I know I don't really post here anymore, but I finally finished up my long ass Dragon Age Inquisition fic (for the most part).

I'm posting it because I don't see myself in the fandom, or even enjoying the new game anymore. My passion for the games has left me, and I'm eager to move onto original writing projects I've been planning.

So here it is, the work I spent a better decade working on, that I am immensely proud of. Thank you to anyone and everyone involved in its inception.

Love,

Trish

She Who Was

Phaedre was nothing if not competent.

From the day she was born as first daughter to House Xorlarrin in Menzoberranzan, until this very moment when her breath floated in the air like a ghost in the Shadowlands surrounding the dread Moonrise Tower, Phaedre was near faultless in every endeavor she set out to execute.

She stared at the twisted, corrupted trees that once dotted this place—before the contemptible Shar let her self-absorbed ichor ruin them—and recalled her time at the Melee-Magthere at home in the Underdark. It was there she took up her blade and struck down a veritable mess of kobolds in her training. The youngest to ever do it, said her instructor. On her way to being a Master, the instructor had also said.

That was all she remembered before the blood. Snippets and pieces of her life before the red, and so very little after. For someone as competent as Phaedre, this was downright maddening. She knew she was a holy warrior for Lloth, and at some point, broke her oaths and chains to the spider queen. Her cause shifted to freeing others who were worthy and culling those who were not. Better to die than live in the shadow of worship.

And many had died. Phaedre was competent, after all. But who, the why, the how…it all still eluded her.

But there was Ketheric Thorm. Seeing him had brought something back. More than just the blood, the urge to kill, the compulsion to follow her own path under the code of violence she had concocted. That was still there, as ravenous as ever, but the general brought out something from the red memory—a purpose. She had been someone here, someone important, someone to be revered, and Thorm knew who that she was.

One might think it meant Phaedre would be inclined to speak with Thorm, pick his brain and find out the she who was. At one point she even might have, if it were not for his dedication to this farce of a cult.

Even in her deepest loss of self, Phaedre knew the part of her that still clawed at her personal code could not be subdued. It was all she had of herself left. All she had of the she who was. And the she who was demanded vengeance. She chomped at the bit to be released and wreck annihilation upon this foolish usurper, who switched dedication between gods as one would switch clothes.

The She Who Was wanted nothing more than to pluck Thorm’s eyeballs from his skull for daring to look upon her with unearned superiority.

But they say he would not die.

There are much worse things than death, and Phaedre was nothing if not competent.