Vhenan Aravel
Chapter 43: Eyes of Wolves - Chaos

Copyright© 2017 by eatenbydragons

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 43: Eyes of Wolves - Chaos - 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  

Tea, fields of bright green tea plants touched with golden sun spread down the hillside, all as high as Sten’s chest. Why this familiar scent brought a pain of remembering, Sten couldn’t say, only that his heart ached to be here again.

“You have learned much from the traders.”

“A bit.”

The tamassran nodded at Sten’s response. “You are not ashamed to show your ignorance, especially to outsiders?”

Many had commented on his willingness to be imperfect. To speak a half-learned language was a show of weakness, one that few others attempted, aside from children who did not know better. Anything less than mastery was shameful. Why he did not feel as the others was a deviation to be watched. His instinct to learn, even fumble, had been scrutinized by his tamassran, his tama, from an early age. “No, Tama.”

Perhaps if he had been born with horns, the tamassrans would have been stricter.

The children’s name for her brought a smile to the matriarch. “You have been doing well under the Antaam?”

She already knew the answer. How he answered would be important. Not arrogant, not too humble. What truly concerned others outside the Antaam had been Sten’s questioning of the Arishok’s decisions. The Arishok knew to trust Sten’s loyalty, that he spoke out of duty and desire to see the Antaam at their best. The others did not understand this.

“The mountains, the sky, the sea, they are eternal, changing but never changing. To move against them is foolish. To be one with them is wisdom.”

She gave no outward sign of her opinion of his answer. “Come. We have lingered long enough. It is good that you have returned.”

Returned in body and to the body of the Qun, she meant.

They walked back up the steep path that lead to the small farming center in Seheron. Clear water traveled down the miniature waterfalls made by a wide aqueduct to their right, a sign of peace, ingenuity, and prosperity, the pride of all that the Qun offered. Farmers carried bushels of clipped tea plants, the tiny tender new leaves that would make the prized white tea for the priests.

Why did it hurt to be here? He missed the light clothing that left his chest bare so that he could feel the steady heat of the sun on his skin. The heat and humidity warmed his muscles while occasional salt-touched breezes off the sea cooled his brow. The vastness of the verdant jungle, fragrant with black, fecund earth, stretched the length of his homeland. He missed this place, comforting in its familiarity and rules. He had been so cold in a land that smelled of dogs and damp. Why wasn’t he happy?

One of the farmers dropped her load, staring at Sten with an expression of loathing he had never encountered from another Qunari.

“Tama, what is wrong with her?”

“Do not call me Tama.”

Surprised by her tone, Sten glanced at his former teacher.

“You should be killed, but the Ben-Hassrath will reeducate you instead.”

Reeducate? The sting of his tama’s words warred with his fear of the Ben-Hassrath. A rage, a desire to hit, boiled in him. The rage struck like an earthquake, sudden and overwhelming, shaking his foundations until they cracked. Break Tama, snap her spine, blood and screams.

No! There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun. Do not fear the Ben-Hassrath for they do the duty of the Qun.

“Wise Tamassran, my life for the Qun. What have I done wrong?”

“I will not speak to a corrupted. You are for the Ben-Hassrath.”

Sten fell silent, confused but dutiful. Flashes of blood, rage, but he did not act.

As they walked through the village, the farmers kept backing away when they saw him. He was corrupted? How?

A ... a mage. Back in his vaguest recollections, like the memory of a memory, there had been ... who? A pale face. A woman. A mage? Corrupted.

They passed through the gates of the outer fortress wall. People grew quiet as he neared. Their faces became blank, hateful, or horrified as they turned to him. Crap! Why couldn’t he remember? Small and fragile he would rip them apart. Do not act on this rage. The Qun. The Qun is order.

Something ... wrong. He kept trying to figure out what bothered him so, but the answer remained elusive, on the tip of his mind but dancing maddeningly out of his reach like a half-remembered dream.

Did his instincts tell him something was wrong? Should he run? The idea was anathema, on par with disobedience to the Qun. How could he disobey the Tamassrans? But ... something itched, kept scratching at his awareness. Perhaps he did need reeducation. Better to have this feeling stop and resubmit to the Qun, to the peace that the Qun offered.

At the domed building that housed the Ben-Hassrath, his Tamassran bowed a greeting to the guard and left. Sten did not want to acknowledge how her dismissal stung. Not a word, not even a look at him. He did not expect warmth from many, but that was his Tama.

Inside the domed structure, the warmth of the jungle cut off abruptly, as if stepping not into a building but another place, one that did not share the same close sun as Seheron. Narrow windows shed diffused light on the stone floor. A worker, a dwarf given qamek if his vacant gaze was any measure, polished the floor with mechanical thoroughness.

