Fixer-Upper
Summary: Ashy steam rises from the depths of Skyhold's waterfall. It's a wonder no one ever thought to investigate its source. Or: What do you do when you find a four ton, fire-breathing, flying lizard living quite comfortably under your recently renovated castle?
Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age.
Scratching, clawing; the uneven tap of something hard against a hollow surface.
The sound echoes dully in our ears, the liquid surrounding us churning as we move. It is dark here and uncomfortably tight. The sensation is an almost-pain. We don't like it, so we move again, appendages pressing back against the force encircling us. We are tired; tired of fighting against our cage, but instinct tells us that it is time.
'For what?' Something whispers, small and distant.
We don't know. And that bothers us the most.
So we keep struggling, pushing against the limits of our prison in search of the answer. There is a sharp crack and hardened calcium splits, sticky yellow-green fluid leaking out in a rush. Brilliant jade eyes flash as first one and then another eyelid open and close in an exhausted blink. An awkward, gawky form wriggles within the confines of a man-sized egg, the speckled shell creaking with the strain.
Then the dragonling takes its first breath.
We stumble, clawed hands scraping gracelessly against warm stone as we leave behind the jagged ruin of our egg. We arch our neck and extend our head, bright eyes sifting through the shadows of the dark cave. A keening warble leaves us as we cry out, waiting for the response we know must come.
'How?' The something questions, and again, we have no answer.
Neither do the empty passages the call echoes through, the sound desolate and thin.
We try again, forcing our voice to rumble from our chest. Then we wait, sensitive ears pricked attentively for the reply that never comes. Distressed, we crawl forward, the heavy limbs on our back dragging behind us like useless weights.
For a time, instinct battles against instinct, a gnawing, empty ache in our belly forcing us to forget the silent halls of our nest, the dead, brittle edges of the shells that we stumble through.
We hear a tap tap tapping, like our claws against our egg, but different, and our body moves close to the ground at the strange clicking noise that accompanies it.
Then there is a loud shrieking, one that hurts our sensitive ears and something falls.
We lash out at the darkness moving along the moist walls, the dripping ceiling, biting and clawing at the Things that hiss around us. Fangs flash and poison drips but our skin is strong and we are the hunters now, not the prey. Soon, our foes lie still and we feast, our scream of victory echoing around us. Only when the ache dulls and our belly brushes the ground in fatness do we remember our empty calls, bloody head lifting as we trill.
Minutes turn to hours as our continued pleading echo in the tunnels we slowly travel through, fighting and feeding when the ache becomes too great; tongue extended as we taste the scent trails left by others. The primal need to connect drives us out into the scorching sun, the brightness of it blinding us. It burns our unhardened scales, the dried birth-fluids flaking away with each movement. We hiss bitterly and slink back into the shadow of the caves, spent from our ordeal. Our maw snaps feebly at the light, hating it. We can smell the passage of our kind in the air, but it is weeks stale, perhaps years.
The dragonling's head rears back in a lonely, grief-stricken roar, screaming at a sky it's never seen, morning for the kin it would never have.
Then someone calls back.
The Dam is beautiful.
The sunlight glints off the pearly purple of her scales and the emerald green of her entourage, their voices filling the open mountain air. Her landing shakes the earth and her head rises high, graceful and majestic.
She is beautiful.
But she is not our Dam.
We cry out anyway, a weak warble that brings her face towards the cave as she listens. We drag ourselves free of the shadows, overly large wings spreading in defiance, demanding. And she listens, because we are of an Ancient Breed, the First and Greatest of our Kind and she had heard our Calls, heeding them.
We demand again and she releases a rumbling snort, keen eyes watching our awkward attempts at dominance. Then she snaps forward, mouth closing around our scruff as we yelp indignantly over empty air. She drops us at her feet, large maw nudging as she inspects us, lifting our wings curiously. We snap in outrage but she simply presses down with a front paw, tongue slipping out to catch our scent. She releases us with another snort, satisfied, and lets out a curt trill, wings billowing up behind her as she moves away.
Her drakes rush in from atop the rocks and boulders where they had been observing, sniffing and pushing and rubbing their scent onto us. And we preen in satisfaction, pleased by the acceptance. Our eyes catch on the Dam, watching as she lazily stretched herself in the sun.
'The Madam.' Something intones softly, amusedly.
And we agree.
The Drakes clear the tunnels for their mistress, teaching us how to hunt and prowl and stalk as they do. From one we learn how to find water, from another, how to sharpen our claws on the rock walls surrounding us.
They find the shrieking Things' nests and burn them with their fire. We try as well, but nothing rises from our empty belly. They find our nest next and crush the brittle old shells into soft sand.
Soon, new eggs will fill the empty spaces and the warm caverns will be a safe breeding ground for the Madam. We trill in excitement, but soon grow bored with the Drakes' single-minded preparations.
Days turn to months turn to years. Decades pass.
We grow in size, strength and cunning. Ever curious, we grow independent.
Then the humans come.
We know what humans are the same way that we know what spiders are: the Guardian at the Door.
