Blessed be the Reaver
His throat constricted, suffocating the life out of a barely conscious form.
He reached for his throat, grabbing and pulling at the invisible force but to no avail.
He could do nothing more than suffer, doomed to an agonizing end.
Fingers trailed up his arm and took him into a warm embrace. The tension in his throat loosened, and the explosion of pain racking his body faded.
He could not see them through the smothering darkness but could hear their comforting voice.
Listen to my words.
Focus.
Breathe.
His lungs breathed the free air, and slowly a blinding light pierced through the shadows.
Expel the darkness that blinds you.
Embrace the life for which you are destined to uphold.
He glimpsed a figure wreathed in holy light, cupping his cheek and running her thumb across the unblemished skin.
You are the culmination of a thousand lifetimes.
She looked upon him with such awe he could feel an unrecognizable swelling in his cheeks.
A thousand cultures.
A thousand years of knowledge and wisdom.
All combined to meet a sinister purpose.
His features crinkled with confusion as a tear slid down her sun-kissed cheek. He wanted to make the pain disappear, but how could he?
What will you destroy?
The shadows boiled with malice.
What will you save?
The shining lights sparkled with benevolence.
The contrasting forces merged in an awe-inspiring collection of uncommon colors around him, stealing his notice even as the woman looked upon him with barely held sorrow.
I can only hope for your future.
She faded into the swirling light even as he reached out to her.
"Wait." He pleaded, his hand grasping at emptiness. "What am I meant to be?! Why am I here?!"
That is for you to decide, child. You have been given the chance to be more than just a puppet. More than just a slave. I was born of the Alamarii, taken by the Tevinters, and burned at the stake.
Andraste. A hundred voices rang out in hushed whispers, but he could not heed them, for the blinding light exploded, and he knew only darkness.
As he slipped into the shadows, her voice followed him for the last time.
I can only hope that your story will not end in tragedy.
l==l
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The only sound he could decipher for miles was his steady breaths and the howling winds beating against the forest canopy above.
Thinking became impossible as a thousand different voices all cried out in terror.
Names in the thousands crawled along the surface of his mind as his eyes blinked away the shining sun.
Elira Gaunt.
Sava Amell.
Davos Velaran.
They were just a handful grafted upon his psyche as he tried to stem the growing tide of screaming voices.
Every one of them asked the same question.
"Why? Why was I taken into the night?"
"What did I do to bring the wrath of hell upon me?"
"Why me?"
He had no answer, for he was created from their tears, their sorrow, their anguish.
The young man blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust to the blazing sunlight piercing through the dense canopy of the Korcari Wilds. His head throbbed, filled with voices that weren't his own – a cacophony of demands and pleas that threatened to overwhelm him.
He tried to coalesce his thoughts into an answer, but he found none.
"I need to get back to Orlais! The ball at the Winter Palace won't wait for anyone." A voice, high and aristocratic, spoke in a snobbish tone.
"Starkhaven needs me." A second voice interjected, gruff and determined. "The Free Marches are at a crucial point. I must return!"
"Denerim is my home. My people are waiting for me." A third voice joined in, filled with longing and homesickness.
Each voice seemed as natural as the other as if they were the ghosts of different individuals from different corners of Thedas, trapped inside his mind. He stood, wobbly on his legs, the wet moss of the wilds cold beneath his covered feet.
His mind was a maelstrom, but he forced himself to focus, to take in his surroundings. The Korcari Wilds, the thought bubbled up, unbidden.
He knew this place.
But how? He looked down at himself, the unfamiliar clothes, and his hands that felt like his but were simultaneously strangers.
An eerie silence fell upon the cacophony inside the young man's head as he posed his question to the voices.
"Who am I?"
The voices fell silent.
The forest's wildlife seemed to heighten without their incessant chatter. He could hear the rustle of leaves in the wind, the distant trickle of a stream, and the soft call of a bird, creating a symphony as beautiful as it was terrifying in its isolation.
He waited the silence from within him stretching on. His heart pounded in his chest as he braced himself for their response.
Then, as if on a shared accord, the voices replied, their multitude of tones and accents harmonizing into one chilling message.
"We are Legion, for we are many."
The proclamation echoed in his mind, vibrating with an intensity that made him stagger.
The world seemed to tilt as the statement settled on him.
He was no longer just a young man lost in the Korcari Wilds.
He was a vessel, a living archive of a thousand lives or more. He could feel the weight of their presence, their knowledge, their hopes, and their fears. Their essence was interwoven into the fabric of his being, making it difficult for him to distinguish his thoughts and feelings from theirs.
