Dragon Age: Wars of the Wolf
Deep down
Many thanks for faves, reviews, etc.
Calling the Pic de l'Ours a peak was a vast exaggeration. At best, the Pic de l'Ours was a gently sloping hill a few miles East of Montsimmard, unremarkable in any way except for the ruined stone gates that opened mid-way between the woodland below and the grassy top, now covered with dirty snow like the rest of the landscape.
The companions paused to unload their belongings in the shadow of huge, broken stone pillars. Horses were of little use, and would find even less sustenance, in the cool darkness under the earth, and so it had been agreed to leave the mounts in the care of the local Imperial Guards, who had dispatched two men to lead the little group to the entrance of the Deep Roads.
Nyx examined the ruins curiously. They were covered in half-erased geometric carvings that clearly showed their Dwarven origin; Nyx noticed with an uneasy feeling that most of the humanoid silhouettes in the bas-reliefs – dwarven paragons, she would have guessed- had been disfigured by rough hands, the faces chipped away and sometimes replaced with the crudely scratched semblance of what could be cows'– or dragons'- heads. One of the local guides, an Imperial Guard called Louchard, noticed her expression and took it upon himself to assuage her fears.
"There haven't been any reports of darkspawn coming through the Bear's Gate in over a hundred years," he said in Montsimmard's slow, rolling Orlesian, "these days, them shepherds even use the entrance to shelter their beasts from bad weather. Don't know about what's down there, though."
Nyx nodded. She would be aware of the presence of darkspawn well before the creatures sensed her anyway, a precious ability that had only become more reliable as the taint further spread through her body.
Not far to her right, Leliana fumbled with her pack with a whispered curse. Nyx watched the redhead with some concern. The bard's narrow escape from the horde in Denerim had left some deep, unseen scars. By her own avow, Leliana was unsure how she would react in the presence of darkspawn, and Nyx could not help feeling sorry for dragging her down into the Deep Roads again. The sorceress clenched her dead hand for a second, letting the seething pain remind her of the urgency of her quest.
Zevran seemingly materialized by Leliana's side; his nimble fingers found the buckle that had caught in the saddle, and then he was off again, chatting with Toast as happily and naturally as if the dwarf had actually answered any of his jokes, or shown any sign of interest. Deep inside, Nyx had to admit that she envied Zevran's easy, friendly manner and seemingly unshakable optimism.
To be honest, these days, Nyx was a little envious of anyone who was not a dark god's chosen vessel.
"You're going to be OK?"
Leliana met her gaze with a brave smile, her clear blue eyes betraying just enough contained fear to make the sorceress's heart ache.
"I will be fine, my Warden. I know you will be here for me. And there is nothing like facing your fears, yes? At least that's what the old tales say."
"Forget the tales. I'd rather not face the smelly bastards if possible."
"What, no bloodshed? No pain and mayhem? Are you sure that you're the same Warden I met in Ferelden?" Zevran chimed in from a safe distance.
"If you really miss pain," the sorceress groaned, "I could still roast your ass, Antivan."
"Roast? Is this a Tower euphemism?" Zevran exclaimed with a bright smile. Nyx was going to retort when Toast cast them all a withering look and cleared her throat noisily.
"All right, Lords and Ladies," the diminutive dwarf said in a sharp tone, "I'd 'preciate if y'all could keep it down once we're underside. Most beasties down there hunt by ear and nose, so either speak real quiet or even better, shut yer gobs. Better cut down on the perfume, too," she added with a pointed look at Leliana.
The companions looked at each other. This was by far the longest speech they had ever heard coming from their guide, and the demonstration of authority was all the more startling for it.
"But of course," Zevran purred with a little bow, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "who could resist such a charming invitation? I shall be as quiet as a Chantry mouse, I promise."
"And before long, we will all smell just like mabari puppies," Leliana added with a good-humored smile that fell a mile short of winning over the frowning dwarf. Nyx considered reminding Toast about her own experience in the Deep Roads, remembered how heavily she had relied on Oghren, and thought better of it.
"Surfacers," Toast grumbled below her breath as she pivoted on her heels and marched decisively into the gates' looming shadow, "always think they now better."
Had it not been for the Bond, Leliana may not have been able to make it.
