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[ladyames]

 Okay, at the persistence of a very DEAR friend, I am going to struggle to get this posted on the forum.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed writing it!


****
This is the beginning of a series of vignettes from the point of view of the Bartender in the Gnawed Noble
Tavern.  He’s always fascinated me … especially since he doesn’t appear to have a real name!  For my purposes, his name is Cyril (my husband’s idea when I asked, and not being able to think of anything better, I decided to run with it!)

This is just the set-up for the following chapters … there will probably be about 8-10 depending on how
things flow and where natural breaks fall … you get the idea.  I hope you enjoy!

 
*****

Prologue:


The late afternoon sun was well on its daily descent below the edges of the city walls and the Chantry clock was tolling the lateness of the hour when Cyril noticed a familiar face stroll through the doorway and saunter up to his
bar.  He knew this man, had known his father before him.  “A good evening to you, sir,” he greeted the man warmly.  “How may I serve you this evening?”

The man smiled affably and replied, “I’ll have the usual.”

Cyril nodded and took two steps behind him in order to pour a pint of the “good stuff” as he liked to call it from its keg.  Returning to the counter, he handed the glass over.  “Busy day today?” he asked, returning to drying numerous glasses one of the kitchen lasses had just brought him.

The gentleman in question smiled.  He was young, Cyril knew, despite his current slightly haggard appearance, and had recently taken over his position for his father who was in declining health.  “Perhaps just a bit,” he admitted.  He took a sip of the drink, savored its aroma, the taste, and visibly sighed as he swallowed.  Cyril knew he had traveled all over Ferelden, but each time he frequented the Gnawed Noble Tavern, he reminded Cyril that the ale here was the best.  A contented grin forming across his features, he murmured, “You’ve outdone yourself again, my friend!”

Cyril, rather pleased with himself at this, simply smiled and continued drying glasses.

The gentleman was tall, almost inordinately so, and leaned onto the counter top as he spoke next.  “You know, Cyril, in all of the years I’ve been coming to your establishment, you never fail to disappoint.”

“We aim to please, my lord,” Cyril replied honestly.

“And, I bet you have heard some pretty interesting things around here, being a bartender and all, and having lived through the blight ….”

Cyril glanced up from the glass he was drying, looking at his customer with a calculating eye.  Then, with a soft
chuckle, he set the dry glass aside and reached for another.  “Fishing for a story my lord?” he asked.

The man grinned.  “Only if you are in an obliging mood,” he returned.  Then, adjusting his position, he sighed.  “Things have become quiet and almost … dull since the end of the blight.”

Cyril nodded.  “Let me tell you,” he said in an exaggerated whisper, “that is a good thing!”  The nobleman snorted but waited patiently knowing that Cyril always had a good story or two for the telling ….

Cyril paused in his duties for a long moment, trying to determine where to begin.  “Let me think ….  Would you like to hear about the Hero of Ferelden as she was before she united all the armies of Ferelden and defeated
the archdemon?” he queried at last.  He smiled when he saw the man’s face light up at the thought.  “Well,” Cyril continued, “you see, it was like this .…”

Modifié par ladyames, 08 juin 2010 - 11:46 .

[ladyames]

Chapter One


 An Old Friend


"Let me see …. I suppose I should begin when I first learned that our Hero was to become a Warden. I had known of her before that, but never met her or suspected her of the sort of thing that occurred to lead her into the Grey Wardens ….

"The young noble leaned forward. "You knew her before the Blight?" he breathed in amazement. "What was she like?"

Cyril chuckled. "Normal," he said smiling. He saw the smile on the lad's face fall momentarily until he added, "Completely and utterly normal … for a city elf from the Alienage, I suppose, at that point in time. But then came the day of her wedding and her recruitment into the Wardens not long after that…."



*****

Cyril was busily wiping down the countertop when he felt a large shadow suddenly looming over him.  He glanced up to find a familiar face looking down upon him: tall and muscular man, dark hair and beard, tanned skin, deep eyes almost like a hawk’s ….  “Ah, Duncan, my old friend!” he exclaimed in delight, straightening and reaching out to shake the man’s hand.  “Wonderful to see you in Denerim again!”  As he continued to speak, he reached for a
tall glass, pouring a pint of his best ale for the Commander of the Grey Wardens.

Duncan’s smile was a bit weary, but genuine enough as he accepted the proffered drink.  “Cyril, my friend, the Maker has willed that our paths cross yet again,” he saluted before tasting the beverage.  Nodding in appreciation, he continued, “And how have things been at this most noble of establishments since my last visit?”

Cyril simply chuckled.  “Business has been good, I am not ashamed to say,” he replied simply.  “Our reputation of good food and drink for a reasonable price must be getting around.  You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”

Duncan’s look of “Who, me?” was an act, they both knew, but it was a testament of the level of their friendship. 

“So, my friend, will you be needing your usual room this evening then?” Cyril queried, spying Edwina standing over near the door to the more private dining rooms.  She was the one in charge of lodgings at the tavern.

Duncan shook his head as he took a long drink from the draught.  “I’m afraid not this time, Cyril.  I’ve come to see about a potential recruit.  If things work out as I think they will I shall be out of Denerim this evening and on the way to Ostagar.”

“Ostagar, is it?” Cyril murmured, a rag in one hand drying the glass in the other.  He leaned towards his guest, lowering his voice a bit.  “Tell me, Duncan, is there really a Blight going on out there?  Or is King Cailan simply looking for a ‘grand adventure’ where there is none?”

Duncan shook his head and sighed.  He knew that Cyril’s question was no doubt being echoed throughout all of Ferelden by commoners and nobles alike.  He was certain that many of Cyril’s patrons, the majority of whom were nobles, were responsible for this question.  Though Duncan had a great deal of respect for Cyril, he had some serious concerns at the moment.  “I believe it to be a Blight, Cyril,” Duncan finally replied, a slight edge to his voice.  Then, with a bit of a grin, he added, “We Wardens are supposed to be able to detect these things, are we not?”

Cyril chuckled and decided to follow Duncan’s unspoken advice to change the subject.  “So then,” he continued
amiably, “tell me about this recruit of yours that you are after.”

Grateful for the man’s cooperation, Duncan proceeded to oblige the man.  “Hmm.  She’s a young elf by the name of Shastaryn Tabris.  I had my eye on her mother a number of years ago, but unfortunately that never worked out. 
Recently, I have heard from Valendrian,” he observed Cyril nod - it was clear that he knew the elder from Denerim’s Alienage, “where he suggested that I seek out the daughter.  He assures me,” Duncan concluded, “that the daughter’s skills well surpass the mother’s.”

Cyril looked thoughtful for a moment.  “Shastaryn Tabris …,” he muttered.  He knew a few of the Alienage elves, and this name was striking a familiar chord within his memories.  Suddenly, he looked at Duncan and snapped his fingers.  “Ah, I’ve got it!  Adaia Tabris was her mother.”

Duncan nodded in affirmation.  “Yes.”

Cyril smiled and allowed his memory to drift back.  “Sad story, that,” he murmured without expanding further.  He knew that Duncan was aware of the story.  “Such a waste.”  Turning his attention back to his customer, Cyril asked, “And you say that the daughter is now your recruit?”

Duncan nodded.  “I hope she will be,” he replied.  “From everything I hear she is the spitting image of her mother, has the same fiery temper and is quite … talented.”  Duncan trusted this man completely, but knew that he could not do the same with the others, both patrons and workers, in the establishment and therefore had to guard his words. 

Cyril nodded in understanding.  If it were to be known that the Tabris girl was skilled in the fighting arts, the city guards would take her in.  He reached for Duncan’s now empty glass.  “Another, Commander?  On the house?”

Duncan smiled in appreciation as he placed several coins on the countertop.  “I’m afraid not, my friend,” he replied with reluctance.  “Duty calls.”

Cyril simply nodded.  “Maker go with you, my friend.”

Duncan gave the man a slight bow.  “And with you, my friend,” he told him sincerely before turning to leave.

 **********

The next morning was clear and bright as Cyril began opening the tavern for the day.  He noticed Edwina turning the corner from the Market District, walking in his direction with her arms full and he turned towards her to assist.  They spoke briefly as they entered the building, she detailing the previous day’s news … or rumors of news at any rate. 

It wasn’t until the nooning hour when Sergeant Kylon, a good friend as well as keeper of the peace in the Market District, came in for his meal that Cyril learned of the events that had transpired the previous afternoon.

Kylon, who was seated at a table with Cyril sitting across from him, took a mouthful of the stew before shaking his head in amazement.  “Three noblemen and an entire estate filled with guards!  And, from what I hear, she
did it all on her own!  I tell you, Cyril, the Warden Commander will have his hands full with that Tabris girl!  It will be a miracle if he even gets to Ostagar in one piece!”

Cyril who had seated himself across from his friend for the duration of the story now rose to his feet, albeit reluctantly.  “If you ask me,” he returned, “it sounds as if those guards who went in to the Alienage to take her in were the lucky ones to come out alive!”

Kylon snorted his laughter as he downed the last of his ale.  “Glad it wasn’t my men or they wouldn’t have!” he exclaimed before adding beneath his breath, “clumsy, ill-bred,  ill-mannered oafs!” 

Cyril chuckled.  It was the same complaint that he heard from this man all too often.  “Have a good afternoon, Sergeant, and we’ll see you back tomorrow.”  He returned to his position behind the counter, busying himself with his duties.

**********



“She killed all those guards, Vaughn Urien and his friends …,” his patron breathed in astonishment. “I mean,
everyone knew what a … monster the man was,” he added a bit sheepishly, “and I’m sure he deserved punishment, but to actually kill him!”

Cyril nodded soberly as he refilled the man’s drink and set out a bowl with snacks in it.  “She did.  You have to understand, my lord, she wasn’t out to kill them because they were nobles,” he explained.  “She wasn’t even out to kill anyone at all.  The moment that they kidnapped her and her kin, well, you’ve heard that old saying about not coming between a mother bear and her cubs?”  He saw the boy nod.  “Our Hero is very close to her family.  She became that mother bear.  The injustice that had been occurring to her people, her family, over the years … it finally became too much.”

