Asha’thylgar
The woman of blue fire.
Sylmae, Nimronyn, and Daern’thal belong to @justanartsysideblog
@feynites for Athimel, Falon’din, Dirthamen, and Mythal
note: the spirit of fear mentioned is not in any way related to Uthvir or Dirthamen.
Seeker of Rebellion AU
There is a lone rider coming up the path towards the pup-up camp. The lieutenant narrows his eyes then holds out his hand towards his servant for a scope. He focuses on the rider to see not one but two elves, one of whom wears unmistakable garb but it horribly burned…
“Summon the healers, now,” he snaps to the servant before turning away, heading through the camp, readying them to receive their Lord.
He calls for the way to be cleared from the entrance to the lord’s tent.
“Call for Mythal…and Dirthamen,” he says, striding through the camp, waking everyone even if they have only just now been allowed to rest. This is not a time anyone wishes to be caught resting.
“Yes, sir. But what does Dirthamen have to do with this?”
“Bonds such as theirs are not dissolved just because they have taken bodies. Now instead of questioning my decisions, how about you do what you are told?” Efficacy bows low before taking off. Good, efficiency is important. So is obedience, particularly when you work for Falon’din and look the way she does. Certainty makes sure she’s protected, out of sight or shifted, but she knows quite well what predicament she is in. Fear can breed loyalty is stoked properly, and if presented correctly.
“Bring the wards down, let our lord in,” Certainty calls to those tending the gate wards. He stops by the cooks, ordering them to begin creating soups and stews for recuperation, maybe even regeneration. The attendants manage the lord’s tent and by the time Certainty makes his way back to the tent, the hart is barreling through the camp.
It is chaos as people help Athimel, the rider, and Falon’din off the run-to-death animal. Falon’din is swept into the tent and away from prying eyes. He is a sobbing, wailing wreck that has Certainty tossing up silencing wards all around the tent before taking Athimel aside. His wounds can be seen to later, after Falon’din’s health has been ascertained.
Certainty takes him into his own tent, activating his own silencing wards.
“Sit,” he commands, pulling up healing potions laced with truth serums from his personal stash. He must be sure of the truth of the matter, and he will be unable to do this with Falon’din, and he suspects any others of the raiding party.
“Drink this, it tastes foul but it will help,” he tells the now shaking man. Athimel downs it then gags at the taste but his tongue is loose as the serum works its way through his system.
“It was a standard raid, we had received word that there was a strong keeper guarding a clan that would serve the empire well if brought into the fold. We engaged with the Keeper, but it had brought fighters with it.”
“That is standard, they do not simply let their keepers die,” Certainty comments, writing quickly.
“We had divided the party, there was the initial engagement group and then our lord was in the flanking group. I had been assigned to the first. The flanking group was set to come in when fire erupted.”
Certainty’s brows furrow and he pauses, “The dragon breathed fire, surely you have encountered this before.” But Athimel shakes his head slowly, horror written clearly on the dark planes of his face.
“The Keeper breathed fire, we were prepared for that. But the Keeper must have had a daughter. It was blue fire, Certainty, it burned hotter than anything I have ever seen. Our lord was about to slay this…this asha’thylgar but she burned him, opened up her mouth and…. It was horrible, Certainty.”
Blue fire? Certainty has heard of some being able to conjure up such flames but they’re often unstable and result in either killing the person or them vowing to never use the fire again. To be able to fully control the fire is, as far he is aware, unheard of. But…that doesn’t mean it isn’t unstable naturally. He simply needs a way to exploit that instability, because he knows that the lord will not let this go. He will hunt this asha’thylgar and her clan until they are all dead. Which is unfortunate in a way, he’d love to have an asset than can actually control blue fire.
He turns to Efficacy, “Do not disturb our lord or the healers, but make sure to find out how long it will be until he is healed enough to be in a right mind. Then using that time, summon the lord’s father.”
Athimel scowls, “And why summon him? This is our –
“Because the only way to fight fire is with fire, and the lord’s father is a skilled fighter and with him come other skilled warriors and tacticians. I want to catch this bitch, don’t you?” He glances up from the formal request for Elgar’nan’s presence, scowling at the still wounded Athimel.
