[IC] Dragon Age: Dark Scion

[Expllo]

The Blooming Rot…

Location: Unknown

The air was wet with rot and warm as breath. Torches guttered against walls of ancient dwarven stone now warped with pulsing, veined corruption. Glyphs both Tevinter and older still glowed a dull, hateful, red. Between them stretched fungal vines like veins growing from stone, from bone, from flesh long dead and still twitching. Somewhere distant, something massive breathed. Upon a jagged dais of bone and steel, where the Veil was thinnest and the darkness had a pulse, stood a figure cloaked in decay and power. The Scion of Decay. His face, though half-shrouded by a helm of fused metal and horn, still bore the remnants of nobility. features eaten by time, taint, and something else. His voice echoed not from his throat alone, but from the air itself.

His arms raised, voice reverent and filled with unnatural resonance. "Brothers… sisters… castoffs of broken thrones. You felt it, did you not? The lie of glory. The burden of sacrifice that fed nothing but the silence of a world unworthy of our pain." He stepped forward as the ground beneath him bled. "We were sent to die in the deep, told we were the sword against the dark. But I have seen the truth behind the rot. The Blight is no curse. It is correction. A sacred unraveling. A mercy. A rebirth."

A slow, unnatural, hum spread through the assembled cultists, robes soaked in black wine, their faces daubed with ash and sap. Some wept openly, others shivered, but none looked away.

The Scion spoke softly, with an eerie warmth. "We are not the end. We are the beginning. And I, your Scion, chosen by decay and crowned by the will of the forgotten god, shall show the world its true face."

He gestured outward, as if parting the very air, and far below the dais, a massive mural of Zazikel, twisted and reborn, glowed to life. The Archdemon’s wings spread wide, claws dragging chains of flame and ruin. The Scion’s voice began to rise, resonating with power. "The Blooming Rot spreads. In soil, in flesh, in spirit. Cities will crumble. Nations will wither. And the song of the Old Ones shall rise again, not in madness… but in clarity."

A moment of silence fell. Not absence, but anticipation. Breath held by the world itself.

"Let the Wardens cling to their fading light. Let the Chantry pray. Let kings build walls of gold and stone. It matters not." He turned, raising a blackened sword that pulsed with veins of glowing taint. "For the world is already dead.”

“It simply needs to be told."

And in the stillness that followed, the Hollow Knights rose in unison not with a cheer, not with a cry, but with the quiet shiver of armor and the bloom of white rot from their mouths.

The Sixth Blight had already begun.

---

The Rethari Blades

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

Tucked deep into the spine of an ancient cliffside, the outpost jutted from the stone, the last memory of a keep long forgotten. Half-carved from natural rock and half-shaped by old magic, it bore the jagged, imposing architecture of old Anderfels watchtowers. Fortresses meant to endure Blights. Weather-worn statues, their features melted by centuries of rain and rot, stood guard at the outpost’s narrow mouth, their eyes long since hollowed by time. The outpost itself had no visible door, only a glyph buried arch that shimmered when passed through, wards woven by Celeste and old Warden magic layered atop Tevene script. To the outside world, the entrance was no more than a pile of moss-slick stone. But once crossed, the illusion fell away.

The outpost was large enough to house a dozen men and women in relative discomfort, with side chambers carved into the rock serving as makeshift storage, war rooms, and private quarters for officers or anyone needing silence from the endless storm outside. The interior was spartan but functional. Long wooden tables, bedrolls tucked against the far corners, gear strewn about in controlled chaos. Weapons were sharpened by the hearth; armor lay drying beside the boots of weary warriors. It smelled of iron and wet leather. Once a garrison for soldiers of some forgotten war, cracked stone pillars held up the ceiling blackened with old soot. A central hearth, magically fed and warded against smoke, burned low with blue-white flame, casting shifting shadows across the room. Iron sconces hugged the walls, their torches fed by enchanted oil that hissed in rhythm with the wind howling through the distant cracks in the stone.

Outside, the world was rotting.

Select members of The Rethari Blades had gathered in the main hall, a low ceilinged room with cracked murals that once celebrated something noble, though whatever it was had long since been defaced by ash and time. Rain tapped on the high slitted windows, and somewhere above, the bones of the fortress groaned against the storm. Delilah sat at the head of the table, silent, unmoving. Her skin, a muted lavender-gray, caught the flicker of the hearthlight in sharp relief, like dusk pulled tight over steel. Her hair, silver-white and pulled back into a ponytail, shimmered like frost under torchlight. Strands framed her face despite her efforts, curling loosely against her cheek. Her horns curved backwards; faint notches marred its surface, hinting of past violence that had only helped to shape her. Her armor was fitted close to her form, functional over ornamental, with a practiced kind of minimalism that spoke of someone who expected to move fast. Her expression was carved from the same stone as the fortress walls. She hadn't spoken in over an hour.

Beside her stood Dean, the Grey Warden. His dwarven form was stout and broad, wrapped in crimson and gold armor etched with deep geometric patterns, hinting it was forged from the Deep Roads. Over his shoulders draped the pelt of some long dead beast, thick and matted from rain and years of battle, the fur mingling with the silver gray waves of his hair and beard. His beard, vast and meticulously braided at the ends, hung like a banner of legacy, shadowing the thick set of his jaw. His face was a canvas of scars. The worst of them curled like old fire across one side of his brow and cheek, the flesh warped and discolored from a violent past. One eye was clouded and pale, remaining half-lidded beneath the ruined flesh. The other watched everything with the slow, deliberate gaze of someone who’d survived what should have killed him. Dean’s massive gauntlets rested atop the pommel of his warhammer, which was braced between his boots, its head cracked and crusted with dried rot and darkspawn ichor. The presence he exuded was heavy. Old Warden heavy.

Minerva Vale sat nearby, boots up on a broken bench, cleaning under her fingernails with a dagger too fine to have been purchased. Her gaze darted between the others, calculating, and restless. Her armor was lean and mobile, made for movement not endurance, reinforced at the joints with steel studs and custom stitching. A regular duelist’s fit. Her boots and bracers were worn from constant travel, edges frayed and scuffed from climbing, fighting, and surviving. The left side of her face bore the brutal signature of fire, the skin warped and twisted into a pale, permanent snarl. Her eye on that side remained focused, almost too focused, as if constantly daring someone to look away. The right was untouched, achingly beautiful. High cheekbone, full lips curved with amused disdain, and an eye like fine amber, alive and dangerous. Even among the hardened Blades, there was no denying it: That half of her could have belonged to a noble’s portrait or a bard’s verse. Her long, dark hair flowed freely, never tied, constantly wind swept whether inside or out.

Kelf lounged against the far wall, half in shadow, half in thought. The elf’s presence was always a whisper in itself. His weapons rested close enough to reach before his next breath. He'd returned from scouting only hours ago, silent as the mist. A crimson headband binds back the cascade of his long, ink-black hair, giving just enough glimpse of the high elegant arch of his elven ears. Dressed in layered leathers reinforced with dark, riveted armor, Kelf looked every inch of the seasoned assassin he was. Twin belts cross his torso, their buckles tight and well worn. Whatever he saw out there, he hadn’t said yet. It was there, however, in the furrow of his brow and the tension at his jaw, and the way his hand never strayed far from where his weapons lay.

Across from Delilah, Celeste leaned against the table, fingers absently tracing the glyphs carved into its edge. Her pale, almost porcelain, complexion contrasts sharply with her silvery white hair which fell in soft, windswept waves around her face. Her lavender blue eyes shimmered with the faint glow of her force magic; never fully at rest, always distant like she was always half listening to something no one else could hear. She wore layered robes in cream, muted blue, and soft earth tones. Her clothing was practical for travel, yet still delicate in design. Even when surrounded by chaos, Celeste constantly seemed untouched by it, an otherworldly calmness to her. Her force magic simmered beneath her skin, the glow sometimes pulsing faintly like breath. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was quiet. “It’s starting to bleed into the Fade more clearly now. Something’s pressing through.”

Diana, the templar warrior, stood just behind Celeste’s chair. Her presence was like a drawn blade, silent and waiting to be used, built like a soldier born for war. She hadn’t removed her full-plate armor since they arrived. The massive metal pauldron on her shoulder was both a shield and a symbol that exposed her previous templar identity. A crimson cloak swept around her like a banner. Her dark hair was swept back, partially pinned, as strands fell across a face. A single scar cuts across her face, beginning just above her right brow, slicing cleanly across the bridge of her nose, and ends just below her left eye. It wasn't wild or ragged, but clean and deep, hinting at deadly precision of a blade or claw. It was bold and unignorable. Her eyes were sharp and focused, set in a face that spoke of long hours awake and long roads traveled.

Dean cleared his throat. "Aye. I’ve felt it too. That cursed pull in my gut, like a rusted hook dragging me forward…. The closer we’ve come to Weisshaupt, the more it thrums in my bones. They’re singing, darkspawn. Beneath the stone. Beneath the skin of the world."

Delilah’s eyes flicked upward to Kelf. Without a word, the sharp tilt of her chin said everything. Speak.

Kelf’s fingers idly rolled a dagger in between his knuckles. His voice was eerily calm, betraying the intense furrow in his brows. “I went further than I should’ve, into the belly of the pass. Trees were dead but standing. Found no survivors. Just bodies. Twisted, torn, ripped down to the marrow. Couldn’t tell man from woman, elf from human. Faces were... gone." He paused. "I killed three darkspawn. On the way in. And two more on the way back. Even with every step hidden and silent... they still found me somehow."

