Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Another story, imekari?” Maraas Adaar sighed indulgently. Hearing the plea in his daughter’s voice, he was unable, as always, to refute it. His scarred lips stretched into a smile. “Saam. But then you must sleep.” Talan watched his mouth as he spoke, remembering the tale of her mother removing the stitching. That was not a story she liked. A huge, thick-fingered hand reached deftly for her hair, pausing in its gentle stroking to tweak the small horns protruding slightly from beneath a white mane. Talan grinned up at him from her bedroll, enjoying the playfulness of his expression. “All right, Kadan,” he said after a moment, a laugh in his voice, “Settle in now. Which story will be our last for tonight, hmm?”   

"Ataashi,” she said immediately, excited despite having heard the tale a dozen times. “Tell it again, Papa. Please?” Her voice was muffled by a thick layer of blankets, pulled as they were up to her chin. “It’s my favorite.” 

Maraas nodded. “Saam, I know.” Clearing his throat softly, he began, the depth and cadence of his voice luring her away to a place bright with the fancy of a child’s mind. “Ataashi is our Mother — The First Dragon. Although,” Maraas tapped the side of his nose knowingly, “She did not start as one. No, imekari, she started as something far greater — the sun. She warmed the world with her light, and delighted in giving birth to the earth as we know it. Under her rays, man was born, and with them the sculpting of land. On that land, battles were fought, and blood was shed; yet our Mother’s light still shone.

Ataashi watched all of this from above, angered by the destruction. The earth, whose seas and rivers and plants and trees she’d given life to, were all being soiled  by war, or pillaged due to greed. She despaired, thinking all she had done was for nothing, until one day… A mortal man, whose skin had been kissed by her, was basking in her warmth. He took nothing she gave for granted, you see. Feathers from birds she had warmed as eggs adorned his hair, halla skin protected his own from rain, and clay, red as his own blood, he wore to honor her, for his people paid homage to her by covering their faces in the stuff and turning them to the sky. That is how vitaar came to be. He appreciated what was, imekari, not what could be, and that is why she fell in love with him.

Her affection for this selfless mortal — Chaska, our Father — became so strong that she could no longer bear being apart from him. So, she beseeched Hina, the Goddess of the Moon, the First Shapeshifter, to change her into a being of earth. Hina agreed, and stuck Ataashi from the heavens in the form of a dragon. For if he could love her in such a state, the Goddess proclaimed, he would be worthy of her. Ataashi became the first fire-breather, harnessing the power of the sun — a new one had taken her place, maintained by Hina’s will — inside her. 

Elated, she sought out her love, startled and saddened when her appearance frightened him. “No!” she cried, and her voice, the voice of her mind, echoed between them as if carried by wind. “I mean no harm, Son of Earth. It is I, Ataashi.” At that Chaska’s eyes widened, and he reached out, touching her golden scales with the gentlest of caresses. That touch, Kadan, allowed her love for him to be known to him, for his heart was pure and without judgement. He understood everything, felt within his very bones the longing she had harbored, the anger.

After a time, it became clear Ataashi ached for children, ached to solidify the ever-growing bond with our Father. Of course, being a dragon, she could not bear his children, and so again she called on Hina, and begged to be made human in full. Moved by her vehement plea, the Goddess transformed her a final time, but the spell was a faulty one. It only served to make Ataashi half human; most of Hina’s magic had gone into maintaining the second sun that had taken our Mother’s place. The spell left her with the horns, skin and eyes of a dragon, while her body was that of a human. To her surprise, Chaska loved her still, and from their union, the first Kossith were created  — Your ancestors, imekari." 

Maraas smiled lovingly at his daughter as he finished the tale, which was familiar to him as his own skin. Sadness tinged his heart as he pictured her in his mind’s eye, using the aid of his wife’s description, as he always had. His own eyes, once intelligent and ocean-blue, were now misty and unseeing, sitting uselessly behind charred eyelids. He covered them with a bolt of black cloth, so as not to frighten the babes wandering about, having recently let go of their mothers’ skirts in favor of play.  

His daughter’s face was much like his, Asala claimed, triangular in shape, with a sharp, prominent jaw. Her skin was the same as his — a light gray, like a rain-filled sky. His hair, like hers, was white, though his was coarse with horse-like texture, while hers was softer, with waves throughout, like her mother’s. She also possessed his height, strength, and width of shoulder —  half a head taller than most children in the encampment. She resembled her mother in wit and character, in the height of her cheekbones and the length of her hands. Talan’s eyes, however, were hers alone. It was clear from them that Kossith blood ran in her veins, as the shape of her eyes were human, but the whites of them were gray, as her skin was, and the irises a startling golden-green, reminiscent of her draconic ancestors. 

“Now, my little Ataashi,” he murmured affectionately, gripping the dragon-headed walking staff he had crafted with his own hands and uttering a soft grunt as he stood, his long braid swaying, “Sleep. Sleep and dream of the sun.”
 

Near a stream to the east end of the Tellari swamps, Talan Adaar sat motionless before a dwindling fire. Its dying embers lit her blank face in muted, twisted orange, giving off the barest of warmth. She had grown used to the cold hours before and now no longer noticed the night’s chill. A high wind sent sand whipping upward; she blinked suddenly, startled out of her reverie by the feel of grit in her eyes. Wiping at them with the back of her hand, she stood from her perch of a freshly-downed ash trunk and stretched. Wrapping a strong hand around the leather-hilted valo-kas at her side, she easily hoisted the great-blade to her shoulder and let it rest there, the weight of it instantly comforting. She gave her horse — a stout, dappled gray stallion of Asaarash blood — a warm pat to his neck as she passed, eager to finish her patrol of the perimeter before day break.

The bodies of the raiders her kith had found hours before still lay charred around its edge — intruders who’d been hunting Yavana, the Witch of Antivan legend. A bounty. That’s what they’d been after. Fools. As if six marauders could hope to slay a shape-shifter; as if gold was worth dying for. Talan stopped, and nudged a yellow-haired corpse with a black-booted toe. Dragon fire had scorched his worn green doublet, had burned his youthful, girlish face. She grimaced. The merchant’s son. Dammit. Thrusting her sword into the soil, she knelt, and pulled the single gold ring, dangling from a chain, free from his neck. The boy’d probably had dreams of bringing his father riches, which explained what he was doing here with men who were less than honorable. With gentle fingers, she closed his frightened, staring eyes and stood, pocketing her proof. 

When she returned to the clearing, the fire was well and truly dead. Glancing at the moon, a sliver of light against starless blackness, she guessed her watch was up. She was glad of it, having been up since sunrise. Quietly, and with more grace than one expected of a warrior, Talan crossed the grounds, her long legs clearing the distance easily. “Ashaad,” she murmured, parting her comrade's tent flap and peering in, “Ashaad!” A sleepy grumble answered her. “Come on, up you get. You take last watch, remember?” Her deep, pleasant voice held an edge of teasing. Ashaad, more than anyone else in the company, hated to be roused from sleep. The bedroll moved in reply, and Talan watched with amusement as the Saarebas detangled himself from the furs. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble,” she told him as he clambered out, muttering, “But stay sharp. Humans tend to get bold by night, and I doubt they want to meet the same fate as the boy.” At his questioning look, she produced the ring.

“Vashedan,” he cursed, scowling at the metal band in her palm before raising his eyes to hers. “Well, we might get something for it, yet. You know humans and their sentimentalities — share a likeness with the Dalish in that respect, though Ataashi knows they’d never admit it.”

Talan nodded, clapping him on a massive shoulder. “Agreed, but loss is loss, karasten. Race means nothing when you’re bent over a pyre grieving.”  

The Saarebas gave her a soft look. He was glad that a woman with such a level head was his leader. Equally compassionate and resolved, Adaar made a formidable captain; one he served willingly. He’d given his allegiance easily despite her gender, which had surprised her as well as the others at first. She’d proven herself capable, and to Ashaad’s mind, to the company’s, that was all that mattered. “Aye, captain,” he replied soberly. “Aye.”

The city-square of Seleny bustled restlessly; a cacophony of sound, a body of movement that paused only briefly to recognize the strangers who had created upset. Talan returned each questioning flick of eyes with a nod, neither stoic nor resigned, but something in between. Amongst the stalls of brightly-colored fabrics and gleaming jewelry, Talan looked from face to sun-kissed face, towering over the humans that surrounded her as she tried to spot the contract-issuer. At last she found him, recognizing the silken blue of his tunic among the beige and white garments of the commoners. Distinguished customers flocked his stall, running their fingers over rings of all sizes and gems that would undoubtedly impress any Frelden lord. “Four florins, Signorina, for this is a fine cloth, but for you — Ahh, for you — a mere two florins!” Delighted, she produced the coins from a small leather pouch about her wrist and took up her purchase, thanking him profusely as she did. Her smile, broad as it was, slipped from her face as soon as she met Talan’s gaze. A surprised gasp fell from her mouth, prompting the others to turn and look. They, too, stared wide-eyed. 

“Excuse the interruption,” Talan said easily, smiling in an attempt to quell the obvious discomfort of those around her. “Master Benito,” she called, raising her voice above the din, “Might we speak privately?” 

He nodded, and moved from around his stall with the quickness of one eager for news. “Of course.” Looking into his patrons' confused and impatient faces, he gave an appeasing grin. “I apologize, good folk, but business must be concluded.” A collective groan filled the air. “My wares shall still be here in the morning, I swear to you. Benito always keeps his word, sì?” Pacified, they dispersed in groups of twos and threes, heads bent conspiratorially as they whispered amongst themselves. “Now then,” the merchant murmured, watching the back of a finely-dressed man disappear within the crowd before meeting the eyes of the qunari before him, “You’ve word of my son?”

“Yes, Signore, but it is not good news.” Talan watched hope fade from the man’s face, and braced herself. “I’m afraid your son’s dead. Yavana’s fire ended him.”

