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Belvetto, captain of the Orlesian garrison based in the Hinterlands of Ferelden, made his rounds as part of his routine before heading back to his office. The ramparts, the courtyard, the watchtowers and barracks reported all to be in tip-top shape. The supply caravan pulled up earlier that morning, caravan master passed on his clearance papers and dropped off both crates and barrels to fill up the garrison's cellar and pantry.
Everything was going well, and it was looking to be a quiet day. With all that was going on, Fereldan rebels stirring up trouble in the countryside and rumors of monsters springing out of the mountains, quiet was just the kind of thing Belvetto was looking for. The garrison had been stocked with Orlais' fine young men, with the occasional veteran to mix things up. Everyone was itching for some action, and it seemed as though the rebels were attacking everywhere else but the garrison.
The captain knew their turn was coming up, probably sooner than he thought.
The garrison was well situated, with only one path winding up from a steep ravine to and from the main gate, separated by draw-bridge. It had its back to the mountain, so there was no reason to expect an attack from the rear. If anyone was looking for trouble, they would have to face the front of the garrison's formidable defenses. It was no fortress, Capt. Belvetto held no illusions on that part, but an army would have trouble trying to take the place from Orlesian control.
He peered over the wall, watching the sentries make their rounds as much as he did. That was when he spotted someone walking up the path towards the draw-bridge. A man, badly wounded, was struggling to reach the garrison. His gait was stumbling, each step like that of a drunkard. Belvetto said nothing, allowing his subordinates to handle the situation, though keeping a close eye on how things were going to go.
A small group of six Orlesian footmen, adequately armed with swords and shields with modest chainmail armor, followed the sergeant out of the gates to investigate. Archers and arbalists were put on alert to cover the footmen, and all eyes centered on the wounded stranger.
The sergeant was too far away for Belvetto to hear his words completely, but he could see him raise his hand in warning. The man kept coming, his stride growing stronger with each step as though his wounds were but a veneer of vulnerability. The sergeant's hand reached for his sword, this time his voice was loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Stop! I order you to st-"
The man drew his hand back, balled it into a fist, then struck the sergeant under his chin. There was a solid crack, which reverberated across the narrow pass. In that span of a second, Belvetto watched as the sergeant's head launched free from his neck with a thin trail of bright red arcing into the air behind it. Startled, the other five Orlesian footmen stepped back with their swords halfway out of their sheaths.
The sergeant's corpse started to fall back into the dust, but the stranger caught it before it touched the ground. He lifted it up and held it like an open jar as he emptied the body and drained it of its blood. When he was done, he launched himself into the footmen and tore them limb from limb.
At first, the Orlesians thought him to be a blood mage. But a blood mage couldn't move like he did, nor possess a bestial savagery as he demonstrated in each fatal blow. The more apt description would be Reaver. Ferelden was led by one in a bygone age, and the Free Marches were full of them. Belvetto had never seen one in person, but he'd been paying attention to some of the field reports when he visited other garrisons in the borders of Orlais.
"Archers and lancers, take aim and fire!" The captain bellowed, ordering the arbalists to take down the assailant before he could reach the gate. Arrows and bolts rained down on the man, though none seemed to pierce his skin. The blood allowed him to make it as hard as iron, he laughed at the Orlesians and broke into a sprint.
The main gate was a three foot thick slab of stone and solid oak, easy to drop into place by a network of pulleys connected to a drop-lever in the main watchtower. Upon seeing the sergeant and his men fall to the stranger, Belvetto had the gate shut and the alarm sounded throughout the garrison. The gate, that three foot thick slab, was rendered into splinters within the short span of a minute.
"Andraste's flaming ass!" The captain drew his sword and pulled his visor down over his face. "To the gate! Quickly!"
He descended from the ramparts at the head of every armored infantryman in the garrison barracks. The fight had reached the courtyard, and some of the inexperienced light cavalry thought it was a good idea to engage the reaver down there. Truth be told, a horse multiplied a man's striking power in the battlefield, but there were exceptions. Belvetto understood the appeal of such a foolish idea. In such a cramped space as the courtyard, with too little a distance to build up speed, a man on horseback was pretty much useless. The cavalrymen found that out the hard way, so did the horses.
The reaver ripped them to pieces with his bare hands, growing all the more stronger with each kill.
Belvetto had one officer, his lieutenant, who was a mage. He ordered her to keep her distance, for there was no telling what sort of power she was going to give the reaver should he kill her too. The Orlesians surrounded the intruder, forming a wide ring of blades with their spears out and their shields tucked together.