Minerva leaned back in her chair with a bitter smirk, arms folded. "Lovely. A suicide march dressed in noble intent. We should embroider that on our banner." Her glance fell towards Dean. "Perhaps with a little skull holding a bouquet."

"Enough. This isn’t a jest,” Diana spoke sternly. Her voice softened as she placed a hand on Celeste’s shoulder. “We don’t know what’s ahead, and guessing won’t make it prettier.” She gave Celeste a subtle squeeze, firm and grounded.

Delilah stood and leaned forward, palms on the war table, voice cutting like a whetstone dragged slow across steel. "Then we stop guessing. We move." She tapped the map with a single finger, right near a marker just south of Weisshaupt. "This is where we lose contact with the last of the Warden outriders. Dean, you're leading the team." She looked at the dwarf beside her. That scarred eye met hers without hesitation. "You’ll take Vae’nra, Rasaad, Fleur, Raeretha, and whomever else you deem necessary. You get in, observe, and get back. I want eyes on Weisshaupt. Signs, tracks, survivors if the Maker has left us any. But if you meet something you can’t fight... you don’t."

Her gaze swept the room, sharp enough to draw blood. "We’re not dying for ghosts and guesses. Not yet. You retreat. You bring word. We bring war only when we know what we’re swinging at." There was a heavy pause before her voice became quieter. "We’ll hold here and prepare for the worst. That’s all we’ve ever had to plan around anyway."

The wind howled beyond the stone walls, a wounded beast clawing at the edges of the outpost. Thunder cracked through the sky like a battle cry from the gods themselves; deep, and rolling. It shook the timbers in the ceiling and made the glyph etched stones hum beneath their feet. The storm wasn’t just weather; it was omen. Delilah stood to her full height, the firelight catching the sharp angles of her face and the long shadow of her horns across the war table. Her golden eyes scanned each of them; wardens, rogues, mages, warriors… ghosts of the past.

"When the sky clears, we move. I want blades sharpened, packs light, and your minds ready. No stragglers. No hesitation." Another thunderclap split the air, so loud the iron sconces on the wall rattled. Delilah raised her voice just enough to be heard over it. "Dismissed. And may the Creators, the Maker, or whatever gods you still believe in, walk with us when we step into that dark." She didn’t watch them go. Her gaze was already back on the map, tracing the path of a future soaked in rot and ruin. A final crack of thunder rolled over the outpost, longer than the last, like stone breaking in the distance.

Outside, the encampment stretched like a rough half-moon around the outpost’s base. Tents of canvas and hide were pitched in uneven lines. Bedrolls and crates of provisions, charms, and hand wrought talismans dotted the muddy ground. Cooking pots hissed with steam, but no mundane fire fueled them given the storm. These were soft magical flames, summoned and sustained by the Blades’ handful of mages. Eerily still in the wind, the fires danced silver and blue, unaffected by the rain that still drizzled from above. The storm was beginning to pass, but the clouds still hung low, bruised purple and black across the sky. Thunder grumbled now and again, distant, and sulking. Mist crawled low along the edges of the camp. Sentries moved between the tents, cloaks drawn tight, eyes sharp. The camp was uneasy. Not out of fear, but anticipation, from grizzled sellswords to fresh-eyed recruits.

[Mjolnir]

^{#c82c52 ....|..... blood mage .....|..... outpost}

A flash of lightning bright enough to wake the Maker illuminated the gloomy halls of the outpost. The soft murmuring of shared conversations mixed with the crackle of the hearth echoed off the ancient stone. The rain no longer tapped gently on the windows but pounded at the entrance like a hoard trying to break through the door. Thunder rumbled in the distance as it came rolling in and crashed overhead. The tremors from the storm made the old iron chandeliers over head creak and could be felt shaking the ground under foot.

Between the loud clashes, the soft smack of bare feet on the cool stone resonated throughout the main hall as Vae’nra walked across the dirt covered floor toward the hearth with her boots clutched in her left hand. The blue light of the flames illuminated the left side of her face while the red glow from her stave was cast upon the right. Her bedroll was in the same place it had been since her first night in the outpost, lying on the ground along the short side of the central hearth. Several years living in the wilds, rarely with a fire, made her appreciate the small comfort of warmth at night while she slept. Unlike many of the blades, Vae’nra’s belongings were kept in pristine condition, organized and well kept, bordering on obsessive. If it was possible to make a bedroll every morning, she did. Everything was laid flat and perfectly inline with the low stone wall of the hearth. Her pack rested upright neatly at the foot of her small area, always packed and ready if she had to leave at a moment’s notice.

Vae’nra gently laid down her stave, the red glow of the central gem looking ablaze against her dark bedroll. The fire hissed as she overturned her boots, dumping out whatever water remained inside then rested them on the stone as close to the flames as she could manage without risking ruining them. She knelt down on her bedroll and started peeling off whatever damp clothing she could sacrifice. It took several minutes to remove her cloak, leathers and various accouterments, then lay them all out to hopefully dry before the party set out. It wasn’t her intention to get caught in the rain or she might have dressed differently. Wet leather was the absolute worst, the way it clung and made her skin feel like it was suffocating.

* * *

It looked like rain was on the horizon, but Vae’nra had no reason to think her and Kelf wouldn’t have been back in time. She offered to accompany him, spinning the tale that two sets of eyes was better than one and that no one should travel alone… which was true. But the cabin fever of the cramped outpost was getting to her. After years of no ceiling or walls, just the trees beside her and the moon above, tight corridors were overwhelming for long periods of time. It also gave her an opportunity to check for signs of Venatori. While the outpost was expertly hidden, being on the edge of the Tevinter made her anxious. So, scouting with Kelf let her kill half a dozen birds with one stone.

Delilah had told them to only scout up to the pass and then come back. They didn’t. Kelf and Vae’nra often traveled quick and quiet when it was just the pair of them. She rarely second guessed his decisions and heeded his instructions without argument. So it wasn’t all that surprising that they arrived earlier than expected. They should have turned back, as instructed, but the trails of blood piqued their interest more than following orders. What they found was nothing short of a massacre. Blood… so much blood and mutilated bodies as far as they could see. There were so many flies swarming that the cloud of buzzing insects made the area look like it was blurred beneath the mist of a heavy fog. Vae’nra was not a squeamish woman, but the smell was so putrid that the moment it hit her nostrils she doubled over, nearly purging her stomach’s contents. Words could not describe the rancid odor.

They might have traveled further if it wasn’t for the darkspawn. It seemed no matter how quiet or careful they were, the creatures somehow found them. Vae’nra didn’t pay any mind to how many she killed, but she knew Kelf was counting for the both of them… He always did. The pair ran for a mile, maybe two before they allowed themselves to take a moment to catch their breath. In typical Blades fashion, after encountering something truly fucked, they looked to baser comforts to relieve tensions. They had no alcohol, so they found release through the pleasure of each other’s bodies. Casual sex wasn’t uncommon among the blades. They were all living on borrowed time. Comforts of the flesh were one small way they all could feel alive on the precipice of impending doom. This was no different for Vae’nra and Kelf, but they were secretive creatures and preferred to keep their exploits private, unlike others like Minerva or Rasaad.

Between the deeper exploration of the pass… and each other, the pair arrived an hour or two late and drenched from head to toe.

* * *

Vae’nra was able to sacrifice most of her clothing to dry by the fire. That left her in her damp, suffocating dark leather pants and her wet black tunic that clung to her skin. The curls had returned to her long raven hair that had fallen out from sweat, grime, and a fair bit of time without a proper bath. Traveling with a band of mercenaries was hardly glamorous and honestly, not much different from when she lived in the wilds. It didn’t take long to get used to a rougher way of life… no shelter, no company, and inconsistent sources of food, or baths. They’ve been with each other’s stink so much, it was hardly noticeable unless someone was particularly foul.

Vae squatted down and brought her pack before her. She unfastened the leather straps and flipped the cover flap back out of the way. Her hand slipped inside, heading straight for the specific compartment where the small glass bottle lived. After removing the small container from her bag, she turned it over in her palm, studying it. The bottle was round and roughly the size of an apple or lyrium vial. At one point the glass was frosted with some sort of writing, but from years of being handled and bouncing around in her pack, the finer details had worn off. The tiniest bit of burgundy liquid remained at the bottom… The remnants of her Blood Lotus perfume.

It was frivolous and took up unnecessary space in her pack, but it was one of the few things that remained from her days in Tevinter. Traveling with a band of mercenaries, Vae’nra got used to the grime. But even so, there were fragments of her that still clung to the finer things… Like the novelty of smelling nice. She popped the golden top off the bottle and carefully spilled just a drop onto the tip of her middle finger. She dabbed the oil behind each ear and, if any remained, she put the rest at the apex of her cleavage. It wasn’t much, but if she turned her head just right she could sometimes catch the faintest scent.

