Who: Hawke & Trevelyan What: Discussing a trade of skills - blood magic for necromancy When: Tonight, probs! Where: The Hanged Man Rating/Warnings: Whatever precautions come with talking about necromancy and blood stuff Status: Complete!
Hawke wasn’t a scholar. Apostates didn’t always have access to the most up-to-date books on spells, the different kinds, the theories and structures - his main instructor during his early, developing years as a mage was none other than the Hawke patriarch, the main apostate of their family. After that? Much of his skill was shaped by instinct and the experiences of living throughout Thedas as a mage. It worked for him, came to him rather seamlessly than hunkering down and burying himself in pages of controlled arcane knowledge (considering the Chantry did their best to have a say in what went in the books Circle Mages read) - he let the natural magic coursing through him do the talking. Trial and error by the elements and what lurked in the Fade.
Now, the concept of blood magic was approached with much more caution than to just go in balls first. Its attempted practice flooded Kirkwall, the trapped mages feeling like it was their ticket out of prison and the abuse. The hysteria and fear made the practice a stigma, and something that most certainly needed proper research and understanding was labeled forbidden. It only served to make it that much more of an attractive last resort ‘solution’ to those drowning desperation with just about nothing else to lose.
But he’d always been a sensible advocate that all magic was dangerous. Intent was everything. Fright over something not many took the time to properly explore bred ignorance. And that, he thought, was the most dangerous thing about it - it was why he took a learning to it. Merrill’s insight was valuable. Watching mages lose themselves to it was both terrifying and educational. Sometimes he’d come across anonymous notes between mages, books that touched upon it, journal entries buried in old shelves and forgotten.
And then there were these. The tomes, hidden in plain sight by their mere sunburst covers that gave it the illusion of something benign. For awhile they were far from it, linked to something utterly evil and then revealed to have a connection with Xebenkeck. With the ties severed, however, the books remained physically harmless but still inked with a well of knowledge from Tarohne. Hawke had killed her in Kirkwall and the woman was utterly mad but to say there wasn’t truth to her research was bullshit.
“These came to me one morning, like most things lately,” explained the Champion, seated around a wooden table (all five tomes were spread around, and the Fell Grimoire was with it) in what was considered to be Varric’s suite on the second floor of The Hanged Man. It was available upon request for any sort of rental but when it wasn’t, it sometimes served as Hawke’s unofficial office of sorts. “In Kirkwall finding all of these led me to this particular one, and I figured you might be interested with your slight bias towards Tevinter.”
The Fell Grimoire was large, heavy, and archaic. Legend has it that the pages held the key to summoning a unique set of demons, and there was truth to that - he had killed one once, and she was unlike any creature from the Fade him and his group of misfits had ever encountered.
“Slight bias,” Trevelyan smirked, and it was pretty obvious why he had that bias too. His dream lover’s home, the Imperium that Dorian essentially left the Inquisitor for - and back then, Trevelyan had understood. They didn’t need to be attached at the hip to be happy, and never would he conceive of standing in the way of Dorian’s ambitions - here, it was different, and the man seemed preoccupied with the new body warming his bed which...alright, fine.
But Tevinter wasn’t only where he ‘vacationed’ occasionally, seen here and there blending in on the streets of Minrathous (a truly impressive capital city, buildings and bridges literally held aloft by magic), but it was also where rogue forces were likely headed next - to find and recruit powerful agents, allies, whom Solas had never encountered before. All in a hope to stop the mad elf from accomplishing his goal.
Such a popular plan it was, destroying the world and then rebuilding it in the image of what you felt strongly about. Absolutely no evidence that it would even work, nor was it a decent idea. Genocide rarely was.
Anyway, he was eager to see what Hawke had here. Necromancy was its own sect of forbidden magic, very old, but more tied to Nevarra since a culture of death and respectful preservation seemed to pervade the whole country. Blood magic had its roots in Tevinter, it had its roots with these tomes. The Forbidden Ones were rumored to have taught the ancient Tevinter Magisters the art, long ago.
