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Ivy Sweet

Satinalia in the Circle was not something Clem Trevelyan looked forward to. But this year, things are looking up.

Gift fic for my dear friend, @alucifer, written for Christmas 2014. Clem is her lovely baby, I just like dragging her into different AUs. 2.5k, some Trevelyan/Blackwall Satinalia fluff.

'Satinalia is known for its great feasting and revelry', Clemence had read back in the Circle. 'Dedicated to Satina, our second moon, it is a time to give thanks to the Maker and to create joyous memories to see us through the dark winter months ahead. We gather with our loved ones to feast and make merry, and to bestow gifts upon the ones we cherish most just as the Maker has blessed us in the past year.' The passage was stuffed between seasonal prayers to be said each annum, and when the Circle's idea of feasting and revelry was handmade cards exchanged between forkfuls of overcooked pork, tepid roast potatoes and wilted greens, the whole notion lost some of its appeal.

So when she arrived back at Skyhold on the afternoon before the holiday, Clem was less concerned about what they might have for dinner and more about washing off the last week of Crestwood muck that felt ground into her skin. She waved genially at the calls of, “Satinalia blessings, Inquisitor!” that rang out from the courtyard as she and her companions rode through the gates and climbed off their horses, passing the reins to Master Dennet and letting the ragtag bunch of stable brats start unloading their packs.

Winter had already set in up here in the mountains and there was a thin slush on the ground as they walked up to the Great Hall, freezing their toes while the sky overhead promised a heavier snowfall before the next day. It was a blessing when the doors swung open to greet them as they climbed the stairs and they felt the rush of warm air. Servants helped them draw off their heavy travelling cloaks and wet boots in the entryway, and it wasn't until she heard Varric say, “Well, damn, would you look at that,” in a tone of mild surprise that she peeked into the Hall itself.

Satinalia evidently had a very different meaning outside of the Circle.

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A Night at Three Trout Pond

Bull had read Varric’s book and talked to the others about the Champion, hearing the same the stories everyone knew: the battle with the Qunari, the fights in the Deep Roads, the explosion at the Chantry. It was all impressive, but the boss was already shaping up to match it, if Haven and Redcliffe were any indication. So why did the weary, plain-looking woman from Kirkwall worry Lavellan so much?

6000 words of Bull and Fen, uh. Talking and thinking, really. And fishing. Some flirting, some UST, all pre-romance. If I write a second chapter there’ll be smut, but right now it’s just a bit of angsty fluff.

For all that Crestwood was a miserable little town beset by bandits and undead, it hadn’t been a bad trip across Ferelden. Okay, yeah, undead meant demons, which meant the eerie glow in the middle of the lake wasn't just some seasonal algae weirdness, and that was going to be a pain in the ass to deal with, but the rest of it? That was easy, even in the rain and the sticky, clinging mud, and the locals needed the help. The ragtag Crestwood militia had let out a cheer when they'd seen the Inquisitor and her crew sweep up behind the undead assaulting the town gate, and the promise of further aid raised the spirits of the whole village. The cool, wet summer hadn't done much for their crops, and the corpses rising from the lake were not the haul the fishermen had hoped for. It felt good to be helping people who desperately needed it—even if undead and bandits were a little outside the Inquisition’s purview—and lending a hand to a town that the Fereldan crown had been ignoring was the perfect cover to see what the Champion of Kirkwall had been up to.

So, Bull had wondered as they hiked through the Crestwood countryside, why had Lavellan been so damn miserable for the last week?

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A Person of Worth

Five Wardens, five Hawkes, ten mabari. A look at Thedas' heroes and their mutts.

Reworked and expanded an old post on here about my PCs and their dogs. 4.2k, includes animal and character death.

I.

There hadn't been that many dogs in the Alienage. In the wealthier parts of Denerim there were pretty lap dogs for ladies or sleek hunting hounds for lords, or the famous mabari that trained alongside the soldiers. Others—scrawny mongrels with broken tails or missing eyes—haunted the marketplace and lurked around the kitchen doors of inns each evening. But there wasn't much for them in the Alienage. Food scraps went back in the pot, stew bones were boiled until they were too tasteless even for the mutts, and the middens had little to offer a hungry dog besides the smell. Once, when she'd been younger, Iyana Tabris had seen a great spotted hound bolt past her door, its tail between its legs and curses and a couple of rocks flung after it. It'd pissed on the vhenadahl, her father told her later, his face creased with laughter. Valendrian had just about had a fit, and Iyana wondered if the hahren didn't realise how the elves usually kept the damn tree watered.

So Iyana was... shy when she saw the dogs at Ostagar. Massive things, solid and muscular with crushing jaws and powerful hind legs that were bred to bring down a man or a horse in combat. It'd been Daveth's teasing about the scared little elf that had pushed her into the pen with the mabari, holding the muzzle in a hand that she refused to let tremble. But it'd been the red-rimmed eyes of the sick dog that'd pushed her to find the flowers that could heal it.

When the kennel master talked about imprinting she hadn’t truly understood, but she had understood the trust in those soft brown eyes, when a dog strong enough to tear her apart bowed its head and let her run her fingers through its coarse tan fur. However much the dog hurt and snapped at its kennel master, however old its lineage or costly its breed, it had faith that the scared little elf would be the one who could save it. No one outside the Alienage had ever trusted her like that before.

She didn't know whether to be insulted or proud.

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6, 7, 8, 18, 22 (depending how much you've thought about other inqs), 23, 25

This took longer than I intended, thanks to the first question, but here we go!

6. Write some of their party banter (in reaction to major events, scenery dialogue, or just shitting around. Askers can specify for which character/event, or leave it up to the writer).OH BOY. Right, one for each companion.

Feniradel: “Have you ever been right down in the Deep Roads?”Blackwall: “Once or twice.”Feniradel: “Are there really cities down there? Proper ones, cut into the rocks?”Blackwall: “Yes. Orzammar is the only one people live in now.”Feniradel: “Do you think darkspawn live in them instead?”Blackwall: “What?”Feniradel: “Little darkspawn families raising their darkspawn babies in old dwarven cities.”Blackwall: “Maker, I hope not.”Feniradel: “It’d be like Halamshiral, but with more taint.”

Cassandra: “You seemed intrigued by Val Royeaux, Feniradel. Was that your first time in a city?”Feniradel: “No, but it was the biggest one I’ve been to.”Cassandra: “If you have any questions, I would be happy to answer.”Feniradel: “Oh. Well, mostly I was wondering about the lake we crossed. It looked strange.”Cassandra: “The Miroir de la Mere? A folly of a previous emperor. There are no fish in it and you should not drink the water; the bottom is lined in lead.”Feniradel: “What? Why?”Cassandra: “Because someone with more wealth and power than common sense said it should be so.”Feniradel: “That’s stupid.”Cassandra: “We are agreed on that.”

Feniradel: “Why do you make people forget things, Cole?”Cole: “Remembering me wouldn’t help the people who are whole, and ones that are hurt can heal faster if they forget.”Feniradel: “But if it doesn’t hurt, what if they do whatever went wrong again because they can’t remember it?”Cole: “The pain is from the knot, not in the knot. When that’s untangled, then the things that make the pain come undone too. They don’t need to do the things that hurt them anymore.”Feniradel: “Oh. I didn’t realise. Well, if it makes you happy.”Cole: “It makes them happy. That’s why you try to do it too. When you help it hurts less.”

Dorian: “Your tattoos - I read that they signify which god you believe in, yes?”Feniradel: “Not quite. All the Creators are real, the vallaslin just depends on which one you’re most dedicated to.”Dorian: “Do you choose that yourself? Which particular deity left their mark on you?”Feniradel: “Yes. Dirthamen. God of knowledge and loyalty and a few other things.”Dorian: “Ah. You know, some more radical Tevinter scholars believe that the Old Gods were based on elven beliefs. Your god of knowledge would be the Dragon of Mystery, Razikale.”Feniradel: “Fenedhis. Yes, our gods are Archdemons, or aspects of the bloody Maker, or were long-dead nobles. I get it. Piss off.”

Iron Bull: “You seemed pretty okay with that Fade stuff, Fen.”Feniradel: “It was interesting. You looked about ready to crawl out of your skin by the end of it.”Iron Bull: “Shit yeah, wandering around demon central doesn’t do it for me. They really didn’t bother you?”Feniradel: “Nah. Not like I’d accept any offers they made, so if I wound up possessed there was no way to stop it. No point in worrying.”Iron Bull: “You just accepted the idea that you could get possessed?”Feniradel: “Sure. I could also get stabbed or set on fire or eaten by a wyvern. Demons are just another kind of dead.”

