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As a Grey Warden, Alizael was more than familiar with the concept of death, and what came after. The Necropolis reminded him of a grave, which he supposed was appropriate. It was cool and dry, and smelled like dust, and the ambient green flickering of Veilfire lit their path without any of the burning-taper urgency connotations of real flame. It was peaceful, and serene.
This, he thought, would be a great place for a nap. It was so relaxing, in fact, he had to stifle a yawn, in sharp contrast to Bellara beside him, who was so excited it seemed like she might vibrate out of her own skin. Granted, she was like that more often than not, but her constant fidgeting seemed to reach a particularly high pitch as she prepared to meet someone she, apparently, held in very high esteem.
Zael was unbothered. “I’m not entirely sure we actually need this… professor sort. You’re plenty clever enough as it is, Bellara.” If he’d been in charge-- originally-- they’d have killed Solas at the ritual site, and that would have been that. As far as Zael was concerned, bleeding hearts had gotten them into this situation, and it was, rather unfortunately, only natural that his more focused, duty-oriented outlook was needed to get them out of it.
In short, it was up to a Grey Warden to save the world. Fucking again.
“It’s not just about being clever, Zael,” Bellara said, turning a slow circle to look at their surroundings, “it’s about… intricate knowledge of the Fade. I can walk you through something slapdash when things come past it, but things within it? Not my forte.”
He and Bellara rounded a corner, passing between artfully chiseled pillars and sharp filigreed portcullises of green metal. A long hallway stretched before them.
Zael swallowed down another yawn. “This is it. But no sign of the professor.”
Bellara took careful, shifting steps, like she was prepared to jump out of the way of a trap at a moment’s notice. “I hope he’s here. And that he doesn’t mind us disturbing him.”
Zael snorted, looking at the crumbling stone around them. “I’m not worried about it. If he’s as intelligent as you say, he’ll realize the still living but likely soon to be dead if we don’t do something are more important than some old skeletons.” He didn’t give a damn about the estimable professor Emmrich Volkarin; he didn’t care if they were interrupting his very important studies, or duties, or… whatever it was he did here.
Bellara glanced at him with that nervous, knowing look she had when he’d said something out of pocket and she was choosing not to comment on it. “Well, he is a senior necromancer.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that.” Zael rested his hand on the pommel of his broadaxe, fighting back a roll of his eyes. “What does that even mean?”
Look, Zael wasn’t an idiot. His father made sure he was educated-- up until Alistair, you know, fucked off into the Fade and left him with the Inquisitor. After that, he’d shared private tutors with Varric’s kids until the pain from the blighted blood he was born with got too bad and he left to join the Wardens. He was pretty well educated, as far as your standard Fereldan went, is what he was saying, and he didn’t really see a need for something as hifalutin as a ‘professor’. Especially one of something as fucking ridiculous and unnecessary as necromancy.
“I don’t--,” Bellara’s words cut off in a gasp as she and Zael rounded a corner and their vision washed green in Veilfire. She paused and stepped back, bumping into Zael, who put a hand protectively on her shoulder. In tandem, both of their heads craned up.
On a raised dais stood a slender form wreathed in green flames. Laid across the stone slab before them was a skeleton. With measured, practiced motions, the silhouette conducted the bones to rise, pelvis to the edge of the slab, spine arching. Wristbones creaked as the skeleton, its eyes inlaid with emerald stone, regarded its phalanges with something akin to curiosity, before it stood to its full height and stepped to the crest of the stairs.
The skeleton lurched forward, descending the stairs with an ease belonging to muscles and sinew, and not raw, dry bone. Bellara had to physically elbow Zael out of the way as the fleshless cadaver strode between them, raising a pickaxe high; the sharp point of it nearly grazed Zael’s temple.
Zael was looking at the gleam of gold in voltaic light, at the blaze of a skull wrapped in green flame.
“Visitors!” a surprised, slightly breathless voice called out (Zael was so entranced that he didn’t realize where it was coming from until it was halfway through its next sentence) "...our last guests were stuck for hours, poor souls.” A beat of silence, then a quiet noise of recognition, and with a wave of his hands, the flaming skull flaked apart like burnt paper in the wind, revealing a human visage, which relaxed into a kind smile.
Even as he descended the stairs, Zael was still staring up at Professor Emmrich Volkarin of the Mournwatch.
