Act I, 9:31 Dragon

Prologue : To The Road

A mirror lay before him, the deep blue of the sea reflecting the lighter hue of the sky above. He could see clouds lazily wafting in reflection as the spray from the ship unsettled the gently rocking waters it cut through. White froth trailed behind, marking their passage.

He heaved, spewing his guts over the side. The foul stuff shattered the mirror for a moment before the spray swallowed it greedily. Martin had never sailed properly before, never felt the rocking waves casting him about - always shaking, never relenting…

Is that truly the reason,he thought. Is that why my stomach will not settle, while sleep never comes…

He recalled her face – hard, stern, and above all else, proud. Her thin, regal features - high cheekbones… her amber eyes. That mocking gaze that he'd loved. Still love. Aye. He remembered that final look, saw the exact moment when it shifted, longing flickering through her eyes for but a moment before they'd steeled then hardened to black. Her form shifted before his eyes until only a raven was left winging its way off that damned tower…

He heaved again, this time only an acrid burning crept up his throat before subsiding.

The burning seemed to settle in his heart, tearing at it. The Blight was over, the archdemon dead with his sword in its foul skull. The draconic nightmare lay in a pool of its blighted blood, its wings scored with arrows. His throat burned, congested with the fumes of the city burning below and the stench of tainted blood. Carys, her vallaslin glistening with sweat, stood beside him. "It's not dead." Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

He shook his head briefly as he felt rather than heard Sten approach from behind, a falter to his step. He had been gored by a stray talon as the beast fell , brought down by a score of Dalish bowmen and Circle mages. It had burned nearly all of them as it landed, slamming into their midst and sending their corpses careening over the side of Fort Drakon. Sten might have died with them, had an immediate burst of healing magic not staunched his bleeding leg. Martin blinked his eyes as the smoke stung at them again, blood now dripping into his vision. He wiped at his brow, felt the gash from where his head had met stone.

He turned, searched for her. She stood unharmed several steps away, her amber eyes glistening. Like a cats, he thought idly.

"Kadan," Sten's voice drew him back to the qunari, the hornless giant steadying himself on his blade, Asala. He gestured pointedly towards Martin's war hammers, now lying on the ground where they had fallen from Martin's grasp. "Those will not pierce the beast's hide." He lifted his own sword, straightening despite his injured leg. He offered the weapon, hilt first. "It is your kill. Ataash varin kata."

"You offer me your soul, Sten?" Martin asked through cracked lips. Pain pumped through his skull with each word.

"You have my sword now and forever, as long as the Qun shall allow."

He felt the sickness rising again, his whole face burning even as the cool ocean breeze stung at it. He couldn't smell the salt in the air, only the smoke in his mind.

Martin hesitated another moment before he grasped the sword. The blue steel blade weighed heavily in his palms as he brought it to bear.

"Below the jaw and up into the skull," Carys coughed. She was unwounded, but still seemed to have as much trouble speaking through the poison in the air as he did. "At least that's what Riordan said."

Riordan. The beast had leapt upon him, crushed him under its cruel weight. It had recoiled immediately, twin gaping wounds splattering blood where the senior warden had managed to slash through its lighter hide before he died. That had been the beginning of the end.

The monstrosity moved - vainly attempting to flap its now useless, pockmarked wings. Its legs twitched with no apparent purpose in mind.

He didn't allow himself to think, merely charged the thing, angling towards its lolling head. He straightened the blade as his feet pounded on stone. Breath panted into his lungs laboriously, his head spun ever more as he felt his legs begin to fail. He felt the Fade rush past, it's cool touches easing his muscles enough to finish his charge.

He leapt, his full weight behind the blade, and drove down into the creatures exposed underjaw.

The fear he had swallowed that hard battle exploded as he felt Asala penetrate flesh, bone, then something else entirely. His vision darkened as he felt its sheer presence – arrogance - glide up the blade. Who was he to strike at a god?

His whole world flooded in a sudden, earth shattering anguish. Years uncounting were coming to an end through him.

The ritual had failed. He and it would end one another. He tried to gasp and realized he could not.

Sudden light flooded his vision, flinging him back. He felt his head meet stone again.

That ancient presence tore itself from him, through him, hunger burning all the way through. An unholy roar filled the air, wind buffeting his aching body.

Abruptly it ended, the air still and quiet. He felt a pressure on his shoulder and opened his eyes.

