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!
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 27 on AO3 ▶
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590/chapters/217199511
Reblog appreciated!
— What’s so scary about an empty Imperial Highway?
Her eyes flashed with challenge.
— If you mean the fever, there’s nothing to fear anymore. The locals are well acquainted with fractures of all kinds— and old hunting wounds from beasts that took a man down days before he limped home. Though all that… — She repeated the gesture, gentler now so it wouldn’t look like mockery. — …won’t heal in a day. But beauty isn’t my priority now. And I don’t think you’re heading to the foothills… on foot. I imagine you fear I’ll become dead weight when you meant to travel light. However, in the saddle, my presence won’t much affect our speed. As for the bloodshed… Does the route bypass settlements?
Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, Morrigan admitted honestly:
— No. There’ll be one settlement. Listen. This is foolish. You can’t hear yourself. Barely two days have passed since Tralin had you slung over his shoulder while the fever shook you. I won’t pretend I’m not afraid you’ll collapse mid-journey. And it’s not about “dead weight.” I am no healer. If it happens in the middle of some nameless mountain valley, days from help through snowfall, you will simply… cease to exist.
— Who talks of death like that: “cease to exist”…?
— Leliana, this sudden stubbornness… It’s as if—
The witch fell silent mid-sentence, slowly closing her mouth as she peered into the glinting green eyes opposite her.
— You had a vision. Another “voice.”
Leliana averted her gaze, then slowly lowered her head— wordless confirmation. Morrigan’s fingers brushed her lips before she shook her head in bewilderment and went on:
— Let’s assume. But how do you intend to justify this madness?
With an awkward snort— made awkward by the tightness of her healing face— Leliana answered:
— We’ll see… Someone else would have ended this conversation. But you’re curious about my arguments, aren’t you?
Growing slightly pale, the Seeker asked with apprehension:
— Idol?
— Yes. Given what you’ve said, it’s easy to guess: Zibenkek learned of this place through blood magic. And if the dragon’s their idol, then the valley’s full of idiots…
— Who worship it.
— Yes… Well, and what the ‘old idol’ is, I’ll figure out on the spot.
— If the legend is true…
Throwing up a hand, Morrigan let her irritation spill out:
— Then decide— what do you actually believe? Is the legend true? Then it’s also true that unknown figures from some ancient cult managed to hide the ashes of the great faith’s progenitor from everyone. And then either they perished, or they turned to blood magic and dragon worship. Or do you believe that legends rarely leave the realm of dreams?
— What difference does it make what I believe…
Tristan’s voice sounded weak and dull, but there was not a trace of doubt in it:
— Only what I can do about it matters. Even if Zibenkek sent you to kill a dragon and desecrate the greatest shrine… you’d still go. The relic is considered lost, and we have a host of tangible problems on our hands. And besides… I’m bedridden. But it’s worth thinking, for a moment, about coincidences. You’re not the first in this castle obsessed with the Sacred Ashes as a key to solving problems.
— Oh yes, we’ve ‘talked’…
Morrigan slowly rose, but the rustle as Tristan shifted on the pillow made her turn to him first. The Seeker was trying to sit up, his face contorted in a grimace of pain, but his eyes… Those icy eyes looked at her with inhuman certainty:
— This conversation reminded me… Sometimes, after paying the price for answers, I’m surprised all over again at what those answers cost. Again and again, I get what I need— and in the end, where has it brought me? Don’t mistake this for weakness brought on by sickness. However much the cost has touched me personally, of all the losses I regret only one. The others ultimately became either the consequence of duty, or served some good— as I understand it. But the moment I began seeking an answer to an extremely personal question, and…
Tristan’s fingers twitched on the blanket, weakly but unmistakably pointing at Morrigan.
Morrigan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving half-moons on her skin, but her voice stayed steady:
— Why?
— You are far from an ordinary stranger, wandering the world and stumbling into interesting places. Or interesting events. You are a rare instrument that has ended up in the right place at the right hour. Such a coincidence cannot be accidental. Someone brought you to us— deliberately… But what we cannot control or bend to our will is not worth time. Returning to… the instrument. You will occupy a significant place in the war unfolding around us, ancient as time itself. Seizing the moment, we will tip the scales in our favor.
— Ha.
In response, her interlocutor only raised its brows in question. Morrigan collected herself and clarified:
— And what, in your opinion, is my ‘potential’?
— There is a deep irony in how the enemy, after centuries, repeats our steps. The root causes are different. The method is different. But the result… It is even more ironic to discover that while searching for a rope for a drowning man, he has learned to swim. You, of course, would not understand… Your… ‘mother’ experimented with the draconic line. And progressed much farther than her peers. And here is the result— before us.