He was curious about blood magic though, he had to admit. It would be helpful to learn a few things, and Max wasn’t about to write it off as incomprehensible. “But this - “ He had worn his lyrium-infused prosthetic, and it seemed to thrum and pulse with a certain kind of electricity - that hand flexed its fingers, moving to touch the book but not quite. Like he was waiting for permission. “Did I ever mention we battled Imshael? At Emprise du Lion. The demon was in the Suledin Keep - first time I’ve ever been offered virgins instead of a fight, I will say.” The ‘Spirit of Choice,’ as he called himself, but a member of the Forbidden Ones really - that wasn’t something the Inquisitor was willing to mess with.
Imshael. Now there was a second name that existed through the pages - he’d sifted through them, of course, absorbing the knowledge and comparing experience to Tarohne’s research. There were many things Hawke was still skeptical about; others made sense, and not always in the best way. “You didn’t, so that’s something to take note of - that’s two down?”
That they knew of, anyway. Half was what they could officially account for, but as for the other two who knew their location or purpose. “I’ll have to ask my cousin if she’s encountered one out of curiosity. Hero of Ferelden, I’m sure she’s seen her own share of things that should have been chalked up to legend and lore.” Maia wasn’t the hero he’d dreamt of, but the main consistencies remained and she was another set of eyes during a catastrophe that was a prelude to their own experiences. “The Grimoire claims that these demons were the ones who taught the magisters blood magic, which simply tosses another theory of its origin into the mix.”
A Neromenian mage had been accredited to its discovery after his contact with an old dragon god (Dumat, if he recalled correctly). Last he heard the Imperial Chantry’s latest argument was that it came from the ancient elves, but regardless there was no evidence to support any of those claims indefinitely.
Maia also wasn’t the hero Max dreamt of either - he distinctly recalled a male Cousland, and apparently the aptly named Hero of Ferelden was one hell of a recluse. Idly, Trevelyan wondered if he’d end up that way too. He’d saved the world, now he was fine with disappearing into the ether - for a time, anyway. There was always going to be something that drew you back out of the woodwork, some crisis or what have you.
“I could possibly believe that,” he nodded, finally sliding the book toward him (gingerly!) and opening it up to at least look at the first page. Ooooh, aaaah, as if having an arm infused with lyrium wasn’t enough - reading a forbidden tome definitely gave a mage the tingles. “A really, really old Archon made a deal with a demon, and then it snowballed?”
Either way, it had snowballed quickly. Blood magic was used to crush the elven empire, Tevinter exerting its dominance by forcing the empire into slavery - not to mention the creation of the first Blight, Darkspawn, and so forth. Those little things.
“I wish Dorian would offer some insight,” he sighed, shrugging one tense shoulder. “But...that’s impossible.”
Touch all you want, Trevelyan, Hawke ensured that it was safe to do so - unlike when he first came across these books with its haunting whispers of demonic promises. Now he could at least use these as references and points of research for his specific craft; he felt as if there was nothing as natural and instinctual as blood when it came to magic, and he’d pursue it to the best of his ability. without compromising his own self with the nasties that lied on the other side. It was possible. Neither him or Merrill had become abominations yet, and the Tevinter Magisters seemed to have a steady handle on it.
When they weren’t sacrificing slaves for their rituals or anything.
“I don’t know,” he murmured, leaning into his chair as he lifted a mug of coffee to his mouth. Yes, caffeine was introduced into their meeting with a splash of whiskey. Delicious. “To say there was just one source seems limited. Perhaps it was uncovered by different people at certain points? I can understand the reasoning behind every theory.” It was something to mull about, definitely. Understanding history was a key in further studying it. “Anyway, I’d be curious to hear input from a Tevinter mage but I take it he’s distracted by other things?”
Blood magic in Tevinter was viewed sort of interestingly - while mages were all but revered in their society, the practice of the more forbidden arts was more hush-hush. Lots of throat-slitting behind closed doors, elven slaves used for ritual fodder. In fact, blood magic was how you got ahead, often unfairly - which was what the Dorian Max knew despised. He wasn’t so keen on the idea, not that Trevelyan could blame him.
“It’s also a stretch to say that the Chantry’s right, that blood magic was learned entirely from elves - it probably is a combo of both. What the magisters took from the elven empire, they expanded, and so forth. Everything comes from something, everything evolves,” he said, reaching for the coffee cup with his good hand lifting it to his mouth to take a sip. Caffeine as fuel was always appreciated in Trevelyan’s world. “And distracted, yes, I suppose. He gets bristly whenever I ask about Tevinter or anything related to Thedas - like he doesn’t want to talk about it, or even acknowledge it.”
