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feynites · 6 years ago

Note

for prompts, I'm sure this goes without saying but some of that good good Dirthalene stuff would be great if you're up for it

I did a Mo Dao Zu Shi AU.

Well, to be accurate, I borrowed the basic plot of the first two episodes, because I watched it recently and I wanted to. X3 But knowledge of the series shouldn’t be required, so here! Enjoy some Dirthalene stuffs!

Did you hear? Did you hear about it all?

What?

Lord Dirthamen, that evil master of black magic, has died!

No! Truly? How?

He was killed, of course! His evil lair was destroyed and he was shattered into a thousand pieces.

Who struck the killing blow? Who could have managed it?

His brother, of course! Lord Falon’Din led the march on the lair himself.

Weren’t those two allies? I thought they opposed the mad Keepers together…

They did. But Lord Dirthamen went too far. His magic turned too dark. Lord Falon’Din had to put a stop to him, before he razed the world! They say he’s been left near to death himself by the whole ordeal, too. A real hero.

Well. I suppose we ought to drink to Lord Falon’Din, in that case…

To Lord Falon’Din! Liberator of the people, destroyer of evil!

Here here!

Dirthamen blinks his eyes open.

…Odd.

He shouldn’t have those anymore.

His vision swims a little. Disjointed images crossing it, and equally disjointed thoughts spilling from his mind. But he is not unaware of what has transpired. He was dead. He recalls it quite clearly. It had been… peaceful, actually. Though recollecting the particulars is proving more and more impossible, the knowledge slipping from his grasp, like water between his fingers. He was absolutely dead, though. For a long while.

And now he isn’t. The difference is too stark for him to doubt it. For the first time in a long while, he feels pain. Sunlight streams in through the slats of some kind of ramshackle roof. His limbs ache; his ribs hurt. He stumbles over remembering how to breathe, and ends up in a coughing fit that makes white sparks dance across his vision.

How has this happened?

The coughing fit prompts him to sit up. His head swims. He presses a palm to his brow, and sees red.

Long, deep slashes of red, running down pale wrists. He regards them blearily for a long moment, flexing the fingers of the hand in front of himself, before looking at his other arm. It, too, has been mutilated. His chest is bare; bruised, but not cut. Dirthamen regards the purple blotches on a torso that looks thinner than the one he recollects having - when he was in an elven shape, anyway.

His inspection draws his gaze down to the ground he’s sitting on.

It, too, is covered in red.

Runes. Written in blood. As he stares around himself, Dirthamen realizes that he is sitting atop a summon circle, infused with copious amounts of blood magic. Blood from the body he is in, it would seem, and also from a pair of headless chickens, lying slaughtered in a corner of the… stable? It looks like it might be, some sort of pen for an animal. He swallows down past a dry throat, and turns a more critical gaze to the summoning circle.

Hmm.

That would explain some things, at least.

A self-sacrifice ritual.

Dirthamen has never seen one outside of a book before. It is a rare ritual, primarily because it is fatal to the caster. Where most resurrection spells involve binding a spirit to an unwilling host body, allowing them to be performed by casters who can still live to benefit from making some kind of pack with a demonic spirit, a self-sacrifice ritual invites a spirit to enter the body of a willing victim. One who has spilled their own blood, one whose own spirit will die the moment their body is taken possession of.

It is almost exclusively the purview of zealots, and generally used to summon spirits of great havoc and destruction. The intent, generally, is to die destroying one’s enemies. A suicide attack; infiltrate a camp or stronghold, or even gain vengeance on a home or work place, by summoning an entity of pure chaos into your body, and letting it lash out and attack until either it or everything around it has been destroyed.

But… Dirthamen is not an entity of pure chaos.

The runes in place specifically invoke him. Which explains why he is here. Yet he has no recollection of bargaining with any would-be petitioner… not in this regard, at least. There have been attempts to summon him before, but he simply refused them.

Apparently, this type of summoning does not leave such options.

It is an interesting thing to learn, and not information that one could probably glean without having been subjected to the particulars of this process. Dirthamen files it away, before he finally manages to get up onto his feet. The runes beneath him flicker once, and then burn away. Leaving behind the scent of blood, but nothing else, as the magical energy in them finally dissipates. It makes him feel even heavier, in his new shape.

He may be alive again, but judging by the state of this body, there is a chance he will not remain that way for long. Perhaps it would be wise to simply sit down and wait for death to claim him again. He is still undecided on that front when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps.

The stable he is in does not provide much cover; the walls are fairly open. Dirthamen hears someone mutter an oath, and can only turn and watch in growing astonishment as a pair of teenagers suddenly begin running down an overgrown path towards him.

“Sir!” one of them calls. “Sir, are you injured? Were you attacked?”

Dirthamen blinks.

He is taken aback, of course, because of how the teenagers are dressed. Though he has been dead for a long time, he still recognizes the uniform of the Lunar Disciples. His mother was once head of their order, after all. The two teenagers look like pictures drawn from his past; dressed in crisp white uniforms, with their hair neatly tied back, each of them holding a staff topped with a transparent quartz crystal. The left breasts of their uniforms are emblazoned with symbols of the moon in the First Quarter phase; that, along with their age, leads Dirthamen to conclude that they are Junior Disciples.

They have a similar look to one another. Probably, they are related; though one has a streak of white in his otherwise dark hair.

“Sir?” the other asks him, looking him over in turn. “You’re bleeding…”

Dirthamen watches as the Junior Disciple takes off his overcoat, and begins to gently settle it over his shoulders.

“Careful,” his companion says, standing some ways away, and observing their surroundings more intently. “This could be a trick.”

“I think he’s in shock,” the other replies, apparently heedless of the warning. His youthful face is twisted in concern, as he begins to prod Dirthamen towards one of the stable posts, and urges him to sit down. It is only as he begins to feel some warmth seep into him from the enchanted coat that Dirthamen realizes how cold he must have been. Likely, blood loss had not helped matters much.

After a moment, the other Junior Disciple comes over to look at him as well.

“Do you have a name?” he asks.

Dirthamen blinks. He does. But he probably should not say it.

The two teens share a look.

“Give me the healing kit,” says the one who offered Dirthamen his overcoat. The other narrows his eyes, but then lowers his pack, and retrieves a smaller bag from inside of it. Dirthamen finds himself simply sitting in place, observing as a pair of Junior Lunar Disciples tend to his wounds. He realizes that he has no idea what he looks like; but that is not so strange for him. Towards the end of his life, maintaining a consistent form had been difficult. The teenagers frown at the slashes on his arms; the one with the streak in his hair catches Dirthamen’s eye for a moment, before pointedly averting his gaze.

“I’ll keep a look out,” he says, and moves a few steps away.

The other nods, but then offers Dirthamen a reassuring smile. An expression that falters as he observes what seems to be a boot-shaped mark on Dirthamen’s ribs.

“Well… perhaps we should start with our own introductions, instead,” he says. “My name is Darevas. That cheerful fellow over there is my brother, Felasel. We are both Disciples of the Lunar Order.”

Dirthamen blinks.

Darevas smiles at him again, and waits a moment. Then he carries on.

“We’ve come to the region to investigate claims of dangerous magical activity,” he says. “People say there are undead monsters roving about, attacking travelers in the night. Felasel and I have never been on such an assignment alone before, but we’ve gone along on similar ones many times. If you saw something strange - something that you might not think an ordinary person would believe… we’ll definitely take it seriously. We’ve seen a lot of bizarre things.”

Dirthamen looks down as Darevas begins bandaging his arms. He supposes that, to these two teenagers, the situation must look very strange. Even for himself, the situation is very strange. He doesn’t have an answer for them. So he remains silent; but somehow, the cheerful teenager trying to help him only seems a little discouraged about it.

It is only after the worst of his injuries have been attended to, that it occurs to him that he should probably not have accepted the help. It is a waste of resources for the two young disciples, in the end, if he only means to sit down and die. And yet… it seems like such a striking twist of fate, that he should be found by Junior Disciples from his own mother’s order.

The last time he knew of it, the Lunar Order was being headed by Lady Selene, instead. Someone Dirthamen had once fought alongside, facing challenges during their own years as Junior Disciples. Before the Evanuris ancestral home was destroyed by Sariandi’s armies, and Dirthamen’s soul was split, and he began down the road to mastering dark magic in order to help his brother on his quest for vengeance and dominion.

Then they had been uneasy allies, for a time, fighting against Sariandi’s forces; before finally becoming enemies. Not that they had ever met on a battlefield. The Lunar Order had mainly contested with Falon’Din’s forces, before his brother had claimed that Dirthamen had ensorceled him for the past several years, and killed him to forestall his defeat at the hands of their former allies.

