Just a one-shot that I thought I'd put up; I came up with this yesterday during a slow period at work, wrote it down on the train home and finished it by the time I got indoors. The idea behind this has always been one that intrigued me about the Dragon Age universe; a miniscule mention in game of an event that really set everything in motion (as well as a desire to write more about the darkspawn as they appeared at their finest in Origins), so this is my take on it. Hope you enoy it and let me know what you think.
'Atrast nal tunsha-May you always find your way in the dark'.
And above all else, enjoy!
The ogre smashes down the wall leading into the sealed cavern and then there is nothing between us and our prize. I hiss at the ogre and the other darkspawn that had been excavating in this part of the Deep Roads to stay back. A combination of the shared taint in our veins and their innate fear of me made it easy enough to take control of the situation when I learned how close their digging had brought them to what I sought, but I don't want them anywhere near me or inside the cave while I work; it is all too likely that their awe of what lies within will triumph over their loathing of me, and if their touch should contaminate my prize before I complete my work…
"Slay any who attempt to follow us" I command the ten Disciples that have accompanied us here. The awakened nod curtly and draw their swords, forming a semi-circle around the opening into the cavern as I step through with Utha trailing in my wake, carrying a hessian bag containing the tools I need for the task ahead. The unawakened snarl and growl angrily at the Disciples, gnashing their teeth and rattling their weapons in a menacing fashion, despising them as they do me as something familiar and yet so intrinsically different to them, and I hasten my steps, eager to finish before their desire for what's just tantalisingly out of reach to the horde overcomes their distaste and unwillingness to cross me. If all goes well, then with this act, the shackles of that compulsion will be loosened, and their fear and loathing of us diminished in its wake.
We hear our quarry long before we see it; a low, rumbling growl like a forge's bellow rising and falling repeatedly, the breathing of a living being deep in slumber. A strong animal musk pervades the chamber, accompanied by the acrid tang of sulphur and carrion. Blue-hued fire kindles to life in my clawed fingers, and as the crackling flames illuminate the high-ceilinged cavern, we see it. For an instant, I can almost understand why my brethren revere the Old Gods so; in its slumber, the dragon in its untouched form is magnificent, a living edifice to raw, untempered power. Its scaly hide, though chalky-white from millennia of confinement devoid of sunlight and all but the most meagre trickles of water and air, looks hard as armour, the long-fingered forelimbs tipped by talons the length of short swords constantly flexing open and closed in its endless dreaming, hot rasping breaths escaping from the interlocking rows of serrated dagger teeth in the Old God's jaws. I nod to Utha, who passes the bag to me and then takes her own position. From the little they can see of us, the rasp of steel as she draws her sword draws howls of protest from the darkspawn outside; they start pushing against the Disciples, but the awakened push back with shields and the flats of sword blades and the mob seem reluctant to try them…for now. I motion for Utha to make haste and she takes up her post by the Old God's skull, ready to drive her sword into the dragon's brain if necessary. I am loath to order it, for if she does so, I will lose an invaluable ally in my endeavours, but if this goes wrong, I would rather have Utha die fulfilling her old Order's mandate than unleash what I fear could be potentially created by my work.
I open the bag and retrieve its contents; a small glass vial full almost to the brim with blood, a dark tint to the vital fluid, black swirls writhing and twisting within the scarlet, and a silverite dagger, taken from the body of the Grey Warden whose blood I now hold. The elf had been on his Calling in the Deep Roads, and while I was unable to reach him and intervene before the darkspawn killed him, his body was still warm when I reach it, his blood still fresh enough for me draw what I needed for this task. Holding the vial between the needle-like fangs I have for teeth, I hold up the dagger in my right hand and with my left, conjure fire. The dagger remains in the flames until the blade glows white-hot, the heat burning away any traces of the taint that might have clung to the dagger from its last owner's final battle. The wailing of the darkspawn outside is growing more insistent and chancing a look over my shoulder, I can see my Disciples are being hard pressed to keep them back- as I watch, a hurlock staggers back clutching a deep slash on its arm, and several others seem to have suffered similar- and I race over to the sleeping Old God, eager to complete my task before the horde's revulsion of us is overcome by their desire to see and claim the creature for themselves.
