You did more than you think you did... It's so much less sterile and clinical now.Tasmen wrote...
Bah. I really didn't have to do much.
FanFiction - Terrible Beauty - Updated 8/30
Débuté par
odiedragon
, avril 03 2010 09:45
#26
Posté 03 mai 2010 - 01:03
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Retour en haut
#27
Posté 03 mai 2010 - 01:06
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Demetra11 wrote...
Finally!
Really nice^^
And just what is that suppoed to mean?
What can I say, my brain is apprantly wired for novels, not serial fiction. 
Which is fine, I guess, I just won't be cranking out chapters as quickly as I would like!
#28
Posté 03 mai 2010 - 03:38
Demetra11
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odiedragon wrote...
Demetra11 wrote...
Finally!
Really nice^^
And just what is that suppoed to mean?
Uh.
It means ( have i ever mentioned this is not my nativ language? I try)
Finally, the next chapter is out. ( Hurrah!)
Really nice: I really liked to read it, and the smexy part, was sexy^^
Sorry for the short sentences before:blush:
Modifié par Demetra11, 03 mai 2010 - 11:38 .
#29
Posté 04 mai 2010 - 03:17
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No problem!
Cousie's clearly knows a thing or two about sexy times.
Cousie's clearly knows a thing or two about sexy times.
Modifié par odiedragon, 04 mai 2010 - 03:18 .
#30
Posté 04 mai 2010 - 04:38
Tasmen
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odiedragon wrote...
No problem!
Cousie's clearly knows a thing or two about sexy times.
Tis true. The girl's got talent.
#31
Posté 10 mai 2010 - 12:03
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I made my goal of having my next chapter up by Sunday night! Go Team Odie! 
This is the second half of my Elisara/Nathaniel pre-game snapshot. Rated M for iMplied sex, as well as a completely adorable not-sexual Mabari pup!
http://www.fanfictio...Terrible_Beauty
This is the second half of my Elisara/Nathaniel pre-game snapshot. Rated M for iMplied sex, as well as a completely adorable not-sexual Mabari pup!
http://www.fanfictio...Terrible_Beauty
Modifié par odiedragon, 10 mai 2010 - 12:04 .
#32
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 03:25
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Chapter 1 Snippets:
"I do remember some of the story, you know. I know that Teryn Loghain rescued King Maric after he managed to escape the Bann's trap."
"Very good child, but considering that is one of the most well known parts of the story, it doesn't exactly tell me that you were paying attention."
Elisara chewed her lip, thinking fast. "Ask me another question then, Aldous."
"Very well," the old man agreed. "How did Bann Ceorlic meet his demise?"
Elisara tried not to grin, but it was so hard not to. She had not skipped this part of the story. "King Maric killed him, in his own hall."
"That should not please you, my lady. It was justice. Necessary perhaps, but not something that should please you."
"I bet it pleased King Maric."
"You would be wise as to never to ask him about that," Aldous scolded. He rubbed his eyes in frustration. "I don't think we're going to have any more luck with your lessons today. You're dismissed, child."
Elisara snapped shut the book she'd been pretending to read and leapt up out of her chair.
"It figures that this is when you most closely listen to me..." Aldous muttered ruefully as Elissa flew out the library door.
.oOo.
A bit of the setting sun was still visible behind the cliff where Redcliffe Castle sat. It almost appeared to grow right out of the cliff itself, with its shear walls above and steep cliffs below. Redcliffe was the only home that Alistair had ever known. While he didn't hate the place, to think of it is "home" felt wrong, somehow. It certainly didn't make him feel the way that the concept of home sounded in the songs and tales. Not that he heard a lot of those in the stables, but feastdays and cold winter nights often lead to the castle staff gathering and entertaining one another. He supposed the halls and the stones could count as his home, but only in the physical sense. Home should be more than just walls and a ceiling, he thought. Home should mean people, people who cared about him. Home should mean family. And what family did Alistair have? Sure, some in the castle were kind to him, and Arl Eamon tried to watch out for him. But they always had others who counted as real family to them, people they cared about more than the pitiable orphan boy that they sometimes shared a kind word with. He was missing something, something important, he could feel it, see it, almost touch it, even. Yet it stayed out of reach.
He pulled his amulet out of his shirt, rubbing his thumb over its face. He'd had a mother, once. Depending on who you talked to, she either died when he was born, or when he was very young, or she was sent away for reasons no one would discuss. Not that Alistair ever asked questions about his mother, but he heard the whispers when people thought he wasn't listening. He knew from working in the stables that he had to have had a father as well. He knew that what the Chantry taught about how babies were made wasn't true. Babies didn't appear out of the Fade. Serving girls who fell pregnant, married or otherwise, were always the subject of rampant gossip both good and bad. But who was his father? Was it Arl Eamon? People thought that, sure, but the arl had never confirmed this, and Alistair had always found him to be an honest man. He would have said something, Alistair was sure.
"I do remember some of the story, you know. I know that Teryn Loghain rescued King Maric after he managed to escape the Bann's trap."
"Very good child, but considering that is one of the most well known parts of the story, it doesn't exactly tell me that you were paying attention."
Elisara chewed her lip, thinking fast. "Ask me another question then, Aldous."
"Very well," the old man agreed. "How did Bann Ceorlic meet his demise?"
Elisara tried not to grin, but it was so hard not to. She had not skipped this part of the story. "King Maric killed him, in his own hall."
"That should not please you, my lady. It was justice. Necessary perhaps, but not something that should please you."
"I bet it pleased King Maric."
"You would be wise as to never to ask him about that," Aldous scolded. He rubbed his eyes in frustration. "I don't think we're going to have any more luck with your lessons today. You're dismissed, child."
Elisara snapped shut the book she'd been pretending to read and leapt up out of her chair.
"It figures that this is when you most closely listen to me..." Aldous muttered ruefully as Elissa flew out the library door.
.oOo.
A bit of the setting sun was still visible behind the cliff where Redcliffe Castle sat. It almost appeared to grow right out of the cliff itself, with its shear walls above and steep cliffs below. Redcliffe was the only home that Alistair had ever known. While he didn't hate the place, to think of it is "home" felt wrong, somehow. It certainly didn't make him feel the way that the concept of home sounded in the songs and tales. Not that he heard a lot of those in the stables, but feastdays and cold winter nights often lead to the castle staff gathering and entertaining one another. He supposed the halls and the stones could count as his home, but only in the physical sense. Home should be more than just walls and a ceiling, he thought. Home should mean people, people who cared about him. Home should mean family. And what family did Alistair have? Sure, some in the castle were kind to him, and Arl Eamon tried to watch out for him. But they always had others who counted as real family to them, people they cared about more than the pitiable orphan boy that they sometimes shared a kind word with. He was missing something, something important, he could feel it, see it, almost touch it, even. Yet it stayed out of reach.
He pulled his amulet out of his shirt, rubbing his thumb over its face. He'd had a mother, once. Depending on who you talked to, she either died when he was born, or when he was very young, or she was sent away for reasons no one would discuss. Not that Alistair ever asked questions about his mother, but he heard the whispers when people thought he wasn't listening. He knew from working in the stables that he had to have had a father as well. He knew that what the Chantry taught about how babies were made wasn't true. Babies didn't appear out of the Fade. Serving girls who fell pregnant, married or otherwise, were always the subject of rampant gossip both good and bad. But who was his father? Was it Arl Eamon? People thought that, sure, but the arl had never confirmed this, and Alistair had always found him to be an honest man. He would have said something, Alistair was sure.
Modifié par odiedragon, 11 mai 2010 - 04:02 .
#33
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 03:35
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Chapter 2 Snippets:
Light as a feather, silent as a wraith. Elisara pushed on the heavy door, hoping to slowly open it just wide enough for her to slip through into the room. Slowly… slowly… like a wolf in the night among the sheep…The door betrayed her with a loud creeeeeeak. Of course. The servants here must be as lazy as half the servants in Highever, letting the door hinges fall into such a state of neglect. The Black Wolf wouldn't have made such a stupid mistake, she scolded herself. Then again, the Black Wolf always seemed to have a vial of oil handy whenever he went burgling.
"Who's there?" a voice called from within the kennel. Elisara let out her held breath, for it was clearly a child's voice and not an adult one. Maybe she wasn't caught quite yet. Bravely she stepped into the room.
"You question the actions of your princess? You are brave, for a dog-boy." She put on what she hoped was her best noble-and-full-of-seriousness face.
The boy narrowed his eyes at her. "You're no princess. We don't got no princesses right now, not in Ferelden anyway."
"Oh? And what of my friend Lady Anora? She is betrothed to Prince Cailan himself. Does that not make her a princess?"
"No more than it makes me a prince," the boy spat in response. He looked positively angry now.
She scoffed. "Don't be absurd, Dog-Boy."
He stood and approached her. "What do you want? I highly doubt your father would approve of you sneaking around in the middle of the night. Shouldn't you be back in the palace or your father's estate or, well, somewhere other than here?"
"I will go where I like, when I like, and I will not be questioned by dog-boys!" Elisara wanted to say more, but more shouting would only draw attention. "Now," she continued, "Where are the pups? I would like to see them." Mother did always say it was more effective to get what you wanted from people if you asked politely and spoke clearly. It was just so hard to do when dealing with willful servants like Dog-Boy.
Dog-Boy sighed. "They're over there, in the birthing pen. Just don't come crying to me if Gracie decides that your delicate princessy hands look like tasty meat snacks." With that, he returned to where he had been sitting, next to an open crate full of straw and a small bucket.
.oOo.
The two lords and their king sat in the study in front of the fire discussing many varied topics. Everything from trade to taxes on Orlesian imports to the king's recent state visit to Antiva. It was only toward the end of their conversation, late into the night, when the topic turned to what Maric had come here to truly discuss and yet avoid the entire evening.
"He turned 10 this past summer, as I'm sure you're well aware. We must decide what the boy's future will be. It is not such a simple thing to keep him hidden as he grows, both in age and in knowledge," Eamon said.
"Blast it all, Eamon, why did you have to tell the boy? About me, I mean? I thought we'd agreed he was better off not knowing." Maric rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "That's all he knows, right? He knows nothing of his mother?"
"No. He believes the story that we've used all these years, that the serving girl who claimed to be carrying your child was his mother." Eamon replied.
"Well thank the Maker for small mercies then. I never understood why she asked that of me, but at least her wishes have been respected," the king stated, finishing off the last bit of brandy from his glass. "But you didn't answer my question. Why did you tell him?"
Eamon cleared his throat before continuing. "He's a bright lad, and he has been subjected to servant's gossip by nature of his upbringing. He demanded to know the truth, and it felt dishonest not to tell him."
"I… suppose I understand," Maric agreed begrudgingly. "Still, that can't have made things easier for the boy."
