X: Kinloch, Denerim, Sundermount

Martin stood at the ready, on edge – his hands on his hammers. The elf First, who had at first seemed so painfully innocuous, had just let loose a torrent of blood magic. Below her, puddled on and seeping between ancient stones lay a small splatter of blood. The elf ran her bleeding hand through it sensuously for a long moment, her eyes closed as if she were in a trance. Abruptly, she snapped the hand up and sealed her wound with a glowing palm. She opened her eyes with that same innocent, anxious look she'd had locked in since they'd met her.

Blood magic. I have seen it before – from Tevinters, Soldier's Peak, Kinloch, Denerim. What she just did would see her killed anywhere the Chantry touches. The raw, terrible power in the air made his skin crawl. Everything he had been taught as a child cried for an attack, begged that he run, demanded that he face the maleficar. It surprised him that it was his own voice that chided him. You yourself are an apostate. The Wardens use a form of blood magic to stop the Blight. Even now, Avernus sits in his tower and experiments with tainted blood to find a method of harnessing – or curing it.

He let his hands fall from his hammers and to his sides – until he reconsidered, and instead grabbed the flask on his belt. It took a moment of stumbling with his fingers before he managed to swallow a mouthful of the stuff, to wash the revulsion down. It didn't work.

"Maker's breath…" Varric breathed beside him.

Aveline face was awash with dread, though she looked to Hawke for guidance. Carver seemed curious, but that was it. Hawke stood at their center, rigid as a statue and pale as marble.

"What have you done?" Hawke asked, clearly horrified. "That was…"

Must be her first view of blood magic, Martin thought. Probably the first for the rest of them as well.

"Yes," Merrill answered simply, pushing herself up from one knee. "It was blood magic."

"Are you insane?" Aveline demanded. "Would you summon a demon down, here?"

"I know what I'm doing," Merrill exclaimed, defensive. "I did not summon a spirit. I didn't have the strength without the blood to open the way forward. It was my own blood; what harm is there in using it?"

"'What harm,' she says," muttered Aveline. "It is the work of demons, passed down from them to Tevinter. How could it be anything but harm?"

Merrill shook her head, grimacing. "There is no harm if it isn't forced on another. It does not rely on spirits, only on blood." she stood up straighter. "Who says it's always so horrible?"

"That would be the Chantry. As in, the Chant of Light," Varric supplied, more subdued than normal. "You know, the magisters that sacrificed a thousand slaves? Broke through the Veil? Started the Blights? That kind of story sets a bad precedent."

"We Dalish have our own stories," Merrill answered solemnly. "We don't need to borrow yours."

"Da always warned us of it," Hawke said, quietly – almost to herself. "'It is the sign of weakness to stoop to using the blood of others.'"

"I only use my own blood," Merrill insisted, exasperated. "I don't want to argue this with you all, too. The Keeper has said it all – but it is the only way – " she stopped herself, gripped her staff intensely. After a moment she spoke again. "Let's just… perform the ritual. Then we can go to Kirkwall."

"You're coming to Kirkwall? With us?" Carver asked, baffled. Of all present, Martin noticed, he seemed the least perturbed by the flagrant use of the most forbidden magic. "What about your clan?"

"The Keeper asked us to ensure she reach her 'new home' safely," Martin cut in as he capped his flask. Before he could place it back on his belt, Varric snatched it from his hands and took a swig.

"I thought elves ran away to the Dalish, not the other way 'round," Carver responded, even more confused than before. "Alienages aren't really… well… you may be shitting in the woods out here, but the Alienage is right shithole."

Merrill winced as if struck. "I… the Keeper does not agree with what I need to do. I'd rather not say more. Please? Can we please move on from this? We must complete the ritual."

Hawke held her hand up, silencing Carver as he tried to speak yet again. Carver bit his tongue reluctantly. "I think that would be best. Lead on, Merrill. Let's just… get this over with."

"Ma serrannas," the elf replied, smiling tightly. She turned and moved on through columns. They trudged after her, though not before Martin retrieved his flask from the dwarven thief.

