A/N
It's been years since I touched the subject of Dragon Age, partly because I wanted to distance myself after such a rough start with some of my first attempts at writing. However, this time I believe I'm filled with enough inspiration to make that attempt.
The story I have will be more or less within the lore boundaries of Thedas, slightly AU to fit the narrative I have in mind. I apologize in advance if some details might conflict, and of course the disclaimer-
I don't own Dragon Age, just my OC's. Also, kudos to Lorrimer997 for allowing me to take up his scrapped one-shot story "Old Valkhun". I promise, I'll try my best to make a decent successor to your masterpiece.
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-1700 Ancient
The Song of Old Val'kun
Before the Age of Steel; when the elves were lords of land and sea, when the Maker's citadel was yet of gold, before the cities of Barindur were swept away by a wrathful Dumat's hand...
There was Man. And with men came the tribes of Neromenia, Alamarri, Ciriane, Norsa, Planasane and Anderfel.
Men were children of dust, quick to birth and quick to die. But Man's voice was loud, and unto his voice listened the Old Gods. Drawn as moth to flame, the Old Gods came.
One by name, was Val'kun.
Cursed by the jealous Maker to slumber eternal like his brothers, Val'kun slept in the hollowed breast of the mountain. Beneath the earth, he heard the sounds of slaughter and by the blood that seeped into his tomb he awoke to find Man at war.
The tribe of Norsa, whose throat was gripped by Neromenia, begged the Old God for salvation. Val'kun defied his brother Dumat, who called for the death of Norsa, and destroyed the warriors of Neromenia.
Seeing weakness in the men of Norsa, the wise Val'kun said, 'You have neither tooth nor claw, scale or hide. Give yourselves to me, and I will grant you these gifts.'
Old Val'kun taught Norsa the gift of ironworks. From iron, they forged blades and linked hides. With iron, they became as dragons were to men.
But Dumat saw the gifts of Norsa and his fury burned. He gave Neromenia the secrets of magic, and together they went to war.
Old Val'kun foresaw the slaughter and when his people cried out to him, he asked thusly of Norsa. 'Give me your daughters, and I will grant you your champions.'
Four virgins were given unto Val'kun, and the Old God took the form of Man. He bestowed his essence upon these four virgins, and they bore him children.
Enraged by Val'kun's deeds, Dumat brought down earth and sky to destroy his brother's followers. But Val'kun, noble Val'kun, covered Norsa with his wings and sent them far across the Boeric Sea.
Old Val'kun's bones yet lie in the bossom of Par Vollen, isle of the horned-giants, where he had fallen. Cursed by Dumat, it is said that he who unearths his brother's tomb shall be filled with a hunger to swallow the world.
And the Norsans, doomed to wander the earth, faded away into the sunless wastes.
8:89 Dragon
Par Vollen
The island chains of Par Vollen, since the dawn of the Age of Steel, had long been shrouded in mystery. Before the arrival of the Qunari, the neolithic Fex kept its discovery from the rest of the world for hundreds of years and built a civilization secluded from Thedas that they might serve their forgotten horned gods. Conquering them was easy for the horned giants when they stepped on its shores, for the Fex regarded them as their gods made flesh.
The towering ziggurats, pyramids and temples were repurposed for the worship of the antitheistic code of the Qun. But for all their incomprehensible nature, the Qunari created a society that knew no struggles, no inner conflicts that so plagued the civilizations of Man. To them, it was perfection.
It was in their architecture, their industry, their battle formations. The Qunari were one body... or at least they would like to think they were.
Qunandar, capital city of Par Vollen, was a prime example of the well-hidden flaws of their society. Behind its high walls of shaped stone, brick and obsidian were hundreds of conquered slaves hailing from all across Thedas. The Qunari held no illusions on the matter of choice, they found that the most effective conversion lay with subjugating people. Within a few years in the domed conclaves, even the most stubborn of wills break beneath the masterful manipulations of the Viddasala.
But on this day, it is the Qunari who will break.
