Vhenan Aravel
Chapter 42: Eyes of Wolves — Uncharted Territory

Copyright© 2017 by eatenbydragons

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 42: Eyes of Wolves — Uncharted Territory - 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  

Wind caressed Raviathan’s cheek as he walked through the deep forest. A breeze lifted the long strands of his hair, sweet as kisses. Silvered moonlight allowed him to pick his way along the little-used path. More than anything, the solitary walk in the dark of the wood eased away the tension that had been a constant ache in his shoulders.

Above, the leaves of ancient trees rustled, almost like whispers or laughter. Raviathan had never seen such trees in his life, not in the journey to Redcliffe or the quick crossing through the hinterlands, certainly not in the Korcari Wilds with its bogs and twisted brambles. Raviathan couldn’t name the trees, only knew a few of the most common. It gave the forest a sense of mystery, these trees that towered far overhead, taller than even the fortress of Ostagar.

Ferns brushed against his thighs. His fingers trailed against their rough texture, and he breathed in the clean scent of deep forest and lush earth.

“You don’t belong here.”

Raviathan turned to find the voice. It sounded rusty, like old hinges. An old crow regarded him, a shadow among shadows, save for its red eyes.

“You should leave.”

The wind that had been soft turned cold. Tiny barbs of ice scraped his cheeks. Raviathan hunched his shoulders, drew his cloak tighter around him. The tree limbs above him stretched as he watched. They grew, thickened, reaching out, twisting together, blotting out the night sky. The wind grew, ice cutting his exposed skin.

“Leave.”

“I can’t.” There was a mission, something he had to do. What was it?

“Leave now.”

“I can’t.” The chill buffeted him, harsh as a slap. When he braved the cutting wind to look back up at the crow, more than a dozen perched along the tree limbs, all regarding him with red eyes glowing bright in the darkness.

“We will eat their eyes.”

Eat their eyes? Whose eyes? He had to turn his face away as the ice slashed his cheeks with tiny needles. Wetness trickled down his face and neck, soaked into his shirt. Was he bleeding, or was it the snow? Needles, scratching and scraping, stinging. Wind lashed his face. Wind? Wings. Claws. Raviathan stumbled back, batting away the crow.

“Eat your eyes.”

Beaks snapped at his fingers, powerful enough to break his delicate bones.

“No!” He flailed, stumbled over the underbrush he couldn’t see. “Get away from me!”

Sharp talons ripped the skin at his face, tore at his neck. Raviathan yelled, tried to punch the birds away. He rolled to hide his face from exposure, his arms the only shield he had from the talons that scratched the back of his skull. The crows picked at his cloak, pecked bloody grooves, bit his ears, raked at any vulnerabilities he had.

Snaps and scrapes continued to torment him with no release in sight. Raviathan yelled, swung out his arms when he could, cowered to protect his face when the talons sought out his exposed skin. Still the claws came, the talons struck, and those horrid beaks kept digging further in.

Snap, snap, snap.

Raviathan panted, not quite sure when the onslaught stopped, only that he cowered in a ball. He shook in the aftermath of the attack.

Carefully, he unwound. He stung all over as if having rolled in a patch of stinging nettles. Raviathan could feel the brush of ferns and bushes, but no light permeated through the forest. He touched his face gingerly, trying to figure out the extent of the damage. Sticky blood coated his skin, crusting in the cold wind to form a tight mask. The gashes had rough edges, lacerations from ripping rather than the clean cut a blade would make.

When his fingers reached his eyelids, there was no outward roundness from his eyes. He couldn’t blink, the skin of his eyelids felt torn, pulsed with dull pain. His fingers probed, and with a sickening clutch of his gut, Raviathan felt the empty, tattered interior of his eye socket.

His skin stung where he touched open wounds, fingers shaking as the enormity of what had happened came to him. Blind. Can’t heal what’s gone. A pressure at the back of his throat warned him, and he bent over to vomit. The acid burned, a negligible pain compared to the rest. His stomach heaved in painful contractions, forcing him to empty everything he had.

Blind. He was in the woods, alone. How was he supposed to find his way out of the forest? Thorny bushes scraped against him as he rose. Stay? Hope for rescue? Who would come for him?

He took a few hesitant steps before his foot caught in a root. The tendons gave with a pop, a sound like an egg breaking, as he fell. Thorns poked at open wounds as his world spun in the fall.

Raviathan’s breath caught. He lay, paralyzed, from fear or pain or grief, he could not say. He would starve, or die of exposure, lost and vulnerable, no help and no way to save himself.

“Eat their eyes.”