Her amber eyes greeted him, pained. She turned immediately, strode away. He wrenched himself upright, spinning the world again as he saw her shift, body convulsing. He fell back, unable to hold himself up as he heard Carys cry out in alarm.

His companions filled his vision as it darkened, kneeling above him. Above them, a raven passed through the smoke above and away out of his view.

His stomach lurched again as the rest of his lunch spilled down the side, this time skidding across the hull. It left a sickly orange stain on the otherwise pristine wood.

Martin pushed himself off the railing, stumbled backwards across the deck. A sailor cursed at him in antivan, but he paid him no mind. He pressed through to the center of the deck, dropped down into the already opened crew quarters below.

He found the sailor he was searching for sprawled across a bench in the crew common area. The shirtless man, skin burned from the sun, lazily met Martin's eyes. "So, you changed your mind, 'ey friend?"

Martin nearly threw the silver on the table, already portioned. The sailor glanced the coins over before scooping them off into his hand. After pocketing the coin, the sailor bent over and withdrew a jug from underneath his seat.

Martin grabbed it from him without ceremony and turned to leave.

"Oi, friend. Far be it from me to try to educate a passenger of your means," the sailor drawled in his harsh bannorn accent. "But you do know that won't help with the seasickness. Far from it, it'll send your stomach into somersaults before wringing your sustenance from ye."

"It'll help," Martin said without turning. He pushed his way through the cramped passageways and back to his cabin, a raven dominating his thoughts. He hoped to drown it.

[=]

Martin woke lying in his tent, the smell of mud and dew all around. Dim dawn light trickled in through the partially opened space to his right. Under him the earth was firm, yet strangely comfortable.

He felt her shifting as he pushed himself up to gaze upon her. Completely naked, no blanket, no scattered garments. She lay on her stomach, her feet in the air.

"Where are we?" He asked in confusion.

She licked at her fingers, one after another, practically purring. "One does wonder. 'Tis the nature of this countryside, to repeat itself on and on so. One would think it would grow tired of such monotony. Alas."

He stuck his head out the flap. Outside lay a muddy sea of rolling grass, the Frostback Mountains visible to the west. Their tent sat on the edge of camp, several other tents sitting closer to a makeshift firepit. The sun shone sharply through the overcast sky, rendering the fog and dewy grass painful to look at.

"So, Ferelden." he mused, ducking back into the tent. "I thought I'd left."

She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled herself to him. Her fingers danced impossibly against the naked flesh of his chest. "Forget that which lies beyond. Think of what lays within," she traced her fingers to his stomach, moved downwards.

Her contact suddenly felt strange on his skin as the white light of morning shifted slightly, adopting an all too familiar… odor. I know where I am. It had fooled him, if but for a moment.

"Who are you?" He asked, resigned, pushing her arms away softly and turning towards her.

"Such a question," she replied, eyes shining. "I am your lady love, am I not? Your desire. The woman of your dreams," she said, licking her lips.

"You know nothing of her," he shot back, his temper flaring. He stood, only to find himself completely naked.

"Come, my noble warden," she cooed playfully, rolling onto her back, presenting herself. "I promise, we shall enjoy ourselves for a very long time. You know from experience."

His vision reddened as fury threatened to take over. "Don't play coy, demon. I am in no mood for your games."

She responded by spreading her legs.

He nearly stepped forward then, whether to attack or… he wasn't sure.

Do not allow it to master you.Her words. You have power here. He closed his eyes, breathed once, twice – willed. Then, he opened them.

She still lay on the ground, still looked like her, but he wore his cuirass, his hammers secured at his hip. The tent too was gone - only the desolate surroundings of the Fade remained, the Black City in view behind her. Green, visible wind scattered her hair as she removed her fingers from her mouth and stood.

"Again," he demanded. "What are you?"

She tisked as she stepped towards him, swaying her hips as her hair moved with the wind. "Who? What? Does it truly matter? 'Tis the object of your desire standing before you, and you would ignore it?"

"You are not her," his voice nearly broke as he spoke. "And I will not be toyed with. If you are truly desire you know your time is wasted here. You cannot sate me."

She hummed, stopping before him as he lay his thumbs upon his hammers, unbuckling the straps holding them secure. She nodded. "Perhaps in this form… but I feel another desire within you. Make voice to it."

