Excerpt from an abandoned Dragon Age WIP about my Surana (Neria) and the Architect. Here she encounters a mysterious spirit in a dream. I still want to read this story tbh, someone should keep writing it....
THE WORKS OF BEAUTY (excerpt)
There are months now that Neria goes without dreaming. Tonight, however, she dreams.
She is in a foreign city of stone buildings. While she can’t place why, some of their spiky shapes are familiar. She knows she hasn’t been here in waking life, so it’s likely that this is a place she has read about or seen echoes of in the Fade.
Dusk has fallen on a moonless night. The streets are nearly deserted; the few residents she encounters are out by themselves and take no interest in each other. Lit windows go dark as she passes them, and unseen hands latch doors at the cue of her footsteps.
She makes her way down a curving avenue to what seems like a wealthier section of town. The buildings are better maintained, some houses set apart and bordered by walled gardens. Lanterns hang, unlit, from the mouths of great stone beasts guarding their gates.
She’s struck by how dark and quiet it is, and how still. Darkness—silence—stillness. It’s deliberate. The city is preparing for something.
At her side, someone clears his throat. She turns.
“You are lost?” A soft, cultured voice. It’s a human man, judging by his height and silhouette. The light is too dim to make out the features of his face, but the shape and ornamentation of his robes say old-style Tevinter. Very old-style Tevinter. Ancient, even. This man’s garments would seem quaintly archaic to the revenants whose graves she disturbed in the Brecilian Forest.
Unless Tevinter traditionalist cultists have invaded Ferelden without her knowledge, this is likely a spirit playing out an echo from a long-dead memory—intriguing, but harmless, unless grievously mishandled. Neria makes a gesture of greeting, and he returns it.
“It’s possible that I’m lost,” she says, meaning: lost in the Fade; lost in this dream. “Could you direct me?”
“You should take off your mask, Domina,” says the stranger, using a polite term of address shared among all persons of this era in Tevinter, even slaves and condemned prisoners. “Midnight is not yet upon us.”
“Excuse me?” and she realizes that she’s wearing a copy of the mask Tiphaine made. The novelty of its design has made more of an impression on her than she thought, despite the substandard materials that Tiphaine, who apprenticed with a renowned artisan in Orlais, has been forced to work with. When she takes off the mask, half-dry paint smears on her fingers, then vanishes with a shimmer.
“Much better,” he says. “Now, tell me your errand, that I may see you on your way.”
That’s vague enough to be kind or threatening, and the tone of his voice does little to clarify his intentions. He is also, and this needs to be noted, staring at her, in a way that would put her hand on her staff in the waking world. Neria takes a moment to think on her reply.
“I have no errand. I am simply passing through.”
His tone goes chiding. “It’s not wise to tell a stranger that no one is expecting you.”
“Perhaps I’m confident that I have nothing to fear from any stranger.”
“That is a lot of confidence for a small elf to have.”
“Would you have me abandon it? Fearlessness can be its own kind of protection.”
“It can also lead you into danger.”
“You’ve arrested me walking alone on the street, not poking my nose into some indecent secret. I have”—she takes a guess, struggling to recall ancient law—“the right to wander where I choose, like any citizen, and your talk of danger makes it seem that you’re the one I should fear.”
“Domina, my apologies for offending you.” He makes a sign of humility. “If you continue this way, it’s likely that you will encounter harm from the cultists of Silence. I meant to warn you, but I see that my words were too indirect.”
“To atone for this misstep, perhaps you could escort me past them safely. If it’s within your power.”
“It would be my honor,” he says. He inclines his head, and she catches the glint of a small gold ring at his lip, reflecting light from who knows where.
Neria walks with the spirit down the dark avenue. As they pass the ever grander and more elaborate buildings, their contours shadows on silent shadows, the intensity of night deepens, so enormous it’s like a third presence beside them.
The stars seem unusually dim for such a dark night. Neria asks the spirit about it.
“The priests of Dumat cast a miasma over the city.”
“The whole city? That must have taken a fortune in lyrium.” She winces, thinking of how her staff would react if she said she wanted to cast a miasma over the Vigil. “What city is this, anyway?”
“You don’t know?” It’s hard to tell if the spirit is amused or offended.
“The city you’re lost in is Minrathous.”
“And with me, you are no longer lost. So now you are only in Minrathous.”
Now she sees the shapes of floating structures in the sky. This is a rare level of detail for a Fade memory. It must have been strong in the mind of whoever brought it here.
“What happens at midnight?” she asks him. The stars are too veiled for her to tell the time.
“Nothing grand. We’re not as pious as we once were.” He sounds rueful. “There will be masked revelry, a procession of ghosts, and ceremonies at the temple of Dumat. The miasma will last until dawn and then dissipate.”
“What about the cultists of Silence?”
“Around us. They wait in the alleys. Each has been tasked to secure a single sacrifice.” The alleys are, once she notices them, emphatically and suspiciously empty-looking. Wisps cloaked in darkness lurk inside them. “If you had come by later in the night, I might not have cautioned you. This early, however, you are likely to become a victim.”
“There are few who would, Domina.”
“You must be an important person, then,” says Neria. “How lucky I was to run into you.”
Again, she’s not sure if he’s amused or offended. “Perhaps. How do they mark Funalis in your city, if our celebrations are odd to you?”
“We don’t call it Funalis,” says Neria, “and we set things on fire. There’s sometimes a bit of masked revelry, though.” She fiddles with her mask and remembers Tiphaine. “A… servant in my house is going to make us a special treat tomorrow, these little pancakes that you light on fire.”
“Farther than you’re probably thinking.”
“For a southern barbarian, you speak very well. Your manners are rough, but not disagreeable.”
This makes Neria laugh, too loud and shaking the dark street. “Well, thank you, I guess.”
