AN: This, like so many before it, will start at the beginning of the game, so the first few chapters will be familiar scenes. Don't worry, there's plenty of unique dialogue, and they'll veer off course soon enough.

Also, there's quite a lot of cursing in these chapters. It won't continue like this, but when Errol is pushed too far she has a mouth. Blame her dad.

Love is appreciated!

Chapter 1: The Owl and the Butterfly

Many, many months earlier…

It smelled like dirt and old metal. She was on her knees. They hurt. Her head hurt. Everything hurt. Her left hand really hurt, like pins and needles, if the needles were blades dipped in fire and laced with poison.

Hands. Her hands were weighted in front of her. Heavy. Cuffed? Everything was fuzzy, but she was pretty sure they were cuffed. She felt blood trickle down her thigh and the inside of her mouth tasted of copper. It was dark and the only light was accompanied by a smoky, campfire scent that made her cough.

What happened. All she could remember were…

Spiders. There were definitely spiders. Big as horses. Legs skittering, too many legs, eyes the size of her head, pincers frothing. She shuddered. Fucking spiders. She must have been dreaming. No, not a dream. A nightmare.

"She's conscious!"

Errol opened her eyes, and the pain in her hand flared a visible green, like the Northern Lights. A nightmare she was clearly still in.

Northern Lights, that's how it all started. Above the city, on the river…

The door slammed open and Errol's head jerked up to to see two women stride into what was clearly some kind of old-fashioned dungeon. Both of them were dressed like it was the Middle Ages, if the Middle Ages had warrior women. The first, fierce-looking in armor with short, jet-black hair, immediately strode forward and jerked Errol's head back by her hair.

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," she hissed, in what sounded almost like a Russian accent. Up close, Errol could see the scars that marred her tanned skin, the premature lines and shadows under her eyes.

She wanted to believe that this was some kind of joke, but she looked deadly serious. The woman pulled harder on her hair and Errol let out a little whimper.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, trembling, the pain in her hand flaring and sparking, the woman's grip on the back of her head like iron. "What's going on? Who are you? Why are you dressed like that? Where am I?"

The woman released her hair with a sound of disgust and instead started circling her. "The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you."

Errol blinked back frustrated tears. "What the fuck is a Conclave?" she bit out. "What the hell kind of place is this? Is this a joke? A cult? A really serious group of LARPers? This is kidnapping, you know. I have rights. You're telling me people are dead while dressed like that?"

She was, as her father had called it, acting the Owl. When she was little he had shown her a brown butterfly with a large dark spot on its lower wings. "To predators, that looks likes an owl's eye," he had said, his voice a gentle Scottish burr. "So they think it's a predator too. Sometimes, when you're backed against a wall, you have to act bigger than you are. If you're ever in a really bad situation, act the Owl. Don't let them know you're a butterfly."

The woman blinked and looked momentarily taken aback by her language, but then regained her footing in an instant and snarled: "You're asking me questions? You're the one dressed in materials we've never seen before. You will explain that. But now. Explain this." She grabbed Errol's left hand and the green pain flared again, sharper this time. It smelled like moss after the rain, like old earth, clean with the hint of death.

Errol started to laugh hysterically. "You explain that! This is your trick! What did you do to me? All I know is it hurts and it looks like—"

—like the Northern Lights, green over the river, floating so close you could touch them, static electricity on your arm—

"You're saying I did this to you?" the woman barked, grabbing her arms, and Errol screamed as the pain flared hot against her skin. "How dare you!"

The other woman finally intervened, pulling the first off of Errol with a strength that belied her slender frame. "We need her, Cassandra."

She was fully covered in a long chain-mail tunic and well-worked leather, including boots and high gloves, and a scarf covered her short red hair. She seemed to blend well into the shadows; Errol had barely noticed her before, but now she turned and spoke with a soft, lilting accent.

"Do you remember what happened? How this began?"

