Haven - The Disciples of Andraste - A Brother Found!
4
"We are joined in camaraderie and in the spirit of our Prophet Andraste! Let her hear your voices, let her hear you sing to the mountain top and despair not, for she will always be there watching!" The words echoed through the cold, stone walls of the church as Duran stepped inside. The air was thick with incense and the faint scent of dampness, typical of old stone buildings, but there was something else—something oppressive, hanging heavy in the air. Duran had long grown accustomed to the various oddities of the surface-dweller's religious beliefs. He had seen everything from the veneration of the Creator to the worship of strange deities of the forest as seen by the elves. But what he saw here? It wasn't just peculiar. It was unnerving.
At the far end of the church stood the "revered father" of Haven, a figure that seemed to embody both age and madness. The staff he wielded crackled with a strange energy, and as he struck it against the stone floor, sparks flew from its tip, illuminating the dark corners of the room like the last dying embers of a fire. His long, white hair flowed like a veil behind him, his beard so long it almost brushed the ground. His robe, once rich with color, was now frayed and tattered, patches of faded red barely holding together. He looked as though he had been here for centuries, clinging to a madness as old as the stones themselves.
Surrounding him were villagers, their faces blank, their eyes distant. Some of them knelt, holding dead chickens in their hands, blood dripping from their torn throats. Duran's grip tightened on his sword hilt, his instincts screaming that something was deeply wrong.
The father did not acknowledge their entrance, his voice rising in fervent declaration. "And to all of you who would stand against the sanctity of this majestic beast, who would doubt its power, let them be silenced! Let the unworthy be cast from our land, for they are blind and refuse to see!"
Duran's patience thinned. He had heard enough of this madness. He motioned for Alistair, Leliana, and Morrigan to stay back, their weapons ready, their postures tense. He strode forward through the sea of kneeling villagers, his eyes fixed on the figure of the father. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his movements purposeful and calm.
"Aahh, see who graces us with their presence in our holy halls, brothers and sisters," the father intoned, his eyes widening in gleeful surprise. "I trust your stay in Haven has been warm, blessed by the kindness of our people?" His voice was thick with false hospitality, but beneath it, something darker stirred.
"Enough!" Duran's voice rang out, strong and sure, cutting through the father's sermon like a blade. "We are past pretending that this place is normal. Enough with your games! Your 'warm-hearted' villagers tried to kill us, and we found the body of a knight from Redcliff. Tell me what's going on here—now!"
The father's face twisted, a manic gleam flashing in his eyes. He laughed, a high-pitched, unsettling sound that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls. The villagers, as if under some spell, began to rise. Slowly, deliberately, they moved in unison, their eyes vacant, their bodies stiff. Duran felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
With a swift motion, he drew his sword, the blade gleaming in the dim light, and raised his shield, ready for whatever came next. "You come into our holy midst, disturbing the peace of a place that's unknown to outsiders? You disrupt the sacred ritual in honor of the Prophetess?" The father spread his arms wide, a wild, almost frenzied look in his eyes. "In light of your deeds here, I think you are not worthy of an answer."
Before Morrigan could even utter a warning, "Be careful, he's summoning the dead!" a violent wave of magic struck Duran square in the chest. It threw him back with bone-crushing force, sending him sprawling across the floor. He slid to a stop in front of Alistair, who quickly helped him back to his feet.
The ground trembled, and with an eerie sound of grinding bone, skeletons began to rise from the ground, their old, rusted armor creaking as they stood. The sight was both bizarre and terrifying. Each skeletal knight bore the insignia of Redcliff. "So, these are the missing knights," Duran thought, his stomach tightening. Darkspawn? He could fight those no problem. But ghosts, shadows, and the undead? That was something entirely different. They are as Alistair said…Creepy.
Morrigan, her voice barely audible over the rising chaos, muttered an incantation, and a wall of ice shot up from the ground. The ice surged forward, forming a solid barrier between the villagers and the group, preventing the crowd from rushing them. Leliana, with her quick reflexes, already had an arrow nocked and was picking off the nearest skeletons, sending arrows thudding into their decaying bones. Alistair moved to the left, his sword flashing with each strike as he hacked through the skeletons, while Duran covered the right side, his sword slashing through bone and armor with precise, brutal efficiency.
