Maker, my enemies are abundant.
Many are those who rise up against me.
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me.
Trials 1, 1-4
It was quiet…too quiet, as Varric might have put it and, sadly, often did when he did not know how else to start a chapter. That, or perhaps – it was a still and dark night, the leaves of the trees glistening under the full moon; still, clichés existed for a reason: it was too quiet, and, aside the fact that the moon was crescent, the leaves of the trees still glistened and swayed softly in the sea breeze…
Creators, Veldrin thought, I am losing my mind.
She sat, cross legged and staff on hand, in the shade of a small shrub, on top of their temporary abode – she felt horribly exposed, but had thought the vantage point was better than the alternative of standing watch inside the cave itself. If there'd been any hope that their progress through Ath Velanis might at least be unhindered, it had been dashed, for as soon as the light of day dimmed, the fortress had come alight, fires burning on its pointy fortifications and gleaming out of its narrow windows.
Whatever force was occupying the fortress now was neither small, nor keen on disguising its presence. They had no reason to; the Qunari had stopped patrolling the straights, while the Fog Warriors had no interest in it, else they might have made it their own centuries before. By her reckoning, then, it was either a large pirate operation with no mentionable enemies, or Tal Vashoth with no further reason to hide. In either case, the chances that three lone mages could slip inside unnoticed were frightfully slim…And still, they'd had no choice – by now, Cassandra and Leliana and even Solas must have known she was no longer in the Imperium; a larger company would simply have announced that fact sooner.
I should have come alone, Veldrin bitterly thought; though she knew that it truly might have been impossible, the notion did not stop circling her mind, like an angry hive of wasps. I should have brought an army, another thought tugged.
The veil over Seheron was scarred, but not even Solas would be able to gain a foothold here – if anything, far more than in the Imperium itself, he'd only find enemies…unless, of course, they did not know who they were serving and what his ultimate intentions were, which was entirely possible; smugglers did not much care for what they smuggled, and would probably shrug off dropping packages in the middle of the jungle as eccentricity…
He almost escaped her eye; but for a stray moon beam reflecting in his own deep, red eyes he might have escaped anyone's.
Fifteen feet from her, equally shaded by a shrub and so pale that he might have seemed no more than a moon reflection among the leaves stood a young child; he was too light of skin to be a Par Vollen Qunari, but his horns had begun to grow nonetheless, no more than two barely visible, thickened lines of bone curling above his ears. Their glances locked – there was no curiosity in his, just tense attention ill-fitting his young age, and too late, Veldrin understood her mistake.
There had no tracks because their scouts were too light to leave them.
She slowly stood, keeping her arms open, then softly bowed her head.
'Maraas shokra, imekari1,' she softly said, knowing her Qunlat was awful, and that perhaps the child did not speak the language anyway. Knowing himself discovered, but not truly seeming phased or in the least frightened, the child stood in his turn; he grinned.
'Maraas kata, sarebaas2,' the child said, pointing at her staff with wicked satisfaction. 'Tevinter-vashoth sarebaas,' he hissed, his ruby eyes glowing with hate – the fog came then, from everywhere and nowhere, but he did not vanish within it quickly enough; his back was still an easy target by the time Veldrin brought her staff up.
At the last second, she turned its lightning to the ground; she was, she dazedly thought, so many things, so many evil things, but not yet…this.
Creators, not yet this.
She called Dorian's name on top of her lungs, as silence did not matter at this point – Mae was beside her first, giving her heart a beat's pause before she recalled Maevaris did not focus with a staff; Dorian's barrier rose about all three in the next breath, yet it did no more than heighten the impression that they were standing in an upside bowl, miraculously submerged in milk. They saw nothing outside it.
'How many?' Dorian asked.
'I only saw the one,' Vel whispered.
