Disclaimer: "Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only.
Words From the Author: I've been far and away I know. I've become my father's Power of Attorney to deal with some family issues, and I've taken on editing as a side job and am in the last stages of editing an entire book for a new writer to try and get published. I don't think I'll take on quite that level of activity again, as it left no time for Thedas and I missed it so. I wanted to wait until that editing was completely done, but I just couldn't. My hands were literally twitching to write.
In the interim, until the complete chapter one is finished, I thought I'd at the very least publish the prologue, and am in fact thinking of jostling things around or adding something new to 'Hatred and Heritage' for a prologue, as I'd like each part to have one, though only part three will have an epilogue. So while this is short, the rest of part two will have the same chapter length that previous readers are used to.
The Avaari tribesman herein speak their own language, and I concocted what words of theirs I did use. Though for the sake of the story, most of the time they'll speak Common (English) on the page at least, so you can understand it. Like the Chasind and Clayne (who I don't know much about) they formed off the remaining tribesman of the ancient Alamarri Clans, and make their homes in the foothills of the Frostback Mountains, and don't interact with the world outside their tribe very often, though they're an intelligent people and understand the world at large. I had a feeling that when they spoke Common, it'd be similar to Morrigan, overly-refined because they didn't quite grasp the subtleties of the language. The tribe leaders are in fact, called Jarls, I didn't steal that from 'Skyrim' but are bit different than their Elder Scrolls counterparts. They also refer to the Fereldans we're used to, as such, but not themselves, as they consider themselves to be apart from the Ferelden that was formed outside their own culture.
They also, as per this story canon, know quite a bit more about the Old Gods than the more 'civilized' Fereldans, as their own histories weren't diluted over the years by Chantry doctrine and they still worship the Old Gods, giving them their own names. Which is how I ascertained that Uvolla was Lusacan, and wound up giving Urthemiel an Avvar name in addition to the one bestowed on His Unholiness by the Tevinter Imperials.
Things get a bit tricky there, because you have what the Chantry believes and preaches, what the Imperials believed and tried to do with the Old Gods, and what the Avvars continue to believe. Those three trains of thought do run on the same track sometimes, but there are other times, where they don't. The Avvars think they're right, the Chantry thinks they're right, but neither one is entirely right or entirely wrong.
Also, as the story progresses, I'll be getting the ancient elves' involvement with the old gods, what I could finagle around and weed out of codex, content and some in-game mysteries. It is by no means canon, but I think it'll blend decently enough later down the road. However, for now, its just a tease.
If you are new to 'Fate and Forbearance', welcome! And not all my author's notes are THIS long, but I do explain a lot in them. As continuing readers can tell you, I take canon and make it my own, so while things in this story are largely supportive of the major points of canon, I do sometimes tweak it to what I prefer for the sake of storytelling versus game progression.
For returning readers, its good to share your company again! I appreciate your continued interest and patience more than I can say, and you don't know HOW thrilled I am to be writing again and entertaining you. It is, as always, my most humble pleasure.
I can't promise when Chapter One will make it out of my mind, as I'm still hoofing it along with my editing and family concerns, but we're back in business ladies and gentlemen. So ready or not . . . here we go!
Thank you for stopping by, and watch out for low flying dragons.
Prologue:
Gates of the Damned
"Get back which used to be, you'll suffer unto me."
- Metallica
"Eognan!" The younger of two Avvar brothers called out ahead, his hide boots making nary a sound on the carpet of pine needles underfoot. "I think we should go back!"
"Our father is Jarl of all Ganae Hold, and the Alpin Tribe is the greatest of the tribes because of it. Do we crawl like cravens, then? Or do we prove ourselves as men?" Eognan beat a single curled fist against his chest, above his heart. A shock of red hair matched the fire in his soul, and that of his brother's own head, but they were nothing alike.
