Chapter Text
The woods were quiet as the two travelers made their ways through undisturbed, the red sun covering them in the copper light before dawn. Their horses trotted down the leaf-covered trail, not betraying any hurry. The duo had been staying away from the main roads for three days now. Any traveler with means to protect themselves in the wilds knew to stay off the roads during these times, lest they wanted to risk getting caught in the fights between apostates and Templars. It used to be far worse before but under the steely intervention of the reborn Inquisition the war had died out to merely small vendettas and unorganized acts of violence. It was rumored that the new force in Thedas had offered shelter to the rebel mages that had taken over Radcliffe and now the southern territory of Ferelden was protected by the Inquisition under the thankful but vigil presence of the Denerim seat.
However, the two hooded figures had other, more personal in nature, reasons to avoid the roads as both seemed more than capable of handling themselves. One of them, slightly broader in shoulders, carried an igneous staff with a well-kept grip and a dormant stone; his companion, of a towering constitution, revealed no visible weapons at a first glance. It had been hours since any words were exchanged and they continued through the forest in complete silence for three more.
The travelers left the forest just moments after nightfall. In the distance, ahead of them, the dark waters of the lake took to the horizon, and further, as if emerging from the calm waves, stood the white tower, a long time ago raised by the Avvars, yet still surviving the ages.
By the side of the lake one lone building awaited them. The lights of the tavern were burning by its side, signaling travelers in need of rest. It wasn’t much to look at, patched from wood and adobe, with a tiny stable and barn, but it was well kept. As they approached from behind, the old dock came into sight, one single boat tied to it; it seemed to have not been used in a long time.
Finally in front of the building the two figures dismounted and tugged the horses towards the stable. One of them took both reins and secured the animals, making sure they had access to water and food.
The mage in the party stepped closer to the docks, taking in the sights in the distance.
“I’ve heard stories… but to see it... almost tempting to have a closer look if it wasn’t for the dreadful chill down my spine.” The man let out, his accent clearly not from these parts.
“That bad?” a deep womanly voice answered as the other hooded figure stepped closer to let her presence known.
“If you could hear the tears in the Veil, that tower would be in a constant agonizing scream.”
“They say it’s a cursed place.” her voice betrayed sarcasm.
“I imagine any place that has seen so much magic gone wrong would make people believe so, yes. But it’s just broken beyond repair. Too many horrors have seeped through the Veil in there. It’s the least favorable place to teach young, scared and volatile mages how to control their abilities.”
They shared a moment of silence, both lost in thoughts under the weight of the famous Ferelden Circle Tower.
“Well, I am sure it’s a topic to put on the table for the future Divine… whoever they might be. You could write a letter and have it prepared… just on the off-chance they do manage not to tear each-other apart before they reach a consensus.”
The mage let out a rasp laughter and followed the retreating figure towards the inn. He glanced up, preparing for what was waiting on the other side of the door – the sign above the entrance taunted him.
“The Spoiled Princess” opened its door and the two stepped in.
The inside of the place was welcoming in a very rustic and simple way, better kept than its exterior. The walls were decorated with Ferelden heraldry, the beloved mabaries embroider on one of the bigger tapestries ahead of the entrance. It came as no surprise to also find the Wardens' coat of arms; the Hero of Ferelden was still alive in the memory of many, and without a doubt, a fair number of people in those parts owed the Warden their lives.
The inn was a cozy and only half-lit space. The fireplace and big candelabrum were the main source of light while the corners of the tavern were protected by shadows. Seven more travelers were easy to spot around the otherwise empty place, together with the old man behind the bar and the maiden serving the tables.
“As we discussed, let me do the talking.” The woman whispered once they’d sized up their surroundings.
“You have the stage. Though I doubt I am the first person with my particular accent they’ve heard recently.”
The cape granted him no answer as she started to make her way to the bar. He glanced at the lonesome figure by the window at the corner table before he decided it was better to stick around his companion.
