here there be dragons

To celebrate, I'm writing an epistolary fic covering the ten years of Gwen's life between Origins and Inquisition. As of late 9:31 Dragon, she put Alistair on the throne only for him to break up with her. Now she's off to Vigil's Keep for ten difficult years of struggling with leadership, mourning the connections she forged during the Blight, and trying to find her own identity as Warden Commander.

[Remember during Inquisition she will be reunited with Alistair at Skyhold!]

9:31 Dragon - Read on AO3

This letter is crumpled at the back of a drawer in the Warden Commander’s desk at Vigil’s Keep.

Lady Cousland,

As a courtesy, I write to tell you the child was born in good health. You may tell A. if you wish. I shall continue to keep my word and keep out of the way.

My thanks again for your assistance in the issue of my mother. I hope you are well.

M.

This reply is carried in a witch’s pouch, along with several fine necklaces gifted by the sender.

Dear M,

I am pleased to hear so, and I hope you too are well. I have no worries as to your intentions with the child. In fact, should you ever wish, any hearth of mine is always available to you. I hope this will not be the last I hear from you!

Yours,

G

...

This letter is kept folded carefully in a bedroll.

Dearest Leliana,

I hope this finds you wherever you are. The last I heard you were in the Free Marches—can that be right?

I have been well enough. Time marches on. It has rained every day for a fortnight. We are up to our necks in darkspawn but closer every day to finding the source. It is fortunate my parents bestowed me with an adequate political education, or else managing Amaranthine’s affairs would be a stifling addition to the role of Warden Commander. The seneschal can handle most things—but not everything. With this darkspawn resurgence in the region, letting either half of my responsibilities slide could be catastrophic.

Lately I’ve been thinking of my frayed connections to the rest of the Order. I suppose I am lucky to have known the last Warden Commander at all, considering. And that his recruitment and mentorship of new wardens were the bulk of what I saw, for those are the first issues with which I must contend. But even so, I find it hard to grasp for what he might have said. What do I do when they squabble with each other? When they flirt? When they hate to be down in the wretched Deep Roads, as do I, but we have work that must be done and no one else to do it? What do I do when the templars come knocking, or when I must ask them to put aside all they think they know and walk into mortal danger with people they wouldn’t trust in any other situation? It seems that Duncan had everything figured out. Perhaps he didn’t. But would that I could ask for his advice, or that of any other warden.

Morrigan wrote me to say that her child has been born and they are both well. I was hoping you might write to A and let him know. Pretend she told you herself—leave me out of it.

Affectionately,

Gwen Cousland

...

This letter is crumpled at the back of a drawer in the King’s desk at Denerim Palace.

Alistair,

I wonder how you intend to handle the Landsmeet when you’re not on speaking terms with one of your arls. Do you even know the latest from the Order?

G--- says M-------’s baby was born healthy. She wanted you to know but not to know that she told me. I respect your intelligence enough to assume that you might have figured that out regardless.

Enjoy all the luxuries of Denerim. I’ve enclosed a scarf I picked up in Val Royeaux I thought you might like. The colors reminded me of the warden crest.

Yours,

Leliana

...

This note is folded neatly under the Warden Commander’s gambeson, carried over the heart.

Warden Commander,

If you survived the attack on Vigil’s Keep, please send word back with this messenger. Report on the state of the Order.

Alistair Theirin

...

This note, torn in the recipient’s eagerness to read it, has been tossed haphazardly on his desk next to where he holds his head in his hands in relief.

Your Majesty,

I apologize for the time it took your messenger to find me, but yes, I am alive. We suffered heavy losses, including Oghren and the mage Anders, and the Keep is largely destroyed, but the remaining darkspawn threat has been eliminated. Amaranthine yet stands. The Order yet stands. I am well. We will rebuild.

Yours Your servant,

Warden Commander Cousland

...

This note is left on a corner of the Warden Commander’s temporary desk at the Crown and Lion, languishing without a reply.

Gwen,

To hear thirdhand of the destruction of Vigil’s Keep while on the road from Denerim, having to rush back for further news and hear only from Eamon that you are alive—I beg you to consider my health and sanity and write me a few words the next time you evade mortal danger, rather than relying on the rumor mill to deliver the news. I will divert my path home to look for you in Amaranthine. I pray you will make yourself easy to find.

Your concerned brother,

The following letters were each destroyed following their delivery by courier.

Commander Cousland,

You will never believe who I just ran into in Kirkwall—or rather beneath. I was tailing that expedition partially funded by the Merchants Guild. A small company had been double-crossed by a colleague and were separated, wandering around looking for a way back to the surface. Their other sponsor, a Fereldan—the Champion of Kirkwall—apparently a refugee from Lothering, relative of the Kirkwall Amells?—had her apostate sister with her—who was Blighted. All this explained to me in a rush, with the addendum that the Grey Warden in their midst thought she might undergo the Joining—out steps a sheepish Anders. He gave no answer as to how he survived the attack on the Keep. When I asked whether Oghren or Justice might have made it out as well, he made another non-answer, and several of his compatriots looked shifty. I did ask if he might return, invoking his indelible ties to the Order and the better protections from the templars he might enjoy there, but he refused. As his compatriots seemed prepared to back this refusal with blood, I let it drop.