“No,” he rasped, dark eyes distant and wet, starting over Adaar’s shoulder as if he expected the boy to solidify out of thin air. “No.” Clenching his teeth he turned back to her, hissing his words to keep the anguish in him quiet for a moment longer. “You’re lying,” he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. “You must be.”

“Guard your tongue, Bas,” Shokrakar growled dangerously from Talan’s left, her canines flashing briefly in warning. “You speak to our leader.” The man paled, shaking with rage and grief both. The captain shot a reprimanding glare in her direction before turning back to the trembling merchant.

“I’m sorry. Truly. I know what it means to lose those you love.” Bitterly she thought of the night she'd fled Seheron — the night Ben-Hassrath had learned of the encampment on its very tip — her home — and set it alight. “An example,” her father had said later, “Of what happens when many reject the Qun.” A literal lesson. Without the Qun, one’s life meant little more than ashes in the wind. A Tal-Vashoth Talan had always been, and a Tal-Vashoth she would remain. She could not abide it, could not imagine being subordinate to those who had killed her friends, maimed her father, all in the name of the Qun. Wordlessly, she held out the boy’s ring, dropping it into a quaking hand. 

“Mucca-faccia!” Benito screeched, heedless of onlookers in the heat of his rage. “Stronza!” Talan’s eyes narrowed, but she kept silent. “I hired you to find my son, and you bring me this! I won’t stand for it! I won’t accept anything less than Yavana’s head!”  

“Killing her will solve nothing,” she said tightly, fighting to keep her voice level. “Your boy will still be dead come morning. You hired me to find your son — I did. I fulfilled my end of our agreement; the condition that I found him in was an unfortunate one, true, but I can do nothing more for you. To try and hunt Yavana is suicide, and I will not subject my company to a danger I deem foolish without a high probability of coming out of it alive.”

Benito said nothing to that, only looked at her with wide, helpless eyes. Talan held out her hand. “My payment, Signore. Two-hundred florins, as agreed.” The merchant sneered, but reached for the pouch at his belt nonetheless. Dropping it heavily into her palm, his gaze pierced her as she made to leave. She nodded curtly. “Ciao, merchant. Chaska grant you peace.”

As the company rode up to the inn, a building of white-washed brick shining in the sun, stable-hands emerged from the shadows of the red canopied roof, quickly snuffing out pipes and abandoning half-empty bottles of wine to assist them. Shokrakar rolled her pale violet eyes at them, instructing to be wary of the mounts; qunari-bread horses were skittish around strangers, and they’d best remember that if they wished to keep their knees in tact.

The front door of The Red Dove was made of hearty oak, and though the hinges were well-oiled, Talan noticed, the sign above it — a beautiful rendering of the bird itself, with a red ribbon clutched in its talons — was not, and creaked violently at the disturbance of newcomers. At the sound, a few patrons looked up, squinting against the sun. Talan’s tall shadow fell across the sun-bleached planks of the inn, but none remarked on it, nor her size as she and company cautiously made their way inside.  Her horns scrapped the door frame, prompting a muffled curse, but it was quickly swallowed by the noise and clangor of the inn. “Welcome to The Red Dove! You’ll not find finer mead nor a softer bed in all Antiva!” 

Talan smiled at the innkeeper, a plump, brown woman with a particularly heavy accent. “I am glad to hear it, Signora. My band and I have traveled far.” She drew the two-hundred florin purse from her belt and counted out fifty, dropping them onto the freshly-wiped bar. “Is this sufficient?” 

The woman nodded vigorously. “Sì, sì. More than enough, Signora. Do you desire baths, as well? Yes? Of course, of course.” She called sharply to a group of young boys then, who were talking amongst themselves in a corner of the room. They flushed, having been caught idling, and went to do her bidding. “Meals, while you wait?” She gestured to an empty table, and Talan gave a broad, white grin in thanks. 

An elven barmaid approached as they sat. A young, raven-haired lass with wide blue eyes. “Welcome,” she said quietly, reddening under Talan’s gaze. Ashaad, Shokrakar, and Kaariss sniggered into their palms at her obvious innocence. Talan ignored them, and gave the girl a ready smile. “What — What will you have?” she asked when she at last gained control of her tongue. They gave their orders, and after a time, during which they played a game of Wicked Grace to fill the silence, bread, cheese,  rabbit stew, ale and honeyed mead were brought out in large quantities. Kaariss finished his meal before the others, and took to telling stories they had all heard a thousand times before, sipping his mead as he went.

“Mother’s Blood, Kaar!” Shokrakar exclaimed, exasperated by the bard’s antics, “Shut up! If I have to hear the same tales over and again, at least try  to make them fucking interesting! Or, better yet, let me get shitfaced first!” Kaariss blinked, taken aback. Abruptly, he closed his mouth and sank back into his chair. Talan patted his shoulder comfortingly, putting the last of her stew-soaked bread into her mouth with her free hand. Kaariss was the youngest in the company, only eighteen summers, and had been traveling with them for just a year. Shokrakar’s occasional bluntness still baffled him.  

The innkeeper, emerging at a bustle from upstairs, came quickly to Talan’s side and smiled at her, her round arms full of towels. “Your baths are ready. Should you need anything more, ask after Glynnii—” she gestured to the elven barmaid, who was currently serving other patrons — “And she shall fetch me.” Glancing at the door, she met the impatient gaze of another customer, and sighed. “Forgive me, Signora, but I must tend to the others.” Talan nodded, and she, too, looked at the newcomer. An Antivan noble, if his golden doublet and jeweled long-sword were any indication. She doubted he used it for anything more than decoration.

The bath-chamber, (which Glynnii dutifully led them to), was large and airy. Sunlight streamed in, glinting off the copper tubs as if it were more than the most common of metals. Stools were set beside each tub, a towel and cake of soap atop them. Shokrakar whistled at the sight, and Talan, though she kept silent, agreed with the sentiment. They’d been on the road for two long weeks, having to make due with soapless rinses in whatever stream or lake they’d passed. To bathe in a tub was a luxury in and of itself. 

The women undressed first. The men, with their backs respectfully turned, waited until they heard contented sighs from both their captain and comrade before disrobing and slipping into the steaming water. Kaariss blushed fiercely at Ashaad’s teasing smirk as he gingerly climbed in, his gangly body folding in on itself in order to fit. Ashaad’s hearty laugh made him slip further still into the tub, burning with embarrassment. Not only was he a virgin, unaccustomed to being naked in front of others, but his preference for men was known among them, and was often the cause of light-hearted teasing. The Saarebas, who knew of the boy’s desire for him, was the worse for it, though he couldn’t — or wouldn’t, without guilt — return his affections. To Ashaad, sex was simply a physical act, a means to release tension. To Kaariss, who viewed the world with a storyteller’s eye, it was the joining of souls. Talan thought Ashaad was right to spare the boy’s feelings. She didn’t want to see his spirit dampened by the confusion that would inevitably follow.

Cleaned and dressed, Talan was the last to leave her tub. The others had long since gone back to the common room, eager for more ale and mead. Gathering her long white hair in nimble fingers, she fastened it with a single leather strap as she walked, her long legs clearing the stairs easily. Making her way to the bar, she waited a moment before catching Glynnii’s eye. Acutely aware of the girl’s blush as she approached her, Talan smiled kindly. “Yes, Serah? S...Signora!” she hurriedly corrected. “Apologies,” she all but whispered, “What can I get you?” 

Talan frowned slightly. Serah, is it? Well well, a Free Marcher in Antiva. Interesting, but no cause for hiding. I wonder… She opened her mouth to reassure the young woman, but a loud shout caused the words to die on her tongue. “Girl! What are you doing, fraternizing with that… mercenary ? You are meant to be serving, not chatting! My wine, elf, quickly!” Talan turned, setting cold eyes on the young noble she’d glimpsed earlier. He was thoroughly drunk; even in the soft shadows of dusk and flickering candlelight, the inebriated gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. Glynnii lowered her eyes and made to retrieve a jug. Her hands shook with the effort to keep it from spilling. Talan watched as she moved meekly to his side, shakily pouring a rich-looking red into his goblet. Before she could move to aid her, the pitcher wavered in the girl’s hands, and wine splattered onto the man’s lap. “Why you clumsy, foolish—!” As he stood to strike her, Talan caught his wrist. 

“There is no need for this, Signore,” she said coolly. “She meant no harm.” The man, affronted and emboldened by his drunkenness, tried to wrench his wrist free of her grip. Talan’s fingers tightened in response, and although he didn’t cry out, pain twisted his face. “Apologize,” she demanded lowly, “And leave her be. Drinking has made you thoughtless, and mannerless, at that.”

He glared at her. “This is none of your concern, Ox. Release me this instant!” At the insult her comrades, who had been watching from their table in a shadowed corner, rose as one. Talan caught the movement with her eyes and gave a minute shake of her head. The last thing she wanted was to start a brawl and frighten the girl and the patrons both. They stilled in their tracks but remained standing, their collective anger almost palpable. She looked pointedly back at the man, deriving a sense of satisfaction from the discomfort etched plainly on his face; she’d applied more pressure to his wrist. “Ahh! Unhand me, damn you! What business is it of yours, she’s just a — Maker!” His knees started to buckle under the weight of pain.

“It becomes my business, Signore, when you rise from your seat with the intent to strike an innocent. There’s no reason for it, spilled wine or no. Apologize.” Begrudgingly, he submitted, muttering his pardon as Glynnii stared wide-eyed at the spectacle before her. Talan released him. She watched as he pitched forward, holding his damaged wrist and gritting his teeth. “It isn’t broken,” she told him in a hard voice. “You’ll live, though not long if you keep inciting fights.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the girl. “Are you all right?”

