Seeking a Legend
Throughout the week, your mind keeps returning to that elusive feeling you felt while you were practicing. What had it been? Vengeful, perhaps, though again it was perhaps not quite so violent.
The answer continues to elude you. To the extent that you actually took the time to ask people about it.
"A feeling akin to rage, something compulsive that drives you to do something?" Solas asked. "I must admit that it sounds like vengeful anger to me."
"It is not quite the same." You argued. "I know vengeful rage, I felt it when my father fell, when I lost my hand and when my brothers died. This is too, calm, too focused. It has a target, that much I know, but it is not demanding anything immediately."
Solas shrugged. "Again, I say vengeance. In my experience… well, I think that vengeful wrath is the best word but it is not quite right. The refusal and rejection of something as fundamentally evil and the drive to snuff it out entirely. It takes many forms. Perhaps, should you confront the cause, the anger will transform into something more familiar?"
Solas had been less than helpful, too convinced of his own wisdom. Admittedly, he had a point, there was certainly an element of rejection of Morgoth and all his works in the emotion. Perhaps it was a cooler, quieter form of hate? No, not exactly, such things do not call you to action the way this does.
"Really? You want to ask me a question now?" Marethari asked in disbelief.
"We are unable to do anything at this point, merely wait for results. You are, of course, free to not answer." You replies
The Keeper glanced over at Solas who was frowning in concentration. "No, it's fine. It kind of sounds like how I feel about the Dales, if that makes sense?"
"I fear it does not. How does it bear resemblance to a longing for a home long lost?" You ask.
Marethari blinks and tilts her head at you. "Oh. No, it doesn't. But that's not how I feel about the Dales."
You say nothing as the Nandëo pauses, gesturing thoughtfully as she composes her thoughts.
"My feelings on the Dales are, complicated." She says at length. "I'm angry they're gone, I mourn what could have been, but at the same time I resent them. They had everything we want, but they couldn't defend it. Despite all they had, they couldn't deal with the most important problem. I don't know, my feelings are too complex to explain easily."
You nod. Then Solas calls you over to assist once more.
Marethari had been most helpful. This feeling did defy easy identification and explanation and it was complex. The idea that it might be a mixture of many feelings was one that might have occurred to you, but fresh eyes often see clearer.
As for Ranger.
"Nope. Never even heard of that sort of thing." He said. "Sorry, kid, can't help ya."
Well, you did not value Ranger for his way with words and insight into the human condition.
No, that was unfair, he had a certain degree of simple wisdom to him. The awareness of what is and what should be that comes with living close to land.
There is a thought. Perhaps the reason no one recognises it is because it is something only an eldar could feel. Or a quendi, though you have no idea what Avari can feel, never having met one.
With a frustrated cry you rise from where you sit. There is time yet until the week ends and sitting around deep in thought is clearly not going to solve the problem. You must recapture the feeling and that means pushing yourself with the blade. Unfortunately, your right hand is now at least stable enough that it is no longer an easy option.
Perhaps you should try something more drastic.
The hole in the forest has a crude wooden platform that is raised and lowered by an ingenious series of pulleys and counterweights. Truly, the dwarven mind is a marvel.
As the contraption sinks down into the darkness, you take a moment to reflect on your choices. Many would, quite rightly, claim that descending into the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn was reckless. However, legends are not born from timidity. You have no intention of leaving until you understand the feeling within you, or all the darkspawn are dead.
Above your head the pinprick of light shrinks and shrinks until the wooden platform shudders to a stop. The sound of the lifting device echoes off of stone into otherwise dead silence.
The Deep Roads are a monument to a once mighty civilisation fallen to ruin. Great pillars five or more times your height soar to the cavernous roof. Detailed carvings cover the walls and statues guard a road wider than any you have ever seen. Yet, parts are caved in, and random chasms disappear into darkness. The light sources occasionally simply stop working, plunging the road into sudden darkness.
Accompanied only by the faint sounds of your clinking armour, you head deeper into the depths.
You do not travel long before the sounds of guttural snarling reach your ears. Your steps slow, and you reflexively give a halt signal with your right hand. With a whisper, you draw your sword and creep towards the sound.
Soon you see a group of the short orcs and one of the taller ones without helmets. Unfortunately, you do not have a stealthy approach. Just as you are considering how to approach, your foot rolls over a stone. An idea occurs and you grin.
