Dragon Age: Wars of the Wolf

Prologue:

Dead trees

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and related lore/ characters belong to Bioware (Even Fen'Harel!) - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this.

This is the sequel to my first story, Pawn of the Wolf. Current events will make a bit more sense if you are familiar with the initial storyline.

BTW, This story may very well include every kind of darker stuff, from non-explicit rape refs to (maybe possibly) more, ahem, explicit smut, plus a generous helping of demonic rituals, torture, death and varied dismemberment. Yeah, so that's just Dragon Age without the granny underwear.

Feedback always welcome!

"Magic exists to serve Man, and never to rule over him."

Apprentice Gian Torrese stepped confidently within the circle of Templars, noticing the solemn expressions, the naked blades held in the warrior-monks' hands. Ethellion, Antiva's First Enchanter, smiled warmly and motioned for him to touch the cup of roiling, liquid metal that was his gateway to the Fade, to Enchanter status, and maybe, if he played his cards right, to a decent life as a healer. Gian had a knack for healing magic, he genuinely loved helping people, and Antiva City being a hotbed of disease, not to mention the sporadic fits of Crow activity, healers were in short supply.

My Harrowing, he thought as he slowly emerged into the Fade's hazy, aberrant geometry.

My ticket to a better life. My chance to prove myself.

He immediately felt nauseous. He was floating –or falling? - amidst a yellowish haze, from which short-lived structures - some tiny, some gigantic - emerged, swirled before his eyes, and dissolved into nothingness. It was very disorienting, and he understood that his first test was to impose a semblance of order onto this ever-changing environment; not for stability's stake, but in order to keep his own sanity. Closing his eyes for a moment, he chose to concentrate on his mother's image, small and hazy from the years of separation. When he opened his eyes, the shifting geometry of the Fade had somewhat stabilized.

He stood on top of a hill of sorts, the ground brownish and covered in small, strangely organic-looking alveoli that crumbled under his foot, only to mysteriously recombine seconds later. Absurd vegetation, vaguely akin to giant carrots, surrounded him, humming softly; the singing roots were densely packed in every direction, save for a straight, narrow path that led down the gentle slope. At least directions were pretty clear-cut, he reflected with a little wry smile.

He remembered Ethellion's aged, yet oddly musical Elven voice as he prepared him for the ordeal.

"You will face a demon; whether you emerge from the Fade as a mage or an abomination is entirely up to your skills, ethics, and judgment."

All right then, demon it is, he thought as he started the long, slow descent along the winding path. He felt confident in his abilities; in fact, it was a well-know fact that only a small proportion of apprentices admitted to the Harrowing failed. The key here was probably to avoid thinking of the consequences of failure. But Maker, what a dark place the Fade was! Gian had read many descriptions of the ethereal realms, some lyrical, some obviously written by stern, unimaginative people; all had mentioned mists, shifting landscape and hazy light, but not the dull, pervasive obscurity that seemed to deepen the further he walked down the trail.

He stopped for a while, trying to evaluate his progress. The path ahead of him disappeared in inky blackness after a dozen feet; he could hardly see his feet. Turning his gaze uphill, Gian realized with a little shiver that the obscurity was even deeper there, as though the darkness had crept around him as he walked and was now cutting him off his only escape route.

And maybe it had, he reflected. The whole point of the Harrowing was to send him into a demon's jaws, so to speak, and to see if he managed to escape with his soul intact. He smirked. So what, this particular demon liked to create the illusion of night? It was not as though Gian was still a kid, clutching to his mama's hand and begging for her to keep the candle lit as she kissed him good night.

"Bene, demon, you want me to walk in the dark, yes? I am coming, baby!" He shouted to the creeping darkness.

He instantly regretted his outburst. While the obscurity stayed the same, still and thick, he could have sworn that he heard, or felt or smelled –perception in these realms was a very relative thing – something stir in response to his shout, not too close, but not nearly far enough. Something that had merely been there before, but was now acutely aware of his presence.

Well, it was done anyway, no need to brood over it overmuch. Quello che sara, sara, and soon, too.

He resumed his walk down into total darkness, keeping to the right side of the path, his hand brushing lightly against the dry, oddly cold bark of the carrots, trees, whatever they were; although if he'd had to guess, he would have said what he touched now was indeed the bark of very old, dead trees… Or maybe the shriveled skin of very old corpses; there certainly was a whiff to this place. He scoffed at the outlandish notion. The Fade was not planted with corpses… Right?

Something behind him, the faintest hint of a hot, wet breath on his neck, and he jumped with a loud curse, lightning crackling between his hands in blinding blue light; the darkness shrunk at his display of power, hurrying to hide behind the gnarled corpses of – Thank you Maker you are my light and my hope – very old, decrepit trees, their bark grayish, sickly-looking.

He was alone on the dark trail.

Gian reluctantly let the light die between his fingers, cursing himself for not memorizing one of the simpler Creation spells that would have allowed him to create more permanent illumination.

The breath came back, of course. Every time it did, Gian spent more of his power to send lightning crackling far along the obscure path, though he never saw anything but the shadows of the dead trees, dancing merrily in the blue light. Gian had no idea how long the game lasted, mere minutes or days of rising terror, but in the end he turned to summon lightning and nothing happened; he stood trembling on the dark path, his forces spent, his dreams of freedom melting away.

The breath hit his face, hideously close, dry now and searing, carrying the stench of unnamed killing fields.

With an inarticulate scream Gian turned and ran, scrambling along the smooth, straight path like a madman, the breath sticking to him, following in smooth, silent strides.

And so in the end Gian found his demon.

He saw the light ahead, like a tiny eye at first; he dashed madly, laughing and crying as he ran. The tiny eye grew into a small window, a bright doorway; a moon-drenched clearing amongst the dead trees, the light harsh and cold on him as he stumbled into the empty space. He turned to the dark path and stood for a long time, breathless, fists clenched, waiting for the thing, whatever it was, to emerge and rip him to shreds, but nothing came.

Something moved feebly at his feet, and he saw the demon at last. She must have been beautiful once, all smooth, bluish skin, exaggerated feminine curves and slithering tail. No more. Now she was empty, a hollowed carcass that was not even allowed to die. Something moved in the gaping wounds with a cold, metallic glint.

The moonlight shifting, Gian's shadow now split in twin copies, and he felt the breath again, not only on his neck, but singing him from head to toe. He fell to his knees by the butchered demon, shaking violently, eyes tightly shut.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade;
For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's…

Gian never got to the third stanza. With a deafening rumble that may well have been laughter, the Dread God's maw snapped shut.

After an eternity or a moment, something fell onto the Fade's bizarre ground. Small, round and glistening, its silver shell protecting what was left of Gian's soul.

A seed.

First Enchanter Ethellion averts his gaze, resisting the urge to press his hands on his pointed ears as Gian's body writhes in the Templars' grasp, letting out screams the likes of which he prays the Maker he will never hear again. A flash of the blade, and the Tower can mourn one of its sons.

His titanic shadow roams the fringes of the Grey Forest, His domain, His prison. He hunts now, demons, dreamers, lost mages. He feasts upon the souls of the living, and under His restless gaze, dead trees arise.

The Grey Forest shall grow.

Chant verses from DA Wiki as always…