“Y—Yes, Signora. I — I thank you.”  Looking as if she wanted to say more, Talan waited expectantly, but whatever Glynnii wanted to say trapped itself behind her teeth. The innkeeper, who had been seeing to another guest as the establishment was often short-handed, came in from outside with a young woman at her heels. Surprise registered on both their faces as they took in the man on the floor.

“Quello che è successo?!” Her eyes narrowed at Talan. “All coin is good here, Signora, but I will not have trouble in my inn.” The qunari squared her broad shoulders at the accusation. In a flat, no nonsense tone, she told the innkeep what had transpired. Glynnii, when questioned, nodded stiffly in agreement. “Maker grant me patience,” the woman sighed at last, rubbing her face with a thick palm. “Lord Enza. I have warned you about this, no?” The noble had managed to rise from the floor; he sat slumped in a creaky wooden chair, scowling. “Allora? Partire!” She pointed emphatically at the door. “I cannot dismiss this again, Signore!” she exclaimed with all the vexation of a disappointed mother.

Enza got to his feet, swaying a bit. His words, when they came, were slurred and callous. “This is preposterous! Protecting an elven wench as if she’s worth more than serving and whoring! She —” he gestured with an angry jerk of his chin towards the girl — “Is worth nothing!” Talan resisted the urge to punch him, instead squeezing her fingers into tight fists.

"Out!” The innkeeper's shout shook the silence that had fallen. “I’ll hear no more of this! The girl is essential — I will not pay compensation in fear that she might fall prey to your temper! I will not! ” Glynnii’s eyes had begun to well, and Talan moved to her side, offering the flash of a reassuring smile. The noble, thoroughly chastised, turned with an indignant growl toward the door and left, cursing as he stumbled through the entrance. A young patron, who sat near it with an amused expression on his face,  took it upon himself to rise and close the door after him, shooting the qunari captain a respectful nod as he sat once more to finish his meal. The innkeeper met Talan’s eyes with shame tingeing her face. “Apologies, Signora. I should not have been so quick to accuse you. I had heard… qunari were not known for their integrity.” She gave a contrite bow of her head.”I should not have accepted gossip so easily from the mouths of foxes.”

The mercenary captain nodded stiffly in acknowledgement, but didn’t deem her words worthy of a reply. “Glynnii — I’d speak with her, if you’d permit.” The last was said for courtesy’s sake alone, and all watching knew it. The inkeep nodded, thick brows furrowed. “I would have honeyed mead and watered wine brought, as well.” As she said this, Talan reached for her coin purse and produced a silver piastra, pressing it firmly into the stunned woman's hand. Again the bewildered nod. She turned to the girl, who was blushing furiously. Grinning at her, Talan motioned towards the stairs with an incline of her head. “Come on,” she said, laughing as even the tips of the elven woman’s ears pinkened, “I promise I don’t have fangs behind my teeth.” As they climbed the stairs, Ashaad’s laugh met her ears. She rolled her eyes, knowing he had already placed a bet on how long he thought it would take her to get the girl into bed.

The room, hers alone for the night, had already been tended to while she had been in the common room. A fire blazed high in the white stone hearth, casting the walls in orange shadow. The bed, large and canopied, called to Talan like a siren. After weeks of traveling, she wanted nothing more than to fall into the down and sleep, but the sound of the door creaking shut behind her reminded her she had a matter to tend to. She turned to the girl. “Will you sit with me?” A nod, complaisant, but eager despite the timidness of the gesture. Good. It’ll make figuring her circumstances easier . Going over to the fire, she fell into a cushioned armchair with a heavy sigh. Glynnii watched her for a moment before taking the seat opposite. They said nothing for a time, each lost in their own thoughts. When at last their drinks were brought to them, Talan noticed pastries on accompanying plates. 

“Mistress Amalfi begs your pardon again, ser qunari,” the young elven man said softly, handing her the mead and plate. Talan nodded and thanked him, watching as Glynnii was given her wine and sweet. “And I beg yours, Glynnii. The mistress is… well, you know as well as I how she is.” He glanced at the gray-skinned woman sitting beside his friend, and flushed when she lowered her cup to look at him. Maker, but she’s frightening! Why Glynnii would accept to be alone with her — Falael stopped that thought, and squared his shoulders as best he could under her golden-green gaze. What unsettled him most was the odd color of her irises, and behind them, gray where there should be white; he had never seen a qunari with that feature. A finely-sculpted white brow raised slightly, and he realized he’d been staring. Flushing, he muttered an apology and left. 

“And I suppose,” Talan began with an edge of humor in her voice, looking from the door to her companion with a smile curving her lips, “That my appearance is what made you stare at me all evening long, so intently, as well?”  The girl reddened. Talan laughed good-naturedly. “Your voice may be quiet, but your gaze certainly is not.”   

“I — I’m sorry,” Glynnii murmured, ducking her head to regard the qunari through dark lashes. “It’s just that… I’d never seen one of your kind with eyes such as yours, and I — ” she stopped, biting her full bottom lip. The mercenary captain watched curiously as the girl’s long fingers tightened around the rim of her plate. 

“Yes?” Talan prompted, her voice warm. The younger woman said nothing for a few heartbeats, instead busying herself with finishing her pastry. Talan did the same, and waited.

“I found you beautiful,” she said at last, flushing again. “And then you intervened to stop Lord Enza's hand... You are noble, Serah.” Noble!  Talan wanted to laugh. The girl knew nothing of her, of the rage that sang in her blood, born from years of mistreatment, of discrimination. She knew nothing of the lives Talan had taken, cold-eyed and unfeeling, only to steal a coin purse or loaf of bread. “And now,” she continued, pulling the warrior from her dark thoughts, “Now I sit beside you, a lowly elven barmaid of no consequence, drinking wine and eating pastries!” In her befuddlement, her voice rose in pitch, and, seeing Talan’s raised brow, bit her lip again. “If — if you wish to bed me, Serah, then you may. I don’t have anything else to offer in thanks, and I… I would welcome it.” Her companion stared at her, opened her mouth, only to close it again as Glynnii spoke, cutting whatever half rebuke she assumed Talan was about to utter. “I know I need not offer myself like this… But I can sense you’re not like the others, who turn me into a vessel to empty their heavy, thankless selves into. Or perhaps you are,” she amended lightly with a small shrug. “Though the difference is I wouldn’t mind you giving me your sadness, because tonight, I could give you mine, too.” 

“You don’t need to do this,” Talan said, softly, so that the spell of melancholic understanding that existed between them, charged now with a hunger to lose one’s self in the other, stayed. “I didn’t bring you here to bed you.”

Glynnii smiled softly. “I know that now,” she murmured in her soft, almost wistful, voice, placing her empty plate and cup on the table between them. Talan mirrored her. “But even so, I want this to exist between us. I want to remember you.” Talan said nothing, grateful that she felt no pull to fill the air with meaningless words. Glynnii stood from her chair, and moved to stand in front of the woman who called to her so quietly. “Tell me your name.” Another smile was given as it was said. “Talan…” She liked the way the name felt in her mouth, like a press of lips to a sea-worn stone. Glynnii began undoing her apron, but a pair of large, warm hands halted her, cradling her hips and drawing her near. 

“Let me.” Glynnii let her. She liked the way the qunari’s hands followed the natural downward path of her dress, and then knelt to help her step out of it. She liked the ghost of a full mouth on her flesh. She had a feeling the mercenary had done this with countless women. She didn’t mind — so had she. As she turned to face her, fully naked, she caught Talan’s expression, and felt her cheeks warm. Talan herself throbbed at the sight before her; the pale, unblemished skin, pert breasts and slim hips. She watched as the girl took a step forward, and, standing on her toes, kissed her firmly on the mouth.

As they lay silent and sated, Talan recalled her reason for bringing the girl to her room. Glynnii — who was absent-mindedly tracing the blood-red ink of the dragon tattoo that spanned from the qunari’s left shoulder to her wrist — felt the intense gaze from her and looked up, smiling a little. “What is it, Serah? Have I not pleasured you thoroughly enough?” Her voice was playful, but Talan could still hear the underlying unease of one who was often reproached for such things. 

Talan touched her brow, and drew a calloused, though gentle thumb across it, as if she could physically erase the girl’s worry. “No,” she said smoothly, retracting her hand to place it on the elf’s hip, “Nothing like that.” She remembered Glynnii’s talented tongue, her dexterous fingers kneading her thighs as she had tasted her, and throbbed again. “You did well. Tell me something. Why did you so hastily correct yourself, when you first called me Serah?” 

“Mistress Amalfi does not look kindly on Free Marchers who have no coin. She looks even less kindly on elves who haven’t even a copper.” The mercenary captain gave an indignant grunt at that, but otherwise remained silent. “She’s tried to instill Antivan customs in me, you see, to “dignify me,” or so she claims. Repayment, she said, for taking me in when I’d shown up at her door hungry and stinking from months in a ship’s hold. I foolishly thought myself free — finally free —  of the shackles of oppression I’d strained so hard against in Kirkwall’s alienage.” The younger woman snorted derisively. “Now I’m under Mistress Amalfi’s thumb. From one injustice to another.” She shook her head. "Such is the way of life for outsiders," she sighed, "Always the recipient of scorn, no matter the character of the one reviving it." 

The qunari nodded in comradery as much as agreement. "Where would you go then, if given the chance?" 

"I'd seek out the Dalish. My mother... raised me on stories of them." She laughed once, and it was the laugh of one who was remembering something sweet, but the memory was tinged with bitter circumstance. "I'd beg for a tale every night before bed. Some clans accept city-dwellers, I've heard."

