X: Kinloch, Denerim, Sundermount
Martin stood at the ready, on edge – hands on his hammers. The elf First, who had at first seemed so painfully innocuous, had just let loose a torrent of blood magic. Below her, puddled on and seeping between ancient stones lay a small pool of blood. The elf ran her bleeding hand through it sensuously, before snapping the hand up and sealing her own wound. She opened her eyes with that same innocent, anxious look she'd had locked in since they'd met her.
Blood magic. I have seen it before – from Tevinters, Avernus, Kinloch, Denerim. What she just did would see her killed anywhere the Chantry touches. The raw, terrible power in the air made his skin crawl. Everything he had been taught as a child cried for an attack, begged that he run, demanded that he face the maleficar. You are an apostate. The Wardens use a form of blood magic to stop the Blight. Even now, Avernus sits in his tower and experiments with tainted blood to find a method of harnessing – or curing it.
He let his hands fall from his hammers before he reconsidered and instead grabbed the flask on his belt. Then swallowed a mouthful of the stuff to wash the revulsion down. It didn't work.
"Maker's breath…" Varric breathed beside him.
Aveline looked concerned, but she looked to Hawke. Carver seemed curious, but that was it – Hawke stood rigid as a statue, pale as marble.
"What have you done?" Hawke asked, clearly horrified. "That was…"
Must be her first view of blood magic. Probably the first for the rest of them as well.
"Yes," Merrill answered, pushing herself up from one knee. "It was blood magic."
"Are you insane?" Aveline demanded. "Would you summon a demon down, here?"
"I know what I'm doing," Merrill interjected, defensive. "I did not summon a spirit. I didn't have the strength without the blood to open the way forward. It was my own blood, what harm is there in using it?"
"'What harm,' she says," muttered Aveline. "It is the work of demons, passed down from them to Tevinter. How could it be anything but harm?"
Merrill shook her head, grimacing. "There is no harm if it isn't forced on another. It does not rely on spirits, only on blood." she stood up straighter. "Who says it's always so horrible?"
"That would be the Chantry. As in, the Chant of Light," Varric supplied, more subdued than normal. "You know, the magisters that sacrificed a thousand slaves? Broke through the veil? Started the Blights? That kind of story sets a bad precedent."
"We Dalish have our own stories," Merrill answered solemnly. "We don't need to borrow yours."
"'Da always warned us of it," Hawke said, quietly – almost to herself. "'It is the sign of a weak mage to stoop to using the blood of others.'"
"I only use my own blood," Merrill answered, exasperated. "I don't want to argue this with you all, too. The Keeper has said it all – but it is the only way – " she stopped herself, gripped her staff intensely. After a moment she spoke again. "Let's just… perform the ritual. Then we can go to Kirkwall."
"You're coming to Kirkwall? With us?" Carver asked, baffled. Of all present, Martin noticed, he seemed the least perturbed by the flagrant use of the most forbidden magic. "What about your clan?"
"The Keeper asked us to ensure she reach her 'new home' safely," Martin cut in as he capped his flask. Before he could place it back on his belt, Varric snatched it from his hands and took a swig.
"I thought elves ran away to the Dalish, not the other way 'round," Carver responded, even more confused than before. "Alienages aren't really… well… you may be shitting in the woods out here, but the Alienage is right shithole."
Merrill winced as if struck. "I… the Keeper does not agree with what I need to do. I'd rather not say more. Please? Can we please move on from this? We must complete the ritual."
Hawke held her hand up, silencing Carver as he tried to speak yet again. Carver bit his tongue reluctantly. "I think that would be best. Lead on, Merrill. Let's just… get this over with."
"Ma serrannas," the elf replied, smiling tightly. She turned and moved on through columns. They trudged after her, though not before Martin retrieved his flask from the dwarven thief.
"Good shit," Varric muttered to him. "Helps with the crazy shit."
And everything else. Martin nodded silently, keeping his thoughts to himself.
They passed through the columns this time without difficulty, coming upon another ancient structure. Though its ruined state made it difficult to determine what it was supposed to look like, Martin had the distinct impression that the overgrown courtyard was originally constructed to be at least in part open to the air. And why not? Before them, past the wide terrace of occasional tile, plant life and stone lay a view that stretched for miles. The muddy, wooded hills with the Imperial Highway cutting straight through, then veering off to the distant city of Kirkwall towering near the end of sight. To the south the Waking Sea stretched to the horizon. Hard to believe, to the south and east a ways lies Highever. Home, once.
