I'm not entirely certain how to go about writing this. I'm not even sure if this journal will reach your dimensional plane or if this language will even be understood by you. I've had glimpses of your world, and although the technological advancements of yours are vastly superior to mine, I know for a fact that we are both human beings and that we share many of the same strengths and frailties.
Your world has seen wars, famines, genocides and periods of great unrest.
Your people suffer, grow old, build cities and make love, just as mine do.
Our worlds are very different from a sociological standpoint, but even though your Earth has evolved very differently than mine, so much is still the same. People on this world laugh, cry, fall in love and dream, just like they do on planet Earth.
Our dimensions are so far apart, but our realities are not that different.
The inner workings of my world may seem a little foreign to you, but if this journal reaches you and this language is understood by you, I'm confident you'll easily be able to make sense of my life story. A life story filled with tragedy and sorrow, but one also filled with moments of love and deep passion.
These are my memories.
These are my memoirs.
A DIFFERENT BIRTHRIGHT
Most children in Ferelden grow up with loving families. They go to schools, they play with their friends and they have fun, much like the ones on Earth do. For myself and my fellow deviants, however, things were very different.
From the early age of four, strange powers slowly began manifesting themselves in me.
I had no recollection of them, but then again, I was too young to be self-aware of such things.
Some called it magic, others called it witchcraft. The power running through my veins was extremely faint, but it was apparently perceptible enough for my first-year education mistress to notice. After all, teachers - or loremasters, as we commonly called them - were trained to detect these sorts of deviations.
News of my birth defect rapidly reached the local Chantry, and on that same night, a contingent of huge men clad in plate armour and nasty-looking broad swords entered my home and took me away from my parents.
I never saw my parents after that, and although I don't even remember their names anymore, I can almost recall what my mother's face looked like. Almost.
Sometimes, when I dreamed, I could still hear the sound of her voice; talking to me, whispering to me.
As traumatic as the night of my removal must've been for me at the time, my young mind was forced to adapt and I rapidly found myself adjusting to this new life that was being thrust upon me.
Had I been just a few years older when the sword-bearing zealots had been ordered to get me, I would have probably been dealt a quick death.
Older children normally did not adapt well to Chantry-ordained life.
The younger the deviants were, the easier they could be indoctrinated. By contrast, the older they were, the harder it became.
If a deviant child made it to the age of eight without being noticed or taken away by the Chantry's soldiers, the removal and indoctrination process was usually replaced with a swift mercy killing. Older children and pre-teens were simply too old and too accustomed to freedom to properly adapt to Chantry life. It would be too dangerous to bring them in and too risky to try and stifle their emerging powers. For you see, practising the arcane arts was strictly regulated in Ferelden, and all children manifesting the taint of magic were to be removed from their homes and kept in a heavily-guarded institution known as the Tower.
Basically, it was a prison for mages.
A prison for people like me.
I grew up in that Tower and spent the following two decades of my life living there.
We were tutored, fed, bathed and laundered. Our mentors were fellow deviants, most of whom were now in their sixties and seventies. Some of them were kind and amusing. Others were a tad harsh and a bit boring.
Life in the Tower wasn't all that bad for myself and my fellow deviants.
There were suicides, mostly from the young mages who'd been taken in too late and who'd been unable to properly adapt to living life as Chantry prisoners. But for the rest of us - those who'd been removed and taken in as young children - this life was the only life we'd known. In other words, you don't know what you're missing until you've actually had your first taste of it.
My fellow magelings and I were taught to read and write. We were taught science, biology, mathematics, art, herbalism and history. The only thing that truly differentiated the Tower from the other Chantry-controlled schools in Ferelden was the fact that we were also trained in the arts of witchcraft.
Much like the people it preached to, The Chantry feared and hated the powers of mages and witches.
Still, for a militaristic nation like my own, harnessing the power of occult magic users like myself was a very profitable arrangement.
Our heresy was kept out of sight and locked away in the Tower. In times of war, however, the Chantry would turn a blind eye to its own teachings and use us as pawns in their neverending ploys to rain destruction on foes and enemy kingdoms.
