The cool air brushed past the branches, the gleam of the moon passing between the thick leaves of the trees. Between blades of rustling grass, the faint lights of flickering flames peered out from the distant homes. The soft sound of Lake Calenhad's waters brushing up against its banks mingled with the chirp of the crickets in the summer air, and the glimmering light of the stars shone, reflected in the calm lake like a mirror of the heavens themselves.
The peace was quickly broken by the clattering of armour. Off to one side, a single figure stood, his hands quietly resting on the pommel of the greatsword stuck in the dirt in front of him, looking over the sparse, wooden huts in front of him. To one side, leaning against a tree, another man simply watched and waited, cradling his helm under one arm as his loose brown hair flicked and fluttered.
Eventually, the figure contemplating the village stood. He turned his head ever so slightly towards the man next to the tree, one of his brilliant green eyes visible under the moonlight and, a toothy grin quietly crossing his face, the man nodded wordlessly in response before pulling his metal helm over his head. Picking his own up from the ground near him, the figure looked over the faint flickering lights before him one last time, wordlessly, before doing likewise, pulling the helm down over his curled black hair. Grasping his sword's grip in one hand, he quietly extricated it from the ground and swung it into its place on his back; there was no greater an honour than the right to join his brothers on the path to righteousness.
As they approached the village, quietly assembling by its borders, a single armoured man with a crested helm stood at the head of the assembling host, looking with, if his expression had not been obscured by his thick, metal headgear, apparent disdain over the pitiful settlement in front of him. In the distance, in the centre of the lake, a tower and a full complement of Templars stood between the cursed mages and the rest of the world, but it was only to be expected that one of the scum would eventually find their way out; after all, what did they have to do with their lives other than scheming and plotting?
No matter. This, after all, was their calling, that of the truly faithful. Calling over one of his men from the back, he watched as the called man stepped forwards with another at his side. They looked over the village in silence for a moment before, gesturing towards the inn, he quietly muttered "The accursed mage takes refuge in the most obvious of places. I will leave the honour of taking his head to you; go and make an example of him for others to heed."
The figure solemnly nodded and, looking out over the village once more, quietly left the ranks of his compatriots, walking briskly towards the inn's light. He was quickly joined by another set of faster clattering footsteps and, out of the darkness came a question, muffled slightly by the confining nature of the steel helmet pulled over the warrior's head.
"Are you truly ready to... make an example of this mage, Ser Lynell?" The voice alone, gently mocking and subtly aloof, spoke volumes and the figure with the greatsword, or Ser Lynell, quietly nodded.
"Wherever the Maker leads, I follow." came the humourless response. "... you, Ser Severn?"
"I go even where the Maker dares not lead." came the response and another grin, slightly contorted, this time obscured behind the thick metal helm.
Splinters rained down on the floor as a single, plated boot smashed through the door, and another swift kick brought the wooden slab crashing onto the floor. From behind his counter, his hands raised above his head in an act of desperation, the innkeeper looked up in fear and horror towards the imposing shadows emerging from amidst the wispy cloud of dust, and as the sound of armoured plates rose with every slow step, he slowly and warily stepped back, his right hand searching for the axe he kept around for situations like this. Where the hell was Ser Carroll when you needed him, that absentminded son of a...
A long, flowing purple skirt over dull chainmail flowed down to the ground. As he slowly raised his eyes, he caught sight of a sash, a familiar flaming sword emblazoned onto a gleaming chestplate and, above that, two eyes looking back towards him from behind a thick metal bucket helm. This was no intruder into his innkeeper. This was...
"S... Ser Templar. I wasn't expecting you sir, not at all." His eyes still looking into those of the man standing in front of him, he breathed deeply and leaned forwards onto his counter, trying to calm himself and the shock running through him. His hand reached for a bottle, shaking vehemently and, looking over the innkeeper with what looked like indifference, Lynell stepped forwards, reaching into a pouch at his side before producing the insignia of the Templar Order, placing it squarely before the innkeeper's eyes as Severn sauntered past him, towards the stairs. The innkeeper looked up at it, the emblem emblazoned upon the object unmistakable, even in the shadows of his decrepit inn.
Pushing the insignia back into the pouch, Lynell quietly spoke as the innkeeper's eyes slowly rose to meet his own. "We are here at the behest of the Chantry to seek a mage who has escaped the Tower. He is not long gone, and cannot have escaped far."
He stammered, trying to regain his composure, a difficult endeavour given the fact that a Templar was currently leaning over the counter, staring into his eyes with an almost disturbingly piercing intensity. "I... There's one who arrived earlier today?"
