Sorry that I disappeared again, my readers. I have no excuse except college, as usual. More sassy talk, party banter, and a wonderful bonding moment with Iron Bull (^_^)
STANDARD DISCLAIMER APPLIES
"Thank you for coming, maybe you can solve this mess." Scout Harding greeted Lavellan and her companions as they dismounted their horses and headed into camp. "Our missing patrols are being held hostage by Avaar. Barbarians from the mountains."
"Wonderful…" She muttered.
"It gets better." Harding replied with a dry voice. "Their leader – He wants to fight you because you're the Herald of Andraste. You know how it is between the Avaar and the Chantry."
"Didn't realize I was famous even this far South." Lavellan sighed and rubbed the back of her neck, then added with a growl, "I don't have time to argue over whose god is better!"
The dwarf gave her an amused look. "Getting to our troops won't be easy. The Avaar are holed up in a castle on the other side of the Mire. You'll have to fight your way through undead –"
Lavellan choked at that, making the dwarf pause.
"Wait – you're not squeamish about undead, are you?" Harding looked like she was holding back a laugh.
Lavellan didn't answer, white as a sheet and staring at her with wide eyes. Her mouth seemed to have stopped working.
"Uh, Herald?"
Lavellan promptly spun around on her heel, walking back to her horse. "Cassie, you can take care of this, I think I forgot something at Haven – ack!"
Cassandra grabbed the elf's shoulder in a hard grip and steered the Herald right back around, looking extremely unamused.
"We can handle it." The Seeker told the scout as she bodily steered Lavellan's stiff body towards the bonfire, where another soldier had already cooked up a nice hot cauldron of stew. Lavellan squeaked as Cassandra sat her onto one of the benches, the Seeker turning towards the stew to dish up a bowl for the stunned elf.
Suddenly the rogue whipped around to glare at her companion glaring through her obvious fear. "What did I tell you, Cass? It was a bad idea to come here! I mean – how do you kill something that's already dead?!"
Iron Bull's chuckle interrupted Lavellan's pending rant. "It's easy, boss. Just hit it until it stays down."
"And if it keeps getting back up?!" The poor woman's voice was getting shriller with each word. Lavellan began shaking her head in denial. "I can deal with demons. Demons can be sent back to where they came from. But undead? That's so wrong on so many levels!"
"Atisha." Solas murmured to her as he came to place a hand on her shoulder. "They are only corpses possessed by spirits."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?!" Lavellan shook off his hand, standing to approach the Seeker. "The undead rising is bad. Like, heaps of evil magic bad. Whatever is causing this is probably just waiting for us to waltz in there to get eaten!"
"We must rescue our soldiers!" Cassandra argued even as she pushed a bowl into Lavellan's hands.
"Then do it yourself!" Lavellan snarled. "I am not going in there!"
And with that the elven woman stomped into one of the tents, taking her stew with her. Her other three companions glanced at each other, Cassandra and Iron Bull merely shrugging while Solas shook his head at Lavellan's outburst.
.*. *. ҉ .*.*.
Wet. Dark. And creepy.
Those three words pretty much summed up the place. Lavellan could not fathom how anyone could choose to live here, not that there was anyone left when they got to the village. She would have gladly been far, far away from this place if Cassandra had not dragged her along. The rubble that used to be houses were a strange combination of charred and soaked, the smell of death and decay heavy in the moist air – a plague. The Seeker was not surprised when they came upon a poorly-dug ditch piled high with bodies in various states of rot. Some of the clothes on the bodies were scorched, but it looked as if the rain had put out the fire before it could properly burn the bodies.
"Ugh! By the Dread Wolf that smell is sinful!" Lavellan gagged aloud as they approached it.
"We ought to send some of the soldiers to douse the pit in oil and set if aflame." Solas prompted, sparing a moment to give Lavellan an exasperated glance. "Hopefully it will help contain whatever disease caused all this. And it will prevent any spirits from latching onto the empty vessels."
"Good idea." Iron Bull agreed. "We should also warn the soldiers away from the village well. We can't allow anyone to bring the disease back to Haven. There are too many people there."
Their first skirmish with the undead would have amused the Seeker if she had not been so annoyed. The moment the group had stepped onto the docks the bodies rose from the blackened water, barely a trickle to sound their arrival. The details of their faces were warped by disease, rot, and the effects of being submerged in the water for so long. Cassandra was almost glad for it, as they looked more like monsters than civilians. The skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, peeling off in some places, muscle and bone peeking through the gaps, and – worst of all – various bugs and leeches could be seen feasting on the decayed flesh, nestled into gaping wounds.
