The Dread Wolf Arrives
The morning sun brings a pleasant warmth with it. It is the height of summer, and you suspect that this heat will become unpleasant before the day is over. For now, it is a welcome sensation, and you are confident that the building will remain cool even at midday.
Unfortunately, this morning also sees you delayed from eating breakfast. Solas has not awoken with the dawn and, as the host, it is your duty to ensure he wishes to skip breakfast.
You knock gently on the door, speaking in a quiet voice, "Solas, it is time to eat. If you wish to remain asleep, simply do not respond."
A moment passes, then a groggy voice calls from the other side, "A moment."
You wait for the requisite moment. The sounds from the other side of the door revealing a hasty rise.
The door swings open to reveal the Elf looking far less composed than yesterday. Dark circles surround his eyes, and his clothes are wrinkled from tossing and turning in the bed.
"Is there breakfast?" Solas asks, squinting in the daylight
"Certainly. Please accompany me to the dining room," You reply, gesturing for him to follow
Solas accompanies you, far slower than you would like. You understand that he is tired, but the food is getting cold, and you are hungry.
"I was a little surprised that you came to wake me yourself," Solas remarks tiredly.
"I was raised with the understanding that the host should not eat while his guests go hungry," You answer his implied question.
"That seems like it," At this point Solas' words are interrupted by a yawn, "Sorry, that seems a little impractical."
You shrug, saying, "It is more a matter of principle than a hard and fast rule. Having a servant wake a guest is usually enough, but meals are currently a little chaotic. Besides, I think you scare the Dalish."
Solas rubs his scalp, "Yes, I may have been a little short with them. I should apologise."
The two of you enter the dining room. You waste no time taking a seat by Merrill and, after some hesitation, Solas joins you.
When you have taken the edge off your hunger, you ask the Elf, "Have you decided how long you will be staying?"
The Elf nods, swallowing his what is in his mouth, "Yes, I was hoping to prevail upon you for a month or so. There is much I want to learn."
Merrill responds before you get the chance to, saying, "Oh, yes. You probably want to learn about the whole 'regaining what was lost' thing. You'll have to wait a bit though, we're currently running trials back home."
Solas raises an eyebrow, "That is certainly one of many things I wish to investigate."
"You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like," You inform him, casting a critical eye over his clothes, "Though you may need some new garments."
The Elf looks down at himself as Merrill giggles.
"What is wrong with what I'm wearing?" Solas asks incredulously.
Merrill collapses into howls of laughter. You roll your eyes at this and proceed to tell him exactly what is wrong with his clothes, in exhaustive detail.
Where there is a Will
Resolve defines you in many ways: From your persistence in the face of opposition to your capacity for completing unpleasant tasks. Those who know you from Valinor, or Beleriand would be surprised to learn you were training Resolve, of all things.
Such surprise and inevitable questioning would hardly be a sufficient obstacle to stop you if they were present, and they are not. As such, you begin to plan the next stages of your training.
Last week saw no small amount of progress, but you will admit that you got fairly lucky. How likely are you to run into another Spirit of Knowledge? Further, your conversation with Solas has reminded you of the dangers of the Beyond, though you are unsure if facing a Demon is the worst possible outcome.
You have nowhere in particular to go, but you could still simply push your body to the brink of physical exhaustion. You have a road running through the forest that is safe enough. A dull task, but one that would work.
Of course, there is always the traditional Noldor way; it trains both your skills and your resolve at the same time. The only downside is the loss of efficiency in training due to focusing on the skill itself rather than a particular trait.
You have already lost a whole day to the business with Solas, so there is no time for deliberation; you want to get this task finished before the end of the day. It is time to make a decision.
There is a strong temptation to take a risk on the Beyond once more, given how much you benefited last time and the chance of further success. Curiosity and the security of prior success are a potent combination.
In this case, your caution prevails. You have a road, you have two legs and the best part of a day ahead of you, which is all you have needed before. Between the midsummer heat and the weight of your armour; an old fashioned training run should be the most effective way to practice resolve in the face of hardship.
The first thing to do is remove your cloak; its temperature regulation will reduce the discomfort this exercise will create, which would be wasteful given that the idea is to harden you to such privations.