"Where?"
"Upstairs. Room with the Lake view."
Lynell glared at him for a moment longer, but the terror in the innkeeper's eyes was genuine... it was human. Nodding and standing, he pushed the wreckage of the door aside with his boot and made his way towards where Severn was standing.
"Are... are you going to destroy my inn?" stammered the innkeeper after the Templar making his way towards the stairs but, even as he drew his greatsword from its place on his back, bringing the menacing weapon to rest by his side, there was no response. The other Templar, drawing his two shortswords in turn, laughed eerily as the innkeeper winced, expecting some kind of divine reprimand. Instead, as he recoiled, there was a rustle and he looked down to see a single copper rolling along the ground towards him, hitting the devastated remains of the door with a 'clink' before coming to rest in the dust.
"Don't you worry." came the mocking reply. "The Maker rewards the faithful well."
He stood by the window, feeling the cool breeze against his cheek as the candle at his side flickered. The starlight, the lake... everything looked different from here. And the Tower! Seeing its sheer size from outside, he felt joy welling up inside his heart, but with a sinking feeling he realised that freedom was a momentary phenomenon. He hadn't gone so far as to destroy his phylactery, and yet he realised that he should have. Looking up, at the Tower inside which he had been imprisoned for so long and the world before him, his thoughts began to spin. He was free. Free! He could savour the air, he could see things for what they were, he could do what he wanted to do! Now that he had tasted the forbidden fruits, he realised with dread that he couldn't return to the Circle, but, most importantly, he didn't want to. But to refuse would be defying the will of the Chantry...! He couldn't think straight, and yet, within the turmoil of his emotions, as he tried desperately to cling to something, anything, a single voice spoke out clearly.
Who cares? About the will of the Chantry, about everything? This was his life.
The solution, now that his mind was clear, was simple.
The corridor leading to the room felt... constricting. Frowning, and gripping his sword tightly, Lynell gestured towards the other side of the corridor, and Severn obliged, pressing himself against the cool stone as they approached the door. They could hear heavy breathing; his green eyes frowning, Lynell pushed himself up against the door.
"I... don't want... to go back..." Murmuring interspersed with heavy breathing echoed ethereally beyond the portal into the room. "I... can't go back. I don't have to... go back..."
"... mage?" asked Lynell, warily. "Surrender yourself, and we will show mercy."
"... don't have to..." The ethereal echoing seem to leak past the door, and Lynell frowned. He felt the air grow dank and, gulping, he rapped his armoured knuckles against it.
"Mage, open the door." The murmuring continued, the air now empty of any coherent responses, and he stepped back in surprise as a faint red light began to seep out from under the entrance.
Severn smiled. "This mage will be a fun distraction. I'll carve the tenets of his cursed Circle into his corpse when we're done with him."
As he pulled at the door handle, only to find it locked, Lynell tried to ignore the disturbing words of his fellow Templar; instead, curtly saying "Get behind me.", he turned his greatsword and slammed his pommel against the door; feeling the lock buckle, he saw the glow of the red light increase in strength and brightness and he quickly smashed his pommel against the door again as the air seemingly closed in once more, tighter than before. Splinters and slivers of shattered wood hit the ground by his boots and, feeling the lock quiver under his blow, he stepped back further and, summoning as much might as he possibly could, brought his pommel upon the door one last time, finally feeling the lock break. The door, splinters showering behind it, slammed open, and Lynell stumbled forwards, sword in hand, looking up to a putrid, horrible stench and an even worse sight before his eyes.
"... want freedom... want life... leave me alone." The hollow voice rang out through the room and met nothing but silence as the Templar slowly edged away from the sight before their eyes. "... want you to die... want to get out..." The shambling beast, with some semblance of a human head hanging limply to one side, its eyes staring accusingly at the warriors standing before it, stood in the centre of the room. Its rotting flesh squirmed as the creature tried to move, edging towards the Templars who quietly stepped back, step by step, their eyes fixed by grim horror and fascination to the mage in front of them. Its skinny, powerless arms jerked involuntarily and, looking into its eyes with horror, Lynell searched desperately for any semblance of humanity, for anything recognisable, but all he saw was blank accusation staring into him and he realised that, despite all the training, despite all the books, he wasn't ready for this.
"You're beyond saving now!" Before he could react, he watched as Severn rushed forward towards the shambling Abomination, swinging both of his swords out in a wide arc, both going towards the thing's head off to one side of his body. The Templar had already rushed to the Abomination's side, evading one of its flailing arms, and he brought up his blade to meet its body.
