ARTHUR'S NOTE

So, I'm 28 years old now. Honestly, I look at that number and think of everything that's come before it, and all I'm working towards now, and I realize, that's still pretty fucking young. I'm out of the Air Force and in college again, waiting for my GI Bill to come through and help out with some of this full college course-load, and I'm working in website development during the off-hours. Free time to play video games and masturbate has been almost non-existent these past couple of weeks.

And yet on the 22nd of this month, I got an e-mail update stating that 'vamp1501' placed a Follow Alert on All Crossed Rogues. I saw that and something in my brain just clicked. I loved writing this story and I really loved where it was going. I just got caught up in so much shit last year that I let it fall by the wayside, my awesome beta reader Skeasel along with it.

Then there's Acon Dawn, my Mass Effect story that was first put out in 2008! Two thousand and fucking eight, when we only had an idea of what the sequel would hold in store for us. I got overwhelmed with all the life shit there too, and that story is still just sitting there, waiting to be finished. Fuck that, it's been long enough for these tales of excellent losers and all the horrible things I want to put them through so that the kissy faces can mean that much more.

To vamp 1501. To RedIn, Alex Ryzlin Gold, DorfMouse, Exploiting Reality (I want Hawke to kill him too, and I'm not even writing him as a straight villain. Blowing up a Chantry just makes you that big of a prick. And I plan to clear up where the plot is going in the next few chapters), Extra Juicy, Ledilettant, RememberStars, Talitha2, Tsaghira, dragoon00nick, ntmnky, Starry-eyed-vixen and werewolvesandyuri. Thank you. All of you. Following stories, whether reviewing or not, just pressing that 'Follow' button, can inspire a motherfucker to get back at the keyboard.

So, here we are. You're you, in all of your awesomeness, and I'm 28. That's still young, son. Let's do this shit.

"I was far from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me."
H.P. Lovecraft - The Festival

CHAPTER 5

It's Just a Stupid Legend

9:41 Dragon
28th Firstfall

The Free Marches
Five Leagues from Hercinia

33 Days

When they'd awoke upon the morning of the day they were to reach Hercinia, Varric had first wondered if they'd drunk too much the night previous and, as a result, had slept in far later than they'd intended. The sun was nowhere to be seen and he was far too rested to have only slept a handful of hours. The grass beyond the fluttering tent flaps was dark under heavy shade and he heard no chirping of the songbirds nearby that had been ever-present when they'd set up camp yesterday afternoon.

Grumbling about the dangers of sweet mead, he crawled past Anders, who was groggily lacing up his undershirt, and lifted a tent flap to reveal a thick, bulging cloud cover that had overtaken the sky. These were not the foggy white nuisance they'd dealt with crossing the Vimmark trail, but rather black and deep grey behemoths that covered the eastern sky in thick rolls, not allowing the slightest hint of blue through.

After packing up, as he tugged his boots onto his large feet and grabbed his duster from a nearby branch, Anders whistled.

He glanced at the mage, who nodded to the west. "Say goodbye to the last bit of cheer," he said.

Sure enough, Varric saw it on the western horizon. A thin stretch of bright blue.

A strange notion overcame him, watching the final vestige of sunshine. He felt like a child, walking aimlessly away from home into the dead of night, darkness all around him, only to chance a look over his shoulder to find his brother at the doorstep, his hand outstretched, beckoning him to come back inside, the light and warmth of the house shining behind him.

"Well," Anders said, saddling the chestnut, "we should be off."

Varric shook the vision from his head. Shrugging his coat on, he approached the black pony, leaving the daylight behind. "Yeah, I guess we should."

The Free Marches
Hercinia

Hercinia was a massive city built along the steep, downward slope of a seaside cliff. Multi-tiered houses in dull browns, reds and yellows jutted from the rocky foundations at the top levels, leading towards single-storied buildings and businesses on the center levels, which finally led down to the ugly black huts nearest the ocean walkways and docks at the bottom where the poor lived and worked.

The wood used to build the docks, paths and homes at the base was Arlathan black oak, the stuff of legend and one of the few things that Varric had known of Hercinia upon entering the city with Hawke three years ago as they'd sought out her new home.

In the fifty-seventh year of the Exalted Age, Hercinia had been beset by a terrible storm which began during the fourth month of the year, Cloudreach, and continued to batter the city with heavy winds, torrents of rain and high waves for months without end. Hercinia had been built to withstand such treatment, though, and everything had thought to be manageable until Solace, the seventh month, when the beast arrived, apparently awakened and pushed from the ocean's depths by the storm. It was, as the story goes, a thing of horror with countless tentacles the size of trees, its head rarely breaching the surface but rumored to have thousands of black eyes it used to seek out prey along the ocean floor. Within a matter of days it had torn a good portion of the city apart with its tentacles, completely destroying the docks and lower housing before being driven off by the defense turrets and catapults that were normally utilized when Hercinia was under fire from pirate ships.

Hearing of their plight in her Chantry palace in Val Royeaux, Divine Joyous IV struck a bargain with the city's Elder Councilor, Edwin Longthatch. Fearing that the Black Divine of that time was seeking to end her life, she had become convinced that he had sent word and payment to Antiva, hiring the Crows to dispatch assassins to Orlais. Joyous agreed to send materials and men to rebuild if the Elder pushed a motion through Hercinia's council to block all trade with Antiva, a nation that was still reeling from the Fourth Blight and heavily reliant on seafaring trade vessels, until she received an assurance from the Antivan Crows that the contract on her life had been annulled.

Not wanting to start a war or break a lucrative deal that benefited the Free Marches, but desperately needing the city repaired, Longthatch instead made two decisive actions. He sent a rider to return to Orlais with reply that the Divine's will would be done, and he sent eleven fishermen to Antiva City by boat to ascertain the nature of threat against Joyous IV, if there even was any. The fishermen, untrained in combat or stealth, were given a total of twenty-seven days, as that was how much time it would take before Hercinia would be forced to stop trade with Antiva.

