Cyrus Avenarius, from The Canticle of Fate, a roleplay on RPG

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I'm the product of my anger,
I stole my power from the sun.
I'm gonna fight 'em all,
you've got nowhere to run.

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Full Name: Cyrus Tullius Aquila Avenarius (SIGH-russ TUHL-lee-us ah-KWEE-lah ah-vehn-AIR-ee-us), also born Syrillion Saeris (sih-RIL-lee-on sa-EH-ris)
Titles/Nicknames: Cy, to a few. He's a lord, but would never insist on being called one.
Age: 28 (9:44)
Race: Elf-Blooded
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Heteroflexible.
Class: Mage
Specialization: Arcane Warrior/Knight-Enchanter

Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Indigo Blue
Height: 6’2”
Build: Well-rounded and athletic.

Appearance: Cyrus is well used to attention, and it shows in the way he carries himself. His posture is upright, unconsciously so, his gait gliding, and it is very clear that he takes care of himself fastidiously. His build, which could perhaps have grown soft with many years in the opulence of the Imperial mage community, is nothing of the sort; he obviously did regular exercise even prior to the past few years, and had good overall conditioning regimens. He doesn’t look like the stereotypical bookish mage, certainly, and a few years wandering Thedas have added a touch of sun to what was once a very fair skin tone. His facial features are neither exceedingly masculine nor androgynous—he at least finds himself rather pleasing to the eye.

He keeps his black hair roughly to his shoulders; long enough for fun, short enough for business. It’s usually swept back away from his face; overall it shares a certain luxuriant quality with his sister’s, being thick and quite shiny, like ink. His eyes duplicate the shape and indigo color of hers as well, though the impression they lend his face is quite different. His height is slightly above average for a man’s, but not anything worth a double-take, really. He is meticulously cleanshaven, though he’d likely encounter difficulty should he attempt to grow any beard beyond persistent stubble anyway.

His clothes are generally made of heavier fabrics like silk and linen, and he favors cloaks, boots, and gloves lined with fur for their warmth—when he’s far south enough to need it, at least. His tailoring is usually of impeccable taste, designed to emphasize his build without being either obvious or crass about it, and his garments do lend him a certain impression of refinement and class—though not to the point that he could be mistaken for impractical. He rarely bothers with much in the way of armor, as his magic is more protection than mundane armament, but he does own a shirt of fine ringmail, just in case. He carries no visible weapons at all, not even a staff.

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“I suppose it figures that all the ways I've changed are difficult to see.
Difficult to believe.”

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Apparent Demeanor: On the surface of things, Cyrus is capricious, unpredictable, and arguably quite complicated. His moods vary from amused to the point of almost being jovial, through the gamut of quiet thoughtfulness to thorny standoffishness; it can be difficult to discern what provokes each of these things, if anything provokes them at all. He seems to be a creature of his own whimsy, dictated in his actions by his desires rather than principles of any kind. He seems flighty, unstable on occasion, and doubtless eccentric. More than one person has observed that he appears to be living more in his own head than in the real world; this makes him rather difficult to pin down. His motivations are obscure, his intentions shaded at best, and his impulses apparently largely unchecked.

Despite—perhaps sometimes because of—this, he can be an incredibly charming fellow. Learned, adroit, witty, and intuitive with people, he displays a politician’s savvy to motive, a scholar’s attention to detail, and none of the sycophantic nonsense that usually comes with it. Strange he may be, but Cyrus is wholly genuine in that strangeness, and unafraid of what others may think of him for it. He’s smart as a whip, to be sure, and more than a fair hand with games of intrigue and implication, but it would not be hard to guess that in large part, his political success has been helped along by the fact that it’s difficult to get a read on what he’s thinking, rather than any intentional deception.

He seems, if anything, to be a bit weak-willed, given how quickly his mind, hobbies and interests all change. Perhaps, to a certain point, this is true. Cyrus has never seen the point in continuing to do something that no longer holds interest for him, and few things manage to keep his focus for long. He sees puzzles and problems, solves them, and moves on with his life. Permanence isn’t really something he expects or understands in any matter but one.

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Hangups/Quirks: Cyrus has fairly deep trust issues, and no expectation that any of the alliances or ‘friendships’ he makes with the various people he meets will last any longer than is convenient. It would not be an errant guess to assume that the same is true of sexual relationships, because it is. He has never been in a romantic relationship with anyone, and is deeply skeptical about their existence in general. He looks cynically for the catch in everything, the real reason for what seems like altruism or benevolence. Being so suspicious has served him quite well in the past, after all—but definitely not in the sense that it’s given him more friends. He has a tendency to become obsessive over the things that catch his interest, focusing on them until he has fully satisfied his curiosity. If he sees a reason to learn more about a certain kind of spell or a period in history, for example, he will tear through as much literature on the subject as is necessary to become an expert—and quite quickly, considering his aptitudes. But then he locks the knowledge away inside his head, and moves on to the next thing. He is profoundly dissatisfied in situations where he lacks the relevant expertise, so it is fortunate that gaining such expertise is not generally beyond him.

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Strengths: From very early in his life, Cyrus knew quite well that he was different from other people. Things that took other children a great deal of time to master came to him with ease. He never had to struggle—not with his lessons or his magic or even particularly with physical training. He had an instinct for everything laid before him, and this continues to be the case in most situations. His magic is certainly nothing to be sneezed at, either, especially considering that he is what those in Tevinter call somniari, which really just means interesting things happen when he sleeps, as he'd put it.

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Weaknesses: Cyrus doesn’t understand how to form bonds with people, nor how to trust them. The one instance of love and acceptance in his life came prepackaged at birth, so to speak, and there was never any need to explain it or reinforce it or question it. Estella just was the other half of him, until he they were both old enough to be whole people on their own. Still, they are connected more closely than he ever has been with anyone else, and probably ever will be. He is fundamentally a man alone, however. No matter how good he is at the things he puts his hand to, he is still only one person—with all the shortcomings that entails. He is at times almost profoundly lonely, and unable to rectify the situation.

He understands the intricacies of court politics, how to scheme with and against people you cannot trust, how to come out of even the dirtiest machinations smelling like roses, but he doesn’t comprehend the simple principles of friendship, and treats every interaction like a calculation because he doesn’t have any other frame of reference to work in. He doesn’t know how to be a friend, or to have one, or to open himself up and trust anyone new. And he only begins to understand that this is a weakness.

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Fears: The silence, he calls it. The future moment he dreads: when he lifts his head, and there are no more things to catch his interest. And then, when he looks around him and beside him, there is nothing and no one there, because nothing and no one is permanent. He fears that moment, when everything will be silent and still and the world will cease to hold anything for him. As a corollary, and arguably more importantly, he fears losing Estella, because right now, she is the only person who is there beside him, even when they are physically quite distant. It's arguably unhealthy, how dependent he is on her validation and her regard. He's decent enough at keeping this from her, but the years he spent without her were... not especially stable ones.

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“I've given up pretending I know what's good for me.
Nothing ends up the way I expect anymore.”

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Weapon of Choice: Cyrus eschews weapons made of steel, instead choosing to draw his armament directly from the Fade. It is a much less-common discipline in Tevinter than the near-ubiquitous blood magic, but Cyrus found it natural to learn and even more natural to apply. The form his Fade-weapons take is variable depending upon the situation and what he thinks he needs to accomplish the job, but they are uniformly blueish in color.

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Fighting Style/Training: He’s a chameleon. Freely adapting to the situations that present themselves, Cyrus can fight shoulder-to-shoulder with warriors using his barriers and Fade-weapons; or at a range, shooting off elemental spells and mind-altering techniques from a distance like a more conventional mage—though he would say that it’s a waste of his talent to do so. He even has a few healing spells in his repertoire, though they are not his specialty by any means. One can expect Cyrus to hit like a ton of bricks, while being just deft enough to avoid receiving similar punishment from his foes. Though a showman's demeanor would not be unexpected out of him, and does sometimes surface, he is overall efficient rather than flashy.

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“Steel does not hum in my hands. I do not feel
complete in the holding of it. But it can
pierce a heart just as well, I suppose.”

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Place of Birth: Minrathous, Tevinter Imperium
Social Status/Rank: From a Laetan mage family, on his mother's side. His father's... well, that's another matter entirely.

History: Cyrus Avenarius was born slightly before his twin sister, Estella—both of them to an unwed Laetan mage, Iphigenia Avenarius, the only child of her parents. Though the family historically produced mages, they do not trace their descent from the first prophets. They have therefore never risen above the rank of Laetan, despite many generations of true-breeding magic: something which has made their sons and daughters relatively desired candidates for arranged marriages despite their lower blood. There was a great deal of distress, therefore, when not long after the birth of the twins, Iphigenia died. Cyrus suspects it was because they had an inkling of who his father was that his family sent himself and his sister to the Chantry, but he has never shared this theory with Estella.

Regardless, they were both initially given into the care of the Imperial Chantry in Minrathous, and there they were raised in their youth—at least until Cyrus turned six. It was at this point that his life, at first seemingly determined from the very beginning to be that of a Chantry brother or a slave, changed drastically almost overnight. The boy manifested his magic—not often heard of in one so young, but certainly within the realm of historical possibility. It was no small event, either; he nearly killed a few people entirely on accident.

He was immediately set up to receive training from a tutor, and, miracle of miracles, his family emerged from the woodwork to adopt him. Cyrus, still only a child, assumed that this meant his sister would also be taken from the Chantry with him, a matter on which he was proven exceedingly incorrect. It continued to be a sore point for him, and he regularly snuck out of his family’s home to see Estella, who remained under the care of the priests.

When the extraordinary level of his talent became apparent, he was removed from the group tutoring he’d been placed under with a Circle scholar and apprenticed directly to a magister, an influential Altus mage named Cassius Viridius. Under the man’s tutelage, Cyrus learned not only magic, but other aspects of political manipulation and deft maneuvering: how to put his looks and charm to use, for one, to further his goals and get him the things he decided (however whimsically) that he wanted. He was firmly entrenched in traditional Imperial worldviews, including in the superiority of magic and the pragmatic usefulness of slavery. He grew adept at the games magisters would play with one another, and his star rose with meteoric speed as he grew, outmatching his opponents both in matters of wit and those of sheer magical clout.

He was an exceedingly good player of these little chess matches, and relished in this fact. He had power, taste, and acumen, and with those three things firmly in tow, the world was open before him. Everything changed the night Estella left the Imperium, however. In all his excesses, all his sins, Cyrus had never lost the love for his sister that he honestly believes he was born with. At first, this was an amusing indulgence, one his mentors allowed him. It gave him a human touch, they said—a little bit of softness in his reputation. That in itself was not so bad; there were ways to take advantage of it. But eventually, it became more dangerous than that, and his sister was driven from her home. This left Cyrus—though surrounded by sycophants and those who claimed to have his best interests at heart—well and truly alone for the first time in his life.

And so, four years after Estella had done the same, and with an appointment to a vacant seat in the Magisterium pending, along with soft whispers of a possible match with the Archon’s own granddaughter filling ears all over Minrathous, Cyrus left it all behind. He did not follow Estella’s footsteps to the Free Marches, knowing that he needed to carve his own path, at least until he could come to terms with himself. So instead of that, he did something he’d always known, but differently: he sought knowledge, and in it, perhaps he would find a balm to his troubles.

So far, it has proven less than helpful.

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9:42 managed to turn Cyrus's life upside down and backwards all at once. First, he was reminded how far he still had to go, as a mage and as a person, by the horrifying and fascinating jaunt some of the Inquisition took into the Fade. Used to being the master of his own fate there especially, it was difficult for him to come up against Nightmare, a creature clearly far superior to his own strength in that regard. He nearly died, and someone did. though he doesn't precisely consider this his fault, he does linger perhaps too often on the fact that things wouldn't have been half as difficult if he were the dreamer he should be.

But the sobering knowledge that his power still had far to go before he'd be satisfied was rendered rather inconsequential afterwards, when Leta—someone he knew but did not recognize—very nearly succeeded in her attempt to assassinate him for revenge. Had it not been for Leon's unique talents, the red lyrium would have poisoned him, and on some days, Cyrus honestly wishes it had.

Because to be without his magic is to be without the core of his identity. To be without what has defined him for most of his life, and the foundation for the ambitions and dreams he still had some hope of attaining in time. The whole event forced him to dredge up things in his life he'd tried to bury, and to confront the stark reality of a world in which he was, quite frankly, insignificant. The simple truth of the matter was that he never had been, before. He'd never been just anyone, because he'd always been one of a few. Most recently, one of less than five somniari in all of Thedas. He never realized how much of his sense of self-worth came from that single fact until it was no longer true, and everything crumbled around him.

The consequences have not been so easy to push aside. He hasn't recovered from the loss. He might never. What he has tried to do is find something else to want, to strive for, to be. So far, the search has been profoundly unsatisfying, and a restlessness grows in him, alongside a deep sense of isolation that is proving difficult to crack, and a lack of motivation to do anything much that doesn't sit easily with the restlessness.

But he's trying. Trying not to let what happened preclude him from happiness or purpose. Failing more often than not, but trying all the same. What else can he do?

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Credit| Asala Kaaras |

9:44: It was a tumultuous year for Cyrus's association with Asala, mostly because for most of it, there was none. She was conspicuously absent from the most difficult months of his life, and he didn't fail to notice that. Her initial attempts at reconciliation, he brushed off with a cruelty he'd been trying to banish from himself, but in the wake of discovering that his best chance at getting his magic back was to make peace with the people he felt had wronged him, he did a lot more thinking about the whole thing. The second time around, he accepted her apology. He does not think he can bring himself to trust her enough to be vulnerable to her again in any way, and so their friendship and mentor/student relationship is well and truly over, but he bears her no further ill will, and they are on courteous—if somewhat careful—terms now.

Credit| Marceline Benoît |

9:44: Their paths do not cross often. Cyrus is nearly a hermit, and when he isn't, it's because he's spending time with in the tavern or outside or in Rilien's tower with those who frequent such places. If Lady Marceline ever breaks her own seclusion, she does not do it there. This isn't really either here or there as far as Cyrus is concerned. They move in different circles: she does her diplomatic work with the nobles and resources and the Chantry. He just tries to make himself the best frontline fighter he can be. It's hardly surprising that people in such different spheres never interact. The days when he was more lord than soldier—and thus the days in which the opportunity existed for more than that—are long gone now.

Credit| Leonhardt Albrecht |

9:44: Leon has well and truly become a friend of Cyrus's. It's a quiet friendship, the kind more suited to peaceful afternoons in shared company than anything more extroverted, but honestly that suits the both of them just fine. There is of course still the complication of Leon's persistent affliction, but Cyrus has done his best to engineer a solution, and feels that now is the time to put his faith in his own mind and Leon's perseverance and hope for the best. The Commander is an uncommonly-mighty man, in a sense that has little to do with the state of his physical body.

Credit| Zahra Tavish |

9:44: He never would have really predicted his friendship with Zahra, if indeed that's what to call it. They have more in common than Cyrus would have believed: initially selfish people who really don't fit all that well amongst the more altruistic members of the Inquisition. But they both desire to, and they're both working on it. Combine that with fraught family histories, and there's actually quite a lot of common ground, even if there are scarcely two more different people in terms of surface traits and first impressions. He doesn't know that their association will survive the extraordinary circumstances they're currently in—proximity makes strange bedfellows, after all. But he thinks it just might, and doesn't mind the idea at all.

Credit| Vesryn Cormyth |

9:44: Assuming that none of them gets killed in the next few years—not the safest assumption, to be sure—Cyrus has this feeling that he'll eventually be referring to Vesryn as his brother-in-law, regardless of whether that's ever formally recognized or just informally obvious. He's actually quite pleased about this. Vesryn has a rare kind of decency to him, and a gregariousness that makes him difficult not to like. And even Cyrus, cynic that he is, can recognize the strength of the bond between the elf and Stellulam, one that seems to have done the both of them a lot of good. It goes without saying at this point that Cyrus will do anything he can to help resolve the presently-suspended issues involving Saraya. Vesryn is his friend, too, after all. He doesn't have many of those, and he doesn't intend to lose any if there's anything he can do about it.