Morrigan couldn’t suppress a sharp intake of breath— her eyes widened, her fingers gripping the armrests:
— Me?!
— M-m-m… Well, for instance. When was the last time you had your courses?
Zibenkek smiled, revealing teeth that were too even.
— Don’t scowl. An obvious discrepancy in the facts escaped your notice, not without reason. You can turn that thought over later. So. You need power. You will receive our pact on the following conditions. We will show you a place in the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. You must go there, find a forgotten site, and within it: an abandoned treasure. Then perform a task whose result will aid us— and you.
Melsendre felt the cold blade of fear slowly slide between her shoulder blades. This man didn’t smell of sweat and steel like ordinary soldiers, but of something alien—as if his clothes were steeped in the smoke of distant lands where familiar laws did not apply.
— Why are you wasting time on me?
— Because it is a dance. You take a step, a sweep of the arm—every necessary movement. Some moves seem meaningless, but without them the beauty of the dance dies. Another might casually pluck a flower. But I... am patient. For now.
— Is the flower an allegory? How crude?
Melsendre felt the man’s smile against her back. Something must have shifted in his posture: a faint creak of glove-leather or boot-leather.
— You... are unusual. And that is your value.
— Do not stoop to empty flattery. You want something. And it is certainly not my ‘flower.’ Such men do not waste time on empty dances. My intuition is silent, like a frightened cat in a corner. But whatever you want in the end, I will not serve two masters. Nor am I privy to my patron’s current affairs.
No answer came. Just as the girl began to think her interlocutor had dissolved as he’d appeared, strong hands clad in fine black leather settled on her shoulders, and warm breath brushed her ear—breath that, contrary to expectation, carried the scent of mint and the pungent aroma of unknown herbs. Like the embodiment of a far northern coastline—sea to the horizon.
— You are right. And wrong about the main thing. Your place at Gaspar de Chalons’s side, and the trust he will one day place in you—those are unique. Together, you are like a masterpiece. Exceptional. This dance you share will open so much to you. You simply cannot imagine...
When his footsteps faded, Melsendre took her first full breath of the evening. She plucked an apple from the nearest branch and discovered, to her surprise, that the fruit was worm-ridden. As if the orchard itself was giving her a sign: beauty merely masks the rot.
A pause followed. Tense silence hung while Tristan pinned Morrigan with his gaze, and she—masking her interest—waited without expression. At last he forced it out:
— A month, I suppose.
— Hmm…
Her fingers tapped the armrest.
— So they’re somewhere between Halamshiral and the gates of Orzammar. They’ll cross the southern border with the first blizzards. And even if some passing merchant spots them, winter will serve as a shield. That much is clear. Wynne, I think, will return sooner. Now—next question. The pact.
The Seeker licked his dry lips, glancing sideways at the clay jug and mug on the bedside table. Morrigan poured water without ceremony and helped the sick man drink his fill, buying him the time he needed to think.
— Not now—
— No, no, no.
Morrigan shook her head.
— If not now, the right moment will never come. And if you’re too weak, you won’t be serving that pact for long anyway. Let’s… clear this up.
Rubbing her forehead, the witch went on:
— There is no alliance between us. No friendship either. Unless…
Her mouth twisted.
— A coincidence of interests. You hold my leash—and the promise of my death is the handle. A strong motivation, without the rest. But I wager that leash comes from the same pact. Now ask yourself: would you give your life for mine? You’re a step from the grave. What price will your “patron” exact for a mage’s death? So many questions… It’s not as if I’m free to leave while you’re weak. But you are right: before, I held time in my hands. Now, while you lie abed, how many of your patron’s plans can I ruin? Choose.
Tristan closed his eyes and was silent a moment. Then he said:
Note:
Abandoned homes do not always announce themselves with open doors and silence. Sometimes they are seen from a hilltop: too few columns of smoke, too much clean snow between buildings, roofs gone where roofs should be, rooms left open to the sky as if the house itself had forgotten how to shelter anyone. Redcliffe looks peaceful only from far away. Close enough, the snow is just a shroud.
Abelas. Suledin.
Excerpt:
So, scarcely daring to breathe wrong, the party on foot and horseback finally saw the bay below Redcliffe ahead. Blanketed in fresh snow, it might have passed for a peaceful haven. But to a sharp eye, nothing was missed: how few columns of smoke rose into the sky; how sparse the dark figures moving below; how much pristine whiteness lay unbroken between the buildings; and the roofless shells where snow, instead of resting on shingles, fell straight into empty rooms. Not only the burned houses—also those that had been razed to their foundations in the fire’s wake.
