Fandom Dragon Age: RECLAMATION

TYPE · Jun 8, 2019

Morning prayers would be within the hour. The chimes were portent enough, and had the Divine hastening her handmaidens from their languid loitering. Their faces turned down at her chastisement, as they made their way towards throughout her room, collecting the selected and approved vestments for the day. As they returned to clothe her, her own mind strayed away from the duties for the day, lingering instead on the hidden works she had been orchestrating as of late. With each piece of gold they gilded her with, she felt the weight of what was to come press down upon her mind and spirit. Even with all the assurances she mustered together, even she could see what little hope there was to be had. She did not notice the worried looks of the women as they glanced at her small smile. It was not mischievous as it was in her youth. It was not magnanimous as it was when she took her station. It was not merciful as it was when she judged the faltered. No… her smile was something else entirely. A quiet, contemplative thing that had them both worried and relieved. It told them that she had seen much. It told them that she had a plan. It told them, that despite the lack of hope, she at least, had some left.

Well before the hour was done, Justinia had left her room, her measured steps chorused by the soft footfalls of her court. The work she did now, while important, had never intrigued her as the work she did before… Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it challenged her in other ways. Easier ways in some, while most definitely harder in others. Even now she could listen to the various reports that came in, of fallen chantries and rebelling Templars, and with half of her mind focused on other matters, still read between the lines. It was easy enough to decipher truths even Grand Chancellor Roderick could not see with the page in front of his eyes. To his mind the war seemed to be stabilizing, evening out in favour of the church. To her own, it was clear that things were turning in directly the opposite course. With each victory they suffered a defeat they could not afford. While retaking holdfasts might project strength onto Lords high and mighty, it did little to subside the fervour of religious fanatics and people suffering under them. What would a farmer care if a distant enemy to the Chantry had lost his seat? What would a Templar care if diplomacy had convinced a wayward soul? War was not just about lands and coin. Minds mattered far more. And at this point, that was what they were losing most.

As the procession finally entered the grand halls of prayer, the sounds of delicate choral music embracing her spirit and raising it on high, she turned towards the assembly, bowing her head slightly, dismissing them - before turning towards the light and music. Yes, they were losing minds. Faith had always been a fickle thing, and hers had been tested more so than most. But here and now, when she felt the Maker radiating love and peace throughout her spirit, she knew. She had faith. She knew him. His absence… for whatever reason, was not for her to question. It was not for her to judge. But she would have him know her prayers. She would have him know her need. And she would return to him his due. As the group dispersed she made her way to her favoured place to pray, settling herself, and in doing so - settling her spirit. She had done the good work. She had maintained her hope. She had cultivated faith. And now… now she would wait. She would wait and pray.

As Justinia closed her eyes, breathing deep, a hand touched her shoulder. Not bothering to open her eyes, the softest of whispers graced her ear. “They are on their way, Your Holiness. One has crossed the border from Ferelden a few days ago, a few already make their way to Val Royeaux, and have been seen about the city.” The soft touch left her shoulder, the presence gone the next moment. Justinia, silent for a few more moments, smiled once more this morning. This smile radiant as the morning sun, as he lowered her head - her soft whisper of “Thank you.” carrying over the assembled room, the chimes ringing as prayer begun.

The High Chancellor, having been lingering in the Divine’s presence as he always did, let out a snarl towards the woman. Clearly showing his lack of belief in the folly that was about to come, having cautioned against it many times in the past. “It’s pure madness, Your Holiness. These...people are nothing but outcasts and vagrants. Even if the rumours are true, why trust such a holy duty to those who do not deserve the honour?”

Justinia raised a hand to quell his objections in front of outsiders, ushering the messenger away with a gentle smile. She rose from her seat, directly facing Roderick. Not in an aggressive or even confrontational manner, but in a subtle nod to who was in charge here. “I was but an outcast once, Chancellor. We are not all so fortunate as to have led simple lives. Whatever you believe does not change my decision, for I believe in the Maker. As do you. Perhaps your perception shall change when you greet them. In the gardens of the Grand Cathedral, I think.” Her smirk returned, clearly the Chancellor perplexed by her statement, “Me? I am to be the one to welcome them?” Justinia did not answer the insubordination with a full answer, “Yes.” With that she dismissed the man, returning to her silent daily prayers.

TYPE · Jun 10, 2019

B R Y C E - C A D O C

He had not thought of the city as his home for years now. A small part of his own mind insisted this be considered a tragedy. Another, even smaller part... agreed. Here the people walked differently. They spoke confidently. Beautifully... the syllables ran over his mind like the soothing touch of a long lost lover. For a moment, he had to call his horse to a pause, the crowded thoroughfare complaining as he impeded the foot traffic. Bryce felt his eyes fall shut, as even their ire threatened to drown him in nostalgia. Prompting Champagne to move further, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, Bryce raised his cuff to his cheek, dabbing away a few stray tears her had not noticed escape, calling his breath to rest - feeling his chest rise irregularly, his heart beating as though he was about to race his brot--

Could it be that he no longer remembered his face?

Raising his eyes towards the banners, his ears to the music and his nose towards the smells of a city that now felt... foreign, Alien, he swallowed the lump forming in his throat. It had changed in no perceptible manner. It was still beautiful Val Royeaux... but he had changed too much for it to still be home.

He had missed blue. As Champagne turned off the main walkway, away from the Summer Bazaar, he could not help but compare the opulence with the hovel he lived in now. The gold and reds were bright... but the blue... Again his eyes closed, his memories returning to his bedroom as a child, filled with delicate blue walls and sheets. His home now -- it seemed so quaint. So...cheap. So-

No. He loved it. He had learned to love it. The browns. The greens. The warm fires in the small rooms. The wood. He felt his fingers twitch. Could it really be that he had not felt smoothed marble in... years? For a moment he felt like two people, his mind both disgusted with what he had lost and what he had gained. Unconsciously he reached for the mane of his golden horse. The soft, well maintained hair stuck to his suddenly sweaty palms, Champagne shaking his head, snorting loudly - warning him that he was pulling too hard. Loosening his grip somewhat, Bryce nudged his sides once more, pulling away with some speed. Suddenly, every moment spent remembering felt like a moment spent drowning. As if Bryce was slowly being eaten from the inside by - for a moment his mind stuttered as he tried to recall his name. His true name. Was it really a true name still? Could you still be what you no longer recalled? Was Morelet dead? Had he killed himself? Closing his eyes harder, he leaned forward, urging his horse to move faster, trusting the beast to keep him from running into anyone.

No longer concerned with where he was going, Bryce needed to be free. To escape. To leave. This had been a mistake. The Divine. She knew. This was a ploy. A scheme. His fath--- This was his father. He found him. He was going to get him. He was going to punish him. Get him again-- Feeling his teeth gnashing together he felt his breathing increase in speed. He needed to get out. He needed to escape. Even with his eyes closed, the bright light cast through the thin alleyways had his vision jumping between a deep red, reminding him of dried blood and bruises, and black - night. Death. Death was coming for him.

It took Bryce a moment to realize that Champagne had come to a stop. Unclasping his arms around the neck of the horse, raising his face away from the soft hairs, sitting upright and opening his eyes. The street was relatively quiet. Tall walls to the side, with gates and guards - the latter of which eyed him curiously. The symbol of the sun... the symbol of the Chantry adorned them. The entrance to the Grand Cathedral. Feeling his breathing even out, Bryce shook his head and hands, feeling cramps start to form between his fingers. He was being a fool. He was acting a child. This... whatever this was. It was more important. His father was a powerful man. Even he could not plan this. He could not afford to be so irrational. Not now.

Steadying himself in his seat, he turned Champagne towards the guards, slowly nearing - noting their concern turn to caution."Halt. State your business." Their voices boomed, as Bryce kept his eyes steady on them. Feeling about his person, he raised the letter, no longer sealed - the stamp still intact. "I am here on behest Her Supreme Holiness, on business relating to the faith. I insist on unmolested passage. I know the way." His voice, stern - regal even, betrayed nothing of his earlier angst. The two of them studied the letter, unable to deny the words compelling their acquiescence. Nodding, he moved past the gate. Not caring to move through the vast structure ahead of him, he turned along the interior walls, making his way towards the expansive gardens that lay beyond. Being sure keep his shoulders square and his chin up, he called upon a truth he had learned before he could hold a sword. Act as if you are allowed, and few few will question you.

