Chapter Three, Part Four: The Joining
Bear heaved a heavy sigh, leaves rustling as he flopped down in a shaded corner near the gate to the Wilds. Another hour, another circuit around the Warden camp, and his mistress still hadn't come back. He couldn't believe that she'd gone with the three human men and left him behind! She'd assured him that he'd done nothing wrong, but it was a serious affront to a war-hound of any ilk, much less one of his noble heritage, to be kept back while his mistress went into battle.
"Here, dog." A passing warden stopped to drop a meaty bone by his thick snout. "Either they return, or they don't. Only the Maker decides the fate of those who seek to be amongst the damned..." the grizzled man's words trailed off in a furious mutter as he quickly walked away. Bear tilted his head in confusion, then sighed again and nosed the tasty smelling bone. He wouldn't eat until he knew his pack was safe.
He lay there as the shadows grew longer, and the fierce sun overhead began sinking behind the hills and ridges. It was when the Wardens standing guard at the gate began lighting torches, and firelight sprang up around the walls of Ostagar, that the scent of his mistress hit his nose.
"Clear the way!" The silly yellow man strode through the gate with his arms outstretched. "Get a medic! We have wounded!" Bear charged forward, nose in the air, knobby tail wagging agitatedly as he searched for Torran. Daveth staggered in behind Alistair, using a thick branch as a crutch as he tried and failed to keep weight off his left ankle. Jory followed after, shoulders bowed in exhaustion as he shifted the limp female-smelling form held in his arms.
"Bear?" A happy bark rang out as Torran appeared in the wake of the big man. Her short hair was tacky with blood, and stains covered her from head to foot, but the small smile on her lips reassured the hound that his girl was alright. Bear reared up and licked at her face, then whimpered, nose scrunching up at the taste of the darkspawn blood and grime. "I missed you too, boy." Torran stroked his head softly, then backed up, letting him fall back to all fours before quickly following Alistair and the other wardens.
"Jory, lay her down here!"
"Give 'er some air, mate! Move your fat, hairy ar-"
"Would you shut your mouth, Daveth?" Alistair cried in exasperation. "Where's that bloody medic?"
"Here, Alistair!" A mousy haired young man sank to his feet beside the bedroll where Jory had placed his burden, near the main fire. "Where did you find this one? Darkspawn, am I right?" He quickly unloaded his satchel of bandages and poultices, hands moving confidently as he laid out his supplies and evaluated the woman's grievous injuries.
"We found her just beyond sight of the walls, Mort. She wasnt there when we left, so she must have been part of a scouting party already out doing the rounds." Alistair glanced around at the handful of wardens who had gathered to observe the scene. "Would one of you send a message out to the rest of the army, maybe try and figure out who she belongs to? She wasn't wearing armor, or any other identifying clothing when we found her." A large man with an even larger battleaxe strapped to his back grunted and turned away, presumably to take care of the task.
"They were probably ambushed by a squad like the one that almost got us, huh?" Jory spoke uncertainly, as though preparing for the Wardens to reject his idea.
"Maker, big guy." Daveth blinked at him, squinting through the pain of his wounded leg. "Either I'm delusional, or tha' was the closet thing to smart I've heard come outta your mouth yet." His mouth was quickly engaged by a healing potion tossed his way by the young warden, and he guzzled it down like a man parched.
"It is as we feared, then." The crowd of men parted as Duncan strode forward, a frown creasing his brow as he took in the grimy recruits gathered around the battered body of the as yet unidentified woman.
"They are beasts, Duncan." A grizzled archer shot back. "These claims from the Free Marches are baseless, not to mention ridiculous."
"We cannot discredit warnings when the result of our lack of preparation is displayed before our eyes." The Warden-Commander replied calmly, gesturing to the haggard looking recruits and the woman Mort was tending.
"Then you believe the rumours about this 'second Architect'?" Another warden interjected, this one with a solid, iron bound staff lashed to his back.
"Do you have any idea what they're talking about?" Jory whispered loudly to Torran and Daveth, ducking so his mouth was at their ears.
"Secret Warden stuff, now shut your gob, fool." The rogue hissed back, but it was too late. Realising they were speaking before the uninitiated, the two argumentative wardens stepped back into the crowd of men gathered to watch what was to happen next.
"Soon," Duncan raised his voice so all gathered could hear, "all will become clear to you, as it is to each member of our order. In the Wilds, you faced your first darkspawn. That you made it back alive speaks volumes of the talent and skill that lie within each of you. You have returned to us, one step closer to becoming part of a family of brothers, and sisters," he smiled slightly at Torran. "united by one mighty task." He paused, eyes unwavering as he met each recruit's gaze. "I offer now one last chance to turn down the honor of joining the ranks of the Grey Wardens. There are many reasons to turn away at this point, be it family," Jory flinched, sweat clearing tracks of grime from his face. "the desire for personal freedom," Daveth shifted, a surly expression twisting his lips. "Or personal vendettas." Torran met his gaze squarely, and nodded.
