Chapter Text
The invitation came as a surprise. He accepted, if only to see for himself whether the stories he’s heard of the Herald were true or grandly embellished. Tales of her fantastical achievements spread far and wide. To aid in closing the sky and restoring peace to the necropolis was one matter–but to meet and guide the legendary Inquisitor herself? That was an ordeal entirely of its own.
He had arrived at the Grand Necropolis that morning to find Myrna waiting, a sealed letter in hand, her eyes bright with excitement. The message itself was simple: a wax seal bearing the Inquisition’s insignia– the details impeccably penned by Ambassador Montilyet.
Weeks later, he arrived at Skyhold with neither fanfare nor entourage– only a few scouts guiding him and two other specialists up the mountains.
The air here was crisp, laced with the thrumming energy of the Breach. Even with the sky mended, the Fade’s touch had only begun to dissipate.
The fortress itself was magnificent– an enduring symbol, rescued from decay and ruin. Broken stones and crumbling towers rebuilt back to grandeur, new banners adorned its weathered walls, ushering in a new era of strength and purpose. The inquisition patched its wounds and filled it with life; harrowed refugees seeking solace, faithful pilgrims finding guidance, soldiers defending their homeland.
Emmrich inhaled deeply, catching the earthy smell of the roaring forge and teeming stables. Word of the inquisition– and of the Inquisitor– had traveled far. Her name whispered in reverence and doubt in equal measures. He set his suitcase down and motioned for Manfred to start unpacking.
Even if she chose another path, he would have stood at the heart of history. That alone was worth his journey.
Dorian found him first– right as Manfred finished brewing afternoon tea. His flair for dramatics remained unchanged since his student days. His robes, gestures, and even the way he settled into his seat exuded the same leisurely pridefulness.
“Professor,” Dorian greeted with a wave as Manfred served tea,” I didn’t expect to see you at our humble abode. A welcome surprise.”
“Ah, young lord Pavus, it’s so very good to see you again. I am here on behalf of the Mortalitasi to instruct the Inquisitor in our art of Necromancy,” Emmrich flipped out his tailcoat to sit at their makeshift table. He had just lifted his cup when he felt something–someone– linger at the fringes of their camp.
“Ah, you must have sensed Cole,” Dorian remarked, setting his teacup back down with a pleased sigh. Nevarran spiced tea paired well with the chilly mountain air. “He’s a bit weary about us necromancers, unfortunately.”
“Understandable,” Emmrich replied, gaze drawn toward the silence in the distance. Cole was there, he was certain of it—his presence a hush before snowfall or a whisper on the edge of hearing. Not lingering, Emmrich noted. Listening.
“With the way you speak of spirits, I can’t imagine why he’d be wary of you,” Emmrich said dryly, stirring a teaspoon of sugar into his tea.
Manfred hisses, curiosity peaked at the spirit boy in the bushes.
Dorian scoffed. “Yes, yes, I am an unrepentant horror to their delicate sensibilities. A terrible man, truly.”
Emmrich hummed noncommittally, focusing on the presence only he could sense. He understood, of course. Outside of Nevarra, necromancy is often seen as something to dominate, bind and subjugate. But he had always believed spirits should be guided, not bound– honoring both the spirit’s and the body’s journeys through renewed purpose. Given time, respect, and understanding, Cole might see that not all necromancers were the same.
“She’s a remarkable woman” Dorian says, swirling his tea idly.
Emmrich leans in, curious. He had heard tales spun by bard and traveling scholars on this journey to Skyhold. But Dorian had traveled, fought and known her.
“Not Dalish, despite appearances,” Dorian continued. “Or at least, not quite. She grew up in the Kirkwall Circle—yes, that one. As if one blast wasn’t enough for a lifetime.”
Emmrich leaned back, disbelief on his face. Kirkwall. Where the mage rebellion ignited. Where the destruction charred large swaths of Ferelden. Where spirits stirred, drawn by the echoes of ruin, and awoke as demons in the depths of the Necropolis.
“Impeccable healer– tends to our wounded personally, working alongside the chief surgeon.”
Dorian tilted his head slightly, carefully considering his next words. “She doesn’t stop. Even when she should. Perhaps it’s guilt, perhaps obligation—hard to say. But you know the type. The ones who take on the world’s burdens and never set themselves down.”
Dutiful. Compassionate. Accomplished.
And persevering.
Emmrich could hear it in the way Dorian spoke, even if he didn’t say it outright. A woman who had seen too much, lost too much, and now fated with a responsibility no one else could bear.
Days later, he steps out of his tent to great commotion.Though the day barely awoke, a smear of rising red illuminating the dark sky, Skyhold was already stirring with purpose. Agents rushing with updates, soldiers unloading caravans– passing crates of excavations and herbs, medics carrying injured to base camp.
And in the midst of it all, a quiet current against the chaos, was her. Inquisitor Lavellan.
She moved through the morning mist with measured strides, steady despite the weariness weighing on her shoulders. Even from a distance, Emmrich could feel her presence—not through grand gestures, but in the way the air seemed to still around her.
True to Dorian’s words, she was striking against the paling dawn. Had he not known otherwise, he might have mistaken her for Dalish– pale skin, umber hair, the elvish elegance bespoken of their revered Halla.
She nodded along to a scout’s rapid report, absorbed in the details. And then—as if drawn by fate—she turned, looking directly at him.
A brief yet enduring moment.
