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TheDookieNut
15th Drakonis, 9:43 Dragon
The Grand Cathedral, Val Royeaux
Voices echoed off every marbled surface in the Grand Cathedral, accompanied by the drumming of rain. The cathedral glowed white and gold, a dim light in the grey that had consumed Val Royeaux for the past week. Little rivers slithered through the cobbled stones of the courtyard, rushing over mosaics of sunbursts and scenes from the Chant. Black puddles coalesced across the stones, soaking the ankles of the faithful. Thunder rumbled in the heavens, drowning out the Chant. Mother Amélie had told her once that thunder was the voice of the Maker; what did it mean, Petra wondered, that the Maker would drown out his the songs of his most devoted?
The carriage rolled to an abrupt halt. Petra frowned, green eyes tracing the rain slipping down the glass like the finest of silk. The clink of armor in the carriage pulled her thoughts from the weeping heavens. The Templar opened his door, face twisted into a grimace, striding around carriage. Petra adjusted the heavy cloak around her shoulders. Her pale fingers lifted a golden mask from her lap. The cold bite of metal against her face sent a chill slipping down her spine. Nimbly securing the mask, Petra took a steadying breath. There was something reassuring about the lace-like swirls of gold sweeping across her eyes and across the right side of her face, delicate sunbursts suspended between floral spirals. She felt like something more than herself, something powerful, behind her favorite mask and the hood of her cloak.
The Templar escort opened her door, offering an armored arm. Petra steadied herself as she swept down the steps. A crimson carpet stretched through the downpour to the audience chamber like a burning line of fire. The carpet squelched beneath her leather slippers. Releasing her escort, Petra followed the arrow to the beating heart of the Chantry. Hooves and rattling wheels echoed behind her, returning to the tower she might never see again. Petra took a shuddering breath. If the Templar noticed, he said nothing.
It was not a long walk to shelter, but the bottoms of her robes were soaked through as she ducked into the cathedral. A Chantry sister smiled wanly at Petra, hurrying forward to help with her cloak. She folded the sodden leather, spreading an arm towards a path of flickering torches.
“This way, Senior Enchanter,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly lost to the rain. Petra inclined her head, willing herself to be calm—regal, even, as she glided after the Chantry sister. Her escort was never far, his fingers grazing the hilt of the sword at his hip. But his blade was tempered by the iron fist of the Divine; his presence was more formality than anything else. In just over a year, the Templars had turned from hunters to dogs, cowed into obedience by the shifting tides of politics. Petra had never dreamt that the Order, nor the Circles, would be rebuilt. The war had been too savage, too bloody, to go back to the old ways. Of course, she would have never dreamed that a mage would sit on the Sunburst Throne.
The world had become so very strange. Perhaps the Fade had altered the laws of their world when it had spilled demons onto the land. Perhaps the dreams of a thousand souls had followed those demons and rewritten the very laws of nature. Impossibilities had flooded the valleys of the scars carved across hearts and land by the apocalypse that hadn’t been.
The antechamber was warm and well-lit. Once, Petra might have believed that it was the Maker’s warmth—now, she could only thank the hearths. It had been summer the last time she stood in this ante-chamber, nearly ten years ago. The breeze had whispered through the courtyard, her spirits as high as the voices raised in the Chant. She had thought it the most beautiful sound in all of Thedas. It had been a wondrous day, even if Divine Beatrix III had fallen asleep mid-ceremony. Today could not have been more different a day.
Petra had not believed the letter, at first. The summons to the Grand Cathedral came on the wings of a white raven, and her heart had sunk with every word. Divine Victoria had decided where to send her. The rumors had been true; Petra would go to Kirkwall.
Kirkwall. The City of Chains. The epicenter of the nightmare that had been the war, that had sparked Conclave and all the death the Breach had wrought. Petra had dropped bonelessly into her chaise, and wondered what she had done to deserve such a fate. She had spent the past month wishing it had been a dream, even as her home was packed and sold. She’d spent countless hours in Montsimmard, running her hands over exquisitely carved banisters, grieving the loss of her home.
It was no dream. Petra focused on keeping her breathing steady and hands stilled. The ante-chamber was bustling, last minute jobs before her fate was sealed. Petra shut her eyes, thinking of sprawling gardens and summer afternoons in the library.