He flicked his thumbs over his hammers, feeling the simultaneously hot and cold winds buffeting him. Her eyes lay upon his, searching – they were violet.

They stood, silent, appraising each other for a long moment. Again she spoke to him from memory. There is knowledge here… ancient magics, forgotten lore. 'Tis fading from our world – someday it might well be gone. Treasure what you may.

Finally, he spoke. "I would know you. Know of you. What led you to me, when did…"

Her eyes narrowed and she barked a laugh. "I am not wisdom, nor do I wish to bare myself for your perusal. Is that truly your only desire, mortal?" She shook her head, her raven hair shaking with the motion. "I can give you pleasures of the flesh, of the heart, and you wish only to know your benefactor?"

He grimaced tightly. It was a vain hope. "Then be you gone, Lust. I will not bandy myself to one of your ilk nor try to explain to you what truly matters."

She eyed his hammers, the hammers he should not have. She taught me well, he thought.

He felt emboldened for a moment, closed his eyes yet again.

"Very well," she spoke with contempt. "Remain alone with your desire."

He opened his eyes and she was gone. She left. Not because he asked, but because he threatened.He remembered her true eyes, amber. How did she know?

He felt his stomach begin tear, wracking with her memory. Her true memory. He closed his eyes again as he felt sorrow push up through his chest and behind his eyes.

When the moisture fell from his face he felt a drop on the top of his head. Then another.

He opened his eyes, found himself gone from the isolated island in the Fade, instead standing in a windswept desert. I've never been to a desert. Water began to fall as thunder roared. It was raining yet the sand remained bone dry.

"Oi, wake up friend! I told ye the drink would not help ye!" He awoke with a start to the sound of a harsh bannorn accent. His skull ached and throbbed as he felt his heart beat in his temples. "We be passing through the chains as I pontificate, and the cap'n advises you spill your guts before we reach port, not after."

The chain rattled in the door as the crewman pounded. "You hear me in there, friend?"

Martin groaned heavily. "I do," he sat up, wincing as he did so. His pulse pounded in his temples as his entire brain screamed in protest. No nausea,he thought. Looks like it worked.His mind flashed back to the dream. In part.

"Cap'n expects you above deck directly," the crewman called, his footsteps padding away down the hall. Martin stood and nearly collapsed as he once again became aware of the deck rising and dipping under his feet. This is going to be painful.

He pulled on his shirt, throwing on a stiff leather jerkin over top. He left his hammers in the sole chest of his belongings. No demons here, only men.

He opened the door to the smell of piss and vomit – as he pushed his way down the corridor and back up to the main deck he saw a couple crewmen, fresh lashes on their backs, scrubbing away at stains on the floor.

He pulled himself out and up and was suddenly hit by the fresh sea air and the sound of calling gulls. He surveyed the deck, the twin masts, eyed the crew as they moved up and down the rigging. Their voices rang across the deck, yelling in their seaman's gibberish he doubted he'd ever understand. Mixes and smatterings of half a dozen different tongues, brought together by the sea. The captain stood afore at the prow, shouting orders up and down to his sailors.

Martin stepped over two crewmen relashing some cargo down – evidently loosed sometime during the night. One of them looked up at him, eyes familiar. The bannorn. "Ta friend. Cap'n's sore, might've laid me in if you hadn't come up direct."

Martin nodded at him and moved on, clinging to the side of the ship as he looked over. It was a beautiful morning – overcast, but without fog. The heat was bearable on the water as they passed by the cliffs surrounding the Bay of Chains.

He could see the source of the name, clear as day. Enormous weathered statues leaned against each jagged outcropping of cliffs, somehow still bronzed in the salt air. He guessed them to be thirty stories high or more, give or take – and each the same. A (relatively) ragged slave, a collar chafing his neck as he grasped at his face in torment. A massive chain of some darker metal connected each by the throat, swinging ever so gently in the air above. Below each another chain, twice the thickness of the suspended one hung low from manacles on their feet and sunk below the waterline.

"A magnificent sight, to be sure," the captain said in the lilting tone of a marcher as Martin stepped up beside. Starkhaven. Like the sailors in Highever, he thought.

The captain was dressed in a fine red silk shirt, dark maroon with studded leather pants beneath. Half dressed, like Martin. "To be sure," Martin intoned, the words pounding more pain into his head.

