34 réponses à ce sujet

[RoraM]

1st day Solace 9:44 Dragon

 

The demons began whispering my name the day you left.

 

Perhaps they always had, but I had you at my side like an oculist, focusing my vision on their shifting forms to see them for what they were and I was unafraid. In your absence, everything has become less clear.

 

So I took a new name, a name to answer to and not answer to. I became “the Woman”. “The Blade”. Asha’mien’harel. And I am nobody’s creature.

 

I left our hard-won order. Even yet, they do not let me go. Out of the corners of my eyes I catch the flutter of raven wings.

 

The village you claimed as your home was lost to the ages long before we met. They say it was claimed by fire, the ancient trees the only witnesses. I slept on the foundation stones, but I am no Dreamer.

 

I head west, now. Towards you, yet not towards you. I am not so foolish as to think you’d give me answers. I seek she who carries the knowledge of the Well.

 

I hunt the witch.

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  This will be a reversal of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth. Instead, it is Eurydice (Eurydike [Greek] = "she whose justice extends widely") who ventures into hell seeking the lost man who sings enchanting music. Taking place after the events of Inquisition ("Halam'shivanas") and told from Tala Lavellan's point of view, this story will chronicle her search for Solas.

 

"From the site of your battle with Corypheus, he was last seen headed west, still distraught over the destruction of the orb Corypheus carried."

-excerpt from correspondence between Leliana and Inquisitor Lavellan

 

According to Homer, the Elysian Fields were said to be located on the western edge of the earth.

Solis/Solace is the seventh month in the Theodosian calendar.

I don't know how long the war with Corypheus lasted. Until we get a better timeline, I'm going to guess three years.

 

Elvish:

asha: woman
mien'harel: blade of justice or rebellion, used as a rallying cry (from The Masked Empire)

[RoraM]

The Lion, the Leopardess, and the She-wolf

 

Wintersend Guardian 9:44 Dragon

 

     I brew herbal tea to keep the dreams away.  Steam rises.  I close my eyes and inhale.  There’s vandal aria.  That's for remembrance. And dragonthorn.  That's for thoughts. 

 

     I hear a knock at the door. 

 

     “Come.”  I recognize the steady, purposeful step.

 

     “Inquisitor.”

 

     “That is not my title, Commander,” I say gently.  "Not any more."  

 

     “Yes, well—” He rubs the back of his neck.

 

     “Would you like some tea?”  He nods.  His dreams have troubled him less of late.  Adan’s tea helps both our addictions.  I add his usual milk and sugar.  He seems grateful for the distraction of a warm mug in his hands.

 

     We sip in silence.  He places the mug down and walks— paces, running hands through burnished hair.

 

     “Will you not reconsider, Tala?”  This is the first time in three years he has used my name.

 

     I take another sip.  I try to look kind.  “Every Fade rift is closed and order has been restored.  The Inquisition practically runs itself.  You no longer have need of me.”  I see a fierceness rising behind his eyes.  I will save him from himself.  “I will miss our chess games.”  At the mention of something so simple, so mundane, I see his passion recede as I turn from him.  The moment has passed.  I set up the board.  I move my pawn forward.  “One last game?” I ask softly.  There is something bittersweet in his smile.

 

     “One last game.”

 

     My Queen’s gambit is accepted.

 

***

 

2^nd day Guardian 9:44 Dragon

 

     I leave just before dawn, mounted on my red hart.  I am nearly unseated as an arrow speeds past my ear, leaving a scratch that doesn’t quite draw blood.

 

     “Oi!”  Behind me stands a furious Sera.  “You…you were just going to leave?” she splutters.  I sigh, but can’t help smiling.

 

     “We said our goodbyes yesterday,” I remind her.

 

     “You’re really going.  To follow wots-‘is-name.  Sol-arse.”

 

     “I don’t expect you to understand, Sera.”

 

     “It’s ‘cos I made fun of your elfy dealies being gone, innit?”  I see her fight back tears.  “I thought we were family,” she says, punching me in the leg.  The calmed hart remains unperturbed, its warm breath forming soft clouds in the cool mountain air.

 

     “Do you honestly think you would last while I wandered through ‘all them forests and shite’?”  My poor imitation brings a smile to her face.  “Someone needs to keep an eye on the Inquisition while I'm away.  Look out for the little people.  Like I said, I’ll send word when I can.”  I give out a yelp as she yanks me off the hart to wrap me in a fierce hug.

