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dryad-of-the-dogwood · 6 years ago

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Happy Friday, and happy first A Thread of Fate update of the new year! Chapter 27 is ready to view!

Chapter 27: Eyes in the Dark

Fanning is barely large enough to even be called a village, which if I had to guess is probably why I hadn’t heard of it before now. Velanna describing it as a “mining village” also seems a little… optimistic, to say the least. From what I’ve gathered from the one farmer willing to talk to us, it was more of a forced labor camp during the Orlesian occupation and the mine has stood abandoned ever since. It’s only recently that the local bann had the idea to reopen the mine, and the villagers started to find signs of the darkspawn taint and what the farmer describes only as “eyes in the dark.”

“I have to admit, I didn’t miss this part of being a Warden,” I mutter as we head underground.

“What did you miss, exactly?” Velanna wonders idly as she examines a wall of the mine in the green light from her staff. “All the best parts stick with you, I imagine—or do you not still dream of the horde on feather beds and silk pillows?”

“It gets a little better the farther you are from them,” I admit. “Sadly I’ve yet to find the specific golden embroidery pattern that blocks them out completely.”

Nathaniel snickers, then turns it into a cough. I assume he’s made up his mind not to like me already, and doesn’t want to jeopardize that by admitting I’m hilarious. And after I kept him from taking a throwing knife between the eyes or the ribs only yesterday, too. I really will never understand nobility.

Another few minutes of walking, and I stop them both with my torch thrust out to one side. “Do you feel that?” I whisper, and when they both look at me blankly, I shake my head and check again that I’m not crazy. There’s definitely something at the edge of my awareness, something blighted but too far for me to get a good idea what it is.

“The villagers were right,” I decide, pulling my shield off my back just in case. Velanna’s a mage and Nathaniel an archer, so I step forward to take point, carrying the torch at the ready like a sword. Darkspawn aren’t the biggest fans of fire, so it should make a good enough offensive surprise until I can draw my blade.

After a moment, I can hear Nathaniel and Velanna start muttering behind me, but I pay them no mind. Darkspawn senses don’t get rusty; as far as I’ve seen, they only get more refined. If they can’t feel whatever it is down there in the dark, it’s because their senses are undeveloped, not because mine are wrong.

Maker, I hope it isn’t a ogre.

The other two fall silent after a while, and I can only assume that means we’re getting close enough for them to feel it too. But the closer we get, the more confused I am. Whatever it is seems… vague? Not as clearly identifiable as a genlock or even an ogre, but definitely something corrupted. Sometimes I swear it even bubbles and separates and…

“Maker’s blood,” I groan as the realization hits me. “It’s blighted spiders.”

Nathaniel shoots me a look somewhere between confused and disdainful. “Are you trying to tell me we’re in a mine and you just remembered you’re afraid of spiders?”

“Wh—no!” I sputter in disbelief. “I’m saying what we’re sensing down there is spiders!”

Velanna too just looks at me like she thinks I’ve hit my head on something. “Are… you saying they put spider ichor in your Joining chalice, or that you were bitten by a particularly intelligent one and now—”

“Oh for the love of Andraste, no! I’m saying it’s actual, blighted-by-the-darkspawn-corruption giant spiders! Like in Ortan Thaig!”

Velanna and Nathaniel exchange looks, and he says slowly, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Clearly, you’ve never been to Ortan Thaig,” I mutter. “They eat darkspawn that wander too far from the horde. They’re twice as big and five times as venomous. Oh, and they spit acid.”

“Lovely,” Velanna sighs, conjuring a ball of flame in her palm in addition to the light on her staff.

But it’s still a long way down, and before long she lets the flame flicker out to conserve mana. I’m not sure if trekking through the dark knowing you’re looking for giant, corrupted spiders is better or worse than not knowing, but by the time we make it down the last shaft and the ichor and webs start coating the cave walls, I like to think we would have figured it out anyway.

Then the glowing eyes start blinking at us from the darkness, and I see exactly what the farmer meant. It’s creepy, sets of eight eyes peering out of the shadows and then skittering away, even knowing what they are. Maybe especially knowing what they are.

“I don’t think there’s a queen,” I decide, though I’m not quite ready to feel relieved just yet. “So they must have come up from deeper underground, looking for food. But I count… fifteen.”

“Oh good, so it’s only five to one odds,” Nathaniel snarks, and Velanna smirks at him.

“What was it you were you saying yesterday, about how any recruit could handle this mission?”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to thank Emile for his foresight if we aren’t spider chow by the end of the day.”

“They’re circling,” I interrupt, turning with the torch to illuminate the shadows to Velanna’s right. Eighteen eyes glow in the firefight and then sink back into the darkness. “They’ll swarm, if you let them. Whatever you do, don’t let them knock you on your back.”

“So like wolves,” Nathaniel reasons, turning with his own torch to cover Velanna from the other side. “Huge wolves with eight legs and venom.”

“And acid spit,” I remind him.

“Right, who could forget about the acid spit?”

“Just stay still,” Velanna says quietly, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t charge in like a fool and—”

“Down!” I order, leaping back to the left. There’s a wet thunk and a hissing sound as acid drips off my shield. Only the hissing doesn’t stop, and now seems to be coming from all around us.

“I think you’ve made them angry,” Velanna says rather blandly for someone that almost just had her face melted off. And sure enough, the hissing turns into the clicking of far too many pincers, and then it’s like the dark starts to move toward us, the firefight glistening off of hairy black carapaces and hungry eyes.

Before I can move again, an explosion of flame bursts to life in the middle of the largest group, sending at least a half dozen of them into writhing fits on the floor. Another group starts to charge from my right, and I drop the torch as I draw my sword, kicking the brand into their midst and sending them scattering away from the fire. I cut one down as it flees, and when another tries to tackle me, I knock it back with my shield and drive the blade through its middle. A third heads in my direction, but doesn’t make it within ten feet of me before it’s struck by a fireball that sends it flying. Perhaps Velanna was more grateful than she let on.

It seems easier, somehow, than Ortan Thaig, and that’s probably saying something considering Shale was happily squashing the creatures with us back then. But I think the closer quarters actually work in our favor, giving us the chance to fight back to back without anything swooping down on us from above. At least, until the swearing starts when one of Nathaniel’s arrows glances off the shell of one especially large spider, who seems to have eyes only for the archer. He backsteps, slips on the green-black ichor pooling of one of the vanquished creatures, and falls. I can hear the crack as he lands hard on one elbow, and his bowstring goes slack.

Velanna’s back is turned, occupied roasting two more of the creatures with her magic, and without a thought, I leap in for another shield bash before it can overwhelm them. This thing must be built much sturdier than the others, because it doesn’t fly back into a tangle of legs like its fellows; it hisses angrily, then I swear it glares at me over the top of my shield. Morrigan? I wonder reflexively, and before I can even laugh at the absurd thought, the spider has overwhelmed my guard and what feels like the weight of a boulder is crashing down on my chest.

Fortunately, all that templar training seems to have taught me something, because I keep my grip on my sword. Unfortunately, it’s pinned under one of the spider’s legs and I don’t have the leverage to pull it free. I do manage to bring my shield up, which keeps the thing from taking my head off with those pincers, but smacks me hard in the face under the force of its attempt to do just that.

A fireball explodes on the other side of my shield and the spider clicks madly as it redoubles its effort to bite through the steel barrier and into my face. I mean to say I don’t think that worked, I really do, but for whatever reason, it comes out as, “I think you’ve made it angry!”

Velanna snaps something in elven that’s probably an insult and that I probably deserve. Then another arrow strikes the creature just on the leg pinning down my sword, and as it hisses away from the annoyance, I free the blade. I have to move my shield to thrust upward with the sword, and I time it mostly right; the spider shrieks as I impale it through the middle, and it only manages to gore the buckle off the left side of my breastplate instead of my head off my neck. Then, because there wasn’t enough assorted ichor and viscera all over everything already, the blighted thing explodes. I stare at the empty air above me for a moment, stunned into silence, until Nathaniel breaks into a laugh and Velanna says simply, “Well, that worked.”

I pull myself back onto my feet and sweep the area, but it appears the spiders saved the worst for last. Still, for good measure, I retrieve my torch and start looking for a sign of whatever hole they used to crawl up from the Deep Roads while Velanna tends to Nathaniel’s elbow.

“I’m no Anders, but I think that will set you right,” she says as the glow of healing magic fades.

“Well, thank the Maker for that,” Nathaniel mutters, flexing his arm. “I thought I’d made it worse, saving His Majesty here.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you did, but I fixed it anyway,” Velanna assures him with a smirk, and I shoot them a look over my shoulder.

“Hey, I saved you first!”

Nathaniel grunts noncommittally, and says nothing else until we’ve filled the crevice the spiders crawled out of with rubble, lit the webs on fire for good measure, and escaped to the surface. To my dismay, it’s already dark out by the time we leave the mine. Velanna insists on securing us the only two rooms in the village’s tiny inn, and while she’s haggling with the innkeeper, Nathaniel clears his throat to get my attention.

“Thank you, for the rescue back there. It was ungrateful not to say so earlier.”

“No need, it’s all part of the job,” I say firmly. “Besides, I can only imagine what Velanna would have to say about any form of gratitude.”

Nathaniel grins. “Part of the reason I waited until she was distracted, I assure you!”

While I appreciate the gesture, all I can think of is that now it will be another day before I can be back to Nalissa. I suppose I should be grateful, I think with a sigh as I examine the black ichor streaking my armor. She’ll probably kill me when she hears I threw myself at a corrupted spider to save a Howe.

“Worried about that girl?” Nathaniel asks suddenly, and I have to stop and wonder if I’m just that terrible at hiding what I’m thinking.

“Lissa will be fine,” I say as confidently as I can manage. And she will, I know her; she could turn anything to her advantage if she put her mind to it. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying, or apparently from being obvious about it.

“Lissa?” Nathaniel repeats, his eyebrows shooting up. “Lissa Cousland?” At my nod, he sighs and puts two fingers to his temple as if he’s come down with a sudden headache. “Well, that explains a few things. Actually, if you’re with her, I think I’m surprised you didn’t let that thing kill me.”

I frown at that, and step a little towards the wall to make sure we’re out of earshot of everyone else. “You don’t think she actually wants you dead?”

Nathaniel gives me the most deadpan look I’ve ever received, and I grew up with chantry sisters. “She threw a knife at me, Alistair.”

“Well, at your father,” I correct him, and he gives me a confused look.

“Did you hit your head when that spider tackled you?”

“She thought you were your father,” I explain, or try to. “For all she knew, you had been in the Free Marches for years. I guess you look a lot like him, and seeing as the keep used to be your father’s, she… ah, she reacted.”

For some reason, Nathaniel manages to look more annoyed by that. “By trying to kill him? And I thought the Couslands were supposed to be so much better than my father.”

I don’t understand the bitterness in his voice or the sudden aggression in his stance. What exactly does he expect, for her to embrace her torturer? Stunned, I ask aloud, “You really can’t understand that her first instinct would be to defend herself? After what he did to her?”

Nathaniel crosses his arms, but the anger on his face turns to resignation as he looks away at the wall. “I… know it must have been terrible. Her family being murdered like that. I liked Bryce and Eleanor; they were always good to me. But how is she any different if her first reaction is to murder him back?”

I stare at him for a long moment before it hits me like a giant corrupted spider. “You don’t know.”

“Know what?” he snaps, switching to glaring at me. “How hard it was for someone like her to make it on her own until the Blight was over and she got her damned teyrnir right back?”

His tone has me dangerously close to snapping, so it’s probably not surprising he flinches when I grab a fistful of his gambison at the shoulder and drag him toward the hall. Both rooms are empty, because Velanna’s still bargaining for them, and I want to be very sure no one else hears what I’m about to say.

“No, what you don’t know is where she spent the Blight,” I hiss, releasing him a little more roughly than is strictly necessary, but he had better be listening if he knows what’s good for him. “After she spent months running from your blessed father and trying to keep him from murdering any more innocent people, his men caught up to her. And she spent half a year locked in Fort Drakon. Sereda was in that dungeon for seven hours and needed a healer before she could carry her shield again. Lissa was a prisoner for half. A year.”

Nathaniel’s jaw moves, but no words come out at first. Finally he manages to ask hoarsely, “My father knew this? Condoned it?”

“He was there,” I snap, then force myself to take a deep breath before I speak again. “I’m not standing here arguing with you about your father being a traitor and a murderer, because there’s nothing to argue. He was, and worse. She felt worse than she already did when Wynne told her it was you she’d tried to attack, you should know that. But if I hadn’t already run him through and it actually had been your father? I would have helped her.”

Needless to say, I get the second room to myself. Even after I finally manage to wash the ichor and spider guts out of my hair, I still can’t sleep, so I spend half the night cleaning my armor instead, thinking only of the morning and leaving for Vigil’s Keep at last.

I miss tangling my hands in Nalissa’s hair to sleep. I miss waking to a kiss and a smile and a playful threat if I fall asleep again. I miss the smell of her skin and the flash of her smile and the freckles across the bridge of her nose. When I finally pass out from sheer exhaustion long after midnight, my subconscious even sees fit to let me dream of her for a few blissful moments before the darkspawn dreams begin.

I’m sure it also goes without saying that it’s a painfully quiet trip back to Amaranthine.

By the time we leave the debriefing room after giving our reports to the Warden-Constable, it’s late enough I know I won’t have to go look for Nalissa anywhere but our room. The door is closed when I arrive, but the bed is empty and at first, I think I was wrong and she isn’t here. But Dante’s stub tail and the entire rest of his body wag furiously toward me in greeting, and when I look up from petting him hello, I realize the room isn’t otherwise empty after all. Slumped over the writing desk, fast asleep with her hair loose all over the tabletop and a long-dry quill in her hand, is Nalissa.

I swear, not even three days away and already I surely must have begun to forget how beautiful she is. Just lying there asleep, hair falling gently across her face, she takes my breath away.

She’s wearing another of those Grey Warden tunics that’s much too big for her, this one with long sleeves rolled up past her elbows, and… Maker’s breath, possibly nothing else. Her feet and legs are bare, braced a little awkwardly under the chair to keep her from slipping, and I find myself following their curves with interest. I consider whether it would be proper to carry her to bed—surely so, it wouldn’t do to leave her at the desk to wake with neck and back aches in the morning—until, just below the hem of the tunic and midway down her thigh, I spot a deep purple bruise.

“Lissa?!” I ask aloud in alarm, and her head jolts off the desk. Somewhere under her tangle of hair there must have been one of her white steel daggers, because she’s gripping it in her left hand as she blinks up at me, still bleary-eyed. And there’s another bruise darkening on her cheekbone.

I swear to the Maker, I don’t care if it was the Warden-Commander himself that laid a hand on her while I was gone, I will kill him.

I’ve been chasing down the man who paid the Crows to kill me, a silent figure in a long cloak, and just knocked him solidly to the ground. I’ve landed half on top of him, one knee pinned into the middle of his spine and the other heel crushing his wrist to the ground. My hand slips under the hood of the cloak, closes around the fabric to pull it back, and even my heartbeat goes silent in anticipation because any second now I’ll finally know who’s responsible for all of this—

Someone shouts my name and I startle, only to find myself not in any alley in Antiva City at all, but asleep on a desk with a sheet of parchment stuck to my face. My dagger is still in my hand though, and I raise it defensively as I blink into the light toward… Alistair?

“Alistair!”

I drop the dagger at once, only vaguely aware as it clatters into something or other on the table, and all but leap at him, my arms wrapping around his neck. He staggers a little and I think I probably surprised him, but I can’t bring myself to care. I’ve been so worried about him, so furious at Caron for telling neither of us how long he would be gone, that all I want to do is assure myself he’s back and safe and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“You’re here,” I breathe, and he smells like him plus grassy fields and spring air, and I hope that means he was never in any danger at all.

But his hands push me back gently, one on my hip and the other breaking my grip around his neck, and I look up at him in alarm. Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong? I had thought Caron was being less antagonistic after our duel, but has he found some way to punish Alistair for it?

If he has, I’ll stab him for real, this time.

“What happened?” Alistair asks, and I frown my confusion at him. I wonder if I’m still half asleep and not comprehending everything, because his brown eyes are urgent, worried, and I don’t understand why. “Are you alright?” His thumb brushes my cheek, but it’s not until his other hand moves down from my hip to gingerly touch a sore spot on my leg that I recognize he’s pointing out my bruises.

“I’m fine,” I try to assure him, but his eyes remain serious and I laugh softly at myself. I’ve used that line so many times when I’ve been very not fine that it’s lost all meaning. “No, really this time! Just a few bumps from training, that’s all. But you, are you alright? Oghren was telling me some story about darkspawn in a mine! Was that true? Were you hurt?”

I take his face in my hands, brush back a lock of untrimmed hair curling down toward his forehead, examining him for any hidden injuries. He has a tiny cut above one eye, but it’s been cleaned and is barely noticeable. There’s a dent on his breastplate though, I realize, and it hangs askew with one of the buckles broken. It looks like it’s been wrenched off the chain beneath, the steel severed by something stronger. My fingers dart there, checking for a wound beneath the mail, but he catches my hand and brings it to his lips instead.

