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Giles
He’s lived in the Hinterlands all his life - like his father, and his father’s father, and all the men before him - content enough to till and tend to the land, to coax it to grow the food they need.“It isn’t difficult, farming” he says with a small smile. “Land’s plenty fertile.” It’s the truth; the land around the Hinterlands is always ready to nourish whatever one throws into it.“I know the land ‘round here as intimately as them sun-spots on me wife’s face, Maker rest her soul,” he says somberly. “It’s got a mind of it’s own. Anyone who thinks it a peaceful existence - well, they’re just plain wrong.” Many have, in the past, thought to try and tame the Hinterlands - and they soon paid the price for their foolhardy attempts.“It was first just the weather and the wildlife - bears foraging for food as they fattened up for hibernation, wolves that raided our livestock, even the ravens and the magpies who would pluck the seeds clean from the earth - all dangerous to a farmer’s livelihood. There were the occasional attacks too, but only if you was drunk enough to wander around looking for them.”He shifts his weight from one foot to another. “At some point of time the bandits arrived - and settled in. No one knew where they came from, but they made their presence known. Old man McDonald, three farms away, poor man lost his young son to them, and for what? The poor lad hadn’t had three coppers in his purse at the time. Bleedin’ shame. Arl Teagan, he tries to run them off, but that don’t help much. The blighters seem to spring from the Void itself.”He’s seen troubled times - he says, several times, that he’s been through more than his fair share of them - but he has to admit even the worst of what he’s experienced comes nowhere close to the current state of affairs.“Times were rough, but they weren’t mad. Not till the Maker-damned war. Mages with their fireballs and their blasts of ice, destroying everything in their path. Not that the templars were any better, mind you, with their shiny, sharpened swords slicing through whoever was unfortunate enough to stand in their path. Mage-sympathizers, they claimed; Maker knows Margaret barely knew enough about mages to be called one, all she’d done was ask those starving young children if they’d wanted some food. Who’d have known they were mages? Those young’uns couldn’t defend themselves from a ram, let alone a templar. And she ended up with a blade in her throat for the trouble.” He looks terribly saddened, almost haunted.“World’s gone mad, now. Demons pouring out of the sky, and no one seems to care. All these refugees, looking for safety - and there ain’t any. No place to go around here anymore, not unless you looking to end up dead. These Crossroads, they used to be safe ground, but the war’s crept up here, too. We lost the healer the other day - caught in the crossfire of a mage spell. Too many wounded now, and not enough supplies. Then she came, with those strange companions of hers - that Herald of Andraste. Heard that Chantry mother, Giselle be her name I think, talk about her. We were in the middle of an attack, and she jumped right in. No second thoughts. And once those mages and templars were dead, she walked around, offering help. Did more than a day than those folks closed up in Redcliffe village have done in a month.” He spits out the last statement with a good amount of venom.He leans back against the crumbling wall. “If she’s part of that Inquisition, maybe they’re worth something. Maker willing, the Inquisition’ll make this place safe again.”
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Refugee Hunter
He seems to be fairly young, but there's a hardness in his eyes and a set to his jaw that tell of hardships endured. Eloquence does not seem to be his forte, but there's a refreshing bluntness to the way he speaks. A skilled hunter, self-taught, he hails from one of the many now-destroyed farms in the Hinterlands. There is a great deal of bitterness in his words, but given all that he has seen one can hardly blame him.“This used to be a safe place, filled with happy folk. Never heard of anyone go hungry when the neighbor’s pantry was full. That’s what we do, see, we look out for each other. My da’s given away whole rack of rams to folks who had a lean harvest. If we don’t care for our own then who will?Then the mages and the templars came. The things I seen them do-”He shudders, his statement left hanging. His eyes cloud over with memories that appear to have overwhelmed him. He takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders against some invisible force, and continues.“Was out hunting, once. Up in the hills, near Lake Luthias. I saw some refugees. Don’t know where they came from, but they were headed towards Redcliffe. A tired, sorry group, the lot of them, all hunched and bent over like old men. I said nothing, I was on the trail. Was about to leave, when the templars came.”A cold fire sparks in his eyes, his face flushes red with remembered rage.“The templars talked to the refugees. They hit them. The refugees, they gave them food. Gave all they had. Then the mages came, they used fire. Everyone burned.”The hunter’s hands clench into fists; his fingers search for arrows that are not there. What he had seen has clearly left guilt in its wake, but it's a general consensus that there was nothing that the young lad could have done that could have altered the outcome of that interaction.“I was in a bush, they did not see me. Some templars, they killed some mages. The other mages ran. The templars ran after them, but one remained. A refugee reached out for him. He was still burning. The templar- his sword- up and down it went, up and down, again and again. There was red, so much. Red and black. He didn’t clean his sword after. He took things from bodies.”He's close to breaking down, but he turns down offers to change the topic. Talking of his experience to someone else was cathartic, he says, and he does not want to lose the opportunity.“There was a body. Still moving. Long hair, and a burned dress. It- she- was crying. The templar- he- he- he started to take off his armor.I couldn’t take any more. I shot him. I’m glad I did, too. I’d do it again if I had to.Andraste’s tears, that poor woman. I went down to her. She- she made- noises. Little ones. She looked at me. Then she died. I wanted to help her. Mother Valerie says there was nothing I could have done. That they are all with the Maker now.”He looks out at the Crossroads, at the gaunt faces and hopeless eyes.“We ran out of bread two nights ago. I would’ve gone hunting - plenty of ram around, and no lords to get you for poaching - but it was too dangerous. Templars and mages, bandits and demons, too many things out there ready to kill you. The Inquisition - that woman they call Herald of Andraste - she spoke to me. Asked if there was anything she could do. I told her about the hungry bellies, and the rams in the hills. She just nodded, told me to stay safe.‘That won’t help fill these bellies,’ I told her, and that was that.She returned that evening, hauling about a dozen dead rams behind her. Gave them to me without a word, just smiled and nodded at the pot on the fire.I thought this madness was here to stay - but the Inquisition gives me hope. That Herald of Andraste - she’s a right sort. She’ll do good.”
