Author's notes:
This is a very alt universe take on the PC/console game Dragon Age. My husband had been playing and found a PDF for a tabletop version, so we fired it up. It is now our current favorite system.
I own nothing. I don't own the land, the kings, the other characters, even the OCs (except one that I take sole responsibility for.)
If there is something wrong, or some glaring error with grammar or plain common sense, kindly point it out. If it's about back story in the game/novels, eh, I don't care too much. It's AU, after all, people!
Did I mention that I don't own any of it? Because I don't, and I'm not making any money. I'm doing this for my own personal amusement and as a writing/storytelling exercise.
Chapter One
She ran. She ran with the kind of pumping adrenaline that only the deepest terror can give. Through the woods she ran, nimbly leaping over jutting roots and ducking under low branches, never, ever looking back.
It was a boon that she was fleet of foot. As a young girl, she had often participated in the festival footraces, often times besting boys older and stronger than herself, until she grew old enough that it was unseemly for her to join in the races. Then she took to ranging in the woods, hunting for herbs, bark and other consumables that the village needed.
Now, however, she ran away from the village, fear giving wings to her feet that she had never dreamed possible. She dared not stop.
To stop was to die.
Coreth picked nervously at the hems of her robes as she approached the offices of the First Enchanter. Such a new mage as herself was seldom summoned to the offices of the First Enchanter; either there was trouble in the air, or something good to report. Coreth strongly hoped for good. She gently tapped on the great carved oak door that she now stood before.
"Come in," a mellow voiced called out to her.
She quietly opened the door and stepped into the large, airy office. "First Enchanter, you called me and I am here. What would you have of me?" she asked politely.
The older man smiled kindly at her. "Ah, Coreth. I am so glad to see one of my newest mages. They tell me daily that you make leaps and bounds of progress. But I do mean to ask a boon of you."
She smiled at the old man who had been so kind to her. The Tower was Coreth's home, and the people that lived here, her family. "Only ask, First Enchanter, and I will try my best."
"You see how many fewer students come to the Tower every year. It saddens my heart, and worries it, also. Surely this means that there are Gifted out there, untaught and fumbling in the Fade. I ask you to travel south; there is a tribe of Dalish there, along with a few other small human hamlets. Perhaps you would have better luck with the Dalish, where we could not."
Coreth nodded. "I will go."
The First Enchanter walked over to some shelves, and drew out a map. He rolled it out on a table. "Here is where the Dalish camp is. You can easily ferry down the river a while, and then travel by foot the rest of the way." He reached over and picked up a small pouch on the table and handed it to Coreth. "Here is some silver for you. It's not much, but it will let you buy supplies and leave you some money should you need lodging for the night on your journey—as long as you don't try to buy a horse. Go and get your things packed. I'd like for you to leave first thing tomorrow morning."
Rissa had no idea how long she'd been running. It could have been just hours, but it seemed like days. She was exhausted, her legs felt like jelly, and each breath she gasped in felt like a stab to her chest, but she feared to stop and rest in the forest. Sleep held no comfort for her, only terrors.
Everything has been bad since mother died. If only I could have helped her, saved her. If only I hadn't brought the coughing sickness into the house. Tears picked her eyes and ran down her cheeks. I never wanted Karin's place in his heart, just my own. I never wanted to cause trouble! I just wanted to mostly be left along. If Ewan and his mates…
The events around Ewan played out in Rissa's mind again, and her subsequent expulsion from the town and condemnation as an abomination which led to her frenzied flight. Rissa wasn't paying attention to where she was running, didn't see a gnarled, jutting tree root and it caught her foot, sending her headlong into a large oak tree. She landed squarely on her shoulder, her ankle badly wrenched.
"Oh, Maker, why?" she miserably cried. Her pitiful sobs filled the woods, as she searched over and over in her mind some reason she was so cursed. Finally, she fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep, too tired and miserable to move.
Rissa carefully skulked amid the woods around her home. The overwhelming sense of being watched hung over her, making her constantly whip her head about. The woods were eerily quiet. The presence hung around her, beckoning her to come into the village, into the Chantry. No, no, no. I won't go to the Chantry. I know this, this is a trick. Rissa turned and began to run again. "No! No! I won't go!" Even among the silence of the woods, she swore that she could hear a snorting laughter behind her back.
