Here's Chapter 8. I don't know why, but I got really into writing this one. Yes, I know that this chapter doesn't continue from what happened in the last chapter, but I wanted to get the reason why Anders didn't go with Darius to the Wending Woods out already. I have this story all planned out, so none of this is random or made up as I go along. Trust me on that. ;P
Chapter 8: Turning Traitor
"Andraste's knickerweasels, this place is a mess!" Anders cried out, exasperated. He had heard stories of Amaranthine being the "jewel of the north", but that certainly didn't seem true now.
All around him people lay in tents, in shabby houses or in lean-to's that seemed as if about to fall over at any moment. In front of him a boy cut across the street, a purse dangling from his hands. A man ran after him, shouting, but was too slow. His money was lost.
That seemed to be the way of the world. Take what you can to survive, even if it means bringing harm to others. There may be those that deny such principles exist, that the key to life is helping others, but Anders knew that couldn't be true.
The Templars taught him that and taught him good. Anders sighed, remembering that he no longer had to run in fear of them. For the first time in years he actually had a home and warm food. Even if it meant that he had to die an early death or fight a ton of darkspawn, Anders would eagerly allow that if only to have a steady bed at night.
"Well, maybe not too steady." Anders chuckled, thinking of the pretty elven cooks and servants around the castle. If he could woo a few of them, it would certainly make fighting darkspawn a slight bit less stressful.
Elves... It was no wonder most humans found them attractive, Anders thought as a young elven woman walked in front of him. Even as dirty as she was, he could tell there was some hidden vibrance, a spark of life that humans just couldn't understand. They were joyous and happy, proud and, by the Maker, they were pretty.
Anders pressed through the tents and shanty houses, heading to the heavy gates ahead. They were closed, of course. The guards wouldn't want to risk some mad rush with all the peasants about, desperate to get in. The mage wondered for a moment if they would even let a Grey Warden in, but Anders dismissed the thought. He drank darkspawn blood, for Andraste's sake! He deserved to get into Amaranthine to do his job.
Of course, it was also partially Darius' fault that all these people were forced to be outside of Amaranthine. Much to Bann Esmerelle's dismay, Darius had sent most of the troops to the countryside to protect the farms and food. That left Amranthine undermanned by the guards, no doubt allowing any number of seedy inhabitants to be even more illegally inclined.
No point blaming the man, though. Darius had saved Anders' ass more than few times in the past week or so. Vigil's Keep, the templars, ghouls, exploding ferrets, etc. The mage was grateful he had met the Warden-Commander, even if it meant choking on blood.
Still, the state of these people was hardly inspirational. Anders watched two peasants start to beat on each other over a card game, only for a third, then a fourth jumped in. The guards looked at it, but didn't bother leaving their posts to quell the fight. Anders grinned when he saw a kid, presumably the son of the one of men, kick one of them in the balls from behind.
"Such a pleasant place." Anders said to himself, making a beeline to the gates. Anders suddenly started becoming uneasy about wearing his robes and staff so brazenly and open. Andrastians had a tendency to blame darkspawn related qualms on mages, despite how the ones responsible died hundreds of years before.
Well, that's not really true. Andrastians also liked to blame everything on everyone else anyway. People would get burned at the stake simply for a person getting a stomachache at the same time that man happened to walk by. And judging by the food these people were eating...
Adrian hurried his pace to the gate, hoping that none of the dirty peasants would try anything. Well, maybe that was a bit harsh. After all, if they picked his pocket, they would be able to buy food for a week, and that would technically be helping them, right?
"Halt!" Anders sighed as a guard shouted at him. Wonderful. Hopefully this wouldn't cause any trouble. Anders stood by the closed portcullis, tapping his foot in impatience as a fat guard ran towards him. The slovenly thing grew red in the face as he came near, huffing and wheezing. The guard stopped right in front of Anders, bending over to try and catch his breath. Odd, Anders thought, he didn't think fat people could bend over like that.
"Something you need?" Anders smiled slightly to hide his annoyance at the fat guard. Why did the man stop him?
