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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight	By : Serena_Hawke-Theirin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 13108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Garrett was unsure how he even got near the docks that evening. The moment he was clear of the secret passage that led into the castle, he removed the silver flask from his belt and downed its entire contents in a few, short gulps. Covered in blackened blood and smelling of fresh smoke and rancid meat, the pirate captain began to make his way back to his ship.

Along the path, he passed the northern market district and spied a spirits shop out of the corner of his eye. After ensuring no city guards were lurking about, he removed the lockpick set from his belt and slid it into the keyhole.

One, two…three.

The tumblers gave way, and after another quick glance around, he slipped inside the door. In less than five minutes, the pirate was in and back out on the street with a bottle of Rivaini rum in each hand.

Should have invested in better locks, mate, he observed before taking a healthy swig from the container in his right hand and walking away.

By the time he reached the businesses that lined the harbor, Garrett had already finished and tossed one bottle and was halfway through his second. Between the alcohol and his sorrow and rage, he was finding it more and more difficult to see where he was going, let alone walk. In those wee hours of the morning, he had enough of his wits left about him to realize he needed to find a place to stay for the evening. It would certainly do no good for any of his crew to witness their captain in such a vulnerable and pitiable state.

As he staggered down the street toward the pier, Garrett felt a familiar rumbling in his gut as it began to spasm. With only a second’s warning, he braced the wooden slat of a wall to his right and began to spew the rum he had consumed onto the cobblestone around his boots. When the waves of vomit eventually subsided, he uncorked his remaining bottle and replaced some of the alcohol he just lost.

The drunken pirate peered up at the sign a few feet from his head and managed to make out the words, The Lucky Seagull Inn. He felt along the wall until he located the handle of the door that would lead him inside. After jerking on the lever a few times and finding resistance, Garrett began to pound on the heavy wooden surface until he heard the latch being opened.

As he waited, the captain propped the bulk of his weight on the jamb with his hands and rested his forehead on the wooden slab. When the door finally opened, Garrett almost toppled over onto a portly little man with a shiny bald head and a murderous glare.

“What in the bloody void do you want at this Maker-forsaken hour?” the man hollered. “Do you have any bloody idea what time it is?”

Garrett presented him with a besotted smirk. “I find myself in need of a room for the night, mate.”

The innkeeper grimaced. “Go to the Hollow Horse, they’re open all night and they specialize in catering to vagrants like you,” he growled as he went to slam the door shut.

Before the wood hit the jamb, Garrett interrupted its progress with his foot and slammed his left fist, still wrapped around the neck of a rum bottle, into the center of the slab. He shoved at it, knocking the proprietor back a step. The smaller man trembled under the weight of the pirate’s glare and the sight of the fingers of his free hand reaching into his black leather duster to grip the ebony hilt of the cutlass at his left hip

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, mate,” Garrett slurred. “I have had a really bad night. The only things I require are a hot bath, a bed, three bottles of rum sent to my room, and guarantee of your silence. You will be paid well for the trouble, I assure you. Or,” He cleared the curved sword from its scabbard allowing the small man to get a glimpse of the steel. “We can do this the hard way. Your choice, mate.”

The innkeeper retreated further into the room, pulling the door with him and Garrett stumbled in. The pirate straightened his shoulders as he teetered back and forth between the balls and heels of his feet. He took a deep breath, blinked his eyes against the light several times, and smacked his lips. His face screwed up in a sour expression. The mixture of vomit and rum tasted like someone shite in his mouth.

While the little man scurried off to retrieve the key to the captain’s room and arrange for his wife to draw a bath, Garrett fished a few coins from the pouch at his belt. His hazy vision made it hard to tell which were gold and which were copper. Squinting his eyes, he held the coins up to the light to discern the difference in color. He chose three coins he was sure were sovereigns, at least he hoped were sovereigns, and laid them out on the bar.

