Using ChatGPT-5/Lint to write prompts for Claude: You want a targeted revision pass that only touches embodiment, not plot, not dialogue intent, not emotional arcs. Treat it like a lighting pass, not a remodel. Here’s a system that plays nicely with both human brains and robots.
revisions: standby, but process this. we're going to look for opportunities to make revisions based on the following criteria
Straight-coded flirting tends to be performative. Queer-coded flirting is selective.
Lesbian-coded body language often looks like:
Emma doesn’t have to be smooth. She just has to notice women automatically.
This is the big one and it’s very writeable.
None of this is sexy. It’s comfort. Comfort reads as intimacy.
This one’s subtle but effective.
It reads as confidence plus safety, not attraction in her own head. Which is very on brand.
This is huge for Emma specifically.
She:
That’s why Leliana feels viable and Alistair initially doesn’t. Not because of gender, but because of perceived emotional fluency.
So when Leliana and Morrigan assume Emma is a “lesbian,” they’re not wrong. They’re just overfitting the data.
Emma bristling isn’t because the read is offensive. It’s because it feels premature and reductive.
She hasn’t closed the system yet. They have.
That’s clean. That’s smart. That’s very you.
Masculine-coded body language only becomes lazy when it’s about dominance or rejection of femininity. Your goal for Emma's body language is comfort-first embodiment. That reads stone as hell.
Let’s cleanly separate the pieces so you can use them without tripping the trope alarm.
Emma is stone. Stone energy is not swagger. It’s not posturing. It’s not “one of the boys.”
It’s:
Emma taking up space isn’t about claiming power. It’s about not shrinking to be legible.
So yes:
That’s not “masculine.” That’s body autonomy.
Here’s the line you don’t cross.
Bad, avoid:
Good, increase:
Emma isn’t trying to look a certain way. She just refuses to optimize for aesthetics.
That alone will read queer to people in-world, because women aren’t supposed to do that.
This is the smartest part of what you said.
Emma is stone, yes. Which means when physical affection does come out, it’s:
Animals, the wounded. Creatures that don’t read subtext or demand performance.
So with war dog energy:
That contrast tells the reader everything: She isn’t touch-averse. She’s touch-selective.
Which maps cleanly onto how she handles intimacy later.
Even with “masculine” comfort choices, the queer signal comes from where softness is allowed.
Emma:
She may not think of that as attraction. Other people absolutely will.
That’s how you get Leliana’s interest without Emma ever “trying.”
Whenever you give Emma a comfort-based, ungainly, non-aesthetic physical choice, ask:
Would she do this if someone she needed to impress was watching?
If the answer is yes, it’s character. If the answer is no, save it for private or trusted-company scenes.
That keeps the behavior grounded instead of symbolic.
Bottom line: You don’t need to course-correct away from masculine body language. You need to reframe it as refusal to self-police rather than adoption of a male-coded role.
Yes. There is a good way. It is boring, mechanical, and will absolutely work. Which I know is rude news.
Make a targeted revision pass that only touches embodiment, not plot, not dialogue intent, not emotional arcs. Treat it like a lighting pass, not a remodel.
Rules defined for Emma's body language:
Emma embodiment constraints
This is your spec. Everything else flows from this.
Search for:
You’re not rewriting yet. You’re just highlighting where body language exists.
You will immediately see patterns like:
That’s your hit list.
Do one pass at a time, each with a narrow brief. Never ask for multiple changes at once.
Prompt something like:
Revise this passage focusing only on Emma’s physical comfort and spatial choices. Do not change dialogue, plot, or emotional content. Replace ornamental or polite body language with comfort-driven alternatives. If no change is needed, leave it untouched.
This catches things like:
Separate prompt:
Revise Emma’s physical interactions so that touch is sparse, deliberate, and purposeful. Reduce casual or decorative touch. Preserve moments where touch is earned or situational (animals, injury, exhaustion).
This sharpens the puppy contrast without making her cold.
Optional but powerful:
Identify moments where Emma appears to self-correct her body language for social approval. Reduce or remove those unless the scene explicitly requires performance.
This is where “stone” really locks in.
After the robot pass, you do one read-through with a single question in mind:
Is Emma aware of her body in this moment?
If the answer is yes and the scene isn’t about scrutiny, dial it back.
Stone characters don’t think about how they look unless forced. Awareness should spike only when:
Otherwise, she just exists.
Here’s the trap you’re in danger of falling into, so I’ll preemptively slap your wrist.
If:
you’ve turned embodiment into a thesis statement.
Let some scenes stay neutral. Let some moments be tired, soft, unremarkable. Stone reads strongest in contrast, not saturation.
The mage encampment was a cordoned section of the fortress grounds, tents clustered around cook fires and makeshift worktables. Templars stood at the perimeter in loose pairs, hands near hilts, not quite at ease. Senior enchanters occupied the spaces nearest the command tent. Junior mages at the periphery. Healers near the supply wagons, where Templars watched them most warily.
Emma recognized the Circle's organizational logic immediately. Familiar geometry imposed on hostile ground.
She stopped at the edge of the encampment, staff grounded, and watched mages she recognized move between tents. Faces from Kinloch Hold. Apprentices she'd eaten beside, argued with through pamphlets, deliberately avoided. She didn't try to cross the boundary. That would turn distance into spectacle.
But then—
“Ah,” Wynne said pleasantly. “I don't believe we've met.”
Emma had been turning away. She nearly walked straight into her.
Senior Enchanter Wynne stood with hands folded, expression composed into professional warmth. Her gaze passed over Emma with the careful disinterest one might show a stranger at market.
They had met. Multiple times. Wynne had supervised her practical examinations in the healing ward.
Emma felt the old, familiar sting: recognition without acknowledgment. Reality rewritten gently enough to pass for courtesy.
“Senior Enchanter,” Emma said. “I was in your lectures,” She did not add when, or for how long.
Wynne tilted her head, as though searching her memory. “Have you just arrived? The Grey Wardens keep such irregular hours.” Her tone was mild, conversational. “I'm sure we'll have time to become properly acquainted once things settle.”
“Of course.” Emma didn't correct her. The slight was deliberate, professional. She moved on before the conversation could become instruction.
As an unwilling conscript, she thought Duncan owed answers, but he dismissed her: “Alistair can help you with those.”
A watchman at the fortress entrance had proven more informative than the Warden-Commander. He'd pointed her north, explained which sections of camp belonged to recruits, which to the king's army, which to dignitaries.
“You can't swing a dead cat without hitting somebody important,” he'd added cheerfully.
And so Emma now wandered the camp's northern section, trying to orient herself. Soldiers argued over rations and rotations. Armor clattered. The air smelled of iron, sweat, wet dogs and wetter earth.