“No darkspawn, and I’ve never been better,” he says gently. “I’m back here with you, aren’t I?”

I’m sure my face is burning a little, but I can’t feel it for the warmth in my chest. I don’t know if it’s the words or the softer, lower tone when he says them, but sometimes when Alistair talks like that, I feel like my knees are in danger of melting from underneath me. I wonder if he even knows he does it. Maybe he is doing it on purpose, to distract me so I won’t ask about his damaged armor. I’m still trying to decide if he could be that devious when he gives me that smile—the slow, sweet, slightly uneven one that lights both his face and his eyes. I forget to breathe, and if I controlled my heartbeat, I’d probably forget that too.

“You’re wearing it again,” he whispers, and I can’t even piece together what the words mean until he distracts me from his eyes by tracing his thumb over the back of my fingers.

This time I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks when I realize he’s talking about the engagement ring. I hadn’t forgotten I put it back on exactly but it feels somehow right on my hand, so it was hardly at the forefront of my mind with him here to occupy my thoughts. But the way he looks at me like it’s one of the most important things he’s ever seen makes me feel simultaneously incredibly happy and… a little self-conscious?

“I—well, it—I did tell you I only took it off so I couldn’t lose it on the road,” I try to explain. “And obviously no one’s trying to steal it from me here, and it sort of made me feel a little more like you were here, so—”

The rest of my rambling sentence dies in my throat when Alistair kisses me, turning into a gasp that shudders out sounding surprised but pleased. I swear his mouth is molten against mine, and all the effort I’d put into keeping my knees solidly beneath me is lost as I melt against him like candle wax before a flame. His arms around my back and my waist, and one of mine that’s managed to find its way back around his neck, are all that keep me on my feet.

Until they don’t, until even though I don’t feel myself falling, the bed is beneath my back and Maker’s breath, he’s still kissing me. I have the wild thought that maybe I’m still dreaming—I’ve dreamt of him like this before, of his weight settling over me in bed, of his lips tracing adventurous paths along my skin, of what passion and desire might do to those gorgeous eyes—but there was decidedly less armor in those, and his breastplate pressing into my chest is entirely too pointed and uncomfortable to be a dream.

I want it gone, I have the presence of mind to think. Then his tongue passes my lips and I want all of it gone, every stitch of cloth and scrap of leather between us. I want him, his skin against mine and my name on his lips and all night to learn all of the ways he can say it. I want to hear it in a gasp and in a moan. I want to hear it with “I love you” in front of it.

It’s that last one that makes me pause, even though I’ve already undone the remaining buckle on the offending breastplate and torn it off the chainmail cuirass, even though Alistair hasn’t stopped me. My hands turn gentle against his shoulders, run along the curve of his neck, and trace lightly through his hair. I love him, all of his kindness and humor and strength and compassion… and his fears and insecurities too. How could I not, when they’re what first convinced me this strange man my brother wanted me to marry might actually be a decent person?

My lips curl into a smile against his and the kiss slows, becoming more tender than intense, and finally he smiles back at me with affection in his eyes. “I missed you too,” he says softly, one hand cupping my jaw and running a thumb along the side of my face. He kisses me again, this time slowly and softly, and I feel as though I must be catching fire from the inside. “I could hardly sleep without you beside me,” he whispers against my lips.

“I didn’t want to,” I admit, then a bizarre thought drifts into my head and bubbles out of my throat in a short laugh. “Maker, Alistair, are you quite sure you want to go back to Denerim? The regent very nearly lost his mind when my room was moved into the same hallway as yours.”

“The regent can stow it,” he decides promptly, and I decide that I’m starting to like the low, firm way he says it. Then the next thing I know, his lips and nose are trailing feather-light from my jaw down my neck. They aren’t kisses, just a slow movement like he might be trying to decide what my skin smells like, but it makes goosebumps rise on my arms and I go abruptly very still anyway. “I’m still the king, and I say I’m never sleeping without you beside me again.”

Alistair’s breath—and his words—against my neck send a little shiver down my spine that I can’t control. He draws back a little, looks at me curiously, and then a spark of mischief lights his eyes. This time, his lips on my skin are deliberate, and I bite my lip hard but still shudder despite myself.

“You really need to stop that,” I whisper as my nails rake against the back of his head, dimly aware that my own voice is now pitched lower than it was just a moment ago. “Or I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

He has the nerve to chuckle against my throat before he draws back. Propped up on one elbow above me, a smile tugging at his mouth and his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them before, he might be the most gorgeous sight I’ve ever seen.

“I’m given to exaggerating, I know, but I’m not this time,” he says quietly, smoothing my hair back as he speaks. “The whole time I was gone, you were all I could think about. If you were safe, if you were worried, if… if you missed me as much as I missed you.”

“Every second,” I answer, my fingertips now dancing through the fine hair at the base of his neck. I love you, beats my heart in my ears, and this time I want to say it. I want to tell him how much I love him and why, name everything that he does, everything he is, that I adore, but it’s everything, and I don’t know where to begin.

“I love you.”

My heartbeat goes suddenly quiet—the whole world goes suddenly quiet, except for the faint sound of a single surprised breath. I look up at him, disbelieving, certain my imagination has gotten the best of me. But he’s watching me with a smile turned tentative and eyes suddenly uncertain, and I realize I didn’t imagine it.

He’s said it before I could.

“I—that was sudden,” he adds, the confidence of only a few moments before vanishing, his hand stilling in my hair. “I didn’t mean to just—to blurt it out, but you… Lissa, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I never knew I did. And I just kept thinking how stupid it would be if I—if something had gone wrong, and I never had a chance to tell you that. So it’s—it’s okay if you—if that’s not how you feel about me, or—”

“I love you, too,” I interrupt him. He freezes, and I think perhaps it’s his turn to wonder if he’s hearing me correctly, so I go on. “I do love you, Alistair. For a while now, I just… couldn’t quite admit it. I was afraid if I said it, and—and something happened, it would make it worse. Or the Crows would find out and… It would kill me to lose you. You are the most important person left in the world to me. You’re brave, and sweet, and loyal, and just stubborn enough you won’t let me get away with it when I’m being an idiot. And I love you.”

At some point while I spoke, a smile crept onto my lips, because I’m beaming at him when I say it the third time. For a moment, his lips twitch as they spread slowly into a smile, like he still isn’t completely sure he believes what I’ve just said. Then he kisses me, hard, and my hands catch in the back of his collar and in his hair, and his is so tangled in mine I’m not sure if he’ll ever be able to free it. But I eventually have to ask him to anyway, when his armor starts digging into my bare legs.

Alistair apologizes, but he’s still grinning as he climbs off me. And I watch with a smile as the giant dork then struggles to extricate himself from the chainmail and somehow manages to get the breastplate I’d tossed to the floor tangled around one boot. How he can manage to be such a steady presence in a fight, or such a comforting one in general, I can’t quite explain as I smother a giggle into my hand and move to help him. But he is, even if he’s also awkward and adorable, and I love him for all of it.

And he loves me, I think with an indescribable happiness expanding in my chest. He loves me, and I love him.

And so help me Maker, if anyone in Thedas thinks to hurt him, they will have to go through me first.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #alistair #alistair theirin #cousland #nalissa cousland #alistair x cousland #fanfic #my fanfic #writing #my writing #a thread of fate #ao3

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blackrose-ffxiv · 7 years ago

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Sifting Through the Rubble 04/10

As they pass Witchdrop, Idristan Agache finds that his eyes are drawn to it. Despite the reforms, there was a part of his mind that still reacted with fear at the sight of it, and he can't quite suppress a shudder--one that he silently hoped Anselme de Haillenarte hadn't noticed. Fortunately for him, Anselme provides a decent enough distraction from his own thoughts of being pushed from a cliff. His brow furrows as he takes the handle, just staring at it for a few moments, then back up to the knight. "It's...” He hesitates. His method of tracking wasn't entirely different from a blood hound, come to think of it. But there was one major problem. "Not quite that simple. If we went back to the chapel I might be able to to track the aether, assuming all of the ambient aether hasn't affected the traces." He then purses his lips slightly, considering. "But... attracting them might have merit," he finishes finally. "It was aether that drew them in. If we go back up to the general area and cause another sort of... flare, let's say, we might be able to see where they came from. If any come at all," he adds.

The Knight was making a point not to look over at Witchdrop. Even those who had nothing to fear on occasion found themselves at the lip of that jagged maw that seemed to stretch down into the Hells themselves. “I mean, I wasn’t calling you a hound.” He corrected quickly as he wrapped the aether-dampening cloth back around the piece of precious metal. While there was some lingering trace of the relic’s strange signature, it wasn’t nearly potent enough on its own. “Do you think you could recreate something similar? I’d certainly be interested to know if it truly came from the Ogre’s belly or if it was elsewhere.” At that he finally glanced pointedly over at the Drop then turned on his heel to lead the way north towards the Vigil’s ruins.

Idristan rolls his eyes. "Yes, I am aware of that," he snaps. "It's fine anyroad. It's just an... unusual talent." Not wanting to say much more on that topic, he decides to hopefully leave the matter there. Anselme wasn't a mage, he didn't think he would have to worry too much about him putting pieces together. It was a nice change. He then considers for a moment, before nodding. "I don't think I can do something quite so... dramatic. Not without a proper thaumaturge staff and some practice--" He had mostly sworn off that side of magic, at least as much as he possibly could, until recently. "But I think I can pull off a decent enough dinner bell." His lips quirk, a wolfish smile appearing on them. "Provided you think you can watch my back while I do it," he adds as he falls into step beside Anselme.

The Knight grinned at the mage’s response. “Yet another reason I thought it best to call upon someone with ‘a decade or so’ worth of experience?” He agreed. “I’ve never seen one of the new mages track aether the way the two of you did. Hells, if I had known it would be so useful maybe I would have put more effort into mine own studies beyond lighting candles and campfires.” He laughed and rolled his shoulders in a sort of ‘oh well’ shrug then paused once they arrived at the chapel’s rubble. While it had been a mess before now it was nothing more than a pile of blackened stone and burnt wood partially buried in snow. He was looking over the wreckage when what the other said sank in properly. He turned to look beside him, quirking his scarred brow in interest. “Oh? You did say something about them enjoying mages. Do you intend to serve yourself as the main course?” He was already loosening the buckle on the heavy strap to free his axe.

Idristan chuckles softly, but there's a distinctly rueful sound to it. "Like I said, it's unusual. And what need would they have for it anyroad? They're trained to be... well. Not dragon-killers anymore, but I doubt voidhunting is their new focus either." He grins once more, but there's perhaps a sense that he's humoring the knight. In either case, he's distracted for a moment as they approach the ruins. He purses his lips slightly; it was a good thing that they weren't trying to track the voidsent via aether traces, that was certain. Somehow the place managed to look even worse than the last time they had been here. At Anselme's question he pauses to look at him, that wolfish grin returning. "As a matter of fact... yes," he remarks as he takes a few steps forward. Not towards the ruins, but a few good feet away from them, into a patch of clear snow. "I would suggest staying over there," he adds as he raises his staff. After considering for a few moments, he closes his eyes, the crystal on the staff starting to glow as he draws upon his aether and that of the world around him. Slowly at first, then more rapidly as he pours more magic into it, the patch of snow in front of him starts to move as swirling wind starts to gather in the spot, starting out small then growing higher. He couldn't do a fire beacon... but wind aether should work just as well.

The axe was freed and brought around as Anselme adjusted his grip and rolled his shoulders to loosen them up. “Do take care, I’d hate to have done such a stellar job minding you before only to feed you to a monster a few suns later.” He called out, his own grin a few shades less feral than the mage’s but the anticipation clear in his icy pale eyes as the other began to cast. Admiring the clever bit of conjury that turned the peaceful ruins into a swirling cyclone of snow. He tore his gaze away with a low whistle of appreciation for the display, settling his axe on his shoulder and watching the South. It had taken the creatures some time to respond to the last beacon.

Idristan doesn't respond to Anselme. He's too lost in his own head, his magic, and the sense of the world around him that conjury granted. Despite the risks and the gravity of the situation, he finds himself a bit caught up in the moment; it's not often that he can truly cut loose with wind aether this way, let alone having the power to actually do it, so there is a part of him that gets a certain amount of elation from it. Eventually, however, he can start to feel the strain of keeping up such a spell, and so he slowly and carefully begins to release the winds he had gathered, causing a light, localized snowfall as the world returns to normal. Once the last of the magic is gone he doubles over, resting his hands on his knees for a few moments as he tries to catch his breath. That... may have been a bit overkill. Hopefully it was worth it. Finally, he straightens once more, his eyes flicking back towards Anselme. "Anything?" he calls out to him, not bothering to keep quiet. Everything would already know where they were. Aside from his voice however, all seems quiet. At least, unless one was listening closely, in which case they might pick on the faint fluttering of wings.

After a few moments of loosening up and warming up his arms with the axe, Anselme let the heavy blade rest in the snow. No point spending the extra strength before their ‘prey’ even arrived. As the snows seemed clear he leaned lightly on the axe’s haft and turned to watch the mage finish casting. Unseen winds swirled, keeping the cyclone going for some time as the one casting seemed more like he was conducting a silent orchestra with his staff raised and chin tilted. Pale hair and dark coattails swept up into the tiny tempest. Then it was finished, the final crescendo fading away as snowflakes drifted lazily back to the ground and the maestro nearly dropped. The Knight twitched, shifting his weight as though to run over to the mage, but Idristan seemed fatigued rather than injured. He must have put quite a bit of power into that ‘dinner bell’. Now Anselme couldn’t put that to waste by slacking now, could he. He held his ground and looked away quickly when he was caught watching, grinning as he turned his attention forwards again. The fluttering grew stronger, the sound seeming to come from the south eastern pass between the rocks, as of yet difficult to discern if it was another vodoriga or one of the predicted ahriman. “Seems like someone was hungry after all.” He called back as he yanked the axe from the ice. “How many pieces do you want it in.”

@roses-and-grimoires

#idristan #anselme #other brother #kickin' monster butt #idristan not getting antagonized for once #lol #mostly

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energyswordsunday · 7 years ago

Text

and time’s arrow marches on.

Cross-Posted on AO3.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Fandom: Runescape

Relationship: Adwr/Rowena

Characters: Rowena Behr, Adwr Cadarn, Leolin Cadarn

Words: 2990 Chapter: 1/?

Content Warning: Misogyny, Antisemitism, Classism

Summary: 25 Pentember 1927, 4th Age. Yanille, Kandarin. The day Adwr Cadarn's life takes a bittersweet turn. And yet, in the end, he wouldn't have had it any other way.

Elf meets human meets forbidden romance.

Chapter Summary: A mysterious farm girl has been the talk of the town for the past 2 years. She seems to constantly be in the public eye, no matter how much she keeps to herself. Fresh from Prifddinas, a young elf has been set on guard duty at the entrance to the village. His naturally inquisitive nature lands him in the pickle of a lifetime. His mission: to get to the bottom of this mystery, and figure out just who this girl really is. With help from his best friend, will this elf be able to talk to the intimidating human?

