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lavalampelfchild · 5 years ago

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To Answer the Call, Ch. 5

Chapter Summary: It’s time for the Warden recruits to face their first test before the Joining; a test which will take them through the mysterious and dangerous Korcari Wilds, but first, both they and Alistair must prepare.

Ao3: Here

A/N: Here comes Alistair! Yay!

Warning: Graphic depictions of illness in this chapter.

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The sun was rising slowly, and Alistair paused in his polishing to glance eastward. It was weak, that sunlight, peeking timidly over the horizon, and Alistair had to wonder if it was as intimidated by the Wilds as the soldiers.

But the sun’s light was spreading, slow as it was, and Alistair felt himself relaxing as the yellows and oranges grew stronger and clearer.

Beside him, Grigor let out a triumphant huff, and Alistair snickered.

“So, I’m confused,” he started, dropping his elbow to his knee to peer thoughtfully at Grigor. The big man glared and Alistair ignored it gleefully. “If it’s red, does that mean that blood was spilled last night, or that blood is going to be spilled this night?” Grigor snorted.

“It means there’s gonna be blood this night on account o’me wringing your skinny little neck for thinkin’ you’re so clever,” Grigor snarled. He turned and looked pointedly at the sky, adopting an expression of exaggerated disappointment. “Ooh, looks like ya get to live another day! Pity, that.”

“I’ll just thank my lucky stars, then,” Alistair replied primly. He and Grigor stared at one another for all of three seconds before their grins broke free. Alistair reached over and nudged Grigor’s shoulder. “Good omens, then?”

The weathered lines of Grigor’s face deepened and he looked again to the horizon. Alistair sobered.

“We’re alive another day,” Grigor said, measured and level. “And so are our comrades.” He rested a large roughened paw on Alistair’s shoulder. “Reason enough to thank the Maker. Rejoice a bit, if not to let our hair down.” Alistair snickered and his eyes flickered over to the new recruits, all sleeping. He let out a slow breath.

“Don’t think everyone quite got that message.”

The recruits slept stiffly in their bedrolls, looking rigid and uncomfortable, untrusting and wary, even in their rest. Alistair had been eager to speak to them when he’d finally gotten a chance to get back to camp the previous night, but by then, they’d all completely passed out. Rondall too. Richu had explained the circumstances, their travels across Ferelden, and how exhausted they all were.

He’d explained about the Dalish called Velyn. Explained that Duncan would likely be watching over Velyn for the majority of the night.

That they might lose a recruit this time even before making it to the Joining.

It wasn’t exactly what Alistair had hoped to learn when he’d heard of Duncan’s return.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed and he glanced over to see Grigor looking supremely unconcerned. He shrugged and his eyes flashed.

“They’ll come round,” he rumbled. Alistair hummed.

“Of course, and then we’ll all be one big, happy family, won’t we?” That one got him a friendly cuff at the ears. Alistair chuckled, but the mirth slipped away quickly. “And that Dalish, Velyn. Think he’ll make it?”

Grigor’s face turned grim, his brow furrowed. At the sight of it, Alistair felt his gut sink.

“I’ve seen Blight Sickness before,” Grigor rumbled eventually. “Never ended well for the poor bastard who had it. Them woodfolk are hardy, though, I’ve heard.” He shrugged. “Could be enough to get him through.”

They fell to silence, observing their companions-to-be. Alistair pulled in a slow breath, let it out through his nose. Time will tell.

He sheathed his sword – shiny as a whistle, take that, Knight-Captain what’s-his-name – and stood to his feet.

“Well, on that happy note—” Grigor rolled his eyes and Alistair grinned unrepentantly. “There is that whole thing with the Joining, and the Wilds, and leading the recruits around like ducklings and all that. And somehow, inexplicably, I’m to be the one keeping things from getting out of control.” The banter came easily to him, and Alistair let it smooth over the harsher edges of the thoughts in his mind. “I mean, have you met me?” He turned his grin on Grigor, and received for his troubles a look far too knowing for his taste. Grigor’s features softened and Alistair found himself bracing.

Oh, Maker’s—breath… Sometimes he wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing that his companions could read him so well after only a few months.

Grigor reached for him, and Alistair expected that great hand to once again clap onto his shoulder or his arm. When it closed gently over the back of his neck – Andraste’s arse, Grigor was huge to be able to reach so high up while still sitting down, was he part Qunari? – Alistair started, stumbling forward slightly. Grigor’s smile was gentler than usual, and Alistair forced himself to hold his companion’s gaze.

It’d taken him a while to learn that such gestures weren’t meant to be patronizing or belittling. Not from these men.

“You’ll be fine, lad,” Grigor rumbled, and there were plenty of things Alistair could say to that. Plenty of things that, months ago, he might have. But…

He found he didn’t want to, in that moment. He didn’t want to pretend it didn’t help, the confidence of his companions, these men who had taken him in and made him theirs.

Of course, the camaraderie barely had time to settle before Grigor was reeling his hand away and clapping Alistair hard on the back. He laughed when Alistair tripped forward.

“So, get on, there,” he barked. “And don’t get yourself killed.”

Alistair snorted as he righted himself, “No promises.” With a final mock-impatient wave from Grigor, Alistair made his way out toward the main camp. His strides were resolute and light as he went, and he had to laugh at himself a bit, honestly. One pat on the back from an ex-sailor with an enviable beard, and I’m ready to take on the world. Funny, that.

The morning passed quickly for Alistair, though whether it was because of nerves or the season, he wasn’t entirely certain. A final check with the quartermaster had his weapons and armor cleared for the… adventure ahead, followed by a final awkward prayer from a Chantry Sister he wasn’t quite able to dodge, and lastly, a final check of his supplies had him ready to go.

The sun was climbing steadily by the time he began to make his way toward the gates to the Wilds, its earlier shyness apparently forgotten. Alistair wished it would slow down at least a bit.

One more challenge to face, though, before reaching his destination…

As he drew nearer the kennels, Alistair felt his expression tighten. Already, he could hear the sounds coming from within the enclosure, dogs whining and whimpering and crying in pain.

Of course – inevitably – he came to a stop.

Not all the dogs were in the kennels; there were many who were being kept with the soldiers, the mabari master working and training them for the next battle to come. Only the sick and wounded ones were kept here.

Alistair’s eyes slid to the kennel master. Maker’s breath, how did he do it? His face was gentle and seemingly untroubled, and his eyes were soft as he regarded one of the mabari in his charge. Chances were the poor thing was going to die, how did he look so calm?

Flashes of something else, of different dogs in a different kennel at a different time all danced through Alistair’s mind and he carefully bit the inside of his cheek, pressed his lips tight together.

Maker’s sake, he hadn’t even actually seen the dog die back then, he’d only heard it from some Chantry messenger after Eamon had sent him away, and he’d still bawled his eyes out until it felt like his body had run dry.

He should move. He should keep on, keep from distracting the dogs, he had a thing he had to do after all, right? Right. He should move.

Of course, wasn’t it just a fact of life that the moment you decide to do something, something else just rolls right into your path and trips you up.

Barely a second after Alistair took a single step past the kennels, a low keening whine sounded, far closer to him than any of the others.

The voice in his head – the one that remembered being 11 years old and hearing about a dog that had died because she’d been separated from him – told him not to turn, not to pay attention. Told him to keep right on and just get on with what Duncan needed him to do.

But Maker damn it all, Alistair couldn’t help it: he looked.

The dog was a purebred mabari, exactly the kind the army loved to train for battles like these ones. But what must once have been a very smooth coat was now washed out and matted, and Alistair could see sections of the fur thinning on the poor thing’s back and legs.

That was always how it worked with the dogs that were tainted; the fur would thin and fall out, the muscle mass would go, and they would waste away until death was practically a blessing. Unless the Taint made them aggressive and wild, in which case death was as much to save others as to help the dog.

The mabari kept whimpering, even as Alistair awkwardly ignored it, even as he tried to shuffle past without drawing attention. Of course, it didn’t work.

The kennel master looked at the whimpering dog with surprise, then turned to Alistair before he could completely get away.

“That’s more energy than he’s shown since we brought him here,” the man marveled, pushing to his feet to approach the dog. The mabari growled low at him with a wary and pained expression – and how Alistair knew that’s what it meant, he had no idea – before turning his head back to Alistair and weakly nosing at the bars of the kennel.

“I could be wrong, but I think he wants to greet you.” The kennel master’s voice was soft and gentle, a soothing cadence that Alistair immediately guessed worked wonders on the mabari.

So why are you looking at me? Alistair wanted to ask the dog. For all you know, I sound like an angry cow perpetually gargling nails, and have the bedside manner of a Chantry Mother on fire. Or Grigor.

He forced himself to calm as the dog continued to whine at him, and summoned an easy smile.

“It’s alright, I don’t want to get in the way,” he tried, offering a casual wave and turning on his heel.

But the kennel master was quicker than that, damn him.

“No, actually, this works really well,” he said with his relaxed ‘cool as you please’ voice, and Alistair could swear he sounded hopeful. “You can approach him and calm him down, and then when he’s ready, I’ll be able to finally treat him.” His gaze moved back to the dog and he sighed. “As best I can, anyway.”

Almost against his better judgment, Alistair raised an eyebrow and parroted, “As best you can?”

The kennel master shrugged, “Not enough of the right ingredients to really cure them. I can do my best to dull the pain, but for the ones that swallowed darkspawn blood, I can’t do anything else.”

Candid. Alistair winced, eyes turning back to the dog. He seemed to have lost either the interest or the energy to keep begging for Alistair’s attention, and now lay in a curled and quivering ball against the kennel bars.

And Maker, Alistair wanted to punch himself for asking, but…

“Wouldn’t it be kinder, then, to just… put them out of their misery? The ones you can’t save, I mean?”

The kennel master turned to Alistair and stared, eyes suddenly hard, expression tightly controlled but determined.

“It would be if I didn’t know that they could be saved,” he rumbled, very nearly sounding like a growling dog himself. He turned back toward the mabari. “The means to do that are out there, in the Wilds, I just can’t get them. There’s a flower that’s absolutely essential for the cure I’ve been using. But since the king stopped the scouting trips into the Wilds…” He let the sentence trail to nothing and shook his head.

Oh, dammit.

The sick mabari let out a low whuff of air and squirmed, apparently trying to make himself smaller, probably trying to escape the pain. Alistair felt something twist in his chest.

It really was a forgone conclusion. There was no way Alistair would be able to ignore it, to not do something when he could.

“I’m heading out into the Wilds with some of the Warden recruits today,” he offered. “You tell me what the flower looks like, I can promise at least to keep an eye out.”

The kennel master’s eyes brightened and he turned to grace Alistair with a hopeful look.

“You’d do that?” he asked. “That’d be a great help. It’s got white petals with a dark red center. Smells like honey, if you don’t mind sticking your nose into local flora.” The man’s voice took on a wry note and Alistair found himself snorting.

At the risk of discovering some kind of sentient poisonous Wilds plant that ends up biting your face off.

“Sounds good,” he replied, shooting a nod in the kennel master’s direction. “If I find it, I’ll bring it here.”

Offer made, Alistair turned to make his way toward the Wilds, ready to breathe a sigh of relief that the whole interaction was over.

But the kennel master was apparently part dog himself because he refused to let this bone go.

…Probably for the best I didn’t say that aloud.

“I’d still like to treat him in the interim, if you wouldn’t mind getting in there and muzzling him,” the kennel master said soberly. “Every time I try to get close, he gets aggressive. Snaps out at me. Suffering or not, I can’t risk a dog passing on Blight Sickness through a bite.” And he looked… he looked hurt as he said that, like he might have tried anyway, like he’d fought this battle before and been told that this was the way things had to be.

