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.

4. Haven for the Wayward

It is a different Haven that greets me when I step out of the Chantry hours later. The Inquisition is born. I am the Herald. The sky is torn asunder. And yet the world keeps on turning, and people continue to complain to the put-upon Quartermaster Threnn about the need for supplies she does not have. I speak to her briefly, getting the word on requisitions and how they work. Fetch quests, basically, and never ending ones at that.

Todd would be proud.

Next stop is to my left and along a narrow road. It's wider here, and the buildings more plentiful. Haven is larger when not constrained by storage size limits, and the people are far more plentiful. I count fifty heads by the time I reach the apothecary's hut, thankfully easily identified by the crates of dried herbs strewn about the front door.

"Don't bother knocking, no one ever does." the older man stood at the workbench calls, before returning his attention to the mortar and pestle in his hands. "If you've got deliveries, I'll sign for them in a moment. If it's another request, put it in the stack."

The requests stack is slightly higher than my knee is from my ankle, which very nearly triggers a fight or flight response in me, invoking memories both of Knight-Captain Sarker's desk and my homework folder in my bedroom.

"I'm afraid I'm not here with anything." I declare, and the old man turns to stare at me for a long moment, before frowning.

"Ah." he grunts, before turning back to his work. "The Herald. If you don't mind taking requests, I could use a few miracles right now."

"I'm afraid there's a waiting list for miracles," I reply. "Shall I try to slot you between curing a man's blindness and blessing a barren womb with child?"

The old bastard nearly laughs at that, though it fails to quite break through his thick layers of dogged crankiness. He stares at me for a moment, before turning back to his work.

"Name's Adan." he declares, click-clacking away with the mortar and pestle once more. "I'm the sorry bastard Cassandra has brewing any and all potions and elixirs this "Inquisition" of ours might need… regardless of whether or not I've been supplied any of the necessary resources to actually, well, do that."

His frustration is plain in his voice, his grinding with the tools growing more rough for a moment as he pounds the pestle against whatever material it is he's crushing.

"I'll try not to place any additional burden upon your shoulders, then." I say.

"It's not my shoulders you should be worried about, Herald." He puts a special emphasis on the last word. "I've just got to brew potions until my eyes bleed. It's up to you to save the bloody world."

Well… he isn't wrong. I take my leave with a bow, and he idly nods in reply. Leaving his hut, I take a moment outside the door to breathe. It smelled rather thickly of dead plants in there, like one of those expensive tea-stores in Abbotsford that always gave me a headache to stay in too long. I lean against the wall next to the door and sigh.

Saving the bloody world. It will be a trial, won't it? Mages and Templars both gone mad with power, Chantry clerics seeking influence and authority wherever they can, the semi-immortal Darkspawn Magister with a personal vendetta against me… I shake my head.

"Save the world." I mutter. "How am I going to manage that?"

"The Mark will help, one hopes." Solas interjects from nearby, rounding the corner of the building with a small satchel in one of his hands.

I watch as he sits down in front of the building next to Adan's, leaning against the wall with his staff planted firmly in the ground beside him. He plucks from the satchel three small, smooth black stones, like the ones you find on a riverbed, worn slick and shiny by the flow of the water. Each has a tiny array of symbols carved into the surface.

I watch as he presses two of his fingers, the left index and middle finger, to the stone in the middle. It begins to glow then, along with the tips of those fingers, a soft green like my Mark. Then he hums softly, eyes closed and lips pursed, and touches another stone. Then the third, before sighing deeply.

"It is as I suspected," he declares. "Spirits still flock to the Breach in droves, curious of its nature or drawn by the lingering emotions of the explosion and battle. Most will not be able to cross over, without finding a rift. It is sealed, but not closed."

"I put up some boards on the window, but the window is still open?" I ask, and Solas chuckles.

"An exceptionally human means of explaining the situation, but you are not wrong." he replies, putting the stones back in his bag. "We will need assistance to seal the Breach, I suspect. Mages to empower your Mark."

"Or Templars to weaken the Breach." I reply, and I see him frown. "In all honesty, I'd rather it were both. This war has caused more than its share of pain. A collaboration between the two might help both remember that they're meant to coexist."

"You are a Templar." Solas says, as if noting it as relevant for the first time.

"Raised as one, though not born." I reply. "My mother was a mage."

"And you do not have the gift?" He frowns.