The man is an idiot, a total sycophant, incapable of having any thought that deviates from their lord’s. Certainty is at least aware to keep his less agreeable ideas silent, but he knows that his value comes from his work and from positioning Falon’din into victories over the stubborn elves who insist on remaining apart from the burgeoning empire. They fail to understand logic, and that is why the empire will win, at the end of the day.
Certainty rises from his seat and instructs Athimel to use his tent to rest while he goes to see how his lord is fairing. He cautiously enters the tent with aid of one of the guards, immediately lowering himself to the ground to appear smaller than his lord, even now.
“Donotlookatme!” Falon’din screams. Certainty immediately averts his eyes but he has already seen enough. His lord is stripped and burned, the entirety of his face and head is burned to a potentially irreparable point.
“Please, my lord, your emotions will only worsen the scarring,” a healer gently pleads.
“Then act faster!” Falon’din hisses. The healers attempt what they can, the tent hums in energy as they try to restore the lord to his beauty. All energy has been leached from him, he is not even able to maintain a shifted height.
This…will not do.
“I vow to use everything I am and that I have to bring this bitch to heel, my lord. She knows not the privilege it is to be in your presence. I have summoned your brother, he should be able to aid in your recovery. You will rise from this, my lord – a great phoenix rising from the ashes.”
Falon’din roars in pain and fury, his emotions a whip in the small space. A healer flinches, weak. Certainty retreats from the tent then rights his clothing. He must prepare for Dirthamen’s arrival. There are those who do not like Falon’din’s brother and they must be dealt with. Whatever Certainty thinks of Dirthamen is irrelevant, he is Falon’din’s twin soul, birthed from the same source, forever entwined.
He tugs on his own connection to his brother, feeling a twinge in response. It is a curious thing, this bond, but it is one that is undeniable and unbreakable. And it comes with certain benefits.
Twenty years ago, there was an attack on one of Falon’din’s camps. While the attackers had been thwarted, largely thanks to Certainty, many of Falon’din’s attendants had been caught in the fighting. One of whom was Clarity. He was gutted and dying, the bond disintegrating within Certainty. But Certainty had rallied, calling upon his blood and bond, forcing life and healing into Clarity. It gave him enough of a push to survive with the healers.
He thinks he can recreate it with Dirthamen here. It is…painful, but Certainty is sure that Falon’din’s twin soul will do everything he can to save him.
When Certainty returns to his tent, Athimel has passed out on his cot. Efficacy hovers over him, wrapping his wounds in elfroot salve soaked bandages. All of the healers have been pulled to tend to Falon’din, leaving Athimel and others unfortunately neglected. But the health of their lord comes first. Thankfully for Athimel, Efficacy is a jack-of-all-trades assistant.
“How is he?”
“He was growing delirious so I cast a sleeping spell. He’ll be fine, it was mostly fear and exhaustion causing his delirium, and perhaps blood loss. If he survives, I am sure he will receive accolades for saving our lord’s life.”
Certainty frowns, “I doubt he will. He did what he was supposed to do, you don’t get rewarded for that.” And you shouldn’t, Certainty thinks. But Athimel should be given a period of leave to relax and properly recover from the ordeal. Falon’din will be bound to his tower with healers and guards for some time, and that time will be plenty to plan a course of action.
“Where were they?” He asks, returning to his desk to the maps of what Falon’din had planned earlier. Raiding parties had their place, though the lord has been quite…taken with them as of late. The majority of his forces are required west with his father’s forces, repelling several clans that have banned together to oppose expansion of the empire.
“East, by the mountains, in the valley.”
Certainty shakes his head, resisting the urge to swear.
“That means the clan that did this fled into the mountains.” Sending soldiers into mountains they do not know on a mission to take out a clan that somehow eviscerated a raiding party is not a good idea. Dammit, they’ve already turned this into a waiting game. And neither Falon’din nor Eglar’nan are known for their patience.
Certainty spends the rest of the night plotting potential routes into the mountains and valleys, mostly on covert exploration trips to gain understanding of the area so an assault will be possible.
Morning brings with it Dirthamen and a few of his people. There is no anxiety to him, no pressing need to see his brother even though Certainty knows he must be feeling some pain on his end.
