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[maradeux]

DreGregoire wrote...

You think Xai hates Zevran?

 

Um, yes. Why should he be so mean to him (last chapter...) if not?

[Corker]

@mara, I think there's one mage left, who gives the "questioning call from back in the main corridor." That's the assistant, going one-handed through the files. The first guy is stashed by the plant, Hat Guy is drugged in this side passage, and Ciela's Handler is dead.

The assistant just saw the thrall who'd been standing there drop his gear, grab his blades and sprint down a side passage to try to kill somebody. Plus the screaming. If I were that lower-ranking fellow, I'd be thinking this was all *way* higher than my pay grade and go running for help...

The biggest problem with robots is that they do exactly what you tell them to do. Loved Zev being clever enough to use the command words, loved the unintended consequence even more. Interesting that the conditioning overrode the blood control to some extent...

Great action scene, with the balance between the patient waiting and furious movement and continual unexpected interruptions complicating things. I admit to being a little lost, location-wise, but that might be more me not paying enough attention to your description of the level.

BTW, on 16 - loved the Tevinter's-eye view of templars, the orthodox Chantry, the lyrium, and the concern for not hurting the thralls *too* badly. Of *course* we're the good guys and the White Divine and her cronies are the bad guys... I think you've done a fabulous job overall of showing the blood mages as people, some basically decent and some not so much, for whom thralls and blood slaves are just a given, a fact of life, not a moral issue.

And because I am *so* wordy today, I'll toss in a response to the Zev/Xai banter. I think it's very revealing, and very sad, that Xai assumes (...*sigh*... appears to assume... cagey bastard...) that of course Zevran hasn't really changed. It sounds like he doesn't think that sort of change (or redemption?) is possible, which is a very dreary thing to think. (And limits the sorts of futures Xai might envision for himself.)

[Corker]

maradeux wrote...

DreGregoire wrote...

You think Xai hates Zevran?

 

Um, yes. Why should he be so mean to him (last chapter...) if not?

Because they score points on each other by getting emotional reactions, and both play to win. 

I think there's some resentment, distrust and maybe some envy on both sides (yay rivalry!), but I don't think there's hatred, or *somebody* would have died back up in Chapter... uh... the command word fight chapter.

[DreGregoire]

I'm not so sure Xai does assume that Zevran hasn't changed, I think it's just another way he uses Zevran's own 'failings' against him. Xai is so much more of a master at the whole dance of wit and words (for lack of a better description at this time) that Zevran's perception's of what Xai is implying is off. Zevran is very clever don't get me wrong he is close to holding his own but he has a long way to go. Well if they survive anyways. hehe.



You have to look at how Xai says these things to Zevran. It's not only about the bantering back and forth, there is a deeper side to it that I believe goes over Zevran's head at times. Basically I see it as Xai making Zevran stop and think about the things he does and says. Sure Zevran get's angry and Xai knows he will because of who Zev is. Many people get angry when the truth is pointed out to them. A part of Zevran must know what Xai is doing but he doesn't want to admit it yet. ooops sorry Shadow hehehe shutting up now *winks*

[maradeux]

I think you underestimate Zev and I am more at Corker's side in this discussion: Xai does not believe in Zevran's "change", probably because he does not believe in change at all. The "alleged change" from a murderer to a "saint" is the weak point Xai had found in Zevran. And so he tries to debunk him (is that's the right word?). He seems to succeed, because Zevran is himself very unsure if and how much he has changed. That there is a change one can clearly see in his inner conflicts  - I love Zevran's inner monologue in the last chapter - that's the wonderful example for what I mean.

Zevran - on the other hand - does not attack Xai in the same way - although he could - there is the "weak point" with the tattoo and the thrall-story. But Zev does not exploit that to humiliate Xai. And I don't think he does not do that, because he's "too stupid", but because he is "less mean" - and that might again be a indication for a change.

[DreGregoire]

In my opinion, Zevran does attack Xai in the same way. Being less clever does not make a person stupid and having less fuel to stoke the fire with does not make a person less mean.

My impression from Corker's post is that Corker is unsure if Xai really believes or doesn't believe Zevran has changed, because he's so Cagey.

Modifié par DreGregoire, 03 février 2011 - 09:45 .

[maradeux]

But I don't think Zevran is "less clever". And I also don't agree with you that Xai would be "much more of a master at the whole dance of wit and words". Because one can be that in different ways. Xai's way of it is a very aggrssive, manipulative one. Zev has never been like that. He is more "charming", not because he would not be able to do it any different, but because it's not his temper.

Being "the most evil" is for me not the same as "being the most clever". Zevran is witty, yes, he is also cheeky, but he has never been as cruel with his words as Loghain or Ignacio (or Xai...). Perhaps it is not even a "change" and he has more of a "good heart" by nature than he would admit himself?

[Corker]

DreGregoire wrote...
My impression from Corker's post is that Corker is unsure if Xai really believes or doesn't believe Zevran has changed, because he's so Cagey.

Corker hates being wrong and so will couch any and all speculation in as many qualifiers as possible...

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

*finds time during lunch break to reply* Thanks for the comments



The fight *was* a bit confusing; I think I needed more made-up names for the mages and possibly a little more detail, but when there's so much motion going on it's hard to include too many descriptions without losing momentum. >.< I'll just say that 'It's confusing because Zev's POV was influenced by a disorient spell!' heh. I will make certain to clarify at the start of the next chapter.



*All* the mages have been dealt with. Ciela had to knock out or kill her handler to bring down the cell door barrier, which she achieved before crashing into Xai. Xai himself was not reacting to the command words (they can't override the blood magic), but was being controlled--he just happened to have been sent to attack Zevran at a coincidental moment: when the mage who was controlling him (at the files) heard the Fancy Hat mage yell, he went to investigate with Xai walking in front, swords drawn, as a meat shield. When he saw the unconscious (drugged) Fancy Hat and heard/saw Zevran, he made Xai attack and started casting spells. It was only when Ciela escaped, meaning her handler had been overcome, that he realised he was in trouble.



@Corker re: the templar bit on 16, thanks. I was considering dropping that entire scene to get to 17 faster because I was worried people would find it too slow, but I really wanted to give some contrast to the Black/White Chantries and try to show how the Tevinter/blood mages view themselves (or might view themselves ;P The 'real stuff' is up to Bioware).

[DreGregoire]

@Shadow

Hehe, I knew Zev was under a spell and the fact that I was floored by the attack only meant you wrote it in just the right manner. Sometimes the best written stories are the ones that make us think about what we've just read.



@ Maradeux,

Am I understanding that you're equating meanness to evil or were you just using evilness as an example for your cleverness arguement? There are degrees of meanness and degrees of cleverness and cleverness is not only about ability but experience as well. Xai was a Master Asssassin, Zevran was only an assassin, which meant his skills were not at the same degree as Xai's. Being an assassin in antiva is not just about killing your target; there is the whole ability to twist things to your advantage. It is this part of the assassin training that keeps Xai and Zevran testing and trying to out wit each other. They don't have anybody else to spar with in this manner.

[maradeux]

DreGregoire wrote...

@ Maradeux,
Am I understanding that you're equating meanness to evil or were you just using evilness as an example for your cleverness arguement?

Hm... I thought mean and evil are synonyms, because the German translation is the same. If they are not - sorry. *ponders* I used this comparison, because I had the impression you would equate mean and clever. Xai and Zevran are not the same characters. What I mean is - you can't write a Loghain-dialogue for Zevran, because this would not be Zevran anymore. And I don't think it's a question of "experience", because this would mean, a few years later Zevran is like Xai and a few years ago Xai was like Zev - and that's an odd imaginagion...

Let's look at the Landsmeet - is Loghain "cleverer" than Arl Eamon because he perverts the facts and tries to manipulate and offend people while Eamon plays fair? That's not a question of "cleverness", that's a question of character. And sticking at the landsmeet - it's not the "truth" that would make you furious as warden, but the misrepresentation. (that only because you said, Zevran woud get angry because Xai points out "the truth"...)

Zevran is different than Xai. It's not that he would not try to influence people, but he does not do it by unmasking and humiliating them, but by flattering them (the warden, Leliana...) and sometimes by teasing them (Oghren, Wynne...). That's a totally different approach.

[DreGregoire]

@ maradeux.

Meanness is a behavior. It was very mean of Xai to tell the lie about Rinna. Ah there is more than one definition of evil, one is perhaps closer to the term mean, but I am use to it being used more to describe intent. Personally, I don't use the term evil to describe behavior because to me it has more of a religious feel to it. So in my eyes Xai is mean yes, evil no

And you are right Zevran and Xai are different people, but we don't really know how Zevran acted as an assassin when he was in the crows so to say he was any less mean isn't possible, in my opinion. To some people both Zevran and Xai would be evil because they kill for a living and they don't kill out of meanness, they kill because they are assassins and it's there job.

Some people would say that Zevran teases Alistair out of meanness because he is in love with the same woman. I know he does it because he can. Poor Alistair always ends up embarrassed by Zevran's teasing. That is just mean of Zevran! LOL.

Mean and Clever to me do not equate, so they are not the same.

Being clever will get you nowhere without experience. I look at clever as being made up of two different parts. One is that cleverness or lack of you are born with. Two is the ability to use your experiences in life to raise your level of ability (in cleverness) to a point where you can out think (wit) your opponent

I think using Loghain and Eamon at the landsmeet is not an example of clever or not; it's more an example of knowing how to use your political pull to gain your agenda, and although some cleverness is needed, it is not what helped them or didn't help them. Now using it as an example of character is perfect, because you are right at that time in his life Loghain uses everything within his power to prevent what he perchieves as a threat to his nation.

Back to Character with Zevran and Xai. Totally different people, but I'm not sure to say that it is in Xai's character to be mean is a fair assessment. To be honest I really don't know much about Xai; whereas, I am much more familiar with Zevran. And as scary as the thought is Zevran turning into being more like Xai was a real possibility if he stayed in Antiva as a crow instead of coming to Ferelden to kill the grey wardens.