Motioning for Utha to stand ready, I raise the glowing dagger and approach the left forelimb, the nearest to me and as the taloned fingers flex open dreamily again, I make a careful incision, no longer than a finger, in the centre of the hand's palm. Urthemiel growls softly in its endless slumber, but to my relief, the dragon does not waken; if it had, I suspect the hand I have just injured would seize and snap me in half like a spar of rotten wood in the blink of an eye.
Removing the vial from between my teeth and unscrewing the cap, I pull the edges of the incision apart and pour the Warden's blood into the sleeping Old God's veins, stepping back to wait for confirmation, anything that suggests I have succeeded. Save for the Old God's breathing, there is no other noise; the darkspawn outside the chamber have fallen silent, both afraid and yet perhaps also as anticipatory as I am, as eager to see what will happen.
Then the truth of matters unfold, and I realise things have gone badly wrong.
Urthemiel's breathing suddenly becomes laboured and rasping; hasty, choking gasps as if the dragon cannot draw air into its lungs fast enough. Its limbs begin to go into spasms, fore and hind limbs kicking out wildly, spiked tail thrashing about frenziedly, smashing anything that they connect with. I glance about for an explanation and, to my horror, see what is going on; the wound into which I poured the blood has festered with horrifying rapidity, and spreading from it like lines of ink, threads of corruption are spreading out from the wound across the dragon's body with incredible swiftness, the rapidly spreading taint turning the milky-white scales the reddish black of an infected wound. Scales are falling away, revealing sores and lesions weeping tainted blood and pus-riddled filth and malformed spines of bone the length of broadswords are pushing out from the flesh of the creature's spine; the dragon's teeth are lengthening, becoming a jagged, asymmetrical lattice of fangs so malformed that as the dragon's jaws snap wildly at air in its thrashings, I see they can no longer close properly; the arrow-head shaped tip of the tail is mutating into a spike-encrusted club of bone that could do unfathomable damage to armour, flesh and bone if it impacts. Utha tries to make the killing blow to end this before it goes any further, but before she can, the dragon's thrashing knocks her aside, the long serpentine neck sweeping out and hitting her full in the chest as Urthemiel slowly, weakly staggers to its feet, clawing at its infected skin, more decaying scales sloughing off to reveal the tainted flesh beneath even as new ones, thick as plate armour, grow to take their place, the taint healing the body at the same time it corrupts it.
The scaly lids of the eyes finally open, and for an instant, they are the pristine red of freshly-cut cabochon rubies in a dwarven jeweller's hand, but then I watch as tendrils of the taint spread across the irises, and the blood-red hue lightens, becoming paler and paler until they are milky white, but though they seem to make the dragon seem as sightless as an old man afflicted by cataracts, when its head turns to find the source of its pain and my own gaze, albeit concealed by the bronze mask that hides my scarred visage, chances to meet those pallid, mad orbs, I have no doubt that the Old God can see me.
No, I think as I realise what I have done, what my meddling has created…exactly what I feared it might.
Not an Old God. No longer and never again an Old God.
An Archdemon.
Urthemiel throws back its head and lets loose a deafening roar of fury, hate and pain-induced madness that reverberates around the cavern and into the tunnels beyond. A pillar of dark fire escapes from the malformed jaws and Utha and I are forced to cover our ears as the echoes of the Archdemon's rage assault our senses. But as the roar begins to die away, other sounds replace it- desperate, wailing howls and ululating cries of praise- and I whirl round to see utter pandemonium engulf the entrance.