The gardens were beautiful. He recalled the drawings, but he never saw them as a child. The pavilions set sparsely between the rows of green - gilded in turn with all manner of rare and mundane flower, stood out to him. The Western Pavilion, to his own mind - meant he was to move west till he saw no more of them. Staying on Champagne, he made quick work of what felt like miles upon miles of garden path, finally reaching an impressive metal and glass structure. Seeing none yet there, he got off Champagne, allowing him to wander off and feast on some flowers, as he sat down on one of the low benches.

A shiver ran up his spine as he felt the smooth stone beneath his fingers. Feeling his breathing increase in pace once more, he let his head fall forward into his hands, doubling over in his seated position, keeping himself from screaming out in frustration. He needed to get out of Orlais.

Epiphany · Jun 11, 2019

M O I R E - S E H A R I

"Aren't you up yet?"

Moire's eyes fluttered open as she felt a smooth, gentle palm settle on her belly. Tilting her sleepy gaze downwards, she smiled up at the shemlen woman standing near the foot of their oversized bed. The Duchess Nicole de Val Montaigne was already dressed for the day, wearing some elaborate Orlesian monstrosity of a dress with a bodice and a coat and skirts and boots and other pieces of apparel that probably had names Moire couldn't for the life of her remember. When she first came to Val Royeaux, she'd lacked all perspective on how unlikely this relationship would be, thinking of only the problems of a Dalish taking up with a shemlen. But moments like this, a dress like that, reminded her of how far across the gulf between social stations was.

And yet Nicole smiled at her. That special smile that warmed her all the way to her toes. Yawning, Moire stretched like a cat underneath her lover's touch before sitting up. "Oh my, did I miss an occasion?" she asked, sliding off the mattress onto her feet. Nicole yielded a single step to let the elf rise before opening her arms as Moire snuggled her way into the Duchess' embrace. Craning her neck up to look at the much taller woman, Moire peered at Nicole. "Oh nevermind, that's right. You have that meeting with the Orlesian Society for the Protection of Historic Architecture to attend."

"And you have a meeting of your own, my Kitty." Nicole planted a gentle kiss on her forehead before stepping back, gesturing to the dresser that held all of Moire's clothes. "A rather important meeting. Rather more important than mine, in fact."

"That's right, of course. The Divine. She's your Keeper of Keepers. What do you imagine she wants with me, anyway? I'm not an Andrastian. I'm Dalish. Why would the Divine want a meeting with me?"

Nicole simply sighed and gestured to the letter that lay still unfolded on top of the nightstand by Moire's side of the bed. "You have all the same information I do, love."

"Oh." Shifting nervously, Moire shed her nightgown and began pulling out her clothes for the day, smiling slightly to herself at the Duchess' audible intake of breath. So nice to get the occasional reminder that this relationship wasn't completely one-sided. "But how does she know me? I've hardly ever set foot inside the Chantry. And it's not like we've bumped into each other." Moire frowned. "I don't think we bumped into each other. What if we bumped into each other and I didn't recognize her? Does she have a big hat so I can tell if she's the Divine? Is that illegal in Val Royeaux? Bumping Divines, I mean, not big hats. ...wait, are big hats illegal-"

"Kitty, I have no doubt whatsoever that the Divine has asked for you because of your special talents," Nicole said in an amused, endlessly patient voice. For reasons Moire couldn't understand, the Duchess found her occasional rambling 'cute'. "You've been so good to indulge me on my requests, after all. Some of those requests were on behalf of...shall we say, certain parties related to the Chantry. It's not at all surprising to me that the Divine's sources informed her of the availability of a certain elven apostate living in Val Royeaux."

"Right. That makes sense." Moire paused, halfway into the undershirt she'd wear beneath her Dalish armor. "Except the part where being an apostate is illegal too. Why haven't Templars come for me by now?"

"Rank has its privileges, my dear," Nicole smirked. "As long as any transgressions are discreet, are of a nature that can be covered up, dismissed or explained away. And you've been so very good at that, mon beau petit chatte." She affectionately scratched Moire along the back of her neck, the way the Duchess was prone to do when her elven lover reclined on her in housecat form. The affection was equally welcome in either form.

Tugging her boots on, Moire sighed as the Duchess gave her one last parting kiss before sauntering out of their bedchambers. Nicole had a busy life, given she was a widow who'd managed to retain the management of the joint estates from her family and her husband. It left Moire with a lot of time on her hands, time that was often flitted away on frivolous pursuits. And the occasional exciting assignment. But this? A million people, maybe more, looked to this Divine as their Keeper. The Templars themselves had answered to her, though at least the schism in the ranks meant there was little danger of being intercepted on behalf of the Chantry now.

Moire inspected herself in the mirror, checking that her Dalish armor was properly buckled up. Then she fetched up her bladed staff, Tanaleth's Finger and holstered it across her back. While she still had her travel bag ready to go, it seemed a bit ridiculous to turn up with it at a meeting with the Divine. It's not like she was riding in from out of town or something. Though, she supposed, it wouldn't have mattered much to transport. If she walked to this meeting, she'd doubtlessly be stopped in the streets and escorted to an Alienage, dressed like a Dalish and especially bearing a Mage Staff, even if it looked like a spear. Perhaps especially because it looked like a spear.

Thankfully, she avoided that whole fuss by simply stepping to their bedroom window and vanishing in a flash of golden light. A second later, a hawk winged her way from the mansion and across town. She stayed enough to the buildings to hopefully avoid too much notice. A few times, someone had thought it great sport to shoot arrows at her when she'd flown up higher. This way should minimize the danger of that, at least.

Arriving at the Divine's palace, the hawk's beak was insufficient to smile but she felt like smiling. She was more familiar with them than any elf who wasn't a gardener should be, largely because she enjoyed sneaking into places she wasn't allowed to go to. Over the past several years, she'd visited several times. And still, the city amazed her. That marvelous city and the gardens and the palace itself. It wasn't exactly built to suit Dalish architectural sensibilities but sometimes she thought she saw traces of what elven cities had once been like. If it was hard to see in the midst of shemlen preferences, it was impossible to see among her own people. They might talk of restoring their culture someday but their utter lack of a plan was just-

No, she was here to see what the Divine wanted. No need to depress herself with old, bitter thoughts of her people.

Circling the Great Cathedral, the hawk spied a man on a horse seeking entry. Business with her Supreme Holiness was it? Similar business perhaps? Perfect opportunity. She was pleased to note he steered his horse, not into the building but around it. Going towards the gardens then, wonderful. She soared lazily over the expansive estate filled with rare flowers, immaculately pruned bushes and enough elven servants to fill a well. And she knew someone, somewhere had tried.

The hawk was disappointed with herself. Despite her best effort, a bleak mood had stolen over her anyway. On the other hand, it didn't seem that this visitor to the gardens was in much better spirits. He looked like he needed some company. So she descended as he rested his face in his hands.

And a moment later, Bryce's despair was interrupted by the incessant headbutting of a cat determined to show the man some love.

Archon · Jun 11, 2019

Liona Eremon

"Is that so?" Liona asked quizzically, leaning lazily against the grandiose pillar that ascended one of the many balconies scattered throughout Orlais' most cherished piece of art - Val Royeaux. "Quite so, Madame." Leon De Cruz, an influential and prideful merchant on the breach of nobility, answered in a thick orlesian accent. "The Templars have been gone for weeks, most of the local nobility have hired entire retinues of armed guards - tensions are high, the people are afraid, you know how it is." He turned his nose up at the thought, Liona cocked her eyes to the side and fixed him with a curious gaze. "You don't approve?" She asked, arms folded. "Bah!" The merchant threw his hands up indignantly, "These pampered princelings have relied on the Divine's protection for so long they've forgotten how to survive. This is what the Game does to people, what good is politics if you've no steel, no passion to fix your own problems?"

"Well said," Liona complimented with a nod, clearly in agreement with the Orlesian; it was little surprise they'd found each other, two passionate flames shining amongst a pack of frightened hyenas entombed by a crystallized web of untold beauty. Artificial. A lie. The essence of The Game. "Tell me, do the Free Marches any better?" He asked, catching her thoughts off-guard. Liona considered her answer a moment, shifting off the towering pillar and facing the man squarely. "It varies, the people are afraid, yes. But the Free Marchers are a tough lot - some more than others - similarly to Fereldens, I suppose..." Her face darkened slightly, "But Kirkwall and Tantervale are suffering the most; the schism with the Chantry and the Templar garrisons in those Cities threaten to boil over into even more violence. Many respect the Templar Order, even more fear them. But they no longer stand with the Faith, vigilantes and zealots are forming their own militarized holy order, Swords of the Divine, I believe."

