#the first hinterlands campaign

[lazerv4]

Thoughts on Dragon Age: Inquisition [REPLAY]

Just my raw thoughts not a review or anything

Coming back to Inquisition after 10 years now, is like seeing an old friend that you truly didn’t realize how much they really cared until now that they’ve been gone for a while.

I loved my time revisiting the third entry in Dragon Age especially after last year’s Baldur's Gate 3 and the release this year of Dragon Age: The Veilguard in a few months.

Besides a few issues with the ambition of the story not quite being able to be realized at the time the game is incredibly fun, charming, epic, funny and honestly kind of ahead of it’s time like it’s series tends to be.

First speaking for the gameplay I played a rogue who specialized in assassination, which was incredibly fun a had an entertaining loop once I got my build finalized because man it took a bit to get to the good stuff and I’m not sure if I would have the patience if I already didn’t love the game which is a big slight issue that while the game eventually solved took way too long. The open worlds are all nice, fun and expansive if you remember that not all of them are gigantic and the hinterlands is a go back to every so often kind of place instead of staying there forever like many did. The combat flows well with the level design for the most part having areas that are open and easy to maneuver through however the prowess of the engine holds back some scenes trying to create a large scale that can’t be fully realized since the engine can’t hold that many enemies on screen even with a ludicrously over specs PC like most gaming PCs would be today. However even when the game itself can’t realize the massive world and scale of everything going on the story pulls through and does the heavy lifting. The main plot itself is rather simple, it follow your created character becoming the Inquisitor and expanding your influence to slowly figure out who killed the Divine and created a rift in the sky which eventually turns out to be a returning Corypheus from Dragon Age 2 and then you uncover a lot more things about him, the nature of dark spawn and the mysteries of Thedas as you work to beat Corypheus once and for all. The 3 DLC are 2 main story expansion and an epilogue, the first being Jaws of Hakkon which expands the world into previously uncharted lands further making the world of Thedas feel alive and well thought out as you interact with the Avvar people who basically share nothing besides their species and language with the rest of Thedas as well as uncovering the secrets of the first inquisition in what feels like a fantasy Indiana Jones jungle adventure at times just being incredibly satisfying. Next was The Descent which expands even further into Dwarves and the Deep Roads finally making them feel as cool as the series has always wanted you to think they were, the plot is a simple go down and explore what is causing sudden earthquakes and the resolution to it while leaving you with a bunch of new questions expands on dwarves in fascinating ways that I hope The Veilguard explores more through Harding. Finally you get to quite possibly one of the greatest pieces of DLC ever made with Tresspacer, the third and final story expansion set 2 years after the events of the campaign where an Exalted Council is held by your current Divine to see the future of the Inquisition post Breach and political pressure from both Orlais and Ferelden as a Qunari invasion starts within Eluvia Mirrors (teleporters to a different dimension) as you slowly uncover the mystery old the olden elven gods and why Solas left after the defeat of Corypheus then learning that he is in fact the Dread Wolf, the legendary trickster god who defied the gods and imprisoned or killed them as your mark which turns out to be his doing starts to slowly kill you. Trespasser alone is worth getting into Inquisition with how fantastic it’s quality is, I cannot stress enough how cool of an epilogue plot it is and how it’s unlikely anyone will quite be able to do it like they did.

Inquisition as a whole package is incredible with how it weaves a story spanning the entire continent through it’s side quest and DLC and a pretty fun fantasy story in it’s main plot as you live and breath along with everything in Thedas in a medium that is inherently the best at making worlds feel lived in. Few do it like Dragon Age and none do it better, Skyrim gets a lot of props for being “immersive” but that is only true superficially, if you truly wanna see what a believable world is then go ahead and give not only Inquisition a chance but also the entire series including material outside the games, it’s all great and you get to visit so many places that you basically come to know Thedas as if it was a place you’ve actually lived in. I wish I could write more about how great this game and experience was but I feel like The Veilguard will cover some territory that I want to mention here so I will save it all for that.

[fatehbaz]

Was Turkey and its predecessor, the Ottoman Empire, always the land of [sedentary villages and commercial agriculture]? [...] What kind of historical processes generated this socioeconomic, political, and environmental transformation in the Ottoman Empire and the Republic of Turkey? [...] Gratien [...] [narrates] a hundred-year-long (1850s-1950s) clandestine history of state-led “agrarian conquest,” villagization, and commercialization of agriculture in the muddy but fertile lowland of Çukurova (historical Cilicia) and its mountainous hinterland in southern Anatolia. [...]

The frontier in Çukurova, Gratien argues, was a “frontier of the state,” “a settlement frontier,” and an “ecological frontier.” [...] [T]he Ottoman state and its varied practices of governmentality played an engineering role in remaking the rural world, while [...] forced sedentarization (iskan in Turkish) policies were imposed on the region’s pastoralists [...] whose livelihood depended on seasonal migration between the lowlands and highlands. [...] [A] mesh of old and new [...] “[...] forms of resource extraction, and environmental understandings” appeared “in tandem with the processes of state-building [...] and commercialization.” [...]

The mobility of people connected the lowland to the highland pastures, pastoralists to livestock, migrant laborers to cotton, merchants to global capitalism, Muslim refugees to trans-imperial warfare, mosquitos to dreadful malaria, the “rebels” to the mountains, and finally technocrats to the swampy Çukurova.

---

Transhumance migration, referring to seasonal migration between northern and southern pastures, is the first and perhaps one of the most common forms of mobility embedded in this region. [...] The fresh upland air, known as yayla in Turkish, was a green sanctuary for locals [...] during the hot summer months.

During the mid-nineteenth century, the dynamic of this seasonal relationship to lowland swamps shifted with the imposition of Ottoman modernist reform policies intended to turn Çukurova into a “second Egypt” through cotton production. As a result of provincial reforms and the growing centralization capacity of the empire thanks to the Tanzimat reforms (1839-76), the Ottoman state began to forcefully settle the local pastoralist communities that were seen as obstacles to state-led agricultural development projects in the region and as a potential labor reserve for the cultivation of cotton on the “fertile lands” of Cilicia.[5] Ottoman reformists viewed “settlement and cultivation” as “the only antitode of the malarial wastelands of the Ottoman countryside” (p. 58). Gratien chronicles widespread “malaria, cholera, and other diseases” as outcomes of resettlement and villagization and argues that from the 1850s onward these [...] resulted in "high mortality" [...].

---

Though the Ottomans’ forced sedentarization policy toward pastoralists and resettlement [programs] [...] were both designed to increase the commercialization of agriculture in Çukurova, they operated differently as instruments of the imperial state. Sedentarization included state-perpetrated violence in the form of massive military campaigns. Resettlement of refugees involved the strategic settlement of new loyal citizens among indigenous communities of the region whose own loyalty to the empire was seen as suspicious. [...] During the early twentieth century, [...] hundreds of thousands of Armenians were killed during the Adana massacre in 1909 and then the Armenian genocide in 1915. With the deportation of hundreds of thousands of Armenians from their historical homelands into Syrian deserts for “putative security concerns,” Çukurova’s fertile lands, villages, and towns in Adana province were instead “permanently settled” with [...] [those] who were identified as “Turks” by the nationalist government (p. 143). This was the second wave of an Ottoman demographic engineering project that started in the 1860s [...] in a region once heavily inhabited by Ottoman Armenians and Muslim pastoralists. [...]

---

Gratien carefully investigates state-led violence against pastoralists instrumentalized by the massive military campaigns of the Fırka-i Islahiye (Reform Division). [...] By consistently incorporating folk songs, laments, and oral accounts, Gratien not only eloquently displays pastoralists’ forms of resistance and resilience against the Ottoman reform movement in Çukurova but also masterfully narrates perceptions and worldviews that have been silenced in the state archive. [...]

---

Text by: Zozan Pehlivan. "Review of Gratien, Chris. The Unsettled Plain: An Environmental History of the Late Ottoman Frontier". H-Environment, H-Net Reviews. August 2023. URL: h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=58142. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[cobalttestament]

Tarathiel Character Intro

There's two versions of Tara's story, but they both begin in the same place.

Awakening late into the Cycle of Dusk, Tara was somewhat more withdrawn than most of her cohort, valuing time with others but rarely seeking it out. She was known for her regal bearing and fierce independent streak, briefly flirting with the Nightmare Court before quickly realizing that the way they treat their supposed lessers is far worse than the coddling of the Pale Mother.

As the undead threat to Caledon grew too large for her to ignore, Tara picked up a dagger and fought for the first time, deadly and untouchable as she seemed to dance with the elements around her. Her talent recognized, she was swiftly referred to the Vigil despite her protests, being placed under the tutelage of a gruff old warmaster who for all his efforts never could instill discipline into her. She had her respect for him, but she chaffed under the military structure of the Vigil, and quickly gave up her position, returning to Caledon.

A few weeks later, she was enlisted by a ranger in her cohort to rescue some animals from an Inquest experimentation lab. She instantly fell in love with one of the rescues, a red panda she calls Red but swears that that isn't his name. She feigns annoyance at the trouble he's always getting into, but can't hold back a smile whenever he's being silly.

As the campaign against the undead ramped up, Tara found herself unable to sit still when others were risking their lives, distinguishing herself at the Battle of Claw Island despite her lack of membership with any of the orders. She was invited to the meeting held afterwards, unexpectedly nominated as Commander of the Pact. She physically flees the meeting, terrified of the weight of that authority. Here is where the timeline splits. In one, another hero of the battle becomes the Commander. Tara falls into a slump, ashamed of herself for running away, from the pact and from the vigil. Unable to bear the judgment of those around her, she begins to travel the world, eventually coming across a troublingly named but friendly group hunting down wanted criminals in the Harathi Hinterlands. These self proclaimed Liars Cheats and Thieves took her in, she found a place for herself within it's much looser structure, acting along side but not directly under the command of the Pact in many of the crises that plagued Tyria. She finds this life enjoyable but not fulfilling, and finds herself longing for something more than the mercenary pay and casual friends she has with the Liars. In the other, Almorra and Trahearne follow her all the way to one of her old haunts in Caledon, and plead with her to take on this role that nobody else but her could possibly fill. Reluctantly, and with dread in her heart, she accepts. Tara, not the least because she expected to be, makes for a terrible Commander. She is rash, hyper-aware of the gap in competence between her and the combatants she commands, and vague when communicating, often frustrated with others failing to quickly grasp things she finds intuitive. She fights alone more often than not, often radio silent long enough to frustrate those around her. More than once she's tried to abandon the role, but keeps getting dragged back into it by her own guilt, the tempers of those around her shorter and shorter every time. This escalated after her death at the hands of Balthazar and subsequent revival, coming to truly resent the position she finds herself in but unable to resign from it. Aurene is the one bright spot in her life, and she cares fiercely for the dragon as a daughter.

In both timelines, Tarathiel has mastered all elementalist disciplines but prefers the style of a Weaver as it fits most with her dancer's grace in battle. She often wonders if she'd be happier having never picked up a blade, and holds a special resentment against the Risen for leading her down the path of war. She has a regal but unpretentious air about her, a loud voice but not an unkind one. She can often be found in Arborstone or around the Lion's Arch fountains when she's not hiding in her secluded places or out fighting for the sake of the world.

[linuxgamenews]

The Long Dark expansion pass has a release date

Tales from the Far Territory coming soon to The Long Dark game on Linux, Mac, and Windows PC. All thanks to the ongoing work from developer Hinterland Studio. Due to make its way onto Steam. Hinterland has released the full trailer, launch date, and Roadmap. Due to show off its highly-anticipated upcoming Survival Mode expansion pass in The Long Dark. Tales from the Far Territory launches on December 5th, 2022. Doing so by releasing in multiple drops over the course of a 12-month campaign. Tales from the Far Territory greatly adds to the world of Great Bear Island. As well as the game’s core Survival foundation. Due to offer new Regions, new Gameplay, and new objective-based Tales.

