Sunday morning is everyday for all I care, and I'm not scared

[fortheloveoffalondin]

The excursion to the Conclave was supposed to be quick. Set a member of the Lavellan clan that would arouse no suspicion within the ranks of the Chantry scholars and long-winded magisters simply to listen, and the Dalish could potentially gain a foothold to regain control of their homelands.

A sound plan, one that might have worked, had the worst possible interloper not shown up and soundly decimated every high order member of that meeting, along with half the gods-damned mountain.

Salem had been reliving the last seconds of the scene that he could remember since he'd been dragged off and chained up. He had to find a way out, find a way home, get the hell away from this group of shems that believed him the perpetrator. As if he, a Dalish hunter with no magical ability to speak of, could have set off something like that! They wouldn't hear a word of it, no matter how he tried to explain that he couldn't explain what had happened, and eventually he just sat in resolute silence, right up until he was being dragged through the snowy mountains to see the gigantic tear in the sky.

The agony blotted out every other sense when the Anchor flared. It felt like he was dying, and having that confirmed...well. It wasn't the most comforting idea ever.

All of this was included in the letter he'd sent off to his clan. They hadn't heard a word from him in a week or more, worrying from someone who made sure to check in every couple of days via crow. He was fine now, for the most part, he'd said, but the humans here, they were all behaving as if he were some avenging angel, come to fix the world. He didn't even believe in the Maker! Alger'nan fucking save him, he was so close to storming out with both middle fingers raised. He wanted to throttle half the humans, plus the only other elf in the village. He was tired, and in the conclusion of the letter, he made a polite request for a skin full of wine to help him keep his sanity.

Salem Lavellan was a mess, a ragged pile of stress and ire, and he swore on everything under the sun's eye that if one more person called him 'Herald' today, he would lose his mind. He was content to curl up here in his tent, counting backwards from fifty and trying to doze off before something else came down on his head.