Sera: “All right, elfy, let’s hear it.”Feniradel: “Hear what?”Sera: “I want to hear you say it. Tell me to run away from my human over-whatevers, and join the real elves grubbing around in halla shit.”Feniradel: “What? Why would I tell you that?”Sera: “You all do it. Except Solas. He hates your lot almost as much as he hates my lot.”Feniradel: “You can if you really want to, but I’m pretty sure you’d annoy the halla, and they get mean when they’re upset.”

Feniradel: “I really don’t understand what you want from us.”Solas: “I’m sorry?”Feniradel: “Sometimes you talk like you admire Elvhenan, and sometimes like you hate it. And you pick at the Dalish for the traditions we kept, but get annoyed that we’re not what you’ve seen in your dreams.”Solas: “Is it not possible to love something while also understanding - and wanting to correct - its flaws?”Feniradel: “Sure, when it’s history. But it’s not like that with the People. Just because we’re different than we were before the Chantry and Tevinter doesn’t mean that what we’ve become is wrong.”Solas: “You believe living in servitude to humans or hiding away like frightened animals in the forest is better than the lives you once could have lived?”Feniradel: “Of course not. But it’s better than not living at all. We adapted to survive, and there’s nothing shameful about that.”

Varric: “I didn’t see you at the Winter Palace, Briar. Don’t tell me you missed out on all the fun.”Feniradel: “Not sure you’d call a bunch of elves being massacred fun, but no. I was there.”Varric: “Skulking on the rooftops? Ransacking the library for forgotten elven secrets?”Feniradel: “No.”Varric: “Spying on Briala’s spies? Going through the Empress’s diary?”Feniradel: “No. The Empress keeps a diary?”Varric: “If she does, it’s the best-kept secret in Orlais. Where were you?”Feniradel: “Someone had to help the servants lay out their dead. The Empress employed a lot of families.”

Vivienne: “You must find all the political scheming in Orlais dreadfully confusing, my dear.”Feniradel: “Not really. It’s a bunch of people wanting things and either pleasing the people who can give it to them, or harming the people who are in their way, isn’t it?”Vivienne: “In its very simplest form. I am not surprised the complexities elude you.”Feniradel: “It’s fine, I’ve learned a lot about manipulating people from watching you.”Vivienne: “I’m pleased to hear it! Now if only you had something that anyone else could possibly want.”

7. What would be on their tombstone in the fade (what is their greatest fear)?Helplessness. Or Losing Purpose.

8. What kind of Inquisitor would drive them to leave the Inquisition/confront them about their actions (what gets their approval low? what does that scene look like)?A pro-Chantry Inquisitor is the one she’d come most into conflict with. Either one that believes they were chosen by Andraste, or one that goes out of their way to please the Chantry. CotJ or IHW wouldn’t get you any major approval drops with Fen, though conscripting the mages or recruiting the templars would give you a minor boost. She wouldn’t have many strong opinions about the Winter Palace, either. You’d more likely get a series of small approval increases for each halla statue you find. Exiling the Wardens would be a big approval drop.More general things that would drive her approval down would include executing people in judgements and mistreating non-humans - elves in particular, yeah, but also disrespecting dwarves and Qunari/Vashoth.Choosing to disregard the rituals in the Temple of Mythal would lead to her leaving the Inquisition if your approval was already low enough. Either there on the spot if you’d taken her with you, or later at Skyhold when she hears about what happened with the Sentinels. She wouldn’t attack the Inquisitor, she’d just be horrified at the disrespect and refuse to follow them any further.

18. What’s their reaction to a dragon showing up?“Creators, it’s beautiful. What a hunt that would be!”“We’re attacking it? I’ll circle around to the flank!”“It’s taking off! We should find cover!”“You’ve crippled it! Oh, you’re not going anywhere now, beastie.”“Andruil’s eyes, that was a bloody fight! Now, how are we supposed to skin the damn thing?”

22. If you have another Inquisitor, how would those two get along, specifically?HAHA.In her canon, Fen shows up to the Conclave with her cousin, the Lavellan’s First. In Fen’s world, Daneral dies. In Daneral’s world... well, if Fen survived? She’s a scout, ostensibly to help the Inquisition but also to keep an eye on her cousin, because she knows how unreliable the Herald can be. They don’t get along very well, but they also understand each other better than anyone else does, and so seem closer than they are. Daneral also falls for Solas, so Fen’s just over to one side burying her face in her hands because DANERAL NO.In Kaaris Adaar’s world, they’d get along fairly well. Kaaris is rather more compassionate than Fen, who might disapprove of some of her softer-hearted decisions, but in general they’d be friends.Tansy Trevelyan and Fen get along, too. Tansy has a Get Shit Done attitude that Fen likes, and she’d admire the Inquisitor’s breadth of knowledge and more subtle, manipulative approach.Fen and Cadash tend to clash more often, due to Cadash’s rather more wishy-washy, hesitant nature. Fen respects people who make decisions when needed, even if they turn out to be bad decisions. Constantly putting things off or agonising over them just wastes everyone’s time.

23. In Trespasser, what “gift” would they give the Inquisitor, if any?Um. Hmm. If she liked or respected the Inquisitor, and her personal quest was based around whether or not the Inquisitor saved Fen’s clan, then I’d guess that a token of friendship would be different depending. If the clan died, something personal and handmade - Fen’s more a hunter than a crafter, but maybe one of her scarves, or a fur cloak or something. If her clan was saved, you get a halla as a gift from them all. Congrats on your latest mount.

25. In the alternate reality, if they were corrupted with lyrium, how do they act? What’s their attitude about the end of the world/their inevitable death?Fen as one of the companions in the Redcliffe cells? You are a bad woman, @alucifer.She would be fighting down sickness and terror when you find her. She may already be injured, having tried to cut the lyrium crystals out of herself. Fen is usually a dry-humoured, confident woman, but here she would be broken, folded in on herself, and utterly miserable until she’s released, at which point she would become outright vicious. She’d fight because fear makes her angry, but all of her dialogue would have a trace of hysteria around the edges, and comments about the end of the world would have a nihilistic tone. Everything she lived for before is gone and there’s no hope for the ones left, so they might as well tear down what’s left of the world. She would be eager to fight off the demons attacking at the end, because at least she’d know she would go down fighting as herself, not a half-lyrium monster.

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Just a few little Dalish headcanons I’ve been thinking about.

One of the main assumptions I based Fen’s Skyhold judgements around is that the Dalish do not execute criminals. At least, not other Dalish ones. Humans they’re quite willing to off for simply trespassing on land the Dalish happen to be camped by, as per DA:O and various codices. But the Dalish are a dwindling race, and someone who has betrayed the clan is likely related to and grew up with most of the people they hurt. I don’t know how completely valid the claims of unwanted mages being exiled as children are, but as we have two (maybe three) sources for the info in DA:I, I’ll accept it for now.

So: exile. Someone who has done something to the clan that they can’t apologise for through their words or actions, so they’re exiled. They can survive on their own, they can go to a human settlement and try to adapt, or they can hope another clan is willing to take them in - keeping in mind that someone claiming to be Dalish but wandering around alone and reluctant to go back to their own clan would raise any number of red flags and would probably be subject to investigation, so good luck trying to lie your way out of it.

(That works for me, anyway. Fen found the idea of executing anyone abhorrent. If she can’t find a better use for them and it was their communities they betrayed, she’d much rather send them back to let the people they actually hurt decide what to do with them (as she did with Poulin). The mayor of Crestwood was the only person she executed, simply because there was no option to send him back and let the survivors deal with him themselves, and because humans don’t have the same social structure and in exile he wouldn’t face the same scrutiny as an exiled Dalish elf: he could change his name and disappear into a city and no one would know that they had a traitor among them. And it was that betrayal she found most galling: if it had simply been refugees he had allowed to die it would have been easier, but he killed off his clan as well, and then lied to the survivors rather than admit to his actions and face their judgement, as I think a Dalish elf would be expected to. Then, when discovered, he ran away rather than be punished, abandoning the duties he had as mayor as well as trying to escape justice. All very loathsome to someone that values loyalty and accountability as much as Fen does.)

ANYWAY. The other thing I was thinking was that if forcible exile is a punishment, what would CHOOSING to leave the clan mean? Your family, your history, your entire life up to that point has been with this single group. Choosing to leave it, even temporarily, must be a big deal. So, why would someone leave? We’ve seen elves do it out of love, yes, but what other forces could be at play? Disagreements within the clan, people you feel you need to get away from or make a point to. What does surviving on your own mean? It’s making a statement that you don’t need anyone else. You can survive on your own. You don’t need to rely on your clan - the people that love you, nurtured you, taught you, gave you everything you have. Given how much the Dalish move, it even suggests an attitude of “I don’t care if I can’t find you again”. Written like that, it almost sounds bratty, but in practice I think it could be a powerful way to protest.

If you’re bonded to someone and you realise your differences are too great to overcome, wouldn’t that rejection be a way of saying, without a specific addressable complaint (because lbr, you’re stuck with these people 24/7 - everyone is already gonna know everyone else’s business, even if they pretend otherwise out of politeness) that it’s Over, you’re Done, you don’t need this other person, you reject their companionship and the life you attempted to build together. Leave for a set amount of time (because the Dalish love their traditions), essentially abandoning your bondmate (and any children you may have), and it breaks that bond, which would be good both for the person who wanted out, and for the person left behind, who has it driven home that a partner who is willing to walk away may not be someone you want to be bonded to for the rest of your life.

Or among young adults, it could be a way of forcibly cutting the apron strings, or proving to reluctant elders that you’re ready to be considered an adult. Prove your capability by going off into the wilds for a certain amount of time, and coming back to be reassessed as a individual.

And just in general, walking away from an argument to cool off isn’t a bad way to work towards fixing things. Go away for a shorter, less declarative period of time, and come back after you’ve made your point and you and the other person/people can talk with clearer heads, rather than risk harsh words and hasty actions among people you, again, will be stuck with likely FOREVER.

So. You leave for a month, maybe. Or an entire season, if it’s something you feel really strongly about. You prove yourself as a capable person to your clan if you survive, and being alone for that long must be a pretty big deal to the person experiencing it too. Again, you grew up with your clan. There’s no such thing as moving out and getting a place of your own. Dalish being away from their entire clan for more than a few nights at a time must be unusual. Being completely alone - not on a journey with a small group to share news, or to escort someone to a different clan - even more so. And now it’s just you for all these days and nights, completely alone with only your thoughts for company: what you did to end up here, what you said before departing, what the point is that you’re trying to prove. It would be very easy to reexamine yourself during all that time alone, and maybe begin to doubt your own reasons. So if you give in before the month or season is over and you find your way home, it would be a way of saying, “Look, I was wrong, I’m sorry,” and displaying willingness to correct the problems that you may have come to admit were your own doing.

If coming back earlier is an admittance of guilt, staying away longer than expected could be a reinforcement of the point. A slightly rude one, maybe - unless you’ve really pissed everyone off, then the clan would be worried for your safety, and taking too long could lead to assumptions about your death (either literal, or figurative, thinking you’ve found somewhere you’d rather be than among the Dalish). Waiting an extra day over the expected, traditional time would be a satisfying little exclamation point on the end of your argument, if you were the type of person to care more about being right than worrying people. So... hopefully it would be rare.

Being sent away from the clan (but not exiled!) is a whole other set of issues, I think. It wouldn’t be used as a punishment, because there’s so many other ways to make someone regret their actions while not losing their services to the clan and being so harsh as to inflict the abandonment of exile on them. But there are times when someone’s being sent away for the clan’s own welfare, while not being formally exiled. Lavellan is sent by the Keeper on a long journey to spy on the Conclave, with the expectation that they’d be returning afterwards. Merrill chose to leave with Hawke, but her Keeper made it clear that she was still considered part of the clan, and would have been willing to let her return had she given up on the eluvian. In Merrill’s case, while she chose to leave, the distance remained as a rebuke, making her clan’s disapproval obvious. In Lavellan’s case, it could have been something similar, but being sent on a mission like that is also praise: belief that they could survive both the physical dangers of travelling to the Temple alone, and the potential emotional trauma of being severed from their clan for an extended period of time.

Oh, also that, thing up there about knowing everyone’s business? Dalish clans have GOT to know everyone’s business. Privacy has got to be hard to come by, especially in such limited space. I’m guessing that most of them aren’t going to be particularly self-conscious or body shy - you can’t exactly duck into another room when you need to change, and everyone in the aravel’s gonna know when someone farted. it’s just not going to be a big deal. But interpersonal relationships and shit like family arguments could wind up being deeply divisive when you’re related through blood or marriage to everyone else in the clan, so they must have some way of heading shit like that off before it draws everyone else in. Possibly you’re meant to take it to the Keeper, either to let them come up with a solution or to provide counselling, or there’s a tacit agreement among the Dalish that even if you can hear every word of Jone and Janeral Smythal’s argument in their family tent, you pretend you can’t because it’s None of Your Business. Or, just as likely, the rest of the clan does take sides, but it’s far more subtle than outsiders would grasp, a web of insinuations and rumours and miniscule favours and minute pressures that somehow result in things turning out in favour of one faction over another, and the couple finally coming to an agreement or compromise.

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i spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about what my inquisitor would be like as a companion who never got the mark so here’s an ask meme inspired by that:

1. If not for the Conclave, what would drive your character to join the Inquisition? 2. How would they meet the Inquisitor? 3. What would some of their cutscenes look like? 4. What would their romance route look like? Would they be romancable? 5. If they romanced someone as Inquisitor, would they still fall for that person as a companion? How would that play out? How would they react to that person being romanced by the “new” Inquisitor? 6. Write some of their party banter (in reaction to major events, scenery dialogue, or just shitting around. Askers can specify for which character/event, or leave it up to the writer). 7. What would be on their tombstone in the fade (what is their greatest fear)? 8. What kind of Inquisitor would drive them to leave the Inquisition/confront them about their actions (what gets their approval low? what does that scene look like)? 9. Where in Skyhold would they be found? (e.g. Cole is in the tavern rafters, Leliana in the top of the tower, Varric in the throne room, etc.) 10. If Inquisition operated like DA:O, what would their gift items be? What would their approval and disapproval Feast Day items be? 11. How would they grow as a person? How would they compare at the end of the Inquisition as a companion to who they were as the Inquisitor? 12. Do they believe the Herald of Andraste is really the Herald of Andraste? 13. If the Herald didn’t have them tag along to prep the trebuchets, what would they do during the battle for Haven? (bonus: would they join in on the impromptu Dawn Will Come choir practice in the camp?) 14. What nickname does Varric give them? 15. Without the influence of their decisions for the Inquisition, which of the companions do they get along with? Which ones do they bicker with? 16. What would the Fear Demon say to them in the Fade to try and discourage them? 17. Where do they hang out in the Winter Palace? What’s their thoughts on the nobles/The Game? 18. What’s their reaction to a dragon showing up? 19. Once Corypheus is beaten, what do they do during the party? Do they stay with the Inquisition, or go somewhere else? What could the Inquisitor do to convince them to stay? 20. How do they react to learning abominations can retain their consciousness and identity, and even live peacefully with their spirits/demons, as seen in Stone-Bear Hold? 21. What do they think of the discoveries made in the Deep Roads? Do they make any comments on anything? 22. If you have another Inquisitor, how would those two get along, specifically? 23. In trespasser, what “gift” would they give the Inquisitor, if any? 24. What are their plans for after the Exalted Council? Will the Inquisition staying in tact or being disbanded make a difference? 25. In the alternate reality, if they were corrupted with lyrium, how do they act? What’s their attitude about the end of the world/their inevitable death?

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Not this shit again.

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assorted screenshots of Fen that I never got around to throwing up here.

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DA:I Timeline

For anyone that might be curious, the second time I played through Fen’s story, I stopped to make notes and consult maps so I could figure out just how long it took her to save the world.

Have a spreadsheet! (spoilers for the events of the game, obviously)

I strongly disagree with the vanilla game only taking two years, which anyone that follows me on twitter can attest to. Okay, maybe, if you stuck to just the main story missions and whatever you needed to do to scrape by with enough Power. But Thedas is a big place, and given that one of the published fucking novels states that Montsimmard is somehow on the way to the Western Approach when the characters departed from Val Royeaux, and Haven apparently moved a good 150 miles north between DA:O and DA:I, I hope you’ll forgive me if I adjust their timelines to accommodate more realistic movement across the fucking map.