Beyond the entrance hall, a large, relatively unadorned room strewn with the ashes of shepherds' campfires and thick deposits of sheep droppings, the tunnel turned into a large, winding ramp that descended, rather sharply, into the cooler recesses of the earth. Nyx and Toast led the way; the dwarf held a lyrium-infused lantern, and a bluish wisp of mage-fire hovered about the sorceress's head like a sickly-looking star. Whether because of Toast's injunction, or because of the inherently depressing feeling of inching along a gigantic screw aimed at the center of the earth, the companions were mostly silent.
For Leliana, the descent felt like a nightmare.
Minutes -or hours - into the infernal descent, Leliana's inner world was nothing but creeping fear. She just could not shake the feeling that rough hands were about to fall onto her shoulders; that the next turn of the ramp would reveal the raw faces of hurlocks. Leliana felt that something was waiting for her, down below. Not just hurlocks, but the others: the ones she had not been able to kill when mercy demanded it. They would be grayed and odiously cheerful, the Maker's servants now twisted and transfigured by the dark blood, the tattered remnants of brown robes hanging like napkins from bloated necks. They would remember her failure to save them, and their forgiveness would be more terrible than their wrath.
Leliana bit her lower lip to stifle a moan and stopped, leaning heavily against a wall as she gasped for breath. The air in the tunnel was dry and tasted of dust. Leliana's instincts demanded that she fled this cage of rock and dust. Instead, she took another step forward, then another, fighting against the urge to turn and run, until breathing became a struggle and a firm grip caught her arm. Nyx peered up at her, the markings on her face moving oddly in the ghostly light of mage-fire. The sorceress raised her good hand to the bard's temple and closed her eyes. Leliana felt a soothing darkness spread through her veins, and the fear and nausea receded.
"Next time you feel like that, think you could tell me?" the sorceresses asked in a soft voice, "Or were you concerned about worrying me? I almost passed out from your fear, you know. I can't imagine why you would bottle it up like this."
Leliana took a deep breath. Nyx's magic flowing through the Bond had an almost intoxicating quality about it, and she was afraid that she may start laughing hysterically. She was keenly aware of the presence of Zevran and Toast, even though their companions had been kind enough to stop a little further along the ramp. She could hear their breaths, unnaturally slow in the still air of the tunnel.
"I was serious about facing my fears, you know," she said after a moment. "If we are to face darkspawn again, I don't want this to be a problem."
"It won't." The sorceress's expression was intense; Leliana saw her nostrils flare briefly before the elf grasped the back of her neck and pulled her down into a kiss that was more hungry than tender. "You faced Fen'Harel and lived," Nyx whispered when their lips parted, "You kept me safe from a sodding god, Lel. The darkspawn should fear you, not the other way around."
Leliana nodded. "I'll… try to keep that in mind. Let's make a deal, shall we? I promise to let you know if I need your help. And in return, you will show me how to do whatever it is you just did. I would like to be able to, well, reciprocate, if the need arose," she said in a progressively more assured voice.
The sorceress raised an eyebrow. "Reaching through the Bond? You know it's evil blood magic, right? I'll do my best to explain how it happens, but I think it's a one-way thing."
"We'll see. Would you mind walking by my side for a while? I am sure Toast can make do with her lantern, and I would appreciate your company," Leliana said, tentatively taking a step forward and finding that her legs still felt a little soft.
"You can even lean on my shoulder, if you don't mind squishing a poor elf."
"Can I? Why thank you. Do let me know before you snap under my humongous weight."
"Less talking, more walking?" Toast groaned from the ramp ahead.
"How about: less bitching, more guiding?" Nyx hissed under her breath as she and Leliana resumed the long, dark walk.
"So, have you ever been in this part of the Deep Roads?"
Zevran's whisper echoed faintly over walls of polished granite.
The descent down the Pic de l'Ours had taken but a few hours, after which the companions had reached the Deep Roads proper, the network of vast, derelict tunnels that used to link the cities and colonies of the fallen Dwarven Empire.
In Zevran's opinion, the tunnels they had now been trudging through for three days looked pretty much the same as those around Orzammar and the Dead Trenches. In fact, all tunnels looked the same, which, coupled with the disorientation caused by the absence of the sky, meant that the Antivan had no idea whatsoever of the direction they were taking. It was a thoroughly unpleasant feeling.
