New Bad Beginning

Hi, I’m Sawan1984! A passionate reader, I’ve recently stepped into the world of fanfic writing — spotlighting Dragon Age: Origins with a darker AU twist. Plotting and polishing text is my joy, and I channel that into New Bad Beginning — a gritty, morally gray exploration of Morrigan’s rise during the Fifth Blight. Expect war, blood magic, political intrigue, trauma, and a survival‑driven anti‑heroine who stops being merely support and starts rewriting her own destiny. Currently posted on AO3: New Bad Beginning – 8+ chapters (Mature) [https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590] Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated! This blog is: - A space for fandom vibes: teasers, moodboards, and fic updates - A place to discuss edits, narrative voices, or Dragon Age lore - A friendly corner—say hi anytime or ask about the writing process!

[newbadbeginning]

Title: New Bad Beginning Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: Mature (Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence; war, blood magic, trauma) Genre: Dark Fantasy / Anti-Heroine / War / Magic / Political Intrigue / Trauma / Mystery Tags: POV Morrigan · Blood Magic · Fade Demons · Madness · Dragon Age Lore · Grey Wardens · The Blight · Morally-Gray Characters

Summary: Morrigan steps out of the Warden’s shadow and into the centre of the Fifth Blight. When Flemeth’s daughter leaves the Korcari Wilds, there is no chosen hero waiting—only a witch prepared to bargain with demons, Grey Wardens and kings if it keeps her alive. Ferelden’s fate tilts on the choices of someone who never claimed to be a saviour.

This is a long, lore-heavy canon divergence that pulls in characters and plot threads from Origins, Awakening and DA2. Expect major changes to familiar events, political scheming between Ferelden, Orlais and the Chantry, and a protagonist who treats people as pieces on a board… until some of those pieces start to matter more than she planned.

Excerpt:

“She had never sought to lead — yet here she stood, at the edge of ruin…”

Start here: Chapter 1 on AO3 ▶ https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590

Latest update: Chapter 29 on AO3 ▶ https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590/chapters/231832426 Reblog appreciated!

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 23...

   — Splendid… What, then, was my mother’s design for me?

   — A cunning question. Assumptions are like shadows on a cave wall. But if you must… Flemeth saw the gravest threat to the world if the dragon-kin were exterminated. And so she sought a way not only to preserve them, but also to devise a method to bestow upon people the gift of the winged ones—what makes dragons exceptional.

   — What gift?

   — The gift to strengthen the Veil through one’s very existence. Likely, the daughter became for Flemeth another stepping stone toward that goal.

   — And you considered this ironic before? Why?

   — Templars.

   — They have the same gift?

   — Precisely. And it manifested without any involvement from Flemeth. The long path simultaneously justified itself and… led nowhere. It is difficult for us to imagine what we would feel, were we to encounter such a dead end on our own journey—one that forces a reevaluation of every step taken and every sacrifice made.

   — What, exactly, must we do now?

   — A good way to say ‘yes’ without uttering the word itself. We will implant the ‘Whisper of the Maker’ into the mind of everyone involved in the blood rituals that have miraculously flourished here. That is already a significant contribution. Beyond that, we will give a few hints—sufficient to convincingly play the role of the chosen one. After that, it will only be a matter of not blundering, and leading the newly formed force back to the Seeker. Your task is to create and command a force so that it does not remain useless or unpredictable. What follows depends on your free will.

   — I’ll pretend those last words didn’t sound like mockery. If my mother arranged everything here so that people, in their own delusion about dragons, would care for them—where do the blood rituals come from?

   — The faith of this splinter of Andrastianism contained the idea of the miraculous properties of the ashes of the ‘Bride of the Maker.’ An inseparable bond. Flemeth took advantage of the fading of faith over so many generations and granted a miracle. Dragons inspire not only terror, but—given time, or proper guidance—also awe. And the idea of rebirth stirs the minds of mortals, whose span is so brief, from the very beginning. And so: a living embodiment of faith. But if the miracles of the dead were contained in ashes, what now shall serve as the conduit? Dragon’s blood. Or… any blood. The dragons, in turn, used human invention—marking with blood those who served faithfully, so as to distinguish the ‘wingless’ by their scent. That, in turn, opened a path for us and our gifts, turning an invention into genuine miracles wherever we saw use.

   Morrigan clenched her fists, lowering her eyes:

   — Clever…

   — Envy?

   — Perhaps. Where do I look for new answers about myself?

   Zibenkek’s stone-like face suddenly came alive—the lips twisted into a smirk, like a cat seeing a mouse:

   — To close the circle without our involvement, you must reach Aeonar.

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 23...

   Straightening, the girl moved toward the next oak doors, beyond which opened a view of a circular hall largely devoid of a floor. A floor did exist—but far below, at the bottom of a pit about fifteen paces down. In the dim light of lamps set around the hall at eye level, it was hard to make out anything definite down there beyond bare stone. A narrow strip of flooring, made of large monolithic blocks, ran along the wall to the right and left only halfway around, offering no hope of leaping to the opposite side. But across the center of the void stretched a narrow bridge. Strangely, it seemed to be made of the same monolithic blocks, as if suspended in emptiness with no support at all. Crouching at the very start of the crossing and peering closely, Morrigan realized the bridge resembled a thin illusion—no, wait—her gaze could intermittently see through it to the far wall of the pit, even the floor below.

   — The weary, if not half-dead, brave would step meekly forward, only to end their journey a few heartbeats later. Clever… And merciless.