'Let there be light, then,' Maevaris said, between gritted teeth, and wisps of cutting wind rose about her, making her robes flutter, and causing both Vel and Dorian to shield their faces with their forearms – quickly grown to a hurricane, Mae's summoned air stream expanded beyond the barrier, pushing back the white mists back for tens of feet. At the same time, Veldrin sent a ball of fire towards the sky, making it light up as day, and also clarifying this was very likely to be their last night among the living.
There were at least sixty, assuredly more where the fog still hid them, and the three mages were surrounded from all sides. Surprised by the fact that their cover had been blown, the fog warriors stopped for a moment, assessing the three mages in turn. Those in the first few lines exchanged confused glances – their alchemical disguise was intended to hide their numbers, of course, but also make the dreaded Magisters become separated from their guards. The fact that there were neither guards nor slaves in sight left them disconcerted, but did not slow them for longer than a second.
Slow steps and stealth brought the first enemy through the barrier; Dorian still heard the hiss of the blade and sidestepped just enough for it to find his shoulder, not his chest – the attacker pulled his blade out, seeking another angle, but the mage was decisively faster. He lodged his left hand to the fog warrior's face, not to push him aside, but to draw him closer.
'Not my first…dance,' the man hissed, watching the other's eyes grow red with heat, then literally pop and leak upon his hand – he let the body fall, and shook his own hand, hissing in pain.
The next fireball from Vel's staff seemed once more imprecise, for it did not hit the approaching rows of pale-skinned Qunari, but the tightly weaved canape of branches above them, to shower all with burning leaves and pieces of wood – ranks broke, but, with their short blades drawn, the fog warriors began to circle, looking for an opening. From behind them, renewed tides of mist blew in, again hiding them from sight.
The next one to breach the mages' shield went at Maevaris, deeply grazing her collarbone before thick, entwined vines, called forth by the blindingly blue circles that enveloped the woman's arms caught him in their inescapable grasp.
'Roast him, Vel,' Mae coolly commanded; the warrior was shaking from all joints and letting loose the contents of his bowels before she's even finished speaking the words. Ominous, glowing purple skulls rose above the white fog, and screams of terror erupted into the night – the elf's lightning strike left the dead body of Mae's captive and equally darted forth, for magic did not need eyes to find targets.
One of the enemies, his body engulfed in blue light, stepped into the shield and positioned himself by the mages' sides – with one swift motion of his arm, he severed the throat of one of his kinsmen, and the arm of another, before a third thrust both of his blades in his back caused him to fall lifeless to the ground. The lack of one hand did not stop the crippled Qunari to strike true at Dorian's side; the mage staggered and their defenses dwindled, along with his loss of concentration and blood. A focused shot of Vel's staff took the crippled one's head right off his shoulders, yet the barrier was lost – five more of the for warriors advanced, bloodied blades aimed at the elf – they staggered back, as her mind's energies erupted, and briefly became trapped by ice rising under their feet. One of the icicles, a more powerful one, went straight through one attacker's skull.
Still, always there was one that went unseen, especially now that the mist was invading their small circle. Vel saw the tip of the blade coming out through her chest before she felt the blow; they'd missed her heart, she knew, for she could feel it copiously pumping blood inside her chest, blood that would soon stifle her breathing. Mae screamed her name; Dorian merely whispered it.
The elf slipped to her knees.
'Maraas kata,' Veldrin whispered; one of the pale Qunari had just been about to draw his blade against Mae's throat. The words stopped him, and he sought guidance in the ever growing mists. 'We surrender.' She whispered, in Tevene; she did not know whether Qunlat had a phrase for it. She let her staff fall from her bloodied fingers, and yet, with those same fingers she pulled her tiny herb knife, keeping it hidden in her fist.
Blood, her own, or Dorian's rendered the earth under knees moist, and she felt herself sinking.
'No, Amata,' the man said, but he too could no longer stand, so he kneeled beside her; he was still leaning on his staff, and it still glowed in focus. 'They'll…'
His too weak voice was drowned by barked Qunari consonants, as was her voice when she said In mea fide vinces3. As was the scratch of her little herb knife on the moist ground, as she drew, and drew, and drew, while the consonants rose in many voices, and the fog began to dissipate.
