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Evelyn Trevelyan wants to save the world from the giant hole in the sky and that reminds Elion so much of her own band of misfits that sometimes she cannot help the sting in her eyes. Their situation is familiar, almost parallel and Elion decides that new friends are always welcome, especially when she is stranded on an unknown plane of existence. She has yet to find Port, Goma or Amarra but she knows they're here, Elion reassures herself. She knows they're here because scrying only works on creatures that are on the same plane of existence and Elion has seen her friends in the smoke rising from her ritual herbs: angry Goma fighting her way through deformed humanoids in a never ending forest of wolf statues, careless Port dodging guards in the dusty streets of a city Elion has never seen before and quiet Amarra teaching robed humans how to defend themselves.

So all Elion has to do is find her family and Plane Shift them out of here, back to their own reality where Big Baddie #4 is scheduled for a meeting with Goma's greatsword. Again.

"What even are you? " Elion remembers Amarra yelling while trying to dodge a prismatic spell aimed at their group. "Wizard? Warlock? We killed you once already, can nothing on this plane stay dead!" Elion believes that somewhere in the Shadowfell the Raven Queen holds daily games of chance where the winner is awarded resurrection. And wouldn't that be a hoot and a half; the gods have already turned their backs on the Material Plane, why should the Lady of Death be any different?

But alas different times, different goals.

Elion steps into the Inquisitor's chambers, voice lowered so as to not disturb the bird sleeping inside the room. The great parrot/crow/eagle/thing that classifies as a bird here was given by Elion to the woman leading the Inquisition as a token of 'Thank you for not booting me out of your castle. It's very big and cold and I know I complain a lot for someone who used to live in the wilds but I have no idea where I am so please love me.' Elion is embarrassed to admit that she wrote the entire thing down in an alcohol induced haze - then promptly burned it the next day not only because of the poor handwriting but also because the entire thing was written in Gnomish.

"Hey, something I can help with?"

"You're here. Good. You can be the one to let Cassandra know we're leaving in two days." Elion snickers.

"Afraid she'll tear you a new one?"

"There are few things in this world I fear, Elion, and Cassandra Pentaghast is at the top of that list." Evelyn replies, voice devoid of humor. She has a point; Elion saw the way Cassandra wields her sword and while she might not have The Iron Bull's strength [Also, can she talk about qunari and the fact that that's how dragonborns look in this world? What a mess. The skin tone and height reminds her of a goliath and Elion is pretty sure The Iron Bull lacks scales and fire breath. But who is she to point fingers when her world has floating eyeballs and ooze monsters?] but Cassandra can most certainly chop a man's head clean off with one swing. Elion knows, she saw her do it.

"Alright, I'll play messenger. Where to this time?" Elion questions, confident of her place at Evelyn's side. It's an unspoken rule that wherever the Inquisitor goes, Elion follows: her divine magic helped Elion secure a place in the Inquisitor's inner circle and she'll be damned if she lets anyone replace her. At least not yet. The rifts spread throughout this plane are many and only the Inquisitor can close them - which means that Elion gets to travel the land and, with a bit of luck, find her friends along the way.

And the Inquisitor can be well protected by someone skilled at magic, not her little mage companions who think building wards and casting ice spells and flame barriers is impressive. Can they shapechange into a dragon? Or a Pit Fiend? That's what she thought.

Granted, Elion has yet to successfully cast that particular spell, but she will. Soon.

Evelyn sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose in what's probably meant to be a calming gesture. The wrinkles in her brow grow more pronounced. "Emerald Graves. Some Orlesian noble left his villa defenseless and now it's under bandit occupation. Thinks the Inquisition is his personal cleaning service but Josie insisted we need his alliance so we gotta smoke the bandits out."

Elion knows that area. "Is that the forest obsessed with wolves?"

Her heart skips a beat when Evelyn offers a distracted nod. Elion knows that area. She's seen it outlined in scouting missions on the war table and in her divination spells. The giant trees, the statues. Goma. Suddenly her interest in their destination grows tenfold.

"You know," Elion begins, in what she hopes is a casual tone. "I could shorten the time required to get there."