   Turning to the guardian, who once again stood not far behind her in the doorway, the girl asked:

   — I wonder what ideal this trap is meant to reveal. A cunning, skilled warrior who anticipates treachery in every detail? Or a wise and mighty mage, able to decipher spells—and then force a path by power? Are only such worthy of touching the ashes of the ‘Bride of the Maker’? I’ll tell Leliana; the joke will be memorable. Just a guess, but beneath this complex lies a natural lyrium vein, doesn’t it? That’s why this place was chosen?

   The being frowned, but finally nodded. The motion drew a smirk from the girl. Morrigan had caught the creature in a petty attempt to give an ambiguous answer—capitalizing on the questioner’s misstep while not uttering a single lie. A trait characteristic of a principled spirit of “faith.” Reading its own error in the open emotions of its interlocutor, the spirit grimaced and said:

   — Yes. Beneath us lies an ancient and rich lyrium vein, rising from the depths and miraculously overlooked by the Stone-born in the distant past. All the enchantments here are sustained by its frozen radiance. Light, warmth, and more… You should focus on the obstacle, not on conversation.

   Morrigan nodded, drawing the last lyrium concoction from her belt. Tipping the potion into her mouth and suppressing the urge to retch, she allowed herself a moment to catch her breath and, under the guardian’s surprised gaze, began to remove her clothing, carefully tying her garments into a bundle. When she stood naked before the illusory crossing, she hissed softly through her teeth, imbuing the magic of transformation with mana.

   The transformation passed quickly—the process had become almost routine for her, like a warrior worrying at a scab on an old, slow-healing wound. Near the end, awareness of what was happening once again washed over her with a bone-deep chill. But shaking off her unease, Morrigan picked up the clothing bundle with one of her hands and, using the others, began confidently traversing the circular wall toward the opposite exit of the hall. The whole time, as the claws on her hands scraped horribly against the stone, catching on the smallest cracks, the guardian’s gaze burned into her back. Without turning, it was hard for the witch to tell whether hostility or surprise predominated in that stare… AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 23...

   A head larger than Morrigan swayed ponderously, then lowered. The mighty predator studied her; whether from curiosity or condescension, she couldn’t tell. But instead of halting at a distance, it pressed its scaly brow to her forehead—scales rough as ancient bark. Taken aback, Morrigan froze, as though turned to ice.

   Silence broke under a low voice that did not echo at all, as if it rose inside the witch’s own skull. Sounds and words, reverberating in her bones and teeth, coalesced into coherent speech—yet carried an odd, drawn-out inflection she had never heard anywhere.

   — Child… Have you come to us?

   Blinking in surprise, Morrigan hesitated, scrabbling for an answer that fit:

   — No. I seek what has been hidden here since antiquity. You are not my quarry.

   The dragon didn’t move in response to her disjointed reply in thought, resembling a statue more than a living creature. That ability to become utterly still made the witch wonder: how could such massive beings remain unseen, and strike without warning? Still receiving no answer, Morrigan caught herself. On a sudden hunch, she repeated the words aloud.

   The dragon blinked—at last, a sign of reaction—and once more filled the witch’s mind with its voice:

   — Child… Because of the dead one…

   This time Morrigan caught the strange intonation. It was as if the beast had expected something else—and made no effort to hide the surprise, the disappointment, that seeped through its veil of indifference. In that monstrous form, expressiveness now lived only in the eyes.

   — I am not a child.

   Silence hung between them. Morrigan mentally cursed her own sharpness, her curiosity.

   — That is a strange thing to hear.

   After a brief pause, the voice continued:

   — For the wingless, each sunrise brings hurry and clamour. They die, are born, depart and arrive. To mark every single one would be wasteful. But your scent… is familiar. No mistake. You are the child of the one who once held out her hand for our protection.

   Morrigan opened her mouth, questions already rushing to spill out—but reining herself in, she spoke far more calmly:

   — Flemeth?

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 22...

   After five caverns and one fork—where she chose the branch that breathed cold freshness along the floor—daylight finally ghosted into view.

   She paused to catch her breath and moved towards it. At first it was only a bright blot at the end of a widening passage. Then the passage opened onto a broad rock ledge dusted with falling snow.

   At the threshold she could finally take in the space.

   It was a stone bowl so vast it made the body feel small. A flat platform spread ahead—at least a hundred paces across—while sheer cliffs rose around it and vanished into the belly of the clouds. Once, she guessed, ice had pooled here; as it melted, it had carved the chain of caverns through the mountain.

   On the far side of the bowl, a man-made arch had been cut into the monolith. Behind it stood gates of the same metal as the doors far below. Before the gates, a dozen people in identical clothing had gathered, most holding spears.

   And there—among them—the warrior in mail, gesturing with his heavy axe as he spoke low to the crowd.

   Morrigan’s gaze didn’t linger. It slid right and up, drawn by movement along the cliffs.

   Two dragons lounged on narrow ledges—unreachable by any wingless creature.

   One was elegant: smooth bluish-grey scales from muzzle to tail, deepening to rich azure along the belly. The second, half again as large, was pure white—sharp lines, rough protrusions, a massive jaw. Female and male, plainly.

   And it was the larger, white one that watched Morrigan—amber eye a hard coin against the snow of its hide.

   Slowly it lifted its wedge-shaped head from its paws and drew in a loud breath. For a moment that single sound seemed to fill the bowl, cutting through the people’s murmurs and pinning Morrigan’s attention to the creature.

   Then the dragon moved.

   Without spreading its wings, it leaned forward—and because of its size it seemed to fall in slow motion, sliding from a dizzying height down towards the stone.

   Impact.