The second thing you need to do is plan your route. Your road, though an excellent example of craftsmanship, is only approximately ten miles long. Thus, unless you wish to brave the mud tracks that humans content themselves with, you will need to circle it several times. You consider a few different goals, but ultimately decide to simply continue until your will gives out.
The last thing you need before you depart, is a large shield. Weight is not an issue, but rather how awkward the item is to carry. You find one such training shield, a rough-hewn construction, but sufficient for your needs.
As you walk towards the gates, you hear a questioning whine. Turning your head, you see Orundómë staring at you from the stable. Even without Turko's gift for animals, you can tell he is curious as to what you are doing.
After you reach out to explain yourself, you become aware that the horse wishes to accompany you. Your first instinct is to say no, but further thought gives you pause; if the worst should happen and you become injured, having a faster way home would be useful.
With a feeling of trepidation, as though you are agreeing to something you will regret, you bid the horse to follow you.
The sun beams down on you from on high. The shield on your back strikes your arms as you run. Your mail snags on your padded undershirt. Through all of it, you keep running.
Your boots thud on the stone paving in a steady rhythm. Your breath comes at a set pace. You do not heed the sweat on your brow, the pain in your legs or the steady thudding of the shield on your back. You keep running.
Orundómë canters ahead of you, whickering in amusement. Occasionally, he will slow to your pace as though offering a ride. So far you have not accepted, but you suspect that if you did, a turn of speed would see you collapse on the ground. The great steed is far too amused by your suffering.
You ignore the Lord of Horses and keep running.
Another lap completed. Frankly you are not sure what Lanaya's clan, or the populations of the human villages think of your actions, and you cannot bring yourself to care. They might mock your actions, but you will benefit from them, and that is all that matters. You keep running.
Considering where you are, it was a foolish hope that you would be able to run yourself past the point of exhaustion in peace. After you complete your latest circuit, Orundómë neighs in alarm.
Your eyes and ears are far keener than most humans', and your road is not always perfectly straight. Between these two factors you hear the clanking of armour and the jingle of harness well ahead of their arrival. This in turn allows you to dart into the tree line and hide, aided by the lack of the bright red cloak you would normally wear.
You see a random assortment of nobles passing by slowly, apparently here on a hunting trip and fascinated by the road that 'appeared' where before there was none. This in turn gives you time to notice something tugging at the very edge of your senses.
It is faint, so faint you would not have noticed it while running. Beneath the oppressive weight of this forest you cannot discern what exactly it is, but your curiosity is aroused. Once the nobles have passed, though you could return to your run, you head deeper into the forest.
You creep through the shadows beneath the trees, heading for the elusive feeling. Your senses, all of them, extended to their uttermost. This would be the perfect bait for some kind of trap, and this forest has proven an extremely hostile landscape.
So tense are you, that you nearly miss it when you find the object. The realisation that any direction you travelled saw the sensation decrease comes slowly. When you do eventually realise what is happening you have to fight the urge to kick yourself.
Whatever you are looking for is not obvious. Even when you are on your hands and knees brushing aside leaves and dirt it still eludes you. Some exploration reveals a small fissure in the earth and lodged deep within is the glint of something metal.
Widening the fissure is a dirty, hot and tiring job. It would likely have been less so if you had not spent the better part of the day exhausting yourself. You can practically feel Orundómë laughing at you, but you proceed undeterred.
From the depths of the earth, you manage to pull up an item - a surprisingly shiny piece of scrap. Perhaps it had once been part of something larger, but what that might have been is lost to whatever destroyed the whole.
The shard proves a useful improvised tool, and before too long you are pulling more shards from the fissure-turned-hole. Deeper into the ground you go, scraping against rock in places now but your hopes are high. The sound of metal on metal has become a frequent occurrence, and soon you find the largest section.
The item in question is a helmet. Iron rather than steel, with strange designs evocative of the tattoos of the Dalish. Strangely, much like the other fragments, it is not dulled by age or rust. From the bent and twisted metal in your hands you can tell it is also far more proofed against wear and damage than whatever generated the metal shards you have found.