With a sigh, she tucked the bottle back away in her pack and stood back up. Vae’nra tugged at her wet tunic, peeling it from her chest as her bare feet quietly slapped against the dirty stone floor. Her poise betrayed her common appearance, body language couldn’t hide the truth of her noble upbringing. She walked with a natural elegance, her back straight, steps light, and head held high. She approached the large wooden table with an apologetic smile before slipping into an empty seat. To her right sat Rasaad, a large, imposing Qunari man with dark ashen gray skin and sharp double horns. His red vitaar was streaking and half gone, still dripping and running like he had recently been out in the rain. Long black hair had a mix of braids and dreadlocks adorned in various wooden beads. He wore a permanent scowl, although he was rarely angry, always looking like he was two seconds away from ripping someone’s head off with his bare hands. Mixing with the running red paint was a stream of blood running down his left arm from a gash in his bicep and on further inspection Vae noticed he was sporting a fat lip and another cut across his right brow.

To her right sat Celeste, her fingers idly tracing the glyphs on the table. An almost ethereal woman, delicate and poised like the taint of the world didn’t dare blemish her for fear of her templar protector. The diverse group of mercenaries around the table remained still with their eyes looking between each other or fixated at a chip in the table. Finally, it was Celeste who broke the pensive silence with her quiet words. "It’s starting to bleed into the Fade more clearly now. Something’s pressing through."

The Grey Warden dwarf with some gray of his own responded. "Aye. I’ve felt it too. That cursed pull in my gut, like a rusted hook dragging me forward... The closer we’ve come to Weisshaupt, the more it thrums in my bones. They’re singing, darkspawn. Beneath the stone. Beneath the skin of the world."

A quiet sigh escaped Vae’nra’s lips as the gory massacre they discovered flashed through her mind. Her head dropped as a hand raised and fingers pinched the bridge of her nose attempting to stave off the scent memory, along with everything else.

"I went further than I should’ve, into the belly of the pass." Kelf’s calm, somber tone forced her eyes open as she peered across the room at him over the top of her hand. "Trees were dead but standing. Found no survivors. Just bodies. Twisted, torn, ripped down to the marrow. Couldn’t tell man from woman, elf from human. Faces were... gone. I killed three darkspawn. On the way in. And two more on the way back. Even with every step hidden and silent... they still found me somehow."

Vae’nra’s hand slowly fell from her face and landed on the table with a soft thud. "It was likely my fault," she confessed, meeting Kelf’s intense green eyes from where he lingered in the shadows. Her gaze slowly drifted back to Delilah as she clasped her hands together. "The scent was… putrid." Her nose scrunched and brows furrowed as the mere thought of the stench was enough to turn her stomach. "There were so many flies… and when the smell hit me, I wretched." The corners of her mouth tugged into a tight lipped smile and she shrugged her shoulders, disappointed in her own misstep. "Apologies," she added barely above a whisper, sparing Kelf another brief glance before fixating her gaze on a drop of vitaar paint that fell from Rasaad’s shoulder and landed on the table between them.

"Lovely. A suicide march dressed in noble intent. We should embroider that on our banner," Minerva chimed in with her usual sarcastic cynicism. "Perhaps with a little skull holding a bouquet."

Rasaad held up an index finger, preparing to add his own sarcastic quip but was cut off by Diana’s stern tone. "Enough. This isn’t a jest." He sighed and rolled his eyes subtly as he let his hand fall back down on the table with a loud thud that rattled the various mugs and flagons that were at rest. "We don’t know what’s ahead, and guessing won’t make it prettier."

Delilah stood up and leaned over the table, her actions cutting through the conversation, demanding everyone’s attention and silence. "Then we stop guessing. We move." She pointed to Weisshaupt on the map. "This is where we lose contact with the last of the Warden outriders. Dean, you're leading the team. You’ll take Vae’nra, Rasaad, Fleur, Raeretha, and whomever else you deem necessary. You get in, observe, and get back. I want eyes on Weisshaupt. Signs, tracks, survivors if the Maker has left us any. But if you meet something you can’t fight... you don’t."

"You hear that?" Vae’nra whispered, sparing Rasaad a sideways glance. The giant qunari’s brow furrowed as he looked back at her from the corner of his eyes. If she knew anything about the man, everything was worthy of a fight, even if it was him soloing a high dragon. The crazy bastard would love that. He’d die laughing like he’d gone mad, with a smile on that grumpy face of his.

"We’re not dying for ghosts and guesses. Not yet. You retreat. You bring word. We bring war only when we know what we’re swinging at. We’ll hold here and prepare for the worst. That’s all we’ve ever had to plan around anyway." There was a heaviness to her voice, but every word she spoke was nothing new. They knew the costs. But it never made it easier. "When the sky clears, we move. I want blades sharpened, packs light, and your minds ready. No stragglers. No hesitation. Dismissed. And may the Creators, the Maker, or whatever gods you still believe in, walk with us when we step into that dark."

With everyone dismissed, Rasaad pushed off the table, scooting his chair back and went to stand. Vae’nra placed her hand on his shoulder before he was fully upright. "Hold on, you oversized druffalo." She, by no means, had the strength to stop him if he decided to leave, but he rarely fought her when she demanded his attention.

Rasaad sighed and sat back down with a heavy thud causing the wooden chair to creek under his weight. "Yes ma’am?" he asked, rolling his eyes as he looked over at her, knowing full well what the conversation was going to be about, before she asked.

"What is this?" Vae’nra asked while motioning toward his various fresh injuries.

"What’s what?" he replied, not meeting her gaze, feigning ignorance.

Vae raised her hand and flicked the bleeding gash in his bicep. "This?"

"Fuck, V!" Rasaad hissed, pulling his massive arm away, coddling it like a baby. "... Ow," he whined a bit quieter, as if he was a child that hurt themselves doing something they weren’t supposed to.

"Bandages or magic?" she posed the question he had heard countless times before.

"... Bandages," he groaned, slouching back in his seat knowing he wasn’t going to be released any time soon.

Vae’nra laughed and stood up. "Very well then."

Her bare feet carried her across the outpost to the small corner that functioned as a makeshift infirmary. She grabbed a roll of pre-cut cloth for bandaging, a curved needle, and thread. When she returned to the pouting Qunari, Vae set her supplies down in front of him. She reached across the table and grabbed a flagon of ale and one of the abandoned empty mugs. After filling the cup with alcohol, she passed it off to him with a knowing grin. "You’ll want this."

Rasaad took the drink with a distrusting gaze before he down the ale in a couple gulps. He slammed the empty mug down on the table then looked over at her. "Why?" Meanwhile, Vae’nra was threading the needle. As he met her gaze, she brought the string to her mouth and snapped it in half with her teeth. "Woah! Woah..." He shot up out of his seat, knocking his chair over in the process. "I said bandages, woman. Not needles!"

"Sit your ass back down, you big baby." Vae’nra held the needle between her lips as she leaned over and sat his chair back upright. "Sit," she told him once again with more force in her voice.

The Qunari stared her down for a long moment and when he realized she wouldn’t concede, he sat back down with a thud and annoyed huff. "Do I have to have stitches?"

Vae’nra scooted forward to the edge of her seat, getting closer to his arm to inspect it. After a few seconds of study, guiding his arm to flex and relax, and a little prodding, she looked up into his eyes. "Yes."

"I changed my mind. I want magic."

Her hands fell to her lap with a sigh and a dramatic roll of her eyes. "Then there will be no scar."

Rasaad weighed his options before grabbing the flagon and chugging half of its remaining contents. "Fine…"

"So… Are you going to tell me how this happened?" Vae’nra pulled the pitcher from his large hands and promptly poured the alcohol over the open wound before he could argue and pitch more of a fit.

"Andraste’s tits!" Rasaad cursed and stomped his foot on the ground. He kept his gaze focused on the melting wax of the archaic candelabra that hung from the ceiling over the table. He winced as the needle penetrated his skin but refused to watch. "You know how these new recruits are."

"Do I?" she mused, pulling the thread through his skin.

"I’m the biggest guy here and they see me and think ‘I wanna to see if I can take him.’" He clenched his jaw as he felt the sharp prick of a new stitch. "We sparred. I won… They weren’t happy."

"They?" Vae’nra paused in the middle of tying a knot in the thread to look up at him.

"Yeah, I don’t know. Five or six of ‘em," he replied, brushing the comment off like the number of opponents was of no consequence. "They came at me with swords… I won, again." Rasaad nodded his head to the side for subtle emphasis like it was obvious he won. He always won.

"Rasaad, darling. You’re not supposed to kill the recruits," she chastised him while finishing off the final suture.

"I didn’t," he replied, defensively. "They came at me with blades. I used my fists… and whatever was lying around." Rasaad looked down at his fresh stitches, watching as Vae started wrapping his bicep in the clean bandages. "They’re fine... Just minor concussions and a couple broken noses."

After knotting the wrap, Vae’nra took his face into her delicate hands and turned his head so he looked straight at her. "Have you ever considered recreational wrestling so I don’t have to mend you every other day?" she asked while studying his swollen bottom lip and the cut over his brow.

"Have you ever seen Minerva… wrestle?" he asked, barely above a whisper, with a raised brow.

"I try very hard not too."

"She kicks my ass more than twenty times any of these recruits combined," he replied, nodding his head toward the woman in question. "It’s hot."

Vae’nra laughed and shook her head. "I’m very happy for you," she replied sarcastically as she began gathering the remaining supplies. "There’s nothing I can do for your face. Unfortunately, you were born with it," she teased with a faint smile.

"Speaking of wrestling, you should find someone to loosen your laces a bit, V." The wooden legs of Rasaad’s chair screeched against the stone floor as she pushed it out of the way while standing. At his full height, he towered over Vae’nra as he twisted and stretched his arm, making sure the stitches would hold. "Everyone needs a way to release tension… Especially at the end of the world."