It took a moment for him to sort through all of this, as well as his own reaction to the story, but the younger man
finally managed a nod.  “I – I think I understand,” he murmured.  “Am I to assume that she is behind the recent changes in government policy that the king has made towards the elves and Alienages?”  He knew that the Hero’s cousin, Shianni, had been elevated to the status of Bann of the Denerim Alienage shortly after the Blight had ended.

Cyril smiled at the man’s sudden jump in thoughts.  “I don’t doubt that it is because she is an elf,” he replied, “though I don’t think she has any direct influence in those matters.”

Both men were quiet for a moment.  Finally, the nobleman smiled again at the bartender and asked, “What happened next?”

Cyril laughed at the man’s enthusiasm.  He obviously was a forward thinker, one who didn’t mind that the relationship between humans and elves were changing.  “Well, let me ask you this: Are you familiar with the Urn of Sacred Ashes …?”

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 12:03 .

[ladyames]

Chapter Two

The Maker's Watchman

“The Urn of Sacred Ashes?”

Cyril nodded.  “Our Hero was responsible for locating the Urn … or had you not heard?”

The younger man paused to think back for a moment.  Come to think of it, he had heard something about the Urn being found, but he hadn’t given it too much thought at the time.  “Maker’s breath!” he breathed in awe.  “How on earth did she manage to find it?  People have been looking for … for … well, for centuries!”

Cyril chuckled.  “Well, I must admit, she did have some help from one of the best,” he explained.

**********

“Cyril, my friend, I wonder if you might indulge an old Brother with a pint of your finest?” boomed the gentle voice of Brother Ferdinand Genitivi.

Cyril, who had been looking for something beneath the counter, jumped at this sudden and unexpected pronouncement, and in doing so managed to bang his head soundly on the hardwood structure.  “Andraste’s
blood!” he hissed, rubbing the offended spot as he rose.  It was then that he noted the identity of his customer….  “Brother Genitivi!”  Cyril felt the dark stain of embarrassment begin to slowly creep up his neck.  “Forgive me!”

The Brother chuckled good-naturedly and waved off the man’s apology.  “Not necessary, my friend,” he rushed to
reassure.

Cyril nodded and retrieved the requested drink.  Setting the mug on the counter, he asked, “What is the occasion,
Brother, if you don’t mind me asking.  You don’t usually come into our establishment in such a state of excitement!”

Genitivi downed half of the pint in one huge gulp before leaning forward to whisper loudly, “I don’t usually have such success, Cyril!”

Cyril blinked.  He, along with many in Ferelden, knew of the Brother’s scholarship on the Urn of Andraste.  The man had even written books containing the things he’d found, for Maker’s sake!  “Have you had a breakthrough, then” he asked in wonderment.

Genitivi nodded emphatically.  “That I have!” he declared, almost giddy.  “I leave tomorrow morning,” he added.  “It is in the west.”

Cyril watched with some amusement as the man downed the remainder of the drink.  He was beginning to wonder if the Brother would be in any shape to leave in the morning, but he decided to hold his tongue … at least for the moment. 

“How do you know it is in the west?” Cyril asked.  “Did you find a map?  An ancient text?  A letter from Andraste’s
executioners?  What?”

“What?  Oh!  Well, I was reading through a recent acquisition I had made on the trials of Andraste when I came across a reference about Havard, a close friend of Maferath and a disciple of Andraste!” 

The look that crossed Genitivi’s features was one of absolute enthrallment, Cyril decided.  He had known Genitivi for years, the man’s home being directly across from the tavern and the fact that he would occasionally interrupt his research to take a meal with them and regale Cyril with some of the stories he had found.  Cyril was not an overly religious type, but he genuinely liked the Brother and often found that the man’s enthusiasm for his research would carry over.

However, in the many years that they had known each other, and the multitude of breakthroughs that Cyril had witnessed, he had never seen the man so … enraptured before today.  “Have you told Weylon yet?” he asked.

Genitivi nodded.  “Yes, yes,” he replied quickly.  “Oh, would you mind terribly, my friend, if I were to take back a pint for him?  He’s been so patient with me throughout all of this, and now that we are so close ….”

Cyril smiled and simply reached for a mug.  He knew Weylon as well and was sure that the lad would return the item the next day as soon as he had seen Genitivi on his way.   “So, where in the west are you headed?”

“My first stop is Lake Calenhad.  I am to meet up with another scholar with whom I have been communicating.  He has more detailed information for me on Havard.   From there, well, I am not quite sure just yet, but I believe the Maker has finally shown me the way!”  He reached for the pint and handed over a few coins.  “I shall stop by the minute I return,” he promised, “and tell you all about it!”

Cyril smiled.  “Maker go with you, my friend,” he murmured to the retreating figure of the Brother.

**********

It was only a matter of a few weeks before Cyril was reminded of his friend and his journey to find the Urn. 

Denerim had been quiet and mournful for about a week after the death of the King and so many at Ostagar when Cyril looked up and noticed a stranger enter the tavern.  The man was tall, dark wavy hair and dressed in heavy chainmail armor.  A survivor of Ostagar? he wondered briefly.  Then the man turned and he saw the device on his shield:  a castle tower upon red cliffs.  A knight of Redcliffe then.  “May I help you, Ser Knight?” Cyril asked as the man approached the counter.

With a bit of a hesitant smile, the man replied, “Ser Donall.  I’d like a pint of ale, if you please.”

Cyril quickly fulfilled his request.  “Is there any way in which I can assist you, Ser Donall?” he asked.  “You looked as if you were in search of someone as you entered.”

Ser Donall nodded, taking a drink and nodding in approval.  He fished some coins out of his pocket and responded, “Actually, perhaps you can give me some guidance.  I am searching for a Brother of the Chantry named Genitivi.  I was told that he lived in the Market District.  Might you be familiar with him?”

Cyril blinked.  “I should hope so!” he exclaimed a moment later.  “His home is directly across from the tavern.  But,” he added almost as an afterthought, “I’m afraid you will not find him here.  He set out westward not more than a week ago, and did not say when he might be returning.”

Ser Donall’s face fell in disappointment.  “Stymied at every turn,” he muttered.  Shaking his head, he drank deeply once more. 

“I believe his assistant, Weylon, may still be there if you think he might be of some assistance,” Cyril offered. 

As he finished the drink, Ser Donall nodded. “I think I will do that.  Thank you for your assistance.”

**********

Months later, Cyril thought perhaps as many as five and about mid-winter, both incidents were brought back to mind as Cyril found himself face to face with the future Hero of Ferelden.

Cyril had been transporting firewood to the tavern’s private rooms as the temperatures for the past few days had plummeted, when he returned to the common room to find a group of about five or six people standing near the bar.  “How may I serve you …!” Cyril asked, then gasped.  “Brother Genitivi!  You have returned!”

The Brother smiled and nodded, but only said, “Cyril, my friend, I would like to purchase whatever these kind people would like to drink.  I owe them my life, my friend.  Treat them right!”

“Your ….”  Cyril glanced at the group then and paused when he saw a vaguely familiar face ….  “You!” he gasped again.  “You were the one Duncan came here to recruit so many months ago!”

The red-haired, green-eyed elf nodded politely and smiled.  She had heard of Cyril before and had actually met him once on the street when she was younger, though she doubted he remembered it.  “I was,” she replied, her
lilting voice soft but musical.  “As you can see,” she added with an impish grin, “things worked out for the best!”

Cyril nodded, hoping that they would have some time later to chat about their mutual friend and remember him properly.  His gaze traveled over her companions: The tall, blond warrior next to her looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place him at the moment; the even taller man next to him … the one with white hair and violet eyes … and who was frowning back at him.  Cyril sped along to the next companion deciding that the giant was not worth the effort if he wanted to keep his skin intact.  Another beautiful red head, this one human; and … two mages, one seeming to be the exact opposite of the other in dress, looks and temperament.  “Now, then,” he asked, “what can I get you all to drink?”

As he served them one by one, he motioned Edwina over and suggested that she give them the private dining area to use so that they could talk undisturbed and so that Brother Genitivi could sit and rest.  The poor man looked as if a stiff wind might knock him over at any moment.  Shastaryn was the last to receive her drink, a nice mead.  Before she walked away, Cyril murmured, “Thank you for saving the Brother.  He is a kind and gentle man who –“

Shastaryn reached out and touched the barkeep’s arm.  “I know,” she replied in that soft voice.  “Trust me, Cyril, he is in good hands and will remain so long after my companions and I leave Denerim.”  With a knowing look at him, she turned and walked away.

Cyril stood behind the counter for a long moment, digesting her words.  Then he smiled.   

**********

When Cyril finished speaking, his patron enquired, “Whatever happened to Brother Genitivi?  Did he survive the Battle of Denerim?”

Cyril nodded.  “That he did.  He actually left on yet another research adventure, regarding what I am not sure, about three weeks before the Battle took place.  I saw him only a few days ago, as a matter of fact.  He was back in Denerim for a short time to see what remained of his house.  After the Battle, I had some younger lads gather up his things to put into storage so that the old, dilapidated building could be torn down and rebuilt.  Now, with the assistance of the Hero’s Orlesian friend Leliana, they are setting off to explore in further detail the location of the Urn, to see what might be done about preparing it for pilgrims to visit.”

He nodded.  “I remember hearing about that.  I met her, you know,” he added.  “She’s quite fascinating to speak with… and very easy on the eyes ….”

Cyril snorted.  “Fascinating to speak with or fascinating to listen to?  She is a bard by trade, you know, and I know how young men are attracted to … foreign accents!”  Cyril was rewarded with a blush that reached the man’s ears.

“Now then,” Cyril continued, “Let me tell you a bit more about the Hero and her companions.  Let me think ….”  Cyril searched back through his memories.  “Ah, yes, let me tell you about the time we had an outbreak of vermin that needed removing ….”