The Long Dark - Tales from the Far Territory Expansion Pass Trailer

The Expansion Pass Includes:

Three new Regions, connected by the long travel zones and hub region. The first of these Regions, “Forsaken Airfield”, and the travel zones all launch with the Tales from the Far Territory Expansion Pass. The other two Regions will be releasing over the course of the 12-month campaign.

Three Tales, story themed Tests that take place within your Survival game. Each revealing insights into the Far Territory’s mysterious history.

New gameplay systems including: Transponder, Travois, and Safehouse Customization. Also including Trader, Complex Recipes for Cooking, and new Item Variants. There are more details about each of these features on the larger Expansion Pass site. Due to be launching closer to the Tales from the Far Territory release.

20+ minutes of new Survival music. 10+ minutes included in the first Drop.

You can also explore upcoming content in the official news diary. Tales from the Far Territory for The Long Dark is coming December 5th. Due to arrive on Linux, Mac, and Windows PC. So be sure to Wishlist on Steam. You can also explore the official roadmap website for further content. The Long Dark is also discounted 66% on Steam. Priced at $11.89 USD / £9.44 / 10,19€. Regular price on Humble Store. Plus the game is also Steam Deck Verified.

[theoakandthemistletoe]

Defeat in Victory

Life in Scrantz took place in the evenings and at night. The heat chased all but the most foolhardy person indoors after noon, and indulgence in the local wines left many people unwilling, if not unable, to stir from bed before that time.

With home almost in sight and no wine left in their pack, the Marquis Skullduggan, returned from a long battle and an equally gruelling debate with the Privy Council, rose from their private room at a roadside inn shortly before dawn and ordered their horse saddled. They travelled alone. The servants had been sent ahead to warn the family, and any brigands who wanted to ambush an adventurer bearing the Skullduggan colours were free to try. It would be a welcome distraction.

The road was quiet, already still and warm as the sun rose. News of the victory in the north must have spread by now, with the Twins, not bound by any political duties, back at least fortnight earlier, as soon as the fighting concluded. A few of the buildings the Marquis passed fluttered with bunting hastily crafted out of paper. Had the owners been awake, it might have surprised them to see the valiant soldier they were celebrating curl up their lip and spur their horse on faster.

Orange grass – so dry and brittle after months in the north – crunched under the horse's hooves. Soon it dried away to nothing on the edge of the vineyards. A dog barked from the next hill over. A rooster crowed.

Roosters. The crest of House Tooke. Cast in gold, on every buckle, every ring, every chain, enough gold to build a city, and yet not enough, never enough. How to assail that? How could House Skullduggan offer enough gold to sway House Tooke? The family who lived in this inhospitable desert hinterland, trying to bribe the family who ate off golden dinnerplates. Ridiculous.

Something hot and unfamiliar burned around the Marquis's ribs, chest, heart, something more than the building heat of the day. Push it away. Focus on home. Nearly there now. At the top of the hill they were climbing, the highest point in the foothills, sat a dilapidated lookout post, hidden by pines, where the Twins used to ride as teenagers. The Marquis had no idea what they did up there and didn't want to know. Once a strategic military position, the House armies had pushed so far south that it only overlooked the town these days, remaining as a testament to one of the greatest Skullduggan legacies: conquering the south, taming the desert, establishing Scrantz.

They could have done it again, in the north this time. But not now.

The heat returned. To quash it, the Marquis plucked a grape from the vine as they passed, dropped it into their mouth, frowned, and spat it onto the dust. Too sour, too hard. Too early. Should have waited.

Waiting, always waiting, for the right moment, for more supplies, for a chance which never came. We must wait, said the Duchess of Rodyn, as clearly as if she had been riding up the dirt track alongside the Marquis. We must wait, we must hold off, we must be reasonable.

Abruptly, as breath clogged their throat, the Marquis tugged their horse off the path, onto a plateau beneath the manor. There were views encompassing the full estate here. The vineyards, the rose garden, the lookout above, the edge of the pine forest, the barn. Love settled over their body, not enough to suffocate the new emotions burning through it like an infection, but enough to give them air. Their land, their home.

Once they had ridden to this point with Ren, after some campaign or other. One of their first, barely old enough to wear armour or lift a sword, the Kid kitted out for the first time. As they surveyed their world, Ren had asked, what do you want most in life? And they had replied,

'To be a better soldier than you.'

And Ren had said,

'Is that all? Come on, Kid.'

'To be the best, then.'

'That's more like it.'

The view became dull. The colours dimmed. The heat roared. The Marquis rode on.

Servants waited at the gate, as instructed, ready to help them dismount, before one contingent led the horse to the stables and the remainder followed the Marquis inside. They didn't expect to see any of the family this early, but no sooner had the servants removed their riding coat than the Twins appeared from the lounge. Cherry's arm was in a sling and Robin still had the healer's paste smeared across her neck, which didn't stop either of them from barrelling into the Marquis. It wasn't so much a hug as it was a collision.

'Cuz!'

'How did it go?'

'When are we going back to Enkannil?'

'Will the Duke of Dwylionn be there?'

'I hope not. I'll kill him myself if he tries to take credit for this.'

The Marquis straightened their back, gestured for a glass of wine, and repeated the Marquis of Tirynn's words.

'We're not going back to Enkannil.'

'What?'

'We won. Enkannil was ours.'

'Our armies are there, in their capital, right now.'

'What happened?'

'What the hells did you do?'

A servant, who had probably been waiting behind the door for the signal, hurried forwards with a glass and pitcher. The Marquis took it and, without drinking, said,

'The Marquis of Tirynn secured a favourable peace treaty. The Duke of Dwylionn said they wouldn't fund a final push. And the Duchess of Rodyn insisted we show mercy. We were outvoted.'

'But...'

'But we were so close,' whispered one of the twins. The Marquis couldn't tell which as something clouded their vision, so they left the twins in silence.

Their tired, aching feet carried them instinctively to their room, in the upper corridors of the manor. This was their reward, then. Their old room, full of familiar furniture, unchanged since they set out for battle. They were back where they started.

The House would fight about it later. The wrath of the Skullduggans, usually directed outwards, would turn on them for their failure. The Marquis sipped from the glass and set it aside, quite calmly, on the dresser top. Well, let it. The rest of the House would soon lose interest, when they found their target a ready and willing victim. None of them wanted the job of Marquis anyway. None of them wanted to make those decisions.

To lose on the brink of triumph. To hold victory in their hands and slowly, deliberately, bureaucratically sign it away. To end Ren's war, Ren's final legacy, to fulfill Ren's promise to the Skullduggans, and fail to come home with the prize--

All their siblings. All their House. Ren. Blood shed and lives lost. They were supposed to be marching triumphantly into history as they expanded the kingdom yet again, but instead they faced this. A peace treaty. Ending where they began, except for the so, so many dead.

The heat inside them boiled over. Emotions they had never known before shoved forward and gave themselves names. Regret, disappointment, shame, and then, lurking at the bottom, in their core, where it had sunk down to fester many years ago, rotting everything it touched, grief.

Wine soaked the wallpaper as the glass smashed against it. It didn't help. The Marquis sat down in the square of dawn light on the bed and stared at the wall, until the sun passed through and left them in the dark.

[heavymetalmuppet]

sycamore girl || chapter 5: tisulan

THE TZEDAKAH CHALLENGE: every time i post a chapter, if you have $5 or more to spare, donate it to life for gaza, a campaign by the municipality of gaza to restore the city’s infrastructure. leave a comment with how much you donate for me to tally!

i got really stuck on a later chapter and had to take very long breaks about it apparently. im also still not done that chapter but i figure i may as well give u this even tho im not completely happy with this one either.... writing is hard. remember the note i gave at the start of last chapter cause it only gets more relevant!!!!

elvish in this chapter (that's not already explained): seya masel - very good

word count: 5048 warnings: allusions to past abuse, dealing with familial death, grief, being a mage in a society

< prev || chapter masterlist || next >

also available on ao3

—

“Please, Solas?”

“Ask in Elvish.”

Adahlee paused, recalling what he'd taught her so far. “Sera’manaan, Solas?” She added for emphasis.

“Seya masel,” he praised briefly for her pronunciation. But still: “Nae.”

“But I’ve been training so hard!” She burst out in Common.

“That's why you need rest, da’len.”

Adahlee pouted. She was hovering by Solas in the apothecary, not so nervous to be there since Adan was out. Solas was brewing more of the bitter potion; a precaution, he had said, to keep her strength up on the journey to Val Royeaux. It would be longer and more arduous than their trek to the Hinterlands, especially as they'd need to pass through the Frostbacks. Not entirely on foot this time, thanks to their efforts to secure horses—but Adahlee had never ridden before, either. She was in for a lot more learning on the road, but she had still hoped for another magic lesson before they set out tomorrow.

Adahlee wondered if she should push. He���d already said no; would he be mad? She wrung her hands nervously, even as she started: “But…”

“Your enthusiasm is commendable, Adahlee, and don't let this put you off from your lessons—but you cannot learn if you are burnt out, exhausted, or fall sick from either or.” He didn't glance up as he said this, focusing on the slow addition of dried elfroot to the small cauldron he was stirring. “You cannot risk your health. You’ve recovered well from your bouts of unconsciousness, but it takes its toll on the body. Let this act as another lesson.”

Adahlee sighed. How am I learning about magic by not practicing, she wanted to press, but a part of her knew he was probably right. His first lesson was that there was a lesson in everything. So what was this one?

The apothecary was quiet, with only the sound of bubbling filling the air. Adahlee carefully leaned against the table Solas stood at, watching the potion simmer. He set a lid over the cauldron, and turned the hourglass nearby it. She considered the tiny stream of sand within it, and the pile that would grow.

“Pacing,” Adahlee declared her answer. “And patience.”

“Seya masel,” he praised again, as he set about to clean the mortar and pestle.

“These are kind of just… general life lessons.”

“They are. And what have you learned on the nature of magic?”

“... It's in everything. It's a way of life.” Adahlee paused again. “Alright, I get it now.”

“Athila ara mar dirtharas, sera’mana.”

It took her a moment. Share what you’ve learned, if you please. “Life skills and beingness must be applied to magic, to understand and experience it as a way of being, as elvhen do.”

Solas smiled slightly. “Ma dirthara shem, da’len.”

You learn quickly. Adahlee smiled back. “Ma serannas.”

The door to the apothecary creaked open, sending in a weaving little strand of cold air. It was a messenger Adahlee recognized, but couldn't quite recall his name. “Ser Solas; Lady Herald,” he greeted, bowing his head to each. “Sister Nightingale would speak with you, my Lady.”

Adahlee wrinkled her nose at ‘Herald,’ but she didn't want to be rude… she glanced at Solas. Go on, his expression seemed to say.

Adahlee took a deep breath. “Um… no ‘Herald,’ please. I don't claim the title.” She would need practice for this before addressing the clergy in Val Royeaux.

“Oh, erm—my apologies, my—” the man paused. “My… Lady?”

“My name is Adahlee. Though, um—you probably knew that already.” She offered him a somewhat awkward, though friendly smile. “What's yours?”

“... Arnold. Lady Adahlee.”

She'd take it. “Thank you, Arnold. I’ll head to Leliana in a moment.”

Arnold smiled at her genuinely, and another little knot of nervousness in Adahlee loosened. He saluted, and left.

Adahlee sighed, flopping over the back of a chair for dramatic effect. “Will talking to people get any easier?”

Solas offered her a light chuckle. “With practice, I’m sure. Now, go to Sister Leliana.”

It wasn’t far to the tent in the chantry’s courtyard. When Adahlee arrived, Leliana seemed to be waiting. “Adahlee.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes—I think we are in need of a discussion, preferably before you leave. Josephine would oversee this as well; we’re just waiting on her.”

Adahlee gulped. What did that mean? Was she in trouble?

As though reading her mind, Leliana said: “First of all, let me reassure you: no one is upset with you, and you have done nothing wrong.” Leliana folded her hands behind her back calmly. “And even if that were the case, we solve our problems with respect for one another, here.”

“... No one’s going to yell at me?” She asked warily.

“No, certainly not.”

Adahlee deflated in relief. “Okay.”

