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'Tis The Season...

...To Still Be In The Hinterlands

Maybe the Inquisition sent you, maybe you came seeking the Inquisition. Maybe you fell out of a rift into this world last week and are still just trying to find your feet. However it happened, early fall finds you in the Hinterlands. Tucked between Ferelden's massive Lake Calenhad and the icy Frostback Mountains, the Hinterlands are a hilly region covered in patchy forests and small farms trying to eke out a living between the boulders. Though somewhat remote, the area is rich with game and minerals and home to Redcliffe, a bustling town on a busy trade route.

Lately the Hinterlands have also been full of mages and templars and rifts, all threatening to turn once-peaceful countryside into a dangerous warzone. The Inquisition has set up several camps and sent personnel to try to restore order to the region, unwilling to let it slip into chaos. There's a lot to be done, some of it straightforward killing bad things, some of it weird and nebulous morale-building.

NOW WITH ADDED SNOW.

1. I CAN'T BEAR THE COLD

You have turned the wrong corner in the snow, forded the wrong stream in the snow, crested the wrong hill in the snow, entered the wrong cave in the snow. Maybe you are far from camp, in the snow. Maybe you are in camp, which is also snowy. Whatever has happened, wherever you are: you are being chased through the snow by bears. Did you throw a snowball at the bears? Are they huge and snow-dusted? Babies burrowing through the snow drifts and coming for your ankles? Fade-touched in addition to snow-touched? Controlled by cold mages who are hiding in the snow? Popping up out of the snow like a game of whack-a-mole? What are they chasing you away from in all of this snow? What are they chasing you into, other than more snow? What warm things do you plan to make out of their hide if you kill them in the snow? What do you think they'll craft out of your hide if they kill you in the snow? P.S. It's snowy.

2. GIVE ALL THE TOYS TO THE LITTLE RICH BOYS

Winter came. The villagers are freezing. Recruit Whittle totally saw this coming. Now he might have sent you haring (get it) across the countryside in search of supplies that apostates or bandits may have hidden in caves and crannies. He might have handed you some sticks and told you to build a fire. He might have eyed your nice coat with a contemptful gleam that suggested you'd better find some blankets if you didn't want to have your own clothing requisitioned. Nobody's freezing to death on his watch--except maybe you, if you're really bad at finding hidden caches. In the snow.

3. DON'T SHOOT ME SANTA

The sky is beginning to darken and white snow continues to fall, but you and the supply wagon you're protecting should make it to the little Hinterlands village before sunset. The wagon is laden with food, blankets, and other sundry supplies, and so it's important to stay sharp and alert as you make the trecherous journey. And for good reason: an arrow is fired from the tree line and topples an Inquisition soldier from his horse. Beset by bandits, will you manage to fight them back? Or do they overwhelm your troupe and you are forced to flee? Or, perhaps, you could attempt a negotiation, knowing they could be as hungry as the people you protect.

4. DOES THEDAS HAVE FIGGY PUDDING?

It is not only snowing, it's blizzarding, and the tavern in Redcliffe is the closest and warmest place to duck into to wait it out. Unfortunately, half of the Hinterlands had the same idea. The Gull & Lantern is so packed with thawing visitors that it's hard to walk from one side to the other, the owner has given up on telling these Fereldens they can't bring their dogs inside, and that lady in the corner is almost definitely someone you've tried to kill before, or vice versa. But there's a fire going, and the bartender seems to think that giving everyone half-price drinks might prevent a brawl instead of causing one, and there aren't any demons indoors, so it could be a lot worse.

5. WILDCARD

Hunt game in the snow, kill demons in the snow, dig under the snow for herbs, track bandits through the snow, deal with someone charging extortionist coat prices now that it's snowing, fall off a deceptively tall rock into the snow, get lost circling the same hill ten times trying to find a way up to the weird glowing skull on a stick you can see is up there in the snow, climb trees or abandoned towers covered in snow, rummage around in empty homes to get out of the snow, run from a dragon in the snow, cry over how cute that fennec fox you just shot in the snow was, set up camp and chat around the fire because it's snowy and cold, knock yourself out (figuratively, or even literally if that's more your speed)-- the Hinterlands are your ~~Frostback Mountain~~ oyster, topped with snow.

