Liliana, the demonic bride
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Dragon Age Origins.
"Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song and loud, amid the universal clamor"
–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Arsenal of Springfield
(Liliana's Journal entry)
There are said to be many alluring myths and legends intertwined in the history of the Elvhenen elves, but one story in particular would be a warning to star-crossed elven lovers for the years to come. This tale is a romantic tragedy of the great elven warrior, Arcane, and his corrupted demonic lover, Liliana. Their fate is said to be ambitiously awkward and devastating; as they are forced to walk the world of Thedas alone, forever. Many have been inspired by this spiteful story, while many others have deemed it as a silly wives tale, an overly cautious story made to scare children at night. Other philosophers of folklore feel that part of the fable is missing, believing that the story seems subtly incomplete. Well, I wouldn't spoil it for now but I will tell you that story as I go, for I feel my current situation is much more prominent. I am an ancient elve of folklore, yet my memory is fuzzy, it is… unfinished. I only remember bits and pieces and I can honestly tell you that this 'story of tragedy' isn't completely truthful in it's nature. I guess you can say I am part of this story, for I am that so called 'demonic lover. Times have changed tremendously since the Elvhenen era, and I have believed my story had almost been completely forgotten since I have journeyed thus far. I noticed fate has gotten the better of me, for things are changing… very quickly.
(A Memory in a Dream)
The tides of battle could easily be heard through the thin façade of a silken tent. The cries and screams of monsters, perhaps wolfs being slashed into bloody corpses by fine elven blades were clear as a bell to my long elven ears. The drumming of battle is universal, tied to all things in which are resilient to peace. I hear cries of victory sweep over the men, as I slowly combed back long raven hair. I gaze deeply into a small pocket mirror, my violet eyes drawn curiously above small round lips. I myself do not consider myself beautiful, but I have been called it so many times, especially by my beloved. I know a bit of magic, but since my betrothed refuses to ever let me set foot in danger I guess I am lucky. My infinite love for Arcane has always been what has guided me all of this time, through these trials of my life and through my questioning of who I will become. And soon enough we are to be happily married in the glorious city of Arlathan. I stare down at my white silken robe, handcrafted with golden thread, a signature of the greatest tailors of all Arlathan. In the distance, I hear more cries of victories for the Elven warriors. Oh how proud they are of their uncanny skills!
But honestly, I have been feeling very uneasy lately. It's… Arcane something has changed in his golden speckled eyes. Every time I have looked into them recently I have seen visions of destruction and malice, when I used to only see love and wisdom. I… do not want to say anything because he tells me I am the only one who he cares for, the only one whom he loves and I can truly say the same thing. But… something is going to happen, I can feel it. The old gods have been calling to me in my dreams with words of solace; they have been warning me of death, of treachery but also of new beginnings. I do not know what is going to happen, I just know that there are dire warnings… but I being near him makes it so very hard to address this for- he is Arcane! He would just smirk at me with his deep set dark lips and tell me everything will be alright, that he will guide our path to light and I full heartily want to believe him more then anything.
"Admiring your beauty I see dear Lily?" Arcane whispers, giddy with the glory of battle. His Long brown braids brush against his soldiers as he approaches, his pale skin glimmers in the dashes of moonlight reaching into the silken tent. His silver encrusted armor is coated with dark blood, he, too proud to wipe it off, too proud to not rejoice in his victory.
"Arcane…" His name was all I could mutter, as the scenery of the old faded away.
CHAPTER 1: Many, many years later.
Shuddering, I awoke; my lips trembling profusely. "A dream of the old again…" I took in a huge elongated breathe; such visions ruined my sleep, and worse of all my appetite. I took a glimpse of the forest around me, suddenly remembering that I was in Ferelden, near the… well, near that one place. Time and location grows unimportant when someone has lived as long as I have, even though I do not remember most of the life for unknown reasons; only bits and pieces. I yawn and stretch out my scared legs, covered with various mystical markings. My whole body has been covered with these demonic cursed markings as long as I can remember. I only partially remember how these markings got there, by my betrayer… Arcane a once lover. The twisted story that Thedas tells is much different then what I remember from my past… I remember a sacrifice ritual involving a demon… but I do not wish to think of such things as of now. I glance up the overshadowing trees; with vigilance their branches create darkness over the night sky, as if blocking the phantasmagoric moonlight in which has inspired much atrocity in the hearts of mankind.
