He had known the inevitable causation of actions, the bloodied hands of a man that was a healer promised who had taken upon himself that proverbial sword — the staff to lead a righteous cause where those with silence forced had suffered. But action had not birthed this particular infestation — men who held their swords and shields tainted red and called and carried by it’s siren song.
This had not been his doing; and yet it breeds from the cracked chaos of his making.
He intends to burn them too at Justice’s pyre, blazing glory for what needed to be done to those drunk with power and with poisoned thought. The Templars, he had known them all to be the same — ready to strike, to use the gifted powers of corrupt system to carry on their legacy and help keep that pillar standing strong.
That would burn too, just like it had done before.
But this time, he is not alone. There are those who see him for what he had done, for what had needed to be done — the hand that moved against the ticking clock and sought for action needed and the fury favoured. This time, they are with him; different from the rest, no crazed fanaticism that many painted as rebellion. Here they had reason, here, it was not only justice and freedom, but to help pave the path to the new world where they all stood on equal footing.
Here he lay the groundwork for a new order of mages.
It is some skewed sort of luck that he finds himself in a situation where he finally meets The Inquisitor.
Opportunity, there is motion and the raised staff — a glow and brilliance of blue in eyes as he signals for the attack. The monsters flood in with a wildness rabid. Barely human, creatures with lyrium infusing with bone, jutting from skin, and perhaps it is that, perhaps there is blindness that follows deafness that leads them to simply act on instinct - swinging erratic, defensive where needed but lacking instinct and survival when attacking, Anders and the small group of mages that work with him move — well trained to deal their damage.
There is fire, ice, stone and storm — they summon powers that are as sharp as the blades once used against them. Unison, a oneness in the way they move ( they’ve done this a while ), and they deal a damage that cripples. Pre-emptive strike! Surprise! And now there are more enemies for the Red Templars to deal with.
“Inquisitor! Your path is here!” He calls, moving with a grace that speaks of training and a warrior’s mind as his staff twirls and foot sets in stance to dodge, parry and launch fireballs and electricity. There is a dagger there too! Quick, and seen only when the light catches as he throws it towards a monster that staggers as it tries to pull tie dagger from it’s body.
Distraction, and a break in their line of attack.
blood spills and it is blood. blood spills it stains seeps settles. blood spills and people die. they are beginning to trail blood after them, the inquisition. their founding had been in blood. perhaps their end will be in blood. he is soaked in blood and that thought is a discomfort / uneasiness / unhappiness. right now his own blood is dripping, overflowing, sticking.
a saviour arrives !! or something like that. magic rains down and he can feel the fade, can feel the call upon it. spins and twists and moves, freezes a set, brings down lightning on another. he glances, out of the corner of his eye. a band of mages, a glowing man, blue and cracked and radiant and abomination. perhaps, perhaps. assumptions are dangerous. assumptions can be unfair. assumptions can be truth.
words ring and an opening arrives : a chance. a way. a path to take. this is a decision to make and it is not a decision at all. not truly. not in the end. they may die, if they remain here. they may perish. such is the undeniable truth, unquestionable in its basis.
his hand glows burns itches and he raises it high and he can feel that infection spreading. can feel it inching. can feel it straining. can feel it fighting. it is only pragmatic to acknowledge it. to accept it. to know that it is there. to know that there may be no way to stop it in truth. it GLOWS and he lifts it and
protection, for all.
a breath and
he shifts jumps glides forward, fingers splaying, hand burning and he feels for the not there edges of the fade. forces his way through them and pulls yanks tugs. arm rears back and he breathes with it, or tries to. breathes and sets his jaw and the veil rips, the other side SCREAMING and the red templars falling falling falling they all fall down.
perhaps there would be silence, were this an idyllic situation. in reality, however, they are not all dead. only most. only many. there are still shouts and calls and templars falling but they will not die, today. on this day, they will not perish. they will live another hour, if only that.
hand flexes and he catches his breath and he remains moving, never stopping, always flowing. ice scatters cold reigns winds oppress and the battle begins to wane, begins to quiet, begins to settle.
as it does he looks to their saviours once more. a merry band of mages. the merry band of mages, he can only assume. there is no such thing as coincidences, not in this world. there is no such thing as happenstance in a world where the end may yet be tomorrow. his eyes settle on the man who spoke as the final red templars begin to fall and he watches him, silent. watches him, staff twirling in his hand. watches him.
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