chantry, your superiors, need I remind you…"

"And he's our brother." Lysette retorts. "You call him a bastard, a heretic, but he has done more for the people of Thedas than all of you together. And you would put him on trial for his heroism?"

"It is clear we Templars are not the ones who have lost our way." Rylen declares, with a voice like ice. It softens when he speaks to me next. "Sir Venier, you honour the Order with your deeds. It is an honour to call you our brother."

"And you honour me more than I deserve." I reply, bowing my head. "Any Templar would have done the same."

Rylen chuckles at that.

"I can name many would would not." he replies, rueful. "But that is beside the point. Whatever comes next, we will stand with you."

"Thank you." I salute him, and he salute me as well, the other Templars joining him.

The Clerics depart when the Templars do, going the other ways. It occurs to me that their path will take them right past Solas, and I chuckle at the thought of them ignoring the elf apostate who had also done more to save Thedas then they.

"My apologies, Sir Venier." Chancellor Roderick says, as we walk into the Chantry, Cullen throwing the doors open for us. "I tried to explain your valour on the mountain, but the Chantry is quite afraid of this Herald of Andraste business."

"It's an understandable fear." I agree. "The Chantry has lost much this last year. The mere thought of Andraste sending a Herald to the world must have the elder mothers in quite a panic."

Roderick restrains a chuckle, and I marvel at the sight of everybody's favourite person to hate acting like a human being.

"That is an understatement, Sir Venier." he agrees. "But… after this coming business is complete, would you be so kind as to speak with me in private? I have questions… and an offer to make. Advice, nothing more."

I nod. Chancellor Roderick not being antagonistic is one thing. The thought of him being friendly is quite intriguing indeed, and advice is something I think I'll sorely need. Things are a lot more complex when people aren't bound by basic code and algorithms. Shanna, still helping me along, is a good example of that.

Roderick takes his leave with a final bow, and the traditional "Andraste be with you" which I return. Cullen instead leads me to the door at the end of the Chantry's hall, where two of the heavily armoured Inquisition soldiers stand guard. I nod to them, and both salute Cullen and, quite possibly, myself. The door opens with a push and we step inside, to see the familiar faces of Leliana, Josephine Montilyet and Cassandra all awaiting us. It never quite occurred to me how many women were involved in the founding of the Inquisition until now, actually.

"Sir Venier." Cassandra nods to me and I return the gesture, before she sees Shanna under my arm and frowns. Before she can speak, however, I raise a hand to halt her.

"I begged Shanna to bring me to you." I say. "And it's good fortune I did. The Chantry are apparently quite frazzled by the title the people have bestowed upon me."

"Herald of Andraste…" Leliana murmurs. "They are a strong thing, those words."

"I hope to bear them well." I lean against the table, taking my weight off of a grateful Shanna. "But I trust all of us are gathered here for a reason beyond my supposed higher calling?"

Cassandra frowns at my words, and I remember too late that she's one of the "you're chosen and that's final" types. It's a good thing I'm okay with being chosen, or we might have a problem. I smile at her.

"A jest, Seeker Cassandra."

She watches me for a moment longer, before reaching beneath our little war table and grabbing a very familiar book. Large and heavy, bound in leather and iron with a steel symbol emblazoned on the cover; a flaming eye over a sword, shining like the sun.

"You all know what this is." she declares, before looking at me. "Except you, Sir Venier. It is a writ from Divine Justinia, giving us the authority to act. As of this day, I declare the Inquisition re-founded."

The tension in the room is almost audible, the air stretched to the point of tearing. Cullen swallows back his nerves, clenching his fists and steadying himself. Leliana leans forward, all elegance and ease to hide the worry within. And Josephine already starts to scrawl on that clipboard of hers, recording the moment for future tense.

I stare at the book, and then look up at Cassandra.

"I would be honoured to be the first to join a re-founded Inquisition." I declare, placing my marked hand on the book's cover.

"And we would be honoured to have you, Herald." Cullen declares, bowing his head a moment. "With you at our side, many Templars who survived the Conclave will also take up a new oath."

"Though there are mages who may falter, with two former Templars as part of the inner circle." Leliana replies, already the opposing viewpoint.

Cullen, to my surprise, chuckles.

"I've already found a remedy for that." he states. "I've taken a mage as my second. You all may remember her from the forward camp on the mountain. Sergeant Adaar is now Captain Adaar."

Wait, I think. Mage? But she was using a hammer! Or… was the hammer secretly a staff.

"If we are announcing our choices for immediate subordinates, I suppose I should declare Scout Lavellan as my head agent." Leliana replies, placing a finger on her table. "I have her investigating a potential lead in the Hinterlands, a source of horses for the Inquisition."

"And I will be aiding Lady Montilyet in her ambassadorial endeavours, though I hope and pray mine is a more… active role."

I freeze. That's another voice I know, though I should hardly be surprised. From the shadows come footsteps, Leliana rolling her eyes at the theatre as a man in a leather coat with tails that trail down to the backs of his knees steps into the open, arms spread wide in greeting. He has the look of a scoundrel about him, dark blonde hair cut close to the scalp in jagged waves and blue eyes glinting with mischief. His skin is well tanned, giving him an oddly California-surfer aesthetic. The animal fang dangling from a piercing in his left ear certainly helps.

"Ah yes," Josephine sighs. "The esteemed Charles Edward Trevelyan, heir apparent to the House Trevelyan in Ostwick."

"She forgot to mention the part where I'm the Second Blade of the Bann, but I'm certain that won't be of much importance." Trevelyan declares, before bowing at the waist, one hand folded in front of his stomach. "A pleasure to meet you all, particularly the Herald."

He winks at me, and chuckles when I'm not sure how to react.

Cassandra groans, and Trevelyan wisely withdraws from the room, his introductions finished. I watch him go, amused, before looking back to the war council that is not yet a war council. Beside me, Shanna has a dazed look in her eye, and I smile. Poor girl's smitten already, though given Lord Trevelyan's flair I'm hardly surprised.

"Well, that was odd." Cullen neatly sums up all our feelings in a four words, before placing his hand down on the table, picking up a small metal pin with a clenched fist engraved as its head. "Herald, allow me be to be the first to say; welcome to the Inquisition."

"Honoured, commander." I nod. "Now… where do we begin?"

AN:

Shorter chapter, I know, but this was more of a wrap-up for the first arc of our tale. Now that we've moved beyond the most scripted part of our story, allow me to warn you all; this tale will diverge from canon, and heavily, at multiple points. Character introductions, major characters deaths, events occuring out of order and numerous people, places and things that weren't in the game will be appearing here. Why?

Because if you all wanted a repetition of Dragon Age Inquisition, I imagine you'd play the game. That's not what I want to write and I feel that isn't what you want to read. As such, here we are.

Thank you for your support, and have a lovely day.