   The mountain itself seemed to flinch. A tremor ran through Morrigan; her teeth clicked; nearby stones jumped; a thin veil of snow leapt into the air like a silver plume. In a few sweeping strides the dragon burst through the cloud and stood before her, regarding her with amber eyes.

   Morrigan found no words for how lightly she had once spoken—there, to Tristan—of killing a creature like this. Nor for the depth of her anger at Zibenkek’s demand. All of it fell away before a simpler question, bare as bone:

   And what now?

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 22...

    Its surface had only recently been calm; new ice had sealed it, but a block as big as a mare—fallen not long ago—had smashed through, instantly feeding the watercourse that began there.

   On the far side, when she looked west, the opposite slope rose—and soon ended in a sheer rock wall. There, in a narrow strip between snow and fog, an entrance had been carved into the monolith. A Temple? No. Morrigan flatly refused to call the place something so pompous. Yet the characteristic columns in bas-relief, the deliberately massive, old-fashioned ornamentation—it all hinted… The witch herself did not know why this composition, lost amid ice and stone, felt vaguely familiar. Not as a whole, but in certain features. Her gaze, as if drawn along a taut string, slid over the wind-smoothed curves of the rock, relentlessly stirring a strange, undefined echo within. Soon her keen sight picked out, in the single entrance’s black maw, the faint curve of a human form. But it was far easier to be deceived at such a distance than to see the truth. Squinting, Morrigan strained her tired eyes, trying to separate imagination from reality.

   Suddenly—a sharp crunch of snow behind her...

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 22...

   Every drop of blood that fell on the snow drew a pattern that almost resembled runes. The irony didn’t escape her—here was true magic: not intricate formulas, but simple animal fury, forcing her to grip a dagger even as her fingers went numb with pain. There was a twisted sense to it: to survive, one had to become a beast, if only a little.

   Unfortunately, the dirty work now lay ahead, and fire was unavoidable. She might have risked eating a few lake fish raw; the meat of a forest predator, though, would tempt her only if she were at death’s door.  The risk of contracting some contagion the carcass had picked up from its victims, season after season, was far too great. Brushing herself off and trying to scrub away the blood with snow, she pondered the spell that today—again—had secured victory. Perhaps it was the first time her thoughts had taken this course. A reliable, unfailing tool—like nothing else—suited the southern witch, almost devoid of fear and so tolerant of pain. Of course, Morrigan’s mind, in its habitual way, sifted through facts, arguments, questions; but what sparked her interest wasn’t the strangeness of the “fortunate coincidence.” It was the principles by which the spell worked…

   The more the witch examined her magic from this angle, the more surprised she grew. Yes, she could pick apart the trick that chose the spell’s target, or the cleverness that made the magic—almost alive—stretch like a ribbon toward the victim. Such an internal monologue would have made a neat demonstration of how combining disparate runes widened what she understood of their meanings. With enough diligence and time, she might even have built from scratch a spell to detect a living target nearby, modest in size—say, larger than a cat. It would have been trickier to add runes that kept the target from slipping away once it moved. And the real difficulties began where she had to decide how to draw life-force from the victim, and how much was needed to heal the caster precisely. For all her confidence, she hadn’t fully grasped how complex that was. Now she couldn’t even guess how many runes such a spell would require—certainly many times more than the portion that still remained largely opaque to her. And so an ironic question surfaced: how did this magic actually work? And yet Flemeth had taught her strict discipline—three clean layers, and not a trace of those “demonic,” tangled connections that multiplied a spell’s depth beyond reasonable limits. As Leliana might say: nowhere to hide anything.

   Lastly, one simple question rose, slow and stubborn, from the depths: why had her curiosity latched onto this precisely now? Was the moment special? Frowning, Morrigan admitted the reason surely lay not in her own insight or knowledge. The push had come from chance remarks—those poisonous seeds of doubt the Pride and Zibenkek had sown so skillfully in her mind. Both entities had spoken of her magic in strangely pointed terms.

   Morrigan released a puff of steam into the frosty air and shook her head sharply. Not the time for philosophical musings. She had work to do—before loneliness invited a new guest…

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 22...

   And yet Morrigan could now say more about the purpose of her journey. Her talks with her companion about power did not cancel the selfish desire lurking in the shadow of rational plans. News of the “defilement” of sacred remains—wasn’t that the perfect way to write one’s name into history? Such tidings spread faster than the plague. Well—wasn’t that fame? The witch also understood her further path. Step by step. Morrigan admitted it would be foolish to wish to climb where beings like Zibenkek dwelled. Certainly not now… But here, among the flesh-clad, there were still peaks worth wanting.

   Thus the day ended quietly. Morrigan had to hurry to find shelter for the night, for she could no longer light a fire in the open. She could easily imagine watchful foreign eyes: not keen enough to pick out a lone figure on foot in the distance by day—yet how could they miss a flame in the darkness at night? Leliana needed, for as long as possible, to remain the only traveler who had reached the “Refuge” openly.

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 29 — Claw is up.

The refugee camp is cold, sick, and one bad word away from bloodshed.

Morrigan steps in to make order before faith does the killing for everyone.

Then the knife finds her first.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590/chapters/231832426

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 22...

   The red-haired maid fell thoughtful for a moment.

   — Since we’re trading advice… Don’t let your curiosity lead you too far. Agreed?

   — All quite reasonable remarks. We shall see what comes of it for both of us. In any case… When I’m done, I’ll collect you here myself. It would be troublesome to return without the mare. Although… My intuition suggests someone will be waiting for us on the Highway.

   — A Seeker?