As Duncan spoke, repeating much of what he'd told her that evening in Lothering so long ago, Torran watched Alistair take the sack of vials they had so painstakingly acquired and pour them into a massive chalice placed on a rough stone stand near the main fire, across from Mort's workspace. The silver vessel glimmered in the firelight, revealing ancient carvings and runes that dated back to time unimaginable. Torran's eyes widened marginally as she realized blood should have started seeping over the side several vials ago, yet Alistair was still emptying blood into the goblet as though it were bottomless.
"Alistair," Duncan's voice was grave, heavy with the knowledge that he was more than likely about to lose at least one of the carefully cultivated new batch of recruits. "As the newest Warden, would you begin our Joining by reciting the words of ritual?"
"I would be honored to, Ser," Alistair stepped away from the chalice and stood before the three recruits. The crowd of Wardens had shifted so that they encircled the chalice and fire, each man bearing his weapon in hand, though Torran couldn't tell whether it was a ceremonial gesture or a security measure. Perhaps it was both. The fair-haired man cleared his throat, and began to speak. "Since the first, these words have been spoken at the ceremony: Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."
"Peace a moment. Perish?" Jory backed away from the goblet hastily. "From that? Right now?"
"There are...risks." Duncan allowed grudgingly. Torran noted his hand drift deceptively close to his dagger, and, remembering the speed with which he drew it, shifted nervously. "You have come this far, Ser Jory, and faced countless dangers on the way. Will you really deny us now?"
"But, I have a wife! I have a son!" Behind the big man, the other wardens were stirring uneasily, some hefting their weapons and beginning to lean in the knight's direction. "You're telling me that after all the tests, all the near-death experiences, I could be killed by the Joining ceremony itself?"
"This is the secret to our abilities," Duncan held aloft the chalice, the runes seeming to flare at his touch. "By drinking the blood of our enemies we gain the power and strength to face their hordes on the battlefield, and follow the Taint itself to its source: the Archdemon. This is the source of our power, and our victory."
"By drinking the blood, you gain an immunity to the Taint," Alistair added softly, expression serious for the first time though his eyes were a hollow mixture of disgust and wonder. "your sense of sight, smell, hearing...all things go through a change, leaving us as mankind's best weapon against the darkspawn menace."
"That's blood magic! How has the Chantry not condemned this evil?" Jory gasped, reflexively crossing his arms over his chest in supplication to the Maker.
"Because it is necessary." Duncan said with finality. "Daveth, step forward."
"I s'pose if you're going to be a coward about it, we may as well let a man show you how it's done." Daveth spat at Jory's feet and, if gingerly, swaggered forward to salute Duncan. "I was a dead man when you found me, and I'll be a Tevinter's footstool before I dishonor what little dignity I have left. If helping to end the Blight requires my death, then I will consider my cards as fairly dealt."
Under the eyes of all gathered, the rogue grasped the chalice in both hands and lifted it to his lips. At first, nothing happened. He lowered the cup and handed it back to Duncan, a cocky smile beginning its well worn trek across his face when his entire body suddenly seized. Torran took a step forward and was forcibly held back by one of the wardens as Daveth's body strained and flailed on the ground before them. Torran felt bile rise in her throat as she watched the color leak out of Daveth's brown eyes and turn a sickly white. Finally, the dark haired man stilled, the movement of his chest slowing until motion was imperceptible.
"I-is he alive?" Jory whispered, face white with horror.
"He is in the Maker's hands now." Duncan replied. "Step forward, Ser Jory." He held the goblet out to the big man, meeting his frightened gaze with a neutral one of his own.
"Maker forgive me." Jory raised the chalice to his lips in shaking hands and gulped hurriedly at the lukewarm mess. He drew in a choked breath as he handed the cup back to Duncan, and what little color remained to him drained out of his face as the tremors spread throughout his body until he too lay twitching on the ground. The seizure ended much like Daveth's, with Jory's dull eyes gazing up into the night, chest rising and falling in unsteady, jerking gasps.
"You were called to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good." Duncan stepped around Jory's limp form and held the chalice out to the Cousland girl. "From this day forth, you are a Grey Warden, and shall carry that title unto your death."
Is this the end? Torran mused to herself as she stepped forward, the last of the Warden recruits, and accepted the silver goblet from the Warden-Commander. Did the Maker bring me this far, away from the spirits of my family, just to die? She breathed in, smelling and tasting what could be her last breath this side of the Fade. Her eyes sought out Bear, and found him staring back at her from Mort's side. I love you, Bear. Live well for me, if... Clearing her throat one last time, Torran brought the cup to her lips and focused on ignoring the nausea-inducing smell of the darkspawn blood.
The taste was...indescribable, she decided, as she gulped down the gooey liquid. Somehow, the cup seemed to finally run dry as she tossed its contents down her throat, and she handed it back to Duncan with a gasp. For a moment, she felt normal, and then the entire world tilted as she felt the heavy weight in her stomach begin writhing and twisting as though it were forcing itself into the nooks and crannies of her body. She didn't feel the impact as she hit the hard stones of the fortress floor, nor the cries pulling themselves from her throat as the oozing miasma of the Taint contorted itself into her every pore and synapse.
