The muffled howls of anguish echoing throughout the cellars of the Amell Estate were sounding unabated now, each and every one tearing at Merrill’s heartstrings more cruelly than any darkspawn blade, lack of sleep and the stress of her endless vigil beginning to take its toll on the beautiful elven sorceress. It was the third day now. For the previous two, she’d remained underground and close at hand, sustained by her potions and a stray bowl or two of Dalish waystew, and every moment of that time, doubt plagued her, the self-confidence and certainty that had led her to taking up blood magic in hopes of bettering her peoples’ lot transformed to fear at the first cry of pain. It was not something she’d ever even consider forcing on someone. Hawke had asked her to do this, with full knowledge of the risks involved, and trust that the Dalish girl would see her through safely.

Yet knowing she was valued so highly by the human was cold comfort in the face of her suffering, and not for the first time, Merrill prayed to the Creators that she had not made a mistake. It had been roughly a year since she first met Hawke on the slopes of Sundermount, the human having come to the Sabrae Clan's encampment to deliver Asha’bellanar’s amulet, yet she could no longer imagine her life without the Fereldan swordswoman by her side, not after so many adventures and close calls and long talks. She was kind and brave and clever and so very beautiful, and on further reflection, Merrill knew that once those lovely azure blue eyes fell upon her, her cooperation was guaranteed. And if she was being honest with herself, it would be hypocritical to refuse. Hawke had been kind enough to respect her decision to use blood magic, after all.

She could hardly protest when the human wished to be transformed into a Reaver.

Another howl, like a beast in pain, shook the Dalish girl from her reverie, and unable to simply stand by, Merrill made her way down the corridor to the converted storeroom that served as Hawke’s cell, bare feet padding along the stone floor. She was clad in her usual garb; a hauberk of chainmail that clung to her slim figure and went down past her knees, a tunic of fine green cloth, yellow scarf, and leggings of woven leather, while delicate braids had been threaded through her short, raven-black hair. Beyond the heavy oaken door, the elven girl heard the rattle of chains, and she made certain her staff was drawn and ready before unlocking the door, the magic responding eagerly to her will. “Hawke, it’s me,” her soft, lyrical voice called out. White light burned from the tip of her staff, dancing over the Dalish blood writing tattooed onto the delicate, alabaster planes of her face, adding to the illumination provided by the several hanging lanterns set up inside and peeling back the shadows around where Hawke knelt, bound and gagged. “It’s the third day, lethallan. You just need to hold on a little while longer. You’re almost through this.”

Marian Hawke, warrior, adventurer, Fereldan refugee, friend of apostate mages, secret foe of Kirkwall’s Templars, and by right of merit and reclaimed birthright, Lady of House Amell, gave a growl like a rabid animal and leapt on bound legs for the Dalish girl, heedless of how her arms remained hidden inside the straitjacket, her charge halted in its tracks by the chains affixed to the far wall. The pale, aquiline features Merrill so adored were now left gaunt and harsh as the dragon’s blood coursed through her veins, while there was a cast of feral rage in her beautiful blue eyes, the overwhelming need for blood and death kept in check only by her strength of will and her extensive bondage. To transform someone into a Reaver was a dangerous process. It would take a full three days for the solution to be fully metabolized by the subject’s body, and even when properly prepared, the sheer power would send them into the throes of a blood-crazed madness, dangerous both to themselves and others.

Thus, both had agreed that precautions must be taken. As such, in place of her usual black half-plate and chainmail, the Fereldan woman was instead clad in a straitjacket of tight-fitting canvas, pinning her strong arms beneath her breasts. Padlocks secured the straps in place along her back, threaded through a spine of reinforced leather, and even augmented by the power of the dragon’s blood, Merrill doubted Hawke would have the strength to rip them free. Those were not her only bonds, of course. Steel manacles shackled her ankles beneath her, connected by a short length of chain, while belts of leather secured her thighs and wrapped tight around her upper body. More chains lay overtop of the belts, connected to yet more still that secured her to iron rings set against the storeroom’s walls, such that she rattled like a rainstick with every stray movement. A muzzle of shaped, rigid leather shrouded the lower half of her face, the leather protrusion filling her mouth keeping her from biting off her tongue in her agony, and Merrill’s heart broke to see the first tears emerge from the corners of her eyes. “You’re doing so well, my friend,” the elven girl tried to reassure her, reaching out and gently cupping the human’s cheek. A slight growl escaped past the gag, but Hawke did not pull away, instead trying to control her breathing as she looked into the elf’s wide green eyes. “Just a day longer and this will all be over, I promise it.”

Again, the fury flared to life in Hawke’s eyes, and Merrill forced herself to remain where she was, heart pounding fearfully. Becoming a Reaver let one turn pain into strength and recover from injuries by consuming the blood of their enemies, yet as she’d researched how best to prepare the solution, time and time again, Merrill had uncovered stories of men and women reduced to barely-sapient berserkers, minds shattered on the anvil of the power they sought to wield. If she’d made the slightest error, and Hawke wound up paying the price for it… No, don’t think like that. You were very thorough and made sure you did all the steps correctly. Besides, Hawke trusts you, and that should be good enough. “Remember why you’re doing this,” whispered the elf. “Remember what you told me. This is all for Bethany.”

The mention of her sister seemed to have a calming effect on Hawke, and with an exhausted groan, she returned to a kneeling position, mindless rage transformed into something akin to acceptance, the pain held in abeyance by the oaths she had sworn. “It’s going to be all right,” Merrill promised, checking each of Hawke’s bond in turn before taking a seat beside her. “Whatever you need, lethallan, I’ll be here for you…”