When the proprietor returned, he handed Garrett the key and relinquished a satisfied nod upon seeing the coin the pirate left for him. “Room’s upstairs,” he said. “Third door on the right. I’ll send the bottles up in few minutes.”

The pirate swayed a bit then finished the bottle in his hand before hurling it at the wall behind him. “I’ll take one of those now, mate.”

“O…of course,” the man stammered nervously. “Right away, ser.”

The innkeeper scampered around the bar and retrieved his best bottle of Rivaini rum. When he returned to the pirate’s side, Garrett snatched it from his hand, popped the cork with his thumb and took a swig. He gave the man a wink and clicked his teeth.

“Thanks, mate,” he said before lumbering for the door headed upstairs.

Once in his room, Garrett stripped off his stench-ridden clothes, and flopped face first onto the bed, his hand still clutching the bottle. Sometime later, there was a knock at the door. He wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there, since he was fairly certain he blacked out for a while, but the entire bottle of rum had spilled onto the floor.

Damn.

“Come in,” he croaked as he rolled over onto his back and slid his hand down his face.

A large woman dressed in a brown bathrobe with silver hair in long pigtails hanging down her shoulders entered the room and let out a startled cry. Garrett propped himself up on his forearms and arched his right brow.

“Don’t drop the bottles, love,” he told her. “I’ve already ruined one. No need for its brothers to join it.”

The innkeeper’s wife’s face glowed bright red as her eyes moved from the wall to the captain’s ample endowments and back to the wall again. “I…I apologize, my lord,” she stammered before scurrying to the small table in the corner and setting the containers down on its surface. “Your bath is ready. Last room on the left.”

“Thank you, love,” Garrett smirked and presented her with a saucy wink as she turned and caught sight of him again.

She gasped and her skin turned a darker shade of crimson before bestowing a quick curtsy and scrambling for the door. The pirate dropped back onto the lumpy mattress and chuckled to himself. Some people were simply too prudish for their own good. He closed his lids only to be assailed by the image of Eleanor’s dead eyes staring up at him. His head was starting to clear and the memories of his family’s tragic demise were beginning to return in a rush.

That will never do.

With a great deal of effort, Garrett rolled off the bed and grabbed one of the bottles on the table. He gulped down nearly half its contents, seized the second container and one of his daggers then made his way to the bathing room. He didn’t care who might emerge from their room and find him wandering naked down the hall. He didn’t care about anything. For the rest of that night, at least, he just wanted to be numb, to feel nothing.

Gabrielle awoke suddenly in a cold sweat, her long, ivory, linen shirt sticking to her body. Ever since some of the local soldiers began returning from Ostagar, she had been having dreams about the darkspawn attacking her small village. Every night, the dreams seemed more real and more ominous than the night before.

It’s just a nightmare, Gabrielle. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist over.

She lay there for a few minutes, allowing her aquamarine eyes time to adjust to the morning light streaming through the nearby window. As usual, she was exhausted and loathing the idea of getting out of bed. She turned her head to glance at the small clock sitting on the nightstand and rolled her eyes.

Time to go to work.

It seemed that was all Gabrielle ever did. At least when Raeanne was still around, she was afforded an occasional hiatus from the monotony that was her life. It had only been a few days since Raeanne and Emma left for Highever, but the apostate already missed them terribly.

Gabrielle moved slowly across the room to get ready for her day. She knew Danal wouldn’t fire her for being late. He would grouse about it, of course, and the later she was for work the longer he went on, but it wasn’t as if she listened to him anyway.

She slipped the tavern wench’s dress that was her uniform over her head and pulled the hem down over a pair of thick wool leggings with holes throughout their length. She didn’t care. It wasn’t as if anyone would see them anyway, and she refused to wear that ridiculous thing without pants of some sort underneath. She tied her thick, dark brown curls into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck then splashed cold water from the basin onto her face. She took a quick glance in the mirror, and glowered at her reflection.

