DAI: Becoming The Inquisitor

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Daniel chuckled despite himself. But Cassandra wasn't wrong. The Chantry had already denounced them as heretics. And if the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux turned its full wrath on them… He glanced at his marked hand. We'll burn that bridge when we get to it.

The fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across Cassandra's weary face. Daniel studied her for a moment—the tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers still twitched toward her sword hilt even now, as if expecting another attack. She was exhausted, just like the rest of them, but there was no rest for the righteous. Or the damned, depending on who you asked.

He tossed a stick into the flames. "Cassandra. How long do you think it'll take the Chantry to choose a new Divine?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than it should have been. Across the fire, Varric paused mid-sip from his waterskin, one eyebrow quirking up. Solas, who had been quietly mending a tear in his sleeve, lifted his head slightly. Even a few nearby soldiers glanced over, their curiosity piqued.

Cassandra's jaw worked silently for a moment before she answered. "I do not know." The admission seemed to cost her something. "Many who were qualified—who could have been Justinia's successors—died at the Conclave."

Daniel exhaled through his nose. Right. The explosion that started all this. The Divine, the templars, the mages—so much had been lost in an instant. And now the Chantry was a ship without a rudder, flailing in the storm.

"That's not exactly reassuring," he muttered.

"It was not meant to be." Cassandra's tone was sharp, but not unkind. "The Chantry is fractured. The Grand Clerics argue like squabbling children while the world burns. Some call for immediate retribution against the mages. Others demand the templars be disbanded entirely. And none of them agree on who should lead."

Varric whistled lowly. "So, what? They're just going to sit around arguing until the Breach swallows us all?"

"It would not be the first time politics have stalled salvation," Solas remarked mildly.

Daniel rubbed his temples. "We need the Chantry's voice. Right now, half of Thedas thinks we're heretics as the Chantry denounce us. That I'm some kind of fraud. If the new Divine endorsed the Inquisition—"

"—it would legitimize us," Cassandra finished. Her expression darkened. "But that is a fragile hope. The Chantry's leadership is scattered between Val Royeaux and other grand cathedrals. Even if they agreed tomorrow, the process of electing a new Divine is not swift."

Daniel leaned forward, the firelight painting his face in stark relief. "Then we can't wait for them. Every day we spend hoping for their approval is another day the Breach grows, another day demons pour out, another day people die because we didn't act." His marked hand pulsed, as if in agreement.

Cassandra met his gaze steadily. "What are you suggesting?"

"That we stop asking for permission." The words came out harder than he intended. "The Inquisition isn't just some Chantry puppet. We're the only ones actually doing something about the end of the world. If the Chantry won't stand with us, then we'll stand without them."

Silence followed his declaration. Even Varric looked vaguely impressed.

Then Cassandra surprised him. She smiled. It was a small thing, barely a twitch of her lips, but it was there. "Spoken like a true Herald."

Daniel groaned. "Don't start with that title again."

Varric chuckled. "Too late, kid. You've got the martyr vibe down pat."

Later, when the others had settled into their bedrolls and the camp was quiet save for the occasional rustle of a watchman, Daniel found himself staring at the stars.

Herald of Andraste.

The name clung to him like smoke. He hadn't asked for it. Hadn't wanted it. But ever since he'd stumbled out of the Fade with this damned mark on his hand, people had looked at him differently. Some with awe. Some with fear. Some with outright hatred.

And now, with the Chantry branding him a heretic? It was only a matter of time before someone tried to put a knife in his back.

A rustle of fabric alerted him to company. Solas sat beside him, his staff resting across his knees. The elf didn't speak at first, his gaze also turned skyward.

"You're thinking too loudly," Solas said finally.

Daniel snorted. "Is that an elven saying?"

"A personal observation." Solas tilted his head. "The mark troubles you."

"It's not just the mark." Daniel flexed his hand, watching the faint green glow beneath his skin. "It's all of it. The Breach. The demons. The fact that people are calling me the *Herald of Andraste* like that means something."

Solas was quiet for a long moment. "Titles are weapons. They can shield you or cut you, depending on who wields them."

Daniel shot him a sidelong glance. "That's… oddly philosophical for a man who claims to hate politics."

Solas's lips quirked. "I never said I hated politics. Only that I find them tedious."

A chuckle escaped Daniel before he could stop it. "Fair enough."

They lapsed into silence again, but it was comfortable this time. The kind of quiet that came with mutual exhaustion rather than tension.

Then Solas said, very softly, "For what it's worth, I do not believe you are a fraud."

Daniel stilled.

"The mark chose you," Solas continued. "That is not nothing. Whether it was the Maker's will or mere chance, you are here now. And you are doing what must be done."

Daniel didn't know how to respond to that. So he just nodded.