"HOLY SHITFUCKS!" Lavellan screeched at a pitch so high the Seeker was sure only dogs could hear the last note.
The undead attacked. Cassandra, Iron Bull, and Solas defended. And Lavellan – the glorious Herald of Andraste, the chosen sent to save them all – turned heel and ran.
For the love of the Maker! Cassandra swore inwardly as she quickly got to work hacking and slashing. The skirmish was over in a matter of minutes, and as soon as her weapon was sheathed, the Seeker went after the rogue like a dog on the hunt.
They found Lavellan huddled inside one of the ruined houses of the village, curled into a corner in the fetal position with her eyes squeezed shut, whispering something over and over under her breath. In any other moment, the Seeker would have pitied the woman. However, she was still so enraged about Lavellan fleeing mid-battle that all she wanted to do at the moment was ring her neck!
A stormy look on her face, Cassandra took a step forward to give that rogue a piece of her mind, when she felt a large hand descend upon her shoulder. The Seeker glanced up in surprise to see Iron Bull looking down at her reproachfully.
"Let me talk to her." His deep voice rumbled, a sympathetic gleam in his eye.
She opened her mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. I'd only make things worse in this state. Cassandra admitted to herself.
.*.*. ҉, .*.*.
Lavellan felt more than heard the approach of one of her companions, but she dare not open her eyes. Instead she focused on the words flowing through her mind, whispering them under her breath.
"In tambureggiando di cuore ho sentito dei passi tuonando; Scudo-fratelli e lancia-sorelle lontani sollevate…" It was an Andrastian prayer, one of the few things she remembered from her childhood. Even if she did not believe in the Maker, the prayer was familiar and calming, like an old lullaby. She used to recite it when she was hiding from slavers, praying that the Maker would somehow come to save her… not that he ever did. "Lama a grillo-portatore, valente dello spirito; Sfolgorante come stella-shine, per combattere hanno fatto pagare – "
She started when she felt a heavy weight land next to her, eyes shooting open to note, with surprise, that the Iron Bull had dropped down onto the dilapidated floorboards beside her, leaning against the back wall. He flashed her an easy grin, as if she had not just abandoned them to the undead not five minutes before.
There was a quiet moment between them as he leaned his head back, his horns scraping the wooden boards of the wall as he looked up to where there should have been a roof and saw only the clouds, the rooftop long gone with the rest of the cottage. Lavellan was still curled in a ball, arms wrapped around calves, staring at her muddy boots while her long ears drooped sadly.
"In the Qun," Iron Bull's voice sliced through the pitter-patter of rain, "Fear is accepted. It is natural."
Lavellan stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.
"But during battle, you must master your fear. Or else you endanger not only yourself, but your comrades."
She winced, but it was quickly halted when she felt his large hand cover one of her own. Lavellan glanced up to meet the Qunari's gaze. His look was strangely comforting, and dare she say, compassionate.
"It is okay to be afraid." Iron Bull told her. "But during battle, you must push it away. Imagine shrinking it and putting it in a box to deal after the battle. Lock it away and tie it with a bow."
She arched an eyebrow at him.
"Or… no bow." He conceded.
Lavellan let out a long sigh and pulled her hand from his, standing up slowly, tentatively. Iron Bull followed suit, but did not move to leave until she began to walk to the edges of the house's foundation, hesitating at the edge, afraid to face the wrath of Cassandra, and the silent disapproval of Solas.
"C'mon boss." The Qunari grumbled behind her. "The faster we clear this place, the faster we leave."
She nodded, steeling her resolve as her eyes hardened and her hands glided over the hilts of her daggers in reassurance. You can do this. The elf told herself. You've been through worse. Lavellan strode out of the ruined cottage, ignoring the searching looks of her last two companions.
"Let's go." She said in a steady voice, making her way back to the docks.
.*.*. ҉, .*.*.
That night Solas walked the Fade again. In a place like the Fallow Mire, it was almost too easy to slip across the veil, even when he was awake. The moment he closed his eyes he found himself standing in a warp version of the world outside, where water dripped upwards, the sky was green and the souls of the undead roamed the roads, lost.
He startled when he heard a scream.
