[IC] Dragon Age: The Coming Blight

[An Outsider]

The night before Krios enters Denerim

Caleb Losthill's estate was located upon a respectful location halfway up the hill to Fort Drakon, not a bad showing for a man who had been born in village in the Bannorn so small no one had bothered to name it. It was also, in a word, nigh impossible to break into. The streets around it were well lit, lanterns adorning the streets so that anyone trying to sneak towards the curtain walls that surrounded the estates grounds would be quickly spotted by the guardsmen employed by Losthill.

If, by some feat of near mythical skill, a rogue did manage to cross the manned walls unseen, they would then find themselves in gardens. While well tended and filled with the kind of exotic flowers and blossoms you would expect in an estate like this, the gardens were also wide upon, no trees or hedges to give the least bit of cover. If one was then to inspect the house itself they would note the many arrow-slits adorning the upper floors, or the heavy shutters on the few windows, then realise the entire grounds were one giant killing ground. Any would be intruder would have to traverse the grounds, then somehow gain entry into the house itself, no easy feet because of the aforementioned shuttered windows, and the stout thick doors barring the main entrance.

Things only get more intimidating in the house itself. Traps both magical and physical are place through the well designed hallways, while guard dogs and teams of men patrol in well organised and constantly rotated teams. In the heart of the building sits the grand hall, as large and ostentatious as the name implies. The room boasts a main entrance, portaled by thick double doors that would take men with siege axes hours to break through, with two long balcony’s on each side, boasting doors of equal calibre. A raised dais is home to Caleb's 'throne', while long tables and bench’s are pushed up against the walls, but look able to seat well over fifty people if needed. Tonight there is only nine people in attendance. Caleb Losthill himself, the malifecarum known as Whisperwood and seven guards, four of them archers, two patrolling each balcony. All the men show signs of nervousness, but it is Caleb who paces uncontrollably, despite his extensive and impressive security precautions. He knows who hunts him, and he is right to feel fear.

"Will you please calm down Caleb." Urges Whisperwood, an unassuming middle-aged man of slight build. "Your pacing helps us not." He isn't how you would typically picture a mage, clean shaven with well tended greying hair, but he held an air of command and his staff almost hummed with energy. He was a recent hire of Losthills, a refugee from Orlais. Caleb hadn't asked what it was that Whisperwood was running from, knowing only that a powerful mage in your service was not something to be dismissed out of hand.

Caleb spun on the mage, his face red.

"Well what will help us!" he snarled "We haven't heard from Ivan, there's been no sign at all at the other two bridges, the Bastard isn't in his rooms at the Midnight Hound nor at any of the other taverns or whorehouses he frequents. You know the stories Whisperwood, he's a ghost, a shadow, unseen and unheard until his bolt pierces your body and his contract is fulfilled. Why would the fact he has suddenly disappeared the night he sets out to kill me calm me in any way!" Whisperwood returned Caleb's furious glare with a look of mild disapproval.

"He isn't a ghost though, he is a mere man. And if he somehow gets this far, which I sorely doubt, then I and your guards will kill him. A man with a crossbow, no matter how skilled, stands not a chance against one who can command the elements. It is this simple." Whisperwood's logic went some way to reassuring Caleb, who ceased his pacing and breathed out a sigh.

"I suppose your right Whisperwood. After all, no one could get pass. . . " Caleb petered out to a halt, his eyes widening and his face paling. Whisperwood followed his employer's gaze up to the baloneys that framed the hall. It took the mage a heartbeat to realise what was wrong, or to be more precise to realise what was missing. The archers were gone, all four of them. Preposterous of course, none of them would leave unannounced, not if they wanted paid, and certainly not all at once. Their disappearance could only mean one thing. The mage gripped his staff tighter, holding it out in front of him like a shield, while Caleb began to panic wildly, throwing his arms around him like a madman while he ordered his three remaining guards to his side and fetch more men simultaneously.

