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Description
A NEW THREAT

She couldn't sleep that night. Hawke still hadn't arrived at the designated location. She sighed, resting her head on her arms as the sound of marching grew louder. A group of guards went past, on routine patrol. Since they had run off together, the pair had endured endless trials before finally arriving at their destination. Upon their docking in Rivain, they had split up to seek out potential crewmen, agreeing to meet again in a week's time. Well, she was here, now where was he? As if on cue, the door burst open, revealing Hawke's armoured and blood-spattered form, “We need to leave, now!”

He couldn't tell where they were, or how they'd gotten there, but these were not friendly waters. The mighty Cursed were hovering off the coast, avoiding trade routes and other ships to the best of their ability, until the right time. There were few creatures his far-seeing eyes couldn't see, and he had seen many during his time in this country-called-Rivain. One problem-race he saw for the mighty Cursed was called Qunari by most, though the race themselves spoke but rarely of their own lifestyle. His network brought him very little accurate depictions of these bronze horned giants, but kossith kept returning as the name they call themselves. These giants followed a rigid code of discipline and duty, each member having his own lot in life to perform.
The humans were a belligerent race, but easily swayed by opinions and other, less savory methods. Though many believed in a being known as the Maker, they had fought many battles in their quests to conquer each other. A race easily divided.
Of the elves, he knew only what those who had lived poorly in the city had told him. There were still more elves who traveled as vagabonds, living off the land.. Of the dwarves, he knew even less, only that they had a mighty kingdom. Only one race in the-land-called-Thedas eluded his agents, inadequate spies though they were. The darkspawn. They rarely came to the surface, it seemed, and when they did, the people called it a Blight. The Scythe-lord wished to know of these as well. Only five Blights had ever occurred in the history of Thedas, the most recent Blight had been beaten back by a human known only as the Hero of Ferelden. Apparently the only way to combat these Blights was to wait for an order of warriors, known as Grey-Wardens, to come and defeat the darkspawn.
He laughed. Such a foolish thing to do, to have only a select few combat-able warriors to fend off, nay, to defeat, a horde of supposedly monstrous, foul, contagious beasts. They ought to teach all their people to fight. Young or old, if they want survival, age shouldn't come before protection.
There was yet one more group of all races that had him thoroughly confused; mages. Able to use mystic powers, this group of each race was feared by its own. Often imprisoned, these mystics had different reactions to their imprisonments. Some were relieved, others cautious, and still more were outraged.
Thanks to another troublemaker known only as the Champion of Kirkwall, this continent was ripe for invasion.
Standing upright, he moved for his cloak, donning it over his jagged armour. Without missing a beat, he opened the door, ducking under the lintel and slamming it shut in the same motion. Marching across the street on his way to the tavern, he narrowly avoided a man and woman bolting down the road. He watched them for a moment, then shrugged, his voice guttural as he barked, “Wise, to sense it coming at all.”
As he approached the pub, a group of guards stood huddled outside, his impressive frame dwarfed their own armoured forms. “Hoi, 'old on there you!” A drunken guard stepped in his way, “What're yoush doin' out in weda lik dish?” Resisting the urge to crush the man's windpipe, he rolled his eyes, “Trying to get out of it… serah.” Another, more sober guard looked him up and down, “You ain't no Qunari under that hood, an' that's good enough for me,” he moved out of the way, “Sorry for the trouble, serah. Can't be too careful nowadays.”
“Indeed,” he grunted as he passed into the shelter of the tavern. When the Cursed invasion came, he would reward the drunken man's rudeness.

The Qunari city of Seheron stood quietly, bathed in moonlight as its horned protectors kept vigilant watch over the city and its walls. The sten took the reports casually, showing neither emotion nor expression. A prisoner was brought before him, “And what is it he has done to break the Qun?”
“He has been doing nothing; no work, no training, and–”
He held up his hand, “What have you to say for yourself, beast?” For beast he was. He spoke in a harsh, low, guttural voice, in grunts, snarls, and howls, jabbering at times, roaring at others. He had gleaming yellow eyes, jagged teeth, a long tangled mane of black hair, and dark purple skin. “Beast! The sten has asked yo–!” The Qunari jerked the prisoner's head back, only for the beast to sink it's jaws into his throat! Yanking a jagged horn from his belt, the being lashed about him with his free hand as he put the horn to his lips, and blew. The ugly-sounding note was cut short as he was wrestled to the ground. Just as the sten was about to to jerk his hand in the motion that would have spelled the creatures doom, an answering note was heard. A ballistae bolt hurtled out of the midnight air, impaling two of the Qunari attempting to pin down the fierce beast. In a moment, the night air was filled with more of the same missiles, all raining down on the walls, and many seemed to be trailing something behind… Sten surmised what was happening immediately. He began bellowing out orders as dark forms leaped over the battlements, firing darts as they came!

