"And there they stand…"
I whisper the words, laying in concealment as I am, deep in the brush on the hillside. Below me the renegade Templars are camped alongside the basin of a waterfall, several of their number drawing water from the basin while others clean weapons or prepare food in massive bubbling pots over cookfires. The sun is sinking lower in the sky, having made its apex half an hour ago and now slowly sliding toward the hills on the opposite end of this narrow river-valley, light dappling between the boughs of trees and filling the land with that warm summer haze.
Even over the roar of the waterfall, from this distance some fifty feet above, I can hear them below. They call to one another, boast and brag, shout brief snippets of conversation over the sound of their damp abode. I watch and memorize their count; at least thirty down there, most knights with a few archers and officers scattered among the ranks. Their armour is patchwork, cobbled together; a fraternity of scavengers, with stolen blades and armour, their honour as forgotten as their duty.
"A rabble." I hear Lysette dismiss them as I want to dismiss them, her voice full of a harsh and quiet scorn. "Look at them. Is this what the Templars are now? Little better than highwaymen, cowering in the hidden corners of the world?"
"Not for long," I shake my head, before gently grabbing her shoulder. "How many do you count? I see thirty."
"I count seven sentries," she replies, focusing on something near the western edge of the camp. "The commander's pavilion is at the edge there, atop the rise. They have a forge… at least, an attempt at one."
"Along the near side." I agree, noting its position. "They must have stolen the equipment from one of the villages."
"Dogs." she spits. "It will be a kindness to put an end to their anarchy."
Her eyes burn with a loathing unlike any I've seen, her jaw set in a grim line. She is terrifying when furious, even if her ire is directed at someone else entirely. Why she hates these men so much, I cannot say. I only know that she does.
"Come on. We should ascend and begin our return. We've found what we were looking for." I tell her, and she scowls before we turn and begin our slow climb back up the slope, returning to the cover of the trees above.
There Varric waits for us, leaning against a tree trunk with Bianca in his hands, his eyes tracking back and forth across the path which we took to climb this far. A forgotten trail, likely used by hunters or the rams, the only sign of human occupation was the single semi-upright piece of wood at its origin, with a rusty nail still jutting outwards from the top. The sign it likely anchored in place was long gone by the time we passed, a likely explanation for the lack of watchers observing it.
Varric watches us come, spitting on the dirt at his side and climbing to his feet. I have found it amusing that a dwarf would kneel to even further decrease the size of his silhouette, but yet have said nothing. I do not know how he would react to such a jape were I to make it… and I can ill afford to attract his ire.
Not yet, at least. But some ribbing later may prove necessary.
"You two have fun down there?" he asks, smirking suggestively at the pair of us.
To my surprise, Lysette grabs my arm in her hands, pulling me closer to her side and leaning her shoulder into mine. Her smile is fake, I think, but the mirth in her voice is real when she speaks.
"It was a lovely view." she declares. "So many traitors in need of correction… and so many openings in their defenses."
I flush a hot red and weakly pull away. My lack of dedication is a telling sign of my lack of dislike for this particular position. Lysette's musculature is well defined, chainmail or no, and I can feel her breath hot on my ear as she leans in a little closer. She chuckles, before mercifully releasing me.
"Good to hear," Varric chuckles, eyes watching me with a glint of mischief deep inside, before glancing over his shoulder at the treeline. "Shadows are getting longer. About time to find somewhere to duck down for the night, I think."
Lysette and I both nod, following him as he leads us back down the game trail and towards the valley proper. He keeps Bianca in his arms, and I lay a hand on the pommel of my sword. Lysette retrieves her shield, running a gentle hand down its scarred front before she straps it to her arm again.
There is a familiar quiet that settles over us then, as we join at the head of the trail and begin our descent. I think we've all grown used to one another by now, a quiet fraternity forming. Or rather, a kinship. Lysette takes the rear of our group, constantly watching and listening to the trees around us. Varric watches the front, and I hold the centre with my own vigil. There is a quiet rustling to our right, before a fennec bursts from the undergrowth and crosses our path with a squeak. Varric chuckles at Lysette and I's startled reactions, before gently pushing my arm down so my sword returns to its sheath.
