A Bracilian Werewolf in Thedas
Part 1 – "Hungry Like the Wolf"
The Dalish camp was deep in the Bracilian Forest. The forest covered hundreds of acres of land, by my estimation. Our best chance of finding the reclusive elf clan was by following the narrow river than flowed through the dense woodlands. It paid off; we found the camp at the riverhead.
The clan was suffering from an illness caused by—of all things—werewolf bites. "Real, actual werewolves?" I asked. It sounded like superstitious twaddle.
"Come and see," keeper Zathrian answered, leading us to where several of their hunters lay ill. As crazy as it sounds, some of them were showing signs of change—elongated limbs and snouts, distortion of the ribcage and torso, and in elves, that didn't normally have facial or body hair, tufts of coarse fur appeared all over. The normal hair of their heads had fallen out and their scalps were covered with short, dense, uneven fur too.
"Where can the werewolves that caused this sickness be found?" I asked. "I'll deal with them."
"There's more to this," he said. He told a story of the lead wolf, one that they called Witherfang, that was the source of all the problems. This kind of curse on his people could only be removed with Witherfang's heart.
"You want me to kill this Witherfang and bring back his heart? Will that really cure your people?"
"I expect it will," he said noncommittally. He wasn't fully cooperative, but we needed the help of the expert Dalish archers against the darkspawn. I wasn't left much of a choice as to how I could enlist their help, treaty or no treaty. Zathrian made it clear that he wouldn't send a single archer to fight with us when his clan was in more immediate danger.
His outright refusal to honor the ancient treaty galled me. "Fine, I'll go find Witherfang," I said. "But when your people are cured, I expect to see them in battle alongside the rest of us."
He promised they would honor the treaty if we did our part first. We set off into the deepest part of the forest in search of a werewolf. How would I be able to tell Witherfang from any other werewolf? Was this one so different from the rest? Apparently so, if it had the power to bring curses on the Dalish.
By now you would think I'd be ready for anything in Ferelden. After having fought darkspawn, demons and abominations, mages with mind-numbing spellpower (I'd met none in Starkhaven), walking corpses, crazed cultists, and a bipolar Guardian, I was sure I'd seen it all. Far from it.
The beasties of the day were murderous walking trees, a talking oak that spoke in rhyme, werewolves—the real thing—determined to our throats out, an insane mage who liked to play a game of questions and answers, revenants of incredible strength, walking skeletons armed with bows and swords, immense spiders, a couple of talking werewolves, and at the werewolves' lair, a naked woman with her hair barely covering her breasts and some strategically-placed roots that seemed to grow from her flesh, obscuring rather than concealing her private parts.
"We never had trees like that in Highever," Aiden said, admiring the woman's shapely form. Zev gawked openly as well. Morrigan snorted in disgust at them both. Her revealing outfit was matronly in comparison.
"Can I interest you in a dress?" I quipped.
The lead werewolf, a huge brute referred to as Swiftrunner, leapt to her defense, snarling at me and ordering that I "respect the Lady of the Forest." Well. Maybe she should act with a bit more respectability, starting with clothes.
This being, or woman, spoke in gentle tones and with unexpected wisdom. The werewolves bowed to her as if she were a queen. She treated them as family. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought someone spiked my waterskin with lyrium, and this whole episode was a drug-dream.
In spite of doubting my eyes and my sanity, I asked her politely, "My Lady, I need the help of the Dalish against the blight. How can we bring peace to your clans?"
"Darkspawn. I have seen them in the forest. Vile monsters," she answered in her odd, hollow voice. She told me the truth about the curse: it came from Zathrian, when his family was murdered. Now there was to be a showdown between Zathrian and Witherfang… or the Lady of the Forest… or whatever/whoever she/it was. I was getting a headache trying to sort it all out.
Zathrian wasn't just a keeper with a normal elven keeper's knack for magic. A "keeper" of secrets and lies, he was a centuries-old sorcerer with anger issues.
"If you wish to help us, bring Zathrain here so we can negotiate," she requested.
We found him in the ruins just below the entrance. He flatly refused to talk to the Lady. While I kept his attention, Zev slipped around behind him and knocked him out. We dragged him down to the lair.
