A tribute to the rich lore of Dragon Age, focusing on Inquisition's codex. Graphics are edited by me and all entries and lore are taken directly from the Dragon Age Wiki.
Empress of fire
In the reign of the lion,
Eclipsed in the eye of
The empire of we Orlesians
“Empress of fire,
In the reign of the lion,
Eclipsed in the eye of
The empire of we Orlesians.
Empress of fire,
What season may come,
We fight for the day
You’ll restore our heart
And bring us to glory.
We are forever
In your graces.
Empress of fire,
Save us, everyone.
The nation reviles,
The course is but run, and end has begun.
Empress of fire,
Believe in us all.
Embrace us with arms,
And dress us with swords,
And light up our hearts with blood so bold.
We are forever
In your graces.
Empress of fire,
In the reign of the lion,
Eclipsed in the eye of
The empire of we Orlesians.
Empress of fire,
What season may come,
We fight for the day
You’ll restore our heart
And bring us to glory.”
—As performed by the bard Maryden Halewell
“Even mountains had a heart, once. When the world was young, Korth the Mountain-Father kept his throne at the peak of Belenas, the mountain that lies at the center of the world, from which he could see all the corners of earth and sky. And he saw strong men become weak, brave men grown cowardly, and wise men turn foolish for love.
Korth devised a plan that he might never be betrayed by his own heart, by taking it out and hiding it where no soul would ever dare search for it. He sealed it inside a golden cask, buried it in the earth, and raised around it the fiercest mountains the world had ever seen, the Frostbacks, to guard it.
But without his heart, the Mountain-Father grew cruel. His chest was filled with bitter mountain winds that shrieked and howled like lost souls. Food lost its flavor, music had no sweetness, and he lost all joy in deeds of valor. He sent avalanches and earthquakes to torment the tribes of men. Gods and men rose against him, calling him a tyrant, but with no heart, Korth could not be slain. Soon there were no heroes left, either among men or gods, who would dare challenge Korth.
The Lady of the Skies sent the best of her children--the swiftest, the cleverest, and strongest fliers--to scour the mountains for the missing heart, and for a year and a day they searched. But sparrow and raven, vulture and eagle, swift and albatross returned to her with nothing.
Then the ptarmigan spoke up, and offered to find the god-chief’s heart. The other birds laughed, for the ptarmigan is a tiny bird, too humble to soar, which spends half its time hopping along the ground. The Lady would not give the little creature her blessing, for the mountains were too fierce even for eagles, but the ptarmigan set out anyway.
The little bird traveled deep into the Frostbacks. When she could not fly, she crawled. She hugged the ground and weathered the worst mountain winds, and so made her lonely way to the valley where the heart beat. With all the god’s terrible deeds, the heart was far too heavy for the tiny bird to carry, so she rolled it, little by little, out of the valley and down a cliff, and when the golden cask struck the earth, it shattered. The heart was full almost to bursting, and the pain of it roused the mountain god to come see what had happened.
When Korth neared his heart, it leapt back into his chest and he was whole again. Then Hakkon Wintersbreath bound Korth’s chest with three bands of iron and three bands of ice, so it could never again escape. And all the remaining gods named the ptarmigan honored above even the loftiest eagles.”
--”The Ptarmigan: An Avvar Tale,” from Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar
But the ration’s too small. If they don’t give you enough, your hands get cold. The sky starts to press down on you. Little things slip away. So you have to stay.
“Sign your confession,” they said. I’m trying. I can’t think of what name to s i g n.
“A prison cell, a scrap of paper for my confession, scarce enough bread and water. All I get for skimming one lousy bottle from the lyrium stores. Knight-Lieutenant Freyan cut my normal rations for ‘insubordination.’ Insubordination, my arse. It’s because I saw him desert the guard tower to meet his girl. Freyan thought he’d teach me a lesson.
I’m thirsty, but the water doesn’t work. It should be more... blue.
You take it like medicine at first, the lyrium. Your whole body sings with it, like the Maker’s own fire. You’re not scared of anything, not even abominations. After, it even takes away the nightmares.
But the ration’s too small. If they don’t give you enough, your hands get cold. The sky starts to press down on you. Little things slip away. So you have to stay.
The senior templars all have that look, that cloudy look in their eyes.
‘Sign your confession,’ they said. I’m trying. I can’t think of what name to sign.”
--Confessions of an unknown templar, found among Montsimmard Chantry records in 8:27 Blessed
You ruddy bastard!
You’d be laying at the bottom of the ocean if it weren’t for me. That Marlin would’ve spiked and dropped you. I save your life and this is how you repay me? That catch was ours--we both worked for it. You’re not getting away with this. I’m getting the gold you owe me, even if I have to beat it out of you. Just so you don’t run off like the little shit I know you are: I did your sister. That’s right.