"I see..." Leon stroked his clean tan beard, "And elsewhere?" He continued, "The schism affects everywhere else at a gentler measure, but Markham and Ostwick are particularly resilient to the widespread panic. Both Cities have rejected Templar and Chantry influence since Knight-Commander Meredith seized power in Kirkwall, like most minor Cities in the Marches." Liona stated, continuing after a moment's silence. "Ostwick is famous for it's mighty walls and veteran militia; their city was forged in the fires of war, it's very purpose was to crush the Qunari invasions of old. Of all the Marchers, they're undoubtedly the proudest and sturdiest." She paused once more, smiling slightly at Leon's captivation of the topic, a topic of the political climate of somewhere outside Orlais - It was very... unorlesian of an orlesian, admirably so.

"My people aren't as proud or secure as Ostwick, but they have something better - enlightenment." Leon raised an eyebrow, willing her to expand. "Markham is famous for its University, the City has an immeasurably high number of scholars, philosophers and other learned individuals. Whilst nobility is seen as the highest status everywhere else in Thedas - bar the Qun - Markham cherishes an educated man or woman just as much. The people have others to look up to, those disconnected from the faith instead turn to the philosophers, who provide guidance. There's nothing a philosopher loves more than a good audience, and there's nothing the faithful love more than being provided with answers and meaning. I daresay the schism has had an almost positive impact on Markham."

"Fascinating, absolutely fascinating!" Leon beamed, almost bouncing on his ankles. "Ah, but I digress - today is your glorious day, is it not?" He inquired, the bustling of the marketplace now beginning to pick up, as midday approached so too did the mighty hordes of Val Royeaux's finest hagglers. She noted this coincidence with his change of the topic, he was a smart man, he'd want to end the conversation for business. "My Divine summon - it is. I do hope they'll ascend me to Godhood." Liona joked with a sarcastic shrug, earning a satisfied clap from Leon. "I expect you'd be a fare God, Madame - Alas, I sense your time in Vol Royeaux is at an end. Come, should you ever find yourself in the area know that you'll always be welcome at my shop, discount included, of course." Leon bowed a perfect bow, his mastery of The Game bleeding through his persona enough for her to see - even if for but a moment. "Naturally," She replied with a smile, "Goodbye Leon, next time I see you you'll surely be lording nobility's will over your new House servants." With that, she bid the man farewell with a similarly eloquent bow - not a courtesy - and set off for the Gardens, the birthplace of what she hoped to be her destiny. She was a cynic, and believed little for Godhood or the Maker, but that didn't mean she didn't find the thought - the idea - of destiny comforting.
_____________________________________________________________________

Liona's brisk trot to the heart of Val Royeaux was slow and measured, a lack of desire to rush, a reflection of her inert personality. As it stood, she'd arrived in Val Royeaux just short of five days ago, her adventurous nature willed her to explore the grandiose City itself. it seemed prudent to make the journey at once when she'd received that Divine Seal, the decision inevitably paid off as she'd not only accomplished her task of exploration, but she'd ingrained herself with a local merchant and nobility-to-be, one of high reputability and worthy of respect. A good contact to have. She'd need to write to Arnet tonight, informing him of Leon and regaling him with tales of the Orlesian holding. The latter was more for her, but Arnet could now secure a discounted trade agreement with Leon's enterprise, it was a small thing - but it brought her joy to help the man she owed everything to.

Even now, within the twirling mounds of flowers, she couldn't help but be overcome with a brief childish excitement and a desire to tell her guardian - no, her father - all about the magnificence of the Gardens. They held an aura of serenity almost inexplicable to reality, pruned to perfection and stretched out across an immense space of unbridled beauty - the rolling field of green reflecting majestically off of the looming intensity of the Grand Cathedral, reaching for the heavens in a dominant display of dazzling white-gold. Markham itself was a place of great beauty, and the University was immensely impressive; but it was no Grand Cathedral, designed to be the pinnacle of eye-capturing resplendence, the all-mighty seat of the Chantry's power, Markham's University, one of the most brilliant buildings in Thedas, was turned comparatively into a muddy hovel.

Braddington · Jun 13, 2019

Alariel Varas

Val Royeaux. The pinnacle of human society. It made Denerim seem like a pig sty in comparison. Nothing could compare to the bright streets full of a seemingly endless abundance of shimmering gold, or the statues the size of Ferleden houses representing Lions and Prophets alongside one and other. An heretical statement only the Orlesians could get away with. Who could live here? What kind of person did you have to be to walk these streets every day? Rich, was the obvious one, but there must have been so much more. Every man and woman who waltzed through Holy avenues wore a mask that hid so much more than simple coin. No doubt some had killed for the opportunity to have such a view in the mornings. The intrigues, the backstabbing, the utter ruthlessness that hid at the heart of this city was almost hard to believe. How could a place that looks so pure be so diametrically opposed to that same vision?

It was a question that had perplexed him for years. Long before seeing the magnificent city. It was the question he asked of every Lord of any land that prayed to the Maker in the morn only to ignore the vows he made over dinner. Of every merchant who confessed to the Mothers only to bankrupt a family the next day. A question with no answers. A question even the Templar Order, guardians of the Faith, could provide no clarity on. He suspected that whatever the Divine had planned for him would only bring more of such questions. Religion had a way of confusing him. Especially one so universal, yet so utterly fragile. What did the Maker want of him so badly that he would allow the very Chantry itself to rend itself asunder? Was he heretical in thinking he even had a purpose? So many questions. So few answers. Perhaps it was best to just enjoy the sights. Pondering them was so much harder.

Alariel made his way down the streets of white, bow strapped to his back and tattoos on full display. Every step elicited a gasp from passing citizens, shocked by the sight of a Dalish walking through their city so brazenly. He just smiled at them. He wasn't stupid, he knew exactly what they were thinking, it’s exactly the same attitude he had lived with throughout his life. He didn't mind. He wouldn't hide, but what was the point of challenging them? It was best to treat them as people. Afraid of the unknown. An irony for Orlesians, to be sure, but the truth nonetheless. There was no point in extremes. Normal people weren't extreme. Treat the situation like it needs a drastic response and all you receive in turn is another drastic response. Denerim’s Alienage had learnt that lesson more than most.

It didn’t take long to find the place he was looking for, the spires shooting high in the sky, an unmissable sight even in a city as grand as this. Perhaps that was how the Cathedral got its name. It would be appropriate for such a building. The word building itself being somehow inadequate to describe it. Funny that such a place housed a woman who’s power now equated to an old grandmother prodding her offspring with a nagging finger. An annoyance more than a representation of the Thedas’ creator. He had no opinion on the woman herself, but he did on the Chantry. It was an organisation built on rot, of desecration and destruction. The Darkspawn of institutions. A harsh point of view, but one he had picked up from years of seeing rich men and women ignoring the plight of the needy in favour of their Grand Cathedrals and crowns. Maybe the situation would change them. Maybe he was meant to be that change.

“Halt! No elves are allowed to have weapons. You can enter the Cathedral, but the bow stays behind. I would count those ears as knives but you can hardly remove them yourself, can you?”

The guard was bulky, not Orlesians in appearance, rough and scarred. Maybe even a Chasind. It mattered not. Alariel produced his letter, the seal of the Divine plain to see.

“I have business with the Divine. I’d appreciate it if I could get past, please. I don’t want to have to do this routine, not today of all days.”

He stared the man down, intent that this would not be a thing. This game would not be one they played in that moment. He’d had enough of it for a day.

The guard gave a gruff snort, nodding his head and stepping to the side. It was obvious he considered saying something, but backed down for reasons unknown. Alariel moved past him, quickly, not wishing to linger, making his way towards the gardens where he had been directed to go. The flowers were in full bloom, and many seemed to be enjoying them, chatting and praying. It was oddly relaxed. No one regarded him, insulted him, gasped as if they had choked on their pigeon pie. They smiled. They nodded. Did they know why he was here? Surely not. Were they being simply kind? That would be a first.

His mind distracted by the people, the roses and the spires he had not taken the time to mind where he was going, at increasingly faster speeds. Inevitably he crashed into someone, a woman. He quickly reached down, trying to give her a hand to stand up again.

“I am terribly sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going, this place has that effect. Again, I am sorry, please take my hand.”