I used the Dragon Age RPG maps for rough distances. While they too give conflicting distances, I went with the most recently published book. valerie1972′s posts on travel times were invaluable, though my calculations were considerably rougher than theirs.

I’m basing this on the characters travelling forward roughly 20-25 miles a day, varying depending on if they’re on a road or going cross-country and what the terrain is like. I could have increased the distance they travel each day, given that they have mounts, but they still wouldn’t be taking the animals into dangerous areas, and as I can’t imagine all the companions are accomplished riders they would still be going fairly slowly. Also, I never used the damn things; banter was rare enough to begin with.

Days where they’re fighting, well, we can throw our Inquisitors at groups of enemies one after the other, but just ask Blackwall if he’d like to fight in a grand melee now, every day for weeks on end. They’re resting after fights, taking care of injuries, and not pushing too hard, because if something goes wrong, they’re a long way from any help.

Distances between camps I also took into account - those camps we set up with the Requisitions and Potions tables? No, we’re not doing one of those every night. That’s ridiculous. Fen doesn’t have an entourage of soldiers following her around with furniture just in case she wants to take a nap. Those are base camps and travel points, where Inquisition soldiers can keep an area secure after the Inquisitor has cleared it out and provide aid to residents or refugees, and they’re each a few days apart. Between camps, Fen and her friends are on their own.

I’d like to make further adjustments - the entire timeline post-Arbor Wilds is screwed up (the inquisitor goes through the mirror back to Skyhold, and presumably has to wait for the advisers to take the long way back, given that Leliana is present when Kieran disappears into the mirror, and then the Inq has to travel to the Shrine of Mythal to tame a dragon (which is outside fucking Montsimmard again), THEN return back to Skyhold, THEN fight Corypheus, who conveniently decided to wait a few weeks before throwing his big tantrum and reopening the Breach. Ridiculous.), and things like visiting the desert in summer and travelling through the Frostbacks in winter are really inadvisable -but this is as well as I can make it work without tweaking large portions of the story. Not that it doesn’t need it, but that’s better left to fic.

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Do Not Disturb

Watching The Iron Bull fight gets Feniradel all hot and bothered, but privacy is hard to come by when demons are stalking the streets. When the two of them overcome that little difficulty, they can really get down to investigating this interesting new development.

19k words of modern!AU Iron Bull and F!Lavellan fighting demons and getting laid. Very much NSFW. Includes size difference, fingering, oral sex, and big thick qunari dicks, along with a hint of D/s and some dirty talk. Same series as Collisions.

As Bull slammed his sledgehammer into the shade again, Feniradel sighted on the wraith far behind the rift, energy gathering in its hands as it prepared a spell. She fired, yanked the rifle's bolt back and forth and fired again, the bullets tearing through the green wisp one after another. The enchantment caught hold with a muffled whomp, and the wraith burst into flames visible even in the afternoon sunlight, the familiar wail no longer a distraction as Fen sighted on another demon. Bull was yards ahead of her, focusing on his own enemy and presenting an easy target to any of the demons at range, but sitting in the back picking off the bastards that didn't see her as a threat was Fen's favourite position. She quickly brought the second wraith down, easily sidestepping the ball of energy it managed to get off before its form collapsed in on itself just as Bull finished off the shade with another vicious blow and a whoop of pleasure.

She reloaded as he scanned the area, now seemingly free of demons, and turned to her to give the all clear. She glanced up, ears pricked, when she heard a shout instead, and then he was running at her, roaring, “Get down”. She didn't hesitate, throwing herself to the asphalt moments before a fireball sizzled overhead. It hit a building on the opposite side of the street in a burst of orange flames and greasy black smoke, and Fen hissed a curse. Fireballs meant one of two things, and neither option was appealing.

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[threestories]

Collisions

A modern day Thedas where Corypheus's plan still backfires, but there's no Herald to close the rifts. Demons are roaming freely, Orlais is in chaos, and one Dalish elf just wants to get back to her clan.

8k words of a modern AU that alucifer and I came up with after DA:I was released. We put a lot of thought into the world-building, this was just a little snippet of how Fenny Lavellan winds up camping out in an old Val Royeaux garage with Clemence Trevelyan, Blackwall, Iron Bull and the Chargers.

The rift had opened on the pavement in front of a medical clinic, leaving the street itself clear, and Feniradel sat a few hundred yards away, her bike's engine idling. The shifting green tear in the Veil spun gently, casting strange shadows on the front of the stores, lighting up the road as night fell and the streetlights overhead failed to flicker into life. No one wanted to leave the city by going past a rift, even if the rest of the road was free of traffic, but she'd scouted the area on foot first—the two other streets headed in this direction were blocked with abandoned cars and other debris (the nature of which she didn't care to examine too closely) left in the street, making riding through them hazardous. Pushing her motorcycle through that mess on foot would be slow work and her hands would be occupied if someone had laid an ambush out of sight. She had learned that lesson quickly on this trip: go fast or go on foot. But she'd only spotted wraiths drifting around this tear in the Veil, which meant it was probably a small one, not enough people around to make it interesting for anything more dangerous. She figured that if she put on enough speed, she could just sail by before the wispy demons had a chance to react. Shifting into gear and twisting the throttle, she put her head down as she picked up speed, intending to fly right past whatever the rift wanted to throw at her.

She hadn't counted on riding over the fucking oil slick of Fade goop some earlier battle had left smeared across the road, hidden until she was close enough to see the rift reflected in it, which meant it was far too late to avoid.

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[threestories]

The Bull and the Rabbit

The Iron Bull is curious about what it's like to be the Inquisitor. Feniradel Lavellan is more than happy to cede the dragon throne to him for a night.

8.6k words of NSFW Iron Bull/F!Lavellan filth, including dirty talk, role play, public sex/exhibitionism, and a touch of humiliation.

Feniradel liked to visit the tavern on the nights when she wasn't preoccupied with meetings or lessons, or simply falling into bed as soon as she could. Out of her armour, her hair loose from its braid and her mark hidden under a pair of Dalish hand wraps, she could fade into the background, just another elf among many—especially now that more of the People had begun to pledge their service to the Inquisition. Oh, there were always a few who noticed her, stopped her for a greeting or a quick word, but once she climbed the stairs and took a table on the second floor, people rarely bothered her except those who knew they'd be welcome. The Herald's Rest was an apt name.

Sera would drop by early, chattering about her latest ideas or to leave a tip about which of the newcomers to Skyhold the Inquisitor—but Fen up here, only ever Fen or Lavellan—should keep an eye on. Dorian was a regular most nights that he wasn't up in the library, immersed in his own research. He'd complained about most of the alcohol on offer in the Rest, but somehow he always found something he was willing to choke down—“If you can get through the first glass, it blunts the ghastliness of the second,” he explained—even if his descriptions became more colourful the further he got through the bottle.

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[threestories]

The Ptarmigan

The Herald can't stand the cold. It was a joke to people at Haven at first, the Dalish elf who had walked out of the Fade with the mark burning on her palm, who people treated as a murderer or a miracle (their perspective often depending just how close they'd been to the Breach), the elf who was told to face down demons and magic hardly anyone understood for the sake of people who called her knife-ear when the green slash across her hand was hidden away... and all she complained about was how cold it got in the southern mountains. The Herald stomped through snow like she had a grudge against it, eyes and nose streaming under layers of scarves, and huddled under one of the few heavy coats they had to spare even in the warm tavern. She glared out of the windows every time a storm brought fresh snow to Haven, as if the weather itself was a personal affront.

It doesn't feel like a joke any more.

The blizzard was a blessing when it first blew up after Haven had been lost, making it harder for the army of Red Templars to dig out the few unfortunate survivors, and masking the tracks of the fleeing Inquisition forces. The flurries hid the bonfires they built each night, the refugees and soldiers huddling around it in groups, taking comfort in the warmth and the presence of others. The survivors were looking to the heads of the Inquisition for guidance as they travelled through the mountains, but the storm also made it impossible to navigate by the sky through the driving snow and the low, heavy clouds. When their Spymaster suggested sending scouts to the lower slopes she was shouted down—they didn't know where the Elder One's forces were, and if the scouts were captured or tracked, they wouldn't have nearly enough soldiers left to defend the civilians. Besides, her scouts hadn't been much use so far, and that comment from the Commander set off another round of arguing from the main tent.