"You... can't... go... through..." The fat guard wheezed out. Anders rolled his eyes.
"Well, I've never tried teleporting through a portcullis before, but I didn't think I needed permission to do so." Anders said sarcastically. It teleporting was even possible with magic, which it wasn't.
"Teleporting? Are you... a m-m-mage?" The fat guard stood, eyes wide. Anders sighed, slapping his hand to his face. Just his luck that the guard who decided to stop him was an imbecile.
"Did the robes and the staff give it away? I knew I should have left those at home." Anders brushed past the guard. Hopefully he could find someone that could actually let him through the gate, rather than waste his time.
"W-Wait!" The guard rushed after him, grabbing his robe. Anders turned sharply, staring at the guard. The fat man let go immediately, lowering his gaze.
"I need to get into Amaranthine." Anders said slowly, staring at the man. Maybe if he intimidated the fat man, this would go by faster. Not that Anders liked intimidation, considering how often the templars employed it on mages...
"You can't!" Anders sighed. Like this guard could stop him anyway.
"What if I say please?"
"I... I still can't let you. I mean... there are so many refugees..." Such a man shouldn't be a guard. He didn't have the commanding presence required or the ability to inspire fear.
"And if I said I was a Grey Warden and that my business is of the utmost importance?" Anders smiled as the fat man's face fell in shock.
"I-I-I-I-I'm sorry ser. I'll get right on talking t-to someone to let you in." The fat guard saluted him before running off, his too-tight armor clinking in protest. Anders sighed as he walked back to the portcullis, intent on finding a more assured way into the city.
"Warden!" Anders turned to see an imposing man in shimmering golden heavy armor walk towards him, head held high. Finally! A man of importance. "I am Constable Aiden, the commander of the guard in Amaranthine. Private Gerald told me you had business here?"
"Yeah, about that..." Anders pointed at the portcullis with his thumb, doing his best to seem impatient. "Can't do much righteous Grey Wardening if I can't even get into the city, can I?"
"I'll be sure to punish Private Gerald immediately for his insubordination." Aiden bowed, surprising Anders. These people viewed him as some sort of superior human, Anders thought. That was actually rather disturbing, considering being a Grey Warden didn't make him any less mortal.
"No, no. It's fine." Anders smiled. Aiden nodded, bowed again and mumbled a quick "follow me". Anders meandered after him, still gazing around the desperate area. Those who overheard that he was a Grey Warden looked up at him hopefully, their dirty and scarred faces making way to smiles and murmuring. Anders couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. This was the first time people had been glad to be around him, mage or not.
Unfortunately, his uplifted spirits weren't to last long. A heartbroken scream rang through the air, making Anders turn about to find the source. The shriek continued, marred only by sobs. Soon enough Anders found out where it came from, though he soon wished he hadn't.
A young woman, likely only in her early twenties, crouched over the body of a man. The man's neck was swollen and blue, as if he had been suffocated. Anders recognized the marks however, as occurrences like this were common at the Tower of the Magi. Rope. The man had hanged himself.
Anders stared at it sadly for a moment, not knowing the reasons as to why the man had killed himself. Still, the screaming persisted, forcing Anders to look away. This was too brutal, yet these people expected him to deliver them from this desperate time? They wanted him to stop events like this? Suddenly the smiles they gave him seemed haunting, trapping. He had been freed of one burden only to be shackled by another.
The Grey Wardens may be just as much a prison as the tower was.
Anders looked to the road, considering his options. He could run now, ignore his duties and hope Darius was up to the task of defending Amaranthine with only Oghren and Nathaniel at his back, but... No. He couldn't. Anders hurried after Aiden, ignoring the screams.
He needed a purpose for his life. Being a Grey Warden could give that and more, and at least he wouldn't be a martyr for doing so.
Aiden led him to a barred door in the walls, where a couple of guards stood watch, making sure none of the refugees didn't get any ideas. Aiden nodded to the guards, who promptly unlatched the door, allowing the Captain and Anders to walk through.