“Get your shields up you dogs, and you get over here. . . No, wait, go get more men! Dammit, sound the alarms!” Caleb's days of being a fearless mercenary leader were far behind him, more used to the banquet hall than the battlefield now. He had forgotten the most valuable thing a leader needed in a fight was a cool head, his erratic orders confusing his men who were left milling about uselessly in the middle ground between Losthill and the main doors. They were as useless as ducklings that had lost their mother. It was then that Faen acted, dropping from the shadows amongst the rafters, striking the three guards like a hawk amongst rabbits. He landed on one man’s back, using his downward momentum to slam his short sword, Last-Laugh, through the man's spine and out the front of his neck as they were borne to the ground. Caleb began to scream incoherently, frozen to the spot with fear and the two other guards, so shocked at this turn of events, jumped the height of themselves. Faen shouldered them aside, one tumbling to the ground and the other staggering away, off-balanced. Up came Faen's crossbow, his baby, a mechanical wonder of dulled steel and darkest ebony, his movement smooth and graceful until the weapon was levelled directly at Caleb, who in his stupor didn't even try to duck or dive out of the way. The assassin pulled the twin triggers, two bolts leaping from the bow to fly towards the former mercenary captain. . .

That would have been the end of it if not for Whisperwood. The malifecar stepped into the path of the bolts, his face tense as he raised his hand in an almost contemptuous wave, fluttering snowflakes trailing from his finger, twisting and turning on each other in ever tighter patterns until they formed a thin sheen of ice. The sheen became a sheet, the sheet became a pane, then the pane thickened until it became a wall of frozen water. This all happened in the briefest sliver of a second, Faen's bolts smashing from the new wall with a desultory clack. The assassin stared at the wall dumfounded, but couldn't spare it much time as the two remaining guards had recovered their wits now and were charging Faen with swords drawn.

Whisperwood, seeing the assassin was distracted, slammed his staff upon the ground, and when he did his fall of ice shattered into a million tiny pieces before dissolving in the air. Caleb yelped at the sight, imaging his last protection had disappeared, but he should have known better. The mage slammed his staff upon the ground once more, but this time a pale light began to dance around it's bejewelled head. He then levelled the weapon and it's flickering lights at Faen, who was grappling with the last remaining guard, his comrade having had his throat slit by Last-Laugh. Faen's eyes flickered towards the mage, and realised the danger he was in. Desperation coloured his next action as he hawked and spat a phlegmy glob into the guards eyes. It had the desired effect, the man reacting with surprise and lessening his grip, giving Faen the opportunity to kick him in the groin then push him in between himself and Whisperwood. His underhand tactics were just in time, as just as the guard stumbled between the assassin and the mage white arcs of lightning arced forwards from the magic-users staff, the elemental energy searing into the unfortunate man. His screams were bestial, the sweet yet sickening smell of roasting flesh already wafting from his burning corpse.

As the last guard fell Faen flicked a throwing knife at Whisperwood, but the mage casually blasted it out of the air with a fireball. Sensing the tide had turned, and with no new avenues presenting themselves, the assassin seemed to do the only thing still open to him. He turned tail and ran.

"Kill him!" Screeched Caleb, shaking his fists wildly like a child throwing a tantrum. Whisperwood was only to keen to obey, levelling his staff and shooting a second fireball at the fleeing assassin. Perhaps he spotted the attack in his peripheral vision, or perhaps he heard the attack, but for whatever reason Faen leapt at the last second, throwing himself forwards. It didn't seem that he was quick enough though, the fireball exploding as he disappeared in a bright blaze of energy with a ghastly scream.

Losthill and his mage looked on hungrily as the light dimmed, searching for the ashes of the former assassin. Nothing appeared, and both men glanced at each other wearily.

"He can't have survived that," Stated Whisperwood, but there was an edge to his usually calm voice.

"Well show me a body. . . Wait what is that!" Caleb pointed at a black scrap of cloth half hidden under the bench seats pushed into the wall. Although hard to discern at first, it was clearly the last tattered remains of Faen's black cloak. "Check over there!" ordered the former mercenary lord.

