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Two weeks Ophelia had been camped in the arid desert of the Hissing Wastes, all rolling hills and dry heat. She couldn’t count the number of times she and her companions sat around a dead bonfire, knocking sand out of their boots after a long trek across the endless plains. When their business with the mines had concluded, Ophelia imagined herself jumping with joy when she stepped foot into her home territory, with their ice-capped mountains and frozen lakes. Instead, the frigid wind of the Frostback Mountains nearly sent her into shock.
Pulling her thick leather coat tight around her shivering frame, she caught sight of billowing smoke in the near distance. Lips chapped and blue, she saved her breath and nodded for her companions to follow behind. Where there was smoke, there was heat.
Balancing on a snowy slope, a brick tavern was teeming with activity; raucous laughter floated through the cracked windows, a faint jingle of music carrying behind. “How did I not know this place existed? Where do their supplies come in?” Ophelia thought out loud. A view of glistening waters and a docked ship provided the answer moments later. She didn’t think it possible for there to exist a body of water that wasn’t frozen over this deep in the mountains, but she supposed that must be the Waking Sea expanding toward the horizon.
Time seemed to freeze the moment she crossed the threshold. At least a dozen men and women, all outfitted in mismatched suits of armor and cloth, were making a beeline for the middle of the room, where a tall, pale-skin figure had trapped a much smaller woman. Ophelia didn’t think twice; a freshly sharpened arrow whizzed through the air, embedding into the wall behind the pale stranger. A warning shot.
“On behalf of the Inquisition, I order you and your men to stand down,” Ophelia’s voice rang out authoritatively. The entire building hushed at the news that the Inquisitor had arrived.
She stalked over to what she assumed to be the leader, her bow still at the ready. Upon further examination, Ophelia gleaned the tell-tale signs of raiders — heavy pouches of clinking gold, yellowed and dried skin from harsh winds, and the abysmal stench that came with a lack of hygiene from being trapped on waters for far too long.
Ophelia tsked at the bandit leader. “Manners, now. Identify yourself, stranger.”
нуα¢ιηтн уєννιη
A letter by raven arrived early that morning. Curious green eyes scanned the missive within seconds, noting the faint dried bloodstains on the parchment that could’ve meant nothing, but Hyacinth frowned nonetheless. The message was short and clear: Inquisitor Trevelyan would be returning within the week. She sighed and tossed the note to the side. Knowing Lady Trevelyan, within the week could be tomorrow, or it could be four days from now.
She found Leliana first, in deep conversation with Ambassador Josephine who smiled politely, as she always did. Hyacinth never bothered to return the favor. “From the sounds of it, she’s unlocked the Tomb of Fairel. Shall I alert the men at the gates?”
With affirmation from Leliana, the Dalish scout set off and notified the guards to be on the lookout for any sign of the Inquisitor. In a landscape as pure white as this one, it would be hard to miss that shock of raven-black hair wading through the snow.
Commander Cullen was her last stop. With an indifferent nod to the other scouts parading around the battlements, Hyacinth knocked on the commander’s door once and then let herself in. As a nomadic child, shem culture had thoroughly evaded her. The day she discovered some shems even participated in classes to teach such customs had been the day she determined how hopelessly out-of-touch they were.
Even now, Hyacinth strode into the commander’s office without a word and tossed the report on his desk, which was already piled high with unanswered messages and letters. She had no previous dealings with the man. Once or twice, she had stumbled upon him praying in the gardens, having been renovated into a mock Chantry to appease the absurdly devout Inquisitor. But for the most part, she reported to Leliana and Ophelia Trevelyan.
“News of the Inquisitor’s arrival,” she briefed monotonously, no shred of identifiable emotion in her voice.
As a scout, though spy was her true title, she had mastered the art of detachment. In a field like hers, where betrayal and murder were around every corner, she had no interest in involving herself too deeply with anyone. She was sent out on secret, undercover missions for Leliana, often returning with news of an untimely death at her hands, and went about her day masquerading as a requisition scout. Gathering useful materials, furs and ore and the like, or delivering news of troop movements. It was the perfect cover.