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Hyndel Sr.
Melinor paces restlessly in and out of the entrance to the tiny ramshackle hut. Most of his attention seems to be on his wife, who is asleep on the bed, her breathing soft and even.When he speaks, he sounds apologetic, a tired, somewhat sheepish smile on his face.“My wife has trouble breathing at times. Like cobwebs in the lungs, she says. Our son Hyndel, he makes a potion that helps, but he’s gone to join those cultists in the hills-”He shakes his head, and sighs.“He’s a young lad, filled with fear in these troubled times. Who isn’t? But there’s nothing his mother or I can say to make him see that the world isn’t ending. We were here during the siege of Redcliffe, when the undead rose each night. We were here during the Blight. Mythal’s tears, we’ve seen much that didn’t make sense. The right thing to do is to stay and help, even if Master Dennet and his wife sent us away for our own safety.”He looks around at the many refugees huddled around a brightly blazing fire.“The ones from Southmere managed to reach Redcliffe village, last I heard. These ones weren’t so lucky. Came from Wutherford, so they say, up by the docks of Lake Calenhad. Their Maker’s own luck that they managed to escape the fighting between the Circle Tower mages and templars. I don’t envy the poor sods. Imagine having to flee your own home to escape the war, only to find yourself in the middle of the very same war in a different place. That’s what Hyndel doesn’t understand. Running away doesn’t always help. Those people, keeping themselves locked away safely in Winterwatch Tower - they walk around and moan about how their Maker is ending the world, but they’re not doing much to help their fellow men, are they? I wonder what their Maker thinks of that.”His wife stirs, muttering indecipherably in her sleep, and he rushes over to her side. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gently helps her upright, and uncorks a bottle by the bedside before bringing it to her lips. The potion administered, he lets her rest again, pulling the sheets over her sleeping form and making sure she's well tucked in. Once he's sure she is sleeping easy, he turns back and continues the conversation.“I’d rather my son followed the likes of the Inquisition and its Herald. Quiet woman, soft-spoken she was, went around the Crossroads talking to everyone. Didn’t say much to me either, just asked me about my wife. Told her about the potion, but I figured it was a slim chance I’d get it. Seemed like she had more important business to take care of, what with the mages and templars and bandits prowling around the Hinterlands.”At the mention of the Herald, his face shifts into a look of open admiration. “I was wrong about her. She came back that evening, loaded with ram meat for all of us, supplies from Creators-knows-where, and the potion my Saewen needed.”He falls into a thoughtful silence.“I hope her Maker keeps her safe. We need good hearts like hers.”
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Lisette
She’s got a little frown on her face, her eyes scanning the grounds for anyone who might need help. “Haven’s got too many people, and too little space,” she explains brusquely, satisfied that everything seems to be in order for now. “That means not enough resources, but it also means we all do what we can to help.”When she’s asked if she’s part of the Inquisition, she nods. “Aye, I am,” is her determined response, much to the dismay of a young man standing nearby. “See reason Lisette,” he implores. “We do not belong her. We are templars!”“And what does that even mean?” she barks at him, before turning back to continue her initial response. “I was part of the Templar Order,” she explains, “though not important enough to get anywhere near the Temple of Sacred Ashes. When it exploded, I survived because I was rescued by Inquisition forces. My life is a debt I intend to repay.” She briefly exits the conversation, walking away to help a bewildered-looking family. She’s soft-voiced, with a patient smile on her face as she guides them to where they need to go to get the aid they need.“Look at this chaos,” she remarks when she returns, half-angry, half-sad. “So many lost souls, so many injured and fearful, and each one of them seeking sanctuary. Where are the templars now, when the people need them the most? The Chantry bickers over the Inquisition, claims that the Herald of Andraste cannot do anything about the Breach in the sky, but the Inquisition and the Herald have done more for the people over the past week than the Chantry has done ever since the destruction of the Conclave!” She shakes her head, defeated. “The Chantry - the templars - have failed the people they were meant to serve. I cannot live with my conscience if I do the same.”Her eyes scan the grounds again, a fierceness in them. “No,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I’m part of the Inquisition now, and proud of it. I’m here to help, just as they are.”
