Disclaimer: "Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only

Words From The Author: If Urthemiel's utmost desires are to sire more of his own kind (more than just the darkspawn that share his blood, though he also calls them his 'children') and stick it to the Maker, I wondered how that might translate into how the darkspawn behave, and thus, we have another drabble. First one here, I'm playing around with first person perspective, which was a bit different, but fun! :D

Then I was struck with another idea after replaying through the game again, this time trying to stick very judiciously to Gwyneth's character as it was born in the main novel these shorts were spawned from. When the peeps get ambushed in camp, I had a wonder about that too, and now . . . two drabbles for the price of one! Oh, wait never mind, they're all free anyway. ;p

Hinting at something with Flemeth here for certain, an idea that I had playing DA2, and somehow metastasized until I thought it made perfect sense. :p It is by no means canon, in fact canon suggests something else, it is merely something I've put into the Fate and Forbearance-verse.

Broodmother Lullaby

I sleep, chest rumbling beneath the depths of Thedas, the huge scaled cavity that it has become, the hateful usurper god's idea of an appropriate prison for my vanity. I sleep, and I dream deity dreams of fire and retribution, of my children and their desire to act upon all my wishes. It is the desire of any species, from the lowest of mortals to the highest of gods, to continue their line, to have heirs . . . so why was I denied this? The greatest beings to ever grace the ether of this coil of life, and we were all denied, then left to rot and go mad in the imprisonment of flesh, scales and tainted blood.

There is a call in my mind, and I want to shout outward, but my shouting sends my worshiping children to cringe and scatter, poisoned mutated minds no longer able to understand the calls of their god. Instead, I sing, I croon, calling to Uvolla, my sister, but Lusacan ceased to answer me long before the fall of the Golden City. I want to try again, even inside these vessels, maybe we could attempt to create progeny together again . . . but no, it is of no use.

The poor souls that worshiped me, the ones the black fly mortals named darkspawn, they don't understand, but they try to. Women are taken when they feast, taken and shaped to the only kind of mother my beloved children will ever have, so that more of them may be created and I revel in it. 'Father! Father! Father! Do you see what we have done for you, Father? Will you sing for us again?' All of them try to speak, though it is barely discernible amidst the growling. They reach out to place their scabbed and rough hands against my scales, sighing into my singing, their lullaby. The hideous appearance of them no longer bothers me, as the God of Beauty, I know that it should, and yet . . . they make an army for me, for the vengeance that belongs to all of us, and they do all that they can to please me and see to my needs.

In time, these women are made into darkspawn and they too hear my singing, it is what calms them when they labor in their new role. This is not perfection, but it is creation, and it is our driving force.

A 'Friendly' Test

While she's sleeping, He watches, as much as He can. She breathes in, He breathes out. Her dreams draw Him in, but she can't understand what He says, not yet, but He can be patient. Urthemiel has waited eons for this opportunity . . . He can wait a bit longer.

Deep beneath the crust of the world, the great dragon rests a wearied head, darkspawn murmuring around Him, some even sleeping against His large body, waiting for the next lullaby. The emissaries of Morgreth Urthemiel's will awaken, their garbled tongue calling to the others, and above their heads, there is a small band of darkspawn that listen. One tall shriek lifts its snout to the moon and howls, not so unlike a werewolf, ravaged skin stretched taut over unnaturally long talons.

"Go, my children, I wish to see what these Grey Wardens are capable of when they are surprised, I yearn to know how quick a mind my future bride possesses." He tells them. They don't understand all His words, but they do as they are bid.

His intended is resting inside the uncomfortable confines of a hastily assembled tent, turning on her side in a new bedroll. The Warden yearns for a soft bed and fluffy pillows, and Urthemiel wishes He could smile at that, but the only smiles He has are in His head, the dragon's snout He possesses is incapable of such an expression. She is a silly human thing, with silly human dreams, but He has placed His new hopes on her and cannot help but try to find her endearing, even if the quirks of her mortality are more scornfully amusing instead.

"Gwyneth . . . wake up, my sweet." Urthemiel croons to her as He croons to His dark children, and in her sleeping mind she seems to hear Him. He repeats her name again, like a caress and the Warden sits upright in her bedroll, bleary eyes coming into focus.

He moves on to the other Warden. 'Alistair' a figment of a memory tells Him, as He goes inside the male's own consciousness. He rouses quicker than his female companion and it is something Urthemiel will remember for later. "You must wake now, I've sent you something."

He doesn't want them massacred in their sleep, and though the old god is aware that His intended and the blonde male are sensitive to His children, Urthemiel will not take a gamble with their survival. Least of all hers, she needs to make it to Him while He plans a means of escape from His shell. It will be a test of their abilities and how quickly they can react, nothing more and nothing less. Some of His children will need to be sacrificed, but it is a small price to pay, with the broodmothers making more every day.

There is a strange smell, and Urthemiel sniffs with His own snout, though He knows it is a fragrance He catches from the human, Gwyneth. She isn't even half aware of Him inside her mind, getting dressed and crawling sleepily from her tent.

"Alistair, did you . . .?" She begins, looking around the camp and listening intently to the sounds of the woods around them. "I thought I heard, felt, the archdemon talking to me."

"Mostly I heard a lot of growling, but I had the same . . . wait! What was that?" His eyes peer out into the darkness, hand already at the handle of a competent long sword.

As he scouts the perimeter of their camp, Urthemiel settles into His Gwyneth's mind as she moves closer to the wild mage they have with them. She is the source of the oddly familiar stench and as Gwyneth stands beside her, He presses His urge to smell the woman onto his oblivious host. She does so, not sure why, and the deity is pleased by how easy her over tired consciousness makes things. It is something else He will have to remember for future use.

"What are you doing?" The witch arched a thin black brow at Gwyneth.

"Sorry, Morrigan, I was . . . something smelled strange." The Warden apologized, though she seemed confused as to what her reasoning was anyway.

"And you thought it was me? Pfah! More likely it was that rancid dog of yours." Morrigan groused.

Gwyneth was quick to defend her canine companion. Though she wasn't as nasty as she had been towards others. There was an affection for the mageling.

Urthemiel had no use for the pettiness of humans, and instead waited for His dark children to arrive. But Gwyneth had been near enough for Morgreth to recognize the smell . . .'Uvolla!' The witch smelled of His kind, of His sister in fact, a most curious thing.

Then He watched as shrieking dark ones burst from the trees, and He found Himself wishing to smile once again. The Wardens were quicker, more so than He had imagined, and that would serve well when the time came.