Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf
Bloodlust
Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!
"So, do werewolves count time in dog years?" Zevran inquired as the companions followed the grizzled creature down a humid, ill-lit stairway. The older werewolf had offered a truce and access to his mysterious mistress, a being he referred to as the Lady. Since the adventurers were immensely weary of killing and trudging through musty dungeons, the general mood had been one of relief when the Warden accepted the offer.
"Why, you wanna adopt one? Maybe breed it with the Mabari, sell puppies?" Oghren cared nothing for murmurs. Runt let out a deeply outraged growl.
"You know, if you do, we will all soon have to wear spiky collars and fetch sticks for the Masters," Alistair philosophized.
"Hum, I think a spiked collar would look great on you, maybe with a black leather harness to match?" The Antivan waited patiently for the words to make their effect. The look of bewilderment, when it came, was always worth the wait.
The venerable werewolf growled and shook a shaggy, white-streaked head in exasperation. "You outsiders never shut up?" he inquired in his low, grunting voice.
"Sometimes they sleep," Sten rumbled stoically.
Much to their guide's relief, the companions soon reached their destination. The stairways opened into a hall of epic proportions, the high ceiling supported by graceful arches of stone. Every inch of exposed stone was engraved with vegetal motives. In the innermost portion of the hall, the roof had caved in, and immense tree roots rose from a clear rainwater pool. From a distance it was hard to tell the original design from the more recent work of nature. Sunlight poured in through the broken roof. Werewolves stood in two rows on each side of the stairway, their yellow eyes squinting in the daylight. The creatures growled and hissed softly as the Warden and her escort passed through their ranks. Standing by the pond was a being the likes of which Nyx had never seen.
The Lady was human in general shape and size, similar in form to a naked woman with the regal bearings and ageless face of a statue. The comparison stopped here, though. The creature's skin and hair had a faint grey-green hue reminiscent of sunlight on tree bark, and her shapely arms ended in gnarled, sharp appendages which reminded the sorceress of an unholy mix of tree limbs and animal claws. The spirit's eyes were twin ovals of onyx, black and devoid of expression. Nyx appraised her in her mind's eyes: a thing of shimmering light and immense vitality. The Lady, she saw, was not entirely contained in this room: the tendrils of her consciousness radiated in all directions like an ethereal network of roots, drawing knowledge and substance from the very forest around the ruins. As the sorceress drew close, the spirit stayed perfectly still, her perfect features devoid of all emotion. A short, awkward silence ensued.
"Sooo… Do you have something to tell me, or did you just want to show off your tits?"
Nyx's raspy voice echoed through the great hall. Before the Lady could give an answer, a huge, black werewolf stepped forward indignantly, bending over low so his small, yellow eyes were level with the sorceress'.
"You will show respect, little elf!" the thing roared, massive claws clenching and unclenching as though eager to snap the impudent little Warden's neck.
"Or what? You're going to smother me with your corpse?" Nyx replied with a humorless grin. She was intensely aware of the werewolf's heart, beating close and loud, pumping torrents of raw power. The beast's massive muscles were so many strings begging to be pulled. All within her grasp.
"Peace, Swiftrunner!" The Lady intervened in a voice reminiscent of the wind in foliage. "Too much blood has been shed already." The spirit turned to Nyx. "Do you wish to hear what I have to say, stranger, or do you seek only to satisfy your bloodlust?"
The sorceress nodded curtly. "Speak then, spirit", she said.
Nyx stood among the werewolves, her irritation reaching dangerous proportions as the Lady told how Zathrian created the very curse he would later ask the Warden to destroy. As the spirit's voice abated, the sorceress shook her head in disbelief.
"So now you want me to fetch Zathrian so he can undo the curse? The very man who sent me here?"
"It is the best way for both the elves and my children", the spirit reminded her. "Besides, you will not have to go far to find him. He has been following you, bidding his time to make his move."
"Horseshit. I would have sensed his presence", Nyx answered contemptuously.
The Lady smiled. "You are gifted, Nyx of the Grey Wardens, and your raw power is impressive, but you are still very young. Zathrian has been a master of the arcane arts for several centuries. It only makes sense that he would know a few more tricks than you do."
Nyx's considered the possibility, her tongue playing with the torn flesh in her mouth. The swollen lip and the jagged bits felt like a foreign body. She could have healed the wound; then again, for all the recent increase in her power, Nyx's healing capabilities were still sub-par; maybe even more so than before she left the Tower. She shuddered slightly as she remembered what used to happen to most of her test rats, back then. The inconvenient sensation in her mouth was not worth the risk of growing a sodding tumor. Back to the problem at hand, she decided that the Lady was probably right. Something still intrigued her.