This understanding was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he had access to a vast repository of knowledge, experiences, and skills. He could draw upon the wisdom of a Ferelden King, the cunning of an Antivan Crow, or the arcane prowess of a Tevinter Magister.
On the other hand, the ceaseless chatter of his internal populace was often overwhelming. The conflicting desires, ideas, and beliefs caused a tumultuous dissonance within him.
He is a host to a multitude of entities, each clamoring for its place in the world.
He was their voice, their body, their conduit to the world they yearned for.
Legion.
The word rang in his head, reverberating with each heartbeat.
He was Legion - filled with many, yet impossibly alone.
But he was not without determination.
He was not without will.
"I am Legion." He echoed back to them, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hands. "For I am many."
Cloaked in garments reminiscent of a seasoned thief - a rugged tunic, patched in places, supple leather pants, sturdy boots, and a cloak dark as the night - Legion surveyed his attire with an unspoken curiosity.
The shadowy silhouette he cast seemed at odds with the lush, verdant wilds around him. It felt more akin to the dim alleyways of Denerim or the shadowed rooftops of a bustling city than the untamed wilderness.
It brought forward memories, not his own, of nimble fingers and silent footsteps, of being one with the shadows, unseen yet ever watchful. It was a life he didn't remember living, but he felt a connection, much like the voices within him.
Legion could feel the recollections of a man named Garret stirring within him: an agile shadow, a protector, a thief from the streets of Denerim.
The nuances of his temperament and the echoes of his life and trials were as much a part of Legion as the garments he wore.
He shook off the strange feeling, focusing on the task at hand.
His journey was a daunting one. But with the memories and experiences of countless individuals at his disposal, Legion felt a surge of hope. Maybe he could understand his purpose and help these voices find their homes again.
He drew the cloak tighter around himself, casting one last glance at the wilds.
He felt a voice, Garret's perhaps, whispering strategies and cautionary tales of urban survival until ultimately fading into the deepest parts of Legion's consciousness.
Navigating the Kocari Wilds was no easy task.
The myriad pathways snaking through the marshy ground, the plethora of dangerous creatures, and the ever-changing landscape were challenging even for the most experienced explorers.
As the sun ascended, the voices within him began to murmur, each offering its unique perspective and advice.
A Ferelden soldier suggested sticking to the well-trodden paths to avoid encounters with the Wilds' dangerous fauna. A merchant from Antiva proposed finding a high vantage point to get a good sense of the landscape in search of civilization. A hunter from Nevarra advised against traveling during the day when most predators were active.
Yet, amongst the sea of suggestions, a single voice emerged from the tumult like a beacon, soft but clear.
It belonged to Elira Gaunt, a Dalish Ranger whose life had been woven with Legion's essence. She spoke not just with the knowledge of the wilds but with an intimate familiarity that only someone who had lived among these trees, followed these trails, and faced the dangers of the wilderness could possess.
Elira had journeyed these wilds in search of the infamous Witch of the Wilds, a figure of legend shrouded in mystery. With her guidance, Legion navigated through the marshes with uncanny precision, skirting around perilous fauna and choosing the most secure paths, feeling a deep resonance with the Dalish woman's past.
The chorus of voices was still there, but Elira's held a certain comfort, a sense of camaraderie that Legion found…soothing.
"Keep your wits about you," Elira's voice chimed, firm yet melodic. "The Kocari Wilds are not forgiving to the unwary. The paths are serpentine, the undergrowth thick, and the mists can shroud both prey and predator. It is easy to lose your way if you do not know how to read the land."
She advised Legion to look for natural markers - peculiarly shaped trees, unusual rocks, and streams that could guide his path.
"There's an ash tree, scarred by lightning, halfway from where you stand to the heart of the wilds. Find it, and you've found the Witch's path." Her voice lingered on the remembrance of the Witch of the Wilds, an enigma wrapped in mystery.
"Flemeth, they call her, with fear and reverence alike. Stories say she's as old as the wilds, a shapeshifter, and a sorceress. She has a hut deep in the wilds, hidden unless she wishes it found."
She spoke of subtle clues to finding the Witch's hut - a pattern of crows, the haunting melody of an unfamiliar song, an uncanny sense of being watched.
"Beware the wild sylphs and grueling weather." Elira warned. "Yet if Flemeth wills it, you'll find her."
He did not find Flemeth first.
No.
He found…something else.
Something with boiling anger and hatred.
As Legion trudged through the undergrowth, the unsettling sensation crept over him.
