Vhenan Aravel
Chapter 27: Plans and Tactics - Chants

Copyright© 2017 by eatenbydragons

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 27: Plans and Tactics - Chants - Raviathan, a city elf with too many secrets and regrets, undergoes a long journey in order to find his way in the world. Part 1 is a Dragon Age Blight fic with many additions and twists to the original story. This story starts off on the fluffy side, but beware. Thar be dragons, and it will dip into darker territories. I'd rather overtag for potential triggers than undertag. Rape and prostitution occur rarely in the overall narrative, but they are present.

Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/Ma   Consensual   Magic   Rape   Reluctant   Romantic   Gay   BiSexual   Heterosexual   Fiction   Fan Fiction   High Fantasy   Interracial   Anal Sex   Analingus   First   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Petting   Prostitution  

Though relaxed after his time with the soldier, depression pressed against Raviathan. His muscles were loose, he was calm, but the familiar shame that had haunted him through childhood was compounded with thoughts of Nesiara. The sound of her crying on the other side of the door when he left the alienage echoed in his memories. His throat tightened as the path before him wavered through unshed tears. Gone were the fears of being thrown out of the alienage, but the disappointment of his elders remained in the back of his mind, weighing on him. Worse were the thoughts of what Nesiara would think of him. Would she feel betrayed? How could she not? Raviathan blinked his eyes to clear them then shoved the thoughts away. That life didn’t belong to him anymore.

Needing another distraction, Raviathan walked back down the deserted pathway in search of a meal. Around the main tent site he washed his hands and was able to get some bread and a bowl of porridge from the army cook. The burly man eyed at him dubiously at first, but Raviathan was armored and armed as no other elf in the camp. In the end the cook shrugged and left Raviathan alone. He found a quiet place to sit and watch the camp while he ate.

A few other elves ran about delivering messages or items but no one he recognized. A group of warriors were going through a series of exercises with painted mabari. He watched the dogs race and take down standing dummies on command, reminding him of just how powerful the dogs were. Just beyond the platform where the Chantry priestess was still giving her sermon to the group of soldiers, a flash of light from a broken tower base caught his eye. As he looked more carefully, he realized they were mages. Mages? Here?

Raviathan finished his meal quickly and dumped the bowl by the washing area. These would be the first mages he met other than his aunt. They couldn’t be apostates, not and practice openly. Circle then, but how? Fear tingled through him at the thought of the Circle, instinct making him want to run from the cage he had evaded his entire life. He tried to ignore the feeling. After all, what was the likelihood he would get another chance to talk to a Circle mage? Raviathan edged toward the mage encampment.

Templars. Fires take him, they were crawling around the encampment like the prison guards they were. Raviathan’s heart thudded so hard he thought he could hear it.

“May I help you, young man?” Standing nonchalantly by the tower base was an older woman in beige and brown robes with a staff. She had to be a mage. Her white hair would have been shoulder length but was tied back in a severe, short ponytail. She had widely spaced blue eyes in an apple shaped face marked with character. Her well defined if thin mouth carried the lines of age.

“I was curious is all.”

“No need to be so afraid,” she said. “I am Wynne.”

“Rav. Raviathan, but everyone calls me Rav.” Raviathan crossed his arms to cover the trembling of his hands. He wondered if she could detect the shaking he heard in his own voice. “I suppose magic makes most people nervous.”

“Indeed,” she said, the lines around her eyes crinkling in what Raviathan took to be regret. “Tales of demons and abominations abound, so I cannot say your fear is unfounded, but mages spend their life learning control. Though your fear of us is clear, you came here out of curiosity. If you have questions, I will answer them if I can.”

“Ah, okay.” Raviathan hadn’t thought much about what Circle mages must be like. For all his magic wielding years, his concern lay with the templars. His own shadowed thoughts of Circle mages were of chains and figures hunched from beatings, but this Wynne seemed normal enough. “What’s the Circle like?”

“It is a place of contemplation and learning. We are free to practice our gifts and learn to control them.”

Free? The woman made it sound like some academy instead of the prison it was. Free to practice their gifts. There was no freedom when children were stolen from their parents’ arms. “And the templars?”