"Ser Severn...!" Trying to step forwards, Lynell was forced to watch as the Templar, blocking the entrance into the room, had his left hand blade intercepted by the Abomination's arm; trying to cut through the acrid flesh, he found that his sword was caught in the rotting body and, grinning as he let the weapon go, he stepped back and drew a dagger from his sash.
He threw the dagger into the Abomination's eye and, as the pointed steel plunged into its mark with incredible accuracy, the creature howled. As the howl faded out, Severn's laughs went up and he rushed forwards, already drawing his other dagger as he shouted "Yes. Yes! This is the kind of fight I enjoy, mage! Give it your all... make this worthwhile!" Barging into its body mass, and taking it off balance, he managed to push it a few steps back into the room, strange fluids running down his armour as he plunged the dagger into its body, dragging the weapon down as far as he could to draw open the wound, letting the warm, sticky blood spill onto the ground by his boots. The Abomination stumbled back, and Severn grinned wider than ever, looming over the beast with one sword in hand, advancing slowly upon the struggling thing with a strange expression on his face. "Didn't you hear me?" he asked. "I'm going to carve every letter of your mages' laws into your rotting side." The Abomination struggled vehemently, but Severn managed to overpower it and, placing a single boot on its side, raised his blade and tried to push it into its flesh, grunting. Watching the grotesque struggle from the side, Lynell quietly advanced down the corridor, trying to move into the wider room, where he would be able to use his longsword. Severn had managed to push his sword closer to the Abomination, which began to flail as the blade met its side, accompanied by the Templar's frenzied laughter. Blood was spattering into the air, and it grew limp and still as Severn's blood neared it.
"... no... no!" A distorted voice erupted from the very depths of the Abomination, and, looking up, the last thing Severn saw was a sheet of flame.
The flash blinded him. Before he could do anything, he saw flames licking at the room around him, half the roof burned to nothing, and Lynell quickly turned to see Severn's unconscious body lying limply by the doorway. Slowly turning his eyes towards the Abomination, his greatest fears were quietly confirmed, and a bead of sweat ran down his cheek as he looked up towards it.
The thing stood taller than ever. Sticky blood was spattered across its side, but its arms seemed to have recovered, despite the sword stuck inside one of them and, slowly extricating the dagger from its eye, the Abomination, heaving and breathing heavily, stared at Lynell, who bit his lip and tried to look away from the slit eyeball rolling as it looked towards him.
"... why are you here..." Hollow whispers echoed through his head, and Lynell glared up at the Abomination. "... I want to be free... we want to be free... free..." It staggered forwards, blood gurgling from its wounds, and Lynell shook his head. What was this... feeling? Desire welled up inside him, and suddenly, he could hear it tugging at his heartstrings, whispering and murmuring. All he had to do was give in, and anything he wanted was his. All he had to do was give in...
"... No!" His mind cleared, and the Abomination recoiled, screeching. The piercing shriek cut through Lynell's head but, readying his blade and standing his ground, he shook his head. "... I'm sorry." The shriek slowly subsided, and Lynell no longer felt the tugging at his heartstrings, filled instead with pity and yet decisive conviction. Slowly looking up, he clenched his teeth, taking in the sight in front of him, and realised something.
"I can't help you now. You're beyond saving."
The Abomination roared, flecks of blood and fluid spattering against the walls of the small room, and rushed forward. Its arms were outstretched; Lynell hurled himself to one side as it crashed into the wall against which he had just been standing and he saw the Abomination struggling, its arm stuck through the weak wall. Cracks were already appearing as it tried to extricate itself and, seizing the opportunity, Lynell rushed forwards, slashing up with his sword. The first cut embedded the blade in the Abomination's side, but he gritted his teeth and pulled it through, the warm blood spattering out against his armour. Wailing incoherent cries, it pulled itself out, shards of plaster imploding as it quickly turned and lunged for his head. He couldn't react quickly enough; feeling the grip of the Abomination against his helmet, he ducked down, pulling his head out in a split second before it was slammed flat against the wall. Stumbling back, Lynell tried to control his breathing, his hair matted with sweat and his grip on his blade tough and uncomfortable. But there was no time to think or shift his grip; the creature's bulk threw itself against where he had been standing and, stumbling off the left, narrowly avoiding the Abomination, he managed to slice off one of its arms with a wild blow from his blade. Its blood dribbled from his blade's edge, and it screamed as Lynell grimly prepared for another assault.