It started as a mere prickling at the base of his skull, but soon it burgeoned into an emotion as tangible as his flesh - a maelstrom of outrage, terror, and an instinctual demand for vengeance.
The memories within him recoiled as he laid eyes on a group of hulking figures - Darkspawn Hurlocks. Twisted parodies of the human form, their bodies were gnarled and grotesque, and their visage stirred a primordial fear.
Yet, what Legion felt from the voices within him was not fear but revulsion and fury.
"Darkspawn!" A soldier's voice barked, his tone ripe with hatred. "Abominations born of the Old Gods. They are vile, perverse creatures, spreading sickness and death wherever they tread."
"They are a blight upon this world, a corruption that must be purged with cleansing fire." A mage's voice sounded, a somber echo of the soldier's fury. "They must be cleansed from this land. Slay them all."
Despite the myriad of voices, there was no dissent regarding the Darkspawn. They were a universally despised enemy, a symbol of destruction, and their very existence was a stark reminder of the horrors they had all suffered.
The anger surged within him, a wild storm that swept away any hesitation. Legion felt a battle master's hand guide him forward, a rogue's instincts honing his senses, a mage's knowledge whispering his foes' weaknesses.
As Legion charged, something extraordinary happened.
His arm twitched, then, with a surge of unnatural energy, morphed into a grotesque yet eerily beautiful blade. It was a transformation as swift as it was startling, his flesh and bone reshaping, hardening into a weapon of gleaming, deadly sharpness.
He did not understand how or why this had happened. In the echoes of a thousand lives within him, there was no memory of such a transformation, no hint of this uncanny ability. No name pulsed at the edge of his consciousness, nor did a spark of a buried memory.
The confusion echoed in the silence of his thoughts, yet the voices within him were equally bewildered.
Even without understanding, the newly formed blade felt like an extension of himself. It responded to Legion's thoughts and movements with almost instinctual ease.
As the Darkspawn neared, a strange calm descended upon him. The voices within him quieted, their usual cacophony simmering to a hushed whisper.
Legion moved with a grace born of many lifetimes, his blade-arm cleaving through the air in a deadly arc. The Hurlocks fell before him, their twisted forms collapsing under the lethal efficiency of his attacks.
A towering Hurlock Emissary, armed with a wickedly sharp greatsword, lumbered into view.
The Emissary was a cut above the rest - larger, stronger, and significantly more skilled. Its greatsword sang a fatal song as it sliced the air, every stroke aiming to cleave Legion in two.
The voices within him rose to the occasion, lending their collective expertise. A seasoned gladiator whispered the rhythm of the Emissary's strikes, a seasoned knight advised on the weight and reach of the greatsword, and a cunning rogue suggested feints and distractions.
Legion danced with the Emissary, his movements a blur of precision and speed. He met the greatsword with his blade arm, the harsh clash of steel against his hardened limb echoing throughout the Wilds. He bobbed, weaved, sidestepped, and parried, his every move calculated to weaken and disorient his enemy.
Gradually, he began to dissect the Emissary, lopping off an arm here, a chunk of flesh there. It was a gruesome ballet choreographed by the combined experience of a thousand lives.
Suddenly, a raw surge of magical energy crackled in the air - a Hurlock Mage was preparing to cast a spell. Reacting almost instinctively, Legion's free arm writhed and contorted, shifting into a long, tendril-like whip. This transformation was as startling as the first, yet just as natural.
Without missing a beat, he lashed out with his whip arm, the elongated limb cutting through the air with an ominous whistling sound. The Hurlock Mage was bisected instantly, the spell dying on its lips as it toppled to the ground.
The Hurlocks screeched and bellowed throughout the battle, their inhuman screams a discordant soundtrack to the carnage.
Legion, however, remained silent.
He moved with purpose and intent, a silent reaper mowing down the twisted crop of Darkspawn.
As the Hurlock Emissary fell to its knees, its voice rasping with pain and rage.
The cacophony within Legion quietened down to a hush as a single voice rose, a Qunari scholar who recognized the Darkspawn tongue.
"Reaver." The Qunari translated, its tone solemn. "It's an accusation, a declaration. They see you as a destroyer, a harbinger of death. In their twisted worldview, you threaten their very existence."
Legion made no reply. His focus honed on the wounded Emissary, and with a swift, decisive motion, he plunged his blade arm into the creature's heart.
The Emissary roared one final time before collapsing, its life force extinguished.
The next instant, Legion was consumed by an overwhelming rush of foreign memories.
It felt like he was plunging into a churning ocean of alien experiences, a tidal wave of darkness threatening to drown him. He could feel the Darkspawn's consciousness melding with his own, its memories seeping into the fabric of his being.
