@tiredtruffle — Morrigan + Alim Surana, back to back in a fight against Darkspawn
CW: darkspawn violence, battle injury, impalement, body horror-adjacent magic
Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)
Note:
The exact “back to back” shape belongs to another scene already used elsewhere, so I’m taking the cleaner non-repeat match: Morrigan and Alim trapped in the same collapsing fight, holding the same impossible edge while darkspawn climb toward them. It is not heroic in the polished sense. It is exhaustion, bad choices, frost on steel, a mage on the verge of collapse, and Morrigan deciding that survival may demand something worse than death.
Suledin. Din’anshiral.
Excerpt:
Still pale but steady, the elf nodded—no fainting in his plans. They slid down the ladder to find Alistair braced at the stairwell, the thunder of approaching darkspawn echoing upward. Battle had come to them.
Morrigan tossed over her shoulder:
— Don’t die.
Morrigan approached Alistair and, moving slowly to avoid startling him, touched his blade. A simple spell rippled across the metal, coating it in frost as if freshly pulled from a winter gale. The warrior acknowledged the aid with a curt nod. Alim, wrapped in shimmering magical and spiritual wards, attempted a grim joke:
— Heard tales in camp about the legendary Witch of Korkari. They say she could call lightning upon her enemies. Perhaps we’re fortunate to have such company?
The witch nearly agreed—then froze mid-breath, struck by uncertainty. Racing through her memory, she realized the lightning spell’s sequence had vanished, feeding fresh paranoia. The hours spent mastering it felt intact, yet the spell itself... as if those efforts had evaporated. What else had been lost during those blank hours? With a noncommittal nod to Alim, she steeled herself for battle.
A minute and a half later, the first three genlocks appeared on the lower floor. Clad in rusted mail and wielding jagged blades, they charged up the stairs with startling speed. The spell on Alistair’s blade hurled the lead creature backward—bones crunched as it tumbled down—marking the fight’s start.
Morrigan clenched her fist and hissed through gritted teeth:
— Tua vita mea esté.
Something intangible brushed the charging genlock—like a ripple on water—before its sword plunged into her abdomen to the hilt, dragging her back a step with a choked cry of pain. Though Alim roared in fury, Alistair was locked in his own struggle. Genlocks in melee were deadlier than they were at range, especially armed and armored. Deflecting thrusts with his shield, barely dodging, the blond bided his time—then ducked low and surged forward. A shield bash to the gut, a stab to the thigh, and he flung his opponent down the stairs after the first.
Turning, he witnessed something unnatural: Morrigan, impaled and smiling horribly, cradled the kneeling genlock’s head as she whispered:
— Fríos. Tenací.
Frost crawled over the creature’s skull beneath her fingers. It collapsed, sword clattering free. She yanked the blade from her belly—barely a trickle of blood now—and tossed it aside.
— Leave this one. It’ll serve as a... well of life.
Five more genlocks reached the third floor. An archer loosed at Alistair—the only visible armed target—forcing him to dodge right, slamming into the wall. Alim managed to hurl one attacker downstairs, his ragged breathing betraying his limits.
Alistair whirled, using foes as shields against the archer. Morrigan, exploiting her staff’s reach, speared a genlock’s eye, then bludgeoned it senseless. Slipping from the archer’s sight, she repeated her freezing spell on the stunned creature.
Before Alistair could fully use one darkspawn as cover, a hilt struck his jaw twice in the scrum. He retaliated—kicking both genlocks down the stairs—then spat blood and retreated from arrow range.
— Our time’s running out.
Panting, he checked his grip and squinted upward.
— Dark’s falling.
Two genlocks and another archer burst onto the landing. Alistair and Morrigan split, complicating their aim—but the archer targeted the swaying elf. Without hesitation, Morrigan incanted:
— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animus furenté!
A wave of translucent gloom flashed through the room. The effect was more than she’d hoped for: the archer flailed at invisible threats; one genlock froze; the other stumbled backward down the stairs. Alistair seized the opening—running one through the neck, shield-bashing the second, then finishing it on the floor.
