Copyright Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age by BioWare, aside from the non-canon character(s) and general concept of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment, so I ask you to not expect anything perfect. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love constructive feedback/thoughts about the story, comments help encourage me to write.
Introduction: Bioware is a shadow of its former self, let's be realistic, the days of Origins have passed into shadow – so while working on Dragon Age: Total War myself and my fellow developer Octavius got to talking about a general concept for what lays beyond the Hunterhorn Mountains and theory-crafting lore on what we know from Silent Grove as 'Great Dragons' and how that'll play into the world. After a while I came up with this concept for the Wardens adventure West, past the Hunterhorn.
This is ultimately my attempt/plan to write a quality sequel to the Warden's journey since I highly doubt BioWare will ever even attempt to do it justice.
You might've read a shorter older version of the prologue, or not, but it wasn't up to quality standards so I wanted to redo it here :)
"Qwryn Vosh was the first of his name to rule the ancient Voshurtok Thaig but would go down in the records as a visionary, the saviour of his people and dare I say it; perhaps the greatest of his blood. In the Dark Age it was King Qwryn who was the first to foresee the coming onslaught. It was subtle to all others, a fate that none but He suspected before it was too late, such was his wisdom, for while Orzammar bickered like children our great king was not blind to the threat of the deep.
It cannot be questioned that The Collapse was paramount to our survival and, ultimately, our great success.
We owe our very future to the Blood of Vosh." ― Scribe Brandon, on King Qwryn the Wise
Chapter 1: The Collapse
"May you find your way in the dark."
– Prince Durran the Dreamer
Deep beneath the furthest reaches of the Hunterhorn Mountain's sat Voshurtok Thaig, one of the largest dwarven cities in the Deep Roads, close brother to Kal-Sharok and its once proud Kings; as the noble House of Vosh had ruled their thaig since the Ancient Age – long before the arrival of man – it is said that Vosh steel was tempered first on the blood of elves, followed quickly by an ancient foe known to the memories only as The Scaled Ones, before they departed into the dark, never to be seen again.
In the year -1170 Ancient, the bloodline of Kal-Sharok's Kings failed with King Garal, leaving his cousins of Vosh to succeed him by all the laws of the Empire.
It did not come to pass. Instead of the Empire falling to House Vosh – as was their right by blood – the seat of the dwarven people was moved to Orzammar by the Usurper King Endrin Stonehammer. Voshurtok grew cold and distant to its kinsmen in spite; while Orzammar hailed the change as a period of flourishing commerce.
A Golden Age, the Usurper claimed loudly for all to hear, while Voshurtok spat and cursed it for the truth. They saw it for what it was. A fracturing of their people.
While the Vosh withdrew, Kal-Sharok shunned – naming a Paragon-Elect among themselves and shying away from all others.
In the year -395 Ancient, the dwarven people turned from their prideful feuding to face a new threat in the dark.
Crawlers, Diggers, foulness born the dark places; they had many names at first. None stuck so well as Blight.
The Blighted – or The Darkspawn – appeared from the depths seemingly without cause. Their numbers grew with horrifying speed.
In the far eastern reaches of the Empire a young Paragon Aeducan rallied the dwarves of Orzammar to achieve the first victories, saving his city and its king from destruction; only to end up later sealing them away from the Empire to save their own hides. Cowards, the people of Voshurtok named them, hiding from the foe.
In their seclusion King Valtor of Orzammar turned his own people – casteless and criminals and political foes – into creatures of stone and magic; shaping them into golems in the year -255 Ancient before his acts grew so twisted in malice and pride that his own smith abandoned him, leaving the proud king without his anvil.
It was this loss – the absence of dwarven souls made stone – that would later force Aeducan's hand.
The Archdemon Dumat was defeated, the surface celebrated, but the war never ended for the dwarven people.
Kal-Sharok was the first to seal its thaigs. Gundaar and Hormak followed not long after, only to fall within a decade.
The Kingdom of Voshurtok did not fall, no matter the lies of Orzammar, the House of Vosh survived.
In the Devine Age known to Voshurtok as the Dark Age, they stood alone against the Darkspawn menece.
"For Voshurtok!" The Prince cried, carving to the cheer of a thousand voices screaming and clapping as he swung his axe and sent his foe staggering backwards with a gruff exhale of breath. "Come now uncle," Prince Veldrik laughed heartily, raising his shield up; the solid steel marked with the golden dragon of his house.
"Just getting warmed up lad!"
Veldrik blocked the blow with his shield and PUSHED back with his might, darting forward to seize the opening and strike down his opponent.
