Chapter one: Rebirth of the Inquisition

Blood. The whole battlefield lay slathered with the crimson red life-giving liquid as it flowed in rivers from the countless bodies that lay scattered all around.

Sardothien lay panting heavily, large splatters of blood decorating his armour like crude war paint and dripping off his once immaculate katana. His body was covered in several cuts and injuries that quickly healed by themselves – all thanks to his regenerative blood.

But even with such a body function, it was not enough to prevent the 'Elf' from becoming more battle-worn as more of his similarly-armoured comrades and friends died at the hands of their enemies.

Frustration ran through Sardothien's head. He was at fault, he kept telling himself, at fault for leading his comrades into a trap that decimated their ranks despite his subordinates telling him time and again that it was not such.

But he could only continue to blame himself; his entire regiment had been decimated, the enemy stood triumphant, and now he was on his knees, unable to fight as he could only helplessly await the deathblow.

A hulking creature wearing crude, black armour had a twisted, gnarly smile on his face, standing victorious over his defeated enemy as a dragon flew overhead, its flesh and scales decaying as a result of the taint flowing throughout its body.

Sardothien heard the dragon roar loudly, before the creature raised its rusted blade and decapitated him in one fell swing.

IIOII

He awoke from his slumber with a gasp, not realising that he was sweating heavily until he touched his warm forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose to distract himself from the nightmare he had just dreamed off.

At first he thought he was in prison, shackled to the floor like a criminal to be tried and tested for his crimes, the rats nibbling at his flesh as he lay motionless while kneeling on the cold, stone floor.

Once he managed to fight the heaviness in his eyelids though, he could see that he was not in the same scenario his imagination plagued his mind about; instead, he was laying on a decently comfortable bed in a humble wooden shack, moderately decorated with fur pelts, shelves, all sorts of miscellanious items that one would find in a normal peasant's house.

He also noticed that he was no longer in the cold comfort of his masterfully crafted leather armour. In it's place was a somewhat tight but fitting white attire that was adorned with buttons of gold-

Something is not right here, Sardothien thought with suspiciousness as he looked at his new clothes, Who in their right minds would ever wear such clothes with buttons of real gold? I am not some aristocrat that's too self-centred for such a luxury as this, whoever was the fool to dress me as such.

Scowling to himself, he almost did not smell the terrified Elven woman who dropped a small box containing whatever she placed inside it, perhaps terrified of the sour expression she saw on his face.

"F-Forgive me, I did not know you were awake," She sputtered as she tried to find the right words to say.

Realising that she scared the poor little girl, he relaxed his expression and inhaled deeply to relax his mood a little.

"How long have I been out?" He asked, the Elven woman still terrified of him despite his change of expression.

In fact, she was so terrified, that she went so far as to drop on her knees in a kowtow position, completely avoiding eye contact as she kept her head low.

"I humbly ask for your forgiveness, for I am not worthy to be in your presense," She said respectfully, her voice slightly subdued but still loud enough for Sardothien to hear.

Now he was just more confused than ever. "What has exactly happened during my slumber?"

Still keeping her eyes away from him, she said, "You are currently respected as the Herald of Andraste, sent by divine intervention to save us from the demons of the fade and heal the hole in the sky. Many have been talking about how you managed to calm the breach using whatever magic Andraste bestowed on you, my Lord."

"You currently rest in Haven, the village that exists not far from where you last passed out."

So the breach was only calmed, but not sealed completely. Sardothien wished that it was just so much easier to close the hole in the sky and be done with all this nonsense, but he knew it was just his wishful thinking for it to ever happen.

Looking on his now bare left hand, a green mark glowing an emerald green still scarred his hand, though it did not randomly pulsate with fade energies and give him hot, piercing pain every now and then.

Honestly, he believed this was the work of Elven magic; no other mark would ever carry such a distinct magical aura, much less one that he had not felt since the fall of the ancient Elves, but since the majority believed in the faith the Chantry preached, he knew they would just look the other way and say it was bestowed by the prophetess in the fade.

"How long have I been out?" Sardothien asked.

Finally gathering her courage, she got up from her kneeling position and – to her relief – saw that the 'Herald' had adopted a much calmer expression, though she still struggled to find her tongue when trying her best to answer his questions.

"You have been out for three whole days, my Lord, and Cassandra and the others are expecting you at the local Chantry," She said as she began to near the door.

"They are expecting me, you say?" Sardothien inquired.

"Yes, my Lord, Lady Cassandra says that she wants to meet you at the Chantry once you've awoken. At once, she said!" The Elven girl said, before turning to leave the house.

"Before that, I must tell you that the rest of your belongings are inside that chest over there," She said as she pointed to a chest in a corner of the house.

Once the Elven girl had left, Sardothien immediately took off his clothes in an unrefined manner, not caring about any tears or marks he would have made in his pajamas, threw them aside and quickly put on his clothes that the girl – most likely – was kind enough to wash them for him.

A white kimono with a black lower half that stretched all the way to his ankles, a cerulean haori overcoat that matched the colour of his irises, and a grey cloth belt that held his katana in place. His footwear was a pair of intricately patterned leather boots he had crafted himself to handle walking in harsh climates.

He then proceeded to open the chest the Elven girl told him about, and found his favourite bow and a strangely shaped bottle-like container sealed by a cork tied to it by a thin, durable string.