The raven haired woman chuckled as she stood up. She looked up at the Qunari with an inquisitive expression. "Is that an offer?"

Rasaad turned to walk away, paused when he heard her words, then looked back over his shoulder at her. "Itttttttt could be?"

"How charming," she teased him with false flattery. "I’m not in need of a wrestling partner or a lover, Rasaad. I keep my tension well managed, thank you very much." She rested her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side as a silent challenge for him to press the matter further, not mean but playful. No matter how much Rasaad teased or pried, her private affairs were just that… private. What she did to relieve tensions was between herself and whomever she decided to share that with. But that would definitely not be someone as loose lipped as the Qunari warrior himself. "Now get out of here before I give you something else to stitch up," she threatened him with a soft playfulness.

He blew a raspberry in disbelief. "You’re all bark," he called her bluff, wagging a sausage sized index finger at her. Vae’nra squinted her eyes slightly. "Yeah… ‘well managed tension.’" he repeated her words back at her. She took a step toward him and he quickly retreated back a few steps with a chuckle. "I’m going. I’m going," he conceded.

"Thanks… again, V," he said before disappearing out of the main hall.

Vae’nra had started to gather the leftover bandages and thread when her gaze drifted over to Kelf, who still lingered in the shadows. Her hands set back down the items and instead grabbed two empty mugs and one of the remaining flagons. Her steps were quiet aside from the subtle swish of her leather pants as her legs brushed past one another. While the elf didn’t sustain any pressing injuries, there were small cuts and bruises where others could not see, but she knew it was there. As she approached, her thumb flicked open the small lever of her blood letting ring. She pricked the skin just enough to cause a small familiar wound to open up. Her fingers waved subtly as she muttered an incantation under her breath. Out of sight, Kelf’s minor wounds began to heal. She stopped a few feet in front of the enigmatic elf and slowly waved the flagon before him. "I come bearing gifts," she spoke quietly with a faint smile.

When Kelf did not tell her to leave, she stepped up to the small table beside him and set down the mugs. She raised the pitcher and poured them both a healthy serving of ale. Vae’nra offered him one of the cups before setting down the flagon and grabbing her own drink. She slowly lowered herself into the seat opposite him with a sigh and crossed her right leg over the left. "You already know what I’m going to say," she began and took a sip of the ale. She coughed, raising a hand to cover her mouth. It tasted like piss and was hard to force down, but on the eve of her probable death… Alcohol was necessary.

"You should come tomorrow." Vae’s thumb idly tapped the handle of the mug as she held his gaze. "You see things that others miss, like those darkspawn." She sighed softly, the guilt from attracting them in the first place still weighing on her. "I remember what you told me. I do. But… I don’t know," her voice trailed off as her gaze fell to the amber liquid that rested in her mug.

"Perhaps I’ve gone mad," she mused with apprehension. After what they saw, Vae’nra couldn’t shake the sinking feeling of dread that churned in her stomach like darkspawn clawing to the surface.

"Maybe you shouldn’t come. We’ll all die tomorrow and then my spirit will twist into some demon, out of guilt, because I convinced you to die too… because I’m frightened." Her voice started playful and sarcastic, but by the end of her small rant her volume dwindled to something barely above a whisper. She laughed weakly at herself before choking back another sip. "Maker’s breath, that really is awful."

^{interactions ....|.... rasaad & kelf ............... mentions ....|.... everyone at the meeting ............... collabs ....|.... none}

[WhiteAngel25]

---

"Raeretha...I cannot consent to going to the Surface. We have survived Blight after Blight down here with the blessing of Falon'Din. We will continue to do so until his return."

"With all due respect, Night Mother, this Blight is...different. You didn't see the way the hordes seemed to be almost more aware. We barely made it back without casualties. I had heard Anise had been sent to the Lava Ruins after he started showing signs, and when I went to talk to my contacts in the Downtown District, there was a quarantine wall in the way."

"If you do this, you will never be able to return. You will no longer see your parents, everything you've known will be-."

"I know what I must personally sacrifice for my people. Do you, Night Mother?"

---

With a soft groan and stretch, Raeretha stared at the angled ceiling of her tent, the soft thumping indicating that the rain from last night stayed. The sands of Anderfell didn’t allow for the easiest place to hide from the sun.

Right now in her cozy tent she was coherent, of sound mind, but the moment that sun cracked above the horizon, she was loonier than a nug for mud. That wasn’t quite right, her thoughts were normal, it was her words and demeanor that changed. Rae guessed it was the effect of the sun on her people, maybe that was the reason why they didn’t go to the Surface. It was also why she kept to herself amongst the mercenary group known as the Rethari Blades during the day. But the storm was a comfort itself, it meant that the sun wouldn’t be shining.

Raeretha joined about six months ago but she had been following them for about a year. They had been the closest group with the most diverse races and highest numbers that she could blend in. She helped here and there with gathering herbs and spices for potions as well as hunting for game at first. Trying her best not to stand out more than she already did. Slowly, she began volunteering for night watches or nighttime missions. Proving to the leaders that she was trustworthy and got jobs done quickly.

In the meantime, Raeretha kept to herself, half the time entranced with the newest flora or fauna she came across, taking out her journal and sketching its likeness. No one in the camp could guess when Raeretha appeared amongst the ranks but since she was helpful, no one questioned her. She supposed that she looked like any normal Elvhen woman minus the red Vallaslin, so that probably helped more than anything.

Raeretha sighed slowly as she forced herself to get up. She needed to pack her belongings before her mind went south for the day. She slipped her red embroidered with blouse and tugged on her dark trousers before stepping into her black leather boots. Rae quietly gathered her belongings into her pack before she stepped out, shielding her silvery eyes briefly. Even as the sun was trying its hardest to peek through the storm clouds, it still seemed to have some sort of effect on her. She was glad that she had taken watch last night and was allowed to rest during the day. It was better that way.

Raeretha slipped on her leather coat as she swept her gaze across the vast array of the camp and flipped up her hood. Perhaps there was time to sketch that lovely patch of flowers that was near the canteen area. Once her belongings were properly secured, Rae took off in that direction, her mind became softly clouded with the whispers that bombarded her mind. Her gaze flicked slowly around as if she had smoked a strong strand of Royal Elfroot. She tilted her head as a group of medic mages were tending to a group of injured recruits who looked as in a herd of druffalo stampeded them. Rae decided to get a closer look inside the medical tent.

”Curious, Clarice, what happened?” Raeretha asked as she pulled a bundle of healing herbs out of her pack and handed it to one of the head medics.

The elder elf woman with long braided auburn hair with streaks of gray and emerald green eyes appeared exasperated and annoyed at the same time. “These idiots decided to challenge Rasaad,” she replied as she took the wrapped bundle of herbs. “Thank you, Raeretha, we’d be strapped for herbs without you,” she added.

”It is my pleasure to help, hopefully, their dreams come back soon. One stays in darkness when fighting a Qunari like Rassad,” Raeretha replied with a smile.

Clarice blinked her eyes for a moment and laughed. “You have the oddest way of describing things. Yes, I’m hopeful they recover from their concussions soon.”

Raeretha’s smile faltered a bit and shrugged. ”I must not be fully awake yet. I better go grab something to eat,” she admitted before walking away from the medic area. Glancing up at the sky, unbothered by the rain drops, she sighed in relief as she could begin to see stars. That was good, she’d feel like herself soon.

Even on the cobblestones of the canteen hall, Raeretha’s boots barely made a sound. Instilled in her at the Temple Academy, one of her standing was to never been noticed, never to make a sound. Yet here, she was more unique than she had anticipated. Raeretha sighed softly as she grabbed one of the wooden bowls for the evening stew that cooks managed to throw together. The voices whispering in the echo of her mind caused her to try and focus on the weathered details of the canteen hall as she followed the line.

Echoes of once was lost to time and decay, they almost seemed to coincide with the voices. Her silvery eyes flicked to the horizon as the darkness began to fill the sky. The mage fires became alive in the lanterns and candles producing comfort in the dark. Oddly enough, Raeretha wasn’t affected by mage light, such an odd affliction she had.

Rae blinked her eyes to clarity as the stew was slopped into her bowl. She smiled softly and thanked the cook before finding a spot to sit down. Raeretha clasped her hands together and silently thanked Falon’Din for the meal before digging in. Her sensitive ears picked up on whispers around her. She paused her spoon’s motion to her mouth. Apparently, Delilah, Dean, Minerva, Klef, Celeste, and Diana got together after Kelf and Vae’nra returned from a scouting assignment.

”Must be bad if all they all got together,” Raeretha thought as she continued to eat. She just broke her roll in half to clean up the remaining sauce of the stew in her bowl when she heard a few whispering about her. Many people didn’t believe that she could eviscerate a person in moments. She was soft spoken, kept to herself most of the time, and smiled gently like nothing could hurt her. Raeretha bit her bottom lip softly as she remembered the horrors she witnessed in the Deep Roads. Never had she been more afraid of the Blight than now.

Rae shivered and shook her head before finishing her bread. She caught a glimpse of the famed Rasaad. He had quite the warrior reputation. Idiots couldn’t help challenging him and he always seemed to agree, at least that’s what Raeretha heard. Qunari were interesting beings, not at all what she taught at the Academy. But there were a lot of things in the last year that Rae had to relearn thanks to the Academy. She was taught that Qunari were monsters, no more than muscled vessels for the Blight to consume. They weren’t worth Falon’Din’s time, and therefore, not worth her people’s time.

