#to anders: here. i found this not long after you left. *hands him the phylactery* you and justice be careful. it's getting chaotic out there

[attractthecrows]

retconning stroud out of the deep roads so i can shove laure amell and the hawke siblings and varric and anders all into the same little camp. they would all have such a bad time

[aphreal42]

Something something Dragon Age; something something cyberpunk?

(Hey, it turns out I’ve already got this one! Or the start of it, anyway. It’s been sitting around for verging on three years, I think, so I might as well dust off what there is of it and put it out there.) 

The Fadezone is another place, alongside this one. Or above it. Beneath it. Woven through. All of the above. Or none of them. An xyz grid breaks down when you’re not talking about three-dimensional space. It doesn’t matter where it is, only what it is: a whole separate world with its own rules, all governed by code that we don’t understand. Not yet.

Nobody knows how it got there. They say that when the first person plugged in a port, the Fadezone was already there, like it was waiting for us. Some people believe the code came from this single, amazing hacker, the “Maker”, but nobody’s ever found a trace of him beyond some crazy conspiracy theory “prophets” finding patterns in random junk code. Other people say that’s dogshit, no way a single guy coded the whole Fadezone; it had to be eight of them. Why eight? They have their reasons, hidden secrets, their own patterns in the code. Another sect believes the Fadezone is alive, that it made itself, and it grows and evolves and learns.

What do I believe? I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is what it believes. And it -- the Fadezone -- believes that it’s far more real than we’ll ever be, and we should be wondering who -- or what -- made us.

The Fadezone is another place, somewhere your mind can go without your body. Anyone with a port can get there, at least to the daydream levels. But some of us can see the gaps and go deeper. We’re called mages. And if you’re a mage who plays in the Fadezone without the “appropriate supervision” of a phylactery chip, well, they call us apostates.

A mage who isn’t careful and goes too deep into code they shouldn’t be messing with usually brings some of that code back out with them, whether they mean to or not. We call them corpses and husks and abominations. The only question is how long it takes them to get to dead and how much else they take out along the way.

The only difference between them and me is that I’m going to do it on purpose.

The Templars might have started out well, back when the Fadezone was new, when mages had no idea what we were capable of or what risks we faced. Maybe it made sense, back then, to have someone who could stop the chaos that happened when a naive mage found a virus that corrupted them into an abomination. Maybe it made sense to have someone who could wake the Dreamers who get so entranced by the code they forget they have a body that needs to eat. Maybe the Templars were a solution once.

But now they make the disasters they were supposed to prevent.

For every mage who becomes an abomination out of careless curiosity, ten are driven to it by fear of the Templars. By anger at the phylactery chips that seep control through your blood until they can close the gaps only mages should see, jamming your port and locking you into the flat reality of bodies and pain. By threats of having your port ripped out and being stuck forever in the bleak dimness with half of your brain burned out. Abominations die, but they take Templars with them. They fight back.

The Dreamers aren’t getting lost by accident any more; deep code is a refuge from the prying eyes and mouths and hands that take apart your very self. Who knows what happens to a Dreamer when their body dies? Maybe they blink out into nothing, but maybe they become part of the code, stay in that refuge forever. It’s not such a bad dream to cling to. Not so much of a risk to take, an easier escape route than the deep red lines up your arms, a tea made from the right-wrong herbs, leaping where you know you can’t fly.

Mages will always find a way out, whatever tiny freedom they’re left with. I’m going to change that. No more desperate clawing for freedom of the self, no more seconds of relief bought with everything you have. Freedom. Real freedom. For all of us. Forever.

The light is dark, and Garrett speeds up, his heavy treads a dull thud on the dirt-covered floor. The sound echoes, but not like it should. Too quiet, too flat, like the walls are stealing the sound instead of reflecting it. Everything always sounds wrong down in the tunnels, feels wrong.

Varric rolls his eyes whenever Garrett says that, tells him that he’s crazy and imagining things. And they all know that making shit up is infringing on Varric’s territory. But if there’s nothing weird about the tunnels, why does Varric use every excuse he can come up with to avoid coming down here?

Of course, there’s the smell, the dirt, the increased chance of getting stabbed in the kidney by someone poor and desperate enough not to care about the consequences. Maybe Varric’s the smart one for not wanting to be here. Garrett has to admit the place doesn’t have a lot to recommend it. Except for one thing…

The unlit light pulses dimly, the guttering of a dying battery gasping out its last flickers of power. Garrett’s pace falters, his half-formed hopes withering as he banishes the lure of a quiet evening at home, relaxing together and taking a few moments to be utterly selfish for a change. It’s a nice dream, and Garrett tucks it away as a hope for “someday”, when things are different.

For tonight, he’ll help Anders in the clinic. It’s enough to be together, and what kind of man would he be to begrudge saving lives?