Oh, who gives a shit? It isn’t as if you’d turn any heads anyway.

The apostate took her time walking to Dane’s Refuge. She wasn’t in any hurry to be accosted by drunks and griped at by diners pissing and moaning about their soup being cold. Perhaps, if she were lucky, Danal would be so upset by her tardiness that he would send her to the kitchen to scrub pots for the day. When she arrived at the inn, Danal was waiting outside for her with crossed arms and a disapproving scowl.

“Late again, I see,” he grumped. “I should dock your pay for this. Or maybe I should find another girl who would actually be on time for work.”

Gabrielle rolled her eyes. “Good luck getting anyone to work for you with the wages you pay me.”

“The only reason you don’t make as much as the other girls is your bad attitude, Gabby.”

She glowered at him. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Well, maybe if you did your job properly I might be more inclined to heed your wishes about your name.”

“So I take it I’m to be reduced to scrubbing pots in the kitchen for my transgressions?” she questioned, hoping he was angry enough to answer with a yes.

The older man shook his head. “Not today. The place is already full to bursting and we’ve just opened for breakfast. I need all the serving girls I can get. It seems there’s no end to the refugees showing up in Lothering these days.”

She gave a nonchalant shrug. “Well, at least I might be able to earn some tips today.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. I mean, just look at you. Wrinkled dress, hair tied back like some boy and no make-up. I’ll wager you just rolled out of bed not more than twenty minutes ago. Maybe if you took a little pride in your appearance every once in a while you’d earn more coin.”

“Yes, mother,” she scoffed. “Why don’t you just let me get to work and I’ll worry about my appearance.”

Gabrielle skirted past her employer and through the back door of the inn before he had the chance to reprimand her further. She didn’t care to hear any more about how much prettier the other waitresses were than herself. She had more important things to worry about. At the young age of twenty-three, she was the sole provider for her family, working two to three jobs just to pay the landlord and keep enough bread on the table to feed four people. Ever since Arl Bryland enacted the law about poaching on his lands, she couldn’t even hunt for meat to keep them all fed. To make matters worse, with everyone terrified of an impending Blight, the cost of everything had increased to astronomical proportions.

Danal hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the inn was full. Not only were all the rooms upstairs occupied, but there wasn’t an empty seat to be found in the tavern area. There were even people standing along the wall near the door with mugs in hand. Gabrielle got to work right away serving drinks and food to those who had the coin to pay for it.

As she filled another mug with ale from the tap, the apostate stared at the faces of the patrons in the room. The same old tired faces with the same grim expressions. Even among the refugees, the people she had never seen before in her life, it was always more of the same. No one interesting ever came to Lothering. It was the most boring village in all of Thedas. She was sure even the darkspawn would find it too dull to invade, but it was home, and that’s all that really mattered.

So many years of her life, Gabrielle spent wishing, hoping to be something more, but she had responsibilities. Even before Malcolm’s passing, she was always the one put in charge of the household when her father was away, but after he died, she knew those dreams couldn’t come true. Her mother, Bethany, and even Carver were her life and it was foolish to think about chasing fantasies that would never come to fruition. Every dream she had died the day Malcolm did.

An old man who had one drink too many attempted to grab Gabrielle’s bottom as she walked past to serve the ale she just poured, but he only managed to catch the pleats of her skirt. He let go then turned to his companion who was sitting next to him. “So desperate for help they put a boy in a skirt” he complained. “Shameful.”

The apostate’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment as the customer’s friend let out a raucous laugh. “Didn’t know ya got into that sorta thing, Dolan,” he guffawed.

It hurt Gabrielle’s feelings, of course, but it wasn’t anything she wasn’t accustomed to already. Even if she were free to pursue a relationship, and even if she wasn’t an apostate, no man would find interest in her. She sighed.

No knight in shining armor for you, Gabrielle.

