I love when they get on their knees. The Dalish Hunter saw the man three times his size cower before him in a pitiful attempt at begging."Please, I don't want to die," the brute whined. His voice was lighter than the Dale was expecting. "Please, I got a mum back home. She don't got no one else."
The Dale drew his bow and readied an arrow mere inches from the mercenary's face. He could see a growing dark spot in the man's pants. "You have the blood of dozens of mothers on your hands. You are not allowed to speak of such, Shemlen." The Dale stared deep into the human's eyes. He was hoping to find something there... something that would justify this vengeance. He saw nothing; merely pleading, unintelligent eyes. He wasn't sure if that made things better or worse.
"I was just following orders," the mercenary mumbled, now averting eye contact. In a flash, the Dale loosed his arrow, missing the man's head by only a fraction of an inch. The man cried out in alarm as the Elf held a knife to his throat.
"Whose. Orders." The Elf held his knife tightly against the man's throat, creating a slow trickle of blood.
"Vahalix, my commander," the Dale ground his teeth and pressed his knife harder into the brute's throat. "H-h-he's the one you want, I swear it."
"I already met Vahalix," the Dale spoke slowly, trying to control his rage, "he was less than forthcoming. All mercenary bands take orders. Who paid you to burn down my forest?" The mercenary wavered, unsure of what to say. "This is your only chance at walking away from here."
"A woman. Sister of a Tevinter Magister. Her name is Octavia Amladaris. She hired us to clear out the forest. She should be easy to track down. I don't know where she is right now!" The mercenary paused, tears now freely streaming down his face. "Can I please go now?"
Amazing how much you can remember when you have a knife to your throat. The Dale smiled and looked again into the man's eyes. "May the gods forgive you where I cannot." One swift motion of his blade ended the mercenary's life; reduced his eyes to dull imitations of what they were before. "And may I find forgiveness for avenging my clan the only way I know how," the hunter added.
The Elf stood, and for the first time in nearly a year, he felt proud. His long journey was about to end. This Tevinter bitch will know the vengeance of the Dalish Elves.
"No, no, I asked for Antivan Juniper Cake, not Antivan Bumbleberry Cake. And where are the frosted Elfroot tea leaves I asked for? Just get my order right, next time, please. This is supposed to be a respectable establishment."
"My apologies, Lady Amladaris. I will return shortly," Octavia watched as the short man hurriedly hustled off into the back of the shop and rolled her eyes.
"Orlesians," the Tevinter noblewoman rolled her eyes and nibbled on her croissant. "If I wasn't madly in love with their baked goods, there would be nothing keeping me here." She tapped her foot impatiently as she heard clamoring in the back of the store. Soon enough, the shopkeep returned holding a new bottle and a bag of tea leaves. Upon setting foot in the front of the store, however, he screamed and turned away, letting her cake splatter over the shop floor, much to the dismay of Lady Amladaris.
"What is it this time?" Lady Amladaris said, her mouth still full of food. "I'm sure you got it right. Probably."
After a brief moment's pause, Octavia heard a gruff voice behind her speak. "Arms up. Turn around. Slowly." Croissant raised high above her head, Octavia slowly turned to see a very intimidating Dalish bow aimed at her by an even more intimidating Dalish man.
"Oh, balls."
"You are Octavia Amladaris?" The Dale asked, keeping the drawn bow firmly ready to stick an arrow between her eyes.
"That is what they say," Octavia offered a meek smile. "I suppose that's how you found me, no?" The Elf was silent for a long while. He seemed to be... examining Octavia. Taking her every detail in. Octavia herself noticed that the man's face was dirty, his hair unkempt, his once finely crafted armor ripped and tattered. This man has fallen far. And hard.
"You are older than I expected," The Elf finally offered. "And... larger." Octavia sighed in exasperation and lowered her arms. The man tensed at the sudden action, but he did not fire. Octavia suspected he wouldn't.
"I came to the Swooping Pastry for dessert, not to talk to a walking mirror," Octavia managed to say even after resuming eating her croissant. "This is a safe space, ser. Have some respect." The Dalish man cocked his head to the side, but did not lower his guard.
"You hired a Tevinter mercenary order to burn down the Germaine Forest. My clan was in that forest. You killed them." The Elf moved a step closer to Octavia, his arms shaking. Probably from rage, Octavia guessed. "And now, I will kill you."
"Yes, I suspected as much when I saw the whole 'Angry Elf' appearance," Octavia sighed. "Listen, my dear. What happened to the Iliferen clan... your clan... was a tragedy. A mistake, and a tragedy."
The Elf shook his head and moved even closer. "Don't you dare say their name! Don't -" Octavia raised her free hand to cut him off and continued speaking.
"A tragedy I have been working tirelessly for almost a year to atone for, pastry breaks excluded. I'm trying to set things right." The Elf shook his head.
"You are a Shemlen, a wretched Tevinter. You do not have the right to atone for my people. You destroyed them. Death is your only path." Octavia sighed again and crossed her arms.
"It seems you have made up your mind. May I at least have the name of my assassin?" The Elf sneered at her.
"I have no name. I am Araval A'nan Bellanar. I am-"
"Araval A'nan Bellanar. The Eternal Path of Vengeance. Quite a title, my dear. Very fitting... for yourself, and for the Dalish people as a whole," for the first time, the Dale lowered his bow, just a bit. Octavia hid a smile.
"How -" the Dale started, his anger broken.
"As I said, I have been trying to atone. Allow me to formally introduce myself, Araval. I am Octavia Amladaris, sister to Magister Savius and Imperial Scholar of Elven Lore and the Blight. Also, accomplished mage. Now, please lower your bow. Shooting me now would only waste an arrow. Good barriers go long ways, my friend." Octavia allowed herself to briefly glow blue in a magical light. Reluctantly, Araval pointed his arrow at the ground. "As I said, the death of your clan was a tragic accident, the result of hiring brute force for a scholarly task. I was on, still am on actually, a very lengthy expedition involving the Elven people."
"An expedition that includes slaying innocent families? Losing Elven lore passed down by our storyteller?" Araval spat at Octavia's feet. "You make me sick."
"I know," Octavia frowned. "And I'm sorry. But I'm trying to make up for it. And I'm on the verge of something big." Araval stared at the scholar. His eyes were devoid of compassion.
"What could you possibly do for my people, Shemlen?"
"My dear," Octavia said with excitement. "I have been studying the Blight for... many... years. I have found references in primeval Dwarven stone, seen tainted areas of the Deep Roads untouched for millennia... and I have concluded the Chant of Light is false. The Maker did not cause the Blights by casting my kinsmen out of the Golden City. The Blight, I believe, was caused by your people. The Elvhenan."
Araval frowned. "Even if what you say is true," he offered, "how does that help the Elves?"
"The fact alone doesn't, of course," Octavia grinned. "It's the intention behind it. My dear, I believe that the Blight was the result of the Elves' last ditch effort to restoring their immortality, to restore the magic of old to Thedas. To when gods walked on land and magic came as naturally as breathing. I plan to help them along with that."