Title: Origins: Shadow of the Blight
Author: Syntyche
Rating: T, though some chapters will be stronger with appropriate warnings posted.
Archive: Ask me first, just so I know where it's going.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; I'm just playing.
Summary: An eclectic group is thrown together with the weight of saving Ferelden thrust upon their shoulders. But saving the world is one thing; everybody getting along? That's something else. AU, Alistair, Morrigan, all party members, major spoilers and backstories abound.
Author's note: I'm not gonna lie, I have no idea where this gargantuan plot bunny came from, but I think it has to do with Alistair's unholy love of cheese.
Character note: From the PCs I have chosen the human noble, rogue, with the preset Cousland name of Elissa. For reference sake, she's the first human female preset. I'm just lazy that way.
Reviews: Of course. If a story interests you, please let the author know you'd like them to keep writing it. It is important. We write for love of the story and its characters, but it's so, so encouraging to get a little love (or constructive criticism) back from the readers.
Finally, requests: Because Dragon Age is such a vast canvas to paint on, I will be accepting requests for this fic: scenes you'd like to see or dialogue you'd like to hear, and if I can work it into the storyline, I certainly will. Reader participation goes a long way toward enhancing a story, and sometimes there's a scene you might really want to see but aren't interested in writing it for yourself, such as: Alistair and Oghren come to blows over that giant cheese circle in front of Oghren's tent. Humor, drama, romance; as long as it fits, I'll write it in, just leave your request in a review or pm me.
And now, if there are any readers left after the massive intro info, on with the story…
Origins: Shadow of the Blight
By: Syntyche
Chapter One: When Death Sought Me
The King's boldly presumed victory was turning into a massacre.
Duncan hastily brushed a lock of grey-flecked hair back from his eyes, his stomach turning as he realized he was leaving a smear of darkspawn blood in the wake of his glove's pass across his forehead. The metallic-smelling stickiness nauseated him, but there was no time to clean it off – wave after wave of darkspawn rushed toward him and the other Grey Wardens nearby as they struggled to fend off the onslaught while protecting the King. Duncan shot a frantic glance upward, desperate now for the signal beacon to be lit that would call in Loghain's waiting reinforcements, but of yet no fire burned atop the Tower of Ishal.
They could not hold out much longer. Would today be his last to walk this earth?
There was still so much he had to do, and the thought of his young charge Alistair weighed heavily on his mind even as he brought his gore-soaked blade up for another pass through a slavering genlock as it approached him, bloodstained weapon brandished high. He worried not at all for Alistair's prowess in battle – the ex-Templar was quite skilled on that front, with rigorous Chantry training that matched some Grey Wardens' – but Duncan had only a few short months ago conscripted Alistair into the Wardens and there was much he had not yet told the other man – selfishly, and now to his shame; for how could Alistair not feel betrayed when he learned, as Duncan knew he would as the Blight grew, the most important reason for the Grey Wardens: the Sacrifice that must be made?
But Duncan had not told Alistair. Perhaps he had let his emotions get in the way, not wanting to shake so soon the young man's obvious gratitude at being pulled from his unhappy life in the Chantry. As a young initiate and later a Templar-in-training, Alistair had lived a life both sheltered and harsh: the legacy left him by his father, the late King Maric Theirin.
A hurlock's head tumbled to the ground at his feet, spewing filthy blood across his boots and Duncan realized his time was growing short – Alistair, please get to the beacon! Word had swept through the army that the Tower was full of darkspawn, and it filled Duncan with horror; thinking to keep his newest recruits away from the initial onslaught, he had agreed to Cailan's request to send Wardens to the Tower to ensure the signal fire was lit. Neither Alistair nor the young Cousland were happy about being tasked with a messenger's errand, but they had agreed reluctantly, setting off before the full brunt of the first assault was upon the armies. And now to hear that darkspawn swarmed the Tower? Had Duncan unwittingly sent them to their doom?
Relentlessly, Duncan continued his grisly slaughter of the never-ending darkspawn though his arms ached with weariness. Nearby he could see that even Cailan's golden shield was drooping and he spared a moment of saddened regret that the king's boyish enthusiasm had come to such a horrifying end.
Stab, slash, block, repeat… sweat stung his eyes but a welcome cheer reached his ears and he glanced up as flames atop the Tower of Ishal shot up in the night – somehow the two Wardens had managed to make it to the top of the Tower and Duncan smiled grimly; the reinforcements were sorely needed and he listened expectantly over the din for the battle call from Loghain's horns announcing the arrival of the Teryn's vast forces.
But the eager Grey Warden quickly learned it was not to be and no help was forthcoming. Teryn Loghain and his armies had quit the field, leaving those left to die horribly at the claws of the darkspawn.