The bow itself was unlike the bows other races crafted; slightly longer than an average longbow, it was crafted of enchanted mahogany that allowed the Elf to channel his power into whatever arrows were fired by it. A beautiful type of red mahogany, the lustre of the wood allowed it's glossyness to shine through in the light, dim as it was.

Now that his formal wear was complete, he proceeded to step outside the house, and found to his annoyance that a huge crowd had gathered outside his temporary lodge, with an honor guard saluting him as he exited the building.

His first instinct was to tell the people to go home, that he was no divine hero sent by the gods to aid them in their time of need and that their faith in him was unfounded, something the populace made up to escape from the fear gripping their hearts with icy cold fingers.

But at the same time, he did not want them to succumb to their fear and rejection of reality just so that the truth could be revealed to them, and as a result cause them to commit suicide and have more blood on his hand.

In the end, he decided to keep quiet about the thoughts raging in his head, and kept a straight face and walked onwards to the Chantry – he was thankful that the crowds made a pathway for him.

The Chantry itself was no more than a stone chapel, the only building in the whole area that was bigger than all the houses in the remote mountain village. As the sunlight bathed the whole building, it gave an illusion that the stones were bricks of silver, polished to show their enduring grandeur in the gleaming golden light of the day.

As Sardothien pushed open the large wooden doors leading inside, soldiers made way for him to pass through, saluting him with fists across their chests out of respect in the process.

When he neared the room at the back of the chapel, he could hear the familiar voice of Chancellor Roderick howling his displeasure at two other women inside a smaller room, their constant bickering beginning to annoy the Elf as he neared the small, inconspicuous wooden door that led inside.

He could not understand what was with Roderick, him and his persistent requests for the culprit he believed to be Sardothien himself, to be chained as a prisoner and be sent to his execution immediately. Either he was carrying a greviance, or he was just plain biased against him since he looked like an Elf, and he was more inclined to believe it was the latter.

He was not surprised; afterall, it had become the continent's status quo to blame Elves and mages just because they were themselves and could never be accepted as equals amongst Andrastian society.

Pushing open the door, he saw Cassandra and Leliana predictably arguing with Roderick about the issue at hand, since the breach had not been fully sealed yet.

"...you really think the prisoner is not at fault, Cassandra!?" Roderick hotly spat at the Nevarran woman before him, his face red with anger.

"The prisoner was not responsible for opening the breach, Chancellor, and I will not rest until the true culprit has been caught and punished," Cassandra retorted, unflinching from her stance.

"Oh really?" Roderick said, "And you're saying the prisoner's appearance was a mere coincidence?"

Cassandra turned to face the two soldiers standing guard at the entrance to the room, and said, "Disregard that, and leave us."

With a curt salute, the two guards turned and left the room, leaving Roderick and Sardothien alone with the others inside.

"And I believe it was providence," Cassandra firmly stated, "The Maker sent him to us in our time of need."

"Now there is the matter of finding the culprit," Leliana stated, her expression becoming serious, throwing an accusing glare at the Chancellor, "Whoever executed the whole thing was not someone from the outside, so it had to be someone inside the Divine's inner circle."

Roderick was taken aback by the accusation against him, and said in utter disbelief, "I am a suspect?"

"You, Chancellor Roderick, and many others," Leliana spat, leaving the Chancellor fuming with indignance as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Do you see this?" Cassandra said as she held up a thick book bound in hard leather, the symbol of an eye surrounded by sunburst flames, "A writ, from the Divine herself, granting us the authority to act."

"As of this moment, I hereby declare the Inquisition reborn."

The ultimatum had left Roderick shocked. Left with no other choice, since Cassandra and Leliana had the late Divine's permission to conduct such a course of action, he could only leave through the only entrance to the room, leaving Sardothien alone with the others inside.

"Sorry that you had to watch what happened just now," Cassandra apologized as she composed herself.

"Do not mention it," Sardothien reassured. "Though I wonder why do we need to revive the long-dead Inquisition for times such as this, as I question taking such a course of action."

From what the Elf had read about the Inquisition, it was created by a group of Andrastians who felt it was their duty to protect the people of the world from the dangers that would endanger its safety.

Basically they 'protect' the world from various things that simply did not fit with the their way of thinking; anyone they found guilty of practicing anti-Andrastian things such as helping apostate mages – mages who ran away from a Circle – and practicing blood magic freely without restraint.

Blood magic, the forbidden magic that had harmed many a life, both draconian and mortal. He shuddered at the thought of it, as draconians who dabbled in blood magic ended up losing their connection to the sacred waters of the goddess, and what made them honourable warriors.

However, it was also a double-edged sword to those who used it in combat; the nature of the magic itself turned the caster into living bait, attracting demons like moths to the flame.

Such magi were labeled maleficarum by the Chantry, because they preach that blood magic was evil, something that was to be eradicated from existense at all times. Personally, he did not find it evil, but it was certainly not magic to be trifled with, despite the apparent ease mortals had at mastering it.

However, the Inquisition was little better than the Chantry as of now, as there had been rumours and surviving ancient historical texts that detailed the brutallity and cruelty of the actions the Inquisition had done during its existense, which was why Sardothien questioned the feasibility of rebuilding the infamous organisation.

"We have no other choice," Leliana stated, "We must act as of now, or the breach will never be sealed. The Divine's murderer can wait."

