Visits of State

You heave Merrill out of the saddle and place her on Orundómë with you. Dal'banal'ras will have a hard enough time keeping up without the burden of a rider.

With Merrill secured and still snoring you cry, "á norë Orundómë, á norë[1]!"

The great stallion surges forward thundering along the road, Dal'banal'ras trying her best to keep up. You laugh wildly as the wind whips your hair behind you like a banner.

Merrill, miraculously, does not wake for any of this.

Your first stop in Denerim is the castle. There, you inform the secretary that you wish to speak to Teyrn Loghain. Once it is clarified that this is largely a social visit and not a matter of particular urgency, you are politely told to check back later to find out when your appointment might be.

From there you make your way straight to the Alienage and seek out Valendrian. You find the old elf sitting underneath the large tree and arbitrating between a pair of elves. Politely you wait until he has finished before walking up to him,

"Greetings Hahren Valendrian, it is good to see you again." You says, inclining your head towards him.

"Ah, yes. Forgive me, I'm have trouble placing your face." The old elf frowns. "Nelya something or other, yes? You came here with that Solas fellow."

"Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, yes." You correct.

"Ah, that's right. Is he here?" The Harhen asks, looking past you.

"Solas has decided to wander off, where I know not." You reply apologetically. "I came to inform you of how your people fare in my home."

The old man's face shifts between concern and hope repeatedly. "I see, how are they?"

"They are well, mostly." You reply. "I have few complaints from their work, and I know of no issues that require addressing."

You briefly discuss what you have done since last you spoke, detailing the time you spent building the chantry. As you do so, you find your irritation at the events towards the end rising once more.

"By the time I arrived, the two sides had begun a brawl." You definitely do not complain. "I swear I am surrounded by children. I expected better, though only Varda knows why."

Valendrian shakes his head sadly. "I fear the wounds between our people run too deep, sometimes I fear they will never heal."

For just a moment, you feel as though a great weight is pressing down on you. The sheer scale of the problem seems insurmountable. You idly wonder if this is what old age feels like to humans, tired beyond words.

"I will not allow it." You state quietly. "Not in my hall."

Valendrian looks as tired as you feel. "I wish you luck."

Silence falls over the two of you. A glance at the sun tells you that you must return to the castle. You bid the elf a farewell, and return to the castle find out if there is a chance to meet Loghain.

To your surprise, you receive an invitation to join the Teyrn for dinner. Apparently, he is already having some guests, and was happy to add you to their number. You thank the secretary and spend the hour or so you have to prepare.

You are not the first to arrive. When a servant brings you to a small side hall with a short table you see Teryn Loghain, looking decidedly uncomfortable in a doublet and hose, talking to the king and a woman.

The woman has a face that bears a striking resemblance to Loghain's, though softer in comparison. Her blonde hair is arranged in two braids that are twisted into buns behind her head.

"Nelyafinwë!" The king calls cheerfully. "Good to see you."

"So this is the famous Nelyafinway." The woman says, extending her hand. "Queen Anora."

"Your majesty." You greet, kissing the hand as Eleanor told you. "I am honoured by your, and your husbands, presence."

"You are not quite what I was expecting." Queen Anora says thoughtfully.

"I hope the tales have not grown too grand." You jest. "I can hardly afford to grow any taller."

"No, though I must admit I assumed that your height was more exaggerated than it is." The queen admits.

The king laughs. "What did I tell you, my dear? A veritable giant of an elf, surprisingly quick on his feet at that."

"There are a great many things I wish to avoid up here." You say, to contribute to the jovial mood. "The number of roof beams and doors I must avoid, I truly wonder if I have offended an architect."

"What brings you here?" Loghain interrupts, only slightly smiling.

"A social visit, no more." You assure him.

"Glad to hear it." Anora says. "Maker knows my father could use some more friends."

The Teyrn rolls his eyes, and you see a chance to ask a question you have long desired an answer to.

"Has he not been visiting friends this week past?" You ask innocently. "When I heard he was travelling about the Terynin, I assumed he would be taking the opportunity to meet with those who are close to him. I know Bann Lydia speaks quite highly of him."

"I was inspecting troops." Loghain states flatly. "Though I did visit Lydia."

"Ah." You reply. "Glad to hear it."

