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Plugging the Sky-Hole Rubbish	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 41 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age Inquisition or any of its related characters or devices I'm not making any money from this.

Chapter List
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Last chapter, we had a brief snapshot of the future in store. This chapter marks the beginning of everything. Get some popcorn! Heads-up for some canon-typical gore this chapter.
Music: Steeleye Span "Seven Hundred Elves," Celtic Thunder "Galway Girl" and "Ride On"
2: Simeon...and Somebody Else?
Two months after the Conclave
Félice Hafter, if she was anything, was aware of How Things Work.
Her childhood began in Crestwood before the Blight. After losing her parents to the subsequent flood, she relocated to the Hinterlands with her grandparents. They passed several more years west of Redcliffe before the fall of the circles unleashed unholy hell across the entirety of southern Thedas. The skirmishes between the mages and templars drove the remaining Hafters from their home again, starting with the death of her grandmother.
Those disasters taught Félice that patterns of events were like an unhitched wagon parked on a steep hill; without sufficient opposing force applied to the fore or hind, everything fell apart in due time. After days of nothing but hellish shrieks, growls, and various other foul noises in the cavern beyond the cave, the pattern suggested she should expect more of the same. Félice was sure of it before: she would die in this cave within a cave, with only a rotting body and the demons outside to bear witness.
At least, she was sure. Then voices approached through the woods, one singing an unfamiliar ballad about seven hundred elves descending upon an unsuspecting farmer.* The intruders stoked the demons to a fevered frenzy, then came the sounds of a vicious fight. The snick and clash of blade and shield—the twang and pop of a crossbow—the thrum and crackle of magic—even here, she couldn’t escape mages! Above the sound of battle, four, maybe five, voices filled the outer cavern. At the end came a hiss, a crack, a splatter, and then an unexpected, unnerving silence.
“Eeyich.” That was the singer. A woman survived that fight? “That one’s juicy. Not it!”
The deep-voiced man grunted. “Far be it from me to question the herald of Andraste—” Wait. What? “—but I begin to sense a pattern to this. We find demons, we kill demons, you close the rift.” A nauseating squelching sound filled the pause. “Inevitably, I am left to clean up the mess.”
“What? It’s gross. Big manly men don’t get grossed out. Scrape it into a jar and move on.”
Félice glanced over at the corpse in the corner, shuddering. Her late grandfather, Simeon Hafter, was evidence of the contrary. In life, he was strong as a druffalo, stoic as a statue, and a seasoned hunter, but seeing his own blood gave him the vapors. If he’d overcome that, perhaps he would still…
No. That way led to madness. She mustn’t think about what could have been.
The third voice—another man, more refined and less gruff—came to the woman’s defense. “Haven’s researchers need every bit of—Eeyaspiss, what are you…” Félice didn’t recognize the word following the pause, but it sounded like Elvish and his tone indicated it was no compliment. “They need whatever material we can spare, Warden Blackwall; we must be accommodating when possible.”
“I just don’t know why it’s my job to root around in the—”
“Rift snot?” The woman’s voice was closer than before, and following it, the sound of metal on stone. “Dang it. Iron again? Where’s the bloody onyx? …or do you prefer demon loogie?”
“How about Fade phlegm?” another of the men added, sounding quite proud of himself. He sounded like a smarmy sort, perhaps a Free Marcher.
The woman picked the topic back up. “—or monster mucus?”
The voices faded into white noise as Félice hung her head between her shoulders and weighed her options. This group of fools didn’t sound like anyone she wanted to risk encountering. They killed the demons in the larger cave, but who said they wouldn’t kill her, too? Bandits abounded in the woods, now, and one was a mage; even should they not be bandits, the odds were low they stopped to slay demons out of the goodness of their hearts.
But did she have any better options? If she waited until they left, she could escape without the rift to stop her; unfortunately, there were still bears to worry about. She glanced over at her grandfather’s body again, remembering the gashes in his upper leg and belly. It just had to be bears.
A bit late, she registered the woman singing, this time, much closer. Félice held her breath, hopeful and fearful in equal amounts.
“—I met a little girl, and we stopped to talk, on a grand soft day-aye-ay.” There came a cracking sound like someone knocking a hunk of something loose from the stone wall. “—and I ask you, friend, what’s a fella to do? ‘cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue.” The singing veered off to the northern side, drawing farther and farther away until her words were harder to hear. What was a Galway? And what was that accent? She never encountered it before.
Without warning, a face appeared in the cave entry—pale-skinned and pale-eyed, with a blood-speckled wide-brimmed hat and a smear of green goop across his cheek. Félice screamed.
“Cole, what the—” Another face joined the first beneath the brim of the hat, this one an elven woman with riotous brown hair, stunned speechless. After a moment of staring as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, she turned to address someone back in the open cavern beyond the opening. “…uh…Solas? We’ve got a survivor.”