The unit, through wits alone in a foreign city, discovered that the plot against the rightful Divine, which did indeed exist, had been refused by the Crows out of fear of an Exalted March against an already decimated nation. It had instead been picked up by a group of upstart assassins known as the Night Blades, who were attempting to make a name for themselves. The Hercinian unit split into three groups, one of which raced in a hunt for the dispatched assassins, one of which attempted to, and succeeded in, destroying the home base of the faction through subterfuge and sabotage at the cost of their own lives. The last group, only two men, were to return to Hercinia with news of the threat, though they were unsuccessful, as they were never seen or heard from again, disappearing somewhere in the vast Amaranthine Ocean.

The group of four that chased the would be assassins managed to track them down in the Silent Plains of Nevarra and fought the Night Blades to the last, with a single fisherman living through the battle. The survivor made his way to Orlais. As the story went, when he reached the palace steps in the dead of night he was assaulted by a single thief and was mortally wounded before making good his escape. He reached the Divine in the palace, and with his dying breaths explained the tale of her safety.

When the Divine learned that all eleven men had perished, and that she was indeed safe, she rebuilt Hercinia with Arlathan black oak, also known as cursewood, straight from the Arlathan Forest. It was the strongest wood, and one of the most durable materials, available in the known world. Cursewood was incredibly rare and dangerous to retrieve from the forest and had therefore only been used in the creation of unique pieces of trinket, armor and weaponry, never in foundations. That Hercinia's base was now the only place in Thedas to be made of the wood gave it a particular distinction and heraldry, as well as a formidable appearance. The wood was coal-black, thick, heavy and nigh-indestructible. Many believed it was also, as the nickname suggested, cursed, and while it had never fallen to storm, combat or disaster again, Hercinia's past after the reconstruction would certainly lend credence to this theory.

Now, nearly four hundred years later, the city remained under a near-constant blanket of black-grey clouds and rainfall, accidental deaths and mysterious disappearances were commonplace. The very air within its borders seemed weighted and ominous, as though the blight itself were about to swallow the city whole at any moment. No elf, no matter how unwary or removed from their culture they might be, stayed within the city for more than a day. Those that recognized the wood for what it was departed the moment they laid eyes on it; those that did not woke sweating in the night, plagued by horrid nightmares, others ran through the streets in broad daylight, beset by hallucinations and phantom whispers calling to them from-

"Varric!"

Petting the Orlesian as a stable-boy tended to its horseshoes, Varric glanced up at Anders. "Hmm?"

The mage was glaring at him. "I get it, okay?! Not a good place to be if you're a fan of sunshine and kittens, can you please stop talking about it now?"

"But I didn't even get to the part about the blood mages from Estwatch and the ritual sacrifices to false gods!"

"Just… shut… up!"

As they walked away from the stables, pelted by a light drizzle of rain, they looked over the city that sloped sharply downwards before them. The Amaranthine Ocean, vast and blackish blue, lay beyond that.

"Where's Estwatch?" Anders asked, covering his forehead with a hand to shade his eyes from the nonexistent sunshine.

"You see it? It's right there, to the north-east." Varric pointed at a miniscule splotch in the distance, nearly swallowed by the ocean.

"Is it really that small, or just that far away?"

"A little of both. It'll take me the rest of the day and a bit of tomorrow to get there by boat. If I landed on the west end it'd take a couple more hours to get to Hawke's place. I'll shave most of that time off by sailing around."

Anders gave him a wary look. "You're sure you don't want to me come with?"

"Blondie, I'm sure. Just rent a room at the inn, buy a book in the markets, get a pint from the tavern and relax."

The mage nodded. "You do realize that I have no clue where any of those places are, right?"

Varric clapped him on the shoulder and held out his other hand again, pointer finger extending. "There's the inn, there's the tavern, one ridge down and three buildings over, and you see that line of shacks two ridges below that?"

"Yeah…"

"Markets."

"Oh… well, that's surprisingly simple. Guess it's quite useful, building a city on a slope." He drew up his hood. "Now I just need to stay low and-"

Varric chuckled, pulling the hood back down. "There's no need. Do you see any sign of a Circle here? A chantry? There's no sisters, no templar presence; it's a fishing community heavily steeped in old magic."

Anders pursed his lips. "It's a soggy fishing community," he said, jerking the hood back up again. "My hair's getting wet.

Varric shook his head and rolled his eyes, walking down the cobblestone path towards the docks. "Blighted prima donna."

"Where are you going," Anders called out, "you said the inn is this way!"

"To rent a boat!" The dwarf yelled over his shoulder.

"Well then meet me in the tavern before you leave, we'll share a pint."

"I gotta get to Hawke!"

"Right, the lady who might kill you next time she sees you!" As if on cue, a bolt of lightning arced down from the sky over Estwatch and thunder rolled, deep and loud.

Varric stopped. He turned as the rain picked up in intensity, looking back at Anders. "Two days."

Anders grimaced. "You're a stubborn shit, you know that?"

"Comes with the territory, Blondie, I'm a dwarf."

"No," Anders said, having to raise his voice over the thick pellets of rain hitting the stone, clay and stucco around them, "I think you were a stubborn shit first. The stumpy dwarf parts came later."

Varric shouted something, his voice muffled by another roll of thunder.

Anders dropped his hood to hear more clearly, taking a couple of quick steps down the cobblestone steps. "What?"

"I said, don't call me stumpy! And be careful!"

"Yeah-yeah, Hawke's a raving lunatic, I got it-"

"No! I didn't want to mention it… it's probably nothing; just jitters. But that last leg… I felt like we were being followed."

With that, the dwarf left him standing in the rain (which had already soaked through his long blond hair), walking downwards until he was a small spot before the wide vista of a deep, angry ocean.

"You said two rooms, then?"

"Right," he said, attempting to dry his dripping bangs with his robe.

"But… I mean, we got the vacancies for it, but there's two beds to a room and, and there's just you."

"I came with a friend and when he comes back he'll be bringing someone else with him; she'll be wanting a room of her own, I think."

"Ah, a lady as does it, eh? Very well. Twenty will cover you through the end of the week."