In the quays of Sunandaar, harbor city of Par Vollen, a foreign ship was towed by a Qunari dreadnought out of the early morning fog to be brought before the gatherers of the conquered. In comparison, the ship was only a third of the size of the dreadnought. From bow to stern, it was red with the caked blood of slain warriors. The dreadnought itself looked battered from a vicious battle at sea, scorched from what seemed like mage-fire.
At first glance, the watchers of the Antaam could see the horned men standing at the helm of both ship and dreadnought. At first thought, they assumed it was only the Qunari boarding party, for in the light of the dawning sun they could see the red marks of the Qunari vitaar warpaint.
This was a natural assumption, but also false. The horned men were not Qunari. The red marks were not vitaar paint, it was dried blood. These warriors were from a time beyond the Qun and they followed the voice of a dead god which led them to Par Vollen.
Suddenly, the sky darkened above Sunandaar. Five gargantuan shapes swooped down from the clouds, heralded by an ear-splitting howl that carried over the winds like a peal of thunder. All who had eyes looked up and saw the growing silhouette of five ancient and powerful dragons. All who had hearts quaked in fear as their shapes grew larger and larger.
Once the ship and dreadnought slammed into the wooden wharves, the Norsan warriors hiding patiently within them disembarked.
Men clad in steel chainmail shirts, horned helms shaped to look like the bristling snouts of drakes, greaves of reinforced brass and bracers carved with foreign runes, bellowed out in their tongue the call to war.
"To Val'kun!"
Their hands brandished axes, bows, swords and spears. None carried shields, much to the surprise of the Qunari defenders.
"Ataash Qunari!" A horned giant bellowed, preparing to hurl a javelin. In mid-swing, a Norsan arrow found its way into his throat.
As the Norsans, outnumbered by the far numerous Antaam garrisons, stormed the fortresses of the harbor city, the five dragons descended upon Sunandaar. One dragon could set flame to a village, five could raze a city down to its foundations.
The first of the five dragons, and the largest of them all, was dark of scales- black as night. His eyes blazed with the fires of hell, red with murder but gold like the crown of a king. The spires on his neck and back rolled like the waves of the sea as he flew gracefully through the air, showing a certain elegance that should've been absent in the beast. His name was Mercerandres, first-born son of Val'kun and leader of the Norsans.
The second was Kellendramaath, dark as his brother but only two-thirds of his size.
The third, a slender white and gold dragon, was Nimea. She shadowed her more powerful siblings, cunningly targeting the Qunari supply vessels to ignite their gaatlok stores and set off a chain reaction of colorful explosions across the harbor. Her sharp mind could be seen in her works, a fact that she took special pride in.
The fourth and fifth were the twin red-scaled dragons, Libra and Scylla, who circled above their Norsan followers like shepherds protecting their flock.
Free to sow ruination among the hapless Qunari defenders, Mercerandres and Kellendramaath cut a fiery swath across Par Vollen. Back and forth, they swooped down from the skies to reduce stone and brick to molten slag. The attack took the Qunari by surprise, and by the time they could muster their cannoneers to turn their powerful weapons skyward it was already far too late.
The cities were burning, their fleets were sinking to the bottom of the sea, and their proud Antaam were scattered across Par Vollen. Meanwhile the Norsan warriors, left to march through Sunandaar unabated, prepared the burning harbor for the rest of their fleet. Out of the fog sailed fifteen other ships, carrying more warriors as well as the Norsan shapers- mages who mastered the elements of air and water. When they clashed against the Qunari, they brought the fury of the tides with them and ripped the very breath from their lungs. This attack had been prepared months in advance. The Norsans knew that a direct assault on Par Vollen would mean disaster, so they employed the use of trickery to grease their path to victory. They waited for news of the Qunari main armada to sail for Tevinter-held Seheron in their ill-fated attempt to take the land for themselves. A captured Qunari vessel, under the guise of bringing home another shipful of potential converts, would pave the way into the harbors of Sunandaar.