It was not unusual in the Fade, but the cry disturbed him for some reason. His curiosity piqued, Solas began walking in the direction of the scream. The paths of the Fade wove themselves in a confusing maze, but the wise elf easily traversed them. He rounded a corner, only to draw up short at the sight.
Lavellan? He felt his brows shoot up in surprise. She was younger in her dream self, somewhere in her teens perhaps, thin and lanky, dressed in dirty, worn armor and scrambling to escape a horde of undead that were chasing her.
"Talav!" She calls to someone that Solas can't see in her dream as she burst through a doorway in a large, empty warehouse. "Hanno un necromanti!"
Solas blinked in surprise. She was speaking another language? Luckily languages were rendered moot in the Fade; the meaning of her words registered anyway. He blinks again and the dream washing over him completely.
"They've got a fucking necromancer!" Another person yells as they trail behind her, sliding to a stop and spinning around to block a hit from a snarling corpse and kicking it back into the others behind it, as Lavellan yanked several throwing knives from her belt and sent them flying past the other person, hitting each of her marks precisely. There is another person on the steps to the second floor, an archer with a female body and a shadowed face. The building ripples into existence around them, details sharpening as a result of the Fade conforming to her memories. She leaps up and scales the wall expertly and leaps onto the landing of the second floor. Another figure ripples into existence beside her.
"Well then we charge them extra." A man's voice states from above her, and Solas glances up to see a shadowy figure on the second floor turning away from the fight below. "Finish the job."
"Are you kidding me?!" The young Lavellan hisses.
"But Master, I've never fought undead before!" One of her companions gulped as they were slowly pushed back by the horde piling through the entryway.
"Then learn fast. Or don't bother coming back to base." The man tells them without sympathy as he disappears out of the window.
She turns and stares with wide eyes at the horde of undead scrambling up the stairs towards her position, a prayer slipping from her lips as she raises her daggers. The three fighters manage to kill most of the undead before the necromancer in question entered the room, adding their dangerous spells to the mix. The young man fell first, torn apart by hungry corpses while the female archer screeched in anger and sent a barrage of arrows to the creatures defacing his body. Then she, too, fell as the mage caught her with a glyph of paralysis and the horde descended on her.
The necromancer cackled as he then revived the two fallen warriors to join his horde, and Lavellan screamed in horror as her comrades stood back up with blank eyes and bleeding wounds, staggering towards her like puppets on a string. She let out a strangled sob as she dodged the attacks coming from her newly dead companions, but she couldn't seem to return their attacks, hesitating at the familiar faces.
Solas frowns and turns away in cowardice. He wanted to help but this was only memory, and no matter what he did, he couldn't change the past. Instead, he couldn't help but be curious about the Herald's origins, so he turns and melted through the walls of the building.
He's in a city, somewhere exotic, standing on tiled rooftops that overlook a large city that stretches until it touches the sea. It is nighttime, the moon glinting off of the tiles and turning them silver. Strange sounds and smells fills his senses, the air is tangy with spice and salt from the ocean, music floating above the city despite the late hour.
There is a gasp behind him, and he turns to see the young Lavellan haul herself out of the window, dropping heavily on the rooftop and leaning her back against the wall beneath the window pane. She's trembling and covered in blood, fighting to calm her breathing. He hears the clanking of her daggers as she allows them to drop to her side, turning her attention to her wounds. She shivers as she eyes the bite marks on her body, staring at the incisions on her arm where a corpse had sunk his teeth into her flesh and refused to let go.
"So the others didn't make it, hm? How disappointing." The shadowing man from before flickers into existence, detaching himself from the shadows of the chimney and coming to stand in front of her.
"Never again…" She whimpers softly. "Please, don't make me do that again!"
"You will do whatever I tell you to." He tells her harshly. "Now get up."
The dream seems to shudder for a moment, and then collapses in on itself. Lavellan must have woken up in the real world. Solas stares at the space it had been for a moment longer, before closing his eyes and exiting the Fade.
He avoids her dreams for the rest of their trip, feeling guilty for invading the privacy of her memories, and disturbed at the violence that they usually contained. It was hard to separate nightmare from reality in a place like the Fallow Mire, where the two bled together easily. The darkness that pervaded the swamp only made her nightmares worse, though she showed no sign of her exhaustion during the day.
Solas began to hand her a cup of tea before she went to her tent to sleep, insisting that she drink. He had secretly mixed it with a small dose of sleeping draught, although he had a feeling she suspected as such. She never accused him, however, only flashing him a small but grateful smile.