Errol scrunched up her face, trying. Her memory was cloudy at best, blank at worst, like ragged holes had been cut into it. "I was hiking," she said slowly, some pieces coming back together. "Outside Seattle." It was late March, and warm; she wore nothing but jeans, a worn band t-shirt, waterproof hiking boots, a light rain jacket, and a backpack. "Along a stream. The cherry blossoms were blooming." She could still smell the pollen. "The Northern Lights… we could see them around the city, green and glowing … and they were there, on the water. I put my bag down on the bank, I wanted to see, there were images in them, I heard voices, I …"

Her memory cut off abruptly, then reemerged. "Then there were spiders. Really, really big spiders. I've never run so fast in my life. There was a woman, she glowed too…"

"A woman?" the red-head asked, with a significant glance at Cassandra.

"She reached out to me. Anything to get away from the spiders. I mean, how could spiders get that big? It's not possible. It's not… possible. So big. Like…" she trailed off. "Really big. Have I mentioned I have arachnophobia?"

"Anything else?"

Errol glared at her. "You guys are seriously underestimating how big these spiders were. That doesn't make you the least bit uncomfortable? Spiders the size of minivans running around?"

"We have worse things to worry about," Cassandra said shortly. "Besides, they were likely just demons. We will discuss what a minivan is later."

"Just demons?" Errol gaped. "You're fucking with me now, right?"

Cassandra turned away to speak in soft tones to the other woman. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift."

Leliana nodded and left. Cassandra turned back to Errol, brought her hands close - Errol flinched - and removed her handcuffs. Then she gripped Errol's arm too tightly and hauled her to her feet. "Come. I will show you."

"Show me what?" Errol asked tentatively. Cassandra gave her a piercing look.

"Everything."

Cassandra kept her grip on Errol's arm as she marched her outside, like she was afraid Errol would bolt at any minute. She didn't have to worry though. The moment the doors swung open, Errol's legs turned to jelly.

The world… it was a world. Not just one bad smelling room with something weird on her hand and a few people dressed crazy. They were smack in the middle of a military camp near the top of a snowy mountain, the wind cutting like a knife through her thin jacket and torn jeans, and the sky…

The sky.

There was a hole in it, a swirling tear that spun like a hurricane, green and aglow. It was unearthly, literally. Am I even on Earth? she asked herself.

A small voice answered in the back of her head. No. No, you're not.

"We call it the Breach," Cassandra said, watching her face carefully.

"Jesus Christ," Errol breathed. Cassandra turned to her quizzically.

"Who?"

"Never mind," she said quickly. "Just… what is that thing?"

Cassandra looked to the sky. "It's a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It's not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave."

"That's the second time you've mentioned demons," Errol said.

"And?"

"Please tell me you are not talking about literal demons, because I am having a really hard time wrapping my head around this."

Cassandra cocked her head. "Literal demons, yes. From the Fade."

Errol groaned. "That doesn't help."

"You don't know of demons? Just where are you from? Where is this… Seattle?"

"Earth," Errol said bluntly. "We don't have demons. Or a Fade, whatever that is. I have no idea what any of this is."

"Well learn quickly," Cassandra said. "Or die in darkness. I don't have time to hold your hand."

"Gee, thanks," Errol said sarcastically.

"Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world."

As if to punctuate her words, lightning burst forth from the Breach, filling the air with a ghostly green glow. Errol's hand exploded too, emerald fire lancing up her arm. She screamed in agony and fell to her knees, her head spinning from the pain.

Cassandra knelt in front of her. "Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads, and it is killing you," she said urgently. "It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time."

Errol looked at her through eyes squinted in pain. "If we stop this, will I get to go home?" she asked. Cassandra looked taken aback.

"I don't know. I don't know where you're from… or if I trust who you say you are. I… I don't even know your name."

"It's Errol," she said, accepting Cassandra's hand as she got back on her feet. "Errol Kerr. And I am telling the truth."

"Cassandra Pentaghast," Cassandra said stiffly. "And we shall see. Come, we must move quickly."