Besides, a quiet evening at home is a fantasy. They would get interrupted by someone with an urgent problem that only Garrett can fix. Allegedly. Because everything in this city would fall the rest of the way apart if he weren’t there to take care of it. If he’s going to spend the evening taking care of strangers’ problems, there are worse ways to do it than tending to the wounded. And most of those ways involve people trying to stick sharp pieces of metal into him. So the clinic it is.

Garrett grunts as he forces open the heavy door. It’s sticking again. They should do something about that. Patients shouldn’t have to risk dislocating their shoulder to get in to see the healer. Even if it would be ironically convenient.

Garrett freezes as soon as he gets through the low doorway, alerted to danger by the feel of the air a second before the shouting. His hand goes automatically to the hilt of the blade concealed at his belt as he evaluates what kind of danger Anders has gotten into tonight.

A quick scan gives him a feel for the room. The cots are empty, patients all gone, hopefully after treatment rather than out of fear. Anders’s hands are clenched, and blue energy crackles around his eyes. But he doesn’t look scared. More angry, defiant, maybe a little bit defensive.

Garrett sizes up the figure on the receiving end of his lover’s electric blue glare. Female. Elven. Angry. The energy that crackles around her hands matches the flare Anders is putting off and marks her as not a Templar. Of course, that doesn’t make her harmless. Not all threats to an apostate agitator wear the Sword of Mercy.

“No, Anders. I’ve seen the insane shit you’ve been posting lately. You need to stop.”

Someone else complaining about the damn manifesto-blog. Garrett almost wants to like her.

Anders points accusingly at her, sparks flying off his outstretched hand, his channeled energy barely in control. “You’re on their side now? Wanting to silence the truth about their oppression? I would never have taken you for a templar lover. When did they rewrite you into a good little obedient mage?”

Garrett misses the rest of the tirade as he dodges out of the way of a ball of wild, blue energy flying his way. Only after he jumps aside and bangs his shin painfully on a stray cot does he realize it’s the cat. Pounce darts around to take shelter behind Garrett’s bruised leg, energy crackling off his raised fur and exposed circuitry.

The woman’s laugh draws Garrett’s attention, the flat sound as harsh and ugly as her sneering glare. “I hate them every bit as much as you do, and don’t pretend you’ve forgotten it. The only Templar who’s gotten near me since I got out of the Tower is dead. I made damned sure of that.”

“All by yourself? Because if you’ve got that ArchDemon in your pocket and hungry for more, let’s go visit the Gallows.” Anders smirks, taunting and superior. Garrett tries not to wonder what it says about him that he finds his lover’s haughty condescension appealing, distractingly sexy even in the face of an immediate threat.

His verbal sparring partner - Surana, she must be his old “friend” from Kinloch if Anders is bringing up the ArchDemon - seems unaffected. “Maybe I didn’t put a blade through his heart, but I helped it along. If the enemy’s eager to die, let him. But there’s a difference between hating them and trying to start a war that will only get us killed. There are ways to hate them - even kill them - that are safe. You used to know that. You used to be smart. Don’t try to tell me that virus hasn’t started messing with your thoughts.”

“He’s not a virus!” Vibrant blue energy flares off of Anders’s entire body, and Garrett recoils from the intensity.

Surana flinches, too, but she doesn’t back down. “Well, it sure as hell isn’t original code. And it needs to get out of your head.”

Anders’s incandescent glow dims, the eerie blue light never leaving entirely but fading back to the usual blue sparks that crack off a mage. His mocking grin returns, and Garrett tries not to imagine the effort it costs him to regain that control as he taunts her further. “How? You want me to just delete him, the same way they erase the parts of us they don’t like? Or are you offering your port for a file transfer?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Surana’s sneer isn’t convincing. The pinpricks of sweat on her forehead shine in the clinic’s dingy lighting; she knows how close Anders is to losing himself entirely, becoming the abomination that haunts the subconscious of every mage who’s touched the Fadezone. “I’ve got the damned Blight virus poking holes all over my firewalls as it is. I’m not looking to take on any more malware.”

“If you’re not here to help, then leave.” Anders grits his teeth, blue light flaring in his eyes again. Does Surana realize that dismissal was a plea? “I don’t have time for another person pointing out problems they aren’t willing to help solve.”

“If you’d stop running your mouth about the evils of injustice and your grand plan for martyrdom long enough, I’d give you a real suggestion for how to change things. One that doesn’t involve deletion or spreading your virus to someone else stupid and screwed up enough to take it. When you decide you’re ready to listen, you know where to find me.”

[astalkingirin]

Alright, Awakening thoughts, they were long so let's put it all on tumblr instead of in more transitory form. I feel like this is something I'd regret but also I don't use tumblr as tumblr so maybe not.