“What?”

The crow sounded like he was near. “Eat their eyes. We will eat their eyes.”

Whose?

Another crow from a different direction, “Eat their eyes.”

Whose? He thought of the alienage. His father’s sad eyes, Soris’ clear blue and Shianni’s hazel gold eyes, Ness’ beautiful sapphire eyes that smiled when he played music for her. Not them. Please, not them.

The crows started to laugh. Their laughter carried away into the dark.

“Can’t protect them,” the crow laughed as he flew away.

Loose earth brushed his cheek as he crawled forward, the thorn bushes scraping along his cut scalp.

When had he ever been able to protect them? He crawled, hoping to find the path, some way back.

Something large moved ahead of him. The low growl froze Raviathan at the bone. There was no fighting, no way to run. Raviathan stilled like a frightened rabbit, immobile except for his thundering heart beat. He heard the paws land as it neared, unhurried. Hot breath touched his face, something wet dripping on him, stinging his open wounds. Above, a growl, a rumble that vibrated the air around him.

I don’t want to die. Please. I don’t want to die.


Spots of sunlight escaped through the canopy that rose far above their heads, the light filtering down in an emerald latticework. The warm sun and peaceful greenery helped shake the last of the nightmare from Raviathan’s thoughts. Seems they had all slept poorly judging by the glum expressions and terse comments over breakfast. The Dalish hahren, Sarel, named the forest Setheneran, the Land of Waking Dreams, but that hadn’t prepared any of his group for the nightmares. It had taken an hour for Raviathan to shrug off his gloom, but he had other thoughts to occupy his mind.

The Dalish! As far back as Raviathan could remember, he had dreamed of the Dalish. The stories his mother wove lived for hours afterwords when he tried to sleep. His fantasies featured finding the Dalish, of having his magic honored as a rare and treasured thing. In his dreams he would become the best warrior-leader of the tribe after single handedly saving the hahren’s beautiful daughter from a fate worse than death. As a child, he and his two cousins had once attempted to leave to find the Dalish, a misadventure that led them through the streets of Denerim only to be pounced upon by bullies. Maker’s breath, what stories he would have for his cousins now.

Next to him, their guide, Nijel, wandered along old paths, a patient smile on his worn but regal face. Raviathan had enough awareness to know his enthusiasm must be trying, but the last two days had been some of the best since he left Denerim. Nothing could prepare him for actually seeing the wild elves. Stories could tell of how they lived free, but nothing could convey their attitudes towards their history and fierce devotion to preserving the remaining treasures of elven culture.

Days after leaving the camp, the rhythms of Dalish drum songs echoed inside Raviathan as insistent as a heartbeat. Visions of tattoos engraved in vivid colors greeted him when he closed his eyes, the designs feeling like the runes of old magic embedded in elven skin. He wondered if he could ask for a tattoo, then of which of the ancient gods he would honor with the rite, but in the end he left that ritual to the Dalish. He wasn’t one of them and had little right to adopt what they held sacred. One day, maybe, he would weave feathers into his braids, or wear the leather clothing they did, decorated with beautiful wooden beads polished to shine with their own deep warmth.

His mother’s stories also hadn’t prepared him for the tribes suspicions or for the ‘flat ear’ comments. Possibly the biggest schism was that the Dalish didn’t consider him much of an elf, an attitude that continued to worry at Raviathan. True, he wasn’t Dalish and wasn’t going to take from a culture he didn’t belong to, but an elf was an elf, didn’t matter where they were born. He had the same feeling towards parents who pulled their children’s ears to make sure they were long enough, the poor crying babes. Instead of being guardians of knowledge for those willing to journey to learn, many of the Dalish held their history with arrogance, like gate keepers to mark ‘true’ elves, an attitude that surprised Raviathan but did little to cool his enthusiasm. He could understand that attitude towards the shems, but why hold an elf’s birth against him or her?

“Here. The trail leaves to the north.”

Raviathan nodded though he couldn’t quite make out the deer tracks Nijel had been showing him.

The elder elf laughed. “It takes quite a bit of practice, even in ideal conditions, and this soft earth doesn’t hold prints well.”

Thankful for the other elf’s understanding, Raviathan smiled. “I’m grateful Zathrian allowed you to be our guide.”

“I’m glad to still be of use! I can’t hunt like I once did, but it heartens me to see our skills passed down to new generations.”

From what Raviathan could glean through whispers and suspicions, Nijel wasn’t supposed to do more than make sure their party didn’t get lost with the secondary mission to find some trail of the missing hunting party. The education Nijel imparted wasn’t authorized, and as Raviathan wouldn’t be able to join the clan, prohibited to outsiders. “Have you trained many hunters?”

