The Brecillian Forest is full of life.

It’s full of death, too, and little of that restful. The Veil here isn’t so much thin as it’s <i>flimsy</i>, a fragility familiar to Kirkwall, but shifted for it. Where civilization might have grown against its drape, here there are only scattered villages, thick trees; the occasional sign of more transient habitation.

(And ruin, always ruin. Civilization grew here once too.)

They have excuses to be here, they have intelligence to consider. The Southern scouts report the usual dangers afoot — possessed branches, occasional bandits, roving wildlife — but no sign of hostile Dalish. Small blessings.

The Rift here is small, but persistent. All manner of minor spirits press at its edges, and the occasional greater horror climbs through. As they draw closer, there are scorch marks in trees, there’s a silence in the birds. Sometimes, there are bones.

The Inquisition knows it’s here, but there are too many Rifts, and too few able to close them. Remote and spirit-stricken as these woods are, they’ll need to wait. A boon for those who’d study it,

That they’re not here to study is a matter to be kept between them.