Just before that vista that teased of home, only a few paces away from the drop, stood a single, simple stone altar. Dark braziers flanked it on either side.
His curiosity piqued, Martin stepped forward past a stopped Varric – only to find himself stopped by Aveline's arm flung across his chest. Martin looked at her quizzically. Her only response was to jut her chin at the rest of the group.
Hawke and Carver stood, weapons drawn, behind Merrill – who knelt along the edge of a frayed fresco, her knuckles held firmly to the art.
"I've been dealing with them for days," Merrill was blurting, voice frantic. "They've been restless – It – something has disturbed them. Tortured them. Perhaps the barrier…"
"It," Hawke demanded, gripping her spear tightly. "What are you on about?"
Aveline drew her own weapons, Martin moved to follow suit – only to find himself buffeted by a blast of chilled air. Not air, the fade. It emanated from below, from all around – and from the altar before them.
He felt the air warble as if the whole world shook. An all too familiar itch broke out on his skin even as he felt his joints freezing up. It reminded him of another time, another life – not too long ago.
The bottle, cool air emanating. Threatening to freeze all that surrounded them. Carys held it in her hands, read the inscription. The black fluid within seemed to wisp and whisper, demanding a release.
Morrigan had been off to the side, examining some ancient runes that littered the walls of the ancient temple they now explored. 'Elven,' she'd said, as if that was all that needed to be said. Now she had turned, no doubt feeling what Martin felt – the pure power roiling forth from the bottle Carys now examined.
She was quicker than Martin, but then again, she had more practice – more idea at what that awful feeling meant. Even as she launched herself forward, even as she cried her warning – it was too late. The glass shattered in Carys' hand, the wisp within shaping into a demonic form before their eyes. Lumbering, armored, a greatsword in one hand, it was only fortunate for Carys that it but threw her to the side with its free hand – and lunged instead for Martin.
Martin snapped back to reality as he felt its cruel blow again, when his bracer had held as he deflected the blow even as his arm had shattered. It was a fight of its own to keep his left hammer in hand at just the memory of that pain.
"Brace yourselves!" He cried, eyes turning to him in confusion.
"It's waking –" was all Merrill managed to cry out in turn when all hell broke loose.
The fresco shattered below her, throwing her off her feet. A gauntleted hand emerged, protruded from the earth below and shook insanely before tightening into a hard fist. Another hand joined the first, throwing a large chunk of stonework Hawke's way that she just managed to dodge. The hands grabbed at earth around them and pulled.
It rose as a demon from the very depths below – a dark figure clad in tattered but still fearsome armor. Dark brass buckles, green trim – all caked in earth and stone. The armor itself was strange, smooth on the shoulders and legs but strangely angular with protruding buttresses on the gauntlets. Its face was hidden under an fraying hooded cloak. It reached upwards into the air with both hands, the freezing winds of the fade soaring forth as the outline of a massive, curved sword formed in between its hands. It swung the phantom blade, a mournful whine keening through the air as it planted the tip into what remained of the fresco.
Hawke moved first, Carver close behind as they warily shifted to opposite sides of the phantom. Aveline hefted her blade but remained still – behind Martin stood Varric, stricken with disbelief. Or fear. It is difficult to read Varric, with the sheer number of practiced lies he surrounds himself with.
Martin was jolted from his own strange analysis when the creature spoke. Its voice was unnatural, harsh with disuse, but it rose to painful volume.
"Tel garas alasan," it echoed, raising its blade one handed to point at Merrill. She had managed to scramble onto her back, her staff clutched in one hand off to the side. At its regard her already pale features turned porcelain. "Ir ma halam, shemlen."
Carver chose that moment to strike, bringing his own massive blade down at an angle towards the side of the figure. Against all elven and most human fighters such a swing from a big man like Carver would be aimed towards their neck, or even their skull. Instead the blow headed towards the tall shade's armored back.
As Carver swung Hawke moved far more cautiously. She jabbed forward with her spear even as she extended her buckler to cover herself, ready to block.
The creature reacted with a flash, throwing back its shoulder to expose a spaulder to Carver's furious swing. It clanged mightily against the metal, knocking Carver's blade away. The shade pivoted with that movement towards Hawke and brought its ghostly blade into a side swing.
