The Herald, the Mark, and the Question of Belief

When playing for your Inquisitor, one of the biggest questions that will come up for your character is that of belief. Are they a loyal member of the Chantry and a devout believer in the Maker? Do they see the Mark as a touch of the divine, a blessing or a curse? Do they want to believe but experience doubts? 

Dear Maker, please make me better at flirting and social
interaction. Thanks so much! Love, Cullen.

Or do they not believe at all, and look at the world more clinically and scientifically? Or perhaps they're elven, dwarven, or Qunari, with beliefs in their own culture and its gods, ancestors, or belief systems?

What your Inquisitor believes is crucial to the story because, remember, they are quickly raised up as a pseudo-religious symbol that is tied to the very success of the Inquisition itself. An Inquisition that was in fact created as a religious organization centuries back, and whose ties to that foundation cannot be entirely separated.

Which makes life quietly yet highly uncomfortable if you play (as I typically do) a disbelieving Inquisitor. It's also why my poor Inquisitor is usually trembling on her throne and waiting to be kicked back into the prison every once in awhile. Imagine leading a religious organization whose beliefs you do not share. Imagine being held up as a religious symbol when you yourself do not believe.

On the other hand, imagine being absolutely certain in your character's faith and beliefs, and that they are indeed touched by the hand of the divine... only to have that knowledge ripped away at a certain point. The game gives us that, too. And it does so with respect.

Refreshingly, there is no right or wrong answer when it comes to belief in Dragon Age: Inquisition. There's just the question of what your character believes, and once you know that, everything that follows is seamless and organic.

If you embark on a career as a murderous, spying, singing nun,
a crisis of conscience is inevitable. If probably highly tuneful.

Choosing Your Path

Belief, unbelief, or something in between... All of these choices are possible in Dragon Age: Inquisition, and they provide the potential for truly fascinating character-building that will include moments of epiphany, realization, loss, and disillusionment. 

As you progress through the story of DAI, many of your choices will directly accumulate to point your character in a direction of either belief or nonbelief. This progression seems to work according to a hidden points system (similar to the one that leads to who becomes Divine in "Trespasser").

Some of those key scenes affecting your Inquisitor's "Belief" story trajectory include:

• The "I'm the Herald/I'm not the Herald" choice early on in the War Room (for Belief, assert that you are in fact the Herald)
• Your first big conversation with Cassandra at Haven (she will ask you point-blank what you believe—if you're seeking to pursue a devout "Believer" storyline, tell her you believe in the Maker)
• The conversation with Josephine about what the Inquisition's stance should be about the events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes (take the Believer/religious interpretation)
• The discussion with Mother Giselle after Haven (and before "The Dawn Will Come"). One of the options for a religious Inquisitor is to say "I believe, but is that enough?"
• Dorian's early conversations about faith: Choose pro-Chantry options for Belief, anti-Chantry options for Unbelief.
• Sera's conversations: Choose options in favor of Andrastian faith and belief when talking to Sera.
• The numerous additional scenarios when characters ask you if you are truly the Herald, from Haven, to Val Royeaux, to Orlais and beyond. Answer devoutly if that's what you're playing.

The Players in the Drama of Belief

While the question of belief is a complex thread throughout the story, a few characters, specifically, are especially important in the "Believer" or "Unbeliever" storylines for the Inquisitor, and chief among those movers and shakers are Mother Giselle, Cassandra, Cullen, and Leliana (and, in her own odd way Sera).

I love the way our companions' faith shapes who they are and how they interact with us, and how it has no effect on their open-mindedness and acceptance of our Inquisitor as a whole. Cassandra's faith is something clean and pure; it practically shines out of her and affects every decision she makes. I'm always floored that Cassandra—the creator of the Inquisition and its primary mover—rejects a position of power or leadership within it because she feels it is not her correct role, and that she can serve better as a Seeker, soldier and military strategist. As Solas later notes in one of their banter conversations, this abnegation is truly remarkable and rare.

Cullen's faith is a beautiful and subtle character note, especially if you romance him, something that visibly sustains and nurtures a man still damaged by his experiences, and who is still seeking atonement and enlightenment. The scene of Cullen quietly praying for strength, in one final moment before the storm, remains one of my all-time favorite scenes within the game. It's moving and respectful, and feels so absolutely real and grounded. His fear and belief are equally palpable. 

