Vhenan Aravel
Chapter 30: Plans and Tactics - Magic in the Mists

Copyright© 2017 by eatenbydragons

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 30: Plans and Tactics - Magic in the Mists - 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  

Moss hung down in thick, frayed ropes, tinting the anemic sunlight of the Wilds green. Raviathan gingerly touched one of the many gnarled roots that were slowly breaking the ruin apart. Perhaps the roots were the only thing keeping the roof from collapsing. Not that anyone would miss this ruin once it was gone. This wreckage had been left for two hundred years in the care of a swamp that existed to devour corpses. Nature would will out in the end, especially here. Vines insinuated themselves in every fissure, pushing, forever imposing, twisting until the stone floor was nothing more than a suggestion of where Wardens once trod.

Was this Tevinter design? Not that Raviathan knew much of anything about architecture. This did have pointed arches like he had seen at Ostagar, but that’s as far as he could compare. The passages twisted or turned about without rhyme or reason. Part of the maze was design; the other part was the inevitable breakdown of the old fort. Corridors fractured like bones as the treasonous swamp below shifted its support. One passage had been sheared in half, the floor jutting out into air followed by a five foot drop to the decrepit path below, a crevice which housed a nest of rats as long as Raviathan’s forearm.

Shafts of tepid light from the cracked ceiling were the only things that kept Raviathan going down the tunnel. There was some light, some air to give him the illusion of escape from this trap should the stones suddenly decide to crumble. Something about the heavy dust turned dark, the smell of the rotting, wet bog suffusing the air that set him on edge. Raviathan had never felt claustrophobic before. He had heard other elves talk of the sensation when they were stuck cleaning dungeons for extensive periods. They spoke of weight, of being able to feel all the stones above them, pressing down, pushing down on them, turning the rooms they working into crushing, lightless traps. Never before had Raviathan been able to feel this sense of weight, the dread of stones compressing his lungs, breaking bones, no air except for a few, desperate, painful wracks before his body gave out.

The cloying dust did not help. All around him was stone stood ready to squeeze him into pulp. Raviathan wanted out. At the mere sight of a tunnel running further underground, deep into the lightless bowels, he was overcome with an unshakable sense of lurking danger. His imagination kept turning this expedition into a horror story that wasn’t there. Just fear of the dark, he told himself. That darkness was not the same as the night, even cloud filled nights where the stars hid their austere points of hope. Here, the very air was stolen from him.

“Buck up, elf,” Daveth whispered near him.

“I look that nervous?” Raviathan was surprised. His mother had taught him to make a mask of his face when needed, but he had been out of practice. Raviathan resisted nibbling at his lip as he mentally reviewed his mother’s mantra. She had spent hours with him, teaching him to become aware of his facial muscles, how each felt when pulled, her fingers as light as a spirit on his face as he gradually learned her arts. Raviathan wondered for a second if that discipline had disappeared so quickly.

“Heh. Not that I’d want to play wicked grace against you anytime soon,” Daveth said, a crooked grin on his easy face. “But your sword jerks at every twig snap. Ain’t nothing in here except them rats.”

The glint of mischief in Daveth’s face told Raviathan that the thief knew elves regularly ate rats. If Daveth made a joke at the expense of his starving kin, Raviathan would have punched him, but the thief seemed to know he was pushing his limits.

A voice called from the front, “Is there a problem?”

Having been caught at letting his emotions show, Raviathan resisted the impulse to clench his jaw or glare at the templar. The knights were far enough ahead that they probably didn’t hear the words of the conversation so much as wanted the thieves to be silent. However, if silence was so important, then that son of bastard just ruined it with a loud question. Not that the knights’ clanking armor didn’t alert everything in a half mile radius.

Trapped underground. Trapped with that templar.

Wait. This isn’t just fear playing with his mind. Something...

Daveth was about to retort when Raviathan tapped him on the arm with the flat of his blade. After a quick flick of his eyes to the dark hall behind them, Raviathan held Daveth’s eyes. The human gave the barest nod that he understood. The thieves continued down the mud slicked ruin, the knights left wondering at the change of attitude.