Sardothien sighed; sometimes he hated how mortal humans could be so stubborn and adamant in their decisions, be it half-hearted or fully devoted.

"Then I believe we have a declaration to make, don't we?"

IIOII

Within minutes, Leliana and Cassandra stood outside the Chantry with Sardothien in tow, appearing to the people of Haven as the soldiers unfurled the black banner decorated by the insignia of a sunburst eye, the old banner of the Inquisition.

And as the large banner had become visible for all to see, just below it, a man was busy hammering a nail securing the declaration of the Inquisition's rebirth on the doors of the Chantry, angering more than a few Chantry clerics who saw it as a threat to their positions of power in the Chantry's hierarchy.

Among them was a certain Chancellor Roderick, and though he was not concerned about his position of power since only women could ascend higher in the Chantry's ranks, he was still frustrated nonetheless with the course of action that the Hands of the Divine have taken, and walked away like the rest of the clerics.

For the people of Haven, they were still unsure of the Inquisition, but they believed that with the herald as its Inquisitor and the Hands of the Divine as his advisors, he would surely deliver them from the chaos that was beginning to grip the continent of Thedas, and so they cheered for them and the Inquisition, the soldiers pledging their support as well.

Once the declaration had been made to the people, and to the rest of the continent, Sardothien made his way back inside the Chantry with Cassandra and Leliana in tow, finding that a man he recognised as Cullen and an unfamiliar woman were waiting for them inside the war room.

"Now that we have reestablished the Inquisition, allow me to introduce to you our different advisors," Cassandra said as she closed the door.

"This is Cullen Rutherford, whom you've already met earlier, and he is current acting commander of the Inquisition's forces," She pointed to the same blonde-haired man wearing the same pelt of fur on his shoulders.

"It is a pleasure to meet you again, Inquisitor," Cullen nodded at Sardothien.

"And this is our ambassador, Josephine Montiliyet of Antiva," Cassandra pointed to a dark-skinned woman.

Josephine herself did not seem harmless, but something about her put Sardothien on edge, causing the Elf to subtly place his hand on his sword's hilt out of caution while keeping a straight face.

Everything about her concealed her true nature; a golden encrusted frilly dress, chocolate-coloured eyes constantly glued to her clipboard with her right hand delicately, yet vigorously writing on the paper, though her eyes were on Sardothien right now, curly, long hair tied into an elegant bun, she looked every part the harmless ambassador going about her daily activities.

"Andaran atish'an," Josephine greeted with a smile, giving a polite, dainty bow.

Sardothien raised an eyebrow at her words. "You speak Elven."

The Antivan giggled slightly, "You have heard all I know about the language though."

Clapping his hands, Sardothien spoke, "Now that we have taken care of the introductions, shall we go back to the crisis at hand? Mainly regarding the mark on my hand."

"Actually, what are you wearing?" Cullen inquired with a confused look in his face.

Sardothien palmed his face upon hearing the question; he had completely forgotten that he changed out of his armour into his travel wear, which made him stick out like a sore thumb in all of Thedosian society.

"Forget about what I am wearing for now, what is our current situation?" Sardothien said, trying to change the topic.

Leliana looked reluctant to spill out the details, but nonetheless said, "It is no good. We are lacking everything the Inquisition needs to stand on its own two feet; lack of manpower, no sustainable funding, and now no Chantry support."

"To make matters worse," Cassandra interjected, "The mage-templar war has begun to worsen the situation in Ferelden, where we are currently located. Even now, fanatical templars and mages fight each other at even the most remote places in the country, causing much suffering to the local populace."

Sardothien looked thoughtful as he digested the information given to him, then asked, "How many can we recruit from Haven at most?"

Cullen sighed heavily, as if the cure was worse than the cause.

"Only a few dozen at most, not counting the number of women who may volunteer."

This had thrown a wrench in the Inquisition's plans, as Sardothien was not expecting their predictament to be so worrysome, that they would have to eventually start begging other powers for support to keep themselves afloat.

"There is a glimmer of hope for the Inquisition, however," Josephine suggested, bringing all eyes on her, "We have just received a letter from a Chantry mother who is requesting aid in the Hinterlands not far from here."

Josephine put down her clipboard and quill, and took out a rolled piece of ragged parchment sealed with a sunburst symbol, with what looked like an arrowhead beneath it. Breaking the seal, she unrolled its contents for all to see.

"She says that the fighting has begun to worsen, and that the Ferelden military is stretched thin trying to keep the peace in the various villages and town centres. If we do not respond soon, we may lose what modicrum of support we may get," Josephine stated all-too seriously.

Peering over the map, he could see the country of Ferelden being marked by a golden yellow territory, while Orlais a light sky blue, with the tiny black dot of the Inquisition being a mere insect compared to the gigantic hives of the two powers.

Near their marked area, a small red cross was marked, indicating the location of the Chantry mother that had requested their aid.

Looking up from the map, he asked Leliana, "Do we have an able scouting party?"

The Orlesian nodded, "We have a scouting team skilled in marksmanship; they could scout the area and clear the way for the rest of our forces to entrench themselves in the region."

The Elven warrior nodded, then ordered, "Dispatch that scouting party to the region; I will take our current companions and inspect the damage done myself."

"Consider it done."

