ferelden is, now proper, ruled by it's own. king maric sits upon the reclaimed throne, his son nearing his preteen years & all of thedas bows in respects to a country standing on it's own two feet. it is no surprise for foreign dignitaries to visit this land torn apart by war & dictatorship by it's neighbor. the reasons stem from a of myriad reasons; curiosity, will the theirin line fail once more ? honest intent to congratulate. to establish trade, to enact business. && to simply pretend to care by showing up on invites & complain they are not at one of orlais' famed grand balls. one of many diplomatic displays that cater to thedas at large, yet many of the royals who received invites offer no more than extended family or noble stand ins--- for ferelden still is at the bottom, a country ruled by the workers & a king who gladly cakes his finery with the mud alongside them.
adelina is six, perhaps nearly seven. she can't recall. the say itself is a faded memory blurry & tucked away as most traumatic moments in a child's life are. she does remember her parents, their love for her & that she had no siblings. perhaps she still does not. she remembers that even then she could hear the whispers of spirits, the stirrings of the earth beneath her. the stone clacking under her shoes as she runs about the grand necropolis on visit, giggling & chasing after the soulless skeletal servants as they bid her no mind whilst running around them in effort to trip them. she remembers the smell of baked bread & kosksi from the kitchens as she spies the cooks near supper. she remembers the face of the templar who took her, her little fists raw & blistered as she beat on his armor screaming & crying before being thrown in the back of a wagon alongside several other peoples, mostly children of varying ages, telling him that her parents won't stand for this. but he doesn't care & he can't understand her. she speaks nevarran. she remembers her first name, but not her family name. but the templar paid to take her knows her name. he tells it to irving, his eyes wide & his tongue silent. who would hate these two so much that the punishment is their only child stolen from them ? that's not the mage's place to know. so he takes the little one in. her name is a secret. he teaches her the common. he raises her as his own.
but she remembers she doesn't belong here.
a curious girl is she. she looks into the dead, she questions the burning. she's talented with magic, why shouldn't she be ? it's in her blood. she is from a land that praises their mages. free to practice & wander & learn. but here she is shepherded into a large tower & told to be good or else. irving is kind enough. she misses her father more than she cares for him. but she is good. she does not question what or else means. magic is fun, a warm blanket that swells from within her. she reads books on anatomy. she tinkers with machine & iron craft. the latter introduced to her by a dwarven trader who visited the tower once & he found her funny. odd little wisp of a thing with dark hair & grey eyes & olive skin & a dozen questions. he brings her books she asks for because he thinks she's like his son. so many people take pity on her in this manner. irving frowns on the books about nevarra, the books about the dead, the books about things she should not mess with. she does not understand but she is good, so she reads them in secret. hidden under her bed & traded for a new book when the trader visits again.
her harrowing was routine. despite her discolored dreams of the fade, the magic fluctuating as if it knows this is not where she belongs. the realm of spirit. so tied close is she, daughter of death whisperers. yet the call of mortal sings closer still. she emerges from the fade at the end of the harrowing. irving is proud of her. she proved she is good ! she did so well ! but her stomach turns & her heart aches. she doesn't like the idea of or else, but she tires of the restrictions of being good. jowan pleads to her in privacy about his fears of tranquility. she thinks to herself he's a fool & has damned himself & lily. she helps anyway & for a moment she would pause; does she end this ? she is good, this isn't what good mages do. he mentions his phylactery. how will he know it's his ? how does one know their own blood ? she can tell irving later. she is good so he will believe her when she says she just came along to stop him.
as jowan mucks about in the basement to find his own, she finds herself wandering away to find a special box on a desk of someone important. a record keeper ? the lock isn't magical, it opens easy to a spirited pick with ease. inside a small vial lays inside of gold inlay & leaf. a name etched upon the metal reads PENTAGHAST, ADELINA. it's cold in her hands, yet her heart fills with warmth. she cradles it like a treasure, like a toy her head tilting side to side as the name rings in her mind like a cleansing bell. she was taken, she remembers that. she's not from this land, she remembers that. she misses home, she wants to go home. this is not home. she can leave now. this means she can leave now, did she know this before now ? odd little girl usually found in the back of the room, the shadow of a library. curled up & with circles under her eyes. secrets of nothing kept in her fingernails as she paws through book after book. doing what she's told because she's good.
or else finds itself because this is not good. irving hears her that she only followed to stop jowan, but she doesn't. not really, she watches as he turns to blood magic & she questions why he goes through so much to be free. the small vial burns in her robe's pocket. she took it with her, such a little charm. does greagoir know she has that when he sentences her away, that this grey warden knows she has it ? he forces her from one tower to another & yet she is free. the light of the sun burns & the sky is so big she fears she will float away. the earth beneath her feet is gritty & compact from rainy days or weeks. the wagon ride is not so long, not so bad. she asks the grey warden man a dozen questions. what is the blight, how does it hurt others, what happened with the last one, what is the joining, who else is to be a warden, what will happen after--- the question she wants an answer to the most. he merely smiles & pats her on the head, so many pity her in this way. so instead she grows silent & lays a hand in her pocket, her thumb tracing the letters on the metal. PENTAGHAST, ADELINA.