The Teyrn grunts, and the small talk proceeds well. Both king and queen are rather charming when they wish to be, and it is easy to fall back in the old rhythm of similar gatherings in Tirion. An hour flies by pleasantly until dinner itself is brought out.

As the four of you take a seat, Anora asks, "Tell me more of yourself, sir Nelyafinwë. I have heard a great deal of speculation but little in the manner of concrete facts."

As you prepare to answer, Loghain speaks, "For my part I am very interested in this war of yours. I'm curious where you got your experience with darkspawn."

You see a flash of annoyance on Anora's face.

"An excellent idea, Loghain!" Cailan exclaims. "Let us hear a tale of a battle."

There is a lingering impulse to answer to one of the royalty. From a political position, you are much more used to having to answer only to the High King and no one else. By the end of the war, you had stopped answering even to him.

Now, of course, your direct superior is Logain and it makes much more sense to privilege the person who can make your daily life hard, then the royalty that will probably forget you exist.

Or so you will argue if either of them presses you on the matter. In truth, there is a calculating light in Anora's eyes you do not trust, and you have no desire to glorify the futile struggle of your people against Morgoth. Battles make grand songs but are not enough to win wars alone.

You make a show of looking at each of your nominal superiors before saying, "Queen Anora, I fear that my life is rather dull and my family very large. If I were to simply 'tell you of myself' we would speak until the sun rises tomorrow and you would know little more than you do now."

You can see Anora's eyes narrow slightly in irritation, but she waves you off. "I would not wish to bore the rest of the table. Perhaps we can have a discussion at another time."

"Should fate bring us together once more." You 'agree'. "As to my experience against the darkness; that too is a long tale, one I must abridge for the benefit of this table."

The king gestures for you to continue.

"We began our campaign by sailing from our island home, when my father promptly burned the ships so none could flee." You begin.

You notice the king leaning forward, so you continue. "This was foolishness of the highest order. Almost two thirds of our force had not yet crossed, and we lost the ability to move supplies along the coast."

Anger, long faded, stirs briefly back to life. Those ships could have given your forces a connection to Cirdan at the Havens or enabled rapid reinforcement. Even just sending them back to fetch the host would have prevented so many problems.

"If it was so foolish, why didn't you stop it?" Loghain asks.

"He was my father, and the commander of our forces." You reply. "I protested vehemently, but my protests were overridden."

"Did you truly?" Anora asks pointedly. "It is easy to know the correct move in hindsight after all."

You look the queen dead in the eye. "One of the commanders of the other host was my dear friend Fingon. I would not have left him behind for anything."

Anora smiles smugly. "Forgive me, I didn't know. After all, I know next to nothing of you, lord Russandol. Whatever happened to this Fingon?"

"He died." You reply shortly, breath catching slightly at the memory. "A battle went wrong."

Loghain's eyebrow raises, and Cailan seems deeply interested so, with a sigh, you begin to summarise the history of what led up to the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. You discuss the complex internal politics, the challenges of getting everyone to the battlefield. You mention the spies, and how their presence was caused by your people's complacency after the Glorious Battle.

"You keep calling the enemies orcs, trolls and Balrogs." Loghain observes neutrally. "I was under the impressions you fought against the Blight."

"Not the Blight as you would recognise it." You reply. "The forces of darkness in Beleriand were similar in many ways, but distinct. For example, that which I call orcs I believe you call Genlocks? The small ones with the sallow skin and bat like ears."

Cailan nods enthusiastically. "Yes, that's a Genlock. Does that mean you never saw any Hurlocks?"

"If you refer to the tall skeletal ones, not exactly." You reply. "There were orcs that could reach those sizes, but they were rare. More often that role was filled by undead."

"How similar are the two groups?" Loghain asks.

"Identical in the broad, radically different in the specific." You answer after a few moments' thought. "A horde of orcs and a horde of Genlocks act identically, as do trolls and ogres. However, the minutiae is quite different. Orc blood is not inherently corruptive but is instead a much more mundane substance."

"And what exactly does that mean?" Queen Anora asks. "And how do you know it?"

"It means, that while I would not recommend drinking either substance, drinking orc blood will not make you an orc the way darkspawn blood makes you a darkspawn." You explain. "As for how I know this, I have studied darkspawn in person as well as the notes of a noted scholar from the Grey Wardens."