IIOII

The Hinterlands were a relatively peaceful region, untroubled by the turmoils of war that would have destroyed it's otherwise beautiful landscape.

Tall, sturdy trees that looked like a rough pallisade of nature in the distance, large, imposing mountains that contained treasure troves of all sorts of ores and minerals, it was the most resource-rich region in the entire country that ensured its continued prosperity even when Orlais cut its trading ties with the Alamarri country.

In the past, the country had been ravaged by the Fifth Blight, the hideous taint contaminating mother nature until her condition seemed incurable. The once great forests that housed several species of wildlife withered and died under the pestilence's iron grip, the ground became parched and infertile; it was something that would not go away even with the Archdemon Urthemiel's death.

With the advent of Sebastian Sardothien, however, the country had healed all of its wounds that it suffered during the blight, and had undergone an industrial revolution at an unprecedented pace never foreseen by any seer, somniari, or scholar in the whole continent's history.

Huge, automated furnaces churned out large shipments of steel everyday, allowing hundreds of soldiers to be armed with suitable armor and weapons that were forged by the large guilds of blacksmiths based in Denerim and other fiefdoms.

And through the increased production of steel, Ferelden was able to produce the first ever ironclad ships to ever exist in the whole of Thedas; covered in thick steel plating and equipped with the newly-invented Biofuel Steam Engine, they were near impervious to hails of arrows fired by archers and because it was made completely of metal, they could last much longer than wooden ships which had to be disposed of due to heavy waterlogging of the wooden structure.

That prosperity did not last long, however, because as soon as the mage-templar war erupted, it spread to both Ferelden and Orlais, and to other kingsoma in the free marches; the few templars and mage Circles who did not want to be involved in the conflict were targeted and slaughtered by their former comrades, and the chaos it caused stretched peacekeeping armies to their limits.

Not far from a humble village that dealt in no more than simple trading, mages and templars began charging each other, steel cutting through flesh as magic penetrated enchanted armor.

Though mages were no match for the zealous warriors clad in steel in close combat, that did not mean the templars did not suffer losses of their own from the mages' magic; fire and lightning roasting them inside their armour, ice shards and stonefists pierced metal armor.

There seemed to be no end to the war, as old tensions and hatreds ran deep and Andrastian teachings began to conflict with beliefs based on realism.

Near a certain village, where a Chantry mother was busy tending to the wounded soldiers tasked with defending the village, a group of templars were attacking another group of mages while under a hail of ice spikes and fireballs being cast in their direction, losing as many as two men to a couple of spells.

The fanatical mages tried their best to prevent the templars from getting too close, but the zealous warriors were resistant to their magic, if not completely, and began being cut down by tempered steel swords converging on their position.

Out of the blue, however, one of the templars died as an arrow impaled his unprotected neck, his cut artery making him choke on large amounts of blood as he sank to the ground. Soon afterward both his friends and commrades and enemies suffered the same fate, arrows finding their marks as their armor and spells failed to protect them.

Not far from where they fought, a female Dwarven scout smiled in grim satisfaction as she and the scouts under her command had fufilled their objective. Writing a small note, she enclosed it in a rudimentary string knot and tied it to the foot of a raven, sending it back from where it came.

As the messenger raven flew, the same Chantry mother tending to the wounded saw the raven fly in the sky, wondering what omens would occur in the future.

IIOII

Sardothien and his chosen companions, Solas, Varric and Cassandra, trekked through the countryside as they made their way to the foward camp that this Scout Harding and those under her command had established in preparation for the Inquisitor's arrival.

As Sardothien examined his surroundings, he could feel an unnaturally high concentration of mana in the air-no, not just the air, but the soil, vegetation and even the distant ponds and rivers contained at least some modicrum of mana in them, which made the land especially fertile.

This was especially alarming, but it was also the main reason why the putrid stench of the darkspawn taint was lacking, as if it had never tainted the pristine landscape in the first place; magic was used to purify the land of all the corruption it had suffered. Dragonkin magic, to be more specific.

If one of his kind was acutally responsible for curing the land of it's disease after the Fifth Blight had ended...

Emotions began to rage and mix within him. One side of him felt excitement and joy in reuniting with one of his few kinsmen, while another felt uncertainty and doubt about whether he or she would actually accept him and his failure to protect his former comrades in battling the darkspawn.

The stench of crimson blood coating his body like war paint assaulting his senses, the corpses of his fallen kin littering the battlefield like freshly butchered carcasses...

"...are you okay?"

Sardothien shook his head to forget his nightmare, seeing a female Dwarf standing in front of him below his head looking at him out of concern.

She looked fairly young, perhaps in her late teenage years; a pockmarked face bearing dark brown orbs for eyes, chestnut hair tied in a short ponytail that barely extended out of her head. Wearing the standard light armor that allowed greater mobility, she had an oak shortbow slung across her chest that indicated she was a marksman.

"I will be fine," Sardothien reluctantly answered, then asked, "What is your name?"

The Dwarf saluted him as he asked, "Scout Harding, leading the Inquisition's scout teams, Inquisitor. I'll admit, I wasn't expecting an Elf to be the Herald of Andraste of all people."

The 'Elf' sighed at the last part; he was thankful that Harding had distracted him from his nightmare, or he would be stuck reliving the horror for all eternity.

"How is our position?" He asked, his voice becoming more serious and professional.