"This… curse you have been talking about. It is blood magic, right? How did Zathrian gain knowledge of such magic?"
The Lady shook her head slightly. "I understand little of those things. It is possible that he learned it from some Tevinter relic. The ruins in this forest used to be littered with them. Or it could be that he made a pact with some demon," she offered.
"Right... Forget that I asked," Nyx groaned, gently massaging her own temples to stave off the coming headache. It seemed like this day would never end. She could smell sweat on her robes, mingled with the faint, vaguely sweet whiff of werewolf blood. She would count herself lucky if she didn't get fleas from the darn beast. Maker's warts, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd had a bath!
Sighing, the sorceress motioned for her companions to get moving.
"So you will help us after all?" The spirit sounded almost incredulous.
Nyx shook her head. "I'm still undecided on that one. But for now, I need to have a nice chat with Zathrian", she dropped as she left the great stone hall.
The bare-ass spirit was right.
Nyx's pride was not a little wounded to find confirmation that Zathrian had indeed eluded her perception, effectively playing hide and seek in the dark woods for the whole day. The Keeper stood calm and collected on a patch of grass just outside the ruins, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff as the sorceress closed the distance with quick, angry strides.
"I see you do not have the heart", the Keeper said in greeting.
"I see you are still the same smug-looking, backstabbing son of a nug", the sorceress countered, "The same fool who would rather let his people suffer than admit to his own incompetence." She was done being a tool for the forest's denizens. And she was going to get answers, even if she needed to torch Zathrian, the Lady and the whole sodding forest. In fact, she would enjoy it.
Zathrian snickered. "So, you've heard Witherfang's side of the tale. I am sure you found it heartrending. You are aware that the Lady and Witherfang are one and the same, aren't you?"
"You are aware that I do not give a damn?" Nyx replied, "You played me for a fool, Keeper, sending me on an errand like a child…" The sorceress lowered her voice, "but you have knowledge that I want. Help me, Zathrian, and I will help you."
Zathrian smiled contemptuously. "And now you reveal your true nature", he spat, "I will never help one of your kind, Trickster spawn."
Could have said so earlier, Baldy, Nyx thought, too bad I need you alive... She let her power swell and crackle as she gathered magic from the Beyond; her aura towered above the Keeper like a roiling thundercloud. Zathrian's smile widened and he opened his hands, releasing his grasp on the thing Nyx had mistaken for a staff.
Something cool and dry pulled the sorceress' legs from under her, and she fell flat on her stomach with a little yelp of surprise, losing her grasp on the Veil. Fighting a wave of panic, Nyx curled into a fetal position even as her unknown attacker dragged her away from the older mage. What appeared to be tendrils of wild vine were tangled around her ankles and calves: moving, twisting vines. Nyx screamed in rage and doubled over to seize the writhing ropes. Tiny, white tongues of fire flickered at her fingertips and she was able to break free for a moment.
The ground in a wide radius erupted as more vines shot out of the earth, sending pebbles and dirt flying in a reddish cloud. The vines seemed to have a mind of their own; they sought to trap Nyx's companions' limbs and drag them to the ground. Still, the plants did not seem very effective against armor-clad, steel-wielding opponents... Except as a distraction, Nyx realized as she scrambled to her feet and scorched the ground around her with a burst of short, blue flames. She turned to Zathrian just in time to see him finish casting his second spell. A great wind seemed to agitate the trees around the chaotic, writhing expanse where the Warden's companions were hacking away like demented gardeners. Then, with a sound evocative of a hundred creaky cabinets possessed by a hundred grumbling demons, the trees themselves joined the battle. Before the sorceress's incredulous eyes, elms and oaks, their very shape remodeled into gaudy imitations of the human form, lumbered forward to smash and seize and crush. The creatures were slow and clumsy, but their sheer size and numbers made them irresistible.
Nyx watched agape as her companions ducked the onslaught as best they could. Wood chips and bark flew as the warriors' blades hit in reprisal; the bellowing trees hardly seemed to notice. The sorceress saw Oghren's axe bite halfway through a moss-covered "leg"; the handle was wrenched from the dwarf's hands as the thing fell with a great snapping sound. The tree-creature kept clawing and reaching blindly even as it rested face-down in the dirt. Closer to the Warden's position, Morrigan's hands erupted in blue streaks of lightning; the spell caused its target to twitch and stagger, but fell short of igniting the green wood. Nyx frantically scanned the battlefield, sighing in relief at she caught a glimpse of Leliana's red hair, flicking in and out of vision as the bard, daggers sheathed, danced between the grey, lumbering shapes. The tree-things howled in frustration, smashing and entangling each other's limbs as they tried to get a hold of the nimbler human.
