Where We Begin...

“And as the black clouds came upon them,” Beatrice voice, heavily laden with her Ferelden accent, drifted from her lips, pale and chapped with the sea, travel and poor nourishment. “They looked on what pride had wrought,” she continued the passage, memorized as a member of the Circle without much conviction. The clouds overhead matched her description, rain falling on the courtyard outside of the Gallows, the entrance to the city. She stopped several feet away from the guards and the templars, standing rather conspicuously out from the nearest wall. The traveling cloak she wore was old but not torn, perhaps a little tattered around her feet. It was a dark color, perhaps red when clean. The clothes were poorly made bits of leather armor and the staff strapped to her back looked more like a weapon with its pointed, metal end than a tool for channeling magic.

“And despaired,” she breathed, pulling the hood back just so as her dark eyes took in her surroundings. Kirkwall. She remembered something – not much, but something – about her father being from there, or perhaps a member of his family. Kirkwall was not Ferelden and, as far as she knew she had left no trail. She had originally thought to take a ship from West Hill directly to Kirkwall but decided that would be too obvious, even with the hundreds of others fleeing the Blight. Instead, she took a ship to Cumberland and made her way from there. It was a long journey, longer than she had ever imagined taking but she walked. Her feet were blistered and probably in serious need of a tonic, but after being held up in Kinloch Hold from the age of six it was magnificent to be able to walk. With no real knowledge of survival however, it had been a very difficult excursion. She found her entrance into the city was to be no easier.

Beatrice Amell had dreamed on her way that upon arriving in Kirkwall, all would be well. Family would somehow know she existed and embrace her with open arms, she would be able to sleep on something resembling a bed and eat real food. She had managed to fight off a few ruffians on her trip but held little coin to her name. Enough, perhaps, for a room and a meal or two – if she could ever get in.

Her skin, which had once been the color of cream and smooth as silk, was now worn and darkened with her days in the sun. It looked odd, perhaps aged her even. Her hair, which had once been short and particularly curly, was now long in scraggly waves. Her eyes seemed to have lost their luster, a muddy brown instead of the color of polished wood. She knew this from glancing in water and even the mirky, moving mirror that provided revealed what her travels and trials had done to her. She had been meant for life in the Circle, she thought with a grimace. Her hands both itched and ached as she clenched her fists and subsequently straightened her fingers.

With her dreams smashed and her hopes long-since dead, she took a tentative step closer towards the steps that led into the city. Pain shot up her leg, setting her skin on fire just beneath the surface. She had been ignoring her feet for weeks now and they were finally taking revenge. Beatrice stumbled a little, setting her teeth against each other as she caught herself and straightened. She coughed unobtrusively, clearing her throat and adjusting her shoulders. Taking a quick glance around, she prayed to the Maker that she only sometimes decided to believe in that no one had taken much notice. There were probably ten other refugees milling about, not to mentions those that were already established in Kirkwall and the merchants that were allowed to sell there. She may have looked odd but perhaps not odd enough to be noticed.

It was no matter, she committed to herself. She would do anything she must to get into Kirkwall. She had to find out if what little she remembered of her father was true, she had to find somewhere to belong – and it was most certainly not going to be that ghastly building with the templars milling about it. She hadn't entirely hated her time at the Circle Tower but she had no desire to go back, especially not as an apostate with ties to blood magic - not willing ones, nor ones that anyone that hadn't been at the Circle would likely know about, she assured herself.

She took another step and kept her mouth shut tight against the pain, nails digging into her palms. She took a deep intake of breath to steady herself and released her jaw and hands, again praying to the Maker that her boots would hold up long enough to find another pair.

Doing her best to look somewhat presentable, if not entirely weary, she did the only thing she could think of. She started walking towards the stairs, the outer side as far away from the guards as possible, and hoped she would be able to blend in with a group entering.

“Maker, if You give me this I will attend services devoutly for as long as I live. I will give my time to those that are in need and I will find a way to help heal those that are sick,” she murmured to herself, so weak was her faith that she hardly thought she would have to make good on her promises. Somewhere in the back of her mind, however, she desperately wanted someone to hear her.