<!--Testing-->
<<set $profileSet to false>>
<<set $codexSet to false>>
<<set $companionSet to false>>
<!--MC-->
<<set $lyrium = 100>>
<<set $mean= 50, $nice = 50>>
<<set $loyal = 50, $rebel = 50>>
<<set $devout = 50, $question = 50>>
<!--Jeffery STATS-->
<<set $jeffRival = 50, $jeffFriend = 50>>
<!--Simon STATS-->
<<set $simonRival = 50, $simonFriend = 50>>
<!--Anasha STATS-->
<<set $anashaRival = 50, $anashaFriend = 50>>
<!--Arden STATS-->
<<set $ardenRival = 50, $ardenFriend = 50>>
<!--Asi STATS-->
<<set $asiRival = 50, $asiFriend = 50>>
<!--Matthieu STATS-->
<<set $mattRival = 50, $mattFriend = 50>>
<!--Dog Name-->
<<set $dog to "Lady">>
<<if $profileSet>>[[Profile]]<</if>>
<<if $companionSet>>[[Companions]]<</if>>
<<if $codexSet>>[[Codex]]<</if>>
[[CREDITS |Credits]]<div class = "demon"><h1>Credits</h1></div>\
''Small Fires'' is a work of interactive fanfiction written and coded by <a href="https://medowlarken.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">''medowlarken.''</a> //Dragon Age// is owned by Electronic Arts and its subsidiary, Bioware. Read the disclaimer [[here|start]].
Twine SugarCube documentation <a href="https://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs/" target="_blank">''here''</a>.
Images and graphic elements from <a href="https://unsplash.com/" target="_blank">''Unsplash''</a> and <a href="https://canva.com/" target="_blank">''Canva''</a>.
Elements used from the template by <a href="https://gamesbyalbie.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">''Albie''</a>.
Stat bars from A.W. Morgan's <a href="https://awmorgan.itch.io/twine-sugarcube-template" target="_blank">Twine Template</a>.
OpenDyslexic Font by <a href="https://opendyslexic.org" target="_blank">Abby Gonzalez</a>.
Pronoun Template (and various misc macros/code) by <a href="https://hiev-heavy-ind.com/Sample_Code/Sample_Code.html#Pronoun%20Templates">Hiev</a>.
Notify Macro by <a href="https://github.com/ChapelR/custom-macros-for-sugarcube-2/blob/master/docs/notify-macro.md">Chapel</a>.
<<button "Return" $return>><</button>><div class = "demon"><h1>Character Profile</h1></div>\
<nobr><<if $background is "the Alienage">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/22f7eccb910bc50b13630d9f577cbd33/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-25/s400x600/00459f379a3d83b401b36d60dd5fc2bc71e23867.pnj" alt="a large tree with white bark">
<<elseif $background is "Nobility">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9f4d90ecda304d4506df59cc0fd08cb4/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-30/s400x600/9207d1418a9e18d0d459a3dc7091a25b0f563a04.pnj" alt="a stained glass window featuring gold fleur-de-lis against a blue background">
<<elseif $background is "Rebellion">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0ff3889ac8781088e1196ed74fbe97be/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-d0/s400x600/5d051a37c32f3697817d138f013090e618cfc029.pnj" alt="a closeup shot of a field of wheat">
<<elseif $background is "the Circle">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e399311bd2cb9c2748c286d50462b1a3/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-3b/s400x600/9c4460ac395207c1f59f362b61a0a18937b8463e.pnj" alt="a window set into a stone wall overgrown with moss"><</if>></nobr>
''Name:'' $firstName $lastName (?they/?them)
''Race:'' <nobr><<if $background is "the Alienage">>Elf-Blooded Human<<else>>Human<</if>></nobr>
''Class:'' Knight-Corporal
''Background:'' Child of $background
''Appearance:'' You are a $body, $skin-skinned ?adultPerson with $eyeColor eyes and $hairLength, $hairTexture $hairColor hair that $hairStyle. $faceTrait <nobr><<if $trans is 1>>You identify as transgender.<</if>></nobr>
<hr>\
<center><h3>Lyrium Gauge</h3></center>\
<span class="health"><div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Lyrium $lyrium%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right"></div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="lyrium-stat"></div></div></div></span>\
\
<center><<if $lyrium gt 0 and $lyrium lte 5>>LYRIUM. NOW.<<elseif $lyrium gt 5 and $lyrium lte 20>>You need lyrium. Now.<<elseif $lyrium gt 20 and $lyrium lte 50>>Sweats, shakes, and night terrors.<<elseif $lyrium gt 50 and $lyrium lte 70>>You're feeling a bit itchy...<<elseif $lyrium gt 70 and $lyrium lt 100>>You feel good.<<elseif $lyrium is 100>>Your blood thrums with power.<<else>>You no longer take lyrium.<</if>></center>
\
<hr>\
<center><h3>Personality</h3></center>\
<<set $nice = 100 - $mean>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Merciless $mean%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Empathetic $nice%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="mean-stat"></div></div></div>\
\
<<set $rebel = 100 - $loyal>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Loyal $loyal%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Rebellious $rebel%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="loyal-stat"></div></div></div>\
\
<<set $devout = 100 - $question>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Devout $devout%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Questioning $question%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="devout-stat"></div></div></div>\
<<button "Return" $return>><</button>><div class = "demon"><h1>Companions</h1></div>\
[[Simon West |Simon]]
<<if hasVisited("harrow8")>><<else>>[[Jeffery Trendor|Jeffery]]<</if>>\
<<button "Return" $return>><</button>><div class = "demon"><h1>Codex</h1></div>
<div class = "demon">''People''</div>
<<link "Knight-Captain Baker">><<script>>Dialog.create('Baker Wright'); Dialog.wiki("Knight-Captain of the Templar Order at Kinloch Hold. A well-liked templar and your long-time mentor."); Dialog.open();<</script>><</link>>
<<if hasVisited("harrow1")>><<link "Knight-Commander Rolan">><<script>>Dialog.create('Rolan McBride'); Dialog.wiki("Knight-Commander of the Templar Order at Kinloch Hold. A gruff, no-nonsense man."); Dialog.open();<</script>><</link>><</if>>
<<if hasVisited("harrow3")>><<link "First Enchanter Orathe">><<script>>Dialog.create('Orathe Umber'); Dialog.wiki("The shrewd First Enchanter of the Kinloch Hold's Circle. Skilled in healing magic."); Dialog.open();<</script>><</link>><</if>>
<<if hasVisited("infirm1")>><<link "Apprentice Calipi">><<script>>Dialog.create('Calipi'); Dialog.wiki("An apprentice mage from Kinloch Hold. Was killed after failing her Harrowing and becoming possessed."); Dialog.open();<</script>><</link>><</if>>
<<if hasVisited("infirm1")>><<link "Templar-Recruit Jeffery">><<script>>Dialog.create('Jeffery Trendor'); Dialog.wiki("A recruit assigned to Kinloch Hold. Killed by an abomination after abandoning his comrades."); Dialog.open();<</script>><</link>><</if>>
<<if hasVisited("postharrow1")>><<link "Enchanter Aslaug">><<script>>Dialog.create('Aslaug'); Dialog.wiki("A fair-haired mage brought to the Circle as a child. Baker's suspected lover."); Dialog.open();<</script>><</link>><</if>>
<<if hasVisited("ba5")>><<link "Enchanter Keenan">><<script>>Dialog.create('Keenan'); Dialog.wiki("An elven enchanter from Kinloch Hold. Close with Auslag, and helped cover up her and Baker's suspected relationship."); Dialog.open();<</script>><</link>><</if>>
<div class = "demon">''Notes & Objects''</div>
<<if hasVisited("wake6")>><<link "$firstName's keepsake">><<script>> Dialog.create("Keepsake"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("keepsake").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>><</link>><</if>>
<<if hasVisited("chant2")>><<link "Heretical writings">><<script>> Dialog.create("Heretical Writings"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("heresynote").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>><</link>><</if>>
<<if hasVisited("bunk5.1")>><<link "Loose journal entry">><<script>> Dialog.create("Journal Entry"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("journalpage").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>><</link>><</if>>
<<button "Return" $return>><</button>><h1>Simon West</h1>\
<img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/b82ac2837d7aead6abc27595edcb6798/ef35da0431106109-72/s1280x1920/24ad2290b0fade3ebc89f621b75da66aff9b628f.jpg" alt="closeup of a knight's armored waist">
''Name:'' Simon West (he/him)
''Race:'' Human
''Class:'' Templar-Recruit
''Appearance:'' A sturdy, lightly-tanned, dark-haired young man outfitted in templar armor. Painfully Fereldan.
''Personality:'' surly, stubborn, loyal
<hr>\
<center><h3>Approval</h3></center>\
<<set $simonFriend = 100 - $simonRival>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Rivalry $simonRival%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Friendship $simonFriend%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="simonRival-stat"></div></div></div>\
\
<center><<if $simonRival gt 0 and $simonRival lte 10>>He trusts you completely.<<elseif $simonRival gt 10 and $simonRival lte 25>>You have his sword--and friendship.<<elseif $simonRival gt 25 and $simonRival lte 45>>He thinks you're a competent leader.<<elseif $simonRival gt 45 and $simonRival lte 50>>Your reliable subordinate.<<elseif $simonRival gt 50 and $simonRival lte 60>>He questions your choices.<<elseif $simonRival gt 60 and $simonRival lte 75>>Order hierarchy demands he still follow you. For now.<<elseif $simonRival gt 75 and $simonRival lte 90>>You're everything he's not. He respects that.<<elseif $simonRival gt 90 and $simonRival lte 100>>You've proven yourself to be a frustrating, but worthy leader.<<elseif $simonRival is 100>>Despite your differences, he has your back.<<else>>Your trusted brother in arms.<</if>></center>
\
<<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><h1>Jeffery Trendor</h1>\
<img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/680fd1b16524002c3a5c6df21173f967/ef35da0431106109-38/s500x750/14f9d22253c05ada1242a2a431221614f9dc559a.jpg" alt="a closeup of the arm of a golden suit of armor">
''Name:'' Jeffery Trendor (he/him)
''Race:'' Human
''Class:'' Templar-Recruit
''Appearance:'' A ginger-haired, gangly young man outfitted in templar armor. Always fidgeting.
''Personality:'' nervous
<hr>\
<center><h3>Approval</h3></center>\
<<set $jeffFriend = 100 - $jeffRival>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Rivalry $jeffRival%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Friendship $jeffFriend%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="jeffRival-stat"></div></div></div>\
\
<center><<if $jeffRival gt 0 and $jeffRival lte 98>>He's too caught up in his nerves to give you much thought.<<elseif $jeffRival gt 98 and $jeffRival lte 100>>You've lost him.<</if>></center>
\
<<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/b6a1d4bb55a87da903dce0310421d7bb/ef35da0431106109-cd/s250x400/3b3ec878886524182d7cc925d16b24257a894dc7.pnj" alt="symbol: a half sunburst set in front of a golden disk" style="max-width: 100%;"></div>
//Ferelden, 8:82 Blessed//
The Orlesian occupation rules the land with an iron fist, while revolutionaries fight and die under the Rebel Queen's banner. As the recently promoted Knight-Corporal of Kinloch Hold's Circle of Magi, you are a proud member of the Templar Order, a 'politically neutral' force for good in this time of great darkness. So when your Knight-Captain absconds with a heavily pregnant mage, you are assigned the arduous task of hunting them down—as quickly and as discreetly as possible.
Yet all is not what it seems. Malevolent forces prowl both the dreaming and waking worlds, and a betrayal from within your ranks forces a choice: deliver the child to a distant safe haven, or die. Now saddled with a newborn and with no real alternatives, you find yourself leading an eclectic group of outcasts through a land torn apart by civil war, where loyalties, allegiances, and faith will all be put to the ultimate test.
<hr>
Welcome to the ''Small Fires'' Demo!
This project is an active work in progress. Updates will be added as they are written and any existing content is subject to change. Follow the <a href="https://smallfires-if.tumblr.com/">dev blog</a> for the most recent progress updates and announcements!
''Warning:'' Not optimized for mobile devices—play at your own risk. Players using mobile devices should view in landscape mode for the best experience. If you run into bugs, try switching browsers.
>[[Read the Content Warnings|warnings]] (Updated Dec 5, 2025)
>[[Fanwork Disclaimer|disclaimer]]
<<button [[Begin|name]]>><</button>>/* Variable Reference Guide */
$firstName
$lastName
$background
$trans (true 1/false 0)
$pgen is player's pronouns:
0 = male, 1 = female, 2 = gender neutral, 3 = no gender
$skin
$body
$eyeColor
$hairLength
$hairTexture
$hairColor
$hairStyle
$faceTrait
$background
"the Alienage"
"Nobility"
"Rebellion"
"the Circle"
set $variable = Math.clamp($variable +/- amount, 0, 100) -> prevents value from going over 100 or under 0
$lyrium
$mean/$nice
$loyal/$rebel
$question/$devout
$'companion-first-name'Rival' + or -
(to implement) $bakerrep: 0-not close; 1-close
/* End */<<timed 2s t8n>><div id="game-title">Prologue</div>\<</timed>>
<<timed 4s t8n>><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/f9e3c3466028f9460bc4193b342bc80d/ef35da0431106109-a4/s640x960/a19658899dc199b59cdd4004eb54cbfb7e5de8c6.pnj" alt="a drawing of a tall stone tower" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><</timed>>
<<timed 6s t8n>><div id="title-links">The Tower</div>\<</timed>>
<<timed 8s t8n>>----
<div id="title-links">[[Continue |wake1]]</div><</timed>><h1>Anasha of White-Deer Hold</h1>\
<img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9a1661ff855a45f0e39457f301fd809a/a9ef51eb24576cda-c4/s400x600/5079c7ff4d5925b85086d97a0aa3f7fb16a540c0.jpg">
''Name:'' Anasha (she/her)
''Race:'' Human
''Class:'' Spirit Mage
''Appearance:'' A tall, slate-eyed Avvar draped in mismatched animal skins. The charms woven into her hair chime softly with her movements.
''Personality:'' proud, proactive, curious
<hr>\
<center><h3>Approval</h3></center>\
<<set $anashaFriend = 100 - $anashaRival>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Rivalry $anashaRival%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Friendship $anashaFriend%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="anashaRival-stat"></div></div></div>\
\
<<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><div class="container">
<div class="card">
<img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e9860100f881aaa6e323ba3df2cf4160/d90fa1136b59cec9-39/s400x600/d8ea85136a64c7799528f721cdd4c693f9d55466.pnj" alt="a large tree with white bark" style="width:100%">
<<link "Child of the Alienage">><<script>>
Dialog.create("Child of the Alienage");
Dialog.wiki(Story.get("alienage").processText());
Dialog.open();
<</script>><</link>>
</div>
<div class="card">
<img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/76bf0f657820cb5f4c43943bc86bc5bc/d90fa1136b59cec9-d2/s400x600/c98f32c3e704450087e516aa4d98080915abd6f9.pnj" alt="a stained glass window featuring gold fleur-de-lis against a blue background" style="width:100%">
<<link "Child of Nobility">><<script>>
Dialog.create("Child of Nobility");
Dialog.wiki(Story.get("nobility").processText());
Dialog.open();
<</script>><</link>>
</div>
<div class="card">
<img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/8a0bb4040bf5d481a376a962778708c4/d90fa1136b59cec9-c0/s400x600/93f032a3763d3aa1d68c814745013d75a20a0c52.pnj" alt="a closeup shot of a field of wheat" style="width:100%">
<<link "Child of Rebellion">><<script>>
Dialog.create("Child of Rebellion");
Dialog.wiki(Story.get("rebellion").processText());
Dialog.open();
<</script>><</link>>
</div>
<div class="card">
<img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/aef3dc3bc8fcda7ffec29b2918da516c/d90fa1136b59cec9-df/s400x600/c71c61fe46a2970c1785ba22ea1708a9cbf4c671.pnj" alt="a window set into a stone wall overgrown with moss" style="width:100%">
<<link "Child of the Circle">><<script>>
Dialog.create("Child of the Circle");
Dialog.wiki(Story.get("circle").processText());
Dialog.open();
<</script>><</link>>
</div><center><h3>Surname: Dovely</h3>
You were born into a family of Fereldan peasant farmers. After being found harboring rebels, your village was slaughtered by a band of chevaliers. You were the only survivor. </center>
<center>
<<button [[Choose Background |confirm]]>>
<<set $background = "Rebellion">>;
<<set $lastName = "Dovely">>;
<<run Dialog.close()>>;
<</button>>
</center><center><h3>Surname: Dhalis</h3>
You were born to an elven mother and unknown human father in the Highever alienage. Despite your loving childhood and supportive extended family, your mother sent you to the Order for a better life.</center>
<center>
<<button [[Choose Background |confirm]]>>
<<set $background = "the Alienage">>;
<<set $lastName = "Dhalis">>;
<<run Dialog.close()>>;
<</button>>
</center><center><h3>Surname: Delacroix</h3>
Your father is the Comte du Delacroix, an Orlesian nobleman granted lands afer the annexation of Ferelden. The youngest of five, you were given to the Order to prevent competition with your older siblings.</center>
<center>
<<button [[Choose Background |confirm]]>>
<<set $background = "Nobility">>;
<<set $lastName = "Delacroix">>;
<<run Dialog.close()>>;
<</button>>
</center><center><h3>Surname: Dane</h3>
You were born in the notorious Kirkwall Gallows. The product of an illicit relationship between two mages, you were taken from your mother shortly after birth and sent to be raised by the Order in Ferelden.</center>
<center>
<<button [[Choose Background |confirm]]>>
<<set $background = "the Circle">>;
<<set $lastName = "Dane">>;
<<run Dialog.close()>>;
<</button>>
</center>''Hastily scrawled correspondence between two unknown Chantry initiates fills the margins of this page:''
<h3><div class = "handwrite">And the Prophet stood beside Shartan
And shouted to her host:
“Behold! Our champion!”
And gave to him the blade of her own mother
From her own scabbard, Glandivalis, saying:
“Take this, my champion,
And free our people forever.”
That’s all I remember, he only let me see it for a tic.
<div style="text-align: right;">Bloody Orlesians.
But still, a Dissonant Verse!
Usually have to kiss arse for years before the Uni lets you see a real one.
Bet that copy cost a pretty coin.
Or thousand.</div>
Try a couple thousand.
I don’t know what they’re so afraid of.
Everyone knows elves helped Andraste against the Imperium.
Calling one her champion in a verse will hardly throw the alienages into revolt.
<div style="text-align: right;">Maybe.
Unless.
You know.</div>
Know what?
<div style="text-align: right;">The rumors are true.</div>
Rumors?
<div style="text-align: right;">That she really, ah, gave him her sword.</div>
But she did.
It’s right there, in the verse.
<div style="text-align: right;">Yeah she did.
Or maybe he gave her his.
Right in her ''scabbard'' oooh.</div>
What are you...
Oh, Maker’s breath! You degenerate!
<div style="text-align: right;">Ha!</div>
</div></h3>
''The rest of the page is filled with crude drawings of a male elf, a human woman, and the improper use of a blade. Someone has attempted to rub them out with their fingers, but to no avail.''It's <<nobr>><<if $background is "the Alienage">>a twig from the Highever alienage's //vhenadahl//. One of your cousins snuck it before you left for your training as a child: an act that got them in mountains of trouble with the //hahren//.
<<elseif $background is "Nobility">>a richly dyed silk handkerchief embroidered with the Delacroix family crest. Papa presented it to you the day you left for your training; a family coming-of-age tradition.
<<elseif $background is "Rebellion">>a torn scrap of blue fabric with yellow stitching. You have no memory of what it was originally; you were found in the burnt-out shell of your family home with it clutched in your fist.
<<elseif $background is "the Circle">>a lock of hair bound together with red thread. It supposedly came from your birth mother—a parting gift before Kirkwall’s templars sent you to Ferelden.<<else>>ERROR. NO BACKGROUND<</if>><</nobr>>Small Fires<h1>Arden Silahan'nin</h1>\
<img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/2579730b0a00a2783cdffee112a4a06f/a9ef51eb24576cda-8d/s400x600/e8069700ec1db9ba6034fa6e43177a5774285265.jpg">
''Name:'' Arden (he/him)
''Race:'' Elf
''Class:'' Longbow Archer
''Appearance:'' A grizzled middle-aged elf dressed in scuffed hunting leathers. Dalish tattoos pattern his cheeks, chin, and forehead, and his long hair hangs braided down his back.
''Personality:'' capable, blunt, standoffish
<hr>\
<center><h3>Approval</h3></center>\
<<set $ardenFriend = 100 - $ardenRival>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Rivalry $ardenRival%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Friendship $ardenFriend%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="ardenRival-stat"></div></div></div>\
\
<<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><h1>Matthieu Lièvre</h1>\
<img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/ac39f2df9836ea87dc3b75ae312a12ed/a9ef51eb24576cda-78/s400x600/2abb6773f808527733578dcb616151e80282d469.jpg">
''Name:'' Matthieu (he/him)
''Race:'' Elf
''Class:'' Twin-Blade Rogue
''Appearance:'' A lithe elf wearing Orlesian scholar robes and a well-loved rucksack. A leather fox mask hides the top half of his face.
''Personality:'' intelligent, ambitious, eager to please
<hr>\
<center><h3>Approval</h3></center>\
<<set $mattFriend = 100 - $mattRival>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Rivalry $mattRival%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Friendship $mattFriend%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="mattRival-stat"></div></div></div>\
\
<<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><h1>Asi the Ironfist</h1>\
<img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/3358cc96d8995964ec67d0df2763e77d/a9ef51eb24576cda-46/s400x600/240f5dd9c517b7c4934e74958fa71291397ab136.jpg">
''Name:'' Asi (she/her)
''Race:'' Dwarf
''Class:'' Knucke-Iron Scrapper
''Appearance:'' A shapely dwarf sporting thick red curls and a prominent tooth gap. Her arms are crisscrossed with old scars.
''Personality:'' vivacious, charismatic, impulsive
<hr>\
<center><h3>Approval</h3></center>\
<<set $asiFriend = 100 - $asiRival>>\
<div class="stat-bar-group">\
<div class="stat-bar-container">\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Rivalry $asiRival%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Friendship $asiFriend%</div>\
<div class="stat-bar" id="asiRival-stat"></div></div></div>\
\
<<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><h1>Louise</h1>\
<img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/fa17f70d8b7946e5a7e14b238b8dca25/a9ef51eb24576cda-78/s400x600/f75dbb9e69e7545e98c979757636e90f8b7a9625.jpg">
''Name:'' Louise or Lou (she/her)
''Race:'' Human
''Class:'' Baby
''Appearance:'' A chunky newborn with hair the color of cornsilk and the biggest blue eyes this side of the Waking Sea.
<<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><h1>Dog</h1>\
<img class="character" src="https://i.pinimg.com/1200x/42/d4/4d/42d44d1210f5709aec40a9bc8054a03e.jpg">
''Name:'' $dog
''Race:'' Mabari
''Class:'' Good Girl
''Appearance:'' A female hound covered in black and white fur. Is partial to belly rubs.
<<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>>/* choice class */
<div class = 'choice'>
</div>
/* cycle choice */
It fits perfectly of course, adhering to your <<nobr>>
<<cycle "$body" autoselect>>
<<option "thin">>
<<option "wiry">>
<<option "lean">>
<<option "curvy">>
<<option "muscular">>
<<option "hulking">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>> frame like a second skin.
/* choice sets personality */
<div class = 'choice'><<link [Grab the apple and take a big, unabashed bite. |hall1]>> <<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal - 10, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
/* notify banner */
<<nobr>>
<<set $profileSet = true>>
<<notify 3s>>PROFILE UNLOCKED!<</notify>>
<</nobr>>
/* mouseover*/
<<mouseover>>[Watch out for the pit!|pitfall]<<onhover>><<goto 'pitfall'>><</mouseover>>
<<if hasVisited("harrow1")>>[[Jeffery Trendor|Jeffery]]<</if>>
.choice {
display:flex;flex-flow:column nowrap;
margin-top:.5em;
& > a::before, span::before {
content: '↬';
padding-right:.5ch;
color: #C99F55;
}
}
.choice a:hover {
color: #4D5F8D;
}
.rev .choice a:hover {
color: #4D5F8D;
}
<<if hasVisited("harrowask") && hasVisited("bakerask")>><<visitedLink "↬ Ask what happens now." "office3">><</if>>Demo v1.1.2<div class = "demon"><h1>Content Warnings</h1></div>\
''Small Fires'' is rated ''17+'' and contains the following:
* graphic descriptions of violence and death
* descriptions of blood and gore
* sexual content
* mentioned/referenced abuse, including child abuse (non-graphic)
* mentioned/referenced sexual abuse (non-graphic)
* fantasy racism and discrimination
* problematic power imbalances and relationships
Reader discretion is advised. For more information, please send me a message on <a href="https://smallfires-if.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.
<<button "Return" $return>><</button>>Everyone starts somewhere. Choose your ''background''.
<center><<include "backgroundchoice">></center>
<div class = "demon"><h1>Disclaimer</h1></div>\
''Small Fires'' is a transformative, non-commercial work of interactive fan fiction inspired by the //Dragon Age// series. It is not endorsed by, affiliated with, or sponsored by <a href="https://www.ea.com/">Electronic Arts</a> or its subsidiary, BioWare. All rights to the original characters, settings, and lore belong to their respective owners.
<<button "Return" $return>><</button>><<timed 1s t8n>>//East Bannorn Monastery, Ferelden//<</timed>>
<<timed 3s t8n>>//8:XX Blessed//<</timed>>
<<timed 5s t8n>>
You’ve seen a lot of ugliness in your eleven years of life. More than most, even most adults. You’ve know violence, having both endured and enacted it on others in the name of survival. But there are times where such an upbringing has its advantages.
Like now for instance, as you rear back and send your small, clenched fist into a would-be thief’s face.
//Crunch.//
“Fuck!” the boy yelps. He clutches at his nose and stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet. Blood immediately starts flowing out from between his fingers, dripping down his chin and onto the canteen’s wooden floor. “I think you broke my //nose// you little mutt!”
Half-eaten breakfast plates are quickly abandoned as children jump up from their benches and crowd around you. They jostle each other, jeering and edging the two of you on with chants of //fight, fight, fight!// Your hand throbs but there’s no backing down now—the older boy has regained his footing and is coming at you with a red-tinged snarl and murder in his eyes.
You stuff the toasted bread the thief had tried to pilfer into your mouth, chewing furiously, trying to swallow before he can gain ground. The punch he throws at your head is easy enough to duck under, but his following upswing manages to catch you in the side. A glancing blow, but it makes you gasp; globs of soggy bread and saliva go flying onto a pair of unfortunate spectators. Enraged at the loss, you throw yourself at your larger opponent with all the ferocity of a barn cat, spitting and clawing and sending you both to the ground in a tangled mess of flailing limbs.
By the time the templars are called to break up the fight, you've managed to gain a black eye and a few choice bruises along your chest and stomach. But the thief is even worse off—you definitely broke his nose—and that tiny bloom of pride sustains you as you're dragged off to the monastery's head office.
<hr>
[[Continue|reb2]]
<</timed>>
<<timed 1s t8n>>//East Bannorn Monastery, Ferelden//<</timed>>
<<timed 3s t8n>>//8:XX Blessed//<</timed>>
<<timed 5s t8n>>
The thick film of dust that’d settled atop the shelf swirls around your feather duster. It dances through the air, only to shoot right up your nose.
//ACHOO!//
The sneeze is embarrassingly loud in the otherwise peaceful silence of the chantry. You clear your throat and wipe your nose on your sleeve as discreetly as possible. From somewhere behind you, you hear the telltale clink of armor as your shadow shifts.
