Chapter Text
The Hinterlands are chaos.
Playing the demure and timid elf reminds her too much of Elgar’nan’s court, but it’s the role she must play if she’s to make any progress in healing the Breach. So she runs around, fighting mages and templars, running errands and shooing off any who would ask to do it in her stead. They come across an elven woman, Mihris, fighting a demon. While Nissa flings spells and calls barriers, she tries to remember why the name sounds so familiar.
With the five of them, it takes no time at all to dispatch them. She silently mourns the spirits all the same.
“Andaran atish’an. I did not expect to see another elf in these parts. My name is Mihris. By your weapons, I see you come ready for battle. Perhaps we face a common enemy in these demons.”
The memory slides into place. Felassan had told her that the Forgotten Ones were still kicking around and causing chaos. This woman had allowed herself to be possessed by Imshael. The fact that Mihris is right nearby where she and Fen’Harel can sense elvhen magic sets her teeth on edge. Nissa doesn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“I didn’t think you minded the company of demons, Mihris.”
The woman looks taken aback for only a moment before she sneers and spits at the lot of them. “May the Dread Wolf take you, fool.”
For what it’s worth, said ‘Dread Wolf’ barely stiffens next to her as Mihris stalks off. Nissa shrugs, then leads her party down to find the magic she and Fen’Harel had sensed.
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
“Who placed a skull out here, and for what purpose?”
Cassandra had stopped, and when Nissa turned, she saw a carved skull atop a thin pillar looking out over the cliff. As she approached, cold and slimy magic slid across her skin, causing something queasy and uncomfortable to pool heavy in her belly. She didn’t even need to look at Fen’Harel to know he felt the same thing. But, unfortunately, her job meant this needed investigation, so she inched closer, feeling out the magic even as she tried not to retch.
Amplification, and something to look past obfuscation. Leaning closer, she sees something glinting in the distance, flashing across her vision and unlocking something behind her eyes. A quick look around the landscape sans skull yields nothing, so once again she leans forward and spends several moments making marks on their map.
She gestures at Fen’Harel to take a look, the only other mage she can compare thoughts with.
“The skull illuminates certain objects in the distance. I am not familiar with such magic.”
“Of course, it had to be a skull that lights up creepy shit.”
She’s quite inclined to agree with Varric.
“Why would someone use a skull as a magical-looking glass?”
Nissa shrugs.
“Well, whoever chose such a macabre vessel clearly wasn’t doing it for good reasons. We should see what it revealed, perhaps that could shed some light on what its purpose is.”
A few of the marked somethings are on the way to their next destination, and eventually, they find what she can only describe as a shard of raw Fade, crystalline and humming with a sharp ringing sound that hurts her ears.
“Interesting. I cannot say what it is, but there must be a reason the skull illuminated the object.”
“That’s what the skull helped you find? Right. Not ominous at all.”
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
They pulled back to Haven after 2 weeks in the Hinterlands. She needed time to get the watchtowers that the horse master's son had asked for, and to restock and replenish her party, as well as drop off several bundles of supplies to the quartermaster for requisitions. Nissa settles Felassan in her cabin and asks Josephine to keep an eye on him while he works with Felissima. He takes instruction blankly and politely, and though her heart is breaking for him, she’s comforted to know he’s safe, at least.
There were meetings and catch ups, organising troops and merchants, and by the end of it all she wanted to fall into uthenera for at least a few months to recover. But time was short in the new world, so she was forced to continue on.
A trip to Orlais confirms a lot of her suspicions about the Chantry, none of them the good ones. She receives a flowery invitation to a fancy Orlesian party that she throws into the pile of ‘later bullshit’, speaks with Enchanter Fiona about meeting the mages in Redcliffe, and an arrow almost takes her ear off, which she pertinently checks out. Sera is a beautiful wildcard; everything about her is a fierce reminder of Felassan. He would love her, she knows it, so Nissa recruits her and her ‘Jenny’s’ immediately.
After trudging back to Haven, she begs Cassandra for a day off, and spends the entirety of it asleep, too exhausted to even enter the Fade.
There’s still more work to be done, so off she goes again, flitting around Haven and running errands, desperately trying to show people she’s just like them, willing to do the hard work like any other person. She finds Fen’Harel taking a break outside the apothecary’s cabin.
“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”
A joke from the leader of an ancient rebellion was not on the list of things she expected to hear today. Far be it from her not to take advantage of any levity she can get her hands on. “Am I riding in on a shining steed?”
