A/N: Welcome ladies and gentlemen, Old fans and hopefully new fans!
I know I haven't written anything for god knows how long. I could say that life got in the way, but it wasn't so grandiose. I really just lost my urge to write. Frankly, I Hate my old work. Everytime I read it I cringe and think 'how could anyone enjoy this?'. Hell, the only reason I haven't straight up delete my old stuff is that I continue to get positive feedback. I've been writing on this for the better part of a year now when the mood struck me, so I hope that it is better than previous works. I believe it is, but lets see what you think. This is a completely different fandom from what I usually write so, even though I Love dragon age, I can understand if some of my previous followers choose not to read it. I will try to explain everything simply for those unfamiliar with the game, but if I can't I suggest looking on the dragon age wiki. That should cover what I can't.
As for this story, any previous readers of my stuff will know that there will be cussing, violence and a decent amount of gore (nothing too gratuitous). I'm trying to branch out a bit so there will both het and slash relationships and both will, hopefully, progress realistically. That being said, however, I will say "Zevran" and any players of dragon age will get the drift. No Lemons or any graphic physical intimacy, though, so no worries there.
Anyway, now that the spiel is over, I hope you enjoy the new story.
-ooo00DAAO00ooo-
The old fortress was an impressive sight as it towered above the clear stretch of land that would serve as tonight's battle against the evil of the darkspawn horde. Dwarven-made walls, even as cracked and infested with creeping vines as they were, showed no true sign of impending failure. This was a small relief to the soldiers, chantry personnel, and servants that dwelled within. A drop of relief in an ocean of despair and hopeless danger. Even the most oblivious of observers would be able to see the fear and unease of all those within the fortress of Ostagar.
Elven servants scurried from one group of tents to the other, desperate to accomplish their given task lest they face the ire of their masters. The smell of Mabari war hounds filled the air to mingle with the stench of human sweat, fear, and waste. The preaching of the Revered mother echoed across the open areas between tents in an effort to raise the spirits of the tired and wounded soldiers, promising divine protection and support in the fight ahead of them. A cold, dark aura emanated from the closed off area not far from her platform as the volunteers from the Circle of magi delved into the fade trying to find some connection, some edge, over the dark horde gathering deep within the tree line of the Kocari Wilds, their movements constantly monitored by the hulking armored forms of the Chantry Templars. Shouts and ringing metal could be heard through the camp from men and women sparring in a desperate attempt to become better prepared for another night of fighting. Scouts constantly entered and exited through the southern gate of the fortress, their reports as grim as their dirty faces. More experienced officers gathered their assigned rookies around the fallen corpses of their enemies, trying to impart as much knowledge as possible in an effort to keep them alive. Young and frightened faces cringed in disgust as they gazed down the lipless visage of rotten brown and grey skin pulled tight over a bony face filled with jagged, razor sharp teeth. The fear on their faces grew more and more pronounced as they listened to the dangers of these creatures and their poison blood. The officers teaching them gestured constantly to the closed off area of camp that served as the infirmary, where the groans and cries of anguish could be heard as those unfortunate enough to know the fire of darkspawn blood first hand writhed in unimaginable agony.
The goings on within the camp was watched by a pair of impassive black eyes. The watcher, tucked away on what was once some kind of small balcony about fifteen feet above the ground, showed no acknowledgement of his precarious perch nor the fact that the tower where the outcropping was located was one of the smaller and more desolate towers in Ostagar. Hidden in the deepening shadows of the slowly setting sun, he felt his lip curl slightly in disgust at the smells wafting up to his abnormally sensitive nose. Graceful, dark eyebrows crinkled in tandem with his curling lip as he looked down on the people below him, very aware of the nervousness and fear that permeated the atmosphere. This was an army that was destined to fail. Exhausted, terrified, and ridiculously lacking in competently repaired equipment, many were already pushed beyond the breaking point. In fact there was already a man locked up in a large hanging cage to his left, stripped down to his smallclothes and left to rot until someone with any real level of command found the time to convict him of desertion. Even the proud Mabari in the kennel below the watcher's perch trudged about, some sick from the blood of their enemies and some despondent after the deaths of their bonded partners.
"Maker. If this pathetic excuse for an army survives tonight I'll eat my own scabbard."