Down in the valley, it is still a warzone. We skirt the edge on our way back, moving past a broken body that was once a young farmhand, his neck a few inches longer than it ought to be and his head twisted a way that should not be possible. Lysette and I share a glance, before she kneels down beside his broken form and shuts his eyes with her fingers, whispering softly in prayer. I bow my head, standing reverent vigil for a moment. Varric watches us both, unwilling to interrupt.
We move on after a few moments, towards the tall grass of the land ahead. Up and down through irrigation ditches and rising hillocks we travel, the sun beating down on our heads. Once more we share waterskins and quiet grumblings about the summertime heat, distracting ourselves from the death around us.
Finally, as the sun dips over the northwestern mountains and provides us with the shade only the valley evening can bring, we stop and rest. A copse of trees that once grew fruit of some sort provides our cover, and Varric provides the food; hard tack and dried meat. Lysette and I eat hungrily, but Varric laments his meal for a few moments first. The lack of tavern fare must be killing him slowly.
"So…" he begins, prompting Lysette and I to look up from our rations. "How do their defenses look?"
Lysette looks to me, and I nod.
"At least thirty present, though that doesn't count the parties all over the region," she begins, bending over her meal to scrape a rough illustration in a patch of dirt with a finger. "Divided between fourteen tents, with a commander's pavilion near the back. They've built up onto a ridge next to the waterfall, and down near the basin. They're probably keeping their lyrium supply down there as well. Basic earthworks and crude fences for protection, but I don't think they expect any sort of attack."
"They have that fort up on the northwest edge of the valley," Varric noted, frowning. "Maybe that's where they stash all their good stuff?"
"We'll have to check that out later." I reply, shaking my head. "For now, we need to get back to the Crossroads and inform Ser Fallon of the situation. Then we can start planning a proper assault. Once the Templars and Mages are dealt with here…"
"We can head back to Haven?" Varric asks, and I shake my head ruefully.
"We can focus on other matters in the Hinterlands." I reply. "Such as finding our horsemaster, or mending the lives of the people here. Show everybody the Inquisition is here to help, not harm."
Varric stares at me for a moment, as if examining my face. I touch my chin, wondering if I've made a mess, before he grins.
"You're turning out to be one of the good ones, kid." he says, before leaning back against his tree and searching his pockets. "Brave young hero with a heart of gold, thrust into circumstances far beyond his expectations, and his stalwart companions the knight and the storyteller. We've got the makings of a good epic here."
"Surely you are not plotting a story," Lysette says, shaking her head. "That would be…"
"Somebody's going to have to tell the world what happened when the Inquisition first got started." Varric replies, pulling a small leather-bound notebook from his pocket. "Don't worry; I'll be sure to mention your valour in battle against the fearsome daemons and traitors."
"And my charming smile, I hope." Lysette adds, rubbing her cheek.
"Naturally." Varric chuckles as he retrieves a quill from his pocket as well, licking the tip to wet the ink there before he begins scrawling on his page.
I take the time to rest, closing my eyes and breathing slowly. On my wrist, Beck hums, cool and soft as silk. There is a peaceful moment here, not quiet, but pleasant. The rasp of Lysette running a whetstone down the blade of her sword, the scratching and scritching of Varric's industrious quill, and my own slow breathing. A man could drift off to sleep like this, were his mind not racing.
Things are bigger now. The Hinterlands themselves stretch on for multiple kilometres, nearly a day's walk spent to cross a space that took two and a half minutes in the game. The people are more numerous; instead of a dozen Templars it's well over thirty, the crossroads were packed with at least two-hundred refugees. There is a scale here I didn't expect, but should have. I may have to adjust my plans accordingly. If this holds to battles ahead, I will need more than three companions to weather the storm.
Lysette and Varric. Not who I expected. Not at all. Varric, yes, obviously. But there is a woman sat two metres from me who is so much more than the exposition dump she was in the game. Beck… Beck, and other spirits like it, they were hardly real either, were they? There was Cole, the Command spirit in the lake of Crestwood… but this is new.
People with names and faces. So many now. I know a few; Ataviano, Shanna, I even have a Lavellan, a Trevelyan and an Adaar to contend with. They seem to have slipped well enough into place. Each of my advisors having their own lieutenant is actually ideal; perhaps those three can manage some of the things I have no time for.
