“Why I left Tevinter… and what the ramifications are with me being here.” Of course, Seraphim brought some benefits to the Inquisition; it was why he was here. He was a powerful mage, and wanted to bring order and peace back to Thedas. But he had previously been… rather close lipped about it all, really.
“I am…” he paused, wetting his lips for a moment as he gathered himself. “Well, you already know I’m a mage. But I am what’s called a ‘somniari’, in Tevinter. A ‘dreamer’. I can… shape the Fade, to an extent that most mages simply cannot.” That was a nerve wracking admission, in itself. In the south, from all that Seraphim had heard, in their dismal mage prisons, he would have been made Tranquil, or possibly even executed, if it had been discovered.
“I fled Tevinter because… I had a mentor. A Magister. It was supposed to be a good opportunity for me – I was not born to a noble family, you see, and I have a number of brothers and sisters. My family could not afford to get me the education I needed.” He spoke haltingly, but persevered. He needed to tell someone… and Inquisitor had a right to know, didn’t he?
“My Master was a cruel man both to me, and to his slaves. He abused everyone around him that he could. And so, understandably I think, I detested him. And eventually, my feelings regarding him came to a head, in the Fade. I… did something terrible to him, in his own dream. The act made him Tranquil, in the waking world. Just desserts, those with any sense of compassion might see it. He cannot hurt anyone again. But the Magisterium… isn’t known for its compassion.”
And there it was. Seraphim was a wanted man in Tevinter. For a lowborn to do such a thing to a Magister? The price on Seraphim’s head was likely sky-high. “If it’s discovered that I’m here… you may be asked to hand me over. As a show of good faith.”
﴾ ➼ ﴿ Ramifications. That was not a word one used lightly, in most cases. It didn’t sound like something as minimal as having been caught with a hand in the cookie jar, that much Cyrran could surmise from Seraphim’s tone and posture. He was reluctant, and the Herald could tell he was being entrusted with information deeply private.
As Seraphim spoke, Cyrran found himself sitting a little straighter and fixing him with an intent stare. He was a dreamer... A rare gift in mages, and while Cyrran knew they could still be found scattered among Dalish clans, he had never never met a mage from his own people who could wield such power. Only in the Inquisition, it seemed, could he cross paths with people of such abilities.
Yet he understood the secrecy. He, too, knew of what would await a mage with Seraphim’s power. Even in the quiet of their camp, Cyrran couldn’t help but strain his ears to make certain no one appeared to be awake and listening in on their conversation. ❝Rest assured, anything you tell me in confidence will remain so,❞ he said.
It was hardly a surprise where the story was leading as Seraphim described his history and upbringing. The moment a Magister’s cruelty was mentioned, Cyrran felt his expression grow subtly grim. Hearing the inevitable conclusion came as no surprise, and it was only at the mention of possibly handing Seraphim over did he frown outright and firmly shake his head. ❝No.❞ His voice was low but resolute. ❝I understand what the implications would be, but no. I will most definitely not.❞
Taking a quiet breath, the Inquisitor offered a small--and what he hoped to be, encouraging--smile. ❝I appreciate you confiding in me. It changes nothing; you are still a member of this Inquisition, and under its protection. If the day comes that the Imperium discovers your presence, we will deal with it. But you will not be handed over.❞
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