The deep voice was slightly raspy with a lack of use as the man stood and confidently stepped to the edge of the outcropping and into the low light. Everything about the man screamed "strange", especially in Ferelden. A black leather tunic covered a slim waist and broad chest, overlaid with rows of dull black plates that glinted slightly with a metallic sheen. The britches, made up of similar leather as the tunic, fluttered very little in the breeze. Feet ensconced in dark leather boots were covered by shadows, similar plates hidden from view by the wash of darkness. Smooth pauldrons made of the same metal-like material as the plates on the rest of his body covered tanned shoulders. The lithely muscled arms flexed and relaxed in an effort to loosen them after the extended period of stillness as strong hands clenched and unclenched with restless energy, the left drooping to rest on the scaled hilt of the long, thin sword hung at the left hip .Fingers curled around the familiar texture before sliding up to idly stroke the silver representation of a dragon's head mid roar.
Urien Ahearn was a man that rarely associated with the general public. Years of solitary travel had bred a strict need for privacy that kept him away from potentially prying eyes on a constant basis. To find himself in the middle of such a crowded location was quite grating on his nerves, but a deal was a deal. If nothing else, Urien was man of his word, and that meant he would stay at Ostagar until he wasn't needed anymore. Honor could only take a man so far, though, and he never said he would be happy or content with the situation.
"Still not sure how Duncan managed to convince me to join the wardens. Then again, I thought that the proper measures were being taken to end the blight. He could have mentioned how stupidly naive Cailen is."
Standing there, Urien idly rubbed his armored abdomen over the roughly healed wound a Templar blade had caused not a week and a half ago. He'd been passing just south of the small village of Lothering on his way west to the Frostback Mountains and the Ferelden border. He'd be moving constantly for eight days, desperate to get though the dog-smelling country as quick as possible to avoid the blight. If he'd been aware of the darkspawn gathering before entering ferelden, he would have found a different route. Either that or he would have just stayed in Orlais until the danger passed. Being a solitary recluse had some severe disadvantages however. His avoidance of any populated areas prevented him from hearing of the blight until doubling back would take longer than continuing on. His haste alongside with the exhaustion typical with long bouts of travel with little to no rest had left him reckless and non-observant. The result of this was to allow a rather desperate wolf to catch him by surprise. A blast of magical lightning had driven off the hungry beast but had caught the attention of a group of Templars on their way to Lothering from Ostagar.
-ooo00Flashback00oo—
The sounds of the heavily armored Templars behind drove Urien faster and faster through the thick underbrush on the northern outskirts of the Kocari Wilds. He'd be swearing aloud to himself if he actually had the energy to do anything other than run and pant. To think that he was in this predicament because of some ragged wolf and an instinctual burst of magic. What would the odds be that he would be in full view of Bloody Templars at that very moment? Seriously, Ferelden Templars were too damn good sometimes, which is why he tended to stay out of the country.
'It figures the first time in years I decide to cut through I manage to alert the only Templars in the area to the fact that I'm a mage. Damn Bloody wolf.'
Urien decided to cut off any further self-deprecation as a particularly persistent tangle of roots snagged his foot and brought him crashing to the ground and tumbling out into a clearing, bringing stars to his eyes as his head collided with a mossy stone. Groaning, he slowly stumbled to his feet with his hand pressed to the gash in his forehead in an effort to stem the blood flowing out of the fresh wound. The situation had gone from bad to worse and he knew it. He was already exhausted and wounded, and now he couldn't even think straight. Ever aware of the constantly growing sound of his pursuers, he closed his eyes and tried to fight through his dizziness in an effort to channel some healing energy into the ragged wound on his head.
"There you are…" panted a muffled voice behind him as the crunching underbrush slowed and quieted. Urien didn't even bother opening his eyes to watch the six armored knights exit the tree line and slowly begin to circle him. One pair of metal-clad feet cautiously approached where he was slumped on his knees and Urien couldn't help but open his eyes and sneer up at the Templar, ignoring the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him. Projecting more threat than he could actually present, he slowly made his way to his feet as gracefully as possible. A fresh surge of exhaustion encompassed his body as a layer of magic suppressing wards fell over the clearing.
"You've led us on quite the merry chase, mage." The apparent leader of the group took a step closer, obviously not buying Urien's façade of strength, his sword slowly drawing as he advanced. Urien's sneer only grew more pronounced as the cold steel was pointed at him from only a few feet away.
"I do my best, Templar. I hope you were entertained."
"Oh yes… It has been quite some time since we've come across such a spirited apostate. To think that we wouldn't even have known you were there had you not let that blast loose just breaks my heart."
