#if we go from what we got in origins through to repeating Varric the least dwarfy dwarf

[bharv]

No fear

Literally not even having one dwarven companion in DATV

One fear

[thekingofwinterblog]

So i haven't seen anyone on this site do a full on dive on what little material we do have of dreadwolf. For a title that's gonna come out next year if its not delayed, there's shockingly little that's actually out, and what there is can be divided into two.

In game images, and artwork.

For this post i wanna focus on the art.

The most famous of the art is of course this piece. Solas in both his Elf guise and True form, both reaching for the red lyrium idol Hawke and Varric found in DA2.

First things first, before we got confirmation through Urthemiel's concept art, this was the first rock solid proof that the Evanuris were the Old Gods. 7 were sealed away, 2 yet remain, just like the orbs we see here so clearly connected to the taint through the red lyrium idol.

Now a couple of things about this idol.

1. It keeps regenerating. Inquisition did not in any way tell us about this, but this idol keeps regenerating regardless of what happens to the original.

Meredith's lyrium body was hollowed out from the inside out, and the lyrium had used her internal parts to remake itself, where it was taken by certain expanded DA universe characters.

Thats how its back despite being made into a sword, then infecting meredith.

2. The way this picture frames it, this seems to be the key to Solas goal of ripping down the veil, entering the Fade in the flesh and remaking the world.

That's not really the interesting part. No the interesting part is that this isn't the first, or second or third, but fourth completely separate object Solas seems to theoretically be able to use to undo his great work.

In the most recent trailer, we see him use a seemingly completely different artifact to try to do the job, but given the fact this is likely going to be the opening introduction of the game, whatever he's trying to do with this artifact is most certainly going tk go wrong somehow, and might tie into the main character of the game's strange ability to summon magical weaponry out if nowhere.

Maybe a sorta repeat of what happened in the inquisition? His great ritual is interrupted and derailed by some random schmuck that absorbs it's power and becomes his arch enemy?

That would explain how this random thief leader guy that this game is supposed to be headed by, becomes able to defeat Solas.

Assuming this is correct, this means that after this ritual fails, his eyes will instead turn to the red lyrium idol.

Also as i said, that would bring Solas artifacts that could be used to accomplish his plans to backtrack on the veil to a total of 4.

The first was The Mask of Fen'harel, from Redemption, an artifact that was clearly meant as a possible failsafe, given it had the capacity to rip down the veil even in the hands of a mediocre mage, nevermind Solas as he is now.

The mask was destroyed in that series, before Solas even woke up, forcing him to try to rely on his second option, his orb, his Foci, which was also destroyed in Inquisition.

Thirdly there is this strange, green, wand thingy, that seems likely to fail in some way.

And fourthly there is the red lyrium idol, which was the source of all red lyrium that has since plagued the world.

And speaking of the blight...

There are two remaining old gods, and we know how Urthemiel would have looked like in his uncorrupted state through his statues.

This is another of the old gods, uncorrupted by the taint, though which of the Evanuris this is i have no idea. A true eldrich abomination.

Regardless, while Solas is the main villain, we'll be fighting at least one more Elvhen God in this game, which assuming the other one is not fought and/or killed, means there will be one more at the game's end.

One more potential blight.

Or not as we'll see below.

From what very little we have seen of the main character, they seem to have the ability to summon a magical energy weapon. If i had to guess, this seems to be a concept art piece for that.

It also seems to be set at the final area of tresspasser(wherever that is), and the fade seems to be really powerful here at this moment, given those gloating rocks.

Not too enlightening, except for the fact there are Two archdemons in the background who may, or may not be blighted.

Guess all the evanuris as waking up in this game after all.

Shockingly enough given the last two old gods will awaken in this game, we'll get one, final dig into the deep roads before they become irrelevant as a setting.

There's some concept art for what is clearly companions, but i wanted to highlight this one along with the big one im ending this speculation post on.

The three figures from the wall aren't too interesting looking(I think the foremost guy is the pc), but the guy on the far left seems to be a avaar, given his Hakkon helmet.

Apparently we're gonna get water diving in this game, either as a cutscene, or in game play.

The guy with the mustache seems to be Dorian, though it could be a new companion rather than a returning one. The lady on the left looks like isabela, but given the glowing, magical knife, i think this is concept art for the female version of the pc, before they settled on the whole summoning the weapon.

Also the fact we're finally getting sea levels, hopefully means we get to see and possibly fight the last of the important lore monsters, the Cetus.

Seriously, if this series ends without us even getting to see the gigantic, electrical sea dragons of the Northern ocean depths, i will be so mad.

The anderfels, likely Weishaupht, the only place we know for a fact that we'll visit in game, given our only glimpse of gameplay so far takes place there.

Again, this game will likely be the final time the grey wardens are relevant, so of course we're visiting the great Warden fortress, and taking a look at what the hell's going on there.

Alright, so one of the first pieces of art we ever got, and it seems to be the companions of what is likely going to be the last dragon age game.

Left to right, i think the lady on the far left is the lady with the mask from the big battle scene artwork. If so, probably an antivan crow with a mask and a rapier.

Next is a Qunari, though what class is hard to say.

Next one is definitly a rogue, though seemingly male.

Looks like the Inquisition's horse master to be honest.

Next is who I'm assuming to be dorian.

And after him, there is the most interesting part of the piece, a figure with either a thick hood, or thick white hair, holding what is very, very clearly a gun.

Which is not too surprising. Gunpowder has been on the verge of being cracked since awakening, and the Inquisitor discovered the recipe in tresspasser, so guns being invented in the meantime makes perfect sense.

No clue about the next two, but the final one is very, very clearly related to the Navarran death mages, though wheter it's a mortalatasi, or a spirit bound to a body by them is hard to say.

Regardless they all seem to be a ragtag bunch compared to Inquisitions group. Which would fit with the idea that they are supposed to be a bunch of thieves and such that'ss forced into a battle for the world.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage]

listen I love DAO, DA2, and DAI very much and will replay all three on repeat but DAO really spoiled me with the whole "origins" part, something DA2 and DAI severely lack.

In DAO, you get to play through one of six origins that show how you got recruited to the Grey Wardens and affects how you play. I play as a Tabris and that plays a part in every decision she makes from how she views the Grey Wardens as a whole, who she romances, what she does with Loghain at the landsmeet, etc. It's incredible because that origin you get adds so much to the immersion each playthrough.

But then there's DA2 which I do adore with all my heart, but I can't lie, the first time I played it was very much "Oh, I have to be this human named Hawke? and the only differences in backstory really come from whether I'm a mage or not ...Ugh, okay, but only because you showed me Carver and now I'm attached, I'll keep playing, I'm sure nothing bad will happen to him."

And then DAI, which I also adore, comes along and just, "Okay pick who you wanna be. Great, here's a paragraph detailing your backstory, but you get to start in the same spot no matter who you make your Inquisitor to be, have fun."

It's not like it's a deal breaker that we can't play through an origin first before jumping into the main story. The player can take that element into their hands to make up for it. We see it all the time with players sharing the upbringings and family dynamics for their Hawke, or fully fleshing out their Inquisitor and why they were at the conclave in the first place.

I think DA2 does this a little better since at least it feels like Hawke had a life before Kirkwall. Your mother and survivng sibling are reminders of that life, as are every mention of your dead sibling and father. You're always reminded that you're a Fereldan refugee. You lost everything to the blight and now you have to rebuild yourself up in a new city.

But the Inquisitor? A lot of times it feels like the Inquisitor didn't even exist until they fell out of the sky. Sure, Cassandra can ask you where you're from or Josephine will ask you questions about your life prior, but that's about it. it's so unfortunate because DAI was the perfect set up for a origin stories the same way DAO was; what lead the Inquisitor to be at the conclave? What specifically put them there?

The first time I played DAI, I didn't put much thought into my Inquisitor. It took me playing through DAO and DA2 and starting a replay of DAI to actually figure out my Inquisitor and you know what I ended up doing?

I used a DAO origin.

Yeah, we know that all the wardens exist and the player picking their character decides where Duncan will be to recruit them and the others are just shit outta luck. I decided my Lavellan's actually Surana who escaped the circle with Jowan and she eventually joined the Dalish and adopted a new name after he died. Lemme tell you, roleplaying that as my Inquisitor's backstory makes everything in DAI just 10x better.

Every staff Ash crafts is named after Jowan. She wasn't born Dalish but her cover story says she was, and she slips up a lot. Her accent doesn't sound typically Dalish. Threnn tells her "Loghain was super cool actually" and Ash flashes back to when Jowan was taken by Loghain's men and when she tracked him down to Redcliffe only to find out Loghain planted him there to poison the arl, he was caught and tortured by the arl's wife, she begged a pair of wardens to let him go if they found him.

Ash is very against blood magic after it eventually killed Jowan and she isn't shy about expressing it. So you know Varric pulled my Hawke, a blood mage, aside like, "Listen, keep the blood magic stuff to yourself, the Inquisitor has a thing about it." and Edgar just gives a thumbs up and keeps going, "man, blood magic bad, amirite?"

Every conversation Ash has with Solas and Vivienne is just her biting her tongue and forcing out, "...yeah, okay." She knows the Chantry and Circles are bullshit but can't go off about it because hmmm, you know an awful lot about this for being Dalish?

Ash and Cullen see each other again after ten years and both just, "Hmm... you look famil...liar.......... oh no."

But that's my point: If I'm going to replay DAI, I boot up DAO first. I play through the mage origin as Ash, and as soon as Jowan runs off screen, I quit out of the game to boot up DAI with a little "Ten Years Later" mumble to myself, and it's so much better.

Honestly if I could find a way to incorporate an unused origin into my Hawke's backstory, I probably would! Because DAO knew what it was doing and it's super effective. I can't gush about DAO enough, I swear.

I can only cross my fingers that DA4 y'know, goes back to it's origins.

[felassan]

Some DA trivia and dev commentary from Twitter

There’s a lot of different tweets, so I’m just pasting and linking to the source rather than screencapping them all or making several different posts or something. Post under cut for length.

User: Was dragon age 2 your favourite in the franchise?

David Gaider: DA2 was the project where my writing team was firing on all cylinders, and they wrote like the wind- because they had to! Second draft? Pfft. Plot reviews? Pfft. I was so proud of what we all accomplished in such a brief time. I didn't think it was possible. [source] DA2 is, however, also where the goal posts kept moving. Things kept getting cut, even while we worked. I had to write that dialogue where Orsino turned even if you sided with him, because his boss battle had been cut and there was no time to fix the plot. A real WTF moment. >:( [source]

Mike Rousseau: I remember bugging that! And then being told it wasn't a bug, and being so confused. Doing QA for DA2 was an experience. Trial by fire. [source]

DG: So I think it's safe to say DA2 is my favorite entry in the DA franchise and also the sort of thing I never want to live through ever again. Mixed feelings galore. [source]

User: (I personally blame whoever it was for ruining most romance arcs in other games for me; they don't live up to Fenris's romance storyline)

DG: I wrote Fenris, so uh - me, I guess? Or maybe his cinematic designer, who put in the puppy dog eyes. [source]

User: If DA2 had just been an expansion, do you think it would have been better received? There was a lot of great stuff in there, and I think my initial dislike of it was because of the zone reuse. If it hadn't needed to be a full game, would that issue not have arisen?

DG: Hard to say. It was either going to be an over-scoped expansion or an under-scoped sequel. If it had stayed an expansion, it might never have received the resources/push it DID get. [source]

User: I'd love to visit the universe where you had an extra year or so to work on it. You did a very good job as it stands, but it definitely had rough edges. Not just the writing team either. The whole game had hit and miss moments, that just a little more dev time could have fixed.

DG: On one hand, DA2 existed to fill a hole in the release schedule. More time was never in the cards. DA2 was originally planned as an expansion! On the other, if we had more time, would we have started doing that thing where we second guess/iterate ourselves into mediocrity? [shrug emoji] [source] 

Jennifer Hepler: This is what I love about DA2. Personally, I greatly prefer something that's rough and raw and sincere to something that's had all the soul polished out of it. Extra time would have helped for art and levels, but it would have lost something too. [source]

DG: Right? I think we could have used some time for peer reviews (and fewer cuts), but I think the rawness of the writing lent a certain spark that we usually polished out. [source]

JH: Definitely. I think the structure (more character-driven) and the tightness of the timeframe let each individual writer's voice really come through. Polish can be very homogenizing. [source]

DG: I should add I'm not, by any means, against iteration. Some iteration is good and necessary. The problem that BioWare often had is that we never knew when to stop. Like a goldfish, we would fill the space given to us by constantly re-iterating on things that were "good enough". [source]

Patrick Weekes: I appreciate your incredibly diplomatic use of the past tense on "had". :D [source]

User: DA2 was my gateway into the series and I’m so happy it is. I love the game the way that it is. It’s one of my favorites of all time. But I am also aware of everything that was said here. If it were remastered, do you think it would change?

DG: I'd be surprised if it was ever remastered. If it was, do you really think they'd change things? Do remasters do that? No idea. [source]

User: Both sides got undercut as I recall. Didn't that whole sequence also end with the mage leader embracing blood magic? It was very much "a plague on both your houses" moment, at least for me.

DG: Yep. Orsino was supposed to have his own version of Meredith's end battle, which only happened if you sided with the templars. That got cut, but the team still wanted to use the model we'd made for him. So... that happened. [source]

DG: I would personally say that DA2 is a fantastic game hidden under a mountain of compromises, cut corners, and tight deadlines. If you can see past all that, you'll see a fantastic game. I don't doubt, however, that it's very difficult for most to do that. [source]

PW: I love DAI with all my selfish "I worked on this" heart, but DA2's follower arcs and relationships are probably my favorite in the series. [source]

User: As I've expressed many times, I love the game, especially it's writing and characters but, for me, the most impressive aspect of it, in consideration of it's lack of time for drafts and revisions, is the 2nd act with Arishok.  What amazingly complex character and fantastic duel

User: Just played it again and I have to agree. Though he is bound by the harsher tenants of the Qun, he makes valid points about free marcher society. Though it is obvious that he and Hawke will come to blows eventually, the tension builds gradually and understandably

DG: Luke did such a fantastic job with the Arishok I found myself sometimes wishing the Qunari plot had just been THE plot. [source]

User: What do you think would have changed, story wise, if you had more time for DA2?

DG: I would have taken out that thing where Meredith gets the idol. It was forced on me because she needed to be "super-powered" with red lyrium for her final battle. Being "crazy", however, robbed her side of the mage/templar argument of any legitimacy. I hated hated hated that. [source]

User: I deeply lament that there wasn't/couldn't be some sort of DA2 equivalent of Throne of Bhaal's Ascension mod.

DG: I'd have done it, if DA2 had allowed for anything but the most rudimentary of modding. ;) [source]

User: I mean, and I think I understand where you were trying, but how much legitimacy did the Templars and her as top Templar have after they're keeping the mages locked up against their will in the old slave quarters? Feel free to not reply.

DG: I think it's the kind of discussion which requires nuance, and which discussions on the Internet are not prone to. [source]

User: Was a compromise that the quest lines don’t branch? It felt like it was supposed to be that way but then you end up in the same place later regardless of what you pick. Like I hoodwinked the templars so good to help the apostates escape but in Act II they were caught anyway.