Gross terrible dwarf wasn't that terrible actually for the part of the game he's mandatory but I did ditch him immediately so he was never around the rest of the female companions which is probably why. His banter with the guys is okay, probably because neither of them had any buttons for him to push. I'm still sad I didn't accidentally kill him by staying at the city, though. And why would an alcoholic with a compromised liver do better at the joining ceremony anyway?

I did so much worse at sucking up to everyone this time, because I was trying to continue playing the Warden I'd established while last time I built my personality around someone it made sense to be friends with these guys. As a city elf, I was sympathetic to class issues and generally forgiving of mass murder as long as you promised to not mass murder later unless you really needed to, BUT nobles are assholes and mages are scary and I totally do not regret killing that kid. That dovetailed nicely into gameplay because I was running through the game with minimal strategy/party management, so any time there was an enemy spellcaster I just sprinted at them to deal with it personally and a whole bunch of time I killed the guy only to keel over from curse of mortality.

As a result, I got along best with Sigrun. "I ruined this person's life but I had no choice!!!" Of course you didn't the dwarves are SO MEAN they betrayed me twice over (also they poisoned my sister) and also fuck da police and really you did her a favor by getting her to come to the surface where people are only awful some of the time. I gave her half the alcohol I was still carrying on me from last game. I'm actually not certain I maxed out anyone else. Also, all of her prickliness was for people trying to start conversations with her, and you can't really do that, so she was only cranky and unapproachable to everyone else. Relatedly, I found the whole thing about "hey the casteless took up arms to defend this place!!!" to be deeply uncomfortable and the people who said fuck it, let's make a break for the surface had the right of it. Like yes, they did prove they weren't worthless - but you shouldn't be sacrificing yourself covering the retreat to prove you're not worthless to the people who insisted you were worthless in the first place and left you behind to die. (Also I really can't buy they "accidentally" "forgot about" the casteless during the evacuation. A city's worth of dwarves don't accidentally sneak out of anywhere.) Pick up the weapons to do a fighting retreat toward the surface, let those assholes slow down the darkspawn with their deaths the way they meant for yours to. And relatedly NO SIGRUN JUST DITCH THE LEGION OF THE DEAD YOU OWE THE DWARVES NOTHING! You love the surface! You love everything about being up here even more than you hate everything about being down there, at the very least get yourself killed fighting forest demons or something instead of the deep roads.

Anders just has no standards, so even though my responses to everything he said were along the lines of "mages are scary" and "sounds fake but okay" he was just really grateful I didn't hand over my healbot to someone challenging my and my entire organization's authority (after I had previously murdered the last assholes to try that). I think the problem was that my character is forgiving of actual crimes but cranky about lying while he comes off as someone scared to tell the truth. If he just said, "I think mages should get to kill people!" I'd be all "lol cool I also enjoy murder" but he kept trying to argue they weren't dangerous as the underpinning for his argument so I kept responding with "are so!" So I guess the other half was that he wasn't enough of a killer because I got on great with straight up assassins. I am still not over that you give him shiny stuff to make him like you. What is with mages even. How are you shallower than Zevron. Anyway, I feel bad because everything about him was so sad. It's like he'd lost his inside voice during solitary so now he just babbles whatever's in his head out loud and tried to cope by sounding like he's doing it on purpose as a joke. I don't feel like there's anything my non-mage Warden could ever do to really change anything about that, though - sure, he's grateful for whatever you do for him because he has such awful expectations, but it's for the same reason I can't see him believing I'd do anything more than what I demonstrated. It's not like Morrigan where her low expectations are because she's had limited human interaction so she's willing to accept new data points. Also I would like to throw my hat into the bloodsplattered ring - Anders didn't kill the Templars, because he wouldn't lie if he had. He didn't do anything at all because magic is so bad and they're here to keep him from doing any of it, right? After they were dead, he engaged the darkspawn, which explains why it was such a close thing.

Got on well with Nathaniel once he accepted I was right to murder his dad and take all his stuff (still mad BECAUSE TORTURE CHAMBERS NATHANIEL was not an option), and honestly, he barely even put up an argument before then, he was just mildly huffy no matter how nasty I was about it. Nathaniel is just so much a people-pleaser. Actually, that seems like a thing for the rogues. He made a good stab at friendship with Sigrun that got rebuffed for class issue reasons, then came back for a strong second try by saying he totally understands class issues suck. I'm so sad he rebuffed Anders' one attempt at finding common ground because Anders rejects all overtures coming from other people I could see. Also, like, maybe you could have someone ELSE get those phylacteries, Anders? Maybe a person who not only can't be tracked by those things but can straight up turn invisible? And whose entire skillset is based around sneaking into places?