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"A part of my charm, or so I have been told." The bottle is set on the table along with the glasses, though he makes no move to uncork it until she gives him leave to do so- even if he does take a chair across from her. Some boundaries are to be pushed, others to be minded- though his eyes do flick from her to the boy and back again, something in his eyes going warm and soft.

Alistair's boy. Even if Alistair has never met him. Hardly the horned, creeping thing he had thought the night's coupling to create, but then Morrigan and Alistair both were lovely people.

"Quite dire. The breach is large, the Herald of Andraste dead and laid to rest and with her the hope of closing it- except for those that are not from here falling through the rifts. They are strange, but not demons. Or.we are fairly certain they are not demons. Templars seem to be growing red lyrium in bodies, refugees wander about trying to find refuge and- well." Now his customary smile twists into something faintly bitter and he pitches his voice low, eyes once again drifting to the sleeping child. "And the Grey Wardens hear their Calling."

"Your charms were tired even then," but there's half a smile on her face, more than most ever get and she's not as sharp a thing as she was in those days. Like any mage that doesn't want to get themselves killed immediately, there's a small knife she produces from a pouch to break the seal. It gives her something to do as she scans the room again, for what she's not sure, she'd hardly be the worst concern for a Templar these days and there's no one to recognise her.

As she pours, she looks between Kieran and Zevran, gold eyes keen and narrowed, waiting for him to say a word. That she loves her son is unexpected; she knows her own failings before, her selfishness but leaving Val Royeaux for this fledgling Inquisition is as much for his sake as her own.

"The news trickled back though the wailing is still loudest for Justinia, rather a catalyst for more of it in fact. I had heard more on the road but then we saw strange enough ten years ago, did we not? That the temple plays a part...though I doubt any others walked such a gauntlet." The red lyrium answers much because there was absolutely talk about the scene the Herald was present for but there's something terrible in him confirming the fears about the Wardens. "That...cannot be."

Her voice almost cracks, almost, soft and low, rough from something more than tiredness. There's much she owes the Wardens, in some strange way - her freedom, the knowledge she gained of Flemeth, her son sleeping unawares right next to them and what he possesses, something to make him a touch odd to strangers when he speaks without thinking.

"It cannot be a Blight, I saw when it crept at the edges of the Wilds even before all the soldiers had gathered at Ostagar and the Calling can come after, unless somehow all the Old Gods have awakened at once. There has been no news of the Hero?"

"I doubt something as simple as the ashes of a dead woman would solve it this time, alas." It had seemed some kind of miracle- but with the Temple Lost to the ravages of war, Orlais split, demons about, and the sky tearing open? This was far larger than saving Fereldan. Far more than contracts and obligations and burrowing into the Deep Roads to find an answer. Was there not some manner of rule that you only saw one grand adventure in all your years?

Why was it they saw this? The creeping Blight, this green tinged horror? Again that bitter sentiment of them having done enough, given enough, bled enough rises in the back of his throat like so much bile. He trusted Morrigan enough to understand his frustration not to hide it entirely, even if he took his poured glass to swallow it down. The moment he took to compose himself was the moment she, too, deserved to swallow that bitter pill. They both owed the Wardens far more than they would ever say- a singular warden in particular.

"No word of an Archdemon, but there is a Blighted Dragon." He set his cup back on the table, looking up to Morrigan once more. "No word of hordes. Whatever this is? It is not a blight- but every warden in the Inquisition hears that song. Their sleep is as disturbed as Alistair's and Jonas' during the Blight. Speaking of- Jonas has been missing for some months now. Off doing- whatever it is he does when not minding his hard earned kingdom. Anora rules alone."

Which left Ferelden in a precarious position in such dire times.

"...What is his name? Your son." More pleasant conversation, or at least an attempt to lighten the mood. Or soften the blow. "I think he has his father's nose."