Credit| Kharisanna Istimaethoriel |

9:44: Khari's is that almost-perfect story of sheer grit overcoming all kinds of obstacles. From the day he met her, she obviously had her sights set on one thing, and though she has not yet achieved it as such, the steps she's taken have propelled her further towards it than any elf has gone before. It's hard not to be both in awe of that and inspired by it, even if he doesn't know what he wants with quite the same clarity she does. Perhaps her clarity of purpose will rub off on him at some point—if nothing else, he's happy to keep sharpening his chess skills against her.

Credit| Romulus |

9:44: Romulus is a changed man, and it's obvious for all to see. Though his history and his time in Tevinter will no doubt always influence the person he is, he's risen above the influences and truly chosen his own path. It's admirable and to a certain extent enviable, but the envy is without even a touch of bitterness. Cyrus simply hopes he'll one day feel as free of all his trappings as Romulus does now. In the meantime, they get along very well.

Credit| Rilien Falavel |

9:44: Cyrus runs into the tranquil spymaster more often now, given his frequent presence on the bottom floor of the elf's tower. Watching him put Stellulam through her paces is always an entertaining experience, and Cyrus himself feels he learns something new every time they interact, which is admittedly not a common feeling for him. Their work together on the investigation into Julien's arrest convinced him of Rilien's intellect, and more recently, they collaborated on an alchemical solution to Leon's Reaver tonic issue. It's all given him the deepest respect for the Spymaster, and an appreciation for some of the nuances of his tranquility.

Credit| Estella Avenarius |

9:44: Discovering (or in Cyrus's case, confirming) their shared ancestry was an experience that affected them both very differently. Estella seemed to get something good from it, even if it wasn't perhaps exactly the thing she wanted going in. He knows she's always chased the sense of family, and also tied it to connection with blood and kin. For a long time, that was mostly him, and he admits he's had some trouble accepting that they have more than each other to any degree. Where Stellulam seeks connection and the purpose that comes with it, Cyrus only sees the absence of such things thus far, and the cruelty of outright rejection. Nothing that happened with the elves of Arlathan showed him anything else. But regardless of his own feelings, the whole experience did something good for her, and he feels that she's finally become who she always was, in a certain sense. Who she was always becoming, perhaps. He's inexpressively proud of her—she's incredible.

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"Sometimes, we get what we deserve.
Sometimes, we get even worse."

Cyrus Avenarius's Story

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Setting

Thedas

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#2016-02-25 01:45:13, as written by Kurokiku

Then the Maker said:
To you, My second-born, I grant this gift:
In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame
All-consuming, and never satisfied.
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember Me.
—Canticle of Threnodies 5:7

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#2017-03-15 06:46:44, as written by Talisman

Mastery of the self is mastery of the world.
Loss of the self is the source of suffering.
Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it.
It is in our own power to create the world, or destroy it.
—Extract from the Qun, Canto 1

Once more Asala found herself taking the flight of stairs that led atop Skyhold's wall, toward one of the towers that dotted its perimeter. Her particular destination was one that Cyrus requisitioned for his own personal workshop. It was where he scheduled many of her regular lessons, the ones that did not require flagrant displays of experimental magic. Granted, she wished he had chosen something on ground level to turn into his workshop, as the stairs grew tiring after the fourth or fifth time she had taken them, and now as a necessary evil in order to continue her lessons.

They'd returned to Skyhold from Crestwood a few days past, leaving the care of the fort in the capable hands of the forces who remained behind. Vesryn's Dalish friends had also stayed behind, but from what she understood would be also visiting Skyhold in about a week or so. In the intervening time, she had been doing some research of her own. Even now, she carried a small stack of books in her arms as she climbed the stairs, some Cyrus had transcribed for her, some she had asked for from some of Aurora's mages, and one journal that held all of her hand written notes. Of course, she still had to talk with Cyrus first.

Finally, she'd arrived to his tower and knocked gently on the door. Had it been one of their predetermined appointments, she would have entered afterward, but she was relatively unexpected for the moment.

The first sound after she knocked was a rather plaintive meow, something she recognized by this point as Cyrus's cat's attempt to get his attention. He did have a habit of drifting off somewhere in his own head, so it probably helped.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, she caught the low murmur of his voice as he verbalized some response or other, and then the soft sound of footsteps. He pulled open the door towards him, raising his eyes the couple of inches they needed to meet hers. He smiled, a relaxed expression with only a small hint of his customary mischief. “Asala." He stepped back inside, leaving the door open for her to follow.

The workshop itself was cluttered as ever; Cyrus perpetuated some sort of organized chaos that meant no one else was likely to know where anything was, but he never seemed to have trouble finding what he wanted. His bookshelves were full near to bursting, his walls still lined nearly floor-to-ceiling with architectural sketches and watercolors. He must have been working on a project recently, because he looked much the same as the room: his hair was considerably askew, falling over his eyes periodically in spite of his futile efforts to keep it away from his face, and his meticulous wardrobe reduced to a plain shirt and trousers. Pia, the cat, sat nested comfortably on a haphazard stack of parchments, all in Cyrus's small, neat handwriting.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of an unannounced visit?"

"I did not interrupt anything, did I?" she asked, curiously. It was honestly difficult to tell.

He snorted. “If you were interrupting anything I didn't want interrupted, I wouldn't have answered the door." Lifting his shoulders, Cyrus held his hands out, clearly volunteering to relieve her of the burden she carried.

Asala thought about it for a moment before she nodded, accepting that as an answer. Truthfully, if he had been in a position to be interrupted, then she doubted that he would've even heard her knock. She gratefully handed off most of the books she carried in her hands, though she did keep her thin journal on hand. Relieved of the books, she entered into the workshop more fully and gently scratched Pia behind the ear. She would have to remember to bring Bibi next time so that they could play.

"Oh," she added, remembering he had asked her a question. "I wished to speak about... Spirit Healers?" she asked, rather than explained.

Cyrus did not look too surprised by this revelation, moving back over to his desk with the stack of books and quickly sorting them into two piles: one for those that belonged to him, and one for those that did not. The latter, he left on the desktop, shelving the former with an absent sort of efficiency. “Of course. Have a seat." He gestured vaguely at the squashy armchairs about the room, apparently giving her the choice of what part of the workshop she wanted to occupy. A plate with a half-eaten sandwich rested on the edge of the table nearest the door, she noticed, evidence that Livia had been by, probably.

After a moment, Cyrus turned away from the bookshelves and back towards her, bringing his hands together with a muted clapping sound. “Now... what would you like to discuss about Spirit Healers, hm?"

Somehow, she had managed to find a pencil amongst all the other bits in his office before she took a seat in one of the nearby chairs. She paused for a moment, wondering where to go from the rather broad question he had asked. "Hmm," she began, thinking, "I wish to know more, I suppose," she said, before glancing at the books remaining on his desk. "The details, I mean. I understand that spirit healers derive their power from the aid of a, uh, spirit--" she hesitated for a moment, wondering just how redundant that had sounded, but forged ahead regardless. "And that the relationship somehow amplifies restoration magic."

She then tilted her head a little, "However...", she began, flipping her little journal open before continuing, "What I have read also stated that the calling is a... dangerous one."

Cyrus sank into the chair nearest hers, crossing an ankle over a knee and bracing his elbows on the armrests. He slouched a bit when he did, the normal grace in his posture receding. “Well... yes." He touched his fingertips together for a moment, then folded all his fingers down except the pointers, bringing those back to rest at his chin. “Anything that depends on a spirit is dangerous, to some extent. Whenever spirits come into contact with mortal beings such as ourselves, there is always a risk that our negative emotions will twist them into demons. And in turn, a risk that those demons will use those negative emotions to manipulate and possess. No demon can enter without an invitation, but the invitation need not be wholehearted. Only a slip is required."

He tilted his head slightly at her, raising a brow. “A spirit healer makes a bond with a particular spirit of Compassion. This allows them to perform feats of healing that other mages cannot, but it does come at a price. One must always be vigilant: if ever vengeance, rage, or other such feelings are allowed to taint the connection, the existing bond makes possession quite an easy matter, for the demon that results."

Asala was writing as he spoke, and when he came to a stop, her pencil lingered on the last letter as she slipped into thought. "Is there anyway to guard against it?" Asala asked, finally glancing up from her journal.

“Well, for one, most avoid contacting the spirit during battle, especially if they also have to do harm in one. Better not to risk the mixed messages. Spirit healers in training are rarely allowed to try drawing on the spirit's power outside of very controlled clinic settings." Cyrus shrugged. “Other than that, it comes down to mental discipline and personality. When healing, it is important to focus on your own compassion, your desire for the patient to live. It requires a certain... clarity of demeanor. And a certainty of purpose."

A wry look crossed his face. “Needless to say, I could not teach anyone the advanced techniques they would learn that way. I'm certainly in no position to be bonding to a spirit of that nature myself." His eyes met hers, and held them. “You though... you might well have what it takes."

"And... what is... that?" she asked, unsure which other question she should even ask. When he spoke of feelings of rage and vengeance, she could not help but think about how she felt when she saw the blighted dragon again. Now that it was far away elsewhere, where it would hopefully stay for a long while yet, she was calmer when she thought about it. However, there remained a twist in her chest when it came back to mind.

Cyrus pushed a short, soft breath from his nose, but when he replied, he seemed perfectly serious, eyes slightly narrowed and tone sincere. “A good heart."

Asala blushed and buried her face in the notes. Well, if he believed then... "So, uh..." she began, stammering. "If I, uh... wished to go through with it," she said, dragging her face back out of her notes to finally look vaguely in his direction. "How would I--how would we... start?" she asked. The books she had read that the mentor was also involved in a prospective spirit healer's tutelage--and though he was not a spirit healer himself, Cyrus knew of spirits.

As was typical, her reaction amused him more than anything, clearly, but his expression sobered again soon enough. “Well, the tricky part is forming the bond with the spirit. For you, learning the advanced techniques will also be a complication, but I'm sure if the Inquisition learns you're taking on the task, they will find someone who can pass those on. As for the spirit, well... you have no senior healer to help you with that. Fortunately, what you do have is better." He grinned there. “You have me."

He stood from his chair, crossing back to the bookshelves and pulling down several tomes she did not recognize, stacking them on the desk over the top of whatever he'd been working on when she came in. “Give me... three nights. I'll find you a spirit, and help you through whatever trial it has for you." He paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder.

“When you come back, bring some friends. I'll take care of the rest."

"Oh, yes. Of course," Asala said, rising to a stand as well. However, she paused for a moment and thought.

"And Cyrus? Thank you."

Setting

Thedas

Characters Present

0.00 INK

0.00 INK

#2017-03-19 04:54:17, as written by Kurokiku

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#2017-06-06 08:21:01, as written by Talisman

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#2017-07-11 03:49:35, as written by Yonbibuns

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#2017-09-09 06:11:51, as written by AugustArria

The walk back to Skyhold was not a pleasant one.

The few scouts that joined them along the way helped secure their prisoner. Decius Catus. Rom knew him, but didn't know he'd joined the Venatori. It had been a number of years since last they met, and when he'd lived in Minrathous they hadn't regularly spoken about anything. Chryseis's alliance with the man's father was the most common thing that brought them together. In any case, he was an enemy now, and one they needed to handle with care. If he had been dispatched to follow Chryseis by Marcus himself, there was a good chance he had information that could help them.

He wasn't subtle in his avoidance of Chryseis on the road back. There was more than enough space for them to remain out of speaking distance the whole way, which he did. Working out their differences while still cooling from the heat of a fight would be unwise. They had a job to take care of first, and it was more important than anything she'd done to him in their history.

By the time they passed through Skyhold's gates again it was morning, and the fortress was waking up. Their return had obviously been announced before they reached the walls, as guards were there to meet them, and several from the infirmary's staff to check for any wounded still in need of care. For now the wounds had been taken care of by Asala, leaving nothing that required more immediate attention.

"I don't suppose there's time for me to sleep?" Chryseis asked to no one in particular, as they started up the steps towards the keep.

"If you would care to, you certainly may, milady" Leon replied, tone polite but slightly dry. "But you'll understand if we prefer to conduct our pressing business as soon as possible. There are matters of considerable urgency at hand." The cut on his forehead had been repaired by a combination of Asala's magic and potions, but it was still faintly pink. He, like all of them, really needed a wash.

He gestured over a nearby pair of Templars, who approached swiftly. "Take Lord Catus to a holding cell, please, and have extra guards posted until I send for him." When custody of Decius was remanded, he let out a breath and returned his attention to them, smiling mildly. "There is time enough to refresh ourselves, at least. I'll have someone show Lady Viridius a room, if the rest of you would like to avail yourselves of the opportunity. We'll reconvene in the interrogation room in an hour."

As the words were basically permission for them all to leave, it wasn't all that surprising that Khari also took them as a cue to relax. She'd been watching him for most of the way back, though she'd made an effort not to be intrusive about it. It certainly hadn't escaped her how much distance he kept between himself and Chryseis, and more often than not, she'd situated herself in that space, much closer to his side of it. Now, though, she stretched her arms over her head and heaved a sigh. “I won't lie: I like this armor, but I'll be happy to be out of it." She dropped her hands, letting one of them land on his shoulder. “See you in an hour, then?"

"Yeah." His left hand still held his shield, so he reached across with his right to briefly grasp near her wrist. He was being more subdued than usual, but he trusted the contact would be enough to convey what he wanted. Khari didn't normally sit in on the discussions that took place in the war room among Inquisition leaders, but he knew no one would keep her out of this one, and Rom in particular probably wouldn't even do it unless she was there.

Her gear wasn't kept in the keep, so they split at the stairs, with Rom ducking his way towards the undercroft as soon as he was inside. One of the Skyhold staff had prepared a washcloth and a bucket of clean water for his return. It was cold, like anything around Skyhold was as they began to move out of the summer season. Washing it over his face helped rid him of the drowsiness that had begun to build behind his eyes, willing them shut if he allowed it. There was more work yet to be done.

He exited his quarters near an hour later without his armor, armed only with his regular blade at his hip. He didn't wear it normally, but today was not a normal day. He'd also chosen to put on boots instead of sandals he might've worn otherwise. Subtle things that he was kidding himself if he thought Chryseis wouldn't notice. The others surely would as well.

She met him on the walk from the keep, in the great hall, a bit of extremely unfortunate timing that allowed her to fall in step beside him. Chryseis was shorter than he was, but had no trouble keeping up with his swift pace of walking, which he certainly didn't try to slow for her. "I'm pleased you came for me," she said, as they made their way out of the front doors. "Not a moment too soon, either. Decius was starting to get impatient."

"We came because we need your help," he replied, not content to let her speak at him as she once might have.

"Which I have offered freely." She obviously took note of his tone, and replied in kind. "In fact, working against the Venatori has cost me no small amount. There had better be blood at the end of this trail. Marcus's. I trust you can get it."

"It is what I do best. You saw to that." He honestly hadn't meant it as a threat, but he wondered if she took it that way. Hunting powerful mages was what he was best at, what she'd trained him to do, what his purpose had been. Eventually even the threat of it was sometimes enough to get what Chryseis wanted.

The guards allowed them down into the dungeons. The stairs were just wide enough for them to walk side by side, but Rom allowed Chryseis to go ahead of him. They found the others outside of the interrogation room. It seemed they were the last to arrive. Alongside Leon and Khari were Estella, Rilien, and Cyrus, who had no doubt been made aware what had happened, and who their prisoner was.

"Cyrus," Chryseis greeted, placing a smile on her lips. "It's good to see you again. I trust my father is well? I heard the Inquisition chose to make use of his talents."

“Chryseis." Cyrus inclined his head slightly, his tone difficult to place. He did not wear the facade of ebullience quite so easily as he once had, the intervening years having done much to sober his demeanor. He did smile slightly though, and it seemed real enough. “Little changes Cassius, as I'm sure you know. In this, his extended stay with us has proven no different." The smile disappeared at that. “It seems that your end of things has been a sight more eventful than his, actually." The words invited elaboration without demanding it—though he know doubt knew the minimal details of what had occurred, there was much missing from such an accounting.

"Indeed." It seemed the pleasantries were over already. Chryseis never had cared for introductions where she didn't feel they were needed or wanted. Apparently that included walking into rooms with leaders of the Inquisition. "I was driven from my home in a brazen attack led by this rat in here." She gestured to the closed door of the interrogation room. "Decius Catus. Old acquaintance, never liked him much. Talented, but stupid. Only successful through following the orders of his master to the letter. His talents are not worthless, when directed properly." Rom knew that the two had also been matched together, or at least attempted to be, by their respective fathers, but it had happened in a period when Chryseis had no interest in anyone but herself, and to force the issue likely would've ended in disaster.

