#dim and one of our party members went to do the quest by ourselves…

[exiledfrommars]

Was feeling nostalgic tonight, so here’s a redraw of my first ever D&D character! My baby boy, Diminious <3

In typical first D&D character fashion, they’re an edgy elven rogue with no parents and a tragic backstory. And of course throughout the course of the campaign (CoS), things did not get any better— hence the elk antlers !

Getting possessed does indeed do stuff to a person

[rickonwrites]

Tabris x Ser Perth 

He expressed respect and courtesy regarding how to address elves. The warden and her group spend the night in Redcliffe preparing for the battle, and with the shadow of death; grave and morbid, hanging over them all an unexpected human seeks comfort in her stoic strength and perhaps, gives her reason to reconsider the worth of shem. He is religious, noble and unfailingly polite.

-

“It is decided then. We will stay the night and help the town prepare for the coming battle.” Tabris paused to look every member of her motley crew in the eye. A stern gaze that brooked no argument, the set of her shoulders firm and determined there was no bartering with their fearless leader.

She lingered the longest, and rather tellingly, on Morrigan. Dark grey, almost black irises locking in with wickedly golden ones. After a beat, the witch huffed and shrugged. “”Tis your death wish, I suppose. Be not fooled that I should not transform myself into a bat and leave the moment things turn dire.”

Tabris grinned, a slight crinkle of lips. “It won’t. We will live, and we will win. Have some more faith in me, Morrigan.”

“After all, what’s a village full of undead compared to the Archdemon hey?” Alistair quirked, shrugging off the moue of disgust the witch threw his way with evident satisfaction.

“I for one look forward to spending a night behind a nice, locked gate, for once.” Leliana proclaims, to a chorus of mixed opinion. “No more having to keep watch and huddle pathetically by the fire!”

“Aye, and to wake with a blade in our faces!” Ogrin said, causing the party to shake their heads and begin preparations. Anyone else and the comment could have been ambiguously construed as sarcasm, but the dwarf’s bloodlust was without parallel.

Tabris could only inwardly smile, hiding her amusement. It would not do to show levity now when she needed to be the decisive, clear-headed leader. She hadn’t expected half the party to voice dissent when she first proposed they stay to help Redcliffe. Morrigan was no surprise, and to a certain extent neither was Sten. But even Zevran had deigned to comment on her becoming soft for a shemlen cause. There was the Blight to consider, and the need to recruit forces. She had thought the decision to be obvious.

But perhaps, she conceded, distractedly nodding in greeting to a passing soldier, there was some wisdom in their concerns. The conclusion seemed already foregone. A poisoned Arl, a wave of undead to plague the village, and only a handful of barely disciplined local militia. Half the town seemed to have already packed up and left, and the few who chose to stay were hiding in the Chantry, praying for salvation in the form of a shapeless, incorporeal deity. Not only that, but should they somehow achieve the impossible and rescue the town there yet lay a darker mystery in the castle itself. A mystery that had the elf’s nose twitching, as if she could already scent the dark magics involved.

Tabris sighed, subconsciously resting her palm against the worn pommel of her blade. And yet she could just as little deny the truth behind the benefits of defending the village. The ever looming if - if they won, if they survived, if they secured Redcliffe as an ally and gathered enough force - would not be so easily dispelled by the mere chance that they could die in the attempt.

Alistair was right, she thought, as her step ascended the wooden stair of the Chantry’s entrance. How could any of them fathom defeating the Archdemon and its hordes of darkspawn if they could not even handle this?

Knots of displaced villagers stilled in an expectant hush as she nudged the heavy, oak doors open. She spared them little more than a cursory glance before she strode forward purposefully to the red-haired man waiting down the long, dim hall.

“These are the people that move your heart to take up sword in their defense?” Morrigan's snide, but softly uttered quip reached her pointed ear.

Tabris did not glance back to shoot her companion a cautioning glance as much as she wished to, though she did lift a shoulder in resignation. “You know were I in their place I would not hesitate to defend my Alienage,” she replies after some thought, keeping her voice low. “It’s why I am here after all. And so you should also expect my mind to be of yours, Morrigan. However, yon bronze-haired buffoon is correct. Our need for reinforcements is too pressing, I would not pass any opportunity to gain allies however few or beleaguered they may be.”

“And risk our lives in the process? Whilst I am no frightened filly to shy away from battle, I am also not so fool as to knowingly join a battle with such odds stacked against us.”

She could feel Morrigan’s piercing gaze at the back of her neck, the woman’s disapproval palpable. Tabris took a moment to look around her, taking in the sight of mothers and children huddling in corners and meeting their wide, baleful eyes with a directness she never thought she could employ amongst humans. My, how far she had come.