They walked through the camp, surrounded by hundreds of people dressed the same way as Cassandra - in faux Medieval combat gear. Faux because it looked nothing like history textbooks had ever shown, but real enough in that the metal looked solid, the fur looked it was skinned from an animal, the cloth was coarse, and the people were unwashed and haggard and glaring at her. She felt small and wrong in her blood-stained, ripped jeans and hiking boots and windbreaker, her blonde french braid now a mess of knots and dried blood, her face scratched so much it was like something had tried to connect her sparse freckles. She was cold, and ached all over, and felt their hatred of her like it was a palpable pressure on her chest.

"They have decided your guilt," Cassandra said bluntly. "They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, Head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers."

Most Holy. Divine. Chantry. Her brain tried to parse out the words, make sense of them. She had always been good at making connections. "A Most Holy person, considered divine, head of a… religious organization? So maybe kind of like the Pope. Only… female? Maybe the Chantry is like the Catholic Church. That's… something."

Cassandra looked at her like she was speaking nonsense words, which, Errol reasoned, she was. "Sorry, go on."

"I was going to say that the Conclave was a chance to bring about peace between mages and templars, and that now their leaders are dead, but it seems you would know nothing about that, would you?" Cassandra asked. Errol shook her head.

"Not a damn thing."

"Well. This will be interesting. You are like an infant. Are there no mages in your world?"

"No templars either. Well, at least not the kind you're probably thinking of."

"So no magic? No lyrium? No abominations? No blights? No dragons?"

"You have dragons?"

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. She seemed to make those a lot. "Come. We don't have much to spare, but we must at least outfit you with something more sturdy than those ridiculous things you're wearing."

"It's freezing and I'm covered in blood. Why didn't you change my clothes before?"

Cassandra gave her an ice-cold glare. "We didn't see the point in outfitting a dying prisoner who we believe destroyed the Conclave and killed hundreds. That's what blankets were for… when you were very unwell."

"Ouch. Point taken."

She led them to a small tent and spoke shortly and with barely restrained anger to the young woman manning it. The woman glared at Errol, then disappeared inside for a minute before reappearing with a pair of pants made from some kind of tough hide and a coat of the same material.

Cassandra stalked to Errol and shoved it into her arms. "Here. Put it on over what you already have. It's all we can spare."

Errol struggled to pull the pants on over her boots and jeans. They were snug, but warm, and lined with what felt like lamb's wool. "What was that all about?" she asked, shrugging off her windbreaker before putting on the coat. She felt Cassandra stare incredulously at her father's old Rolling Stones t-shirt before the coat covered it up.

"She didn't want to outfit the murderer of Divine Justinia," Cassandra said shortly. Errol's face fell.

"Oh." She finished buttoning the coat, then put her windbreaker over it, as she was fairly certain that the coat, sturdy as it was, wasn't waterproof. She pulled the hood down over her head to shield herself as best she could from the snow. She still had no hat or gloves. She looked at Cassandra, who shrugged.

"I told you, the best we could do. We will have to move quickly. We have worse things to worry about than frostbite."

"Comforting. Really."

They left the safety of the camp through huge wooden doors, Cassandra still rambling as if speaking would somehow fill the void that stretched between them. "We lash out like the sky, but we must think beyond ourselves. As she did. Until the Breach is sealed. There will be a trial. I can promise no more."

"A trial? For having the bad luck to fall ass first into a world full of demons? Jesus. My lucky day." The cold and exhaustion was starting to wear away Errol's fear into a sort of grumpy numbness, like she had been pushed so far past disbelief she couldn't be touched anymore.

"You keep saying that name."

"It's religious. I shouldn't be cursing with it. But everyone does."

"Is it your God?"

"Look, can we not discuss religion right now? I barely celebrate Christmas, I don't need to be explaining the finer points of the resurrection to you."

"I was just trying to say… if you have a God, you might want to be praying to them now."