Your approach to the darkspawn is detected about halfway through. You see their deformed face twist into demented smiles and they draw bows. Then a thrown rock hits their leader in the face, and they scramble for cover. This gives you all the time you need to reach them.
The first one dies without even drawing a blade, its bow clattering to the ground. You twist into the motion of removing the blade to turn it into a swing that decapitates the tall one and skip sideways to avoid a small one's dagger.
Your next blow cleaves its helmet in two and you kick its falling body into two others. A step back allows you to grab an arm that was swinging an axe at you and twist it into the path of its fellows. Another stab takes two down and your pommel finishes the last.
You stand in the centre of the fallen, as the sounds of metal clashing and the death screams of the darkspawn echo off the walls. Distantly, you can hear the snarls of the darkness answering the cries of the fallen.
Part of you wishes you had a horn to blow a challenge. At least the enemy have no drums this time.
The second group dies much the same as the first. Then the third. After that, you almost get the sense that something is responding. A few times you see a tall horned figure watching in the distance, almost always followed by the number of foes growing.
Soon the short ones are coming not in fives and tens, but twenties and thirties. The taller ones go from a rare sight to the backbone of your foes. Yet despite these ever increasing odds, you do not slow. You do not pause. Fatigue, exhaustion, both seem to fly away in the face of the fire that burns in your chest.
This is not the elusive feeling you are chasing though. This you recognise. Within your breast it burns, an old flame, a familiar flame. As once it did after your freedom from Thangorodrim your lust for life burns like white fire in your chest. How could you tire?
Your laughter, fell and wild echoes from the walls.
"Is this it!" You cry. "Is this all you can muster? Coward King, Lord of Crows, Wraith that Lurks in Shadow?"
Never one to take either joke or insult, Morgoth answers or his servants answer for him at least. You hear a moan that almost sounds akin to a chant, then stretched creatures leap from the shadows.
Even fouler mockeries of the elven form than usual, they attack with blades mounted upon their wrists. They come at you in fours, each from a different direction.
You throw yourself at an angle to two of them, sword wounding one in the leg as it passes. A roll carries you to your feet, and the monsters turn to charge at you.
"A Varda Elentári!" You cry, Light of Valinor surging to fill the shadowed hall.
The creatures cower back, long kept safe from the sun by the tunnels and unready for the hated light to seek them beneath the earth. Thus, your charge takes them completely by surprise, and your blade wreaks terrible wounds upon them.
From that point on, the challenges grow more severe. More foes, aided by attacks of the creatures from stealth. The breaks between them are now all but gone. Then the trolls begin to show up.
The first troll makes the mistake of attacking when you have a convenient rock to spring from, and so it dies first. Its fall smites many of those that accompanied it, and by the time the ambush comes, you have no other foes to distract you.
Still onward you charge, for you cannot allow them to pin you down in one place. Every blow you land sends black smoke billowing up into the air, and you dare not let it choke you once more. Fortunately, it seems that the boiling of their blood deals great damage to the creatures, and you notice that even light blows will cripple limbs and weaken your foes.
Now you come upon your greatest challenge. Not one, not three but five trolls lead a host of their taller brethren. The moaning sound indicates another ambush and one of the darkspawn is dressed in tattered robes, and you can almost smell the dark magic upon it.
You can see from its twisted smile it believes it has you dead to rights, that there is nothing you can do to escape.
It is wrong.
A sandafëo blocks the initial fireball, and then you are among its forces. You turn their numbers against them and dive into the centre of their formation. There the ambushers cannot reach you, and the magic is more likely to slay a foe than hit you.
The first troll is hamstrung by a glancing blow from your blade, which allows you to climb him. From his head you spring to slay the next, riding its corpse to the ground to crush two of the ambushers. Then you weave through the crowd of darkspawn blade flashing left and right. Like wheat before the scythe, they fall.
Two trolls come at you together but it avails them not. You lure one into the path of a magic spell then gut it. That leaves the other to face you alone, and it is not skilled enough to do so.
Eventually, it is you and the mage alone. For a moment it grins. Then your will reaches out and snuffs out the magic it has begun to build.
It does not recover in time to prevent your blade burying itself between its eyes.
The sounds of battle echo off the pillars and you stand in the centre of the fallen, chest heaving. The feeling is back, stronger now. It has a new component, or two really. Disgust and rejection. Finally you recognise it.