Rissa's eyes flew open. Though the laughter had stopped, she still heard a low, snorting growl. She carefully turned her head to confirm her fear: she had fallen in a boar's favorite rooting spot under an oak tree; he was here now, and she was a threat, never mind that she was much smaller than he was. Just as she started to shift and hopefully get out of the way, the boar charged, his wicked tusk catching Rissa's outer left hip.
"Maker help me!" she cried, pushing her hands, palm out, towards the boar. Her eyes grew wide as the boar fell over, unmoving and eyes wild. She quickly drew out her small, sharp dagger and plunged it deep in the boar's eye, twisting it and drawing it out quickly, and then moving to plunge the dagger in the boar's throat and draw it across, killing it quickly.
Rissa dropped her dagger, trembling violently, and turned her attention toward her bloody, shredded leg. Maybe she wasn't as cursed as she had thought she was; fortune favored her, and she escaped home with a mostly full, well-made water skin. She carefully sluiced the deep wound, and bemoaned the lack of her grandmother's fine bone needles and linen thread.
Rissa looked back over at the dead boar, and then down at her hands. I knocked him down, just like I did Ewan and his friends. I've been one of the best healers in the village, setting bones and mending wounds cleanly that Nonna was sure would leave scars. Maybe, just maybe…
Bracing herself against the giant oak tree, Rissa pressed her palms against her thigh and carefully drew the ragged edges of the wound close together. "Oh, please Maker, please, help me, help me please, grant me this boon, I promise, I'll be good, so good," she murmured over and over. She felt a surge of warmth and then a flash of cold, and then she looked at her leg. She watched in amazement as the flesh seemed to knit itself back together. After the space of a few heartbeats, it stopped, leaving her a veined, raised scar, red around the edges, and very tender.
It was enough. She looked around and found a stout sapling and began to cut it loose so she would have a walking staff to lean on for the rest of her journey. She turned it over and quickly stripped off the small branches. In her urgency, she gashed deeply into her palm and started bleeding. She frowned and cut a strip of fabric and quickly bound up her hand, and then finished, more carefully, stripping off the small branches off her walking staff.
Having done that, she skinned off a piece of the boar's hide, and cut out some of the meat, wrapping it in the hide. Thus equipped, she began her trek north once more, hoping that the boar's carcass would distract nearby predators from her.
Matvey Chenerous leaned back against a wall while his father held open court. Anyone would come on those days and have a word with Arl Chenerous, ask for a boon or bring a grievance. The room had been full today, and Matvey was looking over all the people still waiting to speak to his father.
A young man came forward. "My lord, there has been a fight between the people Vintiver and the Dalish of a nearby settlement. It's nearing time for our Harvest Festival, and we'd like it very much if you could assist us in making…peace…with the nearby Dalish. We would hate for the festival to be stained by bloodshed. There's already been a bad fight between some of the Dalish caravan and some of the Vintiver boys. Please, send someone to procure the peace."
Arl Chenerous nodded slowly. "Matvey."
Matvey knew a summons when he heard one. He approached his father's great chair, and nodded his head. "Father."
"I would have you go to this Vintiver. I hold no quarrels with the Dalish, but I wish not for the peace of my people to be upset. Go there, find the root of the problem, and with my authority, given by right of the King, ensure peace before harvest is in earnest and preparations for winter begin." Arl Chenerous nodded as he held his son's eyes. The last of his offspring left at home, Matvey would do as his father bade him, yet Arl Chenerous knew that his son itched to be away from home. Perhaps this missive would do him good.
Matvey nodded gravely. "As you bid, father, I obey. I know where Vintiver is, and I will depart for it in the morning."
Arl Chenerous turned back to the man kneeling before him. "There. May it always be said that the Chenerous family responds to those that claim fealty with us. Turns towards home, man, and know that my son will come with all haste, and reckon out the problem between your people and the Dalish."
The man nodded. "Thank you, my lord." He stood and left the hall; he still had several hours of day light, and could begin his short journey home.
Matvey turned from his father. "I will go and prepare for my journey. Good day, father."
"Go, I still have things to do this afternoon. Tell your mother and she will help you prepare. Maker keep you, my son."
Author's notes (yes, again!)
Thank you for making it to the end of this first chapter! Hopefully you've enjoyed it. Please feel free to review and criticize constructively.
Matvey is the hardest one to write, and hopefully I will get "into the groove" with him as this work progresses.