**********

 A/N: I know the game doesn’t come right out and say it, but I am under the theory, based on the conversation with Ser Donall in Lothering that a) he does come to seek out Genitivi, he follows to Lake Calenhad and somehow manages to get out of the ambush, and c) his is the body found on the backroom floor of the shopkeeper’s house in Haven.  This will play out a bit further in my follow up story later.

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 12:15 .

[ladyames]

Chapter Three

Row Your Boat
I want to start off by admitting openly that the line “curiouser and curiouser” comes from Alice in Wonderland.  Reading mysteries seems to run in my family (me, my mother, my grandmother …) and I always heard that line being said, but never knew where it came from.  (No, I’ve never read Alice in Wonderland!  Doh!)  Anyway, I wanted to be sure credit was given where it belonged.  Usual disclaimers … and all due thanks to Bioware!

**********
“You must understand,” Cyril was saying to his guest as he poured several drinks and set a bottle upon a tray for one of the waitresses to serve, “back then, when Teyrn Loghain was … regent, things around the Market District were falling into chaos.  Crime was on the rise, civil war was a real threat and people were frightened.”  

The nobleman nodded.  He remembered all too well the stories he had heard.  It was one of the reasons his parents had insisted that he remain out of Denerim.

“During that time, there was a group of mercenaries who were menacing the tavern.  Finally, both Edwina and I got to a point where the benefits of soldiers as patrons were outweighed by their disruption of business.”  At the lad’s confused look, he explained, “They were scaring away the customers.”

“Ah.”

Cyril nodded.  “Anyway, Edwina went to Sergeant Kylon to see if he might send a few of his men to chase them off.  What we got was something else entirely ….”


**********

Cyril heard the door to the tavern open and recognized the leader of the small group.  Smiling, he walked around the counter and met them halfway through the common area.  “How my I serve?” he asked.

Shastaryn smiled in greeting.  “We have come at the request of Sergeant Kylon,” she explained.  “We understand you are in need of some specialized … ‘pest control?’”

Cyril almost choked on his laughter at her description.  Smiling, he pointed out Edwina who was standing near the doorway to the private dining area.  “Through that doorway.” 

Shastaryn nodded.  “Thank you, Cyril.”  She turned to give instructions to her companions.  Facing the barkeep once more, she added, “We will stop by on the way out.”

He nodded and said, “I will have something … appropriate for you to drink by then.”

Cyril watched the group … today it contained the two Wardens, the elder mage and a blond elf.  Cyril frowned.  The elf looked normal enough he supposed, but not all blond male elves had that same tattoo ….  I don’t get paid enough to follow that line of thinking.  Shaking his head, he returned around the counter to begin preparing an appropriate thank you for the group.  He knew it wouldn’t take them very long to dispatch the ruffians.

“We’re the Crimson Oars!” he heard their leader shout proudly if drunkenly.  Cyril shook his head at the stupidity of some people … until he heard another voice.  An iron fist in a velvet glove, he thought.

“I have had all number of men fall at my feet in death.  You and yours are but numbers to me.  You may leave now, peacefully, or face certain death if you remain.  Make your choice now, quickly and carefully for I will not offer it a second time.”  Her voice was low, steady … and lethal.  Cyril was not surprised when, mere moments later the mercenaries were skulking their way out of the tavern.

Cyril looked up as the Warden and her companions returned.  “Thank you, Warden,” he told her sincerely after Edwina had thanked them.  He handed  a drink to each, recalling from their previous visit what they had liked,
except for the blond elf.  “And you, sir?”

“Have you any Antivan brandy?”

Cyril swallowed hard.  Antivan brandy ….  “Of-of course.”  He turned towards the shelves that held some of his fancier liquors and poured the man a glass.

He watched the Warden and her companions as they migrated over to a group of booths near the back of the common room.  Here, they sat furthest in the back, as far from the remaining patrons in the establishment as possible.  The two Wardens sat in the seat facing the doorway, to observe who came and went he supposed, and the mage and elf across from them. 

Had he not been eyeing them at that exact moment, he would have missed the small arcane bolt that shot from the elder mage’s fingers and hit the blond elf at her side.  Startled, he moved to step over to them, but he saw the two Wardens begin laughing, and knew that everything was fine.  He then noticed the Antivan smile warily up at the mage as she warned, “Move those hands off the table again, Zevran, and I won’t go so easy on you next time!”

“Ah, but my dear, Wynne ….”

Chuckling to himself, Cyril turned back to his duties.

As the companions were preparing to leave the tavern, Cyril stepped up to them and asked softly, “Warden Tabris, might I have a moment of your time?”

Shastaryn hid her surprise well.  “Of course, Cyril,” she told him.  At Alistair’s look of concern, she simply shook her head and stepped away from him and the others.  “How might I assist you?”

“Well,” Cyril told her, “you see, it is more that we might be able to assist each other.  If you and your friends are
needing to … acquire some coin, I might be able to … assist you with that ….”

Alistair, Zevran and Wynne all watched the conversation, noting that Shastaryn nodded occasionally.  When the barkeep handed her a few documents, Alistair moved as if to interrupt, but Zevran held him back.  “Not here, my friend,” Zev whispered as he glanced surreptitiously around the room.  “Later, at camp.”

Alistair nodded and bided his time.

**********

It was not until the nooning meal the next day that Cyril saw Sergeant Kylon and thanked him.  “You should have seen it, Kylon!” he told him.  “They looked like dogs with their tails between their legs as they left!  Crimson Oars, my arse,” he breathed.  “More like Crimson Mice!”

The Sergeant smiled as he ate.  “I’m glad those Wardens came along,” he said between mouthfuls of food.  “They assisted me with several issues that needed to be dealt with.”  He laughed quietly and shook his head woefully. 
“They made my men look so … inept.”  He sighed.  “What I would give to be able to have them on my team!”

Cyril sighed as well and sat at the table with his friend for a moment.  “I suppose they are gone for now?”

Kylon nodded. “I saw them as they left yesterday after stopping at Wade’s Emporium.  The woman Warden, Tabris, said they would be back periodically.”  He paused for a long moment and added, “I hope they do come back.  Their presence seems to give the people around here hope.”

Cyril nodded.  He knew that they would, though he didn’t tell the Sergeant that.  What Kylon didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, Cyril thought. 

**********

“What Kylon didn’t know ….” the young man echoed in a soft voice.

Cyril laughed aloud.  He knew it was safe enough to talk about these things now, but back then ….  “Curiouser and curiouser, eh?” he teased.

The lad blushed.  “Yes,” he admitted.

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 12:35 .

[Gilgamesh1138]

OMG! OMG! OMG! I loved these on FF.net. So glad you are putting them here! SQUEE! *does the happy dance of sublime joy*

[ladyames]

[shakes her head knowingly] You are so silly it frightens me sometimes!

[ladyames]

Chapter Four

Certain Favors


“So,” the younger voice queried around the rim of his mug, “just what wasn’t Sergeant Kylon supposed to know?”

Cyril remained drying mugs and glasses, simply raising an eyebrow in question.

Sighing in frustration, he pleaded, “Come on, Cy, please?  You’ve come this far.  Tell me the rest, please?”

Cyril chuckled, shaking his head at the younger man’s persistence.  “Remember this:  during times of war, even the most honorable of people have to … do things that in the calm of peace may seem to be less than honorable.”

The man’s eyes widened until Cyril thought they might pop out.  “Let me ask you this,” Cyril continued.  “During the
Blight, when all of your father’s soldiers were off fighting or dying,” he couldn’t remember if they had been at Ostagar or not, “where were you?”

“My mother and sisters and I were on our estate.”

“And, with your father and the men away, how did you manage to survive … how did you get the money with which you all purchased your food, including items that are not easily found anywhere but on the black market?  Who took care of those who were disturbing the peace or worse?  Who –“

“All right, all right,” he murmured.  “I get your point.”

Cyril nodded.  “I’m not saying what they did was right or wrong, but it provided work to those who needed it and services to those who needed things done.”

**********

Cyril was in the process of setting the large keg of house ale in its place behind the counter and therefore did not realize at first that he had customers.  He was a bit startled when someone joined him behind the counter: someone in armor that had seen better days and was obviously well used; someone who had youth and strength on his side.  Glancing up, Cyril came face to face with a vaguely familiar face.  “Thanks!” he breathed heavily once the keg was set into place. 

Alistair gave the man a friendly smile.  “Not a problem.  Glad I could help.”

Cyril watched as he returned to the other side of the counter.  “Now,” he said as he adjusted his apron, “How may I serve?”  He scanned the group.  Today it was the two Wardens, the elder mage and the pretty red-headed bard.

Shastaryn smiled.  “We’ll have our usual, Cyril,” she announced softly.  At the same time, as he nodded and began gathering the drinks, she pulled two documents from a pocket and silently placed them on the counter. 
When he returned, she slid them across. 


Cyril, without a glance at the documents, gave her a slight nod and took them.  With a smile and another nod towards the empty table they had used before, he continued to prepare their drinks.

About ten minutes later, Cyril approached the table and found the foursome chatting amiably, though the Wardens were keeping sharp eyes on the doorway.  Cyril set the tray he was carrying in the center of the table.  “Enjoy,” he
murmured. 

“Thanks, Cyril,” Shastaryn responded with a smile.  She turned towards the others as he walked away.  When she began unloading the tray, which included some nuts for snacking, she found two more documents to replace the ones she had returned to Cyril in addition to a small leather pouch containing several sovereigns.  This she handed to Wynne who, along with Leliana, would be making purchases to replenish their supplies.  

Cyril returned to his position at the counter, providing waitresses with their orders as well as serving new arrivals.  As the afternoon slowly wore on, he noted the mage and bard leaving the establishment, but the two Wardens remaining.  He was tempted to walk over to check on them, to see if they would like refills, but he hesitated.  Just as he preferred to keep a low profile with his … requests, he knew that they would feel the same.

A bit later, he saw the Wardens rise, turning to leave.  He nodded at them and watched as they approached him silently.  “Once again,” Shastaryn murmured appreciatively, “your hospitality has surpassed our expectations.  We shall see you soon, Cyril.”