Encounters with the dead aside—the tunnels are clear, and I return with our new recruit, who survived the Joining. I believe her only remaining family is in Kirkwall. Still, I would be glad to leave it if I was her—the city is crowded with refugees of the Blight, most of whom do not seem to be treated kindly. Sickness and violence sweep the streets unchallenged. The Templars are increasingly harsh in their methods. Our young friend will find her future much sweeter back in Amaranthine—poisoned blood notwithstanding—something we all must adjust to—and I would not be surprised if Anders finds himself back in the Tower again, since he insists on remaining here.

How is How go the repairs of the Keep?

Yours,

Nathaniel Howe

Nate,

Velanna is well, to answer your aborted question. I wish you two would stop parting angry so you could write each other directly.

I’m pleased you think our young mage’s future will be “sweeter” here, though that seems optimistic to me as I write from the Keep’s half-finished hall, taking great pains to keep the rain off my parchment. As long as she fears more from the Templars than the rain I suppose she will be fine. I thank the Maker for our lucky streak with the Joining. Every failure is a tragedy, but especially now, we cannot spare to lose any recruits.

You will have to give input on the repairs when you return. That shipment of Nevarran stone meant to come through Kirkwall has been delayed, no doubt due to one or more of the problems you mentioned in your letter. The rebuilding in Denerim is yet in its early stages; many dozens of contracts were signed for those projects before anyone knew the Keep would need to be rebuilt, so there is nothing to be found locally. My brother can only do so much, as Highever is unequipped for mining and largely sources its stone from quarries near Redcliffe, which are of course mobilized for their own local repairs, and so on and so forth. My connections in Orzammar might prove fruitful—but then we must contract someone, no doubt the Guild, to haul the stone overland, for which we will pay through the nose, and I have already had to lower your father’s taxes by a fair margin after the long-suffering people of Amaranthine were faced with a second round of the Blight last year. I’m beginning to ponder such mad schemes as dismantling the old Warden fortress on Soldier’s Peak. I would like to hear your thoughts on what must be prioritized and preserved for day-to-day activities to resume.

Yours,

Gwen

Commander,

I will give what input I can, but surely the Crown is sympathetic to the Wardens’ cause. Could you not negotiate for alterations to the Denerim contracts to allow the diversion of some materials to the Keep?

We have made it to Ostwick—where tensions are lower, as are ship fares—and are waiting now for passage. Expect us within the fortnight.

Yours,

Nathaniel Howe

Nate,

I pray that your delay is due to lack of ships and nothing more serious.

I will carry individual stones from the seafloor on my back before I go crying to the King begging for contracts.

Gwen

...

This letter is crumpled beside the King of Ferelden’s desk, where it was thrown in anger.

Alistair,

I don’t know how else to tell you that you are shirking your responsibility and putting yourself in an extremely precarious position by refusing to make progress on a marriage. Whatever your own feelings about children, whatever your resentments towards Maric, whatever your pining for young Cousland, whatever your ingrained aversion to personal responsibility, I suggest you set it all aside by the time I find another candidate. Perhaps I will have Teagan facilitate the meeting next time in case it is my presence which leads you to behave in this way.

Eamon

...

This letter is folded under a book on the Warden Commander’s desk.

Gwen,

Did I say something to anger you? I don’t understand why you won’t even write a few lines to let me know that you’re still alive, or update me on repairs of the Keep. Was it my offer of assistance? Something more personal? Please, I apologize for it all. Just write when you can, even if you are too busy to see me. I miss you.

Yours,

Fergus

...

This letter is tucked into a bedroll in the temporary quarters of Vigil’s Keep, unanswered.

Bethany,

Please write if you’re all right. Mother is convinced you’re dead, and no one I’ve written will tell me anything. We all miss you. I’m still so sorry.

If you’re some other warden reading this, please respond and tell me if my sister survived her Joining. Please. Bethany Hawke, recruited in the Deep Roads beneath Kirkwall by a Nathaniel Howe. He was going to take her back south through Ostwick. Our family is from Lothering.

This letter is chewed partially to pulp by a one-year-old Kieran.

Dear Morrigan,

I hope you and the child are safe and well. I think of you both often, imagining you wandering through striking landscapes. It was kind of you to send your last little note. I hope your raven friend here has no trouble finding you. I don’t know how much weight he can carry, or else I would include some of the saffron toffee my brother has been sending me from Highever.

Your timing, as always, was perfect, for I need your advice on a complicated subject. We have just begun to move more seriously into recruitment now that one of the wardens here has taken over the issue of rebuilding the Keep following the assault two years ago. Among other various leads, I was tipped off about a young mage living in the woods outside of Denerim.

It took me some time to locate him, and when I did, it took even longer to convince him I wasn’t a templar. He doesn’t speak. He looks wild, and I don’t mean Chasind or Avaar. I think he must have been cast out when his parents realized he was a mage. That must have been over ten years ago, now, for I think he has been surviving alone this whole time and was only forced closer to the city by the scarcity of food in the years since the Blight. I think he must be just a few years younger than me. He is skittish, like a dog which has survived on the street and never known kindness, and just as thin and matted. I have been calling him Pip—a pale little seed.

Only now have we made it back to Amaranthine. I sent the rest of the party on ahead and camped there near him for a fortnight before he would interact with me at all. It took a great deal of food and a soft voice to convince him I was safe. He seems to understand me, anyway, and I have the impression he could speak if he desired. So at last he has taken the fresh clothes I offered and a ride on our mule.