As they crossed the drawbridge into Lothering, Alistair stopped close to the end, leaned on the rail and studied the landscape. Beyond the wooden ramp ahead and to the right, tents of varying sizes and colors as well as makeshift lean-tos were set up all along the river’s edge. It appeared to be a refugee camp for those from the smaller southern villages attempting to escape the horde. Ferelden’s people, his people, were suffering.

Stop thinking like that, jackass. You aren’t a king. Just a Grey Warden.

He sighed before turning his attention to the two women who were standing over the body of a templar, debating over whether they should check the contents of the dead man’s pockets. Just as he returned his attention to the landscape, he felt something nudge his right arm. He turned and smiled at the hound trying to garner his attention then began scratching it behind the ears.

Harley still looked like he was only a few steps from death with large gashes riddling his body, but at least his fur was no longer matted and he seemed in better spirits. Between the honey flower boiled into his water and the poultice of elfroot, feverfew, and lemongrass Alistair applied to his skin, Harley was well on the road to a full recovery.

“Hey, boy,” he greeted.

The dog leaned his head into his master’s hand and panted. It had been a very long time since Alistair had taken care of a mabari. Although he never had one of his own, Master Dennet sometimes allowed him to care for his hound, Jodee. In a way, that dog was the only true friend the stable boy ever had. Unfortunately, when the old stablemaster, Kenton, contracted the taint from his horse and died, Jodee wasn’t too far behind. Alistair loved that hound, and, after mourning its passing for a good long while, he swore he would never allow himself to feel as close to an animal again.

Harley flipped over onto his back and kicked his hind legs to let his master know he wanted his belly scratched. The warrior crouched down and complied with the mabari’s request. Even after the vow he made when he was ten, he had to admit that the hound was beginning to grow on him. In a lot of ways, Harley reminded him of Jodee.

Alistair always wondered if Master Dennet didn’t allow the boy to care for Jodee to make up for some of the abuses the child suffered under the hands of Kenton. Where Kenton was cruel and unreasonable, Dennet was gruff but kind and even taught Alistair to ride a horse when he was seven. It may have been callous of the boy not to grieve the death of the man who practically raised him his entire life, but he was much happier when Dennet took over as stablemaster upon Kenton’s demise.

While petting Harley brought back some bittersweet memories, it did give Alistair an idea. He wasn’t sure if Eamon would even agree to it, but the arl hadn’t yet sent any of his troops to Ostagar before that final, tragic battle. Perhaps he would be willing to lend Redcliffe’s army to aid the Wardens in their fight against the darkspawn. If he did, it would certainly afford them a better chance of success.

“If you are quite finished playing with that disgusting mutt, we still have work to do,” Morrigan chided from Alistair’s left side.

Harley rolled over and growled at the witch as the warrior stood at his full height. Alistair was fed up with Morrigan’s constant snide comments and the ways she was forever berating him. There were a lot of similarities between the witch and Solona, but there was another side to Solona. She was frequently funny and possessed her own brand of kindness and caring. Though she often attempted to disguise them with apathy and arrogance, those admirable traits still existed. Morrigan, on the other hand, was just a bitch through and through, and he had no inclination to be nice to her, whatsoever.

“I’m sorry,” he retorted in a snarky tone. “I was just passing the time while you were playing with the dead body.”

“I can see the appeal for you, Alistair,” she quipped. “Considering you and the dog are so alike in both level of intelligence and smell.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually, Morrigan, mabari are highly intelligent animals, but you would know that if you crawled out of your cave every now and again.”

“Yes,” she responded with a haughty tone. “I suppose I owe the hound an apology equating it to your low level of intellect.”

“Enough,” Solona interjected as she rubbed her temples with the tips of her middle fingers. “The two of you have been at it all day. Can we please stop arguing long enough to actually formulate a plan? Or is it your intention for us to stand here fighting like children until the darkspawn overtake us?"

“I have some thoughts on that, actually,” Alistair said, which earned an amused chuckle from Morrigan. He shot a glare at the witch before continuing. “Arl Eamon’s troops were delayed and were never sent to Ostagar. Maybe we should go to him for aid first. Redcliffe is certainly closer than any of the groups named in those treaties. If we had the arl’s soldiers, it might make for a more compelling argument if we meet with resistance from the dwarves, mages, or elves.”

Solona’s brow creased. “It’s odd that you mention Redcliffe,” she observed. “We found a note on that templar. His name was Ser Henric and he was stationed in Redcliffe. It seems he was supposed to meet someone named Ser Donall here in Lothering and give him a report on the scholar Genetivi’s whereabouts.”

“I know Donall,” Alistair told her. “He was a squire for Ser Wynton when I was a boy. He used to come to the stables often to retrieve his master’s horse.”

“'Tis little wonder your stench is so powerful,” Morrigan scoffed. “Being raised among horses and dogs.”

“Then perhaps you can speak to him,” Solona suggested, ignoring the witch’s jape. “The note said Henric was looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. It made no mention as to why, but it seemed imperative it be found.”

“Then the first thing we should do is find Donall,” Alistair agreed. “But with the amount of refugees on the outskirts of the village, where do we start looking among so many people? The Chantry, perhaps?”

“If you feel it necessary,” Morrigan huffed. “But you shall not find me darkening the doorstep of any such place.”

“Afraid you’ll catch on fire before you get a foot in the door?” Alistair quipped.

“I think,” Solona interrupted. “The best place to start would be the local tavern. Even if this Donall isn’t there, drunken men often have loose tongues and are willing to part with information more easily, especially when asked by an attractive woman.”

Alistair cocked a brow at her statement. The mage certainly didn’t lack in confidence in the looks department. Of course, she had no reason to, either. She was also shrewd enough to use her beauty as a means to an end. It was definitely an advantage.

“Agreed,” the witch concurred with a terse nod.

“If you think it’s for the best,” the warrior consented. “I’m following you, remember?”

“Of course,” Morrigan said with a roll of her eyes. “The spineless and brainless often follow the lead of others, even when they are more experienced.”

"You're like what? Thirty?" Alistair asked with a bemused expression. "If I'm spineless and brainless, what in the bloody fuck does that make you?"

Sick of listening to Alistair and Morrigan’s bickering, Solona headed toward the ramp leading off the bridge without them. As she walked past the refugee camp, she found herself in awe of the amount of people crammed into that tiny little village. The streets were full of transients trying to trade their meager possessions for coin enough to aid them in their procession north to escape Ferelden and the Blight’s path. Despair and fear hung in the air like a heavy cloud over the small hamlet.

As the Wardens and the witch made their way to the tavern on the other side of Lothering, something caught Solona’s eye. Just on the other side of the archway leading out of the village was a prison cage. Cramped inside was a very large man with stark white hair fashioned in small braids and pulled together in a thick ponytail at the back of his head. While Morrigan and Alistair continued toward the door to the inn, Solona wandered past the tavern to garner a closer look at the prisoner.

When she reached the cage, she looked up into the piercing violet eyes of the largest man she had ever seen. He was at least six inches taller than Sithig had been with shimmering skin of rich bronze and wearing nothing but a pair of dirty smallclothes. As he glowered down at her, she recognized his race from history books she had read while in the Circle.

“You are Qunari, then?” she asked with arms folded across her chest.

“I suppose your next question will have something to do with my lack of horns,” he scoffed. “Be gone, human. I will not dance for you today.”

Alistair and Morrigan took their places at the mage’s side. Her fellow Warden gave a low whistle on observing the prisoner which prompted Solona to plant a sharp elbow to his ribs. He grimaced and rubbed his hand across his side, but kept his wits enough to remain silent.