“I would have suggested a griffon, but sadly they’re extinct. Joke as you will, posturing is necessary.” He leans forward, braced against the stone wall, tone turning serious. “I wonder, Herald, what kind of hero you will be for this Age.”
“Hopefully, the kind who lives to become that embarrassing former hero everyone has to put up with.” She smirks at him, hiding her surprise when he returns it, albeit briefly. He looks at her properly, then, face that same placid neutrality as normal, though he can’t seem to hide how his eyes flash with some unnameable emotion, scrutinising her for a moment before coming to some unspoken conclusion.
“I can think of worse fates. I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed.”
“Was that in doubt?” She doesn’t hide the confusion colouring her voice.
“I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”
She does.
“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.”
“How would you stop them?”
Their gazes meet again, surprise meeting defiance as she answers. “However I had to.”
He smiles softly at her. “Thank you.”
In that moment, stretched just long enough that when he speaks again it almost startles her, she is just a woman and he is just a man.
“For now, let us hope either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the breach.”
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
As she approaches the Chantry to check on Felassan for the 15th time today, there’s a human soldier standing around looking lost. Anytime someone passes, they open their mouths to speak but get promptly ignored. Nissa frowns at the Chantry sister who passes them as she approaches the soldier. Their eyes light up as finally, someone acknowledges their presence.
“Excuse me, I’ve got a message for the Inquisition. But I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”
“They’re all so very busy, it seems. You can speak to me. What’s the message?” She doesn’t bother hiding the sarcasm; they don’t seem to know who she is, but if word spread that the Inquisition didn’t respect its visitors, it was all over before they’d even begun.
“We got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”
“And why did your commander send you all the way out here?”
“Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He thinks you’re doing good work.”
She rolls the decision around in her head for a moment. “I look forward to meeting your commander, then.”
“We’re the best you’ll find. Come to the Storm Coast and you can see us in action.”
Nissa waves down one of Leliana’s people and tasks them with getting the information she’ll need. The Storm Coast is in the opposite direction, and in a world without eluvians, that will add at least 2 more weeks onto her journey, pending weather and any other ill luck. Sighing, she pulls together her team, updating them on the new itinerary, and gets packing.
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
The Storm Coast is rather unfortunately aptly named.
When they meet up with Scout Harding, Nissa feels chilled to the bone. She’s envious of Fen’Harel’s ambient warming spell, the only thing between him and frostbitten toes; that kind of magic just isn’t in her wheelhouse. Even though she’s thankful that her oilskin cloak made it through all the chaos, as much water as it keeps off her clothes, it’s not as warm as it looks.
As soon as she’s gotten her report, they trudge down towards the beach to find Bull’s Chargers. Despite the roar of the rain in her ears, the chaos of battle echoes its way back to them. She gives Cassandra a sideways glance, glad to see her already sliding her blade free of its sheath.
By the time they reach the beach, the fight is in full swing. She swirls her stave around her head, flinging ambient lightning from the swirling clouds down into a Tevinter mage before he can throw another barrier up around his comrades. She’s careful to direct her attacks only towards the back; they are here to observe the Chargers in action, after all.
It takes almost no time at all for the battle to finish. A large Qunari, she presumes this is Iron Bull, calls out to his crew and starts organising the cleanup. Nissa heads over to him, waving the others away so she can speak privately with him. Introductions are made, banter exchanged easily enough, but he gets to the point quickly, which she appreciates.
“And there’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”
She thinks back over all the journals Felassan provided. Mentions of the Qunari and their politics were few. “No, I don’t believe I know the term.”
“It’s a Qunari order. They handle information, loyalty, security, all of it. Spies, basically. Or, well, we’re spies.”
Ah.
“The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”
“So you’re a spy for the Qun and you just…told me?”
“Whatever happened at that Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”
“You still could have hidden what you are.”
“From something called the Inquisition? I’d’ve been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me.”
She appraises him for a moment. If he truly was a spy, that complicated a lot of things. She and Fen’Harel weren’t exactly being forthcoming about themselves right now, nor was there any guarantee that others weren’t holding onto similar secrets.
“What would you be sending back home?”
“Enemy movements, suspicious activity, intriguing gossip. It’s a bit of everything. Enough to keep my superiors happy. Nothing that’ll compromise your operations. The Qunari want to know if they need to launch an invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart. You let me send word of what you’re doing, it’ll put some minds at ease. That’s good for everyone. If your spymaster is worth a damn, she’ll put ‘em to good use.”