There was a flash and, his instincts screaming at him, he ducked down as the sheet of flamed rushed past his head. As it shot past him, he stumbled, keeping his head under the flames, towards the Abomination's bulk, the blood from its open wounds dribbling onto his hair and down his neck, and he winced as he felt it, hot thanks to the flames but this was no place to stop. Pushing himself up against it, Lynell watched through squinted eyes as it struggled, sending its flames crashing down the corridor. By this time, the room was in flames, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Templars looking helplessly up at the fight from around the inn, their armour lit eerily by the moonlight. He was alone.
He swung his sword upwards, and found flesh. Dragging the blade around, he eventually freed it from the Abomination's body and, as it squealed and recoiled, he felt rage and adrenaline pouring through him as he slashed again and again at the Abomination, feeling sporadic bouts of flame rushing past him but ignoring the heat singeing his body as every blow made contact with the corrupted daemon, each squeal and shriek weaker than the last until, finally, his armour glistening with spattered blood, his body wracked with heavy breathing as he swung the sword, he met air and he looked up, stumbling in the pool of blood at his feet.
The Abomination crashed to the ground, limply heaving, its rotting flesh in ribbons and stained with its own fluids as its eyes looked emptily up at Lynell. "... want..." it murmured. "... want... your life.. .want... power..."
He mustered enough strength to bring the blade down into its face, through its bulk before slumping down, looking up long enough to see the creature's limp jerking stop before he felt the darkness rush past his weariness and overwhelm him.
Ferelden had reached its supposed zenith. But thirty years prior to the current day, the nation had only just secured its independence, having fought a bitter war of independence from Orlesian rule under the leadership of King Maric Theirin. From war, however, came swift rebirth and, under the rule of their new King, Ferelden flourished. Peace was made between the fledgling nation twenty years after its independence was gained, and from there it continued its indisputable rise from rebel state to full kingdom in the eyes of the world; people flocked to this land of opportunity, and all was, save for the occasional trouble, good.
Within Ferelden, there had been a long established Circle of Magi; formed within the imposing Kinloch Hold at the centre of Lake Calenhad, an ethereal tower rising far above anything near it and the lasting symbol of the Circle within the minds of many. Under the Orlesian occupation, however, another force had come to Ferelden; the Chantry of Andraste, a religion which had embedded itself firmly in Fereldan culture despite the defeat of the Orlesian occupiers. Chantries were located even in the smallest of villages, and its influence over Ferelden was indisputable. For many, it was a source of enlightenment and even salvation; prayer and shelter were only two out of many social roles played by the well established Chantry, despite its obvious Orlesian origins and influence. For many, it was a fact of life.
But for others, the looming presence of the Templar Order still presented a source of uncertainty. Instantly recognisable, the armoured and armed militant fist of the Chantry's will, Templars kept the peace within Ferelden, hunting down apostates with what some described as necessary, and what others labelled as brutality.
Thus, Ferelden flourished over thirty years; despite the death of King Maric in the 25th year of the Dragon Age, his son Cailan assumed the throne, and under the guidance of Teyrn Loghain, Maric's trusted friend and advisor, the new king's rule was quietly pushed in the right direction.
But good times, as they say, never last. At the dawn of the Dragon Age, those of the Chantry foresaw a time of turmoil and conflict when they named it, and the signs have been clear. The Age began with conflict in the form of the Fereldan Rebellion, but that was simply the beginning. Now, powerful forces have begun to shift, and as news of the rise of long forgotten creatures to the West runs like wildfire across the fledgling Kingdom, an army drawn from the Bannorn sets out for Ostagar to deal a decisive blow to the gathering Darkspawn under the banner of the eager King Cailan Theirin, determined to end this Blight before it has begun. Tales are spreading of the return of the Grey Wardens, of the Witch of the Wilds, of the Orlesians making moves to the West, of change and moves in the deepest, furthest reaches of Thedas. Some tales are true, others works of fiction, and there is very little certainty in these dark days. If one thing is certain, however, it is that change has come, and that the fate of many rests in the hands of the few.
Yet for now, the banners of the King fly over Ostagar, and there is hope for the future as Cailan marshals his forces for the coming battle. Oblivious to the full consequences of the events that will unfold in the coming few weeks, the Chantry remains complacent, content to rest and watch events unfold before it, and its militant arm in Ferelden accepts the decision of its masters and does likewise, prepared for the most part simply to fulfil its role as the enforcers of the Chantry's will in Ferelden. Illusions of a quick resolution to a seemingly minor conflict run through the minds of many; when the future comes, it will come in a form that none could possibly have envisioned.