It was a grotesque intimacy, yet it revealed truths that could not be otherwise known.
Among the flood of grim recollections and twisted perceptions, a singular entity stood out - the Archdemon. Legion could feel the Emissary's devotion, its absolute servitude towards this being.
It was more than just a leader - it was a god, an Old God twisted and corrupted by the Taint. It was the heart of the Darkspawn, the monstrous puppeteer behind the curtain of the Blights.
This newfound knowledge was chilling but invaluable.
Legion felt a renewed sense of purpose as the ocean of memories receded, leaving him gasping on the shores of his own consciousness.
He had not just defeated a Darkspawn; he had assimilated its knowledge, its essence.
And in that assimilation was a…craving…a desire.
A strange sensation rippled through Legion's being.
It was a hunger, an insatiable craving that gnawed at the core of his being.
This was not a mere desire for sustenance - food or water. It was deeper, primal, laced into the very fabric of his existence. Legion felt a name come to mind as he searched his thoughts for an answer.
Biomass.
A term both peculiar and apt for this voracious yearning.
The sensation of consuming the Emissary, of incorporating its essence and memories, had a profoundly invigorating effect. It felt akin to a predator's satisfaction upon a successful hunt, a powerful surge of vitality that flooded his senses, leaving him feeling oddly rejuvenated.
Voices within him stirred, echoing the hunger that he felt.
"More." A gruff dwarf demanded, his voice thundering over the murmurs of the others. "We need more. The Darkspawn are not just our enemies. They are food."
A mage's voice, soothing in its melody, concurred with the dwarf's sentiment. "We gain knowledge and strength from their essence. It is an abhorrent necessity, yes, but a necessity nonetheless. We must consume more Darkspawn."
Despite the bizarre nature of this hunger, Legion could not deny its significance. His existence and his purpose were intertwined with the Darkspawn.
Not just in their destruction but in their consumption.
It was a grotesque realization, yet an intrinsic part of his identity.
A thousand voices echoed in unison within him, their chorus resonating with his newfound hunger.
Legion strode further into the wilds. His every sense was attuned to the presence of Darkspawn, every thought consumed by this hunger.
This was his destiny, his purpose - to hunt, to consume, to understand.
And tonight, the Kocari Wilds was his hunting ground.
l==l
The following two weeks saw Legion on a relentless hunt, his every waking moment dedicated to seeking and destroying Darkspawn.
Every victory, every consumption added another strand to his intricate web of understanding, and he relished the surge of vitality that each consumption brought.
One memory stood out from the rest, an echo of reverence and awe that ricocheted through the collective consciousness of the Darkspawn.
A name - Urthemiel.
This was the Archdemon, the twisted Old God that pulled the strings behind the scenes, the embodiment of all the Darkspawn was and could ever be.
As he delved deeper into Urthemiel's influence and desires, he found a well of dark ambition and raw power. Yet, the location of the Archdemon remained elusive, a missing puzzle piece in the intricate tapestry he was weaving.
During one of his consumptions, he felt a sudden jolt of awareness, a consciousness vast and formidable that sent ripples through his being. The Archdemon, Urthemiel itself, had sensed him. He felt its surprise, curiosity, and struggle to comprehend what he was - an entity, unlike anything it had ever encountered.
Urthemiel roared - a ripple of anger, defiance, and, above all, fear.
Fear of the unknown.
Fear of the threat that Legion posed.
And then, abruptly, the connection was severed. Urthemiel had withdrawn, retreating into the shadows, leaving behind an echoing silence.
Legion took a moment to process the encounter. He had touched the mind of an Archdemon, and it had recoiled in fear.
The realization brought a cold sense of satisfaction.
The hunter was now the hunted, and Legion was on its trail.
Legion soon found himself tailing a small group of Hurlocks as he continued his relentless pursuit. Their lumbering forms made for easy targets, and with the combined stealth of an elven assassin and the cunning of a rogue, he stalked them from the shadows.
With deadly precision, he struck.
A quick, soundless thrust of his blade arm and a Hurlock fell, its life extinguished before it could even raise the alarm. Then, he struck again, his whipfist lashing out like a coiled snake, snaring another Hurlock and pulling it into the darkness.
One by one, the Hurlocks fell, their ranks thinning until only a single figure remained - a Hurlock Berserker.
Surprise was his ally, and Legion pounced with a swift, predatory lunge. He collided with the Berserker, his blade arm plunging deep into its form. The Berserker roared, its death cry echoing through the empty woods, before falling silent. With a final gasp, Legion consumed it, the Berserker's essence and memories flooding into him.
