Spellbound

1. Captured

Dalish clans were scarce in the Tevinter Imperium. One might argue a country ruled by mages would be a perfect place for elves, but it wasn't. In Tevinter, elves were slaves. The Dalish did better staying far away from there and the few who dared venture there became but rogues in dishonourable businesses.

How had Lavellan ended up here? He didn't know. He had always been a stray, had always enjoyed hunting by himself and far from the hideout of evergreen forests his tribes-people preferred.

When he had left the clan to find himself, he had wandered aimlessly in the same manner he did for hunting. It found him the rarest gems, the most beautiful flowers, the best game.

Yet here he was. In a dark cave, arms bound behind his back with a rope and his eyes blinded by a black cloth. He was far from anything he knew, far from the territory of his clan.

The people who had captured him spoke Tevene.

Lavellan was no expert at their language; he didn't understand all the syllables that sounded like enchantments to ancient and forbidden spells to him. He had to judge on his surrounding based on sound, and his pointy ears were unfortunately good at that skill.

The unstable noises they picked up on twisted Lavellan's stomach into a violent coil. He prayed he could banish them from his head as soon as he had freed himself of his bindings, but he doubted he could ever forget them.

The rattling of chains overshadowed the thud of soft steps. Heavy breathing from men, women, even children as they suppressed their dread echoed in the unforgiving cave. Ever so occasionally, a pained whimper, a dull thud. Fear muted the people with Lavellan. The silence aside from the barked orders in Tevene was deafening. Chain mail rattled against leather and knives sharply left and returned to their sheaths whenever they were in need. Lavellan tasted their iron blades on his tongue as they were used to cutting not only bindings, judging by the smell.

The Dalish were nomads, and they were reclusive. Since they were a wise folk studied in Elven history, they preferred to keep out of political discord with other races. In comparison, Tevinter's name was followed by its foul reputation throughout Thedas. Whenever strangers or wandering elves visited Clan Lavellan to update their Keeper on the current worldly troubles, the name of 'Tevinter' got whispered full of spite. It was a country of mages, but not mages born with blessings by nature that Elven blood contributed. Human mages, and their magisters, the mightiest of them all, who ruled Tevinter more than its archon. They were puppeteers with fingers sticky from blood as they let their slaves dance for them to gather riches and work to death under their masters.

Elves easily became victims to such madness. Their natural inclination to magic and lower social ranking made them perfect pawns for magisters. The Tevinters nurtured their legal slave ownership system and their malevolent minds, sullied by power-hungry blood magic, were most gruesome in their ways of exploiting that power. Thus, what Tevinter could enslave, it enslaved. No one was safe from their elaborate system of traders.

Especially not lonely elves straying through the forests like Lavellan.

Lavellan bit his lip to hold back a curse. He had been careless. He hadn't expected to encounter slave traders so far outside Tevinter's borders, or he must have wandered farther than he had noticed. The stories the forests told him had distracted him, and their marvellous wisdom turned out to be a trap.

Subtly, he tried his bindings. They didn't budge and dug into the leather gloves on his hands upon the smallest movement. The slavers hadn't bothered to curse them with magic. Lavellan was no magic user, so he wouldn't be able to free himself from the knots woven with expertise, anyway.