White light...? But where were the fires? He winced as he tried to open his eyes, giving up as he lay, dumbfounded, as light peered through his eyelids. It danced and flickered and, after a moment of silent passivity, thoughts began to run through his head.
He remembered... fighting. Was this the afterlife, then? It felt uneventful for something he had been working towards for so long, but then, perhaps the true reward lay in the virtue of his past life.
"... Templar."
A voice somewhere to his left. His eyes flickered and snapped open, his breathing heavy as consciousness came to him.
The ceiling above was cold, hard stone, with the occasional opening letting in air and clear light from the sunny sky above. He heard footsteps echoing through the chamber he was in; his mind fuzzy and still waking up from the dreamlike state in which he had been in for however long, it took him a moment to realise that he was in Kinloch Hold, the Circle of Magi, within the healing room which he, in better times, guarded.
"Please, don't move." He tried to shift over to his left to see the source of the command, but a searing pain cut through his back and he wordlessly collapsed back into his previous position, the voice adding "I did warn you, Serrah." before he felt something tingling, running up his spine before vanishing at the root of his neck. Cautiously turning, he found that the pain had disappeared, and he managed to roll over, his eyes falling on the mage leaning over the table, quietly removing what appeared to be a variety of worn blades and hooks lying on a wooden tray.
"... how long?" he managed after a moment, rolling back into his original position as he contemplated the bland ceiling.
"A week, I believe. The other Templar recovered a day after he was admitted, but your problems were not restricted to the flesh. The First Enchanter himself struggled to comprehend what was running through your mind, but you calmed down after a while." she replied, dropping the contents of the tray into a bucket and putting it back down. "The rest was simple healing, which is my area of specialisation."
He was wordless, and she paused for a moment to see if he was alright. "... could I have a mirror?" he asked, after a while, and she nodded, handing over a rudimentary one which had been by his bed. He took it and brought it up towards his face.
"The wounds were not too critical, if you are concerned." she offered, but Lynell raised the mirror in front of him and looked nonetheless. He saw himself looking up, slight bags under his green eyes; his slightly gaunt face was as he remembered it, but under his black hair, there was a slight, unnoticeable singe which drew his eye.
"What happened?" he asked, more curious than concerned, and the mage pulled over a parchment.
"Burns, for the most part. It seems as though you didn't really notice during the engagement, but you suffered some significant injuries of that kind. There were also torn muscles, but those have all recovered." She looked over the document lingeringly before putting it away. "I will... get the Knight-Commander. He expressed his desire to see you upon your recovery."
"... it's fine. I'll go myself." replied Lynell, lifting himself up cautiously, feeling the sunlight glaring down at him. He glanced over to the left of his bed; his greatsword, the only heirloom he had, rested to one side, his armour laid out under it. The mage was busying herself with cleaning up the treatment equipment, and glancing at the blood spattered across the blade of his uncleaned blade, a thought crossed his mind, and he turned his eyes away, frowning ever so slightly.
"Did you know the escapee?"
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and the healer stopped what she was doing momentarily, her head turned away. "He was not what most would call happy. He was a recluse... preferring to keep to himself, and away from human contact. Though I do recognise that what he did was a crime, I cannot help but wonder whether this problem could have been averted simply by talking to him earlier. He was only really a disturbed soul. Nothing more."
Lynell didn't respond, quietly thinking about what she had said. As the mage turned to leave, adding "The Knight-Commander seems impatient to see you, Ser Templar." Lynell nodded and turned away as she began to walk away, but something seemed to linger.
"What was his name?"
"Sorry?"
"The escaped mage. What was his name?" The mage, mildly surprised, turned, but what she saw in Lynell's expression was indecipherable.
"... Apprentice Beledan." Lynell nodded, and his eyes wandered back towards the sky. He lay quietly, watching the occasional cloud float past, and she glanced back at him, her surprise still there.
"I must admit, I have never seen a templar who showed the slightest shred of interest in his victims." A moment of silence hung over them, and Lynell shook his head.
"... not all of us are the same. Mage or Templar." The mage nodded hesitantly and, with one last glance towards Lynell, left, her footsteps receding into the distance as he lay, still staring up into the blue sky. Eventually, he pulled himself with some effort out of his bed, stumbling as he walked on unused legs, but managed to pull on his thick armour with his assistance and quickly reached for his helmet and sword.
His helmet. Remembering its graphic fate, and quietly reminding himself to visit the quartermaster after meeting with the Knight Commander, he hefted his blade onto its place on his back and left the medical wing and its peace behind him.