"The truth is rarely something easy to face, Maric," Eamon answered. "He was warned not to speak of it to anyone, and from what I'm able to gather he's done so. But the problem of what to do with the boy is still an issue. Even if he didn't know who he was, he's still rapidly growing into a young man."
"If I may?" Urien interjected. "I believe the most prudent route here would be to turn the boy over to the Chantry. Have him sworn to celibacy and trained as a Templar. It gives him a purpose, a calling to pursue, and if all goes well it keeps him from muddying the waters of Cailan's succession. At worst, it gives us plausible deniability were he ever to conceive a son. It would be easy for the woman's claim to be brushed off as implausible, and if it was a mage, Maker forbid, the Chantry would lay claim on the child anyway. Nice and neat, I think."
Eamon looked at Urien, and Maric looked at Eamon. Eamon spoke first. "Alistair would make a horrible Templar, Urien. I don't doubt his devotion to duty and sense of right and wrong, but he's… a bit of a troublemaker. No offense intended, Your Majesty."
"I can hardly be offended, given how little influence I've been able to have on the boy," Maric replied. All was quiet for several moments. "Urien's idea has merit however. There is no ideal solution to this situation, and there's a lot that makes sense in what he says."
"Then I shall speak with the Reveared Mother and Knight-Commander when I return to Redcliffe," Eamon agreed with a firm nod. "Though you'll forgive me if I don't do send the boy to them right away. I have a feeling Isolde and our child will be holding most of my attention for some time. Plus, the boy is still young. There is no rush or pressing need to send him off."
"He's your ward, Eamon. Send him to the Chantry whenever you deem it best," Maric hated this feeling, where doing what was best and what was right still felt so inherently wrong.
Light as a feather, silent as a wraith. Elisara pushed on the heavy door, hoping to slowly open it just wide enough for her to slip through into the room. Slowly… slowly… like a wolf in the night among the sheep…The door betrayed her with a loud creeeeeeak. Of course. The servants here must be as lazy as half the servants in Highever, letting the door hinges fall into such a state of neglect. The Black Wolf wouldn't have made such a stupid mistake, she scolded herself. Then again, the Black Wolf always seemed to have a vial of oil handy whenever he went burgling.
"Who's there?" a voice called from within the kennel. Elisara let out her held breath, for it was clearly a child's voice and not an adult one. Maybe she wasn't caught quite yet. Bravely she stepped into the room.
"You question the actions of your princess? You are brave, for a dog-boy." She put on what she hoped was her best noble-and-full-of-seriousness face.
The boy narrowed his eyes at her. "You're no princess. We don't got no princesses right now, not in Ferelden anyway."
"Oh? And what of my friend Lady Anora? She is betrothed to Prince Cailan himself. Does that not make her a princess?"
"No more than it makes me a prince," the boy spat in response. He looked positively angry now.
She scoffed. "Don't be absurd, Dog-Boy."
He stood and approached her. "What do you want? I highly doubt your father would approve of you sneaking around in the middle of the night. Shouldn't you be back in the palace or your father's estate or, well, somewhere other than here?"
"I will go where I like, when I like, and I will not be questioned by dog-boys!" Elisara wanted to say more, but more shouting would only draw attention. "Now," she continued, "Where are the pups? I would like to see them." Mother did always say it was more effective to get what you wanted from people if you asked politely and spoke clearly. It was just so hard to do when dealing with willful servants like Dog-Boy.
Dog-Boy sighed. "They're over there, in the birthing pen. Just don't come crying to me if Gracie decides that your delicate princessy hands look like tasty meat snacks." With that, he returned to where he had been sitting, next to an open crate full of straw and a small bucket.
.oOo.
The two lords and their king sat in the study in front of the fire discussing many varied topics. Everything from trade to taxes on Orlesian imports to the king's recent state visit to Antiva. It was only toward the end of their conversation, late into the night, when the topic turned to what Maric had come here to truly discuss and yet avoid the entire evening.
"He turned 10 this past summer, as I'm sure you're well aware. We must decide what the boy's future will be. It is not such a simple thing to keep him hidden as he grows, both in age and in knowledge," Eamon said.
"Blast it all, Eamon, why did you have to tell the boy? About me, I mean? I thought we'd agreed he was better off not knowing." Maric rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "That's all he knows, right? He knows nothing of his mother?"
"No. He believes the story that we've used all these years, that the serving girl who claimed to be carrying your child was his mother." Eamon replied.
"Well thank the Maker for small mercies then. I never understood why she asked that of me, but at least her wishes have been respected," the king stated, finishing off the last bit of brandy from his glass. "But you didn't answer my question. Why did you tell him?"
Eamon cleared his throat before continuing. "He's a bright lad, and he has been subjected to servant's gossip by nature of his upbringing. He demanded to know the truth, and it felt dishonest not to tell him."
"I… suppose I understand," Maric agreed begrudgingly. "Still, that can't have made things easier for the boy."
"The truth is rarely something easy to face, Maric," Eamon answered. "He was warned not to speak of it to anyone, and from what I'm able to gather he's done so. But the problem of what to do with the boy is still an issue. Even if he didn't know who he was, he's still rapidly growing into a young man."
"If I may?" Urien interjected. "I believe the most prudent route here would be to turn the boy over to the Chantry. Have him sworn to celibacy and trained as a Templar. It gives him a purpose, a calling to pursue, and if all goes well it keeps him from muddying the waters of Cailan's succession. At worst, it gives us plausible deniability were he ever to conceive a son. It would be easy for the woman's claim to be brushed off as implausible, and if it was a mage, Maker forbid, the Chantry would lay claim on the child anyway. Nice and neat, I think."
Eamon looked at Urien, and Maric looked at Eamon. Eamon spoke first. "Alistair would make a horrible Templar, Urien. I don't doubt his devotion to duty and sense of right and wrong, but he's… a bit of a troublemaker. No offense intended, Your Majesty."
"I can hardly be offended, given how little influence I've been able to have on the boy," Maric replied. All was quiet for several moments. "Urien's idea has merit however. There is no ideal solution to this situation, and there's a lot that makes sense in what he says."
"Then I shall speak with the Reveared Mother and Knight-Commander when I return to Redcliffe," Eamon agreed with a firm nod. "Though you'll forgive me if I don't do send the boy to them right away. I have a feeling Isolde and our child will be holding most of my attention for some time. Plus, the boy is still young. There is no rush or pressing need to send him off."
"He's your ward, Eamon. Send him to the Chantry whenever you deem it best," Maric hated this feeling, where doing what was best and what was right still felt so inherently wrong.
#34
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 03:43
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Chapter 3 Snippet:
"They think they own me," Alistair muttered to himself. "That they can push me around like I'm some kind of servant." If he were a true prince, they would be his servants. Alistair wondered how they would like that, having to jump to attention at his every word. He could make the arlessa polish his royal armor. And then, he could take her horse, claiming that it was needed by his royal father, the king, to fight in his battles and win his wars.
He angrily rubbed his eyes at the thought, wiping away that awful burning sensation before it grew into something more. His foot lashed out as if it was out of his control, and kicked over a bucket long since left and forgotten here in his cell. It clattered across the floor, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding crash. Eventually he slid down into a sitting position, leaning against the wall with his knees held in close to his body. Even more time had passed, but without being able to see the sun he had no idea just how much. It felt like hours and hours, but that could just be his stomach talking.
He listened yet again, and still he heard nothing. Reassured that the dungeons were still empty of anyone besides him, he reached down into his tunic and pulled out the amulet he always wore. It wasn't something he did often anymore, not since the older stable boys started mocking him for wearing a necklace."My father told me that King Maric got him on some serving wench! Funny, you'd think he'd believe himself a prince, not a princess! May I get milady anything? A frilly dress? Fancy ribbons for your hair? What about a pair of pretty shoes?"It had been the shoe comment that did it. It made him think of the arlessa and her wardrobe full of ornate Orlesian shoes, which he had been tasked with organizing once. It earned the boy, the son of a minor bann visiting Redcliffe this past spring, a punch to the face and a broken nose. Alistair was banished to the kitchens for a month, scrubbing pots and cleaning butchered chickens.
He rubbed his thumb over the pendant. He often found himself doing that when was upset about something. Originally the amulet had been decorated with the symbol of Andraste's holy flame, but over the years the soft pewter had slowly worn down and the symbol was getting harder and harder to recognize.
She would have come looking for him. She would have scolded him for running off, but then they would have gone to the kitchens and had a warm dinner. Lamb and pea stew perhaps, or maybe some leftover roast from the arl's table sent back to the kitchens.His vision started blurring again.
Alistair angrily scolded himself for crying. It was summer now, and he would be eleven before the season turned again. Almost a man grown, regardless of what Arl Eamon may believe. Grown men don't simper about their dead mothers.
"They think they own me," Alistair muttered to himself. "That they can push me around like I'm some kind of servant." If he were a true prince, they would be his servants. Alistair wondered how they would like that, having to jump to attention at his every word. He could make the arlessa polish his royal armor. And then, he could take her horse, claiming that it was needed by his royal father, the king, to fight in his battles and win his wars.
He angrily rubbed his eyes at the thought, wiping away that awful burning sensation before it grew into something more. His foot lashed out as if it was out of his control, and kicked over a bucket long since left and forgotten here in his cell. It clattered across the floor, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding crash. Eventually he slid down into a sitting position, leaning against the wall with his knees held in close to his body. Even more time had passed, but without being able to see the sun he had no idea just how much. It felt like hours and hours, but that could just be his stomach talking.
He listened yet again, and still he heard nothing. Reassured that the dungeons were still empty of anyone besides him, he reached down into his tunic and pulled out the amulet he always wore. It wasn't something he did often anymore, not since the older stable boys started mocking him for wearing a necklace."My father told me that King Maric got him on some serving wench! Funny, you'd think he'd believe himself a prince, not a princess! May I get milady anything? A frilly dress? Fancy ribbons for your hair? What about a pair of pretty shoes?"It had been the shoe comment that did it. It made him think of the arlessa and her wardrobe full of ornate Orlesian shoes, which he had been tasked with organizing once. It earned the boy, the son of a minor bann visiting Redcliffe this past spring, a punch to the face and a broken nose. Alistair was banished to the kitchens for a month, scrubbing pots and cleaning butchered chickens.
He rubbed his thumb over the pendant. He often found himself doing that when was upset about something. Originally the amulet had been decorated with the symbol of Andraste's holy flame, but over the years the soft pewter had slowly worn down and the symbol was getting harder and harder to recognize.
She would have come looking for him. She would have scolded him for running off, but then they would have gone to the kitchens and had a warm dinner. Lamb and pea stew perhaps, or maybe some leftover roast from the arl's table sent back to the kitchens.His vision started blurring again.
Alistair angrily scolded himself for crying. It was summer now, and he would be eleven before the season turned again. Almost a man grown, regardless of what Arl Eamon may believe. Grown men don't simper about their dead mothers.