Alistair’s brow furrowed and he glanced back at the mabari.

Poor thing was clearly trying to sleep, but every exhale was a whimper, every movement a pained struggle.

Alistair’s shoulders slumped. “Well, when you ask so nicely…” he mumbled to himself. He turned to the kennel master, “How d’you want me to do this?”

The look the kennel master gave him was subdued but grateful. He made his way toward the kennels and reached for a well-worn leather muzzle.

“Just approach him slowly and wait for him to decide to let you closer.” He held out the muzzle. “Then slip this on and I’ll take care of the rest.” Here, he paused. Alistair waited, eyebrows raised. “If… if you want to stroke him a bit, he might like that. Soothe him some.”

Yeah, no. Alistair really, really did not want to do that.

But he took the muzzle and made his way over to the kennel. Maker, this close, he could smell the Taint on the sick and wounded dogs. It set something roiling in his gut, but he kept on.

The kennel master opened the gate and ushered him inside.

“Just be gentle with him,” he instructed. “Once the muzzle’s on, I’ll be in and take over.”

Alistair nodded and the kennel master closed the gate behind him.

Well. Just me and a bunch of sick dogs now.

He could see the dog that needed muzzling – the only dog, in fact, who hadn’t been muzzled in the group – curled up against the bars, removed from his fellows. He looked up as Alistair approached, whined plaintively, but it turned to a weak growl when he saw the muzzle. Alistair continued to approach, but kept his pace slow. The dog’s eyes were clouded with pain, but never wavered. Alistair pulled in a breath.

And had no idea what to say.

“…Soooo…”

The dog let out a huff and pulled one of his paws over his eyes.

“Hey! There’s no call to look so despairing, I wasn’t exactly prepared for this little exchange, you know. So my openers aren’t exactly the pinnacle of wit at the moment, it happens.”

The dog huffed again, letting his paw flop to the ground, his tongue lolling out of its mouth.

His cracked dry tongue, darkened with the black tendrils of the Taint. Alistair sobered.

“Alright,” he said with a fortifying breath. “I know this is probably the last thing you want right now, but…” He trailed off. Took a careful step forward. The dog whimpered. Alistair stopped. His brow was scrunching up, his mouth twisting along with it. Maker, the poor dog was in so much pain.

“Yeah, I know,” he lowered his voice, softened it a bit as he continued his slow approach. “Not the most enjoyable thing in the world, and I can’t promise it won’t be uncomfortable—” Close enough to touch now. Alistair bent to his knees beside the dog and began to reach out. “I can promise at least that I won’t poke you in the eye.”

Another huff. Alistair optimistically chose to interpret it as the mabari equivalent of a laugh, weak though it was.

The dog was looking warily at the muzzle in Alistair’s hand, but made no move as Alistair moved it closer. Brave dog…

In the moment when Alistair’s fingers touched the dog’s sickly fur, he almost pulled back. Stiff with dried blood and thin from the Taint, the dog’s coat was as far from healthy as Alistair had ever seen on a mabari. He stroked through the mess once, twice, and his fingers came away with small clumps of matted fur. He swallowed and levered himself down from his knees to his arse. Better to be sitting for this.

“Alright…” He scooted closer, slow and careful. “Here we go…” Gently, he reached for the mabari. The dog let out a weak yelp as Alistair lifted its head to his lap. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Alistair murmured, lowering his voice thoughtlessly. He waited until the dog relaxed, body slumping against his knee, then went for the muzzle.

Getting the muzzle on wasn’t itself entirely difficult. Watching the dog sniff pitifully and nose against Alistair’s pant leg was a bit more so.

“I know, it’s awful, and no fun, and I’m sorry I have to do it, and all that.”

The mabari huffed and turned what looked to be a very unimpressed glare on him. Alistair held up his hands, placating, even as he fought a smile.

“I’m told it’s not forever, though,” he added, going for a light and reassuring tone. “Just a little while, then you’ll get the cure, and boom. No more muzzle!” Somehow, his hands had fallen to the mabari’s head and had begun stroking absently as he spoke. More fur came away, but the dog at least seemed to be soothed by it.

Damn kennel master, always has to be right about dogs.

“Then you’ll be back to killing darkspawn in no time. You’d like that, yes you would! Kill all those icky darkspawn, tear their heads right off, maybe an arm or leg for good measure. Teach them to infect you!” He heard a weak growl at that, and turned to see the mabari snuffle in what he optimistically interpreted as agreement. And was that… was that an attempt at a tail wag? Alistair smiled.

“See? Better already.” The mabari huffed and nosed into Alistair’s thigh. For a moment, Alistair sat in silence and simply watched the poor fellow breathe, uncomfortable and in pain but calmer.

“It seems you do have a way with him, after all,” the kennel master’s pleased voice carried through the muddled haze of Alistair’s thoughts and he turned.

The kennel master approached and knelt down beside him, “That should do for me to at least lessen his pain a bit. Poor thing got a mouthful of that vile stuff in the last skirmish.” Alistair grimaced.

Poor thing, indeed.

Shaking his head, the kennel master stood to his feet and gestured toward the gates. A wry look suddenly morphed his features and Alistair experienced a moment of almost violent foreboding.

“Maybe if you find that flower in time, we can see about imprinting this little guy on you.”

Oh. Oh no. No, that was not likely to end well.

“Ooh, right, probably not the best idea,” Alistair began, speaking over the kennel master’s attempts to object. “Dogs and I don’t get on well, don’t know what it is. I just show up, and they start barking and growling. Of course, this would be the exception, but let’s be honest, it’s got to be all those darkspawn fluids getting to his head. They can mess a guy right up, those fluids. Well. Dog in this case.”

The kennel master chuckled as he shut the gate behind Alistair, seemingly unaffected by his rambling.

“As you say then.” And was it Alistair, or did the kennel master sound amused? “Thank you for this, friend,” the man continued. “It’ll be a relief to finally be able to treat these dogs proper.”

Oh, I can imagine that. With a final word of only slightly awkward farewell, Alistair turned and made his way toward the gate to the Wilds.

Behind him, he heard a final low whine, sorrowful and thin, and only just managed to keep from turning around.

If he was lucky, the dog wouldn’t have too much longer to wait for a cure.

Alistair approached the wooden gates that led to the Korcari Wilds, weapon in hand, armor donned, and a familiar mixture of nerves, anticipation, and resolve in his stomach.

No telling how this would all go, really. For any of the recruits. And it wasn’t like the part that awaited them afterward was going to be a reprieve. Alistair sighed and set himself down to wait.

At least the gate guard was friendly enough.

The sun had only just reached its midday peak when Alistair saw Duncan’s familiar figure approaching in the distance, armed and armored, and with a small worn sack dangling innocently from his arm, suspicious in its simplicity. Alistair had a feeling he knew what was in that bag.

And there were the recruits with him. Alistair took a moment to observe them properly now that they weren’t collapsed in exhaustion.

Daveth and Ser Jory he knew, had known for the months Duncan had been away. And he could admit to some relief that he wouldn’t be leading about a group of complete strangers.

There was one of the dwarves, Gundhram, with his long dwarven-styled hair – though his beard was oddly short and messy – and a grim expression that deepened the furrow in his brow. He walked stoically by Duncan, regal even in his rusted mismatched armor; Richu had told Alistair this one had been royalty in Orzammar.

The other dwarf, Tristan, he walked at the back of the group, and Alistair first took note of him because he took note of Alistair. His eyes flickered over Alistair’s figure, taking in every detail it seemed, and nothing in his expression gave anything away. Alistair guessed from the way he held himself that he’d seen plenty of combat, but beyond that, could say very little of what this dwarf might be like.

The elf caught his eye next, shoulders tense, muscles coiled. Ila, if Alistair remembered correctly. She walked close to Duncan, but further from the others, and hers was an expression of closed and guarded distrust. Her eyes flitted about the camp as they walked, as though she expected an attack at any moment, and Alistair winced to think why.

Then, finally, the mage. Aaaja? They would be introducing themselves, at least, Alistair was glad for that. But this one, her fear was plain to see. She tried to stand straight as she followed Duncan, but every few steps she would stumble lightly and have to right herself, and Alistair could see how her hands clenched around her staff to keep from shaking.

There’s always one…

Lucas had been scared too, when he and Alistair had been the ones set to undergo the Joining. Lucas had been terrified, and Alistair had been too, but it was different to see it. The wide eyes, the shaking, the clammy skin. Helpless constant fear.

And then, when Lucas’s turn came, that fear had been justified. And Alistair hadn’t been able to look at the body without his stomach turning.

Maker, not another one. Alistair could only pray that the Joining would be kinder to the mage – and the other recruits – than it was to Lucas.

Duncan and the others drew closer, and Alistair pulled himself from his thoughts. He summoned a light grin.

“Here we all are,” he greeted, gesturing when the group came to a stop. A range of scowls and careful non-expressions greeted him, and Alistair couldn’t stop the wan smile—“Cheerful bunch. You know, I've always said: one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

Nothing from Ila, Gundhram, or Tristan – hardly surprising, really, for all Alistair hadn’t even officially met them yet – but he spied a slight quirk to Ser Jory’s lips, and heard Daveth chuckle, “Nothing like the end of the world to—”

“That’s a terrible thing to say!”

And that… most certainly wasn’t Daveth. Alistair turned with the rest of the group to see the mage, of all people, looking at Alistair with a sort of horrified confusion.

Alistair blinked and Duncan turned an odd expression on Alistair as he pointedly said nothing. Of course he’s going to let me embarrass myself in front of the new recruits.

He cleared his throat and tried a casual shrug. “Is it? I’m trying to find a bright side to all of this. I suppose it wasn’t very convincing.”

Nicely done, Alistair. Wonderful first impression. And then, Well, I can't help it if they don't have any sense of humor!

Daveth chuckled and shot him a look, which Alistair staunchly ignored. The arse was only laughing because he wasn’t the one being scolded like a child by a new recruit.

At least he's laughing at all.

Come to think of it, though, this mage reminded Alistair a bit of the old Revered Mother at the Chantry Duncan had rescued him from. Very fond of scolding, she.

Aah, And there it was, that suspicious look on the mage’s face that Alistair remembered receiving whenever he’d mucked something up at the Chantry. He offered her an awkward shrug, and her eyes snapped downward, lips pressed as she avoided his gaze.

Well…

“Alistair.” Duncan – finally – stepped forward. He cast a quick, sharp glance at Alistair, then turned to the recruits. “Now that we are all here, we can begin.” That sobered them, and Duncan inclined his head. He gestured to Alistair.

“Recruits, this is Alistair. As the junior-most member of the order, he will accompany you into the Wilds during your task, as is tradition.” Alistair offered a smile and a light wave, pushing past his instinct to joke. Hadn’t quite gone the way he’d expected last time.

“Glad to meet you all.” No responses from anyone but Gundhram, who gave a curt nod. Alistair wished he could say he was surprised.

“Alistair, these are the newest recruits,” Duncan gestured. “Gundhram—” The regal dwarf, with the long hair. “Tristan—” The dwarf with the unreadable expression. “Ila—” The tense elf, looking at him as though he might explode any moment. “And Aja—” Ah-ha! So that was her name!

Alistair greeted them as they were introduced, and received a nod of acknowledgement, again, only from Gundhram; Tristan shrugged and said nothing, Ila only stared warily at him, and Aja didn’t bother to meet his eyes, expression still tight.