From behind the wooden countertop the owner of the inn greeted the two with a short nod.
“Evening, travelers. Hope the road found you well.” The fact that he barely looked their way showed he didn’t really care.
“Good evening. As safe as possible these days.”
A grunt left the man’s throat at the comment but he didn’t seem bothered that the two weren’t showing their features. It wasn’t uncommon. Retreated places like these, it was more suspicious if people did. This type of tavern was for travelers that favored discretion over comfort.
“What can I get you?”
“Ale and supper. We traveled a long way. And a room for the night if available.”
With another nod and a long glance their way the man, somewhere in his forties, pointed at someone behind him, and only then did they see a young girl, jumping from a chair.
“These travelers are in need of accommodation. See to it.”
The girl sprinted along the counter on their side, a book in her hands and the only smile they were going to receive in that house.
“How many rooms, Sers?”
“One.” the woman answered. “One bed is fine.”
“Oh, one bed?” the man chimed in, traces of humor in his voice. “We won’t be getting much sleep tonight then?”
Even in that poor light the blush on the girl’s cheeks was hard to miss. She looked away and as quickly as she could she darted to the back of the hall, running for the stairs.
“It will be ready soon!”
And she as gone.
“That was unnecessary.”
“Oh, come on, she’s at the age where she needs food for her curiosity.”
Two big pints of ale were placed in front of them and the woman turned around to pick them up.
“Money up ahead. My wife will bring you some broth to your table.”
“Why don’t you go and acquaint yourself with that fellow traveler over there while I take care of this?”
“Me? Alone?”
“I am sure you’ll be fine.” she stressed as she gently nodded at the same person he had previously eyed.
And with that the mage was on his not so comfortable way. The stranger was sitting at the corner table, a thick tunic and leather gauntlets visible from under his own brown hood. He didn’t look menacing but he did seem very clear about enjoying his solitude.
He didn’t quite ask if he could sit before he pulled the second chair from under the table.
“Pleasant night, wouldn’t you agree?”
The man looked at him from across the table. He went for his drink, his eyes somewhere under the hood, following the mage’s every move. In that inelegant silence said mage looked over his shoulder hoping his salvation would come soon. The worst part was he felt the tension coming from the other man as soon as he had opened his mouth. And he regretted every second of it. Let me do the talking she said. We don’t want people picking up on your accent she said. Well she should have been the one here, talking to their supposed contact. The mage glanced at the stranger’s sword, pinned against the wall and started to calculate his options out, if things were going where he feared they were going.
The man straightened his back with intent. In response, he started to pull the Veil at his fingertips.
Two pints were thrown on the table, ale spilling all over. Both men looked up at the third figure now towering over them from the side of the table. The cape stood still until they both tentatively started to lean back in their seats, only then realizing how much they had changed their stances.
“Behave.”
Was all she whispered before she threw her foot at the leg of a nearby chair and pulled it to their table. With a lack of grace, if not a bit assertive, she let her body fall into the chair. The new person in their company returned to his drink but the mage could still feel his eyes on him. He tried to look around, to distract himself. And around he looked, taking in the place where they were supposed to spend the night.
“The Spoiled Princess… there’s nothing spoiled nor royal about it.” He let out more for himself.
It took him by surprise when the stranger let out a huffed laugher. “Now those were my thoughts exactly when I first visited this place…about… one Blight ago…” The man placed one arm around the back of his chair, revealing his fit features. Either done in an attempt to intimidate or to express composure - it was unclear which - in the mage’s opinion he both failed and succeeded at the same time. What an interesting fellow…. What did not escape him however was the familiarity in the man’s voice. He had heard it before, just couldn’t place it.
The woman crossed her arms on her chest and pushed back, as if to have both of them in her sight, but let them continue their conversation.
“See that old fellow? He’s the owner. Used to have a younger sister that their father adored. She left for a better life in Denerim but … didn’t make it.”
There was silence. The mage looked at his companion both waiting for a point or a turning moment in the story. However, nothing followed.