Noted for abominable research and for being wanted dead by the Circle, admittedly, but what they did not know would not hurt you.

"Isn't that dangerous?" Cailan asks. "If darkspawn blood can transform someone, and you've been studying it."

You smile at the king. "Due to my nature, it would take a great deal of darkspawn Taint, applied simultaneously, to turn me. Anything below that dose is rejected."

"Is there a way to prevent the transformation?" Loghain asks.

"I have my mages working on a spell to cure those afflicted." You reply. "It would not do to fight battles where our numbers dwindle and the enemy's swell."

Your words cause Loghain to look satisfied, and Cailan to pale slightly. Dinner continues in a similar vein, discussing the complexities of strategy against a foe that has endless numbers and a position you simply cannot breach. Before you leave, Loghain mentions possibly teaching you some seigecraft before the Blight arrives.

It was an extremely productive visit.

Merrill's Maniacal Magic

Merrill yawns as she awakes. For a short moment she feels disoriented and scared, not recognising her surroundings. However, it doesn't take long to work out that it is an inn, and recall falling asleep in the saddle. A quick word with the proprietor confirms that she's in Denerim and Nelyafinwë is out and about doing whatever he does in the city.

Thanking the human, and forcing herself to ignore the way he had stared at her tattoos and leered at her as she left, the elf leaves to attend her own tasks. Over her time in Nelyafinwë's company, she has often found herself discussing city elves. The results of those conversations have left her feeling, uneasy.

So, she has decided to confront those feelings head on. It is time for her to meet city elves and do for them what Nelyafinwë had done for the Dalish. Barge into their lives, help them while annoying everyone, and (hopefully) drag them kicking and screaming into their true heritage.

Finding the alienage was easy. Humans were only too happy to point her in its direction. The racial slurs and suspicious glances that accompanied these directions may have resulted in Merrill needing to quickly scamper away from a few unconscious bodies. Hopefully nobody looking for a 'tattooed elf' will find her.

The alienage is everything she had expected it to be. A squalid place where nobody with any choice in the matter would live. What she did not expected was the outright fear she saw. Mothers hurry their children away from her, and the elderly lock their doors as she passes.

"Um, hello?" She calls out when she reaches the large tree in the centre of the alienage. "I want to speak to the Hahren, is he here?"

Silence meets her for a while, Merrill fidgets awkwardly in place. She isn't sure if she should call again or go looking for the Harhen.

"I am Hahren Valendrian. What do the Dalish want with us?" An old elf says, emerging from a larger house.

"Oh, great! Um, it's not really the Dalish as a whole. Just me." Merrill says nervously. "Do you need any help?"

"That would depend on what you are offering to help with." The Hahren says guardedly.

Ah, social interaction, Merill's one weakness. "I'm a mage, and a healer, I can help that way or, um I know a little bit about how to keep things in good repair?"

The Hahren glares at her. "I won't be letting you try and recruit people for your clan."

"What? No!" Merrill hurries to defend herself. "I'm here with Nelyafinwë, we're just stopping by and I wanted to spend some time here, 'cause we're all the same people at the end of the day…"

As Merrill trails off, she notices the Harhen relaxing slightly. "I can ask around, but between being a Dalish and a Mage I don't know how many people will be comfortable enough to discuss personal matters."

"Right. Um, thanks." Merrill says.

As Valendrian predicted, her tattoos bar her from helping most people, and many of those who are willing to accept help from a Dalish are hesitant around mages. It makes for a frustrating conversation with one old man in particular.

"That wound is clearly infected." She says. "I can heal it. It's just two spells, you'll barely even notice it and it'll only take a second. Well maybe ten."

The old elf glares at her. "No way. I'm not letting any mage practice no blood magic on me."

"It's not blood magic." Merrill protests. "It's perfectly normal magic. Mages use it literally every day! I used it on a papercut yester, two, no three days ago."

"Bah!" The old elf spits. "Away with you, mage. I don't trust magic, and I ain't taking no risks with this injury."

Merrill moves away reluctantly, frustration bubbling. "I notice you're not helping."

Valendrian shrugs. "I'm willing to give you a chance to help, but I won't force anyone to do anything. Too many people have come here to 'help' and done the opposite."

"But you're shutting out people who genuinely want to help!" Merrill protests.