Well, that’ll probably take a while to smooth over…

“And, unfortunately, our final recruit remains unable to join you on this task,” Duncan continued, voice low and grave. Alistair turned, brows furrowed.

Velyn.

“Is he…?”

Duncan inclined his head. “He has survived the night, though he suffers still, and I’m afraid he doesn’t have much longer.” A tense silence swept over them all, and Aja flinched. Alistair shot her a curious look, but her eyes flicked away from his. Of course…

Duncan ignored the exchange, eyes hard as he looked to the recruits and continued, “It is therefore all the more important that you be on your way sooner rather than later.”

Daveth shifted suddenly, lips curling, “Into the Wilds, yeah?”

Duncan inclined his head. “Yes. The Korcari Wilds will be the site of both your tasks.” Daveth responded to that with a resigned shrug, shooting Alistair a look just this side of wry.

“And what can we expect from these Korcari Wilds?” And that was the low rumbling voice of the errant dwarven monarch. It sounded… well, it sounded like a low rumbling voice, really. It reminded Alistair a bit of Grigor, but the cadence was much closer in tone to Duncan.

Alistair shrugged.

“Oh, the usual,” he piped up, dry. “Snakes, spiders, bogfishers probably, more spiders, and maybe huge spiders?” To that, Gundhram offered only an unruffled expression, and was that a hint of impatience Alistair detected? Gamely, he ignored it, but continued on more seriously.

“The real problems will be the darkspawn and the Chasind, if we encounter any out there.” Aja sucked in a breath and froze. Alistair gave her what he hoped was a reassuring look and attempted to lighten his tone. “Although the darkspawn might have already run them all out, so it could be a moot point.”

Even though ‘just darkspawn’ is hardly better…

“Chasind?” Gundhram’s voice cut in. Alistair nodded.

“Folk of the Korcari Wilds,” he explained. “They live throughout the swamps and trees there. Good with magic, but I should be able to sense them if they’re using it. At the very least, I’ll have a better chance of dealing with them.” He jerked a thumb toward himself. “Former templar.” And he wasn’t quite able to keep back the familiar wince as he said it.

He very carefully did not look at Aja.

“Alistair’s skills will be a great benefit to you all while you’re in the Wilds,” Duncan spoke up, and Alistair couldn’t help the burst of warmth in his chest at the words. “It would behoove you all to listen to any advice he has, and pay heed to any warnings he gives.” He paused and turned to give Alistair a slight nod. Alistair returned the gesture, determination and anticipation flooding him in equal measure.

I won’t let you down, Duncan. He looked to the recruits. I’ll try not to let them down, either.

“So what are these tasks. You haven’t told us anything.” The demand cut sharply into Alistair’s thoughts, and he turned to see the alienage elf, Ila, staring hard at Duncan. Her gaze was cold and unyielding, but there was tension behind it too; her shoulders were stiff, her jaw tight, and her brow furrowed in a manner which suggested she trusted them all about as much as a darkspawn she was encountering on the road.

Unsurprisingly, Duncan took it all in stride, barely a snag in his expression. “Yes. There are two tasks you must complete. The first is to obtain seven vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.

“This is to be a test of your abilities, both individual and collective,” he explained. “You must work together to collect the components. This is as much a part of the Joining as what comes after.”

Stony silence. Alistair spotted several pairs of narrowed eyes, and he couldn’t rightly say he blamed them, given what he knew about the Joining that they didn’t. But none of them protested as Duncan continued.

“For your second task, there was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts.

“It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.”

Alistair’s eyebrow shot up, but he nodded. This was the first he’d ever heard of such scrolls.

“I’ll make an effort to find them, but what exactly are they for?” he asked.

“They are treaties,” Duncan replied. “Signed after the First Blight, promising aid to the Grey Wardens in the event of future Blights.” Alistair’s eyes widened slightly. Oh. Might want to get a hold of those, then, yeah.

“Alright,” Alistair nodded. “Where am I looking?”

“The outpost will be in ruins, most likely. It will be an old structure. If the magic seal is still intact, you will likely feel its presence, and—” Here, Duncan hesitated, a slight barely-there breath. “Aja may be able to help you if the traces of magic are too faint for your abilities to pick up.”

Alistair turned to see Aja watching Duncan with a wide-eyed nervous expression. Her hands tightened on her staff, and Alistair waited for her gaze to flicker over to him. When it did, he gave her a small nod, solemn and serious. She swallowed hard, but still nodded back, which was at least somewhat hopeful.

Getting off on the wrong foot or not, this was too important to go in hoping for the best. If there really was a chance that the magic seal might be too weak for Alistair to sense, he needed to know that she would be able to at least make the effort in his place.

Duncan was looking carefully at Aja. “I do not think you will need to venture very far to find what you’re looking for.”

The reassurance didn’t seem to go far in assuaging her fears; Aja only nodded tersely in response, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“Now that you all know your tasks, there are two more things I need to give each of you.” Duncan placed the worn sack on the ground at his feet and knelt down to rummage through it. When he rose again, he was holding several cloth masks.

“These are for all of you.” Moving down the line of recruits, Duncan handed one to each. “They will protect your mouth and nose from any stray darkspawn blood during your encounters with them. Once you undergo the Joining, you will not need to concern yourself with this, but for now you are still vulnerable, and the effects of Blight Sickness vary enough that it would do well to be cautious.”

They took the masks, one by one, and stared at them. None moved to put them on, instead looking between the masks and Duncan with a mixture of guarded wariness, and, in Aja and Ser Jory’s case, fear.

“And here…” Duncan returned to the sack and retrieved several familiar bottles from its confines. Alistair pulled himself straight and exhaled slowly. The fun part…

As he watched, Duncan passed a bottle to each recruit, carefully catching their eyes as he did. “These are the vials with which you will collect the darkspawn blood. They will not break easily, but be careful not to lose them.”

Again, one by one, they took what Duncan gave them, and surveyed them in silence. Even Daveth seemed to have nothing to say, his expression subdued.

Alistair remembered holding a vial just like these for the first time six months ago. It was a small and unassuming little thing, but it had marked the moment when he’d first started to feel – viscerally, in his bones – just how much was going to be asked of him. And that was before he’d actually been handed the chalice and told to drink…

From the shadows passing over the recruits’ faces, from the little twitches and flashes of uncertainty – of fear – it looked like they were beginning to realize too.

Abruptly, Duncan turned to Alistair, eyes sharp, features severe, and held out a final vial. “Alistair, you will collect the darkspawn blood for Velyn, as he is unable to himself.” Alistair stepped forward and took the vial. Duncan’s expression shuttered and he added softly, only for Alistair to hear, “Maker willing, he will live long enough to use it when you return.”

Alistair’s jaw tightened and he nodded. When he stepped back, Duncan’s expression was controlled once again.

“Watch over your charges. Return quickly, and safely.”

Alistair glanced to the recruits, then back to Duncan.

“We will.”

Duncan looked around at them all, and nothing of his thoughts showed on his face.

“Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return.”

Without any further words, Duncan turned and made his way back into the camp. Alistair watched him go, and thought he knew what his destination was.

But he couldn't think on that now. Couldn't dwell on Velyn, or the Sickness, or what might be coming for any one of these recruits.

The vial was heavy in Alistair’s hand and it carried with it an urgency that could not be ignored. He tightened his fingers around the vial’s girth for a quick moment before tucking it away in the pouch at his belt. He looked to the gate guard and nodded. Moments later, the gate to the Wilds was open to them.

Nothing for it now.

No one made a move toward it, and Alistair looked at them all sharply, knowing that they feared, knowing that they were uncertain, but unable to allow them to dwell on it. They didn’t have any more time to waste.

He began to walk toward the open gate, expecting, but not waiting, for them to follow.

“Let’s go.”

#dragon age origins #alistair theirin #aja amell #ila tabris #ilhenan tabris #gundhram aeducan #tristan brosca #velyn mahariel #dao epic saga #My writing #to answer the call

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lavalampelfchild · 7 years ago

Text

Sins of the Father?

Cyrion had tried to keep his reservations to himself, at first. He had tried to keep quiet as Adaia had begun to teach little Ila the skills and tricks with her knives and swords and all those other things Adaia had taken with her from her previous life.

At first, he had even tried to watch, because it was his daughter, and he had wanted to support her as she learned.

That hadn’t lasted long. Watching Adaia methodically go about laying the foundation that would destroy their child’s innocence, that would stamp out that inquisitive nature of hers he loved so much, dampen her spirit and crush her imagination… Cyrion had been unable to continue watching for long, so he had left. Seeing it had only made him irrationally angry, and he should never be angry with his wife, not for trying to help their child.

He had prayed to the Maker, to Andraste, reflected by the Vhenedahl, but the anger had not left him.

He knew Adaia’s fiery nature, knew that she was enraged by the injustices the elves faced daily from the humans, and he had thought himself remarkably patient for having tolerated it as long as he had.

It seemed he was not so patient as he’d thought.

So the frustration built, and the anger with it, until one day, Cyrion saw Ila burst through the door of their home, boasting of the techniques her mother had taught her, and he could no longer stand it.

“I just don’t see why she needs to learn these things,” he said in a low voice as Adaia entered the house after Ila, proud smile on her face.

The smile fell as soon as Cyrion spoke. Luckily, Ila had moved away from them both, distracted with practicing the movements her mother had taught her. She’d taken up their broom and was using it as a sword. The anger clenched in Cyrion’s chest, mixed with sadness.

Adaia looked from her daughter to her husband, drawing a guarded expression over her features.

“We’ve talked about this, Cyrion,” she replied, careful to match the quiet tone of Cyrion’s voice.

At least she has some control, Cyrion thought cruelly. He winced in shame as soon as the thought finished.

“You agreed that it would be a good idea to teach her a means to defend herself—” Adaia continued, frustratingly rational, and that angered Cyrion further.

“I know!” he hissed. “But it’s—I didn’t think—” He turned his attention back to Ila, avoiding Adaia’s gaze. Their young daughter danced about with the broom, narrating a romantic yarn about a heroic elven princess – her favorite to tell and hear – using her mother’s skills to save the alienage castle from the evil mage bandits.

Cyrion shook his head, brow furrowing. He turned to Adaia, gesturing tersely at Ila.

“She thinks it’s no different from dancing, Adaia,” he exclaimed, voice quivering with the effort to keep quiet. Adaia stiffened. Cyrion kept on, “She doesn’t understand what you’re trying to teach her, she doesn’t understand that you’re teaching her to hurt people!”

“I’m not teaching her to hurt people, I’m teaching her to defend herself!” Adaia hissed back.

“She doesn’t need to be defended when she’s here!” Cyrion’s voice rose for just a moment, and all it took for him to correct himself was a single flicker of Adaia’s eyes over to Ila and back.

Adaia’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. “Tell me you’re not that naïve.”

“I—” Cyrion began, helplessly waving his hand. “I just want her to have a chance to live her life without needing to—to…” Adaia let him run out of words, silent and still, and Cyrion hated it, felt patronized and embarrassed. The frustrated and furious sadness only pulled a tighter knot in his stomach, roiling in its own helplessness.

“I know,” Adaia replied, suddenly sounding tired. “I know what you want for her, and I want it too. But I’m not willing to lie to either one of us about it. The world isn’t kind to people like us, Cyrion, but that doesn’t mean we should try to hide from it.”

“Why are you yelling?”

Cyrion jumped and whirled to see Ila facing them across the room, no longer dancing, broom still in hand. She looked between them both, and Cyrion was struck by her in that moment, a sharp girl with sharp eyes, so like her mother. He forced a smile onto his features.