The great dragon Mercerandres descended upon Qunandar after razing its garrisons to ash. The magnificent domes, the aqueducts and hanging gardens wore the dancing flames of his wrath. His brother Kellendramaath followed him, as did Nimea. The dragons churned the dust of the earth as their massive wings carried them down, and the ground shook when their taloned feet touched the stones of the bloodied streets. The Qunari were still rallying their warriors together from all over the city to mount a desperate defense against the invaders, going as far as to unlock the cages of the feared Saarebas to unleash their sorceries on the dragons. A group of priests, led by the Ariqun high-priestess, barred the path of the three as they boldly traversed the courtyard leading up to the grand staircase of the ancient pyramid of Qunandar.
They were planning to shelter the newly converted in the hallowed halls of their ancestors, they never expected to come face to face with the dragons themselves.
Masking her fear beneath a thin guise of calm, the Ariqun stood her ground as Mercerandres loomed over her. With but a few meters to separate them, she could clearly see the taunting look in his eyes and the twitching corners of his maw as he sneered condescendingly at her. She glanced at the others and found similar expressions, although Nimea seemed to regard her with guarded curiosity than outright malice.
Gathering her courage, she spoke first. "Parshaara Ataashi. Enough, glorious one."
Mercerandres chuckled in amusement, his laughter ringing clear like the powerful toll of a cathedral bell. "Enough, this one says... as if your words would bend my will to yours."
"You have razed our cities, and have shown strength against the Antaam. To see us beaten, to expose our weakness- are these not enough for you?"
"You behold us as conquerors, quickling." Nimea said, her voice a soothing melody compared to Mercerandres' callous cacophony. "We are not."
"We've come for the bones of a dead god." Kellendramaath rumbled quietly, "You are simply... in our way."
Astonished, the priestess could only gape at the absurdity of their claim. "All this suffering, all this carnage and bloodshed could have been avoided if you have come to us in peace!"
"You claim to know peace, the Qun knows it not. Violence is the universe's oldest tongue, it is what you know best. Through this, we want you to understand..."
Mercerandres' body morphed and twisted as his scales flared into bright golden showers of flame. His massive form molted away to that of a man, dressed in a sleeveless dragonleather shirt and dark snakeskin trousers that stopped at the kneeguards of black steel greaves. Before the eyes of the Ariqun, he had polymorphed to meet her on even ground. Even as a man, he towered above the horned priestess by a head. His eyes were golden discs stained at the edges by scarlet cords. When he looked at the Ariqun, he had the cold calculating gaze that befitted a wolf stalking a hapless lamb.
The priestess stared, wide-eyed, at the black hydra head tattoos snaking along the skin of his arms and shoulders. His limbs pulsed with raw physical power, the skin of Man barely contained the soul of the dragon like an overflowing dam ready to burst. When he spoke to her in this form his voice was lower, without the bestial growl it sounded more diplomatic. The threatening undertones were there, for Mercerandres was still clear to his purpose. "...what we've come for, you will let us pass... or we will destroy you."
Nimea echoed his grim promise, "Resist us, and this island will be home to nothing but ash and ruin."
The threat was a gamble. The Norsans didn't have the numbers to take on the whole of Par Vollen. The dragons were counting on the swiftness and brutality of their first attack to demoralize the Qunari enough that they would agree to a momentary truce.
The noise of the fighting outside the gates of Qunandar reached the courtyard, for the Norsan warriors had finally caught up with their masters. Subsequently, the Arishok and his honor guard emerged from the burning city to surround the dragons.
The oxman warlord, distinguished from his fellows by his massive four-arched horns, brandished a double-bladed axe that looked just as large as he was. The frustration of having to see his warriors butchered from the skies without having a chance to retaliate was evident on his face. Now that he and the dragons were on even ground, he relished in the opportunity. But before he could give the order to attack, the Ariqun stayed his hand. She spoke to him in the Qunlat tongue, convinced him to let the invaders take what they've come for while, unbeknown to the Norsan, they were to rally all their forces to Qunandar and strike when the dragons were occupied. She figured that without their followers, the dragons will be more vulnerable on the ground. As long as they were kept from taking to the skies, the Qunari will be able to kill them.