Maevaris' captor still held his blade to her throat. Among the lines of the Fog Warriors, one that was taller than most others and had three lines of horns advanced, beholding the scene. He gestured for his man to release the blonde woman, and toss her to the ground with the other three – just like Dorian, Mae held on to her focus gem, the one she wore as a pendant. Just like him, she did not lower her glance to the bloody ground, where, with her little blunt knife, Vel drew and drew and drew, lines intersecting lines, and insane circles, and tiny symbols.
'Drop weapons, Tevinter-vashoth,' the tall one, with the six sets of horns spoke. 'Your slave speaks wisdom. Drop weapons. Swifter paths to hell you'll so find.'
Mae spat; the warrior closest to her struck her across the face so hard that she fell to the blood-muddied ground, next to Vel's little hand, that moved and moved, and…Maevaris Tilani read what she wrote.
The blonde Magistra steadied herself on one arm, spitting once more, yet this time, spitting blood. With one defiant gesture, she ripped her amulet from her scratched throat and threw it at the tall warrior's feet.
'Fine,' she heaved.
'Et tu, Mae,' Dorian whimpered.
'It's over, Dorian,' Mae said. 'Drop your staff.'
'Drop everything,' Vel whispered, painstakingly turning her head to meet his glance; the man shook his head – she sustained his gaze, and guided it somewhere beyond the tall, six-horned man who held the axe that would soon sever their heads.
Behind the tightening row of fog warriors, there were unnatural glints in the trees and bushes. Far behind, there was the glint of another axe.
'Drop everything, Amatus,' Vel repeated, and this time, he did – not only the staff, but also the orb on his belt. It rolled towards the elf, caking itself in blood, and mud and grass. She did not need to reach for it; it found her palm all on its own, flaring crimson once it touched her skin. Veldrin stabbed her little herb knife into her chest, causing the blood that was stifling her breathing to gush freely out, filling the contours of lines and circles and tiny symbols.
Blood rose from the ground, turning to fire and light. The skull of the six-horned fog-warrior's skull was split in half, a jagged axe cracking it as if it were a mere egg; hidden arrows found eye sockets and foreheads and throats, while the blood that had muddied the ground returned to the bodies to witch it belonged, healing all wounds – Dorian breathed and stood, and Veldrin did so as well.
Even the blood that had rendered her robes heavy was draining back inside her own body; the somnaborium drifted above her fingers, the focus of it all, and when the blood on the clothes and in the mud was not enough, the elf turned her attention to the body of the six-horned fog warrior, ripping thin, fresh wisps of red from the still warm corpse, to channel it into herself, and Dorian, and even Mae's only, light graze.
Krem's sword came out through the chest of one of the bewildered fog warriors; he had enough strength to pull himself off the sword turn and graze the Charger lieutenant's cheek before falling. No longer gold, but flashing red, Veldrin's eyes turned to the scene – she flung her hand wide open, sending the orb into a wide arch, and making it yank two uninjured fog warriors from the dimming ranks; blood oozed though their noses, and though the corners of their eyes and Dorian screamed No, but she did not hear him.
It was only then that Iron Bull caught her, his hands inescapable shackles on her wrists, his arms like iron circles about her shoulders. He pulled her back down to the ground, though she'd never even realised she was floating above it, and wrestled his entire massive weight above her just to keep her down.
'No, boss, this is not you, boss, stop…We won, stop. Stop.'
'Krem's hurt,' Veldrin whispered.
'He'll recover,' the giant Qunari said, crushing all of her, but somehow making her feel safe. 'It's you I am not sure about.'
1 We have no fight/conflict, child.
2 Fight will be over when you're dead, mage.
3 Your faith in me will bring you victory.
./Tips hat, we promised you melted eyes, you have 'em! Short chapter, so - you guessed it - there is a second part on Wednesday :)
Thank you for reading and commenting,
Cheers, Abstract and IVI :)