In the center, the brute was cannibalizing the remains of the cavalrymen and their mounts, far too quickly for an ordinary man. Meat and crushed bones were downed by the handful, one after the other. The reaver, a giant in his own right, watched the Orlesians with hungry blue eyes while he devoured their comrades. He was dressed in dragonleather, though not enough to count as armor. Dozens of fresh scars covered the bare skin of his arms and back, together with the scabbing wounds of a past conflict. It was a grisly sight, to say the least.
"Behold, the Fereldan beast manifest!" The lieutenant declared as she cast a spell over the reaver. She positioned herself well at the ramparts, affording herself a good vantage over the dragon along with the garrison archers. A swirling mass of blue energy formed overhead, which conjured a small lightning storm that converged on the reaver with growing intensity. "Such is the nature of this land without Orlesian discipline!"
The reaver staggered and convulsed with each lightning bolt. He looked genuinely hurt by the mage's spells, and his confidence gave way to fury. Belvetto swore that he saw the man catch fire, though none of it came from the lieutenant's magic. "I am not Fereldan!", he roared. The reaver transformed into a dragon before their very eyes. Wingless and wrapped in dark blue armored scales, but a dragon nonetheless.
"I am Kellendramaath, and your lives are forfeit!"
For a moment, Belvetto considered the wingless stumps on the creature's back and wondered what cruel hand had robbed him of his dominion of the skies. Cruel, or perhaps just? The dragon was brutal, and he deserved no sympathy. The captain ordered his men to press forward, "In the name of the Empress, kill him!"
Suddenly, Kell reared his head back and belched a powerful cloud of fire skyward. His flames washed over the ramparts, killing scores of archers and arbalists along with the lieutenant. Dragonfire burned so hot, it melted the stones like wax and reduced men into ash. Without the mage to keep it affixed in their reality, the orb vanished into the Fade and the dragon was left free to continue his rampage.
For many Orlesians, the murderous gleam in his eyes and the glint of the sun across his teeth were the last thing they saw on earth.
The screams and the song of steel crashing against steel had long died down. The black smoke rising up from the garrison, along with the silence of its defenders, was evidence enough for Loghain to consider the dragon's onslaught a victory for the rebels. The four leaders of the Fereldan Rebellion sat with their horses at the base of the mountain pass, just shy of a few hundred meters away from the garrison. They waited, impatiently so, for news of the dragon's doings. Loghain had his own reservations regarding Maric's plan of exploiting the creature's strength, but he could see the wisdom in sparing their men from risking it all for a supply outpost.
"I hear nothing." Arl Rendorn observed, pulling tightly to his reins to steady his unruly mount. "Should be safe to investigate."
"That's what scouts are for." Maric said, motioning for two riders to head into the garrison. "Till they return, we wait."
Loghain turned his horse so he could face the prince, "Maker's breath, he took on a whole Orlesian garrison by himself! How do you plan on keeping him when he's had his fill of Orlesian dead?"
"I'm hoping that he doesn't." Maric replied, "If I can be brutally honest with you, I have no idea what to do with Kell. He's an unexpected gift from the Maker, and I do so intend to use him to the best of my ability- but I don't quite know where to start. At best, I can only direct his hunger in any direction away from us."
"Don't sully the purity of the Maker's will by connecting this creature with him!" Rowan snapped, at last breaking her silence. "He gorges on the dead like an animal- no more no less. I would advise you to have him killed the first chance we get, before he becomes a danger to us."
"Rowan is right, Maric." The Arl agreed, "A dragon is still a dragon, and a danger to the people of Ferelden. Let me remind you that you still have a duty to them, even as leader of this rebellion."
Maric nodded, taking in the advice of his council, though maintaining his stance on the issue. "I hear you all. But something tells me this particular dragon's amenable to reason. He doesn't just speak because he can, there's a sentient mind behind all that animalistic savagery. I think it best we don't overlook that."
The scouts returned to the rebel army, reporting to the prince what they discovered at the enemy outpost. The whole Orlesian garrison had been wiped out, and all that remained was Kellendramaath busying himself with the corpses. Maric imagined it wouldn't be good for morale if the rest of the troops actually saw the results of the dragon's handiwork, so he decided to take a small detachment of his most trusted soldiers- men of honor he could swear to secrecy- and take the spoils of the garrison. On this venture, he would take only Loghain with him out of all his advisers, seeing that he was the only one inclined to find favor with allying with the dragon demigod.
The rebels rode for the garrison, led by the riders that scouted out the area beforehand. Gore stained the ground and walls, with dozens of charred corpses littering the inner courtyard up till the mountain of dead Kellendramaath piled in the center. The dragon, having eaten his fill, reclined casually atop their bodies while toying with the corpse of one Captain Belvetto.
Maric surveyed the carnage and ordered his men to search the garrison for salvageable materials, particularly the supplies wheeled in earlier that day from the caravan train.