Sten followed the guard in silence. If he was corrupted, he needed to limit his interactions as much as possible. But his Tama said he should be executed. Why? Execution was a last resort after all else failed. A life was too precious a resource to waste, hence the use of qamek for those whose reeducation failed.

Sten did not protest when he entered the room with one chair. He sat, obediently, and waited while the restraints were fastened around his wrists, arms, thighs, calves, chest, and neck. The restraints pressed into his skin, tight, puffing out his flesh on either side of the thick leather. A drain lay in the middle of the room.

Rage flowed through him like grass fire. Familiar, it burned through his body, clearing away his thoughts. His Tama had taught them how to deal with their rages. Rage was natural, inevitable, but they had minds, thinking minds that elevated them above beasts. She had shown them pictures of dragons, beasts so perfect and beautiful the children gasped to see their image for the first time. Dragons are the soul sisters of the qunari: powerful, raw, unrestrained, and savage. The Qun raised the people to be above unthinking beasts. “The dragons may fly,” his Tama said, “but your minds are free.”

Rage is slavery. The Qun is freedom.

Sten could not move his head in the restraints, so he closed his eyes and focused on the words of the Qun, repeated litany after litany until the rage was his to control.

“We have the dragon inside us. You shall tame your dragon,” his Tama had said.

The rage is not an enemy. Rage is like the kabethari, people born in ignorance who await enlightenment. “Master yourselves, and you master the world.”

Time passed uncounted as Sten continued his litany of the Qun. He heard another enter the room, but he did not open his eyes or stop his repetition of the Qun.

“Soulless, those words are not for you.”

The words died on Sten’s lips. Soulless? That ... no, that can’t be.

“You will not speak the Qun anymore. Tal-Vashoth.”

“Viddasala, I have not renounced the Qun.” Sten did not panic easily, but this felt like his heart was being carved out of his chest.

“You traveled with a witch who walked unbound. Who knows what dark sorcery she whispered to you.”

The memory of a thin, fragile-looking woman with black hair and ghost pale face pale flashed before his mind. Her magic was dangerous, but the woman he could break with his own hands. She hadn’t scared him, repulsed him with her arts and wild manner, but he knew the viper for what she was. Had her poison infected him? Even so, that would not make him Tal-Vashoth.

“Viddasala, I submit.” He did so gladly. “I would serve the Qun.” He did not add please though the word floated at the tip of his tongue.

The Viddasala crouched before Sten though Sten did not lift his eyes to see him. “Your Tamassran wishes you to be reeducated, for she loves all the children under her care, but there is nothing to reeducate. You are Soulless.”

Sten finally looked at the Viddasala. To his surprise, the Viddasala had a kind face. His gold eyes had wrinkles at the corners from smiling. The man’s horns were not large, but they curved elegantly up at the tips. Whatever Sten expected, it was not the gentle face of this man.

At the Viddasala’s gesture, though no people or windows were in the room, the single door opened. In walked humans, all blood-covered. Their simple clothing showed the dirt and sweat stains common to farmers. Adults and children walked in single file to stand before Sten. Some had broken bones, pieces of their bodies torn off, missing jaws, open wounds in their skulls where their brains lay visible.

“You are Soulless, man who once held the rank of Sten. You have disgraced yourself and all Qunari to the kabethari. You have let your rage be uncontrolled. Have traveled willingly with a witch.”

The farmers stood before him with accusing, dead eyes.

Something wrong.

The body of a boy walked forward, the boy Soulless had held when his mind came back to him on the shores of a foreign lake. The Viddasala unbound the arm of Soulless, and the boy placed a short, sharp knife in his hand.

“Soulless, end yourself. You have no place here.”

Soulless stared at the knife. They wanted him to end his own life. Suicide was the ultimate rejection of the Qun, an act that would irrevocably sunder his soul and his place in the Qun.

Hand shaking, he slid the blade along his wrist deep enough to feel the scrape along bone. The cut did not hurt. Blood spilled, steaming in the cold room. It flowed like a waterfall. The Viddasala left so as not to be touched by the impurity of a Soulless. The humans stayed, standing in a circle around him, watched impassively as his blood continued to flow.

The boy took the knife and slashed Soulless’ other wrist.

“Thank you,” Soulless said.

The boy crawled up in his lap and rested his head on Soulless. Soulless put his one free arm on the child’s shoulder.

The blood continued to flow, too fast for the drain to carry it all away. Slowly, the blood filled the room, covering the floor, inching up the sides. Soulless felt the blood, his blood, rise above his ankles, up his calves.