“Twas less the ashes than it was the lyrium. Oghren rarely said anything of great import but he was right about the lyrium, so much of it and so far from Orzammar. What a miserable ruin it was; I wonder how many of the faithful knew the truth, all the blood, the mistrust and the singing, the cult. I doubt they would care even if they heard the story from those who were there, they’ll always claim the Maker works in mysterious way. The gauntlet, thought, that sort of old ancient thing, that is something they should all be wary of.” Not that she had given the answers others had but she cannot help but wonder what so many would have said if they’d stood there and watched someone play riddles with shades of those who had lived though given that they still whittle off Shartan’s ears and so recently made light of it all in that play to mock Celene then they’d make very little of any of it. She hasn’t thought of that in years really but can one honestly erase that much blood and what the Chantry would call profane with a sprinkling of so-called sacred ashes?

Then again, Leliana had a persuasive voice then and Sister Nightingale is a name always uttered in a whisper but those who know better than to tempt fate.

Ten years of another life and yet still here she sat, in a country where her mother’s name still frightened unruly children and where the Chasind would look away if they saw her. Whispers followed in Orlais but a different sort to those here and she’d built another life in that time, a life with masks and gowns, resources beyond her wildest dreams and all the finery she could ever have wanted as a girl. But always guarded. Never a moment save for being with her son when she could relax and drink like this, with someone that once might have come close to being a friend. All they need is a great slobbering idiot, a hound and Jonas to make it feel like old times again in truth.

“Tis almost a comfort to know the Blight is not truly upon us but we know better than most save Wardens themselves how they are upon waking from such dreams.” She took her turns on watch, she saw the ashen faces and sunken eyes just as Zevran did. And she saw Jonas and Alistair the night she offered them a way out. “And you know, as well as I, that Wardens are a boon in any battle. To cloud their minds…” Cunning. Dangerous for them all too. The world forgets so quickly when evil is no longer breathing down their necks and in Orlais they’re more than happy to say it wasn’t a true Blight though never in her hearing. Of course Jonas would be gone too and the less said about rulers the better, arguments with Celene still fresh in her mind and likely to have her revealing too much. At least with Anora there wasn’t an active usurper instigating war with the chevaliers at his disposal, the fits Loghain must be having...

A brief hesitation, her hand smoothing back her son’s hair but a smile too, one too many wouldn’t think her capable of, even now. “Kieran. His name is Kieran. He is just a boy.” She never thought they would have this discussion. Kieran and her did but it was just them, only them, not someone who knew them both enough to pick out what came from her and what came from him.

"I would almost say it is worse than then- it calls even to Wardens that have not been in the order a year as of yet." That was what stick out quite a bit to Zev. With Jonas and Alistair? There had been a blight. Now? A blighted dragon and red lyrium and chaos and demons and undead but not one whisper of Darkspawn. Either what caused this did not have the means to create such a calling in them or they were on the horizon.

It did not bode well in any case. The world gone mad in such a way the answer wasn't 'kill the thing causing it'. That had been neater, cleaner. A noble enough cause for a Witch of the Wilds and an Antivan Crow. Now look at them.

An Arcane Advisor and mother, and a Black Shadow that flits from life to death and back again and knows regret.

Wynne would laugh. Wynne would have advice, prattle about the Maker, about faith and good works and the determination of the few. Wynne would likely knit the boy something for the birthdays missed- Zevran never understood the tradition of celebrating another year spent alive but he knew well enough that in this world? A child remaining a child, a boy remaining a boy was difficult. Especially with so canny a mother. He sipped his drink and rummaged about in his pack for a moment.

"A handsome boy at that. He shall grow into quite the heartbreaker, I can tell already. Thedas will not be prepared- ah, here it is." A small, jointed and carved figurine of a knight, presented with a flourish. A grey Warden, honestly. He did not know much of what children cared for or wished, not a normal child that never had to live as he and Morrigan lived, but when in doubt? He considered the desires of Alistair, what he made mention of. For of the three of them it was Alistair that had the closest thing to a normal childhood. "For Kieran, from his Uncle Zevran."