"Don't worry." Kell said, picking through Belvetto's body to remove his armor as a fisherman would descale a trout. "I made sure not to burn away the food stores in this place. I knew you'd have use for it."
"That's very generous of you. Thank you." Maric dismounted. He grimaced in revulsion when Kell prepared to swallow the Orlesian captain whole. Noticing his disgust, Kell shrugged and tossed the dead man away for later. Having gotten used to the idea of a talking dragon, Maric broached the subject concerning their deal. "So, Kell... does this mean our bargain stands fulfilled?"
The dragon turned his head so that he'd look Maric in the eye, "If you consider this paltry garrison all to be your enemies, then it is so. But you and I both know that my part of the bargain encompasses a far larger task to fulfill. You mean to fight an empire, take back a stolen throne, win back your autonomy. I know this story, I've seen it all before..."
Maric blurted out, finding himself testing the beast for just how honorable he could be. "Nothing ought to hold you to honor the deal. You're a dragon."
Kell bristled, offended by his words. "I am no mere dragon. Unlike my brother, I know what honor means. I hold myself to a higher standard- never forget that."
"Forgive me, I meant no offense. I confess, our alliance is... unusual to say the least. My friends are hesitant to have one such as yourself be unleashed into the fields of battle. They fear your appetite might extend well beyond the Orlesians."
"And yet you need me to fight your battles, where my bounty of flesh and blood best stems from. And you are a prince, what do you care about the opinions of your lessers?"
"Oh I care, very much so." Maric replied, "Don't mistake my words for ingratitude, I appreciate your willingness to help."
"My word is my bond, it is not 'willingness'." Kell corrected him, "I am robbed of my wings, and therefore I cannot pursue revenge... this distraction will calm my primordial urges for the moment. Your peers have nothing to fear from me, I only seek to devour your enemies- and only them. Take advantage of my aid, while you can."
"That I will." The prince turned to see a rider come up the path straight from the main rebel encampment. He let the messenger approach before stepping away from Kell. "What news?"
"Meserre, there is a group of men at the camp. They are asking for Kellendramaath."
"I trust that the fact that you're not reporting them dead means they're not Orlesians?"
"No, serah. They call themselves Norsan."
Hearing the name, Kell sat up and said to Maric. His tone was grave, "They are my followers! Prince, these men are not to be harmed. Otherwise, it is you who will suffer my wrath."
"Calm down, nobody's harming anyone." Maric said, turning back to the rider. "Return to the camp ahead of us. Tell the commanders to keep things civil between us and the Norsans, and that we'll be back shortly with a rich bounty of supplies courtesy of the Orlesian garrison."
There was a loud crunch as Kellendramaath gobbled the garrison commander's corpse, prompting Maric to throw him an exasperated look before walking away.
The newcomers were a strange sight to see in the Fereldan Rebellion encampment. They were still men, bearing steel in their hands and wrapped in layers of solid chainmail, with the same masterful craftsmanship as dwarven smithing, but they stood out from what most would call civilized.
Their armor was almost purely ceremonial, barely covering the important parts of their body like the chest, belly and thighs. Animal skins taken from slain predatory beasts and birds from far-off lands adorned their shoulders like honorary garlands. Like the Qunari, they wore heavy warpaint and tattoos depicting winged serpents, blue as the frozen mountains of the Fereldan Frostback. They were barbarians, for lack of a better term. They worshipped dragons, like the tribes of old. The faces of their gods were in their weapons, carved into their armor and skin. These were the Norsans, followers of Kellendramaath, men and women who supposedly were the chosen people of a forgotten Old God.
Blasphemers and pagans, according to the more devout Andrastians among Maric's people. Rowan, in particular, made no attempt to hide her displeasure at his decision to let them stick around.
Maric and the other rebel leaders met with Kell and the Norsan warchief, Jolvan Sversson, back at the main encampment. The Orlesian garrison had been put to the torch when they left with all the spoils, denying the loyalists of its fortifications and the ground it held. The food and materials they took would help keep the rebels supplied for the next season, the fall before winter. When that time comes, the war would be doubly hard for either side. Maric was planning on avoiding a direct confrontation against the Usurper until he was absolutely sure he had the support of the Banns, the nobles of Ferelden. At this point in the Rebellion, people were still uncertain where they stood.
But the rebels were sure about one thing, the Usurper's cruelty alone would be enough to help make their minds up.
"We follow our god." The aged but powerful Jolvan declared after hearing the prince's words, "If Kellendramaath has made a covenant with you, the Norsa stand to fulfill it."