Before entering Amaranthine, however, Anders stole one last look out into the refugee camp. A noble's carriage was pulling up to the portcullis. Anders could just barely see a pinched-face noble lady shout at a refugee to get away from her cart as the guards swiftly started raising the gates.
The refugees looked helplessly on as the noble drove through, then as the portcullis slammed shut behind her. She had the money and power to get what she wanted. These refugees didn't. The world was a cruel place, Anders thought. Maybe there was a way he could make it better?
Inside Amaranthine was no better than outside, though. Beggars lined the streets, tugging at the tailcoats of passing nobles in an attempt to get a silver or two. Invariably, none of the nobles so much as stopped, most of them kicking the beggars in the face as they passed. Such was life.
"I apologize that the city isn't in better condition for your arrival, Grey Warden." Aiden bowed to Anders. Still, the action seemed odd. Anders imagined it would take a long while for him to get used to the respect.
"I'm a Warden, but I'm still just a man." Anders glared at the noble lady from outside the keep as she passed in her carriage. "That woman is just a woman as well. Maybe you should tell your guards to treat people a bit more equally, Aiden, and not let those with money get whatever they please."
"But that's Lady Esmerelle!" Anders narrowed his eyes at the woman as her carriage rolled out of view. "I'm sorry sir, but she's the richest person in Amaranthine! She deserves the respect! This is her home!"
"And is it not the home of all those refugees outside?" Anders spit, walking away. "I'll return if I need any assistance, Constable. Thank you for letting me into the city."
"My pleasure, Warden. Anything for one such as you." Anders didn't respond, focusing instead on a crowd up ahead. They seemed to be crowding around a shop, where a red-faced man shouted, trying to maintain order. Likely they were selling food, or water, or some other precious resource.
Anders kept walking, heading the other way. Maybe he'd run into something by accident. Darius wasn't exactly clear in his orders of 'finding information'.
"Grand ser!" Anders turned, finding himself addressed by a blonde, older beggar who was laying against a wall. His legs were twisted in odd directions, likely they had healed wrong after some grievous injury. He probably couldn't even walk. "Could you spare the Queen of Antiva a few coins? My kingdom's run on some hard times."
"Queen of Antiva?" Anders looked at him curiously before approaching, kneeling in front of him. "If you were the Queen of Antiva wouldn't you have a dozen male and female whores surrounding you at all times?"
"Nay! My King," The beggar pointed at a pitchfork nearby. "can be quite jealous sometimes. I can only have one whore, but I have to raise the money to use her myself, see? That's why I'm here, instead of my castle. Isn't that right my King?" The man looked to the pitchfork briefly before locking eyes with Anders again. "See?"
"Here." Anders pulled out three sovereigns, in response to which the man's eyes glittered beyond compare. "Buy yourself a whore and a nice dinner, my friend. Be happy for once in your life."
"Thank you ser! May the Maker bequeath a fine, naked lass upon you!" Anders smiled, shaking the man's hand as he gave him the coins. Even insane beggars could be amusing.
"It's no problem." Anders got up, feeling just a little bit better. As he walked away, though, his spirits couldn't help by be dampened by the state of affairs around him. There was suffering here, fear, yet there were nobles eating fine breakfasts and planning Darius' downfall over wines and cheeses.
Anders remembered the night of the introduction to the nobles. More than one whispered of how an Orlesian ruling them was a hazard to King and Country, and a few even spoke of deposing him. When Anders told Darius of this, however, the Warden-Commander just nodded and thanked him. He didn't even seem worried.
The mage wandered northwards, still somewhat lost within his thoughts. He walked for around 15 minutes before realizing he had entered a quieter section of the city. The beggars had all but disappeared and soft music rolled to his ears from somewhere around him. A lively tavern stuck out from a larger building to his left, where the sounds of drinking and merry making could be heard. It almost brought a smile to his face, at least until he saw her.