Solas rose gracefully. "Rest, Daniel. Val Royeaux will test more than your patience."

And with that, he was gone, melting into the shadows like he'd never been there at all.

The next day, Daniel woke to the sound of steel ringing against steel.

For a disoriented moment, he thought he was still dreaming—caught in some half-remembered battle from the Fade. Then a guttural scream split the air, and he was moving before his eyes fully adjusted to the dim light of dawn.

His fingers closed around the Staff of the Dragon before his feet hit the ground. The polished oak hummed faintly under his touch, its enchanted core resonating with his magic. No time for armor. No time for strategy. Just move.

He burst from his tent into chaos.

The camp was a whirlwind of violence. Bandits—a ragged mix of deserters and highwaymen—had swarmed the perimeter, their blades flashing in the pale morning light. Inquisition soldiers fought in tight formations, shields locked, but the attackers were everywhere, slipping between tents like wolves among sheep.

Cassandra's voice cut through the din. "Hold the line! Archers, loose!"

A volley of arrows hissed through the air, finding marks in exposed throats and thighs. But the bandits kept coming, their desperation making them reckless.

Daniel didn't hesitate. He raised his staff and pushed mana into the earth. The ground beneath a cluster of bandits erupted in a geyser of flame, sending bodies tumbling like kindling. The stench of burning leather and flesh filled the air.

"Nice of you to join us, Herald!" Varric called from behind a makeshift barricade of supply crates. Bianca's mechanisms clicked as he fired, a bolt punching through a bandit's skull mid-charge. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead," Daniel shot back, already summoning a barrier around a soldier who'd lost his shield.

Solas stood atop a wagon bed, his staff tracing arcs of frost in the air. A wave of ice spikes impaled three bandits lunging for Cassandra's flank. The Seeker didn't pause—her sword cleaved through a bearded brute's axe haft, then opened his belly with a backhanded slash.

Daniel waded into the fray, staff whirling. A bandit rushed him, dagger raised; a twist of his wrist sent a kinetic blast hurling the man into a tent post with a sickening crack. Another came at him from the side, only to choke as an arrow sprouted from his neck—Leliana's scouts, finally joining the fight.

But the bandits weren't breaking. If anything, they fought harder, their eyes wild with something beyond greed. Fear?

Then Daniel saw it.

At the edge of the camp, half-hidden by smoke, a figure in tattered Chantry robes stood whispering to a knot of bandits. Their hands glowed red—not the sickly crimson of blood magic, but the unmistakable shimmer of templar abilities. A disgraced brother?

The "templar" met Daniel's gaze—and smiled.

"Cassandra!" Daniel yelled. "We've got a problem!"

She followed his pointing staff and snarled. "Of course. A lying templar."

The rogue templar barked an order, and suddenly the remaining bandits moved with unnatural coordination. They flanked the Inquisition forces, their attacks suddenly precise, disciplined. A soldier screamed as his sword arm was severed at the elbow.

"They're using tactics now?"Varric reloaded frantically. "That's cheating!"

Solas's voice was calm, but urgent. "The templar is enhancing them. Smite his connection!"

Daniel didn't need to be told twice. He channeled pure force magic into his staff and struck the ground. A shockwave rippled outward, disrupting the templar's aura. The bandits staggered, their borrowed coordination shattered.

Cassandra didn't waste the opening. She charged, her shield sending two bandits flying before she threw her sword like a javelin. The blade impaled the templar through the chest, pinning him to a tree.

The man gasped, fingers scrabbling at the steel in his ribs. "Y-You don't understand... the Order is a disgraced—"

Cassandra wrenched her sword free in a spray of blood. "Save your confession for the Maker."

With their leader dead, the remaining bandits broke. Some fled into the woods; others threw down their weapons, begging for mercy. The soldiers rounded them up, though more than a few "accidentally" earned bruises for their trouble.

Daniel leaned on his staff, catching his breath. The camp was a mess—tents burned, supplies scattered, the wounded groaning as healers moved among them.

Varric hopped down from his perch, Bianca slung over his shoulder. "Well, that was a rude wake-up call."

Solas approached, his expression grim. "They were too organized for common brigands. That templar was directing them."

Cassandra wiped her blade clean. "A deserter, no doubt. The Order's collapse has left many without purpose. Some turn to banditry. Others... worse."

Daniel's hands still trembled slightly from the adrenaline as he surveyed the battlefield. The morning air, thick with the acrid tang of smoke and blood, clung to the back of his throat. Around him, Inquisition soldiers moved with grim efficiency—hauling bodies, dousing smoldering tents, and tending to the wounded. A young recruit, no older than eighteen, retched behind a cart, his face ashen.