“They serve their purpose.”

A diplomatic answer, to be sure, especially with so many of the mage hunters about, but there was no rancor Raviathan could detect. Humans confused him more often than not, so he might just not be reading her correctly.

“Interesting,” she said, her gaze steady with more interest than made him comfortable. “When an outsider approaches me, I’m usually asked about demons or what it’s like to cast magic.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose. My kin and friends have been taken, so I wondered about their treatment.”

“Ah, yes. Now I understand. You are from an alienage then?”

“How did you know?”

“The Dalish are the only other elves who live in numbers large enough to produce several mages, but the Dalish are able to stay hidden from the templars. Newly brought elves are suspicious at first, but in the Circle humans and elves are equals, which they come to understand in time.” She waved a hand at the camp. Humans talked at leisure, gambled at small games of dice, or practiced with their chosen weapons. The few elves scurried about, the main movement in the camp, heads low as if in perpetual fear of a beating. “The few times I’ve been able to leave the Circle, I’m surprised anew at how differently elves are treated by the world at large.”

“You’ve been able to leave the Circle?” That bit of news struck him like a slap. Mages allowed out of the prison? Then why haven’t any of his friends or kin returned for a visit?

“Not often, but there are times mages are needed, as they are now. During times of battle, to advise the king, or confirm a noble child’s ancestry. Occasionally we are allowed to travel for study at other Circles.”

“They must trust you quite a bit then.”

Her smile gentled her face. “I suppose they do.”

“You’ve never wanted to leave permanently?”

“Of course. Every mage has at some time or another. It is a grand thing to see the world, but I know well my responsibilities.” Raviathan shifted, perplexed by this woman. A mischievous gleam entered her eyes. “That and I would be hunted down.”

While her tone remained light, the subject was a serious one. “Do you know how templars do that? Hunt mages?”

“I’m not sure about apostates or malificarum, but each Circle mage has a vial of blood taken when they first come to the Circle, a phylactery. The templars can track missing mages with that.”

As Solyn had warned, templars had power over mages, although the extent of that power was a mystery to them both. Templars were supposedly immune to magic and could disrupt a mage’s casting, and while there were rumors of more, neither was sure what was fact from fiction. That Solyn hadn’t been able to defend herself, had been beaten and brutalized while alive, spoke of stronger, darker abilities.

All living creatures were connected to the Fade, so, given time and discipline, non-mages could learn some limited but powerful abilities. Raviathan hypothesized that a templar learned to manipulate their limited connection to the Fade energy just as some rogues did to hide in shadows, as his mother could. What Wynne said confirmed that templars did have some developed skill with magic if they were able to use a mage’s blood to track them.

A mage’s power came from their own life energy, each casting of magic diminishing that energy until a mage could recoup. Mages could kill themselves if they tried to cast beyond their limits, just as a warrior could if he lost too much blood from wounds. Just as lost blood could be regenerated by the body, so a mage’s mana would be fueled by Fade energy through the soul by the mage’s unique connection to the Fade. Blood carried power as strong as mana, but unlike a mage’s mana, a person’s blood could be preserved, which created a link to the life from which the blood was taken. Blood was power, in some ways more versatile than mana, but magic worked through blood tarnished a mage’s soul like wine poured on a white dress.

Was working with blood what tarnished a templar? If blood magic corrupted a mage’s soul, surely working with blood did the same to templars. Did they use blood magic to gain their abilities? If so, no wonder they were capable of such monstrosity.

The impetus for Raviathan’s family’s escape from slavery had been because of Solyn. The family who owned them had decided Solyn would learn blood magic. Adaia, seeing her sister’s blind panic, had formulated the escape that killed off Raviathan’s grandparents, uncle, and two cousins. Raviathan was named for the uncle who had sacrificed his life to kill the blood mage that had stalked their family from the Tevinter Imperium, through Nevarra and finally the Free Marches.

“If I may,” she said, bringing him out of his thoughts, “you don’t strike me as a simple messenger, but there are no elven soldiers, and I haven’t seen you before.”

“No,” he replied hesitantly. “I came with Commander Duncan this morning.”