For two people who were so deeply in love in another world, things were just chilly between them now. Max had long since learned to accept it, even if he didn’t necessarily have to like it. But there wasn’t much he could do.
“Every mage feels the pull and call of blood magic - it’s a temptation. I know I do,” he added. “I wouldn’t mind learning some, if you’re willing to teach a few things.”
Almost sounded like the man was in denial, which was a difficult task considering the evidence of their other lives was always in their face. Hawke couldn’t deny nor reject the magic that flowed in his veins, couldn’t forget the image of Bethany meeting her demise early on, all the horrors of Kirkwall and the laughs they managed to squeeze between occurrences. There was no escaping it even if he moved elsewhere - it was permanently there, seared into his memory and blood and heart.
But to each their own?
“You were an awful lay, Trevelyan, admit it,” he chuckled after a sip of his coffee. “But you’d be interested? Really?” That excited him! Platonically, of course, there was no actual boner popping a tent during their conversation. “Merrill and I had long talks about it, she shared her knowledge and was supportive of my learning it. There’s still more to know, and teaching is a way of doing that. It’s always a little difficult to find someone willing to keep an open mind, but I shouldn’t expect any less from a necromancer.”
Their focuses were on the much macabre spectrum of magic, and there was also a stigma for those who studied the magic of spirit and death. “I mostly use it to boost spells, and to heal if necessary. That’s how it first came to me. A friend and I did a bounty bust in ‘massage parlor’ -” Yes, he was using quotation marks. “Things got a little violent from there, bullets were fired. Nothing like a high stress situation to really kickstart our gifts.”
An awful lay! Well, that was an erroneous conclusion to draw. “If I was, I don’t think he’d have stuck around for the years we were together,” Max pulled a face. They still were together, even, when he’d last ended off - not together very much in terms of proximity, but the love was very much alive. “I’d offer to give a demonstration of my sexual prowess in one of your spare Hanged Man rooms but Nasir’s not a sharer.” He didn’t think Isabela was either, at least right now - despite her penchant for group sex in Thedas. People changed, no?
At any rate, how exciting that Hawke was willing to teach him a bit of the ol’ blood magic. “High-stress situation, yeah, mine was kick-started similarly,” he huffed a laugh. “Obviously I have more finesse now.” And he wasn’t so bad at shapeshifting either, thanks to Morrigan’s tutelage, so he was confident he could pick up blood magic in the same manner - as long as he focused, and did remain open-minded.
But being that he was a Necromancer? No danger in him suddenly shying away from the more taboo selections. “Healing is useful - I know a few Spirit healing spells, but around here it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Massage parlor...right.” No, he hadn’t missed that. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.
Hawke’s method of healing didn’t come from the more typical ways of recovery, no - his was a tad bit more morbid, taking the blood from wounded people around him and fresh corpses for that revitalizing effect. Downside of it was, well, sometimes those aforementioned typical ways of recovery via the usual routes of magic didn’t stick with him; he’d tried, but there was an odd blockage there. Related to his craft, no doubt.
“Boosts might be unnecessary on your end, due to your…” His coffee mug lifted towards the direction of his prosthetic - that was an engineer wonder indeed, especially considering it hadn’t exploded in a hot mess of electric blue or absorbed Trevelyan whole. Lyrium was a volatile, unpredictable thing but the mineral seemed to have been diluted, tame, yet not rendered ineffective. “You don’t want to over do it. But aside from amplification, you know the other possibilities: control of others, which is a thing I’ve only done once.” To avenge his mother and dish out some well-deserved vengeance, but he’d digress. Mind rape really wasn’t his thing. “Tracking, finding the sleeping mind of others. Some offensive ones as well. There’s still plenty more to uncover.”
“No, boosts are definitely unnecessary - I don’t need more reason to explode. Between my arm and previously having the Anchor, I get enough of that.” Trevelyan wasn’t so ‘pro’ about the mind rape either - of course, he understood why Hawke had done it and, honestly, in that situation what else could you even do? It was a form of revenge but it was also a plausible way to stage a suicide, thus protecting yourself and loved ones from further questioning.