"This would've been their first sight you know." The captain spat into the water before continuing. "Those many slaves of Tevinter. Thousands upon thousands seeing their fate above carved into the very earth." He pointed a hand upwards. "A view of the 'unassailable gates.' Their will was broken before they entered the city."

Martin kept his eyes on the statues above. The captain turned away from him for a moment and produced a spy glass from a thong on his belt. He peered ahead, shouted a correction to his watchstander.

The statues loomed above, before and behind as they began to see more ships. The city would be in sight soon.

"How fitting for the Silent Slaves to greet half of Ferelden on the run from the Blight. One and all, you refugees end up here. The City of Chains."

"The Blight is over," Martin replied, barely able to keep the disinterest out of his tone.

"But you are a refugee of another kind, are you not?" the Captain continued, his eye still down his spyglass. "The Blight is not the only thing that just passed. A Civil War ended as well. Teryn Loghain, Arl Howe… their supporters are in hiding, or have fled."

"Not the Teryn himself as I recall," Martin mused.

"Not indeed, but the Wardens make their own rules," the Captain said. He paused, glancing sideways at Martin. "You seem better this morning."

"Aye."

Again, another pause.

"You carry a great deal of coin for a refugee. Not many would pay fifty silver for a jug of Monty's piss liquor."

Martin glanced at him, suddenly interested in the conversation. He remained silent, waiting for the Captain to speak again.

"Neither could many afford what we were paid to spirit you out of Highever," the man continued, his eyes still pointed forward. "You are in my power. I could find out who you are, find out how much King Alistair would pay to see you returned."

Martin nodded, idly hooking his thumbs in his belt. "You could." Only men. He nearly laughed.

The Captain finally lowered his spyglass and turned to Martin, a dark flicker in his eye. "Or I could just cut your throat, throw you over the side, and count your coin for meself."

Martin suddenly no longer cared. "You could," he shrugged.

The Captain looked him in the eyes, seemingly considering. Martin had the suspicion that the man had decided before they'd even spoken.

The captain shrugged. "Though I'm no pirate. I have a reputation to uphold."

"As you say," Martin mocked.

Martin shook his head slowly. They'd rounded another cliff, another Slave – the great city lay before them, behind the greatest fortress he'd ever seen. Walls taller than the slaves, a single great keep rising from the center. Most impressive of all was that it lay apart from the city, in front of it – separated from it by the bay itself. All along it, spikes crowned the edges – enormous chains hung through every one.

"The Gallows," the Captain said as he noticed Martin's interest. "All refugees go through it. The bloody Templar's seat of power."

Templars? Maker's sake."I assume it's a Circle?" he asked.

The Captain nodded. "Aye, that it is. And a place of evil repute, so I'm told."

"Then why are refugees going through it?"

The Captain shrugged. "The Templar's run Kirkwall. The Viscount likes to pretend he's in charge, but Maker knows he never defies the Knight-Commander. It is her city, through and through." He gestured towards its massive spires. "You fereldans have been pouring into the Marches since the Blight – and Kirkwall's the first stop on a long road. Most end up too poor to leave, and there's only so many rooves in the city. Thankfully you lot die off quick enough, so there's a bit more room to maneuver now."

The Captain spat again over the side. "So in answer to your question, refugees go through the secured fortress prison with a thousand or more Templars around so they can go whichever way the Knight-Commander wills – into the city, or back to the sea."

They stood together in silence as the oppressive structure loomed ever closer, docks situated at the front bleeding into sight.

The Captain looked through the spyglass, then back to Martin. "I am right then, refugee. What are ye running from, if I may ask?"

Martin shrugged, considering the Captain's question with the view before him. "That has no easy answer."

The Captain looked to him for a moment, then back to the fortress ahead. It wouldn't be long, if Martin was any judge. "'Into shadow crept and made himself away. North - Minrathous bound.'" The Captain quoted.

Martin turned and headed back down the length of the ship. His things needed to be packed, gold spread beneath the numerous pouches of his pack. As he walked, the clouds above broke and the sun shone down upon them, its heat burning his neck and strengthening his headache.

He made sure to step around the bannorn on his way to the crew deck. "Lovely day, here in this land of our Maker, is it not friend?" the man shouted as he secured another knot.

Martin shook his head wearily and dropped down the hatch as the bannorn guffawed behind him.

Minrathous bound, indeed.