Anders dropped twenty silvers into the wrinkled hands of the elderly innkeeper, a white-haired old man with a badly curved back and a glass eye. The innkeeper nodded and smiled, revealing the three or four teeth he had left in his mouth. He insisted on helping to carry the bags up the stairs to the room, which was a small but pleasant enough space with two small beds and two tables beside them, each with a candle, parchment, inkwell and a quill atop. The walls were the only part that Anders found disquieting. They were an unpleasant shade of dull green, like the mold on bread that had gone bad. With the heavy odor of wet dog that seemed to pervade Hercinia, the scheme did little to calm his nerves.

"You got a closet there," the old man mumbled and tilted his head towards a small door to the left, shuffling into the room, dragging his feet as he dropped Varric's bags by the closest bed. Anders placed his own bags atop the other, his gaze traveling to a set of trembling double doors at the other end of the room.

"Wouldn't open those, were I you," the innkeeper said.

"Oh?" Anders chuckled nervously. "Is that where you keep the monsters?"

"No," the elderly man replied, already moving towards the exit, "that's where we keep the veranda."

At that moment, a gust of wind blew against the doors, rattling them, the parchment on the bedside tables trembling beneath the inkwells. Anders felt wetness on his cheek from rain making its way through the cracks in the doors.

"Right," the mage said to himself, alone in the room now, "good advice."

He gave the room a long once over, patting his hands on his sides and whistling. Walked to the door, shut it, walked back to the bed he'd chosen for himself and sat down. He bounced a couple of times, testing the down mattress. Kicking off his shoes, Anders laid out on the wool blanket.

He closed his eyes.

Another heavy gust of wind and rain battered the veranda doors, a deep moan traveling through the air. A piece of parchment fluttered out from beneath the inkwell and flew to the bed, smacking him in the face.

Anders immediately rolled out of the bed. "Okay, tried sober, didn't like it. Drunk it is, creepy town, you win."

He reached for his boots.

Varric had been right. The farther into the city Anders went, the more he could feel it; magic, thick in the air, almost as thick as the smell of rot and musk and the sea, and almost as unpleasant.

It reminded him of the Blackmarsh in Amaranthine, though the feeling here seemed less… deliberate. Whereas Blackmarsh had been one boggy cesspool with a central point of dark magical convergence with a single point of authority, the Baroness, Hercinia had spots. A bad spot here, a whiff of evil there. As if, over the course of the Ages, mystical event after mystical event had tainted the land, sickening it.

On the plus side, the markets had been brimming with dusty tomes of forgotten lore, and the stores and booths were covered from the rainfall a sight better than even his room. He wandered from shop to shop, browsing and taking in the local color. Dark-clothed people with well-toned muscles and coarse hands, even the younger generation seemed tougher than the average Ferelden, Free Marcher or Imperialist. Granted, he'd always run with a different crowd. As he was trotting from an antique booth to a shop of rare items, he bumped into a group of teens who came bolting out from a hidden corner in the mountain ridge, laughing and calling each other vulgar names as they went, seemingly unaware that they'd run into him. He shook his head and smiled, remembering those rare days in the Circle Tower that he'd actually had any fun as he entered the next shop.

After a few hours in the markets Anders stepped into the tavern Varric had pointed out to him, a little hole in the wall by the simple name of Dagon's Tavern, shaking off the rain amidst a bright entryway with two lanterns overhead.

A dour-faced, middle-aged woman with chubby cheeks looked up from a table she was cleaning. "Sit where you'd like, I'll be with ya' shortly, dear."

The place wasn't exactly packed, but several groups of darkly dressed fishermen had taken many of the booths, a group of youths were skulking by the bar near the entrance and there was some lively conversation going on at the far end, so Anders set his bags down at a table near the center of the room. The locals kept their eyes to themselves, each other or their drinks, apparently unimpressed with him, which pleased Anders greatly.

Already feeling better after the shopping and the mild reception, the former Warden ordered a pint of Honeyale and began perusing one of his purchases, a thick recanting of the Schism that split the Chantry during the Age of Towers.

"No-no-no," a high-pitched, irritated voice shouted from across the room as the lively conversation grew heated, "you're getting it wrong! It was Darrel Thomius, Darrel the Wicked, he created the Evervoid-"

"Yer' a damned fool-"

"-he created the Evervoid to practice the magicks no one wanted him to, the blood magicks! Killed his First Enchanter, fled the Circle; the man self-exiled to the isle and created the-"

"Yer' a damned fool," the burly, inebriated voice repeated, "and a blighter. 'Tweren't Darrel Thomius did nothin' with it, 'twas Master Barn Hollows, he was a right fucker and a necromancer, and he created the Evervoid to raise the dead! He was practicin' so as he could raise his dead wife, everybody knows that! Tell him, Smalls, tell him he's a fool, 'twas Master Hollows."

Anders couldn't help himself. He glanced up at the table. Both men appeared to be in their fifties, one with fat and muscle and thick, coarse black hair on his head, his face and his arms, the other a sinewy balding man with spectacles and two fingers missing from his right hand.

A fit of amused laughter came from between them then and a third man leaned in from the shadows. This third fishermen, whom Anders assumed was Smalls, must've been closer to seventy, judging by the wrinkles around his eyes and on his hands, though he looked just as fit as the two men before him. Hercinia really did breed a particularly tough, hardy kind of people.

"Who's to say either one of you is wrong?"

"Well, we can't very well both be right," the bearded man grumbled.

Smalls shrugged. "Of course you can, that's what the legends are for, Timsen. They attempt to explain something can't be explained, so one is good as the other and two are better than naught. Maker knows, Estwatch needs all the explainin' we can give it."

Anders eyebrows rose. He flipped his book shut, leaned back in his chair and drank from his mug, giving the old fisherman his full attention. If Varric wasn't willing to share the details of Hawke's whereabouts, perhaps he could at least glean something from these men.

Smalls cleared his throat, eyes shifting between the two men, his expression unreadable beneath aged skin like well-worn leather. "All we know for sure is that there's good magicks in Thedas. The kind that heals the flesh and quiets the mind, aids the land and the sea. Life can flourish and survive 'neath its power. Then there's the other kind of magicks. Kind that poisons and decays, rots the very air. Kind that kills... and worse. Where it came from is any man's guess, as it were here long 'fore man crawled from the Maker's grasp an' walked on his own. We know where it grew to prominence though. 'At's up in ole' Minrathous, in Tevinter. And if ever there was a place that evil blackness found a home after them mages fouled the golden halls of the Maker's throne, 'twas here, in Hercinia.

