the wrath of heaven.

@astruums

“I was wonderin’ where all the smooth humans went in this place,” John started, making no time wandering up to strangers for small talk. Mayoral duties and all that– still thought he was in Goodneighbor after all. Of course anything bright caught his doped out eyes, wandering to the man’s hand.

“Uh, you might wanna get that checked out, brother. Looking a bit irradiated there.”

  He’s not even going to question the stranger talking to him. Not at all.

 Still, he does arch a brow at the phrase smooth humans, because what kind of qualifier is...

Cole’s body relaxes the moment he’s in sight of both of them, sparking electricity giving way to water’s calm. There is contentment in him, even with - no, in part because of - the doubled brightness of the Marks, their unisons twining together in strong duet. It’s - good, he thinks, that they are both in one place. It’s better.

He realizes, as they do, that they’ve met before, on one of Rowen’s careful forays forward and out of their safe place. Are they drawn together, magnets pointing towards the same pole? Are there worlds out there where they have no Mark, but share a thrumming core anyway? Solas might know, but Solas isn’t here, and there’s no way to ask him.

They can’t sense as he can, haven’t realized even through their meeting. He will have to explain, but he isn’t very good at explaining. (He hasn’t told Rowen, still, about where he comes from, and the thought comes with guilt.) Showing them will be quicker, easier.

“Elaria Lavellan,” he says, “Dalish hunter, pledged to Andruil. Rowen Trevelyan, Circle mage, formerly of Ostwick’s Circle. You never met, in the world we came from, but you’ve always known each other. You just don’t know it yet.”

He opens his left hand, makes a small, aborted version of the gesture both know so well. Elaria’s hurts her, he knows, and he knows too what must be done about it, but these are things for later, for once they’ve realized.

“Show each other. Then you’ll understand.”

compassionatefade -> @astruums​

It dawns on him, as Cole speaks. Really, this revelation isn’t nearly as shocking as he figures it should be. In a way, in fact, it’s almost comforting. To know there’s someone who understands, much better than anyone else ever could. He wonders how he hadn’t noticed it before, when the two had briefly met. It was obvious why he hadn’t realized she was Dalish -- she didn’t look Dalish here, just like he didn’t look human. But he should have seen the Mark. Or felt it. Or something. ( the scholarly part of his brain races with questions -- could he even, theoretically, feel another Mark? are they connected in such a way? if there’s two Heralds here right now, how many more are out there? if she’s also the Herald, where had he gone? did he even exist? )

  But the overwhelming portion of him -- which is tired, mind you -- decides none of that is particularly important right now.  He lifts his hand, just as the spirit commands, palm open, showing the Anchor to the other, with a wry smile on his face.

 “Looks like we match.”

It’s almost overwhelming, feeling the Mark in two places at once.

He doesn’t realize that’s what the feeling is, at first - thinks perhaps Rowen has moved, or that his Mark has intensified, somehow - but when he checks the Inquisitor is still sleeping in their shared camp, and it feels like he is getting both closer to the Mark and farther away at the same time. A paradox, Solas would call it.

When he realizes what it must mean, he runs on silent feet to the edge of the forest.

He knows, of course, that there are different Inquisitors - that there is a way fate seems to change for them in ways it does not for anyone else he’s met. He is with living proof of one, after all. But two - at the same time -

He doesn’t need to see the glow to know when he’s found her.

Lavellan - like Mahalla, like Cyrran. Is there something in the name, in the tribe? It’s a fleeting thought only, discarded quick as it comes; the reason doesn’t matter, only the person in front of him. She has been changed, too, by the whims of those that control this place, but that would never stop him from recognizing her.

“I’m still yours,” he says from the shadows. “We’ve never met, but I know you. You’re all different, but the heart beats to the same rhythm.”

Cole’s chest constricts; for a moment the feeling swells, the one Rowen thinks (falsely) is his. But he can’t go to her - she is out in the sun, and -

And.

