"Wake up."

Your eyes pop open as the words echo in your head, feeling distinctly odd as you stare up at the rough hewn rock ceiling above you. Your head feels hollow, and everything seems to be both magnified and muffled all at once. The only sound which is crystal clear is the steady rhythmic beat of your heart. For some reason, that fills your ears with a slow steadiness which cannot be ignored, even if everything else about your surroundings seems to be swaddled in thick cotton cloth. Your arms weigh down at your sides like lead as you try to move them, but when a hand slaps you sharply across the face, the pain arcs through your body with heightened agony.

"You heard me," an accented voice snarls, just before another blow lands. "Wake up. He wants to see you."

Confused and disoriented, you try to open your mouth, but instead your body simply obeys the order, albeit at a doggedly slow become aware that you are naked, and that there is pain all over your body, a constellation of cuts and bruises of varying intensity, yet somehow it seems distant and not truly part of you. In fact, this all feels wrong, as if you don't belong here at all.

Of course, where here is, you don't know. How you came to be here, when you fell asleep in a tent a day's ride from Skyhold, you also do not know. And why an Antivan is ordering you around remains a mystery. Yet, somehow, you cannot disobey.

As you unsteadily gain your feet, a pair of hands shove you so hard you almost fall. Your guide follows it up with a cuff to your shoulder. "Hurry up. Your Master wants to see you."

Master? The throbbing, rhythmic pulse in your head makes it hard to concentrate, but a wariness sets in at the word. Where you hail from, a man who is cuffed and beaten at the behest of a Master is not a man with an extended life expectancy. You struggle to push this nightmare away, to control the Fade as you were taught, but to no avail. Here you are, and here you will remain, it seems.

Maker help you.

Woodenly you walk forward, unable to speak or do anything save what you are told. It is hard to concentrate on your surroundings, since your head refuses to obey your inclination to crane your neck and look around. In glimpses and pieces you manage to assemble an impression of a dark corridor with a rough wooden floor between crumbling brick walls beneath a massive network of beams holding back the rock above. Nothing specific enough to pin it down to any single country, and nothing unique enough to remember past the next moment.

When you pass through the door at the end of the tunnel, however, that can no longer be said. In the room beyond, you find an expansive area with a ceiling which disappears into the mists above, along with several rows of beds lined three or four deep along the floor below. Some of the beds are occupied, with the occupants securely tied down by various machinations to prevent any movement. At the far end of the room, overshadowing all else, a huge mirror dominates all, though most of it is obscured by a large piece of cloth. Hints of clouded glass peek out from below the cloth, and you feel an irrational surge of anger sweep over you as you look at it.

The hands of your guide, however, prove relentless and shove you forward, in the direction of two men speaking in hushed consultation. The shorter man is garbed in a worn Grey Warden mage robe, while the taller figure is obscured by a hooded black cloak. A warning flares in your mind at the sight of him, but it slips away before you can get a firm grip on why the sight of him terrifies you. Perhaps that is the Master. That would be reason enough to fear him, at least in the bounds of this nightmare.

Even as you approach in slow, stolid steps, you once more try to flee this place, to push your trapped mind from whatever oddity you find yourself in. You feel no demon, as you have in other jaunts to the Fade, but as you again struggle against the unseen force holding you here, it dawns on you that you do not feel the Fade, either. You quell your burgeoning panic as best you can, but the realization is slowly settling in: this may be your dream, but this is not the Fade.

Yet if this is not the Fade, what is it?

A cursory glance at the bed closest to the two men reveals that the occupant is a dwarf with hair which might once have been bright copper, but now barely shines a dull orange. What little you can see of the prisoner's skin displays a network of scars and burns, and you notice that one of his hands suffers from a constant twitch, as if it has been permanently damaged by some unseen horror.

"The dwarf seemed to react better to this version, my lord," the man bearing the crest of the Grey Wardens says in an obsequious tone as you and your guide come within hearing distance. "There aren't many dwarf Grey Wardens in Ferelden in the first place, and since the female dwarf escaped, this one will need to act as our main test subject."

"And he'll be happy to do it," the taller man murmurs, caressing the dwarf's face with long, white fingers. There is something familiar about his voice, a familiarity that slides down your spine and awakens a fear deep in your soul , but again it slips away before you can conjure up a name. "Won't you, Oghren?"

At the sound of the name, one of the dwarf's eyes opens slowly. "S-sod off," he growls in a dry, coarse voice.

"So very rude, my little friend," the man says in a scolding tone. "I thought we had an understanding. You help Avernus here with his experiments, and I won't join your wife and child to the Grey Wardens. That sounds fair, doesn't it?"

Oghren swallows, the motion obviously painful, then lets his eye slide shut. "Suck my kn-knob, wanker. Should've let Branka kill you."