"Oh, believe me. I'm quite ashamed of my lack of subtlety. I've been traveling quite far at a persistent pace since I entered Ferelden. I'm afraid that such an unforgiving journey left me rather unaware of my surroundings. Had I paid more attention, then that wolf would not have caught me off guard and you would have never been alerted. Where you are happy with this turn of events, I hope you forgive my lack of enthusiasm."
"I can just imagine your 'lack of enthusiasm'. However, it seems that you've reached the end of your rope, so to speak. You've nowhere else to go, now. No means of escape." The molasses-thick smugness in the Templar's tone was sickening. The more he spoke, the more Urien wanted nothing more than to silence him.
"Not necessarily…" The waning defiance in Urien's voice was punctuated by the long hiss of a drawing sword. A black blade glinted in the setting sun as his sword cleared the sheath and came to a rest along his right leg, the tip casually pointed to the ground. Around him, the Templars tensed in preparation. All except for the leader, who let loose a deep reverberating laugh.
"Come now, mage. Do you honestly believe you can take all of us in your condition? Don't get me wrong, it's been quite a while since I had the opportunity to rightfully skewer one of you, but even you must realize how hopeless fighting us is."
"Hollfoerd, stop toying with him and disarm him. We're expected in Lothering tomorrow. We don't have time for you to indulge in your sadistic tendencies."
The Templar, Hollfoerd, scoffed in the direction of the speaker without taking his eyes off of Urien. After a second's pause, the longsword thrust sharply at Urien's lightly armored chest. Victory shined in greedy eyes when no move was made to dodge, but it was replaced by shock when the sword was almost casually deflected to the side. Urien smirked to cover the fresh surge of dizziness as he lashed out with a foot and caught the overzealous Templar in the knee. Hollfoerd screamed in pain as cartelidge and tendons tore, sending him sprawling to the ground. He Barely had time to howl in pain before the tip of the ebony blade gently came to rest on the eye slit of the Templar's helm. Fear gripped him as he looked up at the mage with his unhindered eye.
"You Templars…" Urien gave a pitying shake of his head as he glanced around at the others. "You are so used to the pathetic mages of this country. Those that allow themselves to be caged like criminals. Regardless of how unjustly they are treated and locked away, they are still cared for. They are fed. They don't have to truly fight to survive. I am different. I want nothing to do with your chantry. I want nothing to do with your country. I refuse to let you take me to some gilded cage when all I want is to pass through Ferelden and go about my way in peace. You'll probably be able to overwhelm me in my current state, but I swear to you that it will not come easy. When I die, and do not believe that there is any other way that I'll fall, it will not be without taking as many of you with me as I can. All you have to do to avoid losing comrades is to turn away and leave me be. I swear on my life that all I will do is rest and then make for the border. I do not wish to kill any of you, but do not doubt that I will if you attack. Make your choice now."
After his speech, Urien stared at the Templars. After a minute of relative silence, barring Hollfoerd's slightly labored breathing, he slowly pulled is sword away and stepped back. He met each pair of eyes in turn, attempting to judge the intent in each. He saw respect and awe in a few eyes, as well as anger in a couple others. When five minutes had passed, he saw acceptance of his words and carefully turned to leave. Once his back was turned, Hollfoerd leapt forward with an unforeseen burst of energy and called out to his comrades.
"ATTACK! This filthy mage shall not be allowed to live!"
The enraged Templar barreled forward, apparently numb to his disabled knee. His charge was clumsy, limited by the injury, but all that mattered to the man was shoving his sword through the impertinent mage's heart. Pure, unadulterated hatred all but glowed in his eyes as his blade closed in on the black clad back in his sights. He didn't care whether or not this strike was justified. He didn't care whether or not his comrades were following his lead. All that mattered was the mage's death. Every single foot that disappeared under his rush was a victory to his eyes.
Those same eyes only had a split second to see Urien spin to deflect the incoming sword and, using the momentum built from the spin, bring his black blade in a perfect arc to hit the gap between the steel helmet and pauldrons. The cut was so smooth that Hollfoerd barely registered the sensation as the thin metal cleaved through the flesh and bone of his neck. His vision quickly blackening, Hollfoerd had just enough time to see the mage complete his move with his sword stuck out perfectly perpendicular to his body before his brain shut down.
The other Templars could only watch on as their comrade's body tumbled to the ground mid-stride, his head soaring a couple feet before hitting the ground and rolling even further before stopping, the obviously dead eyes now staring into the sky. The shocked gazes shifted to the mage whose sword arm was slowly lowering back to his side as he watched for their reactions. It took merely a moment before the ringing of drawing weapons filled the clearing and the Templars began to close in on Urien. His shoulders slumped in defeat before tensing, his sword rising into a defensive position.