“Will you come with me?” he asks her, body thrumming, torn between the need already to return to him and to stay with her. “I can’t go in the sun anymore, not for long. And there’s someone you should meet.”

compassionatefade -> @astruums​

  His new body is... strange. For more than the obvious few reasons. 

 His sight is better. His sense of smell is better. ( which is particularly off-putting, to be quite honest ) And of course, he can hear better than he ever could before. Already something of a light sleeper by habit, he finds himself wondering if he’ll ever be able to sleep at all. He used to hate a quiet room at night. Now he almost longs for his private quarters, way up at the very top of Skyhold, and not this noisy forest. If he can just focus on literally anything else, then maybe...

  Somehow, somehow he manages to find himself wading through the dark, murky waters of a dreamless, Fadeless sleep. 

 Until he hears the sound of snapping twigs underfoot, far too close to camp.

 It’s amazing how immediately he seems to wake, body tense, pulling himself up from the cot, pale green eyes scanning the trees for some sign of an impending threat. Ready to do... something. It’s also amazing just how quickly he relaxes again, upon seeing Cole. 

  He’s about to ask just where the boy had gone off too, when he sees the woman trailing behind him. Her. He recognizes her from before. But he has no idea why she’s here. 

questions/comments to be sent anonymously.

 "Yes." 

  No hesitation. Yes, he feels guilt. So much of it that it sometimes chokes him. He was the only one left standing after the Conclave. He hadn’t done more to save the Divine. He’d watched his friends give their lives for him in Redcliffe. ( albeit, that had never come to pass... or at least, hadn’t yet ) He hadn’t saved enough people in Haven. He’d left Stroud behind in the Fade. 

 He could go on.

 So, yes, anon. Yes, he does.

       @astruums

  magic has never been her strong point. at all. Elaria grew up with shadows and daggers, not staffs and light. yes, she has been exposed to it as there were a many talented mages in her clan and much of what she experienced first hand leading the inquisition. but she never once wielded it herself. to suddenly be able to use it is foreign to her. she is far more concerned with making sure she doesn’t hurt anybody than she is at being a demon now, one who is often considered a harbinger of death. but that doesnt clear the demon issue out of her mind, just pushes it back.

  the area outside of Opalarian is the best place to practice without the risk of others getting in the way. or reporting her as someone here to harm the kingdom. stones and rock can take the hits easily. so, she practices what offensive magic she knows. ice can be quite effective, but she can’t quite get the hang of it and it’s starting to frustrate the woman.

   a huff leaves Elaria as she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath to try once again. eyes focus on her hand, yet all that comes forth is an icy fog. for the upteenth time in a row. she can’t help; a growl leaves her lips as her anger builds, hand flinging outwards to her side as elven curses leave her lips. however, in her outburst, she fails to notice the icicle she just launched to the side that narrowlyavoids hitting somebody. it isn’t until Elaria hears the yelp that her eyes snap open, head whipping to the side to see.

  “– damn it.” she moves forward quickly, pausing a few feet from the male now on the ground. he looks fine, save for a few shards of ice on his clothing from the icicle exploded. a look of regret is present on her features as she brings a hand to her forehead.

    “ I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there– I figured no one would be here and I could figure out how to use this damn magic and–you’re not hurt, right? “

 He remembers Varric telling him that he has the best damn luck the dwarf has ever seen. Now he’s beginning to wonder if he doesn’t simply have the worst luck, to land himself in nearly four wars in a single year. Quite the record. 

 There’s something about this war, between four such disparate kingdom, that reminds him too much of home. Of how much work he’s left undone. He feels the uncomfortable gnawing of guilt, whenever he thinks that he’d been happy on this island for just a little while. People depend on him. And here he is, doing his best to skirt around any form of responsibility. He doesn’t want to pick a side. But he knows he must. 

 There are no neutral parties. ( it was inaction that had caused the Ostwick Circle to fall and his friends to be killed, after all )

 Really, he should be paying attention to his surroundings, rather than wandering in his thoughts. Just because Opalaria is a wealthy kingdom doesn’t mean it’s a safe kingdom. But he isn’t. Because he’s a fool. So it’s no surprise he gets himself smacked directly in the face with something terribly hard and cold.