When he opened his eyes, I held my blade to his chest and warned him, "If you even look like you're going to attack, I'll kill you before you braw a breath." His death would mean the werewolf clan would be cursed forever, but there was no guarantee he would remove the curse anyway. When the Lady pleaded with him to lift the curse and release her clan, Zathrian refused.
"How can this be settled, then?" I asked the Lady. I was done talking to Zathrian.
She answered with profound sadness, and with compassion that Zathrian lacked, "We turned his curse back on his people to try to force him to remove it. As long as he lives, the curse lives. If he dies without lifting the curse, I will continue, but I promise it will not be spread to others."
I conferred with Alistair and Aiden. "If he won't remove the curse, he must die, and the Lady has promised we'll have her clan as allies. It's not the ideal solution, but it will stop the curse from spreading." They agreed. "Let's give Zathrian one more chance to do the right thing."
Before we could act, Zathrian bowed before the Lady. "Forgive me, spirit. I will release you." He and the Lady disappeared, and the werewolves transformed instantly into humans.
"Do you think he knew we were going to kill him?" Aiden asked.
Morrigan broke in. "I had a talk with him. When he learned that I was Flemeth's daughter, he became so frightened that he would agree to anything rather than have her curse him with something far worse than lycanthropy."
None of us were inclined to ask her what could be worse. Even Aiden, whom she seemed to love, was wary of such discussions.
The Dalish began to heal right away, and though their recovery would take a few weeks, the new keeper promised to honor the treaty.
I've given an abbreviated account of the events. Truth was, it was an extremely difficult and dangerous endeavor, and all of us sustained injuries that required treatment and rest. As pressing as the need for more soldiers was, I didn't feel we should continue to Orzammar in our current condition. I told the group we would return to camp for a few days, getting what healing we could from Wynne and taking time off to rest.
Aiden led Zevran and Morrigan back to camp while Alistair and I went on a side trip. I had promised him we would go to Denerim. There was no time like the present, because we didn't know if we had a tomorrow.
Alistair found his sister's house and he hesitated. He wanted to meet her, but he was nervous about how to greet a sister he'd never met, what to say to her, and how she would receive him. "What if she just throws me out? I have no proof that I'm her brother."
"I'll back you up, but I don't think you'll need my input. You know enough facts about your birth to convince her," I encouraged him.
We found the door open and went inside. Alistair called out, "Hello? Is anyone home?"
A woman appeared from the back of the small house. She was pretty, a few years older than Alistair, dressed in shabby clothing, not unkempt but very poor. Her house was clean, but her furniture was stark and splintering with age. "You have linens to wash?" She prattled on about her rate, and warned him about other washwomen who cheated their customers.
"No, I'm not here for wash," he said. "The truth is, well, I'm your brother. I'm Alistair."
Her countenance screwed up into an unattractive scowl. "My what? I have no brother."
Alistair explained that his mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle, and his sister's scowl deepened with her rage. "They lied to me and kicked me out in the street! They told me you'd died with Mother, but they lied. They paid me a few silvers just to shut me up so the king's precious reputation wouldn't get soiled."
"I'm sorry…" Alistair began, and got no further.
"Yeah, I'll bet you're sorry. You look like you've done pretty well for yourself, with your fancy armor and high title, Prince Alistair. Just like your father, ain't ya? You even brought along one of your mistresses." She turned her venom on me. "Don't go thinkin' you'll be his only one, girlie."
"Don't talk to her like that," he responded angrily. "She's my friend and she's a Grey Warden, just like I am."
"Ooh, look at you, a prince and a Grey Warden," she taunted. "Well, why don't you share some of that wealth and prove you're really my brother, then we can talk."
I turned to Alistair, disgusted with the greedy woman. "She's not interested in family, Alistair. All she wants is money." (If she only knew that Alistair didn't have a single sovereign to his name…)
"You're right," he said. He and his sister Goldanna ("Golddigger" was a more fitting name), were eyeing each other like two stray cats. "I don't know why I came here to begin with." We exited the house with the sound of her insults and curses ringing in our ears. Once outside, he took a minute to regain his composure. "I don't really know what I expected, honestly, but I never thought my sister would end up being a… being such a…"
"Bitch," I supplied. He nodded. "Alistair, she's no different from nearly everyone else. People look to their own interests. You might do well to do the same." I glanced back at the shack. "But not to that extent."
