mrpavus:

the idea of an LI having to fight their possessed Inquisitor really  appeals to me. the two of them, one-on-one.

Dorian throwing up magical barriers as he tries to buy himself some time, praying his mana holds out with each of the Inquisitor’s strikes. He’s done enough running and losing. He’s been taught to put his needs, his survival above all others as a magister — it’s his right. But he will not. Surviving past this is not an option if it means taking the Inquisitor down. He will not turn his magic on the man he loves.

Cassandra standing fast behind her shield, sword still tucked in its sheath. She deflects each of the Inquisitor’s blows as she tries to get through to him; there’s got to be a way to reason with him. It’s shouting and running and “I will not do this“ spoken several times. She brought her blade to his throat once, long ago. She will not do it again.

Iron Bull takes a few of the non-lethal hits rather than dodge every strike: he’s covered in scars already, what are a few more? It’s a small price to pay to keep his Inquisitor with him. He calls their name and grabs their arms, holding them above their head. “It’s me,” he calls, “you know me!” But there’s no recognition in their glowing green eyes. 

Sera is quick on her feet and avoids the Inquisitor’s every attempt to injure, caught in a deadly dance. She’s as angry as she is scared, and even with all her tricks nothing seems to work. This isn’t a game. She runs at the Inquisitor and tries her best to get her arms around her, consequences be damned. ”It’s just me, ya daft —— love, it’s me!“ 

Solas using his staff to parry and throwing up barriers when he needs to catch his breath. All those years alone, to then find the Inquisitor and all their time together, only to have it end like this. “No,” he tells himself. He will not use his magic — the same magic that helped him survive all those years, the magic that helped him learn so much that had been forgotten — against his Inquisitor.

Blackwall parries with his blade, using his strength and size to stay one step ahead. He’s biding his time as he slowly exhausts his list of ways to break through the possession, one by one. He calls the Inquisitor’s name, reminds her of his own several times, aggressively trying to reason with her until his voice cracks. Grey Wardens are supposed to be heroes — so why can’t he help the woman he loves? What does that make him?

Cullen has seen plenty in his years as a Templar, has faced possessed mages and abominations of all sorts, but seeing the Inquisitor in such a state numbs his hands. He never reaches for his sword. He only dodges and ducks, bumping into the furniture in his tower as he desperately tries to get through, calling her name over and over, desperate, begging.

Josephine is cornered in her study, but she’s far from helpless. She uses the furniture as makeshift shields as she talks to the Inquisitor, trying her best to maintain a calm voice. If only she can get through to them, have something in their mind come back to her so the rest can follow. But when she looks at those glowing green eyes she feels her blood chill, and she desperately misses the eyes that used to look at her with such kindness.

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