Welcome, loyal followers! I must apologise for the long wait, writer's block coupled with a tumultuous life section makes updating a little difficult. Anyway, that's done now so updates should be slightly more consistent. So, enjoy reading this latest instalment and please review.
Dylan lay near the fire of the Warden camp, his hands resting behind his head as he gazed up at the stars. It had been a long day since leaving Kinloch Hold. They had travelled many leagues before bedding down here, a quarter of a day's walk from the Brecilian Forest.
"There is a clan of Dalish elves in the area." Duncan had explained whilst constructing the communal fire pit "I must speak with their Keeper, she has information we may need in days ahead." After lighting the fire, and enjoying a hearty bowl of druffalo stew, he had bade them all sleep to regain their strength. Yet, as the others slept on, their minds firmly ensconced in the Fade and the machinations therein, Dylan found himself too restless to even consider the notion.
His mind swam with possibilities whilst his magic writhed under his skin, all but crackling where his exposed flesh encountered the light of the waxing crescent moon that rested high over the treeline.
Why visit this particular clan of Dalish, he wondered, what would they have that others didn't? And why go to the Circle first if their destination was Ostagar when the Forest was further away? He was shaken from his musings by a rustling from the tent to his right, and tilted his head just in time to see Duran carefully exit through the canvas flap and make his way to the now-dwindling fire.
"Should young mages not be asleep at this hour?" he asked, sitting down on one of the large logs they had dragged over to act as impromptu benches, clad in only a light undershirt and breeches. Dylan propped himself up on his elbows, raising himself up high enough to comfortably look the dwarf in the eye.
"Have you not heard of the witching hour, my fine-bearded friend?" he asked, raising a hand and conjuring a pale flame at his fingertips "How any mage can sleep through it is beyond me." As he returned his gaze to the stars, banishing the flame he had conjured, he felt his heart warm slightly with the dwarf's throaty chuckle. When no further comments were forthcoming, Duran sighed, stood, and walked to the mage's side.
"Get some rest lad," he said, patting Dylan on the shoulder "something in my bones tells me you'll need it." As the dwarf walked to the edge of the camp to begin his watch, Dylan crawled into the tent he shared with Neria, landing face-first on his bedroll before drifting into an uneasy slumber.
They rose with the sun, rubbing sleep from their eyes and stiffness from their limbs. After that they struck the tents, rekindling the fire to feast on a hearty breakfast of bread, cheese and smoked sausages before snuffing out the fire pit with earth.
Dylan began the trek feeling better than he had before his Harrowing, striding forward confidently with his staff acting as a walking cane, whistling a tune he remembered his father whistling as he had strolled the docks and markets of Kirkwall. By the time they had reached the forest proper, they had fallen into a loose ring; with Duncan taking point, the dwarves on either side. The mages stood between the dwarves whilst Kalian brought up the rear. They occasionally spoke amongst themselves, speculating about what joining the Grey Wardens entailed, what rituals they would participate in, what said rituals would involve, and so on.
Neria was quieter than usual, he'd noticed, occasionally looking back in the direction of the Tower, even when it had long passed beyond the horizon, an almost wistful expression on her face. He'd asked her about it in camp, away from the others and any prying ears.
"Will we ever go back?" had been her response, whispered through the curtain of her hair, "Will we want to go back? Would you want to go 'home' again, after all this?"
Home. A word that many used flippantly, as if it were the most common thing in the world, yet one of the most powerful descriptors of any one place. The saying 'a house does not equal a home' had never held so true as it was just then. It was something to ponder, he decided as they continued to trudge through the gathering undergrowth.
Eventually, the foliage grew so dense Duncan and Kalian drew their blades and began hacking a path through, effectively silencing any conversation in respect of the focus of their guides. Dylan instead turned his eyes to the surrounding scenery, absorbing the vibrant colours of early autumn; the crisp red and gold of freshly fallen leaves that blanketed the ground, the refraction of the sunlight through the boughs of the trees.
To pass the time, he practised some of the spells he had read of before his departure from the Circle. The most intriguing, to him at least, was a spell that allowed the caster to detect the presence of any living creature around them. Dylan had gained a vested interest in such a ability after multiple run-ins with unexpected persons after what some considered unhealthily long sessions in the library and laboratories.