The old dwarf dodged and parried and moved with surprising grace for his age.
"Ha!" Old Prince Torren barked laughter at the youngster, picking up his shield to the cheers of the crowd as their prince allowed it.
The ground was stone and dirt and blood, surrounded by thick stone walls and an array of seats high and low atop them; filled with dwarves of all levels from smiths to nobles – while Voshurtok held to their ancient castes – necessity had taught them long ago that Darkspawn did not care if one was noble or born of a nug's shit.
The nobility still lorded themselves above the rest, as was their nature, but any dwarf held the right to fight and die for the blood of Vosh.
Warriors could be forged from all manner of dwarves. Voshurtok did not and could not afford to throw away able fighters.
"Now watch your footing lad," the old dwarf smirked as he swung his sword.
Eyes on the fight. Always on the fight ahead – it was a dead man who allowed himself distractions.
The crowed cheered when he dodged expertly, darting to the right and slamming his great circle dragon-shield down onto his uncle's forearm, sending the old dwarf's blade once more to the stone. "Dead," Prince Veldrik smiled at his victory as the crowd erupted. "Well fought Uncle…"
"I taught you too well boy!"
"So it seems," Veldrik held his axe up and basked in his people's admiration.
The energy of the Proving's was a whole other world to the Crown Prince of Voshurtok. He'd loved fighting since he was a child old enough to grasp an axe, he'd taken to his uncle's teachings so well it became like breathing. Holding his axe high, he could see those in the stands cheering his name from up high.
"Prince," and "Voshurtok" were chief among their cheers.
No cheers for his father though. Veldrik didn't fail to note that, nor would his father…
"Men and women of Voshurtok!" The Proving Master announced, quieting the crowd some; though barely at all in truth. "His Highness has fought valiantly against the strong arm of our great King's brother, the Champion of Farstak Thaig, the Axe of our People and Prince of Vosh!"
"Bloody fanciful titles," the supposed Hero muttered only to himself and his nephew's hearing.
"Under the watchful eyes of the Paragons of Vosh, on the eve of his next victory, we lay witness to Prince Veldrik's victory!"
The crowed cheered once more. Thousands and thousands of screaming spectators, row after row of cheering faces all speaking his name.
"Come lad," his uncle bid him follow. "Drinks! No dwarf should go into battle sober!"
Veldrik could only smirk at that, giving the old dwarf a firm nod as the pair exited the arena.
The cheers faded as they walked past the great gold-gilded doors of the arena, past rows of Sha-Urtok Guardsmen, with their silver axes resting on the cold stone floors; they were stone-faced and grim. Past their axes they were free of the areas shadow, out into the city proper, deep within the heart of the mountains.
Voshurtok was a wash of gold dragons and silver axes, nestled in its great cavern warmed by a lake of molten fire.
"Brother," the voice greeted him, rushing over with the shadow of dragons at his rear.
"Durran," Veldrik clasped the young prince on his shoulders, smiling like a fool. "Come to see me off, eh?"
"Drinks first boy," Uncle huffed, as if he might be denied the chance.
"You mustn't do this," Durran frowned at them both.
"Now come brother, Uncle's a drunk but he's not all that bad!"
The old dwarf mumbled something about 'youngsters' while Durran's frowned deepened.
"It's madness," he insisted with a scowl. "Father is… well you know what he is!"
King Qwryn hadn't been the same for years now. The pressures of title had gotten to him since the passing of his queen.
"I am the Crown Prince little brother," Veldrik answered with a sigh, seeing the fear in his brother's amber-gold eyes, it was a look he'd seen in the eyes of many dwarf fresh to his first battle. "If I cannot defend our people, then what use are we? I must go, you know this Durran…"
"All reports say that-"
"I've read the reports," Veldrik knew it all. He'd read them trice over then once more, just to be certain he wasn't reading it wrong.
"And yet you go anyway," Durran huffed in defeat. "It's foolish – we should reinforce here, to hold the city!"
"Like the others have done?"
They were not cowards, hiding behind closed gates.
"No," Veldrik dismissed it sharply. "There may come a time when all is lost and our people cower like tezpadam in the deep stone, small and afraid, hiding in our tunnels and our caves in search of scraps – but that day is Not today, little brother – or have you forgotten what we are?"
"I have not forg-"
"Say it brother," he insisted, with a look as sharp as steel.
"Dragons," Durran sighed at it all. "We are dragons, brother…"
"And we do not hide," Veldrik mustered a brave smile for his little brother.