"You may be right," he mused. "Let's just get out of here. I can't wait to return to a more cordial atmosphere—maybe exchange insults with Morrigan before I adjourn to my comfy spot on the hard ground in camp."
"That's enough pouting out of you, Prince," I scolded, drawing a hint of a smile from him. "Come on." I grabbed his hand and led him toward the Gnawed Noble tavern. His big hand engulfed mine. Our hand-in-hand stroll drew a few stares, but I ignored them. Alistair beamed. If I could have seen myself, I'd have known I looked like a girl on her first date.
He opened the tavern door for me. "I hope you're not thinking to get me drunk and take advantage of me," he said with mock-horror.
"Furthest thing from my mind," I answered. He responded with a mild oath under his breath, making me laugh. A flagon of mead would help him put the unpleasant meeting behind him. I convinced myself that the drink was because I didn't want my best fighter distracted when we went into our next battle. It wasn't because I wanted to spend some time alone with him.
Part 2 – "I Want to Know What Love Is"
"Feeling better now?" I asked when we were halfway through our mead.
"Much," he answered. "Thanks for being there for me."
"Of course. What else did I have to do today but babysit my favorite warden?"
He brightened. "I'm your favorite, am I? What will the others say?" He sobered a little and continued, "Anyway, I don't want to talk about them. I want to talk about you."
My guard went up. "What do you want to know? There's really nothing to tell."
"Everyone has something to tell… or to hide," he rejoined. "Okay, if you don't want to talk about yourself, tell me about Starkhaven. What's it like? Snowy? Swampy? Mountain-y?"
"It's nice, I suppose," I replied with a shrug, as if the topic was dull. "It's the largest city in the Free Marches, an independent city-state, like most of the major cities there. The only one ruled by a prince. Located north of Kirkwall on a river. Flat plains to the south, a few hills to the northwest… That's about it."
"Great, I can draw a map from that information alone. You'll spare me the population count, I trust? Aside from its location, what was special about it? What do you remember most fondly?"
"Nothing, really," I said. I wished he would drop the subject.
"You miss nothing about your homeland? That's unusual. Alright then, what was it that made you want to leave and come to Ferelden? You have no family here, and you haven't mentioned having friends or any type of connection to this land."
"Do you have a problem with me being here, Alistair?" I was purposely being evasive, and he wasn't having it.
"No Winter, I'm glad you're here. I simply want to know why you're so closed off that you won't speak of Starkhaven, even to me. I thought we were close."
"We are close…"
"Then out with it," he insisted. "Open up to me. Show some trust, the way I've trusted you."
Why was he doing this? And why now, so soon after Sebastian's letter. The letter I threw in the fire. Come to think of it, there was no sign of charred paper in the campfire when I sat by it later that night.
"You read my letter, didn't you?" He looked uncomfortable. He deserved to, and I wasn't going to let him off easily. "You had no right to read my personal messages. I've never pried into your life and you shouldn't pry into mine."
"I know. You're right, I shouldn't have done it," he admitted. "It wasn't mere nosiness. As I've told you before, I worry about you, Winter. You have a self-destructive streak that makes you reckless, and I've had to wonder why, and what made you care so little for your life." His tone softened, and he finished, "I care very much about your life. This may sound silly or it may be too soon, but I've come to… care for you. I can't think of you as just a friend any longer, because you've become dear to me."
How could I stay angry with him now, after he'd just bared his heart? "I care about you too, Alistair. I'm not sure where it will lead, if it goes anywhere, but you've become dear to me also."
His amber eyes took on a shine that indicated I might have given him more hope than I had the right to give anyone, in my emotionally damaged state. My heart wasn't as hard as it was months ago, but I would probably never return to the person I was in Starkhaven. Whether I was capable of loving another man as I'd once loved Sebastian wasn't something I wanted to consider.
"I'm sorry, you know," he said. "I'm sorry you had your heart broken. You deserve much better."