A bright glint of armor in his peripheral vision and a vicious snarl and Duncan staggered around in time to see Cailan swept up into the fist of a huge ogre. There was a moment of stunned disbelief where time seemed to stand still, before the ogre's victorious howl rent the air as he tightened his grasp and blood from Cailan's crushed body splattered the field and those crowded nearby. Tossing the dead king aside like a child's doll, the massive, horned beast turned its attention to Duncan as the Warden stared in shocked incredulity.
"We've won three battles against these monsters already; tomorrow should be no different," Cailan had said. Acting on instinct, Duncan pulled his dagger from its sheath, balancing his longsword easily in his right hand. Launching himself at the ogre, he grimaced in satisfaction as the wickedly sharp blades sank deep into the ogre's thick flesh and he willed arms that no longer wanted to obey to bring him up, up … one of the ogre's flailing claws raked across his ribs and Duncan gasped, almost losing his grip but hanging on viciously as he pulled his dagger back for the kill, a hot spray of blood exploding into his face as he sliced the ogre's neck.
The ogre went down with a screech, tumbling to the slick grass and Duncan wearily pulled himself from the ogre's body, gritting his teeth and pressing an unsteady hand to his wounded flank. A sick unsteadiness passed over him as he clambered toward Cailan's body, collapsing beside the king and searching vainly in disbelief for any Grey Warden still standing amidst the waves of darkspawn.
Dead. They were all dead. Bodies of his comrades, his friends, the men he had shared drinks with yestereve littered the sodden grass around him surrounded by corpses of filthy darkspawn.
And there was no way even Alistair and Elissa could survive; they wouldn't get out of the infested Tower alive.
An axe swung toward him and Duncan realized that his Deep Roads had come. We have failed, he thought. We are doomed.
OoOoOoOoOo
Smoldering ruins lay below her: the wreckage of twisted tents, the brackish glint of dull copper blood running in rivers entwined with black blood of the darkspawn. It was a gory display to behold, unpleasant and sickening. Flemeth had lived a long, long time, and while the bloodstained battlefield was not a new sight, it was unnerving: her own existence was in jeopardy unless the Wardens survived, for even powerful Flemeth could not stand against the darkspawn and their archdemon alone.
The flaming beacon atop the Tower of Ishal caught her eye and Flemeth descended, sharp eyes greedily scanning for her prey. She landed easily atop the Tower, pleased the area was free of living darkspawn but knowing they would make their way through the Tower soon enough to search for any survivors to either feast upon or drag back underground, depending on their state. She needed to hurry.
She had been tracking the two Wardens since Morrigan had brought the small, bedraggled party of recruits back to her hut in the Kocari Wilds – had it been even a day before?
And do I believe…? Well, it seems I do…
The two other recruits in that small party had not survived the Warden's Joining ritual but that neither surprised nor concerned Flemeth, whose sole attention scoured the ravaged corpses and the still-dying, searching only for those she needed.
The girl she located easily, dark blonde hair dull against a halo of blood near the body of an ogre. She was still alive despite being riddled with barbed darkspawn arrows, chest rising and falling unsteadily. The ogre, however, had been relieved of his ties to this existence by a sword through the face.
A male body lay unmoving near the girl's and Flemeth's heart beat a sudden abrupt tattoo against her breast until a hasty closer inspection revealed the solemn robes designating the wearer as an "approved" mage. Flemeth sneered as she turned away, brushing off her disgust of Chantry-controlled magic-users. What was the point of using magic if you took no joy in it, nor used it to better your own situation? Flemeth herself knew better than most how well magic could serve one's needs, and those who were so weak as to submit to voluntary repression were beneath even the ancient Witch's vast contempt. And the so-called "Tranquil"… those were the abominations as far as Flemeth was concerned.
She turned away, her gaze darting across the other corpses, searching until … there he was: her sacrificial lamb if he survived the many trials before him. It was laughable, really, that this young, shy, utterly naïve ex-Templar would be the unwilling yet necessary instrument to Flemeth's ultimate success, and yet there it was – if, of course, he didn't bleed out atop this tower, which at this moment appeared very possible considering the multitude of stab wounds that had penetrated his tattered armor.
She knelt swiftly by the semi-conscious Warden, his head lolling into the softness of her chest as she pulled him towards herself to hastily survey the damage. A quiet moan wrapped in a sob stung her ears, and Flemeth busied herself quickly binding the young man's wounds enough that he would be fit to travel, feeling relief wash over the tense knots in her stomach that there was, at least, still hope.
"Hush, lad," she soothed, "Be still."
"I'm so sorry," he whimpered, glassy eyes struggling but ultimately failing to focus on the elder Witch's face, and she wondered in what dark vales his mind walked while his body lay slashed and dying atop this polluted Tower. She finished up quickly and settled him back upon the cold stone while she stooped near the girl, repeating the process of examination and binding, calming the Warden's tattered moans for release from the pain. Satisfied, Flemeth rose and considered her newest dilemma:
How best to get them home.
OoOoOoOoOo
And there's the intro; wordy, I know. lol.