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“She's still alive right?” Davrin eyes the door to Eris' lighthouse chamber, and it doesn't take long for the rest of the Veilguard to assemble from behind, concern carved into their faces.
Nobody had seen Eris for the last two days now. The Warden had sealed herself off from the outside world, prattling on about 'relief from pressure.' On occasion, some peculiar wail or moan would puncture the silence of her hermetic stupor.
Such as now.
“Ugggggggh! Maferath's saggy great ballsack!!!” There's a loud thud, followed by the manic pitter-patter of titanic tootsies. Clearly, the room's occupant wasn't in the best mood.
“Drink the prune juice Eris!” Lace complains, foot jabbing at the mountain of cups piled outside the door. “And you need to stop straining, you'll only hurt yourself!”
“Wait, is this about... You know” Bellara can't quite say it, head bopping in the direction of her nether regions.
“Oh she can't...” It's now Neve's turn to perform a ridiculous mime, her palm sweeping downwards from her glutes. “Make room for dessert... Entice the nug from its hole?”
“Rook can't shit.” There's no beating around the bush with Taash; they always said what the other's were thinking. And like a switch had been turned press, it gives the others the permission they need to offer their 'pearls of wisdom.'
“There's a Dalish yogic exercise I can teach her. Always works for me.” Davrin suggests.
“Coffee enema.” Lucanis chips in, short and sweet, as he swirls the contents of his stoneware mug.
Both 'solutions' would appear far too tame for Emmrich, whose head is now buried within the pages of a colossal tome. Had Manfred fetched it for him? If so, his skeleton butler could move with some athletic prowess. “Splendid!” The mage exclaims, having his candlehop moment, “this is a ripe opportunity to test out a Mortalitasi necromatic siphoning technique.” He hauls the tome back to Manfred, sending the poor lad wobbling off kilter. “First things first - we dilate the anal sphincter using a salve of redmoss and and prophet's laurel. Once open, we deposit the wisp into the rectal pass-
“Ass. Wisps up her ass.” Taash cuts him off to explain in layman's terms.
“NOBODY'S SHOVING ANYTHING UP MY ARSE!” There's a muffled protest from behind the door. Despite the proximity, it hadn't occurred to them that Eris may still be privy to this conversation. “There's nothing wrong with my bowels. I just need time. Time to realise my... potential.”
Potential.
The keyword that puts the last two days into context. Palming her face, realisation dawns on Lace. “I think I know what this is about.”
Arlathan Forest – Three days earlier...
One, two, thirty-three? Lace had lost count of how many arrows she'd nocked. Her mind addled by adrenaline, as wave after wave of darkspawn flooded in. A screech heralded the arrival of a new horde, and with it the stench of fetid flesh that sullied the alpine air. Her frantic fingers fumbled for her quiver once more only to find... nothing. She'd run out. Bow discarded in a scramble for safety, she pulls back, her heels now inching off the cliffs edge.
“Lace.” Eris pants, exhausted by the relentless slog of battle. She's only mere metres away, she can get to Lace, she has to. Gripping the shaft of her axe, Eris presses forwards. Except, she doesn't budge. She can't move! Panicked eyes whip around to find the cause, and it's not quite what she expects. Betty, her beloved axe is stuck, wedged firmly within the pert, callipygian buttocks of a slain ogre
Shit shit shit!
Eris pulled, pushed, twisted, but nothing would liberate her weapon from the buns of steel. “What is your arse made of!?” Wiping a sheet of sweat from her glistening brow, Eris considered her options.
The dagger? Nah, she'd blunted that blue butter knife carving that pineapple back in Rivain. Perhaps she could just charge in, head first, like a human battering ram? It wouldn't have been the first time. That being said, her shoulder still twinged with pain, it turned out kneading dough for kachapuri was-
“Rook, we've got this!” Thought interrupted, Neve slides in all slick and suave on a sheet of ice. With a snap of a finger, clouds gathered around the horde in sinister assembly. Howls of haunting wind stirred from within, unleashing a baneful blizzard. Sinewy limbs now stood frozen in time, crystallised in the calamitous cold.