"That's not entirely why I left Starkhaven," I replied. Why keep it in any longer, and why keep it from Alistair? If he cared for me as much as he said—and I believed he did—he deserved to know the whole truth. "Do you remember the things the Guardian said to me when we went to find the urn?" I began. He nodded. I told him about how my relationship with Sebastian ended, how and why I was imprisoned, and why I was exiled from Starkhaven for life.
"Maker," he commented when I'd finished. "I wouldn't have guessed… How could anyone be so cruel? He should have known better than to try to hold on to you and his vocation at the same time. I suppose he felt if he couldn't have you for himself, he'd make sure no one else could get near you. Possessive bastard. He doesn't deserve to be in the chantry. Taking out his frustration on you was reprehensible." He thought on it and added, "I imagine that's the sin against you that he was referring to in his letter?"
"Who knows?" I shrugged. "Sebastian was always a hot-tempered man. Quick to anger and just as quick to forget. The chantry changed him. He became too obsessed with Andraste. From the way he spoke, he put her equal to the Maker in importance. Maybe that's what the chantry teaches, but I don't believe it's so."
"Well, that explains how you could destroy Andraste's ashes without a qualm," he said dryly. "I thought you were being practical."
"I was being practical," I shot back. "Do you think I was getting back at the 'other woman' when I did that? Don't be foolish. I destroyed the ashes because of the cultists, and because I believed there were more of them somewhere who would eventually flock to the mountain to guard their pet dragon or pray to it or whatever they do in that cult. Devout people making pilgrimages to the urn would be murdered, and for what? To see a statue, an urn, and maybe take a peek inside the urn to see a dead woman's ashes? It hardly seemed worth dying for."
"I can't argue with that logic," he agreed. "So what happens to us now?"
"What's changed? You know my past, that's all."
"No, that's not all," he frowned. "I think I told you, in a roundabout way, that I'm falling in love with you."
"Oh…" I didn't want to hear the word "love". Words like "care" and "dear" were allowed; "love" was still a sore subject. I didn't know what to say and I didn't want to hurt him.
"I see," he said. His sadness pierced me like a dagger. "You care, but not in the same way I care for you. I should have known not to get my expectations too high." He rose from the table. "Let's get back to camp."
"Wait," I stopped him. "Hear me out, please." He sat, and I explained as best I could. "I trusted too soon and too much, and that trust was betrayed. Trust doesn't come easily to me any more." I paused and chose my words carefully. "Being around you for these past months has restored some of the joy I once had in living. I have come to think highly of you, Alistair, more than any man I've known in a long time. I truly care for you, but caring for someone scares me more than the thought of being overwhelmed by darkspawn. I'm not ready to risk my heart again. Not now, not yet, and certainly not with the blight looming over us.
"I am beyond flattered that a man as handsome and as wonderful as you cares for me. You are dear to me. But please, be patient with me and let's see where this leads. In time, after the blight is ended, we can see if there's a future for us. If that's not acceptable, I won't be offended if you choose to find someone else."
His smile was almost reproachful, but still charming. "Dear Winter, haven't you been listening? I don't want anyone else. I didn't expect this to happen, but it has happened, and I don't regret my feelings for you. I've waited all my life; I can wait until the blight is over. Maker willing, you will be my first and only love."
I didn't know how to respond. I was deeply touched, but also apprehensive. I simply lowered my eyes and stopped talking. What more was there to say?
"It's very late, you know," he said. "Too late to start back for camp. Plus we've both had a rough go of it in the forest. Let's get a couple of rooms here at the inn and sleep, then get an early start in the morning. Or a late start, if you prefer." Evidently, since he'd gotten over his earlier tiff, the thought of rushing back to camp at night wasn't so appealing. Sleeping in Denerim was a good idea. We weren't at our fighting best, and night travel was too dangerous with darkspawn lurking between the city and our camp.
Being the gentleman that he was, he walked me to my door, which was down the hall, a few yards from our table. His room was next to mine. He opened the door for me, leaned in to make sure there were no monsters lurking in the sitting area of the suite—which was surprisingly nice for a dump like the Gnawed Noble—and pronounced it safe. Then he hesitated.