Behind Anders, by the bar, he heard the words ''twas here, in Hercinia' being echoed in a mocking, gravelly whisper, followed by tittering and hushed laughter. He glanced back to see the four teens by the bar, their cheeks beat red with contained laughter. Wait, he thought, as recognition hit. They were the same group who'd bumped into him in the markets. The single girl in the group, a mousy, plain-looking thing with brown hair and brown eyes, gazed him momentarily before leaning towards her friends and saying something under her breath.

Anders returned his attention to the old man, who hadn't noticed or was ignoring the youths.

"Over and over, dark forces been drawn here, and to Estwatch beyond. Mayhap both Darrel the Wicked and Master Hollows came to their dark ends here, as no one's ever seen 'em again, and if anybody has, they ain't talkin'. But we know that any man goes to Estwatch stands a good chance of never comin' back, and those that do got fuzzy memories bout the whole thing. You men speak of the Evervoid like you speak of your very homes, like you sure it's out there and you can map it out… you can't. No man's seen it remembers seein' it. And only a fool goes lookin' for it, as though they plan to stay a spell and rest their weary heads."

"Oy, Smalls," one of the kids behind him shouted, ignoring the quiet, mirthful protests from his companions, "I got a question."

The old man narrowed his eyes at the group over Anders' shoulder.

"Shouldn't you chitlins be in your studies?"

"It's the winter break, Elder Smalls," the girl said.

"Never mind that," the boy interrupted her, "look, if most nobody's ever seen this place and them's that have don't 'member seein' it, how are we to say it even exists?"

Smalls smirked. He'd clearly had this argument before. "Not for us to say, boy."

"Now why don't ye' chitlins skitter on home," Timsen said, "'fore the brine gobbles ye' up."

The boy ignored Timsen. "If nobody's ever even seen this place, why we gotta put the offerin's in the ocean? Why should we waste the supplies-"

The boy was cut off by a punch from one of his friends, all of whom had stopped laughing.

The bald, spectacled fisherman stood abruptly. "I could have your worthless little hide mucking out the gutter-wells 'til the new year just for sayin' that, Brandyn Cerise, and don't think your ma and pa shan't be hearing of this, because-"

Smalls put a hand on his arm. "Calm yourself, Phillip. This isn't the way to conduct ourselves front of travelers."

There was a brief silence and Anders suddenly realized that all eyes were on him. He gave the group a cheery smile and waved. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm rather enjoying myself. I love a bit of local history."

"'At's what am I afraid of, traveler," Smalls said, though not without a touch of humor in his voice, "while we ain't here speakin' for your amusement, I'll give it can't be helped."

"I appreciate that," Anders responded amicably, "though I didn't mean I was laughing at you-"

"What can be helped," Smalls continued, ignoring the mage, "is us piquing your curiosity. You get a wonderment in your head 'bout Estwatch, by chance decide to go seekin' out adventure, whate'er tragedy falls upon you after that; it'd be on our heads."

"Oh, no-no. I have no intention of going anywhere," Anders assured him. He heard the scuffling of well-worn shoes behind him, followed by the door to the tavern opening. Apparently the teens had grown bored with the change the conversation had taken. He lifted his mug and his shopping bags. "See? I'm just visiting your fair city for the markets, the ale and… and this fine weather."

That got a laugh from the three men. Anders picked up his mug and dragged his chair to their table, settling in. "Though, if I may, what the boy said did sound interesting."

Phillip glared at him. "Not wise to speak ill of the traditions in Hercinia, friend. We don't question the existence of the Evervoid-"

"Ain't what he's talking about, Phillip," Timsen pushed the bald man's drink closer to him, "tucker yerself, ye' git, for ye' lose yer' cool again."

Phillip frowned. "If that tweren't what he meant, then what-"

Smalls chuckled. "You come as a stranger in a strange land only to hear the townsfolk arguin' 'bout 'offerings', what do you think your goin' to be curious of? Young lad here pro'ly thinks we're sacrificing virgins to the sea or some such nonsense."

"Well, that would certainly be a good waste of virgins," Anders said.

Timsen and Smalls nodded. "Hard to come by as they are," Timsen agreed.

The three of them chuckled as Phillip drank from his mug, seeming to take Timsen's advice.

"No," Smalls said, "it's not as interesting as all that, traveler. What Phillip 'ere said was true; we don't question the existence of the Evervoid, though we never seen it or know what it is. It's just tradition, like the prayers before the cursewood and Three Night Festival, thankin' the Maker's grace for a good season of fish or askin' for a better one next year. Legend goes that the Evervoid takes souls and keeps 'em safe from harm, heals what ails 'em for it spits 'em back out to the world with no recollection whereat they been. Supposedly, even us folks from Hercinia used to be able to go to find it, 'til the cursewood was put into place."

"Oh," Anders said from around the lip of his mug, "so it's a good magical place."

The fishermen shared a dark look between them.

"I must be gettin' old, traveler," Smalls responded, "I seem to be tellin' the story wrong. The Evervoid ain't no 'good place'. Ain't even a decent place. It's a darkness on the land, an evil so black that another world swallowed it from existence. Hurt people, those with so much pain in 'em it's likely to burst from their bodies, they wind up there, one way or 'nother. And the Evervoid feeds on them. It eats the pain away, like it t'were suckin' the blight from a darkspawn.

"It only does this cause it's hungry, so as we understand it. So the Maker sends those 'at can feed it and the nature remains… what's the word? Symbiotic? At best, ye' can call the Evervoid symbiotic. Long as the soul stays unhappy and alive. 'At's where the offerin's come from. Wouldn't do much good, us sendin' a virgin to the void, lest the individual within be a cannibal, and most folks ain't like to dine on each other. So we send the practicals, once a month. Dried foods, water jugs, parchment and the like. Used to be, buildin' the offerin' and sending it long it's way was a chore for the town Elders in the Council, but we're like to grow a bit cantankerous in our age and some joker winds up adding in a couple'a dirty books and hard liquor 'long with everything else."

Anders laughed. "Hey, that sounds like a kindness to me."