The plan had been simple, in theory. Handle the demon-possessed wolves, then establish a permanent camp in the hills. Travel through Hafter’s Woods on the way back to Haven. Close the nearby rift, gather some onyx and a couple of bear hides so Threnn quit nagging about supplies, and maybe scrounge up a supply cache for the Crossroads. Of course, Iaspis had no experience with simple, not since her death.
Yep, she was dead. Or, she was dead, but not anymore. Verb participles for situations like this didn’t exist as far as she understood. All she knew for certain were these few things.
She—Melanie Elva Jasper—died after a sneeze launched her backward off a ladder-cart in the middle of an unexpected shift. Working for Walmart was killing her anyway, so that surprised no one. She came to in a dungeon under a church—no, a chantry—with pointy ears, a good extra foot-and-a-half in height, and a shiny magical veil-tearing key on her hand. The owner of said key couldn’t decide between attraction and offense, and both had their own merits and problems. She was the herald of nothing but transcendentally crappy luck. The world would be going to the Dread Wolf in the end, and not a damned thing she did would stop that.
In a word, Iaspis was boned, and not even in the fun way; the fun way wouldn’t happen, either, if she had any sense.
After the requisite freaking out, pissing herself, and accepting that shit got weird, she took a new name to fit her new face and did her best to adjust. Some things she could predict—mages versus templars, bandits along the East Road, possessed wolves, etc. Other things didn’t match with her sleep deprivation-muddled memories, like Cole showing up while she was still cowering in the dungeon, mineral availability, no party limits, and this.
This, of course, being the skittish young human hunched over on the other side of the campfire with terrified eyes the color of cooled ash and short, tight grey curls light enough to pass for white. The entire time Solas healed her, she hid behind her fringe, and she flinched at every sound. How much of that fear came from being around mages, and how much was caused by what she experienced? She also detected a significant amount of anxiety with no rational origin; Iaspis was that girl in another life, so she recognized the difference.
Iaspis recalled this cave from her previous life. Old Simeon’s cave, they called it in-game; Simeon was supposed to be nothing but a pile of bones surrounded by onyx-studded stone and forgotten loot. Not only was there no onyx or loot, Simeon left behind a traumatized granddaughter. Judging by the dried bloodstains along the front of her dress, the poor girl was there when her grandfather succumbed to his wounds. The state of decomposition, the empty water skins and food pouch, the stench in one corner, and the time since the report of the rift made Iaspis ill. The kid might have been trapped in there for weeks. Had they not arrived when they did, she could have died in that cave.
Cole shot Iaspis a reproachful look, and belatedly she realized she had been humming; remembering the lyrics triggered a wince. When you ride into the night without a trace behind, run your claw along my gut one last time. Nope. Too soon. She looked over at the human girl again, gnawing on the insides of her lips, and contemplated how best to handle the situation.
Wait. Blackwall built the fire from the pile of sludge left by that rage demon? That…okay, that was clever. Putrid, but clever. Maybe she’d buy him a pint when they got back to the mountains. She might even refrain from throwing it on him if he started on about great admiration again.
Solas stood, brushed off his knee, and gave a placid smile that made Iaspis’ heart thud. No. Bad wolf. Dumb Inky. “It is fortunate you were not more badly malnourished,” he told the girl, unaware of Iaspis’ increasingly frustrated and horny internal monologue. “With a few hearty meals and rest, you should make a full recovery, miss…?”
Iaspis held her breath, watched, and waited. The young woman froze, swallowed, and looked up at Solas as if she expected to be mugged now that she wasn’t in danger of bleeding on anyone. Finally…
“Um…Fay…lees…” Cheeks aflame, she turned away and crunched the blood-stiff hem of her dress in her fingers. “Félice Hafter.”
The reek of charred demon goop still hung like a sickly cloud when they loaded up to depart. Iaspis’ Frostback elk was fed up and uttered groans and snorts of protest as Iaspis adjusted the leather trappings.
“I know, girl,” she soothed, “I know. Dead demons aren’t much more fun than live ones.” And that said nothing of the bears. Forget bears. “You’re doing the real Moose a real disservice with this drama. Look, I’ll make sure you get an extra scoop of oats when we reach camp.” She could see it now: Moose slightly approves. “...and an apple when we reach Haven.” Moose approves.
Shut up, Melanie, this isn’t a game anymore.
After a month or so of Cole popping up behind her with no warning, Iaspis recognized the signs with ease. Air shifted, accompanied by a smell of musty air and oiled leather, and then came the sound of shallow, controlled breathing. She stilled, waiting for him to speak. “Hopeless and hungry,” he said, low enough the others wouldn’t overhear without straining their ears. “They only wanted food. The bears were hungrier, but the demons were patient.”
Dear heavens. How long was the poor kid trapped there? The men had been antsy to return to Haven, and her ass was stiff from too many hours in the saddle. If they had hit the road rather than closing that rift...