The Chantry sister was instructing her on etiquette. Petra suppressed the urge to fix the woman with a withering stare; she was not a young child, fumbling with The Game. Bow, address the Divine (and Petra would never cease marveling that the woman she had studied with for over twenty years had become the heart of the Chantry) as Her Most Holy, do not argue, offer thanks at every turn. Thanks for Kirkwall. It took all her will not to be sick over the Chantry sister’s shoes.
“It’s time,” the sister remarked suddenly. Petra opened her eyes. With a shallow nod, she straightened her robes. She moved smoothly, in stark contrast to the knots in her stomach. Her escort did not follow, and she suddenly felt quite alone.
The audience chamber was every bit as imposing as Petra remembered it. The walk felt like a thousand miles, courtiers watching, whispering witnesses to her misfortune. Petra kept her eyes straight, on the Sunburst Throne that towered over the crowd. Chantry mothers stood, watching Divine Victoria, half-terrified, half-reverent.
“Senior Enchanter Petra de Sauveterre of the Montsimmard Circle,” a herald called in a clear, high voice. She was last to be announced it seemed, almost like an afterthought. She held her head high regardless; she was a mage, and an elf, and she had not yet been ruined. That was no small feat.
She drew even with two men before the Divine, moving into a delicate curtsy, eyes cast down in reverence. Her stomach churned.
“Most holy,” Petra demurred, motivated less by faith and more by the knowledge that few could claim magical talent as great as the Divine. She settled swiftly, raising her gaze to dark eyes that pierced through her. Victoria was pristine robes and shining brighter than a flame through all the grey. Petra straightened, all too aware of how small she was here, a pawn amidst all the glittering marble. And like many pawns, the Divine would sacrifice her without hesitation. Petra’s nails curved into the meat of her palms.
The letter had not informed her of her future colleagues; gossip had filled in the gaps. A Templar from Hasmal, a loyalist—and an untested Viscount. They weren’t the worst possible candidates; Petra could only hope that they were reasonable. Reason was not a common thing these days.
Silence fell over the chamber. The Divine surveyed the gathering of courtiers and Chantry women alike. After a moment, her voice echoed through the chamber like thunder.
“We are gathered, today, to rebuild,” There was a long, reverent pause, where even the drumming of the rain seemed muted. “Less than five years ago, the actions of a few radicals threatened to tear our very world apart. I need not remind you how much blood was spilled in the name of revolution; I need not remind you how many were slain in the aftermath. And here we gather, in the aftermath of a world torn apart by maleficar and demons alike, and here we are gathered to rebuild.”
There was a triumph in the Divine’s voice that Petra almost found herself believing in. She remained placid, head bowed respectfully, heart hammering in her chest. It sounded so simple—rebuilding—as if they were merely mending a broken building.
“Rebellion began in Kirkwall and it will end in Kirkwall. Abominations demanded we tear down our Circles to suit their demands—and our Circle will rise higher than before. I have called you,” and for the first time, Petra realised the Divine was addressing the three of them, strangers charged with the impossible. “To do the Maker’s work and restore the Circle of Kirkwall. Viscount Fenmoor—I give unto you your Knight Commander and your First Enchanter.”
First Enchanter—even now, the words sounded like they belonged more in the fade than in the waking world. As a child, Petra had dreamed of one day tending her own Circle, but not Kirkwall, never fucking Kirkwall.
The ceremony concluded in a rush of voices raised in song, the chamber filling with the Chant. Petra sang numbly, the words turning to ash in her mouth. The Divine rose and a score of attendants fluttered in her wake, sweeping out of the chamber. Courtiers gossiped, their whispers deafening, and Petra was relieved when a Chantry mother broke from the crowd, sweeping towards them.
“Your lordship, your grace, Madame, we have a chamber ready for the necessary documentation. If you would follow me,” her voice was high—Orlesian, Sahrnian if Petra had to venture a guess—and she smiled ingratiatingly. Petra could only nod, grateful for the swirling gold across her face, transforming nerves to regal calm.
The chamber provided was quiet, with a handsome oak desk and several sheafs of parchment. Petra ran a hand along the wood, idling towards the longest span of parchment. The Chantry’s obsessive dedication to documenting history had been a blessing as a researcher, but to be on this side of things, to be the one within the history, not merely reading it…
“The archivist will be along shortly,” The Chantry mother smiled again from the doorway, although the expression did not quite seem to reach her eyes. Petra looked up, a flare of panic rippling through her veins, but the woman had already excused herself, leaving the three unluckiest souls in Thedas in the simple room.