But Toast always seemed to know where she was going. Whenever they came at a crossroad, the dwarf would briefly confer with Nyx, who would for some reason fidget with the contents of her pocket and then give an opinion about the general direction of their objective. The dwarf would then pick a passage, and even though the opening of said tunnel sometime seemed to point to the wrong direction, they would always end up turning back towards their goal.
Toast was competent, which meant Zevran reckoned that it would be wise to be on her good side, pun fully intended. After all, there was no saying what would happen should the dwarf decide that she was fed up with her companions and left them stranded in the Deep Roads. After the relative abundance of wildlife the Warden's companions had met in their search for lost Paragon Branka, Zevran had been surprised to find the tunnels under the Dales nearly devoid of life. Days could pass with with hardly a glimpse of a nug or a deepstalker to break the monotony of the long walk. Good luck finding food if they became lost.
Well, cannibalism was always an option, but Zevran had a distinct feeling that Leliana would entirely disapprove of eating Nyx. On the bright side, Leliana would probably disapprove of eating him as well.
At any rate, Toast intrigued him. In spite or because of the huge brand, there was something dignified about her, as though she bore the mark of the casteless with a certain pride. In fact, it was not unlikely that some of the markings were posterior to childhood; Zevran thought that they may be the mark of a particular Dusttown gang. Pride in one's accomplishments, however shady those might be, was something Zevran could definitely relate with.
But the dwarf seemed to foil his displays of good will with a tenacity that would have honored a Qunari, and had greeted his offer to discuss Antivan and Dwarven culture -body art and all- with a stern indifference that annoyed him more than the Warden's frequent bouts of anger. For more than anything, Zevran hated being bored, and the long walk through identical tunnels bored him senseless. In fact, this very boredom had led him to playfully test Nyx's boiling point more than a few times in the past days, and things were getting pretty volatile, which may or may not explain why Leliana insisted on his walking ahead with their guide.
"Nope," Toast said, interrupting his reflections. "Probably hasn't been a dwarf in here since the fall of the Western thaigs."
"I see," Zevran said. Conversation at last. How marvelous. "But you seem to know your way around all the same. How does this stone sense of yours work, if I may ask?"
The dwarf cast him a quick, pitying look over her shoulder, but did not slow down.
"How do your eyes work? How would you describe it to a blind man?"
Zevran pondered his answer for a half-minute, thinking of an Antivan maleficar he used to know. The man had cut open throngs of cadavers, provided by the Crows or less official grave-diggers, trying to answer the same exact question. When he was drunk, he would explain that the eyes worked like the lenses of a magnifying glass, projecting a miniature, inverted image of the world. The mage's knowledge didn't extend any further, though, and his experiments had met an unfortunate end when the family of some test subject finally caught up with him.
"I see your point. Can I ask you another question?"
"Must you?"
"I will take that as a yes," Zevran said optimistically. "Why haven't we met any darkspawn? Do you suppose they were all killed in Ferelden at the end of the Blight?"
"There is no end to darkspawn. They are like the lava under Orzammar: you may only see a trickle here, a river there, but in reality the city is built on a thin crust…" The tiny dwarf stopped as though to listen, her dark eyes lost in the distance. "We are still in the upper levels, elf," she finally said in a surprisingly clear voice, "the darkspawn don't come up here unless they need to hunt. But there are plenty of them below. They breed faster than you can kill them."
"I see… Should I ask whether we're going up or down?"
Toast snorted. "I thought that would be obvious, even to surface dwellers. It's down, duster. I hope you brought spare pants, because soon we'll be waist-deep in darkspawn filth."
Leliana woke with a start. It had been a fitful sleep; her body clock had been thrown out of sway by the constant night of the Deep Roads. Paradoxically, the further down the companions went, the more darkness gave way to an eerie gloom. Bluish or greenish veins of phosphorescent minerals were becoming more and more common in the walls of the tunnels, and sometimes she thought she heard the faint song of lyrium in its prison of rock.
Leliana lay motionless for a few seconds, listening intently, trying to spot the reason of her unease. She had a creeping feeling that something was wrong. As in response to her vigilance, her gut suddenly knotted, and a taste of bile filled her mouth.