"We do not hide," Durran echoed the words. They tasted foul on his tongue.
"We'll return lad," their Uncle Torren vowed, smirks and bravado on show. "We always return, and drink to our victory!"
That's what Prince Durran was afraid of though. He knew his brother would return, but not alone, for death would follow him home.
Ren-par was once a peaceful and beautiful place, a vast cavern of crystal blue waters that flowed from a network of underground rivers, illuminated by the shining hum of lyrium infused crystals and diamonds the size of dwarves; such was its beauty – they'd named it the Jewel of Vosh – their people's pride, a show of the stones blessing.
The still waters would soon toss and turn with the taint of death, the flow of blood and sorrow. It was a good place to die…
"The gate!" Prince Torren screamed out as hundreds of dwarves rushed into the great cavern, beaten and bloodied.
It was a vast thing – these gates of Ren-par – thick and stone-blessed, the creation of a great paragon of old.
They shuddered under the weight of a great evil.
"They won't hold…"
The very cavern shook.
"Boy," Uncle Torren shook him from his stupor.
"U- Uncle-"
He'd felt fear before, it was a thing known to all that braved the deep; but this? This was beyond them all.
"We must hold," Torren declared, blood flowing freely from the old dwarves forehead.
"Hold," Prince Veldrik shook the terror from his bones. "Yes, we hold… we must…"
If they fell here. If the cavern of Ren-par was lost, there was little hope for their people.
It knew them. That damn thing, giant in scale with claws like longswords, it had laid in wait for them.
The Gate shuddered with a THUD and rock fell from the ceiling above.
"What can dwarves do against such a creature…"
"Fight my boy," Torren told him firmly. "We fight, and we win!"
Tell that to the thousands of dead that weren't so lucky as to have fled...
The gate CRACKED on the next thud, sending some of the celling down onto their heads.
"Shields!" Prince Torren yelled out.
"We hold!" Veldrik commanded. "Sha-Urtok, hear me now!"
The royal guardsmen locked their dark shields and stood at the ready, brave till their last, they were a wash with crimson blood against golden dragons and their black cloaks; the terror in their eyes did not once reach their hearts. They were the guards of their people, the Shields of Vosh, dragons in all but blood. The irony of that was foul.
"We are dwarves of the Old Empire!" Prince Veldrik took place in their shieldwall and held firm, readily with his father's axe – all black-steel and lyrium carvings – the runes on the edge glowed defiantly against the darkness. "We are Dragons, we do not bow! We do not yield! Do you HEAR ME!?"
"VOSH!" The men cried out, slamming their steel against their shields.
"No matter what comes through that gate," Veldrik told them. "We will HOLD!"
The Gate shuddered under the force of another clash, cracking the mighty stone; it crumbled.
A cloud of dust greeted them, showering them, blinding and thick…
It growled at them from the dark beyond the broken doorway, low and hungry… and knowing…
"Atrast nal Tunsha," Prince Veldrik muttered too low, as if to prey to the stone.
"ATRAST NAL TUNSHA!" Uncle Torren screamed atop his lunges for all to hear him.
They came from the doorway like waves crashing upon a wall of spikes and shields.
Darkspawn were hardly intelligent creatures – any dwarf knew that much – yet neither were they wholly stupid. Through the breach in the great gates of Ren-par poured the tides of darkness made flesh, with blighted sword and crude iron and gnashing teeth, the ancient enemy fell on them in a horde.
The Sha-Urtok had locked shields together, resting spears and pointing them straight. A second-row locked shields higher and held their own steel about head height to form an impassable wall of steel and armour. The breach in the gate was too small a thing to fit the creature behind them, thank the stone.
Between the gaps of the shields, past the Darkspawn hacking and slashing, Veldrik could see It in the darkness beyond the breach.
"We hold!" Uncle Torren shouted atop his lungs, drowning out everything else. "We hold the line! Make them BLEED for every inch!"
There was no reinforcements to be had and it was clear the men were tiring. Had it been so long? How many had died already? Veldrik had lost count.
"CUT THEM DOWN!" Torren cursed, keeping his voice loud and clear despite the horrors around them.
The horde had split roughly in half, one to the left while another hammered the right.
"BRACE YOURSELVES!" One Lord screamed from the far side of their line.
They smashed into the wall of shields and steel with a force that seemed to shake the very ground they stood on.
The death wails of darkspawn and dwarf alike filled the air as two of the darkspawn made their way over the dwarven shields to the empty zone behind, forcing Prince Veldrik to pull away from the shield wall with a final "WE HOLD!" before moving to handle the creatures himself.