Sorry, I hope I didn't confuse things more. Lovely Chat by the way

oh and two thumbs up on the word Debunk. I love that word it sounds so lovely; debunk!

@Shadow sorry for chattering away in your post.

Modifié par DreGregoire, 04 février 2011 - 01:54 .

[Corker]

Shadow of Light Dragon wrote...

*All* the mages have been dealt with. Ciela had to knock out or kill her handler to bring down the cell door barrier, which she achieved before crashing into Xai. Xai himself was not reacting to the command words (they can't override the blood magic), but was being controlled--he just happened to have been sent to attack Zevran at a coincidental moment:

Oh, the decapitation was Filing Boy!  Yes, I did not understand that Ciela had to take down her handler 'off screen' to get out of the cell.  I know you mentioned it earlier, but in the 'fog of war' it didn't really click that the field had come down and that meant something.  I thought 'the mage' in the hallway was also the handler.  This makes more sense - I was kind of wondering why the handler would be casting disorient on Zevran when he's got Ciela trying to kill him!

The nickname "Fancy Hat" did indeed help a lot with keeping at least that guy straight.  The first guy died so fast, it was easy to write him off.  Assistant and Handler were the two I couldn't keep clear.

ETA: Er, well, not 'died,' but you know...

Modifié par Corker, 04 février 2011 - 01:51 .

[maradeux]

DreGregoire wrote...
To some people both Zevran and Xai would be evil because they kill for a living and they don't kill out of meanness, they kill because they are assassins and it's there job.

I think one can do the job of an assassin in many different ways. You can do it with a sense of duty, with abandon, with respect for your victims - an example for that way would be Thane from ME2 for me. You can do it with the thought of making the last minutes (or hours) as pleasant as possible, for both - victim and assassin - the "seductive" way - that's how I see Zevran (btw - I loved how Shadow let Zevran think about the simularities between his own tactics and these of a desire demon back in "The Hunt" ). Or you can do it the way I see Xai: manipulating and humbling your marks, forcing them into suicide with vicious delight (thank you @corker ).

Of these three tactics I think the last one is the most "coldblooded" and cruelest, but is it really the most successful? I don't think so. I think all three did their job very well, and Zevran does not have to become "like Xai" to improve. I would guess, if Zevran had stayed in Antiva, he would have refined his own tactic and not change it into something completely else.

DreGregoire wrote...
Some people would say that Zevran teases Alistair out of meanness because he is in love with the same woman. I know he does it because he can. Poor Alistair always ends up embarrassed by Zevran's teasing. That is just mean of Zevran! LOL.

If THAT is "mean", then "mean" was a much to soft word for Xai's behaviour. I would see that as some naughty teasing among friends. Bystanders would surely smirk about it. Zevran does not really hurt or abase someone in the companionship with his banter.

About the way Xai speaks to Zev I cannot smirk. Can you?

DreGregoire wrote...
Lovely Chat by the way

The pleasure is all mine.

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

Clutter it up as much as you like I wish I could join in without being afraid of spoilers!

Part 18 - Thralls

The disorient spell lifted with a suddenness that almost made Zevran lurch sideways. Shaking his head in an effort to escape the lingering pain of the blood magic, he pushed back and away from the wall, gripping his sword tightly to still the trembling of his fingers. He had to wrap his left hand around his right to get a good hold; the burning throb in his wounded shoulder and restricted movement in his entire right arm telling him the damage was bad. Not life-threatening, but severely crippling and painful. Without magical healing he might not be able to use his arm properly for weeks. Without a poultice or compress it would swell and become increasingly agonising.

He forced himself to ignore this for now and favour the two thralls in the passage with his attention, either or both of whom might still be a threat to him.

Xai, one Imperial Edge still in his left hand, the other clenched tight over his tattoo and twitching spasmodically, had pushed himself into a kneeling position and was watching Ciela where she stood near the entrance of the passage where it connected to the main corridor. The blonde thrall stood over the body of the mage who’d both been controlling Xai and had shot her with lightning, and, not content with a mere heart-stroke and decapitation, was hacking viciously at the corpse like a woman gone berserk. The walls around her were already streaked with the evidence of her fury.

Zevran glanced into the elven woman’s former cell. The magister Carolos lay dead on the white bedspread, his blood soaking a spreading rose pattern across otherwise pristine linens. His face was a wreck—there were multiple stab wounds to his chest, and a small dagger Zevran now recognised as the sort these blood mages carried around for the purpose of cutting themselves was buried to the hilt in the soft flesh beneath his chin, angling up into the brain.

“Knife-ears,” Xai called suddenly, gaining both Zevran’s attention as well as Ciela’s. “You missed one.” The former master pointed, indicating the drugged mage with the fancy hat Zevran had left slumped by the wall.

“Wait—! Ma feca!” Zevran swore as another head rolled across the floor and glared down at the human, who had watched the dismemberment with a smile. “Are you forgetting we promised Shayle no deaths?”

“We promised we wouldn’t take any lives, Zevran,” Xai corrected, somewhat distantly. “Besides, a little late for getting self-righteous, isn’t it? Didn’t I hear you use Ciela to kill Carolos? Swift thinking there, by the way. I applaud you.”

“You also tried to kill me,” Zevran reminded him, turning his head and attempting to get a good view of his wound. “Again.”

“That mage was directing me, not the words. A blood control spell can’t be overruled by verbal commands, they don’t work like that.” Xai gave Zevran’s torn shoulder a critical look. “Be grateful he didn’t have very good aim.”

Ciela left off her butchery and stalked down the passage towards them, her bare feet leaving a trail of crimson prints on the snowy carpet, Xai’s dripping sword still at the ready. Her white shirt and skirt were soaked red, face and waist-length hair liberally smeared, but the delicate tracery of lyrium around her right eye glittered through the gore. Zevran attempted to find a charming smile and opened his mouth to say some tension-melting witticism about getting out of here while they still could, but was forced into an exclamation of surprise when the woman suddenly rushed him with a shout, blade thrusting for his heart. His own sword lashed across to deflect her Imperial Edge, the motion made more awkward by his injury and two-handed grip, but still driven by Zevran’s fast self-preservation instincts. He let out a pained hiss as the clash of blades drove a spike of agony into his shoulder.

“Much as I would love a rematch, my dear, is now truly the best time?” Zevran parried a second lunge with a grunt and jumped back into the cell, the point of his sword weaving silent threat and warning both as Ciela paused her attack at the very threshold of her old prison. She turned her head slightly, amethyst eyes never leaving amber, face contorted into a feral snarl, but her words were directed to Xai as the human regained his feet behind her. Xai with his bare chest and exposed lyrium brand.

“Will you help me kill him?” she demanded.

Xai braced himself against the wall with one hand, quirked a brow and gave Zevran a half-smile over the shorter woman’s shoulder. “Why would I do that?”

“You’re a thrall, like me. If he knew your words, wouldn’t you want to cut him to pieces?”

“Several times over,” Xai agreed, his cheerful tone belied by a darkness in his gaze that only Zevran was in a position to see. “But he only knows a few, and he promises never to use them again…don’t you, Zevran?”

“If it means we can get out of here before we are discovered, then so be it,” Zevran said impatiently, hiding his unease. “Ciela Tabris, I will not use your words against you ever again without your leave. This I swear.”

Xai’s laughter was as black as his eyes. “And if he breaks that vow,” he said, bending close to one of Ciela’s pointed ears, “I’ll help you cut him to pieces. I so swear.” The former master turned away abruptly, and his next words were flat-toned statements. Purely professional. “Clean yourselves up; we won’t get far looking like we walked out of a slaughterhouse. I’ll get the robes.” With that, he vanished up the passage.

That left Ciela facing Zevran. She was still glaring at him. “Keep your distance or I will sodding gut you,” she snarled. Backing away from the cell, she indicated a washstand in the corner of the room with a jerk of Xai’s sword and added, “There’s a basin of water there and some clean washing cloths. Bring them out here.”

Zevran sheathed his blade left-handed and did as she asked, moving carefully to look less threatening. This wasn’t how he’d expected things to go with Shianni’s beautiful cousin. He thought quickly on how best to if not win her over then at least dispel her ire, and said, “The command I spoke was to set you free, Ciela. I regret if it was not a method you look kindly on, but I could think of no other.” He set the metal basin on the floor in the doorway, soaked one cloth in the water for his own use and left the other for her before backing away slowly. “Is an apology in order?”

She grabbed the other cloth, watching him warily in between wiping at her face. “Just get me out of here,” she muttered. “Why are you trying to rescue blood slaves, anyway? Stealing us for some other mage?”

“Stealing you for—? Ah.” Zevran hummed to himself as he removed enough of his armour to tend his injury. This wasn’t easy with one arm that wasn’t willing to be raised more than halfway. “Of course, you don’t recognise me. It is this black hair dye, yes? And my tattoos are covered up. If you will recall, my dear, you bested me in combat within the library some days ago.” He grinned. “I was at your complete mercy, yes? You threatened to…ah…relieve me of my weapons. Quite painfully.”

“You’re the…escaped slave? The assassin?” She looked more closely at him, examining his features and eyes, and nodded a little. “I should have remembered from the way you said my name. Here and back home it’s just see-ella. You say it funny.”

“See-eh-llla?” he replied, stressing the ‘eh’ and rolling the ‘l’ with deliberate exaggeration, then smiling inwardly when the corners of her lips twitched involuntarily. “It is like the Antivan endearment ‘cielo’, which means—”

“’Darling’. I know. My mum told me.” She stared down at the bloodied washcloth in her hands. “You mentioned my cousins…”

“Shianni and Soris. He is in Denerim, she is here in Minrathous waiting with horses we can use to escape. You will see her soon, never fear.”

He saw her swallow then, noted the distrust and desperate hope warring in her marvellous eyes. “My dad…” she whispered.