Archon

Keidivh · Jun 16, 2019

Varnir Sa'fen

For sometime, a single man stood outside of the Sun Gates of Val Royeaux, his hooded figure observing the monolithic metropolis before him. While he did not have the same trepidation as most Dalish did, he couldn't help but be overwhelmed. Even outside of its walls the sound was near deafening, a million conversations assailing his ears. A myriad of scents, ranging from herbs and spices to arduous perfumes overwhelmed his sense of smell, leaving a faint feeling of nausea within him. It was glorious to behold in its own way, a bastion of culture and beauty unlike any other in Thedas. Yet it was all simply too much. It was too perfect, too marvelous. It's splendor felt forced, a facade of light to cover up the darkness that lie within. Much like it's own people, who seemed more comfortable hiding behind masks than showing their own faces. Much like Arlathan, it was all to grand to not eventually fall in a spectacular fashion.

Revas stirred beneath him, clearly unhappy with being still for so long. Stroking the aged Halla's neck, Varnir slid off him before offering an apple to him from his satchel. "You are right my friend, I have delayed myself long enough. Gods knows father would not approve of such a dalliance. Then again he didn't necessarily approve of me attending this gathering, yet here I am. Mihsa was always the more compliant of the three of us. Heh, the poor thing wouldn't last a minute in this place." The Halla simply gave him an exasperated glance, as if to say, 'You're dallying still.' The rough looking man couldn't help but laugh, partially amazed at how intelligent these creatures were. "Fine, I'm leaving you ass. I don't suppose you'll accompany me into this gilded hell?" His answer came in the form of his travelling companion simply trotting away towards the wilds, waiting for Varnir to return. Shaking his head, Varnir began making his way into the city to see what it was this Divine needed of him. Truly she must be desperate if she required help from the likes of him.

His entrance into the vaunted realm of Val Royeaux went quite smoothly to begin with. Even with him arriving on a Halla of all creatures he attracted relatively little attention upon his arrival, the sheer number of travelers allowing him to blend in with ease. As he moved further into the city, the noise and chatter around him only increased in volume. Truly it seemed as if there was some kind of unending celebration occurring. Were one to pay attention however, they would sense the tension that lay just beneath the jovial spirit the city exuded. Guards were at near every street corner, just as many folk spoke in concerned whispers as friendly banter. Even here, in the heart of human power fear resided. The ties that binded their world together were quickly unraveling, and none seemed to know what to do. The Chantry sat helpless as it's Templars abandoned them, shackled magi rose up around the world, many becoming the monsters so many had feared. Part of Varnir wondered if this was simply the natural order of things. Arlathan, Tevinter, these were both mighty empires that even the greatest of nations of the present couldn't hope to be even their equal. If those mighty nations of legend couldn't stand the test of time, how could they hope to endure.

Yet endure we must. As he pondered this issue, the Dalish man slowly wandered deeper into Val Royeaux, though the Grand Cathedral wasn't his first destination. With each he step he took, the splendor of Val Royeaux seemed to fade away, as the houses began to become more plain, and then impoverished. Soon he was entering a section of the city that was completely walled off from the rest. The Alienage. It was always an uncomfortable experience, wandering into these ghettos. On one hand he connected deeply with their plight. Where most Dalish looked down at them with contempt, Varnir looked upon them with empathy. He knew what it was to be unwanted in your own home. To be hated. But any help he wished to offer was quite often spurned, for what Elf would trust some Shem dressed like a Dale? If anything it seemed an insult to what little heritage they had left. Regardless, he made it a custom to visit any Alienage he came across, if only to attempt to make a connection to his people.

His arrival was met with many wary gazes, as was usual for any stranger that entered. These gazes turned into murmurs of discontent as the newcomer dared to approach the Vhenadahl itself, causing the usually timid folk to approach. Varnir largely ignored them, instead focusing on the beautiful gift of nature that was before him. Thankfully unlike other cities, Val Royeaux still had its Tree of the People. They were becoming a painfully rare sight indeed these days. Taking off his glove, he rested a weathered hand against the bark of the tree, and for a few serene moments it was if he was no longer in the cramped, noisy realm of men. Rather he was home, deep in the wilds of the Free Marches. Receiving teachings from his father in the ways of the Elvhen and the Fade. Hearing stories from his mother as the clan sat around a roaring bonfire beneath the shining stars of the Heavens. He could hear the lyrical laughter of his sisters as they played in the woods and streams near the aravels of their camp. Though it was only for a few scant seconds, it did much to set his soul at ease, and allowed him to connect with his people though he was far removed from them.

"Mythal, preserve me. Elgar'nan, give me strength. Falon'Din, calm my soul. Dirthamen, uncloud my eyes. Ghilan'nain, speed my steps. Andruil, aim me true. Sylaise, guide me home. Fen'harel, return to me." It was but a simple prayer, but he would need the favor of the gods in the trials to come, and it seemed the Vehandahl was about the best place to implore for it. There always remained a lingering doubt in the back of his mind when he offered his prayers to the gods however, for though he was a fully fledged member of his tribe, he would never truly be one of the Elvhen. Were it not for the respect his father commanded among the Dalish, he would have been tossed away decades ago.

Stepping away from the tree, he turned about, unsurprised to see many in the Alienage gathered about, though only one dared to get close. An aged man by the looks of it, his hair white and thin, a wrinkled face that had long been burdened with worries. "It's unwise for you to be here Shem. My people don't take kindly to humans traipsing about our home, and yet you'd go so far as to lay hands on our Vehandahl. I know you have no respect for my people, but I would have thought you'd have valued your own life." It was rare indeed for Alienage Elves to make such blatant threats towards a human, as any report of such an incident would be met with brutal force. Meaning this threat was by no means idle.

Placing his fist over his heart, Varnir offered a small bow of deference. "Atisha Hahren, I mean no disrespect to your Alienage. I am Varnir Sa'fen, First of the Harel'Mis Clan. I simply came to bring greetings from your Dalish kin."

As was usual with such visits, Varnir was met with a myriad of incredulous looks, something the man came to find amusing. He had made a bit of a game out of it by this point, looking for the most comically confused or outraged face in the crowd. This times winner belonged to a young fiery looking lad who looked as if he were about to attack him were he not paralyzed by confusion. His attention quickly returned back to the Hahren who was by no means amused. "What trickery is this, first you lay hands on the Tree of the People, now you claim to be a member of the Dalish!? I will suffer only so many insults Shemlen."

A few of the men and women began to approach Varnir, looking to take out whatever frustrations they had with humanity on him. Not looking to shed the blood of his people, Varnir simply pulled the Amulet of the First out from beneath his chest piece, holding it aloft for all to see. Many stopped in their tracks, or were made to stop by those wise enough to know what the symbol meant. Even the Hahren was taken aback, the fire in his eyes finally dying down. "A human is a First to a Dalish Clan?" A despondent laugh erupted from the aged Hahren, unable to form any other response to the strange situation before him. "Its seems the Dread Wolf has unleashed the Forgotten Ones to end us once and for all, I can think of no other way for such an event to occur."

"Trust me friend, I am as taken aback by it as you are. And it does seem we are in the end of days with the world unraveling at every seam. That is why I have come here, to ask the Creators for their blessing one last time before I embark on my journey to set things right. Or at least as right as they ever can be." The aggressive attitude of the Elves seemed to die for the most part, unwilling to attack one who held a symbol of the First. Though far from friendly, he wouldn't be chased out by a pogrom today. To be fair, there's still more than enough daylight for that to remain a possibility.

The Hahren simply stared at the anomaly before him for a time, trying to wrap his mind about what he was seeing. Eventually a small wave of his hand signaled his people to disperse, not wanting to attract any attention the the guards that occasionally passed through. "I will admit Sheml... Stranger, I do not know what to make of you. If you have come to offer prayers to the Creators, I suppose I cannot stop you, but is that truly the only reason you came?"

Scratching at his beard a moment, Varnir searched for the answer to this question. "I suppose I come here because in a way it's the only place that I truly feel normal in. I may be First of my clan, but I am by no means fully accepted by them. I am unwanted, unwelcome in my own home. It is much the same here is it not?" The Hahren's expression did not change as he listened, but did offer a nod in agreement.

"I come to these places to try and spread hope. That despite others hatred of our existence we can endure. And perhaps one day, we will find a true home of our own. It uh, well it rarely works. But I hope a few of the seeds I spread take root, and spread into something more. I came here Hahren because I'm a damnable fool with unattainable dreams." The admission surprised even Varnir as he said it, letting out a resigned sigh as he acknowledged the truth of the words. Never before had his journeys to an Alienage brought anything other than anger and confusion. Any effort he made to better the world around him only seemed to make things worse. Was that why he had left his tribe?

Still, this seemed to elicit a smile from the aged elf before him. Perhaps appreciating the honesty Varnir exhibited, or amused by the mans realization of his futile exploits. "Heh, well stranger, freak of nature though you may be, your efforts appear genuine. I can't say if they will amount to anything, but my heart is warmed by the display. Return here if you like Varnir Sa'fen, you shan't be turned away here. May the Creators guide your steps."

While not an event of any note, this was perhaps the first time that Varnir had been offered hospitality in an Alienage. Humbled, Varnir gave another deep bow of gratitude. "I am grateful for your hospitality Hahren. Though I doubt I shall be here long enough to take up the offer, it encourages me greatly." The strange meeting concluded there, with the two men offering their farewells, Varnir leaving in relatively higher spirits than before. Perhaps his dreams weren't as unattainable as he had imagined, varied as his dreams were. Improbable rather than impossible. I could deal with those odds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With nothing else to sidetrack him, Varnir made quick progress through the city to the Grand Cathedral. The closer he got to the colossus, the more anxiety settled within his heart. He hadn't entered a Chantry since his days as an Orrick, faded memories at best. It was home to the god that rejected him, that would have seen him butchered in a nameless field by men that had known him his whole life. It left a strong taste of disgust on his tongue, and a desire to never enter one of those building again. In truth, Varnir didn't overly care about the trouble the Chantry found itself in. If it wasn't for the fact that his own people would suffer, he would be glad to see it unravel fully, and watch as his fellow humans struggle in the ashes of their folly. It said much about him that he had such thoughts, and none of it he liked. There was enough hate in the world without him adding to it, and yet he couldn't find the will to extinguish it fully.

The time to ponder was over as he was quite suddenly flanked on all sides by guardsmen, by no means amused that some savage looking figure was approaching the seat of their divine armed with a massive swordstaff. "State your business knife ear, we don't take kindly to folk that approach this holy site, especially when they are armed." Varnir glanced at them all from beneath his hood, he didn't need them asking any more questions than were necessary. "Ah, you Andrastians are as welcoming as always. Truly your Maker must be proud. But I digress, I have been summoned by your Divine. Let me pass, or I shall leave you to deal with her ire." A letter bearing the seal of the Divine herself was handed of to the most authoritative of the bunch. While clearly unhappy with letting a heathen 'elf' into these holy grounds, he grunted his acknowledgment and moved for his men to stand aside.

Stepping past them, Varnir began making this way through the Grand Cathedral, it's extravagant design doing little to impress him. What use did this Maker have for such gaudy, luxurious structures? Picking up his pace, he was grateful to eventually enter the gardens. It was an admittedly beautiful area, no where near as lavish as the cathedral itself. His attention however didn't remain on the scenery, instead taking note of the company he found himself in. An elf surprisingly, standing over a human woman he had apparently bowled over. A human man, overwhelmed by some internal pain, practically doubled over. Perhaps most interestingly was the cat that nudged at him, appearing to try and comfort the strained man. It wasn't often you found a creature that wreaked of the Fade in such a way.

Pulling down his hood, Varnir planted his staff in the soil. "Well then, I either stumbled upon one of the strangest gardening clubs I've ever seen, or you're all here to meet this Divine. Course I don't know of many gardening clubs that have a shapeshifter as a member."

TYPE · Jun 17, 2019

B R Y C E - C A D O C

Bryce felt the sudden bumping against his side, shocking him out of his reverie for a moment, turning his gaze to the cat. The thing for a moment had him frowning, as he stared at it. For the last few years he had been in hound country. Very few people humored cats in their homes, and at best they were seen as pest control. His mother had liked them however. And his sister. He reached out, gently placing a hand against the head of the thing, pressing down somewhat, enjoying the silken fur gliding over his palm, tickling the skin of his wrist. While his hand hung there in the air, unmoving, he felt a small smile grow along his lips as the cat pressed its head against him, clearly whoring itself out for attention. Still bent over on the bench, his head turned towards the cat, one arm around his waist, keeping himself calm, the the other petting the cat, he was sufficiently distracted to not notice the approach of first guest - the regal woman - her red robes bright against the greens and golds of the gardens. He also missed the elf following her, and the human which followed him.

What did catch his attention however, was the commotion of the archer bumping into the woman, his soft tones asking her pardon and extending a hand. His hand still scratching the cat unconsciously, he tried to smile at the group approaching him. Even without a mirror he could feel himself failing, the smile not reaching his eyes. Slowly getting up, keeping the cat in his arms, scratching along its back, he walked over. "Greetings to you lot. I will admit that I am relieved at your presence. For a moment I suspected artifice of some sort. Perhaps even some ill intent or a crafty assassin." He looked away from the group, taking in the beautiful flowers, every breath tinted with the warm and earthy smells of roses and other wildflowers. "Not that this would have been the worst place to die." He pulled the cat closer unconsciously. "My mother would have me flayed at my manners. Allow me to introduce myself." He cleared his throat, nodding at them all in turn. "My name is Bryce. Bryce Cadoc. Charmed to make your acquaintance. I assume you are all her at the behest of the Most Holy?"

He had to agree with the man who had spoken last. They seemed quite the eccentric group. He looked around. "A shapeshifter? In the gardens?" He looked to the bench. "I hope it was not you good Ser." He laughed, a bit of humor returning to him. "Unless I am mistaken and the shapeshifter is among you?" He pointed to the group with his chin, keeping his tone light. He could not be sure of who these people were. The human woman seemed competent enough, and she carried herself with stature. The elf clearly had seen combat before. A lot of it. Survived a lot as well, considering the face. And the mage... He... there was something there. Were those elven robes? He knew each of them would be rather interesting. Did they all have secrets like him? Were they here of their free will? Were they just as afraid as he was? His eyes stayed on them, keeping the cat close, his hands trembling faintly despite himself.

Archon · Jun 17, 2019

Liona Eremon

The overwhelming serenity that accompanied a Palace forged by Godhood was rivaled only by the unbridled terror felt when that serenity turned to falling, Liona's peace was interrupted in a violent collision - more akin to a pointy eared battering ram - that sent her majestic noble-bearing posture into a thoroughly confused mess of indignity sprawled out on the concrete pathways. Her blood boiled with a brief fury of indignity and she affixed the elf with a searing glare fit to boil through flesh and bone; but her impulsive nature was always an aspect of her character, not the forefront. she caught her temper in a gilded cage of elegance, a brief sigh of resignation signalling her mood. "I'd be cross, but you can really appreciate the gardens from down here." She spoke with a soft grin, taking the elf's hand into her pale fingers, she hefted her 'spear' onto the ground with her other, a tact combination of the elf's pull and the weapon's support allowed her to find solid ground once more.

The elf responsible for her tumble was lithe and pale; his sun-kissed hair blazed red in glistening light, only accentuated the deep red scars matted across his face. Liona's eyes twitched sympathetically, until her focus was robbed by the eager greeting of a nearby voice - Fereldan, she surmised. "Ah," Liona exclaimed in surprise, "Liona Eremon, not-an-assassin. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." She bowed her head with expert propriety His attire was pleasing and keen on the eye, an expensive amalgamation of deep blue, fashioned with an abundance of combat ready belts. She assumed him to be a Knight. The glittering silver rapier at his side gave credence to her theory, his attitude and manner was befit of one noble born. A duelist? She had never heard of the orlesian practice being overly common among the Bannorn Lords, but she was no political expert on the inner-workings of Fereldan's aristocracy. It'd been a very long time.

As if orchestrated by forces beyond mortality, a seemingly fourth member of their small Inquisition appeared, his large figure adorned in a conflicting elegance of Dalish pride. His weapon was fashioned into an elongated blade, but she'd been regaled of many-a bedtime story, Arnet often spoke of the fabled ancients, from Arlathan to Par Vollen, elven mages were known to wade forth into battle sporting great blades as Arcane Warriors. though the practice was dead, she was hardly surprised to see an emulator of a fabled forgotten art. She was, however, thoroughly aghast at his lack of pointed ears and prominent bear-like beard. A human, emulating ancient elves, wrapped in the robes of a dalish mage. This was undoubtedly the strangest thing she'd seen in years.

Liona's eyes bore in on the man in an uncomfortable accusation, her stare unlocking the secrets of his soul. Her fascination and wariness were tempered in equal measure. When the mage made statement of a shapeshifter among them, Liona's gaze methodicaly moved to the cat bristling itself against the Knight - unassuming, basic, what knowledge did she have of shapeshifting? She'd read stories of the Chasind, the Witches of the Wilds, but that didn't attune one to the Fade. A dalish mage however, they would know of such things.