Errol said nothing.

Cassandra kept walking, her feet silent on the snowy path. "Come, it is not far."

Errol jogged to keep up. "Where are you taking me?"

"Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach."

"Tested? Tested how?"

Lightning cracked above them again, and echoed up her arm, tiny branches of fire going all the way into her heart. Errol cried out and fell to her knees. It hurt like nothing she had ever felt before, like she should be glowing from the inside.

Cassandra helped her to her feet once again. "The pulses are coming faster now," was all she said. Errol got the hint. When she could breathe again, she started to run.

Soon they reached a bridge, made of ancient worn stone slick with ice. Errol had a stitch in her side but Cassandra was right behind her and she didn't want to fall back, not then, not when her hand felt like it was going to burn off at any moment. She was halfway across the bridge when the bolt of green fire fell from the sky, and the world crumbled beneath her.

"No!" she screamed, as the stones gave way, her hands scrambling and finding nothing but air above her. "Mother fucking son of a bitch can this day get any worse!"

They landed hard on the ice below, the rocks miraculously not crushing either of their heads. The breath whooshed out of Errol's lungs as she landed and her hip took most of the blow, but otherwise she was fine. She crawled onto her hands and knees, sucking in air as her lungs relearned how to breathe.

She stood, shakily. I'm okay, I'm okay.

The ball of fire hit the ice as well, but didn't melt it. Instead, it turned to smoke and grew, solidified into something real and tangible, a being taller than a human and made of shadow and hate.

"Are you kidding me right now?!" Errol demanded of the heavens. She turned to Cassandra. "That's a demon. That's really a demon."

"Stay behind me!" Cassandra drew her sword and approached the monster, her whole body taut and perfectly balanced. Errol backed up.

"Yes, absolutely, yes," she babbled. "I will stay right here."

The ground in front of her bubbled and she skittered away.

"Oh, fuck me," she breathed.

Another one of the things was forming, right in front of her. "Cassandra," she called, her voice hoarse, then louder. "Cassandra, help me!"

Cassandra, ducking and lifting her shield to intercept a blow from the creature, didn't hear her. But something else did.

It sang to her, a strange vibration similar to the feeling in her hand, except this was a stone thrown into a still pool instead of waves thrashing violently on the shore. Errol turned her head sharply, eyes searching - where are you? - and saw it lying innocently on a broken pile of rubble.

A staff, topped with a globe of strange metal. The air around it warped, little flecks of light dancing around it like a disco ball, strangely beautiful.

The creature before her reared, fully formed, and Errol, pulled by some compulsion she didn't fully understand, lunged for the staff.

The moment her hand touched it, her left hand, the one with the green mark, the whole world lit up in technicolor. Everything changed, moved, swept and shivered and blew through her like she was nothing more than a leaf in the wind and oh this was how it was supposed to be, it was so good, was she even alive before?

The thing before her felt uglier, its dark deeper, black ink spilled across the fabric of the world. And fabric it was, intricately spun together, the heat of molecules brushing together, the cold of the snow and the space untouched between things, the charge of the air, the spirits around her - spirits! She could hear them, feel them pressing near her, exciting, light as air, talking, lifting her, telling her what to do, holding her close with cries of welcome. It felt like a homecoming.

The creature charged. Errol stood straddling the barrier between here and there - and it would be so easy to cross, to slip away, like water through a sieve - and she pulled at the marvelous heat from all of that incredible molecular friction. The spirits lent their help, sending off little pieces of themselves into her spell. She felt it flow through the staff into the demon, felt it light him up like a log in the fire, burning away his darkness until he screamed and screamed and shrank and then she pulled for some of that static charge and delighted in the spark of lighting jumping from the staff to him, charring him into the ground until he was a puddle, nothing left but an imprint, his stain gone, and she was laughing, and the spirits were laughing with her, touching her hair, lifting her up, she was lighter than air, than the sky, she could slip through the needle and—

"Drop your weapon."