Valendrian raises a single grey eyebrow at her and walks off without speaking.

"How does Nelyafinwë make this look easy." Merrill mutters bitterly.

The Mages' Inquest

You and Merrill ride through the village by the lake that holds the Circle's tower.

"I feel like I've been in the saddle for months." Merrill complains.

"I warned you." You reply idly.

"I'm awake now, so do I really need to be tied to the saddle?" She asks.

You nod absently, eyes focused on the local chantry. None of the Sisters at the sermon are the one from your conversation with Greagoir. Who was she? It had not seemed important at the time, but now you wonder.

"Are you listening to me?" Merrill asks.

"Yes, though I am also distracted by other thoughts." You admit, turning back to her.

"How's this going to go?" She asks.

"That will depend on what arrangements Duncan made." You reply calmly. "Worst case scenario we will need to take the boat across and speak to the First Enchanter personally."

That worst case scenario immediately proves itself to be a non-consideration. There is a party of Templars and a mage crossing the water in a boat. It could be unrelated but given the clear space for a return journey you doubt it.

While the boat approaches you take the opportunity to study the boat's occupants, primarily the mage. The Templars wear their full suits including their helmets and there is little to say there. The mage is a woman with grey hair and the wrinkles you understand are related to age.

She wears a robe with a red top and some kind of yellow embellishment around the top of the skirt, from hip to mid-thigh. It is a rather strange design, and one that vaguely reminds you of the garments of the Sisters of the Chantry for some reason.

The group disembarks and the mage, upon seeing you and Merrill awaiting them, asks. "Hello, are you here regarding the new spell development?"

You nod. "Merrill is the creator of the spell, and I assisted in the research that led to its development."

"Excellent." She replies calmly, "I am Senior Enchanter Wynne, and I will be escorting you to the meeting. If you would leave your horses and climb aboard, we need not delay."

As the two of you do so, she wrinkles her nose slightly. "Perhaps while we make preparations you might bathe."

Merrill replies before you get a chance to. "Oh that would be wonderful."

That rather sets the tone for the boat ride over. Merrill and Wynne seem to get on reasonably well, perhaps because the old mage reminds her of Marethari. They discuss magic in terms that leave you confused.

Then the conversation turns to other topics.

"Are you the Merrill who allegedly created the anti-demon barrier?" Wynne asks.

"I did." Merrill replies, unoffended by the use of allegedly. "It's not perfect, it prevents dreaming and makes mana regeneration a challenge, but it does keep demons out."

"Is that so." The mage replies. "I was planning on leading an expedition to examine it in detail, but unfortunately, other events got in the way of that plan so I never ended up doing so."

"I could probably show you how to make one if you like." Merrill offers.

"That's very kind of you." Wynne replies.

You notice that she does not accept the offer.

There is little else of note on the journey. You are as grateful as Merrill is to have the opportunity to bathe, having been on the road for the better part of the week. After you have done so you are escorted back to the circular lecture hall where you had to defend your instruction of Xandar.

This time, there is no tribunal sitting in the centre of the room. Instead, the seats along the walls are filled with mages, most of whom are grey haired. Even those who are not carry a weight of age and experience upon them, as childish as it seems to your eyes.

You and Merrill are escorted to the centre of the room, where you are met by First Enchanter Irving. He and Wynne exchange brief greetings, before the woman walks off to take a seat. The First Enchanter raises his hands until the cacophony of talking humans falls silent.

"Thank you all for coming, and a special thanks to Merrill of the Sabrae clan." He says loudly. "I am told that you have created a spell that allows mages to kill a large number of darkspawn. Is this true, and if so, how?"

You can feel the incomprehensible jargon coming and have to decide how involved in these proceedings you want to be.

You walk away from the centre of the room as Merrill begins to speak. You take a seat next to Wynne and lean over to her.

"Could I prevail upon you to do me a small favour?" You ask.

The old woman gives you a careful look. "That would depend on the favour in question."

"I am not a mage." You state. "As a result, much of what I know about the arts of magic are inferred or based upon the arts of my own people. As such I struggle to understand the words mages use when describing their magic, and I was hoping you might aid me in deciphering the questions and answers of this gathering."

Wynne raises an eyebrow. "If you are not a mage, I fear there is relatively little I can do. If you cannot shape or mould mana then there is only so much I can explain to you."