They were two years apart, but both were considered to be nearing manhood. Ciniod had seen fifteen years, and Eognan had breached the confinements of seventeen. Yet because of their father's standing, they were not allowed to participate in the hunting of the cave bear. It was a trek deep into the heart of the Frostback Mountains, well beyond the safety of their hold, but a necessary right of passage, for those young men who sought to have their first wife. For the two eldest sons of Jarl Alpin, however, the brothers had to follow their prayers to Korth the Mountain Father, He who the thieving Imperials had once called Dumat.
If they were true in their belief, an answer would come and their own path for manhood would be laid out before them.
Ciniod had prayed and prayed, his mother's reassurances lending him patience, but Eognan would not have it. The eldest brother had a thirst for success, that wouldn't be quenched, and thought to find a way without Korth, whose silence gave him irritation in place of his sibling's patience.
So they found themselves trekking across the evergreen forests and hillocks of the lower Frostbacks. A week had seen them out, and though their father would be angry upon their return, no one would come looking, as Avvars were expected to take care of themselves.
They were taught at an early age that they were the true descendants of the Alamarri, from whom they had long ago splintered, into their own people and the sister clansmen of the Chasind and the Clayne. As such, they could not ask for help as their Chasind and Clayne brothers would, mewling at the Fereldans for aid. Ash Warriors did not mewl, High Priests did not mewl, and the sons of Jarls did not mewl.
But Ciniod grew fretful as they continued on, not liking their destination to begin with and liking it even less the closer they drew. "Why must it be here, brother? A week and you have not said. Why not the Temple of Lusacan? The Lady of the Skies is a much saner choice."
"Lady Uvolla has no more voice than The Mountain Father and I will not wait for them. The Fereldans and their Maker can take them, as far as I care!" Eognan returned succinctly, tromping ahead with heavy footfalls of someone that had grown irritated.
Ciniod's lip curled. "You speak blasphemy! You will never receive a sign from the gods, with your heart so bitter!"
"But I will," Eognan smiled in his certainty. "Because no one comes to the Gates anymore, little brother. No one else cries to The Undying for an answer. He will hear our voices, without competition."
"No one comes, because it could be their death! Great Father Korth forsook His brother, because He knew that Urthemiel's godly heart was even more hateful than yours! He drank the souls of Avaari children, and stole away our women and killed them with His seed!" Ciniod battled with a fir branch, shaking the needles from his hair as he growled at his brother.
"A blasphemer you call me, but you use the Imperial's name for The Undying!"
"Then I will use ours, if it opens your ears! Lord Morgreth is fell and treble. He is the Undying because He takes the lives of our people, it's why we named Him the God of Death, and if He was locked away behind Galeas gun Grabain, it was for a reason! The Gates of the Damned are not meant to be opened!"
Both voices fell silent, their argument lost to the massive stone wall before them, the pines thinning out to open to the ancient boundary. Built long ago, it stood as a reminder of days gone beyond recollection, but for the stories to be told by the remaining stones.
Carvings of a very elven appearance, scrollwork and fancy runic symbols, decorated the massive stone pillars. No one knew why the elves, fond of ironbark and leather-craft, would extend their architecture to the ancient stone monstrosities found scattered throughout Thedas, but there were always stories.
A tale-weaver's best guess, and one that went a long way to entertaining a gathering group of children, eager for another story to tide them over until they were grown. The two brothers had been no different, in their toddling years, seated by the herbalist's tent, as she'd settle down on old bones, rasping voice building a tapestry of both history and fantasy, for eager young minds.
She'd spoken of some elves, seeking to regain their rapidly failing immortality, making pleas to the Old Ones to grant them the eternal life they so desperately wanted back, once their own gods left them behind. Most of the Old Gods had ignored these pleas, but for Urthemiel, who was struck by the fine appearance of the elves, and agreed to a trade. Their utter worship and devotion, for eternal life and beauty.
Though trading with Lord Morgreth was never anything to be taken lightly, and He was easily vexed. When His new servants disappointed Him, trying to strike out on their own, He didn't take away the immortality given them, but twisted it to His whims.