Her gaze was firm. Unwavering. Then, just as quickly, she turned away, disappearing into the fortress.
She was the reason he had come.
Hours later, after the sun rose and the fortress awakening for a new day, she approached him at his station. She has a pious and calming air about her– reminiscent of his trips to the peaceful Dalish forests. With each passing moment, he was more and more certain that with her at the helm, all would eventually be alright. The turbulence brought on with the sundered sky, the wild magic stirring Thedas, Nevarra–the Necropolis, will not last forever with her at helm.
“Professor Volkarin, was it?” She asked from behind, steps cautious, eyes following Manfred.
“Ah yes, I thought I heard a tapping,” he said, coming up to grasp her hands in his,”It’s an honor Inquisitor. Don’t mind my servant, Manfred– he’s ever so curious.”
Behind him, a coated skeleton with brilliant emerald eyes hisses in delight, balancing a delicate tea set on a wooden tray. The porcelain cups clink delicately as he adjusted his grip.
“I’ve come from Nevarra as a voice for the dead. Welcome them, and they can serve your cause.”
“You speak for who?”
“The dead. Many assume they have misheard. I am of the Mortalitasi–” Emmrich steps back holding his arms out in a grand flourish,”a member of the Mournwatch specifically. We tend to those who have passed, and revere their lives by honoring them in death. And when the living is threatened, we give the deceased renewed purpose once more. Necromancy, Inquisitor. The dead will serve you.”
He could see the questions forming in her head. She’s definitely not the first. Not many Mortalitasi venture outside Nevarra, and even less involve themselves with other circle towers. Death and blood magic were tightly confused together outside of Nevarra.
“A Mortalitasi? Is that like a death mage?” She questioned, hesitant.
Manfred hisses—sounds taken aback— as he carefully finished pouring steaming tea into their cups.
“Not quite. We are caretakers of the Grand Necropolis of Nevarra. For the treasured relative, we usher a spirit of the Fade into the void of their mortal form. It honors both the living and the dead. But when enemies threaten the living, we may turn death into a weapon of war, instead of merely the result.” He explained.
“And that is different from bringing back the dead?”
“Correct. The souls of the departed cross the Fade to be with the Maker, Inquisitor. The body, left behind, is simply empty. In the Necropolis, we would usher in a displaced spirit of the fade– eliminating imbalance. But this is war. Every battlefield has one thing in abundance– death. I turn the bodies of enemies into weapons against them. We do not manipulate the living. We honor the dead.”
“There wasn't much on the Mortalitasi in Kirkwall,” She pondered. Emmrich motions for her to sit, anticipating a long discussion; welcoming of her adventurous spirit. “Would blood magic be involved?”
“No!” He reeled back, horrified, clutching his chest at the thought. “Blood magic consumes life! It tears at the living– manipulating and destroying it! An abominable cancer among our kind. We honor life, through veneration and rituals–giving mortal forms a renewed purpose. In combat, even another moment is longer than they had.”
“Forgive me,” she responded, taken aback by the passion in his voice.
“No forgiveness needed, my dear,” He schools himself, reigning himself back in from his outburst. “Many confuse our occupation. You are not the first nor the last. Teaching of necromancy outside of Nevarra is rare– I understand our culture clashes with those of the rest of Thedas.”
Lavellan studied him, weighing his words. “I can see how useful it would be. Less of our soldiers would die on the field, but spirits don’t always act as we expect. Are there risks?”
Emmrich gave an approving nod, as if pleased by her question. “Ah, a wise concern. The Fade is unpredictable, yes, but our practices are rooted in centuries of refinement. The spirits we call upon come willingly and are carefully guided with intention. With the aid of our spirit friends, death can make allies of enemies. Death can rend the battlefield. Death can turn the tide against Corypheus.”
“You know of Corypheus?” She straightened her posture, hands clasped in her lap.
“Quite, my dear. We could see the breach from as far north as Tevinter. It’s magic rippling across Thedas, weaving through and stirring the restless in the Necropolis. More tea?”
She nods, holding up her cup and saucer as he pours her another. They continue discussing well into the afternoon, answering any questions as well as exchanging stories.
“I won’t keep you any longer, dear,” He stands up, dusting himself off as a scout approaches, missive in hand for the Inquisitor. “Take all the time you need, I’ll gladly answer any questions you have regarding my arts, the fade, or you mark.”
“Thank you, Professor,”
He watched as she excused herself, following the agent into the depth of Skyhold. When she’s beyond sight, he turns back, ready to pen back all he’s learned back to everyone at the Necropolis. She has potential, that’s for sure.
She makes her decision after a week of deliberating– a rift mage. A fascinating new field. She comes to find him as he’s readying to pack up and leave.
“Professor,” She says ducking into his tent, “Please stay– your expertise on the Fade would help our cause immensely.”
He pauses. Manfred stills, hissing curiously, head turning back and forth between them.
“My dear Inquisitor, how could I possibly refuse? The rifts, the Fades very breath spilling into our world—ah! A scholar’s dream!” he says, clasping his hands together in exclaim . A close study of the rifts, of its influence with the fade– a grand opportunity.
“I will send word to have accommodations ready,” She said, “Scout Cedric, will aid in anything you’d need for this transition.”
“Wonderful! I’ll gather my things—send word of my stay.” Volkarin clapped his hands together, vibrating with excitement. “Come, Manfred!”