A question. A bargain. A price paid in full.
A named thing is a tamed thing, but bindings go both ways.
The Veil here is so thin that Ellana wonders for a moment if she has crossed over. But, no, she isn't asleep, and she hasn't taken any substances; this is assuredly not the Fade.
The whispers, though, have her on edge.
People don't like to talk about in-between spots, the places where the Veil is rice paper thin and the Fade presses in like an insistent hand. It's a slow leak, one that has been widening for centuries—millennia, even—and Ellana wonders if one day the Veil won't just… fall. Like a threadbare curtain. A cloth with too many rips at its seams.
It's a less-than-appealing thought as spirits flit at the corners of her vision, and she has the keen feeling of being watched. Nothing is quite certain here, in the place where reality meets dream, and she has to concentrate on her path, place each foot with care. A stone may become a pothole—or worse. Admittedly, here in the older part of the city, the uneven cobblestones prove an equal obstacle even in the less Fade-ridden bits.
Elf. Keeper's hand. One who would hunt the Beast.
The not-quite-voices of the spirits trail her through the narrow alley—Ellana is well and truly lost now, for better or worse—though she can't catch a solid enough glimpse to make out their purpose. Are these wisps? Spirits of perception or communication, perhaps? They don't have enough presence to be the one she hunts, and not enough malice to be demons.
The spirit she seeks—never call it a demon, though its red mouth grins wetly, and its promises drip with sedition—can be found by anyone willing to get lost. It will tell the way back, and—for a price—answer another question.
Ellana is desperate enough to bargain for answers.
Five dead since last Monday, and no word from the authorities. Elven deaths are a statistic, and this city has seen many.
"These are our people, Deshanna. If we stand by, we are as bad as the shems." Ellana paces, agitated.
"Language, da'len." Her Keeper is unmoved. "As much as I regret to say it, they are not The People. If we get involved, we risk the security of the clan."
Politics. It leaves a sour taste in Ellana's mouth.
A Keeper must always put the needs of the clan before the needs of the individual—and certainly a non-Dalish individual hardly ranks as a priority. Ellana, as First, can only grit her teeth and read the names of the mounting dead with shame. She has to search for them; Elven deaths don't make headlines.
But then—then.
She doesn't have to read Ionne's name in the papers; Deshanna gets a call, and when her face stills, Ellana knows.
The Beast strikes closest to the heart.
That it had to get this far, that one of the clan had to suffer—to die—in order to get involved—well. Ellana has to shelve her bitterness.
Something moves in her peripherals. Ellana slows to a stop, tilts her head ever so slightly—
There.
If she hadn't been warned, she might have lost her nerve.
Not a demon, not a demon, not a demo—
"You come brimming with questions, little Keeper. They are fairly spilling over."
Her first impression is too many eyes, and then teeth.
"I am not a Keeper," she says, refusing to step away even as the shadow drips closer.
The stories have it wrong; the mouth isn't red. Its teeth glint grinning-skull white against the shadows of its face. Ellana can see no discernible features, despite the green glow from the spirit's eyes.
They blink.
"Soon enough," says the phantom.
She hopes it refers to the fleeting nature of mortal lives and not something more… malicious.
"I am told that you give answers for payment." Ellana wets her lips. "I am looking for a trade."
The spirit regards her for a moment, and she has the sensation of… something sweeping over and through her. Is she being weighed? Judged? Is her worthiness in question?
Ellana will not be turned away.
"There is no payment equal to the number of questions you seek, da'len." The tone could almost be mistaken for compassion, if it didn't lilt like a desire demon's invitation. There's a slight tilt to the shadow of the creature's head, but it does nothing to humanize their interaction; its very presence is alien.
A shiver works its way up Ellana's spine, and she clenches her teeth before it can rattle them, too.
"However," the spirit continues, "A single question—for that, you can spare the price."
Every story Ellana has ever been told about the nature of Fade denizens warns her against this deal. Whether spirit or demon—and at their root, there is little difference—this agreement could land her in very hot water.
Possession.
Mutilation.
Death.
That death is the least of these speaks of the creature's malice—and her own desperation.
"I seek a name—names." She has to phrase this carefully. Any loophole could act as a noose later. "The People are being hunted by a Beast. I need the means to bind it."
The chuckle startles her more than any promise of pain. It's low and wraps itself around her like a physical thing, the echo of it bouncing down the alley, a chorus of dark amusement. Ellana feels very small here, and it's dawning on her that she may have stumbled into something vaster than she anticipated, as if she has stepped into a tide pool and found an abyss. She presses her nails into her hands and reminds herself that she has always been a strong swimmer.
The spirit leans in. Its smile could be called mocking, if it is possible to attribute people-characteristics to such a thing.
"You build your tower of certainty on a foundation of assumptions, da'len. Careful that you do not get buried in the silt of it."
She doesn't know how to answer, so she remains silent. They regard each other.
"If this is truly what you seek," it says finally, "then speak your words, and speak them well."
Ellana has the sensation of drowning, the mounting unanswered questions closing over her head.
She sets her jaw.
"There is a Beast—the People refer to it as such in whispers, or not at all. You know of what I speak, so let there be no misdirection. I want its names." The phrasing feels clunky in her mouth. Deshanna would be more concise, more eloquent, but Deshanna isn't here.