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Adan
He’s gruff, his deep voice rumbling within the confines of the room. “I’m not a healer,” he grumbles. “Don’t have the patience to sit and mollycuddle patients. That’s what the Chantry sisters are for. Me, I’m an alchemist. You need a potion, any potion, you’ll get it - just get me the ingredients, and give me time.”He pauses as a runner stops by with a request from Mother Giselle for more elfroot potions. He nods tersely, and moves to a nearby workstation that’s lined with bottles carrying liquids of all hues and consistencies. His movements are quick, but precise, and a few careful minutes of measuring and mixing the messenger leaves with a dozen vials.“Used to be that elfroot was as scarce as sovereigns around her,” he says, clearing up the mess he made. “That scoundrel Seggritt charged an arm and a leg for the meagre stock he had.” He wipes down the table, then moves over to a bowl filled with water and begins to wash his hands. “Now that the Herald’s up and about, we’ve got enough for everyone, and more.”He pauses briefly, clearly ruminating over something, a thoughtful look on his face. “A good woman, the Herald, with the Maker’s own luck. Good thing too, Andraste knows she’s going to need it. Mind, she was more dead than alive when the soldiers dragged her here, what with that crazy magical mark on her hand trying to burn her up. ‘Course, when that was under control - only just, and thanks to that apostate Seeker Cassandra brought in - there were plenty of folks trying to break in to kill her.” He shakes his head.“She’s not in Haven much these days, what with the inquisition trying to create order out of this absolute chaos, but each time she’s here she finds time to stop by. She asks about me.” His face softens now, a strange look on a man whose features are accustomed to sternness, but it’s clear he has a fondness for the Herald. “She always brings me back a bagful of herbs, what she thinks will be helpful - elfroot, embrium, spindleweed and the sort - but she brings back other interesting plants, too. She brought back royal elfroot and crystal grace the last time she was here, Maker knows where she found them or what she had to fight to get them!”He lets out a heavy breath. “Aye, like I said - she’s a good woman. She’ll sort this mess right out.”
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Mihris
“What do you think I would have to say to the likes of you? I only know of this ‘Herald’ of yours from a brief encounter.”The First of Clan Virnehn has a scowl on her face, a deep-seated bitterness in her eyes. “I saw the Breach in the sky, and I came to help, as is my duty as First. My people know of ancient artifacts, constructed by our ancestors, that help strengthen the Veil. I tracked down one such relic deep in the Hinterlands, but I could not reach it for the demons that blocked the way. There were too many of them for me to defeat alone. When this Herald approached, I asked for her help, and she gave her aid freely.”Mihris shudders slightly at some memory. “A strange group, the lot of them. A shem with magic in her hand, another who is a templar, a dwarf and a flat ear?” She shakes her head half-amused, half-disbelieving. “That flat ear…” she trails off. “He is a strange one. Most flat ears do not know of their heritage. They do not know the language of the People. This one, he- well, there was something about him. He is not like the others of his kind I have met.”The thoughtfulness on her face clears, and is replaced by a scowl once more, only this one is not quite so severe. “She is kind - kinder than the rest of her ilk, I suppose. I was injured in the fight, and she insisted on tending to me.” Mihris shifts, uncomfortable. “That flat ear - he - he reminded me of the Vir Enasalin… but how does he know of it?…” She clears her throat, a finality in her tone when she speaks. “I do not trust shems - they are too violent, too destructive. But I suppose this Herald is better than the others. She seems to genuinely want to help, and that is the best I can say of any shem.”