So if you’ve got the stones, meet me by the old camp. We’ll settle this.
Terrance
After ten days of fighting, the Wardens and the Avvar drove the darkspawn back and sealed the entrance against further incursions. In celebration of her bravery, the Avvar deployed a feast for Ser Kiersten and her Grey Wardens so legendarily boisterous that there are still paintings and statues dedicated to their alliance littered around the B a s i n.
“Outside times of Blight, Grey Wardens investigate rumors of darkspawn. Ser Kiersten of the Free Marches mounted an expedition to the Frostback Basin to look into one such sighting. She and her fellow Wardens allied themselves with an Avvar hold besieged by darkspawn after an earthquake in the mountains tore open a new passage to the surface. After ten days of fighting, the Wardens and the Avvar drove the darkspawn back and sealed the entrance against further incursions. In celebration of her bravery, the Avvar deployed a feast for Ser Kiersten and her Grey Wardens so legendarily boisterous that there are still paintings and statues dedicated to their alliance littered around the Basin.”
-From Journeys of the Wardens: A Comprehensive History by Lady Locke
The core concept is thus: the souls of a few Avvar “favored” by fate “migrate” on death to inhabit a new body destined for them, so they may return and perform great deeds for the good of their hold. These resurrected souls are not expected to remember their past selves consciously, but instead are assumed to be subtly “guided” by their previous experiences, especially through visions and p o r t e n t s.
“Some outlying nations have differing ideas on what happens to us after death. The southern Avvar, for example, believe in a hazily defined afterlife governed by the ‘Lady of the Skies’ where the dead are reunited with their kin. A comforting notion, and not unfamiliar. The Chantry’s idea that on death we cross the Fade to live by the Maker’s side is accepted from rough Ferelden to decadent Tevinter. Yet Avvar also believe some of their people are destined to be ‘reborn,’ which some among the Chantry have great trouble grasping. It is not, I must emphasize, a spirit possessing a body. Other than invoking the gods, spirits have nothing to do with the process. It is the essence, the soul, which returns clothed in new flesh.
“The core of the concept is thus: the souls of a few Avvar ‘favored’ by fate ‘migrate’ on death to inhabit a new body destined for them, so they may return and perform great deeds for the good of their hold. These resurrected souls are not expected to remember their past selves consciously, but instead are assumed to be subtly ‘guided’ by their previous experiences, especially through visions and portents. This most conveniently sidesteps the need for proof that one has been ‘reborn’ or that such things even occur. Then again, perhaps we should not cast scorn too quickly; as of yet, not one of the dead has returned from across the Fade to describe the Maker’s paradise.”
--Part of a monograph entitled Grand Visions of Life and Death, written by Roberto the Skeptic of Antiva in 9:31 and banned by the Chantry in 9:32
These aren’t working beasts, with the fire bred out of their eyes so they can suffer a plow. These creatures are about s p i r i t.
“Never seen a proud rider atop a regal mount? That’s your failing. Such animals are common enough, but there’re costs, so you keep them away from chance of blight, theft, attack. All the nonsense that makes for poor stabling. These aren’t working beasts, with the fire bred out of their eyes so they can suffer a plow. These creatures are about spirit. A proper mount isn’t some noble’s plaything on a hunt, it’s your everyday, and you’d better match it to deserve it.
On Horses
“You’ve never had a mount like the Fereldan Forder, a hardy warmblood. Don’t let the size fool you: they’re not meant for the farm. Centuries of careful breeding have taken common stock and produced a glory. A creature as much at home in a charge as they are in a march across nations. But for all the stamina and speed they place at your command, press too far, and you’ll be picking dirt from your teeth. They know their role and expect that you know yours. Warning and promise and all that.
On the Flames of the Inquisition Armored Charger
“Never in all my days did I think I would handle such barding, never mind the quality of the breed. A true purebred lineage, clad in the hallmarks of a master. The combination is one of a kind, and this animals knows it. Mount and rider, meant for greatness. Don’t disappoint--The bar has been set very, very high.
On the Red Hart
“Honored to see one up close without meeting it points-first. The pride of the stable. Of any stable. Even the Dalish I’ve had occasion to ask have said it’s rare to glimpse them at a distance. The few who have mastered one--and it truly is very few--say there is no animal more sure of foot, more attuned to its rider, more inspirational to simply gaze upon. You want to match the majesty of this creature? Grow some bloody wings.
