For all her previous years had been spent hunting apostates, Iswen could probably count on one hand the number of times she’d actually sat across from someone who professed a faith in something other than the Maker; she was sure she had been around them more frequently, but it was still a little startling novelty to hear it spoken openly. “Is it odd, being a part of something tied so tightly to the Chantry?” she asked curiously. “I find comfort in it, and can see this as the truest expression of what the Templars and the Chantry should be, but…” she spread her hands between them, indicating the gulf of the table and beliefs that lay between them.
Maybe it didn’t really matter. For all of them, maybe it was enough, just for now, that they were working together against all kinds of common enemies; it had been both Templars and mages before, and now it was demons that spilled out of the rifts in the sky. It didn’t matter, truly, what the Elvan woman in front of her believed, didn’t matter if the tattoos over her eye were magic - the way some whispered - or just ink and skin. She’d always taken a pragmatic view of magic done outside the Circle, when it was small things of hedgemages or healers, things not likely to draw demonic attention or possession, on the grounds that even then, she’d had bigger things to worry about.
It was her turn to lean forward and pitch her voice lower, as much to save off the ill-fortune from some demon overhearing her hope as any mortal ears. “Why should this end?” she asked. “When we win-” there could be no alternative, not even in her own mind - “why shouldn’t the world that comes out of the ashes of all this be better, for all of us having been here together?” It was perhaps hopelessly idealistic, the idea that problems would still be gone after the world had been saved and not merely tactfully slumbering.
But without hope, what the fuck were they fighting for?
“I’d be more comfortable if the Inquisition weren’t still so closely tied to the Chantry,” Llothira admitted. Most of the people here were dedicated to the cause because they saw it as an expression of divine will; her perspective was a wholly PRAGMATIC one, based upon solid evidence rather than blind faith. But the fact that the Inquisition still held up when divorced from its theological roots was promising-- and the entire reason that the elf stuck around.
“I don’t believe in this Herald of Andraste business,” she said bluntly. “If there really was some female figure with the Inquisitor in the Fade, it could have been any number of spirits. It could have very well been a demon in pursuit, for all we know. The cause of the rifts-- and the Inquisitor’s mark-- have all been attributed to Corypheus, rather than some godly force. And Corypheus, in spite of all his incredible demonstrations of power, has offered no proof that he is who and what he claims to be. For now, he’s simply a talking darkspawn-- a raving LUNATIC, at that-- who needs to be put down. Whatever Andrastian subtext you wish to find in current events, the Inquisition has a solid goal, and solid means by which to accomplish that goal. That’s the only thing I care about, and that’s why I’m here.”
There was more to it than that, actually, but she wasn’t about to advertise her unsavory interest in spirits and the Fade to a Templar. Iswen seemed a decent sort, but decency only went so far.
Iswen’s idealism brought a wistful smile to Llothira’s face. “I don’t want it to end-- but let’s be realistic. The Inquisition has brought together people from all walks of life: mages, templars, elves, men, dwarves, and even qunari. People who, traditionally, spend all their time and energy fighting each other. They’ve got bigger problems at the moment-- giant holes in the sky that are pouring demons into this world-- but what happens when that’s all gone? Without a unified cause, people will start squabbling. And then they’ll start FIGHTING. Best that the Inquisition dissolves before it tears itself apart, and suddenly every corner of Thedas has its own version of the Inquisition.”
