To understand distances a map of Ferelden would be helpful. Also I'm updating the first 17 chapters so that they aren't in first person anymore and flow more smoothly with the rest of the story. If there are any words i failed to fix please let me know and forgive me.
Chapter 1
He hated to hunt, he hated to kill an innocent creature just so he could eat. But he knew it was necessary for his survival - so he killed his prey as quickly and quietly as possible and hoped that it felt no pain.
He was on the run, from everyone it sometimes seemed. And thus he was sticking to the wilds and fending for himself. As opposed to risking the eyes and ears of the villagers and city-dwellers. He was running to Ferelden, hoping his makers wouldn't subject themselves to its colder and wetter climate in search of him. But first, he had to reach Kirkwall and somehow catch a ship heading to Gwaren or Highever. He didn't really care which city he ended up in, he just needed to get more distance between himself and Minrathous.
He'd been considering hiding in the Korcari wilds, but had yet to hear any stories that made the place seem even slightly promising. He let his breath out slowly, closing his eyes he willed his heart to stop beating so fast and his nerves to settle. Thinking about anything other than the hunt right now would make the hunt a failure. And he was hungry. He could only hope that his stomach didn't grumble as the prey approached and indicate his presence. If that were to happen he was going to give up and eat his left arm, he could live with one arm.
He had been traveling for ages, years, he hardly remembered anymore exactly how long it had been. He lead the hunters all over the Tevinter Imperium, from Antiva to Orlais and back again. Trying desperately to lose them, but they always seemed to show up wherever he was. And though they may have never seen him, he had seen them. Three warriors, two magisters and an assassin they picked up in Antiva. He did not understand why they didn't give up, it had been so damned long.
He kept mostly to the woods and out of the villages and towns. The only time he ventured into cities was for supplies he could not get on his own - which didn't happen very often and when it did he made sure to cover his face. He always asked the grass and foliage to cover his tracks, and never left any sign of a camp. And yet they still followed his trail as if they could see it or sense him. It frustrated and confused him nearly to the point of madness - but he kept running, what other choice did he have?
He heard the sound of hooves crunching dead leaves and adjusted the hold on his daggers. He was kneeling on a branch of a very large tree, so old it had forgotten how to speak, so he did not talk to it but instead took reassurance in its existence. Saying he spoke to trees is a crude way of putting his abilities, but it was the easiest way to explain it to himself.
He was created with the earth's essence, which is like an invisible river that flows through every living thing, it has a power to it that is similar to magic, but is not. Some Dalish clans use it, but only the ones with old knowledge, and rarely. When magic is used it draws from multiple sources, the fade, lyrium, and this essence. When a mage uses a spell of an element, lightening for example, they take from this river and forge it into their magic. He was no mage, he does not take, he asks for assistance when he needs it. He is granted assistance because the river is like a branch of himself or rather, he is a branch of it.
He could sense the river in other living things and can sense their...emotions...as it were. It is very hard to explain, and he did not truly understand it himself. A mortal mind is not capable of comprehending such power, therefore understanding of it is limited.
The halla sauntered into his sight, and lowered its head to eat one of the apples he had placed under his perch for just this purpose. Silently, he let himself fall from the tree, landing on the halla's back like one would to ride a horse, before their bodies touched his arms were wrapped around its neck, daggers cutting deeply into its throat, he felt the blade in his right hand scrape the vertebrae and with his left arm he forced the halla's head to the right, twisting his upper body so fast that its neck broke. The sickening crack echoed through the silent woods. His kill took less time than a breath and he only hoped that the halla never knew it happened.
He waited for the surge of adrenaline to recede as he felt the halla's essence leave it's body and enter the river, what happens after that, he may never know.
As he skinned and prepared the halla for consumption he let his mind wander, and, as it often did, thought back to his first years after being 'made,' as though he could ever hope to understand what took place.
...
He did not remember much of the first few years of his life. He wasn't sure how much of that memory loss was self inflicted and how much was taken from him. One of his first memories was waking up on a cold table, naked but for a towel draped over his hips. He could not see well, everything was blurred and his mind did not recognize color yet. He only knew of color because of a jumbled mess of memories that he immediately recognized as foreign.
Sound was muffled, although he later found out that he was hearing the voices of his makers. They were excited.
"It lives!" one voice beamed, "we have succeeded!"
"It lives, for now. We know nothing of its capabilities yet, Macarius." a second voice reprimanded.
"Esperance, take a moment to accept that even if it is useless, you have just created life where there was no life before. This is amazing." a third voice laughed.
He felt a hand rove over his chest and was confused. He tried to lift his arm to push the hand away - and though his arm twitched he did not appear to have the strength to lift it.
What am I? Why can't I move, who are these people?
It would be months before he knew anything, months before he had any strength to move on his own. But the time would come when he would understand why he had conflicting memories of being a Dalish child and being a human child, why he was always called 'it' instead of 'he', and why he shouldn't ask questions.
He was to be trained in many things; his days were never his own. He slept when he was told to, he woke when he was told to, ate what he was told to, pissed when he was told to. He was trained in servant etiquette when he was told to, taught how to wield two blades and acrobatics with an effectiveness that only the best of the Antivan crows could match, and he was taught to read and use the earth, like a mage uses lyrium and their connection to the fade. These lessons were awkward, as no one completely understood what he could do and was the only area where he was mostly self-taught. Those were his favorite times. And when he found out he could call the river to him without touching the ground, he kept it to himself. He had wanted a secret, something of his own. As far as his makers were concerned, he had to have his skin in direct contact with the dirt to use his abilities.
He was trained to be a servant and an assassin capable of destroying multiple foes at once. And when he failed during his training he was beaten till he had broken bones and blood pouring down his back and legs to pool on the floor. Then he was sent to bed and healed the next morning by Esperance so he could train again.
For the first year or so he didn't ask questions, he did not want to be hit by his makers, he wanted them to be pleased with him. He was told his role was to keep them happy, so this is what he strived for, and when he failed and was to be beaten he felt he deserved it for failing them.
By his third year of training he began to ask questions, he began to wonder why he existed, how he existed, who were these people that made him, what were their plans for their creation?
He learned these things after his etiquette training was completed and his makers - Esperance, Macarius, and Krispen- told him he was to meet his Master. It was then he learned that he was not created for these people, he was created for the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium. He was to be the Archon's servant when his combat training was satisfactory, he was to be a body guard when needed, the royal assassin when desired, and if the Archon was impressed with him his makers were to be given permission to continue their research - to make something better
And thus he was to leave his home - a fortress placed in a western part of Arlathan - and travel to Minrathous to be displayed for the Archon. He was bathed, his hair was cut, he was given new leathers and blades and was packed into a cart with the three magisters. But not before his feet and hands were chained together and gloves made of stiff leather and humming with magic were stuffed on his hands.
He was a threat, they told him, they did not trust him not to try to run or call the earth to his will and endanger them. When he thinks of them telling him that now, he laughs, he never would have considered running then. Nero was a slave, and he was afraid to be anything else.