“Cyrion, yes? He is safe, my dear. Already on a boat out of the Imperium with the other elves.”

She hid her face behind the washcloth and rubbed vigorously, not replying.

Zevran tossed his cuirass and torn shirt on the floor then looked around, left hand mopping away the worst of the blood. “What is this? No mirror?”

“No, sorry.” Her voice came muffled and she lowered the cloth, revealing a face both calmer and cleaner than before. “Don’t ask me why…probably because we could break them and use the shards to kill ourselves. Or them.” Her lips twisted into a humourless smile. “Can’t have that. Not without orders.”

“Not for some other reason then?” Zevran suggested, remembering Xai talking to his own reflection at the embassy.

She shrugged. “Such as?”

“How should I know?” He chuckled, but his mind presented him with one or two likely options. “That would be why I asked you, my lovely woman.”

“Don’t call me that. You know my name, so use it.”

He grinned. “As you say, mi ciela.”

Her sharp, calculating stare was only broken when she glanced away up the passage, her sword lifting briefly before relaxing back to the floor.

Xai had returned, his leather armour back in place and robes folded over an arm. The Warden passed Ciela one set, which Zevran recognising as belonging to the first mage he’d drugged and taken the parchment from, then he paused a second as though steeling himself before entering the cell and setting Zevran’s robes down.

“How did you find them?” Zevran asked, wiping away more blood and holding himself from flinching at the sting. His ribs were not too badly damaged, but his shoulder was afire.

“Being blood controlled doesn’t render one blind, deaf or stupid.” Xai sounded just a bit on edge as he stripped a sheet from the bed and began to tear it into serviceable lengths, two of which he smeared with a healing poultice. “I saw which passages you used to hide in and strike from. Now turn around. I’ll patch you up.”

“Oh?” Zevran’s instincts sparked several warnings. He very carefully didn’t look at his leather armour on the floor, in which he’d tucked away the file that bore Xai’s tattoo design, and voiced a chuckle. “Such concern from you is unprecedented, I’m sure.”

“If we waited for you to do it yourself with one hand we’d be here forever.”

This was, unfortunately, true enough, but Zevran hesitated. If the former master had been fully aware during the blood control spell as he’d implied, then it would not be a huge leap of logic for him to assume that Zevran was now in possession of those papers. Especially if Xai had stripped the mage Zevran had taken them from.

“Your company is always charming, my friend, truly it is, but I would much prefer the lady’s attentions…” he trailed off, glancing hopefully at Ciela, and a truly wicked grin spread across her face. However, before she could accept the invitation to intimidate him with too-tight bindings and direly whispered threats, Xai snapped, “No. She is cleaning and dressing. We don’t have time for your flirtations.”

Ciela shrugged and disappeared a little way up the passage with the basin. Soon after came the wet slap of her discarding her bloodied clothes.

Zevran heaved a dramatic sigh and positioned himself so that his back was to the other assassin, but his armour and its hidden treasure was in clear view of any sleight-of-hand attempts. His pulse picked up as Xai approached from behind and he tried to guess what tactic the Warden would use should he decide to try and take advantage. Halfway through the bandaging, a quick twist of the injured arm, a blade to the throat? Zevran’s left hand brushed the pommel of a belt dagger. Would Xai dare a confrontation in this place?

But nothing came. Xai bound Zevran’s shoulder with the swift expertise of a Crow who knew his way around impromptu field dressings, his touch neither rough nor gentle, then wrapped Zevran’s ribs with what remained of the linens.

“Do you require assistance dressing yourself?” the human asked when he was done, nodding at Zevran’s armour, and his mocking expression made it plain he knew what the answer would be and why.

“It is more usual for someone to offer assistance in removing my clothes,” Zevran replied casually, stooping to grab his gear and watching as the other man backed away to get his robes in order. “Perhaps next time, hmm?”

Xai said nothing to that, but he dug into his belt pouch for the jar of cosmetic brought along for the purposes of hiding Ciela’s brand as the thrall appeared in the doorway once more, her hands holding the hem of her too-long robe off the floor.

“Your tattoo must be concealed,” he told her. “Do you want me to do it, or Zevran?”

“You’re holding the jar,” she said, albeit with considerable reluctance. “How do you know it’ll work?”

“I tested it on myself. It will conceal the ink for long enough to do the trick, so long as no one looks too closely,” Xai unstoppered the lid and approached her, “but I doubt it will be enough cover if blood magic is used. Close your eye.”

She obeyed, Zevran watching surreptitiously as he struggled with his belts and buckles. She flinched noticeably when Xai’s fingers hovered near her brand, muscles in her face twisting her expression to something that anticipated pain, but did not otherwise react when he actually touched her.

“You’ll do this yourself in future, once we get out of here,” Xai said in a terse voice, working quickly.

She held still. “You don’t talk like a blood slave about to escape. How are you so well prepared? And…calm?”

“I escaped many years ago. I came back…” he smoothed his thumb carefully across her eyelid. “…to help others escape.”

“How nice of you.” Zevran saw her single open eye watching Xai closely. “Except no one escapes.”

“My apologies. I stand corrected.”

“No thrall who’s ever tried to escape made it out the front door.”

“Really.”

“My mast—Lysander, told me of one who attempted it, but they had his phylactery so he didn’t get far. He died mad, overcome by waking nightmares and dreams that weren’t real. Master would talk about it whenever I used to…used to try to...” Her gaze began to wander and her voice went small. “If I run he’ll get into my head…can’t even sleep without him being there, waiting for me…he can make you see and feel and believe such…things—”

Xai grabbed her chin with his free hand, startling her so that she jumped, and he turned her head to one side while effectively forcing her mouth shut. “Stop talking,” he ordered. “You’re creasing my work.”

Zevran, fully armed and robed again, replaced his mage hat and strode quickly from the room to check the main corridor. Seeing it still deserted, he hurried back. “All clear. Are we about ready?”

“Almost.” Xai produced a mage cowl and gave Ciela’s long hair a dubious look. There were still very obvious patches of blood staining her pale tresses.

Ciela evidently realised what the problem was. “Give me a knife and I’ll cut it short.”

“I have a leather tie,” Zevran offered. “You can bind it—”

Xai produced a dagger before he could finish speaking, and without hesitation or ceremony the elven thrall twisted her hair into a tail and sheared it off above the shoulder with an uneven sawing motion. Zevran winced at the resultant wreckage.

“Or you can just ignore me and look like something has been trying to build a nest on your head,” he murmured.

“I’m not ignoring you,” Ciela said quietly, looking at the handful of shorn locks. “I just…needed to do that.” She turned her palm over, and the fine flaxen strands landed in a puddle of blood. “We can’t free anyone else?” she asked quietly, her eyes going to the shimmering door of the abutting cell several feet away.

Xai handed her the cowl and shook his head. “Not today.”

She went to the door. “Ashaad? You in there?”

A deep-toned voice grumbled back: “You do ask the most pointless questions, elf. You are wasting time.”

“I want you to give a message to the First Enchanter when he gets back.”

The broad-shouldered shadow of a qunari appeared behind the purple barrier. “Speak, then.”

She took a deep breath. “Tell him the next time I see him, I’m going to cut his manhood off and stick it up his own ass.”

“No doubt he will find that amusing.”

“So will I, Ashaad, believe me. I’ll sodding laugh as I do it.”

The qunari regarded her gravely. “We shall see.” He lifted one of his huge hands, pressing the palm to the field. “Panahedan.”

Ciela’s smaller hand splayed over where his did. Her voice was soft and sad. “Bye.”

Zevran averted his gaze from the scene, looking for Xai. The human was still within Ciela’s cell, one hand rubbing distractedly at his armour-concealed brand, and he was staring around at the white décor and dead magister with a strangely intense expression…not pale-faced as he had been in the ritual chamber, but as though trying to see something clearly.

“Not getting lost in memories again, are we?” Zevran drawled.

“No...” Xai turned another slow circle. “Simply…acquiring new ones.” He went to the threshold, looked Zevran in the eye, then crossed over with a single very deliberate step. “Ready when you are.”

“What’s the plan?” Ciela asked quietly, coming back.

“Leave any talking to him,” Zevran said, indicating the other man. “Keep close to me and do not draw any attention.” Or do not draw any more attention, he thought to himself, appraising her with a quick up-down glance. The robe she wore had been made for a taller human, and a man. The sash around her waist did much to hide how it would otherwise hang upon her more slender frame, but the style was all wrong for a woman.

Xai had apparently been reading his thoughts. Sighing, he said, “If anyone insists upon being curious, I’ll say the two of you are lovers whom I caught fraternising in a storage closet. Zevran ruined your robes in his passion and you are borrowing a spare set while I escort you to your respective rooms on the fifth floor. It should not be difficult for the two of you to look like a pair of students who got caught out.”

Zevran grinned at the elven woman. “Sounds like fun, if you ask me. What say you, mi ciela?”

She gave him a haughty look of disdain. “Fun? You call this fun? You tore my favourite robes, ser, and made too much noise by far with your…your childish enthusiasm. You’ll be lucky if I let you touch me ever again.”

“I assure you, dear lady, my enthusiasm was anything but ‘childish’.” Zevran lifted his brows at her. “You, however, shriek like an Antivan fishwife.”

“Better than howling like an oversexed mabari war hound!”

“Yes, well done,” Xai said, clapping sardonically as Zevran laughed and Ciela folded her arms in mock indignation. “Your audience of one is duly impressed.” He shouldered his way between them and past, heading for the main corridor. “Now let’s get moving, apprentices.”

Modifié par Shadow of Light Dragon, 13 février 2011 - 04:54 .

[maradeux]

The veneer is crumbling. More and more little details are getting obvious. Xai's character gains more depth and so the relation between the two former crows (I liked that "darkness in his gaze that only Zevran was in a position to see" as well as Zevran's hesitation to accept Xai's help). Interesting development in this chapter. I'm curious how it will go on.