Nimea did not know their tongue, but she understood the cunning minds of mortal creatures. And yet, she didn't care. She and her fellow dragons were so close now, so near to their father's bones.
Hundreds of Qunari warriors were converging on the pyramid with every passing minute, so the five dragons pulled their forces back to the harbor with the exception of a handful of Norsan berserkers to follow them into the heart of the pyramid- where the bones of Old Val'kun called out to his children. The truce will not last, and the battle will resume very soon. Mercerandres would have, at the very least, some of his followers live to enjoy their victory.
Nimea and Kellendramaath polymorphed into their human forms, to be able to traverse the halls of the pyramid labyrinth that would've otherwise been too cramped for their dragon forms. Libra and Scylla opted to remain outside, to guard the entrance from Qunari treachery.
Nimea's was a tall woman of ethereal beauty, a being born of magic rather than natural means. Her skin was glossed bronze, pulled taut over steely muscle that radiated as much power as her brothers. Long wavy hair, so golden that it was almost white, swung along her slender back in neat little braids. Emerald green eyes took in the world with catlike grace, watching but never carelessly.
Kellendramaath was the opposite. His form was crude, rough and abrasive like chipped shale. Where his brother chose to take a form that transcended Man, his was of ordinary flesh and bone. Like the Norsan berserkers, his chest was bared and painted with blue tribal markings. His blue eyes darted about suspiciously, and his fingers flexed repeatedly in preparation for any fight. Like Mercerandres, he and Nimea were dressed in dragonleather armor- just shy an offshoot from their true forms.
The demigods were unarmed, but no one made the mistake of thinking them defenseless.
Down they went, into the untouched bowels of the ancient temple. Traps and obstacles claimed the lives of many who dared cross the threshold, but the demigods were not to be stopped. Together, the three siblings marched forward, listening to the call of their father's bones until at last they found it.
Val'kun's resting place, a mountain within the earth, was hand-carved into a shrine to the Old God's former glory. The Fex, who first came to Par Vollen, worshipped him in the ancient days. The Qunari revered him, but did not see him as a god.
Jealous Dumat brought him low, all because Val'kun had people who loved him more than they feared him.
Mercerandres took in the skull of his father, his bones black with the excess of iron in his dragon's blood. Val'kun, even in death, was glorious. His wingspan alone was enough to encompass Qunandar twice over, and his jaws could yawn wide to swallow the rivers of Ferelden and drain them dry. Such was the magnificence of the Old Gods.
"The Age of Old Gods has ended." Mercerandres declared as his followers knelt before Val'kun. He could feel the slumbering power buried deep in the bones of his father, and he beckoned for it to come. "Now, our time has come. Father, your children have answered your call- speak now that we might bring peace to these old bones!"
The three demigods froze as the remains of the Old God lit up like iron heated in the forge. The magic of Val'kun was awakened, and his children drank deep of the remains of his soul. The tomb was suddenly filled with a deadly corona of bright blue energy, which split the earth with abyssal fissures that threatened to bring the whole pyramid down on everyone. As Val'kun's final gift was bestowed upon the three, so did they receive the curse of Dumat. Power filled their souls, and at once they felt an inexplicable hunger. It was the thirst of conquerors, the greed of misers, the insatiable lust for power- a thousandfold.
Dumat's hunger, one that could swallow the world.
As the ritual reached its peak, the shadows bent to reveal a dozen of the Ben-Hassrath's finest assassins. They allowed the demigods to proceed, only to creep closer to deliver the killing blow. Their presence was discovered by the Norsan berserkers, and a battle quickly ensued. Mercerandres was aware of them but didn't move to help his followers, neither did Nimea. Only Kellendramaath turned away from his father's bones, and with an irate puff he breathed a golden cloud of fire that sent the Ben-Hassrath reeling back to the exit. Qunari, elves and men were reduced to molten statues of charred flesh and brittle bone. The rest were cut down by the berserkers.