The Grand Cathedral, Val Royeaux
Voices echoed off every marbled surface in the Grand Cathedral, accompanied by the drumming of rain. The cathedral glowed white and gold, a dim light in the grey that had consumed Val Royeaux for the past week. Little rivers slithered through the cobbled stones of the courtyard, rushing over mosaics of sunbursts and scenes from the Chant. Black puddles coalesced across the stones, soaking the ankles of the faithful. Thunder rumbled in the heavens, drowning out the Chant. Mother Amélie had told her once that thunder was the voice of the Maker; what did it mean, Petra wondered, that the Maker would drown out his the songs of his most devoted?
The carriage rolled to an abrupt halt. Petra frowned, green eyes tracing the rain slipping down the glass like the finest of silk. The clink of armor in the carriage pulled her thoughts from the weeping heavens. The Templar opened his door, face twisted into a grimace, striding around carriage. Petra adjusted the heavy cloak around her shoulders. Her pale fingers lifted a golden mask from her lap. The cold bite of metal against her face sent a chill slipping down her spine. Nimbly securing the mask, Petra took a steadying breath. There was something reassuring about the lace-like swirls of gold sweeping across her eyes and across the right side of her face, delicate sunbursts suspended between floral spirals. She felt like something more than herself, something powerful, behind her favorite mask and the hood of her cloak.
The Templar escort opened her door, offering an armored arm. Petra steadied herself as she swept down the steps. A crimson carpet stretched through the downpour to the audience chamber like a burning line of fire. The carpet squelched beneath her leather slippers. Releasing her escort, Petra followed the arrow to the beating heart of the Chantry. Hooves and rattling wheels echoed behind her, returning to the tower she might never see again. Petra took a shuddering breath. If the Templar noticed, he said nothing.
It was not a long walk to shelter, but the bottoms of her robes were soaked through as she ducked into the cathedral. A Chantry sister smiled wanly at Petra, hurrying forward to help with her cloak. She folded the sodden leather, spreading an arm towards a path of flickering torches.
“This way, Senior Enchanter,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly lost to the rain. Petra inclined her head, willing herself to be calm—regal, even, as she glided after the Chantry sister. Her escort was never far, his fingers grazing the hilt of the sword at his hip. But his blade was tempered by the iron fist of the Divine; his presence was more formality than anything else. In just over a year, the Templars had turned from hunters to dogs, cowed into obedience by the shifting tides of politics. Petra had never dreamt that the Order, nor the Circles, would be rebuilt. The war had been too savage, too bloody, to go back to the old ways. Of course, she would have never dreamed that a mage would sit on the Sunburst Throne.
The world had become so very strange. Perhaps the Fade had altered the laws of their world when it had spilled demons onto the land. Perhaps the dreams of a thousand souls had followed those demons and rewritten the very laws of nature. Impossibilities had flooded the valleys of the scars carved across hearts and land by the apocalypse that hadn’t been.
The antechamber was warm and well-lit. Once, Petra might have believed that it was the Maker’s warmth—now, she could only thank the hearths. It had been summer the last time she stood in this ante-chamber, nearly ten years ago. The breeze had whispered through the courtyard, her spirits as high as the voices raised in the Chant. She had thought it the most beautiful sound in all of Thedas. It had been a wondrous day, even if Divine Beatrix III had fallen asleep mid-ceremony. Today could not have been more different a day.
Petra had not believed the letter, at first. The summons to the Grand Cathedral came on the wings of a white raven, and her heart had sunk with every word. Divine Victoria had decided where to send her. The rumors had been true; Petra would go to Kirkwall.
Kirkwall. The City of Chains. The epicenter of the nightmare that had been the war, that had sparked Conclave and all the death the Breach had wrought. Petra had dropped bonelessly into her chaise, and wondered what she had done to deserve such a fate. She had spent the past month wishing it had been a dream, even as her home was packed and sold. She’d spent countless hours in Montsimmard, running her hands over exquisitely carved banisters, grieving the loss of her home.
It was no dream. Petra focused on keeping her breathing steady and hands stilled. The ante-chamber was bustling, last minute jobs before her fate was sealed. Petra shut her eyes, thinking of sprawling gardens and summer afternoons in the library.
The Chantry sister was instructing her on etiquette. Petra suppressed the urge to fix the woman with a withering stare; she was not a young child, fumbling with The Game. Bow, address the Divine (and Petra would never cease marveling that the woman she had studied with for over twenty years had become the heart of the Chantry) as Her Most Holy, do not argue, offer thanks at every turn. Thanks for Kirkwall. It took all her will not to be sick over the Chantry sister’s shoes.
“It’s time,” the sister remarked suddenly. Petra opened her eyes. With a shallow nod, she straightened her robes. She moved smoothly, in stark contrast to the knots in her stomach. Her escort did not follow, and she suddenly felt quite alone.
The audience chamber was every bit as imposing as Petra remembered it. The walk felt like a thousand miles, courtiers watching, whispering witnesses to her misfortune. Petra kept her eyes straight, on the Sunburst Throne that towered over the crowd. Chantry mothers stood, watching Divine Victoria, half-terrified, half-reverent.
“Senior Enchanter Petra de Sauveterre of the Montsimmard Circle,” a herald called in a clear, high voice. She was last to be announced it seemed, almost like an afterthought. She held her head high regardless; she was a mage, and an elf, and she had not yet been ruined. That was no small feat.
She drew even with two men before the Divine, moving into a delicate curtsy, eyes cast down in reverence. Her stomach churned.
“Most holy,” Petra demurred, motivated less by faith and more by the knowledge that few could claim magical talent as great as the Divine. She settled swiftly, raising her gaze to dark eyes that pierced through her. Victoria was pristine robes and shining brighter than a flame through all the grey. Petra straightened, all too aware of how small she was here, a pawn amidst all the glittering marble. And like many pawns, the Divine would sacrifice her without hesitation. Petra’s nails curved into the meat of her palms.
The letter had not informed her of her future colleagues; gossip had filled in the gaps. A Templar from Hasmal, a loyalist—and an untested Viscount. They weren’t the worst possible candidates; Petra could only hope that they were reasonable. Reason was not a common thing these days.
Silence fell over the chamber. The Divine surveyed the gathering of courtiers and Chantry women alike. After a moment, her voice echoed through the chamber like thunder.
“We are gathered, today, to rebuild,” There was a long, reverent pause, where even the drumming of the rain seemed muted. “Less than five years ago, the actions of a few radicals threatened to tear our very world apart. I need not remind you how much blood was spilled in the name of revolution; I need not remind you how many were slain in the aftermath. And here we gather, in the aftermath of a world torn apart by maleficar and demons alike, and here we are gathered to rebuild.”
There was a triumph in the Divine’s voice that Petra almost found herself believing in. She remained placid, head bowed respectfully, heart hammering in her chest. It sounded so simple—rebuilding—as if they were merely mending a broken building.
“Rebellion began in Kirkwall and it will end in Kirkwall. Abominations demanded we tear down our Circles to suit their demands—and our Circle will rise higher than before. I have called you,” and for the first time, Petra realised the Divine was addressing the three of them, strangers charged with the impossible. “To do the Maker’s work and restore the Circle of Kirkwall. Viscount Fenmoor—I give unto you your Knight Commander and your First Enchanter.”
First Enchanter—even now, the words sounded like they belonged more in the fade than in the waking world. As a child, Petra had dreamed of one day tending her own Circle, but not Kirkwall, never fucking Kirkwall.
The ceremony concluded in a rush of voices raised in song, the chamber filling with the Chant. Petra sang numbly, the words turning to ash in her mouth. The Divine rose and a score of attendants fluttered in her wake, sweeping out of the chamber. Courtiers gossiped, their whispers deafening, and Petra was relieved when a Chantry mother broke from the crowd, sweeping towards them.
“Your lordship, your grace, Madame, we have a chamber ready for the necessary documentation. If you would follow me,” her voice was high—Orlesian, Sahrnian if Petra had to venture a guess—and she smiled ingratiatingly. Petra could only nod, grateful for the swirling gold across her face, transforming nerves to regal calm.
The chamber provided was quiet, with a handsome oak desk and several sheafs of parchment. Petra ran a hand along the wood, idling towards the longest span of parchment. The Chantry’s obsessive dedication to documenting history had been a blessing as a researcher, but to be on this side of things, to be the one within the history, not merely reading it…
“The archivist will be along shortly,” The Chantry mother smiled again from the doorway, although the expression did not quite seem to reach her eyes. Petra looked up, a flare of panic rippling through her veins, but the woman had already excused herself, leaving the three unluckiest souls in Thedas in the simple room.