   — Well… Not in person. But whose will would it be, if not hers? Given the speed of messenger birds, an advance party of mounted Templars from Orlais is quite likely. We’ll see…

   Leliana let out a short sigh—a whitish puff of steam hung for a moment in the frosty air, as if reluctant to disperse. Surveying the gloomy horizon, the girl said haltingly:

   — Then… good luck. And don’t freeze.

   Without waiting for a reply, the bard moved toward a spot where the mare could descend without balking at a misstep. So she did not see, behind her back, how Morrigan’s lips stretched into a predatory grin, and in her eyes flashed that strange golden-red glimmer.

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Thedas Weekend — Another’s Hand in the Snow

Prompts used (with credit):

@griffongrey — Leliana and something about her work as a bard / Left Hand

@potatofantiger — feeling watched/followed but unable to pinpoint why

@micapocalypse — feeling of wrongness for Leliana

CW: manipulation, coercive providence, paranoia / being watched, Templar threat

Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)

Note: Leliana’s old work is not only knives, smiles, and songs. Sometimes it is noticing when silence changes texture. When a path that should feel dangerous begins to feel almost comfortable. When a conversation about politics becomes a conversation about whose hand has been moving whom all along. Here the wrongness is quiet at first: a pressure in the snow, a game with too many players, a faith that may be guidance or leash. Then the forest answers in simpler language. Someone is watching. Vir’abelasan. Suledin.

Excerpt:

At one point, as though she’d settled something privately, Leliana openly addressed Morrigan, striding beside her horse’s flank. There were remnants of doubt in her voice—caution, and a hint of anticipation she tried to hide, even from herself:

— If, despite all the dangers, we're going to immerse ourselves in one of the darkest of pursuits, we should discuss the price.

A shadow flitted across Morrigan's face, twisting into a sinister smirk.

— I can't help noticing that, these past few days, the “price” of my every step has been troubling you. As though you'll have to pay it, not me.

Leliana briefly glanced at the spearmen, but Morrigan, ignoring the warning, continued:

— There's no point hiding behind euphemisms. Your skill is going to waste. These warriors are part of what's happening, as much as we are. And starting with petty secrets… a dubious move. They'd sooner hear about politics from you than from me. But to hint at the price…

The witch shot Leliana a sharp upward look and spelled it out:

— It's not so hard to guess what this is about.

Leliana, holding the reins in her good hand, shook her head, faintly puzzled:

— Admit it—it's strange to expect understanding…

— From one who is, essentially, a girl from the backwoods of the world?

— Precisely.

— Doubt is warranted. Let's test my discernment. The goal of politics is power. It's less a science than the art of ruling. Either there are no rules—or there are countless. And one must remember: the choice of tools changes both the result and the “politician” themselves. So “love” is better than spears, yet a love of spears is prized above all else. Oh, yes… and every weakness is an opportunity for an enemy. Strip away the clever words, and it's simply the survival of a lone hunter in a dark, unfamiliar forest.

Noticing the flicker of smiles on the faces of some of the younger spearmen, the bard nodded to her interlocutor and clarified:

— I'm probably already used to your oddities. Which, logically, should have put me on my guard. A wildling from the Korkari, on par with a bard from the capital of Orlais, holding forth on almost-philosophical subtleties of “politics.” In any other situation, nothing could have convinced me otherwise: you'd be a wretched actress who can't hold her tongue. Fine. But have you considered that weakness isn't found only in you, but in your companions as well?

Chuckling, the witch patted the horse on the flank:

— Yes. Lately, such thoughts have often distracted me from other matters. Doubt is the shadow of those who can think. Speaking of which… earlier, the Seeker kept me on a short leash—tight, and in quite a hurry. Now Tristan is as weak as ever and full of fear. Yet he still craves answers. On top of that, he believes he needs a firm hand for an honest conversation. It's no wonder Tristan now tries to claim something important from me.

[...]

The descent took the same two days the young women had needed for the ascent. And after long days of foul weather, the clouds finally tore apart, letting through pale rays of sunlight. In that light, the ancient bridge of the Imperial Highway caught the sun—its dark silhouette looming over the river, whose waters, though bound by ice, continued to murmur beneath it. The metallic tang of the frosty air had finally mingled with the heavy scent of pine. Shielding her eyes from the winter sun as it slipped behind cloud and reappeared, Morrigan frowned. Her muttering was barely audible:

— A blizzard would have been better. A clear sky is completely out of place…

Less than fifteen minutes later, Schtille, walking second, clapped the lead man on the shoulder. The man had scarcely said a dozen words over the entire trek. Now, too, he only pointed in silence to the right of the bridge: a thin wisp of smoke, and patches of white canvas among the snow-capped pines. An unfamiliar camp lay higher up the slope, under the Highway's shelter, where the wind lost its fury.

[...]

Morrigan and Leliana felt the weight of glances—the warriors, in silence, acknowledged that the witch's warning had come true. But Morrigan only squeezed the leader's shoulder in gratitude and, with a slight nod, motioned for him to take the lead, as they had agreed.

A dozen paces later, one of the older men said so softly it was almost lost:

— Fresh meat on the coals—newcomers.

Schtille nodded and added hoarsely:

— So they've been waiting.

Leliana, leading the pack animal, swept the treeline with a glance before voicing her thought:

— We are being watched.

Morrigan grinned, restrained, and agreed:

— To hunt well here, they'd need archers riding with the patrol. But you can't sit among the branches for long in this cold. That's why the birds have fallen silent.