Sera's bow twanged, and another arrow thudded into a tree. "They aren't doing anything. They're walking us around in circles and they know it and we know it, so why don't they just frigging stop it?"

"Because while you know it and I know it, there's a whole camp of people following them who haven't figured it out yet." Varric leaned against the wheel of a wagon as he watched Sera shoot. "They have to pretend they're in charge, so the people who need to believe it can keep going."

"It's stupid," Sera declared. "We're just running away." Another buzz through the cold air, followed by an angry thump. "She wouldn't have run away."

What could he say to that? The Herald hadn't run away. They'd all been there in the Chantry, heard about Roderick's path through the mountains, had seen the Herald's face pale when she understood what Curly and that strange kid were saying—that the dragon was after her, so she was the only distraction they had. Her mouth had tightened but she lifted her chin and nodded before calling over her more experienced—or was it more expendable?—fighters and telling them what they must do. She'd given them instructions, as firmly as she could for a woman more used to taking orders than giving them.

“When I tell you to run, you run. You get up here, you close the Chantry doors, and you pick up and carry anyone still left up that trail."

"What about you?" the big Qunari had asked. "You planning on fighting that dragon by yourself?"

"I'll be fine," she'd said, and if it was bravado her voice didn't give her away. "There's always a way out. When I see my chance, I'll take it. All we need is enough time."

"So you're not gonna fight it." Iron Bull had sounded almost disappointed, and it was enough to tug a corner of her lips up into a lopsided smile.

"Well, you never know," she replied. "I might get lucky."

Maybe she did, thought Varric, picking at some of the loose threading on his jacket. He hadn't seen. When the dragon's fire had come too close, once too often, she'd shouted for them to run and Varric felt like a coward for being glad to hear it. He and the Tevinter had turned to run, shouting at the Iron Bull to do the same. The Qunari had just been standing there, watching, probably eager to see the dragon up close. He'd come after them then, jogging slowly as he glanced behind, but once they were out the other side of the Chantry, hurrying along the last of the refugees, his mind seemed to be back on the job.

Going out facing down a dragon's got to have been a better ending than being buried under half a mountainside, Varric thought. More heroic too, though that's probably not going to matter much if we're all buried in a mountain blizzard anyway.

"It's been days. They should be gone by now. We should go back." Sera threw her bow down in the snow and went to the tree, jerking her arrows out one by one, cursing at each tug. "Least we could do is burn the ones who didn't make it. They never asked for this, we shouldn't have just left them there." One arrow was buried deep and she pulled hard, then kicked the tree. "It's not right, they came all the way to see her and now she's dead and they're dead, and we don't even know who all of them are so no one knows that they're dead except them, and they're dead." She growled and gave up on the arrow, taking the others back to her bow and starting over.

She hated the cold. It numbed her, exhausted her, left her sleepy and stiff and wanting to hide under the blankets until the weather started being sensible again.

She felt numb now, although she thought vaguely that she should hurt instead. She couldn't remember why. Her breaths were pale puffs in the air and her eyelids felt weighted by ice. In the dim glow of the mark she could see her right arm, stretched out at an odd angle. Sniffling, she felt cold stickiness on her lips. Had there been a fight? She always seemed to be getting into fights lately. Everything was quiet now though, and she didn't feel sore at all, just drowsy. The cold made everything slow down, seem less real. She didn't know where she was, how she had got there. She just wanted to rest a moment. Then she would see.

The light was brighter when she awoke the second time. The light..? From her hand? No, this light was colder; grey, not green. Her thoughts felt out of place, disjointed, but her body felt less numb. Her ribs ached. What was she lying on? She wanted to go back to sleep, but the ground hurt, stuck into her stomach and chest. Groaning, she tried to roll over, settle somewhere more comfortable. The movement sent a blaze of fire through her shoulder, hot and sudden and shocking, tearing a gasp from her that made her ribs ache in turn.

The pain sharpened her, woke her up out of her slow, drowsy haze, and even as her eyes teared up the room around her came into proper focus. Her head ached. The light was coming from above her and she stared upwards. There was snow on the roof, but the roof was just broken planks. She raised her left hand, though the dim glow did little to brighten the... not a room. A hallway? A cave. Her mark. The glove she wore to hide it was gone. Had it been taken off? She groaned again as she remembered the fight, remembered the strange, towering, inhuman figure that had lifted her up like a child's doll and tossed her aside once he found she was of no use. What was he? The details were hazy. The Elder One, the mage that Alexius had worked for. He had given his name, called her mark an Anchor. That was why he had come, to take it. He didn't look like a mage. He'd looked like a monster, shards of red lyrium growing through his flesh, stretching and twisting his skin, glowing in his veins, a body that was all bone and sinew rolled out too long, too tall. He had wanted to go into the Fade? Said he had been in the Fade. He said that he was going to kill her. Had called her his rival. She had released the trebuchet at the last moment and had run, feeling the ground tremble beneath her and... where was she? Pushing herself up on her left arm, she felt her other shoulder protest and the stuff beneath her shifted and creaked. Wood, then. Boards or beams. She must have fallen through something. Not a wall, but the floor? The broken planks. She sat up, her right hand clutching her ribs, her shoulder hot and throbbing even worse than her head. The wood beneath her was splintered, and she murmured a prayer of thanks that she hadn't landed on any of the jagged edges.

She listened through the pounding in her skull, but the air in the cave was still, and if there were people above her they were not making enough noise for her to hear them. The Inquisition's people had gotten out, but had the Elder One's army been buried like they'd hoped?

Her breath wheezed from her sore chest as she climbed awkward to her feet, and a sudden wave of dizziness made the room spin and her stomach lurch. Swallowing hard, she pushed the sick feeling down and realised that she was shivering in the cold air. She'd shed her heavy coat when the fight had started, freeing her arms to shoot and relying on the rush of battle and constant movement to stay warm. Her bow... She looked around for her bow, but there was no sign of it in the dim light. Had she even still been holding it when the Elder One had thrown her aside? Careless to have lost it. Two arrows left in her quiver, three more whole ones in the broken planks beneath her. Not much use for them now, but she picked them up anyway. Just in case.

Her hunting knife was still at her waist, as was the small dagger tucked into her boot. Her clothing was warm, but damp from the snow that had fallen on top of her. She touched the blood on her lips, tracing its source. Her nose, though it didn't feel broken. There was blood in her hair as well, but she couldn't find anything worse than some lumps and scratches. She glanced up at the ceiling above her. A bloody nose, sore ribs and—she rotated her shoulder experimentally and hissed in pain–whatever was causing that. A small price to pay for walking away from a dragon and a long fall.

Remembering what the Seeker had once done after a fight with bandits in the foothills, she scooped up a handful of snow and bit into it, the cold wetness numbing her mouth and waking her up. The rest scrubbed the worst of the blood from her face. The cold was probably not a good thing, but it cleared the last of the fuzz from her mind and as she spat out a mouthful of blood and melted ice, she reached for her belt pouch and the elfroot stalks she kept there. The familiar taste was a comfort as she chewed, and she didn't have time to worry about her aches. She turned, examining the icy cave, then headed towards the only exit in the room she could see, her marked hand outstretched before her.

"Not the winter vacation I would have chosen, my dear, but if nothing else, we now have the satisfaction of knowing the true face of our enemy.” Vivienne strode ahead of Cassandra, a shimmering golden barrier around her melting the snow as she walked through it, her clothes stained but perfectly dry.

"Yes, but what he is raises another question. A monster, that much is clear, but we do not yet know what kind."

"A monster that was once a man, by the look of him. And who leads an army of men. That may make them more dangerous, but all men have weaknesses."

Cassandra stayed quiet, thinking back. She had not gotten a close look at the creature, but if the Enchanter was right and it was a man, then surely he had been corrupted beyond almost all recognition. The red crystals bursting through his skin looked much like the lyrium statue she had examined in Kirkwall's Gallows and the growths that had sprung up in the ruins where Most Holy had died.

“The Herald said that when she saw the future at Redcliffe, the red lyrium had overtaken it. Perhaps this Elder One is the source,” she said, thoughtfully.

“If that is so, we can assume he has been working towards this end for some years. Varric has been looking into red lyrium since before the fall of the Circles, yes?”

“Yes, and we still know so little about it.”