His body churned and rustled as his skin seemed to harden, to thicken, morphing into a layer of formidable armor. It was a protective shell, a shield fashioned from his Biomass, reminiscent of the Black Knights of old.
This transformation was as inexplicable as his previous ones, but it offered an invaluable advantage - increased defense. Sturdy and resilient biomass armor provided robust protection against physical attacks, further bolstering his formidable combat abilities.
With a sense of satisfaction, Legion rose, his armored form a formidable sight amidst the fallen Hurlocks, but his revelry did not last long.
The sound of conflict pierced the relative silence of the Kocari Wilds.
A melody of clashing steel, screams of agony, and desperate war cries floated on the wind, stirring the collective consciousness within Legion.
A voice, gruff and experienced, the memory of a seasoned tracker, identified the direction of the sounds.
"West." It declared, its certainty resonating through the symphony of voices.
Guided by the tracker's intuition, Legion moved swiftly, his figure a blur amidst the dense underbrush. The din of battle grew louder, a grim symphony that marked the location of a brutal conflict.
The canopy of trees parted, providing a clear view of the unfolding carnage.
What met Legion's gaze was a spectacle of organized chaos.
The massive walls of Ostagar were under siege, its defenders desperately trying to keep the onslaught at bay. The sky lit up as multiple flaming balls were launched from distant trebuchets, arcing through the air before crashing into the stone ramparts, leaving fiery destruction in their wake.
Recognition stirred within him, a shared memory amongst the thousands of voices that resided within him.
Ostagar - a name seared into the annals of Thedas, a symbol of power to the older Tevinter Imperium.
The Battle of Ostagar was in full swing, a violent ballet of death and destruction unfolding before his eyes.
Legion remained perched in the canopy, watching the fiery spectacle in solemn silence. He was a silent observer, his presence an unnoticed shadow amidst the chaos.
The Battle of Ostagar, infamous and bloody, held a certain morbid allure, a testimony to the brutality of war and the courage of those who stood against the encroaching darkness.
Legion's gaze inevitably drifted to a large contingent of unpledged Ferelden forces stationed in the rearguard. Their position, nestled on the outskirts of the main battlefield, provided a clear view of the Darkspawn horde's unprotected flank.
An idea sparked within Legion, a potential strategy that would enable the Ferelden soldiers to significantly impact the course of the battle.
But as quickly as the thought arose, it was quelled by the voice of an Orlesian General, a seasoned veteran who had witnessed countless battles.
"Look closer." The general urged, his tone laced with caution. "The Darkspawn are too numerous, their forces an unending sea of twisted flesh and cruel steel. The Fereldens...are brave, yes, but vastly outnumbered. Any offensive on their part would do little more than blunt the horde's advance. It's a suicide mission."
A chorus of dissent rose from the many Ferelden voices within Legion, their objections loud and fervent.
They argued for courage and honor, the righteousness of their cause, and the need to take a stand against the Darkspawn no matter the odds. But the Orlesian remained unswayed, his conviction grounded in years of tactical experience.
Legion watched the commander of the unengaged Fereldens make his decision.
To the dismay of the Ferelden voices within him, the commander turned his forces away from the battlefield, retreating from the imminent slaughter.
The sight was a stark reminder of the cruel realities of war, the decisions to be made, and the inevitable sacrifices and losses. Despite such overwhelming odds, even the bravest warriors could only do so much.
The internal debate within Legion was as fierce and chaotic as the battle unfolding before him.
Should they intervene?
Should they remain mere observers?
The multitude of voices within him was divided each offering differing perspectives born of their unique backgrounds and experiences.
Amidst the clamor of voices, a singular voice arose, clear and compelling.
It was a Grey Warden named Caleb, his words ringing with urgency.
"We must act." Caleb implored, his voice a beacon of resolve amidst the discord. "My mentor fights amongst those defenders. We cannot stand by and do nothing."
Why Caleb had not shared this information earlier remained a mystery, as was Legion's inability to delve into the Grey Warden's memories.
An inquiry was posed, but Caleb's silence hung heavy in the Legion of voices.
When he finally spoke, his voice held a note of sorrow.
"One day, you will understand." He said. "But I do not have the heart to tell you now."
His words hung in the air, a promise and a burden.
The debate quieted, replaced by a somber acceptance.
Despite the risks, despite the odds, the decision was made.
Legion would intervene.
l==l
The heat of battle had Marian Hawke in its iron grip.