"For now, some other scouts have managed to draw much of the fighting away from the village where the Chantry mother Giselle is tending to the villagers, but the village itself is far from safe unless we establish a real presense in the region," Harding reported.

"How far is the village?"

"It isn't far, but there is a small band of rouge templars blocking the way there, so be cautious of y-"

A loud sound reminiscent of raging thunder rang through the air, interrupting Harding as she was halfway through her report and drawing their attention to where the sound came from.

"That came from the nearby village!" Cassandra shouted, drawing her weapons in alarm, "We have to go now!"

As Varric and Solas did the same with their weapons, Sardothien charged ahead with the rest od his companions following behind him, but not before asking Harding one more question.

"Who was exactly responsible for healing this land?"

To that, Harding simply replied, "Sebastian Sardothien, the current Arl of Redcliffe."

Upon hearing that name, he was more confused than ever, despite not showing any trace of it; not only was his surviving fellow Dragonkin a member of Ferleden nobility, he was also a member of his family, carrying the same family name as he did.

Deciding to think about it later, he nodded his thanks and dashed off into the distance, leaving a confused Scout Harding as she wondered about the Inquisitor's strange behaviour.

IIOII

As soon as the group had reached a few inches from the templar band Harding told them about, some of the templar archers began firing arrows at their direction, uncaring of what their intentions were.

Seeing that they were beyond reason, Sardothien drew his bow and fired two arrows he had taken earlier from the Inquisition's smithy with pinpoint accuracy, making the templars' armor useless since the arrows found their mark.

Dropping like flies, they were too focused on Sardothien to notice that Varric and Solas had already contributed to the barrage with magic and bolt, further worsening their predictament.

Cassandra herself did not let the others outshine her, and skillfully blocked the continuous assaults of a few templars trying to surround her, years of practice turning her sword skills into a fine art.

Solas had conjured a fire rune beneath two more templars that tried to attack Cassandra from behind, the unbearable heat making short work of them as they were burned inside their armor, while Varric picked off any archers trying to score hits.

Within moments, the band of templars were taken care off, leaving the route to the nearby Hinterlands village wide open.

Wasting no time, Sardothien and the others quickly rushed towards the village where several mages were fighting templars, but at the same time also fighting soldiers clad in black wielding what he recognised as ancient Elven magic, but also strange long tubes of metal that made loud noises reminiscent of minature explosions that made short work of the steel armor of the templars.

One of those soldiers using the strange weapons and Elven magic was hoisting a banner of a white dragon in a background of pitch-black, a banner Sardothien had not seen before he had left Ferelden over ten years ago, and their right sleeves always had both light blue and dark blue stripes.

The tube-wielding soldiers were currently taking cover from the rouge mages' magic in a spherical barrier conjured by an Elven mage wearing plated armor, one hand glowing an emerald green as his comrades tried their best to hold off the relentless assault, the other holding an enormous battlehammer that seemed too heavy for him to carry, yet he did so like it was lighter than a feather.

They were too focused to notice the white-haired warrior that had teleported behind them in a flash, his companions not knowing where he disappeared to until he lopped off the heads of two mages in one swing of his sword.

At the same time, Varric had scored two headshots with his beloved crossbow, Bianca, killing two templars as Cassandra stromed their position, ramming her shield into yet another unfortunate templar.

Having gained a moment's reprive, the unknown soldiers regained their bearings and aided their new, unknown allies in eliminating the last of rouge templars and mages, hollow capsules of metal being ejected from the tube-like weapons every second.

They had won. The Inquisition had scored its first victory; a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

The soldiers clad in black did not cheer, however, as they immediately moved to take positions around the village to avoid being caught off guard by another attack, whilst the Elven mage immediately moved to help a Chantry mother tend to the wounded, his hand flaring with magic as he began healing their injuries.

One of them, an Elven soldier lacking vallaslin which made him a City Elf, asked Sardothien, "Are you the Herald of Andraste?"

The 'Elf' nodded, "I am."

After hearing his answer, the soldier then took out a letter and passed it to the Inquisitor, the wax seal bearing the same insignia of a flying dragon.

"It is from the Arl of Redcliffe himself," The soldier stated, "For your eyes only."

As Sardothien pondered about the letter in his hands, the Elven soldier already dashed off to his post, leaving the Inquisitor wondering about what interest the Arl of Redcliffe had in him.

"Inquisitor," Solas called to him, making him decide not to hide the letter, "There is something I need to talk with you about."

Just then, Cassandra approached them, saying, "The area is safe for now, but we had better not take any chances."

Sardothien nodded, then quietly whispered into Solas' ear, "We will talk later," before going to the centremost part of the village to plant the Inquisition's banner in the area, marking the village as under the protection of the Inquisition.

A few hours afterward, more Inquisition soldiers had arrived to reinforce the village the Redcliffe soldiers had trouble trying to hold, with one of them putting up a notice the area was under protection of the Inquisition.

Sardothien could see that the Inquisition's manpower was insufficient to cover the entire country, but he was confident that by winning the people's trust with actions rather than words, more and more fresh recruits would flood to the Inquisition and be the panacea to their manpower shortage.

Although the Redcliffe soldiers stayed edgy around the Inquisition soldiers, they had no problem in allowing them to fortify their presense in the area, but their no-trust attitude towards the Inquisition could be a huge problem in winning the populace's trust in them.

