Adventu

Whimpered. That was what she had done, whimpered. Emitting the weak sound, she had curled in on herself and given up, the events of the past few weeks finally overwhelming her.

It had all happened quickly at first, starting with screams from the royal wing which only grew in number as it spread through the rest of the castle. Leading the massacre were empty suits of armour, undying automatons that cut down knight, man-at-arms, noble and servant alike. But what followed after was even worse – those killed rising again, wounds still leaking blood and fluids.

Velana wasn't sure how she had made it through that night; it seemed the Maker had smiled upon her when the Arlessa sent her to the kitchen for refreshments. But then the suits of armour came and her body jumped into action of its own accord, allowing her to push and shove her way through the panicking kitchen staff as the killing commenced behind her.

Once more it seemed the Maker smiled on her when the room she had locked herself in happened to be the larder, otherwise she would not have been able to survive past the first week. But it had been a long time since then, and there was nothing in the dark room for her to occupy herself with as she shifted from terror at the sound of sabatons or shuffling feet, to relief so intense it was euphoric when the sounds passed by her hiding place.

At one point, she had heard hurried footsteps outside, ending on the other side of her door. This was followed by someone trying to pull the lever and she could hear swearing as it refused to give entry to whoever was there. She had almost conquered her fear and started to edge towards the only thing between her and the rest of the world to see who it was when she heard a panicked "No! Please!" from the other side, followed by something thudding into the solid wood.

The crack below the door darkened entirely as something obstructed it, and moments later a pool of warm liquid crept in. Velana accidentally left a hand in its path and several fingers had gotten wet, she'd barely suppressed a scream and scampered back to her far corner to quiver, the liquid on her hand giving off an unmistakable iron tang.

Later – it could have been an hour, or a day, the darkness warping her sense of time – there was a shuffling at the door and then whatever was blocking the light from coming through the crack at the bottom was removed, a pair of shuffling footfalls receding down the corridor outside. Velana did not want to think what that could have meant.

So she stayed, trapped in a room with no light and a slowly diminishing supply of food. At some point her mind took flight, trapped in this castle of nightmare with terror and adrenaline coursing through her almost all the time until she was too spent to do anything but lie in her corner on a pile of empty sacks, barely managing to nourish herself from what was stored in the room beyond what had not already spoilt due to the passing of time.

She stared off into the blackness blindly, strangely detached from herself, as she thought about when her family first got news of the Arl's new wife and how she would need a maid. Her father had been so excited at the prospect of his daughter being able to serve in the court, and had done his best to get her the position. His craftsmanship was nothing to scoff at and he had regularly been commissioned by the gentry, so when the Arlessa arrived, Velana had been given the position. Her father had been so proud; she prayed he was yet safe.

Her blurred sense of time meant she had no idea how long she had been trapped in the dark hole when she heard new sounds. There was the shuffle of undead feet as ever, but this time it was more harried, accompanied by groans that betrayed how far gone the lungs and vocal chords of the bodies were. The first new sound was the clang of something metallic, followed by a noise similar to an overripe fruit getting cut, and a crunch. Then came a low hum that set the hair on her arms on edge, and there was a sharp crack that reverberated through the hall. The loud noise was followed by an almost deafening silence as the echoes of the crack died down.

Velana had no idea what had happened; had that which had started all of this finally come down to get her? There was a noise at the door as something tried to open it, then a metallic scratching at the lock followed by a click. She curled up in the corner, whimpering, as the room was bathed in brightness from the outside, blinding her light-starved eyes. Surely this is the end.

~o~

It felt odd, standing upon solid ground again after two weeks of rolling deck; it gave Sorana some insight as to why sailors walked the way they did, feet always rolling across the floor to meet it, moving or not. They had left the ship, bidding the crew farewell with sincere gratitude. While the seamen had originally balked at having to transport the refugees, desperate and fearful as they were, the Hawkes had won them over with their willingness to assist. No one would turn down a hand that paid to be allowed to be of service, no matter how short the time. Abiyah, the first mate, had even half-jokingly offered Hawke a position as part of the crew, but she had declined, stating that after what they had gone through, her place was with her family.

They were directed to dock at a fortress called the Gallows, the city having locked down the port to control the influx of refugees from the Blight. The place oozed oppression, with reliefs and sculptures of begging slaves reaching out away from the walls, as if asking any who passed to free them from their suffering. The eldest Hawke wondered what had inspired the city's Tevinter builders to include those statues in their design and what had driven the later Orlesian and Marcher occupants to keep them. Personally, she had to suppress the urge to treat each one to a superheated fireball.

Even here though, the guards were having trouble keeping the refugees back. There was a line of armoured men blocking off the entrance any deeper into the Gallows. Sorana frowned,realising that they had yet more difficulties to work through.

"It doesn't look like they're letting anyone into the city," Aveline said, putting voice to Hawke's thoughts.

"What? They can't do that, not after all we've been through!" Leandra despaired.

Carver looked at the other refugees, the crowd at the guards gradually growing as more from the ships joined to see what their future would hold. "Maybe we should take Abiyah up on his offer? If only to get to a city that's not flooded with refugees."

"No," Leandra stated, emotion creeping into her voice. "This was my home, we had an estate here…," She drifted off, the events of the previous few months making it impossible to recall the almost carefree time she had spent in Kirkwall as a youth.

Aveline sympathised with the older woman and scanned the crowd again. "The other guards seem to be reporting to that one - maybe we should try speaking with him?"

Sorana nodded, agreeing, and led the way towards the crowd. The people were packed rather tightly, so she had to resort to some force to push them apart. Some looked as if they would complain at her rude passage, but stopped themselves once they saw the group's armour and sheathed weapons.

The eldest Hawke stopped short in front of the man Aveline had pointed out earlier, him being one of the few guards that wasn't wearing his helmet at the time, revealing his cropped sandy blonde hair and young, if weary, features. He pressed his fingers to his temple and breathed in deeply upon seeing the group.

"Look, just because you can push through a bunch of people doesn't mean we'll let you into the city. We already have enough poor people of our own without you refugees piling up in front of our gates." His voice was strained, as if repeating the same thing for the hundredth time.

"So it's true?" Aveline queried, "you're not letting anyone into the city?"

"Yes, and if I'd've had my way we'd just bar the gates on all refugees. But, some have legitimate business here, so Knight-Commander Meredith is having everyone screened before we're allowed to let you enter or turn you away."

Sorana sensed as her gut seemed to plummet once more, a sensation that was becoming all too familiar: Knight-Commander…. "That's a Templar title; are you taking orders from this Meredith?"

"Yes, well…no," the sandy-haired guard replied. "We don't report to her, but she's the power here. Not even the Viscount tries to go against anything she says. Anyway, if you want in, that's none of my business; go talk to Captain Ewald, in the courtyard. I'm just here to make sure you refuse don't start climbing the walls."

Hawke nodded and moved past the man into the dark passageway ahead; time to see what it would take for them to get into the city.

~o~

Celestine was terrified as they fought through the corridors or Redcliffe. Not of their foe, no – while the undead may have been deeply unsettling she had been immersed in the world of magic far too long to have a fear of them. They were merely spirits of rage, hunger or sloth that had either possessed corpses or been forced into them; the psychological threat was restricted to how squeamish one was. No, she was terrified of herself.

Never had she been as grateful that Alistair received the training he had; surely the Maker had planned it? She had lost control, her anger at Jowan for his betrayal overwhelming her restraint. She could almost hear the booming laughter of a demon of rage as she fed its essence, the funnel of power that was her potential helping it manifest.

It must have been a strong Rage demon to have had the effect it did, but that did not diminish the fact that it was indeed rage – not desire, or pride, or one of the other more powerful aspects; no, it had been rage. That point made her wonder how she would fare in the face of one of the other types; after all, the Pride – Veeshaz, Torpor had called it, had set its sights on her during her Harrowing.

Even after the moment was sufficiently past, she made sure to let only the barest hints of the Fade trickle through into her spells, for fear of something else affecting her. She would have preferred to stop casting altogether, but knew it would only have weakened her over time. She recalled the lessons in discipline she had undergone with the First Enchanter, to exert her power only when it was restrained by the iron fist of her will.

No. She would not let herself be caught in such a manner again, and kept the warped bars of Jowan's cell as an image fixed into her mind, combined with the scent of burning grass and flesh – a whole caravan flash-immolated.

In a sense, she was grateful for the undead. Their presence allowed her the opportunity to vent her frustration with herself, lightning humming through her staff and limbs as it arced between foes. Flames rippled with hunger as they consumed recently deceased bones.

They had just finished off another group of shambling corpses in their path when Celestine felt a gentle hand upon her shoulder. She turned to meet the ice-blue eyes of Elisa. The rogue pointed to a door on the far side of the corridor, a large bloodstain colouring the old wood, and a dry pool of blood having congealed at its base. One of the castle staff had died trying to enter that chamber.

The former Circle mage nodded, and Elisa moved towards the door, first testing whether it would open of its own accord. When it did not, she drew out her lockpicks and set to work.