Codex: The Red Rose of Kirkwall

New arrivals to the City of Chains are faced with an imposing sight. History has left it’s mark on this city, from the baroque grotesqueries of the Tevinter Imperium to the carvings of forgotten deities whose visages have graced the stone cliffs for unknown millennia. All my life I have yearned to make the pilgrimage to this city of mysteries, and yet upon my initial disembarkment, I felt my resolve waver. Though in this I am surely in good company. For what traveler has ever stood before those great black walls and not felt his legs tremble beneath him?

However, visitors to modern Kirkwall will find it much altered from the city of extremes described by my predecessor Brother Genitivi. The slums have been replaced by sturdy and practical public housing, the decadent Hightown estates by libraries, schools, and clinics. But perhaps the most striking difference is what is missing. Viscount Varric Tethras' reign is widely known as Kirkwall’s Age of Reconstruction, yet it is no accident that he has not restored the original Chantry.

It is difficult to pinpoint Tethras’ exact motivations, due to the seclusion in which he has chosen to live for the greater part of his reign. Some say he has learned from the example set by his predecessors, the Perrins, whose rule was so dramatically cut short by Templar swords. And while it is doubtful that Tethras has much to fear from the Order given his personal ties to Divine Victoria, he may well be reluctant to allow the Chantry any foothold from which they could challenge Kirkwall’s control over the Waking Sea. His detractors have seized upon this as a moral failing, claiming that he puts matters of trade above those of the soul. And it is true that under Tethras’ rule the merchant class has risen up to claim status and holdings that were once the sole domain of Kirkwall's noble families. But to declare commerce as the sole motivating factor for the major decisions of his reign would be a severe misjudgment of Tethras’ character. For proof of this one need only to look to the other institution he chose not to rebuild.

Kirkwall’s Elven Alienage burned to the ground during the mob riots of 9:41. Upon his ascension to the Keep, despite enormous pressure from Kirkwall’s surviving noble families, Tethras refused to reinstate it, declaring Kirkwall’s elven population free to live wherever they chose. Today the site serves as a public park, where the old blackened trunk of the vhenadahl still stands tall, left as a memorial, no doubt, to those poor souls trapped inside their homes when the fire broke out. It's somber shape casts a rather grim shadow over what is otherwise a bright and cheerful garden.

And here I must pause in order to relate a most curious occurrence.

I had not been in Kirkwall long before I noticed a particular game the children were playing in the streets, parks, and gardens of the city. It seemed to be very similar to a game I myself had played in my youth, which we called Forcing the City Gates. I supposed it to be common to children everywhere and paid it no special attention. However, on this occasion, as I was strolling through the walkways of the Alienage Commons I came upon two groups of children playing by the flower beds, and for the first time, I clearly heard the song they were singing.

“The Champion lay dreaming for 5 days or more

The Viscount he grieved oh he grieved his heart sore

He sent for her brother

Her brother came o’er-”

As the first group sang out this verse, one of the children from the opposite side barreled across the lawn, attempting to break through their linked arms. They successfully rebuffed him, and so he joined their chain, and started up the song again:

“The Champion lay dreaming for 6 days or more

The Viscount he grieved oh he grieved his heart sore

He sent for the pirate

The pirate came o’er-”

Another child ran towards the chain, and succeeded in breaking through the linked arms of one pair, knocking down a sturdy looking little girl in the process. She closed her eyes and went limp, crossing her arms over her chest with a theatrical flourish. Quickly the other children had surrounded her, and, lifting her up on their shoulders, all cried out as one, “Oh, the Red Rose of Kirkwall!"

By now my curiosity had been thoroughly piqued. For in Kirkwall, any reference to ‘The Champion’ can only mean one person: Marian Hawke nee Amelle, the titular heroine of Viscount Tethras’ most popular book, Tale of the Champion.

