Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.
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Chapter Nineteen: Broken Circle - Part Two
Methodical and determined, the Warden and his companions continued their journey up through the grim halls of Kinloch Hold, each new corridor and room spewing forth some fresh horror to oppose them. The enemy had been indiscriminate in their cruelties, mage and Templar alike falling prey to the demonic horrors that had overwhelmed the Tower, their flesh claimed alive or dead. In a vast library reduced to heartbreaking disorder, in expansive dormitories left in shambles, in ruined laboratories and desecrated halls, the demons reacted to their intrusion with the fury of disturbed wasps: clusters of abominations, their magical power wedded to maddened brutality, the newly rising corpses of Templars and Chantry priests, consumed by the arcane powers they had long stood against, shades slithering out of the darkness, and more.
They would have been lost were it not for Wynne. Against such power, few mortals could withstand, but time and again, her magic gave them the advantage: tending to their wounds, shielding them from the worst of the enemy’s spells, giving them the strength to fight on against such terrible odds. They would not have lasted long without her, and with each new spell, the Warden’s respect for her grew.
On the second floor of the tower, the demons had laid waste to a chapel used by the mages for chastisement and lessons in Chantry doctrine. Like the Maker’s vengeance itself, the foursome stormed into the profaned sanctuary, blades cutting deep into mutated and necrotic flesh. An abomination rose from the pack to confront them, voidfire gathering in its palms, and with her usual accuracy, Leliana put a goose-feathered shaft through its right eye, the impact of a second shot at close range to the creature’s heart staggering it back a pace. It came on, claws outstretched to tear her apart, but Sagramor was both fleet of foot and a swift learner, and his greatsword found its mark, sending the creature reeling backwards, nursing a jagged stump. The elf pressed his advantage, leaving his blade sheathed in its gut, dodging to avoid the spray of voidfire, and Leliana finished it off with a final arrow between its eyes, the unholy fires burning there extinguished.
White light burst from Wynne’s staff, slicing through the ranks of the undead like hot knives, tearing those closest apart. Into the breach stormed Alistair, hammered them down with blade and shield and Templar powers. From the side came another rage demon, one of the fiery creatures that had assaulted the barrier, spewing flames with every breath. Mage and Templar unleashed their combined powers upon it, and the demon gave a horrid shriek as it wilted away, left weakened for Alistair’s steel to banish it completely. With the more powerful entities slain, the last few foes died swiftly, blessed silence returning to the chapel in their wake. “Maker’s mercy, have they spared any?” Leliana demanded in horror, noting the bodies of a half-dozen Chantry initiates strewn at the feet of a shattered statue of Andraste, the oldest barely into womanhood. “They must have come here hoping to find refuge.”
“And found the enemy instead,” Wynne lamented, closing their eyes with a gentle touch. “Poor girls. We should try and burn their bodies, before more demons seek to take possession. They deserved better than that.”
“I must say, I wasn’t really expecting sympathy for the Chantry from a mage,” Alistair noted glibly.
“And why not?” Wynne questioned.
“Well… the Circle is a prison for mages, isn’t it?”
“It is,” the mage admitted without rancour, the disdain Morrigan showed for the Chantry and all its works absent in her. “But it’s also a community and a place of learning, Alistair.” Sad blue eyes cast over the bloody spectacle. “It’s our home, and look what Uldred’s madness has done to it.”
“How did you survive the fall of Ostagar, Wynne?” asked Sagramor, giving voice to the question that had been nagging at him since he first saw her. “We barely managed to escape ourselves.”
Wynne smiled grimly. “Sheer luck alone was the deciding factor, Warden. I had been swept up in the retreat with a company of the King’s Own, and barely managed to escape the gorge before Cailan’s army was routed. After the battle, I hurried back to the Circle, hoping to inform Irving of what had happened and rally more mages against the darkspawn.”
“And that was when this Uldred made his move?” Leliana surmised.
“Indeed. Uldred was trying to convince the Circle to throw its lot in with Loghain; that in return for our support, he would guarantee the Circle would gain its independence from the Chantry. The Libertarians were in favour, of course, but when I told them how Loghain abandoned Cailan on the battlefield, he took it… poorly.”
“Loghain’s willing to openly defy the Chantry?” Alistair all but spat, his rage rekindling.
“He was willing to abandon his own king and thousands of men to die,” Wynne reminded him. “Why would he show any greater consideration the Chantry and Circle? And this is the result…”
“We’ll set things right, Wynne, I promise you,” stated Sagramor, recognizing her heartbreak. The thought of anything similar happening to the Denerim Alienage was not to be borne, for the prospect of his home suffering from a foe’s violence was too plausible, too real to be considered. Andraste, please don’t let that happen. My people have suffered enough. “How far are we from the First Enchanter’s office?”
“It is at the end of the hallway, by the stairs leading to the next level of the Tower.”
“Let’s just hope he’s alive,” Alistair muttered darkly. “I--”
At the door to the chapel, Leliana raised a hand for silence, the party instantly complying. From out in the hall came the sound of measured footsteps, the Orlesian girl pressing herself to the side of the entrance as they approached, long knife in hand. The intruder’s shadow passed over the doorframe, and like lightning, she seized him by the robes and dragged him into the room to face a trio of bared blades. Surprisingly, he gave no sign of fear at this rough treatment, dull eyes staring out towards Wynne. “Senior Enchanter Wynne. You survive.”
“Owain?” came Wynne’s surprised response. Waving the others away, she brought him to his feet, smiling. “I had not thought to see you alive. What are you doing wandering the halls? It’s not safe!”
“It is time for me to replace the votive candles, as per my duties,” Owain stated in that same dull monotone, his loose-fitting blue robes smeared with dirt. Beneath his balding pate, just above glassy brown eyes, the sunburst emblem of the Chantry had been branded into his flesh, a bizarre and rather disturbing context for such a holy symbol. “My responsibilities are clear. I must attend to the proper upkeep of the second floor chapel and the second floor stockroom. Please do not enter the second floor stockroom at this time. It is a mess, and I have not been able to get it in a state fit to be seen.”
“Are you quite alright, ser?” Sagramor asked, unable to shake his wariness. This was the first living person they’d seen since they left the children on the first floor, yet his demeanour, his apparent disregard for his own safety, set him on edge. Shock, perhaps? Some sort of battlefield trauma?
“He is one of the Tranquil. He has no emotions,” Wynne stated matter-of-factly.
“That’s something that demands an explanation. He has no emotions? How in Andraste’s name does that work?”
“It’s a topic for another time, I’m afraid,” Wynne said, disinclined to discuss it further. “Owain, have you been hiding in the stockroom this entire time?”
“I tried to leave when things got quiet, but was blocked by a magical barrier. With no other recourse, I returned to work. My responsibilities are clear.”
“Oh, Owain, you should have said something! I would have lowered the barrier for you!” Wynne declared in exasperation.
“My responsibilities are clear. The stockroom and chapel must be maintained. I would be punished if they were left in disrepair.”
“Your devotion to your duty is admirable, Owain, but I am certain no one could fault you for this,” Leliana assured him, her own discomfort with the Tranquil’s blank attitude obvious. “Have you encountered any abominations yourself?”
“No. Perhaps I should consider myself fortunate. I would prefer not to die,” Owain answered in that same lifeless monotone. “I would prefer it if the Tower would return to the way it was. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all.”
“Who’s he?” demanded Alistair.
“A mage of the Circle, and a very promising one,” explained Wynne, clearly proud of him. “He’s well on the road to becoming an Enchanter himself. What was he trying to accomplish, Owain?”
“I do not know, but he came here with several others and took the Litany of Adralla out of storage.”
“But that only protects against mind domination. Is blood magic at work here?”
“I do not know.”
Alistair cursed in disgust. “Maleficarum. I should have guessed as much. That would explain where there’s so many abominations running around.”
“One need not practice blood magic to become an abomination, Alistair,” the mage reminded him. “It is a fate that can befall any mage, no matter how talented, or what practices they employ. Still, Niall was at the meeting, and he wouldn’t take such a precaution unless he thought it necessary. Blood magic… I was afraid of this.”
You and me both, Wynne, Sagramor thought to himself, mouth dry with fear. If what the Chantry preached about blood magic was even slightly accurate, then it was no wonder the considered the Rite of Annulment a valid option. The power to control minds, to raise the dead, to summon demons, to consume the life force of others, to augment their spells to even greater heights of power: blood mages were capable of all that and so much more. Such practices were automatically condemned by the Chantry, their users subject to immediate execution, and at the memory of Connor’s enthrallment, the elf vowed inwardly to die before falling prey to such a thing again. “Well, it makes sense that Uldred would have some help; one man couldn’t bring an entire Circle and its Templar garrison to its knees, no matter how powerful. But what about this Litany? How does that help?”
“It is an ancient artefact of the Circle, a treatise that contains the incantation by which a blood mage’s control might be dispelled,” Wynne explained. “We should find Niall. The Litany may give us a chance against any blood mages we encounter.”
“Wynne’s right, we’ll need that edge,” stated Alistair. “My Templar abilities let me resist being influenced like that somewhat, but the rest of you don’t have that protection. And if these blood mages are willing to destroy an entire Circle to get what they want, they won’t hesitate to try and subvert you.”
“Then let us hope that we find Niall before any blood mages find us,” said Leliana.
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The poor fortune that had led them to a Circle in chaos continued to hold true. In the end, they found the enemy long before they found Niall.
“Blast it open already!” came the insistent voice, and the Warden’s company wordlessly ducked behind the nearest statues as a great boom echoed throughout the passageway, accompanied by the sound of tearing wood. “Finally, it’s about time! Let’s grab whatever treasures we can and get out of here!”
“This isn’t going to work,” a second voice protested. “The Templars will have the lower doors sealed and guarded, there’s no way we can escape through there!”
“We’ve beaten Templars before,” said a woman, the sickly light of her magic shimmering at the end of the corridor. Silently, Sagramor motioned his companions forward, keeping his blade lowered to minimize detection. “There can’t be that many guarding the Tower’s entrance, and we’ll have a better chance fighting them than we would staying here.”
“How could it all have gone so wrong?” the second voice lamented. “Uldred promised us freedom, not this insanity! I signed up to avenge Nimue, not to see my friends turned into monsters!” Something happened to Nimue? Sagramor gasped inwardly, resisting the urge to barge in and demand answers.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the first voice. As Sagramor darted to a nearby pillar, he glimpsed the bloody steel in the mage’s hand, the sight provoking an almost primal revulsion in him. “The First Enchanter’s bound to have some coin or trinkets in his office. Let’s grab the best pieces, then get out of here. The Templars will be too busy to chase down a few stray blood mages after all this.”
With a shadow’s grace, Leliana nocked an arrow to her bowstring. For a moment, the elf was tempted to leave them be, in spite of their blood magic: whatever loyalty they might have given to Uldred had vanished, and unlike the abominations and demons the party had fought, these were reasoning beings that could be convinced to back down. Yet the memory of the dead children transmuted the Warden’s heart to iron, and he met Leliana’s gaze with a grim nod.
In one swift motion, Leliana turned and sent her arrow scything into the first mage’s throat, the sheer force of the shot flinging his body away. Shouting in rage, Sagramor descended on the other two, armoured shoulder checking the female mage down to the floor. The last one, the one exhorting his fellows to plunder the First Enchanter’s office, was quicker to react, and the elf cried out as a wave of force sent him hurtling down the hall with a bruising impact. Leliana snapped off another shot, but the mage was prepared, the arrow violently halting in midair.
“Mundane vermin!” the mage shrieked, plunging the dagger into his palm. Instantly, the blood levitated up from the wound, igniting on contact with the air as it hurtled towards Leliana. The Orlesian girl darted past the flaming spray, screaming in pain as a few stray droplets splattered upon the bare skin of her right arm. Wynne’s arcane blasts and Alistair’s Templar anti-magics forced the blood mage back, his shield weakening under the onslaught, but the maleficar did not back down, a new guttural incantation spilling forth from his lips, sending black tendrils rising up from the dust and stone to lash out at the party. Alistair’s longsword met them with a desperate energy, bright steel hacking away. Grey eyes blazing with anger, Sagramor returned to the fray, his fury at witnessing Leliana in pain driving every strike, the enemy’s next spell faltering at his approach.
Bright steel suddenly arced over the fray: one of Leliana’s daggers, hurled with her usual accuracy to sink into the meat of the blood mage’s shoulder. Screaming, he stumbled backwards, and Sagramor took his head off with a snarl, the tendrils dying with their master. The last of the trio, the maleficar woman, gave a terrified scream as her companion fell, and Sagramor swiftly kicked her staff away and out of her reach, his blade aimed right for her heart. “Please, please, don’t kill me!” she begged, lying prostrate upon the stone floor. “Spare me, ser. Have mercy.”
“What about your fellow mages? And the Templars who guarded them?” There was not an ounce of pity to be found in the Warden’s voice, all thoughts of sparing her discarded by Leliana’s injury. “Did they beg for mercy when you turned against them? Did you heed their pleas?”
“I know I have no right to ask for mercy, but I didn’t mean for this death and destruction to occur,” the maleficar stated, glancing nervously at Alistair’s approach.
The former Templar scoffed in contempt, joining his blade with Sagramor’s own, sparking a fresh protest. “We were only trying to free ourselves! The Templars kill and imprison us for the slightest infraction, they condemn the best of us to Tranquil or worse should we displease them! They’re watching, always watching…”
“Yes, well, that’s their job,” Alistair remarked scornfully. “If anything, you’re only proving them right.”
“They’ll hate us no matter what we do, so why should we let them govern our lives? Uldred told us that Loghain would stand for a free Circle in return for our support! You don’t know what it’s like, to be condemned as monsters simply for being different!”
“I know more about that than you realize,” the elf remarked coldly. “Haven’t you considered that this will only make things worse? No one will look upon this disaster and see the need to give mages greater rights, they’ll only condemn you further.”
“Andraste didn’t bring down Old Tevinter with a strongly-worded letter. She fought and bled and sacrificed as many as were needed to see victory. We thought… someone always has to take the first step, to force a change, no matter the cost.”
“A cost too many good people have borne!” Wynne spat from Leliana’s side, her hands alight with a pale blue glow as she worked to heal the archer’s arm. “Nothing is worth what you’ve done to this place.”
“Then let me right the wrongs I’ve done. I’ve been foolish, I know, but I can repent my sins! If I escape, I can seek penance at the Chantry, I can--“
“You know they’ll never take a maleficar. They’re picky like that. And we can’t let a blood mage live,” Alistair interjected. “You’ve already broken oaths before in aiding Uldred. Why should we trust anything you have to say?”
The blood mage sobbed softly. “So that is it, then? I am doomed, no matter what I do? Like Nimue?”
“Nimue?” demanded Sagramor. “What are you talking about?”
A bitter chuckle rose from her throat, and she rose to her feet, heedless of the threatening steel. “The Chantry’s puppet didn’t tell you? She didn’t mention what the Templars did to Nimue, how they hurt her, all because of another’s deeds? She was the best of us, the Circle’s brightest star, and they condemned her all the same! I won’t let what happened to her happen again!”
“Don’t do this,” cautioned Sagramor, staring the maleficar down.
“Why not? I’m dead no matter what I do. If the Templars don’t kill me, then your friend here will, so better I die fighting!” Screaming vengefully, she lunged towards the party, fire blossoming rapidly along her forearms. Forewarned by his Templar abilities, however, Alistair was faster, bringing up his shield to intercept her desperate charge midstride, longsword sinking deep into her chest, her last breath spent cursing all Templars.
“Andraste forgive her,” Leliana intoned as Wynne helped her up, her arm restored to full functionality.
“What?” demanded Alistair, looking at the Orlesian woman like she’d sprouted an extra head. “Something tells me that the Maker and Andraste don’t exactly have concern to spare for maleficars.”
“Your comments betray your ignorance, Alistair, for the Maker loves us all,” she snapped back, staring at the corpse with genuine pity in her eyes. “We should not have backed her into a corner like that. She could have been saved.”
Alistair shook his head. “She made her choices, Leliana, and too many people ended up paying for them. Save your sympathy for someone that matters. Besides, she attacked us. What was I supposed to do, give her a hug?”
The former Templar certainly had a point, but looking down at the fallen blood mage, Sagramor felt his iron heart give way to pity in spite of himself. What could have driven her to resort to blood magic in the first place? Is the situation for mages truly so intolerable that even dealing with demons was preferable to the endless surveillance of the Templars? It was far easier to label her a monster, for one need not show mercy to monsters. But whatever her misdeeds, he would not permit himself to forget that she had been a person in life. And the things she said… “What did she mean about Nimue, Wynne? What happened to her?”
“I do not know, Warden, truly. I only returned here a short while ago, and much might have happened in the Cirlce since I joined Cailan’s host.”
“Fair enough,” permitted Sagramor. There would be time to discover Nimue’s fate once the Circle was saved, and if she had been harmed, there would be a reckoning, no matter the perpetrator. “I’d imagine if First Enchanter Irving was alive and in his office, he’d be out here already after all the noise we made.”
“True, but he may have left some clue as to his whereabouts. This is the first place anyone might look for him,” Wynne reminded him. “See if there’s any trace of him, Warden. We’ll stay here and keep watch for any more foes.”
Nodding, Sagramor briskly strode past the shattered door into the First Enchanter’s office, observing the well-stocked bookshelves lining every wall, brimming with titles from as far away as Rivian and the Anderfels. Irving himself was absent, alive or dead, and what scant relief Sagramor took in not finding his corpse evaporated with the realization that he was still missing somewhere in the blood-strewn insanity beyond. “Well, it was worth a shot,” the elf muttered to himself, pausing to examine the great oaken desk at the far end of the room.
And stopped. For there, sitting atop the mage’s desk beneath a small scrap of paper, was Flemeth’s grimoire.
Sagramor’s breath hitched in his throat, fingers idly tracing the leather-bound cover, exactly as Morrigan described. He had not thought to find the tome so easily; from what the apostate described, it seemed the sort of thing to be forever kept under lock and key, to be read on pain of eternal damnation. Was the First Enchanter hoping to study it? mused the Warden, slyly glancing about to ensure that no one was watching before stuffing it into his pack, trying to ignore the pang of guilt. He owed Morrigan this much, and it was wholly unlikely the Circle or Templars would ever release the book into his possession otherwise. He just hoped stealing from their allies didn’t become a habit, and that the knowledge they’d gain would be worth such deceitful behaviour. Now what about this parchment? he wondered, grey eyes quickly darting over its contents.
“I go to the Harrowing Chamber. Uldred is there, and unless I put an end to his evil, it will spread to consume all of Ferelden. If you are reading this, seek shelter wherever you can. Wait out the storm. Whatever happens, the Circle must endure.
Irving.”
“’Harrowing Chamber.’ Sounds pleasant,” the elf muttered, folding up the note. They had a destination now, and the hunt continued.
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The first few floors of the Tower had been bad enough, but those above rapidly descended into a nightmare from the moment they ascended the steps. According to Wynne, this section of Kinloch Hold had been devoted to the Circle’s Templar garrison, but for all their resistance to magic and persistent vigilance, they had fared no better than the mages under their charge. The devastation wrought here was even more pronounced, if such a thing were possible, mage and demon alike venting their fury upon their surroundings in an orgy of destruction. Worst still were the flesh-like growths that had begun to carpet the walls and floor, the meat-fungus oozing from the cracks between the stones and trembling with the release of noxious gases. The further they went through the tower, the more prominent the growths became, crawling over every surface until their footing became treacherous, yet another danger in a tower overflowing with them. Room by room, hall by hall, the Warden and his companions fought their way through the legion of horrors, each new chamber bringing fresh dangers, yet no further sign of the First Enchanter.
Outside an unlocked armory used by the Templars, the little company faced their worst foe yet. Eyes wild and howling like the damned, the few Templars on this level that had survived the onslaught hurled themselves at the party, wholly lost to the madness that had overcome them, swordcraft forgotten in their insanity. “They must be enthralled!” shouted Alistair, parrying the first wild blow. “Kill whatever’s responsible, and they can be freed!”
“They might not give us much choice!” Sagramor replied, greatsword enduring a series of frantic strikes. At his side, Leliana put her dwindling supply of arrows to work, aiming for the enemy’s joints in order to incapacitate them, but as in Redcliffe Castle, those enthralled ignored the pain of their wounds, fighting on beyond what their mortal frames could endure. Can’t believe I’m missing Jowan! thought the elf, slamming the hilt of his weapon against the nearest Templar helm. The steel sang out like it once had upon the anvil, but its bearer didn’t seem to feel the blow, responding with a two-handed chop that gouged chips from the stone.
From amidst the feral Templar pack, something moved with the shimmer of molten air over a desert. White light flared from the tip of Wynne’s staff, lancing through the ranks and revealing the demon as it was blasted away. Sagramor caught a small glimpse before the mage burned it to ash: long legs ending in cloven hooves, silken pink skin exuding a cloying perfume, purple feline eyes narrowed hatefully as the spirit energy consumed it. Howling in grief, the Templars intensified their attacks, the demon’s enthrallment persisting even beyond death, so with heavy hearts, the Warden’s company were forced to put them down, the last of the maniacs perishing after several minutes of brutal fighting. “Damn it!” Alistair spat, closing the eyes of the fallen in hopes of restoring the dignity the demon had taken from them. “We should have been able to save them!”
“I know, Alistair,” answered Sagramor, ignoring the pain of his wounds freshly received from the brainwashed warrior-monks. The only consolation he could take was that they’d be free of their madness in death, but that was cold comfort next to the bleeding bodies on the floor in front of them. “Stock up on any gear you might need. These boys won’t need it.”
“Be sure to take some rune-arrows, Leliana,” Wynne urged the Orlesian girl as she made her way over to a rack of lyrium potions, the brass lock meant to discourage any Templars from helping themselves to an extra ration quickly undone with a minor cantrip. “The Templars have the Formari make them for just such an occurrence, when they need to safely bring down abominations and demons from range. The magics contained within may be useful to us.”
“It is a shame they could not serve these poor souls as well,” Leliana remarked, nevertheless stocking her quiver full of the enchanted missiles, the runes carved into the arrowheads glowing bright at her touch.
“We certainly could have used them at Redcliffe,” added Sagramor.
“Yes, you mentioned before the settlement was in danger,” mused Wynne. “What exactly is happening over there?”
“It’s a long story, but they have a demon problem of their own, one unleashed by an apostate working for Loghain,” Alistair stated bluntly, taking point as the company continued on their way.
Wynne clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Our dear Teryn has been busy lately.”
“You’re telling me. Seems like everywhere we turn, there’s some disaster with Loghain’s hands all over it.”
“What’s left to search on this level, Wynne?” asked Sagramor.
“Just the central hall and then the passage leading to the Harrowing Chamber,” said Wynne, unerringly guiding them through the ransacked halls. ”Maker grant that we find Irving alive and whole.”
“Agreed,” said the elf, thinking back to the First Enchanter’s hastily-scribbled note. What could have possessed Irving to make undertake such a desperate and foolish gambit? The same reason we’re taking on an entire tower full of demons in order to rescue him: to save the Circle and set things right again, the Warden reminded himself, lengthening his stride. He could not accept that after how hard they had fought and how many dangers they had overcome, that the object of their quest might perish meanly in some dank corner of the Tower, unaided and forgotten.
The company passed the threshold into the central chamber, the pervasive flesh-growths spilling over every surface and object in the room. From amidst the endless bloated fungus, something caught Wynne’s eye, and with a horrified gasp, she darted past the startled Wardens to kneel beside the motionless body of a young mage, webbed up against a statue of Andraste by the enshrouding growths. “Niall?” she spoke, his name spilling forth from her lips in horror. “Niall, can you hear me?”
“Andraste, is he even still alive?” blurted Leliana, appalled by the sight. Niall certainly looked the part: his pale, clammy skin cold was to the touch, brown eyes stared lifelessly ahead, and no breath emerged from beyond his chapped and bloodied lips. Grimacing in disgust, Leliana gave an exploratory tug of the flesh-growths binding his limbs to his sides, shuddering as the material convulsed beneath her touch. “What exactly has happened to him?”
“He’s been put into some sort of trance,” Wynne explained, looking out towards the darkened ceiling joists. “This is no mere cantrip meant to subdue him either. We need to-“
“Ohh, look, visitors.” The voice came from every direction, echoing throughout the squalid chamber, and instinctively, the elf peered about for the source, greatsword at the ready. “I’d entertain you, but… too much effort involved.”
“Show yourself, creature!” Wynne demanded, light flaring from her staff in the hopes of revealing its hiding place. “What have you done to Niall?”
The shadows stubbornly refused to withdraw, absorbing Wynne’s spell wholesale. “He’s just having a nice rest. Poor lad, he was so very weary. You look like you could do with a rest too.”
Leaden fatigue settled over the Warden, his blade impossibly heavy in his hands. Behind him, Alistair yawned mightly, his own armaments clattering to the floor, abandoned in his sudden exhaustion. “Wouldn’t you like to just lie down and forget about all this? Leave it all behind? Let someone else bear the burden of saving the world for once. You’ve done your part.”
Groaning wearily, Leliana made a valiant effort to stay awake, blue eyes fluttering. “I will not listen to your lies, demon,” she whispered, sinking to her knees in spite of herself. “You have no… power over me…”
“Why do you fight?” the voice asked, its tone so calming Sagramor barely registered his greatsword slipping from his grasp. In his exhaustion, the Warden caught the briefest glimpse of a profusion of spindly limbs scuttling from out of the shadows in the ceiling before he succumbed to sleep, a barbed claw extending outwards to treasuringly stroke his cheek. “You deserve more. You deserve better. The world will go on without you…”