But for every skeleton that fell, another seemed to rise, their skeletal forms crackling with dark magic. "You have to take down the wall!" Alistair shouted, blocking a sword strike from a skeleton just in time. "The revered father is holding the spell in place!"
"Are you mad?" Morrigan snapped, her voice edged with both frustration and fear. "If I lower the wall, the villagers will break through, and we'll be overwhelmed!"
Duran's eyes flicked over to Leliana, who was already calculating her next move. "Morrigan, can you lower the wall to chin height?" Leliana asked, her voice steady with purpose. "I've got a good feeling about my aim today." Morrigan's expression shifted as she understood the plan. She began chanting, her staff glowing with an intense light. Flames shot from the tip of her staff, and the ice wall began to melt, the process slow but deliberate.
Leliana, never one to miss an opportunity, drew a single arrow from her quiver, her gaze fixed on the father standing in the back. "Alistair, pull back! Stay close to Leliana and keep the skeletons away from her!"
With a silent nod, Alistair fell back to Leliana's side, his sword ready. Duran mirrored his movement, pushing forward and deflecting the undead's strikes. The sounds of battle—the clash of steel, the groan of undead creatures—filled the air, but there was a strange rhythm to it. Morrigan, her brow slick with sweat, was holding the undead at bay with a magical barrier, while her other hand poured fire into the melee.
The ice wall continued to melt. "If you're going to take that damn shot, do it now!" Morrigan growled, her voice strained as she struggled to keep her spell in place. "I can't hold this much longer!"
Leliana's fingers tightened on the arrow, her breath steady and controlled. "Wait… Wait…" She was watching the father closely, the tension in the air thickening as the seconds dragged on. Then, with a decisive motion, she released the arrow.
The shot flew through the air with a whistle, and time seemed to slow as it arced toward its target. The arrow buried itself in the revered father's forehead, the point sinking deep between his eyes. His expression froze in disbelief for a heartbeat before his body crumpled to the ground, the staff slipping from his hand.
As the father fell, the spell maintaining the undead shattered. The skeletons disintegrated into dust, their remains scattering across the stone floor like ash. The ice wall melted completely, turning to water and vanishing. Leliana quickly loosed another arrow, and with precise strikes from Duran and Alistair, the remaining armored villagers fell, their swords clattering to the ground as they were defeated.
Breathing heavily, Duran surveyed the scene, the adrenaline of battle still coursing through his veins. He glanced at the villagers who were now free from the father's spell. They no longer looked like mindless puppets. One man, his face devoid of emotion, muttered, "I think we'll go back to our work now," and without another word, he led the others out of the church. They didn't spare the group a single glance as they exited.
Duran watched them go, his sword still raised. "Let them leave. They're no threat anymore," he muttered, his voice low. Morrigan, clearly exhausted, nodded in agreement. The magical strain had taken its toll, and she looked ready to collapse.
Duran bent down to examine the revered father's body. Hidden in his robes, he found a note—a list of instructions for the villagers, telling them to report immediately if anyone came asking for Brother Genitivi. As he read, a soft whimper came from the room next door, a sound so faint it could have been missed.
Alistair, his instincts sharp as ever, stood and nodded to Duran. Without a word, he drew his sword and moved toward the door, hand poised on the handle. The tension in the room rose as they prepared for whatever awaited them beyond.
5
On the floor of the next room, they found the wounded Brother Genitivi. He was a smaller man, his head framed only by a ring of hair; his face appeared tired, and though it looked like it was usually clean-shaven, now it bore a stubble that spoke of his weeks of suffering. His mouth was gagged with a piece of cloth, and his body, clad only in his undergarments, looked pale and emaciated. His right foot was grotesquely twisted, several of the bones surely shattered by the cruel tortures he had endured.