"Good shit," Varric muttered to him. "Helps with this crazy shit."

And everything else. Martin nodded silently, keeping his thoughts to himself.

They passed through the columns this time without difficulty as they stepped through the entryway of another ancient structure. Though its ruined state made it difficult to determine what it once looked like, Martin had the distinct impression that the overgrown courtyard was originally constructed to be at least partially open to the air. And why not? Before them, past the wide terrace of occasional tile, plant life, and stone lay a view that stretched for miles. The muddy, wooded hills cut straight through by the Imperial highway – itself then veering off to the distant city of Kirkwall towering near the end of sight. To the south of that, the Waking Sea stretched to the horizon. Hard to believe, further south and east away lies Highever. Home, once.

Just before that vista that teased of home, only a few paces away from the drop, stood a simple stone altar. Dark braziers flanked it on either side.

His curiosity piqued, Martin stepped forward past a stopped Varric – only to find himself stopped by Aveline's arm flung across his chest. Martin looked at her quizzically. Her only response was to jut her chin at the rest of the group.

Hawke and Carver stood, weapons drawn, behind Merrill – who knelt along the edge of a frayed fresco, her knuckles held firmly to the art.

"I've been dealing with them for days," Merrill was blurting, voice frantic. "They've been restless – It – something has disturbed them. Tormented them. Perhaps the barrier…"

"It," Hawke demanded, her knuckles whitening about her spear's shaft. "What are you on about?"

Aveline drew her own sword and shield, couching her blade atop her shield as she raised it before her. Martin moved to follow suit – only to find himself buffeted by a blast of chilled wind. Not wind, the Fade. It emanated from below, from all around – and from the altar before them.

He felt the air warble as if the whole world shook. An all too familiar itch broke out on his skin even as his joints froze. Suddenly he slipped back into another time, another life – a memory not even a year old.

The bottle emanated cool air, its unnatural chill visible as twisting smoke that threatening to freeze the entire room. Carys held it in her hands, read the inscription. The black fluid within seemed to wisp and whisper, demanding a release.

Morrigan had been off to the side, examining some ancient runes that littered the walls of the ruined temple they now explored. 'Elven,' she'd said, as if that was all that needed to be said. Now she had turned, no doubt feeling what Martin felt – the pure power roiling forth from the bottle Carys now grasped.

She was quicker than Martin, but then again, she had more practice – more idea at what that awful feeling meant. Even as she launched herself forward, even as she cried her warning – it was too late. The glass shattered in Carys' hand, the wisp within shaping into a demonic form before their eyes. Lumbering, armored, a greatsword in one hand, it was only fortunate for Carys that it but threw her to the side with its free hand – and lunged instead for Martin.

Martin snapped back to reality as he felt its cruel blow again, when his bracer had held as he'd deflected the blade – even as his arm had shattered beneath. It was a fight of its own to keep his left hammer in hand at just the memory of that pain.

"Brace yourselves!" He cried.

"It's waking – " was all Merrill managed to cry out in turn, then all hell broke loose.

The fresco shattered below the elf, throwing her off her feet. A gauntleted hand emerged, protruded from the earth below, where it rattled as if possessed. Another hand joined the first, throwing a large chunk of stonework Hawke's way that she just managed to dodge. Both hands straightened, grabbed at earth around them and pulled.

It rose as a demon from the very depths below – a dark figure clad in tattered but still fearsome armor. Dark brass buckles, green trim – all caked in earth and stone. The armor itself was strange, smooth on the shoulders and legs but strangely angular with protruding buttresses on the gauntlets.

It wore no helmet, though its face was hidden under a fraying hooded cloak. It reached upwards into the air with both hands, the freezing winds of the Fade soaring forth as the shimmering outline of a massive, curved sword formed in between its hands. It swung the phantom blade, a mournful whine keening through the air as it planted the tip into what remained of the fresco.

Hawke moved first, Carver close behind as they warily circled to opposite sides of the phantom. Aveline hefted her blade but remained still – behind Martin, Varric stood stricken with disbelief. Or fear.