Not that they're my advisors yet, of course. I'm not Inquisitor. Won't be for a while. Might not ever be, if things proceed as they seem to be. So many changes, little so far… but growing, larger and larger. I have much to do. Little time to do it. A war to win. A villain to best. And an entire damn world to save.
"Saving the world is hard," I groan aloud. "Varric, how do your characters do it?"
"Usually they're just saving a city or each other," Varric replies without missing a beat. "I haven't done an epic yet. This is the first."
"Hopefully not the last." I reply, before opening my eyes. "Right. That's our breather, I suppose. Back to the crossroads?"
"We should still have a few hours of daylight," Lysette agrees, looking skyward. "And the crossroads cannot be far away."
"We're past that ditch we crawled through yesterday," I note, looking around. "At least another hour to go before we're back and safe."
"Then we plan our attack." Lysette declares. And I nod in agreement as I pull myself to my feet.
Varric rises too, with minimal grumbling, and within a few minutes we're back to moving through the valley, slow and quiet. We evade the worst of the Templar and Mage fighting, until I overhear voices from within an overgrown orchard and raise a hand, signalling Varric and Lysette to stop.
I creep closer, Varric at my back. Through the underbrush, carefully, until I see them. Three mages, one holding up a red vial while the other two pin a man who lays prone on the ground. The one with the vial sneers, swirling it's contents around before looking down at the man. Her eyes are a cold, hard, flinty grey, alight with cruelty.
"Out here hunting one of our fellows?" she asks, voice as pompous and richly Orlesian as her posture. "You Chantry dogs should know better now; we are no longer your prey!"
She raises her free hand and the man on the ground cries out as a jet of red fire engulfs one of his outstretched hands. The sickening smell of burnt meat fills the air as he cries out, before the woman laughs and pulls her hand back. His fingers are like twigs from a fireplace, twisted and blackened. I can't see his face, but I know his cowl and tunic; he's a Templar for sure, but not a knight. A scribe, helpless as she snaps her fingers and the two holding him down step back.
He pulls his ruined hand into his chest, sobbing weakly. The woman holding the vial peers at it curiously.
"Ah, but what is this?" she asks. "Somebody's scraped off the name? Stupid dog; how are you supposed to know which of us you're hunting?"
"Ellie…" the man chokes the word out, between gasps. "Please… just want… to find her… told her…"
"Ellie?" the mage scoffs, before blinking. "No… surely not Ellendra? You're looking for that traitor?"
She scoffs, before casting the vial aside. It falls in the grass, unbroken, and the man reaches toward it helplessly.
By now, I've seen enough. Varric taps me on the arm and I nod without looking at him. Three mages. The sneering Orlesian doesn't have a staff, but the other two do. I lunge forward from my hiding place, chanting the Litany of Denial from deep within as I surge into battle. I took Lyrium this morning, with Lysette; the two with the staves have moments to turn and raise their now useless sticks before I drive the edge of my sword down into one's collarbone, breaking his weak attempt at a guard without a moment's struggle. Bianca clicks behind me, and the other gasps as a bolt takes him in the gut, bending over double.
Lysette's voice joins mine as she charges, shield up. The Orlesian mage has only a moment to raise her hands, a weak rain of sparks falling on the polished steel surface before Lysette rams her like a rhino, driving her back and down into the ground. I move forward, one step, two, three, and bring my sword around. She dies before she hits the ground, neck cleaved so deeply I nearly took it from her shoulders.
Men die easier now. The bad ones, at least. I spare her little more than a moment's whispered disdain before I turn to the scribe, who has secured the vial that is surely a phylactery and holds it to his chest, whispering for mercy with a voice hoarse from screaming. Lysette reaches him first, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Peace, brother," she says, and the man stills. "You are among friends now."
"Friends…" the man repeats, and I clean my sword on the grass before sheathing it and joining Lysette.
"Friends." I repeat, before kneeling down in front of him. "Are you injured, beyond your hand? Can you walk?"
"Can try…" he murmurs, before I help him slowly rise to his feet, his destroyed hand still pressed to his chest. "There…"
"There is safety at the crossroads," I tell him, looking at that ruined hand and holding back an instinct to gag. "The Inquisition holds it to protect any seeking sanctuary from the war."
"Inqusition…?" the man repeats, looking between the three of us. "I'd… I'd heard rumours, but… it's true?"