The moment the party started up the slope, several figures emerged from among the trees. Identical thick jackets; fur cloaks with hoods—everything sewn to keep the cold from reaching the body even after long hours in the saddle. Scabbards at their hips. And when one of them turned to signal someone back in camp, Morrigan's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of simple embroidery on the heavy, dark fabric: an upturned white sword. The word slipped out before she meant it, cold and keen as a blade:

— Templars…

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590 (Chapter 25) @thedasweekend

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 22...

   As they pushed on, finding firewood grew harder, but early in the second day’s march Morrigan took pains to gather a hefty bundle of kindling and lash it to the mare, threaded through with thin hazel branches. Later, it saved the girls from the dank chill entrenched in the shadowy ravine, which seemed determined to leach warmth even from bone. There was no hunting here at all. Only occasionally did the witch’s sharp eyes catch, against the sky, the silhouette of a lone mountain cat, watching the strange phenomenon below with interest.

   When, despite the early hour, the ravine filled with shadow and gloom, a hint of open space teased them ahead. Soon the grim walls began to part—reluctantly—revealing the broad basin of an ancient mountain lake, now transformed into a wide valley with gentle slopes, cloaked in fir forest and snow. Leliana walked with her eyes lowered. Her legs burned; her eyelids felt glued shut—the valley’s beauty existed somewhere beyond her awareness, like an illustration in a book kept shut. More often than not, it was sheer will that kept the bard on her feet. By evening, little remained of Leliana but a shell—empty, shivering, dull-eyed. She dropped by the fire as if cut down and sank at once into sleep, as if switched off. Morrigan, in contrast, was alert. Her eyes—sharp as a predator’s—searched for the pillar, as if their lives depended on it. Crossing the valley would cost them half a day more, and upstream lay only impassable rapids and waterfalls. The landmark soon appeared where it should: to their left. The valley’s slopes were brittle and, over time, had yielded—first to water, then to wind and sun and the turning of the seasons. But that pillar—the ancient marker Zibenkek had spoken of—stood alone among the firs. Built of hard slate, it had weathered centuries as if waiting for them. Grey, made up of rounded, knotted forms, it did not look impressive at a distance. Yet it rose twenty paces high and, beside the surrounding trees, would have been imposing up close.

   Hoisting her companion—squinting toward the sun hanging above the ridge—Morrigan set off to find a stream feeding into the river. They needed a campsite near water before dark, and then there would be more work if they wanted any comfort. The path onward led southwest, toward a village hidden somewhere in that direction, and caution meant they couldn’t risk a free-burning fire. For it was known there was only one deadly predator in the wild that moved toward smoke and flame instead of fleeing them.

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Thedas Weekend — The Captive in the Chevalier’s Tent

Prompts used (with credit):

@tiredtruffle — Morrigan + Leliana + captured by the enemy

CW: captivity, bound prisoner, abuse aftermath, coercive military power, dehumanization

Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)

Note: This is not a literal capture scene for Morrigan and Leliana. It is the cleaner, colder echo: the enemy is not always across the battlefield, and captivity does not always wait behind locked doors. Sometimes it sits in a warm tent, arranged like furniture, made ordinary by rank, fatigue, and the habits of men who expect the world to move around their appetites. Morrigan follows the shape of power. Leliana watches the man using it. Tel’Abelas. Vir’abelasan.

Excerpt:

At last, the improvised cavalry encampment. Morrigan had not chosen this particular company at random. It was the only one that had not settled near the fortress, enjoying the comfort of surviving houses and barns. Instead, it was on a ridge, using only the stone arches of the Imperial Highway, snow, the trunks of felled trees, hay wagons, and tents in a checkerboard pattern for shelter and cover. The result was excellent protection from the bay’s wind. Streamers of smoke coiling around the massive base of the old Imperial road hinted at warmth. The neighing of warhorses made the place almost cozy. One might think these warriors were ready for difficult decisions. But no—this company wanted to be used for its intended purpose at the first opportunity, and was known not only for skill but also for pride mixed with stubbornness.

Morrigan surveyed the well-organized camp. A single figure walked toward them. Not tall, but a sturdy Orlesian with a clean-shaven face composed entirely of noble features, sky-colored eyes, and a straight posture. At least forty winters. The chevalier’s grim face bore the marks of exhaustion and lack of sleep. The man nodded to Ron. A polished gesture containing exactly as much respect as required—not a hair more. Then he « noticed» Morrigan and Leliana, ignoring the others. A deep voice underscored the beauty of the Orlesian tongue:

— Je suis ravi de faire la connaissance d’une si grande dame. Votre réputation, Madame, n’est que trop fidèle à la réalité.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows—surprise and delight in one expression:

— Oh-ho-ho… My reputation, Leliana? Subtle, elegant. I’m pleased. My task is precisely to make people know about me. That is imperative. What is under their skulls—less important. Introduce yourself.

The chevalier gave a weary snort but did not lose face, maintaining tone, gaze, and expression:

— Overnight, something may have changed. Forgive me if I am not informed. Here the cavalry officer cast a cautious glance at Ron. — But fine ladies have no military rank or service record. Quite the opposite—they are their own authority. So I recommend you address higher command for my name.

— Meaning subordination is not an empty word for you? At least when it protects you.

— As you wish. May I ask the purpose of your visit?

Behind the chevalier, a fire crackled dully; the scent of resin from burning pine branches mixed with the stench of horse manure. From one of the tents came a man’s cough.

— I’m curious. Your reputation is also extraordinary.

— Ah, you are seeking entertainment at our expense. Don’t bother, my lady. It is dirty, cold, and nothing more.

Morrigan’s crimson gaze slid toward the bard, taking on a questioning tint. Pale-green eyes looked back confidently. Nodding, the mage continued:

— Is that so… I heard otherwise. Fine stallions, frightened mares. Since we are here, will you show off your talent for laying out a camp?