The Warden hesitated. Her first instinct was to go for Zathrian and hope that the creatures fell with their maker; however, there was no telling what the casualties may be. Deep within, Nyx the Sorceress leered at her own weakness. You have not survived this long by being squeamish, she thought. Screw you, answered the newly awakened, redhead-addicted alienage orphan. The struggle was short. After all, both sides of Nyx could always agree on one point.
Torching stuff was too much fun to pass.
The sorceress reached into the Beyond with all the calm assurance of a seasoned craftsman, pulling great strands of flickering magic which she arranged into a spiraling, humming symphony. When her work was finished –it could not have been more than a few heartbeats- Nyx lovingly released her creation upon the wretched things that defied her. A raging vortex of white-hot fire, streaked with blue and the occasional trace of yellow, materialized beyond the line of possessed trees and rolled forward ponderously. Nyx laughed in delight as the first of the creatures caught fire, their groans and creaks quickly lost to the roar of the blaze and the bangs of exploding wood. Next time I'll add a pinch of sulfur, she mused.
"Run away! She's at it again!" Alistair screamed as the companions scrambled to get away from the blast. Wisps of smoke were already wafting from the former Templar's hair and armor. As he ran past Morrigan, the witch snickered and caught him in a blast of cold.
"Th-thank you," the heir to the throne of Ferelden managed to say through chattering teeth.
"Someone has to keep you alive. We may yet run out of meat," the witch explained with a thoroughly disturbing smile.
Alistair rather abruptly turned his back on Morrigan, just in time to witness the final demise of the tree people. As the blaze rolled forward, fueled by the burning substance of their kin, the things simply stood their ground and lunged at the flames with awkward, unnatural motions. Predictably, that strategy did them little good. The Warden's companions had to take a few steps back as the remaining creatures ignited and the smoke and heat reached truly infernal levels.
"So, Warden, when… does the spell end?" Morrigan inquired with the slightest hint of worry in her voice. Nyx was toying with a strand of black hair while she watched the blaze. She, for one, enjoyed the heat.
"The spell?" The elf repeated absently. Zathrian was gone, and she had been trying, unsuccessfully, to find his track on the Veil. She cast a sharp look at the taller witch. "The spell has already ended, as you must know. But the fire will burn until it runs out of fuel. Fires tend to do that."
'Maker's breath!" Leliana interjected, throwing her arm around the smaller elf's shoulders, "you do know that we are in the middle of a forest, mon amour?"
Nyx's cheeks were burning now, and not just because of the expanding forest fire. She stared at the dirty points of her boots.
"Yeah", she muttered, "Maybe we'd better get back inside the ruins."
They found Zathrian inside the Lady's great hall. Nyx had to admire the man's audacity and mastery of the Art. He had the Lady – now in wolf-form, Nyx noted distractedly- and her followers under some kind of paralysis spell. Possibly blood magic, she pondered. Whatever the hex, it would have required considerable power to capture and keep such a powerful spirit under its sway. And it showed.
Zathrian was mortally pale, his aura now visible to the sorceress but much weakened, hardly more than a flicker on the Veil. Good, Nyx thought. If the man tried to fight her spirit against spirit, he would shatter like water on a rock. The Keeper started as the Warden and her escort entered the room. The look in his gaunt, drawn face betrayed fear and a hint of madness. His left hand rested on the great spirit wolf's mane in an almost affectionate fashion. The right hand clutched a short, broad dagger that appeared to be made of some sort of dark, hardened wood. The blade shook slightly. All around him, werewolves were frozen in various aggressive postures, their small eyes rolling in panic.
"I hope those trees weren't your friends, Keeper; they sure sang nicely while they burned," Nyx quipped as she cautiously walked down the short flight of ruined stairs to the hall. Careful with the darned robes, she thought. She really needed to get rid of the silly mage paraphernalia and get a hold of some trousers.
"Sorry to disappoint you. I don't make a habit of befriending trees, animals, or shemlen", the man croaked. Nyx waved the insult away with a gracious smile as she reached the last step. Zathrian raised his dagger a couple inches.
"You try really hard to make me angry, don't you?" Nyx was halfway across the stone floor, taking her time: there was no way the man could kill Witherfang before she stopped him.
"Why is that, Zath'? Do you really think I will kill you in a fit of anger?" The sorceress moved closer, so close that the man's heartbeat was almost deafening.