Justice was creepy as fuck A+++++ I only regret I didn't get more of Polite Spirit In Rotting Corpse trying to talk to people. Also, that bit about the lyrium song was very intriguing, especially since it not only came up with the darkspawn, but the Mother seems to think going to the Fade is tied to hearing it.

I only had Velanna on my side for a bit because I was trying to keep the same people in my party but I thought it was hilarious that even if you make no real effort to be convincing she's just like "huh, a split second of self-reflection is enough to make me realize this does all seem like a total setup, whoops!" Then I went straight to the city so she was still in my party and we went to the merchants to tell them I'd dealt with the problem and she was sooooo uncomfortable. Like, not remorseful so much as embarrassed she'd screwed up so bad. Also she was spamming some spell that changed her skin so it was like she was trying to hide the whole time we were there but ineptly because she was no longer in a forested environment and it was as hilarious as every picture of animals failing at camouflage ever was. I realize this is not supposed to be seen as part of her characterization but that's what I love about videogame canon.

The actual plot...I don't know really. So the Architect wants to free darkspawn, but also he said nothing about making it so the darkspawn stop killing everyone and I don't know how I'm supposed to believe his claim he didn't want to kill the Wardens when there is one alive one left, but with broken legs who dies when I find him. And I'm on the side of blights being good for precisely the reason he points out, they kill off massive numbers of darkspawn. (I think it'd have made sense for the reason this Blight was weird is related to the fact there's been a longer than usual time between them - that means the darkspawn population should be much higher.) If he was talking about peace between our peoples, that'd be great, but no matter how many chances I gave him to say that, he kept avoiding the subject. I let him live mostly because my Warden generally let anybody live who wasn't actually in combat with her, and I feel bad about how I overruled my companions and their completely reasonable WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK opinions on that.

I guess it makes sense that waking up as a broodmother would make you way more likely to go crazy, so it really wasn't any more misogynistic than the initial setup already was, but it still meant there was this whole gendered conflict between the rational man of progress and the crazy woman whose feeble mind broke under the strain. And given the Architect was supposed to be unique, why did he have to be a guy anyway? Given the darkspawn are all getting born of regular race females it’d be plausible that a female one might be more lucid, maybe it’s a more successful clone compared to the male form.

(Why does it make total sense that someone can completely transform into an enormous flesh lump and asexually churn out billions of monster babies by magic, but only if they have a regular uterus first? Men are the ones who produce huge numbers of gametes forever if we're being "realistic".)

I actually really loved the shortness of it - the one thing that actually did bug me about Origins was that, although they did have the one big early event, I kept crisscrossing the map doing sidequests so it took me forever. Having fewer total things makes me less able to fritter away my time and so makes it feel like there's a real time limit, and it also made me stress less about completing sidequests properly since redoing it wouldn't be such a trial. Plus the limited party is less painful when it's actually conceivable to replay the game over and over with different people.

I like the idea of having to choose between the city and the keep, but I don't get why killing a few darkspawn to allow evacuation wasn't an option. It'd be one thing if I had to pick initially to stay/go, but I already walked all the way to the city, I can spare five minutes before setting it on fire. Somehow I'm suddenly at the chantry and people are talking about staying and me routing the darkspawn and geeze, you guys wouldn't let the refugees in because your city was too good for them, I didn't actually mind this place burning down. It seems like the point of tension is supposed to be about saving the city itself (the jewel of the region, etc) vs the keep itself, so I don't think it'd have been too much of an issue to have a third option of letting the people escape and getting to the keep slightly later for a harder battle or something.

I wish there was more talking. I accidentally killed the mages because I accepted the quest to find out what it was and then they started attacking me. Also did I really murder people over moonshine because of a prank letter? It seems like there's mostly the option to resolve things peacefully when that's obviously a bad idea, like with the demons and darkspawn. Maybe I wouldn't have kept letting demons gallivant all over the countryside if I had more of a choice about if I wanted to turn every band of mooks into chunky salsa. (Game could also have used a system where resolving things peacefully didn't cheat you out of leveling and items in return for nothing at all.)

[timesorceror]

Day 8 (January 14th) - Anders and the Warden

Do you ship Anders with your warden or are they just very good friends? This day is dedicated to the Warden and Anders’ relationship. (Only positive Wardens and Anders friendly Wardens will be included for this.)

For @justhanderspositive‘s challenge: [HERE].

When Rashia was little, Anders was like a legend.

The very idea that even any one of them would attempt to escape the Circle was almost unthinkable, inconceivable. And Anders did this more than once. She would watch him from a far, across the mess hall, during classes with Wynne, in the dormitories at night when Jowan had finally stopped trying to get her attention and let her “read” her book in peace.

She’d stick her face in her books and peer over the edge of the binding, under her lashes, just to watch the fair-haired healer and his friend from afar.

Karl. Poor boy was only sixteen when he stared going grey.