Martin was just deciding how best to approach the creature when it spoke. Its voice was unnatural, harsh with disuse, but it rose to a painful volume.

"Tel garas alasan," it echoed, raising its blade one handed to point at Merrill. She had managed to scramble onto her back, her staff clutched in one hand off to her side. At its regard her already pale features turned porcelain. "Ir ma halam, shemlen."

Carver chose that moment to strike, bringing his own massive blade down at an angle towards the side of the figure. Against all elven and most human fighters such a swing from a man Carver's size would've been aimed towards their neck, or even their skull. So tall stood the shade that the blow instead headed towards its armored back.

Even as Carver swung, Hawke attacked far more cautiously. She jabbed forward with her spear even as she extended her buckler to cover herself, ready to block.

The creature reacted with a flash, throwing back its shoulder to expose a spaulder to Carver's furious swing. With a clang Carver's blade was knocked aside, the man stumbling along with his errant swing. The shade pivoted with that movement towards Hawke and brought its ghostly blade into a side swipe.

Carver desperately tried to recover as Hawke dodged backwards, flailing, barely avoiding the massive ethereal blade.

"Maker!" Aveline bellowed, both a plea and a war cry as she leapt into the fray. She presented her shield as she charged, making to bash the seemingly off-balance creature in the side. Martin followed her without thinking, moving to flank her charge.

The supposedly off-balance creature pivoted gracefully, swinging its sword in a two-handed slash aimed at both Aveline and Martin.

Martin had made the mistake of approaching from Aveline's left, placing himself first in the path of the blade. He felt the icy breeze of the Fade rush from within him as he called what power he could – what he dared. Time seemed to slow as the sword came ever closer – then he dropped hard, driving the air from his lungs as he slammed into the ground. He felt the blade pass not even a handspan over his head as he fell.

Aveline's reaction was slower, though she had the luxury of distance. She too dropped, but to only one knee, reinforcing her battered kite shield – Martin absurdly just noticed it bore not the emblem of the City Guard, but the Templars – and held it aloft at an angle.

For a brief moment the horrible scream of metal on metal deafened Martin. Then the blade was free, soaring through open air.

Carver, off balance, attempted an upswing from where the spaulder had deflected his blow – his eagerness saved his life. His blade, instead of striking up the skirt of the creature, met its renewed swing – stopping the blade from tearing him asunder. The crash of the impact echoed through the ruined temple, flinging Carver backwards. He tumbled through the air, hitting one of the few standing walls hard enough to loose stone – then he fell, crumpled in a heap. His sword cartwheeled away, clattering on ancient tile.

"CARVER!" Hawke screamed. She lunged forward, fully committing a direct stab of her spear. The creature moved far quicker than should've been possible, answering Hawke's assault with its own.

This time Hawke did not evade, instead she brought her far too flimsy buckler up to meet its attack as she buried her spear in its side, through the gap under its arm.

At that same moment its counter swing met Hawke's buckler – the shield held where the blade embedded, nearly cloven in two yet still whole. It was not enough.

Hawke shrieked in agony as her arm was audibly crushed beneath her buckler, then she too fell back – though her spear remained lodged in the creature's side.

Without hesitation, the creature swung its keening blade over its head, towards Martin – he barely had time to dive to the side, feeling once again the blade pass a hairs length from him. Martin's desperate tumble brought him headfirst into an upraised piece of fresco. Black stars burst in his vision, momentarily blinding him.

An immediate lack of counterattack brought him enough time to roll onto his feet, albeit unsteadily. Before him Aveline had stood and aimed a quick slash at the shade's midsection, though she was forced back on her knee as the creature countered with its own swing. She managed to once again redirect the blow with her Templar shield.

It stepped back, attempting to leverage an overhanded blow that would crush the brave guardswoman, shield or no, when its booted foot suddenly caught. Roots slithered up from the ground to tangle in its feet, and even the blade it had dropped back behind itself to swing. Out of the corner of his eye Martin could see the skittish First standing tall, her staff dug into the earth as she clutched it with both hands. He could feel the chill of her command, her magic coursing through the earth and guiding the plants to her bidding.