The mage stepped forward wearily, his staff aimed at the cloth. One foot after another, he made his careful way to the bench. As he got closer he realised there was certainly no body here, but there didn't seem to be any other remains. Perhaps Faen had managed to escape after all, Whisperwood mused. A shame, as it meant there would have to be a reckoning some other day, but at least he had proved himself to Caleb. The wizard bent over to retrieve the cloth, pulling it out from under the table with a slight tug. He pushed himself to his feet, tired after the exertions of the battle. He turned back to his boss, momentarily surprised to see Caleb lying down. This was nothing though, when compared to the shock he felt at seeing Faen standing there, Mothes-Kiss sittinging naked and bloody in his left hand while Baby was leveled at Whisperwoods chest. The mage didn't even have the time to cry out before the two bolts plunged forward from the crossbow and sank into his chest, punching him from his feet. The Orlesian's staff fell from his hand and went clattering across the floor, several feet out of reach. Even if he could get it, he doubted he had the strength to summon a spell now. The wounds Faen had inflicted were fatal, Whisperwood knew enough about physiology to know that. The assassin had killed him, and it was galling in the extreme.

He lay in a pool of his own quickly cooling blood and watched the assassin as he knelt by Caleb's side. The two exchanged words before the assassin took Mothers-Kiss and wrenched it across Losthill's throat with all the grim efficency of a farmer slaugtering a sheep. Faen then turned his head, his dark eyes fixing Whisperwood with a penetrating gaze. They stayed thus for what seemed like an age, but the mage began to feel woozy, and faded out of conciousness. When he came to Faen was kneeling next to him, pulling the remains of his dark cloak from Whisperwood's hand. The Orlesian hadn't even been aware he was still holding it.

"Will. . . You kill. . . Me?" Wheezed the mage. Faen gave him a slow look, his thoughts unreadable.

"And what would that be worth?" the assassin finally asked. The mage was surprised at this response, but pressed on regardless.

"My. . . Gratitude. . . I'm in. . . Great pain. . . I will. . . Not survive. . . This wound." Faen once more gave him a slow look, but this time there was something in his eyes. Some small glimmer of emotion, and Whisperwood couldn't help but feel he had a chance.

"Or. . . I know of. . . A spirit healer. . . Close by. . . He could. . . Save me."

More silence. After what seemed like an age Faen hefted Last-Laugh.

"I'm afraid I don't save lives. I merely take them." There was a grim twist to the assassins mouth, and regret was so heavy and thick in his tone that Whisperwood didn't argue any more. The mage barely felt it as the sword slid between his ribs and into his heart. He was dead before his head hit the floor.

[Lucius Cypher]

Before leaving the building Myrn looked into the tome that she was rewarded with. It was a tome of Arcane Technique, allowing her to dive into the fade for a temporary moment in order to learn it's secrets. But it wasn't as simply as simply entering the fade and picking up whatever she stumbled across. It was a... Surreal experience. Myrn had entered the Fade a few times in the past, while training her magic with the Keeper. The Fade was no stranger to her, more so since the clan would sometimes traverse places where the veil was thin, making trips to and out of the Fade more frequent. But this instance was different. Unlike before, she didn't really feel herself "Entering" the Fade so much as observe it, like how one would watch the sun set. Everything felt so far away but also just barely out of her reach. As though that if she only took a few steps further, reached out, she could grab it.

In this instance, where Myrn currently floated, there was a tiled brick floor, which eventually melded into a dirt-like area that led off to another area. Pillars that led up only to scrape at the sky at intervals in the "room," while a statue of a mage with tentacles for arms stood overlooking her. Far above, there were islands, connected by land bridges that may have spanned five feet or five leagues. Despite the constantly shifting nature of this strange place Myrn had a general idea of where she was at, in a strange sense. She could fly but could not touch anything; whatever she laid hands on she phased through harmlessly. She wondered what would happen should a demon or fade spirit find her, and if they could do anything to her. Better for Myrn not to find out. She continued to explore the Fade area, and at some point while trying to explore the many floating island was nearly struck by a airborne mouse. Before Myrn could even figure out why there was a mouse sailing through the air, it was gone. Deciding that perhaps it was not worth prying into, Myrn continued her search.