“Thank you for coming, Lord Dirthamen. It is urgent, the Lord Falon’din could use your aid.”
“I am not trained in healing,” he says simply.
“But you are connected to him.” Certainty then explains to him what happened with him and his own twin soul, how he was able to save him even without being trained in healing. It is difficult to determine how the lord feels about the situation with his mask, but after a moment he strides towards Falon’din’s tent. He disappears for several minutes before leaving the tent and approaching Certainty.
“What is involved?”
**
The aravel rattles, waking Ashokara up from her rest. She winces at the pains still lingering in her body, even days after the battle. While she is healed, she spent so much energy that her exhaustion has manifested physically. While her muscles aren’t technically pulled or in spasm, her magic is making her feel like it.
Despite the soreness, Ash pulls herself up, dressing as quickly as her body will allow before opening one of the shutters in the aravel. She sticks her head out to see Halanidor hammering away on his anvil.
“What’s with the racket?” She calls. His head snaps up and he raises his hammer at her.
“You! Running off like that, damn irresponsible like that, you could have died.” He swings the hammer down again.
“Kids these days, not listening to their mothers, their Keeper. They take you in and what do you do?”
“I save them from getting killed, that’s what,” she spits back.
“Girl goes off trying to be noble not even wearing proper armor – you could have died!” He shouts, dropping the hammer. He curses then steps away from his anvil and the hot steel. Oh, he’s not really mad at her, just….
“But I didn’t, I’m here.” She ducks inside the aravel quickly, only to pop back out to round closer to him. He’s a short, strong man, trusted with almost all of their weapon-making. And he is scowling, brow furrowed in unhappiness.
“Kids going around disobeying the Keeper, never heard of that in my day. That puny spear, so easily broken.” He picks the hammer up and continues to mold the steel on the anvil…a decidedly long and pointed piece of metal.
“Are you making me a new spear? So soon?” She asks dismayed.
“No, I’m practicing for your spear. We need to be better, I need to be better. You are not dying, you hear me?” He waves the hammer at her again and she smiles. “Now, stoke that fire would you?”
Ash does as she is requested, gently flexing that magic muscle in her. The fire flares blue for a moment before mellowing to orange and red. It’s like walking after running for miles and miles, but it also carries a modicum of relief.
“I have no plans on dying any time soon, Halanidor, don’t worry,” she tells him but he frowns at her.
“The children may not have heard your little speech to Daern’thal, but I did, little miss.” Yes, that…it’s difficult to explain and she does not even attempt to. The point is that she didn’t die and neither did her adoptive mothers or anyone else. She saved them, and kicked Falon’din’s stupid ass so bad he’ll wear the scars for the rest of his life.
She walks away from Halanidor’s anvil and heads towards the center of camp. The children remain close to the center rather than running around. Everything has changed, and this freedom that they had thought they had….
They need to adapt faster than what the empire can anticipate.
Memae will not like it, she wants to keep to these ways as do most of the clan. It will take some convincing to build rather than travel, particularly since there are benefits to traveling. But she knows that you can only run for so long before you run out of territory to run to.
But she can let the idea go for the day, they are all still recovering from the battle, and the empire certainly is as well. Falon’din has automatic allies in his family, and resources beyond anything the clan could find on their own. They are alone, and lone lions do not survive.
All around her she sees change. There is a wariness suspended in the air save for when they look at her. She does not need the clouds of emotions to tell that there is hope, awe, and fear. The direction of that fear is a bit more difficult to place, but Halanidor’s outburst gives her an idea. It is difficult to reassure them, though, particularly when whispers of how she defied her Keeper circulate.
They all look to Nimronyn who is resting as Arselah works more healing magic into her wings.
“Memae,” Ash greets, raising her hand to rest gently against her nostril. A low rumble and a slow blink respond. She is tired as well, moving the clan so much while still recovering herself…. She did what she had to, getting the clan as far away from the battle as possible, keeping their movements as erratic as possible to make it difficult for anyone to follow. It has exhausted her.