DG: I remember us having a lot more branching in the initial planning yes. Most of this got trimmed out in the first or second wave of cuts, in an effort to not cut the plots altogether. [source]

DG: "If you could Zack Snyder DA2, what would you change?" Wow. I'm willing to bet Mark or Mike (or anyone else on the team) would give very different answers than me, but it's enough to give a sober man pause, because that was THE Project of Multiple Regrets. [source] I mean, it's the most hypothetical of hypotheticals. It's never gonna happen. I wouldn't be surprised if EA considered DA2 its embarrassing red-headed stepchild. We'd also need to ignore that in many ways DA2 was as good as it was bad BECAUSE of how it was made. But that aside? [source] First, either restore the progressive changes to Kirkwall we'd planned over the passing of in-game years or reduce the time between acts to months instead of years... which, in hindsight, probably should have been done as soon as the progressive stuff was cut. [source] I'm sure you're like "get rid of repeated levels!" ...but I don't care about that. All I wanted was for Kirkwall to feel like a bigger city. Way more crowded. More alive! Fewer blood mages. [source] I'd want to restore the plot where a mage Hawke came THIS close to becoming an abomination. An entire story spent trapped in one's own head while trapped on the edge of possession. Why? Because Hawke is the only mage who apparently never struggles with this. It was a hard cut. [source]

User: I would LOVE to hear more details about this! I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a short story?

DG: I don't even remember the details of the story, sorry. There was a fight, and you caught the bad guy and then realized none of it was real and woke up idk [source]

DG: I'd want to restore all those alternate lines we cut, meaning people forget they'd met you. Or that they knew you were a mage. Or, oh god, that maybe they'd romanced you in DAO. So much carnage. [source] I'd want to restore the Act 3 plots we cut only because they were worked on too late, but which would have made the buildup to the mage/templar clash less sudden. Though I don't remember what they were, now. Some never got beyond being index cards posted on the wall. [grimace emoji] [source] As I mentioned elsewhere, I'd want to restore Orsino's end battle so he wouldn't need to turn on you even if you sided with him. And I'd want an end fight with the templars that didn't require Meredith to have red lyrium and go full Tetsuo. [source] Heck, maybe an end decision where you sided with neither the mages nor the templars. Because it certainly ended up feeling like you could brand both sides as batshit pretty legitimately, no? That was never planned, tho. No idea how to make that feel like an actual path atm. [source] Maybe an option to go "umm, Anders... what are you DOING?" 👀 [source] And, of course, a Varric romance, because Mary took that "slimy car salesman" character we'd planned and did the impossible with him. I can feel Mary glaring at me for even suggesting this, tho. [source] Lastly, the original expanded opening to the game which allowed you to spend time with Bethany and Carver BEFORE the darkspawn attacked. And, um, that's about it off the top of my head. Zack Snyder, WHAT PANDORA'S BOX HAVE YOU OPENED. [source] Shit, I remembered two more things: 1) Restore the "Varric exaggerates the heck out of the story" at the beginning of every Act, until Cassandra calls him on it. Yes, that was a thing. 2) Make DA: Exodus. Yes, I am still bitter. [source] God damn it, I meant "Make DA: Exalted March". The DA2 expansion, NOT Exodus since that was DA2's original name and makes no sense. Because the expansion ended with Varric dying, and that will always be on my "things left undone" list. [source]

User: Whaaaat?

DG: Well, you know that scene in Wrath of Khan where Spock goes into the dilithium chamber because he's a Vulcan? Well, imagine that but with Varric and red lyrium and because he's a dwarf. ;) [source]

John Epler: I distinctly remember referencing the bit from MGS4 where you crawl through the microwave corridor in the split screen, while cinematic battle rages on the other half. [source]

DG: It would have been glorious, John. Glorious. [source]

JE: I don't think I've ever been so certain what a shot should look like as I did Hawke coming in and finding Varric in the broken throne, just like when he was telling Cassandra his story. [source]

DG: It would have come full circle! Auggghh, it still kills me. [source]

User: Lord, you folks are a little too good at this.

JE: The true secret behind videogame narrative is knowing how to make yourself seem a lot more clever than you actually are. [source] 'Oh, we TOTALLY planned that.' [source]

User: Ok, this thread [the DA2 regrets thread, which is the big chunks above] but Inquisition.

DG: My regrets about Inquisition are, more or less, the normal kind. Nothing so dramatic, I'm afraid. [source]

User: You can keep your Varric romance, I want a Flemeth romance goddamnit!

DG: I would allow for one flirt option, and then a recording of Kate Mulgrew laughing for three minutes straight. [source]

User: I had a hypothesis about the repetitive caves in DA2. They're repetitive because it's Varric telling the story and he didn't consider them important.  They're like sets in a play.  (Okay, I really suspect it was a time/money/resources thing but I like my fake explanation better.)

DG: Hang a lampshade on it, maybe? Cassandra: "But that's the exact cave you were in last time?" Varric: "Whatever. They all look the same, I'm not THAT kind of dwarf. Can we move on?" [source]

User: that makes sense, hypothetically to make Varric romanceable and keep his arc—that had to happen for the main plot—I imagine you would have to make double the content (or more)? which would've been a tall order given the time/budget constraints the game was under

DG: Right. When it comes to "romance arc" vs. "follower story arc", we generally only had time to do one or the other. Never both. Romancing Varric would have meant not getting the story of his that you did. [source]

Mary Kirby: The one exaggeration I really, REALLY wanted, that we never got to do was Varric narrating his own death scene with Hawke weeping over him, then cutting to Cassandra's pissed off glaring at him. [source]

DG: Haha! The one I wanted was Varric's plot where he takes on the baddies single-handedly, sliding across the floor like Jet Lee, action movie-style, until finally Cassandra gets irritated and he has to admit Hawke & the rest of the party showed up to help. [source]

MK: We did that one! (He didn't do any Jet Lee moves, though.) Jepler gave him letterboxing to get The Good, the Bad, & the Ugly showdown vibes while he shot a ton of mooks single-handed. [source]

DG: Wow. Shows how much I remember. [source]

JE: I found it! I remember seeing this sequence as my treat for doing a bunch of much more challenging work. It was fun to see how far I could push our limited library of animations. [link] [source]

DG: Heh awesome. I could have sworn it was cut, honestly. I think I was even in that meeting. [source]

User: no disrespect but that’s surprising and rich of Mary “Hard in Hightown” Kirby to think DA2 shouldn’t have had a Varric romance when she wrote an entire book of Varric’s self-insert character pining over his Hawke insert character… HIH is the reason we had VHawke Summer 2018

DG: I can't *really* speak for Mary, or how she feels about it now compared to back then. I only know how she felt about it back then, and I'm not sure it was as much the concept of the romance but that Varric's entire story would be bent to "romance arc" ...a very different thing. [source]

JH: I remember pushing to have the first DLC start with Hawke having an option to ask Varric, "Did you tell Cassandra about us?" and if you picked it, Varric would answer, "Of course not, baby. I told her you were sleeping with X..." and then proceed as if you had had a full romance. [source]

DG: I still wonder how that would have gone over. x) [source]

JE: Okay, one more DA2 thing. Putting together the cinematics for this scene was a blast. [link] [source]

MK: These lines are my greatest legacy. I want "Make sure the world knows I died... at Chateau Haine!" inscribed on my tombstone. [source]

JE: I was so glad no one said 'no' to the crane shot. [source]

MK: It needs that crane shot. It's the perfect icing on that cake made from solid cheese. [source]

DG: The designers were all "we need more combat" and I think we were all "I think you underestimate just HOW interesting we can make this dinner party". [source]

JE: And finally. I think @SherylChee wrote the one-liner. I think we had a collection of like, 20. [link] [source]

Sheryl Chee: Yeah! Something like that! I remember submitted a whole bunch and Frank said you only needed one. Wish I'd kept the other fifteen. [source]

JE: A random chooser where, each time through the scene, you get a different one-liner. [source]

JE: DA2 is the project I'm the proudest of. I also absolutely get that it didn't land for a lot of people. But I don't think it's inaccurate to say that, in a lot of ways, DA2 defined my career. [source]  Everyone spent a year working at their maximum ability. I was a fresh cinematic designer and was given all of Varric's content, as well as the Act 1 Finale mission. It was a lot for someone who had been doing the Cinematics thing for literally 6 months. [source]  There's some stuff in there I can't look at without wincing. And there's some stuff I'm genuinely proud of. Not to mention, it was my introduction to most of the writing team. Several of whom I'm still working with today! Albeit in a different capacity [source] Also, weirdly, one of my most enduring memories of Dragon Age 2 is how much Bad Company 2 we'd play at lunch. It was a LOT. [source] Every game I've worked on has a game I played attached to it. ME2 is Borderlands. DA2 is Bad Company 2. DAI is DayZ. I, hmm. There's a progression there. I don't know how I feel about it. [source]

User: Is DA4 going to be tarkov then?

JE: I've kind of churned out of Tarkov for now. Probably Hunt Showdown, at least right now. [source]

User: I think people also don't take nuance into consideration -- like I FULLY acknowledge the flaws in my favorite games and will openly criticize them, but that doesn't mean they're not my favorite games anymore??? You can like and thing and still be critical of it.

JE: A lot of my favourite shit is deeply flawed! I acknowledge it and I think it's interesting to dissect the flaws. [source]

User: I still wish Justice was an actual character in DA2 rather than a plot point.

DG: There was a moment during DAI where we *almost* put in you running into Justice with the Grey Wardens, and he's all "Kirkwall? I never went to Kirkwall" [source]

User: Does that imply that Justice was shoehorned in to DA2?

DG: Nah, it was an in-joke where we thought it'd be fun to suggest that "Justice" was simply some demon that tricked Anders in DA2. Wooo those tricky demons! We didn't do it, though. [source]

User: [about templars]  except, I don't think it had very much legitimacy to begin with. keep in mind, we interact with other characters with the same argument. The one that comes to mind is Cullen, a sane templar in power. The templar's side of the argument is inherently flawed.

DG: I don't doubt that many people agree with you, and yet people can and do argue on behalf of the templars as well. My place isn't to pick a side, but to provide evidence that players can interpret for themselves [source]

User: Can you shed some light for us on how DA was able to do multiple same-sex romance options for different genders but the Mass Effect team treated them like the plague? What process existed for your team that just wasn't their for the other tentpole franchise?

DG: Different people making the decisions, almost different cultures. I don't know what it's like now, but for many years the Mass Effect team and the Dragon Age team were almost like two different studios working within the same building. [source]

User: It truly boggles the mind. Kudos for doing demonstrably better on consistent queer representation than the ME teams. Y'all never needed us to make petitions to try to get the studio's attention and ask them to do better by us. That's the fight we're once again embroiled in now.

DG: Honestly, I don't feel like tut-tutting the Mass Effect team. They did their part, and if they were a bit later to the show than the DA team they certainly did more than almost every other game out there -- and willingly. [source]

Updates begin here

User: So what was the reason for naming Dragon age 2 "Dragon age II" and not using a subtitle?

DG: As I recall, that was purely a publisher decision. I think they wanted to avoid the impression it was an expansion. [source]

User: Is there no chance of ever remaking DA2 under better circumstances? -Somehow remove the repetitiveness of gameplay by making changes and updating the tech and adding much more to the storyline. It could almost be a new very exciting game.

DG: I'd say there's zero chance of that. Let's keep our hopes up for the next DA title instead. [source]

User: I am a little confused here, help me out here please! How exactly was the cut boss battle with Orsino supposed to work out? How it would've kept him from turning against the player?

DG: It means that, if you sided with the templars, the entire boss bottle at the end would have been against Orsino and the mages. No fight against Meredith. The end decision would have been more divergent. [source]

User: I do remember that one of the reasons going around for that, was that resources were going to the transition to Frostbite. I'm still not fully sold on that having been a good choice. I felt that more time should have been given for that transition considering it was made for FPSs

DG: We didn't transition to Frostbite until DAI. Given our time frame for DA2, I don't think we *could* have transitioned to a new engine. [source]

User: Since your talking about the what could have been for DA2. Could you say what your script was for Anthem? Cause I remember reading that you wrote the plot on that game.

DG: I created a setting for Anthem and scripted out a plot - but, as I understand it, almost none of that ended up being used. So it's a bit pointless to talk about what I'd planned, as that'd be for some completely different type of game. [source]

User: [in reference to the exchange above where DG said “Being "crazy", however, robbed her side of the mage/templar argument of any legitimacy. I hated hated hated that.” re: Meredith] except, I don't think it had very much legitimacy to begin with. keep in mind, we interact with other characters with the same argument. The one that comes to mind is Cullen, a sane templar in power. The templar's side of the argument is inherently flawed.

DG: I don't doubt that many people agree with you, and yet people can and do argue on behalf of the templars as well. My place isn't to pick a side, but to provide evidence that players can interpret for themselves. [source]

If I missed a tweet, got the wrong source link or included a tweet twice, feel free to let me know and I’ll correct.

Edit / Update: Post update 22nd April

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 21/32 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

All around Yvanne the enormous cypress thrummed with life. If there was a world beyond the belly of the hollow tree, she didn’t quite believe it.  

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Of course you don’t understand,” her great grandmother said kindly. Distant bells seemed to ring with every one of her words. All of a sudden Yvanne wasn’t sure if the old woman’s lips were actually moving when she spoke to her. “Who could possibly expect you to?”

“Why did you bring me here? That spirit I saw—was that you?”

“In a way,” the old woman allowed. “But I did not bring you here. You brought yourself.”

“But you called me. You told me to come home.”

“Is that what you heard?” She smiled. “Oh, my daughter.”

That stung. “Stop it,” Yvanne growled. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not as well as I’d like. But we have met, in the world beneath the world.”

“You’ve been spying on me,” Yvanne realized. “Through the Fade. Just what gave you the right?”

The old woman’s bright eyes flashed. “Precisely the same thing that gives you to look in on those you wish to see.”

“That’s—that’s not the same,” Yvanne faltered. “I didn’t want to look. I tried not to look. I couldn’t control it.”

“But you’d like to. And so you are here.”

“No, I’m here because you called me. I’m here because I had just settled into a perfectly contented life when all of a sudden I became tormented by these voices—your voice.”

Yvanne could load quite a lot of furious accusation into a short phrase spoken softly, but the old woman remained unmoved. “Believe me, my daughter, I do not have the power to bring about what you experienced. If you heard my voice, it was as a trickle in a torrent. You have begun to awaken as a spirit mage.” 

“And just what in the void does that mean?”

In tones of infinite patience: “For years you have hobbled yourself; now you are beginning to walk freely for the first time. Of course you were overwhelmed. Anyone would be. Nobody here in Dairsmuid awakens in their third decade of life, without the benefit of any guidance whatsoever.” In tones of bottomless sorrow: “You have been done a great disservice.”

Yvanne stood for a while, feeling all the hot air leak out of her.

“So can you help me?” she said, defeated. “Or not?”

“Of course I can. And I will. If you choose it. But how far you walk along the path is always up to you.”

Something sat uncomfortably in Yvanne’s stomach. “Alright, fine. Can you at least answer me this?” she said wearily. “Where is my mother?”

The old woman cast her eyes down. “That I do not know. She never came here.”

An unspoken hope died in her chest. “My father, then? My sisters?”

“Three of your sisters live,” the old woman said. “In one way or another. But of all who I called, only you returned.”

All she did not say fell upon Yvanne like a mountain. She dropped her head. “I see.”

“Oh, my daughter. I am sorry.” She sounded like she meant it. 

More questions sprung to her lips. When did my father die? And how? Which of her four sisters lived? And how? But as soon as they occurred to her, she thought better of them. She didn’t want to know. Of course she didn’t. If she’d wanted to know, she would have seen it in the Fade. It was a cruel thing to know about herself. 