"Why did they attack you?" Rom asked. He'd put some space in between the two of them since entering the room, re-positioning to stand nearer to Khari.

Chryseis turned away from the door. "I slipped, as much as it pains me to admit. Pushed too hard. They caught wind of my investigation. One of my slaves went missing. Captured and tortured, I think, Marcus is supposed to be quite good at that. However it happened, I became a presence in Minrathous that couldn't be tolerated. There are elements in the city, in the Magisterium, that support them, and they are difficult to root out. The attack on my estate was not stopped. So long as they limit themselves, the Venatori do as they please. I was forced to flee, to carry my information to you. Your way into Minrathous."

"And that is?" A bit of impatience seeped into Rom's tone. He hadn't come to hear Chryseis's woes.

"By ship," she answered. "Two ships, actually, your pirate woman's vessel is too recognizable. You'll take it to Afsaana, little village on the Rialto in western Rivain, where you'll board a trade vessel by the name of Jezzabelle. Her crew has been paid for. She will take a small party back 'round the coast, and west to Minrathous. They'll guide you into a private dock, where a slave of my ally Bastian Catus will meet you, and take you into the city."

“Wait... Catus?" Khari glanced towards the interrogation room, which even now held a man of that same name, something which obviously hadn't escaped her. “You sure he wants to help the allies of an ally more than he'd want to help his own... what? Kid? Seems like things would go to shit real fast if you're wrong about that."

Chryseis narrowed her eyes for a moment, as though she hadn't at all expected the elf to speak, and didn't at all like what the elf had to say. "Yes, I'm sure. Their differences drove Decius to join the cult in the first place. And now we will be delivering him back home, provided he is useful to us. I expect Bastian will be thanking us. His manor in the city will be a safe place to rest and prepare. From there you can launch your attack on Marcus."

Leon nodded slowly, turning for a moment to Rilien. "Can you please ensure that some of the people we have in Rivain watch this trade vessel for a while? I'd at least like a bird if something looks off before we get there."

“Of course." Rilien nodded like it was obvious. Then again, considering his area of expertise, perhaps to him it was.

With a nod, Leon reverted his attention to the rest of the group. "As it is, this plan seems to hinge on securing Decius's cooperation. I suspect this will not be an easy thing to do. I've often found that stupid people can be more intractable than the smart ones, if only because they don't always see what is to their own benefit." He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight a bit.

"It could be done without him, in the worst case scenario," Chryseis said, crossing her arms. "I've learned a fair amount about Marcus's magical defenses. Can't say I could bypass all of them with ease, but I believe I could get us in. But yes, having his cooperation would be ideal. That leaves the issue of securing it." She chose to look at the Lady Inquisitor finally, tilting her head up ever so slightly. "How is it your Inquisition normally handles these sorts of things?"

Estella cleared her throat softly. "We do not torture," she began, perhaps anticipating that such a question was likely to arise eventually. "In the cases where the subject of interrogation is particularly reticent, it is usually left to Leon or Rilien. Even if the rule is hard and fast, I do not delude myself into believing the subjects of interrogation are always... aware of that." No doubt much of the effectiveness the other two were able to demonstrate came from careful and assiduous use of the threat of prolonged pain, even if it was not actually an option.

A glint appeared in Rilien's hand, a rich golden potion in a small vial finding and reflecting back the room's light. “My methods are primarily alchemical. I have designed several tinctures that create varying levels of suggestibility, and another that makes it difficult to resist the urge to speak. These can be administered willingly or otherwise." He had not even a trace of Estella's merciful disposition, but it was clear enough that he was willing to follow her rules. “The downside is that he may be somewhat useless for some time after taking them. The side effects take a while to fade."

"I've also had some minor successes just... speaking to people. I do not know if that is likely to work here. You'd know better than I."

Chryseis hmmed both thoughtfully and with an undeniable hint of disappointment. Her eyes found Rom for a moment, and he resisted the urge to hide. Not that there was anywhere to hide here, but he had long dreaded this line of conversation coming about. Yet more from his past he'd never spoken of, about to come rearing back up. "I suppose the tinctures could help us glean information about the defenses I may have missed, but if his assistance is required in the city itself, we can't rely on drugging him. Hard to work complex magic in that state."

She glanced between Estella, Leon, and Rilien. "You don't torture, then? Seems you aren't making full use of your Lord Inquisitor's talents. Killing swiftly's not all he can do with a blade, after all." She settled her gaze on him. He imagined he looked like he was pleading her not to, and she immediately picked up on that. "You haven't told them, have you? Not surprising." She wandered a step towards the interrogation room, letting her fingers run across the surface of the door. "Romulus is an expert at inflicting pain. It's so much more visceral to work with a physical object than something magical. He can leave injures barely noticeable afterwards, yet cause excruciating pain that could make a member of the beresaad howl for mercy." She actually smiled a little at the thought.

"You're sure you won't make an exception? For your one ally in Minrathous? The father knows what the son's risked by betraying him like this. He might even do this himself after we deliver him."

“So fucking what?" Khari was just about snarling; it was clear that something about what Chryseis had just said had set her off, and the look on her face wasn't so different from the one she'd worn when that chevalier had insulted Asala. Worse.

Cyrus on her opposite side seemed to realize the same thing—he reached forward and gripped her by the shoulder, pulling backwards just enough that she had to make a decision about whether to resist or acquiesce to the obvious direction. For a very long, very still moment, it wasn't completely clear which one it would be, but in the end, her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she took the half-step backwards. “We're not sinking to anyone else's level. No exceptions for you fucks."

The man holding her sighed. “Yes, well, in any case, even from a purely pragmatic standpoint, we have a reputation to uphold. The long game, as it were. And while I know better than most people how effective pain is at ensuring compliance, it's quite risky. On the chance it fails, it tends to fail rather spectacularly."

"They're Venatori," was Chryseis's response, as though the word itself indeed carried a significant penalty as to their worth. "You'll skewer them in the back in roadside inns, but you won't inflict pain when it can gain you an advantage?" The idea seemed to confuse her greatly. "I'm so glad the Inquisition is preoccupied with childish notions of honor. Perhaps we'll offer Marcus a chance to properly arm himself before we attack? Warn the surrounding estates to stay off the streets an hour before we move?"

"This is pointless." Rom's voice cut through the small room louder than he intended it to, but he was not about to see words thrown back and forth between them until cooperation with Chryseis was no longer possible, let alone Decius. "It doesn't matter. Even if they wanted me to, I'm not torturing Decius."

"Then indeed, we are wasting time." She stepped away from the door, holding out her hands in invitation. "Do as you wish with him, and then let us prepare to leave. There are Venatori in my home that need to be killed."

Initially wordlessly, Rilien stepped past her, also apparently having decided that further discussion was unnecessary. “I will ply from him what may be plied. That may be all, but we will make do." So having said, he opened the door and disappeared within, letting it close softly behind him.

The preparations took only a day, and then the party setting out for the north made for Jader, and the Riptide. As far as the Irregulars went, it was a large excursion, but that was because there were multiple objectives to take care of. Estella, Vesryn, Cyrus, Harellan, and Astraia were boarding, but would be disembarking a day or so early, when they reached the northern edge of Arlathan Forest. He didn't envy their task any, even compared to his own. With him were Khari, Zahra, Leon, Asala, Chryseis, Decius, and the two most personally invested in the death of Marcus Alesius, the Dalish elf Ithilian, and the former Qunari Amalia. Welcome additions to any team.

For his part he'd been avoiding mostly everyone for the day of preparations, but Chryseis most of all. He wondered if some part of him had been broken, to serve so mindlessly a woman such as that. So consumed by her hatred and whatever target she chose to aim it at. That he used to find fulfillment in bringing her some measure of happiness, or her own near-equivalent, made him feel sick to his stomach. But the past was the past. Once this was done, it would hopefully be the past forever.

They were in Jader by midday after they left, departing Skyhold well before the sun came up. Before they'd left they received a letter from the Emperor of Orlais, Lucien Drakon, regarding a gift he planned to make, one that they could be in Jader to receive. Ships was the obvious answer. It remained apparent that having a friend such as Lucien Drakon was a key factor to the Inquisition's success.

For the moment Rom found himself on a hillside overlooking the sea, the docks not far below him, where Riptide was being prepared for the journey, loaded with last minute provisions. Astraia stood at the dock's edge, gazing out at the expanse of water with a mix of wonder and trepidation. Rom was content to enjoy the moment of relative quiet before being trapped on a ship with Chryseis for weeks.

As it turned out, however, the quiet was broken by an approaching pair of footsteps. Though she did not stride so boldly as usual, he could recognize that they belonged to Khari nevertheless. She came to a stop beside him, and for a moment joined him in staring at the water in front of them. She was fidgeting a little, a restless energy that could only mean she had something to say. Khari was only rarely ever still, but her movement was generally purposive, unlike this.

“I'm sorry." When she finally spoke, she blurted the words, grimacing when they came out a little too loudly for the surroundings. She tried again, this time at a better volume. “Sorry. I said I was gonna follow your lead and I... well, I didn't." She scrubbed her hands down her face, expelling a heavy breath. “Still trying to get the hang of this restraint thing. Probably shouldn't be around anyone who has to like us, but..." She shrugged, dropping her arms back to her sides with the motions. The reasons this case was an exception were very obvious. Unfortunately, they were also likely making the goal of restraint that much more difficult to achieve.

"And we said we'd try to be honest with each other, and... then another secret comes out. I wish I knew how to tell you these things before someone like her does it for me." She hadn't given all the details, but more than enough for Khari to get the picture. That Rom had tortured a number of people for her, that he did it enough to become very proficient at it. That she clearly enjoyed watching him do it.

"Fuck her." He crossed his arms, his eyes watching the horizon towards the west. "Fuck Chryseis, fuck restraint. She doesn't deserve it." He hated that Khari had opposed her, and that now she was apologizing for it. For standing up to her, for doing what she always did, and calling out bullshit where she saw it.

"There's going to come a time very soon where we don't need her anymore. When that time comes... I'm going to be rid of her, for good." There was no question as to what he meant, not with the way he said it. He meant to kill her himself, as soon as their job in Minrathous was through. It was what she'd trained him for, after all.

“Hang on a second here." Khari wore a pained expression, like she was warring with something internally. “I was with you right until that last part." Her mouth pursed, tension pulling her vallaslin taut. She licked her lips, clearly searching for words. “You don't have to kill her to be rid of her. And I don't... I don't think you should. She's not a threat to us. And as much as she might deserve it, as much as I really want to just..." She exhaled violently, a growl on the edges of the breath.

“This is one of those 'now' things, you know? The things that are gonna... define you. Better or worse. She hasn't hurt anyone more than you. You know what she's done better than anyone, and you've suffered it more than anyone. But... that's exactly why it's so important to really think about what you're gonna do here." Khari scoffed softly under her breath. “Not that I'm one to talk about thinking shit through."

He wasn't surprised at what she said, to be honest. Nor at how much he wanted her to say something else. It was a selfish desire, to want her to be on board with this. To let him do the wrong thing here, just this once, in this case where the victim would be most deserving of it. But of course she didn't want him to do that. Something she'd said in one of her worst moments came back. About good winning, every battle it fought. And this was one of those battles, there was no doubt about that. Several of them would be fought by the time they returned to Skyhold. If they returned at all. Nothing was guaranteed.

He exhaled heavily, the anger he'd let show having dissipated as quickly as it came. "Guess I'll have a lot of time to think about it. Probably for the best." He fell silent, getting started. It wasn't long, however, before he pointed out to the west. "Ships on the horizon."

It seemed to be a full fleet of them, actually—and not a minor one, either. As they came into view, he could count twenty in total, each with neutral white sails bearing no identifying marks of the Orlesian navy, though there was no mistaking where they came from. At the fore were four caravels, low-slung, swift and quiet, with triangular sails large in proportion to their bodies—scout ships, on most occasions. To the flanks bobbed five balingers, equipped with both oars and sails, their relatively spacious, flattened design making them ideal for the transport of large numbers.

Ten more were split between medium sized cogs—the standard warship of most navies—and larger, more impressive double-masted caraques. Those were almost exclusively Orlesian, though similar designs had made it to the other seafaring nations, like Antiva and Rivain as well as the Imperium. But the boat at the very center of the formation was the obvious flagship, and also obviously an attempt to answer the power and structure of a Qunari dreadnought. There were no fewer than four masts on it, all lined up along the dorsal line of the vessel, the second from the front being the largest. A prominent, beaklike prow helped the ship slice through the water, compensating for its obvious size with thoughtful engineering. The masts in the fore anchored pristine white square sails in place, the lateen rigs in the aft section were triangular, designed as auxiliaries for those in front, no doubt, to make the ship faster and more controllable. The design had to be relatively new, as he'd never seen anything like it.

Khari had clearly never seen boats this impressive, either; a small grin touched her mouth. “I almost regret being the worst sailor in the history of sailors." She turned slightly to aim the smile at him. “I bet Zee's gonna be over the moon. Think you can promote her to Admiral now?"

"I'll have a talk with the others about it." He couldn't help but grin back. "See if we can get her a new hat or something."

Setting

Thedas

Characters Present

0.00 INK

#2017-09-20 05:02:33, as written by Kurokiku

And those who slept, the ancient ones, awoke,
For their dreams had been devoured
By a demon that prowled the Fade
As a wolf hunts a herd of deer.
Taking first the weakest and frailest of hopes,
And when there was nothing left,
Destroying the bright and bold
By subtlety and ambush and cruel arts.
-Canticle of Exaltations 1:7

Cyrus picked his foot up, narrowly missing yet another protruding, twisted root planted in the soft, dark earth beneath their feet. The air carried the scent of something primordial, wet peat and riotously-hued flowers and startlingly-green ferns and underbrush, along with water steeped in minerals. The falls nearby was a constant roar in their ears as it crashed down the cliffside to their left into the lagoon below, throwing a fine mist into the air which was slowly sinking into the fabric of his tunic. Tiny droplets had long dusted their less-porous parts; Astraia in front of him had dozens of glittering pinpricks in her hair where they reflected the sunlight overhead. He could see more of the same on his own eyelashes when he blinked, but trying to stay dry was a futile endeavor at this point.

The stones wedged into the soil beneath them were slick, many swathed in a soft green moss, the jungle's own version of verdigris. The unfamiliar terrain made for slow navigation, and Harellan at the front of the column was clearly not selecting their path based on what was easiest to walk. No doubt this was deliberate, so as to avoid whatever defenses had kept the inner reaches of Arlathan concealed for so long. Cyrus was certain that if he'd still been able to sense it, the magic would have blanketed this place in a way not so different than the mist—he swore he could almost taste it at the back of his tongue.

Making their passage all the more treacherous was a certain kind of inborn hostility in their surroundings, one he did not think he was simply imagining. It seemed to be giving Vesryn and Astraia the most trouble and Harellan the least, but that could be for any number of reasons. Even he, however, felt vaguely... unsettled by the place. It was beautiful, aesthetically, saturated in more colors than he suspected he'd ever again see in one place, each hue as brilliant and rich as the last. Not so different from being in the Between, in that way. But everything felt slightly... off. His balance, so instinctive and well-adjusted under normal circumstances, was something he had to work at here, as if he were again a small boy learning to properly control the way his body moved in the space around him. Distance seemed distorted, harder to judge. Time, too, passed in a way that was difficult to track, and he seemed to hardly grow hungry, however long he walked. That, however, was more normal—for him at least. No doubt to anyone else it was just as uncanny as the rest.

Of yet, signs of civilization had been few. A handful of times, they'd passed what once might have been outlying settlements in the forest, crumbled stone not having quite lost all trace of artifice and craft. But these were few, and never more than a single column or corner, the rest no doubt long reclaimed by the earth beneath their feet.