“Ah,” she said her face clearing. “Then you are his newest recruit are you not?” He nodded, and she renewed her measure of him. Humans had been staring at him since he had left the alienage, and he was getting rather sick of all the scrutiny. Even as a dock worker he had the respite of home after wards. She should be use to elves considering how many of his kin had been taken to the Circle. “He’s not a man easily impressed. You should be proud.”

“Um, thank you.” How many people knew about him? The Grey Wardens he expected, maybe a few guards. Why would this mage know? Followed by that was what did they know? Killing a lord wasn’t easily forgiven. Though Duncan had reassured him, Raviathan would take no chances until this ritual was done. Even then, ‘accidents’ could happen around vengeful nobles, particularly in the chaos of battle. “Do you know Duncan well then?” That seemed a neutral enough question.

“Not especially, but we have had a few discussions when he had been by the Circle. He has some ... rather open ideas about magic and the Grey Wardens.”

“You don’t agree with him?” The conformation on Duncan’s attitude towards magic cleared away the last niggling shadow of doubt that Raviathan had. Duncan wouldn’t fear him, would value his abilities. As much as Raviathan’s father loved him, and Raviathan had no doubt that his father loved him, his magic had created a wall between them. A shadow of fear, tiny but ever present, lay behind Cyrion’s eyes when he looked at his son. A wave of protective responsibility for Duncan washed into Raviathan much as it had with Nesiara or his kinfolk when he had delivered them. Duncan respected him as an elf and as a mage. The feeling was warm and good, giving him purpose and confidence.

“I think he is very devoted to the Wardens’ mission,” she said, watching him with intelligent, pale blue eyes. Though he had never had a teacher before, and no formal education, she struck him as an experienced teacher. She reminded him of Solyn in that there was a certain sternness, a woman who would not hide uncomfortable truths, but was not unkind either. He wondered what her perspective would be on a number of issues: the king, the coming battle, the darkspawn, and most of all magic. But that last would have to wait until he was an official Grey Warden. “I know he was looking for a recruit at the Circle. Neria had the most potential of any apprentice in at least a decade, and I believe she was ready to graduate soon. Do you know where she is? I’d like to speak with her.”

Neria? A chill that had nothing to do with the constant southern wind burrowed into Raviathan’s bones. No, that had to be a coincidence. Though his childhood memories had faded at the edges, he remembered orange red hair barely tamed by braids, a quick smile, and a girl overflowing with want for adventure. Surely the world could not be so cruel to take her brilliance away. Not Eolas’ only granddaughter. If it was her, Raviathan didn’t want to know. Only pain lay down that road. Raviathan bit his lips, wondering how well this human knew the apprentice. She seemed fond of her. “I don’t know the details or her name even. Duncan said there was a recruit he was interested in, but she was made tranquil.”

“Tranquil!” Wynne exclaimed. “What happened?”

He hated bringing bad news, and it seemed Wynne had known the recruit after all. “I’m not sure it is this Neria, but the mage he wanted to recruit was involved in some plot with a blood mage. They made her tranquil in response.” Wynne slumped and looked away in grief. “I’m sorry,” Raviathan said and meant it. “Did you know her well?” From Wynne’s reaction, it sounded like someone had died, and from what he knew of the tranquil, that was true. The worst part about it was that the apprentice was still alive in a fashion.

Wynne shook her head as a comment to the senselessness of it. “Yes,” she said in the distant voice of one lost in memory. “I was one of her early teachers. Even when Irving took over her lessons, she still came to me for mentoring. Such a loyal, talented girl.” Wynne’s focus sharpened on him, “Blood magic you said?”

“I don’t know more than I have already said, and I would not like to be responsible for misinformation or rumors. Speak to Duncan.”

With a sigh Wynne nodded reluctantly. “When he and I have a chance. What about you, young man? How did Duncan recruit you?”

“It’s ... a long story. Essentially he was a friend of my mother’s and knew I had been trained.”

“Hmm,” she mused, watching him. “Do you know much about the darkspawn?”

Raviathan shrugged. “Duncan has been teaching me about the darkspawn on the journey here.”