The man returned to his drink. “Sounded better when I first heard it.”
They’d definitely met before, he thought. Strange that his friend hadn't mentioned that.
Two bowls with broth and bread were pushed in front of them.
“There’s more where that came from. Just say the word, gentlemen.” The woman bowed shortly and left the table as discretely as she had appeared.
He took the spoon and turned the contents in his bowl a couple of times.
“How could I not ask for more of this Ferelden delicacy…” he did not hold back on sarcasm. “Has anyone ever told them that salt has been discovered ages ago? I’m not even going to hold my breath for spices.”
When he felt no reaction he lifted his eyes to see both hoods directed at him.
“What?” Then he kept his eyes on the woman. He didn’t need to remove the hood to know the way she was eyeing him. “Don’t be like that; we had this talk before and we both agreed that people down south are absolutely adorable but their food is positively atrocious.”
“At least here down south we like our meat to taste of meat not of the honey you marinate it in up there in the Imperium. But you, Tevinter, do you.” The indignation in the stranger’s voice was palpable.
“Oh, I hit a nerve. Outing me like that in public! What if I turn into a horrible monster with 3 rows of teeth? We do that all the time up there in the Imperium! All in good humor, of course.”
“Be-have.”
All three of them retreated to their drinks. The woman seemed to be the only one relaxed and the mage was suspecting that she was, in a way, enjoying their current situation.
“Interesting place you picked.” She let out eventually, addressing to the man across from him.
“It’s safe.” He answered now on a more serious tone. “People tend to forget it even exists and those who remember stay away from it because of the tower.” It took a moment before he continued. “What’s your excuse? Bringing a vint to a Venatori hunt?”
“I assure you there’s nothing strange about that.” He almost hissed through his hushed voice, not giving his friend a chance to answer. “No one wants to see the Venatori fail more than a citizen who actually cares about the well-being of the Imperium.”
The woman pushed the chair loudly against the floor as soon as he spoke, making both men realize their mistake. Casually he glanced around; they seemed to be in luck, not catching anyone’s ears.
The Ferelden in front of him rested his arms on the table, staring down his pint.
“So… you have a lead…” she started the dance around the reason behind their meeting.
“Yeees, let’s call it a lead. I took the liberty of doing a bit of digging following your nonsense ideas; asked some trusted ears to lean in a little on things that matched the information you shared and with that occasion I discovered two uncomfortable facts: first one is that the Inquisition does an excellent job at asking the right questions in places they don’t belong. Now, imagine that being the less worrisome part.”
The mage looked at his friend but she seemed not interested in reacting in any way to the accusations.
“The second one is learning how this blasted cult is making their way into Ferelden. They are either stupid or too confident.”
“Oh I do believe one does not exclude the other in this case.” He commented before trying the ale himself. It tasted bad but he'd had worse.
“We should probably take this conversation somewhere else.” Judging by her tone it was less of a suggestion, and more of a decision.
The mage looked down at the untouched dinner. He could manage till morning.
His friend was the first to get up. He followed and threw a glance at the man still seated. They stepped away from the table and the Ferelden in their company took one last swig of his ale before he pushed himself up, palms pinned to the table.
The group went through the tables, past the owner and towards the stairs in the back.
His story was many things, the mage concurred, but boring was never one of them. Dorian of House Pavus, lost and reclaimed name in a series of unforeseen family events, in light of a cherished friendship with the Inquisitor herself had requested for her help in tracking down a couple of really nasty Venatori, to which she had happily agreed. The invaluable information he had received from Mae a while back placed said Venatori in Ferelden, and whatever they were up to was going to have ugly consequences; that alone prompted the Inquisitor to reach out to her contacts in the country. Dorian had questioned at first why the woman hadn’t just used the Inquisition’s resources in uncovering the active cult, a most common problem-solving method, but a week ago, after she had received confirmation from her sources, she pointed out that the person who was going to help them was sharing their common interest in dealing with the threat in as quiet a manner as possible. He was more than grateful for this turn of events - if the Inquisition was involved, the Venatori’s attempts at spilling blood on Ferelden ground would become a political problem and Maker knew the Imperium was better off not being dragged through more dirt because of some extreme fanatics.