The darkspawn outside, realising what has happened, let loose cries of joy and longing, pushing hard against the Disciples to reach the newborn Archdemon, having abandoned restraint and fear to the winds in desperation to see what their kind sees as the embodiment of perfection, the living manifestation of the beautiful song that has called to them since they crawled from the mire. The Archdemon's presence is too much for the horde to contain itself or for my followers to hold against, and soon enough, that is proven; a sharlock, shoved back by one of the Disciples, lets loose a shriek of denied rage and lunges at the one who struck it. The Disciple goes down with a pained cry as the sharlock's long fingers scratch at its eyes; both darkspawn fall to the floor and the shriek plunges its long talons repeatedly into the Disciple's chest. A second Disciple hacks the sharlock down, only to then die as a pair of hurlocks strike back, one burying its sword in the Disciple's gut, the other smashing a crude hatchet into the juncture between neck and shoulder again and again until its victim is all but decapitated. The hatchet wielding hurlock perishes when a third Disciple's scimitar cleaves its head in twain, but its killer is hamstrung and dragged down by a mob of hollering genlocks, who proceed to beat the Disciple to death with clubs, maces and the kicks and blows of gauntleted hands and hobnail boots. A hurlock alpha charges forward at the remainder of the Disciples, roaring in fury and desperation; they scatter before its advance and the dam is broken- with their line shattered, the darkspawn pour into the cavern, eager to worship and give praise to their new master.
Hurlocks and genlocks hoot and howl, beating weapons against shields and slamming fists against breastplates in praise; sharlocks scream their keening war cries to the roof of the chamber, and I can make out the horned helmets and the headcrests of alphas and emissaries as they push through the ranks of the horde to bow down and genuflect at the Archdemon's feet. Urthemiel growls in a tone that I can only identify as pleasure, delighted by the displays of obeisance…until its baleful gaze falls on my party, and a deep, rumbling snarl of hatred escapes the parted fangs. The darkspawn in the room turn to follow the dragon's gaze, and while I do not share their connection through the taint to know what Urthemiel is whispering in their minds, I can all too well guess what it is demanding of them from their hostile body language and the fact some are getting back to their feet, hands clutching the hilts and hafts of swords and axes. As if to drive the point home, Urthemiel lets loose another howl of rage, and the two closest Disciples raise their hands in a futile gesture to protect themselves as the river of tainted fire that escapes the dragon's maw cooks them alive. Goaded into action by their master's example, the darkspawn of all forms begin to close in, eager to please the Archdemon, not wanting to taste the master's whip by hesitating, and while I know we can take many of them before we fall, ultimately their numbers will win out. The horde closes ranks, eager to make the kill.
Then the wall collapses as the ogre smashes its way into the chamber, even its primitive, animal brain wanting to see the apotheosis, the avatar of draconic glory that sits beyond. In the minds of the horde, Urthemiel is the embodiment of what those who dwell above consider him to be a god of; beauty. Beauty is intoxicating, and in thrall to it, I know the darkspawn will do anything Urthemiel commands, so eager to please, to make him happy…and I can easily what the Archdemon has in mind, because once it wakes, there is only one thing it will want, only one thing it can pursue.
Blight.
The confusion that reigns from the ogre's entrance give my party the opening we need; I hurl two fireballs at the advancing darkspawn to drive them back. A charging hurlock alpha runs at me, but its claymore rebounds off Utha's shield as she shoves me aside to put herself between me and the attacker. The alpha roars in anger at being thwarted, but a Disciple slashes their sword across the back of the alpha's legs, hamstringing it and Utha drives her sword into the gap between helmet and gorget as it falls forward. Between my spells and their swords, we cut a path back to the entrance of the cavern; a quintet of genlocks die as lightning from my hands spears through them and an emissary that hurls fire back at me loses its head to Utha's sword and then there is nothing between us and the exit.
I chance a look back as we flee the cavern, but nothing tries to stop us; the darkspawn in the cavern do not pursue, having already turned their attention back to the worship of their reptilian master, howling and gibbering in answer to the Archdemon's cries, like a crowd of devotees chanting in answer to a priest's sermon. Urthemiel has already lost interest in us and the darkspawn that push past us as we flee into the tunnels that lead back into the Deep Roads pay us no heed, more interested in answering the call of their new master than trying to stop the two tainted freaks heading in the opposite direction. With the surviving Disciples acting as the rear-guard, swords ready in case of trouble, Utha leads the way. I follow dumbly in her wake, cursing myself for having not anticipated this, considering plans that this unfortunate complication is going to necessitate the rearranging or even abandoning of, and ruefully repeating to myself what I should have done, what in hindsight might have been the more sensible course of action in pursuit of my goal.
"I should have killed it in its sleep…I should have killed it in its sleep…I should have killed it in its sleep…"