Behr. A foul, foul word, like a hex. The mages never liked her. The name she carries is poisoned, to them, for eternity. Behr. Behr. A word that oozes off their tongue, is spat with vitriol; a word that ignites a fiery, burning hatred in their heart. She is a woman. A woman, young and full of vigor, and filled to the brim with magical talent. The elders are scared of her, hiding and hissing her name like a curse, for her raw power makes them insecure of their own feeble sparks. Roaches, she calls them. They hiss and spew in quiet tones, but scurry off when faced with confrontation. A mutual relationship of disgust and distrust is what they share, a complex setting where they must occupy the same space; maddening, sickening, but necessary. She had joined the Mages’ Guild a little over two years prior, against the outcries of these mages. It is incomprehensible to them, still, how she got in. No matter their begging, pleading, grovelling, their Guildmaster will not budge, so they make up stories to soothe themselves. Simple, serpentine, suspiciously spurious stories, about how she threatened, beguiled, seduced him. They try to run her out, but it never works. And they still, still, don’t understand why. Whatever the true reason, she is a woman, and she is good at magic. Better than all of them. This makes her unholy in the eyes of her guildmates. To them, she is a cheater; she had struck a deal with Zamorak to obtain her power, and in the process, corrupted herself, making her the despicable woman that she is today. For a handful, she is. Loudmouthed and opinionated, with a sharp tongue to match her wit. Her shoulders are broad, and home to long, curled auburn hair that cascades down her back from under her patched hat, mesmerizing children and adult alike. Stern, scrutinous green eyes set her face, giving one the impression that she could use them to cut glass with ease. Faintly, she smells of hard work and the wilderness. She is Wizard Behr, the Bear from the Woods. And she is not of this earth. It is clear to anyone who crosses paths with her that this is a stubborn woman. She has bowed her head not once to any man, and has spat in the face of proper society. Local gossip outside the guild pins her as an evil spirit that bewitches foolish men to do her whim. Her scale is in danger of tipping at any moment, her luck due to run out, yet, strangely, she remains unfazed. “No man in their right mind would allow this beast to practice magic,” A greying wizard hisses to a colleague of his, outside a small building with a magical barrier glistening over its walls and makeshift fence. “I’m still angry that she-devil was let in, and now she has the audacity to make everyone wait on her?” “Careful, Wizard Flemtoed, she might hear,” the other wizard replies, laced with sarcasm. “You don’t want your guts torn out by a live Behr do you?” This snippet of conversation glides with the breeze and attracts the attention of a man a distance away. His ears, long and pointed, are fine-tuned to the world around him; what is normally a boon, for him, he wishes he could now deactivate. He is a foreigner in these parts, and still has not quite adjusted to the fact that humans are so different. This man’s keen sense of hearing has landed him in quite a precarious position on numerous occasions since his migration, and frankly he is a little tired of his accidental eavesdropping, though it breaks the tedium of his daily routine. Consequently, in spite of his interest this time, he errs on the side of caution and keeps to himself. He is on duty with a few other members from his clan, the Cadarn, who had first passed over Arandar centuries ago to settle and rule Kandarin. Out of a handful of these Elven settlements, the young man is liking his current station the most, as it has the most diversity around him. Unfortunately, it is also in close proximity to the Ogres, making it a frequent target for raids, which have been rapidly increasing in numbers over the months. Yanille was a bit short-handed as a result, thus prompting King Baxtorian to issue the command leading to his reassignment. Here, he is to stand guard temporarily in anticipation of a raid, while his fellow clansfolk worked on drafting up better defenses. While it is a fascinating place, guard duty leads to long bouts of boredom for this young man, which cause him to fantasize regularly about all the scouting missions he is missing out on. He often finds himself longing for the freedom and the thrill, along with the exercise. “Adwr!” A voice barks out at him. “Ah–?!” The young man jumps, having been caught red-handed in his daydreams. He is met with an intense gaze from his best friend, another elf from his clan, who is stationed about twenty feet from him. “Don’t make me lecture you again,” the elf warns Adwr, soft but stern. This is a conversation they have had hundreds of times throughout their friendship, but without his help, in all honesty, Adwr doesn’t know how he would have survived his studies, let alone this guard assignment. “Right,” Adwr chirps back, flashing his friend a sheepish smile. In his own defense, however, waiting around just in case anything happens is pretty boring. He doesn’t understand how people can just… stand there, and do nothing. He sighs and clicks his tongue, focusing on counting and naming all the types of wildlife he sees in front of him, again. He’s somewhere through his third or fourth ‘I Spy’ game when the whispers that had distracted him moments ago suddenly grow to a hush. The crowd of wizards disperses, as if on cue, every one of them suddenly very late for things they have to do. A mixture of teleportation, running, and meandering occurs, leaving the courtyard bare. All except for one wizard, of course, who lingers – a sharp looking older man who really, really has no business growing a beard that long. Adwr can’t help but sneak a glance over in that direction. “You’re late,” the older man grumbles, seemingly to himself. “You know how the Mages’ Guild feels about tardiness, right, Behr?” The object of this man’s dispassionate scolding makes an irritated noise and waves her hand at her superior dismissively. “Farm business. You know, Art.” The mass of vibrant curls that enters the village in front of him catches Adwr’s attention in an instant. His hand magnetizes to his chin, mouth slightly agape; his companion snorts, but the sound doesn’t register to the pale elf. This is the woman that the villagers speak so ill of? 'Interesting', he thinks. “Wizard Behr, I have made it clear that you are to refer to your colleagues with respect. This includes your leader,” the grumpy wizard starts. “You’d do well to note that I am the sole reason you were allowed entrance.” “Oh, Gods be damned. What are we, monks? Ain’t your ma given you a name for a reason?” She counters. The redhead shakes her head, giving a grunt of irritation. The tension between the two indicates to Adwr that this is conversation that is had very regularly. “That is beside the point, Wizard Behr. Now come on, we haven’t got all day, and a full roster is required for this meeting in order to begin.” ‘Art’ resumes. The lines on his face seem to be less from old age and more from stress. “Fine, fine. Just remember, I have a life an’ family too, ya know?” “As do we all.” The two wizards quiet down, taking to mumbling and grumbling to one another and themselves as they approach their guild building. Adwr watches them, engrossed, until his companion butts in again, this time with a gentle tap to his shoulder. “Hey, pysgodyn aur. Our relief is here. Let’s go have some rarebit before you starve to death.” “Rarebit… Oh! Lunch! I completely forgot!” Adwr replies. The prospect of food is enough to lure him away from his thoughts. “I swear, I should just tie some cheese to a fishing rod and hop on your shoulders. Maybe then you’d pay attention to what’s in front of you.” His companion jokes, as they make their way to the meal tent. “Only if it’s gouda cheese,” Adwr hums back, well aware he’s being ribbed. The exasperated noise he receives in return is worth the pun. “We don’t even make gouda!” The pale elf chuckles. “I’ll settle for tintern then.” “Maybe in the next few years when we make it back to Prifddinas,” says the darker elf. “I can wait as long as I need for some good cheese!” “And as always, my point has been proven.” In good spirits, the two elves plate up and make off to the corner of the tent, where it’s dim and quiet, absent of any distractions or irritants. Adwr seems pleased, content to share his meal with his childhood friend in peace. Said friend has always understood that Adwr is a little… Odd. Different from other elves, certainly, but pleasant to talk to, passionate, and a very intelligent, creative-minded individual. It was a huge relief to him when they both got older and Adwr hadn’t taken on the arrogant, self-absorbed demeanor so many others of their age groups tended to due to their success and upbringing. The elf, himself, was also considered strange, but in a different way. Whereas Adwr never really fit in socially, his companion was fine in that regard, where applicable. Instead, his problems lied in his heritage: he was born into a poor family of workers. He would have been doomed to the same fate, had his family not encouraged and fostered his love for archery. Amongst his peers, this elf was an exceptional shot, but this carefully cultivated talent was always unfairly put under scrutiny. Elves of more influential families made no hesitations in reminding him that he was strange for trying to break out of his designated ‘box.’ Growing up, for him, was a constant unending struggle to prove his worth and fight for his own right to be put in the same courses as his peers. Adwr, however, is different. This elf always held a specific sort of admiration, and a bit of jealousy, towards his friend, for though Adwr was othered based on his various quirks, he still regarded everyone with the same sort of respect, purely for the joy of friendship. It was Adwr who had approached him and extended his hand, and it was always Adwr who would stick up for him against the rest of their peers. He is thankful, truly, and wishes he could purely be just grateful and appreciative towards him, but there is always a part of him that will be jealous, for he truly had life easier. He never wants Adwr to know this, though, for he understands that Adwr wasn’t trying to play savior to him. But... Everyone has their own demons. “Leolin. You haven’t touched your rarebit, are you okay?” Adwr interrupts his train of thought with his standard fare. It is a nice gesture, but sometimes Leolin just wishes his friend would let him mope. “Mmh,” is the response he receives from his melancholic buddy. “I’m fine, just thinking about some things.” He puts on his best smile and Adwr seems to be soothed. “Well, it’s really good today – they finally got the texture right this time! But I still think that rotating cooking shifts are the worst idea. I know we all were taught how to cook growing up, but some days, I really can’t stomach what’s put out.” The elf’s passionate chatter warms Leolin a bit, inspiring him to sample the meal in front of him as he finishes speaking. It really is no use trying to be sad around this man. He takes a bite, and nods to indicate his pleasure. “You’re right. My compliments to the chef – this is actually pretty good for the rarebit we have out here. They must have had a good run in with the locals,” Leolin muses. Quality elven ingredients weren’t always easy to come by out in these parts, so it can be assumed that there was some good luck with trading today. This reminded him of the wizard that caused that commotion earlier, who was rumored to have come from a large local farm. Maybe she was late because her family was busy trading with their clan? His eyes glint with mischief as he remembers what he was planning to pester Adwr about. “Speaking of locals… So how about that little redhead you were eyeing up earlier?” Leolin lilts, a devilish grin on his face. “You like farm girls, Adwr?” Adwr nearly chokes on the piece of bread he’s currently attempting to swallow, causing him to slam a fist down on the shabby table as he tries not to cough it back in his friend’s face. The table wobbles, and Leolin’s plate jostles a little. “Ach – No!” are the first words out of his mouth before he catches his breath and clears his throat. A light blush dusts his face thanks to the teasing and his lack of air. “It wasn’t like that! You know I don’t engage in those sorts of behaviors, Leo, I was just curious! Did you see her hair? She stood out! And – I – Look, it was a coincidence. You know how easily distracted I am by noise.” Leolin almost feels bad for messing with his friend, but gives him a long, drawn out wink and continues on anyways. “Oh, yeah, su~ure. Why so defensive? You just don’t want to admit that the human was cute.” Adwr huffs indignantly, folding his arms and turning his head pointedly away. “I refuse to answer to your harassment.” He sneaks a peak at Leolin after his show of being offended, who is giving him a very silly looking face. They meet eyes for a few seconds before Leolin wiggles his eyebrows at him, prompting them both to burst into a giggle fit. It takes at least a minute before they are able to regain their composure again. “In all seriousness, though, what is with that ‘Behr’ girl?” Adwr asks. “You’ve been here longer than I have. She seems to be a controversial figure in this village. I just can’t wrap my head around why.” Leolin fixes his friend with a serious gaze. “Rowena? Well, that’s her name, for starters.” “Rowena,” Adwr repeats, waiting for him to continue. “Yeah. She’s from some local farm I guess. And she’s the only woman in the Mages’ Guild here, from what I hear.” Something about what he just said to Adwr resonates deeply with Leolin. Another misfit, perhaps? “Really? There’s no other women? Why?” The paler probes. “Afraid I don’t know the answer to that. Why don’t you ask her?” “I can’t! I don’t know her, what if she gets angry with me? I don’t want to be insensitive.” “That didn’t stop you from talking to me when we first met. Come on, she’s only a human. Humans are practically harmless. I can stand there with you.” Leolin’s offer only makes Adwr frown more, worry creasing his face. Was he really that afraid of offending her? “I don’t know. I think… I should watch and listen a bit more. I know she’s a human, Leo, but I can’t shake this feeling that she really is as scary as what the people here say.” “My dear friend, you should know by now that just because people say something about someone, that doesn’t always mean it’s true.” Adwr shakes his head. “Maybe humans are different like that. You’re forgetting that… That I haven’t actually talked to a human before, Leo.” Leolin frowns at his friend’s increasingly negative behavior. This wasn’t typical for him. “Hey. What happened to that endless optimism? You were so excited about all the humans that lived here when I talked to you a few days ago. You can’t let your fear of one bad experience hold you back suddenly.” A small, timid smile works its way to Adwr’s face. “I can, but I shouldn’t, I suppose.” He looks back at his friend’s freckled face, and takes a deep breath. “I think if I talk to her, I should do it by myself. But. You can stand nearby, if you want, in case things go south. As long as I don’t have to do it right this second.” “That’s better. I would be glad to stand guard, my friend. It’ll be a favor returned for all the times you were there for me whenever I had to talk to an instructor.” Leolin gives his friend a toothy smile and reaches across the table to offer his hand. Adwr accepts the gesture, gripping his friend’s hand firmly with his own, and giving it a nice shake. “It’s a deal, then?” “Deal. So, do you want to work on a list of questions, just in case?” Leolin offered this for his friend in fond memory of all the times Adwr had him do the same. Only, in this case, rather than passing someone a note, the intention was to prepare Adwr to speak to Rowena. “I don’t want her to think it’s a survey!” Adwr replies hastily. Leolin snorts. “It won’t be a survey, silly. I meant so you know what you want to say, and how, so you won’t choke up.” “Oh. Well… In that case, let us commence!” Adwr rises to his feet, suddenly full of vigor and determination. He looks down at Leolin expectantly. “Okay, fine. I’ll take my food with. Let’s go.”

Notes:

elves in runescape seem to speak welsh and have welsh names, if you're wondering about that. i didn't just pull that out of nowhere hgkdjghkdj

rowena is jewish CODED. i say this because runescape has its own extensive pantheons of gods and it's not easy to fit an irl religion like that in there without being offensive. so she retains more of the racial aspect than the religious here.

i tag antisemitism with the knowledge that some of the things these people will say does stem from that, but that's only one layer of many of hatred that rowena faces for who she is.

adwr is autistic. he was also a canon runescape character that was really only mentioned by name, adopted by me and my gf.

#runescape #rs #4th age #adwr #rowena #crow writes #adwrow #hi everyone i started writing the story of how makyuri's parents met and the tale of their romance #it would mean a lot to me if you would reblog and/or comment!#aaaa!

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raudskegg · 7 years ago

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Ooghie, Honorary Dwarf

Quick note: This is not my work, but from a 4chan greentext on Reddit, but I thought it was too perfect to not be shared.

Let me regale you with the tale of my parties beloved Oohgie, Honorary Dwarf.

Our party consisted of good friends that had known each other, a reformed That Guy, and Lucas the veteran. We had a pretty decent group, consisting of a Dwarf Warrior, Human Paladin, Human Warlock, Tiefling Rogue, me playing a Half-Elf Ranger, and a Human Mage.

We were in the relatively early stages of an epic campaign, and had been greeted by a sudden surge of slightly stronger enemies. What made these enemies slightly sturdier? Well, according to our DM, they had been gifted with what could only be described as ‘slap-dash metal riveted together by clumsy hands’. This led us to a few leads in town that culminated in hearing of an Ogre that had taken up residence in an abandoned forge and begun crafting rudimentary armor and weapons for the local minions, and of course this led to our first quest; Kill the Ogre, stop the attacks.

After what felt like an hour of minion stomping and quest cruisin’, we found the forge, and killed a few of the outlying minions to prevent an unwelcome intrusion with the upcoming boss fight. We prepared ourselves (No cleric, had to be especially careful with potion rations, added some fun to the game), and had the Tiefling sneak in and make sure we could sneak up without any trouble, or annoying traps going off. She gave us the all clear, and we shuffled inside, praying our sneak checks held up.

Inside the large forge, we followed the sound of clanging metal and deep grunts. Lucas took the lead, preparing to call in a few favors from Bahamut, with Raj the Dwarf following closely behind him. When we turned the corner, the DM informed us we saw the large shape moving around the anvil and smelter, which we all knew meant the Ogre. I asked to roll for initiative, to sneak in a shot and perhaps swing the battle to our favor, but Lucas had another plan.

Lucas rolls for a diplomacy check, and takes the lead by speaking with the Ogre.

“Why are you making armor for evil?”

The Ogre stopped and turned around in surprise. The DM apparently was surprised we didn’t flat out attack, and he asked us for a moment to pen something down. After his pen stopped, he cleared his throat.

“Make armor here. Ogre’s no like make armor, so make armor for gob-gobs. They like.”

The Ogre then went on to tell us about how he discovered a book about crafting, and decided to try making some himself. Judging from the simplicity of the story, our DM hadn’t expected us to be diplomatic and just threw together something to explain why an Ogre would want to spend his time with a hammer and anvil instead of hunting adventurers and eating goats.

As the story dragged on, and we learned that the Ogre had been kicked out for finding a book from another culture, we slowly kinda silently agreed to avoid killing him, since the image of this 9 foot tall Ogre tinkering away at an anvil to make small-medium sized armor was too funny to pass up. When the Ogre got to the part where he revealed he couldn’t read the book (which was a Dwarven guide apparently) and was just following the pictures, Lucas decided to chime in.

“Why don’t you come with us? We have a Dwarf who can translate the book for you, and you can learn to make better armor.”

The DM looked a little confused, but decided that the Ogre would be allowed to be a friendly NPC in the party if we all allowed it.

And thus we were joined by Oohgie the Crafting Ogre.

First thing we did once we went into town was calm the mob that had appeared and attempted to kill Oohgie. Five diplomacy checks, a bluff check, and almost a third of my gold later, the town relents and lets us stay with him for the night. Oohgie was really excited by this prospect and asked if he could visit the blacksmith, which Lucas had to explain was probably not a good idea. Since there wasn’t a room in town big enough to hold him, we told Oohgie to sleep in the stables.

“Oohgie understand. Oohgie try not make hummies mad.”

That night, before ending the session, we joked about how silly this all was, taking in an Ogre that didn’t want to fight. We told some jokes, made a few jabs at how we thought the Ogre was going to bite the dust, and called it a session.

Next session, we woke up, paid for food until the next town, and left the inn, picking up Oohgie from the stables on the way out.

During the journey, Oohgie kept bothering Raj, the Dwarf, and asking about 'Crafty-Smiths’ and 'Clang-clang tools’. Now, Raj is my Dude-bro I’ve known for years, and even though this is obviously bothering him answering every question, he at least tries to be nice to the insistent pestering. In hindsight, this was probably our DM’s attempt to leave Oohgie behind so he could get back to the focus, but we managed to persist and kept him with us to the next town.

This time, deciding that we cannot afford to argue Oohgie into town every and spend half our income. Being a ranger, I offer to set up a camp just outside the town’s borders that we can keep Oohgie and hunt some pelts for extra income. Raj offers to stay in camp with me and Oohgie, with Lucas heading into town for the temple and the Rogue, Wizard and Warlock will search for quests.

