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Description
A deep vibration resonated across the plains, a mighty horn signalling the struggling Orlesian vanguard to fall back from the rain of fire pummeling their forces.
"Retreat! Fall back to the ramparts," the commanders shouted to their soldiers over the sounds of battle. The casualties continued to rise as their enemy pressed the advantage and launched their forces into full pursuit, cutting down the broken formations at an alarming rate.

On a rock, overlooking the slaughter, stood an elf clad in black and gold. In her hand she held a majestic staff, radiating a brilliant light from its head. The woman bore an expression of malicious pride as she witnessed her army sweep across the field; yet another victory for the Inquisition. Her Inquisition.
Just before her soldiers were in range of the enemy ramparts, she struck her staff against the rock and a large boom was carried through the earth towards the battlefield. The Inquisition soldiers stopped dead in their tracks and reformed their ranks just outside the fortifications, the scattered force once again taking the shape of an intimidating, black mass.

"They've stopped?" Confused voices arose within the ramparts, baffled by their foe's sudden pause.

"Reform the ranks! Archers to their positions," the Orlesian general barked, none too pleased with his army's efforts. "Not a single step back! We stop this army here!"

"What do you think, brother?" A woman with red hair addressed a man of identical appearance. She wore the armor and shield of the Templar Order, now defunct, with the insignia covered up by a cloth. He was dressed in fine leather garments, with a bow slung over his shoulder.

"I think I'd rather be at one of Lady Veronica's midnight balls, but I can't complain," Krestan replied with a playful grin. Unlike his sister, the man had a carefree air about him, the look of a man who cared little for the confines of order and formality.

"As if she'd ever give you the light of day, what with the neverending Orlesian "finery" she surrounds herself with. You're much to plain for her standards, brother."

"Oh, you wound me, Karina," Krestan cried in jest but his expression soon changed, almost as if struck by lightning, a hint of concern in his sky blue eyes. "But I suspect you're not in the mood for games, so; what troubles you, dear sister?"
For a moment, Karina said nothing, trying to organize her thoughts as she gazed beyond the battlements, where scores of enemy soldiers awaited their Inquisitor's orders, black armor glinting in the sun.

"How did we come to this point?" Karina eventually spoke up, melancholy coloring her voice. "Ferelden conquered, Orlais under siege, and a treasured friend sits at the center of it all. I thought I knew her, that she was truly Andraste's Herald, even if she refused it herself... Now I don't know what to think."
Krestan had no words for his twin sister. He was never particularly devout, and any religious belief he held felt more like compliance than faith.

"Do you suppose she's still doing the Maker's work? Maybe she is meant to punish the world for its many misdeeds..."

"I find that hard to believe. Why go through the trouble of saving the world from Corypheus, only to set it on fire the moment he's dead?"

Karina just stared at the battlefield in silence. She'd been feeling the doubt gnawing at her more and more every day; the uncomfortable feeling that there was no Maker, no life after death, just the empty void staring back at you.
As the war-horns thundered all around her, she felt the cold hand of a long forgotten foe, gripping tight around her chest. "I'm scared, brother... I don't want to die."

"Me too, sister," Krestan gave Karina a half smile, visibly concerned by his sister's sudden breakdown. "My only advice is to trust in your sword-arm, and all should be well."

The fighting spirit within the ramparts was low as they prepared to meet the enemy's charge. Frightened whispers arose as a petite elven figure, with golden blonde hair, emerged at the head of the black horde.
Mhila, the Inquisitor herself, had taken the field. Eyes burning with righteous fury.

Description
A deep vibration resonated across the plains, a mighty horn signalling the struggling Orlesian vanguard to fall back from the rain of fire pummeling their forces.
"Retreat! Fall back to the ramparts," the commanders shouted to their soldiers over the sounds of battle. The casualties continued to rise as their enemy pressed the advantage and launched their forces into full pursuit, cutting down the broken formations at an alarming rate.

On a rock, overlooking the slaughter, stood an elf clad in black and gold. In her hand she held a majestic staff, radiating a brilliant light from its head. The woman bore an expression of malicious pride as she witnessed her army sweep across the field; yet another victory for the Inquisition. Her Inquisition.
Just before her soldiers were in range of the enemy ramparts, she struck her staff against the rock and a large boom was carried through the earth towards the battlefield. The Inquisition soldiers stopped dead in their tracks and reformed their ranks just outside the fortifications, the scattered force once again taking the shape of an intimidating, black mass.

"They've stopped?" Confused voices arose within the ramparts, baffled by their foe's sudden pause.

"Reform the ranks! Archers to their positions," the Orlesian general barked, none too pleased with his army's efforts. "Not a single step back! We stop this army here!"

"What do you think, brother?" A woman with red hair addressed a man of identical appearance. She wore the armor and shield of the Templar Order, now defunct, with the insignia covered up by a cloth. He was dressed in fine leather garments, with a bow slung over his shoulder.

"I think I'd rather be at one of Lady Veronica's midnight balls, but I can't complain," Krestan replied with a playful grin. Unlike his sister, the man had a carefree air about him, the look of a man who cared little for the confines of order and formality.

"As if she'd ever give you the light of day, what with the neverending Orlesian "finery" she surrounds herself with. You're much to plain for her standards, brother."

"Oh, you wound me, Karina," Krestan cried in jest but his expression soon changed, almost as if struck by lightning, a hint of concern in his sky blue eyes. "But I suspect you're not in the mood for games, so; what troubles you, dear sister?"
For a moment, Karina said nothing, trying to organize her thoughts as she gazed beyond the battlements, where scores of enemy soldiers awaited their Inquisitor's orders, black armor glinting in the sun.

"How did we come to this point?" Karina eventually spoke up, melancholy coloring her voice. "Ferelden conquered, Orlais under siege, and a treasured friend sits at the center of it all. I thought I knew her, that she was truly Andraste's Herald, even if she refused it herself... Now I don't know what to think."
Krestan had no words for his twin sister. He was never particularly devout, and any religious belief he held felt more like compliance than faith.

"Do you suppose she's still doing the Maker's work? Maybe she is meant to punish the world for its many misdeeds..."

"I find that hard to believe. Why go through the trouble of saving the world from Corypheus, only to set it on fire the moment he's dead?"

Karina just stared at the battlefield in silence. She'd been feeling the doubt gnawing at her more and more every day; the uncomfortable feeling that there was no Maker, no life after death, just the empty void staring back at you.
As the war-horns thundered all around her, she felt the cold hand of a long forgotten foe, gripping tight around her chest. "I'm scared, brother... I don't want to die."

"Me too, sister," Krestan gave Karina a half smile, visibly concerned by his sister's sudden breakdown. "My only advice is to trust in your sword-arm, and all should be well."

The fighting spirit within the ramparts was low as they prepared to meet the enemy's charge. Frightened whispers arose as a petite elven figure, with golden blonde hair, emerged at the head of the black horde.
Mhila, the Inquisitor herself, had taken the field. Eyes burning with righteous fury.