Leliana's faith has on the other hand, in some ways, become twisted. She is a much darker character than the sweet if subtle girl we knew in Dragon Age: Origins, someone who acted as Left Hand, spymaster (and occasional assassin) for the Divine Justinia who died at the Conclave. I'm still gobsmacked that she cheerfully admits to lying, spying, and killing, for what was essentially Thedas's Pope. Yet here, too, is an example of real faith and unshakable belief at the core, however dark it has become, and that's never more evident than in Leliana's absolutely shattering final moments in the quest "In Hushed Whispers."

Treating the Question of Faith with Respect

In the 2015 NYU Game Center Lecture Series ("Bioware's Approach to Storytelling," and, yes, please go watch it immediately because it is just wonderful), there's a great discussion by David Gaider in which he describes his inspiration for "The Dawn Will Come" as a pivotal event. First off, he reveals the song as a major plot point, a vital dramatic moment that he was convinced at every single step would not actually survive to final inclusion (I'm so glad it did!). 

But David also addresses the importance of the question of faith in his discussion of that pivotal scene, as well as the goal to treat the issue of religion respectfully within the story of Dragon Age: Inquisition.

"When we were talking about the idea of faith in the game, we wanted to be even-handed," Gaider comments there. "I thought, what if we could find a way to show that there is value in faith, that there is value in hope? And that hope could be what sort of propels the player on to the second half of the game?"

For me, this entire idea is embodied in the crucial and intricately drawn character of Mother Giselle.

The Importance of Mother Giselle

There's a little bit more self-awareness and cynicism to Mother
Giselle than is apparent at first. She's smart and compassionate
but also perfectly willing to use PR to rally the people.

I think people often miss what an important character Mother Giselle truly is. She's a key religious leader yet she does not judge or admonish the Inquisitor, even if they tell her flatly and repeatedly that they do not share her beliefs. She is strong, compassionate, intelligent, and kind. When she is questioned about the lore of the Andrastian religion, she is well-informed and able to respond in detail about what the Chantry promotes and believes.

It's very telling that when we meet Mother Giselle for the very first time, in the Hinterlands, she is soothing a wounded young Templar who is openly terrified of retribution, of magic or torture, and all she does is quiet and calm him. For Mother Giselle, there are no sides to this terrible conflict. She simply wants, like Cole, to help as many as she can on every side. The fact that she believes she is acting on behalf of a compassionate Maker is simply part of who she is. She even has compassion for Corypants, of all people, and in a key moment after the loss of Haven she tells the Inquisitor, "If [Corypheus] entered [the Black City], it has changed him without and within. The living are not meant to make that journey. Perhaps these are lies he must tell himself rather than accept that he earned the scorn of the Maker. I know I could not bear such."

Depicted as a truly gentle, selfless person, Mother Giselle is also a lot more subtle than she appears to be at first (for instance, starting the group singalong "The Dawn Will Come" because she recognizes that the people need motivating, and that just the right hymn will actually reinforce their commitment and belief). She accepts the Inquisitor's nonbelief, if it's there, but she won't let you off without really asking you to explore why you do not believe.

The only time Mother Giselle's halo slips just the tiniest bit is during an interlude involving Dorian at Skyhold. First, she colludes with his estranged father to try to get us to deceive Dorian into a surprise meeting at Redcliffe. Her motives and intentions here are truly good, but let's face it, it's certainly understandable that our wonderful Dorian justifiably does not want to see this person, given that he actually tried to magically change his son's sexual orientation. So, yeah, Giselle is wrong here. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But in her naivete, all she can see is the chance to bring a father and son back together.

Then, not long after, she once again puts poor Dorian on the spot by awkwardly confronting him and the Inquisitor about the rumors that they may be lovers. Speaking for myself, my Inquisitors are always delighted that this rumor is going around (I mean, have you seen Dorian?) and practically do a fistpump and a Snoopy dance right there on the spot (in my headcanon, Dorian watches all this and goes, "That's all fine, dearest, but next time perhaps do it without the sound effects...?"). 