As we set up the tents, I ask if it’s possible to use Oohgie as a deterrent against mobs in the local area. The DM allows a roll, and with a 17, says that Oohgie’s natural 'musk’ alerts the other monsters in the area to stay away. Raj stayed behind as I pick off some local wildlife for our dinner.

While I hunted, Oohgie asked Raj more questions about the book.

“How Oohgie make?”

“You can’t. That needs a bar of iron and a forge.”

“Oohgie make forge?”

“I, uh, don’t think there’s enough materials around here to do that.”

The Wizard returned to our camp, letting the Rogue and Warlock threaten a local mayor for a better reward. The Wizard proposed he make a temporary forge for Oohgie using some spells and his fire magic. As for iron, the group has a bag of holding full of old weapons we had earned from defeating a minor demon. Oohgie, who was ecstatic at the idea, asked if he could make armor for his 'Dwarfy friend who read Oohgie book’. Not seeing the harm in such an idea, we agreed and Oohgie set to work.

In the morning, when we had awoken, Lucas, the Rogue, and the Warlock had also returned to camp. After we explained the plan for the newest quest, we gathered up our things and decided to wake Oohgie. Turns out the poor bastard had spent half the night banging away at the old pile of scrap and made a chest-piece, aptly titled by the DM as 'Oohgies Chess Peace o’ Protect’, which was described as a hodge-podge of metal sheets roughly slapped together. Raj, being such a Dude-bro, offered to wear it despite it having one less protection point against slash. As the DM described Oohgie’s dumb smiling face, I felt a pang of guilt for making fun of him.

Many quests continued on with Oohgie the Crafting Ogre, who had the neat ability to craft a priece of armor or weapon every 1d4 nights, and the DM would use 2d20’s to determine the item he crafted. About two months of in game time passed, and Oohgie had made us some slightly less than useful items, with no sign of improving. Sometimes we’d sell the things he made, other-times we wore them for Oohgie, just to make him happy. By the fifth quest, I had an 'Oohgie’s Wristy Gerd Gloves’.

When we finally located one of the main storyline quests, we also happened to pass by a temple of Moradin, which had two dozen forges surrounding it for his followers to craft weapons for Paladins. It was like trying to hold a 9 foot tall child back from a toy-store.

“Oohgie see Crafty-Smiths! Maybe one teach Oohgie make better armor!”

“Best not rush them, Oohgie,” Raj said, rolling for a diplomacy check to calm Oohgie down.

“But Oohgie want make better armor for friends.”

That hit us hard, and Lucas, being the de facto head, took the lead.

“Oohgie, you can’t enter the forges. They’re only for Moradin’s craftsmen.”

“What mean?”

“Only Dwarves are allowed in.”

Oohgie seemed a little confused, before whimpering like a hurt animal. We decided to drag him back to a tent outside town and let him calm down there, but not before he made a decision looking at those forges.

“Oohgie will become Dwarf.”

The next few sessions were filled with a mix of heartache and heartwarming. Oohgie tried extra hard to make better armor, and Raj now found a full time hobby teaching Oohgie to read Dwarvish script. Every now and again, Oohgie’s efforts paid off, and his armor would be as good if not slightly above what we were wearing, but it still was terribly built and barely held together. Just a result of something so big not having the dexterity to make the fine tuning of professionally crafted armor. Every now and then, Oohgie would ask the group, specifically Raj, how he was doing.

“Oohgie Dwarf now?”

“Not yet, I don’t think. Maybe if you try harder.”

“Oohgie can do.”

Oohgie seemed to become more determined every day, clanging away at his magic forge, combining what little scrap we found for him to throw together. He also began asking Lucas for help with contacting Moradin to become a Dwarf. We tried doing what we could in our spare time, but we also had to focus on the BBEG of the setting, since we didn’t want to derail the whole thing for our DM who had been a pretty chill dude up to this point about the whole thing.

We told Oohgie that we had to fight a big bad guy, and that we needed to focus on saving the world. Oohgie seemed to understand, and asked for a little bit of metal, promising to stop asking if we got it for him. We relented, and turned over the last pieces of metal for him in exchange for him helping us on the quests. The DM told us that Oohgie isn’t designed for the combat levels we were at by this point, but he could help a little if we were careful. Worst case scenario, we pull him back, Lucas performs Lay On Hands, and we’re good.

We slowly uncovered a conspiracy that ties to an ancient forgotten god, one who was worshiped as the god of destruction and undoing. Pretty sweet stuff as we kept getting closer and closer. The armor from Oohgie stopped showing up, but it was okay, we found cheap armor. We made an effort to save the pieces that Oohgie had crafted for us, out of loyalty to our curious, big Crafty-Smith friend. Oohgie never seemed to ask for metal anymore, but we heard him clanging away every night before we would fall asleep.

The lessons continued, with Raj teaching Oohgie more and more about Moradin, but he couldn’t answer the most spiritual of them, only being a warrior who happened to be a Dwarf. For the questions about the gods methods, Lucas was there to answer his questions.

“How Oohgie talk to Moradin?”

“You pray, and ask for guidance.”

“Moradin show Oohgie how make better armor?”

“If he sees fit to, he shall guide you.”

“How Oohgie know?”

“You won’t, but you have to believe.”

“Oohgie believe.”

After awhile, Oohgie began splitting the time between speaking with Lucas about Moradin, which he thought was the quickest way to becoming a Dwarf, and practicing his rudimentary Dwarvish, which he used to read his first book. He faded more and more into our groups 'project’, a background character. We still cared for him, but we just couldn’t afford to baby-sit him as we leveled up. He also insisted on having Lucas ask Moradin if he was a Dwarf yet.

“Moradin make Oohgie Dwarf now?”

“That is not my place to tell, Oohgie.”

“Oohgie pray but Moradin not talking. Did Oohgie do it wrong?”

“It is not my place to tell, but I believe the gods work in mysterious ways.”

“Oohgie understand. Make better armor soon for friends.”

As we cleared out more and more dungeons, we started to realize that we had made a mistake dragging Oohgie along. He just couldn’t keep up to our leveling, and he couldn’t get any useful perks. He started to become a hassle. By the time we were at the final stretch of the quest, facing the ancient cult summoning the god, we had a silent agreement to leave Oohgie behind, lest he get hurt.

We executed the play perfectly. The last town before the invasion, we told Oohgie to stay with the magic forge and practice alone for a few days, and that we were going to get him more metal to work with. Oh course the big lug agreed, and after casting a spell to keep the fires going for a week, we set out, Oohgie clanging away happily. We didn’t look back. But you can be damned sure we didn’t leave with a smile.

Two hours into the dungeon, and we knew we had messed up.

First off, we failed one too many sneaks and bluffs, and that meant the cultists had finished their mission in summoning the god of undoing. He was essentially an Orcus without the secrecy. Pragmatic as hell, he immediately begins to cast a bunch of seals and spells that trap us in the room, and then debuffs our armor to the point it’s unraveling back into scrap.

Our Warlock was protecting our Wizard with a low level demon, our Rogue was stealthily trying to pickpocket the dead cultists for anything that might help, Raj and Lucas led the attack, and I was firing a volley every chance I got, rolling for anything that might break his ungodly armor. We were using everything, and had run out of potions. Lucas had no more Lay On Hands available thanks to a dozen cultists cutting off his prayers to Bahamut. It was only now that we regretted not having a cleric.

The god approached Lucas and Raj, and without a hint of a monologue, proceeds to wreck their shit. He breaks Raj’s armor, shatters the divine shield Lucas was using, and then readies his next round of spells.

And then, the DM rolled for initiative..

From behind me, a large metal sphere flew out and thumped the god. Not enough to hurt him, but it was a high enough roll to disrupt his spell.

“Oohgie done crafting.”

From behind us, standing in the large doorway, stood an Ogre, clad in a terribly mismatched set of armor emblazoned with a hammer of Moradin on it’s chest piece. In his right hand, an enormous hammer the size of a stone column and made of the same dented metal. Suddenly, all the nights of clanging made sense. Oohgie wanted to help, and we just thought he was a burden.

Oohgie charged forward, rolling a 17 on his first roll, and with the god suffering from 'stupefication’ because of his entrance, landed his first hit. It was the most damaging hit we had done to the god, and it had been dealt by an Ogre that was wearing what looked like the rejected arts and crafts project of a preschooler.

We sat there for a moment in stunned silence, as the DM described the armor and hammer he carried, calling it a crude mimicry of the holy hammers and suits of armor worn by paladins of Moradin.

“You no hurt-”

Clang

“Ohgie’s friends!”

Clang

“No more!”

Clang

hree hits, each one doing a little less than the last, but still doing something. During this affair, the Rogue finally hit a natural 20, and found the cultist leaders emergency reagents to shut the whole spell down on his corpse. She rolled for the toss to Lucas, who had enough armor to take another hit if he needed to get close. Oohgie roared and attempted a grapple, using his natural modifiers to hold him, a god of destruction, for a brief moment.

“Oohgie palydin now, too! Help Moradin, help Lucas! Like real Dwarf!”

We felt a pang of guilt .

We had left this guy behind so he couldn’t bother us with his quest to becoming a Dwarf, but here he was, wearing that stupid smile, wearing that stupid armor, and pulling that stupid move. Lucas sighed heavily and we all rolled for our respective abilities. There was a brief moment where we thought that we had this thing down, until Lucas and our Warlock stopped and realized the flaw in the plan.

“Oohgie still isn’t high level.”

With that, our turn ended, and the DM rolled for the god’s attack versus Ooghies grapple.

I wish I could say Ooghie had a natural 20. I wish I could say that his modifier gave him just enough to hold the god down. But I can’t.

The god rolled 14

Ooghie rolled 5

The DM then informed us that not only did the god break the grapple, but now had stunned Ooghie long enough to cast a spell of 'Destruction’.

Point blank at Ooghie’s chest.

As I said before, very rarely did Oohgie craft armor that matched the level stats of armor we bought in town.

He was wearing armor that was almost 2 levels below his current level. And his current level was lower than any of us.

Oohgie collapsed in a heap, and the god turned to face us.

For those that don’t know, our Warlock was once That Guy. He had a major falling out with the DM and Lucas, and reformed himself. He never got along with Lucas, but he was willing to not be a jerk as long as Lucas didn’t call him out on stuff again.

This was the only time I saw our Warlock look across the table and ask Lucas for help.

“I need a favor. And I need it now.”

Lucas moved to cover the Warlock, who charged forward with a series of demons in tow. Our Warlock may have been a jerk a tad, but he was a jerk with a good amount of demons on call for favors.

He called every single one of them in.

The DM, knowing what this meant to us, didn’t bother to ask for our rolls. Every demon snuck in a hit, and with a Dwarf at his heels, a Wizard freezing his balls, and a ranger firing arrows into every square inch of flesh exposed on his hide, it was no wonder the god never saw our rogue behind him with the sealing amulet and scroll of desolation from the cultist leader.

Before the god even returned to the astral plane, we rushed to Oohgie, who was managing to hang on by the merest thread of life possible. Lay on Hands was next to useless, and with no potions, we all knew what we were watching. We were watching Ooghie die, and even after we had killed a god, conquered dungeons, and leveled evil kingdoms, we couldn’t even save our friend.

“Oohgie sorry he got in way.”

“You didn’t, you did great-”

“Oohgie sorry he not make good armor like Dwarf.”

“We love your armor, big guy, don’t think like that.”

I had never seen Lucas try so hard to call in a favor from Bahamut, or roll so desperately for a miracle. Even the Warlock was searching his sheets for a demon who might help without too hefty a price, no no avail.

Oohgie know why Moradin no talk to Oohgie. Oohgie hands too big n’ clumsy, so Oohgie not make small armor nice and pretty.”

“It’s fine Oohgie, just hang on, we’re going to save you.”

“Oohgie knew he not good Crafty-smith when he saw Dwarf temple, and Crafty-smiths look at him funny, but Oohgie try anyways.”

I’m a touchy-feely guy, and I know Oohgie was a figment of our imagination, but when you see Lucas, a veteran who lost his left leg to a bomb before he was twenty five, holding back tears, you know it wasn’t just me being blubbery when I say that we were tearing up.

“Oohgie not good Crafty-smith with armor and weapons, but Oohgie good crafty-smith at something. Oohgie can make good story.”

At this point, our Rogue hid behind her screen, and the Warlock just stared down at his sheet, having stopped searching for his demon to deal with.

“Oohgie think Dwarves make good armor and stories, which why Oohgie wanted be Dwarf, but Oohgie understand he not Dwarf, and he not be Dwarf ever.”

Oohgie’s breathing began to slow, and Raj grabbed his hand, holding it as best he could

“You could be a Dwarf, Oohgie. You could be the best Ogre Dwarf in the land.”

Oohgie closed his eyes and smiled

“Oohgie like that. He go sleep now.”

And like that, our party lost Oohgie the Crafty-smith, and we all think a little something died with him inside all of us.

We looted the dungeon, killed the remaining cultists, and made our way back to the nearest village, one that happened to have a temple and forge for followers of Moradin. When we entered the town, we all took notice that the forges were louder than ever, and half the town seemed to be gathered around the temple. Naturally curious, we moved closer.

At first, we were rolling to push through, until Lucas used a favor from Bahamut to project a holy shout and clear the path. We got closer and closer to the entrance, we saw more and more Dwarves, some wearing the emblem of Moradin, others in the attire of his sacred blacksmiths. As we reached the entrance, knowing we weren’t allowed in, we asked a priest if he could tell us what the fuss was. The priest asked us if we had been involved with the destruction of a god of undoing.

Of course we were, so he led us inside. Deep inside the mountain, past the pillars, and past the gorgeously carved hallways and stone arches, and into the deepest parts of the forge’s sanctums. We witnessed dozens of Dwarves mill around, throwing around orders and commands in ancient Dwarvish. The priest pointed to what had been causing the ruckus.

“We received divine word that Moradin the Creator has ordered a statue to be erected to honor the fall of the god.”

The Dwarves tugged out a large, metal and marble stature from a crafting vault.

“And the appointment of a new Apprentice to his mighty forges in the halls of his domain.”

There, crafted by the finest Dwarven artisans, was an enormous, thirty foot tall statue of Oohgie, complete with a golden hammer, a silver book of Dwarven crafting, and a beard befitting a Dwarf.

'Oohgie Good-Crafter, Honorary Dwarf of Moradin and Crafty-smith of the Forge.’

That was the first time I cried playing D&D.

After a year of sessions in D&D, I elected to have my hero, the Half-Elven Ranger, retire into God-hood as a Deity of Honorable Hunting. Upon ascension, I asked for a favor. As great as my weapons were in the mortal realms, the fact was that I needed something more suited for godly duties, so they needed to be reworked. And I knew exactly who I wanted to remake them.

Moradin welcomed me into his forges, obviously happy to have his apprentices practice with their skills in crafting weapons fit for gods. When I asked if it would be possible to have someone specific work on it, he knew exactly who I wanted, and led me to a grand hall where dozens of Dwarves were gathered around a large figure clanging away happily at an anvil.

There, wearing his iconic slap-dash armor over an enormously enlarged Dwarf robe, was Oohgie, wearing the biggest, dumbest smile you could ever imagine. He looked up, smiled, and picked me up, laughing and hugging as I tried not to cry. When he finally put me down, I showed him what I had wanted to show him ever since he left our group. I held up my hands, and showed him what I was wearing for celestial armor.

There, on my hands, were 'Oohgie’s Wristy Gerd Gloves’, battered from years of use and adventures, and raised to the level of a god’s armor.

And that is the story of Oohgie the Honorary Dwarf, and Crafty-smith of the Forge.

#dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #orge #all the feels

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anthai-of-stormwind · 7 years ago

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[Character Profile] Anthai of Stormwind

Anthai of Stormwind is a mercenary mage and former member of the Templars of the Rose. She also served in Operation Shieldwall during the Pandarian Expedition. She fought the Iron Horde on the alternate Draenor, spent some time there after Archimonde's defeat, and returned to Azeroth to fight the Legion invasion. HISTORY Anthai was born and raised in Stormwind, about seven years prior to the Opening Of the Dark Portal. She is the only child of John and Margaret Taylor. Most of her acquaintances know that her parents were killed by Orcs during the First War. What few people know, and Anthai doesn't talk about, is that she was partially responsible for their deaths. As a pair of Orc warriors crashed into their home and began to slaughter her parents, Anthai instinctively used her latent magic for the first time in a massive flamestrike. It killed the Orcs, but also cut off their main escape from the now-burning building. Her parents were dying from their wounds, but still managed the strength to help push Anthai through a small window. To this day, Anthai believes there would have been a sliver of a chance they could have survived had the fire and smoke not overcome them. After the war, Anthai was taken in by Matron Nightingale at the Stormwind Orphanage. She displayed a frightening natural affinity for the arcane arts during her schooling, and was sent to Dalaran to hone her abilities. While actual Arcane magics were too mathematical for her to really grasp and she never did quite master the path of Frost, Fire was the arena in which Anthai shone. It made a sick sort of sense to her - her world had died in fire, so harnessing it would be her way of regaining a sense of control. Due to her guilt over her part in her parents' death, she eschewed her family name and went simply by Anthai.