Myrn spent some time in the Fade, observing what she could for what felt like days. By the time she came to, the tome had been turned into a simple blank book. Myrn felt dizzy and a bit nauseous, but the journey had bore fruit. Putting the book into her backpack she called out to her friend. "Alexander, let's go going. I think we have time for at least one more job today. One contact in the city said that one of the Alienage's local Herbalist recently was robbed of his treasured family heirloom, a magical elven sword. She hasn't really told me much about them, but I'm sure there are plenty of witnesses we can speak with." Taking a cool drink of water, Myrn left the building to go find some leads about the robbers.

[Mortarion]

Alexander looked on as Myrn took the tome "Be careful." HE told her softly, despite knowing for a fact that she was an accomplished mage in her own right and that she was no apprentice or child that needed to be schooled by her peers....still she was the only friend, no the only true friend, he had made in years. HE sighed as her body seemed to go limp, her mind wandering the fade and he caught her before she fell to the ground and rested her on a chair. Meanwhile he sat on the ground cross legged, meditating on what had happened on the ruins; it had been a mistake on his part to reveal himself as a blood mage so easily to Myrn, he could even swear that he heard his former master berating him from Minrathous. HE frowned slightly as he recalled his old master...all that he had ever taught him on his time in the magocracy that was Tevinter had been about how, at best, "friends" were convenient tools to use for a certain period of time, and to be discarded when they lost said use,and in the worst cases to be used as a shield between yourself and your enemies...something he had experienced first hand.

He opened his eyes when he felt Myrn standing up from the chair and did the sane, dusting off his pants slightly and stretching "Hmm, ok. I think we first interrogate the Herbalist and then the neighbors." He told her as they exited the building, shielding his eyes from the sun for a split second as he readjusted his sight to the natural light "SO, what did you learn from the book?" He asked her as they made their way to the Herbalist's house. Once they were there, he let Myrn handle the situation, deducing that she'd be the best one to deal with the elves since as a human they'd be more inclined to distrust him even though he had helped Myrn but still the Herbalist was considerate enough with him and as such he accepted what was offered to him and gave a polite smile.

Once that was done, he looked at Myrn "Let's go and check with my sources at the Collective as well, they might give us something to find out those who stole the sword" He told her and leaded the way towards the backstreet of the Denerim Marketplace where his usual contact with the Mage's Collective was found. "SO, you've got something for me?" HE asked to the man, handling him his share of lyrium potions he hadn't used during their trip to the ruins as a form of payment, since Myrn now knew about his blood magic he wasn't afraid to use it in a fight should it be required bu he didn't plan to become dependent on it. He approached Myrn after he was done talking to him, shooting poisonous glances at the man "The bastard had almost no useful information" He told her with a sigh, rubbing his temple slightly "HE mentioned that the bandits were most likely in a dark alley of sorts, not sure if he was referring a dark alley literally -of which there are millions- or some sort of nickname for one of the more shady parts of Denerim" He said with a frown "But, he did gave me a piece of useful information" HE said, his frown easing slightly "There's apparently an assassins, or something like that, I think, well someone connected to the underworld that could give us a clearer location" He told he as he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms "It's your call if we go after him, if not we would be forced to scan the city district by district or we could try the Alienage or some of the urchins to gather more information" He told her matter of fact "So, what it's gonna be?"

[An Outsider]

The morning Krios arrives in Denerim

The rising son painted the skies over Denerim a dull red, the colour of bad blood. Fitting, Faen thought to himself as he padded the cobbled streets through the morning dew. Blood had stained his clothes and left his hands sticky. It was a small consolation that none of it was his. Worse was his cloak, little more than a tattered, charred rag now. It wasn't even fit to wipe a table any more. He arrived at the Midnight Mabari, the inn and tavern he had been calling home since arriving in the city, shortly after dawn.