You sigh. It's not //really// your shadow. It's a templar—a big lump of a man called Barnaby who's spent the last hour trying his hardest not to doze off against the wall. Before that, he was sweating puddles in the laundry room as you stirred great vats of soiled linens, and before //that//, he was pretending to browse titles while you sorted tomes in the library. He's been tailing you for the past week at least, but he isn't the first and he won't be the last; you give it another day or two before another arrives to take his place.
//Hopefully it's someone a little sneakier//, you think sourly, watching Barnaby rub the sleep out of his eyes.
<hr>
[[Continue|cir2]]
<</timed>>
<<timed 1s t8n>>//East Bannorn Monastery, Ferelden//<</timed>>
<<timed 3s t8n>>//8:XX Blessed//<</timed>>
<<timed 5s t8n>>
As the fifth child of the illustrious Comte Jean-Louie du Delacroix, patriarch of the noble House Delacroix and decorated veteran of the Perendale War, you know your way around a blade.
You practically came out of your Maman with one in hand. Your childhood was filled with private lessons, armor fittings, and custom rapiers imported straight from the blacksmiths of Val Royeaux. By seven, you could swing a sword with the competence of your average foot soldier; by ten, you were winning tournaments against opponents twice your size.
Now age eleven, you try not to wince as you catch your sparring partner’s ankle and send her sprawling face first into the dirt.
“That’s enough!” your instructor barks to his class of initiates. “The round goes to Delacroix!”
“Again,” someone mutters. A grumble ripples through the crowd, and you wish you could sink into your own boots.
Most of your classmates are nursing minor injuries—nothing serious, just the scrapes and bruises expected in templar training. The trouble is, a good half of those came from your training sword, while the only mark on you is the mud caked around your trouser cuffs.
Your sparring partner spits the dirt out of her mouth then goes to stand, but immediately falls back onto her behind with a pained yelp. You can see the flesh around her exposed ankle already beginning to redden and swell.
Your instructor sighs. “Someone help Brackett to the infirmary, please,” he says, and one of your bigger classmates helps the injured girl to her feet.
You go to help her too, but she wrenches her arm out of your reach. “Feck off, Orlesian,” she hisses under her breath.
That’s not quite right—after all, you were born in Ferelden—but you suspect that now is not the time for splitting hairs. Instead, you grip the hilt of your wooden sword tightly in both hands and weight the pros and cons of refusing your next match, if only to end this whole miserable affair.
But to your surprise and horrible relief, your instructor doesn’t call for your next challenger. Instead, he chooses a new pair of sparers and tells you to hit the bathing chamber. “Before you break the next one’s leg,” he adds. You can’t flee from the training yard fast enough, the sighs of relief from your classmates following all the way to the monastery’s doors.
<hr>
[[Continue|nob2]]
<</timed>><<timed 1s t8n>>//East Bannorn Monastery, Ferelden//<</timed>>
<<timed 3s t8n>>//8:XX Blessed//<</timed>>
<<timed 5s t8n>>
It isn’t until after that evening’s training, when you’ve tugged off your boots and collapsed wearily onto your bed, that you notice something is amiss.
The lower bunk’s mattress is thin and its blankets are a mess of multi-colored patchworks—no more uncomfortable than your bed back home, but they're not exactly soft. And the spot you've sat on is very soft and, well, //wet.//
You stand with a grimace. The dormitory has gone quiet, conversations lulled and a dozen pairs of eyes burning holes in your back.
//Not a good sign,// you think grimly. The part of the blanket you’d sat on is bleeding moisture through the fabric. A sharp odor makes you wrinkle your nose. //Not good at all.//
You pull back the blanket to a chorus of gasps from the onlookers. It’s a massacre: at least three chicken’s worth of blood, guts, and feathers soaking into your bedding, and you don’t need to see the back of your robes to know some gore is smeared there too.
That’s when the initial shock wears off and the laughter begins.
“Nice bedspread, half breed,” the girl in the bunk across from yours sneers. “A stinking puddle of slop like that must remind you of home!”
“Yeah! Home!” parrots another.
A couple of other initiates gather around to get a better look at the mess in your bed, giggling and jostling each other. The rest turn away with varying levels of disgust or, in a precious few cases, pity.
No one offers to help you. You’re not surprised; no one helped the last time this happened, either.
But there’s no time to waste: the longer you stand around, the harder it’ll be to get the bloodstains out of the fabric. The laundress gave you a sound scolding the last time you brought her your fouled sheets, and you’re not keen to get another.
So, after muttering a few choice curses under your breath, you wipe the mess off your backside with the clean edge of a sheet then gather your bedding into a bundle into your arms, taking care not to let anything dribble out. You’ll have at the mattress with some soapy water later tonight—preferably after the others have gone to bed so no one can mess with you further.
The sneering girl—who you’ve started calling Tooth on account of her snaggled one—watches you with a self-satisfied smirk as you waddle past with your arms full of laundry. You keep your eyes on the floor. Tooth’s become something of a ringleader of your dormitory’s little squad of bullies, and you wouldn’t put it past her to stick a leg out to try and catch you unawares.
But as you’re walking past, your gaze falls onto something sticking out from underneath her bed—the red-stained lip of a bucket. A single feather is stuck to the wood.
“Need something, half breed?” she asks. Her snaggletooth digs into her top lip, giving the impression of a very small, very odd tusk.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Say nothing—keep walking.|al2.1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Say nothing—fling your ruined pillowcase right into her sneering face.|al2.2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Ask her how long she’s been practicing blood magic.|al2.3]]</div><</timed>>What is your ''given name''?
<center><<textbox "$firstName" "James" autofocus>></center>
<center><<linkreplace "Feminine Suggestions" t8n>>Olicat, Sable, Eloise, Judith<</linkreplace>>
<<linkreplace "Masculine Suggestions" t8n>>Lucian, Henri, Milo, Arthur<</linkreplace>>
<<linkreplace "Gender Neutral Suggestions" t8n>>Robin, Mika, Beau, Aubrey<</linkreplace>>
</center>
<<button [[Continue|gender]]>><</button>><nobr><<if $background is "the Alienage">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/22f7eccb910bc50b13630d9f577cbd33/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-25/s400x600/00459f379a3d83b401b36d60dd5fc2bc71e23867.pnj" alt="a large tree with white bark">
<<elseif $background is "Nobility">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9f4d90ecda304d4506df59cc0fd08cb4/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-30/s400x600/9207d1418a9e18d0d459a3dc7091a25b0f563a04.pnj" alt="a stained glass window featuring gold fleur-de-lis against a blue background">
<<elseif $background is "Rebellion">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0ff3889ac8781088e1196ed74fbe97be/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-d0/s400x600/5d051a37c32f3697817d138f013090e618cfc029.pnj" alt="a closeup shot of a field of wheat">
<<elseif $background is "the Circle">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e399311bd2cb9c2748c286d50462b1a3/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-3b/s400x600/9c4460ac395207c1f59f362b61a0a18937b8463e.pnj" alt="a window set into a stone wall overgrown with moss"><</if>></nobr>
<center>''Name:'' $firstName $lastName
''Gender:'' ?adultPerson (?they/?them)
<nobr><<if $trans is 1>>You identify as ''transgender''.
<<else>>You do not identify as ''transgender''.<</if>>
</nobr>
''Background:'' Child of $background
<nobr><<if $background is "the Alienage">>You were born to an elven mother and unknown human father in the Highever alienage. Despite your
loving childhood and supportive extended family, your mother sent you to the Order for a better life.
<<elseif $background is "Nobility">>Your father is the Comte du Delacroix, an Orlesian nobleman granted lands afer the annexation of Ferelden.
The youngest of five, you were given to the Order to prevent competition with your older siblings.
<<elseif $background is "Rebellion">>You were born into a family of Fereldan peasant farmers. After being found harboring rebels, your
village was slaughtered by a band of chevaliers. You were the only survivor.
<<elseif $background is "the Circle">>You were born in the notorious Kirkwall Gallows. The product of an illicit relationship between
two mages, you were taken from your mother shortly after birth and sent to be raised by the Order in Ferelden.
<<else>>''ERROR'' NO BACKGROUND SELECTED!
<</if>></nobr></center>
Is this correct?
<hr>
<<if $background is "the Alienage">><div class = "choice">[[Yes, start the story.|al1]]</div><<elseif $background is "Nobility">><div class = "choice">[[Yes, start the story.|nob1]]</div><<elseif $background is "Rebellion">><div class = "choice">[[Yes, start the story.|reb1]]</div><<elseif $background is "the Circle">><div class = "choice">[[Yes, start the story.|cir1]]</div><</if>>
<div class = "choice">[[No, take me back.|name]]</div>
What is your ''gender indentity''?
<label><<radiobutton "$pgen" 0 checked>> I am a man (he/him).</label>
<label><<radiobutton "$pgen" 1>> I am a woman (she/her).</label>
<label><<radiobutton "$pgen" 2>> I am nonbinary (they/them).</label>
Are you ''transgender''?
<label><<radiobutton "$trans" 0 checked>> No.</label>
<label><<radiobutton "$trans" 1>> Yes.</label>
<<button [[Continue|background]]>><</button>><h3><div class = "handwrite">Dearest Journal,
I'm afraid that I come to you with yet more alarming news.
Remember when I told you how Senior Enchanter Cherish was watching me during our last lesson? Well, this time she asked me to stay behind after class! I was so worried I was about to be scolded for my poor casting technique--again--but she asked me a series of bizarre personal questions: who my friends are, how I spend my free time, if I have any aspirations, and the like.
Despite the admittedly lovely cup of herbal tea she served, it felt more like an interrogation than a friendly check-in by an attentive instructor. Especially with the templar lingering in the corner of the room. Not that they're not always lingering, but this felt...intentional. Like he was afraid I was going to turn into an abomination and eat the Senior Enchanter on the spot!
Do you think they know about the dreams?
I've always ignored any apparition who appears to me in the Fade, as every Maker-loving mage should. When it first appeared and whispered those warnings in my ear, I closed them. But it turns out that it was right. First Enchanter Orathe says that I'm to face my Harrowing in two days time--no preparation, no words of advice, he wouldn't even look me in the eye!
I tried to talk to Olive about it, since she already went through her Harrowing last year, but she refused to speak of it. She said I should talk to the Knight-Captain if I was nervous. Baker’s nice enough, but he's still a templar. I don't understand why some of the others trust him so much. One poorly worded comment is all it’d take for that friendly veneer to crack; we’ve seen it happen before! But he’s away from the Tower anyway, or so I’ve heard.
I can't talk to Olive about the dreams, either. It's so frustrating! She's my friend and a fellow mage, but I can't say the word 'spirit' without her running straight to Orathe like I’m some sort of maleficar! Then they'd make me Tranquil for sure.
The spirit came to me again last night. It says it can help. I know it's dangerous, that it could just be a demon preying on my fear. But what other choice do I have?
Yours,
Calipi</div></h3>
You arrived at the monastery a few weeks prior, and so far you haven’t made any friends. You had tons of them back at your orphanage—bunkmates and playmates and friends to sit with at meal times—but things are different here. At eleven, you’re younger than most other initiates, and the armored shadow clinging to your back has failed to make you popular. Even worse, it's made you the subject of some pretty wild, but always unflattering rumors.
“Heard they brought ?them for the Order initiates to practice on.”
“Flames, why would they keep ?them //here// of all places?”
“Hope I'm far enough away if that templar decides to lop ?their head off!”
You clench the handle of your feather duster so hard the wood creaks.
It's not fair! The others at your orphanage were also the children of Circle mages and apostates. The Sisters watched you all for signs of magic with the same level of scrutiny. You all were equal, and more importantly, no one was afraid of you.
Then again…
You wince at a sudden flash of memory, nearly dropping the duster.
The girl had only been a bit younger than you.
One moment everything had been fine. The next, her dress and hair were set aflame; she’d shrieked and rolled around while the rest of you cowered against the wall. The Sister on duty had thrown a pitcher of water on her head, which did nothing but make the girl scream louder. Another shriek, a jerk of her arm, and the poor woman was next to feel the burn of the girl’s wild magic.
Then the templars came and whisked the girl away: charred and disfigured, but somehow still alive.
The burnt Sister was not so lucky.
The other Sisters had made the rest of you memorize stanzas from the Canticle of Threnodies for weeks after that; your dreams were nothing but flaming demons, black corruption, and cackling Magisters for months.
A shiver works its way up your spine, trailing goosebumps. You clear your throat and continue dusting. Barnaby slumps back against the wall with a loud sigh.
That's all to say that you understand //why// they’re so vigilant—at your age, you could still manifest your parents' power at any time. You understand the fear and the danger. But what you don't understand is why they brought you to this stupid monastery, with its useless shadows and mean gossip, when you were perfectly fine where you were!
More dust gets in your nose and the resulting sneeze is violent; you nearly stumble into the candle-covered altar.
“Maker’s blessing,” Barnaby grunts from across the room.
You resist the urge to smack your head against the nearest stone pillar. //Flame and pyre, enough of this!// you think, just as your eyes settle on one of the chantry's open windows.
<hr>
[[Continue |cir3]]It isn't even a conscious decision. One moment you're setting the feather duster down on the altar before the statue of Andraste, and the next you've got your robe skirts gripped in one hand to better scramble over the windowsill.
You land in a bush still wet with morning dew. Twigs scratch at your skin but you pay them no mind. Two heartbeats later and you’re on your feet, hauling ass across the chantry courtyard like you've got a demon on your heels.
And in some ways, you do.
“Hey!” Barnaby bellows. He's quicker than you gave him credit for, already bursting out of the chantry's front doors to chase after you. “Stop right there, you little shit! Get back here!”
But you don't stop. You don't even slow down as you round the side of the nearest building, your robes streaming behind you in a brown-pink blur. Barnaby is hot on your heels if the rattle of his armor is anything to go by; sounding for all the world like a cart full of scrap metal being dragged down a cobblestone path. Arms pumping and legs burning, you zigzag through another courtyard to try and shake him off, ducking and jumping over any obstacle that dares get in your way.
There's a high-pitched shriek as you launch yourself over a clump of manicured flower bushes. A Sister in a floppy gardener's hat falls over in shock, right into a puddle of mud. You land nimbly on the other side of it and chance a glance over your shoulder, just in time to see Barnaby trip over the sputtering Sister's outstretched leg and go crashing headfirst into a rosebush.
You can't help it: the laugh that bursts out of you is loud and mirthful, your first real laugh in weeks.
The commotion draws the attention of some nearby initiates, who hurry over. A few try to calm down the Sister, whose entire backside is caked in mud. She shrieks obscenities and attempts to beat Barnaby to death with her hat. Meanwhile, the dazed templar can only groan and squirm on his back like an overlarge turtle. The sharp scent of crushed roses fills the courtyard.
He won't stay trapped forever though. So you wipe the tears from your eyes and slip away, unnoticed by the growing crowd.
<hr>
[[Continue|cir4]]You were supposed to show up for your shift at the canteen an hour ago.
Instead, you're tucked into the wide branches of an apple tree, happily munching on stolen fruit. Their cores are strewn on the ground below, and your hands and face are pleasantly sticky with juice.
The grove and vegetable garden on the monastery's grounds are modest, but they yield enough produce to feed its occupants year round. There are animal pens too, full of chickens and goats and at least three cows. You've heard mooing coming from the barn when you collect eggs in the mornings.
You bite into your apple and chew thoughtfully.
The barn is just over there on the hill; it's not too far from your apple tree, actually. Maybe you could sneak a peak. You've never seen a cow up close before, only at a distance when traveling—the orphanage always had their milk delivered—so, now would be the time to do it, while you're still off-leash.
You swallow, then nestle back against the trunk into a more comfortable position.
//Maybe I'll never go back//, you think wistfully, finishing off the last bit of the fruit in your hands. //Maybe I'll stay here and eat apples forever.// You toss the core carelessly and go to pluck another.
“Ow!”
The voice makes you startle. For one terrifying moment you think you'll slip off your branch, before you catch yourself. When you peer down from your hiding place, your blood runs cold.
There's a templar standing under your tree. He rubs at the place where your apple core hit and says, “There you are! Mind coming down? And bring a few of those apples with you—//gently//, not lobbed at my head, if you please.”
<hr>
[[Continue|cir5]]The climb back to the ground is the longest of your life.
It's not like you didn't expected to get caught—you hadn't run very far and were still on the monastery grounds—but this templar is big and unfamiliar. His dark eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles to show off straight white teeth, but all you notice is the sword strapped to his back. You're not a mage (probably) but the sight of a blade as long as you are tall still makes you nervous.
When your feet finally touch earth and you pull two shiny apples from your pockets, the templar smiles even wider. “Excellent! You have a good eye for produce, stripling.” He plucks one of the apples from your hands and takes a big, unabashed bite. “Come sit,” he manages in between chews. “Let's chat a bit.”
The templar removes his sword and lays it in the grass beside him so that he can sit comfortably against the trunk. Some tension eases from your shoulders, but you're still wary as you sit on his other side. The remaining apple rests in the center of your crossed legs, untouched.
You stare at him. He stares back, still chewing, eyes still crinkled. Somewhere from the direction of the barn, a cow lets out a baleful moo.
After what feels like an age, but was really two awkward minutes of muffled chewing, the templar tosses his apple core in the dirt with the others. “Sooo,” he drawls, “the chantry window, eh?”
You flush, turning your apple over in your hands. “I'm sorry, ser. It won't happen again.”
“I don't think I'm the one you should be apologizing to. Poor Ser Barnaby is going to be picking rose thorns out of his ass for the next week. Though if you ask me, it serves him right.” The templar drops his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “He was terribly lazy, wasn't he? Grown man in full plate armor, and he got the beating of his life from that old Sister with the hat. Maker, he must've sounded like a druffalo in a china shop following you around all this time.”
Despite the heat still lingering in your cheeks, the mental image makes you giggle. “He kind of smelled like one, too,” you offer back, also whispering.
Your boldness is rewarded when the templar laughs. “Ha! I can imagine. Hilarity aside, I wouldn’t try pulling the same trick on me, stripling.” He knocks on the center of his breastplate. “Don’t let all this metal fool you, I’m as spry as a jackrabbit.”
And just like that, the good humor leeches out of your body. Your shoulders droop. “You’re my new shadow, then, ser?”
You knew it was too good to be true. At least this one is funny.
“I don’t know about //shadow//,” the templar says, “that’s kind of spooky, isn’t it? Would much prefer you call me //mentor//.”
<hr>
[[Continue|cir6]]You blink. “What?”
The templar cocks his head. “Ahh, I see. They didn’t tell you, did they? No wonder you looked so frightened when I showed up. I’m not here to watch you for magical talent, stripling—well, not exclusively. I’m here to train you.”
//Oh.// Your eyes linger on the flaming sword insignia engraved on the man’s chest. “I’m to be a templar?”
“You’re to be a templar,” he confirms, “if you desire to be. I won’t drag you kicking and screaming to the training yard, but it's a good deal. You get an education, I get leave from the Circle, and the Order gets another capable body to fill in their ranks. Everybody wins!”
Your brow scrunches at that. //Desire.// If you truly could choose to do what you desire, you'd be back at the orphanage with your friends. Or even—
“Ser?” you say slowly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Hit me.”
You take a moment to try and find the right words. “My parents were mages. And mages have to live in Circles, so they can't keep their babies because Circles don't have nurseries and magic is dangerous.”
“I— Yes. That's right,” says the templar. His smile fades a fraction.
“Then why did my parents have me if they knew I'd get taken away?”
<hr>
[[Continue|cir7]]There. You said it: the question that's been in the back of your mind ever since the Sisters told you where you came from, but you never dared ask. Not because you were afraid of punishment—because you always feared their reply. But you've endured weeks of being stuck in this lonely place. So if this smiley man wants you to call him //mentor//, then you want to know the answer, once and for all.
You cross your arms and put on your most serious expression, trying to look more confident than you feel.
The templar sighs and runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. He isn't smiling anymore, but he doesn't look angry, either. Maybe a little upset. Something inside you loosens a bit at that.
After another long moment, he asks, “Why do //you//, think they had you, stripling?”
You scowl. “I don't know! That's why I'm asking you!”
The templar sighs and tilts his chin up towards the cloudless sky. The sun hovers over the horizon; it will get dark soon. “Then let me rephrase: are you angry at them?”
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Of course you are! Magic is dangerous, so people with magic shouldn't have babies. And if they hadn't had you, the Maker would have sent you to a mother and father who could have kept you instead. You could have lived a normal life somewhere in a little house with a garden and a barn filled with chickens and cows.|cir8.1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Not really. The only thing you know about your parents is they were mages who had you in Kirkwall. You don't even know their names. It's hard to be angry at people who might as well have never existed in the first place, for all the presence they've had in your life.|cir8.2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You don't know how to feel towards your parents. You never really have. Thinking about it makes your head confused and your heart hurt, so you've always tried not to. At least, not too much.|cir8.2]]</div>
The templar nods. "I suppose that's fair enough. I might feel the same way too, if it were me."
"Really?"
It shouldn't surprise you, he //is// a templar after all. Keeping mages from making babies is probably a part of his job. Will likely be a part of //your// job. The thought makes you cringe.
Then again, this man isn't like any templar you've ever met before.
He smiles again, but the quirk of his mouth is softer than before. A silver flask appears in his hands, procured from some hidden place in his armored skirts. You catch a whiff as he takes a sip, and the sharp smell makes your nose wrinkle.
“Now, I can't speak for your parents' situation,” he says, “because I’ve only ever served in Kinloch Hold. Every Circle operates a bit differently, you see. But what I //do// know is every child that exists and who will ever exist is born because they are wanted. The Maker doesn't make mistakes, stripling. Never forget that.”
It's not really the satisfying answer you were hoping for. //Wanted by who?// But the templar takes another sip with that same soft look on his face, and you decide not to press the issue.
<hr>
[[Continue|cir9]]
The templar nods. "I suppose that's fair enough. I might feel the same way too, if it were me."
"Really?"
You're surprised. You'd think that anything that might lead to more mages getting made would be on the top of a templar's hate list—their own making included.
Then again, this man isn't like any templar you've ever met before.
He smiles again, but the quirk of his mouth is softer than before. A silver flask appears in his hands, procured from some hidden place in his armored skirts. You catch a whiff as he takes a sip, and the sharp smell makes your nose wrinkle.
“Now, I can't speak for your parents' situation,” he says, “because I’ve only ever served in Kinloch Hold. Every Circle operates a bit differently, you see. But what I //do// know is every child that exists and who will ever exist is born because they are wanted. The Maker doesn't make mistakes, stripling. Never forget that.”
It's not really the satisfying answer you were hoping for. //Wanted by who?// But the templar takes another sip with that same soft look on his face, and you decide not to press the issue.
<hr>
[[Continue|cir9]]
Instead, you change the subject. “If I agree to be your ward, will I be sent to Kinloch Hold, too?”
“Maybe. Some of the superiors have been looking to bring fresh blood into the fold. It's why I got sent out here. Rolan's up for a promotion, the lucky bastard, but I think I got the better end of the deal.” He playfully nudges your shoulder. “You're a laugh, kid.”
You've never been that far west; you've never even seen Lake Calenhad before. The idea is a little exciting.
But there's one more, far less happy question you need to ask. Your eyes fall to the sword in the grass—the memory of smoke, heat, and screams lingering like a bad nightmare.
“And if I become a templar, will I have to kill mages?”
“Aye, sometimes,” the templar says, blunt but not unkind. “I won't lie to you about that. But only as a last resort when it can't be helped.”
You nod, deep in thought. You think about the girl who set herself aflame with her magic, and all your happy memories from the orphanage. If you become a templar, you can help other girls like her, like those templars who took her to the Circle did. And if any babies are born, you can make sure they grow up nice places—not lonely monasteries where they'd get followed around like a bad smell.
The templar grins at you, all crinkled eyes and straight white teeth.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You decide you like him. He'll make a nice mentor. You eagerly tell him that you accept his mentorship.|cir10]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You're still suspicious of this smiley man, but it's not like you have other options. After another moment of stubborn hesitation, you tell him that you accept his mentorship.|cir10]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You're not sure how you feel about him yet. Only time will tell. You tell him that you accept his mentorship.|cir10]]</div>
“Excellent!” the templar crows, springing to his feet. He slips his flask back into his skirts and holds out his hand.
“What's your name, ser,” you ask as you allow yourself to get pulled to standing. “You never said.”
“Maker, where are my manners! Ser Baker Wright, Templar-Knight of Kinloch Hold, at your service,” he says with a theatric bow. “And as your new mentor, our first order of business is visiting the infirmary. Don't be coy, stripling, you well know why. Poor Ser Barnaby's laid up with sore ears and a rosebush's worth of thorns in his ass. You need to apologize—but not before I get the chance to laugh at him. Call me an opportunist.”
<hr>
[[Continue|prologue]]The communal bathing chamber is blessedly empty. You quickly strip down and scrub the dirt and sweat from your skin.
The scent of your soap drifts through the steam—honey and lavender, soft and familiar. Maman had always insisted on importing crates of it straight from Orlais—one of her costlier indulgences after your family’s move to Ferelden—and a parcel had found its way into your luggage when you’d been sent to the monastery weeks ago.
The trunk had held other luxuries, like vials of fragrant bathing oils and hair washes, which so far have gone untouched. You dread to think of what the other initiates would say if you showed up to training smelling like rosewater and honeysuckle. They make enough comments as it is.
To say your adjustment to Chantry life has been difficult is an understatement.
But now isn’t the time to mope. You dry off and dress quickly before anyone else comes in for their evening bath.
Most initiates are assigned a bunk in one of the large communal sleeping areas—but not you. Your quarters are on the second floor, where the monastery’s administrative offices and a handful of private rooms are located. These rooms are mostly reserved for visitors, but a few see year-round occupation. You’re only passingly familiar with the other initiates housed on this floor; most are on track to become high-ranking clerics, so your schedules rarely overlap.
You reckon it's for the best. Most of them are older than you, anyway, and besides family wealth you don’t have anything else in common.
Your slippered feet are soundless as you slip into your quarters. While it's much smaller than your room back home, it suits your needs just fine, consisting of a bed, a vanity, and a surprisingly spacious dresser. The extra trunks that'd been shipped ahead of your arrival sit stacked against the walls. The rumpled sheets and bedclothes you'd left piled on the mattress are freshly laundered and folded; you leave your dirty laundry by the door for the maid-servants to attend to in the morning.
<hr>
[[Continue|nob3]]There's still an hour or two left before dinner, so you turn your attention to the small stack of unopened letters sitting on the bedside table.
You've been putting off opening them. You're not even sure why—it's not like Papa is going to suddenly change his mind and call you back home.
The first few are from your older siblings. No surprises there: any well wishes they send your way are overshadowed by grand descriptions of their most recent accomplishments. One has just gotten engaged to a well-off Duke; another is to be made a chevalier by the year's end. One of your brothers asks how many blood mages you've managed to slay. You don't bother reading the rest of it, simply crumpling the paper up and tossing it into the wastebasket.
The last letter is written on paper made with real pressed wildflowers. You don't need to guess who it's from.
<div class = "handwrite">Mon Chou,
Every day that you are away from us is like a dagger to my heart. Please write back soon to assure me you are well—your brother has told the most horrible stories! The thought of you facing blood mages and demons fills your poor maman with almost unbearable dread.
Tell me of the other children you are living with: the peasants, they are treating you fairly, yes? I told your papa that one of the monasteries in Val Royeaux or Starkhaven would have been much better suited, but he insists on keeping you in this uncivilized country. I will never understand it! But at least it means that you are closer to me.
The Revered Mother has reassured us that you are well taken care of, but I am sending more supplies just in case. Nothing excessive—just a few more furs and heating runes for when winter comes. Please send word if you need anything else, mon chou. I am counting down the minutes until I can gaze upon you again.