“Whatever happens on the morrow, there is no questioning that the Archdemon that lies heart to our quest shall be a thousand-fold worse. Think of this as ripe opportunity to test ourselves and those we call our companions, and judge well before it is too late to turn into a bat and fly off with tail tucked between your legs whether an encounter with the Archdemon is something we may yet survive. If your spells cannot smite a walking bag of bones, then you’ve joined our quest merely to die.”  

There was a terse pause, until finally Morrigan’s conceding grunt was as much indication that the elf’s infamous gift of coercion had worked its intended effect. Satisfied that she would get no more protestations from the witch, Tabris braced herself to deal with her next hurdle.

“Bann Teagan,” she greeted him, choosing not to bow as she felt Alistair fold himself beside her.

The man barely batted an eyelid, gazing at her with open curiosity and, painfully obvious, hope. “Grey Warden, I hope you’ve not returned to tell me you’ve changed your mind?” His voice was light. Lighter than she knew he felt inside. What he clearly intended to be a friendly jest was transparently a poor attempt at concealing his fears, as his voice audibly trembled on the last vowel.

Tabris had no patience for courtesies and gentle rejection. She shook her head adamantly, “No. We stay. We will help you fight - or die in the fucking effort.”

Teagan stilled for a moment before his shoulders went slack, the corners of his lips lifting in an easy and relieved grin. He lifted a pale, lily-white hand to tousle his head of red locks. An oddly boyish gesture for someone of the noblesse. “Thank the Maker! The way you were striding in here I thought you looked far too grim to be delivering good news.”

“The only good news we need to hear is at the end of this battle, when we defeat your enemies.”

He nodded, in easy agreement. “Yes, yes. But with you in the mix I’ve no doubt our chances have increased tenfold. Do not think me a stranger to the legendary tales of the strength and cunning of the Grey Wardens. I am indebted to you my lady. You may count the fiefdom of Redcliffe an ally!” He was delighted, and without a second thought reached out and squeezed her gloved hands; his large hands covering hers neatly. Tabris concealed the jolt of surprise the unexpected gesture elicited and forced her fingers from their instinctive descent toward her dagger’s pommel. Humans were so sentimental sometimes.

Gently extricating herself from his grip, she inclined her head in acknowledgement of his praise. “As I said, such words of debt and gratitude are best left until battle’s end. You speak too soon, ser.”

“She is right,” a new voice, baritone and earthy, joined them. “We’ve still much to do to prepare for the upcoming battle.”

From the corner of her eye Tabris noted the Knight Commander approaching from the Holy Mother*’s chamber. She winced inwardly. She’d not be in favour with the old hag after she had refused the offer of a blessing. Words and goodwill were at the bottom of the list of things needed to win. Tabris was too practical to engage in such pretensions. She knew what needed to be done, and she would bear the cost of it with eyes wide open - not with some incorporeal promise from a deity not of her own people’s.

Ser Perth joined them, a slight sheen of sweat at his temple. He glanced at her appraisingly, an impressed grin tugging at the corner of his lip.

“Fresh from a bit of prayer?” She asked, actually expecting it to be so though her tone gave off the impression of levity.

He inclined his head, brunette locks rustling in the process. He seemed just as undone as Teagan. “Just finished collecting the last of the charms her Holiness blessed for my men and I. I must thank you again for convincing her to do such a kindness for us. Morale amongst the other knights really has seen improvement.”

Tabris inclined her head smoothly in acknowledgement, expertly hiding her thoughts on the matter. Unfortunately, she needn’t have bothered. Zevran spoke up in poor attempt at an undertone, as if lending voice to her very thoughts, “For a blooded, sword-wielding, grown man you are awfully naive if you think a small trinket like that will keep you from a darkspawn’s blade in your back.”

He shot his fearless leader a quick, sneaky little grin - the barest twitch of his lips - before keeping his attention on Ser Perth’s response. It took all her will not to roll her eyes at the assassin. Chastising words would be had. She silently promised him that much.

“You are the Antivan assassin, yes?” When the knight spoke, his voice held none of the obtuseness Tabris had anticipated, especially in one of his ilk.

Zevran inclined his head, corners of his lips drawn in amuse anticipation. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“I’ve been to Antiva - only once, and only very briefly. But I’ve been there all the same. For all that the Antivan Crows were just another organization run by just another group of deadly men - of which you and I know, there are plenty in the world - talk of them would have you believe them akin to gods. Do you think this so, assassin?”

“We have never called ourselves as gods, and have always declared ourselves as the Crows that we are. Though the comparison is somewhat flattering, yes.”

** TBC **