Dirthamen harbored no desire for vengeance, however. He had not become a malevolent spirit or wrathful demon. In the end, he had been able to make a sort of amends to his brother for failing him so profoundly; Falon’Din was able to start anew, to try again, and the only cost was Dirthamen’s life.

Which had never been worth very much to begin with.

Yet, somehow he finds himself keeping quiet as Darevas tugs him along, and insists that they must take him into town with them. Felasel offers no objections, but seems more uneasy with the situation all the same.

“Do you live around here?” Darevas tries asking, as he finally gets Dirthamen to walk down the road between himself and his brother. “Do you have any family? Anyone looking after you?”

Dirthamen blinks.

“Leave him be,” Felasel says, to his brother. “When we get to town we can ask around.”

Darevas subsides, and the pair fall into silence. Dirthamen suspects his presence is to blame. After a few minutes, they begin to let him lag behind them on the path somewhat. Though if he falls too far behind, then Darevas will slow down until he has caught up again. Although in truth, he is not trying to shake them; he has not made up his mind enough to do such a thing. Rather, he is simply very tired, and his body does not want to move without pain.

As the afternoon sun stretches on, the teenagers stop for a break. Darevas produces some food from his pack, and offers Dirthamen a sweet-tasting travel bar, and a small flask of water. He puts some herbs into the water, first.

“Medicine,” he says. But Dirthamen recognizes the scent; herbs that are good at staving off infections. He takes the tiny flask, and then hesitates, before offering it back.

“You shouldn’t waste it,” he says.

His voice rasps in his throat.

Darevas looks shocked to hear him speak; Felasel’s gaze narrows, and his lips purse in what seems to be disapproval.

“He speaks!” Darevas exclaims. “It’s not a waste, friend. Disciples like ourselves are supposed to help people. It’s what we do. And I have plenty of herbs; so drink up!”

Dirthamen can see that the young man has no intention of taking the flask back. And his throat hurts. So after a moment, he does drink, and he does eat.

Felasel’s gaze slips towards the bandages on his arms.

“Those wounds on your arms,” he says. “That angle… self-inflicted?”

Dirthamen blinks.

Darevas freezes for a moment, taken aback. But it seems it less the assertion that bothers him, than the fact that it was made, as he lowers his voice to address his brother.

“Fel,” he hisses. “Leave it alone.”

“Well. If he thinks it’s a waste, then he’s probably planning to try again,” Felasel counters. “If that’s the situation, we can’t just leave him with anybody.”

Darevas glances at Dirthamen, who finds himself largely unbothered. The observation is true enough; the wounds on his current body were self-inflicted. The cutting marks, at least. Not the bruises, he doesn’t think; it would be difficult for him to boot himself in the chest. He is not suicidal, or at least, he had not been in life. Willing to die, perhaps, but apt to take his own life. Though he supposes that deciding to simply wait for death, in this situation, would amount to the same thing.

Isn’t a form of suicidal thought to simply opt to return to one’s natural state of death after forced resurrection?

He supposes that is the sort of thing that would be debated among more scholarly disciples in the Lunar Order’s celestial halls.

“We’re not going to just ‘leave him with anybody’ anyway. Those boot marks weren’t self-inflicted…” Darevas says. He looks very young, Dirthamen notices. How old are these teenagers? It can be hard to tell, but definitely not more than eighteen. To be sent on a mission alone, either the Lunar Order is sorely strapped for resources, or else there is some senior member not far away from these events. Waiting to see if an emergency signal goes up; to record how well the pair handled their first ‘solo’ assignment.

Both youths look at Dirthamen, as if waiting to see whether he will respond to any of this.

He finishes the small bar of oats and nuts that Darevas had offered him, and, again, find himself too indecisive to do anything but blink.

The brothers sigh in unison.

Despite the signs of exasperation, though, they do not leave Dirthamen behind. Instead he fins himself following them into a town he does not recognize in particular, and yet finds nebulously familiar. There are many places like this scattered throughout the territories, though. Tiny towns, with small local ruling families, old but limited in their growth by the amount of resources available to them. The arrival of the Junior Disciples seems to stir up some interest; their staves and uniforms are noteworthy. But then a few eyes seem to land on Dirthamen, and twist towards shock, disgust, confusion, and surprise. As near as he can tell, at least.

The teenagers decide to ask for directions, and end up stopping at a local merchant booth. Darevas is the one who bows politely.

“Excuse me, miss,” he greets. The girl at the booth looks uncertain; but also blushes, a bit, as she looks at the two boys who cannot be much older than her.

“Yes, Sir Sorcerer?” she replies.

“My brother and I have come at the request of your local lord to investigate some of the disturbance,” Darevas says. “Could you tell me where I might find this lord’s home?”

The girl blinks, and glances uncertainly at Dirthamen.

“Why don’t you ask him? He lives there,” she says, gesturing towards him.

Felasel and Darevas glance at him, and then share a look.

“Oh?” Felasel says, folding his arms. “Our friend seems to be having troubles locating his voice at the moment. He hasn’t even given us his name, I fear.”

The merchant girl ducks his.

“It’s not my business,” she says, glancing at Dirthamen again. “But everyone knows that the young master is… a bit prone to addled senses. That’s the lady’s bastard nephew, sirs. You’ll find his family up at the big green house, close to the mountain side of town, but they probably won’t thank you for bringing him back.”

“Won’t they have been worried?” Darevas asks.

The girl shifts uncertainly, and then shrugs.

“I wouldn’t want to gossip,” she says.

“But…?” Felasel invites, leaning in a little closer. He pulls a pouch of coins out of the front of his overcoat. The girl’s eyes widen, and her blush darkens a little. She seems resolutely determined to avoid looking at Dirthamen, now, as she closes a hand over the parcel of coins.

“Everyone’s been blaming the young master for the dark magic,” she explains. “His father was one of those rogue sorcerer types. He left an ‘inheritance’ behind, all kinds of things. The lady of the house found the young master trying to call up evil magic, after some of the villagers reported seeing dead wolves hunting in the woods, and trees trying to grab men off the paths, and serpents lunging out of their shadows. She ran him out.”

Again, the twins exchange looks.

Dirthamen finds the information interesting, at least. Perhaps this is where the former owner of the body he is in managed to obtain the information on his summoning spell. Did he even realize what he was doing, in that case? It seems even more tragic to contemplate that he did not.

At least this is something closer to an answer; though Dirthamen is not certain that he is seeking one, in the end.

“Thank you, that’s very helpful,” Felasel says.

“Of course,” the merchant girl says. “Happy to help, sirs.”

The brothers share another look, before they begin heading towards the mountain side of town. Darevas turns to regard Dirthamen critically, but they do not tell him to leave, or attempt to turn their staves on him.

“Were you really trying to summon something evil?” he asks, plainly.

“…I don’t know,” Dirthamen finds the voice to say.

The answer seems to surprise both of the teens. Felasel’s expression turns contemplative, while Darevas looks uncomfortable. But again, they do not run him off. They seem to reach some unspoken agreement with one another, and bring Dirthamen with them to what is obviously the nicest household in the immediate area.

There is a servant who looks alarmed as he sees them all. Another who runs off, and then finally, they are approached by yet another servant, who looks stiff and uncomfortable as Darevas introduces himself and his brother, and requests to see the master of the house. They are brought in without trouble, though. Dirthamen is still wearing Darevas’ coat, so it seems to take people a few glances to recognize him.

They are lead into a reception room with a few mirrors on the wall. He takes a moment to observe his own reflection.

…Oh.

To his surprise, Dirthamen realizes that he doesn’t not look like he could be much older than the two Junior Disciples beside him right now. There are bruises on his face, too, yellow and purple, but not swollen enough to disguise his features. He is not bad-looking, as youths go. His hair is short and dark, and looks at though it wants to curl. His eyes are blue, again. His nose looks as though it has been broken and improperly set at least once before in his life, and there are bruises shaped like fingers on his neck. An old scar splits through his left eyebrow.

Hm.

He looks like the aftermath of one of his brother’s rages.

Their small group is not left waiting for long before a very refined-looking woman enters the reception room. She makes a face at the sight of Dirthamen, but manages to retain her composure as she politely greets Felasel and Darevas.

“We’ve come by request,” Darevas says.

“The Lunar Order sends children to protect our town?” the woman asks.