#35
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 03:52
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Chapter 4 Snippets:
The hallways of the Cousland's Denerim estate were long and narrow, and Mother and Father's rooms were at the far end of the wing. Hopefully they would be out, and Winoah could help her without Mother tittering over Ellie wearing a dress and being social. She had been avoiding Anora's nightly garden gatherings mostly for this reason. Swallowing hard, she knocked on her parent's bedroom door.
"Lady Elisara," Winoah greeted her as she opened the door. "It is your daughter, my lady." So much for secrecy.
"I… I don't need to come in, Mother" Elisara stuttered. "Can I just borrow Winoah for a few minutes? I need help, uh, airing out my sheets."
"Your sheets," Eleanor replied, clearly unconvinced. "Come in here, Ellie."
She sighed dramatically as she entered the room.
"I didn't know you had purple sheets, dear," Eleanor said, giving the bundle in Ellie's arms a questioning glare.
"Well, I also needed help putting on this dress," Elisara muttered.
"Oh? That's an odd request coming from you. What's the occasion?"
"Anora invited me back to the palace, to visit with her in the gardens this evening. And… well, she said that there would be others there. I didn't want to be the only woman there in leathers." Ellie hung her head at this admission. She knew it was the right thing, but admitting that to Mother made her feel ashamed and defeated.
Eleanor smiled. She was too much of a lady to let her gloating show, but Elisara knew it was there. "Very well. Winoah, please help my daughter with her dress. And, if I may make a suggestion? You may want to help her do something with that red mess on her head. Perhaps if it were pulled up into a bun or some coiled braids, it would look less like her head is on fire*."
"Very good, Your Grace," the maidservant replied. "Shall, we, my lady?" She held open the door and bowed slightly.
Rolling her eyes, Elisara stormed out of the room, Winoah following a safe distance behind.
*Elisara has dyed her hair bright red (this is touched on earlier in the chapter)
.oOo.
Elisara giggled and then took a sip of her wine. "I didn't want your guards to send me off to the training yard upon laying eyes on me, Cousin. Besides…" she glanced around and lowered her voice, leaning closer, "Do all men get so slack-jawed at the site of a woman's, how would I put it… attributes?"
Her friend smiled at her, a wicked bent coloring her grin. "A woman's charms can be one of her most powerful weapons. Do not neglect to learn the art of fighting with them in favor of your daggers. They can cut through knots in ways that your daggers cannot."
"I will remember," Elisara said with a nod. "And Maker knows I have the best teacher."
"A teacher who will probably be responsible for keeping an entire nation of petty freeholders in line without killing one another," Anora said bitterly. Her face suddenly took on the brooding look her father often wore. She sat down on one of the benches near the fountain, smoothing her crimson skirts in the process. "You should hear them bicker in the Landsmeet without Maric here to temper them. And that starry-eyed fiancé of mine does little to stop it, nor does he listen to my father's advice."
Knowing she had to tread carefully here, Elisara considered her words as she sat down on the same bench. "He's probably still reeling from his father's death. Maybe next year will be better." She took Anora's hand and squeezed it reassuringly, or so she hoped.
Anora frowned. "The workings of a nation do not stop to coddle our emotions. Or any other weakness." She drained most of the wine from her glass. "But perhaps you are right. Once we are married, things are going to change."
"It must be exciting, yes?" Elisara mused, leaping onto the change in topic. "I mean, the day is almost upon us! And you seem so calm about the whole thing. How do you do it, Cousin?"
"The same way one should handle running a nation: through delegating tasks to the right people," Anora said sagely. "Coupled with a hearty amount of swallowing your bile when those people make decisions that you may not agree with, but circumstances dictate you move forward with them anyway." With that, she handed her empty wine glass to her maid. "Verya, fetch me another one, the red this time." The maid bowed slightly and headed to do just that.
"But… so you're saying you don't have a say in the planning of your own wedding?" That sure didn't sound like the Anora Ellie knew. "Can't you just, you know, decree that things must be a certain way?"
"Hence the 'circumstances', Cousin," Anora explained. "An effective leader learns when and how to pick her battles. It's not like the wedding will suddenly be invalidated if the napkins are the wrong color or the cake isn't ten layers tall and stuffed with live doves."
Elisara giggled. "Is that truly what you wanted?"
"Of course not," Anora scoffed. "The truth is I don't really care what the cake looks like."
.oOo.
Oriana grinned wickedly. "You know, Ellie, I think he likes you!"
"Oh please," Elisara scoffed. "Counting today, we've spent all of a quarter hour together. He doesn't know anything about me!"
"And since when does that have anything to do with such things?" Oriana said, still grinning.
"Oh, hush. Lets go look at the shiny things, okay?" Elisara hurried ahead to the open air market in the main square. The first vendor she came to was one who sold various blown glass items. Vases, bowls, twisting sculptures, and figurines, all made of colored glass. Fergus and Oriana soon caught up with her, and began browsing the stall themselves.
"Oooh, look at these, Fergus! Oh, why didn't we have something like this commissioned for us when we got married?" Fergus and Oriana had been married for just over a year now. As much as it offended Elisara's sense of righteousness, it truly seemed as if they had come to care for one another, for all that their marriage had been arranged by Mother and King Maric. "Ellie, come here and look at this! It's just precious."
Precious. Whenever Oriana found something "precious" it generally meant that Elisara would despise it. She walked over, putting on her politely interested face. "What did you find?"
"Look at this!" Oriana held up a round glass globe and gave it a firm shake. The globe seemed to be filled with water that was full of little bits of white fluff. Two figures stood in the middle, a man and a woman. "Isn't it beautiful? It looks just like King Cailan and Lady Anora, don't you think?"
Elisara squinted at the statues inside the globe. Sure enough, whoever had sculpted them had attempted to make the figures resemble the King and his soon-to-be Queen. Anora's figure was acceptable, she supposed, but they had Cailan's face and eyes all wrong. And that nose! The sculptor had given Cailan a poker for a nose. She handed the globe back to Oriana. "Pretty."
Oriana placed the globe back among its mates. There had to be at least two dozen of them on the glass merchant's shelf. It made Elisara wonder what people would think when and if she was forced to marry. Would they make little snow sculptures featuring her and her future husband? Or would no one care, so long as she showed up and did her duty? The thought depressed her more than a little.
Sighing, Elisara hurried to catch up with her brother and his blissfully happy wife. Fergus always got everything. Even the impossible things.
The hallways of the Cousland's Denerim estate were long and narrow, and Mother and Father's rooms were at the far end of the wing. Hopefully they would be out, and Winoah could help her without Mother tittering over Ellie wearing a dress and being social. She had been avoiding Anora's nightly garden gatherings mostly for this reason. Swallowing hard, she knocked on her parent's bedroom door.
"Lady Elisara," Winoah greeted her as she opened the door. "It is your daughter, my lady." So much for secrecy.
"I… I don't need to come in, Mother" Elisara stuttered. "Can I just borrow Winoah for a few minutes? I need help, uh, airing out my sheets."
"Your sheets," Eleanor replied, clearly unconvinced. "Come in here, Ellie."
She sighed dramatically as she entered the room.
"I didn't know you had purple sheets, dear," Eleanor said, giving the bundle in Ellie's arms a questioning glare.
"Well, I also needed help putting on this dress," Elisara muttered.
"Oh? That's an odd request coming from you. What's the occasion?"
"Anora invited me back to the palace, to visit with her in the gardens this evening. And… well, she said that there would be others there. I didn't want to be the only woman there in leathers." Ellie hung her head at this admission. She knew it was the right thing, but admitting that to Mother made her feel ashamed and defeated.
Eleanor smiled. She was too much of a lady to let her gloating show, but Elisara knew it was there. "Very well. Winoah, please help my daughter with her dress. And, if I may make a suggestion? You may want to help her do something with that red mess on her head. Perhaps if it were pulled up into a bun or some coiled braids, it would look less like her head is on fire*."
"Very good, Your Grace," the maidservant replied. "Shall, we, my lady?" She held open the door and bowed slightly.
Rolling her eyes, Elisara stormed out of the room, Winoah following a safe distance behind.
*Elisara has dyed her hair bright red (this is touched on earlier in the chapter)
.oOo.
Elisara giggled and then took a sip of her wine. "I didn't want your guards to send me off to the training yard upon laying eyes on me, Cousin. Besides…" she glanced around and lowered her voice, leaning closer, "Do all men get so slack-jawed at the site of a woman's, how would I put it… attributes?"
Her friend smiled at her, a wicked bent coloring her grin. "A woman's charms can be one of her most powerful weapons. Do not neglect to learn the art of fighting with them in favor of your daggers. They can cut through knots in ways that your daggers cannot."
"I will remember," Elisara said with a nod. "And Maker knows I have the best teacher."
"A teacher who will probably be responsible for keeping an entire nation of petty freeholders in line without killing one another," Anora said bitterly. Her face suddenly took on the brooding look her father often wore. She sat down on one of the benches near the fountain, smoothing her crimson skirts in the process. "You should hear them bicker in the Landsmeet without Maric here to temper them. And that starry-eyed fiancé of mine does little to stop it, nor does he listen to my father's advice."
Knowing she had to tread carefully here, Elisara considered her words as she sat down on the same bench. "He's probably still reeling from his father's death. Maybe next year will be better." She took Anora's hand and squeezed it reassuringly, or so she hoped.
Anora frowned. "The workings of a nation do not stop to coddle our emotions. Or any other weakness." She drained most of the wine from her glass. "But perhaps you are right. Once we are married, things are going to change."
"It must be exciting, yes?" Elisara mused, leaping onto the change in topic. "I mean, the day is almost upon us! And you seem so calm about the whole thing. How do you do it, Cousin?"
"The same way one should handle running a nation: through delegating tasks to the right people," Anora said sagely. "Coupled with a hearty amount of swallowing your bile when those people make decisions that you may not agree with, but circumstances dictate you move forward with them anyway." With that, she handed her empty wine glass to her maid. "Verya, fetch me another one, the red this time." The maid bowed slightly and headed to do just that.
"But… so you're saying you don't have a say in the planning of your own wedding?" That sure didn't sound like the Anora Ellie knew. "Can't you just, you know, decree that things must be a certain way?"
"Hence the 'circumstances', Cousin," Anora explained. "An effective leader learns when and how to pick her battles. It's not like the wedding will suddenly be invalidated if the napkins are the wrong color or the cake isn't ten layers tall and stuffed with live doves."
Elisara giggled. "Is that truly what you wanted?"
"Of course not," Anora scoffed. "The truth is I don't really care what the cake looks like."
.oOo.
Oriana grinned wickedly. "You know, Ellie, I think he likes you!"
"Oh please," Elisara scoffed. "Counting today, we've spent all of a quarter hour together. He doesn't know anything about me!"
