I send a pestilence and plague, Into your house into your bed,

Into your streams into your streets, into your drink into your bread.

Upon your cattle, on your sheep, upon your oxen in the field

Into your dreams into your sleep, until you break; until you yield!

I send the swarm I send the swarm, I send the horde

I send the thunder from the sky, I send the fire raining down!

To say that the Venatori were cursed with bad luck was an understatement. Everywhere, they were plagued with problems. Their water supplies would be contaminated and most crops sent to them was covered in insects or molds. Whenever they tried to set up their own farms or gardens, the animals would become sick and the land would freeze or scorch.

Several nights before they planned on sieging an Inquisition Keep, the river flooded and carried away their supplies. When they tried again in the dry months, their tents caught fire and alerted the Inquisition of their presence.

Disease crept upon through their ranks, bringing with it dissent. Men with the craze-sickness would attack their comrades in while setting up camp, and the spies often went hungry. Nightmares hounded them when they slept. Still they kept up, continuing under the unwavering gaze of their 'god.'

I send my scourge, I send my sword

Thus saith the Lord.

There had been severals names that has been gifted by the mortals. "Allaybra," "The Forgotten One," "Dumat", "Ancestors" and most recently- "Maker". Sometimes there are others that stood as well, and other times it was one force, alone.

There is very few times that the mortals prayed so vehemently that it turned the Maker's gaze. One of the more "well known" instances is when the people prayed for an end to the crushing rule of the Tevinter Imperium only around a thousand years ago. The empire receded back to it's most innermost sanctuary before he allowed his "chosen one" to finally lay at rest.

And "now", if there was a presence of time to be claimed, the world was ripped apart by the very force sent to shape it. The people cried out to their god as the world ended. And they were answered; powered by the people's sorrow, time itself unwound, as easily as unweaving a braid.

And this is why the "Maker" was sitting on a throne, feet idly swinging of the edge of the armrest as he sat sideways in the plush, cushioned chair and watched the people walk through the Keep. A book about the fade, totally incorrect, sat open in his lap and brought great amusement to him as Josephine scheduled another meeting. And while the world could be saved in one clean stroke from his place in the Void, he had always found that to be so very boring.