“He would be the expert,” she replied with a little more warmth. How well did the two know each other? “But let me ask you this. How much do you know about the connection between the darkspawn and the Fade?”

“Duncan and I have discussed the theories.”

That earned another measuring look from the mage. Raviathan was reminded of Valendrian when the elder elf suspected Raviathan of mischief, a look he was very familiar with. “Such as?”

“Well, the Chantry’s version, of course, as well as theories not related to the Maker.”

“You are not fond of what the Chant says then.”

“The Chant says many things,” he scoffed. It’s what they leave out that had him start to question the Chantry years ago. The Chantry hated mages. Why would any self-respecting mage, and she looked like one, take the Chant seriously? In any case, he hadn’t read that part of the Chant. He had heard enough of the priestesses’ crowing ring out in the Market. Anything to make mages look like deviants and criminals was left in the Chant and sung loudly. Other than the dissonant verses, he hadn’t read much finding the whole thing corrupted by politics.

“Your dismissal of the Chant’s long history is premature. It may be allegory meant to teach us that our own evil is what causes human suffering. Or it may be true. There are some rather compelling arguments for it, such as the horde that amasses in the Wilds as we speak, and the Old God behind their new drive.”

Nice idea, he thought, but the priestesses he had met and the followers all took it literally. As an allegory, it had potential, but it explained nothing, not the turning away of the Maker, the Black City, or the darkspawn. These were facts. The Maker did not watch over them. They had been abandoned. The Black City could be seen no matter where someone was in the Fade, and the Chant only pretended to know what happened during that ritual. There were no witnesses that day in the Fade other than the mages who traveled there, and they left no record of what had happened. All that was witnessed was the darkening of the mages, their bodies twisting into the first darkspawn. The shriek that had bore down on him last night, the face of evil as he had never known could exist, that was not allegory.

How could one trust a spiritual truth that kept changing? He didn’t mind additions as new truths were discovered or events happened, but to take out existing ‘truth’ for political convenience, such as the elves’ right to a homeland, was just as twisted as they claimed the Tevinter magisters had been. He had no patience for accepting a lie because there was no better explanation. Truth was truth, and stories meant to entrench their own power didn’t take the place of truth. She talked of suffering. This storytelling was causing suffering.

Tell men to act better, fine. It wouldn’t work, but tell them anyway. Don’t mix that by tying that to perpetuate fear of magic. Men who had power acted on their whims. That was true with Vaughan, and it was just as true with King Cailan. One sought his pleasure at the cost of others. Cailan sought glory though he had not the wisdom or temperance to lead men safely or effectively. Neither had magic, and they both put other people’s lives in danger. They caused suffering. Allegory or not, the Chant ignored the evils of lords in favor of a scapegoat while the lords claimed power was only dangerous in the hands of mages.

What this ‘allegory’ taught was the reason he was in fear for his life every day since he was five. It was what had killed his aunt though she had eased others’ suffering. It was the reason this mage standing in front of him had been put in a prison and told it was for her own and everyone else’s good. And she believed it. That was the betrayal, to turn one against themselves. He had been good at hiding his whole life because it was necessary, but he couldn’t entirely keep the contempt from his voice when he said, “I’ll just kill every darkspawn I see.”

Wynne’s eyes narrowed, and Raviathan knew that she was much better at reading elves than he was at understanding humans. Her annoyance was clear though. She opened her mouth to speak when a templar strode over. “You there. Move along, and stop pestering the mages.”

Fear clenched Raviathan’s stomach like a stone dropped on his gut. He nodded and hurried away. As he left, he caught Wynne’s voice. “Now that was unnecessary. He was curious was all.”

“Enough rest, Wynne. You’ve got your duties.”

Though Raviathan could make out her voice, the rest of her words were obscured by the noise of the camp. Just as well. That was the closest Raviathan had ever been to a templar. His breakfast gurgled uncomfortably in his stomach as he hurried up a ramp to put as much distance from himself and the templars as possible.