"Really?" Evelyn counters, raising one dark eyebrow. And, okay. Elion deserves the skepticism. Last time she roped Evelyn into one of her plans, they almost got crushed by mama High Dragon. It wasn't technically Elion's fault but she truly believed reasoning with the beast would be more beneficial than fighting it - how was she supposed to know that these dragons don't speak Draconic? Or any language?

Elion grins, the candlelight making her eyes twinkle. "Two days, you said. Then meet me in the garden. Pack lightly."

Two days pass. At the break of dawn on the third day Evelyn, beautiful, trusting, merciful Evelyn meets her in the garden with her chosen team following close behind. Elion doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the trust she is shown. The tree she leans on is the biggest she could find; one that could fit Bull's horns and wide shoulders because the qunari man is as much a permanent fixture in Evelyn's party as Elion. This expedition group consists of Cassandra, Solas, The Iron Bull and Varric. The Inquisitor knows better than to haul Sera along when Solas is present and vice versa - if she values her sanity, that is.

"Inquisitor, what's this about?" Solas questions because of course she would bring Solas, the resident Fade Expert who knows all about the rifts. Elion frowns instinctively. It's not that Elion hates the elf - his arrogance is immeasurable, yes, and one of his favorite pastimes is pestering her about how she doesn't look like a real elf and how wrong her magic is and how she's not supposed to shift into a rage demon. It's not like it was her fault. She never saw a rage demon before, how was she to know people would react so badly at her fire elemental form? It took days of vague explanations before Cassandra trusted Elion enough to allow her close to Evelyn but that's all in the past, surely.

No, Elion doesn't hate the elf but she does think she's better than him. Solas prides himself on being a True Elf - whatever that means - but he has laughable darkvision and needs to sleep every night. Elion, has heightened senses, the blood of fey running in her veins and the advantage of trance, which wipes all need for sleep. She is a descendant of the old eladrin elves and Elion will be damned if she lets Solas walk all over her ancestry.

"Elion believes she can take us to the Emerald Graves." Evelyn declares, snapping the druid out of her thoughts.

"We do not have time for another one of your games, Elion." Cassandra mutters from The Inquisitor's side. Alright, perhaps the animosity between Cassandra and Elion is not a thing of the past. Yet.

Ye of little faith.

"I know what I'm doing. Don't you want to finish this as quickly as possible? I'm doing you all a favor, really."

"Inquisitor, I insist we return to the castle's gates and-" Evelyn ignores Solas in favor of nodding at Elion to continue. Elion grins, sharp and just a little mocking because Solas is watching her.

"Well the short version is I can teleport you through this tree."

Elion does not appreciate the blank looks she is given.

"You want to... teleport us. Through a tree. In the middle of Orlais." Poor Varric. His life has come to the point where the books he writes seem tame in comparison to his everyday life.

"Well not exactly the middle. You see, the Emerald Graves occupy more of a southern position and of course, I cannot pinpoint the exact tree on the map-"

"Elion. Focus."

"Right. I can only keep the portal open for six seconds so line up, everybody. Rush through the second I open it, okay?" Elion's hand is already on the tree; all she has to do is give shape to the divine magic simmering under her skin. A small part of her is unsure whether the spell will translate to this magic-limited plane but this is not the time to second guess her decisions.

You know, perhaps she shouldn't test her spells on the woman holding the key to saving Thedas but one thing Elion is not known for is her common sense so the druid smiles wide, almost buzzing with the amount of magic gathering in her body before the spell is released: wisps of golden energy entering the tree and tearing the middle of its trunk to make room for a portal. Beyond the shifting energy she can see blurred outlines of trees.

"How did you-" Varric begins.

"Six seconds! Go!" And they do, most of them in various states of confusion. She is the last one through, feeling the shift and pull of energy taking her physical self and thrusting it with great force across valleys and mountains. For a second she becomes infinite, one with the flow of nature before the magic slows, quiets and returns her senses. Elion steps out of the tree with a relieved sigh and a noticeable bounce in her step, unable to tear off the smile from her face. It worked! The other side is filled with vegetation and significantly warmer than the Frostback Mountains.

"We just walked through a tree. Is that normal?" Behind her, The Iron Bull questions through gritted teeth. Elion blinks, taken aback. Perhaps his experience was not as pleasant as hers?