"And since when does that have anything to do with such things?" Oriana said, still grinning.
"Oh, hush. Lets go look at the shiny things, okay?" Elisara hurried ahead to the open air market in the main square. The first vendor she came to was one who sold various blown glass items. Vases, bowls, twisting sculptures, and figurines, all made of colored glass. Fergus and Oriana soon caught up with her, and began browsing the stall themselves.
"Oooh, look at these, Fergus! Oh, why didn't we have something like this commissioned for us when we got married?" Fergus and Oriana had been married for just over a year now. As much as it offended Elisara's sense of righteousness, it truly seemed as if they had come to care for one another, for all that their marriage had been arranged by Mother and King Maric. "Ellie, come here and look at this! It's just precious."
Precious. Whenever Oriana found something "precious" it generally meant that Elisara would despise it. She walked over, putting on her politely interested face. "What did you find?"
"Look at this!" Oriana held up a round glass globe and gave it a firm shake. The globe seemed to be filled with water that was full of little bits of white fluff. Two figures stood in the middle, a man and a woman. "Isn't it beautiful? It looks just like King Cailan and Lady Anora, don't you think?"
Elisara squinted at the statues inside the globe. Sure enough, whoever had sculpted them had attempted to make the figures resemble the King and his soon-to-be Queen. Anora's figure was acceptable, she supposed, but they had Cailan's face and eyes all wrong. And that nose! The sculptor had given Cailan a poker for a nose. She handed the globe back to Oriana. "Pretty."
Oriana placed the globe back among its mates. There had to be at least two dozen of them on the glass merchant's shelf. It made Elisara wonder what people would think when and if she was forced to marry. Would they make little snow sculptures featuring her and her future husband? Or would no one care, so long as she showed up and did her duty? The thought depressed her more than a little.
Sighing, Elisara hurried to catch up with her brother and his blissfully happy wife. Fergus always got everything. Even the impossible things.
Modifié par odiedragon, 11 mai 2010 - 08:16 .
#36
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 04:01
Gilgamesh1138
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odie, I am so sorry I have been behind, love. I really love this story from Anora' s point of view! It makes me feel guilty about how I portrayed Anora. LOL!
The very line had me spitting out coffee on my keyboard! Hey at least there will be cake right? The cake is not a lie?
I love your writing style odie. And I think another shout is in order. Fatal Beauty is just so darn good. Thanks for writing and sharing with us all!
:wub:
The very line had me spitting out coffee on my keyboard! Hey at least there will be cake right? The cake is not a lie?
I love your writing style odie. And I think another shout is in order. Fatal Beauty is just so darn good. Thanks for writing and sharing with us all!
:wub:
Modifié par Gilgamesh1138, 11 mai 2010 - 04:17 .
#37
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 06:51
odiedragon
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Oh, I assume they had cake. Cailan probably would have been put out were there no cake. 
Honestly that's pulling more from my OWN feelings about weddings there, but it made sense to me for Anora to feel the same way. So long as it looks nice and is official at the end of the day, who cares if it's not exactly what you would have dreamed up yourself? She wants to be QUEEN, dammit, not Bridezilla.
Also, that snippet is from Elisara's POV, but still. I just love that little conversation with Anora. I want to establish, or at least touch on, the fact that Ellie and Anora were friends when they were younger, or at least had a student/mentor thing going on given their age differences.
Honestly that's pulling more from my OWN feelings about weddings there, but it made sense to me for Anora to feel the same way. So long as it looks nice and is official at the end of the day, who cares if it's not exactly what you would have dreamed up yourself? She wants to be QUEEN, dammit, not Bridezilla.Also, that snippet is from Elisara's POV, but still. I just love that little conversation with Anora. I want to establish, or at least touch on, the fact that Ellie and Anora were friends when they were younger, or at least had a student/mentor thing going on given their age differences.
Modifié par odiedragon, 11 mai 2010 - 06:51 .
#38
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 06:55
odiedragon
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Oh shoot, I should update the Chapter 4 bit to include the part with the snow globe... that was a fun thread. And by fun, I mean OMG WTF painful yet hi-larious. 
I have a penchant for in-jokes, what can I say? :innocent:
I have a penchant for in-jokes, what can I say? :innocent:
Modifié par odiedragon, 11 mai 2010 - 06:56 .
#41
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 08:17
odiedragon
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Chapter 4 snippets have been updated to include the snow globe from Awakening.
#42
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 08:45
odiedragon
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Chapter 5 Snippets:
It wasn't often that the Revered Mother herself addressed them, but since it was Confession Day she had ascended the pulpit. She gave the same sermon every six months when this day rolled around, and Alistair had lost count of how many times he had heard it. His mind drifted, trying to keep himself awake while pondering what he would confess to this time. What kind of truly awful things could he possibly do as a Chantry boy, anyway? Leave extra food on his supper plate when there were starving children in the Anderfels? Not wholly putting his heart and soul into pot scouring? Soaking the braids of that haughty Divine initiate who sat in front of him during Math and Ciphers in his inkwell? The last one could count, he supposed, were he ever to do such a thing. All he could confess to as things stood was being tempted to do so.
He wondered whether or not anyone ever admitted to the truly serious things they had done. He supposed some did, if they were consumed by guilt. Some of the people here seemed to thrive on guilt as if it could sustain them. Alistair had plenty of regrets and bitter bones to gnaw on, but on the occasions he felt he had wronged someone else he apologized for his transgressions and tried to forget about them. He certainly felt no need to bare his soul to the Maker over the issue. Didn't He already know about everything Alistair did anyway, never mind whether or not he was truly sorry? What good did it do, involving a nosy priest who probably turned around and tittered about the confessor's dirty secrets as soon as the day was over?
Mulling his thoughts, Alistair looked up and pretended to listen to the Revered Mother as she gave her sermon. He supposed confessing to the temptation about the braids and the ink would work. It was true enough, and pious people seemed to have sympathy for those who resisted temptation. After all, controlling his hands was the easy part. Sitting on them was not nearly so painful as biting his tongue. Though he supposed his hands could be said to be guilty of succumbing to a different temptation... but By the Maker, he couldn't admit to that! Not to one of the oh-so-holy-I've-never-felt-any-carnal-sensations-in-my-life-ever Divine Mothers! He turned his gaze to the floor, trying not to turn a noticeable shade of red as he banished the thought from his head. What else had he done that would count as confession worthy? Certainly there must be something far less private. He supposed his pride over his successes in mastering the basic Templar abilities could be dredged up for the slaughter. Not that he would stop being proud, of course, for as it turned out that was the one thing Alistair had excelled in since he had been sent to the Chantry. Throw in a healthy dose of being kinder to his fellow man and he supposed that would do for now. Until another six months passed and he would have to come up with a whole different list of publicly admittable transgressions.
.oOo.
Upon entering the initiate's barracks, Alistair was greeted by a fluffy blow to the head and peels of laughter. "Gotcha!" one of the boys shouted. Others began pelting him with pillows, shouting and snickering. So much had happened that day that Alistair had completely forgotten about the traditional post-Confession pillow fights. On Confession Day it was an unwritten tradition that the boys would be allowed to carry on without interference by their superiors. These fights often turned into all-out battles, epic in their pillowy proportion. Alistair was sore and tired, but he was thankful yet again he'd worked out his rage before coming back to the dormitory. Now he could laugh rather than wanting to punch someone in the face as he grabbed a nearby pillow and struck back at his oppressors.
A lot of the natural boundaries and cliques that tended to crop up within any group of young people faded away or at least blurred during these contests. Alliances would be made, enemies declared, and the declarations subsequently forgotten when a new enemy arose. Some of the smaller initiates took to climbing to the top of the bunk beds and leaping across the gaps between the bunks, while others lie in wait behind walls cobbled together from the initiates' chests of belongings. It was only a matter of time before the fighting spilled from the barracks into the hallways and through the monastery hallways. Alistair found himself allied with three other boys, Crispin, Malcolm, and Alfred, who were chasing five other boys who had banded together to torment them. They snuck as carefully as they could through the hallways, knowing that even with the forgiving of normal restrictions being caught out of bed past Last Bells was grounds for punishment. Charging ahead, they would duck inside empty or unused rooms when they heard someone coming, or sometimes they hid behind the looming statuary, leaping out for the attack when their opponents ran past after the coast was clear. One particularly impressive move was pulled off by Hugo, one of the boys in the other group. He climbed the wide staircase leading up from one of the larger monastery halls and managed to slide down its wide polished stone banister, brandishing his pillow high in the air and smacking Crispin upside the head as he glided down.
.oOo.
"What in the name of Andraste's holy pyre is going on here?!"
Knight-Lieutenant Mervyn's voice had never sounded so wonderful to Alistair's ears. Simon immediately dropped Alistair's arms and he collapsed to the floor. His tormentors turned and tried to flee down the hallway.
"Quickly!" Mervyn bellowed. "Fetch Ser Ricard and Initiate Simon and bring them to my office." Two other Templars, whom Alistair had not even seen arrive, rushed past him to try and apprehend the two troublemakers. Mervyn offered a gauntleted hand to Alistair, helping him get to back on his feet.
"Are you alright, lad?" Mervyn asked, not unkindly.
"I..." Alistair stuttered. His nose was bleeding, possibly broken, and he was pretty sure he had bitten his tongue. The skin around his eyes already felt like it was swelling up, and blood streaks marred the front of his robe. He hoped he wouldn't get in trouble for that. "I'm not sure. I think so." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and thankfully his teeth still all seemed to be in tact.
"You're a frightful mess. What happened here?"
"I was, I mean we were... They were looking for us, for me! And I didn't do anything to them!" Alistair dashed at his eyes furiously, wincing in pain as he did so. How could he be so weak as to break into tears in front of the Knight-Lieutenant?
"Calm down, now. It's alright. I was afraid Ricard would come looking for you... but why were you out of bed past curfew?"
"We, uh, we... you know, well, the pillow fight just got completely out of hand, and..." Alistair paused at the thought of being caught in the Knight Commander's bedchamber. Best not to mention that, for sure. "Well, we got scared and were running back before anyone missed us. And I ran into Ricard. Literally. Smashed my nose pretty good, though I think he did a better job at it with his fists than his chest." Alistair tried to form a smile, but the Knight-Lieutenant didn't seem very amused.
Mervyn sighed. "I won't demand that you rat out your friends, but you know I can't ignore you breaking curfew, Alistair. I hereby assign you one day of kitchen duty, starting at First Bells tomorrow." Alistair hung his head. He supposed he was getting off easy. Most of the time anyone was caught fighting, all of the parties involved were sentenced to the same punishment, regardless of circumstances. But that didn't make the thought of a day scrubbing pots and skinning vegetables sound any more appealing.
"Yes, ser. Thank you ser," Alistair replied demurely.