“Now!” Raviathan and Daveth twisted back, their blades striking forward. Sparks flew in the dim light, steel scratching steel, a spray of black blood, and a deep groan of pain. Taint pressed against them like a sudden burning wind, ashy and choleric. More clangs of metal rang, the sound loud in the small space, as the two thieves parried and struck at the party of genlocks. Three more appeared to join the first two, Daveth’s kill already dropping.

“Help us,” Raviathan shouted to the stationary knights. The death rattle of the genlock sent a shiver down Raviathan’s spine. His skin felt like it wanted to jump off and crawl away. The back of his throat itched in a red burn from the oily blood in the air. Maker, how could such creatures exist? Unnatural, as if they bent the world in wrong angles.

Raviathan spared a glance back at the knights before another assassin could take the place of the one he felled. That damned templar was slipping on the sludge that coated the stone floor as he scrambled for purchase. At least he was trying. Jory had turned a sickly pale green, struck as dumb as a statue. Useless. Raviathan glared at him for only an instant before returning to the foray. He snarled at the next monster to rush him.

Though disgusting, these weren’t simple, stupid creatures. They had armor, weapons, wielded their blades with skill. Savage, yes, but not untrained as children fighting with sticks would be. How smart were they? Raviathan dropped to a knee, his dagger locked against the genlock’s jagged blade, pushing it to swing high while Raviathan’s sword struck deep in an unarmored spot. A sword whistled over Raviathan’s head, slicing the genlock’s neck open.

Raviathan backed out of the melee, rising to his feet as he did so, only to bang his head against Alistair’s shield. A brief, bright blast of light blocked his vision for a second. Genlocks moving in the shadow, vague but predatory, death stalking him. Damn stupid templar! Raviathan cowered, covering his head as a tendril of magic worked to repair bruise and shock. Fighting clamored above him, beside him, all the worse for his vulnerability.

Trapped in the cave. Trapped by the templar.

Vision cleared, Raviathan struck a rotted boot, the genlock buckling to flail into his waiting blade. Black blood steamed on the stone, mixing with the slick mud. Alistair slipped, legs going wide, arms flailing for balance when the edge of his shield smashed down into Raviathan’s back.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean that.”

Oh for love of the Maker! Which was the worse enemy? Raviathan grabbed the templar by the knee, pulling hard so Alistair spun sideways and landed on the remaining genlock, pinning the thing down. Raviathan leapt, his knee in Alistair’s chest, and jabbed his dagger in the startled genlock’s eye.

Stillness descended, broken only by ragged breathing. Raviathan heaved to his feet, hearing an ‘oomph’ from the templar. The thieves exchanged hard, darkly triumphant grins.

Shocked, Alistair stared up. “You ... what was that? You could have killed me!”

Raviathan snorted. “Looks like you’re not so dead after all.” Pity.

Without a second look, Raviathan shouldered past Jory and continued down the corridor. Daveth followed, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Very brave, Ser Knight.”

Jory gaped before flushing. “Now see here. I have a claymore. I can’t wield it in this space.”

“So, if it weren’t for us, you’d be completely defenseless, then? Aww, poor, brave Ser Cumference with his too big sword and too small...”

“Stop it!” Raviathan frowned as he stalked down the crumbling hallway. It was their choice to follow or not. He heard the footsteps of the others though he didn’t acknowledge them. At least they had stopped sniping at each other for a time. These were going to be his fellows? Would the Wardens give additional training to integrate them? How did Duncan manage?

When the corridor divided, Raviathan ordered Daveth and Alistair to explore the section that continued to dip down while he and Jory took the section that spiraled up. Jory and Daveth needed to be separated, and anything to get that templar away was a blessing. The others seemed surprised by the order, but this way the teams were balanced.

