- [+] Spoiler
- The Inquisition has always known the Herald is a strange person, but it's no surprise that a person who'd gone through an impossible experience would behave oddly afterward. Only, it turns out that the entity they've come to know as the Herald/Inquisitor is not quite a person at all. The passage through the Fade rendered the person who was Trevelyan/Lavellan/Adaar/Cadash effectively brain-dead, and their body was occupied by a spirit of one of the more virtuous sorts (exact type up to author, but Hope and Valor come to mind). The transition was no less traumatic for the spirit, who was left with confusion and a head full of memories and no notion of their true nature.
Solas, of course, knows what the Herald is immediately, but keeps his mouth shut because he figures all that could possibly result from people knowing is all the Chantry types overreacting, leading to a dead or comatose host body, a destroyed or demonized spirit, and nobody who can close rifts. And when the Inquisitor starts to realize they may be even less normal than they thought, he encourages them to keep it quiet. Cole can also immediately detect the Inquisitor's true nature, but is far less circumspect. Eventually, it all comes out, with the exact nature of the fallout and resolution up to filler.
There must be a way out, there must be, must be
It heard. It listened. Calling for it. Closer than it ever remembered a waking thought.
The summons wasnt quite curiosity, it was
affinity. Belief drew it.
But now the thoughts were quiet. The Fade-walker that had drawn it looked, but did not see, did not move.
Could it help?
It reached out and touched.
Something tugged at the edges of its essence. It drew back, or tried to.
It couldnt. Within was a void, and the inexorable strength of it needing to be filled overwhelmed the presence.
There was a moment of alarm, and then, like stepping from a cliff, it fell into darkness.
heavy. Something pressed upon her body from all sides, and it took a long moment for her mind to supply the information that it was clothes.
Bits and pieces filtered through the hazy mist that hung over her consciousness, but they came with no rhyme or direction or order. She was handy with blades. Her favourite colour was red. Shed never really liked horses. Those things that you opened to enter buildings were called doors. Sunrises were beautiful. None of it had proper meaning or sense, and none of it could take away from the pervasive sense of wrongness that she could feel. It permeated every aspect of her, from the top of her head to the tips of her
toes. They were called toes.
She could see nothing. Ten seconds passed before she realised it was because she hadnt opened her eyes. It took another five before she remembered how to do that.
The first thing that struck her was how solid her surroundings looked, and a moment later, that came with the uneasy knowledge that she didnt understand why that should be so strange. Walls, floors, ceilings, those existed, right? It shouldnt feel so odd that they were there. Listening to such reason was immensely difficult when more than half of her was confused as to how she even knew that in the first place. Wasnt it just, just, well, a fact? Except
no, she was convinced that at some time, in some place, the rules hadnt been the same. Had they?
That was ridiculous though. She was from
Ostwick. Yes, Ostwick. There was a vague sense of a city, people, home-but-not-home. No, wait, she came from no, it was Ostwick, even though a part of her wanted to suggest that it wasnt quite right. But no, now she remembered, she was Trevelyan.
What was Trevelyan?
This was too much. She needed time to think, away from this heaviness, away from the confines of wherever this was. There was a moment where she tried to <i>will</I> it all away, and then further confusion, both in trying to work out why shed done that and the fact that it hadnt worked. That was silly though, you couldnt just think something and have it happen. She wasnt a mage, that wasnt how
She tried to lift her arms and then blinked. More weight. She looked down. There were some kind of manacles around her
wrists. Yes. Wrists. A blank stare as her achingly, desperately slow thoughts shifted through that. That meant imprisonment, captors. A keening sense of sadness swiped through her chest, and she could not fully explain why. It went deeper than knowing she was being held prisoner, and yet she couldnt place a finger on it.
Captivity. Cages. No way out. No chances left.
Those thoughts swept across her in an instant and were gone just as quickly. What could have landed her in chains? She wasnt a criminal. Granted, she wasnt sure what a criminal was, but she definitely had the sense that criminals were the kind of people that got locked up, or at least, the kind that got locked up and actually deserved it.
Had she perhaps done something wrong? Again, a queasy and sick feeling ran through her. She remembered that there had been something. Quiet where before there had been noise, trying to help, and instead, instead
Something else. She couldnt remember.
the person enter before even looking up from her bonds. Anger, anguish. A short haired woman, a hooded figure behind her.
Accusations were snarled. Questions, demands. She wanted to answer, but couldnt work out how to speak. She could recall talking. She spoke all the time, to everyone. Except knowing that and putting it into practice were apparently different things. It had something to do with the tongue, but also the lips, and then there was breathing, too. How did it all work?
Silence was apparently taken for defiance, impudence, or both. The first woman grew even angrier before the second spoke, interceding, but not altruistically.
her. Not wanted, not welcomed, needed.
She understood need. She understood
Despair. Death. The only survivor. The only one that may be able to do something.
Stay silent if you wish. So long as you follow my instructions, I do not care if you speak.
She gave a slight nod to the woman. Cassandra. That was what the other had called her. Why didnt the name describe her? Names should
tell you about
no, names were just names. Just like she was Trevelyan. Well, no, not exactly like it, because there were other parts too, she wasnt just Trevelyan, but she couldnt focus on them, couldnt grasp the memories, still elusive, still difficult.
Cassandra led her outside, wobbling unsteadily on her feet. Balancing was difficult, as if putting one foot in front of the other was somehow new, and somehow it was. Her body felt strange, like a familiar old coat that had been retailored to someone larger than herself, and now no longer fitted properly. She stopped and stared as she emerged into the open. A hole in the sky. A hole to- Cassandra was speaking, saying something about the world of demons, and Trevelyan felt a pang of something that may have been indignation, just another inexplicable thought and emotion to go with all the rest. It wasnt just
demons that resided in the Fade, yet when she tried to concentrate on how she knew that, she turned a blank. Shed heard something from the sisters, probably.
She had sisters, didnt she? But it wasnt those sisters that she would hear something like that from. How could one word be two things at once? Relatives and priests. That scarcely made sense.
The hole thrummed with energy, and a bolt of pain slammed into her hand. She cried out, the first sound shed made since awaking. What- what was- that wasnt right, that wasnt how feelings worked. She grasped at her hand, a green mark pulsing, twisting, writhing, sending that agony all the way up her arm.
There was concern from Cassandra, but something else too, a sense of emotion that was both concealed and yet plain as day.
Crisis. Catastrophe. She is responsible. She is our only