"Is this something you can do, Chuckles? I figured out of all of us, you would-"

"No."

Mages can't do that here. Riiight...

Elion's smile grows. "I'm special." 

It's not the architecture; Windgarden Sanctum stood isolated at the top of the Stormwall Mountains while this temple overlooks the sea. This temple is warm where her home was cold and the sea is a constant background noise while she has grown up with howling winds and snow.

It's not Windgarden.

But sometimes when she is deep in meditation Keeper Turgen's presence hovers at the edge of her senses, watching and assessing. Turgen was the only Keeper who insisted on personally teaching the initiates and with time he became something resembling a father figure to Amarra and the rest.

Sometimes her focus falters and her stance slips from the sound of wind chimes clawing at her heart. We endure. The words were whispered as mantras to protect against the cold when meditating under the tree the Sanctum was built around. These words gave control over unruly emotions and helped soothe fatigue in the dead of night. She looks upon this temple by the sea and feels the lump in her throat grow. We endure.

And they will. Goma, Port, Elion, she will endure because she cannot bear to entertain the thought that they're not- that the spell-

No. They had to retreat, one moment more and they would have been nothing but specks of dust on the castle's floor. Amarra had to give the order otherwise they wouldn't have survived.

But did they? Lost in a plane you know nothing about with no familiar face in sight - how certain are you of their survival?

They are alive. They have survived adult dragons and hordes of undead. They stood strong against the madness of the Shadowfell. They battled demons and devils and gained the allegiance of planetars - it cannot end now.

Elion will find her. If not, Port will. Divination spells can show a person's whereabouts and Amarra knows that those two have the skills necessary to accomplish such a feat. That thought is one of the only things keeping her sane, lately.

Weeks pass. The language of the region is unknown to her but some of the faithful of the temple have taken to teaching her an occasional word. In the mornings she joins them in the chapel and listens to the prayers flowing through their lips in a unified song. Amarra joins the servants in cleaning and cooking - when the recipe is simple enough. Anything to show her gratitude at their generosity. Harboring a nonbeliever in a temple so focused on their respective divinity must not come without its hurdles and Amarra is determined to do whatever she can to remain in their good graces.

Religious imagery is chiseled into the very walls - depictions of a featureless humanoid and a horned giant. She is uncertain whether the two gods are allies or rivals. Statues of these deities line the halls and tainted glass speaks of their battle as well as revelry. Occasionally Amarra will spy a sign that stands apart from the others: a triangle pointing down, two wavy lines through it. She sees it on a few robes and some of the supply crates in the kitchens.

(The temple's robes are tight to the skin but not uncomfortable. Light ocean colors trimmed with gold. Elion would like them.)

Amarra's meditation techniques have caught the attention of this place's - the word is still unfamiliar to her but the status reminds her of Windgarden's Keepers so she refers to them as such - Keepers and at their request she demonstrates the talents she has learned in her Sanctum. Windgarden's Keepers chose to focus their teachings on a single monastic order - Way of the Open Hand. Amarra glides through stances that have become ingrained in her being and cannot help her proud smile at their reactions.

It's comfortable but temple life is not for her; not anymore. Not when Amarra has spent years traveling with two of the loudest people she has ever met, not when the thrill of taking down a beast twice her size has become an everyday occurrence.

She dreams of them. Some nights, when she's lulled to sleep by waves breaking against the stone below she plays through memories of their adventures. The time when Port got into a bar fight and Goma had to beat her way out because he was - and still is - too scrawny to withstand a proper mercenary punch. The time when they traveled to the Feywild and the Seelie Court charmed Elion, turning the elf against them. The time when Amarra bought a quarterstaff that later turned out to be possessed and had to be wrestled away from the weapon.

We endure. We will find eachother again.

Five weeks later the Keeper knocks on the door to Amarra's chambers and gestures for her to follow. "Come."

She stands up from the ground and follows him to the front of the temple. There, people in robes wearing the same inverted triangle she has seen scattered around sit, talking among themselves.