[Corker]

Imma put that image of Xai leaning over Ciela while staring at Zev in my memory box and carry it around all day, mkay? -whew-



Rescuing-the-slaves story aside, I find myself wondering where the Zev/Xai rivalry story is going, and what sort of climax it could possibly have. It looks tricky...

[DreGregoire]

I know where it's going hahah j/k. I know where I want it to go, but Shadow has surprised me more than once. Great chapter by the Way! hehe had to read it more than once.

Edit: rather I wanted to read it more than once not that I had to. Heh.

Edit 2: Hmmm, I just noticed when I reread it that Xai knows. *whispers* He knows what Zev has done. *Stops whispering* Tsk, Zev, you aren't suppose to make things worse! LOL

Modifié par DreGregoire, 22 février 2011 - 02:53 .

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

Thanks for reading, guys

Edit: maradeux wrote this as a song for Ciela! Thanks mara

Part 19 - Through Other Eyes

Shayle puffed up haughtily, drawing herself to her full and impressive dwarven height, and stared the mage down. Figuratively speaking. "Were I still a golem," she declared, "I would reduce it to pulp for that statement."

"Oh, be reasonable, Shayle," the mage protested. "You purchased a slave here a week or so ago, didn't you? You can't keep lambasting the evils of slavery when you yourself are dabbling in it."

"This is different," the former golem said firmly. "Humans, elves, dwarves and qunari die a squishy mortal death before too many years have passed. These juggernauts, who possess the souls of dwarves, have been tools of the Imperium since the first Blight!"

"And they have never complained!" the second mage pointed out.

"What good would that do? Are the feather-headed mages implying it would release a golem if it simply asked?"

"I'm implying that you're arguing on the behalf of creatures who don't seem to care about being free, my lady." The first mage gave a little laugh. "What would a free golem do?"

"Whatever it liked." Shayle folded her arms. "Though in their cases I would start by crushing a few--"

"Excuse me. Lady Cadash?"

Shayle turned, radiating irritation. "What does it want?"

A magister with a long tail of black hair and green robes stood there, one of the senior enchanters, she recalled. He was the one who’d been trying to buy Zevran back from her, and as such she’d mentally given him the title of ‘haggling mage’.

"I am Magister Ezio, if you recall," the man said with a polite inclination of his head. "I passed by your estate this morning."

Shayle ignored the invitation to use his name. "I assume the haggling mage wished to discuss my elf again?"

"I don't suppose you brought the slave with you this fine day, my lady?"

"I came alone," she replied, and even to her ears the response sounded a little too swift. “It was irritating me,” she added. “There are only so many offers for tending to my physical needs that I can stand.”

"He is at your estate then?"

"Obviously. Where else would I have left it?"

"Well," Ezio sighed. "I do hope you secured him. He has proven a slippery one, to my eternal regret. With your leave, Lady Cadash?"

"It still wishes to purchase the elf," Shayle stated as the mage bowed and began to turn away into the tower. She wasn't quite sure why, but she suddenly had a very strong desire to keep the magister from proceeding upstairs. His visits to her estate since she'd ‘purchased’ Zevran had been numerous, and while he had candidly admitted he didn't have the funds to equal the price she'd paid, he had nonetheless sought to engage her in conversation on what she did want.

"Indeed I do," Ezio agreed. "But it can wait another day. I have business to attend now."

"Why does it want to purchase the elf?" Shayle pressed, trying not to sound desperate.

"I told you already, my lady," the mage replied with an inquisitive quirk of one brow. "Strong blood."

"But--"

"I really must be going. Perhaps we can speak again tomorrow, say noon-ish? I’ll bring some wine." He nodded pleasantly and swept away with a rustle of robes.

She began to follow, another protest on her lips, but stopped short when she saw Ezio hail another mage heading for the stairs—none other than Magistra Phaedra, the woman whom Shayle had prevented from popping Zevran like a grape. The two of them heading upstairs together where the two former assassins were skulking about probably wasn’t a good thing, unless one happened to be looking forward to bloodshed and mayhem.

Shayle closed her mouth, pursed her lips, thought to herself a moment, then turned her attention back to the mage-guards she’d been speaking with before Ezio had butted in.

“Skulls!” she said brightly.

They blinked at her. “Excuse me?” said one.

“Were I one of its juggernaut slaves, if my control rod suddenly stopped working I would want to start my new life of freedom by crushing the skulls of my former masters. I killed my former master. With relish, I expect. Did I tell them that story?”

“This is supposed to encourage us to let them go?”

Shayle gave them both a broad grin. “Don’t say I didn’t warn them.”

**

“Avanna, Magistra,” Ezio said politely.

Phaedra gave her fellow mage a look of annoyance that was barely civil. “Ezio. Can’t this wait? I have a rare book to loan out and study to attend.”

Ezio smiled and reached into the broad sash circling his waist, pulling a vial from the thin leather loops affixed within the cloth. “Sister, your study can wait. I have news that may interest you. We have an intruder in the Circle Tower.”

“I trust this intruder is important enough to warrant you bothering me with it and not the guards,” she said impatiently.

“It’s the elf who killed your…favourite thrall.”

Your…lover.

Phaedra’s expression changed, if only a little, but remained haughty and disdainful. No one would ever say it aloud. In truth, no one truly cared. Magisters could do what they pleased with their slaves. Using them for sex was tawdry in Ezio’s opinion but not at all rare, and if one wished to form emotional attachments that was their concern (why not, after all? If one could become fond of a comfortable chair, a set of robes or a jewelled wand, a slave was just as plausible). Phaedra’s case was unusual, however. She hadn’t trained her thralls, she’d inherited them when her master had died, and by all accounts she’d been lax with keeping up any sort of disciplinary conditioning. She brought her slaves out when required by the tower for rituals and other matters deemed necessary, but otherwise spent her time associating with her possessions rather than commanding their obedience. Of course, she claimed her methods were merely a different form of training. She said she believed a slave that loved its master and felt treasured in return performed more satisfactorily than one who had been taught to fear pain. She encouraged them to have no desire to leave her service.

Trust a woman to come up with something like that.

He held up a small glass vial, half-filled with blood taken from Zevran before he’d been turned over to the tower for processing. It was a temporary receptacle only, crude, taken for analysis rather than any belief it would be needed prior to processing, and legally he should have surrendered or destroyed it once the slave’s ownership had changed. Happily, Shayle Cadash had never thought to ask if the phylactery existed; her woeful understanding of the slave-trade was surpassed only by her lack of social grace.

“The slave’s phylactery,” Ezio said succinctly. “The dwarf who purchased him informed me she came here unattended and left the slave at her estate, yet the slave’s blood says he is here. Upstairs.”

“Why would he return?” Phaedra asked, her brow furrowing.

“On Cadash’s orders, is all I can assume. Why she insisted on buying the elf is a source of mystery to me.” Ezio shrugged lightly. “But in truth I know not. With your assistance we could capture him and learn the answer.” Then he coughed a bit, in a pointed way. “There is also the matter that…you owe me, Sister. The slave was mine and not yours to sell, no matter your frustrations. Lyrium is a fine commodity but blood is what I need for my research. Strong blood in the Imperium is becoming increasingly rare…to have a promising slave fall into my lap only to see it be given away—”

“I did not give—” Phaedra shot him a glare. The sum of lyrium she’d secured had indeed been princely, but it was true that the substance was so much dirt compared to the potential of a thrall. The flow of life-force pumped by a determined heart could achieve so much more than the Waters of the Fade. Ezio knew Phaedra was aware of this, but a part of him was intrigued to learn if she had honestly sold the slave for wealth, pique, or a conscious decision to spare him becoming a thrall.

First Enchanter Lysander was always interested to hear of the magisters’ doings when he returned from duties abroad, and he would return very soon.

Phaedra nodded grudgingly. “Very well. If the slave is in the tower as you say, his previous actions are evidence enough he could be a threat. If his mistress has forsworn knowledge of his presence, his life is forfeit as it would be for any runaway slave. How do you wish to proceed, Brother? Our thralls are upstairs, our quarry between us and them, and useless to us while caged.”

Ezio palmed the phylactery, sliding the glass along a blue vein. “He’s on the move. We can use the blood slaves from the lower cages.”

**

Her brands were stinging. They always did after the initial head-rush.

It hurt when blood was pressed to the lyrium and mana was deliberately transferred into the swirling blue sigils, hurt and put one on a brief, terrifying high, but it was different when a mage was killed. Energy was discharged from a corpse with about as much grace as a hanged man emptied his bowels, and she'd copped three loads. She could feel the pressure of it in the tattoo over her heart, like a flask filled near to bursting. Thralls could only store so much. Even though she had been told her capacity was greater than most, every vessel had its shattering point. The third mage had probably been a bad idea, but she didn’t care. It had been too intoxicating to see them helpless for a change, and for her to be the one with the power.

She’d kill them all if she could.

Too bad the stored mana was no use to a mundane mind. Unless a mage drew upon her or she was ordered to transfer the energy into another thrall, it would slowly and harmlessly dissipate by itself over time. She had no way to channel it into a weapon, means of escape or anything, and as far as she knew no blood slave ever had. Batteries ironically had no power…that sort of thing belonged to the hand that wielded them.

“Would you mind taking some advice, mi ciela?” the elf walking at her side murmured quietly.

“And that would be?” she muttered back.

“Stop glaring at every mage we pass. They are starting to notice and wonder what terrible crimes they have committed.” He paused. “Plus, it is a truly unflattering expression for you.”

She punched his arm. Unfortunately it was the right one, which was injured, and the colour instantly drained from his face.

“Ah…” Zevran whispered, strained. “Such a delicate touch from one so fair. I am…I am in shock from the pleasure of it.”

Ciela chose not to apologise. It was a novelty, really. Had she struck a mage she’d be on the floor grovelling and babbling for mercy, which she may or may not receive depending on how convincingly she squirmed. In the beginning she’d refused to play such games and held back every scream. She’d been proud and defiant. Vaughan hadn’t broken her spirit, and no powdered, primping, dress-wearing mages were going to manage it either.