All my love,
Maman
</div>
The thought of adding even more trunks to the piles lining the walls makes you cringe. Besides, you're not a //baby.// Maman has always had a flair for the dramatic.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Still, you slip the letter into a drawer with all the others and scribble out a quick reply. Tomorrow morning, you’ll drop it off with the postmaster.|nob4]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You scoff, crumple the letter, and toss it with your brother’s into the wastebasket. Homesick or not, at least you’re free from Maman’s suffocating attention.|nob4]]</div>A great ringing of bells sounds off from the courtyard below. Dinner time.
Your stomach rumbles and cramps, but it isn't just from hunger. The thought of having to sit through another meal in a canteen heaving with other initiates makes your underarms sweat. Especially after your performance today in the training yard—there's no way you'll be leaving dinner without at least one spoonful of stew aimed at your head, and reporting the culprits to Her Reverence has done nothing but bring you retaliatory grief.
So instead, you dig through one of your trunks until you find a bag of candied oranges. You eat them in bed by the handful while stewing in your own abject misery.
//It's not fair//, you think glumly, chewing the candy into a sugary paste. Flames, maybe you //should// try to make good with the other initiates on your floor. At least then you'd have someone to talk to besides your mother.
You deplete the oranges and move on to a box of caramel chocolates, debating whether it's worth tracking down a maid-servant for a glass of milk.
There’s a knock on the door.
You sit up. Did you imagine it? But then the knock comes again, more forcefully this time, and you hurriedly wipe the smeared chocolate from your mouth.
“Come in,” you say, steeling yourself for the reprimand you assume is coming. Initiates aren't supposed to skip meals.
But it's not a Sister who enters your quarters.
It's a templar, one you've never seen before, with glossy dark hair and eyes that crinkle in the corner when he smiles. “Hope I'm not interrupting anything important,” he says, “may I come in?”
<hr>
[[Continue|nob5]]The pile of candy wrappers in your lap is embarrassingly loud as you try to scoop them into the wastebasket. Most end up on the floor. Your ears burn.
But the templar doesn't comment. He steps into the room upon your assent, leaving the door half open. He lets out a low whistle. “This place is nice, even nicer than my bunk back in the Circle! No wonder you don't want to leave it.”
You don't know what to say to that. You hover awkwardly in the middle of the room, not quite sure what to do. “I wasn't hungry,” you say while trying to discreetly kick some of the fallen wrappers under your bed. “Am I in trouble, ser?”
“Oh, no! Well, not with me,” he replies. He sits on the edge of your bed and pats the spot next to him. “Come sit. You're making me nervous, shuffling around like that.”
You do as you're told. You look at the templar, and he smiles politely back. You cough.
“So, how does the child of the acclaimed Arl Delacroix find themselves in a place like this? Forgive my bluntness but I’m terribly curious—Her Reverence was light on the details.”
“It’s Comte, not Arl,” you correct without thinking. You immediately consider suffocating yourself with a nearby pillow. This isn’t some new servant learning the ropes of their position—he’s your //superior//, void take you!
“Ahh, that’s right,” he says. His grin turns oddly sharp—like he’s in on some private joke. “Most of them don’t care to use lowly Fereldan titles, do they? Our good King Meghren’s amenability truly knows no bounds.”
“I…I guess so, ser.”
“Regardless! My question still stands. And don’t be so nervous, stripling,” he says, “this isn’t an interrogation. I just want to get to know my new ward better.”
//Ward?// At least you have a reason for this strange man suddenly appearing in your room. All in all, you’re not surprised—you’ve had private tutors your whole life. Though, your tutors back home didn’t grin nearly half as much.
They didn’t drink from flasks hidden in their armored skirts, either—the templar catches you staring and shoots you a roguish wink.
<hr>
[[Continue|nob6]]
“I’m not a brat,” you eventually mutter.
The templar laughs. “Good! I don’t work well with brats. And I think you’ll find my training regimen more suited to your skill level. Despite what Rolan says about my //delicate sensibilities//, I don’t go down as easily as a farm girl.”
He stands starts towards one of your trunks. “Come. As your new mentor, it’s my duty to at least try and make my ward a little more likable among their peers. Templars don’t work alone, you know. You’ll need people skills; especially when dealing with the mages. They can be a prickly bunch.”
//Mages.// In all honestly, you’ve been trying to avoid thinking about your future as a templar. The only mages you’ve seen are those that perform at parties, or the branded Tranquil that wove the tapestries in your family’s ballroom. You try to picture yourself trapped in a stone tower and facing down a blood-mad maleficar, savage with demonic power, and shudder all the way down to the tips of your toes.
“Ser,” you ask, standing from the bed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Hit me.”
“If I become your ward, then I’ll be posted in Kinloch Hold after I take my vows. Right?”
The templar stops prying at the lid of a trunk to turn and face you. He scratches his chin. “More than likely. Some of the superiors have been looking to bring fresh blood into the fold. And your noble blood is especially attractive—wealthy recruits bring their family connections with them. It never hurts to have friends in high places.”
You scowl. “So, they only want me because of Papa.”
“They want you, stripling, because you can swing a sword better than half their recruits, and you hold a shield like you were born to it. The Delacroix family name is a juicy bonus. And it’s not like you’re getting stiffed: a free education, room and board, a steady career serving the Maker…” The templar shrugs. “Sounds like a good deal to me. Then again, //my// pa was a poor freeman starved of opportunities or connections. So what do I know?” The templar turns his attention back towards the trunk.
You chew on his words for a few moments. He’s certainly very…forthcoming. Blunt. Some might say //too// blunt, given his station.
It’s strange, but there’s something //nice// about it, too. To be addressed plainly, without fuss. To be seen as your own person for once. Not as the inconvenient fifth child of Comte Jean-Louie du Delacroix, not as Maman’s precious //petit chou,// not as the pitiable youngest of your impressive siblings. It makes you feel grown up—like someone who can face the world head-on.
And it’s that same feeling that emboldens you to ask, “If I’m stationed at the Hold, will I have to kill mages?”
The templar stops rummaging through your things. His shoulders tense, then relax as he sighs. “Aye, sometimes,” he says without looking up, “I won't lie to you about that, either. But only as a last resort, when it can't be helped.”
The image of the blood-mad malificar rematerializes in your mind, and you cross your arms tight against your chest. You shudder—but less so than before. You offer the templar what you hope is a mature, serious nod.
Something in your expression must amuse him, because he chuckles and turns to face you with his hands on his hips. “Glad to see that we’re on the same page, Initiate Delacroix. But I should also mention that my mentorship isn’t some involuntary affliction. I won’t drag you kicking and screaming into the training yard, stripling. It’s your choice.”
You chew on your lip. //Your choice.// Is it? Even if you refuse this templar’s offer, you’re still promised to the Order. It’s an inevitability, as assured to you as the sun is to rise and set. All that would change is your training regime and the faces that accompany it.
//Feck off, Orlesian.//
You wince. There are some faces you certainly wouldn’t mind not seeing again.
The templar waits patiently for your answer. He smiles, all crinkled eyes and straight white teeth.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You decide you like him. He'll make a nice mentor. You eagerly tell him that you accept his mentorship.|nob8]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You're still suspicious of this smiley man, but it's not like you have other options. After another moment of stubborn hesitation, you tell him that you accept his mentorship.|nob8]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You're not sure how you feel about him yet. Only time will tell. You tell him that you accept his mentorship.|nob8]]</div>
“Excellent!” the templar crows. “I’d hate to have pried all these boxes open for nothing. Now come help me—you know more about these fancy little baubles than I do.”
You move to assist, and ask, “Ser? You still haven’t told me your name.”
The templar runs a hand through is hair. “Maker, I haven’t, have I? How incredibly rude of me, especially after all that dribble about brats! Ser Baker Wright, Knight-Templar of Kinloch Hold's Circle of Magi, at your service.” He sweeps into a low bow, then reaches into a trunk. He holds up a delicate bundle of tissue paper, which immediately tears under his grip. “Er, is this stuff edible?”
You giggle. “Those are soaps, ser.”
“Right! Right…”
<hr>
[[Continue|nob9]]Things quickly deteriorate from there.
“Unacceptable!” the Revered Mother snaps when you're dumped before her. She sits behind a large desk made from dark polished wood. Unlike your stool, her chair is high backed and lined with plush red velvet. “Starting fights on your first day! This is not behavior becoming of a Chantry initiate.”
You scowl. If the white and gold lion statuette perched on a nearby bookshelf didn't tip you off, the way she stretches out her vowels certainly does. //Orlesian.// “He started it.”
“The Sister on canteen duty reported it was //you// who threw the first punch. Are you saying she was wrong?”
“No.”
“So you admit that you did start the fight?”
“No!” you say, getting frustrated. “He was trying to take my food!”
“Which he will be punished for, but this does not give you the right to attack your fellow initiate!”
//Of course it does!// you want to spit back. What does this perfumed woman know of hunger? But you know better than to mouth off to a seat of authority. Especially a flaming //Orlesian.// Doing so had done you no favors back at the orphanage; you doubt things are much different here.
So instead, you just shrug and stare down at your busted knuckles. You wonder if she'll still take a rod to them despite the split skin.
The Revered Mother sighs and taps her fingertip against the stack of papers laying on the desk. From the patchwork of red ink scribbled across the front page, you know it must be your personal record. “I understand that there are some tragic circumstances regarding the demise of your family. You have my condolences.”
Your scowl deepens. You want to seize that statuette off her bookcase and throw it through the nearest stained glass window.
“I also understand that your age means some antisocial behavior is to be expected. But let me be absolutely clear,” she says, “that you have been brought to this monastery and not left to age out of that orphanage thanks to the endless mercy of Andraste and the benevolence of her Chantry. The Maker has seen fit to provide you with an opportunity to serve Him. I suggest that you take it. Understand?”
You are a child, but you understand a threat when you hear it. Not that threats are necessary. You've heard the stories about those who age out of orphanages—teenagers with no connections, no skills, and with no coin to speak of, scraping out livings as sellswords and bandits and whores and worse. You are disposable: just one of the many thousands of poor Fereldens toiling under the iron lion's paw of your occupiers. That's what your parents taught you before they were killed, and every day you've lived since then has only proven them right.
But you are still a child and you are alone in the world. And despite it all, you still desperately want to live.
The Revered Mother looks at you expectantly.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Look down at your bleeding knuckles—mumble a quiet acquiesce and slouch further into your stool.|reb3.1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Sneer right in her powered face—tell her exactly where she can shove her benevolence, void take the consequences.|reb3.2]]</div>
The Revered Mother smiles softly, although her lips are still tight in the corners. “Good,” she says. She produces a thin leather rod from the pocket of her robes.
Your heart sinks.
“Now, hands flat on the desk. Let's ensure the lesson sticks.”
<hr>
[[Continue|reb4]]The Revered Mother frowns. It deepens the wrinkles lining the pucker of her mouth. “Very well,” she says. “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it grateful for the drink.”
You don’t think that’s how the saying goes. But then the Revered Mother produces a thin leather rod from the pocket of her robes, and your heart sinks.
“Now, hands flat on the desk. Let's ensure the lesson sticks.”
<hr>
[[Continue|reb4]]
A few hours on, you're sitting on your bunk in the crowded initiate's quarters when a Sister enters the room.
All conversations instantly die into whispers. There's the telltale shuffling of card decks and marble bags being stuffed into mattresses, but the Sister is alone and not here for a bunk inspection.
Instead, she does something much worse: she walks right up to where you're nursing your bandaged-wrapped hands and asks you to follow her.
//This is it,// you think, following the Sister towards the door, //Her Reverence changed her mind.// You wonder if you'll be thrown back into the same orphanage they'd plucked you from or discarded somewhere else entirely.
Snickering from one of the bunks draws your attention, and you catch sight of your would-be thief's smarmy grin before you're whisked into the hallway.
<hr>
[[Continue|reb5]]
But to your surprise, you aren't led to the monastery's large front door.
The Sister ushers you into the canteen then departs without another word, leaving you confused and more than a little apprehensive.
There's a templar eating alone at one of the long tables. Upon seeing you, he sucks the grease off his fingers and waves you over. “You must be the troublemaker,” he says cheerfully, “and I see you've already been acquainted with the Revered Mother's rod! How'd you manage that on your first day, eh? They didn't tell me specifics.”
You blink at him. He smiles back. Then, cautiously, you slide into the bench across from him and mumble, “Got into a fight.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Yes, I imagine that'd do it. Been in a few scrapes myself; none of them my fault, of course. Go on then, tell us what it was about.”
You're unsure what to make of the situation. You don't think you're in store for more punishment, but the man chewing messily across from you is very strange. The templars you've come across have only ever cared about hunting apostates or sniffing out newly manifested magelings. They barely spare the mundane population a thought, let alone a glance.
And yet //this// one seems to hang off of your every word, //ooh-ing// and //ahh-ing// as you recount the events of your fight with the other initiate.
It’s strange, yes, but it feels…nice. You can’t remember the last time someone paid this much attention to what you had to say. Like they care. Like you matter.
You can’t help but bask in it, even if it’s only for a little while.
<hr>
[[Continue|reb6]]“What a little shit,” the templar says when you've finished the story. “Not like this place is facing a bread shortage. Good on you for standing up for yourself. Er, but fighting's wrong, so don't do that again.”
“Okay,” you say. You've been trying to keep your eyes off of the templar's plate, but the smell of his leftovers is like a siren's song. Your stomach chooses that exact moment to make itself known. Loudly. Your cheeks flush.
“Hungry?” the templar asks. “Course you are. Here, let's see if we can fix that.”
He gets up and disappears into the kitchens for a moment, returning shortly after with a large cup of milk. Proper cow's milk, not the stolen dredges from some farmer's sickly goat. You drain it immediately. The templar produces a flask from his hip pouch and takes a covert sip. He winks when he catches you staring.
But then a Sister brings out a loaded plate of food and your eyes nearly bug out of your head. Crispy baked chicken, buttered carrots, peas, and mash swimming in gravy: a proper officer's meal and a far cry from the bread and stew the initiates get served.
“Ah.” The Sister frowns when she notices you drooling. “The initiates already had their lunch, and dinner's not for another hour. We're not supposed to give out extras…”
The templar shoots her a grin that's all dimples and straight white teeth.
“…but I think I can make an exception,” she finishes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
You're too preoccupied with shoving an entire chicken leg into your mouth to notice the flush creeping up her neck, nor the way the templar watches her hips as she sashays back into the kitchens.
“Don't eat it all too fast,” the templar says once the Sister has gone, “or you'll make yourself sick in the training yard.”
“Training 'ard?” you manage around a mouthful of carrots.
“Her Reverence didn't tell you? Figures,” he sighs. “Starting from today I'll be leading your combat lessons. Given my—how did Rolan put it? //Liberal attitude and clean track record//, they figured I'd be the best match for your mentor. And given //your// track record of punching your peers in the head, it's probably best we keep you out of group lessons for now. I get leave from the Tower, you get an education, and the Chantry gets another able body in the Order.” He ticks each statement off with his fingers. “Everybody wins.”
You swallow around a mouthful of peas and mash. “I'm…to become a templar? Like you?”
“That's right.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. It’s not like it was outside of the realm of possibility—half of the initiates at the monastery were promised to the Order. You just assumed you weren’t one of them. The quiet, dull life of a cleric scholar or an affirmed lay-brethren had seemed a better bet, all things considered.
“Will I have to kill mages?”
The brightness in the templar's face fades a little. "Sometimes. The ones who've gone bad, when the Maker wills it."
You've never met a mage. The Sisters at your orphanage were constantly inspecting you all for signs of magic, prattling on about abominations, and blood mages, and evil Tevinter Magisters storming the Golden City.
Most of the other children had gone to bed fearing maleficarum. You know that not all demons are confined to the Fade.
“But we’ll help the good ones,” you ask. “We keep people safe.”
The templar reaches across the table to pat the back of your arm. The scrape of his callouses is familiar, like the farm-rough hands of your father. You resist the urge to seize his hand and hold it there, just to prolong the feeling. “We keep people safe,” he says, “as best as we can.”
He smiles at you, and his eyes crinkle in the corners.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You decide you like him. He'll make a nice mentor. You happily say that you accept his mentorship.|reb7]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You're still a little suspicious of this smiley man, but it's not like you have many options. After another moment of stubborn hesitation, you tell him that you accept his mentorship.|reb7]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You're not sure how you feel about him yet. Only time will tell. You tell him that you accept his mentorship.|reb7]]</div>
“Excellent!” the templar crows. He raises his flask and takes a celebratory swig.
You hum. You eye the scabbard strapped to his waist. “Will I get a sword?”
The templar chokes a little, then throws his head back and laughs. “The vital question! Yes, you'll get a sword, stripling, but not until you've learned how to swing a wooden one.”
You can live with that. You pop a piece of baked chicken into your mouth and ask, “What's your name, ser? Now that you're my mentor, and all.”
“Aha, that's right! They wouldn't have told you.” He stands up from the bench to give you a sweeping bow. “Ser Baker Wright, Knight-Templar of Kinloch Hold's Circle of Magi, at your service. Now mop up the last of that gravy—your training starts now.”
<hr>
[[Continue|prologue]]It’s like when humans wander into the alienage looking for trouble; the more you fight back, the more grief you bring upon yourself and those around you. They only want a reaction, as your mother would say.
You can see the truth of her words in the way Tooth watches you now, almost eagerly awaiting your next move.
But you don’t take the bait. You keep walking with your eyes trained on the floor, nimbly hopping over the expected kick aimed at your ankle. You slip into the hallway and make for the laundry room.
<hr>
[[Continue|al3]]
The Maker must be on your side tonight, because you manage to land a direct hit: the blood-soaked fabric smacks Tooth right in the face like a pat of sloppy meat.
She shrieks, stumbling backwards and clawing at the gory pillowcase, which seems to have suctioned itself to her skin and hair. Her voice comes out muffled. “What the //fuck//, you little rabbit-blooded piece of—//ack!//”
The back of her knees hit her cot and she goes tumbling ass-over-ankles over the other side, hitting the ground with a painful thud. Her legs get tangled in her sheets and she flails wildly, spitting and cussing and lashing out at anyone fool enough to try and help her.
You don’t stick around to see if she recovers. There’s the ghost of a smile on your lips as you hurry down the hallway towards the laundry room.
<hr>
[[Continue|al3]]
The smirk slides right off Tooth’s face. “What?”
You’re not even sure where you’re going with this. Maybe it’s because your classroom lessons over the past few weeks have drilled the dangers of magic into your heads—maleficarum and magisters, abominations and blood magic—but fear aside, they haven’t actually taught you how to identify a blood mage yet.
//But they don’t know how, either//, you think, glancing around at your fellow initiates.
Too late to back down now. You square your shoulders.
“I was just wondering,” you continue, voice climbing, “where a templar initiate learned how to do a blood magic ritual. Did you ask a mage?” You gasp dramatically and take a step back, clutching your sheets to your chest. “Are-are //you// a mage?”
The dormitory goes dead silent. This isn’t the quiet of a room holding its breath in anticipation, like before. This silence is filled with an unease so thick you could choke on it. The eye of every initiate in the room is trained on Tooth, who sputters back, “D-don’t be ridiculous, of course not!”
“Then what were those sigils smeared onto my sheets?” you ask, really laying it on thick. “Why are you keeping a bucket of blood under your bed?”
“There were no void-damned sigils, half breed! You’re crazy!” But Tooth’s face has gone a very pallid shade of green. Her eyes dart around the room. “It was just a prank! You all saw! Addie, tell them it was just a prank!”
Addie is the girl who parroted Tooth earlier; one of her loyal goons. She isn’t looking too loyal now, though. “It was supposed to be mud or compost from the garden, like last time,” she mutters. “You’re the one who insisted on the chicken guts. It was a lot more trouble to get from the kitchens, but you…you //insisted//.”
“Because ?theyre a flaming rabbit-blood!” Tooth says. “They don’t keep rabbits in the pens, so chickens were—”
“What’d she write on the sheets?” someone asks Addie.
“Maker!” another squawks, pointing under her bunk. “There’s the bucket!”
The crowd shuffles closer to inspect the evidence. Most look fearful, but a few of the braver ones start inching closer to Tooth. A boy holds a pillow in front of his body, angled down like they taught you in shield training.
Tooth whirls around, eyes wide and insistent. “I-I didn’t fucking… Listen, it’s not—!”
But you don’t stick around for the rest. While the room is distracted by Tooth’s spitting and sputtering, you slip out into the hallway and make your way towards the laundry room, a sly little grin playing on your lips.
<hr>
[[Continue|al3]]There’s a handful of maid-servants in the laundry room at this time of night, stirring vats of linens and chatting softly. You’re grateful for their company, especially since you know they won’t bother you.
It’s only been a few weeks since you arrived at the monastery for your templar training. It still feels strange to be away from home. Homesickness hit hard those first few nights—you and your mother lived with your aunt’s family. All the children slept in one big pile, cuddled together like puppies. Your dormitory mattress feels lonely without the comfort of your cousins’ body heat pressing in all around you.
Plus, there’s just so many //humans// here. You still can’t get used to it.
//But that’s why I’m here in the first place, isn’t it?// you think, finding a washing tub that’s not in use. There’s a spigot on the wall, and after dumping your soiled bedding inside, you start filling the tub up with cold water.
It was better when you were younger—about the same size as an elven child, less obvious in your differences if one didn’t look too closely. But now at eleven, you’re just starting to grow into the body you inherited from your human father. Hand-me-downs no longer fit right; the blunted tips of your ears and your rounded pupils grow more out of place by the day. These days, you attract more attention inside Highever’s alienage than outside of it, and neighbors who’ve known your whole life look at you differently. They urge their own children to avoid you in the street or to find other playmates for games.
“They’re just scared, sweetling,” your mother would say when you came home with tears in your eyes. “Not of you, but of other people who might misunderstand. Some don’t like it when we get mixed up.”
You look down at the cloudy, reddish water in the washtub. When your mother bundled you off to be raised by the Order, did she know those other people existed here, too?
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[But despite bullies and strangeness, you’re secretly relieved you were sent away. It hasn’t been all bad here, and the alienage is no place for a human; it was starting to become stifling.|al4]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You hate it here! Who cares about what your dumb neighbors think; no matter what you look like, you’re your mother’s child, and you want to go home.|al4]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[But it’s only been a handful of weeks—way too early to make up your mind about this place. You’ll give it some more time before deciding how you feel.|al4]]</div>
One of the maid-servants breaks away from the others and approaches you with a smile.
You recognize her: she helped you retrieve your boots when Tooth’s gang threw them into the rafters on your second day. But when she sees your bloody sheets, her smile sours. The tips of her slender ears twitch irritably, and her eyes—vivid blue, their pupils catlike slashes of black—narrow.
“Accident,” you mumble. Shame heats your cheeks (Or is it anger? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.), but the maid only sighs and offers to help you try and scrub out the stains.
There will be no notifying the Revered Mother of this incident; in the end, you both know it won’t make a difference.
<hr>
[[Continue|al5]]
An hour of scrubbing and two sore arms later, you’re hanging your damp sheets to dry in the laundry courtyard.
The sun set a while ago, and the twins moons are full against a backdrop of bright stars. Brown splotches still cling stubbornly to the fabric—you and the maid tried your best—but the sheets are clean and that’s all that matters.
//If I beg, maybe they’ll let me crash in the linen closet,// you think glumly. It’d be preferable to your damp, bare mattress, which you still have yet to scrub. You sigh. //Flame and pyre.//
A breeze whips the hem of your robes around your legs. It feels good after the mugginess of the laundry room—you close your eyes and breathe deeply, so caught up in the feeling that you don’t notice footsteps approaching from behind.
“Need a hand?”
<hr>
<nobr><<if hasVisited("al2.1")>>[[Continue|al6.1]]<</if>><<if hasVisited("al2.2")>>[[Continue|al6.2]]<</if>><<if hasVisited("al2.3")>>[[Continue|al6.3]]<</if>></nobr>You nearly jump out of your skin.
“Easy! Didn't mean to startle you,” the voice laughs. Said voice is attached to a man: a human, well-built, with wavy black hair and eyes that crinkle when he smiles. His dusty plate armor smells of travel, and the flaming sword insignia of the Templar Order stamped onto the chest gleams in the moonlight.
You swallow and try to remember how the Sisters taught you to salute a superior officer.
“Ah, very good,” the templar says, “it's been a while since I was showed some proper deference. But there's no need for that. Here, let me help you with this.”
You watch, shocked and more than a little confused, as the templar takes a sheet from your basket and hangs it on the clothesline. He looks at you expectantly, then smiles when you get the hint and hand him some clothespins.
“So,” he says after a few moments of silence, “are you going to explain what happened here, or should I throw out my best guess?”
You shrug, keeping your eyes trained on a clump of grass by your feet. “Just an accident, ser.”
“An accident,” the templar repeats, nodding his head. “Funny, that's not what your classmates said when I dropped by your dormitory. The girl with the crooked tooth mentioned you had, ah, //redecorated// your bunk to better fit your preferred sleeping arrangements.”
You press your lips together tightly but don't respond.
“Unfortunately for her,” he continues, “I wasn't impressed with the language she used to explain the incident. I think a week of latrine duty should help her remember her manners, and I'm sure the nice elves who keep this compound clean will appreciate the help.”
You gape up at him. He smiles back, eyes crinkling. “Don't look so shocked, stripling. There's no place for that kind of rubbish in the Order—we have enough problems to deal with as it is.”
<hr>
[[Continue|al7]]
You nearly jump out of your skin.
“Easy! Didn't mean to startle you,” the voice laughs. Said voice is attached to a man: a human, well-built, with wavy black hair and eyes that crinkle when he smiles. His dusty plate armor smells of travel, and the flaming sword insignia of the Templar Order stamped onto the chest gleams in the moonlight.
You swallow and try to remember how the Sisters taught you to salute a superior officer.
“Ah, very good,” the templar says, “it's been a while since I was showed some proper deference. But there's no need for that. Here, let me help you with this.”
You watch, shocked and more than a little confused, as the templar takes a sheet from your basket and hangs it on the clothesline. He looks at you expectantly, then smiles when you get the hint and hand him some clothespins.
“So,” he says after a few moments of silence, “are you going to explain what happened here, or should I throw out my best guess?”
You shrug, keeping your eyes trained on a clump of grass by your feet. “Just an accident, ser.”
“An accident,” the templar repeats, nodding his head. “Funny, when I dropped by your dormitory it seemed like one of your classmates had a bit of an accident, too—the girl with the crooked tooth?” He raises a dark brow. “Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”
You press your lips tightly together and shake your head.
“Hmm. Well fortunately, she only had a bump on her head and a bit of wounded pride, he says. "//Unfortunately//, I wasn't impressed with the language she used to explain the incident. I think a week of latrine duty should help her remember her manners, and I'm sure the nice elves who keep this compound clean will appreciate the help.”
You gape up at him. He smiles back, eyes crinkling. “Don't look so shocked, stripling. There's no place for that kind of rubbish in the Order—we have enough problems to deal with as it is.”
<hr>
[[Continue|al7]]You nearly jump out of your skin.
“Easy! Didn't mean to startle you,” the voice laughs. Said voice is attached to a man: a human, well-built, with wavy black hair and eyes that crinkle when he smiles. His dusty plate armor smells of travel, and the flaming sword insignia of the Templar Order stamped onto the chest gleams in the moonlight.
You swallow and try to remember how the Sisters taught you to salute a superior officer.
“Ah, very good,” the templar says, “it's been a while since I was showed some proper deference. But there's no need for that. Here, let me help you with this.”
You watch, shocked and more than a little confused, as the templar takes a sheet from your basket and hangs it on the clothesline. He looks at you expectantly, then smiles when you get the hint and hand him some clothespins.
“So,” he says after a few moments of silence, “are you going to explain what happened here, or should I throw out my best guess?”