Cyril watched them leave, not realizing the smile that had crept upon his face.

**********

It was a number of weeks later, a heavy late winter storm blowing through, when the Wardens returned yet again.  Tavern business was slow due to the inclement weather and Cyril had been thinking of sending some of the staff home.  Better they be idle on their own time than mine[/i], he thought.

The door to the tavern opened, allowing entrance to the two Wardens and a mabari hound.  Normally, Cyril would have requested the animal remain outside, but given that they were about the only patrons in the building at the moment and that the storm outside was raging, he let it pass.  Besides, he told himself, I have no desire to die in the jaws of a mabari!

Shastaryn led the way as usual.  When she reached the counter, she murmured a greeting.  Cyril nodded.  “How may I serve?”

The elf smiled wearily.  “Something warm, I think!” she replied, glancing up at her companion who nodded heartily. 

With a chuckle, Cyril gestured them to their table.  He was not surprised to see that Shastaryn had left documents upon his countertop once more.

When the cider had warmed enough for serving, Cyril brought it to the table.  As he neared, he heard the blond man asking, “Do you think we ought to stay the night?  This storm is getting worse.”

Cyril watched as Shastaryn shook her head.  “No,” she told him, “the others are expecting us.  If we don’t return, they might decide to come after us.”

“Here are your drinks,” Cyril murmured, carefully transferring the mugs to the table.  When he had finished, he turned to Shastaryn and asked, “The cook had this left over in the kitchens.  Do you think your hound might like it?”

Shastaryn noticed the large bone on the tray then and smiled warmly.  Nodding, she replied, “Thank you for your
consideration, Cyril!  I’m sure Rafion would be grateful and would be your friend for life.  Wouldn’t you, boy?”  She watched the hound eye the bone, then the man before emitting a happy bark indicating that would be the case.  With a chuckle, Cyril placed the bone on the floor before the animal.

When he rose back up to his full height, Cyril set a small leather pouch upon the table, similar to the one he’d given them on their last visit.  Additionally, he set another document at the edge of the table before leaving them.

A short time later, Cyril looked up to see the door to the tavern open and shut quickly.  Covered by a snow-laden cloak, a boy no older than ten approached, handing a message to Cyril.  “Message for you, sir,” he announced before turning to dart back outside into the cold, snow and wind once more.

Cyril opened the missive and read it quickly.  He walked into the private dining area, slipped the message into the roaring fire and returned as quickly as he could to the common room.  Approaching the Wardens’ table, he murmured calmly, “I need you to come with me as quickly as possible right now.”

Shastaryn nodded, rising immediately, Rafion jumping to attention.  Alistair thought about protesting, but remained silent at Shastaryn’s quick glance.  He grabbed their pack that had been on the seat next to him while Shastaryn grabbed their mugs.  She gave Rafion a hand signal and the animal lifted his bone into his mouth.  Within seconds, they were following Cyril through the doorway near their table.  The area was pitch dark and the Wardens heard Cyril murmur, “Be sure the doors is shut tightly.  There’s a rail on the right which will help guide you down.”

When they reached the bottom, Cyril had managed to find a candle and had it lit to provide just a bit of light.  He led them to the far back corner of the room, behind a stack of kegs, to a wall containing bottles of wine.  With a
practiced move, the “wall” moved out and to the side, exposing a darkened tunnel.  Handing Shastaryn the candle as well as an additional one, he murmured, “Follow this all the way down.  When you reach a cross path, turn left and then the immediate right.  When  you get to the top of the steps, look for a depression on the right side.  This will open the barrier at that end.”

Shastaryn glanced at Cyril.  Hazarding a guess, she asked, “The warehouse?”

Cyril nodded.  “Remain there if you like.  Or, wait for the storm to break before you leave.  No one will trouble you there.”  He gave her a look then grinned.  “Howe’s men may be his elite, but they are not so … smart!”

Nodding, Shastaryn gestured Rafion into the tunnel and turned to follow.  Alistair followed, murmuring his thanks as he passed the bartender.

After the Wardens had entered the tunnel, Cyril slid the wall back into place and reached for a bottle of Antivan brandy and another of Orlesian wine.  He tucked them under his arm before grabbing a small keg of Ferelden cider with the other then starting up the stairs once more.  Thanks to Sergeant Kylon and the one or two actually dependable guards that he had amongst the ranks, they’d been able to avert a disaster this day.

When Cyril entered the common area, he found six guards, all armed with the Arl of Denerim’s device on their shields, talking with Edwina.  Cyril chuckled softly to himself.  More accurately, Edwina was giving them a piece of her mind.  I wouldn’t be surprised if she took them by the ears and tossed them out on their arses![/i] he thought to himself as he noisily set his items upon the counter.  He saw them turn in his direction at the sound then turn back towards Edwina.  With a half smile, he caught Edwina’s gaze as it brushed over him.  “Now, get out of my
tavern and don’t let me see you back here anytime soon until you learn some manners!”  Turning away from them, she wandered off towards the inn muttering loudly, “Grey Wardens indeed!  Died with the king, didn’t they.  Bloody stupid louts!”

**********

Cyril smiled as his thoughts drifted back.  “Howe’s men never did find them,” he added with a grin.  Then, straightening and pouring the lad another pint, he added, “at any rate, the Hero assisted with some favors made by … interested parties, shall we say?  The situation was profitable to both groups, and if others who showed less than desirable interest in them was thwarted in the process … well ….”

The man smiled.  “I see your point,” he said.  “But, certainly Howe and his men weren’t the only one after them, were they?  Did the Wardens ever get found out when they were in Denerim during that time?”

Cyril nodded.  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he admitted.  He laughed at the expression of incredulity crossing the man’s features. “Don’t be impatient, now!” he chided gently.  “Let me go and get you something from the kitchens first – we don’t need you falling over drunk, now, do we?  Leave that to the general of Ferelden’s army!”

Rolling his eyes, he stood in an effort to prove Cyril wrong … and felt the room begin to spin.  Before he knew it, Cyril was beside him, leading him towards a bench before sauntering off to the kitchens.

**********
A/N:  Please don’t get on my case about timelines!  I know I mentioned that it was about mid-winter at the end of The Maker’s Watchman.  Given that these events are all kind of spread out, I’m assuming that took place a month, give or take a few weeks before this.  I know there are also some events near enough to Denerim to have kept the Wardens in the area.  As for the “late season blizzard” I’ve described here, I live in the mid-western US … we get them all the time!  =)  If that doesn’t satisfy you, well, then just regard it as literary license to make the story work!

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 12:50 .

[ladyames]

Chapter Five

As the Crows Fly


Cyril placed a bowl of hearty stew, a slab of bread and a plate of cheese in front of the young man.  “Eat up,” he advised before turning back to his place behind the bar.

“You still need to tell me –“

Cyril ignored the man’s comments and distracted him instead by announcing casually over his shoulder, “You are sitting at their table, you know.”

The man frowned in confusion, the spoon pausing halfway to his mouth.  “Whose table?”

“The Wardens.  That was the table they used to sit at when they would come to the Gnawed Noble,” Cyril explained.  He watched as, in between mouthfuls of food the lad would glance around the area as if he expected to see ghosts of the Wardens or their companions show up at any moment.

When he felt that the lad had eaten enough to regain himself, he told him, “There was another time they came into
the Market District.  Oh, the following Spring I think it was, and our Hero was approached by a messenger as soon as they arrived ….”

**********

Cyril had just returned downstairs to the common room from delivering some firewood to Edwina’s rooms – poor woman had twisted her ankle badly walking up the stairs the week before – when he saw the Wardens and three companions enter the tavern.  “Good day!” he greeted them.  “How may I serve?”

Shastaryn reached out with her hand, grasping Cyril’s and shook it warmly.  He was not surprised when he came away with the last of the documents he had handed to her on her previous visit.  “Actually,” she explained, “we are here to see Master Ignacio.  Perhaps we can visit on our way out?”

Cyril nodded.  He indicated the direction of their destination and replied, “Of course.  I will look forward to it,” as he watched them head in that direction: Two Wardens, an elf and a human followed by an elderly mage, the Orlesian bard and the mabari hound, Rafion.  He smiled when he saw the hound give him a backwards glance before looking pleadingly up to his master.  With a quick hand signal, the hound ceased, but Cyril also noticed the quick smile that crossed the elf’s face.

It wasn’t but ten minutes later, sometime after Cyril had stepped into the private dining area to assist one of the waitresses with a large and heavy order that he returned to his bar to find that the Wardens and their companions had taken their usual seats.  He turned towards Elena, the waitress he had just assisted and asked her to fetch a bone from the cook for the mabari, and in the meantime prepared their drinks.

Upon the girl’s return with the treat for the dog, Cyril approached the table.  Without comment, he set their drinks in the center of the table and with a glance at Shastaryn gestured towards the bone.  With her nod of approval, and an appreciative whine from Rafion, Cyril set the treat on the floor, nudging it closer to the animal with the toe of his boot.  The dog snatched the bone with his huge maw, albeit careful of the man’s boot, but Cyril quickly pulled his foot back.  He laughed a bit nervously.  “He’s an enthusiastic creature, isn’t he,” he commented drily.  The Wardens and their companions chuckled amiably as he turned to leave them.  Although back at the counter, Cyril could still hear their discussion, though he feigned disinterest.

Turning attention back to the task at hand, Wynne said, “I don’t think we should be doing this.  We have become a tool of the Crows by our actions.  We are not assassins!”  Alistair and Leliana both nodded thoughtfully, though neither said a word aloud.

Shastaryn nodded thoughtfully at Wynne.  “I understand your position, Wynne,” she said softly, “but you know as well as I do that there are a number of reasons we accepted this.  First, we need the money.  Supplies, repairs and new items cost sovereigns which we do not have much of at the moment.”

“No thanks to the dwarf and his endless need for strong drink!” Leliana muttered.