Though immobile, the creature managed to cut its blade free swiftly enough to attempt an off-balance swing at the kneeling guardswoman. Its swing was knocked to the side as one, then three bolts clattered in rapid succession from its strange breastplate. A fourth slammed in a gap beneath its right arm and a horrible, echoing wail pierced the air as its blade slammed beside Aveline rather than through her.

The Guardswoman wasted no time – dropping her shield she stepped forward, smoothly slashing at the creature's cloaked face with her sword. Instead of the expected blood flicking from the blade and fountaining from a lethal wound, a splash of soil splattered from the tattered hood.

The creature pitched to the side, dragging Aveline's blade – and arm – down with it. As it crumpled, the ambient chill Martin had felt the whole fight, the unsettling presence of strange magic abruptly ceased. It was as if a weight was pulled off his chest.

For a long moment all was painfully silent – then, Aveline pulled her sword from the creature and kicked its cowl aside. A browned skull lay where its head should have been, a large gash in its side where her sword had taken it across the face. As she prodded it with her boot it disintegrated, collapsing into dust. She muttered at that, whether a curse or prayer, Martin could not discern.

Hawke brought them back to the present. She moaned in wakened agony once, twice – then stopped. Martin was up in a flash, pushing himself to his feet and running to the woman. Aveline, for her part, moved to Carver.

Hawke was on her knees several feet back from the dead shade, cradling her buckler in her still good hand. Martin knelt at her side as she whimpered, took her shoulder to guide her to rotate her arm. Gingerly, he pulled the half-destroyed buckler from Hawke's forearm – Hawke's jaw clenched, but she managed silence.

Martin recoiled as her arm was revealed. Her wrist was bent an unnatural angle, while her forearm was shattered – twisted bone poked through torn skin in several places. No blood leaked from her wounds, though why Martin could not immediately guess – until he noticed a faint chill radiating from Hawke's arm. Hawke must know some healing magic. Enough to hold the bleeding at bay, it seems, but no more. Few enough Senior Enchanters of the Circle bear the power and focus needed to knit bone together, especially broken in pieces as that… not to mention the amount of knowledge and skill required to do it correctly. No mere hedge mage was up to the task.

Would that Wynne were here.

She met Martin's eyes – her eyes watering with pain, but focused. "Car..ver…" she gasped.

Martin snapped up and shouted in question, "Aveline!"

"He's breathing," Aveline supplied, her own shout a near stammer. The unspooling of that which was wound by battle.

Martin felt a hand on his shoulder, lightly pushing him to the side. Merrill crouched down where he had just knelt, blanched but focused. She hovered her arms over Hawke's arm, inspecting for just a moment. Then she took it, looked closely. "You have magic," she whispered, shock evident in her voice. "I thought humans lock their mages away."

"It's… secret…" Hawke grunted. "Templar's… don't lock what they don't know." She whimpered as Merrill moved her arm closer, gentle yet firm.

"You have to let it go, Hawke," Merrill implored. "Let it bleed."

Hawke looked up sharply, fear evident in her eyes. It struck Martin harder than anything else. In all the hell that they had been through beneath Darktown, Martin had not once caught fear from her.

"Please," Merrill whispered. "It will help." Her eyes were so honest, so earnest, that Martin felt sure that what she said was true.

Hawke evidently saw the same thing. She stared a moment longer, nodded once, then screwed her eyes shut.

As the blood immediately began to seep from the mangled arm, Merrill placed her hand directly in it, allowed it to flow through her fingers as Hawke inhaled sharply. Martin felt a familiar iron tinge, that unholy feeling of power as she harnessed it and directed it into Hawke's arm.

Hawke cried out in agony as her wrist wrenched, then straightened. Her forearm crackled, flesh growing over in mangled patches where it had been torn. After a moment it was done, the wound closed – the arm was still partially crooked, still clearly damaged, but it no longer looked as if amputation was the first logical treatment.