A handful more times they had to stop, for Vesryn's sake. Cyrus had heard that even his short horse ride with Estella before they left Skyhold hadn't gone all that well, and he'd had an entire voyage's time to deteriorate after that. The trek was proving difficult even for the healthy, even one as experienced in forests as Astraia was. Her home in the far west of Thedas no doubt was very different from this place, and she'd packed likely more supplies than she would need, stuffed into a heavy bag she carried across her back. Likely it was to compensate for Vesryn, who carried little but the clothes on his back, which were damp with a mixture of sweat, and the moisture that the forest provided. Still, he did not complain, and with the frequent aid of Estella's magic, they were able to keep moving forward.

Estella walked behind Harellan but in front of Vesryn, checking back on him frequently and occasionally warning Cyrus and Astraia of upcoming obstacles, if they weren't the sort easily-noticed. Despite the circumstances, the environment around them seemed to inspire in her a perceptible wonder; it was not infrequently that she reached out to trail bare fingers along the bark of a tree, or paused half a moment too long to peer further into the forest, if some animal noise caught her attention. The arbors had only grown larger as they passed time walking; by now many of them were so tall that Cyrus was unable to see where they ended, and thicker around than all of them lined up. She looked as though she could have spent hours exploring were matters not so dire, truthfully, to all appearances unbothered by the humidity curling her flyaway hairs or the mist dampening her shirt. Perhaps she could sense what he was no longer able to.

"Is it much further until we'll see where they live?" She spoke to Harellan, their arrow-sure guide through the wilderness.

Harellan glanced back, then, his face hard to read. As always, however, he managed a smile for Stellulam, one that reached his eyes despite its subtlety. "It won't be too long, now." He didn't elaborate, however, merely returning his attention to the path before them and choosing their route down the steep, slick slope.

They made it down without incident, which might well have been a near thing for Vesryn especially, and from there the trail grew a little easier, though Cyrus found that it was harder to pay attention to the journey itself. Several times, he found himself unable to recall the exact orientation of their path, gripped by an odd sense of vertigo. It felt like he should turn around, for some reason, like he ought not to be here.

"The wards are in effect here." Harellan spoke to the group at large. "The disorientation will pass, but don't stray from the path. It's the only safe one through here."

“Do I want to know what happens if we do?" Cyrus asked the question mostly rhetorically, doubling down his focus on following in Astraia's tracks.

Rhetorical or not, Harellan answered it seriously. "At best you'll wander back out without much recollection of anything you saw. At worst..." He shrugged. "You'll die."

“Charming."

"Someone stop me if I start wandering away, please." Astraia planted her staff in the ground with every step, frequently looking up and down and back up again. Checking her footing often, while also being incapable of ignoring the surroundings. She had a way of gawking as well, a little more blatantly than Estella was, and with something that came closer to intimidation. Everything here made her look very small, from the large pack on her back, to the trees towering over her, to the size of her companions in front of and behind her. Even Estella was several inches taller than her.

"Don't worry, Skygirl," Vesryn reassured her. His breathing was understandably more strained than the rest. He often reached his hands out, but not for wonder or desire to feel the forest. Just plain necessity. "I've got four eyes on you."

He paused briefly, stretching and working out some kind of pain in his back. Something occurred to him, no doubt a feeling that struck him in the particular moment. "She thinks she recognizes this place." He didn't have to specify who she was. "Maybe. Everything's changed. She hasn't been in this forest for... well, a very long time. I wonder what it used to look like."

"Records indicate that it was once..." Harellan paused, as though trying to decide how to explain it. "Before the creation of the Veil, the forest was much more mutable. From the descriptions I've read, it was the same at the base of it, but everything was... more, than it is now, and it was much more easily-shaped. Also, there was no need to hide the settlements within it so thoroughly." When they came upon a fork in the path, he took the left without hesitation. "Of course, there were also many more people, and the environment was a bit less... contentious. Arlathan guards its secrets and its people jealously, now."

"The... creation? Of the Veil? I thought it had always existed." Estella's tone was almost sheepish, as though she were embarrassed for not knowing better than that. "If there wasn't such a thing, then what was the Fade?"

"There wasn't one." Their guide glanced once over his shoulder, as if gauging the reaction of the group. Cyrus had already known this fact, and therefore didn't have much of one, personally. "What people now understand as a second realm apart from the world around us was in fact once integrated with it. They were separated around the time of the fall. It was not the Imperium that brought about the demise of Elvhenan, but that single act, for it destroyed everything we had known." He shook his head slightly as he walked, picking carefully through a cluster of ferns. "The humans were merely an afterthought, a coup de grâce on what was already being strangled by its own hand."

He walked in thoughtful silence for a while after that, before humming slightly. "What you now call the Fade clung as tightly as it could to this place, which was so steeped in it. The Veil is thinnest here of anywhere in the world, which makes the shaping of powerful protective magics possible. It also affects those who live here, in some ways, and allows us to keep some customs of our forebears that are no longer possible in other places. The city is not so different from being in the Between, actually. You will see."

"So that's why it feels like this," Astraia said. She lifted her hand up towards herself, like she was running her fingers through a pool. Feeling something Cyrus no longer could, perhaps. Naturally, the knowledge about the Fade was news to her, and she seemed uncertain how to take it at first. With what Harellan said it had done, the Veil was obviously a bad thing. Responsible for the collapse of the people she belonged to, so many centuries ago. And yet everything she'd ever been taught about being a mage said that great dangers lay on the other side. "Why?" she asked. "Why was it created? Who created it?" She almost sounded like she didn't believe him, but the place she stood in was clearly persuading her otherwise.

"Would you believe me if I told you that the Dread Wolf had done it?" Harellan half-smiled, his expression suggesting he knew how fanciful it sounded to say so. "It was created as both prison and seal. In their vainglory, the Evanuris—what the Dalish today consider their gods—came to quarrel, and he who walked always between this world and the void dreamed up the possibility of dividing creation again, and trapping his kin on the other side in eternal slumber."

Cyrus snorted. “And here I thought I dealt poorly with family feuding." The words came out a bit darker than he intended them, drawing Harellan's sharp green eyes for a moment.

"Yes, well... he didn't get them all. Only the leaders of the great houses. Not that it made much difference. The far more devastating blow was the severing of the worlds. Our people's eternal lives and easy command of magic went with the Fade. Now mages are rare even among elves, dreamers rarer still. That alone nearly destroyed what we had been. Nearly destroyed us all." Harellan shook his head, the tone of his voice betraying an unusual bitterness, almost as if he considered this somehow a personal slight. Of course, he did consider himself particularly tied to that history, so perhaps in a way, it was personal, for him.

Stellulam was clearly stunned by the certainty with which he spoke of it all, or perhaps just the content of the words themselves. It was not every day that one had the existence of gods so casually confirmed, nor one's understanding of history so entirely rewritten. She appeared, indeed, as though she were struggling to believe it. "That's..." She looked to Vesryn, almost as if seeking confirmation of everything Harellan had just said. "Why would anyone do something like that? Collapse a whole civilization?"

"I wish I knew," was his answer, sadly unsatisfying. "It's... I knew the world had been somehow different before, that an event had changed it to what we know now, but I didn't know this either. About the Fade, the Fall, Fen'Harel." There was some extra emphasis on the name spoken, and he took a deep breath, lowering himself to a knee. Not physical pain this time it would seem, but an emotion he felt from Saraya.

"She is... very mad, about what you just said, Harellan." He swallowed, reaching out to place his palm against a rock and steady himself. "At Fen'Harel, I think. She knew this, about the Fade and the Veil, just could never get me to understand, but she didn't know who. Or why. Regardless, I think what he did hurt her greatly."

"Dread Wolf..." Astraia placed her back to a tree, frowning. "Our hahren says he spent centuries alone in a corner of the world after the betrayal, hugging himself and giggling madly." She shook her head. "Always thought it sounded silly. How could anyone be that evil?"

Harellan exhaled a short breath. "Yes, well... I don't think that's quite how it went. The way things were back then—there's little point in idealizing it. That way of doing things had flaws, some of them extreme. Some of which have carried on even in its absence. Perhaps he believed that some things were worth rectifying, whatever the cost. I've never met him to say, of course."

Even as they spoke, the forest had been changing before them. The trees were now ancient behemoths almost to a one, likely the product of thousands of years of growth. At least ages. Sunlight still filtered down to the forest floor, but only dimly, and the mist that hung in the air here drifted in and out of shafts of illumination, occasionally throwing rainbows into the air. The temperature had cooled slightly in the shade, the discomfort of their passage fading away into a sense of stillness so complete it was almost unnatural, as though time itself were reluctant to move here.

Eventually, it became clear that they were no longer alone. In the distance, a solitary figure stood among the ferns, facing towards them. Whoever it was, they were clearly both aware of the party's presence and not making any attempt to conceal their own. Indeed, Harellan steered them towards the person, a young-looking elven man. His features grew more distinct as they approached—short, pale hair, solemn grey-green eyes, frame slender and perhaps only slightly taller than Estella. He was dressed quite well, if plainly, save for the elaborate teardrop swirls embroidered in golden thread on the sleeves of his green tunic, which was long in the front and back but split up the sides for movement, with breeches and boots beneath.

His face unexpectedly bore vallaslin, the tree-branch pattern more elaborate than the Dalish markings of Mythal but nevertheless clearly a designation of the same thing. The ink in which they'd been applied was almost metallic, a gold-tinted viridian, and covered only his brow, leaving the rest of his face bare.

When they drew within range, he placed a hand to his heart and bowed. "Milord," he said quietly, the word rolling off his tongue in the tongue of the People. "It has been some time since we spoke in person. Welcome home." He did not shift into the trade tongue; it was perhaps possible that he didn't even know it. Harellan had mentioned not being familiar with it before he left Arlathan, either.

"A rather bold choice of words." Harellan replied in the same, then half-turned so as to be in profile to both the group he led and the elf he'd led them to. "Everyone, this is Zathrand. Zathrand, may I introduce you to my brother's children? Estella and Cyrus Avenarius, and their compatriots Vesryn Cormyth and Astraia Carrith." He switched fluidly between languages to give each in the tongue its addressee would best understand, obviously suspecting that not everyone's grasp on the elven one was quite masterful.

Cyrus offered a small nod when he was introduced, but before knowing what the valence of all this was going to be, volunteered no more than that. He wasn't foolish enough to believe they would be embraced with open arms here, though this fellow did seem to be on good terms with Harellan, so perhaps his concern was premature.

Zathrand shifted his attention to them, almost before Harellan had actually specified who was whom. It was likely not difficult to guess; despite the obvious predominance of their human lineage, Cyrus and Estella did share mot closely in Harellan's own coloration, and they were obviously the matched pair as far as appearances went. For a moment, he was entirely silent, and then a small smile turned his mouth. "I can see it," he said, clearly intrigued by this fact. "I hadn't expected I'd be able to, but I can. Welcome to Arlathan milord, milady. And to Master Vesryn and Miss Astraia as well."

"Oh, um... you don't have to address us so formally," Estella replied, her words slightly halting over a language she did not often have cause to speak. "I think all of us much prefer our names."

Zathrand tilted his head at her, blinking as though this were a very strange proclamation indeed. "Be that as it may, milady... please forgive my obstinacy, but I must insist."

She didn't quite seem to know what to say to that.

Moving his eyes back to Harellan, Zathrand continued, somewhat less warmly, though that seemed to be a matter of the topic and not the person he was speaking to. "It's Ellas, as you specified. I'm not sure why you think he's your best chance, but I can get you through the barrier to him."

Astraia had noted that some of the words exchanged were indeed a greeting towards her, which she returned well enough with a wordless nod of her own. She was perceptive enough to catch on to the elf's demeanor, very much like a servant, and so hadn't bowed or anything like that. Her eyes often went to the others, however, all seeming to follow the conversation a bit better than she could.

"Uh... my Elvish is a bit spotty. Ir abelas..." There was certainly a bit of embarrassment to the admission, that the one Dalish among them would have the least understanding of her own people's tongue.

Cyrus didn't think there was any reason for her to be embarrassed about it—it wasn't as though the Dalish had more than fragments of their own mother language, after all. Still, he could understand that it would present some difficulties in... whatever they were doing next. “Zathrand is being rather formal. Stellulam pointed out that this wasn't necessary, but he seems to disagree. We're now going to pass some sort of barrier that he can disable for us, and meet with someone named Ellas." He glanced at Harellan, inviting elaboration on the last point with an arched brow.

"Champion of the Suledvhen." Harellan shifted his weight. "That is what we are called. The People Who Endured. Fenesvir Ellas is the... I suppose the closest term in this language is 'general.' He commands the soldiers of the city. He's also the most likely person to grant me entrance, despite the fact that I'm not precisely welcome here." He paused there, to purse his lips and make eye contact with each of them in turn. "From this point onwards... please conduct yourselves with care and respect. The lords of the Suledvhen are proud, and they will be looking for reasons to take offense. They will not welcome you. For the sake of our purpose here, follow my lead, or Zathrand's. And remember that no matter how things may appear, there are no allies to be found in there but us. Not at this juncture."

With those words, he turned, falling in step next to the other elf and leading the rest of them deeper into the jungle.

Cyrus grimaced. “Now there's a pleasant thought."

Setting

Thedas

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#2017-09-21 03:40:45, as written by AugustArria

The People Who Endured.

Fitting name, Vesryn thought. They would have to be an enduring people to last this long, isolated from the rest of the world by their own choice. Naturally not all could endure such a thing, when there was so much more out there to explore. Vesryn knew the feeling. All who did here likely faced an impossible choice: resist it, and spend their entire elongated lives existing in a relatively small corner of the world, or give in to it, and betray what they were taught as they were raised.

Vesryn had grown less and less fond of isolation as his years with Saraya went on, and now that he'd done so much with the Inquisition he couldn't imagine going back to that life. If he was even given a choice. It was about as much of a walk as he could endure, and without Stel's help he wouldn't have made it this far without stopping for a prolonged rest. A rest they couldn't afford to take, not when his condition grew worse now by the day.

He tried to focus on Astraia ahead of him. Skygirl was ineffectively containing her wide-eyed awe as they drew closer. More than once she turned about as they walked, wanting to look at something longer. When she caught his eyes, she smiled, probably meant to be encouraging. It was, in a way, but he knew that this place might be a rude sort of awakening for her, being Dalish. She hadn't yet put the pieces together on why the likes of this Zathrand wore the vallaslin on his face, and someone like Harellan did not. He hoped she wouldn't take it too hard. The news about the Veil was already heavy enough.

They began to encounter architecture, much of it partially submerged as ruins in the forest, likely hundreds or maybe thousands of years old. Ancient styles, the kind Vesryn had rarely been able to see in the south, there only in the oldest places. They were getting close. Vesryn began to wish he'd been able to carry his armor with him. It would help his case proving to these people who he was. As it was he looked and felt weak. Not the kind of person who would live up to the standard the Suledvhen held themselves to.

The trees grew ever larger around them, many of them as tall or taller than any building in Val Royeaux, lofted so high that to stand next to one was to be unable to see where it ended, for the mist that lay everywhere here obscured even that. No doubt it would have been impossible to make out the canopy in any detail anyway. Though the emerald moss and deep green foliage might have threatened to recede into a sort of monochrome, bright bursts of flowers held the impression at bay, blooming from the vines that now embraced the tree trunks and ruins alike.

About thirty minutes' walk after he'd appeared, Zathrand stopped, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that all of them did the same. "If you will allow me a moment." He exchanged a glance with Harellan, one that clearly meant something, then moved a few more steps on his own, removing a short, thin blade from his belt. With his last two fingers, he tugged up the sleeve of his left arm, tucking his elbow against his body to hold it there and drawing the blade across his forearm in a practiced motion. He didn't so much as flinch as blood welled to the surface of the wound.

It wasn't until it dropped to the ground that the barrier he was manipulating even became visible. Even then, it only flickered softly directly in front of them, like a transparent pane of glass reflecting the sun. It was a delicate-looking piece of magic—an appearance which was surely deceptive.

Tucking his knife back into its scabbard, Zathrand moved his bloodied hand as though he were drawing open a curtain. The barrier shimmered and parted, but it did not collapse, merely receding until there was an opening just large enough for someone of Cyrus's dimensions to pass through. "After you," Zathrand murmured, stepping away from the opening to allow them to pass before him. "It will close as soon as I'm through, so I must be last."

Stepping through the gap was a strange experience: from the outside, it had appeared as though the forest continued on in the same way for as far ahead as Vesryn could see, but immediately on the other side, the landscape changed sharply: all at once, there was a city before them.

