The prisoner hummed. “Then I am Drynne.”

“Surely not!” Solas recoiled in shock. He knew for a fact that that epitaph had been struck from this age. He had made sure of it.

“You’re going to have to expand that for the rest of us non-elves here, Chuckles.” Varric seemed deeply interested in the interaction between the two, as if he was internally memorizing it for his next book.

“It is a title, willing sacrifice—” Solas started to explain, hoping that if the others saw this farce for what it was that the prisoner would go back on his jest.

“Is that not what I am?” Drynne cut him off, glowing hand gesturing to the Breach. “We march against the forces of the fade itself, hoping to close the Breach in the sky with a very likely chance I will die in the attempt.”

A fair point, Solas granted internally.

---

A former Tevinter slave falls tumbling out of the fade. Fleeing persecution and violence from his once masters, he arrives with only the clothes on his back and a mantra at his lips:

We are the people of Dirtha’var’en: keepers of the lost knowledge, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.