"It is." Lysette tells him. "The Inquisition is trying to restore order after the Conclave."
"I…" the man winces when he brushes that destroyed hand against his tunic, before bowing his head. "I am Mattrin… I… I must go to the crossroads. Find Ellie… Ellendra… a mage, a friend. This is her… her phylactery…"
He raises the vial up a little, exposing it in his hand.
"Didn't want… the renegades to… to find her…" he says. "Please… the crossroads, I must go to the crossroads."
And so to the crossroads we go. It is even slower going with Mattrin, but I can hardly begrudge the man a few moments to breathe now and then. Not with a hand like that. Varric keeps a watchful eye over our surroundings as we marched, but with our nearness to the crossroads tunnel there was less a need for stealth than there had been out in the fields. And as we see the Inquisition banner standing proud over the barricade at the tunnel's entrance, I think all of us, even stoic Lysette, breathe a sigh of relief.
The man and woman standing watch welcome us back with great cheer; apparently, the Inquisition had been welcomed well by the refugees, and spirits were higher now than they had ever been. It makes sense, I suppose. To join a cause is one thing, but to truly fight for that cause? To do what you signed up for and see the difference it makes?
We march through the tunnel, the unlikely four of us. There are more Inquisition troops stationed here. We brought fifty; I count at least thirty here, moving among the populace. There are more; scouts from Leliana, the ones who preceded us, stationed in high places with their bows in hand. None seem overly worried, though there's a tension in the air. Hardly surprising; this is still a war zone, until the Templars and Mages are dealt with. I watch as one woman nudges her companion, both of them staring at us, at me. I give them a wave, and the shorter of the two flushes red.
Oh, I think.
"Mattrin, you need a healer." Lysette says, taking our new charge by the arm. "We can find your Ellie after somebody takes a nice long look at that hand."
"No… I need to find her…" He shakes his head and pulls away. "I need to find Ellie, I promised her…"
"Ugh…" Lysette groans, planting her shield's bottom edge firmly in the ground before taking him by the shoulders, forcing him to turn and face her. "Look. You can find her soon. You're here where she said to be. But if you're dying while you meet her, she won't be pleased, will she?"
Mattrin thinks about that a moment, and then nods. Then he looks at me, eyes still wet with tears from the pain.
"Brother…" he says, voice low. "Please… find her. Tell her I made it."
"I will." I tell him, before Lysette firmly but gently leads him towards the orange Inquisition tents on the hill above is.
Varric and I watch them go, and Varric whistles.
"She reminds me of a friend," he says, before crossing his arms. "Just needs to be a few inches taller and have red hair. Then she'd fit perfectly."
He looks up at me, and frowns.
"Will you be alright on your own for a bit, Kid?" he asks. "I'm thinking of taking a look around for something to eat and drink. Something that didn't come out of a leather pouch."
I nod, waving him away, and he sets off. He whistles a little tune as he goes, something I don't recognize. I watch him walk away, before looking around. Finding Ellie. Ellendra, the Orlesian one had said. This sparks memories in Marcus, vague ones. A side ques, and a minor one. But it doesn't matter. I promised Mattrin I'd find her, and find her I shall.
I ask around a bit. A mage, is all I can say. I receive suspicious glances; Inquisition heraldry or no, this is still Templar regalia I wear. I can hardly blame the locals. One older man eventually points me to a small shrine to Andraste, higher up on a hillside to the north, but warns me that the mage there may not be the most welcoming.
I thank him and take to the trail, following it between two short houses before it leads me to a stony alcove. Within there is a small bowl in which burns a fire, held by a roughly life-size statue not of Andraste but of a human, one I recognize as Hessarian. At his hip is sheathed the sword of mercy, and his solemn face is downturned in mourning. At his feet sits a woman, human and pale with vivid red hair, clearly in either prayer or meditation.
I see her lips moving, slow and silent. The Chant, I estimate. It would be rude to interrupt, so I step into the alcove and kneel down beside the statue, bowing my own head and mouthing my own Chant.
"There was no word, for Heaven or for Earth…" I whisper, letting the crackling of the fire bury my voice so only I might hear my words. "For the sea or the sky. All that existed was silence."