Acting without delay, the Axe of Vosh cut the front legs of the closest genlock, sending it crumbling forward.
Prince Veldrik carved its skull in half with a swing of his axe before moving to the second. It swung for his neck and the young prince ducked backwards in a flash to avoid the blow, seizing the opening to stab upwards in reply, straight into the creature's fleshy neck to end its miserable existence.
To his joy when the prince turned, his shield wall was holding firm and for a moment it seemed like the Darkspawn were thinning.
It seemed that all would be well. Many sections of the line were still engaged in conflict while others licked their wounds. "Encircle the bastards!" Uncle Torren yelled. "Victory is close lads!" The sight of their prince returning to the line gave them all renewed strength. "Lad," Torren grabbed Veldrik by his shoulder and shot him a glare that allowed no arguments. "Move to the left flanks, take command and push to encircle the centre, you understand me lad!?""
The young prince was clearly exhausted but gave a nod to his uncle and followed orders without complaint.
As if the creature heard them, a great snort of hot air came from the breach in the gate. It could almost taste them…
The Darkspawn seemed to see it coming long before the rocks flew, as if warned. Veldrik wondered in that moment if the beast was merely toying with them.
In an instant, the gate was shattered; where once a mere section had fallen away to allow the Darkspawn entry now the whole gate was rubble – filling the cavern of Ren-par with dust and rock – crushing many dwarves under the stone. "U- Uncle," Veldrik's lungs were full of smoke as he struggled to his feet.
All around him the cries of his men echoed out. The Prince witnessed as their line was broken, the hordes of Darkspawn poured through.
It barely fit through the gate, but fit it did…
"Urtok," Veldrik snarled at the sight.
Through the dust he saw the creature's claws placed down upon his uncles broken body.
"R- Run you fool!"
Prince Torren Vosh was broken, but not yet dead…
The Urtok answered with its weight, crushing the old dwarf's ribs like a grape under a rock.
It roared then in victory, a sound to shatter the very world, a dragon in outward form so terrible within that darkness seemed to crackle around its black-purple flesh – as dark and tainted as its soul – it had come for them. The beast was a thing of chaos and old magics, tainted by things too foul to give light.
Zazikel, the Dragon of Chaos, had come for them all and the Darkspawn had found their newest champion. "Ancestors protect us all…"
In darkness eternal they searched, for those who had goaded them on. Until at last they found their prize, their god, their betrayer.
There were many tall tales of how the Darkspawn came to be the blight upon the roads that they were today. It is said in the surface lands how magic and sin brough them down from the starry heavens as punishment upon man, but the children of the stone knew better. The Blighted Ones rose up from the earth, not the sky, they were creatures of the dwarf's own likeness, armed and armoured, but with no more intelligence than tezpadam, bestial and savage things of bloodlust.
Prince Durran didn't quite know the truth of it all. Tezpadam could be tamed, given enough effort, while he doubted Darkspawn could be…
Dwarves did not dream. This much was known – there were no dwarven magics beyond their skill at crafting, that was no true magic – yet when Durran rested his head at night he was often greeted with less than a dreamless sleep. Was it akin to the humans, he thought, to hear voices and see things best left unseen?
Were they dreams? When he'd told his father as a boy, the man had laughed. They'd all laughed. Durran the Dreamer, they mocked him...
And yet, he was no fool, dreams or not; he knew things to be true. They were doomed.
"I shape the Stone," he'd been told once. "I am the Stone. I sculpt the world within and without."
Pillars of the Earth. He didn't know where he'd heard that title before… but it felt… safe?
The voice sang in his dreams. It was sad, always, for reasons he didn't know.
He'd looked in the memories for answers before only to find no trace.
"Argh," he groaned, getting up from his rest. "By the Stone…"
When he closed his eyes, he could see glimpses of something terrible lurking in every shadow of his room.
Wings, claws, teeth, blood so ancient that shadows fled in fright. Durran didn't have a stone damned clue what any of it meant.
"Nothing good," he thought, rubbing his head. The dreams were getting worse lately.
"My Prince," a voice greeted him from the doorway.
Tall for a dwarf. Stoic, clean shaven with his royal cloak wrapped around his shoulders.
"Gorrin," he greeted his second with a sigh.
"Trouble sleeping again my Prince?"
"The Stone curses me as always," he admitted. It wouldn't do to tell the man of his troubles.
He was a loyal shield – no prince could ask for better truly – but talk of impossible dreams was akin to madness.
"Any news of my brother?"
Gorrin could only shake his head sadly.