“Why me, then?”

“You are the one who answered.”

“No. Why call at all? My father never spoke of his home. We have nothing to do with each other, blood relatives or not. What do you want with me?”

“Is it so wrong for an old woman to wish to see her lost daughter?” The old woman’s eyes closed. She said no more for many long moments. “I apologize. I am tired now. I must walk in the Fade for a time.”

“What? But I’ve only just arrived!”

“We will speak again. For now you will go with Itai; he will be your companion today.”

“Now hold on, I—” Yvanne began to protest, but the old woman was already asleep, having slipped into dreams in the space of a few breaths. She was alone. But she did not feel alone. If anything she felt like an intruder. The tree keeping her great-grandmother alive thrummed steadily, like a heartbeat.

“Yvanne?”

She turned to face a young man with wide cheekbones and a halo of black curls. “How did you know my name? Or that I was here?”

He gave her a polite, puzzled smile. “Buya called me, of course. I’ve finished my training for today, so I can show you around.” He was younger than her. Was he even twenty? “I’m Itai—I think we might be cousins.”  He crossed his right arm over his chest and tilted his chin down in greeting.

She stiffened. “Well, maybe we’re cousins, but you don’t know me, and I’m only staying here for as long as it takes me to get this—this problem under control, so don’t get too comfortable. There’s no need for all this…this…”

Itai shrugged. “Well, you’re going to have to wait at least a few hours anyway before she wakes up, so you might as well see the city, right?” 

—

On her way to the great cypress, Yvanne had paid no attention to her surroundings at all. A compulsion to reach the tree where her ancestor dwelled had consumed her, and only now had it loosened its hold on her. Now she was finally seeing the city with clear eyes.

Dairsmuid was a city built upon the water. Wooden planks, shiny and smooth from the thousands of feet that walked upon them, were its streets, but so was the water; everywhere were gondoliers carrying goods by canoe, chatting with each other as they passed. Some of the buildings were built in the trees themselves, and what trees they were; they flared at their twisted, knotty bases. Some grew fused together, making masses large enough to support homes. Circling steps were bolted to many of them, and cables ran between the boughs, sending packages and messages zipping overhead.

Itai introduced Yvanne to more distant cousins and uncles and aunts than she could possibly keep track of, men and women of all ages. Each one greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a quick embrace, too swiftly and with too much assurance for her to protest.

And not a single one of them batted an eye at all the magic.

Magic didn’t seem to exactly be common in Dairsmuid, but every once in a while she would spot a shopkeeper levitating his wares, or a gondolier lighting a lantern with a snap of his fingers. Everywhere she saw spirits, mostly formless wisps, but larger, more distinct spirits, too. Children chased them like chickens, earning scoldings from their parents when they were caught. She watched, rapt, one group of mage children play a game of spark-shooting with each other. As she watched something cracked open deep inside her, and suddenly she wanted to cry.

“Alright, there?” said Itai. She snapped out of it, drawing her eyes away from a scene where one child chased a wisp right over the edge and into the water, where he was fished out by an irritated gondolier. She just barely managed to nod.

Itai kept rambling as he took her around, away from the center of the city—”Dairsmuid’s mostly on the water now, but old timers will tell you how the sea used to be much further out“—past rows of fishermen hauling in oysters and crayfish—”They’re best with lemon sauce,”—inland towards residential areas that were raised over mud and peat rather than standing water. They went past shrines to Andraste laid with offerings of fire-lilies—”What? Of course we worship Andraste! What a strange question,”—past spirit-lanterns nestled in the branches of the cypresses—”They’re always lit, so nobody falls off the platform. And if someone does, the spirits signal the night watchman to come over and fish them out…it’s usually just the drunks, though.”

Yvanne found herself liking Itai quite a lot. Until—

“And my Templar training isn’t so bad, usually, but master has us getting up so early, and usually at night I find myself thinking of so many things and unable to sleep—”

She stopped in her tracks. It took him a few seconds to notice, and he turned, puzzled.

“Your what training?”

“Templar training,” he repeated. “Are you alright? You look like you ate something curdled.”

“I didn’t realize Dairsmuid had Templars.” She did not try to keep the hiss out of her voice. Including my own family.

He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Sorry, I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”

How in Thedas was she to respond to that? “So was that why they picked you to give me the tour? Were you supposed to keep an eye on me and cut me down in case I turned out to be dangerous after all? I knew I was right to be suspicious—”

“Hold on!” Itai was laughing. Actually laughing! “I think you’re confused. In Dairsmuid, Templar is a ceremonial role. We don’t take lyrium or anything like the westerners. I’m not even being taught to fight with this thing—” He tapped the ornate weapon belted to his hip. “It’s all just rituals and basic forms.” 

“Then—” She stumbled. “Then what’s the point?”

He shrugged. “Tradition? Got to be a Circle at Dairsmuid, with Templars. So we have them. We’re supposed to keep the Seers safe, but the Seers don’t really need protection, so it’s pretty boring. Once I finish training, I’m probably going to be a fisherman like my da. Look, the sword’s ceremonial—it’s not even sharp.”

She must have still been staring. He smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I don’t really know much about western Circles.”

Maker, but this place was weird.

“I can’t believe the Chantry lets this place exist,” Yvanne said just as the silence was growing awkward..

“Well, Rivain’s pretty far from Orlais.” He shrugged. “We do things our own way. Really, the Qunari up north are a much bigger problem, but Dairsmuid’s not anywhere near Kont-Arr. Anyway, the Seers wouldn’t let anything happen.”

“Just what is a Seer? Exactly?”

Itai looked at her like she’d just asked the color of the sky. “Huh? But you’re a Seer. Aren’t you?”

She shook her head.

“You know—a woman who communes with the spirits. You call them mages out west, right?”

“But plenty of men are mages,” said Yvanne. “What do you do with the boys who are born with magic?”

Itai snorted, laughing.“Nobody’s born with magic. Spirits pick who they want to talk to. And sure, boys can talk to spirits, but they can’t be Seers.”

“Why not?”

“They just can’t.” He scratched his head. “Look, I don’t really know. Why don’t you ask Maita? She’s not a Seer yet, but she will be. Come on, you’ll like her. I have to get home and help da clean today’s catch, anyway, so I’ll leave you with her, if that’s alright.”

Three girls sat laughing and weaving reed baskets as Itai and Yvanne approached. One of them stood in anticipation, her eyes widening in delight. All three girls wore bright brass jewelry, but one—the Seer?—wore the most; bangles on her wrists and ankles, and a headdress of overlapping discs that glittered and clinked with her tiniest movement. 

“Is this her?” she demanded of Itai, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, it is! Oh, welcome! We are also so glad you have come.” She jangled as she wrapped Yvanne in a tight, loud embrace. “Ambuya told us you had come.”

“But how—”

“Oh, but your hair!” Maita gasped. Never had Yvanne heard anyone sound so heartbroken over hair. She glanced over her shoulder to plead wordlessly with Itai, but he was already grinning, waving goodbye, and backing away, the traitor. “You poor thing, you must have been through so much.” 

Yvanne suddenly became aware of her body, sharply and unpleasantly. She hadn’t looked at herself in so long that she had forgotten that others could still see her. Maker, she didn’t even want to think about how she probably smelled She self-consciously tucked a piece of it behind her ear. Unending months of neglect and salt had caused it to dread up into unsalvageable masses.

“You must let me fix it for you. Oh, I love to do braids, but–may I?” She reached out to touch Yvanne’s hair. She struggled not to flinch. “No, I don’t think there’s enough left to do braids. How about knots? Or twists? I do the best twists; ask anyone.” She turned to her two friends, clinking, for confirmation. Both nodded earnestly.

Nobody had done Yvanne’s hair since she was nine years old. Loriel had been useless at it and nobody else had come close to earning the right. “I—Okay.”

“Yes! Wonderful! Please, do come in. You must have some of my beads. I’m getting married soon, so I won’t get to wear them, and I don’t even have any sisters to give them to. Only brothers–it makes me so sad!”. Then an expression came over her face. “Wait! You aren’t married, are you? I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have assumed…”

Yvanne felt the absence of the ring upon her finger, and answered, truthfully, “No, I’m not married.”

Maita’s animated expression returned. “Oh, good! Then you can have the beads. Come, come!”

She tugged her inside, enticing her friends to come join her in solving Yvanne’s hair problem. She was altogether reminded of Leliana. Yvanne slipped out of her grasp. “Look, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but—we’ve only just met.”

Maita gave her a confused smile. “But of course we’ve met. In the world beneath the world.”

Again that phrase.

“Maita, you’re shaming her,” one of the others said, rolling her eyes. “She has no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh,” Maita said, suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, no, you really don’t, do you?”

If Yvanne had not spent the past years being humbled over and over again, she might have taken offense. As it was, she only shrugged.

Maita covered her face in shame. “I’m so sorry—I assumed, since you were training with Ambuya—we were all so jealous when we heard…”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m afraid I only look Rivaini. I’m not a part of any of this. I’m certainly not a Seer.”

“But you are a Seer,” Maita said encouragingly. “Or you will be.”

She crossed her arms, doubtful. “She said I was only beginning to learn. That I was already late.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll learn. You’re her blood, after all.”

“Isn’t half of Dairsmuid her blood? I’ve lost track of how many cousins I’ve met today.”

Maita laughed. She had a musical laugh. “Perhaps not so much as half! Our Buya had many sons, but even those who are not her blood are still her family; she is buya to all of us.”

Yvanne, who had been assuming that ‘Buya’ was the old woman’s name, made a small adjustment.

Dairsmuid had a public bathhouse, and she was in luck—today was the women’s day to use it. The next several hours went to matters of hair and beads and other things so trivial that Yvanne had nearly forgotten they existed. Was there really still a world of moisturizing hair cream and scents and jewelry? She had liked such things, once, because in the Circle they had been—if not forbidden, then strictly discouraged, and difficult to get a hold of. The habit had stayed with her as the Vigil’s keeper, and she had yet to be cured of it. It was so ridiculous. It was so nice.

Somewhere in this process she told the story of her travels. She hadn’t meant to—she’d thought it far too painful—but somehow it all came out. She started with hiding in Highever—she left out that she had ever been a Grey Warden—and by the time she got to the part with the pirates her hair was done. It had been long all her life, and was twisted close to her head and bound with bells and beads. She looked both like and unlike Isabela, like and unlike her old self. She had never felt so light; she couldn’t stop tilting her head back and forth and feeling the absence of the weight. It was strange, but not—bad. No, not bad at all.

By then it was time for the evening meal was upon them, and Maita’s mother—a stout woman who had clearly never taken no for an answer in her life—was insisting. Yvanne ate with Maita and her mother and her younger brothers who stared at her with curious eyes the size of dinner plates. Maita’s mother, it turned out, was not from Dairsmuid, but from a village on the eastern coast. 

“—I came here to be with my girl, of course. She wanted to learn here in the capital, and I was not about to let her go alone,” she said proudly.

Yvanne slept there on a palette by the smouldering hearth, sick with imagining what it would be like to have a mother like that.

As the days passed and her great-grandmother did not summon her, she was folded into Maita’s family almost without noticing. Maita had three younger brothers who Yvanne somehow fell into the watching of—boys of six, ten, and twelve, who begged her to show them how to make lightning. She helped with the chores, kept the boys busy. She even learned a few words of the local Rivaini dialect. On the last day of the week, she helped decorate the household shrine to Andraste with marsh-lillies and necklaces of carved wooden beads. The prayers spoken over the shrine were not entirely unlike the Chant, but not entirely like it, either.

Finally came market day, so Yvanne saw the Dairsmuid market. Maita tugged her along as she did her family’s shopping, informing her of what fruits were in season and asking frequent questions about what things were like in Ferelden. 

“Oh, I used to love the star-reader,” Maita sighed, pointing out a woman’s nondescript stall. “Of course, it is not Seeing, but that’s what made it special. My friends and I used to giggle for hours over the fates the stars had in store for us. The men we would marry, how many children we would have…” She trailed off, then finished cheerfully, “But I’ll be getting married soon.”

Yvanne could not help but notice that no husband-to-be was in evidence.

Maita clinked loudly as she laughed. “I haven’t met him yet, of course! He lives in a village far away from here, one that needs a Seer. Once I have passed the ritual, I’ll be ready to serve. I’m told he’s very kind. Is it bad that I hope he’s handsome, too?” She giggled behind her hand. “But you aren’t married! Do you want to consult the star-reader? Don’t you ever wonder what your husband will be like?

“Hm,” said Yvanne. “No, thank you.”

Soon after Maita encountered a friend of hers, and fell inextricably into an animated conversation that Yvanne couldn’t follow at all. Slighted, and resentful that she felt so, she wandered away. She could hear in the middle distance bell-like music. The source of it turned out to be a Vashoth woman sitting cross-legged, producing the tune from an instrument Yvanne had no name for, a wooden box lined with metal rods that produced unearthly music under the Vashoth’s careful fingers. Too soon, the song ended, and she lifted her hornless head to smile in thanks at the crowd. 

Only then did Yvanne notice the scars around her lips.

“Did you mean to buy something?” the Vashoth asked suddenly. Yvanne forced herself not to stare.

“I have no money,” she stammered, then added, “Sorry.”

The saarebaas sized her up, and smiled. As she did, her scars instantly became the most noticeable thing about her. “Oh, I see. You’re new; one of Buya’s girls, aren’t you? I am called Amarna.”

“So I’m told,” Yvanne said stiffly

“You’re a bit old to start training.”

“I’ve had training.”

The saarebas laughed shrugging. “Mm. Well, it was probably better than the training I got.”

Yvanne’s eyes flicked to the woman’s scars again. 

Amarna snorted good-naturedly. “Admiring these?” she said, touching her lips.

“I wasn’t—”

The former saarebas laughed. “Go ahead and look, I’m not ashamed.”

Yvanne wanted to apologize, but now she worried that it would only make it worse. Luckily the awkwardness was broken by a little Vashoth girl in pigtails, no more than eight years old, and already as high as Yvanne’s shoulder.

“Look what my friend showed me how to do!” the little girl said breathlessly to—presumably—her mother, ignoring Yvanne entirely. She extended her pudgy, little-girl hands palms up. Fireballs bloomed there, first, red, then yellow, then green and blue. Yvanne startled backwards and nearly knocked over a rack of fishing spears. “Are you proud of me?”

“Very good!” her mother beamed as Yvanne desperately tried to stabilize the rack of spears. “Indeed I am proud of you. But do you remember the rules?”

The girl let the fireballs dissipate. “No fire without my tutors watching,” she said ruefully, rolling her eyes. 

“That’s right. Now go play.”

Only then did the little girl notice Yvanne and mutter a shy ‘hello’ before running off again.

“Sorry for her,” said the saarebas. “She’s always trying things she’s not quite ready for yet.”

“That…must be difficult.”

“I can’t even tell you how many times she’s hurt herself!” She shook her head. “But if she makes no mistakes, she’ll never learn.” 

Yvanne had been that age when she’d first discover her magic. She never would have dreamed of showing her father. She’d hidden it. Had prayed for the Maker to take it away. “I’m surprised you don’t worry.”

“Of course I worry! What mother doesn’t? But she has good teachers here. I’ll never be much of a mage, but the Seers take care of her. And if she’ll receive some scars for her own foolishness, she will never have scars like mine.” She said it in well-rehearsed tones, like this was a speech she had been obliged to recite too many times.

Yvanne remembered Cheddar, and what had happened to her sarebaaset. But no, she daren’t ask. Instead she said, “What kind of instrument is that?”