Now all that remained of those first elven servants were the guardians of His most sacred places, turned to eternal gargoyles, perched atop pillars and at entrances. Their beauty remained, immortal indeed, as it was petrified in stone.
Eognan looked up at two such gargoyles as they were carved in worshipful poses next to the twin pillars that marked the entrance to the Gates. He had heard that some Fereldans used gargoyles as decoration, but they were hideous, almost demonic looking things. Those chosen by Morgreth were lovely, if not a touch eerie.
Ciniod was careful in his steps, watching the effigies warily. "Old Braith said they can come to life at night, stone turned to flesh, to feast on the blood of the living. That's how they have stayed alive all this time." His voice was barely above a whisper, but his brother heard him, and scoffed.
"Braith also says that babies are found inside hollowed out tree stumps. Besides, you are too old to listen to that crone." Eognan tapped the head of a statue, passing by it. "These hardly look alive to me."
"It'll be dark soon." The younger of the two wasn't convinced of their safety, 'too old' for nightmarish stories or not, as his eyes stuck to the statues, walking slowly behind his brother. "Why would Lord Morgreth turn them into this, only to decorate His places of worship?"
"Why do the Old Ones do anything? Because they can. You think too much, Ciniod, just take a deep breath and . . . " Eognan did just as he'd bade his sibling, in a gasp of awe.
Before them stood the huge Galeas gun Grabain, as the Avvars called them. The Gates of the Damned. Said to house Morgreth's creations, and the god's own eternal essence, as He kept a close watch on His servants. Of all the old places, that one was the closest mortals could come to speak with the God of Death.
The size of them was something to behold, an impenetrable dome of solid stone, smoothed and carved to perfection, defying the ravages of time. Its entrance marked by the gargantuan gates, more like doors, of onyx and obsidian. The fading sun struck them, lending them a strange luminescence against their dark glass-like surface . . . and they were open.
The brothers knew that wasn't suppose to be the case, and peering between that small opening, there was only darkness.
They looked at each other, both of them on edge then, and Eognan was the one to speak. "Maybe we are not the first to come here to commune with The Undying. There could have been others, maybe even other Jarls' sons."
"Or something has come out." Ciniod supplied, eyes gone wide and fearful. "I . . . I want to go. We need to leave. This is not the place for us." He tugged at his brother's tunic, but was shrugged off.
"Coward!" Eognan snarled, moving forward. "I am not afraid of stories, and I will not come this far, only to turn back. What does it matter that the Gates are opened? They are old, time could have moved them far easier than any fabled monster."
Ciniod would have pressed further, but he fell back on his haunches, screaming as something reached between the opened gates and grabbed his brother. Eognan shrieked, and disappeared into the darkness.
The sun had dipped below the trees, and shadows shrouded the open glade, lengthening around the Gates of the Damned like fingers, reaching for the fleeing Avvar.
He ran, not thinking of his brother, or what his father would think, or anything beyond getting out of there. A root tripped him up, and the young tribesman fell on his face, dirt smearing across cuts from the stony ground.
When he looked up, a pair of bedraggled legs were before him, and his eyes followed them fearfully up to the feral grinning creature standing there. Its appearance was just like the statues, except for the open maw, lines of sharp teeth grinding there until it smiled at him.
"What pretty thing is this, come to Lord Urthemiel? Does it cry? Does it frighten? Does it bleed?" It sniffed at him, voice ethereal and difficult to discern gender from. "Smells . . . human . . . smells like fear." The eyes were white and dead, paler than the lifeless face, pointed ears reaching up past a golden head. Its hair was the only thing of color, but for a trickle of dark red that spilled down its chin, staining those sharp teeth as it spoke.
Ciniod shook in his terror, more so that it was speaking in a language that he could understand. The worst monsters in stories, the most frightening, were those that were intelligent. He tried to get to his feet, tongue heavy in his mouth, managing to respond beyond his fright. "I know what you are!"
