My thanks to Wyl, for reading and reviewing this story.
This chapter is short, but I felt that the plot needed a bit of movement. I had also debated about whether to post this now or not, but, for me, it fit quite well into the sequence of the storyline.
DragonAge: The Halla Tainted
Chapter 10
The man sat upon the chair, a gray silver amulet held loosely in his hands. Dark eyes earnestly searched the amulet, hands seeking out any imperfection within the item. Before him, flames danced in the fireplace, chasing away the chill of the evening, offering flickering light in the small room. Squinting, he brought the item closer to his eyes, running long, calloused fingers along the ridge.
Rikhard sighed, closing his eyes and tilting his head backwards, ears alert for any approach to the door of the small room he had rented. He had found his way to an out of the way inn in an obscure little town – barely large enough to support its own Chantry - along the King's Highway. There were moments he felt that, as always, the amulet had guided him to this small village, as it sat mere days from the Korcari Wilds.
His next destination.
Those fathomless black eyes opened, rising to stare at the mirror that hung upon the wall by his narrow bed. Clutching the amulet tightly, he rose, stepping before the reflective glass, taking in the features of the man mirrored therein.
It had been a simple matter, truly, to alter his appearance. Shoulder length red-gold hair had been cut short, colored to a non-descript brown. His Warden uniform – robes he had worn since his inception to the Order a decade prior – had easily been discarded, exchanged for light leathers that allowed for the fluidity of motion spell casting required, yet offered the protection his heavily enchanted robes had. Eyes flickered to the ornate and heavily runed spear settled against the room's second chair. The spear had served as his staff since he had been inducted into the Grey Wardens, and it was the only concession he allowed himself of his former identity.
Even his name had been changed from the rarely heard 'Rikhard'' to the more common 'Richard'.
To any observer, he appeared as a warrior, perhaps from the highlands. Even his accent – that of Orlesian tinged with that of the Anderfels – could mark him as a warrior of the ancient clans that still roamed the highlands.
As a Grey Warden mage, he had been allowed certain freedoms that other mages were not given. However, a lone mage – regardless of his origin – would raise too many questions, cause too many curious eyes to turn his direction.
And, given the circumstances of just two years prior with Ferelden's own Circle and its entanglement with the Order, he felt it wiser to not incur any suspicions from the natives. Either by revealing himself as a mage or a Grey Warden.
It was good fortune for him, indeed, that he had training in using his staff as the spear it appeared to be. It was as second nature to the mage to stab forward with the weapon as it was to send his concentration into the item during spell casting.
He turned, gaze leaving his reflection as he walked back to his seat, once again bringing the amulet to his eyes.
During his flight from Weisshaupt, the mage had little time to examine the artifact he had taken from the ancient Grey Warden fortress. He knew only that it had called to him, a plea within his very blood to take it from the Anderfels, seeking the depths of the ancient forest that stood within the heart of the tiny, backwater nation that was Ferelden.
It was during his second flight, this time from Jader, the mage had been able to take stock of the item, to truly study it and determine why it had beckoned to him. He still could not answer why the amulet had called out to him, of all the wardens at the ancient fortress.
He had never distinguished himself among the other wardens. In fact, he had never fought a darkspawn, save just prior to his Joining.
Ten years he had been a Warden, his duties consisting of archiving ancient texts and assisting with the upkeep and preservation of the tombs of the Heroes of previous Blights.
During one of his shifts, as he was preparing the preservation spell over the Tomb of Garahel, he had heard…something. No, he shook his head. Heard was not correct. Felt. As an echo of chimes singing within his skin rather than heard with his ears. It danced within his very core, calling to every fiber of his being. A soft, lyrical call, flooding the center of him, to his very soul. Intrigued, he had ceased his spell casting, and stepped closer to the tomb of the elven hero. There lay the amulet, upon a surface that just moments prior had been bare of anything other than that sculpted into the marble of the sarcophagus. He felt no trepidation as he reached a hand down and plucked it from the cold surface.
The moment his hand had made contact of the silver gray metal, the strange singing ripped through his body, dancing along his veins, singeing his very blood. As he raised the item to his eyes, there had been a spark – a tiny lightening's eruption - reacting to the magic within his being, wrapping itself within the mana deep within his body.
That was all the mage recollected until he found himself taken, as a prisoner, by his fellow Wardens in Jader, thousands of miles from the ancient fortress. Memories of his flight from the fortress were shoddy and incomplete, a mystery to the man who had somehow managed to flee from the ancient fortress to the lowlands.
He did remember his insane rambling, however. He had proclaimed to the Warden Commander in Jader that he had to deliver the amulet, to make it whole. Had even shown the startled and sympathetic man the object in question, but did not easily relinquish same. It had been a struggle, five strong wardens – warriors all – wrestling the item from their brother Warden, certain it was the cause of his insanity.
A dry chuckle escaped his lips now, and he shook his head at the memory, still feeling the sting of embarrassment over his actions. Not for the first time he wondered why his fellow Wardens had not simply locked him as deep into a dungeon as they could, certain that their fellow had gone quite stark, raving mad.
There was a gentle knock at his door, and the Grey Warden called for entrance as he settled the amulet into a pocket, moving forward to place himself within reach of his spear as he watched the door open. A young human girl entered, her arms laden with a tray heavy with his supper, gave an awkward curtsey as she moved to the sidebar, settling the plates of food thereupon. And Rikhard relaxed, a small smile upon his lips as she set the plates out for his use.