Amidst chuckles from his companions, Smalls nodded. "Aye, there's the problem. 'Member, the soul must stay unhappy 'til he's good 'n ready to be released. Even the smallest joys the vices can bring would be a bad thing, if'n the soul winds up smilin' 'fore it's time to. Least, that's what's been passed down through the ages."

"So what does the Legend say about the Evervoid if the offering isn't made?"

There was a long silence. The fishermen cast their eyes at their mugs and for a while everyone simply drank as Anders waited patiently, not wanting to press the matter.

Eventually, Smalls lowered his mug to the table, cleared his throat and continued, his gaze on Anders having turned grave. "The Evervoid is a monstrous thing of endless hunger. If it don't need to give nothing, it simply takes, and taking the pain might be good; but us mortals were never meant to use magic to end our suffering. Suppose to do it proper, like every other man. Grieve naturally. As it is, the Evervoid just keeps on gettin' fatter 'n fatter with pain. Legend goes that t'were the 'void to ever have to keep the soul alive on its own, 'stead of us here in Hercinia sendin' the supplies, it would turn on the host. Sure, it'd keep 'em alive, give 'em sustenance to make 'em fit 'n healthy, but it would also attack them. Bit by bit, the sadness and pain and torture they was tryin' to get rid of would be forced back into 'em. That's what would happen if even a single offerin' was missed. Beyond that? Well, there's no place in Thedas knows more of horror than the Evervoid. T'would turn the soul into a savage beast through constant torment and despair."

Outside, the rain seemed to be gathering in strength. It pelted the tavern in heavy waves and sheets. Anders was thankful to be warm and dry with good drink, but he was beginning to wish he'd stayed with his book. The thought of Hawke being stuck in that place for three years…

"Maker," he said.

The fishermen nodded.

"Don't worry yourself over it, traveler," Smalls said, "just enjoy your time here in Hercinia and know that we take our traditions seriously. No one's coming to harm."

Anders nodded, standing from his chair and toasting the men. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. Thanks for the story, gentlemen. I guess it's back to the inn for me now."

"You take care, traveler," Phillip said.

As Anders returned his chair to its original table and gathered his bags, he realized he wasn't quite drunk enough to deal with his accommodations yet. He walked to the bar to purchase a few bottles of ale. It occurred to him as he waited for the thick-cheeked tavern owner to return from the kitchen that he was standing in the same spot that the youths had been huddled in. Coincidentally, it was also another spot in Hercinia with the smell of magic. Though this one seemed fresher.

That's when he remembered what the boy, Brandyn, had said. He'd asked why they needed to give the offerings and one of his friends had punched him. They'd all immediately become cross.

Ice filtered through his veins and clamped in his gut with a vice like intensity.

He turned to face the table at the far end and failed at an attempt to smile. "Say, guys… You said that the Elders used to make the offerings?"

Timsen and Smalls looked to Phillip, who's expression darkened again. "'At's right. Why d'you think I was givin' the Cerise boy such a hard time? Been the kids' duty for-"

Anders stumbled and tripped over his bags at the floor, leaving them behind, slamming against the side of a table and crashing into the barkeep as she rounded the corner from the kitchens, knocking her over. He used his shoulder to slam open the door to the tavern and ran out into the night.

Within a few short minutes he was back in the markets, soaked and bleeding from various scrapes and cuts he'd given himself, sliding down one of the ridges and slipping on the wet stones of the sloping cliff side more than once, dashing his knee on the rocks particularly hard as he'd turned into the line of stores.

He found the partially obscured alcove the teens had come running out of with little trouble. It was a narrow path in the stone between the antique shop and the rarities, just wide enough for a slender person to make their way through. Thankfully, he'd always been a thin man.

Anders lunged between the rocks, immediately giving a sharp cry of pain as a rough ridge of stone scraped against his stomach. He tried to wiggle further in and found that he couldn't. His cheeks were being smashed together by the rock walls and it was incredible difficult to breath. Scraping his leg, the one thing he found he could move, back the way he'd come, he attempted to get enough purchase on the ground to push himself back out. It didn't work.

He was stuck.

"What the fuck'r ye' doin', man?" A bewildered voice called out behind him.

"Timsen?!"

"Aye. Smalls sent me after ye' when ye' lost yer' damn mind in the tavern. What are ye' doin'?"

"I-…I'm stuck."

"I can see that! How'd ye' think ye' was gonna make it through that passage, exactly?"

"…I'm thin."

He heard the barrel-chested man chortle behind him. "Yeah. Not so much. Just cause yer' not fat don't make ye' thin, crazy man. Well-fed, we call it. C'mere."

Anders felt a strong grip on his cloak, on either side of his staff in its threaded holders. He heard a grunt of exertion and felt an abrupt pain in his cheeks and gut as Timsen dragged him out of the alcove, scraping him along the way, drawing blood.

Once out, Anders coughed and bent over, glancing between the large man and the alcove, his cheeks reddening with blood and embarrassment. "You know," he said, "three years ago I could've made that no problem. Honest."

Timsen crossed his arms, clearly wanting answers. "What are ye' goin' after the kids fer, stranger? They might be whiney shits on occasion, but they ain't to break with tradition lightly."

"I'm going to need some proof of that."

"What's it to ye'? Thought ye' weren't plannin' on going anywhere near-"

"Listen to me, Timsen, they are hiding something. When Brandyn spoke up about the offerings, one of his buddies shut him up with a punch. It wasn't out of respect for anything, and if they're the only ones who can get through this path, or the only ones who'd have any reason to... you really want to chance them not having sent this month's supplies?"

"What do they call ye', traveler?"

"My name is Anders."

Timsen glared at him. He looked at the alcove. Pointed a finger at it. "Well, Anders, this goes on fer quite a ways. Leads to the Dove Caves, around-side the wharfs. Kids been using it fer years cause older folks got no use fer it. They just go there to get out of their chores."

Anders, regaining control of his breath, looked up at Timsen with exasperation. "Is that all you used it for when you were their age?"

"…no. Got high on dayshrooms and paylee, screwed the Helmicker's girl, mostly."

"The kinds of things you wouldn't want adults to know about. The kinds of things you sometimes did just cause you'd been told not to."