"I may not be able to shape mana, but I am not asking for a complete explanation of being a mage." You clarify. "Rather, I wish to understand the terms you use when discussing spells."

Wynne gives you a sympathetic look. "I understand, but without the underlying understanding of the magic at play, I fear you will not understand the explanations. Now, I don't mean to be rude, but I've missed what Merrill is saying."

You turn your attention to Merrill's discussion of her attempts to wrestle lightning into following some kind of predictable pattern. After a few moments of listening, you recognise some of the concepts at play.

You lean back to Wynne, to her initial irritation. "She's describing Perehail's Sirieo[2] theory of lightning distribution."

"What on earth are you talking… about…" Wynne trails off. "Ah. I see."

There is a moment of silence as Wynne divides her attention between Merrill and reconsidering your proposal.

"I will do my best." She says at last. "I cannot guarantee that I will be able to explain everything that might come up."

"Anything you can do will be more than appreciated." You murmur.

Wynne smiles slightly, as a mage starts asking a question that baffles and confuses you.

"Perhaps you could begin with an explanation of this question." You prompt.

"Give me a moment." Wynne whispers back.

The old woman listens intently as the man explains his point, as well as Merrill's answers. She chews her lip in thought, and you grow concerned as Merrill begins moving on.

"I beg your pardon, this is taking longer than I thought." Wynne says at last. "The issue lies at something rather fundamental to magic. There is a distinction between what is and what we make. Whatever we make is not truly a thing, it is mana acting with the properties of that thing."

"I am aware." You reply. "Though I had thought that 'mana' as you call it was becoming something else, due to its inherently malleable nature."

Wynne blinks in surprise, and glances between you and Merrill. "Ah, I think that is a bit too complex of a question for right now. The point is, Gavren was objecting to the assertion that magic could make 'lightning energy' without making lightning itself."

"Is lightning not itself an energy?" You ask. "Is the difference between them not a difference of degree not kind?"

Wynne shakes her head in frustration. "It all comes back to the nature of mana, which is a conversation well beyond the scope of what we're discussing. Think of it this way, the question is about whether our mana 'pretends' to be lightning or what lightning is made of."

"I understand that much." You reply quietly. "Yet, my primary objection is that lightning simply is itself. There is nothing that is not lightning in lightning, so 'pretending' to be lighting and 'pretending' to be its components should be a difference in degree. I suppose what I am saying is I do not understand his objection."

This unfortunately sets the tone going forward. As Merrill explains her spell in detail, Wynne will give you an explanation that raises more questions, questions that cannot be explored because neither Merrill nor the mages are waiting for you. As a result, as informative as it is, you find yourself with a long list of things you want to follow up on.

Eventually Merrill's explanation ends and the mages stand up and begin mingling.

"I am sorry, but I want to speak to Merrill about that barrier of hers and catch up on what I missed." Wynne says when you ask to continue your conversation.

It is tempting at this point to seek out the Templars. You have not spent much time studying your ability to shut down magic, mostly because it has only rarely come up. This would be the first chance you have to really learn about it from those who have the closest abilities to your own.

What stops you from doing so is the way they stand; you recognise people who are on watch when you see them. Personally, you would be suspicious if someone walked up to a guard and started asking questions about their abilities. Since you have no desire to be mistaken for a spy, you decide to leave the pursuit of your esoteric abilities for another day.

"Very well." You inform Wynne. "I shall accompany you."

"Oh?" The old mage replies. "I thought you understood little of magic. Our conversation is likely to be rather technical."

"As we have already established, I understand little of your magical vocabulary, but I retain a comprehensive understanding of much of what you term magic." You reply. "Besides which, I am heavily involved in much of Merrill's research and can lend a different perspective on the matter."

"Suit yourself, but I have no intention of continuing my explanation of the terminology we will be using." Wynne warns.

You smile, certain that Merrill will explain anything you need to follow the conversation if you ask. Then, with a shallow bow, you extend your hand in a manner that, fortunately, means the same here as in Valinor. Taking it as the invitation to lead the way it is, Wynne walks towards Merrill, who is surrounded by mages asking questions.

Pushing through the crowd proves a slight challenge, and then you must wait until an opportunity to enter the conversation is presented.