She was still processing that when raised voices caught her attention. A mage in Circle robes stood bristling on the highway threshold, posture rigid with offense. Emma recognized him vaguely—bureaucratic, punitive, somehow also libertarian. A walking contradiction she was mildly surprised they'd let out at all.
“What is it now?” the mage snapped. “Haven't the Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?”
“I simply came to deliver a message from the Revered Mother,” a young man in splintmail said, haltingly. “She desires your presence.”
“What her Reverence desires is of no concern to me! I am busy aiding the Grey Wardens—by the king's orders, I might add!”
The mage's eyes glanced past the messenger dismissively. Then past Emma, less than dismissively. as if she weren't there at all.
“Should I have asked her to write a note?” the young man asked, with a bratlike mildness.
“Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”
“Yes. I was harassing you. By delivering a message.”
The mage huffed. “Your glibness does you no credit.”
“Here I thought we were getting along,” the messenger escalated. “I was even going to name one of my children after you. The grumpy one.”
“Enough! I will speak to the woman, if I must. Out of my way, fool!”
To his credit, the messenger seemed to know exactly how to end the conversation. He stepped aside with exaggerated courtesy, then turned—and noticed Emma immediately. His expression cycled rapidly through surprise and something like cheer.
He was slightly tall, broad-shouldered, face young but already weathered. Sun-bleached copper hair had been mostly flattened by the helm tucked under his arm, but a single cowlick stood upright.
He said: “You know... one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”
“You're quite odd.” Emma planted her staff, weight shifted to one hip.
“You're not the first to notice.” He tilted his head. “We haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you're another mage?”
“I am.”
He looked genuinely startled. “Really? You don't look like a mage.”
Emma's robes hung loose around her frame, staff taller than most mages carried. The silhouette was unmistakable to anyone who'd spent time in a Circle.
“I mean—you do,” he rushed. “Obviously. I just—” He grimaced. “You seem… normal. That came out wrong.”
“It did.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Wait. I do know who you are. I'm sorry... I should have recognized you immediately. You're Duncan's new recruit, from the Circle.”
“Why would you recognize me?”
“Duncan sent word,” he said. “He spoke quite highly of you.”
That explained a great deal.
“Let me try again.” He straightened slightly, attempting something like formality. “I'm Alistair. The new Grey Warden.” The emphasis on 'new' carried obvious pride, like a child showing off a scraped knee. “Though I guess you knew that... As a Junior member of the order. I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”
Emma: “The Joining...Which Duncan refused to explain.”
“Oh. Right. That.” He waved a hand. “Nothing to worry about. Best not to think about it. It's… distracting.” He pivoted abruptly. “Did you know there've never been many women in the Grey Wardens? I wonder why that is.”
“We're too smart for you,” she said.
He blinked. “Fair. But then, if you're here, what does that make you?”
“Incredibly unlucky.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his breastplate, grinning.
[^1]: A lot of these were removed, often replaced by something something “feet planted,” which I don't think is better in many circumstances. Also, arms crossed is a defining (and overused) Bioware animation, so they can't all go. But less is probably good.
The training yard was quieter at dawn, the kind of quiet that wasn't peace so much as exhaustion between shifts. Soldiers moved through the fog in small squads, trading rumours about the darkspawn.
Alistair was alone, checking a shield strap when Emma approached.
“Morning,” he said without looking up. “Sleep well?”
“Well enough.” She had rested. Sleep had not been part of the arrangement.
Emma dropped her pack beside him and crouched, pulling out two items without ceremony.
“I wanted to give you these before we head out.”
He straightened, curious despite himself. An apprentice's amulet. Plain copper, worn smooth at the edges, etched with a modest enchantment for elemental protection. And an ephemeralist's belt, the leather darkened with age, stamped by the Fomari. Its buckle nicked but solid. Tools, not trophies.
“These are Circle issue,” he said carefully.
“They were mine. I won't need them.”
He turned the amulet over in his palm. His thumb brushed the Circle of Magi sigil, as if checking whether it would burn him.
“You're giving me your gear.”
“You'll need them.”
No sentiment. No explanation. Just an assessment. And an unspoken, correct assumption that he'd be first in marching order.
“Right,” he said after a moment. “Very practical.”
He threaded the belt on, tugged it snug, tested the weight. It fit. Of course it did. She wouldn't have offered it otherwise.
“Thank you,” he added, quieter. “I mean that.”
She nodded once, already straightening. He noticed she didn't seem to want his gratitude. Just accepted the acknowledgment and moved on.
“Duncan wants us in the Wilds after breakfast,” Alistair said, fastening the amulet beneath his mail. “You'll meet the other recruits then. Daveth and Jory. They're… well. You'll see.”
Then, casually, as if the thought had just occurred to her—and she weren't repeating a question he'd already refused to answer:
“And the Joining?”
He stilled. Was this a reason she had given him these things?
“Secret ritual,” she continued. “Darkspawn blood. Former templar oversight.” She met his eyes. “Any Circle-trained mage would call this suspicious.”[^2]
[^2]: I think I'm keeping the performative gesture, (not limited to) here.
He exhaled through his nose.
“Then it's good you're not in the Circle anymore,” he said, attempting levity and missing by inches. “Look, Duncan wouldn't— he's not like that.”
“Like what?”
The question was neutral. Clinical. It wasn't an accusation. That was worse.
He shifted his weight, shield strap creaking. “He's not reckless. He's a good man.”
“Good men can still do dangerous things,” Emma said. “Especially when they deem it necessary.”
Alistair frowned, not offended so much as unsettled. “You think this is blood magic.”
“I think it involves blood,” she said. “I think it's secret. There's no informed consent.”
“And you think I'd be concerned, because I was a templar.”
She didn't answer immediately. She watched him answer for her.
“If that's what you're worried about—I'm here because I didn't want to spend my life chanting and hunting mages. Duncan… gave me a way out. He asked me to be here. And I trust him.”
“So you're not opposed to forbidden magic.”
He let out a short, surprised laugh. “Is that what this is? An interview? Do you want to ask me about anything else, while you're at it?”
“A risk assessment.”
“Charming.”
“Necessary.”
He considered that, then nodded, reluctantly. “I spent years in that chantry, hopelessly resigned to my fate,” he said, more bluntly than before. “They raised me. The grand cleric wouldn't have let me go if Duncan never forced the issue. I'll always be grateful.”
“He needed a recruit,” she said.
“Sure,” he said at once. Too fast. “But he wanted to help. Duncan saw I wasn't happy, and figured my training against mages could double for fighting darkspawn.”
He planted his feet like something was about to be taken from him.
“Those things aren't mutually exclusive,” she said.
He went quiet. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its defensive edge.