Now would have been the perfect opportunity for Eris to follow through. With hulking muscles flexing, the sky would rain down with their remains, a battlefield strewn with frigid flesh confetti. Sadly however, our hero remains inert, useless, like honking great tits on the Divine.
Bastarding badonkadonk. She cursed, throttling the shaft of the axe once more.
“Time to end this,” Bellara declared, throwing herself into the fray. With a mechanical whirr, her golden gauntlet extended, corkscrewing away from her. Pieces slotted into place, forming a bow, one ancient and avant garde in design. Unlike Lace, Bellara wouldn't have to rely on mundane arrows of birch and ash. Bellara was an artificer, a magic artificer, capable of crafting bolts of pure Fade energy. With an eagle eye, the nimble elf surveyed her quarry, and it was over in a flash. Volley after volley, shafts of light pierced the repulsive popsicles, shattering them into a thousand pieces.
Crisis averted, right? Not quite. Eris' heart leapt into her throat when she saw it - the darkspawn straggler; mottled grey skin clambering up the cliff-face, poised to drag Lace into the depths of oblivion.“Lace!!!” Eris screamed, lunging towards her position.
Arrows or not, the redhead could still handle herself. Eyes glowing lyrium blue, her palms pushed outwards. Isatunoll channelled, the jagged rock from which the ghoul hung jutted, and the force was enough to send it flying. Decibel by decibel, its blood-curdling screech faded, until it disappeared across the stretch of the horizon.
That evening in the lighthouse kitchen...
Jubilant laughter filled the air, glasses and mugs clinked in celebratory toast. Three brilliant, capable women had wielded their magic to defy the odds. But how could we forget the fourth woman? Quite easily, actually. Distinctly ordinary, and painfully unmagical, Eris sulked in the darkened corner, pouting like a petulant child.
Every time they brought up the subject of mages, the fade, 'potential,' it was was like rubbing salt in a gaping wound. Neve was the first to share the story as to how her magic manifested. The Dock Town sleuth was only eleven, when debt collectors stormed her family's shoe repair shop. Turning the place over, they demanded to know the location of her gambling addict aunt. 'A finger or two may have been lost to frostbite,' she said casually, with the same nonchalance one would describe what they ate for breakfast or the colour of their socks. It was flippant, detached, in a way that pissed Eris off all the more.
Must be nice to fart igloos, she seethed.
Of course Bellara just had to chime in with a story of her own induction into special-sparkle-magic-club. Something about a ghost story, a game of hide and seek at the age of eight, and a prankster boy who frightened her so much, she managed to slow time for the better half of a day. 'Longest day of my life,' she quipped, earning ear-splitting laughs from all. Well, except for Eris, naturally. The only sound to come out of the Warden was a peculiar milling one, as she ground her teeth to stubs.
“You done brooding?” Startled, Eris peeled her eyes from her lap to find that ball of freckled sunshine beaming back at her.
Shit. Why must you be so perceptive?
“If this is about your axe...” Lace looked off to the side, where the ogre lay. The same slain ogre from hours ago, with the same axe still cemented in its backside. “It's weird, Emmrich says butts relax when death...” It had been some mean feat hauling it through the Eluvian and into the lighthouse kitchen. Lucanis hadn't been too impressed, muttering something about 'cleanliness,' frowning at the trail of viscera left behind. “You know, Neve could pry it out, she could freeze the cheeks and-”
“This isn't about Betty!” Eris interrupted. A partial lie, for who even was Eris without her brute strength. Just a walking pair of tree-trunk sized arms, all show and no substance. Even Taash, fellow axe-wielding mountain of muscle could do the one thing she could not...
Must be nice to have magic heartburn, Eris seethed, once more. “You should have taken Taash.” She spat aloud, reaching for the bottle of wine perched next to Neve.
Gently, Lace prised it out of her grasp. Wine never did quite agree with Eris. “What does Taash have to do with anything?”
“They can do everything I can, but better. So much better. It's a different kind of potential, but it's still potential, and I... Wait... That's it!” The light of realisation shone in Eris' mind, and she shot up to her feet, knocking her poor lover square on the arse. “My mother... maman... Lace! I have it. Potential!!!”
It's true, Eris Thorne does come from a line of women 'touched by the fade.' Her grandmother, Manon DuPlessis, was blessed with the power to conjure flames. Wild, uncontrollable flames that nearly burnt their ancestral château to a crisp, but magical fire nonetheless. As for her mother, Aurélie, she could discharge lightning bolts from her fingertips, conjuring the most catastrophic of tempests this side of Thedas. That's when the tiny, sex-obsessed Orlesian could be bothered to show off her 'neat little party trick', that is.
Surely Eris is more than brawn and biceps, she just hadn't reached magical maturity yet. Eight, eleven, thirty-two, what is it they say – that age is just a number? Maybe it still lay dormant within her, waiting for that one emotional trigger. “This pressure, I'll finally relieve myself of it.” Resolute, she sprinted across the kitchen floor towards the sanctuary of her chamber.
“Prune juice, Eris, don't make me say it again, prune juice!!!” Lace barked, fearing for her girlfriend's bowels.
Eris' Lighthouse Chamber – The present day...
“BOLLOCKING ARSE BANDIT!”
Eris peels yet another mouse trap from her swollen fingers, flinging it across the room, where it lands on a sizeable pile with the others.
Okay, let's do this again. Just wait Eris. Wait for the magic to happen.
Brow furrowed, she sits in silence and waits... and waits some more... How long, she's not sure. It's hard to keep track of time, given she hasn't seen sunshine in what feels like days. For all she knows, half of Thedas could have gone to rack and ruin while Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain party likes it's 09:52.
Undoubtedly it'd be her fault. Her unmagical fault.
Hang on, something's happening!
There's a flutter, something churning from within. Is this it, her ancestral connection to the fade coming to fruition.
GrrroWwwwllLL
Nope. Just hunger. In her dishevelled state, she'd obviously neglected to eat. As well as wash, sleep, change her underwear, and you know, stop the impending Armageddon that doomed them all. But that could clearly wait.
With a heavy sigh, she concedes that pain wasn't the answer - the emotional trigger to ignite her magical awakening. Fumbling with a quill, she crosses it off the list; a list of failed experiments that only grows longer, documented on reams of parchment in chicken-scratch handwriting. Maybe in thousands of years, archaeologists will uncover it, and it'll be studied as the eccentricities of a primitive barbarian.
Barbarian.
Quite a fitting descriptor, the more Eris thinks about it. Brutish. Graceless. Unrefined. Perhaps she'll have her body taxidermied and dressed in nothing but a loin cloth. The plaque on her museum display reading 'Ugg Ugg – HomoStupidus.'
I'm nothing like maman, she sighs.
Grey eyes settle on the wall above the dresser, where the visage of a woman stares back. It is an undeniably striking portrait. Masterful brush strokes create a play on light, giving the painted woman an eerily life-like appearance. Her long locks of raven hair flow generously behind a crown braid, cascading across her slender pale neck. Neither smiling nor frowning, she's a woman of mystery – forever cryptic in her disposition. So Eris once thought. Now all she sees behind those deep, nut-brown eyes is shame. Shame for having birthed a daughter so repugnantly unremarkable.
Eris so desperately wishes that she can accept her fate. Accept that it skipped a generation, and move on. Surely she can still be useful? With her grip strength, she could juice oranges with ease, saving the team from the perils of scurvy. And with her height, she'd be great at giving 'uppies,' like a lovely human-shaped viewing platform. Plus, she can always carry stuff. The team will need a pack mule, and she's pretty sure she can carry more than Manfred...
“Who am I kidding!?” Choking back a sob, she leans forwards to bury her head in her lap, gently rocking back and forth. Unfortunately, the motion disturbs something by her feet, creating a faint clattering noise. Assessing the damage, that's when she sees it – the overturned jug of milk. The celebratory drink she'd been saving. Saving for her induction into magichood. Distraught eyes watch on as the white liquid slips further away from her, pooling within the gaps between the floor-tiles. It's the straw that breaks the dracolisk's back, and the floodgates open. Fat tears roll down her cheeks as Eris ugly cries over literal spilt milk.