The first strike came from directly behind him via the heavy downward slash of a two-handed great sword. Urien spun around the powerful swing, ducking under the horizontal arc of a sword from the side, before catching a full blow from the second attacker's shield. He stumbled, barely managing to deflect a sharp thrust from a dagger, but not escaping unscathed as the steel sliced through the light leather of his tunic and bit deeply into his stomach. The black blade flowed from the clumsy block into an unmerciful thrust directly behind him and into the chest of his original attacker who had recovered and closed in for another strike, the strange blade piercing the plate and underlying chain with deceptive ease. As the Templar fell, the blood filling his lungs drowning him, Urien lunged forward to clash with the blade of another. Sword met sword as the Templar desperately tried to break though the mage's defense, the ringing of metal filling the clearing. The two dueled mercilessly until the edge of a battle axe cleaved the air between them, barely missing both men. Urien reeled back, his dark eyes switching from opponent to opponent, before seizing on the opening provide by the axe wielder's intervention and slinging his blade in an arc that carried the point through the throat of the Templar he'd been fighting. His foot planted itself on the handle of the axe, half of whose blade was buried in the dirt, and a metal clad fist rammed into the featureless face plate. The force and resulting dent forced the Templar to release his weapon and sent him sprawling to his back.
With three of their number dead and another staggered beyond immediate recovery the Templars that were still standing ceased their attack and stepped back, though no weapons lowered from ready positions. Their eyes were locked on Urien, who still had his foot resting on the buried axe's handle. They noticed that, though his impassive façade remained, his chest was rising and falling rapidly and a tiny tremor could be seen passing through his body. Along with obvious exhaustion, His free hand was clutched tightly to his abdomen in an ultimately futile attempt to stem the heavy blood flow from the wound. He was still very dangerous, but anyone could see that he was weakening at an extreme rate. A silent acceptance passed between all the remaining combatants. The next attack would end the fight, but not without death on both sides. A soft breeze carried a small group of fallen leaves through the clearing, carefree in the deceptive calm that had descended.
A calm that exploded with the first twitch from one of the Templars drove the rest into action. Metal boots crushed the delicate blades of grass underneath as they charged toward their lone opponent, who drew a deep resigned breath as he brought his sword back into a ready position. Time seemed to slow in every combatant's perception as the space separating Templar from mage dwindled at a sharp rate.
"Enough!" the voice was filled with so much authority that the single word alone was able to stop both sides dead in their tracks. All eyes shifted to the edge of the clearing, where a new person stood with arms crossed over his chest. The man looked to be older that any of the others, easily into his forties or fifties, with slightly graying black hair pulled back into a loose tail behind his head. A strong jaw was clenched in some unknown emotion even though, behind the medium thick facial hair, a small smirk was pulling at the side of his mouth. His broad shoulders were covered by engraved metal that shined with a silvery sheen and the hilts of a dagger and a long sword were visible on either side of his head.
"Who are you and on what authority do you intrude into a Templar's duty?" asked one of the remaining soldiers, not once lowering his weapon from a ready position. Urien couldn't help but scoff lightly at the arrogance in his opponent's voice, though he immediately regretted it when the action brought another wave of nausea and dizziness so strong that he stumbled forward and fell to one knee, the tip of his sword digging into dirt beneath him in an effort to stabilize himself. The fall managed to regain everyone's attention and one of the Templars made to finish the mage off when the bearded man spoke again.
"Stop where you are, Templar. That man is now under my protection and you will not harm him any further. You ask under what authority do I act? I act under the authority of the grey Wardens of Ferelden." A gasp of realization came from one of the steel helmets, the eyes inside widening as their owner recognized the man stood in front of them. The others turned to the woman, silently questioning their comrade.
"You are Duncan, commander of the Grey wardens."
"I am indeed. Now, as I said, this man is under my protection. I suggest that you decide what you will do with your fallen comrades and then go about your way." Duncan's order was met with an enraged sound as the Templar that had first spoken stomped toward him with his sword lowered, but still gripped tightly in his gauntleted fist.
"I don't care who you are! This mage is guilty of being an apostate, of resisting and attempting to evade Templars of the chantry, and murder of those same Templars! Such crimes can NOT go unpunished. I have lost friends today thanks to him and I will see justice for their deaths!"