I carry on. Four lines become eight become sixteen, and soon I have spoken nearly the whole of the Chant of Creation and the Maker. It is calming, my heart rate slowing, my aches fading, even the mark breaks silence. Around my wrist Beck thrums gently in time with my heartbeat, and in my revery I see and feel nothing but the words I speak. The Golden City, spires like swords and spear tips jutting forth from heaven to the heavens higher, the Maker over all, a sky before there was a sky, His hand reaching down into the world and shaping creation with His fingers.
And in time, I end the Chant, and open my eyes, and beside me I see the elven woman staring, eyes of deep dark blue unblinking. She doesn't smile or frown, her expression unreadable.
"You are a quiet one." she says finally, breaking the silence between us. "I've not known a Templar who did speak the Chant to the fullest of his voice."
"The Maker hears my voice, whisper or scream," I reply, before smiling. "I am Markus Venier, of the Inquisition. I come with word of a friend."
"Ellendra, Enchanter of the College of Aequitarians." she says, bowing her head to me for a moment. "A friend?"
"A scribe of the Order, named Mattrin." I say. "He has been seeking you, and he has your phylactery."
"Mattrin?" The blankness of her expression breaks, and I see hope on her face as she looks into my eyes. "Truly? He has come all this way?"
"He says he had promised." I reply. "He was injured, but my associates and I escorted him here."
"Mattrin is alive…" Ellendra whispers, her eyes closing a moment. "Thank you for this news. Where is he?"
"Our camp on the hill," I tell her. "Our healers ought to be attending him now."
She is on her feet before I can so much as begin to rise, and I follow her as she takes off. She doesn't run, not quite; her pace is quick, steps measured, arms swinging at her sides. I follow with a smile, happy to have helped her and her lover.
Within the span of a minute and a half, she is throwing open a tent flap and rushing to his side, throwing her arms about his shoulders and embracing him. I stand at the entrance, idly wondering where Lysette might have gone, as the elderly Chantry cleric who serves as healer tries in vain to peel the two apart with her hands and words.
"I'll leave you to your reunion," I say, unsure if I'm heard, before turning and looking about the camp.
Lysette and Varric are nowhere to be found, so I head instead for Ser Fallon, who stands alone gazing at his map of the area, brown eyes narrowed under the brim of his half-helm. He traces the north road to Redcliffe with a finger, muttering to himself about daemons as he does so. I see pins placed in several places about the map; two Inquisition eyes, one at the crossroads and the other on the road behind, where we established our camp on the outskirts. There are others; dark, swirling metal shapes, likely for fade rifts, crossed swords for bandit camps, and a few of the human head and shoulders I know to mark civilian settlements and villages.
I lean over the map opposite him, examining it. Two fade rifts near enough to march to in a day's time, a bandit camp right on the fork where the north and east roads split… it's a mess. A mess I and the Inquisition will doubtless need to untangle ourselves.
"We've located the Templar camp." I say, after a moment. "Here."
I press a finger to that place where the west road fjords the river, and trace a line down its length. Fallon frowns and presses a pin to the crossing, and another to where my finger stops.
"All along the river?" he asks.
"Only the east bank, thank the Maker, but they're dug in." I tell him. "Earthworks and stakes, so cavalry will be useless. It'll be a mission for infantry."
"Ugh…" Fallon grunts, looking to the awning above him for a moment as if beseeching aid from the heavens beyond. "My sword and breeches for a bloody unit of Ash Warriors. Some trained houndmasters could clear that mess in a half hour."
"We have…" I think back to our numbers. "Two, one without a Mabari."
"Piss."
Fallon spits on the ground beside him, before shoving a finger at the Witchwood to our north. "Not to mention the mages hiding up here. The Nightingale's scouts picked out their position, but they've got camps all through the woods. It'll be a slog there too."
"We have Templars," I remind him, uncertain of where the authority in my voice comes from. "A dozen, well trained and ready at Haven. We could send for them, as a vanguard…"
"Might work." Fallon acquiesces, before rubbing his stubbled chin. "Those sellswords they've hired… Orlesian prick with the moustache says he's seen them before. Apparently knows their commander, first name basis. Called him a… ahem, "fiend and a rogue, and a finer archer you 'ave not seen, hon hon hon"."
I look up from the map, unblinking, and Fallon chuckles.
"Performer's exaggeration, but the idea's the same." he says. "Man's a bastard, and a good shooter. But we kill him, the contract breaks and the mages are on their own."