I should pretend that you don’t know what the Joining entails, but I know you heard us speak of it. I am loathe to put him through such a thing. At first I doubted if he was really a mage, or whether the people only called him one because they didn’t understand him, but I have seen enough to know that he is indeed powerful. He was at the edge of desperation when I found him. I fear he might have met violence soon, or been captured by a templar, or made the prey of a demon taking advantage of his hunger. If I thought he could be safe in the Circle or an orphanage I would rather send him there, but alas, I fear the Wardens are the only place he might have a chance. I can protect him at the Keep at least.

I suppose my question is this: for a young man who has grown up truly alone, what is the best way to train his magic? One of our mages is Dalish, and I hope their traditions will serve him well, but she is not the most patient teacher. I don’t want to invite a powder keg into our midst without a plan in place.

I wish to consult Wynne as well, but I fear any missive to the circle will bring the Chantry down on our heads. Any advice you can offer would be appreciated.

Your friend,

Gwen Cousland

...

This letter is carried in the Warden’s Commander’s pocket, creased and worn from repeated reading.

Lady Cousland,

You do have a habit of picking up strays, don’t you? I admire your concern for the boy, but I suggest you be realistic that your little seed will either sprout or rot, and the result is largely out of your hands.

I have never trained a mage. What training I had from Flemeth I don’t think you would wish to emulate. Nor should you listen to Wynne about how things are done in the Circle, for we both saw the results of that particular curriculum.

You do have a talent in creating a comfortable space for those around you. Focus your efforts there, and don’t blame yourself if you end up with a feral hunger abomination in a few months.

As for the Joining, perhaps it will put him out of his misery, which would be a mercy compared to starving.

M.

...

This letter has been opened for inspection by the templars.

Dear Wynne,

I had a conversation with a new warden recruit recently which made me interested in theories of magic and the veil. I am particularly interested in how mages might be connected to their powers, and what makes someone more or less susceptible to possession. Could you recommend any reading on the matter?

Many thanks,

Gwen Cousland

...

This letter and its unsent reply rest on the King’s desk in Denerim Palace.

Your Majesty,

I humbly petition you to intervene with the Grey Wardens in Vigil’s Keep, who are harboring several dangerous apostates. As you will remember from your own time with the Chantry, leaving mages untrained and unsupervised without the moral guidance of the Circle leaves them vulnerable to possession. The Warden Commander seems to feel that her authority stands above the Chantry’s in this matter. I rely on you to restore these mages to their rightful place for the safety of Amaranthine and the wardens.

Your servant,

Knight-Commander Greagoir

Greagoir,

The wardens do not fall within the jurisdiction of the Crown any more than the Chantry does. They are permitted by my authority to remain in Ferelden, for reasons I hope are obvious to you after the last five years, and the wardens themselves retain the right of conscription. If you feel that they have conscripted someone who belongs elsewhere you will have to work it out personally with the Warden Commander. I sincerely wish you the best of luck in this endeavor.

I wonder, what was the lack of moral guidance which produced the outcome I saw on my last visit to the Circle…?

Alistair

...

This letter is stuffed at the back of a drawer in the Warden Commander’s office.

Warden Commander,

Greagoir is suspicious of some of your recent recruits. The wardens should be cautious of templars in the coming months if they wish to retain their numbers.

A Friend

...

This letter sits, tearstained, on the desk of the Teyrn of Highever.

Dear Fergus,

I am sorry for my lack of correspondence. I will try to write more. I can hardly justify the way I feel, but it’s as if my life was cleaved in half by a great blade, with my time in Highever on one side and my time with the wardens on the other. Seeing you only reminds me of a life—a time—I can never return to.

Of course I still love you very much, and wish you great happiness, and understand your concerns. But please, let me have my world and you yours.

You may keep sending candy if you wish. I worry my men will mutiny if the supply stops.

Yours,

This letter is kept with its predecessors in a witch’s bag. It is a little sticky.

My Dear Morrigan,

I must report on my little stray mage. His Joining was a great success—and he seems not to resent me too much for the experience either. He was shy and skittish again when we came to Vigil’s Keep but took to it readily enough once he had his own room with a lock and access to the kitchen anytime he likes. He still doesn’t speak, but I’ve heard him hum to himself while he mends his clothes. It is pleasant to see him relaxed for once.

I wondered whether he would accept new clothes and leathers but he seemed at peace with discarding his old rags. He likes finding trinkets to tie on his clothes (buttons, shells, seeds, coins, silver teaspoon) and I am not above picking up something for him at the market and leaving it in the courtyard as if discarded for him to find. (I know, I know, dreadfully sentimental. You don’t have to say it.)

Our Dalish mage, Velanna, is a more patient instructor than I gave her credit for. When she is short with him he doesn’t seem to mind. And his powers grow more each day! I keep a close eye for signs he might lose control—we all do, some with great suspicion—but I have seen none. It’s a wonder he never succumbed to Hunger if nothing else.

When not at the Keep, I take him with me most of the time. He has proved most adept at tracking down straggling darkspawn and wiping them out. I think the others still find him difficult to warm up to, but I have grown to feel great affection for him as a Warden and as a friend.

I think of you as our travels take us next to the Korcari Wilds. I continue to miss you and to wish luck to you and little Kieran. I have included some honeycomb from the Keep’s recently repaired apiary. I thought he might like to chew it.