So enraptured by the shockingly peaceful scenario was Anders that he didn't notice the elven lass until her was a few feet away. She lay on a thin fence, absentmindedly picking leaves from a conifer tree in a way only an agile elf could. Long blonde hair ran from her unbelievably pretty face, rolling over her shoulders in a surprisingly calming way. But Anders immediately tensed as the beautiful elf turned to him, serene face shifting to a more conflicted, then angered one. Slowly she slid off the fence, standing a mere foot from Anders.
"Anders." She stared at him, that same stare that always sent Anders knickers running for safer ground. It had been nearly a year, but she was just as beautiful as when he had last left her.
"Pleasure meeting you again, Namaya." Anders smiled, trying his best to hide his uncertainty. That probably wouldn't work. This elf could read him like a book no matter what he tried. "I see you, uh, survived the Blight."
"No thanks to you, friend." Namaya spit the last word out, causing Anders to flinch. Sure, they had been friends, and more, once, but that seemed to no longer be the case. Understandable, considering what had happened. There was nothing more sobering to a man than the angered face of a beautiful woman, especially one who has shared a bed with you.
"Come on, Namaya. You can't honestly expect me to be-" Anders stopped himself as Namaya's gaze narrowed. "All right. It was my fault, but that was almost a year ago!"
"I guess so..." Namaya sighed, deflating somewhat. You could count on a woman to be incredibly hard to read too, Anders thought. "Nobody could have guessed that would happen, though I never thought I'd see you again. What happened to Sketch? Did the templars... do anything to him?"
"I don't know..." Anders sighed, remembering the bookworm elf mage that had accompanied him and Namaya so long ago. "We had been so close to freedom. His and my phylacteries were so close..."
"I know where they are, though, Anders." Anders locked eyes with Namaya, surprised. Her beautiful features were serious, almost determined, as if meant in revenge for Sketch's fate. "The templars... they brought them here to Amaranthine to protect them from the Blight. They've been hidden in an abandoned warehouse. I've got a map, if you need it."
"You aren't coming with?" Anders saw her shaked her head as she pressed the map into his hands. They held their gaze for a long time before Namaya looked down and away.
"You should hurry, Anders." Namaya turned away, laying her hands on the fence. "Your freedom, and your revenge, is within your grasp. Finally, after so long, you can avenge Clarisse."
"It's been a long time since that day, Namaya." Anders looked up to the sky, remembering. "Even though we were all on the run, I was happy, and I know you were too."
"It's best we aren't seen together." Namaya turned back to Anders, looking up at him. She stepped close to him, before seemingly changing her mind about something. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Namaya." Anders backed away as the elf ran off, disappearing down a side alley. After taking a long look at the map, Anders took off in the opposite direction. He looked back only once and, overcome with memories, he felt tears rim his eyes.
Yes. Vengeance for Clarisse. Vengeance for Sketch. And, in a way, vengeance for Namaya.
And freedom.
ooo
Anders pushed open the door to the warehouse slowly, careful to make sure that there were no templars guarding the building. Oddly enough, there weren't. The mage slipped inside, closing the door behind him.
The warehouse was entirely empty, with only a door on the other side, likely leading to whatever chamber the phylacteries were in. Anders walked forward slowly, staff held before him, careful for traps.
But there were none. Anders reached the other side with no trouble, and he pushed the door open with his staff slowly. The room was dark, but seeing no immediate threat, he slipped inside.
As soon as he had moved through the door, however, it slammed shut behind him. Anders turned around, only to be blinded by a fierce light seeming to come from all around him. Anders backed against the door, squinting to try and understand what was going on. Fear clutched at him. There was a trap after all?
"Heh. You had eluded capture from me for so long, I almost thought that it would be harder to spring this trap." Ser Rylock stood a few feet away, her two templar cohorts on either side of her. "I guess I was wrong. You truly are an idiot."
"Rylock?" Anders felt anger grip him as the light faded. This was the woman that killed Clarisse, that destroyed whatever hope he had at leading a free life. "What do you mean, 'trap'? You've played this card before, I know that much. Likely this is just a chance meeting."
