Moribund Thedas
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Prologue
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Ellana never understood the shem ways. Her time in 'captivity' with them certainly did not make them any easier to understand. They complicated things with everything. To the type of metal they used for their eating utensils, to the type of fabric used for their clothes, even the meat they ate to survive. All and each had a meaning to the shems. A show of status.
And they were trying to conform her, a lowly Dalish elf, to their ways.
They stripped Ellana of her leathers, her weak looped amour; they removed her weapons carved from wood, bone and poorly welded iron. Each held a meaning to Ellana's life. They were her gifts from her clan, to her they meant something. But to the shems, it meant something as well.
Poor.
Decrepit.
Wild.
Inadequate.
Unacceptable.
And so, she was forced to wear, forced to carry, forced to embrace a life that was not, nor ever will be, hers.
The anger that stowed in Ellana's heart increased daily, with each change of clothes, with each new boots, shirts and leather bindings. They chaffed her, restricted her. She felt restrained, unable to bend down without her leather pants creaking; unable to reach out the with feeling of the cloth pulling her shoulders back.
They upgraded her weapons. Her daggers became more elaborate every time a richer noble came to Haven; finer leather wrapped around the grip, a gem crowned on top of the pommel, the scabbard more elaborate than the previous. The blade is heavier, her sweeps and strikes are weak, sloppy, sullied.
Her bow, made from a good Oak Palm, removed. She's given a new one. 'Sturdier' they said. The wood is stiff, she struggles with bow string, too taut in her opinion. She fails every shot.
But it looked good nestled on the back of their Herald of Andrastre. The daggers showed Inquisitions strength in arms. Her clothes displayed the Inquisitions wealth.
It all held a meaning to them.
They, the Inquisition, were gracious enough not trim nor style her hair. Her long black hair was braided from her right side, a long string of red spindleweed weaved in and out of her plait, starting at point centre of her hairline. An extra short length hung behind her left ear, the end hanging with the tip of her black hair. At the base of her crown the braid was dreaded; the tips were fine, delicate still, reaching past her knees. It showed her age within her clan. The heavy weight of her hair was wrapped around her shoulders, nestled in between her clans old yellowed shawl. The threaded spindleweed and the large shawls on their shoulders was a representation of her clan. The Clan Lavellan. But not to the shems, they don't know. All they saw was an animal. Feral and wild. So, they wrapped her hair in fabrics and strips of leather, to hide the disgraceful untamed braid. And by that they hid her from her own people.
June etched her golden face; black curved hooks shaped her cheeks and brows. The shems asked in fascination behind the meaning and they all but laughed; mocked her God that held no meaning to them. They left her face alone, reminding not only themselves but also to Ellana that she did not belong among them. These were not her people.
A Dalish elf was not suited for captivity and yet they held her with words and threats of death should she leave. The gaping magic wound in the palm of her left hand was a constant reminder of what she meant to every single Inquisition shem. She was the messenger, the Herald of Andrastre, the healer of the skies. She felt nothing of the sorts, but she understood the power she held over the shems. Should death come to her, it would tear asunder their Andrastre and their Maker, and Ellana relished in that thought.
She hated them! Hated them for the propriety, hated them for their arrogance, hated them for her captivity.
She wanted to be free to roam the forests, the plains, the beaches. To roam and scout far and wide, to search for food and threats, while the Halla chose their routes, from Rivain to the Free Marches.
Being Dalish meant freedom. 'Never again shall we submit.'
And on that fateful day, when she crossed the drawbridge and through the portcullis of Redcliffe castle, that she would come to terms with the power she held, and the freedom she so dearly desired.
When her freedom finally came, it flooded her in waves of red.
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No Beta
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Moribund—adjective
-in a dying state; near death.
-on the verge of extinction or termination.
-not progressing or advancing; stagnant.