Work Text:
The fox has found that these nature-claimed walls are the best place to hunt in spring. There are cracks in the stone, you see, deep grooves where mice and rats and rabbits seek shelter during the cold months. When the warming winds bring them out, rouse them to forage beneath the melting snows, they do so stumbling—weakened, and willing.
And all the fox has to do is wait.
It has been an easy hunt, a safe hunt, a peaceful hunt.
But now, that peace is shattered. The mice and rats and rabbits are gone, and there is plaster in the cracks. Scaffolds scale up the walls, and their ivy is crushed beneath. Hammers strike. Nails drive into still-living wood. Trees fall and burn.
People ruin everything they touch—then they celebrate that ruin, and they give it a name.
Skyhold.
They don’t know that, before they came, it held so much more.