“It may seem worrying, but my brother and I have been trained since birth,” Darevas assures her, with a polite bow. “We can at the very least assess your situation.”

“Can you?”

With a sharp motion, the woman gestures towards Dirthamen.

“Then what is he doing here? That wretch is the cause of all these disturbances! We never had anything like this going on in these parts until he gained that cursed ‘inheritance’, and started using the tools of dark magic. If you know what you are about, then you should have left him wherever you found him.”

Felasel raises an eyebrow, and folds his arms.

“Madame, with all due respect, the events you have been describing are not the work of a dark magic practitioner.”

There is a moment of silence, as the lady of the household seems taken aback by that response.

Dirthamen nods in agreement, however.

The merchant girl had described undead wolves, shadow serpents, and moving trees. While dark magic can accomplish many things, even at the height of his power, Dirthamen would have struggled to control or manifest so many natural elements on his own. He could command an entire army of walking corpses, or summon his raven spirit companions, but to perform elemental magic while controlling a pack of undead wolves and summoning shadow beasts?

Either there are many practitioners of dark magic foolishly targeting random villagers, or there is some kind of corrupting influence in the woods. Most likely a corrupted Nature Spirit. A strong one, to create such anomalies.

Felasel states precisely that.

“Well, if there’s some kind of thing in the woods, then he probably put it there,” the lady of the house insists. “You think it’s a coincidence that all of this just started happening?”

“Good lady, when did your nephew receive his inheritance? Your request for aid reached the celestial halls three weeks ago,” Darevas says.

“And that loathsome package came for the boy just a few days before that!” she snaps.

“So you’re saying that your nephew managed to master dark magic in a few days?” Felasel drawls, straightening his sleeves. He glances back towards Dirthamen. “I am impressed, young master. Your aptitude must be astounding.”

Dirthamen blinks.

For him to have managed the self-sacrificial summoning, it could not have been terrible. But it is true; pulling off a ritual generally only requires knowledge of the ritual and the requirements to fulfill it. Mastering spells, however, is another matter entirely. And sustaining them for more than a few seconds is something else again.

The lady of the house does not look pleased.

“…I think, perhaps, it would be best if you were to summon a senior member of your order,” she says. “I believe the Lunar Order has underestimated the severity of this matter, and on behalf of my community, I am offended at this lackluster response.”

The Junior Disciples look somewhat annoyed, at that. Though they maintain their composure.

“Your thoughts are noted, madame,” Darevas says. “We will conduct our investigation. Rest assured, if something beyond the bounds of our training should come to light, we’ll seek further guidance. In the meanwhile, I will have to advise you to keep the villagers away from the forest. Our investigations may stir up activity.”

The lady does not seem pleased with this. But after some tension, she does offer to let the brothers stay in the guest lodgings of her home. The two decline, however, citing a preference to work at night, and remain largely outside the boundaries of the village. A guard arrives before they are leaving, and attempts to escort Dirthamen to the local jail house.

He is surprised when the Junior Disciples intervene.

“He’s part of our investigation now,” Darevas says, cheerfully. “I think it would be better if he stayed with us.”

“We should get him his own coat,” Felasel mentions.

“Does he have any belongings left in the main house?” Darevas asks. And after politely pressing the matter, Dirthamen is giving a sack of ‘his’ belongings. Mainly clothing. He dutifully returns Darevas’ jacket, or attempts to; but the teenager refuses, making a shooing motion when he tries to hand it back after changing into a shirt from the bag.

“It has protective enchantments on it. You should keep it for now,” he insists.

Felasel does not look pleased, but after a moment only sighs, and shakes his head.

“What? He doesn’t know how to fight. I do. If we’re taking him along, we should offer some protection,” Darevas insists.

These two are very gallant children, Dirthamen thinks. He feels badly for causing them so many inconveniences.

Probably, he thinks, he should try and make sure they don’t die in the woods.

Then he can just die again afterwards.

There is definitely something in the forest.

Dirthamen is having troubles deducing the specifics, but the energy in the air itself is telling enough to one who knows what to look for. The brothers grow quiet, as they begin laying down scrying runes, in order to attempt to deduce what has gone on in the area. It is a good idea, but it might not yield any useful information. There is too much ambient energy in the region; scrying spells can easily become ‘cluttered’, and, by the time evening has arrived, most of them have not yielded anything more coherent than a confirmation that something is going on.

Dirthamen is not sure either of the Junior Disciples notice the undead deer. Or rather, notice that several of the deer they pass are dead. If they do, they do not remark upon it; but the signs are subtle, and only Dirthamen seems to be watching when one turns so that its torn throat is plainly visible.

They notice the trees, however.

It is night, and they have set camp, and the air is quiet. The trees creak. Dirthamen watches as one begins to slowly encroach upon the campsite. Its roots move slowly, sifting through the earth as if it is loose sand rather than densely-packed soil. The leaves rustle. He is debating whether or not he should draw attention to the movement when the brothers notice it themselves, and stiffen.

They observe for several minutes, and then move camp.

“Definitely a nature spirit,” Darevas says, while they keep a look out. They have no fire this time, but Felasel had handed Dirthamen an enchanted warming rock. And the moon is full, so there is still light to see by. The brothers worried that the trees were drawn to put out the fire.

“I don’t know,” Felasel says. “You weren’t with me when I went with Uncle Des and Wonder to Riverfall Village. That was a corrupt nature spirit. It was old and mean, but… it tired out fast. This is sustained.”

“Maybe more than one?” Darevas suggests.

“If it’s more than one, we’re in trouble.”

Dirthamen is inclined to agree that they are in trouble, but he has his own suspicions. The brothers decide to take turns holding watch. They do not truly intend to investigate in the dark, he supposes; they were only claiming as such, to avoid staying with the lady of the town. That is good. Even Lunar Order disciples are courting a lot of disaster when they try and hunt monsters at night, especially if they are not using traps and lures, and do not even necessarily know what they are hunting.

Dirthamen waits until Darevas has fallen asleep, before he whispers a spell, and sends his brother tumbling gently down beside him. Then he gets up. He takes off Darevas’s coat, and lays it back over him, before laying down some simple spells to awaken both brothers if anything gets too close to their little camp site.

Then he sets off towards the treeline.

There are more signs to be found. Pockets of air where the temperature wavers from intense heat to inexplicable cold. Crops of dead trees, that look as though they have simply had the life energy sucked directly out of them. He hears the clacking of bones on the wind; skeletal things, most likely.

No spirits.

That is the trouble with it being a nature spirit. Or several. Where are all the other spirits?

This imbalance is not created by corruption, Dirthamen thinks, but by absence. Theft. The odd quality of the air is the brittle lack of normal spiritual energies, creating voids where other things are attempting to fill in the gaps. Ancient remnants of magics from generations ago; or echoes of things even beyond the Veil, that are ordinarily too weak to reach so far into the waking world.

It takes him an hour to find what he is looking for.

A black stone pillar, half as tall as most of the surrounding trees, marks an area of dead growth. Dirthamen can feel the pull of the black magic on it. Like a magnet, drawing nearby spiritual energy towards itself; even trying to draw Dirthamen’s own out through his flesh. Beyond it, he can see only ordinary-looking green trees; but he suspects that they are an illusion.

Past the pillar is a Spirit Vault.

Someone has built a Spirit Vault in these woods. A container that can trap spirits, and like a flytrap, gradually ‘digest’ them. Breaking them down into their component energy, which can be used to create powerful magic. Dirthamen himself was credited with their invention - an inaccuracy. It was another practitioner in the Black Skull Order who made the discovery; and Falon’Din himself who devised the idea of the spirit vaults.

His brother did not have much of a reputation for inventing, however.

Dirthamen observes the magic, but does not get any closer. They will be wards to safeguard such a place. Any interactions will likely alert its creator to its discovery.

He is debating what to do, still, when he sees a bright white signal flare go up in the distance. Bursting like fireworks, from the direction he just came up by.

The Junior Disciples.

Dirthamen turns and hurries back, and sure enough, finds that the brothers had apparently entered the woods of their own accord. The source of their distress is obvious, as Dirthamen hears the sounds of fighting, and makes his way down a small hill covered in dead growth to fight them both wielding their staves against a chimeric beast.

Something animated by the discordant energies, Dirthamen thinks. A confused and aggressive creature, part broken spirit, part wrathful remnant. It looks to be made from the body parts of a dozen dead animals; antlers and claws, hooves and two sets of sharp, snapping jaws, with patches of fur and bone and rotting flesh all jutting out of it. The aura surrounding it is intensely vile; Felasel’s bright cleansing spell simply rebounds off of it, and Darevas’ physical blows only give it an opportunity to swing its mismatched limbs back at him.

It lets out a horrific roar. Echoing and gruesome.

Dirthamen cannot see this fight favouring the teenagers.

He glances around himself. Fortunately, the dead growth affords him some opportunities. He searches for a moment, while the Junior Disciples attempt to deflect the monster’s attacks, and then finds an elderly tree, drained abruptly dry of its life-force. Black magic cleaves to the wood, steeped in the layers of a long existence, and the shock of the suddenness of its end. Dirthamen neatly breaks off one of the branches, and scrapes off the smaller twigs. He splits the skin on his hand - this body is very fragile - but the smear of blood he leaves behind only helps as he channels a rush of energy into the wood.

He checks on the brothers. It is not looking good. Darevas seems to be trying to redirect the water from a nearby stream into a purifying burst, to press back against the monster, but the energy is still rebounding and so he only seems to be impeding it a little; and Felasel is moving to attack its flank, but it has too many limbs for the usual weak points to apply.

The monster closes a human-like fist around Felasel’s throat.

Dirthamen slams the butt of his makeshift staff into the ground, and draws upon the discordant energy in the whispering shadows. Three whispers answer his call. He points at the monster with his staff, as he feels the dark energy lick against his ankles. Black fire lights at the end of the dead wood branch; too dark to see from a distance.

“Dismember the fiend,” he instructs.

Three massive shadow ravens erupt from the blackest segments of the night, and launch themselves at the monster. Crashing into it, so that it loses its grasp on Felasel. The boy gasps, and his brother races to him, immediately dragging him away. The brothers stare in consternation, as the shadow ravens rip at the undead chimera; attempting to tear its disjointed parts away from each other. That will be the weakness, of course. But even with the directed attack, Dirthamen can tell that it will not be enough. That aura is simply too profound to breach. The ravens’ beaks do a better job of piercing it than the disciples’ spells had, however, it will not be sufficient.

Dirthamen lowers his branch, and douses the black fire. The shadow ravens will follow his command until he has either moved out of range, or they have succeeded. It would be better to leave, especially since Felasel and Darevas seem to have concluded the same thing, and are hastily making their escape from the monster.

Dirthamen follows at a distance, attempting to keep an eye on the situation.

Unfortunately, they have less time than even he would have guessed. He hears the sound of shadows being rent, and another terrible roar breaks through the air; and then the monster begins to pursue the Junior Disciples, no longer impeded by the shadow ravens.

Inadequate.

If he had his proper tools…

But he does not. He is not even supposed to be here.

Besides which, the monster is not chasing the disciples in a random direction; the way they are running, the beast seems to be herding them. Dirthamen does not have to double-check the direction to guess where; it is drawing them towards the Spirit Vault.

Is this an accidental chimera? Or a deliberately constructed guardian?

He calls more shadows. Only one answers, as he runs, but he directs the new raven-shaped minion towards the monster all the same. It buys the brothers some more time to gain some distance, while Dirthamen tries to think of what he should do. He needs to get them to change course; with no other immediate recourse, he veers down off of the higher path he was taking, and nearly barrels into them.

Darevas has very quick reflexes. He almost smashes Dirthamen’s skull, before he realizes that they are not being attacked.

“Not this way,” Dirthamen says, sharply, and shoves both of them towards a different route between the trees. “Go.”

Fortunately, they do run in that direction.

“Where did you go?!” Darevas demands of him, however. And Felasel throws him a suspicious glance, before another bellowing roar has all three of them focusing on their escape again. Dirthamen is able to call another shadow, directing the raven backwards; the flash of black fire makes Darevas swear, in a manner typically frowned upon for Lunar Order disciples.

But then the monster seems to come into a renewed burst of strength, and with its most furious roar yet, charges clear through several lines of trees. Breaking wood and flinging itself towards them with feral intent. Dirthamen rushes to put himself between the monster and the Junior Disciples - better someone already dead than two boys who have barely had a chance to live - but before the snarling jaws can close on him, a bright burst of moonlight shoots down from the sky. Shaped like a white raven, as it collides with the monster, and encases it in a shimmering barrier.

The chimera flings itself wildly against the surface.

The brothers both let out sudden gasps of relief.

“Mama!” Darevas exclaims.

Dirthamen follows the line of his gaze, and stills.

A figure is standing, impossibly lightly, on top of one of the tallest nearby trees. Near a small clearing, that is right next to them - and likely where the chimera had hoped to corner them. She is dressed in the white robes of the Lunar Order, too, though the moon symbol on her breast is that of a full moon. A silver circled adorns the top of her head. White hair flows down like ribbons around her, and the staff in her hands is intricately carved; white wood, covered in thousands of tiny runes, wraps itself around a single large ruby.

Selene.

Dirthamen does not recall her having any children, before he perished. It has been a long time, then. His once ally, once enemy, is focusing her spell on containing the chimera. She looks over the Junior Disciples, but then her gaze moves towards Dirthamen.

Something in her expression shifts. He is not sure what to describe the look as, but it makes him feel… recognized.

“We need to help seal the barrier,” Felasel realizes, a moment later. And he is correct; Selene’s spell has captured the chimera, but unless it is fortified, it will break loose again. The two Junior Disciples determinedly plants their staves against the ground, and begin to cast their own spells to solidify the effect.

Dirthamen suspects this will be his only chance, now, to make a retreat. If Selene has recognized him, he is not certain what it will mean; and he finds himself increasingly caught off-balance. He does not know what to do with this situation. So after a moment, he turns and retreats. Fleeing back into the forest.

If that chimera is a guardian, then whoever created the Spirit Vault likely knows it has been compromised. Now, the wisest course of action would be to attempt to destroy it before its creator can harvest the spiritual energy, and then remove the evidence. For that is likely what they will do.

Dirthamen keeps hold of his dead wood branch as he makes haste back to the pillar.

He is tired. This body fatigues too quickly.

But time is of the essence. He has to accomplish then, and then retreat. Part of him is surprised to find the thought of retreat crossing his mind; hadn’t he already decided to simply return to death? Survival instincts are quite strong. Apparently, even just being alive for less than a day has already gotten him to start wanting to preserve this state; however inappropriate it may be.

It is still an adjacent concern, he decides.

Taking down the pillar will require something large. Fortunately, there seems to be a lot of energy to work with in the region. And he is beginning to think that he does know where they are, after all.

The forests surrounding the base of the Lunar Peak were frequent cites of battle, in the days of the war. Felasel said it took three weeks for the Lunar Order to answer the nearby town’s request. By the standards of such things, that is quick; particularly for an incident with, apparently, no confirmed human casualties. Selene’s response to the emergency beacon was also fast; and this mission was deemed suitable for two Junior Disciples. All implications leading to the logical conclusion that they are near Lunar Peak, and the halls of the order’s sorcerous training grounds.

If that is correct, then Dirthamen knows if something he can call.

He plants his staff before the pillar, and begins a familiar incantation, in ancient elvhen. A summons, but not the spiritual kind. He chants for several minutes. The sound of his voice carries through the trees, and reverberates where the pull of the Spirit Vault warps reality and attempts to draw all things inwards. It is, he has been told, a haunting sound on its own; but he had not anticipated the ringing of his voice to echo beyond the boundaries of the vault.

He is debating whether to cease, when he finally hears an answering cry.

So there is at least one still left in the region.

Dirthamen keeps going, calling it forward. The familiar sense of magical connection grows, as he hears the rustling of narrow legs speeding through the forest.

Come, guardian.

Come to me.

The cries of the varterral split the night, as his spider-like minion finally emerges through the trees to his left. Dirthamen opens his eyes, and feels the black fire traveling all along his staff, and up his arms. The points of the flames aim towards the vault, as it pulls at him.

He steps back, and aims his staff towards the pillar.

“Destroy it.”

Without hesitation, the varterral charges the pillar. Its armored body is strong, but the important part is its aura, as it rams against the fortified magical energies of the structure. Dirthamen reaches out a hand, enhancing the vaterral’s energy with his own, until it, too, is wreathed in dark flame. Every charge it makes grows more effective, as it rears back, and strikes, and rears back, and strikes. Again and again, a terrible clanging filling the air. The pillar cracks. The top stone shifts. The illusion on the Spirit Vault falls, and Dirthamen finds himself staring at a deep chasm; like a mineshaft. Surrounded by magical lodestones, and sealed at the bottom, with a single stairwell leading downwards into the dark.

The varterral moves to smash against the cracked portion of the pillar again.

Dirthamen is so consumed by the amount of energy it takes to maintain the spells he is casting, that he is caught utterly unprepared when a black and golden spear streaks through the air, and skewers his guardian clean through.

The varterral screams. Dirthamen leaps back, and can only watch as the enchantments on the spear burn like acid; and dissolve the poor creature alive. His eyes widen, and he staggers backwards.

When there is not enough left of the varterral for the spear to remain in its form, it drops towards the ground. Right before it lands, it stops, and then flies backwards. Returning to the hand of its owner.

A tall figure, standing on the opposite side of the vault. Familiar, of course. His pale hair has grown longer, and even from a distance, Dirthamen can tell that he is not what he once was. Killing one’s twin soul cannot come without costs.

Falon’Din looks gaunt. But whole. His armour is lighter than usual, and the lines around his face are etched deeper. Sorcerers of their ilk do not age swiftly; from what he saw of Selene, Dirthamen would not expect his brother to look so changed. But there are exceptional circumstances, he supposes.

His heart sink.

If Falon’Din is here… then there is no denying who must have built this vault.

He was supposed to start fresh…

For a long moment, the two brothers regard one another in silence. Dirthamen is not certain if he has been recognized. He is surprised to find that even with his brother standing right across from him, he does not feel anything. No pull of connection. No sense of their bond. Not a fragment of what was once so inescapable between them.

Then Falon’Din shifts his grip, and flings his spear again.

Dirthamen watches as the black and gold weapon arcs towards him. Stunned, in a way he cannot quite describe. So he will die twice at his own brother’s hand…?

Before the spear can reach him, however, there is a flurry of white fabric. Something moves in front of him, and then a burst of magical energy erupts, flickering with blue-white flames at the edges, and crashes into Falon’Din’s spear. The weapon does not clear the opening of the spirit vault. The counterattack knocks it backwards, far enough that the magical pull of the space catches it; Dirthamen sees it fall, sees his brother’s expression twist across the open expanse. Most of his vision is filled with pale white hair.

Selene turns, just slightly, to look towards him. From behind, he can hear the sounds of more people coming. The Junior Disciples, he assumes.

A blink of an eye goes by, and Falon’Din vanishes from his place across the vault; only to reappear from behind the nearby pillar. One of his hands rests pointedly close to the hilt of the sword at his side. Dirthamen takes a step back, but is surprised when Selene moves between himself and his brother again.

The two regard one another in tense silence for a long moment. The Junior Disciples arrive, and seem to draw up short.

Felasel’s hand moves towards his own sword.

“Lady Selene,” Falon’Din finally says, breaking the silence. “Do you know what you have behind you?”

There is a pause. Dirthamen can hear the wind; and the moon seems very clear overhead.

“Funny,” Selene replies. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Falon’Din pauses. After a long moment, he removes his hand from the hilt of his sword, and makes a pointed glance towards the Spirit Vault.

“You think I had anything to do with this?” he asks. “What an insult. I drafted the legislation forbidden the creation of these death traps myself. Black Skull Order was the first to sign the treaties, prohibiting the creation of any Spirit Vaults by members of the allied sects.”

“And yet, here is a Spirit Vault, and here is Lord Falon’Din,” Selene replies.

“A Spirit Vault at the foot of the Lunar Mountain,” Falon’Din counters. He begins to move, slowly. Pacing. He is nervous. Dirthamen is surprised to see it; it is rare for his brother’s bravado to falter, and to his knowledge, Selene has never been a figure he feared in her own right.

But it has been a long time; it seems some things have changed.

“This is not my territory,” Falon’Din continues. “If anyone here is suspect, I think it is the Lunar Order.”

Selene does not flinch.

“And yet, you are here,” she says.

Falon’Din raises a hand.

“I am not actually accusing you,” he assures her. “Though of course, I could. But I am certain of your innocence, in fact. I know the real culprit. The one who was behind all of these monstrosities, in the end.”

Selene’s gaze narrows.

Ah.

Dirthamen understands, now. His brother has recognized him.

Falon’Din levels an accusing finger towards him.

“That boy is no boy,” he declares. Then he gestures to the remains of the varterral.

Selene does not take her eyes off of Falon’Din.

“He is back, Lady Selene. Our old foe, the great betrayer - Lord Dirthamen has stolen the body of that poor youth.”

“Possession?” Darevas blurts.

Selene gestures at him, and he goes quiet. Felasel still has not taken his hand away from his blade.

“What utter nonsense,” Selene declares.

“Nonsense? If only,” Falon’Din counters. “Test him if you like. You’ll see, the answer to both of our dilemmas, to resolving this entire situation - without any undue hostilities between two of the most prominent sects in our alliance - is the simple truth. Lord Dirthamen has been hiding under our noses, disguised as some backwater nobody. Possibly for years. Trying to build up his power again, the only way he could.”

Selene remains where she is.

“How very convenient,” she drawls. “Is this going to be the new trend, Lord Falon’Din? Every transgression you commit will be excused by accusing some random villager of being your brother reincarnated? It must be so difficult for you, that you could only pin the blame on him that once…”

“Your lack of faith in me is hurtful,” Falon’Din counters. “But also irrelevant. Because I am not lying.”

Dirthamen’s brother snaps his fingers, then, and a dozen Black Skull sorcerers suddenly move out from the surrounding trees. Dirthamen does a swift count, and stiffens in alarm. They are badly outnumbered. He doesn’t know the full extent of Selene’s power now, but even if she has surpassed Falon’Din, the odds are not favouring the Lunar Order.

He does not want to die, but neither would he have the Junior Disciples and Selene perish. Whatever their past differences, they do not deserve such trouble on his behalf.

He moves.

Selene stiffens, and for a moment her hand reaches out as if to halt him, but Dirthamen is quicker. He bolts out from behind her, and raises his hands in surrender. Barely getting them up in time to see Falon’Din’s expression turn to triumph. His brother gestures, and casts a spell. The bright energy slams into Dirthamen; knocking the breath clean from him, as he recognizes the incantation.

Possession reversal; to remove an intruding spirit from an unwilling host.

It hurts, but mainly because the magic is so potent, and Dirthamen’s current body is already badly bruised and beaten. He lets out a cry of pain and drops to the ground, as the spell engulfs him, and washes over him…

…And vanishes into nothing.

Because of course, he is not an intruding spirit with an unwilling host. He is, if anything, the subject of a kidnapping, of sorts.

As he looks up, he blinks back the stars in his vision, and hesitates in yet more surprise.

Selene has moved. Her staff is angled directly at Lord Falon’Din’s face, while his brother has gone rigid in shock. Felasel has a shortsword in one hand and his staff in the other; Darevas is holding his staff in a fighter’s stance. The Black Skull sorcerers look ready to attack, but, both Selene and Falon’Din seem astonished as Dirthamen stands back up without exuding any miasma of ghostly possession. Or perhaps it is only Falon’Din who does; as he looks again, Selene’s expression seems perfectly neutral.

He rubs a hand gingerly down his bruised ribs.

“That hurt,” he admits.

For a moment, one could hear a pin drop.

His brother’s expression shifts from shock to fury, before he finally glances towards Selene. The brief flicker of fear is there and gone again, before he finally stands back. One fist clenching tight enough to turn the skin white.

“He is-”

“He isn’t,” Selene refutes. “Clearly, Lord Falon’Din. This matter will not be resolved with wild ghost stories.”

Falon’Din sucks in a breath through his teeth, and lets it out again.

“Perhaps he is not Dirthamen,” he concedes, with very little of the grace their mother had tried so hard to teach him. “But he still summoned a varterral. He is still a local practitioner of black magic. Whatever is going on here, it is clearly his doing. My order was passing through when we witnessed a distress signal; we came to help, not be subjected to mistreatment.”

There is a long pause.

Finally, Selene moves her staff out of its threatening position.

“We will look into that,” she decides. “We will look into everything.”

Falon’Din sneers.

“As will we,” he spits. Dirthamen does not think it sounds as intimidating as he hopes. He gestures towards the Spirit Vault. “We will also be investigating, and should we find that the Lunar Order has been harboring dark magic practitioners and creating Spirit Vaults, the full might of the rest of the alliance will fall upon you.”

“As it should fall upon anyone doing such things,” Selene says, with an odd tranquility that somehow does not seem to be genuine.

Falon’Din motions at one of his followers.

“We’ll take the rogue sorcerer off of your hands,” he says.

“Oh no,” Selene replies, moving in front of Dirthamen again. “You won’t. He’s coming with me back to the celestial halls, for proper questioning. This is our region. And your methods of interrogation are in violation of our order’s mandates.”

Falon’Din dares to move a step closer. His gaze is intense, and when it darts towards Dirthamen again, he feels burned by it.

Why is there so much hatred?

He had thought… he had thought it ended, with this death…?

“If you do not give him over to us, we will read it as a sign of the Lunar Order’s guilt and involvement in these matters,” he warns.

“Oh, will you?” Selene replies. “What a shame. I hate to lose the faith and esteem of such reliable allies.”

There is a long, tense pause. Dirthamen wonders if it will not come to violence after all.

But in the end, even despite having them outnumbered - it is Falon’Din who backs down again. With one more scathing look, that seems fit to burn Dirthamen right down to his bones, the man turns on his heel and finally withdraws. Shouting a few more warnings of investigations and dire outcomes in the wake of his atypical retreat.

Dirthamen watches until he is gone, before slowly looking towards Selene, and blinking.

It is Darevas who approaches him, though. Reaching out to gently shake his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have wandered off,” he says. “Even if you know some dark magic, it’s not safe. That stuff’s illegal, you know.”

There is a light ‘smack’ sound, as Felasel puts his hand to his face, and sighs.

Selene’s lips twitch. When she finally turns towards them all, Dirthamen is surprised to see an unexpected gentleness in her gaze. Particularly as it does not seem to abate when it lands on him. And again, despite no real indication of why he should think so… he feels recognized.

As if Selene still believes it is him.

As if she is… not unhappy with that?

She looks away, in favour of brushing a stray strand of hair away from Darevas’ face.

“Take our guest back to the halls,” she instructs. “I have to secure this area.”

“Do you really think Lord Falon’Din would be brazen enough to build a Spirit Vault in our territory?” Darevas asks.

“Yes,” Selene and Felasel agree at once.

Dirthamen finds himself nodding, too, before he catches the gesture, and halts.

With some obvious reluctance, the Junior Disciples move to start accompanying him. Dirthamen hesitates, as well. Uncertain of what to make of this situation. He and Selene had never been friends, though she had been kind to him, once. He could not see how should could be kind to him if she recognized him, however. So far as the world is concerned, he is one of the most evil beings to ever walk the earth. Dirthamen thinks the reputation is exaggerated, but that does not mean the opposite is true.

They were opponents.

Selene turns and looks towards the varterral’s remains, while her sons summon up a pathway back to their magical halls.

Dirthamen stares at her, until Darevas gently encourages him forwards.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Just don’t do any more illegal dark magic.”

Hm.

That may prove… difficult.

But if it is required, Dirthamen is certain he can try.

#dirthalene #mdzs au #my-beautiful-thief #long post

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ladytrollfishes · 7 years ago

Text

Dragon Age AU 2.3

They still don’t take off the cuffs.

You sit there, listlessly, staring down at your stomach as chantry sisters untie your hands and wash your face. They give you clean circle robes, and when you sit there and do nothing with them, they do it for you. You barely struggle- your clothes are the last thing you’ve got that marks you as Dalish, your last connection with your home. You’re still too young for vallaslin so you’ll just look like any other elf in the circle. But- but- you’re too afraid that one of the sisters will hurt you for it, or even worse, ask the templars to do it. They get you in the shapeless robes as you listen to the two that are in charge- a mage and a templar argue about what to do with you all in the other room. Aubade they agree on- she went too far, she should be transferred to another circle. You don’t know whether you should be relieved or horrified they want to inflict her on other mages. Stuttgart acted negligently in allowing you to throw out the phylacteries like that. He would be suspended from field duty, and remain in the circle. You were a new mage here, and still young. They had hope for your rehabilitation. Demmens, however, has been a loyal mage for years. Both of them had been surprised to hear that he attempted to escape the minute his phylactery was destroyed, but neither of them were shocked with the news of his return. He demonstrated great moral fiber, but it did not cancel out the sin of his escape attempt. The final decision, in the end, is to send him away too. The possibility of the two of you being bad influences on each other is just too great, and it wouldn’t be fair to you to move you again.

You don’t see what’s fair about any of this. You didn’t like Demmens but it was hard not to feel attached after he had come back for you. He was the only half friendly face you knew and they were separating you.

Aubade and Demmens would set out again first thing tomorrow. You would be put with the rest of the apprentices and start your studies in magic as though you haven’t spent your childhood learning magic at the Keeper’s knee.

One of the sisters takes you by the hand and leads you to the apprentice dorm. You want to run but there’s nowhere for you to go, and you’re exhausted. You follow her with your head down, too tired to fight.

It’s not so late that people are asleep so entering the dorms causes a bit of commotion.

“Sister, sister! Sister Callahan!” Several of the children scream as they run for the sister. You flinch at the noise, suddenly breathless as you let go of the sister’s hand and clutch your chest instead.

“Calm down now,” the sister says. “We have a new arrival. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

She steps aside to let the room get a look at you, and you freeze. They’re human children, their ears blunted and round, still staring at you with curious eyes. They’re just as big as you are- you loved playing with the children at home, but this isn’t home.

They want to know who you are, but they took so much of that away. When you try to breath, you can’t bring in enough air, and instead you just shake like a leaf.

“What’s wrong with them?” one of the kids calls out in the long silence.

“Shhh,” the sister says. “They have had a rough time. They’re a Dalish elf you know. Perhaps they’re simply astounded by everything we have here. Leave them alone and let them get some rest.”

You hate Sister Callahan too, but at least she points you out to a bunk in the corner, something that’s supposed to be yours. It’s less privacy than at home, where you had the leathers of a tent to draw between you and everyone else, but you could still hear the camp wind down, the elders chatting and laughing near the fire as the pavel cleaned up her shop.

You’d be able to hear everything in the dorm at least. You get in your bunk and pull your blankets over your head and when you’re settled in a ball, you cry silently into the strange bed, trying to breathe properly.

The sister tells everyone to leave you alone before leaving the room herself, but it’s an instruction they don’t listen to for long.

Someone comes by to introduce herself. Her name is Herlyn, and she’s an elf too. She has questions about the Dalish- are they really as stuck up as everyone thinks they are in the alienage? What do they eat? Do they have money? She has questions about you- what your name is, how old you are, how’d you get here. You want her to go away, but she doesn’t. You try to talk, open your mouth and just tell her to leave, but nothing comes out. You can’t bring yourself to talk.

She pulls the blanket off of you, and you curl up tighter, hiding your face in your arms. She wouldn’t hit you, right?

After a moment, she just throws your blanket on you again, and you cry yourself to sleep. With the cuffs still digging into your wrists, you don’t even dream.

You don’t feel much better when you wake up. You try to say something then, quietly, to yourself in a corner, but the minute someone else comes in your voice dries up. You can’t talk, even if you wanted to. You guess it doesn’t matter in the end. You have nothing to say to these people anyway.