He whispered the ancient words, focussing solely on his surroundings and what his eyes could see. He felt more than saw the spell take effect, felt a slight shift in the muscles of his eyes.
What he saw took his breath away.
The world seemed to glow. Bright golden and emerald hues everywhere he looked, once again paying credence to the variety of life. He turned to glance at his companions. Sure enough, all of them shone as well, as if from some inner light.
Then Dylan noticed something odd. Just beyond the path, deeper into the woods he saw a motionless form, half-covered by fallen leaves. The thing that truly grabbed his attention though, was the slight sickly aura that surrounded it. Not enough to signify illness, but just enough to be noticeable.
"Duncan!" he called over his shoulder, keeping his gaze fixed on the form amidst the undergrowth, "You may want to see this!" And as the others rapidly gathered around he stepped off the path and into the wild, gently brushing aside branches for the others to pass. As soon as the form became visible, it revealed itself to be a lone elf, clad in strange leathers, face-down in the loam.
With a gentle gust of magic, the leaves and debris were brushed aside and Dylan knelt down to brush golden hair behind a tapered ear, getting a closer look at this elf's affliction. What he saw in the place of bare flesh had his gorge rising rapidly. Ashen skin; with putrid purple-black veins criss-crossing a goodly portion of the elf's face- from the right temple across the nose and down below the neckline- appearing almost lifeless. If the gasps and muffled groans behind him were any indication, the others had noticed as well. He gently handed the poor elf over to Neria- healing had always been her domain, never his, her gentle nature proved more attractive to the more benevolent spirits required for such feats- before standing up to lean against a nearby tree.
Dylan stepped away from the main group, his mind swirling like a summer storm. How had the elf got here? What had caused his strange affliction? More importantly, was that same cause still around? He glanced at the path their patient had obviously made, taking note of the drag marks and the dents fingers had created in the tightly-packed earth, and a sickening realisation overcame him.
"He dragged himself here" he noted, trying to hide the lack of air in his lungs, "even badly wounded." He found it hard to imagine the amount of pain the Dalish- for after seeing the elf's face, he had no doubt to his origins- must have been in, dragging himself with nothing but his arms and pure stubbornness. The only reason he stopped was most likely exhaustion, all energy spent. Dylan gained a sudden and profound respect for such a person, and watched as Neria wove an intricate web of regenerative spells and enchantments over her patient, her eyes half-closed, muttering the words under her breath. As the golden light from her hands reached the infected flesh, the purple border began to recede. Duncan looked up at Dylan's piece of detective work, nodding as he examined the evidence.
"Indeed. And considering this is no ordinary illness; makes his actions even more miraculous," Having piqued the interest of the entire party, if the turning of even Kalian's head was any indication, he gestured to the elf's face and continued, "I have only seen such sickness once before, and all victims were Wardens. This is no mere battle wound. I fear he is Tainted, or in the process of becoming so."
The silence was deafening.
To be tainted was to be cursed to a slow, agonising death as your body turned against you. Failing that, tainted ones often fled to the Deep Roads in a mad attempt to find their darkspawn masters, and became ghouls in those blighted tunnels. The greatest mercy such people could be granted was a quick death, for there was no cure for such sickness. Suddenly the weight of their position began to press down upon them, like they were in the base of the sand-glass of this elf's life and the grains had begun to fall.
Duran acted with new-found urgency, whisking the elf into his arms and over his shoulders. Glancing behind him he once again set off deeper into the forest, the others hot on his heels, the hands of time resting heavily upon their shoulders.
As he ran; Dylan saw the elf's eyelids flutter before falling shut again, a groan of pain his only sound. His thoughts cleared as, dodging low hanging branches and the odd tree, he began to calculate the odds of the elf surviving the trip.
After a minute of thinking he swore under his breath and sped up, urging the others faster, fervently praying the Dalish were in a hospitable mood to see strangers with one of their own.
Dylan leant against one of the caravans- or aravels, and the Dalish called them- near the edge of the camp, his pack at his feet, the Dracones Principum Demensum in his hand. He had started reading soon after they had delivered their charge to the clan's waiting arms, having been greeted with suspicion which quickly turned to horrified surprise as the hunter's face became visible.