"A mission I have taken to, promise made." says a familiar, warm voice, before a hand presses against my head and ruffles my hair, making me duck away. "Hello, Ser Venier."
Lavellan stands over me, smiling sweetly, and I almost miss the spot of blood on her cheek before she turns and bows her head to Ser Fallon.
"The sword for sale leader is called Mercadora," she says. "A Rivaini by mother and father, here for gold and fame. I have laid to rest ten and two of his fellows, but he evades my sword well."
"Fucking Rivaini…" Fallon laments, before smacking the table with his fist. "You've seen him?"
"Cut him." Lavellan replies. "Twice. But he is quicker than candlelight. He runs. I follow. He shoots, takes me in the knee. I pause to draw the arrow out, check for venom. I return to hunt and he is fled away and away to the dark."
"Piss." Fallon curses, before crossing his arms and sighing deeply. "Right. So we know he's here, at least. Herald?"
I blink, having been distracted by Lavellan's mesmerizing hand gestures as she told her story. If I don't know better, I'd swear she was speaking in some kind of sign language. I look up at Fallon, who smirks at me in a knowing sort of way. I swallow.
"As you said; if this Mercadora dies, the rebels lose their only ally." I say. "We'll need him dead either way. To where did he flee, Lady Lavellan?"
"Please, Devehra to friends and dear ones," she replies, before nodding at the map. "To a place beyond the wood, where spiders scurry in stone and wolves wait by water. I could not follow as I was, bleeding. The wolves would have followed me to death and forward from."
"That's…" Fallon and I both search the map for a minute, before he lays his finger on the narrow canyon north of the Witchwood, which winds through the rocks and hills to the farming hamlet west of Redcliffe. "Ah… Gully of the Burnt Men. Wise of you to stop; damned thing's had a giant spider infestation since my grandad was a tot. The Rivaini probably has a passage through."
"If the sellswords are there, or beyond…" I run a finger along the winding shape of Forannan Ravine, where the river draws narrower through a pass and then cuts sharply toward Lake Calenhad. "I do not know this land well, but I know that where there are ravines and rivers, there are often caves as well. Perhaps somewhere along here?"
"Been a lot less wolves in the area lately, according to the locals…" Fallon frowns. "And my niece spoke of a den right in the ravine. Perhaps…"
We all look at each other, and Lavellan nods after a moment of thought.
"I will seek him there," she says, touching the ravine. "Then return with news. You will send for these Templars?"
"I will." Fallon nods, before looking to me. "Herald, I think we have a plan."
"Indeed." I swallow the mild trepidation that forms in my throat at the idea of going to war, before looking to him. "Where would you have me?"
"At the van," he declares. "Leading us into the Witchwood alongside the Templars. I've heard the men speak of your skill; I'd have a sword like that striking the heart of the foe."
"I'm hardly…" I stop myself mid-protest when Fallon raises an eyebrow. "I… I see. I'm glad the men can perceive such skill in me when I cannot."
"Don't worry about it," Fallon says. "You're young still, and young men can learn."
He leans against the table for a moment, before pushing away from it, taking a step back. He nods to Lavellan and I.
"I think we're done here." he says. "Council dismissed, if you can call it that."
We each go our separate ways, Lavel… Devehra giving me a last pat on the shoulder before she walks away, Fallon making for one of the tents. I stare at the map a little longer, committing locations and markers to memory. It'll be a long road ahead, so I may as well keep tally of all I must do.
Then, once I've burned the rifts and camps and villages into my mind's eye, I stand up straight and turn to seek something to eat. It's a few minutes before I'm sat with a trencher against a tree, eating heavy brown bread and fresh roasted ram meat, heavily salted and thick with flavour. It is something approaching heavenly, though some small selfish part of me wishes for mustard. Maybe ketchup. Do either exist in Thedas?
I'm not sure. Might have to check later.
Beck pulses against my wrist. I reach and run a finger along its glowing blue surface, before smiling.
"I'll have great need of you soon, Beck," I tell it, before leaning against the tree to my back. "It's war now. From here and forward."
I let my eyes slip shut, empty trencher in my lap, and Beck hums a soft song in my ear as I fall into sleep.
Hey it's been a while. Sorry about that. Don't really have any excuses. Just got distracted. I'll endeavour not to do that again.