Orundómë trots over, offering to let you ride back. You reach out to swing astride, wanting an answer to this mystery sooner rather than later. Orundómë shoots out from under your hand, causing you to lose your balance and fall.
You sigh through your nose as your horse laughs at you, "This is my fault; I should have seen it coming."
Merrill is talking to Solas when you reach Endataurëo. You had to run back, because Orundómë found his joke so hilarious he attempted to repeat it several more times. As a result, you are perhaps less polite than you could have been.
The helmet slams into the table between the elves, "What is this?"
Merrill starts back in surprise, while Solas just looks at you in irritation.
"Nelyafinwë, where have you…" Merrill's nose wrinkles and she scowls, "You stink! What have you been doing?"
"Running," You answer shortly, "Every second you spend not answering my question is time I am not having a bath, so get a move on."
Any potential conflict is quickly ended by Solas who says, "It is an enchanted helm commonly worn by the attendants of Falon'din. If you look closely, you can see his mark on the brow."
"Enchanted how?" You ask brusquely.
Solas picks the helm up and slams it on the table again, "To be tougher than it has any right to be. This is probably a match for most steel helmets, despite its age and composition."
You nod, picking the item back up and walk off to have a bath, ignoring Merrill's shocked questions as to the origin of Solas' knowledge. It is bath time, and Solas' strange knowledge is not as important as baths.
Remember the Name
The library of Endataurëo is a strange place. There are desks and comfortable reading chairs, great shelves that cover the walls and fireplaces enough to keep the place warm all winter. But the shelves are empty. No books adorn them, and it gives the hall a feeling of emptiness.
That is why it is strange to see three people, an elf and two humans, gathered around a table in the library.
"Alright everyone!" Merrill exclaimed, "We're here to investigate the name Nelyafinwë found in his travels in the Beyond. Let's put our heads together and do our best!"
"Is that really supposed to be encouragin'?" Ranger asked, "Who put ya in charge of this anyhow?"
"Yes!" Xandar cried, "I am extremely excited for this!"
Ranger and Merrill both look at Xandar a moment. Most people would be embarrassed by the attention, but not him.
"See, Xandar is encouraged," Merrill says.
"He'd be encouraged by anythin'. He's a good kid," Ranger replies gruffly, "Still don't answer my question about why ya're in charge."
"Are either of you trained to lead people? Or in research?" Merrill asked the humans.
Ranger merely grumbled, unwilling to admit to being wrong. Xandar on the other hand...
"No, we're not. In fact, we're all pretty bad at talking to people. Even you're bad at it, Merrill," The young mage said without shame.
Merrill slumped forward slightly, "Yes. Well, that depressing thought aside, let's focus on the task at hand. I assume you both remember?"
Ranger nodded, eyes glazing over. Xandar, however, decided to answer the rhetorical question.
"We're here to investigate the name Sethius Amladaris," He explained, "Teacher said that a spirit got the name out of a blood mage."
"I don't really see why this is important," Ranger grumbled.
"Well, a Spirit of Knowledge couldn't find anything out about the name," Merrill said. Given its nature that's, pretty unusual in and of itself. It's something worth investigating at least."
"How are we supposed to find anythin' out about this then?" Ranger exclaimed, "We ain't exactly spirits of knowledge ourselves. And what've we got to go on? A name! One name! It could mean anythin'."
"Please don't yell," Merrill soothed the hunter, "We're here to figure out how we're going to investigate. We start with what we already know, and then move from there."
"Well, I've got nothin'," Ranger says, "So, I'm not even sure what I'm doin' here."
"That's fine," Merrill assured him, "We'll probably need you later, once we have a better idea of where we're going with this."
Ranger meets Merrill's gaze for several moments. Then he slumps down, resting his head on the desk.
"I'm too old for this," He mutters, "Anyone else got an idea?"
Merrill strokes her chin, "Well, Amladaris is a family of magisters in Tevinter."
"That matches the murdered elf," Ranger agrees, "They're all about blood magic and elf slaves up there."
"Yes, you do not need to remind me," Merrill glares at the human, "The only problem is why the Spirit of Knowledge couldn't find anything about them. Most of the magisters have pretty comprehensive family registers., plus they consort with spirits more than most other mages."
