allergictohalla | (no subject)

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The best-laid plans of Dalish Keepers never do amount to much, when the rest of the world has its own ideas. For all Deshanna Istimaethoriel's agonizing about whether to spare her First or her Second as a secret envoy to the Conclave, she's lost them both now. All roads lead to Skyhold.

Ellana, the Second, ever power-hungry, with her secret tomes of necromancy and her vallaslin pledged to Falon'Din, had leapt at the chance to go before Corentin could get a word in edgewise, and for once in her life, her enthusiasm had paid off beyond her wildest dreams. Corentin hadn't begrudged her at the time. After a lifetime's worth of rivalry and resentment, it had seemed reasonable to throw her a bone and let her take on a task he hadn't wanted anyway. By the time news of the Conclave disaster had reached the clan, she'd already been well on her way to heading up the entire Inquisition.

Of course she'd end up running the show, he'd thought, but there had been affection in that sentiment. Ellana is ruthless, but not heartless; her ambition hasn't ever really jeopardized her soul, or anyone else's.

The Keeper hadn't shared his faith in her. "When the world's eyes turn to the Dalish, they always want to watch us burn," she'd said. "You'll be our spy yet, da'len. Keep an eye on her. However you can."

And so he finds himself on the long and arduous road to Haven, keeping an ear out for any news he can find along the way. What he hears--the headless Chantry in disarray, the priests revolting against the blasphemous Herald, violence erupting more and more frequently between clergy and laity, mage and ex-templar, human and elf--is increasingly troubling, and yet not entirely unexpected.

Not yet.

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News is quick to travel along the well-trafficked highways of Ferelden, but out of habit and common sense alike, those aren't the routes Corentin is using. The Dalish are always better off when they keep out of sight. He'd rather not draw the attention of pitchfork-wielding racists if he can at all help it, even if the woods are full of those eldritch green demon-rifts.

Consequently, he's halfway to Haven before he begins to hear reports that it's a smoldering ruin. But when he does, it's enough to make him throw caution instantly to the winds and demand answers, interrogating the hapless dwarven scout with his heart hammering clear through his robes. Is the Herald dead, then? Who would do such a thing? Why would mages try to murder one of their own, even if she is an elf? Who the hell is Corypheus? The responses he gets are clear-cut enough to set him straight, even if he despairs at being redirected to Orlais. But if his clanmate has established a stronghold in Orlais, then that's where he'll be.

He follows the roads this time, having learned his lesson and weighed the dangers of misinformation against the potential for assault. It's easier to gather gossip this way, lingering on the burned-out battlefields of the civil war and hearing tell of the empress' death for the first time, shuddering slightly at the prospect of what the new emperor might have in store for the nation's unfortunate elves. The fact that Gaspard's policies are the least consequential of anyone's worries right now is bleak indeed.

The final leg of the journey to Skyhold is treacherous enough to make even the proudest Dalish tribesman suck it up and put on a pair of actual boots, and he curses the ice quietly as his elk nearly loses its footing. His choice of mount and his elven garb don't blend in terribly well with the rest of the pilgrims, but at this point, he doesn't give a shit anymore.

He's never set foot inside a structure bigger than an abandoned shed before. He's never seen even a modest fortress this close up before, let alone this indescribable Skyhold beast. It's difficult even to picture Ellana's face anymore when he thinks of her as the owner--the commander, the Keeper, the Inquisitor--of something so diametrically opposite of everything the Dalish are. Is this truly what she wanted when she begged to go to the Conclave in his place? Is this what she imagined when she dreamed of power?

The voice beside him jerks him out of his reverie. It's a question with a very simple answer, of course, or should be, but--nothing has been simple for weeks now, and questions from shemlen are rarely well-intentioned to begin with.

"You know," he says, "I'm not quite sure anyone will believe me if I say Lavellan."

An unexpected answer, to be sure, but certainly not one worth her immediate disbelief. Who among the Dalish could have a greater interest in the Inquisition than the Inquisitor's own clan? She turns a bit more of her attention in his direction.

"Do I recall," she says slowly, thinking back, "that Clan Lavellan roams the Free Marches? How far you have traveled."

A longer and more thankless journey than her own.

"These are strange times for us all, it seems. Are you here at the Inquisitor's request?"

He looks mildly taken-aback that she would know that. He's certainly never known a human who cared to distinguish between Dalish clans at all, let alone know their usual stomping grounds, but perhaps it's just one manifestation of Clan Lavellan's newfound fame. It's precisely the sort of thing the Keeper is afraid of, and it makes him uneasy.

"You don't have to tell me that," he says wearily. They hadn't been as far away as they might have been, but when he'd had to double back through Orlais as soon as he'd reached Ferelden, it's all the more frustrating. But now, at least, he's in no worse of a position to access current information than anyone else is.

The question strikes a nerve not because it's unreasonable at all, but because he's spent the past few weeks growing increasingly nervous about the fact that he isn't here at Ellana's request. He hasn't sent word ahead, not trusting what her human advisors might do with the information. She might well not want him here at all--but the Keeper's instructions had made it clear that the Inquisitor's blessing for Corentin's mission is optional.

"Not as such," he murmurs, "but I assume she could use a friendly face. What's your business with her?"

Edited 2016-12-09 15:51 (UTC)

His tone implies that he is every bit aware of how far he has traveled. He may be weary but he is intact, as far as she can tell. She knows what it is like to have days when that alone can be considered a victory.

Though his answer seems a bit evasive to her, there is nothing particularly discourteous about it. It seems he may be a surprise visitor from the clan, which is mildly interesting all on its own.