And it seemed that Karl was Anders’ only friend. 

At least his only friend that he talked to. Just about everybody in the Circle was his friend: apprentices, Templars, even a few of the enchanters and (at least so it was rumored) a Senior Enchanter whom no one knew the name of, but they were more the sort of friend you snuck off behind the shelves or locked yourself in the storage rooms with. 

Being the resident escape artist made him a legend, yes, but it also made him a pariah. And that made Rashia’s heart hurt just a little.

And then Karl was transferred. Anders escaped a few more times. 

By the time Rashia had made her fatal error in helping Jowan find his phylactery and been conscripted by Duncan shortly afterwards, Anders had escaped six times. Only, she hadn’t seen him in a long time, which worried her. She could only hope he was merely serving his punishment somewhere in another part of the tower... because the alternative made her heart hurt even more.

Then there was Ostagar. The betrayal. Lothering. The Brecillian Forest.

It had been several months when she returned to the tower to call upon the Warden treaties for the aid of the mages. She didn’t see him then either. But she hadn’t really been looking. 

More months passed. She fell in love with Alistair. She killed Loghain in single combat. Slew the archdemon and rode off into the sunset with her fellow Warden. Sort of. They spent another month or so together after they’d all scattered to the winds. Even Zevran had left her for a time. 

And then she arrived at Vigil’s Keep.

It was raining. Of course it was. Rashia grit her teeth as she tried to see through the downpour. Mhairi was helpful, knowing the area the way she did. She liked Mhairi. She hoped this one survived the joining. 

They were attacked by darkspawn, and Rashia was surprised to note that the foul things had almost gotten the drop on them. How had that happened?

Alistair had taught her how to accurately sense them, and she’d grown even more accurate then he’d been able to be, so she knew that wasn’t the problem. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it, not when something had so obviously gone wrong. Still, it worried her that a Warden Fortress had been overrun by a single band of darkspawn. 

She helped a few soldiers get the medical supplies they needed before heading inside. And if she’d thought the outside was bad, the inside was worse.

By now she’d worked herself into a fury, and she was torching and freezing darkspawn left and right. Sometimes, when she got tired of casting, she drew her greatsword, Starfang, and she used the magic of the elven spirit to help her cleave their heads from their shoulders instead. 

“A-ha! There you are!” Called a familiar voice.

Oghren. 

“What... are you doing here?” Rasha asked, grateful to see him, though not so grateful to smell him. Well. At least he hadn’t changed, like she’d asked.

He chuffed, breathing a cloud of ale breath into her face. She didn’t bother trying to hide her discomfort; Oghren wouldn’t have noticed it to even be offended by it anyway.

“When these darkspawn showed up,” he replied, grinning at her, “I thought, “Just you wait until the new commander gets here and you’ll all be spitting teeth out yer arses!”” Rashia sighed softly and just gave him the universal look for, “Really?”

He didn’t seem to notice, and in fact continued with, “Followed the screaming, and sure enough, here you are. Good on ya!”

Apparently, according to Mhairi, he’d been here since before she’d left the keep to guide Rashia on her way there. He wanted to join the Wardens.

“Well, I’m not going to stop you,” Rashia said. “But we should probably secure the keep first.” Oghren chuckled, and belched. “Well what are we waiting for?”

They went down a series of hallways, killed more darkspawn. Looted the darkspawn. (“I still don’t understand why they bother carrying money,” Rashia muttered, “I mean, like, what are they for? Armor oil?” “Trophies, probably,” Mhairi supplied helpfully. “I know some giants in the Emerald Graves do that.” Oh. Well. That made much more sense.) Went down another hallway. There was a door at the end, and behind it, Rashia could sense magic being cast. Was there another mage warden still alive?

She turned the knob and pushed...

...and on the other side stood a mage wearing the tackiest set of mage robes she’d ever seen. Clearly not a warden, then. But they had their back to her, and they were torching a darkspawn with just their hands, barely keeping it at bay before eventually the damage grew to be too much and the darkspawn fell to the floor in a burning heap.

Rashia cleared her throat.

The mage jolted a little, turning around and wringing their hands. They were singed at the tips. Fire magic sometimes did that if your were too hasty with it. 

“I... ah. I didn’t do it.”

The mage was a man. Tall, blond. Wait...

“Hey! I know you from the Circle!” He grinned, but Rashia was too shocked to do the same. “Now, now, I know what they’ve been saying about me, but... ah, but this? Not my doing.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of a couple bodies in Templar armor. Judging by the injuries, they’d been killed by darkspawn.

“No,” she muttered, “I know darkspawn blade patterns. I believe you.”

He hadn’t seemed to have heard her, as he was still babbling about how Biff had gone down whilst fighting the darkspawn.