In other words, we were tools of the Chantry. Hated and despised, but used nonetheless.
Even in the privacy of our or Tower, the arcane arts were strictly regulated.
The Chantry's zealots were everywhere. Templars, they were called.
These were battle-hardened soldiers; overly tall and overly muscular.
They'd been trained for one thing and one thing only. To eliminate and hunt down renegade mages.
The Templars guarded every room, every door and every staircase in the Tower.
There were over a hundred mages in the institution, but there were at least four times as many Templars permanently stationed here to keep watch over us.
My classmates and I were kept under close supervision, and those eyes only grew more watchful and more weary of us as we grew older and moved to increasingly secure, higher up locations in the Tower.
Mages in their late teens and early twenties sometimes grouped together and concocted wild plans to try and escape the Tower.
Few had succeeded over the course of the past century, but those that did became legends in their own right and were constantly the subject of fanciful whispers and dreamy-eyed anecdotes.
Most of the ones that had succeeded in escaping had been hunted down and killed by the Chantry and their self-righteous Templars. The handful that hadn't been killed were instead forcibly returned to the Tower and made to undergo the rite of Tranquility; a sentence worse than death itself.
The ritual not only stripped you of your powers but also stripped you of your feelings, your emotions and your personality.
The only thing that remained afterwards was a shell. An empty husk. Such mages were forcibly transformed into mindless automatons and relegated to the roles of cleaners and janitors.
I'd often wondered why the Chantry sentenced most of the escaped-mages to death, whilst occasionally forcing the right of Tranquility unto a few of the unluckier ones. But as I grew into my teen years, I eventually understood that it was done to make us cower. The return of a captured mage instilled fear in the Tower's residents, and that fear was only exacerbated by the fact that the newly transformed Tranquil lived the rest of its life as a soulless Tower worker. A mindless, emotionless, thoughtless maintenance servant.
I'd seen it happen. The rite of Tranquility, I mean.
One of the mages - Jowan was his name - managed to escape once, only to be forcibly returned to the Tower less than two days later.
The Templars marched him up to the top of the nineteen-story-high spire and paraded him around the lower floors for the younger students and older mages to see.
Jowan was restrained with so much rope that half of his body was concealed beneath it. He was carried all the way up the tower, lying face-up on a gurney with half a dozen leather straps securing him down and keeping him immobile. His mouth had been filled to bursting to prevent any sort of sorcerous incantations and his face had been completely engulfed beneath an insanely fat leather muzzle gag.
I could see the fear in his eyes as his heavily restrained form was marched right next to me.
But when I finally saw him a few days later, the Jowan I'd known was gone. He'd been replaced with a shell; a two-dimensional reflection of himself. His body lived on but his essence had been snuffed out. He was no longer sentient.
Fear was a powerful tool; one that the Chantry used to keep us in line and one that they used to make sure the general populace despised us.
Aside from keeping an iron grip on us and preventing our escape, the Templars lived in complete seclusion from the prisoners they were guarding.
They had their own quarters, their own barracks and their own living accommodations in the Tower.
They were constantly in our midst, yet never actually mingling with us.
I'd tried initiating dialogues, smiling or showing kindness to some of the ones who were assigned to the same floor I lived on, but my attempts to converse and make friends with them never yielded any results. Templars and mages were barred from friendship. Even conversing with one of my kind was borderline unthinkable and highly discouraged.
The only deviants who earned the Chantry's begrudging respect - and that of its resident Templars - were the Senior Mages and the First Enchanter. They were an elite group of mages who resided at the very top of the tower, all the way up on the 19th floor. Most of them were in their seventies or eighties, and all of them had proven their undying loyalty to the Chantry and its teachings.
In a way, the Senior Mages were facilitators.
They were prisoners like us, but they'd grown so accustomed to Tower life that they were practically as zealous as the Templars themselves.
We feared them. We feared the Templars.