Your friend,

Gwen

...

This letter, barely legible with tearstains, sits on a crate in Vigil’s Keep.

Nate,

I lost Pip. He fell down some rocks in pursuit of the darkspawn. Slipped in the damp. I buried him there. Further updates later. It will be some time before I return.

Gwen

...

This letter is left open on a desk while its reader contemplates her reply.

Dear Leliana,

I truly don’t know what to do. I think I have nothing and no home remaining. Since my little mage’s death I have been unable to return to Vigil’s Keep in shame. I know the wardens suffer for my absence, but I can’t bear it. I can’t bear that place.

I arrived recently in Denerim, alone, on my own two feet, hoping for I know not what. Perhaps wishing for a chance encounter with a friend, perhaps intending to lose myself in the crowds. I think secretly hoping I might go to my parents’ estate and find them there.

As soon as I arrived I saw the market was crowded with people. I assumed I had forgotten a festival and thought it would at least be a balm to see how things had been rebuilt and eat a warm meal. Indeed, the new square is beautiful—paved with flagstones, filled with merchants from far and wide. So different from when we were there during the war.

I barely had a chance to look about before the reason for the gathering became clear: the King came out on a balcony to address the crowd. He was received warmly. When the cheering died down, he gave a short but eloquent address about how far Ferelden has come since the Blight. He was confident. He was poised. He was every inch the King. He has grown a bit of a beard since I saw him last, his hair longer, his cheek a little more full—or so I thought I saw from across the square. A plain gold circlet gleamed on his head.

When he was done, he waved, and smiled, and perhaps it was only my imagination, but it looked warm. Real.

I hate the cold envy that twisted inside me. When last we parted, though he knew he had to take the throne, he dreaded the responsibility. We both mourned our time together, but he was the one who had been forced to cut the felling blow to our love as he took up a mantle he did not want. I was off to something I was suited to—the life with the Wardens he had so desired, a title I knew well how to carry. We both knew who would have the better time.

Except. Except! I have fumbled every responsibility, lost recruits as I nearly failed to quell a resurgence of the Blight, lost my most dear recruit without the help of even a single darkspawn! My Keep fell, the repairs drag, the Arling limps along from harvest to harvest. What taxes I can justify collecting go directly along to the Crown. The Wardens are still maligned, the nobility scheme against me. It is all I can do to keep the Templars off my doorstep. I have driven away my brother. I have driven away my love through my own political scheming. Each and every Warden is kept at my side by the leash of the poisoned blood we share. Is that so different after all than the Chantry’s lyrium stores? Their phylacteries?

At the very least, I can say at last that I made the right decision in putting him on the throne. Not only is he leading well, the results are evident around me, but it suits him. He seems happy and at ease.

And yes. With this observation, through the haze of my grief, shot a bitter-cold bolt of envy. Where I struggle, he succeeds. Where my gaunt palor earns alarmed glances, he thrives. And the evil thought within me: it was meant to be the reverse.

With tears stinging my eyes, repulsed by my own feelings towards a man I had once cared so much for, I looked for any place to duck into to escape the square.

By some turn of fortune I found myself in Wade’s Emporium. It too was newly rebuilt. I made conversation with Herren and excused my visit by replacing my gauntlets, which were indeed suffering from a great deal of abuse.

For change, I was given a shiny new gold sovereign. It caught the light of the forge as Herren placed it in my palm. “New mint,” he said, and when I looked down there was the King’s face in sharp profile. He looked serious, not quite severe, very regal. The same plain circlet on his head I had seen in the square.

And so he lives in my pocket now. A reminder of all I have failed to do, and the one place I succeeded, and the happiness I have placed forever out of my own reach. I cannot go back to the Keep. Not yet. Nathaniel can manage things without me for as long as is needed. I cannot stay in Denerim, and the thought of returning to Highever makes my throat squeeze.

I think I may take to the wilds until the winter makes foot travel impractical. Then I shall decide if I can face my responsibilities once more or if I will—well. One’s Calling may come at any time. There are always darkspawn in need of killing. And that Maker-forsaken sovereign weighs me like an anchor.

I may be difficult to reach for some time.

Yours,

i hope this isn't too annoying, but i'm tagging people who reblogged or left comments on the original rules post that i made on my main blog. no pressure or anything, but since you guys expressed interest in this tournament i figured you would want to know where to go. i'm going to do my best to avoid tagging people who have already followed the sideblog or reblogged the new post.

the number above is 1.00e81 (1 with 81 zeros).

i'm 178cm tall, and in order to fall repeatedly, you have to get back up again (isnt there a song about this?) so one complete fall cycle is 356 cm, or 0.00356 km.

i traveled 0.00356km 1e81 times so thats 3.56e78 km/day, so 86400 seconds in a day thats 4.12037037037e73 km/sec.

but I get up again

no real people (obviously there are lots of real life women who are victims of fandom misogyny, but i feel like having those women compete in a poll against each other and also against fictional characters would be kind of disrespectful to the actual real life shit they were put through)

no men!!!! idc if he's like a woman to you, this tournament isn't for him!!!!

obviously, misogyny does not have to be the only factor here, it just has to be one of the factors. if racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, etc. are also part of the problem, do not hesitate to bring that up in your submission! it's highly relevant! the last thing i want is a tournament consisting of only cis straight white women, especially because so many of the hated/mistreated women of fandom are also marginalized in other ways that the fandom hates them for.