Something a bit like gravity-- invisible, but unavoidably, imminently present-- drew Zael forward as Emmrich extended his hands, his normal brave steps replaced with some half-hearted trip-stumble. Luckily, Bellara breezed past him, jolting him with her shoulder and sending him faltering back in equal measure.
Bellara took Emmrich’s (slender, fine, garlanded) hand and wrist in both of her own hands and squeezed. “Hello, Professor! We’ve never met, well, in person, but I-I’ve been writing to you…”
“Bellara? My dear girl, what a pleasure!” There was genuine emotion in Emmrich's voice, something between delight and disbelief, bright and unassuming and sincere, as he leaned forward to greet Bellara; he was smiling and his cheeks were flushed red and Zael didn’t realize he’d been standing there with his mouth open until he had to clear his throat to avoid choking on his own spit, and when he did, Emmrich stood to his full height and turned toward him.
Zael had never recoiled from anything in his life, and he was not about to start now-- but the warbling in his stomach and the rush of heat to his face was unfamiliar, and he swallowed hard and pointedly dug his bootheels down into the crumbling stone beneath him to stop from stepping back. He was thankful for the low ambient light and the Blight which mottled the skin of his face, because he was certainly going red.
Things were silent a beat longer than he would have liked before he found his voice. “Uh. Ali--Rook. Erm, Alizael, but everyone calls me Rook. So that’s what you’ll probably, uh, hear. I’m a Grey Mo-- er, Warden.” And he finished with a small cough, gaze bouncing to Bellara, who looked away, in turn, to say, yup, that went as bad as it sounded.
Emmrich was unperturbed by Zael’s stumbling tongue. “Rook! Bellara’s mentioned you!”
Something that isn’t fear but its close cousin lights Zael up like a shockwave. “She did?” Wait, no, that’s stupid, of course she did. “Uhh, I mean. Um. Big fan of the, uh. Flaming skull thing?”
“It’s nothing, really,” Emmrich said, hands coming to rest clasped in front of his waist-- his very, very small waist-- and something happens in Zael’s brain that blanks it out in fuzzy static as he stares at Emmrich’s long, delicate fingers. He's so distracted he completely misses what the professor says next.
“Mm--,” another pause just a hair over awkward, Zael swallowing his own tongue, “--looks great!”
“Thank you!” Emmrich, once again, didn’t seem to notice, and appeared genuinely pleased Zael thought his magic trick was cool. The reciprocated approval made the static in Zael’s head tick up in pitch. “You know, I’m never quite sure how these spells strike someone from outside Nevarra.”
Zael, tired of tripping over his own tongue, opened his mouth to say the first thing that popped into his head, which was probably not very well, but was, thankfully, interrupted by the sound of a distant, piercing scream.
“I’d be pleased to continue our conversation after I tend to some small business here,” Emmrich extended a long, graceful arm in the direction of the horrible noise. “Would you two mind accompanying me further into the Shrouded Halls?”
Zael’s eyes trailed up the length of Emmrich’s forearm. Maker, I think I could listen to him talk for hours. He realized, belatedly, Emmrich had asked him a question.
“Toward that screaming?” He tried to twist his voice into something reticent, but the idea of action-- of something he could hit, instead of standing here melting down into composite parts in Emmrich’s presence-- was a welcome relief.
“Something’s gone awry in this part of the Necropolis, Rook,” Emmrich said, voice lilting down with worry, as he strode towards the Necropolis proper. “The dead stir more easily than they should.”
Zael almost tripped over his own feet hurrying to follow, and that-- the way Emmrich’s voice affected him when it sounded the slightest bit sad-- was something he was going to have to fucking investigate. Later. “Sure. Be happy to help. Lead on, Professor.”
As they followed Emmrich deeper into the Necropolis, Bellara fell into step beside him.
“Well, that was… interesting,” she said, the glee poorly contained in her voice.
“What? We need his help. He needs our help.”
“What happened to ‘not needing the professor sort’?” she asked, grinning.
“Right. Look, we’re already here, so let’s just… do him. Fuck!” Zael winced, fist snapping closed on empty air with the force of it. “Do this. Help him. And, uh. Don’t… don’t tell him I said that, yeah?” A beat. “Any of it.”
“Bellara? Rook? Do try to keep up. It is quite easy to get lost here."
“Sure, Professor!” Zael called over Bellara’s hushed giggles, taking long strides to catch up. “So, uh. Tell us more about… what’s going on here?”
“Well, you see, lately, these halls should be under the protection of the bell..."