“Strythe! It's time.” The horn blast from above cut out as Strythe put his own horn to his lips. The ensuing blast shattered the iron horn in his hand. That was the signal to begin the attack. Hundreds of ballistae fired in that instance, sending bolts hurtling up and over the high walls of the city-called-Seheron. Strythe brought his elegant sword from its sheathe, the black blade invisible in the night air. Grabbing a rope as it hurtled by over head, he leaped with it, his yellow eyes glowing in the night as his gilded armor gleamed black in the moonlight, the rope dragging him with it on its upward path. Strythe knew hundreds of others had done the same, their best warriors, all with the intention of landing on the city's battlements. Not all would. Some would fall short, others would slam into the walls themselves, and still more would fly over the walls and crash into the streets below. But most would land on the battlements, and many more were scaling the walls and assaulting the gates on every side. Not an inch of wall was left uncovered by ballistae fire, and even less was left uncovered by the warriors themselves. Roaring out his fierce challenge, Strythe dropped to the battlements below, eager to shed the blood of these bronze-skinned giants! When he landed. all around him were the dead and wounded of both sides, though ahead of him was an insurmountable wall of shields. Grinning, he bared his teeth in a snarl, hurling a liquid at the massed defenders before grabbing a torch from its sconce and setting their shields ablaze! Impressively, they didn't break ranks. His grin changed to a sneer as he threw some dust at them, raising his own shield as the dust hit the flames, the ensuing blast blowing a gaping hole in their ranks! In a mad blood-frenzy, he hurled himself at them, throwing saw-edged daggers into the nearest six as he took on the rest with his blade. All around him, similar scenes were occurring as the elite soldiers of the Cursed fell upon the Qunari defenders. A monstrous clash of beast against giant. Strythe let out a guttural laugh. “Onward!” he roared, “Spill their blood in the streets! Anoint this city for the Scythe-lord!”
An over-large Qunari with massive horns and red armour strode onto the battlefield. Wielding a mammoth spear, he swiftly began to sweep the Cursed from the ramparts, crashing them against the walls or skewering them on its tip. Strythe leaped before him, slamming his shield against the haft as the giant swung. It slowed to a halt as both creatures applied all their might in this test of strength. The spear finally snapped as the giant and the beast tumbled away from one another. The giant drew a massive blade from his back as Strythe threw his mangled shield at him, gripping his own blade tighter as he dipped his clawed gauntlet into a tube on his belt.
“You beasts will pay the price for going against the Qun!”
“The Cursed will pay any price the Scythe-lord demands!”
“And what does he demand?!”
“Utter annihilation!”
The over-sized Qunari charged, his blade whirling like a windmill! Strythe leaped into him, diving beneath his blade as he ripped off his own helmet. Stabbing the bladed helmet into his opponent's leg, he clambered up the broad back of his enemy. Reaching its shoulders, he leaped down the front, his clawed gauntlet raking down the giant's face as he stabbed it repeatedly in the chest. Blood spurted from his wounds as he fell over, unable to rise again. Landing on the ground, Strythe rolled, coming up in a fighting stance. He was shocked to see the remaining Qunari staring at him, unconcerned that he was alone now. He grinned as a fresh wave of Cursed vaulted over the walls. He pointed his blade at the pitiful remnants of defenders, “Annihilate them!” He turned away as the horde of Cursed descended upon them, hacking, thrusting, and devouring. A shape emerged from a turret, marching over to him amidst the chaos.
“Ah, Grond! So good of you to return to us, brother.”
Grond handed his brother his horn. “They were more interested in knowledge than in their own defense.”
“As are many races when the Cursed first appear in their lands.” Gripping the horn, Strythe crushed it.
“That is why you command, brother! Your military mind, strength, and ferocity in combat are nearly unrivaled throughout the Agluk race.”
“Silence, Grond! Those assimilated into the Cursed must never speak aloud their prior history!”
“Forgive me, brother.” He paused, letting his comment sink in. “Why is it, Strythe, that the Scythe-lord assimilates some races into his innumerable and almighty Cursed, whilst commanding the annihilation of others?”
Turning, Strythe faced Grond, their yellow eyes meeting, “Grond, the only reason I allow you to speak your mind is because you are my brother. Do not abuse that privilege!” Spinning away, he continued as Grond fell into step behind him, “None may know the great Scythe-lord's mind, nor those of his lieutenants.” He paused to revel in the glorious bloodbath his soldiers were wreaking upon the-city-called-Seheron. Grond spoke, “If you would only acknowledge the gifts inherent to our race, you would rise to join them.”
“No, brother, I would not. You and I are alike in our blood-lust during battle. However, our youngest brother might still have a chance. He sees the world for what it is. His reports and knowledge are sent directly to the Scythe-lord himself. He has the opportunity to become the greatest of the Scythe-lord's lieutenants. He has our blood-lust, but he can control it in a way neither of us can. I have even heard he has been selected as a candidate to replace one of the Scythe-lords' lieutenants.”
“Ha! I can see him turning that offer down!”
“He may accept the position.”
“But, brother–”
“Grond, it is his choice.”
“…I don't see him accepting…”
“If he were to be given an appointment like that, he could not turn it down. He still cares for what we were before the Cursed. He would not serve a being he does not believe in. Should his wrath get the better of him, no one could stop him from acting on his own, and–” he paused writing something in the dirt before continuing. Grond read it, swiftly erasing it with a kick of his iron boot.
“Grond, if Balroth knew I was telling you this, it would drive him mad. I fear he would give in to his bloodlust and compromise his mission.”
“But, brother, the berserker is only a myth. A fairy tale thought up to frighten our enemies and their offspring.”
“It does exist. The-man-who-raised-us was one as well, even he was killed in his sleep.” Strythe sighed, “Brother, I will tell you more later, but for now, let us fight! Come, a city lies before us, waiting to be colored in the blood of its inhabitants!”

The city was falling. The sten could see that clearly. Only about his own headquarters was there some semblance of an adequate defense. New converts to the Qun had rallied about his banner, former elves and humans alike. All now followed the Qun. All were now Qunari. Those kossith who remained alive displayed no emotions, but he could tell what they were feeling. Whether they chose to believe it or not, they were losing. To imagine Seheron being attacked was unthinkable! And by an unknown enemy, most of whom were of a deep violet color, had long black hair, and yellow eyes? Their stature was unimpressive, but their strength was surprising, as was their agility and coordination in their tactics. Two enemies suddenly dropped from above. The escaped prisoner! Sten moved swiftly. Gripping his massive blade in one hand and a shield the size of a door in the other, he prepared to face these new foes.

Strythe spoke, “Sten is your rank, and your name. To take on one's duty as though it were your very life is impressive. Sten, be reasonable,” he spread his arms wide, his fanged teeth gleaming in the moonlight, “give up and surrender. This-city-called-Seheron is ours now. Do your duty and save your subordinates the trouble of dying. Surrender!”
The large, horned giant spoke in a deep monotone, “If I defeat you in combat, you and your kind will leave this city. If I am defeated, you may do with us as you please.”
Strythe glared balefully at him, “I have defeated your leader and still you resist! Grond, kill this fool! I'll deal with the rest!” Turning his back on the horned giant, he stalked towards the newest converts to the religion-called-the-qun. “Are you all of like minds?!” his deep guttural voice terrified most of those whom he addressed.
A group of short beings with ears-like-knives stood up, “We are Qunari! We will fight for this city!”
“You want to face me alone?”
Grond chuckled, a deep harsh cackle. He had since replaced his ordinary garb with the armour befitting his rank. Spiked and rough, the armour was as black as coal. It gave off no sheen even in the moonlight, and once he placed the horned helmet on, he vanished into the shadows.

Description
A NEW THREAT

She couldn't sleep that night. Hawke still hadn't arrived at the designated location. She sighed, resting her head on her arms as the sound of marching grew louder. A group of guards went past, on routine patrol. Since they had run off together, the pair had endured endless trials before finally arriving at their destination. Upon their docking in Rivain, they had split up to seek out potential crewmen, agreeing to meet again in a week's time. Well, she was here, now where was he? As if on cue, the door burst open, revealing Hawke's armoured and blood-spattered form, “We need to leave, now!”

He couldn't tell where they were, or how they'd gotten there, but these were not friendly waters. The mighty Cursed were hovering off the coast, avoiding trade routes and other ships to the best of their ability, until the right time. There were few creatures his far-seeing eyes couldn't see, and he had seen many during his time in this country-called-Rivain. One problem-race he saw for the mighty Cursed was called Qunari by most, though the race themselves spoke but rarely of their own lifestyle. His network brought him very little accurate depictions of these bronze horned giants, but kossith kept returning as the name they call themselves. These giants followed a rigid code of discipline and duty, each member having his own lot in life to perform.
The humans were a belligerent race, but easily swayed by opinions and other, less savory methods. Though many believed in a being known as the Maker, they had fought many battles in their quests to conquer each other. A race easily divided.
Of the elves, he knew only what those who had lived poorly in the city had told him. There were still more elves who traveled as vagabonds, living off the land.. Of the dwarves, he knew even less, only that they had a mighty kingdom. Only one race in the-land-called-Thedas eluded his agents, inadequate spies though they were. The darkspawn. They rarely came to the surface, it seemed, and when they did, the people called it a Blight. The Scythe-lord wished to know of these as well. Only five Blights had ever occurred in the history of Thedas, the most recent Blight had been beaten back by a human known only as the Hero of Ferelden. Apparently the only way to combat these Blights was to wait for an order of warriors, known as Grey-Wardens, to come and defeat the darkspawn.
He laughed. Such a foolish thing to do, to have only a select few combat-able warriors to fend off, nay, to defeat, a horde of supposedly monstrous, foul, contagious beasts. They ought to teach all their people to fight. Young or old, if they want survival, age shouldn't come before protection.
There was yet one more group of all races that had him thoroughly confused; mages. Able to use mystic powers, this group of each race was feared by its own. Often imprisoned, these mystics had different reactions to their imprisonments. Some were relieved, others cautious, and still more were outraged.
Thanks to another troublemaker known only as the Champion of Kirkwall, this continent was ripe for invasion.
Standing upright, he moved for his cloak, donning it over his jagged armour. Without missing a beat, he opened the door, ducking under the lintel and slamming it shut in the same motion. Marching across the street on his way to the tavern, he narrowly avoided a man and woman bolting down the road. He watched them for a moment, then shrugged, his voice guttural as he barked, “Wise, to sense it coming at all.”
As he approached the pub, a group of guards stood huddled outside, his impressive frame dwarfed their own armoured forms. “Hoi, 'old on there you!” A drunken guard stepped in his way, “What're yoush doin' out in weda lik dish?” Resisting the urge to crush the man's windpipe, he rolled his eyes, “Trying to get out of it… serah.” Another, more sober guard looked him up and down, “You ain't no Qunari under that hood, an' that's good enough for me,” he moved out of the way, “Sorry for the trouble, serah. Can't be too careful nowadays.”
“Indeed,” he grunted as he passed into the shelter of the tavern. When the Cursed invasion came, he would reward the drunken man's rudeness.

The Qunari city of Seheron stood quietly, bathed in moonlight as its horned protectors kept vigilant watch over the city and its walls. The sten took the reports casually, showing neither emotion nor expression. A prisoner was brought before him, “And what is it he has done to break the Qun?”
“He has been doing nothing; no work, no training, and–”
He held up his hand, “What have you to say for yourself, beast?” For beast he was. He spoke in a harsh, low, guttural voice, in grunts, snarls, and howls, jabbering at times, roaring at others. He had gleaming yellow eyes, jagged teeth, a long tangled mane of black hair, and dark purple skin. “Beast! The sten has asked yo–!” The Qunari jerked the prisoner's head back, only for the beast to sink it's jaws into his throat! Yanking a jagged horn from his belt, the being lashed about him with his free hand as he put the horn to his lips, and blew. The ugly-sounding note was cut short as he was wrestled to the ground. Just as the sten was about to to jerk his hand in the motion that would have spelled the creatures doom, an answering note was heard. A ballistae bolt hurtled out of the midnight air, impaling two of the Qunari attempting to pin down the fierce beast. In a moment, the night air was filled with more of the same missiles, all raining down on the walls, and many seemed to be trailing something behind… Sten surmised what was happening immediately. He began bellowing out orders as dark forms leaped over the battlements, firing darts as they came!

“Strythe! It's time.” The horn blast from above cut out as Strythe put his own horn to his lips. The ensuing blast shattered the iron horn in his hand. That was the signal to begin the attack. Hundreds of ballistae fired in that instance, sending bolts hurtling up and over the high walls of the city-called-Seheron. Strythe brought his elegant sword from its sheathe, the black blade invisible in the night air. Grabbing a rope as it hurtled by over head, he leaped with it, his yellow eyes glowing in the night as his gilded armor gleamed black in the moonlight, the rope dragging him with it on its upward path. Strythe knew hundreds of others had done the same, their best warriors, all with the intention of landing on the city's battlements. Not all would. Some would fall short, others would slam into the walls themselves, and still more would fly over the walls and crash into the streets below. But most would land on the battlements, and many more were scaling the walls and assaulting the gates on every side. Not an inch of wall was left uncovered by ballistae fire, and even less was left uncovered by the warriors themselves. Roaring out his fierce challenge, Strythe dropped to the battlements below, eager to shed the blood of these bronze-skinned giants! When he landed. all around him were the dead and wounded of both sides, though ahead of him was an insurmountable wall of shields. Grinning, he bared his teeth in a snarl, hurling a liquid at the massed defenders before grabbing a torch from its sconce and setting their shields ablaze! Impressively, they didn't break ranks. His grin changed to a sneer as he threw some dust at them, raising his own shield as the dust hit the flames, the ensuing blast blowing a gaping hole in their ranks! In a mad blood-frenzy, he hurled himself at them, throwing saw-edged daggers into the nearest six as he took on the rest with his blade. All around him, similar scenes were occurring as the elite soldiers of the Cursed fell upon the Qunari defenders. A monstrous clash of beast against giant. Strythe let out a guttural laugh. “Onward!” he roared, “Spill their blood in the streets! Anoint this city for the Scythe-lord!”
An over-large Qunari with massive horns and red armour strode onto the battlefield. Wielding a mammoth spear, he swiftly began to sweep the Cursed from the ramparts, crashing them against the walls or skewering them on its tip. Strythe leaped before him, slamming his shield against the haft as the giant swung. It slowed to a halt as both creatures applied all their might in this test of strength. The spear finally snapped as the giant and the beast tumbled away from one another. The giant drew a massive blade from his back as Strythe threw his mangled shield at him, gripping his own blade tighter as he dipped his clawed gauntlet into a tube on his belt.
“You beasts will pay the price for going against the Qun!”
“The Cursed will pay any price the Scythe-lord demands!”
“And what does he demand?!”
“Utter annihilation!”
The over-sized Qunari charged, his blade whirling like a windmill! Strythe leaped into him, diving beneath his blade as he ripped off his own helmet. Stabbing the bladed helmet into his opponent's leg, he clambered up the broad back of his enemy. Reaching its shoulders, he leaped down the front, his clawed gauntlet raking down the giant's face as he stabbed it repeatedly in the chest. Blood spurted from his wounds as he fell over, unable to rise again. Landing on the ground, Strythe rolled, coming up in a fighting stance. He was shocked to see the remaining Qunari staring at him, unconcerned that he was alone now. He grinned as a fresh wave of Cursed vaulted over the walls. He pointed his blade at the pitiful remnants of defenders, “Annihilate them!” He turned away as the horde of Cursed descended upon them, hacking, thrusting, and devouring. A shape emerged from a turret, marching over to him amidst the chaos.
“Ah, Grond! So good of you to return to us, brother.”
Grond handed his brother his horn. “They were more interested in knowledge than in their own defense.”
“As are many races when the Cursed first appear in their lands.” Gripping the horn, Strythe crushed it.
“That is why you command, brother! Your military mind, strength, and ferocity in combat are nearly unrivaled throughout the Agluk race.”
“Silence, Grond! Those assimilated into the Cursed must never speak aloud their prior history!”
“Forgive me, brother.” He paused, letting his comment sink in. “Why is it, Strythe, that the Scythe-lord assimilates some races into his innumerable and almighty Cursed, whilst commanding the annihilation of others?”
Turning, Strythe faced Grond, their yellow eyes meeting, “Grond, the only reason I allow you to speak your mind is because you are my brother. Do not abuse that privilege!” Spinning away, he continued as Grond fell into step behind him, “None may know the great Scythe-lord's mind, nor those of his lieutenants.” He paused to revel in the glorious bloodbath his soldiers were wreaking upon the-city-called-Seheron. Grond spoke, “If you would only acknowledge the gifts inherent to our race, you would rise to join them.”
“No, brother, I would not. You and I are alike in our blood-lust during battle. However, our youngest brother might still have a chance. He sees the world for what it is. His reports and knowledge are sent directly to the Scythe-lord himself. He has the opportunity to become the greatest of the Scythe-lord's lieutenants. He has our blood-lust, but he can control it in a way neither of us can. I have even heard he has been selected as a candidate to replace one of the Scythe-lords' lieutenants.”
“Ha! I can see him turning that offer down!”
“He may accept the position.”
“But, brother–”
“Grond, it is his choice.”
“…I don't see him accepting…”
“If he were to be given an appointment like that, he could not turn it down. He still cares for what we were before the Cursed. He would not serve a being he does not believe in. Should his wrath get the better of him, no one could stop him from acting on his own, and–” he paused writing something in the dirt before continuing. Grond read it, swiftly erasing it with a kick of his iron boot.
“Grond, if Balroth knew I was telling you this, it would drive him mad. I fear he would give in to his bloodlust and compromise his mission.”
“But, brother, the berserker is only a myth. A fairy tale thought up to frighten our enemies and their offspring.”
“It does exist. The-man-who-raised-us was one as well, even he was killed in his sleep.” Strythe sighed, “Brother, I will tell you more later, but for now, let us fight! Come, a city lies before us, waiting to be colored in the blood of its inhabitants!”