We feared death as well, but most of all, we feared Tranquility.
ESCAPING THE TOWER
I was twenty-five years of age when I finally escaped the Tower.
The three other mages involved in the plot perished during the attempt, but I was more fortunate than they were.
The wand of fire I'd stolen and the powers of illusion I'd studied allowed me to survive the inevitable confrontation that had cost them their lives.
Even after the escape, I spent weeks on the run; jumping from town to town, never staying more than a day or two in the same place, and just desperately attempting to put as much distance as I could between myself and that dreaded tower.
The Senior mages would've normally tracked me down by magical means, but I'd cleverly dealt with that by breaking into the Tower's main storeroom and destroying my phylactery. The First Enchanter and his aids would not be able to scry my location; sometimes which would make the task of finding me much more difficult for the Chantry's Templars.
Days turned into weeks and still the Templars had not found me.
I scrounged up as much work as I could; running errands in town, earning minor profits here and there and using my herbalism skills to help the sick, the wounded and the disabled I came across.
Things weren't that great outside the Tower, most notably because Ferelden was currently in the grips of a very serious Blight; something which occurred every three or four centuries and which caused hordes of undead to rise up from the ground.
I attempted to help where I could but was careful to remain discreet so as to avoid rumours of an errant mage making its way to the local Chantry.
Some of the folks I helped out were sympathetic to my plight, but most of them begged me never to return and asked me to stay away from their homes and families.
After all, the only thing worse than the taint of magic was sympathising with those who wielded it.
The penalty for helping an escaped mage was serious. And depending on the extent of the help given, it could sometimes even be punishable by death.
Still, as difficult and as different as life in the outside world was for how I'd imagined it, I welcomed it.
My fellow countrymen were well-meaning, if a tad bit ignorant. But most of them were kind and somewhat benevolent in nature.
Weeks turned into months, and after nearly half a year of being on the run, I eventually brought my journey to a halt and settled down in the small town of Lothering.
That was my first mistake.
Underestimating the Templars was my second.
These were not ordinary soldiers, mind you.
From the early age of twelve, these young men were trained to fight and taught that mages were the greatest of all threats. Greater even than the ravenous darkspawn and greater even than the hordes of undead that kept rising up and laying waste to our people.
Magic was evil in its purest form and its dark power coursed through my veins as freely as crimson blood ran through theirs.
In other words, for the Chantry's battle-hardened, muscle-bound zealots, I was the epitome of evil. A dark taint that needed to be wiped out. A tool of villainy and irredeemable corruption that needed to be cleansed.
These self-righteous warriors were relentless.
Brigands, beasts, abominations and undead, all of them were secondary targets.
As for me, I was the first.
Coming to Lothering would be my biggest mistake.
Making a name for myself would be my own undoing.
TO BE CONTINUED
GIVEN THAT THIS TALE IS DIFFERENT FROM THE REST OF MY WORKS AND THAT IT MAY NOT BE OF INTEREST TO MANY READERS, I'M GOING TO RELY ON THE NUMBER OF COMMENTS I GET IN ORDER TO GAGE THE AMOUNT OF INTEREST THERE IS.
IF YOU READ UP TO THIS POINT AND ARE INTERESTED IN A FOLLOW-UP,
PLEASE LET ME KNOW BY SIGNALLING YOUR PRESENCE IN THE COMMENTS.
I'LL ONLY CONTINUE THIS IF ENOUGH OF YOU ARE INTERESTED.
Last edited by bondagefreak2 years ago, edited 9 times in total.
I never actually took you for someone interested in these types of games. This story comes as a surprise.
Nice start to the story! I played Dragon Age: Origins a long time ago, so this was definitely a blast from the past for me. I'm interested in seeing where this leads.
This is certainly a unique story, even among the few fantasy TUG stories I've read before. The setting is pretty dark but the framing device at least makes me feel better about the narrator's chances.
I'm really curious about where this will go, I hope we'll see more from you.