"None I'm afraid," he added. "The King is beside himself…"
"Father is-"
It was best to talk no treason within these halls.
"-a busy man…"
"A King's duty weighs heavily on him," Gorrin hummed in reply.
He knew what the King was, they all knew, but none dared voice the matter.
One supposed that everyone secretly awaited the day that Prince Veldrik would assume the throne after his fathers passing. Unlike the dwarves of Orzammar there was no voting for their next king – such was a system the Usurper Endrin Stonehammer – giving way to politics and dishonour among bickering noble houses.
House Yosh followed the old laws. With the fall of House Garal, the crown would have fallen to their family by right of blood… if not for Stonehammer…
The man spun a tale of being named successor by his dear friend King Garal, but none besides the Usurper were at the king's side to hear his final words.
Veldrik would be King after their father by virtue of his position as eldest son according to every law they held dear.
"T̵h̵e̶y̴ ̴c̷o̸m̷e̴," A voice screeched suddenly.
"My prince!?"
"Argh," Durran stumbled to the floor, one hand resting on his bedside.
"M̵a̴t̷h̶a̷s̸ ̷g̷a̸r̶ ̶n̸a̸ ̵U̸r̴t̸o̷k̴," the voice beat between his ears like great drums. "K̴a̴l̵n̸a̷t̵h̴!̴"
In his minds eye he saw dwarves, twisted, broken under scales and teeth and fire.
The voice was tenfold, a hundredfold, thousands upon thousands echoing in harmony.
He could barely make out a word...
"My Prince!?" His second called in fear.
"I- I'm fine," Durran waved the man away. "It- It's nothing…"
The world felt dizzy. For a second – between two beats of eternity's heart – he'd heard the thoughts of his people.
His thoughts were theirs and their thoughts were his… one and the same… a great mushed mumbling of voices all in unison.
Was that what the Stone felt like? Was it merely what he Thought it felt like?
"Ancestors," he cursed, lost and afraid. "I- I don't un-"
The bells rang out across Voshurtok, loud and brazen.
"U̸r̴t̸o̷k̴," the voice whispered, sweeter, sadder, so very tired…
"Brother," Durran pushed himself to his feet, past his sworn shield and into the great hall.
All around him the servants were rushing here and there while the royal guard flooded the palace.
Atop his golden throne of gilded dragons sat the great King Qwryn Vosh with his grey beard and stony face; the old dwarf shouted orders to his guardsmen to secure the palace and bar the entrances from the inside. "The beast shall not have us! I WILL NOT HAVE IT!" They'd always been coming, Qwryn knew it, he'd suspected for years – they'd lost enough ground these past years thanks to his useless son – while the youngest wasted his time with his head in books mumbling about dreams.
"Farther?" There was one of the fools now, always barking as if he were king.
Not yet. Not ever.
"Father!"
"WHAT?!"
Prince Durran faltered, unsure. He looked at him as a stranger might.
"What's happening," the boy rambled. "Has my brother returned? Why are you shutting th-"
"It doesn't matter boy!"
The boy blinked, then formed a scowl.
"It doesn't-" He grew angry, the fool. "He's your SON!"
The old king laughed. Oh ancestors if that wasn't the funniest thing he'd heard of late.
"The Prince who would be King?"
Qwryn Vosh smiled a toothy smile. Wide and true, beaming.
"Seize him…"
The hall fell silent.
The world outside shook.
"Father?" Durran stared at him.
The guards obeyed, seizing the young price by his arms.
"Release me!" The boy commanded, struggling against his father's guards. "I am a Prince of Voshurtok, you have no-"
"Strike him," the old king spoke with a roll of his eyes. Uncaring as the very world seemed to shake around them outside.
The smack echoed against ancient stone as the Prince fell to the floor, his nose bloody and broken.
"Your Highness!" Gorrin shouted, hand ready on the pommel of his blade.
"Mad," Durran muttered to the stone. "He's mad..."
"What's that boy?!" Qwryn asked, standing up from his regal throne in anger.
"I-" The prince looked up at his father, a shade unknown to him. This thing was no kin of his.
He said nothing from the floor. By the ancestors, how had it come to this?
"Good." King Qwryn scoffed. "Silent and on your knees, where you belong; before your King!"
Madness. The Prince lowered his head, looking down at the blood pooling on the fine stone floor of his family's palace.
"You were telling me something, boy?" The King asked his subject.
No kin of his. No king. All hope died on the Princes tongue.