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Maura
Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her grief is palpable in the small cabin. The fireplace has a roaring flame, and every brazier is lit in an attempt to stave off the dark. She’s hesitant at first, unsure, and her hands fidget, the fingers of her right hand playing with a prettily engraved but simple silver band on her ring finger. It’s twin sits quietly on top of it.She looks down at her slightly trembling hands. “I miss him,” she says softly, and that statement carries the weight of her sorrow. “Married for ten years, we were. I knew him as a child. We grew up together in the farms. He always had a smile on his face. Always had a welcome for every person that passed by, stranger or not.”Her breath hitches on a sob. “Madness. The world is madness. What do I care for the templars and mages? They’re murderers, the lot of them, and the world would be a better place without them all.” Her hands cover her face, and she cries. “They killed him. He was working on our little plot outside, when he spotted the templars. Told me to hide under the cot, he did. He must have sensed something. I could hear them talking. All he had was a shovel in his hand. A shovel! They asked if he lived alone, and he said yes. They hit him then, I heard them. One called him a liar, said that they knew a family lived here. ‘My wife’s out,’ he said.”She wipes away the tears still falling. “A shovel. How in the world they could mistake a shovel for a staff… it was no mistake. Power hungry bastards, the lot of them, and I hope they rot in hell. They cut him down where he stood, and I heard them open the door. I thought I was going to join him. Saved by mages, I was, a group of apostates who attacked the templars, and left me alone. Heard them loot the body, they said his ring could be magic. ‘Twas his wedding ring! The only magic in that was the bond it symbolized.” She stares unseeingly at the fireplace. “When I got to my Daryl, he was so cold. So, so cold, so stiff, covered in his own blood.” She lets out a wobbly laugh. It is a bittersweet sound. “The shovel was still in his hands.”She wraps her arms around her waist and her withdrawal into herself is obvious. “I could do naught but make his pyre myself. All those rifts around, I didn’t want a demon wearing his skin. For days, I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. My heart burned with sorrow and anger and my head was filled with thoughts of revenge. If I could have, I would’ve hunted those templars and killed them myself-” She takes in a deep breath. “Then she came. The Herald of Andraste. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, and her hand was glowing too brightly. They’d closed a rift nearby, she said, and asked if they could refill their waterskins. All quiet and polite and respectful, asked why I was all by myself, and I told her. She was sad, she was, shaking her head. Next thing I know she’s got a pot over the fire, and her companions are pulling out their supplies. Made sure I ate, she did. The other woman, the Seeker, she said a short prayer for Daryl.”Her hands were back to fidgeting. “They didn’t have to, Maker knows they had more important things to take care of. But they stopped and grieved with me, and for that I’ll be ever grateful. They left the next morn, but came back several days later. She put my husband’s ring in my hand. Didn’t say anything, just held my hands. The elven mage, he said I would be safe, that there was an Inquisition camp nearby and if I were in distress, to go to them.”“Had my doubts about the Inquisition, I did. But knowing the Herald of Andraste is with them-” she breaks off. With a nod, she continues, “They’ll do good. So long as they have her, they’ll do good.”
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Bianca
Earth brown hair pulled neatly back, eyes narrowed, forehead scrunched, she’s hunched over a table. Her focus is intense and absolute. A variety of gears, cogs, nuts and bolts are scattered about, amongst other tools, and though everything seems littered about, there’s a sense of organized chaos in the workroom. She picks up a part, using a magnifying glass to carefully place it into position, then locks it in with several screws.“There,” she declares, looking very satisfied. “This is much better than what that fool had before.”It’s clear she’s referring to Varric, though she never mentions him by name. She examines her work thoroughly, tightening bolts and making other minute adjustments. She’s reluctant to talk at first, but the words come out after a long silence.“He hasn’t forgiven me,” she states matter-of-factly. “I don’t blame him. I’m not quite sure I can forgive myself. I should’ve known, but-” she shrugs. “I thought I was helping him, I really did. That whole thing with Bertrand… I thought if I studied the red lyrium more, I could understand it. And maybe I did, but the price… he thinks it wasn’t worth it, but I’m not so sure. Besides, from what I hear, the stuff’s practically everywhere. Don’t think I had anything to do with that.” The statement is a bold one, but it’s plain that she doesn’t quite believe it herself.She places the scope back on the table. “I don’t know if we’ll recover from this,” she says softly, suddenly vulnerable. “Bogdan would shed no tears over that, but…” She turns away, but there’s a slouch to her shoulders. It’s patently obvious that her feelings for the Kirkwaller are strong. When she turns back, her jaw is set, face cleared of any emotion. “What’s done is done. I can’t change the past, but I can try to fix my mistakes. I did the best I could to shut down Corypheus’ lyrium operation. I can’t - won’t - keep beating myself up over it. And I’ll make sure he doesn’t blame himself either, because it’s not his fault…” She sighs. “Fool won’t see it that way, though. At least he’s got the Inquisitor to lean on. She’s got a calm head on her.” Her lips twist up into a wry smile. “Didn’t even flinch when I threatened her. Just glared at me and walked away. He was quiet all the way back to Skyhold, but he’d talk to her. And that’s a good thing. That fool, he needs someone to talk to, someone who listens.”She picks up a tiny chisel, and begins to engrave a mark on the wooden attachment. “I might not be a huge fan of that Herald, but she seems to be good to- to him, and that’s enough for me.”
