Sideways: Part 1
Alana made their way quietly across the terracotta-tiled rooftops of Treviso, following the lines of the canals that were the arteries of the city, leaping lightly from roof to roof above the densely-packed buildings that jostled for space by the waterfronts. Treviso by day, seen from the ground, was impressive enough; all high stone walls, marble statues and wide bridges. From up here, by night, it was truly spectacular. Flickering lamps illuminated golden pools of light, reflecting in arched windows and glinting off the canals in a dance of fire and water. Beyond the gilded glow, raven-black shadows crawled up the sides of tall towers whose stiletto spires stabbed the velvet sky. Given the city's history with the Antivan Crows, Alana wondered if Treviso was actually designed to be seen from above.
The city's beauty was violently marred by buildings here and there in ruins, with hastily-constructed barricades and banners proclaiming the victory of the Antaam, the invading Qunari force that recently claimed Treviso as their own, a sapphire in their bloodied crown as they swept south, through Rivain and into Antiva. Their spiked symbols of conquest stood out against Treviso's romantic architecture like a broken bone protruding from a recent wound.
Moving across the roofs, Alana passed the night markets and cafes of the city centre, smiling slightly with pride. Treviso never truly slept, and her people were stubborn – no invading army would come between them and la bella vita. Alana breathed in the scents of coffee and spices, which mingled in the night breeze with the smell of stale water, a hint of salt air from the distant harbour, and the smoke of the Antaam's fires to create a heady bouquet that was distinctly Trevisan.
Alana reached the pointed gable of a high rooftop, and swung across the canal below on a precarious-looking zipline, one of many constructed by the Crows to get around the city fast. They landed gracefully on a flatter roof on the north side of the waters, and continued into the more dimly-lit backstreets of the city's poorer quarters. Looking down at the street below, Alana briefly paused to check their weapons. Two long daggers, almost short swords, at their belt, along with two small leather pouches. One smaller knife strapped to each leg. Four kite-shaped throwing blades in a bandolier across their chest, each marked with a crow skull at the hilt, a lethal calling card. Alana ran their hand through their fringe, brushing dark hair away from their moss-green eyes. They had no intention of using any of these weapons tonight, but knowing they were there was a comfort. “Observe the Antaam patrols”, they were told, along with several other Crow operatives who were currently hunched on similar rooftops all around Treviso. “Report back anything you can on their movements and actions”.
Since the invasion, the Crows had been waging a guerrilla war on the Antaam, using their skills in subterfuge and their greater knowledge of the city's streets to counter the Antaam's brute force and numbers. To the Trevisan people, the Crows were no longer simply assassins but freedom fighters, swift knives in the dark, striking for resistance. Yet, the Antaam were strong, well armed and disciplined, and the tide of war remained in their favour. Any information the Crows could glean would be invaluable.
Alana heard the patrol before they saw it. Unlike the stealthy Crows, the Antaam had no reason to keep quiet. Noise created fear, and fear was a weapon they wielded well. Heavy iron-shod boots drummed a tattoo against the worn cobblestones. There was something else in the noise, metallic jangling and clinking, and softer, weary footsteps, off-tempo from the regular marching thuds. Alana caught a few grumbled words of Qunlat, which they did not know, but they recognised the word “bas”, meaning “thing” – the term the Antaam used for anyone not like them.
As the patrol came into view, stepping from the darkness into a small puddle of light from the dim street's single oil lamp, Alana saw that four large, horned Antaam guards were herding a group of scared-looking civilians shackled by a long chain that connected them to each other by the ankle. The guards occasionally pushed their captives along, or prodded them with their spears and swords, cursing at them in Qunlat. As they passed the lamplight, Alana could see the prisoners wore poor and mended clothing, and their faces and clothes were smeared with blood. Their heads hung low, their hair matted. One was clearly a dwarf, shorter than the rest and struggling to keep pace, but as for the others – Alana noticed the pointed tips of their ears. Elves.
In poor districts and alienages of cities all over Thedas, elves scraped a living where they could, many barely getting by in good times. In times of war, many died of poverty and starvation as food was rationed and prices hiked by greedy merchants looking to turn a profit from disaster.
There was an old wooden boat moored up to a post on the canal at the end of the street. This seemed to be where the Antaam were leading their captives. If they got out onto the water, Alana would lose them – there was no easy access across the rooftops from here, and if they were headed out to one of the dreadnought warships anchored in Rialto Bay, there was no way to follow.
Anger battled control in Alana's mind. A memory rose to the surface, of a time before they joined the Crows, of the alienage where they grew up, just another orphaned elf learning to fight and survive on the streets.
“Alana, listen to me. Watch the patrol, but do not engage”. Viago's words from earlier this evening echoed in their head. “We need information, not blood”.
Fuck this, Alana thought, and jumped off the roof.