Arcanum: Fatum
Prologue: The End of the Beginning

The battlefield was a grim sight to behold.

It had been three days since the final battle; three days since the archdemon had dropped from the sky, descending to engage in what would ultimately be the last fight of its life, ending the two hundred years of terror that Dumat and his fiendish darkspawn had wreaked across the lands of Thedas.

Three days since the blaze of white light that had erupted into the sky; three days since the last of the darkspawn had either been disposed of or chased back into the cursed Deep Roads from which they had risen. Three days since the cheers of triumph had ripped across the lands and the people had realized that it was, at last, over.

The archdemon was slain. The Blight was over.

But it was a bittersweet victory.

The captain led his men across the Silent Fields – a fitting name, for there was not a sound to be heard as they walked in solemn procession. They were there for one purpose alone; to retrieve the bodies of their fallen brethren, the brave warriors who had given their very lives in order to ensure the continuation of life upon Thedas, and give them the proper send-off that they so greatly deserved.

His eyes moved over the tattered remains of the silver-and-blue battle standard, the gryphon heraldry upon it blackened with mud and blood. Yes, they had won, but at the highest cost – the loss of the Grey Wardens, every one of them sacrificing themselves in order to bring down the Archdemon Dumat. "Sir?" One of the other soldiers approached him from the side, his quiet voice startling in the quiet. "The men are ready to begin the retrieval."

The captain hesitated – now that he was here it seemed almost wrong to remove the bodies, as if this was their gravesite, and to disturb them would be desecration. But no – each and every one of these men and women deserved to be returned to Weisshaupt, and it was they, their loyal followers and supporters, who would ensure that they did.

He turned back to the fifty-odd group of soldiers behind him and nodded in approval. Then he pointed to a select few. "You five, come with me," he said with authority.

Turning, he led the smaller group further into the battlefield, towards the center of the Silent Fields – towards the dark, looming husk that had, only a few days earlier, been the greatest menace Thedas had ever seen.

The archdemon. The Old God. Dumat.

The great beast lay there now in a drying pool of his own blood, his deadened eyes filmed over, wings collapsed around him and legs akimbo. It had not been an easy death. It had taken every Grey Warden the Anderfels had to bring down the massive creature, and the captain felt a momentary, malicious sense of satisfaction that the Archdemon appeared to have suffered so much in death. How fitting, given what the Blight had brought upon the world.

"Gods, look at it," one of the men next to him breathed as the six of them stood before the carcass. "It's huge."

"What were you expecting?" the Elven archer to the left of the captain asked. "We weren't facing an Archhousecat."

"Enough," the captain interjected before any bickering could rise up between his men. "You know why we are here. We must ascertain that the Archdemon is well and truly dead – that there is no longer any threat, even from his body. And then we must take what we came here for."

"He's still strong with the taint," the only mage among them murmured. "It will be dangerous to get close to him."

"Then best that it's us," the captain said gravely, a sentiment to which his companions promptly nodded.

The mage reached into his robes and withdrew several vials, which he promptly passed to companions. "Gather up as much as you can," the captain ordered. "The greater our supply, the better. The rest of Thedas may be relieved that the Blight has ended, but we must remember – there were seven gods of Tevinter lore, and Dumat was only the first."

The others nodded, and without further words they spread out, encircling the archdemon's corpse as they set to the task of harvesting what blood they could from him.

It was a tedious task, much of the blood having dried and coagulated by now, but with the size of the corpse they made progress. The captain moved closer to the dragon's midsection, taking care not to touch it. Tainted as it was, it was too much of a risk.

He almost missed it – the soft humming that seemed to radiate from within the decaying flesh of the creature, the sound growing louder the closer the captain moved to it. Every hair on his body rose to attention, a chill sweeping through him from the crown of his head to the balls of his feet.

He called for the mage and the man came running, summoned by the shaking note of the captain's voice. He stilled the moment he reached him, staring at the same spot, his own expression a mirror image of shock. "There's something there," the mage replied. He raised his arm, pointing directly in front of them. "Here."

As the others hurried to them to see what was going on, the captain rose to his feet and drew his sword. With a sudden force of strength he drove the blade into the thick hide of the dragon, his muscles bulging as he sliced through it. More blood, so coagulated it was black, spilled out of the open wound, the stench causing a few of them to take several steps back.

The captain dropped his sword and shoved his arm into the opening.

His men watched in shock as his entire body seized up, then jerked as if a strong lightning spell had just been cast into his body. The archer reached forward, but the mage grabbed his arm in an iron grip, shaking his head at him. Touching the captain now would be suicidal.

Suddenly the captain staggered back, yanking his arm out and stumbling over his feet. The mage and the archer caught him, steadying him, staring at him in shock. Except for a slightly stunned look upon his face, the man seemed none the worse for what had just happened.

Not that any of them could say with certainty what had happened.

"Sir?"

The captain didn't respond, staring down at the object he now held in his hand. It pulsed slightly, white light swirling around, warm to the touch and yet it did not burn. The captain was white-lipped, his eyes wide.

The mage squeezed his arm to get his attention. His head snapped up, startled.

"What is that?" the mage asked quietly, his eyes going to the object.

The captain swallowed hard, his mouth dry. And then, in halting words, he told them.

They left for Weisshaupt that night, their find safely encased in magic and metal, to begin the first of the new Joinings at the captain's insistence, replenishing the ranks of the Grey Wardens. Of the six who found the object, only three survived their Joinings.

It was many weeks later that the captain, now First Warden of Weisshaupt, drew aside the mage and the elf and told them what he had seen when he had touched the object – swearing the knowledge that he imparted to them to secrecy.

They agreed to seal away the object in a vault, its location known only to the three.

Thirty years later, the First Warden disappeared into the Deep Roads with his companions, following his Calling and carrying the greatest secret of the Grey Wardens to his death. He penned only a single document, passed on to his successor with a single warning: that it not be read until the moment another Archdemon fell to a Grey Warden's blade.

The vault was forgotten.

Two hundred and seven years passed.

In the year 1:5 Divine, the Second Blight began.

'A warning to the prophet

The liar, the honest

This is war'

- 30 Seconds to Mars, 'This is War'