Carver stumbled as Hawke dodged backwards, flailing, barely avoiding the massive ethereal blade.
"Maker!" Aveline bellowed, both a plea and a war cry as she leapt into the fray. She presented her shield as she charged, making to bash the seemingly off balance creature in the side. Martin followed her without thinking, moving to flank her charge to one side.
It became immediately apparent that the hade was far from off balance as it swung its sword around horizontally, slashing at both Aveline and Martin simultaneously.
Martin had made the mistake of approaching from Aveline's left and so he was first in the path of the blade. He felt the breeze of the fade rush from within him as he called what he could, what he dared. Time seemed to slow slightly as the blade came ever close to slicing through his arm. He dropped hard, faster than should've been possible, knocking the wind from his lungs. He felt the blade pass not even a handspan over his head as he fell.
Aveline's reaction was slower but she had the luxury of distance. She too dropped, but to only one knee, reinforcing her battered kiteshield – Martin absurdly just noticed it bore not the emblem of the City Guard, but the Templars – and held it aloft at an angle.
For a brief moment the horrible scream of metal on metal scraped through Martin's ears, temporarily deafening him. Then the blade passed by the shield even as the creature recovered from its mighty swing.
Carver, off balance, attempted an upswing from where the spaulder had deflected his blow – his eagerness saving his life. His blade, instead of striking up the skirt of the creature instead met its renewed swing – the crash of the impact echoed through the ruined temple. Carver flew backwards, hit one of the few standing walls hard and crumpled in a heap as his sword cartwheeled away.
Hawke screamed his name then, stabbing forward far less cautiously than before. The creature moved far quicker than should've been possible, answering Hawke's assault with its own.
This time Hawke did not evade, brought her far too flimsy buckler up to meet its blade as she stabbed her carved shortspear into its midsection. It buried deep into the creature, evidently missing its ancient armor.
At that same moment its counter swing met Hawke's buckler, smashing it but miraculously not piercing it. Martin winced at Hawke's shriek of agony as her arm was audibly crushed and she too fell backwards at the impact. Her spear remained lodged in the creature's stomach.
Martin hardly had time to dive to the side as it immediately swung over its head to come down on where he lay not a moment before – as his tumble ended he hit one of the discarded pieces of fresco hard, setting black stars sparkling at the corner of his vision.
The immediate lack of counterattack saved him and he rolled to his feet, albeit unsteadily. Aveline was trying to swing at the creature with her sword, but instead found herself dropping to her knees again as it side swung at her. She managed to once again redirect the blow with her Templar shield.
It stepped back, attempting to leverage an overhanded blow that would crush the brave guardswoman, shield or no, when its booted foot suddenly caught. Roots slithered up from the ground to tangle in its feet, holding it fast. Out of the corner of his eye Martin could see the skittish First standing tall, her staff dug into the earth as she clutched it with both hands. He could feel her will, the magic coursing through the earth and guiding the plants to her bidding.
Though immobile the creature still attempted an off balance swing at the still kneeling guardswoman, bringing its blade down in a wicked arc. Its swing was knocked to the side as one, then three bolts clattered in rapid succession from its strange breastplate. A fourth slammed into its exposed underarm and a horrible, echoing wail pierced the air as it slammed the blade beside Aveline rather than through her.
Aveline wasted no time, stepped forward, and smoothly slashed at the creature's cloaked face with her sword. Instead of blood flicking from the blade and fountaining from the lethal wound Aveline had just inflicted, a splash of soil splattered forth.
The creature pitched to the side, dragging Aveline's blade – and arm – down with it. As it crumpled the ambient chill Martin had felt the whole fight, the unsettling presence of strange magic abruptly ceased. It was as if a weight was pulled off his chest.
They all stayed where they were in shocked silence for a moment. Then, Aveline pulled her sword from the creature.
Aveline kicked at the cowl, knocking it aside. A browned skull lay within, a large gash in its side where her sword had taken across the face. As she prodded it with her boot it disintegrated, collapsing into dust. She stared a moment at it in shocked silence.
Hawke's moans brought them back to reality. She moaned once, twice – then stopped. Martin was up in a flash, pushing himself to his feet and running to the woman. Aveline for her part moved to Carver.
