Chapter Text
Blood pumps harsh in his ears. His bloodied knees scrape against hard concrete. Gasping against the pain, Rasco forces his eyes open. He takes a deep breath. The room is dark, to say the least. It’s quiet. Empty. He raises his head ever so slowly. Bones crack and sore muscles scream. He clenches his teeth. He tries to focus but his pulse is too erratic; his mind full of static. He picks himself off the ground. It takes his sluggish mind a minute to realize his arms are bound.
“Shit,” he rasps. He now realizes how bone-dry his mouth is. A sinking feel of dread clouds his thoughts. Why is he here? Who chained him? Was he caught by the shems?
Bloodied and quenched, Rasco easily thinks back to the last moment he remembers. He was disguised in noble clothes while ducking behind ornate figurines that the people gawked at when they strode by in their expensive robes. A grand bell tolled. Everyone began to enter the Temple of Sacred Ashes: the mages spoke tentatively to the Templars. It was a strange sight indeed.
He crept around a statue of Andraste then mixed in among the crowd. He remembers the cold bite of wind, how Mothers of the Chantry welcomed each person at the top of the stairs. How his stupid shem hat confiscated his ears. He needed to blend in, but, by the Dread Wolf, was it uncomfortable.
Rasco snorts— the only sound in his dark prison. Collecting his thoughts, he frowns. There’s not much he can recall after entering the main doors. All his clouded mind supplies is the remnant of sounds. Loud sounds.
“Humans,” he groans. They destroy everything.
He plops onto his ass and tugs harder at his restraints. His muscles flex and, with a smirk, the rope groans. Music to his ears.
He steels his beating heart to try and summon fire, to no avail. It seems his mana is dry. Although as long as his blood still pumps he will always have a last resort. Although with no daggers nor movement, blood magic won’t be helpful.
Drawing him to his senses, a distant door slams shut, and pounding footsteps draw near. Torches light, and Rasco stretches his neck to see his captors. An angry women gives a harsh command, then a small voice quips a “yes, sir.”
The metal door squeals open, and Rasco cools his expression into disinterest. He’s still in noble robes, after all. Maybe he can convince the women that he’s some wealthy city elf that got invited to the peace talks. He is a mage. Mages were honored guests, yeah?
She storms in the cell with a dangerous look. Cropped black hair and venomous eyes. An eye is engraved in her armor: Chantry. She points a sword tip to his neck.
“What have you done?” her voice is low.
Nothing yet.
“Cassandra—” A redhead strides in behind her. Makeup that used to paint her face now runs down in rivulets. Her eyes shine with barley restrained tears. Again, Rasco reminds himself to control his expression. Fear won’t help now.
“He is responsible for— for—” the women’s hand shakes violently.
“Cassandra, please. We do not know the story,” she places a hand to her shoulder. “I am afraid we need information, now more than ever.”
The sword slowly retracts. Rasco leans forward, still impassive. With a huff, she brandishes her sword at her side and steps back. The redhead wipes her eyes.
“Tell us who you are,” the women named Cassandra booms.
Rasco opens his mouth but pauses. He must answer these humans, although not in a way that will give them information about his mission. They cannot know what he is.
In a sultry voice, he answers, “I am Rasco of the Lavellan clan. And you, my lady?” he nods to the redhead. If there’s any chance of him getting out alive, it’ll be her. He must answer their questions to please her.
Her blue eyes squint at him. “First you must tell us how you survived.”
“Survived what?”
“Like you do not know,” Cassandra spits. “Everyone at the Conclave is dead, and you are the only survivor. Your hand glows green,” she points.
Rasco looks to his left arm in shock. Faintly, beneath his leather glove, a green light flares. “Ma ghilana mir din’an! What is that?”
The two women exchange glances that he cannot decipher. His mind spirals as he tugs on the ropes. He tries to shrug his glove off to see his hand. What magic is this, he ponders. He struggles to remember his Keeper blessing him with powers besides tracking the eleven orbs but comes up with nothing.
“We have no time,” the redhead whispers, “take him there.” With that, she turns on her heel and strides away. Her footsteps are silent as she disappears into the darkness.
Which leaves Rasco alone with the crazier shem. He eyes her sword.
Cassandra stares down, hard, at Rasco. She curls then uncurls her fist. Rasco hurries to think what he could say to calm her. He licks his parched lips.
“Please understand, I’ve no clue what magic this is. I was invited to the Conclave. I’m not some elven spy. Whatever has happened isn’t my doing, especially killing anyone. I didn’t kill them.”
She huffs at that. “I am hesitant to trust you.”
Inside, Rasco seethes. He’s exhausted and fucking hungry. His stomach grumbles on command. Now that he thinks about it his arm does feel strange. Tingly, perhaps. Like it wants to unleash its power. Similar to what Rasco wishes to do. If he had any mana he would have burned through his restraints, or had Cassandra cut his ropes against her will. He guesses that’s the reason they starved him.
“But,” she begins, “I suppose we need you for a greater purpose.”
Unbelievably, she motions for the two guards standing outside the cell. They step inside and reach to untie the knots. For the first time today, Rasco breathes a sigh of relief.
He rips his glove off. The pale white skin of his left arm glows with an eerie green glow. He turns his palm around, investigating.
“Follow me,” interrupts Cassandra.
He goes. She takes him to a door, unlatches it, and motions him through. He pushes it open with his left hand, still trying to listen for a hum of alien magic.
His boots crunch against the snow. Frigid air slashes across his exposed cheeks. He grunts, wishing for sun, when he sees the impossible sight.
“We call it the Breach.”
The blue sky turns into ghastly green. Swallowing mountains, forests, and what used to be the Conclave, is a swirling void of ominous, churning clouds. It sends dizzying shivers up his spine. Pure energy shoots from the center like meteors tumbling to Thedas.
His hand explodes with a menace, green electricity stinging up his arm. He collapses with a gasp, feeling the energy scrape at his sanity.
“That Rift is the largest we know of. It grows, and will eventually swallow the world,” she kneels. “This madness was caused by the explosion of the Conclave. You are connected to these events. As the Breach expands, so does your Mark. It will kill you.”
He grunts.
“Come,” she awkwardly helps him up. “You are our only chance now.”
He follows. The shems share looks of blatant disgust as he passes. His nostrils flare, and Cassandra catches him baring his teeth to a group of onlookers. The sweet promise of blood magic calls to him. He wishes he could flick his wrist and have her grab a nice horse for him, one he could ride back to his clan and inform them of what has begun. They must know that his mission has failed. He will not be returning with Dirthamen’s orb without assistance.
Furious, he calls, “how do we get there?”
“Follow me.”
He sighs. His mind itches to tear a hole through her.