You shrug, keeping your eyes trained on a clump of grass by your feet. “Just an accident, ser.”
“An accident,” the templar repeats, nodding his head. “Funny, that's not how I would describe the scene when I dropped by your dormitory. Your classmates had some poor girl trussed up like a roast hog, and were going on and on about sigils and blood magic.” He raises a dark brow. “Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”
You press your lips tightly together and shake your head.
“Hmm. Well fortunately, I arrived just in time to stop things from escalating. But listen,” he says, his previous good humor fading into something more serious, “accusations like that are no laughing matter. I’m typically willing to give the benefit of the doubt, but there are others in our Order who don’t take chances. You can and you //will// get an innocent person killed that way. Understand?”
//Oh.// You hadn't even considered that. And the thought of holding so much power over another person—with just your words!—makes something in your stomach flip.
“I understand,” you mumble.
The templar watches you for another moment. Then, his smile returns. He squeezes your shoulder. “Good. And if it makes you feel better, I doubt that girl with be messing with you again. There's no place for that kind of rubbish in the Order—we have enough problems to deal with as it is.”
<hr>
[[Continue|al7]]
You hand the templar another pair of clothespins, studying his face from out beneath your eyelashes.
Before coming to the monastery, the only time you’d seen a templar was when they came to take a child to the Circle. They’d always seemed very single-minded—hardly sparing the rest of you a glance. Efficient, but not afraid to use force when provoked.
//Like when they took the Rothen boy away//, you think grimly.
It’d happened a few years ago, but it’s not a scene you’ll soon forget: armored humans dragging a screaming boy away while his mother sobbed in the street, her temple bloodied by the pommel of a sword. A group of particularly hot-blooded youths almost went after them until the //hahren// talked them down—after all, the boy had nearly incinerated their entire bloc with his uncontrolled magic.
//This// templar doesn’t seem the type to bludgeon a panicked mother in the head, but looks can be deceiving. “When you say 'problems in the Order', do you mean the mages, ser?”
“Aye, sometimes. But some of the recruits can be just as prickly as the apprentices! Rolan says that’s why the higher-ups put up with me.” He wiggles his brows. “I’m charming. Not to mention devilishly handsome and a quick wit to boot. Isn’t that right, my lady?” He shouts the last bit at a maid gathering dry laundry on the other side of the courtyard.
“As quick as old molasses, shem,” she says without looking up from her task.
The templar grabs at his heart in mock injury, making you smother a giggle into the crook of your elbow.
<hr>
[[Continue|al8]]
With all of your laundry hung to dry, you pick up the empty basket and follow the templar back inside.
“That’s also why they thought I would be the best person to take an elf-blooded initiate under my wing,” he continues, guiding you through the maze of wash tubs. “The Order needs more initiates like you, stripling—you bring a fresh perspective and…ah."
He notices the confused turn of your lips. “They didn’t tell you? Starting tomorrow, I’m to be your new mentor. It’s a good deal: you get an education, I get leave from the Circle, and the Order gets a new trained body. Everybody wins!”
//Mentor?// You didn’t know initiates had mentors, at least not private ones. And if they do, you’d expect them to be exclusively for the wealthy, like tutors. “Am I…in trouble, ser?” you asked hesitantly. “Or is it just because of…” You gesture at your ears—as blunt as any human’s, but the templar understands your meaning.
“You’re not in trouble, but your blood is a part of it,” he answers honestly. “Some of the Sisters raised concerns shortly after you arrived. Er, some of your classmates’ families did, too.”
You scowl. Postage out of the monastery was expensive, but that apparently didn’t stop some of the wealthier initiates from sending gossip back home.
You both emerge into the hallway, but when you start towards the dormitory, the templar stops you. “Listen,” he says, “I know how it sounds, but you have a real opportunity here. First of all, you won’t have to share a room with those nug-heads anymore—I put a request in to have you moved to the private room next to mine.”
“Really?” //No more Tooth?// It sounds too good to be true.
“Really,” he says. “Second, training directly underneath a Knight puts you on a fast track for taking your vows and becoming a Recruit—then eventually a Knight yourself, and so on and so forth. The higher you are on the ladder, the greater your allowances and stipend. Not trying to pry, but I read your file. I imagine that’s something that would interest you.”
There’s no need to play coy—//alienage// and //poverty// practically go hand in hand.
You think about your mother, your aunt and uncle, and all of your cousins stuffed into that rundown hovel like a tin of sardines. The roof had sprung another leak right before you left—did they manage to scrap enough silver together to fix it? And it’s not like you'll be able to find a decent-paying job in the city, even if you hid your parentage. Your mother sent you to the Order for a reason.
The templar grins at you, all crinkled eyes and straight white teeth.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You decide you like him. He'll make a nice mentor. You eagerly say that you accept his mentorship.|al9]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You're a little suspicious of this smiley man, but it's not like you have other options. After a moment of hesitation, you tell him that you accept his mentorship.|al9]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You're not sure how you feel about him yet. Only time will tell, you suppose. You tell him that you accept his mentorship.|al9]]</div>
“Excellent!” the templar crows, clapping his hands together. “I’ve already had your things moved to the new room. And, yes, the bed has fresh sheets—pleasantly starched and offal-free.”
You’re following the templar up the staircase to the second floor when you realize something important. “What's your name, ser? You never said.”
“Maker, where are my manners! Ser Baker Wright, Templar-Knight of Kinloch Hold, at your service,” he says with a theatric bow. The movement causes him to miss the next step—you have to grab him by the belt to keep him from tumbling down headfirst.
“Quick as old molasses,” you giggle, unable to help yourself. You spy a flask tucked into Baker’s belt when you release him. He notices you notice, and after stealing a quick sip, throws you a cheeky wink.
“Guilty as charged,” he says. “Now, come. Apparently this monastery boasts the nicest rooms in the whole of the Bannorn. I think I’d like to be the judge of that.”
<hr>
[[Continue|prologue]]You give a brief explanation of your situation: how you’d been promised to the Chantry for as long as you could remember, but hadn’t really known what that meant until you’d actually left home.
The templar hums. “And you were always to be given to the Order? Not the clergy?”
You shrug. “The Delacroix are swordsmen.”
“I see. That explains why you’ve been such a terror in the training yard, then. Don’t look so surprised, I have my sources,” he says, “and I may have passed by a girl in the hallway earlier; one with a twisted ankle who was very vocal about how she obtained it.” The templar quirks a dark brow. “You know, you’d probably make more friends if you pulled your punches.”
//Pulled your—!//
“It’s not my fault I’m better than them!” you blurt out, irritation overriding your manners. “Why am I being punished for their lack of skill?”
The templar toes at a chocolate wrapper and waves a hand towards the nearest pile of full trunks. “If this is what’s considered punishment these days, I think I might need to have a word with the Revered Mother.”
“That’s…” You huff and cross your arms, trying not to pout and failing miserably. “They bully me!”
“Oh aye, I don’t doubt that, stripling. I’m not saying it’s right of them, but try to look at things out from their shoes.”
“The shoes of a sore loser?”
“Of a poor, //orphaned// loser,” says the templar, not unkindly, “who up until now has never even seen a proper sword let alone wielded one. Then some little noble brat half their size shows up and wipes the yard with them. No one back home to write letters to, no money to snack their pain away—just think about it.”
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You do. It’s not something you’d really considered before, but you have to admit that the templar has a point. It isn’t enough to wipe away your indignation—it’s still not fair!—but you at least have enough tact to feel a little remorseful.|nob7]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You refuse. It’s not your fault that you’re better off than them, or that their parents are dead! And your life hasn’t exactly been all sunshine and bonbons, either—he hasn't met Papa.|nob7]]</div><<timed 2s t8n>>\
You wake with a start.
Your heart pounds hard in your chest, and it takes a few beats to remember where you are. Your sweat-damp sheets are twisted around your legs and your skin is tacky despite the coolness of the room. The pale sunlight that filters in through your window suggests it’s barely dawn—the thick panes of glass glow with it.
A nightmare. That’s all it was, although you can't recall what about.
You sigh and flop back onto your pillow with a muffled //whump.//
They've been happening more often. You’d blame stress, but it seem like everyone in the Tower has been on edge lately, even more so than usual. Kinloch Hold's Circle of Magi is isolated by design, purposely insulated from the outside world and its ever-shifting power struggles and politics.
But that doesn’t stop them from worming their way in through the stone walls.
The Orlesian Empire only completed their annexation campaign about thirty-six years ago, and there are plenty of Fereldans still alive today who remember life before the occupation.
And to say they’re unhappy with the arrangement is an understatement.
Even the greenest apprentice has heard whispered tale of Moira Theirin and her brazen band of rebels—each of the Rebel Queen’s exploits more daring and romantic than the last. Recruits swap rumors about the reviled King Meghren when they think no one is listening—how he sends legions of his chevaliers to their deaths and wipes entire villages off the map with almost casual cruelty.
<hr>
<<if $background is 'Rebellion'>><div class = 'choice'>[[(REBELLION) You can’t help but secretly cheer every time you hear of one of the Rebel Queen’s victories, no matter how minor. Every thorn in the paw of the Empire brings Ferelden closer to its freedom—and you swear you’ll live to see it.|wake2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[(REBELLION) It isn’t exactly sorrow you feel when you hear such news, nor anger. More like a melancholy bitterness—so much bloodshed, and for what? A handful of liberated freeholds? Moira Theirin only cares about her grandfather’s throne, and she’ll drown Ferelden in blood to take it.|wake2]]</div><</if>><<if $background is 'Nobility'>><div class = 'choice'>[[(NOBILITY) You swallow down your outrage every time you hear such news. King Meghren may be a bastard, but he’s the rightful ruler of Ferelden—backed by both the Emperor and the Divine. Between him and those half-savage rebels, he is the lesser evil.|wake2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[(NOBILITY) A part of you secretly cheers every time you hear of one of the Rebel Queen’s victories—years of living alongside the peasantry has made you sympathetic to their cause. King Meghren is a poor ruler, no matter the legitimacy of his claim. Papa would disown you if he knew; a part of you secretly revels in that, too.|wake2]]</div><</if>><<if $background is 'the Alienage'>><div class = 'choice'>[[(ALIENAGE) You can’t help but secretly cheer every time you hear of the Rebel Queen’s victories. Mixed heritage aside, you’re still Ferelden—and one day the occupation will end.|wake2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[(ALIENAGE) You don’t much care for politics, and care even less about which noble house holds the throne. At the end of the day, your family is still confined to a slum—and the Rebel Queen’s cries for freedom don’t seem to include them.|wake2]]</div><</if>><<if $background is 'the Circle'>><div class = 'choice'>[[(CIRCLE) You can’t help but secretly cheer every time you hear of the Rebel Queen’s victories. Despite your Marcher birth, you were still raised in Ferelden—and one day the occupation will end.|wake2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[(CIRCLE) You don’t much care for politics, and care even less about which noble house holds the throne. King Meghren’s claim is legitimate and he is backed by the Divine—that’s good enough for you.|wake2]]</div><</if>><</timed>>
Naturally, voicing any opinion on the subject is frowned upon—//sowing political discord,// as the superiors put it—and you’re not eager to end up in the Knight-Commander’s office. So, you keep your personal opinions close to your breast. The templars and mages of Kinloch Hold have enough going on //inside// the Tower to deal with.
“Don’t I know it,” you groan at your ceiling, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You can feel the beginnings of a headache building in your temples.
An apprentice will face their Harrowing today. And as the recently promoted Knight-Corporal of Kinloch Hold’s Circle of Magi, it’s up to you to oversee it.
<hr>
[[Continue|wake3]]
<<nobr>>
<<set $codexSet = true>>
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<</nobr>>With a yawn, you rise from your bed and give your back a good stretch.
Your quarters are small but comfortable, with a bed, storage trunk, wash bowl, and personal chamber pot. It all came with the promotion—no more Templar Quarter barracks for you, thank the Maker—and you’re glad for the privacy.
A thin sheet of ice has formed in your water carafe overnight. The cold banishes the last dredges of sleep from your mind as you quickly wash your face over the basin, cleansing the sweat from your <<nobr>>
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<</nobr>> skin. You wish your nerves could be wiped away as easily, but alas, no such luck.
It’s not like you haven’t attended a Harrowing before. You have: three in fact, and all three apprentices passed with flying colors. But you’d been taking orders then, not giving them out. Knight-Captain Baker makes it look easy—personable and charming, your mentor has always had a Maker-given knack for leadership. When he speaks, people listen. There’s a reason he’s one of the more well-liked templars among the Tower’s mages.
//That’s why the Knight-Commander keeps him around,// you think wryly, patting your face dry with a rag, //to play the gentle hand to his iron fist.//
It’s also why his absence has been felt so keenly.
It’s now been three weeks since Baker left with a caravan bound for Jainen, the northern port town home to Ferelden’s second Circle of Magi. It’s so small that many don’t even consider it to be a Circle at all—only playing host to a mere handful of enchanters and templars at any given time. Hence the caravan, bringing in a much needed flush of texts, magical items, and talent: half a dozen enchanters, one senior enchanter, and a pair of Tranquil craftsmen, according to the manifest.
There’d been plenty of grumbling about the move, as expected, which is why you suspect Baker volunteered in the first place. That, and the chance to stretch his legs outside of the confines of the Tower.
“You’ll be fine without me, stripling,” he’d said before departure. You can still feel the tips of his gauntlets digging into your shoulder, eye crinkling as he smiled. “Of that I have no doubt.”
Your mentor’s faith in you is flattering, but three weeks is still far longer than you’d expect for him to be away—a trip to Jainen and back shouldn’t take more than two, and even that’s generous. But the Knight-Commander has assured you that all is well.
//Flames, maybe he’s decided to make a holiday of it,// you think. While you’re stuck here wringing your hands, he’s putting his feet up on some beach in the Coastlands. You wouldn’t blame him.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Still, you and Baker have grown close over the years, and you’re anxious for him to return. You feel like a child playing in their parent’s closet—the title of Knight-Corporal fitting like a clunky pair of over-large boots.|wake4]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[In all honesty, his absence has been a welcome reprieve. The two of you aren’t very close outside of your professional duties, and you’re eager for the chance to prove yourself as Knight-Corporal without his shadow looming over you.|wake4]]</div>A wooden stand in the corner of the room holds your armor, and you take your time strapping in: undergarments first, then your gambeson, chainmail, and plate.
The armor fits perfectly, adhering to your <<nobr>>
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<</cycle>>
<</nobr>> frame like a second skin. Your sword and shield feel the same strapped to your waist and back. The flaming insignia of the Templar Order stamped into your chest catches the thin, morning light.
It makes you pause. A memory? Or a half-recalled conjuring of the Fade. But you are not a mage—the land of dreams will always be a mystery to you, unlike the apprentice who you will be observing in a few hours time.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Nerves still buzz under your skin. You hope things go smoothly for both the apprentice's sake and yours—but ultimately, you have a duty to perform.|wake5]]>><<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal + 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[You feel excited! Striking down abominations and maleficarum is what it means to be a templar—and you hope the apprentice pulls through too, of course.|wake5]]>><<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean + 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[You’ll never admit it aloud, but the whole affair upsets you. You always thought the Harrowing to be a bit too cruel, a bit too unfair to count as a real test. You feel pity for the apprentice.|wake5]]>><<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean - 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
Washed and dressed for the day, you do a few more stretches before peering into the looking glass hanging just above the basin.
Your reflection peers back at you, the puffy circles under your <<nobr>>
<<cycle "$eyeColor" autoselect>>
<<option "blue">>
<<option "green">>
<<option "brown">>
<<option "black">>
<<option "hazel">>
<<option "gray">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>> eyes betraying a poorly kept sleep schedule.
Your <<nobr>>
<<cycle "$hairLength" autoselect>>
<<option "short">>
<<option "mid-length">>
<<option "long">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>>, <<nobr>><<cycle "$hairTexture" autoselect>>
<<option "straight">>
<<option "wavy">>
<<option "frizzy">>
<<option "curly">>
<<option "coily">>
<<option "kinky">>
<<option "locked">>
<<option "braided">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>> <<nobr>><<cycle "$hairColor" autoselect>>
<<option "fair">>
<<option "brown">>
<<option "black">>
<<option "red">>
<<option "white">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>> hair <<nobr>><<cycle "$hairStyle" autoselect>>
<<option "is shorn close to your scalp">>
<<option "hangs loose over your shoulders">>
<<option "hangs gathered into a ponytail">>
<<option "is pulled up into a bun">>
<<option "is tucked back behind your ears">>
<<option "is braided into neat plaits">>
<<option "frames your face">>
<<option "is swept back from your face">>
<<option "is thinning in places">>
<</cycle>><</nobr>>.
<<cycle "$faceTrait" autoselect>>
<<option "A nasty scar curls under one of your eyes like a crooked finger.">>
<<option "A tattoo curls from your hairline all the way down to your collarbone.">>
<<option "A trio of scars span the length of your face, courtesy of a rage demon.">>
<<option "A small scar bisects your upper lip.">>
<<option "Freckles dust your nose and cheeks.">>
<<option "Patches of vitiligo bloom across your face and neck.">>
<<option "Old burn scars creep up the the side of your neck.">>
<</cycle>> You lightly run your fingers over the skin there.
<hr>
[[Continue|finalconfirm]]<nobr><<if $background is "the Alienage">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/22f7eccb910bc50b13630d9f577cbd33/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-25/s400x600/00459f379a3d83b401b36d60dd5fc2bc71e23867.pnj" alt="a large tree with white bark">
<<elseif $background is "Nobility">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9f4d90ecda304d4506df59cc0fd08cb4/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-30/s400x600/9207d1418a9e18d0d459a3dc7091a25b0f563a04.pnj" alt="a stained glass window featuring gold fleur-de-lis against a blue background">
<<elseif $background is "Rebellion">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0ff3889ac8781088e1196ed74fbe97be/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-d0/s400x600/5d051a37c32f3697817d138f013090e618cfc029.pnj" alt="a closeup shot of a field of wheat">
<<elseif $background is "the Circle">><img class="character" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e399311bd2cb9c2748c286d50462b1a3/4c1c1c4af0c055ee-3b/s400x600/9c4460ac395207c1f59f362b61a0a18937b8463e.pnj" alt="a window set into a stone wall overgrown with moss"><</if>></nobr>
''Name:'' $firstName $lastName (?they/?them)
''Race:'' <nobr><<if $background is "the Alienage">>Elf-Blooded Human<<else>>Human<</if>></nobr>
''Class:'' Knight-Corporal
''Background:'' Child of $background
''Appearance:'' You are a $body, $skin-skinned ?adultPerson with $eyeColor eyes and $hairLength, $hairTexture $hairColor hair that $hairStyle. $faceTrait <nobr><<if $trans is 1>>You identify as transgender.<</if>></nobr>
Confirm your character?
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Yes, that's me.|wake6]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[No, let me choose again.|charsetup]]</div><<nobr>>
<<set $profileSet = true>>
<<notify 3s>>PROFILE UNLOCKED!<</notify>>
<</nobr>>A shelf built into the wall above your bed holds a handful of your personal possessions. You don't have much, just a few knickknacks and keepsakes you've held on to over the years.
You retrieve the lacquered wood box that holds your ritual kit, and the lid pops open with a soft //snick//. Nestled within the velvet-lined interior is a finger-sized vial of lyrium. This is not the potion a mage drinks to restore their mana—it’s purer and more concentrated, like a shot of spirits compared to a watered down ale.
Your temples pound a little harder. The lyrium shimmers white-blue. The vial is warm to the touch when you hold it between two fingers, even through the thick leather of your gauntlets.
Half-full. More than enough for today, but you’ll need to put in a request for more if you don’t want to be left without.
You pop the vial’s cap and drain about a fourth of it in one go—a standard dose. Power rushes through you, sweet and heady, and you have to brace yourself against the wall until the feeling subsides. The solemn visage of Andraste carved inside the kit's lid watches on as the lyrium pulses hot and metallic on your tongue. You’ve always thought it tasted similar to petrichor or well-handled coins, though you’ve heard others compare it to rust or blood.
It takes another long moment for the rush to completely subside. But once it does your headache is gone, leaving behind a buzzing just under your skin that will linger for the next hour or so. It's a sensation you’ve grown accustomed too. You can always tell a Recruit from a Knight by how much they scratch themselves.
You place the ritual kit back on the shelf, right next to your transcribed copy of the Chant of Light. It was gifted to you by the monastery after you took your vows: //Ser $firstName $lastName// is etched onto the front cover in careful golden calligraphy.
You run your fingers over one of your more noteable keepsakes—<<nobr>><<if $background is "the Alienage">>a twig from the Highever alienage's //vhenadahl//. One of your cousins snuck it before you left for your training as a child: an act that got them in mountains of trouble with the //hahren//.
<<elseif $background is "Nobility">>a richly dyed silk handkerchief embroidered with the Delacroix family crest. Papa presented it to you the day you left for your training; a family coming-of-age tradition.
<<elseif $background is "Rebellion">>a torn scrap of blue fabric with yellow stitching. You have no memory of what it was originally; you were found in the burnt-out shell of your family home with it clutched in your fist.
<<elseif $background is "the Circle">>a lock of hair bound together with red thread. It supposedly came from your birth mother—a parting gift before Kirkwall’s templars sent you to Ferelden.<<else>>ERROR. NO BACKGROUND<</if>><</nobr>>
Voices out in the hall draw your attention. The beams of sunlight coming in through the window reflect on dust motes drifting through the air. The hour is later than you thought—you’ll be expected in the Harrowing Chamber soon. Best get a move on.
<hr>
[[Continue|hall1]]<<notify 3s>>AUTOSAVING<</notify>>\
The Harrowing Chamber is on the uppermost section of the Tower, one floor above the Templar Quarters, and you follow the curving hallway with familiar ease.
Your fellows in arms pass by in groups of two and three: some returning from nighttime patrols, others heading to the training yard for their morning drills. A wide-eyed recruit nearly trips over his own feet to give you a proper salute, along with a chirped //Ser!// that dissolves into an unfortunate squeak. His cheeks flush a mottled purple, but you pretend not to notice. With a polite nod of acknowledgment, you let the boy scurry off without another word, still unused to the newfound respect that comes with your promotion. //Knight-Corporal $lastName// still feels strange to your ears.
You glance out a passing window and take in the view. The sun has fully crested the horizon by now, and the gray, choppy waters of Lake Calenhad glitter like fish scales. You can just make out the shape of The Spoiled Princess on the far shore—members of the Order aren’t technically allowed to patron taverns, but it’s rarely enforced—and further beyond, the muddy plains of the Bannorn stretch as far as the eye can see.
Closer to home, you spy a group of apprentices enjoying their weekly outdoor time by the lake shore—under careful guard, lest they get any ideas. They wouldn’t be the first, though no mage has actually managed to make it all the way across the lake to the far docks. But there's a first time for everything.
As you approach the staircase that leads to the Harrowing Chamber, you suddenly remember your nearly empty lyrium stash. The Quartermaster will likely send the next import order out that afternoon, and if you miss it, it might be another week or more until you can catch the next one. The ghost of a headache beats in your temples just thinking about it.
You bit your lip, considering. If you hurry, you think you’ll have just enough time to swing by the chantry before you’re missed.
//Won't take but a minute,// you assure yourself. You turn on your heel and make your way to the staircase that leads down to the lower floors.
<hr>
[[Continue|hall2]]
The chantry is located three floors down in the Apprentice Quarters, and the halls are already heaving with robed humans and elves getting a start on their day.
You pass packs of apprentices on their way to their classes, senior enchanters hauling stacks of scrolls and tomes, and the occasional lone Tranquil gliding through the bustle, stone-faced and eerily unbothered.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Those you pass smile and wish you a good morning, and you wave back. You've always been friendly with the mages in the Tower—more so than your superiors would like. But it's never stopped you from doing your duty, so they can't complain too much.|hall3]]>><<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal - 10, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Those you pass greet you politely, and you respond in kind. You've always gotten along fine with the mages in the Tower—your relationship being civil and appropriately detached.|hall3]]>><<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal + 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Those you pass keep their heads down to avoid your gaze. As it should be—a ward should never feel too comfortable around their overseer. You inspect each mage that walks by with practiced scrutiny. Many flinch away.|hall3]]>><<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal + 10, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>You eventually enter the Great Hall, which is still in the midst of serving breakfast.
The long tables are crowded with mages eating and chatting among themselves. Platters of buttered toast, fried eggs, and bacon are passed between them, and the aroma makes your stomach growl. But you keep your hands to yourself. Even if you had the time, it’s forbidden for mages and templars to dine together—one of the Tower's many rules against fraternization.
A half-dozen Templar-Knights line the Hall’s walls—you politely acknowledge their salutes as you pass by and descend down one more flight of stairs and into the Apprentice's Quarters.
<hr>
[[Continue|chant1]]
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, you mention your low lyrium supply and reasons for coming.
Mother Melody hums and gestures for you to follow her further back into the chamber, where a desk is tucked into one corner. Various books and pieces of parchment litter its surface. She takes a key out from a pocket in her robes and opens the side drawer.
Dispensing lyrium is a task for the Tower Quartermaster, but he requires written permission from a Mother to do so—and such allowances are heavily regulated by the Chantry.
You watch on as the Mother double checks her record book for your last order request, then thumbs through the worn pages for the packet of permission slips near the back. “You have impeccable timing,” she says. “Your allowance only just renewed today. If you’d come yesterday, I would've had to turn you away.”
“Even if I asked nicely?”
The Mother smiles, but it’s tight in the corners. You wonder how many time she’s had to hear the desperate beg; those who use up their supply too quickly and suffer the consequences of going without. You’ve thankfully never been in that position, but you’ve seen it happen to others—the sweats, the shakes, the vomiting, and other such ills.
While she’s busy signing your permission slip, your eyes wander to the contents of the drawer. What looks like <<link "a torn out page from a book ">><<script>>
Dialog.create("Heretical Writings");
Dialog.wiki(Story.get("heresynote").processText());
Dialog.open();
<</script>><</link>> catches your eye—specifically the hastily scrawled notes in the margins. You lean in to better read the handwriting and stifle a shocked laugh. How //scandalous.//
The Mother frowns at you. “Heresy is no laughing matter, child. Even the smallest spark can burn down the barn house, as my father used to say. It must be smothered lest it catch. And defacing a Chantry-gifted textbook to do so? Disgraceful.”
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Heresy is a bit harsh, isn’t it? This is harmless mischief—just two initiates joking around. You tell the Mother as much.|chant3.1]]>> <<set $question = Math.clamp($question + 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[She's right—it’s one thing for initiates to joke among themselves, but demeaning the Prophet is another matter. You tell the Mother that they should be more respectful.|chant3.2]]>> <<set $question = Math.clamp($question - 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
The Tower’s chantry is modest by design, boasting few adornments besides some rugs and a handful of statues. Perhaps the builders hoped such humility would rub off on those kept here; or perhaps transforming a captured barbarian base into the house of the Maker is harder than it looks.
You traverse the large bookshelves and prayer nooks to find Mother Melody in the front row of pews, hands clasped and head bent in silent prayer. Candles illuminate the statue of Andraste that stands at the front of the chamber—one hand touching her stone breast, the other raised in modest supplication.
You wait until the Mother finishes to make yourself known, and when she sees you, she smiles. She brushes her weathered fingertips against your arm.
“$firstName,” she says, “how wonderful to see you, child. Have you come to offer prayer?”
“Hello, Mother." You’re genuinely glad to see her—besides Baker, Mother Melody was one of the first people to go out of their way to welcome you when you arrived as a fresh recruit all those years ago. Circle life was so different than what you were used to; all the rules and responsibilities were intimidating and hard to follow.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[But you adjusted quickly, taking to it all like a fish to water—sometimes you feel like you were born to be in the Order.|chant2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You still feel that way most days, like a square peg trying to squeeze into a round hole—and you fear that you always will.|chant2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Honestly, it’s still a work in progress—but you can’t really picture yourself anywhere else.|chant2]]</div>The Mother’s frown deepens. She tears the permission slip out of the book but doesn’t hand it over right away, simply holding it aloft between two fingers.