— Can’t... huff... help but wonder. Got more tricks like last night’s?
Morrigan shot him a glare, fatigue now plain.
— Honesty will kill you.
— Bit late for warnings.
A thunder of footsteps echoed below—dozens, plus an ogre’s heavy tread. Morrigan hissed:
— Remember your vow at the ruins? To protect? Your hour’s come. Delay them. Even a minute.
— Got a plan?
— An idea. We’ll see what it costs me.
He readied his blade.
— Still better than ‘we die now.’
Alistair clenched his teeth and took position at the stairwell, his attention wholly consumed by the approaching footsteps below. Morrigan lingered for a moment on his tense back before turning to the elf who was clinging to consciousness by sheer will.
Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590 (Chapter 3) @thedasweekend
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
Note:
Here the snow keeps everything outwardly clean. The uglier thing is buried deeper: an old hurt, watched too closely by someone sharp enough to know exactly where to press.
Abelas. Telanadas.
Excerpt:
Many had tried to follow the witch into the hills. Bethany among them. But Morrigan had insisted that the girl go somewhere warm and spend the time on her studies. Even after offering unexpected resistance, however, her apprentice agreed only to a compromise: she would stay until evening in the house shared by the two bards and their mentor. Leliana. There was nothing odd in that; it had seemed understood from the start that the red-haired girl would do what was necessary. Marjolaine made a show of insisting she was staying put, which drew genuine laughter from Morrigan—laughter that wounded the woman more deeply than any insult in her native tongue could have done. As a result, the elder of the two bards had to scramble to invent reasons why she ought to remain near her former apprentice. The mage dismissed the highlanders clearing the yard, including her two personal guards, back to the Fortress without a word. And then there were the elves. Naire burned with bright enthusiasm... which was only natural. Morrigan, by contrast, sank into a dull uncertainty. Only a fleeting desire to rub salt into Alim’s wounds tipped the scales at the last moment. So brother and sister came along as well.
The path across the untouched snow to the ridge above the valley was far from easy, even in snowshoes. At the summit, beneath the ironic gazes of the highlanders, half the party demanded a pause to catch its breath. Morrigan, using the time as she pleased, looked around. At a glance, behind them lay a cozy, lived-in valley. Ahead stretched open space, with the Imperial Highway visible in the distance, and beyond it lay the next lowland. The sparse, bare trunks could hide little from a searching eye. In the unusually clear air, every detail stood out, and the witch’s scarlet gaze followed the ancient stone road westward... to where Tristan, according to Leliana’s calculations, expected the allied army to arrive by tomorrow. Though the peaceful winter landscape contained no hint of what was to come, Morrigan still studied its harsh contours, trying to see what lay hidden beneath them.
[...]
This time, the mage’s thoughts began working back through the group from the rear. Alim had walked the entire way in profound rumination, dragging an unseeing gaze along the horizon as if the landscape fascinated him beyond measure. Morrigan suspected that the beauty of nature lay in the eye of the beholder; what was dreary and monotonous to one breathed with meaning and freedom for another. His thoughts weighed on him so heavily that the mage barely reacted to his sister’s fatigue. Yet the witch also saw here the faint trace of a hurt that had been building over the past few days...
Note:
This one belongs to the prompt by atmosphere rather than by open declaration. No blood rite is named here. Not yet. But the scene already stands close to that threshold: moonlight, secrecy, a lesson given outside every sanctioned room, and a mind being taught to look at magic without obedience. Most darker paths do not begin with atrocity. They begin like this — with curiosity, with method, with someone more experienced quietly shifting the shape of what another person believes is possible.
Ir abelas.
— Bethany. You’d best occupy that mind of yours. If you’re to master your art, I’ll need to know what spells you’ve learned. Unless you object.
The girl flushed but nodded, sitting cross-legged beside her.
— Um… I know ‘Flaming Hands.’ My father adapted the ‘Flaming Weapon’ formula so I could use it without burning myself. But… he said it only works safely with a strong predisposition to pyromancy. Which I have. There’s also ‘Blazing Flash.’