Talan nodded. She had heard the same, though she did not know which clans took city elves and which did not. In her mind, the separation of the two made no sense. Both were of the same blood; the only barriers to their merging were place of birth and Dalish pride, which should mean nothing in relevance to their down-trodden blood-kin. "You'll need coin. Do you have any hidden?" Glynnii nodded, confiding that she kept her meager earnings in the lining of her left boot. The mercenary omitted that that was the first place any outlaw worth their salt would look. If the girl had enough, she wouldn't have to worry. Thirty piastras and one gold florin. Not nearly enough. Without a word, Talan rose and strode to the dresser where her armor, weapons, and coin purse lay. Counting out ninety florins, she turned and went to the edge of the bed, hand outstretched. It would only leave her with sixty pieces. 

Glynnii's eyes widened, as much from the qunari's toned, naked body as the amount of money she offered. "I can't, Serah," she said softly. 

"You can. I'll find work for the company easily enough. People are always looking for groups like mine — we have no official affiliation, and that makes us invaluable to those who choose to hire us. Do you see?" The young elf clearly did not. It was just as well. Talan gave her a patient smile. "Here." A slim, pale hand reached out uncertainty, pausing a few moments before wrapping around the coins and drawing back. 

"Thank you," Glynnii whispered.

In the morning, Talan woke to the smell of coffee and the broad smile of her bed partner the night before. She drank the dark brew happily, listening amusedly to the girl chatter on about the hopes of her future, until the ramblings were cut off with "Oh! Andraste, I almost forgot. This was delivered by pigeon to you this morning." Glynnii fished in her apron pocket, producing a neatly folded letter.

"Oh?" The mercenary straightened in bed, and put her coffee aside. Ashaad and Shokrakar would give her such shit for sleeping in; she was usually the first to rise. Shaking her head mirthfully at the endless teasing she knew she would receive — because they would know the reason she'd slept in — she looked at the letter's seal. The Templar Order. With a sigh, she opened the letter and began to read:

To the Leader of the Esteemed Valo-Kas Mercenary Company, Talan Adaar.

The Templar Order humbly requests the service of your blades at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, two months from this post.

Her Holiness has organized a Divine Conclave with the hope that the war between the templars and mages might end peacefully.

It is Her Perfection's expressed wish that all companies who hold no present affiliations attend as a mutual third party.

You will be handsomely compensated. 

~Knight-Commander Tavish of Denerim, Faithful Servant of Divine Justinia V.

Talan looked up from the letter. Glynnii was frowning. "What is it?" 

"A new contract, though I doubt this one will end well." To that cryptic response the young woman's brow only furrowed further, but the way the mercenary was looking at her made her keep silent. Instead, she watched in confusion as Talan rose and quickly dressed, once again becoming the formidable warrior she had met the night before. 

Chapter Text

The last word of the missive hung heavily in the air, fading reluctantly as the din and clatter of the inn swallowed it. Talan raised her eyes, meeting the concerned looks of each companion in turn. "A conclave?" Shokrakar was the first to speak, her disdain for human politics evident in her voice. "Chaska's Sweet Tongue, you can't be serious! You know this won't end well! It'll be a bloodbath. Mages will always struggle against the leashes of Templars — as Saarebas fight the Arvaarad — it is the way of things." Shokrakar shook her head. "No conclave will quell centuries of animosity; it cannot be done."  This last was spoken in Qunlat, tersely. It was the way of all qunari outside the Qun; slipping into one's native tongue was meant to halt another's speech and draw attention, or to express a severity of situation that couldn't as easily be dismissed, as it would be were it uttered in Common instead.

"Pashaara, shanedan," Talan said calmly, holding up a hand. Folding the letter neatly, she returned it to the small leather satchel tied to her belt. "It is not the way of hot blood to cool over night; but cool it will, just as a fire dwindles."  Ashaad and Kaariss nodded over their breakfasts, but Shokrakar's scowl only deepened. The captain sighed as she took a seat at the table. Unbuckling the leather harness containing her great-sword from her back, she placed it carefully aside before turning her attention back to her company. "We are mercenaries; our lives are dictated by coin."  She looked pointedly at Shokrakar. "But that does not mean we cannot also have a sense of morality, now. The time has long past since we could not afford to think in such a way."  Violet eyes lowered at that, and Ashaad grunted in affirmation. "We are going to this conclave," Talan said firmly. Three nods followed her words. 

A silence fell as the captain ate her breakfast; it wasn't until she'd licked her fingers free of crumbs that her companions began to speak again. "I think it speaks well of them," Kaariss murmured, tensing as if he expected to be rebuked. "They're trying to forge another path, to break a cycle. It's admirable, and more than I can say for the Qun." Talan smiled fully at the sanguine young man; she was glad to see she wasn't alone in seeing the importance of what was to come. 

"Young whelp," Shokrakar grumbled. "Maraas imekari." 

"Raas," Ashaad cut in, giving her an icy glare before turning soft blue eyes to the boy. "He speaks well." The archer colored, as he always did under the other man's gaze. Ducking his head, he hid his angular face in a mass of thick, dark-yellow hair, the length of it creating a curtain around him. His light-red eyes found the Saarebas' face through thick lashes, and he smiled shyly in thanks. Ashaad's broad, tanned face broke into a grin, and he winked at the boy, his chuckle sounding like a roll of thunder reverberating in his chest. 

Talan drained her mug of water in a gulp and made to stand. "If you two are finished, I'd like us to find a ship before winter sets in."

Ashaad lifted a thick black brow and smirked at her. "Oh-ho! I see. What, you aren't going to tell us about your night with that elven girl? Must've been something," he teased, leaning back in his chair and crossing his massive arms over his chest, "To have you miss sunrise." 

"There's nothing to tell," she muttered, strapping her sword to her back again. She wasn't one to boast of her conquests — she shuddered to call them that — to cheapen the women she slept with in such a way was reprehensible to her mind. A mutual understanding had to be known; clear consent firmly established. It was the sharing of bodies, the respite of warmth she received, however brief, that staved off the demons in her head. It quieted the loneliness for a time, and for that Talan would do nearly anything. Seeing the shift in her expression, the Saarebas sighed heavily and began to gather his weapons with grim efficiency. When the captain was in one of her dark moods, it was best to start moving. It gave her less of a chance to brood. Kaar and Shokrakar followed suit without comment, he was glad to see.

Outside, as they readied their horses, Glynnii appeared, rounding the corner of the stable at a run. Seeing the mercenary captain, she skidded to a halt, nearly dropping the bundle in her hands. Glancing up from tightening the girth of Anaan's saddle, Talan raised a brow at her, taking in the girl's heaving chest and wide eyes. "Glynnii? Are you all right, has something happened?" 

"No, I — It's only that I'd thought I'd missed you, and I — Here," she managed breathlessly, holding out the bundle. "It's coffee, for your journey. There's three pounds, so it should last until you stop at port," she finished, a shy smile on her lips. Father bless this girl, Talan thought, wrapping her in a hug. A surprised gasp fell from the other woman's mouth, but she shifted, transferring the package to one hand in order to somewhat return the qunari's embrace. "It — It is only coffee, Serah," she murmured into her chest. "I'm sorry I could not do more." 

The captain shook her head, pulling back to look the elf in her eye. "It is enough that you thought to gift me, Glynnii. Thank you." Silently the bundle was put into her saddlebags, and silently Talan mounted, picking up the reins and resettling her features into an expression of easy composure. The creaking of saddle leather and impatient stamp of hooves told Talan her company was ready to ride. Clicking her tongue, she set Anaan to a smooth walk. 

"Serah — Talan — Will I see you again?" The inquiry was nearly swallowed by the sound of four horses, but the captain's sharp hearing detected it all the same. Glynnii was surprised at herself, for the question had come unbidden, but it had been asked, and she could not deny that the idea struck her as a rather happy one. 

"I hope so!" Talan called over her shoulder as the party gained speed, shifting from a trot to a full gallop. "Panahedan, Glynnii! Ataashi light your path!" The elf watched her go with a smile on her face. Thinking of the money that would buy her freedom, The Red Dove Inn no longer cast such a long shadow.

The captain of the Calypso — Iapetus, he called himself — was a burly man. Dark-eyed and ebony-skinned, he looked every bit the seafarer. To Talan's surprise, he was young. No older than her twenty five years, if she had to guess. Yet despite that, there was a wariness about his eyes, a firmness to his thickly-bearded mouth that suggested he, like herself, was world-savvy. She suspected he was Rivaini, judging from his multiple piercings and tattoos. In Rivain, such things were indicators of rank as well as status, though Talan was unsure of how it worked upon a ship, where there was more inked skin than not. She did notice a few distinguishing features of the captain, though. For one, his beard was braided, both with rings of gold and silver as well as colorful beads. For another, his crew — scurrying about the deck to appear as though they were working — bore scruff on their cheeks, and not one wore a single gold piercing, only silver. Iapetus had three golden studs covering the span of his left brow. 

He looked at her skeptically now, as if weighing her. No doubt he too had heard horror stories of her kind; that the qunari were horned beasts who bathed in the blood of children and raped the helpless. She fought to keep her face smooth as he debated, watched as he shifted from foot to foot and squinted beyond her left shoulder. Shokrakar, thank the Father, kept silent, though Talan could feel her growing desire to tell the man to get on with it. She doubted a second trade-ship large enough to carry both them and their horses would come before nightfall, if he didn't let them aboard.

Iapetus' gaze focused on her face finally, if a little reluctantly. He nodded. "Fine, fine. Aboard you go." A thick, dirty finger was pointed at her. "I'll not have brawls on my ship, mind. Distracts the men from their work." Talan handed him her coin purse and thanked him tightly. He ignored her, spinning on his heel with a barked order for his men. As the company boarded, Talan heard the captain mutter about what the world was coming to, for him to accept an Oxwoman's blood money. 