The response he'd given to the mage's observation wasn't one he had thought out. It was more honest than he would have liked, coming out of him instinctively, and yet the more he considered it, the more it seemed right. A shard of light in a darkened mind, he let the warm glow of the thought stay with him as he made his way towards the top of the tower.
The vast chamber was filled with the sound of speaking voices and their echoes; by the looks of it, some kind of argument was going on. As he cautiously rose up the steps, his eyes drawn to the stained glass window to one side of the chamber, it struck Lynell that this was the first time he had entered the Harrowing Chambers, at the top of the Tower he had known throughout his life. The stone vault rising high above him, Lynell quietly made his way to the top of the steps, and looking into the centre of the circular chamber, saw the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander arguing about something.
"It would be beyond foolish to refuse this, Irving." He rarely saw the Knight Commander this upset, and Lynell stood back, waiting for them to finish.
"Greagoir, it is a short trip to a calm village in the south. The only arguments you are putting forwards are driven by your own paranoia."
"There are darkspawn to the south! How can you act so nonchalantly?"
"My mages can take care of themselves, Greagoir. It will take more than a darkspawn invasion to turn them." Evidently wearied by the argument, the First Enchanter turned and walked a few steps away from the Knight Commander, who didn't seem willing to leave it at that.
"If you spoke of a normal person, I would agree with you. But the turning of the mage has effects that are not simply restricted to the halls of the magi; without a Templar, such an Abomination could cause unheard havoc!"
His eyes furiously turning to meet the advancing Knight-Commander's, Irving quietly asked "I do not know of any besides you amongst the Templars here who have fought and defeated a true abomination outside the Tower itself. What point is there in sending a novice? You would be better off keeping your forces here and trusting my mages to do their work unhindered. This is unlike you, Greagoir, and it worries me."
The Knight-Commander shook his head. "We cannot afford another loss, Irving. The Chantry is breathing down my back and I have no choice in the matter." Turning towards Lynell, he waved him over and the young Templar obliged, stepping forward and kneeling.
"Knight-Commander."
"Ser Celan Lynell." Greagoir motioned him over, adding "You know First Enchanter Irving. I take it you were listening to our little... debate?"
"Yes, Knight-Commander." Lynell glanced over at the mage, who's eyes were on him with a hint of curiosity gleaming in them.
"You are one of the few Templars within this Tower who have encountered and defeated an Abomination in the flesh. I understand that you're relatively young, and new to field service within the Order, but the circumstances are dire and unfortunately, you are the only man I can spare out of those here." Greagoir motioned him over towards a nearby table, where a candle flickered over a map laid out under it and he pointed out the Tower and the Lake Calenhad Docks to the north of the lake. "This is the Tower." he explained, pulling the candle closer as the other two followed the movement of his finger. "Your objective is to escort this mage along the road south until here..." At this point, he prodded said point on the map for added effect. "... Lothering. You will accompany the mage there, and report to the Revered Mother for further instructions."
The name was familiar. Lynell quickly reminded himself of what he knew; it was a small village, a trading hub, a regional centre... and there, he was lost for thoughts. It struck him there that he knew remarkably little about the outside world and its ways.
"Oh yes, Ser Lynell. During this trip, you'll have to give up your armour." Greagoir turned towards the First Enchanter, who nodded, and he explained "Parading the Templar colours would simply draw attention, so we think it would be better if you went in a manner that would render you inconspicuous. The Quartermaster will have set aside some supplies and equipment for your use." Glancing at the Templar, the Knight-Commander added "Worry not, you will keep your sword. I understand that it is of some value to you." Lynell nodded, and the First Enchanter, returning the gesture, took his leave. As his figure receded into the distance and down the steps, Greagoir's expression darkened.
"... I take my leave, Knight-Commander." said Lynell after a moment of silence, and the Knight-Commander nodded his approval. As Lynell turned and walked through the cold chamber towards the steps, however, Greagoir uttered a final remark.
"These are dark times, Templar. Keep your eye open and your mind clear."
Lynell halted, but there was nothing to consider. The meaning of the words was clear enough. Replying "Yes, Knight-Commander.", he continued on his way, leaving the Knight-Commander to himself, his bearded face and his weariness illuminated by the flickering of the candle as he sat and wondered what came next.
The Quartermaster had taken the news relatively well, only going so far as to make one or two comments about the fate of his helmet as Lynell handed over his armour. Undoing his sash, and handing over the rest of the armour, his gaze lingered on it before he handed it over to the Quartermaster.
"Keep it. It's not as though a sash will give you away." Mild surprise in his eyes, Lynell looked up and the Quartermaster, who had already turned away, and he bit his lip as he nodded haltingly.
"Thank you." A memento of better times. Clutching it tightly, he left the Quartermaster's chambers towards the Tower's entrance, where his supplies, equipment and charge were waiting.
"... Ser Templar, I believe we've met." Looking at the mage, Lynell suppressed his surprise; he should have known, after all. Turning his eyes away, and moving past her towards the equipment, picking up the armour laid out there, he began to pull it on. As he fitted his head through his leather chestpiece, pulling it on and tightening the strings, the mage began to look through the supplies, looking for something.
The metal plates for his left arm were a little bulkier than those he usually wore. Looking over his large left shoulder-piece, and at his flattened leather pauldron on his right shoulder, Lynell realised that the unusual combination made the most of his two handed sword-fighting. It was a kind gesture by the Quartermaster, who seemed unusually sentimental; was there something he didn't know? Fitting on his left gauntlet, he glanced towards the mage, and asked "Did you know that this would happen?"
"When I was told that I would have a Templar escort, I must admit that I guessed you would be the one. I can assure you that I had no prior knowledge of these arrangements, however." she replied, still searching through the supplies. "We should set out before noon, Ser Templar."
He nodded, pulling on his left hand's leather gauntlet and pulled on his own brace of daggers, wrapping it around his chestpiece before putting a scarf around his neck. Fitting the greatsword into its place on his back, Lynell was left holding the sash, waiting for the mage to finish whatever she was doing when a familiar voice shouted out at him from across the chamber.
"Ser Lynell." Fully recovered, and as... enigmatic as ever, Severn sauntered towards Lynell, a thin smile crossing his face. "Thanks to you, I'll be able to draw blood once more."
"You're welcome." Lynell looked into Severn's eyes, but he saw nothing different in the Templar. The same hint of insanity, the same unsettling gaze, looked back at him, and it seemed to smile as Severn patted him on the shoulder.
"I'm being sent to Kirkwall, I hear there's some commotion there. I don't know what'll happen to you, but let's hope we cross paths again. I'll return the favour." he replied. "Keeping favours is a distraction, and I'd rather get them over with when I can."
"... don't worry about it, Ser Severn." Lynell always felt uncomfortable around this particular comrade of his, and he turned to pick up the bag of supplies, swinging it over his shoulder and tying it around him to keep it in place.
"I insist." Severn's strange grin had returned to his face, and he added "But for now, have a safe trip... friend."
Lynell nodded. The eyes of the Templars fixed on them, the unlikely pair glanced at each other before leaving the Tower of Magi for what promised to be a simple journey south.
It was already ten minutes since they had departed from the Tower, and, as they walked in the shade of a forest, the birds chirping noisily, she glanced at the Templar who was accompanying her, bored, as they said, out of her mind. It had occurred to her about five minutes beforehand that he was not the most talkative of people, but his continual refusal to make conversation did nonetheless surprise her. He was different from most Templars, but evidently that stretched beyond his sentiments.
Pulling a crumpled map from the sack at her side, she made a rough estimate of their current position. There was, at the very least, a day left until they reached their destination to the south, and she did not relish the prospect of spending that period doing nothing but walking in particular. Trying at first to grab his attention with a succession of humming, flicking through her map absentmindedly and finally making the occasional observation about the nature around them, she found that the Templar was unusually unresponsive, choosing instead to keep an eye on the road ahead. He refused to display either interest or annoyance, and she began to wonder whether he was simply being cryptic to irk her. Defeated, she glumly returned to making the occasional observation about the nature around them, searching for something to do or talk about.
Things only got worse. She became acutely aware of the boredom and eventually, she wracked her mind for the simplest question she could ask when it struck her; she only knew her guard as Ser Templar.
"Ser Templar, if I may ask... what exactly should I call you?" The question came out of the blue, and Lynell shrugged. He didn't know the answer himself, and he had to think before he managed to come up with an answer."
"Most call me Ser Lynell. Others call me Celan." It really was out of the blue, and he was struggling to think of what to say. "You can... call me anything."
... but he didn't know what to call her. "What should I call you?"
"Healer?" she offered. "The Templars insist on calling me by my title."
"I though we'd agreed that none of us are the same?" Celan turned back to the road, his expression still neutral. The dirt track stretched far into the distance. Hopefully, they'd remain under the shade of the trees until the blazing afternoon heat let up, because at this rate, they'd...
"My name is Eliann Wulff. Many choose to call me many things. Eli is the most common form, although others choose to..."