Maric glanced at his advisers. Loghain was all too happy to get support, but the Arl and his daughter remained unconvinced. Naturally, if Rowan was opposed to something, her father was sure to follow. "I thank you. This war against the Usurper has gone on for too long. With your help, I believe that by winter's dawn we will bring a swift end to it."
Their alliance sealed, the Norsans merged their large group together with the rebels, though choosing to remain as a follower's camp. They were, after all, not all warriors and mages. The Norsans were nomads, and they brought their families along with them wherever they went. In times of war, most of the women and children stayed away from the battlefield while the men went off to fight, but never too far away. In the case of the rebels, it was more or less the same, so their decision wasn't too strange to understand.
Seeking to bridge the gap between them and the dragon, Maric brought Rowan with him one day to speak with Kell. The Arl's daughter didn't protest, not directly, but the prince could see that she didn't appreciate the idea. For one, she was a firm believer in the Andrastian faith. For another, she grew up on the cautionary tales of the Old Gods' cruelty. Hearing Kell claim his godhood, and have the Norsans support it, certainly did not help.
The pair crossed the camp in silence, weaving through the busy pathways as soldiers and workers carried on with their tasks for the day. People greeted the prince as he passed, then resumed with their businesses. Archers and footmen practiced drills near the woods, using trees and crude dummies for targets. Since joining the rebellion, the Norsans made a show of their capabilities in the follower's camp. And if Maric was honest with himself, the barbarians were commendable.
Their warriors traded defense for a purely offensive strategy, mirroring the savagery of their draconic god. When they finished, they left most of the trees in the forest in splinters. Talk among the Fereldan rebels spoke of how dragon blood coursed through their veins from forbidden blood rituals, which gave each warrior the strength of ten men. Their sorcerers were another story.
The rebels had few mages among them, most were apostates hunted by the Templar Order, for the Fereldan Chantry refused to give aid to either side to maintain their neutrality. So the alliance with the Norsans afforded the Rebellion some much needed magical aid indeed.
The pair found Kell in the middle of the follower's camp, watching over the Norsan weavers' children as the women traded stories. It was the last thing Maric expected a dragon demigod would be doing, but he found it a pleasant surprise.
"Greetings Kell."
The demigod was in his human form, though that did little to put Rowan at ease. She still remembered what lay beneath the false skin. Kell rose up from the ground where he sat idly leaning against a tree stump, "Prince Maric. Lady Guerrin."
"Rowan is fine." Rowan said curtly.
"Hmm..." Kell rumbled in amusement, "What have you come to me for?"
"Perspective." The prince replied.
The demigod tilted his head to the side, "Ah. Still having doubts about our alliance? I told you before, your people have nothing to fear from me nor my followers."
"Oh, not that exactly." Maric explained, noticing Rowan turn away to show her unwillingness to hear. "There are some things I'd like to know about you... if you don't mind me asking, that is?"
Kell nodded slowly, inviting the prince over to a nearby tree so they'd have some measure of privacy. The tree was a crude shrine erected by the camp priests in his honor, and standing close to it angered Rowan to no end.
"Who were those dragons you fought that day?"
"My brother and sister. Mercerandres and Nimea, demigods both. The other dragons were nothing, mere simpletons drawn to our power."
"When you fought them, I remember you mentioned that they betrayed the Norsans. Is that true?"
Kell's expression darkened, then grew soft. "Yes."
Maric pried a bit more, "Tell me what happened."
"My siblings and I... we wanted to seek out the bones of our father, the Old God Val'kun. Thousands of years ago, when humans were still but tribesmen, he was struck down out of jealousy by Dumat. His bones lay within the heart of the island you've come to know as Par Vollen. My brother Mercerandres was leader of the Norsans then, whatever was left of them, and he brought war against the people of the Qun."
"Wait." Maric interrupted, "You were there? That was you, the dragons that destroyed the Qunari at Par Vollen?" Everyone had heard of the destruction of Par Vollen, it was the moment that galvanized the Imperium to push the Qunari out of Seheron and into the sea.
Kell nodded, a wry smile formed upon his face. "I wish that was all tha happened that day. Something in those bones, it felt like a curse, drove Mercerandres mad. He abandoned the Norsans and took my other siblings with him. Only I stayed behind and barely spirited the suvivors away. I pursued my brother for answers for years afterward. But you have seen where that has led me to."
"Staying with them, that was noble of you." Maric looked at the Norsan families crowded around every campfire. "I can see why these people followed you all across Thedas."
"My mother was Norsan." Kell said, catching Maric by surprise. "They are mine as I am theirs. Godsblood may flow through my veins, but so too does Norsan. It is for them that I sacrificed my wings, and for them I pursue Mercerandres."
"You still mean to chase him?"
"Perhaps not. I can no longer take to the skies. But who knows? If I go with you a little bit, I might find a way."
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