It was Kaariss who eventually softened the crew to them. Drawn in by the rich sound of the harp-lute he always carried, the men listened intently as they worked, seeming to mind their labors a little less while he played and sang. His singing voice was high and sweet, and his playing full of a longing that made Talan nostalgic for things long past, even when he played a carefree tune. Perhaps especially then. When the sun set, casting a purplish-yellow glow over the sea, the crew gathered around them all. They sipped whiskey from tin cups and looked on quietly from upturned crates until one of them untimely called for a jig. "Oi, play us a fast one, qunari, 'fore you have us all throwin' ourselves overboard with yer sad warblin'!" Raucous laughter always followed, even when his entertaining them became a nightly occurrence. Kaariss didn't seem to mind, but when the humans retired for the night, leaving only the four of them on deck, he would occasionally lapse into songs from their homeland, singing softly in Qunlat. 

Talan sat with her back to a mast, her long legs folded beneath her. A tin cup of the strong coffee Glynnii had given her rested on her knee. The warmth of it stung her palm pleasantly, though she hardly noticed, lost in her thoughts as she was. She'd missed being at sea, missed the wind and the smell of salt. It made her think of home, of her mother. Asala had taken her fishing as a child, had taught her how to use her hands in place of nets.

"Remember to be one with the sea, my little Ataashi,"  she'd murmured in her ear, her large, soft hands cupping Talan's smaller ones as they'd stood together, waiting for a catch. "Be as calm as the waters, and the fish will come."  That advice had saved her from an empty belly more than once when she'd first fled Seheron with nothing but a meager coin purse and the clothes on her back. After a year of wandering, a year of killing humans for the food they carried, a year of madness, a year of staving off her rage enough to work on farms for coin; she'd found her way to Kirkwall. There, she'd caught the attention of Jaah, a coarse, scarred Saarebas who'd led the then infamous Valo-Kas mercenary company. She'd signed on happily when he'd asked, eager to take out her frustration on anything that walked. She grimaced inwardly, remembering the person that year had made her. Jaah's potent desire to kill those dedicated to the Qun — to eradicate the unknowing, to spare them from the curse of the Qun — had produced only a flicker of wrongness in her. She had been numb, then. Felt neither sadness or joy, only an emptiness that had nearly crippled her. 

When Jaah took his own life, unable to bear the burden of asala-taar, that emptiness finally filled with grief, and Talan, having found him with a dagger in his chest and a smile on his face, had held his body and cried. She'd been relieved to feel something, had thanked Ataashi over and over for the tears she'd shed. Succumbing to asala-taar, to the darkness and rage inside herself, terrified her. She had a reason to deny it, now, a purpose: to not let her comrades — her friends — fall to the same fate as Jaah. He had been a good man at heart, she believed, but his mind, addled as it had been with thoughts of blood, simply hadn't lent itself to calmness or rationality. She was able to view his death differently, having had time to think on it. A blessing, if an odd one to be given. He had been freed of his torment, she of her numbness. Only, loneliness took its place. Loneliness filled with the temporary warmth of women's bodies and kind smiles, with the knowledge that her parents were safe in Par Vollen, blending seamlessly with the city-dwellers.

Letting out a breath that blew steam into the night, Talan sipped her coffee and watched Kaariss. Ashaad was watching him, humming along softly to "The Catman's Eyes," a Rivaini cautionary tale set to music, without noticing. Shokrakar had long since gone to bed. Talan knew it was due to her unease concerning the conclave, and knew, too, that the stubborn woman would not surrender her misgivings until they had moved on with coin in their pockets. 

It's just as well, she thought, rubbing idly at her sore shoulder pressed to the hard wood of the mast. It saves her from disappointment, if things go sour. Mother's Blood, I hope they don't. 

The steady thump of several sets of feet pulled Talan from sleep with a jolt. The small cabin — lit only by lanterns hung on hooks about the bed — shook under the combined weight. Following a succession of rapid blinks, her senses returned, and she was able to make out shouts, as well as the frantic screams of horses. Quickly she tugged on her boots, having slept in the black cloth trousers and white tunic she'd worn for the duration of the journey, and grabbed her greatsword from its hook beside her cot. 

Ataashi's Flame, what—?  

"Move, you fools!" Iapetus bellowed. "I'll not have that wench mar my ship!" Talan made for the deck at a run, sword held high to not encumber her. The gray break of dawn met her as she merged with the others, eyes swiftly assessing the danger. A second, smaller ship was approaching starboard, and gaining too quickly.    

“Vashedan," Talan cursed. Their ship was moving too slowly to avoid being hit, the girth of it a hindrance to the needed speed even with sails unfurled. The only thing for it was to strike the enemy first, and hope that the sudden shift from defense to offence created enough confusion to distract their adversaries while they readied grappling hooks. At the helm, Iapetus shouted orders that went unheard as the men scrambled and the wind roared. The mercenary could see her kith among the humans, working efficiently alongside them. Working her way through a knot of sailors, she made her way to the helm, taking the stairs that led up to it two at a time. "Captain! We have to ram them, there's no other choice!" 

He growled at her, still frantically turning the wheel, even as she came to stand beside him. "Do you have any bloody sense in that Maker-forsaken head of yours, qunari? We'd risk breaching the hull!" 

"Would you rather be overrun and raided to your last copper?" she asked, her voice hard with anger. Mother's Blood, humans never listen! Stubborn, dathrasi-headed, venak hols!  Iapetus glared. Talan held his gaze steadily, unperturbed. "We have a chance; I suggest you take it before it's taken from you." 

The Rivaini turned away from her, but drew a lungful of air and shouted: "Turning about! Brace for impact and prepare to be boarded!" Talan leapt from the helm, not sparing the captain a glance. Vaulting over the railing, she landed solidly on her feet. 

It was chaos as grappling hooks were employed and men drew their blades. The crash of ships shook Talan's balance, but as soon as the vibrations settled, she regained it again. Already the enemy were drawing steel and preparing to jump aboard. The mercenary readied herself, valo-kas held tightly in both hands and eyes steady. Mother, bless me with your Flame and guide my sword. Father, make my steps light and my mind clear. Steel rang on steel at last, and Talan ducked and parried with ease. Her blows, when they came, were strong and meant to kill. Blood soon covered her arms and splattered her cheeks, but she paid that no mind. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her companions; Ashaad with his debilitating ice magic, Kaariss, feet away from the fighting, loosing arrows as quick as lightning, and Shokrakar, snarling as she blocked with her shield only to drive her long sword home between a man's ribs.

A scream from Iapetus made Talan pivot on her heels. A dagger was sticking out of the captain's left shoulder, his dark blue coat stained red. "You bitch!" he yelled at a dark-skinned woman, the captain of the opposing ship, Talan guessed by her feathered hat. "You'll never get my gold, Isabela! I swear by the Maker you won't!" 

The woman called Isabela laughed. "Idle threats from a man with a dagger in his shoulder." With a hard yank, she tore it free, and Iapetus fell to his knees with a yelp, clutching his wound. She pressed the tip of the bloodied dagger to his throat. "How many years have we done this, Iapetus? Aren't you tired of it yet?" Before Talan could move to assist him, a woman hurled herself at her, eyes blazing. The mercenary side-stepped, but the sword the woman wielded caught her left shoulder, slicing into her skin. Gritting her teeth, Talan crouched and rolled, springing up on her heels at the woman's back. Her opponent was just fast enough to turn before Talan drove her sword into the woman's chest. Blood spurted from the woman's mouth as she gasped. Wide-eyed and gurgling, she grasped uselessly at Talan's sword, buried to the hilt between her breasts. The qunari's golden-green eyes held her briefly panicked face, unwavering and grim.

Pulling her bloody blade free, Talan turned to her spectators. The slain woman's body fell to the deck with a thump. "Let him go," she said, pointing the tip of her valo-kas at Iapetus, who was still on his knees being held at knife-point, "Unless you want to be absent a hand." The calm certainty with which she spoke chilled Isabela to the bone — the pirate had no doubt that the qunari had kept her word on many such threats — but she couldn't let this scum in front of her walk, not without getting what she came for. 

Taking a breath, she steeled herself and met Talan's stare with a smirk. "Afraid I can't do that, sweetness. This impeccably-mannered sot stole from me, and I have no intention of leaving until I get my due." Her voice dripped with sarcasm and ire both. The mercenary captain's eyes flicked to the red scarf wrapped around the Rivaini's left forearm, embroidered with the black outline of a hawk in flight, talons outstretched. Isabela shifted under the scrutiny, nicking Iapetus' convulsing neck. A frightened, girlish yelp fell from the man's mouth in response. 

Andraste's ass, she's intimating. Gives a whole new meaning to 'Tall, Dark, and Deadly.' Aveline'd shit her knickers, and she's a bloody battering ram. 

"P-Please, ser qunari," Iapetus stuttered, looking beseechingly in Talan's direction, "I'll give you gold, riches, only don't let her kill me! I — I don't want to die! Maker preserve me, I—" 

"'Ser qunari' now, is it?" Talan gave a fiercely unpleasant smile, her canines flashing. "Politeness, captain? I'm surprised. I am just a bloodthirsty 'Oxwoman' , after all."

All the color drained from his face. "I, no — that is, I — Forgive me, please! I have been foolish, but surely that does not warrant death?" 

"Quit your sniveling, man," she grunted derisively. "I'm not going to let her kill you." She met Isabela's gaze. "How did he wrong you?" 

"Mutiny," the pirate said tightly. "He was once a member of my crew, but he fled while in port in Ferelden, pilfering the most valuable gems and treasure I'd managed to accrue over the years, to buy his own bloody ship!" Her voice rose as she spoke, anger promptly swallowed by the sounds of battle behind them. 

"Isabela," Iapetus said roughly, speaking only a little more steadily without her dagger at his throat, "You knew I wanted no part of that life any longer. You cannot fault a man for wanting something better for himself. And besides, it's not as if you could not afford the absence of a few trinkets."

The Rivaini woman's dark face was tinted red with rage. "Trinkets?!  You stole ten-thousand sovereigns' worth of treasure!" 