“It’s nothing, princess,” he answered brightly. Ila’s eyes continued to flit between him and Adaia. Cyrion reached for her hand and began to lead her outside. “Come. Let’s go find Shianni, shall we? I’m sure she’d love to see how much better you’ve gotten.” He leaned down conspiratorially. “Do you think she’s practiced as much as you?”

Ila puffed out her chest.

“No, she probably just kept falling over. She’s so clumsy on her feet.”

Ila began to pull Cyrion toward the door, newfound goal in mind, showing no sign she’d ever heard her parents arguing. As he reached the door, Cyrion turned back to glance at Adaia. His heart clenched at the look on her face.

He knew she was right about the world, he knew that. The elves were kept down because the humans declared it, and it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair. And no amount of quiet resistance would change that.

But why did it always have to be fighting instead? Why did his little girl have to give up her fantasies and dreams to learn the truth? Cyrion just wanted her to be happy, to have her place in the world, one that she deserved, without having to spill blood to get there.

Cyrion didn’t know if that made him naïve or not.

Turning his attention back to his daughter, Cyrion allowed her to lead him out of their home and into the blinding sunlight outside.

A/N: I love writing backstory stuff for my Wardens. So much love for the families and friends of their prologues, and Cyrion was no different. I headcanon that he and Adaia disagreed about whether or not to teach Ila all of Adaia’s rogue (my Tabris was a duel-wielding rogue) skills, and they never really resolved any of it before Adaia was killed. And after humans killed Adaia for her defiance, Cyrion was scared that he would lose his daughter too if she turned out too much like her mother, so he discouraged her from using those skills too much, and rarely spoke of Adaia.

It also just hurt to speak of her, and Cyrion couldn’t bear to bring her up in front of his daughter, and eventually years passed without him ever having mentioned her more than a few times to his child. There is so much potential for growth and struggle in Cyrion, and I love it.

I have some follow-up ideas floating around for this piece too, as well as maybe a piece from Adaia’s perspective, but this is definitely one I think would be fun to continue, if only because Cyrion’s individual dynamic and potential development is so interesting to me.

#dragon age origins #Ilhenan tabris #ila tabris #female tabris #cyrion tabris #adaia tabris #My writing #just a little something I wanted to write about my Tabris as a child #mostly Cyrion actually #i love him dearly #I have many headcanons for him

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lavalampelfchild · 7 years ago

Text

To Answer the Call, Ch. 3

Chapter Summary: Duncan learns the state of the king’s camp and determines a course of action for his recruits, but Velyn’s condition continues to worsen, and with it the likelihood of his survival.

Link to Ao3: Here

King Cailan stood just beyond the gates with his usual entourage of bodyguards – unnecessary bodyguards the king himself would most likely call them – but Duncan couldn’t afford the time that would be lost to properly greeting him.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he called firmly, only slowing his pace enough to bow his head. “But I must find a healer immediately. I will speak with you once my recruit has been tended to.”

With that, he hurried forward, leaving a perplexed Cailan to his Wardens.

Velyn was limp in his arms and Duncan awkwardly jammed two fingers against his neck – an awkward twist – in search of a pulse.

It was barely there. Duncan breathed a curse.

Thankfully, the soldiers he passed were able to see the urgency in his movements, his expression – the unconscious elf in his arms – and moved themselves from his path. There were no obstacles between him and the healers’ tents.

“I need a healer,” he called loudly as he approached. One of the healers immediately turned toward him and hurried over. Her brow furrowed when she saw Velyn.

“Set him here,” she commanded tersely, gesturing to an available cot. Duncan obeyed and she knelt down. “What happened? I see no wounds…”

“He has been exposed to the darkspawn Taint,” Duncan explained. “Though not through contact with their blood; he was exposed to an object tainted by Blighted magic. I know that you can do nothing for him as he is. I will find one of the mages and bring them here to aid me; I ask that you watch over him until I return. If you would, ensure that he does not bring harm to himself or any other in his delirious state.”

Velyn moaned and twitched. The healer froze, but Velyn made no other move. After a moment, she relaxed and sighed.

“…Aye. But return quickly; I’ve others here I can help.”

Duncan nodded his thanks, turning one last look upon his recruit.

At least now he could see the stilted rise and fall of Velyn’s chest. Still unconscious. But not dead yet.

Without another word, he turned sharply and hurried toward the mages’ camp.

“Excuse me,” Duncan greeted, approaching one of the templars guarding the enclosed camp. “I have need of one of your healers. Where is Wynne?”

The templar didn’t hesitate. “Why is it you’ve need of a mage? Haven’t they already lent their aid to you Wardens in your… preparations?”

“Yes, and this is, I’m afraid, something entirely different,” Duncan responded. He didn’t have time for this. “One of my recruits is suffering from an illness caused by contact with the darkspawn Taint and I am in need of healing magic. That’s all I can offer you in return for Wynne’s location; it should be more than sufficient.” His voice grew hard, very nearly unyielding, and the templar seemed to sense the shift. He straightened stiffly in his armor.

“The king has pledged the service of the mages to the Grey Wardens,” he said, somewhat uncomfortably. “Wynne is within the camp, with the other senior enchanters. Don’t delay, Grey Warden. The mages have their own preparations to make.”

Duncan nodded tersely and sped into the camp, searching. The heaviness in his chest lifted some when he caught sight of Wynne.

“Wynne,” he called as he approached. “Forgive my interruption, but I have need of your skills.”

The kindly mage turned a genial smile on him, though it fell from her face when she saw the severity of his expression.

“What has happened?” she asked. She quickly extracted herself from a conversation with her fellows and hurried over. Duncan inclined his head in thanks and gestured toward the healers’ tents.

“If you would come with me, I’ll explain on the way.” Wynne didn’t hesitate. Duncan set a brisk pace and she matched it gamely.

“One of my recruits has contracted an illness from contact with a Tainted magical artifact,” he explained as they went. “It’s been progressing slowly in him, and though his body has thus far resisted the worst of its effects, I fear that he has very nearly run out of time.”

“And you need magic to stave off the effects,” Wynne finished for him, a grave note to her voice. Duncan nodded.

“Yes. The only way to heal him is to undergo the ritual which your fellow mages have helped to prepare, but I believe that a mage skilled enough in healing magic might be able to help him survive until that time.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you happen to have one of those,” Wynne replied wryly, surprising a small huff of amusement from Duncan. He turned briefly and caught sight of patient steady eyes; “Calm yourself,” they seemed to say, “Perhaps we will not succeed, but we will try.” Duncan kept forward.

“A good thing, indeed.”

When they arrived, Duncan pointed to Velyn, still unconscious though not still. He thrashed on the cot as the fever took greater hold of his body, rasping half-cries and grunts falling from his lips. His eyes were clenched painfully shut, and Duncan could see the veins in his arms beginning to pulse with the black blood of the Tainted. He sucked in a breath.

The healer he had spoken to earlier was shouting commands to several of her fellows, and she along with two others were trying to hold him still by restraining his limbs. One leg remained free and kicked dangerously. The healer looked up as Duncan approached.

“Maker, but you have good timing!” she declared in a tight voice. “Grab his leg before he bludgeons anyone!” Duncan hurried over and swiftly took hold of Velyn’s leg, pressing it down to the cot. The healer tossed her head in Wynne’s direction. “This the mage?”

Wynne was already moving toward them.

“Continue to hold him, please,” she commanded, gentle steel in her voice. She knelt by Velyn’s head, gently running her fingers over his brow. He winced, seemingly at the touch, and twitched away, fighting the healers’ hold.

“It’s already spread so far,” she murmured to herself before raising her voice to address Duncan, “Duncan, how long has it been since he’s contracted the disease?”

“Nine days,” Duncan replied promptly. Wynne’s brow furrowed.

“So long, and yet he hasn’t succumbed,” she mused. “He is resilient.” She fell silent then and leaned in closer. Velyn continued to thrash.

Duncan watched and waited as Wynne drew in a deep breath. Her hands hovered close to Velyn’s creased face, as Aja’s had over a week ago, and began to glow as she started her spell.

Immediately, Duncan could see the experience in Wynne which Aja had been lacking. He felt the strength of it from where he knelt. Low and smooth, like a mother silencing a crying child with nonsense sounds, shushing and comforting, steady in the face of the onslaught. And potent; not once did the spell weaken.

Slowly, gradually, Velyn’s struggles began to lessen. His creased brow eased, his graveled moans tapered to shaking whimpers, and his limbs calmed.

“Shhh, be still, child,” Wynne whispered, her face taut with concentration. Louder, she said, “His body is so weak… it’s a miracle he managed to survive this long.”

“Thank the Maker,” one of the other healers breathed, letting her head fall forward. Velyn’s arm twitched in her grip, and she jumped, face going red as she reapplied her weight.

“Will he survive the night?” Duncan asked. His voice was harder than he thought it would be, and somehow the sound of it seemed to disrupt the peace of Wynne’s spell. He fought back the near alien urge to lower his voice.

Wynne’s eyes didn’t leave Velyn’s face.

“It’s impossible to say.” Her hands shifted smoothly, moving from his face to his shoulders to his chest, still hovering. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that my magic only halts the pain but not the effects.”

Velyn moaned pitifully, his head falling to the side, cheek pushing against the cot. Wynne moved one hand to guide his face away from the harsh press. Velyn leaned into her touch, unknowing, and she whispered quietly to him until he stilled.

A solemn expression on her face, Wynne looked to Duncan.

“He may well not survive the night.”

Duncan nodded once.

“And supposing you maintain your vigil over him?”

Wynne shook her head.

“I can promise no more than that he will not be in pain.” An ominous silence followed her words, and Duncan noted that the healers were very careful not to look directly at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Wynne continued, “I will stay with him regardless. We are here at the king’s request, it is true; but the king requested we aid the Grey Wardens to the best of our abilities as well. I will stay with the boy for now, and you can finish the preparations for your ritual.” Her brow furrowed. “I urge haste; he doesn’t have very long.”

Duncan nodded. “I will take my leave, then.” He pushed to his feet and caught Wynne’s eyes. “I thank you, Wynne.”

Wynne smiled, tinged with sadness, “Don’t thank me just yet.” She nodded once, and Duncan took his cue to leave.

He walked out of the healers’ tent to the beat of his blood thundering in his veins and the whispering voices singing in his mind. Already they were drowning out Velyn’s weak and rattling breaths.

He found the Wardens in their camp, and came up short as he entered and surveyed them all. His eyes lingered on the recruits. They were exhausted; Tristan and Ila were rasping short and uneven breaths as they each rested against their packs, eyes heavy and glassy. Aja was asleep on a bedroll. Duncan’s brow furrowed.

“I told her to rest,” Richu’s quiet voice drifted calmly over to him and he turned. Richu stood and walked to Duncan’s side. His feet dragged heavily and his shoulders fought not to hunch. Behind him, Rondall wasn’t even trying to hide his weariness, leaning against Gundhram, who stood rigid and still, the only signs betraying his exhaustion being the furrow in his brow and the beaded sweat that ran down his face.

Richu held Duncan’s gaze as he came to a stop.

“She needs it,” he offered in a lowered voice. “They all do.

Duncan didn’t respond at first, but something sank in his stomach. His brow furrowed and he exhaled, short and controlled.

“You’re right,” he said simply. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead. “But we can’t afford them that time.” He turned to face the direction from which he’d come, and Richu stiffened.

“Velyn?” he rumbled. Duncan nodded.

“He has the attention of the healers, thankfully, including one of the Circle of Magi. However, it is questionable whether or not he will survive the night.”

Richu sucked in a hissing breath and swore. Duncan was inclined to agree.

“So what the hell are we going to do about that?” Richu growled. He looked back to the recruits. “You can’t bloody well send them out like this. The darkspawn’ll gut them like pigs.”

“You’ve seen them fight,” Duncan countered. “They are all skilled enough to survive.”

“Andraste’s arse, yeah, when they’re able to fuckin’ stand!” Richu’s voice shook and Duncan turned to look at him. His dark skin was streaked with sweat and grime, and beneath it all his eyes shone with baffled irritation. At his sides, his clenched hands shook. Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but Richu cut him off.

“What in the name of all that’s holy are you thinking?” he hissed, stepping in close. His eyes flicked over Duncan’s face, as though some clue were to be found there. “You’ve got four damn recruits dying of exhaustion, and you’re gonna throw ‘em to the darkspawn so that the one that’s sick might live?”

The words cut, worming their way into his stomach and settling there. Duncan found he had nothing to say in response. The silence stretched and Richu lifted a hand to grip at Duncan’s shoulder.

“What happened to ‘death’s always a possibility’?”

Duncan almost laughed – and surely it would have been a rueful and broken sound – at the irony of Richu’s words. His own words. His eyes fell heavily closed and he lowered his head to acknowledge Richu’s point.

Clearly, he thought archly, old age has worn me down. Or was it the nightmares?

When he raised his head again, his expression was hard, determined.

“They have one night, and the morning to rest and recover,” he declared firmly. “They head into the Wilds tomorrow with Alistair, when the sun is high.” He caught Richu’s eyes and drew in a breath. “Should Velyn perish during the night, it will be regrettable, but we will honor him as any other recruit lost to the Joining.”

Richu nodded solemnly, but didn’t take his hand from Duncan’s shoulder.

“He really got to you,” he muttered. Duncan didn’t answer, staring instead at the recruits.

It was impossible to truly forget what recruiting someone meant. He had seen it on Velyn’s face when he’d used the Right; helpless grief and rage amidst fear and confusion. In that, Velyn had reminded him strongly of—

But Richu was right. There were others in his charge, others with just as much potential, and a greater chance of survival.

Duncan roughly shoved the thought aside, forcing away the memory of Velyn, thinking of the others. They were not nearly as ill as he, which made their welfare the priority. Harsh, perhaps, but necessary.

He needed to go, needed to seek out the king, or the general, and find out what he had missed, what the scouts had discovered since he had been gone. His eyes stayed on his recruits and he didn’t move.

Other memories suddenly came forward, and he let them, for one crucial tired moment.

He saw in his mind the pain on Valendrian’s face as he stared the good elder down, as he refused to be turned away even on the day of a wedding, as he refused to be duped by Valendrian’s desperate efforts to keep his community intact. He remembered the grim determination on Ila’s face, agreeing to Duncan’s proposal as though it were only slightly better than the prospect of facing the headsman’s axe.

He remembered Aja’s fear as she shook and sobbed and tried to convince the First Enchanter that she was no threat, that she would obey and be silent if only the Circle wouldn’t send her away. He remembered the moment she realized that there truly was no choice, that she could only choose between two kinds of death.

There was Gundhram, in tattered rags without even wraps for his feet, just as noble and dignified as he had been in his resplendent royal armor, even as he shook under the strain and weight of the burden of his exile, needing the Wardens only because if he didn’t join them he would die alone and unremembered.

And Tristan… Duncan had tried to prevent himself from indulging in it, the reverence Tristan held for the Wardens, the look of pride in his eyes as Duncan had chosen him, the desire – the need – to prove himself to Duncan, to everyone. Duncan remembered that willingness and was thankful for it, shamefully found himself recalling it in his mind when the Wardens were greeted so coldly by the other recruits. Tristan, at least, might be content here.

If he survives.

Duncan sobered and straightened, pulling himself from his thoughts.

There was a Blight, and this was no time for such sentimentality. This was bigger than he, than they.

Richu had left his side while he had been lost in thought, but Duncan caught his eyes and sent him a terse nod. Richu returned it, and Duncan left to find the king.

It was Teyrn Loghain he found first.

“So the king is not at the Wardens’ camp?” the general drawled when Duncan inquired after his whereabouts, casting a narrow-eyed glare in the direction of King Cailan’s tent. Duncan shook his head.

“No, general, he was not. I saw him briefly upon my return, but I had a wounded man with me, and could not greet His Majesty properly. I’m afraid I lost track of him soon after.”

Loghain scoffed and moved swiftly around Duncan. “And you will need to tell him of what you have found.”

“I do indeed, but you will do just as well for what I have in mind, if I may.” Loghain paused and turned just enough to catch Duncan with a guarded expression, brow furrowed. Duncan inclined his head sharply. “What has happened in the months I have been away? I must know if there has been a change regarding the darkspawn horde.”

Something in Loghain’s face shifted and darkened. Without another word, he turned and gestured for Duncan to follow, heading toward his own tent. Once inside, he made his way toward a large table at the center. On it was a map of the Wilds, incomplete and likely inaccurate, but the best they had.

“The darkspawn have not attacked in weeks,” he explained, matter-of-fact. Duncan joined him before the map. “They have pulled back, Maker knows where, and we haven’t seen a single stinking one.” He pointed to an area of the map, not far from the main camp. “Here is where we last skirmished.”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Not even scouts have seen them?”

Loghain’s jaw clenched. “Our scouting parties have been disappearing of late. We send them out, parties of anywhere from two to six men, and they all disappear. Or they’re killed.” He paused here, seeming to chew over his next words. Duncan waited.

“The last scouting party,” Loghain went on, voice low and grave. “The Teyrn of Highever’s son was at its head. Cailan sent him out.” Something in Loghain’s voice told Duncan that perhaps Loghain himself had disagreed with that decision. “The lad was never a scout; he’s a warrior and a leader, as his father is.

“Of course, Cailan rarely appreciates the complexity of such things.”

“What happened to the Teyrn’s son?” Duncan asked firmly, trying to pull the conversation back on track. Loghain turned a hard glower on him.

“Exactly what happened to the rest of his scouts,” he snapped. “He disappeared. Not even a body left behind. And the teyrn himself is nowhere to be found, which has damaged the morale of a large portion of the men.”

Duncan pulled in a slow breath as he took in the general’s information.

“I’ve heard some disturbing rumors coming from Highever,” he admitted. “If even one of them is true, then this could bode ill for Ferelden in the event the horde travels further north.”

Division or weakness among the Bannorn and Teyrnirs would be disastrous.

“Regardless,” Loghain said sharply, “of why Teyrn Cousland is not with us, the majority of his troops arrived with his son and have decently bolstered the army’s strength.” He turned a hard look on Duncan, “Unfortunate though it may be that the teyrn himself is not with us, I believe that the presence of his men is enough.”

Duncan carefully held his silence, and the general’s gaze, as he inclined his head in response.

“And have you learned anything of their whereabouts?”

Loghain didn’t immediately answer, turning instead back toward the map. Something twisted in Duncan’s chest.

“Nothing.” Loghain’s eyes narrowed. “Not even a forward camp, nor a trail from their scouts. I hate to say it of the beasts, but they’re smart; they wait for us to seek them out in small groups for scouting or reconnaissance, and then they fall upon those groups, and disappear back into the Wilds leaving no traces to follow. I have forbidden Cailan or any of the commanders from sending out anymore scouting units. They yield nothing, and we will not give these monsters any more easy kills.

“Everything we have we will need for whatever assault the horde is planning. Cailan does not look too carefully on why the darkspawn have stopped engaging our soldiers in the open.” Here, Loghain’s eyes flashed and Duncan’s jaw tensed.

��They’re massing their forces,” Duncan finished. Loghain nodded.

“It is likely that they will soon launch an attack that will make what we’ve faced so far seem a child’s game by comparison.”

“Is the king’s army ready to face such an attack should it come soon?”

There was a pause, and then—

“Yes,” Loghain hissed, straightening as though facing down the entirety of the horde himself. “There have been setbacks, no doubt, but we have the forces we need to drive the horde back if we maintain focus on our goal.”

“And the presence of the mages gives us a potential edge,” Duncan pointed out, hoping the general’s optimism was not unfounded. “And I bring with me five promising young recruits, all of whom will add significantly to our efforts and strength.”

Loghain suddenly scoffed and his eyes hardened, landing on Duncan in a rough and unyielding stare.

“I hope it’s not the arrogance of the Wardens speaking right now,” he growled. “Only a fool or a braggart would believe that five soldiers may turn the tide of battle.”

“It would be unwise to assume so, yes, but such an assumption was not made, and those I bring with me can only bolster further the king’s army,” Duncan responded sharply, refusing to rise to the bait. “Is there anything else of note you can tell me, general?”

“No, that is all of import,” Loghain replied, very nearly cutting Duncan off in his abruptness. “If you need nothing else, then you may take your leave. I have other business to attend to.”

Duncan wasted no time doing exactly that. He was nearly out when he heard, “And when you find Cailan, tell him I need to speak with him.”

He didn’t respond, and the tension followed after him as he left the tent.

Troubling though the teyrn’s report had been, Duncan couldn’t say he was particularly surprised. Rarely was there good news to be had during a Blight.

In his mind, Duncan went over everything he had learned; the horde had pulled back to amass their forces, most likely to launch a great assault on the king’s camp; meanwhile, the king’s troops were unlucky at best, ill-omened at worst, with the disappearance of Teyrn Cousland’s son, and the absence of the teyrn himself hanging over all of them.

And from Redcliffe there was nothing.

Could they really withstand the brunt of a full-scale attack by the horde?

The whispers laughed in his mind and Duncan pushed them back.

When he returned to the Wardens’ camp, the king was there.

“Your Majesty,” Duncan greeted, perhaps more surprised than he should have been. The king had seen fit to wait at the entrance just to greet Duncan and the recruits, after all.

King Cailan smiled genially and approached, arms out in welcome.

“Ho, there, Duncan,” he called. “Have you time to accept the king’s greeting now?” His expression turned playful and his smile became a grin. Duncan bowed his head.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, I was not prepared for—”

The amusement fell from King Cailan’s expression, and he waved his hand as though brushing it all aside, “There is no need to apologize, my friend. I saw what caused your haste.” His brow furrowed. “And how fares your man? A recruit, I’m guessing?”

“Yes, Majesty, and he is in a very serious condition. I’m afraid we can only hope that he will survive the night.”

King Cailan winced in sympathy, placing a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “If you saw fit to recruit him into the Wardens, I’ll bet he’s made of hardy stuff. I believe he can survive this, and to help ensure it, I shall have my personal physician attend to him.” He gave a look which Duncan supposed was meant to be reassuring. There was little Duncan could do but accept it graciously.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Though I don’t think much will come of it.

Seemingly satisfied, King Cailan turned back to survey the others, “And I have met your other recruits, Duncan. I must say, I’m very impressed.” The smile returned. “Hardy indeed to have made such a journey, and some of them from the Frostbacks to Denerim before finally coming here!” A spark of eagerness lit his eyes and he raised his chin in excited defiance. “I look forward to standing at your sides in this battle. I hope it shall mark a glorious beginning to the revival of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden!”

Duncan nodded, “Of course, Majesty.” We shall have to survive it first. “If I may, Your Majesty, I have spoken with Teyrn Loghain, and he expressed a wish to speak with you.” The king let out a bark of laughter, and Duncan chose not to think of the vicious humor in having been reduced to carrying messages to and fro between the king and his general.