Standing on the crest of the last hill before the descent into the valley, Morrigan spoke aloud, as if to no one—and yet only a step from Marjolaine and Leliana:
— First of Harvest… A whole month has passed. As if it had never been—and already another turn waits.
Leliana didn’t answer. She only tugged the reins lightly and guided the horse down the slope.
Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590 (Chapter 25) @thedasweekend
Later, Morrigan’s thoughts were interrupted by mundane concerns: to wash, to eat, and to try to feed Bethany. And in the course of these tasks, one after another, Isolde caught her—rested a little, perhaps, but not relaxed in the slightest. Fear and pain showed through the thin veneer of the noblewoman like cracks in old porcelain. For reasons Morrigan could not quite name, it stirred something like respect in her, and left her with no desire to dodge a hard truth. Besides, Milady had no wish to make their conversation public; she closed the door firmly behind her.
— Mage…
— Morrigan.
— That name has an interesting origin. It’s not Hasind, is it?
Morrigan’s smirk was grim.
— Got Tralin talking… The Templar’s weak before nobility…
Then, after giving Milady a quick once-over, she added:
— You would know better than I. Mother never told me how she chose my name.
Isolde nodded and went on:
— My husband’s people are of real interest to me. Quite the opposite of indifference. In my youth, the history of these lands fascinated me—the extraordinary interweaving of remnants of Avvar culture, reforged by northern invaders into something new, yet still distinct. Your name, in the ancient Avvar tongues that served as the basis for the Fereldan language, means: “Queen of Ravens.” A strong name. Mine stems from an old Orlesian dialect and means merely: “to rule.” Which I am trying to do… perhaps not in the best way. Tell me, “Queen,” what of my son? What is there to hope for? And can one even speak of hope here?
At those words, it was as if a mask slipped from Morrigan; pretense vanished without a trace. She had never known the meaning of her own name, but she knew this much: the “mad” Flemeth never did anything simply for amusement. Much could look like amusement… until the appointed time arrived.
— The enemy proved too formidable. I killed Connor in his own dream, on the other side of the Veil. Meaningless words to an outsider. In plain terms: the boy’s mind is damaged—likely beyond repair. That is the price of liberation. His and ours. I cannot forbid you to hope. The heart won’t stop beating. And perhaps a healer of great knowledge will reach us in time. You are likely sick of patience by now. But I cannot offer anything else.
The inconsolable mother bit her lip until it bled, staring at the floor. After a minute of silence, she said, almost inaudibly:
— To wait again…
— Yes.
Morrigan’s answer made Isolde flinch, and the girl continued:
— It resembles a spider’s web. You’re caught. And no matter how much you struggle, the end is already clear—only death is in no hurry to grant release. Each of you faces a choice: to keep choosing, or to stop. To open your eyes, or to press on blindly. To go on for something—or for someone—or…
She exhaled, her voice flattening.
— To you this is only air—shreds of meaningless phrases. You know… you’d do better speaking to any “Sister of Light.” Or there—across the bay at the chantry—a companion is coming to her senses. Leliana. In some measure, she is a specialist in wounded and bleeding hearts. Tell her you come from Morrigan, who is all right. And that she’s rested enough.
Watching Morrigan’s face carefully, the Lady of the Fort nodded slowly.
— Thank you for the honest answer. And the advice.
CW: arrest, blades at throat, accusation of maleficarum, suspected possession, sibling conflict
Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)
Note:
A costly mistake can look very reasonable while it is being made. Alim does not act from cruelty here. He chooses the lawful path, the cautious path, the path that lets him say he is protecting his sister and the Circle at the same time. Naire remembers something simpler: she was saved. Between those truths, the mistake opens its mouth.
Abelas, lethallan. Suledin.
Excerpt:
The crowd scattered like water hissing off hot stones. Only Naire remained, unmoving, blinking in confusion. Morrigan’s expression emptied as she shifted her gaze from the tense Knight-Commander to Alim:
— You?
The elf’s silence was answer enough. Ignoring Morrigan, he spoke to his sister:
— Naire, come here. Please.
— But she saved me, Alim! I don’t understand—
Alim’s fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. His eyes darted between Naire and Morrigan, searching for some flaw in his suspicions. But the woman before him was undeniably Morrigan. Regret, pain, and irritation warred in his voice:
— This is... the right way. For everyone.
He stepped forward:
— I waited by those doors from dawn till dusk, sister. Every hour could’ve been your last. And you know what kept me there? The thought that if you survived... it’d likely be because of her. — His gaze flicked to Morrigan. — But that doesn’t mean I can overlook the rest.
Morrigan laughed bitterly and nudged Naire toward him:
— Go to him. He’ll spin you a tale or two. Might even forget who saved his hide.