idk if this is a rule exactly, but just to clarify, this tournament is about which one of these characters is your favorite. it is emphatically not about trying to quantify which character is the biggest victim of fandom misogyny. that seems like an utterly exhausting and pointless thing to argue about, please don't subject me to that. i just want to see people defend their favorite overly maligned or mistreated girlies in my notes, i cannot stress this enough

characters don't have to be overtly hated to be victims of fandom misogyny. they can also be perpetually ignored in favor of men, or constantly characterized as the wise mom friend who the fandom has apparently decided has no desires or goals or needs besides being a sounding board for their favorite white boy, etc.

there's no time limit on this thing. even if the hatred/fandom mistreatment has died down and the character in question has been re-examined since, if there was ever a period in which they were subjected to fandom misogyny en masse, they count.

that said, don't choose characters who are generally universally beloved and always have been but you saw one person shit on them one time in a misogynistic way and got annoyed. i hate when that happens too, but it's does have to be a trend, not just one annoying guy, even if the guy in question is really annoying.

submit as many characters as you like!

you can submit a character here:

To celebrate, I'm writing an epistolary fic covering the ten years of Gwen's life between Origins and Inquisition. As of late 9:31 Dragon, she put Alistair on the throne only for him to break up with her. Now she's off to Vigil's Keep for ten difficult years of struggling with leadership, mourning the connections she forged during the Blight, and trying to find her own identity as Warden Commander.

[Remember during Inquisition she will be reunited with Alistair at Skyhold!]

9:31 Dragon - Read on AO3

This letter is crumpled at the back of a drawer in the Warden Commander’s desk at Vigil’s Keep.

Lady Cousland,

As a courtesy, I write to tell you the child was born in good health. You may tell A. if you wish. I shall continue to keep my word and keep out of the way.

My thanks again for your assistance in the issue of my mother. I hope you are well.

M.

This reply is carried in a witch’s pouch, along with several fine necklaces gifted by the sender.

Dear M,

I am pleased to hear so, and I hope you too are well. I have no worries as to your intentions with the child. In fact, should you ever wish, any hearth of mine is always available to you. I hope this will not be the last I hear from you!

Yours,

G

...

This letter is kept folded carefully in a bedroll.

Dearest Leliana,

I hope this finds you wherever you are. The last I heard you were in the Free Marches—can that be right?

I have been well enough. Time marches on. It has rained every day for a fortnight. We are up to our necks in darkspawn but closer every day to finding the source. It is fortunate my parents bestowed me with an adequate political education, or else managing Amaranthine’s affairs would be a stifling addition to the role of Warden Commander. The seneschal can handle most things—but not everything. With this darkspawn resurgence in the region, letting either half of my responsibilities slide could be catastrophic.

Lately I’ve been thinking of my frayed connections to the rest of the Order. I suppose I am lucky to have known the last Warden Commander at all, considering. And that his recruitment and mentorship of new wardens were the bulk of what I saw, for those are the first issues with which I must contend. But even so, I find it hard to grasp for what he might have said. What do I do when they squabble with each other? When they flirt? When they hate to be down in the wretched Deep Roads, as do I, but we have work that must be done and no one else to do it? What do I do when the templars come knocking, or when I must ask them to put aside all they think they know and walk into mortal danger with people they wouldn’t trust in any other situation? It seems that Duncan had everything figured out. Perhaps he didn’t. But would that I could ask for his advice, or that of any other warden.

Morrigan wrote me to say that her child has been born and they are both well. I was hoping you might write to A and let him know. Pretend she told you herself—leave me out of it.

Affectionately,

Gwen Cousland

...

This letter is crumpled at the back of a drawer in the King’s desk at Denerim Palace.

Alistair,

I wonder how you intend to handle the Landsmeet when you’re not on speaking terms with one of your arls. Do you even know the latest from the Order?

G--- says M-------’s baby was born healthy. She wanted you to know but not to know that she told me. I respect your intelligence enough to assume that you might have figured that out regardless.

Enjoy all the luxuries of Denerim. I’ve enclosed a scarf I picked up in Val Royeaux I thought you might like. The colors reminded me of the warden crest.

Yours,

Leliana

...

This note is folded neatly under the Warden Commander’s gambeson, carried over the heart.

Warden Commander,

If you survived the attack on Vigil’s Keep, please send word back with this messenger. Report on the state of the Order.

Alistair Theirin

...

This note, torn in the recipient’s eagerness to read it, has been tossed haphazardly on his desk next to where he holds his head in his hands in relief.

Your Majesty,

I apologize for the time it took your messenger to find me, but yes, I am alive. We suffered heavy losses, including Oghren and the mage Anders, and the Keep is largely destroyed, but the remaining darkspawn threat has been eliminated. Amaranthine yet stands. The Order yet stands. I am well. We will rebuild.

Yours Your servant,

Warden Commander Cousland

...

This note is left on a corner of the Warden Commander’s temporary desk at the Crown and Lion, languishing without a reply.

Gwen,

To hear thirdhand of the destruction of Vigil’s Keep while on the road from Denerim, having to rush back for further news and hear only from Eamon that you are alive—I beg you to consider my health and sanity and write me a few words the next time you evade mortal danger, rather than relying on the rumor mill to deliver the news. I will divert my path home to look for you in Amaranthine. I pray you will make yourself easy to find.