The Inquisitor had refused to say anything revealing about the identity of their contact in Ferelden except that she trusted the man blindly and that information alone was more than enough for him. And that was his side of the story, of how the night had found Dorian in such hushed circumstances, carefully making his way up the stairs of a rundown tavern in the heart of Ferelden.
The woman by his side, her identity protected by the worn out hood, pointed at the opened door upstairs - their room for the night. She stepped in last, checking the hall one more time before closing and locking the door behind them. Dorian pulled at the Veil for a simple trick adjusting the flames of the candles enough to offer a comfortable light while keeping them out of sight from anyone who would look up at their window.
“Do we have privacy, Dorian?”
“Mmm, just a moment…” he hummed working on the silence glyphs on the room.
“I’m going to say it - this Venatori business is uglier that I though.” The man spoke up.
“Not uglier than I warned you.” Her teasing tune was a complete change of attitude and it was something the mage would not have expected.
As the exchange was happening, reports were being dispatched to Skyhold placing the Inquisitor and Dorian north of the Hinterlands, tasked with investigating the appearance of red lyrium and such information was going to continue traveling for as long as Varric could come up with stories in his correspondence. Dorian had complete confidence in the dwarf’s skills at storytelling, he was just worried they would eventually get intense and epic enough for someone to smell the lies.
“Are you really gloating at how bad things are? If the sky comes falling down on us at least you’ll get to say I told you so. Silver lining, yes? ” Dorian could imagine the man roll his eyes under the hood just by the bitten sarcasm in his voice and in that moment he thought he almost had it. Think Dorian, you’ve met the man…
The Tevinter mage finished his spell and turned just in time to catch the features of Jesebel Trevelyan. Much like himself, he could find an array of ways to describe her: unwilling and rather accidental Herald of Andraste, terrifying leader of the Inquisition, a pain in the ribs of the Chantry. Tall and with an athletic build, she was an extremely intimidating woman for many, but above all, she was Dorian’s dearest friend. It was downright disarming how at times life decided to bring some people together in the most unexplainable ways.
“I am past such petty things.” A wide grin adorned her face.
“Of course you are.”
“Also that part about the sky not falling down on you, you’re welcome.”
“Hole’s still up there last time I checked.”
There was a heavy silence.
“It's closed... of sorts. And who’s petty now?” Yet there was nothing but warmth in the woman’s eyes and in the eager smile tugging at her lips.
Which brought Dorian’s attention to the man pacing around.
“One room? Three people? Are we getting all cozy and comfortable tonight?”
“We’re discussing everything you know tonight.” She corrected him with a familiarity that only really close people would possess. “And then we take turns on watch until ‘morrow.”
“Jumping right to the fun part then!” the man clapped his strong hands together.
With the most boyish gesture the hood was pulled off revealing a tousled mass of strawberry blond hair and a grin wide enough that, in spite of the aged features, could still find place for a subtle dimple right above the well-kept beard.
“I have a list of honorable people that would be absolutely mortified by what I am going to say and I am almost disappointed I won’t get to see their silly faces, but – ” and he followed with a dramatic pause that left even Dorian a bit envious “I’m looking forward to engaging in some good ol’ swooping on these bad, bad mages.”
Alistair Theirin, beloved King of Ferelden, allegedly buried up to his ears in dire political duties was, uncorroborated, showing off a disarming smile, with hands on his hips, a big attitude at the top of his tongue, in one the most forgotten corners of Ferelden.
There was a joke to be made about an Altus, a King and an Inquisitor stepping into a tavern, but Dorian was not the man to sell himself that low. However, interesting days were ahead, and years from that moment he’d have a story few would believe, and a friendship he’d carry beyond the grave.