The chevalier frowned even more deeply, throwing a questioning look at Ron, but from him came neither help nor hint. He seemed only to wish that this dragging moment would pass quickly.

— Very well…

— Excellent!

Having formally received an invitation, Morrigan glided with a light step across the packed snow among tents and horses, as though she had spent the past days entirely here, swinging a wooden shovel and a heavy axe. Other chevaliers along the way looked at the procession in surprise, shifted their gaze to the commanding officer—who hurried after them, lest he be entirely pushed aside. Some wanted to intervene with a sharp word, to shut her mouth—only to meet two red dots blazing from under her hood. Some dared to reach out a hand, only to find a long spear-point at their throat to the sound of Templar blades being drawn—and promptly backed off. Twice behind her, hot whispers reached Ron: — This is pointless, insulting, and breaks discipline. Convey my words to the marshal.

Finally, Morrigan stopped before another tent, partially surrounded by a snowbank and dusted with a thin white layer mixed with rime on the heavy cloth. Compared to the others—nothing special.

— Speaking of boring things…

The chevalier’s eyes searched the mage’s features for an answer to the charade before him. And the witch sought in the Orlesian’s face even a shadow of foresight. After a minute’s pause, neither side got the satisfaction they wanted. Leliana sighed heavily. Ron frowned.

Morrigan nodded to herself, slid her gaze sideways—toward where she thought the least noticeable member of her retinue stood—and yanked back the heavy tent flap, releasing precious warmth. The interior was not ascetic, exactly, but functional. Everything necessary was in its place, arranged for its owner’s hand, who within this dwelling was king and god. And in the corner, treated as no more than part of the furnishings, was a partly stripped, tightly bound elf barely past twenty winters. No gag. A bruise blooming on her cheekbone. Rope already leaving marks. The broken stare of a hunted doe. Streaks of long-dried tears. She jerked, trying to curl into an invisible ball, afraid even to moan, but the bonds only tightened.

Reactions varied. Ron clicked his tongue, swore indistinctly, stepped forward. Only Morrigan’s searing gaze stopped him, forcing him to wait for the denouement on her terms. The Highlanders locked their thoughts and emotions away among strangers, as the Chosen had taught them. The Templars’ gloves creaked on sword hilts. The elf’s fate likely did not concern them much, but a breach of order did. Sharpest of all was the look from the elf behind their backs, safely veiled in insignificance and obedience. Leliana simply averted her eyes—on the surface embarrassed, but in truth watching the chevalier closely.

Note (post): This is an interpretive match: Morrigan and Leliana confront an enemy-held captive, rather than being captured themselves.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590 (Chapter 28) @thedasweekend

[newbadbeginning]

Thedas Weekend — Dawn Beside the Bandaged Apprentice

Prompts used (with credit):

@potatofantiger — Bethany Hawke and “sunlight”

@micapocalypse — Bethany hurt/comfort

@opheliatrevelyan — Bethany with an apprentice dynamic and Morrigan + Bethany + cold / a glimpse of how they might interact

CW: serious injury aftermath, trauma aftermath, pain, exhaustion

Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)

Note: The sunlight here is thin, Fereldan, almost ungenerous: not a golden cure, not a blessing, just weak dawn finding its way into a room that has not finished counting the cost of the night. Bethany is alive, but not untouched. Morrigan’s care is not soft in any ordinary way; it comes through calculation, irritation, vigilance, and the grim practical work of keeping an apprentice from slipping further into pain. Sometimes comfort is only this: someone colder than you refusing to leave. Abelas. Suledin.

Excerpt:

In the weak dawn light, the shadow of her lashes slid over her cheekbones as she shifted her gaze to Tralin. Aloud, however, she said something else:

— Predictable. Isolde was the weak link their enemies exploited. A chink in the armour. But sometimes… to rid yourself of weakness is akin to killing yourself. The Arl is no less to blame—preferring blind comfort within the family to constant vigilance. Perhaps this whole affair began with his weakness, not his wife’s.

Tralin’s gaze stayed on her. He gave nothing away—acceptance or disagreement—only silence. After a pause, he said:

— The decisions are for the Seeker to make. Are we safe?

Morrigan shook her head, more bemused than affirmative.

— Strange words to hear from a Templar. Safer than before, I suppose. A powerful Fade-spawn can do much, if it doesn’t care what it costs. You’d know better than I would. Strangely enough, what happened to the tower at Grintorn comes to mind… No cause, no catalyst—yet the building vanished into the Fade. Entirely.

Morrigan’s brows lifted—genuine surprise. She had never heard of the incident near Orzammar, of a stronghold said to have played no small role in Ferelden’s resistance during the Orlesian occupation. Wrinkling her nose, she went on:

— But otherwise, the demon has no foothold left here.

— Connor?

An unpleasant question. Morrigan shot him a look; wariness flared in her gold eyes before she answered:

— If his mind isn’t destroyed, a talented healer could bring the young mage back to the living. Or a miracle. The main thing—as Tristan wanted—is that the Arl’s son’s blood still runs true.

— Understood. Then I will go to the chantry. To report what’s happened… and request reinforcements.

Morrigan inclined her head, not letting Tralin out of her sight, and added:

— I’ll be here.

- - -

With the arrival of Bann Teagan, Ser Pert, several Sisters of Light, and volunteers who had come to help with the wounded and the work of the household, Redcliffe Fort bustled. Snow crunched under boots and shovels; axes thudded; woodsmoke rose from stoves; doors slammed; voices carried—shouts and curses.