“She?”
“I did a little research. Plus, I’ve always had a weakness for redheads.”
He shrugs casually, though she can see a small thread of tension in his shoulders.
“All right, you’re in. Though I’ll ask you not to do your spying on the higher profile members of the Inquisition. We need to be able to trust each other, and we’ve already got the position of shifty spy with a dark past covered, thanks.” She smirks, layering sarcasm over her threat.
Either he sees it for what it is, or he doesn’t. Regardless, they all head back towards camp. The Chargers came prepared with their own gear, thankfully, so it’s no problem to direct them to an area to set up so they can tackle a few errands while in the area.
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
Redcliffe is chaos.
By the time the rift is closed, she’s experienced the nauseating slide of time speeding up and slowing down her perception of the world by its own whims entirely too many times for her own comfort. How she keeps her stomach and its contents rooted in her body is anyone’s guess, with Varric retching heartily into a bush several feet to her left.
“That rift altered the flow of time around itself. That is… unexpected.”
Fen’Harel is astute as always.
Varric, who had finished fertilising the bush with his lunch, wiped his mouth. “I think we could have skipped these things getting weirder, don’t you?”
“We need to find out what caused…whatever this was. Maybe Fiona will know what’s going on.”
Nobody was expecting the Inquisition, which is alarming enough, and then an elven man approaches with news that some Tevinter Magister is now in charge. This cannot be a coincidence. Nissa huffs an annoyed sigh, and follows the elf to the Gull & Lantern.
It becomes clear rather quickly that Fiona doesn’t remember meeting them in Val Royeaux, which adds another layer of unease to the mystery. “Whoever… or whatever brought you here, the situation has changed. The free mages have already… pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”
It takes every bit of effort not to slap this shem woman. As it is, any response her companions may have given is halted when Nissa stands suddenly, using every inch of her height to tower over this woman.
“You’ve committed every mage in your care to slavery, is what you’re telling me,” she hisses out, poison disappointment dripping from every word, each aimed as a dart into whatever small dignity this woman was attempting to hold together.
Fiona doesn’t get a chance to respond before the door opens. Two men in the same robes as the Tevinter mercenaries on the Storm Coast enter. Nissa feels sparks of flame running along her fingers in warning.
“Welcome, my friends! I apologise for not greeting you earlier.”
“Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.”
The magister looks her over, and she has to fight the urge to fling something at him. Her fire is blazing hot in her palm. His gaze feels sticky and wrong against her skin. He’s assessing her, she knows, so she shrinks herself back into the timid elf persona she wore often.
Let him underestimate her. It will be the last thing he does.
“The southern mages are under my command. And you are the survivor, yes? The one from the fade? Interesting.”
His voice is a sharp and annoying facsimile of smooth disinterest. He’s entirely too curious about her Fadewalking for her comfort, but she has to get him to talk. She needs information, so she plays the stupid elf, asking questions and needling information from him like she did all those millennia ago, pulling answers from men who believed themselves greater and smarter than those around them. Ego’s too big for their own intelligence meant the downfall of their precious lives before, and they would again.
Naturally, he gave her all she needed and more, and if Fiona started to suspect foul play, all the better.
Nissa almost thinks him uncaring until his son stumbles into her, pressing a piece of parchment into her fingers. The Magister doesn’t seem to notice anyone after that, fussing over the young man and promptly ending their talks, leaving them all behind to attend to his supposed needs.
Curious, she reads the note.
Come to the Chantry, you are in danger.
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
They pick up one Dorian Pavus, who explains more about Alexius and his time magic, as well as informing them of the Venatori, a Tevinter cult void-bent on trying to get Nissa, though she supposes it’s probably her hand they really want. Now they’re seated back at camp, eating dinner by the fire. She listens to the conversation, saying little.
“Gotta admit, I wasn’t expecting to find so many Vints here.” Bull seems suspicious, which is fair considering what she knows of Tevinter vs. the Qun.
“I suggest we keep our eyes open. Our true enemy is not yet clear.” Fen’Harel chews a mouthful of stew, thoughtful for a moment. “Do we believe that both Alexius’s son and apprentice are turning on him? It seems someone wants to trap us either way.”
“Judging by the rifts here, I think Dorian was telling the truth, weird as that is.” Varric gestures with his spoon, brows furrowed.
“Damned ‘Vints. They can’t sneeze without stabbing each other in the back.”
The imagery brings a laugh from the group.