"Is that pity in your voice?" I reply, voice lower now as I lean my shoulder against the wall.

"Not at all." He shakes his head now. "Only an idle observation. "One would expect a child born of two mages to also display the gift."

"My father wasn't a mage." I say, tensing up a little. "I would prefer we not discuss this further."

"As you wish." He bows his head. "Still, a Templar. And yet I can see Calm still encircles your arm. Does the nearness of a spirit not frighten you?"

"Beck helped me when I needed it." I reply, shaking my head. "It can stay with me as long as it likes."

"You named it?" Apparently I am a wealth of surprises for Solas, given his stunned expression. "Curious. I was under the impression Templars hated spirits, or at least feared them."

"I was trained in the Chanson Circle." I explain, remembering younger, easier days with a fond smile. "Our Senior-Enchanter studied the Fade devotedly, and the nature of spirits and demons. Knight-Captain Sarker was fine with it so long as he didn't try to actually summon or bind anything. As such, most of his work was only theory, but he wrote whole books about those theories. I read some of it."

I can almost sense Solas' approval ticking upwards, and chuckle as I remember the rest of that memory.

"Most of it was utter gibberish to me." I admit. "But I remember his chapter on the nature of spirits, and their differentiation from demons. He explained that demons and spirits embody an emotion; joy, pride, anger, calm. But demons embody the negative, and spirits the positive. So a demon was to be destroyed, as it was made of evil. But spirits were made of good, and could therefore be trusted more often than not."

Solas frowns again now, but it isn't an angry expression; just a look of concentration.

"Your Enchanter was not far from the truth." he states, after a few seconds of thinking. "Though there are further complications. A spirit can be corrupted into a demon, for example."

"He had thought that might be possible, but since summoning spirits or demons was forbidden by the Chantry…" I let the rest of the tale tell itself without words, and Solas nods.

"Still, it is good that you have kept an open mind." the elf declares after a moment. "I was afraid you might be more like some of the stories of your Order, all fire and brimstone, looking to lock mages in prisons and suppress their freedom."

"That isn't what a Circle is." I reply, before pausing. "Or… that's not what it's meant to be. Maybe some of them are. But that's… it's not supposed to be that way."

Solas watches me now, all emotion hidden behind a mask of calm. I swallow as I try to explain myself as best I can. His hatred of Circles is very well defined in the game. I can't change his mind, at least, not yet. But hopefully I can at least make him understand why they aren't necessarily evil. Or perhaps why they are a necessary evil.

"Mages are dangerous if untrained." I explain. "Just like anybody who has something dangerous they don't know how to use. Hand a farm boy a sword and he's likely to cut himself. If he does, he'll drop it. But a mage can't drop their magic. They have to learn to control it, so they don't accidentally set fire to their home or strike their neighbours with lightning. The Circles are supposed to be a place for them to learn to control their power, and to be among fellow mages."

"And why should it be the duty of Templars to police them?" Solas asks. "Should not the mages police themselves, as all other groups do?"

"Templars aren't just policing mages." I reply. "We protect them. From demons, from possession, the temptation of blood magic…"

"All things a mage could easily learn to avoid from other mages." Solas replies, but I'm not finished yet.

"And from the world around them." I say. "People are afraid of magic. I've heard more than one story of a young boy or girl accidentally causing suffering with their magic when it first comes in, and vengeful relatives or townsfolk…"

I remember Val Narie, that little town on the edge of the Dales. A tiny figure, far too small to be dangling from that rope, swaying in the breeze beneath the vast oak tree. I shudder, hugging myself. Too late. We were too late. Just like me.

"And the mages cannot defend themselves?" Solas asks.

I shake my head.

"A mage kills a man for hurting another mage." I say. "It could be just. It could be self-defense. But a mage killed a man, and another mage benefited. That doesn't look like policing. That looks like a group protecting its own interests and looking out only for each other, flaunting the power they have and others lack. A common man fears a mage because a mage is simply more powerful than he is, the same way a common man fears a noble. Templars bridge the gap. We are men like them, able to stand against mages."

"So it's a mix of ignorance and fear." Solas shakes his head. "A common blend among humans, I find."

"Arrogance and an innate sense of superiority." I reply. "A common blend among elves, I find."

He pauses at that, looking at me.