She was never more grateful to lose consciousness. The dream that was to steal her peace for nights to come made her pray she never fell asleep again.
"Torran…" a loud Voice, terrifying in its intensity, spoke to her mind, compelling her to open her eyes. She found herself standing in a vast dance hall, surrounded by people with straight black hair and tattooed masks. Nevarrans. Music echoed throughout the chamber, pleasant to the ear and ringing with hope, joy, and beauty.
Torran felt her legs begin to move in the steps of the dance as she was carried through the sea of empty faces. Hands grabbed at her, pulling and tugging lightly at her exquisite clothing, or gently caressing the tattoos on her face and arm. The people moved stiffly, eyes glazed as they danced to the ephemeral selection. All were dressed in fantastic finery, though before her eyes it seemed to twist, morphing and reverting as though struggling to conceal a horrific alter-ego.
"Come, Torran..." She continued her dance, sometimes partnering with a blank faced man, or woman, other times dancing alone, but always moving in the same direction. Slowly, a figure appeared from across the dance hall, and seemed to be moving in her direction. The form was lithe and graceful, and certainly female. Blue eyes sparkled from behind a removable mask, and coppery strands framed the delicate face.
As they grew nearer, the distortions seemed to occur more frequently. The music, once so beautiful, became jarring and discordant, painful to the ears. The clean purity of the marble floors began to disintegrate, and soot and ash began raining from the broken chandeliers swinging high above. Gashes and wounds opened in the bodies of the dancers, and their movements became even more stilted and mechanical. It was as though she had stepped into a macabre festival of death, but she noticed none of the changes occur. Her every thought was fixated on her approaching partner.
"Wake me, Torran...Follow the music..." A shadow fell over the hall as the Voice murmured in her ear, and the cacophony rose to a crescendo as the two women met in the center.
"Shall we dance?" The words emerged from Torran's mouth unwillingly as she held out a hand to the shorter woman before her.
"I don't dance with strangers." The woman's voice cut through the discordant shriek like a perfectly tuned chord played on heartstrings thought torn asunder.
"But I'm your partner. We're supposed to dance with each other." The voice using Torran's mouth sounded confused, almost irritated. The discord swelled in the hall, and the eruptions of darkness continued across the floors and ceilings.
"How do I know it's really you if you're wearing a mask?" The woman stepped closer, and Torran felt her breath catch in her throat as a gentle hand caressed her face.
"Because I'm not wearing a mask. This is me."
"Is it truly?" The woman's fingernails dug into the skin below her eye and pulled sharply, tearing away the black mask that covered Torran's face and eyes. "Look." a mirror appeared in the woman's hand, and she held it up to the taller woman.
Blue eyes, a hooked nose, the cruel smirk... Torran screamed and attempted to dash the mirror aside, only to choke in horror as her hand twisted into that of a shriek and plunged into her partner's chest. As she slid to the floor, the blue gaze remained fixed on Torran's green, softening in forgiveness, and...tenderness.
"I see you're enjoying the ball, Torran Cousland." Her head shot up, fury contorting her features, as Rendon Howe stepped out of the crowd of dancers, the characteristic cruel smirk playing across his thin lips. The dark miasma seemed to grow stronger as he neared her, avoiding the blood pooling around the body of the woman she'd accidentally slain with a disgusted sneer. "You even provided my Master with a decent night's entertainment amongst his playthings. What luck, the newest Warden is of Nevarran blood! How pleased he was, so pleased!"
"What are you talking about, Howe?" Torran demanded, hands shaking with the desire to rip the smirking man to shreds. "Where am I? Why is this happening to me? Tell me, Maker take you!"
"Oh, you will learn soon enough, little Warden..." His words trailed into a sibilant hiss that grew louder and louder as the shadow stretched behind him. A wing fluttered in the depths, followed by the rasp of claws on stone. Behind her, she could hear the telltale slide of scales on stone, and felt the whisper of a tail-tip flick at her lower back.
"BOW DOWN TO URTHEMIEL!" She felt her knees buckle as the Voice thundered throughout the hall and into the depths of her mind.
"No! I'll never bow to you!" Torran struggled to stay on her feet, fighting off the power of the compulsion that had led her through the dance and now wanted to force her to the ground. Her strength dissipated rapidly, and she soon found herself on hands and knees beside the torn body of the blue-eyed woman.
"You must remove your mask, Torran..." the beautiful voice rang out once more, and she felt her heart surge with renewed hope. "Remove the mask...it's the only way!"
"But I'm not wearing one!"
"Remove the mask!"
"BOW DOWN TO URTHEMIEL!"
"It...s been...days, Mor...does not wake...soon..."
"...re..mo...mask!"
"The others...n't...take anoth...loss well. Wha...about...er hound?
"...ow...to...URTHEMIEL!"
"A mo...nt. Mort? I thin...stirring! Tor...ear me?"
"YOU MUST REMOVE THE MASK!"
"...THEMIEL!"
"Torran? Torran? Duncan, she's coming around. Torran!"
Her eyes opened, but all she could see was blue.
Next time: Making progress +1000exp...