— Rewriting formulae… We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we? So this is where the true masters hide—on farms, amid fields and hills, avoiding notice. Go on.
Bethany clenched her fists, as if angry with herself:
— That’s… all I know. For now.
Alim, leaning against the willow, was little more than a silhouette in the dark. His voice was flat when he remarked:
— Not much.
The young mage nodded, unashamed.
— It isn’t.
Morrigan let out a derisive snort.
— And how many spells have you mastered?
The elf raised a hand, starting to count on his fingers.
— Well—
— Exactly. Not many more. Bethany—does anger often grip you? Or do you act rashly, where emotions outweigh logic?
— Hmm… Sometimes. Not often, but in my youth, I’d act on impulse and regret it later. My father made sure I recognized the flaw. I learned to think twice. Why?
— Such traits are common in fire-witches, pyromancers. Mother called them ‘rabid bitches.’ Yet she never refused to teach them. So—was your decision to join us truly not impulsive?
The young mage shook her head solemnly. Morrigan nodded in satisfaction at her “student”. The mentor quickly whispered a dozen questions about the runes likely used in the spells Bethany knew. Confirming the girl's solid foundation, she moved to a trickier topic. Clearing a patch of earth between the willow roots where moonlight provided enough illumination, Morrigan snapped off a low-hanging branch. After stripping it of leaves and flexible shoots, she handed the stick to Bethany.
— Can you map the runic structure of 'Flaming Hands'?
— But—
— The structure. Not the runes themselves.
— Oh!
Eagerly, the chestnut-haired girl nodded and began digging small holes in the dirt. They formed a chain that spiraled outward in a square pattern, branching into five or six offshoots at each turn on the final loop. Over sixty rune positions in total. Morrigan squinted at the design and muttered under her breath:
— Overcomplicated. Clumsy. Redundant…
Then, eyeing Bethany—who was unconsciously bending the stick—she clarified:
— This is all of it?
— Yes.
— Six dozen runes?
— Yes.
— But… why single-layered?
Bethany fell silent, bewildered by her own work. Alim, however, stepped forward to examine the diagram.
— I don’t see the issue. How else would it look?
Morrigan cleared another patch and swiftly sketched a six-rayed figure with three holes per ray, deliberately making the central and terminal holes larger. A second design followed: three rays connected by a circular band, with the same emphasized points. A third resembled the first but with three elongated rays. Together, they matched the sixty rune positions exactly. The elf scratched his chin, his eyes glinting in the dark as he studied them.
— Three different spells?
— One. 'Disorientation.' A hex. Three-layered. The larger points are interlayer connections.
A forbidden art rarely announces itself at the beginning. More often it arrives as a better question than the safe world knows how to ask.
Thedas Weekend fill + Febuwhump 2026 — Day 15: “test subject”
Prompts: You were not meant to wake / oblivion / raspy
CW: forced experimentation; loss of consciousness; nausea/hunger; nightmare/dream-violence; psychological distress.
Fandom: Dragon Age (NBB / New Bad Beginning)
(Text-only. No genAI.)
The older of the two mages interjected before the conversation could turn into a relentless exchange of barbs, quietly asking:
— Lyrium?
Valinsi nodded, removing from his belt a massive leather pouch, suitable for carrying several valuable tomes at once. Inside were four ceramic flasks, designed to hold a solution of processed lyrium. Touching them with her fingertips, the girl felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling in her hand.
— Then let's begin.
After emptying the bucket of drinking water into the latrine, she moved it to the center of the room. Watching the preparations, Bethany whispered:
— Um… what should I do?
As she retrieved the ceramic vessels and began to pour the bluish liquid with a faint pearlescent sheen—a sign of high concentration—into the bucket, the prisoner gave a nervous snort and replied:
— Make sure I don't fall. The floor is stone.