She was less than ten feet from Zathrian when she felt him tense to bring down the dagger; it was difficult to say whether the blade was aimed at Witherfang, or at his own heart. But Nyx was ready.
The sorceress' lower lip was swollen, the flesh raw and tender in her mouth. It took very little effort for her teeth to reopen the small wound as she walked down the stairs, and it did not hurt much. Only when she tasted the blood in her mouth did Nyx know, without a doubt, that Fen'Harel's gift was truly at her command, waiting like a great hound to be unleashed upon the quarry of her choice. Zathrian was today's catch, and at long last she had him in the palm of her hand. Hopefully he would spit out something useful before she fed him to Witherfang.
The tsunami of sensations which washed over Nyx as she summoned blood magic was just as savage, intense and sexual as it had been in the morning. And yet it was different: now it felt oddly familiar, the fear of the unknown replaced by the feeling of being welcomed by the arms of a very old, very dear friend. That familiarity was comforting, and utterly treacherous.
Coiled, snug and safe, within her very own bubble of space and time; linked to her prey by invisible, unbreakable threads of magic, the conscience that went by the name of Nyx leisurely examined her victim. The complex, delicate networks of nerves and blood vessels shone brightly through the red haze of the flesh. The sorceress watched as her own blood took over the unwilling host: an army of tiny, scarlet particles that worked as quickly and ruthlessly as slaver ants. She saw a nerve impulse, like a purposeful, shimmering caterpillar, creeping from the iridescent spider web that was the victim's brain, towards the clenched muscles of the right arm. On a whim, Nyx reached for the tiny caterpillar and gently altered its purpose. After a long, long time, Zathrian's muscles flexed obediently, bringing the blade across the man's chest and slicing diagonally in a short, shallow cut. Nyx instinctively dulled the nerve endings as the blade cut, easing the victim's pain, but not his fear. And then the sorceress was caught.
The prey's blood gushed out of its body in a torrent of incandescent, unrestrained power. Nyx sent out her consciousness to meet it, and the raw magic roiled through her like a river of molten silver. For a moment, the pain and exhilaration were almost too much to bear. But then she knew she had nothing to fear. Fear, she understood, was the lot of weaklings and mortals. Nyx was nothing like them. She alone would withstand the assaults of time and wield the might of gods. Already she was transcending the chains of the flesh; she needed but a little more power, a little more blood to sate the hunger of millennia…
Standing atop the stairs, Leliana watched uneasily as Nyx proceeded with her plan, if one could call that a plan. She hated it for the Warden – her Warden- to take unnecessary risks, but the elf would not listen to reason. Ever since her rescue from the werewolf's claws, earlier today, Nyx had appeared withdrawn, distracted. Leliana suspected that the sorceress was growing obsessed with Fen'Harel's lore, struggling to find a way out of the pact she made with the ancient deity. She knew Nyx was scared in spite of all her bravado. And she knew, beyond all doubt, that it was all happening because of her, of her stupid vendetta against Marjolaine. Leliana could almost hear the bitch's laugh, rich and musical, echoing from the grave. She clenched her fist, so hard her short nails nearly drove through the skin. For now, all she could do was hope that Nyx's audaciousness would not lead her to disaster, as it was bound to do sooner or later.
Leliana felt a pang of fear as both the little sorceress and her rambling opponent froze with the perfect synchronicity of dueling mimes. Nearby, Morrigan suddenly staggered and covered her mouth with her hands, her beautiful face turning livid. The bard distractedly reflected that it was the first time she ever saw the witch sick. Marjolaine's teachings flashed through her mind: "A strong constitution can indicate a heightened resistance to poison. When in doubt, just double the dose". She hated herself for remembering.
Lower down the stone hall, Zathrian moved, and instantly an arrow's fletching was caressing Leliana's hand, the bow still held low, but ready to sing at the first sign of foul play. We are all killers, my love. Nyx's words, whispered so many nights ago and burned clear in her memory.
Leliana watched with morbid fascination as Zathrian slowly drew his dagger across his own chest, slicing through cloth and flesh. A fine, red mist rose from the split skin, twisting like something alive. The ethereal serpent rocked back and forth for a second, hesitating, then gently coiled itself around the Warden. Long, vaporous tendrils unfurled from its central mass, shimmering in and out of existence in a slowly expanding radius. When the mist found a paralyzed werewolf, a crisscross pattern of small, thin wounds appeared where it touched the thick hide; this was immediately followed by a nauseating thickening and strengthening of the tendril. Witherfang's white fur was slowly covering in faint, pinkish patches. Leliana glimpsed the Warden's face through the thickening red haze. She did not like what she saw on those familiar features: that faint, creeping hint of otherness. Struggling to keep her head cool, she aimed for Zathrian's heart.