This scene is notable, however, in all seriousness, because I think there's a subtext with a male Inquisitor that leads Mother Giselle to seem homophobic here, and I really don't think she is. I think she's equally prudish about the idea of a sexual relationship between the Inquisitor and Dorian no matter what their gender might be (although now I'm laughing while imagining Giselle's inevitably horrified expression at her realization, with my first Inquisitor, that my little blonde Disney Princess was happily romancing The Iron Bull in naughty ways on various furnishings all over Skyhold). Either way, however, it is a little satisfying to call Mother Giselle out on her shit here, and to say, "Stop that. You're better than this" on her potential slut-shaming.

But for the most part, Giselle is a good-hearted and interesting, intelligent person. She's also happy to discuss, in surprising depth, the issue of faith, the question of the Herald's title, and the teachings of the Chantry.

Cass's faith is one of my favorite things about her. It's a
positive force within her, one that strengthens her resolve
and enhances her compassion and loyalty.

The Crucial Cassandra Scene

The single biggest trigger for Belief/Nonbelief, however, seems to be that early and vital conversation with Cassandra while she's sparring practice dummies at Haven. Here, you can admit to your devotion to the Maker, or, if you choose the response "No more of this 'chosen' nonsense," you're on a hardline path to nonbelief.

Basically, as that conversation progresses, Cass will ask you directly to tell her what you believe, and your choice of answer will largely seal your path forward in terms of your Inquisitor's faith:

Cassandra: I'm curious. Do you even believe in the Maker?

Dalish Inquisitor (Special) I believe in Elven gods. (Elf only)

Qunari Inquisitor (Special) I'm Qunari, remember? (Qunari only)

Dwarven Inquisitor (Special) I'm a Dwarf, remember? (Dwarf only)

Inquisitor: Yes. (This answer will generate Approval from Cassandra, and will also establish your Inquisitor as faithful. If you lock this in, you won't be able to say you're forming the Inquisition for "order" or "to do what's right" in the coronation ceremony.)

Inquisitor: No. (Cassandra will Slightly Disapprove.) You will be tentatively locked in for an "Unbeliever" playthrough and will have those "order" or "rightness" options in the coronation.

Inquisitor: I don't know. (You can still proceed with belief or unbelief from here, but I think the default means that you'll stay on the 'Belief' path for the most part.)

Note: Interestingly enough, you can say that "Fanatical belief is to blame," under both the "Believer" and "Nonbeliever" dialogue wheels, but they will mean vastly different things at that point. I love that.

The Believer's Path and Coronation

The Nightingale and the Lion, two of DAI's most fervent
believers in the Chantry.

This "Belief" approach to the story will lead to a different take on specific scenes—for instance, during the scene (if you support the Templars) in which you rally the soldiers in "Champions of the Just," your Inquisitor will acknowledge being the Herald and will call the Templars to action for the sake of Andraste.

You'll also have different options at various other story points—for instance, you will be able to pardon the penitent Warden Ser Ruth after the events at Adamant by forgiving her in the name of Andraste, or you will have expanded conversations later on with both Sera and Cassandra about faith.

It's worth noting that even if you confess that you have lost faith or don't know whether you believe in the Maker, if you have nevertheless insisted you were the Herald, you will still be taking the "Believer" path throughout the DAI story.

Your "Believer" status will culminate in the coronation scene at Skyhold, and with the presentation of the sword to your Inquisitor. At that point, you will be presented with a dialogue wheel of options that includes the line "My faith is rewarded." As a believer, your final dialogue choice here will also allow you to proclaim, "I will be a servant of faith" as you raise the sword high before your followers.

The Nonbeliever's Coronation

If you want the "Nonbelief" storyline, deny being the Herald of Andraste at every point where you're given the opportunity to argue against the title. Whenever you are asked if you believe, say No. Do that all the way through, and your big coronation ceremony should end with the option for you to proclaim, "I'll do it because it is right," or you can also choose "I fight for order, not faith." 

If you're a Qunari, Dwarf, or Elf Inquisitor, you will also have the nonreligious option to note the importance of this moment for your people, saying that "A [dwarf/Qunari/elf] will stand for us all."

"By the power of Greyskull... No, wait, let's try that again..."

The Dalish Belief Story Path

If you're Dalish, meanwhile, you can also follow an interesting alternate "devout Dalish" story path, in which you deny being the Herald yet assert repeatedly that you believe in elven gods. This will not only lead to some interesting conversations with Mother Giselle and Josie, as well as Sera later on, but also with (of course) Solas, Abelas and eventually Flemeth.