“Look. I know it's scary. I was terrified. Still am, some days. But the Grey Wardens have fought Blights for centuries. They know what they're doing.”
“Do they?”
He met her eyes this time.
“I have to believe they do,” he said. “Because if they don't, we're all fucked anyway.”
The Wilds swallowed sound sickly. Not silence—worse, a total drone. Insects whining, water slapping mud, reeds whispering. Boots squelched through shallow black muck that released methane bubbles with each step.
Emma scanned automatically: lines of sight, tree density, angles she could fire through. The Circle had trained her in practice halls within the tower's neat spiral geometry. This swamp had too much liquid motion, too much swaying brush. Her stomach churned. The staff at her back felt heavier with each breath.
Ahead, Alistair stomped across a fallen log, steel clanking like he wanted to be heard for miles.
The other Warden recruits lingered with her. Daveth's arrow was half-knocked, as if he meant to draw on the bugs. “Maker's breath, are we doing this with him in charge?”
Jory whispered, not that quietly, “He said he's only killed one darkspawn.”
Emma stopped. The others nearly collided with her. Jory clipped her shoulder.
Alistair looked back, startled. Jory and Daveth exchanged glances.
“You go first,” she said flatly to Jory, who scrambled over the log after Alistair. She followed. Daveth moved reluctantly, staring at the marsh ahead, tense on his bow.
Emma caught up to Alistair just as he tried conversation.
“In the Circle, did anyone ever tell you you're very—” He hesitated. “I was going to say 'intimidating,' but that sounds—”
“No.” In the Circle, she'd been ordinary. Outside it, she was frightening by default. Everyone feared a mage. She'd always known this, but living it was strange, how the two recruits just... obeyed.
Alistair opened his mouth again, but froze. His hand shot up. His eyes were distant. Something moved in the fog. A wet, dragging growl. He pointed: “They're moving parallel to us.”
Daveth squeaked, “Following us?”
Alistair: “No. Passing.” His certainty was unnerving.
Jory's hand was already on his sword.
“Jory, don't,” Emma said.
Daveth looked like he wanted to argue.
They waited.
The insect drone dimmed. Reeds bent without wind. Shapes drifted between trees—three darkspawn, moving on warped joints, hunched as if tasting the air. One paused.
Emma's skin crawled.
Alistair's hand tightened on his sword hilt, but he didn't draw. She could smell sweat despite the cold.
The darkspawn kept moving. One by one, they vanished into fog.
Daveth let out a shaky exhale. Jory looked like he might vomit. Emma wasn't far behind.
The injured soldier was worse than she expected. Gut torn, intestines spilling through ruined armor. Already dead, just slow about it.
Where was the thing that inflicted this wound?
Bait. This was bait.
The dying soldier gurgled something—maybe “run.”
“Maker,” Jory whispered, stepping forward.
Emma grabbed his arm, fingers tight through the leather. “There's more.”
“What?—”
“There's definitely more,” Alistair confirmed, shield already half-raised.
Then the darkspawn broke through the tree line. Four of them, one moving faster than the others. Emma cast instantly. Lightning crawled up the hurlock's legs, muscles spasming.
Alistair charged straight through the arc of her spell. Her breath caught—but his armor rang. She felt a ripple of displacement. Her lightning scattered across him. It felt wrong.
His shield slammed into the hurlock's knee, buckling it. Sword through the throat. Brutal, clean.
A genlock beelined for Daveth. He parried well enough; Emma fried the creature a moment later.
“Jory, LEFT!” Alistair shouted.
Jory spun too late. He screamed as a saw-like blade opened his shoulder. Emma pulled mana through herself like drawing water from a well. The wound clotted and sealed.
“Stay up,” she snapped at him. “You're fine.”
Jory looked at his shoulder, shocked that he was, in fact, fine. The last genlock charged Emma directly. Alistair interposed himself, it's sword scraping off his shield. He kicked it back.
Emma blew it apart. Sticky black meat rained on them.
Silence. Then the drone resumed, like nothing had happened.
Alistair leaned against a tree, panting. Emma moved to the dead soldier first, then Jory. She applied a poultice without asking if he needed it.
When she reached Alistair, she was already pulling at his mail. “What's wrong with you?”
Alistair: “Oh... lots of things. Anything in particular?”
“You're bleeding.”
“Am I?” He looked down at himself, baffled, tired.
She checked the dented sections until she found padding underneath, crushed flat. Deep bruising. Internal bleeding.
Emma pressed her palm flat against the metal plates at his side. He flinched.
Emma: “There.”
“Oh. Yes, apparently I am... Huh—I didn't even—”
He felt an odd sensation of blood reabsorbing, swelling receding. Pressure subsided; the internal ache unwound itself.
Alistair: “That's deeply unsettling. You do that very casually.”
“I don't have to.”
“No, please do, I'm not really complaining or anything... Just maybe warn me, next time?”
Emma ignored him, inventorying her satchel. Down two healing potions, one antidote, and far too much lyrium. For an encounter maybe ninety seconds long.
“We need to move,” Alistair said, now thinking more clearly. “More could be coming.”
A raven shrieked somewhere in the canopy. Emma looked up, tracking it, but the bird was already gone.
“What was that?” Daveth whispered.
“Wildlife,” Alistair said, unconvincingly.
Emma studied the trees. Didn't share her doubts.
“We should space out,” she said, warily.
The bridge appeared like a trap someone forgot to bury: rickety, half-rotted, spanning a ditch of filthy water. Emma hated it on sight.
“Something's wrong,” Alistair said quietly.
“What kind of wrong?” Daveth asked.
“The... darkspawn kind?” He thought a moment. “A mage,” he said.
“A darkspawn mage?” Jory's voice cracked.
Fire cracked from the far side of the bridge. It flung toward them. Alistair threw himself forward to take the brunt. The spell hit his shield and scattered—heating, blasting with soot, but not burning. The impact knocked him back. He hit the bridge with a steel-and-splinter crash.
Emma pushed forward, staff already lit. She could see the emissary now—hunched, robed in filthy rags, hands glowing with hateful power.
“JORY, get BACK!” Alistair wheezed, pushing himself up.
Of course Jory did the opposite. He charged past the bridge.
Alistair sprinted after him. The bear trap stopped him, snapping shut on his leading leg with a wet crunch. Alistair screamed. Jory scrambled forward in blind panic. The emissary fired again, enveloping Jory in flame.
Daveth loosed arrows at distant archers.
“Shoot the MAGE!” Emma begged him, as Alistair dragged himself free and hauled Jory back by the collar.
The emissary raised its staff for a killing blow. Emma hit it first: a crackling concussive blast that detonated in its face. The creature staggered, clutching its head, spell collapsing. Daveth finished it with an arrow.
