Haven - What A Weird Town

1

As Duran, Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana stepped into the village of Haven, a strange and ominous aura seemed to envelop them. The air was thick with an unnatural chill, and the silence was suffocating. Alistair, after the peculiar exchange with the guard at the entrance, broke the stillness with a half-joking remark: "Is it just me, or did it suddenly drop a few degrees?" Duran nodded, the same uneasy sensation settling over him. A thick veil of fog rolled through the village, and there was no sign of life. The snow beneath their feet muffled their footsteps, adding to the eerie quiet. "I've got a bad feeling about this," Morrigan muttered, clutching her staff a little tighter. "Let's quickly confirm that this legend about the Sacred Ashes urn is nothing more than a fable, and then we can leave. Quickly." Leliana, ever cautious, replied, "I'm with you on getting out of here. And did the guard mention a revered father? Something doesn't feel right…"

They moved cautiously through the village, their boots crunching on the snow, each of them scanning the area for any signs of danger. Behind some fogged-up windows, Duran caught glimpses of quick movement—just as the curtains were swiftly drawn. Some houses seemed abandoned, with no signs of life for years. Out of the corner of his eye, Duran noticed the guard from the entrance, still standing at his post, watching them with hollow, empty eyes.

Rustle, rustle. A bush beside them suddenly stirred violently, the sound of twigs cracking and leaves rustling loudly. Morrigan, walking just ahead, jumped in surprise, her heart racing. She instinctively stepped back and began to channel a fire spell, her staff crackling with power. But before she could cast, the source of the disturbance revealed itself—just a deer, startled by their presence, bounding away into the mist. "Oh, was the mighty Morrigan frightened by a deer? How heroic," Alistair teased, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. Morrigan shot him a glare, ready to retort, but before she could speak, Alistair suddenly flinched, something brushing against his arm from behind. With a startled shout, he spun around, drawing his sword in one swift motion. Behind him stood a small boy—no more than ten years old—his eyes wide and unblinking, staring at them without a hint of fear.

Duran hadn't noticed the boy's presence and was taken aback by his sudden appearance. "Oh, did the mighty Alistair just get startled by a little brat?" Morrigan smirked, mimicking the earlier tone Alistair had used. "How heroic." Alistair, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, sheathed his sword, doing his best to ignore Morrigan's jab. Duran, however, took a step toward the boy, his curiosity piqued.

"May I ask your name, little one?" he asked kindly. But the boy only glared at Alistair, then spoke with a harsh edge to his voice, "We don't want any Lowlanders here, not in Haven." His eyes bore into Alistair's, a silent challenge. Alistair flinched but said nothing. Duran, undeterred, pressed on. "What can you tell us about this village?" he asked, his tone gentle but firm. The boy's response was flat and emotionless, "You should speak to the revered Father. He is the one you seek."

Duran frowned but did not give up. "You seem like a sharp lad. What are you hiding?" he inquired, leaning in slightly. The boy hesitated, his eyes darting toward the path leading to the church. With a quick movement, he pulled something from his pocket—a long, white object. At first, Duran thought it was just a stick, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was a bone—more specifically, a finger bone. "Where did you get this?" Duran demanded, his voice low and urgent.

The boy, unfazed by the question, simply nodded toward the church path again. "Maybe you'll find your answers there," he said cryptically, his gaze shifting back to Duran.

The fog around them grew thicker, suffocating in its density. Duran could no longer see his own hand in front of his face. The mist rolled over them like an unseen tide, swallowing the village whole. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the fog began to recede, thinning until it disappeared entirely. And when it did, the boy was gone—vanished without a trace.

Alistair, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword, muttered, "Creepy…" His voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the strange emptiness of the village.

Morrigan exhaled sharply, her voice a low growl. "Let's get to the bottom of this and leave as quickly as possible. I don't like this place." Her tone left no room for argument, and none of the others protested. With a shared sense of unease, they turned and began walking toward the church, the only structure that seemed to hold any answers.

2

As they made their way up to the summit, Duran suggested a quick stop at the local shop. The shopkeeper, much like the guard at the gate, was mysterious and tight-lipped, offering only the bare minimum of information. The dimly lit shop was crammed with shelves, and the air carried a faint but unsettling odor. Leliana, ever sensitive to her surroundings, crinkled her nose. "There's something off about that smell... it's coming from the back," she muttered, eyeing the shop suspiciously.

Duran, curious, began to move toward the source of the scent, but the shopkeeper, suddenly nervous, stepped in front of him, blocking his way. "The back is... private," the man stammered, his voice trembling. His hands fidgeted as though he were unsure whether to say more, but his eyes darted to the back room anxiously.

Morrigan, standing behind them, smirked. "Ah, how poor the average man is at hiding his secrets," she observed, her voice laced with disdain. The moment she spoke, the shopkeeper's expression changed—his hands shot out to grab a heavy wood axe hanging from the wall, his grip tightening with apparent intent.