As soon as it appears though, Wynne pounces on it. "Ah, no I'm afraid that wouldn't work. The Taint, to the best of my knowledge, cannot be created out of mana."

"Really? I thought it came from the Golden City, that's in the Beyond, so it makes sense that it would have started as mana." Merrill observes.

"Well, if you accept the Chantry's version of the story, then you must also accept that the curse was created by the Maker, who does not need mana to make things." Wynne replies.

Watching Wynne direct the conversation away from the theoretical applications of the magic/Taint relationship to her chosen topic is perhaps best described as underwhelming. Her abilities are not insufficient, you would describe them as workmanlike, but they are also nothing special.

Wynne's first question in on the mystical barrier that prevents demonic possession. Merrill's rapid babble of technical speak loses you at some of its denser points, but you are reasonably certain that she is simply explaining its function. Wynne's expression darkens, clearly concerned.

"I simply don't see how that's possible." She objects. "It simply doesn't add up, no single mage can create a working that can resist all demons without being severely injured, let alone sever a mage's connection to the Fade."

"As I understand the matter," You interject, "It is not doing that, it is merely reinforcing the barrier already present, shoring it up against the flaws mages exploit."

Wynne sighs. "The Veil is a metaphor, it is not a literal barrier between the real world and the Fade."

"Yes, it is." You reply. "I have seen it."

Wynne blinks. "How can you possibly 'see' the metaphysical concept of a barrier between the real world and the spirit world?"

"It is not literal sight. It uses the…" You trail off, searching for the word. "Merrill, what is the term for your instinctive understanding of the world around you and your place in it?"

The gathered mages all stare at you in confusion. Merrill shrugs.

"The sound of being[3] is the direct translation." You state.

"Are you quite alright young man?" Wynne asks.

"No, he's not crazy." Merrill hurries to defend you. "I've taken him into the Beyond a few times, and he has an uncanny ability to understand the nature of things. He can tell the difference between magic fire and real fire for example."

"How interesting." Wynne says. "Some kind of synaesthesia maybe?"

Your contributions fade as the conversation continues. The mages start to move into more esoteric aspects of magic, and your ability to work out what is being discussed from context wanes.

By the time you leave, the mages have begun discussing a test of the barrier. Though there is some debate on its usefulness, as the Circle is supposed to be a haven for mages, and the inability to replenish their man reserves would impede that.

You yourself, receive a few interested queries about your abilities and involvement in Merrills research. You think that you have successfully dispelled any lingering beliefs that you are a dangerous radical or potential blood mage hiding out in the woods. Though, from the way they talk to you, they also seem to believe you somehow mentally handicapped.

Weekly Report

You return from your travels over the week. The news from your informants is nothing you do not already know. You have been in the capital and, for a change, have a better understanding of what is going on in Ferelden then they do. That does not mean that you are without news to hear.

Ranger had been left behind as you went about your tasks for the week. Though you ensured that he would not be in danger of death, how well he has recovered is a mystery to you. Thus, you go to meet Mihnowen to find out how he is healing.

"Well, I did what I could, but without magic there's only so much that can be done." The city elf explains tiredly.

"Why did you not ask Xandar for assistance?" You ask.

"The crazy religious zealot? He's a mage?" Mihnowen asks. "I thought he was a trainee healer."

"He is both." You reply calmly. "I believe that skill with magic is improved if you have the corresponding mundane skill. No harm done, I shall inform him of this opportunity, and it shall not matter."

The elf winces. "Well, thing is, you can't."

"Explain." You command coolly.

"Thing is, most magic healing works from a baseline of the injury. After time and regular medical attention that baseline moves." The elf says in a rush. "Most mages aren't confident they can fix it after that, there's too much that can go wrong."

You turn the options over in your head. Merrill might be able to do something, but you are hesitant to order her to do so, especially considering the hard journey and exhausting conversations that preceded it. You will inform her, and let her make her own decision.

"Is Ranger's life in danger?" You ask.

Mihnowen shakes her head. "He'll be out of action for a while, but he's not in much real danger."

"Very well." You state. "Come. It is time for you to meet Xandar."

[1] Run Orundómë, Run!

[2] Lit. Of flowing, better translated as 'Theory of Flow'

[3] Láma namëo- the sense all quendi have of the 'natural order' also used to mean their awareness of the Music of Creation