"Aye, and now I am but a humble trader, free of thieving and killing, less the latter be aboard my own ship, at my own command. The ghost of the man I once was will haunt me no more. No more, I say!" 

"Why you ungrateful, doggish bilge rat!  I ought to—!" 

Talan laid a long-fingered, thick-palmed hand on the quivering woman's shoulder, stilling her. Isabela blinked in surprise before directing her furious gaze to the horned woman. She hadn't noticed the warrior come up behind her. "I can't let you kill him, but I can offer you something else, something far less bloody."

The pirate grinned teasingly. "I'm taken, sweet thing." She arched a brow suggestively. "Though you are rather tempting. I'd bet my mother you've made more than a few women cry for the Maker." 

"Some," the mercenary captain replied, smirking. "But no. My offer is a duel, to cede. Victor gives the other half of the earnings aboard their ship." Iapetus made a strangled sound of indignation, which Talan flatly ignored and Isabela reveled in.   

"Agreed," she said at last, looking amusedly at the injured captain's dark, wide eyes. Talan nodded and stepped back, readying herself again. Iapetus slowly rose from the deck, wet with slight rain and rivulets of blood. He looked at them both nervously as they took their stances. Around them, the fighting had ceased, and a circle of bodies had slowly begun to form around them, watchers alert despite the pain etched on their faces, put there by sword and fist alike. 

It was a dance, of sorts — Talan had always thought of duels as such — comparing the final blow to the last step of a waltz, (she had seen pictures in the many novels she had read over the years, of humans knotted together and gliding), or to the fading note of a bard's song. Now, the only music to be had was rain, falling in a rhythmic beat to the deck, and the sound of breathing, of waiting. 

Isabela made the first move, testing her opponent's reflexes in a quick gab at the qunari's damaged shoulder. Talan leaned back, jerking her upper-body to the right; the only thing the Rivaini's blade met was air. Dark lips quirked in an approving smirk, and Talan took the moment to step back, and swing at the woman's feet. Isabela jumped over the blade, and when she landed, she pirouetted, expecting to land a hit, but the qunari's blade was already up and held to block. Steel grated against steel as they stood in a momentary bind. Talan used her height and strength to her advantage, pushing until the pirate was forced to give, then stepped in as Isabela regained her equilibrium to land a touch on the other woman's shoulder, giving her a thin cut. 

It went on like this for some time — dodge, strike, pirouette, cut, and over again — with neither of them budging in full. Sweat beaded both brows; two sets of chests heaved in tandem. A matter of endurance, now. The veins in Talan's arms and hands stood stark against her skin; Isabela's jaw had set, hissing air through gritted teeth as she fought.  As they entered another bind, the pirate wavered, exhaustion evident on her face. Talan swept her dagger aside with the last of her own strength, and held the tip of her greatsword to the dark woman's throat. Two fingers were held up in surrender, and the sword was lowered. For a moment, the only noises were their panting and the rain, heavier now and soaking all aboard. 

"Well fought," Talan said when she regained her breath. 

Isabela nodded, sheathing her daggers with a slightly pained expression; the gash the qunari had dealt to her right thigh stung. "You're light on your feet. Did a duelist train you?" She was genuinely intrigued. She had never seen a qunari move with such effortlessness, and yet the woman before her had not only grace but a firmness to her movements, which spoke to the fact that she was a warrior. 

"No. My father taught me." The pirate watched a shadow pass briefly over the other woman's strong-lined face, like the flickering of candlelight, and knew it for the countenance of one remembering a dark moment of their past. She had worn that expression herself more than once.

"He taught you well, sweet thing," she said softly. 

Compassion. It still felt odd, occasionally, like a healed burn that sometimes ached, but she was growing more accustomed to it as the years wore on. Hawke's bloody influence, making me soft, but Maker do I love her. 

Talan gave a small smile in response, amused at the rogue's sudden shift of eyes and feet. The Rivaini struggled with openness, much as she herself did. Nevertheless, the mercenary surmised she was genuine in her compliment. Isabela cleared her throat. "Azeer!" A tan-skinned, bare-chested, well-built man came forward. His black hair, long and braided, swung as he came to her side. "Gather a few men and give the captain his reward," she gave Iapetus a hard look as she spoke, spitting his title like a curse. "The rest of you, see to our dead and wounded. I'll not leave them to rot on this Maker-forsaken ship."

Isabela started at the feeling of a warm hand on her shoulder as the horned mercenary passed, a glimpse of sympathy came and went in the other woman's strange eyes, so fast the pirate was not sure if it had been there at all. When she looked over her shoulder, all she saw was the qunari's muscled back; a warrior with a shield held tightly in place.

"I ought to make both of you walk the plank for this!" Iapetus' furious bellow carried across the ship. His bulging eyes held two cowering men captive, his mouth twisted in anger as he slowly advanced on them. Talan swore from her vantage point atop a barrel; Ashaad was tending her shoulder with needle and thread, the pain of which she made herself vehemently ignore.

"You scurvy-ridden dogs! Half my crew is dead or soon will be, thanks be to you! All because you couldn't keep your fuckin' eyes open! If you enjoy being fogged with sleep when danger rises, mayhap you won't mind me taking them from your Maker-damned skulls and savin' you the fucking trouble of sharp-sight!"

"C-Captain, we's didn't mean this to happen. We's only wanted a few winks, see, and—" 

"Shut yer bloody mouth, Jiggins!" his companion hissed, pale-faced and quaking, "Less you aim to go back to Alessa and yer boy blind!" 

Iapetus smirked humorlessly. "Wise words for your mate, Fariss," he said coldly, dangerously calm now. "Maker willing you sots hold your fucking tongues while you swab the decks for the rest of our bloody voyage, because if you don't, I'll do worse than take your fucking eyes!" With that he whirled, stomping off to his quarters. Jiggins and Fariss both visibly sagged, white faces slowly regaining color between harsh whispers of reprimand.

Talan sympathized with them, recalling the rough side of Jaah's tongue when she'd questioned his fanatic beliefs as a stupidly bold recruit not yet out of her eighteenth year. Had he captained this ship, she knew, the watchmen would undoubtedly have been flayed or drowned for such an oversight, pleas for mercy not withstanding. She shuddered, thinking of it, and Ashaad hastily apologized, intentionally speeding up his needlework to be done all the quicker. To Talan's mind, the Saarebas had the gentlest touch of all of them, though the largeness of his hands gave a false perception of roughness upon first look. She remembered being startled at the smoothness of his palms and the dexterity of his fingers when he had first employed magic to heal her, and how she had berated herself later for making the assumption that a man his size could not possibly be soft, in any sense of the word. His proficiency in healing had laughed in the face of speculation. The only reason he had opted for thread and needle instead of the aforementioned method was because most of his mana had been depleted in the fight. He made no mention of this — he never had, that she could recall — but Talan could plainly see weariness on his face. 

"How are the others?" she asked, taking a swig of maraas-lok from the flask she'd had in her saddlebags to mask the twitch of her cheek as his needle pierced her shoulder again.

Ashaad smiled wryly. "They'll live." He cut the remaining thread with his teeth as he spoke, finished the dressing deftly, and with a satisfied nod to his handiwork, reached for the flask balanced on his captain's knee. She handed it to him without comment. "Shokrakar," he chuckled, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, "Is already grumbling about the uselessness of humans, and how one of them put a dent in her best armor." 

"That doesn't surprise me," Talan said, shaking her head in amusement and reaching for the flask. "For all her ability, the woman sometimes makes as much sense as trying to use a dragon's tooth in place of a hammer."  

The Saarebas grinned widely. "Thank the Mother she's not within earshot to hear you. I agree, but as long as she's more focused on not getting killed, that's all that matters. Kaar can't rankle her nerves with his Father-damned optimism if she gets a dagger in the back while scowling at a human for damaging her plate." 

His companion nodded in agreement. "How is he?" 

"Took a few scrapes. Has a black eye, and Ataashi knows how he managed to get himself a cracked rib... I healed him as best I could. He'll be fine. Lad's just chomping at the bit to be on land again." Talan winced in sympathy. She'd lost count of the times she'd cracked or broken a rib, but this was Kaariss' first time, and she knew the amount of pain he was in. She stood, tossing Ashaad a smile as she clapped him on his shoulder. "Come on, then. Let's go rescue him from his boredom before he tries to jump ship and swim to the conclave."  

Ashaad put an arm around his captain's shoulders as they made their way back to their quarters.  

"Uh, beggin' yer pardon, sers," the man named Jiggins called, visibly uncomfortable at approaching not one, but two qunari. They halted and offered easy smiles. He tried to ignore the shaking in his knees. "Um... That is, I... ah... The boys and I were wantin'  to thank ye fer fightin' alongside us. Woulda been a lot more of us hurt without ya, and well... We's appreciate it." Talan's grin nearly split her face. Blimey, do all Oxmen look like they could eat ya whole when they's just smilin'? Maker save me, I hope that's a smile. He repressed a shudder at the size and sharpness of her canines, trying not to imagine them ripping into his throat. His Da had told him a story about that, once. He hoped it wasn't true. 

"We don't often hear that, Jiggins, thank you." He nodded stiffly and lowered his eyes, reddening under her genuine gratitude. It wasn't often people thanked him for anything. 

Maybe qunari ain't all bad, he thought, turning back to join the others. At least, that lot ain't.  

Chapter Text

"'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.'"  Talan resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It bothered her how humans spoke of magic, as if it was an entity separate from the wielder, as if the degradation they suffered was of their own making, and not the fault of the Circles and Templars. The Divine, serene and patient on the stone dais before the Temple, waited as cries of agreement filled the air, then slowly died. "That scripture," Justinia continued in a strong voice, "Is the root of this war."

Silence, deafening and full, as if every attendant held a collective breath.