They exchanged pleasantries for a while, even introducing himself and blithely sharing his status as a wanted apostate. 

“I know who you are,” Rashia said evenly, meeting his eyes.

“Everyone knew who you were. Anders.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the faint sounds of more fighting and shouting could be heard over the storm. She fixed Anders with that commanding stare that had even worked on Sten and Shale now and again, and he straightened up instinctively.

“We’ve lost a lot of Wardens, and I need another fighter. Come help me, and I just might be able to help you.”

Then he followed her without a word, and the rest was history.

Yet several years later, Rashia sat inside a clinic in the bowls of Darktown. Perched on the edge of a cot, she watched as Anders once again took up the mantle of the Grey. The robes were thinner on him now, at least around the middle, but his muscles had somehow managed to grow more dense, not less, over his time away from the Order.

“So,” he asked her as he fastened the belt and adjusted the gloves. “How do I look?” Beside her, Ser Pounce-a-lot meowed loudly. She chuckled, rubbing the tabby’s head affectionately.

“You’re a little thin,” she said bluntly, “but Ser Pounce seems to agree that... you look good.” She gave him a quick once over as he walked over to sit on the cot across from hers. As soon as he was comfortable, Ser Pounce-a-lot leapt from his current position into Anders’ lap, and curled up there to begin purring up a storm. 

“I still can’t believe he’s here,” Anders murmured, running his fingertips through the tabby’s short fur. “I still can’t believe you’re here. It’s like seeing a legend come to life.”

Rashia chuckled. “That’s funny. I used to think of you like that.”

“What, me?” Anders stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Yes you. When we were in the Circle together. All of those escapes... all the stories you told... I remember stalking you after you’d finished enduring whatever punishments you’d been given, hanging on your every word so that I knew I was hearing it from the source. I knew you probably exaggerated some things, but if I heard them from you and not, say, Jowan, then I was less likely to hear about you “encountering a dragon after you’d run across the frozen Calahad” or something of that nature.”

“Huh. Really? I... I don’t know whether to be flattered, or...”

Rashia snorted, and then briefly descended into giggles. “I would not have called my behavior back then very flattering. But still, I thought of you as a legend nonetheless. Seeing you at the keep after slaying an Archdemon sort of... dismissed any notions I might’ve had about that, though, considering how I found you.”

“Oh yes, standing literally red handed over some burning darkspawn and dead Templars,” Anders deadpanned.

“I knew you hadn’t killed them, you know. Of course, if you’d been able to shut up for ten seconds you might’ve heard me say that.” She grinned at him. He scowled, but it didn’t stay. “I was never very good at that. I’m still bad at it. Even with Justice in my head.” He paused, adding, “Especially with Justice in my head.”

Rashia just hummed softly.

“Well, if I’m a legend come to life, then you’re a miracle, you know? I’d come home to the keep, first to find you missing, then dead? And then suddenly Stroud shows up with a girl who says she’s my cousin who both tell me that you’re not dead, you’re very much alive and living here in Kirkwall. After reading those reports and seeing the sketches... I had to come see you for myself. To make sure that you were really you.”

Anders was quiet for several moments as he focused on Ser Pounce.

“I was afraid for a long time, of Wardens coming for me. That they’d arrest me and kill me... us.” Little blue cracks of lightning spiderwebbed across his skin, and immediately she took his hands in hers, forcing him to meet her eyes once more as she’d done all those years ago.

“I’m not going to do that to you. In fact, I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep you here, and keep you safe. I’m not going to fail you this time, even if it means giving my life. And I’m going to help you and your cause. Both of you. Anders. Justice. Just... don’t do anything stupid again, and maybe you’ll live long enough to become a proper legend yourself. Alright?”

Anders, stunned speechless, could merely only nod in return.

Rashia, satisfied that she’d gotten through to them both, released their hands and leaned back again, glancing over at the pot they’d left to simmer on the fire in the back.

“Now, let’s see what we can do about putting more meat on those bones, hm?”

She got up, and Anders followed, carrying Ser Pounce-a-lot in his arms.

[askchanceoffates]

Chapter 3

“Get up apprentice!” Nymeria jolted, gazing at the Templar who so rudely awakened her. “You’re coming with me.”

The Templar hauled her to her feet and dragged her stumbling along after him. Never had she been so glad that older apprentices slept in their robes. She shuddered at the thought of a Templar seeing her vulnerable in her nightgown, not to mention going…wherever he was taking her. Actually, now that she thought about it…

“Where are you taking me?” No harm in asking.

“You’ll see soon enough,” the Templar growled as he shoved her up the stairs.

Well. What. An. Asshole. As Nym and her delightful companion climbed the never-fucking-ending staircase (seriously – who thought that a tower was a good place for mages?) she worked on eliminating possibilities. Passed the second floor – not seeing Irving then. Passed the third floor – not Greagoir either. That left either the Templar’s own quarters or…holy shit. The Harrowing Chamber.