But they had…eventually. Even now the thoughts and beliefs that had been fed to her through blood dreams were balking at her presumption that she could escape. She knew—she knew that trying would mean punishment, horrible punishment. Better to stay. Better to return to her cell like a good slave. Better to not give Lysander any reason to be angry—

Zevran quickly slid around behind her to stand on her right side, and gripped her arm loosely with his left hand. “Your glaring was better,” he said wryly, picking up their pace a bit. They had lagged behind the human. “Now you look as though you are the one expecting judgement.”

“I’m not afraid of them,” she hissed under her breath, a lie, and tried to shake him off. He let go.

“Perhaps you could look like it then, yes? Not afraid and not incredibly angry?”

“You’re just full of useful advice, aren’t you?” Magely heads turned at her louder-than-intended retort. Eyes stared at her. So many eyes… Ciela began to falter beneath their scrutiny and the black terror of impending discovery, but then the elf’s hand was on her arm again and guiding her ahead. She felt so pathetically grateful for the intervention she wanted to stab him in the face.

“As you say.” The voice beside her was quiet again, and neutral. “I shall keep my opinions to myself from now on.”

Your opinions mean nothing, she wanted to snap, but she couldn’t say it any more than she could bring herself to pull her arm from his grasp. As much as she loathed allowing him to touch her, especially considering his knowledge of her commands and the power that gave him over her, she knew with dread certainty that if he let go she’d freeze, fall back or even flee. It was easier to be angry. Hate for these monsters that knew what happened to the slaves below and the ones above, fury that these mages were aware yet did nothing, these were the only emotions strong enough to counter her fear.

How is the shem so calm? How many years did it take him?

Ciela found her attention fixed on the other thrall after that thought surfaced, and then more questions followed…dozens of them. Questions he had to have answers for. She was so absorbed by the possibilities she almost didn’t notice when Zevran’s left hand began to shake where it held the crook of her arm.

“What is wrong with you?” she hissed.

“What are you talking ab—?” The elf cut himself off suddenly with a sucked in breath and released her arm to tug lightly at the robes of the human striding ahead of them. “Magisters ahead,” he warned when the thrall glanced back. “Emerald green robes. Ezio. He could recognise either one of us. The woman beside him is Phaedra.” Then he withdrew his hand slowly, staring at how the fingers trembled. “What is this?” he said in a nervous undertone. “Magic?”

The human’s eyes narrowed and he quickly looked towards the magisters, no more than twenty feet away with four crimson-robed slaves flanking them and drawing nearer. Ciela’s gaze followed his, instinctively seeking a glimpse of what she knew he was searching for… There…the slick shininess of a glass vial, the crimson of blood, being slipped into a wide sash.

“Phylactery,” she whispered, like one would utter a curse word.

“Hang back,” the shem ordered Zevran, speaking soft and urgent. “Don’t let them get within five feet of you. Catch up when I signal.”

Ciela glanced between them, noting instantly that the elf didn’t like what he was hearing at all. His attitude didn’t seem to be directed at the mages who held his blood either, but the human. The practicality of not getting caught and the immediacy of their peril won out against demanding explanations, however, and Zevran stepped back with no more communication than an eloquent glower of suspicion before turning back the way they’d come, sidling past some apprentices on the way.

The human watched Zevran’s departure for a heartbeat before inhaling deeply, bracingly, and motioning her to come with him. “What will you do?” she asked, falling in on his right. They were set on a path that would take him straight past the left flank of the magisters’ little group.

“What do you think I’ll do?”

“We could…leave him,” she said in a small voice. She felt sick at what she was proposing but couldn’t seem to help herself.

A single brow lifted. “You don’t think that a little contemptible considering he, not I, was the one to set you free?”

Fifteen feet…

“How free is that?” she pointed out, uncomfortable. “He knows. Let the mages take him. We don’t need him.”

“Don’t we?” Both brows were up now, joined by a tiny smile. “How many times so far has he stopped you running back to your cage or curling into a ball in the middle of the hallway?”

Ten feet…

Shame burned. “But…you could do that. You know the way out. You don’t need him.”

The human’s smile became self-mocking. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re not afraid.”

Five feet…Magistra Phaedra gave Ciela’s attire an odd glance before sweeping her gaze elsewhere…

The human flexed his right hand carefully by his side, stretching each finger, and when Ciela glanced down she saw the former thrall’s hand wasn’t completely steady. Fine tremors shook it; he made a fist, relaxed, repeated, smirked at her as they walked directly by the magisters and their blood slave escort.

“I’m working on that.”

He side-stepped into Ezio’s wake, one hand sending a small and shining item skittering across the floor beneath the feet of the mages and up the passage where it began to emit a beautifully tinkling tune, the other hand reaching for his prize in the magister’s sash as eyes from all sides of the corridor followed the lure’s sparkling, musical path.

**

“You!” The magistra pointed imperiously. “Fetch that item.”

The elven slave Kamator bowed and went to obey. He had to pick his way carefully between the mages and apprentices who had stopped to peer, intrigued or captivated, but he had once been a professional thief and knew what a few glamour charms could achieve if a rogue wanted a nice distraction. The trick against such a lure was to concentrate on something else--anything else, and not let the charm’s humming suck you in. He did this now, fixing an old Rivaini chant in his mind before claiming the crystal-like trap and bearing it to his masters.

“What is it?” Phaedra demanded as Ezio looked about, studying faces. The second mage must have come to some conclusion about the lure, for he had raised both a shimmering arcane shield and the hazy red film of a blood sphere about his person; two of the other slaves were sagging visibly as they were being drawn upon to fuel the latter.

“A kind of trap rogues use as a distraction, mistress,” Kamator said. “Of itself, it’s not harmful.”

“How do you shut it up?”

Kamator wrapped the offending object in the sleeve of his robe. As soon as it was fully enclosed by the fabric, the tune went silent. “If the magistra wishes, I can take it downstairs to be destroyed,” he offered humbly. “Melting is more effective than breaking.”

Ezio suddenly put a hand to his sash, a look of shock on his face. Kamator and the other slaves made sure not to ogle the display after initial glances had been made, and tried to look as inoffensive as possible as the magister cursed aloud and patted his clothes, then scoured the floor at his feet with his eyes.

“What is it?” Phaedra asked.

“Zevran. The phylactery is gone!”

“Impossible. If he’d gotten that close you’d have felt it instantl—”

“It is gone, I say!” Ezio’s glare fell upon the slaves, who flinched to a man. “One of you…one of you…”

Kamator kept his head down and his shoulders hunched as the magister’s eyes speared them in turn, aware of other mages in the passage giving them a wider berth than before. Several, he realised with a sinking feeling, had stopped to watch like students at a particularly interesting lecture, and that was bad. Ezio was well-known for taking exception when he felt he’d been slighted, and his ‘lessons’ frequently toed the line of pure exhibitionism.

“Brother,” Phaedra was saying in warning tones, “if the elf is here then you can’t afford to waste your attentions on mere blood slaves.”

When Ezio subsided, composing himself, Kamator released a quiet breath of thanks an instant before eyes and ears were caught by a second skittering and shiny item. A careless kick by some student propelled it across the floor, sending it rolling against one of his sandaled feet. He bent to retrieve it and was struck aside by Ezio’s staff. Stumbling away, avoiding the urge to cup a hand to the welt forming on one side of his face, Kamator watched covertly as the magister picked up the remains of the vial. It was the missing phylactery, of course—or the top half of it with its inscribed stopper. The glass had splintered and broken off halfway down, taking whatever blood it had carried with it.

“I’m going upstairs,” the magister said coldly. He looked one step away from anger. “Hopefully Alcandre did her job before she was killed and had a blood sample stored in the vault.”

“I will go with you.” Phaedra snagged a passing apprentice. “Take this slave,” she indicated Kamator, “see to it he is returned to the first slave block downstairs, and the item he carries is destroyed. And make sure someone heals his face, Marinus!” she ordered, and swept quickly after the departing Ezio with the three other slaves following.

“But I have a class to…y-yes, Magistra Phaedra…”

Kamator exhaled a second time, relieved he wouldn’t be going anywhere near the thrall level, and walked obediently beside his new, if temporary master, a young human with blue eyes. He stayed quiet, pondering that name: Zevran. The Antivan he’d set loose a week or two back?

A pleasant, masculine and above all familiar voice on the other side of the mage suddenly said, in Common, “I heard you have class, my good friend Marinus? I happen to be heading downstairs. I could take this slave off your hands, if you wish.”

“Yes, thank you—uh…” the apprentice blinked at Zevran and assumed that polite expression people sometimes did when faced with someone who seemed to know them, but whom they couldn’t remember the name of and were too embarrassed to ask. “Thank you,” he repeated. “First cell block, destroy that thing he has in his hand, get someone to heal his face. I owe you!” He hurried off.

“Are you trying to get me killed now?” Kamator muttered after taking in Zevran’s disguise. Spirits and demons, had no one told him what the penalty was for a mundane impersonating a mage?

“My friend, if you want to be passed off to another for delivery to your prison, you have only to ask.” The Antivan glanced at him sidelong; Kamator said nothing. “You did not have to assist me that day, and…after going upstairs I have only just begun to understand the fate I was spared. If simple gratitude is all you will accept then you have it, but I wished to offer you a second chance of a way out. As you can plainly see, I am better prepared this time.”

**

The scene was bloody. Phaedra had witnessed many horrific scenes in her time, most on the seventh floor, but this felt like the worst. It couldn’t be called butchery, as there was art to how a meat-cutter wielded his blade. This was closer to psychotic murder. She passed by the almost unrecognisable remains of the jailer’s second and the headless corpse of the jailer himself, lifting the hem of her robes fastidiously above the pools of blood and avoiding the stained carpet; it was so thoroughly soaked that the one time she’d stepped on it there had been a most unpleasant squishing sound.