A cool, firm hand grasped her forearm, and she turned to see the sorceress by her side. Nyx sat upright in the small alcove where the companions had set camp. Her pale skin reflected the tunnel's murky glow with an almost sinister gleam, and Leliana thought of a predator standing vigilant under the moon.
"I can feel them," Leliana whispered. She did not dare say their name; she felt that to do so may turn the vague menace into abominable certainty. Nyx nodded. She looked very calm, almost detached, as though the proximity of the enemy momentarily freed her of her burdens.
"They're still far. They cannot sense us, my love. Are you scared?"
Thoughts of gray flesh and torn Chantry robes fleeted through Leliana's mind, but she wrestled for control, and her voice only quavered a little when she answered.
"Terrified. I think I am going to be sick."
The sorceress nodded, and a little smile played on her pale lips as she reached for the bard's face, gently tracing her cheek with fingers that were as cool as blades. "Welcome to the Grey Wardens," she murmured, "now you know how Alistair and I felt almost every day of the past year."
"Does it ever get better?"
"I got used to it. I don't know if that's an improvement. In the last weeks before the Archdemon fell, sensing the darkspawn meant that I got to kill, and I relished that." The sorceress cocked her head pensively. "Funny, isn't it? I'm pretty sure that's the way they think."
"But you are nothing like them," Leliana said, gently enveloping the Warden's hand in hers, willing her own warmth to reach through the delicate, chilled bones. "You have feelings, and you are free to choose your own path. You have things to live for; you have… well…"
"You?" Nyx completed mischievously, and a little color seemed to come back to the pale cheeks. "Yes, my bard. Whatever happens to us, I hope you will remember this. Come, we should get going."
They woke Toast and Zevran, silently packed their bedrolls and left the alcove behind them, treading as quietly as possible on the rubble-covered ground until the sickening sensation in Leliana's gut all but receded, leaving only the dull, lingering feeling of hidden malice.
It took another day to reach the ruined thaig. By that time, as Toast had promised, the companions had plunged even deeper below the earth, and the traces of darkspawn occupation had become both more numerous and more recent. The group increasingly came across the creatures' crude totems, erected in apparently haphazard fashion along the narrowing, winding tunnels. Most of the totems were nothing more than junk tied together by strings of metal wire and other, obviously organic material that nobody wanted to inspect too closely.
Luckily, they never directly encountered the darkspawn, although there were several near-misses that sent Leliana's heart racing as the little group retreated precipitously to avoid detection. They seemed to be playing a sinister game of hide-and-seek, and after a while the bard caught herself almost wishing for open confrontation, rather than having to endure this nagging feeling of threat in the all-encompassing shadows.
As they made their way down, the tunnel became increasingly cluttered with garbage and broken bones; the companions sometimes had to clamber across genuine mounds of refuse. Most of the bones were ancient and crumbled under the foot, but they once came upon fresher remains in a big garbage pile. Toast spent some time foraging through the gnawed bones while Nyx and the others kept a safe distance from the stench, and they were surprised to see the dwarf bow deeply and sing a few, short verses in her guttural tongue. When Toast came back she was holding a warped copper insignia, and she drew Nyx apart to share her discovery.
"Legion," Toast said, her features set in an indecipherable expression, "dunno what they were doing this far from Orzammar. Guess no one will ever know."
"How long?" Nyx asked in a flat voice.
Toast shook her head. "Couple of weeks, one month? But Warden, we got a problem," she added in a low whisper.
"Really?" Nyx groaned, "And here I thought we were going on a leisure stroll. Out with it, then."
"There's too much trash around here. 'Spawn aren't reputed for cleanliness, and they don't usually take out their trash. This shit here…" the diminutive dwarf pointed at the mound of garbage, "this has breeding ground written all over it, Warden. We keep going down, we could be in over our heads."
Nyx quickly glanced at Leliana; the bard was having a hushed conversation with Zevran, and as the sorceress watched, Leliana giggled at one of the Antivan's jokes. Damned if I do, damned if I don't, Nyx thought. She might as well take her chance, and if the darkspawn overwhelmed them, she would make sure they didn't catch Leliana alive. Resolve building inside, the sorceress turned to the frowning dwarf.
"We need to go," she said flatly. "If you don't have what it takes, you can wait for us here."
Toast shook her head with a little grin. "You're one crazy duster, you are. Guess that's what it takes to make a Grey Warden. Should I tell the others the good news?"