Morrigan had settled in the guest room on the first floor of the main building, where Bethany lay. A fireplace there kept steadily dancing tongues of flame; a sofa held the bandaged apprentice; and a soft chair had been brought down from the second floor, and Morrigan sank into it. Her young companion occasionally muttered indistinct words; she only rarely surfaced before slipping back into sleep. The injured girl needed a mage capable of healing. Local healers hoped such injuries might mend with time—and help—if one accepted that her arm was gone for good, like Tristan’s. Few, even among fighters, learned to live with that unaided. Wynne and the others—if they had not perished on the road—were not expected at Redcliffe Fort for another two or three weeks. Her mentor could only watch over her, hope… and then do it all over again.

Morrigan herself, too, was giving in to dark ruminations. Too many impressions and questions had piled up. Her thoughts darted like frightened rats—close at hand, yet she couldn’t seize a single one by the tail. More than anything, Morrigan was troubled by her helplessness. Once again. And though the whisper of logic tried to reassure her—the enemy had proven far beyond the “ordinary” and even the “extraordinary,” and it was only to be expected she was no match for it—somewhere deep inside, pride whispered otherwise…

Yet, as always, Morrigan forced herself past frustration and onto what was useful. She began to pick apart what had happened, methodically, not skipping from fear to fascination to strategy. She decided to start with Tristan’s pact. As soon as she weighed the facts, what Pride had called a “trifle” dwarfed her recent “adventure” beyond the Veil.

The catch was that it was not the Seeker who turned intent into fact by shaping a spell and feeding it mana. The work was done by a hidden force, presumably dwelling beyond the near-unbreakable Veil. Firelight played in Morrigan’s golden eyes as she moved from one fact to the next, as if along a long shelf in a library. The ability to detect possession—with caveats known only to Tristan himself. How could such a thing be conceived? Abstractly… Morrigan wet her lips and dared to imagine it would require nothing less than taking full hold of a victim’s mind and wrenching out the truth: who was in charge. Not a harmless trick. Not a painless one. And if the victim did not yield willingly, their will would rise like a wall. Morrigan knew the limits of mind magic, even at a distance: it was better at breaking than shaping.

And yet, for a definitive answer, the Seeker had needed only to mark the target with his own blood. Even the power that served as the source of the Seekers’ original gifts seemed close at hand. In Morrigan’s opinion, that entity had no reason to play hide-and-seek.

She remembered the Fade—her recent, bitter lesson in perspective. What was immeasurably complex for a mage might be simple for one who saw differently. For the demoness who had clenched Connor’s mind in her fist, Morrigan’s weakness had looked like a genuine flaw. For the force behind Tristan’s pact, possession might stand out against the general background as clearly as a lone hill on a plain.

But Morrigan seized on something else as the main point: the ability to see through the Veil what was necessary, without disturbing it in the slightest. As if it… wasn’t there. One short mental step, and she pushed the thought further. The ability to find the possessed hidden in plain sight—or even at some distance. Similar enough. But… Morrigan frowned, considering. If finding the possessed required no marking at all—only the right “question,” are there any nearby?—then the unknown creature’s reach must be far broader, and the Seeker received only a pitiful fraction. A reflection. Someone on the other side, ceaselessly watching countless places in the Waking, and—at a price set not by calculation but by whim—handing answers to those willing to pay.

A logical guess. A chilling one. Morrigan’s mouth tightened; the thought burned like red-hot metal. One fact spoiled everything. The moment the Seeker had shattered the possessed armor rose vividly before her. That had not looked like an exchange: question, answer. Leaning back in her chair, Morrigan whispered, as if confessing to herself:

— Direct influence…

So this was proof the creature could do more than “answer.” It could kill—or, more simply, affect things through the Veil on par with the mightiest Fade-spawn. Slowly raising her eyes to the indifferent ceiling, Morrigan noted the key difference between this and everything she knew: no tether to a single “here and now.” She rapped herself on the knuckles, mentally. She shouldn’t forget the connection between Tristan’s unknown “patron” and blood magic. Simplified, it could do what traditional magic did—and far more besides. How was the entity drawn into the cycle? A moneylender, trading blood for mana? Tapping her nails on the chair’s arm, Morrigan added the last event to her chain of facts: sending a mage’s consciousness into the Fade. The resemblance to blood magic held—until one accounted for the Seeker himself, with neither a drop of mana nor a grain of talent.

And what did Morrigan make of all this, in the end? Her mouth curved into a cold, viscous smile she did not fully understand herself. She needed power—but beyond that, she was scalded by genuine curiosity. And envy.

Later, Morrigan’s thoughts were interrupted by mundane concerns: to wash, to eat, and to try to feed Bethany.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590 (Chapter 20) @thedasweekend

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 22...

   With a bitter snort, Leliana parried:

   — You strike with words like a knife—without mercy, without missing. But you twist it: from your ‘blind risk’ to my problems. You don’t find that strange?

   Morrigan opened her mouth to object, but instead nodded slowly. Now it was the witch’s turn to shake her head, dejected, lips pursed. After a moment, she said:

   — There is... some reason in that... But you see... Power truly is important. It is the tool of control, the guarantee of safety—the source of authority. Though not the only one... There is also knowledge. And we always pay in full: with time, health, sanity, sometimes freedom. How else could it be? And now, on top of that, it’s like pieces of a mosaic scattered across a table—careless, but here and there you start to see a connection, and it’s as if you’re about to get your hands on the truth. The chance that the ‘demon’ knows something is significant. And for answers, we will have to pay, just as for power.