Raeretha sighed as more Qunari had been accepting of her odd appearance than any others. She noticed a stitched fresh wound on his bicep. It was interesting how Qunari’s were boastful about scars, considering most mages could heal that easily. Rae finally finished her meal, she gathered her bowl and spoon before she stood to move away from the table. She could finally go find those flowers to sketch.

[PatientBean]

^{6 months prior}

---

The tavern was alive with the sounds of people conversing after the long workday. There was an underlying thrum, almost like a heartbeat, alive/ Locals and travelers in equal measure were within the walls, drinks flowing to help alleviate all manner of woe and worry. Humans were the majority, but there were a few scattered elves and dwarves as well.

So when a Qunari woman entered the premises, along with a few others with her, the lull didn't die necessarily, but there were some questioning looks. Still, the people who worked there weren't about to turn down the gold spent, no matter who held it in their palms.

The Qunari woman made for an empty table along with her companions. After ordering a round for them, their conversation continued from before. No one was paying them much mind anymore, happy to get back to their drinks.

After some time, the voices around them quieted down. The Qunari woman looked up and glanced at the nearby patrons, unsure if something was happening. Soon, the quiet was filled with the strums of a lute. It started off slow at first, picking up as the meter went on. The Qunari woman clocked people's gaze and followed it to a corner of the tavern she hadn't noticed before.

In the corner stood an elf woman. She held a lute in her hands that she was playing, fingers strumming the strings intimately. The elf had long, blonde hair that fell behind her and delicate features that some god had blessed her with. Her eyes were closed as she played, but eventually they opened to reveal silver eyes trained on the crowd in front of her. And when her lips opened, a decadent voice filled the room with song. It was no surprise that the people here went silent.

The Qunari woman watched in awe. She had seen bards before, of course. One did not travel as much as she did and not enjoy a performance here or there. The elf woman though, there was a tenderness here. Raw emotion from her lips.

And did she...was that....the Qunari woman could have sworn the elf had seen her. No, there was no mistaking it. The bard was playing for the crowd, but she was singing to her. The Qunari woman leaned back in her chair, a smile spread on her face. It had been a minute since she enjoyed the attention of anyone.

Eventually, the song reached its finale and, upon finishing, the tavern applauded. The elf woman gave a bow and proceeded to head off to the counter, more than likely to pick up her pay for the day.

The Qunari woman watched her a bit longer, but started to focus back on her table when she heard voices. She looked back to see two human men had approached the elf woman. From the look on the elf's face, they were not standard fans. The Qunari woman could sense trouble (as she so often did) and stood up. One of her companions asked if she was okay, and she ignored them.

She approached the counter as if to ask for a refill when she could pick up more of their conversation. "-and I can show you a real good time, pretty. Come on." The elf woman didn't look upset or angry or disgusted. Instead, her attention was elsewhere, much to the annoyance of the two men. The Qunari woman wanted to speak up, but was silenced when a new voice spoke up. "I am not interested. Thank you." Silenced with a few, simple words, the elf woman picked up the coin purse that was left on the counter and turned.

And that was when the Qunari woman saw one of the men grab the elf woman's wrist.

"Eyy, I wasn't done talking to ya'" The man slurred his words. Much to the Qunari woman's displeasure, the elf woman fell back a bit, but didn't attempt to free herself. She took a step forward when the elf woman spoke up again. "Please unhand me before things get unpleasant." The Qunari woman stared in silence and the two men didn't much believe what they heard either. "And what are you going to do about it, elf bitch?"

The Qunari woman heard something slam on the counter and there was a beat of silence. She looked around to see if someone had thrown something or had punched someone when she heard the man who had just spoken scream bloody murder. She looked and saw a knife sticking out of his hand that leaned on the counter. The man continued to scream and tried to pull the knife out, losing his grip on the elf woman. The other man with him stared at his friend and then concern turned to rage as he ran right at her. The elf woman spun, grabbing hold of the man's arm and twirled him around, sending him careening into the wall on her left. The stabbed man had finally pulled the knife out and was bleeding when he turned the knife on the elf woman and lunged. The Qunari woman could have sworn the elf turned invisible briefly, but in a fluid motion, the elf woman had disarmed the man and spun behind him, planting the knife to his neck while holding his injured hand behind him. "I am going to let go of you now and you and your friend are going to leave. I suggest you find a healer for your hand and your headache. Do anything else and I will break more than just your wrist, starting with your manhood. Clear?" The man tried to fight, but found himself in an unwinnable predicament and, eventually, nodded defeat. The Qunari woman heard a crack as the man screamed and held his wrist. She fully expected them to round on the elf woman and try again, but credit where credit is due, the two men stumbled out of the tavern.

The elf woman picked up the knife and offered it to the tender at the counter. "I apologize for the mess. You can take it out of my pay, if that's fair." The tender shook his head. "Those two always cause trouble here and we've been looking for an excuse to ban them. Seems today is the day. Doubt they'd be back."

The elf woman nodded and stepped back from the counter and turned. The Qunari woman watched as she did and, again, could have sworn she caught her gaze. The elf woman looked at her and a hint of a smile appeared on her lips. The Qunari woman didn't need much more of an invitation as she got up from the bar counter and proceeded after her. "Wait, please. That was....incredible." The elf woman turned to face her now. "The song or the aftermath?" Her words were laced with humor. "Well, both if I am being honest. You handled them better than some of the men I've worked with. Name's Delilah," the Qunari woman said as she offered her hand. The elf woman took it, her touch warm and welcoming. "Giselle."

"Giselle, a beautiful name for a beautiful rose." The elf woman stepepd closer to Delilah, her breath almost tickling the Qunari's neck. "If I didn't know any better, Delilah, I could swear you were flirting with me. Is it true what they say about Qunari and how they perform in bed?" The words came out hot and intense. "Depends, did you want to find out?" The elf woman leaned in closer, her breath on Delilah's ear. "My room."

---

Delilah had made her way into one of the rooms of the tavern, a spacious affair that Delilah took to mean the bard had performed here before. The elf woman had excused herself but told Delilah to make herself comfortable. So Delilah had set her things down and proceeded to undress. "Been a while, I am afraid. But I needed this."

"Happy to help however I can. You must be busy."

Delilah had removed her top as she continued. "Running the band I do gets exhausting, but worth it. They are knuckleheads sometimes, but they are mine. We travel a lot so there's hardly ever time to rest."

Delilah heard the patter of bare feet behind her as the elf woman entered the bedroom proper. "You must have some stories to share."

"Oh yes. We've seen it all. I remember one time a bit ago, or was it a few weeks...well it doesn't matter. But someone had hired an assassin to kill me. I'm used to it at this point. But I'd like to think of myself as a good reader of people so I was able to spot them pretty early on and foiled their little plan. Had to kill them, couldn't let the insult go on, and it worked out well in the end as I needed a new thrall to do some of the grunt work I didn't want to."

Delilah heard the elf woman's footsteps approach as she continued, "So, who hired you?"

The footsteps stopped as Delilah turned to face the elf woman, who had unsheathed a dagger that, Delilah had to admit, was hidden nicely within the elf woman's undergarments. To her credit, the elf woman didn't appear taken aback. "This isn't my first, nor do I expect it to be my last. We're at a standstill. I may not have my clothes or weapons but I can handle myself with the best of them. I also expect you can handle yourself well also. So, instead of brawling it out with one of us ending up dead on this nice floor, why don't we skip all that? I am sure your life is worth more than whatever the bounty is."

The elf woman stood a moment, before she threw the knife across the room. "What gave me away?"

"Well, admittedly not much. Your body language was flirtatious, but your eyes held something darker. Also, I was the only Qunari in here and I know from experience we aren't the immediate fixation of strangers, beautiful or not. Your name isn't Giselle either, I take it?"

The elf woman shook her head. "I do not know who my employers are. They appeared one day wearing grey cloaks that covered their face. They had red markings along their arms. They claimed you were a murderer who had killed a nearby village and burned it to the ground with families locked in their homes. I take it that was a lie." It wasn't a question, more confirming the fact.

"I won't pretend my hands are free of blood, but those I gut deserve it. If I had to wager, those people were the ones who attacked the village, probably in some magic ceremony or ritual."

The two women stood in front of each other. The elf in a silky number and Delilah in nothing but her confidence. "So, perhaps instead of getting sweaty and bloodied from trying to kill each other, we can occupy our time with something equally as entertaining."

The elf woman smirked. "I take it you have something in mind?"

Delilah grinned. "Oh, I think I do."

---

They laid there, breathless, sheets on the bed tangled in awkward angles. Delilah rested her arm over her chest. "So, do I even get to know your name?"

The elf woman, taking a few moments to catch her breath, spoke up, "Fleur."

Delilah nodded, "Fleur. You certainly know what you are doing. I take it those skills are part of the job?"

"Perks. I can do more, but we only just met."

"Maker's tits, that wasn't everything? Great work."

"Not so bad yourself." Fleur sat up and stood, her naked form for Delilah to take in again. Fleur strode forward, grabbing her discarded garments as she did. Delilah sat up now, taking her in. She had a few thoughts (when her mind wasn't being distracted elsewhere) and their awkward exchange was now a blurred memory. She had weirder requests and it wasn't like she didn't have plenty in her ranks who towed the line or morality.

"So, Fleur, how would you like a permanent job?"

---

---

^{present day}

Fleur had arrived back from scouting the nearby area. She had given her report to some faceless entity that existed in the ranks; she couldn't be damned to remember his name. She settled herself in her little camp, wiping some sweat off her brow. Delilah and the others would be convening to discuss the next steps.

Fleur didn't enjoy the planning or the meetings or whatever. She wanted action. No, she craved it. Sitting around idle made her tense, so she often found herself practicing on some test dummies or sneaking around to see if she could be spotted (no one found her yet. It was like the ultimate game of hide and seek). She also maintained her music, singing and playing her lute for others if they wanted.

She proceeded to walk around, taking note of the air of concern that permeated everything. It seems she wasn't alone in her worry. Whatever was going to happen, it was not going to be pretty.

She wanted nothing more than to head back to her bed and close her eyes until she was needed, but she had a feeling she was going to be grabbed sooner rather than later. Still, she wouldn't make it easy. She proceeded towards where Delilah and the others were and snuck in, blending herself into the shadows. She crept along as she heard voices, some she recognized and some she did not (more so because they were men and Fleur did all she could to not speak to a man unless she absolutely had to).

She heard her own name and paid closer attention. Seems she was to be useful and she did so enjoy hearing her name on Delilah's lips.

Fleur left, heading back to her own little piece of paradise and awaited the word. She expected things to get very exciting, very quickly. So better she rested when she could.

[Sleepy Tani]

#BB502A

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

It took twelve breathes a minute, for one hundred and eighty minutes, before Nicolosia was gifted the embrace of unconsciousness. She tries not to think about the darker things her mind always wandered to when she attempted to sleep, like how it felt to lay her bare hands over a boys throat, how pressing her thumbs down until the cartilage of his trachea collapsed, how his skin had shifted from pale ivory, to screaming red, to dull and bruised purple. It hadn't worked, of course it hadn't, because once the thought started her memory filled in the blanks, and instead of falling asleep she'd spent thirty minutes with her own hands pressed to her throat. Her fingers laid delicately over her pulse, counting the beat of her heart until the panic that had made the edges of her vision grow dark and fuzzy faded away.

When she eventually fell asleep, she dreamed. It is not any sort of peaceful dream, it never is, rather the dream is filled with blood, and pain, and tears. There is a sickness in her dream that drains the life from the land, that makes each breath from someone's lungs wet and putrid. In her dream, she can hear an ancient song, hymns she cannot understand reverberating within her very bones and drawing her in. It feels as if the trees are calling out to her, like the ground is trying to swallow her where she lies, and she knows it is the ghosts of those she's killed haunting her even now. In this dream, the day bleeds into a night that oozes with those ghosts, an air of nostalgia dripping down her lungs like liquid sorrow, and the birds sing that song, the one she can’t understand, and it urges her to let go. The dream twists further; blood blooming across pristine snow, the death rattle of her brothers last breath, the way her father's tongue curled around the word exile.

She wakes up too hot, sweaty and gasping, feeling like her fingers were slick and sticky from blood. It's the boom of thunder overhead that reassures her it was just another bad nightmare. Nicolosia didn't bother to try again, some nights just weren't meant for resting. Instead, she dragged herself from the warmth of her bedroll and decided to use the harsh downpour in a more productive manner than most might. The woman stripped down to her undergarments, and stepped out of her tent with a bar of soap in hand. It felt a luxury to have chosen a spot so far on the edges of the camp, her tent opening was faced toward the surrounding wilderness and her comrades in arms were spared a free show as she used the relentless rain to clean herself from days worth of sweat and grime.

₪.....₪.....₪

Her hair was still wet where it was braided back as Nico sat in the canteen hall, breathing in the smell of heady jasmine, red sandalwood, sweet carnations, and warm leather that was a unique mix of her soap and armor. It had been so refreshing to cleanse herself in the chilled rain, her mood raised so much so that she wasn't even irritated by her current predicament.

"Is there something you needed? She'd finally asked of the man who had been standing in front of her table for no less than six minutes. She hadn't meant to be intentionally rude in her lack of acknowledgement, rather she'd just hoped he would go away before she needed to address him. The subtility of her silence seemed to be lost to him though, so here they were.

"You're one of the new recruits, right?" His voice was gruff and sort of gargled, like he was in great pain and speaking only caused him further suffering. It was this that finally made her look up at the man instead of her nearly empty bowl. Nicolosia's eyebrows rose slowly as she took in his battered form.

"What happened to your face?" She asked, a touch more politely than he had spoken, and yet the man still sputtered indigently. She felt it was a very fair question though, because both his eyes were black, and he looked like his cheekbone was perhaps fractured.

"That's not any of your business."

"You look as if you fell and caught yourself with your face." It was very interesting to watch how spots of his face, unblemished with darkening bruises, turned red and splotchy in his budding anger. Someone at a nearby table snorted, though she didn't bother to look at who it was.

"I said," he ground out the words through clenched teeth, leaning over where she sat some as if his intent was to loom imposingly over her. "Are you one of the new recruits."

Something primal prickled at the back of her neck, and Nico allowed her eyes to slide away from him. His appearance was one part of an equation she'd yet to solve, the other half was near, otherwise he wouldn't be posturing quite so much. She spotted it quickly enough, another table not far from her own where a group of significantly less battered men sat watching their exchange. A soft breath escaped her, and she readjusted how she was holding her spoon.

"What do you want?" Her voice was as cold as snow now, hazel eyes sliding back up slowly to the mans face. She categorized how he seemed to be favoring his left foot, how his right arm hung limp at his side, how he had no scars blemishing his bare arms. The fear that howled at the back of her mind constantly grew softer, and there was a spark of feral resignation in the air around her.

"Your axe," his voice was ragged and strained, she could see how sweat streaked down his temple. He was nervous now, but angry still. "It looks sturdy, someone like me would be more capable of wielding it efficiently than... you."

The unsaid than a woman hung in the air between them for a moment, and Nicolosia tilted her head ever so slightly in a manner that was birdlike in nature. Her free hand curled delicately around the edge of her table, arm loose and unimposing as she weighed her options. This was going in an...undesirable direction.

"You've recently had your ego bruised," she hazard a lazy guess, taking no enjoyment from how his eyes bulged and his hands curled into fists. "I can only assume that you're attempting to pick a fight with someone who you believe you can win against in order to save face with your peers, but I feel it's pertinent to make you aware of how this will escalate if you attempt to use violence against me."

He looked flabbergasted for a moment, before tensing as Nico dropped her spoon in order to draw her dagger from it's sheath at her waist. Her movements were slow and careful, trying to telegraph that the gesture wasn't inherently threatening in nature. The blade was bone white, polished meticulously, with what appeared to be runes carved into the surface, though they were none the man likely could have placed. She weighed it in her palm, humming softly but never taking her eyes off of him.

"I had a friend when I was younger, his name was Ejvind." Her voice was very brittle, but her hand was steady as she kindly raised the dagger up for him to get a better look at. "We learned the stars together, he was very dear to me. One day though, it came down to me or him. It broke my heart to slit his throat."

She didn't break eye contact as the words spilled from her lips, sticky and sweet like honey. It wasn't the full story, not even close, but someone like this sniveling rot didn't deserve to really know anything about Ejvind and their history. It didn't matter if he looked at her as if she were a monster plucked straight from his nightmares, so long as he stopped looking at her.

"I don't like killing like that, it's too messy. Someone else tried to steal from me not long ago, before I came here. He didn't like that I fought back, he tried to kill me, so I gouged his eyes out with my thumbs. That's messy too, the eyes are so soft and tender though, all it takes is a little force and dedication. I usually prefer cleaner kills, I don't like to prolong the process, it's better for it to end all at once." Nicolosia sighed, soft and theatrical. The canteen around them grew a little quieter as her words carried. It was better to nip this in the bud now, if anyone assumed she was an easy target they'd end up in a casket. "This dagger was gifted to me from Ejvind's mother, it was crafted from his femur bone and presented to me as a reward for having bested him in battle. I do not know where you hail from, nor do I care, but you ought to care where I am from."

Nico stood then, her chair scrapping loudly across the cobblestone underfoot. The man took a reflexive step back, he looked as if he was going to be ill. That was good, she didn't care to scare the fool if it would save his life because if he attacked her here, in a place she'd slowly began to feel safe, she would kill him. It wasn't in her nature to let such a transgression go.

"Because," she slid the dagger back into it's sheath, leaving her arms loose at her sides. "Where I am from has made me cruel. If you attack me, I will not be as kind as the last person whom you challenged and lost to. Do you understand what I am saying?"

There was a distinct pause, and she could feel the vein in her throat jumping from the beat of her heart. Fear coiled like a rock at the bottom of her stomach, and she hid the fine tremble of her hands by clenching them into fists so tight that the scars across her knuckles drained of color. If he attacked her, she would have to fight him, and she wouldn't be able to sleep at night until she was certain his threat was extinguished. Nico's good mood from the rain slipped away like smoke between her fingers.

He didn't speak again, simply giving her a jerky shake of his head before he pivoted sharply on his heel and stalked back to his table. Nicolosia watched him go, pulling her emotions in from the whirlwind they'd become until they were a tight knot in her chest. It was only when he'd sat once more, his back to her, that she turned on her own heel and swiftly left the canteen.