"Report to the barracks and change out of that filthy robe," Mervyn commanded. "I will send for Sister Persephone to attend to your injuries."
"Yes, ser." Alistair saluted him, both arms crossing his chest and bowing slightly. He hurried off, knowing that if he did not follow Mervyn's order immediately it would only go worse for him. Although, Alistair supposed, worse was a very relative term when one already felt like they had been pushed into a giant pit trap with no believable hope of rescue.
It wasn't often that the Revered Mother herself addressed them, but since it was Confession Day she had ascended the pulpit. She gave the same sermon every six months when this day rolled around, and Alistair had lost count of how many times he had heard it. His mind drifted, trying to keep himself awake while pondering what he would confess to this time. What kind of truly awful things could he possibly do as a Chantry boy, anyway? Leave extra food on his supper plate when there were starving children in the Anderfels? Not wholly putting his heart and soul into pot scouring? Soaking the braids of that haughty Divine initiate who sat in front of him during Math and Ciphers in his inkwell? The last one could count, he supposed, were he ever to do such a thing. All he could confess to as things stood was being tempted to do so.
He wondered whether or not anyone ever admitted to the truly serious things they had done. He supposed some did, if they were consumed by guilt. Some of the people here seemed to thrive on guilt as if it could sustain them. Alistair had plenty of regrets and bitter bones to gnaw on, but on the occasions he felt he had wronged someone else he apologized for his transgressions and tried to forget about them. He certainly felt no need to bare his soul to the Maker over the issue. Didn't He already know about everything Alistair did anyway, never mind whether or not he was truly sorry? What good did it do, involving a nosy priest who probably turned around and tittered about the confessor's dirty secrets as soon as the day was over?
Mulling his thoughts, Alistair looked up and pretended to listen to the Revered Mother as she gave her sermon. He supposed confessing to the temptation about the braids and the ink would work. It was true enough, and pious people seemed to have sympathy for those who resisted temptation. After all, controlling his hands was the easy part. Sitting on them was not nearly so painful as biting his tongue. Though he supposed his hands could be said to be guilty of succumbing to a different temptation... but By the Maker, he couldn't admit to that! Not to one of the oh-so-holy-I've-never-felt-any-carnal-sensations-in-my-life-ever Divine Mothers! He turned his gaze to the floor, trying not to turn a noticeable shade of red as he banished the thought from his head. What else had he done that would count as confession worthy? Certainly there must be something far less private. He supposed his pride over his successes in mastering the basic Templar abilities could be dredged up for the slaughter. Not that he would stop being proud, of course, for as it turned out that was the one thing Alistair had excelled in since he had been sent to the Chantry. Throw in a healthy dose of being kinder to his fellow man and he supposed that would do for now. Until another six months passed and he would have to come up with a whole different list of publicly admittable transgressions.
.oOo.
Upon entering the initiate's barracks, Alistair was greeted by a fluffy blow to the head and peels of laughter. "Gotcha!" one of the boys shouted. Others began pelting him with pillows, shouting and snickering. So much had happened that day that Alistair had completely forgotten about the traditional post-Confession pillow fights. On Confession Day it was an unwritten tradition that the boys would be allowed to carry on without interference by their superiors. These fights often turned into all-out battles, epic in their pillowy proportion. Alistair was sore and tired, but he was thankful yet again he'd worked out his rage before coming back to the dormitory. Now he could laugh rather than wanting to punch someone in the face as he grabbed a nearby pillow and struck back at his oppressors.
A lot of the natural boundaries and cliques that tended to crop up within any group of young people faded away or at least blurred during these contests. Alliances would be made, enemies declared, and the declarations subsequently forgotten when a new enemy arose. Some of the smaller initiates took to climbing to the top of the bunk beds and leaping across the gaps between the bunks, while others lie in wait behind walls cobbled together from the initiates' chests of belongings. It was only a matter of time before the fighting spilled from the barracks into the hallways and through the monastery hallways. Alistair found himself allied with three other boys, Crispin, Malcolm, and Alfred, who were chasing five other boys who had banded together to torment them. They snuck as carefully as they could through the hallways, knowing that even with the forgiving of normal restrictions being caught out of bed past Last Bells was grounds for punishment. Charging ahead, they would duck inside empty or unused rooms when they heard someone coming, or sometimes they hid behind the looming statuary, leaping out for the attack when their opponents ran past after the coast was clear. One particularly impressive move was pulled off by Hugo, one of the boys in the other group. He climbed the wide staircase leading up from one of the larger monastery halls and managed to slide down its wide polished stone banister, brandishing his pillow high in the air and smacking Crispin upside the head as he glided down.
.oOo.
"What in the name of Andraste's holy pyre is going on here?!"
Knight-Lieutenant Mervyn's voice had never sounded so wonderful to Alistair's ears. Simon immediately dropped Alistair's arms and he collapsed to the floor. His tormentors turned and tried to flee down the hallway.
"Quickly!" Mervyn bellowed. "Fetch Ser Ricard and Initiate Simon and bring them to my office." Two other Templars, whom Alistair had not even seen arrive, rushed past him to try and apprehend the two troublemakers. Mervyn offered a gauntleted hand to Alistair, helping him get to back on his feet.
"Are you alright, lad?" Mervyn asked, not unkindly.
"I..." Alistair stuttered. His nose was bleeding, possibly broken, and he was pretty sure he had bitten his tongue. The skin around his eyes already felt like it was swelling up, and blood streaks marred the front of his robe. He hoped he wouldn't get in trouble for that. "I'm not sure. I think so." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and thankfully his teeth still all seemed to be in tact.
"You're a frightful mess. What happened here?"
"I was, I mean we were... They were looking for us, for me! And I didn't do anything to them!" Alistair dashed at his eyes furiously, wincing in pain as he did so. How could he be so weak as to break into tears in front of the Knight-Lieutenant?
"Calm down, now. It's alright. I was afraid Ricard would come looking for you... but why were you out of bed past curfew?"
"We, uh, we... you know, well, the pillow fight just got completely out of hand, and..." Alistair paused at the thought of being caught in the Knight Commander's bedchamber. Best not to mention that, for sure. "Well, we got scared and were running back before anyone missed us. And I ran into Ricard. Literally. Smashed my nose pretty good, though I think he did a better job at it with his fists than his chest." Alistair tried to form a smile, but the Knight-Lieutenant didn't seem very amused.
Mervyn sighed. "I won't demand that you rat out your friends, but you know I can't ignore you breaking curfew, Alistair. I hereby assign you one day of kitchen duty, starting at First Bells tomorrow." Alistair hung his head. He supposed he was getting off easy. Most of the time anyone was caught fighting, all of the parties involved were sentenced to the same punishment, regardless of circumstances. But that didn't make the thought of a day scrubbing pots and skinning vegetables sound any more appealing.
"Yes, ser. Thank you ser," Alistair replied demurely.
"Report to the barracks and change out of that filthy robe," Mervyn commanded. "I will send for Sister Persephone to attend to your injuries."
"Yes, ser." Alistair saluted him, both arms crossing his chest and bowing slightly. He hurried off, knowing that if he did not follow Mervyn's order immediately it would only go worse for him. Although, Alistair supposed, worse was a very relative term when one already felt like they had been pushed into a giant pit trap with no believable hope of rescue.
#43
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 08:54
odiedragon
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Chapter 6 Snippets:
"Ah, I see my wayward son has returned to us. A pity he wasn't here earlier to great you properly, Bryce."
Nathaniel froze in his tracks. Father. Where had he come from? He supposed it didn't really matter.
"I had no idea they would be arriving so early," Nathaniel explained as he turned around. Father looked down his impressive nose at him, while his companion gave him a friendly smile.
"Do not trouble yourself over it, young Nathaniel." Bryce Cousland's open and warm nature always stood out in stark contrast to Father's cold and judging glares.
"It's good to see you again, Teyrn Cousland," Nathaniel smiled politely. Father would be even more cross with him were he to forget his manners.
"You appear to have been busy." Bryce gestured at Nathaniel's bundle. "Good hunting this time of year?"
"Not as good as the fall, but not bad, Your Grace." Nathaniel moved the hide back from where it covered the deer. "He's not all that big, only has six points. But Cookie never turns away extra meat, especially now with guests in residence."
Bryce surveyed the dead animal and nodded approval. "Certainly. I'm sure you make your father proud."
"Yes," Rendon replied, his voice laced with rancor. "So very proud that he spends his days covered in dirt and blood, slinking around the forest like a common poacher."
Nate scowled, but said nothing in response. Father's disapproval was nothing new to him, but that certainly didn't lessen its sting.
"Don't be silly. The boy can't poach off of your own lands," Bryce said with a chuckle.
"That is no reason to encourage him," Rendon replied darkly. "He has other responsibilities, which he shirks constantly to play in the woods like a child." A faint smile crossed Father's face. "Though I suppose I should expect no less than indulgence from the man who sired your spitfire of a daughter."
"Oh come off it now, Rendon." Bryce put his hands on his hips as he spoke, hooking his thumbs under his belt. "Elisara's grown up quite a bit since you last saw her. You'll see."
"So she did accompany you after all!" Nathaniel's face lit up at the news. "Your original missive said that it would be you and your son coming to the Landsmeet this year."
"When Ellie found out that Fergus's wife and son had decided to come along, she simply refused to be left out. Then my own wife invited herself along, and thus the entire Cousland clan made the trip." Bryce clapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. "Go get yourself cleaned up, lad. I'll let Ellie know that we found you."
"She was asking about me?" Maker's Breath, that was... unexpected.
"Your jaw seems to have come loose, Son. Close it, lest you start catching flies." Father did always have a way of drawing the joy out of the moment.
"Yes, Father."
Rendon barked an order to a page standing nearby. "See that this carcass is taken to the kitchens."
"I can handle it, Fa..."
"No," Rendon cut him off sharply. "You will see yourself cleaned up, and then you will present in your mother's old sitting room to greet the rest of our guests."
Nate sighed and bowed his head slightly. "Yes, Father." Wonderful. It seemed that Father had given the use of Mother's old chambers over to the Teyrns. It was the one part of the Vigil that he avoided as stoutly as a Chantry sister would avoid a ****house. His stomach twisted itself into a knot.
"Well, why are you still standing here?"
Nathaniel took off like a shot, running up the main stairway into the keep.
"You don't have to be so hard on the boy, you know." Nate couldn't help but smile at that. Bryce Cousland, father of one of the most infamous daughters of the Bannorn, trying to give his father parenting tips. Father may not be perfect, but at least he made attempts at discipline.
.oOo.
