(no subject)

[propheretic]

Something is different about the Inquisitor these days. He once spent every moment engaged with the people of Skyhold, checking on them, asking what they needed, what he could do for them. He made rounds at least once a day, and often twice. When he was finished with that, he tended the gardens himself, digging up weeds, watering herbs, and folding new seeds gently into the rich soil. The Inquisitor did not ignore anyone while busy with this work, though he did occasionally fall asleep on a sun-warmed stone bench.

But no longer. He's hardly left his quarters in the past week, and then only for tense conferences with his advisers. Fearful speculation spreads through the Inquisition like a disease, worsening by the day. No one understands what's happening now, but they do know what started it: Solas's capture, only a fortnight past. He'd been locked up in the cells beneath Skyhold since Leliana's people found him and--somehow, no one knows, there are rumors of binding and blood magic and all manner of insidious tricks--subdued him. His cell is heavily warded, and no visitors are permitted.

None save for the Inquisitor.

He descends the steps now, his boots heavy on the granite floor, echoing. Keys jangle angrily in his hands. He hasn't been to see Solas since the man's capture. He wasn't ready for it.

The Inquisitor--Dasharathi Lavellan--fits the key into the lock. He stares at Solas as he does so, and his pale eyes are burning cold.

"Good afternoon," he says, sounding nothing at all like himself.