“Ezio!” she shouted back out into the hall. “Here!”

She continued on to the last cell, which she could see was unsealed, and beheld the body of Carolos, ward of First Enchanter Lysander, with a feeling of deep satisfaction.

Killed by your own blood-letting blade. Serves you right. You reap what you sow.

“Where are you?” Ezio called.

“Here! Looks like one of the First Enchanter’s thralls is on the loose. Do you know who was in this cell?”

The magister joined her and glanced in, and his face didn’t show any regret or sympathy either. Ezio didn’t think much of those who made love to slaves; Phaedra despised those who took pleasure in hurting them. Blood magic was a sophisticated tool, not some crude cudgel to be wielded like a barbarian.

“This cell held Ciela Tabris of Denerim City and Ferelden.” Ezio tilted his head to one side. “Curious.”

“What’s curious?”

“Before I purchased him, Zevran accompanied the Fereldan diplomats who bought back all those elves. As part of our deal, I provided a list of the slaves we possessed who originated from Denerim, including this one, which of course I noted as being dead.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I found another of the jailer’s assistants, by the way. First passage on the right from the stairs down and alive, but I couldn’t wake him. He is drugged with durgenera by the smell of it. And his robe and hat have been stolen.”

A female elf in a human man’s clothing…

Phaedra blinked. Ezio didn’t notice.

“Forget the vault,” he said at last. “Three mages are dead, their blood shed, the trail still fresh. I’ll possess one of my thralls to find him.”

“Dream walking and blood possession is a dangerous task alone—and I’m not having a part in it. I’ve already lost one thrall to that elf, I won’t sacrifice another.”

Ezio sneered faintly and turned away, probably to hide his contempt. Phaedra followed him up the passage to the cell besides which two of the corpses were slumped.

“I don’t need assistance,” the magister said coldly, “but if you have any desire to see a mage-killer brought to justice, perhaps you could return to the ground floor and observe our friend Lady Cadash.” He dropped the field of his cell pointing at the red-headed elf within who had already prostrated himself, and the slave instantly keeled over to one side on the white snow leopard rug, fast asleep. Ezio stepped inside and clenched his fingernails into his own palm to draw blood.

Phaedra winced at the sight. Most blood mages used small blades, but a few eschewed mundane tools and filed their own nails to points. When Ezio did not immediately begin his spells but crouched to lift the thrall’s head, Phaedra said, “You’re not thinking off—”

Ezio pressed his bleeding palm to the brand crawling down the thrall’s throat, and both men flinched once, twice, three times, as rhythmically as a heartbeat.

“That’s going too far.”

“It will work.”

“It’s barely been tested!”

“I will only channel if it seems necessary.” Ezio lowered the thrall’s head and crossing to the large bed. He made himself comfortable atop the covers and crossed his hands over his heart. “Sister, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

She made a disapproving flipping gesture and the magister didn’t try to resist the spell. He, too, fell asleep. Only a few seconds later the thrall’s brands began to glow. He sat up and opened his eyes, which shone white.

“You’re not going to bother going upstairs to get armour or weapons, are you,” Phaedra said, scowling.

He shook his head, stood and walked from the cell. Barefoot, clad in a thin white shift that clearly revealed the glowing brand over his heart, and blood still on his neck. What a sight. The thrall turned after passing the threshold and lifted both hands, and for just a moment there was a bloody tinge to his brands and eyes as the field was erected via the stored mana. Ezio was sealed within, his physical body safe from any intruders.

“You’re going to get yourself and your thrall killed.”

The red-haired elf shook his head a second time, paused to look down at the two dead mages in the passage like a hound picking up a scent, then headed out into the main hall at a run.

Modifié par Shadow of Light Dragon, 26 février 2011 - 10:42 .

[maradeux]

Nice trick with the phylactery, Xai! I think I learnt to like him a little bit in this chapter. Intersting the comparison of Pheadra and Ezio - two completely different blood mages. And I'm glad about the second encounter with Kamator. I'm very curious what will happen next.

[Corker]

Yay! Kamator was too awesome to leave down in the slave basement. Glad he's back.

Sounds like Ciela positively lucked out with Carolos. :/ Glad they don't do resurrection magic in Thedas. Poor lady.

"I'm working on that." XD I don't know what the reality is, but it amuses me greatly to imagine that the main reason Xai didn't leave Zevran behind was that his need to show strength in front of a fellow former Crow was the only counter-conditioning strong enough to keep him from freaking.

ETA: FWIW, I can't help but to keep reading these bits through a robotics lens (that's my day job).  Varying degrees of teleoperation and autonomy, different control paradigms, different sensors and processing. That's also why I was so quick to think, two chapters back, that Xai was responding to Zevran's command to Ciela - that is *exactly* the sort of fault we run into in autonomous systems, where the damn things do exactly what you say, but not what you *meant.*  The voice-controlled robot does not necessarily have gaze tracking to know if you are commanding *it* or the *other* voice-controlled robot nearby.   

Modifié par Corker, 26 février 2011 - 02:32 .

[DreGregoire]

@ Shadow: Great chapter! *shivers* Heh, I loved the glamour lure. hehe.

@ maradeux: Becareful, don't fall into Xai's trap now; those crows, even ex-crows, are sneaky slippery people. Just Kidding. LOL

@ Corker: It seems to me that Xai doesn't really feel as threatened by Zev as Zev thinks he should be. LOL. Did that make any sense? But I agree that Zev being there may have made it possible for Xai to act quicker than he might have otherwise, if it's because Zev is a former crow or not I am unsure of. LOL

Modifié par DreGregoire, 26 février 2011 - 09:13 .

[maradeux]

*haha* I am careful, Dre. But at least Xai defended Zevran against Ciela's bad proposals. Maybe it's because he thinks he would really need him there. Or maybe it's because he doesn't want him dead anymore. (some time ago he wanted - I am sure...) Let's see.

[Sean Koury]

And a sequel, too. Eep. Lots of catching up to do.

[Shadow of Light Dragon]

@mara: You're starting to like him? :X We can't have that! ;D

@Corker: "FWIW, I can't help but to keep reading these bits through a robotics lens" - Yes indeed...that may still be a problem further along Your job sounds cool, btw O_O

@DreGregoire: Thanks

@Sean Koury: Greetings!

Now that I have a slew of new Tevinter lore to ponder, I feel a little safer continuing...

Part 20 - Brothers In Chains

I was Dafen, ‘Wolf Cub’ in the language of my people. I was a hunter in a clan that one day ran afoul of Imperial soldiers. They fell upon the aravel and slaughtered the halla. Our Keeper and his First brought down many with their arts, the rest of us fought with bow, blade and axe, until the dark magisters began to work their perverted craft and all turned to ruin. Trees twisted to life at our Keeper’s commands were burned and destroyed by demons summoned by our foes, and that was only the beginning. The mages seized control of our flesh. Brother turned against brother, sister against sister, bonded slew one another then were borne down by their own children.

We killed many…of them, of our own…but the magisters were too well protected and their blood magic too potent.

We who survived, those who did not manage to flee, were carried to different destinations but ultimately the same fate: slavery. I don’t know what has become of the rest of my clan, but I am no longer one of them. How could I be? My submission has become too complete, too a part of what I am, for me to be elvhen. I will never know freedom from the chains placed in my mind…even when I sleep I can feel the fetters.

As I feel them now.

I dream of the hunt. I dream of a forest like no other. I dream that one of the Creators runs by my side, in my shadow, in my heart…

…under the sun and the star, the leaves and the shade…

**

“The magisters,” Zevran said once he, Xai, Ciela and Kamator had reached the relative safety of Airlia’s lodgings on the fourth floor, “I overheard them say they were going to some vault upstairs for another phylactery. How many of them do these people make?”

Xai retrieved the woman’s robe and shoes they had smuggled in for Ciela, the measurements for them having been dictated by her cousin, and handed them to her. “For a full thrall, I think three; one for his master, one for the Circle vault, and one for the Argent Spire. They didn’t have you for long so you might not have to worry, but we’ll have to move quickly all the same. They’ll know something is wrong when they reach the sixth floor and see no one on guard, and if they realise Ciela is missing they might simply go for her phylactery. Who’s this?” He nodded at Kamator, dark eyes appraising the swirling Rivaini tattoos.

“Someone who’s wondering what he’s gotten himself into,” the slave muttered. “Kamator. Yours, I believe.” He tossed the lure to Xai, who snatched the glittering humming thing from the air before glancing at Zevran.

“The one who assisted your escape from the tower?”

“In the flesh,” Zevran confirmed. “I have offered him a way out since that is where we ourselves are headed, no?”

“By ‘way out’, do you mean ‘early grave?” Kamator jerked his chin towards Ciela, who had turned her back to the men and was stripping right there in the same room. “A few words and she’ll turn on all of us. She’s a thrall.”

“Not any more,” the elven woman said without glancing back. She shrugged the new robe on, which Zevran couldn’t help noticing was a rather flattering midnight blue. “And never again.”

Kamator shook his head. “There are chains and whips in your mind that won’t go away with a little defiance, woman.”

“The glowing eyes,” Zevran said suddenly, remembering, and shared a quick glance with Xai. “They were controlling you from a distance, yes? Can they do that while you are with us?”

Ciela wrapped the cloth-of-gold sash about her waist, working quickly. “I have to be asleep. I’m not positive how it works, but I was always made to fall asleep whenever they used me like that.”

“What’s the range?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you resist it?” Xai asked.

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug and she looked over at him. “I’ll have to work on that, won’t I?”

The human’s head tilted slightly to one side as he returned her gaze, and something like a smile…speculative? …approving? curved his lips.

Ciela’s attention shifted to Zevran then, almost reluctantly, as though ashamed. “I’ll have to work on a few things,” she added, and crouched to put her shoes on.

Zevran frowned to himself, wondering if he had somehow earned some sort of obscure apology, but let it lie for now and turned to Kamator in his bright red, gold emblazoned robe. “I am thinking you will need no disguise, my friend.”

The Rivaini elf shook his head. “Better credibility for you having a slave tag along,” he noted dryly.

“We don’t have the right shade of pigment to hide your ink anyway,” Xai said. He tugged a sheathed blade from within his robe and tossed it. “Can you use a dagger?”

Kamator caught it easily. “If I have to.” The elf’s eyes flicked briefly to the pommel of the weapon, possibly searching for a distinguishing mark that would reveal something of Xai and Zevran’s origins and purpose, but the former Crows had been careful—none of their weapons or armour bore the devices of their previous guild, nor of the Wardens.

“Ready,” Ciela said. “Do I get one of those?”

Zevran produced a plain blade of his own and held it out in silent offering, left-handed.

She took it and slid it into her sash. Her head dipped in a brief but uncomfortable nod. “Thanks.”

He gave her a grin in return. “Not at all, mi ciela.”

“Keep up and keep together,” Xai told them all. “Look like we’re in a hurry to get somewhere. We’re going straight downstairs and out the front door. Zevran, your arm?”

Zevran held up his left hand and wiggled the fingers. “This one works, yes?” He grinned humourlessly. “So long as no one bumps the other one I won’t feel like emptying the contents of my stomach across the floor. I can keep up, have no fear.”

It was as close as he was willing to get to an admission he was in a considerable amount of pain, and the former master knew it. The healing poultice Xai had slapped onto the bandages would reduce the swelling and bleeding, but it was a quick solution only, a patch job. Proper attention to his injury would have to wait until they had the tools and time, and that wasn’t now. He would simply have to endure.

Kamator opened the door for them like a slave would his masters and proceeded outside with Ciela. Xai was on their heels when Zevran grabbed lightly at his robed shoulder.

“Wait. I wish to speak. What happened upstairs—”

Xai’s expression turned to one of acute irritation. “We have no time for this, Arainai.”

Zevran locked eyes with the other Crow, knowing he was correct. “Then you will explain later, my friend. Yes?”

He looked indifferent. “As you say.”

The human turned his back and stepped out into the passage and Zevran followed, wondering to himself. He had fully expected to be abandoned. Crows did not abide by philosophies such as ‘leave no man behind’, the task was to get the job done and get yourself out alive. Stopping to assist a companion who’d gotten into trouble wasn’t a good survival trait, and was doubly frowned upon if it jeopardised the mission objective—in this case, getting Ciela Tabris out. Neither he nor Xai were Crows anymore, this was true, and the Grey Wardens both of them had spent much of their recent lives with did things quite differently, but still. This was Xai Merras, no? He wouldn’t stick his neck out for Zevran for no reason.

He hadn’t even gloated about it.

**

I was Dafen, ‘Wolf Cub’ in the language of my people. I was a hunter of the Dalish...

I am running through the trees, speeding over patches of sunlight and drifts of leaves. It is no natural forest but a dreamscape, the perfect hunting ground, no dense undergrowth to trip me up and the trail of blood fresh, so fresh I can smell it, almost taste it when I breathe. I don’t have to pause to look for trail signs, I just have to follow and so I do. And it feels good, almost…real. How long has it been since I ran in the waking world? I want to laugh with exhilaration and maybe I do, somewhere, but I hear it only in my mind…a sense of joy so sweet and thought forever lost I suddenly wish to weep that I may never feel it again, for when I wake I will be in that place once more, with stone all around me and no sun, no wind, no open forest. Just a shemlen prison. If I could stay here and never wake again, I would.

I keep running. There is a bow in my hand and a quiver across my back. Dalish leather wraps me in a familiar embrace, and all about in the gold-dappled trees I can see my people, elves who smile and shout greetings as I race by on my mission. I cannot stop for them; I want to keep running while I still have the scent. The dream tugs at me, insistent.

And then I see my prey.

**

Second floor.

The museum and magical items repository. Here people could buy, sell, trade, have objects appraised or enchanted, and it was thronged with mages and mundanes alike. Looking around, Zevran decided that if he regretted anything about this trip to Tevinter, it was missing out on a chance to browse the treasures this level held. On the way through with Xai earlier he had caught glimpses of majestically tooled leathers, wondrous swords and daggers, rings and amulets of gold, silver and other precious metals, some with precious stones and others wrought into intricate shapes. It was a trove he would have adored to spend some time admiring, maybe even purchase something from, but alas, business trips did not allow for luxuries like shopping.

He sighed a little, wistful at the lost opportunity, then noticed Ciela glancing furtively at some of the displays as she hurried to keep up with Xai. “Looking for something?”

“Wha—? Oh.” She lowered her voice. “My boots and dagger. When slaves are brought to the tower anything they have on them is confiscated. I heard that valuable or magical items can end up here, so I hoped…” She faltered, as though realising something. “…but…then…I guess it’s not like we could stop to buy anything even if…” She fixed her gaze on the back of Xai’s head again. “Forget it. Boots and a dagger aren’t worth it.”

“I know the allure of a good pair of leather boots, myself,” Zevran said conversationally, smiling, but kept his voice low. “Tell me of this magnificent footwear of yours. They were valuable, you said?”

For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer because she shifted her shoulders like the question had made her uncomfortable. But then she said, “My mother made them for me. She’d embroidered vines on them. They probably weren’t worth that much really—not enough to be up here with all these…treasures.”

Zevran glanced at her profile. “My mother…she made gloves. Leather, naturally, and embroidered like your boots but with Dalish designs. They were stolen from me a long time ago, alas.”

She met his eyes and her expression softened a tiny bit. “I’m sorry.” She swallowed, cleared her throat, then added in a voice that sounded deliberately lighter, “And I’m…sorry…for…you know…grabbing you in the library. And digging my nails in.”

“Mi ciela…” Zevran smirked. “I am certain that one day we will look back on that day and laugh that within a half hour of first laying eyes upon one another, you had already straddled me on the floor with one hand up my skirt, ‘grabbing’, as you so eloquently put it, my pisello. Usually it takes me a little longer to have that sort of effect on a beautiful woman.”

Her lips twitched as she suppressed another smile. “And I usually don’t grope handsome men on the first day of meeting them.”

“No?” Pleased by her response, he said, “What about the second day?”

A commotion behind them stopped her from replying. Both elves looked back and Kamator, directly at their rear, also turned. People were pointing and yelling, many moving aside as something approached fast. When a glowing-eyed thrall ran into view, an elven man with red hair to his waist, brands and blood on his throat, and clad only in a white shift, Ciela grabbed at Xai’s robe.

“Ezio’s followed us! That’s Dafen, one of his slaves!”

“All he has to do is call the guards and we’re finished,” Zevran muttered, turning to confront this new complication. Kamator moved to stand behind them while Ezio’s thrall stopped several feet away, looking from face to face as though marking each of them. “So why has he not?”

“He can’t,” Ciela replied, as quietly as she could while silence descended on the immediate area. “It’s hard controlling speech in blood dreams, I don’t think they’ve figured out how yet!”

Xai gave her a single startled look, then his expression snapped to one of angered authority and he stepped towards the thrall, pointing his staff at him. Arcanum began to flow from his lips like a challenge or threat, impassioned and dire. Guards who had begun to converge on the site, both of the mage and weapon-bearing variety, paused at hearing some of the language used and looked uneasy.

“He’s bluffing,” Kamator muttered, just behind Zevran. “And he’s insane. Just like someone else I could name.”

**
I was Dafen, ‘Wolf Cub’ in the language of my people…

He who I hunt is not alone as I’d expected him to be. It is a small and mismatched herd I have tracked. I feel caution and a desire to stop running, so I do, the better to examine my quarry.

The blood-scent clings thickest to the doe; the elaborate carvings in her silver horns are streaked with red. I had wondered if she would be here, and consider it a stroke of luck that I have found her. The Keeper will be pleased to have her back safely. I know in my mind she is confused and must be returned to the clan so she can be calmed and healed. I will be able to reach her mind with little effort, fresh from the run and afraid of her surroundings as she is, but the others might not be so easily dealt with so I will not waste my energies on a soft target.

There are two elves. The one with the skin, eyes and hair like gold I expected. He is the one I hunt, tattooed like us but not like us. I do not know him, but I know of him through the dream. He is responsible for spooking the halla from her herd. He must have panicked her to those kills. He stands by her now but he watches me. The second elf is flat-eared like my prey, but older and darker. His face I recognise; he has been with the clan for a long time and so I am unsure if he is being held against his will or complicit. I will find out later, but otherwise he is a known quantity and I have no fear of him.

The final figure is another halla, and when the stag pushes past the others and rears with a challenging bellow I feel astonishment at the sight of him! He is not a pure silvery-white like the first, but grey and scarred, his horns blackened, their carvings pitted and damaged, his body warped with…blight? I have never seen such a thing, but in the dream it makes sense and there is no mistaking that smell of corruption. Another lost guide? How long has he wandered alone and sick? Who was the master of his herd? What happened to him? When did he go astray? I try to see him more clearly through the dream and feel it waver, so I stop lest it shatter around me. I will learn the truth when I calm him.

He once dwelled with the People; all halla answer the call of Ghilan’nain.

Elves are coming out of the trees and surrounding us now, anticipating the confrontation, and despite my trepidation I do not wish to back away. I am a hunter of the clans, here to bring a rogue to justice, a kinsman to guidance, and two injured halla to safety. I am armed with my bow and the blessings of the Creators themselves!

The blighted stag rears a second time, thrashing the air with his hooves and roaring; around us the watching elves begin to murmur and stare at me, as though it has just accused me of something foul.

I do not speak. I know it is no use to try. In dreams, words make little sense and I refuse to bleat like a beast. But he is a halla of my clan and in obvious need, I am elvhen with the gods by my side, and I can make him hear me without words. I give him a calming smile and reach out a hand, projecting confidence, peace and promise. I feel the energies within me stir and flare outwards, Ghilan’nain come to my aid!