"Mock us all you want, Solas." I say, standing up straight now, meeting him eye to eye. "Speak criticism of our systems and debate with me our failings. But do not resort to base insults and racial prejudice. It is beneath both of us."

I walk away. Better to let him think on that than to provoke him any further. If he wants to abolish the Circles, so be it. But… I am a Templar as much as I am a student who fell through a hole in the bottom of a waterfall basin. Markus believes in the Circles and their necessity. Marcus can see the point of them, though less blatant corruption and abuse of power would be nice.

The same can be said of just about every institution, though. Templars, Chantry, the royal court of Orlais… oh, the Winter Palace is going to be fun. I know just about nothing of court functions. Well, if there is a Winter Palace this time around. Who knows what I might change by then?

My next stop is Varric's campfire, down the street and around the corner. He's already there, warming himself by the open flame along with a couple of gentlemen in the robes of Circle Mages, with just enough wear and tear to show they are most likely apostates. One is shorter, with the sagging skin of a fat man forced to sudden thinness by circumstance, the other taller and darker, likely of Rivaini or Antivan descent.

"But… with all the Templars…" one protests, before Varric chuckles.

"Not Templars any more," he assures them. "Inquisition soldiers now. They'll probably stop wearing the symbol soon enough. Besides, it's a fresh slate for both sides. Nobody will judge you for what you did before."

"That… that's good to hear…" the darker of the two murmurs, nodding slowly as he leans against the twisted length of his staff, topped with a narrow rod of blue crystal. "When we left the Circle… we ended up hiding out in an abandoned farmhouse for months. We couldn't go back to the Circle or we'd be executed, but we didn't want to fight."

I approach the fire and watch as both men stiffen up at my nearness, though Varric just glances my way and smiles.

"Ah, Herald." he says, with a little grin on his face that tells me he enjoys taunting me with the title. "Come meet my new friends."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." I nod to each, and the shorter man nods back. "Markus Venier, Inquisition… agent, I suppose."

"Hugo Demaret," the shorter man greets, bowing his head. "Former Enchanter to the Belleque Circle, before this apostasy business began."

"Ataviano De Calco." the taller man mutters, after a moment. "Archivist to the Belleque circle."

Hugo is audibly Orlesian, but Ataviano has one of those hard-to-place accents that could be from just about anywhere in Europe. Or, Thedas now, I suppose. I smile at him, and he huddles a little closer to his staff.

"It is good to meet you both." I say. "Have you also joined the Inquisition."

"It seems the wisest course of action, yes…" Hugo declares, nodding slowly. "But at the same time… we aren't quite certain. There seems to be an awful lot of Templars joining up… and we've had bad experiences with templars. Haven't we, Ataviano?"

"Oui." Ataviano agrees in Orlesian, before looking at me. "You were a Templar before joining. Do you believe the Inquisition would have us?"

I think for a moment, really pondering my answer. I want to say yes, but at the same time… the tensions are undeniable. There are Templars among the Inquisition's ranks who would likely stir up a fuss about mages, making demands for them to be imprisoned. But at the same time, a fledgling Inquisition will need all the men it can muster, mages or otherwise.

"The Inquisition does not have any Templars." I decide, shaking my head slowly. "Only agents of its own number. One's past doesn't matter, only his deeds as an agent. The Inquisition could use mages, as much as it can use soldiers, and you would be treated fairly. Commander Cullen's right hand woman is a Tal Vashoth mage who's never even been inside a Circle before, and an elven apostate is the only reason I'm alive right now."

The two stare at me, disbelief plain in their eyes. But it isn't belief I need, not when the truth is all around them. They will come to believe in their own time… or perhaps they won't. I can't force the world to shape to my whims. That wouldn't be right. This isn't a game any more. Shanna, Cassandra, Solas… all are proof of that. This is a world of real people now. I have to remember that.

They watch as I walk away, further out of Haven, Hugo speaking to Varric as I leave. I go to Seggrit, the arrogant blonde running Haven's only store. He has a proper stall, with tables laden with wares… and all the manners I expected. He's plain spoken enough to me, honest even, but he calls Shanna "knife-ear" and I feel my hands curl into fists against my will. That is one thing I don't mind forcing to change, I think.

Then it's down the steps and off to the main gate, guarded by soldiers of the Inquisition. That's who they are now, not the ragtag band of guards, commoners and soldiers who stood against the Breach. A mage stands next to an Orlesian soldier, both resting against the same wall and sharing sips of water from a canteen. It is a good thing to see. Both straighten up and salute me as I pass, and I bow my head to them. It's only polite.

Cullen is already drilling the new soldiers. Peasants alongside chevaliers… it's a sight to see. Other Templars and a few Orlesian infantry are dotted among the assembled men, guiding strikes, offering advice. I consider speaking to Cullen, but when he looks down at another new notice passed to him by one of Leliana's hooded men with despair in his eyes I decide to leave him be for a while. Cassandra drills alone, sword clashing with a straw-wrapped dummy. I do need to thank her for everything she did on the mountainside still, so I head that way.

"Herald!" a voice calls, unfamiliar, and I turn to see two men fast approaching me. One is a Templar, whom I vaguely recognize, and the other an elf in the boiled leather and sparse plate of a mercenary.

The elf reaches me first, holding up a sealed scroll. The Templar comes a moment later, holding a scroll of his own.

"Dispatch for you, ser." the elf declares, panting from his run. "From Mistress Leliana."

"Summons, brother." the Templar says, leaning over a little to catch his breath. "From Chancellor Roderick."

Ah. A choice. I take the scroll from the elf and open the end, sliding out the roll of parchment within. Leliana's handwriting is surprisingly spidery and plain for someone who served in the Imperial court, but given my own rough hand I can hardly afford to judge. I read the words on the page carefully, and frown when I finish.

The Hinterlands, and Mother Giselle, await your arrival. I would recommend joining the detachment of soldiers Cullen is sounding tomorrow morning.

Ad: Speak to Harret. He has something for you.

"So soon?" I am impressed by the speed of Thedas' messenger birds, before rolling the scroll back up and giving it back to the messenger. "Thank you. Tell Lady Leliana this; I will go with the soldiers, but she should send a detachment of scouts with the men. And also inform her I said thank you, please. I wouldn't want to draw her ire so soon."

I chuckle, and the elf nods before turning and jogging through the snow. The Templar stares at me, and I meet his eye. He is a tall and darksome sort, with black hair trimmed close to the scalp. He looks Rivaini, I estimate, from his dark eyes and tan skin.

"Chancellor Roderick summoned me?" I ask, and his expression turns sheepish.

"Erm… not quite, brother." he admits, rubbing the back of his head. "More of an… invitation. Sorry. Force of habit. I'm used to clerics giving orders more than asking nicely, you know?"

"I do." I chuckle, and when he laughs with me I take his hand. "What's your name, brother?"

"Giovenco, brother." he says, confirming my suspicions of his Rivaini origins. "And you're Markus, yes?"

"Last time I checked, though I'm beginning to worry it's been changed to Herald and nobody told me." I reply, which prompts him to chuckle himself. "Are you with the Inquisition now?"

"No." he shakes his head, expression growing more sober. "I've elected to stay with the Order for now. We'll need people between the Inquisition and the Chantry, Chancellor Roderick advised. I would join, but we needed a Templar to remain, and I volunteered."

"An honourable path, brother." I nod, and he seems hesitant to agree. "Thank you for relaying the Chancellor's words to me. Would you tell him I'd be pleased to meet with him after we've eaten dinner? I suspect I'll be busy running errands for most of the afternoon."

Giovenco salutes me, and I salute him before he takes off toward Haven's gate. I watch him go, amazed at just how many names I'm learning today. Shanna, Hugo, Ataviano… I pause.

Ataviano. Giovenco. Both tall, lean, black hair and dark eyes. Both Rivaini. Perhaps…

I shake my head. I can wonder about familial ties between random people I meet later. For now, Cassandra… er, Seeker Pentaghast awaits. It'll be strange adjusting to more formal titles, though hopefully I won't have to stick with those for long. Strange for Marcus, at least. Markus finds it easy.

She's still hammering the dummy into submission when I approach, her frustration visible in every swing. She doubts herself. It's easy to read the Seeker; she wears her heart on her sleeve and breast, splayed out across her doublet for all to see. It is her greatest weakness… and yet, it only makes her easier to trust. Hard not to believe the woman who can't keep a secret to save her life. I have to wonder if she has one of those romance novels stowed somewhere on her already. Or perhaps those come later?

"Seeker Pentaghast." I call, and she halts in her dummy-homicide to glance at me. "I do hope that isn't my face you're imagining?"

She frowns, before cleanly severing the dummy's sack head with a single horizontal swipe of her sword. Maker, her form is magnificent, every part of her body moving in perfect harmony with her sword. It's like an extension of her arm. A very long, sharp, metal extension, like a fingernail that kills.

I've tortured the metaphor to death by the time Cassandra turns away from the dummy to face me, her expression serious.

"No." she assures me. "Not you. I don't have a face for it yet. Not until I discover the truth of what happened."

Ah. So one day soon it will be Corypheus' face on that dummy. I just hope the real one dies with a single savage reverse stroke as well. It would certainly make life simpler.

"I remember nothing new," I say, regretfully. "Whatever the creature was, I cannot place a name to it."

"Leliana believes your description matches that of a Darkspawn," Cassandra replies. "She has sent runners to look for some of the missing Grey Wardens. It is her hope that they might know something of this monster."

"And what do you suspect?" I ask, watching as her expression darkens.

"That the Divine's death was part of something greater." she replies, looking at the Breach. "She was just a woman, as mortal as any other for all her virtues. Such devastation was not necessary to kill her. Why destroy the entire Conclave? Kill hundreds?"

"She was not the only target." I agree. "This assassin wanted the chaos. Or… he wanted something else, and was disrupted instead. The Breach may have been caused by a magical mishap."

"On such a scale as to break open the sky?" Cassandra sounds surprised by my supposition, and I hate the fact I can't confirm her suspicions without giving away the fact I know more than I should. "What sort of magic could he have been wielding?"

"I remember only the orb." I reply, shaking my head. "And his allies. They were armoured and armed well, for mages."

Cassandra's brow furrows, before she looks at the decapitated dummy. Her sword is still in her hand, the point trembling as she shakes with impotent anger. It is disheartening to see, but I'm not sure what I can say at this point that will help.

"Did I do the right thing?" she asks, looking off into the distance.

"I think you did the only thing that could be done." I say, nodding. "But necessity and rightness… for what little my word is worth, I think refounding the Inquisition was the right thing to do. Thedas needs someone willing to act, to end this… chaos."

She looks at me then. Really looks, up and down, as if seeing me for the first time. She frowns at first, but her eyes soften as she looks into mine.

"I wanted to thank you." I say, before she can speak herself. "You've given me more chances than I deserve. Here, and on the mountainside. I failed to protect the Divine, and despite that you have trusted me."

"I worried we were putting too much upon you." she replies, shaking her head. "On the mountain, every time the Breach and your Mark flared… you were in agony. I was concerned you might not make it. I wondered if I was killing you by forcing you to go."

"There was no forcing of anything." I shake my head in disagreement. "I volunteered to go to the Temple. The Breach needed to be sealed… and I've barely even managed that."

I scowl at the sky, the swirling green hole in it more so than anything else. It hurts to look at for so long, when you start to see patterns and shapes in the ebb and flow of its fiery interior, past the air and magic and into the Fade itself.

"I can only hope the Templars are willing to lend their support for our cause." Cassandra says. "The Order, I mean. If they can suppress the Breach, diminish its power…"

"Solas wants to reach out to the mages." I say. "He believes they could charge the Mark with their magic, strengthen it to close the Breach permanently."

She frowns at that.

"Solas knows much of the Fade…" she admits. "And he has not been wrong so far. But the apostates have done little to earn our trust. The Order is a safer bet, I think."

"As Ambassador Montilyet has noted before, neither is likely to even speak to us yet." I shake my head. "We're just an upstart band of vagabonds and renegades calling ourselves the Inquisition, as far as either is concerned. Though now, we have a potential way of elevating ourselves."

"Has Leliana received word from Mother Giselle?" Cassandra asks, and I nod.

"I'll be headed there on the morrow, with some of Cullen's men." I say.

"I must remain here." she says, and I freeze for a moment. "There is so much to be done, recruits to process, soldiers to train… I will be assisting Cullen in most matters, and handling a few of my own."

"I see." I manage, surprised enough as it js. "I had hoped… I'll be taking Varric and Solas then."

She looks at me then, apologetic.

"Leliana wishes for Solas to remain here." she explains. "We need more information on the Breach, and his is the closest thing we have to an expert. He has volunteered to comb through some of the older texts in Haven for clues as to the Breach's origin."

"Well… Varric it is." I nod. "I hope to return with good news."

Holy shit. I'm down two companions on my first actual mission. I mean… I'm not entirely shocked. It kind of makes sense that the woman who founded the Inquisition and the man who knows more about the Fade than anyone else wouldn't go out into the field. At least, not when there's work to be done. Still, just Varric for company in the Hinterlands… there's a lot of rogue mages and Templars around there.

I take my leave from Cassandra, still reeling from the news. Well, at least I'll be going in with a pack of Inquisition soldiers. Speaking of soldiers… the smithy seems like a good spot to visit next, and I apparently have something waiting for me there. I cast an idle glance at the place where Blackwall will one day stand, and consider how to handle the Thom Rainier situation.

Then I shake my head. I can think about all this crap on the road to the Hinterlands. It's bound to be a journey of at least a couple of days. Plenty of time to consider the future ahead of me and not panic about all the stuff that might change before them.

The smithy is easy to find; I follow the sounds of hammers striking metal and the chuffing of the bellows and I'm there in minutes. Harret looks about the same, bald with a big old red beard and moustache, directing the work of one of his more brawny apprentices. The learher apron he wears is old and battered, but he's got enough muscle and lines on his face to speak as to his experience.

"Harret?" I ask, and when he turns I nod. "Markus Venier. Lady Leliana directed me this way. She said you had something for me?"

"I do indeed." He grunts for one of his men to grab something, before approaching me. "You're the Herald then? I'm afraid your armour was just about destroyed by the blast at the Conclave; not much I could scavenge from it beside your vambraces. I've worked them into the new armour, though I filed off the Templar markings and replaced them with the new logo."

"But the Inquisition has only been active for… what?" I think aloud. "Three, four hours?"

"Sister Leliana and Seeker Pentaghast sought me out 'fore any of this madness began." Harret explains, one of his apprentices walking up with a rolled canvas in his hands. "I've been working on Inquisition gear non-stop for two weeks. Getting proper fits has been hell, but our current batch of recruits ought to be in the uniform within the next day or so. But you…"

The canvas thuds down on the crate between us, and Harret unrolls it with a grunt of effort, showing me the fresh shirt of chain mail with a padded leather jerkin, vambraces, and greaves.

"Are someone special," he declares. "Or so I keep being told. Shirt's a little longer than standard, but nothing outside of Templar standards. You can throw a longcoat over it if you like, we've got plenty in the storerooms. Might come in handy in these mountains."

He spits in the snow to emphasize his point, before leaning back against the wooden pillar beside him, one of the support beams holding up the roof under which his men work.

"That's good quality steel,locally mined and refined." Harret says. "Would've worked a little sunstone into the vambraces, but we're fresh out of anything that isn't iron or onyx. Can't make a decent alloy with onyx."

I hold the mail shirt in my hand. It feels sturdy, strong without being too heavy. Distributed all across my body, it will be an easy weight to manage. And if it can stop even a basic blade, it will be well worth the effort of wearing it. The vambraces are familiar to my hands, Markus' hands, given to him by Knight-Sergeant Benoit on the day of my knighting just a few short months ago.

"With these the oath is sealed…" I whisper. "Never to be broken."

I don them first, testing the fit. The straps are new, sturdy leather freshly tanned. They fit snug, and don't twist or tug when I move my arms. The sigil of the Inquisition, the fiery eye and sword, peers at me, etched with the lightest lines of orange copper to stand out. I look at the blacksmith and his apprentice, both watching me with curious eyes.

"It's good." I say. "Very good work. A good fit too. Thank you."

"Be sure to put it through its paces." Harret warns. "I'd recommend a spar before you get into a proper fight. Make sure it all fits when you're dancing about with a blade in your hand. This is battle gear, make sure it's still comfortable when you're wearin' it for what it's made for."

"I will." I nod, before wrapping the canvas back up. "Thank you, Harret. I'll put it to good use."

"I bet you will." the bald man nods. "Now, off you go. Plenty of work to be done, for Heralds and smiths."

I do as I am bid, my new armour slung over my shoulder as I return to the quarters assigned to me. As Herald, I merit my own two-room cabin, made of sturdy wood with a heavy thatch roof. The styling is Ferelden and Orlesian at the same time, somehow, with the low profile of a Ferelden hut and the larger windows of an Orlesian cottage. I place my armour down on the table in the bedroom, before sitting down on the bed and breathing out.

I'll need a team in the Hinterlands. Varric is good… no, better than good, Varric is great, but I'll need backup. A mage would be best. But Solas is to stay here… perhaps one of the circle members? And another warrior would be a good match, someone else capable of taking a hit without staggering. One of my fellow former Templars?

Lysette springs to mind suddenly, and Beck warms gently around my arm. She stood up for me against the clerics, and fought Absolute in the Temple ruins. If I had to choose any of the Templars, it would be her. As for mages… Hugo was an Enchanter of a circle. A senior mage… though possible not a battlemage.

Lysette and Hugo. Unless I can find alternatives, those two seem to be my best bets. I hope. I stand then, walking to the meagre bookshelf in the corner of the cabin. It's a small thing, only a few tomes laying lonely and forlorn, dusty and untouched. I take one, noting the title. 'Blood of Lions: The Birth of Orlais'. The title is promising, if nothing else.

Ten minutes later, I am reminded not to judge a book by its cover. For such an enthralling name, Blood of Lions is a boring read. The only things the author seems intent on talking about are the natures of each historical figures' political opinions, most of them being singular monarchists. It reeks of lazy propaganda, and I place the book down on the bookshelf before sighing.

Right. Local literature isn't for me, I suppose, unless I can find some science fiction. That sparks an amusing image in my mind, but I shake my head to rattle it free. Space dragons and the tales thereof can wait. I have a party to gather.

First, Lysette. She's easy enough to find, watching the soldiers train without joining herself, standing by the main palisade of Haven with her armour on and helmet off. I look at her more closely as I approach. She's young, like me, probably a year or two older. A recently elevated knight then, probably from the same Circle as Captain Rylen. Her hair is brown, cut short in a sort of pixie-cut. There are bags under her eyes, those blue orbs slightly bloodshot. She's tired. Stressed and strained, and the slight hunch tells me she's hungry. But why wait it out here?

"Lysette." I greet her with a bow of the head, and she looks at me and smiles. "Do you have a moment?"

"More than a moment." she replies, leaning against the palisade. "Captain Rylen says I am to await instruction from the inner circle like the others, but I have received no word. Commander Cullen has no use for me, and I dare not speak to Lady Leliana or Lady Montilyet."

"Then perhaps my request will interest you." I say, resting against the wall beside her, arms folded. "Tomorrow I will be leaving for the Hinterlands. A Chantry cleric by the name of another Giselle has asked to meet me, so she can verify my identity as Herald of Andraste. But the Hinterlands are quite chaotic at the moment, and I fear with only Master Tethras at my side I might not make it very far."

"Anything is better than standing around waiting for orders." Lysette nods, and I'm pleasantly surprised by the speed of her agreement. "I will join you, I think. It would be good to do work again… better than just standing around."

"Splendid." I salute her, and she matches me. That was easier than I expected, though I somehow doubt Hugo will be as willing to go along with me.

I make my way back into Haven, past the guards at the gate and Seggrit's bustling stall. Up the stairs to Varric's campfire again, where he stands alone now, hands held out towards the flame. He hears me coming, smiles as I stand next to him and join him in the warmth.

"So, how'd the Seeker seem?" he asks, and when I look at him he chuckles. "Oh, come on now. I doubt the Commander would have time for you yet, and the Seeker's been beating on dummies for the last two days straight. If there was anybody to visit outside, it would be her. So how is she?"

"Why not check on her yourself?" I ask, and he laughs again.

"And get my head taken off by an "errant swing" of her sword?" He shakes his head. "I'll face down demons, kid, but Seeker Pentaghast? She's far out of my comfort zone."

"Any feelings on the Ferelden countryside?" I ask.

"Not particularly." Varric's hand comes up to his chin, however, and he seems to mull it over. "Is this about something in particular?"

"I'm heading into the Hinterlands tomorrow, to meet with a Chantry mother named Giselle." I explain. "She wants-"

"To meet the Herald of Andraste." Varric nods. "Yeah, that makes sense. You inviting me to tag along?"

"You're a good shot, and apparently there's been all manner of chaos in the area." I reply. "I'd rather not go it alone, especially if we end up doing anything else in the region beyond simply talking to the Mother. Besides… it would get you away from Seeker Pentaghast."

Varric seems to take that to heart, scratching his stubble before looking up at me.