And like so Maita found her some minutes later, profusely apologizing for leaving her alone, exchanging pleasantries with Amarna, and finally dragged her away.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” she said in hushed tones. “I forget that most people outside Rivain aren’t used to the freed saarebas. Quite a lot of them live here.”

That night Yvanne could not get to sleep beneath the unfamiliar ceiling. She thought of Amarna’s little daughter whose magic would only ever earn her a gentle admonition, and envy rose in her gorge like poison. What she would have given to have grown up here in Dairsmuid. What might she have become if her father had brought her here instead of to Ferelden? Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he loved her enough to bring her here? All those years in Kinloch, the wretched thing that place made her—

She thought of Amarna’s scars, and thought—yes, it could have been worse. But it could have been better, too.

Yes, she was here now, but what good did that do her? It didn’t make up for it. Nothing ever would. Dairsmuid was not her home. If she had ever had one, it had been Vigil’s Keep.

That home was lost to her. Perhaps did not exist at all. Just like her mother and her father and her sisters. Everything was lost, lost—all that remained was here. A wave of nauseous longing rolled over her like the evening tide, and she went to sleep no less conflicted and confused.

—

She dreamt again of Loriel, buried deep within her tower of stone.  Her hair was longer now than it had ever been, neatly parted in the center. Somehow in their time apart it had stopped frizzing, and fell to her back in elegant feathers. Were there new lines on her face? How old was she now?

She was writing busily in a blank parchment manuscript, occasionally consulting a tome at her elbow. She scribbled for hours, only occasionally pausing to sip water or stand up to stretch. All these little gestures, so familiar, so utterly strange.

Who was she? Who was she?

���I never even knew you, did I?” Yvanne said to her, knowing she wouldn’t be heard. “Not that you were any better. You never knew me either, did you? I don’t think I ever felt more alone than when I was with you.”

And Loriel kept scratching away, oblivious. It was starting to make her angry.

“You know,” she said, “If it hadn’t been for all that fucking blood magic, maybe you could have heard me say all these things. Maybe you could have heard me at all. I was too much a coward to say what I meant to your face, and now you’ll never know how I really felt. You selfish fucking bitch.”

And then—

—Loriel looked up.

Her forehead wrinkled in that burningly familiar way. Her mouth began to form the shape of the word, who—?

The dream collapsed.

—

Yvaanne woke in the middle of the night, knowing that she was summoned to Dairsmuid’s great tree. She received no message; only a conviction that she was wanted, and an intuitive understanding of where to go. She walked there, barefoot, the ancient half-drowned forest singing all around her.

Buya was exactly where she had been, awake and bright eyed. “I am sorry to have woken you. Did I interrupt your dreaming?”

She shook her head. “I did not want that dream.”

“I see.” The old woman’s lips still did not move when she spoke. “Have you decided, then, if you will stay and learn from me?” 

“I…”

A heaviness lay on her heart. After a week in Dairsmuid, she had never missed the Vigil more. She missed her high grey walls, her fluttering banners, the smell of smelting iron in the air. She missed the training, the drinking games, the knowledge that everyone around her knew her name, that people would care if she was gone.

But here in Dairsmuid, everyone somehow knew her name. They would care if she was gone. So they didn’t know her, so what? Nobody had ever known her. 

Dairsmuid was here. Dairsmuid was now. And was love not born of base familiarity? Was love anything besides mere exposure, mere proximity? 

“Great-grandmother, I want to stay,” she said. “But…”

Ambuya waited, patient.

“But there’s someone I still love. Far from here.”

“Ah,” the old woman said. “I see. I will not pretend I am not disappointed, but it was good to lay my mortal eyes on you, my daughter.”

Yvanne shook her head, and knelt. Then she looked up, her eyes streaming. “And I never want to see or think about her, ever again. Please, grandmother—I am yours. Please, teach me.”

Ambuya smiled, reached out, and placed a hand on Yvanne’s bowed head. She was resolved; she would become a part of this. She would be one of many, and she would make this life a good one if it killed her.

[secretsfromwholecloth]

Dragon Age: Inquisition, day 15.

Welp, Doom Upon All the World time. Let’s do this.

I’m going to be boring and do the “usual undroppables plus Solas in the free spot” thing again, which in this case translates into a party of Dorian, Blackwall, and Solas.

Wow, the thunder outside really adds to the drama as I play through this. :D

Why’s Cassandra—I didn’t put her in the party by accident, did I—oh, poor Harding—oh, there we go.

Thanks, Morrigan!

Can blood be “engorged”? Sounds weird. I think you might’ve wanted a different word there, stretchy man.

Was that Dorian he was calling “one more rattus emerged from the garbage”? Not nice. You’ll get extra stabbed for that.

Now that I get a good look at him, have mages’ feathered capelets (if they go all the way around the back, they’re not pauldrons) really not changed style at all in so many centuries? Anders’ was sleeker, due no doubt to graphical limitations, but they’re otherwise nearly identical.

Oh, a break for dragon time. Eat it, stretchy dragon.

And the stretchy man has been thoroughly stabbed. Solas needed a couple of healing potions, but as for the others, a full guard bar is a beautiful thing.

YEET

Aw, poor Solas, his orb is broken.

Hello, babies. <3 All right, let’s have a nice chat with everyone before we move on.

Avasis has spent half the game wanting to give most of his inner circle big, squishy hugs (I know, it surprised me too to see him develop that way), but the game doesn’t want to give me that option, so nice chats will have to suffice.

Aww, Dorian’s romantic bit when leaving the party is sweet.

And let’s jump into Trespasser, shall we?

Oh, bless you, Josephine, and your very strange idea of what constitutes a quiet evening out.

You know, it makes me kind of uncomfortable the way not only this DLC but the endings of both the base game and Origins spend their time jumping up and down and yelling “Didn’t you want this? And this? And this? Look at all the things you always wanted!” And even if I genuinely did want the thing, the way we’re given it feels...wrong.

Case in point: “Look! Cullen is happy this time, and he’s playing with a dog instead of being mobbed! Aren’t you happy? Isn’t this what you wanted the whole time?” It’s better than a repeat of his treatment in Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, but...hrnnnngh.

Did Bran sound this much like Sebastian doing an accent in DA2? I can’t remember that being the case. I mean, I know it’s the same VA, but...

OK, he’s back to normal after his first couple of lines. Weird.

I love to play Avasis as blithely Not Getting It when his friends try to complain to him. You’re the viscount now, Varric? That’s wonderful!

I’d absolutely read about the adventures of Aveline and Shokrakar.

“Assignment: Free Marches, Vimmark Mountains, reporting to Warden Stoudenmire in ongoing investigation of Vimmark Prison” Wasn’t that what Varric said Carver was off doing? Say hello to him for me, Thom. And if you find any of the Awakening babies on the way, give them a hug for me.

Cassandra, you dork, I think you’ve been reading too much of that smutty literature. You’ve put an idea in Avasis’ head, certainly, but he and Dorian both have work to do and marriage won’t be in the cards for a while yet if it ever is.

Heh, the thing with the Chargers is cute.

Aww, Cole.

Aww, Dorian.

Teagan’s hateboner for the Wardens and their involvement in Fereldan politics never stops being utterly bizarre in a timeline with a King Alistair, especially given the involvement of Teagan himself in Alistair’s court (as evidenced by the fact that he’s here at the Winter Palace to be complaining). Were Anora ruling alone, he might have a leg to stand on.

It was even worse in Linniva’s timeline, where Alistair’s seemingly well-loved queen was doubling as Ferelden’s Warden-Commander—at least Alistair himself banged out of the Wardens when he took the throne!—but it still makes very little sense here.

Today on “So, who gets the free spot in the party?” The only clear shoo-in for eluvian-related shenanigans is obviously gone. I brought Varric last time, though he does have some great dialogue that I wouldn’t mind hearing again.

Mages are useful, and unlike last time I don’t have a Knight-Enchanter as my Inquisitor. Let’s air out Vivienne for a bit.

I’m sure the supply caches littered around the place are very useful on higher difficulties, but between Vivienne’s effectively inexhaustible barrier as a Knight-Enchanter and everyone else’s guard-on-hit armor, it’s fairly rare for anyone in the party to have so much as a dent put in them.

I can see where Teagan is coming from—shouting and open defiance let him rid Ferelden of a tyrant before, so why not use the same tactic again if he sees the Inquisitor as a potential second Loghain?

That said, Teagan, honey, it’s not going to work this time.

I love that you may not actually have Sandal waiting to enchant your stuff before you face the endgame in DAI, but with his diary sitting next to a “Modify Weapons” workbench, it’s almost like he’s there!

Dorian. You are not a tank. You are not even a Knight-Enchanter. A full guard bar is a beautiful thing, but that still doesn’t mean you have any business in melee range right now. Not with enemies who can deplete that guard bar in a few swipes unless you step the fuck back to the designated mage area. Please, before you give your boyfriend a heart attack.

And Dorian now has a bees-on-hit staff, which I expect to be delightful fun in the fights coming up.

Weh, Dorian. Don’t you worry, Avasis isn’t about to die on you. Not yet.

To the Darvaarad!

Oh, this is great, there are bees everywhere. I haven’t stopped giggling.

Lord Inquisitor Kill All The Dragons did not kill the dragon this time. Thanks, wiki walkthrough! Oh man, the looks on those Qunari’s faces.

The season finale of Avasis Blithely Doesn’t Get It: The Viddasala is clearly confused or lying, and Solas is his kind of racist but staunch and helpful friend who’s clearly in trouble and needs Avasis to save him, right? Right?!

Things got hairy a couple of times on the way to Saarath, but the actual fight against him wasn’t too bad. Whew.

And the Inquisition will be kept going, because they have to find Solas and convince him not to do the thing, right?

This is the first time I sat through the credits. Varric’s writing and Cassandra’s impressions of everyone are great. BRB, dying.

And since we’re saying goodbye to Avasis, a picture of the baby, as per SOP. (I wasn’t kidding about that red thing being unflattering on him.)

[wootensmith]

Mending

The hollow pop of the enchantment shattering cut through even the chaotic cries of battle and Solas abruptly halted mid-cast and scanned the dusty plain for the Inquisitor. But her barrier remained. She was too far from him to have heard it, if it had been her. The distraction cost him a heavy bruise to his side as one of the slavers slammed a club into him and he fell back a step before blasting the man with a stone fist. He forgot about the sound of the breaking spell for the next few minutes, struggling to catch up with his opponent’s movements. It wasn’t until he was recovering his breath and pressing healing into his sore side that he thought of it again. When Varric started shouting.

“Kid! You get hit? Cole!” Solas whipped around to see Cole on his knees in the sand, Varric running toward him. The Inquisitor was closest and she slid down beside him before Solas had even closed half the distance.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, pulling the hat from his head before he’d answered, checked his clothing for rents or blood. He didn’t move. She glanced up at Varric and then to Solas. “Cole,” he said sternly, his ribs still aching. “Are you injured?” The boy lifted something from the sand and held it up to him. “The spell is sundered, freedom flown. Bind me!” he cried. “Oh, Cole,” said the Inquisitor sagging with relief when she realized it was his amulet that had been damaged and not him, “I’m sorry. We’ll repair it.” Solas reached forward for Cole’s amulet. Varric shook his head, irritated by what he thought was a talisman only, something to soothe a boy rather than real protection. “Yes!” said Cole, “Pull it closed, like the rifts. Wrap it around me again.”

Solas turned the broken amulet, inspecting it. It had been cloven in two, the stone utterly dead. No spark of magic tingled in it. “Ir abelas, Cole, it cannot be repaired. The spell unraveled. We will have to obtain another when we return to Skyhold.” “No, no, this one was there when I chose. Was held by all of your hands.” Cole clutched his head. “Long leagues to Skyhold. Slavers and scarlet templars and warped wardens between. Not safe.” “We’ll keep you safe, Cole,” said the Inquisitor pulling his hands down. Varric bent over and picked up the hat, dusting it off angrily. “Only if you bind me.” “Nobody is binding you Cole—” “You must.” “Told you this question wasn’t just going to disappear, Inquisitor,” muttered Varric, handing the hat back to Cole. “You don’t need it. It’s just— it’s a pebble, kid. You’ve been keeping yourself safe this whole time.” “No,” Cole shook his head. “That’s not me Varric. The boy who lives in your head, who you dream was born and had brothers and needs to go home. It’s not me. Just dreams.” Varric sighed. “I know that’s what you think, kid, but…” he trailed off for a minute. “Help me out, Inquisitor,” he said. “It’s not fair to keep him afraid like this. We all knew the amulet was going to break sooner or later. He’s not going to get better until—” “He doesn’t need to ‘get better’, Master Tethras,” Solas snapped. “He is as he ought to be. I’ve told you, he’s not a human child.” “Then fix it,” pleaded Cole. “I cannot. The enchantment is gone. You must endure until we can procure another. It is impossible to repair this one.”

The Inquisitor quickly reached up to pull the shards from his palm. “Everything can be fixed, one way or another Solas,” she said softly. “It just takes a little time to figure out how.” Solas caught Cole watching him below the brim of his hat and had a fleeting suspicion that Cole had been waiting for her to say that exact thing. “The way to repair it,” he said calmly, “is to replace it. It is merely a few weeks’ delivery from Rivain and the cost is negligible.” “Then it won’t be right. It’ll be someone else’s magic. Someone else’s armor,” said Cole. “It was someone else’s magic already. I did not lay the spell. Nor the Inquisitor.” “A thousand times a thousand spells of protection. One for each name,” murmured Cole. The Inquisitor glanced uneasily at Solas. “That is not the same,” he told the boy. “If it comforts you to have a blessing from your friends, we could repeat whatever it is you think we did to this one.” “No. It carries memory in it. Like veilfire. Like Shapers. Friends in the Fade follow it. A new one is— empty.” “There is no—” “Let me try, emma lath,” the Inquisitor said, catching his hand. Solas gave a reluctant nod. Varric shook his head but only said, “And in the meantime?” The Inquisitor looked around the slaver camp. It was one of many they’d run across in the Wastes. There were likely more to liberate. “We’ll have to return to camp. Cole will be safe there until we have stemmed the Venatori threat.” The boy began to protest. “It is either that or we return to Skyhold. There are slaves waiting to be freed, Cole. If we leave them, they may be forced to consume the red lyrium. I cannot do that,” she said gently. “Are you able to return to the Fade?” asked Solas. “I can,” he said. “I am light, unlittered. I can slip across, a kind, small thing.” “Perhaps, until we return to Skyhold, that would be for the best.”

“Or,” said Varric, glaring at Solas, “you could trust us, kid, and instead of wandering off with a disappearing act, we could take you back to camp.” “You worry, but the Fade is my home. It will be easier there.” “Hmm. Even if I really believed that, didn’t someone summon a friend of yours from the Fade, kid? You’re better off with us. We didn’t let anyone hurt you before you got that— amulet. Why can’t you trust us now?” “You have my trust, Varric. But the world is not all Varric or Solas or Inquisitor.” Varric blew out a frustrated breath. “Walking with me makes you worry less,” Cole realized. “Yes,” admitted Varric. “I feel better when I can see you with my own two eyes.” “Then I will walk with you. To camp. After, Solas can walk with me in the Fade.” Solas nodded in agreement. Varric sighed and then shrugged. “I guess it’s as good a compromise as any,” he said.

Solas sent word back to Josephine to request another amulet even as the Inquisitor tried to piece together the sharp bits of the original and Varric fumed at her for encouraging what he thought was folly. He waited until Varric had worn himself down and grumbled his way out to his watch before finding her arm in the dark tent. “You cannot repair it, Vhenan,” he said, knowing she was thinking rather than sleeping. “I’ll find a way,” she answered. “Sometimes, there isn’t one. “There always is. Sometimes, we’re just not patient enough to find it.” “Another amulet will be waiting at Skyhold anyhow. Rest. Cole will understand.” “He won’t. He has his heart set on saving this one. And he’ll know that I didn’t even try.” “He is a spirit of Compassion. He will forgive you.” There was silence for a long time. He thought she may have fallen asleep, her hand limp and warm in his. “I won’t forgive me,” she whispered at last. His fingers glided over her hand, her wrist, trying to soothe. “Then— sleep, at least. No problem is solved when you’re exhausted. Sleep and we’ll look at it again in the morning.” “We? I thought you said it was a waste of time. Impossible.” “I believe I have proclaimed several things impossible to date. And yet, you have accomplished them all. I am willing to be wrong again. And should we fail—” he brought her hand to his mouth, kissed the soft back of it. “There has never been a moment of my time with you that was ‘wasted’. Sleep. We’ll think on it in the morning.”

They hadn’t discovered a solution by the time they finished with the Venatori. Unsurprising, as the Wastes had been exhausting. Miles of sand punctuated by frenzied battles to rescue prisoners hidden in cages between the dunes. Cole found Solas each night in the Fade, but proved immovable on the subject of the amulet, though Solas did his best to persuade him to accept a replacement. Varric had given up grousing about it, missing Cole too much to continue railing against the one thing that might convince him to return. He had even offered the service of one Uncle Pirol to reset the shattered stone. The Inquisitor kept the pieces in the small pouch at her waist and continually traced their shape through the fabric with a finger as she rode, lost in thought. “Perhaps we could cast the spell on the reset stone,” she murmured. “No— the fractures would make it reverberate. Unstable… Perhaps Dagna will know a way to recut the stone in a way that will—” “There isn’t enough there to recut,” he told her. “The final stones would be too small to hold the spell.” “Must it be a stone, then?” “I am— not well versed in enchanting. I have found other material suitable for spells, certainly, but stone is the most durable.” “Not durable enough,” she said ruefully. “If I could enchant the setting or the chain, perhaps it would be enough to honor our promise and protect Cole at the same time.” “You are right about speaking to Dagna. Recutting the stone may not be a possibility, but she might know what else could hold the enchantment.” “Do you know the spell?” Solas shook his head. “It isn’t something I ever— found necessary to learn. But if you insist upon attempting it, I am certain Josephine can procure a master to teach us.”

Dagna was oddly pleased by the puzzle, brightly examining the broken amulet while Varric paced the cool Undercroft and Cole sat perched upon the stone steps, watching. Solas was mildly irritated to see the boy appear so undisturbed by something that had caused the Inquisitor several sleepless nights. “Was it a blunt weapon or a blade, Inquisitor?” chirped Dagna. “I— believe it was a blade. Does it matter?” “Well sure. If it were cleaved along the right plane it wouldn’t hurt the integrity of the stone but if it were smashed— here, it’s easier if you look.” The Inquisitor bent to look through Dagna’s large glass at the shards. Solas drifted over to Cole. “They care very much for you, Cole,” he said quietly. “Yes,” Cole agreed. “If you ask the impossible, they will still try to do it for you. Even to the point of causing them pain.” The boy looked up at him. “She is very patient, Solas. Stitches the broken things together. Even the things meant to stay broken. They’re stronger at the seam. The amulet is a small thing. Others ask for bigger impossibilities and love helps her do them.” “But there is an alternative. Another amulet just as effective—” “The other amulet’s a still pond. No ripples.” Solas didn’t understand that part, but let it slide away as Dagna said abruptly, “You know where he is, don’t you, Varric?” “I— Hawke would. I have my suspicions but it’ll take time to track him down. Are you certain, Inquisitor?” “If this Sandal is willing to look at it, I would gladly accept the help.” Varric shook his head but then shrugged. “I suppose it isn’t hurting anyone. The kid can stay here until then, right? No more vanishing act?” “Yes,” said Cole, “safe in the rafters above the Iron Bull. Warm amid the floating voices. I can stay.”

The protection spell was far more intricate than he’d expected. The mage from Rivain was not as tenacious as the Inquisitor and tried several times to persuade her to simply allow him to lay the enchantment, but she insisted, practicing long hours in her quarters. They smelled of char and ozone after a few days of it and several flasks of spirit essence lay shattered on her desk, exploding every time the spell destabilized. He’d had similar luck. The formula was trickier than it appeared at first glance. He couldn’t deny that he lacked any specific talent for this form of magic. He disliked the way her jaw grew more rigid with each passing hour and the lines beneath the vallaslin on her forehead deepened with worry. He almost looked forward to being forced out of Skyhold again, if it would put a stop to the trial and distract her. She mastered it before that could happen, of course. Near the midnight bell one night. He’d already slipped into a doze, the sizzle of her spells just a distant hum in the background until she laughed, bright and clear. He shook himself awake. She was radiant, surprised, despite the exhausted hollows under her eyes as she held up the small stone in triumph. “It’s holding!” she exclaimed, putting it into his palm. The stone was warm, pulsing with the spell. Far stronger than the original spell had been. The other had been one of dozens the other mage had created, they’d held back, only doled out a small portion of mana to each one, but this one— That’s why the others weren’t stable, he realized. She tried too hard. Overcharged it in an attempt to keep him safer. “Excellent,” he said, enjoying the happy laugh that fell from her lips again. “Now I just need to figure out how to fix the stone. And then—” her face fell in an instant. “How will we know?” she asked. He shook his head. “Know what?” “Whether it’s working. I can’t exactly test it. We’d have to attempt a binding and I don’t want— I’ve seen what that can do.” “How do you know your barrier spells are working without having someone try to stab you?” he asked, placing the stone gently down beside him and reaching for her blistered hands. They’d been scorched each time the spell backfired.

“By feel, mostly. But I don’t know what this spell should feel like. Maybe I’ve cast something entirely different. Maybe something that will harm Cole.” “Then we will ask the Rivaini master if it feels correct to him. He is familiar with the correct sensation.” Her blisters smoothed away with a little healing, leaving only tough callouses behind. “It doesn’t feel the same, touching another mage’s spell, you know that. He’d be able to feel another spell there, but not which one.” Solas thought for a moment, still tracing the pattern of toughened skin on her fingertips. “How do you know that Dorian’s barriers work? Or mine?” She shrugged. “Faith, I suppose.” “Is it so hard to have faith in your own magic then?” “Well— yes. When other people’s lives are at stake.” He laughed softly, but stopped abruptly when she pulled her hand away. “Ir abelas, Vhenan. I was not mocking. It is only— other people’s lives have been in jeopardy since I met you. You have not disappointed them, or Cole, yet. For all of Varric’s mistaken belief about him, he is correct about that. We have protected Cole for much longer than the amulet. He is safe with us, even were your spell to fall apart. But it will not.” He picked up the stone and turned it over, feeling the thrum of the magic within. “I can feel that it’s stable. And so can you, or you would not have shown me. Be at ease. It was never you that I doubted, only the stone that he insists on keeping.” She sighed and sank into the chair beside him. “Even if this Sandal fellow could repair it— what’s to stop the same thing from happening? It is likely to be even more fragile afterward. And the Inquisition is no place for fragile, precious things.” She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to rub away the tension there.

“Ah,” he said, “that is a piece of the puzzle I have already found.” “Oh?” she asked. “You did not think I’ve been idly watching you struggle did you?” She flushed with shame and he laughed. “I knew you would master the spell. I had another task to strengthen Cole’s amulet. He likes the veilfire room. The layers of spellwork that protect this place. I cannot cast a thousand distinct spells for him, nor does the Inquisition have enough mages to do so, even were they all willing. But I have found a way to make it easier for him to remain protected both in the waking world and when he returns to the Fade. Something the original amulet could not do.” “So something like the summoning Wisdom suffered could not happen to him?” She touched his hand. “That’s the intent. I will need your help to accomplish it.” “Of course.” He took her marked hand in his. “I’ll need you to open a path. Just a small one. As you did the night we were together. I’ll be able to anchor a piece of the Fade to the stone.” “We should wait for the stone to be repaired.” Solas shook his head slightly, still disbelieving that the amulet could be fixed, but only said, “Ma nuvenin, my love. I will be ready to attempt it when you are.”

She and Varric went to Val Royeaux alone. Both Solas and Dagna were disappointed, wishing to see this dwarven savant for themselves, but Varric had insisted. “They’re not exactly public,” he’d told Solas. “Had to leave Kirkwall a year or so ago. Just before shit went sideways. It was hard enough getting Bodahn to even agree to meet the Inquisitor. We take a whole troupe there and he’ll take Sandal and bolt. They’re good people. And we both know this is never going to work. Why upset their whole lives? I’ll take her to meet him. It’ll be quiet. She’ll come back ready to put the whole mess behind us and Cole will stop vanishing every time one of the mages stares at him a minute too long.” Solas frowned. “Look, Chuckles, I’m worried too. But he can’t keep going like this, even if you’re right. One way or another, we have to deal with it. He can’t spend the rest of his— time here, whatever that might mean, terrified. And the Inquisitor can’t keep allowing the entire company to grind to a halt to repair talismans.” He whispered, as if it would matter, and Solas again felt a mixture of amusement and irritation with Varric’s insistence that Cole was just a confused human boy. But he was right. One way or another, this had to be resolved.

He’d expected disappointment or dejection when she returned. Some kind of gentle ribbing on Varric’s part and a good-natured attempt at persuading Cole of the utter impossibility of the task. But the Inquisitor was sedate, cheerful and relaxed when she rode through the gates of Skyhold, laughing with Varric. And Cole had stayed visible all morning, sitting on the causeway watching for them with an ease that the boy did not usually exhibit. “It went well then?” Solas asked him as they watched the Inquisitor speaking to the gate guards before entering. Cole looked up at him, squinting against the bright autumn sun. “She discovered what she needed,” he said. It wasn’t until that evening that Solas suspected he’d not been speaking only of the amulet. They followed the Inquisitor to the Undercroft where Dagna darted from one arcane piece of equipment to the next, excitedly chattering while she tested the repaired amulet. It was larger than Solas remembered, threads of lyrium dust filling in the cracks where it had shattered and a strange new setting bracketing it. Something he’d never seen before or imagined possible. Stitched closed like cloth. Whole. Still a silent thing. No spell seeping from it, no tiny tendril of the Fade spiraled inside. But— ready. Waiting. If a thing could be said to be waiting. It seemed an age before Dagna finally got through her questions and pronounced the piece ready for enchantment again. Varric was either too pleased to see Cole at ease or the Inquisitor had soothed his fretting, because he stayed in the Undercroft longer than usual, even watching the Inquisitor cast the complicated spell. After a few moments, Dagna pronounced it stable and moved to take it.

“Wait,” said the Inquisitor, “There is one more thing to add.” She turned to Solas. He hesitated. “I am unsure if it is wise to do this so publicly—” The Inquisitor glanced at Varric and then to Dagna. “Not a word to Cassandra,” she warned them. “This isn’t as perilous as it might appear.” Dagna shrugged. “Didn’t join up because of Cassandra, I guess. And if you have something new to show me— let me get a scroll.” she said, racing to find a place to take notes. Varric took a nervous step back from the large apparatus. “Don’t tell me you two are messing with blood magic. I’ve seen enough of it for one life—” “Peace, Varric. Neither of us practice blood magic,” said Solas. He watched Varric relax. “Cassandra would be less angry about blood magic,” offered Cole. The Inquisitor uttered a soft groan of frustration that he’d said so aloud. Varric stared at Solas. “She would, would she? Then this, I’ve got to see.” “Not one syllable, Varric,” warned the Inquisitor. “To the Seeker? You have my word,” he said, drawing closer again and bending over Dagna’s glass, “To anyone else— no promises, Inquisitor.” “We should do this— elsewhere,” said Solas. “He’ll write it into the next three books otherwise.” “Too late for that. You send me away, Chuckles, and I’ll make something up. Likely more outrageous than whatever you’re planning. Besides, people only believe the stuff that never happened. The truth’s always too weird for them,” said Varric without looking up. “Very well,” said Solas with a defeated sigh. He turned to the Inquisitor. “Are you ready, Vhenan?” She nodded, holding up her marked hand. He watched her concentrate on the bright emerald shine of the anchor and felt the Veil slide slowly apart. Dagna gasped and Varric swore loudly.

“Remain calm,” said Solas. “Calm? You’ve opened a rift. Right here in Skyhold!” Varric hissed. “It’s in her control, Varric.” “Sure. That’s probably what Corypheus said, too, right before the world exploded.” Varric pushed Dagna and Cole back a few steps, despite the fact that Dagna was eagerly reaching toward the small tear and Cole seemed utterly unconcerned. “If it grows unstable, I’ll close it. I promise, Varric. And Solas is here to help if anything happens,” said the Inquisitor, staring at her hand in concentration. “Normally that’d make me feel better. Not in this case.” “You don’t trust me?” she asked. “I trust you, but— no offense, Inquisitor, if it came to you or the Fade— I’m not certain which Chuckles loves more. You so sure he’d help?” Solas was startled to see the Inquisitor falter. She glanced at him and the rift trembled, began to warp. “He has never hesitated to help with a rift before—” “He’s never told you to open one before, either,” cried Varric, “This whole thing is—” “Enough!” barked Solas, “Hold your peace until this is through, Master Tethras. We do not need more distractions. A simple spell and it will be done and closed again. Focus, Inquisitor.” She took a breath and adjusted the anchor. The small rift stabilized, but he could see the doubt plain on her face. He regretted not denying it immediately. Later, he told himself, and began his own spell. Varric paced until the rift dissolved leaving no trace on the chilled Undercroft air, alternately yanking Dagna back and reaching for the crossbow that was not at hand, but remaining silent as Solas had demanded.

“It isn’t a thousand spells, Cole,” said the Inquisitor holding the repaired amulet out to the boy, “but it has all the love and well wishes of your friends. If that has any power, I hope that it puts you at ease.” “Thank you,” Cole sighed, and pulled the amulet over his head, playing with it as it landed against his chest. Varric grumbled something under his breath. “Best keep that like it’s the relic of some Andrastian saint, Cole. Not going through all—” he waved his hand at the empty air where the rift had been, “this again.” “We will keep each other safe,” said Cole, still staring at the amulet, twisting it to watch the play of the lyrium shimmering. “Good. Glad that’s— done.” Varric shook his head. “I’m— headed to the Herald’s Rest. Going to need an ale after that. Less likely to run into Cassandra that way, too. You coming, kid?” Cole agreed easily. “Rest of you?” “I— I could use an ale too, and some time to go over these calculations,” stammered Dagna, still wide eyed and dazed. “You could use a visit with Sera, too, I think,” said Varric. “Both could. She’ll talk us out of believing what we just saw.” He turned to Solas and the Inquisitor. “How about you two? First round’s on me if you tell me what in Thedas just happened.” The Inquisitor shook her head. “Not today, Varric. I’m sorry.”