Once a denizen of Lothering, she now found herself amidst the ranks of King Cailan's army, steel clashing against steel as the Darkspawn Horde bore down upon them. Each thunderous collision of the horde against their line of defense was like a hammer to an anvil, threatening to break them apart.
She could see the signal fire burning brightly atop the Tower of Ishal from her vantage point in the thick of the melee.
It was a beacon of hope, a silent plea for reinforcements.
Yet, as her desperate gaze scanned the horizon, Loghain's forces were nowhere to be found.
A sense of betrayal, as bitter as gall, settled in her stomach.
Her sergeant, a grizzled veteran who had seen his fair share of battles, bellowed at them to keep fighting. His voice was a beacon amidst the cacophony of war, a reminder of their duty. But it was abruptly cut short as an arrow found its mark in his throat, turning his orders into a guttural choke.
In the wake of their leader's sudden demise, Hawke and her comrades found themselves leaderless amidst a sea of enemies.
The Darkspawn Horde pressed on, their monstrous forms a wall of insurmountable dread.
Dodging a sudden charge from a lumbering Darkspawn Ogre, Marian barely managed to maintain her footing as the hulking creature tore through the Ferelden battle line. Its onslaught opened up a fatal gap, allowing the Darkspawn to pour through and decimate the unprotected mages and archers stationed at the rear.
A sense of dread filled Marian as she glimpsed the Ogre, amidst the chaos, set its sights on King Cailan. Lost in the bloody melee, the King and his overwhelmed Royal Guard overlooked the approaching threat.
Despite Marian's desperate shouts, her voice was lost amidst the cacophony of battle.
In a moment that would forever be etched in Ferelden's history, the Ogre seized the King, its guttural roar shaking the air. The spectacle of King Cailan being crushed in the beast's grasp and his lifeless body flung into the ranks of his soldiers shattered the Ferelden's resolve.
A rout ensued as the once-unified army scattered before the relentless Darkspawn onslaught.
Amidst the chaos, Marian's thoughts turned to her brother, Carver. She found him engrossed in a deadly dance with a Hurlock. With the help of a fellow soldier, she managed to extricate her brother from the heat of the battle.
Carver protested and raved, his mind caught in the glory of dying alongside his King, but Marian would have none of it.
"Mother would have my head if I came home without you." She rasped, urging him onwards.
What was once a battle swiftly degenerated into a massacre.
The Ferelden forces, flagging and leaderless, fell prey to the pursuing Darkspawn. The field ran red with the blood of fallen warriors, and the air echoed with cries of despair.
Hope faded upon the fields of Ostagar and as the Darkspawn moved to claim total victory.
Someone…No, something intervened.
A sinister chill fell over the battlefield as the Darkspawn continued their relentless pursuit.
Something was approaching, a familiar foe to all with the Blight running through their veins.
An ominous roar ripped through the ranks of the Darkspawn, a guttural call of a single word.
"REAVER!"
Marian, her eyes wide and wary, looked skyward. The evening sun bled across the sky, casting an eerie crimson glow over the battlefield.
Shrouded in black and marked by burning emerald eyes, a figure descended from the heavens, falling upon an unsuspecting Ogre. It plunged its arm into the beast's eyesocket, igniting a horrifying scream to echo across the fields before abruptly cutting short as the Ogre's life was extinguished.
Marian's eyes locked with the figure's - a connection sparking in the chaotic battlefield, those green eyes searing an unforgettable image into her mind. The survivors of the Ferelden forces watched as the so-called Reaver ruthlessly tore through the Darkspawn ranks.
The battlefield was suddenly awash with hope.
Yet, even as Marian's heart fluttered with this newfound glimmer, she knew they couldn't stay.
"Flee!" Marian shouted to her fellow soldiers, gesturing towards the forest line. "We must retreat!"
Yet even as she urged them on, her eyes remained transfixed on the figure.
The Reaver moved with a fluidity and grace that belied its brutal strength, each movement culminating in the death of another Darkspawn. His presence was a beacon of defiance, a testament to their resilience in the face of overwhelming odds.
As Marian and the remaining Ferelden forces receded into the distance, Legion remained, his daunting presence a bulwark against the unending tide of Darkspawn. The field became a dance floor of chaos and carnage, the Reaver's deadly performance painting the ground in a morbid hue of red. His blood sang a primal song of joy and satisfaction, matching the rhythm of the falling bodies.
Each Darkspawn death was another verse in the symphony of destruction, and the voices within Legion began to join in. Some offered strategic advice, pulling from their well of combat experiences. Others shared warnings and cautionary tales, guiding through the thrumming chaos. They murmured, bellowed, and whispered, their voices blending in a chorus of wisdom and knowledge, each contributing to the melody of Legion's relentless onslaught.