A dry chuckle emerges from beneath the hood. "Charming to the last." Turning to Avernus, he says, "Start work on the next batch. Hopefully we'll have more survivors this time around. I'll have additional darkspawn and beggars brought in for you, as well as some of the stray Wardens we acquired after the events at Adamant."

Adamant. Your blood freezes at the word as you realize that whatever is happening here, it relates to you as well. Is that why you are here? To learn about this Master and his plans? Yet what mechanism could possibly explain your presence?

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord," Avernus says, and you snap your attention back to the men in front of you. As you watch, Avernus bends himself almost in half for a servile bow before rising and scurrying to the other side of the room where a massive array of bottles and potions and apparatus awaits him.

With deliberate slowness, the taller man turns towards you and your guide, allowing you to see beneath the hood for the first time. Your terror blooms into pure fury as you behold red eyes staring from a half-melted face, the shock of recognition buried beneath an all-consuming fire of hatred which blazes through your mind, and for a moment your vision turns red.

:Kill you:

It takes you a moment to realize that the words aren't yours, that the thoughts echo around you because they belong here in ways you do not.

:I will kill you:

The words rip through you, burning with a need for vengeance surpassing even your own. For a moment, you have enough awareness to realize you are hearing another person's thoughts. Could it be that you wandered through the Fade and into another person's dream just before they awoke? It seems impossible, and yet...

You feel your host try to lash out, to yell, to do anything but stand there like a lump as Amell smirks knowingly and reaches out to lay his hand on your throat, thumb on your pulse. Even as he does so, however, his gaze turns to your guide. "Was your mission a success?"

"In and out with no one the wiser," your guide says cheerfully. "The bait is set and ready. When the time is right, the trap will spring, si?"

Amell smiles. "Excellent. And you're sure it will work?"

"He is a man of habit. Put him into his routine, and he will be hard pressed to deviate from it. And when he is alone, distracted, and in the right place…" A hard slap suddenly finds your ass, the sound echoing in the large room. "We will have him. He will be yours."

"That pleases me." Amell's red gaze moves to settle on you, and you swear you can see a faint red glow illuminating the depths of his hood. "And here you are. Has he been behaving, my love?"

"Most of the time, amor," your guide tells Amell. "Once in a while I think I see a thought in his eyes, but for the most part he struggles only for my pleasure."

:One day:

The words echo around you as if you stand in a great cavern, throbbing in your head in time with that rhythmic beat which has not ceased for a moment since your arrival in this dream-that-is-not.

:One day, you will make a mistake:

Amell smiles in a fashion that makes your skin crawl, then moves his hand up to caress your cheek. "A pity I have to do this to you," he crooned. "You're so much more interesting when you have your wits about you." He leans in and caresses your lips with his own, and again that cold fury fills the pit of your stomach, aligning so perfectly with that of your host that for a moment your thoughts mesh perfectly.

In that moment, you ride the crest of his hatred. A welter of images pass through your mind as your host replays a litany of reasons that Amell must die: an elf with glowing patterns in his skin walking away with a man in Magister robes; a raider woman cuffed and chained by two hulking Qunari; a Dalish elf with short dark hair looking up at you with tears on her bloodstained face as the life drains from her eyes; and a human woman with dark, shoulder-length hair in the robes of a Circle mage standing before you as a sword of red lyrium is thrust through her body from behind.

You know none of the faces, but you feel the depth of passion in your host towards them, along with a rage directed solely at Amell, and it is strong enough to frighten you. Quickly you wrench away from that roiling flood of darkness and back into your own mind, even if you can't quite figure out how to retreat back to your own body. Slowly your host's emotions become dim again, and you see only what he sees with his eyes instead of seeing what lies behind them.

You find yourself again staring at Amell as he pulls back from the brief kiss, a decidedly possessive expression on his face as he strokes your cheek one last time. "Don't worry," he murmurs. "I'll perfect you."

In the next moment, as your host struggles once more against the spell that holds him in place, Amell steps back and again looks to your guide. "Prepare him for Avernus."

The guide steps forward, and you finally get a good look at him: a handsome, blond elf with a distinctive tattoo of two curved lines on one side of his face. This time you do not recognize the face, but your host most certainly does, and the anger inside cools to a shock of pure hate so cold that you wonder that you don't freeze. "It should be me preparing for that duty," the elf says softly. "You know I would do anything for you, amor."

A smile touches Amell's lips, though there is nothing gentle or loving about it. "I know you would, Zevran." The words hold no affection-indeed, Amell seems to be clinically stating an accepted fact. Yet when Amell cups Zevran's face, Zevran closes his eyes and leans into the touch, a tender motion at odds with Amell's cold sneer. You wonder if Zevran simply does not see what you see. "And I am touched. But I have need of you elsewhere."

"Surely not right now, though." Abruptly Zevran moves close enough to Amell to wrap his arms around him, the motion almost desperate in its strength. "Shall I return later?"