Ellana does her duty as First in the only way she knows how.
"Name your price."
Deshanna is early to their meeting, but Ellana has been in the café for an hour at least, fingers tapping an unsteady rhythm against her third cup of coffee.
"I hope that's decaf," the Keeper says, sharp eyes taking in Ellana's jittery gaze and the knee knocking repeatedly against the underside of the table. She slides into the booth across from her First, nodding to the barista at the counter. They are known here.
Ellana doesn't bother to acknowledge the question. They both know she doesn't drink decaf.
"We need to talk."
"I figured as much when I received your message," Deshanna says, voice wry. She picks through the sugar packets, casual, as if this is a normal brunch conversation. They could be talking about the weather, or the clan's day-to-day drama. Can she not feel the shadow cresting over them? As a child, Ellana was always under the impression that the Keeper knew when she made a mistake. Surely she can sense it now, as Ellana fairly vibrates out of her skin?
Ellana stops her knee with some force of will. She takes a gulp of her coffee—double shot of espresso, though she thinks the human at the counter may have shorted her one out of a misplaced concern for her health—and clears her throat.
"I made a bargain with a spirit."
The change in the Keeper is immediate. A casual observer may not notice the difference—indeed, the barista sets Deshanna's usual order down with a smile, looking untroubled by the exchange—but Ellana feels the atmosphere shift, sees the older woman's focus narrow. There's a tightness in the air like magic being summoned.
Summoned.
Ellana shudders.
Deshanna looks up from the sweeteners.
"Tell me."
There is no arguing with that tone, not when it shifts from Deshanna to Keeper.
"I—the ritual—I didn't—" Ellana swallows a breath. Chokes on it.
Her Keeper's gaze doesn't waver.
"I've made a mistake," Ellana says brokenly.
"That much," Deshanna says, eyes like stone, "is clear."
What's unclear is whether her anger with her First outweighs her concern.
"We—I—had it wrong. All of it." Ellana's knee starts to shake again. "I don't think I could have—this never could have ended well."
"You're not speaking any sense, da'len. Tell me what happened. Plainly."
"You know of the spirit who dwells in the in-between?"
Deshanna's lips thin. "The one who bargains in blood? Ellana, tell me you didn't."
Ellana wishes she could.
"There was no blood," she says, "but I had to—our people are dying, hahren! I couldn't stand by when something could be done."
"What. Did you do."
She breaks free of the thin spot—not quite Fade, not quite reality—at a run, wrapped feet skidding over concrete, over broken glass. She doesn't stop to assess the damage, or even to glance behind. There is laughter at her back—the spirit, amplified, echoing. Triumphant.
Run, run, little one.
"Ellana."
She gives herself a mental shake, noting wryly that the caffeine has done nothing for her focus. Or her nerves.
"You recall the expression "may the Beast never catch your scent?""
It's a pointless question. Every Dalish knows it, and certainly her Keeper has spoken it on countless occasions.
Deshanna is a white-lipped statue. The marble of her face cracks as she speaks.
"He hunts you, then?"
Ellana barks out a humorless laugh.
"Oh, hahren." She has to cover her mouth as her laugh catches on a sob. "It was he who made the bargain."
In hindsight, it's all very obvious.
Things begin to slot into place as she cuts a lock of her hair; it's such a small price to pay for the desired information. The certainty that she has let something slip past her guard settles into Ellana's stomach like a stone. She pinches the offering between two fingers, holds it out, and waits for the other shoe to drop.
It hits like a concussive blast.
The proffered hair disappears into a shadowed hand—Ellana has the impression of claws, but only warm air touches her skin. She shivers regardless.
"The names, then?" She's almost resigned. She thought she knew what she was in for when she came to bargain, or at least what she was asking. As the spirit draws itself up, though, she realizes that she knows very little of anything, and certainly not of this.
"You feel it crumbling, do you not, da'len? This illusion of certainty you built."
She does. It feels like failure.
"Your People fear what they do not understand. They ascribe the name "Beast" a figure half shrouded in legend, but they do not seek the truth of it."
A lightning storm seems to be building in the confines of the alley, and Ellana can taste ozone even as the fine hairs on her body prick in anticipation. Electricity sparks and crackles in her peripherals, but Ellana can't look away from the glow of six green flames. It feels as if a great hand is constricting her lungs, scooping out the air and replacing it with something heavy and immovable. The spirit looms ever closer.
"You hunt the Dread Wolf, He Who Hunts Alone, Lord of Tricksters—" It's nearly unbearable, now, the mounting pressure. Each name rings out like a gong, like the breaking of great seals on something that ought never to be opened. "—the Great Wolf, Roamer of the Beyond, and Bringer of Nightmares.
His voice—and it is a he, she can no longer deny the obvious—speaks the names like a ritual. Like a binding. Ellana is rooted, thoroughly bound, though whether by magic or her own horror, she cannot say.
The tension holds for a moment, then bursts, and Ellana heaves a great breath, eyes pricking with tears. The spirit appears to shrink back in on himself, to a height that doesn't seem to reach past the roofs of the alley. Some of the shadows slip away, and for the first time, Ellana can make out a face.
He smiles, teeth still glinting too sharp in the light.
"Though, if there are to be introductions, my name is Solas."