Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, or any of the characters in this story (other than Lysias and Alosio, of course), they were created by BioWare. :)

It burned – so deep in my veins that my heart became discontent and turned to erratic beats that wanted to burst from my chest. My eyes clouded behind what I figured to be a blindfold, or something of the sort – something that either made it so I couldn't see what was happening, or to heighten my senses even more so that it hurt all the better – it didn't matter. I couldn't even find my voice anymore; I had screamed so much—so much that I could still hear it echo in my pointed ears, hidden behind layered flicks of brown hair, probably disheveled because of such rough play. I took a brief moment to feel a strand of my bangs brushing my nose, which twitched as I held back a sneeze.

I felt the sharp end up the staff trail down my abdomen, so the left vallaslin was traced, telling me where he was going to work on next, or rather, teasing me. Three tribal lines curving just nearly past my hip bones; sometimes I regretted not choosing not choosing a deity during the ritual, though, my keeper always said that I was stubborn – then again, what Orlesian elf wasn't, city or otherwise? The metal of the staff warmed against my skin until it burned worse than the blood writing did when I first got it, and despite my lack of vision, I knew what was happening, my Master taunted my by telling me what he was going to do. He was making me a gatherer for the blood he needed for his blood magic – then he didn't need to harm himself, and he had a better use for me other than housework and sex. I shrieked, the clang of the restraints on my legs sounding as I tried to kick my legs, but it only made it worse. My hips jerked, and the feeling dug deeper, into my bone, and I wasn't surprised when part of my leg went numb.

"That'll only make it worse, my little pet. Stay still and it'll be over quicker." I heard him speak, and my blood boiled, the markings burning in my anger, and my eyes swelled. I didn't think I could really cry anymore. I bet the blindfold was drenched; not that I could tell anymore, myself, most of my feeling had begun to leave me.

The next blood, the one sitting on the other side of my stomach, was given the same treatment – the sting making me whimper little sounds because I didn't want to use to much of my voice anymore – and then I was turned over on to my back, and the marking around my shoulder blades were given the same horrid treatment – lying on my stomach made all of the ones on my front hurt worse – I felt the need to note. When the blind fold was removed, I stared, glossy eyed at the aged man before me, the smirk on his face making me was want to spit, but he grabbed my face, tracing his finger along the three remaining tattoos that half way wrapped about my eye.

"You're not done yet."

Sometimes, I felt that everything happened for a reason, well, anything important to my elvenly functioning – if that was such a thing anymore. Slaves didn't have much of a life. Most were hollow shells that took in – in more ways than one – what their Master told them to do or did to them without much effort to try to stop them. I was rebellious at times, given as I had enough sense to understand that I shouldn't have been left susceptible to such cruelty. Slaves weren't punching bags, they were people as well, pointed eared or otherwise. Maybe I shouldn't be so inwardly brooding though. I turned over on my bed, hugging my self and stroking my back with newly elongated nails, or claws as Master called them earlier when he almost amorously stroked my hand in his own, making me shiver and turn my head away in disgust. The bed was less than comfortable – the floor was probably much better, but I wasn't permitted to sleep there, because, as Master said, "I wouldn't want someone stepping on my merchandise". At least I was slightly important to him.

Blood harvesting is the use of a holder of the blood that a blood mage uses, so that they don't have to jeopardize themselves – it's rarely used however, because the harvester can die from the extreme pain, and the demons that will plague the host. The harvester can also benefit from the blood, channeling it though a variety of things, and even feeding on it to regenerate their own health. I touched my cheek, my skin pallid and cold – I hadn't begun harvesting yet, so I would have to look sickly for a little more.

"I hate this already." I mumbled, my Orlesian accent thick against my pillow, and I sighed, nesting myself closer to it, as a form of comfort, but it didn't help.

I didn't really have any friends in Tevinter, though, I did occasionally talk to Danarius' slave, Fenris, but we weren't exactly friends – more so, much needed support for each other when we could be. He was nice when he wanted to be, and—and for some reason, I believe that when he got his lyrium markings they hurt far worse than my harvesting ritual did. Poor guy. When he first got them, he wasn't allowed to leave Danarius' mansion, and I climbed up to his window and spoke with him through there, until I was caught and whipped once my Master got a hold of me.

Finally giving up on the idea of sleeping, I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest as I glanced across the room to the door that led to Master's. He was more than likely sleeping, and I didn't want to check, last time I did something of the sort I was pinned to the bed, and I couldn't feel my legs for weeks. Why wouldn't he just kill me? Wouldn't it be easier to simply find a more mindless slave and hold them? I guess that didn't matter. I heard from other slaves – and some of the servants, that my Master planned on breaking me, to make me listen when ever he pleased – maybe making me a harvester was part of that little plan of his. It didn't exactly work – it only accomplished making me angrier.

I looked over when I saw the knob on the door that separated Master's and my room start to turn, and I hissed, scooting back on my bed. I was supposed to be sleeping . . . and I knew he'd be pissed.

I bolted up, panting heavily and placing a clawed hand to my chest, the blood marking my on cheek glowing in a bright red hue due to my fear, my eyes wide and frightened as I took in my surroundings again. I was outside, and it was night – the stars were laughing at me, I assumed. I shook my head at my foolishness and bit down on my lip. It hadn't been there for years.

"The dream, again?" I heard someone ask, and I looked to the side, seeing Tamlen staring at me, sympathetically enough to calm me and force me to lie back down, I sighed, nodding slowly as I placed my hands to my face, the fur on my gloves brushing my pale cheeks. That would have bothered me if I wasn't distracted by other problems.

". . . mhm, but now I'm remembering little details. It's been two years, why can't I just let this go? Alosio isn't going to find me, not right now anyway." I whispered to myself, trying to sound convincing, but I wasn't buying it. I was property, prized as that, he wasn't going to let me go, he told me that so many times that it was carved into my brain.

"But he isn't dead. I would be having the same problem if I were you. Keeper promised to protect you here, Lysias; I know it's not the same as the Dalish in Orlais, but it can't be too bad." He smiled at me, and I nodded, giving a little smile back. It wasn't bad exactly, but it was a bit bland. The Orlesian Dalish were more – what was the word – showy, and we took pride in our priceless steel and fitted gloves and boots.

"It isn't bad; I just . . . don't think I can stay in one place for too long. After a while I'll probably leave – though, I'll still be in Ferelden, I'm really not going to feel like going back to Orlais, it'll raise too many questions. I also have a feeling these blood markings work as some sort of tracking device."

Tamlen sat up and stared down at me for a long moment, his eyes intent and curious, until I turned away from him and closed my own eyes, chewing on my lower lip again, an elongated sharpened tooth brushing against the corner of my mouth. Regardless of the reason, when people stared, it bothered me to no end.

"Tomorrow, we'll go and look for shemlens in the forest. I need to take your mind off of this, at least for now. Then maybe we can talk to Keeper and see if she can reassure you anymore. How does that sound?" He sighed, placed a comforting hand to my shoulder, stroking with his knuckles.

"Well, if you weren't attracted to only females, maybe you could take my mind off of all of this, but on a more serious note . . . I don't know, I'll think of something tomorrow, and don't call them shemlens, some of them are actually cute."

Author Notes:

Why isn't there a Character Tag for the Warden?

Anyway, this is just the Prologue, which is why it's so short.

I've been wanting to write this for a while, but I've been distracted by my other fic, and didn't want to neglect it - I'll try to multitask. :)