"Prince Veldrik will need aid, Your Highness…"
"Oh, will he now?" Qwryn thought in silence to himself. His eldest, ever ambitious, had the gall to demand aid of him? The fool was incapable of handing the simplest thing. He was so caught up fighting a hopeless fight against forces he was too simple to understand. He'd have words with the boy, once he returned to the stone...
"Well then," the King asked with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "What are you waiting for?"
"Farther?" The prince muttered despite himself; the word losing all meaning bit by bit to him.
"Go!" Qwryn commanded. "I send you, boy, to aid your hopeless brother!"
The guards holding him seemed equal parts confused as they were worried.
The King seemed to notice, angered by this delay.
"Release my fool son before I've your arms cut off!"
"I-" The young and startled prince got to his feet. "As you wish, Your Highness..."
King Qwryn smiled. Perfect. Everything was going as he'd foreseen. They'd be with their ancestors soon…
Outside the world seemed to be ending. The great dragon carved of finest gold that curled around the once mighty palace of Vosh kings had broken and shattered with the quakes, its maw cracked and fallen onto some unsuspecting nobles; too slow to avoid the crash, crushed beneath the very golden dragon that graced Vosh shields.
He'd had violent visions as a child of that very dragon. It came to life, only to devour his family one by one, the first of many dreams…
They'd named him 'Durran the Dreamer' as a jest, until he stopped speaking of it – but the name stuck regardless.
"And they called me the mad one," the young Prince Durran thought to himself as he staggered down the steps and past the dragon's maw. The walkways were empty, houses abandoned, the citizens of Voshurtok fleeing for their lives in some desperate attempt to survive the coming doom. Only the Sha-Urtok remained alongside their Crown Prince as he stood now at the breach; leading his men, to the death, to the end, for family and his people – would that their king was so strong...
"Brother!" Durran called out to his eldest brother, no time for courtly pleasantries.
He'd returned, looking like the living death; coated in dark red bloods.
"Atrast vala, little dragon..."
"You returned," Durran embraced the man gladly.
The blood on them both was no easy thing to ignore.
"Father did this?"
"He-"
"No," Veldrik scowled. "You'll not defend him. Not to me..."
The Crown Prince of Voshurtok was grim and scarred, a far cry from how cheerful and quick to laughter he'd been growing up; known as the Smiling Dragon – now turned dark and grim by the horrors of battle. He looked sick, pale, with a glint in his stare now that reminded Durran of the very foe they faced in battle...
"That-" Prince Veldrik snarled like a dragon. "That thing, is no father of ours!"
"He is king..."
"King!?" His brother snapped, anger in his tired bloodshot eyes.
The great door of Voshurtok shook. They were coming. They were close.
Stone fell from the ceiling, collapsing onto a nearby noble's house.
The Smiling Dragon never seemed more dangerous than he looked now.
"We have no king," he explained simply, turning sad. "Nor an Uncle… he has fallen…"
The axes of the Sha-Urtok slammed onto the stone as one, showing support, grim and cold – all oaths to the absent King seeming forgotten in favour of the Prince who would be king. "How did it come to this?" Durran asked aloud, more a prayer than anything. As if the stone would give him an answer.
His brother answered him instead and, for a brief moment, something akin to fear flashed behind Veldrik's stony mask.
"I don't know..."
The great door cracked.
The Sha-Urtok locked shields.
Prince Veldrik turned to face the coming darkness, showing no emotion as he spoke.
"Lead our people well, little brother..."
"I-" Durran was confused. "You-"
"I am already dead," Veldrik Vosh declared simply, his veins a sickly black against pale skin.
The Blight was in his veins, a gash across his cheek a sickly dark purple in hue; its poison spreading like fire under his skin.
"Little Dragon," his voice was warm and comforting as only family could manage. "You must gather our people and flee through the rear gate, it should be clear – take every hand you can muster – collapse the tunnels behind you. You must make for the caverns at Ren-par and-"
"There?" Durran shook his head at the notion. "If you're here then… isn't it overrun?"
"Aye," Veldrik said sadly. "The horde will be focused here, and they'll never suspect our people to be at their rear…"
He looked up to the true King of Voshurtok and for a moment, however brief, Prince Durran remembered what hope felt like.
"Atrast nal tunsha," King Veldrik smiled at his brother; holding out his royal axe.
"I-" Durran took the ancient weapon of Vosh royalty with shaky hands. It was black and gold and seemed to hum when one of the Vosh bloodline held it; as if it agreed with the wielder in some strange way. A weapon of Kings. One his father had given to Veldrik as a gift on the day of his first command... when their father was still sane…
His meaning was clear. His brother was not leaving this place, as his first and final act as King.
