Chapter Text
Blood.
The stench of death and decay. He wrinkled his nose against it. Thick and sweet and foul. The closer they got to the coven they hunted, the stronger the scent. It made him sick. But it always made him sick. Blood magic. Mages who resorted to the darkest arcane arts, who always sought more power without thought of anything but themselves. He would tear their still-beating hearts from their chests; revel in the look of surprise on their faces when they realized what happened. Just a few seconds and then they die.
A gentle but firm hand touched the top of his head, and he stilled. He'd been pawing the cold ground, the night frost not yet melted. They would need stealth and silence for this hunt, and he was doing them no favors by letting his rage get the better of him. Having suffered at the hands of both slavers and blood mages, he took immense pleasure in hunting them down and destroying them. But they were on a special mission this time. It wasn't about personal indulgences right now, and Hawke's fingers idly stroking his fur reminded him to stay calm.
Hawke. An anomaly of a human, and one of the best men he'd ever met. Selfless, but arrogant, tactless, and rude, he put others before himself. A rare trait in a mage. Hawke taught him how to hunt, and they'd been together a long time now, working as part of a network to rid Thedas of those that would see it destroyed. And there were a lot of threats. Even more so of late, it seemed.
Hawke pulled a small stone from his pocket, a bit larger than his palm, and flat, with a special rune inscribed on it. A gift from his father, who was also a hunter and a capable mage to hear Hawke speak of him. Fenris never met Malcolm, but he thought he would have liked him. Hawke swiped his thumb over it, checking the last communications they received. A dark cloud of shadow emerged, two pinpricks like eyes in the middle, and a voice with a strange accent reiterated the same instructions that Fenris committed to memory. They would find information leading them to their next quarry in the Vimmark Mountains. Unfortunately, the Vimmarks stretched nearly the entire length of the Free Marches, bordering them on the south, cutting off important port cities like Kirkwall and Ostwick.
Fenris bristled. Traveling for weeks in the Free Marches was marginally better than Tevinter, but it still stank of slavers and blood mages. The caves along the mountain range were soaked with the blood of slaves - elves and humans alike. Fenris recoiled at the memory of it, his dreams haunted by the atrocities in his past. And there was only really one person he wanted to answer for it. But Danarius was always just out of reach. If he could tear his old master's throat out today, he would be satisfied.
But would he continue to hunt? He stayed with Hawke because he felt he owed him for his help. No, that wasn't right. He joined Hawke because he felt he owed him. He stayed with him because he was a good man. A good human. Fenris hadn't met many of those. And none that he could call friend. Irritated, tired of the waiting, he transformed back into his elven form. In the beginning, it was a slow, painful, and arduous process. His limbs lengthening or shortening, the fur growing or receding, his jaw feeling broken in a dozen places. But he'd gotten so used to it, using his lyrium lines to shift into his wolf form and back hundreds – perhaps even thousands – of times, he no longer felt the pain it used to cause him. Fortunately, he'd learned how to shift with his clothing, the cloth weaved with magical thread, lyrium sewn into the fabric just like his skin. And a bag for his possessions, though small, could shift as well.
His former master (and Danarius never truly left his thoughts, though lately he was closer to the surface than usual) trained him to wield a two-handed greatsword, and no matter how hard he tried, he wasn't able to shift with the weapon. Hawke proposed the solution to this. Concealed in his staff was a blade of red steel. Imbued with elemental runes, it leeched magic from the staff, and likely from Hawke. But he never complained, and he rarely had the need for lyrium to replenish his mana. Fenris admired his resolve, and worked hard to match his stamina whether in fighting or in training.
"We should be seeing them cross through these paths," Hawke said, keeping his eyes out over the cliff.
Fenris snorted, sitting cross-legged in the grass. The cliff was a rolling drop, one you could likely survive if you fell, if you knew how to land properly and avoided the jagged rocks on the way down. The band of blood mages they'd been tracking for days had information on another mage. A very powerful one who was said to be reanimating the dead. While necromancy was common in some areas, the practice was a licensed one. Trained mages worked in schools for a long time, and poured money into the arts. In Nevarra, they had a Night of the Living Dead where corpses would dance in the street, painted and decorated in brilliant colors. Of course, the loved ones of those who passed had to give their permission for this, and he understood that most did so quite happily.
The mage, whoever he was, certainly didn't have a license, and he definitely wasn't obtaining permission to rob graves and crypts for his nefarious purposes. RTD , as most hunters had taken to calling him, was like a ghost. Even his followers weren't sure of his true identity. Which meant he was paranoid. A paranoid, psychopathic, blood mage necromancer. Fenris couldn't wait to rip his heart from his chest. The blood mage coven would hopefully give them the answers they were looking for. And if Hawke promised to let them live, then went back on it, well, Fenris wasn't going to argue.
"We should seek out Danarius," Fenris muttered.
It was an age old argument that they had nearly every week, more frequently of late now that the anniversary of Fenris's escape was approaching. Three years and he grew more irritated by the day that he couldn't find his former master in order to properly thank him for the lyrium brands. Hawke, who was used to this by now, merely pulled an apple from his bag and dropped it into Fenris's lap. Fenris scowled, but bit into it savagely.
"Another hour and we'll move further down the ridge. You said you smelled them this way."
"This entire range reeks of death, Hawke," Fenris said around the bite of apple. He chewed, then swallowed. "But this spot smelled the freshest."
"…Gross. But all right." Hawke sat down next to him and pulled out another apple for himself. "Another hour, then we'll move. If we don't see anything by sun up, we'll make camp."
Fenris finished his apple and tossed the core down the cliff, watching it in the dim moonlight as it bounced off rocks and came to a halt near the base. "You continue to check the runestone."
"I like the way the man's voice sounds."
That was another thing Fenris learned to get used to. Hawke had a horrible sense of humor. Sometimes it was dark, other times it was simply… bad. And he seemed to have something to say about everything. Sometimes it was welcome, other times – like now – it was exceedingly annoying.
"And the real answer?"
"I just want to make sure there's nothing we missed. He doesn't contact often."
"You don't even know who he is."
Hawke shrugged. "It was good enough for my father, it's good enough for me."
Fenris knew that was the end of the conversation. Whenever the Wise Words of Malcolm Hawke were invoked, the argument was finished. As irritating as it was sometimes, mostly it simply made Fenris jealous. He longed for a father figure, someone like Malcolm who could have guided him through the years he was lost. But he would settle for Hawke, who in all the time they spent together, became something of a brother to him. They fought like siblings, or so he was led to believe, and they would defend one another to death.
He transformed again, shifting bone and muscle, shaggy silver fur with glowing green eyes. While corporeal now, he could phase in this form as easily as he could in his elven one. However, while bluish-white and still quite visible as an elf, as a wolf he appeared as transparent as mist. A true lyrium ghost, Fen'Elgar, the Spirit Wolf. The rumors circulating the Free Marches were still quite new and sparse; he quite liked the idea of becoming a legend across Thedas. Hawke, the great hunter, and his deadly companion.
Hawke rested his hand atop his head and pet him idly, something he used to hate, but had grown quite fond of. He settled down, eyes focused on the base of the cliff, breathing slowly. They would come. And when they did, they would get their answers.
-
The wind shifted. He was dozing, Hawke keeping watch, but that subtle change in weather brought the scent to him and he was immediately on his feet, hackles raised. Hawke grabbed his staff from the ground, moving to his knees, and Fenris made a quiet wuffling noise, pawing the ground gently.
"The west. All right," Hawke whispered.
He settled his staff on Fenris's back, parallel to the ground, balancing it, holding the edge. Fenris felt the magic thrumming through the metal. Normally cold to the touch, it was almost hot against his fur, but he didn't move, letting Hawke use him for balance, getting the line of sight just right. He bent his legs, lowering it a mere inch. Though Hawke had an eye for distances, he was only human. Even in his elven form, Fenris could see better in the dark. In his wolf form? It might as well be high noon. He braced himself, his markings flaring, pulling him toward the Fade as the spell surged forth from the tip. In the distance, Fenris heard the startled cry of four mages – no, five – as they became locked in a static prison. Hawke stood, clicked his tongue, and Fenris took off, racing down the mountainside. Five blood mages would be no match for himself and Hawke, but they needed these alive for the information they carried.
He hoped Hawke would let him tear their throats out after.
The mages were panicking, the silver cage around them shimmering in the moonlight. They tried to break the magical bars of electric energy, shooting spell after spell against it. The bars held. Hawke knew his magic, and he knew it better than any mage Fenris had ever met. And he'd met a lot of mages. A hazard of being a slave in Tevinter. The mages startled when they saw him, and he pulled himself up to his full height, nearly as tall as a mortal man's chest. Hawke once made a quip that he could potentially ride Fenris into battle if he needed to. Fenris responded with a very unenthusiastic glare.
"Maker's breath," one of them whispered.
Speaking of breath, Fenris thought, recoiling. His unease turned into a growl. Vampires.
Some blood mages didn't stop at merely bleeding their slaves. Others went so far as to change their own physiology in order to drink the blood to further augment their powers. He smelled it on their breath, saw the sharp fangs in the light of the silvery magic. Of all the blood mages, the vampires were the worst, just shy of being full-blown cannibals. And they were powerful. Blood as a base for any magic meant power, but it was an anathema to most magic. Even the darker arts, some of which Hawke practiced. But not blood. Never blood.
"Aren't you just the sorriest lot of fuckers I've ever seen," Hawke said, who'd finally made his descent. He gently touched the top of Fenris's head before stepping forward, peering through the bars. "All right. I'll give you one chance," he said to the tallest one. "A little bird told me that you had information about the magister who's been reanimating corpses without a license. Where is he, and why is he amassing an army of the undead?"
"I know who you are!" one of them shouted suddenly. "Hawke! You're Hawke. I'm not telling you anythi-"
Fenris approached the cage, growling. The mage backed up immediately, tripping over his friend, and fell to the ground. The acrid scent of urine hit Fenris's nostrils, and the growl turned into a wolfish grin. They were terrified, they were all terrified. Whether of him or Hawke or both, he didn't know. And it didn't matter. These men didn't deserve to live. He looked at Hawke as if to say, 'Better hurry or you won't be able to get any information from them.'
Hawke nodded. "Right." He hung his head a moment, thinking, then looked up quickly. "The first person to give me information on RTD gets to avoid a horrible, agonizingly long death!" And he said it with a smile.
Three of the mages stepped forward at once, a cacophony of babble as they tried to give Hawke the information he sought. Hawke sighed, hands on his hips as he looked them over. Fenris, meanwhile, stalked the edges of the cage, keeping a wary eye on all of them. He growled warningly when one reached his hand into his robes. A jet of flame hit the mage on the arm and he flailed, trying to put it out quickly. Hawke shook his hands, his fingerless leather gloves slightly singed.
"I don't think we're going to get any more information from them. Fenris, that one's yours."
It was all the warning he got before the barrier dropped. Grinning, Fenris leapt on the mage who dared try to attack them. The screams echoing in the darkness silenced as his jaws clamped down over the soft flesh of the mage's throat. He tasted the warm, sweet blood as it flowed into his mouth and over his tongue, staining his fur.
Hunting with Hawke was always fun.