“We helped.” Cole’s words brought her out of her thoughts and back to reality, and she appreciated the reminder; getting lost in worry and brooding just made one prone to mistakes, and she couldn’t afford those. “She will be happier now.”
Another shifting of the air and the familiar smells faded. Cole was gone. How often Iaspis wished for the ability to just poof to their next location without plodding around on horseback, but this wasn’t a game. Not anymore, at least.
Now what?
Iaspis locked eyes with Solas across the Moose’s saddle, glanced pointedly at the skinny girl still fiddling with her bandaged hands, then tilted her head. Solas studied Félice a moment, from her trembling hands and sunken cheeks to the bone and sinew visible through her skin. He shook his head at Iaspis. All without saying a word, they agreed on what had to be done. Doubling back would add days onto their travel, but delivering her to the Crossroads was the least they could do; with the Hinterlands in an uproar, she would never survive the trip alone, but someone there would help her.
Blackwall knelt beside Cole’s Taslin Strider and held out his laced hands for a makeshift mounting block. Félice blinked at him, peered up at Cole through her fringe as if she expected an attack, then hid her face behind it; despite her nerves, though, she accepted the help. Between doubling up on a horse and becoming bear chow, the choice was obvious. “How came you to be in that cave?” Blackwall asked as he checked the tackle’s fit.
Félice, stiff and unresponsive, stared at the folds of her dress tangled in her fingers with watering eyes.
“Fire and ice, and endless fighting.” Cole’s words made her jolt, but she kept quiet. “—but the farms are safer, now. You can go—” He fell silent without warning, looking down at her knee with a disquieted frown; he turned to address Iaspis. “No one, nothing, no home to return for.”
Well, shit. Iaspis closed her eyes and summoned control as she sucked in a steadying breath through her nose. She rolled her eyes up to stare at the sky through her messy hair. “Cole.” The spirit brightened. “It’s a long way to Haven. Don’t let her fall.”
...and now Solas was staring at her as if she brought him a bird with a broken wing and asked for a band-aid. She just couldn’t win.
A tune about the dangers of environmental recklessness marked the ride to the cave. The ride back to camp felt too heavy for that. Instead, when Iaspis tired of the silence, she picked up where she left off before, keeping time with her palm on her britches.
“—so I took her hand, and I gave her a twirl, and I lost my heart to a Galway girl.”
Morning dawned much as most mornings did on the road. Hide tent overhead, unbearably cheerful birds outside, sunlight streaming through the cracks, the smell of roast meat and hot tea, and…
Wait. What?
Iaspis bolted upright, shook off the blood rush, and scrambled to shove her head through the heavy canvas flap. Even the camp’s usual crew—a baby-faced requisitions officer, a leather-clad scout, and a guard—appeared unsure of what to make of the scene. Once, Iaspis witnessed a pair of wild mabari fighting over a bitch in the middle of this very camp, and those three acted as if it was just another Tuesday. In their defense, Iaspis never expected to wake up to this, either.
The cave-girl—Flicka or Phlox, or whatever her name was—was busy in the pre-dawn hours. On a normal day, the party choked down rations or gruel before departing, but today, everyone gathered around the fire for a hot breakfast. It was no full southern spread from Cracker Barrel, but wooden trenchers laden with sausages, hard bread, and vegetable stew may as well have been a feast. Iaspis could only assume someone found a cache, and some of it wouldn’t be going to the refugees; she might feel guilty if she weren’t drooling down her front.
Iaspis yanked on her clothes and heavy fur armor, banging her head on the middle beam twice, and lurched outside where the air made her face hurt. She could have sworn these britches had a hole burned into the left calf—fire spells played hell on clothes—but someone darned the hole. Did she forget that? Did Josephine give her special magical self-mending pants? “Did I miss something?” she asked under her breath and aimed a halting, uncomfortable smile at Flissy. …it was Flissy, right?
Solas regarded Iaspis askance and brushed a crumb from the front of his robes, but the moment he opened his mouth to answer, Varric cut in. “Looks like the little sparrow wanted to say thanks.”
Solas aimed a withering side-glance at Varric, then a more inquisitive one at Iaspis. Are you satisfied now? went unsaid. For a moment, she considered backtracking to the Crossroads and dumping her on the mercy of the overworked huntsman, if only so Solas would quit looking at her that way. One bite threw that out the window.
Nope. Flossie was too good a cook to waste on mutton.

Up next: Fadewalking and a farce in Of Sparrows and Dead Lady Swans
Notes
* Seven Hundred Elves—Context is everything, really. In the world of Dragon Age, this song would sound like anti-elf propaganda. In reality, it’s a cautionary tale about taking more from the earth than you give, as well as dude, Jesus gets rid of elves, WTF.
* Elva—This name has several different meanings given online depending on the origin. The one I’m going with is the following: it’s a shortened version of Middle English Elvina, which means elf friend or leader of elves. Yep. I went there.
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Plugging the Sky-Hole Rubbish