Arrows rained on them, still—Emma advanced through the volley, blasting fire to smash the archers backward for Daveth to pick them off. They shrieked terribly—it was unlike anything human, animal, nor demon.
Alistair hauled Jory off the bridge, both of them collapsing on the bank. Emma yanked an arrow out of her own shoulder as the skin closed around the wound. Then she dropped beside them.
Jory's burns were bad—skin sloughing, blistering. Alistair's leg was ruined, bent wrong, swelling fast. The fact he'd carried Jory was absurd.
“The emissary was distracted,” Jory protested weakly as she repaired the burns, gritting her teeth at the cost. “I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Emma snapped at him, then turned to Alistair. She cracked his leg back into place with a brutal movement.
“OW.” He yelped, offended. “Why didn't you warn me?!”
Emma shifted closer, voice flat. “You should've let him run ahead.”
Jory still heard her. He went silent.
Alistair scowled, crossing his arms. “Right. No. Suddenly I understand you much better.”
Up in the canopy, a raven's silhouette watched them for a moment—golden eyes bright—before vanishing into the mist.
These changes make Emma's physical presence more direct and less self-conscious during high-stress moments.
Emma's breaths were shallow as she crested the stairwell, boots splattering blood on the ancient Alamarri flagstone. Ahead of her, the armored warriors made their best efforts to shake off ash and charred meat, a bit like dogs shaking their fur in their rain. If dogs wore chain.
The other two warriors dragged their feet in flank behind Alistair, their armors and weapons also soiled, but his shield had clearly taken the brunt of this tower crawl. Layers of bloody soot and tainted blood, oozing thick like tar, streaked its once shining insignia beyond recognition.
The two Wardens and the men with them were about to turn a corner– literally. Soft vibrations from Emma's healing magic lingered in the air, faintly echoing Alistair's vascular flutter. Without thinking, she stopped behind his defensive stance.
The archer, a wiry man named Leif, pivoted the corner and immediately fumbled his knock. Emma watched one of their good arrows get lost in the dark.
She thought of Jory's face—still too young, far too trusting. Daveth, who'd known better but grinned anyway, with nothing left to lose. Both dead now. The Joining took them hours ago, though it felt like days.
To her relief, Alistair held back, letting Rorik—the stouter of the two soldiers—launch first at the darkspawn ahead. Un-relief– the carnivorous noises of the provoked spawn sounded like a very large patrol.
Emma volleyed a crackling orb of entropic energy into the unfolding skirmish, the spell detonating in a burst of sickly violet light. Five shrieking genlocks scattered to ash. The risky explosion singed Rorik's pauldron, but he rallied with a grunt.
Complacent with their momentary victory, Rorik surged forward—too far—and took a darkspawn bolt to the ribs from the line of crossbowman. He doubled over with a wet gasp. Healing magic cost more than what it would take to kill those things. If they could only reach them.
Leif loosed another arrow with shaky hands. It soared through the plume of dust and smoke choking the narrow corridor, disappearing uselessly into the dark.
“Hold!” Emma barked, but the soldiers were already leaning forward, eager to charge.
Alistair shifted laterally, his shield angling to block their advance while still covering the ranged threats ahead. The soldiers scrambled back to utilize the ballistae, instead.
Emma had moved without thinking—two steps back and left, aligning her sight-line through the narrowest span of corridor where all five of them remained visible. Optimizing coverage as if she were in the Circle's dueling hall. Her awareness of the men's movements became geometric: angles, intersections, trajectories.
He watched her hands flicker; Alistair didn't need to look to understand. The Circle taught mages to command space. The Chantry taught its Templars to deny it. His training drilled this, and its counter, into him. They were a rare pair, with both angles a part of the same front. They stood some chance, he thought, watching her shoulders rolling along this living diagram– itself shifting.
“Leif, left flank!” as they reloaded. “Alistair, hold center—”
He finished a hurlock from the center, already pivoting his shield as another lumbered into view. Emma's staff pulsed with gathering energy, frost crystallizing along its length. She calculated angles, mana reserves, the distance between Alistair and the hurlock, the soldiers' positions relative. The hurlock charged.
Alistair braced, shield raised, preparing to absorb the charge. But something was off, one tick. Emma saw his weight shift forward, saw him commit to a defensive stance that would leave him vulnerable to the follow-through—
Wait. Wait.
“GET DOWN!”
He dropped into a crouch instantly, training overriding everything. Emma's spell crackled overhead, a lance of winter that caught the hurlock mid-stride and froze it solid. Alistair surged upward, slamming into the crystallized monster, shattering it like glass. For a heartbeat, they stared at each other—her body still ringing on the dissipating threat, him still braced for impact that never came.
“Could've warned me sooner,” he muttered, but there was something in his voice that wasn't quite complaint.
“Could've trusted my timing,” she shot back.
The stairwell coiled around them; They were climbing toward the light, or what passed for it—the upper chambers where the beacon waited. The stones sweated, mingling with blighted ooze and combat viscera.
So they climbed. Then he felt it—the real ambush, from below. The floor trembled with the massing horde. The darkspawn had been tunneling, ascending unseen. The whole tower was becoming a trap.
“We have to go up.” Toward the beacon. Same as ever. “But there's too many! Maker's breath, what are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here.”
“They're in the wrong place. We're supposed to defend from the top, down,” said Emma.
“Right, because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding. We'll laugh about this later,” he replied, annoyed.
But their upward offense went well, considering. Their rhythm was devastating: electricity and steel, defense and strike. It still seemed possible they would reach the beacon, call the reinforcements, and win the battle.
The stairwell emptied into the upper hall, a ruin of splintered beams and broken statuary. The darkspawn had stopped coming. The silence, nothing patrolling, seemed worse. Alistair froze mid-step; She stopped in his shadow. The floor heaved, sifting a soft, oily rain from the ceiling.
“That's not good,” he said.
Emma planted her feet, staff grounded.
An ogre met them, defending the beacon: twelve feet of muscle, horns alone more than their reach, dark veins pulsing under ash-grey hide. Their entrance had interrupted its meal—something gnawed past recognition. It looked at them, chewing resentfully.
Alistair: “I think it knows we're here.”
The ogre dropped the corpse, beat its massive chest and roared, spitting at them. The sound slushed through all layers, vibrating into the marrow. Everything Emma had been tracking—supplies, maneuvers, spell rotations—dropped right out of her head, replaced by the high ringing of panic.
Emma didn't move. Hesitation rooted her in place.
Alistair quickly employed the same strategy against this giant that he'd used against man-sized darkspawn. He drew its attention, taunting it away from the others.
Emma's staff snapped up instinctively, light coiling around her fingers. Off-beat rumbles from the battle told her: no point in running. Holding the top was their best shot. And yet—Rorik and Leif were shaking at the flanks.