When the ritual ended, Val'kun's bones crumbled into dust, leaving an empty shrine. Mercerandres, so full of his father's divine power, lifted his face and blasted the roof right off the pyramid with a torrent of bright green fire spewed from his gaping mouth. Kellendramaath collapsed on all fours, his back distending as though his spine was about to burst from his body. His bestial roars thundered across Qunandar, heralding the clash of the Norsans and Qunari as the truce was immediately disregarded. Outside, the horned warriors fell upon the Norsans with renewed vigor, intent on driving the invaders back into the sea.
Stone and dust buried most of the berserkers in the pyramid when the roof caved in after Mercerandres' outburst, but left the three demigods unharmed.
Libra and Scylla paused in their fight to witness their siblings climb out of the ruins of the pyramid, irrevocably changed. Mercerandres was even bigger than before, and a new bone foreplate had grown over his snout like a helmet. Nimea was spewing lightning instead of fire, and her glorious white scales crackled with golden arches of electricity. Kellendramaath had grown new scales that stretched over his body like armor, but he remained the smallest of the three.
The Norsans, about to be overrun, cheered as their gods revealed their divine might to the unbelievers. To their surprise, Mercerandres and his sister departed Par Vollen, abandoning their followers to their fate. Libra and Scylla were loyal to Mercerandres, so they followed too. It wasn't out of fear that they decided to leave, but out of a callous disregard born out of an Old God's pride. Only Kellendramaath stayed, and he roared furiously at their betrayal. His fellow demigods paid him no heed, for as far as they wer concerned, if he planned on dying so soon after his ascension- he could leave them out of it. As for the Norsans, they no longer held any loyalty for them. It was the work of the curse, along with their newfound power, that severed whatever ties they had for what they deemed a dying breed.
The lone dragon stayed for as long as he could. He even shielded the warriors with his wings, enduring the painful blows of swords and lances piercing the flesh beneath his scales. His flames repelled the Qunari every now and then, but on the ground they were just too much for one demigod.
"You must go!" A wounded shaper said to him, "There are others in the harbor! You cannot save us, but you can save them!"
Kellendramaath snarled, "You don't tell me what to do, shaper! I do not abandon my followers, no matter how inconsequential you may seem!"
"My lord, we are the last of the Norsan people! If they destroy them at the harbor too, we vanish from the face of the earth! I beg you, do not let this come to pass!"
The dragon looked into the old man's eyes and nodded slowly. "Then... I go. I will remember your names, and I will carve them into my brother's skull!"
Kellendramaath tarried a bit, giving the Norsan warriors some room to fight one last bout before finally meeting their end at the tips of Qunari spears. Then, he took to the skies amidst the bombardment of Qunari cannons. He burned much of Qunandar, stopping only when he felt satisfied about the fact that they will not be able to rebuild that cursed city for the next hundred years.
He landed upon the burning harbor to meet with the Norsan warbands holding the quays. Kellendramaath, also known to them as Kell, polymorphed upon descent. A battle-scarred old man, distinguished by his graying braided beard and wolf's head cowl, approached the demigod. This man was warchief to the Norsans, the equivalent of an Archon if the Norsans fared as well as the Tevinter Imperium.
"Jolvan, we sail once more." Kell declared, "My siblings have betrayed the Norsan, leaving your sons to die in Qunandar. I don't know what manner of power has twisted their minds, but I give you my word that I will not rest until I find an answer- before bringing you their heads."
Warchief Jolvan's face fell, for to hear the betrayal of his gods was a feeling no religious man could bear. The old warrior took some solace in knowing that he had at least one god left, and that he chose to remain when the others abandoned them.
All the Norsans knelt before Kell as the ships broke away from the harbor to again brave the treacherous Amaranthine and Boeric Seas. Once, they swore to follow Mercerandres. Now, they follow Kellendramaath.
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