The city was falling. The sten could see that clearly. Only about his own headquarters was there some semblance of an adequate defense. New converts to the Qun had rallied about his banner, former elves and humans alike. All now followed the Qun. All were now Qunari. Those kossith who remained alive displayed no emotions, but he could tell what they were feeling. Whether they chose to believe it or not, they were losing. To imagine Seheron being attacked was unthinkable! And by an unknown enemy, most of whom were of a deep violet color, had long black hair, and yellow eyes? Their stature was unimpressive, but their strength was surprising, as was their agility and coordination in their tactics. Two enemies suddenly dropped from above. The escaped prisoner! Sten moved swiftly. Gripping his massive blade in one hand and a shield the size of a door in the other, he prepared to face these new foes.

Strythe spoke, “Sten is your rank, and your name. To take on one's duty as though it were your very life is impressive. Sten, be reasonable,” he spread his arms wide, his fanged teeth gleaming in the moonlight, “give up and surrender. This-city-called-Seheron is ours now. Do your duty and save your subordinates the trouble of dying. Surrender!”
The large, horned giant spoke in a deep monotone, “If I defeat you in combat, you and your kind will leave this city. If I am defeated, you may do with us as you please.”
Strythe glared balefully at him, “I have defeated your leader and still you resist! Grond, kill this fool! I'll deal with the rest!” Turning his back on the horned giant, he stalked towards the newest converts to the religion-called-the-qun. “Are you all of like minds?!” his deep guttural voice terrified most of those whom he addressed.
A group of short beings with ears-like-knives stood up, “We are Qunari! We will fight for this city!”
“You want to face me alone?”
Grond chuckled, a deep harsh cackle. He had since replaced his ordinary garb with the armour befitting his rank. Spiked and rough, the armour was as black as coal. It gave off no sheen even in the moonlight, and once he placed the horned helmet on, he vanished into the shadows.