And of course, if you play this storyline, your devout Dalish Inquisitor will also experience a quiet but fairly shattering loss of faith, as well, The gods your Inquisitor revered were nothing more than powerful and arrogant tyrants, and that Vallaslin they wore so proudly was nothing more than a mark of enslavement. And one of those gods was walking beside you (or visiting for occasional makeout sessions) the entire time.

It's interesting that, just beneath the surface of Dragon Age: Inquisition and its larger story, the search for faith and meaning is so crucial to so many characters. From Corypheus's outrage that the Maker's throne was empty, to Cassandra's horrified revelations about the deceptions involved in the powers of the Seekers, to the key conversations with Leliana, Cullen, Solas and Mother Giselle as they wrestle with a dark and changing world, belief in the world of Thedas is presented as being every bit as complex and challenging as it is in our own world. 

And that's just the way it should be.

"In Your Heart Shall Burn," Part 2: Finding Haven

NOTE: This post is part 2 of 2 in my analysis of the pivotal sequence of "In Your Heart Shall Burn" from Dragon Age: Inquisition. Read Part 1 here. 

And please note as always, that SPOILERS on major plot points and character identities will abound! 

We're only 10% into the game and already my poor Inky
needs a vacation. Perhaps Rivain?

So here we are... 

Enter Coryphypants. Pursued by a dragon.

Thanks for joining me. We're at the final stretch of "In Your Heart Shall Burn," as the Inquisitor then goes once more into the breach along with her brave companions, to fight the remaining forces, to stall Coryshits, and to wrangle that last trebuchet into position.

By the way, I think it’s interesting to note here that the Inquisitor isn’t the only one in this moment who’s actively willing to die for the village: So are our companions, whoever we brought with us.

It's never commented on, it's never acclaimed... but it should be, and it almost makes me wish we'd gotten a moment with our chosen final party, before we moved forward, although I guess this might also have over-weighted the moment a bit much dramatically so early in the game. Still, they're here, they're unswervingly loyal, they are willing to die to save the villagers, and it's one of the little memories that becomes incredibly bittersweet later on for me in Trespasser, if we don’t save the Chargers. (Think about it.)

Meanwhile, we predictably triumph (temporarily at least) in this crucial onslaught against the final waves of Red Templars (or corrupted mages, depending on your choices), and do we manage to wind up that last trebuchet to the proper position? Why, yes, yes we do.

Then the companions escape (unwillingly; they have to be ordered away), Cory arrives, and there’s that great confrontation over the Mark. And it’s worth noting that this is probably the most terrifying Corypheus is in the entire game—his entrance as a shadowy twisted figure through the fire is gorgeous, and his voice and aura of command are pretty scary (kudos to voice actor David Sterne).

But before we go on, I just want to share a specific scenario with you... 

A Brief but Vital Headcanon Break...

Walking through fire never gets old! Corypheus is probably
a real hit at parties, too: "GIVE ME ALL THE SNACKS."

This will sound nuts to some. But I always, always picture Solas as lingering here, driven to eavesdrop, and experiencing a pretty interesting if hidden crisis of conscience while doing so. I think he’s got to be hiding behind a nearby shed or wall to witness this conversation, perhaps protecting himself from the flames around him in order simply to listen. (Come on, he has to, right? How can he not?) And although it’s hidden from us on first playthrough, the one person this scene would matter most to—tremendously—would of course be Solas. 

So I absolutely think he’s present here somewhere, and listening—and it’s a fascinating thing to envision. If Solas likes our Inquisitor (or even feels the beginnings of love), he is aware that he is probably witnessing her death (and losing the Mark, the only way to seal the Rifts and heal the terrible damage he has inadvertently caused). His orb is right here only feet away, but in the hands of a pontificating madman—the orb that he used to start all of this to begin with.

Of course, if Solas is here, and listening… he’s probably not feeling all that great about himself right now. Deservedly so. What I wonder is... perhaps this makes him evaluate his situation, his choices, the things he's done that brought him to an utterly destroyed village on top of a grievously damaged world.

Perhaps he regrets these things. Perhaps not. Perhaps his only desperate thought is for the Orb (but I don't think so). Perhaps he even wishes he could join the Inquisitor in this moment of hopeless courage. Or perhaps (and this one is most likely, and what I picture)—perhaps Solas stays still and quiet, but rallies his slowly returning powers in desperation so that he can call the wolves to his will when needed most. Just in case he can still save the life of the person he has come to see as crucial or even beloved.

