#inky trio

[gaychocolatehomicide]

Impulse Control Asleep, Post Drafts

I'm trying to post more/more regularly so here's a draft of a thing that I feel confident enough about to put it here. I'm putting a more extensive summary directly under the cut, but tl;dr it's a Meet the Protagonists piece.

Word Count: 7059

Current title is Not Alone, from Apotheosis 1:8

So Andraste said to her followers: "You who stand before the gates, \ You who have followed me into the heart of evil, \ The fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat. \ Raise your voices to the heavens! Remember: \ Not alone do we stand on the field of battle.

Excerpt that will probably go in the summary when I post it:

Even though he knows Harea cannot have survived the explosion of the temple, Rogelan stays where he is. He would rather let the approaching humans capture him than risk any more harm coming to his cousin. She and Isene have been his to protect since before any of them had their vallaslin. His heart grieves, even as his mind shrinks from understanding the destruction that surrounds him.

Then Harea breathes.

The more extensive summary is as follows: I want to establish the immediate canon divergence that happens with my three inkys playthrough, and how the three of them play off each other at least a little bit. It is, I will admit, a little Rogelan focused. And Harea is by herself when she's conscious, but really her role in the first 1/3 of the storyline is "soft thing to be protected" rather than an actor in her own story, so I think I can be forgiven for it.

The things I'm most wobbly on (and would therefore deeply appreciate critique/suggestions regarding) are the battle in Ise's section and (minor spoiler) Andraste's characterization in Harea's. I will love you forever, please tell me your opinion on how well those two things play.

Anyway

__________

Rogelan comes to consciousness with his arms wrapped around his cousin's shoulders, and for a moment he thinks it's all been a dream. The shem conclave, the shouts for help, the explosion. The running, seemingly endless running through a nightmare landscape, hounded all the way by humans with pitchforks or sword-emblazoned armor. He feels the sun on his back and the heat of a fire near at hand, and Harea curled up under his arm for warmth or protection from her bad dreams, and he imagines himself safe at home with the clan. 

Then he opens his eyes. 

The many small fires nearby produce oily black smoke, and the sky is a sickening fade green. All around him lies what is left of the shattered Temple of Sacred Ashes. A troop of nervous shems with their swords out are approaching, looking battered and shaken. Dangerous. Like they're hunting an excuse, or perhaps a scapegoat. He looks about for his sister, but he sees only blasted corpses. None of this, however, is as awful as what he holds in his arms. 

Harea's body is blackened and charred by fire. Rogelan's first instinct is to leap away, horrified, and perhaps retch up the contents of his stomach. He stops himself just in time, terrified that she will collapse into dust and embers if he takes the support of his arms from her. The delicate features of her face are nearly unrecognizable. It is only lifelong companionship that tells him the thing he's holding was once his cousin. Nothing moves for an eternity of seconds. 

A crackle of green energy pops and shudders between their bodies, somewhere in the vicinity of where Harea's left hand ought to be. Rogelan stares, completely at a loss for what else to do. He doesn't know how he's managed to come through whatever has just happened alive and largely unhurt, but it seems that he is the only one. The squad of shems is getting closer. If he doesn't move soon, they'll be on him before he has a chance to defend himself. If he does move, he risks Harea disintegrating. Even though he knows she cannot be alive, Rogelan would rather let himself be taken by the humans than let her fall apart. She and Isene have been his to protect since before any of them had their vallaslin. His heart grieves, even as his mind shrinks from understanding the destruction that surrounds him. 

Then Harea breathes. It is an abrupt, shuddering gasp—the inhale of a person surfacing after a long dive beneath the surface of a lake. Flakes of charred skin shake loose and flutter to the black ground with every tiny movement. Rogelan barely has time to process this development before the unique green-and-gold shimmer of Harea's magic swirls out from that odd crackling vent in her hand, curling its healing tendrils up and around the two of them. He finds what minor scrapes and bruises he has managed to acquire disappearing beneath the gentle, probing light. 

Rogelan watches the magic, which is blended oddly with the black-green light of the fade and with another radiant sun-bright energy that he doesn't recognize. It surges in great pulses now, enveloping Harea and forcing Rogelan to take a few steps away despite his resolution to support her. He raises his hand to shield his eyes from the suddenly blinding light, which leaves the silhouette of a woman wreathed in flame seared onto his corneas in the heartbeat between realizing he needs to look away and doing so. An armored hand comes down on his shoulder, steadying him when he stumbles over a lump of something he doesn't want to identify. 

He twists round and finds a human only a few inches shorter than himself, with curly hair and a concerned expression. Of the shems within easy reach, he's the only one whose sword is sheathed. The hand he doesn't have on Rogelan’s shoulder is similarly raised to protect his vision, but his attention is on the severe-looking woman whose armor announces her as a Seeker of Truth—to Rogelan’s understanding, a sort of super-templar tasked with apprehending dangerous rogue mages and lyrium-mad runaways from the ranks of the Order. He's met two or three of them over the years, hunting the same quarry. They don't make him feel easy, but knowing one is around removes some of the defensive terror from his immediate sense of panic. At least there will be someone in authority to reason with. 

The light subsides after no more than ten rabbit-fast heartbeats. Rogelan drops his hand immediately, unsure what he's expecting to see. Whatever he’s expecting, it isn't what he finds. Harea, looking completely uninjured but for the strange crackling thing in the palm of her left hand, stands shakily where her charred corpse had been just moments ago. The light which had engulfed her now shines, like dawn on a snowy morning, from her eyes. She looks at the Seeker, who has her shield up but is making no threatening movements just yet. In a voice so unlike her own that Rogelan has trouble believing it's coming from her throat, Harea speaks. 

“Be not afraid, truth seeker most valiant / what has been forgotten has not yet been lost. / The Maker’s song-weaver, from silence unending / stands now before you, mantled in light. / Greet this, my champion, guide her and keep her / for darkness is coming to cloak all with night.” 

Whatever this is, it isn't Rogelan’s cousin. He can sense the power rippling off of it like heat from an open forge, and he can see its words striking the Seeker like a smith’s hammer. Most of the other shems are blasted back by the sheer force of this thing's presence. Then the creature turns its flaming gaze on Rogelan, and he feels the weight of its attention. He can't look away. It monopolizes his focus in a way he has never experienced before; the nervous shem soldiers with their swords out stop mattering. So do the smoldering ruins of the temple, the warbling rent in the sky overhead, and the gnawing terror of not knowing where Isene is. Nothing matters, suddenly, except hearing what this entity has to say to him.

“Protection incarnate, hear truth and heed it: / souls beyond number cry out for your aid. / The weightiest matters, for leadership lacking, / fall on the foolish and ruin is wrought. / Gifts of the elf-gods, your sword arm and shield / in righteous defense of your duty upheld / now called by their Makers, to battle unbroken: / Stand for your People and save all the world.” 

The light abruptly leaves Harea’s eyes as soon as she finishes speaking, and she crumples to the ground. Rogelan breaks out of the shem soldier’s grip and rushes to her side. He pulls her into a half-sitting position against his chest and frantically checks for a pulse. When he finds it, he finally lets himself breathe. She's alive. Whatever else is going on, whatever that thing was that used her body to deliver its… prophecy? None of it is important. As long as she's alive, he hasn’t failed completely. 

“What… was that?” The Seeker demands, as if Rogelan is supposed to know. 

Before he can respond, a wall of fire goes up between the Seeker and the two elves on the ground, effectively ringing Rogelan and Harea with roaring flames. The fire flickers blue-green at the edges, and another ten-halla weight lifts off Rogelan’s chest. He holds a hand up, though he doubts it can be seen above the magical fire, and shouts in Elvhen. “Isene! It's alright, stand down.”

The flames give a surprised flutter, then burn low and go out. The assembled soldiers have parted to give their Seeker a clear line of sight to the unfamiliar mage, inadvertently making a gap for Rogelan to see his sister half-crouched atop a chunk of tumbled masonry with her staff raised. He slips an arm under Harea’s knees and stands up, carrying her with the ease of long practice. The Seeker has her shield up again and is glowing faintly with holy light, presumably prepared to throw down a Spell Purge to clear the fire and then charge. She seems nonplussed by the sudden deescalation. 

“You're alive!” Ise leaps down from her perch, slings her staff into its clasps at her back, and crosses the distance between them in almost the same motion. All the shems take an instinctive step further away, with the exception of the Seeker and the man who’d arrested Rogelan’s earlier stumble. “Is Harea okay?” Isene sounds almost as panicked as Rogelan felt just moments ago. 

“She's fine,” he assures her in the common tongue. “I don't know how, but we both are. She just needs to rest.” More quietly, and in the language he hopes no one else present speaks, he adds, “We’ll talk about it in private.”

Ise looks like she has about a million questions, but she just nods. On closer inspection, Rogelan can see that her clothes are torn and signed, her face is bruised, and there are angry scrapes on both her arms. She's also favoring her right leg, though she's doing a decent job of hiding it. Wherever she was when the explosion happened, she wasn't entirely spared its effects.