Shastaryn couldn’t help a smile at that, but continued on without commenting.  “The second reason is that several wise men have told me over the years that you should keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.”

“Really?” Alistair queried.  “Who told you that?”  At first, everyone’s eyes turned to him and he raised his hands in a supplicating manner.  “Hey, I’m just asking a simple question!  It makes perfect sense to me!”

Shastaryn turned to look directly at him, a slight smile of indulgence crossing her features.  “The first was my father shortly after my mother was killed by city guards for ‘inciting a rebellion’ when I was fourteen,” she explained quietly.  Shastaryn felt Alistair’s hand move to cover hers lightly, offering silent comfort.  It had only been recently she had explained to him in further detail what had occurred when she was younger.

“The second person to say this to me was Duncan when we were on the road from Denerim to Ostagar.”  At the bewildered look of her friends, she added, “I was conscripted into the Wardens by Duncan because I killed Vaughan Urien, the Arl of Denerim’s son.”  She knew Duncan had told Alistair of this back before Ostagar, but Shastaryn had not told anyone else in their group … until now.  She was relieved to see, however, that neither Wynne nor Leliana appeared to be judging her harshly.  Both women had been with their group almost from the beginning, and she valued both their friendship and judgment.

“The third person to tell me,” Shastaryn continued while shifting her hand to cover her fellow Warden’s, “was you, Alistair, after I convinced you we should bring Zevran along even though he tried to kill us.”  She smiled as his expression went from curiosity to embarrassment in a heartbeat.  It was clear he had forgotten he had told her that.

“Please keep in mind,” she continued, turning back towards Wynne and Leliana, “we don’t have to complete all of the assignments given by the Crows.  So far, none of them have been too objectionable.  Should that change further down the road, we simply allow one of Master Ignacio’s other employers the opportunity to perform the task.”  She pulled out the most recent of documents received from the Antivan.  “This one, however, I believe
you will find is impossible to ignore.  The life of a child is at stake….”

Cyril was surprised when, not even a half hour later, he glanced over and his friends had departed.  He was even more surprised that they had managed to do so without alerting him to the fact.  While he was clearing the table of used mugs and glasses, he felt a presence approach from his right.  Turning, he found Master Ignacio standing
there.  “How may I serve, Master Ignacio?” he enquired.

The swarthy Antivan grinned.  “A glass of your best Antivan brandy, if you will, Cyril,” he announced, taking a seat at
the same table.  He watched Cyril walk off towards his bottles and glasses while moving only slightly to reach beneath the table with his fingers to find the message he had hope to find wedged into the wood frame there.  Removing it from its position, he pulled it clear so that he could read it. 

Master Ignacio,

We shall complete this one last service
for you and yours.  At that point in time
our contract will be, with your agreement, satisfactorily completed and we
shall go our separate ways.  I give you
this early warning so that you may inform your superiors if necessary, or do
whatever must be done to complete this contract at your end. 

Yours with due respect,

     
The Griffons


Ignacio slipped the message into his pocket before Cyril arrived with his drink.  “Thank you, my friend,” he murmured, handing over coins in payment.  

**********

Cyril retrieved the now empty bowl and plate, setting them on the counter behind him.  Giving the man the once over, he asked, “Better now?"

The young man smiled, a bit of a blush creeping up his neck.  “Yes, thank you,” he murmured.

Cyril clapped him on the shoulder gently.  “Nothing to be ashamed of, lad,” he told him.  “We get worse in here at
least once a week!  Besides,” he added, “old Cyril has your back!”

The man looked up as Cyril wandered back over to his bar.  Rising, he walked over and joined him there.  “So,” he murmured, taking his place once more, “did Ignacio agree to the Warden’s request?  I assume they reached some sort of agreement since she’s still living and breathing.”

Cyril nodded.  “Yes, Ignacio made the arrangements.  I believe, between brief conversations with both participants at later dates, that the Crows agreed to take no more contracts out on her, so they must have been satisfied.”  He smiled at the lad.  “I suspect that the Crows, as the Hero pointed out to her companions, keep their friends close and their enemies closer.”

The younger man snorted in laughter as he took a drink.  “Or dead!”

Cyril nodded and laughed with him.

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 12:59 .

[ladyames]

Chapter Six

Landsmeet

Cyril excused himself from behind the counter for a moment, his presence having been requested in the kitchen.  When he returned, he had a small plate of cookies with him.  Shaking his head but smiling all the same, he set the plate down in front of the young man.  “Kayleigh thought you might like to try these,” he announced, resuming his place behind the bar.

The young man’s eyes widened in delight.  Reaching out, he took one and nibbled on it.  His smile spread from ear to ear.  “Kayleigh,” he announced seriously, “is a wonderful woman!  Is she married, by any chance?”  He
grinned.  Both men knew the woman was happily married with six children and a passel of grandchildren.

Cyril chuckled.  “She simply thinks that you are a bit on the thin side, I think,” he replied.

The man snorted, knowing that there was some truth there.  Sighing, he took another, larger bite of the cookie.  “Not everyone is cut out to be the Hero of Ferelden,” he murmured.

Cyril thought he detected a bit of self-derision in the tone.  I wonder …. he thought.  “Let me see,” he began, attempting to pick up the threads of their earlier conversation.  “Where was I?”

The lad sighed, biting into yet another cookie.  “I believe you were about to begin with the calling of the Landsmeet,” he replied.

Cyril nodded.  “Ah, yes.  Well you see, Arl Eamon had put the word out weeks before the Landsmeet was actually called.  Apparently, King Maric had left behind one more son:  A son that no one had ever heard of before."

“Did they doubt his claim to the throne?”

“Oh, no!” Cyril quickly replied.  “It wasn’t anything like that at all.  What it boiled down to was who had the better aims for Ferelden.  Was it a General from a bygone age who was more focused on an old enemy?  Was it the Widow Queen who was, for all intents and purposes the daughter of a commoner who had been raised in status?  Or was it a bastard prince who had no political training, but was intent on saving his country from a Blight?”  Cyril paused, turning to look at him.  “You can see how it might be a bit confusing.”

He nodded.  “Yes.  Then add in all the in-fighting between the three candidates, plus the nobles and their opinions, and you have the makings of a showdown ….”

**********

Landsmeet … a political gathering, the nobles and king, or in this case the regent, getting together with everyone trying to outdo everyone else … in everything.  You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours[/i] was the phrase often used to describe these gatherings. And it was all done to see who came out on top.

Or, so Cyril thought.  Personally, he could care less about the politics of the meetings.  All he cared about was running his business.  And business boomed when there was a meeting of the Landsmeet.

For weeks, the nobles of the bannorn had been trickling into Denerim, called this time to meet to decide once and for all who should lead the country and in doing so, to determine what battle should be fought.  From the talk around the city, it was a draw between General Loghain Mac Tir, the current regent; his daughter, King Cailan’s
widow and the current Queen, Anora; and the bastard prince turned Grey Warden that no one had known existed before Ostagar, Alistair Theirin.

On the rare occasion that Cyril actually stopped to recall events since the fall of Ostagar, he chided himself for not having recognized the young man before.  “Looks like his father and brother, he does,” he would tell himself whenever he thought about it.

As the day of the Landsmeet drew closer, Cyril began spotting familiar, if noble, faces appearing in his tavern.  First to arrive in town was Alfstanna, Bann of the Waking Sea.  Cyril knew she was an intelligent as well as beautiful young woman, one who would listen to both sides of a story, evaluate it and make a logical, just[/i] decision.  She was also known for being prepared for anything.  She had taken over the leadership of the Bann
after her father’s death as her only brother had decided years before to become a Templar and thus making himself ineligible to inherit.

The next to make his presence known within the walls of the Gnawed Noble was Bann Sighard of the Dragon’s Peak Bannorn.  He was a pleasant enough man, one whose family had been raised in the traditions of nobility of Ferelden, yet though of aging years, he was a fair thinker, one who believed that there were benefits to being of an open mind or new ways.  He could oft be found speaking with the younger nobles or sons of nobles, currying their opinions, discussing new ideas, genuinely interested in their thoughts and opinions on such matters as the Alienages, human-elf relations, treatment of the magi.

Cyril had seen others, particularly when out in the Market District.  He’d had a word here or there in passing with
Bann Loren who, for some peculiar reason that Cyril had yet to determine, would never stay inside of the Gnawed Noble for more than five minutes at any given time.  And there was Bann Teagan ….  Cyril laughed as he thought of the younger of the Guerrin brothers. Teagan was a Bann in his own right, but usually supported his brother on most issues.  Cyril had heard that as the Arl of Redcliffe had lain ill in his bed throughout most of the past months that it was Teagan who had begun to stir up trouble amongst the Banns, to stir up the unrest against Loghain as regent.  Cyril had to wonder what the future would hold for this man, should he survive the coming battles.

On the day before the Landsmeet, Cyril found his establishment bustling with customers.  There was hardly a free seat in the tavern throughout the entire day.  As with so many meeting like the Landsmeet, the nobles tended to gather ahead of the actual meeting to talk, discuss, strategize … blackmail, threaten and terrorize as well, though he tried to make sure those things did not occur within the tavern itself.

On this particular day, Cyril was surprised to see a pair of familiar faces enter his building late in the afternoon.  When he first spotted the Wardens, he thought they might be alone ….  He soon realized, however, that they were
not.  They brought the mabari hound, the giant Qunari warrior and the Antivan assassin as their companions, and Cyril could tell from their current body language that all were on alert.  Cyril grew immediately concerned.  He would have stepped forward to greet them, but noticed that they had stopped off to speak with Bann Sighard as they entered the common room.

Cyril decided to simply take a moment to watch, as he had not done before now, as the elf Warden interacted with others.  Many, he knew, would have completely disregarded her because she was an elf.  But since she was a Warden, one of the last two left in Ferelden, those same people now listened.  He could not hear the conversation, but saw that Bann Sighard was now a bit agitated concern clearly evident upon his features.  A moment later, he seemed to calm somewhat.  The last thing he noticed was the man nodding, saying something to the Warden which made her smile as she made her departure.

Cyril watched as they made their way further into the room.  He caught the elf’s eye and she smiled in his direction, but continued on around the bar.  At first, Cyril thought they might be headed to their usual table, but
they stopped short at the one occupied by Bann Alfstanna and her companion.  This conversation, he could hear bits and pieces of, something about the Bann’s brother, Irminric, and a ring he had asked the Warden to give her.  Cyril noted the look of concern on the Bann’s face, heard her say something about going to see her brother.  The
conversation only took a few moments, but at the end, Bann Alfstanna was offering her support at the Landsmeet the following day before she excused herself and left the tavern, presumably in search of her brother.

At that point, Cyril saw the Wardens sit at their table, their companions sitting across from them.  He saw that the Qunari looked quite uncomfortable, though whether it was due to the furniture, the crowded establishment or something else, he couldn’t quite determine.  Cyril slowly approached the table.  “Good afternoon, my friends!” he greeted them, for the first time feeling it was fairly safe to address them as such.  “How may I serve?”

It was then that Cyril noticed the freshly made scars on the hands, the pain and the clear exhaustion as evidenced by both Wardens, but the Tabris girl in particular.  Reaching out, Cyril touched her hand and asked, “Are you unwell, my friend?  Would you prefer a private room?  One where you may rest with your friends or -?”

Shastaryn looked up into Cyril’s eyes … So much pain there! Cyril noticed … and she replied softly, “No, but thank you, Cyril.  We will all just have a drink before we return home for the evening ….”

Cyril glanced at the men: the male Warden, the one who was the bastard prince, looked just as beaten, just as tired, but it was clear that his concerns were focused on the lady next to him.  The Qunari was hard to read, but his gaze was concentrated on the lady as well.  The male elf, well he was constantly looking around the room.  Cyril remembered him to be the former Antivan Crow, and figured he was suffering from an occupational hazard.  However, his gaze would flit over to his leader every once in a while just to be sure she was still upright and breathing. 

Cyril felt a nudge at his leg.  Glancing down, he found Rafion seated beside his mistress, though it was clear he remembered the bartender from his previous visits.  “I will return momentarily with your drinks,” Cyril told them.

When he did return, minutes later and laden with a tray containing cider and four mugs, Cyril waited until he set the tray upon the table before pulling a bone out of his apron pocket for the animal.  He chuckled to himself when he heard the happy whine of the animal.  Patting the dog’s head, he murmured, “You are most welcome!”  Then he noticed Shastaryn reaching into a pouch.  Quickly, and much faster than they would have thought given their expressions, Cyril reached out and covered her hand and the bag all at once.  “No, my friend,” he assured her quietly.  “This is round is on me.”  With that, he turned and returned to his counter.

True to her word, Cyril watched the Wardens rise after their one drink and they and their companions turned to leave.  Before exiting, however, Shastaryn and Alistair both approached the bartender at his counter.  “Cyril,” Shastaryn spoke softly, “thank you for your help and your friendship these past weeks and months.  Should things not work out to our … advantage tomorrow, please know that we appreciate all you have done.”

Cyril had a moment of fear, of great concern at what would occur at the Landsmeet, but then it passed as he realized he had no control over the situation.  It would happen as it would, as the Maker wanted it to happen.  “Wardens,” he told them both, “you have brought back hope to the people here.  Not just those in the Market District, but those all around the city.  I am already hearing things about what occurred at the Alienage recently as well, and I suspect I shall hear more on the morrow.  It is we who should be thanking you for the things you have done.  For what it is worth, my friends, we stand with you.”

Shastaryn glanced up at Alistair who smiled at her.  Both Wardens looked at him and nodded once before they and their companions exited the building.  

**********

“I assume you heard about what occurred at the Arl of Denerim’s estate, at the Alienage, when the Wardens’ arrived in those places to help?” Cyril asked.

The nobleman seemed to be lost in thought at first, but he nodded in response.  “I do.  It is a wonder they were
in any shape for a showdown after those battles!”

“Not only that,” he reminded the lad, “but remember that, due to Queen Anora’s … behavior, they were both sent to
Fort Drakon.  They were physically beat down, emotionally drained and not in the least prepared for the battle to
come.”

“But, they won the Landsmeet,” he said.

Cyril nodded.  “Oh, they won the Landsmeet all right,” he agreed, “but that was not what I meant.   No, the battle to come was the Battle for Denerim … and the final confrontation.”

“The archdemon!” he breathed in awe, an almost childlike expression crossing his features.

Cyril nodded again.  “The archdemon.”

**********

(A/N: Kayleigh is my niece’s name, and she’s such a cutie!  I couldn’t resist borrowing her name to add
into the mix!)

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 01:13 .

[ladyames]

Chapter Seven

Run To The Hills

Okay, for this chapter, I owe the title to Iron Maiden’s song of the same name.  It just seemed appropriate somehow.  We (family) played it over the weekend on Rock Band, and it and my muse just hit me at the right time (both have powerful left hooks, let me tell you! LOL) and this is what developed out of that.


**********

“With the Landsmeet over, a new king to marry an old queen, and an old general dead, all attention turned towards the Blight.  For, as the Landsmeet came to a close, and the nobility began to return to their lands, word came that the darkspawn armies were ready to launch another large attack, and this time it was being led by the archdemon and was headed towards Redcliffe ….”

The lad gasped.  “The Arl’s Castle!”

Cyril nodded.  “That is what was thought at the time.  Needless to say, everyone prepared to leave quickly to return to their lands.  And it wasn’t just Arl Eamon and his faction who left either.”  He shook his head in wonderment.  “I don’t believe that I have ever seen this city empty so quickly before!”

He nodded in remembrance.  “I remember my father returning home for a time, talking about the Landsmeet, the choices that had been made …,” he stared off into the distance, “the battle still to come.”

Cyril shuddered as he recalled the events of that time.  “The battle came,” he told the lad.  “It came right to our
doorstep.  So many could have lost their lives, but we had one thing that archdemon and its horde didn’t count on.”

“Really?” the nobleman asked.  “What was that?”

Cyril’s grin caught the man off guard… it was partially a genuine smile but mixed with fear, hope, relief, and the knowledge that they had the advantage.  “We had the Hero of Ferelden.”

**********

 
As Cyril walked through the Market District that morning, he could still hear the locals chatting away about what had occurred at the Landsmeet just two days prior.  They were not nobles, yet they seemed to know in great detail he thought, just what had transpired between the Regent and the bastard prince, right down to the hand to hand combat between them that resulted in a new king … their new king.

Cyril chuckled to himself as he traversed the side streets and made his way to the tavern.  King Alistair Theirin.  As
Cyril entered the establishment, he left the door open for a few moments to allow the stale air from the previous night to change out with something relatively fresher.

“Good morning, Cyril.”

Cyril turned to find that, as usual, Edwina had snuck up on him.  Ah, the advantages of living on the premises, he sighed to himself.  “Morning, ‘Dwina,” he greeted her.

“Have you heard anything new yet?” she queried, venturing a step or two outside for a look-see out into the square.

Cyril shook his head.  “Not today, I’m afraid my dear.  Still the same bits that everyone else has been repeating.”  He closed the door behind them as they headed back indoors.  Cyril opted to head straight to the bar where
he reached for a fresh apron and wrapped it around his waist before tying it off. 

Edwina snorted.  “I just home that boy survives this battle he’s off to fight!  Can’t say as I’d like to see that Queen taking over again by herself so soon!”

Cyril agreed.  “That would be a shame,” he told her, “particularly since this is a large part of what they have been trying to accomplish these past months.  But,” he added, “I suspect that his fellow Warden might have something planned to keep him safe.  Doubtful that she would go through all of this and simply leave him in a position to lose it all!”

With a nod, he watched Edwina as she trailed off to her right to round up the guests who were to be departing this morning.  She needed the time to prepare the rooms for the guests arriving today. 

Cyril was kneeling to retrieve something from beneath the counter when he looked up to see the “girls” – Sarah, Giselle, Elena and Caren, the Gnawed Noble waitresses, entering the building to begin their day.  He waved at them as they dashed off to find their aprons and get ready for the day to begin.

It was amazing, Cyril thought to himself a while later, just how quickly the city could empty after a Landsmeet had ended; at least in terms of the flow of business at the tavern.  When the meetings were called, it would generally take weeks for all of the nobles to get their families and retinues together and travel to Denerim to take up their
lodgings.  But, as soon as it was over, well, the floodgates opened and the city was empty yet again within a day, two at most.

Though the tavern and other businesses suffered somewhat at the sudden lack of clientele, the Gnawed Noble still had the usual customers who would show up.  Sergeant Kylon was no exception.  He came daily, rain or shine, for his mid-day meal and occasionally lively discussion.  On this day, however, the Sergeant arrived early, a bit breathless and in an obvious rush.

Cyril was astonished at the distress he could read on the features of the man when he returned from the kitchens.  Frowning in concern, he hurried over to the bar where Kylon was leaning in an effort to catch his breath.  “Kylon!  What in the Maker …!”

Kylon gave him a knowing look as he straightened up.  He pulled a piece of paper from a pouch at his waist and handed it to Cyril.  Cyril took it and discovered it was a quick note to him from ….  Cyril read the message and gasped.  “Andraste’s flaming sword, how are we to do this?” he asked breathlessly.

Kylon shook his head.  “I received a similar message this morning,” he explained.  “Cyril, we have to do something!  We can’t just let all of these people ….”

Cyril raised his arm to his brow, pressing it against his forehead in an attempt to aid his thinking.  She’s given us warning … enough time to get quite a few evacuated, he realized.  But … how?  What about those who refuse to go?  What about the Alienage?  “Who else have you told, Kylon?”

The man shook his head.  “Only you.  I didn’t want to spook anyone just yet.  You can imagine the madhouse this place is going to be once the word gets out.  We have to do this in an organized fashion or people will get killed, and I’m not meaning by the darkspawn!”

