Chapter Text
“Under the Qun, everyone is born for a purpose, with a purpose, and is a purpose fulfilled.”
Six weeks ago, Zarah Adaar was a mercenary, working with the Kalo-Vas. She had been hired as security for the Conclave called by the Southern Chantry’s Divine. The theory was that, as a Qunari, she would be able to stand between the Mages and Templars if things went badly. Things had gone badly, of course. They always do, but not in the way anyone expected.
There was an explosion, and a breach appeared in the sky. Zarah, the only survivor, was seen first as the only suspect, and then as the only one with the ability to close the breach. Elevated to status of Herald of Andraste, she had spent the time traveling through Ferelden and Val Royeau, trying to make friends and influence people. Mostly, it had been spent killing people, being yelled at by clerics, and dodging arrows. She was still getting paid, though, so it wasn’t much different from life before the Conclave.
Instead of Karaas and Herah as traveling companions, she had others, less well known to her, but just as competent at fighting. Today, it seems, she would be meeting another. He called himself The Iron Bull, and he, like her, was Qunari.
Zarah was an early riser. As a child born into the Qun, it is a habit that began early in life. By the time she was taken from Par Vollen, it was as natural to her as breathing. Zarah rose and began dressing. Donning the Antaam-Saar was complicated. Each knot had to be precisely placed. Like the Qun, they were there for a purpose. The design wasn’t just decorative, each twist and braid connected to a pressure point on the body. They were there to enhance agility and reduce stress on the body as a whole. In Haven, Harrit had made her some human armor, but she preferred the freedom of movement the traditionally Qunari armor offered. It didn’t offer much in the way of protection, but the additional agility and speed made up for the lack.
She took her time, making sure that each knot was tied and secured properly. Using her fingers as brushes, she painted the lines and curves of Vitaar on her skin. It was a ritual of sorts. A time for gathering thoughts and achieving calm before battle. Today she was meeting the leader of the mercenary company that offered the Inquisition their services. As it dried, it became hard, but flexible. More armor-like than the cloth. Her skin became toxic to anyone that touched her.
When discussing this with the council, she advised against it. If this Iron Bull was Tal Vashoth, he shouldn’t be trusted. If he wasn’t Tal Vashoth, he was Ben Hassrath, and couldn’t be trusted. Trying to explain the difference to Southerners was frustrating. She herself was considered Vashoth, and the people she trusted and loved were both Vashoth and Tal Vashoth but trusting another person just because they had horns was, well, stupid.
You are only Qunari if you follow and live within The Qun, the Tamassrans taught. If you were born to the Qun and left, you were Tal Vashoth, if you were born outside the Qun, you were Vashoth. If you were human, elves, or dwarves, you were kabethari, or those that need to be taught. If you were willing to be taught, you were viddathari. Having horns does not make you Qunari. The Qun does that.
Southerners judged others only on what they looked like, how they dressed, or how much coin was in their purse. To those born under the Qun, this made no sense. What people did, how they acted, the honor that they held themselves to was more significant. While most of her life was spent outside the Qun, that early learning held true.
Ducking her head, she left the tent. Only the sentry was awake, no one else in the camp stirred. He nodded briefly and continued his rounds, while she strolled to a nearby clearing, and drew her blades. She breathed in and began the forms. Lunge, parry, attack, guard… feet dancing, arms moving in tandem; an eloquent expression of motion and lethality that had taken a long time to master.
For an hour she moved, aware of her surroundings, yet unaffected by them. As the other members of her party awoke, the drifted in an out of her consciousness as they watched, then returned to what they were doing. They knew better than to interrupt. The Seeker had once and ended up on the ground with a blade to her throat. It was all it took to impress upon them all the seriousness with which she took this part of her day. It was meditation; preparation for the day to come, and to Zarah, it was sacrosanct.
She shouldered her knives and made the short walk to the fire, where porridge was waiting for breakfast. Unlike some, she wasn’t a picky eater. It filled the empty belly and was nourishing. Her mother taught her that food was food, and to appreciate it as it was. Some tasted better than others, but in the end, it served a purpose. That’s what matters. She ate in silence, listening to the chatter around her. Varric was picking at Cassandra, trying to get her to make that noise that showed she was disgusted with something he said. Sera and Solas were fighting about something elfy, and the First Enchanter was sniffing delicately at the food in front of her.
Finishing breakfast, Zarah stood, and told her companions it was time to meet the mercenaries. She chose Varric, Cassandra, and Solas to accompany her, and started the short walk to the designated coordinates.
Zarah suspected that this was going to be a disaster, but there was no avoiding it. It was time to meet this Iron Bull.