They had directed them towards the aravel Dylan now leant against, calling for their Keeper as they swiftly retrieved their hunter from Duncan's arms. An elderly woman emerged, took one glance at the assembled party, and ushered them inside. After laying the hunter down on a nearby bed, she gently shooed all but Neria from the area, who insisted she could help. For the most part the clan had been quite accommodating to their unexpected guests, yet it was impossible not to notice the wary and sometimes hostile looks thrown their way.
To avoid any confrontations Dylan had removed himself from the group, choosing instead to linger near the only constant he still had. His eyes scanned the weathered and aged pages before him, drinking in every detail; every letter of every word branding itself into his mind. Secrets lost to the ages or buried under centuries of religious dogma, rituals of the Old Gods, once forgotten, now his to know.
So engrossed was he that he barely noticed the Keeper exiting the aravel until he felt the wood shake slightly. He looked up to see the elder approaching him, all her long years seeming to weigh heavily on her slim shoulders. He hastily placed his book down on a wooden strut, rising to his feet as though the Keeper would keel over in even the slightest breeze.
"Keeper," he intoned, clapping a fist over his breast and bowing his head, unsure of any traditional Dalish greetings. Marethari inclined her head in regal greeting, striding gracefully to his side.
"I am told that it is you we have to thank for finding Theron?" she asked, her lilting voice holding an accent he could not place, "Let me have a look at you, child." Abidingly, Dylan sat down again so Marethari could grasp his chin. She titled his head from side to side, eyes scanning every inch of skin for signs only she could see. When she had seen all she needed in his flesh, she turned her attention to his eyes.
It was chilling, he quickly decided, for someone to look into your eyes and lay your soul bare. For when his eyes met the Keeper's ancient gaze, his barriers were brushed aside, and everything his was she had spread out to see. She didn't merely look at him, she looked through him. Through the wit; past the lies and subterfuge, down into the roaring fire of his heart. How long they stayed there, he could not say. Marethari blinked, a gentle smile forming on her weathered face.
"You have an old soul, human." was all she said, softly, on what she had seen, "Treasure it, wherever life takes you." Reaching down, she grasped his right hand in hers, bringing it up and pressing them against his heart. "And remember 'the darkest hour may be just before the dawn, but even the smallest fire can stave off the longest shadows.' An adage of your people, I believe." And with that she left, leaving the young warden-to-be to his thoughts. He sat there, with his arms resting on his thighs, his mind awhirl.
And there he sat until Theron awoke and the wardens were summoned.
Their newest addition had joined them under some duress, having originally refused to leave his clan until told it was the only way he would survive. Dylan envied the Dalish hunter, envied how much his clan cared for him and how grieved they were to see him go. And now, trudging through the forest, he could still clearly remember watching as the hunter bade farewell to his people.
All were sad and almost grieving; with expressions similar to men knowing they just sent their friends to an early grave. And as they had stood there, against the trees at the edge of the camp, Dylan had shuddered at the lyrics of the dirge the elves sang. They were filled with sorrow, covered with unfulfilled promise, and dripping with grief. No one who heard those mournful words had remained unmoved.
They had watched as the elf had embraced his clan one last time- not one or two members, the entire clan had turned up- before shouldering his pack, complete with a new longbow and quiver of arrows, and setting forth. He had been silent ever since, at the rear of the group, his pine-green eyes flickering between each and every member of the group which his left hand clasped a bone amulet like a lifeline. When the group made camp that night, Theron simply laid his bedroll away from the others before retrieving his portion of stew and retreating to the edge of the camp.
Dylan frowned as he watched the elf, critical eyes observing every motion. It was obvious the hunter was nervous about his new environs, which was understandable considering the circumstances and his movements suggested such, twitchy and bird-like. Duncan had tried talking to him, but the elf had remained tight-lipped and stubbornly silent.
Dylan decided he would approach the elf in the morn, once his mind had begun to process the events of the day. He could imagine all too well the horror that must fill the young hunter's thoughts, the news of some unseen enemy destroying you from the inside would be blood-chilling to even the most seasoned warrior. But for now, he need not worry; all would be resolved come the morning. Nodding decisively he strolled to his bedroll and enveloped himself in the furs. He was still contemplating the issue as he drifted off into slumber.