“Oh yes. My sons and daughter, nieces and nephews, my eldest grandchild, and even two flat ears such as yourself. I must say, for someone city born, you have remarkable skill with the halla. Many in the clan are thankful for what you did to help aid Elora in caring for them.”

“It was nothing.” Raviathan was not about to spill his secret magical ability even to the mage-sympathetic Dalish.

“Nothing? Our halla keeper is most skilled, and even she couldn’t solve that mystery.”

“Though there are no halla, we do have many animals in the cities. A calm hand is all. Do you get many city elves?”

“On rare occasions. There’s Lanaya, who you’ve met, our Keeper’s second. Most are like you, eager, willing to learn, and full of some of the strangest stories that have been traded around for generations beyond counting. The stories one told about Dragon’s Peak seem fantastic.”

“Never wanted to visit a shem city?”

“I’ve thought of it. Just for the experience perhaps. I’ve been to Lothering and a few of the holdings on occasion. What I see reminds me why I stay away.”

Raviathan laughed at that though the subject was a bitter one. “Can’t say I’d recommend them, especially considering the travel to get there.”

“You have traveled far then?”

“From Denerim to Redcliffe to Ostagar, Lothering, and here.”

“Ethn ghi’las mar aravel.”

“What does that mean?”

“Safety guide your long journey.” Nijel proceeded to translate each word along with the delineations.

“Aravel? I thought those were the landships you use.”

“It’s the name we’ve give them, but the word means ‘long journey’, like the way march once only referred to a mark of land, then as the journey between marks, but can also refer to the movement of an army, a march. We don’t have much of the old language left, just bits now, but it’s a word from before we needed landships, from before the time of the shemlen.”

Raviathan fell silent as Nijel continued on about Arlathan, the once great city of the elves, and the old gods the Dalish followed, a lecture spotted by observations of the forest. Raviathan’s chest ached at the monumental loss of history, his history, his cousins’, father’s, all the faces in the alienage he remembered, strangers at Ostagar bound by elven blood, the elven family in Lothering. We weren’t meant for the lives we lead now.


The low fire popped as Raviathan poked a log into a better position. Once he had heated the moisture out of the wood, the fire no longer struggled to keep alight. Fire came to him as easy as breathing.

A low moan sounded from Leliana’s tent. She had been thrashing in her sleep since Raviathan took his watch, the last of the group to do so. He glanced over at the tent as if he could discern her dreams.

His own dreams had been troubled of late. Shadows moving through the forest, hunting him. In these quiet moments he had time to reflect. Maker, his temper was starting to scare him. He raged after his mother died, felt that hot rage turn cold when Solyn died two years later. He knew injustice, knew anger, but he had never lashed out at other people like this.

Of course he knew why. Ever since his Joining, he felt hunted. Everything that happened afterwords just made his situation worse and worse with no relief in sight. He now had a bard who lied about her profession, a giant of a man who wore his disgust for Raviathan like a coat of armor, and a templar of all things. The Maker had a twisted sense of humor. That was the only sure thing he felt anymore.

Twenty years left of his life. If he lived. Death stalked the alienage like a starved cat. No one who grew up there thought of death as a stranger. Not a stranger, but Raviathan never felt the limit of his life before. Twenty years. Half his life was already gone. To think in those terms, it staggered him. Even if he could have children tomorrow, they would barely be of marriageable age by the time his death came.

He would never reach the age his father was now.

He would never have children.

Try as he might to make peace with that knowledge, both of his short life and dreams dashed, he couldn’t get over the sting. And that didn’t even account for the terror that loomed over him, shadowed his every waking thought, haunted his dreams.

Too much. Too big, too powerful, too annihilating evil.

How does one person fight a god?

Anger was the only thing that kept Raviathan from collapsing into tears, too paralyzed to go on. At times he could justify those moments when he had lashed out, and other times he kept going over what he had done or said and felt like an absolute shit.

Every single blight had destroyed nations. Not one country escaped the barren lands left from darkspawn invasions. Not one was left untouched by starvation, massive deaths from battles and attacks. Whole villages, cities even, gone. Nothing left but ruins and ghosts. Ferelden’s fate would be no different. This country, the only home he had known, would be crushed.

It was his responsibility to fight the blight, and he already knew he would fail. How did anyone keep their sanity when faced with that?

A violent kick from Leliana’s tent pulled Raviathan out of his thoughts. A few minutes later she emerged with her bedroll draped around her shoulders.

 
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