Leliana glanced up, and Adahlee followed her eye; Josephine had emerged from the chantry, coming to join them. “Good day, you two.”

“Hi Josephine,” Adahlee greeted, though her tone was nervous.

Josephine took in her state. “Has Leliana briefed you yet?”

“I was waiting for you.” Leliana gestured into her tent. Adahlee took a deep breath, and stepped inside, the other two following. Leliana closed the flap for privacy.

“Allow us to be honest, Adahlee,” Josephine began gently. “We’ve noticed how you act around Commander Cullen.”

Adahlee, at once, felt small and afraid.

She could scarcely believe Kirkwall’s Knight-Captain was there helping, when she first—very briefly—met him. Even during their proper introduction at the war table, Adahlee couldn’t quite recall if she’d gotten any words out, only nodding, leaning against the table to hopefully steady her trembling. Now that she thought about it, had she spoken one direct word to Cullen yet? She wasn’t sure. She’d only tried to avoid him as much as possible.

“We quite understand if you’re afraid of him—as does he—but you need not be.”

Had he noticed as well? Despite all her efforts to stay small? Adahlee felt panic rise in her throat. “I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have to be,” Leliana assured her. “His reputation would be frightful to a young mage. You have no reason to apologize for your fear, and no reason to befriend him, if you’d rather not. Just know this.” Leliana looked directly in her eyes, serious. “None of us here would allow someone near you if we thought they would endanger you, or any other mage. Not Commander Cullen, nor any former templars in the Inquisition’s ranks. I am not one to make promises, Adahlee—but this, I can promise you.”

“As can I,” Josephine added.

Adahlee, ultimately, trusted them both. “... Okay.” She took another breath. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Josephine laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We only wish for you to feel comfortable and safe.”

Leliana crossed her arms. “Cullen has hoped to have a conversation with you as well, as a show of respect—he would listen to any boundaries you might want to set with him. Would you be privy to that, if we are here with you? Now, or soon?”

“This discussion would be for your benefit,” Josephine explained. “As the one who can close the Breach, you have your place at the war table, in the Inquisition’s council. We only wish to make it easier for you. And if you simply cannot work with him, Lady Cassandra stands ready to step in as Commander.”

Adahlee balked. “You would do that for me?”

“And why not?” Said Leliana. “You do a great deal for the Inquisition, Adahlee—but that aside, you are in our care, more or less. It would hardly be fair of us to make you tolerate someone you don’t.”

“I…” Adahlee floundered to find the words. “That’s really nice of you.”

“That is barest respect,” Leliana corrected. “Nothing more.”

“O-Okay. Um—thank you, still.” Adahlee wrung her hands. “If… if you’re here with me… I could try.” May as well get it over with. “I could try now.”

Leliana nodded. “As you like. I’ll go fetch him; please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Adahlee and Josephine settled into chairs as the tent flap closed.

—

Footsteps crunched in the frost outside, covering a pair of murmuring voices—and then the flap opened again, revealing Leliana and Cullen.

His face wasn’t stony, but carefully, respectfully neutral as he followed Leliana into the tent. Adahlee stood, and Josephine followed her lead. Though her knees trembled slightly, Adahlee would face him standing.

“Adahlee,” Cullen greeted cautiously, nodding to her.

She said nothing, only grabbing Josephine’s hand. She watched Cullen like a hawk, her vision narrowing to the minute details of his expression, the way he held himself—rigid and unsure behind the composure, almost awkward, but he still had a sword at his hip, but tiredness carved lines and bags around his eyes, they flicked briefly like he wanted to avoid the weight of her gaze, but something made him stay. His coat made him look bigger than he was, but he was still a trained templar and she was barely a mage, how might she have to move to make it to the exit? It was Josephine's hand gently squeezing hers that grounded her.

“If I may…” Cullen began slowly. He didn’t falter from her, at least. “I understand that you don’t trust me, and I can hardly blame you—to be frank, I wouldn’t either, in your position. I am not here to offer excuses; only honesty.”

Adahlee wanted to hide behind Josephine, but she managed to stay put as she finally spoke, hushed and accusing: “... You were Meredith’s second-in-command.”

Ostwick wasn’t so terribly far from Kirkwall. She had heard the stories. They had resurfaced and sharpened to needlepoints in her mind, when she had accidentally lit a candle with her fingertips that day, and the little flame wavered with her in the face of Mother’s whisper-shouting. Meredith was dead by then, but it wasn’t just her. It wasn’t about individuals, not really; but those individuals were ultimately needlepoints themselves, the tip of a greater structure that would puncture her throat.

She could see Cullen’s tiredness further into exhaustion, making him sag. It looked like his coat was holding him up more than anything. “I was,” he said, quietly. “I am… not proud of it, to say the least. Even Meredith aside.” He took a deep breath in, and out. “It took me far too long to recognize the Order for what it was. The best-intentioned templars still hold undue power over others—nothing good can come of such a thing. I realize that now.”

He turned around and saw the structure, and where he joined with it. Hm. Adahlee stood straighter, and continued to watch him, expectant. Listening.

Cullen seemed to follow her lead, continuing: “The Inquisition has offered me a chance to do some right in the world. I would not squander it by denying responsibility for my own wrongs, or by endangering you.” His weary gaze leveled with her sharp one, and she could see determination push through the fog that hung about him. “I accept however you feel about me, Adahlee, but I am in your corner. As Commander, it is my duty to protect those in the Inquisition, and that includes you. And I will never speak over you, or laud control over you, in the name of ‘protection.’ Not as templars do.” Cullen shook his head. “You lead the way in this. Just say the word.”

Adahlee considered him carefully. She glanced to Leliana, then Josephine, then back to Cullen; all wore patient looks. She waited, for what felt like an uncomfortably long moment, one that made her nerves want to fray, because they were expecting her to speak, weren’t they? They’d get mad if she didn’t, wouldn’t they? Someone would get tired of her, someone would start yelling, Cullen might move for his sword and she’d have to run or scream or stay very still.

But the little seed of defiance in her heart took root. So she waited, observing. Seeing if anyone would go back on their word. The patient consideration remained. Josephine only squeezed her hand again, as if to say, are you still there?

Adahlee returned the gesture. “I’m not sure I trust you,” she began, quietly. “But I trust Leliana and Josephine, and they wouldn’t let you near me if they deemed you a threat.” She sized him up again. He may have been a boogeyman, but he was weathered, weary—and from what she could tell, laid bare. “I think I can work with you,” she decided. “That aside… we’ll see, I guess.”

“I ask for nothing more.” Cullen bowed his head to her in a show of respect. “I deeply appreciate this chance you’ve allowed me, Adahlee. Any communication between us may remain at the war table, if you like—or however is most comfortable for you.”

“I stand ready to assist in easing communication between the two of you,” Josephine offered. “You just tell me if you need anything at all, Adahlee—or tell me how you feel, so I may offer solutions.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Adahlee lightly swung their joined hands, and nodded to Cullen in acceptance.

“I’m glad we could have this conversation,” Leliana finally said, “and it will be an evolving one, I’m sure. This is the beginning.”

“Of course,” Cullen acknowledged.

“But this brings us to another matter, Adahlee,” Leliana continued. “Cullen and I have been coordinating our people for this, and we had wished to speak with you.”

Huh? “What for?”

Cullen sighed, running a hand through his hair tiredly. “Our forces have been scouring the mountain for remains from the Conclave, to hopefully identify and send off to families.”

Leliana said softly: “If you’d like us to, we would try to find those of your mother.”

The world stopped once more.

The potent nothingness from the first time, Adahlee noted, as though observing herself from above, was absent. She had the strangest sensation of falling, drifting past thoughts as she, perhaps, came back down to herself: how often had she thought about Mother, really, in all the chaos? Closing rifts, surviving, training, reading, becoming, being—where was the time? Was it real, yet? Was she comfortable a step ahead of it? How could she be gone when her presence welled up into the gaps between thoughts, choked the quiet moments and armed the anxious ones? How could Adahlee ever get her out? How could she want to? Would this make her go away, or make it too real—or both?

“Adahlee?” Josephine’s voice cut through.

Adahlee blinked. She was in the same spot; no one had moved, but the others’ faces were varying shades of concerned.

“I’m alright.” And she was… I think. Adahlee practiced the breathing she learned from Cassandra; in, hold, out. In, hold, out. Why was she a little shaky? She was okay. She was steady. The breathing helped.

Would this help?

She might regret it forever if she didn’t try, whatever it may bring. Or she might not. But Adahlee wouldn’t take a chance like that.

“Yes,” she said quietly, then cleared her throat. “Yes, I’d… let’s try that.”

“Could we have a description of your mother, then? Anything that might help?” Leliana went to her desk, grabbing a quill and parchment.

Adahlee wanted to wring her hands, but she was still holding Josephine’s. And Josephine hasn’t let go, she noted to herself, faintly and warmly. “Um… she was middle aged. Only a little taller than me. Shoulder-length grey hair… she usually kept it back.” Adahlee straightened up, remembering something. “She was missing a couple back teeth, on her upper right side.”

Leliana penned it in a sharp hand, nodding. “Alright; thank you, Adahlee. We can make no promises on what we find—the cold preserves well, but the blast destroyed much. I can only say that we will do what we can.”

Adahlee gulped, but she would face it with her eyes open—and she wasn’t alone. She knew that. “Thank you… all of you.” She finally released Josephine’s hand, standing strong without it—but Josephine hadn’t seemed to mind.

Cullen offered her a semblance of a smile. “We’ll all do our parts, as you do. Good luck out there.”

—

Before the sun could sink behind the golden gates of Val Royeaux, the party had a plan. No inn would take them—none that they could trust, anyway—so Cassandra investigated the Red Jenny's lead with some scouts, while Varric, Solas, and Adahlee broke away with the rest. If you truly trust these Friends of Red Jenny, I will trust you, Cassandra had told her, but I would not take you directly into a trap waiting for you, no matter how prepared we are.

But Solas has been training me, Adahlee had insisted.

Not for very long. Solas had placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. You have made great strides, but I agree with Cassandra. Let us make camp outside the city, and allow her and Leliana's people to deal with this threat.

Not that Adahlee wasn’t glad to leave the walls of Val Royeaux. Its glittering gates had stunned her—but that which was beautiful was often dangerous, as well. Even aside from the spectacle in the Summer Bazaar, which had made her tremble and want to scream and hide, she felt there would be a knife at her throat around every corner. She would, by far, take sleeping in sparse woods over a night in the capital.

It wasn’t until the moons rose, and Adahlee was dozing in a tent, that she heard a scout speak softly: “They’re coming back. There’s one more with them that I don’t recognize.”

Adahlee rolled over, and scrambled from the tent. She wanted to run to Cassandra, but Varric had bid her stay close until they were far from Val Royeaux, and Adahlee couldn’t argue with that. So, one of Leliana's people gave her a hand up to their perch in the branches of a tree, and she observed the approach by moonlight. Adahlee watched the scouts flock together, murmurs lost to the night. Some lead the party to camp; a couple retreated back across the bridge to the city. Three spread out north, east, and west, until they disappeared in brush or around the bend of the road. They reminded her of bees, Adahlee realized, and she let out a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” The scout next to her asked with a smirk.

“You’re like bees.”

“What?”

“You huddle together and buzz about with secrets, fly off, regroup at the hive, fly off again.”

“You think bees have secrets?”

“You never know what a bee could witness!” Adahlee defended, but laughed, and the scout laughed with her. “You’re like bees, and Leliana is your queen.”

“What about bees?” Asked an unfamiliar voice from the party, reaching the little clearing where they had set up. The scout helped her down the tree again, and Adahlee thanked them before rushing to greet the group.

The one who had spoken with the thick Fereldan accent was the sole figure without an Inquisition emblem. She seemed rough around the edges, but spunky, with torn clothes and choppy hair. Cassandra turned from the person to greet Adahlee, looking relieved upon seeing her. “Adahlee.” Cassandra gestured to the other. “This is—”

“Name’s Sera.” Sera grinned at her, and she could see a slightly chipped snaggletooth. “They were right about you! You're kind of small. Anyway, you're the one that glows? The Herald thingy?”

Adahlee wrinkled her nose. “I’m not the Herald of Andraste, though people call me that anyway. I'm Adahlee.” She leaned forward excitedly. “Are you her? The Friend?”

“That’s me! This one here, the one who looks like she punches bears, she says you know about us?”

“My name is Cassandra.”

Adahlee managed to muffle a snicker, but still burst into a wide grin. “I used to work as a servant! We had a Friend in Ostwick who looked out for us!”

Sera's expression lit up. “You’re little people, too! Small and little. Don’t know how you got to be all glowy and people wanting you to shut it, but I can make them shut it, instead.” Sera put her hands on her hips, chest out. “I want to join the Inquisition. You've got your knifey shivdark spies all hidden, yeah, but if your people don’t listen down here too, you risk your breeches.” Sera grinned cheekily at Cassandra then, and patted a sack at her side. “Like those guards? I stole their…”

Cassandra let out an exasperated sigh.

“You stole… breeches?”

“From the guards for that great tit I warned you about—you shoulda seen them, trying to act all tough in their knickers! Anyway. I want to get everything back to normal. Like you?”

Adahlee nodded, and looked to Cassandra questioningly. Cassandra gestured back to Adahlee. “Sera had already expressed her desire to join. I thought I might introduce her, so you could have your say.”

Adahlee's eyebrows raised. “Really?”

Cassandra folded her hands behind her back, and smiled at her. “Of course. Do you remember what I told you?”

Honour and choices. Adahlee returned her smile, and then turned it to Sera. “I would love to have you in the Inquisition.”

“Yes!” Sera pumped her fist. “Also, you have merchants who buy this pish, yeah?” She held up the sack now. “Got to be worth something.” Despite saying that, she tossed it to the base of a tree, and it fell open to reveal a tangle of—indeed—breeches.

Adahlee guffawed, then began a bashful apology, but Sera easily topped it with a cackle of her own. Cassandra scoffed without any real heat, and as she retreated into the camp, she said: “I will be here if you need anything, Adahlee.”

“Okay!” She giggled around her hands. “Thank you!”

“Anyway, I heard bees?” Sera's eyes were alight with mischief. “Cause if you’ve got any jars around, I've a great idea.”

—

Adahlee was right that she was in for more learning on the road. She found her stamina building quickly, however, so she was glad to put the long hours to use. Solas would point out different plants and herbs as they passed, teaching her their medicinal uses and Elvish names. Halting but clear, Adahlee would practice: Ar setrenas lia’emabria mir tis’ula. I crush embrium flowers for my healing potion. Sera, on the other hand, would teach her bawdy tavern songs, much to the chagrin of everyone else—except for Varric, who added his own spins to the more popular rhymes. Along smoother paths, Cassandra would help Adahlee onto the back of her stallion alone, letting her ride while Cassandra led at an easy pace.

Even when they set camp for the night, Adahlee didn’t slow—with Vivienne's offer to contribute to her tutoring, Adahlee was eager to show all she had learned. On their first evening, she sat with Vivienne near the fire; the woman looked the picture of propriety, her back straight and legs crossed, even while perched on a rock. Vivienne had a commanding presence, but Adahlee never found herself frightened. A bit intimidated, at first, yet simultaneously starry-eyed—Vivienne held herself with power and purpose, enough to shake a room with every step, leaving Adahlee in awe and admiration. In any case, Vivienne only ever regarded her with patience and warmth, and Adahlee wanted to do her best. So she held herself a little taller, and clasped her hands together in her lap.

“Let’s begin with your background on magic. If I am to teach you properly, I must ascertain where you stand presently,” Vivienne began. “You came into your magic rather late, yes?”

“Yes, about a year and a half ago.”

“And you had received no training until recently?”

“Yes.” Adahlee nodded. “The Circles had already begun to crumble.”

Vivienne hummed her displeasure. “What did you do before Solas began tutoring you?”

Adahlee flicked her gaze away, her head lowering. “I… hid it. I asked my mother if we could find a teacher—we could've sought out a Dalish clan, or an Enchanter from the Ostwick Circle, if any were still nearby—but she wouldn’t hear of it. She told me to act like nothing had changed, or I would put us in danger.” Adahlee pressed her lips into a thin line. “So… I clamped down on it. I never tried casting, and learned how to run from the demons in my dreams by myself.”

She chanced a glance back at Vivienne, who had seriousness set in her face. “You were in the right, my dear. Clamping down put you in even greater danger; one cannot deny their nature for long.”

Adahlee nodded, her eyes low again. “I know. I knew it would never last. I—” she twisted her hands together, once confident, now nervous all over again. “I was scared. I was scared the demons would catch me, that I wasn’t strong enough. And I had no one I could turn to.”

“You’re strong enough to have made it this far.”

Adahlee paused; so did Vivienne. It seemed like she was waiting. So Adahlee peeked up, and found Vivienne giving her a steady gaze.

“I… I suppose you’re right,” Adahlee conceded.

Vivienne gave her a small, graceful smile, and Adahlee couldn’t help but smile back, lifting herself once more.

“I admire such strength, and cleverness at that, to have survived.”

Adahlee blinked. “Really?”

“Certainly. I loathe that someone your age would be subject to that, but such is the current state of the world.” There was a sort of hardness in Vivienne's eyes, and at once, Adahlee understood why she was called the Lady of Iron. “Chin up, my dear. I can see your drive, and it will serve you well. It is yours, so wear it.”

Adahlee took a deep breath, and raised her head. She met Vivienne's unwavering gaze. Equals. The word crossed her mind again, and once, she never would have thought to be equals with someone like Vivienne de Fer, but perhaps she already was.

—

Adahlee was glad to be back in Haven, familiar as it was becoming. She didn’t quite get a moment to rest, yet, sucked into a meeting upon her return, but they had much to discuss. The clergy aside, they needed help to close the Breach—and two opposing offers for it. Adahlee had made her preference clear, and heard no objection. Josephine promised she would work on how to best approach the rebel mages.

And, when the meeting adjourned, Josephine pulled her aside, just outside her office. “I’ve received word from your hahren, Adahlee. She sent a reply to me—and a personal one to you, as well.”

Adahlee’s heart leapt into her throat. Oh Creators. What was Sosana going to say?

Her apprehension must have been apparent, because Josephine offered her a reassuring smile. “She was nothing but respectful in her letter to me. You have nothing to fear. You may review it, if you wish—and the letter to you remains unopened.”

She deflated in relief. Adahlee didn’t know why she was so scared, really—but her heart couldn’t be more glad. “Thank you, Josephine,” she murmured, “truly.”

“Of course—I am more than happy to help. Come, I have the letter for you in my office.”

It was a little roll of parchment that Josephine procured from a drawer in her desk, the wax seal unbroken. Adahlee turned it over in her hands. “Could I… read it here?” She asked nervously.

“By all means.” Josephine gestured to the chair opposite her desk while she sat herself. Adahlee sank into her seat, not taking her eyes off the letter. With a deep breath, she broke the seal, and unfurled it.

Dear Adahlee,

Words cannot express how relieved I am to hear from you. We all feared the worst when we heard of what happened at the Conclave, and you have my sincerest condolences for the loss of your mother. But at least you live. Distance will not stop me from worrying over one of our own, but I’ve been assured you are in good hands. I will trust your judgment, and your new friends in the Inquisition.

I more than accept your girlhood and magic; allow me to congratulate you on both. The Dalish refer to magic as a gift, you know. We all had it, in the days of Arlathan—that it lives in your blood is a gift indeed. My only regret is that you were made to hide.

I’ve heard the stories—they spread like wildfire. Your feelings about the ‘Herald of Andraste’ are completely reasonable, and if you reject the title, state as such without reserve. If the shemlen still refuse to listen, wash your hands of them. You must choose your battles, and it is not your job to make someone respect you if they don't; it’s not worth investing energy in anyone who won’t return the courtesy. And who knows? Perhaps denying them your ‘holy’ presence would make their ears work.

A library would be a great gift to our community. I have brought your suggestion to some others, and there’s been resounding agreement and excitement for the project. There can never be enough places to learn letters and nurture our spirit. On behalf of everyone, we give you a very pretty thank you for your generosity and thoughtfulness.

As for the name of it, and titles—I offer this for you to accept or decline freely, as you might any other name. You are not the Herald of Andraste. You are mending the very fabric of our world, in perhaps the most literal enactment of tisun’olam. I would call you not the Herald of Andraste—but Tisulan. You are the Healer. If you accept this, I would call the library Tisulan’s Sanctuary, for that is what you have given us.

Don’t you worry about being lost out there, child. You carry the teachings, and have embraced the vhenadahl into your very being, by the name you’ve chosen. But if ever you need of me, you only have to write.

Peace on you, Sosana

Adahlee realized that she was grinning. Her smile didn't waver when she looked up at Josephine. “I’m not the Herald of Andraste.”

Josephine clearly didn't expect that, her face full of confusion. “Oh?”

Adahlee trusted her, so she turned the letter towards her. She stood, proud and beaming, as she accepted the name. “I’m Tisulan. The Healer.”

[steelbluehome]

BBC News (click for article)

Donald Trump biopic causes a stir in Cannes

Steven McIntosh

Entertainment reporter

A new film about Donald Trump has had its world premiere at the Cannes Film Festival, attracting mostly good reviews from critics but a legal threat from the former president.

Titled The Apprentice, the biopic traces Mr Trump's origin story as an ambitious young property developer in 1970s and 80s New York.

His spokesman described the film, which features a scene where he is seen raping his first wife Ivana, as "garbage", "pure fiction" and "election interference by Hollywood elites".

The movie begins with a disclaimer that many of its events are fictionalised.

It debuted as Mr Trump's hush-money trial continues in New York, while he gears up for another presidential election in November.

What is The Apprentice?

The title is partly a reference to the TV series Mr Trump fronted for more than a decade from 2004.

However, the film takes place several decades earlier, as Mr Trump is making his name as a real estate developer.

Sebastian Stan, who has appeared in Pam & Tommy, Dumb Money and several MCU films as Winter Soldier, portrays the former president.

Succession star Jeremy Strong plays his ruthless mentor and lawyer Roy Cohn.

According to news agency AFP, the film "paints an unflinching but nuanced portrait of the former US president".

The film, said to feature "rape, erectile dysfunction, baldness and betrayal", starts out with a sympathetic potrayal of a headstrong but naive social climber.

As it progresses, however, the movie charts Mr Trump's "decency being eroded as he learns the dark arts of dealmaking and tastes power".

Its director, Iranian-Danish film-maker Ali Abbasi, imagines several brutal events taking place behind closed doors. In one harrowing scene, Mr Trump is seen raping Ivana.

During their real-life divorce proceedings, Ivana accused Mr Trump of raping her, although she later retracted the allegation. She died in 2022.

Speaking to Vanity Fair before the premiere, Abbasi had said the aim was "to do a punk rock version of a historical movie... [not] get too anal about details and what's right and what's wrong".

The movie received an eight-minute standing ovation after its screening in Cannes, a festival where such audience reactions are common.

What has Donald Trump said?

Trump's campaign communications director Steven Cheung said legal action would be taken "to address the blatantly false assertions from these pretend filmmakers".

"This garbage is pure fiction which sensationalises lies that have been long debunked," he added in a statement.

"This is election interference by Hollywood elites, who know that President Trump will retake the White House and beat their candidate of choice because nothing they have done has worked."

In response, Abbasi told reporters in Cannes: "Donald's team should wait to watch the movie before they start suing us.

"I don't necessary think this is a movie that he would dislike... I think he would be surprised."

The premiere of The Apprentice at the French film festival on Monday came while Mr Trump is on trial in Manhattan. He denies falsifying business records to cover up a payment to porn star Stormy Daniels and any sexual encounter.

'Not a hit job'

Critics wrote broadly positive reviews of the film following its premiere.

"This is the Donald Trump movie that you never knew you needed: full of compassionate feeling yet ruthless in analysis," said Kevin Maher of the Times in a four-star review.

Deadline's Pete Hammond described it as "a smart, sharp and surprising origin story".

"This is not a hit job on Trump," he said. "It presents a person somewhat driven but awkward, a man striving for the approval of a tough-love father, unsure but determined to succeed and even oddly charming at times."

Strong's performance is "superb", according to the Telegraph's Robbie Collin, "but Stan's approach feels too sensitive - given Trump’s total absence of hinterland, the role probably needed a caricaturist’s touch."

There was praise for the lead actor, however, from Variety's Owen Gleiberman. "Stan’s performance is a wonder," he wrote. "He gets Trump’s lumbering geek body language, the imposing gait with his hands held stiffly at his sides, and just as much he gets the facial language."

The Guardian's Peter Bradshaw was less keen, awarding the film two stars and commenting: "The Apprentice worryingly moves us back to the old Donald, the joke Donald... the joke that is now beyond unfunny. It feels obtuse and irrelevant."

Anticipating the audience reaction, the Hollywood Reporter's David Rooney said: "Liberals will see it as a stomach-churning making-of-a-monster account while the MAGA faithful might conceivably misconstrue it as an endorsement of their guy, who has made the killer instinct his brand."

[wausaupilot]

OB-GYN Kristin Lyerly launches campaign for open 8th Congressional District seat

by Baylor Spears, Wisconsin Examiner April 5, 2024 The race for Wisconsin’s open 8th Congressional seat, which U.S. Rep. Mike Gallagher will vacate this month, began taking shape when the first Democrat announced her candidacy Thursday. Green Bay OB-GYN Kristin Lyerly launched her campaign for the seat Thursday morning at Hinterland Brewing Company in Green Bay. She started off her speech by…

[bcaugust]

Since my brain won't do story right now

The Untamed Sects/Clans as VtM Clans:

The Lans: Ventrue. Determined to be the best and the moral leaders, appearing untouched but still powerful, the Lan gaze leading to most giving them deference, while in warfare they are among the most enduring. They also train all of the physical disciplines, and any Lan allowed off the mountain before the war will be among the best trained and best equipped of any clan. The Main Line is rumored to be blessed(cursed) with skill in seeking out exceptional people and claiming them.

The Jin: Toreador. The dancing, the art, the glitter and drama that tries to cover the beating black heart of hunger that lies in the Jin. The Jin specialize in social warfare, skilled in finding a role in their drama and playing it to the hilt. What is Beautiful should be theirs, and a Jin going for something they want is dangerous indeed.

The Nie: Brujah. The Nie would say they are masters of the Beast, but above all the other Clans the Nie are both the most passionate and the most destructive. It's a rare few that ever see into the interior of the Clan and Sect, to where their harsh morality and philosophy is worked out in debates that can rage for months. Those few who are willing to look past their brutish reputation and make friends with a member of the Nie find a friend indeed.

The Jiang: Gangrel. Before the Sunshot campaign, the Jiang were known as Rangers, above all else the most skilled in knowing their lands and the beasts around, but barely paying any attention to the political interplay of the Sects. The Jiang preferred to be on their own, which is why the devastation of an attack aimed at their weakest spots worked. In the aftermath, the Jiang are Survivors. They still aren't skilled in the arts of politics, but they have claws and teeth out against anyone that might be a threat to whom they consider theirs. The rest might disparage their manners, but no one insults them.

The Wen: Tzimisce. The first to settle, the first to claim, and the first to fail, the Wen stood proud as only those who mastered the arts of flesh and the elements could. They ruled over their lands with an iron fist, but when pride and ego led to their ruin, it did to all their people as well. The Qishan Wen were excellent hosts, but beware of any offense, as they would pay it back tenfold. Still, their mastery of sorcery and the vast lands they claimed led to rumors even far in the future that there waits members of this clan in the hinterlands.

Baoshan Sanren(And Disciples): Salubri. While all of those that stepped off the mountain and their descendants were the warrior bloodline, unable to see the innocent hurt and warriors with inhuman skill, on the mountain are the healers, who can do things that no others could even dream of. The rumors state that they can pull one from qi deviation, or heal wounds that have scarred even the greatest of cultivators. Perhaps even heal a shattered soul or return a golden core.

(May go back and match up some of the minor clans/bloodlines later)

[yibennianyaji]

The Saint of Bright Doors by Vajra Chandrasekera

"The moment Fetter is born, Mother-of-Glory pins his shadow to the earth with a large brass nail and tears it from him. This is his first memory, the seed of many hours of therapy to come." So begins Vajra Chandrasekera's remarkable debut novel The Saint of Bright Doors. It's a good beginning, full of promise. The shock of that sudden violence. The strangeness of the fantastical act. The lurch towards modernity right at the end. It is also, however, an opening whose promises—including one that we are not even aware is being made—the novel will spend most of its length breaking.

Fetter is raised in the northern hinterlands of the continent of Jambu, the son of a witch known as Mother-of-Glory who has dedicated his entire existence to a great and terrible task. In addition to (or perhaps because of) his shadowlessness, he has other powers. He is gripped only lightly by gravity, and can float away if he doesn't concentrate on staying on the ground. He is impervious to fire. He has powerful instincts that warn him about danger and nudge him towards fortunate outcomes. He sees demons, which even his mother can't perceive: huge alligator-like creatures; "white-armed antigods" whose touch brings plague; scuttling spider-things who track spectral blood behind them. He spends his childhood being trained to kill—specifically, to kill his father, the prophet known as The Perfect and Kind, a wizard with world-altering powers whose sect has been sweeping the continent for centuries, whose schisming factions, the Path Behind and the Path Above, have been at each other's throats (and more importantly, at each other's followers' throats) for most of that time. At the age of thirteen, he is sent off with the following reminder: "The only way to change the world is through intentional, directed violence."

We rejoin Fetter, in his early twenties, in the city of Luriat, a place of seeming normality whose undercurrents of strangeness and violence it is the business of much of the novel to reveal. He has renounced much of what we have spent the previous chapter learning about him, and is a member of a support group for the "unchosen": failed prophets, cast-off children of messiahs, the spares whose sibling or cousin ended up being the chosen one of their particular sect. Though he won't admit it to himself, Fetter is at loose ends, half-heartedly searching for a new purpose to replace the one he's set down. He lingers in The Sands, the social housing district where newcomers to Luriat are assigned quarters, guiding his new neighbors through the city's bureaucracy, and then watching as they find their feet and move on while he stays behind. He develops a mild, frustrated fascination with Luriat's most overtly fantastical trait, the titular bright doors:

any closed door in Luriat can become a bright door, if left closed long enough. Any doorway that can be shut and that can't be seen through when closed, if left shut and untouched for an undetermined length of time will vanish from one side and become unopenable from the other. There may be other conditions; they are heavily speculated upon but remain yet unknown. It is also unknown how far outside Luriat this effect can take place; there are records of it happening deep in the hinterlands. The door does not change in appearance, but it is tradition that such doors should then be brightly painted.

Once again, there's a sense of promise in these passages, of the novel settling itself into a familiar groove. That mixture of the fantastical and the mundane—this is a world with demons and prophets, but also support groups, crowdfunding campaigns, and email—is a common urban fantasy trope. Fetter's situation—young, aimless, running away from an abusive upbringing and a destiny he has rejected, powerful without knowing what to do with it—is familiar from many other fantasy protagonists. The leader of his support group, Koel, turns out to be a revolutionary, "opposed to the executions, violence, harassment, discriminations, disappearances, imprisonments, pogroms, and other tools of the death magic employed by the various limbs of the tentacular Luriati state against its people". She recruits Fetter into her organization, sending him to pose as a student studying one of the bright doors. At the same time, The Perfect and Kind announces an official visit to the city, while Fetter's mother resumes contact and begins to explain not only his family history, but the origins of his father's powers. It's easy to see the outlines of a traditional fantasy of empowerment in all these developments. Fetter, unchosen and renunciate, will become—either through the internal logic of his world, or simply due to being the protagonist of the novel we're reading—the chosen one.

And then it fails to materialize. There's a meandering quality to The Saint of Bright Doors that makes it hard to write about and even harder to effectively recommend. A lot of what's brilliant about it, and key to what Chandrasekera is trying to achieve with it, can sound like a criticism if you describe it plainly. Fetter floats between multiple storylines without seeming to go very far into any of them. He investigates a bright door, and assists a government researcher, Pipra, in her own investigations, without reaching much of an understanding (and certainly without managing to open one). He participates in more missions for Koel, but remains on the outskirts of her organization, while others in the support group enter its inner circle. He hangs out with his boyfriend Hej, a comfortable, upper middle class civil servant who is in the dark about much of what makes Fetter weird and unusual, without finding the courage (or even the motivation) to take their relationship to the next level. There are moments when the novel seems on the verge of a momentous leveling-up ("The bright doors are not locked. They are not even closed. The bright doors of Luriat are wide open") which then doesn't materialize. Around the midway point, Fetter commits a shocking act, with the potential to upend not only his own life but that of anyone connected to him, but the aftermath is puzzlingly undefined. He ends up in a prison camp—a long, Kafkaesque ordeal—but it's never clear whether this is comeuppance for his actions, or a simple bureaucratic snafu.

This is all deliberate, of course, but more importantly, it's really effective. The Saint of Bright Doors is a novel about coming of age and coming into power, but it's about doing those things not as an independent actor whose special powers allow them to opt out of the restrictions imposed by their environment, but as someone operating within a specific context. Within several contexts, actually, as each of Fetter's interests—each of the personas he adopts as he pursues the novel's different storylines—introduces him to a different one. From Pipra he learns about the city's low-ranking government researchers, indifferent to politics and the wider impact of their work, exasperated by the demands of their superiors. Among those superiors, he observes subtle gamesmanship and backstabbing behind polite smiles, the place where religious conviction intersects with, and becomes indistinguishable from, political ambition. Invited by Koel, he attends a play that subversively reimagines the origin myth of his father's cult, sitting beside bohemian tastemakers who are unaware of Koel's more concrete acts of resistance. Back in The Sands, he witnesses an execution of dissidents, a phantasmagorical procession of the condemned, whose reasons are never explained. He spends the novel being explained to: by Koel, who expounds on her revolutionary theory; by his mother, who in a long monologue explains his father's crimes; even by Hej, who uses architecture to illustrate the city's history of occupation and revolution.

At the center of it all, of course, is Luriat, a place of seemingly endless contradictions: of generous social programs conditioned on a rigid classification system that sorts people into minute categories of race and caste; where a supposedly functional, modern society frequently erupts not only into state-sponsored violence, but into religious and sectarian pogroms that are tolerated because the perpetrators belong to the "right" group. And yet The Saint of Bright Doors is not a "city" novel, the sort of fantasy where the setting is a character in its own right, and learning it is one of the novel's chief pleasures. On the contrary, the more we (and Fetter) learn about Luriat—and this learning is slow and halting, only gradually revealing the city's full complexity and capacity for violence—the more unknowable it seems, the more riven with contradictions, the more shaped by an endlessly convoluted history whose manifestation in the present seems designed to defeat any attempt at comprehension, much less repair.

Luriat has too many moving parts, too many heads, too many arms, a devilish profusion of writhing shadows and hidden blades. There are the two competing presidents and matching twin prime ministers; the governor-general representing the Absent Queen, and the steward of the Absent King (unrelated); the Parliament, in semi-permanent abeyance due to competing Dissolution Orders and Emergency Regulations ... Too, there are the Presidential Task Forces, usually staffed by retired generals, that perform much of everyday governance unaddressed by the ongoing failure of Parliament; dozens of political parties, almost all of which appear to be formally or informally organized along lines dictated by the grouping and typing theory of Alabi race science; the city's Lord Mayor, who skips from embroilment to embroilment, one scandal to the next; the Council of High Priests of the Path Behind, four old, withered, venomous men in blood robes; many warlords and drug barons, most of whom are also cabinet ministers; and the two great Courts of Summer and Storm, and their mirrored Constitutions with competing claims to supremacy.

Far from learning his world over the course of the novel, what Fetter is confronted with again and again is his inability to comprehend it, to grasp the enormity of not just the city, but the world beyond it. And what he does understand, he ultimately decides he'd prefer not to—"He misses the blessed ignorance of his early years in this city, when every jackboot was the same to him." Unlike other city novels, The Saint of Bright Doors is far from enamored with its setting. Inasmuch as Fetter learns it, it is by gaining a greater appreciation of its abuses, from the regular raids on The Sands in which entire communities are disappeared, to the vast holding camps that surround the city, allegedly for quarantining against the frequent eruptions of plague or resettling displaced populations. More importantly, what he learns is that an essential part of living in Luriat is learning to unsee, to accept these abuses so long as they don't happen to you.

None of them—not soldiers, not scientists, not bureaucrats—notice or react to his oddity. He found it charming at first, how unremarkable his shadowlessness is in this city, but he's come to see it as part of a deep Luriati unwillingness to acknowledge anything that would require overturning their world, whether in physics or politics. A crowd like this wouldn't acknowledge the fact of a hinterland pogrom or a prison camp either. To them, such things are the invisible laws and powers of the world, to be left unseen or at least not looked in the eye. They hide behind unfortunate incident or tense situation or welfare camp for internally displaced persons or a trick of the light.

It's impossible, of course, not to connect this to Chandrasekera's home of Sri Lanka. There's a lived-in quality to The Saint of Bright Doors's worldbuilding that shines through even for someone, like myself, who knows only a very little about the country. (For a more knowledgeable perspective, see Gautam Bhatia's discussion of the novel as part of a recent overview of Sri Lankan speculative fiction.) The violence it describes is insistent, inescapable, and yet also inherently absurd—priests who coolly direct pogroms while earnestly calling for the adoption of vegetarianism; religious pilgrims, awaiting The Perfect and Kind's visit to the city, who schism and fight over correct religious behavior. Certain observations—"when a monk of the Path Behind is on TV calling for peace from both sides ... it means that the Path Behind is once again attempting to cull the hinterlands of the pathless, and of the races and castes that they consider low and other"—remind us that this is a setting where religion, rather than (or commingled with) race, is the source and site of most sectarian violence. 

These passages are too specific (and too bitter) to come from anywhere but reality. And so, too, is the ability of people to continue living their normal lives in the midst of this violence. When Fetter returns to the city after a long incarceration, he discovers that one of his father's top generals is patrolling its skies, dive-bombing the streets when he spots a protester or dissident. A nearby woman, carrying shopping bags, advises him simply: "Don't let him notice you".

(For the same reason, The Saint of Bright Doors is perhaps the first genre novel I've read that feels not merely inflected by the pandemic, but as if it's explicitly referencing COVID. Worldbuilding details such as Fetter being briefly detained in a quarantine hotel, or Hej leaving for his wealthy family's mountain enclave once it becomes clear that the plague and civil unrest in Luriat are not abating, or the way that angry mobs feel free to ignore the raging disease, feel taken from life and extremely familiar. This is, I think, the only fantasy novel I will ever read where a character's morality can be discerned by how and whether they wear a mask.)

Towards the end of The Saint of Bright Doors, Fetter is brought face to face with his father, the man who has committed so many atrocities and inspired so many more, who "truly believed that peace could come from ideological subjugation of all peoples of the world into an organized system of life, one that he would devise to be perfect and complete." As is standard in such confrontations in fantasy novels, Fetter is presented with a temptation: to become his father's heir, to learn true power, to be crowned the titular saint, and to use that power to repair the world and address the injustices of Luriat.

By this point, however, we have begun to suspect that Fetter is not the point, and perhaps not even our true protagonist. That the entire exercise of The Saint of Bright Doors has been one of misdirection. Even the novel's tight third person narration obscures the fact that there is another narrative perspective at work. And what this revelation confirms is what we have been learning over the course of the novel: that what is important about the story of Luriat isn't what's there, but what's absent. What—who—has been erased not just from history, but from existence. All of Luriat is built on this erasure, this banishment of the inconvenient, the racialized, the designated others, from our reality. The magic we have perceived throughout this city, the powers that a "special" person like Fetter seems to possess, are only "someone else's labour".

there is no such thing as devils. They are the people of lost histories. We see them only in translation, the only way they can exist in this realm. They come because your city is a fraying lacework; every bright door is an open wound bleeding into the water.

By the end of the novel, Fetter has found his place, his purpose, his way to rebel. Not as a hero, but as a component in a machine—sometimes a weapon to be deployed, sometimes one soldier among many; along the way, working out his own morality and the limits of what he's willing to do for change. Far from reaffirming his chosenness, the novel has reaffirmed its--and his--conviction to dismantle it. By this point, however, we see him only from a distance. We are aware that the story of Luriat is not just his, and that the greater part of the story is one that he will never know—that the invisible sometimes see the world more clearly, and more broadly, than those who have access to the seats of power. "There is an entire world out there, which Fetter never quite seemed to understand, and it doesn't much care about Paths Above or Behind, it doesn't care at all about Luriat, and it especially doesn't care if everyone here lives or dies." The uniqueness of The Saint of Bright Doors as a fantasy is, among other things, in how liberating it finds that revelation, that willingness to step back from Luriat, Fetter, and their story.

[redridcr]

DRAGON AGE TIMELINE

9:01 -

Charles Howard Sr. established the carriage business in the Bannorn area. He is 20+ years old. Makes enough money to become a Freeholder, which is essential for the horses.

John and Mary Pollard get married and settle into the Bannorn area.

The Brindleback family has been settled in the Hinterlands for centuries.

9:09 -

Charlie Howard is born.

9:11 -

Charles Howard Sr. establishes the courier / Rider business. He is 30+ years old.

9:12 -

Jonathon Pollard is born.

9:21 -

Robrecht Brindleback kills the Brindleback families supporting Bann in Ferelden. Robrecht was part of the knighthood and protector of the Bann’s daughter, whom the Bann was going to marry off at age 12 after her first bleed had begun. Robrecht Brindleback heavily disgreed with this idea.

Robrecht Brindleback is set to hang but is recruited into the Grey Wardens. He is 35 years old.

Charles Howard Sr. is 40+ years old. He has established his carriage business for 20 years and the courier / Rider business for 10 years.

Gustav of Orlais is 19 and already a warmage General / Knight Enchanter. He loses his arm when defending men in a grand attack and is retired from the field due to his injury.

9:22 -

Abbram Brindleback, age 22, refuses to give his entire leathersmith business to the Brindleback elders. His shop is burned and Abbram is kicked out of the family. He is a Son of Sin and becomes ‘Bram’.

9:29 -

Charlie Howard, age 20, goes on a ‘Tour’ of Thedas with James Pollard, age 25, the second son of John and Mary Pollard.

Bram, age 29, has been the main leathersmith for the Howard family for 7 years and makes all their saddle & tack.

9:31 - Dragon Age Origins

Hero of Ferelden, City Elf Belveder, is recruited by the Grey Wardens.

Warden Brindleback ( no longer carrying the first name ‘Robrecht’) is 45 years old.

Elizabeth Charlotte / ‘Liselotte’ of Ferelden is 24 and married to Chevalier Philippe in Orlais.

9:37 - Dragon Age 2

Warden Brindleback is 51 years old.

9:41 - Dragon Age: Inquisition

Warden Brindleback is 55 years old.

Charlie Howard is 32 years old. His older brother, Franklin, dies at age 37. Charlie Howard establishes the ‘Red Riders’ as a small political scouting campaign for the Inquisition.

Charles Howard Sr and John Pollard go to Orlais to refute the claims against the Howard family and build a case for their innocence and ignorance of what Franklin Howard was doing.

Bram, age 41, meets Charlie Howard at Skyhold and continues investigating the mysterious deaths & ‘purifying purges’ of the Brindleback family.

Elizabeth Charlotte / ‘Liselotte’ is 34 and meets her cousin, Charlie Howard, at the Winter Palace.

Gustav of Orlais is 39.

9:49

Warden Brindleback passes. He leaves any inheritance and land to Bram. Bram refuses to claim it and passes it on to the Howards.

[linuxgamenews]

The Long Dark gets new objective-based Tales

SIGNAL VOID Expansion Pass and game update releases for The Long Dark on Linux, Mac, with Windows PC. All due to the creative work and effort of developer Hinterland Studio Inc. Available on both Steam and Humble Store. Hinterland released Tales from the Far Territory, Part Two: SIGNAL VOID. The latest Expansion Pass update introduces the first Tale. Players are due to explore a story driven tale that delves into the area's mysterious past. Also featuring gameplay goal that reveal the history of Great Bear Island. Releasing in multiple Parts over the course of a 12-month campaign. Tales from the Far Territory includes paid updates for those who own the Expansion Pass. Also free updates for anyone who owns The Long Dark or Survival Edition on Linux. So, for a look at the great new content available in Part Two: SIGNAL VOID, watch the new update video below:

The Long Dark -- TALES FROM THE FAR TERRITORY -- Part Two Update Video

These are the contents of Part Two: SIGNAL VOID for the paid Expansion Pass, the following free updates were applied to the base Survival game.

Fire-Hardened Arrows: Good for hunting small game

Enhanced Prepper Bunkers: Including visual updates, loot updates, and a spawn refresh. Prepper Bunkers are now spread out over more regions. So there are more hatches than before, however only 3 are fully stocked.

Enhanced Beachcombing: Watch for new loot and also larger items after Blizzards

Acorns & more Oak Trees: Prepare and eat Acorns, or use them to make delicious Acorn Coffee

PART TWO: SIGNAL VOID

The first Tale, SIGNAL VOID: Requires an estimated 5+ hours to complete

Handheld Shortwave Radio: For use with Transponder Cache Gameplay

Transponder Cache Gameplay: Including the Handheld Shortwave and Transmitter sites. Also trackable hidden Supply Caches

New Bunkers: Discovered as part of the Tale

Four new clothing items: The Hockey Jersey, Flight Jacket, Aviator Cap, and Technical Balaclava

New “Surprise” Accessory item: Only found as part of the Tale.

SIGNAL VOID Expansion Pass and game update releases for The Long Dark on Steam and Humble Store. Priced at $19.99 USD / £16.75 / 19,50€. Along with Linux, Mac, with Windows PC.

[lumateranlibrarian]

I was tagged by @penthesilea1623

Rules: post the first line of a WIP and tag as many people as there are words in the quote.

Satina, the blue-tinged ‘younger’ moon of Thedas, seemed to take up half the horizon. If it weren’t for the chill in the air and the languid, sleepy chirp of the crickets, one could easily think it midday. Night had fallen over the Hinterlands, and the war-torn region seemed to be taking a collective, exhausted breath.

I tag anyone who wants to share a WIP! All fandoms welcome :)

[dailyadventureprompts]

Settlement: Barrowtown

Thriving with one foot in the grave

Once an innocuous village overlooking a particularly foreboding stretch of wilderness,  “Yarrowton” transformed into it’s current macabre state a few decades ago when two great armies hacked each other to bits over a week long series of skirmishes that left the region’s farmers with hundreds of wounded fighters on their doorstep and a sea of bodies gathering flies in the sun. A practical and strong-stomached folk, the people of what would eventually be Barrowtown got to work burying the dead regardless of who’s banner they’d fought under, thereby turning their home into one of the largest graveyards since the grand necropoli of the old empire.

Life in Barrowton isn’t that much different than any other farming community, save for the omnipresent gravemarkers and the fact that every attempt to till the soil still brings up a few stray bones or a rusted old sword. Priests of a number of different faiths have come to minister to the graves, operating temples to Tyr or the Mournful Raven queen while living and working alongside the town’s lay inhabitants. Quite a few of the survivors of the battle also ended up settling in Barrowtown, both as a means of honouring their fallen comrades and a means of starting fresh away from homelands that might no longer want them. These three communities combine to give barrowtown it’s unique atmosphere: rustic, martial, pious, and mournful, a solemn sentinel of the hinterlands.

Hooks:

If you were looking for a great village to start a campaign, Barrowtown is it: a waystation for travellers with a population that can provide fighters or clerics, wide-eyed farm kids or secret delving necromancers. Stop by for a pint of locally brewed beer at the Pale Rider Inn and plan your group’s expedition to a ruined fort out in the plains, or a long abandoned fortress deeper up into the hills.

Every battlefield has its scavengers, and among the dogs and ravens none stand out like Jackal Joe: an enterprising salvager who made his living following behind armies and “reclaiming” weapons, boots, and scraps of armour from the fallen, even if he had to pry them from a grip of dying men. That was until the battle outside Barrowtown gave him enough bloody plunder to retire on, opening up a general store and selling off a little more of his horded trinkets each year. He’s still got some choice ( read: magical) inventory stashed away for customers with a coin to spend, as well as a fancy looking signet ring that'd probably be worth a sizeable reward provided one went to the trouble of buying it off of him and finding the noble family it belongs to.

Something has been disturbing the long-settled graves around town, and the local priestess of the ravenqueen (an old veteran herself) wants to get to the bottom of the matter. Reports are varied, a few blaming a ghostly man or some kind of giant bat, but a bit of clever investigation leads the party to discover that they face a Berbalang; an astral scavenger that feeds on the memories of the dead. After their first tussle the party will discover that the creature is able to send phantom versions of itself to feed and explore while its primary body remains safe in another dimension, meaning that they’ll need to help the priestess create a soul-trapping vessel in order to bind the creature permanently. Doing so will require them to venture far from Barrowtown, but it will give them a chance to travel, and the dead a little peace.

[breadedsinner]

Hawke as an Inquisition Member

This is loosely based on a meme that went around when DA:I came out. I never got around to it and I think it was more focused on people’s Inquisitor in an AU setting, so I am just co-opting it using ideas from my fic Tether, since I headcanon my Hawke joins the Inquisition as an agent under Josephine. That being said, this is canon-divergent.

***

Background

Judith Hawke was born and raised in Ferelden, the first daughter of an apostate and a runaway noble. She served briefly under King Cailan before the Blight drove her to Kirkwall. She found success in defending the city, eventually becoming Champion for driving off Qunari, but was cast out for standing against Knight-Commander Meredith. She campaigned for the rightful Prince of Starkhaven, unknowingly one step ahead of Seeker Pentaghast, and has been reigning Princess for several months.

Before she was born, Judith’s mother was captured by Grey Wardens, forcing her father to use blood magic and seal away Corypheus. As such, Judith feels a personal responsibility in defeating the ancient magister once and for all, in any way she can.

Technically Judith is an agent under Josephine, developing her diplomatic skills. Nevertheless, she is happy to lend her blade when called upon.

Location

When not away on missions, Judith can be found in the courtyard gazebo, in quiet contemplation, though sometimes she can be spotted in the Herald’s Rest with Varric.

***

Specialization

Paladin: Judith was exposed to lyrium at a young age and thus has the abilities of a Templar. While not as potent, she does not require regular dosage. Her focus is defeating enemies swiftly, and is especially adept at rendering enemy defenses and slaying demons.

Silver Sword; when activated, does increased damage to Fade Creatures.

Smite; a burst of lyrium-infused energy, dealing greater damage to Fade Creatures, and stunning all enemies in range.

Silence; interrupts spells and prevents further spell-casting for an extended period of time.

Hawk’s Wing; a powerful lunge, cleaving foes in her path. This is especially effective against guard.

Talon Lunge; a precise attack at a single target, effective against armor.

Crescent Strike; a wide arc, effective against barriers.

 ***

 Combat Comments

Engaging Combat

“Have at you!”

“I will keep you safe.”

“For his sake, I will not fail!”

“Get behind me!”

“Not one more step.”

“Last chance to surrender!”

Upon Enemy Death

“Fall.”

“What a waste.”

“You could have prevented this.”

“Andraste Guide you.”

Low Health

“I must push on.”

“This is nothing.”

“No, not here…I must return.”

“I’m going home… no matter what.”

Fallen

“Forgive me… my prince.”

 ***

Location Comments

Storm Coast

“I find the rain and rustling waves rather soothing, don’t you?”

“For years I’ve wanted to come back to Ferelden, but now… all I want to do is cross that sea again.”

“I wonder if Isabela is sailing these waters right now. I hope she’s all right.”

Redcliffe

“It does my heart good that this place has recovered from the Blight.”

Emerald Graves

“So Orlesians just… build manors here because they can? Deplorable.”

“Varric, did you send that letter to Merrill? She should see this.”

“I’ve never seen a giant before. Awful.”

 The Hinterlands

“Lothering is not far from here. Perhaps… no, never mind. A foolish idea.”

“Ah, I do love the fresh air and open spaces. I’ve missed this.”

“I’ve lived in cities far too long; I’ve forgotten how big druffalo are.”

(finding Crystal Grace) “Ah… when they were young, Bethany and Carver would climb all over searching for this flower. They found out it was a favorite of Leliana’s, their favorie Sister in the Chantry. They would pull it from the earth, roots and all, stomping into the Chantry, dragging mud. They argued over who would present it to her. I wonder if she remembers.”

Inquisitor: Did you have any feelings for her?

“Aha, well, you know how I feel about pretty archers with soulful eyes and a soothing accent. I looked, for certain, but I was also a bit too young, and had enlisted not long after moving to Lothering. And she… seemed a bit sad, in pain, almost.”

Exalted Plains

“Miserable.”

“War ruins everything it touches, as surely as any Blight.”

Western Approach

“Fereldens don’t really like heat. Did I fail to mention that?”

(sees a fennec pass) “I’ve had dreams of foxes. Still not sure what they mean.”

(after killing Venatori) “I wonder if Fenris is dealing with these Venatori, too. Making a mess of their innards, I’m sure. I hope he’s eating. I always had to remind him to eat.”

Crestwood

“I lived in a dozen villages just like this one.”

Emprise du Lion

“If not for the horrible red crystals with sickening magic jutting from the ground, this place would be rather peaceful.”

“(dreamy sighs) I would love to just… build a cabin somewhere snowy and quiet, take Sebastian and lock ourselves in for a week.”

Inquisitor: What would you do for a week?

“(laughs) Your imagination is more daring than mine, Your Worship, I’m sure.”

 ***

Personal Quests

Darkness over Denerim

Judith’s personal quest is a modified version of “Shadows over Denerim”. Rather than a War Table Mission, she will accompany Josephine and the Inquisitor to meet with King Alistair and/or Queen Anora. Josephine and Judith will speak with the nobles while the Inquisitor investigates the area. With enough evidence gathered, the Inquisitor can call upon Judith to proceed. Once the cultists are revealed, she will assist in the fight.

As a reward, the King and Queen will reward the Inquisition with several trained mabari hounds; the Inquisitor and Judith will have the ability to summon one in battle.

The Flock

Inquisition scouts have spotted a large moving group of mages on the outskirts of Ferelden. Leliana confirms this group to be the remains of the Kirkwall Circle, led by former First Enchanter Orsino and Bethany Hawke. The mission has you join Judith finding them and guiding them to Skyhold, removing all obstacles in their way. Bethany is reluctant to accept help, as she does not want to spend her life relying on her sister’s protection, but does relent that the situation is bigger than that.

***

Approval

Judith generally approves of acts of generosity, selflessness. As a princess, she prides herself on serving others. That said, she was born a commoner, and spent much of her early years in Kirkwall looked down upon, so she also approves of spiting/humbling deserving nobles. She also approves of respecting the dead and grieving.

Here Lies the Abyss

Wardens join the Inquisition

 Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

Public Truce

Gaspard and Briala Rule

What Pride Had Wrought

Inquisitor drinks from the Well (only elven Inquisitor, no approval or disapproval from a non-elven Inquisitor)

Allows Merrill to drink from the Well

The Verchiel March

Recruit Harmond with Nobility knowledge

Let Sera kill Harmond

Bring me the Heart of Snow White

Bring the real snowy wyvern heart to Vivienne

Revelations

Pardon Thom Rainier

The Spoils of Desecration

Give the key to Keeper Hawen

The Knight’s Tomb

Give the scrolls to the Dalish

Left to Grieve

Approval for every letter returned

***

Disapproval

Judith disapproves of selfish and needlessly cruel acts, namely taking advantage of those in need, and propping of those who do not require help.

Here Lies the Abyss

Wardens are exiled

Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

Celene Rules Alone

Gaspard Rules Alone (GREATLY Disapproves)

What Pride Had Wrought

Allows Morrigan to drink from the Well

The Verchiel March

Partner with Harmond

Bring me the Heart of Snow White

Bring the common wyvern heart to Vivienne

Revelations

Abandon Thom Rainier in prison

The Spoils of Desecration

Disturb the Grotto

The Knight’s Tomb

Give the scrolls to the Chantry

 Romance

Judith is a happily married woman, but will accept respectful flirtations with male and female Inquisitors with good humor. If an Inquisitor visits often, she will share details about her beloved prince and how they met, perhaps giving a bit more insight into Varric’s sour attitude towards him, and how there’s probably much more to the story than “Tales of the Champion” will ever tell.

With high enough approval, she will show the Inquisitor her Memory Shard, explaining she experiences nightmares and painful memories, and this is one of the few things able to ease her. She can also offer some advice to an Inquisitor seeking romance.

“If you want love in your life, any sort of love, you must keep your heart open. That means being vulnerable, and that can bring a lot of pain. But you must believe it’s worth it. It took me years to learn that lesson.”

[jackoshadows]

what i don’t understand is sansa stans who insist that she learnt from the best (cersei ans littlefinger) and so she’ll be an amazing ruler and player. first of all, when did she learn about the game from cersei? she was a hostage in kings landing, she wasn’t sitting in on small council meetings or anything and cersei definitely wasn’t telling her about all the moves she was making. the only time cersei really gives her ‘advice’ is during blackwater when she says that ‘tears/sex is a woman’s weapon’. regardless, cersei isn’t someone you want to be taught from, she makes terrible decision after terrible decision in affc. (since we’re on this topic, dany is the younger and more beautiful queen who foils cersei).

as for littlefinger, he’s definitely not a leader or ruler. he subtly manipulates things here and there and gets away with a lot of it because he stays under the radar. he’s not someone who inspires devotion for sure. nothing about the vale arc in affc puts sansa in an actual leadership position.

I agree it's best that no one learns how to be a ruler from Cersei Lannister, considering how much she messes up in AFfC.

And yes, it’s my opinion that Sansa's arc is leading towards outwitting Littlefinger and understanding how to play the game rather than ruling. And with two books left to go, she still has a lot of learning to do and being able to process the information available to her, analyze it and connect the dots and use the data to her advantage.

I just finished my ADwD and TWoW sample chapter re-reads so a rather long essay under the cut.

Sansa did acknowledge early on that unlike Cersei, if she were to become queen, she would prioritize getting the people's love over their fear - like the Tyrells did. But unlike the majority opinion of fandom, I think that this points to Sansa giving more importance to PR than to actual ruling. That it was better to be a loved monarch than a feared one.

It’s funny that Sansa stans often point the finger at Dany as being narcissistic, entitled and arrogant, when the few comments that Sansa makes about being queen revolve around her.

“Go ahead, call me all the names you want,” Sansa said airily. “You won’t dare when I’m married to Joffrey. You’ll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace. ” - Sansa, AGoT

“ If I am ever a queen, I'll make them love me.”  - Sansa, ACoK

Compare her quotes to those of current leaders/rulers in the books:

A good lord protects his people, he reminded himself. - Bran, ACoK

“Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves?“ - Daenerys, ASoS

“And I know that a king protects his people, or he is no king at all.” Davos, ASoS

I was trying to win the throne to save the kingdom, when I should have been trying to save the kingdom to win the throne."  - Stannis, ASoS

“I am the shield that guards the realms of men. Those are the words. So tell me, my lord— what are these wildlings, if not men?”  - Jon Snow, ADwD

The other leaders in the quotes are putting the people first, prioritizing the people’s needs first no matter how much it affects the rulers themselves. Jon’s decision to let the Wildlings through the wall is necessary, but highly unpopular among his men. And ruling is more than just being beloved by the people -

"Allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel,” the old man had said, “the same council that I one gave my brother when we parted for the last time. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to mount the Iron Throne. A man grown with sons of his own, yet in some ways still a boy. Egg had an innocence to him, a sweetness we all loved. Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took the ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill boy and let the man be born.” The old man felt Jon’s face. “You are half the age that Egg was, and your own burden is a crueler one, I fear. You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.” - Jon Snow, ADwD

This is the hard part of ruling be it in the middle ages or now. It’s not enough to be a good man to be an effective ruler. It’s complicated and it’s hard.  How do I resolve this thing? Do I do the moral thing? But what about  the political consequences of the moral thing? Do I do the pragmatic, cynical thing and kind of screw the people who are screwed by it? I mean, it is HARD. - GRRM

In this context, Sansa’s quote about being queen comes off as naive, ignorant, fairy taleish, like the queens in her stories - where everyone loves the queens and that’s all that’s necessary to be one.