The Seeker breaks in before Rogelan can ask after Ise’s injuries. “You are all under arrest,” she announces, “on suspicion of involvement in this.” 

“You think we had-” Ise flares, but Rogelan kicks her surreptitiously in the ankle. 

“We understand your suspicion,” he says over her immediate protest. “We’ll come quietly; we don't want any trouble.”

The Seeker eyes Ise’s staff and the leaf-shaped elven long blade still at Rogelan’s hip. “Drop your weapons and follow me.”

“Of course,” Rogelan agrees peaceably. “My hands are a bit full at the moment, but I won't stop one of your soldiers from taking my sword.”

“You can't be serious,” Isene hisses in his ear. “These shems will string us up as scapegoats the moment we let them disarm us!”

“If we don't do as they say,” he murmurs back, keeping his eyes on the Seeker, “they'll kill us right here. I recognize this one's armor. We may have a chance to negotiate, but not if you start lighting people on fire. I can't fight and protect Harea at the same time.” 

She grinds her teeth, amber eyes shifting nervously from soldier to soldier, clearly calculating whether she thinks she could take them all on alone. After a tense moment, Isene arrives at the same conclusion Rogelan came to. It's too risky. She makes a frustrated sound and unslings her staff. When the Seeker holds out a hand, Ise puts her weapon in it. The man who caught Rogelan earlier approaches and unhooks the scabbard from his belt. He brings it to the Seeker, who tucks it under her arm. 

“Thank you, Cullen. Go meet Leliana at the forward camp and tell her what we found here. I will take them back to Haven.” 

“Alright. Send us as many men as you can spare.” The soldier, Cullen apparently, snaps off a salute and jogs back towards the rim of the crater. At a hand signal from the Seeker, the remaining troops form up around Rogelan and his family, and they all follow at a slower pace, accommodating Ise’s limp and Rogelan's unconscious burden. Harea doesn't weigh enough to slow him down, but he's content to let the shemlen take as long as possible to get wherever they're going. His mind races. 

He has a duty to protect the two mages he brought to this place, and Fen’Harel himself couldn't stop Rogelan from fulfilling that duty. He’ll think of something. He just needs time.

***

Isene hates letting other people touch her staff. She crafted it herself, and there are secrets woven into the wood. The fact that decoding those secrets would take a magical genius more versed in the history of the People even than herself—a difficult achievement, as Ise is the most educated member of her clan barring Harea and Keeper Istimaethoriel—does not stop her from being nervous any time she has to hand it over. She doesn't even really like Rogelan holding it, and she trusts her brother more than anyone. 

The woman in the eyeball armor leads them out of the crater and onto the snowy mountainside, carrying Ise’s staff and Rogelan’s sword. It's obvious that no one here knows enough about what her brother is to be prepared for his unique fighting style, because they didn't take his shield or the symbol of Elgar’nan he wears around his wrist. It's only a little comforting. At least he’ll be able to use some of his abilities, though he's probably going to do everything he can to stop it from coming to that. The Vir Atish’an has too strong a hold on him, in Ise’s opinion. 

Between the two of them, they could've fought their way free of these shemlen in the crater. Once they get dragged back to town, though, there will be no chance of getting away again. Even by herself, the common troops would be easy pickings. It's the eyeball-armor soldier that she's worried about. Rogelan says he recognizes the armor, but he hasn't told her what that means, and the stranger is still holding Ise’s staff. She's getting more frustrated the longer they walk. The snow beneath her bare feet starts to hiss with every step as she turns her nervous energy into heat and vents it out of her palms and soles. 

Rogelan shoots her a warning look, but his obvious wariness only winds her up even more. A high, distant whine begins from somewhere overhead. It doesn't sound like the wind. Ise turns around to look, so she's the only one who sees the meteor of green-black fade stone come hurtling down from the enormous hole in the sky. She shouts an alarm and tackles the nearest soldier out of the impact zone. Rogelan dives to the side as soon as Isene yells, as do two more soldiers and the eyeball woman. The remaining five are crushed beneath the hurtling stone. 

Ise’s shem cries out in pain or fear, she doesn't particularly care which, and she doesn't have time to figure it out either because a black tarry substance begins to bubble from the earth not two arm spans away from where they landed. Ise rolls back to her feet, calling fire into her hands. Magic is usually harder to create and control without her staff, and she knows that if she's not careful she’ll burn herself, but when a demon erupts from the bubbles, she decides it's worth the risk. Opening her mind, she reaches out to touch the source of all magic. Every time she's done this staffless in the past, she had to coax the energy into the real world like she was trying to light a campfire with wet wood. That's not the case this time.

Today, it feels a little like trying to drink from a mountain waterfall during the spring thaw. She reaches, and instead of a trickle she receives a torrent. A gout of flame bursts from her hands, exploding into a helix of red-orange-yellow-white-blue so hot it turns all the snow in a fifteen foot radius of where Ise’s standing directly into mist, then boils even that away. She incinerates the demon and only narrowly misses the soldier she just tackled out of danger. Fortunately for everyone, Isene’s magic has always been too powerful for her own good, and Keeper Istimaethoriel has spent years teaching her how to clamp her mind closed around a spell gone wild. 

That training is the only thing that saves her. 

On instinct born from hundreds of hours of practice, Ise turns the blast of flame skyward, away from anyone who might get caught in it. She balls her hands into fists and throws all her energy into shutting the door that she’s opened. The column of fire narrows, growing brighter and hotter almost as though it’s aware that it has only moments left to vent its full fury. Like the beam of light coming through a closing door on a sunny day, the magical fire shrinks, shrinks, shrinks. And goes out. 

A tidal wave of fatigue sweeps over Isene. She stumbles sideways, away from the fade-rock meteor, and manages to stagger as far as the nearest intact snowbank before she collapses. The welcoming embrace of the snow cools her superheated body, hissing as it melts around her. She can hear the sound of continued fighting, but there's nothing she can do about it just yet. She has to lie down. 

Ise drifts in and out of consciousness for a while, unsure exactly how much time is passing. It must not be too long, though, because the fight is still raging when she surfaces. She levers herself up into a sitting position and thinks, Alright. No staffless magic when there's a hole in the sky. Good to know. 

Isene isn't primarily a martial fighter, but she can hold her own against most opponents at least long enough for Rogelan to come save her. There's more than a few downed branches, casualties of the meteor, not to mention the dead soldiers' weapons to choose from. She doesn't need magic. She stands, prepared to discover that she's been left behind by the tide of battle. Not so. The shem soldier she tackled out of the way has taken up a position in front of Ise’s snow bank and is holding off another of those shade demons. The thing is clearly on its last legs, so Isene grabs a sturdy looking stick off the ground and joins her unlikely protector. 

A heavy wallop upside the head-equivalent stuns the shade demon long enough for the soldier to run it through. It melts back into the ground, and Ise spares her shem a bright (if probably rather manic) grin before charging off towards the rest of the party. She hears a string of inventive cursing, then the sound of her shem following her. Good. Rounding the meteor, Isene has a few heartbeats to assess the situation. 

Eyeball woman and one of the other soldiers who was quick enough not to get crushed are fighting back to back, cloaked in the bright blue glow of templar magic. A hunched shape that looks like a lava flow with arms and a shade demon are closing in, though they flinch away from eyeball woman’s sword. The second soldier who survived the meteor has her back to a tree and is currently unmolested, but her shield arm hangs limp at her side and there's blood oozing from several holes in her armor. 

Rogelan is doing his thing. His right hand is wrapped around his symbol of Elgar'nan, and from it a blade of light gleams like the morning sun through a thick fog. His shield, a deceptively simple looking piece of ironbark, is glowing with the subtle runes worked into its face. A silvery surface covers it now, both a reinforcement and a mirror at the same time. The lava-thing facing him breathes a gout of fire, and Rogelan’s mirror shield catches that energy and hurls it back at the creature. He stands, an immovable bulwark between Harea’s crumpled body and the onslaught of two shades plus the lava-thing. 

As Ise watches, her brother begins to recite an old prayer in Elvhen, and blue-white plate armor spins itself out of the air and onto his limbs. She hears her shem skid to a stop behind her, presumably to stare at this working of what must, to him, look like more magic. They don't have time for gawking. She turns around and grabs the front of her shem's breastplate so she can haul him towards the battle. 

“Come on, I'm no use against that lava-thing without my magic, so it has to be you.” She shoves her shem in front of her. “Just like the shade demon, right? Ready, go!” 

Whoever trained these soldiers, they knew what they were doing. Her shem only freezes for about half a heartbeat before realizing he's been given an order and going to carry it out. He's clearly running on pure battle-instinct at this point, something which Ise has no compunctions about using to her own advantage. Sure, he wouldn't take orders from her in any other situation, but if she barks instructions in an authoritative tone at a man whose entire focus is on staying alive, she's discovered that most trained fighters will obey reflexively. 