*First real battle,* Daniel thought. *Poor bastard.*

Then, without warning, the translucent screen flickered into existence before him:

[Bandits Slain: 7]

[EXP Gained: 42]

Daniel blinked. The numbers hovered in his vision, crisp and impersonal. Forty-two experience points.

"Maker's breath," he muttered under his breath.

Varric, who had been rifling through a dead bandit's pockets, glanced up. "You okay there, Herald? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Daniel waved a hand dismissively, willing the interface away. "Just... tallying the dead."

Varric's expression darkened. He stood, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Don't. It never helps."

Before Daniel could respond, Cassandra strode over, her armor splattered with gore. "We've secured the perimeter. No sign of additional hostiles, but we should move soon."

Daniel nodded. "Get the wounded stabilized first. And we need to deal with the bodies—burn them before they start rotting."

Cassandra's nose wrinkled slightly, but she didn't argue. "I'll see to it." She turned to bark orders at the nearest soldiers.

As she walked away, Solas materialized at Daniel's side, his staff tapping lightly against the bloodstained earth. "An efficient solution, though perhaps not the most dignified."

Daniel shot him a sidelong glance. "You have a better idea?"

Solas's lips quirked. "Not at all. Only an observation that fire purifies as much as it destroys."

Daniel wasn't sure if that was supposed to be profound or just elven wordplay. Either way, he didn't have the energy to decipher it.

The pyre was built near the tree line, a grotesque mound of tangled limbs and leather armor. Daniel stood back as a soldier tossed a lit torch onto the oil-soaked wood. Flames roared to life, their heat pressing against his skin even from a distance.

The stench was immediate—burning hair, flesh, and something sickly sweet that made his stomach turn. He forced himself to watch. These men had died by his order, his magic, his blade. The least he could do was bear witness.

Cassandra joined him, her face unreadable in the flickering light. "They would have left us for the crows."

"I know," Daniel said quietly.

"That doesn't make it easier."

"No. It doesn't."

They stood in silence as the fire crackled, the occasional pop of a bursting sinew punctuating the morning air. Nearby, Varric was scribbling in his notebook, his expression uncharacteristically somber. Solas had vanished again—probably off communing with spirits or whatever the hell he did when no one was looking.

Daniel flexed his marked hand absently. The Anchor's glow had dimmed, but the ache remained, a constant reminder of the power—and the price—thrumming beneath his skin.

The flames from the pyre cast long, flickering shadows across the camp as Daniel turned to Cassandra. The firelight painted her face in harsh lines, emphasizing the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin.

"How many wounded?" he asked, his voice rough from smoke and shouting.

Cassandra didn't hesitate. "Eight soldiers. None critical—they can march, though some will need help."

Daniel nodded, rubbing at his temple where a headache was forming. Eight wounded. Three dead. Against twenty five bandits and a rogue templar. The numbers didn't sit right in his gut.

Varric ambled over, Bianca slung across his back. "Could've been worse. That templar knew what he was doing—if you hadn't disrupted his little pep talk, we might be the ones roasting on that bonfire."

The image made Daniel's stomach twist. He'd seen enough burning bodies for one lifetime.

"We should check the bandits' belongings before we leave," Solas said, appearing as if summoned by the conversation. "That templar was no mere deserter. There may be clues to who sent him."

Cassandra's jaw tightened. "You think this was an organized attack?"

Solas's expression remained neutral, but there was a sharpness in his eyes. "I think it is unwise to assume coincidence when our enemies grow bold enough to strike at an armed Inquisition column."

Daniel exhaled sharply. "Alright. Varric, help Solas search the bodies. Cassandra, get the wounded ready to move. I want to put at least ten miles between us and this place before nightfall."

As they dispersed, Daniel found himself staring at the smoldering pyre again. The flames had died down to embers, but the stench lingered—a bitter reminder of the cost of survival.

The march resumed with a heaviness that hadn't been there before. The wounded soldiers limped along the column's center, their faces tight with pain but determined. One, a grizzled veteran with an arrow wound in his thigh, refused a stretcher outright.

"Walked off worse in Ferelden," he grunted when Daniel offered assistance. "Don't you fuss over me, Herald."

Daniel didn't have the heart to argue.

Cassandra fell into step beside him as the road wound through a narrow pass. "You're brooding again."

"Am I?"

"It's unbecoming of a leader." Her tone wasn't unkind, but it carried the weight of experience. "Doubt is necessary, but hesitation gets men killed."

Daniel shot her a sideways glance. "Is that from the Chantry's teachings, or personal experience?"

"Both." The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I've made my share of mistakes. The key is to learn from them, not let them paralyze you."

A shout from the scouts interrupted them. The lead rider came galloping back, his face flushed. "Herald! There's a village up ahead—smoke rising."

Daniel exchanged a glance with Cassandra. "Bandits?"

The scout shook his head. "Don't think so. Looks like... celebration?"

Varric perked up. "Please tell me they've got wine. I could use a drink that hasn't been used to clean wounds."

The village of Montfort was indeed celebrating. Garlands of late-summer flowers draped the gates, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air. As the Inquisition column approached, a cheer went up from the villagers gathered along the road.

A stout man in a mayor's chain rushed forward, beaming. "Inquisitions! We saw the smoke from your battle this morning and hoped you'd come our way!"

Daniel blinked. "You... hoped we'd come?"

"Of course!" The mayor clasped his hands. "That bandit band has been preying on travelers for days. You've done us a great service!"

Cassandra stepped forward, ever the diplomat. "We have wounded who could use proper beds, if you have space."

"Say no more!" The mayor waved to a group of villagers. "Marie! Fetch Sister Margot and the healers! Jacques, clear the old mill for our guests!"

As the villagers bustled to obey, Varric leaned in to whisper, "Either this is the friendliest town in Orlais, or we're about to be poisoned in our sleep."

Daniel couldn't help but chuckle. "Let's hope for the first one."

The next hours passed in a blur of hot food, fresh bandages, and—true to Varric's hopes—decent wine. The villagers treated the Inquisition soldiers like heroes, pressing gifts of bread and cheese into their hands. Children stared wide-eyed at Daniel's marked hand before being shooed away by embarrassed parents.

Solas found him there, a cup of wine untouched beside him. "You seem troubled."

Daniel sighed. "These people think we're heroes. But those bandits this morning—some of them were just kids, Solas. Younger than the recruits we lost."

"And yet they chose to attack an armed column," Solas said quietly. "Desperation explains, but does not excuse."

"That templar was controlling them."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they saw an opportunity." Solas studied the stars. "The world is breaking, Daniel. In such times, men grasp at whatever power they can—whether it be a sword, a cause, or the promises of a man in Chantry robes."

Daniel and Solas who sat on the edge of the village well, watching the festivities, the weight of the day refused to lift.

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Name : Daniel Carter

Race: Elf

Level 5 : 2475/2500 EXP

Professions: Mage

Gold Coins: 2289 coins

Weapon: Staff of the Dragon

Armor: Light Armor of the Dragon and Templar Scribe Scowl

Accessories: Token of the Packmaster and Belt of Health

Inventory: Acolyte Ice Staff, Morning Star, Stiletto, Hunting Longbow, Fire Resistance Cowl, Mercenary Coat, Acolyte Fire Staff, Disciple Lighting Staff, Apprentice Armor, Qunari Battleaxe, Raider Hatchet, 2 Disciple Fire Staff, Apprentice Mail, Qunari Buckler, Medium Adventure Armor, Mindleech Staff, Soldier's Nemesis, 2 Recruit's Dirk, Reinforced Dagger, Sledgehammer, Disciple Lighting Staff, Apprentice Armor, Exacting Longbow, Barbarian Lord Maul, Lifeward Amulet, and Grenade Belt

Crafting Materials: 37 Elfroot, 62 Iron, 2 Blue Vitriol, 1 Dawn Lotus, 11 Silk, 17 Lambswool, 3 Royal Elfroot, 10 Ram Leather, 23 Drakestone, 4 Fire Essence, 3 Blue Vitriol, 11 Canine Leather, 4 Plaidewaive, 2 Frost Essence, 1 Fade-Touched Iron, 4 Blood Lotus, 5 Embrium, 10 Spindleweed, 16 Onyx, 3 Ironbarks, 2 Crystal Grace, and 1 Serpenstone

Upgrades: Sigil of the Gamordan Stromrider and Sigil of Deathroot

Valuables: 2 Shadow Essence, 1 Ram Horn, 1 Dreamer Rag, 5 Weapon Fragment, 2 Bowstring, 8 Mysterious Shards, Nevarra Skull, 1 Wisp Essence, and 1 Wolf Fangs

Potions: Lesser Health Potions x8, Lesser Regeneration Potions x5, and x5 Lyrium Potion

Skills: Chain Lighting, Flashfire, Barrier, Winter's Grasp, and Energy Barrage

Armor Schematics: Shokra-taar Schematic, Antaam-saar Schematic, Avvar Armor Schematics Acquired, Stone-Bear Armor Schematics, Vanguard Coat Schematic, Sturdy Defender Coat Schematic, and Scout Mail Arms Schematic

Weapon Schematics: Curved Dagger Schematic and Hunting Bow Schematic

Potion Recipe: Lesser Regeneration Potion recipe and Lyrium Potion Recipe

Bottles of Thedas: Vint-9 Rowan's Rose and Carnal, 8:69 Blessed