The word city might have been a stretch, but it might have counted as one, once. More massive trees rose before them, including one in the distance that must have been half the size of Skyhold's castle in breadth alone. It was actually hard to judge the scale of it, but the lowest of its branches looked to support wooden bridges between itself and its neighboring trees, as wide as a road. Stonework was melded seamlessly with the wood of that tree and the others around it, which the residents appeared to have built both on and into, if the regular openings in the living bark were anything to go by. Windows, to allow in the light. Staircases and ladders led between levels of the city, and the upper branches were strung with lights, no doubt powered by magic, that illuminated their surroundings in every color. Dim for now, but surely something to behold when darkness fell.

Separating all of them from the finer details was a stone wall, wrought just as masterfully as everything else within sight, the white rock veined with green and blue mineral striations in an almost-intentional pattern, fantastical and glittering. But it was built as a defense, no matter how beautiful, and that included the barred gate that Harellan now led the way towards.

Vesryn had to pause, and fall to a knee. "A moment, please," he said, placing a hand on the ground to steady himself, the other resting over his knee. It wasn't a very opportune moment to go down, but then there wasn't going to be any escaping this. "It's been a very long time. She wasn't sure how much would be left."

Astraia couldn't seem to open her eyes wide enough, as though they were incapable of properly taking in everything she could suddenly see. She spared a glance back at Vesryn, but soon they were charmed back ahead of her by the city. "And how... how much is left? Can you tell?"

"Not much, I don't think." There was a familiar rush of sights that she remembered, but at the same time, it wasn't the same. True to the style, but even this wasn't remotely true to the scale. All of the awe Vesryn felt was entirely his own. "Most of what is here was rebuilt by them. As best they could." What they'd done was more than Saraya had expected, and it was that force that brought Vesryn to his knees. Soon she wanted to see more, and closer, and she urged him back up.

"Difficult when we have to engineer what was once possible with will and imagination alone." Harellan's tone was strange, as though regret and pride were warring in it, and by extension, in him. "That much of the achievement is ours alone, though the result is lacking in some respects because of it, when compared to the city of our ancestors." Once Vesryn was back on his feet, the older elf resumed his path towards the gate, his eyes trained above him.

With good reason; the moment he stepped within speaking distance, the sound of bowstrings drawing back was easily audible, and the group found itself facing down more than a dozen arrows, all held by armored elves who'd appeared on the wall and now glared down at the group.

For all that, Harellan seemed hardly perturbed. "Fenesvir, are you up there? If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to exchange words rather than blows." He folded his hands neatly behind his back, clearly with the expectation that he would indeed be answered peacefully enough.

It took a second for the answer to come, but when it did, it was preceded by a new presence appearing on the wall, peering down at them through the eyeslit of a full-face helmet. A half-muffled, metallic ha was the only warning they got before the person behind the helm planted a hand on the wall and swung himself over it easily even in full plate, dropping the fifteen feet or so to the ground and landing with a grunt in a crouch.

When he stood, it quickly became evident that he was taller even than Vesryn or Cyrus, maybe close to Leon's loft, and not so far from his breadth, either, from the looks of it. Waving a hand, he wordlessly commanded the archers to ease up on their draws, though not one of them let their bowstrings go entirely slack. Placing his gauntleted hands on either side of his helmet, the figure lifted it off, spilling bright copper-red hair over his shoulders and down his back. Like Harellan, his face was bare of blood writing, and when he tucked his helm under one arm and grinned at them, he did so without a hint of Zathrand's deference.

"Some pretty big words, from an exile. You standing on some kind of right to get back in, or am I going to have to drag you out of the forest?" Despite the fact that it wasn't exactly a friendly query, there wasn't anything malicious in his tone. If anything, he seemed curious, deep green eyes frequently flickering back to the rest of the party.

"It's not my right I stand on." Harellan's reply was immediate and unfazed, but prompt. Perhaps this Fenesvir was the type to make good on his words otherwise. "Rather, it's theirs." He stepped aside slightly, leaving the armored elf's line of sight to Stel and Cyrus clear. "These are the children of my brother. Eliana and Syrillion Saeris. They've come to claim their birthright as members of our family."

Cyrus wasn't quite quick enough to cover his expression, and a flash of suspicion passed across his features before disappearing, either a reaction to the names they'd been called by or the fact that he'd been included at all in the explanation, it was hard to tell. When Harellan gestured them closer, he went with clear reluctance, his left hand almost reaching for the hilt of the sword on his right side before he closed it into a fist and dropped it back to his side.

If anything, Stel looked even more reluctant, though considerably less suspicious, but she was hiding the signs of it better than Cyrus. But Vesryn knew her expressions too well to miss it regardless. She drew even with her brother.

Fenesvir whistled low, shaking his head. "Mahvir's..." He paused, eyes narrowing, and tilted his head, making careful study of the twins' faces. "Shit, I can almost see it. You're serious." Raising his free hand, he rubbed at the back of his neck. "You know they're not just going to accept this, right? Mahvir's bastards would be one thing. Mahvir's half-human bastards are quite another. I'd probably get chewed for letting any of you in the gates, blood claim or no."

"Please." That was Stel; she forced herself to stand a little straighter and make direct eye contact with Fenesvir. "We're not seeking to disturb anything, or interfere with anyone's business. All I want is a piece of information, and I can't get it anywhere else. We'll follow whatever rules are in place in the city, and leave as soon as we have what we came for."

The tall elf blinked, clearly surprised at her ability to speak to him in his own language, then sighed. "Well, it's not really my decision anyway. The Ghilan'al decide everything to do with the important families, so..." He shrugged. "I'll take you to them. Things've been pretty boring since you and Mahvir left, anyway. This could be good." He directed the last at Harellan and grinned at the rest before replacing his helmet and turning on his heel.

"All right, let us in!" Almost immediately, the gate opened, admitting all seven of them into the city proper.

"We're being taken to the Ghilan'al," Vesryn translated quietly, for Astraia's benefit. "Wayfinders." Given Skygirl's choice of vallaslin, she could likely guess at the translation there, but he provided it anyway. Bit of an odd name for a group that never went anywhere, but Vesryn wasn't going to question it, and neither was Astraia.

"He seems alright," she said, pointing ahead of them at Fenesvir. He towered over her even more than Vesryn did, and though she was obviously conscious of that, his demeanor had served to put her a little more at ease.

"He does," Vesryn agreed. They made their way towards the largest of the trees, heading into the middle of the city. It made the Emerald Graves seem like a garden in a backyard by way of sheer scale. Considering the size of the place, the population of what was probably a few hundred didn't seem all that cramped. Vesryn imagined their rules around having children were quite strict, so as to keep it that way. Vital that they did, but also vital that they prevented the need to expand.

Before long there were more eyes on them than just the bow-armed guards at the gate. No doubt this was one of the strangest things that had happened to them in some time, two elf-blooded humans disturbing their privacy, threatening it even with their very presence. Accompanied by two elves that were shadows of themselves. Some gazes were kinder than others. If only they knew Vesryn carried one of the ones they strove so hard to emulate. Sadly it wasn't something that could just be shouted and understood.

"How many are you?" he ventured, asking the question to Fenesvir in the elven tongue. "Can't be too hard to keep count."

"Our industries and capacities could sustain about six or seven hundred," he replied. "For this reason it is considered best to keep ourselves as close to five hundred as possible. We are currently four hundred and eighty-six." He paused a moment, considering. "Perhaps four hundred and eighty-eight, if what your companions claim is the truth, though they will find few who would count them even if it were." He gestured vaguely at the trees around them, then changed course slightly, leading them all up a staircase that seemed to have been shaped into the side of a tree. Carved wasn't the right word, as the vigor of the still-living wood suggested a much gentler process.

It wound only about a quarter of the way around the trunk before they reached the level of the lowest and sturdiest branches. These, too, had been shaped, flattened at the top for the easy use of foot traffic, though at the moment there was little of that to be found. They were being given an obvious berth; perhaps Fenesvir had changed their route accordingly. From their height, it was possible to see more of the city; it seemed that the public buildings were either on the ground level or this first layer of the branches, while above them were personal residences and smaller pathways between them, neighborhoods stacked atop one another rather than laid out beside.

"Do you know how many... families that is? Clans?" Stel either couldn't or more likely didn't modulate her curiosity, tipping her head back to look up at the homes above, or what of the edifices they could see from here.

Fenesvir cracked a small smile. "Somewhat too small for clans," he pointed out, "though some of the individual families are quite extended. The great houses number eight, with their various auxiliaries at about fifteen. Mine is such a family. And of course the artisans and slaves are more numerous overall, both the number of families and the membership of each one."

"Slaves?" Stel only sounded half-surprised; perhaps it was something she'd already suspected might be true.

"Like me." Zathrand drew their attention with the affirmation, then pointed to the vallaslin on his forehead. "I serve the Saeris."

"What did he say?" Astraia asked. Vesryn held in a sigh. It seemed they'd be coming to this sooner than he thought. She was bound to figure it out eventually, and the keenness with which she asked after Zathrand pointing to his forehead indicated that she was suspecting something already.

"He says he serves the Saeris," Vesryn translated. "His markings designate his position."

"But..." she was obviously confused, taking another look at Zathrand's vallaslin, probably checking to be sure she'd seen them correctly. "Those are for Mythal. Shae's aren't too much different."

"You're right, of course. But they serve a different purpose here. One not especially religious." It took her a moment to understand what he meant. When she did, she exhaled, the breath a little shaky, like she'd almost wanted to say something but no words came out. She stared at Zathrand a moment longer, mouth open, before she looked down, reaching her hand partway up towards her face before she thought better of it. If possible, she seemed to grow smaller still.

"It might not be as bad as you're thinking." Harellan spoke in the trade tongue for Astraia's benefit. "Nominally, it's true that Zathrand has the status of a slave, but his personality is his own." No doubt he referred to the demonstrated formality. "It may interest you to know that he has charge of the entire city's healers, and is skilled enough in the art to have earned the respect even of the Ghilan'al."

“You can say that, but it doesn't change the fact that his life is not his own." Cyrus crossed his arms as he walked, speaking in the same, though he looked a bit uneasy to be discussing someone who was present in words he could not understand.

Harellan nodded slightly. "That is also true. I warned you that not all of our cultural artifacts are equally glorious. This stratification is one of the downsides."

Cyrus still seemed dissatisfied, his eyes shifting between Astraia and Zathrand several times, but if he wanted to say something, he didn't quite manage it, and fell silent again instead.

It was fairly clear that Fenesvir and Zathrand both had been unable to follow that part of the conversation, but also that the topic was not too difficult for them to discern. Neither chose to comment, in any case, and the last portion of their journey to the city's center was mostly silent. They descended via a stone platform, this one braced on a vine twice as thick around as Vesryn was, and came to a momentary halt in front of the enormous tree. The doors set into it were vaulted high over their heads, attended by a pair of guards who immediately snapped their attention to Fenesvir, who moved forward to speak with them in low tones.

When they'd decided whatever needed to be decided, he turned back to the group. "I'm going to have to ask you to wait here and not go anywhere. I have to announce you to the Ghilan'al. If we just walked in there without permission, well... it wouldn't go too well, to say the least. Hopefully it won't take me too long."

Stel nodded slightly by way of reply, and that served well enough for all of them. Pushing open the left-hand side, Fenesvir disappeared inside the building, the gravatic boom of the door closing behind him sounding oddly... final. Whether there was any truth to that remained to be seen.

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Thedas

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0.00 INK

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#2017-09-24 04:00:40, as written by The Valkyrie

Three days after she'd entered the Catacombs, Estella emerged.

She would not go so far as to say she was a changed person, but... in the two days that had followed the encounter with whatever being had worn her father's face, she'd found that even the occasional demon could do little to disrupt her sense of place. If anything, she'd confirmed for herself her purpose, and armored herself against all the possible ways anything could think to tell her she could not or should not be there. It hadn't been roses, by any means, but it was with a pervasive sense of certainty that she followed Zathrand back out of the tombs and once more into direct sunlight. And back to the people who'd been waiting for her.

The Ghilan'al had done something, some kind of diagnostic spell, to check for signs of demonic possession, and she'd submitted to the examination without protest, patient until she was cleared. Whatever they thought of her, she'd passed their trial, and not even Lord Aedanthir tried to deny it.

Estella was exhausted, hungry, and covered in dust and moss when she folded herself into the collective embrace of the other four, but she was smiling nonetheless.

"You've earned yourself much with this," Asvhalla told her, leaning somewhat on her beautifully-carved staff. It was made of some pure white wood, hewn perfectly symmetrically, with an elegant focus in green set into the top. "Tomorrow, we will walk with you to the glades, and there you will make your claim. All of you should rest well in the meantime." With a small nod, she departed, leaving the group to make their own way back at whatever pace they saw fit.

It had to be a slow one, with Ves at her side. He looked significantly worse than when she'd gone in, as though the three days of her absence had aged him a number of years instead. At some point he'd acquired Astraia's staff for walking purposes. Astraia herself looked like she didn't quite know what to do with her hands without it, but of course she made no complaint.

"So you're all right?" Ves asked, studying her and trying to determine if anything was amiss. "Not being possessed isn't exactly a high standard of wellness by itself." He was obviously relieved that she'd passed that bar, at least.

"I'm all right," she confirmed. "It was... a strange experience. Parts of it I still need to make sense of." She didn't think that she'd really had enough time to decide exactly what, if anything, the whole thing had meant, to her and for her, but she also didn't feel any particular need to hurry that understanding. For now, she'd done it and it was over, and the last hurdle was the one that still lay in front of her.

For once in her life, she really believed she'd be able to clear it.

Gently, she took Ves's free hand in her own, mostly just because she wanted to hold it but also in case his balance failed him, and they started up the hillside that led away from the cave entrance. "Um... Harellan, you mentioned that this was some kind of rite of passage for the people here, right? Does that mean you did it as well?" She was curious as to what his experience had been like; whether it had resembled hers.

"I did." He glanced back over his shoulder a moment, having taken the lead position as they walked. "I suppose it is not entirely unlike a Harrowing—that thing they do with the Circle mages elsewhere. But it isn't just the mages. Anyone who might conceivably be given access to the Eluvian network at some point has to demonstrate that close proximity to the Fade will not be ruinous to them." He fell silent for a moment, picking his way up the slope with easy grace.

"It is also the time when we are given the names we use as adults. Names are significant for us; it is generally believed that we aren't sufficiently set in our characters to have a proper one until adulthood. Children have names of course, but it's well understood that they aren't permanent. And when one is cast out, one's name is taken, and replaced with something else. Such as mine." He smiled, sharp like the edge of a knife, but she could easily tell he wasn't directing any sort of hostility at her. "No doubt were it not for you, I would have found it much more difficult to walk openly here."

“No one has bothered you about it." Cyrus, walking behind them, didn't sound entirely convinced.

"That would be because the official tack is to behave as though I'm empty air. No doubt you've mostly met the exceptions rather than the rule, as we've been staying in my mother's home, with people I've known since birth. A bit harder for them to do."

Well, the use of that particular name certainly made sense now. Estella had wanted to ask if his real one was Telahn, as the vision of her father had called him, but it seemed like a sensitive topic, if names truly meant as much as all that, and she wasn't sure he'd want anyone to know. So she stifled the question, focusing on the walk instead, at least until they'd reached the bounds of the city once more and the going was easier.

The following morning, Estella woke to find that several maidservants were already in her room. She thought to protest when she was informed that they would be readying her for the day, but when they confirmed that this was mandated by Asvhalla as part of the necessary trappings of the events themselves, she acquiesced, allowing herself to be stripped, cleansed and dressed by efficient, practiced hands.

The garb of choice for today was white like the others had been, but sleeveless, the collar bearing elaborate stitching in pearlescent thread that only really showed up when she shifted and the angle of the light changed. Her hair was meticulously brushed until it shone, but left to hang loose behind her rather than tied out of her way. The robe itself fell to her knees, belted into place with a length of white braided rope, which she was informed was made from woven halla hair. She was given no shoes, and no weapons, and all of her bandages were left off. It felt like they picked every inch of her as clean as possible, from the dirt under her fingernails to every untoward speck of lint that dared sully the snowy linen.

She really couldn't imagine she'd remain this clean for even a few minutes, but it seemed to be important, so she didn't say that much. When they were satisfied, they ushered her out gently, telling her to make her way to the front of the house, where the others would be waiting.