They are currently positioned a hundred leagues away from where the battle had taken place, thrusted here by a determined keeper manipulating the dreaming to hurtle them fast and long. Nestled into the side of a great mountain, they hide, recovering and waiting for what they should do next.
Mamae is also exhausted, taking more and more watches, always ready. But she shows it less than her wife. It is a hot, lazy day, and danger feels so far away that the clan seems to finally allow themselves to relax. Mamae walks into the camp, bereft of her heavier armaments, her hair up to keep her neck cool, and promptly plops down next to Nimronyn and Ash.
“Spirits say that all is quiet from where the raiding party came from,” she exhales, her eyes closing seemingly involuntarily.
“Good. We can take some time then, we cannot fight in this state. Rest, Mamae, the empire is licking their wounds and is trying to get ahold of what to do as much as we are.” Ash says gently. Mamae makes a sound of agreement
The day continues on in a restful manner. Only the hunters who feel up to it hunt, bringing back various birds that are roasted by a fire Ashokara tends. Nimronyn and Sylmae sleep in a heap, both snoring softly as they recoup.
Daern’thal takes a seat next to her by the fire for the first time since the night before the battle. His hands are quiet and his eyes still don’t quite meet hers. She is silent while she eats, for once unsure of how to proceed with him.
They haven’t spoken since she flew out to join the battle and as upset Halanidor had been about it, she suspects that Daern’thal is having a similar reaction. She didn’t do anything wrong, she saved her adoptive mothers – shit, she saved his parents. While she doesn’t blame him for his reaction, she certainly doesn’t feel bad for what she did. Necessary things are often scary and risky and are met with a certain amount of resistance.
So they remain quiet, neither willing to give an inch.
At the end of dinner, she takes care of her plate and returns to her aravel. Mamae has not slept here for the last few days, making the space seem inordinately large for just Ash. She curls up in on the pull-out ledge that is her bed, wondering how exactly saving everyone turned into everyone either yelling at her or just shunning her.
Sorrow and confusion well up in her. She is reminded of how this isn’t her time, and these are ultimately not her people. Even though she has spent more time with them than she did the people from her original time…she is out of place. She is not an elf, she is not a dragon, or a spirit. She is a vashoth qunari, and alone.
Her sleep is restless and tumultuous. She shucks off Nimronyn’s magic and recedes into her memories. She is seven years old again, crying into her mother’s tunic.
Ashokara wakes with the sun and sets to helping set the camp up for the day. She is worn and tired and feeling the weight of years more acutely than normal. After she eats breakfast, Mamae taps her on the shoulder and jerks her head towards the woods where Memae is waiting.
“Your mother and I want to talk to you,” Mamae says. There is a harshness to her voice that unsettles Ash, but maybe it’s just about the general ill feeling that lingers over the clan from the battle. She follows Mamae into a clearing. Memae’s forms shimmers and changes quickly into her elven form. There are dark circles under her eyes, and she is paler than normal. Even in this form, she wears the strain of travel and the exhaustion of the last four days.
Ash feels strangely cornered. Memae pulls Ash into a hug.
“You were very brave to do that,” she begins, “and we love you so much. We love that you are full of passion and a need to protect, but what were you thinking?” Nimronyn pulls away and Ash blinks in confusion.
“You disobeyed your Keeper in a reckless dive that could have not only killed you, but it left the rest of the clan vulnerable,” Nimronyn’s voice is sharp and scolding. It cuts into Ash and for a flash second, she feels as if they’re ungrateful, but she can feel the lingering fear in both of them. There is anger and dismay, but the fear is what gets her.
Still, she steps away from Nimronyn, her face drawn.
“I did what I had to do,” she says. But Sylmae shakes her head.
“You did what you thought you had to. You looked, but did not see.”
“Were you not bleeding profusely from a spear? Was there not a flanking party ready to charge in?” This feels more than a little absurd. She helped them. It was a raiding party engaged with the clan down in the valley, the mountain was safe, they had no reason to be up there…
“I was taken by surprise, yes, but we had the situation under control. That doesn’t change the fact that you disobeyed direct orders to get the clan to safety,” Nimronyn says, her posture more rigid and her emotions suddenly being completely restricted.
“It was reckless and short sighted,” Sylmae continues. So, this is what this is.
“The clan was safe; the raiding party was restricted to the valley -”
“You could not know that. You saw something that scared you and you acted. You didn’t think it through. You need to stop letting your emotions guide your actions.” Sylmae takes a step towards Ash and Ash steps back. Sylmae tends to loom, and Ash hates it. It’s not the act of being taller than her, but just the effect of being forced to feel small. She is younger, she is shorter, but if they are going to scold her for not taking in all viewpoints, they need to at least consider hers.
“Kassaran, Melarue, Aili, Uthvir, the Iron Bull, Cassandra Pentaghast, Dalish -”
“What are you doing?” Sylmae demands.
“Listing the people I saw die while protecting me or the group I was with. I wasn’t done, by the way. I was done watching people I care about die, I am still done with it. I can’t do that anymore.” She bites her lip, stopping herself from crying. She’s cried enough. Sylmae exhales, her face stern.
“You need to see reality -”
“You’re right, it was a mistake thinking you would be able to stand back like that. But that doesn’t change the fact that you disobeyed your Keeper and endangered your clan,” Nimronyn says.
“Do you understand how lucky you got? Those men could have easily killed you -”
“I wouldn’t say easily -”
“Easily killed you. They weren’t expecting you, that is the only reason why that worked. You need to get ahold of your emotions, step back from them, and fight freely of them.”
Ash shakes her head in small motions, resisting. She understands Nimronyn being upset at disobeying her, but they’re acting like Ash is the bad guy here. Their emotions are shut away from her, their expressions are tough, and she can’t help but feel defensive at this whole thing.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” she says.
“You don’t need to tell us anything, we understand where you’re coming from. You need to understand where we’re coming from. You don’t disobey your Keeper, you don’t leave your clan vulnerable,” Sylmae continues. Nimronyn sighs, running a hand through her hair.
“When we saw you come down, we were terrified for you and for the clan. Suddenly our plan of defense was gone and we were scrambling. I wasn’t thinking about fighting them, I was terrified that they were going to kill you and get to the clan.”
Ash turns her face away, her mouth dry, and her chest hurting.
“I didn’t…want any of that to happen. Yes, I acted without thinking, is that what you want to hear? That I got so scared that it was happening again that I couldn’t stand the thought of living through it again? So I flew down, very fine with the idea of me dying. I know I’m not invincible, but I want to do what I can.” She shifts her weight from foot to foot. The tension lingers in the air and Sylmae steps forward, gently cupping Ash’s face.
“We want you safe, we want to hear that you won’t take these risks, that you are able to reason even through the memories.” Ash doesn’t resist when Sylmae pulls her in, holding her against her chest.
“I will train you to be better, we’ll…figure it out.”
After a moment, Ash leans into Sylmae. They will figure it out, and she will get stronger – she must.
**
The lord Dirthamen reels back in pain as the bond between him and Falon’din ignites. It draws on his own life force, pouring into Falon’din, urging his body to heal. There is a very fine line to this, Dirthamen must give enough energy to help heal Falon’din, but cause too much anguish to Dirthamen, and Falon’din will be injured from that as well. And damage from this can be unfortunately persistent.
Certainty observes closely, and snaps the magic to cease the transfer right before it hits that point. When he catches the lord Dirthamen, there are…tentacles and feathers and oddly enough even scales all pressing down against him. But Certainty’s ears are tuned to Falon’din, and his breathing is more even, and the pain surrounding him is greatly reduced.
A cot is provided for Dirthamen and Certainty guides him down to it. There are tears in his clothing where he has manifested his extra appendages. It’s odd, but he’s seen worse. While he is not bothered by Dirthamen’s mutable shape, several of the healers appear to be put off by it.
“What are you doing? Your lord’s twin soul is in pain, fetch him healing!” Certainty barks, sending them scrambling. For what it’s worth, Certainty casts his own meager healing spells over Dirthamen, mostly for pain. He moves then a hand over Falon’din to aid with his own pain.
It is slow, tiring work, he doesn’t understand how healers can stand it.
The night is long, and Falon’din does not allow Certainty to leave even to relieve himself. He does not trust these healers now, and he is leery of anyone getting close to Dirthamen. When the night finally ends and the sun begins to light the sky, there is a trumpet and a flurry of activity.