Merrill's head lolled for a moment as the power ceased, her own eyes shut. When she opened them, it was to the sight of Hawke grimacing in agony as she stiffly and painfully flexed the hand on her wounded arm.

Merrill grabbed her hand, withdrew immediately. "Sorry… but… I'm not the best healer. Someone else will need to look at it to make it whole again."

Martin thought of the elves below. "Perhaps the Keeper would…"

The elf beside him looked at him as if just remembering he was there. She nodded. "She, ehm, would be willing – after we complete the ritual."

At that moment Varric stepped up beside them, Hawke's spear in his hand. He set its pommel down to the ground, offering the weapon to Hawke. "You alright?"

Hawke grabbed the spear with her undamaged arm and pulled herself upright. "Somewhat worse for wear, but alive, I think," she replied, her voice still tense with suppressed pain.

"Good. Though… that was some crazy shit, Hawke," Varric said. "That thing that attacked us? Bones. They crumble to dust when you touch any of them."

They moved as one to the creature, though Hawke continued past it to the kneeling Aveline and Carver. Between Varric, Merrill, and Martin, however, there did not seem to be an abundance of concern for the boy. Martin felt a stab of shame at that. He is an arse. That does not mean you should not show concern for him. He fought beside you. Still, he knelt down beside the remains of the creature and moved a hand to grasp at its breastplate.

"Wait!" Merrill interjected. "Don't touch it," she ambled up to the creature, knelt beside Martin, for once seemingly at ease. Or at least sufficiently distracted with discovery.

She hovered a hand over the monstrosity, made as if to touch or prod several times, but instead finally withdrew her hand. "This is… old. Older than the Dales, I think. This may even be from Arlathan… the Keeper will want to see this."

Varric whistled. "Gotta be worth a shit load, am I right?"

Merrill's head snapped to the dwarf. "This is Ours – of the People. B-besides," she stammered, abruptly cowing. "It may still be dangerous. We have driven the spirit from the bones, but a remnant might still linger."

"'Spirit in the bones?'" Varric paraphrased, backing up. "Okay, consider me convinced. I'm not about to mess with armor that might still want to kill me. You guys can have it."

"It was a shade, then?" Martin enquired, curious. Hawke was clearly a mage of some talent, though he doubted she knew anything more than the average Circle apprentice about things that crossed from the ether. Merrill on the other hand was a Dalish elf, perhaps the only group that knew of magic outside the Circle. That is, North of the Wilds and South of Tevinter.

A thought unbidden flitted through his mind, of raven hair and amber eyes. At what she might think of the opportunity to interrogate a Dalish First on magical phenomenon. She had shown no interest in speaking to Lanaya, though Zathrian… that was a different story. He shook the image from his mind even as he instinctively took another drink. 'Never follow me…'

Merrill looked at him curiously. "Yes. A spirit inhabited this…" she gestured towards the ruined remains. "But not just any spirit. By its speech, it was a memory of the days of Arlathan."

He remembered her lessons. 'Spirits cling to emotion, to memory. They cluster at the Veil, peer in to where misery and violence have weakened it. Sometimes when the notion takes one, it joins the memory.' "An echo," he said softly.

The First nodded.

Varric grabbed at Martin's flask again. Martin let it go without a fuss.

"Merrill," Hawke's voice rose from across the remains. Merrill stood up immediately, steadying herself on her staff.

Hawke gestured to her. "Can you see what you can do for Carver?"

"A-all right," she stuttered, stepping carefully around the destroyed shade.

Varric took another swig of the flask, passed it back. "You think what she said was true?"

Martin glanced at him, taking a sip of his own and grimacing at the meager amount of drink still left within his flask. Varric and I have done a number on it. "You mean the spirit? Or the age?"

He handed the flask to Varric. The dwarf took a belt before responding. "Both I guess. Both sound crazy, but I guess no crazier than rat eaters."

