" what are you working on ? "
"a headache."
the inquisitor leans back in his chair, one hand lifting to rub at his temples, looking away from the mountains atop his desk. notes from every blight, scraps of knowledge from every dalish clan that would deign to speak with him, half a dozen forbidden tomes from the chantry's inner sanctum that he will have an earful about borrowing without permission - all of them notated, bookmarked, wrecked with his writing in an attempt to connect these disparate dots.
how much of what the world believed was simply history rewritten? men and women deified, the meanings of their action lost?
and how much of it was complete and utter rubbish?
he drops his hand, letting his head fall back against the chair.
"we can't know solas' next move without knowing the truth of the past. which means if i'm not solving the squabbles of the rich and useless, i am chained to my desk sifting through documents that most of ferelden cannot know exist," he gestures to the chaos, shooting the books a bitter glare as though they themselves are responsible for his suffering.
"fancy a stroll through insanity with me, hero? i suspect you'll be able to make more sense of the chantry's lore than i... a few more lines of who begat who and i fear i shall lose my mind."