“Go!” she screamed at them, as much as herself.
The ogre swung its club-arm in a wide arc. Alistair moved to block, bracing into the blow. The impact slammed him back several feet, boots carving grooves through grit. He was faster, but this thing was three times his size, with more times his reach. It was a grotesque siege engine. How many of those blocks did he have in him?
Emma anchored her staff against the stone with one hand, thrust the other forward. Frost and lightning spiraled together, a shock of winter snapping into bursts of glittering vapor, carrying her charge. The ogre's hide steamed. The frost staggered it, and their tank dodged the next swing.
He pivoted shield-first, the impact a dull clang, like metal on tree bark. The ogre countered low, its massive hand closing around him—plate creaking as it plucked him off the ground like a toy.
Alistair rammed his sword upward into its wrist. The blade sank to the hilt, black blood spilling over his arm. He wrenched it free as the ogre howled and hurled him against the wall with agonizing force. Monster, men, and stone—a stacked pylon, all screaming.
The mana ripped right out of her. She had never healed so instantly, so thoughtlessly, at this distance. She drank lyrium like water to compensate. Stone cracked and resettled. Blight soaked into new layers. More debris rained from above.
She did not know of the other soldiers, anymore. As she'd warned him, she had to choose. The domed ceiling pulsed magic back at her, healing bruises she didn't know she had. It felt like hers, but also strange. Alistair was cursing.
The ogre charged again. The tower trembled. Emma drove her staff down, pulling from veins in the walls—the blue lines under the stone flared alive. The air sharpened with power. Runes erupted under the ogre's feet. It stumbled, slowed, but brute-forced through, claws scratching, stone vibrating. For the first time in her life, Emma found herself at the top of a structure, uncertain it could hold.
Emma gripped her staff with both hands, weight behind it. Fire erupted from her in a scream. The ogre's hide ignited, molten cracks racing across it. The blast caught them both in its radius—Alistair following the ogre, negating the brunt of her blast that licked him, armor still flaring with heat.
“How many of those do you have left?” He called. Most of the ground was now ablaze.
“Not many.”
“Right.” He slid between the ogre's legs, disappearing into smoke. It stumbled around, almost aimlessly. Turning its back toward her, she realized Alistair was climbing it, pulling himself up by his sword embedded in its back, bracing to plunge it deeper. Great globs of ichor hit the floor—he had wounded it dearly. It thrashed, trying to throw him off.
She risked another cast— a simple arcane bolt—snapping its head back cracking the ogre's jaw sideways. Teeth flew. That got its attention. The ogre turned on her. She had seconds.
It charged, faster than it had any right. She dove. It missed, but she hit the stone, dizzied by the crack of her skull. Emma curled tight, protective, while the blighted creature rattled her, smacking the floor with massive hands. Her staff was lost, fingers burning, struggling to shape another spell.
Emma forced air into her lungs, pushed the pressure outward into a ripple of magic. Sealing wounds, knitting herself back together, unsticking armor from unburnt flesh. There had never been so much lyrium running through her, but it was gone in an instant.
The ogre lunged again, grabbing at her, its elbow knocking Alistair back mid-swing. He was getting slower, she thought, as it lifted her from the ground. The sound of her own ribs popping, the lag of agonizing pain—dimly clued her into her own loss of time.
What had she kept thinking, what got her through the Wilds, through this unlikely upward offense? Darkspawn die, just like any other creature. Emma was also dying now, just like any other creature.
She heard Alistair taunting it, beyond comprehending words. Its grip loosened. She gasped. Air in her lungs snapped her lost time back onto her in painful frenzy. She hit the floor with more splash than thud. Emma clawed at her satchel, fingers curling around shards, absorbing residue through her skin, from mist in the air, as she'd done from the tower's veins.
Blood rushed back to her head, but she could barely see. It hadn't merely been her injuries; smoke was choking her out. She was dimly aware of a boot skidding past, metal sparking on stone. Backwards. She focused on sounds. Alistair, screaming, backed against a wall, pleading for help. She heard her name.
Emma crawled, found her staff with her knees, twisted it toward the clamor. Frost crept up the entirety of the ogre, freezing it in place. Alistair dropped like a sack of steel. His cries silenced. She called for him unsteadily, then scooted herself under the frozen ogre, terrified.
Then—an agonized pitch, gasping: “Here—I'm here—shit—”
Emma pushed her hands forward into darkness, fingers grasping around a helm knocked askew, then a pile of metal and bone in a sticky puddle, breathing pitifully under the sound of ice breaking above them.
“Get up.” She poured into him what she had, because... she was too slow to make their last stand, she realized grimly, fear tying her stomach into knots. No more potions. It, or them, would die within a minute. He sat up, wheezing. She quickly dropped the helm back over his face. He grabbed her, rolling them out of the way of a swinging club.
Head pounding, knocked onto her side, Emma looked up over Alistair's pauldron: They'd escaped a killing blow that had embedded the club into stone. The ogre pulled at it uselessly, distracted—Alistair's sword still in it, dripping, smoldering, hissing.
“Stay back.” His voice was soft, hoarse, as he strapped the shield to his gauntlet. “Get the beacon, if you can.” He stood, swordless.
The ogre turned, preparing to charge, but Alistair was already launching. Emma felt around—the air, the sticky puddles on the ground, looking for anything but blood—as Alistair feinted, dodged, swung himself around its shoulders by the hilt lodged in its back.
Emma dragged herself up the wall, staff with her, as he brought the blunt of his shield onto its head. It stumbled, scooping gore from its face, as Alistair bashed again and again. Finally it smacked him off, disoriented, staggering toward her, then fell forward, reaching, screeching ruefully, half its face missing.
Emma didn't think. She lunged and drove the end of her staff through the hole in its head, silencing it. Then slid back down the wall to the floor.
“We missed the signal,” the other Warden mumbled weakly, pushing himself up, limping toward her. “Can you—?” He pushed the end of a torch before her, but she was falling apart, shaking, having so little to draw on she'd coveted the blood soaking her knees. A breeze blew through crumbling stone, carrying a deathly smell.
“Emma.” She looked up. Nodded. Gripped the end of her staff still wedged at an angle inside the ogre's skull. Just a spark felt like everything. It was a good position—but how long could they keep a barricade and hold it like this? The pile of wood caught the blaze, lighting the valley of Ostagar below. The tower shook.
“We have to—” Emma tried to stand, slipping on ichor.
His urgency lost, he looked around, noting at last the corpses of the two soldiers who'd come with them.
“I'm sorry,” she said, as he pulled his sword out from under the ogre's carcass.
