On Blood (dubiously canon)
"You don't wish for community? You are alone in a strange, cold land, with a pittance of coin to sustain yourself. I am family, I may be a friend to you," Ordphestus gestured to the library shelves and the books strewn across the table by some poor, overworked intern. His arrogance oozed from every pore, confident in the privacy of his subterranean research center where surely even Inquisitorium ears and eyes did not reach. "You'd need only allow me to teach you some sorcery, allow me to test your abilities. I swear, the Inquisitorium has granted me full permission to have mages roam freely."
"I do not want to be a mage. And I had a community," Pherenike snapped. Ordphestus did not flinch, but his pacing stopped. He looked at her, really looked at her. Past the green-blue hair that marked her as kin to his bloody red, to a woman utterly foreign to him underneath. Pherenike sat back with tension in her shoulders as though to stop herself, but the bitter worlds flew out her mouth like spittle. "I had friends; and family. They are gone now. I care no longer."
Ordphestus nodded deliberately and sat down at the black marble table. He moved a thick tome out of the way to see how tightly she gripped the goose-feather quill. So tightly the blood fled from her tan knuckles. There was less of Solas' light in the Bassenlands and it showed on the faint dustiness of her skin. He took a deep breath - being gentle had never come easy to him. "I only mean that—"
"I have Theodosia," said Pherenike tersely. In her mind, she knew that Theo was no safety net. Theo is as soft as petals, she thought, and twice as precious, but petals cannot break a fall.
Ordphestus raised an eyebrow at the conviction that gilded the name. The warmth that emanated from Pherenike's lips that rang coldly at the end of each syllable. He knew of Theodosia - Theodosia Crazinski, there was only one Theodosia worth knowing - the new Vice-President. A foreigner to these lands, like him. Like Pherenike. The apothecary was lonely, perhaps. "Our blood sings the same tinny song, that is undeniable. Rodcynes have never been… common folk — we have been rulers, consorts, sorcerers, seers, divine beings. I can trace our line back a thousand years and more, much more. I can recite the names of our ancestors like hymns and you—" He paused, his eyes narrowing and hope waning in the dim library. "You say you know nothing. I am inclined to agree."
Ordphestus leaned forward, elbows on the black marble table, fingers steepled as though prayer could wrestle a truth from silence. The dark library swallowed the sound of their breathing. The smell of vellum, ink, and dust was heavy, nearly sacred, but neither bowed to it.
Pherenike’s grip on the quill tightened until her hand trembled. She would not give him the satisfaction of unclenching. She looked down at her lap and the vibrant potion stains on her kirtle skirt. She controlled herself. Blanched her features of all unpleasantness. A skill from youth — she had been spared the whip for her lack of spirit, and later dismissed as decoration during Bassish balls and galas, which she decided long ago had been better than the mocking. "I don't need names to recite. I've lived finely without them."
“Without them?” Ordphestus repeated, voice rumbling low, incredulous but not unkind. “Then you have lived in exile. A Rodcyne without roots is like a fire without fuel. Flickering, small, destined to die at the first gust of wind. I will not watch that happen. You are a Rodcyne," He declared with utmost certainty, "Our bloods runs warmer than others, our blood is blessed."
Pherenike’s lips curled into a smile, sharp but humorless. She was suddenly ten years old again, being told by a master that to toil was holy, each sentence punctuated with a drop of red streaking the sand. The first word was blood, the whip whispered, and unless you bleed out, you are not free. “You will not watch it happen? I did not invite you to watch. You intrude, unasked, unneeded.”
He let the words pierce him but did not recoil. Instead, he shifted, resting his forearms on the table, leaning closer still. His voice dropped. “And yet I am here. Because I know what you are, even if you would ignore it. Because our blood calls to itself. You cannot silence it forever, my lady Pherenike.”
Pherenike's smile vanished, replaced with something brittle. She set the quill down so carefully it seemed a ceremony. "I don't believe in blood debt, as it happens. Nothing calls and nothing answers. What… nonsense."
"You mistake me. I do not demand, I offer. What I know is no chained burden, I promise, it is a crown. A great mantle! Pherenike, we could be great. You could be great. The blood burns in your veins — you have talent and skill, your shop is infamous on these streets — better to master the latent power than become a slave to it, no?"
Pherenike felt the half of her right ring finger twitch violently. Her face did not change, sculpted from sandstone. He did not know. He had not known the name of her mother, nor her grandmother. They were strangers. He did not know. And she would not tell him. She had always kept a policy of secrecy about this… misfortune of birth. To tell this man, this swaggering warlord, of all people — a man with a hundred slaves of his own, no doubt, who died in his battles and drew his baths and painted his gold eyeliner onto his sharp features — would be to hand him a blade against her. The silence stretched too long.
"I am chained by nothing more than these high import taxes, Commander. I refuse your offer, with deep, deep gratitude for your consideration." Perhaps her tone betrayed her irritation, but she masked it quickly with a cough.
Ordphestus exhaled through his nose, spinning a loose jewel on his bracer. “My offer stands, even so. You would make a fine sorcerer, I believe. I will not abandon you to flicker out. Our line has endured too long for that. You can hate me, scorn me, deny me — but you cannot erase me. Nor yourself. I want only the best for our legacy."