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
I'm utterly fascinated by the way you've written this story - as a Dragon Age fan and as a TUGS fan! As horrifying as it is in context, Jowan's predicament is exciting to read the description of! I hope to be able to see where you take this story next!
I’m not sure what Dragon Age is but the setting is definitely one that interests me, it’s in line with my book shelf so far. I confess I forgot it was this forum and got into the story. I saw it drawing to a close and was disappointed
Not TUG related but I have to ask - is it just a video game (that’s all I see online) or are there supporting books like you get for tabletop war gaming?
What an interesting concept! The Dragon Age games are definitely one of my most beloved series of games, so to pair that with TUGs is something I wouldn't have thought of but it's definitely something that I am deeply intrigued by. Looking forward to where you take it from here, because I really have no idea!
If you want to support me and allow me to commission more illustration and write more story, you can donate to my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/carnath_gid
I feel I am going to love every inch of this, I love a good fantasy story.
My only request ... if at all possible, please don’t make the main character tranquil. Lobotomy style things terrify me.
Well i have to say i am intrigued . Nice intro in to what is what. I do hope there are plenty of gags and bondage to be applied to all and sundry... Not usually one for the fantasy side of stuff (though Shadow of the Mountain expanded my interests) but i think this tale has huge horny possibility's. More Please.
I was hoping this would be well-received but was not expecting such a rousing reception!
I'm thrilled to see so many of you enjoying the start of this!
[mention]Boundcurious[/mention] I don't think there are any Dragon Age books (at least not to my knowledge) but you'll find a plethora of related fanfiction stories like this one if you look on Fanfiction.net. The main difference between this tale and other fanfics is that this one is aimed at non-DA gamers (readers who have no previous knowledge of Dragon Age lore) and TUG addicts.
The other Dragon Age fanfiction stories you'll find will only make sense if you're well versed in this mythos and its in-game characters. In any case, the best DA story I can think of recommending to you would be the one you get to play out in Dragon Age Origins
After a gruelling six months of being on the run, I finally settled down with the intent of establishing myself in a place I could call home. The village I chose was remote and possessed no remarkable traits or special features to make it stand out. Its history was bland, its buildings were brown and its people were poorer than the national average. Lothering was just another spec on the map; the perfect place to lead a quiet life and the ideal spot to maintain a low profile.
Work was easy to come by in this remote farming village of five hundred. With the Blight now well underway and the ravenous hordes of undead mercilessly preying on neighbouring towns, Lothering was abuzz with refugees. Supplies were running dangerously low, thugs and highwaymen were preying on innocent stragglers and herbal medicines were in extremely high demand.
The Chantry's clerics held a surprisingly low amount of influence in town, and the clergy's lack of dominance here was only exacerbated by the Maker refusal to answer their prayers. This divine entity, this creator spirit they kept preaching about, never had it made itself manifest. The Maker's disciples and its self-appointed priestesses were utterly powerless against the Blight. They possessed virtually no powers of healing and could not even provide the town with tangible blessings beyond that of spreading false hopes and blind fanaticism.
Seeing as how their precious Maker would not step in to save them and seeing as how the organised military was too occupied defending the more populated areas of Ferelden, the frightened townsfolk rapidly lost faith in the Chantry's neverending prayer services and saw their fanatical priests for what they truly were; charlatans.
Out of kindness, and perhaps out of desperation, the people of Lothering were quick to take me in and rapidly put my unique powers to good use. It was there that I began honing my skills and it was there that I eventually began making a name for myself.
In hindsight, I should've probably kept to indistinct clothing and refrained from donning the same midnight blue and silver-embroidered mage robe I'd worn during my tenure at the Tower. The attire I wore was distinctive, in that most of the men in town were clothed in drab coloured garments and loose-fitting farmer's pants. My robe was radiant in comparison and it quite literally shimmered under the protective enchantments that had been infused into its fabric.
