Many times was she told, Better control yourself, if ever you wish to control your magic. Control she has, the steady thrum of her anger fall too familiar and too raw, in ways it had rarely been before the Spire, save where the Dalish were concerned. The Dalish, who took and took, and who even as refugees came to their gates who had been injured by the Dalish, were allowed influence within the walls of the Inquisition. Perhaps if they killed more humans it would be of greater consequence. (Even with the bitterness of the thought that she will not remember until later, that does not have time to register now and simply passes as a ripple beneath the surface, Herian knows that she is still not more than a half-breed.)
The maze of thoughts will come later. Now there is only one thing true in her mind and it is her own father, bloodied and mutilated in the dirt, and a blade at the corner of her mouth.
Her grip tightens on the Heart of Rage, and she yells with exertion as the enemy mage's robes begin to smoulder and flames lick over the cloth to consume it. He cannot save himself from fire and a Templar, even if she is still slowed by the vines, using the Spirit Blade to slice through them. If does not take long, but time does not weigh the same as a battle as it might elsewhere.
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Many times was she told, Better control yourself, if ever you wish to control your magic.
Control she has, the steady thrum of her anger fall too familiar and too raw, in ways it had rarely been before the Spire, save where the Dalish were concerned. The Dalish, who took and took, and who even as refugees came to their gates who had been injured by the Dalish, were allowed influence within the walls of the Inquisition. Perhaps if they killed more humans it would be of greater consequence. (Even with the bitterness of the thought that she will not remember until later, that does not have time to register now and simply passes as a ripple beneath the surface, Herian knows that she is still not more than a half-breed.)
The maze of thoughts will come later. Now there is only one thing true in her mind and it is her own father, bloodied and mutilated in the dirt, and a blade at the corner of her mouth.
Her grip tightens on the Heart of Rage, and she yells with exertion as the enemy mage's robes begin to smoulder and flames lick over the cloth to consume it. He cannot save himself from fire and a Templar, even if she is still slowed by the vines, using the Spirit Blade to slice through them. If does not take long, but time does not weigh the same as a battle as it might elsewhere.