Then she focused entirely on Gregor:
— Should’ve left you to die back then.
Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590 (Chapter 13) @thedasweekend
Morrigan returned to the corridor and followed the trail of blood drops. Before long she found her “partner.” Apparently—with Tralin’s help—he had been laid on a bed in a room that, by its furnishings, had belonged to Connor. And here, now, still tasting the irony, Morrigan stood and watched.
Minutes dragged. Then footsteps approached—Tralin’s, unmistakable. Instinctively, Morrigan shifted so she could keep both the Seeker and the doorway in view. Tralin halted on the threshold and lowered his gaze to the revolting-looking leader of their party. As if sensing the tension in the room, he did not step inside. He spoke quietly:
— The people of the Fort are coming to their senses. The lethargy has lifted. Many are ill. Gravely so. I found the guards earlier, but they’ll be of little use for the time being. We need aid from the village. This whole place… needs aid.
— Isolde is asleep.
Tralin nodded.
— Milady helped greatly with the Seeker. She knew where the medicines were. She showed admirable composure. But Milady wasn’t meant for this—especially with her husband and son teetering on the brink in the next room. Still, that does not change the fact that it was Milady who bled Redcliffe Fort dry by sending most of the knights away. It was Milady who hid her son’s talent from the Chantry, choosing to teach him in secret. Untrained mages…
He cut himself off, realizing where—and with whom—and under what circumstances he was speaking. Morrigan’s lips twitched into a barely perceptible smirk. Tristan had chosen his “tools” well. 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.
She stepped back inside herself and returned to the original problem. If the trap was flawless, of course there was no escape. But what if it wasn’t? Morrigan murmured:
— If there’s more pride in “Pride” than skill…
Effort was for what could be reached. So she accepted the idea of a flaw as her starting point. Slowly scanning the seam where the two reflections met, she asked herself what mistake a demon might make. Squinting, she plucked one thought from the swarm: how would she build such a trap? And how would she hide… the imperfection? Snapping her fingers, she spoke aloud, slowly:
— I understand how to move rooms. So rooms don’t appear from nothing. They connect again and again—quickly… but “quickly” isn’t “instantly.”
She rose and returned to the door. The only apparent weakness in the puzzle was the simultaneous existence of two exits: the door below and the “door” above. If there were two doors… were paired connections even necessary when there was only room for one? She stroked her thumb over the cool bronze of the handle, polished as if by a thousand touches. The detail felt more real than floor or wall—as if someone had memorized the sensation of a palm against it down to the smallest grain.
— So. That instant when the room above shifts—perhaps that’s the only crack to the outside. Assuming it isn’t fantasy. And how would I…
Morrigan looked up, judging whether she could climb. With antlers and mounts, nothing could be simpler. Without delay she scrambled up the wall, breaking only two or three exhibits. At the boundary she felt a strange tension: her upper body already pulled toward the floor of the new room, telling her head—without argument—which way was up and which was down, while her lower half still tugged the other way.
In the end the problem was simple and brutal: how to use the crack at all. For the first time, Morrigan felt pinned by limitation. The Fade’s great obstacle for any traveler was this: unlike its inhabitants, you could not freely change your form, your perception, or the things themselves. Experience, which should have been a tool, turned into fetters.
Two facts irritated her most. First, the lack of options—real ideas—forcing her forward blind, trying at random. Second, the kind of ideas she was driven to. She knew that for the past week—perhaps two—she had lived inside another’s will and desire. By contrast, the moments when she’d raged against circumstance now seemed childish and selfish. And here she was, seriously considering the power that had always repelled her most: the spell of transformation.
Listening intently, Lady Isolde opened the room opposite—evidently a storeroom for the Arl’s hunting trophies. Judging by the number and variety of stuffed beasts and antlers, the collection spanned more than one generation of Guerrins. Tristan pointed to a carpet from northern Rivain—vibrant as tropical butterfly wings, its patterns as if woven from the northern lights. He stopped Isolde, who had followed, with a shake of his head. Kneeling, Morrigan ran her palm over the dense pile.
— Yes. A needle’s eye. The path to exclusivity…
— What?
— Just… a strange thought. So?
— Lie down. Breathe. As you said—‘exclusivity.’ That will be the price I’ll pay.
— Just don’t ‘forget’ your promise. I wonder… do deeds like this cling to the memory?
Overcoming the pain, Tristan knelt beside her and took her hand. Not fully understanding, he gave a restrained shrug.
