Another couple days spent in the Hinterlands outside of Redcliffe. Every day I spend out in the wilds while Redcliffe goes unvisited heightens my anticipation and anxiety. But there's so much work to be done out in the Hinterlands, for its people and the Inquisition. In just small stretch of time, I have recruited three agents to the Inquisition, each with the same tragedy: A romance ended with a war death. It haunts me to imagine how many of those I've caused, but at least I have helped some afterwards. The greatest deed will be to stop this conflict and stop these deaths before they happen. The Breach has made demons of us all. I found Lord Berand at the Winterwatch Tower, a rather large community of refugees I found worshipping a rift. Gods barely know how they weren't torn apart by demons before I arrived to seal it. More on that later... He had made it to relative safety, along with so many others, but his lover Vellana was not so lucky. Another body in the hills. He joined the Inquisition. And then I found yet another body in the woods, from whose effects I gleaned was a lovelorn templar, trying to reunite with his lover and deliver her phylactery. (I understand that phylacteries are used by the Circle to keep their mages in check and under watch. I wonder how that process failed so catastrophically around Thedas. Were they all seized by mages? How many mages are still being kept chained by phylacteries? Or maybe I overestimate them... Are they actually used to control mages, or just track them? Maybe, to avoid the obvious blood magic, they are only used for the latter, and there are too many "apostates" to track now. It'd be like knowing the location of every mouse in the large field. What does it matter when there are so many? I digress.) I returned her her lover's letter and the phylactery. Damn the human delusion that mages do not deserve sovereignty over their blood. Anyway, she joined the Inquisition as well. I will not share her name. And finally, the unique take of Scout Ritts. Another of our scouts had reported their partner, Ritts, missing. I expected the worst, another love cut short, this time between two of my own soldiers. Little did I know, Ritts was presently in the intimate company of an apostate! Lord Berand & his Vellana are a sad, yet common story. The templar & his bloodbound enchantress was more tragic, their love less likely. But for Ritts to meet an apostate out in the field and find affection is a spectacular tale. If only I could get a word out of any of the rebel spellbinders I meet, though they might not find me quite that friendly. And yet my stomach sinks with remembering the scene. We came moments, damned MOMENTS too late. Templars had hacked the apostate to death and almost sent Ritts along with her. What a monstrous waste of something good out here in these cursed Hinterlands. After we dispatched those bastards, I let Varric talk Ritts into becoming an agent operating out of Haven. I fail to see how a military promotion would provide any comfort to her, but she took it well. In other news, the Winterwatch Tower community. It shames me to admit this, but I took the moniker of "Herald of Andraste." I used it like a tool in a lockpick's kit. I knew these people were religious, and I wanted to be what they needed. They certainly did not need to worship a rift for any longer. It already seemed to be affecting their mental wholeness... But when I emerged from the small cave that had held their false idol, it felt just like the morning I clamored out of a strange bed to hear the phrase, "Herald of Andraste," for the first time. What a joke. Andraste? Who's she? Why are you all looking at me like that? I closed a rift, yes, it's rather routine now. But, it gave them hope. And a healthier purpose than waiting around for a wraith or lesser terror to tear them to shreds. At least, until I told them to spread word of the Inquisition. I feel like such a fool, but I didn't picture them actually leaving the safety of their fortress just to proselytize on my behalf! I fear the rift was a safer god. I've damned them to wander the Hinterlands and beyond. It disturbs me how easily the words flew from my lips, "I AM the Herald of Andraste." Now they sit like stones in my stomach. I am not the Herald of Andraste. Or the hero inquisitor. Or some dreamy horse-rider here to woo a farmer's daughter with tales of galant adventure. I am a child who kills people in the woods. And soon I will go to Val Royeaux and try to reason with the bloody, headless stump that's left of the Chantry. Gods give me everything. Wisdom, strength, maturity, mercy, just every damn thing. I'll need it.