"Sweep low. There's a Hurlock to your right!" A Ferelden knight's voice barked.
"Conserve your strength, boy! Pace yourself!" Counseled an Orlesian veteran.
"Archers at the rear!" A Dalish hunter's sharp tone cut through the rest. "Do not let them pin you down!"
Each piece of advice was absorbed and executed, their collective experiences and knowledge helping him navigate the chaotic battlefield.
Amid the brutal melee, Legion felt a powerful presence settle upon him.
It was not a physical touch but a metaphysical one - a gaze so intense, so full of raw, primal power that it felt almost tangible. The voices within quieted to a hush, their collective consciousness seeming to hold its breath in anticipation.
There, hovering in the thrumming heart of the battlefield, was the Archdemon.
The massive creature towered above the horde, a monstrous embodiment of all the raw terror and devastation that the Darkspawn represented. The malevolent force pulsating from it was overwhelming, its gaze like a black sun bearing on Legion.
It bore the crown of the horde, the ultimate orchestrator of the chaos unfurling around them, a symbol of the relentless tide of darkness that threatened to consume the world.
A voice within him, older and more formidable than the rest, echoed through his consciousness, its tone laced with a blend of dread and determination.
"The Archdemon..." It murmured, recognition sending a shiver through Legion.
This was their ultimate foe, the core of the Darkspawn plague, the beast that held the world in its suffocating grasp.
And now, its gaze was locked onto Legion, their paths undeniably intertwined in the heart of this raging war.
Legion stood firm, his attention riveted on the monstrous Archdemon, the voices within him surged forward again. The tone was one of caution, a warning that cut through the chaos of the battlefield.
"You cannot fight the Archdemon, not now. It's too powerful." An old soldier warned, his voice worn but firm. "Retreat to the Wilds. Live to fight another day."
Even as Legion processed this advice, another voice interceded.
This one was unlike the others - it held an ethereal quality, like a soft melody carried on the breeze. It was feminine, filled with ageless wisdom that resonated deep within Legion.
It did not belong to his collective consciousness; it was a visitor, an echo from somewhere else.
"Climb the Tower of Ishal, boy." The voice urged, as calming as it was insistent. "There, you will find two Grey Wardens. They require your aid."
The request hung in the air, a counter to the cautionary advice previously given.
Yet, despite its unexpected nature, Legion felt compelled to heed it.
The urgency was clear, and its origin was shrouded in mystery.
The chaos of the battlefield fell into a blur as Legion made his way to the Tower of Ishal.
He swiftly cut through the Darkspawn ranks and ascended the ancient structure.
With each floor he cleared, the voices within him provided guidance and advice, enabling him to navigate the tower's labyrinthine corridors and dispatch any Darkspawn in his path.
At last, he reached the top. The grandeur of the spire's apex was marred by the sight of the battle raging below, a stark contrast to the figure hunched in the center.
She was a striking woman, brown hair splayed around her shoulders, her Grey Warden armor splattered with the evidence of her struggle. A wounded Mabari was sprawled across her lap, its trustful eyes locked onto hers even as it whimpered in pain.
Before them stood a Hurlock Emissary, its grotesque form blocking their only means of escape. The woman held her dagger in a reverse grip, her eyes defiant even as her strength waned.
As Legion entered the broken room, a voice emerged from his cacophony. It belonged to a Ferelden soldier from Highever, and his tone was filled with recognition and respect.
"That's Lady Talia Cousland, daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever," he said, his words providing Legion with a context. "The last time I saw her, she was the heir to Highever. She should not be a Grey Warden."
Legion cataloged that information for later and stepped forward, ignorant that his following action would alter the course of history.
Thedas will never be the same.
l==l
Talia was finished.
No matter how much strength she tried to muster, it failed to reach her legs. The blood leaking down her forehead was blinding her left eye, and whatever concussion she suffered practically blurred her right one.
She'd given everything she had to survive this night and see Arl Howe's treachery repaid a thousand times over.
But it wasn't enough.
Talia cast a silent glance toward Alistair, and there was little comfort in the shallow breaths flowing through his lungs. A half dozen arrows had pierced his back when she had hers turned to a trio of genlocks.
She stared back at the Hurlock with blurry vision and a defiant smile on her face.
As the Hurlock advanced, Talia steeled herself for the fight. Her hand, caked with blood and grime, was buried in the fur of her loyal Mabari, Valen. His presence was her anchor amidst the maelstrom, his steady breaths under her touch a testament to their trust.