To say that you hate Morgoth is an understatement. However, you had always believed you hated him for personal reasons. However, he is gone and though this taint is of his kind, you do not truly believe he is personally behind it.
Yet still you hate it.
You hate it because it is wrong. Because it has no place in the world, because it twists and defiles all it touches. You hate it because it does not belong.
In your very being, in your nature, you loathe it. Just as you love trees and babbling brooks and all that is natural, so too do you loathe all that is twisted and corrupt.
This is not a matter of personality; it is your nature.
Then your stomach heaves as you expel the growing taint from your body.
You stagger out of the cloud of rising darkness to witness the arrival of another group, but this time not of the darkspawn.
The group are dwarves, their plate armour blackened in a manner that Kurvo would never approve of. Tattoos adorn their faces, and a great number of them are bald. Some of their number are beardless, which surprises you. True, Ursular had no beard, but she was a criminal and kept her lower face covered. It is strange to see so many beardless dwarves uncovered.
The dwarves clatter to a stop from their headlong rush. Their weapons are drawn and ready. You believe that they were rushing to your assistance. Now those who are not openly staring at you in amazement or suspicion are glaring at the rising cloud of darkness behind you.
One of the beardless warriors at the front speaks. "Identify yourself!"
You glance behind you. "Certainly, but could we perhaps move over a ways. I do not wish to be caught in this cloud as it expands."
The dwarf, revealed by her voice to be female, continues to glare at you but barks an order to the ones behind her. In short order a small bottle is produced, flint is struck on steel and the now burning bottle is flung into the cloud. You watch its arc and note the splash of flaming liquid when it lands. A most useful device.
The leader nods sharply, then jerks her head away. "Sure. After you."
With an amused smile you lead them a short way down the road and take a seat on a fallen pillar.
"My thanks, I am Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, lord of Brecilian Forest." You inform them. "Might I know who I address?"
"I'm Corporal Thirta. These are Legionaires Tashan, Teridan Thard, Tririkel, Tegal and Tegal. We call them Big Tegal and Blue Tegal. We're with the Legion of the Dead."
You glance at each in turn as they are introduced, making sure to note Legionaire 'Big Tegal's height and the blue markings on Legionaire 'Blue' Tegal's face. "I must confess you all look alive to me."
"Not legally." Grunts Legionaire Thard.
"Shut it Thard, some of us are volunteers." Corporal Thirta replies offhandedly. "The Legion fights the darkspawn. You surfacers think they only come around during Blights, but when they're not up there, they're down here. We fight them until we die. Legion's made up of those who may as well be dead."
"There's a funeral when you join." Legionaire Teridan, one of the beardless, says. "Family says goodbye and everything. Then you get the tattoo so everyone knows, and you can't run."
You glance at the beardless ones. "I suppose that all dishonour and shame is purged by such a deed."
"For you and your whole clan." Legionaire Thard mutters. "No matter what."
Interesting, Legionaire Thard is not one of those without beards. Curious that he seems to have been drafted or forced to join by shame, you had thought that dwarves would shave their beards in such a situation. Perhaps you were wrong.
"So big guy, what's your story?" Corporal Thirta asks. "What brings you down here into the Deep Roads."
"Well, as a matter of fact I was hunting darkspawn." You answer.
"What're you doing that for?" The corporal asks.
"I sought to test myself against them, to grow my skill with a blade." You explain.
That gets you a number of looks like you have gone completely mad.
Naturally you have to explain why you wanted to hunt darkspawn, which leads to an explanation of the elusive feeling you had finally traced down. Which in turn leads to a discussion of how you found said feeling. Before too long you are telling a (heavily abbreviated) tale of your capture upon Thangarodrim to a group of enraptured dwarves.
"After the whole mess with the leadership was resolved, I then had to learn to fight with my left hand." You finish your tale. "It proved useful, to revise what I had learned and really find the issues and solve them from the ground up."
"How'd you get your hand back?" Legionaire 'Blue' Tegal asks.
"Oh come off it, the whole story's a load of nug droppings. Entertaining nug droppings mind, but I know a tall tale when I hear one." Legionaire Tahsan replies.
"The story is true." You protest. "Though powerful magics would eventually restore my hand the fact remains that I spent many years without it."