He could also notice, however, that most of the soldiers and villagers were actually Elven, with fewer humans than he expected in the region; perhaps the local population was mostly Elven while other cities in Ferelden were predominantly Human?

That assumption was ruled out, when he saw the few humans who did live in the village immediately give the Elven soldiers – to both those from Redcliffe and those in the Inquisition – both medical and food aid without discrimination.

Such an act of kindness was something no Andrastian would do, given their unreasonable hatred of Elves and mages that was nuturted by the corrupt teachings of the Chantry.

As he explored the village, he saw a wounded Human soldier react badly to another mage trying to heal his injuries, while a slightly aged Chantry mother's ministrations were all that kept him from expiring.

Her cleric uniform was slightly different from what Chantry mothers normally wore; instead of the crimson red accompanying the predominant white, in it's place was a forest green. Her facial features consisted of a slightly tan skin tone, a protruding chin and earth brown eyes, her expression conveying a motherly care.

"Don't let them touch me, mother. Their magic..." The soldier begged, unwilling to relax in his cot.

"Turned to good purpose," The Chantry mother soothed in a gentle tone, "Their magic is surely no more evil than your blade."

"But.." The soldier began to protest, but was stopped by the mother's comforting voice.

"Hush, child. Let them tend to your wounds."

Reluctantly, the soldier lay down and relaxed, allowing the mage tending to him earlier to do his job.

Getting up from where she knelt beside the soldier, she could see the Inquisitior approaching him from nearby.

"I believe you are mother Giselle?" Sardothien inquired.

"Yes, and you must be the famed Herald of Andraste," Giselle bowed respectfully, her voice carrying a heavy Orlesian accent, "You have a very strange accent, I must say."

"It seems that my fame has already spread faster than the eye could blink," Sardothien commented, making the letter in his hand disappear in a sea of flames without Giselle's knowing.

"So I hear that the Orlesian Chantry has withdrawn its support for the Inquisition, yes?" Mother Giselle asked, to which the Inquisitor nodded, "Then I have to tell you that they are condemming the Inquisition in the Maker's name."

"They see the organisation as a threat to their power and influence throughout Thedas, and so they hope that with their unified voice, they would manipulate the populace to rejecting the Inquisition, and by extension the Ferelden Chantry."

"And you are telling me because?" Sardothien inquired, narrowing his eyes at the cleric.

A Dalish Elf came behind Mother Giselle and passed her an intricately folded piece of paper that was mysteriously clean and unwrinkled, completely white and not a sickly sandy yellow, to which Giselle nodded her thanks.

"I will put it to you this way," Giselle stated with an expression that brokked no nonsense, "You do not need to completely change their beliefs about you. You just need some of them to doubt."

Sardothien did not know what were her intentions about revealing so much information to him about the Orlesian Chantry's actions, nor did he know whether she was acting under orders or simply telling them by her own obligations.

What he did know, however, that in this time and age, the Chantry usually had the say in many political affairs and had the inherent trust of the huge majority of the population, so if they wanted to condemn the Inquisition, naturally the populace would follow suit, which would throw a wrench in their plans for sealing the breach.

On the other hand, she mentioned that the Orlesian Chantry wanted to do the same thing to the Ferelden Chantry, meaning that the Orlesian clerics may go so far as to excommunicate it and perhaps declare an exalted march against Ferelden in the process.

Not to mention that he had just received a letter from Sebastian Sardothien, the Arl of Redcliffe himself, which was strictly meant for his eyes only.

"Is doubt simply all we need to combat their attempt at excommincating us?" The Inquisitor asked, unsure of the feasibility of such a thought.

"Their power lies only in their united voice," Giselle explained, "Take that from them, and they can no longer act against you."

A nearby bush rustled, Sardothien's sensitive ears noticing it milliseconds earlier than mother Giselle did, and quickly shot an arrow in the direction of the bush, causing a pained scream to echo as a spy in leather armor tried to escape with an arrow lodged in the back of his knee.

Sardothien grabbed the scout by his collar and demanded, "Who sent you?"

The spy simply spat blood in his face and replied defiantly, "I will never tell!"

Having become fed up with his stubborness, he held his face in an iron grip with his right hand, his markings glowing a bright blue along with his eyes.

"I demand to know who sent you to spy on us!" Sardothien repeated his earlier question, his voice becoming far deeper and more powerful.

The spy felt pain attacking his mind like there was no tomorrow; hot white pain flooded his senses, resembling thousands of daggers piercing his body and burning it at the same time.

In an instant, his mental defenses were overwhelmed, and his mouth moved without conscious effort.

"T-The Orlesian Chantry, the revered mothers tasked me to find ways to sabotage... Ferelden's unity between the Elves and Humans..." He struggled not to say out of his mouth.

"And for what!?" Sardothien demanded once more, not satisfied with the halfassed answer he received.

"To... To prevent the Inquisition from establishing its presense... in the region."

Having received his answer, he kneed the spy hard in the face, breaking his nose with an audible crunch and knocking him unconscious, his markings' glow fading until it was nonexistent.

He turned around to head back to the village, only to find his other companions staring in shock, Cassandra gripping the hilt of her sword tightly in grim anticipation.

"W-What was that?" Cassandra demanded, "What magic was that?"