Ranger shrugs, "Perhaps he's a bastard? Or he did something and got struck from their records?"
Ranger's words cause Xandar to frown. After a few moments of all three researchers thinking deeply he spoke up.
"Maybe he changed his name," The youngest member spoke slowly, as though thinking aloud, "I know the mages who found the Golden City did. And now that I think about it, most of them got struck from their family records."
The other two look at him. The young mage is flowing, clearly still thinking.
"You know that story is probably mythological, right?" Merrill asks gently.
"'sides which, where'd ya hear about the magisters changin' their names?" Ranger asked, "I ain't never heard that."
"My mother was obsessed with it," Xandar explained quietly, "She was always looking into the 'true history' of the Chantry. She always said even the most fanciful story has a root in the truth. But it fits."
Xandar takes a deep breath and continues, "Nobody knows when he died because he changed his name, Knowledge couldn't find anything else because he was stricken from his family records. The mage thought it was a worthy trade because the real name of a magister who broke into the Golden City is Valuable."
"It would explain why he was so certain the spirit wouldn't know it," Merrill mused to herself, "Do you think your mother would talk to us about it?"
Xandar visibly flinched, saying, "No. I don't think so."
Merrill cursed herself, "Right, sorry. We'll try something else."
"We're not goin' to Tevinter," Ranger states, tiredly, "It's like a full year by ship. Not to mention we can't exactly bring the lil' lady there."
"Don't call me a little lady!" Merrill snaps.
The two humans look at her in surprise for a moment. Merrill pauses, taking several deep breaths before continuing.
"Sorry, lost control for a moment. I don't like that nickname, please don't use it anymore," Merrill repeats, "You're right about me being unwelcome in Tevinter though; I don't think it's an option we should take without careful thought."
"So where are we going then?" Xandar asks, frowning, "I don't really know where to look, except maybe the chantry."
"The Chantry ain't goin' to have records of some random Tevinter family," Ranger notes, "Pretty sure anythin' they got their hands on back in the day got burned."
"Even if they did not, there's no guarantee that any of the local chantries would have a copy," Merrill concurs sadly, "It's not the kind of thing that they would care to copy and distribute."
Xandar visibly deflates, "Maybe some of the elders and mothers have an idea?"
"Unlikely," Merrill replies.
"Ya're dreamin'," Ranger agrees.
Xandar wilts further, and Merrill hurries to reassure him, "It's not the worst idea? I mean the only option we really have, short of going into the Beyond, is talking to any local scholars. I'll ask Lanaya and Marethari, see if they know anything. Xandar, you can ask around the Chantry."
"Ya sure that's a good idea?" Ranger rumbles, "He's an apostate, they ain't exactly the Chantry's favourite people."
"I don't think it will be a problem," Xandar volunteers, "I'm pretty sure that the rulings are widely published in the area. Plus, we just had that inspection."
Merrill snorts, "Because the Chantry is well known for its reasonable stance on things it disagrees with."
"What'd ya know about it?" Ranger growls, "Ya're an elf that's lived in the forest all her life."
"Do you perhaps recall why that is?" Merrill asks venomously.
"The Chantry is part of an enormous conspiracy designed to hide the fact that magic frogs run Orlais," Xandar comments sagely, "Plus, they're concealing the truth about the Maker in order to maintain the legitimacy of their false prophet."
The other two researchers look at Xandar for a long moment of silence.
"Ya know, most days I can forget ya're crazy. Then ya say somethin' like that," Ranger notes.
"Moving on," Merrill interjects, redirecting the conversation, "Ranger, your job is to blend in with the locals and find out what you can."
Ranger strokes his beard, "I've lost most of my contacts to time and the whole werewolf thing, but I reckon I know a guy."
"Great," Merrill grins, "I'm sure this will go swimmingly.
Merrill sent messages to the other keepers with the merchants. She could have gone herself, but she wanted to stay here to consult with Ranger and Xandar. There was also the problem of any meeting with her kinsmen being something of an involved affair. Lots of social obligations that she would normally appreciate, but this was research! Much more important than relationships.
The results she got back before the end of the week, brought by Nelyafinwë, were surprisingly helpful. Neither of the keepers had heard of the specifics but the Dalish kept a close eye on the Imperium.