Legionaire Tashan spits. "You expect me to believe that there's some kind of kingdom overseas, to the west of all places, where the darkspawn live on the surface and your people fought a war that lasted literal generations against them."
"They do not live on the surface; they lived within the caverns of Angband. Though they have now scattered to the winds, perhaps east to Kazad-Dûm and the misty mountains or south to the mountain ranges there." You retort. "As for a generational war, is that not what you yourselves experience against them?"
"He's got you there Tash." Legionaire Terridan chuckles.
"Bah. I'll not believe it 'till I've seen it with my own two eyes." The dwarf warrior folds her arms over her chest.
You sigh, leaning back, as you do so your scabbard hits the stone you sit on. A smile crosses your face as an idea occurs.
"Perhaps I cannot prove that my tale is true, but I can prove that my people loathe the darkspawn as much if not more than yours." You state. "Our blades, forged by our own hands, carry our anger towards them and it creates a unique effect. I need but a single darkspawn to show you."
"Plenty of those around." Legionaire 'Blue' Tegal chuckles.
As predicted it does not take long for the group to find a selection of darkspawn. Having the dwarves proves helpful as it means that there is a significant amount of darkspawn blood created by blades not your own.
At this point everyone is already looking interested in your blade. The black smoke emerging from the darkspawn you slew and the larger than usual wounds that result grab their attention.
You borrow a dagger and dip it in one of the other darkspawn's wounds. Holding the blood over your sword until it drips off you explain, "As you can see, contact with my blade results in the Taint being rejected and vaporising. This is due to the hate within my blade attacking it."
Holding the weapon up as the last of the smoke wafts off, you continue. "As you can see, the mortal blood of the host remains so it is not simple heat."
Legionaire Tahsan storms up to you and all but yanks your sword out of your hand. She examines it in detail, turning it over, pulling at the wrapping of the hilt, even pressing it up against her ear.
"I don't believe it." She whispers. "Not a drop of Lyrium in it. You made this?"
"My brother." You correct. "He was always the smith of the family."
Behind you Corporal Thirta and Legionaire Tririkel have what they believe to be a conversation you cannot hear. "Corporal did you see those wounds? If we could get one of those each…"
"Then we would doom our unit to a fate worse than death. Did you not hear him? The Taint is concentrated as a vapour, every breath would bring us closer to becoming one of them." The Corporal rebukes her subordinate.
"But you heard Tashan, it doesn't use Lyrium! We could produce them by the hundred! This could change everything!" Legionaire Tririkel protests.
"No. You saw him spew forth the Taint. It is obvious he is some kind of Grey Warden of his people. Even if he is capable of teaching us to make them, I would not risk it." Corporal Thirta states with finality.
That mostly ends the argument, though the corporal does need to promise to report the matter. For your part you have no particular objection, even if you are getting a little tired of being mistaken for a Warden. Still, you and the Legion must now part ways.
"I'll grant that you're not completely full of it." Legionaire Tashan says, shaking your hand. "I still say you never lost your hand."
"I will choose to take that as a compliment." You state.
"See you around lord Russandol." Corporal Thirta says. "When your call comes, let us know. We'll get you as deep as we can."
You accept her handshake cautiously, unsure what she means. "I appreciate the gesture? May you fell so many darkspawn that they sing tales of your valour for the ages."
That gets you a grim smile from them all. You are left somewhat confused, but certain that you have left an impression.
Buying and Selling
"Do you want an escort this week?" Anneth asks.
Delor blinks at the human in confusion. "What?"
"An escort." Anneth repeats. "With the Dalish calming down we can afford to give you some protection."
"Okay." Delora draws out the word suspiciously. "Just, why?"
It is now the soldier's turn to look confused. "Delora, you were intercepted by a dangerous elf who had you all but at his mercy. There's no shame in feeling exposed, and we're more than happy to provide security so it doesn't happen again."
Delora feels warmth rushing up her cheeks. She clenches her fists, trying to fight back the embarrassing feeling. She's not a child, she doesn't need help.
"I'm fine!" She yells, waving her arms. "I don't need to be coddled like a child! Maybe it was a bit scary and maybe I thought I was going to get mugged at one point, but I wasn't. I can take care of myself!"
The human seems taken aback by her response and spends a few moments groping for a response. Dleora feels the heat in her cheeks grow more intense, but she stubbornly pushes down her feelings and glares at the human.