Varric tugged at his earring and hesitated. “I didn’t mean that, a few minutes ago, you know. None of my business in the first place,” he said, flushing. “Just— the last time I saw the Fade that close— it didn’t go so well. Shit, the last time you saw the Fade that close, it didn’t go so well either. Just— rattled.” “I know, Varric. I should have warned you or— waited. I was just so excited to fix Cole’s amulet,” said the Inquisitor. Cole shifted restlessly from one foot to another. He should be happy, thought Solas and tried to calm his own irritation. Varric thrust a hand toward Solas. “What about you, Solas? Forgive me?” He clasped the dwarf’s hand. Varric had excused far worse on Solas’s part. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend. Though I— am not sufficiently recovered from our last night in the tavern to risk another just yet.” Varric grinned. “Too bad. I haven’t collected from Bull yet. Said he needed to see it for himself before he’d believe it.” He glanced at Cole and saw him still staring uneasily at the Inquisitor. Not enough, he realized, but Varric prodded the boy gently and they left the Undercroft, leaving Solas and the Inquisitor to stare after them.

After a moment, she picked up the traveling pack from beside the apparatus. She’d been so eager to finish that she hadn’t stopped in her quarters first. “It’s been a long ride. And I have missed you,” she said. “Will you dine with me?” “If I were to— entirely forgo the Fade, I would be incapable of love. Or much else,” he said abruptly. “I’m not certain I can believe that. Something lingers in the tranquil. I see— flashes of it, occasionally. But if this is about what Varric said—” “If you doubt—” She burst into a bright laugh. “Oh, Solas, you cannot seriously think I am jealous of the Fade. Or that I doubt you. Especially after we were there together. In truth, I can see now why it draws you. It felt so natural. And ever since— everything is muted.” He caught her fingers, eager and hopeful. Irrational. “Yes, exactly. We are so sundered from what we ought to be. The physical world is— limiting. Frustrating. And the Fade is warped from what it once was. Lacking weight and definition.” He swept a stray wisp of hair from her cheek. “That night— with you, was more than either. As if we were finally completely whole. That is how people existed once, it’s how we were. If we could be that way again, if the magic could return—” he broke off. Her expression had fallen into the same wavering, anxious one it had been when her control of the rift had slipped. What have I done? “What troubles you, Vhenan?” he asked. “No— nothing. Something the enchanter said. The one Varric and I went to see. It’s nothing.” He felt a prickle of dread. “You are uneasy. It is not nothing.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “You would not ask me to do something— you’d never use me to destroy the people we care about. Or innocents. Not the way Varric meant.” He wasn’t certain whether it was a question or a statement to convince herself. “No,” he said, “You are not a thing to be used.” “Then— you should tell me the truth, Solas.” “I know,” he admitted, though he offered her nothing further. She pressed a hand to his cheek. “Have I failed you? Is there anything you’ve told me that I couldn’t understand?” He leaned in to her touch, closed his eyes. “Te’uth. You’ve never failed me.” “Why do you fear that I will now?” He opened his eyes again, found her searching his face. “I have not earned your faith,” he said. “But I’ve told you, you cannot earn my love. Nor can you lose it. It just— is. Through joy or disappointment or peril. Push me away or— or continue hiding, and I will grieve, but I will not cease to love you.” He was uncertain what to tell her. The truth burned on his tongue, but the dread was so heavy, he could not open his mouth. She waited for a moment, then pulled him into a gentle kiss. “The only thing you can change about this is whether you feel worthy of it in the future,” she said softly. She smiled. “Come to dinner, emma lath. This was meant to be a good day. We aided a dear friend in a way you thought impossible. Put aside the sorrow and let me be proud of us.” He slid his arms around her. “Ar lath ma, mah vindhru.” “And it is that truth I care most about,” she said. “But Solas— I will not accept parables forever.” “I know.”

Cole found him pacing on the Inquisitor’s balcony the next morning. “Your silence hurts, Solas. Like something sharp she runs into in the dark. She never knows when it’ll wound her again.” “What did this Sandal tell her?” He was angry with Cole. Suspected it had all been a ruse, from the beginning. “What she already knew. What you tried to tell her but couldn’t.” “Did you do it on purpose? The amulet? I was worried for you. We all were.” Cole glanced down at the stone, twisting it idly between his fingers. “There are little fears and big ones. Sometimes, you forget the bigger one if you only look at the little ones.” “I thought you came to help, Cole. But you— have hurt. Me, Varric, the Inquisitor. And it was a near thing— what if we were not able to repair it? Or if the Inquisitor had decided to bind you when you asked?” Cole perched upon the balcony railing and watched Solas continue pacing. “I like the infirmary. It’s easy to help there. Simple. I have time to watch. Some soldiers wait too long to come. They burn and ache, too full and swollen. The surgeon lances their wounds. It hurts for a moment, but after— they are healed. Better. If he did not hurt them, they would die.” “We were in no danger of dying,” fumed Solas. “You are.” “I fear your ploy will only cause her to join me, then.” “If I did nothing, she would join you anyhow. If you tell her, maybe she’ll find another way. She mended a stone. The breach. Orlais. Maybe she will mend you, too.” “That is an unkind thing to ask of her.” Cole considered for a moment. “I am not Kindness. Maybe it would be better if I were. Smaller, softer. Compassion is not always easy. Not always painless. I told you I would keep your secret as long as it would not help them to know. That it would hurt her. And you. But it is hurting you both for her not to know. Do not let the hurt swell too long, Solas.” He blinked out.

[blondepomeranian]

For the writing prompts: #3 and/or #53 for FenHawke please!

Ask and you shall receive! One at a time, however. :)

#53 first. It’s… different from short works I normally post on here, however maybe not so different from Dinner at Hawke’s in terms of style. A while back I made a joke that I have two different styles with zero in between. They go by AngstyFeelings McPurpleProse and Punningby TheSeat O’YerPants.

Prepare to meet the latter.

Prompt #53: “I’m flirting with you.”

There are a set of rules writtenin the backroom of the Hanged Man. At one point they had hung in the main areaof the bar, but the years of getting literally and figuratively spit, stomped,and vomited upon forced it into hiding. This helped to an extent—a spine worksbest when not exposed to repeated damage, after all.

Somewhere on that list is a linescrawled with a few rips on the downstrokes. Although originally an act of a be-swindledvandal, once the tavern owners read the ad-hoc addition, they found themselvesunable to object. They figured it an appropriate amendment… and fair warning.

And if you look closely at thewooden pillar where the list once hung, you can see the same angry lines etchedin the wood itself. In the right light, it reads:

DO NOT BET AGAINST THE RIVAINI BITCH.

  No one in Hawke’s motley circlehad ever been in the back room of the Hanged Man, nor had they seen the warningcarved in the pillar.

All the better, so when Isabelajabbed a finger at Varric over a game of Wicked Grace, he was none the wiser.

“I bet,” Isabela started with herharbinger, a wink in her eye they thought to be related to her hand. “That Ican end Hawke’s dry spell.”

Varric snorted, drawing a card.“You already barked up that—well, climbedthat tree once, Rivaini. Plus, I don’t think she’d—”

Isabela rolled her eyes with ahuff. “Not personally. What I mean isthat I bet I can get her and Fenris back together—physically, to start,anyway.”

“Andraste’s ass dimples…” Varricgrumbled at his new card, quickly addressing Isabela to hide that fact. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“No,” she answered with a toss ofher hair. “But it’d be fun.”

And in this, she wasn’t wrong.Word of her bet spread like fleas across their group, everyone but Andersitching to try their own plan or to watch the plans of others flourish orflounder.

Although initially objecting tothis ‘invasive tomfoolery’, Aveline shortly thereafter concocted her own plotto reunite the two.

She was voted ineligible within aminute.

“Nice night for an evening,”Donnic reminded her.

Merrill and Sebastian voiced their own ploys thatwere laid to rest after some deliberation. Too chaste, or too obvious, or toocomplicated to come to fruition.

With a resigned sigh and openpalms, Varric admitted that he had no plan of his own to counter Isabela’s bet.“Fenris—well, they separated for reasons I was told in confidence. While Ithink the little dance they’re doing is stupid at best and toxic at worst…Hawke’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

Then, he added to his owndamnation: “That said, I still don’t think it’ll work, but I can’t wait to seeyou try.”

So, sink or swim, they all agreed—naively,foolishly, and in some cases, begrudgingly—be onboard with Isabela’s scheme.  

   The rule etched in the woodenpillar was covered by a flyer for the new entertainment at the Blooming Rosewhen they met the next week for cards.

Everyone but the two in questionreceived very specific instructions prior to the meeting—where to sit, what todrink, what to wear… Isabela was worrisomely thorough.

“I know, I know,” Isabela bemoaned theatrically. “But our usual card table gota bit smashed by this unruly fellow who could handle losing a bit of coin butnot a single drop of pride without a raising a storm. Just be thankful theydidn’t give us the glass one, trustme.”

Once everyone had taken theirassigned seats—leaving Fenris and Hawke strategically adjoined at acorner—Isabela began shuffling the cards.

“Now, seeing as it’s my birthday, I say we do things a little differently this week.”

Seated on opposite end from Hawke,Merrill whispered to Aveline next to her, “Do people in Rivain celebrate theirbirthdays twice a year? That seems a bit unfair to the rest of us.”

Aveline replied, “Don’t worry. Itcan be your birthday again next week.”

Dealing the cards in singles insteadof pairs, Isabela continued, “I got special permission from the owners to playthis game, so none of you are allowed to leave until you play at least a fewrounds. Captain’s orders.”

Hawke, already a few sips in,raised her glass. “Aye aye, Captain!”

The torchlight of the tavern made Isabela’seyes glint like rubies, her grin swelling like a storm on the horizon. “Youlose, you drink. You curse, you drink,” she ordered, “You blush, you drink.Catch someone staring at you, they drink. But! If you wink at them, whoeverlooks away first has to drink.”

The remaining cards in her handthundered down on the table, her hair rolling like storm clouds over hershoulders. She flashed them a wicked look.

“Alright swabs and strumpets. Thename of the game tonight? Naked Grace.”

   The first couple rounds came andfell like torrents. Between Hawke, who couldn’t bluff with the heart she woreon her sleeve and lover’s wrist, and Fenris, the perpetually card-cursed, itdidn’t take long before the drinks seemed to go down just the same.

“Now, isn’t this just delightful!”Isabela crooned from under Varric’s overcoat, Fenris’ tunic, Merrill’s scarf,Aveline’s headband, and a crude imitation of Hawke’s bloodswipe she’d drawn onwith lip-paint. She kicked up her heels onto the table, Donnic’s shoes flimsilyslipped over her own boots like a child wearing who’d dressed themselves fromtheir parent’s closet.

As the next wave of stolenclothing and begrudging swallows made its way around, Fenris voice caughtHawke’s attention.

“Hawke.”

…Eventually.

“Hawke.”

Her blue eyes snapped into focus,swerving until they crashed into his. “Caught you staring,” he said with aneffortless wink. “Drink.”

Oh, Maker have mercy. She could feel the blood risingto her face. Clutching the edge of the table, she steeled herself and held hisgaze. “No, no, I’m not looking away, see?”

But he wouldn’t back down thateasily. “Nor am I, but I wasn’t the one caught staring in the first place.”

And neither would she. She leanedcloser with a sultry grin to try to catch him offguard. “And if I was?”

Fenris held her gaze evenly withthe ghost of a smile that she wanted to punch as she felt her cheeks burn.“Then, drink… twice.”

Reaching blindly for her drink,she sputtered, “Damn you and your, your stupid—”

“Thrice, now.”

Hawke looked away and swiped ather glass. Taking a swig from her mug, she held up four fingers, swig, then three, swig, then two, until her middle finger was the only one leftstanding.

   Another hour passed. Or maybe two.Hawke was so busy keeping track of the drinks she had to take and the clothesshe had to take off that she had completely lost track of time.

Though she’d been stripped of hershirt, she’d briefly earned one back in the form of Varric’s overcoat forfeitby Isabela to Merrill who then lost it in a gamble. Briefly, as not long after she’d gotten it, she lost it again byway of shedding it due to the alcohol’s warmth.

Everyone else was in a similarstate of disarray—save for Isabela, of course, and Sebastian, having heeded hersecret instructions to him to wear as much rings and baubles as he could manage.Oh, and how everyone devoured the juicy idea that Sebastian had outwitted her!—thathe could strip himself of those in lieu of making himself indecent.

To match the heart of gold, Isabelatwirled Sebastian’s ring of silver around her finger. “Give it another hour more,at most. Get enough alcohol into anyone and shove ‘em up next to their crush,they’ll all revert to horny teenagers within the hour.”

Sebastian just snorted inresponse. “Precisely why I abstain.”

Fenris remained clothed in hisleggings but for the saving grace of the occasional barmaid swinging by tocheck on them. Hawke—both thankful and not that the corner of the wooden tableobstructed some of her view—used this to her advantage. She could now spot ablush more easily, watching creep up his chest, shoulders, and neck before itwould reach his face, she found out. Not that she’d been looking.

Despite that his lousy luck onlygot worse the more drinks he had under the belt he no longer had, Fenris hadnot completely surrendered to Hawke’s onslaught of “Drink!” accusations, no matter how well deserved each one was. Hestill could parry her on technicalities—in particular, her sloppy winkingtechnique.

“That is a blink. You blunk botheyes.”

“I blinked both eyes.”

“So you admit it. Drink.”

Hawke slammed a fist onto thetable. “Bloody hell, you can’t play that card like that!”

Despite it all, Fenris laughedout, “But it is the only good card I have!”

From the other side of Hawke, cladin only his necklace and his stolen overcoat slung over his lap, Varric raisedhis glass. “Hear, hear! To Hawke, getting played like a fiddle there, and tothe truest statement I’ve heard all night.”

A few drunken cheers and a fewspills later, Hawke grumbled just loud enough for Fenris to hear. “I’d like toplay you like a fiddle.”

He leaned closer, the abundance ofale raising his eyebrow. “Oh? Are you threatening me?”

“No,” Hawke said with a grin assloppy as the bloodswipe she’d tried to wipe from her face. “I’m flirting withyou.“

Unable to react any other way buttruthfully, he smirked with a low hum. “Good.”

Hawke blinked—on purpose thistime. “Good?”

He nodded, rubbing his fingersover the red cloth on his wrist he’d sacrificed his undershirt for. “It is goodto know that—I was… afraid that you would not…”

“I have to pee,” Hawke said,grabbing his wrist under the table. “Don’t you?”

When he did not follow her as shegot up, she let his wrist pass through her fingers, looking over her shoulderwith a wink—that, again, was more of a clumsy blink.

Fenris watched as the Champion ofKirkwall sashayed over to the lowtown tavern washroom in nothing but her smallclothes and Varric’s boots.

Then, there was a nudge at hisshoulder. Donnic handed him his mug with a sly grin. “Drink. At least twice forthat.”

It was only then that Isabelareturned her gaze to the cards in her hand. “Well, shit,” she said, putting hercards facedown on the table. She took a shot, and then another, then slid theglasses at Fenris. “Since you couldn’t take off your pants the last round, youhave to go get us more drinks. Captain’s orders.”

“Fine, fine…” Fenris said,gathering as many of the shot glasses as he could carry, and then the mugs.

Varric laughed. “Damn, broody,they oughtta hire you for barmaid.”

“Wine glasses provide much more ofa challenge,” Fenris replied in an even tone, placing a remaining drink infront of Varric before heading towards the bar.

With a triumphant smile thatswelled like a wave, Isabela addressed the table. “Now just you wait. He couldn’ttake his pants off for the last round, but thisround…”

Though not without a few stumbles,he managed to make it to the bar and return all the glassware completelyintact.

“Another round for the table?”Corff asked, eying him. “Doesn’t look like youneed any more.”