THE SECOND WAR When the Orcs came through the Dark Portal once again, Anthai was furious and wanted to join her fellow magi at Nethergarde Keep, but was refused as she was only barely a teenager. A burning rage grew within her, fed by guilt and anger and helplessness. It might have grown out of control had it not been for the kindness of her teacher, an older woman named Leigh Brooks, who also had lost relatives in Stormwind and felt for this angry girl. Leigh took Anthai under her wing and became her counselor, mentor, closest friend and de facto mother figure.

THE THIRD WAR Under Leigh's tutelage and care, Anthai grew into an exceptionally powerful fire mage, although she continued to hold a deep-seated hatred for the Orcish race in her heart. In her mid-twenties, Anthai developed a romantic relationship with one of her classmates, a High Elf woman named Karan. Over time, Karan and Anthai fell deeply in love with one another. Unfortunately, Karan's parents refused to accept their daughter's sexual orientation, and forced her to return home to Quel'Thalas. Anthai was brokenhearted and decided it was time to leave Dalaran. It was around this time that the Scourge came to Lordaeron, and Archmage Antonidas' star pupil Jaina Proudmoore was urging people across the sea to Kalimdor. Anthai joined her, but Leigh stayed behind, claiming to be too old to uproot herself. The timing of Anthai's departure was fortuitous, as Dalaran was destroyed shortly thereafter by Archimonde. Anthai wept and raged upon hearing the news, feeling that she could have protected Leigh had she only stayed in the city. She initially admired Jaina for her strength, poise and commitment to her duty, but when Jaina urged her people to ally with the Orcs against Archimonde, it was too much for Anthai. She refused and sought refuge among the Night Elves, who were none too pleased with mages, but shared a similar hatred for Orcs. After Archimonde's defeat, the Night Elves rather coldly suggested that Anthai go with the rest of her kind to Theramore. While she was none too pleased with Jaina's attachment to Thrall, Anthai had nowhere else to go for the time being, and so she lived in Theramore for a while.

WORLD OF WARCRAFT/THE BURNING CRUSADE/WRATH OF THE LICH KING/CATACLYSM Anthai finally returned to Stormwind shortly after King Varian Wrynn's disappearance and served her home as a mage-for-hire, eager to fight the enemies of the Alliance in any capacity. When the Cataclysm hit and Deathwing attacked Stormwind, it reawakened the horror and anger Anthai had felt as a child, only this time she was able to fight back. She battled the Twilight's Hammer cult and assisted other adventurers at the Siege Of Wyrmrest Temple. Deathwing fell, and Anthai returned to Stormwind, defending it against pockets of Blackrock Orc assaults. No one would touch her city ever again.

MISTS OF PANDARIA When Garrosh Hellscream obliterated Theramore, Anthai was incensed, and not a little terrified that this new mana bomb technology would eventually be used against Stormwind. She joined up with Sky-Captain Rogers aboard the Skyfire and was one of the first to make landfall on Pandaria. While at first darkly gleeful at her chance for revenge against the Orcs, Anthai was brought up short by the presence of the Sha. Her anger would overwhelm her, and she sought advice from the local Pandaren on reining in her hate. Her bloodthirst held somewhat in check, Anthai nevertheless joined Operation Shieldwall as soon as King Varian arrived. She was a force to be reckoned with, but although she came to Pandaria with revenge in her heart, the Pandaren's kindness, patience and discipline won her over, and she felt very much at home in this new land, considering staying after this war was over. It was Garrosh Hellscream's destruction of the Vale Of Eternal Blossoms which was the last straw for her. Not since the First War had she been so personally, deeply aggrieved. Word reached her about a group named the Templars Of the Rose, who had been based in Theramore and were fighting their own crusade against Hellscream. She met with Nyres Treestalker and Justicar Arialynn Dawnfield, and the Templars accepted Anthai into their ranks just in time to lay siege to Orgrimmar.

WARLORDS OF DRAENOR Garrosh's trial after everything he'd done seemed a farce to Anthai, and when he escaped to Draenor to found the Iron Horde, Anthai wasted no time in joining the Black Watch (the Templars' elite fighting force) on that strange other world. The Black Watch helped Anthai refine her abilities and sharpen her combat skills under the tutelage of Marshal Jarrick Mason and a fellow mage, Sumeri Jordan. Anthai became fast friends with Sumeri, who enjoyed the back-and-forth pun wars they would get into as well as having fun attempting to cast the other's spells. Anthai and Sumeri would refer to themselves as the "fire and ice team" of the Black Watch, and they frequently fought side-by-side as such. Shortly after settling into the Templars' garrison on Draenor, Anthai's impetuous and overzealous nature got the better of her. She struck out on her own to Nagrand on a "scouting mission," secretly hoping she would find out where Garrosh was so she could kill him once and for all. Anthai was near Highmaul territory when she was taken by surprise by half a dozen ogre warriors and mages. She held out as long as she could, but for some reason her magic was not as potent on Draenor as on Azeroth. She was about to be overcome when she was saved by a paladin named Lauren Kensington. Lauren brought her back to the garrison and the Templars, where she was swiftly reprimanded by Justicar Dawnfield and removed from the Black Watch. Nevertheless, Anthai was grateful to Lauren for saving her life, and jokingly claimed her as her own personal paladin, her "Anthadin," if you will. While Lauren replaced her in the Black Watch, Anthai concentrated on healing and trying to regain her strength. Draenor's ley lines were not kind to her power, although Sumeri grew stronger with every passing day. Ultimately, Anthai chose to remain on Draenor after the assault on Hellfire Citadel. She shared a moment with Lauren the night before, but the paladin politely rebuffed her advances. During her time on Draenor, Anthai studied ways to get her powers back up to par. She was initially going to assist the Draenei in cleaning up the tatters of the Iron Horde, but she was disgusted by the Orc/Draenei truce.

LEGION One day, Exarch Yrel came to her and showed her a vision of the Burning Legion's return to Azeroth, as well as a weapon that would greatly amplify her abilities. Anthai teleported back to Dalaran, and assisted a group of Blood Elves in retrieving Felo'melorn, the legendary blade wielded by Anasterian Sunstrider. In gratitude, the sin'dorei rewarded her with a newly crafted runeblade of her own. As she was about to leave Icecrown Citadel, Anthai heard a commotion and ended up saving Lauren Kensington's life, as well as a dwarven friend of Lauren's. Upon their return to Dalaran, Anthai and Lauren filled each other in on what they'd missed, and prepared to return to the Templars to warn them of the Legion invasion. However, they were too late by moments - the invasion began, and Anthai and Lauren swiftly teleported to Westguard Keep, hoping they were still in time to make a difference. During her time fighting against the Legion, she began to establish a close friendship with Captain Victor Blackwald. With Sumeri pulling away from everyone due to something dark infecting her magic, Anthai found herself rather lonely. She found in Victor a confidante with an irrepressible rakishness that amused her, and the two became fast friends. Around the time of the Templars' assault on the Nighthold, the Withered telemancer Oculeth inadvertantly discorporealized Anthai during what should have been a simple teleportation. As a result, she ended up in a bodiless state for months, trapped inside the arcane itself. Shortly after freeing herself, Anthai met up with several other Templars at Greywatch in Stormheim for a round of well-earned drinks and birthday cake. Sumeri, notably, was absent, and Anthai stuck close to Victor as well as the paladin from alt-Draenor, Keleosha. Anthai made a few passes at Keleosha, but she seemed oblivious to her flirtations. Victor made a lascivious remark to Anthai about wishing he was a woman, and decided to play with a small mystic toy which gave him the appearance of a female Sin'dorei for a short time. Anthai was shocked to find that the Blood Elf version of Victor was the spitting image of her long-lost love from Old Dalaran, Karan. Anthai became furious with Victor for taunting her with Karan’s image, despite Victor having had no idea what Karan had looked like. She lost her temper and injured Victor, shocking her into sudden sobriety. She fled Greywatch in shame and did not return. Anthai disappeared shortly thereafter for several weeks. Disgusted and furious with herself for hurting Victor, she wrote him a letter - delivered by Ambassador Khazarath Redbraid of the Ebon Blade - which stated she was leaving the Templars for good and needed to find her true path, something which had eluded her most of her life. Anthai is now hurling herself into the battle to retake the Broken Shore, hoping to find her purpose in the shadow of the Tomb Of Sargeras. PERSONALITY AND ABILITIES Anthai has, appropriately enough, a fiery personality. She tends to feel things very deeply, whether it be out of love or hate. Anthai forms very deep bonds with her friends, but a nearly out of control hatred for her enemies. Her extreme prejudice against Orcs eventually led to her near-death experience in Nagrand. She is an incorrigible punster and loves to drink and flirt, but when "on duty" she is all business, considering herself a weapon for others to fire. She follows orders in battle, but when not on the field she is headstrong and impulsive. She is unskilled in the school of Arcane magic and is slightly passable with Frost, but it's always been her affinity with Fire that has served Anthai well. Its pure destructive force allows her to channel the darker side of her nature while simultaneously tempering it with the discipline her art requires.

#world of warcraft #rp #anthai #character profile

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iamtooarealdoctor · 8 years ago

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Diary 5.7.87

Today certainly has been...eventful. And this evening finds us unexpectedly back in Shrouded Hills. If nothing else it should confound any pursuers we might have acquired. I do not care for magick, but teleportation is certainly extremely useful. And it is good to see Straf using his powers in aid of our purposes for a change. But I get ahead of myself.

The day began far too early with a scream in the wee hours of the morning. Room 3 at the Mushroom has now been scene to two murders in as many days. It was a grisly sight - the victim (one Sheila of ill-repute) torn limb from limb, the walls positively caked with blood, and her head entirely absent, or I might have attempted some reassembly. And on the wall, cleverly hidden by a painting so that we did not discover it until much later, a dark sigil and a name: L’anamelach. Dyna, in the adjacent room, had been woken by a massive magickal discharge, and this fact, combined with the name and the landlord’s testimony of seeing glowing red eyes has led us to believe that the Whitechurch Killer may in fact be a demon. We feared at first that Dante had done these awful deeds, but it seems that Caladon is beset by a second demonic presence, one that preceded our arrival and travels, it seems, via sewer grates.

When the police arrived at the scene, their captain, an irritable halfling named Henderson, deputized us at once, presumably out of frustration with his own constables, despite all our best attempts to appear wholly innocuous. We have been charged with finding this killer and putting a stop to his murdering ways. As refreshing as it is to have full official sanction on our activities, we had hoped to escape any police notice whatsoever, and this mission has flung us back halfway across the continent. When we accepted, I had no idea of the extent of the delay this would cause...but we have no choice. This miscreant murders a lady a night, and will continue to do so until we make an end to him. Haste, however vital, cannot be paid for in the lives of others.

With no thought yet of the turns this would take us on, we retired once more after giving our stories to Henderson and his men. When we rose once more, we made our way first to the Panarii temple, with the hopes of perhaps finding one who might be able to banish demons. I admit I hoped also for news of Elder Joachim, or perhaps a way to contact him, but he remains as elusive as ever. The temple in Caladon is of wholly different stature and quality than the previous Panarii installations we have visited. It is a grandiose cathedral, towering and well arched, and behind the altar is a massive figure, complete with wings of literal fire - a pair well-crafted and well-stocked braziers. Very impressive. We met with an acolyte who could tell us neither his name nor anything useful whatsoever; First Acolyte Alexander is apparently away on pilgrimage, investigating reports of Nasrudin Reborn, and will answer all our questions when he returns. I have some very disappointing news for him...

Our trip was not entirely fruitless because it did yield an opportunity to read the famed Archeon, the Panarii holy text, which tells of the final confrontation between Nasrudin and Arronax. Although it was sadly devoid of useful details about how Arronax might be defeated, being more concerned with Nasrudin’s Goodness and Arronax’s Wickedness, it did say that the confrontation took place at a landmark called the Black Spire, which we were told is in or near Roseborough. It also mentioned that Nasrudin built his own final resting place at the southernmost tip of the land; surely, that must be in Caladon, but if it were, would not the Panarii know about it? I should like to visit this tomb, if its location can be discovered. I have some choice words for the Living One.

The Panarii temple is at the far side of town, and almost adjacent to the workshops of the ubiquitous Heironeus Maxim. His was the maker’s mark on the Flying Machines that brought down the IFS Zephyr all that time ago. But it seems he was as much of a victim as we are! He told us that yes, the Flying Machines (he called them Aero-Planes) were of his design, but that his laboratories were raided and his prototypes stolen - by Half-Ogres bearing the mark of the Gnomish Industrial Council! The sorry state of his workshop even two years later corroborates this story, and the loss of his prototypes has left him a broken and discredited man. He was overjoyed to learn that we had photographic evidence of his Aero-Planes in flight, still intact on the plates of the broken camera I recovered from the crash. He has given me copies of the prints and promised to repair the camera for my use as well, and to Dyna he gave a Medical Arachnid - he has in fact offered us any help he may in return for our role in repairing is reputation. Maxim seems a kindly soul, who wants nothing more than to be left in peace with his machines. He seeks only to invent and thereby improve the world around him, and is utterly devoid of ambition. He has a great love for creating things, both functional and beautiful, and for studying all that he can. He is a good man, and we are all better for knowing him.

Our conversation with him did reveal some disturbing information that I do not fully know what to make of. Firstly, a potential connection between the Gnomish Industrial Council and the Molochian Hand seems an alliance almost too terrible to contemplate. Myriad enemies working at cross-purposes is preferable, I think, to a single all-powerful one. And I shudder to think how their interests could possibly align. Magick and Technology do not typically keep close company. Equally worrying, in a very different way, is the study he has made of Salaakkan. For yes! Maxim too knows of that anomalous moon, and seems to have made more careful observation of it than even Buxington, aided perhaps by superior telescopy of his own invention. While he did not believe our theory that Salaakkan actually passes through the Void in its orbit, his calculations reveal that it draws closer to our world with every pass. This can only end in cataclysm, should it eventually draw too near to escape us again. But if Maxim can build a craft that flies, despite being heavier than air, perhaps he can build a craft that will carry us to the stars themselves - or at least to the moons.

After passing a happy morning with Maxim, we proceeded at last to the police station to do our civic duty. We spoke with a...lady of negotiable affection... named Cecilia, who had witnessed the first murder, her colleague Emily. Her description corroborated our hypothesis of a demon as the culprit, but she also described him as slight of build with slicked back hair, possibly Elvish, and as standing in the floor. We now believe that this is because he uses the sewer system to travel, for we found sewer grates at both crime scenes. This in turn suggests a rather more corporeal demon than our Dante - a mortal being possessed by a demonic entity. The crime scene also revealed that poor Emily had been wholly exsanguinated, for what purpose I cannot guess. Some strange compulsion drives this L’anamelach. Why should a demon care about prostitutes? And why perform these grisly rituals upon them?

We obtained a map to the sewer system without difficulty, for everyone in Caladon is both more professionally competent and conscienciously helpful than their Tarantian counterparts, and from there I set out to learn something more about demons. I can conclude this much: magick users are universally terrifying, but demons are perhaps even more so. The police put me in touch with the local expert in all things occult, the proprietress of the local magick shop, a blind seeress whose name escapes me utterly. She, too, was singularly helpful - Caladon is truly a remarkable city. This is not the first demonic incursion into Caladon it seems; some 50 years ago, the city was beset by the demon Amlach, who was ultimately dispatched at great cost by none other than the excitable Captain Henderson. I also learned, to my great distress, that Dante is no ordinary familiar. Rather, it is one of the G’yon-she, the Lords of Hell, of whom only 13 exist. And we have released it upon the mortal world. It seems that the only reliable way to dispel it is the death of its controlling mage - that is, Wolf. This...may be an acceptable price. She might also be able to dismiss it herself through a contest of wills, but I worry about the consequences should she fail...

Meanwhile Straf got his beans identified, and managed not to get us all thrown out of the shop. Ah yes. Straf has acquired “magick beans” from a pair of bickering halfling gardeners. To my eyes they are indistinguishable from any other phaseolus - they could be P. vulgaris even - but Dyna’s allergy testified to their magickal nature. The three, though clearly of a type, have turned out to have distinct properties: they are, I am told, a Seed of Extirpation, a Pod of Regeneration, and a Pip of Menstruation. While the utility of the first two is obvious, the third is simply bizarre. The Pod of Regeneration is of particular interest to me, as I have kept some of Straf’s molted skin against this very eventuality; it is possible that with some care I might be able to return him to his original form. Or create a second ancillary Straf, which would be...terrible.

And speaking of which...in our absence, Dyna has...upgraded Norman. Into an automaton, of the type we fought in Ashbury. He is 8 feet tall and appears to have the mind of a toddler. For the present. The new medical arachnid she has named Holly. They are...friends. I can only hope we are a better influence upon him than we have been upon the young and impressionable in the past, and that we have not merely created yet another unstoppable killing machine. He seems...affectionate...? But he has already learned to swear, and I am ...wary of what the future holds.

