Chapter Text
If one were to speak of the Cadash family, they would invariably respond with Carta, or perhaps crime lords; if being very generous, they might say lyrium curators and delivery service. To all these things they would be correct, for the Cadash family is huge, with a network that runs both across the surface of the East Marches, and even broader among the Deep Paths. They were spread liberally across the land, with hideouts above and holes deep underground, like a sprawling spider web beyond the authorities reach. To say they had their fingers dipped in many pies would be an understatement. Though they were known mostly for their lyrium trade, they had built an empire even greater than the Diamond Quarter Deshyrs and the Ambassadoria in Minrathous could ever imagine, providing food for the increasingly starving deep dwellers, rare artifacts, art, lyrium, and even a few rare (and certainly untraceable) cases of apostate stolen brides for some lower Tevinter nobles looking to get fresh, powerful blood for their breeding purposes.
The Cadash family were as hard and cutthroat as they were rich and powerful, and none would dare their ire. The Dasher headed it with a stone heart and an obsidian fist. He had two daughters, Devika and Elena; beautiful girls who were as calculating and cunning as the Dasher himself. The family was prolific and widespread. To the Dasher’s fourth cousin, one time removed, was born a beautiful baby girl. It was said by some that the night Charlotte was born, the Stone itself thrummed with meaning. At this momentous occasion the Dasher’s fourth uncle, Firic Cadash, happened to be in attendance.
Firic was an old dwarf, set in his ways, and many respected and feared him. He tended to his own business, pulling strings from behind, letting more imposing figures like his nephew dominate the limelight. He had come to discuss business with Charlotte’s father, and had not expected to be witness to some useless extended relative’s birth. Yet when he first laid eyes upon the wee baby Charlotte, he saw a shock of hair as red as the deepest lava flows, and smooth as a spider's silk. Her eyes seemed to pierce him,sharp for an infant’s gaze, orbs the silvery blue-gray of well forged steel. Pale and sweet, it was no exaggeration to say she was the most beautiful child (NO, being) that he’d ever seen! He was enraptured, mesmerized, and as he asked to hold her, he could swear, for the first time in his life, he heard the Stone sing.
Firic returned to his home, but the image of the baby wouldn’t leave him. Ticking and ticking away in his mind, over and over in a loop, he heard the sound of the Stone, and watched the vision of the child he had held. It haunted him, growing like a pervasive flame in his blood. He had found a secret treasure that no one else in the family knew of, and he would make it his own, especially the song of the Stone; their very Mother singing so sweetly, almost resonating with his blood. If he could hear it, just a little more, he knew he’d grasp some kind of ancient wisdom beyond all others’ knowledge. He swore by his ancestors, and on the very stone, she would be his.
In the following weeks, Firic visited Charlotte’s parents three times. Each time he’d offer to take care of Charlotte for them, promising greater and greater gifts. The first week, he came saying he would gift them a house on the surface, even greater than most humans lived in. He would see that she received the best nannies and tutors, and be quite well read. Charlotte’s parents, loving their daughter and wishing not to be parted from her, declined with great respect . The second week, he returned promising to raise her like a princess. She would have the finest silks, the prettiest toys, and the best learning that money could buy. She would want for nothing, if they would but let him take custody of her. Though very tempting, her parents could not bear to be parted from their new babe, and so twice, they declined. A third time he came, with gifts of gold and exotic sweets. He offered them a chance to buy into the Merchant's Guild, a task nearly impossible, so that they could go legitimate. He would take care of the child while they got their feet under them. He would return her to their care once they were settled in their new life. He swore it by the Stone. By this time, Charlotte’s parents could sense his desperation, and thus thrice did they refuse him. In fear for their little family, they packed their bags, hoping to find safety in hiding.
Firic was not naive. Through long years of experience, and mastery with dwarven politics and crime, he was very adept at reading people. He knew that he would never be able to convince his worthless cousins to give him the baby. He raged and ranted in his rooms, cursing and spitting with fury. How could they be so selfish? Couldn’t they see he merely wanted the best for her? Couldn’t they see he had more to offer for her future and protection than they ever could? Why would they doom their only child to a life of mediocrity and poverty when she could live like a princess? Such selfishness was disgusting, and it was only right that he, as a grand patriarch of the family, take matters into his own hands. He did not think himself a cruel man, although he would readily admit to being quite pragmatic. This was for a young child's future! He could not do any less then make sure she received the generous and selfless care that only he could give her, no matter what the cost might be.
And so it came to pass, that on the very eve that they were poised to flee, Charlotte’s parents were visited by some very unsavory types. Broad and mean, with stark brands on their faces, the brutes fell upon them like a quiet mist, leaving no evidence of foul play behind. No one knows what manner of violence was visited upon the small family that night, but no bodies were ever found. Charlotte’s parents disappeared without a trace, never to be seen or heard from again. Left alone in her cradle, they found Charlotte quietly grasping in her hands a kerchief her mother had painstakingly embroidered. Each stitch was carefully and expertly set into the cloth. It read: ATRAST NAL TUNSHA. The solemn farewell clutched in the babe’s hand was a cruel irony, for it meant, “May you always find your way in the dark.” That night, Firic, in his kindness, took the poor orphaned child into his care. The family gossipped about the generosity she was receiving, and what a lucky girl she was to have not been left in the Deep Roads, unlike the many orphans before her.