He tried to think of the Qun, but the words wouldn’t come to him anymore. Instead he studied the faces of the farmers he had killed. Careworn from labor, weather, and lives of struggle, they had faces darkened by sun and made old before their time. Even the children looked aged and so very sad.

The blood rose up his thighs and to his waist. In his rage, he tied his fate to these people. All would die without the wisdom of the Qun. Wasted lives.

“Your soul,” the boy said. He sat up and looked Soulless in the eyes. The bones of his neck stuck out in bumps against his skin.

“Yes?”

“It’s not dead.”

“I didn’t think so, but it’s not with me.”

“Asala is not cared for. It rusts.”

Soulless bowed his head, the restraints no longer there.

“It does the work of thieves and honorless men,” the boy continued.

His missing, abused soul ached like a lost limb.

“You should not have lost it.”

Soulless felt his sorrow for his missing soul, as if he was made of nothing but grief. “I know.”

“You will die like us.” The boy spoke truths touched by pity Soulless did not deserve.

“Yes,” Soulless said, and let the boy to lie against his chest.

The blood lapped up his neck, up his mouth, covered his nose, flowed over his eyes.

Soulless woke with a start. A tired, pale face regarded him from his tent entrance.

“Your turn for watch,” the witch said.

Soulle—Sten. I am Sten. For a moment, he had forgotten. Sten.

He grunted acknowledgment, and the witch trudged off to her area of the camp. Sten watched her, not knowing what to feel for a moment.

He sat up, donned the ridiculous scraps of armor that had been foraged for his use. Not much in this human-dominated place fit him. Sten stared at the two-handed sword he wielded. The weak rain that had pattered against his tent most of the night started to pour in a thin, cold sleet.

Qunari did not dream as the others, this he knew from the way they talked of dreams, yet the profound unnaturalness of this place had pulled him deep into the sleep visions. There was no wisdom to be found in dreams, however, he could not deny the portents he had witnessed. First to become Soulless, and then to lose himself in rage. Sten stared at the sword, and knew his fate was sealed.

Finally, he strapped on the unfamiliar sword and started his patrol around the camp. He wasn’t sure if he preferred the ministrations of the Viddasala or to still be here, stuck in an ugly country protecting weak and unworthy people on a hopeless quest.


“Nijel!” Raviathan shouted.

“Don’t tell me you’re finished with practice already.” When Nijel saw the Dalish hunter, propped up and sipping from Raviathan’s waterskin, he ran the rest of the way up the rise. “Deygan!”

“He isn’t critically wounded,” Raviathan said. “Exposure, claw wounds, and a concussion. From what I can tell, he’s been crawling with a sprained ankle.”

Bandages covered Deygan’s legs and stomach. Leliana and Alistair followed their Dalish guide to see what the commotion was about.

“No bite marks or heat to indicate infection,” Raviathan continued. “I have an elfroot poultice on his wounds, which should stop or slow down most common infections.”

Nijel clasped Raviathan’s shoulder in thanks. “What happened, Deygan?”

“Attacked,” he rasped. “Didn’t find Witherfang. Have you seen ... the others?”

“No sign of them,” Nijel said.

“Which direction did you come from?” Raviathan asked.

Exhausted, Deygan worked to swallow the bit of bread Raviathan had given him. “East. Near Halla’s Run.”

“A waterfall,” Nijel said at Raviathan’s unspoken question. “About a mile and a half east by southeast.”

“Leliana, would you ask Morrigan to scout the area?”

She nodded and scampered back down the rise where the others continued eating their lunch. Raviathan sat back on his heels. “We need to get him back to the camp.”

That would delay them a fortnight at least. Unfortunate, but necessary.

“If you can help us to Angella’s Reach, a signal arrow would be enough to alert a patrol,” Nijel said. “From there, I can stay with him and see him safely back, if need be.”

Though it was the most expedient solution, Raviathan hated to give up their guide. Out of all of them, only Morrigan had experience in the wild, but as she often said, the Korcari Wilds were a far cry from the Brecillian Forest. Raviathan bit his lip but nodded ascent. “Well, if you can get a patrol, let them know where we found the ironbark. With the halla, they can probably drag it back to camp. Alistair? You and Sten will probably need to take turns carrying him. Let’s get started.”

~o~O~o~ With Nijel gone, the forest seemed a much more eerie place. The nightmares they had all been experiencing didn’t help with the paranoid feeling that they were being hunted. What had been a fascinating journey turned quickly into lost and foreboding.