For a moment you panic—Maker, she’s not going to keep it from you, is she?
“//Joking around// is for fools and children,” she says, “not clerics, and certainly not respected members of the Order. That’s what I told that mentor of yours when he refused to take the matter seriously.” The permission slip crinkles between her fingers. “Wouldn’t you agree, Knight-Corporal?”
You swallow, cowed, then nod and mutter a quiet //Yes, Mother.//
She hands over the slip and you try not to sigh with relief. No matter how old you get, Mothers will always have their way of making you feel like a naughty child—Maker knows you’ve been scolded like one often enough. You tuck the slip into the safety of your waist pouch.
<hr>
[[Continue|chant4]]
The Mother nods approvingly, then hands you the permission slip.
“Exactly,” she says. “The Knight-Captain might not agree—//just initiates having a bit of fun,// he said—but I’m glad his protégé takes ?their commitment to the Maker’s Bride seriously.”
You don’t know what gives you a bigger sense of relief—her approval, or the crinkle of paper in your hands. You tuck the slip into the safety of your waist pouch.
<hr>
[[Continue|chant4]]<<notify>>CODEX UPDATED<</notify>>\
With your lyrium allowance secured, you leave the Mother to her tasks and hurry towards yours—the Harrowing will start soon, and you still have to drop off your slip with the Quartermaster.
But as you’re leaving the chantry, one of the smaller altars catches your eye. Another statue of the Prophet stands among the candle flames, this time holding a shield and bowing her cloaked head in prayer. You’ve seen mages and templars alike praying here before—appealing to the Maker’s Bride for His protection.
You think about the task that awaits you at the top of the Tower and pause. A basket of fresh wax candles sits at the statue’s feet.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Light a candle and offer a quick prayer.|chant5]]>> <<set $question = Math.clamp($question - 10, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Leave the altar alone and exit the chantry.|stair1]]>> <<set $question = Math.clamp($question + 10, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
Back on the Templar floor, you begin your ascent up the massive spiraling staircase that leads to the Harrowing Chamber.
The steps under your boots have deep grooves in their middles where the stone has worn away, and small porthole windows in the curving wall bring in sunlight and fresh air at regular intervals. At this height, you have a clear view of the Frostbacks rising in the far distance, their jagged peaks capped with white even in early Drakonis.
//Better over there than here,// you think. The past winter had been a brutal one: burying you all under mountains of snow and nearly freezing the lake solid. The number of apprentices who’d burnt themselves trying to warm up with fireballs had the infirmary working overtime. <<if $background is 'Nobility'>>And for once, Maman’s fussing had actually been a blessing—you’d had enough heating runes to warm your bed, your washing water, //and// your armor without concession.<<else>>Meanwhile, you and the other templars had taken turns sharing the handful of heating runes loaned out by the Lucrosians—for a fee, of course.<</if>>
Your eyes fall back to your feet. You wonder how many mages have walked this path over the years. Thousands? Tens of thousands? What must it might feel like to be in their shoes: to not know what awaits you at the top of the Tower, or if you will ever descend these steps again. You yourself have walked this path six separate times: the ascent and descent of three Harrowings, all successful, thank the Maker. And Maker willing, this will be the fourth.
You’re so caught up in your own thoughts that you don’t notice the person around the next bend until you nearly crash into them.
“Flame and pyre!” you gasp, steadying yourself against the stone wall. That would have been a nasty fall. “Sorry, I didn’t see—”
But it’s not the Knight-Commander above you on a higher step. It’s not even a templar. It’s a mage—a young woman with short-cropped hair in blue enchanter’s robes wearing an expression so horrified, you’d think she was facing down an abomination.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[“Oh. Hello.”|stair2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[“You’re not supposed to be here.”|stair2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Say nothing. Wait for her to explain herself.|stair2]]</div>
With practiced ease, you light one of the candles and place it among the others.
The prayer comes easily to your lips—you’ve said it before, many times—and the peace it brings is warm and familiar, like a worn blanket draped across your shoulders.
You sigh. No matter how trying life in the Order can be, the words of the Chant has always been a balm for your mind and soul.
With a lighter heart and waxy fingertips, you finish up your prayer then exit the chantry.
<hr>
[[Continue|stair1]]
But before you even have time to react, the mage falls back onto step behind her. “I-I was just… What I mean to say is that I… Oh, //Maker.//” Her face has gone ashen and waxy; you think she might pass out.
“Breathe,” you instruct. It’ll do neither of you any good if she falls unconscious.
The mage puts her head between her bent knees and takes a couple of deep breaths. Then, after some color has returned to her cheeks, she says, “I’m sorry, ser. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I was just leaving. Honest!”
//Understatement of the century.// But now that you think about it, you don’t recall anyone being posted at the foot of the stairwell. Someone must have bungled the guard rotation times—a stupid, dangerous error. The Knight-Commander will be livid. “What are you doing up here? You’re not the one being Harrowed this morning.”
The mage speaks in a rush. “No, ser, I passed mine last year! It’s my friend, Calipi—she’s been so, //so// worried about it, but we’re not allowed to discuss details with the untested, and nothing I’ve said has helped ease her mind. I heard from one of the older enchanters that Knight-Captain Baker sometimes lets friends give a word of encouragement right before the ceremony, but no one has seen him in almost a month! I thought maybe he’d be here for the Harrowing, so when I saw there were no guards I tried to go find him, but…” She throws a terrified glance up the stairwell, then looks back to you.
“You found the Knight-Commander instead.”
The mage nods miserably. “I snuck away before he saw me and was heading straight back to the Senior Mage’s floor. I’m not trying to pull anything, I swear!”
You believe her. It was still an incredibly stupid thing to do—she’s lucky she wasn’t caught by one of the more zealous members of your Order—but you can understand wanting to comfort a friend in their time of need. The girl wipes her nose stares up at you, pleading.
You’re going to have to deal with this, one way or another.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[There is no crime in wanting to help a friend, and the thought of the girl being punished for it makes your blood boil. You’ll personally escort her back to the third floor to ensure that she isn’t stopped or questioned.|stair3.1]]>> <<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean - 10, 0, 100)>><<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal - 10, 0, 100)>><</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[You don’t want her punished for this, but being seen with you on the Templar floor might draw the wrong kind of attention. You tell her you’ll let her go, but to keep things quiet.|stair3.2]]>> <<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean - 5, 0, 100)>><<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal - 5, 0, 100)>><</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[The girl’s intentions are commendable, but the rules exist for a reason. You tell her you’ll let her go, but you’ll have to write an incident report.|stair3.3]]>> <<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean + 5, 0, 100)>><<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal + 5, 0, 100)>><</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[The fact that the girl even made it this far up without detection is inexcusable: a shocking lapse of judgment on her part and an egregious oversight in Tower security. You’ll personally escort her to the First Enchanter’s office to face discipline.|stair3.4]]>> <<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean + 10, 0, 100)>><<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal + 10, 0, 100)>><</link>></div>
The girl sags with relief. “Oh, thank you, ser! I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Calipi. I swear on the good name of Andraste.”
“How did you get here without being seen, anyway?” you ask. “This floor is crawling with templars and there’s usually posted guards.”
The mage scratches at the bridge of her nose. “I just got lucky, I suppose,” she murmurs, shrugging. She isn’t a very good liar. Her blush brings out the loveliness of her full cheeks, and your mind once again returns to the missing guard—it wouldn’t be the first time a templar broke the rules for a pretty face.
But with more pressing matters to attend to, you don’t pursue the issue further. You escort the mage to the foot of the stairwell, then when the coast is clear, stand watch as she slinks off around the bend of the hallway. With luck, this act of mercy won’t come back to bite you in the ass.
With the issue dealt with, you hurry back up to the Harrowing Chamber.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow1]]
“Oh,” the mage says. She tugs at the cuff of her sleeve. “That’s…kind of you. But it isn’t necessary, ser. I don’t want to cause any trouble, for you or anyone else.”
You put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and give it an encouraging squeeze. “Nonsense, you’ve done nothing wrong. And if anyone tries to hassle you, they can take it up with me.”
The girl smiles, but she keeps her gaze on her feet as you lead her down the staircase and through the Templar Quarters, still protectively gripping her shoulder.
Besides the First Enchanter accompanying apprentices to their Harrowings, mages aren’t permitted on this floor, and your flagrant disregard for the rules does not go unnoticed. Dozens of eyes linger on the both of you, from curious stares to disapproving glares. You dare to meet the hostile ones head-on with dirty looks of your own. As Knight-Corporal you outrank them all, and while pulling rank isn’t usually your style, you’ll do it if necessary. But thankfully, no one stops you.
The girl keeps her head down. Poor thing must feel so intimidated surrounded by this many templars. Sneaking around this floor alone must have made her a nervous wreck. You’re glad you decided to help.
Once you arrive at the Senior Mage Quarters, the girl pulls away so suddenly that you’re left gripping air. She mutters a quick thank you then disappears into one of the rooms lining the main hallway. You blink after her, a little surprised at her sudden departure. But you’re satisfied that she made it back safely.
With the issue dealt with, you hurry back up to the Harrowing Chamber.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow1]]The girl deflates, but she doesn’t argue. “Yes, ser. I understand.”
You’ll urge the First Enchanter to show mercy when you write your report—given the circumstances, you don’t think the girl is at risk of reoffending. But there’s still the matter of the missing guard, and that alone warrants investigation. You don’t believe for one moment that the mage was able to get this far without help from within Order ranks—it wouldn’t be the first time a templar broke the rules for a pretty face.
But with more pressing matters to attend to, you don’t pursue the issue further. You escort the mage to the foot of the stairwell, then instruct her return straight to the Senior Mage Quarters, preferably without calling attention to herself. She’s in enough trouble as it is.
The blood drains from the girl’s face. After you make note of her name and bunk identification, she gives you the barest of nods before disappearing around the bend of the main hallway.
With the issue dealt with, you hurry back up to the Harrowing Chamber.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow1]]
The girl's face turns pale. "Please, ser, I'm sorry! I'll do whatever needs to be done, just please don't tell the Knight-Commander!"
"What needs to be done," you say, "is an investigation into how this was allowed to happen in the first place." You take hold the girl's arm and pull her to standing. You can feel her trembling, even through the leather of your gauntlet.
//Good, she should be nervous.// This is no laughing matter. You don’t believe for one moment that she was able to get this far without help from within Order ranks—it wouldn’t be the first time a templar broke the rules for a pretty face.
You march the girl down the stairs and out into the main hallway of the Templar Quarters, and to your relief she doesn't resist. Foot traffic in the hall screeches to a halt. Besides the First Enchanter accompanying apprentices to their Harrowings, mages aren’t permitted on this floor. The sight of the Knight-Corporal hauling one by the arm draws no small amount of attention.
Whispers follow in your wake as you take the girl to the third floor, then hand her off to a templar posted near the First Enchanter's office.
"Hold her here until Orathe returns," you instruct him. "The Knight-Commander will want to question her as well, but we'll let the First Enchanter talk to her first." The mage sniffs; only then do you realize she’s crying. It's pitiable enough for you to add, "Be gentle if you can. She's had quite the morning."
The templar salutes you and takes the mage into the office. She does not look up from the floor. The door shuts behind her with a loud slam of wood on stone.
With the issue dealt with, you hurry back up to the Harrowing Chamber.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow1]]<<nobr>>
<<set $companionSet = true>>
<<notify 3s>>COMPANIONS UNLOCKED!<</notify>>
<</nobr>>By the time you make it to the landing just outside of the Harrowing Chamber, you're the last templar to arrive.
//Flame and pyre.// So much for a timely first impression.
"Ser $lastName," Knight-Commander Rolan drawls, "how kind of you to join us." He watches you breathlessly pant out an apology with crossed arms and an arched eyebrow, which like his graying beard, is bushy and in dire need of a trim.
He's flanked by two young men: one who you recognize and one you do not.
The one you recognize is called Jeffery—you vaguely recall his shock of red hair being among the most recent intake of recruits. He acknowledges your arrival with a stiff salute, then promptly drops his helmet with a loud //clang// on the stone steps. He has to scramble to keep it from rolling down any further.
The Knight-Commander looks on impassibly, but the other templar doesn’t bother hiding his unimpressed scowl. You can tell that Jeffery's legs are trembling inside his armored skirts and try not to wince. The only thing worse than a nervous mage during a Harrowing is an equally nervous templar.
After Jeffery collects himself, his counterpart salutes you as well—crisp and without nervous formality. You don't think you've seen him before. He’s obviously new to the Tower, but unlike his awkward fellow, he’s not some ungainly greenhorn. He stands tall, his bulk packed tight across his arms and barrel-like chest. Tanned, dark-eyed and dark-headed, he reminds you of <<if $background is 'the Circle'>>the local youths the Sisters hireed as handymen in your orphanage. You can easily picture him replacing rusty door hinges or repairing a slate roof.<</if>><<if $background is 'Nobility'>>the rural youths Papa used to hire to work your family's land. You can easily picture him scything down wheat or working a plow.<</if>><<if $background is 'the Alienage'>>the rural youths who worked alongside your uncle and male cousins as day laborers in the city. You can easily picture him lugging sacks of grain on his shoulders or stacking crates.<</if>><<if $background is 'Rebellion'>>the local youths who worked the fields in your childhood village, although the details of such memories are mostly lost to you. Still, it’s easy to picture him swinging a scythe or working a plow.<</if>> The massive two-handed greatsword strapped to his back suits him just as naturally.
“This is Ser Simon West, formerly of Lothering down in South Reach,” says Rolan. “I don't think you two have been properly introduced. He was transferred about a fortnight ago.” He claps Simon hard on one of his pauldrons. "And we're all better for it, eh lad? Got a good head on his shoulders, this one. I'm leaving him to you."
Simon nods his head stoically. You nod back.
"Trendor!" Rolan barks, and Jeffery nearly drops his helmet again. "You'll be directly under the Knight-Corporal as well. I'll step in if needed, but you will follow every one of ?their commands to the letter. Understood?"
"Yes!"
Rolan narrows his eyes. “//Yes?// Are we two mates out on a picnic, Recruit, or am I your superior officer?”
Jeffery’s freckles are stark against the backdrop of his pale face. “Y-yes, ser! I mean—yes, Knight-Commander! Ser! I understand!”
“Maker’s breath,” Simon mutters.
You try not to groan. So much for an easy first assignment. And watching on as Jeffery flounders and Simon's scowl deepens, you once again wonder where your absent Knight-Captain has ran off to.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow2]]
<<notify>>CODEX UPDATED<</notify>>\
The Harrowing Chamber sits at the highest point in the Tower. Its stone walls and high domed ceiling are lined by magnificent stained glass windows, each circular in shape and big enough for an oxcart to pass through. The chamber itself is massive—the size of an entire floor, just not split up into rooms—and completely bare save for a single pedestal in its center. The air is chilled and the atmosphere muted; you could hear a pin drop.
Its size only worsens your feelings of trepidation as the four of you step off of the landing proper.
Something about this room has always made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Legend says that Kinloch Hold is haunted—stained by the atrocities of Tevinter Magisters in an age long past. You don't give much thought to rumors, but the Harrowing Chamber is the one place in the Tower that makes you wonder.
Then again, there's been enough blood spilled here in recent ages to warrant a haunting, too. You catch yourself inspecting the flagstones for stains but of course find none.
Both of the recruits stumble to a halt. Simon lets out a low whistle that echoes long after he's closed his lips. Jeffery gapes openly, eyes wide as dinner plates. You don't blame them—you acted the same for your first Harrowing.
The Knight-Commander clears his throat and the three of you hurry over to where he stands before the pedestal. A shallow basin has been carved out of stone worn smooth with age. He produces a large potion bottle from his waist pouch.
Your skin prickles and you shudder. The recruits are likely less affected, having only taken their vows less than a year prior. Rolan pours the lyrium from the bottle into the basin. The soft, blue glow gently illuminates your faces.
This is how it will happen:
The First Enchanter will enter the chamber with the apprentice in tow, after which no one is to speak unless they are giving orders. You are to don your helmets—if you recognize the mage, you are not to show any indication of familiarity. The mage will enter the Fade using the power of the lyrium, which is not a small thing to accomplish from waking, and therefore the first test. While in the Fade, the mage will be tempted by a demon while you, Simon, and Jeffery watch them closely for any signs of corruption.
“And if the mage does succumb?” Jeffery asks after the Knight-Commander finishes his explanation.
“Then you carry out your duty to the Maker,” Rolan says. “A mage that fails their Harrowing is a risk to themselves and everyone around them. A quick, clean death is the only mercy we can offer. West,” he says, turning to Simon, “if it comes to that, you will deliver the killing blow on the word of the Knight-Corporal. Not a moment before, nor a moment after. Do you understand that, lad?”
Simon straightens and snaps into a salute. His jaw is so tense you swear you can hear his teeth creaking, but his eyes shine.
“Trendor, you'll act as Ser West's second if he is incapacitated. But only on the Knight-Corporal's word. Is that clear?”
It's hard to tell in the glow of the lyrium, but you think Jeffery might be turning a bit green. “Y-yes, ser.”
“Good.” Just then, the sound of footfalls echoes up from the staircase. The Knight-Commander dons his helm and the rest of you follow suit. “Any final words for your men, $lastName?”
Simon and Jeffery turn to you expectantly.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [["May the Maker take us in His hand and keep us from harm."|harrow3]]>> <<set $question = Math.clamp($question - 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [["Do exactly as I say when I say it. I do not suffer insubordination."|harrow3]]>> <<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean + 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [["Our strength lies in unity. Look out for each other."|harrow3]]>> <<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean - 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Say nothing|harrow3]]</div>
Their helms keep you from seeing their expressions, but both men salute and take their places on either side of you.
The sound of footfalls grows louder. No one speaks. Finally, a head of thinning blond hair crests the stairwell's top step. First Enchanter Orathe's face is carefully blank; his simple robes swish silently about his ankles as he approaches the basin. He's young for a First Enchanter, having only just turned forty, but his talent for healing magic has garnered him great respect among his peers. His voice is steady when he greets the Knight-Commander, then you, then the recruits in turn.
You almost don't see the apprentice at first with how closely she sticks to Orathe's back. But after some whispers from the First Enchanter, the girl approaches the basin with nervous, shuffling steps. She's young, perhaps in her mid-late teens, and with warm russet skin that reminds you of Harvestmere. She's shaking like a leaf. Large elven eyes dart between the floor, the lyrium-filled basin, and the Knight-Commander's sheathed sword.
//Ah.// If Orathe has already explained the ritual to her, she likely assumes that Rolan would be the one to strike her down if things go wrong. You see Simon shift his weight out of the corner of your eye.
"Apprentice Calipi," Orathe says. "Are you ready?"
The mage, Calipi, takes in a big shuddering breath. Blows it out. Then says, "Yes, First Enchanter."
"Then let us begin."
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow4]]
<<notify>>CODEX UPDATED<</notify>>\
Despite her nervousness, the apprentice manages to enter the Fade without difficulty.
You, Simon, and Jeffery stand in a semicircle around her. She lays flat on her back on the floor, eyelids lightly flickering as she navigates the world of dreams.
//So far so good//, you think, watching Calipi's chest rise and fall with her breaths. //Perhaps those nerves were for nothing.//
But your rational mind knows that such assumptions aren't wise. This test is far from over—the longer a mage stays in the Fade, the more likely they are to fall to the demon that's been sicced on them.
Ten minutes turns into thirty. Then an hour, then two hours.
Your legs start to tire from standing in the same position for so long. You spy Orathe and Rolan standing at the edge of the chamber. They occasionally put their heads together to whisper, but they're too far away for you to hear what's being said. As for the recruits, Simon is doing exceptionally well, having barely moved besides the occasional shoulder roll. His sword stays strapped to his back with the top few clasps undone for easy access.
The same cannot be said of Ser Jeffery.
It starts with shifting from foot to foot. That alone isn't an issue, but the increasing frequency of the movement starts to become noticeable. His hands are seemingly incapable of staying still, moving from his sword pommel, to the clasps of his breastplate, to the small of his back, then back again. By the time the two and a half hour mark rolls around, he's so high strung that you can feel it roll off him in waves, even through the metal layers of your armor.
In a Harrowing, the only thing more dangerous than a nervous mage is a nervous templar. This wisdom is proven correct when Calipi's body gives a sudden jerk and Jeffery yanks his sword halfway out of its sheath.
"Recruit!" you hiss, voice loud in the stillness of the chamber. "Sheath your weapon."
His throat audibly clicks as he swallows. The sword is slid back into its sheath, but his hand does not leave the pommel. "But, Knight-Corporal, the mage!"
"Is exactly where she should be," Simon snaps. "Get ahold of yourself. You're causing a scene." You can see the flash of his eyes through the slit in his helmet as he glances at the Knight-Commander. Both he and the First Enchanter have paused their whispering and are now staring the three of you down.
//Shit.//
What would Baker do in a situation like this? First and foremost, he’d get control over his men, who seem primed for an argument in the middle of a void-damned Harrowing.
You look down into the sleeping apprentice’s face. A light scolding won’t do: you need to nip this in the bud hard and fast.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[You tell Jeffery that his behavior is unacceptable, and if he can’t control himself he’ll be dismissed.|harrow5]]>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[You tell Simon that it isn’t his place to give orders, and if he does it again you’ll write him up.|harrow5]]>> <</link>></div>
“Recruit,” you say, “you need to—”
There’s a gurgle and a jerk, and Calipi’s entire body starts to spasm.
“Shit!” Jeffery chokes, and his sword is fully drawn before you can order him otherwise.
Meanwhile, the apprentice writhes on the cold chamber floor like a worm atop packed dirt—as if she’s trying to burrow into the stone. Her eyes are still closed, but they’re squeezed tightly shut; her mouth opens and closes, saliva foaming at the corners of her lips. One arm suddenly shoots out to the side, fist clenched, followed by a kicking leg.
//Like she’s fighting something off,// you think, your mouth going dry. You put one hand on your sword and the other on the strap from which your shield hangs.
You chance a glance at the Knight-Commander, but he and Orathe have not moved from their side of the room. The First Enchanter’s mask has slipped—you can see the anxiety in his face as he stares at his young charge. Rolan stays as impassive as stone.
“Knight-Corporal?” Simon asks. He follows your lead, undoing the remaining straps on his greatsword’s sheath with shaky fingers. But doesn’t draw it yet—he waits for your orders.
<hr>
<<if $mean lte 35>><div class = 'choice'>[[(EMPATHETIC) Give the mage more time.|harrow6.1]]</div><<else>>''↬ (EMPATHETIC) CHOICE LOCKED!''<</if>>
<div class = 'choice'>[[The mage is lost. Give the order.|harrow6.2]]</div>
<<notify>><span style="color: darkred">Jeffery RIVAL +49</span><</notify>>\
<<set $jeffRival = 99, $jeffFriend = 1>>\
You can’t take any chances. If the girl could overcome the demon, she would have already done so. The longer you wait, the more likely an abomination is to manifest—this struggle is just a prolonged defeat. Putting her out of her misery would be a kindness.
You tell Simon as much and give the order for the young mage’s death.
Simon grunts and unsheathes his greatsword. His hands clench and unclench around the hilt. He goes to wipe his brow but finds his helm is in the way. He takes it off; the pallor of his complexion stands out, even in the chamber’s poor lighting.
“Ser West?” you ask.
Calipi lets out another weak gurgle. The noise makes him clench his jaw. He won’t meet your eyes. “I… Are you sure we can’t wait a little while longer? She’s just a girl, ser.”
“She won’t be for much longer if we don’t end this,” you reply, not unkindly. You doubt Lothering had many abominations running around.
Simon breaths in hard through his nose. “Right. You’re right.”
Meanwhile, Jeffery has seemingly reached the end of his composure. He tears his helm off and you are greeted by the sight of his sweaty face and wild, bulging eyes. “What are you waiting for? You must strike her down now, before the demon can manifest!”
“Back off,” Simon growls, “you have your own orders, bastard. Follow them.”
“And while //you’re// busy sniveling, our chances of being torn apart grows by the second!” Jeffery angles his sword so that its tip quivers right above Calipi’s exposed throat. “If you won’t do it, then I will!”
It takes all your willpower not to knock Jeffery flat on his ass—Honestly, what was Rolan thinking?—but you’re acutely aware of the weapon still clutched in his hand. “Recruit Trendor, put your weapon down and step aside.”
The mage groans and her eyelids flutter. Some of her curls snare on a patch of rough flagstone, and with her next jerk they’re torn out in a clump. She doesn’t seem to notice. A small trickle of blood seeps out from her hairline.
“I will not! You’re both mad!” Jeffery snaps. “Knight-Commander! Ser $lastName is unfit for duty! Relieve ?them of command and allow me to end this threat!”
“Request denied,” says Rolan.
Jeffery stares, flabbergasted. Rolan still hasn’t moved an inch. Orathe has turned aside with his face in one hand.
Calipi spits up pink-tinged saliva down her chin.
“Enough!” Simon draws himself up to his full height and uses the side of his blade to knock Jeffery’s aside, then raises it high above his head. He looks down at the thrashing girl. “Maker forgive me,” he murmurs.
Calipi’s eyes fly open.
“NO!”
The abomination erupts from her body with an unholy scream.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow7]]<<set $jeffRival = 99, $jeffFriend = 1>>\
<<notify>><span style="color: darkred">Jeffery RIVAL +49</span><</notify>>\
You refuse to condemn this girl to death until you know for sure that she’s succumbed—and from her punching and kicking, she’s obviously in the midst of resisting something malevolent. She deserves a fighting chance.
You tell Simon as much and he responds with a grunt, not taking his eyes off of where Calipi still writhes. His hand flexes on his sword hilt.
Jeffery, on the other hand, has seemingly reached the end of his composure. He tears off his helm and you are greeted by the sight of his sweaty face and wild, bulging eyes. “Are you mad? If she could resist the demon, she would’ve done it already! We should strike now, before the abomination has time to manifest!” He angles his sword so that its tip quivers right above Calipi’s exposed throat.
Simon’s helmet comes off as well, and his greatsword sweeps up to knock Jeffery’s to the side. If looks could kill, the other recruit would be the one seizing on the ground. “You bloody //idiot//, what are you doing? You have your orders, follow them!”
“Void take your orders, mage lover! I don’t want to die here!”
“No one is going to die,” you say with as much authority as you can muster. It takes all your willpower not to knock Jeffery flat on his ass—Honestly, what was Rolan thinking?—but you’re acutely aware of the weapon still clutched in his hand. “Recruit Trendor, put your weapon down and step aside. You’re relieved of your duty.”
Calipi groans and her eyelids flutter. Some of her curls snare on a patch of rough flagstone, and with her next jerk they’re torn out in a clump. She doesn’t seem to notice. A small trickle of blood seeps out from her hairline.
“Knight-Commander!” Jeffery snaps. “Ser $lastName is unfit for duty! Relieve ?them of command and allow me to end this threat!”
“Request denied,” says Rolan.
Jeffery stares, flabbergasted. Rolan still hasn’t moved an inch. Orathe has turned aside with his face in one hand.
Calipi spits up pink-tinged saliva down her chin.
Three things happen in quick succession.
Jeffery brings his sword down with the intention of chopping Calipi’s head off, but years of experience have given you superior reflexes. Your shield absorbs the blow with an earsplitting //clang// and a reverberation that makes your shoulder turn numb.
Two heartbeats later, Simon rears back and slams his boot into the middle of Jeffery’s breastplate. The smaller recruit goes flying, skidding across the flagstones like a skipped stone. He lands on his back, wheezing.