The elf-like creature smiled again, as if it were pleased. "Do you? I knew things once too, many, many things. Too much." It moved forward, stalking its prey slowly, as the boy crawled backwards on the ground.
"I . . . I know, and I am so sorry for what happened to you! My brother . . . my brother wanted to come here. I did not, I never would disturb . . ." He pleaded, not noticing the Gates looming behind him, drawing nearer as he moved.
"Disturb? No, no there is no disturbance. There is no 'sorry'." It bent down, its body frighteningly devoid of the noise that accompanied normal movement. "There is only service to Urthemiel the Undying . . . always."
Eognan's body was thrown from inside the dome, as another of the gargoyles moved forward, its feet malformed, almost like that of a werewolf.
His brother's dead eyes stared at him, throat torn open and still bleeding. Ciniod cried out, reaching for his sibling, when one of Morgreth's guardians reached for him, dragging him to his feet. It was unbelievably strong, hoisting the Avaari up above its own head.
"You seek Urthemiel's guidance, you seek His favor. But what do you offer? What do you give us? This one gave us nothing." It nodded down, uncaring, at Eognan's body.
"I . . . I do not have anything! By all the Old Gods, I swear, I did not wish to be here! Please . . ." Not above beggary, Ciniod looked down at the thing holding him. It was indeed beautiful, even for the horror represented in its being. A perfect concoction of Morgreth Urthemiel, He who was beauty and death combined. The tribesman thought those things, even as he felt his own doom descending down upon him.
"Leave . . . this . . . boy. He is pure." A voice from the darkness within the dome, creeping out like the tattered voice of Old Braith. As it moved into the dusk outside, a new terror was made clear.
It looked like an emaciated woman, but for the blackened hole through the middle of her, and a half ruined face, a charred mess, the entire jaw dripping with dark ichor. Its voice was awful, but more female than the other creatures that held the Avaari. On that colorless forehead, remained the permanent markings that some older Avvar clans used to claim their gods.
That thing had been of Ciniod's own people once, and now it looked at him with eyes as dead as the elven gargoyles. "What are you?" The young man gurgled out fearfully.
"I am a bride . . . to His Most Holy . . . one of my . . . Lord husband's first . . . brides." Each word sounded like it was an effort, like breathing through smoke, and the stench of the thing accompanied that. An odor like old blood and burned hair, surrounding it, pouring from that ruined mouth as it spoke.
The walking gargoyles snarled at this new intrusion, not releasing their prey, but not acting as if they were going to eat him anymore. "Where is Lord Urthemiel? Why have His brides come amongst the guardians?"
Ciniod had the bizarre experience of curiosity mingling with terror, as he watched the three creatures talk amongst each other, like they had any understanding of normal interaction.
"His Greatness . . . has awakened. It is . . . why you have come to life again, Forsaken. It is why we have emerged . . . from behind the Great Gates." The thing tried to smile, a difficult task without lips, reaching up with a skeletal hand, the skin so tight and thin as to feel non-existent, as the 'bride' touched the Avaari's face. "This one is pure . . . this one has an aura of . . . magic. Deep inside . . . don't you . . . boy?"
Ciniod didn't know what she was talking about, but would have agreed to anything to save his life. "Yes . . . yes, whatever you want, I will give! My brother, he . . . please, I cannot leave his body, I cannot leave . . ."
"He is dead, and of no further use." One of the gargoyles, the creature the spindly female had called a 'Forsaken', turned, dragging Ciniod behind it, uncaring as the other one followed. The self professed bride trailed behind them, to leave the dead tribesman on the dirt where he lay. "You will go inside the temple, until Lord Urthemiel decides what to do with you."
"No! No, please . . ." Ciniod's shrieks echoed out into the evening air, as he was dragged into the darkness. Above the dome, a blood red moon peered out, looking down on the scene, and soon, all was silence.