Sealing the Breach, in its resolution, is the simplest task the Inquisition asks of him.
He survives. His arm remains whole. He is not free, no, — he is not foolish enough to think that possible — though he is nigh unassailable, now, and prophet or otherwise, ... none will question the value of a knife ear mage for such feat. The promise of that influence will serve him well in steering this Inquisition: stronger, now, for their triumph. Soon, to feel embolden. Soon, to press Chantric will unto Thedas.
Such concerns are foreign, though, far flung plans once thought for those that follow, and Daithi watches Haven's celebration from an ascent, somber and separate, even from his own person. (He is a poor companion, then, for Cassandra's thoughtful presence.) Twice, now, he has emerged from the Breach when survival was uncertain; twice, now, he has emerged in possession of a mark, hallow in shemlen eyes; and twice, now, he becomes something more, something less. He cannot join Haven's people even if he might wish.
Their celebration is premature, regardless, — not for the rifts that remain than for the questions, the threat of more until such answers are within grasp, — and although Daithi cannot fault them, appreciates the sense of ease and rest the Inquisition's soldiers crave, mustering a smile to watch even the most stoic of his companions, ... he cannot help the confession, either.
Daithi regrets he is proven correct so soon.
The assault is relentless: siege engines, granting no more than minutes in the vanguard's resistance; wave upon wave of soldier, falling upon them. (Soldier? Some, yes. Others ... mere men and women, children near enough in age to receive vallaslin though children, all the same, fresh from tower prisons, foreign to such concepts of war or skirmish. Daithi is sick to realize this is his doing.) He presses ever onward, though, ferocious in Haven's name, and when Cullen cannot offer more than the suggestion of interference, Daithi remains unwavering.
Much of the fight is easier for his companions. Brigham's wards grant them considerable margin: Daithi, most of all, as he mans more than one engine and now, as he aims another for a final avalanche. The fight is indeed taxing, though; and where one soldier falls, another seems to appear, fervent or fearful, Daithi is not certain which, and for all the attempt to spare the mages, those he recognizes from Redcliffe's village, he was quick to realize: only death slows them.
Varric harbors no such reservations, however, felling a Venatori steps from Daithi. Daithi turns, given to instinct (even as he orders himself continue), when the mage slumps into the Haven snow. In the next instant, cries of pain, animal and overwrought, jerk his attention elsewhere, and Daithi surges with a great and sudden fear, abandoning the trebuchet to join his companions. His voice carries across the clangor as he shouts, "Brigham!"
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He survives. His arm remains whole. He is not free, no, — he is not foolish enough to think that possible — though he is nigh unassailable, now, and prophet or otherwise, ... none will question the value of a knife ear mage for such feat. The promise of that influence will serve him well in steering this Inquisition: stronger, now, for their triumph. Soon, to feel embolden. Soon, to press Chantric will unto Thedas.
Such concerns are foreign, though, far flung plans once thought for those that follow, and Daithi watches Haven's celebration from an ascent, somber and separate, even from his own person. (He is a poor companion, then, for Cassandra's thoughtful presence.) Twice, now, he has emerged from the Breach when survival was uncertain; twice, now, he has emerged in possession of a mark, hallow in shemlen eyes; and twice, now, he becomes something more, something less. He cannot join Haven's people even if he might wish.
Their celebration is premature, regardless, — not for the rifts that remain than for the questions, the threat of more until such answers are within grasp, — and although Daithi cannot fault them, appreciates the sense of ease and rest the Inquisition's soldiers crave, mustering a smile to watch even the most stoic of his companions, ... he cannot help the confession, either.
Daithi regrets he is proven correct so soon.
The assault is relentless: siege engines, granting no more than minutes in the vanguard's resistance; wave upon wave of soldier, falling upon them. (Soldier? Some, yes. Others ... mere men and women, children near enough in age to receive vallaslin though children, all the same, fresh from tower prisons, foreign to such concepts of war or skirmish. Daithi is sick to realize this is his doing.) He presses ever onward, though, ferocious in Haven's name, and when Cullen cannot offer more than the suggestion of interference, Daithi remains unwavering.
Much of the fight is easier for his companions. Brigham's wards grant them considerable margin: Daithi, most of all, as he mans more than one engine and now, as he aims another for a final avalanche. The fight is indeed taxing, though; and where one soldier falls, another seems to appear, fervent or fearful, Daithi is not certain which, and for all the attempt to spare the mages, those he recognizes from Redcliffe's village, he was quick to realize: only death slows them.
Varric harbors no such reservations, however, felling a Venatori steps from Daithi. Daithi turns, given to instinct (even as he orders himself continue), when the mage slumps into the Haven snow. In the next instant, cries of pain, animal and overwrought, jerk his attention elsewhere, and Daithi surges with a great and sudden fear, abandoning the trebuchet to join his companions. His voice carries across the clangor as he shouts, "Brigham!"