At this remark, Valinsi cast a thoughtful glance at the kneeling Morrigan, which only the younger mage missed. The man remained silent, not interfering in the preparations in any way. Wasting no time on doubts and pushing the empty containers aside, Morrigan sat before the bucket, crossed her legs, and plunged her right hand into the solution. It felt only slightly more viscous than plain water to her. Her arm, up to the shoulder, was immediately gripped by an unpleasant tingling that seemed to reach the very bone. This was accompanied by slight nausea, but nothing that couldn't be overcome with an effort of will.
After a meaningful look from the older mage, Bethany realized it was time to act. Springing from her spot, she was behind her mentor's back in two steps. Taking a deep breath in and out, Morrigan conjured the mental image of the required spell formula. Making the necessary adjustments on the fly to account for the role of oscillating runes, the witch approached the final step. Closing her eyes and concentrating on the sensations in her right arm, she allowed the mana from the dissolved lyrium to flow freely through her body, to fill the formula with power and set the spell in motion.
Morrigan had never experienced mana burn before. The witch had various expectations… but there was almost nothing to feel when the spell took effect; no distinct sensation marked the moment. It was more like rapidly mounting dizziness and fatigue, crashing down with an overwhelming weight upon both body and mind. As if a huge wave of cold water had suddenly surged forth, instantly dragging her to the very bottom. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, squeezing her consciousness in a vise. And it lasted no more than a couple of heartbeats. The last things to reach the witch's awareness before the embrace of darkness were the sounds of the Templar's irritated questions, their meaning elusive, and Bethany's “Flaming Hands” on the back of her head…
* * *
The forest was dying. No… Morrigan winced, realizing she'd let herself think it. Her thoughts were tangled, refusing to form a coherent chain. Words obeyed reluctantly, refusing to describe what she saw. For several nightmares now, the forest had borne little resemblance to familiar, living vegetation. These changes had been accumulating, but only now had they become so obvious. Everything around her had become the embodiment of “death”.
Before her eyes, the trees were losing the pitiful remnants of blackened foliage, which dissolved into black, ghostly smoke before even reaching the ground. The undergrowth had already vanished, and even the ash that had previously covered the soil was crumbling away like the first snow under bright sunlight. All that remained was a bare, grey surface, scarcely resembling forest soil and pockmarked with ulcers, as if afflicted by an unknown disease.
Looking around, the witch, for the first time in this nightmare, felt free rather than a victim caught in a web. Nothing restricted her movement, and the first cautious step she took felt astonishing. Finally, after what felt like only three minutes, her searching gaze finally fell on the only object that differed from the trees and showed no sign of dissolving into a mirage. Taking careful steps, Morrigan came upon a copy of herself. Kneeling, curled into a ball with its face buried in its knees, it sensed her approach more than heard it. The witch's alter ego lifted its head, covered in black scars, revealing a face contorted with pain. Focusing its single eye on the “visitor”, the copy demonstrated a swift transition from suffering to rage and hissed:
— Everything's been taken… My memory is riddled with holes… My body… And now you're burning this little corner I fought so hard to cling to, to keep from falling into oblivion. How I hate you!
Morrigan frowned, looking down at herself for the first time, and asked the only question that troubled her at that moment:
— Why?
The copy suddenly froze, its single eye widening, reflecting something more than just rage—a profound understanding of the absurdity of its position. A snarl twisted its face, though behind the hatred, desperation was now visible:
— Why?!
The double repeated the question, its face distorting into a grimace half pain, half mockery.
— You stupid creature! Does one need a reason to want to live? To desire to exist? To reclaim what was rightfully theirs?…
Its voice broke into a rasp as black cracks crept up its neck:
— You've even stolen my pain… my dreams…
Morrigan felt an icy shiver run down her spine. There was a strange conviction in the copy's words…
— But I desire the same. Exactly! Our desires cannot… Why didn't you choose another victim, demon?
— Not my choice!..
The copy opened its mouth and froze, deeply shocked by Morrigan's words. Then it burst into abrupt, wild laughter. The witch felt a strange mix of revulsion and pity watching the scene unfold. When the laughter subsided, the copy raised its hands, watching as the tips of its remaining fingers began to blacken. Shifting its gaze back to Morrigan, it began to spew words with extraordinary force:
— You are a sick creature… broken, twisted, with insane goals, meaningless principles. And that is my small victory. A doll stuffed with the desires of others, desires that make me feel soiled and diseased. Without me, you are less than a shadow… Every particle of you is stolen! Even your very essence belongs to me! But now… Now…
Breaking off mid-sentence, the copy looked away into the void, as if peering into an abyss unfolding before it. Something in these words, saturated with sharp hatred and chilling sorrow, pierced Morrigan, making her take a step back. Meanwhile, the blackened fingers of her alter ego began to melt, turning, like everything else, into ephemeral haze. Looking around, the girl realized the trees were gone. The nightmare was coming apart, rushing toward its climax. Letting out a painful, weeping moan, the copy drew the witch's gaze once more. As if with great effort, it forced out a poisonous smile. In it was a certain defiance and a desire to drink to the dregs the sweetness of small victories, no matter the cost. The girl couldn't bear it and shouted:
— What?! Enough. Disappear. I've won. You won't get this body.
— Creature… Be damned… On that ill-fated day, Flemeth almost killed you… Almost…
Lurching forward abruptly, the witch grabbed the copy by its darkening shoulders, intending to shake it.
— You remember that day? What… what happened then? Tell me! What happened to Mother?!
In the copy's single eye, shining with pure gold, surprise flashed, replaced by triumph. It laughed again, but this time the laughter was angrier, more jerky, more painful… reeking of madness. To her own surprise, the witch slapped the copy, then again, tasting the blood on her bitten lip. With the third blow, the face, riddled with black cracks, shattered like broken glass, scattering into tiny shards that didn't even reach the ground. The body fell, immediately crumpling and beginning to disappear. In the frozen silence, a whisper finally reached Morrigan's ears:
— Be cursed…
Immediately after, the very ground beneath her feet swiftly changed color from dull grey to black and crumbled into dust, marking the final death of this mysterious place, lost amidst dreams. At least, that was what Morrigan hoped, sinking into darkness…
* * *
Pain. Why does it sometimes come tinged with colors? Black shot through with red… Throbbing. As if something living had taken root inside her skull. Scratching behind her eyes, behind her eyelids. Sending waves of nausea rolling through her. Morrigan drew a hoarse breath and exhaled with a soft moan. She was afraid to open her eyes, as if something alive lurked behind her lids, ready to burst free. Although, of course, the greater fear was the light—a source of exquisite torture. But the illusory darkness couldn’t save her from reality. The light filtering through the vent grating pierced her eyelids like thin blades. Still, it could have been worse… Taking her time, wary of the dizziness any sudden movement might bring, the witch looked around.
Still in the cell. This constancy was, strangely, reassuring. The sound of breathing made Morrigan flinch instinctively, despite her caution. The price was a surge of nausea from prolonged hunger, rising in her throat. Only by squeezing her eyes shut and breathing rapidly did she manage to force back the bile. Trying again, more carefully, she saw Valinsi sitting in the corner, at the head of the bench. The man had his arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to keep warm, and he was asleep.
The scene seemed so unreal that Morrigan blinked, as if trying to shake off a stupor. But Valinsi remained in the corner, arms crossed. The vision didn’t fade. Ten minutes of struggling with her own body—and finally she managed to sit up, bracing herself with effort. Setting those questions aside for later, Morrigan turned her attention to more pressing matters. Recalling what she had resolved to keep under close watch, she began methodically reviewing them, one by one.
Memory. Despite her hopes, there was no improvement here. Not a single new fact about that day. And the scattered recollections—or rather, vague fragments—hadn’t vanished, hadn’t assembled into a coherent mosaic, and hadn’t revealed anything new.
Read NBB on AO3: LINK
@thedasweekend (for reblog) [ @inatrice ][ @theelderdemon ][ @tevivinter ]
@febuwhump
@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.