“Duncan said he found you at a tourney?” Might as well try to make nice. If this was to be his comrade, continued ill will would not serve either of them. Besides, more allies would help distance himself from the templar.

“Yes, indeed. In Highever. I originally hail from Redcliffe.”

“I met Arl Eamon. Briefly. Did you not like serving him?”

“The Arl is a noble man in every respect,” Jory said, his chin lifting. “I asked for leave in order to...”

At Raviathan’s raised hand, Jory quieted. Raviathan listened intently, watchful for any sign. After a moment he nodded that all was clear.

“If I may ask, how did you know about the darkspawn before? I saw nothing.”

“Thieves’ trick. It’s a method of bending the Fade to hide. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“Heard of, but I’ve never seen.”

“Haven’t you been taught what to look for?” Raviathan turned back to regard the warrior.

“Only the castle guards are trained to look for thieves. A knight doesn’t need to know such things.”

Raviathan cocked his head in thought. A fortnight ago, shems with weapons all looked like shems with weapons—a threat to him and his people. As with rulers, he was learning there were differences, and with differences came specialized learning. “I could see their tracks forming in the mud. The trick is useful, but there are limits.”

The hall dead-ended in a crumpled mass of stone. Instead of returning, Raviathan ascended a broken staircase using both hands and feet to keep his purchase. The stairs were almost vertical after centuries of shifting, but Raviathan managed with only a few slips.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?”

“Just looking.” Chips of stone crumbled under Raviathan’s light weight. Trapped. Stone overhead, and if it fell, they would be gone from this world. Raviathan took long breaths and fought the rising panic away. At least in the little chamber above there was a missing wall that lead to open sky. Raviathan stood at the edge, breathing in freedom, and gazed over the remains of the fortress that had long succumbed to the Wilds.

The sun would set in a few hours. Unless the other two had found the treaties, this mission would be a wash. What had been here was picked clean long ago either by barbarians, scavengers, or darkspawn. Only broken stone remained, burying whatever treasures remained. No force in Thedas was going to make Raviathan dig through stone. Let dwarves who understood such things have a go.

Hadn’t Duncan sensed darkspawn? Didn’t he say that all Wardens could? How had that templar not noticed the darkspawn sneaking up on them? Could templars sense magic? Raviathan had always wondered, and so had Solyn, but they never knew. Mages were supposed to be able to hide as long as they didn’t display their gifts, but what did he really know about templars? Had Alistair known the darkspawn were coming but chose not to give warning? Let the darkspawn take out the apostate for him? The others would be witnesses that it had been a sneak attack and therefore an accident. Raviathan nibbled his lip, growing cold at the idea.

Alistair had seemed harmless enough at first, but the man had also demonstrated a cruel streak. The court jester turned rambling idiot had to be a ruse. The way Alistair had stared at him back at Ostagar ... had he known then? Humans stared at him all the time, so Raviathan hadn’t thought much of it. Elves were often the subject of human curiosity. And lust. But what if the templar had known?

Voices sounded from the hall below. Best not to let his guard down, Raviathan decided as he returned to the stairs. Survive this expedition. Talk with Duncan. Raviathan wasn’t hopeful, but perhaps something could be arranged so he wouldn’t have to be around the templar much.

“Find the treaties?” Raviathan called. If at all possible, he would not be going back into the ruins.

“Naw,” Daveth said. “It’s all swamp down that way. If they’re underwater, ain’t no help for it. No use swimming with eels or leeches for a rotted note.”

“There’s a way out up here. We’ll have to go back without them.”

Jory need a boost from below and Raviathan hauling him up in order to get his mass up the near useless steps. Raviathan made sure he kept his face neutral. Like many shems who focused only on strength, Jory was all muscled fat with no grace. Daveth and Jory helped Alistair next, then Daveth came last with a smirk at the knights’ uselessness.

“So we’re just going to leave? The treaties.” Alistair glanced around the party, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Duncan said they’re a formality.” Raviathan leapt out of the room to a landing then proceeded to make his way down with a series of hops along what was left of the keep.