The Keeper strides forward and bows, one fist over his heart and a hand behind his back. The strangers return the greeting and Amarra hears her name spoken a few times in the following conversation. Amarra tries to listen but they speak too fast and by the time she can recognize one word and translate it they have already moved on to another sentence. At last, they turn towards her and one of the robed figures steps forward, arms spread wide.

"Otherworldler." Common spills forth from the man's lips. "Welcome to the land across the seas."

The two bring her before a human that goes by the name of Fairbanks. It sounds faker than the pleasantries she's forced to exchange along the way but Goma is not here to judge, considering her new friends are under the impression she used to live underground like some Gods damned gopher. Fairbanks smiles and offers to take her in as another refugee. The snort she gives in response is loud and more than likely insulting.

"I'm not some damsel that gets all a tizzy at the first sign of conflict. But there is something else you can do for me." Goma leans back on her heels and presents him with a smile reserved for sparking tavern brawls. "Your people saw me fight; I am more than capable of holding my own. I will gladly join your rebel group in exchange for information."

"What do you need?"

"The surface can be... overwhelming for someone like me. All I want is information, enough to gain my footing here." He frowns.

"Orzammar didn't tutor you in surface affairs?" Goma thinks back on the Shadowfell and Elion's spell. She tsks.

"My departure was sudden and not under the best of circumstances."

A moment passes. Two. Fairbanks releases a breath and nods. "Welcome to Watcher's Reach, Goma."

When Goma dreams, it's of the rebel camp she's currently in. Everyone else is gone save for her, and a familiar dragonborn bard greets Goma with a relieved smile.

"I have to say, your view's a lot better than mine." The copper dragonborn says, pointing a clawed finger behind her. Goma folds her arms, not breaking eye contact. Behind her, just like in waking life, the waterfall continues to pelt that ridiculous wolf statue. Some of the water droplets land on her back and cause her to shiver.

He's getting better. The first time he tried the dream spell he got trapped into Amarra's nightmare. Goma had to slap both of them awake to break the spell and even then, the two avoided each other for days.

"Spare me the pleasantries. Where the fuck are you?"

"I... don't know. Yet."

"What do you mean you don't know? Did you try reaching the others?"

Port sighs, breaking their one-sided staring contest and taking a seat on the stone bench next to her. "My spells can only do so much. Do you know where you are?"

"Emerald Graves. Pretty forest, creepy name. You?"

"In a city? Being chased by a dragon obsessed madwoman-"

"Porthas!" She smacks him with the back of her armored hand and Port jumps back on his feet, rubbing his arm. "It's fine, it got better!"

"Listen," The dragonborn begins once he sits back down next to her. "I'm handling it. Try not to draw attention to yourself until we find each other, alright?" Goma laughs, raising a hand to touch the symbol hanging from her neck: five dragon claws arranged into a star. She can already feel Port's magic fading away. The spell is ending, reaching the one minute limit.

"Don't chip your scales, dragonborn. It's you I'm most worried about."

Port smiles and bows. "Sweet dreams, Goma."

When it's safe, of course. She can't be reckless anymore.

Goma knows this because her prayers have stopped being answered the moment she got here. The sensation of fire licking at her throat whenever she kneels down in prayer - holy symbol of The Undying Queen clasped in her hands - has dulled to nothingness. She no longer hears the bellowing roar of her Goddess merge with hers as she dives into battle and when she dreams there are no signs waiting for her anymore.

She is not afraid. That is, not to say that she's the type of person who thinks fear makes someone weak; her fear is what helped Goma claw her way out of the mud of poverty and into the Great Dragon's following. She is grateful for fear to some degree. No, she is merely worried and wonders if this might be a side effect of the plane she's on - could it be so far removed form her deity's scope of power that Tiamat has no influence over it?

Goma knows this is not her fault. The Undying Queen has many ways of making her displeasure known to those who have fallen from her grace - Goma bears one such mark, a past consequence of her wavering loyalty - and silence is not in her vocabulary. But it worries Goma especially when her spells seems to flicker before fully taking hold of the enemy. Her frustration grows with each day she's forced to hide herself, to hold back her displays of power. It goes against Tiamat's nature and against Goma's as well.

Which is why she fails.

They're in the thick of battle, Clara and Oskar firing arrows from afar while Goma engages the front-line fighters with her warhammer. She's gotten good at bashing in the heads of red templars but the deeper they venture inside the Emerald Graves their opponents' strength grows as well. More massive, more encased in solid mineral. Some of them move like blurs across the field, plunging their crystal limbs into any who stand in their way. Goma hasn't seen anything like it before and with her powers waning she wonders how much longer can she keep this recklessness up before she stumbles upon something she cannot hammer into the ground.

Today is one of her worse days where the spells don't always grab hold of the enemy. The red templars are too many for her and the wounds she's sustained keep slowing her down. Inflict wounds fails more often than not and her resources are limited to begin with - dwarves in this plane of existence are not supposed to have magic. An annoying fact that has her using only touch based spells in an attempt to not reveal herself as someone not of this world.

She slipped once or twice, relied too heavily on her Smite spells which in turn made Clara and Oskar ask questions she frankly did not care to respond to. They seemed content with the explanation of her enchanted hammer. "The things you dwarves come up with down there never cease to amaze me. If you have any more of those enchantment runes I'll gladly buy them off ya." Goma scoffs.

But back to the business at hand - Goma is surrounded by red templars and some of her spells aren't working. Must be the streak of bad luck she's been having lately or the fact that these woods are too hot and too damp for her to enjoy being here. Or maybe the fact that Port has not checked in with her for over a week and the wait is making her antsy. Whatever reason it may be, Goma decides as she dodges from a particularly sharp crystal limb aiming for her neck, she is not going to die here because she shouldn't use her fucking spells. Not drawing attention to herself is going to get her killed so Port can kindly go fuck himself. 

With that thought in mind Goma reaches blindly for the holy symbol around her neck and drives her warhammer deep into the earth under her feet. The ground shakes, rumbles and blackens as her greater steed spell takes root. Flames rise from the cracks to burn away the grass as her nightmare steed answers Goma's summon. The red templars falter in their attacks at the sight of the demonic horse and that gives Goma the edge to finish the battle.

She doesn't notice the arrows stopping. She is too focused on her rage, too determined to break and hurt and kill that by the time she's done, her hammer runs red. Goma heaves a great sigh of relief when the last of them stop twitching under the might of her weapon, raising her hand to wipe away the beads of sweat gathered on her forehead. Her steed stops as well, raising its bloodstained teeth from the body of a red templar. She grins and pats the neck of her beloved nightmare, Locust.

It's been months since she had the need to use that spell. Mostly because the first time she did - a party reunion after half a year apart - Elion's saber-tooth tiger shape almost gouged out her left eye. Druids. It took a lot of time and Goma is sure that Elion still does not condone her deeds but the elfling has accepted the fact that Locust's nightmare form is irreversible. As long as Goma doesn't summon it around Elion, the druid won't fly into a rage about how Goma has perverted the nature of a celestial. Goma does not regret it, especially when Locust was made at the behest of her deity.

"Everything okay back there?" She calls out.

No response.

Goma frowns, gives her warhammer a few shakes to get some of the blood and brains off and mounts the nightmare, heading in the direction of the tree she knows Clara and Oskar are hiding behind. Staggering smite is on the tip of her tongue as a safety measure in case her companions choose to turn against her after what they've just witnessed.

She does expect the look on their face, as if she just murdered a newborn in front of them and she also expects the tip of their arrows pointed at her head. She doesn't expect them to flinch that much when she speaks, however. "Is there a problem?"

"How the fuck did you do that? And what is that thing?"

"Aww, Locust? He's a sweetheart, he won't hurt a fly." The nightmare huffs in response, smoke rising from his nostrils.

Oskar shifts, choosing to aim the arrow at her steed. Goma rolls her eyes.

"Don't be such a baby, it's fucking magic. Be grateful he saved our sorry asses."

"Saved? You're riding a demon!"

"Wanna get that arrow out of my face Clara or would you like me to ask nicely?" Goma lifts her warhammer in order to display what her asking nicely would imply.

"We can't let you back to camp after you just summoned a demon, Goma." Her two companions share a grim look.

"She knows where we're hiding." Clara says to Oskar and that's all the incentive Goma needs.

Slowly, Goma dismounts, aware of the arrows following her movement and pats the side of Locust's body. Once.