Fenris nodded and felt the worldbob under him like a dinghy on open sea. “I… do not.” In his periphery, he sawHawke peek out of the door to the washroom, then slip back inside. “I really donot. In fact, I think I am going to be sick. Excuse me.”

No sooner had he entered thewashroom than he found himself pinned between Hawke and the wall—a veryfamiliar position. She had one hand on the wall, the other poised andhesitating, held at her chest.

“Tell me now,” she breathed, sobrietywashing over her face for the moment. “What can I… what are we doing, Fenris?”

The sound of the tavern had dimmedbehind the washroom door, nothing but a murmur under the pounding of theirhearts and the uneven pulse of their ragged breathing. In the stillness of themoment, he realized—

—wait, where was his shirt? Or hershirt? Or her pants, for that matter?

If he could not even remember theimportant, material things like where his shirt had gone, or why they were botheffectively naked in a filthy public washroom, then what did he need to worryabout remembering things fleeting and coy?

He put a hand on the small of herback and pulled her into him—chest to chest, skin on skin, his thigh cleaving inthe space between hers. “I’m flirting with you.”

And in the moment before her lipscrashed like a tidal wave against his, she said, “Good.”

  “Well,” Isabela wiped her hands onher sash. “It’s been ten minutes. I think it’s safe to claim a victory. Unless,Varric, you’d like to check on them to be sure?”

He heaved a sigh. “No… no, thatwon’t be necessary. I’ll know based on what kind of shitstorm this bringstomorrow morning.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Inthe meantime…” She picked up her mug, the lukewarm ale swirling halfway up theglass. “I’d love a new drink. Barely had to drink this one, you all were hoggingall the fun. You’ll pick up the tab, won’t you?”

“I always do, don’t I?”

“There’s a good man.”

  There are a set of rules writtenin the backroom of the Hanged Man. They now include two new rules written in atired, exasperated hand. The one details the expectations of paying and maintainingopen bar tabs, and the other…

The other can be found on a rough,metal sign hanging on the wall of the washroom. It is lined with conspicuouslysharp screwheads, and its hammered-out letters state:

FACILITIES ARE FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY, AND ONLY ONE AT A TIME.

[juniper-tree]

Wind and flame, 1 - In the dark

Rating: Explicit / NSFW

Dragon Age: Inquisition - Cullen x Female Lavellan

Link to AO3  - thank you for reading!

Summary: A windy night at Skyhold. Cullen is working late, as usual, when Inquisitor Lavellan visits his office. They talk, in depth, for the first time since Haven. Cullen learns a lot about her, and begins to confront some nagging feelings.

**

Mountain wind howled through the battlements outside and rattled the wooden doors.  Cullen liked the cold, but the wind was hard on his joints, and he was glad his bed was here in his office, a short climb away.  Though he didn’t hold out much hope of seeing that bed loft anytime soon.

Piles of papers, journals and letters decorated his desk.  Requisition reports, filled and naggingly unfilled; scout maps; strategic requests; strategic complaints—every imaginable document needed his approval.  Or rather, he needed to approve them all.  They had a term for his particular brand of neurotic control, Varric had told him: a pain in the arse.  Maybe.  He knew his need to check everything could be slow, and he knew he suffered from a chronic lack of trust. It wasn’t unwarranted, he reasoned, but it won him few friends.

His left door shot open and hit the stone wall with a crack.  Startled, he hurried to shut it again, barring the loose, rusted latch.

Back at his desk, he opened a letter from a recent party campaign in the Hinterlands.

“Commander,” it began, “I hope this letter, and our recent delivery of requisitioned supplies, finds you well.  While I do enjoy exploring this area and learning more about its many resources, I wonder if some others may be more suited to mining drakestone and iron?  Something tells me I was not made for the pickaxe.  You might achieve better results with someone else.”

He smiled.  The Inquisitor, polite as ever, even when complaining.  She could be distant at times, but always nice.  He hated, for her sake, to think they may have that lack of trust in common.  But he certainly couldn’t blame her for it.  He’d have to find someone else for the mining.

“Although if, as a native Fereldan, you know a better way,” the letter went on, “please join me next time.  Give me the grand tour, as long as we avoid the bears.  — Lavellan”

He stared at the letter.  The heat seemed to drain from his face, then rush back to his cheeks.  Join me next time.  He idly scratched the back of his neck.

He’d often been a bit envious of those who did join the Inquisitor on her expeditions.  They were getting away from here, first of all, on the front lines, seeing interesting parts of Thedas.  And they also got to know the Inquisitor better.  Spend time with her.  Whenever she arrived back he thought, This is the time, things will slow down for her, and I’ll put off some work, we can talk.  But it never seemed to happen.  Aside from brief professional chats, they hadn’t spoken much since Haven.  She’d seemed… interested in him, then.  He found himself telling her nearly everything about his life like some Chantry confessor.  But like an idiot, he hadn’t asked her a thing in return.

And then things just got worse.  But they hadn’t died yet.  Maybe there was still time.

Now the right door creaked open slowly.  These damned latches, he thought, standing a bit creakily himself to go close it, when a small knock made him look up.

“Commander?”  Inquisitor Lavellan leaned around the door.  Her dark face seemed to glisten in the low candlelight.

“Inquisitor, come in please,” he said, walking around his desk, pulling out a chair for her.  “I didn’t know you were back already.”  She walked in and kicked the door closed, her hands behind her back.

“We just returned, a few hours ago.  I hope you don’t mind my visiting so late.”  She placed whatever was in her hands on the floor, near the desk.  “I don’t want to disturb you.”

“Not at all,” he reassured her.  “That’s not drakestone, is it?” he asked, pointing toward what she’d deposited.

She laughed and shook her head, her reddish braids dancing.  “You got my letter already.”

“Just reading it, in fact.  It may take some time, but we’ll gather our best mining experts to aid you,” he said, hoping his mock-seriousness didn’t look like real seriousness.

She smiled.  “Or an expert tour guide.”

He held her gaze.  “Perhaps.”

She tilted her head to one shoulder.  “As a matter of fact, my requisition complaints are not why I came to your office.”

“No?”

She leaned forward in the chair to pick up what she’d brought.  It was a fur pouch, drawstring pulled tight at the top, and seemed to clink when she lifted it to her lap.  She looked down as she spoke.

“To give you this,” she said hesitantly, patting the fur covering.  “Before I left this last time, you were looking a bit…“ she searched for the right word. “Pale,” she settled on. “Have you been well?”

He went a bit cold at that question, but tried to bite back his defensiveness.  The lyrium situation, there had been difficulties.  Meetings cut short, begging out of social situations. Only Cassandra knew the real reason, though he was fairly certain Leliana could read him thoroughly at this point, as she could everyone.  Keeping something like this a secret was vital to the safety and success of the Inquisition.  If it didn’t kill him in the process.

He searched for a way to answer her without answering her.  "I’m rather fair-skinned, Inquisitor,“ he said, forcing a smile.  "Hence why it just wouldn’t do to send me to the Western Approach.”

She didn’t react, looked directly at him.  "Cassandra told me you have headaches, sometimes.“

There it was.  He knew he shouldn’t be angry—this is, after all, what he asked Cassandra to do—but she promised to come to him with it.  Instead she’d gone right to the Inquisitor and Maker knows who else, ready to drum him out, let her know he’d been slipping, that he’s sick, that he should have left already.

“And what other ailments of mine did Cassandra bring to you, hm?”  He meant to say it with some venom, but it just came out defeated.

She narrowed her eyes, but her face was compassionate.  “Nothing. We just happened to be eating together and… I was thinking of you.”  Her brows wrinkled.  “I asked her about you, I hope you don’t mind.”

Maker, he was a mess.  Jumping at every perceived slight, suspicious, always on the edge of hurt or anger.  Sometimes he felt just like he did after… after Kinloch, as though the intervening years hadn’t even existed.  Still the same raw nerve.  One thing had changed, though, verifiably: now he was at least aware of it.  He wasn’t sure that might not be worse.

He folded his hands on the desk to steady himself.  "No, I don’t mind.“  He meant it.

She actually looked embarrassed, as if she had any reason to be.  He could sink through the floor.  "She’s known you longer than I have. And I try to avoid the pestering mother hen role, if I can help it.”  She looked away from him, into a black corner of the room, as if her thoughts were hiding there.  "Do you know much about the Dalish, Commander?“

The change in subject surprised him.  She was the first Dalish he’d ever known.  Initially, he’d chalked up some of his… interest in her to that.  That, and being the herald of the Maker’s prophet.  Then saving them all in Haven.  There were so many remarkable things about her, it spared him from having to confront any more basic interest on his part.  But as the Inquisition had gone on, as she was busier and he saw her less, but wanted to see her more… even he couldn’t deny his interest was evolving.  And he was quite experienced in denial.

“Ah, no,” he answered, “but I’d love to learn more.”  This was slightly less than truthful.  Yes, he did want to know more.  But he’d spent part of his little free time learning what he could about the Dalish, and Clan Lavellan, quietly moving a few volumes of Elven history and more recent cultural studies from the library into his office.  He’d even given Lieutenant Gareth an extra long debriefing after one of the Wycome operations involving her clan, for more current, on-the-ground knowledge of clan operations and personages.  Necessary research for the Inquisition, he reasoned.

“These markings we have, there are lots of different ones, as you’ve probably seen.”  She leaned forward a bit in her chair, her eyes sparkling in the low candlelight from his desk.  She looked comfortable, even happy.  He was glad at that.  He briefly wondered how long he could keep her talking, just to give her a break.  The break didn’t hurt him, either, he supposed.

The light illuminated the grey serpent-like swirls that ringed her eyes and spread down to her chin.  They had obviously faded since their original application.  The color, a steel grey against the warm sepia of her skin, was soft.  He’d seen tattoos that looked fierce, intimidating.  Hers had a gentleness that fit her perfectly.

“Dalish get them when we’ve decided what our role in the clan will be.  It’s a coming-of-age thing.  I got mine at 19.” She smiled at the memory.  "We call them vallaslin.“

”Vallaslin,“ he repeated.  He’d come across the term but not heard it spoken, so in his head he’d stressed the syllables incorrectly.

She nodded.  "They represent what we do but they also mark our relationship to our gods.”

“I’d love to know more about the Elven religion,” he said eagerly.  "They don’t teach you much about other beliefs in the Chantry.“

She smiled. "I would guess not.”  She pushed one red braid behind her ear.  "We call them the Creators.  Each vallaslin design is for a different Creator.  Mine is for Sylaise.“

"What does it mean?” he asked, softly.

“Sylaise is the Hearthkeeper. She gave us the burning fire that warms us,” she said in a rote, sing-song voice.  "She taught us to weave the cloth we wear. She showed us the herbs that heal and protect us.“  She tilted her head from side to side as she performed the little song.  "Sit at a hearth and you’ll find her there.”

He laughed.  "So the Dalish children have to memorize their songs just like little Andrastians.“  

"Of course,” she giggled, “although for only one god you’ve probably got more songs than all of ours put together.”

“Well, there are a lot of Andrastians,” he reasoned.  "Just wait, when the Dalish hero saves the world, there will be more songs honoring her gods.  And her,“ he added, too pointedly, he was afraid.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head.  "Even if she’s still the Herald of Andraste?  Doesn’t that mean your prophet will get the credit?”

He sighed.  He’d puzzled over this before.  The Herald of Andraste, the chosen champion of their savior, was also the woman who sat before him.  The thoughtful, kind, very real woman.  An elf.  The hardships, the discrimination the elves faced, it was wrong, that was plain enough.  The Chantry-supported bigotry, the burial of the elven role in Andraste’s work—that was disgraceful.  He’d always thought so.

When he first saw this prisoner, as she was then, after the Conclave, her being elven meant little.  When they began calling her the Herald of Andraste… he had some hope that her being an elf may be the start of something important.

“Why can’t we have both?” he said.  "An elven Herald, that could have real impact. It already has.“  He felt himself on the edge of an unwanted lecture, so he pulled back.  "It doesn’t have to be one or the other,” he finished.  

She looked at him, her eyes earnest.  "I hope you’re right.“  They both sat quietly for a moment, a heaviness between them, though not wholly uncomfortable.  To him, it felt like a cloud on a dry day, full of welcome rain.

She shook her head, blowing away that cloud.  She seemed to do that so easily.  "Anyway,” she smiled, “to walk the way of Sylaise is to be a healer.  Herbwork, mostly, not much magic.  At least not mage-magic, if that makes sense,” she said, twirling one hand in the air, as if that’s what mages did.  "That’s what I do when I’m not doing… this.“  She looked around her, like she could somehow see all of Skyhold from that chair.    

An herbalist, he thought.  A healer.  Now the effort she spent on building up the courtyard garden had a deeper meaning than just beautification.  And the stories he’d heard of her running off paths, scouts dragged up mountains and through rivers following her on the track of some rare herb, they made sense, too.  The way some reported it, she’d rather be off picking flowers than sealing rifts, but that was easy to recognize as tired soldiers blowing off steam.  He’d been there before, certainly.  And just as certainly, they said worse about him.

He had a thought.  "Doesn’t your clan need you for healing?  Do we need to send a healer there to help them, while you’re here?”  He began to run through personnel lists, contacts among the mages, in his head, to find a suitable candidate.

She looked surprised.  "Thank you for thinking of them.  Really.  You don’t have to worry about them…“ she trailed off, but it was more a statement than a directive.  "No, they’re fine. It’s a big clan, and I’m not the official healer, just a spare.  That’s why I was at the Conclave.  They could spare me.”

“Ah,” was all he could say to that.

“So,” she said, standing from the chair, lifting the pouch from her lap, “if I ever seem nosy or annoying about someone’s health, I’m just staying in practice for after all this is over.”  Her tone had changed into one he’d heard from healers and medics a hundred times.  Careworn, a little patronizing, and impossible to argue.  But what she said intrigued him.  That she thought her life would just go on, that there would be an anything after this, that this would be over someday.  Her faith and certainty warmed him, and he felt a sweet ache in his chest at wondering about that future.

“Noted, Inquisitor,” he said, looking up at her.

She handed him the pouch, and he placed it on the desk in front of him, gently pulling the knot apart in the leather lacing.  The fur fell open, exposing a dark green glass vial.  He pulled its cork to see it was filled with dried, chopped herbs that still maintained their vibrancy.  There was also a larger, clear bottle of amber-colored wine.

“This mix helps with pains, like headaches,” she said, gesturing to the bottle.  "Helps with bad dreams, too.“

"Dreams?” he asked abruptly.  She can’t have known about that, no one knew about that.

She shrugged.  "In my experience headaches usually come with bad dreams.  If you don’t have them, that’s good.  If you do, this should help.“

He softened.  "And the wine?”

“Well, that’s to help them go down easier. It’s not the most delicious concoction,” she confided.  "And I thought you might like it.”

He noticed her bright red hair darkened in the low candlelight but her eyes shined with a soft glow.  "Thank you,“ he said.  He had no idea how much of what he was really feeling he could be revealed in one thank you, but he knew his face could never hide anything.  This healer, this Herald, and this woman.  His feelings about these three sides of her, he feared they were getting very confused.

Then she sat on the edge of the desk, her leathers softly shifting against each other.  She leaned forward to take the bottle of herbs from his hand, her face illuminated by the candle, cheeks flushing, her lips glistening.  He was certain he was staring but he couldn’t look away. She turned the bottle over in her hands.