 

     “You better.”

 

***

 

5^th day Guardian 9:44 Dragon

 

     I release the hart at the base of the western foothills.  I stick to the trees, a safer bet for a lone elf woman.  It will be harder once I near Val Royeaux.  I see golden eyes glint in the twilight.  I grin, grasping the Token of the Packmaster on its chain around my neck.  We run together, the wolves and I, and at night, I sleep as one of them.

 

     Only dreamless.

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  Do you remember Ophelia's mad scene in Hamlet (Act IV, Scene V) and Dante's Inferno?  Yay, public high school!

 

I chose to use the term "leopardess", as I still have no clue what a "lonza" is.  Some describe it as a lion/leopard hybrid, but the creature's nature is slightly more complex.  Whatever it is, I don't know what Sera is either, given she is "apart from herself" and "the furthest from what [she was] meant to be".

 

“The fragrance of the vandal aria, however, is lighter and greener than that of her rare cousin, and redolent of honey and cut grass.”

—An excerpt from The Botanical Compendium by Ines Arancia, botanist

 

Also, the story's timeline is not linear.  A calendar of Thedosian months may be found here.

[RoraM]

Down the Steep and Savage Path

 

12^th day Guardian 9:44 Dragon

 

     The humans in Halamshiral’s High Quarter market eye me nervously.  I smile beneath my cowl.  Even had they recognized me as the Inquisitor, none would dare call me rabbit here. 

 

     I’ve run through my herbs more quickly than expected.  I’m still surprised when the shopkeeper doesn’t ask me to show my coin before bringing down the felandaris  and crystal grace for inspection.  I pay and as I turn to leave, someone bumps into me, causing me to drop one of my parcels.  He catches it before it hits the floor and mumbles a hasty apology as he hands it to me.  The elf is already out the door before I can say a word.  I look down and a note has been slipped under the string.

 

     I have information.  East corner café.  Noon. –B

 

     So I'd been recognized after all.  When I was Inquisitor, my own men didn’t know my face.  Without my vallaslin, I thought myself even more invisible amidst the city elves.  I had ensured my distinctive white hair remained hidden by my cowl.  Leather gloves kept my mark obscured.  A cloak disguised my dragonscale armour, while my staff had been glamoured to resemble nothing more than a rough walking stick.  I had taken care not to flash too much coin and had spoken little.  I hadn’t even started my inquiries after Morrigan.  Charter, the new spymaster, must have had me followed from Skyhold and sent word on.  I suppose I should not have been surprised.

 

     I hear eleven bells ring.  The public nature of the meeting place makes a trap less likely.  Even if it’s a case of mistaken identity, any information could prove useful.  I duck behind a craftsman’s stall. Discreetly, I call gentle heat between index and thumb, pressing the lower left corner of the parchment between them.  The telltale marks appear, no need for a candle.  I make out today’s date and the elven glyph Fen, Briala’s mark.  Genuine, then. 

 

     I glance up.  On this cloudy day, I’m glad of my compass.  Few know of my abysmal sense of direction.  Pain, sharp and familiar, strikes at my heart. I had no need of a compass with you at my side.

 

     I cross the cobblestones and find the café.  I take a back corner table.  The serving girl looks at me disdainfully when all I order is boiled water.  I dare not eat anything.  This is still Orlais.  I crumble some dried spindleweed into my cup.  If I’m to be poisoned, this should slow its progress.  I believe I’m more useful to Briala alive, shared blood or no, but I’ve been wrong before.  The intermittent sound of clinking china has never sounded more sinister.

 

     An old elven woman sits down before I can protest.  I hear twelve bells ring and realize she is my contact.

 

     “Lady Briala welcomes you to her city, Inquisitor.”  Her voice is thin and reedy.  Gnarled brown hands adorned by a simple iron band lay a cane across her homespun lap.

 

     “If Lady Briala knows I am here, then she also knows I am no longer the Inquisitor.”

 

     “She remains unconvinced that so much power could be relinquished so easily.”

 

     “Regardless of what she believes, I am here for information.”

 

     “You search for Lady M, do you not?  She booked passage aboard a merchant ship to Val Royeaux.  She was then seen headed east.  Our sources say she seeks an elven temple.  Lady Briala suspects you know the place.”

 

     I sip more spindleweed tea and give nothing away.  “I am curious.  How did she know who I was?”

 

     The woman chuckles.  “It was who you weren’t, Your Worship.  We know every elf in the city.  Though you spoke little, your accent and bare feet betrayed you the moment you set foot in Halamshiral.  The absence of your facial markings confirmed who you were as surely as if they had been present.”  Her finely lined face peers into mine, with its watery eyes and crooked nose.  “Is that what you seek, Inquisitor?" she wheedles, "Your lost markings?” 

 

     “No, but I suspect she knows this as well.”  I get up to leave.  “And I thank you for the courtesy of delivering the information in person, Lady Briala.”  Her surprise is betrayed only by her stillness.  The Formari glamour is not as effective once one has learned to see past it. 

 

 

***

 

14^th day Guardian 9:44 Dragon

 

     I hate boats. I stay above deck, where the air tastes less of bilge and dank.  Closing my eyes keeps the nausea bearable.  When this fails, I focus on the red sails, allowing them to fill my vision.

 

     Red was my favourite colour.  I once wore embrium red knowing it brought out the colour of my lips and skin, knowing it pleased you. I feel your hands move beneath my shift tracing out glyphs with long fingers.  My back against cool stone, the thin fabric tearing, the scent of moonflowers in full bloom—

 

     “The winds are with us.  We make good time,” the captain says warmly.  I give her a wan smile.  She has saved me from continuing down a path that serves no one.  I see the White Spire in the distance.  I am not fooled by the gilded domes and bright-painted walls coming into view.  I am entering the heart of Orlais.  I am entering savage country.

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  The chapter takes its title from the second canto of Dante’s Inferno.

[RoraM]

Into the Suffering City

 

19^th Cloudreach 9:44 Dragon

 

     I am seasick and irritable when we drop anchor in the City of Chains.  If Morrigan had been to the lost Temple of Dirthamen, it kept her secrets.  This was not the first time I regretted not drinking from the Well myself.  Compared to what I have lost, the price of being bound to Mythal now seems a pittance.

 

     For all the aid we sent to Kirkwall, the place looks worse than I expected.  Garbage and debris float along the harbour and canalways.  The smell seems to get worse the further I walk into the city.  I see the odd new construction as I make my way to Lowtown, but otherwise, Kirkwall is one endless parade of burned out foundations and boarded up buildings.  One exception is The Hanged Man, or rather, The New Hanged Man, as the freshly painted sign proclaims.  I enter the tavern where Varric is holding court.  Above, swathes of vibrant jewel-toned silk have been draped across the ceiling while gleaming panels of dark wood adorn the walls below.  The sconces, covered with painted paper shades, bathe everything in an enticing glow.  His face breaks into a broad smile.  I catch the words “an old friend” as his audience disperses.  He strides up to me.

 

     “Look who showed up!  Grab a seat,” he says, gesturing widely. I pick the usual back corner table.  He flags down a server.  “A flagon of wine for my friend, here.”  He waits until the server leaves before asking, “So what can I do for you, Your Inquisitorialness?”

 

     “You’re operating on old information, Varric.  I’ve gotten out of Inquisiting.  Or is it Inquiring?”  He snorts.

 

     “That may not be as easy as you think.  It’s not like they give your job to just anyone.”

 

     I smile.  “Weren’t you the one who told me I should consider running at the first opportunity?  Just following your advice.”

 

     “Maferath’s balls!  Someone actually listening?  Never thought I’d see the day.  I’m flattered and more than a little concerned.  So,” he asks, leaning back in his chair to get comfortable, “how was the journey over?  I heard you caught a ship out of Cumberland.”

 

     “You know me and ships.  I’ve been searching for Morrigan, but haven’t been able to turn up much.”  I shake my head, smiling wryly.  “For a woman carrying around a large elven mirror, she’s been surprisingly difficult to track.  I’ve hired someone to help.”

 

     “Not another Seeker, I hope.”

 

     I laugh.  “No, a mage.  Another elf.  But she doesn’t talk.  Had her throat ripped out by a Red Templar.  She’s why I’m here.  I need you to set up a few things for her.  She’ll need access to money, supplies, contacts.”

 

     “The Inquisition could have set you up with all that, you know.”

 

     “But then I would have been duty-bound to stay. “

 

     “You’re probably right," he concedes.  "Choirboy once told me, ‘When times are good, the city rules itself.  Years could pass and no one would notice who’s prince.  But when there’s famine, when there’s war, people look to their leaders.’  Best get this out of the way before the Inquisition needs you again.”

 

     “Thanks Varric.  I knew I could count on you.  Her name’s Asha, Asha’mien’harel, and she arrives in a fortnight.”

 

***

 

3^rd Bloomingtide 9:44 Dragon

 

     I make my way through Kirkwall’s bowels to the Undercity, following the detailed instructions enclosed in Xenon’s invitation.  As I enter his Black Emporium, I am greeted by the playful pawing of a miniaturized great bear. 

 

     “He answers to Chauncey!” I hear Xenon’s voice boom, echoing from the central gallery.  I kneel to pet the tiny bear, only to receive a fierce nip for my efforts.  Taken by surprise, I nearly ignite the thing by accident.  I hastily stamp out the surrounding flames before proceeding down the hall. 

 

     I have heard Varric’s accounts of the wondrous curiosities secreted away in this place but take interest in only one item: the gold-clouded mirror leaning to the antiquarian’s right.  There will be no gentle blue-green glow from lover’s hands passing over my face this time.  I blink and my face appears before me, awaiting transformation.

 

     I scar my neck heavily, all the way up to my chin.  The attack I described to Varric would have been brutal.   I give myself a broken nose.  Raising the arch of my brow, I then narrow and lengthen my blue-grey eyes.  I make them dark, so dark you can’t tell where iris ends and pupil begins.  My hair, turned white with the Anchor, I colour reddish brown.  I exchange my golden skin for the translucent white of the southern elves.  My transformation is complete.

 

     Xenon lets out a sharp bark of laughter.  “You went with that?” 

 

     I try out my new smile, baring two rows of small, pointy white teeth.  Only my pale lips retain the shape they had when I first kissed you, the one thing I cannot bear to change.  It’s a foolish risk, but one I take nonetheless.  A scarf will serve for my meeting with Varric.

 

     I look through the rest of Xenon’s wares when my eye catches a glimpse of something in a glass case that makes my heart thud in my chest.  These should not be here, available to the highest bidder at the whim of some 300-year-old crackpot.  I try to keep my voice casual.

 

     “How much for the pieces of Fen’Harel’s Mask?”

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  The chapter takes its title from the third canto of Dante’s Inferno.

[RoraM]

Across the Waters

 

 

5^th day Justinian 9:44 Dragon

 

     As the weeks pass, I no longer wonder why the Viscountess abandoned her city.  In her absence, the Captain of the Guard struggles to maintain order.  I initially offer my services, but bagmen, charlatans, and profiteers continue to abound, taking advantage of the chaos; for each one caught, another two rise to take their place.  Everywhere I turn, I am faced with cowards, their apathy stifling as chokedamp. 

 

     While Varric makes the final arrangements for my departure, I grow restless.  I walk and before I know it, I’m in the vicious squalor of Darktown.  No guard dares set foot here.  This is why Kirkwall fails to rise.  This is the immortal head of the hydra.

 

     I hear the skittering of rats and black beetles away from heavy footsteps.  I’m being followed.  As I near the alleyway, another two figures join the first.  I turn.

 

     “I don’t like being followed.”

 

     “Far from home arntcha, knife-ear?” one says, dagger in hand.  I smile with my pointed teeth.

 

     Lightning strikes the first two dead before they can step any closer.  The third is incinerated in an immolation ring, one less body to add to the stinking morass.  I hear the bells chime the hour.   I have time.

 

     As the crew of the Acheron unmoors our vessel, we see the growing orange blaze of Darktown behind us.  Plumes of fire shoot up into the sky from ignited pockets of chokedamp.  We hear shouts.  The men hasten their work and we set sail.  Once the smoke clears, the air should be breathable- or I will see Kirkwall burn again.  I hear your voice.

 

     Sometimes to achieve the world one desires, one must take regrettable measures.

 

     But I do not regret this, emma lath.  Not one bit.

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Authors's Note:  I thought naming the captain Charon would be too on the nose. (Yeah, I like maintaining the pretense I don't have all the subtlety of a brick wall.)

 

Elvish:

emma lath: my love

[RoraM]

The Quiet, Trembling Air

 

16^th day Justinian 9:44 Dragon

 

     Last time I was in Val Royeaux, I had a private audience with the Divine. This time, I am glad I do not warrant such an honour.  I have no doubt I would have been found out under her Bard's gaze.  In a small alcove adjoining the empty audience chamber, her agent hands me a missive:

 

We have unconfirmed reports your target was seen crossing the Nahashin marshes to the Tirashan via the Marquisate of Serault.  However, we also have reports of a woman matching her description crossing the northern border to Perendale.  We should receive confirmation within a fortnight.

 

     My heart sinks.  Serault is over 200 miles away and the Tirashan is vast.  I can’t afford to follow the wrong lead.  There is nothing to do but wait.

 

***

 

     I exit through the Grand Cathedral.  The swirling smoke of incense dips and rises through shafts of saffron and rose-coloured light.  I do not understand the reverence humans feel in this place. Uniform marble pillars stretch cold and lifeless to painted ceilings, a poor substitute for the ever-changing sky, even if they are edged in gold.  I have seen the Sunburst Throne and I am unimpressed.

 

     Then I hear music and the humans are singing.  Not like on the exodus from Haven.  These are not the voices of the weary and untrained in earnest and extemporaneous chorus.  These voices soar, rising, weaving, joyful, pure and perfect.  They are rehearsing to sing the Chant of Light.  Their song is over too soon and the echoes fade far too quickly.  I am crying.  I am trembling.  And I don’t know why.

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Authors's Note:  Limbo, from the fourth canto of Dante’s Inferno.  And I think she does know why.

[RoraM]

Cranes In Flight

 

19^th day Justinian 9:44 Dragon

 

     I need coin.  I become installed as bodyguard to Jean-Marc, the nineteen-year-old son of Duchess Caralina of Lydes and Val Firmin.  The post never stays filled for long.  The duke-in-waiting finds great sport in evading his escorts, inevitably resulting in their immediate dismissal.  Had I known the nature of her heir, I would not have installed his mother as the Duchess of Lydes.

 

     When we meet, my muteness amuses the boy.  “Rabbits only scream when frightened.  Can you?”  I look him squarely in the eyes and pull down the scarf to show him my ravaged neck.  He flinches then recovers his self-possession. 

 

     “Don’t worry about being ugly.  You all look the same from behind,” he smirks.  In the other room, I hear the elven scrubbing maid attack the floor with renewed vigour.  I stare stonily ahead.

 

     Once we cross the shining waters of Le Miroir de la Mère, he immediately tries to lose me in the crowded Summer Bazaar.  The simple tracking spell I had quietly cast during our gondola ride leads me to Le Masque du Lion Café.  Remaining hidden, I see him whispering to a server while glancing at a nearby table.  I follow his gaze and recognize young Celeste Thibeault with her husband Jecin Leandre, a minor noble.  In another life, I presided over their wedding. 

 

     I watch the server swallow nervously, scurry away, and return with two plates:  one bearing delicately balanced layers of feather-light sponge cake shirred with whipped cream and adorned with sparkling sugared pansies; the other, Antivan gâteau, dense and luxuriant beneath gold leaf and ganache, served warm with molten chocolate and liqueur at its heart— you know the one— a dessert meant to be shared between lovers.  The server places the first in front of Lord Jecin, the other in front of Lady Celeste.  They look over to Jean-Marc, who smiles and raises his glass.

 

     Jecin, not missing a beat, stands and bows.  Celeste, still relatively new to The Game, lowers her eyes anxiously before curtseying and accidentally drops her fan.  I hear tittering among the café patrons.  As if he had been waiting for such an opportunity, Jean-Marc immediately swoops down upon it, fully aware of the impression he is creating.  He gestures for Celeste to sit and waits for her to take her first forkful of dessert.  She looks to her husband.  More titters.  Fenedhis.  This could turn ugly.  Jecin will only be pushed so far.

 

     I act quickly, my bare feet silent against the pavement stones.  Unseen, I manage to slip a small fire glyph beneath Jean-Marc’s feet.  I watch as he shifts his weight uncomfortably, his face reddening before he walks away, eyes flashing with anger.

 

     I step behind Celeste and Jecin, making a show of absently treading on the hem of their tablecloth.  I send both plates crashing to the ground with one surreptitious tug.   Jecin, seeing the ghost of a smile on my lips, gratefully presses three royals into my hand before he and his wife take their leave.

 

     When I arrive at Jean-Marc’s side, he eyes me suspiciously, but says nothing.  I knew he would not recognize me.  We all look the same from behind.

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  Lust, from the fifth canto. I love that we can preside over Celeste Thibeault's wedding after completing the War Table mission, "Alliances:  Reaching Ever Upward".  I also wanted to describe some frilly cakes.

[RoraM]

Three Sparks

 

3^rd Bloomingtide 9:44 Dragon

 

     I am become unrecognizable, even to myself.

 

     Companion to Compassion, Faith, and Pride, I walked the shining paths of worlds between worlds.  I shaped the fate of empires and sent would-be gods into the Fade.  Feared and adored, I envied none but Wisdom, whom my Heart had known like none before— or since.  I was Inquisitor and gave up power and duty for love.

 

***

 

     A creaky laugh, dusty with age, sends invisible creatures squeaking and chittering back to their shadowy corners. 

 

     “The golden Mask of Fen’Harel, God of Nightmares.  Rare piece, that. Or should I say, rare pieces!  Hah!  The urchin had a time of collecting it, let me tell you!  Seventeen thousand gold!”  Once I might have been able to pay such a sum.  No longer.  I hide my dismay and turn to the urchin.

 

     “You do fine work.”  I smile.  “I see no piece missing and there must be hundreds here.”

 

     “Not him!”  Xenon snorts.  “Hands like hams, that one.  Three, no, four urchins ago.”

 

     “What does it do?”  I know what it does.  At the last Arlathvhen I had met Keeper Josmael, dark-curled and hollow-eyed.  His clan had barely survived the Blight.  The mask had been in their care.  Betrayed by his betrothed, her blood had fuelled the magic that tore through the Veil and almost brought forth a demon army.

 

     “Nothing, now,” the antiquarian says slyly, “but in the hands of a skilled arcanist, who knows?”  Centuries of dessication prevent him from shrugging his many shoulders.  I do not envy him his eternal life.

 

     “You’re the third client to show an interest in it.”  Crafty to the bone.  He could be bluffing, but the thought still sends a chill down my spine.  I weigh my options, none of them good.  The wards protecting this place are complex, ancient, and powerful.  The emporium has withstood the ages and I would be a fool to think I might be the first to contemplate its destruction for one of its treasures.  A lone mage, even one wielding the Anchor, would not be enough.  As for thievery, I am no rogue and would not be surprised if Xenon harvested his many limbs from those who had the audacity to try to steal from him.

 

     The value of the mask lies in its completeness and offering to buy it piecemeal would only give away my change in circumstances.  Xenon’s discretion extends to valued customers.  Should I prove less than my perceived worth, selling the identity of a transformed Inquisitor travelling alone would be a profitable alternative.

 

     A thought comes.  The hunt for Corypheus had been too pressing to investigate reports of an elven temple at the heart of an oasis along the northern reaches of the Western Approach.  Although the few mysterious shards pointing to its existence remained with the Inquisition, no outposts had been stationed.  Our priority had been mobilizing our forces for the push into the Arbor Wilds.  I have explored enough elven ruins to know something of value waits to be claimed.  Something to do while Morrigan’s trail remains cold.

 

     As I leave, Xenon calls out gleefully, “Make up your mind quickly, Inquisitor.   The mask may not be here when you return!”  

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  The chapter takes its title from the sixth canto.  The three sparks are Envy, Pride, and Avarice, found in the third circle of Hell.  Tried my hand at iambic pentameter, as Solas would.

[RoraM]

The Tearing of Teeth

 

29^th day Justinian 9:44 Dragon

 

     I reread the letter, eyes arrested by and mind reeling with the absurdity of one word:  both.  Serault and Perendale are hundreds of miles apart and Morrigan was confirmed sighted in both places within hours:  an audience with the Marquise of Serault, travel papers presented at the Nevarran border. 

 

     Had she used a simulcrum, a magical decoy?  What other knowledge and powers had been bestowed upon her by the Well?  By Mythal?  Then it occurs to me.  Stupid, stupid Tala.  A second eluvian, one of a few left ajar for those able to access the Crossroads.  A journey of days reduced to minutes.  But that would also mean she would have had to leave hers behind and, eventually, would need to return to it.

 

     If the eluvian were mine, I would not risk carrying it to Nevarra.  I would stow it where I knew it might remain hidden.  I look at my map again.  The Nahashin marshes. 

 

     Where else might a swamp witch feel safe?

 

***

 

10^th day Solace 9:44 Dragon

 

     A reckoning that will shake the very heavens.

 

     As I make my way west, I do not need the scar in the sky to remind me of the last time the heavens shook:  a madman with an orb fuelled by the Blighted power of Red Lyrium, stopped by a madwoman with an Anchor strengthened by the faith of nations.  And Mythal would have them shake again.  Is it no wonder we returned to her temple?

 

     We found Flemeth’s burned bones atop an altar, beneath, a simple epitaph inexplicably and elegantly struck into the stone by some unknown hand:  This was Asha’bellanaris, servant of Mythal.

 

     By the time I had questions for Morrigan, she and Kieran were long gone, as was every fragment of the eluvian that had stood by the emptied Well of Sorrows.  I believed them taken by Corypheus.  I left the temple with its memories and millennia-old mysteries to the scholars.

 

     Fen’Harel take me, I have been incredibly slow.  The Well was the key to the eluvian.  The pieces would have been useless to the magister.  Morrigan holds the Well and she has restored the temple eluvian.

 

     How fortunate a missing Morrigan does not sit well with the current Divine, nor her Right Hand, the newly-appointed Grand Knight-Enchanter Vivienne.  Along with their intelligence, Asha received the name, or rather, the self-styled title of a master tracker willing to accompany her on her search, someone to train her to spot where the patterns break in nature and civilization:  L’Oeil de Lynx.

 

     “Allons-y, Asha,” he calls to me impatiently.  “It is time you learned to track at night.  I teach you now ‘Les Façons des Loups’—  I teach you 'The Ways of Wolves’.”

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  Wrath, from the seventh canto. 

 

L’oeil de lynx:  Eagle-eyed (although, literally, it translates to “the eye of the lynx".  It's a French thing.)

Allons-y:  Let’s go (I am also a fan of Doctor Who)

[Nefi87]

I thought u may like this - THYX - Alien Love

 

It may bring some inspiration (Worth to listen, trust me )

[RoraM]

The Burning Tomb

 

All Soul’s Day August 9:44 Dragon

     How do you endure it—the pain of Dreaming, of facing demons? Have you numbed yourself to the pain, or still feel it afresh each time? You kept your silence so I never knew that to be at my side was to suffer. It would be easier to believe that is why you left.

     I choose not to dream at all, though this choice may not be mine for much longer. Every day I need more and more herbs to keep the Fade at bay. Would it be worse to see your face or to be reminded you no longer seek mine?

     I should be grateful for what time we had—the quiet, fire-lit nights, the gentle teasing inside jokes, the simple joy of returning home to our bed. I should be content that I have known what it is to burn with the flame of your magic in my veins, your name a whispered supplication as I came undone again and again. But then you should have said you did not love me.

***

     The bogfishers lazily raise their heads at our approach, then return to rooting among the reeds and rushes. The bent heads of blood lotus point the way. A flash of fire banishes the rashvines obscuring the cave’s entrance.

     The eluvian is as I remember, its surface azure, iridescent, and undulating. Power and knowledge would activate it. While I matched Morrigan in power, I lacked her knowledge. Between the evacuation of the College of Magi to Skyhold, Dorian sending texts from Tevinter, and the Augurs of the Frostback Basin, that has since been rectified. And I had your notes. I traced your writing with my fingers, the ink curving and sloping, assured and elegant, each word carefully chosen.

     Using both hands, I send magic sharp and focused across the glass and the Crossroads materialize before me. I step through only to hear L’Oeil de Lynx gasp.

     “I go no further, Asha,” he says, eyes shut, swallowing, sweat already beading on his pallid brow. I nod. Humans were not meant to walk these roads.

     Gone is the smell of stagnation and root-rot. My lungs fill with air clearer and cleaner than any breathed on the balconies of Skyhold. The crystalline edges of this place disintegrate in the periphery of my vision, scattering rainbows across the shining rune-carved paths.

     As I near one of the few intact portals, the Anchor flares to life in my hand. I look up and the once-dim mirror glows, surface swirling. Morrigan had kept our visits to the Crossroads short. I had not known myself capable of this.

     I walk through and find myself in a ballroom lit by hundreds of bronze balefire lamps floating mid-air. At the far end, a quintet plays a somber basse danse. The polished marqueterie walls are lined with mirrors reflecting the pairs of dancing figures at the centre of the room. Whoever placed the eluvian here chose its hiding place well.

     A long table draped in vibrant purple is laden with the most sumptuous food. A fattened ram, artfully studded with cloves and juniper berries, has been carved into glistening pink slices. Roast phoenix encased in sculpted pastry sits in golden repose on a bed of glazed winter vegetables and pearl onions. Sugared fruit, like jewels, crown tall tiered stands piled high with delicate cream puffs dripping with caramel while elaborately decorated cakes vie for attention on silver-footed platters. Beside them, multiple crystal decanters gleam ruby and amber with port and brandy. Strangely, none of the dancers have marked my entrance.

     Compared to the Crossroads, beneath the heavy scent of perfume, the air is stale, almost musty. As I near the table, I know something is wrong. On closer inspection, the ram has been carved from stone and painted, its tantalizing slices to remain forever uneaten. I tap the pastry casement of the roasted phoenix and it resonates hollow. Even the cake is a lie, formed from ceramic.

     Only now do I look closely at the dancers’ faces. Leather-like skin stretches across bone, face paint slightly cracking to reveal a layer of grey underneath. Around the necks of the ladies are shadows where necklaces used to be. I join in the dancing and as we pass hand to hand, I see wigs set slightly askew and feel broken fingers snapped off at the knuckle within their gloves, divested of rings.

     Suddenly, I hear shouts in the guttural accent that confirms I am in Nevarra.

     “Halt! Defiler! Thief!” Mortalitasi in grey robes start flinging spells, hands clutching jewel-studded skulls. The mummified dancers collapse as their Wisps fly free to give chase. I Fade-step towards the eluvian, throwing up a wall of fire behind me. Spirits claw at my back. I fight off the Blinding Terror that threatens to grip me before emerging safe back at the Crossroads. I bend, resting elbows on thighs, trying to catch my breath. As I back away from the mirror, I freeze at the sound of a voice.

     “Well, well. What have we here?”

(To be continued…)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  In Jaws of Hakkon we learn “Dreamers are said to be sensitive to demons. A creature like [spoiler] would have caused Telana terrible pain.” (I could have decked Cassandra for not telling me sooner.)

 

The password to opening Briala’s network of eluvians is “Fen’Harel enansal”, the “Dread Wolf’s blessing”.

 

Juniper berries have been found in ancient Egyptian tombs and juniper resin was used in the mummification process.

 

The title is taken from the ninth canto (6th circle of Hell).

 

I like that Thedas has the month of August in its calendar.

 

And I love Portal.

[RoraM]

Before the Gentle Splendour

     “’Twould seem introductions are unnecessary, Inquisitor." I notice she does not bow.

     “Lady Morrigan.”

     “For someone just returned from the royal tombs of the Great Necropolis, you arrive surprisingly empty-handed. What business brought you there, I wonder? Do ancient elves no longer hold your interest or do you seek some other prize?” She peers at me closely and, for a moment, her eyes glaze over. The Well speaks. "I see. You have business with Fen’Harel.” Fenedhis. She knows about the mask.

     “I am not the only one. But that is not why I am here.” She looks at me mockingly.

     “'Twas foolish to change yourself for another, to give up your power. What do you hope to accomplish once you find him? Do you think he will return to you just because you came crawling? Do you not see 'twas your very power that spurred his desire? ‘Tis a pity that one who once stood as a demi-god should be so diminished.”

     “I am myself, no matter what I have been or what I will be. Do you forget? I watched you get on your knees for love.” She blinks as my arrow strikes home.

     “Your love did not need saving.” The angry flash of her eyes belies the calm of her voice.

     “Nor, it turns out, did yours. Where is Solas? Is he safe?”

     “You ask the wrong question, Inquisitor. The question is: are the rest of us safe?”

     Nails dig into my palms. I am in no mood for her riddles. "The Well bound you to Mythal. Does she yet stop you from giving me answers?”

     “Did you not know? The Dread Wolf took her.” Knuckles white, it takes all my willpower not to reduce her to ash.

     “It is true I found Flemeth's bones on an altar, but if I’ve learned anything about gods, they cannot be reborn until they die. I ask again, does Mythal endure? Does she remain a threat?” The air buzzes, electrified, as the marks of her geas brightly manifest across her face.

     “It seems I have given all the answers I am allowed, Inquisitor,” she says softly. “I now take my leave. Kieran will be missing me.” Morrigan swiftly Fade-steps into another eluvian and this time, I cannot follow. My frustrated shouts bounce and echo off the bright-shimmering paths of the Crossroads.

(To be continued…)

[RoraM]

Author's Note: Title from the tenth canto.

 

I love how the Avvar view their gods.

[Nefi87]

So many days no new post ( *sad face*

[RoraM]

I have the title for the next chapter: Behold the Beast. Otherwise, I've got terrible writer's block. Send more music!