Twice. "Can't say I feel bad about this, then." Three times. Locust rushes forward while Goma sends her warhammer flying in the direction of Oskar, releasing the staggering smite.

"They were right. I can't have you close to me when I return to the camp. Be a good boy and wait for my call, then."

Locust huffs and begrudgingly follows his mistress, his form slowly shifting to the Ethereal Plane. The light around the nightmare bends and shifts until he is no longer visible.

"It's only for a little while." She mutters, confident in the fact that Locust can still hear her. "Now stay close. I don't want to cast this spell a second time."

The words are a constant presence in Port’s vicinity; scribbled into opened notebooks while he sits pouring over manifestos about the current world he’s found himself in, and painted above bed frames at night every time he goes to sleep.

He’s leaving traces. He knows that, and the freed slaves know that and Fenris does too but the elf has seen the desperation in the dragonborn’s eyes one day when he woke up and the paint was gone - the letters proclaiming his current location nowhere in sight. He’s been asked about them before and it pains him that he can’t share the truth.

‘Do you see these letters? These are my ticket home because somewhere out there are my friends, friends that have access to skills I lack, capable of finding a person across seas. And once they see them it’s only a matter of time before we’re reunited.’ It sounds crazy but every night before bed he makes sure the paint is still perfect, the letters legible and that his bag’s strap is facing the right way  - where a divination spell can easily make out the words sewn into it. It doesn't matter how many times Port Dreams with his friends family, or how many times Amarra's promises that they shall be reunited remain in his mind when he wakes up, it makes no difference because the one spell he relies on to keep him sane never reaches Elion because gods damned elves don't sleep and isn't that the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever heard?

Porthas is afraid.

For once in his life he cannot escape situations with a smile and words coated in honey. His very being betrays his outsider nature while Goma, Elion and Amarra can exist without raising question marks and without risking abduction on sight.

So Port Alters himself for survival. He hides his tail, hides his claws, his scales and his entire form for as long as he can. He sees flesh and cant help but shiver every time he looks at his reflection. He burns through spells like tinder just to blend in and when that's not enough he Charms his way into friendships that keep him alive.

That's how he finds Fenris. 

Port is careful. He befriends the low and downtrodden, he uses his magic and guiles to help them - a handful of coin here, a slab of meat there, some fresh water - nothing too flashy of course, the last thing Port wants is for them to whisper his name and spread it around, people are still looking for him. But every kindness still slips past dehydrated lips and makes its way through the town.

The humans hide him for he is one of them now. They don't ask questions about his past or his skittish nature and he repays them in kind with the necessary tools for survival. They grin and cry and feed their starving kids and take his hands in between theirs to promise their loyalty. Porthas gives them smiles in return because those are the lies that come easiest to him. Eventually it becomes routine which is how Porthas knows it's bound to be broken soon.

Two months later he's walking the streets of Minrathous in the dead of night and hides when an elf rushes past him, closely followed by guards bearing the crest of one of the noble families. And Porthas fights with himself for a moment, thinks that it's better to leave it alone and continue his ruse until Elion comes for him. He thinks of the elf's shining eyes and their gaunt figure and the ragged clothes he managed to take a glimpse of and his heart skips a beat, as if judging him.

'You were that person, once,' it says. And ultimately no person without an unhealthy amount of trauma decides to become an adventurer or goes looking for trouble so Porthas drops the alter self spell in favor of invisibility and runs to catch up with the elf.

In the moments spent passing the guards in order to find the elf he thinks of his own ghosts and how their shadows stretched to follow him in the street lamps. The memory bolsters his resolve and as Porthas takes a left towards one of the smaller markets of Minrathous he sees the elf about 60 feet in front of him ready to hide behind one of the empty display stalls. Port follows, dropping his invisibility and beginning the incantation necessary for charm person. His words echo in the night air as he slides into the elf's hiding spot and grips the lower half of the boy's face to muffle his scream.

The spell is released, tendrils of enchantment magic passing from his claw into the boy's mouth and causing his eyes to glaze over. The elf stops struggling and Porthas lets out a relieved breath at the spell's success.