“No, don't—” He wiped a layer of gore from his face. “Don't be sorry, really. We tried. Thanks for… um, this.” Then he pulled at the staff—blunt wood now fully wedged into skull—and drew it out with a sickening creak.
[^3]: A challenge identified with adapting the general body language situation to combat. She's still a squishy mage.
This was largely solid – Emma's already physical and grounded during combat. Main fixes were removing theatrical spellcasting and emphasizing weight/leverage in her movements.
“Alistair,” she started, “if we barricade the landing, we can—”
“No.” He cut her off. He shook his head, gaze unfocused. He pointed down.
Emma turned toward the stairwell. “Why? The stairwell's narrow. We'll choke them.”
“You can hear it, below. In the tunnels. They'll be moving up. Just like we did.” He swallowed. “The swarm cut us off from the valley flank...from the battle. We're isolated.”
“We have the height—”
“There's... there's a lot of them. A lot.”
Emma looked back at him. “You don't know that.”
He almost smiled at that—tired, bitter. He felt it in his blood. It would happen to her, too. If she survived. But she couldn't know, not yet. He had to persuade her.
“I wish I didn't. I know how how it sounds... preposterous. Please, please believe me.”
The tower gave another low groan. Emma planted her feet, staff grounded. “If I did,” giving him the benefit of the doubt, “holding is our only option.”
His eyes went to the window slit—a jagged wound in the wall, wind tearing through it. Beyond, the cliff dropped into fog and stone.
“No,” he said again. “It's really not. We can jump.”
Emma stopped moving. “Jump? Onto the rocks? No.”
“It's not a good plan, but it's the only one I got.”
“You think: we're not holding a fortress we just captured. But we will survive the drop.”
He hesitated. “No. And no. But what if... We could just jump, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because it's the only direction left,” he urged her. It almost made sense, although the risk analysis did not.
“Please, Emma. I'd rather take this chance. But... if you'd rather hold... it's your call. I'll do it.”
“You're really sure about this?” He reached into his belt pouch, pulling a small cracked vial—lyrium dust, glittering faintly blue.
“I'm so serious. Here, Emma, I... I just looted this. Maybe you can soften our landing?”
“That's powder. Disgusting.”
“Oh well, in that case, just forget it,” he said flippantly, tapping his boot on the floor. He was taut, like a hound catching scent. If they were facing an enemy, she would have easily stepped behind him.
“Emma, they're coming—”
“I hear you—”
“No, now. I can feel them. Scouts, like— a dozen, two dozen— fast-moving. And below...” There was that pitch in his voice, again. Emma watched him, then the window, then back.
“I... I can't soften that drop.”
“But you can try. Please. We need to go now.”
The tower shuddered, its weight shifting below. He was already at the window, one boot on the sill, beckoning with that vial.
“Fine.” She snatched it from him, uncorked, and snorted the powder in one bitter inhale. Lyrium dust burned down her throat. “Oh—that's vile—”
Emma spun, staff in hand, mana crawling down her neck, her arms, in blue threads. The darkspawn burst through the doorway. Scouts, lean and fast, arrows already knocked. As the first one loosed, she bolted after Alistair. Fletching blurred past. Impact in her shoulder.
Another arrow punched through her side. Emma staggered, gasping, and Alistair was already throwing himself between her and the doorway. Arrows clattered off his shield—he grabbed her with his free arm, hauling her against his chest, her blood spilling over his gauntlet.
“Hold on—” She did. He jumped.
Time slowed. The cliff face blurred past, through the fog and the distant roar of battle below. Alistair felt darkspawn surrounding the tower, climbing the walls like ants covering something sweet and sticky on the ground. He tucked his head down, curling around her, shield angled to protect her—Knowing she was one head-bonk away from them losing their slim chance for her to magic them out of this. Somehow.
Clamped to his breastplate, running slick with her blood, Emma summoned frost. It flared wild from her fingertips—sheets of ice dragging down their speed. Layers shattered, blasting them with cold. The ice falling around them created a numbing and violent isolation from the battle roaring in the valley below.
They were falling within in a giant snowball. The world became only cold and impact and cold and impact— She couldn't keep casting and holding onto him, both. Her grip slipped. The mana drained.
The last thing Alistair remembered: hitting something dark and yielding, Emma wrenched away from him by the impact—
And feathers?
[^4]: this one is definitely staying.
The scene already had good momentum. Main fixes were removing self-aware observations and keeping Emma's actions front-and-center even when she's in a vulnerable/protective position.
Emma turned against the strange bedroll, overheated despite the cool air that spoke of summer's end—lost, it seemed, during the battle for Ostagar. Cries and whispers punctuated the fever. Above her, Flemeth's hand hovered, palm aglow with green fire.
Outside, Alistair sat hunched against the hut's wall. His fingers worked anxiously at his ring, muscle memory of chanter's beads. He thought of her in the Tower of Ishal, eyes far away as fire spread from her hands. Maker, don't let her die in there. Not her too.
“She walks the Fade even now,” was what Morrigan told him.
As Emma walked the fade, cliffs were breaking loose from mountains, cascading tides of mud. Muddy waters spiraled and pulled her undertow. Her lungs convulsed against the murk, but her head and limbs were just heavy.
She endured nightmares of these waters her entire residence at Kinloch Hold. Through the surface she glimpsed the Circle Tower, then Ishal's spires against the sky, lit by lightning. In silhouette, dark wings unfurled feathers over the horizon, thunder rolling in their wake.
The light above dimmed. From somewhere distant, she was treated to a memory of Areli's laugh, quick and soft, the way it came through her nose when she was trying not to be noticed. Her curls of red hair across an open book, their hands pressed together on a single page.
All I ever wanted was to sleep in with you—
Slender brown fingers tied knots one by one, deft and certain. Another's hands, paler, broader, rougher, untied them. The woman sang, her melody rattled in Emma's chest. Emma reached into the sound, desperate, but it writhed away from her, plunging into darkness. She grasped after it numbly, fingers upon fingers digging in a frenzy, shredding nails and skin to bloody bone.
Something vast inside the earth called to her, called to all of them, screaming and yearning in terrible accord, layered up upon itself in density, then erupted through the soil. The horde spilled over Ostagar like liquid tar, and the great fortress looked suddenly, impossibly small.
She did not want to be taken alive by the darkspawn. Ready to drown in this lake instead. Waiting. Drifting toward that distant shore.
Then she woke quietly, strangely calm. Morrigan's golden gaze was there when Emma opened her eyes.
“Ah, your eyes finally open,” Morrigan said. “Mother shall be pleased.”
Emma's throat burned when she tried to speak. “Where…?”
“Back in the Wilds, of course.” Morrigan set aside a blood-stained cloth. “I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten. You are welcome, by the way, as I have bandaged your wounds. How does your memory fare? Do you remember mother's rescue?”