   Her sad green eyes met Morrigan’s burning golden ones—two coins thrown onto the scales of fate—and Leliana nodded.

   — So, it all comes down again to Andraste’s greatest gift. To hope.

   Rolling her eyes toward the grey heavens, Morrigan couldn’t help herself:

   — Well then, propose another path—where nothing needs to be sacrificed!

   — There is none.

   Satisfied, Morrigan nodded, then frowned and cautiously added:

   — Perhaps... this is what ‘victory’ looks like. Well, just in case... I think I should clarify. I can strive to persuade, appeal to reason, justify my point of view. But beyond that, I don’t care. Whether you keep your personal opinion, or it is crushed, matters not. You make your choice, I make mine. And therefore, I have no need for victory as such, and I feel nothing from it.

   Leliana—now freer, without her earlier caution or that shadow of restraint crossing her face—smiled:

   — Your ‘apologies’—they are like a rapier thrust to the heart: precise, deadly, and... elegant. Like everything you do. Chérie, there is a certain charm and freshness in that, which makes you who you are.

   — Better tend to the deer, preacher. Its blood is real.

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 21...

   Leliana answered readily:

   — It sounds like a weighty “but.”

   — Yes… but. It isn’t that simple— not a neat little set of pieces: the Blight, Ferelden, Orlais, and someone behind the scenes aiding the spawn of darkness, cleverly turning another’s game on its head. What slips from view is what unites the two catastrophes. Control. If you look at it coldly— forgetting the collateral victims— the breach at the Hold would have created an army of the possessed. And the leash would have led to a single master. And the arling? A compliant army of possessed dead. Is there any force better suited to clash with the Blight? So it turns out we are not saviors, Leliana. Not at all. We are stones thrown by some clever manipulator— shattering other plans precisely when intended. And it seems our personal troubles share the same root.

   — Um… If I can gather my words… Astounding. I admit, I never looked at events from that angle. Nor would I have. For the thought to even occur— to look for connections in that direction… If I entertain this for a moment. So there is a link between events that look random? Viewed from the right angle, the jumble becomes meaning? Suppose so. What does that give us?

   — Knowledge. Who. When. Why. And from that: what to do. How to survive. Surely more events like the ones we lived through have happened before. We need to learn about them. What brought Tristan to Ferelden at just the right time? That— if we’re lucky— we’ll learn when we return. And what, and why, was erased from my memory.

   — That’s a lot for one conversation. Even for one day. I feel as if I’m drowning in this flood of conclusions— unpleasant, yet not without logic… Folie à deux… What exactly are we seeking on behalf of Zib… well, that creature?

   — Ah. That’s precisely the problem I mentioned before we left. In short: an urn of sacred ashes. But I wouldn’t dare claim whose ashes they truly are.

   A heavy silence fell. Morrigan even began to wonder if she’d pushed too hard, given her companion’s peculiar faith— somehow coexisting with a sharp mind and a life scarcely compatible with Andrastian virtues. Then a sharp question, close to a cry, burst from Leliana:

   — What?..

AO3: LINK

[newbadbeginning]

Chapter 21...

   — You move like an experienced traveler. One who never left the Korcari Wilds. I cannot say I’ve spent months on end far from cities. In the northeastern part of Orlais, it’s hard to imagine going a day’s ride without reaching the next hamlet or at least some ramshackle roadside inn, shrewdly built by enterprising merchants in a good spot. Of course, I’ve been stranded in the middle of a forest for a day or two— less often for a week— but even then I usually traveled along streams, and only in the warm season. Ironically, most of my practical hunting likely came in snatches during my final years in Lothering.

   The mage’s yellow eyes glinted above the tongues of flame, and she murmured her agreement.

   — M-hm…

   Morrigan’s lips barely twitched in a semblance of a smile. Seeing it was useless to ask about the obvious from this quarter, Leliana smoothed over the moment:

   — It’s no wonder those resettling in western Ferelden now prefer to build their villages away from the old highway. Those who’ve returned to these lands at all, that is.

   — Our next stop is near a stream.

   Sighing, Leliana only nodded in reply and met her companion’s wolfish gaze. In the trembling firelight, it gleamed with an unnatural shine, as if it saw more than it should. Without looking, Morrigan shook some crumbs into the fire and said:

   — You know… The forest doesn’t frighten me. Darkness hides much. But ordinary wild beasts— a boar, a wolf pack, even a bear— I can kill any of them. With magic or bare hands. Hm. But the cold, that’s another matter. I can understand you there. Brave words are easy to say by the hearth. It’s different when you’re already on the road. But even now, you haven’t accepted what this means. You could leap onto the mare, hunch low against her withers, beat her flanks with your heels till dawn, and be back by a fireside. Provided the beast doesn’t drop dead first. Tomorrow will be different. You cannot overcome the cold. You cannot outwit it. It’s not like a demon. Cold is a boundless force without beginning or end, crushing life blindly and indifferently. Yet a little strength and knowledge can work wonders.

   Shifting her grip on the hatchet, to the bard’s astonishment the mage began to strip away a layer of soil between the fire and the highway embankment— roughly as long as the travelers were tall and two bodies across. As if digging graves, except the depth was again just under an ell. Grunting with effort and fatigue, Morrigan scraped fresh coals into the pit with a branch and replaced the soil. On top went a layer of fluffy pine boughs and the mage’s own coat. Without inviting anyone into this strange bedchamber, the witch pulled on her hat and gloves and lay down as she was.

   — Pull the thick ends of the branches toward the middle of the fire once they’ve burned through. Take off your outer layers to use as blankets, and sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.

AO3: LINK