Amell's left hand flickers towards Zevran with almost inhuman speed, fingers burying themselves into Zevran's blond hair. For a moment you find yourself staring at the now-bare arm, freed from its robe by the darting gesture, and the tracery of old burns which twist along its length. With a swift motion, Amell yanks Zevran's head back, holding it at a painful angle. Judging by the way Zevran's breath quickens, however, it is a welcome trial.

Leaning down, Amell traces his lips along the long line of Zevran's pointed ear. "And what do you wish to do?"

Licking his lips, Zevran shudders and squirms with visible eagerness. "I wish to offer myself to you."

Amell smiles, then shifts position so that his other hand slowly glides down Zevran's torso. As his fingers reach the elf's trousers, he jerks the laces askew and reaches in. Zevran bucks and moans as Amell's hands closes tight, a string of Antivan leaving his lips as Amell manipulates him shamelessly. "And what will you offer to me?"

"My... my blood, amor," Zevran gasps. "My blood and my pain."

"Good." Amell seizes Zevran's lips with a savagery that speaks only of possession, and when he draws away, both their lips are drenched in glistening crimson which drips slowly down their chins. "Come to me later, then. But first..." He glances to the side, to where you stand in perfect, patient, helpless silence. "Whet your hunger on him. I want to taste his blood on your lips, and hear his pain in your moans. Only when every nerve is afire and every breath is ragged do I wish you to seek me out. Do this to him, and know I will be watching."

Zevran groans with urgency, trying to nod despite the iron grip in his hair. "Yes, amor. Thank you, amor."

Amell smiles, red eyes gleaming, then licks the blood from Zevran's lips. "Do not be overlong," he murmurs, then releases Zevran with a suddenness which staggers the elf. "You know I do not like to be kept waiting."

"Yes, amor," Zevran breathes. After taking a moment to catch his breath, Zevran turns to you and snarls, "This way. Avernus is waiting for you."

In short order, you are dragged to Avernus. Your panic returns in full force as you suddenly realize that you cannot predict what will happen if you are still here when your host is perfected-whatever that means. You scrabble at the boundary set around you, the one which holds you in place in this man's body, trying to ignore the world as Zevran tosses you face down onto a low table and shackles you into place.

Your apprehension peaks as you feel the cold of a metal blade pressed to your neck. Quickly you cease all activities, wondering if your ethereal struggles have been noticed. In the next moment, Zevran hovers close and presses a kiss to your ear that quickly turns into a bite. A trickle of blood flows down your cheek as he whispers, "You may not be my favorite, but you are still a delight when you struggle."

At the words, a small amount of freedom is returned to you, and immediately you writhe against your bonds, though your movements are weak. You cry out sharply as fingernails suddenly drag down your back, leaving rows of painful heat in their wake, then go even lower, coming to rest just short of something truly unthinkable before digging in with painful force. "That's it. Deny the inevitable, as you always do."

When the first lash of the whip lands, splitting newly scabbed wounds inflicted by similar treatments from before, you manage to finally pull your thoughts away from your host, if not fully away from here. His pain becomes more distant even as it increases, but you sense the distance will not last. Desperation drives you to seek aid from the one thing unique to you: the Anchor.

Even as you center your attention on it, however, a fresh new awareness steals over you, of something which evokes the Fade yet isn't a demon. It is a presence which lurks nearby, just on the edge of your awareness, and it seems to be watching you.

And, as if it were waiting for you to make that discovery, a hollow voice echoes in your mind:

"That's enough for now. Wake up."

Dorian sat bolt upright in bed, chest heaving as a sharp rush of adrenaline slammed through him. For a moment he simply thrashed helplessly in the bed, trying to push away the terrifying immediacy of what he had just experienced, and failing miserably. All at once, the foul nature of the horrendous nightmare caught up with him, and he barely had enough time to grab the chamber pot before he lost the battle with his stomach.

A few rather disgusting minutes later, the chamber pot fell from Dorian's nerveless fingers as he sagged into the mattress. His mind whirled as he struggled to comprehend just what had occurred in his slumber. The who made no sense to him, as he had no idea as to the identity of his host, any more than he knew why he had suddenly been thrown into the midst of such a horrible situation.

The how, though: that ate at him. Now that he was awake, he could pin a name on something that was like the Fade and like a demon, but wasn't either, but it raised more questions than it answered. Had Mailani returned for some unknown reason? Was Cole dabbling in ways counter to his nature? Was he being stalked by a denizen of the Fade, much as the Nightmare demon had stalked himself and Mailani before him?

And what would he do if it recurred?

The answers remained stubbornly out of reach, and Dorian groaned in frustration as his head fell back onto the pillow. Sleep would not come, however, leaving Dorian to ponder the matter until the camp's horn greeted the rise of the sun. With a sigh, Dorian pushed himself to his feet and tried to empty his mind of the whole affair, or at least tuck it away until he had more information with which to analyze it.

For now, all he wanted to ponder was what awaited him in Skyhold.

Or rather, who.