"I believe you've already been introduced." Liona beamed, nodding to the cat, an enlightened smirk crossing her face as she eagerly spied for the ensuing outbreak of confusion.

Epiphany · Jun 19, 2019

M O I R E - S E H A R I

Distracted by some truly lovely petting, Moire barely registered an elf turning up just in time to knock down a human woman. Instead, the tabby cat just rubbed and rubbed against Bryce's leg, reaching for every last bit of skritching she could get. If all cats whored for attention, Moire was as shameless as any of her apparent kind. When Bryce opted to just take her with him, she bonelessly relaxed into his arms and let herself be carried. She absently made note of Bryce's name when he introduced himself but didn't start really paying attention until a sentence later, when he mentioned the Divine.

So, she wasn't the only one to have been requested.

Now actually awake, the cat peers out of half-lidded cat eyes at the others and makes note of their names. The arrival of a hooded Dalish results in her yawning and rolling over in Bryce's arm. Dalish. Ugh. While she bore no ill will for her people, neither had she ended up missing them much at all these past years away. And the sight of their robes brought with it a surge of constriction, the memory of rules and stern looks and a dour sobriety to match the dwarves themselves.

And then the Dalish revealed himself as a...what, a shemlen? Wearing Dalish robes, bearing a Dalish weapon? Then to top it off, the man had to go and call her out.

With a flash of golden light, Bryce suddenly found his arms full of a lithe bundle of elven woman. Moire's arms draped around his neck for added support and her legs dangled off as she lay in his embrace, looking like the damsel he'd just rescued. Golden eyes blinked up at him and she flashed a slow, lazy smile. "You can call me Moire. Although I wouldn't mind a 'Kitty' now and then."

"As for you," Moire said, turning her head to glare at the shemlen in Dalish robes. "Masal din'an. You wear the robes of the Elvhen, which I can't imagine does you any favors. And then you had to go and interrupt the most delightful pets I've had this week by...how did you know what I was, anyway? What are you?" Moire peered at Varnir. "...you're not an abomination of some kind, are you?"

Keidivh · Jun 27, 2019

Varnir Sa'fen

As the group slowly convened to make their introductions, Varnir took the moment to look over them all more closely, having been distracted by the presence of a Shapeshifter upon his initial arrival. Truly it was an incredible find, being rare even among the Dalish, a people so attuned to the magic of the wilds. Were it not for the intensive training of his father, he likely never would have noticed. Pulling a well used rose-wood pipe, sprinkling some razor-weed into it before setting it alight with the flick of his finger. Taking a deep drag of the earthy herb, his hazel eyes wandered over the assembly once more. Truly it was one of the most varied gatherings he had ever seen. All's they needed was a Dwarf, perhaps a Qunari, then they'd have quite the party on their hands.

His attention first fell upon the duo that had been enjoying the comfort of the stone path winding through the garden. The woman reeked of nobility, from the way she dressed with her elegant crimson robes, down to the precise and dignified way that she moved. It was for this reason that expected her to scream and scold the young Elf that had sent her sprawling to the ground. The occurrence was so typical it was nearly cliche at this point. And yet his expectations were dashed completely as she met his meek apology with a gentle grin and jesting remark. Though his expression betrayed nothing of what his thoughts were, he was admittedly surprised. Most humans wouldn't pass up the chance to kick an Elf when the opportunity was presented. Few could resist the temptation of exerting power over another. Yet not only had she resisted it, but he detected something truly unexpected in her violet eyes. Empathy? Or was it simply pity. Either way, it was more than he could have hoped for. When her eyes landed upon him though, they conveyed a message he was quite familiar with. One of curiosity and confusion. Not the worst of reactions, though by no means welcoming.

Then there was the boy, a fiery haired lad, though his spirit seemed to lack the same gusto. Simply by the way he reacted to his knocking her over, he could tell he was a flat ear. Hmph, and if he's a flat ear, what would that make me? His scars spoke volumes of the suffering he had endured. Though if he was summoned to this place like the rest, there must have been something more to the young lad than only that. There must have been strength within. He looked forward to seeing it.

A strong voice turned his gaze away from the duo, and on to another pair. The seemingly forlorn man had painted a convincing smile on his face to greet them all, something Varnir had grown familiar with over the years. His voice was smooth and engaging, a complete and utter gentleman in every regard by the looks of it. Had he remained a prince of Tantervale, would he had been similar? The closer he looked at him however, the more of an enigma the man became. He was no Free Marcher, that was clear, lacking their... Forceful, proud nature. Neither was he Orlesian, the overwhelming accent lacking. Fereldan perhaps? Aye, that's what seemed to be the case. The lords of the Bannorn were a varied lot as he recalled, and he had no doubt this Bryce fellow would fit right in amongst them. Picking up on man-elf's joke, Varnir gave a small smile as he chewed on his pipe. The fact that his comment flew so far over the mans head brought no small amount of amusement, but the savage looking man withheld his laughter.

The woman with the violet-black hair surprised him yet again as she commented on the matter, clearly referencing the cat in their midst. A mage perhaps? Or simply sharper than their Fereldan guest.

Regardless, the matter was made quite clear as a bright flash of light revealed the truth in a way no one could misunderstand. Amber eyes gazed at him with irritation and disgust, causing Varnir's grin simply to widen. That marked her as a member of the Elvhen even more than the Vallaslin that danced across her face. And then she spoke, her words a clear test to see just what he was. Words that cut deeper than his smile let on. Taking the pipe from his mouth, the burly man gave a sincere bow to the woman, the Amulet of the First spilling out from beneath his robe as he did so.

"Atish'an asa'ma'lin." He stated, the words carrying an almost lyrical lilt to them, as natural on his tongue as they were on hers. Standing tall once more, he met her gaze with his. "Perhaps not, though I've grown to be fond of them. They breath so much better then the clothing of the Shem's anyways." His laid back demeanor vanished near instantly upon the mentioning of an Abomination, a scowl forming on his face before disappearing in the blink of an eye, as though it were never there.

"Well, some have called me such, though I don't think I fit the technical definition. I am Varnir Sa'fen of the Harel'mis. As for how I knew, well, father taught me well. I myself would be grateful to know where you learned this lost art, few Elvhen know of it."

Such an answer he would not receive obviously, but curiosity bid him ask it nonetheless. Though a much more pressing question needed to be answered before anything else. "So, I imagine the rest of you are as in the dark as myself as to the purpose of this gathering? Unless I misread the summons and this truly is a gardening club. As much as I enjoy nature, I may not have made the journey were that the case."

Obi-Wan Kenobi · Jun 29, 2019

You know who this is

Vogan was in Orzammar. He could smell it. The dust, the stones, the cave beetles roasting in their shells, the utter lack of green life. The deep echo of chattering dwarva bouncing off cavern walls, making twenty sound like a hundred. It was unfamiliar. Nine years of exile had burrowed into his brain until he felt uneasy in the city of his birth. And he wasn't the only one. Mother shuffled her feet and mumbled something about being proud of him—at least, that's what he thought she was saying: he couldn't hear her over Bandeka.

"Have I told you about Pilan yet? Or Nouran? Talah?" his younger brother rattled, spitting words almost faster than Vogan could track. "I think I want to marry Talah. Oh, Stone, there's so much to fill you in on. I'm a real warrior now! So's everyone else, even Gothur. How he found which end of a sword to hold I'm still not sure but that doesn't matter because you're back! Nobody here can believe it, they think their eyes are lying to them. And you saved the surface! I'm sure—" He cuts off with a yelp, dragged back by a powerful arm.

"Son," Bonus grunts, eventually. The word hangs in the air, bounces off the walls of the cavern, fills Vogan's ears. Something caught in his throat as it rolls through his mind, flattening every other train of thought. Son. Somehow, that one word crystallised it where nothing before had. He wasn't an unperson, a stranger, or an outcast. He was family again. He was home. And yet... it didn't seem right. It wasn't complete. No, it was. But it wasn't. Bonus had said his piece, but not enough. There was no praise, no relief, no other words than the minimum required. As warm and inviting as a blizzard. Surely he could've said something more. Did he even mean it? But no, a little voice in his head reminded him, that was just how his father was. Was it worse to be let down by an insensitive father, or to expect and receive it?

Damn, wasn't that a question to ask yourself?

Suddenly aware that Bonus had been staring him down, Vogan shifted agitatedly as words scrambled around into some semblance of order, like a gaggle of recruits when their sergeant walks in the door. "Bonus. I don't know why you did it, but thanks for taking me back." He hesitated, mouth hanging open, considering setting foot in more dangerous waters. Ah, whatever, the bastard knew anyway. "It... was more than I thought I'd get. Sorry."