Nyx looked at Leliana; feeling her gaze, the bard turned and smiled. Nyx struggled to smile back.
"Later. We're still nowhere near the lairs."
The deepstalker squeaked and scampered on short, sturdy legs, but too late. The bolt punched neatly through the creature's delicate ribs, its barbed head emerging from the wound like an obscene blossom. The other members of the pack quickly scattered as the genlock tracker knelt by the body and ran a meat hook through the cartilaginous head. The tracker threw the dying animal onto its shoulder. The beast's thrashing felt good. There was cool, sticky blood on the tracker's misshapen fingers, and it licked them clean with a satisfied grunt.
The tracker was a small, wretched creature. The weakest of its clutch, it had almost been discarded when the adults had cut it from the pus-filled sack in which it had grown and matured for a few weeks. But its Breeder's great stomachs had been full at the time, filled to the brim with freshly killed meat, and so the wriggling larva was spared her hunger and allowed to serve the Horde to the best of its abilities, which at the present time meant hunting.
And hunt it must. The arrival of the iron-skinned dwarves had spurred a new breeding cycle in the lairs, and the Breeders new and old were clamoring for meat. The tracker felt their hunger; it constantly demanded its attention, dominating all other imperatives; it gnawed at its rudimentary consciousness like a canker. The lair had vomited most of its brood into the surrounding tunnels, in search of spiders, deepstalkers, nugs… anything that could run, bleed and die would momentarily soothe the Breeders' hunger.
Just as it prepared to leave with its offering of meat and blood, an unfamiliar scent caught the tracker's attention, and it whined softly as it scanned its surroundings.
There. In the corner, where the deepstalkers had congregated to scratch at the sandy ground.
Discarding the meat, the tracker fell on all fours, sniffing the ground like a well-trained pig looking for truffles. The genlock's bulbous fingers fumbled at the sand impatiently, and what they found made it whimper in excitement. The latrine had been carefully buried, but its contents smelled and tasted fresh. Blurred images formed in the genlock's rudimentary brains.
Elf. Human. Dwarf. Meat and Breeders.
Leaving the deepstalker's carcass to rot, the tracker started to run.
Just as they felt that they could not possibly tolerate another detour through narrow, cobweb-infested passages, the little group stumbled into the lost thaig's vast, open space.
By Toast's reckoning the thaig must have been one of the bigger dwarven colonies, as well as an important trading post. The reason for this statement became evident as the companions carefully made their way along rubble-encumbered streets, between stone buildings that must once have looked grand, but were now reduced to burnt-down, crumbling husks. The sound of running water started filling the ruined streets, along with the heavy smell of sulfur. Before long the companions found themselves standing on what must have once been bustling docks besides a wide, fast-running river. Thick vapors rose from the water, and the temperature was markedly higher than in the Deep Roads. Leliana thought she vaguely glimpsed the pale forms of fish playing in the current, and strange, fungal vegetation infested the river's embankment, giving the scene an otherworldly quality. Nyx turned to Toast with a questioning look.
"Any idea where we are?"
"Could be Dace Thaig. The founder of House Dace became a Paragon for building the first Dwarven boat, out of metal, if you can believe it," Toast said dreamily, "Dace Thaig was a big trading town on the Yellowbreath."
Leliana scanned the piers and moors further along the embankments. "Do you think there are still boats we could use?" she asked. After the long days of walking along grim tunnels, the idea of a boat ride was quite seductive. Toast cast Nyx a questioning look, and the Warden buried her hand in her pocket for a while before pointing upstream.
"It's this way. Not very far, but we must hurry."
Toast shrugged. "Then a boat won't do much good, even if we find one that can still float. That is, unless you get your hands on a bronto to haul us against the current."
So much for our pleasant boat ride, Leliana thought: yet another little pleasure that would have to wait until she and Nyx could finally get a well-earned rest. With a sigh, she shouldered her backpack and followed Toast's lead along the foggy river bank.