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One-eyed Jimmy“Lost the eye as when I was a child,” he states without preamble. “Rough housing with some of the other children. Stray stone got into my eye, the healers couldn’t do much. Tore me right up at first, but I’m used to it now.”He’s known locally as One-eyed Jimmy, but his name is Jim Halsberth. “We’re farmers, we are,” he says. “But after me pa died - he gave all the fields to my brothers, and left me nothing. He thought I was a strain on the family, you see.” There’s no bitterness as he makes the statement. “My brothers, they chipped in and sent me out of their homes with a pittance. I came to Redcliffe Village with nothing but twenty silver in my pockets. Spent half of it on ale the first night. Thought to drink myself to death.” He shrugs. “I didn’t have a place to rest my head, so I wandered outside. Ended up passing out beneath a tree. Next morn, I opened my eyes - and Maker’s truth, there he was. Strange coloring for a ram, but a ram he certainly was,” Jimmy chuckles. “Thought I was still drunk when I heard him speak. Lord Woolsley, he said his name was.”He glances over to the beautifully built enclosure, where a lone ram is standing still. It’s slightly disconcerting, the way the animal’s eyes are fixed unblinkingly on its owner. “Lord Woolsley is very wise. Ten silver was all I had to my name when I first met him, and now I have ten thousand as much.” He has a fond look on his face as he says that.“I was utterly distressed when he went missing. That nice young lady - I heard the villagers call her the Herald of Andraste, but she’s, well,” his voice drops a bit, so as not to be overheard. “She’s not very divine-looking , is she? Not even from the Chantry!” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I asked her to find Lord Woolsley, if she could. I didn’t think she would help. After all, no one from the village bothered to help me look for Lord Woolsley when I asked them, even though I’ve helped them out plenty of times,” he sniffs. “Imagine my surprise when Lord Woolsley returned home! He’d been having a nice jaunt by our summer vacation home, he said, when he met this Herald, and she had been so polite to him that he felt he had to return to me at once. What a charming young lady,” Jimmy is absolutely beaming. “Lord Woolsley doesn’t listen to just anyone , you know.”There’s several minutes of silence as Jimmy walks over to the pen. Though no words are said, there’s a great deal of nodding on his part, and it’s almost as though he’s having a silent conversation with the ram. “Well, that settles it,” he declares decisively upon his return. “Lord Woolsley thinks, and I agree, that we should send a small donation of sorts to the Inquisition. After all, they do have such a wonderful young lady in their ranks, it’s the least we could do.”
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Bron
Many of the fields are blackened, and many more have withered, wasted crop. A lot of the farmhouses are uninhabitable, with holes in the roofs and doors that hang limply off of their hinges. Despite the general disarray, there’s still an air of positivity around, and many of the farmers Bron is helping have smiles on their faces.
He’s brisk in his speech, and so is his walk. “Aye, the farms look bad, but they were worse before
she
came,” he nods decisively. “The one they call Herald of Andraste. Dark times, they were, what with demons and bandits and wolves gone mad. Found her way over here through the mage and templar ruffians, she did, and Maker only knows how. Reinar and Mort, they left to get help, and they never returned.” His eyes are downcast. “Found their bodies by the side of the bridge. Templars got to them.” A flicker of temper passes over his face. “The bastards had stripped them bare. I thought they swore to serve the Maker-” he cuts himself off with a shake of his head.
He’s got a faint blush on his face when he talks of the Herald. “She says she wasn’t chosen by Andraste, but- but who else could’ve closed those blasted rifts? Closed them with just her hand, she did. No airs on her, either. Better than some of them fancy lords up in Denerim, I reckon. And you can tell she cares! The master wanted her help with those damned bandits in exchange for his horses, and she came straight to me. Wasn’t sure she could do much, what we needed was watchtowers, and-” he turns a shade deeper. “Her hands, they were too soft for building, I knew. But she- she spent all afternoon with me, she did, with all sorts of questions. Where the best places would be, what material should be used, how far apart - I’m no expert, not like old man Smithers was, but I know enough, I know these farms.” He continues shyly, “Made me feel real important, she did.” He pauses for several moments, and he sounds thoughtful when he speaks again. “She does that, the Herald. Makes everyone around her feel special-like.”He jerks a thumb towards a distant animal corral. “Even returned Farmer Mack’s favorite druffalo, would you believe. One thing to have kindness for people, but she- she has kindness even for animals, even in times like these. Not many like her around, I reckon.” “Her eyes light up, you know,” he states offhand, almost as though he’s unaware he’s still talking. It’s clear from his tone and the starstruck look on his face that the young man has a crush on the Herald of Andraste. “She rode through Seanna’s race track. Her nose was pink, she was laughing, her hair was shining. She looked real pretty.”Abashed at his (involuntary) confession, he clears his throat. “I’m not fancy like them Chantry folk, but I reckon if the Maker had to send someone to us on Andraste’s behalf, it’d be the likes of her. And I’m right glad for it.”
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“Aye, I’ve seen the lass,” the woman nods “Who hasn’t?”.