“I thought you said this was a way out!” The whites around Jory’s bulging eyes were visible, even down two stories.

“Well, obviously it is,” Raviathan said with a shrug. He let the shems grumble and Daveth laugh as they figured out their own way down. Idly, Raviathan checked around the ruins so that they could at least say they were through. Except for some overgrown lizards, there was nothing but crumbling stone. Raviathan still felt weighed down. The fog was like another oppressive ceiling, too close, clinging all around him like wet cotton, stealing his heat, suffocating.

“Hey there,” Daveth said quietly as he caught up. Raviathan looked passed him to see the knights fumbling their way down. “You see any stones set in a circle? Be up high around here.”

“Circle? A mark of buried treasure, trap, or Chasind sign?”

“Eh? None of that. Just a marker of sorts.”

Raviathan glanced at Daveth’s retreating back, but then shrugged his shoulders. Shems were odd sorts. The knights were still lumbering down, Jory’s too loud complaints muffled by the fog. Would a chest survive for two centuries out here? Raviathan checked around crumbled walls, prodded rubble piles with a boot, but didn’t take his exploration further than that.

Now that he was away from the others, Raviathan could reach out with his senses to get a better feel of the area. He dare not extend too much with the templar about, but the moment of quiet meditation gave him some insight to the swamp. The Fade felt strange here. To be more accurate, the Veil that separated the worlds was different. The Fade was always the Fade, a chaos of abstraction and emotion, but the barrier was thinner, brittle, like wire stretched too tight and ready to snap.

What had happened here? There was the story Daveth had shared with him. The fog was a curse that had originated from a Chasind woman who had found her sons butchered, then, in grief, plunged a blade into her heart. Such tales sounded good, but Raviathan doubted the truth of such fancies.

Some spells could be permanent, but they needed a material object to anchor the Fade energies to this realm. A similar anchor would exist in the Fade, the spell linking the two like a bridge across the Veil. Exceptionally strong symbols needed to be used, like mirrors or fire, images that would remain powerful throughout generations and cultures or the anchor used in the Fade would weaken and die out.

The fog here was more than a trick of weather. No matter the geographic conditions, a clear day would happen on occasion. The thinning of the Veil corroborated that magic was involved, but how this was accomplished, Raviathan could only guess. The story involved blood magic, which Raviathan thought was probably true. Given Daveth’s other stories of the Chasind, blood magic would be common practice here.

A whoosh of wind near Raviathan’s head was followed by a thud. Jory cried out, a sound followed by the crunch of heavy armor hitting stone followed. Raviathan leaped for cover behind a wall, his heart clogging his throat. Maker’s ass! A few inches closer and he would be dead. He hadn’t even a clue there was danger near.

“Jory! Are you injured?” Raviathan stayed low behind the scant ruins as he made his way back to where the knights had been.

“He took a tumble,” Alistair called back. “I think he’ll be okay though.”

“Daveth?” Raviathan flattened when another arrow thudded into the uneven rock above him.

“I don’t see him.”

The hilltop full of ruins a scant minute ago seemed to desert Raviathan now that he needed them. The walls were too short, too full of holes and gaps. He risked exposure running from one set to the other, arrows following his wake as he raced for shelter. Alistair and Jory stayed camped behind their wall, Jory struggling for breath.

“Not shot?” Raviathan examined the warrior as best he could with the load of heavy armor in the way.

“Not that I saw,” Alistair said. “No blood anyway.”

Raviathan met Jory’s eyes. “Had the wind knocked out of you then.”

Jory gave a nod as he continued to gulp.

“Easy, Jory. Just work on breathing.” Raviathan didn’t turn to look at Alistair when he asked, “Can you tell where they are?”

Alistair shook his head. “Unless the darkspawn are doing that hiding bit like earlier, but I don’t sense them.”

“At all?”

“No.”

Raviathan nibbled his lip. No thief could hide and fight. Their concentration would be wrecked. “Could it be a scouting party?”