The Amladaris family still existed and were part of the highest social class. That meant they were descended from those who used to serve the Old Gods. Several of their members were Magisters, none occupying high enough roles but still significant political players.
The old man in charge of the local archives peered over his spectacles at Xandar.
"Young man, I don't know who you are, but I assure you that there are no such records in this building," He says sternly.
"Are you sure? It's really important," Xandar repeats.
The archivist glares at Xandar, "I am certain, and I do not appreciate the implication that I don't know what's in my own collection."
"Can I go in anyway and look?" The apostate tries.
"No."
"Please?" Xandar pleads, "I promise I won't look at any of your secret documents, like Andraste's real will or the records of your shadowy council meetings."
"Oh, I see what this is," The archivist hisses, "I will not be party to your pranks. If you do not leave immediately, I will have the Templars escort you from the building."
Xandar finds nothing.
Most of the werewolves had returned to wherever they came from. Given the size of the forest and the speed of a wolf, this meant that there were few who remained in the immediate area, but few was not none.
"Have to say, didn't expect you to be the one to come visit me," The man once known as Swiftrunner observed.
"Didn't think I'd be visitin' ya either," Ranger replied, "I ain't here for a social visit exactly."
"Figured. You were never the social type," The former werewolf shrugs, "What do you want?"
"You spent more time with the Lady than just about anyone," Ranger began, "I was hopin' you might have picked somethin' up from her."
"Maybe, what you lookin' for?" Swiftrunner replied.
Never one for deception, Ranger laid all his cards on the table, "There's a bloke called Sethius Amladaris. We're lookin' into him cause a spirit thinks he's important. Wondered if the lady mentioned anythin' on the matter."
Swiftrunner was silent for a long time, eyes furrowed together in deep thought. Ranger wondered if he'd committed some accidental offence.
Eventually the former werewolf spoke, "Name's not familiar. Got anythin' else?"
"He's Tevinter, and he might have changed his name like the ones from that Chantry story," Ranger elaborates, already mentally considering this lead a dud.
"Them I know somethin' about it," Swiftrunner replies, "Story goes, they used to be priests of the Old Gods. You know, the ones who become archdemons when blighted?"
"And…" Ranger prompts.
"And that's all I know," Swiftrunner states.
The three researchers meet once more to share what they have learned. Given everything they have put together they decide that their best lead going forward would be the lead that they started with.
Merrill turns their options over in her mind. There are a few, she could ask Nelyafinwë to investigate Ferelden's diplomatic records for example. Unfortunately, most of the options she has run directly counter to any concept of keeping this task limited to something that can be easily accomplished.
Merrill's eyes turn to Xandar. Not every plan admittedly. Xandar walked here on his own, so it is likely his family lives somewhere on the borders of the forest. If he could be convinced to introduce them, or even just tell them who they're looking for, they could talk to a potential source. The whole lead had come from her initially.
"Xandar," She asks carefully, "Would you be willing to introduce us to your mother? Or just tell us her name."
Xandar's face goes very still. He looks at her with none of his usual excitement or eccentricity.
"No," He states flatly, "I don't want to talk about her, I don't want to see her."
Merrill replies soothingly. "You don't need to go into detail or anything. We just need a name and where to look for her. You can stay here, and we'll go talk to her. I promise we won't even mention we know you."
"I don't know," Xandar says, wringing his hands.
"Just cough it up," Ranger interjects, "It ain't goin' to affect ya, and it was her that led us down this route to begin with."
Xandar shrinks in on himself and says nothing. Merrill fights back a surge of wholly inappropriate anger.
"I don't think you're helping Ranger. Maybe you could let me do the talking?" She says, forcibly neutral.
Ranger winces, "Yeah, sorry. Didn't mean to… I'll just stop talkin'."
Merrill turns back to Xandar, "Please. I know it can be hard to confront things in your past but look at it this way. We're not asking about your mother; we're just asking for the name of a passionate scholar you know."
Xandar is still clearly nervous. "It's not that simple. I…"
Merrill waits patiently for him to continue, but her student just trails off and stares at his shoes.
