A/N: Uh, this is a poem for DAI, which I don't own.


Green.

Flaring Palm.

The pain comes.

It's a bright wave.

It tugs and pulls against.

A Herald, given a mission unwanted.

Because I am magic stained, I lead.

I'm the line between here and the Fade.

Rifts between this World and the Next tape open.

They are sores upon the Fabric that spew forth demons.

It's a viscous cycle of forever opening and closing the sky.

Inquisition, Inquisitor, the mighty hand across Thedas, holding fate within your grasp.