Fleshing out my Lavellan's backstories.
Meloin and his brother have scars un-accustomed with their previous life styles. Explains a little of Meloin's resentment towards humans even as his clan.
For those who say that slavery does not exist in the southern territories. For the city elves and the humans they bend knee to. To the 'civilized' people who do not see their own woes.
We are the long suffering.
I tell you that there is slavery everywhere. At least in Tevinter it's honest. No one wants to believe the things that can happen to them. Our lives still matter! We are not a silent few. We are the wailing, unending cry from a darkness we have been told is our home.
They came as the sun was setting. It wasn't yet dark but they just came and there was nothing we could do. We weren't prepared for the fires. Our caravans burned, children died or were taken. I and my brother along with them. Our keeper lay bleeding, hunters and guardian's either broken, bleeding or dying.
We walked for days until we reached an unmarked villa. Three days out, it was a lovely place, all white marble and blood stained floors. They only took the available and able children, which at the time both my brother and I were. 14 and 17 respectably. I'd just received my markings that year. Been given a place as our Keeper's first. It had all happened so wrong. They were talking about trade routes, talking about a man in Orlais with a taste for young flesh. A man in Highever who had a nest of dungeons set like a maze willing to buy. Spat on us, heckled, defamed. Starkhaven, Kirkwall. Names of cities and City States and places we had never been.
I've never been one to sit idle. One of the women, a large unsightly thing, with short trimmed black hair, fierce eyes took one of the younger boys from the group of us with a leer. We didn't see him for hour and when he returned he was bruised and bleeding in places he shouldn't have been.
I was the next one to be taken but I went willingly, placid, fake and angry. I fought with untested fire. The shem fought back. She cut the hair from my head and called me a whore. Called me Rabbit, called me knife ear. called me many names. She drew a sword across my belly after what felt like hours.
Renoin hadn't been idle either. They'd gotten the other children up to take them somewhere and my brother had stolen one of their swords somehow. I wasn't there so what the other boys told me was a bit sketchy and Renoin wouldn't talk much after the incident.
Long story short my brother found me gutted and bleeding onto the nice circular tiles. I remember they were blue and black and red. So much red. It was a beautiful pattern, the holy symbol of the humans precious beloved Andraste and their fucking maker. Pretty.
There was a spirit. She/He/It helped me, mended my wound just enough to strike back at the one who'd done it before it was too drained to do much else than drift, dissolve, become less.
Thirteen of us were taken, only 5 of us made it back to our broken camp weeks later.
Years later our Keeper would preach forgiveness, understanding, "Not all are like they."
I still can't fucking believe it.
No one to care, not even our own protector. She preached forgiveness when what we needed was retribution. The systematic slaughter of our people doesn't just come from those who would shackle us, it was the very man. People who believe us the lesser to them. Unworthy of life or freedom, wealth, power. Being other than how our ears shape us, our clans define us, through a bloody history they participated in.
Nothing has changed.
To those who think slavery no longer exists in the southern territories. I tell you that you are willfully blind.
The blood is so red.
The tiles so cold.