Then, Calipi’s eyes fly open.
“S-ser,” she gasps, “ser, please, h-he said—”
“Knight-Corporal,” Simon warns, readying his sword.
Calipi’s voice cracks; a single tear runs down her cheek. “Sorry, so sorry!”
You jump back.
The abomination erupts from her body with an unholy scream.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow7]]The force of the transformation throws you like a ragdoll, knocking your helmet clean off so that the back of your skull meets the ground with an audible crack. Stars erupt across your vision and you taste blood, but you have enough presence of mind to roll out of the way before a massive clawed fist can bash your face to bits. You twist onto your knees and bring your shield up, but your sword hand grasps air—your weapon lays a few paces to the right, just out of reach.
The abomination screeches in fury.
It’s huge, easily the height of three men and sprouting the limbs of four, all tipped with razor-sharp claws that clack together in a menacing staccato. Twisted gray flesh glistens under the torchlight, like rotting fish washed up on a lakeshore. The smell is no better. The face set into its bulbous head is little more than two black holes for eyes and a gaping, stinking maw dripping drool from gnashing teeth. The apprentice Calipi is no more.
That’s when the fear hits you, and it is paralyzing. You feel rooted in place, unable to draw air into your frozen lungs or look away from the creature as it shambles towards you, using its bottom pair of arms to drag itself across the chamber floor. It leaves behind thick smears of mucus. You feel pity for the Tranquil who will have to clean it up later, then hazily wonder if you’re losing your mind before your thoughts are again swallowed whole by dread. You’ve seen abominations before, have even fought them, but never one like //this.//
You still can’t move. The abomination opens its mouth wide.
“Fuck!” you hear someone shout, followed by a blinding flash of blue-white light that stings your eyes.
You’re shocked back into yourself with a gasp, nearly dropping your shield.
//Horror,// you think sluggishly, then look up just in time to see Ser Simon West lop one of the creature’s arms off. It lets out another screech, this time in pain, and tries to bite him, but he darts out of reach. “Knight-Corporal!” he yells, and kicks your discarded sword towards you. It hits the side of your boot with a clatter. No longer incapacitated, you snatch it up and cautiously advance on the howling creature.
Simon continues to hack at it with his greatsword, but his breathing is labored and the color has gone from his cheeks—the price of dispelling the things’s magic. A claw catches him on a backswing and he cries out over the screech of metal.
You rush forward and bash it with your shield, making it stumble and drawing its attention. Ropes of slime cling to the scored surface as you pull away and you lash out with your sword, but the thick layer of mucus coating its body insulates it from the worst of your blade.
//Flames,// you think, //we’ll never bring it down like this.// But then those beady, black eyes roll in your direction, and the beginnings of a plan forms in your mind.
“Simon!” you shout. “Fall back! Focus on getting those limbs off!” You catch sight of Rolan and Orathe by one of the far windows. The Knight-Commander has him by the sleeve of his robe while the other man shouts incoherently. You don’t have time to dwell on the strange scene before the abomination takes another swipe at you; you just barely manage to doge, then slice off the offending arm as the creature howls. “Jeffery, back him up! We need to throw it off balance!”
But if Jeffery hears you, he shows no sign of it. He hasn’t moved an inch since the abomination manifested—he’s not even trembling, just standing frozen with his sword raised halfway up in front of him. //Is he magicked?// There’s a small puddle of liquid pooling at his feet, and it takes you a moment to realize that he’s pissed himself.
Simon roars and manages to sever another limb, but he won’t last forever—his footwork is getting sloppy, an obvious sign of exhaustion. “Oi, Trendor! //Jeffery!//” he bellows, “Andraste’s flaming //tits//, snap out of it!”
You’re close enough now that you can see Jeffery blink. He looks at Simon, then you, then the abomination.
Then, with a squeal straight out of a hog pen, Jeffery drops his sword and runs.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrow8]]“What?” Simon croaks, watching slack jawed as Jeffery hoofs to towards the chamber’s sole exit. “Coward!”
You bare your teeth and shout Jeffery’s name, but it’s no use. You can’t leave Simon to face the creature alone. There’s movement by the far window—you see Rolan advancing towards the fleeing recruit with his sword drawn. //Maker’s breath, forget him!// you think wildly. //Help// us, //you old bastard!//
But in the next moment, something shifts. The abomination twists its bulbous head around, and a long, pale tongue flicks out from between its lips like a serpent’s, seeming to taste the air. Its beady eyes lock onto Jeffery’s back. Then with a shriek, it scrambles after him in an unexpected burst of speed.
“Shit! Trendor, behind you!”
Maybe he hears you, maybe not. Either way, the recruit never stood a chance. The abomination grabs Jeffery by both ankles and flips him, then hoists him into the air so that he’s hanging upside down. His face is a mask of pure terror. There’s the squeal of metal and sickening crunch as the it wrenches his legs apart then down.
Jeffery screams one last time before his body is forcefully ripped in half.
It’s like a scene out of a nightmare.
The smell hits you first—the metallic heat of blood cutting through the creature’s fishy stench—followed by the wet sounds of viscera hitting the floor. The abomination shoves one of the halves into its mouth and starts to chew. The other hangs limply at its side, a near unrecognizable strip of metal, bone, and meat.
You think you hear someone vomiting somewhere behind you. You aren’t sure. But you retain enough of your composure to realize that the abomination is distracted. You draw on the lyrium pumping through your veins, and pure power shoots through your body like a clap of lightning. You smell ozone and your vision tints blue. It buzzes between your clenched teeth.
Simon comes up beside you. He spits the sick out of his mouth then hefts his greatsword into a shaky attack hold. Like you he’s weakened and bloody—still in the fight, but seemingly on the verge of collapse.
This might be your only chance to take the creature down.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[(LYRIUM) Attack the abomination directly with a single, crushing blow.|harrow9.1]]>><<set $lyrium = 50>><</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[(LYRIUM) Focus your power into Simon so that he can lead the assault.|harrow9.2]]>><<set $lyrium = 50>><</link>></div>Now is not the time for caution—it’s all or nothing.
You focus the lyrium’s power into a single point above the abomination’s head, then with a shout, slam it down as hard as you can in a brilliant flash of white-blue.
The pillar of light tears through the creature’s body with a //crack// that you feel in your bones. It howls. So does the First Enchanter: you can hear him groaning from somewhere behind you, thrown off balance from the sudden burst of anti-magic sapping his mana.
Thick globs of flesh and black blood start sloughing off the abomination to mix with the mucus on the floor. It’s more stunned than injured—it blinks stupidly up at the high ceiling, mouth agape and dribbling viscera—but that’s all you need to rush forward and start hacking.
One spindly arm goes flying, then another, and by the time the abomination comes back to itself, you’ve sliced off three more of its limbs. Your own body screams with exhaustion, nearly at its limit; you stumble, nearly taking a claw to the face, but are pulled out of the way at the last moment by a pair of unyielding arms.
“Simon,” you say, black spots dancing in your vision.
“Not quite,” replies the Knight-Commander. He shoves you back and you collapse onto your ass. About a half dozen meters away, you see Simon laying face down on the flagstones. You can’t tell if he’s still breathing or not.
Rolan doesn’t spare you another glance. He charges forward with his own shield raised and slams into the side of the abomination’s body with the most amount of remaining limbs—the weight imbalance sends it toppling, just as planned. It hits the ground hard enough to make the stained glass windows rattle in their frames. The creature shrieks and writhes, smearing goo and gore, but the Knight-Commander plants a heavy steel-plated boot on its neck. Something cracks.
“Enough,” Rolan says, then stabs the abomination cleanly through one of its wide, black eyes. It lets out a scream, then a gurgle, then falls silent.
//It’s dead,// you think, //Maker above, it’s dead.// You try to stand to get a better look, but your legs are numb and don’t cooperate. The stone under your cheek feels blissfully cool. When did you fall sideways? The spots in your vision grow larger. You watch Rolan pull his sword out of the abomination’s head, then shout something the room. You don’t hear what he says; your pounding heartbeat drowns out all other sound.
The last thing you register is the pinched face of the First Enchanter, the cool kiss of magic, and overwhelming darkness as it swallows you whole.
<hr>
[[Continue|dream1.1]]Now isn’t the time to play hero, especially when you're down a man—it’s all or nothing.
You focus your power so that it flows into Simon in a rush of pure energy. He stiffens, then lets out a noise halfway between a shout and a groan as the combined strength of ten men slams into him. His wounds don’t heal, but you know he can’t feel them anymore—and you also know that the feeling is temporary. There's no time to waste.
"Go," you croak.
He doesn't need to be told twice. Simon rushes forward with almost inhuman speed—his sword is a blur as he begins hacking at the abomination's exposed body. By the time it registers it's being attacked, he's already sliced off three more of its limbs. It growls and takes a swipe at him, dropping what's left of Jeffery in favor of fresher meat.
But the recruit is too fast; he easily dodges blows that would have otherwise been fatal. "Fucker!" he shouts and his blade cuts deep into the abomination's fleshy trunk. Thick rivulets of black blood pour from the wound to mix with the mucus and human viscera on the floor.
Meanwhile, you advance towards the pair with your shield raised, blinking black spots from your vision. Rallying Simon has drained you completely—it's a struggle to stay upright. But you can't pass out now. The abomination thrashes in an attempt to dislodge the sword, forcing Simon to hold on for dear life lest he get dashed against the hard ground. You bend your knees and wait for your chance.
//There.//
Drawing on the last dredges of your stamina, you charge the abomination and slam your shield into its unprotected side. It tries to catch itself, but the bloody stumps where its arms used to be can only wiggle uselessly in the air. It topples over, hitting the ground hard enough to make the stained glass windows rattle in their frames. The creature shrieks and writhes on the flagstones, smearing goo and gore. You have enough sense to roll out of the way before it can crush you.
You sputter and gasp, trying to shout more orders, but your body has reached its limit. There's a sharp cracking sound followed by a wheeze. You look up to see Knight-Commander Rolan with his boot planted on the abomination's neck.
He regards you for a moment, then nods. "End it," he says, and for a second you think he's talking to you, before you see that Simon has managed to extract his blade from the creature's flesh.
Simon raises his weapon. It's shaking so bad you worry he'll miss—the effects of the lyrium must be wearing off—but he grits his teeth and brings the point of the sword down hard through one of the abomination's wide, black eyes. It lets out a scream, then a gurgle, then falls silent.
//It’s dead,// you think, //Maker above, it’s dead.// You try to stand to get a better look, but your legs are numb and don’t cooperate. The stone under your cheek feels blissfully cool. When did you fall sideways? The spots in your vision grow larger. You watch Simon pull his sword out of the abomination’s eye then fall back on his ass with his head between his knees. The Knight-Commander shouts something across the room. You don’t hear what he says; your pounding heartbeat drowns out all other sound.
The last thing you register is the pinched face of the First Enchanter, the cool kiss of magic, and overwhelming darkness as it swallows you whole.
<hr>
[[Continue|dream1.1]]<<timed 3s t8n>>The press of the floorboards against your knees does nothing to ease the ache, but you stay kneeling.
You’ve lasted this long—what’s a few more hours? The moonlight streaming in through the window has been your sole source of light for a while now. Candles form pools of softened wax on the altar before you, having burned out at some point, and you have no matches to relight them with.
Snow dusts the ground at the Prophet’s feet. You recite the words under the statue’s unblinking gaze.
<center>//O Maker hear my cry;
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places.//</center>
A gust of freezing wind cuts through your initiate robes like a blade through paper. You shiver violently, your voice cracking. You pause to clear your throat and the sound is loud in the stillness of the tiny chapel.
<center>//O Creator, see me kneel:
For I walk only where you would bid me.
Stand only in places You have blessed.
Sing only the words You place in my mouth.//</center>
“It’s //in my throat//.”
You jump. Your knees crack hard against the floor and your breath escapes you in a pained hiss.
"Ah. I didn't mean to startle you," Baker says. He comes around to stand by the altar, taking in your shivering, kneeling form. You eye the heavy pelt draped across his armored shoulders with envy. He notices. Grinning, he procures a flask from his belt and takes a sip.
"You shouldn't be drinking in here," you say. Steam curls out from the flask's narrow opening, smelling of something rich and spiced. The tips of your fingers tingle with cold.
"And you should have the Transfigurations memorized by now, but I won't tell the Sisters if you don't," he says. He drags one of the wooden pews closer to the altar and sits, then shrugs off the pelt to drape it across his lap instead. He pats the spot next to him. "Come sit, stripling. I think you've earned yourself a break."
"But my vigil—"
"—will mean less than nugshit if you freeze to death. Most initiates fall asleep at one point or the other—though I fear if you succumb here, you'll never wake up again. Come. Andraste will understand." He lifts the edge of the pelt in open invitation.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Join Baker on the bench.|dream1.2.1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Stay kneeling where you are.|dream1.2.2]]</div>
<</timed>>Your knees pop as you get up from the floor, and you have to shake them a bit to get the blood flowing again. You slide onto the bench next to Baker, and any lingering hesitation melts away under the plush warmth of the pelt. He offers you the flask and you take it, taking a deep drink of hot, spiced wine with an appreciative hum.
The flask is passed back and forth as you both sit in comfortable silence. The moonlight coming in through the window brings out the silver streaks in Baker's dark hair.
You frown. He shouldn't be graying yet, should he? The lines by his eyes are as kindly as always, but they run deeper than they should.
A wolf howls somewhere in the darkness outside of the chapel. Something rustles in the back pews. You go for your sword on instinct but only find the braided belt of your initiate robes.
"Nervous?" Baker asks. "That’s natural. Come morning, you'll be one of us—a full-fledged member of the Order.”
The press of the philter against your lips, smelling of thunderstorms. The lyrium had burned like fire in your throat—you’d swallowed every drop, touched your tongue to the glass and immediately craved more.
You always crave more.
“We all do,” says Baker. “The power to see the Maker’s will done is not without its price.” He sighs and rubs his temple. “Some pay more than others.”
A young elf writhing on the flagstones, fighting a battle already lost. “You mean the mages.”
“Aye. Among others.”
“You disagree with the Chantry’s methods, ser? But you’re Knight-Captain.”
“I am,” says Baker, “and I joined the Order because I wanted to serve the Maker. I still do. It was an easy choice at the time. Was it for you?”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
The words hang in the air between you, blunt but honest. It //hadn’t// been your choice, not really. <<if $background is "the Circle">>Kirkwall’s templars had seen to that.<</if>><<if $background is "Rebellion">>The painted chevaliers who’d slaughtered your family had seen to that.<</if>><<if $background is "Nobility">>Your noble father had seen to that.<</if>><<if $background is "the Alienage">>Your poor, well-meaning mother had seen to that.<</if>>
But you’ve had plenty of choices since then. Maybe, if you had chosen differently—
“The girl was dead the moment she entered the Harrowing Chamber,” Baker says. “You can’t blame yourself for that, stripling.”
The cold that’d been banished by the pelt and spiced wine returns with a vengeance; its icy fingers dig into your flesh, all the way down to the bone. Your teeth chatter. The chapel door creaks open, but you don’t turn around.
You know that once you do, the dream will end.
“Then who’s to blame?” you ask. “Jeffery was a coward but he was under my command. Calipi might have been weak but she was my charge. //Mine.// And now they’re both dead.” You clench your fists on your knees. “My first act as Knight-Corporal ends in slaughter, and I… You need to come back,” you rasp. “Wherever you’ve gone, you need to come back to the Tower.”
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You can’t do this alone—you need support.|dream1.3.1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[It was his responsibility in the first place—you demand accountability.|dream1.3.1]]</div>
Baker shrugs. “Suit yourself. But the Maker doesn’t hand out extra blessings for self-flagellation.”
You roll your eyes. It’s not about the pain or the cold, it’s about the dedication. The //discipline.// “If Andraste could endure the flames,” you say, “then I can endure a few hours of sore knees.”
“Comparing yourself to Andraste? That’s bold, stripling.” He pulls from the flask and smacks his lips together. “I’ll remind you that the Maker’s Bride didn’t volunteer for her pyre.”
“Such wisdom from the mouth of a drunk.”
“And such snark from the mouth of the untested!” Baker laughs. “That kind of fire will serve you well, but only when tempered by a cool head. Take it from your mentor, the so-called drunk.”
You smile. You and Baker may not always see eye to eye, but he has his moments.
//And he’s not really a drunk,// you think wryly, //merely an enthusiast.//
Comfortable silence descends over the chapel, only broken by the sloshing of wine and your mumbled prayers. The moonlight coming in through the window brings out the silver streaks in Baker's dark hair.
You stare, frowning. He shouldn't be graying yet, should he? The lines by his eyes are as kindly as always, but they run deeper than they should.
A wolf howls somewhere in the darkness outside of the chapel. Something rustles in the back pews. You go for your sword on instinct but only find the braided belt of your initiate robes.
"Nervous?" Baker asks. "That’s natural. Come morning, you'll be one of us—a full-fledged member of the Order.”
The press of the philter against your lips, smelling of thunderstorms. The lyrium had burned like fire in your throat—you’d swallowed every drop, touched your tongue to the glass and immediately craved more.
You always crave more.
“We all do,” says Baker, “the power to see the Maker’s will done is not without its price.” He sighs and rubs his temple. “Some pay more than others.”
A young elf writhing on the flagstones, fighting a battle already lost. “You mean the mages.”
“Aye. Among others.”
“You disagree with the Chantry’s methods, ser? But you’re Knight-Captain.”
“I am,” says Baker, “and I joined the Order because I wanted to serve the Maker. I still do. It was an easy choice at the time. Was it for you?”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
The words hang in the air between you, blunt but honest. It //hadn’t// been your choice, not really. <<if $background is "the Circle">>Kirkwall’s templars had seen to that.<</if>><<if $background is "Rebellion">>The painted chevaliers who’d slaughtered your family had seen to that.<</if>><<if $background is "Nobility">>Your noble father had seen to that.<</if>><<if $background is "the Alienage">>Your poor, well-meaning mother had seen to that.<</if>>
But you’ve had plenty of choices since then. Maybe, if you had chosen differently—
“The girl was dead the moment she entered the Harrowing Chamber,” Baker says. “You can’t blame yourself for that, stripling.”
The cold you’d only just managed to ignore returns with a vengeance, icy fingers digging into your flesh all the way down to the bone. Your teeth chatter. The chapel door creaks open, but you don’t turn around.
You know that once you do, the dream will end.
“Then who’s to blame?” you ask. “Jeffery was a coward but he was under my command. Calipi might have been weak but she was my charge. //Mine.// And now they’re both dead.” You clench your fists on your knees. “My first act as Knight-Corporal ends in slaughter, and I… You need to come back,” you rasp. “Wherever you’ve gone, you need to come back to the Tower.”
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You can’t do this alone—you need support.|dream1.3.2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[It was his responsibility in the first place—you demand accountability.|dream1.3.2]]</div>
More movement from somewhere behind you and the sound of rustling fabric.
You’re tempted to look until you catch sight of Baker’s face—or more like his expression, which has turned from benevolent to blank in a matter of seconds. “You don’t know where I am,” he says flatly. It’s phrased as a question.
You sniff, growing confused. “Ser?”
“Where am I?” he asks in that same strange monotone. The flask is gone—another wolf howls outside, and this time it’s much closer.
“I…I don’t know,” you say. “I thought Jainen, but it’s been over—”
<div class = "demon">NOT THERE</div>
Baker suddenly grabs your wrist. The voice is loud; it echoes inside your head like a chapel bell.
<div class = "demon">TAKEN</div>
<div class = "demon">WHERE IS SHE</div>
<div class = "demon">WHERE IS THE CHILD</div>
You rip your arm out of his grip and shoot to your feet. The wolf pelt spills from your lap just as every candle in the chapel suddenly bursts into flame. The stone face of the Prophet looks ghoulish in the flickering lights, her cheeks covered in lichen. Vines snake over the altar.
<div class = "demon">WHERE IS THE CHILD</div>
“What child?” you yell back, but Baker is gone—vanished, as if he’d never been there at all.
More rustling cloth. Something sharp and green-smelling, like trodden-on grass. You spin towards the back pews.
Two figures stand in the chapel’s open doorway.
The first is a man wearing a doublet of burgundy velvet with burnt gold trim. His Orlesian-style mask covers his entire face; bone-white porcelain inset with glass shards. A half-sunburst symbol is pressed into the forehead.
The other is a woman—elven, you guess from her slight frame, although you can’t be totally sure. She’s swathed head to toe in the black lace of a mourning dress. The heavy veil obscures her from view, but her eyes are molten, burning through the garment in a way that transcends the physical. You can feel them boring into you like a pair of hot coals, making your heart race and your mind turn foggy, and you want… You //want…//
The masked man unsheathes the rapier at his hip and takes a step forward.
<div class = "demon">NO</div>
The man hesitates, huffs, but obeys. He sheaths his weapon and crosses his arms in front of his chest.
The candles on the alter wink out, one by one.
The veiled woman stares and stares. And then she tells you to
<div class = "demon">[[WAKE UP|infirm1]]</div><<notify>>CODEX UPDATED<</notify>>\
<<timed 3s t8n>>Something cold and wet drags across your forehead.
You claw at it on instinct, pulse pounding high in your throat.
There’s a gasp from somewhere on your left, then a crash followed by a string of muttered curses. “Andraste’s sweet knickers! Now look what you’ve done,” the man beside you huffs. He kneels to collect the tray of instruments now scattered on the ground, tossing a wet rag on the sheets tucked around your inert body.
You sit up. The cloth dividers on either side of your cot and the earthy scent of elfroot confirm that you’re in the infirmary. Bandages cover your forearms and a large portion of your chest, stretching from one shoulder all the way down to your lower ribcage. You flex but don’t feel the tell-tale tug of stitches. Healers must have repaired the worst of it, Maker bless them. Your head still feels like someone has taken a hammer to it—you vaguely recall it bouncing off the flagstones when the abomination threw you across the chamber. A quick check reveals a thick pad of gauze taped to the back of your skull.
“What happened?” you ask the man, who is now briskly disinfecting the instruments on your beside table. Magic flows from his palms to wash the metal in a cool blue glow. A healer, then; you think you recognize him from your rotations on the Senior Mage’s floor. The pulsing light makes the pounding in your head worse.
“You tell me,” says the healer. He pulls a small stool out from underneath your cot and sits, then takes your chin between two fingers. He pulls down one of your lower lids to better peer into your eye. His skin is soft and clean-smelling, if a bit dry. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Lightning on your tongue, and <<if hasVisited("harrow9.1")>>a pillar of pure light ripped down from the heavens.<</if>><<if hasVisited("harrow9.2")>>the expulsion of energy from one body to another.<</if>> Ooze and entrails pooling on the floor.
A shiver crawls up your spine, but you manage to relay as much as you can to the healer, leaving out the worst of the gory bits.
If he’s disturbed by your description of a failed Harrowing, he doesn’t show it— he simply checks your other eye and puts two fingers against the side of your neck, then hums. “Good. Seems like your brain isn’t too scrambled. One more strong dose of healing potion, and you should be right as rain.”
“What about West and the Knight-Commander?” you ask.
“Alive and well,” says a voice, and you both look up. First Enchanter Orathe stands at the foot of your cot with his hands folded neatly in front of him. “I am too, as you can see. The other recruit and the apprentice were not so lucky.”
//Obviously,// you think, trying not to grimace at the flashes of memory. “I’m sorry about Calipi, First Enchanter. She seemed like a sweet girl.”
“She was,” he says. “I can take it from here, Brandon.”
<hr>
[[Continue|infirm2]]
<</timed>>More movement from somewhere behind you and the sound of rustling fabric.
You’re tempted to look until you catch sight of Baker’s face—or more like his expression, which has turned from benevolent to blank in a matter of seconds. “You don’t know where I am,” he says flatly. It’s phrased as a question.
You sniff, growing confused. “Ser?”
“Where am I?” he asks in that same strange monotone. The flask is gone—another wolf howls outside, and this time it’s much closer.
“I…I don’t know,” you say. “I thought Jainen, but it’s been over—”
<div class = "demon">NOT THERE</div>
Baker suddenly leans forward and grabs your wrist. The voice is loud; it echoes inside your head like a chapel bell.
<div class = "demon">TAKEN</div>
<div class = "demon">WHERE IS SHE</div>
<div class = "demon">WHERE IS THE CHILD</div>
You rip your arm out of his grip and shoot to your feet. Your knees scream and you stumble, but catch yourself just as every candle in the chapel bursts into flame. The stone face of the Prophet looks ghoulish in the flickering lights, her cheeks covered in lichen. Vines snake over the altar.
<div class = "demon">WHERE IS THE CHILD</div>
“What child?” you yell back, but Baker is gone—vanished, as if he’d never been there at all.
More rustling cloth. Something sharp and green-smelling, like trodden-on grass. You spin towards the back pews.
Two figures stand in the chapel’s open doorway.
The first is a man wearing a doublet of deep burgundy velvet with burnt gold trim. His Orlesian-style mask covers his entire face; bone-white porcelain inset with glass shards. A half-sunburst symbol pressed into the forehead.
The other is a woman—elven, you guess from her slight frame, although you can’t be totally sure. She’s swathed head to toe in the black lace of a mourning dress. The heavy veil obscures her from view, but her eyes are molten, burning through the garment in a way that transcends the physical. You can feel them boring into you like a pair of hot coals, making your heart race and your mind turn foggy, and you want… You //want…//
The masked man unsheathes the rapier at his hip and takes a step forward.
<div class = "demon">NO</div>
The man hesitates, huffs, but obeys. He sheaths his weapon and crosses his arms in front of his chest.
The candles on the alter wink out, one by one.
The veiled woman stares and stares. And then she tells you to
<div class = "demon">[[WAKE UP|infirm1]]</div>
The healer shrugs and after one last peek at your bandages, he disappears around one of the dividers.
You expect Orathe to sit on the stool but he doesn’t. His expression is neutral, but there’s something about it that makes the back of your neck itch. The feeling only intensifies when he pulls the curtain to your cubicle closed, effectively cutting you off from the rest of the infirmary. You might be a templar and he a mage, but the First Enchanter has not gotten to where he is by being easy to intimidate—the only person you've ever seen him take direct orders from is the Knight-Commander.
He goes to the bedside table and rifles through the tray of glass bottles and instruments, procuring a health potion and holding it out to you.
You gladly take it from him and drain the contents, then turn the empty bottle in your hands as the potion does its job. The bruises and half-healed cuts along your arms and chest fade away, but the pounding in your temples remains. You grit your teeth and instinctively go for your waist pouch before remembering that you've been changed out of your armor.
"Looking for this?" Orathe pulls your ritual kit from his robes.
You can hear the lyrium vial rattling around inside, and you nearly sigh with relief. But when you reach for it, he it pulls back.
"You don't strike me as stupid," Orathe says. He passes the kit from one hand to the other. "Naive, perhaps, but that will be rectified as you settle into your position. I assume you noticed that Calipi's Harrowing was unorthodox?"
Your fingers tighten on the empty potion bottle. "I did."
"In what way?" Orathe's expression is as unreadable as ever, but he's watching you like a hawk.
//What is this?// The First Enchanter has never shown this level of interest in you, not even after your promotion. But he's still turning your kit over in his hands. You decide to play along. "Knight-Captain Baker should have been in charge," you say slowly, "but with him being in Jainen, the Knight-Commander would typically take his place."
<div class = "demon">NOT THERE</div>
You pause, frowning. //Flaming nightmares.// But Orathe is waiting for you to continue.
“There were no other senior mages present besides yourself, and protocol dictates there's supposed to be at least three. There's also not supposed to be more than one new Templar-Recruit. Granted, Ser Simon seemed like he had at least some combat experience, but Ser Jeffery...”
You swallow. Your eyes dart from the bottle in your hands to your ritual kit.
"Also, about Apprentice Calipi. I didn't know her well enough to judge her magical ability, but it seems like...” You struggle to find the right words, not wanting to offend the mage holding the last of your lyrium ration in his hands. “Well, that is to say..."
"She should have been made Tranquil,” Orathe says flatly. "She //was// going to be made Tranquil. Her teachers gave the recommendation when she was put forth for Harrowing. I brought the order to Rolan for approval but he refused to sign them."
"What? Why?"
Has the air in your cubicle grown colder? It might be from the lyrium withdrawal. You shiver and tuck the sheets closer to your body, then chance a glance up to where Orathe has ceased his fidgeting. That look in his eye sharpens to a point that could run a man through; death, with no magic necessary.
Then, after a tense moment, he asks, "Do you know the Enchanter called Aslaug?"
<hr>
[[Continue|infirm3]]You frown. The name is distinct, easy to remember against the sea of mages you've come to know in the Tower. And you realize you //do// know her—she’s the tall, pale-haired mage you’ve seen on kitchen duty in the Great Hall; hard to miss, given she stands nearly a full head taller than most other human women. Baker mentioned she'd been rescued as a child after being abandoned by her barbarian tribe and left for dead. "She's one of the mages the Knight-Captain escorted to Jainen for the trade, isn’t she?"
“She would have been,” says Orathe, “if she hadn’t gone missing.”
“Missing?” You sit up in your cot, ignoring the worsening pain in your head. “She escaped Jainen’s Circle? How?”
“She never made it to their Circle. She disappeared from the caravan two days after it left the docks.
Two days after it left—so, nearly three weeks prior.
//Ah.// So much for your mentor’s beach holiday.
“Why wasn’t I informed earlier? If Ser Baker’s gone after her, he would have sent word for assistance.”
Orathe doesn’t answer. He tilts his head and studies your face. Waiting.
The health potion broils uncomfortably inside your stomach—you think you might be ill. “No,” you say. “No! The Knight-Captain is loyal, he wouldn’t do that.”
//It was an easy choice at the time.//
Flame and pyre. You wince and bring the heel of a hand to your temple.
But Orathe is having none of it—he takes a half stride forward until his shins are pressing against the side of your cot and leans down into your space. “And what makes you say that, Knight-Corporal? Loyal to whom? Baker has always been one of the more tolerant of your Order. I used to think that was a good thing, and now I am paying for that fallacy. Aslaug is pregnant,” he snaps. “She was to give birth in Jainen after refusing to give the name of her child’s father. Of course, that is no longer a mystery.”
He scoffs and tosses the kit into your lap. “A tolerant templar, indeed.”
<hr>
[[Continue|infirm4]]
Words escape you. Your mind reels, trying to find a foothold through your shock. You weren’t even aware that Baker had a lover—but even if he did, a bloody //mage?// And to be irresponsible enough to get her pregnant? To help her //escape?// Maker. A part of you hopes it’s all a misunderstanding, but the First Enchanter wouldn’t voice such accusations on a whim.
You release the empty potion bottle and grip your kit instead. The smooth familiarity of the wood under your fingernails brings little comfort. “What does this have to do with Calipi?”
Orathe sinks down onto the stool. You’re glad for it; your nerves are fried enough without a powerful, angry mage hovering over you. “Her Harrowing was a test. A trial by fire,” he says, “to see how well you act under pressure in an extreme, high emotion situation. <<if hasVisited("harrow6.1")>>I doubt the mercy you showed the girl will be looked upon favorably, so who knows if you passed. But that’s not up to me.”<</if>><<if hasVisited("harrow6.2")>>And I’d say you passed—the ruthlessness you displayed in that chamber was truly befitting of an officer of the Order. Not that my opinion on such things holds much weight.”<</if>>
He sips his teeth. “There were suspicions that the girl was being influenced by a demon, as weak-willed as she was. It might have already taken root. I couldn’t allow that corruption to spread through the apprentices.” He rakes a hand through his thinning hair and tugs on a few of the strands. “Demons are wily but they’re not infallible. If I’d been allowed a proper investigation… But, no. In the time I’d spend arguing her case with Rolan, she could have infected half the void-damned floor!”
Someone coughs nearby. Orathe clears his throat.
“Besides,” he continues in a lowered tone, “the Tower already has more than enough Tranquil. If she were given the brand, she would’ve just been traded to another Circle or loaned out for enchantment work. And damn him, but Rolan is right: imagine if the King found out our Knight-Captain absconded with his barbarian mage lover. The last thing anyone wants is the bloody Empire breathing down our necks. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Knight-Corporal,” he snaps, “for as long as you’ve been here, you should know how these things work. It was either death or becoming one of the living dead. The girl was doomed from the start.”
Your pulse beats against the sides of your skull. This is too much—too much, too fast. Saliva floods your mouth and you think you might be sick. You swallow and murmur, “A test. For me.”
“For you,” Orathe repeats. He peers down his nose at you, like you’re an insect he’s found squashed under his boot heel.
“And…and Jeffery?”
The First Enchanter’s lips twist. He leans in closer, until you can feel his breath on your face. “Did you really think,” he says quietly, “that I would allow Rolan to sacrifice one of my apprentices without recompense?”
You’re not even sure what to say to that. You feel like reality itself has turned on its head—like the moment he stepped into your cubical, Orathe cut a hole in the Veil and dragged you into a waking nightmare.
//Maker, maybe he did,// you think for one wild moment. If there was enough lyrium in your blood, you might have disrupted his mana, just in case.
You close your eyes. Instead of blackness, you see Jeffery’s mangled body clutched in the abomination’s clawed fist; you smell rotting fish and the sharp iron of blood.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Swallow down the nausea. Calm yourself.|infirm5.1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Rage is preferable to panic. Get mad.|infirm5.2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Vomit.|infirm5.3]]</div>
Your stomach lurches and heaves, but you just manage to stop yourself from vomiting all over the infirmary floor. You wipe the spit from your mouth with your sleeve.
Orathe hums. “Naive, not stupid,” he says, leaning back. “Not weak, either. I can see why Rolan is willing to take a chance on you, $firstName. I just hope he’s right—and that all this suffering wasn’t for nothing.”
And with that, the First Enchanter sweeps out of your cubical without another word.
You stare at the empty stool where he’d sat for a very long moment.
“Flame and pyre,” you rasp. You open your ritual kit, uncork the vial, and throw its contents back in one go.
<hr>
[[Continue|postharrow1]]The nausea twisting your stomach morphs into something hot and molten.
How //dare// he? Calipi and Jeffery were people. And even if the mage was doomed, that doesn’t mean the recruit deserved to die—his death treated like some morbid tit-for-tat.
You glare at the First Enchanter, pouring as much outrage into it as you can muster with your still-pounding head.
But Orathe just snorts. “Naive, not stupid,” he says, leaning back. “Not weak, either. I can see why Rolan is willing to take a chance on you, $firstName. I just hope he’s right—and that all this suffering wasn’t for nothing.”
And with that, the First Enchanter sweeps out of your cubical without another word.
You stare at the empty stool where he’d sat for a very long moment.
“Flame and pyre,” you rasp. You open your ritual kit, uncork the vial, and throw its contents back in one go.
<hr>
[[Continue|postharrow1]]
You manage to wrench out the bedpan from underneath your cot just in time to eject the contents of your stomach into it. Red pours out of you, and for a moment you panic until you remember the healing potion.
“Charming,” Orathe sniffs, leaning back. But despite how unimpressed he looks, he at least waits until you’ve stopped spitting out sick to continue speaking. “Like I said before: naive, but not stupid. And besides your stomach, not weak, either. I can see why Rolan is willing to take a chance on you, $firstName. I just hope he’s right—and that all this suffering wasn’t for nothing.”
And with that, the First Enchanter sweeps out of your cubical without another word.
You stare at the empty stool where he’d sat for a very long moment.
“Flame and pyre,” you rasp. You open your ritual kit, uncork the vial, and throw its contents back in one go.
<hr>
[[Continue|postharrow1]]<<set $lyrium = 90>>\
<<notify>>CODEX UPDATED<</notify>>\
You’re released with a clean bill of health the very next day.
There’s a message waiting for you in your quarters, folded neatly atop your pillow and written in an efficient hand:
<div class = "handwrite">Ser $lastName,
I trust you will undertake your duties as usual. Await my summons.
Knight-Commander Rolan McBride</div>
The implied gag order is clear, but it’s hardly necessary. How would you even begin to explain all that’s occurred to you in the past forty-two hours? The only person who might understand is West, but you’ve yet to see him; he might still be in the infirmary. And you’re still struggling with your own feelings about this turn of events, assuming what Orathe claimed is even true in the first place.
<<if $background is 'the Circle'>>For Andraste’s sake, you yourself spawned from an illicit Circle union! The thought of Baker not only fathering a child in similar circumstances, but abandoning his duties because of it? To drag his lover and their baby into a life on the run, forever hunted by the Order you’d both pledged your lives to? And what if the child has magic—what then? Without proper training, it’ll be Calipi all over again.<<else>>After everything he taught you—all his advice, his ideals, his dedication to the Maker—//this// is what Baker has to show for it? Abandoning his duties, dragging Aslaug and their baby into a life on the run, forever hunted by the Order you’d both pledged your lives to? And what if the child has magic—what then? Without proper training, it’ll be Calipi all over again.<</if>>
If he’d just taken Aslaug to Jainen’s Circle like he was supposed to, the baby would be safe. It would have been given a life and a future, like you were.
//Hypocrite,// the dark part of your mind hisses. But another part still clings to the hope that there’s more to it than Orathe's wild accusations.
So, you speak to no one—not about the mage in the Harrowing Chamber, nor your conversation with the First Enchanter, nor Baker’s alleged desertion—and go through the motions of your usual schedule.
<hr>
[[Continue|postharrow2]]That doesn’t stop gossip from sweeping through the Tower like unchecked wildfire.
“Heard he jumped ship for some lass.”
You freeze mid-step. The report papers you’d been pouring over crinkle as you tighten your grip, threatening to tear.
The voice came from further ahead where the hallway continues past a large open door. You spy two armored elbows peaking out from either side of doorframe; there must be guards posted on the other side.
You’re proven correct when the elbow on the right shifts, and its owner says, “Bollocks! Baker’s always been a bit soft, sure, but I never took him for a runner.”
“//Soft?//” the one on the left spits. “Void-damned robes have practically been running this place since his promotion! Why the Knight-Commander ever approved of //that// I’ll never know.”
The right templar laughs. “It’s because Rolan’s such an unlikable jackass. Balance, or something.”
His fellow grunts. “Well even if it //is// true, I give it a month before withdrawal sends him crawling back on his belly. Unless this mysterious lass of his can piss lyrium.”
“Lovely mental image, thanks. Although, ah, speaking of lasses…”
There’s a snort, and the left templar reaches across the doorway to shove the right’s shoulder. “You dirty dog, you didn’t!”
The force makes the man on the right stumble into view. He’s grinning like a cat who got the cream. “Come off it, don’t act like you’ve never—” That’s when he notices you standing in the hallway. His eyes bug out of his head for a moment, before he gathers his wits and snaps into a proper salute. “Knight-Corporal, ser! Good to see you.”
You collect yourself as well, smoothing out the creases in your report papers and striding purposely through the doorway.
Both templars return to their posts, any lingering evidence of their prior conversation absent from their carefully blank expressions.
//They don’t know how much I overheard,// you think as you look them over.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Question them.|postharrow3.1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Leave it alone.|postharrow3.2]]</div>
A few more days pass.
There’s still no summons from Rolan, but you aren’t surprised. Shortly after you were released from the infirmary, an envoy bearing the colors of a local Arl arrived at the docks and demanded an audience. The Order might be neutral, but the Chantry has thrown their weight behind King Meghren—and telling his allies to piss off would bring you all nothing but trouble.
Besides, they probably just want what every arling and bannorn seems to want from the Circle these days: power and distraction. If a cartload of runes, potions, and skilled Tranquil craftsmen aren’t enough to satisfy, a troupe of fire-juggling mages should do the trick.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You think it’s ridiculous, not to mention demeaning for both the Order and the mages. Why should you all be forced to play jester for some noble family’s entertainment?|bunk2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[As vexing as such demands can be, it’s better to just give the nobles what they want. Magic exists to serve man, even if that service is more pomp than practical.|bunk2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You don’t really care, as long as you’re not the one being sent out with them.|bunk2]]</div>
<<if $background is 'Nobility'>><div class = 'choice'>[[(NOBILITY) You have fond childhood memories of such magical displays. So while you can’t say it’s practical, you have a hard time condemning noble families for seeking out the Circle’s services.|bunk2]]</div><</if>><<if $background is 'Rebellion'>><div class = 'choice'>[[(REBELLION) You think it’s disgusting. While the peasantry struggle to feed their families, these puffed-up comtes and barons waste resources on their petty squabbles and parties!|bunk2]]</div><</if>>“Don’t stop on my account,” you say flatly. “What’s this I’m hearing about a lass?”
The templars squirm in their armored boots. “Just a bit of Tower gossip, ser,” one of them says. “Nothing worth paying attention to.”
“You know how the mages like to talk,” adds the other. “They’re worse than fishwives!”
“Right. Fishwives.”
The templars look at you. You look at the templars, waiting.
After a tense moment of silence, one of them coughs and says, “Er, lots of them are fond of Ser Baker, see. They’re wondering where he is—think he might’ve ran off with some village girl, like a knight in one of those romance novels.”
“Not that we read those! That’d be contraband!”
“Uh, yeah! Contraband!”
Ah, yes. A few years back, a crate of smut novels were smuggled into the Tower disguised as textbooks. You thought they’d found them all.
//Evidently, not,// you think, trying not to roll your eyes.
One of the templars clocks your bemusement and shoots you a small grin. “See? Ridiculous—not worth entertaining.”
“But now that we’re on the subject, ser,” the other says, ignoring the warning look from his fellow, “where //did// Ser Baker go? Ain’t usual for a Knight-Captain to be away from his Circle for this long.”
“He’s still in Jainen on business,” you say quickly. Too quickly. The templars glance at each other, and you feel the back of your neck heat.
You hastily bid them goodbye before they can ask you anymore questions. You’re not even fully around the bend before the gossip starts anew.
<hr>
[[Continue|bunk1]]You decide it’s not worth pursuing. Not from these fools, anyway.
You return their greetings, brisk and polite, and continue down the hallway.
<hr>
[[Continue|bunk1]]While the Knight-Commander is busy playing politics, it’s up to you to manage the lesser day-to-day operations of the Circle—and as much as you’ve been dreading it, there’s one task that you just can’t put off anymore.
The angle of sunlight streaming in through a high window suggests that its noon, and the Apprentice Quarters are nearly empty. Most of the apprentices are in their lessons or busy with their weekly chores, so you’ll be able to work without a crowd's eyes weighing on you. Or, Maker forbid, being asked questions that you can’t answer.
You approach the entrance to Calipi’s dormitory with a cloth sack in one hand and a checklist in the other. Her friends would have already gone through and taken anything they didn’t want to be redistributed or tossed, so now it’s up to you to make it ready for the next mage assigned to the bunk.
You think about the girl from the Chamber staircase, the one who wanted to wish Calipi luck. There are no funerals in the Tower, but you hope she was able to find some small comfort in her friend’s possessions.
The dormitory is filled with rows of twin bunk beds, trunks, and the occasional table stacked with books and card games. <<if $background is 'Rebellion' || $background is 'the Circle'>>The apprentice dorms have always reminded you of your old dormitory back at the monastery—a little chaotic, but something about the messiness brings a sense of youthful camaraderie.<</if>><<if $background is 'the Alienage'>>The apprentice dorms have always reminded you of your old dormitory back at the monastery—that is, until you moved into your own private room. As grateful as you were for your own space, a part of you did miss the chaotic, messy camaraderie of it all.<</if>><<if $background is 'Nobility'>>The apprentice dorms have always reminded you of the dormitory back at the monastery—you’d only ever snuck peaks when passing by the in hall, but a part of you had always felt a little wistful for that chaotic, messy camaraderie.<</if>>
You navigate the rows until you find Calipi’s bunk. You’re expecting the other templar already stripping the bed, but when they turn at your approach, you’re taken aback.
“Ser West?” you say. “What are you doing here? I assigned Bronwyn to help with this.”
Simon’s dark eyes widen when he catches sight of you—you’re not the only one who’s surprised—but he quickly recovers and flashes you a proper salute. <<if hasVisited("harrow9.1")>>He looks… rough. A large bandage covers most of his left cheek and temple, and there’s some bruising peeking out from under the curve of his jaw. But considering he’d been face down on the flagstones last you saw him, you know it could be worse.<</if>><<if hasVisited("harrow9.2")>>He looks…rough. There are dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, and his jaw is covered with patchy stubble. Tired and in need of a good shave, but at least he seems better than he did back in the Harrowing Chamber—when you’d watched him drive his sword through the abomination’s eye.<</if>>
“I offered to cover for her,” he says. “I thought… I just. Wanted to.” He scratches the back of his neck and looks down at his boots.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[You understand—after all, you could have assigned a subordinate to do this in your stead. You give Simon a comforting clap on the back then offer to help him strip the bed.|bunk3.1]]>> <<set $simonRival = Math.clamp($simonRival + 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[You understand his reasons, but you don’t appreciate your orders being undermined. You reprimand him—lightly, nothing severe—then offer to help him strip the bed.|bunk3.2]]>> <<set $simonRival = Math.clamp($simonRival - 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<<notify>><span style="color: darkred">Simon RIVAL +5</span><</notify>>\
Simon blinks at the place you patted him, then at you. “But...I undermined the orders meant for another Knight.”
You shrug. “And I forgive you, Ser West. It’s not a big deal.”
He furrows his brow and frowns. For a moment you think //you’re// the one about to be scolded. Is he…angry? But in the end, he just shakes his head and starts going through Calipi’s trunk.
//What a strange guy,// you think.
<hr>
[[Continue|bunk4]]
<<notify>><span style="color: darkblue">Simon FRIEND +5</span><</notify>>\
Simon acknowledges your scolding with a severe nod of his head, but he doesn’t seem too upset. If anything, the tension in his shoulders has eased somewhat.
//What a strange guy,// you think, watching him unlatch the top of Calipi’s trunk.
<hr>
[[Continue|bunk4]]
You work in silence, methodically stripping, sorting, and checking items off of your list.
Simon keeps stealing glances at you while you work. You know what he’s probably thinking—it’s the proverbial druffalo in the room—but you wonder how much he actually knows. Did Orathe corner him, too? Does he know about Jeffery?
But the few mages lingering in the surrounding bunks are close enough to overhear a sensitive conversation. So you don’t say anything, and neither does he.
Between the two of you, it doesn’t take very long to sort Calipi’s things into sacks. Like most residents of the Tower, she didn’t have many worldly possessions to begin with—mostly clothes and toiletries, which will be redistributed among the apprentices.
You’re flipping over the mattress to check inside the bedframe, when you notice a tear in its side. Tufts of wool stuffing peek out of it. You lean in for a closer look, and realize that it’s not a tear, but a cut—the edges are too clean to have been made on accident.
“Find something?” Simon asks. He hefts a sack over one shoulder and cranes his neck to see what you’re staring at.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Slip your hand inside the cut.|bunk5.1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Leave it alone.|bunk5.2]]</div>"Maybe," you say. After removing your gauntlet, you slip your hand into into the mattress and wiggle your fingers around, trying to feel for something other than the softness of wool.
Nothing. You reach your arm further, almost up to the elbow, but still come up empty handed. If there was contraband inside, it might have already been snatched up by one of the other mages.
But just as you're about to call it quits, a sharp pain bites into the side of your pointer finger.
You hiss under your breath. The back of your hand brushes against something hard and square.
"Knight-Corporal," Simon warns, but you wave him off. You grab the hard object and after some wiggling, manage to extract it from the mattress.
It's a journal—handmade by the looks of it, with a cover salvaged from an old book and stuffed with pages of mismatched paper. It's small but thick and tied shut with braided cords of multicolored thread.
A bead of crimson seeps out of the paper cut on your finger; you put it in your mouth and loosen the cords to open the journal to the first page.
<div class = "handwrite">PRIVATE DO NOT READ!!!</div>
Undeterred, you flip through the pages. Most are covered in a nearly illegible, childish scrawl that becomes clearer the closer you get to the end. When you turn to the last few entries, a page falls out of the journal altogether. You catch the <<link "loose journal entry">><<script>>Dialog.create("Journal Entry"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("journalpage").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>><</link>> and decipher the messy handwriting.
What you read makes your heart sink. //Flame and pyre.//
“That belong to the girl, ser?” asks Simon.
“Looks like it.” You stick the loose page back into the journal and pass it to him.
He briefly flips through the pages then sucks his teeth. “The Knight-Commander will want this,” he says. “Maybe they can pinpoint exactly when the demon started messing with her head. Try and keep it from happening again.” He tries to sound optimistic, but the front is weak, even to you. Everyone knows that once a demon sinks its claws into a mage, death is the only solution.
Still, he’s right. Rolan will definitely want it. If someone else stumbled upon the girl’s journal, it could lead to some awkward questions about his decision to Harrow her.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Follow protocol; give the journal to the Knight-Commander.|bunk5.1.1]]>> <<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal + 10, 0, 100)>><<set $simonRival = Math.clamp($simonRival - 10, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Put the girl to rest; destroy the journal.|bunk5.1.2]]>> <<set $mean = Math.clamp($mean - 5, 0, 100)>><<set $simonRival = Math.clamp($simonRival + 5, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
<div class = 'choice'><<link [[Preserve her memory; keep the journal.|bunk5.1.3]]>> <<set $loyal = Math.clamp($loyal + 15, 0, 100)>><<set $simonRival = Math.clamp($simonRival + 10, 0, 100)>> <</link>></div>
You’re not in the habit of sticking your hand into strange crevices. //Especially// ones made by mages-turned-abomination—who knows what kinds of evil nonsense could be stuffed inside it?
“It’s nothing,” you say, and fit the mattress back into the frame.
<hr>
[[Continue|bunk6]]
<<notify>><span style="color: darkblue">Simon FRIEND +10</span><</notify>>\
You tell Simon to deliver the journal to the Knight-Commander. Not only are you following protocol, but it’s the safest option for everyone involved.
“Agreed,” he says. He ties the journal shut and slips it into his belt bag. “I’ll get it done, ser.”
<hr>
[[Continue|bunk6]]
<<notify>><span style="color: darkred">Simon RIVAL +5</span><</notify>>\
It seems disrespectful to paw through the private thoughts of a girl whose death you facilitated. And something about giving it to the Knight-Commander makes you feel…dirty. Even if it’s technically protocol.
You tell Simon to dispose of the journal—keeping it out of unwanted hands, but also letting the poor girl reset.
He frowns, but still tosses the journal into the sack meant for disposal. “If you think that’s for the best. I’ll get it done, ser.”
<hr>
[[Continue|bunk6]]
<<notify>><span style="color: darkred">Simon RIVAL +10</span><</notify>>\
These are the last thoughts of a girl whose death you facilitated. Something about giving it to the Knight-Commander makes you feel…dirty. But just throwing it away like trash makes you feel even worse.
You tell Simon you’ll hold onto the journal for now—keeping it out of unwanted hands until you can decide the best course of action.
He frowns. “If you think that’s for the best, ser.” Your blatant disregard for protocol is obviously not appreciated, but he doesn’t argue when he hands it back.
<hr>
[[Continue|bunk6]]
With the task done, you send Simon off to dispose of everything marked as rubbish while you drop off the rest in the stock rooms.
The Tranquil attendant on duty takes the sack and item list from you with calm hands. She doesn’t ask what happened to the mage who used to own them. You do not offer an explanation.
But as you turn to go, another Tranquil stops you. He’s an older man with graying hair and drooping blue eyes. The Chantry sunburst burned into his forehead is stark against his pale skin. You’ve seen him in and around Rolan’s office—not quite an assistant, but he does run errands for the Knight-Commander on occasion.
“Ser $firstName,” the Tranquil says. His voice is eerily flat, completely devoid of emotion as all Tranquil are. It makes a shiver run up your spine, but you don’t let your discomfort show.
“Er, yes?”
“Message for you, from Knight-Commander Rolan. You are to meet in his office tomorrow at first light.” The Tranquil blinks, slow as treacle. “Do not be late.”
<hr>
[[Continue|office1]]Rolan’s office is bitterly cold, and you regret not wearing your fur-trimmed gambeson.
The room is an amalgamation of rough stone and dark wood, from the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the walls to the enormous oak desk you’re sitting before. The Knight-Commander has yet to arrive, but his presence is felt in every inch of his space: stern and professional, just on the cusp of oppressive. The hard surface of your chair digs uncomfortably into the small of your back, but you dare not slouch. On the wall above the desk, a ceremonial shield bearing the crest of the Order hangs crusted over with frost.
In the other chair to your left, Simon tugs one of his gauntlets off and breathes on his trembling fingers.
You weren’t surprised to see the recruit when you arrived earlier—it makes sense that the Knight-Commander would summon all parties who participated in that failure of a Harrowing. His armor gleams in the candlelight, and you wonder if he shined it for the occasion. That also wouldn’t surprise you. He seems the type.
You half expected the First Enchanter to be here too. You are relieved that he is not.
<<if hasVisited("bunk5.1.1")>>Calipi’s journal is sitting on the desk in front of him, the loose pages neatly arranged between the covers and the cords tightly knotted. Now that is unexpected—you assumed he turned it in shortly after you parted ways yesterday evening.
“Do some late-night reading?” you ask, nodding towards the journal.
He rubs his cold-reddened hands together. “Don't know what you're on about, ser.”
You hold back a snort. //Right.//<</if>><hr>
[[Continue|office2]]
Thankfully, you do not have to sit there shivering for very long. Rolan strides into the office with arms full of papers and a robed elf at his heels, looking for all the world like he just sucked on something very sour.
“At ease,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. You and Simon sink back into your chairs. “Keenan, the door.”
The elf moves to obey. //Keenan.// The name is familiar, and so is the face: he’s an enchanter who teaches intermediate magical theory, if memory serves. He’s also an outspoken Libertarian—a fraternity within the College of Magi who push for mage independence from Chantry rule. They are only tolerated because they are peaceful, but only just.
When Keenan returns to stand by the desk, you pick up on the sallowness in his sharp cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. He can’t be older than thirty, but there’s a weariness in his gaze that goes beyond the usual exhaustion of an overworked lecturer. His blond hair hangs limp where it’s tucked behind his tapered ears. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a good long while.
//Brilliant, but he walks a sword’s edge,// you recall Baker saying. //There’s been more than one complaint left on my desk about him. Mother Melody’s penned an entire bookful herself! He’s lucky Orathe is so fond of him.//
But perhaps his time in the First Enchanter’s good graces has finally ran out. Baker would know—he’s spent more time in Keenan’s classroom than you have. You wonder what he’s doing here.
You catch Simon looking over the mage as well, his curiosity plain. Keenan does not acknowledge either of you.
“Apologies for the delay, Ser $lastName and Ser West, but it couldn’t be helped,” Rolan says. He sinks into his chair and tosses the papers onto his desk with prejudice—like he’d loved nothing more than to toss them out of the window instead. “This bloody uprising is the last thing I need to be dealing with right now. But the perfumed lords of the bannorn will not be denied, void take them all.”
<<if $background is 'Nobility'>>
You scratch your nose and shift uncomfortably in your seat. Either the Knight-Commander has forgotten who your family is, or he just doesn’t care. You would bet it’s the latter.
<</if>><<if $background is 'Rebellion'>>
You perk up. News on the rebellion is rare, and what you do hear is typically old and heavily censored. That doesn’t stop you from thirsting for it.
<</if>>
“Has something happened, ser?” Simon asks.
“Aye,” says Rolan. “Seems this //Rebel Queen// is causing more trouble than the crown anticipated. She’s already united a good number of peasants in the countryside and is making moves inland. Even managed to turn a few lesser lords to her cause—no one important, freeholders mostly—but it’s shaken up the loyal nobility in a bad sort of way. Now they’re crying blood magic.” Rolan rubs his temple. “And they’re wanting the Order to commit arms and bodies to quash it. Never mind there’s no actual evidence of maleficarum at work.”
Simon snorts. “As if mind control’s the only reason folks would rise up against the Empire. Bloody Orlesians manage that just fine on their own.”
<<if $background is 'Nobility'>>
It’s been years since you left the confines of your family’s estate, but hearing Simon’s words still makes you flinch out of habit. If your father were here, he would demand the recruit’s tongue as restitution.
<</if>><<if $background is 'Rebellion'>>
You bite your lip. Trash talking Orlesians will always bring a smile to your face, no matter how far from your roots you grow.
<</if>>
“However,” Rolan continues, his voice growing hard, “as sworn protectors of the common people against dangerous magics, I’ve dispatched a unit to investigate their claims. Independently, and without bias towards either side, as all members of the Order should be. Don’t you agree, Ser West?”
A muscle in Simon’s jaw twitches. The tips of his ears flush red, and not just from the cold of the room. “Yes, Knight-Commander. Of course. My apologies.”
Rolan sighs and stands up from his desk. He turns towards the window and gazes out across Lake Calenhad with his arms clasped loosely behind him. “Good. But Moira Theirin and her rabble of armed peasants aren’t why I called you here. I assume Orathe cornered you both while I was preoccupied?”
You and Simon look at each other. Keenan shifts against the wall.
Rolan’s smile is small and sharp. “I thought as much. Go on, then. Let’s hear what he had to say.”
You and Simon briefly recount your respective encounters with the First Enchanter—similar in many ways, although rather than being accosted in the infirmary, Simon was lured into Orathe’s office post discharge.
“I could tell he was trying to intimidate me, ser,” he says with no small amount of indignation. “Piled a load of old tomes and magical nonsense on his desk to seem impressive. Wanted me to feel small and primed to believe all the rubbish he was spewing.”
Rolan turns from the window and sits back down at the desk. “Not rubbish, lad. Everything he told you was true.”
Simon’s mouth snaps closed.
Dread sinks in your stomach, cold and heavy like a stone. The revelation isn’t news, but a small part of you still clung to the hope that Orathe was bluffing. You look up at the dark wooden beams crisscrossing the stone ceiling. //Baker, you bastard. What have you done?//
<hr>
[[Continue|officehub]]“You have questions,” says Rolan. “Ask them.”
<hr>
<<visitedLink "↬ Ask about the Harrowing." "harrowask">>
<<visitedLink "↬ Ask about Baker and Aslaug." "bakerask">>
<<if hasVisited("harrowask") && hasVisited("bakerask")>><div class = 'choice'>[[Ask what happens now.|office3]]</div><</if>>
You have questions about that disaster of a Harrowing—and the First Enchanter’s claims surrounding it.
<hr>
<<visitedLink "↬ Ask about Apprentice Calipi." "calipi">>
<<visitedLink "↬ Ask about Ser Jeffery." "jeff">>
<<visitedLink "↬ Ask about your so-called test: the trial by fire." "trial">>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Ask about another topic.|officehub]]</div>“I should be the one asking //you// about Baker and the mage,” says Rolan. “The only reason you weren’t immediately brought in for questioning after they fled was that discretion took precedence. He was your mentor, $lastName. Did you anticipate he could do something like this?”
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[No—you were totally blindsided. He was always loyal.|ba1]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Maybe—he always had a soft spot for the mages.|ba2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Yes—just maybe not under these specific circumstances. Honestly, you’re surprised he didn’t run off sooner.|ba3]]</div>With most of your questions more or less answered, you have a better sense of the situation at hand—and what the Knight-Commander intends to do about it.
“You’re sending us after them,” you say.
Rolan calls for someone out in the hall, and a templar appears to take Enchanter Keenan away. The elf allows himself to be pulled out of the room without protest. You have a feeling he isn’t being returned to his bunk.
“Yes,” says Rolan once the mage has gone. “I would see to the task myself, given the severity, but I’m needed here. The King’s pet magician has been unceasing in his push for us to formally join the Empire against the rebels, despite our Divine-given right to neutrality. Severan is a slimy bastard, but he’s cunning—he’d use this as proof of our inability to control our own men. And I’d sooner fall on my own sword," he spits, "than see Kinloch Hold fall into that bloody mage’s hands."
//Severan.// Everyone in Ferelden knows that name—King Meghren’s trusted advisor from the Orlesian Circle of Magi, who many say is as power hungry as the King is slothful and cruel. It’s little wonder why Rolan doesn’t wish to draw his attention.
“I’m to go too, ser?” Simon asks.
The Knight-Commander looks at him appraisingly. “You’ve proven yourself a competent templar, West, despite your inexperience. You’re loyal and an excellent swordsman. Between you and $lastName, I have little doubt you’ll be able to handle the task at hand.”
//Ah.// You glance at Simon out of the corner of your eye.
It makes sense. The recruit only just arrived to the Tower, so he has no ties that pose a threat to secrecy. Plus, Baker was your mentor—it makes you the logical first choice to track him down, but there’s also the risk of you jumping ship and taking his side. Ickle greenhorn West is to be your babysitter.
//Well,// you think, recalling how easily he sliced through the abomination with his massive two-hander, //maybe not so ickle.//
If Simon realizes any of this, he’s too busy soaking up the Knight-Commander’s praise to let it show.
<hr>
[[Continue|office4]]Rolan grunts. “Don’t think I revel in how things turned out. What happened to that girl was horrific—and a grim reminder of what the Order exists to stand against.” He throws a meaningful glance at Keenan, who presses his lips together until the flesh turns white.
“We protect the world from mages, but we also guard mages against themselves,” Rolan continues. “Orathe claims the Rite of Tranquility would have been the kinder option. But after reviewing her file, I’m afraid it wouldn’t have made a difference.”
You see Calipi writhing at your feet, kicking and punching at something only she could see. “But Tranquil can’t be possessed.”
“They can’t,” says Rolan, “but if the demon was already in her head, it would have seized control the moment it saw the brand, just like it did in the Harrowing Chamber. It was an impossible situation with no good outcomes—even the First Enchanter recognizes that, despite his bitterness. But such is the burden of those who lead.” He looks you in the eye, unblinking. “Do not forget that, Knight-Corporal.”
<<if hasVisited("bunk5.1")>>You recall what you read in Calipi’s journal and shiver. It certainly seemed like //something// had already infiltrated the young mage’s dreams. And what else would it be but a demon?
But even in the face of the Knight-Commander’s cool logic, a part of you still can’t help but wonder…
Your hands tighten to fists where they rest on your knees.
No use dwelling on it now. The girl is dead and there’s still work to be done. You meet Rolan’s gaze and give him an affirming nod.
He leans back in his chair, looking satisfied.<<else>>Your hands tighten to fists where they rest on your knees, but you give him an affirming nod.
He leans back in his chair, looking satisfied.<</if>>
<hr>
[[Continue|harrowask]]
“Ser,” you say, “what the First Enchanter said about Ser Jeffery…” You trail off, unsure.
The Knight-Commander waits patiently, his hands clasped lightly together on the desk in front of him. His face is impassive.
You aren’t left to flounder long.
“He said Trendor was your penance for the girl,” says Simon.
Rolan breathes a long sigh out through his nose. “Orathe has always had a certain way with words. I’ve thought about limiting the number of thesauruses in the Tower library.”
“So you deny it?”
You can see the moment Simon realizes exactly what he’s accusing the Knight-Commander of. He grits his teeth and his ears go red, but to his credit he doesn’t shrink back.
You’d be impressed if your own breath wasn’t currently caught in your chest. Out of the corner of your eye, you see one of Keenan’s ears twitch.
Rolan doesn’t answer at first. He just stares Simon down with that same calm expression, until he sighs again and strokes his fingers through his beard. “You grew up on a farm, didn’t you West?”
Simon blinks. “I…I did, ser.”
“So did I. My family had a pig farm just outside Tantervale in the northern Free Marches. Lots of wolves in that part of Thedas. We bred hounds as livestock guards. One morning, when I was a boy, my father called me out to the pen.”
Rolan plucks a quill from its holder on the desk; he twists it between his fingers.
“The wolves had made off with two sows and an entire litter of piglets. There’d been two hounds on guard that night. One was dead—she’d gone down fighting, Maker knows how we didn’t hear the commotion—but the other was gone. We eventually found her hiding between sacks of feed. Drenched in pig blood and terrified half out of her mind, but otherwise fine.”
The quill stops. Rolan presses his gloved thumb against the sharp nub. Ink stains the soft leather there.
“My father put an axe in her head. I cried for days afterward, because I was a child and I didn’t understand. But do //you// understand, Ser West?”
Simon chews his lip. After a moment, he murmurs an affirmation—troubled, but without heat.
Rolan points the quill at you. “And you, Knight-Corporal?”
You think about how it felt watching Jeffery’s back as he hustled towards the exit, leaving you and Simon to face the abomination alone. “I...think I do, ser.”
“Good.” Rolan puts the quill back in its holder and wipes his hand on his breastplate. “Everything I do, and have ever done, has been for the greater good of both the Order and the Circle. I expect my subordinates to do the same. Let Orathe and his mages think what they like about our motivations. We serve the Maker and His Chantry—they don’t need to like it, and we certainly don’t need their approval.”
Keenan clears his throat. Rolan ignores him.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrowask]]Rolan steeples his fingers together. “It’s not how I would word it, but that’s the gist. Your promotion to Knight-Corporal was largely on Ser Baker’s recommendation. I had no objections at the time: your qualifications are acceptable, and you’ve proven to be more or less effective at your job. But given the present circumstances, you can understand why that decision might be called into question. I needed to see you in action for myself.”
He taps his finger against one of the papers strewn across his desk. You can just make out your name written across the top.
<<if hasVisited("harrow6.1")>>“You stayed clear-headed under pressure and in the face of great danger, even with an uncooperative subordinate to contend with,” he says. “That takes discipline. I gave you high marks for that. What I didn’t appreciate, however, was your hesitance to eliminate an obvious threat. You know what a successful Harrowing is supposed to look like, $lastName, and it was not that. Explain yourself.”
You swallow, hard. “I felt the girl deserved more time. She was still fighting.”
“A fight she had no hope of winning.”
“No disrespect meant, ser, but you couldn’t know that for sure. No one could.”
Rolan strokes his beard. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he asks, “And you would risk your life and the lives of your subordinates on that slim chance?”
You glance at Simon. He stares back.
“I think,” you say slowly, “that a templar who can’t take that kind of risk isn’t worthy of their station in the first place.”
One corner of Simon’s lips quirk up, but the smile is gone just as quickly.
Rolan hums. He slides your report closer and scratches a few lines of notes in the margins. “Understood. I can’t say I completely agree, but I appreciate a ?adultPerson who stands by ?their principles.”
The side of your face prickles. You turn just in time to see Keenan return his gaze to the floor.<</if>><<if hasVisited("harrow6.2")>>“You stayed clear-headed under pressure and in the face of great danger, even with an uncooperative subordinate to contend with,” he says. “That takes discipline. I gave you high marks for that, as well as your decisiveness when it came to dealing with the mage.” He slides your report closer and scratches a few lines of notes in the margins. “When it comes to magic, a moment’s hesitation can be what tips the scales between life and death. I’m glad you understand that.”
You glance at Simon. He stares back.
“The girl was already lost,” you say. “Ending things as quickly as possible was the right thing to do. I just wish we’d struck sooner.”
One corner of Simon’s lips quirk up in a sad smile, but it’s gone just as quickly.
Rolan hums. “Agreed.”
The side of your face prickles. You turn just in time to see Keenan return his gaze to the floor.<</if>>
“Ultimately,” Rolan says, “I see no reason to remove you from your position, Knight-Corporal. Especially not right now. Between the chaos of the rebellion and Baker’s defection, this Circle needs to give the impression of a strong, united front. //Stability//. So, if you want to think of the Harrowing as a test, I’d say you passed.”
The tension balled in your chest releases slightly. After days of turmoil, at least //something// is going your way.
<hr>
[[Continue|harrowask]]It’s the truth—he might have been empathetic to the plight of the mages, but Baker was a good templar.
You tell Rolan as much, and he hums. “I believe you. I’ve had my concerns, but when it came down to it, I trusted him as my Knight-Captain. That trust was misplaced.” He grimaces. “We will learn from this.”
<hr>
[[Continue|ba4]]
You recall the times you’ve seen Baker’s eyes wander—as devoted as he is, he’s always had a bit of a weakness for stiff drink and pretty women. But Aslaug is obviously more than just a passing fancy.
You tell Rolan as much, and he hums. “I agree. He isn’t the first templar to hold such vices, and Maker knows he won’t be the last. But when it came down to it, I trusted him as my Knight-Captain. That trust was misplaced.” He grimaces. “We will learn from this.”
<hr>
[[Continue|ba4]]
There’s always been rumors and doubts about where Baker’s true loyalties lie—and over the years, it’s become harder and harder to defend him. This situation with Aslaug might have been an inevitable outcome.
You tell Rolan as much, and he hums. “It pains me to say it, but I agree. I even wrote the Knight-Vigilant for advice on what to do with him. He suggested a transfer to a nice rural outpost—pretext to a gentle push into early retirement. But then the bastard goes and pulls //this//. I trusted him as my Knight-Captain, and that trust was misplaced.” Rolan grimaces. “We will learn from this.”
<hr>
[[Continue|ba4]]
“What about Aslaug?” asks Simon. “Were her and the Knight-Captain close? Surely someone would have noticed the two of them sneaking off. This place isn’t exactly a lovers’ retreat.”
You scratch the back of your neck and rack your brain. “He mentioned her a few times,” you admit, “but only in passing. Nothing that stood out to me as odd.”
Then again, you’d been preoccupied with your new responsibilities. If there was something odd, would you have actually noticed?
A memory suddenly materializes: a few months prior, when you’d been rushing on some errand or another, you’d seen Baker and Aslaug walking side by side down an empty corridor—nothing scandalous, just two people engaged in conversation. But you remember Baker saying something to make her laugh. He’d grinned; not the wolfish flash of teeth he usually reserves for cross Mothers or pretty Sisters, but something softer. Something genuine.
Maker. Were you really that blind?
“West is right,” says Rolan, “and once her pregnancy was far enough along to where loose robes couldn’t hide it, others //did// notice. But it should never have gotten that far—wouldn’t have, if they hadn’t had an accomplice.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Isn’t that right, Keenan?”
To his credit, Enchanter Keenan does not shrink under the Knight-Commander’s steely glare. If anything, he stands taller. “Aslaug is my friend,” he says evenly. “She asked for my help and I gave it to her.”
“By helping her hide her illicit affair with one of my men!” Rolan snaps. To you and Simon, he says, “Baker and the mage were meeting secretly in one of the classrooms. Late at night, between guard shifts so no one was the wiser. We didn’t find out until after the caravan left for Jainen, and by then the two were already gone.”
Keenan’s ears flatten against the sides of his head. “I’m not sorry,” he says. “The Chantry would have abducted the child the moment it drew its first breath; even your precious Knight-Captain saw the injustice in that.” He glares at Rolan, Simon, and you in turn. The fire behind his eyes is blistering. “But now Aslaug can raise her child in freedom! And I’m glad!”
“Enough!” Rolan barks. “I brought you here to provide context, Enchanter, but do not think that I won’t throw you back into solitary confinement the moment you become more trouble than you’re worth. A few weeks in the hole and the indefinite suspension of fraternity activities is a light sentence—I could make it worse,” he warns, “//much// worse. Do not test me. My patience is already spent.”
The threat hangs in the air, dark and oppressive.
Keenan chews on the inside of his cheek, like he’s physically holding himself back from spitting out even more inciting words. From beside you, Simon quietly scoffs and shakes his head.
You and Keenan lock eyes.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Soften your gaze; he needs to stop before he makes things worse for himself.|ba5]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Curl your lip; show this mage just what you think of his little outburst.|ba5]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Incline your head; it takes guts to defy the Knight-Commander, and you can respect that.|ba5]]</div>
<<if $background is 'the Circle'>><div class = 'choice'>[[(CIRCLE) Look away; there’s so much you want to say, that you want to ask, but the Knight-Commander’s presence keeps you silent.|ba5]]</div><</if>><<notify>>CODEX UPDATED<</notify>>\
After another tense moment, the fight leeches from Keenan's shoulders. You’re not sure if it’s defeat or physical exhaustion. Perhaps both. He eventually drops his chin to his chest and returns to his place against the wall.
Rolan sips his teeth and presses a fist to his temples. “What a mess,” he says. “Regardless of how it started, the fact is that Baker helped a pregnant mage escape. That child will be born sooner rather than later. Ferelden already has rebels and chevaliers tearing her apart, she doesn’t need bloody apostates as well. They //will// be found,” he says to the elf, “and then you’ll see the true meaning of justice.”
Keenan stares at the floor. He doesn’t look up again.
<hr>
[[Continue|officehub]]
Rolan goes to one of the bookshelves and returns with a map, which he spreads out on the surface of the desk. He presses his fingertip against the northern point of Lake Calenhad and traces a path further north. “Baker and the mage disappeared around here. Assuming they’re smart enough to avoid the main roads, we think they’re using these scattered woodlands as cover and heading towards the northern coast. There’re plenty of sailors in the Coastlands who’d smuggle them across the Waking Sea, if the coin is right.”
And once they’re in the Free Marches, it’s just a matter of lying low. Not a bad plan, although you’ve heard of those same sailors taking people’s coin only to sell them to slavers. So not bad, but not entirely without risk.
<<if $background is 'the Circle'>>
Your eyes linger on the spot on the map just across the sea—a stylized seal shaped like a dragon.
//Kirkwall.//
A lump forms in your throat. If Baker decides to flee there, will you be sent after him? You can’t decide if the thought excites or terrifies you.
<</if>><<if $background is 'the Alienage'>>
Your eyes linger on the spot on the map where the Coastlands meet the sea—a stylized seal shaped like a pair of crossed spears over a drop a seawater.
//Highever.//
A lump forms in your throat. It’s been years since you’ve seen your family. If Baker decides to flee there, will you be sent after him? You can’t decide if the thought excites or terrifies you.
<</if>>
“What about Aslaug’s phylactery?” Simon asks. “Why all this guesswork when we can just track her with blood?”
Rolan grimaces. “One of the first things I did was send for it. But our runner was ambushed by bandits on his way back from Denerim—found his corpse feeding the crows and the vial shattered across the road. Bloody idiots didn’t even know what they had.”
Simon winces. “Ah.”
“But it’s not all conjecture,” Rolan continues, rolling up the map. “We’ve made contact with a man who might be able to help. Ser Constantin Sardou is a Knight-Templar hailing from some backwater marquisate in Orlais. He claimed to be tracking an apostate accused of robbing a farmstead in the western Bannorn—a fair-headed giantess, according to the description.
“Aslaug?” you ask.
“Unless there’s more than one barbarian-blooded she-mage roaming the countryside. And what are the odds of that?”
Simon scratches his nose. “And this ‘Ser Sardou’ just so happened to be tracking her at the same time as we are? What’s an Orlesian templar doing in the middle of Ferelden, anyway? They running out of mages over there?”
“Ask him yourself, recruit,” Rolan says, putting the map back on the shelf, then returning to his seat. “He’s holed up at an inn in Shearwick. You and the Knight-Corporal will meet him and exchange information. I don’t care if he’s the bloody Black Divine—we’ll take all the help we can get. I expect,” he adds, voice flat, “that you’ll work together without issue.”
Simon grunts. But at the Knight-Commander’s quirked brow, he straightens and replies with a proper //yes, ser.//
“You’re to gather your things and set out tomorrow at first light,” says Rolan. “Pack light, and if anyone asks, you’re being sent out on an apostate hunt. Provide no details. Given how far along she was, Aslaug will give birth soon, if she hasn’t already. That’s limited their ability to travel—we’ll press the advantage while it’s ours.” He crosses his arms against his chest. “Do well, and you will both be rewarded—I will personally send the letters of recommendation to Val Royeaux.”
Simon’s eyes light up. //Promotions.// With elevated status comes prestige, power, and higher pay—you can personally attest to that.
But there’s still one thing you need to know.
“Ser,” you say, “what will happen to them once they’re apprehended? Aslaug, Baker, and the baby, I mean.”
<<if $background is 'the Circle'>>
“The child will be placed in the care of the Chantry—to be clothed, fed and educated in the light of the Maker. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell //you// that,” says Rolan, “given your own parentage.”
You figured as much, but it’s still a relief to hear. You just hope no harm comes to the child in their mother’s bid to avoid capture—you’ve heard terrible stories from other templars involving infants and desperate mages.
<<else>>
“The child will be placed in the care of the Chantry—to be clothed, fed and educated in the light of the Maker,” says Rolan. “It’s innocent in all this and will be well looked after.”
You figured as much, but it’s still a relief to hear. You just hope no harm comes to the child in their mother’s bid to avoid capture—you’ve heard terrible stories from other templars involving infants and desperate mages.
<</if>>
“Preferably, Enchanter Aslaug will be brought back to the Tower alive,” he continues, “but we haven’t ruled out the possibility of blood magic being involved. If she //has// dealt with demons to control the Knight-Captain, I trust your judgment will be swift.”
The thought of killing a woman in front of her child makes you feel ill. //But she wouldn’t be a woman at that point,// you remind yourself, //not really.//
“And as for Baker?” Rolan sighs, uncrossing his arms and resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. “I’ve known the man for years. Even longer than you, $lastName. It brings me absolutely no pleasure, but I have no other choice but to send him to Aeonar. If a demon has affected his mind, it must be rooted out. But if he’s done all this of his own volition—” Rolan’s face hardens; a mask of stone. “—then he’s a traitor. To me, to you, to the Order, and to the Prophet Andraste. And I will make an example of him.”
Beside you, Simon grunts in approval.
You, on the other hand, feel like you just swallowed a fistful of cold lead.
<hr>
[[Continue|setoff1]]It’s well into the afternoon by the time Rolan dismisses you and Simon from his office.
Simon departs with a hurried goodbye, leaving you to return to your quarters alone. Your schedule is clear for the rest of the day. You wish it wasn’t. Having a duty or task to occupy your mind would be better than the cacophony of thoughts threatening to drown you.
You could always go out to the Spoiled Princess and silence them with cheap ale; strike up meaningless conversation with a stranger, maybe even fall into an unfamiliar bed or a convenient patch of reeds. If only to put off the morning.
<hr>
<div class = 'choice'>[[After all, you’ve done it all before.|setoff2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[Not that you’ve done such things—but there’s a first time for everything.|setoff2]]</div>
<div class = 'choice'>[[You grimace. None of that sounds even remotely appealing—it’s just what you’ve heard other people do.|setoff2]]</div>
But you do no such thing. Instead you strip off your armor and sit on your bed, hands lightly clasping your knees, and stare down at the floor.
//And I will make an example of him.//
You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Bastard,” you hiss, voice muffled, “you stupid, idiotic, selfish, donkey-assed flaming //bastard.//”
Tonight, you will toss and turn and twist in your sheets. Sleep will elude you, and what little you manage will be plagued by nightmares you won't remember: dreams of thorny vines, thick smoke, and black lace.
Come morning, you will don your armor and pack your rucksack. You will slide your sword into its sheath and strap your shield onto your back. Lyrium will burn your throat; your blood will hum with it.
[[And then the hunt will begin.|setoff3]]
<<timed 2s t8n>>//Meanwhile, elsewhere….//<</timed>>
<<timed 4s t8n>>…a young templar runs his fingers over the hilt of his greatsword, tracing over an owl’s engraved visage…<</timed>>
<<timed 6s t8n>>…a grinning dwarf launches herself at her opponent, sending cards and tankards flying…<</timed>>
<<timed 8s t8n>>…a grizzled elf slinks into the shadow of an alleyway, drawing his hood over his tattooed face...<</timed>>
<<timed 10s t8n>>…a pale-haired mage sleeps under an oak tree, communing with her gods in dreams…<</timed>>
<<timed 12s t8n>>…an elven scholar scribbles furiously in his notebook, ignoring the glares of human passersby…<</timed>>
<<timed 14s t8n>>…and from within a remote cavern in the wilderness, a newborn draws her first breath and [[lets out a cry.|end]]<</timed>>
<<timed 2s t8n>><div class = "demon"><h1>Thank You For Playing!</h1></div>\
<center> To replay from the beginning, click on the ''restart'' button in the sidebar.
If you enjoyed this demo, please leave a rating or a comment!
You can find more information about the game, including progress reports, companion bios, and other goodies, on the //Small Fires// <a href="https://smallfires-if.tumblr.com/">dev blog</a>. Come say hi!</center><</timed>>
<div class = "demon"><h1>Choose Your Appearance</h1></div>
You are a <<nobr>>
<<cycle "$body" autoselect>>
<<option "thin">>
<<option "wiry">>
<<option "lean">>
<<option "curvy">>
<<option "thick">>
<<option "portly">>
<<option "muscular">>
<<option "hulking">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>>, <<nobr>>
<<cycle "$skin" autoselect>>
<<option "ivory">>
<<option "light">>
<<option "rosy">>
<<option "copper">>
<<option "tawny">>
<<option "olive">>
<<option "deep russet">>
<<option "ebony">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>>-skinned ?adultPerson with <<nobr>>
<<cycle "$eyeColor" autoselect>>
<<option "blue">>
<<option "green">>
<<option "brown">>
<<option "black">>
<<option "hazel">>
<<option "gray">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>> eyes and <<nobr>>
<<cycle "$hairLength" autoselect>>
<<option "short">>
<<option "mid-length">>
<<option "long">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>>, <<nobr>><<cycle "$hairTexture" autoselect>>
<<option "straight">>
<<option "wavy">>
<<option "frizzy">>
<<option "curly">>
<<option "coily">>
<<option "kinky">>
<<option "locked">>
<<option "braided">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>> <<nobr>><<cycle "$hairColor" autoselect>>
<<option "fair">>
<<option "brown">>
<<option "black">>
<<option "red">>
<<option "white">>
<</cycle>>
<</nobr>> hair that <<nobr>><<cycle "$hairStyle" autoselect>>
<<option "is shorn close to your scalp">>
<<option "hangs loose over your shoulders">>
<<option "hangs gathered into a ponytail">>
<<option "is pulled up into a bun">>
<<option "is tucked back behind your ears">>
<<option "is braided into neat plaits">>
<<option "frames your face">>
<<option "is swept back from your face">>
<<option "is thinning in places">>
<</cycle>><</nobr>>.
<<cycle "$faceTrait" autoselect>>
<<option "A nasty scar curls under one of your eyes like a crooked finger.">>
<<option "A tattoo curls from your hairline all the way down to your collarbone.">>
<<option "A trio of scars span the length of your face, courtesy of a rage demon.">>
<<option "A small scar bisects your upper lip.">>
<<option "Freckles dust your nose and cheeks.">>
<<option "Patches of vitiligo bloom across your face and neck.">>
<<option "Old burn scars creep up the the side of your neck.">>
<</cycle>>
<hr>
[[Confirm|finalconfirm]] Half an hour on finds you both walking towards the canteen with a trunk of sweets held aloft between you.
You still aren’t too keen on this plan—why should //they// get to eat //your// candy? Maman would throw a fit if she knew; Papa would petition the Order for compensation.
But glancing up at Ser Baker out of the corner of your eye, you also can’t help but feel a little anticipatory thrill.
Maybe life in the Order won’t be as formidable as you feared.
<hr>
[[Continue|prologue]]