Hawke was on her knees several feet back from the dead shade, cradling her buckler in her still good hand. Martin knelt at her side as she whimpered once. He took her shoulder in one hand, made to look at the wounded arm, recoiled. Her arm was fractured, shattered – bones visible in multiple places. No blood leaked from the wound, why it did not Martin realized immediately – Hawke must know some healing magic. Some, but not enough to repair such a wound. The power and focus alone to knit the bone into a cohesive, fragile whole… not to mention the amount of knowledge and skill required for such an action. Would that Wynne were here.
She met Martin's eyes – look full of pain, but alert. "Car..ver…" she gasped.
Martin snapped up, shouted, "Aveline!"
"He's breathing," Aveline supplied, voice unsteady. Comedown. Adrenaline.
Martin felt a hand on his shoulder and moved to the side at the light shove. Merrill crouched below him, blanched but focused. She hovered her arms over Hawke's arm, inspecting for just a moment. Then she took it, looked closely. "You have magic," she whispered, shock evident in her voice. "I thought humans lock their mages away."
"It's… secret…" Hawke grunted. "Templar's… don't lock what they don't know." She whimpered as Merrill moved her arm closer, gentle yet firm.
"You have to let it go, Hawke," Merrill implored. "Let it bleed."
Hawke looked up sharply, fear evident in her eyes. It struck Martin harder than anything else. In all the hell that they had been through beneath Darktown, Martin had not once caught fear from her.
"Please," Merrill whispered. "It will help." Her eyes were so honest, so earnest, that Martin felt sure that what she said was true.
Hawke evidently saw the same thing. She stared a moment longer, nodded once, then screwed her eyes shut.
As the blood immediately began to seep from the mangled arm Merrill placed her hand directly in it, allowed it to flow through her fingers. Martin felt that iron tinge, that unholy feeling of its power as she harnessed it and directed it into Hawke's arm.
Hawke cried out in agony as the bone wrenched, then straightened. Flesh grew over in mangled patches, covering the bone. After a moment it was done, the wound closed – the arm was still crooked, still damaged, but it no longer looked as if amputation was the first logical choice.
Merrill's head lolled for a moment as the power ceased, her own eyes shut. When she opened them it was to Hawke grimacing in agony as she flexed the hand on her wounded arm, stiffly and painfully.
Merrill grabbed her hand, withdrew immediately. "Sorry… but… I'm not the best healer. Someone else will need to look at it to make it whole again."
Martin thought to the elves below. "Perhaps the Keeper would…"
The elf beside him looked at him as if just remembering he was there. She nodded. "She would be willing, after we complete the ritual."
At that moment Varric stepped up beside them, Hawke's spear in one hand. He held a hand out to Hawke. "You alright?"
She took his hand and allowed him to pull her partially up before making the rest of the way herself. She took the spear in her good hand and cast aside the remnants of her buckler.
"That was some freaky shit, Hawke," Varric said. "That thing that attacked us? Bones. It crumbles when you touch any of them."
They moved as one to the creature, though Hawke continued past it to the kneeling Aveline and Carver. Between Varric, Merrill, and Martin however there did not seem to be an abundance of concern for the boy. Martin felt a stab of shame at that. He is an arse. Does not mean you should not show concern for him. He is a comrade. He knelt and moved a hand to grasp at the breastplate below him.
"Wait!" Merrill cut in. "Don't touch it," she ambled up to the creature, knelt beside Martin, for once seemingly at ease. Or at least sufficiently distracted to not notice their presence.
She hovered a hand over the monstrosity, made as if to touch or prod several times, but instead finally withdrew her hand. "This is… old. Older than the Dales. This may even be from Arlathan."
Varric whistled. "Gotta be worth a shit load, am I right?"
Merrill whirled on him. "The Keeper will want to see this. This is ours – of the People. Besides," she said, cowing. "It may still be dangerous. We may have driven the spirit from the bones, but a remnant might still linger."
"'Spirit in the bones?'" Varric paraphrased, backing up. "Okay, consider me convinced. No touchy for us. You guys can have it."
"It was a shade, then?" Martin asked, curious. Hawke was clearly a mage, though he doubted she knew anything more than your average Circle mage. Merrill was Dalish elf, one of the only learned groups that had apostates. Perhaps the only group outside the Circle, at least here in the South.