@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:
@summergreen009 — Bethany Hawke + insomnia due to guilt
@broodsys — consequences
CW: grief, discussion of parental death, guilt, emotional distress
Note:
Not every sleepless night begins in bed. Sometimes it begins in a burned garden, beside a fresh grave, in the moment a person understands that grief is not the only thing left to carry. There is guilt. There is hunger. There is the terrible knowledge that one might have chosen differently, learned sooner, become harder before the world reached in and tore the old life open. This is Bethany not after the long nights, but at their source.
Abelas.
Excerpt:
— There... in the garden...
Her voice cracked on the first word. She swallowed, clenched her fists, and tried again:
— We... buried her there.
Walking slowly to the spot, Morrigan found a miraculously untouched flowerbed amid the charred trees. A shovel stood planted in the loose soil at the edge, and at the center of the trampled flowers lay a fresh grave, stark as an open wound.
— Carver helped... but he’s still weak. Ebrin and I did most of it. Mother...
A shaky exhale escaped her before she continued:
— There were signs of a beating. Not much. She died from a clean strike to the heart. Probably... almost painless. They executed her. Like she was worthless. Then waited for us. She loved flowers... Father’s grave is in the hills nearby. Maybe it was wrong to separate them, but... Mother loved this garden, and I... I...
— Memory matters more than the dead’s whims. Don’t burden yourself with guilt. What of this place? Sooner or later, others will follow Evou’s trail. I’ve no desire to repeat today’s “heroics”—especially if more than three come knocking.
— Carver insists we head to the South Reach. Then either downriver to Denerim or with a caravan to Bannorn. It depends on Ebrin’s family. They’ll worry for her. And she’s torn between them and Carver. My brother waits for my decision, but I...
Morrigan grimaced inwardly.
— Cut the dithering. The fact you’re hesitating speaks volumes. You’ve another path in mind. Out with it.
The girl fidgeted, then haltingly began to explain. The more she spoke, the steadier her words became:
— Father tried to teach me everything he could, but I avoided true mastery. Being “special.” His life proved it meant hiding, enduring, abandoning roots—forsaking any chance at greatness. Sometimes I even thought the Circle might offer more than skulking in the wilds as a rogue mage, forever a Templar target. Why bother? Better to be normal. Less knowledge, fewer mistakes. We had an elder brother—more gifted than me, Father’s pride. After Father died, he left us behind like dead weight. I’ve heard nothing since... But perhaps he was right. By leaving, he spared us the danger of his presence. All this time, we were safe. Now... it’s late, but I want to learn. You’ve shown me what’s possible. I must face where I stand. I doubt another chance like this will come. Take me as your apprentice!
She turned, but one glance at Morrigan’s face reignited her fear.
— Don’t—don’t refuse yet! What must I do to convince you? Swear loyalty? Serve you? If—
Morrigan recoiled, disgust plain on her face. Bethany clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified she’d made things worse. Yet the witch’s revulsion wasn’t for the plea—it was for the sudden memory of women grovelling before Flemeth, writhing for power like worms in dirt. Willing to trade freedom for scraps of knowledge. A sight Morrigan had scorned, though she’d fed from the same hand. But a whisper in her mind hissed the truth: those women felt no shame in admitting their place. Purpose defined them; pride alone defined Morrigan. And now, she stood in her mother’s role—object of devotion and loathing. A twist of fate she’d never anticipated.
Silence stretched, but her thoughts raced. Shock gave way to cold clarity.
— Enough, — Morrigan finally said. — From this moment until your last breath, remember: never swear oaths. Never barter freedom. Loyalty’s value lasts only until surrendered. Oaths are nooses for fools. I swore them to my mother thoughtlessly, and paid a hundredfold each time. Decisions and consequences—all else is smoke. Yes, the gap between us is as wide as the Dragon’s Peak. But if you’ve resolve, I’ll not bar your learning. Yet your path diverges from your brother’s.
She arched a brow, waiting. Bethany lowered her eyes, thinking, then nodded slowly—once, uncertain; again, firm.
— I’ll speak to him.