He drifted in the Fade, drawn by the ever shifting threads of the dreamers therein. He had always felt more alert in the Fade, as if the perspectives of the material no longer affected him.
He quickly created doors between the realms of dreamers; some safely ensconced in warm beds, dreaming of better days, whilst others shivered under patchwork blankets, hoping the chill was just the weather, not the onset of something worse. He tried to ignore them; losing concentration in the depths of the Fade was to invite possession, and worse besides.
Sometimes Dylan wondered if maybe demons weren't the darkest things to be found in the Fade.
He closed his eyes and listened as he roamed, waiting to hear the sound he had hunted every night. The rumbling roar that rattled all the bones in his body, that shook the very ground beneath his feet.
That resonated in his heart. And so, as the winds of the Fade gripped him, he listened, straining his senses to hear. There. Deep in the background noise, beneath the ebb and flow hum of the Fade, he heard it. If he was being completely honest, he more felt it than heard it, felt the familiar tremor crawl across his frame and resonate in the very marrow of his bones. And so, instead to fleeing what most would see as a dangerous encounter at best, fatal at worst, he charged after the source of the noise, giving no heed to his own well-being.
He opened gateway after gateway, getting progressively closer to the source of the noise. Once there, he stumbled to a halt and paused to examine his surroundings. He had landed before the entrance of a temple of sorts: a large cave set into the side of mountain, with runes carved into the walls, encircling the entire mouth and beyond. Bracing himself, he began to stumble towards the cave, his only visible path of exploration. As he passed the threshold, the surrounding runes burst into life, thrumming a deep and vibrant cherry-red. Their touch was like a cooling balm across inflamed flesh, and he relaxed as they relieved pains he had yet to notice.
Now that his mind was clear, Dylan began to take stock of his surroundings. He was in the mouth of a large central chamber, with at least three tunnels leading off to the sides. In the chamber itself there was a small spring, which trickled into a small stream that flowed into one of the adjoining chambers. And resting in a fire-pit atop a pedestal of white marble, standing smack-dab in the centre of the chamber, was a great flame.
The fire burned away merrily, filling the cavern with its warmth and light whilst banishing all the shadows from all but the darkest corners. The flame had an almost hypnotic quality, Dylan found it incredibly difficult to look away, yet startlingly easy to slide his gaze back to it. Whilst staring into the fire, a voice seemed to echo for the stone walls.
"Ask yourself, young one," it said, low and gravelly like the movement of hot coals "what is fire? Can you define it? Classify it, and all it represents?" Dylan was confused at the line of questioning, glancing around to try and identify the source of the voice. Define fire? Fire was simply the result of specific objects reacting to an excess of heat. Everyone knew that, surely?
The voice chuckled; seeming to move from Dylan's left to his right, having apparently heard his thoughts. "Ah, a scholar are we? Interesting. Pray tell, young scholar, what does the flame symbolise? Both now and in ages past?"
This Dylan could do, having studied to sate a burning adolescent curiosity. The flame; now one of the sigils of the Andrastian Chantry symbolising the Maker's light and sphere of influence, once symbolised hope and life. It had also symbolised rage and hatred, alongside passion and many other emotions. However, the one fact everyone understood was that fire could be used to symbolise change, most often violent and sudden.
The flames seemed to flicker in some kind of recognition of his presented facts, and the voice spoke again. "Very good little magus. There may be hope for you yet." A great rumbling shook the chamber, and one of the walls was reduced to rubble.
"Accept this gift as a token of my esteem." The voice had changed, becoming more regal and authoritarian, as a small ember floated away from the main fire and arced across the room. Dylan held out his hand as the ember approached and watched, slightly wary, as it landed in the centre of his palm. The pain he expected never appeared, which was surprising considering the temperature of the object he now held.
He continued to watch as the ember began to merge with the flesh of his hand, a strange warmth creeping up his arm. He felt his eyes beginning to dip as the warmth extended across his body, his head sagging under sudden fatigue.
"Remember, little magus" this voice, source still unclear, sounded oddly amused as Dylan began to drift "I will be watching."
And Dylan knew no more of brilliant flames and vast halls as he rose to the waking world.