A thought unbidden flitted through his mind, of raven hair and amber eyes. At what she might think of the opportunity to interrogate a Dalish First. She had shown no interest in speaking to Lanaya, though Zathrian… that was a different story. He shook the image from his mind even as he instinctively took another drink. 'Never follow me…'
She looked at him curiously. "Yes. A spirit inhabited this…" she gestured towards the ruined remains. "But not just any spirit. A memory of the days of Arlathan."
He remembered her lessons. 'Spirits cling to emotion, to memory. They cluster at the veil, peer in to where misery and violence have weakened it. Sometimes when the notion takes one, it joins the memory.' "An echo," he said softly.
She nodded.
Varric grabbed at Martin's flask again. He let him take it.
"Merrill," Hawke's voice came from across the remains. Merrill stood up immediately, steadying herself on her staff.
Hawke gestured to her. "Can you see what you can do for Carver?"
"A-all right," she stuttered, stepping carefully around the destroyed shade.
Varric took another swig of the flask, passed it back. "You think what she said was true?"
Martin glanced at him, taking a sip of his own and grimacing at the size of it. Varric and I have done a number on it. "You mean the spirit? Or the age."
He handed the flask to Varric. The dwarf took a belt before responding. "Both I guess. Both sound crazy, but I guess no crazier than rat eaters."
Martin looked at the figure, at the ancient armor. "She would know more of shades and Arlathan than I," though I supposed I know more than most. The Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Brecilian Forest, Ostagar… I have seen quite a few of ancient ruins crumbling to dust. "It is assuredly ancient."
Varric grumbled something that might've been a curse as he wiped his mouth. "We're not even getting paid for this. Why am I here again?"
Martin shrugged. "One must take any excuse to get out of Kirkwall."
Varric made a face as he handed the now empty flask back. "Hey. Kirkwall's my city. Born and raised, cradle to grave. You don't just insult a man's home to his face."
Martin looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. "You have a point there, dwarf. I suppose there are worse places to be from. Orlais, for instance."
His drinking companion gagged comically at that. "Orlesians. You got that right. Tell you what, they invade Ferelden again? Bianca and I got your back. In spirit. We'll root for you, the whole way."
"And you no doubt have all of Ferelden's thanks," Martin answered dryly.
"And you all will have my most sincere, 'you're welcome.'"
At that moment Hawke stood, head bent in an unheard conversation with Merrill. They moved together towards the altar.
"Junior must be alright," Varric observed.
"Right." Martin pushed himself to his feet and glanced down at the dwarf. "Coming?"
"What, for the ritual? Knowing elves it's got some crazy magic shit involved. No thanks. I've had enough for today, thank you."
Martin inclined his head and stepped over the empty armor, stepping on stone and earth as he made his way to the two mages now standing before the altar.
They stood, heads bowed, Merrill's hands clasped in prayer. "-melana sahlin," he heard her say as he stepped up behind them and off to the side. He didn't want to interfere, but he found himself curious. She would want me to see.
"Emma ir abelas souver'inan isala hmin vhenan him do'felas," she continued softly. She drew a circle of dirt on the top of the surprisingly immaculate altar. She gestured to Hawke.
Hawke reached behind her neck, unwound the cord, and placed the wormwood talisman on the altar. Martin felt the fade for a moment as Merrill lit a flame in each hand – wisping blue flame. It looked more like the reflection of fire than an actual fire.
Two stone braziers stood at each end of the altar. Merrill lit each one in turn then doused the flames in her hands. She moved to stand before the amulet. "In uthenara na revas," she chanted, closing her eyes and inclining her head.
Martin was bowled over as again freezing winds buffeted him, sending him to his knees. He cried out in surprise, in alarm, tried to cover his face with his arms. It was as if he was suddenly in the heart of a blizzard, unearthly snow whipping him down. He couldn't think, couldn't do much but try to protect himself from the onslaught.
Somewhere distantly he heard a rumbling, a great crash as if lightning struck not ten paces away. He clenched his eyes, formed the only coherent thought he could manage – a prayer. 'With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear, Endless possibilities.' Maker, see me through.
As suddenly as the onslaught had set upon him it ended. He froze for a moment, the relatively warm air suddenly far too hot in comparison. He stood, opened his eyes, and looked upon the altar.
Atop it stood an old woman, a stoop to her stance. Her hair crowned her face, hung all about in a tangled mess. She was dressed in roughspun rags, her eyes bleary and bloodshot. All in all, unassuming to the letter.
Except he knew her. Knew that face. He'd buried it not a year past. Flemeth.