Sallow faced, and with greying hair, she’s Redcliffe’s storyteller, one of the village elders in charge of keeping the history of its inhabitants alive. Her eyes wander the landscape, their sharpness not missing a thing. One of the fishermen passing by shouts out a friendly greeting, and she raises a hand in response.“That there’s Eugene,” she remarks affably. “Nice enough chap. Lost his parents to the undead, ten years ago. Nearly lost that sister of his to the Maker damned ‘Vints.” Her voice hardens. “Can’t expect any better from those blood mages up north. Walked in through the gates like they owned the village. That magister had the bloody cheek to throw the Arl out, could you believe it? ‘Twas bad enough with just those rebel mages. But magisters?” She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Sure enough, they were up to no good. If it hadn’t been for that Herald - Andraste’s tears, I think we’d all have perished.”
Her voice lowers, much to the disappointment of the nearby stragglers. “I heard that the ‘Vints were using some kind of time magic. There’s rumors around that they were kidnapping the Tranquil -
and using their skulls
.” She shivers. “Then the Herald came - and she had Valor’s blade strapped to the end of her staff, the one spirit that lives near the lake. I told her about it, you know. She had the blade, and I knew, I just knew that she would defeat Alexius and his men.”
She gazes up towards the cliff, where a tall, imposing building overlooks the village. “There was lots of flashing lights from the castle that night. Strange colors. And the sounds… Maker’s mercy, but none of us slept that night. We couldn’t. Thought it was the end, I did. Then the King arrived, at daybreak, and sent the mages out. He looks so much like Maric and Cailan, Maker rest their souls.”A child runs up to her; she bribes him away with a small biscuit from the pocket of her gown, and promises of a story - later. “She’s a quiet one, that Herald. Has a good heart in her. Came here for the mages, or so the Inquisition said, but she found a way to lend a hand here and there. Even helped out that old windbag Jimmy,” she snorts. “She asked me about the village, and I told her all about Redcliffe.” One of the eavesdroppers asks about the spirit. “Aye, there lives a spirit by the shores of Lake Luthias. All the maidens in the village, they leave offerings of roses. I’ve told those lasses countless times, it values blood lotus, for ‘tis a spirit of Valor, not Love, and Valor sees only into hearts filled with courage. That it offered her it’s blade - ‘tis telling, wouldn’t you say?” She grins wide, eyes crinkling at the corners.“Now, mind, a lot of folks ‘round here are jittery around magic, what with the rebel mages and the ‘Vints. But that one, from the Inquisition - now that one is a good one. She’s Andraste’s Herald, no doubt about it. And the Herald trusts the Inquisition - well, then I say the Inquisition can be trusted. Anyone who’s against those ‘Vints can’t be evil.”
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Scout Liesel
“I signed up with the Inquisition because my ma was sick and I needed coin for the healer,” she says in a tone that brooks no nonsense. “Wasn’t much else I could do, what with the templars and mages running wild.”Liesel’s one of the first people to join the Inquisition soon after it settled in Haven. She’s been part of Sister Nightingale’s group from even before the disastrous events of the Conclave. “Had no choice,” she explains evenly. “Especially after-” she clears her throat.“I worked in a small farm on the near Redcliffe,” she begins. “I took care of the rams, while Mason tended the fields. Da- Maker rest his soul - he died during the Blight. We took care of ma, me and Mason did. And then the war broke out, and the templars came.”There’s fury in her voice. “They came to the farm one evening. Set fire to the crops. Claimed that we were harboring apostates. We weren’t!” Her jaw’s taut, hands clenched into fists. “My brother- he- he went to talk to them, tried to explain. I told him not to. I told him that we needed to run, but he- he had a good heart, Mason did. I tried to pull him away, but-” She shakes her head. “Me and ma, we barely escaped.” Her eyes close, face twisting, just momentarily, into a deep mask of grief. “They gutted him. He had no weapon in his hands, and they struck him down. They laughed at him, and they killed him.” For several moments, she trembles with the rage the memory’s brought back.“I wanted to hunt them down, choke their life out with my bare hands, but- ma needed me. So when I heard the Inquisition was recruiting - and paying coin - I joined. Tried to put those thoughts away, but it didn’t work. It burned, knowing those bastards were still out there-” There’s a small commotion by the large wooden gates. The Herald’s returning from her latest journey. She dismounts at the stables, gently pats the flank of her mount, and has a few words with the horsemaster. She waves at Liesel, who returns the greeting. Liesel waits till the woman’s left, seemingly unaware that there’s a small smile on her face. “The Herald, that there’s a good woman,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Maker knows she has a thousand things to do, but she spoke to me. I was in the tavern, and Andraste forgive me, but I’d had one too many. Told her all about Mason, I did, thought nothing of it. But she- she remembered .” Her left hand fiddles with a thin, engraved bracelet on her right. “Brought back Mason’s wristlet, she did, and my da’s daggers. Imagine that.” She wears a look of incredulous wonder. “She didn’t have to, but she did. And that dwarf friend of hers, he said they’d reclaimed the farm, that I could go back if I wanted.”She turns to look in the direction of the Herald’s departure. “I could. But- nay, I will stay. The Herald did right by me. ‘Tis only fair I do right by her.” She lets out a long breath. “I’m proud to follow her, I am. Andraste could not have sent a better champion.”