— Depends on who. Mages who survive crossing into the Fade usually try to forget it for the rest of their days—often unsuccessfully. That’s why research moves slowly, and why it’s done in terrible secrecy. If you mean me… I’d like to forget a great deal too. I hope this won’t be added to that list. For the inconsolable mother behind the door—absolutely, whatever the outcome. For the others, it’s harder to vouch. Pick one point. Concentrate. And be silent.
Tristan closed his eyes. Morrigan stared at the ceiling, her face suggesting a single question: what will it feel like? Minutes passed, and nothing unusual happened. In fact, nothing happened at all—only breathing: her own steady rhythm and the tense one of the man beside her. Until a dull thud reached her ears, the sound of a body hitting the floor. She turned her head—and found no trace of her companion…
AO3: LINK
And as soon as the party stepped off the stairs… a door creaked, as if sighing under the weight of centuries. A figure appeared in the doorway—too straight, too still to be fully human. As it stepped forward, the light fell on a face where arrogance wrestled with despair like two demons in one vessel. But the illusion dissipated, and it turned out to be merely a woman. Stately, tall by local standards, blessed by nature with generous curves. Her blonde hair was gathered in a practical bun, save for fine curls framing a pleasant, round face with a pair of pale green eyes and the distinctive nose of an eastern Orlesian native. Moderately adorned, an unpretentious burgundy satin dress emphasized what it should without flaunting anything extra. Through all this, traces of exhaustion and emotional strain peered through, each step threatened to crush what remained of the Lady. Yet in her gaze was an inappropriate arrogance, as if something alien watched from behind the cracks of a mask.
Before the woman could open her mouth, an invisible torrent of force silently erupted from the Seeker. As unexpected as it was, given how battered Tristan appeared, it caught even the tense mage off guard. Especially since she sincerely believed the man had reached his limit downstairs in the hall. Cursing inwardly, the girl took stock of the surprise, strengthening her opinion: “Seekers” were not an “improved form of Templars,” but a phenomenon fundamentally different from them. And yet, thoughts of Tristan’s “pact” would not leave her alone.
Washing over the Lady with no visible effect, the force seemed to rip away the foreign presence. Tears welled in the woman’s eyes, her hands trembled, and Lady Isolde sank to her knees, caring little for the pain or her dress. Her parched lips parted, whispering almost inaudibly:
— My son… Save my son! Please…
Then, from the open room, came the sound of a small body falling, and on the tormented mother’s face it became utter, hopeless horror…
Note:
This is not Morrigan at the abandoned Gallows. It is the closest clean textual echo I can offer from NBB: Kirkwall as a city that keeps its old cruelties standing in stone, the Gallows named not as scenery but as testimony. Sometimes a place does not need the character inside it to cast a shadow over the story. Sometimes it is enough that someone remembers what kind of wound the stone was built around.
Vir’abelasan.
Excerpt:
— From your tale, Kirkwall brought you nothing but misfortune. A streak of ill luck?
— Well, I’m alive…
Vincent turned, skeptical, but met genuine bewilderment.
— That bad?
Benedict weighed his words.
— Tristan and I weren’t mingling with nobility. Kirkwall isn’t just filth, stench, blood, whores, addicts, and crime—but scour the slums and sewers, and that’s all you’ll see. It’s not Orlais, where even backwaters spare you the “floating corpse at dawn” greeting. Let alone a corpse you know. Kirkwall’s overcrowded, impoverished, corrupt, inept at every level. Never recovered from Perrin’s assault on the Templars or the Qunari occupation during the Storm Age. Maker—I doubt it’s recovered since its founding. But you’re right. There was one bright spot. Immoral to admit, but… Melsendre. A gorgeous Orlesian bard with raven hair. Three glorious nights. I’m no charmer, but mystery sufficed. Yes, her “profession” became obvious swiftly. Thankfully, her aims never crossed mine. We parted without paranoia… or attachments.
At the guest chamber, silence fell. Vincent had no reply; Benedict traced the seamless basalt walls, murmuring:
— You know what truly astonishes me about Kirkwall? Centuries of darkness, violence, horror—yet the Gallows, the harbor, its countless statues stand as silent tributes to its founders. Soaked in innocent blood, yet… timeless. Like this place. Don’t you think?
Vincent’s gaze skimmed the walls.
— I value their practicality. Nothing more. Sleep well. Rest is rare in Aeonar.
Once alone, Benedict rubbed his eyes and sighed:
— Yes, I remember…
@theelderdemon — That’s not how you speak to me + Morrigan
@micapocalypse — regret
CW: magical killing, intimidation, religious coercion, dragon terror
Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)
Note:
The line is not spoken plainly. It does not have to be. Someone tries to make Morrigan small in front of frightened people, to name her, diminish her, place her beneath the room’s idea of holiness. She answers in the language already waiting there: proof, terror, consequence. Regret appears only as a thing too honest to counterfeit. If she said she was sorry, it would be another lie.