Pathetic.
Little did Eris know that her dairy disaster would be it. The one catalyst. The one spark. The one moment that would change her life forever. It's time for Eris Thorne's magical girl transformation sequence.
A few moments later...
The rest of the Veilguard remain assembled outside Eris' chamber, disturbed by the strange squealing emanating from within.
“Is she torturing a nug in there?” Davrin asks, earning a wave of shrugs from the others.
“That's it.” Taash has clearly had enough, “I'm breaking the door down.” Taking a few steps back to give themselves enough distance, they ready their shoulder and charge. It doesn't take much for the door to relent, swinging wide open to beckon their entrance.
One by one they enter, taking careful steps as not to break a leg on all the random crap strewn across the floor. Furniture turned over on its side, clothes and knick knacks scattered to the winds, it was as though the room had been beset by a stampede of drufallo.
“Smells worse than a dragon cooch,” Taash complains, scowling at the noxious odour permeating the air. If one had to describe it, it was like a thousand sweaty feet had coalesced in a musty, mold-infested brothel.
“I'm sleeping near a rotting ogre, yet this is somehow worse.” Lucanis agrees, burying his nose in his collar.
Eris however remains deaf to their grievances. Sat on the settee with her back to them, she twitches and jitters, speaking in tongues as if under some demonic possession.
“Eris, babe, are you... Okay?” Lace creeps ever-so-slowly to where her lover sits.
“Did the thing, I did. Yes! Yes! Yes!” Leaping to her feet, Eris turns to them, spittle flying from her mouth with each enthused 'yes!'
“Maker's breath, the blight, it's finally taken her!” Emmrich exclaims, edging towards the door.
Much like the room she inhabited, Eris too was in shambles. Strands of raven hair stood up on all ends, while bloodshot eyes housed manic pupils that dart up, down, left and right, as if trying to escape the confines of her skull. Then there was the matter of her attire, or lack of. Apart from her Warden tunic, caked in all manner of weird and wonderful stains, down below, she's wearing nothing more than a pair of pink-frilly bloomers.
“Eris, we've been over this before, put some damn pants on.” A weary Lace pinches the bridge of her nose, babysitting her girlfriend is always a mammoth task. “I don't care if it helps you 'concentrate' better, the others don't need to see.”
Staggering past her lover, Eris has more important matters to attend to than preserving what semblance modesty remains. “Milk! Yes my precious, bring us the milksies. Now, we needs it now!” Batshit. Deranged. She shakes Manfred's skeletal shoulders back and forth with such ferocity it's a wonder she didn't snap the poor boy in half. Turning on his heels, he doesn't need to be told twice, as he scampers down the corridor.
“What are these?” Bellara's index finger traces the chalk-drawn diagrams covering the wall from floor to ceiling. Lines, shapes, patterns, all utterly impenetrable and esoteric, even to Eris herself. Within the shapes are words; nouns that specifically convey emotions or sensations – pain, happiness, fear, anger, gigil and... “Horse Play?” Bellara questions, “horseplay is one word, not two.”
“Thorough-bread Passion by Carriv Terthas?” Bending down, Neve picks up a book from the floor, the trashy cover depicts a buxom princess cradling a mare with freakishly long eyelashes.
Lace rubs circles into her temple, sensing the onset of another headache. “Ugh that... It's Eris' favourite novel about an Orlesian princess who falls in love with her chambermaid. A chambermaid who transforms into a horse every time she eats baguette.”
“The pages...” Grimacing, Neve tries to skim through the book, to no avail, “why are some of them sticky and stuck together?”
“Burn it,” Lace all too readily suggests, glancing in Taash's direction.
But there'd be no book burnings of questionable horse-erotica, as Manfred delivers the milk in record time. Prostrating himself on his boney knees, he presents the jug with such pomp and ceremony you'd think he was offering her the crown jewels of Orlais.
Eris' own delighted hiss matches her skeletal friends, and in one sudden, unexpected swipe, she punts it from his hands, squealing with demented glee as the contents spill by Davrin's feet.