Your concerned brother,

The following letters were each destroyed following their delivery by courier.

Commander Cousland,

You will never believe who I just ran into in Kirkwall—or rather beneath. I was tailing that expedition partially funded by the Merchants Guild. A small company had been double-crossed by a colleague and were separated, wandering around looking for a way back to the surface. Their other sponsor, a Fereldan—the Champion of Kirkwall—apparently a refugee from Lothering, relative of the Kirkwall Amells?—had her apostate sister with her—who was Blighted. All this explained to me in a rush, with the addendum that the Grey Warden in their midst thought she might undergo the Joining—out steps a sheepish Anders. He gave no answer as to how he survived the attack on the Keep. When I asked whether Oghren or Justice might have made it out as well, he made another non-answer, and several of his compatriots looked shifty. I did ask if he might return, invoking his indelible ties to the Order and the better protections from the templars he might enjoy there, but he refused. As his compatriots seemed prepared to back this refusal with blood, I let it drop.

Encounters with the dead aside—the tunnels are clear, and I return with our new recruit, who survived the Joining. I believe her only remaining family is in Kirkwall. Still, I would be glad to leave it if I was her—the city is crowded with refugees of the Blight, most of whom do not seem to be treated kindly. Sickness and violence sweep the streets unchallenged. The Templars are increasingly harsh in their methods. Our young friend will find her future much sweeter back in Amaranthine—poisoned blood notwithstanding—something we all must adjust to—and I would not be surprised if Anders finds himself back in the Tower again, since he insists on remaining here.

How is How go the repairs of the Keep?

Yours,

Nathaniel Howe

Nate,

Velanna is well, to answer your aborted question. I wish you two would stop parting angry so you could write each other directly.

I’m pleased you think our young mage’s future will be “sweeter” here, though that seems optimistic to me as I write from the Keep’s half-finished hall, taking great pains to keep the rain off my parchment. As long as she fears more from the Templars than the rain I suppose she will be fine. I thank the Maker for our lucky streak with the Joining. Every failure is a tragedy, but especially now, we cannot spare to lose any recruits.

You will have to give input on the repairs when you return. That shipment of Nevarran stone meant to come through Kirkwall has been delayed, no doubt due to one or more of the problems you mentioned in your letter. The rebuilding in Denerim is yet in its early stages; many dozens of contracts were signed for those projects before anyone knew the Keep would need to be rebuilt, so there is nothing to be found locally. My brother can only do so much, as Highever is unequipped for mining and largely sources its stone from quarries near Redcliffe, which are of course mobilized for their own local repairs, and so on and so forth. My connections in Orzammar might prove fruitful—but then we must contract someone, no doubt the Guild, to haul the stone overland, for which we will pay through the nose, and I have already had to lower your father’s taxes by a fair margin after the long-suffering people of Amaranthine were faced with a second round of the Blight last year. I’m beginning to ponder such mad schemes as dismantling the old Warden fortress on Soldier’s Peak. I would like to hear your thoughts on what must be prioritized and preserved for day-to-day activities to resume.

Yours,

Gwen

Commander,

I will give what input I can, but surely the Crown is sympathetic to the Wardens’ cause. Could you not negotiate for alterations to the Denerim contracts to allow the diversion of some materials to the Keep?

We have made it to Ostwick—where tensions are lower, as are ship fares—and are waiting now for passage. Expect us within the fortnight.

Yours,

Nathaniel Howe

Nate,

I pray that your delay is due to lack of ships and nothing more serious.

I will carry individual stones from the seafloor on my back before I go crying to the King begging for contracts.

Gwen

...

This letter is crumpled beside the King of Ferelden’s desk, where it was thrown in anger.

Alistair,

I don’t know how else to tell you that you are shirking your responsibility and putting yourself in an extremely precarious position by refusing to make progress on a marriage. Whatever your own feelings about children, whatever your resentments towards Maric, whatever your pining for young Cousland, whatever your ingrained aversion to personal responsibility, I suggest you set it all aside by the time I find another candidate. Perhaps I will have Teagan facilitate the meeting next time in case it is my presence which leads you to behave in this way.

Eamon

...

This letter is folded under a book on the Warden Commander’s desk.

Gwen,

Did I say something to anger you? I don’t understand why you won’t even write a few lines to let me know that you’re still alive, or update me on repairs of the Keep. Was it my offer of assistance? Something more personal? Please, I apologize for it all. Just write when you can, even if you are too busy to see me. I miss you.

Yours,

Fergus

...

This letter is tucked into a bedroll in the temporary quarters of Vigil’s Keep, unanswered.

Bethany,

Please write if you’re all right. Mother is convinced you’re dead, and no one I’ve written will tell me anything. We all miss you. I’m still so sorry.

If you’re some other warden reading this, please respond and tell me if my sister survived her Joining. Please. Bethany Hawke, recruited in the Deep Roads beneath Kirkwall by a Nathaniel Howe. He was going to take her back south through Ostwick. Our family is from Lothering.

This letter is chewed partially to pulp by a one-year-old Kieran.

Dear Morrigan,

I hope you and the child are safe and well. I think of you both often, imagining you wandering through striking landscapes. It was kind of you to send your last little note. I hope your raven friend here has no trouble finding you. I don’t know how much weight he can carry, or else I would include some of the saffron toffee my brother has been sending me from Highever.