Tel’Abelas.
Softly stepping forward—and immediately catching Brom’s fiery golden gaze, leaping to meet hers from under bushy brows—the witch joined the conversation, trying to speak in a loud, measured voice:
— You are a concerned man. A son, or perhaps a brother, among the Temple Guardians? It cannot be that you are seriously worried about Kolgrim. Otherwise… how to explain?.. While the residents were gathering at the chantry at an ungodly hour, comforting each other in grief, anxiety, and hope, your eyes were fixed on that trail. That is the only way you and your comrades could have ended up at the Refuge’s fence line ahead of time. Oh, or perhaps it’s simpler… Were you waiting for a messenger with new tidings?
Brom blinked, forcing his gaze away, but Morrigan was already striking her next blow:
— Kolgrim, Brom isn’t your kin, is he?
The warrior pressed his lips together in displeasure at the raised topic. A telling shadow passed over his face; the girl saw only irritation and a faint tinge of shame there. Without delay, she clicked her tongue:
— So that’s it. Even here, filth isn’t hard to find.
Brom, who had managed to collect himself, snorted and shook his head:
— A vixen. Sharp-tongued. Good thing the “chosen one” serves the people, and not the other way around. Otherwise…
Baring her teeth like a predator, Morrigan addressed Kolgrim alone, pointedly ignoring Brom:
— Your compliment was better earlier. Scales, forked tongue… A more interesting prospect than a fluffy tail. Is such delicacy really needed here? I suspect Father outplayed you from the grave, having cultivated doubt in every useful person beforehand. Any truth is a lie, and a lie is like truth.
Pointing behind her without looking, Morrigan did not release Kolgrim’s grey eyes for a moment:
— If parents mistake a crow for an eagle, their son cannot become a falcon. Nobility and honor can be turned—cleverly—from a shield into poisoned arrows. And it’s hard to argue with corpses and shadows… Do you have something that cannot be tainted by such suspicions?
Kolgrim opened his mouth, ready to answer the witch’s challenge, but immediately snapped it shut. His grey eyes slid over the warriors—those searching the crowd for familiar faces, those thoughtfully studying the trampled snow before them, those watching the maid in their midst with burning eyes. Annoyance and fury flashed across his face when his gaze fell on the urn, gleaming with indifferent gold. After the unbroken pause, he said firmly:
— No.
The girl nodded, simply. As she was about to respond, she turned toward the mountains, peering into the dark sky above the ridgeline. The witch frowned, then lowered her scarlet-gold gaze from the heavens onto the figures of the Guardians. Staring as if through them, she asked herself—pointlessly, inappropriately—whether Kolgrim’s mother and father were alive, whether he had brothers, sisters. Gathering her resolve, she addressed the spearmen loudly and clearly:
— Have you truly forgotten an indisputable truth? Each of you has witnessed it again and again—daily—so often it has eaten into your bones, become as mundane as breath.
Turning back to Kolgrim, Morrigan finished the thought:
— And that truth needs no prophets; it can speak for itself.
The man raised his eyebrows and, soundlessly, with his lips alone, mouthed:
— Andraste?
Brom’s face darkened as he shouted harshly:
— What heresy is this?!
At that same moment a sound loud enough for all to hear carried across the yard—the slow beats of enormous wings. And the noise grew, sharpening. It was almost immediately clear it was not a single pair. Heavy, low breathing—slightly whistling, slightly gurgling, like the lungs of mighty forges—joined the wingbeats. All of it in the night’s darkness, under an utterly still black sky where the vague, deceptive outlines of clouds were barely visible. Whatever filled their heads—whatever they believed—whatever principles they professed, every single one felt the touch of paralyzing, animal terror. Like hares realizing too late the presence of a pack of hungry wolves. A couple of teenagers—the kind who already trailed their parents everywhere—and a good half of the women panicked, rushing toward the nearest houses in tears or emitting incoherent gasps. The others did not dare move. Morrigan realized only two emotions remained in her—rapture and envy—having burned away everything else. A quick glance at Kolgrim showed her he was in the grip of something similar. But in him it was rapture and… fear.