Cyril nodded in agreement.  “All right.  Go on and tell the other groups – the Chantry, the Templars … Let them know and see what they can do to start rounding people up and filling them in on the situation.  I will let the shopkeepers around the square know.  We’ll tell them they have … oh, what do you think, three hours to prepare? 
Four?”

Kylon thought for a moment.  “Three would be best, I think.  The more time to get people moving out of the city, the better.  She said they are coming up from the south and suggested to me that we take the North Road … follow it out into the Bannorn.”  He shook his head.  “I have a very bad feeling about all of this,” he muttered darkly.

Cyril clapped him on the shoulder.  “We will do what we can with those who are willing to take their chances.  She’s asking us for our help.  We give it to her as best we can in the hopes that, once this is all over, the king will still have a people to rule.”

Nodding, Kylon rose to his full height.  “Right.  I will go brief my men and any other city guards I can get sent down.  Perhaps we can make this happen after all.”

Cyril rounded up Edwina and the girls as well as the kitchen staff the minute that Kylon left.  “We are evacuating Denerim,” he told them simply.  “If you need to go home to your families, you may do so.  If you do not, please stay
and we can evacuate together.”  He glanced at each person individually.  “I will not lie to you.  We have advance
warning that the darkspawn horde is headed here with the archdemon leading it.  We must evacuate or our lives will be forfeit.  This city will become a madhouse shortly, so we must act quickly.  Kayleigh?”  He saw the woman nod.  “If you’d ask Dennis to bring his cart, we can use that for the food and drink as well as those of you who need the assistance.”  Kayleigh’s husband, Dennis, had a two large ox-drawn cart that he hired out around town to the merchants for transportation of goods. 

“I will get him now,” Kayeligh announced, turning to leave.

Cyril turned back to the others.  “Like I said, thinks are bound to get crazy around her any time.  Remain calm. 
Hopefully, it will help the others feel the same.”

Three hours later, Cyril was walking beside the cart pulling the food, drink and girls from the Gnawed Noble Tavern.  Edwina, still suffering from the ankle injury, was up there as well as Kayleigh who, Cyril noted with an amused glance, cracked the whip on the oxen as well as she did in her own kitchen.  Dennis was following behind them, pulling the other cart that had been used to assist the Chantry with children, patients and others who needed assistance to escape. 

When they reached the city gates, Cyril gestured Kayleigh and Dennis on, promising he would catch up with them in a few moments. He watched them head out along the North Road and prayed to the Maker they would be safe.  He turned back into the city and found, as he suspected, Sergeant Kylon near the guard post.  “Kylon.”

The Sergeant turned towards him.  “Cyril.  How many did you get to leave?” he asked.

Cyril shrugged.  “The majority of them are leaving.  A few are not.  I would not worry about sending guards down
there.  Those who remain have been duly warned.”

Kylon nodded.  “Right then.”  He turned towards four guards who had just arrived and gave them orders to attach themselves to the groups of people leaving the city.  “By all that is holy,” he told them, “keep them safe!”

Cyril turned to face Kylon and reached out a hand.  The Sergeant took it and both men gripped the other’s forearm
tightly.  “Maker watch over you, Kylon.”

The man nodded.  “May he watch over us all,” he replied.  “We shall follow as soon as we are satisfied that the main body of those wanting to leave have departed.  I hope that will be within a couple of hours.  If not ….”

Cyril nodded.  “I understand.”  He then turned and exited the gates, quickening his pace to catch up with his Gnawed Noble family.

**********

“You all managed to evacuate?”

Cyril smiled at the memory.  “As many of the people who were willing to leave, yes,” he replied.  “There wasn’t
enough time, you see, to get everyone out.”  His thoughts traveled to the Alienage.  He had felt guilty at the time that the elves had not been alerted to the upcoming battle. But he had not been surprised at all to hear of the stand that they had made … alongside one of their own.

“Where did you end up going?  As I recall, there isn’t all that much up on the North Road.”

“We traveled for the remainder of that day, found a large expanse of fields well off the highway and most people set up their camps there.  We were a good ways out of Denerim by that point, and we had stragglers coming in later in the day.  But, by evening, we were simply … waiting, like everyone else.”  

Cyril stood straight and moved around the counter to stand near the young man.  “It was strange,” he said, leading the man into the private dining area.  “We were well away from the fighting, from the approaching horde, yet I could almost … hear the marching, smell the acrid smell of smoke as the city burned, breathe in the horrid smell
of darkspawn, feel the ground tremble at the roar of the archdemon ….”  

He turned to a painting that hung over the fireplace.  It was a landscape, and at first, it looked as if there were dots all over the field.  However, as the younger man stepped forward, careful not to step into the fire that was burning in the hearth, he found that he could see vague outlines or suggestions of outlines of individual people.  “This is an interpretation of the evacuation,” Cyril told him.  “One of the sisters from the Chantry came by while we were there waiting for word to come that we could return.  I saw her sketching a drawing of this on paper and I complimented her on her skill.  She asked if I would like a painted version of it and I told her that, Maker willing we all survived and returned to the city, that I most certainly would like a painted copy that I could hang in the
tavern.”

“It’s remarkable ….”

Cyril smiled as he looked fondly upon the scene.  “Yes,” he agreed, “it was remarkable indeed.”

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 01:27 .

[ladyames]

Chapter Eight

Rebuilding


I took my inspiration for this chapter from a story I saw on Cable TV about Emeril Lagasse and his return to New Orleans after the devastation there from Hurricane Katrina.  He helped so much not only for his own employees but for the rest of the city, I felt it only fitting to pay tribute to that in some small way, and it seemed to me that Cyril might do something similar upon his return to Denerim.

Usual disclaimers ….



**********

“We spent three days and two nights away from Denerim,” Cyril was saying, putting another tray together for one of the girls.  “We weren’t close enough to see or hear anything directly.  Matter of fact, no one in our group, including the late departing stragglers, ever actually saw any of the darkspawn.”

The nobleman was hesitant to ask, seeing the look that passed over Cyril’s features.  It was clear the man had been greatly affected by the events.  He was aged beyond his years, his hair now almost completely grey, his face wrinkled, his back a bit stooped.  “How did you know when to come back?” he asked, figuring that was a safe question.

Cyril paused after pouring a pint and adding it to the tray.  “I can’t really explain it,” he finally replied.  “We all woke up the third day, and suddenly … we just knew it was time to come back.”  He took a deep breath and shook his
head.  “No one was prepared for what we found, though ….”


**********

The trip back was much lighter on the oxen as they had served most of the food and drink to those whose needs were greatest.  All that remained were some loaves of bread, a bit of dried meat and a small keg of ale.  Because of this, Cyril insisted that the girls who were able enough walked and those of the refugees needing more assistance rode. 

They departed about mid-morning following their escape route back.  It was early evening by the time they arrived at the city gates.  Though the day was waning, there was still enough light remaining that they could see the extensive damage … the bodies, human, elven, dwarven and darkspawn, that hadn’t been carted away for burning … the total and complete destruction of some buildings while others appeared to not have been touched at all, as they walked through the gates and back to their homes.

Cyril and his group were the first refugees to return to the Market District and what they found there both amazed and horrified them.  Clearly, the darkspawn had held a large battle here … there were bodies of all sorts lying about, mostly bones now so that one couldn’t necessarily determine what type of creature it had been. 


The acrid smell of smoke, of burnt wood and flesh was in the air and left a bitter taste when inhaled.  Slowly, they made their way around broken and fallen buildings, piles of rubble and ash.  Part of the gateway to the Arl of Redcliffe’s estate had been burnt and knocked over, the stone piling in front of and partially blocking off the entrance.  In some rows one house had burned while the one next door had remained remarkably intact and seemingly undamaged.  The washerwoman who lived next to Wade’s Emporium had not been so fortunate, but
the armory itself had survived, for the most part, intact.  The Chantry seemed safe from the outside, but you couldn’t see around one side of it due to fallen buildings against the stone wall.

New routes had to be established in order to get around the old market square area with the destruction of one entire row of houses.*  Cyril and his people now carefully traversed their way around this.  Finally, after what seemed to take forever, they found the Gnawed Noble Tavern, its sign out front still hanging as it had when they left the city in fear for their lives three days before. 

Cyril made the others stay back a safe distance with the cart as he approached to inspect the building.  It was clear that a fire had been nearby as there were scorch marks along the outer wall that faced the square, but he had no idea the extent of damage on the inside.  He could see that Brother Genitivi’s house across the street from the tavern had suffered greatly, the roof obviously having burned and caved inside.  The same could be said of the house next to his. 

Cyril carefully entered the building.  They hadn’t bothered locking or bolting doors before they left – there just hadn’t been time.  That said though, he had some trouble getting the barrier open.  Finally throwing his full bodyweight against the door, he managed to get the troublesome portal open enough that he could gain entrance. 

The common room was a mess … tables, chairs, anything not bolted down had fallen over.  Pictures, swords, and shields that had once been hanging on the walls were now piled upon one another on the floor.  As he walked through the building, examining all of the rooms, and up onto the second floor, he found the building had escaped with minimal damage, most of which consisted of smoke damage from the many fires that appeared to have burned out of control in their absence.  All that said, as he descended the stairs, he knew that the Gnawed Noble had been very fortunate indeed.

Cyril returned then to the others.  With a sigh, he explained what he had found.  Looking at each and
every one of them, he said, “We have a lot of work ahead of us.  We must begin now:  We shall open tomorrow morning so that those who have nothing will have some place to go.  Those who need food will eat.  Those who need … someone will have a place.”  He glanced at everyone and saw the looks there.  The staff of the Gnawed Noble Tavern was one big family.  That family was about to increase in size by at least one hundredfold.  They all looked back at Cyril and nodded before following him back into the building.

**********

It took the entire night, and even then there were things that simply could not be repaired before the morning, but when the sun came up, the first of Denerim’s returning refugees were at the door, waiting patiently.  Cyril had made sure word had gotten out that the tavern would be open and anyone needing assistance of any kind would be welcomed. 