₪.....₪.....₪

Nicolosia walked until the panic subsided, her dinner no longer threatening to crawl up her throat. She had to remind herself that she'd chose this, she hadn't been asked to join by some mysterious hooded figure in a tavern - which was a good thing, she might have gutted him - or something ridiculous like that. She'd heard about The Rethari Blades and went to join up on her own, she'd gone looking to fight the good fight because there was nothing else for her to do. She'd chosen this and she refused to let her fear, the all consuming and rageful beast that it was, make her turn away from it now.

"Lovely. A suicide march dressed in noble intent. We should embroider that on our banner." A woman's voice echoed down the corridor, startling Nico. She hadn't realized how far she'd gone to come so close to the Main Hall. "Perhaps with a little skull holding a bouquet."

Well, that didn't exactly make her feel all warm and fuzzy inside. She pressed one of her hands over her mouth, attempting to stifle how her breath hitched and quickened. Her other hand rose, curled around her wrist until her fingers pressed into the raised and jagged skin of a scar. The action caused her no pain, it was old and faded by now, but it did help ground her some.

"Enough. This isn’t a jest,” Another voice cut through her panic further, and Nicolosia swallowed a few deeper breathes. “We don’t know what’s ahead, and guessing won’t make it prettier.”

The next voice was a familiar one, she'd heard her speak before but never directly spoken to her. Her voice commanded attention, quieting everything like a crack of thunder bellowing over the sky. Nico allowed the strength in the woman's voice to steady herself, her eyes slipping shut as she focused on the words she heard rather than the emotions she felt. "Then we stop guessing. We move. This is where we lose contact with the last of the Warden outriders. Dean, you're leading the team."

So it was a mission then, one that some of her peers would be embarking on. Nico bit the inside of her cheek hard, until blood filled her mouth and trickled down her throat. The flavor of rust and cooper bloomed across the back of her tongue, and she resisted the urge to gag on her fear. It sounded like a suicide mission, the other woman had been right, and yet...

"You’ll take Vae’nra, Rasaad, Fleur, Raeretha, and whomever else you deem necessary. You get in, observe, and get back. I want eyes on Weisshaupt. Signs, tracks, survivors if the Maker has left us any. But if you meet something you can’t fight... you don’t."

There was a long pause, the names spoken meant nothing to Nicolosia, but she could feel the conviction in the woman's voice even from where she stood outside the room. What she wouldn't give to not be here in this moment, to not have heard their plans. It would have been amazing to continue living in ignorance, or at least as ignorant as someone who joined a group who strived to damn well save the world could be. She just wanted to be another face in the crowd, another fool tumbling toward death but at least one that wasn't marching toward it. Fuck, she just wanted to go home.

"We’re not dying for ghosts and guesses. Not yet. You retreat. You bring word. We bring war only when we know what we’re swinging at." Her voice became softer, so much so that Nico's ears strained to pick up the murmured words. "We’ll hold here and prepare for the worst. That’s all we’ve ever had to plan around anyway."

The silence stretched, and she allowed herself to lean against the wall for a moment. Her forehead was hot and clammy, the damp stone felt nice on her flushed skin. Outside, the storm raged on without grace. She could hear her fathers voice overlapped with the woman's for a moment, so much conviction, so much unbridled but contained fear. Go forward slowly, it's not a race to the end. Be steady, my heart. You will live. She swallowed around the bile that crawled up her throat.

"When the sky clears, we move. I want blades sharpened, packs light, and your minds ready. No stragglers. No hesitation." The sharp crack of thunder split the air like a thrown axe, and Nico pulled away from the wall. She rolled her shoulders back, let her arms fall, and fought to remain calm. I don't want to die. It was the thought that was loudest in her mind, it always had been, but then a new thought surfaced with all the force of a strike of lightening. I don't want to hide. And really, her mind had been made up since she'd heard the first woman speak. "Dismissed. And may the Creators, the Maker, or whatever gods you still believe in, walk with us when we step into that dark."

Nicolosia waited for the occupants of the meeting to exit the room, spilling out into the hall she'd been lingering in, and then before she could change her mind- "Dean?" She approached the man who had turned at the call of his name, shoulders squared and face set. "I would like to accompany you on the expedition, if you will have me."

[Randomguy]

Cadmus Laenas

---

Cadmus found himself in a barren garden, surrounded by hollowed trees with pallid branches covered in unnatural fleshy growth, twisting in veiny pulsating knots, making them appear more like rotting flesh rather than trees. The soils beneath his feet pulsated in tandem with the trees growing from them, as if the fetid grove were one giant organism—one dead giant organism, a rotten corpse kept alive by a vile corruption of what it originally was. The soils were dead skins, and the trees were the cankerous growth bursting out from within.

His immediate thought was that he was in the Fade. The bizarre landscape of the metaphysical realm beyond the veil was not an uncommon sight to behold while dreaming for any mage, let alone one who had been a mage for over 20 years. Still, he was not merely a mage. To Cadmus, odd and macabre dreams had two possible culprits. The Fade, and the other...

A song, enchanting yet utterly wrong, beautiful and haunting at the same time, began to rise from somewhere within the grove. It started as a low hum, before it became a cacophony that almost drowned everything else. The melody went through his mind like creeping vines, singing of secrets too old for language, promises of solace and beauty found within the blossom of ruination that was corrupting the land.

No, he was not in the Fade. This song. This enchantingly beautiful abhorrent song meant that this dream was not of the realm of primaeval matter from which magic stemmed, but of the corruption that was running through his blood. The taint of the Blight he had imbibed from that silver cup years ago.

The ground beneath him opened up almost like a yawning mouth, swallowing him, as the music grew even louder.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the tempting invitation of the song, as he tried to will himself awake.

"This is merely a dream..."

The lulling melody of crumbling petals and slithering roots filled his mind.

"Merely a dream...Which held no power nor pull over myself,", he repeated, almost like a chant. A form of self-hypnosis.

The song, each note damp with the sweetness of honey, tried to drown him, but Cadmus continued to ignore the sensation.

He took a deep breath, "And now...wake up,"

Cadmus woke up in cold sweat, lying on the bedroll. A magical lantern—doubtless a fascinating thing in the South but mere trinkets in Tevinter—illuminating his tent.

"If there is any doubt that the Sixth Blight had begun, these dreams certainly disavowed me of the notion," he said with a sigh.

All Grey Wardens were familiar with the haunting song that echoed in the nightmare caused by the taint in them. The more time that passed since the Joining, the more intense. For Cadmus, it had only been three years, and being a mage, resisting the allure of the song came more easily as a byproduct of a mage training resisting the call of the Fade—and the temptation of demons—so the nightmares had never given him too much trouble. Until a few months back, when they started to occur with greater frequency and intensity.

A hallmark of the Blight, from what he had heard from veteran Wardens who had experienced the Fifth Blight.

Feeling parched, he reached out for his waterskin, before changing his mind, and opening his bag and taking out a wine bottle instead. The bottle looked expensive, but had clearly seen its fair share of wear and tear due to being carried around on the road rather than stored in a wine cellar. The bottle was marked with "Vintage: Warden Cadmus. Last drop reserved for the Calling." A Ritewine, a custom among the Grey Warden born of utility.

Cadmus took some gulps from the bottle before putting back the cork and storing it in his bag. Due to the Joining, Grey Wardens had a high level of alcohol tolerance, so he was nowhere near drunk, but he hoped it could dull the headaches a bit, at least.

Seeing the bottle of the expensive wine, he couldn't help but think of the man who urged him to buy this very finest wine in Imperium before he departed to join the wardens—a gesture that now he thought about it, might have been meant in the sense of 'You might not survive the joining, so might as well get the most expensive wine you can now for one last drink'—A friend of his father in the Imperium Legion, who had since joined the Wardens. And conscripted him into the Wardens to avoid being executed for his false charge.

He wondered where Artorius and the rest of the Tevinter Wardens were. They had disappeared alongside the rest of the wardens, it seemed. It was fortunate that he had been sent on a diplomatic mission to foster relations with a prominent Orlesian Marquis who had been courting his sister a few months back. The dreams that heralded the Sixth Blight occurred then, back when he was staying with his sister in Orlais, and seemingly were also when the wardens disappeared. If he had been with the rest of the wardens then, undoubtedly, whatever befell them would also befell himself.

Ever since he had dreams of the Blight and found himself unable to contact either the Orlesian or Tevinter wardens, he had written to Weisshaupt but to no avail. It was when he was making his way through the Huntherthorn Mountains to reach Anderfels, that he heard of a Grey Warden working with the Rethari Blades mercenary group, which prompted him to approach them instead.

The fact that their leader was a Qunari had given him pause, though only until he learned that she was a mage, which assuaged his worries, as there was little to no chance she had any prolonged contact with the Qunari government. There was no chance that they would simply allow a mage to roam free, after all. For all the backwardness of the mage situation in Southern Thedas, the Qunari had them beaten on that account.

In any case, the disappearance of the wardens was certainly a cause of concern, and he had been hoping that perhaps this Dean had known more about what had happened. Alas, it seemed like he also had no idea of what befell the wardens.

With a groan—and still a bit groggy from the dream—he willed himself to stand up and get out of his tent.

From what he heard, they had been planning an operation to scout Weisshaupt Fortress. As a Warden, he should probably volunteer to join the scouting party.

[Expllo]

The Rethari Blades

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

The meeting room emptied in slow waves, boots thudding against the stone, voices low and clipped as orders sank in. The Blades dispersed into the outpost’s twisting halls and out into the rain slick camp beyond, each slipping into the rhythms of preparation in their own way.

Diana was amongst the first into the storm. She didn’t bother with a hood, the downpour streaking over her crimson cloak and pooling off the angled plates of her armor. She strode between tents and cookfires like a warship cutting through choppy seas. The steady drum of rain on steel underscored every step. Her sharp eyes missed nothing. Two recruits leaning too long on their spears, a sentry huddled under the awning of a supply wagon, a mage half dozing over a steaming pot. “You!” she barked at the recruits, voice cutting through the rain like steel through sinew. “If you’re not ready to fight now, you won’t be ready when the darkspawn come! To the training grounds! Move!”

Diana kept going, snapping men and women upright in her wake, stripping the lethargy from the camp as thoroughly as the wind stripped warmth from the skin. By the time she reached the hard packed dirt of the sparring yard, several warriors had already gathered under her glare. “Pair off,” she ordered, drawing her own blade. “And if you hold back, I’ll know. Then I’ll make you regret it.”

Celeste emerged a few moments later wrapped in a pale hooded cloak whose muted blues and creams were already darkened by the rain. The hood shadowed her face as droplets trailed off its rim. Strands of silvery white hair clung damp to her cheeks and neck. Her robes were heavier with each step, the sodden fabric pulling gently at her frame. She moved without hurry, though, with hands raised just enough to trace sigils in the air as she walked the perimeter of the camp. Faint glyphs hidden in the mud and moss glimmered to life where her fingers passed, the wards’ soft glow deepening against the storm’s gloom. Her voice almost lost to the rain in low murmurs as she layered fresh enchantments over old ones. Now and then, a sigil would spark and flare brighter, sending a ripple of force into the ground before settling back into a steady hum.

Minerva made a far less subtle exit. Her boots clicked against stone in a brisk, playful, rhythm as she skipped down one of the main halls, a jaunty tune spilling from her lips, humming between verses she clearly didn’t remember all of. The flicker of torchlight danced along her dark hair as she turned a corner and spotted a broad, familiar back ahead. “Rasaad!” she called just before breaking into a run and launching herself at the Qunari. She landed squarely between his massive shoulder blades, her arms hooking loosely around his neck as she grinned down at him like an overgrown child clambering a favored warhorse.

“What’re you up to, hm? Thinking I should put my name in for Dean’s little jaunt,” she teased. “Camp’s so bloody boring I’m liable to start sparring with the cook just to stay sharp.”

She leaned forward, grinning wide enough for him to hear it in her voice. “Tell me you’re itching for a real fight too. We’ve been marching and waiting so long I was starting to think the darkspawn forgot we were coming.”

---

Thalen ‘Kelf’ Syl'varin

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

Kelf’s gaze had been fixed on the far wall when Vae’nra first approached. His mind drifted back to the carnage they’d witnessed. The twisted remains left behind by the darkspawn clawed at his memory. Torn limbs, hollowed eyes, the stench of blood and rot. It was chaotic, but familiar. Too familiar. His jaw clenched as the image of his old camp surfaced. Bodies were strewn across the forest floor, their tattoos smeared with blood. Lives snuffed out without ceremony. The elders, the hunters, the children… none spared. He remembered the way the trees had stood still, as if mourning. The way the wind had refused to blow. The way he’d found his sister’s bow snapped in half beside her mangled body.

Vae’nra’s healing touch was subtle enough that he didn’t call it out. A slight shift in his jaw betrayed that he’d felt the faint knitting of flesh beneath his tunic, bringing his mind back to where he stood. When she poured the ale, his eyes finally moved to her, taking her in with a slow, deliberate, scan. She finished, and the silence between them stretched like a taut wire. Then, slowly, Kelf leaned forward. The leather of his gloves creaked softly as he rested his forearms on the table. As Vae’nra spoke, he listened without interruption. His hand absently rolled the hilt of his dagger between two fingers, metal glinting faintly in the low light.

“You should come tomorrow,” the corners of his mouth tugged upward in something almost like a smirk. It was the closest thing to a smile one would get from Kelf. When she reached the part about them all dying, and her spirit twisting into some guilt ridden demon, he set the dagger down. The sound was soft.

“You’re not mad,” he responded, voice low and even. Kelf placed his hand over hers where it gripped the mug. It was a rare gesture from him. His palm was warm, rough from years of work. His eyes were sharp and darker than a midnight blade, yet softened in this moment. “You’re scared. And you should be. So am I. Those who aren’t won’t last long.” His thumb gave the barest squeeze against her knuckles before withdrawing.

“It wasn’t your fault, Vae. That sound, the stench… it’s not something you train for. Anyone who hasn’t seen what they do would’ve wretched.” He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “They were already coming. You didn’t call them. You didn’t lead them. You didn’t bring them to us.”

Kelf took the mug she’d offered, sniffed it once, and gave a grunt of distaste. Still, he drank. “Maker’s balls, you weren’t lying. This tastes like it was strained through a boot.”

---

Dean

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

Dean had just slung the heavy strap of his warhammer across his back when the voice called out to him. He turned, the motion deliberate, one good eye fixing on the source. Nicolosia. The dwarf’s gaze swept her from head to boots in one slow pass taking in the squared shoulders, the athletic build. Her muscles didn’t come from idle training. She had the frame. The stance. But he caught the faint tightness in her jaw, the way her fingers brushed around as though she was grounding herself. Nerves. Dean stepped toward her without a word at first, circling with the slow, predatory patience of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. His boots made a low, steady thud against the stone as he paced, forcing her to turn slightly to follow him.

“Yer built like a fighter,” he finally spoke, a gravelly rumble that carried in the narrow hall. “Got the arms for a shield or the swing for a blade. But muscle won’t save you if your gut freezes the first time you hear one of their screams.”

He stopped beside her, head tilting up just enough for his good eye to meet hers. “You truly ready to see the horrors of the darkspawn? Not the stories, lass. Them. Their stink, their teeth, the way they don’t stop until the smell of rot is all that’s left of you? Are you ready to die, not for your own glory, not for coin, but for the Blades… for Thedas? Ready to die and be forgotten while the fat kings keep their thrones and their petty wars?” His words were heavy, and blunt. Underneath it all was measure, not dismissal.

Dean moved back around to face her, crossing thick arms over his chest. The lines on his scarred face were cut deep, but so was the flicker of respect in his eye. “I see a warrior in you, lass. I’ve also seen too many chase greatness only to choke when the world asked for their bones.” He stepped back, adjusting the weight of his warhammer again. “When the sky clears, you’ll have your chance to prove yourself. If you mean what you’ve just asked me, be there. If not, don’t waste my time.”

---

Delilah

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

Delilah lingered near the hearth inside the main hall, her fingers weaving delicate patterns in the air as faint sparks of arcane light flickered at her fingertips. The rain drummed relentlessly against the stone and canvas beyond, but inside, a circle of shimmering wards glowed softly around the perimeter of the room. When a pair of young recruits stumbled past, sputtering nervously about the “lull before the storm,” Delilah gave a shake of her head.

“Calm is a luxury we can’t afford,” she murmured, voice barely above the crackling of the warded flame in the hearth. “The Fade’s stirring, and so are they.”

Delilah rose before pulling the hood of her cloak over her silver white hair. The fabric clung heavy and cold as she stepped into the rain, her footsteps careful on the slick stones. Outside, she began moving through the camp. Near the training grounds, the clatter of steel and shouted commands echoed through the rain. Delilah caught sight of Diana barking orders, her blade flashing as she pushed the warriors to shed their lethargy. The warrior's presence was fierce, and when their eyes met briefly, Delilah inclined her head in quiet respect. Delilah knew Diana’s fire would keep them sharp, and steady.

As she turned toward the center of camp, she spotted Minerva, skipping lightly along the halls with a bright smile, before she bounded onto Rasaad’s broad back. Their easy camaraderie was a brief spark of warmth against the storm’s chill. Delilah allowed herself a momentary smile. Many Blades’ spirits were fragile at this time, but theirs remained alive.

Delilah’s eyes then caught Raeretha watching Rasaad. The way Raeretha regarded Rasaad, curious and contemplative despite wariness, reminded Delilah of the unspooling of understanding that often came with time and trial. The world was shifting beneath their feet, and so too were the lines they once thought fixed. There was a gentleness about Raeretha that didn’t quite fit with the Dalish lullabies Delilah had heard from Kelf. Delilah allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible, nod toward Raeretha as the woman stood and gathered her things to find flowers to sketch.

Delilah’s gaze flicked toward Fleur as the bard slipped quietly through the shadows of the camp. The elf rogue moved with effortless grace blending into the gloom like whisper in wind. Part predator, part performer. That night in the tavern. Tension had crackled beneath the lute’s final chord, with the cold steel of a dagger flashing between them. Fleur had held her ground with equal parts charm and lethal precision. Delilah had seen many faces in her travels, hardened by war, bitter and broken, but Fleur’s had held a rare fire. A dangerous spark was hidden beneath the smooth smile, and delicate hands, that could coax music from strings or silence from enemies. Delilah had been impressed by the way Fleur met danger with a smirk instead of fear. Even after the assassin’s attempt on her life, Delilah found herself offering Fleur a place among them. Delilah recognized something in her: A survivor, and a wild card who could turn the tide in their favor if they played their hands right. Delilah caught herself smiling thinly.

When the storm broke, they’d need every blade, every note, and every fierce heart to stand against The Blight.