"'All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.'  For too long we have held fault, Brothers and Sisters. We have reviled those granted a Maker-given gift! Too often we forget that those we shun have done nothing; we ignore the fact that our fellow mages — made of the same flesh and blood as those not gifted with magic—! are also our husbands, our mothers and daughters and sons." 

Talan watched Ashaad swallow thickly from the corner of her eye, and knew unshed tears coated his eyelids. The Arishok would slay her where she stands, and would call it a victory. Mother take the Qun!  

"The fear of possession," Justinia proclaimed, unwavering in her conviction, "Is valid, Brothers and Sisters. The suspicion with which we regard all mages is not. Indeed, we must pray for those who no longer walk in the Maker's Light, for it is they  who need to be controlled. However, the fault of a few does not equal the fault of the many. I would have each Templar here remember that." She paused, turning to the congregation of mages, wide-eyed with disbelief and as far away from the Templars as they could get. "Of you, Magi, I would ask—"

Talan heard nothing else of the Divine's entreaty.

There was a light coming from the Temple, one she was sure had not been there moments before. It glowed as if in competition with the sun, glaring against the blue of the clear midday sky. Most concerning, she realized, shielding her eyes, was its color.

It was green. Sickly green, somehow. Her kith had noticed it too, she saw; they were staring at it with the same wary expression she undoubtedly wore. "Trouble," she mouthed, and they nodded, reaching for their weapons. "No," she whispered, taking on the harsh, commanding tone of the Valo-Kas' captain, "Stay back." Unmoved by their looks of agitation — she would not let herself dwell on the worry she found beneath them — she firmed her gaze until they all gave wordless, if begrudging, assent. Slowly, she pushed her way through the throng, her skin prickling as she drew closer to the woman in white.

I won't reach her in time. It came unbidden; a thought half hers and half preemptive certainty. In time for what? Mother's Blood, it's growing! 

She was running now, reaching for the Divine even as the green light enveloped her. Reaching... and then there was nothing but the familiar embrace of pain, and blinding white light. 

Blood. It was the first thing she noticed; a steadily growing pool of it, dripping from her temple. She blinked in an attempt to clear her vision, but the red stayed, sluggishly dripping down her face. Squinting, she struggled slowly to her feet. Her ribs protested violently at the gesture, and she hissed, knowing some of them were broken. 

Sleep. You've no need to go further, came a disembodied voice from... Inside her head? It sent a shiver down her spine. Steeling herself, she took a step forward, grimacing as her right leg nearly buckled. Lie down, stubborn one! Lie still! Talan ground her teeth in response.  

Fucking demons. 

She stumbled as she walked, the ground swayed beneath her in time with the pounding in her head. What reason have you to keep going? Your life has been nothing but pain, "Adaar," another voice taunted, decidedly male this time. What weapon dulls itself before it can be used? You couldn't even find it in yourself to stay when your little home burned. You ran, like a coward! You left your friends to die! 

Her fists clenched. Her father had warned her of the dangers of the Fade. As a mage, he drew their attention like fire to wood, and so knew how to deflect them. Talan would too, or die trying.   

Die? Hahaha, as if the death of your body is the worst fate imaginable! You know nothing! I shall wear your face, and wipe your mind clear of its ignorance! 

"NO!" The snarled rebuttal echoed harshly, and she could feel her tormenter smile; a cold, non-existent wind rippling the small hairs at the nape of her neck.  

Such anger, such rage! the demon crooned delightedly, Yessss... I will have you yet, qunari! Your body will make such a fine puppet! Talan felt a shift within herself then, a bubbling of the rage the demon coveted, and fought vehemently against it. She would never be free of this place if her emotions conquered her. Forcing herself to calm, she continued to walk; her gaze, blurry with pain as it was, fixed itself as steadily as she could manage on the horizon. On a growing light, this time golden. Feeling the change in her, the demon morphed again into one of sloth, and attempted a second time to bait her with softly-spoken promises of rest. 

She pressed on. Ashaad, Shokrakar, Kaariss… she needed to get to them.

If they were still alive.

If.

Fear gripped her, and she began a panicked, limping run. Father, please let them be alive! Mother, please... please grant me this and I will never call for your aid again! Even as she thought it, dread made a hollow pit of her stomach, and her heart felt incased in ice. 

Monstrous laughter filled her head, depraved. They're dead! All of them! 

Suddenly the final cries of the fallen engulfed her, her kith's among them. Shokrakar's muttered "Ataashi, save me,"  Kaar's frantic call of "Ashaad! ASHAAAAAADDDD!" and then, quieter and begging: "Don't leave me. Mother's Blood, don't you leave me now!" It was a trick, Talan thought desperately, it had to be! She tried to run faster towards the light but her battered body refused her, her head swimming from blood loss and pain.   

She squinted. It seemed to be... a woman, now. Or the silhouette of one. There was a dim voice in the back of her head, nearly drowned out by the louder, telling her that she had lost her senses completely. The equally dim acknowledgement of truth followed, but was quickly brushed aside. She had to reach them; she could worry about herself later, after they were safe, safe and not dead...

Not dead...Not dead....`

Talan climbed the cracked cliff that appeared suddenly in front of her, too dazed to ponder the logistics of how it got there. All that mattered was that it offered a way up, a way out. Gritting her teeth with the effort, she ignored the strain and shake of her arms, the burn in her shoulders. It was a slow, laborious process, and when she reached the top, her legs nearly buckled when she rose from her knees. The woman of light held out her hand, beckoning. Underfoot, the stone rumbled and began to break. Talan nearly fell at the shift, but miraculously kept her balance. With the last of her strength, she leapt, reaching desperately as she cleared the widening cavern. 

There was a feeling like ice pricking her skin, like diving headfirst into an unforgiving sea — a weightlessness she could not describe — and then, nothing.

"I don't care if she's unconscious!" An angry female voice filtered through Talan's mind, muted. She blinked, trying to focus. Where...? "Rouse her!" Another voice, placating in tone. She couldn't make out what was said. "Oh, Maker damn you, Leliana!" the first voice shouted. "How can you be so calm? Justinia is dead! She's dead, and that... that Oxwoman is the only one left!" 

White brows knitted together in confusion. The only one... left?  She tried lifting a hand to her brow, to rub at the ache forming behind her eyes, and felt the strain of shackles. Chains. Fear gripped her breast, a cold tingle of reality. Why in Chaska's name was she in chains?

Fighting down rising panic, she attempted to take stock of her surroundings — a technique she'd learned from her time on the road — but it was no easy task given the flickering torchlight she had to work with. Stone walls. A dank, permeating scent that made her want to gag. A single, bared window. Not large enough to crawl through, even if she somehow managed to free herself and pry the bars loose. Unless... she used them as a lever and pried the stones free? Noisy work, that, but there didn't seem to be another option, and if she could get these binds off...  She eyed the firelight unhappily. I could... melt the joints. Shuddering, she thought of her wrists, burnt and raw, but steeled herself. Better that than rotting in this Mother-forsaken cell. 

Just as she was attempting to get to her feet — the fact that her ankles were unbound was an oversight she found darkly amusing — the door swung open. The shadow of an imposing human woman filled the space. Short-haired, it looked to Talan, and short-tempered, if the guess that this woman had been the one yelling moments before was correct. As she neared, Talan hardened her gaze, and when the woman stepped into the circle of torchlight, stormy black eyes met hers. "You!" she hissed, her anger palpable as she marched forward, unsheathing her sword with a trembling hand and pressing it to the mercenary captain's neck. "Give me a reason not to take your head from your shoulders! Why kill the Divine? What wicked game are you playing?! Answer me!"  

"I didn't kill your Divine," Talan replied coldly. "Despite the false tales you humans are so fond of spreading, not all qunari are vicious monsters." A snarl was her reply, and the point of the sword was pressed further into her neck, drawing blood. Talan grit her teeth. "If you had the intention to kill me, you would've done so already. You're in no position to take my head, besides. Your hands are shaking." 

Letting out a pained yell, the woman raised her hand, and the mercenary prepared herself for the sting of a slap, tilting her chin upward and gazing defiantly into onyx eyes. 

"Cassandra!" A sharp reprimand. Behind the warrior's right shoulder, Talan caught the shadow of a quickly approaching figure, shorter in stature. Red hair flashed briefly in the firelight as the woman's gloved wrist was wrenched back violently. "By the Maker, have you completely lost yourself?! She's no threat!" 

"Leliana. Let. Go. Justinia is dead because of her! Dead! I can't let that go unpunished, I can't! I won't—" 

"Cassandra... I know you're angry, but this woman is not at fault. She was summoned by Knight-Commander Tavish to assist in keeping peace during the Conclave, that's all. Cullen verified his seal and writing." The woman scowled, violently ripping her hand free with a frustrated grunt. 

"So you suggest I do nothing?" Talan watched the human pace restlessly, her greaves clanking as she moved. 

"I suggest," the redhead said with an edge in her voice, "That you take time to collect yourself, Seeker." Cassandra's jaw worked as she locked eyes with Leliana. A tense silence followed. Finally, with a tight nod, she walked to a darkened corner of the cell, leaned against the rough hewn stones and crossed her arms over her breasts. Talan could still feel the warrior's hatred, and see it just as well, though she doubted the human knew that. Qunari could see easily in the dark. 

"Is there anything you can recall prior to the explosion?" Leliana asked gently, turning back to the chained woman with a look of sympathy. "The smallest detail might help us." Her voice was pleasant, beseeching — a soft Orlesian accent rounding her vowels. A sharp contrast to the Nevarran, who was all hardness in both manner and speech. 

Talan's brow furrowed as she looked beyond the cloaked woman's shoulder, staring intently at the burning torch mounted to the wall. She told them what she could remember — what few scraps of memory that hadn't escaped her — and waited. Cassandra walked back into the ring of firelight, fists clenching. "That tells us nothing! And even if what you say is true, what of the anchor? Can you truly claim you know nothing of how you came to possess it?"