Mythal has arrived it seems.
She is equal parts furious and concerned, bringing her own contingent of healers to fuss around her sons. Athimel is brought forward to recount what happened again and with the number of healers now at least doubled, he is given some healing.
Mythal situates herself between her sons, her eyes alight with a vengeful fire as she listens to Athimel’s story.
“I got him here as fast as the hart would take us,” Athimel says. A heavy silence permeates the air. Mythal’s head is heavy with her horns and her red rimmed eyes, but Certainty has not seen her shed any actual tears. She turns to him, her face hard and exacting.
“The area may have lingering memories, spirits - investigate.”
“Of course, my lady. I have scouts scouring the area right now to ensure that it is safe for investigators to proceed.”
She gives him a single nod before turning to Falon’din. Certainty takes this as his cue to quietly depart from the tent. After relieving himself, he heads back to his own tent.
“Efficacy!” He shouts.
She appears in short order, ready to do his bidding. Good, he likes obedience almost as much as efficiency.
“Any word from the scouts?”
“One, sir. ‘Clear on the mountainside,’ which would indicate that the rest of the area is clear. Athimel said that the Keeper and her people came down from the mountain, suggesting their clan was in it. If the mountain is clear, it is probable that the clan has since left.”
Certainty stares down at the map on the table and nods. He’d like more confirmation that the area is secure, but the longer they wait to investigate, the more likely memories may be warped or spirits may leave. He pens a note requesting a small contingent of warriors to travel with him and investigators then sends Efficacy off. He prepares his things and changes into his riding gear, donning a heavier piece of plate just in case.
Efficacy returns and he has her prepare herself as well. She pulls back her dark frizzy hair into a bun and he helps her with the plate he had commissioned for her. They are not of a romantic sort, but he does like having her around, taking his notes, carrying out his bidding – she augments him. And without a setting, an augmenting stone is practically useless.
“It will be better if you shift into a bird and ride atop my shoulder while he head out,” he tells her.
“Yes, sir,” she says then complies, turning into a non-descript finch. She chirps then flies to his shoulder, holding onto a small protrusion with her tiny talons.
They are on the road towards the battlefield within the hour.
The ride is long, but it’s good to be out of the camp. He hasn’t been on the field since last year’s battle with a rather large clan. An injury to his leg has kept him relegated to tactics, and Falon’din has since preferred smaller raiding parties.
The field always has the advantage of feeling crisp and exhilarating, though this investigation less so. Being on the wrong end of the battle is never something you want to experience, and in Falon’din’s experience, it rarely happens. And it’s never happened like this.
It takes them the rest of the day plus a good portion of the next to reach the battlefield. It is a long valley, probably once full of greenery and small happy critters. Maybe there were even a few nice spirits calling it home. But now…there are large swaths of blackened and burnt earth. There are two distinct areas of battle, one that has the burn pattern presenting in a conical spread – classic dragon fire. But the other is circular, and tighter. The earth there is charred so completely that there are no corpses – only bones and charred pieces of armor.
Blue fire. Supposedly nearly uncontrollable, and yet the pattern is so neat that there is nothing but control suggested. It is…concerning. What’s more is that one of those savages clearly wiped the area of memories and either shattered spirits or got them to leave because there is nothing in the Dreaming. Neither dreams nor spirits flit around, ready to recount the tale of the Falon’din and the Asha’thylgar.
“Sir? There’s a spirit over here.” Or perhaps Certainty thought too soon.
Certainty makes his way over to the border of the wood where a soldier is holding up a dark, broken looking spirit. It is sputtering and reeling, clearly trying to get away. Ah, a spirit of fear then. Most likely corrupted from the events here.
“Let me go!” The spirit sobs, vibrating in terror. Certainty sighs, it’s a small thing, probably corrupted from some light happy emotion, like Sympathy. He pulls his sleeve up, revealing his spiked gauntlet, glowing with enchantment. He reaches out and grasps the spirit, pulling it forward trapped in his grasp.
It screams in pain.
“You are going to tell me everything that happened.”
The spirit whimpers and Certainty tightens his grip.