A/N: So I haven't written in a very long time. Like literally years I think. So I'm very sorry for that. But I just got back into it recently, and I wanted to make prologue stories for Zevran and Oghren. Maybe some others along the way. I just finished Zevran's, and will be working on Oghren's next. I'll also be editing and reposting existing chapters, as I've had some recent inspiration and want to make sure everything fits. And then of course continuing along. I'll also need to do some chapter re-arranging, I suppose...
For new readers, each part of the prologue focuses on a different character and details the events of his or her life that eventually leads them to aid the Grey Wardens. Following the prologue, the main story will follow the arc of Dragon Age: Origins, with some artistic liberties taken here and there - after all, it is fanfiction. I am marking the beginning of The Blight as the battle at Ostagar. Reviews are most welcome!
Everything you recognize from the game belongs to BioWare.
Prologue
Sold
Antiva, 12 years and 5 months before The Blight
"Quickly, Zevran!"
The young elven boy tore his eyes away from the sword-swallower and scurried after the group, hoisting the bag of goods higher on his shoulder.
Every eighth day was Market Day, and he would travel to the Market District with a few of his cohorts to purchase supplies for The Bearded Clam. Truthfully, he and the other boys were simply there as pack mules – Marella and Paola, two of the Clam's "hostesses" (and its best hagglers), decided what they needed each week, purchased the goods, and handed them off to their charges to carry back to the harbor on the outskirts of Antiva City.
They hurried along the crowded streets of the District, weaving through the merchants and street performers. Zevran tripped more than once as his eyes lingered on the public entertainers – a trio of dancers, a man juggling torches, the eight-foot bride. Every week, the young boy looked forward to Market Day; he rarely had reason or permission to leave the Clam or the docks upon which it was situated.
Reaching the edge of the Market District was his favorite part – the largest leather shop in the region was on their route in and out of the district, and the smell of its goods was strong. He breathed as deeply as his small lungs allowed, absorbing the scent for the last time until their next trip.
Then, as if in a blink, they were out of the light of the Market District, heading away from the setting sun and toward the narrow walkways of the wharf. Zevran glanced around quickly for one last look, swinging the bag around onto this other shoulder.
xxx
He was awoken by Marella the next morning, early, as every other morning. As the room slowly came into focus, he noticed a sense of urgency in the madam's voice that he hadn't heard before. She was darting around the room, tossing long-sleeved tunics at the boys as they scrambled out of their bedrolls.
A lump of cloth hit Zevran in the face as he stood. He unfolded it and examined it curiously.
"Well don't just stare at it Zev, put it on!" Marella instructed. Glancing at the sleeveless chiton he normally wore, he pulled it hastily over his head. It was almost laughably oversized, but he decided against saying anything to the harried woman and instead tugged on his breeches and sandals.
"What's going on?" another boy inquired.
Marella didn't reply, instead glancing around the room to make sure everyone was dressed.
"Come on then," she clucked at them, herding them out of the small shack where they were housed. She ushered them along the docks, in the direction of the Market District.
"Are we going to market?" Zevran asked, unable to keep a hint of excitement out of his voice.
She moved her eyes to his, fixing him with a look that he was unable to pinpoint; he thought there might have been a shadow of sadness.
"Not like you're used to," she responded softly.
xxx
It was within the bounds of the Market District, but Marella had been right – it was not the district as Zevran knew it. He'd heard of this part, of course, but had never had any cause to go there.
Schiavo, they called it. An old Antivan word for "slave," this hidden corner of the Market District was where shady ne'er-do-wells met with citizens with coin to make trades.
The exchange of money for people was certainly not illegal in Antiva, but those of noble houses did not wish to witness such transactions. Indeed, it was something of a cautionary tale even amongst the boys at the Clam. "If you're bad they'll send you to schiavo," they'd whisper at each other during quarrels. Zevran more or less liked his life at the Clam, despite the constant presence of its drunk and rowdy patrons, grabbing for any passing woman. He had never known anything else.
Schiavo was not terribly unlike what he'd imagined it to be. It had none of the colorful flair of the rest of the district. Young, barefoot children and ragged adults stood in a cluster on a large pallet. Traders and patrons spoke with heads bent, gesturing occasionally at someone on the pallet.
Zevran watched with a growing sense of dread. He was young, but sharp, and the anxious look Marella now wore did not escape him. She noticed him watching her with a child's helplessness.
Biting the inside of her lip, she bent down until her eyes were level with his. Though she was not the most affectionate of women, she'd always had a soft spot for the young elf and his quiet wit, and she gently clasped his small hand in hers.
"I'm sorry, Zev," she told him gently. "If we weren't in such a bad way…" she broke off as a lightly-armored man approached her, a single dagger gleaming at his hip.
"This is them?" he asked her, not waiting for a response as his eyes slowly roamed over the group before him. Marella nodded wordlessly.
The stranger licked his teeth and tsked with disappointment.
"If this is all you have for me, I'm not sure I can help you." He was posturing, Marella knew, but she felt a defensiveness flare up inside her, and she instinctively placed a hand on Zevran's shoulder.
The movement did not go unnoticed. He raised an eyebrow at the elf – all knees and elbows – and stepped to him.
"What's your name boy?"
"Zevran," he replied coolly. The other boys shuffled in place, afraid to make eye contact with the stranger.
"You know what an assassin is, Zevran?"
The boy nodded, his gaze still steely. "Someone who kills people for cowards with coin."
The stranger barked a laugh and nodded.
"Alright then," he turned to Marella and reached into the coin purse on his belt. "A sovereign for the elf," he reached his hand towards hers.
"Five." She gripped Zevran's shoulder more tightly. The Clam's owner was deeply in debt, and she could not afford to miss out on this bargain. She knew he would never pay five, but she felt a tug in her chest at the thought of turning the boy over for a mere sovereign.
"Five? That's mad," his eyes widened and fell on Marella's white-knuckled grip. "Three," he replied, looking up. "Or I walk."
She cast her gaze to the ground, biting her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
"Three," she agreed, defeated. Releasing his shoulder, she held out her hand for the coins. The man nodded and pushed Zevran out in front of him. The boy craned his head around.
"Miss Marella!" His voice was tinged with panic. The stranger placed his hand in the middle of Zevran's back and steered him out of the district, away from his adoptive family. He continued searching for Marella's eyes over his shoulder, watching as she turned away and led the boys from schiavo.
Marella never looked back.