“Of course he did,” King Cailan snorted. “It’s always something.” He shook his head, brow pinched, and turned to leave. “Well, if that’s the case, I’d better go see him, shouldn’t I?”

Duncan stepped forward before he could leave, “Your Majesty, one more thing before you go, if I may?” King Cailan gestured in the affirmative. “Teyrn Cousland’s son. Is nothing known of the circumstances that led to his disappearance?”

The king winced and his face adopted a grave expression.

“We had already been losing our scouts to the monsters by then,” he explained, and Duncan wondered what was causing the uneven note in his voice. “Fergus expressed a desire to lead one of the next scouting parties. He wished to give the soldiers something good for a change, he said, something that might help in our locating the main horde.

“He was in high spirits when he arrived, and eager to provide his aid. His request was earnest and noble, and I felt it best to give him his wish.” King Cailan raised a troubled gaze to rest on Duncan. “He never returned. After three days, I thought to send more scouts looking for him, or a body, or even the rest of his scouting party, but by then—” Duncan watched as the king’s enthusiasm and certainty began to flag and his gaze fell to the ground between them.

“I wonder if Loghain had the right of it in that; perhaps I shouldn’t have sent Fergus out in that party.” He lifted his eyes, defiance warring with uncertainty. “But to deny him the opportunity to aid his people? I—” For a moment, King Cailan’s expression went distant and he seemed to fall into his thoughts, thoughts Duncan couldn’t guess.

The moment passed and the king shook himself, pulling a friendly expression over his features once more, though there was still tension in the lines of his neck.

“But it is done now,” he said firmly. “Whatever our mistakes these past months, our focus must be on the future. I will go and speak with Loghain.” He rolled his eyes and summoned a grin. When he turned to Duncan, his expression softened. “Rest, Duncan. You and your recruits have been through much, and you’ve certainly earned it.” He chuckled. “And we shall all need our strength for the great battle to come. Farewell!”

“Farewell, Your Majesty.”

The king left, and Duncan let his eyes fall closed.

“Thought he would never bloody leave…” Richu’s voice was low and gravelly from exhaustion, and Duncan had only the energy and inclination to sigh heavily in reproach. He turned and walked to Richu, who rested against his pack, body leaden, movements sluggish. Richu looked up and shot Duncan a tired smirk. Duncan allowed himself a huffed chuckle in response.

“Has Alistair or Grigor returned since we arrived?” he asked. Richu shook his head.

“Haven’t seen ‘em,” he answered. “Something about talking to some mages? Not sure what the bloody hell for, but if it’s not whatever that means, my guess is they’re with the other recruits, what were their names again? ‘You’ and ‘Boy’?” He snickered.

“They will need to be made ready for the venture into the Korcari Wilds,” Duncan declared, sharp. He had forgotten that, somehow… “Alistair as well.” He pushed himself up straight and prepared to seek them out.

Richu watched him, held his silence for a beat, and then, “We could send Alistair and Grigor out now, along with those other two, before we lose the last of the light. To get the blood. For Velyn. And these ones.” His voice was low and tired, but a thread of something else in it froze Duncan where he stood.

Richu continued, “Would give these recruits a chance to rest. Might get Velyn a better shot to live, to get the blood faster. Grigor’n them are fresher; they’d handle it well enough.”

His proposal ended, Richu fell to silence once more. Duncan pressed his fingers to his forehead, rubbed the skin above the eye. Thought of blood-stained cots and the oozing blackness of Tainted blood; thought of callused feet, bleeding and blistered from walking for weeks; thought of dust and stone clogging the throat.

Thought of a ritual and a bond, and what it meant to be earned.

“No.” He could hear Richu’s sigh of defeat, of disappointment, and he lowered his head. “I am sorry, Richu.” He didn’t let the silence stretch before he shored himself up again. “Make sure to get some rest.” He shot his companion a wry look. “King’s orders.” Then he left.

It took him until sundown to finish his tasks. Alistair, apparently, was carrying out menial tasks for the Revered Mother, nowhere Duncan could find him. Grigor was with the other recruits, and eagerly volunteered to help Daveth and Ser Jory prepare for the excursion into the Wilds, glad to have something to do. As for Daveth and Ser Jory themselves, they looked far more rested than they had when Duncan had last seen them. When asked, they expressed a readiness for what came. It gave him some hope to see, even if it came with a level of wariness.

The last thing he did was politely turn the king’s personal physician away. The man seemed as relieved to be dismissed as Duncan was to dismiss him.

When he returned to the healers’ tents he found Wynne alone by Velyn’s side. Her magic glowed, softer than before, and Duncan approached with care.

“Wynne.”

She looked up and gave him a tired smile. “There has been no change since you left, I’m afraid.” One of her hands began to shake and she dropped it gently to Velyn’s forehead. “He burns with fever still, and the illness only seems to be spreading further.” She gestured and Duncan’s eyes moved over black veins throbbing under his skin, pronounced and sharp. “He has woken once, but he was not lucid.”

Duncan didn’t speak for a moment, observing as Velyn gasped and panted in pain. Eventually, he stood, “You should rest; it would be unwise to expend all your energy so quickly. I will watch him for the night.” He inclined his head. “I thank you for your aid, Wynne.” She stood to her feet, steadier than Duncan thought she would be, and smiled.

“I am glad to help,” she replied. “If you like, I can return in the morning, when my energy has recovered?”

Duncan’s lips twitched, and his heart sank.

“We shall see.”

The words rang, harsh and loud against the oppressive silence that followed. Wynne’s brow was furrowed and her gaze was solemn.

“I suppose we shall.” She pulled in a deep breath and stepped closer to him. Catching his eyes, she reached out and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“I have faith in him,” she murmured, and squeezed once, and then was gone.

Duncan exhaled heavily and went to Velyn, kneeling down beside the cot. His knees protested. He ignored them. Lowered his head. Breathed.

The long wait.

“Y…you.”

Duncan’s head snapped up at the familiar croak. There was Velyn, barely awake and glaring weakly. Pain and fear and confusion swirled in his eyes, masked with a feeble anger, likely the only thing Velyn could hold to, the only thing giving him some sense of control or strength.

“Velyn,” Duncan spoke softly. Velyn whimpered and pressed his lips together, a quivering and discolored line. When he spoke again, Duncan could barely hear him.

“Could’n’… jus’ le’me die—with m’clan…”

Duncan placed a hand over Velyn’s feverish brow, jaw tightening at the near-burn of it.

“I do not think your clan would have wished you dead, if there were an alternative that would prevent it,” he offered gently. Against his hand, Velyn made a small keening noise and squirmed under the touch. Whether to press into it or to escape from it, Duncan couldn’t say.

“I d-didn’ wa—wan’ t’leave…”

Duncan didn’t let himself look away.

“I know.”

“I didn’… didn’ wan’ to… T’mlen…”

“…I am sorry.”

Velyn’s eyes suddenly shot open and his body spasmed. Duncan reacted immediately, turning him gently onto his side as he dry-heaved, weak and pitiful, a small collection of saliva at the corners of his mouth the only thing he managed to bring up.

The useless retching continued for nearly a minute. When it finally subsided, Duncan carefully wiped the moisture from Velyn’s eyes and mouth. Silence followed, broken only by the sounds of pain and misery coming from the other injured soldiers nearby. Beneath it all, Velyn huffed shallow panting breaths against Duncan’s arm.

“I don’ want. To die…!” Velyn clenched through gritted teeth. Duncan could feel in the quivering of his muscles – could hear in the wracking sob of his voice – the effort it took him to force the words from his throat. He lowered his head.

You will not.

I will do everything in my power to prevent it.

This will not be in vain.

But he couldn’t know that, and his duty may demand he not prevent it, and it may very well turn out to be.

Velyn succumbed to an uneasy and restless sleep nearly an hour later. Duncan remained by his side long after that, heedless of the silent tears tracking down his face.

#dragon age origins #duncan #velyn mahariel #Aja Amell #Tristan Brosca #gundhram aeducan #ila tabris #Ilhenan tabris #loghain mac tir #cailan theirin #Wynne #My writing #dao epic saga #to answer the call

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lavalampelfchild · 7 years ago

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You want to know why I think Redcliffe would be fine with Arl Teagan marrying my Tabris? No? Great, here I go!

Because really, those people have been through HELL, and the last thing they’re worried about now is a new Arl with an elven wife.

Their first Arl married an Orlesian in the wake of an Orlesian occupation of Ferelden. That Arl’s son turned out to be a mage, got possessed, and then started raising zombies left and right, sending them into town to attack over and over again. Then these people were led in battle by some Grey Wardens and a veteran dwarf who employed two random thief/thug/shady fellers, and they didn’t bat a goddamn eye. THEN their village served as home base for elves, dwarves, and mages, OR golems, werewolves, and Templars, OR any other combination therein. Or, should I say... "Theirin"? HA!

The people of Redcliffe are made of steel and nails and they probably go to the Salty Spitoon every single day, they don’t give any shits. That’s the real reason they were all standing around talking about nothing important when Alexius took over. That’s the real reason Teagan just left. These people can take care of their damn selves, and he knows it.

“Oh, we’re being overthrown by a random Tevinter cult leader? Oh, he’s got a few mages in his employ and maybe time magic, we don’t really know? No, no, it’s fine, we don’t need to break out the templars for that. Just let me know if he brings any zombies with him, I’m going to go get the king/queen. Yeah, I’ll be fine, it’s fine. Just tell Murdock and get the dwarf vet. BRB!”

No scandal can fell these people, they have lived through a mini zombie apocalypse, and this little Tevinter Chihuahua is just too adorable to take seriously, and their new Arlessa may be an elf, but she’s also a trained assassin, and that’s kind of badass. Better than Teagan marrying one of the zombies!

Anyway, the end! I love Teagan, he’s great, and now he’s married to my Tabris. You can’t take my symbolic and incredibly politically progressive human/elf marriage away from me, BioWare!

(Also, Murdock the mayor is a badass too, and he’s named after one of my favorite old TV show characters, and ain’t no way he’s letting some time-traveling whackadoo into his town. Also, he likes the new Arlessa, she helped save his town from zombies and taught him some cool knife tricks.)

#teagan #teagan guerrin #redcliffe #ila tabris #Ilhenan tabris #I love my Redcliffe peeps #no weenies here

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lavalampelfchild · 7 years ago

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Ila without her makeup because it’s taken me way too long to do that!

I was an idiot when I first made her, and didn’t take pics of the sliders (I play on console, so I couldn’t do any fancy stuff with toolkits or what have you) so I had to stare at pictures of her while I tried to recreate her in a new game.

So here she is, fresh-faced with just her tattoo. I like that her skin is darker around the eyes; it gives her this weary look, which makes sense for her, especially after the events of the prologue and once she joins the Wardens.

For random info on the makeup, I headcanon that her father saved up money over several years to get her some lip paste and powder makeup for her as a wedding gift. Ila took it with her once she left to join the Wardens.

#ila tabris #ilhenan Tabris #dragon age oc #random character tidbits #screencaps are the best

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lavalampelfchild · 7 years ago

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When asking Alistair what he thinks about Duncan in the camp at Ostagar, he (after answering) turns the question back on the Warden. Just because I find it interesting to think about, here are my Wardens’ respective responses, pre-Joining:

Aja: “He seems like a kind man, if firm.”

Ila: “I’d rather keep my thoughts to myself.”

Velyn: “I can’t say I care for him much.”

Tristan and Gundhram: “I owe him, as well. He saved me.”