In the space of a heartbeat, the seemingly motionless sky split open. Enormous silhouettes materialized out of the darkness. Each new beat of those vast wings spawned eerie eddies in the clouds, blinding the involuntary onlookers with waves of snow blown from the hilltop. Torch flames thrashed like birds gone mad in cages and, losing the battle, guttered out, yielding to the gloom. People squinted, crouched, covered themselves with hands and clothing, but no one dared turn their back on the unfolding horror. The massive bulk of the male landed first, plummeting onto the summit from the last few meters. Corded muscles absorbed the momentum, but a resounding impact rolled through the valley, echoing inside their skulls. From the settlement came, at that moment, the distinct sounds of panic and the crash of falling pottery. The female, in comparison, settled on the hill gracefully and quietly—almost more staggering. Then the brood appeared. Like minnows beside sharks, they flopped down clumsily behind the ridge, nearly tumbling like stones. Judging by the soft thuds and plaintive squeals—ill-suited to the deadliness of the “little ones”—few managed to land competently.
Without waiting for them to fully settle, Morrigan spun in place and in three steps was nose to nose with Brom. It was the only movement in the crowd, and it drew eyes at once. Pale as snow, Brom tore his gaze with difficulty from the flickering molten amber of the dragons’ pupils—studying the people below like a faceless herd—only to become captive to the Witch’s golden eyes, reflecting the last torch-gleams. He swallowed audibly, trying to calm taut nerves, but the girl gave him no respite; she leaned closer and, in a barely audible voice, said:
— That is the truth, requiring not a shred of proof. I admit, my mother is astounding. No one could—or can—play so virtuously, and yet so directly and cruelly, upon the prejudices and weaknesses of others. I can’t compare, but I’ll try to play. Alas, I do not command time in abundance. I haven’t the leisure to be delicate with petty obstacles.
Without another word, she stroked the bulging veins at his throat with feigned tenderness… He jerked away, managing only a soundless exhale:
— Mage…
And then Brom sank into the snow—for a heartbeat, fighting for his life. Witnessing his tribesman’s swift end, Kolgrim lunged toward the witch, shouting:
— Morrigan…
But his voice broke off midway, as if he had run headlong into an invisible wall. He was stopped by an attentive gaze, ready for any continuation. The crowd, stunned by the appearance of the dragons, struggled to digest what had happened. The swiftness, the absence of blood, screams, and the clang of weapons—none of it matched the rapid death of a seasoned hunter. Letting no excess emotion show, Morrigan addressed the leader of the Guardians coldly:
— My words of regret would be hypocrisy and lies. As would your words that this cannot be done.
Tristan looked neither fresh nor healthy: pale, sweat-sheened, sucking in air convulsively, his lower lip trembling. Vessels had burst in his right eye, and his stance was skewed by his wound. It made the Seeker look like a typical possessed at the start of transformation. Yet he remained focused and intent on the remaining enemies.
Not waiting for the metal figures to close in, Tristan, moving quickly though with a slight limp, advanced to meet them. Briefly glancing back to where Tralin was fussing over Bethany, the witch reasoned: the Templar wouldn’t be wasting so much time on a corpse. So her attention centered on the fight unfolding before her. When the two slow, seemingly inexorable figures were just five paces away, the Seeker gripped his blade with his bare left hand and carefully, so as not to sever the tendons, drew it from its improvised “sheath.” The blade was stained along its length with a barely noticeable crimson trace of fresh blood.
As if continuing an unbroken chain of demonstrations of hidden power, a movement appeared at the edge of Morrigan’s vision, making her jerk her head nervously, searching for the source of the illusion. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had moved or where. But each time, she managed to make out individual fragments of the sensation more clearly. Now, it seemed something had slid in from outside, converging on Tristan from different sides. Like a grey carpet of rats, surging toward his feet from a multitude of cracks in a cave the moment a torch sputters out. A rustling, vague movement, and fear, merging with the darkness in unison.
No devastating attack or miraculous magic followed the man’s action. The possessed suits of armor continued forward and, closing in, delivered a simple blow. A gauntleted fist whistled past Tristan’s head—he’d managed to duck, and droplets of sweat from his face splattered onto the steel fingers… The following kick from the second figure, descending from above, resonated in the ears like the strike of a bell, its long, fading hum vibrating in the empty core of the plate. But it also missed, as Tristan skillfully slipped aside, still not even attempting to counterattack. Morrigan didn’t understand the man’s plan or tactics as he again and again evaded blows, each of which promised him certain death. From the witch’s perspective, this dance with luck couldn’t last forever, and the potential payoff remained beyond her comprehension.
