#allmattersarcane

Until Alistair tripped out of one in the mountains of the Hinterlands, as if the rift had decided to sneeze him out. He curled up in the grass, trembling, one forearm shielding his face from the sun. His armor was cracked, a few pieces of it missing entirely, and his shield and longsword had been replaced with a two-handed greatsword. And he seemed...smaller, somehow.

Slowly, carefully, he uncurled and pushed himself upright, until he was kneeling, sunlight seeming to outline the silver that now streaked his hair. He stared at his hands in the grass, idly thinking, I should find a stream to wash my hands, since that seemed like the safest thing to think about at that point.

Everything before the Fade was...hazy. He had snippets and snatches. The idea that he didn’t like his last name, even if he couldn’t remember what it was. The knowledge that he had been in the Fade to keep a friend safe, even if he couldn’t recall the friend. Intimate knowledge of how to kill someone thirteen different ways with a butter knife, even if he wasn’t sure why he knew how to fight (though he wasn’t complaining). With how scattered his mind was, it was a wonder he had made it through the Fade at all.

He’d had help, though. A spirit. Faceless, ageless, androgynous. A human figure carved from living, moving diamond. Conviction, it had told Alistair to call it.

Alistair looked up at the rift still pulsing over his head, and he could still catch glimpses of Conviction watching him through the green. Only for a moment, though, before Alistair’s attention was grabbed.

There was a wolf watching him. Alistair moved to draw his boot knife, only to pause as he noticed that the wolf seemed far too intent for any wild animal, and the intelligence gleaming in the canine’s golden eyes seemed almost...human.

The wolf edged closer, growing more bold when Alistair slid his knife back into its sheath.

And then the rift flared, and Conviction lunged through.

There was a canine yelp, high pitched and panicked, before the black wolf was engulfed in a light so bright that Alistair had to close his eyes and look away.

When the light dimmed, Alistair found himself staring at a woman, probably his age, though he couldn’t tell. And something in the back of his mind screamed that he knew her.

“Conviction?”

“Of course,” the woman replied, her tone doubled at first, before settling on a decidedly human, alto voice.

Alistair swallowed. “Conviction, this doesn’t seem right. I--something about her--”

“Shhh,” the spirit crooned gently, kneeling to cup Alistair’s face in both hands. “She is but a mage, dear Alistair. No one of importance. And think of everything you lost in the Fade. You will still need my help.”

The anxiety eased out of Alistair’s face, his brow smoothing as his expression turned placid, and he intoned quietly, “I suppose you’re right.”

“There we go.” The spirit stroked his hair. “Where would you like to start?”

He hesitated. “I--I don’t--” He paused. “Redcliffe. There’s a place called Redcliffe. I think it’s near here.”