One of the apprentice mages takes you up to the classroom where you sit with all the other kids, listening to another mage up front explaining what the fade is. He’s like a hahran, you think. Tasked with teaching the children their heritage, except instead of teaching Dalish history, he’s probably talking about magic. The fade is what the shem call the Beyond, you think. The hahran talks about it strangely. A mage’s connection with the Beyond was part of who they were. Everyone was connected to the Beyond and visited as they dreamed, but only the mages were strengthened by it, chosen to serve as the clan’s connection to the world of the Creators. The shemlen hahran just talked about how dangerous the Fade could be, and how it could lead you astray or possess you to turn into an abomination if you’re not strong enough. And if you are, he talks like the fade is just a resource, instead of the world where everyone is connected. Shem magic sure seems like some kind of nonsense. You don’t touch your books and wonder how your clan is doing. The templars have to be lying to you about everyone dying, but they were still down a Keeper and a First. You hope they’re okay without any magic to look after them, without a Keeper to connect them to the Beyond. You wonder what will happen to you if you can’t escape. You’ve heard the shem don’t like mages, which you guess makes sense if they think of magic like this. You remember Keeper Sariandi smiling down at you, the first time you met her as you blew floating golden bubbles from your hands. She told you that your gift meant you would have great responsibility, and great pride. She told you that she would teach you everything she knew. There was so much you still didn’t. You bite your lip and keep your head bowed as you try not to cry in the middle of the school room. When everyone separates, practicing little fire spells you’ve mastered years ago. There’s nothing you can do, however, not with the cuffs still clasped around your wrist. The hahran makes his way to you and puts a hand on your shoulder. You freeze under his touch, staring at your feet. “You’ll be having individual lessons to catch you up,” he says. Like you couldn’t wipe the floor with all the other apprentices. He guides you to the door, and suddenly you’re afraid you’ll never see the other apprentices again, and you glance back at their attempts to create fire as he pushes you out to a templar. “Here,” he says. “Go with Ser Allison now.” You look up at the hahran, panicked, but he only smiles at you. “Don’t worry,” he says. “She’ll just take you to Enchanter Tenra whose going to teach you.” “It’s okay,” the templar says. “I’m not going to hurt you.” You stare at the ground again, shaking, but when the templar puts a gauntleted hand on your back and pushes you forward, you walk. You wonder when you became such a coward. She guides you to another room, where someone you suppose is Enchanter Tenra sits. You barely listen as she gives you instruction, the same fire manipulation the other apprentices are doing, too distracted by every twitch of her hand, of every clink of the templar’s armor. “Do you understand?” She asks. You don’t know what she said but you nod anyway. “Give me your hands,” she said, reaching out and you do, hesitant and unsure. She takes one hand in hers, and pulls out a tiny key that she inserts into a little hole in the cuff. Your eyes widen as she turns it, a little clink as it pops open and she eases it off. You barely notice the quick moment of pain as she pulls the spike out of your wrist, trembling with relief and a hope you barely dare to hope. You twist your arm around to stare at the skin of your bare wrists. There’s no wound, just a misshapen scar where the needle had plunged between your bones. It aches, but it barely hurts anymore, missing a pain you didn’t realize you had gotten used to. She unlocks your other wrist and you sob as the Beyond flows back into you, as strongly as it did before. For the first time since you’ve been taken, you’re somewhere like home. “There there,” Tenra says, patting your back. “I know it’s a little overwhelming, but we only have so much time for this lesson. Can you show me your fire?” You pull hard on the Beyond and it wraps around you like a cloak and when you breathe you feel like you’ve finally surfaced. You have your magic back. You can hear the whispering of demons promising you power clamoring for your anger. You push them back, focusing on your love for your clan. You can’t be a Keeper if you lose yourself but you absolutely can show her your fire. The templar knocks the Beyond out of you again, before you even remember she’s there. They wrestle the cuffs back onto you when you’re forcibly reminded, again, that without magic, you’re just a kid whose smaller than average and blind in one eye. You’re not done crying for a long while after that, curled up in a ball in the corner while more adults gather at the other end of the room to talk about what to do with you. Enchanter Tenra explains to you later that they were maybe hasty in letting you have your magic back so soon. Clearly you know more than they expected, so they’ll move you up to study with the older children but it’ll be strictly book learning. They want to make sure you can get used to the circle first. When they’re sure you’re not going to hurt anyone, then they can take the cuffs off. You stare the Enchanter in the eye then. For the first time since you’ve gone silent, you wish you could talk. You want to beg them to change their minds, plead for them to stop hurting you, but what could would that do? They don’t care about who you are or what you think. The corners of your mouth waver uncontrollably as you try not to cry. The enchanter looks away first. You need to find a way to escape. You can’t live like this. The tower takes to calling you Dalish, since you’re not talking and you haven’t told anyone your name. You don’t mind it. No one can say they don’t know who you are at least. The one Dalish elf in the circle, even if you don’t have vallaslin and you won’t look people in the eye. As loathe as you are to admit it, you are starting to get used to the circle. You’re eating more regularly. You refuse to do the work they give you, but you try to listen, even if learning more about magic reminds you of Keeper Sariandi. The other apprentices don’t care for you much. There’s a lot of rumors about you, most of them pretty far from the truth, though you bristle at the ones who think it was your clan who cast you out. You don’t want to tell them what happened either. They try to bother you and get a reaction out of you, but you don’t want to give them what they want. If you tell them and they feel bad for you- if you make friends- the adults will think you’re settling in. You don’t want friends. You don’t want the circle to have any part of you. It’s a surprise though, when the elf from the first day, Herlyn, steals over to your bunk one night when everyone else is asleep. She’s nervous, stumbling over her words a little, but she tells you that she doesn’t abide by bullies and if you ran into trouble she would protect you. Is this some kind of trap? You look up at her, her eyes glinting silver in the dark and watch her wince as she looks at your blind eye. You stare at each other in silence before Herlyn retreats. That’s the end of that you think, but she seems to latch onto you after that. She stops the other apprentices from throwing things at you, shares her dessert at the dinner table. She even volunteers to help you with your homework, even though you refuse to do a lick of it. The adults seem to take this as a sign of improvement and they start taking off your cuffs again, but only for your practice sessions. You still burst into tears, when you feel the touch of the Beyond, but you don’t try and fight your way out, not anymore. One way or another those cuffs will end up on your wrists again, and you’d rather not suffer through the fear of being held down again. They whisper about making you tranquil, which you’re not really what it means, only that it’ll handle your emotions and outbursts. They say you’re too young, that you’ve had it rough very recently, and that they can’t make a child tranquil for being a child. You know what Tranquility is. Keeper Sariandi told you about how the shem cut their mages off from the Beyond, burning away what makes them people. Now that you’re here, you’re not sure if there’s a real difference between a circle mage and a tranquil one. That changes when you get sent on a supply run, with a list of items to get from Nubbins, the Tranquil mage in charge of inventory. He’s got the mark of a sun pressed into his forehead, and his face doesn’t twitch as he watches you come in. You stand there silently, watching each other. Unlike the other adults, he doesn’t ask you to do things or try and move quickly, or even speak first. You hand him the list, which he takes inventory. When he speaks, he speaks without a hint of emotion in his voice, turns to obey without hesitation. He’s like a puppet with invisible strings. It’s probably a lot easier for the templars to deal with a mage who doesn’t feel anything. You wonder who he used to be. You blink, and your stomach drops suddenly as you realize they probably did this to him to make him more manageable.