Isene's shem rushes to help Rogelan, darting in between the shade demon and the lava-thing to deliver a textbook shortsword thrust to the thing’s back. Ise wades in after him, using her improvised club to disorient the shade demons. The influx of reinforcements and the invocation of Rogelan’s Shalathe armor are enough to turn the tide. They send the shade demons slithering back into the dirt and sandwich the lava-things between the blue gleam of a templar anti-magic field and Rogelan’s reality-enforcing aura. There are ten full seconds of ringing silence while everyone catches their breath. Then Rogelan dismisses his powers and goes to check on Harea, Isene sits down and plants her stick in the muddy dirt, and the three shem soldiers group up with their eyeball-armored leader. 

The injured soldier doesn't look so good; she has a hard time leaving her tree to join her fellows, and her protestations that she's alright are cut short by a bout of painful sounding coughing. Looks like a lot of broken ribs, from where Isene is sitting. The eyeball woman gives her a potion, but it's obvious that the general healing-factor boost isn't going to be enough. Ise lets the fretting go on for a few minutes before her conscience won't let her ignore it anymore. She groans quietly and hauls herself back up to her feet, then crosses the clearing to the group of soldiers. 

“Hey, eyeball armor,” she taps the woman's shoulder. Rogelan snorts a very undignified little laugh from somewhere to their right. 

Eyeball woman turns her head to glare at Isene. “You may call me Seeker Pentaghast. What do you want?” 

“If you give me my staff back I might be able to help,” Isene doesn't have the energy to be snarky. 

“Are you a healer?” Seeker Pentaghast’s tone abruptly grows more polite. There is a sudden hopefulness in her eyes, too. If she hadn't seen the change happen, Ise might not have been able to identify the near-despair that had characterized the woman's face before. 

Isene holds out her hand for the staff. “An indifferent one, but anything's better than nothing, right?”

Seeker Pentaghast hesitates. The wounded soldier makes a pained noise as one of her compatriots helps her shift position, and her raspy breathing grows shallower. Ise gets her staff back. 

“Do what you can.”

“Alright, clear a space.” Isene uses the blunt end of the staff to scoot the shems out of the way. “I don't know how much control of this I'm going to have, and I don't want to catch any of you if I have to get rid of some excess energy.”

Rogelan joins the larger group, carrying Harea again. “Farther back than that, please, gentlemen.” He moves them another few paces away. “‘Getting rid of excess energy’ means bolts of fire. You really don't want to be in the way.”

“I will stay here,” Seeker Pentaghast informs Ise from her position at her wounded soldier's side, “in case of emergencies.”

“It's your funeral,” Isene shrugs. She kneels beside the injured soldier and cracks her knuckles. Ise’s been told that her healing feels like getting slapped in the face, but she's fairly sure even these shem soldiers would prefer to feel slapped than dead. With both hands on her staff, she closes her eyes and focuses. Magic flows smoothly from the fade, through Isene’s staff, and out into the soldier. She thanks all the listening gods for the gate attenuators and magical channels she’s built into this staff over the years. It stabilizes the flood of energy enough that she can be precise without the fear that she'll do more harm than good. 

A glowing map of the woman’s body flashes into being in Ise’s mind, with areas of disruption picked out in red light. It's a process that requires intense concentration, but little by little Isene coaxes those areas back into the right shapes. Broken bones are the worst; she has to grasp each little fragment of bone and each disconnected blood vessel, carefully rearrange them, and then knit them back together. She can feel sweat breaking out across her forehead. Creators, she wishes Harea were awake. Her cousin can do this stuff in her sleep. 

An exhausting five minutes pass in tense silence. At the end of it, Ise has to stagger a few feet away to be sick into a convenient bush, overwhelmed and overheated by the effort. Someone helpfully arrives to hold her hair back. She wipes her mouth with the back of one hand and looks up to find her shem soldier, the one she tackled, giving her a sympathetic smile. 

“Here,” he reaches into a pouch and offers her a packet of trail rations. “It's not much, but it looks like all that took a lot out of you. You should eat something, if you think you ca-”

“I could kiss you!” Ise snatches the food and begins to wolf it down gratefully. Salt pork and hard cheese replace the taste of bile in her mouth, and she washes it down with half of her water skin. The whole process is made more difficult by the staff still in her hand, but she's not letting the thing out of her grasp again until she's sure there won't be anymore demons falling out of the sky or crawling up from the ground. 

The feeling of Rogelan’s solid presence at her shoulder draws Isene from her desperate focus on her snack. She glances up at him, gauges the exact shade of stern worry on his face, and then raids his belt pouches for more food. He always has food. Indeed, after only a bit of rummaging she comes up with two bruised apples, a bag of mostly crushed nuts, and half of a rather squished sandwich still wrapped in wax paper. Some conversation or other is happening, but she can't make herself care about it until she's about halfway through her findings. Besides, the look on her brother’s face says they're in danger, but it's nothing urgent. The sandwich and nuts are gone by the time Isene looks up. 

“-ngerous, with or without our weapons,” Rogelan is saying. “The only thing keeping us disarmed does is put everyone at a disadvantage. There are only six of us now, we all need to be on guard.” 

Seeker Pentaghast makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. Then, she nods. “You are right. I have a great many questions for you, but they must wait until we are back in Haven. It seems the road will be dangerous. You should be able to defend yourselves.” 

“Thank you.” Rogelan shifts Harea’s weight to one arm so he can take his sword and return it to its sheath. “Is your soldier going to be able to keep up with us? We’ll need to move quickly.”

“Corporal? How are you feeling?” Seeker Pentaghast asks the injured shem soldier. 

“I'm alright, Seeker.” The soldier is back on her feet, though she hasn't picked up her shield again. “That healing hurt like a right bastard, but I can keep pace now. S’not far back to town. Get some proper rest when we're safe.” 

“Good.” The Seeker turns back to Rogelan. “Can your sister keep up as well?”

“I'm right here, you know,” Ise says waspishly. 

“Eat your apple,” Rogelan retorts. To the Seeker, he says, “She’ll be fine. Healing isn't her forte, but food will help with the exhaustion, and as your corporal said, we can all rest when we're safe. Let's get moving; we don't want to be here when the next round of demons arrives.” 

The group marches, double-time, up the path towards the town of Haven. Isene sends up a silent prayer to whoever happens to be listening. She prays for safe passage as far as the gates, but more than that, she prays that her cousin will wake up soon. She feels magically lopsided without Harea. Ise isn't cut out for Keeper duties.

***

Harea stands on a wide, smooth road paved with broad stone slabs of an unfamiliar pale stone. The road stretches out ahead of her nearly as far as the horizon. It buckles up over some low hills in the distance, then it splits to run in two different directions along the edge of her vision. Closer at hand, it passes through a vast military encampment. Men, dogs, and horses gather, rank upon rank of soldiery forming up into a mighty host. 

There aren't many details to be picked out at this distance—closer than the hills still isn't very close—but Harea can see a block of elven archers in rough-hewn armor that looks like it was cobbled together from scavenged pieces of enemy equipment. She sees men so tall they look like giants, towering over the diminutive elves and carrying enormous axes or hammers. There is one at the head of the host wearing rich furs and scale armor, and at his side another of those huge men wielding a tower shield. She blinks, and the shield-bearer suddenly has two spears in his chest. She blinks again, and he's gone. The commander of the host stands alone. 

Overhead, thin pale clouds scud against an overcast sky. The sun is veiled behind a pile of wispy clouds that do little to dim the light but instead diffuse it so that everything is cast in an eerie, almost-shadowless grey glare. Harea turns at the sound of a breath behind her. She finds herself standing before towering gates made from black iron, decorated with the scowling faces of metal dragons. The gates are closed, but then a sound like someone is gliding a city-sized blade over a rough whetstone begins, and the gates begin to swing open. To either side of the huge doors stand a pair of statues so large it's shocking that they don't collapse under their own unfathomable weight. 

Beside Harea, looking up at the gates, is a human woman not much older than she is herself. The woman has tan skin and hair on the blonder side of sandy, freckles, and grey-green eyes the precise shade of the clouds before a bad storm on the plains of the Dirthavaren. There is a wicked looking short blade at her side and a buckler clipped to her right gauntlet. She wears leather armor that looks finely crafted, though Harea isn't an expert on such things. The armor is scarred with the marks of battle, and her boots are muddy. This is a soldier—an experienced one, if the signs are to be believed. She glances over at Harea and smiles a sad little smile. 

“It's almost time,” she says. Her accent is hard to place. Ferelden, certainly, but maybe from farther south than Clan Lavellan ventures. Chasind or Avarr, perhaps. 

“Time for what?” Harea asks. She doesn't remember how she came to be here, but for some reason it doesn't seem important just now. 