But in the immediate sense the future holds a wholly unexpected diversion. For, upon consultation with Captain Henderson, and a demonologist contact of his at the University of Tarant, it seems that any given demon can only be slain by a specific dagger, and the blade marked for L’anamelach lies in a place called the Pit of Fire, on the eastern side of the Stonewall Range, several days south of Shrouded Hills. So we go now to retrieve it, and then return to Caladon, and then confront this demon in the sewers, and then, perhaps, return to our pursuit of the village of the Dark Elves. Straf has learned teleportation, which makes things somewhat easier, and so we are at last back in Shrouded Hills, and will depart for the Pit of Fire on the morrow. At least no one should be seeking us here, for the time being, and we seem to have weathered Caladon with no ill-effects - unless being sent halfway around the world on this errand counts as one, but it is a pleasant country here and I have no complaints. And perhaps some solution to the problem of Dante will present itself along the way.

#Arcanum #Arcanum: Of Steamworks and Magick Obscura #the Diary of Thaddeus Moss

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keystonewarrior · 5 years ago

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D&D Idea The Mystery of Gers

D&D Idea The Mystery of Gers In the region of Gers lies Castle Nebar. Time are pleasant, peaceful, and prosperous. It was only a few years ago the aged Lord Cavin Nebar was slain by his mistress, Jyrydryn The Kite (rumored to be a Mar Onnen Assassin) who then abducted Lady Vera Nebar to parts unknown. Castle Nebar and the town, farms, and villages around it were left under the supervision of Carlin Usaf, the renowned knight from Ringing Rock, until the child Lord Rabert Nebar would come of age. But Sir Carlin, sound of mind and temperament and stout of voice, was older than even Lord Cavin, and while he would still wear his armor in public and bear his family sword, he was really simply a political boy scout present to keep the child under the protection of the crown. In fact, the armor isn't armor at all, but simply enchanted clothing that looks and sounds like a suit of mail and the family sword is in the hands of his eldest daughter Sir Kattlynn Usaf and the replica he carries is wooden, but enchanted to look and sound - and parry and cut - like a real sword. Young Lord Rabert was also a very capable and intelligent ruler and in little need of Sir Carlin's supervision. It's all just a show, a show that has been going strong, unchallenged, for seven years. But soon Lord Rabert will be nineteen and expected to take his father's sword and marry according to custom. Rumor has it he has already selected a bride, but nobody knows who it is. That is the mystery. From the first, Lord Rabert hired on many wise counselors. Ostensibly, they were there to let him learn the many languages of the books in the family library to teach him skill at arms and courtly manners, and literacy and numeracy, but they also brought their excellence in arts, magic, and engineering to the castle and the town. The City Wash. One of the most profound changes, the envy of every local lady and lord who have tried to copy it, was the construction of the city bath house and wash. Led by Counselor Mayta Gee, they designed it and led the construction and trained the regular staff. People, and their clothing, are washed regularly. Families take turns staffing the facility to assist the full-time laborers who mostly act as trainers and supervisors. This required a new well and also a new fountain in town. The people are clean, healthy, and happy, bringing increased politeness to neighbors and visitors and a decrease in illness and disease. The Ratters. In addition to the new water supply, the sewers have seen wide upgrades. An officially recognized group led by one of Rabert's new counselors keeps them clear of debris and vermin. Led by Counselor Victor Sprengwerk, the sewers also serve as a means of getting the castle guard to the main gate of the town in just a few minutes by means of a boat in the main line. This was a lesson drawn from Sir Carlin's defense of the City of Loor, where a surprise attack on the city gate filled the streets with panicked citizens and the main guard got caught in the streets between Loor Keep and the gates. Carlin, still a squire then, was able to raise additional forces and take them through the back alleys to capture and close the gates, then painfully eliminate the foreign threat from within Loor itself. The Raffaufs. Rubbish is collected twice daily. Anything that might be eaten by a pig is picked up by the morning crew on their rounds, sorted, then fed to the pigs. The Raffaufs also turn the compost for the town gardens. They are also the drunk watch, picking up derelicts and vagrants and dumping them in the drunk tank. This effort is led by Counselor Syrrha Coe. There are not a significant amount of orphans in the area, but those that are there are also raised by the Raffaufs. The evening rounds are mostly led by older orphans who pick up broken junk and non-food. Anything that can be recovered and rebuilt into something useful is made new again by the orphans in their workshop and sold. They also take care of the drunks, checking them for medical emergencies like ketoacidosis or frostbite, before turning them out after they have dried up and paid their fine. Drunks unable to pay have to work a day in the garden or the pig farm. The orphans also sell the compost for private use and work the city garden and take care of the pigs. Kids who show a talent are given training for trades, and all are taught basic literacy and numeracy. Conselor Coe says this free education will pay off with huge dividends later when Lord Rabert's heirs rule the land. The Biergarten. The brainchild of Counselor Zach Zheff, a public meal is held every evening at dusk. This is not a big bash, and only watered wine or clean water is offered for drink. The fare is simple, typically soup and bread or stews. Exotic foods from Zach's homeland are offered on occasion - ravioli, pasta, or pizza. Much of what is served comes from the city garden and the pig farm (much of that is sold for profit). It includes a new grove of fruit-bearing trees, still young, and a fine hall built for inclement weather. The hall and the grove are the largest single place in the town for public gatherings - even more space than market street and market square. Nobody is turned away, and there is always plenty of food. A donation is expected, but not required. Most who choose to eat there mostly donate their time, taking turns serving and cleaning. Commercial inns and taverns at first detested the idea, saying it would be bad for business, but they have all thrived. The Raffauf orphans also typically work the event for payment. Daisy Quinn works for the Nebar family. She is in her forties and replaced Daisy Sitka who returned to their order. Her specialty is communication, medicine, and history. She is able to commune with her order to access knowledge not found in her memory or in the castle library. Commercial improvements followed along with each of the civic improvements Lord Rabert initiated. The community is wealthier than anybody's memory can recall. The young lord has hosted private events at Castle Nebar for other aristocratic families. He has hosted events for the rising artisan class and visiting dignitaries. He has even hosted events for the citizenry there, served by the Raffauf orphans. In the early years, he would don common clothing and hide among the children and serve the public, getting an ear for what people really thought. He is too well known, and too tall, for that now. During harvest this year, he intends to reveal who he will ask to marry in a great public ceremony. Realistically, most of the public will be at the Biergarten or one of the other public venues, while the upper class will enjoy the festivities at the castle. Lord Rabert has not let any hint as to who he intends. Aristocrats are shocked to think their daughter might not be asked, other wealthy families and the rising artisan class are excited even to have a shot. Lately, rumors have burst that perhaps even a peasant girl could be named, since the Crown Princess in the Capital announced at High Summer Fest that such a policy does exist in the Queen's Law and the Light Blue Regiment, the Queen's Own, are even escorting Chief Justice Rhenn Kist so there won't be any challenges by aristocrats who get their feathers ruffled. Only one person other than Lord Rabert might know, and she does seem to have a twinkle in her eye whenever someone brings up the subject. Lord Rabert's most trusted adviser is also his highest ranking military commander (this does not hurt Lord Calvin's feelings, since he can still beat both of them at chess). Counselor General Noor Majeyan has a rapier wit and a rapier. She commands the castle guard (and the city guard through her lieutenant Zye Magov). She is the most skilled weapon master in the land, and she is also a singer and performer. She often takes center stage at public events, acting as emcee and bodyguard for Rabert. Her dark hair and accent mark her as a foreigner, but almost nobody minds or would say so out loud. Her lieutenant Zye Magov is a half-ogre warrior who carries a shield the size of a stout oak door and wields a six-foot sword. Who will Rabert ask to marry him? He plans to reveal his intended at midnight on the night of Harvestfest.

DM notes: Rabert is just a kid but intelligent, well educated, and well advised. He will announce an engagement, but he is only announcing that he will ask a peasant girl from the Raffauf orphanage, a girl he has known for years. But he is also announcing that she will have four years before she must answer. She doesn't know. Rabert always wears a blue cape that protects him from any piercing damage and carries two gloves in his belt. The gloves are magical and must first be put on to work - one creates a clear light blue magical shield and the other a long-sword. These are emergency use only, since General Noor is never more than a few paces away and her instincts are keen. Mayta Gee is a mid-level mage who specializes in water-based spells, She is about forty but dresses and acts like a teenager, She is also a patient practical joker and almost nobody can lie to her. Victor Sprengwerk is mid-40s and is a retired* thief. He dresses in clean comfortable clothing suitable for the work he does. The garb is highly durable and enchanted to turn black in a fraction of a second. He has uncovered every secret passage in the town and the castle and added a few more. The boat in the main sewer line is an enchanted barge, between himself, Sir Carlin. Mayta Gee, and other engineers and skilled craftsmen, the barge can carry one hundred soldiers from the barracks and arms room at the castle to the city gate in under two minutes (their best alert drill time in 79 seconds). Syrrha Coe is a mid-level mage almost 50 years old. She grew up an orphan on a farm until a mage found her, sensed her talent, and took her on as an apprentice. Turned out he was a bastard too. She jealously protects her orphans and loves to farm and work in the garden. Most of her spells are defensive and utility. Zach Zheff is a fighter with a troubled past. He always seemed to be in some kind of trouble with somebody. He is about forty and was long acquainted with Mayta Gee, who actually got him this gig. He loves food, he has a passion for food almost as strong as his desire to see how far he can push things before he gets in trouble. Since he eats so much, almost incessantly, he also works out all the time. The most dangerous weapon he carries anymore is a kitchen knife. Daisy Quinn is a Daisy. Like all the others she is a plain appearing female human in her forties who usually stands or sits relatively still, hardly noticed. She has no combat ability. She rarely speaks with anybody except Rabert, but is polite enough if you ask her something that has a real answer. General Noor Majeyan trained with the Ta N'Jair on Karell Ruh but is now forbidden to wear red. She is a very high level fighter (far beyond anything your party has). She is only 36 years old. In combat, if she wins initiative, she can make double attacks every round, fighting first and last. If she does not have initiative, then she moves up one spot in the sequence each round until the fighting is over or she has initiative, and then she gets double attacks. She is immune to sleep and charm type spells and any kind of mental attack. She fights with a sabre and throwing knives (she carries thirty of them) and then with a second sabre. A thrown knife that hits on a natural 20 costs the affected target all attacks that round, moves them into the last position in the initiative sequence, costs them additional damage if they try to attack and any successful attack they make also causes them the same amount of damage. When fighting with two sabres she will typically use half her attacks as parries (defending herself or a nearby ally) and the other attacks offensively. Zye Magov is a huge, hulking eight foot eight inch tall five-hundred pound half ogre of indeterminate age. He is as effective a fighter as he is ugly. His shield is six feet tall and he wields a two-handed sword one-handed without penalty. He pretty much wears his full plate armor, and helm, all the time. He polishes his armor to a bright shine and wears a bright white tabard with a small bird (a kestrel) embroidered on it. He has a very pleasant, deep voice (he sings nicely, but Noor sings better) and he will remove his helm to play a bamboo flute to accompany her singing - he plays very well. Neither he nor Noor will reveal where he trained in his youth, but where he comes from they don't mint stupid troopers. One time, he almost beat Sir Carlin in chess.