The same thing they want to do to you. You take the supplies and return but you have to stop in the stairwell until you stop shaking. Sometimes you feel like you’re the only sane person in the tower. Sometimes you feel like maybe you’re just crazy because no one else blinks an eye at things like Tranquil mages. Every other lesson underscores the risk of magic and how dangerous it is and how evil apostate mages are and how they dance naked in the woods at night performing blood magic. It’s ridiculous. You’re an apostate mage, you learn, even if you’re in the circle right now, and you’ve never done blood magic. They teach you the signs of how to spot maleficarum. It’s a special kind of evil that draws from mortal life instead of the Beyond. It’s powerful but it weakens the mage, making their normal castings weaker as their connection to the Beyond withers. You’re supposed to report any suspicious wounds or magic to the enchanters. Despite yourself you find yourself interested. You’re not connected to the Beyond anymore, not with the cuffs digging into your wrists. If blood magic didn’t need a connection to it- if it was possible for you to escape with blood magic- you’d do it without a doubt. Even if it cripples you. You can’t ask Herlyn. She’d probably tell the enchanters the first chance she gets. She’s friends with one of the sisters- she tried to get her to talk to you but you don’t want anything to do with the Chantry. You can’t trust her. You can’t find books about it without triggering suspicion, and they keep any sharp objects far away from the mages. The spikes into your wrist don’t let any blood fall-they’ve healed completely every time they’re removed and there’s nothing shed when they put them back in. Something about them must be healing the wound so you can’t draw blood. There must be something powering whatever healing spell it’s using. Lyrium? Not with it digging into your skin. You would have gone mad by now. The only other thing that can power magic though is- Blood. The cuffs are using your blood to heal the wounds it inflicts. It’s making you constantly use blood magic to heal a wound it constantly inflicts. That’s what’s wrong. That’s what’s cutting you off. You have to stand and pace then, lock your fingers behind you so you don’t try and rip the cuffs from your wrists. For every lesson about the evils of blood magic, they apparently don’t have a problem with making you use it if it helps them. Now that you think of it, the phylacteries are made from blood. Weren’t they blood magic too? There was nothing, nothing worth saving in the circle. You want to tear it all down, dig your fingers and bloody them into the mortar and rip each stone out of the wall. You want to run in the rubble of the tower. You want to scream in the faces of each Enchanter and demand to know how they could do this to you. You want to throw every empty assurance and backhanded compliment into the Chantry sister’s faces. Instead you scream into your bedding and sob, thankful the dorms are mostly empty. You have to keep it together or they’ll make you Tranquil. You have to get out of here before you’d rather jump from a tall window than continue on. You don’t know why this is so surprising to you, that the chantry was using blood magic. There was already so much of it built on such weird ideas it’s not a stretch to think they would have to use those kinds of methods to keep everyone in line. At this point you wouldn’t be surprised if there turned out to be a high ranking branch of chantry blood mages dedicated to brainwashing everyone to believing in the maker. But this did mean you could use blood magic. You had been, unconsciously and unwillingly, but you’ve been using blood magic this whole time. You wonder if you can stop. You wrap yourself into your blankets and try to breathe and focus. You try to feel the drain of mana- no, of blood, understand how it feels, of how that cuff is using you. You start to get it, eventually. It’s barely a prick, not a lot of power, or you would have noticed this before. You can’t make it stop though, not with your skin pressed up against the metal of the cuff. It’s an incessant, constant pull. But this is what blood magic feels like. You know that now. You’ll teach yourself blood magic. They kept sharp objects from you, yes, but there were a lot of books and papers that you could cut yourself of. It’d be barely a drop but you could work with that to start. It takes you a couple tries, but you manage to slit the side of your finger with the edge of a book. A perfectly plausible explanation for a perfectly plausible cut. It’s not more than a drop of blood, but you feel the murmur of power in it and when you pull on it, you create a spark at the tip of your fingers, but not much more. Still. It’s something. You take a deep breath as you start to feel something like hope. It becomes somewhat routine. You go to your lessons, only half listening. You have practice with Enchanter Tenra and quietly accept the cuffs again at the end of each session. You cry less now. Herlyn tries to help you with your homework but gets bored with you frequently. Every time you think she’s going to leave for good, she comes back the next day. You take books out on enchantment to read during the day and cut yourself on the pages at night. No one notices what you’re doing. You find spells that break and weaken metal. It’s not a heavy metal. Not too thick. You don’t think it would take that much blood to break. Maybe you don’t even need to break it all the way. You just need the healing spell to stop, though you would like to remove the spikes out of your wrists. The cuffs are spelled for protection against abrasions you think. It doesn’t matter how much you rub them against the stone work, the metal doesn’t take any scratches on its runic surfaces. You’ll need a spell that can make it past those protections, something with just enough force that can just score a line in the runes. You’ll need to figure out how to get that power. You can make a tiny force blade with the blood a paper cut nets you, but it’s not strong enough to break those protections. Smaller then, with the same force. No, even smaller. Your control has to be perfect. You test the spell, a tiny needle of force, against your cuffs, right next to the keyhole. It’s barely noticeable, but it leaves a hole. You smile, for the first time since you arrived. You can get out like this. But you don’t just have to get past the cuffs. You need to get past the templars and enchanters and stone walls. And once you’re out you have a phylactery you need to destroy. You need a plan. You can’t get through the doors. It’s too well guarded. There’s always at least four templars hanging around there. The answer comes to you on your next supply run. Acorns as spell components. No one would miss a small handful, you’re pretty sure. You try not to think about what might happen if they caught you. You take three and slip them into your pockets. Where would you break out from? Somewhere that didn’t have very many templars. Breaking through the walls would be noisy and you only had one shot at this. The apprentice washroom in the middle of the night. It doesn’t turn out to be the best spot. The stones are held much closer together there, magically waterproofed. Plus too many people come in and out. There’s too high a chance someone will ask you why you’re burying an acorn in the wall. There’s only a few places that are unfrequented enough for you to actually spend time digging into. You pick an unused study room and grind away at the mortar with a fork you took from the dining hall. You can’t just disappear for hours and hours either, before people come looking for you. You steal away when you can, to scrape away at the wall. It gives you time to try and put together the rest of your plan.

Someone will notice, no matter what you do when you break the wall. It’ll be too noise. You’ll need a distraction, but you’re not sure what. You’ll have to be in two places at once and you don’t have that kind of magic. Can you ask Herlyn? No. That’s just falling into the circle’s trap. You can’t let there be any loose ends.

In the end you can’t think of something that will let you make a distraction and a hole at the same time. You have to make your way past Lake Calenhad anyway, after you break the wall. It wasn’t as though templars in their heavy armor could immediately swim after you.

It’s a problem if they can take the time to find a boat and still be able to see you though. Not to mention the phylactery would lead them right there. You need to get a head start on the templars if you’re going to get away for good.

The apprentices would whisper to each other about monsters in the lake, creatures mutated from failed potions apprentices dumped in the lake. You don’t know how much of that is true, but you’re not sure you want to swim in it, not with holes in your wrist. You’ll just have to heal yourself before you jump.

You find a mist spell you can use to give yourself cover. You’re not going to try stealing your phylactery from inside the tower. It’s probably the best guarded spot in the place. They’d be using it to hunt you down. It would be easier to grab it then.

Your head is so full of your escape you don’t notice what else is going on. You have two out of three acorns in the wall and a hole barely dug for the third when Enchanter Tenra pulls you aside from class one day and warns you that the examinations are coming. She tells you that you have to do better than you’ve been. She says she knows you’re better than this but if you fail these exams, the chances will go up that they’ll make you Tranquil. You blink twice, then look down.

You won’t be here for that long. If you’re here long enough to go through the Harrowing everyone keeps talking about, you’ll hand your body to the spirits without complaint.

They move you all to a different room to take the written part of the exam. To prevent cheating, they say. That way no one could enchant their desk to tell them any answers or whatever. To your surprise, it’s the room you’ve been digging acorns into.

The room now is lined with long tables with a written test set up at each seat. You pick one close to the acorns. Was two enough? Your heart races. Two acorns should be enough.

There would be no distraction, but there would be chaos, with all the other apprentices around you. That would trip the templars up. It’s not the plan, but you’re not sure you’ll get a better chance.

All you need to do now is to break the cuffs without drawing attention. At least everyone else will be focused on their tests.

You gather your nerve as you take a few deep breaths. You lace your fingers together, clutching them tightly, trying to stop from shaking. If you fail- If you don’t make it- you don’t know what they’ll do to you. You’re not sure how much worse it can be. They’ve taken your clan, your family, your magic, your clothes, your eye, your voice.

You know the punishments they dole out to maleficarum. Will they make you Tranquil too? You could lose your mind still. You sniffle, wipe your eyes, and try to put it behind you. If you don’t try to break out, you’ll spend the rest of your life in the circle. If they catch you and don’t immediately take your mind too, you’ll just throw yourself down the tower stairs and hope you break your neck.

You slide the edge of the sheet against the side of your hand, barely noticing the sliver of pain. Blood seeps from the cut. You can sense the power seeping from your skin. You hunch over your test, slip your wrist under the table. Your teachers aren’t watching you in particular, just running sweeps around the room.

You duck your head again, before you can meet anyone’s eye and score a line across your cuff. The pain in your wrist immediately begins to intensify as blood rolls down your arm. You use it to do it again, stronger, and your metal cuff clatters to the ground.

There was so much power in blood. You can see why people get hooked on it. Another force blade tears through your other cuff, leaving a slice up your arm as well. Red drips onto your test, beckoning to you, but you let go of the blood and reach for the Beyond and it holds you like a song. Like a home.

You stand, staring straight up at the wall where you buried two acorns. You’re going home. The wall cracks, splinters and bursts, spraying gravel and books and stone everywhere as trees sprout suddenly from crevices much too small for them. Roots curl around stone pulling them over and down as their misshapen trunks fall to the ground.

Screams fill the air as you clutch your chest. You stumble towards the hole you made, but that spell drained you more than you thought it would. You have to gasp, because suddenly there’s an incessant buzzing in your ears as spirits beg you to pull on their power. You shove them all back as you focus on home, grabbing the stone with a blood-slicked hand when there’s a shout at the door.

Templars push their way through screaming apprentices and immediately burst out with cleanses. You’re out of range, but if they were this close already, you didn’t have the headstart you wanted. You were in big trouble with this.

As you turn to leap out the hole, you spot Herlyn, standing, apparently unaffected by the cleanse, between you and the soldiers. She blasts the incoming templars with a cone of icy magic, freezing them into place.

You blink, stunned. She helped you?

“HERLYN!!” one of the teachers shrieks. Herlyn blinks, as though she can’t believe what she just did. She kept her promise about protecting you when it really, actually mattered. She still stands there dumbfounded, and if she doesn’t come with you, she’s going to be in so much trouble.

You wet your lips as something loose from your chest. You think you can talk this time.

“Are you coming or what?” you demand. Your voice is rusty and hoarse and you hold out a bloody hand for you to take. Herlyn looks up at you for a stunned split second, before she snaps out of it, scrambles forward over the tables and chairs, and grabs your hand.

#dragon age au #daginy drabbles #long post

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