“Fenedhis! What in the hells are you-” Davrin's reprimand is cut short however when they all witness the most majestic, awe-inspiring display of magical aptitude to ever grace their sensory organs.
A faint hum sounds, followed by the rippling cascade of glassy chimes. A sort of ethereal resonance that could spell one thing and one thing only – magic. Little by little the milk retreats from the stub of Davrin's toe, coalescing in a neatly contained puddle. The air around feels different now – heavy, claggy, as though the lighthouse sleeps under a blanket of torrid moisture. As the chimes culminate into a crescendo, the puddle leaps into the air, soaring high like a lactose lavished skylark. It takes on a shimmering, golden hue before rupturing into thousands of tiny droplets, each darting to and fro in a dazzling firefly display. Then the climax – crashing into one another, they lose their lustre; gold dulling to muted yellow. There's a thud, as the final product falls to the floor.
Cheese.
A wheel of cheese, to be precise.
“Voilà!” Beaming from ear to ear, Eris takes pride in her accomplishment. Expectant eyes look to the others, awaiting the heaps of praise and validation she is sure to get.
Except, there's none of that. No surprised exclamations, no gasps of awe or rounds of applause. Just silence. An inordinate silence. No one knowing quite what to say. Perhaps it's the prevailing awkwardness of it all, or a sense of social obligation, but Bellara is the first to relent. “Oh! Wow. So is this transmutation, you know, breaking down matter into its prima materia to transubstantiate into new corporeal entities in line with the law of equivalent exchange?”
Eris blinks twice, you can practically hear the howling wind in the gap where her brain should be. “Cheese!” The Warden insists, jazz hands waving over the wheel as if to say 'are you not entertained?' This is the culmination of her life's work, why weren't they getting it?
“Yes Rook, cheese, very good!” Emmrich's tone is a little too effusive for Eris' liking. Almost bordering on, dare she say, condescension. “I'm not one to ingest animal products myself, but I'm sure the others will partake should our pantry necessitate it.” With a pat on the shoulder he leaves with Manfred in tow.
“Ahem.” Neve clears her throat. “Well done. Honestly, I'm surprised you managed something given how old you are,” Neve's backhanded compliment does nothing to inspirit a now crestfallen Eris. The detective too takes her leave, the others quick to follow suit, muttering lame excuses like -
'I need to workout,'
'The Eluvian needs recalibrating,'
'I've got a carving to finish,' and
'There's a pile of decomposing darkspawn entrails I should clean before you all get blight sickness.'
Someone still remains. A gorgeous, befreckled dwarf with a mane of molten-copper hair. If Eris can depend on anyone to celebrate her successes, it'll be Lace Harding; former Inquisition scout, emissary of Isatunoll and soul mate. Lace's gloved hand reaches down towards the wheel to tear off a small chunk. Popping the morsel into her mouth, she closes her eyes and... just stays there, completely still, locked in a meditative trance.
Time. So much bloody time passes that Eris regrets holding her breath. Eventually, Lace's eyes blow wide open. Wide like a binary star system.
“So, Lace, as you can see-”
Lace however is gone. Wordlessly she dashed out of the chamber at breakneck speed. Just like that, Eris' panacea, the one person she thought she could depend on has abandoned her.
Who was I ever kidding? Eris internally bemoans, sitting with her back pressed against the wardrobe, you're a fool Eris Thorne, you always have been. “Fuck cheese!”
Eris would cry, but the tap has run dry. All that's left is the hollow emptiness of defeat.
Hello darkness my old friend.
But before she can wallow in the stupor once more, the door swings open with intense fervour. On the boundary stands Lace, or what you can make out of her. All four feet and eight inches concealed behind a dinner trolley piled high with milk jugs, crackers and grapes. With a wicked smile, the dwarf locks the door behind her before making a beeline for the portrait of Aurélie. “Sorry Ms. DuPlessis.” Unhooking the canvas from the wall, she flips it over, shielding maternal eyes from the carnal cheese-bender that's about to go down.
“Eris Thorne, will you brie mine?”