Anchor? As if in answer, a green glow radiated from Talan's left palm, suddenly sparking violently and without warning. Mother's Blood! What in the name of Ataashi... Doubling over in surprise as much as pain, she hissed through her teeth and shot a glare at the warrior. Even in the height of her rage, the Seeker felt herself waver for a moment under the full force of those strange eyes. "I've told you all I know," the mercenary growled, fighting to even out her breathing. "What more do you want?"

Casandra turned to her friend. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will escort her."  

"Escort me?" Talan seethed. "I told you I know nothing!" 

"Be that as it may," the redhead said pacifyingly, "There is... something we must show you. Something we believe is tied to your mark." The mercenary arched a brow at that, but the Orlesian kept her silence, and slipped from the dungeon with nothing more than a nod. 

The cryptic nature of these humans was infuriating.

Talan shifted her gaze to the woman in front of her, trying, still, to derive some semblance of understanding from the harsh line of the Seeker's mouth as she knelt to free her of the shackles. "If you run, I will not hesitate to end you. Do you understand?" 

A corner of the qunari's mouth twitched upward, and Casandra again felt that icy unease take hold of her at the glint that entered the horned woman's eyes. "You can certainly try, basra." Rubbing her chafed wrists, the mercenary slowly rose to her feet, wincing at the uncomfortable tingling in her calves. The Seeker begrudgingly retrieved Talan's great-sword and harness without a word, watching with sharp eyes as she fitted the well-worn black leather more securely to her broad back.  

"Any forewarning I give you will not suffice. I suggest you prepare yourself now, while given the chance."

"For what?"

Cassandra sighed. "Only the Maker truly knows."

"We call it the Breach." The Seeker's eyes followed the mercenary's upward, unnerved by the sight of it despite the fact that it had been present since the temple's destruction. "It's a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It's not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the conclave."  

"And you know this how?" 

"A hedge mage," the warrior answered simply. "He was in attendance at the conclave. Leliana and I granted him leave to study your mark." 

"I see," Talan said, her deep voice holding a note of contemplation. She took her eyes from the sky. "And you trust him? This mysterious mage?" As Casandra opened her mouth to speak, the rift suddenly sparked, and with it, the qunari's hand. Sinking to her knees with a pained yell, Talan gripped her throbbing wrist and growled something in Qunlat that the Seeker assumed to be a curse.

She knelt in front of her, reaching up to place a hand on a tense shoulder. "Whether or not he is to be trusted remains to be seen. It is of little consequence at the moment, regardless. Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads, and it is killing you. I believe you are the key to stopping this." 

Talan looked down into Cassandra's eyes. "How?" 

"We must test your mark on a rift, to see if you are capable of closing the Breach. It is our only option. And yours."

The mercenary scoffed. "You still think I did this? To myself?"

"Not... intentionally. Something clearly went wrong." 

"Really," Talan spat sarcastically, "I hadn't noticed."

The Seeker's eyes narrowed. "You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way." 

The mercenary's teeth clenched as she fought to keep her composure. This human was trying her patience. "If I do as you ask," she asked throatily, "Will I live through it?" 

"We have no way of knowing."

We have no way of knowing. Talan replayed those words in her mind as the bridge she and her human interrogator were crossing gave way, struck by a flare of the rampant magic in the sky. How little those words meant to her in the face of charging demons. Beneath the pounding in her head and the ringing in her ears, she heard the Seeker demand she stay behind her, a command she blatantly ignored once she regained her feet. The frozen river groaned beneath her as she unsheathed her sword and took a fighting stance. 

She would not be blamed a second time if this stubborn Nevarran lost her life to pride. 

When it was done, Cassandra, yanking her blade free of the last demon’s belly with a grunt, turned furious eyes on the gray-skinned woman. "Disarm, qunari. I will not ask again." Talan lifted a brow. She respected the human's gall, even if it was severely misplaced. 

Standing with her great-sword in one hand, tip grazing the ice under her boots, she combed the snow from her hair with dexterous fingers. "You are a prideful woman by nature, Seeker, that much is clear. But do not be a foolish one, as well. Or do you intend to fight until exhaustion takes you, and I'm forced to carry you to the camp?" 

Indignation colored the Seeker's expression at the thought of being cradled in the mercenary's arms like a helpless child. She was certain the other woman could lift her without so much as a strain. Casandra worked her jaw before lowering her longsword in acquiescence. "Very well," she replied stiffly, "Your point is sound. Irrefutable, though I hate to admit it." Pivoting on her heel, she continued up the hill. Talan shook her head at the retreating form, wiping her blade clean of demon essence on the freshly fallen snow.

She easily caught up to Casandra with a few quick strides of her long legs. 

Talan was unsure what to make of her new allies. Varric was the the embodiment of every roguish dwarf she had ever encountered, and yet she could sense he was more than he seemed. It was clear he used humor as she did; as an attempt to loosen situations. However, it only served to rankle the already glowering Seeker, which Talan could see was going to be a regular occurrence. She was beginning to wonder if anything or anyone was capable of getting that woman to smile. 

With Solas, it was much the same, though in place of Varric's easy manner and speech, the elven mage was silent, brooding, his head undoubtedly full of thoughts Talan would likely never be privy to unless he deemed otherwise. That was fine with her. We all have our secrets, don't we?  An old thought, a haunted one, though still prominent. Even now, in the mist of the world visibly crumbling around her. 

It had taken them long to reach their goal. They'd traversed a mountain path nearly lost to the snow upon receiving word from Leliana that a band of scouts had gone silent. Casandra had vehemently protested, arguing that a charge was more efficient. They had no time to waste on a few when many were already falling to the rift at the temple, surely! — But Talan had been steadfast in her resolve, even as a Chancellor Rodrick had attempted to undermine and belittle her in every way. 

She would not budge.

And now they stood in the crater that had once been the temple, as barren and void of hope as it had been before the conclave. Talan's gaze immediately fell on three burned corpses, too large to be either human or elven. Their expressions all varied, from fear to agony to acceptance. One was kneeling in front of another, its blackened hands placed on its companion's chest, its mouth open in a permanent scream. The last was standing, its hand resting on the screaming one's shoulder. The hollowed sockets that had been its eyes stared at nothing, yet Talan felt them gazing at her, accusing her, blaming her for all the world's wrongs. 

Bile rose in her throat, and she bent at the waist, the contents of her stomach leaving her mouth along with strangled cries. "Shit..." she heard Varric breathe from behind her, quiet enough to be lost in a gust of wind. Her retching finally subsided, the mercenary captain made her way on trembling legs over to her kith, sinking to her knees before them.   

Father, Mother forgive me! Ashaad, Shokrakar, Kaariss... I have failed you; I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. 

A gauntleted hand was placed on her shoulder. "Herald, I pity your loss, but we must—" 

"I am not your Herald!" Talan hissed, the venom in her voice causing the Seeker's hand to fall away in surprise. She stood. "I must give them their last rites," she murmured, gingerly touching each of her companion's brows in turn. 

"Blood of old and blood of kin, Our Mother's Last Embrace awaits. 
Follow, for it is time. 

Her warmth, steadfast,
Her flame, everlasting, cleansing of Life's burden.
Let the Mother be known to all who covet a place
at her breast, and may they walk forever in her Sun.

Father, shelter them, your Children, hearty and strong. 
May they know the sweetness of your tongue and the
kindness of your heart.
Cleanse them of hatred, Father, 
and let yourself be known to them."

Talan's voice wavered as she finished. It was not the "proper" farewell given within the walls of Seheron, but her companions had resented the Qun with as much vigor as she, and they had bonded in their worship of Ataashi and Chaska. "Ebasit kata," she said firmly, rising and wiping her cheeks free of tears. "Now, Seeker, we face death's call." The crunch of the mercenary's boots and the howling of wind were the only sounds, eerie in the vast expanse of ruins. 

"Did anyone else catch that?" Varric spoke from the side of his mouth, using his hand as a muffler. "I don't know Qunlat, but Maker take me if that didn't make my hair stand on end!" 

"Now is not the time, Master Tethras," Solas admonished calmly. "The Breach requires our attention." Cassandra was the first to move, shaking herself free of the somber spell the Herald had cast. There was no time to be pensive, now.    

Something like a dream — or was it a memory —? played before Talan's eyes as she looked up at the Breach. Her allies huddled around her. Varric, who, Talan suspected, was temporarily rendered dumb by the sheer size of it, could only let loose a low whistle. Solas merely squinted at the thing, grim-faced. What’s going on here?  Her own voice echoed in her ears; fractured sunlight stinging her eyes.

We have an intruder. Slay the qunari!  

“You were there!” The Seeker’s voice came hard and accusing, her dark eyes wide. “The Divine, is she—? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?” The barrage of questions made the mercenary's head spin. Accumulated anger made her fists clench.

“I don’t remember,” Talan growled. “I told you as much when you interrogated me!”

Cassandra opened her mouth, unphased by the glare directed at her. “You must know something! You—”  

“Seeker,” Solas murmured pacifyingly, eyes fixed intensely on the pulsating magic in the sky, “We have the means to close the Breach. The fault of who caused it can wait to be discovered.”  

"Yes. Yes, you're right," she breathed deeply through her nose, turning to the Left Hand. "Leliana, are your people ready?" A nod. She turned to Talan. "This is your chance to end this. To clear your name and avenge those who fell. Are you ready?" In answer, Talan outstretched her left palm. A beam of jagged, pulsating light stretched from it to the Breach. 

Open. Open!  Gritting her teeth, she absorbed more light, and more still, until her very skull felt it should burst. The rift tore, splintering in every direction. The ugly, distorted face of a Pride demon met hers, roaring as it clawed through. With sweat on her brow, she sneered as she raised her blade and charged. "Katara, bas!"

Mother, if I am to die here, let it not be in vain. I know death is the price of peace.