“She rescued me?” Emma shifted, immediately regretted it. The hut tilted. “From the tower?”
“My mother managed to save you and your friend, though 'twas a close call. What is important is that you both live. The man meant to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred.”
The words stacked, one after another. Emma tracked the low rafters overhead.
“Your friend...” Morrigan continued, watching her. “He is not taking it well.”
“My friend?” Emma quickly inquired. “You mean Alistair?”
Morrigan smiled, slightly. “The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before?”
Emma turned her head toward the small window. Firelight flickered outside. A shape moved beyond it, indistinct, armored. She couldn't tell who it was.
“That doesn't narrow it down.”
“Yes. Alistair.” Morrigan's voice softened by the smallest degree. “He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”
Emma let her eyes close. When she opened them, Morrigan was still there.
“Were my injuries severe?”
“Yes. But I expect you shall be fine. The darkspawn did nothing Mother could not heal.”
“What about Alistair?”
“He is… as you are.” Morrigan paused. “I suppose it would be unkind to say he is being childish.”
Emma swung her legs over the side of the bedroll, testing her weight. Everything ached, but held. She stood, steadying herself against the wall.
“Are we safe here? Where are the darkspawn?”
“We are safe, for the moment. Mother's magic keeps the darkspawn away.” Morrigan gathered her things, preparing to hand them over. “Once you leave, 'tis uncertain what will happen. The horde has moved on. You might avoid it.”
“How did she manage to rescue us?”
“She turned into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from atop the tower, one in each talon.” Morrigan did not smile. “If you do not believe that tale, then I suggest you ask Mother herself.”
She struggled to remember their battle at Ishal. But she knew their offense direction had been upward, and doubted they had been rescued from its top.
Alistair's figure paced beyond the window, restless.
“Mother is outside, come now, end your questioning.” Morrigan said.
Cold air bit immediately when Emma stepped out of the hut. The clearing was quiet except for the fire and the soft clink of armor. Flemeth stood near the flames, her posture effortless, casual. Alistair paced like a caged creature.
“See?” Flemeth said as Emma approached. “Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man.”
He spun. His face went through several contradictory expressions at once—relief, disbelief, etcetera. “Emma!... you're alive,” his voice was fraught. “I thought you were dead for sure.”
“Me too. but I'm fine,” Emma said. The words felt provisional.
“This doesn't seem real.” He took a half-step toward her, then stopped. “If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead.”
“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad,” The elder witch said, dryly.
Alistair flushed. “I didn't mean— I mean— what do we call you? You never told us your name.”
“The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”
“The Flemeth? From the legends?” Alistair's eyes narrowed. “Daveth was right—you're the Witch of the Wilds.”
“And what does that mean?” Flemeth asked. “I know a bit of magic. It has served you both well, has it not?”
“Why did you save us?” Emma asked.
“Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we?” Flemeth gestured between them. “It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn't looking?”
“It changed when most of them were slaughtered,” Emma said.
Flemeth: “If you think small numbers make you helpless, you are already defeated.”
“Yes,” Emma reminded her: “We were defeated. At Ostagar.”
“We were fighting them,” Alistair faced Flemeth, voice rising. “The king had nearly defeated them. Why would Loghain do this?!”
“Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature,” Flemeth said. “Perhaps he does not see the evil behind the Blight is the true threat.”
“The Archdemon,” Alistair said.
Emma: “Alistair is the real Grey Warden here. Not me.”
He turned on her. “I've lost everyone. All Grey Wardens in Ferelden are gone except for us. For the love of the Maker, don't back out on me now!”
Emma stepped back from him: “So I should take on a suicide mission?”
“Oh?” Flemeth laughed softly. “It must be suicide, now? My.”
“I won't let Duncan's death be in vain,” Alistair insisted forcefully, then softer: “Please, Emma... I can't do this alone.”
Emma kept her eyes on him. “Will you help us fight this Blight?” she asked Flemeth.
“Me?” Flemeth spread her hands. “I am just an old woman who lives in the Wilds. I know nothing of Blights and darkspawn.”
She noted the lie and said nothing.
“Whatever Loghain thinks,” Alistair said, pressing on, “he's wrong. He betrayed his own king. We have to warn people.”
“And who will believe you?” Flemeth asked.
“I suppose...” Alistair paused. “Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar. He still has all his men. And he was Cailan's uncle. I know him. He's a good man, respected in the Landsmeet. Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!”
Emma: “You think the Arl would believe us? Over the teyrn?”
“If Arl Eamon knew what he did at Ostagar, he would be the first to call for his execution!”
“Sure,” Emma said. “Like Loghain was an honorable man.”
“The Arl would never do what Teyrn Loghain did.” Alistair's certainty in the Arl pained her. “but...I don't know if his help would be enough.”
“We need the rest of the Grey Wardens,” Emma said.
Alistair: “I don't know how to contact them. We need to do something now.”
“You have more at your disposal than you think.” Flemeth's voice cut through their spiral.
Alistair stopped mid-pace. “Of course! The treaties! Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages—!”
“I may be old,” Flemeth said, “but this sounds like an army to me.”
“So can we do this?” Alistair asked finally. “Build an army?”
“I doubt it will be that simple,” Emma said.
“And when is it ever?” Flemeth replied.
“I'd be happy with staying alive,” Emma said.
“That would be nice,” said Alistair.
“Well, do not expect me to do everything,” Flemeth said. “There is one more thing I can offer you.”
“The stew is bubbling,” Morrigan said, emerging from the hut. “Shall we have guests?”
“The Grey Wardens are leaving,” Flemeth said. “And you will be joining them.”
Morrigan froze. “Such a shame—what?”
“You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears!”
Alistair's expression suggested he was reconsidering the benefits of being dead.
“Thanks,” Emma said carefully, “but if Morrigan doesn't want to join us...”
Flemeth: “Her magic will be useful. Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde.”
“Have I no say in this?” Morrigan's voice was tight.
“You have been itching to get out of the wilds for years. Here is your chance.” Flemeth's tone left no room for argument. “As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”
Emma weighed the offer. “We'll take her.”
“Won't this add to our problems?” Alistair asked. “Out there, she's an apostate.”
“If you do not wish help from illegal mages,” Flemeth said, “perhaps I should have left you on that tower.”
“Point taken.”
“Mother, this is not how I wanted this.” Morrigan's composure cracked slightly. “I am not even ready—”
“You must be ready. Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”
Morrigan went still. Something passed between mother and daughter—recognition, perhaps, or resignation. “I... understand.”
“And you, Wardens.” Flemeth looked at them both. “Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed.”
Emma met her eyes. Another lie?
Emma: “I understand.”
