[ The Chantry caught him outside of Treviso after months of fleeing through the wilds, worn down and starving, too vulnerable and too outnumbered to withstand their descent. He was a fool to have thought travel by land would be safer than by sea, having guessed the Templars would be looking for Hawke and his co-conspirators on ships bound for Rivain. Fenris had opted to find his way to Dairsmuid via Afsaana or Ayesleigh and he was used to running across entire continents, so figured the journey would be difficult but doable. Now he's rotting away in Antiva City, in a cell in a Circle-turned-gulag. The Templars must surely have more connections to the Magisters' methods than they care to admit, or to the Qunari's, because they've found a way to hold his lyrium at bay by the shackle round his neck. It's not quite slavery, but some days it may as well be for the loss of freedom he's suffered.
It is 9:39 Dragon and Fenris has been here for two years, interrogated, beaten, tortured, and largely unaware of the chaos in the world outside. He does see the Templars gaining fervor while simultaneously leaning away from the word of their Maker, packing these chambers to bursting with apostates and fugitives and whomever else they deem a sufficient menace to Thedosian society. By and large it seems they've given up on being discerning.
Fenris listens to anything he can these days to keep from going mad. The solitude is deafening. He's had too much time to think about the events that brought him here, how he'd followed Hawke into the fire and had genuinely begun to believe they had chosen the lesser of two evils, but can't linger too long on thoughts like friendship. The only thing crueler than having never been free is having tasted freedom only to have it wrenched away again, and Fenris spends every day fighting the slip into acceptance that he's going to die in this place.
Once day, when he's bruised and shaky and pale (the Templars have learned that his blood contains no shortage of self-replenishing lyrium, given time) the door opens and his jailer says something about a partner, he thinks, in gruff Antivan. There's scarcely any room left in the Circle. Seems even special political prisoners are beginning to get bunkmates.
POST-GAME MEGA BAD END
[ The Chantry caught him outside of Treviso after months of fleeing through the wilds, worn down and starving, too vulnerable and too outnumbered to withstand their descent. He was a fool to have thought travel by land would be safer than by sea, having guessed the Templars would be looking for Hawke and his co-conspirators on ships bound for Rivain. Fenris had opted to find his way to Dairsmuid via Afsaana or Ayesleigh and he was used to running across entire continents, so figured the journey would be difficult but doable. Now he's rotting away in Antiva City, in a cell in a Circle-turned-gulag. The Templars must surely have more connections to the Magisters' methods than they care to admit, or to the Qunari's, because they've found a way to hold his lyrium at bay by the shackle round his neck. It's not quite slavery, but some days it may as well be for the loss of freedom he's suffered.
It is 9:39 Dragon and Fenris has been here for two years, interrogated, beaten, tortured, and largely unaware of the chaos in the world outside. He does see the Templars gaining fervor while simultaneously leaning away from the word of their Maker, packing these chambers to bursting with apostates and fugitives and whomever else they deem a sufficient menace to Thedosian society. By and large it seems they've given up on being discerning.
Fenris listens to anything he can these days to keep from going mad. The solitude is deafening. He's had too much time to think about the events that brought him here, how he'd followed Hawke into the fire and had genuinely begun to believe they had chosen the lesser of two evils, but can't linger too long on thoughts like friendship. The only thing crueler than having never been free is having tasted freedom only to have it wrenched away again, and Fenris spends every day fighting the slip into acceptance that he's going to die in this place.
Once day, when he's bruised and shaky and pale (the Templars have learned that his blood contains no shortage of self-replenishing lyrium, given time) the door opens and his jailer says something about a partner, he thinks, in gruff Antivan. There's scarcely any room left in the Circle. Seems even special political prisoners are beginning to get bunkmates.
Nothing prepares him for what he sees. ]