Cyril now opened the barricade and found a nearby barrel to hold it that way.  He wanted fresh air, good people and above all else hope inside his establishment this day.  The archdemon had been slain, by the very person who had warned him and Sergeant Kylon, who Cyril now noted was patrolling the market area with an increased number of his men to assist those who needed it.  Cyril and Kylon had met up the previous evening when Kylon had stopped by to be sure things were well with them.  It was then that Cyril had heard about the final battle.

“I tell you, Cyril, it will be a miracle if she lives from all that I hear,” he told the bartender.  “That giant they travel with
carried her down from the top of Fort Drakon, their mage casting healing spells the entire way, and still[/i] she was
bleeding and unresponsive.”  He sighed heavily.  “The word is the king is taking it very hard.”

Cyril nodded in understanding.  “I would imagine so,” he replied.  “He is in love with her after all.”

Kylon smiled ruefully.  “Yes.  Poor man.”

Cyril had offered Kylon a drink in celebration of their return to the city, but the Sergeant had surprised him.  “Wait until we have things well in hand towards recovery, my friend.  Then we can all toast the Hero of Ferelden and her entourage and celebrate the fact that we owe our lives to them.”

“Agreed,” Cyril said.  Silently, he hoped that the Hero and her friends would be able to join them at that time as well and celebrate their own survival.  He noticed then the messenger boy who had brought him the warning from Kylon so many months before to alert the Wardens to their immediate danger.  “Do me a favor, son?”

The boy looked up at him.  “Of course.”

Cyril smiled.  “Good lad.  Go to the Alienage for me and find their elder.  Tell him that if any of the elves need
anything, they are welcome here as well.  Tell them what we are doing and let’s see if we can’t all work together
to rebuild the city and the Alienage together.”

The boy nodded and ran off.  Cyril hoped that Valendrian, a man he had met years before, would be willing to accept the olive branch he sent.  As he watched the lad go through the gate leading to the Alienage, he realized that this was the very least he could do.  She had inspired him to think beyond himself and his immediate surroundings.  If a city elf could unite Ferelden and defeat an archdemon, he could do no less with a city that now needed to rebuild.

**********

“She obviously survived.”

Cyril glanced at the man.  “Yes,” he replied, his voice quiet as he thought about the woman he’d come to know in such an obscure way.  “She survived, as did the others, but it was a long while before recovered enough to visit us once more.  By the time that the mages and the king decided she was well enough to visit, we were almost done rebuilding the Market District.”

The man’s eyes widened.  “How long did that take?”

Cyril chuckled.  “Oh, not as long as you might think.  I think it was about six weeks or so, give or take.”

“But you did see her again, didn’t you?” he asked matter-of-factly.

Cyril smiled.  “Oh, yes, we saw her again.  As a matter of fact, the day that they held the parade honoring the Hero of Ferelden,” he explained, “she and her companions all managed to sneak down here afterwards.”  He chuckled.  “We had quite the party that night, let me tell you!”

The young man leaned against the bar, an expectant look on his face.  When Cyril looked at him, he said cheekily,
“Don’t let me stop you!”
 
*********
* A/N: I went back to the game and through the Battle of Denerim specifically to look at the Market District during the battle so that I could create this chapter.  Did anyone else notice (as I did only just this time (14th? 15th? time through?) that the market square was destroyed by a row of houses/buildings that NEVER EXISTED anywhere
near there during the actual game????  Am I just imagining things?  I can find no logical place where they came from!  [My husband suggested the ogres threw them there from the Alienage … he was joking of course!]

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 01:37 .

[ladyames]

Chapter Nine

Reunion

 

Cyril sighed.  “Well, let me see,” he said.  “We had the Hero and her entire entourage from their travels, except for one mage … can’t recall her name.  Apparently, she left them, vowing never to return.  Anyway, we also had the Hero’s cousin from the Alienage and her father, Bann Teagan, the Arl of Redcliffe and his wife from Redcliffe…”  Cyril’s voice ran off as he recalled that evening.


**********

Cyril sighed with relief when he saw the king entering the tavern, leading the Hero of Ferelden.  With a huge grin, he hurried forward, wanting to have a moment alone.  “My friends!  Welcome!  Come on in and have a seat!”

Shastaryn looked into the familiar face she had seen upon so many occasions during the past months of her life-altering journey.  “Cyril,” she breathed softly, her voice barely audible above the din.  Taking his hands in hers, she squeezed them firmly.  “Thank you for helping the people evacuate,” she told him, “for all you have done in helping the city to rebuild, the Alienage ….”

Cyril saw a lone tear trickle down her face and he reached out and pulled her close for a hug.  “No, my dear lady,” he told her sincerely and formally, “it is we who should thank you and your fellow Warden,” he added while glancing up at Alistair.  The two men shared a knowing look.  “You two made it possible for the rest of us to survive.”  He released her and watched as she moved back into the shelter of the king’s arms.  From all appearances, she was healthy and whole once more, yet he saw something in her eyes that had not been there before.  A sadness, loss, even some level of despair, and he wondered at the cause of it.  Shaking the thoughts away for the moment, he gestured them further into the building.  “The others are all in the private dining area.”

Cyril watched them enter the room as he hurried back to the bar. The tavern was closed down for this most private and special of parties, but that didn’t mean that he could keep from doing his job.  He heard a loud belch from the dining room and winced.  He recognized the sound: it was that red-headed dwarf.  Sighing, Cyril rolled his eyes and wondered if he would still have any stock left by the end of the night ….

Cyril followed Elena, Giselle and Caren into the room; they carrying trays of whatever foods they had available and he carrying mugs of ale, cider and bottles of wine and mead.  Cheers arose from the table as the items were 
placed within reach.  When things began settling down, Shastaryn’s voice could be heard above all others.  Raising her glass, she announced, “Cyril, you and your staff have outdone yourselves with this feast.”  Slowly, and with Alistair’s assistance, she rose to her feet.  Facing the bartender, she told him sincerely, “My friend, without your help, the people of Denerim would be in dire straits indeed.  Not only did you and Sergeant Kylon,” she gestured towards the man who was seated at the end of the table, “evacuate most of the city between the two of you, but you also have managed to begin and aid in the recovery upon your return.”  Shastaryn suddenly set her glass down, dropping into her chair.  It was clear she was still recovering from her ordeal.

Alistair remained standing, lifting his mug of ale and continued for her.  “We,” he began with a sly wink at Cyril, “and I mean that as a ‘royal’ we, wish to recognize the Gnawed Noble Tavern as an officially sponsored tavern and inn.*  Designated as such, we hope it shall bring further recognition and prosperity throughout not only Ferelden but all of Thedas.” 

Loud cheers began again, Teagan, Kylon and others clapping the man on his shoulder in congratulations.  Cyril smiled in embarrassment.  “Yo-Your majesty,” he finally managed, “I am at a loss ….”

Alistair waved it off.  “Please,” he told the man who had come over to stand beside him and Shastaryn, “this is our way of thanking you.  You have done so much, not the least of which was for us personally.”

Shastaryn reached out and grasped Cyril’s hand.  “Trust me, Cyril,” she told him with a wink, “you’ll learn to get used to it, or so they tell me!”

Cyril chuckled and nodded.  He supposed in the grand scheme of things, living with this would be easier than living with the title of Hero of Ferelden.  Excusing himself, he returned to the bar to work on the next round of drinks.

When next he entered the room, Cyril found the guests all standing, their gazes centered on the guest of honor as she stood once more, the king ever at her side.  They raised their glasses in unison and silently toasted the fallen, the survivors and Shastaryn Tabris, the lone city elf who had risen to heights she had never dared dream of: Hero of Ferelden.

**********

*  I modeled this something along the lines of what I believe is called the “Royal Warrant” in England.  I remember seeing businesses with this when I visited years ago, and always thought it was a neat idea.  It is not meant to be an exact interpretation.

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 01:43 .

[ladyames]

Epilogue

Cyril glanced at the young man who had been his companion throughout the evening and had listened with such enthusiasm as he, Cyril, recounted the story of the Hero of Ferelden.  “That’s all there is, I’m afraid,” he told the younger man.  He began wiping down the counter, beginning his closing procedures for the evening: the tavern had closed an hour before, but he had decided to indulge the lad and relate the complete tale.

“But, that isn’t quite true, is it?” he asked.  “I mean, she is up at the palace right now, as we speak ….”

Cyril chuckled.  “Yes, my boy, but that is an all together different tale!  And one most definitely for another night!  Besides,” he added, “don’t you have a family to get home to?”

The nobleman heard the bells tolling the late hour across Denerim and looked a bit sheepish.  “I suppose you are right,” he agreed, setting himself to leave.  Turning back for a quick moment, he enquired, “Until next time?”

Cyril nodded kindly.  “Yes, my lord.  I will be here with more stories to tell should you wish to hear them.”  He
watched the young nobleman exit the tavern with a bit of a smile still on his face and sighed.  Another evening well spent.

Modifié par ladyames, 09 juin 2010 - 01:46 .

[ladyames]

Cyril has become one of my most requested characters from fans over on the Fan Fiction site. I hope you enjoyed his story as well.



If you have enjoyed this and are interested in my Warden's, Shastaryn's, other adventures, her origins story Do You Trust Me? can be found on the Fan Fiction site. Additionally, I have recently begun her follow up story called The Best Proof of Love is Trust. Also, and probably coming to a thread near you, is another side story called The Rules of The Game, which focuses on the side quest at The Pearl regarding the Wardens and Paedan.

[Gilgamesh1138]

Okay I posted too soon up above. So I will re-post it here:



OMG! OMG! OMG! I loved these on FF.net. So glad you are putting them here! SQUEE! *does the happy dance of sublime joy*

[ladyames]

You are nuts! But I love you anyway! =D I'm so glad you love Cyril's story ... it was so much fun to write! I need to see if I can work up a sequel just for him perhaps ...

[Gilgamesh1138]

Oh, oh, oh! *bounces up and down* Yes please! : D

[Gilgamesh1138]

bumped  because Cyril is so awesome he should be read....