Rikhard watched the girl's movements, taking in just how comely a wench she was. His smile widened slightly. He found Fereldan women to be especially attractive, with their strong features and stronger wills. They had beautiful hands…hands that had seen work, and they were not afraid to get them dirty with honest labor. So unlike the many women he had known in Orlais and even in the more stoic Anderfels.
The girl turned and, seeing the attention of the handsome, scarred man fixed upon her, gave a coy smile, a hand rising to brush down one rounded hip.
The Grey Warden considered, seriously, for a moment inviting the girl back later. He had found himself lonely for company, recalling that it had been months since he had shared a bed with anyone. However, the amulet called softly out to him, singing into his being once more. So he rose, handing the pretty girl a silver, offering a softly spoken 'Thank you' as he grasped her hand quickly, releasing it, the warmth of her fingers imprinted upon his cool flesh.
The serving girl gave the man a disappointed pout, curtsied once more, and then quietly left the room, giving the man one last, encouraging wink before closing the door behind her.
He had not noticed the final gesture as he pulled free the amulet, his eyes once more fixed upon the runed surface, long fingers skimming along the surface as he continued his search.
An hour passed, the food delivered sitting where the girl had left it, cold now, the gravy thick and heavy. Blinking, the Grey Warden raised his eyes, rubbing at them, unaware of the passage of time as his attention had been focused solely upon the stolen artifact. A hand went to the pocket of his shirt, pressing against the small, cylinder object tucked away. As always, a strange warmth emanated from the item, seeping through the woven shirt he now wore. A frown crossed his scarred face, and he lifted the amulet again, focusing upon the item once more, tiny sparks erupting along its surface, in answer to the tiny pinprick of magic he sent out into it.
When he had been called by the item – or rather, once he had regained control over his faculties, the mage had been curious as to why it had picked him, of all of the Wardens at the fortress. As time went by, the more he examined the item, interacted with it, he realized that the item called specifically for him, due to circumstances that were rare amongst the Wardens sequestered at the mountain fortress.
The amulet's elven origins were obvious. Ancient elven runes danced along the surface. The power of the item called out to his own elven blood, a gift from his elven father, who had died when he was young for the audacity of loving a human woman. A frown crossed his face as he recalled his mother sharing a similar fate, as had his older brother and younger sister. Horrible memories threatened, and he viciously shook his head, clearing the thoughts away.
He had lived with those memories for more than twenty years; he would not relive them now.
There was also a slight taint to the item, one similar to that found within darkspawn…within the Grey Wardens themselves. So it sought out the taint within his blood, his veins, singeing it with its power.
When he had first picked it up – as it had now – it reacted to the strong magic he wielded.
That was the Tevinter influence in the amulet's creation. Ancient Arcanum edged the item, intermingling with the runes of the ancient elves. The metal of the amulet itself strange and not native to Thedas. Star metal. Very rare, metal having fallen from the sky, a blazing meteor slamming down into the earth, cooling as time passed. He was certain that the metal of this item had indeed come from the heavens.
There was a mystery to the item, and, even had the amulet not sought him out, calling him to collect it, the archivist of the Wardens would still be intent to learn just what that mystery was.
But he was getting frustrated. He had collected the second item needed from the depths of the Brecilian Forest more than a week ago, and he still could not decipher the amulet to integrate the object within. And he knew that both items must be joined. The call from the amulet and cylinder screamed in his head, burning his blood, as their insistence grew with each passing day.
Cursing, he rose, clutching the item tightly in hand, stalking to where his supper lay, cold, the grease of the duck congealing along the edges of the plate.
Those eyes, as black and deep as obsidian, fixed upon the carving knife settled across the trap. Blinking, he raised his free hand, taking the object up, clutching it tightly in his palm.
Before finding the amulet – or rather, before the amulet found him – Rikhard had never resorted to blood magic. Had found no need to do so. His own magic – both in the creations arts as well as primal – were very strong.
The ancient artifact, however, had other needs. Needs of magic, but not of that wielded by the Grey Warden mage. And it was from the item that Rikhard had learned how to wield the magic of blood. No demons called forth, but the power was there.
Within his own blood.
It was with this recollection, shaking his head for not having realized it sooner (he still balked at the use of blood – his or others), he set the amulet down upon the sidebar, bringing the knife to his palm, cutting a shallow furrow into the flesh. He watched as blood oozed from the wound, then picked up the amulet once more, settling it upon the injured hand, watching as the dark red blood flowed across the surface, rippling and oozing around the embossed surface, flowing around and into the runes, a living thing.
Breath quickened as he felt the power of the amulet assert itself, and, then he heard a small clicking sound.
The amulet opened, revealing a cylinder shaped indentation within. Lightheaded, the mage reached into his pocket, pulling free the shining, silver vial. Taking a breath, he settled the object within the indentation, moving his hand quickly as the amulet, of its own power, snapped shut with barely a snap.
Setting the knife down, ignoring the blood that continued to well from the wound, Rikhard watched as the strange metal – metal that tinged his fingers, sparked with his magic, sang deep into his soul – began to take on a reddish, silvery hue.
The song, so beautiful, so insistent, called again, its choir singing in his elven soul, flowing along the mana of his magic, and singeing his tainted blood. It was as though the amulet was rejoicing at the reunion of star metal and silverite, sharing its joy with the mage it had chosen to be its wielder.
Startled, but not unsettled, the Grey Warden sat back into his chair, holding the amulet aloft by its silvery chain, marveling as it sang.
And in that song, the ancient, mysterious artifact conveyed to the man their next destination.