It was hot on the towpath; the steam rising from the river inspired Zevran to recount a few amusing bathhouse anecdotes, and soon every member of the group had stripped off their cloaks and was uncomfortably simmering in sweaty armor. The path was smooth, although some sections of it had crumbled into the river and the companions had to take a few detours. After a while, the vast cavern narrowed into a deep gorge; the ceiling became markedly lower, dripping tepid condensation over the already sweat-drenched travelers. At last, the group arrived to a string of dwellings carved in the rock; it could have been a towing relay, Leliana mused, with large, broken doors on the first floor leading to the stables and stairs leading to hostel rooms.
Nyx stopped before one of the broken doors, Leliana standing by her side and peering curiously into the darkness inside. A musky animal scent rose from the entrance, and the bard's fingers fidgeted nervously with the handles of her daggers.
"It's here," Nyx said. "I think you should wait for me outside. I won't be in any danger," she added for Leliana's benefit before she planted a quick peck on the bard's lips.
Her fist tightly clenched on Flemeth's token, Nyx disappeared into the musky shadow.
It was weak, and hungry.
At first the darkness of the Deep had provided all it needed to sustain its carnivorous, wretched existence. There was prey aplenty, scurrying about on short legs or hovering on leathery wings. Its metabolism was slow, anyway, so it didn't need to feed more than once a week. The temperature was mild and the humidity satisfyingly high, thanks to the vicinity of the river.
It had crawled down from the higher levels, moving always deeper in a blind bid to put as much distance as possible between its thorny hide and the surface. In the end it had come here, the deepest den it could reach without scuttling through the great lairs of the dark ones that lay close to the ruined Dwarven dwellings. For a while it had explored the neighboring tunnels, but it always came back to its den, to the friendly darkness that concealed and protected. It had thrived here for a while, finding peace in the satisfying of its basic appetites.
Sometimes the poisoned ones would clobber along the tunnels, filling the place with their stench, but it hid in crevices in the ceiling and they left it alone. Sometimes, also, members of its own genus would raise a challenge for its territory, or wander in wreathed in clouds of pheromones, hoping to exchange genetic material, but it invariably met their aspirations with sharp claws and corrosive venom, and gnawed on their succulent innards, for it was strong.
Then the fungus came.
It didn't know what a fungus was, of course, but it felt the itch, and scratched at its chitinous hide with claws of horn. But that didn't help. Within weeks, its carapace started to crack in places, and the long, pale tendrils of the fungus slowly wormed their way out of its body, bringing pain so wretched that it all but forgot to hunt. Ripping the tendrils off with its claws only made things worse, as the spores they released got into its many faceted eyes, and the fungus started claiming those, too.
Now, it was nearing the end. It could hardly move at all, a weakened husk at the mercy of any wandering predator.
It had no idea of its own mortality, of course; but something akin to despair seized it when it felt the vibration of the ground. Soft soles trod on the uneven surface of the tunnel, and the air carried a strangely ethereal scent, laced with the stench of the dark ones.
It hissed a weak challenge, and the intruder stopped just short of claw range.
Through one surviving eye, it examined the irritant, taking in the small, slim frame, the long threads of black hair, the gleam of polished leather. This was no creature of the deep, come to prey on its misery. Terror seeped through its rudimentary brains, and it tried to run away, but its thorny legs would not carry its weight anymore. The biped made squealing sounds and raised a sleek upper leg. A torrent of pain and fear washed over it.
It hissed in agony, its spiny legs thrashing about in torment, twisting, melting, melding.
Becoming.
When the pain abated, it raised a soft, sore-covered claw to its one good eye and watched stupidly, unable to make sense of the five pinkish antennae that now wriggled there. The slim figure walked confidently to its side, catching its fevered head in a cool claw. It tried to hiss in warning, and something was forced between its mandibles. Glacial fire rushed down its throat and another wave of alien sensations enveloped it, not unlike what it used to feel when its thorny claw came in contact with a trace of lyrium in the rock. It felt the fungus recoil and wither in the fire, and a little strength came back to its… arms, and legs.
With restored sight came the awareness of its true shape, and the memory of power coursing through its hands, and the faint, distant song of the Veil. And with the song came a vague, fluttering sense of identity. The ghost of a name…
"Morrigan," the slim figure called.
With lips that felt soft and alien, she tried to tell the intruder to go away, to protest that she was no such person and that no good could come from speaking that name. Then she saw the ring in Nyx's hand. Shock and recognition overwhelmed her, and for a time, Morrigan sank into merciful, soothing darkness.