On the “Bog Unicorn”
“Still not sure what you unearthed. Talked to a mage about it and got a typical “head in the Fade” response. Got a better answer from that Tranquil of yours, and it still chilled my short hairs. Plain speak, there’s a spirit of some kind in there. Now, a horse to me means “freedom,” but I understand that sometimes it’s a demon? The wrong side of what it should be. What’s the wrong side of freedom? Chaos or just “unending”? Something like that. Whatever is in there, this animal was best of breed, and Orlesian charger fit for any Chevalier, and well tended in life. By its wounds, I’d wager it fell in battle with demons of some ilk and was finished by its master’s mercy. Whatever spirit of loyalty or freedom or whatever makes horses run brought the strange thing back. It wants to serve. I’ve no doubt it will ride well, and I’ll stable it, but I’m not going near it.
On the Dracolisk
“I’ve heard of them. Seen a few. They’re not as rare as you’d think, but they are very, very difficult. “Spirited” and “stubborn” suggest a reasonable resistance. No, they’re just plain mean. Spur a horse a little too hard, and you’re getting a brush against a tree. Kick this thing the wrong way, and it’s taking a piece of you. That said, there’s utility here. As fast and strong as any other, and the rider who masters one is making a statement. Not just “I can do what you can’t.” It’s almost “I can do what you wouldn’t even dare.”
Greater Mountain Nuggalope or “Deth Nug”
“It has hands. It handles things. That’s hitting me worse than anything else. What the ever-loving spit? Can’t argue the impressive stature of the thing, and it’s stubborn, like the most entitled charger. It knows how strong it is, and it knows you know. I expected the dull snuffling of its small cousins, but this--it has hands and spirited eyes. Mind where you secure the buckles of your saddle. I expect it’ll let you know when it tires of suffering you on its back. Not that it tires. Hands. Hands.”
But Amrita did not die. She crossed the wasteland on foot, living off the strange plants that grew there, finding water in roots buried beneath the sand. On that long trek, Amrita discovered the herb now known as Amrita Vein. She brought it out of the desert with her and continued to study and c u l t i v a t e i t
“Amrita was a hedge mage, famed for her talent as an herbalist. She could brew philters to soothe every ache or ailment, even coax the ill back from the brink of death. As word of Amrita’s talents spread, she was made a target for capture. Amrita fled from them, refusing to go to a Circle. The templars took off in pursuit, dogging her steps, until they came to the edge of the Western Approach. Knowing the templars were less than half a day behind her, Amrita forged ahead. When the templars came to the edge of the desert, they stopped and turned back, believing that Amrita would be doomed to die in that sand-blasted wilderness.
“But Amrita did not die. She crossed the wasteland on foot, living off the strange plants that grew there, finding water in roots buried beneath the sand. On that long trek, Amrita discovered the herb now known as Amrita Vein. She brought it out of the desert with her and continued to study and cultivate it. Amrita’s extensive writings about desert plants, including Amrita Vein, eventually found their way to the White Spire, where it was decided that her contributions would earn her a degree of freedom. She was allowed to continue living as she desired, as long as she submitted to the Harrowing.”
--An excerpt from The Botanical Compendium, by Ines Arancia, botanist
Qunari brought up outside their society are still feared, shunned, or misunderstood by most people in the south. The average citizen of Orlais or Ferelden assumes they are cold-blooded thralls, or vicious b a n d i t s.
“The Qunari in Par Vollen live under the Qun, a religious and philosophical doctrine dictating every aspect of their society. [Player name] Adaar’s parents left that restrictive life before he/she was born, settling in the Free Marches and raising their child outside the Qun. Qunari brought up outside their society are still feared, shunned, or misunderstood by most people in the south. The average citizen of Orlais or Ferelden assumes they are cold-blooded thralls, or vicious bandits.
“If the Inquisitor is a warrior or rogue: Qunari who are not part of the Qun, facing limited acceptance in society, often take advantage of their reputation by taking on mercenary work. [Player name] Adaar joined the Valo-kas mercenary company as a young adult, making a name for him/herself over the years as a capable and resourceful soldier. He/she was hired to provide protection at the Conclave, as a neutral party to stand between templars and mages.
“If the Inquisitor is a mage: When [player name] manifested a gift for magic, his/her parents arranged for a mage among the Tal-Vashoth to teach him/her how to control his/her talents. He/she joined the Valo-kas mercenary company as a young adult, making a name for him/herself over the years as a capable and powerful mage. [Player name] was hired to provide protection at the Conclave, as a neutral party to stand between templars and mages.
“After the disastrous explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes that killed the Divine, Adaar was the only survivor. Rumors that the mysterious mark on his/her hand is a sign of the Maker’s favor were spread by those who claim they saw the divine prophet, Andraste herself, lead Adaar out of the Fade”.
andulkaphoto
gummygunk
stormborns
amandla
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams