Damn. I'm so sorry. I really should have put this in the first chapter since it fits so much better into the 1st one…In my defense I was writing the last few lines of the first chapter at about 2:30 in the morning and my eyes were growing heavy so you'll have to forgive me for a short chapter.
I hope you enjoy it, nonetheless!
Disclaimer:
The world of Dragon Age does not belong to me.
The Corrupted Magister
800 T.E.
Even after the Maker threw them out of the Fade, Thalsian could still feel his anger burning white-hot at the back of his head. It frightened him that this False God's emotion was more palpable to him than the voices of the Old Gods ever were. He could feel this anger pulsating within him, filling his body with a searing heat.
In fact, the Maker's hatred for Thalsian and the other magisters seemed more like a poison than an actual emotion for he could feel it running through his veins: disgust and anger running so deep that it was all the magister could do not to tear at his skin and rid himself of such black hatred. It felt as though his own blood had betrayed him by spreading such a corruption inside his body.
How ironic: for someone who uses blood as a source of power to be betrayed by it in the end. The meaning of this was not lost on him, no doubt the False God meant to teach him a lesson. Thalsian opened his mouth to laugh at his pathetic predicament. To his horror, the sound that escaped his lips was not the weak chuckle he had been expecting but a hoarse grunt, one that didn't sound…human.
It was the first time that Thalsian took a look at himself since he had been thrown out of the Fade. He had expected burns, his skin blackened and cracked due to the fire that the False God had summoned to consume him. But what he saw was much worse.
The magisters dark skin had become pale and mottled, resembling the skin color of a day-old corpse. Several blisters had erupted along his arm, some oozing crimson pus. Thalsian could feel bile rising in his throat.
What had happened to him? He let his hands travel to his face, terrified of what he might find there. He noticed that his fingers tapered into cruelly sharp fingernails and did his best to be gentle as he touched his face.
The skin he felt underneath his fingertips was as rough as leather and he could feel the occasional scar or bump on the landscape of his face.
All the while, he could feel the False God's anger thrumming in the back of his head. Now, more than ever, he was terrified for the magister knew that the False God had changed him into something…not human.
He reached for his magic reserves, the well inside him that never runs dry; his only friend. He could cast a spell, an illusion on himself to hide his form until he could figure out how to turn himself back into the proud magister he once was.
And like before, he found his magical reserves empty. Not just empty, it was as if the False God had reached inside him and ripped out every ounce of magic he had in him.
No…
Not this…Gods, no…Please, not his magic. Anything but that.
Desperately, he tried to reach for it again, trying to summon a simple wisp; a spell he cast a thousand times. Once summoned, the wisp would augment his powers greatly. Thalsian tried to chant the words that would create a small tear in the Veil that would allow a spirit to cross over into the world but found that his tongue could not form the words. It felt swollen and awkward inside his mouth, like it had forgotten how to speak. Oh GODS! If he could not chant, he would not be able to cast spells and if he could not cast spells then what was he but just another man?
Perhaps not even a man. Despair threatened to overwhelm him, rushing into him wave after dark wave until the magister feared that he might drown in it. He opened his mouth and screamed in terror and frustration. Hearing the inhuman sound that escaped him, the way it seemed more feral than human nearly drove him to his knees. Then he heard answering cries and he looked around him: amidst the corpses of the slaves he and his fellow magisters sacrificed, he could see a few magisters stirring. His breath caught in his throat. Every one of them looked exactly like him: coarse, pale skin, faces so disfigured they would have sent the bravest knight running, their hair having falling off to reveal a head riddled with scars and expressions of anguish as they realized that their magic had, for the first time in their long lives, refused to respond to their touch. Some of them, like Thalsian, had raised their heads and howled at the sky. Finding no solace in his magic, Thalsian instead reached for the Old Gods—surely they would not abandon him—seeking help, wanting to hear their voices comforting him, telling him that everything was going to be all right; that they would avenge themselves upon the False God for daring to lay a hand against him.
But instead of reassurances, he found so much more.
He found their song. In his head, he could hear them singing a terrible song of lament and loss. Of yearning, yearning to be freed from their cage deep beneath the earth, Thalsian had never heard anything more beautiful or heartbreaking in his whole life. His pain, his anguish was nothing nothing compared to what the Old Gods were feeling. The song burned away everything: his despair, his worries and even the False God's anger, all of them were washed away as the he listened to their song. Only one thing now filled Thalsian's mind: Whatever the cost, he must free them. The magister dropped to his knees and, not even bothering to look for a tool, dug at the earth with his bare hands. So obsessed was he on releasing the Old Gods that he did not even realize that most of the magisters had also fallen to their knees and clawed at the earth with the same desperation as he.
They dug. They labored. And they persevered.
They dug until their hands bled and cracked. They dug until the hole was so deep they could no longer see the light of the sun, for which they were grateful, for its rays had become painful to their eyes. They dug until some of them died from exhaustion.
They dug until they could not even remembered their names.
But then again, names weren't very important. At least, not anymore. All that mattered to them now was the song of the Old Gods and a deep, burning desire to set them free.
They dug until they found Him.
The one that they called Dumat. And when they approached him, when they broke his chains so that he could be free, their blackness bled into Him. It was their blackness that turned His beautiful black scales into the same color as their own tainted blood, that made His great leathery wings crack and tear as He tried to spread them. And when Dumat opened his eyes, he was no longer Dumat the Old God. Instead, he was Dumat the Archdemon. Dumat's head buzzed with the voices of the magisters—if they could even be called that anymore—as each of them begged him to lead them. Dumat let out a roar, one that was not unlike the 'magisters' shrieks during the first day they had been cast out of the Fade. He had been set free by them, His faithful servants, they who had toiled tirelessly until His chains were broken. They were more than just servants.
They were his children. And so, the Archdemon embraced them. In the darkness of his broken cage, he promised them that the world will soon know the pain that they had went through. But now was not the time for that. Now was the time to rest and to recuperate. It was in these caverns that the Archdemon's children grew in number as they prepared for that day when they could wreak havoc upon the world.
They were known as the first Darkspawn.
I am not satisfied with how this turned out, it feels so sloppy. I might edit it if I've got the time but as for now, this'll be as it is since it's 2:00 a.m. in the morning right now and I'm sleepy. :))))
Information on much of how the darkspawn dug and found the Old Gods came from the Dragon Age Wikia (I know it's obvious but I'd feel better if I'd put it up here, to give credit where credit's due). Once again, I'm so sorry for this being so short but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Perhaps feedback? It would be nice.
