Chapter 4 - Veronika

Character Creator - Sue-Mari
○ During 'Wicked eyes and wicked hearts' ○

Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was Veronika Cadash.

Stepping out of the Fade, swiftly borne on a silent whisper, the Dreamwalker opens his eyes and looks around, trying to find out where from the Anchor has called to him this time. So far, what he sees is… white, endless alleys of it. White marble columns supporting various balconies, white wooden arbours laden with delicate flowers and climbing vines, white light cast by the moon above. White, yes, and there is also blue, and so much gold that his eyes water a little. Blue walls, blue carpets, blue curtains; golden fountains, golden jewels, golden people.

Music plays in the distance; he can hear laughs and giggles, and some more specific noises hinting at quite private activities being presently thoroughly conducted behind closed doors. This is one hell of a party, it seems, judging by the amount of excitement, greediness, lust and anger that hovers all over the place. Closing his eyes for a second, Fen'Harel takes in a deep breath, of an air so thick with perfumes and scents that he can almost taste them all. Still, there is one more potent than the others, and a shiver of anticipation runs down his back when he distinctly identifies the sweet fragrance of danger. There is violence buried here, some hidden ambitions and a wild craving for power, ancient jealousy and mad hunger for revenge. That calls to him, wakes up echoes of a past that never was in this world.

Beautiful.
And poisonous.
This place is like the sweetest flower, petals widely spread under the sun, flirtatious and inviting. Full of smiles, full of elegance, full of promises.
Gorgeous, and yet harbouring so many ugly currents under the surface! Fed with poison, so that it lures people to their utter demise, and stands ready to eat them alive.
This is a charming carnivorous plant, and even in the dream the temptation is strong to let himself be dragged away by the plots, and the schemes, and the treasons that make the Game.

This is Halamshiral, and the Anchor is alive here tonight.
Twice over.
A real one, strong and fierce, burning bright and green to close a rift; and the shadow of one that never was, the memory of a mark that was never inflicted. He concentrates, his mind following the faintest trail, looking for an echo buried under the smooth skin of a palm that never carried such a scar. And finally, he catches a glimpse of her: in a servant livery, with blond hair cut short without mercy, wearing no vallaslin but a creased brow. For a second, he doubts that this is really her, his lover, and then he sees her eyes, blue as the deepest sea, carrying a resolve so strong that he recognizes her instantly.

The music suddenly stops, and laughter turns to screams. The scent gets thicker, as if blood was flowing upon him, and the Dread Wolf winces. He hasn't really found her yet, just caught her image in the minds of the guests here and there, but still urgency screams at him from every sliver of his soul, and he starts rushing forwards with the power of an almost-god, searching frantically. Surely she's not far away, she can't be, she's wearing a servant livery; his memory runs wildly and he remembers what happened in his Winter Palace. The elves that served ambassador Briala; the bodies they scattered in closets and stairs and beds all over the place. Certainly, his Miriel could never – would never…?

Here - a flash of green, the clash of steel, a lovely woman under a mask fighting for her life. The Inquisitor is here, and he wastes a few seconds staring at her. A dwarf, clearly - 'Cadash', the moon whispers, 'Veronika', yells the man with the shield. Blackwall is there, beard bravely facing attacks that should shatter him to pieces but that he manages to block. Fancy magic rides the air as well, in a display of elegance absolutely fit for Orlais, filled equally with arrogance and pride - there is Dorian, waving his staff around with a flourish of grace, making the show for the assistance. And here he is as well, serious Solas still pretending to be just another apostate, just another wandering elf. Just lying through his teeth with every breath, lying without any remorse to these people who believe they are his friends.

Where is she? He was drawn here by the Anchor fiercely carried by Veronika, by the strength of her beliefs and the softness of her heart, wisely concealed but so warm beneath the weight of her responsibilities. A caring older sister for her younger sibling, a redeemer of lost causes, a protector of all – yes, they are similar, but she is not the one he is looking for. 'Run, my lady!' a familiar voice yells upon a balcony, and instantly his attention goes there. Blond hair, blue eyes, servant livery, and a dark resolve so fierce it buries all the rest underneath - here she is, his beloved. Fighting the guards trying to arrest Briala, it seems - she is fighting them alone, unarmed, with just the echo of the Anchor on her palm, invisible to everyone but to him. Fighting for her freedom, for her beliefs, for the one she sees as her liege lady - and dying, because in this life she never had the Inquisition to strengthen her, she never met allies nor friends.

He has arrived just in time to witness her death again.

He sees it all. The sword that pierces her breast, just above her heart. The scarlet wave that dyes her clothing. The void that fills her gaze. He almost hears her last breath, as she falls on the marble and doesn't move anymore, all life gone.
White, and blue, and gold.
And red.

There is too much grief here for him to bear.
Without a look behind, he wanders away, resuming his quest.

Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was…