Alistair quickly removed the cloth from his mouth, and the man began to speak, his voice rasping from dehydration. He introduced himself and started to explain his situation:"I came here in search of knowledge," he began, his eyes distant as he relived his torment. "I sought the Urn of Sacred Ashes, believing it would provide answers to the mysteries of our faith… The cultists, at first, welcomed me. They treated me with kindness, offered food, shelter. But then, on the next day, they knocked me unconscious, and I awoke to the horror of their true nature." He paused, his face contorting in pain, but he forced himself to continue. "For weeks, they subjected me to cruelty… starvation, beatings, all for the sake of their insane beliefs. They call themselves the Disciples of Andraste, but… they believe the Prophetess still lives, high on the mountain, that she watches over us from the peak."
He let out a bitter laugh, a sound filled with exhaustion and disbelief. "Madmen. I would not be surprised if the Maker truly did turn his gaze away from us when I look at this place. What blasphemy…"
As Brother Genitivi spoke, Morrigan crouched beside him, examining his foot with a practiced gaze. When she moved to help, the man screamed in pain, his face contorting. "This foot must be amputated," Morrigan stated bluntly, her voice cold as ever. "There's no saving it."
Genitivi, though clearly in distress, only nodded with stoic acceptance. "If it must be done, then so be it. No price is too high when it comes to uncovering the secrets of our holy Prophetess. If the Urn is on this mountain, I must reach it."
Duran couldn't help but admire the man's resolve. Despite everything he had endured, despite the physical and emotional toll it had taken, Brother Genitivi's conviction remained unshaken. His faith, his devotion to his cause, was unwavering. It was rare to find someone so devoted, so steadfast.
"Please," the Brother continued, his voice weak but insistent, "do not let this slow us down. The crutches in the corner... They belonged to one of Arl Eamon's soldiers. He was not fortunate enough to survive this ordeal. I've endured worse. If we move quickly, we can still reach the Urn."
Alistair exchanged a glance with Duran, clearly skeptical. But Duran, without hesitation, drew his sword, ready to heat it by the nearby fire to perform the grim task.
"This will not be necessary," Morrigan interjected, her voice surprisingly soft, though her gaze remained focused. "I can end this pain quickly and without further suffering."
Brother Genitivi, though clearly in pain, met Morrigan's eyes with trust. "I know you are not from a Circle of Magi, but I trust you. You have a good heart." Morrigan averted her gaze, a rare flicker of hesitation crossing her face, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly.
"Well, well, it seems the Morrigan is not so heartless after all," Alistair remarked with a wry grin, his tone sarcastic but amused.
Morrigan shot him a sharp glare, then turned her attention back to the injured foot. "Enough chatter. Let's get this over with." She raised her staff, murmuring an incantation under her breath, and the foot was enveloped in ice. She worked swiftly, precisely. Within moments, the ice shattered, and where the foot once was, there was now nothing but a clean stump.
Leliana immediately began to wrap the stump in cloth, her movements steady and practiced. Meanwhile, Brother Genitivi turned his gaze to Morrigan. "May the Maker look kindly upon you, for your mercy in this time."
Morrigan, ever the skeptic, barely acknowledged the words, her attention already shifting elsewhere. "Enough of this holy talk, Brother. Weren't you on a mission? Shouldn't we be moving?"
"Ah, and there she is again," Alistair mused, grinning. "The Morrigan we know and love." Before he could say another word, he was interrupted by a swift punch to the ribs, which barely made a sound thanks to his armor.
Duran, now focused on the task at hand, found Brother Genitivi's robes and helped him don them. He then supported the weakened man, assisting him to his feet, and carefully positioned the crutches under his arms.
"Are you sure you can make it up the path, Brother?" Duran asked one more time, his concern still evident.
The old man smiled weakly but assured him, "Your concern warms my heart, my dwarfen friend, but as I've said, I am stronger than I look. My faith will carry me through. And besides…" He gestured to the door at the back of the room, hidden behind a loose stone. "The cultists use this entrance. I know the way. Let us go."
Duran looked at the path ahead, uncertain but hopeful. He couldn't shake the worry that Genitivi might not have the strength to make it, but he said nothing. For now, they would follow him. They would see if his faith, his strength, could truly carry him to the Urn.
As Genitivi limped toward the door, Duran hoped the Brother's determination and conviction would be enough to see them through the challenges that lay ahead. The mountain loomed in the distance, and with it, the mysteries of the Urn that they sought.