It’s easy for Sansa stans to nitpick and criticize each and every one of Dany’s decisions and then praise future best queen Sansa - who has done absolutely nothing as a leader and has instead thus far served as an uncritical narrator to events around her. We don’t know what kind of leader Sansa would be because she has never been put in those situations or even shown an aptitude for strategic thinking.

Let me use an example I came across while recently re-reading ADwD and TWoW sample chapters. TWoW spoilers - if you don’t want to be spoiled on TWoW, please read no further.

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In ADwD, Jon is confronted with food shortage if they let the Wildlings through the wall:

“If we had sufficient coin, we could buy food from the south and bring it in by ship,” the Lord Steward said. We could, thought Jon, if we had the gold, and someone willing to sell us food. Both of those were lacking. Our best hope may be the Eyrie. The Vale of Arryn was famously fertile and had gone untouched during the fighting. - Jon Snow, ADwD

I have already written extensively on Jon’s political know-how of the North and using it in his strategizing and planning of Stannis’ campaign. But here we see that his knowledge extends to the south, where, knowing that the Vale stayed neutral during the WOT5K and it’s geography of being fertile, he sees it as a possible source to buy food for the Wall.

Now let’s go to the Vale in book 6, TWoW, Alayne’s sample chapter. After being called a bastard by Harry the Heir, a hurt Sansa goes looking for Littlefinger and chances upon a scheme of price gouging:

Near the bottom, she heard Lord  Grafton’s booming voice, and followed.

“The  merchants are clamoring to buy and the lords are clamoring to sell,”  the Gulltowner was saying when she found them. Though not a tall man, Grafton was wide, with thick arms and shoulders.  His hair was a dirty blond mop.  “How am I to stop that, my lord?”

“Post guardsmen on the docks. If need be, seize the ships. How does not matter, so long as no food leaves the Vale”

“These prices, though,” protested fat Lord Belmore,” 

“These prices are more than fair. Wait. If need be, buy the food yourself and keep it stored. Winter is coming. Prices must go higher.”

“Perhaps,”  said Belmore, doubtfully. “Bronze Yohn will not wait, ” Grafton complained. “He need not ship through Gulltown, he has his own ports. Whilst we are hoarding our harvest, Royce and the other Lords Declarant will turn theirs into silver, you may be sure of that.”

“Let  us hope so,”  said Petyr. “When their granaries are empty, they will  need every scrap of that silver to buy sustenance from us. And now if  you will excuse me, my lord, it would seem my daughter has need of me.”

“Lady Alayne,” Lord Grafton said. “You look bright-eyed this morning.” ” You  are kind to say so, my lord. Father, I am sorry to disturb you, but I  thought you would want to know that the Waynwoods have arrived.”

We are now in book 6 territory, this would be the point where a future queen/leader Sansa reflects on what she just saw - Littlefinger is hoarding grain and letting Royce and others sell theirs so that he can later increase the prices for demand from a starving populace and have the rest of the Vale Lords be dependent on him and with winter coming, there is currently much demand for the grain.

This would be where, if GRRM is writing for the future leader of the North, Sansa would wonder what is happening in the North with respect to the food situation since she just heard that merchants are clamoring for grain and winter is coming. Or she would think on LF’s scheme - is it a good plan or a bad plan? Does she think that Yohn Royce is right to sell his grain? What is her view on hoarding all the food for price gouging while people possibly starve elsewhere? What does she think of starving the populace for profit? Does she approve? Or does she think it’s ethically wrong?

We get no answers to these questions to give us a hint of what kind of ruler future best queen Sansa will be. It’s a blank slate because while Sansa acts as a narrator here and describes one of LF’s little schemes, she herself as no opinion on it. Instead Sansa’s immediate concern when speaking to Littlefinger is that Harry the Heir called her a bastard in front of everyone. Meanwhile Dany in ADwD:

Skahaz had been named Warden of the River, with charge of all the ferries, dredges, and irrigation ditches along the Skahazadhan for fifty leagues, but the Shavepate had refused that ancient and honorable office, as Hizdahr called it, preferring to retire to the modest pyramid of Kandaq.

Mounted men were of more use in open fields and hills than in the narrow streets and alleys of the city. Beyond Meereen's walls of many-colored brick, Dany's rule was tenuous at best. Thousands of slaves still toiled on vast estates in the hills, growing wheat and olives, herding sheep and goats, and mining salt and copper. Meereen's storehouses held ample supplies of grain, oil, olives, dried fruit, and salted meat, but the stores were dwindling. So Dany had dispatched her tiny khalasar to subdue the hinterlands, under the command of her three bloodriders, whilst Brown Ben Plumm took his Second Sons south to guard against Yunkish incursions.

The most crucial task of all she had entrusted to Daario Naharis, glib-tongued Daario with his gold tooth and trident beard, smiling his wicked smile through purple whiskers. Beyond the eastern hills was a range of rounded sandstone mountains, the Khyzai Pass, and Lhazar. If Daario could convince the Lhazarene to reopen the overland trade routes, grains could be brought down the river or over the hills at need …

The sea provides all the salt that Qarth requires, but I would gladly take as many olives as you cared to sell me. Olive oil as well."

"I have none to offer. The slavers burned the trees." Olives had been grown along the shores of Slaver's Bay for centuries; but the Meereenese had put their ancient groves to the torch as Dany's host advanced on them, leaving her to cross a blackened wasteland. "We are replanting, but it takes seven years before an olive tree begins to bear, and thirty years before it can truly be called productive. What of copper?"

Sansa does not come anywhere close to Dany and Jon in terms of leadership and that she’s so often pushed as this future queen in fandom, including by bnfs and so called asoiaf experts, is baffling, frustrating and hilarious.

What, if any, attributes does Sansa have to even be a peacetime ruler? After the war means rebuilding from scratch, making deals, hard bargaining, strategizing, using political tools, rebuilding the economy for war torn lands, get in the food, grow the food - precisely the kind of thing Dany is doing in Meereen. Or Jon thinking of building green houses in the Gift to grow food.

But Sansa building a snow model of Winterfell means that she’s the best qualified peace time ruler? Reddit dudebros and so called tumblr feminists united in wanting female characters who wield soft power and uphold the patriarchy as future rulers.

Even when it comes to personal growth, while Sansa has come a long way from her AGoT days, she still has some catching up to do with her peers. After getting hold of LF, Sansa complains that Harry is a horrible person for calling her a bastard.

Come,” Petyr said, “walk with me.” He took her by the arm and led her deeper into the vaults, past an empty dungeon. “And how was your first meeting with Harry the Heir?”

“He’s horrible.”

“The world is full of horrors, sweet. By now you ought to know that. You’ve seen enough of them.”

“Yes,” she said, “but why must he be so cruel? He called me your bastard. Right in the yard, in front of everyone.”

Now, personally, this is the point where I would like some introspection from Sansa. Remember when Sansa called out Jon as a jealous bastard in front of her friends in AGoT and Arya defended him?

Sansa sighed as she stitched.  “Poor Jon,” she said.  “He gets jealous because he's a bastard.”

“He’s our brother,” Arya said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.

“Our half brother,” Sansa corrected, soft and precise. - Arya, AGoT

Considering the way Sansa ignored Joffrey’s attack on Arya, it’s a good bet that if Harry the Heir had called out Jon Snow as a bastard in front of everyone in AGoT, Sansa would not have an issue with it. Now that she is being insulted as one, she gets to experience the hurt that Jon felt everyday growing up in Winterfell as a real bastard.

But even here, she refuses to scrutinize the situation more than simply getting angry at being called a bastard. Sansa is often held up as this compassionate, kindest person, ‘beacon of hope for the future’, a queen who cares for the masses etc. But where is her questioning why the classist prejudice against bastards is in itself wrong?

She is angry that she is being called a bastard, she is not angry that bastards are treated as less than. She doesn’t question the societal prejudice against bastards, only angry that she has to pretend to be one and be insulted as one. She doesn’t spare a second reflecting on her bastard brother Jon Snow or question her low opinion of bastards:

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon’s mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn’t been some mistake. - Sansa, AGoT

And that’s the difference I see between Sansa and characters like Dany, Arya, Jon, Brienne and even with Tyrion and Penny. While GRRM interrogates Westerosi society prejudices, feudalism, classism, sexism, slavery, ableism, bigotry, the effects of war on the small folk etc with these other characters, Sansa rarely reflects on these issues. That’s why it makes no sense when epithets like ‘embodiment of hope for the future’ is used to describe the character. Hope for whom? The small folk? The patriarchy? The feudal lords?

Sansa being nice to people like the stuttering Ser Wallace is held up as her being the kindest ever. But Jon is nice to Shireen, Arya is kind to Weasel, Jaime is kind to Tyrion. Why is kindness and compassion only highlighted for Sansa, like some unique feature of hers when many characters, even the villains, exhibit kindness?

This is Jon Snow in ADwD

“I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling, baseborn get of a traitor and a whore. You would deliver a highborn maid to the bed of some stinking savage. Did you sample her yourself first?” He laughed. “If you mean to kill me, do it and be damned for a kinslayer. Stark and Karstark are one blood.”

“My name is Snow.”

“Bastard.”

“Guilty. Of that, at least.”  - Jon Snow, ADwD

This is Sansa Stark in TWoW:

Ser Harrold looked down at her coldly. “Why should it please me to be escorted anywhere by Littlefinger’s bastard?”  

“Yes,” she said, “but why must he be so cruel? He called me your bastard. Right in the yard, in front of everyone.”  - Alayne, TWoW

Sansa in TWoW is as hurt by the bastard moniker as Jon Snow was in AGoT when addressed as such by Tyrion. She’s emotionally where Jon Snow was in AGoT, while Jon has matured enough to not care for such insults anymore. And this is book 6! I guess it makes sense considering Jon is 16 -17 and Sansa would be 13 - 14 years old, making her younger than him in AGoT. But this is why the whole ‘Jon should take Sansa’s advice to rule because she’s the smartest ever!’ trash the show pushed to hype up Sansa is complete nonsense.

I don’t know how many chapters GRRM will be devoting to Sansa in the Vale in TWoW, but there’s still a lot of growth and character development pending for book Sansa. As I have always said, Sansa has a lot of information but she rarely if ever introspects on what she has heard and seen. She knows that LF last had Jeyne Poole but at one point wonders where Jeyne Poole is... Just ask LF dammit! She knows that Lysa had Jon Arryn poisoned on LF’s say so and knows that SweetRobin is being dosed with dangerous levels of Sweetsleep and that LF is banking on his death and yet thinks that SweetRobin will be okay. She needs to start putting two and two together to come up with four and I suspect that in itself will take up the whole of TWoW.

So will Sansa become any kind of queen or ruler? No. If she survives the books, I can see her being Lady of the Vale and be moving the chess pieces around. I can see her gaining agency and maybe even be the real power in the Vale aka Littefinger. Just like Jon, Arya, Bran and Dany I think Sansa will be a darker character in TWoW. The game of thrones cannot be played honorably and she will need to get her hands dirty to outwit LF and take him down at his own game.

The point where Sansa simply stops narrating what she sees and actually starts analyzing what she sees in her POV chapters is when the student will become the master and I am excited to see that happening.