Your timing, as always, was perfect, for I need your advice on a complicated subject. We have just begun to move more seriously into recruitment now that one of the wardens here has taken over the issue of rebuilding the Keep following the assault two years ago. Among other various leads, I was tipped off about a young mage living in the woods outside of Denerim.

It took me some time to locate him, and when I did, it took even longer to convince him I wasn’t a templar. He doesn’t speak. He looks wild, and I don’t mean Chasind or Avaar. I think he must have been cast out when his parents realized he was a mage. That must have been over ten years ago, now, for I think he has been surviving alone this whole time and was only forced closer to the city by the scarcity of food in the years since the Blight. I think he must be just a few years younger than me. He is skittish, like a dog which has survived on the street and never known kindness, and just as thin and matted. I have been calling him Pip—a pale little seed.

Only now have we made it back to Amaranthine. I sent the rest of the party on ahead and camped there near him for a fortnight before he would interact with me at all. It took a great deal of food and a soft voice to convince him I was safe. He seems to understand me, anyway, and I have the impression he could speak if he desired. So at last he has taken the fresh clothes I offered and a ride on our mule.

I should pretend that you don’t know what the Joining entails, but I know you heard us speak of it. I am loathe to put him through such a thing. At first I doubted if he was really a mage, or whether the people only called him one because they didn’t understand him, but I have seen enough to know that he is indeed powerful. He was at the edge of desperation when I found him. I fear he might have met violence soon, or been captured by a templar, or made the prey of a demon taking advantage of his hunger. If I thought he could be safe in the Circle or an orphanage I would rather send him there, but alas, I fear the Wardens are the only place he might have a chance. I can protect him at the Keep at least.

I suppose my question is this: for a young man who has grown up truly alone, what is the best way to train his magic? One of our mages is Dalish, and I hope their traditions will serve him well, but she is not the most patient teacher. I don’t want to invite a powder keg into our midst without a plan in place.

I wish to consult Wynne as well, but I fear any missive to the circle will bring the Chantry down on our heads. Any advice you can offer would be appreciated.

Your friend,

Gwen Cousland

...

This letter is carried in the Warden’s Commander’s pocket, creased and worn from repeated reading.

Lady Cousland,

You do have a habit of picking up strays, don’t you? I admire your concern for the boy, but I suggest you be realistic that your little seed will either sprout or rot, and the result is largely out of your hands.

I have never trained a mage. What training I had from Flemeth I don’t think you would wish to emulate. Nor should you listen to Wynne about how things are done in the Circle, for we both saw the results of that particular curriculum.

You do have a talent in creating a comfortable space for those around you. Focus your efforts there, and don’t blame yourself if you end up with a feral hunger abomination in a few months.

As for the Joining, perhaps it will put him out of his misery, which would be a mercy compared to starving.

M.

...

This letter has been opened for inspection by the templars.

Dear Wynne,

I had a conversation with a new warden recruit recently which made me interested in theories of magic and the veil. I am particularly interested in how mages might be connected to their powers, and what makes someone more or less susceptible to possession. Could you recommend any reading on the matter?

Many thanks,

Gwen Cousland

...

This letter and its unsent reply rest on the King’s desk in Denerim Palace.

Your Majesty,

I humbly petition you to intervene with the Grey Wardens in Vigil’s Keep, who are harboring several dangerous apostates. As you will remember from your own time with the Chantry, leaving mages untrained and unsupervised without the moral guidance of the Circle leaves them vulnerable to possession. The Warden Commander seems to feel that her authority stands above the Chantry’s in this matter. I rely on you to restore these mages to their rightful place for the safety of Amaranthine and the wardens.

Your servant,

Knight-Commander Greagoir

Greagoir,

The wardens do not fall within the jurisdiction of the Crown any more than the Chantry does. They are permitted by my authority to remain in Ferelden, for reasons I hope are obvious to you after the last five years, and the wardens themselves retain the right of conscription. If you feel that they have conscripted someone who belongs elsewhere you will have to work it out personally with the Warden Commander. I sincerely wish you the best of luck in this endeavor.

I wonder, what was the lack of moral guidance which produced the outcome I saw on my last visit to the Circle…?

Alistair

...

This letter is stuffed at the back of a drawer in the Warden Commander’s office.

Warden Commander,

Greagoir is suspicious of some of your recent recruits. The wardens should be cautious of templars in the coming months if they wish to retain their numbers.

A Friend

...

This letter sits, tearstained, on the desk of the Teyrn of Highever.

Dear Fergus,

I am sorry for my lack of correspondence. I will try to write more. I can hardly justify the way I feel, but it’s as if my life was cleaved in half by a great blade, with my time in Highever on one side and my time with the wardens on the other. Seeing you only reminds me of a life—a time—I can never return to.

Of course I still love you very much, and wish you great happiness, and understand your concerns. But please, let me have my world and you yours.

You may keep sending candy if you wish. I worry my men will mutiny if the supply stops.

Yours,

This letter is kept with its predecessors in a witch’s bag. It is a little sticky.

My Dear Morrigan,

I must report on my little stray mage. His Joining was a great success—and he seems not to resent me too much for the experience either. He was shy and skittish again when we came to Vigil’s Keep but took to it readily enough once he had his own room with a lock and access to the kitchen anytime he likes. He still doesn’t speak, but I’ve heard him hum to himself while he mends his clothes. It is pleasant to see him relaxed for once.