Her mind echoed with memories – her once tranquil home now marred by the specter of death, the violent end of her family, and her hurried conscription into the Grey Wardens. Her gaze hardened at the thought of Arl Howe, the traitor who had plundered her family's legacy.
The sting of his betrayal and the loss of her loved ones swirled within her, a bitter brew that fueled her defiance.
"I was born a Cousland, raised in the halls of Highever." She murmured, her voice barely audible over the chilling wind that swept across the tower. "A coward stole my family's legacy. And now, I'm destined to die in a forgotten tower while he feasts on my family's memory."
Her voice trailed off, the words swallowed by the wind. But they echoed within her, strengthening her resolve. Her grip tightened on her sword, her eyes never leaving the advancing Hurlock.
Pain blossomed across her chin as a Hurlock Emissary kicked her in the jaw. The hulking bastard didn't even have the decency to put Talia out of misery, content to let her last moments be spent in pure agony.
Fuck that.
A wad of blood and spit splashed against the Hurlock's feet as she slowly rose to a kneeling position.
"Do your worst fucker."
The Hurlock grinned, rearing its greatsword above its head and preparing to cut down the last Cousland.
She waited for the final coup de grace, but it never came.
A choking sound graced Talia's ears, and she watched through blurry eyes as the Hurlock seized up and fell backward.
A black blur darted forward from her vision, interposing between her and the Hurlock. A violent thrust later, the Emissary roared in surprise and pain, its belly pierced by an undulating, indescribable form that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
The beast stumbled back, dropping its sword as it clutched at the gaping wound. As if in slow motion, Talia watched the Emissary topple over, a guttural gurgling sound its final utterance before it fell to the ground, lifeless.
The shock of the sudden intervention and her exhaustion and injuries was too much for her body to handle.
"Remain calm."
His voice contained a breath of youthfulness, yet there was a pearl of wisdom beguiling an experience that should not have been possible in one so young.
Talia felt a hand run down her face, removing the stream of red blood blurring her vision, and giving her a clean look of her appraiser.
And he was…exotic.
Marian breathed in a deep exhale, taking in every tiny detail of his face, eyes, and lips. He was undoubtedly handsome in an almost exotic sort of fashion, but it was his eyes that piqued her curiosity. They burned with a deep emerald hue that practically sparkled with refined intelligence.
"Who are you?" Talia muttered as the last bits of consciousness fled from her exhausted mind.
He smiled.
"We will speak more later." Her savior promised, his hands ghosting over her weary eyes.
Talia's eyes fluttered to a close.
And blissful slumber greeted her.
Alone in the room filled with corpses, Legion turned to the sudden onslaught of Darkspawn pouring in. There was a pause, a chilling silence before the ceiling gave way with a thunderous crash.
A grand and terrifying dragon descended from the ruptured rooftop, stirring up a whirlwind of dust and debris. Its fiery gaze scanned the room, pausing as it locked onto Legion.
For a moment, Legion thought it was Urthemiel, the Archdemon he had learned about from the Emissary's memories. But a familiar voice, Elira Gaunt's, resonated in his consciousness.
"No." She murmured with an odd mixture of fear and reverence. "That is Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds."
Her voice was barely a whisper but carried the weight of ancient lore and legends. Legion watched as the dragon – Flemeth – shook off the dust, her fiery gaze never leaving him.
Flemeth wasted no time, letting loose a breath of fire that swept across the room, consuming the incoming Darkspawn in a wave of flame. Swiftly, she reached down with her talons, one swooping down to secure Legion and the other scooping up Talia, her Mabari hound, and another wounded Grey Warden.
As her talon closed around him, he could hear a whisper, a voice filled with ancient authority and a strange foreboding.
"Keep your taint to yourself, creature," she cautioned, her voice carrying even over the din of battle.
Inside his mind, Elira's voice cut through the chattering voices, advising him to allow the Witch of the Wilds to whisk them away from Ostagar. Though her advice was sound, many of the voices within him clamored in protest, voicing their distrust and fear of Flemeth.
"Trust in Elira's wisdom, Legion. We must survive first. We can address the voices and their qualms later." A stern voice said, bringing some order to the chaotic symphony within him.
Begrudgingly, Legion steeled himself, mentally bracing for the sensation of being carried off into the unknown by the ancient witch-dragon.
The world disappeared behind thick clouds leaving Legion to ponder his current predicament.
The voices fell silent.
This is a passion project that I couldn't help but make. Let me know what you think in the reviews.