There did, indeed, seem to be quite a number of others. Everyone, not just her, was garbed in white, but hers were the plainest. All eight Ghilan'al wore colorless versions of their official robes, and the small collection of soldiers with them even had armor, but it too was pale, as though it had been made from white ironwood or bone or something similar. Among them was Fenesvir, still looking a little wan but otherwise much recovered; he flashed her a brief smile.

Astraia's robe was similar in cut to Estella's, but tailored for her smaller size. She looked at home being barefoot, but not at all herself in all white. Estella had never seen her wear anything white before, actually, and the elf kept looking down at herself, smoothing the skirt, extremely self aware of any piece of grass or dirt that made its way onto her.

She had her staff back, which meant Ves was empty handed, save for a small knife now sheathed at his belt. His tunic was also sleeveless, something that highlighted how much more gaunt he'd become since the complications with Saraya began. The cleansing it seemed they'd also been given was able to take a few years off him, but he looked exhausted, almost certainly from lack of sleep. He wore white pants under the white tunic, ending in pale, bare feet as well. He offered a smile to her as she emerged, as good of one as he could muster.

Harellan and Cyrus stood next to them, dressed in a similar fashion also. The former seemed quite at home, while her brother picked with some disdain at the loose neck of the tunic, as though he wasn't quite comfortable with the way it lay on his skin. He'd retained his swords, now kept at his waist with a belt not dissimilar to hers.

No sooner had she joined them than Lord Aedanthir cleared his throat to speak. "You've passed your trials," he said, his tone neutral. "As a result, it has been decided that you are permitted to prove your claim in the way any other would, if they wished to gain admittance to house Saeris. The nature of this test is exceedingly confidential, and it would serve everyone well to remember that." Glancing over them with a weighty stare, he nodded once and turned on his heel, pausing only to gesture Asvhalla ahead of him.

It was she who led the way outside of the city; the procession caught the attention of no doubt every resident they passed. It seemed to have that sort of official gravity to it—Estella assumed there had to be some reason they were all dressed this way, for one thing. She wondered if this test was administered all that often. Surely not, if they kept the sort of meticulous track of marriages and children Harellan had suggested they did. Maybe it was designed just for this kind of purpose: if a bastard child claimed descent from someone in particular.

She felt a temptation to ask, but something about the atmosphere seemed to forbid it, render it superfluous. Noise was minimal as they walked, limited to the soft clanking of the soldiers' armor. She noted that the only slave present seemed to be Zathrand at the back of the group, and wondered if she should be concerned that they'd consciously chosen to include a healer.

But there was little point in thinking about it. There wasn't any turning back, not at this point. Not when she was so close. So Estella occupied herself with the walk instead, finding that the ground was not as unforgiving on her bare feet as she'd expected. For the most part, they walked a narrow path that seemed to have been deliberately put there, the dirt packed and smooth, the edges of it crisp. Gradually the ambient atmosphere of the city grew wilder again, the trees losing the signs of cultivation. Drooping vines clung to the branches; along the sides of the path, ferns grew thickly. She could hear the distant roar of another waterfall, and the calls of tropical birds high above.

Maybe it was just her, but the air seemed infused with something expectant, like a dam quietly and valiantly holding back a tide of water, but starting to creak, just a little. Reaching out, Estella brushed her fingertips over the petals of a bright orange lily specked with black, then skimmed them along the tops of a fern as high as her waist. If not for the path, it would have been very slow going, indeed.

As the walk continued, the roaring of the falls grew louder, and she could tell that they were orienting themselves towards it. They finally reached the river slightly upstream of it; just by peering ahead, she could see the cloud of mist and spray flung into the air by the falling water, feel the force of it through her bare feet, thrumming up into her chest.

It was then that Asvhalla stopped, turning around and facing the group at large. "This is as far as we go," she said, indicating herself and the rest of the native residents of Arlathan. "Harellan must remain here as well. The rest of you are permitted to accompany her; you will find what you seek at the bottom of the falls."

Estella's brows knit; she peered down the cliffside. It didn't seem like it would take a climb, exactly, but some parts of it were definitely more vertical than horizontal, and much of the ground appeared slick.

Harellan had clearly expected the caveat. "They think I would attempt to cheat the test for you." He smiled wryly, then took a few steps closer to place his hands on Estella's shoulders. "They'd be right if I needed to, but I don't." He looked to debate something with himself for a moment, then placed one palm on her cheek, speaking so low she almost couldn't hear him over the falling water. "What you see will scare you. Conquer your fear like you've conquered the rest."

She nodded slightly. "I'll do my best." An affirmation, not a hedge. Gently stepping away from him, she turned to the others. "Ves? If you want, I can..." Estella gestured vaguely with her hands.

"I think that would be best." He was certainly trying to conceal how bad a state he was in, but it was clear that even the walk this far hadn't been easy. He took his own look down the cliffside, gauging the difficulty. "I can make it with your help. I have to."

With a small noise to indicate her consent, Estella took up his hand in both of hers, opening the connection between her magic and his body, easing it forward the way she'd ease herself into hot water. Even like this, she could feel how much more fragile he was than he'd used to be, the fearful extent to which the troubles in his head were affecting the rest of him. But that was just another reason to take particular care with how she used the spells, and she focused on shoring up his strength and reflexes, lending him as much as she could. It had only been about four days since she'd completely drained herself, and this used most of what she'd regained, but she was fairly sure she could make the descent under her own power, and so she didn't think much of that.

When that was done, she heaved a sigh, glancing between Cy and Astraia. "I'll go first, I suppose." At least that way if she slipped or struggled somewhere, she could try and point them in some other direction.

The first bit was just a direct drop. Lowering herself to hang from her hands, Estella let go and fell a good five feet more before she landed. The ground was fairly dry, and she didn't have trouble staying upright, which was fortunate. Moving out of the way so the next of them could make it, she picked a likely looking path over the next rocky part, a little less sheer but definitely at greater risk of damaging their feet if they stepped wrong.

Ves made his way down after Cyrus, as her brother was perhaps a better indicator of how to approach the descent with a larger build and more weight. He looked much more focused immediately after her magic had taken effect in him, but there was still a fine tremor in his legs when he crouched down, in his arms when he lowered his weight. He kept his breathing steady and controlled, as though he was struggling to lift a great burden, not just his own body weight. Astraia followed him down, watching him carefully.

The look in his eyes was not so different from how he looked in battle. Intensely focused, alert and aware of his surroundings, focusing his efforts on the precise control of his body. It was hard to say how much Saraya was able to help him, or if at this point her presence was only ever an added difficulty. He took careful steps across the slick rocks, his hands almost always out and near the wall for potential support. Astraia navigated it carefully but with ease.

The descent continued in a sort of staircase pathway, only the steps were far too steep to take one leg at a time. The others could hop down, but Ves chose to lower himself to a seat on each one, sliding slowly down until his feet were planted below him. It quickly left the white of his tunic and pants darkened with bits of smeared mud on the rock. The mist from the falls had all of them damp by the time they made it much further, their assigned clothes sticking to their bodies in places.

Estella half-climbed, half-slid down a short embankment, hissing when her foot caught on a stone as she landed. It was enough to open up a cut on the arch; she stopped to dig it out of the ground so it wouldn't get anyone else, tossing it away into the clearing ahead.

By the time they reached ground, she was slick with sweat, neither the mist nor the humidity making it easy to stay dry. Her hair, heavy and long, bothered her most of all, but at least they'd finally gotten where they were going. She peered back up the climb, able to make out the figures still waiting at the top, but they weren't close enough to discern in any detail.

Exhaling, she waited for the others to reach the bottom before leading the way into the clearing. The falls ended in a large pool of water, probably three times as deep as she was tall, and quite wide. It was surrounded on all sides with a lush growth of grasses and moss, a wide circle above it open to sky. She couldn't see anything in the area that looked obviously like a test or anything like that; there were no altars, no elf-made structures, no signs of life or ritual to be seen.

She was pulling in a breath to speak when a low rumble started in the ground beneath her feet. Estella froze in place, glancing around as though to spot the cause. It took a moment, but the rumble became audible as well, a low, rolling sound like tumbling over one another, heavy and roughened. The air almost hummed with it.

The sound of the water falling behind her changed; Estella whipped around to see the falls spitting down the middle, the onrushing stream parting around an object in the center of—what?

The object disturbing the fall of the water was moving, emerging from the falls with obvious intent. the first impression she had was how green it was, saturated in the color to the point of brilliance, a gem-like hue only enhanced by the way the droplets of water upon it cast away the light. A rounded shape gave way to something elongated, but it wasn't until the entire horned head of the creature was free that Estella realized she was looking at a dragon. There was a dragon here, and she was completely without defenses.

A long, powerful neck followed its head from behind the falls, each few feet host to another curved spike, only a slightly darker shade of green than the scintillating hide. The eye she could see opened, a slit pupil contracting in the light. It moved down, fixing upon her, and its upper lip pulled back from ivory-colored teeth. Estella swallowed. The sound from before was it growling.

Cyrus was at her side almost immediately, stepping half a pace in front and drawing both falcata. The expression on his face was grim, but also almost... perplexed. Fascinated, certainly; it was not every day any of them saw such a creature up close. He didn't raise the weapons or attempt to attack—he probably wouldn't have been able to, given the distance involved. “Stellulam?" A dozen questions were implicit in the question. Cyrus was asking what she wanted him to do here, but also another handful of whys and hows, probably without expecting that she had any more answers than he did.

She didn't in fact have the answers to any of them. The dragon stepped off whatever hidden piece of solid ground it was planted on and into the water, the sheer size of its body displacing enough of the water in the pool that it flooded over the banks, nearly reaching their feet and swamping the bright grasses around them. With obvious intent, it swam in their direction, the rumbling around them dissipating slightly but not vanishing entirely. Maybe that was just the sound it made when it breathed normally.

Putting her hand on Cyrus's shoulder, Estella stepped forward so that she was even with him. "Don't hurt it," she said, brows knitting. "I think... can you feel that?"

It was hard to tell for sure, but she didn't think it was going to hurt them. Maybe that was just because it hadn't done so yet, and surely they could have been bathed in fire by this point if it had so desired. She could feel herself shaking; there was something about standing in the presence of a creature so much larger and more deadly than herself that stirred an instinctive fear in her, one that made it hard to resist the desire to run and hide. Everything in her was driving her to do just that, except for the one thought. The one thread of... familiarity? Or something not quite familiarity, but more abstract than that. It had no name she could give it, but it let her stay where she was, at least for now.

Ves was shaking as well, though it would be understandable if that was just a result of his physical state rather than any fear. Astraia, however, was quite clearly terrified. Even still, the head of her staff was pointed down and away, as though she was attempting to be as non-threatening as possible. She certainly had more potential to hurt the dragon than Ves did, given the power she'd previously demonstrated with her spells. Ves didn't even bother drawing the knife at his belt, as there was clearly no use for it even if they did have to defend themselves.

"Saraya would also like us not to fight, for what it's worth," he added, holding a hand out as though Astraia needed any encouragement to stay back. "I think she means that for all of us, but it might be she just wants me not to do anything stupid."

“It would be splendid if we had any idea what to do instead." Cyrus still watched the approaching dragon warily, but it might be that he felt some version of the same strange thing that she did, for he seemed... steady, almost. Either that or he was just holding himself together a bit better than the rest of them.

The dragon reached the edge of the pool, pulling itself out in a powerful motion, water cascading from its back and flanks. For a moment, it spread its wings as if it meant to fly, stretching the leathery membranes up towards the sky. The sun shone through them, exposing the darker lines of its blood vessels beneath the nearly translucent green webbing.

"Maybe I should..." Estella took a slow, careful step forward, holding both hands low, but slightly away from her body, making it as obvious as possible that she was without physical defenses. The dragon remained where it was, head slightly turned, clearly tracking her movement with the closer eye. This close, its size was even more obvious. She could stand between its two forelegs and her head would not brush its underside, though Cyrus's might.

She took another step, her wounded foot sinking slightly into the mud created when it had disturbed the water. The rumbling increased in volume, and for a moment she froze, afraid she'd provoked it somehow, but aside from the spike in noise level, nothing changed. It didn't move to attack her, nor did she find herself suddenly aflame or impaled. She had to believe that counted for something.

Conquer her fear, Harellan had said. Much easier to say than do, but...

Picking up her other foot, Estella slowly extended her arm until it was well in front of her body, trying to broadcast her intent in the plainest terms possible. She had a feeling that surprising it was the last thing she wanted to do. Her heart thundered in her chest, frantic and staccato, but she swallowed past the lump in her throat and kept moving forward.

Narrowing its eyes, the dragon shifted its head slightly, parting its jaws. For a horrifying moment, Estella imagined her death in a gout of flaming breath, but though it exhaled humid heat from its lungs, there was no fire. Instead, a serpentine tongue slid from its maw, flicking in the air as though tasting it. It inhaled, the force of its breath nearly enough to tug her another step forward on its own, and she had the distinct impression that it was... sniffing her.

She really hoped she didn't smell like dinner, and chanced another step forward, tilting her head upwards to make eye contact with it as well as their relative dimensions would allow.

The stalemate lasted for several long moments, in which she finally drew within range of it. The dragon did not move as she extended her hand the last few inches, brushing the very end of its nose with her fingertips. It expelled a breath, almost a huff, the gust picking her damp hair up from where it lay about her and stirring it backwards with a ripple. It was almost sticky, and frankly didn't smell very good, but... that wasn't so different from any other animal. She'd never call a dragon an animal, exactly, but the similarity emboldened her just enough that she shuffled forward another half-step, moving her hand back against the scales beneath it. They were smooth, like polished stones, and glinted every bit as brightly in the sun from overhead.

Estella shuddered, but fascination won out over fear, and she traced a few more of them with her fingers, studying the way they lay together, overlapping at irregular intervals, thickening closer to its brow ridges. It was still rumbling, but the tenor of the sound had shifted, softening again, and this close, she could see its sides shift in time with the noise.

"Um." Still not entirely sure of herself, she risked a quick glance back at the others, but the dragon's nose remained unmoving beneath her touch. "I think it's okay now. If... you wanted to see up close?" Maybe it was stupid of her, but she imagined that it might have been enjoying her ministrations, and the longer she had to get used to it, the more the rumbling sounded almost like purring.

“You think. That inspires so much confidence." Cyrus's face pulled into a grimace, but she could also easily spot his curiosity, practically shining out of his eyes in a way it hadn't in more than a year. Carefully, he returned his swords to their sheaths, though he took his cue from her and approached very slowly, his hands easily visible and empty. That wouldn't have meant anything, once upon a time, but now he was arguably more helpless in such condition than she was.

He stopped slightly to her left, frowning and taking in a deep breath. Even his obvious interest wasn't quite enough to banish all caution, clearly. When he reached forward, his whole arm shook, but it steadied upon contact. “Well, this is..." He cleared his throat, the words clearly failing, if only temporarily. “This is not something I imagined I'd ever do." He moved his hand just a bit, tracing the edge of one of the scales a little further back from where she was.

Ves and Astraia took a bit more time to approach, though Ves had lost most of his signs of fear upon seeing that the dragon welcomed the touch of both of them. Astraia began to approach after Cyrus did, slowly lowering her staff down to the ground and setting it there. Together they worked their way towards the side of the dragon's head, both of them eyeing it with unrestrained amazement.

"Only ever seen one of these at a distance," Ves said, reaching out to touch the scales. "Certainly never seen one that wouldn't eat me on sight."

"He's so beautiful." Astraia had a smile locked on her face now that the terror had slowly receded, and she placed both hands flat on the creature's neck. A look of uncertainty crossed her features. "Or... she? Can you tell?"

“I believe all high dragons are female, but we're probably better off if we don't try to confirm." Cyrus said it wryly, walking forward the several additional strides necessary to run a hand along one of the ridges at the creature's neck. “I have to say, if this doesn't qualify as proof, I've no idea what was supposed to happen instead."

Almost as if that were a cue, the dragon shifted, slowly extricating herself from the hands upon her. She raised and fanned out her wings again, which Estella interpreted as a signal that she was about to take off. "We'll want to get clear now," she said, backing up rather urgently.

No sooner than they were all a safe distance away did the dragon drive her wings towards the ground in a powerful motion, pushing herself off the ground simultaneously. Several more mighty flaps lofted her airborne, the wind buffeting all of those below. With a loud roar, she pointed her nose towards the sky and ascended, circling above the treeline several times before heading roughly westward.

"Congratulations." Estella swung around to face the speaker. It would appear that Asvhalla had made her way down the cliffside at some point, though she must have done so magically, because she bore none of the smears of dirt and sweat that befouled the rest of them. "The Ghilan'al acknowledge your blood claim, Eliana Saeris. Access to Vir Dirthara is yours."

Setting

Thedas

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#2017-09-24 06:50:49, as written by AugustArria

After the first few hours, the wonder of the shattered library was starting to wear off.

Vesryn suspected it was just the pain. Astraia seemed to find it utterly remarkable, and still when she passed him by her eyes were wide with wonder, trying to take everything in while she was allowed to be here. They had been guided through an Eluvian in one of the city's public buildings, the whole group allowed to go, not just Stel and Cyrus. Zathrand had accompanied them, to help them not lose their way. It was no simple library like one might find in the material world.

It was built into the Crossroads, the world between, and had once been completely whole. Before the creation of the Veil. Saraya remembered it, though Vesryn got the sense she didn't visit a lot, especially as her responsibilities increased. She wasn't the most scholarly sort; she was a warrior, and a leader. Every leader could learn, but Saraya had to learn from experience. Still, even with the structure of Vir Dirthara shattered and floating in the void of the Crossroads, she knew her way around, at least once Zathrand gave a little help.

He looked up, to where Astraia was now appearing to stand on the ceiling of an adjacent building, flipping through the pages of a book in her hands. The entire building was upside down, he supposed. Or his was. Or neither were, and this was just the Crossroads. What mattered was that they hadn't yet found anything that could save Vesryn's life, save Saraya's, and they were running out of time. Each time Stel strengthened him with her magic he could feel it becoming less and less effective. She couldn't keep him alive indefinitely once the pain became too great. Couldn't keep his mind intact. They had to find something, and soon.

He replaced the current tome, useless chapters of history, and pulled another, making sure he translated the title correctly before he flipped it open.

Stel worked in tandem with Zathrand, discussing technical minutiae with the expertise of experienced researchers. They were what looked to be several stories above Vesryn's head, on a narrow walkway that allowed access to the upper stacks in the same part of the building's shell as he was in. Occasionally, one of them would decide something looked promising enough for closer examination, and run it back to Cyrus, who was easily the fastest reader among them.

They'd all been able to change back into their ordinary clothes, and she looked much more like herself than before, but there was also no mistaking the overt signs of fatigue: her complexion was getting waxy, and the last few days of unrested wounds were visibly catching up with her. She looked a little more strained each time she happened to pass him, but she never said anything about it, scanning books with an almost mechanical efficiency.

"Hold on." She blew out a breath, almost excited. "I think I've got something here. Cy." She looked up from the page in front of her, glancing around until she found her brother, then ran it over to him, reappearing on a section of library suspended slightly below the one Vesryn occupied now. "Can you make sure I'm not hallucinating this? Zathrand, if you can grab the next three books from next to this one, I think we've got the right spot." The elf nodded briskly, crouching to retrieve the items in question from a lower shelf.

Cyrus scanned the page in front of him, rapidly flipping to the next. Clicking his tongue against this teeth, he raised his voice to call to the rest of them. “She's right. Gather here, please." He strode to a table nearby, setting the book down and making a much more deliberate study of it, reaching down to pick up a quill and parchment.

He wrote furiously for the next five minutes, during which the others all made their way to where he was. He seemed to keep up a running commentary under his breath, but most of it was so fast and so quiet as to be indecipherable, and it seemed better not to interrupt him.

Expelling a heavy breath, he dropped the quill and glanced up at the rest of them. “I know what we need to do, but... well, it's going to involve quite a lot of risk. For multiple people."

Of course it was. Vesryn didn't actually expect anything they could do would be safe, or well-tested, or even reasonable to attempt. A case like his had to be one of the strangest things to occur in the history of magic, so he was just pleased there was some possible way to fix it. No doubt Cyrus had already made some adaptations or inferences from what he'd read to alter the plan to his situation.

They had already come so far, and risked so much. He couldn't stop now, and he knew Stel wouldn't either. Whatever it took. "I wouldn't believe you if you said there was no risk. What are we doing?"

“No doubt." Cyrus moved his eyes back down to the parchments in front of him. “Vesryn, you won't have to do much of anything but sleep, as it turns out. Well, and donate a little blood to the cause. The rest is going to involve sending someone into the Fade with you, but awake, using lyrium. Your blood will be a... beacon, if you will, a way of ensuring that they end up in your dreaming consciousness instead of their own." He paused to flip the page of the book, where an elaborate circle had been drawn, illustrated alongside a few other accouterments typical of more sophisticated magic rituals.

Cyrus tapped his finger on the page almost absently. “Once that person reaches you, they will need to find Saraya and free her from her present state of confinement, reconnecting her to the Fade completely." He pursed his lips. “That is not likely to happen smoothly—and it is the part that is most difficult to account for, as exactly what happens is dependent on her. Her mental state, her interactions with the Fade both voluntary and otherwise. But if something happens, she will need to be brought back to the initial location by whatever means necessary. Only then will you be able to construct a separation between that will keep her presence from overwhelming your mind and killing you both in the process."

"I'm not sure I understand the last part," Stel admitted. "I thought that the bonds holding her apart from the Fade were important. Nightmare loosened them, and so did Zethlasan—isn't that the reason there were problems to begin with?"

Cyrus nodded. “Yes." The rhythm of his fingers on the page changed, and he shifted them to the tabletop instead. “Think of it this way: Saraya was held in place by... something like a web. Some of the strands were cut, and she cannot help but try and fight further through them. This has tangled everything beyond repair. What we need to do is cut her free entirely, and then give her new boundaries." He shrugged. “If left unbound, she'll naturally spill over into all corners of Vesryn's mind, and there will be two people trying to exist in one person's space—good for neither of them. But if she's cut from the web and then bounded by a wall, it's like... getting her own room in a house, you see? No competing for space."

"But... how do I put up the wall in the first place? And what exactly could the Fade possibly do to her that I'd need to worry about?" Stel at least seemed to be taking quite for granted that she would be the one attempting this.

“The same things it could do to anyone." Cyrus's reply was solemn; he hardly needed to put a finer point on it than that. The three of them knew firsthand exactly how bad it could be, and Astraia and Zathrand were both mages, so it seemed likely that they could at least guess what he meant. “You have to understand—the things you see will reflect the minds you are in contact with. And the things you do will have real effects on those minds as well. You must be extremely careful not to disturb more than you have to. It will be exceedingly delicate work."

He sighed. “Fortunately, the spatial metaphor is actually a very effective one. If you can literally wall the area off such that Saraya and Vesryn are separated, that should do the trick."

"It sounds like..." Astraia paused, her tone thoughtful. "Right now, the problem is that Saraya is escaping, and she's powerless to stop herself from escaping. Once she's free, it could be disastrous, or it could be good. Good if the separation is something voluntary, maybe?"

"Makes sense to us," Vesryn said, speaking for both minds in his head. He wasn't quite ready for the nervousness that seeped into his voice, though. Only part of it was his own, the rest coming from Saraya as she heard the details of what Stel would experience. Vesryn had more than enough faith. If there was delicate, precise work to be done, there was no one else he would trust it with more.

He looked to Cyrus, almost not wanting to ask. "So this solution. Say it works as planned. Is this something permanent?" He felt he already knew the answer, but it needed to be out in the open.

Slowly, the other man shook his head. “No. The fundamental issues are that firstly, you aren't a mage, and secondly, you weren't prepared in the right way to host another consciousness. What we're doing here will mitigate those issues, but... not forever." He glanced once back down at the book, clearly uneasy, but forced himself to lift his eyes again. “I don't know exactly how long it will last. It could be decades. Or... days. If I had to guess... maybe a year."

"A year..." Stel couldn't keep a trace of dismay from her tone, but she took in a steadying breath through her nose, her expression hardening somewhat. "I guess that just means we have to find something more permanent soon."

It wasn't much, that was for sure. Just getting to this point was the work of at least half that, from the time Vesryn had first shown alarming symptoms of his deteriorating mind. Granted, they now had access to this place and could presumably return here when needed, but there was still Corypheus to contend with, and so much else for them to battle. Still... it might also be more, he'd said. Regardless, they didn't come this far to not try it. It wasn't an option.

"We're ready, if you are," he slipped his hand over Stel's, but then his eyes found Zathrand's. "Sounds like we'll need some lyrium, if you've some to spare."

He nodded firmly. "Of course. It will take me some time, but I'll bring enough back to get someone into the Fade." It probably wasn't an uncommon practice, here, what with the Crossroads being so accessible, as well as the knowledge to do this sort of thing much more safely than most mages likely did. There had been plenty of soldiers in Arlathan, but no one who seemed to in any way resemble a templar.

Zathrand disappeared back through the eluvian, leaving the rest of them to do the remaining preparations, which fortunately did not seem to be too extensive.

Cyrus got to work immediately on those, poking around the library's various parts for the basic supplies necessary: two shallow bowls, some charcoal, some salt, and what seemed to be a veilfire candle, though he had to pause to light it on one of the torches already burning, grimacing when he did. Referring to the book, he sketched the circle on a clear, flat expanse of stone floor with the charcoal, covering some but not all of them over with a layer of salt. The candle went in the center, flanked by the bowls, both still empty. Not for long, likely, considering that he set a knife right next to one of them.

"How much blood do we need here?" Vesryn asked. The nervousness was rising, most of it Saraya's at this point. Vesryn just wanted it done with.

“Not a great deal. Perhaps about fifty milliliters." Cyrus pointed to the right side of the circle. “You'll want to sit there. After you've let the blood into that bowl and Stellulam has taken the lyrium, she will have to cast a sleeping spell on you. I'll make sure you don't fall, but it's advisable to make yourself comfortable beforehand."

"Right." It seemed the plan was all in place, and all that remained was for Zathrand to return, and the spell to be performed. They were all still standing, watching over Cyrus's preparations. Astraia studied it carefully, occasionally returning her eyes to the book and trying to read pieces of it again. Vesryn caught Stel's eyes, gesturing off to the side of the room. Just enough space to have a tiny bit of privacy from the others. One more moment, in case...

"I guess this is it, then?" he said quietly, finding a smile from somewhere.

She shook her head. "There is no sense in which this is it, Ves. None." She swallowed, facing him and taking both of his hands in hers. An anxious smile flitted over her face for just a brief moment. "I'll have you know the Lady Inquisitor is far from done with her champion yet." She stood on her toes to kiss him, light and sweet, then dropped back to her heels with a soft exhalation. "And I've no plans to let you go anywhere." Under the levity of her tone, there was a palpable nervousness, but she seemed to be fighting it as well as she possibly could. No doubt she was more than aware of the ways this could go wrong, and just how much of it depended on someone she'd never placed much faith in—herself. She squeezed both his hands, though, and met his eyes with a sort of serenity not typical of her personality.

He believed it. Saraya believed it too, despite all her fear and nervousness, seeping into his own. He really did believe she would do this as it was intended, and he'd be free of the pain again. And if it only lasted a year, he'd do everything in his power to make it the best year of their lives, before they had to hunt for a way out of this again.

"Well, just in case—" He cut himself off, and tried again. "No, forget that. It's for no reason in particular, and nothing to do with what we're about to do. I'd just like to say that I love you, Estella."

She clearly hadn't been expecting him to say that, at least not at just this moment. For a moment, she merely blinked wordlessly at him, but then a smile broke over her face like sunrise, and she loosed an unsteady breath. "I love you too, Vesryn. Maybe someday I'll know the words for how much."

The moment was interrupted by a glint in the corner of his eye. Clearly she saw it as well, and a moment later, Zathrand stepped though the eluvian, what seemed to be a flask of liquid lyrium in tow. It was time. Stel gave him half a smile, releasing one of his hands but not the other and heading for the circle Cyrus had drawn.

Cyrus took it upon himself to direct the process, only slightly hindered by the fact that he would be unable to do any of the requisite casting himself. Vesryn had to let his blood into the bowl in front of him, and Estella drank half the lyrium, pouring the other half into hers.

Apparently satisfied with that part of the procedure, Cyrus folded his hands behind him where he hovered at the edge of the circle. “The sleep spell if you please, Stellulam."

She nodded and reached forwards, setting her fingertips at his temples. With a little curl to the corner of her mouth, she held his eyes. "Good night, Ves." The magic, like hers always tended to, overtook him steadily and gradually, like being slowly submerged in warm water. He slid from consciousness easily, Stel's face disappearing from his vision.

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Thedas

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#2017-09-26 07:43:58, as written by Yonbibuns

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#2018-05-22 04:12:31, as written by Yonbibuns

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#2018-06-09 00:22:24, as written by The Valkyrie

Her entire right arm was in agony.

It took just about all the focus and discipline Estella had ever learned to keep the sheer extent of it from showing on her face. Wincing anyway, she rolled up her sleeve, lips parting in soundless surprise. Lines of eerie green webbed over everything from her fingertips to her elbow—it looked as bad as it felt. Like the entire limb was about to crack apart and fade into dust. It was hard not to panic at the thought, but urgent as it was, there was one that overrode it.

Through that mirror, she would find her family. There was no especially good reason to think so, aside from the fact that it seemed like they'd reached the end of the fortress and it was the only way to go. But more than that she just felt it. She'd always felt—would always feel—a connection to her brother that granted her vague insights like that. She couldn't help but put stock in it now, when there was so little else to go on.

But the eluvian stood open, and time drew short in more ways than one. Glancing behind her to be sure the others were all ready to enter as well, she used her good hand to push her bedraggled, wet hair from her face and exhaled, pulling in one final, bracing breath before she stepped into the mirror.

The mirror led them back into the Crossroads, if the sudden vivid colors blooming in front of her eyes were any indication. She could feel it, too, a gentle brush against her magic, a warmth that called to something ancient and quiet in her blood. Not an experience everyone had, apparently. The castle they'd passed through earlier lay on the other side of a massive gully, slightly above them, its broken and jagged spires shining in the dark, yearning towards the deep blue of the sky. A remnant, in the same way she was a remnant, of something great and powerful that had come before.

The path was somehow clear before them, though it was in truth little more than a vague depression in some of the grass at their feet, signs of passage from many that carried them around a rock face.

On the other side lay a scene of utter devastation. Qunari bodies were strewn across the ground, many of them slashed and torn by familiar weapons and spells. The smell of ozone was heavy in the air, despite the cloudless luster of the stars above them, bright against the velvet blanket of night. Blood, drying and sticky, glinted dully on the grass, on their armor, but little had found the steel of their blades. Still others were rendered to stone, an unmoving graveyard in corpses and monuments to them. The stone giants were frozen in the poses of warriors, fighting a battle centered around one specific point near the center, and there lingered nothing at all. Nothing but the sense that they ought to advance farther still.

"Gods," Astraia said softly. An old habit Estella knew she'd been trying to break. "They didn't stand a chance." She walked with a slight limp still, having only hastily healed the slash to her thigh.

"Keep moving," Romulus urged, holding his hand to his chest. "I don't know if I'll make it if this thing goes off again."

Asala hovered close by Romulus, watching him and his arm carefully. She probably wouldn't be able to do much if it did go off, but knowing Asala, it wouldn't stop her from trying. She did spare a look of horror at the scene at hand, but didn't dwell long, instead tossing a concerned look toward Estella.

Estella couldn't help but share the thought, uncertain as she was what to make of what lay before them. Biting the inside of her cheek, she nodded jerkily and followed the path that instinct made, seeking what she could not yet see.

Ahead, she could make out the vague sounds of an armed clash, Viddasala's harsh contralto shouting something indistinct in Qunlat. Through some trees, and then up what must have been a rise—the noises were coming from above. Estella shifted from a swift walk into an outright run. That had to be—

Emerging from the treeline brought them right to what they were looking for. Viddasala, spear in-hand, took a swipe at Cyrus, who bent backwards and away from it, parrying with a luminous blade. His strength was enough to knock her guard open, and as he came back up he took a hard step in, thrusting forward with the second and finding her throat. She gasped, the sound cut off with the severing of her windpipe, and collapsed to the ground.

The noise of their passage clearly registered; he turned to face them. At her distance, Estella could see he hadn't emerged unscathed from the earlier fight—blood was drying on a cut in his lip, another slicing across his right brow. The largest one stained his cloak red at the shoulder, though he gave little indication of pain.

He didn't look surprised to see them, exactly. Instead, his face pulled into a grimace, and he took a step back and to the side, eyes seeking and finding Harellan, who stood with his hands folded behind his back, which was to yet another eluvian. It had the effect of making his features difficult to discern, casting them in deeper shadow and darkening his silhouette.

"It seems you've found us." The words were soft, almost tentative. "I hadn't meant for that."

None of it seemed right at all. Their body language, the way they were dressed, the things Harellan was saying—it just didn't add up to anything Estella could understand. "Why?" she found herself asking, attention bouncing from one to the other. Her first instinct was to go immediately to Cyrus, but something about the cast of his expression... she'd only seen him look like that for her once in her life. The night he told her goodbye the first time. It was a similarity that she didn't want to contemplate, and so she reached automatically for the queries instead, stepping half a pace forward.

"What's—what's going on here? Why did you leave? What's all this with the Qunari and the—the rest of it?"

"A problem I had intended for us to solve ourselves." He had to be talking about the Qunari. The dark shape of Harellan shifted; he'd tilted his head a bit. "At least the immediate problem. But then someone pushed a dying soldier through an eluvian and onto your doorstep, and here you are."

“Harellan." Cyrus interrupted almost tonelessly. “The Anchors."

"I see them. I'd thought—I suppose splitting the power didn't do more than delay the effects. Since you're here, we can remove them."

"Remove...?" Estella immediately held her hand to her chest, cradling it with the other. It hurt, to be sure, and she'd much rather lose the Anchor than die, but... still she couldn't help but feel some terror at the prospect of actually losing it. It was the reasons she'd become Inquisitor in the first place, and now she knew it was in some way a piece of the heritage she barely understood. It was hard to imagine life without it, now, after almost five years. That feeling warred with the pressing need to push Harellan to answer her actual question, but she supposed this ought to come first. Mere questions were hardly justified when she and Romulus had lives hanging in the balance.

Romulus seemed more immediately willing, as he quickly peeled off the glove covering his, revealing the way his own mark has alarmingly begun to spread and crack up his arm. "Do it."

"Cyrus, if you please." Harellan nodded towards them. Cyrus banished his weapons and approached Romulus first, stopping short of him and motioning for the other Inquisitor to extend his arm. From there it looked to be mostly a matter of passing his hands in the air above and beyond Rom's arms. The green light came away with them, leaving whole, unbroken skin behind, and with a slight grimace, Cyrus stepped back, approaching Estella to do the same.

Only when the noise of the magic was in her ears did he speak, almost too low for her to hear. Certainly too low for anyone else to hear, which was probably the point. “I'm sorry, Stellulam." He met her eyes, his wide and almost childlike in their earnestness, if only for a split second.

But then he stepped back again, retreating to Harellan's side without so much as touching her.

"I don't understand." Astraia's voice was rife with emotion. Her eyes lingered on Estella's arm a moment, fascinated by the magic that removed the mark entirely, but clearly she had other things eating at her. "Why did you have to leave when you did? Without... without even saying goodbye? I thought—" She reached a bloodstained hand almost up to her face, where her vallaslin had once been. Whatever her thought was there, she didn't finish it, instead starting a new one directed at Cyrus. "We fought a dragon together. And when I woke up you were just gone."

"He is blameless in this." Harellan sighed softly, taking a step down from the eluvian's dais to stand closer to level ground with the rest of them. He'd re-shorn the sides and back of his head and gathered the rest, leaving a thick black tail to fall from his crown to the middle of his back. His armor was of a kind with Cyrus's new set, if slightly more elaborate, and with the addition of what looked like a thick fur cloak. Wolf pelts, perhaps, though the garment would have needed several. "If you would lay fault, lay it at my feet instead. Cyrus had no choice but to follow where I led."

Cyrus shot him an indecipherable glance, but did not contradict the statement. Harellan apparently took that as reason enough to continue. "We left when we did because no one was watching. A quiet exit was better, I thought, considering the reason for it. What we do now should not be associated with the likes of the Inquisition."

"And what is it that you do now?" Ves sounded guarded, to say the least. His gaze was questioning, searching for answers, and laid solely on Harellan. Astraia didn't seem satisfied with the answer she'd been given, but she fell silent for the moment.

Naturally, Harellan was expecting the question, or at least completely unsurprised by it. "Rectifying a mistake. An ancient one." He shook his head, tipping it back to look at the sky. "Corypheus was supposed to unlock the power in the focus, but I did not anticipate the extent to which he would succeed. The hole he tore in the Veil was... not what it should have been. Mine will be cleaner. More complete."

A simple statement. Staggering in its implications. Estella immediately looked to Cyrus, as if for confirmation. What she saw was not encouraging, and she reverted her attention to her uncle. "But—putting up the Veil destroyed an entire civilization, Harellan. Tearing it back down again will destroy... at least ten of them. Why would... why would you let that happen?" Not just let it happen—actively make it so. And the things he said about Corypheus made it sound like he was the cause of everything. She almost couldn't process it.

His expression, almost eerily neutral up to that point, finally softened slightly. "I did not think that so great a sacrifice, for a very long time." He sighed, letting his eyes fall to the ground in front of his feet before lifting them back to hers. "You showed me the error of that thinking. Made me believe again that there are things in this world worth saving, worth cherishing." He swallowed thickly, beset by some emotion that never quite became clear. "I'd lost that belief, when I lost your mother and my brother. It makes this more difficult, but... all the same, I cannot lose my resolve now. The world that was before the Veil was a better world than this one, and if catastrophe is what it takes to see Thedas returned to what it was always supposed to be, then I must unleash it. I alone have the strength and the knowledge."

"That's insanity." Ves said it with certainty at Estella's side. He held his weapon in one hand, showing no signs of wanting to use it, but at the same time his posture was anything but friendly. "I know what I felt, what was in my head. Saraya lived in that world, and she lived in this one. If she could speak again, she'd tell you there are just as many things worth protecting in this Thedas. And there were just as many things wrong with the world before. You can't do this."

"Make no mistake, I do not mean to merely trade the new for the old. I'm aware enough of the faults you allude to. Nothing is perfect, but a world where the magic and the life does not leach from us with every passing generation—that is worth sacrificing for. And I will sacrifice for it." For all the tenderness he used speaking to Estella, and for all that his tone remained mild now, there was an unmistakable firmness to it. The kind belonging to someone who'd well and truly made up his mind. Quite a long time ago, from the way he spoke of it.

Estella didn't even know what to say in the face of that kind of certainty. She'd been certain of so few things in her life, and she could never even imagine being certain that the destruction of so much life was the right thing to do. It was like the person in front of her was at once the uncle she knew and someone entirely different, as foreign to her as a stranger. She'd always known he had his secrets, but to think he'd been sitting on this the entire time they'd known each other, from their first meeting in a Chantry stables to his reappearance in the eluvian network all the way through teaching her, and Cyrus, and Astraia...

"How—how much of any of this was real, then?" she asked, her tone tremulous. It was a demand to know, but a quavering one. "This whole time, this has been your aim... was it all just so you could do this? And Cy—what do you mean he had no choice but to follow you?"

“The Vir'abelasan, Stellulam." The first to answer the question was Cyrus himself. “Drinking from it bound me to the will of Mythal. It's a compulsion to obey—and Harellan is what remains of Mythal."

"I have been ruthless, and unkind." Harellan confessed this with evident remorse, though apparently not enough to have stopped him from doing it in the first place. "Power and knowledge I have, but what I still needed was reach. Agents with the capability and skills to assist me. I manipulated Cyrus from the day I met him. Piqued his curiosity about elven history, his heritage. Taught him the magics I thought he should know. Pushed him to restore his magic when he lost it. Suggested that he be the one to drink from the Well. I knew what the sum total of these things would be. I knew what they would make him, and I am not sorry for it."

His brows knit. "If there were some other way to achieve what I aim at, I'd have taken it. Corypheus was my attempt to do that. But we all know how that went."

"Corypheus was..." Romulus had kept his distance a little more after having his mark removed. He still rubbed the spot where it had been. "The elven orb, what he used to make the Breach. That was your doing?"

"Placed in his hands by my agents, while I was still too weak to use it. A flaw I could have overcome, if only I'd been more patient. More willing to take the slow and deliberate path that lies before me now. For what it has cost you, I am sorry. It was not my intention to embroil Thedas in war like this. The same reason we stopped the Qunari here."

As if by some unseen, unfelt cue, Harellan's body language changed. "It is time for us to take our leave." He straightened, glancing to Cyrus, who looked away with what could only be called a sullen expression. "Before we do, however... Astraia. I do apologize for departing with such haste. I regretted at the time that you were still unconscious, but I would like to rectify the error." He let his hands relax, falling softly to his sides. "Would you like to come with us? There is a place for you here, if you would occupy it."

She didn't seem all that surprised when he asked, already deep in thought about her answer. Though it was posed without much weight behind it, it was impossible to miss that there was a great deal riding on her answer, at least regarding her own future. She shared a look with both Estella and Ves before she turned her eyes back up to Harellan, straightening to as much as her height would allow.

"Yes."

"Astraia, you can't be—"

"Let me do this, Ves." She kept her tone controlled, soft. "I'm sorry to leave you all like this, but... this is something I have to do. Something I think I've been training to do for some time, even if I didn't know it." She stepped forward and turned her back to Harellan, facing Estella. She offered a subtle nod of her head when their eyes met. "Goodbye. And thank you for everything."

Estella glanced between the three of them. "Astraia..." She didn't really know what to say to that. Too many things were shifting around at once, reorienting her entire understanding not just of the last few weeks, but the last few years. Maybe even more than that. On the one hand, she was worried about what this might mean. Harellan was not exactly who she'd thought he was, and she couldn't think that he made this offer without a purpose, one that might be just as dangerous for Astraia as it was bound to be for Cyrus.

On the other... neither of them would be alone. She knew Cyrus, knew he'd do everything he could to look out for Astraia. And she thought maybe Astraia would look out for him, too. Whether that would make any difference in the long run was less clear, but—it was something. "You're welcome. And—" She paused, struggling for the right thing to say. "Good luck."

"Lethallan." Harellan had moved no closer to the group, remaining at his place on its fringe with deliberateness, as though some invisible line had been drawn in the space that he would not cross. "If you would not mind..."

It was obvious enough what he was asking for. When Estella stepped away from the others to approach him, he gave her a tentative smile, glancing only once back over her shoulder before settling his eyes on her face. "I... know you'll never endorse what I'm doing. I don't expect you to thank me for this—I half-suppose you'll try to stop me, and perhaps that's how it should be." He sounded almost wistful when he said it, reaching out as if to touch her cheek. But his hand stopped short and hovered there, uncertain.

She was torn. Trying to think about it from his perspective helped: he'd known only of the fading glory of the People for most of his life, and then the first exposure to anything outside of that had been Tevinter of all places. And the news didn't really get better from there, as far as the welfare of elves was concerned. What Fen'Harel had done must have seemed like such a catastrophic mistake, and to feel like the only one both capable of and willing to fix the problem, when the solution had such a cost.

Estella could almost, almost imagine what it must feel like to be convinced of that, and to really understand what it meant, as Harellan surely did. The death and destruction he would cause... it would be like Romulus and Cyrus ending up in the future and resetting everything. Destroying an entire timeline gone wrong, even knowing that the people who'd lived in it were no less real than the people who would live after.

Her heart broke for him. And she knew she could never, ever let him succeed. Even if Harellan couldn't see it yet, she could. It would destroy too much, and it would destroy him, too.

Taking one step closer, she caught his hand in hers and pressed his hand to her cheek. "Lethallin," she said, pronouncing the word carefully. It was still not natural to her tongue. Never would be, in the way it was natural to his. For all that they were so closely related, she was of this world. The one he wanted to destroy. Maybe he imagined there would be a place for her in the one he made. But she didn't want it. "Don't do this. Don't take this path. Stay with us. We can still change the world—we already have, and you helped us do it. Don't go." She pulled in a breath through her teeth. "Please don't go."

His other hand found the untouched side of her face, and Harellan drew himself closer, putting just a toe over the invisible line dividing them. So close, she could see the way his eyes shone in the dark. He blinked, and a tear slid quickly down his cheek as he pressed his brow to hers. "I can't stay." His hands trembled against her skin, fingers dry like parchment. "If the world could be saved by good intentions..." The words were a murmur more than anything, but she could feel him steel himself with them, the tremor steadying and tension returning to his body language. "I love you, lethallan. And I pray to whatever gods there might be that you do not forget that."

With a tight, thin smile, Harellan pulled back, clearing his throat and taking several steps towards the eluvian. "If there are other farewells to be made, now is the time."

"Not much point in farewells if we're going to see each other soon, is there?" Ves clearly still wasn't happy with Astraia's choice, or anything he'd heard here. "You can walk away now, but we're good at finding trails."

"Not this time, Ves," Astraia answered him quietly. "This is goodbye for now."

"You can't listen to him," he urged. "I don't know what you think he's been teaching you, but he's using you, controlling you. Even if he does care, he's clearly willing to discard you anyway."

"Ves. Stop." Her tone was significantly more stern now. "No one is controlling me. Not Harellan... and not you. This is my choice. My chance to help my People. The Inquisition served its purpose. This is mine."

Ves shook his head, and then turned away in frustration, carrying himself several paces away to the edge of the group. Astraia watched him go with pained eyes, but she said no more.

At this point, Cyrus stepped forward, holding himself much too tentatively for her brother. “You think I'd learn eventually." He cleared his throat softly. “That pride cometh before a fall, so to speak. I can't help but feel if I'd have just had a little less at the Well..." With a shake of his head, he glanced over those assembled. “Still... I've, ah. I've hope in the lot of you. Seems like there might be one more world-saving in you yet. Rather betting on it, actually."

For the first time since they'd entered the mirror, Leon stirred. He'd been very still so far, no doubt taking in the information and letting it stew a while before deciding what he wanted to do about any of it. Estella couldn't blame him. But this part, he seemed to have less difficulty with, taking a step towards Cyrus and squeezing his shoulder. "And I've hope in you. Don't give up, Cyrus." With a small nod, he dropped his hand and moved back.

Rom kept his distance, but offered Cyrus a nod as well. "We'll see you when we see you. With any luck, it'll be in better circumstances. But I've got faith in that."

Cyrus returned the nod, but it was easy to see that he was already trying to mentally prepare himself to face her. When he turned just enough to do it, he lost any semblance of composure he had, expression stricken instead. “Stellulam, I—" He faltered.

She wouldn't have let him finish anyway. "If that's an apology, I don't want it." Estella was moving even as she spoke, closing the distance at a walk too swift to be calm. She threw her arms around him, leaning her weigh into the solidity of his body. "You don't have to apologize to me for anything, Cy." She squeezed, knowing that time was short and no matter how much of it there was, she'd never be able to get all her feelings across.

He didn't reply, except to return the hug as tightly as he could, lifting her partway off the ground, armor and all, before setting her down. “I'll find a way to fix this." He spoke the words into her hair. “Or help you fix it. Whatever it takes." Loosening his arms, Cyrus expelled a breath and shifted his hands to her shoulders. “Do me a favor, would you? Tell the others..." He frowned. “Tell them I never meant to leave. That I'd have stayed."

"I will, Cy. I promise. Take—" Her voice cracked, but she would not cry. That was not how she wanted to send him off, even if everything in her felt like it was falling apart. "Take care of yourself. And..." She tilted her head in Astraia's direction, letting the rest of the sentence be filled in by the gesture.

He nodded. “I promise, too. Until next time, Estella." Cyrus took a step back, then another, his fingers falling away from his shoulders and back to his sides. A third step, and he turned away from them altogether, catching up with the other two, where Harellan was already stepping through the eluvian, Astraia closely behind. He paused one last time on the threshold, turning back over his shoulder and feigning a confident smile.

But then he, too, was gone, and the mirror's light darkened in his wake.

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Cyrus Avenarius

0 · 1,728 views · located in Thedas

a character in “The Canticle of Fate”, as played by Kurokiku

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Cyrus Avenarius's Story

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