In the days before the dragonling took its first flight and breathed its first flame, it wandered on four feet, inquisitive, curious, and hungry. Thus it found the strange temple, though at that time it did not think to call it that, and within the temple it found the Door and the Man. It, being a rather vicious, starving creature, immediately went about trying to eat said Man.
And failed. Repeatedly.
The Man rebuked it with sword and flame, shouting Things with a voice of thunder.
'Listen.' Something insisted, a longing fervency twisting in the Voice that had lingered with us since our hatching.
We paused out of harms reach, horned head tilting, a bobbing inquiry flowering from our throat. Our sudden inquisitiveness did not slow the Man from driving us out, but our persistence soon does.
He spoke to us, words in languages familiar and yet, not.
He spoke to us as if we were a beast; a clever bird, a muse.
'I am more!' The Voice shouts and we know it to be Truth.
We are not like the others. We remember. We understand. And we learn.
Our roar of fury bounces off the object of our anger, the cold stone blinking dully in the sunlight. We claw and strike and burn, but still, the archway is unchanged. Our wings droop, our shoulders hunch. Dejection curls petulant smoke from our nostrils. The Temple lies before us, a towering tomb, all its secrets and knowledge barred from us for one uncontrollable fault:
We have grown too large.
'Again.' Something demands, desperate.
Then a Thought, an image comes to our mind. It pulls and tugs, persuasive, urging.
Remain what you are, become what you are not.
We hiss, puzzled. Our claws kneed at the frozen soil, tail flexing against our seated haunches. We peer through the archway, remembering small forms on two legs.
Our eyes close, our blood boils.
'Try!' The Voice commands.
'Change!' We shriek along with the Voice, a power coursing through the air so thick we can taste it, like warm, coppery blood in our mouth.
We fall to our knees, wobbly and stumbling like a hatchling, naked to the harsh mountain air. Our life blood thrums with fiery heat, warding off the chill and something soft and feathery falls against our skin.
Eyes of jade open, a dragons' keen gaze from a mortal face.
The Guardian, a Thing of ash and shade, knows not what to do with us.
We have come again, to listen, to learn, but our form puzzles him. He knows us, and yet not, this woman-child clothed only in the dark curls that flow from her horned head, and eyes that speak of fire.
We are silent, without language with which to give voice, but, oh, how the sounds tingle on the edge of becoming words!
We are curious, questioning, inquisitive.
We smile, and sharp fangs flash in the torchlight.
We are fierce, resourceful, cunning.
We are Ancient and Noble, the Greatest of Dragons.
The humans have changed. Where once violent against us, now they prostate themselves before the Madam, singing supplications and offering gifts of fresh meat, still bleeding from the kill.
The Madam is pleased and her brood swells.
We are wary.
We hear what the Guardian calls them: heretics, fallen; a cult.
Somehow, they have twisted from their nature.
The Madam grows restless with our continued presence, instinct driving her to mark and stake claim. Soon we will be grown and she will force us out, no matter the Call of our ancient blood. We rarely linger near the place of our hatching, spitting flames of spite and snarling at the Madams foolishness.
'Death.' The Voice proclaims.
Sick in mind and soul, these humans bring ruin, screaming and howling at their heels.
The Madam hears it first.
It is a song of whispers, writhing in the deep dark. Diseased and festering, it sinks into the earth, the air, the water.
It is a Call. A Taint.
The Madam knows it from her own hatching and she fears.
Anxious, she screams to the surrounding countryside, summoning her harem, her clutch and youngsters. Even us, a ward near gone, she pulls close with leathery wings. She purrs and yips and growls, herding all, save us, decades too large, into the secure darkness of the nest, forbidding the restless from roaming.
To us she coons and hisses, rubbing her lavender snout against our amber scales in a way she has not done since we were small. We snort and hum, unnerved by the song and our Madams' keening.
The Voice is strangely silent, ever waiting, ever watchful.
This, more than all, warns of a danger we cannot name.
The months of the long year move at a crawl, the slow passage of time pushing ravaging hunger to feral savagery. We work unceasingly to feed the ever yawning mouths, the Madam enforcing the rowdy into slumber, the human supplicants pacifying the newborns with what game they can find.
Winter approaches.
And still the song sings.
Our limbs lay in a tangled sprawl over the stone work of the Temples floor, enjoying the rough sensation on our human skin. The Guardian stands nearby, a living statue, made of magic's and intent.
We roll languidly onto our side, humming in bliss.
How long had it been since we had taken this form?
We sigh, staring at the soft appendages called hands, curling and uncurling each digit.
It had been too many months of caring for an uncaring brood, of flying the frozen winds. But the song sings; its danger forever present. We are restless, the instinctive urge to find our own territory pricking and pulling; we would not have stayed if we had not been Asked, the Madams' worry igniting our own.
But not today. Today the Madam hunts. And we rest.
We roll again, lazily, the shift of our clothes following the movement.