"Something wrong?" I asked. "You said it was safe. And remember, I'm well armed."
"No… No, nothing's wrong. Good night, Winter." His downcast demeanor said otherwise.
"How thoughtless of me," I said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
He smiled tenderly, and I don't believe he ever looked more handsome than he did then. His eyes sparkled with golden highlights. "Good night, my dear," he whispered. Then he left.
We ate a hearty breakfast the next morning, after having slept hours longer than I'd planned. After a quick look through the shops and a visit to Brother Genetivi, we headed for camp.
When we arrived, we learned that everyone assumed we were involved. Bohdan had seen us together when he went to restock at Gorim's stall in Denerim, and when we didn't return until morning, he figured we'd slept together at the inn. He wasted no time in spreading the rumor. Alistair wasn't fazed by the gossip, but I was angry and embarrassed. I'd been raised with a stricter moral code than what I'd lived, and far stricter than what I'd witnessed in my companions—Alistair being the one exception. Still, we made no secret of our close friendship any longer. The giggles they heard coming from my tent weren't due to playful passion, but because we'd discovered that Leliana was sleeping with Zevran.
"That's sure evidence that she's not too selective. I thought she preferred women," Alistair commented. "Not that I'm judging, mind you, but she hasn't shown interest in men since she joined us."
"I imagine she had many lovers in Orlais," I guessed. "She certainly didn't learn her fighting skills from the revered mother. She had another life before the chantry."
"A rather frisky life," Alistair put in. "Best of both worlds, is it?"
"Not so different from Zevran," I said. "You see how he looks at Aiden."
"Ugh. Yes. Creepy. Maybe it has to do with them both being assassins. She was a bard, after all, and they do a lot of that sort of thing." He arched an eyebrow. "She had her sights on you for a long time, did you know that? I used to think you resisted my charms because of her."
"What? Are you crazy? I tolerate her because we need an archer of her skills, not… Oh, you really are a royal bastard! You're trying to get under my skin."
"You can't blame a fellow for trying," he smiled.
Part 3 - Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves
Leliana was a bard—a spy, an assassin, a thief—who had bedded many men and women in order to gain their trust, if it helped her to fulfill a contract. Like Zevran, she sometimes killed for pay. Also like him, she was often required to seduce her marks. Their similarities ended there.
She was the protégé of Val Royeaux's most notorious bard-master. Marjolaine took Leliana in when she was in her mid-teens and schooled her in the fine art of rogue-style fighting, and the not-so-fine but effective art of fighting dirty. The bard-master seduced the inexperienced girl and used her well-practiced charms to control her. For years, they were the most successful and highest paid bards in the city, if not in all of Orlais.
Unlike Marjolaine, Leliana had a conscience. Guilt was a liability in the bard trade. Self-doubt and questioning orders got bards killed or arrested. Leliana had become expendable. Marjolaine set her young lover up to be apprehended by the Denerim guard and charged with espionage. The corrupt guard captain and his men brutally abused her. If not for the intervention of a chantry mother, she would have died in the guardhouse dungeon.
She found a measure of peace when she became an initiate. While in the Denerim chantry, lonely Leliana developed an inappropriate attachment to the chantry mother, her benefactor. For both their sakes, the mother had the emotionally scarred girl transferred to Lothering. Almost a decade later, Leliana still hadn't taken her vows. She wasn't sure why, but she wasn't ready to make the final commitment.
Her life became much more fulfilling when the Grey Wardens accepted her as a companion. Instead of contemplation and prayers, she could use her fighting skills again—skills she had honed to perfection when she could elude the watchful eyes of senior chantry sisters. She was unequalled in Val Royeaux at archery—a skill Marjolaine hadn't fully appreciated. But Winter recognized her skill, and Leliana was grateful to her lovely new leader.
Lovely, but cold and unapproachable, like her name. Winter. How appropriate. Leliana was more drawn to the seductive Morrigan, but the apostate was more distant than Winter. She feared involvement with a man. She'd never had a real relationship with one. They were either her marks or her abusers. Neither of the women she desired wanted her. She was alone.