"Alright. If you're sure you're safe." Anneth says awkwardly.
"Im fine." Delora says quietly. "I can take care of myself."
Anneth walks away, hesitatingly as though she's expecting to be called back at any moment. Delora glares at her until she's out of sight. Nearby, Martin watches the whole affair with a frown.
The two merchants of Endataurëo share parts of their route. This is due, in part, to the quantity of wine that must be transported, and equally by the state of the road network. Yet, Delora can't shake the impression that Martin is following her for some reason.
"So, Delora." He says at last. "What were you and Anneth talking about?"
"Does it matter?" The elf asks defensively.
"Not really." The human replies. "But I noticed that you were pretty angry and thought you might want to talk about it."
"Well, I don't. So, leave it alone!" Delora snaps.
Martin pauses in thought. He's raised two daughters, so he's not completely unaware of how to deal with fraught emotional situations. That does not mean he is good at it by any stretch of the imagination, but not unfamiliar.
In this case, he judges that pushing would not have the effect he desires.
"Ok then. Just know that if you ever change your mind I'd be more than happy to listen." He says.
"You're not my dad." Delora mutters bitterly.
"No, but I like to think that I'm your friend." Martin replies.
Delora almost blurts out something offensive, but she manages to stop herself. Instead, she falls silent, and the two do not speak again until they diverge paths. Through this period, Delora is in deep thought, turning over her feelings and deciding what she shall do going forward.
Delora grumbles to herself as the cart bumps on the dirt road. She already hates going to Denerim, and she doesn't need another reason to do so. Or another another reason anyway. Hopefully that elf keeps his nose to himself this time.
The capital city was worse than usual. She already wasn't in the best mood, and it seemed like every little thing that annoyed her was worse than usual. The suspicion of the humans, the suspicion of other elves, the fact that at least half the city seems to think she's in some kind of business with the Dark Moth company.
Delora keeps looking over her shoulder, sure that someone is following her. No matter how often or how randomly she whirls around she can't find anyone. It's like Maeglin is watching her, even now, but she can't see who's working for him. Or perhaps, everyone is…
Then there are the rumours that she can't help but overhear. Those annoy her too. The ones where she's related to some kind of criminal smuggling ring are expected (and technically true) but still annoying, as are all the others. When she overhears one old woman whispering that she's Maeglin's secret mistress, she completely loses her temper.
One screaming match and less than polite conversation with the city guards later, she is leaving the city late. Which means she doesn't get back to Endataurëo until after sunset.
"You are rather late, Delora, is everything well?" Maeglin's voice comes from behind her.
Heart pounding she whirls around to face the elf, only to find him not there. Instead, the boss stands before her, a concerned frown on his face.
"A rather violent reaction, I must insist you answer now, are you well?" His voice is different, the accents are similar but the boss' voice is slightly deeper and he pronounces his 's's strangely.
"Ah, no, I'm fine." She says quickly, waving her hands. "I thought you were Maeglin."
Dark eyes that seem to reflect the setting sun glance to the horizon then back to her. "It is late. Sleep, and tomorrow come speak to me."
"Yes sir." Delora says.
Weekly Report
Delora will need to be spoken to, it seems your dear cousin has spooked her. You sigh through your nose. To think you had dared imagine that without your brothers you would be spared having to clean up after your family's messes.
To distract yourself you peruse the notes you have received from your informants and the report Anneth has left. Anneth notes that there seems to be no movement from the Dalish, and it looks like they're sticking to the agreement. You make a note to remind her to be on guard in case they are planning something and move on.
Hmm, something here about the Dark Moth Trading Company looking into weapon purchases and taking on mercenaries. Looks as though it is starting to attract the attention of the crown too. Maeglin seems determined to take Turko's role as the family member who gives you headaches.
Interestingly your informants have managed to get some information ahead of time for a change. There are a number of messengers being recruited and sent out, they're anticipated to reach Loghaine in about a week or so, which is when you can likely expect to hear about it.
This is of note, because while none of the criminals recognise what is happening, they know people who do. The messengers being called are not peasants or regular couriers but a specially trained cadre of nobles. Each of whom is being given a royal proclamation.
They do not say the words, but you can read into it well enough. At the end of the year, Ferelden will be called to arms.