#d&d

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biowarenerd · 7 years ago

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Chapter Two: Haven

“Now that Cassandras out of earshot, how are you holding up?” Varric asked Max as they sat in the local tavern the evening after the Inquisition was formally reborn. “I mean you go from being the most wanted criminal in all of Thedas to joining the army of the faithful. Most people would spread that out over more than one day.” Max grinned. “Guess I’m not most people. Don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” Varric chuckled. “Or a bit of both. Never know. But you might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedy stories to see what’s coming.” Max eyes the hairy dwarf. “Varric, I’m not going to run just because the going gets tough. Peoples lives are depending on us. That’s why we are sitting in a tavern getting drunk.” Varric gave a hearty laugh. “You got me there. Just remember that you are not some big shot hero. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. That’s gonna need a miracle.” “Too bad I’m no miracle. I’m just a man trying to do the right thing. Does that sound too good to be true?” Again Varric chuckled. “That’s nothing. Sebastian, an old colleague of mine, has got you beat as far as politeness goes. I swear that man could get his arm ripped off by an ogre and apologize to it for getting in its way.” “Isn’t Sebastian the Prince of Starkhaven?” Asked Max. Varric nodded. “Yup after Hawke helped him get revenge on his family’s murder, and after the mages rebelled, Choir Boy moved back to his home. I’m sure he’s boring all sorts of people over there.” “What about the rest of Hawke’s associates? Where are they?” “Hawke , as well as I, don’t think of them as associates. To us they are friends. But to answer your question: Merrill is helping out the people in Kirkwall’s alienage. She’s doing the best she can but knowing Daisy, she still hasn’t memorized the layout of the city yet so she is I imagine still getting lost. Now she just gets others lost with her. But I know she won’t let anybody harm those she is helping. Fenris is hunting down any Tevinter slaver taking advantage of all the refugees. I’m not sure exactly where he is now but you can normally just follow the corpses.” Max grinned. “Pleasant.” “That’s Fenris for you. Anders is doing Maker knows what in Maker knows where. Honestly I don’t want to know anything about what he’s up to. Aveline is still guard captain. I’m pretty sure Kirkwall would fall into the sea if she wasn’t on the job. Heard she and her husband had a kid a while back. Feel sorry for the poor bastard. He’s gonna be doing drills by the time he’s three. Isabela went back to the Raiders. She’s calling herself an admiral now. I don’t know if that means she’s a captain or just has a really big hat. Her plan is to loot enough treasures so she and Hawke can buy an island or something and move in. Hawke’s little sister is helping to restore Kirkwall. Apparently she is high up on the important people ladder there now. I’m sure she wishes she could be wherever Hawke is, watching his back. Same with Isabela but I’m sure she would be watching his backside a little more intently.” Max studied him for a few moments. “Where is Hawke by the way? Do you know if he was at the Conclave or not?” Varric shrugged just a little too quickly. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in a almost a year actually.” *He’s lying.* Max has had years of experience in telling if someone is lying or not. Being the son of a noble will do that. “But I’m sure that wherever he is, he’s killing loads of thugs and saving plenty of damsels in distress while laughing like a maniac. He always was the sarcastic dramatic hero.” After another hour at the tavern, Max excused himself and went and found Solas. The bald elf was a little odd but very smart. He told Max wondrous things about the Fade, the place where dreams come from as well as demons and spirits home. When he had had his full of knowledge for the day, he found himself wondering around the training ground for the new recruits. By chance he came across the Seeker who was beating a practice dummy to death. She had her back to him so when he spoke up, she jumped in surprise. “I think you need practice dummies made of sturdier stuff.” “That would be nice.” “Like maybe iron.” Her mouth twitched in a grin. He was actually enjoying the challenge of making her smile. “Did I do the right thing? People may say that I’m a madwoman, a fool. And they may be right. I don’t think I just do. I see what must be done and I do it…but I misjudged you in the beginning, did I not? I thought the answer was before me clear as day. I won’t make that mistake again.” Max looked at her. “It’s not like you had no reason to. If I had been in your shoes I would have done the same. Just with less yelling and shoving.” Cassandra winced. “I’m sorry if I was too rough on you. I was angry and upset and those emotions clouded my judgement.” Max shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I did stop the Breach from spreading so that’s one good thing out of all this.” Cassandra looked sidelong at him. Her penetrating gaze made him flinch uncomfortably. “What?” “Nothing…Just… You look familiar now that the world isn’t falling apart around us. Where have I seen you before?” Max smiled at her. “I’m a member of the Trevelyn noble family of Ostwick. So you may have seen paintings of me or something. Dad always made us have a portrait taken of us three.” Cassandra looked at him quizzically. “You three?” “Oh yeah. I’m the youngest son of Bann Trevelyn. Youngest of three actually. Just don’t tell anyone I’m a noble alright?” Cassandra raised an eye at that. Most of the nobles she knew wanted nothing more than to tell everyone that they were rich and ‘better’ than everyone else. She decided to ask him. “Why don’t you want people to know you are a noble, my Lord?” Max frowned. It was something he didn’t do often as Cassandra found out. He was very bad at it. He made a 'there you go gesture’. “That’s why. I don’t like being treated like a noble. I’ve had enough of that growing up. I don’t need nor want people to go parading my name around like its something worth honoring. I don’t deserve to be a noble so I don’t want to be treated like one.” “Why don’t you deserve it? Did you do something bad?” Max shook his head. “No nothing really bad. I didn’t kill anyone or steal something if that’s what your asking. Nothing as base as that. No I did something far worse. At least my family thinks it is.” “Well what did you do?” Max shuffled his feet. “I don’t feel like talking about it. Not yet.” Cassandra groaned. “You can’t do that. You can’t peak my interest then leave me wanting more.” Max raised his eyebrow. “Oh? You want more about me? Hmmm. I don’t think I’ll tell you. First you have to tell me a little something about you 'Right Hand of the Divine’.” The Seeker flinched. “You know my title?” Max chuckled. “It’s not hard to put two and two together you know. I heard your name once or twice in the Chantry when I was younger.” “And how old are you, if I may ask?” “Thirty. A I’m not dumb enough to ask a lady her age. Varric, maybe but not me.” Her mouth twitched in a grin. *So close.* She sighed. “So why are me about myself?” “Just trying to make things between us less…” Max searched for the word. Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Antagonistic?” “Precisely.” “Well if you must know, I was born and raised in Nevarra.” Max grinned. “I got that that from the accent.” She looked sidelong at him. “My accent isn’t that noticeable.” He nodded.“It absolutely is. But don’t worry: it works for you. It’s still nicer than an Orlesian accent, that’s for sure.” Cassandra looked at him quizzically. Max tried to keep a straight face for as long as he could but her stare was too much. Finally he let out his pent up laughter and she realized that he was teasing her. She scowled and rolled her eyes. “Do your friends like it when you make fun of them?” She asked, annoyed that she had thought he actually liked her accent. He smiled again. *That smile of his is infectious.* she thought. It was hard not to smile with him. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have a whole lot of friends.” “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” He grasped his chest and feigned a wounded look. “Ouch.” “Why don’t you have a lot of friends? Is it because no one can stand your constant teasing?” Max sighed. “No, I just preferred to be alone. I was like the lost sheep of my family. Didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, kept to myself. That kind of thing. What about you? Do you have many friends? Wait let me guess: no one brave or stupid enough to approach you in order for the friendship to start burning has came up to you yet?” Her mouth twitched in a grin again. “You approached me. Your talking to me. So what does that make you?” Max went to speak then shut his mouth once he realized that he had been outsmarted. He shrugged and faced the defeat with dignity. The two talked for about thirty minutes before Cassandra retrieved a practice sword and tossed it to him. Not ready for it, he dropped it. It clanked on the rocky snowy ground. Max eyeballed it uncertainly. “What was that for?” “Training. I want to see how well you can hold your own in a fight. When we were stopping the Breach, I noticed that Uluru were quite flimsy with a sword. I want to make sure you know what you are doing else I have to clean your entrails off the battleground.” “Just to let you know, I don’t use swords. I’m more of the sneaky stabby type of guy.” Cassandra raised her eyes. “You use daggers? Hmm. From your choice of weapons at the Breach, I thought you were a swordsman.” Max shook his head. “I only used the sword because that was what I had. I prefer to fight using daggers. Or stilettos if you have any. But I’m not fighting with a sword unless I really have to. Bad things happen when I use a sword. Not used to its length.” Cassandra nodded. Then groaned. Max wondered why and then he found out. Varric had come up behind them and had overheard their conversation. “I have a good friend who would have blushed with all this talk of sword and dagger length.” Max couldn’t hide his grin. Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Ugh. What do you want Varric?” “Oh just stopping by to tell you that you both are need in the war room.” Max groaned. “Why me? I’m not important enough right?” Varric gave a hearty laugh. “'Not important enough’? Was that a serious question?” Max stared blankly at him. “Well, shit. You really don’t know?” “Don’t know what? What is it I don’t know?” Varric doubled over with laughter. Max pestered him about what he didn’t know but Varric just waved him off as he walked away back towards the tavern. Max looked to Cassandra. “What was that all about?” She took a couple seconds before she responded. “Some say you are the Herald of Andraste. People heard about what happened at the Breach. People have heard stories of how we found you.” “How did I survive the blast?” “No one truly knows. They say you stepped out of a rift. A woman was there behind you. No one knows who she is. But people are saying that it was Andraste herself sending you to help us.” “That sounds like the last thing I remember before I woke in chains. In my vision or whatever you want to call it, a woman did reach out to me as I was running away from some type of creature. But that’s all I remember. What do you think about it?” He asked her. “Yes I believe she sent you in our hour of need. What else could it be? But what about you? How do you feel about it?” Max shrugged. “I don’t know how I should feel. I don’t feel like I’ve been 'touched by Andraste’ or anything. Anyway, we should probably head down to the war table. I suppose we are important.” ******************* They walked into a large room with a wide table in the middle. Three people stood around it. Leliana was on the left side of the table, and two other people were were standing across from the door. A male and female. The male had short sleek blonde hair and a stubble filled face with a small smile. He had on a chest plate with red feathers lining the top. At his side was a gleaming iron sword. Beside him stood a small dark skinned woman with her long black hair tied in a bun. Locks came out on the sides of her face and a bright smile lit up on her face when they entered. She wore a dazzling yellow skirt that immediately caught every eye whenever she entered a room. But her smile, Max noticed, was just a mask. He was used to nobles wearing a mask to hide their real plans. Although this woman’s smile did seem authentic. Maybe because she thought he was the Herald. *So a noblewoman and a soldier and a hero. Odd trio.* Cassandra gestured to the soldier saying, “This is Commander Cullen: leader of the Inquisition’s forces.” “As they are. We lost a lot of men because of the Breach.” The mans voice even sounded like a soldiers. “And we’ll lose a lot more before this whole thing is over.” Max said. Cassandra turned to the lady in yellow. “This is our ambassador: Josephine Montilyet.” Josephine bowed her head. “I’ve heard much. It’s an honor to finally meet you.” Max bowed in reply. Finally Cassandra turned to Leliana. “And you already know Leliana.” Max rubbed his bearded chin. “Yeah her name does ring a bell.” He said sarcastically. That earned a chuckle from Cullen and a coy smile from Josephine. Leliana hid a grin and Cassandra ignored the comment altogether. Leliana nodded and said, “My business here involves a degree of-.” Cassandra cut her off. “Leliana is our spymaster.” Leliana sighed. “Yes. Tactically put, Cassandra.” Max grinned. “That’s an impressive bunch of titles.” Max thought he heard a snicker come from Cassandra’s area but when he looked at her, she had on her usual stone serious face on. “So why did you three call us down here? Just to admire the glowing green mark on my hand spewing out magic? That’s a popular thing to look at nowadays from what I’ve been told. Or do you want to talk about the so called 'Herald of Andraste’ business? That’s a close second.” Leliana spoke. “We called you down so we could discuss what to do next.” “Why me though? I’m not that important other than the blasted thing carved into my hand.” Cullen chuckled. “Not that important? You are a hero who saved the world from being swallowed up by the Breach. I say that makes you at least a little important.” Max shook his head. “All I did was stop it spreading. I didn’t get rid of it. Hell, some people even think I put it in the sky in the first place.” Josephine spoke with a heavy Antivan accent that sounded very enticing. It made him want to listen to her voice more. “The Chantry seems to think that. They already did even before you stopped it. And Chancellor Roderick has been at the forefront of that belief.” “With all due respect, I say hang the Chantry. I don’t see them out here trying to stitch the hole in the sky.” scoffed Cullen. “The Chantry’s only strength is that they are united in opinion. And yet they may bury us in them. We should try to come to a truce with the Chantry before anything else. Maybe there are some sisters sympathetic to our cause?” She said in question. Leliana stepped forward. “Not sisters but a we may have a mother of helping. There is a woman:Mother Giselle, who is out in the Hinterlands aiding the refugees trapped amongst the fighting. She has shown interest in helping the Inquisition. We could reach out to her and help aid the refugees at the same time. If that’s fine with the Herald?” She poised the question at Max who jumped as he realized everyone was looking at him, expecting an answer. “Why are you all looking at me?” Cassandra sighed, annoyed. “There may be rifts spread throughout the Hinterlands. That means there may be demons preying on the refugees. And since you are the only one who can seal them, you need to go with whoever goes to meet Mother Giselle.” “You had me at demons preying on the helpless. We can’t have that now can we?” Cullen nodded. “Now all that’s left is to figure out who is going. The Herald obviously. I say he be accompanied by force of twenty men at least for protection.” Leliana shook her head. “Out of the question. A force like that would only attract unwanted attention. We need to send a small force of maybe four or five people including the Herald. That way, they can help without drawing too much attention tho themselves. My scouts can occupy any good base camp spots and keep an eye on what’s going on.” “I will go with the Herald.” Cassandra said. It was not a question. Max raised a hand. “Um, the Herald has a name you know. It’s Max by the way. Just for future references.” Cassandra ignored him. It was a favorite pastime of hers it seemed. “Who else will go with him?” Josephine asked. “Solas should go. He knows more about the rifts than anyone else.” Suggested Cassandra. “Varric should go as well.” Max said. Instantly, Cassandra shook her head. “Out of the question. I am not going anywhere with that dwarf. I’ve had enough of that rogue to last a lifetime. If I spend any more time with him I’ll go mad.” Max looked her in the eyes as he said, “Cassandra, Varric has the most experience here besides maybe Leliana as far as following someone around killing bad guys. Besides, if I have to put up with both Solas and you, I’ll go mad.” “But-.” Leliana cleared her throat. “It makes sense, Cassandra. Varric joined Hawke on many of his 'adventures’. If anyone knows how to work as a small team, it’s him.” After a few moments. Cassandra relented. “Fine. But if he annoys me, I’m throwing him off a ledge.” Max smirked. “I kind of want to see that now.” Cassandra turned to him. “Then I’ll throw you off a ledge.” “Can it be a small rock instead?” “For you I’ll make it a mountain.” “Aww we’ve only known each other a day or two and yet you are already giving me gifts.” “I’ll give you a gift in the shape of a fist.” Josephine cleared her throat loudly, causing both of them to turn back to the table. “What?” They both asked at the same time. “Let’s focus on the task at hand and not at throwing each other off mountains.” Max shrugged. “She started it.” “Did not.” “Did-.” Cullen interrupted them. “Please for the love of the Maker, be quiet.” Max grinned at Cassandra. She snorted in disgust.

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dragon-age-story · 7 years ago

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Chapter Two: Haven

"Now that Cassandras out of earshot, how are you holding up?" Varric asked Max as they sat in the local tavern the evening after the Inquisition was formally reborn. "I mean you go from being the most wanted criminal in all of Thedas to joining the army of the faithful. Most people would spread that out over more than one day." Max grinned. "Guess I'm not most people. Don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing." Varric chuckled. "Or a bit of both. Never know. But you might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I've written enough tragedy stories to see what's coming." Max eyes the hairy dwarf. "Varric, I'm not going to run just because the going gets tough. Peoples lives are depending on us. That's why we are sitting in a tavern getting drunk." Varric gave a hearty laugh. "You got me there. Just remember that you are not some big shot hero. Heroes are everywhere. I've seen that. But the hole in the sky? That's beyond heroes. That's gonna need a miracle." "Too bad I'm no miracle. I'm just a man trying to do the right thing. Does that sound too good to be true?" Again Varric chuckled. "That's nothing. Sebastian, an old colleague of mine, has got you beat as far as politeness goes. I swear that man could get his arm ripped off by an ogre and apologize to it for getting in its way." "Isn't Sebastian the Prince of Starkhaven?" Asked Max. Varric nodded. "Yup after Hawke helped him get revenge on his family's murder, and after the mages rebelled, Choir Boy moved back to his home. I'm sure he's boring all sorts of people over there." "What about the rest of Hawke's associates? Where are they?" "Hawke , as well as I, don't think of them as associates. To us they are friends. But to answer your question: Merrill is helping out the people in Kirkwall's alienage. She's doing the best she can but knowing Daisy, she still hasn't memorized the layout of the city yet so she is I imagine still getting lost. Now she just gets others lost with her. But I know she won't let anybody harm those she is helping. Fenris is hunting down any Tevinter slaver taking advantage of all the refugees. I'm not sure exactly where he is now but you can normally just follow the corpses." Max grinned. "Pleasant." "That's Fenris for you. Anders is doing Maker knows what in Maker knows where. Honestly I don't want to know anything about what he's up to. Aveline is still guard captain. I'm pretty sure Kirkwall would fall into the sea if she wasn't on the job. Heard she and her husband had a kid a while back. Feel sorry for the poor bastard. He's gonna be doing drills by the time he's three. Isabela went back to the Raiders. She's calling herself an admiral now. I don't know if that means she's a captain or just has a really big hat. Her plan is to loot enough treasures so she and Hawke can buy an island or something and move in. Hawke's little sister is helping to restore Kirkwall. Apparently she is high up on the important people ladder there now. I'm sure she wishes she could be wherever Hawke is, watching his back. Same with Isabela but I'm sure she would be watching his backside a little more intently." Max studied him for a few moments. "Where is Hawke by the way? Do you know if he was at the Conclave or not?" Varric shrugged just a little too quickly. "I don't know. I haven't heard from him in a almost a year actually." *He's lying.* Max has had years of experience in telling if someone is lying or not. Being the son of a noble will do that. "But I'm sure that wherever he is, he's killing loads of thugs and saving plenty of damsels in distress while laughing like a maniac. He always was the sarcastic dramatic hero." After another hour at the tavern, Max excused himself and went and found Solas. The bald elf was a little odd but very smart. He told Max wondrous things about the Fade, the place where dreams come from as well as demons and spirits home. When he had had his full of knowledge for the day, he found himself wondering around the training ground for the new recruits. By chance he came across the Seeker who was beating a practice dummy to death. She had her back to him so when he spoke up, she jumped in surprise. "I think you need practice dummies made of sturdier stuff." "That would be nice." "Like maybe iron." Her mouth twitched in a grin. He was actually enjoying the challenge of making her smile. "Did I do the right thing? People may say that I'm a madwoman, a fool. And they may be right. I don't think I just do. I see what must be done and I do it...but I misjudged you in the beginning, did I not? I thought the answer was before me clear as day. I won't make that mistake again." Max looked at her. "It's not like you had no reason to. If I had been in your shoes I would have done the same. Just with less yelling and shoving." Cassandra winced. "I'm sorry if I was too rough on you. I was angry and upset and those emotions clouded my judgement." Max shrugged. "It's no big deal. I did stop the Breach from spreading so that's one good thing out of all this." Cassandra looked sidelong at him. Her penetrating gaze made him flinch uncomfortably. "What?" "Nothing...Just... You look familiar now that the world isn't falling apart around us. Where have I seen you before?" Max smiled at her. "I'm a member of the Trevelyn noble family of Ostwick. So you may have seen paintings of me or something. Dad always made us have a portrait taken of us three." Cassandra looked at him quizzically. "You three?" "Oh yeah. I'm the youngest son of Bann Trevelyn. Youngest of three actually. Just don't tell anyone I'm a noble alright?" Cassandra raised an eye at that. Most of the nobles she knew wanted nothing more than to tell everyone that they were rich and 'better' than everyone else. She decided to ask him. "Why don't you want people to know you are a noble, my Lord?" Max frowned. It was something he didn't do often as Cassandra found out. He was very bad at it. He made a 'there you go gesture'. "That's why. I don't like being treated like a noble. I've had enough of that growing up. I don't need nor want people to go parading my name around like its something worth honoring. I don't deserve to be a noble so I don't want to be treated like one." "Why don't you deserve it? Did you do something bad?" Max shook his head. "No nothing really bad. I didn't kill anyone or steal something if that's what your asking. Nothing as base as that. No I did something far worse. At least my family thinks it is." "Well what did you do?" Max shuffled his feet. "I don't feel like talking about it. Not yet." Cassandra groaned. "You can't do that. You can't peak my interest then leave me wanting more." Max raised his eyebrow. "Oh? You want more about me? Hmmm. I don't think I'll tell you. First you have to tell me a little something about you 'Right Hand of the Divine'." The Seeker flinched. "You know my title?" Max chuckled. "It's not hard to put two and two together you know. I heard your name once or twice in the Chantry when I was younger." "And how old are you, if I may ask?" "Thirty. A I'm not dumb enough to ask a lady her age. Varric, maybe but not me." Her mouth twitched in a grin. *So close.* She sighed. "So why are me about myself?" "Just trying to make things between us less..." Max searched for the word. Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "Antagonistic?" "Precisely." "Well if you must know, I was born and raised in Nevarra." Max grinned. "I got that that from the accent." She looked sidelong at him. "My accent isn't that noticeable." He nodded."It absolutely is. But don't worry: it works for you. It's still nicer than an Orlesian accent, that's for sure." Cassandra looked at him quizzically. Max tried to keep a straight face for as long as he could but her stare was too much. Finally he let out his pent up laughter and she realized that he was teasing her. She scowled and rolled her eyes. "Do your friends like it when you make fun of them?" She asked, annoyed that she had thought he actually liked her accent. He smiled again. *That smile of his is infectious.* she thought. It was hard not to smile with him. "I wouldn't know. I don't have a whole lot of friends." "Somehow that doesn't surprise me." He grasped his chest and feigned a wounded look. "Ouch." "Why don't you have a lot of friends? Is it because no one can stand your constant teasing?" Max sighed. "No, I just preferred to be alone. I was like the lost sheep of my family. Didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, kept to myself. That kind of thing. What about you? Do you have many friends? Wait let me guess: no one brave or stupid enough to approach you in order for the friendship to start burning has came up to you yet?" Her mouth twitched in a grin again. "You approached me. Your talking to me. So what does that make you?" Max went to speak then shut his mouth once he realized that he had been outsmarted. He shrugged and faced the defeat with dignity. The two talked for about thirty minutes before Cassandra retrieved a practice sword and tossed it to him. Not ready for it, he dropped it. It clanked on the rocky snowy ground. Max eyeballed it uncertainly. "What was that for?" "Training. I want to see how well you can hold your own in a fight. When we were stopping the Breach, I noticed that Uluru were quite flimsy with a sword. I want to make sure you know what you are doing else I have to clean your entrails off the battleground." "Just to let you know, I don't use swords. I'm more of the sneaky stabby type of guy." Cassandra raised her eyes. "You use daggers? Hmm. From your choice of weapons at the Breach, I thought you were a swordsman." Max shook his head. "I only used the sword because that was what I had. I prefer to fight using daggers. Or stilettos if you have any. But I'm not fighting with a sword unless I really have to. Bad things happen when I use a sword. Not used to its length." Cassandra nodded. Then groaned. Max wondered why and then he found out. Varric had come up behind them and had overheard their conversation. "I have a good friend who would have blushed with all this talk of sword and dagger length." Max couldn't hide his grin. Cassandra rolled her eyes. "Ugh. What do you want Varric?" "Oh just stopping by to tell you that you both are need in the war room." Max groaned. "Why me? I'm not important enough right?" Varric gave a hearty laugh. "'Not important enough'? Was that a serious question?" Max stared blankly at him. "Well, shit. You really don't know?" "Don't know what? What is it I don't know?" Varric doubled over with laughter. Max pestered him about what he didn't know but Varric just waved him off as he walked away back towards the tavern. Max looked to Cassandra. "What was that all about?" She took a couple seconds before she responded. "Some say you are the Herald of Andraste. People heard about what happened at the Breach. People have heard stories of how we found you." "How did I survive the blast?" "No one truly knows. They say you stepped out of a rift. A woman was there behind you. No one knows who she is. But people are saying that it was Andraste herself sending you to help us." "That sounds like the last thing I remember before I woke in chains. In my vision or whatever you want to call it, a woman did reach out to me as I was running away from some type of creature. But that's all I remember. What do you think about it?" He asked her. "Yes I believe she sent you in our hour of need. What else could it be? But what about you? How do you feel about it?" Max shrugged. "I don't know how I should feel. I don't feel like I've been 'touched by Andraste' or anything. Anyway, we should probably head down to the war table. I suppose we are important." ******************* They walked into a large room with a wide table in the middle. Three people stood around it. Leliana was on the left side of the table, and two other people were were standing across from the door. A male and female. The male had short sleek blonde hair and a stubble filled face with a small smile. He had on a chest plate with red feathers lining the top. At his side was a gleaming iron sword. Beside him stood a small dark skinned woman with her long black hair tied in a bun. Locks came out on the sides of her face and a bright smile lit up on her face when they entered. She wore a dazzling yellow skirt that immediately caught every eye whenever she entered a room. But her smile, Max noticed, was just a mask. He was used to nobles wearing a mask to hide their real plans. Although this woman's smile did seem authentic. Maybe because she thought he was the Herald. *So a noblewoman and a soldier and a hero. Odd trio.* Cassandra gestured to the soldier saying, "This is Commander Cullen: leader of the Inquisition's forces." "As they are. We lost a lot of men because of the Breach." The mans voice even sounded like a soldiers. "And we'll lose a lot more before this whole thing is over." Max said. Cassandra turned to the lady in yellow. "This is our ambassador: Josephine Montilyet." Josephine bowed her head. "I've heard much. It's an honor to finally meet you." Max bowed in reply. Finally Cassandra turned to Leliana. "And you already know Leliana." Max rubbed his bearded chin. "Yeah her name does ring a bell." He said sarcastically. That earned a chuckle from Cullen and a coy smile from Josephine. Leliana hid a grin and Cassandra ignored the comment altogether. Leliana nodded and said, "My business here involves a degree of-." Cassandra cut her off. "Leliana is our spymaster." Leliana sighed. "Yes. Tactically put, Cassandra." Max grinned. "That's an impressive bunch of titles." Max thought he heard a snicker come from Cassandra's area but when he looked at her, she had on her usual stone serious face on. "So why did you three call us down here? Just to admire the glowing green mark on my hand spewing out magic? That's a popular thing to look at nowadays from what I've been told. Or do you want to talk about the so called 'Herald of Andraste' business? That's a close second." Leliana spoke. "We called you down so we could discuss what to do next." "Why me though? I'm not that important other than the blasted thing carved into my hand." Cullen chuckled. "Not that important? You are a hero who saved the world from being swallowed up by the Breach. I say that makes you at least a little important." Max shook his head. "All I did was stop it spreading. I didn't get rid of it. Hell, some people even think I put it in the sky in the first place." Josephine spoke with a heavy Antivan accent that sounded very enticing. It made him want to listen to her voice more. "The Chantry seems to think that. They already did even before you stopped it. And Chancellor Roderick has been at the forefront of that belief." "With all due respect, I say hang the Chantry. I don't see them out here trying to stitch the hole in the sky." scoffed Cullen. "The Chantry's only strength is that they are united in opinion. And yet they may bury us in them. We should try to come to a truce with the Chantry before anything else. Maybe there are some sisters sympathetic to our cause?" She said in question. Leliana stepped forward. "Not sisters but a we may have a mother of helping. There is a woman:Mother Giselle, who is out in the Hinterlands aiding the refugees trapped amongst the fighting. She has shown interest in helping the Inquisition. We could reach out to her and help aid the refugees at the same time. If that's fine with the Herald?" She poised the question at Max who jumped as he realized everyone was looking at him, expecting an answer. "Why are you all looking at me?" Cassandra sighed, annoyed. "There may be rifts spread throughout the Hinterlands. That means there may be demons preying on the refugees. And since you are the only one who can seal them, you need to go with whoever goes to meet Mother Giselle." "You had me at demons preying on the helpless. We can't have that now can we?" Cullen nodded. "Now all that's left is to figure out who is going. The Herald obviously. I say he be accompanied by force of twenty men at least for protection." Leliana shook her head. "Out of the question. A force like that would only attract unwanted attention. We need to send a small force of maybe four or five people including the Herald. That way, they can help without drawing too much attention tho themselves. My scouts can occupy any good base camp spots and keep an eye on what's going on." "I will go with the Herald." Cassandra said. It was not a question. Max raised a hand. "Um, the Herald has a name you know. It's Max by the way. Just for future references." Cassandra ignored him. It was a favorite pastime of hers it seemed. "Who else will go with him?" Josephine asked. "Solas should go. He knows more about the rifts than anyone else." Suggested Cassandra. "Varric should go as well." Max said. Instantly, Cassandra shook her head. "Out of the question. I am not going anywhere with that dwarf. I've had enough of that rogue to last a lifetime. If I spend any more time with him I'll go mad." Max looked her in the eyes as he said, "Cassandra, Varric has the most experience here besides maybe Leliana as far as following someone around killing bad guys. Besides, if I have to put up with both Solas and you, I'll go mad." "But-." Leliana cleared her throat. "It makes sense, Cassandra. Varric joined Hawke on many of his 'adventures'. If anyone knows how to work as a small team, it's him." After a few moments. Cassandra relented. "Fine. But if he annoys me, I'm throwing him off a ledge." Max smirked. "I kind of want to see that now." Cassandra turned to him. "Then I'll throw you off a ledge." "Can it be a small rock instead?" "For you I'll make it a mountain." "Aww we've only known each other a day or two and yet you are already giving me gifts." "I'll give you a gift in the shape of a fist." Josephine cleared her throat loudly, causing both of them to turn back to the table. "What?" They both asked at the same time. "Let's focus on the task at hand and not at throwing each other off mountains." Max shrugged. "She started it." "Did not." "Did-." Cullen interrupted them. "Please for the love of the Maker, be quiet." Max grinned at Cassandra. She snorted in disgust.