“Thousand years I was confused... champion weakened—no, withered Tevinter... correct this blighted world...” she murmured to herself as she walked through the endless tunnels. She stuck to the wall, keeping it to her injured right side as she tried to recall all the details the Elder One—Corifis? It was a start, though the name sat strangely on her tongue—had thundered at her.

She had received her education through stories told to her over and over again, each holding a different lesson, each committed to her memory. The Dalish taught through words and actions, and the Dalish remembered. She was good at remembering, and each time she repeated his words they became easier to recall. What she remembered, though, worried her. He had to have been at the Temple if he'd given her the mark—the Anchor, she corrected herself. He had done a ritual there that had gone wrong, accused her of interfering. He'd crafted it... “to assault the very heavens,” she said aloud. He claimed that he had been in the Fade before, a thousand years before, and found it... empty? No, the “throne of the gods” was empty. What throne? Was that an Andrastian belief? Dorian said Tevinters were Andrastian. She would have to ask Leliana. Then the Elder One had wanted to go back into the Fade? He'd spoken of godhood, but people couldn't just become gods, surely? They'd be doing it all the time. Was he mad, or did he believe what he had been saying? He had been angry, she knew that, his eyes full of cold fury.

She shook her head and kept moving, eyes searching the dark. There seemed to be light ahead, but it looked wrong, not like daylight. She stopped and clenched her left fist, hiding the glow from her hand. Yes, light, but an unnatural kind. Her hand twinged as she uncurled it, the sharp tingle she felt when she was close to a rift, but the sensation was stronger now. The Elder One had done something to the Anchor—(and what was it meant to anchor?)—with that metal ball he carried, made it burn red and hot and wrench at her as if trying to tear her hand apart. He'd said the mark was permanent, but had he broken it somehow? She hoped not. If that was a rift ahead, five arrows, no bow, and a hunting knife weren't going to be much help.

“It didn't look like any Darkspawn I've ever seen.”

“Oh, yes? Then what do you think it was? A very tall man with a skin condition?”

“Alexius said the Elder One was from Tevinter; maybe one of your demons got loose.”

“Our demons? I know it must be difficult to believe, but Tevinter doesn't actually hold exclusive rights to producing horrible monsters. Otherwise we'd be invoicing Southern mages every time they go and turn themselves into abominations.” Dorian sniffed. “We might be better at it than everyone else, but only because we've had more practice.”

The Warden snorted and his beard twitched, but he shook his head. “Darkspawn can't talk, let alone lead an army. Gargling at things and pointing are only going to get you so far.”

“Oh, I don't know. You were leading a little militia when the Herald came calling, weren't you?”

She leaned against the mouth of the abandoned mine and slid down, drawing her knees up and cradling her left hand in her lap. Whatever the Elder One had done to the Anchor, he definitely hadn't made it any less useful. It had buzzed and burned as she got close to the rift, like a fistful of angry wasps, and as she had gone to draw power from the Fade for the crackling boom that would leave the nearby wraiths stunned long enough for her to slip by, the Anchor had... done something else. Twisted at her, breaking her concentration and... refocusing it. She wasn't sure what had happened, but the explosion had been a sudden relief in her hand and had weakened the wraiths enough that, even injured and poorly armed as she was, they had hardly been a challenge. She had stumbled on, smelling fresh air ahead and staring at the hand stretched out before her.

Now she had reached the end of the tunnel and... where was she? The area around Haven was familiar—she'd explored that part of the mountains for days on end, hunting game and clambering up smaller peaks in between missions: anything to get away from the people always watching her her in the village. None of this looked familiar, but it was snowing too heavily to see the shape of the mountains around her. The light was fading. It had to be around mid-afternoon, and she knew that as cold as it was, it was only going to get worse from here. She could travel down the slope, hope she travelled out of the storm before it was too dark and cold to keep going, or she could stay here in the shelter the caves provided and hope the storm would be over by morning.

The ground beneath her was icy, but she sat there for a few more minutes, letting her body's dull ache wash over her and watching the snow swirl dizzyingly in the wind before pushing herself up and drawing her coat tightly around her. She would see if there was anything she could use as firewood outside as long as she didn't venture out of sight of the cave mouth. There was a flint and steel in her belt pouch—if she could find dry wood, she would be all right.

“Only two birds?” The Ambassador's face was creased with anxiety as she and Leliana went over the camp's supplies.

“I grabbed what I could, Josie. We had others, but the cold was too much for them. Poor things.” Leliana wriggled a finger through the bars on one cage, stroking the feathers on a raven's head.

“But only two birds! Do we even know where they'll go?”

“Jader and Ghislain. I know it isn't much, but as we cannot write a message more precise than 'alive, but lost somewhere in the mountains', having more ravens to send wouldn't help anyway.”

“Did you send any messages from Haven, at least?” Josie paced back and forth, clutching her writing board as if it were the only solid thing left in a world gone mad. Which, Leliana reflected, might well be the case for her friend.

“Oh, yes, as many as I had time to write. I just released the others—arriving at their lofts with no message will be cause enough for investigation. And I couldn't leave them there.”

“But without any way of receiving messages we won't know if anyone is searching for us!”

“They will come,” Leliana reassured Josephine. “They will find Haven and see what happened, and then they will come.”

“It could take weeks! It's impossible to tell how far we have travelled, and people are exhausted. We can't keep on like this, not if—”

“The Herald's life bought us time to gather what we needed, and we already have hunters looking for more supplies. People are tired, but we're no longer in any immediate danger. We can take it slower from here.” She smiled brightly at Josephine, “Think of it as an adventure!”

Josephine looked miserable.

The morning after she woke in the mine, she had found the wind still howling and the snow still falling, but with hunger gnawing at her belly and her pathetic fire long-since burned out, she couldn't just sit there, hoping things would change. She chewed on snow and elfroot as she started walking, quenching her thirst and relieving some of her aches, even if it did little for her hunger. Above the tree-line there was little hope of finding edible plants, and the game up here, whatever it was that lived this high in the southern mountains—eagles? Foxes, maybe?—was unlikely to be surprised by a hunter with only a knife. She cursed herself for not having the foresight to carry a sling. Next time she would be better prepared.

She found the first signs of other people at mid-morning. A broken, iron-rimmed wagon wheel, tossed aside and now half-buried by snow. She didn't know if it had come from the Inquisition's wagons, but whoever had passed through here had done it recently enough that the snow hadn't hidden it. How fast did snow fall? Half a hand a day? A full hand? Not that much, surely. Call it two days, then. She was fairly certain she was travelling north up a ridge line with steep country to either side, so the wheel's owners had not come from the east or west. South was Haven, and if they had gone that way two days past she was not going to follow. North, then.

Pressing on, her legs ached in the pleasant, familiar way that usually spoke of a day scouting for the Clan, navigating the woods and rolling hills of the Marches, loping miles ahead of the aravels, searching for the loneliest paths and most plentiful game. Walking through snow tired her more quickly, but the movement kept her warm. The cold didn't get too bad again until the afternoon, when the cloud-shrouded sun slipped again behind the high mountain peaks, but she had no choice but to press on. The mountains here were too open, the wind too brisk for the snow to settle, and she needed better cover if she were going to stop and rest for the night. The Anchor lit the ground well enough that she would not walk off a cliff in the dark, though it worried her that her gloved hand felt colder than her bare, marked palm.

It was nearly completely dark when she finally skirted the edge of one old rockfall to find a long, steep-sided valley that would block the wind for a night. It was too dark to see how long the valley was, but it was relief enough that it existed at all. She hurried further down, sliding occasionally on icy patches in the snow—and that was odd, it had been so crunchy before—before spotting an outcropping of rock that would block the wind from three sides. She almost gasped with relief when she ducked inside—she hadn't been the first to think of this. A fire pit had been dug here, snow only half a hand deep filling it, and the windbreak had preserved enough tracks that she could make out a footprint here and a deliberately-made snowdrift there, pushed high to block more wind. People had camped here. How many? It was too dark to tell, but the area was large enough for a few dozen people. She wanted to sink down next to the fire pit, eager to rest, but if she did that she would not want to rise again. Wood first, then, if she could find it. They had already had to replace one wagon wheel—perhaps they had left other things as well.