"Wulff is fine." Without intending to, he quickly broke off the conversation; he didn't understand why, but something felt wrong, and his right arm shivered.
The curt reply took her aback, and after a moment, she sighed and returned to observing the forest around them. He was as impassive as a rock, without the potential for entertainment that rocks had. Fidgeting with her robes absentmindedly and humming again, she followed him down the forested road. In the distance, the light shone through from what looked like the end of the woods, and she frowned as she heard something coming towards them. The sound of metal crashing against the paved road...?
"Ser Lynell, I hear a..."
"Get behind me, Mage Wulff." His hand had already gone for his sword as he muttered the command and she did so, looking curiously towards the source of all the commotion. The Templar was gripping his sword tightly, ready to lash out at the horse galloping rapidly into sight, but as the charger came into sight, she recognised the rider in a flash of understanding and stepped out in front of Celan.
"This man is no enemy, Ser Lynell." She waved, and the horse gradually came to a stop. Wordless, Lynell kept a hand on his sword but even he seemed to recognise the man after a moment, quietly sheathing the weapon and walking towards the horse as the man on it breathed deeply in relief.
"I thought you were Darkspawn. I've seen enough of them, I have." He pointed towards the sword at his side, which was covered in thick blood and added "What's a mage and templar doing outside the Hold in dark times like this, then?"
Before Eliann could answer, Celan retorted "It's more worrying to see a messenger of the Chantry fleeing so rapidly from the south. What happened?"
The messenger's face fell, and he breathed deeply for a moment. "Terrible tidings come from the south, Ser Templar. I escaped just in time, but..."
"... but?"
He shook his head powerlessly. "The Army at Ostagar has fallen, and the Blight continues on."
"The Army at Ostagar?" Celan vaguely remembered hearing of the King marching to Ostagar to engage the Blight... which meant...
Eliann's voice was hushed as she asked "What of the King?" but the answer was clear enough in the man's eyes. The messenger didn't answer, lowering his head, and the two stood in silence, shocked in their respective way. Eventually, the messenger apologised and took his leave, his mount rearing as he made haste to reach Kinloch Hold to notify the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, from where the rest of Ferelden could quickly be notified.
But for the two standing in the forest, the sudden news was enough to stop and silence them. Eventually, grimly raising himself, Celan looked up between the tunnel of leaves above them; the sky was orange, and the sun on the horizon. At this speed, they would make Lothering by tomorrow evening, but he knew that the fall of the King's Army to the south meant that it would not be long before the Blight continued its advance north; the only thing between Lothering and Ostagar was a stretch of the Imperial Highway, and the fragmented remains of the defeated army would most likely last a few days at most before being forced to retreat.
Eliann looked up to see Ser Lynell offering his hand to her, and she tentatively took it, letting him pull her up. "Lothering is no longer safe from the reached of the Blight, Mage Wulff."
She nodded. "Then let us make haste, Ser. We must do what we can for those in Lothering." The Templar wordlessly nodded, and they set off at a renewed pace, the darkness on the horizon gathering as the two emerged from the forested banks of Lake Calenhad into the openness of the final stretch of road between them and Lothering.
The Blight had finished gathering to the south, and now it advanced rapidly, hunting down those who had dared to stand in their way. Ferelden's political bickering had cost it its one chance at halting the invasion in its tracks. For the mage, the only thought burning in her head was the importance of helping those refugees who were forced into Lothering. The templar grimly resolved to bring down as many Darkspawn and apostates as he could before he fell, determined to prove himself in the Maker's eyes.
War had come to Ferelden, and it was already proving to be a disaster. But as most fled from its reaches for the furthest corners of the kingdom, two made their way towards Lothering under the cover of night, their fears confirmed and yet their resolve only strengthened as their respective origins and pasts lent to them a new sense of meaning.
Whether it would last was, of course, another question entirely.
Author's Note:
It may not seem like it, but this is actually a Dragon Age 2 fanfic, and the above is, in fact, the first part in a two or three part prologue to the actual thing. With a different plot following different characters, this is a relatively ambitious (by my lowly standards) attempt at recreating one of my favourite canons of all time through another set of eyes.
Over the past, I've written a few fanfics, but eventually, I abandoned them due to a noticeable lack of interest. Anonymous AND logged in reviews are very, very much appreciated, because they remind me that someone is actually reading.
Another noticeable change is the pattern I intend to follow; update day will be at least once a week, preferably on Thursday or something around there. I'll try to stick to it, I promise.
So... until next time. I'm looking forward to critics and fans alike, and I'll do what I can to answer to demands (and, in fact, requests).