(this was posted up-thead, but I'm linking it here now so it's tied to the first post)
She was circling him now, staring him down, looking for an opening. Their friendly competition had been going on for some time now, but Elisara showed no sign of tiring. Spotting some bit of his defenses give way, Elisara lunged at him, stabbing him in the gut with her fur-wrapped blade. He twisted, slashing her across the back, or would have if his blade hadn't been similarly wrapped. Suddenly, her foot lashed out at him, attempting to take him out at the knees. With an awkward sidestep, he missed the brunt of the blow but the whole maneuver had set him off balance. When Elisara caught wind of this, she pounced like a cat on a mouse. She slammed her shoulder into him, knocking him painfully to the ground.
"Ow!" Nathaniel exclaimed. "By the Maker woman, you fight like a common street thug!"
"Real battle won't be like a tournament, you know." Elisara offered him her hand and helped him to his feet. "All that matters is survival. And taking down more of the other side's forces, of course. But survival generally comes first when you're the one in the thick of things."
"Naturally, but surely they don't expect you to actually fight in a battle someday."
Her glare turned venomous. "Really. You think not? Might I ask why?"
"Well..." Maker's Blood, now he'd done it. "Uh, you'd have your father's forces for that, wouldn't you? Or the soldiers sworn to... wherever you end up living. When you're grown. I mean, when, uh..."
"When I'm married." She said the word like it was a curse. "Is that what you meant to say, ser?"
"...it's not an unreasonable statement, you know," Nathaniel continued, trying not to trip over his own tongue. "The beautiful daughter of a teyrn, strong, smart, able to beat the snot out of any man that crosses her path... you're quite the catch, you know." Her icy glare continued. "Or, at least, that's what I'd like to think. Maybe I'm crazy. Yep, that's me, Crazy Ol' Nate, living out on the woods chewing on bark and wrapped in uncured furs. There, now, does that make you feel better?"
Elisara's face relaxed, and he even thought he may have seen her smile slightly. "Is that really what you think?"
"That I'm crazy?" He grinned broadly. "Oh, most definitely. Have you met the rest of my family? We all come from Crazy Stock."
"No..." She pulled her eyes from his gaze, focusing intently on a nearby tuft of grass. "That I'm beautiful and strong and all that rubbish."
"Why would I say it were it not true?"
"Because you're crazy, by your own admission." She put her fisted hands on her hips, still holding her daggers. "I can hardly put faith in the words of a crazy man."
He swallowed nervously. "Well then... then I suppose I had a fleeting moment of sanity there." The day was wearing on. Soon enough, they would be back among the hustle and bustle of the Vigil. Maybe listening to the whims of Crazy Ol' Nate wasn't such a bad idea. He carefully placed his dagger on the ground before closing the distance between himself and Elisara. She didn't move, but at least she consented to meet his gaze. Her eyes felt like green pools of fire, burning into him.
"Best be careful, now," he said as he cautiously slid his hand along the side of her head. Some strange instinct screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it. "I think I feel the crazies coming back." It was too late to hold back now. He bent down slightly, softly touching his lips to hers. The fire he felt at her touch leaped in intensity when she did not pull away, when she pressed her body close and wrapped her arms around him. His kiss was returned with more ardor than he had hoped to find. He heard her daggers as they hit the ground, having fallen, forgotten, from her hands.
Lidded eyes gazed back at him as he pulled away. "You know," she said, her voice low and sultry, "I think I could come to like Crazy Nate."
"Ah, I see my wayward son has returned to us. A pity he wasn't here earlier to great you properly, Bryce."
Nathaniel froze in his tracks. Father. Where had he come from? He supposed it didn't really matter.
"I had no idea they would be arriving so early," Nathaniel explained as he turned around. Father looked down his impressive nose at him, while his companion gave him a friendly smile.
"Do not trouble yourself over it, young Nathaniel." Bryce Cousland's open and warm nature always stood out in stark contrast to Father's cold and judging glares.
"It's good to see you again, Teyrn Cousland," Nathaniel smiled politely. Father would be even more cross with him were he to forget his manners.
"You appear to have been busy." Bryce gestured at Nathaniel's bundle. "Good hunting this time of year?"
"Not as good as the fall, but not bad, Your Grace." Nathaniel moved the hide back from where it covered the deer. "He's not all that big, only has six points. But Cookie never turns away extra meat, especially now with guests in residence."
Bryce surveyed the dead animal and nodded approval. "Certainly. I'm sure you make your father proud."
"Yes," Rendon replied, his voice laced with rancor. "So very proud that he spends his days covered in dirt and blood, slinking around the forest like a common poacher."
Nate scowled, but said nothing in response. Father's disapproval was nothing new to him, but that certainly didn't lessen its sting.
"Don't be silly. The boy can't poach off of your own lands," Bryce said with a chuckle.
"That is no reason to encourage him," Rendon replied darkly. "He has other responsibilities, which he shirks constantly to play in the woods like a child." A faint smile crossed Father's face. "Though I suppose I should expect no less than indulgence from the man who sired your spitfire of a daughter."
"Oh come off it now, Rendon." Bryce put his hands on his hips as he spoke, hooking his thumbs under his belt. "Elisara's grown up quite a bit since you last saw her. You'll see."
"So she did accompany you after all!" Nathaniel's face lit up at the news. "Your original missive said that it would be you and your son coming to the Landsmeet this year."
"When Ellie found out that Fergus's wife and son had decided to come along, she simply refused to be left out. Then my own wife invited herself along, and thus the entire Cousland clan made the trip." Bryce clapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. "Go get yourself cleaned up, lad. I'll let Ellie know that we found you."
"She was asking about me?" Maker's Breath, that was... unexpected.
"Your jaw seems to have come loose, Son. Close it, lest you start catching flies." Father did always have a way of drawing the joy out of the moment.
"Yes, Father."
Rendon barked an order to a page standing nearby. "See that this carcass is taken to the kitchens."
"I can handle it, Fa..."
"No," Rendon cut him off sharply. "You will see yourself cleaned up, and then you will present in your mother's old sitting room to greet the rest of our guests."
Nate sighed and bowed his head slightly. "Yes, Father." Wonderful. It seemed that Father had given the use of Mother's old chambers over to the Teyrns. It was the one part of the Vigil that he avoided as stoutly as a Chantry sister would avoid a ****house. His stomach twisted itself into a knot.
"Well, why are you still standing here?"
Nathaniel took off like a shot, running up the main stairway into the keep.
"You don't have to be so hard on the boy, you know." Nate couldn't help but smile at that. Bryce Cousland, father of one of the most infamous daughters of the Bannorn, trying to give his father parenting tips. Father may not be perfect, but at least he made attempts at discipline.
.oOo.
(this was posted up-thead, but I'm linking it here now so it's tied to the first post)
She was circling him now, staring him down, looking for an opening. Their friendly competition had been going on for some time now, but Elisara showed no sign of tiring. Spotting some bit of his defenses give way, Elisara lunged at him, stabbing him in the gut with her fur-wrapped blade. He twisted, slashing her across the back, or would have if his blade hadn't been similarly wrapped. Suddenly, her foot lashed out at him, attempting to take him out at the knees. With an awkward sidestep, he missed the brunt of the blow but the whole maneuver had set him off balance. When Elisara caught wind of this, she pounced like a cat on a mouse. She slammed her shoulder into him, knocking him painfully to the ground.
"Ow!" Nathaniel exclaimed. "By the Maker woman, you fight like a common street thug!"
"Real battle won't be like a tournament, you know." Elisara offered him her hand and helped him to his feet. "All that matters is survival. And taking down more of the other side's forces, of course. But survival generally comes first when you're the one in the thick of things."
"Naturally, but surely they don't expect you to actually fight in a battle someday."
Her glare turned venomous. "Really. You think not? Might I ask why?"
"Well..." Maker's Blood, now he'd done it. "Uh, you'd have your father's forces for that, wouldn't you? Or the soldiers sworn to... wherever you end up living. When you're grown. I mean, when, uh..."
"When I'm married." She said the word like it was a curse. "Is that what you meant to say, ser?"
"...it's not an unreasonable statement, you know," Nathaniel continued, trying not to trip over his own tongue. "The beautiful daughter of a teyrn, strong, smart, able to beat the snot out of any man that crosses her path... you're quite the catch, you know." Her icy glare continued. "Or, at least, that's what I'd like to think. Maybe I'm crazy. Yep, that's me, Crazy Ol' Nate, living out on the woods chewing on bark and wrapped in uncured furs. There, now, does that make you feel better?"
Elisara's face relaxed, and he even thought he may have seen her smile slightly. "Is that really what you think?"
"That I'm crazy?" He grinned broadly. "Oh, most definitely. Have you met the rest of my family? We all come from Crazy Stock."
"No..." She pulled her eyes from his gaze, focusing intently on a nearby tuft of grass. "That I'm beautiful and strong and all that rubbish."
"Why would I say it were it not true?"
"Because you're crazy, by your own admission." She put her fisted hands on her hips, still holding her daggers. "I can hardly put faith in the words of a crazy man."
He swallowed nervously. "Well then... then I suppose I had a fleeting moment of sanity there." The day was wearing on. Soon enough, they would be back among the hustle and bustle of the Vigil. Maybe listening to the whims of Crazy Ol' Nate wasn't such a bad idea. He carefully placed his dagger on the ground before closing the distance between himself and Elisara. She didn't move, but at least she consented to meet his gaze. Her eyes felt like green pools of fire, burning into him.
"Best be careful, now," he said as he cautiously slid his hand along the side of her head. Some strange instinct screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it. "I think I feel the crazies coming back." It was too late to hold back now. He bent down slightly, softly touching his lips to hers. The fire he felt at her touch leaped in intensity when she did not pull away, when she pressed her body close and wrapped her arms around him. His kiss was returned with more ardor than he had hoped to find. He heard her daggers as they hit the ground, having fallen, forgotten, from her hands.
Lidded eyes gazed back at him as he pulled away. "You know," she said, her voice low and sultry, "I think I could come to like Crazy Nate."
#44
Posté 11 mai 2010 - 09:01
odiedragon
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- Members
- 407 messages
Chapter 7 Snippets:
Several servants entered the hall, each carrying a tray. Circling the table, they cleared away the mystery meat and replaced it with a crescent-shaped pastry. The outer edge had been cut into, giving it the appearance of having little square fingers.
"Bear claws," Delilah muttered. "Why is it always bear claws when we have company?"
Elisara giggled. "I think it's cute. Our pastry chef in Highever does something similar with blueberry danishes."
"Now see, that I'd like to try," Delilah replied. "Cookie always makes them with almonds. Bleh!" She wrinkled her nose to complete the effect.
Elisara laughed. She picked up her pastry and took a tentative nibble. "Eh, not bad. But I agree, blueberry would be better."
"What are you two giggling about?" Nathaniel asked, peering around his sister to address Elisara.
"Almonds," Delilah said. "Cookie always makes bear claws with almonds."
"You can make them other ways?" He asked, perplexed.