"I am here from the Orlesian court to bolster the Inquisition's arcane arsenal, so to speak. Corypheus does not follow Chantry-approved rules," she adds simply, "and I have never done so either."

For the moment her suspicion is that her role will largely involve research, familiarizing herself with all she can of Corypheus and his dragon and figuring out how best to strike against both, but she will find out when next she speaks with the Inquisitor and her advisors.

Chantry-approved rules have never been anything but a hindrance to the Dalish at best, and he's inclined to sympathize with anyone who feels the need to flout them, though he gathers that they've now become meaningless even to the stodgiest and most self-loathing of former Circle mages. But it would be just like Ellana to recruit from among the mages who were apostates back when the term actually applied. In her position, he thinks he'd do the same.

"Well," he says, "if we include Corypheus and the Inquisitor, that makes four of us. She sent for you, then?" If there's any jealousy underlying that question, it's buried well enough that even he can deny it to himself, but he is curious. "What is it that you can do to 'bolster the arcane arsenal?'"

"'Twould be more accurate to say that events conspired to lead me here. I met the Inquisitor very recently at Halamshiral, where she was a guest at the ball that took place on the night Empress Celene was assassinated."

Her horse lets out a small snort of protest when it steps into a particularly deep drift of snow, but it seems to have its footing. Even so, she turns her eyes back to the path ahead as she continues.

"Have you heard tales of witches of the wilds?" Her mother, of course, is a figure of legend. Flemeth's daughters as a group appear in these legends from time to time, but as far as she knows her own name has only made it into widespread stories about the Blight. "I am one myself, though far removed from the place of my birth. I have long been interested in old magic. I seek the forgotten, have learned things forbidden to Circle mages, and for a year had the dubious pleasure of fighting beside the Hero of Ferelden. From his unusual abilities to his reportedly tainted dragon, there are questions about Corypheus that my experience may be able to unravel."

She glances sideways. "My name is Morrigan. And yours?"

It's difficult enough to imagine any Dalish elf attending an imperial ball, let alone being involved--if only by proximity, but the way this Inquisition thing seems to be shaping up, he can't take that for granted--in the assassination of an empress. Corentin doesn't want to think about it. He'd rather try to savor these last few hours of uncomplicated innocence as best he can, before what's left of his worldview gets completely tossed out of a high Skyhold window.

He has heard of the witches of the wilds, in the patchy and unreliable way Dalish legends vary from clan to clan, as if passed on through a game of whisper-down-the-lane. What he has heard, however accurate it may be, has always intrigued him. "I've heard some. You're devotees of Asha'bellanar, aren't you?" Which alone would make them forces to be deeply wary of, but the kind of 'old magic' she speaks of is no more familiar to his clan than it is to the Circle mages, and that's what he's always wanted to know about.

"I'm Corentin," he says, not so wary of humans that he won't reciprocate a polite introduction, especially when he has questions he wants to ask. "I suppose you must get asked all the time about what the Hero of Ferelden is like, then, but--if you're a witch of the wilds, can you really take on the form of an animal? Can you do more than one?"

Edited 2016-12-14 06:34 (UTC)

She lets out the shortest possible laugh, a single note of amusement. "Not quite. Asha'bellanar is my mother."

Her experience with the Dalish varies wildly from clan to clan. There are those with whom she shares a relationship that is quite friendly, even among those she has not spoken with of Flemeth at all, and then there are those wandering Ferelden who may well remember the dark-haired witch who stole, if temporarily, a precious book from them. That many tell tales of Asha'bellanar has been a source of mixed entertainment and resignation for her.

"She casts a long shadow, though I know no one who has seen her on this side of the Waking Sea in years." There is no disappointment about that in her voice, and after a moment she glances at Corentin again and almost smiles. "But the shapeshifting rumors are true." And the cause of many a hushed whisper in her wake within the court, not that they ever needed much of an excuse to repeat stories, true or false. "As I grew up I learned the forms of several animals who shared the Korcari Wilds with us."

Her mother? There are legends among the Dalish that mention the old woman's daughters--not so much the ones Clan Lavellan tells, but ones he's heard from other storytellers at the arlathvhen--but those parts are abstract enough that he's never been sure whether any of them really exist, or whether they're simply metaphors. If he believes her, it's obviously the former, and she has, after all, done him the courtesy of accepting everything he's said at face value. He can do the same. She'd have no reason to lie to some Dalish stranger she met by chance.

"Well," he says, finding his voice. "I have to say, I didn't see that coming." Does that make her a demigoddess, or some such? Is she entirely human? He feels like it would be ill-advised to ask.

"I'm jealous. Not of your...parentage, but if I'd had the option of flying here as a bird or something, I'd have taken it in a heartbeat. Is it very difficult? Learning the form of an animal?"

Her lips twitch, tone matter-of-fact. "I suspect many have not seen my mother until she was already upon them."

It has certainly been true of quite a few apostate-hunting templars in the Wilds.

His questions draw her attention back to him, a mild form of appraisal in her eyes. This is not the first time she has faced questions about shapeshifting and she is always more open to dealing with genuine curiosity, untainted by suspicion or accusation.

"I do not find it difficult at all, although I began as a child and happily spent countless hours observing the creatures whose forms I take on. You must learn to move as they do, learn their instincts. Had I less to bring along I would have preferred a raven form myself. These mountains are tedious at best." She pauses. "Do you intend to stay and assist the cause, or is this merely a visit?"

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