"This is a mix of prophet’s laurel leaves, royal elfroot, and ground felandaris.  That elfroot was hard won,” she said, peering into the bottle through the dark glass.  "Way north Hinterlands.  Nearly ran into a dragon trying to get that one.  But it’s damned difficult to grow, and I knew it would help you.“

"You gathered these yourself?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.  For me? he thought but didn’t ask.  "We do have people who could assist you.  All you have to do is give the word,“ he said.  Many times Cassandra and Leliana had told him that the Inquisitor seemed to have no idea of the power she held, the power they’d given her.  It was probably better that way, he thought.  She had enough to deal with without that extra weight of expectation.

She smiled, a playful, guilty look on her face.  "I confess I feel the need to do most things for myself,” she said.  She leaned closer to him.  "It’s one of my poorer qualities, don’t tell anyone,“ she mock-whispered.

He grew suddenly warm.  And nervous.  But the stronger part of himself decided to lean toward her across the desk.  "I won’t tell a soul,” he said, in a low voice.

A quiet moment passed between them.  He could hear the cold wind still whipping around the battlements.

She leaned back.  “I have to say,” she said as she began to stand up, “I really didn’t expect to find you here this late.  Do you ever sleep?”  She looked around the mostly empty room.  Books, papers, all work.  Imagining it through her eyes, he thought how incredibly bare it all looked.

He stood as well, shaking his head.  “Unfortunately not.  If I’m not running back and forth to the war room I’m at my desk working on your behalf.”

She turned and squinted at him.  “Are you serious?”

“Well, I eat sometimes, too.”

“Oh, of course.”  She rolled her eyes as she walked over to his bookcases and drifted a finger across a row of dusty volumes.

He rounded the desk slowly.  “Actually my bed’s in here.  So no one will know how long I stay up working,” he said, “unless they drop by quite late.” He edged closer to her.

She turned from the bookcase and surveyed the room again.  “You sleep here?  Where?”

“Up there.”  He pointed to the loft that sat above the back of the room.  His loft, with the creaky floor, the hole in the roof, the ivy climbing the stone walls.  He found it quite charming.

He followed her eyes as they went up to the loft, and to the ladder, and back to him.  "Do you mind?  If I take a look?“ she asked, grabbing the ladder, only nominally waiting for his consent.

He leaned against the desk beside him. "No, I don’t mind.”  His mind raced through what embarrassing contents she might see up there.  Had he made his bed? Were there smallclothes on the floor? Oh, Maker.

He watched her climb the ladder.  Her saddle-brown leather breeches creaked softly as she lifted herself up with ease.  It was obvious she was strong, he noticed, particularly her legs.  He figured the Dalish had to do a lot of climbing and running, because her legs and her… his face flushing, he turned away and examined the wine she’d given him.  Minanter River Honeyed Wine, 9:39, Limited, of the Free Marches.  The clear bottle showed the contents, a sparkling gold.

“Thanks, sorry to impose,” she called as she began to descend, “but I guess it’s one more room in Skyhold I didn’t even know was here.”

“This place does feel labyrinthian, at times,” he said, putting down the bottle, and crossing his arms.  "Took me a month to get the War Room straight, I kept ending up in the garden.  I still haven’t seen everything, I’m sure.“

Midway down the ladder, she stopped and turned around to look at him. She didn’t say anything for a moment, so he asked, "Well, Inquisitor, did I pass inspection?”

She scoffed.  "Absolutely not.  Though if I’m to be upholding standards we’re all in trouble.  I grew up outside with no shoes on.“

He laughed. "That sounds nice, actually.”  It reminded him of being a boy in Honnleath, when he and his siblings always went barefoot, until it was just too cold to stand.  Saved on shoes, too.  "Before I went to the Chantry I wasn’t much different.“

"Hmm,” she said, and looked at him again.  Her expression was pleasant, he thought, but he couldn’t read her beyond that. It was intimidating. She turned and continued down the ladder.

“I’m just surprised,” she said.  "I imagined the Commander of the Inquisition in something a bit nicer than a creaky loft.“  She climbed down slowly.

"You imagined?” he said, too quietly, before he could stop himself.

She paused at the bottom of he ladder.  He could kick himself for saying that out loud.  But she turned to face him, her face bright.  "Ah, well, you know…“ she trailed off, waving a hand in the air as if to waft away the tension.  "Supposedly I am in charge.  I should know whether my army commander has a hole in his roof, or if he lives in the lap of luxury.”

He snorted.  "I’ve spent years in dormitories full of templars, this is luxury.“  

Standing on the second step of the ladder, a head taller than him, she looked down at him.  It felt nice, for a moment, to be smaller than her.  "I know what you mean,” she laughed.  "Cramped aravels, leaky tents.  Funny, I never really thought of them as cramped until all this happened.  There’s just so much room here. Have you seen where they put me?“

He shook his head.  Her room.  He’d heard they cleared out and restored a palatial suite for her off the main hall.  He could only imagine now that she hated it.  That she probably hated it made him smile.  She wasn’t that person.

She looked directly into his eyes.  "Well, I’ll have to show you sometime.”

His heart began to race.  This can’t be happening.  Is it happening?  Oh, Andraste, forgive me.  You sent a herald to save us all and I’m thinking about her bedroom.

She was still looking at him as she began to step off the ladder, and she missed the last rung, stumbling forward.  He reached for her and caught her arms with his hands, gripping her shoulders.  He held her steady.  He didn’t intend to but his arms seemed to pull her slightly closer.

She turned toward him.  She looked embarrassed again and something else flickered there.  Nerves, perhaps.  Despite everything, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her nervous before.  "Forgive me,“ she said.  Her voice was sad, and he sensed she sought forgiveness for more than just stumbling.

"No need,” he said, shaking his head, his voice barely a whisper, still gripping onto her.  He realized he was holding her in place.  Reddening, he looked down and released his arms.  She looked away from him, pushing her braids behind one ear, and took a deep breath.  He couldn’t move.

But she turned toward him brightly, smiling.  "I’d better let you get some rest. Take that,“ she said, pointing at the herbs, "before you sleep.  Let me know if it helps.”  Somehow she’d instantly shifted back into the healer, the Inquisitor.

“Thank you, I will,” he promised.

She said goodnight, warm, but officious, and walked toward the door.  There she paused and turned. “And Commander?”

He looked at her with blank expectation.

“You’d better light some more candles in here.  You’ll ruin your eyes.”

He nodded solemnly, as if she were a scolding Chantry sister.  She walked out.  The door shutting echoed in the room, then the only sound was candle flame and wind.

As he walked back to his desk and sat down, he suddenly realized two things: one, that he didn’t know any name for her other than Inquisitor Lavellan.  That he’d never thought to ask was just another testament to his awkwardness.  And two, that this was the longest conversation they’d ever had.

He shook some of the herbs from their bottle into a cup on his desk, poured in the gold wine, and stirred with his finger.  He sucked clean the wet finger, wrinkling his nose at the strange combination of flavors: bitter green, a milky sugar from the wine, and something more deeply sweet.  Sniffing the cup, he took a sip.  Not terrible, but probably best drunk in one go, if possible, so he did.  Some of the lingering chopped herbs at the bottom of the mixture caught in his throat, making him cough, so he drank a little more of the honeywine straight to get them down.  Then a bit more, for good measure.  Despite the taste, it was an unexpectedly nice gesture, giving him this remedy.  Not that he didn’t expect her to be nice.  Just not so generously nice.  To him.  In particular.

After a few minutes of blinking at the piles on his desk, he realized he couldn’t focus on a single one.  To bed, then.  Hope for an easy night.

He stood up to stretch and begin removing his pauldron and braces.  As he did, the familiar aches of his day, of his whole adult life, surged through him.  His knees and his back felt hard and slow, like grinding millstones.  His arms were heavy.  And the pain, as he thought of it—he didn’t like calling it something clinical like “withdrawal,” just felt like, well, pain—it seemed to seep into his head up from his neck.  He breathed in deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, bracing for the first cold sting of his usual headaches.

Just as suddenly, the pain was replaced by a spinning vertigo.  This wasn’t typical.  His eyes seemed to swim for a moment as the desk, the floor, appeared to shift and jerk around him.  He blinked it away.  And then, no more pain.  No vertigo, either.  Even his back and limbs felt a bit lighter.  Was there something to this herbed wine?  Could it work this quickly?  He’d sooner chalk it up to utter exhaustion.  Maybe the herbs were making him ill, though.  It would be his luck to live through all his training, the Circles, the uprising, Haven—only to die from an allergic reaction.  Especially when it was meant as a palliative.  And given by one so thoughtful.

As reached for the ladder, he thought of her, when she’d climbed it before.  He replayed in his mind when she’d stumbled at the bottom, and he caught her.  He’d only touched her once before, when he carried her through the mountains, after Haven.  Just like then, she’d felt so delicate in his hands, it shocked him.  If he let himself think of it more, it would frighten him.

In his loft it was cool, warmer than below despite the holes in the ceiling.  The wind didn’t often blow right in his direction.  He’d left his armor and cloak hanging by his desk, and near his bed he stripped out of his leather breeches and and undertunic, down to his woolen pants.  Easing into bed, the worn sheets chilled his back and arms.  It felt wonderful, he thought, as his hot, heavy limbs began to relax and sink, and his breathing slowed.

Just as he turned to blow out his bedside candle, in his mind he saw her face again.  As she sat on the edge of his desk and gave him the herbs and wine, she leaned over the candlelight, her brown skin had flushed dark, and her vallaslin seemed to darken, too.  He felt his own skin grow warm, even in the cold of the bedloft.

He also felt the need, a nagging somewhere deep inside him, to put her out of his mind.  Especially while he was trying to sleep.  But the thought brought him warmth, and ease.  Helped on by the wine, it actually made him feel good.  He couldn’t remember the last time he felt good.  He closed his eyes.

He should pray, he thought.  Pray for her, pray for their cause.  Pray he could remember this woman was blessed.  Maybe this was more atonement for him.  His test, to support her work and not his… desires.  Or maybe the Maker really had sent her.  Not just to the Inquisition.  To him.  Leliana told him that love was our greatest gift from the Maker, that we shouldn’t be afraid to express it.  He’d never heard that from a Chantry sister before, even an ex-sister.  But he knew in his heart that he wanted it to be true.

Would it harm him to just think of her?  He’d be embarrassed of his thoughts tomorrow.  But what do they say about the morning being wiser?  He blew out the candle.

He thought of her climbing the ladder.  Maker, the sight of her climbing that ladder, to his bed, could probably satisfy him for months.  Her feet so gracefully perched on each rung, her strong thighs pulling her upward, her bottom in those brown leather breeches that tightly, but still gently, clung to her curves.

He bit his lower lip and looked around the dark loft, as if anyone were there to hide from.  Old habits die hard, he supposed.  It had been a long time since he was this aroused.  He pushed down the pants that were straining against him.  Freeing himself, he lightly stroked his cock and sighed a ragged breath.

What would it be like with her?, he wondered.  What would he do?  What could she do to him?

He imagined them together, in this bed, her straddling his thighs.  Naked, her body a warm brown, but her soft skin would be hot under his hands.  Her smooth legs would rub against his hairy thighs, a delicious friction.  She’d look down at him, her eyes heavy-lidded but softly glowing in the chilled dark.

“Please… touch me,” he whispered aloud, to no one.  His begging would elicit a slight smirk, then she’d lick her lips and gently take his cock in her slender fingers, one palm at the base, softly holding his balls, the other rubbing the leaking tip, smearing him with his own liquid.  He groaned as he did this to himself, pretending his thick, sword-callused hands were hers.

His hands would be at her hips, one would come down to her thigh and knead the soft flesh there, the other would slide slowly up her side to her small breasts, pausing to finger the light sweat between them, then cupping one, it would fit so perfectly in his hand, and he’d squeeze, and softly pinch and rub her hard, dark nipple.  She would bite back a moan, grunting sweetly.  The imagined sound made his skin tingle.  He stroked himself faster and sighed.

He would bring his hand down between them, reaching for her.  His breath hitched.  Two of his fingers would slowly ease into the short, coarse hair and begin to spread her, feeling her.  She would gasp and stop stroking him, just hold him in her hands as he explored her.  She would be wet, so wet, he would be amazed.  And a little proud.  He’d raise his fingers to enter her, slowly at first, thrusting gently.  She would begin to rock back and forth on his hand as he stared up at her, her eyes closed, neck and chest flushed with heat, her expression displaying equal parts arousal and trepidation.  And he knew, as he always knew, that everything he felt would be plain on his face: his nerves, his shock, his desperate need, and something frightening that fluttered between love and worship.

He would pull out his fingers quickly, and her eyes would fly open.  Good.  She’d see him bring those fingers to his mouth to taste her.

In his bed, he sucked on the fingers of his left hand, flicking his tongue against his fingertips as though they were her, as though he really could taste her arousal.  Sweet, but a little sour.  He squeezed and pulled on his cock harder, and faster.  He was going to finish soon.  Maker, he didn’t want it to end.

He would, without a warning, grab her by the hips and pull her forward, position her to sit down on his cock, now as hard and heavy as he could ever remember.  She would take it in her hand and slide the head against herself a few times, which would make him groan with frustration.  He rubbed the tip again, now dripping wet, aching to come but holding off as long as he could.

Then she would begin to sit, easing down, encasing his throbbing cock into her, inch by inch.  He imagined her taking in a sharp breath as he filled her, her shakily exhaling when he was inside her fully.  They would stay still, staring at each other, for what would feel like minutes but could only be a moment, saying nothing but asking each other the same silent questions with their eyes:

Are we really doing this?

Yes, don’t you want to?

Of course, but aren’t you scared?

Isn’t it too late for that?

She would close her eyes and he would take it as a sign of assent, that they were thinking—feeling—the same thing.  He would thrust upward, holding her hips and moving her on top of him.  She’d grind herself against him, her hands splayed on his torso, fingering the hair on his chest and stomach.  He wouldn’t last long.  He couldn’t.  It had been so long.

“Oh fuck, Maker, oh,” he moaned, as he came, covering his stomach, and his thighs twitched against the sheets, and all he could think of, all he could see in his mind, was her face.  Not this fantasy of her, where he might touch her naked body and feel her hot skin.

Just her face, flushed and sweet, leaning into the candlelight.

For a few moments, while he caught his breath, he held onto that image of her.  If she were here again, if things were different, he’d take her face in his hands, softly kiss her, tell her all he wanted to say but had no talent for doing so…

Then he opened his eyes.  Thin moonlight seeped in through the hole in the roof, a gust ripped through the battlements and into the loft.  He was suddenly cold.  He got out of bed and cleaned himself at his wash basin, then put on a woolen shirt.  Climbing back into the bed, he shivered.  But his head, his body still did not ache.

The cold night sobered him.  He felt at first a loneliness that he feared may turn to self-pity, which he despised.  So he shoved it away.  Then there was some guilt—over thinking of her this way, over his feelings for her, some built-in guilt from his Chantry days.  That, too, he buried.

He was a practical man, skilled in strategy.  He knew he had two options.  Be professional, realize that these kind of relations were just not in the stars for him, and move on with the simple task of saving the world from evil would-be god magisters and changing their society for the better.  No complications there.

Or, perhaps, he could, gently, quietly, let her know.  Not a pursuit, he could never.  But in his own way, he could attempt it.  So much had changed with the Inquisition.  Why not this, too?

Maybe it was the wine.  Maybe it was the lack of pain.  But—strangely—he felt the smallest flicker of optimism.  One guttering candle flame of hope.

Lying there in the dark, he prayed.  Let it be enough.

Chapter 2: Rooting  ➳