Merrill is honestly not sure how to proceed. Xandar seems more distraught about this than she had expected. She reaches out to raise his gaze.
She looks Xandar in the eyes. "Please Xandar, I just need to know her name and where she is. I'll do everything else. Do you trust me?"
Xandar maintains eye contact for several moments, then he sags. "Sister Summer. She lives in the Elfsmarch chantry."
"I thought Chantry sisters were supposed to be celibate," Ranger remarks, "Pretty sure I've never seen any with a kid before."
Xandar shrugs but says nothing.
"I don't think that's a helpful line of inquiry," Merrill interrupts before Ranger can put his foot any further in his mouth, "Could you come with me to meet them? We don't exactly get on with the Chantry."
Ranger knocks on the door of the Elfsmarch chantry. It's small even by the standards of Ferelden's border villages. Merrill shifts nervously from one foot to the other, conscious of all the stares from every passing local.
After what feels like an eternity the door opens. A plump woman stands there with a pleasant seeming face.
"Hello there, dearies. What can the Chantry do for you?" She asks.
Ranger is just staring into the distance mouthing 'dearie' to himself, so Merrill takes it upon herself to answer the human.
"We're looking for a Sister Summers. We'd like to speak to her," She requests politely.
The elder sister jerks slightly when she sees Merrill's tattoos. Fear flashes across her face for a moment, quickly hidden. If the Sister takes a step back and is clearly prepared to slam the door, Merrill feels it would be best not to mention it.
"Why do you want to speak to her? Poor dear's been through enough and I won't have anyone causing her grief," The Sister says, a mixture of fear and fierce determination in her voice.
"We're just here to ask some questions about magisters. A close friend told us she's quite the scholar of the old tales," Merrill reassured the plump woman.
The Chantry woman takes several deep breaths and steps aside with a forced smile, "Then please come in. I'm sure it will do the girl some good to talk to someone other than me for a change."
The first thing Merrill noticed about Summer was her hair. Perhaps it was because of how much she resembled Xandar, but the pale blonde hair pinned back in a bun just looked wrong on her. On closer inspection, she realised it might actually be because her drawn and sickly complexion clashes with the bright golden colour.
"I'm told you have questions about old stories?" Sister Summer asked, still and quiet in a way nobody related to Xandar should ever be.
Merrill shook off the profound sense of wrongness she was getting and focused on the questions she was here to ask. Somewhere in the background Ranger was making small talk with the other Sister as she made tea.
"Yes. Thank you for agreeing to see me," She smiled at the human, "I'm investigating someone from the Amladaris family. One of my friends recommended you as a scholar of old stories and the magisters who broke into the Golden City."
The woman blinked for a moment, the change in her expression causing Merrill to realise just how young she was.
"Yes, I have some interest in the matter. I don't know for certain how helpful I will be though."
"Anything you can tell me will be helpful. Perhaps just tell me what you know of the event and I'll ask any questions that need clarification?" Merrill suggested.
The woman smiled wanly, "If you're sure…"
When Merrill nodded the woman began her tale, "I'm sure you know the Chantry version. While I'm certain it's true, it's not exactly a very historical take on the subject. If you look into the matter, you'll quickly find that it was a good deal more complicated…"
As the woman talked, she began to display more mannerisms that Merrill recognised. Some of Xandar's passion and enthusiasm bled into her voice, and some of his strange gestures he made at times. The meat of her words was largely useless, a detailed breakdown of the historiography of the breach of the Golden City was interesting but irrelevant.
When the tale ended, Merrill asked. "So do you think that the Amladaris family was involved?"
Summer pursed her lips, "Maybe, they're the right social class to have had a priest of the Old Gods at the time. I don't think they can point to any specific individual as their progenitor, which fits the pattern of refusing to acknowledge any Magister Sidereal in Tevinter society. I think it's probable."
Merrill asked a few more questions but Summer simply did not know much about the family. Eventually the last of the tea was drunk, and Merrill figured it was time to leave.
"Thank you for answering our questions," She said.
Summer smiled sadly, "I was happy to have the company. Please visit again and bring your friend. I'd love to meet the scholar who recommended me."
Merrill hid a wince, "I'll let him know."