"I think that sounds like a solid deal." he says. "I'll take you up on it. When do we leave?"

"With the soldiers, so early in the morning." I reply. "Best to be ready for dawn."

"Ah, no late night wicked grace then…" he sighs. "Shame. I was looking forward to seeing how many Templars know how to play."

"Looking to exploit my former comrades?" I ask, cocking my head to one side. "A dangerous pastime, Master Tethras. Templars are defensive of their own."

"But you aren't a Templar any more, kid," Varric reminds me. "And besides, I always play to win."

I stare at him, expression grim. He matches it, our eyes boring into each other, before cracking into a smile. We both start laughing then, though his mirth is a little more genuine than mine. Eventually we sober up, though we're both still smiling.

"I don't know what's coming, kid, but if I had to take odds…" He looks me up and down. "You've got a good chance of getting that hole in the sky closed. Don't forget; you've already got the job halfway done."

I nod.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I've got some packing to do." Varric withdraws into his tent, and I stand by the fire a moment longer before departing.

To seek the mages, or no? As useful as magic would be… would any of them even trust me? I am… was a Templar. Most of them think of me as an oppressor, just the sort of person they had so recently rebelled against. My title as Herald is new, untested. Many will believe… more will doubt. I'd rather they did; even I'm still not a hundred-percent certain on the "Chosen by Andraste or not" debate and I was there this time.

No, I decide. I won't go looking for a mage. Not yet. Even if Solas isn't available, it's only a matter of time before Vivienne and Dorian end up contacting or meeting me. And I've met so many people who didn't exist last time around; Hugo, Giovenco, Ataviano… lots of O's. funny. But they're real now, when they weren't before. People who had no names or faces…

Fuck. Every person I kill will be the same. Every Venatori, every Red Templar, every highwayman, bandit and brigand… they'll have faces, names, mothers and fathers, hopes and dreams. This isn't a game. This is my life now.

The realization leaves me standing alone in the middle of the street, staring at the ground. I only realize so when somebody bumps into me, and I apologize before slipping through the crowd. I had somewhere else to be, I recall. An invitation?

Roderick. Right. He had advice for me, which is something I never expected but am happy to accept. First… food of some sort. Where do I go to eat around here? The tavern comes to mind, so I head that way first.

The Tavern is loud. Evidently a group of the Inquisition's new soldiers just got off of a training shift or something, because the room is crowded with about twenty of them, all raising glasses and tankards and shouting about this and that. One man boasts of how many demons he'll kill, and his comrade tells him to hush up. Two women have an arm wrestle while their male companions pass copper coins around in a betting pool. A stout female mage drinks with a dwarven man in the corner, both clearly well on their way to intoxication.

It's almost enthralling, the atmosphere, and when I enter I'm immediately barraged with calls of "Herald" and people inviting me to sit at their table. I pass them by with apologies, making my way to the bar where Flissa, the slightly-ditzy bartender, stands pouring ale into tankards for a trio of Orlesian men. She flirts shamelessly with each, though only the man on the left seems to respond. The other two have eyes only for each other, and I chuckle as I step past them.

"Good evening." I greet, and Flissa looks at me with surprise. "Is there food available for purchase?"

"Your grace!" she says, stunned for a moment by my presence. "Or… your holiness… or is it my lord…?"

"Just Markus will suffice, please." I reply.

"As you will, ser." She bows her head and I hide a sigh behind my hand, before she realizes I'm waiting. "Oh! Um… yes ser, food… we have food, I-I've made some meat pies, would you like some?"

"Pie sounds wonderful." I nod, and she quickly turns around and begins to dish up some of the savoury pastry for me. Food of any sort sounds wonderful, to be wholly honest.

It is just a few minutes later I find myself halfway through a frankly enormous slice of meat pie, with a tankard of water (snowmelt, she called it) beside my plate, speaking with one of the three Orlesians about the Dales. He grew up there as well, it seems, though in his father's estate rather than a Circle. We share a few laughs about the miserable weather in the winter, and the flatness of the terrain, joking about runaway hounds and being able to see them days later, still running.

Good food and good company make the end of the day a good one.

I could get used to Thedas, I think.

End Chapter the Fourth

AN: We're going to the Hinterlands soon, I promise. Time skip to start the next chapter, so be ready for that. Thank you again for the views and reviews; we've nearly broken a hundred of the former.