Author's notes:
Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes.
Welcome to my fanfic: In An Age Full Of Heroes, a non-canonical Dragon Age: Origins story not focusing on the game but rather the civil war running amok in Ferelden during the time of the Fifth Blight.
There will be some fundamental changes and reinterpretations of mine. Especially regarding mages, their abilities, how they derive and tap into the powers of the Fade as well as the templars' means to keep them and demonic influence under control.
Should you have questions or concerns, feel free to write a review or PM me. It might take me some time, but I'll always answer. Constructive criticism is always welcome, naturally.
Edit: Chapter has been edited as per 29.03.2016. No changes to the plot have been made, only to the structure and flow of my writing, to adapt them to my current grasp of prose. Furthermure, single quotes have been substituted with double quotes.
Without further ado, enjoy the first chapter of a book written in an age full of heroes!
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In An Age Full Of Heroes
Chapter I
The Past Devours
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Draped and hidden deep inside a dark woollen cloak, the tall man entered the capital of Antiva beneath the raised portcullis of the south-western Saltway Gate.
Immediately the city's smell assaulted the man's aquiline nose. His nostrils wrinkled in welcome at the delicate scent of seawater mixed with sour wine and Antivan spices as well as the sweet breeze of whore and debauchery. Thankfully, the guards, Obmaeri and Ilsama, always stationed at the minor Saltway Gate, shortly after dusk each third day, knew him already from his past few trips into the bustling port city. Waved him through with a bored gesture. Thus the man's passage went uninterrupted and unnoticed, save by a few who paid him no heed.
Navigating the city's contorted streets and alleyways with indigenous familiarity, the foreigner soon found his destination, the tavern of the One-Winged Jackdaw, always rife with rumour.
And drink to loosen already eager tongues.
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The foreigner proved utterly oblivious to the quartet of hawkish eyes tracking his every movement from atop the city's slanted rooftops, since he'd entered it through the arched Saltway Gate.
Beware this mark, Abscamandri. Strike quick and true, Maestro Komumkuttra had warned him personally as he delivered the contract.
Their employer had informed them that their current target would be of the more dangerous ilk. Doubly so if they'd be foolish enough to allow him to unsheathe his blade. Ostensibly, the man possessed renowned skill as a swordsman in his homeland of Ferelden.
Taking no chances, as is the wont of the House of Crows, Maestro Komumkuttra had summarily decided that this particular contract permitted no room for mistakes or the participation of novice members of their devious art. Only the best of Maestro Komumkuttra's claw were assigned the task of murdering the dog-loving Fereldan.
As such, Abscamandri found himself hunched on the terracotta-tiled edges of Antiva City's canopy. Ready to hunt, he and his three deadly companions eagerly awaited the tall male to exit the tavern's comfort again.
All things aside, you didn't simply face off against four seasoned sorcerers who'd furthermore been trained and now served the Antivan House of Crows' will. Even other Crows tried to avoid such suicidal odds under any given circumstance.
Whoever had purchased the services of their claw had paid a hefty sum to have the four of them assigned to the task.
The rumours surrounding their cadre always brought a wicked smile to Abscamandri's lips. Many true, some outright blatant lies, but all served their purpose of pre-emptive intimidation. If there was one thing commoner and noble alike feared and admired throughout the country even more than a common Crow assassin, then that were members of the Corvi Magi.
So, who warranted such an overwhelming call of sorcerous force? Even the most apt swordsman could do nothing against the primal onslaught and the subtle weavings of the schools of magic. The question itched Abscamandri. The answer remained an unsolvable riddle to him.
Unless . . .
Abscamandri viewed the world with sorcerous eyes, narrowed in concentration. Couldn't find the tell-tale absence of lyrium in the tavern. Anathema to everything he represented. Besides, Maestro Komumkuttra wouldn't have sent mage-assassins against a lyrium-bearing target. Abscamandri blinked and the world returned to normal.
Night had already settled by now, the arriving sea breeze filling his bones with a welcome chill, while his heart accelerated in lustful anticipation. Blood would soon be spilled, splattering hot on his cool skin. The climbing crescent moon illuminated the cobbled streets below, piercing the dreary, overcast sky with its silvery lances of light. Rewriting shadow with every passing cloud.
The door opened with a protesting creak, painfully loud in the silence of the night, and their target reappeared, stumbling slightly. Probably drunk.
Sounds of merriment and laughter drifted out from within the tavern till the door was thrown shut again.
Their target's inebriation made their work considerably easier. If your target staggered around piss drunk, barely on his feet and couldn't walk in a straight line, then factors such as speed and viciousness and accuracy lost a bit of their importance. As a woeful side effect it also minimised the thrill of the hunt by a rather pesky amount.
But one didn't become a member of the Antivan Crows, much less their cadre of mage-assassins through inflated pomposity and prideful arrogance.
Without a sign or spoken command, the four Corvi Magi simultaneously plummeted off their respective roof's edge like a nosediving eagle, closing in on its prey, down into the street twenty armspans below. Abscamandri opened himself to the Fade and felt its chaotic power as it surged through his limbs. The blossoming of power around him alerted him to the fact that his fellow peers had done the same. They uttered a few syllables under their breath. The sorcerous words rolled like distant thunder through the streets.
The sloping fronts of clay buildings rushed by, then their free-fall descent decelerated to a glide. As the simple gravitational spell manifested its effects, it pealed back the glamour cast around them.
Perfectly synchronised, the four Crows emerged from sorcerous gloom and landed with near inaudible thuds of their moccasin-soled feet, surrounding the tall man in a half-circle.
Things went fast, then. As they're wont to.
The slender foreigner didn't back away in surprise nor froze he in shock at the sudden arrival of four assassins appearing all around him out of thin air, daggers drawn and poised to strike like vicious vipers. Only a few paces away now, Abscamandri realised that their target seemed even taller up close. Probably because he actually was. He towered over the tallest of the assassins surrounding him by more than a hand. Yet, only deluded fools judged martial prowess by either height or the sheer bulge of muscle tissue, deserving anything but a swift end.
Abscamandri darted in for the kill with quick and confident steps, daggers in a reverse grip and upraised, aiming at the target's heart and throat like a serpent's fangs. Abscamandri prepared a slight nudge of sorcery, just in case.
Yet his daggers never found their intended mark.
In quite an unexpected and unbelievably quick motion the stranger flicked off his woollen cloak with one hand and threw it at his face, robbing Abscamandri shortly of vision.
Not drunk, then. A devilish smile split his features.
He felt another tug at the back of his skull. Someone else reached into the Fade, though the well of power tasted utterly different than all sorceries that ever fondled and flowed cool down Abscamandri's palate before. Whoever reached, he reached deeply, albeit with a frighteningly perfect control.
Out of nowhere a heavy weight pressed its knee against Abscamandri's chest, squeezing with gnawing cold, biting far deeper than the ocean breeze.
An eerie wail pierce the silence of the midsummer night, just on the edge of his hearing.
The woollen garment flattered out of the way, deftly batted aside by his left hand.
And before Abscamandri stood a man no more.
Fear now cursed along his spine. An unfamiliar tingle, if ever he felt one.
It was a haunting image, that non-human creature hovering before him, as if underwater. It had no body which deserved the description. Ethereal tendrils and wasps of pale grey and ghostly white shimmered, flowed, and shifted with self-imposed intent. He was barely able to make out shapes of a face and a body with legs and arms here and there. Torn and lacerated pieces of clothing shifted as if tugged by some unseen wind or underwater current. The creature's face was human in appearance, though severely wounded on the left side. Cheek sheared away, showing strands of muscle and shimmering bone underneath, the wound raked itself upwards to the left eyeball. The creature's eyes held no semblance to what a human's would look like. Both swirled inky, pools of infinite blackness, sucking in every attempt at conscious thought.
Surprising himself, Abscamandri, still mid-stride, acted on reflex, striking with his two curved daggers. Again, aiming for his initial targets. Afraid, his mind didn't take the time to reach into the Fade and draw forth enough power to conjure a quick spell, but chose to respond with inbred martial force. Two poisoned daggers entered the ghoulish apparition's neck and chest right between two ribs, cleaving to the heart.
Maker's bride have mercy on my soul!
"She won't." A voice hissed snake-like in his ear.
Abscamandri's peers sung their unearthly song in waves of glittering sorceries. They trickled off like pearls of silver from spherical wards.
Fear now cursed in palpable shivers through Abscamandri, right before the wraith's blade flashed.
Took his head off.
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A cold smile marred his blue-blooded features.
He sat perched on his haunches. Studied the four crumpled forms surrounding him. With a tattered piece of cloth, nonchalantly ripped off from one of the assassins' garments, the foreigner wiped the blood befouling his blade off with gentle and caressing strokes. Finished with the task, he rose from his crouched position, sheathing the sword in a smooth and practised motion.
He gazed around, looking for any sign of further presence in the gloom.
Sensing none, he searched the assassins' pouches and pockets, many of them hidden and filled to brim with exotic poisons and throwing knives as well as elfroot remedy.
The meagre results availed him nothing of further use. Only an inconspicuous brass sign. A sign which he could place a local name to. A name he did not want to cross unless he absolutely had to. Which he did, quite obviously.
Komumkuttra.
He'd have to lengthen his visit to Antiva City.
It filled him with no slight amount of dread. Not the killing of these four mage-assassins, lying in their own pools of freshly spilled blood, shining black in the moonlight. Nor did he particularly mind the violence that would have to be done in order to gain even the slightest whiff of information. Information which would only confirm his worst fears one way or another.
No, the implications riding this failed assassination attempt's back filled him with cold dread. A curious notion, he'd outlived them, after all. The smile vanished off his lips, turned into a sneer. Anger cursed in frothing waves through the man. An anger he could do nothing with but contain, clamp down on, and shut away into the far reaches of his being.
One who tries to hide from social interaction and company as much as he did, does no simply attract the attention of the Antivan Crows' deadliest, their magi cadre. It defied every notion of logic. Or, mayhap, this had been the jovial consequence of a whimsical gathering of four apostates who had been expertly trained in the art of professional murder by the Antivan Crows. If so, he had the last laugh.
Very implausible, though. No, to attract their unfettered attention like this, meant that someone had not only found him and knew who he was, it additionally meant that this unknown someone also wanted his rotting corpse never to be found in some forgotten ditch. In a way he felt flattered that he merited such a violent and, no doubt, outrageously expensive course of action.
Yet it wouldn't end with him. He'd only be the first. Others would follow. His family would. Why else would someone go so far out of the way to have him removed if this wasn't a direct attack on his bloodline? It simply made no sense.
Now, there was no time to dally. He gathered his cloak which had, unexpectedly, survived the harsh abuse of its owner in one piece.
Alas, it'll be kind of a saddening goodbye. If such a thing even exists between witches and sorcerers.
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The sky bruised in bands of sunlight and shadow on the following morning, the Antivan House of Crows lamented the massacre of Maestro Komumkuttra's entire claw as much as the death of Komumkuttra himself. Rumours of brutal torture roamed the streets.
None of the other maestros knew who'd committed this travesty.
Yet, retribution followed swiftly. Lords and ladies, who'd on occasion vied against the Crows, though innocent in this matter, were found in the streets for days to come, their throats opened in a smile.
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Long after the Grand Cathedral's twelfth bell rang, loud and clear throughout the city, for the last time that day, Isabela—pirate, raider, and captain of the infamous ship Siren's Call—loitered around. She occupied the usual table inside the usual brothel she frequented. It was one of the fancier whorehouses, at least in the dockside districts of Val Royeaux. Which didn't mean all that much.
Isabela, always a good judge of character, assessed her newest crew member and, undoubtedly, the crew's handsomest male addition. His current resting place, a puddle of cheap ale, already drying up, informed her of the saddening fact that he was unfit for the any kind of sexual activity Isabela had had in mind when she proposed to her crew a visit to the Peg-Legged Peach.
"Egad," she moaned. "What sad times we women face. Men, once predictable, now not even the prospect of the Queen of the Eastern Seas nude, moaning on top, arouses them."
Isabela sighed at her predicament. "Stupid Blight."
Laughing at his captain's peril, her first mate, Casavir, joined her at the table. A mug, half filled with murky ale in one hand. Slouching down, his other hand roughly clapped onto the handsome sailor's slumped back, stirred his sleeping place in the pool of cheap beverage. The sailor yelped and toppled sideways, off the bench. Arrived, face down on the stone tiles, he began to snore anew in bliss.
Casavir looked at her, one bushy brow arched, a slight smirk covering his pock-marred features. Of course he had advice to offer, every first mate worth his salt did, even in a situation when Isabella wanted to hear anything but.
"Oi, capt'n," he began and gulped down half of his residual ale. The other half trailed down his face and the hairs on his chest, exposed by the unbuttoned quilted gilet he wore.
"You know 'em young lads now'days, them prefer sweet ale over sweet women. Takes 'em less guts to order a drink. An o'course them fo'get thei' 'roubls."
"Sad times, indeed," Isabela muttered under her breath as her first mate belched loudly, before he fell backwards, off the wooden bench he sat upon, heels still lingering atop. Seemingly uninterested in continuing their stimulating conversation, he joined in the general snoring now surrounding her.
Alone again and left to her peaceful sulking, Isabela raised her own earthenware jug filled with rum to her lips. The self-pronounce pirate queen took a reinvigorating sip. The taste of smoked wood burned down her throat. One of the many things she loved.
Down my throat, that is. Isabela chuckled, quite mad, in the eyes of other patrons she was sure.
About to call out to the proprietor of the brothel, a petite, elderly woman by the name of Melanie, Isabela heard the brothel's heavy wooden door creak open.
A stranger of towering height entered, shrouded in a dark woollen cloak brushing over the dusty floor, his features hidden in shadows by a wide hood. At the neck, the cloak was held together by an elegant silver brooch.
A thin sword, its guard a winged laurel wreath.
With interest piqued, Isabela watched Melanie manoeuvre her way through the drunken and less-lusty-than-usual lot of men, to greet the stranger in her establishment.
The ship captain couldn't discern what the proprietor then asked of the dreary stranger, yet the man spoke naught, only answering with a shake of his hooded head. In retort to the frowned eyebrows slowly drawing together on Melanie's round and reddening face, the stranger threw back his hood, albeit only after a few heartbeats of reluctance.
At first, Isabela mistook him for one of the elvish woodland folk, the Dalish. Fair and pale, with a certain ageless sheen to his skin. At her own assumption she had to shake her head and the fairy-tale glimmer wore off. Elves didn't grow this tall.
Taking a closer look through narrowed eyes, she spotted the man's sharp and narrow bone structure and a slight gauntness to his features, faint wrinkles on brow, none around eyes and mouth. It told her a tale of blue-blooded heritage and . . . an unhealthy absence of laughter.
Plain as day.
Loose strands of bright hair, scintillating in the random flicker of candlelight, fell down long on both sides of his head, while some strands were tucked behind his, quite obviously, human-shaped ears.
Isabela felt her mouth dry a bit when she realised that the stranger had seized her inquisitive stare, and currently made his way towards her, the brothel's proprietor completely forgotten at the entrance, left gaping at the insolence.
The man moved with an uncanny elegance and grace in his step. Somewhere below her stomach Isabela felt a pulse of heat at the thoughts running through her depraved mind.
Dismissively, the stranger toppled her snoring first mate over the edge of the bench with a nudge of his foot. The man perched down opposite her with a confidence like he owned the entire brothel. A few strokes of his fine-boned hand's bottom, as if to brush away non-existing crumbles of food.
"I find myself,' he spoke low, 'sorely in need of what you offer, captain."
A predatory smile overtook Isabela. "It seems my first mate was wrong in his assumption that, nowadays, every man has lost his courage and interest in sleeping with women."
She took his hand, roughened by callouses. In her mind they already scratched her back and grasped her throat. "Follow me then, handsome, I shall procure us a room for the night. Maybe some company."
Isabela batted her lashes.
Her attempt at getting off the table, he intercepted. "As lovely as that sounds, I am afraid I shall have to decline your offer."
As an afterthought, he added, "For now."
"Alas." Pouting, Isabela let her shoulders slump deliberately, whilst sitting down again. "What else would you have of me, then?"
"Many a sailor around here speaks highly of you." He shrugged. "Other captains, not so much. Neither do they mince their words."
"Don't believe those grumpy fools, then. It's as simple as that. They're just jealous."
"Jealous of what?"
"My steering skills, of course. And, on top of that, they're jealous that I don't steer their wheels. Lusty old pricks, all of them."
Her mischievous wink was answered with brooding silence.
"How soon could you cast off?"
"Tomorrow, after sunrise." Talking pure business now, Isabela leaned back, arms crossed under her chest, in a way she knew drew the eyes of men and some women alike. "Listen, I don't know if you're aware, but I don't take stray puppies, however sweet, on a free voyage just on their word."
"I understand." He nodded. "Coin will not be a problem."
"Is that so?" said Isabela, a delicate eyebrow arched. She scrutinised him for a few heartbeats. He stared right back without blinking. "Very well, two items remain that I'll insist on, stranger."
"What would they be?"
"Your name and destination."
He slowly rose out of his seated position, tucking at his cloak, scrupulously smoothing out wrinkles that weren't there. Then he gallantly bowed at the hip.
"I am named Araris Cousland, and my destination is not far. I must journey with haste to Highever."
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There loomed a serene calm and peace over the dawning day. Everything began to stumble bleary-eyed into wakefulness.
The sun, yet still pale, slowly ascended in the east. Feathers of dim orange and smears of golden bled into the greyish sky. Val Royeaux's dock workers slowly crawled back to life, this day anew, hungover as ever. Heaving heavy crates and barrels in the rising sun, filled with spices and fabrics, jewellery and spirits as well as ale, they loaded them onto the many ships occupying the stirring harbour.
Currently perched atop the sterncastle's hind reeling, her long legs crossed, Isabela surveyed her sailors below, scurrying around, readying everything aboard Siren's Call for departure.
Casavir walked up to her, concern tinged with a measure of unease all over his wrinkled features. Or maybe it was the hangover, palpable by the smell, which proved the source of his obvious unease.
"Captain," he slurred, though better than a few bells earlier. "That man, Cousland, I 'eard of him."
Whispering conspiratorially, he added, "Rumour says he's been exiled for treason. On pain of death."
Isabela wryly smiled at him. "Traitor's to the crown are usually executed, dear. He still has his head."
Isabela closed her eyes and turned, facing a gentle breeze from the calm ocean.
"Execution's only for common folk, not nobility, ain't it?"
Reckoning her morning peace broken, Isabela deftly hopped down from her seat. "What're you getting at, Cas? Just spit it out."
"Me doesn't think it wise to have him 'round, captain. Me believes he'll be trouble." Her first mate ducked his head slightly. "The boys feel it too, there's something off about him."
"Oh, darn. Sailors and their superstition." Isabela snorted wistfully. "That something-is-off-about-him man is going to pay us royally. If the lads are superstitious still, their share of the wage will be cut in half. More for me, tell the boys that. And tell them not to pout like little girls, only because there's a man graced with more beauty than they are. Shouldn't be new for most of them, really." She gestured. "Now scoot!"
Casavir barked a laugh and "Aye, capt'n," he said, before clutching his brow, ostensively to massage away the pain residing there.
The clatter of horse hooves on wooden planks neared soon after that. Astride a gallant midnight mare Araris Cousland arrived, reining in his animal right below where Isabela now leaned against the rail. Admittedly, Isabela didn't know much about horses in general, but a well-travelled pirate queen recognized a beast of fine breed, obvious with Araris Cousland's horse.
Standing on her toes, on leg arched back at the knee, Isabela peaked over the ship's rail and called down.
"Where were you? We've been waiting all night and day!"
Something that could've been as much a grunt as a brief, misshapen laugh drifted up to her ears.
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