It’s interesting, trying to figure out how best to roleplay my respective Wardens.

#Aja amell #ilhenan tabris #ila tabris #gundhram aeducan #velyn mahariel #tristan brosca #playing through Ostagar to mine for lines #I think about stuff like this way too much!

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lavalampelfchild · 7 years ago

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To Answer the Call, Ch. 2

Chapter Summary: Duncan and his recruits have reached Lothering, but time is running out and Duncan learns that the situation at Ostagar may have grown more dire during his absence.

Link to Ao3: Here

“So that’s Lothering?”

Duncan came up short at Gundhram’s question, eyes turned to the village awaiting them. “Yes.”

Gundhram stood beside him and hummed quietly. “That’s a lot of soldiers.” Duncan nodded. More soldiers than usual, in fact.

Stretched along the highway and the river, the soldiers milled about, drinking, talking, and laughing. There were few tents to shelter them, and Duncan guessed that they all had stopped at Lothering for reasons similar to his, that they were ultimately southbound, headed for Ostagar.

Lothering, it seemed, had become one large encampment.

“They don’t all look to be from the same company. Or is that just how you surfacers do things up here.” Gundhram’s tone was just this side of disapproving. Duncan felt a soft wave of amusement; it had to be odd for Gundhram, to see different companies so thoroughly disconnected from one another. From what Duncan understood of the military in Orzammar, it was entirely uniform and commanded ultimately by the king.

In the next moment, however, the amusement was replaced by a thick tendril of unease and foreboding. There had not been nearly so many companies in Lothering when he’d left Ostagar, and the king had given no indication that he intended to send for reinforcements.

What had changed in the months he had been gone?

“They are not all from the same company,” he answered Gundhram, setting off again at a brisk pace. Despite their height difference and his armor, Gundhram managed to keep up. “These soldiers are most likely headed to Ostagar. I would wager they’ve been summoned by the king.” Gundhram made a thoughtful noise but didn’t speak any further.

Duncan already knew that there wouldn’t be enough room for them in the town proper, so he signaled for the Wardens and recruits to make camp just off the highway, north of the village.

“We stop here for the remainder of today and tonight to resupply,” he called to the recruits, looking them over carefully. They were exhausted. “We leave at—” A loud thud interrupted him and Duncan’s head snapped around to see Velyn collapse to the road.

Duncan’s heart leapt to his throat and he’d moved two steps forward before he realized that Velyn was not in fact unconscious or dead yet, but had simply misstepped in an effort to sit down. He forced himself to halt.

Apparently, he hadn’t been the only one who’d thought to help; Aja was still reaching for Velyn, eyes wide in tired alarm.

“Are you—” she began. Velyn hissed something in elven as he clumsily tried to pull away, his voice hoarse. He blinked and caught himself, shaking his head roughly.

“Back—back off, shem, I’m fine!” he snapped. Aja froze for a moment and jerked her hands back, tension pulling at her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She said nothing and inched her way toward Richu.

Duncan’s mouth thinned and he exhaled calmly before continuing, “We leave at sunup tomorrow. The journey to Ostagar will be four days.” He paused then and looked around at all of them, careful not to let his gaze linger on Velyn. “We can’t afford to waste time. After tonight, there will be minimum stops, to rest only when we absolutely need it.”

He didn’t relish what these final four days would do to his recruits, but there was no avoiding it.

Duncan placed his pack on the ground and cast a glance toward the town. “I need to ascertain the state of Ostagar and the king. I’ll return later. Feel free to explore the town at your leisure. I recommend the tavern for—”

“Better food than what’s in our packs,” Rondall called with a smirk. Duncan shot him a quelling look.

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” he acknowledged. “However, I would advise caution.” He surveyed his recruits with an odd combination of amused anticipation and edged wariness. Two elves, one mage, two dwarves, and two humans. What a group they would make. Hopefully not one that draws unnecessary attention to itself.

“And…” Duncan turned his eyes to Velyn. “Velyn, I suggest you remain at the camp and rest. Moving about excessively will only make you weaker, and propel you faster to your death.”

Harsh, perhaps, and blunt, but Duncan had never been one to mince his words, and Velyn so far had not been receptive to anything but the most direct of commands and orders.

Around him, the camp tensed, the air growing thick. Silence greeted Duncan’s suggestion, and the group’s collective gaze came to rest upon him and Velyn.

Velyn narrowed his eyes and sneered at Duncan, saying nothing, yet still managing to leave Duncan with the impression that he was being defied.

Well, this could turn out one of several ways.

With one last glance around the group, Duncan inclined his head sharply, turned, and made his way into the village.

The exhaustion in the village was palpable. All around him, Duncan could see the tired eyes of the townsfolk, the weary but apprehensive posture of the soldiers, the way everyone was either desperately loud or hopelessly soft in their tones. These people were worried.

Duncan sped his pace.

His first visit was to the inn. As expected, it was full, soldiers and townsfolk alike meandering about with drink and food in hand. No one looked twice at Duncan; he was just another armed man looking for a drink.

Immediately he sought out the proprietor, quickly dodging past the patrons. The poor fellow looked exhausted.

“Danal,” Duncan greeted as he approached. The tired innkeeper blinked and gave him an assessing stare, clearly trying to determine if he knew Duncan. Duncan was about to remind him when Danal’s eyes widened in recognition, lips pulled into an easy if halfhearted smile.

“I remember you!” he declared. “You’re that Warden fellow, came by a few weeks ago with—” He halted his words abruptly and cast a nervous glance around the room before gesturing Duncan closer. “You don’t still have… you know… that, ah, that—”

“Yes, the mage is still with me,” Duncan cut in, the urgency of the Blight warring with his usual tendency to be polite to the ones who served him his drinks. “You needn’t worry; she’s outside and is very much not going to cause you any trouble, I promise. But for the moment, that is the least of our worries.” Danal’s brow furrowed and he leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice.

“You’re telling me,” he murmured. “I hear that the horde has grown so large it almost surrounded Ostagar and the king in less than a night! That’s why all these soldiers are here, they say. King needs reinforcements otherwise he’s done for.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, and Duncan fought the urge to press his forehead. At least they were closer to the subject he needed to discuss.

“I’m sure things have not become that hopeless just yet,” he reassured. “But if there are any others here who would have word from the king, I need to know where they are.” At that, Danal scoffed and gestured around the room.

“Take your pick,” he said. “We got a lot of runners from Ostagar returning from their fancy missions. Quite a few of ‘em were headed to different lands in the Bannorn to recruit some help, if I remember correctly. Feel free to ask around.”

“If you can advise me on where to start, Danal, I think I shall,” Duncan replied pointedly. Danal sighed and gestured to one of the patrons sitting in the far corner.

“Runner from Ostagar, just came in this morning, hasn’t left since.” He leaned in. “I’d be careful. Bit of a temper, that one.” Duncan inclined his head and made his way toward the runner’s table.

The woman sitting there was hunched over, bloodshot and baggy eyes staring forward, making no effort at conversation with the others who shared her table. Her hands curled possessively around a mug in front of her, still half-full.

“Excuse me,” he said clearly but quietly. “My name is Duncan, and I’m a Grey Warden come from the king’s camp at Ostagar. I understand that you and I have that in common, and I wonder if you might have some information for me.” The woman didn’t move for a moment, perhaps thinking she could shake Duncan if she ignored him. When Duncan didn’t leave, she finally turned to look at him. Her eyes scanned his figure and came to land on his face, narrowing in suspicion.

“I don’t know you, Duncan the Grey Warden,” she accused gruffly. “What d’you want?” Her accent was unusual, but Duncan didn’t bother trying to place it.

“I believe I’ve already said.”

The woman’s eye twitched, but she covered it quickly and cast a bored look down at her drink.

“You said you were a Grey Warden?” She hummed. “Well, you must not be that good. No darkspawn around here. They’re all a little further down.”

“Fortunate, then, that ‘a little further down’ is where I’m headed.”

“So what d’you need me for?”

Duncan’s tone hardened. “If you could please give me information about the state of the king’s camp before you left—”

“Hasn’t been overrun by darkspawn yet,” She smirked, giving him an arch look over the rim of her mug. Duncan felt himself stiffen.

“Could you—”

“You care so much what happens to the place, go find out for yourself,” the woman snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. “You’re headed there already, ain’t ya? Go on.” She angled her body away from him. Duncan watched her for a moment in silence.

He could press her for answers; he could impress upon her the importance of what he was trying to achieve, and hope that that would inspire her to help him with her knowledge. He could push until she yielded.

It would be a wasted effort.

Without another word, Duncan turned and left her to her own devices.

Fortunately, Danal was willing to identify the other runners in the tavern with little persuasion.

Unfortunately, those runners were either unwilling to talk to him or knew less than he about the state of the king’s army. He had learned only that the soldiers were nervous, that there were disturbing rumors coming out of Highever, and that the darkspawn were still harassing the outskirts of the camp and scouting parties.

It was nothing he couldn’t have put together himself, honestly.

The only thing of worth he had found out was from a soldier of Rainesfere, headed back the way he had come, along with his company, because of a recent and frantic missive from Arl Eamon’s brother.

“Captain won’t say what was in the message,” the man said, his worry betraying him for a moment as he looked at Duncan with uncertain eyes. “But I know the runner who brought it; that’s Bann Teagan’s fastest man.” He shook his head then and turned back to his drink. “Whatever it said, it must be serious. Why would we be called away from the king otherwise?”

No amount of careful pressing on the matter could get Duncan any more information on the subject.

Ducan was contemplating getting a drink himself – he had at least a few hours to celebrate what was beginning to look like a very poor state of affairs, didn’t he? – when a commotion by the door caught his attention.

“Duncan!”

Danal tensed and Duncan pushed to his feet, moving to intercept a frantic Aja before anyone who recognized her as a mage could do so for him.

“Aja, what is it?” he asked in a calm voice, hands steadying her by the elbows. She swayed slightly, but her expression was determined.

She pulled one arm free to gesture toward the door, her eyes flicking back and forth as she tried to pull him away.

“It’s Velyn,” she rambled urgently. “He-he’s arguing with one of the local guards!” Duncan stiffened before stepping deftly around Aja and speeding his pace, leading her outside. Richu stood waiting for them, tense with readiness – for what, Duncan didn’t know, though he hoped it wasn’t Velyn’s stupidity – and fell into step easily behind them. Duncan turned his attention to Aja.

“What happened.”

Aja swallowed roughly and pointed. Ahead of them a large crowd had formed, townsfolk and soldier present. At the center, Duncan could make out the top of a giant cage, occupied by a—

“Qunari,” Richu cut in as they made their way over. “Guards were taking him in, big brute of a fella’, and the Dalish up and charged right over. Nearly brained himself on the way, can barely keep his feet.”

Duncan gave a sharp nod.

“Richu, return to the camp with Aja,” he commanded, eyes on the crowd. He couldn’t see Velyn.

Richu grunted the affirmative and quickly began to lead Aja away from the crowd. Duncan continued forward, muscles tense, jaw clenched.

He’d barely made it to the fringe of the crowd when he heard the familiar voice. Pulling up at the sound, Duncan gave in to the rare urge to sigh in exasperation and turned toward the source. You had to know this would happen. He pushed forward to the front of the crowd.

“You lock everyone up who’s not like you, shem? Is that all you know?”

A low rumble rippled through the crowd. The spectators appeared to be at something of a loss, some hisses and jeers here and there, but for the most part there was a tense near-silence hanging over them all. As though they feared the Qunari could burst from the cage and attack them at any moment.