"Atrast nal tunsha," Durran uttered as he smiled back at his brother. The best dwarf he'd ever know.
The last anyone saw of King Veldrik the Brave – as the records would name him for his final hours – he was screaming defiantly into the darkness alongside his men, facing the horrors of Zazikel. Durran only looked back when he heard the final deafening crack; as the great door opened and the tides of darkness consumed his home.
When he ordered the first tunnels collapsed, a deafening roar echoed out to Durran's ears. He dared not look back.
The dust settled and the silence was deafening. Durran Vosh the Dreamer stood as an exiled King without a Kingdom, leading thousands of his people through the dark tunnels and ordering the passages behind them collapsed to stop the monsters that pursued them relentlessly even now.
"Brother," Durran thought as he soldiered forward. "What would you do? I don't know how to save us..."
Few if any members of the Sha-Urtok remained, but those who survived stood by him now; guarding their last King. An order designed to guard the blood of his family now reduced to barely a hundred men – with the trials of battle obvious on each of their faces. They were tired. Exhausted. They all were.
"My king?" One of the lords asked, as new to his position as Durran was to his
So many had come into title and honor that honestly, felt meaningless now in the dark.
""̴Y̶e̶t̶ ̸t̸h̶e̴y̸ ̸a̷l̷l̴ ̴l̸o̴o̵k̴ ̷t̵o̷ ̴y̷o̷u̸,̴" the voice in Durran's head seemed to sing. "T̸h̴e̷ ̷l̷a̵s̷t̴ ̵U̶r̷t̸o̴k̸.̶ ̴T̵h̷e̸i̴r̵ ̴l̴a̶s̶t̸ ̵h̸o̸p̶e̷.̴"
He couldn't fail them. He'd come too far now to give up...
"My king?" The lord asked again, seemingly confused and desperate for guidance.
"We go onward..."
Onward to where? His brother's advice pushed him forward…
"Ren-par?" The lord asked, concern on his features all too obvious.
It was close. A place once peaceful and beautiful to behold now lost to them.
"Prince-" The lord stopped himself. "King Veldrik declared the caves lost upon his return..."
"As are we, my lord," King Durran declared with a deep frown. "As are we…"
The lost seeking the lost. Durran recalled his brother telling him tales of Ren-par as a child, of a beautiful and great underground lake of water that had never seen the surface sun yet shun in the light of lyrium infused crystals and diamonds the size of a dwarf. A place the stone had blessed for them all.
"And the sight of the greatest battle and loss Voshurtok has ever know..."
He hoped against hope that the horde had moved on; too busy now, tainting his home.
When they arrived covered in dust and blood, the sight that befell them was out of some nightmare. The once clear blue waters that glowed so beautifully were black with blood. The tainted blight had seeped into every inch as countless rotting corpses flouted in the pools or stack high in piles of rotting flesh.
And the smell? More than one dwarf emptied his stomach as they walked through the carnage.
"King Veldrik told us, but I never thought..."
The despair in the lord's voice was palpable
"There's no hope..."
"So many dead..."
"Ancestors protect us..."
The voices of his people began to lose hope.
Across the lake a slight glow seeped through the cracks in the stone where some crystals had not yet fallen to the taint. A light in the darkness. Or perhaps less poetically, some tunnels fashioned by deepstalkers – doubtlessly fleeing from the horde or perhaps... come to feast on the fallen...
"Atrast nal tunsha..."
"My King?" Another lord asked, curious and desperate.
"The tunnels," Durran pointed them out. "They'll lead us..."
The looks of doubt were all too obvious. It was, after all, a plan of madness.
"But-"
"What the lad means," A braver lord spoke. "Is that's madness. It could lead nowhere!"
The cavern shook. Dust and dirt shifted, falling upon the dwarves like a light rain from the ceiling above.
"We can stay here and die," King Durran declared. "Or we find our way in the dark. Choose."
The lords bickered, briefly, as the shakes grew in frequency.
"It's madness!"
"It's too dark, we'd never find the way out!"
"There may not BE a way out!"
Enough was enough. Death hunted them all…
"CHOOSE!" King Durran roared, loud enough to wake the dead that surrounded them.
"Life," one of the Sha-Urtok declared. "For our King…"
Durran clasped arms with the man, "for our People!"
He'd tell none of the lords his orders to collapse the deepstalker tunnels behind them.
"Atrast nal tunsha," he muttered as they went into the cramped dark tunnels.