.*. *. ҉ .*.*.
Their journey in the Fallow Mire was quick and not-so-clean. Aside from Lavellan's aversion to the undead, they managed to track down the Avaar and the fortress where they were holding the Inquisition soldiers ransom. The final battle was long and bloody, the Avaar living up to their fierce reputation.
Lavellan was cranky almost the entire time, and was more than delighted when more soldiers showed up to help the Inquisition hold the Mire, allowing her and her companions to finally pack up and head back to Haven.
She would never stop thanking her lucky stars for a real bed. Not just a hay-stuffed blanket, but a real mattress with the fire crackling brightly across her cabin. Lavellan sighed as she relaxed into the cushions, still wet from the bath the servants had brought for her and finally smelling like flowers and not mold and death. She was laying upside down on her bed, her long hair tossed over the edge of the bed so the heat of the fireplace could dry it faster.
For once, she was wearing something other than armor, dressed in a long tunic and loose trousers, her feet shoved into two layers of socks to combat the icy chill that still managed to squeeze through the cracks in the walls. She almost never wore civilian clothes, she always felt naked without armor on. Paranoia was a hard habit to break.
There was a knock on her door.
"Come in!" She called, not bothering to sit up, inching further down the bed so that her head was tilted over the edge so that she could see the door.
The door swung open and in skipped Sera. "Yo Herald, I heard about the marsh! Thank the Maker you didn't bring me, yeah?" The other elf shivered. "Dun like undead, not one bit!"
"Yeah, lucky you." She drawled, still laying upside down on the bed. "I tried to leave, but Cassandra dragged me back."
"What, our great hero and savior got a bit squeamish?" Sera teased.
"I fucking ran outta there screaming like a little bitch." Lavellan scoffed unashamedly.
The blonde doubled over giggling at the thought. "Yeah, but they'll probably tell stories of how you looked the undead in the eye and didn't even flinch!"
Lavellan chuckled. "At least the bards will save my reputation."
"Anyway, watchu say to a round of drinks, hm?" Sera asked her as she pounced onto the bed and leaned over the dark elf. "This village is so boring! I haven't shot something in a week!"
"They have shooting ranges, y'know." Lavellan pointed out.
"Something other than a target." Sera huffed. "Something that moves and fights back!"
"Well don't ask me to be the target." Lavellan quickly said as she sat up and began to wind her hair into a bun. She walked over to chest and opened it, looking for a coat.
"I dinnit!" Sera stuck her tongue out. "Actually, that'd be a good idea… maybe I can get one of Bull's Chargers to do it. Those guys will do anything if you dare them!"
Note to self: warn Iron Bull. Lavellan chuckled to herself as she pulled on her coat. "Okay Sera, let's see if Flissa can't get us the good ale."
.*.*. ҉, .*.*.
Inquisition archives: Personnel files
Subject Title: Herald of Andraste
First Name: Banal'ras
Last Name: Lavellan
Gender: Female
Age: unknown; early twenties?
Origin: Orlesian, Dalish (under suspicion)
Class: Rogue, Duelist, Twin Daggers
Attributes: Skilled at lockpicking, proficient with a bow, suspected knowledge of poisons (unconfirmed). Suspected proficiency in Orlesian and Antivan (unconfirmed). Knowledge of Elven confirmed.
Background: The subject claims to have been an orphaned elven child that was taken in by the Dalish clan Lavellan at an undetermined age. Since then she lived as a hunter for the tribe, forming a close attachment to several members of the tribe, most notably the Keeper, who is suspected to have been the one to adopt her into the clan. The clan is reluctant to speak about her – or just reluctant to speak to outsiders in general – but our sources say that no one in the tribe knows who she might have been before she joined the Dalish.
Special Notes: The subject appears to have been trained well beyond the skill level of the average Dalish hunter – was she a professional fighter or soldier perhaps? Maybe even a mercenary?
Most notably, the subject shows evidence of a formal education, something that is not provided among the Dalish clans to non-magical children. Her reading and writing skills are beyond anything the Dalish could have offered her, as well as any language training other than Common and Elven. The subject has also demonstrated basic knowledge in arcane and Chantry lore (also education that is not provided within the Dalish). It has to be concluded, then, that the subject was educated outside of the Dalish, and in fact, educated by someone in human society.