"Namaya would have something different to say about that." Anders froze, fear gripping him even more heavily. "She was quite the easy one to buy. Then again, she's also the least dangerous, since she was the only one of your group to not be a mage."
"Namaya? Buy?" Anders widened his eyes as realization started to set in. "You killed her sister! Why would she sell out to you? Stop lying, Rylock!"
"I didn't care about her, and she knew that." Rylock smiled, drawing her sword. "You were a liability, and her sister died so long ago it didn't even matter anymore. People would eagerly turn on their supposed friends to serve their own purpose. Didn't you already know that?"
"Only people like you, Rylock." Anders spit, spinning his staff. This wasn't looking good. Namaya's treachery besides, he was trapped in a fairly small room with three templars and a lot of sharp objects. "You templars never resist to oppress us mages. You're always finding some way to hurt us to feed your sadistic, Maker-driven tendencies."
"You dare insult the Chantry!" Rylock's calm visage faded, replaced by sheer anger. "Even after all this time, you deny the one, true prophet! How dare you!"
"Religious fervor, huh? That's the reason you don't have any friends." Anders smirked as Rylock unhinged her shield. "Even if you kill me, I'll have accomplished more than you ever will in your life. I slept with a damned beautiful elf, after all, even if she did turn traitor. I, at least, know love. You only know violence."
"I love the Maker and Andraste. That's all I need." Rylock hissed, but Anders could tell he was getting to her. "And maybe after I kill you, I'll go find Namaya and execute her anyway. She was the accomplice to a maleficar, after all."
"You're so confident, Rylock." Anders pressed his back against the wall, scanning his surroundings for a way out. Rylock had planned this well, though. There wasn't a chance to get out of her. He'd have to fight, and killing three templars isn't easy.
"With good reason." Ser Rylock's calm demeanor was slowly returning. Good. That would delay the inevitable for just a little while, then.
"Ser Rylock, why do we waste time with him?" The templar with a greatsword asked. Anders looked at him curiously, as did Rylock. "Rather than talk to him, we should end his life already. The Maker demands that justice be done, so we should do it as quickly as possible."
"Silence, fool." Rylock snapped, causing the other templar to flinch. "I've pursued this man for too long to simply kill him. No. I will enjoy this. I will relish this. I will reward myself for my hard work."
"Just like you did with Clarisse? And Sketch?" Anders narrowed his eyes. "How cruel can you be? How insane does a templar need to be? Murdering my friend, taking away another, turning my former lover against me and killing me isn't enough? You have to torture me too?"
"Indeed." Ser Rylock approached, sword raised. "But I do grow bored of talk. I will destroy you, maleficar. Andraste turn Her gaze away from you, for you do not deserve Her love."
Anders raised his staff to block Rylock's first blow, but immediately felt the sting of an arrow graze his shoulder. From his position he couldn't see the third templar, but likely he was already nearing Anders, ready to support Rylock.
Rylock pressed her sword into Anders staff, her face growing near his. She was laughing, her face contorted in an insane smile. Disgusted, Anders tried to push her away, but found he wasn't strong enough. They built templars tough these days.
"This is the end of the line, mage!" Rylock shouted, laughing. "You will die just like Clarisse! Namaya will follow and once I track down Sketch, he'll join you three in hell!"
Anders finally pushed her off, knocking her back with a force-field. He wondered why there weren't any more arrows being fired at him, or why the other templar wasn't coming at him with his greatsword.
Not much time for that, however. Rylock swung at him, though Anders dodged under it, rolling behind her as the sword caught on the wood. As he stood, however, the other two templars were gone.
"Kill him!" Rylock shouted, struggling to free her blade. Finally, she pulled it out, turning to face Anders again. Anders backed away, reaching the end of the room. He stared in shock, however, at what he was seeing.
Behind crates and hidden from view from Rylock were the templars, torn to pieces by something. Anders scanned the room, but saw nothing. What the hell?
"Fine. I'll do it myself. Cowards." Rylock approached slowly, but Anders only lowered his staff as a dark shape rose behind her. "Andraste guide my blade. Maker preserve my soul. Anders, you will die."
