Outside, the air is bitingly cold, the sky lit with unnatural green; the first tentative forays of a snowstorm are falling, and the wind comes in through the door with fingers of ice. There is another behind you a stern, tall woman in armor, who's hand strong enough that her grip on your shoulder is a demand and not a request.
"Heal her," She orders, her accent thick and strange. You only understand what she's said a beat or two after she's spoken, and the memory offers context, unbidden; Orlesian, Seeker, she will kill you if you do not comply. No one will dare to complain if she does, "We must have answers. You will do this."
The woman in the cell lies in a heap, and you go to your knees on the stone beside her. She is shackled and chained, even unconscious, barely breathing, hand and foot bound like an animal. She is young and soft-edged, and very pretty under the pallor and the tattoos on her face. Pointed ears mark her as elven, and the memory supplies the context; one of the People, Dalish, and alone. She will be executed to sate their need for vengeance.
She is dressed in ill-fitting traveling clothes of poor quality, indistinguishable from a thousand others outside these doors, and as you turn her over to examine the damage, her hand falls open around a brilliant spark of green magic. It sparks and flares, as if to greet you, and even unconscious the muscles of her arm twitch and contract in agony.
The Anchor, the memory says, in Solas' voice, If it cannot be calmed, if it cannot be removed, all is lost. It will kill her if I do nothing... and if she dies, then all hope dies with her.
Everything about this woman is small, pale, broken, and helpless. Everything about her is doomed. And yet, you must save her, or die trying; there is no other way out, but to go through. The cell door locks behind you.
Waters of Memory: The Wounded Child
Outside, the air is bitingly cold, the sky lit with unnatural green; the first tentative forays of a snowstorm are falling, and the wind comes in through the door with fingers of ice. There is another behind you a stern, tall woman in armor, who's hand strong enough that her grip on your shoulder is a demand and not a request.
"Heal her," She orders, her accent thick and strange. You only understand what she's said a beat or two after she's spoken, and the memory offers context, unbidden; Orlesian, Seeker, she will kill you if you do not comply. No one will dare to complain if she does, "We must have answers. You will do this."
The woman in the cell lies in a heap, and you go to your knees on the stone beside her. She is shackled and chained, even unconscious, barely breathing, hand and foot bound like an animal. She is young and soft-edged, and very pretty under the pallor and the tattoos on her face. Pointed ears mark her as elven, and the memory supplies the context; one of the People, Dalish, and alone. She will be executed to sate their need for vengeance.
She is dressed in ill-fitting traveling clothes of poor quality, indistinguishable from a thousand others outside these doors, and as you turn her over to examine the damage, her hand falls open around a brilliant spark of green magic. It sparks and flares, as if to greet you, and even unconscious the muscles of her arm twitch and contract in agony.
The Anchor, the memory says, in Solas' voice, If it cannot be calmed, if it cannot be removed, all is lost. It will kill her if I do nothing... and if she dies, then all hope dies with her.
Everything about this woman is small, pale, broken, and helpless. Everything about her is doomed. And yet, you must save her, or die trying; there is no other way out, but to go through. The cell door locks behind you.