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She’s in the middle of packing up the few possessions she has into a bag that bears the Inquisition’s insignia. There’s a tiny vial filled with a deep ruby liquid hanging from her neck that almost seems to glow.“My phylactery,” she states casually enough, though she takes care to ensure she isn’t overheard. “It only recently came into my possession.” She tilts her head, clearly debating over how much she should say. The former Enchanter holds herself in a dignified fashion, even as one of the refugees curls their lip up in her direction. Dark circles under her eyes tell a story of many sleepless nights. “When the Circles rebelled, the mages did their best to destroy as many phylacteries as they could,” she explains. “To prevent the templars from hunting them down, you see. Mine wasn’t in the Circle - I had passed my Harrowing - but I knew where it was.” She clears her throat. “When my fellow mages destroyed the repository, I- I kept mine.”She clears her throat again; despite the action, her voice wavers. “I loved a man, when I was in the Circle,” she says, chin raised defiantly. “He was a templar. His name was Mattrin, and he was a good man. An honorable man. I loved him, and he loved me, but the war tore us apart.” She grimaces at that. “No, that’s not entirely true, is it? We were always apart, but we hoped, after the rebellion- we hoped that our freedoms would mean we could be together.” She smiles sadly at that, shakes her head at her naivety. “He- he was to join me. I gave him my phylactery, so he could find me. I-” She looks out at the Crossroads, at the overflow of refugees milling around, and sighs. “I wanted no part in the war. Neither did he. We both have dear friends who are mages, and ones who are templars, and- I did not want to choose a side. So, I chose to stay here instead of joining the rebels in Redcliffe. Mattrin was to join me, and we would-” she chokes up. “We were to start a new life together, the two of us.”There’s a long silence as the former Enchanter pulls herself together. “The Herald found his body,” she says softly. “She brought back my phylactery, as well as a letter he’d written. It was painful to learn he had taken his own life, but- but I have closure, now. The uncertainty was too much to bear.” She’s holding the phylactery in her hand, stares down at it. In one smooth motion, she pulls it off and gently, gingerly places it with the rest of her belongings. “She laid him to rest, Maker bless her, when she did not have to. But I suppose that’s what makes her so different from the rest, isn’t it? She truly cares.”Her gaze drops to her pack once more. “My hopes of a life with Mattrin are no more. But- we spoke, the Herald and I. Mattrin would want me to- to help. The Inquisition will restore order, but I think- I think the Herald will restore hope.”
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Lord Berand
His hands are enfolding those of a weeping middle-aged woman, and his tone is kind as he comforts her quietly. There are plenty more villagers in the quaint little chantry, and Lord Ashton Berand intends to talk to all of them.A minor noble in the Bannorn of Portsmouth, he looks to be genuinely distressed over his people’s sufferings. The small village of Swainfort had been plagued by two rifts on the outskirts of the village that blocked the only trade routes, but now that they are closed the area is slowly recovering. “The Herald came as soon as she could,” he leans back heavily in his chair. “I owe her a debt of gratitude I will never be able to repay, I fear.”The man himself has only recently returned back to his lands. “I feared the end of the world,” he confesses, more than a little ashamed. “And I fled, instead of aiding those who needed me the most.” He’s referring to the strange rift-worshipping cult in the Winterwatch Tower of the HInterlands. Though their numbers have reduced, the cult still exists. “I even persuaded Lady Vellina to join me,” his eyes fill with tears, and he looks away. “I thought, foolishly so, that she would not come to harm. She was just a woman, traveling alone… I was too naive, and she too trusting, and her death is on my conscience.”He has to take several moments to collect himself. “It was the Herald that showed me the right path,” there’s a little bit of hero-worship in the way he speaks. “She was the one who found Vellina. She was so angry. She called me foolish, thoughtless. She chastised me for being selfish.” He sighs heavily. “She was right, of course. And though the Herald was sympathetic to my grief, I knew she was also incensed. ‘Go back to your people,’ she said. ‘Do not fail them the way you failed Vellina.’ Harsh words, but ones I needed to hear.”There’s a heavy look of sadness on his face. “Only when I returned to Swainfort did I learn about the rifts. The Herald was kind enough to respond to my request, but- I could have done better. I should have done better. The demons- with them around, no one dared to leave the village. My people could not get supplies. The few who tried…” he shakes his head. “The woman I was talking to, Janella. She lost her son. He had a wife, a young child. He supported the family. And now…” Lord Berand sighs heavily. “She’s not the only one. All of those lives… they are all on my conscience. I failed them, when I did not rise up to my duty.”His eyes turn determined, and he speaks with certainty. “But I will find a way. I owe her that much. The Herald of Andraste is a compassionate woman, I will follow her lead.”