But he just considered blood magic another sect of the craft that was a part of him - he strongly identified as a mage, it was literally in his bones down to the marrow. Like it was wired into his very being, and he was proud of that. “We could start with something simple?” Max suggested, his hand curling around his coffee mug. “A tracking spell, maybe. I don’t think I know any of those. I’d like to see how it works, with blood magic.”
“Well, you’ve probably seen them at work already,” Hawke alluded with an obvious roll of his eyes - due to the hypocrisy of what was coming next, of course. “Phylacteries. You’ll need blood to track the person, and there’s a very simple spell that essentially forges the link between the person and the blood that’s put in the vial. It helps it become a beacon to glow when the person’s close. Blood magic’s only permissible when it suits the Chantry’s cause, it seems.”
Come to think of it, he almost really wondered if he should start keeping his own personal phylacteries of those near and dear (with permission, of course). In the scenario something happened and they needed to be found, it’d prove useful - maybe if he’d thought of it before it could have helped him find his mother that much sooner, before the fucker decapitated her.
Anyway, Garrett pushed those thoughts aside from now. They were going through the holiday season without Leandra for the first time, so those ‘what if’ thoughts were louder than usual. “Then, of course, you could technically use their blood to find their mind in the Fade. That’s the sketchy one - it’s an easy gateway of influence and some control but could also serve as a communicative tool. I say it’s still worth learning. Did you ever receive your phylactery, by any chance?”
Ah, yes. The hypocrisy of the Chantry - and that was just one example. Likely, tracking apostate mages via their blood was only permissible because it didn’t involve potentially summoning demons or being possessed, those standard things that Templars tended to be scared shitless of. Just another reason why Trevelyan went against the grain and refused to entertain a future with the Chantry like the rest of his pious, noble family.
“I never did, but I know how to create one,” he said. “It’s detailed in a former Enchanter’s memoirs, I’m sure the book’s at Skyhold. Not that I’ve ever done it before, but that’s why I have you to observe.” It involved charming the glass vial somehow - again, not something Max had ever done but it would be good practice and also good for tracking later on. “Then you can show me the spell? We can work up to communication through the Fade - which also begs the question, would you be able to find anyone’s mind in the Fade here?”
Obviously there was a Fade. Someplace that Max was connected to, that he pulled his magic from - but Orange County worked in mysterious ways.
It really was such a simple spell, but hoarded like treasure and stuffed away for only the selected to know - except information always found its way to go around, and the knowledge was there if you knew where to look. It’s exactly what happened with all the blood magic running rampant in Kirkwall, anyway.
“I suppose it could depend,” Hawke shrugged. “I haven’t tried it yet. I know I can say with certainty I can find yours, or Bela’s - we’re all tied to the same world. I don’t know if we can find someone who is of another, but it seems as if though that is something we can explore? To see what the boundaries are, where they start and where they begin. I don’t see why not, though.”
Maybe he could see if he could insert a lot of dicks into Wisdom’s subconscious? His best mate would be livid but Hawke would be amused for years and years.
“Testing boundaries, I’m in. I mean, it’s educational,” was Max’s reasoning, and they honestly wouldn’t know how this all went unless they tried. If he could find a way to keep tabs on loved ones when shit the fan around this place as it tended to do, then all the better. “What do you want in return?” he asked. “I feel like it should be an exchange, or something.”
He could teach Necromancy, obviously, as it was his specialty and something he felt the most comfortable with besides throwing fire, or crafting potions and grenades. But summoning spirits of death straight from the Fade wasn’t something everyone was into, or necessarily agreed with. The herbalism was an Inquisitorial side habit, and he just hoped that whenever he retired in Thedas that he’d be able to have some sort of garden to cultivate. Somehow.
Necromancy brought a temptation that blood magic didn’t, and perhaps it was because of that ache of losing someone you loved so dearly. There was no desire to succumb to madness and go some dangerous route, but he was aware Trevelyan had played some kind of conduit role when it came to summoning Killian from limbo. Communication is what had him on the edge.
It pulled Hawke into an oddly pensive position, and his brows furrowed in what could be interpreted as concern. “Well, since your domain lies in tapping into the powers of the deceased - what kind of tricks to, ah, contact spirits with do you know?”