They would find their way in the dark or be lost forever in it…
Up and Up and Up further still, they near crawled through the tunnels now. They'd been graced with some large caverns and nests of the ancestor damned tezpadam's, but now the creatures had dug fast and frantically – paying the dwarves no mind, if they were here at all anymore...
King Durran remembered the story told to him as a child of how a warrior named Gason won honor and glory for his house. He won a dozen Proving's and defended his thaig against a legion of foes, but though he was bold, Gason was also selfish and unkind with a temper like spitting magma. He would rant and rage, mock and malign, until eventually Gason's friends turned their backs on him, his once proud house crumbled, and he was cast into the Deep Roads to die a shameless death in forgotten exile.
There in the great darkness, Gason's anger roared up so bright it blinded him. He snatched up his sword and began to attack the carvings honouring noble Paragons that lined the walls. One! Two! With each blow of his sword, he cursed the Paragons and the Stone Herself in a voice that echoed from one end of the Deep Roads to the other.
But the Stone always heared the voices of Her children, for good or for ill. As the carvings fell in ruins at Gason's feet, each chunk of rock uncoiled, becoming a horrid creature with a maw full of teeth. One! Two! Hundreds rose and surrounded Gason in a pack, devouring him bite by bite before scattering into the dark.
The creatures, named tezpadam by the dwarves, stalked the Deep Roads to this day. They could curl up like tiny stones, waiting to pounce upon trespassers as they pounced upon Gason so long ago. And that's why dwarven children were taught to play noisy games near the entrances to the Deep Roads…
An old poem came to mind while they pushed on through the darkness.
Mindless he wanders, all unwary,
Where small dwarven should not tarry.
Veata tezpadam!
Your eyes shine,
bright and merry.
The quarters' light distant and dim,
Here in the cave he's wandered in.
Veata tezpadam!
How quick you are,
on silent limb…
Small hands collide with cavern wall.
Upon the ground, a missing ball.
Veata tezpadam!
Your brothers hear,
the high-pitched call.
He turns to see they've circled round,
All grinning at his winning sound.
Veata tezpadam!
What becomes,
of who you found?
Within the quarter, heard no more
Are songs behind the nursery door.
Veata tezpadam! Asleep now!
Asleep upon the cavern floor.
It was here in these tezpadam infested tunnels where no light existed, that runes of lyrium came to life on his brother's royal axe.
"Serving your people even in death," Durran had thought at the time. The lyrium shun unusually bright, to light the path ahead for them.
The tunnels behind them had collapsed, although no longer on royal orders – as the tunnels grew less and less structured, more and more dwarves at the rear fell to the crumpling stone and dirt. All seemed lost. King Durran had led them to their deaths. And what an inglorious death it would be...
Durran could think only that his brothers sacrifice had been for nothing...
"Ahead!" A voice called back from just ahead of him, filled with something he'd never thought to hear again.
The voice – many voices now – rang out with genuine hope
"Ahead!"
They cried out in glee.
"Light!"
"We're saved!"
The lost souls of Voshurtok could breathe again.
It was no ordinary air. It was fresh, clean, sharp and overwhelming.
"Atrast nal tunsha, little brother," His brothers voice smiled at him as King Durran fell to his knees and looked up.
The sun blinded him. It blinded his people, who under any other circumstance would've cursed him for leading them here as ascendants, but now sung his name as their saviour instead. How they embraced him, no matter noble birth or lack of any such, it mattered not. The sun felt warm and safe.
"You did it," one of his lords spoke in awe. "My King..."
King Durran the Dreamer got to his feet and spoke through his exhaustion.
"Collapse the tunnels," he ordered as he watched his people flood onto the surface.
The lord moved to obey, a hand up to shield his eyes from the blinding light.
King Durran I Vosh sighed, so very tired now, but filled with a sense of hope.
The runes on his brother's royal axe shun brightly still now.
They read "atrast nal tunsha" in the dim blue glow of lyrium runes.
King Durran spoke the words aloud. "May you find your way in the dark."
My Note(s): I hope you enjoyed this prologue of sorts, although I won't be updating this story until such a time as my Sunset Stark + Long and Sharp fics are near enough completed; this story is queued up behind those two. I just wanted the prologue up and readable waiting for updates ;) when that'll be I couldn't say – at the time of writing this I've around 42 out of 77 chapters done for Sunstark and I haven't even started rewriting Long and Sharp yet soooo it'll be a while :P but it'll happen eventually.
The next chapter of Cataclysm however starts off with the Hero of Ferelden visiting Highever for the first time after the events of Dragon Age: Origins.