Already the owner, a portly, middle-aged Antivan immigrant with a thick moustache and a thicker accent named Andros, was awake and at work, kneading dough for the days bread. The assassin spoke a little with Andros, the Antivan trying to look like he hadn't noticed the blood, and in his efforts made more of an issue of it. The inn-keeper knew of Faen's profession, but allowed him to stay and operate regardless. Why, Faen wasn't sure, but he had a feeling it was related to Andros' self imposed exile to Fereldan. Perhaps he had run a foul of the Crows, and thought that having an assassin of his own living under his roof might help keep him alive. If that was the case then Andros' assumption was doubtful, as Faen had been unable to protect Marco from the Crows.

The assassin asked for one of the baths to be filled, they being a major feature that attracted him to the Midnight Mabari in the first place. Soon enough he was sitting in a brass tub in the Mabari's cellar, scrubbing hot, perfumed water into his skin to cleanse himself of the dirt, grime and blood. The dirt and the grime was easy enough to clean, but the blood, though long since washed from his skin, would stain him for a great time longer.

After the bath he gave his soiled clothes to Andros, asking for them to be cleaned and repaired. The cloak he was forced to throw out. A quick change later and he was back in the Mabari's tavern, sitting in his corner table and swigging from a glass of strong, golden spirit, the bottle sitting in easy reach. His body was tired after the night's exertions, but he knew sleep wouldn't come yet. He could lay down in his bed, yes, and close his eyes in a hope for the sweet relief of dreams, but he knew that if he did instead of sleep all he would get would be visions of Tiny Ivan, and Caleb Losthill, and the mage Whisperwood, and a dozen nameless guards he had killed like sheep led to a slaughter. Their ghosts would press him for weeks to come, pushing and prodding at him until they slowly faded to join the rest of the quiet dead he had been cause of in the back of his subconscious.

He flirted idly with Andros' newest barmaid, a pretty young red head, sweet in a demure fashion, but his heart wasn't in it. He wasn't in the mood for another insipid, middle classed city girl, especially not with the darkness on him. Instead he sent for Rat.

Rat was a con artist, cut purse, and street urchin, in that order. Faen couldn't remember when or where he had met the young thief, but that hardly mattered. Rat reminded him of himself when he was younger, someone to smart to be destined to live out his life in the gutters, so he gave him odd jobs to earn a bit of coin, hoping the boy would live long enough to get off the streets without making the same mistakes he had.

Two hours passed before the lad sauntered in, whistling a jaunty tune to himself.

"Awright Faen, whats the emergency." He demanded with the casual arrogance only the young posses.

"Murder, Rat. That's the emergency." Was the nonchalant answer.

"Andraste wept. Who's murder!" Faen had his full attention now.

"Caleb Losthills. He came a foul of the good merchants of Denerim, and so met his end by an assassin's blade. Mine, in case you were curious. That's not why I called you here though. I need a job done." As he spoke the assassins hand delved into the purse at his side, to pull free two gold sovereigns, a princely sum in the eyes of Rat. He placed the two coins flat down in the centre of the table, midway between himself and the thief.

"What kind of job?" Rat's suspicions were aroused, but his hunger for the gold showed in the edge on his voice.

"I need you to get the word out that Jeffers Sanderton, the goldsmith in the North Square, betrayed the other merchants and I. He met with Caleb and told him of the plans they made to have him murdered, and the night I planned to do it. He did this for free protection and a sack of gold. Tell everyone I still killed Caleb regardless, and his guards, and his pet wizard, and now I'm spitting mad and ready for more blood. You do that, and you get the gold." It sounded an easy job, and truth be told it was. But it was also an important one. People needed to think of Faen as a cold hearted killer, otherwise they'd lose their respect, and more importantly their fear of him. He'd rather not have to kill Jeffers, as their was enough blood on his conscience for now, but equally he had to show that people couldn't just get away with betraying him. This way Jeffers would find out that he'd be rumbled and hopefully run for his life, negating Faen's need to kill him while also instilling a healthy respect for his temper in any other future clients.

Rat's hand crept towards the gold. "And that's all I have to do?"

"That's all. Now take the gold and go." The boy had snatched up the coins and was half way out of the Mabari before Faen could blink, leaving him to his drink, and his thoughts, and his ghosts.