"Wait!" Morrigan's hand felt cold like death on her arm; she had to fight the urge to recoil from the touch. The witch looked like she was about to vomit. Leliana shifted her stance so that she could kick the bitch down the stairs if needed. When needed.
"What the hell do you want?" She had not intended for her voice to quiver, but a bard's art has its limits.
Morrigan suppressed a retch before she answered. "This is not Zathrian's spell," she said, pointing at the swirling mist. "Tis' the Warden's own magic, running amok on her."
Leliana wanted to laugh at the witch, to tell her that this was impossible, that Nyx would never allow her own magic to betray her. But denying the truth would only make things worst. She took a deep breath and lowered her bow.
"Can you do something about it?" she asked.
"My magic cannot reach her through this… thing, but I can provide some protection should anyone be foolish enough to go wading through blood magic," Morrigan answered, accentuating the word "anyone" with an ironic smile. Leliana hated her with her guts.
"Should you be able to reach her, I suggest you give her a good, solid whack on the head", the witch continued with a little wicked smile, "You do know the difference between the head and buttocks, don't you?"
"Do it", Leliana said through clenched teeth.
Something disturbed the Spark of the dread god.
An instant earlier, there was only bliss. The Spark, the embryonic, semi-sentient precursor of Fen'Harel that lived caged in Nyx's body, reveled in the pleasant, unhurried flow of raw power flowing from the small, twitching balls of flesh. Power poured through the host's flesh, and the flesh was responding well, slowly remodeling itself into a more suitable garment. The elf's little clunky brain was duly isolated, stuck in a never-ending loop of ecstasy.
Now a minor irritant was pushing into the blood spell's periphery, struggling through the mist that fed the host's transformation. The irritant was coated in a thin, slippery layer of magic which faintly repulsed the blood tendrils as they sought to latch onto it. Buzzing angrily, the Spark directed the host to pierce through the weak charm and overwhelm the irritant's nervous system, rooting it in place. A short distance away, the caster reeled from the backlash: just another human, reeking of bitterness. The Spark was loath to stretch blood tendrils too far from the host. Instead, it sent a few of its quickly dwindling meat puppets after the mage. The tendrils proceeded to latch and feed on the fresh one, the young, healthy human female.
The host stirred feebly when the new quarry's essence started to flow in. The Spark gently prodded the pleasure center in the elf's brain, sending waves of ecstasy throughout her body. Various hormones and body fluids were released. Growth and ongoing adaptations were not compromised.
The host stirred again; this time there was an unpleasant surge in pulse and cerebral activity as the tiny body sought to fight the Spark's control. Growling, the Spark sent a current of pure, searing pain coursing through the elf's nerve endings. The host twitched and its agitation subsided. The Spark duly rewarded submission with a splash of endorphins.
Then the host's body went berserk. The Spark squealed in dismay as muscles twitched, nerves fired haphazardly and various glands churned out torrents of conflicting hormones. For every problem the Spark rushed to fix, two different biological processes fizzled out of control. Worse, the host's body started reverting to its imperfect, clunky state. The Spark's rudimentary mind was not meant to experience panic, but it was coming dangerously close.
"…Mine."
The Spark felt the Veil quaver madly as a current of thought, bitter and dangerously calm, issued from the Fade.
"Those are mine," said Nyx.
The Spark growled in challenge and moved to restrain its host's brain function.
Nyx's bitter laugh resonated through the Veil.
"I am in the Fade now, creature. You cannot reach me."
The Spark did not communicate with words, but the concept was obvious enough for its rudimentary intelligence to grasp. The host's soul was of no import; later on it would reintegrate the upgraded body and carry on with its meaningless existence, interspersed with increasingly frequent blood sacrifices, until it was ready for divinity. Losing interest, the Spark concentrated on its all-important duties: to feed, repair, and prepare the garment…
The Spark squealed in horror as the host's left hand burst into flames. The Spark frantically attempted to quench the magical flames, to no avail. All it could do was divert enormous amounts of power, to heal and replace the flesh even as it blistered, cooked, and peeled away.
"They are mine," repeated Nyx, "This body, and the human woman." The voice paused for a second, then the host's right hand caught fire. The Spark's frenzy reached new heights.
"Tell Fen'Harel that I will not submit. Tell him that I will burn through anything that gets in my way", Nyx's spirit-voice concluded before her whole body ignited.