The lavish vestment did earn me some puzzled looks every now and then, but while most would consider my birthright a curse, I was unabashedly proud of what I was. The fact that the villagers and refugees were beginning to find solace in my presence actually bolstered my resolve. I would wear my robes with pride, and let my actions speak for themselves. Faith in the Chantry was at an all-time low here, and I was desperate to capitalise on that by helping the local townsfolk in any way I could.
Being relatively young of age and having my abilities stifled by the Tower's strict educational curriculum, my powers were very minor compared to those of the Senior mages still residing in that dreadful prison I once called home. I could manipulate the elements with ease, I could cure some wounds and ailments, and I could even call upon the aid of lesser shades and spirits. I could not, however, bring the deceased back to life, nor could I delve into the minds of other sentient beings and communicate telepathically.
In the grand scheme of things, I was a but minor mage and a very inexperienced one at that.
For the people of Lothering though, my cantrips and spells were nothing sort of miraculous.
By day, I roamed the countryside and spent hours collecting medicinal herbs, flowers and mushrooms.
By night, I worked with the crude laboratory equipment the townsfolk had supplied me with, and created healing salves and curative potions to help the wounded, sick and diseased. The work was very time-consuming, but my efforts would save lives and keep the overcrowded hospital from running out of salves and supplies.
When the Blight finally made it to town and the first attack on Lothering came, my abilities were once again put to the test and I ended up getting my first real taste of battle.
The Darkspawn and their undead minions always came at night. Each night they would return and each night they grew in numbers. Larger towns could hold them off for a time, but smaller villages were usually overrun instantaneously.
With so many refugees swelling up the town's population, you would expect the local militia to also benefit from new recruits.
But alas, where the Blight went, disease and fear also followed. Most of the people stuck in Lothering were too old, too frightened or too weak to fend for themselves. There were simply not enough swords to go around, and the few who had them were abandoning this hole to its fate and making haste for larger cities.
The two dozen militiamen guarding the palisade were ill-equipped and ill-prepared to fight the incoming Blight. Some were good fighters, but most were too old or too inexperienced to properly wage war against the likes of these creatures.
My prowess for manipulating the elements had the unforeseen effect of greatly bolstering local spirits though.
And when the bloodthirsty monsters finally came, my countrymen and I met them head-on with swords, shields and a dazzling display of magical fire.
We held strong that night, and we held strong on the two following nights as well.
News of my powerful spells rapidly made it across town, and the militia was replenished when new recruits showed up to join the fight. Casualties were piling up and my stamina was running low, but for the first time since stepping into this place, I was actually proud to call Lothering my home.
Things came to a head on the fourth day, when sounds of a nearby battle reached the palisade and caught the village militia a little off guard. The undead hordes were apparently beginning to masse outside of town when a group of travelling foot-soldiers unwittingly stumbled into their midst and became forced into an engagement.
Myself and half a dozen of Lothering's fastest men immediately set out towards the scene of the conflict.
With enough luck, we'd arrive there in time to save our fellow countrymen and create enough of a diversion to allow the town militia time to gear up and man the palisade defences.
Sundown was only an hour away, and as soon as that fiery orb of comforting daylight dipped beneath the horizon, the fourth attack would come.
It didn't cross my mind that the doomed soldiers I'd set out to rescue might've been the same zealots currently on the lookout for a certain renegade magic-user. It didn't cross my mind that the men I was attempting to help were looking for Aedan Cousland; the young mage who'd destroyed his phylactery and escaped the Tower over six months ago.
When we finally came up to them and I realised who, or rather, what they were, I hesitated.
These were no ordinary foot-soldiers. Their swords were broad, their armours were massive and their frames were beastly in size. These were Templars; the Chantry's most zealous fanatics.
They had come here for one reason and one reason alone.
They had come here for me.
[mention]Boundcurious[/mention] Dragon Age is primarily a video game series but there are tie-in novels and published comics as well. There is even a tabletop RPG in its setting - though I couldn't say about wargaming.
No good deeds goes unpunished, indeed. It's been a positively detailed and action-filled chapter, which left Aeden tired by no doubt. Templars might have had a easier time capturing him then they would otherwise.
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