Bonus just grunted again, shrugged, and stepped aside to reveal another dwarf. Vogan noted idly that he was in his armour, with a massive hammer slung over his back. He was fixing him with the exact same flinty look that Bonus had. That could only be one of his siblings. Did nobody tell him he'd be coming back? "Saedin, glad to see me?" Vogan asked, almost unconsciously prodding for a reaction with his waggish tone and raised eyebrows.

"Vogan," his brother ground out, silently admonishing Vogan for even trying to rile him. He cocks his head, measuring Vogan up and down. "Fuck you got ugly."

Vogan leaned back and laughed into the sky, surprising himself with how genuine it was. "Aaaaaaah, shit, thanks Saedin. I needed that." He gestures off behind him. "Here, let's get out of the sun so we can ha—"

Vogan paused, running back over what just happened in his mind. Something was out of place. Something wasn't quite... Oh. The sky was above him and the sun was in his eyes. He levered himself up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of his bleary eyes. His vision cleared and he found himself staring up at the clear blue sky, lost in contemplation. It'd been a while since he'd had a dream like that. Dreams like that came from hope, but he'd had all hope of return beaten out of his system a few years back. Obviously this most recent change put some back.

He dismissed the thought. Whatever this shady shit was might get him back, but that was a frayed rope to hold on to. If it was meant to be all hush-hush, it'd be out of character for the people involved to get parades thrown for them. No, he knew enough about clandestine operations to know he'd be getting tucked back under the rug once this was done. Sure, maybe the Divine would do some sappy personal thanks with a side of 'Sorry I can't tell anyone what you did', but nobody shows off their pieces in these games. He'd probably get strung along some more until either he or his mind gave up the ghost.

Whatever. He'd be fine. The last time he'd hounded for glory, it got him erased from the Memories. Did anyone even remember him to revile him anymore? He wasn't about to get the same treatment up here. Then he'd have to go live in the ocean, and that was no place for a dwarf. Then again, the surface was no place for a dwarf, and look how well that had held. But he wasn't fixing to be the first dwarf forced to live on the seas. He'll just quietly take his satisfaction and hope it lasts long enough for the Carta to give him a slit throat for ditching them. Maybe it'd be a quiet death in the night. That was an encouraging thought.

Vogan gathered his gear and made his way down. There were watchful eyes in the Orlesian capital, and even more in the Grand Cathedral. But Vogan had two things going for him: He'd spent years dodging watchful eyes, and anyone who was likely to be able to put together the pieces of why a dwarf was creeping around would probably be in the know and just let him be. It was better than trying to sneak in at daylight. Guards expect intruders to come from the outside, after all, and sneaking in at night is easier than getting in at day. Something told him a scarred thug of a dwarf wasn't going to get easy entry.

Peering over the roof's edge, he steadied himself. He couldn't stay on this roof forever, and he'd gotten up just fine in the darkness. He'd be able to climb in through a window. Probably not all the way down though. Even just the short trip from roof to window could easily have someone spot him. People don't normally look up a lot, but places like this, the ostentatious and important ones, tended to get looked at a lot. He should know. That was why he took to the Provings and fucked up his life in the first place. Glory, prestige, attention. From somewhere inside his chest, something glows at the thought of those words.

Easing himself over the edge, clambering over to and through a window, then slinking to a lower level all went smoothly enough. Smaller corridors and rooms made it easier to hide. Expansive halls, like the ones near the entrances and the main hall with the Sunburst Throne, were harder. But he could just stroll out like he belonged. Guards still expected intruders to be trying to get in, not to stroll out of the cathedral. And with the Templars breaking from the Chantry, the quality of the average guardsman stationed here had probably lowered. Did the Templars guard the cathedral? Whatever. Either way they're not there.

Sure enough, next thing he knew he was into the gardens just fine. And a conspicuous group of others jumped out at him, right around where he was meant to be meeting the Divine. Or the lackey she sent. Four people: A young dwarf lad who was the kind of good-looking that made him want to punch it, a shortish man with a grin and a spear on his back, a hooded someone with their back to him, and a tall, armoured human woman with a sword on her hip. For a moment, he tensed at the dwarf. Carta? But no, the Carta's reach didn't stretch this far. Couldn't, he'd been getting personal experience of just how far it didn't for years.

The grinning one saw him and clearly recognised another member of the group. He waved Vogan over. Apparently they'd been getting along well. He put his back firmly against a surface at first, but eventually the banter washed over him. And that's when someone finally arrived. A stooped woman in formal clergy robes. The Divine? Somehow he thought her headgear would be bigger. They seemed awfully fond of outrageous hats in Val Royeaux. And masks.

From behind her stepped another figure. A dwarf, whose face he remembered all too well. Big nose, square face, thick red beard, bald, golden earring on the left ear; Borivan leered at him. "You didn't seriously think we'd let you get out that easy, did you?"

Vogan backed up, right into a sharp stabbing pain in his back, most likely from an actual stab. He gasped for air, reaching for his belt, only to find nothing. He was on the roof again. Reaching for a knife in his back resulted in only the touch of coarse fingers on his back. So he'd woken up from a dream into another dream. Vogan sat up and hung his head, dispirited. His breaths came ragged and uneven, and he could hear his pulse going nuts. That frantic drumbeat in his head wasn't doing much good for composure. Damn, he needed to lie down again. He really hoped this wasn't just another layer. That'd be unusually cruel, even for him.

Up in the sky above, he found himself staring at clouds. That one looked like an anvil. That one like a nug. There's a cloud that looks like a raptor. He squinted. Nah, not a cloud, not the right colour. And it moved. That was an actual... falcon? Was that what it was? Hawk? Kite? He shrugged. Not being able to distinguish raptors at a distance was probably a good thing. That'd mean he'd been on the surface for far too long. Whatever it was, it was sort of soothing to watch. At some point, he'd stopped hearing his pulse. That was a good sign. And his breathing felt even. Good. Time to go.

Peering over the roof's edge, he steadied himself. He couldn't... no, he'd thought this before. Went to the same edge. Same window was open. Vogan hesitated. Was this superstitious? Was he nuts for letting a bad dream change his actions? An answer eluded him, but he went down a different side anyway. Bless Orlesians and their climbable fucking architecture. And their wine. The journey down and out progressed a bit more roughly. Conversing clerics held him up at the top of a stairwell, right as a patrolling guard's footsteps started clopping down the corridor behind him. Move, damn you. He nervously ran a finger over the head of the axe on his hip, keeping his breathing calm.

Backup plans? There was a room on the other side of the corridor, with the door just out of sight of the stair talkers. But the door was closed, and looked locked. Nobody picked locks that quickly. Climbing up could work. Orlesians and their wall ornaments. He could just cling to the ceiling, hope the guard doesn't have his neck on a swivel. He'd have to commit to that now. Fuck it, there might not be anything better. Vogan leapt onto a sturdy-looking sconce, avoiding the wax. Wax wouldn't hold him, and the candle may set something on fire. From there to a relief—made of actual gold, Vogan noted incredulously—of a woman holding a scroll of some kind. It didn't come out very far, not even a finger joint's width, but fuck if it wasn't just enough for him. Clamber up that, then just press himself into a corner. That'd hold him. It was tricky, made trickier by the smooth material, but with enough force on the corner walls and enough grip, he could tell gravity to buzz off for a bit.

The man passed under him with a lazy stroll. Walk faster. The man stubbornly refused to understand his silent command, but passed all the same. Good. His muscles were starting to complain. He eased himself down and waited patiently for the conversation to finish, then made the rest of the journey in peace. This time as he passed the entrance, he could feel a guard staring at his back. Vogan didn't look over his shoulder. He was meant to be here, looking around furtively is what spies do. Maybe the guard was suspicious, maybe bored, but the bugger didn't leave their post, so he didn't care.

This time, the group waiting at the spot numbered five. No dwarva. Lots of fucking elves though. Some scarred redhead of an elf with a bow on his back and a sheepish expression. An auburn-haired dalish lass with a polearm, which he was inclined to believe was a mage staff, seemed angry at a third elf, also tattooed. Or... no, that was a human. In the dalish tattoos. That certainly explained the outrage. Then there was another woman with a spear on her back. And finally some young blond man with a single-handed sword and a rapier on opposite hips. Another dual-wielder? Vogan's eyes narrowed. He took a moment to steady his more competitive instincts, then approached. It wasn't like he didn't stand out here, might as well just get in on the action.

The dalish wannabe was making some joke about gardening clubs. Of course he 'enjoyed nature'. Vogan rolled his eyes wearily. Fucking dalish. In Val Royeaux and talking about how much they want to make love to bushes. He idly wondered if the man was raised dalish—as if any of those bastards would take in a shemwhatever before they'd strangle their own mother—or just exaggerated what he'd heard of the dalish to try and act like one. He refrained from commenting, though. Telling someone you'd cut their manhood off if they hadn't been born without it... wasn't the best introduction.

Archon · Jul 7, 2019

Liona Eremon

Liona hid her initial shock at the transformation well, whilst she had been carried by the dalish human's assumption she'd never seen a shapeshifter in the flesh before, though the dramatic appearance of her embroiled in the Knight's shocked arms caused no small part of amusement. "Kitty? How delightfully appropriate." Liona gazed with a scrutinizing gaze, her ply diplomatic smile hid the harsh roaming eye which searched the shapeshifter for secrets and threats. If it was black magic, could she know what Liona was? Could he? Her gaze flicked back briefly to the male wrapped in elven robes, something between paranoia and suspicion slowly bleeding into her expertly neutral face.

Fortunately, the surprise appearance of a half-sized ally--or an assassin--seeped into her vision, robbing her mind of its slowly growing paranoia-fueled illusions. "Ah, you must be the final member of our heroic quest." Liona spoke past the others to the dwarf, his form matted by dirt and wounds, the trials of battle wore having laid claim to the assuredly veteran warrior's muscled figure. The missive had specified when those called were expected to make their appearance, and that time of reckoning bore down upon them now. The Grand Cathedral gates were pushed open by a band of burly orlesian guards--the golden sun glinting off the great metallic doors in a radiance of power and piety--an eager delegation of robe-clad Priests flanked by Templars marched down the imposing steps in practiced fashion. "Our new friends?" Liona offhandedly commented to the others, the scent of scorn could be detected in her otherwise level-headed tone. Templars.

TYPE · Jul 7, 2019

B R Y C E - C A D O C

Bryce seemed to not register what had happened for a few moments, the weight in his arms not managing to reach his brain as his eyes failed to convey to his mind that some greater change had occurred. The fast paced quips that moved between the pretty little elf in his arms and the others whom had arrived had his head and eyes flitting about like a crazed chicken. His body finally reacting, he let out a yelp as he flung the girl into the air, the action companied with a loud yelp on his part. "Merde!" The word flew from his lips, barely a blink after she reached the peak of her ascent, his Orlesian accent slipping out in tandem, before his instincts set in, rushing forward and catching her once more. Instinctively he pulled her close against his chest, making sure she did not tumble to the ground, as he looked between the lot and her, finally focusing on her. Shaking his head, he tried an abashed smile. "Sorry! Forgive my outburst! Was that magic? Wait, of course..." He shook his head again, his voice having settled again into his thick Ferelden tone. "Of course it was magic. Moire? Kitty?" His eyes narrowed as he frowned at her. "I was... petting you?" His eyes flit to his fingers, now tightly holding onto her form, mostly out of shock on his part. "I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable in any way." He quickly sat her down on her own feet, stepping back. "I am unaccustomed to such artifice."

And he was. He had never really gotten magic. It was something that was beautiful, and terrible. Much like war could be. In that light he could even appreciate it. But to his own meager intellect and his rather unrefined insights... it posed too great a chance of shame. Too great an opportunity to seem all too foolish. Even as the thought ran over his mind could he feel the shame set to his cheeks. He had wanted to make a good impression. Now they would think him a fool. Or worse. Inept. Unfit to the task at hand. As the thoughts seemed to gain further sway over his temper, he felt his eyes pushed towards the ground, his hands clenching at his sides. He could not let this stand. His ego would have him lash out. Accuse her of using some spell to cloud his judgment. His senses. He looked up again, at her, and then the others. They seemed cordial enough. While they seemed cautious of her, they did not seem actively disgusted with him. At least... not yet. "I will appreciate you not do that again." His eyes had landed on her, narrowing.

He was about to react to the rest of them who had gathered when he noted the approach of the Templars and, among them - a set of chantry clad priests. Set in the center of them was a man of such great levels of self-importance, Bryce could not help but imagine him as being friends with his father. As the arriving group neared the assembled party, Bryce cleared his throat stepping past them all, nodding politely as he moved to intercept the approaching group. By this point it was clear that this entire enterprise was legit. Which meant whatever needed to be done would be done. The powers that be did not interact with the rabble lightly. Whatever this was... it was important. Especially if it drew together such... He looked over his shoulder to them all.

The first that caught his eye was the beautiful elf with the red hair. His face carrying a story, the baring of his shoulders another. Next to him the woman - Liona she had said? Her eyes gleaming with such a fierce intelligence it frightened him. Her robes of gold and red elevating her presence even more. Then the elf-human, his own gaze bright with a piercing insight that had Bryce turning away his face in fear the other might read too much. The dwarf that flanked him carried with him a sense of raw danger Bryce had not felt in many people. His severe standing and his clearly... difficult... disposition had him wondering what the other was capable of. Whatever it was, it was sure to be nothing to consider lightly. It did draw the attentions of the most holy, after all. Finally, the other elf. Moire. Kitty... Again the shame and frustration returned. She was clearly prone to mischief. Mix that with such arcane talents as transformation? He shuddered at the thought of what she was capable of. Closing his eyes, took a breath, before turning towards the approaching congregation.

They all reeked with the same self-important aura that made him sick and nostalgic at the same time. The bow was formal, if not overly reverent. The group stopped a few feet from him, separating for the center piece to move forward to inspect him like he was a piece of chattel. The man sneered openly for a moment, his shoulders conveying that while he was perhaps not that keen on this meeting, he would take it with a tone and severity to match the occasion. Bryce felt the breath slowly seep past his teeth, his attention and patience struggling against the man's clear stalling. A cheap show of power. One they would have to pay, if only to get this over with.

Epiphany · Jul 11, 2019

M O I R E - S E H A R I

Keidivh
Moire blinked slowly at the shemlen who...knew her language. Claimed a Clan. Dressed like a Clan. Who dressed like a Dalish if they could avoid it? Well, besides herself of course. Still, the man had known what she was on sight. If that wasn't Keeper work, what was?

She opened her mouth to make a reply when...

TYPE
Moire was abruptly thrown into the air. A second before she turned herself into a bird to avoid hitting the ground, the rather winsome and delightfully melancholy knight caught her once more. She laughed. She couldn't help it! The surprise, the shock and thrill of it all coursed through her and her eyes danced with liveliness and energy as she looked into Bryce's decidedly less amused expression. Some of that energy wilted by the time he finished speaking his peace.

"Oh no, nonono, I'm the one who's sorry!" Moire said, the words spilling out of her in a rush. "Why do I always do this? Make people uncomfortable. I didn't mean to, you know. Although you probably don't, given we've just met and this is a terrible introduction, isn't it, and Fey always said you can't make a second impression and I've already ruined this one! I'm so sorry!"

Taking a breath, the elf smiled awkwardly up at the man who still held her in his arms before she looped her arms around his neck. Rather than drawing him down for a kiss, as one would usually do with the arm looping, Moire just hugs him tightly. "By the Dread Wolf, I shouldn't be allowed out in public," she muttered wretchedly.

When Bryce set her down, she stepped away and just looked miserable. When he cautions her not to trick him again, she can only nod.

Thankfully, that's when the Templars show up. That was new, feeling thankful for Templars. Wait, weren't the Templars the problem now? "Aren't the Templars the problem now?" she said aloud, although for everyone's sake it's good she kept her pitch low enough for the approaching contingent to not hear it over the sound of their own armor and movement. "What is this about anyway? Is this a trap? For me? If so, why the-wait, are all of you part of the trap? Or are you in the trap? Or do you have any idea of what I'm-I'm rambling again, aren't I."

Moire clamped a hand over her own mouth to shut herself up.

Fandom Dragon Age: RECLAMATION

TYPE

Now what?

TYPE

Now what?

Epiphany

Proverbs 17:9

Archon

Friendly Neighborhood Gem-Collector

Braddington

Based... based on what?

Keidivh

Warrior with the Silver Eyes

TYPE

Now what?

Archon

Friendly Neighborhood Gem-Collector

Epiphany

Proverbs 17:9

Keidivh

Warrior with the Silver Eyes

Obi-Wan Kenobi

A Bold One

Archon

Friendly Neighborhood Gem-Collector

TYPE

Now what?

Epiphany

Proverbs 17:9

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