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The First Blight: A Story of All Origins

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It had been two years since the beginning of the end had plagued the world. Few places in Thedas remained untouched by the blight, tainted creatures roaming the land. Living nightmares themselves, the darkspawn hordes killed by the thousands. No one knew where they came from. No one knew what to do. You could kill one or two but most often a man would be struck down or worse succumb to the taint. The Tevinter Imperium was slowly crumbling, the massive empire’s power waning from the impending doom plaguing the minds of all.

 But the worries of the surface were never really Brosca’s thing. No down here under all the stone a dwarf could wish for, Rocky Brosca spent her life fighting for scraps, busting heads for the Beraht, doing his dirty work when it needed to be done. No she spent her life fighting so her loving sister Rica, oh so beautiful Rica, didn’t have to whore herself out. No she spent her life avoiding the bottle when Rica took up the ancient trade, refusing to be what her mother had always been. The brand that had been burned into her skin was met with ink made in a pattern only a dwarf could do; all blocky squares and sharp angles. It was painful but so was the brand and at least in this mark she had a choice. And now a new choice presented itself to her.

The doors to the surface was open, just as the one to the deeproads was too, despite the dwarf’s best efforts to close the large gates. Darkspawn were crawling all over the place. The dwarves were dying. Blood ran red and black against the stone, Dust Town was on fire and her mother lay dead at her feet, throat slit, and blood gurgling out from the last remaining heartbeats. Rocky Brosca had two options, fight and die here in the dirt or find Rica and flee to the surface like her father had once done. Living was her preference but where the fuck was Rica?

Running through the chaos, a dull dagger in each hand, raw and rough strips of leather clinging and chaffing her body she found herself near the entrance to the diamond quarter. Rica spent most her time there, for the red haired beauty had caught the eye of many men and there was a good corner to hide in and rut. Bile crept up her throat at the thought of what she might find. But there she was, Rica, beautiful sweet Rica, running towards her covered in lace. A smile on her face when she spotted her, running from the terror. Then the smile was gone. The entire head too. Rocky’s sister’s corpse fell and nothing about it was beautiful or sweet. Her head bounced away and was squashed by the many feet of darkspawn trampling anything in their path. The vision of a tall figure, skin pasty white with black splotched, holding a sword that looked as if made by desperate dusters grinning at her with sharp teeth. And just like that her reason for living was gone. No more Rica. The light of her life the one she had worked so hard for gone. If she had been thinking she would have fought the beast, either to triumph in a brief revenge or be beheaded like her sister. But a real duster, a strong one, survived whether they liked it or not. And so she ran. She ran and ran and ran until she was in the dark and ran some more, body cold from the draft the outdoors had to offer. The surface. She was knee deep in something cold and her bare legs burned against it. But she ran.

And she never looked back.