Villainous Monologuing 101

Now, back to the big moment, flames and all, when Cory confronts the Inquisitor, and while most of it is pretty standard villainous monologuing, I love the fact that it does go beyond that in a few key moments that betray Corypheus's own fears and anxieties (especially pleasing for me as a terminally anxious person—hey, even 1000-year-old demigods have 'em!).

The blocking of the action in the Corypheus scene is wonderful, by the way. I love the way Corypheus plays with the Inquisitor like a cat with prey, and how his dragon sort of circles itself around her, creepily, when she’s thrown to the ground.

Meanwhile, Corypheus’s monologue gets very interesting once he picks up the Inquisitor again, dangling her like a puppet:

"How YOU doin'?"

Corypants: It (the Mark) is meant to bring certainty where there is none.

I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the old gods and the Empire in person. I found chaos and corruption, dead whispers. For a thousand years, I was confused. No more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own. To champion withered Tevinter and prevent this Blighted world. Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the gods… and it was empty.

This is it, his one human moment, if we look closely. It's telling that Corypheus only shows real emotion when he confides that he went looking to conquer the Maker “and the throne was empty.” Even a thousand years later, you can tell that Corypants still can't believe he got stood up. He's still offended by the Maker being a no-show to his “Let’s fiiiiight!” And terrified by that absence, as well... did the Maker simply abandon him (and us)? Leave? 

Or was He never there to begin with? How long, exactly, had that throne been empty?

This moment right here makes Corypheus a real person to me, a terrified child faced with an outcome he cannot accept. He even admits it: He was confused for a thousand freaking years. (Meanwhile, somewhere, Solas is smirking and going, "Really, dude?")

Darkness Inescapable

There’s a lot of very interesting additional lore stuff here that’s worth noting for future exploration—Corypheus is talking about the fact that, along with the Magisters Sidereal, he concocted a plan to enter the Fade, and from there, to enter and claim the Golden City (and the Maker’s throne).

Chantry legend says that when the Magisters accomplished this, the moment they set foot in the Golden City, their touch defiled it, and the Maker cast them out in rage and turned the Golden City black before turning his back on his children for centuries to come. It's a scenario that reminds me very much of Tolkien's mythologies from The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion, detailing the doomed attempt by the Numenoreans to conquer the blessed isle of Valinor (Elvenhome), and of how the moment they set foot there, the island vanished, the Numenoreans perished, and a great wave destroyed their island home, guilty and innocent alike.

However, what’s interesting about Cory’s speech here is that he’s implying that the city was already black… and that the Maker’s throne was empty. There is actual emotion when Corypheus admits this to the Inquisitor, by the way, and it’s fascinating—as I mentioned above, we’re witnessing the worst reality of the true believer—not that God was angry… but that God was gone… (a scenario that is also central to Tony Kushner's gorgeous Angels in America).

My name is Lavellan. You tried to kill my village. Prepare to
die. (Also, your breath is just terrible. Sorry.)

Again, this instantly makes Corypheus a more interesting villain for me than he perhaps appears to be for most. He wants something—not just to rule, but to understand, and most of all, simply to be acknowledged (something his arrogance demands). He's a selfish child, as noted later by Solas, one who demands answers and refuses to accept that the universe just doesn't provide them. Ultimately, just as with Anne Rice's vampires, Corypheus has aged, but he hasn't learned. He's trapped in the persona of who he was a millennium ago. He is the very antithesis of the Dalish curse Dirthara-ma ("May you learn"). Corypheus has learned nothing. He never will.

In other words, he’s still a fanatic, and a thousand years of imprisonment have only sharpened his resolve to rebuild the world (and heaven itself) as he sees fit.

Huh. Sound like anyone we know? (Cough.)

Farewell to Haven

Meanwhile, after proclaiming these revelations and tossing our poor Inquisitor around through this scene, which is especially painful if they're wee Cadashes (dwarves) or delicate and fragile-looking Lavellans (Dalish elves), we look up into the soft dark skies above the deeper shadows of the Frostback Mountains. And a miracle occurs, because there, faint and fragile, shines the brief spark of Cullen’s beacon. Our people are safe.