Yet something was changing. The blows of the initially indifferent figures grew sharper, more hurried. Their precise, almost mechanical movements blurred ever so slightly. As if the demons inhabiting the metal were rushing to achieve some goal. It seemed unlikely to Morrigan that they’d been suddenly overcome by rage simply because Tristan kept slipping from the jaws of death. He was now openly gasping for air and… Then the witch remembered the Seeker’s words about every demon in such an inanimate shell craving to twist free and escape, even back beyond the Veil. But that meant the man, frantically dodging the hail of blows, was somehow damaging his foes simply by being near them…
Choking back anger at her own blindness, Morrigan almost missed the moment when one suit of armor froze mid-motion, then the other. Beginning to tilt under the not-inconsiderable weight of the metal, the figures clanged heavily together and, with a sickly crash, collapsed onto the floor in pieces. Among the wreckage, only Tristan remained standing, but he didn’t look victorious for long. After two breaths, the man swayed to the side and crashed to the floor, matching his vanquished foes.
@rsenak — micro scene of Bethany Hawke with something like injuries/wound tending
@griffongrey — Bethany + templars
CW: battle injury, blood, wound care, undead violence
Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)
Note:
Wound tending is rarely gentle here. It is practical, sour, hurried, done with whatever can be boiled, cut, or torn clean enough to use. Bethany is not being comforted so much as kept functional. Nearby, a Templar bleeds worse than she does, a Seeker refuses to fall, and Morrigan’s care arrives with the warmth of a command: chew, endure, keep moving.
Abelas. Suledin.
Excerpt:
The hum of released bowstrings from the surviving archers heralded a different threat. One arrow whistled past Morrigan’s ear, clattering sharply on the stones. Bethany cried out—an arrow had grazed her forearm, tearing fabric and skin. Warm blood immediately welled up through the material, staining her sleeve a dark crimson. The girl swallowed convulsively, feeling the pain spread in hot waves. Unable, without the lyrium boiling in his blood, to repeat the same trick so soon, Tralin was already charging headlong toward the archers, aiming to finish the “puppets” before another volley.
Whether by pure luck or inner instinct, the Seeker guessed the demon’s next point of appearance. His blade cut the air like silver lightning—only to rebound from an invisible barrier with a pathetic ring. In response, a magical bolt shot from the void, searing the skin beneath his clothes with the acrid smell of burnt flesh. Simultaneous with the crack of the magical discharge, Morrigan, near the fortress wall, struck furtively with a swift Death Hex that slipped easily beneath the unusual defense. She had deliberately exposed herself, focusing all her attention on one goal: reaching the creature. And it dissolved again, leaving no trace, like morning mist at midday, but when it reappeared, it looked hunched.
While Bethany, trying not to be a hindrance, crouched, clutching her wound, the Templar dealt with the archers. The mindless puppets were no match for a seasoned blade in close combat. Realizing the futility of his own weapon against the demon, the Seeker nonetheless made a sharp slash, as if venting impotent rage into the void. But Morrigan felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir. And then the sphere surrounding the corpse dissolved no less effectively than the demon who had created it. Like a mirage. Unfortunately, another flash of a simple but effective spell glittered. This time, the bolt, with a muffled crack, truly caught the man’s side. Under his ribs gaped a terrible wound—the flesh seemed to have vaporized, revealing weeping layers of muscle. The edges of the wound were charred, emitting a sweetish, putrid smell. Without uttering a sound, the grimacing Seeker closed the distance in a couple of strides and drove his blade straight into the empty eye socket of the creature, already slowed by the hex. Punching clean through the skull, Tristan twisted the blade with a vengeful expression and an audible crunch. However strange the Seeker’s strength might be, it was enough. The corpse’s remains clattered onto the stones and immediately began to crumble into black, dissolving, traceless dust.
The blood drained from Morrigan’s face, leaving her skin deathly white. She sharply threw her head back. With ragged, deep breaths, she groped her way back to a sliver of composure and, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, stepped toward Bethany, focusing entirely on the injury. To the right, using a hunting knife, Tralin was carefully cutting away the remains of Tristan’s shirt beneath its owner’s hoarse, rapid breathing. The gambeson already lay nearby. Throwing a pain-clouded glance at the mages, absorbed in their own concerns, the Seeker forced out with a note of surprise:
— Bloody bitch…
It sounded ambiguous, but Morrigan took it personally. Turning Bethany’s twitching head away from the men by the chin and, without stopping her work, the witch said:
— You weren’t counting on sympathy and concern, were you? As the saying goes… “Fear the Maker.” Besides, if you deign to give up the ghost here, we will gain our freedom. And slip away behind—
— Is this… a stupid joke? Hnn! Tralin! The Void—
— Forgive me. But I need to lift your arm.
The witch placed dark green leaves of “Bitter Canavarice”—found on the way to the mill in someone else’s garden—under a dry strip of cloth previously boiled by the locals. With that, she finished bandaging the shallow but unpleasant cut. In response to her student’s questioning open mouth, the mentor placed a piece of the same plant’s yellowish root inside and quietly commanded:
