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[cptncanuck]

Hello all!

Before I begin, this is my first shot at Dragon Age fiction, though I have written extensive fiction in other forms before (namely Warhammer 40k, a dabble of Mass Effect, and more short stories than I can shake a stick at). This is my take on the Dragon Age universe, and as such it is not 100% inline with the games (no fancy item names here!). This work is going to be a continous thing telling a long (but hopefully not over ambitious) story. I hope you like it!

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The Lost and the Damned; first instalment.
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It was said long ago that the world never changes, that it is ageless and immortal, and that the mountains that stretch from the depths of the earth to the heavens above will do so always and forever, lasting through the birth of empires and the fall of kings – immovable by the mightiest of armies or the lowliest of slaves.
No, the world does not change, though the men who dwell upon it do. For when the Maker forged the flesh of man and all the creatures that walk upon the surface of the world, it was said that He made them fragile, imperfect; weak. He did this, it is said, because they were not gods and could not be permitted to see the world as he did, to know it as he did, to change it as he did. They were pitiful creations, tasked to walk in awe of the Maker’s work until they passed on into dust, becoming once more clay to the Maker’s hand.
Such has been said.
But Men and all like them are not simple creatures so easily placated by the whims of a distant god, and, seeing how the beauties of the world remained undiminished while he himself is doomed to wither and die, man and all like him struggled against their Maker’s decree that all life should be doomed to die, and resisted the god like a babe resists the arms of its father. Yet even though man could not win – could never achieve the immortality withheld from him – man outwitted god by leaving a part of himself, though weak and doomed to die, in the fabric of the world itself, where it would live forever amongst the mountains, the hills and the trees. By imposing himself upon deathless stone or preserved paper, man overcame his mortality and ensured that even if his flesh withered and died some part of him would remain as timeless as the world itself. Therefore, whatever wrath may be visited upon him, man will never be destroyed, for heroes never die and memory in stone never fades. Cities may burn, armies may flee, and mortal man may be struck down in death, but legends live forever with glory undiminished until the day when the last of men dies, and all passes beyond His sight.
 
* * * *
 
For once in their lives, the first day of spring had come too soon.
Down from the snow-capped peaks of the Frostback Mountains the icy winds of winter had howled into Fletcher’s Valley and assailed the town with frigid gusts of heavy snow. Day and night the winter’s assault would rage, allowing only brief respites to a timid sun, before returning to batter against the towns-folks’ homes with great draughts of ice and withering cold. Every year the long dark days of winter were viewed with gloom as even the warmest of spirits could be doused and frozen over by the winter’s chill. Most of the townsfolk would stay indoors to be warm by the fire with family and friends, and enjoy the company and food in their stores as they sought to forget about the labours of oncoming spring, for winter would cost them much; both in the repair damage that had been done and in anticipation of whatever hardships the next snowfall would bring.
This year, however, the passage of three months of winter had come too soon to Fletcher’s Valley.
It was on that day Simeon’s son died.
Ultimately he died of illness, though the portents could have been no more dire. A band of hunters – counting ten men all experienced and able – had ventured into the wooded slopes of the mountains in search of big game for a fresh kill for the Spring Day feast. None can say what they found, however, for they had been gone four days in the winter snow when only one, Simeon’s eldest son, returned, stricken with an illness the likes of which none had ever seen. What kind of beast strikes down nine seasoned men leaves another afflicted with an unspeakable disease? None could say until the day he died two agonizing weeks later, when the knights were spotted on the road.
 
David, the miller who lives alone on the far edge of town, saw them first: two figures mounted on horseback and encased in bright armour that reflected the dull grey of the early spring sun. They came along the thawing road at a gentle pace, riding side-by-side with great fur cloaks draped around their armoured shoulders to ward against the retreating winter’s bitter sting.
At first he doubted his eyes as he peered through the frost coated window at the distant figures approaching down the road. He had heard of nothing coming this way – especially not when the winter still hung in the air. For a time he posited that they might be ghosts lost to the winter cold, or spectres that haunted his imagination, but when they drew closer he could see the mist of steaming breath from both rider and mount as the fully armoured figures came near.
               Abandoning his perch by the dancing fire but retaining the warm bowl of oatmeal that he clutched between his hands, David, the miller who lives alone on the far edge of town, jostled through the clutter of his winter home on weary legs and numb toes to his front door; opening it just a crack to watch as the knights trotted gently by. They never looked his way, nor made any motion of having noticed him at all, and simply continued on their way round the bend and into town where they stopped outside Simeon’s door.
 
              “This is the place, right?”
              “Mayors live in big houses, don’t they?”
              “And so do mayors’ sons. That’s good enough for me.”
               One of the knights dismounted in the middle of the road so that his armoured feet sunk into the melting slush, though the other knight remained mounted and surveyed neighbouring houses, noting the lazily wafting smoke that rose from chimneys on roofs dripping with melting snow.
               “Not exactly the warmest welcome is it?” the knight on foot said as he noted the surveying gaze of his mounted companion. “I knew I was asking for too much when I dreamt of flower girls and wreaths…”
                His knight companion nodded a helmeted head and shifted about in the saddle.
                “You’ll stay out here then? Keep our thronging public at bay?” the knight’s voice disappeared into the soggy snow as he handed his companion the reins to his mount.
                His companion nodded once again through the helmet then twisted in the saddle to look back the way they came: doors were starting to creak open as curious heads peered out into the cold.
               The knight on foot gingerly mounted the steps to the mayor’s house and knocked on the door with his mailed fist
               The door opened almost at once, though no words of greeting came from within.
               “I’m here to see the mayor, Simeon,” the knight said, “may I come in?”
 
               The bitter cold swept in behind the knight as the door to the mayor’s house clicked closed and washed over the occupants of the adjacent room like a short-lived breath. Outside it had been cold, clear and white, while inside it was warm, odorous, and lit by the orange glow of a crackling fire. His armour’s sheen somewhat dulled by the flickering light, the knight removed his helmet and tapped the snow off his steel greaves by the door, while Simeon, seated out of sight of the stranger in the adjacent room and dressed in layers of furs with soft-soled shoes, bade those who were with him depart before the guest.
               “Come in,” he called – his deep often-vitriolic voice sounding worn and withdrawn – and by the time the knight’s drum like footfalls entered the room, the two men were alone.
               Simeon was a large, heavily set man, with a thick brow, sunken eyes, and a head of grey hair that was quickly receding. Middle-aged for a country-man but old for a city-dweller, the mayor of Fletcher’s Valley was worn by the seasons and bore the marks of having lived long days exposed to the mountain elements. His features were roughly hewn, as if from wood, and his hands – large and callused – fell awkwardly idle by his sides as he rose to meet the stranger in his home.
               “Had I known you were coming, I would have arranged a more formal welcome, sir knight,” the mayor said as he caught glimpse of the knight’s face in the light of the fire-pit.
               His helmet held under an arm, the warrior before him was revealed to be a fresh-faced young man with shortly-cropped hair and keen eyes. He wasn’t marked or scarred in any way, and, if Simeon had to guess, the mayor would have said that this man – tall and strongly built though he was – was more of ceremonialist than a soldier: he lacked a certain grit about him.
               “I received a message from your Chantry,” the knight replied. “I assumed you had sent it yourself.”
               “What do you mean?”
               “It’s about your son,” the knight said, his words both clear and firm, “I was led to believe that he was ill, and that your own means of healing him were insufficient.”
              “My… my son…” Simeon half-stammered, as if bewildered that knight was speaking of him.
               “Yes,” said the knight, his keen eyes locking onto Simeon’s even as the mayor’s gaze darted around the room, “I need to see him. I might be able to help.”
               “You can’t help him. My son is dead.” The words dropped from the mayor’s mouth like boulders onto the floor, and the crashing silence that followed seemed deafening.
               Neither spoke as Simeon regained his composure to look the knight in the eye.
               “I’m sorry to hear that your son has passed,” the knight began, and once again the mayor found himself incapable of meeting the other man’s gaze, “but this is very important. I need to see your son, and I need to ask you some questions.”
               “He died this morning!” one of his callused hands darted to cover his mouth as the mayor stifled a sob and cast his rapidly watering eyes to stare into the flames. “Can I not be given time to grieve?”
               “I understand that this is hard for you,” said the knight with added empathy, “but I need to know about the disease your son contracted. It’s very important.”
              “And what could you possibly know about this disease? Why should I care now that it has killed my son!?”
              The knight paused; “Because it afflicts me as well,” he said at last.
 
              Outside a small crowd was starting to gather as news of the knights’ arrival spread at pandemic speed throughout Fletcher’s Valley.
              Why were they here? Why were they speaking to Simeon? Were they here to see about his son? What would they do? Soldiers of any stripe were uncommon this far east, and doubly so during the colder months. But knights? Why would any knight come to their town so armed and armoured?
              Bundled up in furs and huddled in tight groups, the townsfolk braved the cold of spring’s first day to whisper amongst each other in surprise and curiosity at the armoured stranger and the barded horses that stood uneasily outside the mayor’s home. They kept their distance, however, and – cowed either by respect or fear – none save one ventured close enough to invite the lone knight’s attention.
 
             Sitting numbly in the saddle, the knight’s face under the full helmet was starting to ache from the cold, and the insulated armour and lined undergarments that had been uncomfortably hot and sweaty in motion was now in danger of becoming unbearably cold and damp. Starting to shiver, the knight glanced toward the door to the mayor’s house with eager eyes.
           “Are you here to see Jared?”
           The knight turned, and through the vision slits in the heavy helmet perceived a boy bundled in warm clothing staring up at the horseman with bright eyes.
          “What?” the knight’s voice was muffled in reply.
          “Jared,” the boy said again, stamping up and down to keep his feet warm in the snow as he pointed to the mayor’s house; “that’s the mayor’s son’s name.”
          The knight leaned forward, looking down at the boy with the black slits on the otherwise featureless helm. “And what is your name, boy?”
         “It’s Sam, short for Samuel,” answered the boy from where he stood just a few short feet away from the steel armoured figure. “I’m the blacksmith’s son.”
          Of all the gathered townsfolk – who numbered now just shy of twenty – the boy was alone in that he had found the courage to approach the stranger.
           “What can you tell me about the mayor and his son Jared?” the knight asked from high atop the idle steed, but Samuel shook his head insistently;
           “I can’t tell you anything.”
           “Why not, Sam?”
           The boy shook his head again. “Father says I am not to speak ill of others,” he said.
 
             As was customary, the body had been shrouded and laid to rest in a small room apart from the family, and, even though news of the mayor’s loss had preceded the arrival of the knights, no-one outside the household had been permitted to see it or indeed pay any respects to the departed. Yet, accompanied by Simeon, the knight entered the cold dark room where the body lay, and in the flickering candle-light drew back the blanket from its face.
             “That’s my boy,” Simeon said from the knight’s shoulder; “That’s all that’s left of him.”
              In life, Jared had been a sanguineous youth of great vigour and promise, though in the gloomy half-light of his mortuary chamber the knight perceived body of a young man wasted away from the inside. His skin was discoloured with dark bruises and markings, and had been drawn tight over his broad bones until the youth’s skeletal frame was visible beneath his wasted flesh. The eyes were bloodshot and had swollen open in his skull, while in his dried mouth the gums fully receded to reveal the roots of his teeth beneath cracked and blistered lips. That Jared had died in excruciating agony was beyond question.
               “How long did it take him to get like this?” the knight asked in a hushed voice as he gently drew the veil back over Jared’s corpse.
               “Two weeks,” Simeon said, taking a finale look at his son’s form before turning his back and leading the stranger to the door. “Every day got worse until he died. Never spoke a word.”
               The knight nodded, but retained a puzzled look even after Simeon closed the door behind them.
               “What kind of beast can do that to a man in these parts?” Simeon said, his voice breaking; “I’ve never seen anything like it…”
 
               “Is it as bad as we heard, Alistair?”
                Closing the door the mayor’s house behind him, Alistair shook his head and descended the steps as his companion dismounted and turned to greet him.
               On foot it then became apparent that the one knight was a full head and shoulders shorter than the other.
              “Worse,” Alistair replied grimly as he surveyed the scene on the street and the on-looking towns-people, and then added in a hushed tone; “I’ve never seen anything so tainted that wasn’t already trying to kill us.”
              “It’s good we arrived when we did then,” his companion and fellow Grey Warden said, lifting off the heavy helmet to reveal flowing chestnut-brown hair, sharp green eyes, and fair elven features with a beauty that was piqued by the cold air of early spring. “Winter could have been hiding whatever is out there…”
               At that Alistair heaved a sigh and folded his arms over his chest before glancing upwards at the mist-blanketed mountains that loomed over the valley. “I just hope that this doesn’t turn out to be another Amaranthine,” he said heavily.
               “There’s only one way we’re going to find out,” Kallian replied, giving his armoured shoulder a reassuring pat, “so let’s get to it.”