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Elven widower
“I met my Senna when I was a young lad of but seventeen,” the elderly man has a soft, wistful smile on his face, his gaze looking over the crisp blue waters of Lake Calenhad. “The village was celebrating Wintersend. Ahh, but I still remember those stalls set up by the lake, all painted different colors. And there, behind the counter of one with a red canopy, stood a girl with a flower in her hair and eyes as golden as sunlight. I knew then that I had found my heart’s twin.” His eyes fill with tears, and he takes a moment to compose himself, a chagrined, rueful twist to his lips. “Forgive me. It has been many years since I lost my Senna, but the pain remains.”Emithas stretches with a little groan, seating himself on the stone bench next to him. “She gave me three children, and for them I thank the Creators daily. One son is in Denerim, an apprentice to a blacksmith. The other is in Amaranthine; he works the fields. My daughter is married and has children of her own, though I have not seen her in-” a thoughtful look falls over his face as he jogs his memory. He shakes his head with no small amount of disbelief. “I have not seen her, or them, since this madness began. What world is this? First mages and templars keep my apart from my family, and then demons and brigands stop me from taking flowers to my wife’s shrine.” He exhales heavily. “Though at least Senna will have flowers, even if I was not the one to give them to her.”He spots an Inquisition agent in the near distance, and raises a hand in greeting. “It was the Herald herself to volunteered to take them, if you can believe,” he says softly. “I came to Redcliffe village hoping to find someone who might be willing to take me to Senna’s grave, but none wanted to risk their neck. I don’t blame them,” he clears his throat, “the dangers were great. But the Herald- she overheard me talking about it. And then she offered to take them there, for me. Imagine that! I accepted, of course, but I believed she would send one of those Inquisition agents to do the task, but she-” his gaze turns wet, “she took them herself. That dwarf with her - he’s a famous author, isn’t he? - he said she picked every flower herself. She returned, took my hands between hers, and told me that she had cleared the shrine. Even recited the old prayers-” A small sob escapes him. “Despite everything she no doubt has to carry, she took the time to perform a small kindness for an old, foolish man. Does it not speak to the strength of her character?”Emithas wipes the errant tears with his knuckles. “She is the kindness the world needs. I will pray to the Creators to keep her safe.”
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Recruit Whittle
“It’s thankless work, it is,” the burly, broad-shouldered man says, shifting from one foot to another. His gaze, sharp and keen, sweeps across the Crossroads, and he breaks away without a word to direct an incoming group of refugees. He talks to them in short, clipped sentences, his face stoic - almost grim - but there’s nothing rude about his demeanor. Then he spies the little girl at the back of the cart, clutching a ragdoll tightly to her chest, and in an instant he’s changed into a whole different person. He speaks softly to her, hands her a wool blanket, and soon is able to coax a shy, hesitant smile from the child. When he returns, he’s returned to his usual gruff manner. “These poor sods lost everything when the mages and templars went crazy. Went from bad to worse, the world did, when demons showed up. Then there were them bandits, too, plucking from folks escaping the madness.” He spits on the ground beside him, his face scrunched up with disgust. “Like fecking vultures ripping out entrails.”He stares up at the sky. “‘Course, the Herald put a stop to that, didn’t she? Told her to stay away, but she ran straight into where the templars and mages were fighting. Thought she was mad, I did. I reckoned her and her companions would turn up by nightfall, all bloodied up, but they didn’t, not that day, nor the next, and well, I,” he shakes his head. “I thought she was a goner. I couldn’t stop working, though. Had to keep the folks here safe. Not an easy task, mind, not when the nights are cold enough to freeze a man’s flesh clean off his bones. Lost a couple of the elderly,” he takes his helmet off and holds it against his chest, “Maker keep them in peace. So few came with blankets or warm clothes; either the templars, or mages, or bandits got to them. And wasn’t like we were in a city, where I could just nick a blanket off a clothesline here and there.” He sighs. “Didn’t have much hope. Days were getting colder, and people just kept coming in. All those young’uns-” His gaze flickers to a stretch of open land where several children chase after each other, their shrieks filling the air. His face softens.“She came through, she did,” he murmurs. “Two weeks after she left. Here I was, thinking that she was little more than supper for the wolves, but she came back. Oh, she was banged up and bruised, but she came to me, she did, stood right in front of me with a wide smile and told me she’d found caches that them apostates had hidden away, crates with blankets and food and warm clothing. Gave me a map with locations marked, too, and said I shouldn’t have too much trouble getting there. And you know what? We didn’t get no trouble from no mage, or templar, or bandit, or demon.”He shakes his head again. “Force of nature, she is. Makes sense, though. Andraste would send no one else as her Herald, would she?”