“Come in child.” First Enchanter Irving beckoned her closer. She drew further into the room, glancing around nervously at the Knight Commander and the bowl of glowing lyrium.

Irving and Greagoir started what must have been a rehearsed speech about how if she fucked up, she would die. Apparently she had to go into the Fade and fight a demon, and they thought that reminding her of impending death was a good motivational tactic?

“Good luck apprentice.”

Nymeria reached out and touched the lyrium. Blinding pain tore through her body, then nothing…

She gingerly sat up, holding her head. When the pain receded enough for her to look around, she almost passed out again. She was in the Fade.

Goody.

Nymeria sighed as she killed another wisp. She walked a little farther but was stopped by an angry squeak. If a squeak could be angry. Which this was.

“Watch where you’re going!”

Nym jumped. And looked side to side. Then up. Then down. And blinked. There was a rather large mouse. Which talked.

She needed a drink.

“Another apprentice thrown to the wolves.” As Nymeria watched, the mouse shifted into a human wearing red robes. Like senior enchanter robes.

“You’re a mage?”

“I was. But I took too long and the Templars killed me. Now my spirit is stuck here.”

“That’s awful. But it won’t happen to me.”

“So confident. I was the same. All apprentices are. Then they die.”

“Can you offer any advice?”

“Be quick.”

“Wow. Thanks.” She went to walk on, and realised the mouse/apprentice was following her. Meh. She could use the company.

She dueled a spirit of Valor, riddled with a sloth demon, and defeated a rage demon. Yet she was still in the Fade. Something was not as it appears.

“You just need to let me in.”

Mouse. He called himself an apprentice, yet…

“Why are you wearing senior enchanter robes? The other demon wasn’t my test, was it?”

“…You are a clever one. The real dangers of the Fade are misconceptions, careless trust, pride…” Mouse grew, and grew, until he towered over her, with horns and claws and fangs. She may have whimpered (but she’ll deny it until her dying day) but Nymeria held her ground. “Take care apprentice.”

A bright flash, and then blinding pain, again…

“Nymeria! Are you okay? Wake up, please!” Jowan poked his friend yet again in his efforts to wake her.

“Poke me again, and you die.”

“Oh good, you’re awake. I was getting worried! I woke up to the Templars putting you back in your bed. You looked dead!”

“Weellll, as you can see, I’m not dead yet,” Nym huffed, rolling her ice blue eyes at Jowan’s antics, “Why are you poking me?”

“Irving wants to see you in his office.”

“About what?”

“Something important. Probably. Most likely. I doubt he’d ask you to tie his shoes,” Jowan rambled.

Nymeria put her hand over his mouth, “You’re going to be quiet now. And I’m going to be leaving now. Honestly.”

Nym walked briskly through the Tower to Irving’s office. Upon reaching the door, her ears perked up. Ooh, sounds like arguing. Fuck knocking. Nym smirked as she opened the door quietly and slipped through, her robes swishing softly around her ankles.

“We have committed enough of our own to this war effort!” Greagoir practically yelled, not noticing her entrance.

“Your own? Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages?” Irving calmly responded, also not realizing Nym entered the room. She looked around the room, barely restraining herself from being visibly startled at the sight of two strangers. One older man, with an air of command. Dark skinned, black hair. Wait, is that…a Grey Warden crest?!? Why are there Wardens in the Tower? Standing next to the Warden is a younger man, possibly another Warden. No crest on him though. He looked remarkably similar to the older man, just slightly paler. And oh praise the Maker, he is yummy. Nym had to resist the urge to lick her lips, but wasn’t able to stop the cocking of her eyebrow as she slowly drew her gaze from his head to his feet…

“Are they fucking? They kinda sound like they fuck,” Revas muttered to Nym, having apparently snuck up behind the mage.

“I don’t know. There is a betting pool. I’m going with yes,” Nymeria didn’t even think before responding. No questions asked about who the fuck Revas was or why in Thedas she was in the Tower.

“Betting pool?” Irving sighed, “What are you betting on now, Nymeria?”

“Nothing!” Nymeria and Revas chorused together, and even Mr. Yummy made as if to respond. The older man just shook his head.

“Hmm. Of course it’s nothing. Just like the pink dye in the Templars’ soap was nothing. Or the time Anders charmed the cat to roar like a lion was nothing.”

“The cat has a name. He’s Mr. Wiggums. He keeps everyone in solitary company, especially Anders,” Nymeria stated with a completely blank face, no sign of amusement.

The mysterious Mr. Yummy cocked an eyebrow at Nym and mouthed “Mr. Wiggums?” She just stared in response, as if she was staring into his soul.