“Allow me to get my things, if you please.” Morrigan disappeared back into the hut.
They stood in uncomfortable silence until she returned, pack slung over her shoulder. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide.”
“I prefer you to speak your mind,” Emma said.
Alistair evaluated their new addition. “Can you cook?” he asked.
Morrigan put a hand on her hip, eyes narrowed. “I... can cook, yes.”
Emma: “Then you can replace Alistair.”
“Right.” Alistair's voice was flat. “My cooking will kill us. That's all I meant.”
Morrigan looked faintly disgusted.
Fire. Smoke. The tower. Alistair's face when he'd thought she was dead.
The scene already had solid weight-based recovery movements (swung legs, steadied against wall). Main fixes were cutting repetitive eye choreography and passive self-observation.
Morrigan guided them, stepping lightly, unbothered by the sucking mud, her cloak never quite touching the ground. The Wilds thinned reluctantly. Trees spaced themselves out. The air lightened by degrees, as if the blighted world had decided to tolerate them a few hours longer. Maybe a day.
“Well,” Alistair said, apropos of nothing, “that was… quite the introduction to the Grey Wardens.”
Emma didn't respond, but he was bored, and felt chatty: “The Joining, I mean. And then Ostagar. Not exactly what you signed up for.”
“I didn't sign up for anything,” Emma said, curtly.
He winced. “Right. Duncan conscripted you. I… forgot. How do you forget that?”
“Likely while trying not to die in a tower full of darkspawn.”
“Yes...That's a very plausible theory.”
They walked in silence for a few more steps. Morrigan spoke of a path narrowing, but it was not a path the Wardens understood. Brushes tangled them, slowing them down. Somewhere, something splashed.
Emma's attention snapped toward the sound.
“How did you become a Grey Warden?”
“Same way you did. You drink some blood, you choke on it, you pass out. You haven't forgotten already, have you?”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
That made him pause. “You get this look when you're irritated,” he said, attempting levity like one attempts a careful dismount. “Like you're calculating exactly which spell would cause the most damage without technically killing me.”
“I'm still deciding.”
He wasn't entirely sure she was joking. But he grinned, a little too fast. “Right. Well. I was in the Chantry before. Trained for years to become a templar. That's where I learned most of my skills.”
“You don't seem very religious,” she said; As if she'd said worse to people she liked more.
“Oh, I know,” he said readily. “I was banished to the kitchens to scour pots more times than I can count. And that's a lot. I can count pretty high.”
“The Grand Cleric didn't want to let me go,” he went on. “Duncan had to conscript me, actually.”
Emma stopped walking. “He conscripted you? I thought—”
“That I wanted it?” He nodded. “I did. Desperately. But she wouldn't release me. When Duncan invoked the Right of Conscription, I thought she'd have us both arrested.”
His voice dipped, not dramatic, just quieter. “I was so lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“When he came looking for recruits,” Alistair said, “I remember praying to the Maker that he'd pick me. I would've done anything to get out of there. And he chose me. Out of all the templar initiates. Some of them were brilliant fighters. Real prodigies.”
“Do you think it was pity?” Emma asked, carefully.
He frowned, considering. “I don't know. Maybe. I'd like to think he saw something in me. That it wasn't just…” He trailed off, then tried again. “I'll always be thankful to Duncan for recruiting me. If it hadn't been for him, I would never—”
He paused; It was a heavy pause. Empty. And tried to continue:
“I wouldn't have…” He stopped entirely.
They stood there. Morrigan did not turn around.
His shoulders had gone rigid, like he was bracing for impact that wasn't coming.
Emma's hand moved before she thought—fingers met cold armor. She dropped it.
What were you supposed to do? Pat iron? Knock politely?
Alistair inhaled sharply and straightened, already retreating. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't be— It's fine. He died a hero. They all did. That's what matters.” He stomped forward, armor clanking, conversation sealed off, barred from the inside.
“Come on. Let's go. I think I'm done talking.”
Emma followed.
Emma dropped beside him. Not close, but deliberate. Set a cup of tea within reach.
“Do you want to talk about Duncan?”
He didn't look at her. “You don't have to do that. I know you didn't know him as long as I did.”
“No. I didn't.”
Emma didn't withdraw. Didn't argue. Sat there, waiting. The silence stretched, tense.
Alistair glanced at her sidelong, checking whether she was still there. She was.
“But I know what he meant to you.”
His shoulders dropped slightly. He picked up his cup, wrapped both hands around it. It was warm. He focused on that.
“That's...” He finally looked at her, surprised. “You didn't like him much, did you?”
“I... don't know. As you said, I didn't know him.”
“But you didn't want to be conscripted.”
“No.” Emma leaned back against a log, cup in both hands. He could smell it. Hers was very strong.
“I... should have handled it better.” The words came out rehearsed, like he'd been arguing with himself all afternoon and finally lost. “Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn't have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and... everything.”
“You lost a lot. Grief happens.”
Here she was, with the tea, speaking in terms of cause and effect. Or inevitability. And she wasn't wrong.
“It just feels like I'm wasting energy,” he said. “Like every moment I spend—” His voice broke, sharp and sudden. He leaned toward the fire, furious at himself for it. “He deserved better. A proper funeral. But there's nothing left to bury.”
“There can be a memorial, someday. If we survive.”
He latched onto that immediately. “I'd like that.” He fidgeted with the cup, took a sip he didn't need. “He didn't have any family to speak of.”
“He had you.”
It hit him harder than she intended. His voice went very small.
“Part of me wishes I was with him. In the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.”
“You'd just be dead.”
He almost laughed. Almost. “I know.” Exhaustion smoothed the edge in his voice. “That's the stupid part, isn't it? That wouldn't make him happier. It wouldn't help anyone.”
“Have you—” He hesitated, then pushed through. “—had someone close to you die? Not that I mean to pry, I'm just...”
He turned toward her fully. The firelight caught the red rims of his eyes. Emma's eyes were dark and steady beneath strong brows. They usually gave him very little, beyond the persistent impression of being evaluated.
“Yes,” she told him. “Multiple people.”
Alistair was starting to question that impression.
“Do you still think about them?”
A sharp exhale. “Every day.”
“Does it get easier?”
“I'll let you know if it does.”
He gave a small, crooked smile. “Well. That's honest, at least.”
They sat in silence. Not comfortable, exactly, but not unbearable either. Across the camp, Morrigan snapped at Muffin over something trivial. The normalcy of it felt cruel, but necessary in equal measure.
“Thank you,” Alistair said quietly. “For not... for not telling me to get over it. Or that it's a waste of time.”
Emma raised her cup in acknowledgment.
The scene's emotional core is strong. Changes remove Emma's self-monitoring and make her physical gestures more reflexive and grounded.