“For my great test. And yours too, incidentally.” The woman looks back up at the slowly opening gates. In a conversational tone, she continues, “Did you know, I spent eighteen hours behind these gates? I had more than half a day to consider the forces that brought me there. I spent most of it thinking of inventive curses to wish on my husband. And my captors, and the Archon. I suppose I should've been praying, or singing, or thinking virtuous thoughts, but I was too angry. I'd been betrayed, after all.”

Harea frowns, confused. “I don't think we've been introduced. Have we?”

The woman smiles again. “Not formally, but I think you’ll be able to guess who I am in a minute or so. I certainly know you, Harea Elgadira, First of Clan Lavellan. You're a descendant of a very good friend of mine. I hope, if you do nothing else with the gift I'm going to give you, you make sure his name is restored to the Chant. The fools who removed it have heard from me too, but by that point they weren't in a place to do much about it.” 

Hearing her full name from this apparent stranger isn't as discomfiting as one might expect. Something about her pleasant, matter-of-fact voice makes Harea want to trust her. By the same gap of logic that lets her avoid wondering how she got to these black iron gates, she doesn't question the feeling of trust. 

“I'll do my best,” Harea says doubtfully, “but if you're talking about the Chant of Light, I'm afraid I don't have the power to change it.” 

“Oh, of course not. Not yet, anyway. The test comes first, and then the power. The Maker learned that one the hard way, with me. Jealousy is one of those mortal vices he didn't really understand before all this.” She sighs and looks up at the scudding clouds. The gates have opened wide enough for Harea to see through them now. Another line of soldiers, these ones in black armor with red trim, waits behind the gates. The woman stretches her neck, then rotates her left shoulder a few times, like she's warming up her arm to swing her sword. “It won't be long now. Listen, and don't interrupt. Before I have to go, there are a few things I'd like to tell you.”

Harea nods and obediently falls silent. 

“For what it's worth, I think it was a good thing that I trusted the people who betrayed me. They didn't deserve it, but I didn't know that until it was too late. I've thought about it a lot in the time since it all happened, and I’ve decided that the choice to trust them says more about me than it does about them. What kind of person would I be if I didn't trust the people closest to me? My world would be the same as the evil I was trying to destroy!” The stranger gestures towards the towering juggernauts on either side of the gate. 

“Your test is going to be long and difficult. That's why it's a good test. If you survive—which I believe you will—you'll be in a place to do a lot of good. It will be easy to give into your desire for revenge at that point, and while I endorse a little revenge here and there, you need to stay focused on that first thing; on making the world better. Your faith will be an incredible asset, but don't be afraid to question from time to time. Following blindly is a good way to get led off a cliff. 

“There are about a hundred more things I want to say to you. You're about to be thrown into the thick of things, and I know you're the perfect one for the job, but I wish I could spare you some of the hardship that's coming. But these gates are just about open, and I couldn't stop all this even if I wanted to. Here's the most important thing: there is nothing in the world that is always good. Courage can turn to foolishness, patience to paralysis, wisdom to pride, and love to control.

“In the same vein, there's very little that's always bad—barring needless cruelty and the Blight. Fear can become prudence, stubbornness becomes loyalty, impetuousness becomes decisiveness, and envy becomes a drive for self-improvement. No matter what you are told, I need you to remember that anger isn't evil. Anger can be righteous. Sometimes, the feeling that the oppressor tells you is a baseless and counterproductive rage is actually the Wrath of the downtrodden. Don't let them take that from you.” 

The gates are more than half open now. Behind them, there lies a vast city. By some trick of the light, the flat glare overhead makes its buildings look almost black. Closer, though, the vanguard of an army is ranged around a tall wooden structure. It takes Harea a few seconds of staring to place the structure, because her people don't use them. A memory surfaces. When she was a child, she’d been looking for useful herbs when she came upon a human funeral at the edge of the forest. They laid out their dead on a wooden pyre. This one is grander by far, but it's the same basic shape. Split logs laid out horizontally, placed to allow air to rush up between them and ringed with tinder sticks. 

One other difference between the funeral pyre Harea saw years ago and the one she's looking at now stands out starkly: there is an upright post at the center, wrapped in rope. 

The woman standing beside Harea puts a friendly hand on her shoulder. “I hate to leave you, but I've got to go now, and so do you. The world is a mess in your time, as it was in mine. All we can do is our best.” 

She turns Harea further towards her so that they're standing face to face for a moment, and bends her head to press a kiss to Harea’s forehead. It feels like a benediction. The last thing she says is, “Good luck.” 

Harea blinks, and she's gone. But no, there she is, tied to the post atop the pyre like she'd been there the whole time. Overhead, the clouds roil and darken as a storm rumbles ominously closer, creeping along the edge of the horizon. The host outside the gates cries out in shock and realization, and Harea gasps with them. 

Unlike her cousins, who distrusted the humans and their religion—and rightly so, for it was a group of Chantry zealots who struck down Rogelan’s father in front of him—Harea has always been curious about what the Mothers were preaching. It began as simple delight in the music. The Chant of Lights is a beautiful poem, and the choirs who raised their voices in song each morning and evening from every little village Chantry drew a younger Harea like a halla to an elfroot patch. Over the years, she's gotten bold enough to creep into the back pews and listen to the sermons. 

She can't say she believes everything the Chantry teaches, but Harea likes the idea of a Creator who can be called back by faith and song. The story of Andraste is a touching one, and it's nice to believe that something so powerful and inscrutable as a god could be moved by a mortal’s impassioned plea. She doesn't see why the Maker and the Creators can't both exist, except that the people who believe in the one hate the people who believe in the other. She knows the old stories of how that conflict came to be; she knows about Red Crossing, and the Exalted Marches, and the political backbiting in Halamshiral and Val Royeaux. Her cousins are angry, but it mostly makes Harea sad. 

All this to say that Harea, more than most Dalish, knows the Chant. She knows the human stories about the Maker and His Prophet, and the terrible fate that befell her. She realizes where she is, and who she's been talking to. 

Up there on the pyre, Andraste gazes out over the world with calm grey eyes. The archers in the host that surrounds her take aim at something out in the field and loose their arrows in a great storm that blots out the sun. A shuddering moan goes up from the army outside the walls. Many of them lay down their arms. Several Tevinter mages in ceremonial robes start pouring lamp oil on the pyre, using magic to splash it up to 

Andraste calls out in a voice that shouldn't carry as far as it does, yet somehow echoes across the plain, “Maker of the World, forgive them! They have lived too long in shadow, without Your Light to guide them! Be with Your children now, O Maker!”

A man in elaborate mage armor mounts the pyre at her side. The Tevinter army begins a slow beat, stamping their feet or clashing their weapons together, increasing in pace as their leader climbs the scaffolding. He turns to face the assembled Alamarri horde once he's reached the top. 

“Today, I end this war!" he shouts, but his words don't have the same weight as Andraste’s. When she spoke, it felt like every living being heard her words at the same instant. The Archon, for it can only be Archon Hessarian, lacks the overt gravity of the Prophet. He sounds like a man howling into a mountain blizzard, expecting to be heard despite the wind screaming around him. 

Hessarian lifts his arm high and calls fire from the air to the palm of his hand. A shuddering gasp rises from the Alamarri. The Tevinter soldiers’ beat speeds up. The clouds overhead run before a cold, rain-scented wind from the north. Thunder rumbles. 

The Archon touches the fire to the post above Andraste's head. Wood and oil ignite. The sudden fierce conflagration draws in so much air that Harea’s hair whooshes forwards around her face, and a wall of suffocating heat pushes the ranks of soldiers standing closest to the base of the pyre away. They stumble into their fellows, making the whole formation shudder. The Archon rises above the flames like a bird riding the thermals, hovering without seeming to put any effort into it. 

Both armies watch in rapt silence. The sound of distant thunder falls quiet, and the wind dies down as the world seems to hold its breath. Across the wide plain and throughout the crowded city, the only noise is the crackling of fire. Overhead, the dark clouds drift across the sun. Andraste burns, but she does not scream. 

Harea wakes up.

[gayhawkelatehomicide]

Meet Rogelan Lavellan, my tall tough son. He's saddled with a tremendous responsibility from birth by his clan, and then THIS happens to him. He, like all the rest of my trio Inquisitors, does so much better when he's not by himself. Here's the beginning of a thing I'm writing about him and his mage siblings in the Hinterlands. The title right now is "The Lights in the Shadow" from Benedictions 4:11

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.

In their blood the Maker's will is written."

     Corporal Vale meets the man who will soon be Inquisitor, and at first glance, he's not impressed. The fellow isn't particularly arresting: just a tall, heavily armed elf with a hooked nose and sad eyes. The tattoos are a bit distracting, but once you've worked alongside enough runaway dwarves with big blocky casteless brands on their faces, you get to where you can ignore pretty much anything. The future Inquisitor—who introduces himself as "Rogelan Lavellan, Inquisition agent" and leaves out a number of things that Vale will consider fairly important parts of a complete introduction, once he learns about them—looks like every other Dalish exile running with the kind of sell-swords who spend every winter halfway to banditry. The long scar at the corner of his mouth that carries across his cheek and up to the missing tip of his left ear, marring the smooth lines of his tattoos, just adds to the effect. 

     Still, Seeker Pentagast is behind him, and she seems to think he's worth talking to. So. Vale gives him the laundry list of shit he needs done in order to keep this refugee rabble from starving, freezing, or getting caught in the crossfire of this stupid war. Lavellan listens attentively, asks a few pertinent questions, and then leaves. Vale figures he's seen the last of the man, and that he'll either get the help he asked for or not. He won't bother getting his hopes up. Asking the people at the top to actually do anything doesn't get results most of the time, and he has no reason to suspect this will be any different. 

     From his hilltop command center, he watches the Seeker's small party wander around the Crossroads for a little less than an hour, stopping frequently to talk with people, before they head north towards the King's Road and Master Dennet's farm. The horses are why the Seeker herself came all the way out to the Hinterlands, after all. Vale hardly expects her to abandon her mission over the issue of a few hundred malnourished, hypothermic peasants. He sees the last glint of the sun off the Seeker's polished armor as they pass into the tunnel and heaves a sigh. He gets back to work.

     The next week passes without significant incident. There are few minor skirmishes because the rebel mages or rogue templars object to even a modest encampment of people who refuse to be intimidated by them, a brief brawl between a pair of mothers in the bread line, and some worrying reports of maybe-not-bandits on the East Road, but nothing to write home about. On the evening of the sixth day after the Seeker and her party come through, Vale is walking between the rows of tents towards his own bunk when he smells something delicious. He's usually a more controlled individual than this, but when you've been soldiering on half rations for nearly a month, the smell of fresh stew will draw you like Orlesian nobles to wyvern territory. 

     Later, Vale will not be able to recall how he got from the hillside path all the way to the poacher's fireside. All he knows is that he was headed to bed hungry again, and then he was seated on a stump by a campfire with a half empty bowl of hot stew in his hands. The poacher, the one with ideas about the rams in the hills, shoots him a knowing smile from under the edge of his hat which has Vale's cheeks warming from more than just the food. He gets a second bowl, and then a third. While he eats, he watches a seemingly endless rotation of refugees with pots of their own come and go, taking cut meat from a pair of substantial ice chests that the poacher is guarding. Those who don't have their own campfires to return to are welcomed one and all, until the poacher's fireside is crowded with happily chatting people. 

     Just when it looks like they'll run out of food, the steady stream of newcomers slows to a trickle, then stops. The poacher scrapes the last of the stew out of the pot into a bowl for himself and plunks down on the ground beside Vale's stump; this is, incidentally, one of the only remaining clear spaces close to the warmth of the fire. He tucks into his dinner as Vale is finishing the last of his own fourth bowl.

     "Feels good to see this lot fed, don't it?" The man grins up at Vale. 

     "It does," Vale agrees readily. "How'd you manage it?"

     "Not me," the poacher shakes his head. "Couple of elves in Inquisition gear came out of the woods with those boxes and enough dead rams to fill 'em. Said they'd be back tomorrow. Dunno if they're crazy or just brave as hell, but I have to say I believe 'em." 

     "Huh." Vale finds himself utterly lost for words.

     "Yeah, that's what I said. I guess we'll all see tomorrow evening, eh?" 

     "I guess we will."

     They sit in companionable quiet for a time as most of the visitors to the campsite thank their host and bid him farewell, heading off to shiver through the night with whatever warmth they can scavenge. The poacher happily eats his stew, and Vale doesn't feel the urge to leave just yet. He wants to let his stomach settle, he tells himself. The moon is half-up when he finally gets up from the stump and sets his dirty bowl atop the stack that people have left on the now-empty ice chests. 

     "I'll have somebody come help you wash these," he suggests.

     The poacher nods gratefully. "That'd be a great help, Corporal. I wasn't lookin' forward to that job."

     "Of course, serah..?" 

     This earns Vale a derisive little snort. "No need to serah me. Name's Kerrel."

     "Well then, Kerrel, until we meet again." Vale tips his helmet and turns heel to march back to his bunk, trailed by Kerrel's merry laugh. 

     ***

     Sure enough, the next evening Vale himself meets a trio of hunters emerging from the trees to the south with two more ice boxes aboard a horse-drawn wagon laden with enough dead rams to fill all four boxes and keep the whole encampment fed for a tenday. Along with them comes a pretty Inquisition scout named Ritts, carrying a map. She asks directions to Recruit Wittle, which Vale gives, and shortly there is a patrol headed out to round up caches of food and blankets that the rebel mages were hoarding. Vale catches the girl's arm on her way back out of camp.

     "Who found all this?" He asks, gesturing to her map and, more generally, the sudden influx of aid. 

     "Serah Lavellan, Corporal," she answers promptly. "He's been all in amongst the hills, hunting these caches. I heard he's headed north next, to clear out the arseholes on the King's Road."

     Vale blinks. "What, the mages and templars?"

     "That's right," Ritts smiles. "He's a stand-up man, that one. If he says he'll do it, I believe him."

     And for some reason, when she says it, Vale finds himself believing it too. He snorts derisively anyway, and turns her loose. "I'll believe it when I see it."

     "As you say, Corporal," Ritts says. Something about the way she says it gives Vale the impression that she knows what he really thinks. She gives him a cheeky little grin and trots off to catch up with Wittle's patrol. 

     ***

     When you're as far out in the middle of nowhere as the Hinterlands, information does still get to you through the official channels. However, it's usually about a week and a half behind the rumor mill, if not slower, and significantly less reliable. Corporal Vale learned long ago to listen to the whispers that the soldiers share when they think nobody's listening, and to take them just as seriously as any dispatch from headquarters. 

     The whispers going around camp say the Herald of Andraste is coming to close some of the holes in the air that keep belching out demons. Vale hears from several of his better-connected subordinates that the Herald herself has been seen on the road to Redcliffe. He doesn't hear anything from Haven, but that's to be expected with the lines of communication as patchy as they are. He decides to have one of the nicer huts cleaned up and cleared out, just in case.

     Three days later a wagon train comes rattling down the mountain path. It stops at the camp in the hills before trundling on down to the Crossroads, where a motley crew of Inquisition agents hops off. A man Vale identifies immediately as a sergeant squints doubtfully at the surrounding terrain, spits, and starts to make his way up towards Vale and the command post. Meanwhile, a pair of elf girls crawl out of the back of the lead wagon. The first, a tall redhead with green face tattoos, stretches like a cat before slinging a staff that's at least 30% blade casually over her shoulder with the ease of long practice. The second, a small-framed blonde, moves much more gingerly, treating her blunt-ended staff as a walking stick more than a weapon. 

     The rest of the Inquisition soldiers don't seem to know how to react to the pair: one young man starts to offer a hand to the blonde, but the redhead turns and snaps something at him that has him snatching his hand back and double-timing it away from the wagon. Vale watches them for the minute or so that it takes the sergeant to hike up to the command post, and in that time he's decided that they have to be some sort of related. They're also obviously both mages, which is making several of the refugees closest to the wagon visibly nervous. Somebody will have to do something about that, and sooner rather than later. 

     "Corporal," the sergeant greets Vale as he reaches the top of the hill.

     "Sergeant," Vale nods back, eyes still on the mages.

     The sergeant follows his gaze. "Worried about the girls? Don't be. They're no trouble." He sucks his teeth for a moment, then changes his mind. "Well, I oughta say they're worth the trouble. The redhead is a hell of a fighter, and the little one's a healer. The pair of 'em kept my men alive through a couple of bad bandit ambushes. Speakin' of which, you've got trouble on your east road, Corporal Vale."

     "Don't I know it," Vale says sourly. "We could use that healer of yours if you can spare her for a bit. I've got some men who might not make it back to civilization. But you've got me at a disadvantage Sergeant...?"

     "Aw, shit, sorry. I've been reading Scout Harding's briefs. She's too thorough for a recruit as new as she is. Makes me think the Nightingale's been in here. Apologies," he puts out a hand to shake, "I'm Sergeant Mayes. I hear you're doing good work out here, Vale." 

     Vale shakes it, then shrugs modestly. "I'm doing what I can. Are you here to take over?"

     "Andraste's sweet bosom no," Mayes makes a superstitious warding sign with his free hand. "Naw, you couldn't pay me enough to take command of this pigsty. Uh, no offense."

     "None taken," Vale sighs. "It is a shitshow. Alright then, if you're not here to take over, what are you here for?" 

     "Commander's orders," Mayes gestures to the wagons, which are loaded down with what looks like building materials. "We're putting up watchtowers so you and the local farmers can get some warning before the bandits or demons or what-have-you come howling out of the hills."

     Vale stares at Sergeant Mayes for a long second. "And just where does the Commander think you lot are going to put those towers?" he asks incredulously. "In the middle of the burning fields, or up the arse of some crazy mage?"

     This draws a genuine guffaw of laughter from Mayes. "Naw, Seeker Pentagast's crew has been out surveying spots for 'em," he explains. "Apparently Master Dennet's people had some plans made up before everything went to shit, and we're just following up. Foundations are already laid and everything."

     "Huh," Vale says. He remembers having just about the same reaction to the arrival of meat and blankets, and wonders how many more times in the next few weeks he'll be reduced to saying "huh." Not that he minds. The help is more than welcome. 

     "Yeah, that's about what we thought," Mayes sympathizes. "Anyhow, we're just passing through. I was hoping we could leave the girls with you, though. Their cousin's with the Lady Seeker, and they came out to meet him. Big elf with one ear half missing, name of Rogelan. You seen him?"

     "Aye, he came through with the Seeker and that smart-mouthed dwarf about two weeks ago. As long as they behave themselves, your girls can stay. I'm not about to turn away help, especially if they're as good as you say."

     "Better, probably, when they're not rattling around in the back of a wagon playing catch the fireball," Mayes speculates somewhat alarmingly. He turns back towards his men and sticks a couple fingers in his mouth. Vale has time to clap his hands over his ears before the sergeant emits a loud, sharp whistle that has the whole wagon train moving again in short order. A couple hand signals tell the front teamster to head along the King's Road, and another has the two elven girls climbing the hill. It takes them longer than Mayes, as the blonde isn't terribly steady on her feet, so Vale guesses he has time for a couple more questions before they get in earshot.

     "I heard you were bringing the Herald with you," Vale says as-if-casually. "She one of those two?" 

     "Oh, yeah." Mayes waves a hand as if brushing the comment away. "The little one, Harea. She says she's not any such thing, and I ain't seen anything to prove otherwise. She's good at what she does, but I've seen circle mages do the same. Apparently she can do somethin' about those holes in the sky, but we didn't run into any on the way down here to test it."

     "Huh. Didn't she fall out of the fade at the Temple of Sacred Ashes? Handed out by Andraste herself or some such, is what I heard."

     "Yea-up. She and that cousin of hers lived through the blast somehow. Just got lucky, maybe, but she does seem a little touched. I dunno. It's all above my pay-grade."

     "Well. Mine too, probably."

     "Yea-up. Well, I'd better get going. Gotta catch that wagon. Good luck, Vale. Keep up the good work." 

     "You too, Mayes. Come back when you're done working. We'll feed you something hot."

     "That'd better be a promise, Corporal," Mayes grins. Then he heads off down the hill with a wave towards the girls, jogs after the last wagon, and hauls himself in. 

     Vale shakes his head and turns to face the newest additions to his perpetual headache. 

     As they top the rise, the two elf girls are mid-conversation. Whatever they're discussing goes right over Vale's head, something about energies and spirits and magical Andraste-knows-what. They stop when they reach the makeshift desk where he has his maps laid out, and the redhead smiles.

     "Hello. You must be Corporal Vale." Her accent is a cosmopolitan Free Marcher's—Ostwick or Wycome, if he doesn't miss his guess. 

     "I am."

     She puts out her hand to shake. "Isene Felivetanin, Second of Clan Lavellan. This is my cousin Harea Elgadira, our First."

     Vale hasn't the foggiest clue what any of that means, but he shakes her hand all the same. "Pleased to meet you both," he says politely. 

     "If you've any wounded," the blonde, Harea, interjects diffidently, "I'm a capable healer. If you think they'd accept my help, of course. Mother Giselle's note said there might be some who would prefer herbs and such? I can do that too, it just takes longer." 

     "Right, the tents you'll want are that way," Vale points. "None of the men in there now ought to give you any trouble, they've all gotten the good Mother's lecture on letting magic serve them. I'll have what medicines we do have sent down there for you to work with, and Recruit Fara will show you exactly where you can set up. Good enough?"

     "More than, thank you." She bobs her head and begins to make her way slowly in the direction of the infirmary, leaning on her staff. 

     "How about you?" Vale turns to Isene. "Are you looking for something to do, or would you rather just wait for your kinsman?"

     "I get antsy without a job, so I'd like to be useful if possible. I'm good with my hands and I'm good with people, but my magic is better for destroying than healing, I'm afraid." She offers an apologetic half-smile with this. 

     "Good to know," Vale mutters to himself, eyeing the Maker-forsaken pole arm of a staff she's carrying. "Well, we always need folk to clean and carry, but the refugees can handle most of the basic labor. If you can mend or weave, there's a group of ladies turning scrap fabric into clothes and blankets around the north end of camp, but if not, I think Recruit Ansel is trying to get an accounting of everyone in camp. He could use an extra pair of hands, for certain." 

     "I'm willing to do any of that, but I can read and do figures, so I'm probably most useful to your Recruit Ansel. Point me in the right direction?"

     Vale does. "He's down the slope that-a-way, heavyset dwarven fella with dark hair and one of those square casteless brands on his left side. Oughta have a big ol' scroll with him. Tell him I sent you to help, and maybe leave that," he nods to the staff, "in your quarters. You'll make people nervous."

     "Quarters?" she inquires brightly.

     "See that hut by the waterfall? For you and your kinsmen. Wouldn't do to have the troops see the Herald of Andraste out under a tarp next time it starts snowing. Bad for morale, whether she is or isn't what they say."

     This last comment draws a keen look from Isene. "Whether she is or isn't?"

     Vale shrugs. "I don't know one way or another, and it's not my job to care. What is my job is keeping these poor folks alive, and if that means making some decisions about housing based more on opinions than facts, then that's what it means."

     "Good to know," she echoes his earlier sentiment. "I appreciate your candor, Corporal Vale. I'll drop my staff off and go find Ansel, then." 

     With a salute that's only a little too casual to be military, she heads off down the hill. Vale watches her go with mixed feelings. Two mages powerful and comfortable enough to have been "playing catch the fireball," as Mayes said, are in his camp. They seem pretty tame now, but he saw Isene snap at that soldier for offering a hand. He resolves to have them watched. Better safe than sorry, and if they get bent out of shape over it, that'll also be important information to have. 

     Still, though he's loath to say it and invite disaster, things in the Hinterlands seem to be looking up. 

[winterpower98]

Just a bunch of doodles from season 4

Also, I am surprised that no one gave the Demon Accountant a name!

[sundialsandsands]

Monkie Kid art dump 2.0 (Season 5 spoilers..?)

dropping my silly friend's propaganda for inky soysauce duo! it's basically soysauce duo but ink manifestations of MK and Macaque ^_^ they're totally best friends

anddd last but not least my season 5 bingo card I forgot about! I made it back in December. I think I would've had a full Bingo if I played this alongside season 5 😅

[inkclover]

Day 4: Beloved 💕

[brainyrot]

IM crew be like: A GHOST?!

Meanwhile The Squeaky Trio next to them: A GHOST!!! *star eyes*

ngl one of them would say it's their cousin or a friend or something

[the-gloink]

Yo wassup ;-;…i didnt post my art in a while…

Here…devour em…if u like em ofc…bye :D

Killer sans belongs to : @rahafwabas

Dust sans belongs to : @ask-dusttale

Horror sans belongs to : @sour-apple-studios

Ink sans belongs to : @comyet

I belong to myself-

[bittersweet-alyssum]

so likeeeee... now that i finished the entire yhs series in around 2 weeks..... time to do it again? twice???? or is that too obsessive coz like i'll do it. i'll do it i swear i will. on top of watching the reboot.

[doodle17]

Had quite an interesting Batim dream last night and I think I'm gonna make a self indulgent au about it

[bodybaggage]

Shadows in Gotham

---

Gotham’s twilight sky was a patchwork of purples and reds, a fading canvas that gave way to the inky blackness of night. The city was alive with the usual sounds of distant sirens, honking horns, and the underlying hum of danger that never quite left its streets. For Danny Fenton, now in his early twenties, Gotham was supposed to be a fresh start—a place to lay low and raise his unconventional family.

His daughter, Danielle, Ellie, as she preferred—skipped ahead on the cracked sidewalk, her energy boundless despite the long day. She looked about ten years old, though she was technically more of a clone than a traditional daughter. She had Danny’s black hair but with an unruly curl to it, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. Beside Danny, holding his hand, was a boy who looked no older than eight. His hair was tousled, and his expression was a strange mix of innocence and the haunting wisdom of someone far older. This was Dan, Danny’s de-aged evil future self, a living, breathing reminder of what could go wrong if they weren’t careful.

The trio moved through the narrow streets, Danny’s senses on high alert as they made their way back to the modest apartment they now called home. He had retired from the life of a ghostly vigilante, focusing instead on keeping his small family safe and hidden from the relentless pursuit of the Guys in White (GIW). To the world, they were just another struggling family in Gotham. But beneath the surface, their existence was anything but ordinary.

“Can we get pizza tonight?” Ellie asked, her voice full of hope as she glanced back at Danny.

“Pizza sounds good,” Danny replied with a smile. “But it’s Gotham, so let’s hope the delivery guy makes it to our place in one piece.”

Ellie giggled, and even Dan let out a rare smile, though it was fleeting. The moment of normalcy was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle up ahead. Danny’s instincts kicked in as he pulled his kids closer, eyes narrowing at the scene unfolding just around the corner.

A man, clearly desperate, was trying to rob a woman at gunpoint. The woman’s purse dangled from his shaky hand, and fear was etched across her face. Danny knew he should keep moving, that getting involved could blow their cover, but he couldn’t just walk away.

“Stay here,” Danny whispered to Ellie and Dan, his voice firm.

Before he could intervene, a shadowy figure dropped from the rooftops, landing silently behind the mugger. The man didn’t stand a chance as a blur of red and black moved with lethal precision. Within seconds, the mugger was disarmed and unconscious on the pavement.

Red Hood stood over the man, his stance relaxed but ready, as if this was just another routine night in Gotham. He turned to the woman, who quickly grabbed her purse and bolted, muttering her thanks. It was only then that Red Hood noticed Danny and the kids standing just a few feet away, watching the scene unfold.

Danny tensed as the vigilante’s eyes—hidden behind that crimson helmet—seemed to study them. He instinctively placed a hand on each of his kids’ shoulders, ready to flee if things went south.

“You alright?” Red Hood asked, his voice rough but not unkind. He seemed to soften at the sight of the kids, his posture relaxing ever so slightly.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Danny replied, his tone cautious. “Just heading home.”

Red Hood’s gaze flicked between Danny and the children, and Danny could almost feel the wheels turning behind that mask. This was Gotham, after all, a city full of dark secrets. A young man, barely an adult, with two small kids in tow—it wasn’t hard to jump to conclusions.

“You live around here?” Red Hood pressed, the curiosity in his voice making Danny’s stomach tighten.

“Not far,” Danny answered, hoping to end the conversation quickly. “Just trying to keep my family safe.”

Red Hood nodded slowly, as if weighing his next words. “Gotham’s not exactly the best place to raise kids, especially if you’re... alone.”

Danny’s jaw clenched, recognizing the underlying question. “We manage.”

Before Red Hood could probe further, Ellie stepped forward, her usual boldness taking over. “He’s the best dad ever! And we don’t need any help, mister.”

Red Hood chuckled softly, the sound almost disarming. “I’m sure he is, kid. But just in case, you should know there are people around here who can help... if you ever need it.”

Danny forced a tight smile, grateful for Ellie’s fierce loyalty but wary of the attention they’d attracted. “Thanks, but we’re good.”

Red Hood seemed to accept this, though the suspicion in his stance didn’t entirely fade. “Take care of yourself,” he said finally, before turning and vanishing into the shadows as quickly as he’d appeared.

Danny let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The encounter had been brief, but he knew it wouldn’t be the last. The Bat Family had eyes everywhere, and their curiosity was piqued.

“Let’s get home,” Danny murmured, guiding Ellie and Dan down the street with renewed urgency.

They reached their apartment without further incident, the familiar creak of the stairs a welcome sound. Once inside, Danny locked the door and sagged against it, the weight of their precarious situation pressing down on him.

Ellie flopped onto the worn couch, her earlier bravado replaced with concern. “Are we in trouble, Dad?”

Danny ruffled her hair affectionately. “No, Ellie. We’re just... being careful. That’s all.”

Dan sat quietly at the kitchen table, his eyes distant as he processed the night’s events. “He was one of the Bats, wasn’t he?”

Danny nodded, joining Dan at the table. “Yeah, Red Hood. He’s... complicated. But we should be alright if we keep a low profile.”

The night passed uneventfully, but the encounter with Red Hood lingered in Danny’s mind. He knew that living in Gotham meant constant vigilance, but the thought of the Bat Family watching them added a new layer of stress.

---

Meanwhile, across town, the Bat Family gathered in the Batcave, the massive space filled with the glow of computer screens and the quiet hum of machinery.

“Interesting case tonight,” Red Hood—Jason Todd—began as he removed his helmet, revealing the slightly tousled dark hair underneath. “Ran into a guy with two kids. They seemed... out of place.”

“Out of place in Gotham?” Dick Grayson, quipped from where he was perched on the edge of the Batcomputer’s console. “That’s pretty much everyone.”

Jason shot him a look. “Not like that. The guy was young, barely in his twenties. The kids were ten and eight, maybe. And something about them just... felt off.”

Bruce Wayne, Batman, looked up from the screen, his expression unreadable. “Off how?”

Jason hesitated, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. There’s something he’s not saying. And those kids—they’re attached to him, but it’s like they’re all trying to stay under the radar.”

Damian Wayne, the current Robin, scoffed. “Plenty of people try to stay out of sight in this city. It’s not our problem unless they break the law.”

“Yeah, but...” Jason trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “There’s a chance that guy’s a victim. The way the girl talked about him, it was like she was protecting him.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think the children are in danger?”

Jason frowned, shaking his head. “Not from him. I think they’re all running from something.”

Silence settled over the Batcave as they considered the implications. Bruce stood, his presence commanding as ever. “Keep an eye on them. Gotham has a way of uncovering secrets, and we can’t afford to overlook anything.”

---

Back at the apartment, Danny lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The shadows played tricks in the dim light, reminding him of the life he left behind. He had taken on more than just the role of a father—he had become a protector, a shield against the darkness that sought to consume them.

But Gotham was relentless, and he knew their time in the shadows was running out.

---

🧌

[lordsalissoon]

We will have the Goat in 'A Cult to Call Home'? YES, WE WILL!!!! But it will happen so far in the future that Faaola (yes, that's the name of my Lamb's of actch) will already be a god with kids and years and years of experience being a god.

And the Goat is… well… a teenager. An infant god. He's new and has no idea how to take care of himself. Lamb to the rescue then!

Yeah, I know this isn't everyone's take on the Goat, and I know it makes sense that the Goat would be more experienced given the trailer's context, buuuuut… this was the only way to introduce him into the lore without it getting weird or awkward!

So, we have this! Also, they would appear when the shittens are a little older than him, so they'll be a trio, probably!

And I had no idea how to tag @inky-beasts in this post this time so, here! YOU'RE TAGGED!!!

[gayhawkelatehomicide]

I don't have writing for Ise, but I have a ton of screenshots because she's very photogenic

[winterpower98]

In Swap Au the beginning of season 4 is slightly different from the canon one.

Macaque steals the scroll from the underworld and plans to use it to trap Wukong. He keeps it hidden for a while, waiting for the right moment to use it but Mei finds it and opens it by accident, getting her mentor stuck in it.

The young dragon panics and asks Tang for help, hoping that the century-old monk will have some trick up his sleeve to help them. Alas, the only way to free Macaque is to go in themselves, but not before having warned their friends about what was happening and asking them to keep an eye on the scroll while they are inside of it.

They struggle for a while to find where the shadow demon ended and in the meantime end up reliving a few points of the Journey West.

During their travel a mysterious inky figure has been chasing them, forcing them to retreat always just before they could get them. It's then that Mei and Tang meet Azrue. The lion acts like he's a redemption villain, trapped in the scroll for his past mistakes that he now regrets and offers the two his help with keeping the inky creature at bay while they look for their friends.

All of that is obviously a rouse and instead of finding and freeing Macaque, they free Azrue's sworn brothers, Peng and Tusk.

But to everyone's surprise, the two sworn brothers don't want to follow Azrue's plan and are actually and are actually really concerned with the lion's obsession with Sun Wukong.

Azrue storms away, taking the scroll with him and the inky creature he had managed to leash under his control.

Next thing the heroes know is that Heaven is at war and the monkey tyrant is winning

Masterpost

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hello! It's me again. I'm probably pestering you, lol. I think a lotta people give flack for the Octavinelle trio being ruthless and "behaving like a Mafia." But I think considering where they live it makes sense? They live in the ocean. And the ocean is a kill or be killed environment, where you have to the strongest and toughest. If not? You at least have to be quick witted and unable to be seen, otherwise you'll be dead. If the trio become too soft they'll be fish meat.

I think the fandom is pretty divided when it comes to perceptions of what the Coral Sea is like. On one hand, you have the people who think of it as like living in Atlantica, which is basically just like living in a peaceful and pretty city (but underwater). Then you have the people who think the environment would be so different it would shape its inhabitants to behave differently as well. The second one tends to be a darker or grittier interpretation which aknowledges dangers such as other undersea creatures and treacherous living conditions.

Personally, I lean on and enjoy the latter, since TWST rarely ever designs purely for the aesthetic of it; one example of this is how the twins are confirmed to be bioluminescent in the Magical Archives. This is a decision that was not made “because it would look cool”, but because many deep sea creatures rely on this trait to intimidate potential predators. It would make more sense for the cold waters of the Coral Sea to change its people rather than merfolks’ cities simply being civilizations moved several leagues under, especially seeing TWST time and time again really consider the geography and history of each new location and how those inform the cultures that form there.

However, I want to state that the Coral Sea would be very different depending on which area you’re in, just like how there are nice parts and bad parts of a city. It’s not ALL nice or ALL bad. For example, the Atlantica Museum in book 3 appears to be in a more photic zone, so there’s more sunlight and it appears pleasant to be in. Even the merpeople there seem to be different than the Octatrio; they less so resemble specific sea creatures and are much more akin to being human-like. We have yet to really see how the benthic zones are—but we do know they must be harsher, since Floyd has mentioned exploring shipwrecks and various dangers there (like sharks).

I also want to point out that there are subtle signs in dialogue which could imply merpeople prefer traits that promote survivability and adaptability in the ocean. Azul’s bullies are noted to taunt him for his weight, but also for his bulky tentacles and inky tears. Now why those traits specifically??? Because these impede his ability to swim swiftly (making it harder to escape danger) and easily give away his location (if he’s in hiding or camoflauging).

I’ve seen others suggest that maybe these comments are because of racism against octopus merpeople, who are a rare kind of merfolk. This is entirely possible, yes! But thinking about it like that… Isn’t it also possible that there aren’t a lot of octopus merpeople at the moment because it’s more difficult for them to escape or to hide from predators? Which then informs and perpetuates preexisting prejudices. In this context (plus the bullying), it makes sense why Azul may have “hardened” as a defense and survival mechanism. The same goes for the twins, who were explicitly taught how to defend themselves (although this also goes into the Leech mob family theory, which is a whole separate matter) and have often made references to fighting others in the Coral Sea. Their upbringings also play a part in their personalities, but so does the environment they grew up in. Like Azul and the twins, you’d have to harden mentally or physically to some degree to ensure your survival through tough circumstances.

It’s hard to say for sure though! A lot of this is speculation based on current but infrequent lore, and the Octatrio themselves are a very small portion of all merfolk. They may not be representative of the behaviors of all other merpeople, and we should keep this in mind when referring to them as our exemplars. That’s why I’ve been hoping for a Coral Sea hometown event so we have a more concrete idea of what life under the sea is like 😭

[koisuko]

Could I request the Lin Kuei Trio with a God reader? For more context, Reader is the god of the moon and the Lin Kuei could be a clan who worshipped them? And one day, reader decides to descend to aid Liu Kang for something and the boys end up meeting the god they worship

This took way too long, couldn’t find the motivation. It’s 1 am and suddenly it hit me >:)

Tw: none, fluff, these boys are smitten on sight, gn

It had long been known, for centuries the Lin Kuei worshipped the god of the moon, the night, and the sign of change. The god represented the ways of the Lin Kuei, how day by day they served their purpose with grace and power, never once failing a task. The clan never knew, but the god was watching them, a smile on their face as they heard their prayers.

You watched for centuries as the clan grew, in number and in strength, serving alongside Liu Kang in the protection of Earthrealm. You offered help where you could, assisting from the background and keeping your distance from the mortals themselves. You knew all to well how easily corrupt mortals could become, fearing your reveal could lead to a catastrophic end to the clan.

A gentle voice rang in your ears, an all too familiar god of fire sending a prayer for your assistance. Knowing Liu Kang, he would only request direct help from you if the need was drastic. He was capable of doing many things on his own, but required your aid on rare occasion.

You swiftly left the safety of your temple. Your attire flowing elegantly on the ground behind you, cascading down your back in a watery display of silk. You felt the rays of the moon touch your porcelain skin, fueling the ethereal glow in the intricate patterns imbedded into your arms, a visible representation of your power displayed in inky artistry.

Two pillars stood before you, orbs sat atop the pillars illuminating the room in a dim white radiance, resembling the moon itself. You wave your hands, moonlight rays flow from your fingers, forming a bright portal between the pillars, swirling in a mesmerizing display and humming a song of the night.

Stepping through, you were greeted with a familiar smile, "Lord Liu Kang, it's a pleasure to see you old friend." He tipped his head as a sign of respect and greeting, causing you to mirror his welcoming gesture. "y/n, I truly appreciate your aid in my cause, shall we discuss?" He moved to the side, sweeping his hand and gesturing to the academy behind him.

Upon entering, the ground once bustling with activity, now fell silent as you and Liu Kang walked side by side. The monks pause their training, turning to pay respects to your presence with a bow. "There are a few who wish to meet you." He kept the comforting smile on his face, his eyes directed in front of him as we neared the main temple, "I look forward to it, Liu Kang."

The grand doors of the temple creaked open, behind it revealing the familiar faces of the Lin Kuei. The sudden thump of your heart hammered against your chest, worry masked by a calm and stoic expression. That fear of corruption once again lurked in the back of your mind, shadowing the confidence you harbored for the future. “Bi-han, Kuai Liang, Tomas,” Liu Kang gestures to each man before you as he spoke, “this is y/n, the god of the moon.” You watched each of their reactions individually, carefully studying the surprise and awe in their eyes.

You could see the excitement masked by their need to remain professional. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” you placed a hand over your heart, bowing your head slowly. When you lifted your head back up, you were met with the three of them knelt on one knee, with their heads low in respect. Of the three, it was a surprise to see Bi-han so quick to kneel before someone with no sign of reluctance. “Please, there is no need,” your voice rang in their ears like wind chimes. They were sure to remember your face, your beauty and elegance.

As they all rose, all except one gave a stoic stare. Tomas, his eyes averted elsewhere, darting around rapidly to avoid eye contact. His features were graced with the hues of a blush. It made you giggle, causing him to blush even deeper.

Clasping your hands in front of you, you sighed, breathing in the comfortable silence. “Now,” Liu Kang suddenly cut in, “shall we continue?”

Note: apologies if this is short, it’s been in my drafts for ages and I wanted to finish it the best I can despite losing motivation for it.

[gothicgunslinger]

Pre rdr2, where you join the gang just before Arthur and John do – for a while, it was you, Dutch, and Hosea; a seemingly unstoppable trio of theatrics, gunslingin' and thievin'.

That and, both Dutch and Hosea had eyes for you. At first, it felt like a complication – I mean, they couldn't both have you, right? Right?

I suppose that all changed, after a rather eventful night at the saloon. A planned robbery, turned completely on it's head – the three of you throwing caution to the wind and deciding just to let loose, get drunk, dance, have fun. Oh, and fun was had.

Somehow, several whiskeys down the line, you were all collectively crammed into a hotel room – your back against Dutch's chest, his rough, decored hands rolling your nipples between harsh, calloused fingers; the cold silver of his rings making you shudder, an array of goosebumps adorning your skin, his breath on your ear as he murmured filth from behind those lips. Hosea, on the other hand, always the gentleman – his head between your already trembling thighs, tongue circling your aching clit, your slick tasting like fresh honey as he periodically swallowed.

After that, no night, nor day was the same. You were often spent, jelly-legged from a rough pounding the several nights prior – neither men showing mercy, indulging perhaps a little too much in enacting fantasies they'd let swim around their heads for so long. Still, as if you'd ever find it within you to complain – because, there were nights like this one; Dutch's head in your lap, as he read aloud his usual philosophies, your fingers combing through his tight, inky curls as a warm smile played at your lips. Your free arm, laced around Hosea, his head upon your shoulder – he'd occasionally pepper gentle, innocent kisses to your neck, your jaw. It was bliss.

Little really changed, when you found Arthur. The sex was less, of course, but the affections were perhaps on a rise – a son, now curled up in bed with the three of his parents. Fourteen, lost, now having sought the comfort he'd so desperately craved. Though it did take time, Arthur saw you as a mother – some, angelic force within his life, that kissed his grazed knees, cut his hair and soothed tears or terrors that so often reared their ugly heads.

John. John, wasn't an entirely different story, either. Well, for Dutch and Hosea, he certainly was. In comparison to his older counterpart, John wasn't quite as equal with his appreciation for his s o-called 'adoptive parents'. He favoured you, greatly. More than you could say you were grateful for, John competed with Arthur for your attention – purposefully skinning his knees, tumbling from his horse. All, to be scooped into your arms. Admittedly, for a while, you yielded – “Shh, sweetheart, I’ve got you. Awh, my poor boy.” All while planting a kiss to the crown of his head. Finally, at the advise of Hosea, you set a few boundaries – much to John’s distaste, but he’d listen to you.

Life went on like this, for a good, long while. Yes, you weren’t really a gang, anymore – rather, a family. Poker on spring nights, in which, John’s wrinkled nose giving him away. Hosea teaching the boys to read by the campfire, Dutch slow-dancing with you in your shared tent. Despite the expected blip, bump in the road, life felt..perfect.