They had. Five bodies lined up neatly together near the cliff edge, lightly dusted with snow. Someone had scratched—no, chalked—a Chantry sun on the rocks above them. A soldier, and four people in regular clothing. The soldier had been young, but the left of her tunic was stained dark with blood. Three of the others had been elderly, the last a child. Two of them had coats on heavier than her own, and she winced and muttered an apology to the stiff corpses as she struggled to peel the clothing off. “Falon'Din's probably already taking care of you, and right now I need this more than you do,” she explained, her own voice sounding strange and lonely on the wind. Dragging the clothes over to the fire pit, she set out again to look for wood, but whatever the Inquisition had burned, they had left nothing for her.

“Wolf shit,” she growled, and pulled one of the icy coats on over her own. Curling up as close to the rocky walls as she could get, she pulled the other coat over herself like a blanket and tucked her marked hand beneath her, the faint tingling her only source of warmth. She tried not to think about the bodies across the canyon. Her stomach had been gnawing at her all day, and with only snow and a few stalks of elfroot left, she knew might be thankful for whoever had drawn that sun marker above the corpses.

The next day she decided to follow the valley, encouraged by faint traces of other travellers still lingering in the snow. It became more of a canyon as it descended, long and winding and easy enough to follow, although her body felt weak and she stumbled every few feet. It was a blessing in the end to nearly turn her ankle on a dip in the ground, leaving her trembling on her hands and knees, her shoulder a long angry hiss of pain at the fall. Evidently startled by the boot at the entrance to its snowed-in burrow, a nug shot past her, its frightened squeal echoing off the rocky walls. The elven hunter reacted faster than she could think, throwing herself forward, face-first in the snow, arms outstretched with one numb-fingered hand wrapped around a hind leg as the nug twisted, kicked and tried to bite her through her glove. She pushed herself up, ignoring the throbbing in her shoulder as she fumbled for her hunting knife, and pressed the struggling creature into the ground as she drew the blade across its throat. Warm blood fountained across her fingers and she sucked it up greedily, grateful for the heat as the nug's struggles came to an end.

She cut the little creature apart, butchering it quick and clean, and chewing the fat late-autumn flesh with deep relief. Nug meat usually disgusted her, but she was long past caring about the taste. Better to be sick from it later than starving now. She ate as much of it as she dared spare, then packed the rest of the meat in the bottom of her quiver, snow on either side. It would keep for now, and if the valley went low enough that she found trees, she might be able to make a proper meal of it later.

She turned back to the burrow and dug around inside with her good arm in case her luck held, but her breakfast seemed to have been the only resident. Already feeling stronger and warmer, she pushed herself up, and pressed on down the valley.

“Watching, waiting, too awake, but there is nothing to dream about here. Except mountains.”

The Commander started as the voice accosted him from the darkness, his hand going to the hilt of his sword as he raised his torch higher. “Oh, for the— You again. Why on earth are you up on the wagon?”

“I'm waiting. We all are, but it's hardest for him. It all went wrong, which was right, but in the wrong way, and he wants to warn her.”

“What in Andraste's name are you talking about?”

“It's going to be all right. We just have to wait.”

By nightfall there were trees again, tall wispy things with bare branches, rattling in the incessant wind. The sound echoed eerily off the rock walls, a constant din that her leaden mind couldn't block out. She should stop, she thought distantly. Try and collect wood, build a fire. The cold and the wind made it so difficult to think. Difficult to do anything more than put one foot in front of the other. Her pleasant little valley had turned to the east hours earlier and the wind was coming up the sheer-sided canyon, blowing directly into her face. But if she kept going, maybe she would find shelter. If she kept going, maybe she would find people. The wind felt stronger, almost blowing her off her feet and she bent down into it, staggering and stumbling as it only got darker. Her shivers turned to shaking, she bit her own tongue on her chattering teeth, and it was so dark and so cold and there had been no sign of anyone for hours. Had she gone the wrong way? Had she stumbled down a pass others knew better to avoid? All she could do was press on and hope, a scarf wound around her head to fend off the wind that turned tears to ice on her cheeks.

She had never been this cold before, never in her life. The wind blew through her, her coats and scarves no protection. Her face felt numb, her feet, her whole body cold, too cold to hurt, only her marked palm shining brightly in the darkness. She pressed it against her chest and wondered hazily if it would keep burning for ever. If they found her body frozen in the snow, would her palm still be ablaze beside her, melting the snow around it? No. No. She wasn't going to die here, not in the cold and the darkness. She had to keep going. She had so much to do. She staggered onward into the wind.

“Mythal protect me,” she croaked, the words comforting and familiar. “Sylaise warm me, Dirthamen guide me and keep me from fear.” She choked on the words and let out a sob. “Guide me, please. I don't want to die here.” She lurched on, her words torn away by the wind as she shook and stumbled and fell. “No... no.” she murmured, pushing herself back up. Her shoulder no longer protested, too numb from cold. “Not here. All-Mother please, not here. Not after all this.” she crawled forward, pulling herself through the snow as she tried to gather the strength to stand. “Mamae, please help me.”

She didn't want to die here, lost in the snow, so far from her country and her clan. Not here, with no one to ever find her, no one say the prayers to Falon'Din. Not now, when there was so much still left to do. Would the others know what the Elder One wanted, would they remember about the Empress? She had to tell them, it was important. It was important.

“Dirthamen, please,” she sobbed, dragging herself upright on a rock. “I don't want to be afraid.” Rocks, more rocks, she could feel them in the dark. She pulled herself over them, crawling forward, falling forward, and landing with a thump that knocked the wind out of her. She lay there gasping, trying to draw air back into her lungs. She didn't want to move. She wanted to lie here for a little longer. Just until she regained some strength. She'd keep going. She would. But for now, couldn't she just rest? A moment, just for a moment. She felt warmth creeping up from under her, wrapping itself around her. The wind seemed so distant, like it was blowing all around her without touching her. She stared up at the snowflakes blowing overhead, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. Even the back of her neck felt warm now, and wasn't that funny? Shouldn't you feel cold all over if you're dying in the snow? Maybe it was a final gift to feel warm at the end, so that it didn't hurt so much.

She breathed deeply, her chest easing. The scent of warm leather surrounded her, like the halla had worked up a froth in the harnesses. Hahren Luthiel would scold them for pushing the animals too hard. Her eyelids fluttered shut, opened, and shut again. She shifted a little, settling, listening to the wind in the trees above the aravel, sleepy and warm, then gasped loudly as the bare tip of her ear brushed the ground beneath her and burned. Not from cold, but from heat. She rolled herself to one side, body moving on instinct rather than command, and her movements disturbed the ground where she had been lying. A spark of red flared in the darkness and she reached out a hand. The ground was warm and soft, yes, because it was a fire pit. A banked fire pit. She yanked back a hand as she disturbed the coals under the ashes. It was still alive—her clumsy fall had dropped her right on top of it and she still hadn't put it out. More alert now after the brief rest, she looked around herself in the green glow of the Anchor. She was in a circle of large rocks, placed too regularly to be natural. Someone had moved these rocks here, close enough that people could sit between them and the pit, and built a bonfire up inside them. Less than a day ago, less than half a day ago. She felt dizzy with elation and exhaustion. She was catching up. She might still collapse and die in the snow, but she was catching up.

She knew she should climb back over the stones, try to find wood under the leafless trees and build the fire back up, but all she had the energy to do was to pull off her quiver—and that had been the source of the warm leather smell, the embossing a little scorched from the coals—and bury the remains of the nug in the firepit before curling up almost on top of it and dropping quickly into sleep, breathing out a prayer of thanks before giving herself over to the warm darkness.

That warmth had fled when she woke shortly after dawn, and she felt stiff all over. Her stomach cramped from hunger and she dug the nug carcass out of the dead embers. The flesh was barely cooked and ashes coated it, but the meat was warm and filling. The people who had built the fire had left here half a day before she had stumbled across it in the darkness—perhaps a stop for a midday meal? If it was the Inquisition, then they were moving slowly, probably due to the weak and injured. Half a day ahead. If she pushed herself she might reach them by the time darkness fell. She stood, felt her knees tremble. Half a day. “Creators have mercy, let me make it.”

I regret that I must report the presumed death of the bas known to us as the Herald of Andraste.

The Inquisition base camp at Haven was attacked shortly after dusk on the First of Firstfall by a force composed of several hundred renegade “Red” Templars. The force was under the apparent command of the ex-Templar human male from Kirkwall known to us as Samson, and another individual known as The Elder One. I still cannot expand on the The Elder One's motivations, but I am now able to include a physical description. However, as the individual known as The Elder One was seen from a distance in low-light conditions, I can include few details and I am uncertain of its species.