I often wonder why in my dreams of the old my hair is black as night, as of now it is white as the moonlight being reflected onto a clear untroubled lake. I believe it had to have been something to do with the demon, and maybe with how 'old' I am. Strangely enough, my face has remained very youthful and possibly even more beautiful as I am told to be in the tales. Well, this might be because in the stories I am told to have been falsely beautiful and a treacherous whore. Yep, and pigs fly let me tell you! My eyes have also changed significantly since those olden love-strucken times. Crimson red eyes now haunted my never changing face, stained the color of fresh blood. Perhaps they have turned this cursed color because of all of the blood which has been shed in my life time, or maybe I am eternally cursed in remaining with part of the demon I was tied with. Either way the demon seems to have vanished, for I do not even remember the demon's cry of destruction. You could say I do not remember it at all, and you are most likely true. My tattered excuse for a black robe barely keeps the cool night air from afflicting me with shivers. I let out a long sigh as I watch the night sky eclipse the illuminating full moon, the night when my 'visions' are indeed the strongest. I remember having visions ever since I was a little girl, many elven girls had visions of the future and what fate is to come. Though, the future is ultimately inevitable, constantly changing so they were always very uncertain. Sadly, memories tied to my visions happen to be the only ones I ever truly remember, go figure.
Over the years I have been hunted down several times by various parties, usually something radical I did or something unbeknownst I revealed to the world. Strangely my unlikely powers draw chaos and disorder wherever I go, and I have even been recognized as the 'demon' elve who must be destroyed above all else. Although recently folklore has become more forgotten, men are becoming more concerned with realism and ideology insisting that most fables are false. Even though the world is losing touch with the mystical and mystery of all things, I quite enjoy it. Running away constantly is become increasingly annoying, even if I cannot remember a lot of which happens. Years blend together but it seems as time goes on it goes by slower, alluding into perhaps a peaceful time period? I do not know nor do I care, all I know is if I have to spill blood again I will be so irritated!
All of a sudden a loud crash is heard behind my pathetic excuse for a tent. I hear loud crude laughter and slurred drunken voices over the clank of iron weapons.
"Don't move ya dirrty wench or I will gouge yer perdy eyes out!" grunts a filthy man, with two daggers in his two hands. I glance over to my left and realize that there are about five or six of them. I stand up slowly glancing at what I guessed to be the bandit leader. He had a long nasty beard which reminded me of hay mixed with cow manure.
"You smell heavily of liquor, it's disgusting." I mutter teasingly, as I lean in closer to him. As I do, his stench reaches my nostrils and I gag unexpectedly. "And you smell like a little dwarven man-pig!" I laugh at this; bandits' do not really phase me anymore since I have become an expert of escape. And as I stated before I do not like to encourage blood shed, though messing with bandits can be a fun game to play for most of them are merely weak bluffers with no strife.
"You vile woman!" the bandit man spits," You shall die slowly for this…" he laughs as he says this, his eyes gleaming hungrily for chaos. But suddenly, as quick as lightening, he falls to the ground, blood splattering out of his chest as a blade pops through his flimsy armor. I notice a swift man with light silken hair fly through the battlefield with extraordinary grace. Not seconds afterwards the rest of his squad falls to the ground in a bloody mess. I glance around in a wondrous daze, searching for my so-called 'helper'. As the battlefield clears I lay my eyes on a very peculiar elven rouge, whose eyes lock mine almost immediately. His tan skin highlights his pale eyes, and his intriguing crooked smile. With much humored enthusiasm, he begins to speak in a seductive foreign tongue.
"Good evening my lady, my name is Zevran and I have come to save you from a terrible fate, yes?"