“Scouting party?”

“The King’s men. Maybe they think we’re darkspawn or Chasind.”

“No,” Alistair said with a frown. “Not supposed to be any scouts out this way.”

More arrows made the three cower away from the edges.

“C-cov...” Jory coughed. “Lay-ing c-cover.” He gestured as he tried to explain. “Ad ... vance.”

“You mean they’re getting closer?” Raviathan asked as he forced his panic down. Jory nodded as he looked between the two.

If only he could see his attackers. They had the high ground, but the area was unfamiliar. The darkspawn in the ruins underground could have been a scouting party. How many were advancing? The three of them could be easily outmaneuvered in this maze of swamp and abandoned remains.

Raviathan grabbed Alistair’s helmet and held it half over the wall. A second later a metallic clang sounded as the helmet popped out of his hand.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair said, taking his helmet back. “We can’t even see them. You think they got Daveth?”

“Haven’t heard him. He’s either staying hidden, maneuvering for a better position, shot and can’t talk, or dead. Three out of four means we shouldn’t expect help from him.”

“Ooh, you’re an optimist,” Alistair said.

An unknown, uncounted enemy was approaching with open hostility, and he makes jokes? Raviathan barely stopped himself from yelling at the fool templar. I’m supposed to be in my alienage, happily married, working to build a career as a healer, busy trying to add more pointed eared babies to this world. And this son of a bastard templar is making jokes. “Can you carry Jory? We need to move back.”

“Back where? Into the ruins? I won’t be able to get him far. Not with all that heavy ... armor. Hey, can’t you do that disappearing trick thingy?” Alistair waved his hands like a child who was pretending to be a mage might cast a spell. “See how many there are?”

Thingy? “No. Can’t concentrate like this.”

Another volley of arrows had them shrinking down. Raviathan stared at an arrow stuck quivering in the stone. His vision turned distant as he tried to figure a way out of this situation. At least in the ruins they would have walls to protect them rather than these ruins to be used against them. Even if he and the idiot could get back to the ruins without getting shot, they couldn’t haul Jory there. Can’t leave Jory, but he was like a lead weight pulling Raviathan underwater. Raviathan was already floundering.

The arrow stilled, pulling Raviathan’s focus—dark green feathers for fletching, runes carved in the deep mahogany of the straight shaft. Eyes going wide, Raviathan whipped off his backpack and started rummaging through it. Alistair watched the elf flip madly through a ragged book then play a little song on a wooden pipe.

“What is that?” Alistair asked, annoyed.

Raviathan ignored him as he shifted back and forth between pages then played three more short tunes. To the knights’ astonishment, they heard the faint sound of notes returning from beyond the ruins. The elf kept his ear cocked, listening, his breath stilled.

After a moment, bird song played soft in the muffling mist. Grinning, Raviathan flipped through the pages, trilling out more notes.

“You know what’s going on?” Alistair asked.

“Quiet.” Raviathan sat on his heels, the little book propped on his backpack as he and their attackers piped at each other. Finally, Raviathan pulled the arrow out of the chipped wall and waved it, fletching high, over the wall. “I think we’re safe.”

“What happened?” Alistair glanced between Raviathan and Jory. “What did you do?”

Raviathan ignored him as he settled his equipment back into place.

“Well?”

A wildling, tall and long limbed, stepped out from the other side the ruins. The man’s hair hung in tangled ropes like thick twine down his back and gathered into a loose knot. Dark green paint under his eyes and along his jaw made him look more animal than man. Dirt streaked his face, the bright white of his eyes practically glowing like an elf’s from the contrast. Foxtails swayed with his movements. Despite the cold, the wildling’s thighs and upper arms were bare, showing off patterns made of scars and ink.

Calm, Raviathan approached cautiously with his hand out in greeting. They clasped at the wrists, the wildling giving him a nod before retreating a few steps.

“Chasind,” Alistair whispered, hunkering down next to Jory.

 
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