“I see you other matters to attend to, Irving. We shall continue this discussion later,” Greagoir commented as he made his way from the office. Nymeria smirked ever so slightly as she saw the other elf swipe the Knight Commander’s coin purse.

“Anyway, congratulations on completing your Harrowing,” Irving turned to address Nym, clearly trying to move past the awkward pause, “You are now a full member of the Circle. Your phylactery has been moved to the Denerim vault.”

“My leash, you mean.” Everyone in the room noticed the slight drop in temperature as Nymeria spoke.

“It’s not as bad as that dear,” Irving scolded, shaking his head ever so slightly at her.

“Excuse me, what is this phylactery?” The older man stepped forward, looking questioningly between Nymeria and Irving.

“It is a vial of blood taken from all apprentices when they enter the Tower which can be used to track them down.”

The other elf looked confused, “Soooo, you use blood magic? I thought that was bad.”

Nym just sighed, “Amateurs.”

“It’s not blood magic as it is used by the Templars’ abilities. No true magic is involved. And the blood is not used in casting, a simple tracking – device, I’ll say – is used on the blood to find the mage in question,” Irving explained in what Nym liked to call his ‘teacher’ voice. The other elf looked as confused as before.

“Irving, I don’t mean to be rude, but who in the Fade are these people?”

“Oh I’m sorry. Nymeria Surana, meet the Warden Commander of Ferelden, Duncan. And two of his recruits, Markov Cousland and Revas Tabris.” So. Mr. Yummy is a Cousland. Huh. Wonder why a noble is a Grey Warden recruit.

“A pleasure to meet you. It’s an honour to have Wardens in the Tower, especially one who is so good at pickpocketing.” Nym smiled at Revas, which rather shocked Irving. It had been quite some time since Nymeria genuinely smiled.

“Here child are your new robes, staff, and Circle ring. The tranquil should be bringing your things to your own room as we speak.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, actually. Could you escort the Wardens to the guest chambers?”

Nym blinked once, twice, before she looked at the Wardens and said, “It’s a circle. How can you get lost?”

“Just go.”

“…fine.”

Nymeria wandered through the Tower, thinking about the Grey Wardens she had just met. Duncan and his recruits. What it must be like to see the world outside, to walk on the grass and feel the rain against your skin. To fight darkspawn. Nym wanted that. She wanted to fight. She wanted to actually live, not just stay locked in this prison. She slumped against the wall and suppressed a sigh. She should have gone with Anders on his last escape.

“Nym! I’ve been looking for you.” Jowan came running up to her, keeping his voice low.

“Hey Jowan. Why are you whispering?”

“I have something to tell you. Can we talk someplace more private?” She just nodded, letting her best friend lead her someplace where the Templars weren’t watching.

A priest. Jowan was sleeping, and apparently in love with, a priest. And wanted her help to escape. Well, that she was willing to do.

After conning Owain and Senior Enchanter Sweeney into giving her a rod of fire (and clearing spiders out of the Tower’s storehouse), Nym, Jowan, and Lily went to the phylactery chamber. Which was locked with stupid magic nullifying runes. So they proceeded to fight their way through the repository. Why are there so many fucking sentinels?

And finally, they broke down a wall and climbed into the phylactery chamber. Nymeria walked briskly up the stairs, reading shelf after shelf of phylacteries. There it was. Jowan’s.

“Found it.” Jowan and Lily ran up the stairs and skidded to a dead halt. They were speechless.

“This, this tiny vial is what is keeping me here?” Jowan picked up his vial, and ever-so-slowly, let go. The vial shattered on the ground, blood staining the stone. “I’m free.”

Nym cocked her head. “It’s a pity they’ve taken mine to Denerim.”

“Why? Would you destroy yours too?”

“Of course I would. I could leave this place and the Templars wouldn’t be able to find me. Ever. Any who came close would pay. However, that’s neither here nor there. Let’s go.”

Lily glanced sideways at Nymeria as the three of them climbed out of the basement. She turned her head away, unable to meet the pity in that gaze. Jowan led the way to freedom…

…and stopped. Surrounding the door, and the three now-lawbreakers, were Templars, Knight Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving. Shit. Oh, and the Wardens. Double shit.

Well. Who could have guessed that breaking into the repository, destroying a phylactery, and being a smart ass to the Knight Commander would lead to being recruited into the Grey Wardens? Not Nymeria.

She sat in the rowboat, playing with her long, black braid. She stared out over the water, taking in the scenery she hadn’t seen in seven years. Nym also studied Revas and Markov. Markov seemed distant and sorrowful, as if a great tragedy had befallen him. Revas seemed sad as well, but there is rage burning behind the sorrow. Nymeria wondered what had happened to her fellow recruits to make them as such, but she knew she couldn’t ask. Not just yet.