A little more than a week’s worth of instruction improved Raviathan from completely incompetent to mostly incompetent. Raviathan couldn’t see the tracks that had been as clear as a road to Nijel. It all looked like dirt and forest to Raviathan. He could make a shelter that would stand a clear night, knew how to store food so a bear wouldn’t be tempted to forage through their campsite, and had some tips for water safety. Raviathan couldn’t identify most of the animals except for the most common, couldn’t see signs of danger, or identify the weather patterns any better than when he had lived in the city.

The maps Nijel had left remained a mystery to Raviathan. He sat away from the others at night trying to puzzle out how to read them. Some of the place names were in The King’s Tongue, but other places had Dalish names. Though beautiful, they mystified Raviathan with their odd marks. Then there was the geography. Was the black line a river or a mountain ridge? How could you tell where you stood? Or which direction to go? Or how to hold the damn thing? Whether he held the leather with the star at the top or bottom didn’t seem to make a difference. He would have asked Nijel to explain it, but their guide had been preoccupied with the injured scout. Morrigan had no more luck given that maps were unnecessary to her travels around the Wilds.

The few useful skills Raviathan had, he used in abundance. Not only had Raviathan’s fire making skills impressed Nijel, many of the herbs in the forest were familiar ones. Rarely had his healer’s kit been so well stocked. When he gave up trying to make heads or tails of the maps, he set to work preparing the herbs he had gathered throughout the day.

Raviathan pressed a sprig of Andraste’s Grace into his journal. He remember with fondness picking the flowers and adding them to Nesiara’s braids. That night she placed the little flowers in their pillow case so the sweet fragrance would touch their dreams. Would she be in Dragon’s Peak with the other match her parents had been considering or would she be back with them in Highever? Was she happy?

He put the book away with a small sigh. Maker light her path.

With Venger trotting at his side, Raviathan hurried to catch up to the others. He laid his fingers on top of the dog’s head in silent thanks for the animal’s company. Out of all of his companions, the only one Raviathan felt friendship with was the dog. Morrigan ... he wasn’t sure he would call her friend yet, but of his companions who could speak, she was the closest.

His fingers felt Venger’s growl first, the vibrations alerting him to danger. Raviathan looked about for trouble, his wariness alerting the rest. He took stock of the land about them, of escape routes or defensible positions. A steep rise to their left meant they couldn’t be attacked by that position, but little else favored them.

“What is it?” Leliana asked.

“Venger senses something.”

The dog’s back fur stood on end, his growl becoming louder.

Sten saw them first. Red eyes glared out from the thick vegetation. Raviathan’s blades were in his hands without him consciously thinking to do so. The rest followed his lead, their backs against the rise. Raviathan counted one, two, three pairs of eyes, but then they would shift to different positions, sometimes appearing as twice that number, before disappearing again.

“Zathrian sent you.” That voice, deep and snarled, sounded more like Venger’s growls than a human. “We will do to you as we have done with the others who came to hunt us.”

The hair on Raviathan’s arms stood on end. “You’ve attacked the Dalish,” Raviathan called back.

These must be the werewolves, but Raviathan hadn’t expected them to talk. From what Zathrian said, they were mindless beasts. Raviathan didn’t think talking would get them out of a fight, but maybe something could be gleaned of the mysterious Witherfang. “Should they not protect themselves?”

One approached. His strange form caused the air to catch in Raviathan’s throat. Raviathan had a surreal moment as he watched the long, lean figure coated in brown fur. All his life had been spent in an alienage. The strangest creatures to be found lay caged in the Market District. Of those, jungle cats or odd birds were the most exotic, perhaps the occasional dancing bear.

Hearing tales of darkspawn or werewolves did not prepare person to see one in real life. Nothing, no story, could ever brace Raviathan for his first encounter with a darkspawn, and the same held true for this creature. No story conveyed the size of them, almost as large as a horse with thick muscles on an otherwise near emaciated frame. Raviathan never heard about the cunning in a bestial face, how odd that intelligence appeared in a wolf’s features. The earthy scent, the long talons, the teeth, all features Raviathan had only encountered in bears, but bears didn’t move with that grace. The werewolf was horrifying, but also majestic in his power.

“They? You are not one of the Dalish...”

“How could you tell,” Alistair muttered. Leliana nudged him with her elbow.

“No, we aren’t,” Raviathan said.

The werewolf pondered him, his nose in the air, scenting. The aggressive ruff of his neck matched Venger’s own posture. “I am Swiftrunner, leader of my pack. The Dalish sent you then. We have watched your path since you entered our territory.”

Maker, that was chilling. They had felt eyes on them, some strange intuition that they were not alone, but none had seen any scouts. They could have been attacked any time and never seen it coming. “Zathrian wishes to end the curse.”

 
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