"How long will such a secret stay hidden, I wonder, certainly Wardens have loved ones and new recruits have looser tongues than old hands. Even an order such as they cannot disappear without the people looking deeper and there are many things the Wardens would do well to keep hidden." It takes anything and everything to defeat the Blight because it's a monstrous thing that won't ever stop until there's that final sacrifice, until all the rites are observed with treaties and armies gathered beneath a banner that cares nothing for anything but victory against the horde. But a dragon is involved, a dragon with the Blight, lyrium the source of all magic...

Avernus comes to mind, the research locked away in a place the whole country chose to forget beyond reminding Wardens that once they were banished for good reason. What might that research give them now though it's likely there are more important things to do if the pages even still exist and they're more likely to have fools going off to scout for fragments of the fabled ashes than something that might be of use one day.

A good thing she brought all her volumes with her, as many as she could reasonably carry on her own and if she can arrange it just so, she can send for more. Let Celene believe this is only a good thing, to be a part of the Inquisition before it rises higher or crumbles, let Morrigan gain what she will from it when she already has good reason to volunteer. There is always a Witch of the Wilds when some new power beckons in this world, Calenhad owed his crown to one.

No doubt Alistair will question her on that if he isn't preoccupied with Kieran first. But no, the boy will be safe, he'll have tutors that aren't Orlesian imbeciles prattling away in their masks, and he'll have others who care for him. What Jonas would say if he could see her now, she wonders.

"So long as he has the skills to survive and more wits than a slobbering hound then I think that should be quite enough for him." Ten already, don't talk about him breaking hearts when he still runs to her after a long day so she can swing him around when there are no eyes to see. She never had that, she had the horror stories of the Chasind, she had dead Templars and a broken mirror, Flemeth's endless expectations and survival, always survival. "Perhaps you should wait for him to waken, twas quite the journey for him now he must walk on his own two feet, I have no doubt he'd like to hear all about it from you."

And no, she won't warn Zevran about any odd and unsettling remarks her son will no doubt make, she'd like to enjoy the reaction after all.

"With a mother as pragmatic as yourself? I do not think that shall be a problem." Morrigan as nothing if not careful, if not discerning. That she cared for him and raised him well went without question- they both were of the mind that a child should have a better life than that of their parent. That she has managed, that she seemed to dote up on her son so- it was not something he thought all that possible to have known her.

But then those that had the most compassion, albeit selfishly hidden, were those that had been offered the least.

"No reason to wake him. The weather is terrible and he seems exhausted. He is sleeping so sweetly, yes? Is that not what one is supposed to say after their friend's children, that they sleep sweetly?"

Pragmatic isn't always a comforting word to here, even when Ferelden is the only home you've ever known. Flemeth could defend herself with that word and too many people would nod and say yes, in such times, being such a person as she is, with a daughter such as Morrigan then yes, by all means be pragmatic and ruthless. Kieran never suffered that, by the time she had come to love him, still dependent and fragile on her for everything in the world she already knew he couldn't just be part of a plan the way she was.

It's why he's a normal boy. Why he laughs and sleeps soundly in a crowded tavern without any fear. Why this whole journey has been a great adventure and she knows he'll be delighted to see a new stranger, an elf that doesn't shy away and duck their head whenever they hear a voice calling out 'rabbit'.

"If you knew how long it took to get him to sleep such as this...Many a tale is told of this place, the history, the savagery, that we are barbarians ready to descend into tribal bands once again when peace shatters." She laughs quietly, shaking her head, glad that she can without Orlesians feeling the need to teach her about her own home. "He had a busy day what wolves so bold one might mistake them for being tainted and mad." Country air is good for him though, camping out under the stars as she whispers the stories in his ear the way she did when he was still small enough to nestle in her arms.

"Is that, too, not also the way of children? To be excitable and curious?" Rather than sarcasm it is with genuine curiosity that Zevran asks. He has not known many normal children- let alone normal mothers in his time. It is all nobility or slaves or assassins. Well adjusted, cared for, and loving families are more mythical to him than unicorns or griffons. They must exist, but Maker only knows where.

That was the one normal part of her childhood, the fascination with everything; the wild animals, the outside world, the Chasind and their ways. Indeed, the rare moments of approval often came of questions about how something worked a certain way, why something was the way that it was, those were the lessons made somewhere a little more than tolerable.

“You say that, but wait for him to ask the sort of questions he asks, I doubt getting him to apply himself to his work will be so easy though he shan’t be short of tutors, shall he?” Better to prod Zevran just a little, to confirm or not what she’s heard of the Inquisition. The Templars can all be kept away from him with the right whispers though no doubt some mages will need to be kept at a distance too.

"Seeing as he is your child I'm certain they are quite eccentric." Morrigan was many things, but one that suffered fools and foolishness had never been one of them. Knowing her as he did to the extent that he did- the boy probably knew a great deal of a great many things- and yet retained his wonder of them.

Considering how her own had been crushed for her 'safety' as a child, he could expect no less.

"There are scholars and teachers enough in the Inquisition. Depending upon what it is you would have him learn some are quite trustworthy- and some are probably best kept distracted."

He's more right than he knows but why give the game away when she can smile enigmatically and glance over to the door when it opens, never quite sure what she expects but it pays to be wary. They never really went to taverns much during the Blight, though they'd likely have had to scrape Oghren up off the floor and who wanted to touch him for that long.

"What I would not have him learn is the bleating of the Circle mages, I understand that both they and the Templars are involved in things, am I correct?"

"They and a great deal of apostates. A council has been formed to govern the mages as the templars have their Knight Captains and Commanders. Two seats are held by apostates and most of the members seem to at least entertain the notion that their input is valid." It is not Zevran's usual concern but- minding the gossip is easy enough.

“A council, how wonderful and Templars to boot; the apostates - are they from the Circle or are they that rare breed that has never known a leash?” The council part doesn’t fill her with joy when she knows just enough of the inner workings of the circles to know that they do little to help their own, instead playing little games and debating with one another while the Chantry gets to say that they have the right to speak and vote. She never hides her scorn over such matters when it comes down to it and she doesn’t intend to do so upon reaching Skyhold.

"Some- but some are also Dalish and there is a Vashoth mage as well. A remarkably gorgeous and skilled Vashoth mage. Mmmm." Give him a moment, he must remember fondly their times slaying the undead together. "Best I can tell they are attempting to work directly with the Inquisition's leadership rather than under the templars."

"That the Dalish would join does not endorse it, neither does a Vashoth. The world will look to the Inquisition for guidance when the dust settles and there are too many who would see them back in the Circles, some with more freedoms but others with tighter sanctions and restrictions than before. There is old magic loose, the people are frightened." Dalish mages could be a boon though the Dalish can be so terribly prickly though a Vashoth intrigues her and reminds her of Sten. Now there is a man she can truly say she misses. "Much will depend on how the pieces fall with the Chantry, and the lyrium supply, things will turn ugly should supplies begin to run low."

"As long as they aren't becoming abominations and attempting to subjugate everyone else- truly? It is no concern of mine." He shrugs. "They will make their way and I shall make mine."

"And what is your way these days? I know of Leliana, Oghren served with the Wardens last I heard and I know Sten returned to his lands. You were harder to truly keep track of." And Wynne, well she was on borrowed time as it was given the nature of the spirit hitching a ride with her. "Need I remind you that there are stories I do not want my son to hear?"

It's softer though, that last remark. There were too many tales of what her mother did with Chasind men that still people speak of, stories that are just that unless you know, unless you have her gaze on you when she tells them, watching and waiting.

"I cannot possibly imagine why I would wish to remain unseen and unheard in my travels. It is not at all as though I've a guild of assassins that wish me dead." Honestly, Morrigan, that even she cannot mind where he has been? Lets him know he is going about things in the right way. "A guild I am trimming down to nothing, little by little. I suppose I shall return to doing much the same after the Inquisition has managed it's business."

"Oh there is many a tale of a clumsy fool not at all large enough to belong to the breed of oaf." Oaf is reserved solely for Alistair after all. "And what of Antiva?"

It's a genuine question because it's common knowledge that there are two things that mean Antiva needs no true force to fight and one of those grows smaller and smaller. If Zevran can be believed; though he's no bard, she knows all too well how crows are drawn to embellishments.

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