Martin looked at the figure, at the ancient armor. "She would know more of shades and Arlathan than I," though I supposed I know more than most. The Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Brecilian Forest, Ostagar… I have seen quite a few ancient ruins crumbling to dust. "It is assuredly ancient."

Varric grumbled something that might've been a curse as he wiped his mouth. "We're not even getting paid for this. Why am I here again?"

Martin shrugged. "One must take any excuse to get out of Kirkwall."

Varric made a face as he handed the now empty flask back. "Hey. It may not look like much… or smell like much, but Kirkwall's my city. You don't just insult a man's home to his face."

Martin looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. "Do you truly think so much of Kirkwall that you feel the need to defend her honor?"

His drinking companion spat to the side. "Not her honor, at least. Kirkwall's a mean place, but didn't you just come from Blight? Clean out your own castle before shitting on someone else's, so to speak."

Martin grimaced. "The Blight is hardly the fault of Ferelden…"

"What, and what's wrong with Kirkwall that's its own fault?"

Maker, is he truly offended? "The smell, for one."

Varric stuck a finger in Martin's chest. "Hah! As someone who's been here long before I you all showed up, the smell of rotting shit really only picked up when you fereldans showed up." Varric smirked then, belying his supposed outrage. "Well, that is, if you're not counting that perfumed shit orlesians wear. They predate you fereldans at least a bit."

"Well, I can certainly agree that orlesians are much worse than Kirkwallers in most any regard, smell or otherwise."

The dwarf's smirk broke into a full-on grin. "On that we can agree. Just for that, I pledge my full support for Ferelden next time you all fight the orlesians."

"No doubt," Martin replied, dryly, "You will have all of Ferelden's thanks."

"And you all will have my most sincere, 'you're welcome.'"

At that moment Hawke stood, head bent in an unheard conversation with Merrill. They moved together towards the altar.

"Junior must be alright," Varric observed, suddenly serious again.

"Right." Martin pushed himself to his feet and glanced down at the dwarf. "Coming?"

"What, for the ritual? Knowing elves, it's got some crazy magic shit involved. No thanks. I've had enough for today, thank you."

Martin inclined his head and stepped over the empty armor, stepping on stone and earth as he made his way to the two mages now standing before the altar.

They stood, heads bowed, Merrill's hands clasped in prayer. "-melana sahlin," he heard her say as he stepped up behind them and off to the side. He didn't want to interfere, but still he found himself curious. She would want me to see.

"Emma ir abelas souver'inan isala hmin vhenan him do'felas," the elf continued softly. She drew a circle of dirt on the top of the surprisingly immaculate altar. She gestured to Hawke.

Hawke reached behind her neck, unwound the cord that hung there, and placed the wormwood talisman on the altar. Martin again felt the shocking cold of the Fade for a brief moment as Merrill lit a flame in each hand – wisping, blue flame. The fires shimmered strangely, each looking more like the reflection of fire than actual fire.

Two stone braziers stood at each end of the altar. Merrill lit each one in turn then doused the flames in her hands. She moved to stand before the amulet. "In uthenara na revas," she chanted, closing her eyes and inclining her head.

Martin was suddenly forced to his knees as freezing winds buffeted him yet again. He cried out in surprise, in alarm, tried to cover his face with his arms. It was as if he had been immediately transported to the heart of a blizzard, unearthly snow whipping him down. He couldn't think, couldn't do much but try to protect himself from the onslaught.

Somewhere distantly he heard a rumbling, then a great crash as if lightning struck not ten paces away. He clenched his eyes, formed the only coherent thought he could manage – a prayer. Maker, see me through.

As suddenly as the onslaught had set upon him it ended. He froze for a moment, the relatively warm air suddenly far too hot in comparison. He stood, opened his eyes, and looked upon the altar.

Atop it stood an old woman, a stoop to her stance. Her hair crowned her face, hung all about in a tangled mess. She was dressed in roughspun rags, her eyes bleary and bloodshot. All in all, an unassuming, if decrepit old woman.

Except he knew her. Knew that face. He'd buried it not a year past. Flemeth.