"You call upon the Maker?" Anders heard from the dark shape. Rylock turned, only to be gripped by the neck by the shape as it materialized into a man. Blood-red eyes shined fiercely as the man threw Rylock into a wall, shattering a support beam. Her sword and shield clattered away, leaving her defenseless. "Foolish woman."
"You... who are you...?" Rylock coughed up blood, staring at the man with hate in her eyes. He didn't respond, simply raising his hand as a vicious blade materialized in it. "An abomination? But... that is impossible..."
Anders watched wordlessly as the blade came down, brutally cutting deep into Rylock's neck. He winced as the lethal wound forced blood out in a pulsating rhythm. She stared up at the red-eyed man hatefully before her vision went blank, her expression falling. In moments she was dead.
Rather than feel relief, however, Anders found himself even more scared. If this man – an abomination? – was eager to slaughter three templars, then wouldn't he be the same way towards Anders?
"I remember you." Anders said cautiously. The man turned to look at him, his expression blank. The jagged blade dripped with templar blood, running in dark rivulets down the length of the vicious thing. "Adrian, a mage. But... apparently not just that, huh?"
"Templars disgust me." Adrian said simply, glancing once at Rylock. "When they die, I feel satisfaction. Morality seemed to have left me when I became what I am, but I do not think I care."
Anders grimaced, unsure about this thing. He was obviously not in a proper mindset, quite possibly even insane, but what did that mean for Anders?
"Became what you are?" Anders pondered for a moment. He had seen an abomination before, but they were usually not ones to stop and talk. They usually didn't have a definite sense of self either, referring to themselves as separate from 'what they once were.' "What exactly are you?"
"I possessed a demon of Pride. I consumed an emotion." Adrian locked eyes with him, red eyes shimmering. "What I am now is still Adrian, but I find it difficult to act like a human does, like a human should. I live in a mutable state, though I am unsure why. I do not sleep. I do not dream. I do not think I even age. My thoughts are rapid, too varied to be cohesive. I use a blade forged of the Fade itself, The Keening Blade, though I cannot hear it any longer."
Anders felt himself grow worried. Obviously Adrian was insane. The rumors about him were true, then. At least every single one of them except him being dead. No wonder he turned Denerim into a battlefield.
"And... uh... how does that make you feel?" Anders ventured.
"I do not know." Adrian said simply, black cloak trailing around him. "I am slowly losing who I am, and I suspect the demon is not yet dead. I feel... her. I feel her everywhere. I feel the future. I see... things. Invasions. Golems of flesh and blood. I see the Dark Theurge, and know I must find it to save myself, but I know not where it lies."
Anders placed his staff in front of him. If he could run, he might make it... no. He couldn't. Abominations were faster, stronger and more ruthless than a human is. This was more terrifying than Rylock, it seemed.
"I must think. Be grateful that I had saved you, and not decided to destroy you." Adrian said simply, turning towards the opposite wall. He walked into a shadow, disappearing suddenly. Anders stared at where he was a moment before, breathing deeply as he slowly started to realize he was safe.
And yet there were three dead templars in front of him. Wonderful. Anders skirted around the pools of blood, intent on putting this warehouse far, far behind him.
ooo
As he emerged into the sunlight, Anders still could hardly believe what he had seen. He found himself wandering towards the main gates. Once there, he sat atop a box to collect his thoughts as he gazed at the refugees on the other side of the portcullis.
His vision trailed upwards, only for his eyes to be averted suddenly. A head sat atop the city walls, adorning a pike. Attached to the pike was a sign, which read "Arl Rendon Howe" and blow that "Traitor".
But was Rendon Howe truly evil? Anders wondered, trying his hardest to avoid looking at the rotting head. Or was he simply a victim of circumstance? Was the man a demon, or simply incredibly unlucky.
Was he really a traitor, or simply very unlucky?
While I know Namaya isn't actually that pretty in the game itself, I made her so anyways. Sorry if that threw any of you off.