Leliana furrowed her brow as the finished reading the dossier her agents had written for the Herald, her lips tilting down into a severe frown. The implications of the report were not good. She rolled the paper up into a tight little scrool, tying a string around it to keep it shut before slipping it into her sleeve and exiting the Chantry.
The sky was grey, bitter, and cold. Despite the thick blanket of snow that covered the lands surrounding Haven, the true depth of winter had yet to show its face. Soft flurries fell every few minutes or so, the wind crisp and chilly. Leliana found herself on the wall surrounding the town of Haven, a lone figure watching the soldiers training below.
Leliana tugged her cowl tighter around her head in a vain effort to keeping her ears safe from the biting winds. Despite the myriad of soldiers sparring on the training grounds, her eyes were focused on one fighter in particular - Lavellan.
The tanned elf had returned from the Fallow Mire the day prior, and was already up and training the next morning. Cullen was certainly pleased to have her and Cassandra at the training grounds this morning, eagerly putting his men through the ringer as they attempted to last even a minute against the skilled fighters.
The young elleth was sparring two soldiers at once, much to the disbelief of many. Leliana's narrowed eyes followed her curiously, suspiciously, and with great intensity, her sharp gaze easily following the sinuous flow of Lavellan's movements. The woman was quick, almost as quick as a master rogue. Her style of fighting was unusual and definitely not Dalish. The Dalish had a very distinct style of fighting, one that favored defense and dodging for a quick getaway. Lavellan, on the other hand, was very much an offensive fighter. She fought with refined movements, which bespoke of rigorous training and repetition, and the precision of her hits told Leliana that she had an intimate knowledge of the human body. When Lavellan struck, it was always an organ, artery, or pressure point. She was not just trained to kill, but had plenty of experience in doing so. The fact that her sparring partners were not accidentally killed by some of her moves was a testament to the elf's ability to pull her punches – another skill that could only be accomplished with excellent reflexes and muscle control.
It was somehow familiar to Leliana in a way that made her brain itch, as if the answer was right in front of her yet she was blind to it. Lavellan fought with the kind of grace and focus that only came with years of experience – experience that went beyond a simple Dalish hunter.
One of her sparring partners threw himself at Lavellan again – a human warrior with a sword and shield – and like she had done so often before, the elf seemed to simply float out of the way of his attack, bending her body just enough not to be hit, yet still close enough to land a hit on the man. The second man – an elven rogue, double blade wielder – attempted to attack her from behind, but she seemed to anticipate this, as Lavellan was already flowing into a lower stance, ducking under his swing and ramming the pommel of her daggers into his solar plexus. The man went down hard, wheezing, just as the previous warrior came at her again. This time the elleth ran to meet his attack, sliding underneath his swing so that she popped up between him and his shield and punching him square in the jaw.
Both men were down now.
A small crowd of soldiers had gathered on the sidelines by now, including their esteemed commander. Cullen was watching the rogue elf with an impressed expression on his face, if a little bewildered at her ruthless speed.
Leliana had to admit, the young woman was very, very good. Too good, in fact. The longer she watched the elleth, the heavier the feeling in her gut became. With each strike that Lavellan landed, with each hit that she dodged so effortlessly, Leliana could not help but conclude that Lavellan had been trained by a master rogue.
She had seen this fighting style before. But where?
And then, of course, was Lavellan's strange accent. It was faint, almost unnoticeable except to the trained ear. Every few words that Lavellan spoke was pronounced oddly, making it obvious to anyone with ears that the common tongue was not her first language. But despite her clan's location in Orlais, Lavellan most definitely did not have an Orlesian accent.
Leliana frowned at the thoughts spinning in her head. She did not like where they were leading her. If it was anyone other than the Inquisitor, she might have suspected them of being a spy. Hell, Lavellan did say that she had been at the Conclave as a spy for the Dalish. But if it weren't for the confirmation from the Lavellan clan, Leliana might have thought her a spy for a much darker, more dangerous group.
But Lavellan was the Herald. She could have walked away in the beginning, and report back to whomever sent her, but she didn't. She chose to stay. For duty? For honor? Simply because of the death sentence centered in the palm of her hand? Whatever the reason, Leliana could not deny that Lavellan's involvement with the Inquisition seemed genuine. The lengths that the woman had already gone to just to secure supplies and aid for the Inquisition and their men went beyond mere duty. Would someone like that really risk so much if they were loyal to someone else?
Leliana is close to figuring out Lavellan's secret! Stay tuned for the next chapter to find out more!
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