"I would think if you were doing the baking, you could fill them with whatever you wished!" Elisara argued.
"So, Ellie, are you still wanting to go to the kennels after we're done here?" Nathaniel asked in a too-casual tone as he clumsily changed topics.
"Ellie?" Delilah raised an eyebrow, looking at her brother.
"I mean," he cleared his throat, "My Lady Elisara, of course."
Delilah's expression grew more incredulous, but she said nothing further.
"I would be most honored, My Lord Nathaniel," Elisara replied, making an over-exaggerated gesture holding her hand to her chest while bowing her head.
"I suppose I just hadn't realized that you two had become so… familiar." Delilah gave Elisara a look which she could not quite read. Was she offended? Curious? Or was she possibly amused?
Nathaniel grinned. "We have been familiar for years now… I mean, it's not like the Couslands are strangers here in the Vigil."
"Of course, that must be it," Delilah said, her tone belying her agreement.
Elisara turned her attention back to her dessert. Delilah was obviously leaping to conclusions, and besides, what did it matter? It was none of her business, anyhow.
.oOo.
Elisara reached into the pen and petted the light-grey Mabari on the head. She rolled over on her back, legs flailing in the air, and Elisara took this as an invitation. The pup squirmed happily as she rubbed her belly.
"Here's the last of what I've got cut up small enough for them," Baxley handed Elisara a few more scraps of meat. "Watch Greedy-Gut over there, he never seems to get his fill of tidbits."
"Greedy-Gut?" Elisara said with a giggle. "Is that his actual name?"
"For now," Baxley replied, shrugging. "If he bonds with someone, they'll surely name him something more distinguished. If he doesn't bond, not all of them do, milady, maybe it'll stay his name, who knows?"
"Well, I would never call you greedy, little one." She shook the piece of meat high in the air, and the red-brown Mabari leapt around in a frenzy, trying to reach it. "You just know how to watch out for yourself, isn't that right?"
The pup yipped a puppy-bark in response, and quickly caught the piece of meat as Elisara tossed it at him.
"Andraste's Grace, those little buggers are smart," Nathaniel commented. Elisara had almost forgotten he was there.
"Smartest and most noble dogs ever to walk the earth." Elisara tossed the last piece of meat to Greedy-Gut, and then allowed him to lick her fingers clean. "That's right, eat up now and you'll grow into a big strong boy, bigger than your sister and brother, oh yes, yes you will!"
The pup bowed his chest down to the hay, sticking his hindquarters in the air and wagging his impossibly small tail. His whole back half shook with the effort.
Baxley regarded Elisara, arms crossed and an enigmatic grin on his face. "Mark my words, Lady Cousland; I think Greedy's taken a shine to you."
She tried to dampen the rush of hope that filled her at his words. "Oh, I don't know. Meat snacks tend to make any Mabari take a shine to someone. Besides, can they truly bond so young? It was my understanding that these things usually happened later on, when the pup was older."
"Usually is a funny word like that, milady," Baxley replied. "These things don't happen at birth 'tis true… but a Mabari will always know when it finds its human. Sometimes it's when they're young, sometimes when they're older. Imprinting is no alchemical science or anything."
Nathaniel put his hand on Elisara's shoulder. "We really should be headed back to the keep, my lady."
"I suppose so." She reached in the pen to pet the ruddy pup. "Maybe I'll come see you again tomorrow sometime. Would you like that?"
The pup sat down, looking at her with his criminally adorable puppy eyes. He cocked his head to the side and whined.
"I'll bring snacks!"
He stood up, tail wagging and tongue lolling, and gave a happy bark.
"Farewell then, Greedy-Gut," Elisara waved to him and giggled. The pup watched her as she turned away. "And thank you, ser, for letting us visit them. They are a true delight."
"It was my pleasure, milady." Baxley bowed formally, or at least as formally as a dog keeper possibly could. Elisara smiled at the sight.
When they had moved some distance away from the pen, Elisara heard the scrabbling of paws and more heart-piercing whining. She overheard Baxley scolding the pup. "Now, now, little Greedy-Gut, you can't go with her Ladyship. Come now, it's alright! Here's a big ol' deer rib for ya. There's a boy, yes?"
Elisara sighed. Nathaniel offered her his arm again, which she took merely to avoid awkward questions. If they looked like they were having a private walk together, they would most likely be left alone.
"Baxley is rarely wrong with his judgments, you know," Nathaniel said as they walked up the main steps of the Vigil. "He's been around Mabari all his life, or so I'm told."
"And I've been looking for a Mabari all of mine," Elisara countered. "I've learned not to get too excited about these things." It did feel different somehow this time, but didn't she think that every time she met a particularly friendly Mabari? She would go back in the morning and see if the feeling was still there.
Several servants entered the hall, each carrying a tray. Circling the table, they cleared away the mystery meat and replaced it with a crescent-shaped pastry. The outer edge had been cut into, giving it the appearance of having little square fingers.
"Bear claws," Delilah muttered. "Why is it always bear claws when we have company?"
Elisara giggled. "I think it's cute. Our pastry chef in Highever does something similar with blueberry danishes."
"Now see, that I'd like to try," Delilah replied. "Cookie always makes them with almonds. Bleh!" She wrinkled her nose to complete the effect.
Elisara laughed. She picked up her pastry and took a tentative nibble. "Eh, not bad. But I agree, blueberry would be better."
"What are you two giggling about?" Nathaniel asked, peering around his sister to address Elisara.
"Almonds," Delilah said. "Cookie always makes bear claws with almonds."
"You can make them other ways?" He asked, perplexed.
"I would think if you were doing the baking, you could fill them with whatever you wished!" Elisara argued.
"So, Ellie, are you still wanting to go to the kennels after we're done here?" Nathaniel asked in a too-casual tone as he clumsily changed topics.
"Ellie?" Delilah raised an eyebrow, looking at her brother.
"I mean," he cleared his throat, "My Lady Elisara, of course."
Delilah's expression grew more incredulous, but she said nothing further.
"I would be most honored, My Lord Nathaniel," Elisara replied, making an over-exaggerated gesture holding her hand to her chest while bowing her head.
"I suppose I just hadn't realized that you two had become so… familiar." Delilah gave Elisara a look which she could not quite read. Was she offended? Curious? Or was she possibly amused?
Nathaniel grinned. "We have been familiar for years now… I mean, it's not like the Couslands are strangers here in the Vigil."
"Of course, that must be it," Delilah said, her tone belying her agreement.
Elisara turned her attention back to her dessert. Delilah was obviously leaping to conclusions, and besides, what did it matter? It was none of her business, anyhow.
.oOo.
Elisara reached into the pen and petted the light-grey Mabari on the head. She rolled over on her back, legs flailing in the air, and Elisara took this as an invitation. The pup squirmed happily as she rubbed her belly.
"Here's the last of what I've got cut up small enough for them," Baxley handed Elisara a few more scraps of meat. "Watch Greedy-Gut over there, he never seems to get his fill of tidbits."
"Greedy-Gut?" Elisara said with a giggle. "Is that his actual name?"
"For now," Baxley replied, shrugging. "If he bonds with someone, they'll surely name him something more distinguished. If he doesn't bond, not all of them do, milady, maybe it'll stay his name, who knows?"
"Well, I would never call you greedy, little one." She shook the piece of meat high in the air, and the red-brown Mabari leapt around in a frenzy, trying to reach it. "You just know how to watch out for yourself, isn't that right?"
The pup yipped a puppy-bark in response, and quickly caught the piece of meat as Elisara tossed it at him.
"Andraste's Grace, those little buggers are smart," Nathaniel commented. Elisara had almost forgotten he was there.
"Smartest and most noble dogs ever to walk the earth." Elisara tossed the last piece of meat to Greedy-Gut, and then allowed him to lick her fingers clean. "That's right, eat up now and you'll grow into a big strong boy, bigger than your sister and brother, oh yes, yes you will!"
The pup bowed his chest down to the hay, sticking his hindquarters in the air and wagging his impossibly small tail. His whole back half shook with the effort.
Baxley regarded Elisara, arms crossed and an enigmatic grin on his face. "Mark my words, Lady Cousland; I think Greedy's taken a shine to you."
She tried to dampen the rush of hope that filled her at his words. "Oh, I don't know. Meat snacks tend to make any Mabari take a shine to someone. Besides, can they truly bond so young? It was my understanding that these things usually happened later on, when the pup was older."
"Usually is a funny word like that, milady," Baxley replied. "These things don't happen at birth 'tis true… but a Mabari will always know when it finds its human. Sometimes it's when they're young, sometimes when they're older. Imprinting is no alchemical science or anything."
Nathaniel put his hand on Elisara's shoulder. "We really should be headed back to the keep, my lady."
"I suppose so." She reached in the pen to pet the ruddy pup. "Maybe I'll come see you again tomorrow sometime. Would you like that?"
The pup sat down, looking at her with his criminally adorable puppy eyes. He cocked his head to the side and whined.
"I'll bring snacks!"
He stood up, tail wagging and tongue lolling, and gave a happy bark.
"Farewell then, Greedy-Gut," Elisara waved to him and giggled. The pup watched her as she turned away. "And thank you, ser, for letting us visit them. They are a true delight."
"It was my pleasure, milady." Baxley bowed formally, or at least as formally as a dog keeper possibly could. Elisara smiled at the sight.
When they had moved some distance away from the pen, Elisara heard the scrabbling of paws and more heart-piercing whining. She overheard Baxley scolding the pup. "Now, now, little Greedy-Gut, you can't go with her Ladyship. Come now, it's alright! Here's a big ol' deer rib for ya. There's a boy, yes?"
Elisara sighed. Nathaniel offered her his arm again, which she took merely to avoid awkward questions. If they looked like they were having a private walk together, they would most likely be left alone.
"Baxley is rarely wrong with his judgments, you know," Nathaniel said as they walked up the main steps of the Vigil. "He's been around Mabari all his life, or so I'm told."
"And I've been looking for a Mabari all of mine," Elisara countered. "I've learned not to get too excited about these things." It did feel different somehow this time, but didn't she think that every time she met a particularly friendly Mabari? She would go back in the morning and see if the feeling was still there.
#45
Posté 13 mai 2010 - 08:28
odiedragon
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- Members
- 407 messages
Chapter 8 Snippets:
He scrabbled at the rock , pulling and scraping until the rubble finally came loose. But there was more stone, always more stone.
All around him twisted husks of humanity pulled at the same rock walls. Some had made use of old broken weapons, but most dug with their bare hands. If they could still be called hands.
His fingers bled, claws worn down to bloody nubs. Behind him he heard a guttural incomprehensible chant, and his hands began to glow blue. As soon as his injuries were healed he thrust himself back into his efforts, tearing, ripping, needing to get through.
The song... that beautiful, terrible song... it was all around him. It pulled him, called him, forced him to tunnel his way through a wall of solid stone. He had to find the source of it. It needed him, somehow. The song longed to be free, to spread its joy to all corners of the world... if only they could dig a little faster... faster...
Duncan sat up straight in bed, gasping. He was covered in a thin film of sweat. The dream had ended with everything going dark, a huge weight having crushed his head. He fell back onto his pillows. A dream. It had only been a dream.
Not a dream, a nightmare. A real one, not one brought on by the overcooked lamb and pea stew served for dinner that night in Lothering's tavern. He had seen through the eyes of one of the thousands of Darkspawn that lurked beneath his feet in the Deep Roads, felt what it felt, and even thought its alien thoughts.
It was the second time this winter that he had suffered through such a dream. Could he truly be succumbing to the taint so soon? The Calling came at different times for different people, and he had been a Grey Warden for over twenty years now. Still, it was early. Too early. Far too soon for these dreams to be happening.
If the dream was at all accurate, the Darkspawn were getting very close to unearthing another tainted Old God. Some of the older Wardens had reported similar dreams to him, but it had been the first time Duncan had dreamed one himself. The previous dream had not been nearly so specific nor so overwhelming.
Were this a real Blight, he needed to see his Wardens prepared for it. And there was Fiona's son to consider. He could not succumb just yet.
There was still so much to do.
.oOo.
He stood when the Grand Cleric and the Revered Mother ascended the dais, moving down to the far end so that the Grand Cleric could have the middle seat. The crowd grew quiet when she raised her hands, commanding their attention.
"Holy Knights of the Maker, may His blessings shine down upon your arms and armor today. You have been called upon to prove yourself worthy of performing one of the Maker's most sacred duties, quelling the threat of those who despoiled the Golden City and were thus banished from Heaven. In His light, we shall prove our skills to the one called Duncan, Commander of the Grey and recruiter for the Grey Wardens in Ferelden." Duncan bowed his head so as to avoid the multitude of eyes that would naturally turn to him at the mention of his name. She continued. "We pray that the Maker shall guide our swords, and that He will lead the best of us to rise victorious at the end of the day. In the name of the Maker and his bride Andraste, we so pray."
The crowd responded in unison, a wave of voices crashing over him. "So let it be." Duncan remained respectfully silent.
With a wave of her hand, one of the Templars on the field below called out the first two names, Ser Kalvin of Denerim and Ser Simon of Redcliffe. Ser Simon was the first to fall, yielding to Ser Kalvin's devastating combination of sword-and-dagger after two rounds. It did not take long for the bouts to blend together, Duncan only truly paying attention when the fighting became most intense. Three warriors in particular caught Duncan's eye, enough so that he supposed that bringing two recruits back with him would not be such a horrible idea. Ser Kalvin, the first fighter he had seen that day. Ser Talrew of Lothering, who Duncan had spoken with earlier that winter when his recruit Ser Gideon had insisted on stopping in the Chantry there before continuing on to Denerim. Ser Eryhn, one of the rare female Templars, who could clearly hold her own against the more physically imposing members of the opposite gender. Her quick deftness with sword and shield more than compensated for any gaps in raw physical strength.
Gradually, the crowds began to clear as those who had been eliminated were removed from the field, and Duncan spotted the face he had been searching for. He leaned against the far wall, garbed in the golden robes of a Chantry initiate instead of a Templar's typical heavy plate. He was thankful that Mother Hannah had held true to her word, but why was he not wearing armor?
"Is something troubling you, Warden?" Ser Glavin asked. "Your face took on such a dour look just now... some refreshment would help, perhaps?"
"I have seen many stout fighters today, Ser Glavin," Duncan replied, "And yet I see one Templar who has yet to be called to the lists."
"Oh? And who..." the Knight-Commander's eyes followed to where Duncan was pointing. "Oh, no. Duncan, trust me when I say you are not interested in recruiting Alistair. He stirs up trouble wherever he goes. From what Ser Herrith of Redcliffe tells me he was brought here by the order of his Revered Mother, but the boy was caught making a mockery of one of our Holy Chanters. Poor Mother Theohild is getting on in years, and sometimes gets confused when she repeats the Chant of Light, and Alistair thought this quite amusing. Ser Herrith was loathe to let him compete in the first place, and decided then that his inability to control his wayward tongue had lost him the opportunity to fight this day."
Duncan scowled. He did not go through all this trouble just to be put off by a Templar's whim. "I came here to find the best of you, not the most polite. I would like to see him fight."
He scrabbled at the rock , pulling and scraping until the rubble finally came loose. But there was more stone, always more stone.
All around him twisted husks of humanity pulled at the same rock walls. Some had made use of old broken weapons, but most dug with their bare hands. If they could still be called hands.
His fingers bled, claws worn down to bloody nubs. Behind him he heard a guttural incomprehensible chant, and his hands began to glow blue. As soon as his injuries were healed he thrust himself back into his efforts, tearing, ripping, needing to get through.
The song... that beautiful, terrible song... it was all around him. It pulled him, called him, forced him to tunnel his way through a wall of solid stone. He had to find the source of it. It needed him, somehow. The song longed to be free, to spread its joy to all corners of the world... if only they could dig a little faster... faster...
Duncan sat up straight in bed, gasping. He was covered in a thin film of sweat. The dream had ended with everything going dark, a huge weight having crushed his head. He fell back onto his pillows. A dream. It had only been a dream.
Not a dream, a nightmare. A real one, not one brought on by the overcooked lamb and pea stew served for dinner that night in Lothering's tavern. He had seen through the eyes of one of the thousands of Darkspawn that lurked beneath his feet in the Deep Roads, felt what it felt, and even thought its alien thoughts.
It was the second time this winter that he had suffered through such a dream. Could he truly be succumbing to the taint so soon? The Calling came at different times for different people, and he had been a Grey Warden for over twenty years now. Still, it was early. Too early. Far too soon for these dreams to be happening.
If the dream was at all accurate, the Darkspawn were getting very close to unearthing another tainted Old God. Some of the older Wardens had reported similar dreams to him, but it had been the first time Duncan had dreamed one himself. The previous dream had not been nearly so specific nor so overwhelming.
Were this a real Blight, he needed to see his Wardens prepared for it. And there was Fiona's son to consider. He could not succumb just yet.
There was still so much to do.
.oOo.
He stood when the Grand Cleric and the Revered Mother ascended the dais, moving down to the far end so that the Grand Cleric could have the middle seat. The crowd grew quiet when she raised her hands, commanding their attention.
"Holy Knights of the Maker, may His blessings shine down upon your arms and armor today. You have been called upon to prove yourself worthy of performing one of the Maker's most sacred duties, quelling the threat of those who despoiled the Golden City and were thus banished from Heaven. In His light, we shall prove our skills to the one called Duncan, Commander of the Grey and recruiter for the Grey Wardens in Ferelden." Duncan bowed his head so as to avoid the multitude of eyes that would naturally turn to him at the mention of his name. She continued. "We pray that the Maker shall guide our swords, and that He will lead the best of us to rise victorious at the end of the day. In the name of the Maker and his bride Andraste, we so pray."
The crowd responded in unison, a wave of voices crashing over him. "So let it be." Duncan remained respectfully silent.
With a wave of her hand, one of the Templars on the field below called out the first two names, Ser Kalvin of Denerim and Ser Simon of Redcliffe. Ser Simon was the first to fall, yielding to Ser Kalvin's devastating combination of sword-and-dagger after two rounds. It did not take long for the bouts to blend together, Duncan only truly paying attention when the fighting became most intense. Three warriors in particular caught Duncan's eye, enough so that he supposed that bringing two recruits back with him would not be such a horrible idea. Ser Kalvin, the first fighter he had seen that day. Ser Talrew of Lothering, who Duncan had spoken with earlier that winter when his recruit Ser Gideon had insisted on stopping in the Chantry there before continuing on to Denerim. Ser Eryhn, one of the rare female Templars, who could clearly hold her own against the more physically imposing members of the opposite gender. Her quick deftness with sword and shield more than compensated for any gaps in raw physical strength.
Gradually, the crowds began to clear as those who had been eliminated were removed from the field, and Duncan spotted the face he had been searching for. He leaned against the far wall, garbed in the golden robes of a Chantry initiate instead of a Templar's typical heavy plate. He was thankful that Mother Hannah had held true to her word, but why was he not wearing armor?
"Is something troubling you, Warden?" Ser Glavin asked. "Your face took on such a dour look just now... some refreshment would help, perhaps?"
"I have seen many stout fighters today, Ser Glavin," Duncan replied, "And yet I see one Templar who has yet to be called to the lists."
"Oh? And who..." the Knight-Commander's eyes followed to where Duncan was pointing. "Oh, no. Duncan, trust me when I say you are not interested in recruiting Alistair. He stirs up trouble wherever he goes. From what Ser Herrith of Redcliffe tells me he was brought here by the order of his Revered Mother, but the boy was caught making a mockery of one of our Holy Chanters. Poor Mother Theohild is getting on in years, and sometimes gets confused when she repeats the Chant of Light, and Alistair thought this quite amusing. Ser Herrith was loathe to let him compete in the first place, and decided then that his inability to control his wayward tongue had lost him the opportunity to fight this day."
Duncan scowled. He did not go through all this trouble just to be put off by a Templar's whim. "I came here to find the best of you, not the most polite. I would like to see him fight."
Modifié par odiedragon, 14 mai 2010 - 07:33 .
#46
Posté 13 mai 2010 - 08:42
Demetra11
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You are a tease....
I saw you posted and run to fanfiction net right away.
Allright lets enjoy snippets^^
I saw you posted and run to fanfiction net right away.
Allright lets enjoy snippets^^
#47
Posté 13 mai 2010 - 09:07
Miri1984
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Oooh, Duncan! Yay for beardy weirdy! This one should be good!
#48
Posté 13 mai 2010 - 10:14
odiedragon
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Beardy Weirdy
Oh, and for future reference, when I update the actual fic, I'll change the topic to reflect that :happy:
I'm not sure if the Duncan's POV will be two or three chapters, depends on how wordy I get. Which probably means four parts given the way I write!
Oh, and for future reference, when I update the actual fic, I'll change the topic to reflect that :happy:
I'm not sure if the Duncan's POV will be two or three chapters, depends on how wordy I get. Which probably means four parts given the way I write!
#49
Posté 14 mai 2010 - 11:55
Demetra11
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odiedragon wrote...
Oh, and for future reference, when I update the actual fic, I'll change the topic to reflect that :happy:
I forgot that. Overeager to read your story, thats me :happy:
#50
Posté 14 mai 2010 - 07:35
odiedragon
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Chapter 8 is now available!
http://www.fanfictio...Terrible_Beauty
http://www.fanfictio...Terrible_Beauty
Modifié par odiedragon, 14 mai 2010 - 07:36 .