They shared a look.

"We'll take a boat," Timsen said, turning on his heel. Anders followed.

As they left the alley, Timsen shook his head. "Can't believe ye' thought ye' could make it through there. 'I'm thin,' he says. Dumbass."

The cave was relatively easy to locate despite the storm beating down on them and the waves rocking the boat. Anders was certain his robes would never be dry again. He'd heard once when he was a kid that if you stayed in water for too long, your skin would prune and stick that way. He rubbed his fingers against his thumbs, idly hoping again that this wasn't the case.

When they reached the mouth of the seaside cavern, Timsen dropped the sail on the small, single-unit craft. It could hold up to four, but with only the burly man as his aid, Anders knew the next step was on him. He hopped from the boat, grabbing a hold of the bow and pulled as the waves pushed, settling the wood into the rocks.

Timsen tossed him the rope and he searched around, finding a suitable outcropping to anchor the boat to. As he was tying the rope around the jutting rocks, Timsen busied himself with dropping several tied and weighted stones off the edge and into the water. Anders eyed this with bemusement.

"Isn't that a bit much?" He called out over the storm.

"It's Hercinia," Timsen replied. "We're a cursed bunch. Ye' lose enough boats, ye' learn to change yer' definition of 'a bit much'."

The waves continued their assault against the rocks as the two men entered the cave. What little light the sky had to offer was soon gone, but ahead a series of torches illuminated the way, casting great flickering shadows against the slick, grey, slanted stone walls. As they grew closer, Anders saw that the torches were little more than frail sticks of balsa wood tied together, wrapped with seaweed and soaked in oil at the ends. At least they were effective.

Soon the sounds of bawdy laughter and shouted curses began to filter out from the tunnel ahead, continuing to grow louder around them as the voices bounced off the walls.

"That's not it, no, listen," a slurred voice yelled as the others quieted down, "I got the best one, listen! So a midwife is helpin' this Ferelden lady give birth, right?"

"'At's Tybris Wannel's boy, Greyson," Timsen grumbled to Anders, "this oughta be good. Only thing Tybris does well is run his mouth."

"The nurse gets down 'tween her legs and tells her to give a big push, right," the boy continued, "and as the head pops out the midwife says, 'Oh my, your babe has knife ears,' and the woman goes, 'Yeah, heard them elven lads were the best, had to try 'em out.' So the midwife, she pays this no mind and tells the Ferelden to give another great big push and the babe's out to the chest, right? The midwife gasps and says, 'milady, your babe's got gray skin!' The Ferelden says, 'Yeah, heard them Qunari men could really give it a go, had to try 'em out.' Now, the midwife is-"

"Wait," another voice called out, Anders recognizing it as Brandyn, "so the seed of the elf mixed with the seed of the Qunari? How's that, exactly?"

"It just happened, alright?"

"But-"

"Fuck off, Brand!"

Amongst titters that grew ever louder as Anders and Timsen rounded a corner of the cave, Greyson continued the joke.

"Anyhow, the midwife is taken aback. But she's a professional, right, so she shrugs it off and tells the lass to give her one more real big push. And that's it, the babe pops out 'n into her arms and she gives a cry of dismay sayin', 'Madam, your baby boy's got such stumpy little legs!' To which the Ferelden responds, 'Yeah, heard them dwarven boys know how to show a lady a good time, had to try 'em out.'"

Anders spotted it then, between two torches close together. An opening in the wall that lead to another cavern, the land dipping a little farther into the surface of the cliff. Timsen half-turned to him and put his finger to his lips.

Anders nodded and the two entered the cavern.

The teens were lounging in a small, circular cave with no other exits, surrounded by lit candles and more of their makeshift torches. Empty bottles of ale, various wrappers for breads and sweets, smears of tobacco and dayshroom stalks littered the floor. The air was thick with a smell Anders didn't recognize; it made him light-headed.

Brandyn Cerise was draped across a large, flat stone, resting his head on the plain girl's lap, who was sitting up and smiling at Greyson, running her fingers idly through Brandyn's hair. The other boy was near them, leaning against a standing stone and fiddling with a candle, a bottle of ale in his hand and a glazed look in his eyes.

Greyson was sitting in a chair they must've brought with them, next to the entrance with his back to Anders and Timsen. He was attempting to stifle his laughter as he finished the joke. "So, so the midwife is horrified at this point, right? She severs the umbilical cord, lifts the babe by the legs and smacks it on the ass 'til it cries. She says to the woman, 'What…what in the world are you going to do with a baby with elven ears, Qunari skin and darven legs?' And-and-and…" He exploded into giggles.

Brandyn and the other two teens looked past Greyson as Anders and Timsen stepped behind him. Their giddy smiles slipped from their faces.

Greyson, thinking that he was losing his audience, stumbled out of his chair, knocking over empty bottles as he drunkenly got to his feet. "So… so the Ferelden woman says, 'Whoa, lady, relax! I'm just glad it didn't bark when you spanked it!'"

No one laughed (except for Greyson, who was cackling like a fiend), though next to Anders, Timsen smirked and shook his head. Brandyn, the plain girl and the dazed boy were all still looking at them over Greyson's shoulder, their eyes wide and fearful.

Soon, Greyson's laughter faded and his expression became crestfallen. "C'mon… you don't get it? She's Ferelden! You know, Ferelden? They loves them some Mabari hounds…" He made a humping motion with his hips, his hands out in front of him as though he were gripping an imaginary waist.

"My mother was Ferelden, you know," Anders said calmly.

Greyson squealed, jumping back towards the group of teens.

The two men walked around the chair, Timsen's eyes wandering over the walls. He looked to Anders. "Smaller than I remember," he said, almost jovially.

"Mr. Porter," the dazed boy began, taking a step forward, "we weren't doin' nothin'."

"Calm down, Harris," Timsen said, raising his hand, "I'm not here to beat ye' for bein' young 'n stupid." He kept looking around the room. "Though ye'll certainly be cuttin' into yer' wages to pay for all this alcohol ye've managed to swindle. I'm a mite impressed, actually-"

"Where are the supplies you were supposed to send this month?" Anders strode to Brandyn.

"Hey," Timsen glared at him, "calm d-"

"Where are they?"