Most helmets showed something of a man’s face, his eyes or mouth, a scrap of beard or scars, something that made them a person. Not templars. A thin slit shadowed their eyes, the rest obscured by metal. Even demons had faces. Only shades, the formless dead souls of the Fade that preyed upon weakened shattered souls, were as faceless.

As a child, Raviathan had nightmares of being chased by an army of faceless men. He would run through the streets, scampering down alleys, trying to hide in shadows or buildings, but there was nowhere to hide. They were so much faster than he. Faceless, cold, and hard, templars haunted him as no demon could.

Away from the Mages’ encampment, Raviathan took a moment to collect himself. This past fortnight, he had been subject to a ridiculous amount of fear. Starting with his wedding, he’d had only a day or two at a time where he wasn’t being preyed upon in one manner or another. While that soldier had given him relief, the stress of the journey had tired him out. Better to get his mind off the templars. Otherwise he’d dwell on them and only rile himself up.

The rest of the camp proved a pleasant enough diversion as he had hoped. Many chests provided ample exercise for his rusty lock picking skills. There were a few coins here, a dagger there. He found some rather wonderful arrows that held a small dose of freezing liquid in a vial that was designed to shatter on impact. Though he knew how to make that potion, it wasn’t possible to find the ingredients in the alienage, and they were massively expensive compared to the meager pocket money he got from working in Alarith’s shop.

Raviathan felt little guilt over taking the items within. They were small things to begin with, and besides, the soldiers were all well outfitted. If he was to be in the coming battle, he was woefully under-equipped. He didn’t even have a proper backpack, just the pillow sack. Compared to the soldiers, he looked ridiculous. If being an elf weren’t enough of a obstacle here, his shabby appearance would earn him nothing but contempt.

While with Duncan, Raviathan had a buffer against the world of humans, but now that he was on his own, this world outside his alienage struck him anew with its strangeness. Human seemed to have no concept of their size. They were careless, as large and imprecise in their movements as young children. Not only were they physically imposing, they took up a great deal more space than they should. These humans stood far apart to have a simple conversation, their voices carrying far as if they were the only people around. While they would be a spy’s delight, as it was, Raviathan thought they were rude beyond all reason, as if each and every one were the lord of this fortress.

Even humans who were by all measure friends kept distance. Raviathan knew well enough by now that humans didn’t share the physical intimacy elves did, but the spaces they kept between each other were extreme. Were humans lonely? The question never occurred to him before, but as he watched, he wondered about them. Perhaps they didn’t know how to connect as elves did. Perhaps they didn’t have the same sense of empathy. That he had to barter with a guard to feed a starving prisoner spoke of the emotional walls they hid behind.

Perhaps he was over thinking things. Shianni would have teased him, reminded him that people like Elva had little connection to her community. That marked Elva though. She was strange in the alienage. Certainly many an elf had become bitter over the years, too much death, too much scraping and begging, but their ties to the community were deep as the roots of the vhenadahl. These humans were all like Elva. Elves were like the trees of a forest, their existence defined by their relationship to each other to form something greater than the individual trees. These humans didn’t exist beyond their own skin. Everything they were was contained and untouchable.

Despite the assurances of the king of their successes, an air of panic permeated in the camp. Not that he could read humans well, but he could see the tight, nervous glances of the soldiers at any movement. The Redcliffe soldiers hadn’t had this undercurrent of panic. A fight broke out over a game of lost dice. Voices rose too quickly too fast, and it was only the swift intervention of a knight that stopped the fight from spreading to the rest. They were all looking for an excuse to get their minds off the battle. A wounded soldier, his eyes a fevered yellow and wide with panic, was screaming about darkspawn to everyone who passed. The nurse did her best to calm him, but there was no help for it. The soldier was spooked beyond reason.

Flipping the cleaned little brass key he got from the prisoner in the air and catching it, Raviathan wished he knew more about darkspawn. He hadn’t thought to ask if they took prisoners, but he supposed they would. Humans did. But then what purpose did darkspawn have with prisoners? They didn’t negotiate for hostages or press them into service. Food? But then they’d constantly be raiding the surface. Unless they kept humans and dwarves like cattle in some cave. Then what did the prisoners eat? Why hadn’t he thought to ask?

 
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