Over the last four decades the question of her disappearance has given rise to no slight controversy among scholars of the time period. Few historical documents managed to survive both the riots of the Kirkwall Rebellion and the ensuing chaos of the Mage-Templar wars. Yet is not only the scarcity of historical evidence which deters scholarship, but also the veracity. For astonishingly enough, many of those who initially claimed to have met her would later go on to recant their accounts, stating they had no memory of the events they themselves had written. Some claimed they believed they had merely dreamed of her. It was as if some mysterious force had wiped all trace of her life away, even from the minds of those who knew her.

Viscount Tethras has been no help in this matter. He is notoriously reclusive, and especially loath to speak of anything regarding Tale, or the fate of it’s characters. On the rare occasions that he does respond to questions about his books, his answers are usually so outrageously improbable that the hapless interviewer cannot help but conclude he is being hoaxed.

Thus, in the absence of any trustworthy surviving sources, popular opinion has divided into two camps; those who take the events of Tale as fact, and, in far greater number, those who claim it to be a highly sensationalized work of historical fiction. In the latter you may find works such as my colleague Brother Ebenhardt’s book Dog Lord Diaspora (9:83), wherein he alleges that “Hawke” is merely an amalgam of many Fereldans who fled to Kirkwall during the 5th Blight, her fictional exploits mined from the real life misadventures of immigrants such as Cor “The Bastard” Blimey, Captain of the City Guard Aveline Vallen, and the heretic apostate known to Tale readers as ‘Anders’.

I myself am firmly entrenched in former camp. I suppose it is partially my fascination with Tale and it’s extraordinary cast of characters that drove me to Kirkwall in the first place. It’s looming black walls and tragic heroine have occupied a singular place in my imagination since I was a boy.

You may therefore imagine my excitement, supposing I had stumbled on to some heretofore unknown scrap of the Marian Hawke legend, no matter how ephemeral. I resolved to record whatever I could.

There is an excellent public house across from the Alienage Commons by the name of Kingdom and Country, and it was there that I retired to parse over what I had gleaned. To my delight, a strummer had set up in the corner. After he had finished a stirring rendition of A Hero In Every Port I ventured over to question him.

He was happy enough to talk, especially after I dropped a few silver coins into his hat. But when I described the song I had heard, his face suddenly closed up.

“They shouldn’t be singing any such thing,” he said, shaking his head.

“Why ever not?” I enquired, much taken aback.

“It ain’t respectful, Serah.” And to my great surprise he reached down into his hat and handed me back my coin.

It was like that everywhere I went. The people I questioned were initially friendly and willing enough to talk. Yet as soon as I mentioned the lyrics of the song, I was politely but firmly turned away.

I wracked my brains trying to imagine what dark secret the song might hold, that so many would conspire to conceal it from me. But the little I had overheard in the park left me with no clear picture. It seemed that the Champion had been in some sort of trouble, and that the Viscount had been trying to send for help. Why should that be hidden?

It was at this point that I began to frequent the seedier Kirkwall establishments, hoping to find holdovers from Marlowe Dumar’s reign who might be persuaded by my coin, if not my cause. And still, I made no progress. After several demoralizing false leads, and two rather unpleasant muggings, I began to despair of ever uncovering the truth.

And then, by pure chance, I had a stroke of luck.

Deep in the bowels of the former Darktown district, now largely abandoned, I found a suitably shabby looking establishment called The Queasy Crow. Immediately upon entering I was filled with a strange excitement. For here at last was the Kirkwall I had imagined in my youth. The floor was covered in damp sawdust, the walls blackened by smoke and grime, with decades of old graffiti scrawled in the corners. In the middle of the room a frail, older man sat on a stool, holding a lute. I took a seat at the weathered stone tables, ordered an ale, and waited.

After a minute or two, I heard the opening chords of an unfamiliar song. A prickle went down my spine. This was it, I was certain. The man began to sing, his voice rough and strained.

“Well, the Champion lay dreaming f or 2 days or more