Halamshiral
Umbralis/Firstfall, 9:36 Dragon
The market square in Halamshiral was said to pale in comparison to Val Royeaux's Summer Bazaar, but it was large enough to accommodate dozens on a busy day.
There were far more people than just a few dozen, and they packed into the square with their spouses and children, dressed in their ratty cloaks and carrying their concealed blades. Nyssa had never seen so many bare-faced elves in one place, and the sight stirred her.
"The humans restrict access to our own market in favour of foreign merchants!"
An elven man stood on an upturned crate under the branches of the vhenadahl, shouting with his arms raised. Whenever he paused for breath there was an answering shout of agreement, accompanied by a resentful buzz like an angry hive of bees.
"Good Orlesians left to rely on a pittance to feed our families! And for what? So Empress Celene can court Antiva over trade negotiations?"
Nyssa watched from within the crowd, her face hooded, and listened.
This city was more and less of what she'd imagined, even after learning of its significance at her Keeper's knee. There wasn't a Dalish child alive who didn't know of the Exalted Marches- how the humans forced thousands of elves to submit again to human rule. Even hundreds of years on elves still made up most of the population, and the city had been rebuilt around and over the ancient, crumbling walls and cobblestone streets. There were traces of the elvhen everywhere, ignored by downtrodden people who did not appreciate it and humans who scorned its significance.
She'd come to the city after leaving her clan, awed by its history and curious about the elves who lived in the shadows of such a legacy. So far it had disappointed. Instead of the rich history and kinship she'd hoped, all she found was poverty and indifference. Even the times she'd spoken in this same square had garnered little attention, besides the merchants who told her to stop putting off their customers.
The indifference, at least, ceased when the Empress 'made room' for a group of Antivan merchants in the market square. However small the human population in Halamshiral, they apparently required goods too fine for the elves to afford. With market space scarce, many farmers and tradesmen could not afford to sell their wares. The response had been swift and deafening, and impressed her with its ferocity. It seemed the old Dalish tales about the willing submission of city elves were wrong.
"What does Her Imperial Majesty care about us elves?" the speaker shouted, and there was an answering cry from the crowd. "She allows foreigners to set up their trades for humans in our market square, and she makes us pay for the privilege!"
"Injustice!" shouted another voice from the crowd; Nyssa couldn't see who had spoken. "We should reclaim the market!"
"With what?" said another voice. This time it was an older woman a mere two feet away, wearing braids of red streaked with silver. "Do you believe we all carry swords in our tunics?"
"Some of us do!"
"She's right!"
The murmurs grew louder, punctuated by arguing. Nyssa listened to the back and forth arguing with an impatient scowl.
"What is to be gained by constant arguments?" she said loudly, and a half-dozen heads turned to face her. "Sa'renan. Unite with one voice, and don't waste your time with petty complaints!"
"And who are you to be saying so?" the redheaded woman demanded. "I do not know you."
Nyssa pulled back her hood impatiently.
"None of you know me," she replied, and watched their eyes flick to her vallaslin. "But I am here regardless."
"It's the girl who's been preaching about shems in the square all last month," said a man on her right.
"Fine. Some of you know me. Are you going to waste time on semantics, or do you want to listen to what I have to say?"
After weeks of living in disguise among the city elves she'd heard it all on the Dalish. They were either violent beasts or figures of legend depending on who you asked, and she couldn't be sure of the reaction when she uncovered her face. But the elves around her did not react violently, as she'd feared.
"Are you here to help us, lethallin?" the older woman asked. The elven word sounded awkward on her tongue, but Nyssa resisted the urge to correct her.
"I will do what I can," she replied. "Sa'renan means one voice. One message delivered to the humans, strengthened by many voices uniting in opposition."
She looked at the faces around her, at their expressions of hope and wariness and curiosity. The speaker beckoned her forward, helping her onto the upturned crate to address the elves whose eyes now fixed upon her.
She was used to the attention of many within her clan; being a Keeper's First made it impossible to stay out of sight and mind. It was still nerve-wracking to speak to a crowd of strangers, especially city elves, but she held her hands up and tried to project her voice.
"Seven hundred and sixteen years," she began, and the crowd fell silent. "Seven hundred and sixteen years ago, this city fell to humans. Your ancestors agreed to human rule, and thus the privilege of human protection. The taxes you pay on your goods, your houses, your city should go to this purpose, but you are not held equal under the law."
"What do you know?" a young man shouted, his cheeks red from the day's sun. "You're Dalish! You don't live in this city!"
There was an answering protest from elsewhere in the crowd; cries of "He's right!" shouted down by "Let the girl speak!"
"I know this is your city!" Nyssa said. She copied the speaker's gesture, sweeping her arms to indicate the market square. "I've seen enough. You have hard lives. Some of you are beaten and brutalized by the humans meant to protect you. Some of you labour half the day for a handful of silvers, then return to your home heavy with exhaustion. The humans call you 'rabbit', like you are animals!"
An angry murmur rippled through the crowd, but no-one argued.
"You must remind the shemlen this city thrives because of you," Nyssa continued. "You are elvhen, and the ancient resilience of our people flows in the blood of even the smallest and weakest among you." She indicated a young boy with an upturned face, eyes bright as he listened. "Stand steady and strong, like the vhenadahl."
"Enough!"
The crowd parted like a wave, and before her stood a single human man wearing the dark red tunic of the Halamshiral city guard. The early morning sun glinted off the polished shield resting on his arm, and she noted the badge affixed to his pauldron. A guard-captain? They had seen fit to take this seriously, then.
"You are not permitted to gather in the square," the captain said. His cold blue eyes glared from behind the featureless white mask that covered his face from forehead to nose. "Leave, now."
There was an answering flutter of resentment, although one or two people began to back away, tugging their children along with them. More followed when four other guards appeared at the back of the crowd, arranging themselves in a line.
The elven man who spoke first crossed his arms and regarded the captain with a glint in his eye.
"We have a right to be heard," he said loudly, and the crowd rumbled in assent.
The captain strode through the parted crowd, ignoring the elves who fell back before him. He drew his blade, exposing the first few inches of steel.
"You have the right to nothing, rabbit," he said, mouth twisted into a frown. "I said, leave. You have been overruled."
Nyssa shared a glance with the elf. His shoulders drooped, and suddenly he looked weary.
"Are you truly going to submit again to this treatment?" she said incredulously.
The man looked at her, defeated. "What else can we do?"
"You can return to the hovel you crawled out of," the captain said, and took a few steps forward. "I will not warn you again!"
"He's afraid of you," Nyssa said, with a laugh. "That's why he threatens you."
The captain lunged forward and kicked the crate from under her feet with a curse. She fell hard onto the cobblestones, gasping as pain shot through her spine.
The silence that followed hung thick in the air, weighted heavy with anger and astonishment.
Nyssa climbed to her feet slowly, her hands shaking from the adrenaline that flooded her body. Almost unconsciously her fingers curled around the dagger she concealed in her belt, flush against the small of her back.
One human in front of her, four others surrounding the crowd. All armed and armoured. Would they use the blades against those caught in the crossfire? A possibility. Could she use magic? Not unless she wanted to be hunted by the templars.
The captain must have seen the dangerous look in her eyes, for he drew his sword in full and pressed the blade against her right cheek.
"I dare you to try, knife-ear," he said softly, menacingly. "Give me a reason to put you down right here."
Her whole life until that moment, she'd believed the phrase 'blood boiling rage' to be an exaggeration.
Then darkness descended upon the market square.
Clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the sun and deepening the shadows thrown by the vhenadahl.
The captain's hand twitched. The blade came away bloody, her cheek stinging, and the murmurs of the crowd turned into cries of alarm. Nyssa felt it then too: a tug like a ribbon being pulled taut from her chest. The unmistakeable pull of the Veil reshaping around her; invisible, but tangible.
The fog rose around her in swirls, she felt a hand clamp down on her arm, and the square disappeared around her.