"Uhh, don't mean to be intrusive, but I don't think I've seen anyone other than the Dragonkin cast that sort of ma-"

Sardothien suddenly grabbed Varric by his collar faster than their eyes could follow, his cerulean orbs changing to a golden amber focusing a soul-piercing gaze that terrified the Dwarf to his core.

"Where did you find out about the Dragonkin?" He demanded, abandoning all reasoning.

"H-Hold on, let me explain.." Varric said, trying to diffuse the situation he was in.

Still maintaining an impatient demeanour, Sardothien lifted Varric until he was at face level with him, his patience stretching thin by the minute.

"Exactly how did you manage to come across a Dragonkin, Varric-san?" He questioned, keeping a firm grip on the Dwarf while he had the other hand on his sheathed sword.

Clearing his throat with a brief cough, Varric said, "Believe me when I say this: Only Ferelden and Kirkwall, along with some of the Dalish clans ever know about the Dragonkin's existense, and the first one they knew about?"

"Let me guess, the one who shares the same family name with mine, Sebastian Sardothien."

Varric nodded, then felt himself landing on the ground with a hard thump, the Inquisitor releasing him from his iron grip on his collar.

He took out the bottle-like container strapped to his waist, and in big gulps, emptied it's contents down his throat, some of it actually spilling through his lips and flowing down his throat.

As he finished drinking from his strangely shaped container, he seemed much calmer than before, looking apologetic to his dwarven companion.

"Sorry for my earlier outburst," Sardothien apologised as he sealed his strange container, "It's just that the Dragonkin are sworn to keeping their presense a secret to the rest of the mortals of the world."

"Well, they aren't so secretive, now that one of them is Ferelden nobility," Varric drawled, wiping the dust from his revealing coat.

If looks could kill, Cassandra would surely have made short work of the Dwarf as she directed a killer glare at Varric, Solas trying to maintain peace between the two with little effect.

"Why didn't you tell me he was not even Elven in the first place?" The Nevarran demanded, keeping the tip of her sword in contact with Varric's bare neck.

"I ask that you remain calm, Cassandra," Solas said as he tried to diffuse the tension between the two, "Even I did not know he was not what he looked to be."

"But it is almost idiotic!" Cassandra retorted, "To think that our Herald was a Dragon in disguise... if the Orlesian Chantry were to hear of it-"

Her rant was cut short, as Sardothien drew his blade at godly speed, cutting Cassandra's sword completely in half as the tip flew off the rest of it's body and landed unceremoniously in the grassy ground.

A stunned Cassandra could only gape in astonishment, her body frozen stiff at witnessing the unnaturally fast speed at which the Inquisitor had broken her blade, and he did so cleanly that the part at which the other half was cut off was as smooth as a polished stone, without even scratching his sword in the process.

"That is enough, Cassandra-dono," Sardothien ordered as he resheathed his sword, "I will explain everything back at Haven, so cease your childish behaviour."

It was an insult to the Seeker, calling her childish in front of the other companions, but without delay, she threw her sword away and headed to the village's smithy to get a new one.

"Was that really necessary, calling the Seeker a child?" Solas asked, coming up to Sardothien's side.

"For once, I have to agree with Chuckles," Varric said, referring to Solas as he pointed a finger in his direction.

"I just hope she does not act too rashly, for her sake," Sardothien said, taking another gulp of the liquid in his gourd.

IIOII

After Cassandra had gotten a new sword from the village blacksmith, the party had set out to find the hideouts of the rouge templars and mages based in Ferelden, intent on rooting out their presense in the countryside.

With the help of some scout reports from the troops they had assisted earlier, they had managed to pin down both hideouts and a few other camps that were constantly harrasing Ferelden patrols and other remote villages where military presense was near nonexistent.

Accompanying them was the Elven mage who they had saved earlier, a Dalish arcane warrior by the name of Carith Sabrae, whose clan was currently ruling the fortress of Ostagar overlooking the Kocari wilds.

Long, golden blonde hair draping over his shoulders with a briad crowning his head, sapphire blue vallaslin covering the fair, beige skin of his forehead, piercing emerald eyes carrying a fire in them, it would be hard to tell that he was at the age of thirty-eight years, his looks being very deceiving.

Wearing intricately crafted plate armor forged by the best Elven blacksmiths, they were a shining golden colour with patches of forest green on the breastplate and gauntlets bearing enchantments that strengthened it's durability and lightened it's weight, with the left pauldron shaped like the head of a dragon with the lower jaw absent.

Trekking through the countryside, they came across yet another mage camp that was foolish enough to attack them, Carith's barrier an iron wall that deflected their inferior magic like water on a rock.

Sardothien had to applaud whoever managed to revive the long lost art of the Arcane Warrior; it was a pinnacle of magical innovation, even in the eyes of the Dragonkin. It was such a pity it was lost to the sands of time until now.

Those Circle mages who tried to recreate a very weak, very rudimentary version of the lost art, who called themselves knight enchanters were doing no more than simply copying the bare basics, never refining the art to a point that they were truly masters of the magic in both name and action.

He nearly pitied the mages who rebelled against the Chantry, as they were simply fighting for their right to live not as caged animals, but as mortal beings like any others, but they degraded from honourable rebels to murderous, rampaging animals in less than a year, which gave the Chantry reason to condemn them, from a logical standpoint.