The Elder One was also accompanied by what appeared to be a High Dragon. Subspecies unknown. Fire-breathing. Approximately 25 feet tall at the shoulder and 70 feet long, tail included. Two horns on either side of its head, upper right horn broken off near the base. Grey-skinned, with black metal scales or plating along its neck and body, and spikes on its forelegs. It is unknown to me if these are natural or if the dragon has somehow been modified.

While The Inquisition forces fought well, they were greatly outnumbered. It was decided to evacuate the town while the Herald fought with a small squad through the attackers to The Inquisition's trebuchets, which she would use to create an avalanche to bury the town and the attacking forces. This strategy was suggested by the bas known to us as Commander Cullen Rutherford and supported by the Herald. The bas known to us as Varric Tethras, a newcomer to the Inquisition known as Dorian Pavus of Tevinter (full description below), and I accompanied the Herald to the trebuchets.

We were ordered to retreat when the Herald signalled, as she did when the dragon came in to land, so I cannot positively confirm her death. As the planned avalanche buried the trebuchets and town of Haven approximately eight minutes later, I find it unlikely that the Herald survived. The High Dragon was seen flying westward shortly afterwards, and I cannot confirm the death or present location of The Elder One.

I understand that my instructions were to gain the trust of The Inquisition and to prevent the Herald from coming to harm while we studied the effects of the mark on her hand. While I am still in place to complete the former goal, I am aware of the consequences of my failure in the second. The Inquisition has no other known method of closing rif—

“They found her!” The shouts were distant, from somewhere on the edge of the camp, but they carried. The Iron Bull glanced up from his letter, listening intently.

“They found the Herald! The Commander's bringing her down. They found her, she's alive!” The noise spread through the camp as people left their tents or makeshift shelters to stare up at the mouth of the pass.

Bull glanced down at the unfinished report, ink slowly drying, and murmured, “Well, damn.” He picked it up and folded it twice before dropping it onto the brazier inside his tent. It flared and caught alight as he sauntered out into the afternoon light. A scouting party of soldiers were entering the camp, with a limp body wrapped in the green of an Inquisition cloak cradled in the Commander's arms. Bull leaned against a stack of crates and watched as a healer rushed past him, and his mouth twitched into a smile. “Nice work, Lavellan.”

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[threestories]

Feniradel Lavellan’s epilogue

In short order, the Inquisition was disbanded. Some were relieved to see the unpredictable organisation dismantled. Others preferred to remember the Inquisition's good works and the many lives it had saved. Those who had served returned to their former lives, knowing they had stopped a great evil from destroying the world... ... and hoping that the peace for which they had fought remained, once the Inquisition was gone.

With the Dragon's Breath disrupted and any hope of a swift victory dashed, the Qunari retreated back to the North. Few knew what debates were waged in Par Vollen, but not long after the Exalted Council, the Qunari launched new attacks against Tevinter. Their aggression caught the already unstable Imperium off guard. Tevinter was soon mired in a war many feared could spread across Thedas.

The Exalted Council remained intact, advising Divine Victoria on important matters. Cassandra served for several years. However, she eventually became disgusted by Vivienne--who she felt was perverting the Chant of Light's intent--and left the council. Cassandra also spent time in the Hunterhorn Mountains north of Orlais, where she worked to rebuild the Seekers. For a time, the new Seekers remained reclusive, showing no interest in worldly affairs and working to a purpose few outside their order could guess.

As the Inquisition forces returned to civilian life, its mages pushed for independence from the Circle. Divine Victoria, secure on her Sunburst Throne - and with a rebuilt Chantry Circle at her disposal - chose to be magnanimous. She grudgingly allowed them to remain as the College of Enchanters, as a mark of her regard for the Inquisition. For the next few years, the College and the Circle coexisted peacefully, if barely.

Leliana continued to act as the Inquisition's spymaster in its final months as an independent organisation. During this time, she shared many of her responsibilities with her most trusted agents, including Charter, Rector, and Harding. Many believed that Leliana feared what lay on the horizon and was grooming successors in anticipation of the challenges ahead. Eventually, Leliana became distant and contemplative, often secluding herself in the rookery with none but her ravens for company. One morning, the residents of Skyhold awoke to a great beating of wings and a vast cloud of ravens blotting out the sky above the fortress. Those who investigated found both the rookery and Leliana's chambers vacant, with only a single message left as explanation: "The lyrium sang thought into being. Now time is stale, and the melody is called elsewhere. Until I am needed, I am free."

With the Inquisition disbanded, Sera joined the Inquisitor in officially retiring from scaring people in high places. By formal account and agreement, both would lead boring, safe lives nowhere special doing not much at all. And with that comforting lie, those in power continued their fragile lives as though all was back to normal. Meanwhile, Red Jenny, an entirely separate person not at all collectively embodied by Sera, the Inquisitor, and countless Friends... ...continued to make a difference, or just have fun, where and when the impulse struck. With frequent visits to her Widdle, of course.

Varric returned to Kirkwall, where, as Viscount, he resumed his work rebuilding the damaged city infrastructure. Under his rule, the city-state finally resumed its place as the major trade hub of the Free Marches. He continued to ignore all mail from both the Merchants Guild and the Prince of Starkhaven.

With the Inquisition disbanded, the Bull's Chargers returned to taking jobs throughout Orlais and Ferelden. Fighting demons and clearing out the remains of Venatori forces, the Iron Bull did his part to restore order to Thedas. And on every job, Bull wore the necklace his kadan had given him... so that no matter how far apart life took them, they would always be together.

After the Inquisition disbanded, Cullen retired from active service. He returned to Ferelden, establishing a sanctuary for former templars, on land Divine Victoria granted to him. With his help, many templars shed their lyrium addiction... and those whose minds were too far gone spent their last days in comfort. And he promised that, should his friends from the old Inquisition ever need him, his blade would be ready.

Dorian returned to Tevinter to take his father's place in the Magisterium. As rumours flew about the Imperium's infighting, Dorian was spoken of often as a voice of resistance against corruption. Along with Magister Maevaris Tilani, he formed a group called the Lucerni to restore and redeem Tevinter--a fight many thought hopeless. those fighting by Magister Pavus's side noted that he kept in constant communication with the Inquisitor via message crystal. Whether for vital information or for moral support, these talks seemed to give Dorian the strength to continue his fight.

After the Exalted Council, Thom Rainier bid farewell to his friends and went to Weisshaupt fortress to pledge himself to the Grey Wardens for good. While he was rarely seen in the years that followed, some said they encountered Rainier in far-flung lands, their accounts always similar. Rainier carried out the duty of the Wardens, but always found time to help others along the way. Sometimes he serves as a shield for the defenseless. Other time, he spread simple cheer among children with gifts of small, carved toys.

With the Inquisition disbanded, Josephine made her farewells and returned to Antiva and her family. Thanks to the Inquisitor's help, the Montilyets were once again permitted to trade in Orlais. The next few years were a busy time, as many ships with the Montilyet crest were built and set sail again from Antiva's harbours. Soon, Rivaini pirate captains with an ancient feud against Josephine's ancestors took to the seas, determined to rekindle the rivalry. Apart from Josephine's sister, Yvette, nearly eloping with a dashing pirate prince on one occasion, Lady Montilyet took the development in stride.

Cole took to the road with Maryden to find a new life and a new way to be human. Wherever Maryden went to sing, people found old pains eased and hearts made happier... even if they didn't understand why.

After the events at the Winter Palace, elves left the Inquisition under mysterious circumstances, as did elven servants across Thedas. None could say where they went, but those who believed the Inquisitor's story about Fen'Harel wondered at just how large the Dread Wolf's forces were... ...and what the ancient elven rebel had planned.

Leliana: My agents have found nothing. With the eluvians, he could be anywhere. Cassandra: With the Inquisition formally disbanded, we have no army, no formal alliances... Leliana: We have what we truly need. Cassandra: (Sighs.) We will need to be careful. Leliana: Solas knows everything about us. Who we are, how we work, our strengths and weaknesses... Fenny: Then we find people he doesn't know. Fenny: We will save our friend from himself... if we can.

[threestories]

my most beautiful daughter

[threestories]

and some faces of 3parts's feniradel