"I am sorry for your loss. I truly am. However, this young man has demonstrated abilities that the wardens desperately need in these trying times. With that in mind, I invoke the rite of conscription, and I bring him into the folds of my order."
"The duties of a Templar…"
"Are second only to the duties of a grey warden during a blight!" the calm and understanding façade was dropped, leaving the powerful commander of the grey to take its place. Duncan stepped forward right into the Templars personal space. Dark eyes stared through the heavy helmet, daring the Templar to try and refuse him. A tense silence followed before the Templar finally slumped in defeat and stepped back. Duncan gave a soft smile before he relaxed and stepped away to face Urien. He took a few steps in the quickly paling man's direction before turning his head and shooting another glance at the Templars. "I thank you for your cooperation. We will leave you to deal with your fallen."
With that, he reached Urien and gently helped the bleeding man to his feet. Taking the sword from his shaking hand, Duncan carefully swung the arm not holding his wounded stomach across his shoulders and led him from the clearing to the angry grumblings of the knights behind them.
-ooo00End Flashback00oo—
Duncan had helped him limp to a nearby creek, where the warden aided him in stopping his blood loss and cleaning the dried blood from his torso. Once that was done, he had wrapped a bandage soaked with a healing poultice around his stomach and laid the weak mage down to allow him to rest. Two days later, Urien had awoken to a merrily crackling fire and the smell of slowly roasting meat that made his aching stomach remind him that he hadn't eaten for maker knows how long. With a full belly, Urien had managed to regain enough energy to cast a strong healing spell over himself and was instantly rewarded with a sharper mind and fewer aches. He idly rubbed his repaired tunic over the scar that had been formed from his deep wound. Unfortunately, by the time he had finally been able to heal himself, the wound had already reached a point where a scar was unpreventable.
Duncan and he had sat and talked for hours, the warden trying to convince him to obey the rite of conscription. The conversation had grown heated at times as Urien had steadfastly refused again and again, saying that he was not a ferelden citizen and, even if he were, could care less what laws had been invoked over the years. Duncan however was determined to conscript the mage. He tried every trick he could think of, from appealing to the man's honor to outright threatening him but nothing worked until he finally pointed out the logic of the situation. He calmly stated that, should the blight not be stopped in Ferelden, it would spread throughout Thedas and beyond. The tide of darkspawn would be bolstered by the fallen of the country, possibly so much that no one would be able to stop them.
Honestly, Urien had thought it was a rather weak argument. Even with the astounding numbers, he doubted that the rest of Thedas combined would not provide an adequate match for the horde. That is, of course, if they could actually work together. That thought had given him pause. The very idea that Tevinter Magisters would ally with the Qunari of Seheron was laughable at best and downright insane at worst. Thinking further had brought him to the conclusion that even if he did ignore Ferelden's problem now and went along his way, there was a disturbingly high chance that it would become his problem later where ever he went. And a much larger problem at that. It hadn't taken much more time for him to conclude that helping now was the much better choice. With that in mind, he had agreed to accompany Duncan to Ostagar with the stipulation that once the blight was stopped, assuming he managed to survive of course, he would be free to go along his way. Then after arriving at the stronghold, Duncan had immediately turned and left. When Urien had asked after him, all he received was that there was another promising recruit to the north in Highever.
Now here he was, standing above this pathetic excuse for an army, led by a naïve king desperate for glory. If he had known then what he knew now, no argument of Duncan's would have been able to lure him to this predetermined failure. He didn't even try to hold in the disgusted scoff as a fresh wave of nausea-inducing stench wafted up from the ground level to fill his nose.
"Absolutely pathetic." The disgust in his voice seemed almost tangible. Just as he was about to jump down from his perch, movement to the north of the stronghold caught his attention. The silver sheen of Duncan's armor was visible to Urien's sharp sight even in the muted light of the cloudy day. It was the muddy brown form walking beside the commander, along with the cheerful prancing of the mabari hound beside it, that really drew his attention. Though he couldn't see the face quite clearly, the feminine form topped by vibrant red hair stood out quite clearly. A derisive chuckle escaped his mouth as he took in the slumped posture and aura of depression so palpable he could sense it from his spot.
"Maker, Duncan. You sure know how to make a man feel confident."
A/N: And there you have it. I hope you enjoyed it and that my writing has improved as much as I think it has. Little warning, though. Do not expect frequent updates. I will be writing this when I have both opportunity and motivation. This will follow the overall plot of the game with a couple different aspects to suit Urien and his story. Until next time.