Cleaving another mage in half across his waist, he felt nothing but contempt and pity for the mages he and his party were hunting down. Contempt for their quick abandonment of upholding their original honourable values, and pity for their harsh treatment under the Chantry's dictatorship.

Wiping his blood-stained blade with a white cloth, he threw it to the floor without a second thought about whether he could wash it clean or not, not noticing that a trembling soldier had picked up the cloth with shaky hands.

Only a miniscule amount of blood stained his breastplate, but his behaviour clearly showed that he was not used to seeing other Humans die so unnaturally before his very eyes, though he did not panic as much as he thought; death was not uncommonly seen in Thedas, afterall.

"Is it your first time killing someone?" Sardothien asked the soldier.

As he did not hear the Inquisitor's footsteps get louder as he neared him, he jumped in surprise like a mouse would upon encountering it's predator, dropping the blood-stained cloth in his hands.

"Y-Yes, Inquisitor," The soldier stammered, embarrased by his show of inappropriate behaviour.

Not caring about his earlier behaviour, he picked up the blood-stained cloth and stared at it as if the cloth was a momento of the past.

"In war, there is no such thing as a bloodless battle for either side," Sardothien explained as he handed it back to the soldier, "Every soldier is fated to kill at least one of his enemies before either surviving or dying, but to retreat out of fear for staining his hands in blood, is the most shameful thing for a soldier to do in battle."

"Remember those words, soldier, as you sally forth to battle."

Leaving the soldier alone with the red-stained cloth in his hands, he began searching the bodies for notes or other things of interest, eventually finding a blood-stained piece of parchment in one of the dead mages' pockets.

Unrolling the parchment, he could make out what seemed to be propoganda that the mages were feeding themselves and their potential recruits with, since the blood stains did not muddle the words that much.

The time of being subservient under the Chantry's rule is long over! I ask all like-minded mages, brandish your magic against the Chantry and templars that dare take away your right to live! The time has come for the mages to rise and rule over our former captors like kings and queens!

Throwing away the twisted propoganda in disgust, he promptly ordered his companions and the band of soldiers following them to leave behind the bodies and continue on their journey through the grassy plains.

During their journey to find the mage stronghold they had uncovered through looting a map from a rouge mage band who was foolish enough to stand in their way, giving them a more direct route to the caves they were hiding in, but it was also fraught with danger, mainly in the form of more mage patrols and bandits blocking their way like it was their business.

As they cut down the mages and bandits mercilessly, they came upon another village beseiged by rouge templars, despite the village having no mages within its premises.

Dashing foward to the village with his companions, he cut down the zealous warriors with unrestrained fury.

The templars were initially surprised by the ambush on their ranks by the Inquisitor, but that eventually changed into religiously fueled anger and fury at their enemy, the notion of fear absent from their minds.

"Kill the knife-ear! His kind is heretical before-"

Sardothien cut off the head of the templar who blurted out the blasphemy – in his ears – cleanly with one fell swoop, the other templars beginning to cower and retreat.

Their retreat was cut short however, as furry humanoids ambushed them at the edge of the village from the nearby forest, tearing them to shreds with their sharp fangs and animalistic savagery.

Their movements, however, were not as random and unorganised as mere animals as others would think. They were far too organised, far too well equipped, as evidenced by the armor they were wearing; it was well forged, even to the inexperienced eye, the only damage sustained being no more than a few scratches.

Among them was a young human man, fiery orange hair in a short, messy mop contrasting heavily with his sapphire eyes. Wearing a light purple sleeves less cloth vest with no armor whatsoever, he only had a katana – the same type that Sardothien was wielding, and leather boots and leggings which could hardly protect him from a steel sword.

And yet, the humanoids Sardothien could now see were werewolves, deferred to him as their leader and even addressed him as royalty, but he was the type of royalty that felt more at home in the battlefield rather than indulge in the great game of politics.

His hair seemed rather off, for a normal human; it was glowing, literally glowing the colour of flames that never extinguished. His radiating aura was something he had never encountered in a long time..

A time bygone from the annals of history, one that Sardothien was born afterward.

Could it be...? Sardothien thought as the Human man approached him, putting him on guard as he prepared to draw his blade.

He neared the Inquisitor, coming far too close to even avoid his blade by dodging.

Out of instinct, he drew his katana faster than his companion's eyes could follow, intent on cleaving his opp-

A clang of metal on metal followed afterward, leaving a shocked Sardothien gripping his blade tightly.

Both of their blades were shaking heavily, each trying to push the other away through sheer force as they gritted their teeth.

Eventually, the standoff was abruptly ended with the Human's sword casting a wave of fire in the Inquisitor's direction, forcing Sardothien to withdraw his blade in order to cut the flames in half, but not without expending quite a bit of strength to do so.

"Impressive," Sardothien complimented the Human man, "I have not seen such skill and magic in a long time."

"And I was not expecting to see yet another Dragonkin being the famed 'Herald of Andraste'," The Human replied in a thick Ferelden accent.

Both sheathed their swords out of mutual respect, allowing the werewolves and companions who were tense earlier to relax.

Extending a hand, the Human said, "I'm Oren Cousland, successor to Teryn Fergus Cousland of Highever, of Ferelden. What's your name?"

A/N: This is the last chapter I can squeeze out before the beginning of my hiatus, so I thank all those who followed my stories, and I will see you in over three weeks time.