Brandyn, clearly summoning every ounce of smarm and courage he had, gave Anders his best 'what are you going to do about it' look.

"Get away from him," the plain girl cried.

Timsen grabbed Anders by the arm, shooing the girl away, "I got this- Anders, back off. I'll handle me own, thank ye' very much." He gently shoved the man back and took his place before Brandyn, giving the boy a hard look.

Brandyn immediately changed tactics. "I don't know what he's talking about, Tims-"

Timsen cracked the teen across the mouth with the back of his hand. The girl tensed, fury barely contained in her eyes.

The bearded man pointed a finger at Brandyn. "That was fer runnin' yer' mouth off in Dagon's, boy. Next time ye' speak with Smalls, the word 'Elder' better come out that smart mouth before anything else, lest I seek to make it a whole lot dumber with my fist, ye' got me?"

Brandyn, hand across his mouth and eyes on the floor, nodded.

"Now yer' in this mess cause ye' were dumb enough, 'n this goes fer the lot of ye', so prick up yer' ears, chitlins; ye' were dumb enough to mention the offerin's bein' a pain 'n the ass in front of Phillip, 'n ye' know he don't take kindly to that kinda' talk."

His eyes flickered to Anders for a second. "Nor does this guy, 'pparently. In yer' defense, I know these caves like the back of me hands and there's nowhere I haven't already walked gettin' here that's big enough to hide a crate of supplies. So Phillip and Anders here can rest a little easier. I know Phillip can be a hard man to deal with, sometimes, but 'n this he's got a point. Ye' don't question tradition, yer' family or yer' people, ye' hear me?"

In the silence that followed, all four teens nodded.

"So here's what's gonna happen;" Timsen continued, "those gutterwells Phillip was mentionin', he mighta' been threatenin'. I'm not. Ye'll do them, next fortnight to come ye'll take over fer' Henry Tolsworth, in addition to yer' regular duties."

The dazed boy Timsen had called Harris looked like he was about to cry. "Ah, shit. Me mum's gonna kill me-"

Brandyn guffawed. "Come on, Mr. Porter, that's not fair!"

Timsen rose his hand to strike Brandyn again. And suddenly he simply wasn't there anymore. He crashed against the wall of the cavern next to Anders, stunned, falling on his behind. It had been as if a gust of wind had simply thrown him.

The teens, Brandyn, Phillip and Greyson ran to the fallen man. All except the mousy, brown-haired girl, who remained where she was, fuming, staring at Timsen's crumpled form.

"He's out," Greyson said, two fingers under his nose.

The girl glanced to Anders to find the man staring back at her, a small smile on his face.

"Well," Brandyn clapped his hands and stood, "that was bizarre, eh? Course these things tend to happen, Hercinia bein' cursed as it is and all. You should probably get Timsen back to the docks, mister. We'll meet up with you two back in the city."

He realized Anders was ignoring him, still locking eyes with the girl.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" Anders asked.

"Clora."

Brandyn stepped between them in a clear attempt to appear intimidating. "Oy, fuckhead. You really, really want to leave now. For somethin' bad happens to-"

Anders placed his fingers on the boy's chest and Brandyn slumped to his knees, gasping, Anders stepping lightly around him, approaching the girl. "And how long have you been practicing magic, Clora?"

"I-I don't-"

"C'mon. That whiff of energy I caught in the tavern. That was you. Timsen didn't very well knock himself unconscious. That was you."

"I'm not uncon, inconson-…" a groggy voice said behind them as Timsen began to wake.

"How long?"

"Only a year or so," Clora stuttered her words, growing fearful, "I only just learned I was a mage, honest."

"Oh, please," Anders said, grinning, sliding his staff out, "you're, what, sixteen? You've known at least since you were six. And no one who's only been practicing a year can perform a concentrated, single-direction mind blast like that."

"I-…I don't know what-"

"Where are the supplies, Clora?"

Having run out of lies, Clora panicked, backing away, her eyes wild, flicking between Anders and Timsen. "Mr. Porter! Mr. Porter, help! He's threatening me!"

"Not a problem," the dazed man said, waving a hand nonchalantly, "run through a narrow passage. Dumbass'll jump right in 'n get himself stuck. Heh. 'I'm thin,' he says."

"What did you do with the month's supplies, Clora?"

Frustrated, she beat her arms at her sides, tendrils of lightning arcing along her skin. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Greyson and Harris began backing towards the exit, their eyes never leaving Clora.

"Fuck me," Timsen said lightly, eyes on the walls once more, "it really seems so much smal-"

"SHUT UP!" Cora screamed at the beefy, bearded fisherman, throwing out her arms, purple lightning shooting from her in a violent blast.

Anders flicked his right hand, erecting a shining, white barrier between the teen and her prey, several bolts bouncing back and hitting the shrieking girl, blowing her off her feet. She slammed into the standing stone behind her and stumbled to her knees.

"You know, Clora, the markets here really are amazing. Without a Chantry or the templars here to stop you, a girl could learn all she wanted. I mean, I saw at least fifteen different volumes on illusion magic alone."

"Shit," he heard Greyson mutter. "Oh shit."

"My mum really is gonna kill me. Let's go, man!" Harris said.

The two scampered from the cavern, their footsteps echoing off the walls. Anders stood over Clora, any trace of humor wiped from his expression.

"Please," Clora cried, shaking her head, "don't!"

"Hey!" Timsen, back on his feet, looking at Clora and Brandyn on their knees, "the fuck is happening?"

"Why don't we see what Hawke could've been dining on this month, shall we?" Anders raised his staff in the air.

"No!" Clora screamed, reaching for the staff.

Anders brought the staff down hard on the stone cavern floor, the energy from the dispel warping out in every direction, breaking the illusion spell, revealing the true size of the cave.

The rumble that followed from the strike of the staff continued for a while, and alongside Brandyn's gasping and Clora's sobbing, these were the only sounds.

Timsen and Anders stood, awestruck and dumbfounded. They wound up next to each other as they turned in circles, taking it all in.

Pallets of balsa wood, broken down into single sticks, explaining how they'd made so many torches. Wheels of cheese and empty and full metal tins containing various sundries, water jugs, dried meats, books of matches, nuts, berries, parchment, quills and candles and inkwells. They were everywhere, surrounding them, resting against the walls and the floor, set within nooks and crannies.

Finally, Anders shuddered out a breath. "Timsen?"

The older man looked about ready to throw up. "Yes, mate."

"This… can't be a single month's supply, can it?"

"No. No it isn't."

Brandyn, finally able to draw a full breath again, slapped his open palm on the floor. "It's a stupid legend!" He whined, his voice breaking. "It's just a stupid legend!"

"How many?" Anders asked, ignoring the boy.

Timsen blinked, not entirely in his right mind. "W-what?"

"How many months, do you think?"

"I…" Timsen snapped out of it. He glanced at Clora, still sobbing, wetting the stone with heavy tears. He ran across the cavern and lunged at her, picking her up bodily in one smooth motion and slamming her against the stone. Her legs dangled about a foot from the floor. "How long, girl?!"

"I-I… Mr. Porter, please, we just-"

"Do ye' know what the punishment is for this?" He bellowed. "They've put people to the death for stealing from the offerin's!"

Clora choked on the following sob, her eyes growing wide with fear. "They what?!"

"How long ye' been doin' this?"

"O-only, oh, Mr. Porter, you can't let 'em kill us, we was just-, we didn't know! Please! We only been doin' this for two years!"

Timsen let her go, stumbling back. He shakily walked to the exit, his eyes on the floor, unable to look at the walls any longer. He motioned for Anders to follow.

He stopped at the entryway, not looking back. "I… by the Maker, I can't say what's to come of this. Only know this, the both ah ye'. …if ye' run, we'll find ye'. And it'll be yer' deaths fer certain."

"We won't," Clora said softly. "We won't run."

"'At's good, lass, though might be better fer ye' if ye' did. Much to be said fer a quick death. …I'll be back. I-I just need some air. If ye' do choose not to run, ye'll take the boat back with us. Be waitin' fer me outside this room; I can't bear the thought of steppin' foot inside this place again."

At the exit to the cave, cold blasts of air and the rain and waves just before them, Timsen pulled out a small, rolled, black leaf packed with a fine, white, grainy substance from a pocket of his trousers. He struck a match against the stone, put the rolled leaf between his lips, lit it and smoked it as one would a pipe.

Anders eyed it, curious.

Timsen smiled at him; the sad, tragic kind of smile worn by shattered men. "It's paylee," he said, coughing a little.

"What's that?"

"Seeds from a paypay plant. Came from the Anderfels, I think. That's where it originated. It's that funky odor ye' smelled in there. Ye' smelled it, right?" The question was too earnest, as if so much rested on Anders having smelled it too.

He nodded.

Timsen's smile grew, his eyes red and wet. He turned his gaze to the ocean. "Made its way down to the rest of the world not too long ago, so as I understand it. Been growin' it here for the last Age or so. It's not legal, not anywhere, I think. I know it's not legal here, Council forbids it. Some of us grow it anyway. Not harmful, so as ye' can tell. Lest ye' smoke too much of it; them's that do tend to get a bit… goofy. Otherwise it just… slows everything down, when ye' need it to. Makes things seem not so bad. Manageable. Maybe it's legal in Rivain. Everything seems legal there, with them damned gypsies and their caravans. …you think it's legal in Rivain?"

Despite his own worries, Anders heart broke a little for the big, bearded fisherman. Only an hour ago, he'd been at the end of another day, drinking with his friends, arguing over old legends. Now… "Maybe," he said.

They both watched waves dash against the rocks as the ocean churned. Despite the quickly descending darkness, Estwatch could still be seen clearly from where they stood, a small, distant spot on the horizon, a day's travel east by boat, Varric had said. Anders wondered idly how much Varric knew of the truth. He doubted that the dwarf knew near any of it. He never would've left her there if he had.

"Who's Hawke?" Timsen asked.

Anders felt like he'd been gut-punched. He looked at Timsen, wide-eyed. "W-what?"

"Hawke, who is he?"

"How-"

"Back there. In the cave, ye' said…" Timsen took another hit off the paylee. A few second later, smoke flowed from his lips and nostrils. "Ye' said, 'let's see what Hawke would'a been havin' this month.' Then ye' did that thing with yer' walkin' stick." He mimed striking the floor with an invisible staff.

"He's a she," Anders said, "and she's a-. She was a friend, once. A very good friend."

"And she's in the 'void."

"I think so."

"You didn't put her there."

Anders shook his head. "No. The man who did is on his way there now."

"…how l-"

"Three years." He'd known the question was coming.

Timsen let his breath out in a sharp whistle. "Shit. May the sea and the Maker speed the their boats, and watch over yer' friend." He flicked the paylee into the ocean.

As Timsen to turn walk back into the cavern, Anders stopped him. "Their boats?"

"Yes… yer' travelin' companions. The ones who rented the boats to take to Estwatch earlier today. One a dwarf with no beard, the other a scruffy lookin' man, took off after him 'bout half an hour later. That's them, right?"

Varric had been right. He was being followed.

Anders smiled and nodded. "Sure."

Timsen motioned to the cave. "Gotta get the chit-…, the kids."

"I'll be here."

When the fishermen had gone and he was certain he was alone, Anders drew his staff once more. He waved it in the air before him and placed it back in its holdings. He pulled a small scrap of parchment from his robes, along with a bit of twine and a tiny blade. He pricked his finger with the knife, drawing blood, and began writing on the parchment.

As he finished the message, there was a flapping of wings and a raven swooped down from the cliff side, into the cave. It landed on his arm, tilting its head at him. He hastily rolled the parchment up and tied it to the raven's leg with the twine.

Anders heard multiple footsteps approaching down the cavern. He whispered something to the raven and it took off, flying from the mouth of the cave and into the sky.

He'd done an admirable job, given the small amount of time he'd had. But the missive, while rolled, concealing the majority of the message as the raven flapped its wings and sailed up and over the cliff, headed west, wasn't tight enough. The first line, written in his blood, was easily legible.

'Status- Everything Has Gone To The Blight. Send Reinforcements To Ansburg.'

All reviews, critiques or straight fuck-you's are welcome.