 All he registers -- besides his unmanly yelp -- is the feeling of his backside hitting the ground beneath him, and the sound of a woman’s voice. There’s frost clinging to his hair and shirt, he realizes. Man, he hasn’t seen this much magic being flung around since the Hinterlands.

＞　He doesn’t know where he is, or who he’s pissed off, or why he’s pissed them off, but it seems to track for exactly how his time on this island has been: confusing, irritating, and not the least bit sexy. 

  Zaveid slouches against a tree, hand pressed firmly to his shoulder as blood seeps through his jacket. An arrow lays next to him, having been pulled out with a little too much force, snapped in half, most of it stained red. The only healing arte he knows seems to be mostly ineffective; he’s not sure if it’s because the wound is too big, or if it’s his own depleted stamina. 

  This was the last place he thought he’d end up, even after what turned out to be quite a thrilling chase sequence through a lovely forest came to such an abrupt end. He hadn’t expected the crossbow, for some reason - he wasn’t even sure where the guardsman had pulled it from, if he was being perfectly honest. 

  He looks up in surprise, instinctively reaching to pull his weapons out, only to remember too late that he’s bleeding out—he winces, and his hand flies back up to put pressure on the wound again.

     “Shit, dude,” the malak looks up, eyeing the, admittedly very cute, mage warily. His brain immediately switches gears, and not for the better. “Is it the blood loss makin’ me dizzy or is it just you?” Does that make sense? Probably not. He really is kind of dizzy. 

 What a time for a pick-up line. Rowen coughs out something of a surprised, incredulous laugh. 

 “The blood loss, I’d bet, but let’s get you fixed up and see if you change your mind.” He can’t help his own little flirtatious smile as he says this, coming close enough to kneel down in the grass beside the malak. Pulling the arrow out hadn’t been the smartest move, but the mage can hardly blame him -- thinking straight is difficult when your body is delirious with pain, and the wound looks particularly nasty. Still, he can fix it. He’s sure he can. He’s fixed worse than this. He just needs to...

 The smell hits him like a freight train. Knocks him completely off balance. His body tenses up, his mind reels. His mouth begins to water. The burning, which had been building in intensity the closer he got, seems almost unbearable now. The overwhelming urge to simple lean in and take. He could. No one would know. They’re alone, after all. 

 No.

 He swallows, and shakes the thought from his mind. He presses one hand to the other’s shoulder, hyperaware of the red liquid oozing from between his fingers, staining the ground beneath them. There’s a soft glow as he pours whatever willpower he has left into sealing the wound. It isn’t as fast as he’d like -- perhaps due to this new form, more accustomed to taking life than giving it. But it is closing. Slowly. 

astruums

“Don’t be mad, okay?!” They’re already off to a very good start as Rin hovers above the stranger, wings flapping nearly as erratically as the way that she waves her arms around in the midst of her explanation as to why the man is suddenly unable to move a single muscle other than the ones in his face. 

“Technically it isn’t even my fault and it’s actually yours… I mean, what were you thinking when you had the audacity to just walk right in front of me when I was in the middle of trying to practice one of my spells?” Her desperation has turned into a light scolding, the blonde even having the nerve to begin ‘tsk’ing’ as she regards the other with a soft shake of her head. “You’ve gotta be more careful, yeah? You never know what sort of things you could run into around here lately…” It was true that the city had become even more dangerous than it had ever been before.

“Try not to worry too much, though. It’ll wear off eventually, I think! In the meantime I’ll even do you the honor of keeping you company until then since I’m a really sweet and thoughtful girl!” Comforting. “What’s your name, by the way? I don’t think I caught it.”

 Well, he certainly hasn't heard a lecture like this since he was a boy. All those warnings about the dangers of magic, how one must learn to conquer temptation and strengthen their will. Like fire, a useful tool, but destructive in the wrong hands. Et cetera, et cetera. Back then it had been wizened old enchanters who’d spent twenty years practicing the art. Now he’s being tsk’d at by a twelve year old? 