"Listen, they're close and they're going to find us. I'm your friend. I'm going to get us out of here if you let me. Okay?" The elf nods hesitantly but that's all the agreement Porthas needs. Dimension door cannot work without a willing participant but nowhere in the spell's extensive list of regulations is it specified that the person cannot be charmed into agreement.

They teleport as far back as the spell allows, the full five hundred feet which leaves them far behind the guards rushing into the market. The elf dry heaves as soon as the fabric of reality stops bending around them and Porthas grimaces in sympathy. He knows that feeling, the vertigo that comes with transportation spells.

"Come on," Porthas helps him to his feet. "I know where to go but we have to be quick."

Jariel tells him of his master, Quintus and how Magister is not a name but a social class held by those with arcane powers - mages, Jariel calls them. He tells Porthas of Hippolyta, the magister Porthas escaped from and how she raged at her brother about the dragonborn she lost; he tells Porthas of their plan - or part of the plan he overheard about using the dragonborn in order to gain more favor with the Archon and Porthas trembles with barely concealed fury.

Jariel also tells him about the moment Hippolyta discovered his chambers empty and how her slaves were shocked that someone managed to escape her and how his actions brought hope to some of the unwilling slaves in her house which then traveled to her brother's.

Porthas swallows, feeds the boy the finest food he can bring into existence, all pretense of posing as a normal person out the window and decides that he's done sitting on his ass waiting for salvation. He takes the boy's hand, conjures his Magnificent Mansion and begins plotting the seeds of revolution.

Just like old times.

Jariel is the one with knowledge and he knows the workings of Minrathous as best as a slave can from their position. Porthas takes to the information like a sponge and the plan grows. One more visit to Hippollyta, Porthas says. Jariel agrees because it's not an impossible plan, especially with what he has seen from Porthas so far.

The plan almost fails and Porthas has to leave a couple slaves behind but he promises to come back for them even though both sides know they won't be there next time.

His responsibility grows and so does his promises to the humans he is using for shelter. The poor have a desperate need; not only for survival but for advancement and with every slave they harbor their demands of Porthas grow, reaching their breaking point.

And break they do when guards storm their safe house. They don't have the time to arrest anyone however because that's when he meets Fenris, a blur of black and blue that cuts through guards like a hot knife through butter. He almost cuts him down too but the freed slaves shout their protests and they vouch for him enough for the anger in Fenris eyes to subside and guide them to safety.

Quickly, Porthas learns that Fenris hates magic and from the sigils burned into the elf's flesh, Porthas has an inkling as to why. He spends his days away from the other freed slaves, being questioned by Fenris about his intentions. Porthas answers him because he has seen Fenris ghost his hand into a man's back and rip out his spine through armor and he does not want the same fate to befall him. He shares what parts of his past he can and demonstrates the extent of his magic.

Fenris grows restless and angry and tells him his magic doesn't feel right and Porthas grows angry too and his insults cut too close to home for Fenris because in between blinks Porthas has a greatsword to his throat.

"Leave." Fenris growls.

"You don't want to do this, Fenris. Put the sword down."

"I will not repeat myself, mage." He won't but Porthas will repeat himself with force if necessary. The sword bites through scales and in response to the pain, acid bubbles inside the glands at the back of his throat.

"Put the sword down, Fenris." He says, a guttural sound that displays the draconic side of his bloodline. He sees the elf's muscles tense and Porthas releases the acid breath at the same time as Fenris' greatsword comes down on his chest.

The elf dodges out of the way but the acid hits the sword and begins to sizzle. There's a pause in combat, where Fenris stares at the trail of acid that's slowly beginning to eat at the wooden floor before leveling his gaze on Porthas.

"How-"

"Will you look past you anger for one second and think? Do I look like a mage to you? I am not from here and I want to go home!" And that gives Fenris pause. Maybe it's the desperation creeping out in his words, Porthas thinks.

He's allowed to live. In the days following, Porthas falls back into old habits and takes up the form of his alter. Fenris won't look at him regardless of form and the only time he is directly spoken to is regarding a mission - because no matter how deep Fenris' hatred for mages run, he know Porthas isn't one.

No, Porthas thinks. He's more than a mage. In a world where he has seen the limitations imposed by magic on its wielders, he is the evolution.