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jotawakening-blog · 8 years ago

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30 Pentember, 5A 169: Out of Thin Air

In the morning, I say my goodbyes and hit the road once more. The plan for today is to travel south and see if the magical incantation that Morgan Le Faye mentioned might be found on the chaos altar near Scorpius’ grave, and whether the Lady of the Lake has chosen as her residence either of the lakes west of Yanille. Besides, I’ve also got bar crawling to do in Yanille.

First, though, I must complete a disagreeable little task that had slipped my mind earlier: fulfilling the final part of my bargain with the ZMI mage in Varrock, to triangulate the location of the rune essence mine, allowing the ZMI to steal rune essence from there at will (or at least until the Wizards’ Tower catches on). My unwitting accomplice in this shall be Wizard Cromperty, to whom I come, orb hidden in pack, and ask to be teleported to the essence. He obliges, and I take the last set of readings. Okay, now I can return to Varrock with this sordid business…

But first, the trip south. I strike out along the Dougne and make my first stop the chaos altar. I take a close look at its sides, hoping to find an inscription, but there isn’t even a trace of one, just smooth, dark granite. I guess this wasn’t the right place. Blasted Morgana, why did she have to be so cryptic?

Well, there’s nothing to be done but move on further south. There are two lakes of interest to me: one near the Castle Wars arena, and one closer in to the Yanille walls. A few hours’ march brings me to the shores of both of them. Unfortunately, here, too, I have no luck: instead of a maiden, all I find are goblins and ogres, who, shall we say, are not the type to be guarding magical swords: knowing them, they’d just use Excalibur for a meat skewer…

When confronted with failure, the obvious response is to pack it in and go to the pub, which is what I do, with a twist: I visit the Dragon in Yanille and ask for whatever rotgut they serve people doing the Alfred Grimhand bar crawl. The bartender obliges and hands me a shot of fire brandy, which he actually lights on fire, to emphasise its main property. I blow the flame out (not certain whether I should just down it flame and all, but I play it safe) and drink it down. Oh, how it burns… but at least I now have another signature for my pain. While I’m still reeling from the alcohol, I run into Xenia, who congratulates me on ridding the world of Count Draynor. She recounts how she used to hunt vampyres alongside Dr. Harlow, but Draynor had felt the heat and made himself unreachable up in his manor. Fortunately, I got him when his guard was down, and now, apparently, there is not a single vampyre left west of the Salve. That’s reassuring news.

So, where now? Well, there’s the matter of the waterfall: the only lead I had managed to obtain was that a gnome had stolen the key to Glarial’s tomb and hidden it in the Tree Gnome Village. Since I’m in the area, I figure I might ask around and see whether anyone knows anything about its whereabouts. To get there, I head north from Yanille and cut across the not-very-pleasant compound of General Khazard, Warden of the South. Last time I was here, I didn’t have much time to poke around. This time, however, I have much more latitude in this regard, and so I snoop on the goings-on inside the Khazard camp. The centrepiece of the place is a crudely built arena where half-naked figures do battle for the amusement of the guards. (I’m told by the locals that Lord Khazard has been known to throw ogres, and even dragons, at the gladiators!) It’s clear enough that the fighters aren’t there of their own will, which, again, raises the question of why King Lathas allows the warlord to get away with running this twisted arena. In this case, however, an answer isn’t hard to guess at: with the degree to which this place is militarised, I wouldn’t be surprised if the royal army simply wasn’t up for the challenge, especially if they are being kept in reserve to stop King Tyras if he returns. Be that as it may, I get a close-up look at the arena itself, as well as the barracks, and even the laundry building. I even take a quick look inside the troops’ bar, but it’s full of Khazard troopers who don’t want me there and one civilian who’s having an extremely weird dream, so I don’t spend too long there. General Khazard’s HQ, on the other hand, is strictly guarded and off-limits… not that I’d want to waltz in.

There isn’t much reason to stick around, so I make my way to the entrance to the hedge maze surrounding King Bolren’s village and get the gnome on guard duty to teleport me to the village proper. Once there, I ask around to see whether anyone knows anything about a kay to Queen Glarial’s tomb, but it doesn’t ring any bells for anybody, not even the King. Well, it was a long time, perhaps the trail has just gone dead after all…

There’s one more, remote possibility, though: when travelling through the hedge maze for the first time, I came across a cellar of sorts near the gate to the village proper. There was all sorts of junk stacked in there— could the key be down there as well? I’m not optimistic, but I go check anyway: after disappointment upon disappointment, maybe now my luck will turn?

I descend the ladder into the cellar, and find that it’s just as infested with hobgoblins as it was the last time I was around. Fortunately, I’m better-prepared now than I was, and killing the hobgoblins brave enough to attack me isn’t an issue. The bad news is that I don’t find a key of any sort, only a prison into which the hobgoblins have thrown a hapless gnome. I try freeing him, but the lock doesn’t yield to my attempts to pick it. There’s probably a key somewhere here, though…

Aha! It was in the neighbouring room, where all the junk was, and where now I find several giant bats, a zombie or two, and a mysterious crawl space. There’s also a large brass key on top of one of the many, many boxes. I’m guessing it’s the prison key, and the hobgoblins have just left it there. My hunch turns out to be correct: the key fits the lock, and I’m able to open the gate to the cell and speak with the gnome who’d been locked inside. He introduces himself as Golrie, and tells me he was locked in here after coming down to protect some family heirlooms against the hobgoblins. He thanks me for freeing him, and eagerly agrees to let me rummage through his stash. Among the various gnomish odds and ends, I find a small pebble decorated with elvish script that looks exactly like the one I’m looking for. I ask Golrie whether I can keep it; he tells me to go ahead: it’s just something his grandfather found and that he doesn’t know what to do with. Hey, I’ll gladly take it if you don’t want it. He also lets me take some pretty-looking crystalline discs, but I have no idea what purpose they serve.

Anyway, now that I’ve got the key, I’m eager to go tomb raiding. I ask the spirit tree at the heart of the village to take me to the outskirts of Ardougne. From there, I swing by the bank to drop off my excess load and head out toward the grave site. When I reach it, I place the pebble I found in the keyhole on the monument. It fits perfectly, but nothing happens. Drat, what did I do wrong? The answer, it turns out, is in the inscription: only those with peaceful intent may enter’. I guess that means no weapons, and so another trip to the bank. I’ll take my armour off, too, just in case it’s warded against that as well. Once I’ve dropped off my stuff, I return to the monument, but it still won’t open. Damn it, what am I missing? Huh, maybe it’s picking up the kitchen knife I have in my pack. Damn thing is too blunt to hurt anyone, but… THERE we go, now it opened! The stone slab covering the tomb slides back, revealing a narrow staircase that leads underground.

I descend, and have a look around. Glarial’s tomb is a branching cavern that, by elven magic of some kind, has trees growing inside it. That’s not it, though: there are also plenty of guardians— skeletons held together by vines and giant root golems. In my disarmed state, I can’t do much against them, so I explore the tomb in a rush, dodging their attacks as best I can. My search turns up two items of interest: a rather understated green-gem pendant and a crystal urn which, so far as I can tell, contains Glarial’s ashes. I remove both items from the tomb, since there’s no way to study them while under attack from the guardians, but promise myself that I’ll return them if I’m unable to find the treasure using them.

Inspecting the items with my untrained eye, I fail to find any further clues to the elf-king’s treasure. The only idea I have is that I can take the urn and amulet out to the ledge on the waterfall (where I’m pretty sure Baxtorian’s final resting place is) and see if anything happens. For that, I’d rather go fully equipped, if it’s all the same to the elven magic guarding the place, so I venture north to the barbarian outpost and get my gear back from the bank there. Then, once I’m armed and armoured, I carefully return to the edge of the waterfall and clamber down onto the ledge. This time, as my feet land on the ledge, a stone slab lifts up, giving me access to a tunnel heading deep into the falls! Hey, I think I did it!

I venture inside, into an antechamber inhabited by wispy, ethereal spiders, which straddle the border between living and purely magical, and I can’t decide where they fit. The antechamber branches into three passages: a central one, which leads to a ceremonial banquet hall that is empty save for its furnishings and a mysterious aperture, of the sort I’ve seen here and there and through which fire giants (not aggressively inclined, luckily) come and go, and two that lead off to the sides. I first go right, into a dusty storage room guarded by more of those vine-skeletons. I don’t see much reason to fight them, so I dodge their attacks as I rummage through the room. What I find is mostly dust, and also an intricate key. What does this one open?

Perhaps I shall find the answer down the left passage. This one is barred by several doors, one of which is locked. There’s a key lying at its base, but I try the one I found first, figuring that the one offered is more than likely a decoy and/or a trap. The door opens, and I go through, into a room with two statues of Baxtorian and Glarial overlooking a dais, above which floats (yes, floats!) a golden chalice. The dais is flanked by six low pillars, each of which is crowned by an indentation in the shape of a rune. Well, I wasn’t expecting additional challenges to overcome, but I think I’m really getting close! I must see if the information I found about Baxtorian makes any mention of runestones.

To find out, I exit the tomb and return to the barbarian outpost, where I pull out the book on Baxtorian and start flipping through it. Hm… the text indicates that Baxtorian was a master of earth, water and air magic, so those are probably the runes I need. But there’s a problem, and it goes deeper than just this one caper: I am completely and utterly out of air runes, and have been for some time. Seeing that the universe is telling me to make more, pronto, I decide to put my tomb raiding plans on hold and return to Varrock, where I can sell off loot, reequip, and do a whole bunch of other stuff I’d put on hold in order to go west.

Even getting to Varrock is a problem, without air runes, though fortunately the teleport tablets I received way back in the day save my bacon, as I’m able to break one and be whisked away to Varrock market. Once there, I hit the Exchange, and finish the day by selling off most all of the excess trash/treasure I found on my recent travels. I’ll get even more done tomorrow, I’m sure!

#runescape #journal #roleplay #glarial #waterfall

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