 Still, maybe she has a point. It had been foolish of him to get close. Of course, he hadn’t expected to be hit by anything and a heads-up probably wouldn’t have hurt her. He could argue, he supposes, but he can’t move, and it’s really not worth the effort, anyway. So he just lies there, frozen, and lets her prattle on, wondering to himself just when the spell might let up. Sooner rather than later, he hopes. Not because the girl makes bad company, necessarily, but because... well, he’d really like to be able to move.

  Rowen worries about the boy, he’ll admit. Oh, he knows Cole can take care of himself. He knows worrying about a spirit is likely pointless -- something the boy himself would tell him, he’s sure. But whether it’s because he’s the only familiar face Rowen has seen thus far on the island, or because he seems so much younger than the mage, or a combination of the two... whatever it may be, he worries. Even moreso now than ever, with the entire face of the island changed. With the two of them changed. He himself is having trouble adjusting to this new form. He can only imagine the trouble Cole is having. Abominations. Some self-righteous old crone in the Chantry would be delighted to see him now, he thinks. 

 "Cole!” His voice rings through the quiet, dark forest, cutting through crisp silence. He hears little animals skittering around in the brush, far away. Slight rustling. A thousand little noises he’s never been able to hear before. “Cole --”

 He turns, and his entire body jerks in fright. Well, he’d found his companion.

  He’s gotten a handle on things, he thinks. He’s human enough, at least in appearance, to pass unnoticed by most -- so much so even he forgets what he is, sometimes. Until he runs his tongue across his teeth and slices it against their sharp edges. Until he steps a little too far into the blazing sun and feels the pain, like fire, race up his exposed arms. But he’s been in far stranger situations than this, and those things alone don’t bother him.

 It’s the thirst that bothers him. If it can be called that, for it’s far worse than any thirst he’s ever had. The constant burning in his throat and pain in his stomach, as though he’s gone a year without food or drink. He knows what he’s expected to do to satisfy it. They had such beings back home -- possessed by demons of Hunger... but he’s not a beast blinded by his gluttony. He’s still himself. He hopes.  Even still, it’s the scent of blood -- strong copper and iron -- that draws him unconsciously forward. He doesn’t even register that his feet are moving, really, until he comes face to face with another man.  ( he pushes down that burning and the nausea that comes with it )

“Hey,” not loud enough to startle, only loud enough to draw the other’s attention. Even if he could not smell the blood, he can tell the other is hurt. And he just so happens to be able to heal. A small virtue of this new world, giving him back some of the magic he used to have.

NAME: rowen trevelyan AGE: 24 HEIGHT: 6′0′‘ SPECIES: vampire PHYSICAL APPEARANCE: it hasn’t changed much, at first glance, except that he’s far paler than he once was. his canines are now longer and sharper, as are his nails. his ears are pointed, and his eyes, while still green, seem to show some red around the pupils.

CANON ABILITIES RETAINED: chain lightning five times a day. WEAPONS: a plastic staff. himself. he’ll probably buy a sword. SPELLS USED: heal, restore, paralysis, silence, fire. SPECIES RELATED TIDBITS:

     * your run-of-the-mill vampire related abilities i.e. enhanced strength, enhanced durability, enhanced senses, etc      * doesn’t burst into flames when exposed to sunlight, but prolonged direct exposure might lead to some... nasty sunburns.     * has to drink blood to survive. He Is Not Thrilled! only animals for now, although this means he’s naturally weaker than he could be. he is absolutely tempted by human (or other????) blood.    * can be killed through conventional means and not just stakes, silver bullets, etc. it just takes A Lot to put him down.

CAN BE FOUND: rowen is drawn to the magical prowess and magi-technology of xalphina and the luxuriousness of opalaria and its market. so these are the two kingdoms in which he can be found, more often than not. he technically “lives” in airaisal, in order to be close to cole. he avoids yela alora like the plague.