Before he could even raise the weapon, however, Morrigan's magic took hold. The air around them seemed to freeze in an instant, and the shopkeeper's limbs locked in place, his expression frozen in terror. "Well, then," Duran said with a slight edge to his voice, "let's see what's causing this wretched stench."

With a nod from Duran, the group moved past the frozen shopkeeper, entering the rear of the shop. The scent grew worse, clinging to the air with a sickening heaviness. In the corner, Alistair grimaced, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at the gruesome sight before them. "Maker, no... It's the body of a soldier," he muttered, his voice heavy with disgust. "From the insignia on his shield, this looks like one of Arl Eamon's men from Redcliffe. May the Maker have mercy on his soul."

Leliana recoiled at the sight, unable to mask her revulsion. "Maker's breath... It looks like he's been here for days." Her voice shook with the weight of the grim discovery. "Well, at least now we know the rumors about the ashes being here might not be so far from the truth."

Duran motioned for them to leave, and they turned back toward the front of the shop. As they stepped outside, they were met with a scene that was even more disturbing. A crowd had gathered in the village square, their eyes filled with hostility. They were armed with farming tools, pitchforks, and anything else they could get their hands on. At the front of the group stood the guard from the entrance, a grim expression on his face.

"I told you," the guard spat, his voice cold with disdain. "We don't take kindly to outsiders poking around our village. Now, you'll meet the same fate as the fool in the shop!" Before Duran could even process how they knew about the incident inside, he was already reaching for his weapon.

The fight was quick and brutal. The villagers, though numerous, were untrained and lacked any true combat skill. They swung their makeshift weapons clumsily, unsure of how to hold them properly, let alone use them in a fight. It was clear to Duran that these people were not acting of their own volition. There was an unnatural madness in their eyes—something dark and desperate that pushed them forward. The violence was unrelenting, and surrender or negotiation was no longer an option. The group fought back fiercely, cutting down their attackers one by one.

As the last of the villagers fell, Duran wiped his blade clean, his breath heavy with adrenaline. Leliana, her face grim, glanced at the group as they continued their climb up the mountain toward the church. "And now we know for certain that something is very wrong here," she said quietly, her gaze scanning the fog-blanketed village below.

They pressed on in silence, each of them feeling the weight of the mystery that awaited them at the top.

3

A few armored villagers stood in their way, but they posed little challenge against Leliana's bow and Alistair's templar smites. The group dispatched them with ease, the fight hardly lasting more than a few moments. The villagers, though numerous, lacked any real combat training. Their blows were wild and uncoordinated, making it clear they had no true skill with weapons. In their frantic, almost desperate state, the group fought back with swift precision, leaving the attackers on the ground.

As the last of the villagers fell, the group continued their ascent up the mountain. At long last, they reached the peak, and before them stood the church of Haven, an imposing structure that dominated the landscape. It was immediately clear that this was the heart of the village, a place of significance that overshadowed everything around it. The church's stone walls seemed to stretch back to the time of the Tevinter Imperium, its architecture both awe-inspiring and eerily ancient. Even Duran, accustomed to the fine stonework of the dwarven artisans, couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship of the building. The sharp angles and imposing columns were a testament to a long-forgotten era, an era now sealed away in this lonely mountain village.

The exterior of the church was adorned with vibrant stained glass windows depicting the Prophet Andraste in various scenes. The colorful glass gleamed in the dim light, reflecting off the snow and casting faint, colorful glows on the surrounding stone. The images of the Prophet seemed almost alive, as if they were watching the group as they approached, their eyes following every movement.

Yet, as beautiful as the sight was, it was hard to shake the creeping sense of unease that grew with each step toward the church. The songs drifting from within the building were faint but distinct, and in the silence of the village, they felt unsettling. There was something unnatural about them, a low, almost inaudible murmur that seemed to hum with a strange energy.

"Have I mentioned it before?... Creepy," Alistair muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he eyed the dark, looming structure. His usual bravado was absent, replaced by a rare, uneasy silence. He wasn't the only one who felt it. The air around them seemed to thicken with an unseen pressure.

Duran, however, remained focused, the weight of the situation settling in his mind. He stepped forward and approached the heavy doors of the church. Made of dark wood and adorned with strange symbols, the doors felt as though they were not just an entryway, but a threshold to something much deeper. Something hidden. Something dangerous.

"Ready?" Duran asked, glancing back at his companions. While not all of them shared the same apprehension, the tension in the air was palpable. Morrigan stepped forward slightly, her hand resting on her staff, her eyes scanning the surroundings as though expecting something to spring from the shadows at any moment.

"I'd say it's about to get interesting," she said with a faint, teasing smile, though it did little to ease the growing sense of foreboding. But as Duran laid his hand on the cold iron handle and began to push the door open, he felt the chill of something unnatural pass through the gap. A cold wind whispered through the door, as though trying to warn them—perhaps of what lay beyond.

It was too late to turn back now. Duran pushed the heavy door open with a groan, the sound echoing through the church, as though the building itself was reluctant to let them in.