Given the poor state of the cage, he probably could.

And, as Aja had said, there was Velyn. Standing with as much defiance as the Qunari, though Duncan could see the effort that required. Velyn’s legs were planted, knees locked to keep from shaking, fists clenched, eyes bloodshot, and his face was dripping in sweat.

A guard stood between Velyn and the cage, and looked to be struggling to mask his own indignation. He drew himself up and spoke, “He’s a murderer.”

Velyn scoffed. “Then he’s in good company, eh, human?”

Duncan eyed the Qunari, taking in his condition and features, as the guard bristled and snarled, voice rising, “I was there when we arrested him. I saw what he’d done, the kind of carnage he caused. Would you have left him to go kill more of your people if it had been your knife-eared family he’d killed!?”

That was the wrong thing to say. Velyn tensed, risking his balance by taking an aggressive step forward. He stumbled only once, but his fury carried him the rest of the way. “Maybe he was just defending himself from your people, did you ever consider that? Maybe he didn’t want to have to deal with your shemlen arrogance and did us all a favor by—”

Duncan was moving toward Velyn now, opening his mouth to speak, to put a stop to the boy’s reckless behavior before it started something unnecessary and dangerous—

“Parshaara!”

Duncan stopped. Velyn stopped. Everyone stopped.

In the cage, the Qunari stood, muscles tense, body so rigid and tightly controlled he was quivering. His eyes were wide and angry – panicked? – as they jumped from Velyn to the guard to the crowd and back.

His mouth was a thin line, lips pressed together as though he could take the cry back if he just pressed hard enough. He breathed deeply through his nose.

No one spoke. Duncan could feel the crowd’s fear. He held his ground and waited for Velyn—anyone—to speak, to make worse this thing that had started that shouldn’t have.

The Qunari closed his eyes.

“You.” His eyes opened and lit upon Velyn. “The bas—human—speaks the truth. Take your anger elsewhere.”

Velyn appeared to be frozen, and for a long moment he only stared at the Qunari, saying nothing.

The guard’s hand went belatedly to his weapon and he looked between the Qunari and Velyn. Duncan took that as his cue.

“Velyn,” he called. Velyn’s body jerked and he whipped around, the odd trance broken. His eyes met Duncan’s and he sneered, the expression unfortunately familiar.

“So, you’ve come to collect me for being a—”

“Velyn, you are returning to the camp now, either by your own strength or by mine.” Duncan’s voice cut sharply through Velyn’s words, and Duncan allowed some of his frustration and annoyance to leak through. Of course Velyn would find a way to agitate an entire town of people when he was dying of darkspawn-induced fever, of course.

Velyn’s eyes widened in surprise for a moment, but he quickly caught himself and forced a hard and rebellious expression onto his face. Duncan continued before he could voice any protest, “If you choose to fight me on this, you will lose.”

Silence. Velyn glared at Duncan. Duncan held his gaze. Around them, the crowd was beginning to disperse, avoiding Velyn, Duncan, and the Qunari.

At last, Velyn seemed to come to the conclusion that argument was fruitless – that or he was more exhausted than he wanted to let on – and allowed Duncan to lead him back to the camp, glancing back at the Qunari only once.

Their progress was slow, and Duncan believed it would be silent as well, but Velyn surprised him by asking, “Not going to recruit him?”

Duncan glanced down at Velyn and considered his reply.

“I imagine there would be some resistance from the authorities responsible for imprisoning him.”

Velyn hissed. “Since when has resistance stopped you?” He stumbled and Duncan reached out to steady him before he could fall. Velyn tensed and pulled away. Duncan’s eyes narrowed.

“Since the moment I learned that we have less time than I previously believed,” he said bluntly, voice clipped. “If I thought it necessary, I would not hesitate to add another recruit to our ranks.”

“But you’ve already pulled that shit on enough random people, is that it?” Velyn turned and pinned Duncan with a withering and venomous glare. For a moment, Duncan said nothing, able only to stand fast in the face of Velyn’s anger and grief and – yes, Duncan believed the word apt – hate.

He had taken a gamble with Velyn, and he realized now that it perhaps might not end up worthwhile. The sickness was progressing far too quickly for Duncan’s liking, though Velyn’s own strength and will were certainly up to the task of fighting it – delaying the inevitable. But it was clear that Velyn, for all his strength, his skill, his tenacity, did not see any possible benefit to being a part of the Wardens. Not even to save his life, and certainly not to save the lives of others.

There had always been recruits who attempted to flee before the Joining – rare, but not unheard of – and Duncan was beginning to wonder if Velyn wouldn’t end up one of them.

Velyn managed to pull ahead as Duncan mused, and when he reached the camp, he allowed himself to fall gracelessly to the ground. He was breathing heavily, unconsciously massaging his stomach in a way that suggested he might soon be sick.

Duncan released a slow breath and turned his attention to the other recruits. Richu sat with Aja, propping her up as she dozed, and Rondall chatted amicably with Gundhram as the latter pounded the dents from his armor.

But they were the only ones actually interacting with one another. Ila stood removed from them, a wary and guarded gaze set on the village. Tristan was removed as well, though he did not stand with Ila, and was equally as guarded. And Velyn was turned away from all of them, curled in on himself, his breaths raspy and short. None of them spoke.

And the fate of Ferelden and perhaps all of Thedas was laid at their feet.

With a nod to Richu, another for Rondall, Duncan turned on his heel and made his way back to Lothering.

He never did get that drink.

When he returned to the camp, the sun had nearly set. Richu and Rondall had managed to get some supplies and their rations were replenished for the final leg of the journey.

All the recruits but Gundhram were asleep, and even he seemed to be having trouble fighting away the urge.

Duncan placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a knowing look.

“Get some rest, Gundhram,” he said softly. “I have watch. We will be safe.” The reassurance of soldiers. Gundhram nodded once, curt, and dropped off to sleep almost instantly. Duncan nodded, satisfied, and pulled back, slowly turning his gaze to each recruit. There were constants in how they slept, and Duncan found himself searching for them curiously.

Aja slept fully and deeply, still somewhat unused to the rigors of life on the move. Ila slept curled on her side facing outward, daggers by her head, hand clutched about the chain she kept around her neck. Tristan slept with his eyes slanted open, upright against a stump, sleeping light and ready for anything. Gundhram was practical and controlled, even while sleeping, the only thing betraying him being a light rumbling snore deep in his chest.

Whatever Velyn’s constants were, they were disrupted by the sickness. He shivered in his sleep, tossing and turning uncomfortably, small whimpers escaping him every few seconds.

For all that the young elf’s frustrating tendencies and anguished rage pulled at the thread of Duncan’s patience, Duncan’s heart ached for him.

The sun dipped below the tree line and Duncan pulled himself from his thoughts.

“Make sure to get some rest,” he reminded his Wardens. He doubted they’d have anything to fear from bandits or thieves, from outside the village, but still… “I will keep watch.”

“Make sure to follow a bit of your own advice, yeah?” Richu grumbled, wiping a hand across his eyes. “Wouldn’t do well to have you collapsing on us. Big boss going down? How would that look.” He grinned ruefully at Duncan, a teasing edge to his voice, but Duncan could hear the seriousness behind the words, and was grateful for it.

“I’ll be fine, Richu,” Duncan assured. Richu rolled his eyes and grunted in what sounded like disbelief, but seemed to concede as he lay back on his bedroll. Duncan turned his eyes back to Lothering.

This was it. The last stretch. Duncan let his head drop and, on a strange impulse, offered up a prayer to the Maker. Maybe He would listen this time.

The night passed by almost too quickly, and the next day when they awoke, all looked nearly as exhausted as they had the day before.

With no time wasted, they started on their trek. It was every bit as taxing as Duncan had feared.

In their exhaustion, the recruits grew impatient and snappish with one another; Tristan allowed some of his disdain for Gundhram to come forward, and Gundhram seemed to have a more difficult time staying silent. Velyn was as waspish as he had been since Duncan had recruited him, and even Aja had lashed out one evening when Velyn pushed too far.

It was, however, Ila, who’d surprised him the most. Duncan was under no illusions that she had any real love of humans, but it seemed that she had been far better at hiding the true depth of her disdain for them than he had originally thought.

On the third day, when she stumbled to her knees and was unable to push herself up on her own, Rondall had moved to help her, only to be impatiently pushed away as she glared at him with cold and steely eyes. For several tense moments, the group had stopped and surveyed her, uncertain as to which of them was the correct person to offer help. In the end, Gundhram had stoically pulled her to her feet and offered his shoulder for her to lean on.

She’d avoided everyone’s eyes then, and Duncan had felt the weight in his stomach sink even further.

There would be much to discuss once they reached Ostagar.

Velyn’s sickness only grew worse over the course of their journey, and several times they had to stop when he couldn’t keep on his feet or when he had to retch. But even Duncan’s concern over all that wasn’t enough to match the sheer depth of his fear when Velyn, on the fourth and final day, grew too exhausted to protest his aid.

Duncan had taken to walking closer to Velyn the longer they traveled, and though it was plain to see that Velyn strongly disapproved, there was certainly nothing he could do to dissuade Duncan. Though he had protested it continually, however weak and tired he sounded.

But then he’d begun to list, on the last day, and he kept listing, and when Duncan had steadied him, he didn’t pull away, just stayed there, in Duncan’s hold, quivering and panting, eyes closed.

Duncan had wanted to move the group faster after that, but he knew that pushing beyond what their bodies could handle would only result in all of them collapsing.

Those last few hours were long and torturous, and though he managed to maintain his composure, Duncan couldn’t help but fear the worst. The whispers had grown louder and louder as they went, and even so far from Ostagar, Duncan knew that the horde had grown exponentially in the time he had been gone.

But then they reached the forest, and after that… They were there.

Rarely had Duncan ever felt such overwhelming relief - bittersweet though it was - as he did when he saw the large looming gates of Ostagar. Velyn was leaning heavily against his side, Gundhram had carried Ila’s stumbling weight for the past day and a half, Tristan had Rondall’s arm gripped like a lifeline, and Aja had been sagging against Richu for nearly half the journey. They were all exhausted, and it showed.

But they were alive.

“We are nearly at Ostagar,” he called back to them, adjusting Velyn’s weight as he moved them slowly onward. There was a huff of curiosity from Velyn.

“Tha’s’a place?” he muttered. Duncan nodded and replied gently.

“Yes, that is Ostagar.” Velyn attempted to nod and his head lolled forward against his chest.

“Good,” he whispered, his voice growing weaker. Duncan felt a wash of cold urgency and tried carefully to quicken his steps, hoping Velyn would follow, but to no avail. Velyn wasn’t even struggling to keep up.

With great effort, he pulled his head up to fall by Duncan’s shoulder, and coughed, “Catch.”

And then collapsed.

“Velyn!”

Duncan tightened his grip and brought his free arm around Velyn’s back to stop the fall.

“Duncan, what happened?” The others had stopped, tense and silent. For the moment, Duncan ignored them, focusing his attention on Velyn; his skin was sweaty and his complexion sallow, and his body was running hot, too much so.

At least the Taint hadn’t withered him enough to prevent his body fighting it.

A poor consolation. He was still dying.

“Recruits, stay with the Wardens!” Duncan barked, lifting Velyn’s limp form into his arms. “Wardens, lead them to the camp!”

Without another word, Duncan turned and hastened toward Ostagar.

#dragon age origins #duncan #Aja Amell #velyn mahariel #ila tabris #Ilhenan tabris #gundhram aeducan #tristan brosca #My writing #dao epic saga #to answer the call

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