The Guardian had commented, once, upon our nakedness; an odd thing, inconsequential. But we listened, as we sometimes do, and searched until we found bits and bobbles to cover ourselves, fallen scales and shed skin. We fashioned them carefully, slowly, and were pleased with our work despite their small discomfort.
We hear the feeding gong sound, followed by the horn, and our head twists up in a parity of movement. It is too early yet, and our tongue clicks in disapproval. The humans have been asking for much as of late, but with winters chill but days away, it is no wonder. The Madams' blood warms them, sealing their loyalty.
We huff, eyes half-lidded from our doze. The familiar beat of the Madams wings fills the silence, her answering roar echoing not long after.
The Guardian shifts once and speaks.
"They come."
Our body snaps forward into a crouch, bare feet sliding against the floor. Eyes wide, we blink at him, a question in our gaze, but his are locked in the distance. The air suddenly tastes of copper and iron.
'Run!' The Voice screams.
We are already moving when the Madam howls in rage, the anguished cry a call to arms. We smell brimstone and ash on the wind, the air vibrating like lightning before a storm. Shouts and battlecries echo off the snow covered mountains, magic heavies the air.
Our Thoughts are scattered, flighty things, the bitter tang of a High Dragons' terror distracting us from Calling forth the Change.
We burst free of the temple to the sound of a pained screech, smoke whipping into our eyes. Our lungs gulp for breath as we run, panic pushing our two legs faster. We pass beyond the canyon, eyes catching on flashing swords and scarlet blood.
Then our Madam falls.
Our legs stop without prompt, a wailing cry the first sound to cross our mortal lips. We see the human wrench his sword from her side, smell the blood dripping on their armor. It is hers and more. In the distance, we see still bodies, emerald scales glinting dully.
Like at our hatching, there is only silence in reply.
Our cheeks are wet and chilled when they finally see us, mouth open, arms limp. We can smell the Taint. And when our eyes meet the one with the bloodied sword, we know it is he. They turn as one, the issue of a command stirring us to action.
'Fly!' Something within shrieks and we flee towards the Temple.
There is a whistling behind us and then there is pain, bright and hot and horrible. We fall, hissing and feral, hands cupping our side and the shaft of wood that protrudes from it. We tear it from our flesh, even as heavy footsteps flit on the cold ground behind us, our blood boiling.
Our clouded mind clears; the air around us thrums.
Flesh and skin turn to hide and scale, talons digging into bedrock as we twist along the mountainside to meet our foes.
Their tiny faces pale at the sight of our glory, our magnificence.
And we roar as the Madam did, full of sound and fury.
Only the presence of the Old Blood stays our wrath, and with a parting snarl, we leap, choosing instead to fly north and then west, strong winds carrying us over the spiny back of the world. The air thins, cools; ice biting at our hide, no matter its thickness.
When we find it, it is a decrepit thing, crumbling to the frozen wastes beneath it. But there is warmth within the hewn rock, a heat that turns snow to water.
We seek it out, burrowing deep, a safe nest for our stinging wounds.
Then we sleep.
Bran Trevelyan, human apostate, supposed Herald of Andraste, and newly made Inquisitor, was, without a doubt, brooding.
He stood, arms crossed, on the far balcony of his freshly acquired quarters, glaring boldly out at the snow swept slopes of the surrounding mountain side.
He was hoping the light reflecting off the white wasteland would burn his eyes to gelatinous globs of goo, and then further penetrate his skull to reach his brain, thus searing the last few hours of mind-numbingly tedious squabbling from his memory.
But, alas, despite some flickering black spots and the beginnings of a raging headache, he seemed to be having no such luck.
The fortress, aptly dubbed 'Skyhold', was coming along quite nicely. If only the same could be said for the rest of the Inquisitions' relations.
He'd just returned from mucking it out in the Wraithmarshes, a place that was, unfortunately, also aptly named, to find his most trusted advisors in the throes of a stirring debate over trade routes, supplies and other such important going ons, if the volume of their discussion was anything to go by.
Of course, seeing how rude it would be to interrupt a conversation of such magnitude, he'd tried to slink quietly through the great hall towards his quarters. It was for the greater good that he not interrupt. After all, what does it matter if he'd only been dreaming a change of clothes, for, oh, ages, and would love to have a glorious reunion with his ridiculously comfortable feather bed? And if, Maker forbid, he got a bath, well, he couldn't bother them with something as mundane as that, could he?
It was, therefore, unbelievably crass of that damned dwarf to pointedly clear his throat and declare his return.
He'd then come to the starling realization that, apparently, his skills as a rogue were severely lacking.
How he and his party had gotten through the front gate, the courtyard and half the great hall without being hailed was doomed to remain a mystery, as not a moment after the smug dwarfs' announcement, he was promptly dragged into the War Room to referee, ehm, participate, in said discussion.
Hours later found him brooding at the countryside like a mutinous bear, short dark hair freezing into colored stalks of ice after his rushed bath and subsequent dawning of blessedly clean clothes.
Trouble was brewing, Templars and Mages hardly being the half of it.
His bed would have to wait, lovely sheets and all.