The halla flinches back and snarls, rebuffing the attempt. His horns, though broken, still look sharp and dangerous as he tosses them high in the air. A blackened hoof paws at the leafy trail and I reach out again as he begins a cautious approach, making him hesitate. I call upon Andruil for help, I pour more of myself into the effort and feel the blood pounding in my heart. It hurts, I feel warm liquid choke my lungs and cough it up reflexively, I want to stop, and abruptly it does.

Through the power of the Creators, I have prevailed. The blighted halla’s great head droops. It comes to me, docile and trusting, and I smile reassuringly at him. I will him to sit and he kneels placidly at my feet. I stroke his proud brow, trying to convey that all will be well. We will return to my clan. We will find him a cure, or…and this thought is not mine…study his sickness and what benefits it might yield.

The stag shudders and sags.

He will be fine.

He knows he has come home.

**

Zevran put a steadying hand on Ciela’s arm, guessing she was primed to flee but finding instead she was coiled to attack. Xai was on his knees before the smiling elven thrall, whose eyes and lyrium brands were suffused with an unholy red glow and whose bloodied fingers were running through the Grey Warden’s short dark hair. The mages in the immediate vicinity were shouting and arguing with one another, or yelling at the thrall. Many were quitting the area entirely. Mundanes watched, agape, or fled clutching their purchases.

“Magic,” Ciela was hissing, fingers curling to claws. “See how he bleeds? He’s being channelled, Ezio’s working blood magic through him! Dear Maker—”

“Ciela!” Zevran’s fingers tightened on her arm. Whatever Xai had been saying in Arcanum, the mages were not looking favourably upon the actions of Ezio’s thrall. He needed to keep that advantage and press it before they were all picked off one by one. He needed the guards on his side. “I need you to tell me what is being said! What is going on?”

But the thrall was lifting his hand from Xai’s brow—

Zevran stepped quickly in front of Shianni’s cousin, glared back into a snarling face locked halfway between horror and hate. “Tell me!” he snapped at her. “NOW!”

**

I was Dafen…

The elves are all shouting meaningless sounds at me for subduing the corrupted halla, but it doesn’t matter. They know what I am. They have seen the gods are with me. They will not interfere. The doe is my next target, and she will be easier. She has not been long away from the clan, she wants to return but is just too afraid and blood-crazed to listen to her better instincts. I will help her. I lift my hand—

The golden elf intercedes. My true prey seeks to thwart me. In the excitement of discovery I had almost forgotten my goal. He stands in front of the doe, listening to her as she lowers her white muzzle to his ear and whispers, then he calls out to the elves around him. They look amongst each other uneasily but say nothing, and this time I am allowed to laugh.

…allowed…?

The dream trembles, blackness looms behind the crowd of elves and twists into monstrous forms, demonic in appearance. I start to feel afraid, but the powers guiding me, that presence I thought belonging to the Creators, expresses contempt for my fear and will not let me wake. The shadows expand and spread like a black flower blooming. Wings unfurl to blot out the sun. Blue flames spew from mighty jaws and chains of lyrium and blood bind me.

The golden elf shouts more words, nonsense, but he is cowed to silence as I extend my hand towards him, my hand which drips blood drawn by the dragon. Or is it the dragon that terrifies him? It bends over me, a great claw with scales of midnight reaching past my head and shoulder in mimicry of my stance, crimson talons spread to grasp and pierce.

But then another voice rocks me. The dragon whips around, swift as a serpent, maw gaping, and I turn with him. I behold one he considers an equal, a sister…a rival. Another shadowy dragon, accompanied by a pristine halla. My blighted animal rises to stand beside me, at my master’s bidding but through my life blood, and the veil of the dream begins to tear as glimpses of reality intrude and Beyond collides with it.

**

We are so incredibly doomed.

Zevran tried hard not to show even a flicker of fear, but it was difficult when Ciela’s terror was so readily apparent, Kamator was standing to one side with his eyes downcast and his face blank, and Xai, the only one who seemed to have had a hope of bluffing them out of this, was lost to them. His heart hammered with dread as Magistra Phaedra faced Ezio’s thrall, flanked by one of her own who was just as underdressed. Phaedra’s thrall was not under any blood magic influence; the brands encircling both eyes did not glow.

Zevran’s hand began to stray to a concealed weapon. He could kill Ezio’s slave, that would liberate Xai, maybe he could even strike Phaedra if his aim was true, but he did not relish the idea of throwing a blade left-handed at such a distance. There were mages aplenty in this room, though. As soon as he revealed himself and struck with steel rather than spell, the lies Xai had woven would come undone. Even so, if Phaedra intended to take them all, Zevran would rather make them pay for him a second time. And with blood, not coin.

“You dare this?” Phaedra demanded of Ezio in the King’s Tongue, punctuating her words with small flourishes of her staff. “You have gone mad, brother! Our arts are not to be wielded so, especially not here. This is the Minrathous Circle Tower, not the Braeis Arena or a duelling ground! Release that mage immediately!”

The thrall merely tilted his head, but Xai got to his feet and faced the magistra. Slowly, as though impressing a point, the Warden held out his arms and let his mage staff clatter to the floor. The message was so clear Zevran couldn’t see how Phaedra could possibly miss it, but she appeared unconcerned by the gesture. Was she playing along with the ruse, then? To what end?

“I don’t understand,” Ciela whispered from just behind him, and Kamator said nothing when Zevran shot a glance his way, merely standing passively as a slave should.

“Look at yourself, brother,” Phaedra said, nodding at the red-haired thrall. “You bleed him too deep and reach too far. There is no one in your sanctum to lend aid or mana as you falter. If you don’t relinquish your spell and your target, you will draw attention and perish.”

The thrall flung out a hand to indicate Zevran, Ciela and Kamator, though he continued to glare at Phaedra.

“You are attacking guests of the Circle and foreign dignitaries.” Phaedra struck her staff sharply against the floor and there was a soft fwoomph as crimson tongues of flame shot up the carved haft from foot to dragon-carved head. “As a Senior Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle I say again: release him!”

**

I…am…Ezio Enaros, Mage-Lord of the Cendrée Tower, Senior Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle, Master of Blood and Ice and Iron.

And I am betrayed.

My sister speaks truly on one thing alone: I have overextended myself. Had it only been Zevran and the escaped Ciela Tabris I would have succeeded, but I allowed my avarice to attain this other thrall who carries the taint in his blood to get the better of me. He is struggling like a caged beast, throwing himself against the bars locking his mind from his body, and the magic I stored in my elven slave wanes quickly as I tighten my grip, trying to choke the human into submission. My slave is also beginning to stir as the strain of my magic and the unreality of the situation turns dream to nightmare—his mind will crumble if I am not careful.

In the blood dream, my black wings flare and flames the colour of lyrium drip from my fangs; I am endlessly entertained by the images the slaves ascribe to us, themselves and their prison. It is fascinating to experience. Phaedra’s form is just as intimidating as my own, as befits one of her rank and power.

If I meet her challenge she may strike at me through Dafen. It is a small vulnerability but a significant one that every thrall-lord knows exists, Phaedra better than most. When Zevran killed her slave in the library he almost killed her with the same stroke. Only her apprentices saved her life that day.

So I bow my head in agreement. I will withdraw, exercise patience, and come at this again from another angle. And as for Phaedra—my fangs grit together in a snarl—she will suffer for this insult. No doubt she intends to seize control of these cattle for herself the moment I am gone.

I cancel the blood control and feel the relief melt through Dafen’s body. Then I call him to return to his cell—his clan, his Keeper, whatever his dreams depict.

The slave has not taken two paces before the tainted halla attacks him from behind, impaling him through the chest with a single skewering plunge of blight-blackened horns. The momentum of the blow propels slave and halla towards me. Dafen is pinned between beast and dragon, the dying breath of the elf sighing out as the animal’s antlers pass completely through his body, pierce my scales, and I rear back—!

**

On the sixth floor in Dafen’s white-draped cell, Magister Ezio arched up violently from the bed with a cry of pain and the Fade-sense of twin blades shearing through his body. His wards fractured, his mana drained, the field sealing his room flickered and fizzled and fell, but he escaped and staggered up from the mattress before collapsing to the floor.

This will not be tolerated!

His fingers scraped against the stone and his heart laboured. Mana. He needed mana or blood, it didn’t matter which, he just had to make it to his other thrall and drain what he needed to recover himself, and then…then…by the Old Gods he would hunt them down and rend their minds.

Ezio stumbled to his feet and to the door, using his staff and infuriation to support himself.

As soon as he passed over the threshold and rounded the corner, one of Phaedra’s thralls met him coming the other way with a dagger to the throat.

“For my mistress,” the elf hissed, jerking the blade free and slamming it home a second time. “For my brothers in chains.” And again. “For Shartan, Andraste, and freedom.”

Blackness.

**

I…was…Dafen. ‘Wolf Cub’ in the language of my people.

The chains placed in my soul…they are rent. My mind shatters with the broken links. My heart pulses between and around the two horns (swords…?) piercing my chest. Dream or reality? It has bled together and I can’t say. For every shard of myself that falls from the sky and stone ceiling, I seem to see another place beyond with green leaves and moonlight and music. Is it sanctuary for the dead or simple madness? Either one would be a blessing and release.

The halla withdraws in a sharp movement that drops me to my knees before its wrath, but pain is a distant thing. I am too distracted by the overlapping images, dream-forest, mage-tower, flashing fragments of Beyond.

It is to the last that my spirit yearns, desperate to be free before the other dragon can lay a claim to me, and the halla strikes again. My flesh feels the blow land, severing the last link keeping me trapped here, and I am suddenly flying…

… soaring into the sky as it breaks and falls around me.


----
Author's Note: Fun fact - I originally had Dafen mean 'Little Wolf'; this was mostly written before DA2 had launched. After learning Fenris was supposed to mean that, I changed it slightly.