I wondered whether he would accept new clothes and leathers but he seemed at peace with discarding his old rags. He likes finding trinkets to tie on his clothes (buttons, shells, seeds, coins, silver teaspoon) and I am not above picking up something for him at the market and leaving it in the courtyard as if discarded for him to find. (I know, I know, dreadfully sentimental. You don’t have to say it.)

Our Dalish mage, Velanna, is a more patient instructor than I gave her credit for. When she is short with him he doesn’t seem to mind. And his powers grow more each day! I keep a close eye for signs he might lose control—we all do, some with great suspicion—but I have seen none. It’s a wonder he never succumbed to Hunger if nothing else.

When not at the Keep, I take him with me most of the time. He has proved most adept at tracking down straggling darkspawn and wiping them out. I think the others still find him difficult to warm up to, but I have grown to feel great affection for him as a Warden and as a friend.

I think of you as our travels take us next to the Korcari Wilds. I continue to miss you and to wish luck to you and little Kieran. I have included some honeycomb from the Keep’s recently repaired apiary. I thought he might like to chew it.

Your friend,

Gwen

...

This letter, barely legible with tearstains, sits on a crate in Vigil’s Keep.

Nate,

I lost Pip. He fell down some rocks in pursuit of the darkspawn. Slipped in the damp. I buried him there. Further updates later. It will be some time before I return.

Gwen

...

This letter is left open on a desk while its reader contemplates her reply.

Dear Leliana,

I truly don’t know what to do. I think I have nothing and no home remaining. Since my little mage’s death I have been unable to return to Vigil’s Keep in shame. I know the wardens suffer for my absence, but I can’t bear it. I can’t bear that place.

I arrived recently in Denerim, alone, on my own two feet, hoping for I know not what. Perhaps wishing for a chance encounter with a friend, perhaps intending to lose myself in the crowds. I think secretly hoping I might go to my parents’ estate and find them there.

As soon as I arrived I saw the market was crowded with people. I assumed I had forgotten a festival and thought it would at least be a balm to see how things had been rebuilt and eat a warm meal. Indeed, the new square is beautiful—paved with flagstones, filled with merchants from far and wide. So different from when we were there during the war.

I barely had a chance to look about before the reason for the gathering became clear: the King came out on a balcony to address the crowd. He was received warmly. When the cheering died down, he gave a short but eloquent address about how far Ferelden has come since the Blight. He was confident. He was poised. He was every inch the King. He has grown a bit of a beard since I saw him last, his hair longer, his cheek a little more full—or so I thought I saw from across the square. A plain gold circlet gleamed on his head.

When he was done, he waved, and smiled, and perhaps it was only my imagination, but it looked warm. Real.

I hate the cold envy that twisted inside me. When last we parted, though he knew he had to take the throne, he dreaded the responsibility. We both mourned our time together, but he was the one who had been forced to cut the felling blow to our love as he took up a mantle he did not want. I was off to something I was suited to—the life with the Wardens he had so desired, a title I knew well how to carry. We both knew who would have the better time.

Except. Except! I have fumbled every responsibility, lost recruits as I nearly failed to quell a resurgence of the Blight, lost my most dear recruit without the help of even a single darkspawn! My Keep fell, the repairs drag, the Arling limps along from harvest to harvest. What taxes I can justify collecting go directly along to the Crown. The Wardens are still maligned, the nobility scheme against me. It is all I can do to keep the Templars off my doorstep. I have driven away my brother. I have driven away my love through my own political scheming. Each and every Warden is kept at my side by the leash of the poisoned blood we share. Is that so different after all than the Chantry’s lyrium stores? Their phylacteries?

At the very least, I can say at last that I made the right decision in putting him on the throne. Not only is he leading well, the results are evident around me, but it suits him. He seems happy and at ease.

And yes. With this observation, through the haze of my grief, shot a bitter-cold bolt of envy. Where I struggle, he succeeds. Where my gaunt palor earns alarmed glances, he thrives. And the evil thought within me: it was meant to be the reverse.

With tears stinging my eyes, repulsed by my own feelings towards a man I had once cared so much for, I looked for any place to duck into to escape the square.

By some turn of fortune I found myself in Wade’s Emporium. It too was newly rebuilt. I made conversation with Herren and excused my visit by replacing my gauntlets, which were indeed suffering from a great deal of abuse.

For change, I was given a shiny new gold sovereign. It caught the light of the forge as Herren placed it in my palm. “New mint,” he said, and when I looked down there was the King’s face in sharp profile. He looked serious, not quite severe, very regal. The same plain circlet on his head I had seen in the square.

And so he lives in my pocket now. A reminder of all I have failed to do, and the one place I succeeded, and the happiness I have placed forever out of my own reach. I cannot go back to the Keep. Not yet. Nathaniel can manage things without me for as long as is needed. I cannot stay in Denerim, and the thought of returning to Highever makes my throat squeeze.

I think I may take to the wilds until the winter makes foot travel impractical. Then I shall decide if I can face my responsibilities once more or if I will—well. One’s Calling may come at any time. There are always darkspawn in need of killing. And that Maker-forsaken sovereign weighs me like an anchor.

I may be difficult to reach for some time.

Yours,