Which means we can now Unleash Hell. And after all of Cory’s evil monologuing, it’s satisfying when the Inquisitor is able to stand up straight, make a snarky comment, adjust their sunglasses, and set off that perfectly positioned trebuchet. (In my own headcanon, my hapless Inky may or may not have backed into it and knocked the handle, but the timing was still perfect! And of course accomplished in slow-motion...)

Either way, Boom goes Haven, and the Inquisitor (off and running in perfect action hero mode) is knocked into safety via an old mine shaft or tunnel, even as Cory’s wafted away undeservingly by his pet dragon in the nick of time, all while Trevor Morris’s magnificent score makes the entire moment even more dramatic and epic than expected as we wait to see what happens next.

A fragile flame in the darkness tells us our friends and
companions are safe. Eat it, Coryphyshits.

But let's take a moment. Haven is no more. It’s a beautiful moment of symbolism if you think about it. The destruction of Haven is important and symbolic. It means anything can happen; that no one is safe; that nothing may in fact be what we think it is. And by the end of Inquisition (and especially Trespasser), boy, is that true.

Meanwhile, we experience a slow fade through darkness, then the blazing of the Mark as it awakens the Inquisitor painfully, and in confusion, to isolation and a white snowy world. We're limping and sore and cannot move quickly. We can only stumble, slowly, seeking some kind of exit. We battle demons, discover the Mark's new powers, and then emerge into the lonely, snowy mountain forests.

May the Dread Wolf Guide You

There’s a Dalish saying: “May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps.”

But... we know him better now, don’t we? We don't mind him hearing. We trust him. We maybe love him. He might even love us.

And if our Inquisitor is lost, who better than the Dread Wolf and his companions to guide her back to her loved ones? It’s an intriguing idea, because, as our Inquisitor emerges, wolves howl almost immediately (within seconds of emerging from the tunnels)… Are they howling for sustenance? Or to help us, guide us?

Me, yes, I'm a romantic. But I think they're there to help.

I believe this because, as we begin our slow and snowy trek, after passing the remains of that burning wagon, when we turn in the proper direction for the next slog? A wolf howls, loudly. As it doesn't attack (even with a pack pretty aurally present), one could certainly argue that it’s trying to guide us, to tell us where to go. In fact, to test this, I tried running in the opposite direction. No wolves. Then I heard faint wolves again—from back where I needed to go.

If our Inquisitor moves forward, after the next fade through black, wolves are now howling very loudly right in front of us if we go the right way. I tried running around again at this point, and this time when I went the wrong way, the wolves continued to howl BEHIND ME, where I needed to go.

Then, after the next and final fade through black, we’re again faced with very clear and loud wolf-howling as the Inquisitor heads to the abandoned campsite and its embers. More howls as we go forward the right way. 

What's most intriguing about this sequence is that, here, so near the end, we now hear many howls—both near and far. Are they messages? Communications to Solas that "Hey, the Inquisitor's safe, they're almost here," for instance?

Or am I simply reading too much into every single possible thing here? Um, absolutely. It's pretty much the core definition of my existence.

And please note—this isn’t an idea that’s original to me in any way. I’ve seen it discussed in Dragon Age groups and Reddit posts, and there are even a few really beautiful Dragon Age artworks that depict the idea of the wolves as guides for the Inquisitor at this point in the story, as well. I do think it’s a lovely and subtle idea, and based on what we see and hear, the case can certainly be made that the wolves are helping us in some way.

Either way, we make it to camp, collapsing just steps from the outskirts, and we're rescued with joyful relief by Cass, Cullen, and a third person I can’t quite see (but who is definitely not Solas, and who I think may be Varric). Why isn’t Solas there? I prefer to think he’s off with a magical mirror or minor orb, communing with his wolves as they wrap up their “Finding Inky” mission and report on reconnaissance. And hopefully giving them extra doggy treats for doing so.

Meanwhile, I always think it’s poignant that our companions run out to us so quickly. The implication, if you think about it, is clearly that Cassandra, Cullen and our companions have all been sad and restless, looking back toward Haven from the edge of camp, waiting and pacing and hoping… ready to assist on the slim chance that the Inquisitor survived and found them. And then we do find them, and they are waiting.

The lesson is a vital one: Haven may be gone, but for the villagers, companions and most of all, for our Inquisitor—it's also right here. It cannot be destroyed.