He wasn’t sure if he’d learn it himself, but he was curious nonetheless.
“To contact spirits?” Max hummed a bit, rubbing his hand over his shadowy jawline, dark with five o’clock shadow. Necromancy, as he had come to learn the craft in Thedas, was different than what pop culture today might suggest - he didn’t sit around with a Ouija board, or crack cemeteries open to force zombies to rise for his nefarious purposes. It was more about spirits. “There are necromancy rituals - the Mortalitasi tended to stuff benign wisps into elaborately mummified corpses, and they did this to provide a ‘host’ for the spirit because of their respect for the dead. It’s why the mausoleums and palaces for the dead are so elaborate in Nevarra, with fancy gardens and beautiful architecture. But what I sort of have experimented with here lean closer to what Rivaini seers do - they allow spirits to possess them, for the whole point of helping their village or gaining knowledge and whatnot.”
Spirits of the Fade could also take the form of a loved one in the dreamer’s memory, should they visit the Fade when they slept - it also wasn’t necessarily the person, but a spirit acting as a loved one instead. Summoning one into the waking world? That was decidedly more difficult.
“Ghosts are easier to summon, I think,” he went on. “They’re more personal than spirits, because they maintain their memories and their personality. A spirit is some being of pure magic that can take the shape of whatever you need at the time.” And the Necromancers were the ones who pulled them forth. “Why, you were interested in the rituals?”
Necromancy 101, how grand. It was a good overview of the craft - Hawke had seen it practiced a couple times in his dreams, mostly in the malignant sense, but overall it wasn’t widely practiced. Didn’t piss off the Chantry as much as dabbling in a bit of blood, he guessed.
“Ah, well,” he began, a nervous chuckle following. It seemed a bit silly to bring this up; he could have sought out paths for some kind of contact awhile back, but it was still all too fresh. So much to do with taking care of his mother’s affairs, making sure his siblings were taken care of and providing some kind of stable environment. Now that things had slowed down, he could feel the pang of his mother’s absence now more than ever - but the holidays, they really did have a habit of doing that to you, didn’t they? “Curious for more personal reasons, you could say. I thought once or twice about contacting my mother, but…”
Wanting to talk to Leandra wasn’t something he discussed with Bethany or Carver but the desire was there. His heart wanted to, his mind said otherwise. “I haven’t decided, not yet, but if I eventually choose to then I would at least know how.”
Max completely got that desire. He, admittedly, had never lost anyone the way Hawke had - not in such a traumatizing sort of way. But the reason he’d become a Necromancer was because the craft was helpful in combat, and with his new family - the Inquisition - he wanted to do all he could to protect them. Of course, not all his companions agreed with his choice to learn - Josephine, for example, refused to even discuss Necromancy because of its bad reputation. But Trevelyan hadn’t regretted it.
“‘You will find that life is not so final as some might think,’” he recited, with a quirk of an understanding smile. “My trainer told me that. I absolutely think there’s a way to contact your mother. I’ll find the right ritual, and give you the tools you’ll need if you decide to go through with it? You don’t have to do it on your own either.”
The Inquisitor would be there, if need be. Out of the two Thedosian necromancers around, he’d say with certainty that Hawke could count on this one.
Perhaps he was a sentimental fool to think his mother was still somehow, someway with him - it wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibilities considering Killian had died, and decided to be a mischievous presence from the afterlife by hanging underwear from a ceiling fan. Leandra wouldn’t do anything of that sort if she were lurking about (maybe trim his beard in his sleep??), but it didn’t remove the chance.
Hawke’s smile grew, the dip of his dimples visible even from the scruff on his face. “I didn’t expect to. If it happened it would also be a family thing - the twins know about Thedas, they’d want to be present for it.” Even if Carver also harbored a very skeptic attitude about these gifts, he doubted the other Hawke brother would pass up the chance. “But thank you. It’ll be a date. I promise to be a complete and total gentleman and keep my hands to myself.”
Wink.
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Max laughed. “I’m flattered by your gentlemanly behavior.” It would be an...interesting experience? One to learn from, and something personal. But Hawke was going to be teaching him something viable, and Trevelyan simply wanted to return the favor. If it helped him achieve some sort of closure, all the better. They all took care of their own, these Thedosians. For the most part.