Marjolaine. Winter. Morrigan. Maybe it's the nature of beautiful, dark-haired women to be cruel.
She had drawn guard duty again. With Winter and Alistair away, she and Aiden had to take more turns on watch. She sat by the campfire, warming her hands and thinking over the events that led her here, to the camp in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by companions who didn't seem to care much for her as a person. To Winter, she was a set of skills; to Alistair, a nuisance. Aiden paid her no attention whatsoever unless they were battling darkspawn together, and even then his attentiveness was limited to the battle. Morrigan despised her, maybe more than she hated Alistair. Sten and Shale didn't even count as people.
"May I join you?"
She glanced up, startled out of her thoughts. It was Zevran, the handsome Antivan Crow. She'd had brushes with the Crows in Orlais. They weren't as skilled as Orlesian bards, but they were persistent enough to pursue their marks until the kill was made.
"If you like," she replied.
Zevran sat beside her and began making small talk. He kept the conversation general and focused on things that would arouse her interest. Before long, she was smiling and chatting excitedly, laughing at some of his comments—none of which were in the least suggestive.
They discussed, of all things, different methods of assassination. Zevran revealed that he always coated his blades with poison. Sometimes he poisoned their drinks too. "It's an extra service I provide for my clients," he said. "A little courtesy, free of charge."
"Do you make your own poisons?" Leliana was spellbound. She didn't realize he was so talented. When he failed to kill Winter and Alistair, they all presumed he was incompetent. He wasn't. The wardens were just far better fighters than he and his hired assistants.
"You didn't use it when you attacked Winter?"
He snorted in wry amusement. "I did, but she avoided my blades and had me out cold on the ground before I knew what had hit me. An excellent fighter, she." Having answered her question, he returned the conversation to himself. "I have my own poison recipe," he confided. "It took me months to perfect, and it's instantly lethal."
"I'm jealous," she pouted. "I have little skill with poisons. I wish I'd had a recipe like yours."
Zevran laughed. "No need to be jealous, my dear. I'll gladly teach you how to make it, on one condition."
"What condition?"
"Well, since you are so agreeable, let's make it two conditions."
"What conditions?" she repeated impatiently.
Zev had her where he wanted her. She was like ripe fruit waiting to be picked. "First, that you tell no one the recipe. Are we agreed?"
"Absolutely, yes," she nodded. "And the second condition?"
He cocked his head and regarded her with his golden eyes, using an expression that others found appealing. She blinked a couple of times. She liked the way he looked at her. "The second condition is… No, I cannot ask it of you. You would think it improper. I shall take my leave." He made as if to rise, but her hand shot out and gripped his wrist. Perfect.
"No, please don't go," she said. "I've enjoyed our talk, and I'm sure whatever you wanted to ask of me isn't improper. You've been… well, I never thought you would be such a gentleman."
"Thank you, gracious lady. If that is true, would you bestow a kiss upon a lonely gentleman? Just a kiss from a beautiful woman. That is all I ask."
She hesitated. Should she? He was handsome, and he was lonely like she was. What harm was there in a kiss? "A kiss, and no more." She leaned toward him. He reached up, took her face in his hands, and brought his lips to hers in a slow, maddening tease before giving her a deep kiss, the kind that had earned him a lot of coin and had lulled his marks into an erotic stupor. He lingered as long as he dared, not wanting to push her too fast. Things were going exactly according to plan. He couldn't ruin it now. He broke the kiss with the same slowness with which he'd started it—another trademark move.
"Oh my," she whispered. He was still so close she could feel his body heat radiating from his lips—those incredibly gifted lips. She grabbed him and pulled him close for another kiss. He obliged her with a sense of satisfaction. He wouldn't have to sleep alone that night. She drew back and said breathlessly, "My watch is almost over. Sten and Shale are standing guard. Would you come to my tent?"
The naïve woman couldn't read the smugness in his smile. "It would be an honor and a pleasure."
From his post, Sten scoffed with disgust when he saw the pair dart into the human woman's tent. "Pointless breeding exercise," he muttered.
"You can say that again," Shale responded.
Sten looked around at him. "Why would I wish to repeat it?"