“As amusing as that might be,” she retorted. “I do not wish for you to entertain me. I am simply curious as to why one such as yourself is being held prisoner here. You are a long way from Par Vollen, after all.”

“You know of my people,” he said, his countenance softening a bit. “The armor you wear tells me you are no priest or refugee. The blue and grey are known, even among my people. You are a Grey Warden, then. Or did you take the uniform of dead men in the south?”

“I am a Warden,” she replied, then indicated to Alistair with a tilt of her head. “As is my friend. And you still haven’t answered my question. Why are you in that cage, Qunari?”

He leaned back against the bars behind him and turned his head to look out over the countryside. “Though I respect the uniform you wear and what it represents, I am not inclined to answer your questions any more than I was when your priestess asked me hers.”

“And what if I secured your release?” the mage inquired. “Would you be willing to cooperate then?”

He returned his attention to her. “And what do you require of me in exchange?”

“We need help,” she confessed. “So far, it is only the three of us and the dog standing against the Blight. Someone such as yourself could make a powerful ally.”

“And how do you know you can trust me, human?” he asked. “Most of your people fear my race, though they know very little about us.”

“I don’t,” she admitted. “And I doubt you trust me. I also doubt you want to be trapped in that cage when the darkspawn come. I will secure your release. However, if you attempt to betray me or my companions, you will die.”

“Vashedan,” he cursed. “You are overconfident, Bas.”

Solona cocked a brow. “No, I’m not. I have little doubt you might kill one of us if you were so inclined, but you will not be able to take all of us so easily. I know your people are susceptible to magic, and with two mages among us, we will not be easy targets.”

“You are Bas Saarebas?” he questioned with a disdainful scowl.

“I am,” she replied. “But I am also your best chance of getting out of this alive. Dying in a cage before you finish whatever mission you were sent here on will bring you no honor. Joining us will give you the chance to regain your dignity and return home to your people without shame.”

“And you will allow me to leave when the Blight is ended?” he queried. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she answered.

The Qunari gripped the bars of his cage, contemplating the mage’s words. After a few minutes, he finally peered at her through narrowed lids. “Very well, Bas,” he conceded. “Secure my release, and I will follow you.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, tell me, Qunari, who holds the key to your cage?”

“The Chantry priestess,” he replied. “But she will not easily part with it.”

“Let me worry about that,” Solona told him. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”

“Then I shall await your return,” he said as he took a step back toward the rear of his prison, once again leaning on the bars.

Once they were out of the Qunari’s earshot, Alistair turned to the mage with a questioning frown. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked.

“He is a warrior,” she replied. “Likely a member of the beresaad, which means he will be advantageous in battle, and as you pointed out, we need all the help we can get.”

One of the most important lessons my dad ever taught me about being a captain was, no matter how bad things get, you never let your crew see you in the state I was in that evening. Not to mention the fact that walking around in the middle of the night with blood dripping from your clothes is sure to garner the wrong type of attention. I can’t say the bath I took that evening did a lot of good considering I vomited in that tub at least once. I’m fairly certain I came out smelling worse than I went in.

Gabs hated working at Dane’s Refuge and never made a secret of that fact, even to her employer. Considering how much she needed the coin, it was probably a good thing the place was always busy enough that Danal couldn’t afford to let her go. She never had much respect or patience for the man, but she said things became even worse after Raeanne and Emma moved away.

More than once, Solona complained that she felt more like a babysitter than a leader when it came to Alistair and Morrigan’s constant rivalry and insults. She used to say they reminded her more of siblings than anything else with the way they were constantly at each other’s throats. It was a comparison I found even more humorous in later years. I never understood their hatred of each other, but I do have to agree things were a lot more peaceful when the two were kept separated.

Alistair was apprehensive about enlisting Sten’s help, considering the way Qunari felt about women in combat roles and especially given their fear of mages. In the beginning, it was uneasy alliance at best. In the end, however, Solona managed to gain both Sten’s trust and respect.

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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight