Title: Skyborn
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Guided by the prophetic visions of the Lady of the Skies, Ursula Skyborn, huntress of the Avvar barbarians, must uncover the culprits behind a series of vicious raids plaguing her people as the Blight descends... A short story entry for The-Bards-College 2017 Summer Contest.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: N/A.
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Skyborn

The serpent came, and doom followed in its wake.

From the roots of a dead tree, it emerged upwards, the day retreating as it slithered forth from its lair. The sun fled, incapable of enduring its presence , stealing all light and warmth away lest they be consumed by the beast as all things would. All about it, the land died, all that grew withering to dust and rot, and all that lived upon it twisted and reforged into its own malformed image. Outward stretched the darkness, devouring all, until even the stars wailed and died at its touch, and gods and men alike cast aside their courage to hasten their futile escape.

But where all others fled or fell or were corrupted, one creature stood firm against the beast, a young wolf, grey fur scarred from a hundred fights, fangs whetted sharp in the cavern of its mouth. Atop its right shoulder perched a nightingale, the darkness quailing and withdrawing from its sweet song, while at its left, a raven croaked bitter wisdom, golden eyes fixed upon it.

The serpent gave a menacing hiss, and the wolf lunged with a swiftness that put its avian companions to flight, teeth bared to tear its enemy’s throat free of its tainted flesh. The serpent met the charge in kind, the crack of doom sounding at the impact, and through the dust and blood that engulfed them, she saw the victor emerge…

Almond-brown eyes snapped open as Ursula Skyborn wordlessly awoke beneath the shelter of the cave’s mouth, right hand clenched in a death-grip about the hilt of her drawn seax, the decorative patterns etched into the steel glimmering with morning frost. With a practiced stillness, the huntress carefully observed the mountain copse surrounding her for any sign of movement, her breathing controlled and precise in the cold, high air, lithe figure tense as her longbow at full draw beneath her woolen cloak, ready to spring into action at the slightest threat. Long moments passed, but she patiently endured, the lessons ingrained in her since childhood demanding no less. Finally, she deemed it safe enough for the hold on the blade to soften, woad-marked  face turned to the clear, frostbitten sky to offer her prayer. “Your humble servant thanks you for the blessing of your wisdom, o Lady of the Skies. I beseech you, guide my arrows and grant me your fury, so that I may never know defeat.”

The distant cry of a raven echoed throughout the copse, and Ursula smiled, recognizing the good omen. Every warrior of the Avvar knew the importance of omens, how they served to convey the will of the gods, and only a fool or a lowlander would ever dismiss them out of hand. Dreams were the most important of these, and for those who opened their minds to the whispers from beyond, there were many insights to be found. Especially when the Lady sends you the same dream eight nights running, Ursula reminded herself, rising to greet the pale, pre-dawn wolf-light. She was Skyborn, her life and soul sworn to the service of the Lady of the Skies, and she knew a message from the goddess when she saw one. It was by such visions that the elders of the Skyborn determined which Avvar girls would be selected in the annual Raventithe and educated in the ways of the cult. It was by such visions that each huntress was guided, the quests they undertook given to them by the Lady herself; some to act as mediators between warring tribes, others to serve amongst the cohorts of a given clan as scouts and assassins, others to wander the lands in search of dangers that might threaten their people. Her current mission had been inspired by just such a dream, and when the task was done, Ursula knew that the mysteries surrounding the grey-eyed wolf would have to be uncovered.

Without further preamble, the Avvar woman hitched up her pack and headed south, the wind rising to flutter through the raven feathers threaded amongst her long auburn hair. True winter had yet to descend on southern Thedas, but the Frostback Mountains were aptly-named, the great stands of pine and cedar that rose from the craggy slopes powdered white with the night’s frost, while the distant, darkened clouds scraping their bellies along the jagged peaks promised more snow to come. The rocky ground too had been frozen hard, but even so, she picked up the trail again almost immediately, the passage of numerous men and animals plain to one so schooled in the art of tracking. The enemy was still moving, still bearing their plunder, and at the memory of the burning encampments and slaughtered children, a barely audible snarl seeped through her clenched teeth, the familiar weight of longbow and well-honed blades comforting in her building fury.

It was thanks to the Lady’s visions that she had first learned of the raids, of secretive attackers descending upon the Avvar tribes to butcher and loot with a savagery that put the constant inter-tribal squabbling amongst the hillfolk to shame. Who the perpetrators were remained a mystery; while cattle raids were a common feature of life in the harsh, snowy mountains, the attacks had struck too many clans and encroached upon too many different territories for any one definitive suspect to emerge. No clan within a week’s march of the raided communities boasted an unexpected wealth of cattle, sheep or goats, and no survivors remained to carry tales of what had transpired. Some whispered the darkspawn were responsible; indeed, the elders of the Skyborn had sent many of her sister-huntresses seeking any sign of darkspawn incursions into the Frostbacks, while others still approached each of the feuding Avvar clans in hopes of uniting them against the threat. The Lady had guided her to the site of the latest attack, an encampment of the Red Hounds, to find their Thane dead, their spirit animal slain, their huscarls massacred and their herds stolen. Two days of driven pursuit, with only the briefest respite for food and rest, had gotten her this far, and at the sight of thin smoke inking the horizon from the next valley, she lengthened her coltish stride, darting into the cover of the trees to conceal her approach.

The smoke intensified, and Ursula paused to string her longbow, the tension in the great yew stave mirrored in her soul. Nocking an arrow, the Avvar huntress crept forward with a practiced stealth, her leather garb blending into the surrounding trunks, each footfall carefully measured to minimize any noise. Voices emerged from beyond the trees, unguarded, brash and not in the Avvar tongue. Slowly, she advanced, conscious of the glimmer of drawn steel ahead, until the valley opened up into a small clearing and she caught her first glimpse of the enemy.

It was not the darkspawn, the revelation leaving Ursula obscurely disappointed. She’d heard many tales of their strength and ferocity, and to face such creatures in battle would be a test worthy of any warrior of the Avvar, a chance to display the valour the gods demanded of them. No, these were simply men, and from what she could tell, not men of the hillfolk. There were six of them, each clad in full-length chainmail hauberks as opposed to the leathers and furs preferred by the Avvar, red steel helms burnished to a proud gloss and chests absent any tabard displaying their allegiance. Behind the laughing raiders, a hunter’s lodge that had occupied the clearing for decades burned fulsomely, its murdered inhabitants callously discarded around like camp leavings, denied the air-burials that would speed their shadowbodies to the Otherworld and the Lady’s divine judgment.

Bridling at the heretical insult, Ursula forced herself to remain calm, chaining her fury until the time came to unleash it. “Only six men…” she muttered to herself. It seemed impossible that only six men, no matter their skill, could have brought about so much devastation over such a wide area; such a murder-make could only be possible with a full warband, or even an army, and instinctively, she glanced around for more, wary of ambush. She noticed too that any herd animals they’d seized were long gone, the trail of spoor leading southwest suggesting the raiders had already made off with their plunder. A rearguard, then, meant to shield against a counterattack and obscure the passage of the main force, she mused, drawing back beyond the treeline as stealthily as she approached. It might have been the practical decision for the raiders to leave a rearguard, but a foolish one, for there were still questions in need of answers, and now men remained to offer them. Even if I must tear them from their throats, she promised herself, smiling in delight at the thought.

To her left, twigs snapped underfoot. Instantly, Ursula was moving, bounding up the nearest tree and disappearing within the protective confines of the lower branches just as a seventh raider walked into view, long spear poking furtively amongst the boles and exposed roots. She waited until the sentry had passed beneath her before dropping, heavy boots clouting him on the back of the head and knocking him to the ground. Out came the seax before he could cry out, the blade inches from his face, a knee at the small of his back halting his futile struggles. “Do not scream,” ordered the huntress, voice as cold as winter, as the Utterdark, as the levelled steel. “You will tell me what I wish to know.”

“I’ll tell you nothing, pagan!” her prisoner hissed venomously, seeming undeterred by the blade’s threat. “I am blessed by Her and chosen by Her. I will not submit.”

“You shall,” Ursula intoned, pulling up the hauberk to tap the flat of the blade against his groin. The raider went pale as a sheet, provoking a vicious smile from the Avvar woman. “Now who are you, and why have you raided my people?”

“Your people are naught but heathen scum, fit only to bleed and nothing else. We serve Her, and we will take what we need before the darkness comes.”

Ursula’s knee dug into his back. “Enough riddles. Are you lowlanders, come into the Frostbacks to spread your weakling faith?” she demanded, the very notion making her blood boil. “Where are you from?”

“Disciples! The pag--” The raider’s cry of warning devolved into a screech of agony as Ursula made good on the seax’s promise, her second stroke sending the finely-made steel into her enemy’s temple, silencing him for good. From the clearing came the hue and cry, and she darted behind the nearest tree, longbow at the ready, hunter’s eye searching for targets.

They were not long in coming.

With a furious howl, the six raiders stormed up the slope in a blind rush, self-preservation discarded, the valley alive with the sound of their vengeful oaths. Ursula’s first shot took the foremost raider in the knee, pitching him to the rocky earth to be trampled underfoot by his charging comrades. A second arrow, and another raider fell, the Lady guiding the oaken shaft into her target’s left eye. An errant crossbow bolt soared past, shredding bark from the nearest branch, and her retaliatory shot sent the missile flying with enough force to pierce the offender’s mail coat, leaving him mewling and clutching his abdomen.

And then they were upon her. Ursula leapt back, letting the first attacker waste the swing of his battleaxe on empty air before releasing the bowstring, the point-blank shot hurling the foe away. Another came at her from the left, longsword biting into the surrounding trees in his frenzy. Ducking another wild slash, the huntress cast her bow aside, seax and hand axe slipping free of their scabbards, the former deflecting a backhand sweep and leaving his chest exposed for a vicious blow from the latter. Still, he came on, sheer weight bullying her back, even as the final raider attempted to flank her, arming swords levelled at her back.

The fury of the Lady was in her now, the atrocities committed by her adversaries stoking her choler white-hot, and with a shrike’s howl, she spun to face the flanking attacker, seax darting past his guard to slice deep into his throat. The raider fell, blood streaming from the wound, and Ursula whirled about, sparrow-quick, axe carving deep into the right arm of her last opponent with the satisfying smack of steel through flesh and knocking the longsword from his grip.

Braying with a savage delight, the raider lashed out with his unwounded arm with almost inhuman force, the blow knocking her back several feet against the great bole of a nearby pine. As Ursula watched, his features began to shift, lower jaw jutting outwards to display bestial fangs, the healthy, vigorous tone of his face becoming chalky, dark brown eyes swelling up and turning red as blood. A trembling hand pressed hard against the still-oozing wound she’d left in his chest, provoking a borderline orgasmic whine from the raider, and Ursula felt the first stirrings of fear cut through the righteous anger.

She’d heard tales of such beings before: warriors augmented with the blood of dragons, their natural aggression and strength enhanced to levels beyond those of mere men. With those tales came warnings of feral, mindless savagery threatening friend and foe alike, the power they brought to the fore considered so uncontrollable that few warriors ever received permission from their Thanes to take it as their own. Warriors whose bodies converted pain to pleasure, weakness to strength, injury to unbridled power.

Reaver…

He was a savage blur, crossing the distance between them in an instant, barehanded blow casting her to the ground and leaving her head ringing like the bells of the lowlanders’ Chantry. Frantically, Ursula lashed out with the seax, drawing fresh blood and a yowl of ecstasy from the reaver. His murderous efforts redoubled by the surge of pain, he fell upon her, longsword forgotten in his bloodlust. Battle-scarred hands closed around her throat like bands of iron, their grip tightening even as the seax punctured through his armour and into his side, robbing her of breath. “Pagan filth!” he screamed with a mouth littered with carved fang, breath hot and stinking of raw meat. “We will survive beneath the shelter of Her gaze, but your wretched tribes will be consu—”

To try and outmatch a reaver in a battle of attrition was pointless even in the best of circumstances; blows that would maim or cripple another warrior would only give them the strength to fight on. With her last vestiges of strength, Ursula chose a more decisive option, plunged the long knife through the reaver’s neck. Instantly, his hold on her throat faltered as he spasmed in agony, his cries rousting birds from the trees and echoing across the breadth of the valley. “For the Lady!” came her rasping shout, steel rasping on bone as she shoved him away, and the reaver at long last collapsed, giving one last shuddering convulsion before going still.

Silence returned to the valley, disrupted only by the crackle of the burning lodge and the dying moans of mortally wounded raiders. Ignoring such trivial concerns, Ursula at last managed to hoist herself up off the rocky turf, ignoring the pain that lanced through her throat with every breath to offer fresh praise to the Lady of the Skies. “Your humble servant thanks you for the blessing of your strength, my goddess,” she intoned, lifting her axe high. Down it came with a savage thwack upon the reaver’s neck, his head finally coming away with the third blow, her seax carving the death-rune upon his forehead so that the Lady might claim his shadowbody as her rightful tribute. ”Accept this offering, and know that I shall forever carry out your will.”

An eagle’s shriek echoed from across the nearest peak, and Ursula smiled in gratitude for that good omen, taking her axe to the next raider. Within the space of an hour, it was done; the heads of her adversaries sat mounted upon spearshafts set about the clearing, deathmarked to serve as the Lady’s chattel in the Otherworld, even as the remains of their victims lay scattered in an air-burial, their shadowbodies finally at rest. Her work done, Ursula offered a prayer for the departed, observing her handiwork with quiet satisfaction. The innocent tended to and the guilty punished, just as it should be. Just as the Lady demanded from her.

Just as I shall inflict upon the rest of these wretches, Ursula vowed inwardly, examining the parchment she’d recovered from one of the raiders’ packs. Her knowledge of the lowlanders’ written language was limited, but she could certainly read a map, and knew enough of their tongue to give voice to the word marking the most prominently drawn symbol upon it.

The lair of the enemy.

Haven.

“Thank you, o Lady of the Skies, for showing me the way forward.”

And may the gods show mercy to these wretches, for I have none to spare…