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[okiness]

I just laughed for the entire fanfiction. That was glorious. You WIN

[Sarah1281]

okiness wrote...

I just laughed for the entire fanfiction. That was glorious. You WIN

I'm glad you liked it.  I really wasn't sure how well it would turn out.

[Sarah1281]

My thirty-eighth story was'It's Not A Morality Contest' for Okiness where a Cousland who didn't have much in the way of morals decided to stop trying to please people and do what she felt was practical and Alistair takes issue with it.


Odelia Cousland was halfway to the Proving ground before she stopped and asked herself what she was doing. She had barely taken two steps into the city of Orzammar before coming across the King candidates themselves facing off against each other. The strength that Bhelen’s side had shown impressed her although hacking a man to death in the street wasn’t the course of action she would have taken. To each their own, however, and the dwarves hadn’t seemed to object much to this although Harrowmont had fallen over and all of his allies had fled which was a rather unimpressive showing on his part. If she was forced to pick a ruler based on nothing more than that two-minute interaction, it was clear that Bhelen was the far stronger ruler. While she couldn’t claim to be personally invested in the fate of the dwarves, it would be foolish to try and sabotage them given their position as vanguard against the darkspawn.
 
So once again…why was she here about to throw her lot in with the weaker candidate? It would take more effort to put him on the throne (if she even could and if she couldn’t then her making it more difficult for Bhelen to take the throne would make this succession crisis drag on even longer and make the new King not especially inclined to help her) and he’d be less effective against the darkspawn in the long run thus causing more problems for Ferelden. As Zevran had pointed out, it was a sad day indeed when someone trying to become the most powerful person in a kingdom couldn’t even manage to get his own supporters to show up and fight for him.
 
She had almost automatically decided to go with Harrowmont at first because, by all accounts, he was a nobler and more honorable man than this kinslaying Prince Bhelen. She had long been in the habit of doing things that, while she wouldn’t consider them particularly practical, would please others and make her life easier. If this Harrowmont was really as honorable as he had been depicted than dealing with him would probably be more straightforward and her companions would grumble less. Morrigan and Sten, in particular, would complain when she forwent the pragmatic choice in order to go the so-called ‘good’ one, granted, but it was nothing like the moral outrage Wynne, Leliana, and Alistair could summon up when she did act based on logic and not pathos.
 
Why, though? Yes, her life was easier when the people in it weren’t accusing her of being a horrible person but did that really make doing something that could have such disastrous consequences worth it? Was pleasing Leliana and Wynne worth the risk of weakening Orzammar and causing more darkspawn-related incidents in the future that Ferelden would have to deal with? Odelia had heard something about Bhelen being in support of expanded trade with the surface (and the way everyone down here referred to the surface it was almost like they were capitalizing it in their head) which was always a plus and not a position that Orzammar had ever had to her knowledge. No, Leliana and Wynne’s approval was not worth picking Harrowmont.
 
Was Alistair’s?  He had been the first person – the only person, really – that she had been able to connect with since her family had died and the intensity of her feelings for him…disquieted her at times. She had always said and done what it took to get what she wanted and to make other more agreeable but with Alistair she’d been honest, even about her manipulative nature. She didn’t want to lose that. She glanced over at him and found him staring back at her, looking puzzled.
 
“Why are we stopping?” Alistair asked her once he saw that he had her attention.
 
Odelia was quite for a moment, running her fingers through her long red hair as she considered. “New plan,” she decided, turning back the way she had come. “Where was Tapster’s again?”
 
No, it wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t afraid to admit that she loved Alistair but she couldn’t let worry over his reaction dictate her actions either. The decisions she faced were too important for that and if he couldn’t accept her for who she was then it wasn’t worth pretending for.
 

 
One ill-suited deshyr, a haughty but incompetent noble, and a trek through the Deep Roads later, Vartag personally escorted Odelia and her companions to the Orzammar Royal Palace. Since there were so many of them, most of them decided to wait outside while only Alistair accompanied her in to meet the future dwarven King.
 
“I am impressed, Warden,” Prince Bhelen said, turning around to greet them. Unlike Harrowmont in his noble finery, Bhelen was wearing a well-crafted red armor set which was likely designed to give the impression that, unlike his opponent, Bhelen was a warrior and would be strong against the darkspawn and, in particular, the Blight. It worked. He had actually been wearing armor when she had seen him for but a moment before a small riot broke out upon first arriving in the city but it wasn’t the set he currently had on. Well, warrior or not he was still a noble, she supposed. Her brother used to do the same thing.
 
“At my incredible message-delivering abilities or at the fact that I was willing to knowingly deliver fraudulent information that might irrevocably hurt Harrowmont?” Odelia asked pleasantly. She didn’t know much about dwarven politics and so she wanted to see how he’d react to having the forged promissory notes brought up. Vartag, slimy and obsequious though he was, didn’t really seem like the type to pull something like that without at least implied consent but she didn’t know enough to be positive.
 
“I was actually referring to the fact that not many outsiders so quickly grasp Orzammar's rather... convoluted politics,” Bhelen replied, quickly covering his surprise at her words. Whether his surprise was at her having realized they were fake or at her having brought it up at all was up for debate but one thing was for certain: it wasn’t surprise that they were fake. “And speaking of, let me assure you that I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about and if you have proof that one of my subordinates is doing something dishonorable I would be most eager to hear about it. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Prince Bhelen of House Aeducan. Vartag told me of your – from what I understood, completely good faith – efforts against the usurper who tried to claim my father's throne.”
 
“Is it really fair to call him a usurper if he was the candidate endorsed by your late father?” Odelia asked curiously. Someone was generally accused of being a usurper when they were trying to steal the throne and not, as Orzammar seemed to be in agreement about, if they were the previous King’s choice for successor.
 
“That’s hardly a proven claim,” Bhelen sniffed. “The usurper was alone with my father when he claims he was asked to succeed him but as there are no less-biased witnesses or, really, any proof at all then I remain skeptical.”
 
“Everyone else seems to believe this, even your own supporters,” Odelia pointed out.
 
Bhelen looked annoyed at this. “That would be because the usurper had been poisoning my father’s mind for weeks before his death if not months. Nearly a year ago, my father lost two sons when one turned against the other. He was mad with grief and Harrowmont did all he could to drive him over the edge. I was his only living child and Harrowmont barred me from him!” Bhelen cried out, his calm front giving way to show just how upset he was at this. “I had to tell him goodbye by common messenger!”
 
Odelia wasn’t sure if what seemed to be cracks in his composure were legitimate, a way to try and garner sympathy for him, or a mix of both but her mind idly went back to her own goodbye to her father. He had been bleeding on the floor of the larder while her mother crouched down beside him as she, uninjured and perfectly capable of escaping though she may have been, chose to wait for her death to come find her. Her father had ordered her to go with Duncan and to stay alive and she had. She had loved him and did not appreciate his loss – and made yet another mental note to make Howe suffer when she killed him – but any vague sympathy she felt were nothing compared to what Alistair was clearly feeling as he remembered the unsatisfactory goodbye he’d given Duncan. It was really a good thing she was handling this instead of Alistair although if her fellow Warden were choosing their actions then they’d be at the Harrowmont estate now instead.
 
“With Harrowmont keeping me from my father, there were those that assumed that he would never do this without my father’s consent even as he lay dying,” Bhelen continued, calm once more. “And thus the usurper was able to push his claims this far. He can’t possibly hope to take the throne, of course, but he’s spent his life in the Assembly and is a master at delaying tactics. You have two choices: you can help me or you can wait three more weeks until Harrowmont runs out of ways to stall.”
 
“If I were willing to wait until Orzammar’s succession crisis settled itself then I would have left already,” Odelia responded. “I am here to help but forgive me if I’d rather not play games.”
 
“Oh no?” Bhelen asked, intrigued. “Are you talking about having to prove that you weren’t working for Harrowmont by damaging his cause before you could meet with me?”
 
Odelia shook her head. “No, I do understand the point of such a precaution and Dulin would have had me do the same thing – well, prove my loyalties, that is – had I decided to work with Harrowmont. What I’m saying is that we can just cut to the chase here and not pretend that you’re the noble choice. I refuse to believe that you didn’t know about those fraudulent promissory notes and I’ve also heard that all of this chaos started when you killed one brother and blamed it on the other who you had sent off to die in the Deep Roads.”
 
Bhelen didn’t reply for a moment as he took stock of his options. “If you believe that then why are you here?” he finally asked slyly.
 
“Because this isn’t a morality contest,” Odelia said flatly. “You say you’ll be a stronger King than Harrowmont and, frankly, I believe you. You say you have a vested interest in stopping the Blight? So do I. I’ve never met your brothers and they may have deserved it and they may not have. I loved my brother and would never have dreamed of killing him no matter how much power it would have brought me but I’m not here to judge you. I just want to know what I need to do in order to get the stronger candidate on the throne and we could save a lot of time and effort if we cut out the parts where you try to convince me that I’m ‘doing the right thing.’ I know that I’m doing the smart thing and that’s really all I’m looking for.”
 
A slow smile spread across Bhelen’s face. “Very well, if that’s how you would prefer it then let’s get down to business…”
 
Beside her, Alistair fumed silently but said nothing. Yet.
 

 
After they left Bhelen – which took quite awhile longer than Odelia had expected – they returned to the Grey Warden quarters in the Diamond Quarter. They really were nice and spacious, far better than any room at an inn they could find. She was grateful that Alistair had vaguely remembered Duncan mentioning something about Orzammar’s sometimes over-the-top hospitality or they never would have found out about this place.
 
Alistair had asked everyone else to leave practically the moment they had stepped inside the Grey Warden quarters. Most were willing to oblige him when it had become clear that he wanted to speak to Odelia about Grey Warden matters but Morrigan had hung back until Odelia had assured her that it was okay. Alistair had been growing more and more upset with her decisions to ally with Bhelen the more he heard about the dwarven prince and he wanted to confront her about it. As the others didn’t know about Odelia’s tendency to not concern herself with questions of morality, Alistair wanted to make sure they were alone. Not to mention, of course, that he’d rather not fight in front of the others.
 
“Well?” Alistair asked quietly once the pair were alone.
 
“Well what?” Odelia asked innocently. As far as she was concerned she had nothing to apologize for and any acknowledgement of what Alistair was upset about before he outright said it would be a tacit admission to the contrary.
 
“How could you do that?” Alistair demanded. “How could you stand there and accuse him of all of these horrible things and watch him not deny any of them and then just turn around agree to make him King?”
 
“Simple, Alistair,” Odelia replied. “It’s like I told him: it’s not a morality contest.”
 
“I think this goes rather beyond just not being the nicest person around,” Alistair said stubbornly. “It’s not even about all the underhanded tactics he uses although you know I don’t approve of those. This is about him killing his own brothers. How would you feel if it were your family?”
 
“Bhelen didn’t kill my family, he killed his,” Odelia countered. “Alistair, I know what you’re trying to say. You want me to picture Bhelen in Howe’s place and realize that my hatred for Howe should mean that I judge Bhelen the same way but that’s simply not going to work. My family was killed by Howe and Bhelen’s probably never even heard of them, much less met them.”
 
Alistair sighed. “Okay, forget that then. You have to see that the fact he’d be willing to have his own brothers killed doesn’t bode well for the prospect of him being any less ruthless to those he doesn’t share such close blood ties to.”
 
“That seems like a reasonable assumption,” Odelia agreed. “Why does that concern you so much?”
 
Alistair drew back. “You really can’t see it? Why wouldn’t I be concerned? He’s going to be a tyrant!”
 
“Say you’re right, Alistair,” Odelia told him, not really disagreeing with him. “Why should we let that stop us from siding with him?”
 
“Because he’s going to be horrible for Orzammar!” Alistair insisted.
 
“I’m afraid I rather disagree with that,” Odelia replied.
 
“You think a tyrant is a good thing for his people?” Alistair couldn’t believe it. “Odelia, a tyrant is probably the antithesis of what’s good for his people. That’s why he’s called a tyrant!”
 
“As far as individual freedoms and the power the non-monarch nobility goes, yes,” Odelia allowed. “But it’s not like we get to search through the entire noble caste for our ideal King here; we’ve kind of got to work with what we’ve got.”
 
“Too bad,” Alistair said, getting momentarily sidetracked. “I think Lord Helmi would have made an excellent ruler.”
 
Odelia blinked. “Seriously?”
 
“Yeah, why not?” Alistair asked rhetorically. “He had all sorts of sensible ideas about focusing less on the caste system and more on individual merit and…why are you laughing?”
 
Odelia, who had been trying in vain to keep a straight face, shook her head. “I’m not!” she claimed passionately, albeit falsely. “I just think you’re missing the part where he said that all the other nobles hate him for his anti-traditional ideas and the feeling’s clearly mutual. He could never get elected by the Assembly and he’s far too much of a defeatist to be a reformer even if his coming from such a powerful house meant he could manage to take the throne.”
 
“Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t be a very practical monarch even though I think Orzammar could benefit from implementing some of his ideas,” Alistair conceded. “What about Lord Harrowmont? You were going to side with him earlier, remember? According to that one dwarven woman we met earlier today he has exactly half of the deshyrs on his side and the steward at the Assembly confirmed it!”
 
“He’s weak, Alistair,” Odelia told him.
 
“…Did you not just hear the part about him having the same support that Bhelen does?” Alistair asked, wondering if she hadn’t been listening or if she were just ignoring him. “Well, except for Houses Helmi and Dace but that was our fault.”
 
“His support may be great but that seems to be more about putting another family in power and keeping Bhelen off the throne than because Harrowmont himself is such a strong candidate,” she explained.
 
“Call me crazy but if half off the Assembly is willing to side with Harrowmont just so Bhelen doesn’t get the throne then that seems like a pretty good indication that Bhelen getting the throne would be a bad thing,” Alistair replied.
 
“For the more traditional of the nobles and those that secretly want the throne to pass into their own families, yes, Bhelen is not the King they want,” Odelia agreed. “But for Orzammar as a whole and, more to the point, our purposes he’s just what we need.”
 
“Perhaps you could…elaborate?” Alistair suggested. “Because I’m trying to follow your train of thought here but I honestly don’t understand. You’re doing something horrible and I don’t even get why.”
 
Odelia sighed. “You said you liked Lord Helmi’s ideas? Well you know whose ideas his align themselves more with? Bhelen. If you think Orzammar is perfect just the way it is with its caste system that just throws away a good chunk of their population that they can’t afford to overlook then I can see why you’d think Harrowmont’s the way to go. If, however, you’re like me and want to see Orzammar strengthened so that they can mount a strong offensive against the darkspawn instead of just continuously losing ground then, nice or not, Harrowmont’s just not good enough.”
 
“You can’t claim that Bhelen is the only one who can save Orzammar,” Alistair argued.
 
“I’m not,” Odelia said flatly. “Because honestly I don’t know. What I do know is that we’re not going to be called upon to decide Orzammar’s future after this. It’s now or never. Harrowmont’s old, he’ll likely die soon no matter what happens. Maybe his successor will be ten times the reformer Bhelen could ever be and push the darkspawn back for miles. More likely, Harrowmont will be succeeded by the same kind of traditionalist he is and Orzammar will continue to stagnate and the darkspawn will continue to advance!”
 
“So that’s it then?” Alistair asked bitterly. “You’d put a kinslaying tyrant on the throne instead of a good and honorable man because it’s ‘for the best’?”
 
“We’ve been over this, Alistair,” Odelia said tiredly. “Whatever it takes.”
 
Alistair rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I suppose I should just be grateful that ‘whatever it takes’ hasn’t caused us to side with any other morally bankrupt would-be tyrants.”
 
“You’re talking about Loghain.” It wasn’t a question.
 
Alistair looked sheepish. “Maybe. A little. Look, I still don’t like this but I guess that I do understand. If you really do think that this is for the best then I’m going to trust you.”
 
“Thank you,” Odelia told him sincerely. “I like not having to hide around you.”
 
“And I love that you trust me enough to know that you don’t have to,” Alistair replied. He moved to stand closer to her and cupped her face, his expression suddenly mischievous. “You know, the others should still be gone for quite awhile…”
 
Odelia’s face lit up. “We should have done this while we were still fighting. Angry sex is the best, you know.”
 
“I don’t even want to know how you know that,” Alistair murmured before pulling her down for a kiss.
 
That was something to take comfort in, at least. No matter how their ideals might clash and how much they may argue, as long as they were willing to try and work things out they’d be okay.

[Sarah1281]

My thirty-ninth story was 'Refusing To Step Aside' where Bhelen thoughtfully warns Trian that Aunn's out to kill him.


Prince Trian Aeducan was still fuming about it hours later. Aunn might have claimed that she was going to listen to him and head back to the feast being held in her honor that she really should have attended from the start but he’d looked back to see her continuing towards the commons and, likely, her Proving. It was one thing for her to disregard her duty and his authority and do whatever she had been planning on doing in the first place – she always had been maddeningly stubborn – but to lie about it as well? And so blatantly? Did she really think he wouldn’t notice? He shuddered to think how stupid he would have to be to not notice when she didn’t even bother to try to hide it. He felt absolutely justified in breaking his word to her, in turn, and went straight to his room with Bhelen upon returning to the Palace instead of stopping by her feast to toast her command. After all, he reasoned, if she wasn’t going to be there then why should he?
 
Not to mention that he was already on edge from the sheer absurdity of there being a Proving held in Aunn’s honor to celebrate her first commission. There wasn’t a Proving held in his honor and he was the heir to the throne! And it wasn’t just that, either. There had never, to his knowledge, been a Proving held to celebrate anyone’s first commission and yet when it was Aunn everyone was falling all over themselves to honor her. Why did everyone love her so much? It had always been like that and yet not once in the twenty-three years she’d been adored had she done anything to deserve it and quite a bit not to. She was stubborn and sarcastic, often foregoing duty if it involved something she didn’t care for and letting the lower castes speak to her as if they were anywhere near worthy of addressing her directly or – as was the case with her second – familiarly. It was a nightmare, she was a nightmare, and yet no one seemed to mind. Far from, it in fact. She was the favorite. Their father looked upon her breaches of protocol fondly and called her ‘spirited.’ Technically, Trian knew he could not blame her for her Proving as she was not the one who organized it but Lord Harrowmont had always had quite a bit of affection for her and, as their father’s top adviser, things like that mattered. He didn’t want to see his father dead but no one could deny that the day his reign ended was approaching and he needed to be ready. Aunn, as always, complicated matters.
 
Beside him, Bhelen tapped his foot nervously as if trying to come to an important decision. It was extremely aggravating and was trying to come up with a way to solve what he had long ago dubbed the Aunn Problem.
 
“Do you have something to say, little brother?” he finally demanded.
 
Bhelen started. “I…well, yes, actually but you’re not going to like it.”
 
“Not liking your reality doesn’t make it any less true,” Trian reasoned. Oh, how well he knew that. His reality of having an inexplicably beloved grandstanding sister was one he had been displeased with for years and now that she was to be a commander she might actually start doing something to earn some of that adoration and then who knew how out of control her cult of personality would get?
 
“Right,” Bhelen nodded quickly, biting his lip. “You know that I’ve tried to stay out of the…disagreements you and Aunn have had over the years, right?”
 
“I do,” Trian confirmed. That was actually the one thing about his brother that had ever impressed him: Bhelen’s remarkable ability to stay out of the conflicts raging around him. He’d make a good diplomat.
 
“I still don’t want to pick a side but after what happened…well, I can’t just sit back and do nothing. Aunn’s forced my hand and now I have to get involved,” Bhelen said miserably.
 
“Am I to assume that you’ve picked mine?” Trian asked, his voice containing a hint of a threat.
 
Bhelen nodded. “Of course. Given the circumstances, I could not, in good conscience, do anything else.”
 
Trian bristled a bit at the implication that the only reason Bhelen was taking his side was because Aunn had done something so horrible that he felt he could not actually side with her. He consoled himself that that probably wasn’t what Bhelen had meant but rather that if it weren’t for Aunn’s actions than he’d be happy continuing to be a neutral party. “Do I even want to know what she’s done this time?” he asked wearily.
 
“Probably not,” Bhelen said seriously. He’d been looking uncomfortable all day except for the five minutes they’d run into Aunn and her second. Had he been putting on a show for her benefit? To what end? “But it’s important.”
 
“Tell me,” Trian commanded.
 
“Last night, Aunn came to me,” Bhelen began, looking for all the world like he’d rather be taking on an ogre unarmed than having this conversation. “She told me that Father was getting old and that he wasn’t going to live forever. I knew this, of course, but I still didn’t like to hear it. She said that you…” Bhelen stopped here, reluctant to go on.
 
“She said that I what, exactly?” Trian prompted, trying to be patient. This could be important – and it probably was if Bhelen was willing to surrender his prized neutrality and was acting so seriously – but if he pushed too hard then he might make Bhelen shut down and then who knows when he’d find out what their sister was planning?
 
“She said that you were weak and ripe to be displaced,” Bhelen said hurriedly, as though hoping that by getting this out as quickly as possibly he could disassociate himself from the words he was relaying. “She said that everyone was just waiting for you to be easily moved aside so that she could sit on Father’s throne.”
 
Trian froze. He’d long suspected Aunn of wanting their father’s throne for herself – how could she not? – and perhaps a few of her more fervent supporters but this? The beginning of a plot? And did she really think so little of him? Ah, but she must. Why else would she have treated him like such a fool earlier? She told him what she thought he wanted to hear and then completely ignored what he had been saying. He was hardly just going to step out of her way and offer up his birthright just because she wanted it. “She can’t possibly think I’ll step aside and let her rule, can she?”
 
“She…may think you won’t have to,” Bhelen admitted. “She may have asked me to help her kill you.”
 
She may have asked me to help her kill you. The words echoed in his head. Aunn…they gotten on reasonably well as children, he supposed, but she’d refused to behave as she should growing up and he seemed to be the only one unwilling to make allowances for her because of how ‘accomplished’ and ‘talented’ and ‘charming’ she was. He had to admit, he had often thought of how much easier his life would be without Aunn – and likely she thought that about him – but that she would resort to fratricide to do it? He hadn’t thought her stubbornness had been malicious but then he never spent enough time around to tell. Had he really been so wrong about her?
 
“Are you certain about this?” Trian asked quietly.
 
Bhelen’s eyes shone with regret as he nodded. “It’s difficult to accept, I know. I wouldn’t believe it myself had she not spelled it out for me.”
 
Bhelen may not been the most responsible person in the world and far more concerned with jokes and having fun than in his responsibilities as a Prince but he wouldn’t fool around about something like this. If Bhelen said that Aunn wanted him dead, then Trian might as well have heard her declare it himself. “How can she possibly justify something like that?”
 
Bhelen shrugged slightly. “She said that it’s inevitable, that if she doesn’t do it that someone else will. She doesn’t seem to think that you’re strong enough to take the throne even without the complication she poses.”
 
Trian was seething with rage. It was one thing – a horrible thing, to be sure, but still – if she were plotting to murder him because she had a lust for power but to try and justify it by saying that it was bound to happen anyway was quite another. Just how incompetent did she think he was? He was suddenly quite certain that he did not want to know the answer to that. “Did she tell you her plan?” he demanded.
 
“She did,” Bhelen said grimly. “And we don’t have much time. She intends to ambush you tomorrow in the Thaig. She intends to kill you and your men and then claim mercenaries did it. She may have even hired mercenaries herself to help her do this or to pin the blame on.”
 
“And what are you to do?” Trian asked sharply. “Are you supposed to join in this ambush?”
 
Bhelen shook his head. “As Aunn’s becoming a commander, I’m taking her place as Father’s second. She told me where the rendezvous point is and said she intends to wait for you there. She asked me to keep the rest of the expedition out of the way so that she has time to kill you and make her escape before anyone comes by and catches her in the act.”
 
“And did you agree?” Trian pressed.
 
Bhelen winced as though he were afraid of what Trian’s reaction would be. “I-I did. But not because I have any intention of seeing you dead! I just thought that it was for the best as if Aunn knew that I wasn’t going to help her then she would likely change the plan and I couldn’t warn you. Yes, I could put you on your guard against her but that’s not quite the same as being able to tell you the details of her murder plot. Plus there was always a chance that by not helping I might cause her to decide that I’m more trouble than I’m worth and try to get me out of the way. After all, is she can live with killing one brother then why not two? And that way anyone who suspects the truth or who supported you won’t rally around me to try and keep her off of the throne.”
 
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Trian noted.
 
“Once I realized that our sister has apparently gone mad with power I needed to see if I were going to be in any danger,” Bhelen pointed out. “I’ll admit, I’ve always been against the thought of us killing each other but now…well now it may be unavoidable.”
 
Trian blinked. “What do you mean?” he asked carefully. Did he not think that they could stop Aunn’s schemes? Did she suspect that Bhelen would go running straight to him and fed him a false plan so he wouldn’t see the real one coming?
 
“You and I both know that Aunn’s going to try to kill you but the problem is that she hasn’t done anything yet and she’s been careful to keep it quiet and not act any differently towards you,” Bhelen explained. “And because of that there’s really nothing we can do. No one would believe that Aunn would do such a thing and if we strike first that makes us look like the bad guys and, with no way to prove why we struck, she would come off as a victim.”
 
“You have a point,” Trian admitted grudgingly. He was quiet as a plan came to him. “You said that she intends to ambush me tomorrow at the rendezvous point?”
 
Bhelen nodded. “Yes. She’s going on a special mission and will be apart from the main group.”
 
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Trian declared. “You’ll keep your word to Aunn and delay the main expedition. Aunn will need to hurry up and finish her mission before she can ambush me or her lack of accomplishing her objective may draw suspicion to her. I will get done with my part of the expedition as quickly as is dwarvenly possible and beat her there. She won’t be able to ambush me if I get there first and instead I can confront her about her treachery.”
 
“Are you sure that’s such a good idea, Trian?” Bhelen asked uneasily. “You know she’ll just deny it.”
 
“Maybe,” Trian agreed. As per usual, his brother wasn’t thinking hard enough about the consequences. “But if I can get her to confess and be tried in front of the Assembly then that would solve all of our problems. She could no longer be a threat to us, we wouldn’t have to worry about how it looked when we took measures to protect ourselves, and we wouldn’t have to become Kinslayers.”
 
“And if she doesn’t surrender?” Bhelen asked dubiously.
 
“Then…” Trian gave a heavy sigh, hating his sister for putting him in a position where he’d have to plan for her death at his hands. “Then I will kill her.”
 
That proclamation hung heavy between them for a moment.
 
The silence was broken by Trian’s door swinging open and their treacherous sister herself sweeping into the room, followed closely by Gorim. She seemed excited and looked for all the world like she wasn’t planning on killing him. He shouldn’t take it personally, he knew, as she certainly wasn’t. Still, it was trying enough to deal with Aunn at the best of times and he was hardly up for it now.
 
Trian crossed his arms impatiently. “Shouldn’t you be attending our King-Father?”

[Sarah1281]

My fortieth story was 'His Preferred Gift' also for a Zevran prompt, this one by Payroo about Zevran and the silver and gold bars he's so fond of.


Zevran looked down at the small gold bar in one hand and the medium silver bar in the other with a slight smile on his face. He was pleasantly surprised when the brave and beautiful Warden who had chosen to, against all odds, spare his life had not only noticed his fascination with these precious metal bars but had chosen to indulge him by letting him claim them whenever they stumbled across any.
 
Yes, it was certainly very good of her though he got the impression that she didn’t really understand. That was fine, though; let her think he was just drawn to symbols of wealth. In some ways, it was even true. There was always going to be something powerfully alluring about such an obvious status symbol to a boy born in a ****house and sold for three sovereign. These bars served as a tangible reminder that he wasn’t that boy anymore. Three sovereign? With a few of these he could have bought his own freedom and more. Not that he was naïve enough to think that, were he to be able to magically send his present wealth to his seven-year-old self, that he could have such precious treasures without them being taken but the point remained the same. He wasn’t that boy anymore. He had known that for quite some time – they really had very little in common besides the name – but the bars made the disparity all the more striking. How could he be anything like his past self when he could afford to be so casual about the same amount that had decided his fate and had taken him from the path of ‘future ****’ and placed him on that of ‘future assassin.’
 
That was another reason, of course. He hadn’t had any say in either of those futures although he did vastly prefer that of an assassin. Had he not been chosen by the Crows after all or the deal had fallen through would he have not been able to imagine any life but that of a ****? Probably. He had a feeling he’d even be content there. That was how you survived, after all, by not wallowing in your misery. Still, though his current path was also chosen for him until this pesky Blight was over with, he had been promised his freedom once that was over with. Even better, he was told he could leave at any time but as long as Taliesin was still out there, that was simply not a realistic option.
 
It was all well and good to be content in your confinement and he was content here, with the Warden, journeying to end the Blight. He had been content in Antiva living the life of an assassin, particularly after he’d survived his training. The bars, however…that had been romantic sentiment on his part and not something he would ever willingly admit to. Small, unmarked bars of silver and gold…that was quick, easy currency. If he were to ever just leave it all – well, leave it all again after that ill-fated trip to see the Dalish – then those bars would be his means to achieve it. He had long suspected that this was exactly the reason that the Crows, while they had easy access to whatever material comforts they could ever desire, were never given much coin. A gilded cage was still a cage, after all, and there was to be no means of escape save death. If there had been, he probably wouldn’t have chased his own destruction quite so single-mindedly. 
 
He’d had to leave most of his collection behind when he’d gone off chasing the Warden and his end – and it wasn’t like he was liable to need them anyway – but he’d since started amassing them again. Logically, he knew that he probably wouldn’t need an escape plan from the Warden since it was more his own enemies keeping him here rather than any compulsion on the Warden’s part. Still, even though he had much readier access to actual currency than he’d ever had before old habits died hard.
 
It was easier to stockpile little bars than gold sovereign anyway.
 

[Avilia]

Nice one Sarah. Introspective Zevran makes an interesting story. I always enjoy reading your fics

[Sarah1281]

Avilia wrote...

Nice one Sarah. Introspective Zevran makes an interesting story. I always enjoy reading your fics

I'm glad you liked it and don't think it's too OOC. Thanks for the continued support.

My forty-first story 'An Unfortunate Encounter' which follows Mel_Redux's prompt of the Warden (preferably the Cousland) and Nate meeting up with Rendon Howe in the Fade.


Nathaniel Howe had never expected Anastasia Theirin née Cousland to become a friend of his. His first memory of her was of holding her as a baby and she threw up on him. Hardly the best first impression and to this day she denied it had every happened. In the years that followed, he had hung around with her older brother Fergus whenever the Howes and the Couslands got together and she trailed after them like a puppy, adorable but frustratingly persistent. She was still too young to be at all interesting eight years ago when he’d been sent to the Free Marches and he’d quickly forgotten all about Fergus’ bratty little sister. Upon his return, the discovery that she had been the one to kill his father – and quite brutally from the little he could get out of Oghren – and his halfhearted assassination attempt he’d backed down on was a pretty good indication that they’d never be good terms…or so he’d thought.
 
Anastasia had surprised him. She’d asked him how he was with a bow and, on finding out that not only was he skilled with it but that it was his weapon of choice, had promptly conscripted him into the Grey Wardens. He’d tried to protest that he’d rather die than be forced into the organization responsible for his father’s death and his entire family’s fall from grace but the Hero of Ferelden had simply pointed out she was conscripting him, not asking for a volunteer. Looking back, he was actually grateful to her. The Grey Wardens wasn’t as bad as he feared – certainly preferable to death – and even had she just let him go he wouldn’t have had anything better to do and likely would have just ended up returning. Besides, without the Grey Wardens he wouldn’t have found the best opportunity to try and redeem the Howe name or discovered that his sister was alive and that his father…well, he was a grown man and it was high time to stop hero worshipping him anyway.
 
So yes, against all odds Anastasia had proven a friend to him and, more than that, a damned good one. He wasn’t sure if she could feel the same given his father had destroyed her life – though as the Blight-ending Queen she had certainly done a fine job rebuilding it – but when he had hesitantly brought the subject up she had quickly assured him that she didn’t hold his father against him and she saw him as a friend, too. Well, that had been a relief. He was a little concerned when she had walked off cackling about how her vengeance was now complete but, knowing Anastasia, it was probably best not to ask.
 
While being a Grey Warden was something he enjoyed doing, it often led to some very strange situations and reminded him of that year in Kirkwall with Hawke. Take right now, for instance: they had been looking for the one Grey Warden that hadn’t been at the Keep when it had been attacked but had come across his corpse…along with a talking darkspawn that had sent them all into the Fade. There were four of them so Anders and Oghren went one way while he and Anastasia were off investigating another.
 
They had been wandering for awhile but hadn’t seen much aside from a strange circle of ritual rocks Anastasia had absolutely insisted on figuring out and the same blurred scenery that appeared to be everywhere here.
 
Suddenly, Anastasia froze. “You…” she growled out.
 
Puzzled, Nathaniel turned to see what she was looking at and once he stopped moving as well. His father, or what appeared to be his father although given that this was the Fade it could just as easily be a trick, stood before him looking much older than he had the last time he had seen him. “Hello, Father.”
 
Rendon’s eyes flickered to him. “Nathaniel. Interesting company you’ve taken up with.”
 
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Anastasia demanded, her eyes flashing.
 
“Just that I would have thought that my eldest son would have had more pride and, dare I say it, common decency than to become the lapdog of the girl who destroyed the Howes,” Rendon replied, his voice dripping acid.
 
Nathaniel didn’t want to admit how much those words hit home. When Anastasia had first conscripted him, that was exactly what he felt was happening, that as the last of the Howes he was some sort of trophy for her. He knew better now, of course. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to truly accept that his father was that bad when he had been living at home – his hatred for Nathaniel’s mother notwithstanding – but once he’d left…well, Delilah had the gentlest soul of anyone he’d ever met. She never had a cross word to say about anybody but she’d been quite convinced that their father was a monster. Delilah was no liar and she’d been the one to spend the years he’d been off in another country with Rendon so it must be true.
 
“Anastasia didn’t destroy the Howes, Father,” Nathaniel forced the words out. He didn’t doubt their veracity but it was still hard to say. “You did.”
 
“I?” Rendon demanded angrily. “I was the one who killed myself, who killed your brother, and who stripped us of our titles? Exactly what nonsense has she been feeding you?”
 
“I thought that King Alistair stripped us of our titles because you were on the wrong side of the war but I was mistaken,” Nathaniel continued, his voice sounding oddly detached to his ears. “You could have been on the winning side and your abuses would have still cost us dearly.”
 
“My abuses?” Rendon laughed harshly. “I have never claimed to be a paragon of virtue but there was a war going on. Certain…sacrifices needed to be made. Everything I have ever done was the glory of the Howes and the country we served! If we want to talk about abuses then why not have your hero tell you what she did to me.”
 
“You killed my family,” Anastasia said in a low, measured tone. A quick glance told Nathaniel it was taking everything she had not to attack him outright. Why was she holding back? Did she want to let Nathaniel say what he needed to first? He was grateful if that were the reason.
 
“So I did,” Rendon said dismissively. “Did I also make their deaths last for hours as I cut slices of them off while they were still living?”
 
Nathaniel started at this new information and, horrified, tried to meet Anastasia’s eyes but she was pointedly not looking at him. Well, that would certainly explain why the King was rumored to still have nightmares about the incident.
 
“I will concede that that was, perhaps, an unnecessarily slow way to kill you,” Anastasia told him. “You can’t tell me that you didn’t deserve it, though. My family-”
 
“Oh, will you shut up about your family for two seconds?” Rendon cut him off. “That happened a full year before you came after me. Get over it.”
 
“By that logic the fact that I killed you nine months ago means that you should just ‘get over it’,” Anastasia snapped back, clearly not pleased at being told to get over what was probably the most traumatic event in her life.
 
“Ah, but now it’s been two years since then and you’re still not nearly over it,” Rendon told her, shaking his head in faux-pity. “Quite pathetic, really.”
 
“Why did you do it, Father?” Nathaniel quickly spoke up as Anastasia’s hand twitched towards the sword she wore on her back.
 
Rendon turned his gaze on him. “Why did I do what, Nathaniel? Wait, don’t answer that. My answer will be the same: for the glory of the Howes and for Ferelden.”
 
“You tried to wipe out another noble line and killed everyone down to the last man, woman, and child for the glory of the Howes?” Nathaniel couldn’t believe it. It was one thing to know intellectually that your father was a monster. It was quite another to have him more or less admit to it.
 
“Not everyone,” Rendon said bitterly, glaring at Anastasia who stared right back. “And you don’t understand, Nathaniel. I had to do it. Every single damned Cousland success held me back. I was never going to move up in the world with them standing in my way. And yet, in the mere year after I wiped them out and before this **** killed me, I managed to claim another Arling and even a teynir for our family! The regent was taking advice from me! If I hadn’t been killed, who knows how high we could have soared?”
 
“It wasn’t worth it,” Nathaniel breathed, shaking his head as though that could change the horrible words he’d just heard. “Nobility has another meaning and that’s clearly lost on you. You’ve proven to be as bad as the Orlesians, Father, and that’s the legacy you left behind. Thomas is dead and Delilah wants nothing to do with our name so it all falls to me. I don’t want it either but someone’s got to work to keep us from becoming the new Drydens. Our ancestors deserve more than that.”
 
Rendon looked contemptuously at him. “You’re still such a child. ‘Honor’ and ‘glory’ is all well and good but it gets you nowhere in life, son. No one’s going to hand you what you deserve, you have to take it. Take it by any means necessary.”
 
“So you say,” Nathaniel said quietly. “And yet, if you’ll notice we’re hardly receiving any accolades here. The Howes are pariahs and if you had just left well enough alone then we’d still have an Arling. Maybe it wasn’t all you dreamed of but it’s more than we have now.”
 
“Yes,” Rendon agreed, much to his surprised. “Once again, the Couslands held us back and are continuing to hold us back as they poison your mind. Just look at them! Not one but two teynirs and the throne as well! That should be ours.”
 
It was too much. Whether this was really his father or some malicious spirit, Nathaniel could just stand here and listen to this anymore. He drew a dagger and threw it into the apparition’s neck. He doubted he could kill anything in the Fade but at least that…thing was fading away now.
 
“Are you okay?” Anastasia asked him softly. She looked much calmer now that his father was no longer before them.
 
“No,” Nathaniel answered shortly. “But now’s hardly the time.”
 
Anastasia reluctantly nodded and from the look on her face, Nathaniel knew he hadn’t heard the end of it. That was fine by him; he probably would need to talk about it eventually, just not now. The fact that she cared enough to be willing to comfort him about the disappointment the man who had killed her family had turned out to be was nothing short of amazing.
 
As he said, being a Warden really wasn’t that bad.
 

[Liliandra Nadiar]

Powerful piece there. Though minor nitpick, from what I've been given to understand, Hawke would, at best, be a young teen by the time of Awakening. Not that it couldn't still work, but off the cuff assumptions would call shenanigans.

[Sarah1281]

Liliandra Nadiar wrote...

Powerful piece there. Though minor nitpick, from what I've been given to understand, Hawke would, at best, be a young teen by the time of Awakening. Not that it couldn't still work, but off the cuff assumptions would call shenanigans.

Glad you liked it.

For the Hawke reference, I was going off of this. The fact that Nate was apparently in Kirkwall for a year and the 'it's almost like we planned this' really seem to point to Nate at least having a small part to play in DA2. If that year were before DA2 starts and Hawke is too young to be doing...whatever the plot of DA2 is, starting on the path to being the Champoin of Kirkwall then Nate probably wouldn't rate more than a 'hey, remember that Nathaniel guy from a few years back'? Plus I seem to remember - but I don't have the link - hearing that the game starts around the tail-end of DA.

[Sarah1281]

My forty-second story was 'You've Been Staring' where Zevran catches Aunn staring at his hair and then they must discuss hair as was dictated by Jenovan's prompt.


“You are staring at my hair,” Zevran Arainai announced at camp one night on the way to Denerim.
 
“Am I?” Aunn Aeducan asked, blinking.
 
“Yes and for quite some time as well,” he confirmed. “See anything that you like?”
 
“Clearly I must have or I would have looked away,” Aunn replied. “Well…either that or I really hated it and couldn’t tear my eyes away. As it happens, you were right: I like your hair.”
 
“I must confess, that’s the sort of thing that I would expect to hear from Leliana rather than you,” Zevran told her.
 
“Well, she’s already had the ‘I like your hair’ conversation with me, Alistair, Wynne, Sten, and Morrigan so I’m sure she’ll get around to talking to you about yours sooner or later,” Aunn assured him.
 
“Unless, of course, she doesn’t like my hair,” Zevran pointed out.
 
Aunn laughed. “Please, Leliana likes everyone’s hair. You’ll get your turn.”
 
“If she likes everyone’s hair then clearly she’s not very selective,” Zevran reasoned. “And as such, I don’t know how mine compares to other peoples’. You, however, don’t normally go around gushing about how much you love other peoples’ hair so you’d probably be a more telling judge. Of course, you also wouldn’t have told me that you liked mine if I hadn’t caught you staring at it. You don’t seem to go around staring at other peoples’ hair, though, so maybe you are selective. Or maybe I just didn’t notice.”
 
“Or maybe you are seriously over thinking this,” Aunn told him, rolling her eyes.
 
“That’s always a possibility,” Zevran conceded. “But in my line of work I’ve found that it pays to over think things rather than risk under thinking them.”
 
“In my line of work it does, too,” Aunn agreed. She paused. “Although I’m not really sure that being a Princess was a line of work…”
 
“So what say you? Do you like my hair or not?” Zevran inquired.
 
Aunn tilted her head. “Does it really matter?”
 
“Not so much that I’d go around randomly asking strangers or even my companions, no, but since you were already staring and I am getting quite curious I would like some sort of answer,” Zevran replied.
 
Aunn shrugged. “Alright then: yes, I am fond of your hairstyle. I always have been and it reminds me of-” She cut herself off.
 
“It reminds you of?” Zevran prompted.
 
“My brother,” Aunn replied quickly. “His hair was like yours and, now that I think of it, Cailan’s was, too. It’s always seemed to be a very regal style and I do so like regal things.”
 
“I thought you said that your brother had hair like Alistair’s,” Zevran reminded her.
 
Aunn shook her head. “Oh no, that was the other one. He always looked much less regal and I suppose that may have helped him keep up his façade of harmlessness all these years…”
 
“Since I seem to recall you saying that your evil brother looked like Alistair, does that mean that your other brother was not evil?” Zevran asked.
 
“Trian wasn’t exactly evil just….well, Trian,” Aunn attempted to explain. “Very presumptuous, certainly, and never very fond of me but that’s hardly a crime. And lest I be forced to correct myself later…I’m not entirely sure Bhelen’s evil although since he did try to have me killed and framed me for Trian’s death I reserve the right to call him that.”
 
“So if your brother who had this hairstyle died and your King who had this hairstyle died-” Zevran started to say.
 
“Yeah, Cailan was hardly my King,” Aunn interrupted. “My King was my father – who had a completely different hairstyle – although now that I’m exiled I suppose I don’t have a King anymore. I know that I will certainly not accept that a human would have sovereignty over me.”
 
“That might make it a little difficult to live in Ferelden,” Zevran pointed out.
 
Aunn shrugged. “Who says I plan on living in Ferelden? I’m just here until the Blight’s over and then I’ll go find something more interesting to do and somewhere more interesting to live.”
 
“Try Antiva,” Zevran advised. “It’s a fascinating city and so long as you can handle yourself with a sword – which you most certainly can – you won’t have any problems.”
 
“I’ll think about it,” Aunn said noncommittally. “Although I’ve got to say that living on the Surface at all really doesn’t appeal to me so I doubt I’ll be too thrilled about any of my options. Those are thoughts for later, though; you were saying something about how Trian and Cailan are both dead?”
 
“Ah, of course,” Zevran said with a nod. “I was saying that, while my hairstyle is pretty phenomenal, if the people you know who had it all died then maybe having this hairstyle isn’t great for my long-term survival plans.”
 
“Not everyone I know with that hairstyle has been killed,” Aunn countered. “Although the other person I really knew who had it did get crippled so perhaps that’s not the best example…Cailan died because he was on the front line of a battle that turned into a massacre and I really doubt Trian’s hair played much – if any – a part in his death.”
 
“That may be true but given that assassins don’t have a very high life expectancy and the Crows are already after me, I’m really not sure that I should risk jinxing myself,” Zevran told her.
 
“You’re not seriously thinking about changing it, are you?” Aunn asked skeptically. “What would you even change it to, anyway?”
 
“That is a good question,” Zevran remarked, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve always been so very fond of this style that it really hadn’t occurred to me to change it. How do you think I would look with Alistair’s hair?”
 
Aunn attempted to picture it and promptly started giggling. “That…that style is hard to take seriously and…well, I just don’t think it’s you.”
 
“Maybe not,” Zevran agreed. “That’s how Taliesin wears his hair, anyway, and I wouldn’t want him to accuse me of copying him should I ever run into him again and he attempts to kill me. How about that one style the tortured Templar had? Cullen, I think it was.”
 
“Better than Alistair’s style but still…weird,” Aunn declared.
 
“Sten’s style?” Zevran suggested.
 
“That would be really very bizarre,” Aunn nixed. “Plus your hair doesn’t seem long enough for that.”
 
“Jowan’s style?” Zevran was clearly running out of ideas.
 
Aunn made a face. “That’s fine if you’re good with me pretending I don’t know you.”
 
“Wynne’s style?” Zevran asked, looking a little desperate.
 
“I’m thinking no,” Aunn told him. She paused, considering. “Although…while that ponytail is far too no-nonsense to fit you a ponytail might not be a bad fit if you’re really looking for a change. You could get one like Duncan’s easily enough.”
 
“Duncan?” Zevran repeated blankly.
 
“He was the Warden that recruited me and Alistair’s surrogate father,” Aunn explained shortly. “Don’t bring him up around Alistair unless you want to start a very long conversation.”
 
“I’ll save that for when I have more time or am really bored then,” Zevran decided. “But since I have never met this ‘Duncan’ character then perhaps you can describe to me how his hair looked?”
 
“There’s…really not much to say, really,” Aunn told him. “And I’ve never been very good at describing things anyway. It was just a low medium-size ponytail that looks like it could be pulled off with hair about your length. It was pretty badass, though. Part of that was just because of how awesome Duncan was but the hair definitely helped.”
 
“So…like this?” Deftly, Zevran scooped his hair up into a low ponytail very similar to the one Duncan usually sported.
 
“Pretty much, yes,” Aunn agreed.
 
Leliana walked up to them then, looking mildly distressed. “Oh, but I was just coming to talk to you about how much I loved your hair! Although, I do like this style, too…”

[Sarah1281]

My forty-third story was 'She Never Said Goodbye' where Rica Brosca has to deal with the fact that her sister is dead and the last time they saw each other Rica rejected her for crowning Harrowmont.


Rica Brosca was a warrior well on her way to becoming a noble and yet she had never felt so worthless as when she stared down at her little sister lying motionless on a stone slab with a clearly grieving human King delivering her eulogy.
 
Sereda was dead.
 
It wasn’t like Rica hadn’t known this for weeks but there was a stark difference between just knowing something like that and actually seeing it for herself. She’d once heard that seeing was believing but she’d never realized how true that was until today. She had never been to the Surface and had never expected to but she couldn’t even properly appreciate it or fear it or really have any other strong reaction due to the terrible numbness that had settled around her the minute she had heard that her sister was dead.
 
She had just returned from the short visit she had been allowed with her son – little Endrin was growing up so fast and looking more like his father by the day – to find an urgent message from King Harrowmont summoning her to the Palace. It had hardly been her first time there, her son had even been born there, but she had never before received an official summon. She honestly hadn’t known what to expect. She had been living in fear of Harrowmont ever since he had stepped over Prince Bhelen’s corpse to take the throne and she had hated him for months before then for the vicious lies he had spread about Bhelen. She feared he was going to do something to her or her child but Harrowmont had merely looked at her sadly and told her that the Blight was over. Sereda had ended it. Sereda had died. Sereda had posthumously been raised to the warrior caste and now she was one as well. The Assembly was considering making her a Paragon and it was very likely that the motion would pass.
 
Rica had stood there feeling sick as the news sunk in. Sereda was a hero now and had saved them all but it had cost her her life…and the sisters had parted on such bad terms.
 
It wouldn’t have been so badly, really, if the last time that Rica had seen her sister was when Duncan was offering her a way to not only escape the automatic death sentence the Shaper had in mind for her for impersonating a member of a higher caste (Rica honestly didn’t know what she’d been thinking and now she never would and the irony of Sereda now holding the caste in question was bitter indeed) or the lifetime imprisonment Jarvia had in mind for her for embarrassing Beraht and costing him far more money than she could really comprehend before killing him. Rica had smiled warmly at her sister and told her that she’d be fine staying in Orzammar. She had told Sereda that she had her blessing and that she deserved to show the world that she was more than just a ****’s little sister. Losing Sereda still would have killed her – Sereda had been the single most important person in her life from the day she was born until the day little Endrin had been – but it would have been easier. Their goodbye then had been a proper one.
 
But that hadn’t been the last time the pair had seen each other. Sereda had returned triumphantly as a Grey Warden in the middle of the nastiest noble fight Rica had ever heard of. Little Endrin’s grandfather had returned to the Stone and that beastly Harrowmont had tried to keep Bhelen off of his rightful throne. Rica had been so happy to see her sister and the feeling was clearly mutual as they reunited in the Diamond Quarter, a place Rica had only rare been to and never expected to live at and in which they both now belonged. The joy of their reunion had quickly faded, however, when Sereda had refused to go see Vartag Gavorn and help her Prince win back his throne.
 
Rica hadn’t been able to believe what she was hearing. Her beloved baby sister, the girl she would have done anything for growing up and would still have done anything that didn’t go against little Endrin’s best interest was refusing the only thing Rica had ever really asked of her. Sereda made no secret of the fact that she had a life on the Surface – and a human, too, as strange as Rica had found that – and no intention of ever calling Orzammar home again. What, then, did the outcome of the election mean to her? Rica, on the other hand, was dependent on Bhelen and their son needed his father to win as well. Sereda had started to say something about how Bhelen was a Kinslayer but Rica hadn’t wanted to hear it.
 
She had heard that being whispered from practically the moment that Sereda had left. Bhelen’s brother, Prince Reidin, had murdered their eldest brother Prince Trian and been exiled for it and people suspected Bhelen of being involved? She knew him and she knew that he would never do that. Family was everything to him and what had happened and the toll it had take on his father had devastated him. Maybe she had just been a casteless but she had been the one to sit with him for weeks while he cried. What did any of those power-hungry nobles know about it? What did Sereda, for that matter? Rica knew that her sister would never knowingly perpetuate such vicious lies and so it was clear that somehow she had been convinced that Bhelen really was a Kinslayer – and some said a Kingslayer although that was just as false as the first charge – and she was trying to do what was right. Sereda always tried to do what was right.
 
Rica had tried to get through to her sister, she had tried so hard to make her see the truth about the nobles, about Bhelen, and about Harrowmont but Sereda wouldn’t listen to reason. She had merely smiled sadly and declared her support for Harrowmont’s candidacy. Rica knew her sister better than anyone and so, logically, knew that she was operating under bad information. She should have stayed calm and kept trying to explain to Sereda how people were jealous, how Harrowmont had always hated Bhelen, how she had started to suspect that a lot of Harrowmont’s supporters just wanted to get the Aeducans off the throne. Instead…instead she had reacted very, very badly and she would regret every harsh word for the rest of her life. Sereda was dead and she would never get the chance to apologize.
 
“Do you do this just to taunt me?”
 
No, Sereda had never really been cruel. Every vile deed she had done for the carta had been out of necessity and not malice. In Dust Town you did what you had to do. Sereda had loved her and the fact she had kept trying to talk to her wasn’t motivated by the desire to prove that she was better than her still-casteless sister but because she hated that they were at odds.
 
“You'd see Mother and me back in the streets and your nephew left fatherless?”
 
Honestly, Rica had no idea whether or not Sereda would care if their mother was on the streets. Sereda been the one to deal with the brunt of their mother’s dark side over the years as it had been her father their mother was mourning and she didn’t even have memories of a happier time to help her forgive like Rica did. Just the same, while Sereda hadn’t known nearly everything Rica had done for her – and Rica would sooner die than let her see – she knew enough that she’d never dream of trying to hurt her or her son. Harrowmont hadn’t so much as acknowledged her until he told her that Sereda was dead so either their new King’s malice was more focused than she’d thought and her sister had realized this or Sereda had worked out a deal with him in exchange for the throne. Either way, Sereda’s actions hadn’t destroyed the new life Rica was building. Far from it.
 
“Maybe if I'd let Mother sell you on the street you wouldn't be forcing my son there now!”
 
She’d been horrified the moment she’d said it. Ever since she had been old enough to realize what her future would be she had been determined to do whatever it took to stop that from becoming Sereda’s fate, too. Beraht was a vile snake but he had been…open for negotiations about Sereda’s place in his employ. She had meant it when she said that she’d save Sereda from that and finally years of effort had paid off and Sereda had been welcomed into the carta. She would never have really wanted the life of a **** for her sister. Half of her had wanted to take it back the moment the words left her mouth but she’d been too angry to do so. Had Sereda known that she hadn’t meant it or had she gone to her death thinking Rica genuinely would have done that?
 
“Of course not. You're too busy destroying your only nephew's future!”
 
Sereda had said that she hadn’t wanted to argue, that she wished to explain. Rica hadn’t wanted to hear it. What could possibly be a good enough reason for turning her back on her family right when they needed her most? What could be worth hurting her nephew’s father and placing his future in jeopardy? It would be easier to understand if she could just know why. Sereda had tried to tell her but she hadn’t listened and so she would go to her death not knowing.
 
“You traitor! I have nothing to say to you. You are no longer my sister.”
 
That had to have been the worst thing she had said, even worse than telling her she should have let her become a **** like everyone had expected. She had outright disowned her own sister. In her defense, this was very shortly after hearing that not only had Sereda gone through with giving the crown to Harrowmont but she had also personally decapitated Bhelen. Sereda had flinched as if she’d been slapped and then turned and walked away with looking back. That had been the last thing she had ever said to Sereda. Rica had honestly never expected that to be the end for them.
 
Things hadn’t turned out the way she had feared, either. Rica had truly loved Bhelen but she had loved her son more. As a warrior and future noble, she was now allowed to see her baby far more than she’d ever dreamed of. While Bhelen was alive she’d known that she had to keep his happy or else jeopardize her place in the palace but now, even though she was no longer in the palace but in another Aeducan estate, there was no chance of removing her. Bhelen would never commit to his heir and while Rica did understand not wanting to pick someone and then change his mind, now that he was dead her son was the heir to House Aeducan. He was really going to be alright and, oddly enough, things were actually going better than they would be had Bhelen still been among the living. In an odd sort of way, her sister had done her a favor.
 
She would never get a chance to tell her that, though. Sereda was dead.
 
Rica wasn’t quite sure about the details as the human King had been very tight-lipped about it. Sereda had apparently given her life to slay the Archdemon and stop the Blight. Her sister had saved not only Ferelden but everyone else as well. The last time Rica had ever seen her she had denounced her and had been very cruel.
 
Rica was sure that Sereda would forgive her for what she did but she wasn’t so sure that she’d be able to forgive herself.
 
Sereda was dead and Rica was just going to have to live with that.

[Sarah1281]

My forty-fourth story was 'Living On Borrowed Time' about how Frandlin Ivo, the man whose testimoney largely damns the DN, realizes how screwed he is once the princess he betrayed isn't as dead as she's supposed to be.


If Frandlin of House Ivo had to pick the defining moment in his life, it would be the day Vartag Gavorn came up to him with an offer he was unable to refuse. If the bribe wasn’t enough to ensure his cooperation then the threats were. Vartag, of course, wasn’t acting in his own interest but on behalf of Orzammar’s youngest prince, Bhelen Aeducan. Bhelen had threatened to completely crush his entire House badly enough that it would be generations before it recovered – if it ever did – if he refused to cooperate and to make him his right hand man if he did.
 
What was he supposed to have done? Bhelen was one of the most powerful men in Orzammar and it wasn’t like anyone would offer him any protection if he turned the prince down. King Endrin was far too important to waste time meeting with the second son of the relatively inconsequential Lord Ivo, Prince Trian was convinced that he was as well, and Frandlin had never even met Princess Aunn. He had no proof and no way to convince them either. Most of the other lords important enough to be able to provide protection were already in Bhelen’s pocket. He had no choice, really. He had to help Bhelen.
 
It was ironic, really. Bhelen had sought him out for his skill in combat and his impeccable reputation for integrity and he was called upon to be a central figure in the single biggest conspiracy he’d ever even heard of. It was impossible to be neutral in Orzammar. Well, the casteless might manage it but they didn’t really count and Ivo would sooner die than lose his caste anyway. While everyone was forced to be at least peripherally aligned with someone else, the smart ones knew to stay out of the games played by those more important than them.
 
Frandlin may have been born a noble but he was a member of a lesser House. He was doing what he could to raise it up but he could only do so much on his own and so progress was slow. Bhelen knew this. He knew that he was the only chance House Ivo might ever get to climb to the top and that in the meantime no one would be put out if they were completely and utterly crushed. By allying himself with Bhelen and helping set up Aunn to take the fall for Trian’s death he was risking being killed and having his House greatly disgraced…but if he didn’t then it was a guarantee. He had to go through with it. It wasn’t like Trian and Aunn wouldn’t have done the same if they were in Bhelen’s position, after all. That was just how the nobility worked.
 
And so, carrying with him the hopes of all of House Ivo, Frandlin kept his head down and continued to win glory in the Proving arena as he awaited the day he would be called upon to secure for Bhelen the coveted position of future King. It was to take place on the day of Aunn’s first command and it struck Frandlin as sad, in a vague sort of way, that what was supposed to be the day that she finally got a chance to try for real power was the day that her life would end in disgrace. Trian was really the one getting off lucky. Sure he would die as well but he’d be remembered as a tragic victim and not a murderous exile.
 
To his surprise, he actually met the princess the day before he was supposed to. He was, as per usual, entered in the Proving that was being held – he very seldom missed the opportunity to compete but he was grateful that he hadn’t been in the one held in the Grey Wardens honor a week before as competing with a casteless was just demeaning – and found himself face-to-face with the lady in whose honor the Proving was being held in the final round. It was the first time he had ever seen her up close and he had to admit that she was very pretty and appeared very determined. He didn’t think she’d react well to losing here in her own Proving to such a lesser noble but fortunately she’d fall from grace the very next day and so if he won then she wouldn’t have much time to make him regret it. As it turned out, he didn’t need to worry so much about whether he should try to beat her as she defeated him handily. She may very well have been the best he’d ever faced but she was gracious about her victory and even sent him the ceremonial helm her father had commissioned for the winner of the Proving. It was much nicer than the usual Proving prizes since it was in the honor of the darling daughter of their King. She was different than he’d expected, as well, and part of him wished she’d been the sort of vain, stupid, self-absorbed **** he had long-since pictured her as.
 
It didn’t matter, though. He had a job to do and morality had nothing to do with it. Frandlin had heard that Bhelen managed to come off as harmless and well-meaning himself and he knew that couldn’t be further from the truth so in all likelihood she was the same…or so he told himself when she remembered him when she came across him in the Deep Roads and congratulated him on his skills. As he’d expected, there weren’t very many of them, just Aunn, her second Gorim, himself, and some scout who was likely also working for Bhelen. The scout clearly wasn’t used to dealing with members of the nobility if his appalling lack of manners was any indication but Frandlin figured he’d likely be safe from Aunn’s reprisal given just how soon things would fall apart for her.
 
They encountered some casteless mercenaries, which he’d expected, who had blamed their presence on Trian. Aunn had picked up the signet ring they’d been carrying, had a whispered conference with Gorim, and then grabbed the shield she’d been searching for and headed back to the rendezvous point.
 
He didn’t have to fake his shock at coming across the body of the named heir, however. While he knew that Trian would not live to see the morrow, he had been under the impression that Trian was supposed to be alive and confront Aunn thus forcing her to kill him. Something had changed and he didn’t understand why. Was the plan still workable? Would he be blamed for its failure if it wasn’t? He nervously chatted with the scout about what could have happened to the prince when Bhelen led the rest of the expedition right to them. Fortunately, Bhelen didn’t seem at all perturbed to see his dead brother. Frandlin supposed it didn’t really matter whether Aunn had actually been responsible for Trian’s death as he was still the only witness who mattered.
 
By the time someone got around to asking what had happened, the scout immediately spoke up and insisted that Aunn had casually gone up to Trian and appeared perfectly friendly…until she’d stabbed him and ordered them to attack the guards as well. Aunn responded to this allegation, naturally, by casually going up to the scout appearing perfectly friendly…until she’d stabbed him. That was proof enough of her guilt for some of the lords but the King insisted on hearing from him. The scout had been a warrior and his word was not enough to convict a princess. He, however, was a noble with an impeccable reputation for honestly that was now about to be forever tarnished. Eyeing both surviving Aeducan siblings warily, he slowly repeated the scout’s lie.
 
Things moved very quickly after that. Aunn was arrested and dragged through Orzammar in chains, he was called before the Assembly to testify that Aunn had killed Trian, and Bhelen’s motion to have her sealed into the Deep Roads passed almost obscenely quickly. Frandlin had been right about Bhelen’s strong support, it seemed. He wasn’t thrilled with what he had done but at least it was over with now and it was a part of being a noble in Orzammar.
 
He was half-afraid that Bhelen would have him killed as he was a loose end and one of the only people alive who knew what had really happened, especially as Lord Harrowmont had begun speaking out against Bhelen almost the minute Aunn had been exiled. Luckily, however, Bhelen had decided to keep his word and House Ivo was, for the first time in living memory, actually important. It was…it was pretty wonderful. As Bhelen’s right hand man he was expected to perform certain duties and not all of them were pleasant – although he knew Vartag dealt with the worst of it, not that he seemed to mind – but he found that each of these ‘favors’ was easier to go through with than the last. So things weren’t perfect but they were better than they had been and everyone in his House was well aware of what they owed him. His elder brother Wojech had never been so proud. He might never be free of Bhelen and his demands but was that really such a terrible thing?
 
One day, three weeks after King Endrin died and right in the middle of the succession crisis between Bhelen and Lord Harrowmont, Bhelen’s elder sister returned to Orzammar. She was sealed in the Deep Roads, she was supposed to be dead. She had been exiled, she was supposed to be kept out of Orzammar. She was a Grey Warden now, she could come and go as she pleased. Aunn had apparently come to call upon the ancient treaty obliging the King to send aid against a Blight. There was no King, however, and so it was inevitable that Aunn would get involved. Frandlin had no idea how she had escaped the Deep Roads or how she had gotten into the position she was in now but he did know that nothing good could possibly come from encountering the exiled princess now and so, much to Bhelen’s displeasure, he made himself scarce for the duration of her time in Orzammar.
 
That was, he reflected, an incredibly smart move. The details were still unclear even now, months later, but by the time that Aunn was through, Harrowmont was on the throne and Bhelen and every single one of his deshyr allies lay dead on the very floor of the Assembly. The new King and his allies, of course, were quick to speak fondly of what a dear, honorable girl she was although Frandlin wasn’t sure if this was more because many of their political enemies (and virtually all of hers) were dead or because they worried that if they didn’t then they’d be next.
 
Once Aunn was gone, Frandlin felt that it was safe to breathe again, at least for a time. With those who had moved to exile Aunn dead at her hand and Harrowmont himself having always held a great deal of affection for her and stood as her greatest defender it didn’t seem outside of the realm of possibility that should she survive this Blight she would be returning to them. It would be foolish to hope that she failed in her task as then everyone would die but was it really too much to hope that she could at least die while doing it?
 
Apparently it was as mere weeks after the news reached Orzammar that the Blight was over, Aunn was back in Orzammar having been reinstated as an Aeducan and, what’s more, became the head of the house. She was even being considered for Paragonhood and there were already rumors that Harrowmont would name her as his heir. She wasn’t going anywhere.
 
Frandlin could try to hide again but, unlike last time, that wouldn’t be enough to save him. If she was planning on tracking him down then she had the time and the means to do it. He could, he supposed, try to escape to the Surface but he’d meant what he said about preferring death to losing his caste. He didn’t want to die but he supposed that he’d known that it would come to this from the minute he’d realized that Aunn was still alive.
 
It was almost a relief when she finally did show up and stick a dagger between his ribs.

[Sarah1281]

My forty-fifth story was 'Fallen Idol' where Adal Helmi laments the loss of her inspiration due to the petty games the others played.


Adal Helmi was not a disappointment. No, that was the dubious honor reserved for her elder brother Denek. Denek was probably the most ill-suited deshyr Orzammar had had in generations. He openly resented everyone else in the Assembly, he refused to hide his egalitarian viewpoints, and he let their mother make his choices for him. Not, of course, that she could blame him for that last one. Their mother may never have been a warrior but she was still formidable and always seemed to know exactly what was going on. Yes, their mother was a consummate politician and since her brother clearly wasn’t it was for the best that he took her advice. Really, not much had changed when their mother had stepped down as deshyr.
 
Adal wasn’t a politician at all but that was okay. She wasn’t called upon to be one. Instead, she was a fighter. It was certainly unusual for a woman to be a fighter, particularly if she were not a member of the Silent Sisters. Her mother had always been too practical to let something like that stand in the way of increasing House Helmi’s wealth and prestige and Adal was better than most of the male fighters and so it wasn’t particularly difficult for her to begin her career in the Proving arena. Some of the other fighters and, in fact, the Proving Master himself weren’t happy about it, she could tell, but who were they to argue with House Helmi?
 
In a lot of ways, living by the sword was simpler than trying to make her way in the realm of the politicians. Denek was certainly living proof of how someone ill-suited for Assembly politics and yet forced to engage in them anyway could hope to make out; it had taken him less than a week to personally offend each and every one of the other seventy-nine deshyrs. Actually, he was probably luckier than most would be as the power his House held granted him certain protections that, say, a Vollney or an Ivo would not be afforded.
 
Needless to say, Adal was grateful for this as she was quite fond of her brother. That, as it happened, was another benefit of staying away from politics: it allowed her to be fond of her siblings. The more politically-minded people saw their siblings as rivals at best, obstacles to be removed at worst. Take the Aeducans, for instance. The most surprising thing about that whole affair was just how long it had taken for one to kill another and to be exiled in turn…or so the official story went. Lord Harrowmont didn’t believe that that was the way it had happened for a minute and Adal had always respected him a great deal.
 
There was another reason, of course, that she didn’t want to remember Aunn Aeducan as a disgraced Kinslayer. She hadn’t been as close to Aunn as Nerav was but she recognized the other girl as a kindred spirit, a fellow nobly-born fighter. That wasn’t to say that Aunn shared Adal’s disinterest in politics, of course, because if that had been the case then the question of King Endrin’s successor would have been a lot easier to answer. Aunn hadn’t let things like others looking down on female fighters stop her and had insisted on being given the same opportunities as her brothers were. It was all well and good if House Helmi were going to support a female fighter but for the palace to do so as well? It certainly quieted a lot of murmured discontent as no one wanted to risk the wrath of someone who might one day be their Queen.
 
One thing even the most conservative of families did not disapprove of was the Silent Sisters. Adal respected their dedication and battle prowess, of course, but a part of her resented them as well. It was perfectly accepted for her to be a Silent Sister. Silent Sisters were safe. They had no tongue and could not function on their own so how could they ever be a threat to conventional wisdom? How could they ever change anybody’s attitudes? In their dedication they basically neutralized a great deal of their own power. Silent Sisters were not forbidden to marry but who would marry someone who had cut out her own tongue and would never be able to speak? They couldn’t raise sons who were more open-minded or daughters who would fight. Once their Proving career was over they were just set quietly aside and looked upon as a mere curiosity. The Silent Sisters’ dedication was a deterrent to many woman who wished to fight but not to go to such extreme measures as they thought a woman had to to be taken seriously.
 
Adal hoped to change that with her blades. Aunn was helping to change it as well. She was a princess and she insisted on fighting. Her father approved and therefore no one could tell her that she didn’t belong in armor like the men. For that alone, Aunn was her inspiration and Adal knew she wasn’t the only one to think so. And when Aunn became a commander and gained more power, perhaps even the throne then the idea of a woman fighter who didn’t have to mutilate themselves first would only become more accepted. It had all looked so very promising…and now all of that hope was gone. The Aeducans had rejected Aunn and subsequently so had the rest of Orzammar. She was gone now, likely dead in the Deep Roads.
 
The single best chance women fighters had had for acceptance was lost and for what? Because Aunn had wanted the throne? Because Trian had? Because Bhelen had? It didn’t seem worth it. How could this possibly be worth it? Maybe that was why she preferred to stick to swords and Provings instead of poison and politics.
 
In the end, there was really only one thing that Adal could do. Her idol may have fallen, but she hadn’t. If she now had to work even harder to prove that women could be fighters without the mutilation or the fratricide then so be it.

Adal may be a fighter but she was also a noble and rather accustomed to getting what she wanted. There was no way she was stopping now.

[Sarah1281]

My forty-sixth story 'Best Laid Plans' was dealing with Bhelen's quick recalculation once his brother dies in a duel the day before he can be arrested for fratricide.


If there was one thing Prince Bhelen Aeducan could say about his brothers it was that they both thoroughly deserved what was coming to them. Trian, of course, felt the need to act as if Reidin and their father were the only ones worthy of his notice – and his paranoia regarding Reidin was rather tiring at times – while Bhelen was a mere child. As for Reidin…Reidin’s feigned lack of interest in ruling and his clear status as the favorite could get annoying but Bhelen had never been as furious with his second-eldest brother as he was right now.
 
“I am sorry, your highness,” Ronus said, sounding torn between glee at having hurt House Aeducan so and fear of the palace’s reprisal. Bhelen made a mental note to have both Ronus and his son Mandar killed at some point for upsetting his plans so.
 
It wasn’t like he was upset about what had happened, aside from the fact that it made House Aeducan look foolish, but the timing couldn’t have been worse and now he’d have to rearrange everything. Sure, his plan was still workable and could even still be implemented the next day but it would never be as perfect as the original plan was.
 
Reidin was a fool. While it was true that in the past Bhelen had often wondered about his brother’s judgment in matters like choosing to completely ignore Trian’s animosity towards him or to sleep with anything that moved while chasing after Adal Helmi, he had always been unable to completely believe that the brother that everybody loved and who they wanted to rule Orzammar could be such a fool. He was mistaken.
 
Reidin was dead. As Bhelen had long-since plotted the death of not just Reidin but Trian as well, that was hardly something to mourn. In fact, the fact that Mandar Dace had struck the final blow meant that he actually wasn’t involved and thus could not possibly be connected to the murder. While he knew that his original plan would not be able to be traced back to him, the fact that both men who were ahead of him in line for the throne would be taken out of the picture in one move might cast suspicion back on him. It was a risk he was willing to take but now he wouldn’t have to. On the one hand, the lack of suspicion was certainly a good thing. On the other…well, now he’d need a new way to explain Trian’s impending demise.
 
“Thank you, Ronus,” his father said perfunctorily. It was clear that watching his favorite son die had taken its toll on him but thus far he was still keeping it together. Bhelen did feel a little pity for his father but it was supposed to be much worse: his father was supposed to have been the one to order Reidin’s death himself.
 
Looking awkward, Lord Dace quickly took his leave.
 
“Poor Reidin,” Trian murmured, sounding entirely unconvincing. “And right before his first commission, too…” Bhelen wondered whether anyone actually believed that Trian was in any way sorry to Reidin go. After all, Trian had never made much of a secret of his animosity towards their brother brought on by jealousy and Reidin’s general devil-may-care demeanor. No doubt Trian was busy convincing himself that he was extremely upset by it while also secretly reveling in the fact that he was right to look down on Reidin. Given that Trian had just agreed to confront their brother and kill him if he refused to surrender, Bhelen could hardly take any proclamation of sadness coming from his remaining sibling’s corner seriously. It wasn’t even like it had been that hard to convince him either…
 
But alas, all of that was all for naught. On the day before Reidin’s big day and Bhelen’s plans came to fruition, Lord Dace had apparently tried to trick Reidin into costing House Aeducan a lot of money by supporting letting the Surface dwarves retain their caste as there were several surface dwarves in particular with Aeducan blood and debts to House Dace to be paid. Instead of just pretending he didn’t know the truth and declaring that the Surface dwarves should remain casteless like anyone else would do, Reidin had decided to challenge House Dace’s honor.
 
Lord Harrowmont, ever cautious but this time rightly so, had cautioned against it and Bhelen could see him now trying desperately to look like he hadn’t seen this coming the minute Reidin said he was going to go through with it anyway. Reidin was normally a better fighter than Mandar Dace but something had happened and the prince had lost the fight. More than that, he had lost his life. Bhelen would have preferred to have been there to see it, but Trian’s resentment over all of the special treatment Reidin was getting and Bhelen’s own plans to convince Trian that fratricide was a viable option kept him out of the loop until the fight was over.
 
It was all well and good for Trian to be willing to kill their brother but him already being dead made it a tad unnecessary. Bhelen hadn’t even gotten the chance to approach Reidin with the idea of killing Trian. He didn’t think Reidin would have been difficult to convince but in case he was mistaken and Reidin really didn’t want to kill their eldest brother – which he was honestly having trouble trying to understand how that could be possible – then he had a backup plan involving having the casteless mercenaries he’d given Trian’s ring to kill Trian before attacking Reidin right before he reached the shield to make him even more suspicious of Trian.
 
He was supposed to be in contact with them later tonight to let them know if they were to kill Trian or not so he could arrange for them to have a new plan now. Ambushing Reidin would be highly unnecessary, of course, given that he was no longer amongst the living. Fortunately, Duncan and his fellow Wardens still needed access to the Deep Roads and the expedition had already been all planned out so it was still taking place the next day so at least some part of his plan was salvageable. He would still be accompanying his father with the main part of the expedition while Trian still went off alone with his men. Bhelen could have the casteless mercenaries follow Trian and kill him and his men while they were by themselves.
 
The problem with that, of course, was that now there was no Reidin to pin the crime on – or have actually do it – and no clear motive. Usually when a prince died, the throne was in some way involved and while that was also the case here, Bhelen didn’t want that to be known. If no one ever found any evidence of what happened, just a dead prince and his dead guards then they’d either be forced to conclude it was darkspawn or, if the bodies lacked the usual tells of a darkspawn murder, that bandits had done it.
 
While Bhelen might have been reasonably well-known around Dust Town, Reidin and Trian weren’t. Reidin, of course, as their father had felt the need to shelter him to an almost unreasonable degree and Trian because he honestly believed that they were nothing and thus below his notice. It would be all too easy for the rest of Orzammar to believe that casteless had seen dwarves moving on their own and had killed and robbed them without realizing exactly who they had gone after. He would just need to instruct the mercenaries he’d hired to take anything of value on his brother and his men which they would be only too eager to do.
 
If the mercenaries were caught then Orzammar would believe the same thing…as long as they didn’t attempt to bring him into it. There was, to his knowledge, absolutely no proof linking him to the murder about to take place save perhaps a few letters to Beraht – and now Jarvia since Beraht had died the week before in some carta squabble involving Rica’s sister – that those that had access to would never reveal to save a few expendable mercenaries. With any luck, the mercenaries would realize just how much more painful their deaths would be if they tried to blame what had happened on him. Once again, there would be no proof but he really didn’t need the suspicion.
 
It occurred to him that it was, perhaps, a little strange that while his father was mourning Reidin and Trian was pretending to and perhaps even deluding himself that he was, he was frustrated that Reidin had died an Aeducan a few days early and thus forcing him to rapidly recalculate. All things considered, it wasn’t so surprising although he would need to pretend to be upset about first Reidin’s death and then Trian’s when it came for propriety’s sake.
 
He was a little curious why part of his annoyance was at the fact that Reidin’s death, while foolish and unnecessary, allowed him to stay an Aeducan instead of the murdering exile Bhelen would have preferred him to die, even discounting the fact that it would have made his plan easier. He supposed there wasn’t much point wondering about things like that now that one brother was down and the other would soon follow.
 
“Poor Reidin,” Bhelen said, shaking his head sadly. “Tomorrow was going to be such a big day for him…”

[Sarah1281]

My forty-seventh story was 'Orzammar’s Version of Practicality' which attempts to understand the ever-pleasant Lady Dace.


Lady Delala Dace was well aware of how people saw her. She was practically the definition of Orzammar practicality but that was rarely the kind of thing that earned one friends. It wasn’t like she particularly cared, either. She had one goal in life and that was to increase House Dace’s standing (both in prestige and in wealth) by whatever means possible whether that meant seeking to restore the castes of the sun-touched or turning her back on an ancient alliance with the longest-ruling royal family Orzammar had ever seen for some land and the chance to become even more important advisors to a weak King (though with King Endrin still languishing away on his death bed that was hardly public knowledge yet).
 
Delala could be pleasant when she so chose although she usually reserved that for members of her own House – the important ones – or her fellow deshyrs. Manners were the sign of good breeding, after all, and it wouldn’t do for those of comparable significance to find hers lacking. Those beneath her notice, of course, knew it and so there was no point in pretending to care about them in the slightest. Not many did and only the most contentious around, Lord Helmi, actually seemed to care although why he bothered was beyond her. Those high up in other powerful families like the Helmis or the Aeducans but did not happen to be the deshyr or the head of House were also worthy of consideration. Ancestors knew a misplaced snub could prove disastrous if not outright fatal. It might be easier and less complicated to be equally polite to everyone of noble caste but that would be seen as a weakness as it implied a lack of ability to distinguish between the ranks. One always had to know just where they stood in comparison to those that they spoke to.
 
A harder category to pin down as far as her treatment of them was concerned would be the ones that, while not quite deshyr or Dace levels of importance, were still aiding her or her House (which really was the same when one got right down to it). A warrior, for instance, whose family had long since pledged themselves to House Dace or a trusted and discrete messenger. Certainly a modicum of respect had to be afforded but not overly so and the lesser being had to always remember their place. Without everyone knowing exactly where that was, the entire social hierarchy of Orzammar might collapse. While that may have amused the likes of Lord Helmi, some people had worked hard to keep their position at the top and had come from a long line of people who had done the same and as such would prefer not to watch their world come crashing down around them.
 
All of this was the result of hours of careful contemplation and being as logical as she knew how to be. She had always been taught that the most important thing was the advancement of her House and, as one of only eighty deshyrs and the daughter of the head of House Dace, much of that task would fall to her. As anyone with even a passing knowledge of Orzammar politics and an ounce of competence could attest to, holding onto power was almost harder to do than attaining it and so nearly every waking moment Delala had was dedicated to both keeping the power that she already had and to try and take more.
 
Yes, take. There was only so much power to be had, after all, so every little bit gained was a loss for someone else. If she wanted power that another had then she had to be better than they were and to prove it. As if that weren’t enough, there were always jealous mutterings from her own house to contend with. Sure, they were pleased at her many successes but greatness always engendered envy and, Orzammar being what it was, plots to replace her. They hadn’t succeeded yet and if she had her way then they never would. Delala liked having power and she liked House Dace consistently gaining more and she would use anything and anyone, even her own children, to continue the hard-fought path to the top. She was hardly alone in that either. Only a fool – and thus, half of Orzammar – would actually believe Bhelen Aeducan’s version of how he had come to be the sole Aeducan heir but nothing could be proven and so the official story was the one they all accepted.
 
It was tradition to only acknowledge things that legally happened or existed and Delala followed that…when it suited her. Tradition also dictated that those that had headed to the Surface be forgotten and while the initial vote had fallen through in the wake of all the excitement surrounding the royal family’s power squabbles, Ronus had hardly given that up and he was making more headway than she’d thought he would. Tradition dictated that that Surface traders should be tolerated as an unpleasant necessity and nothing more but trading with them often – not always such as the case with Ronus’ bust of the previous year – proved extremely lucrative. Tradition dictated that the casteless did not exist and were to be ignored suitably, noble hunters were becoming more and more acceptable as each generation proved a little smaller than the previous one. Delala couldn’t approve of such things and felt part of it was simply an inability for the men who employed the noble hunter’s to control themselves. Just the same, the value of the extra swords such affairs produced could not be denied.
 
Delala’s overwhelming devotion to the business of her house had many advantages and really only one thing that could be considered a disadvantage: it didn’t win her many friends. Making it clear that compassion and kindness were a distant second to power and prestige meant that many considered her to be a ****. Usually it didn’t bother her as friendships would add a whole new complication to her life as she had to worry about what she could trust them with or what aid she would be expected to offer that didn’t benefit her or House Dace but sometimes, when she discovered yet another plot to displace he, she wished that if she misstepped and did lose that there would be people there to defend her. While it hadn’t actually done any good for the exiled princess herself, Aunn still had people jumping to attack Bhelen on her behalf and not all of it was to try and take the Aeducans out of power, either. Lord Harrowmont, in particular, was always quick to defend her.
 
Such moments of weakness were only dwarven and Delala supposed that they were tolerable as long as she never said or did anything to allow others to realize that the weakness was there. Once people knew you had a weakness, they would stop at nothing to exploit it and, by the Stone, a useless desire to have a little more genuineness in her life was not what was going to bring her down.
 
So yes, Lady Delala Dace was well aware of how people saw her but in the end it didn’t matter because she was winning.

[Sarah1281]

My forty-eighth story was 'Flesh Golems? Bad Idea' where Aunn tries to figure out if there was any point at all to the DLC she just finished and concludes that, aside from rescuing Brogan, there was not. And she still hates House Dace.


Aunn Aeducan stood silently staring at the cave-in behind her for a few moments before beginning to speak. She had never been particularly fond of House Dace and now she was almost painfully reminded of this fact. “You do realize, I hope, that I am a very busy woman.”
 
Jerrik and Brogan Dace exchanged a glance before replying.
 
“Of course we’re aware of this,” Jerrik assured her.
 
“Not only am I the only living Paragon but I also am the head of House Aeducan and, with the…unfortunate events following King Harrowmont’s coronation, I really do have quite a bit to do getting my House back in order,” Aunn continued.
 
“Indeed,” Brogan said neutrally, uncertain of where she was going with this.
 
“Not to mention those weeks that it took to convince our King to let Ferelden troops into the Deep Roads to help retake Thaigs.” Aunn shook her head. “He was so opposed to that idea that even though I asked the King and Queen of Ferelden to give me a head start, the troops were still waiting outside the gates of Orzammar for two full days before they were allowed in. I’ve been so busy that I could not even venture to Denerim to inform the Queen that I was going to have to turn down her and the First Warden’s oh-so-generous offer to make me the Warden Commanding Arlessa of Amaranthine. I don’t think they expected my refusal but they really should have known better than to try and order me about.”
 
“This Arl Loghain certainly seems capable,” Brogan offered.
 
Aunn nodded. “That he is. I’m glad that they abandoned their initial plan to send him to Orlais so he can actually be of some use to Ferelden since they’re not exactly facing an overabundance of Wardens. Just the same, the reason I’m bringing this up is because I want to make sure that you’re well aware that I don’t have a lot of time to waste. I came here because Loghain sent me your request. Why you made it to him when you were requesting me is beyond me but either way, the letter did get to me. You wanted me to come investigate Brogan’s disappearance and, because there was a possibility of recreating Caridin’s research, I agreed.”
 
“That’s a pretty good summary of recent events, yes,” Jerrik agreed.
 
“So then I’m sure you can appreciate just how much this appalling waste of time is bothering me,” Aunn concluded.
 
“Waste of time?” Jerrik couldn’t believe it. “How was this a waste of time? I asked you to help find my brother and the rest of the expedition and, while we were too late for the rest of the expedition, my brother’s here safe and sound. It’s a shame that the research couldn’t be salvaged but that was hardly one of our goals setting out.”
 
“We did succeed in our stated goals,” Aunn conceded. “Or at least part of it. Your brother was really the only one to make it out alive.” And wasn’t it strange that she was now faced with two brothers from the Orzammar nobility who actually were genuinely concerned about each other? And were from House Dace, at that? Granted, they were apparently very distant cousins of the main branch but Jerrik’s seemingly heartfelt concern for his brother’s safety had been what had first interested her in the matter.
 
“They died quickly,” Brogan said quietly. “Probably before it occurred to anyone that something had gone wrong. I was only safe because that creature existed in a different realm than the blue one that I had hidden in.”
 
“It’s alright, Brogan,” Jerrik said softly, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s over now. We can go back home and pretend that none of this ever happened.”
 
Brogan looked unconvinced. In time, the memories would fade but for right now they were still painfully fresh in his mind.
 
“While our mission might have been technically labeled a success,” Aunn said once they were done, “Brogan’s mission was a complete and utter waste of time. And for that matter, so was the initial attempt done by Nereda the Tevinter mage and…whoever the dwarven overseer was. The records will probably be available once we get to the Shaperate.”
 
“Some things just aren’t worth it,” Brogan agreed, looking haunted.
 
Jerrik stood aghast. “How can you possibly say that? Yes, we’ve lost the research when the whole place collapsed but that was hardly inevitable! Just because they didn’t succeed does not mean that it was not worth trying!”
 
“I agree,” Aunn said, much to his surprise. “The fact that it’s lost is actually one of the least pointless things about it.”
 
“You think trying to recreate Caridin’s Anvil of the Void is pointless?” Jerrik couldn’t believe it.
 
“When one goes about it the way that those up at Amgarrak were going about it then yes, yes it is extremely pointless,” Aunn confirmed. “For one thing, Fade Spirits? Really? If you’ll recall, the dwarves that recently tried to recreate that research in Orzammar and attempted to use a Fade Spirit suffered a similar fate to those here; the Fade Spirit wouldn’t listen to them and responded rather poorly to being trapped here. And by ‘rather poorly’, of course, I mean ‘decided to kill them all.’”
 
“The two events happened centuries apart,” Jerrik objected. “And those in Orzammar hadn’t known what happened in Amgarrak, no one did. Besides, two isolated occurrences are hardly enough to deem that using Fade Spirits is a bad idea.”
 
“And how many times of the exact same thing happening will it take before it is okay to realize that maybe this kind of thing is going to keep happening whenever we try to use Fade Spirits?” Aunn demanded. “They are different than dwarves or even the other species of Thedas. We don’t really understand them and we certainly haven’t been able to find a way to control them! From what I can tell, Fade Spirits fall into one of two categories. The type that is completely uninterested in our world and thus knows nothing about it and the type that wants to live here and is qualified as a demon. Neither of those two options really sound like good candidates to bring here, particularly given our lack of ability to control them.”
 
“We’ll figure out how to control them,” Jerrik insisted. “I’m sure Caridin didn’t hit upon the idea of how to control the dwarves he turned into golems right away, either.”
 
“Aside from the fact that at the beginning, Caridin only used volunteers who were infinitely less likely to want him dead than random Fade Spirits,” Aunn began. “There’s also the fact that it has been tried and failed at least twice that we know of. Maybe one day someone will figure out how to control a Fade Spirit but in the meantime it keeps ending in disaster with no one getting any closer to figuring out how to do it and it’s not like we even have someone with the smithing genius of Branka or Caridin around to solve this problem.”
 
“Say I concede that people should be more careful when experimenting with Fade Spirits so that this quits happening,” Jerrik said slowly. “That doesn’t explain why this was a waste of time? Just because they used a Fade Spirit instead of something safer doesn’t mean that it couldn’t be used for a dwarf spirit or something.”
 
“You read the unnamed overseer’s journal, right?” Aunn asked rhetorically.
 
“I did,” Jerrik confirmed. He glanced over at his brother who had started to ignore them though whether that was out of boredom or trauma Jerrik had no idea.
 
“What, exactly, is so great about golems?” Aunn inquired. “And no, I’m not unaware of why they’re so useful but I’d like to hear your thoughts on the matter.”
 
“Golems are…” Jerrik trailed off. What a truly bizarre question. “Golems are stronger fighters than the rank-and-file warrior. They can take and do more damage. Given our slight difficulty fielding warriors, the idea of sacrificing one dwarf – and it doesn’t even have to be a noble or a warrior – to be able to fight like a dozen is just sensible.”
 
“I agree,” Aunn told him. “Which is why the thought that they decided that iron was too sodding expensive and so they were going to kidnap casteless and hack apart the bodies of several of them to create one flesh golem is so sodding stupid!”
 
“They’re only casteless,” Jerrik pointed out.
 
Aunn sighed. “I had a feeling you’d say that. And chances are that there are many others that would agree with you but just the same, the casteless are not an infinite resource. If you have to use a good half a dozen of them per flesh golem then there’s really a limit as to how man you’ll be able to make before the casteless are all dead or have fled to the Surface.”
 
“It would certainly rid us of our casteless problem,” Jerrik reasoned.
 
Aunn rubbed her temple in frustration. There was, of course, no point in trying to convince him that there was anything morally wrong with murdering all of the casteless to create these bizarre fleshy golems as he’d never believe her. “And it would also mean that golems could only be produced for a short time until the ‘casteless problem’ was gone. And then there’s the fact that a large the reason golems are so effective is because stone and iron is a lot more durable and long-lasting than flesh.”
 
“The one we fought before was pretty tough,” Jerrik argued. “And it seemed to be preserved well.”
 
“We don’t know how that was done but, considering the mage presence, magic was likely involved in the preservation,” Aunn countered. “And the only reason that golem was so difficult to kill was because it kept summoning the undead and it wouldn’t stop hopping around. While that is useful for evasive maneuvers, avoiding getting within attack range won’t really help kill any darkspawn which was the whole reason to recreate golems in the first place.”
 
“Amgarrak might not have perfected golems,” Jerrik admitted reluctantly. “But we still could have built off of what they did, only instead using dwarven souls and iron and stone. Unfortunately, due to cave-ins beyond our control none of that is an option…”
 
“Probably for the best,” Aunn remarked dryly. “Or else we may have had to deal with the return of fleshy golems powered by unstable Fade Spirits…”

[Dean_the_Young]

You know what would be a change for you, Sarah?



One of those 'win the war NOW!' research projects/schemes that actually worked. Highly AU, mind you, but imagine if, say, Darkspawn could be turned into werewolves and then calmed by the Lady of the Forest?

[mousestalker]

Weregolems? Now that is a scary thought...

[Dean_the_Young]

More like Werespawn.



Weregolems, on the other hand, sound highly enticing. Tell me more...

[Sarah1281]

My forty-ninth one was 'Orzammar's Most Ill-Suited Deshyr' which is a character sketch of Lord Helmi.


Lord Denek Helmi was, by and large, more miserable than a man in his position ought to be…or so he was often informed. On the Surface, it would appear that they were right. He was one of only eighty deshyrs who made up the Assembly who ruled Orzammar and could only be checked by the King. He was from one the most prominent families in Orzammar and so while he was the youngest deshyr there he was also afforded more power than most. He had cordial relations with his sisters and regular advice from his mother and predecessor. As a noble he was also given free rein to do pretty much as he pleased and there were no limits on his material possessions.
 
So why, many wondered, did he seem to hate it all so? It wasn’t just that Denek seemed to resent all that he’d been given – hate seemed a bit strong although on some days it seemed an appropriate description – but he really did. He was a deshyr, true, and House Helmi was a powerhouse but his mother still tried to issue her orders through him and usually he let her. She was so much better at this kind of thing than he was and she certainly cared more. If Denek had his way than he would have just passed along the deshyr seat to one of his sisters but Adal was even less interested in politics than he was and focused on fighting and his other sister wouldn’t be any better.
 
Not to mention, of course, how frightfully unpopular Denek was with the other deshyrs. Make no mistake, he would have resented his position either way but had the people he had to deal with on a daily basis been friendlier it might not have been quite so bad. But no, he was quite thoroughly resented by his peers and the sentiment was more than returned. They were all the same: well-dressed, blood-sucking cave ticks without any concern for anything past winning their petty games even though it was destroying Orzammar.  Sometimes Denek wondered if it was that they really couldn’t see Orzammar crumbling around them, choked by their precious tradition or if they just didn’t care. Sometimes he didn’t want to know as he honestly wasn’t sure which was worse, the blindness or the apathy.
 
And he was oh so very aware of what trouble the city was in. To begin with, it was a city masquerading as an empire. The nobles – his fellow nobles, he reminded himself – spent their time plotting each other’s downfall, focused on pleasure, or keeping the lower castes ‘in their place.’ The first only served to prevent anything from really getting done or anybody from trusting anybody (he only dared trust his own sisters due to their disinterest in politics), the second just proved how wasteful they could be when there were dwarves – casteless, yes, but still dwarves – starving in the street, and the third was highly unnecessary.
 
The others insisted that only one nobly born could possibly be a deshyr and while Denek had to agree that someone not born and raised to expect poison in their tea might not be able to keep up with the other deshyrs but that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t be able to rule Orzammar. In fact, get rid of all the corrupt deshyrs and offer less hedonistic people from all wakes of life the chance to rule and see how that went. If nothing else, it couldn’t be worse than it was right now. Maybe they could actually get people who cared about Orzammar’s future or knew what they were doing and not people like him who had the misfortune to be the eldest child of a deshyr himself.
 
He knew that that idea would never be popular with his fellow deshyrs. They had power, as little that they did to actually deserve it, and so they were loathe to give it up to those that they considered beneath them. They didn’t even feel that those who were not of the noble or warrior caste should have a right to bear arms which, as hard as Denek tried to grasp this, he simply couldn’t understand. They weren’t ‘good enough’ to die to try to save Orzammar? They certainly were if they joined the Legion. Provings were a viable way to solve disputes because the winner was determined by who the Ancestors favored? Then why not let anybody in? Why not let the casteless compete? If they were truly so worthless and bereft of Ancestors then shouldn’t they, logically, lose every time? Of course, if that little casteless girl – Brosca, he thought it was – hadn’t not just won but completely dominated the Proving she’d snuck into then maybe that belief would be a bit more sound. The last time he had suggested further opening the Provings the man he was talking to had actually tackled him. So much for prim and proper deshyrs.
 
The fact that Denek didn’t really get the point of the casteless hardly set him apart from his peers. The fact that, while they insisted that those unfortunate enough to be born with a casteless parent of the same sex never should have been born, he felt that they should have a place in society did. Regardless of whether or not they should exist – he had had that argument far too many times as it was – they did exist and so it was just throwing away a valuable resource to let Dust Town remain overpopulated and then fretting about how there weren’t enough men to face the darkspawn.
 
While he had never been there, of course, and his knowledge of it was extremely limited, he’d heard from a few of the Surface casteless merchants (who were easily identifiable by the temporary brand they’d applied) that on the Surface there were no castes. Things were hardly equal, he had been assured, especially if you happened to be an elf but the current Queen of Ferelden was a woman whose father had been born a farmer. Farmers had no place in the caste system of Orzammar but it seemed to Denek that it would be roughly the equivalent of a miner. While such a thing was uncommon it was still doable.
 
On the Surface, the nobles rarely fought on the front lines but relied on the common folk to fight for them. While that hardly presented a picture of a more altruistic and dedicated nobility, there were opportunities for the lesser born up there that could barely even be conceived of down here in Orzammar. It sounded…nice. It sounded like something that could help Orzammar survive if they adopted it.
 
It sounded like if he suggested it then he’d get tackled again.

[Dean_the_Young]

Helmi is a guy I'd love to meat, share something to drink (by his choice), and then offer to smuggle him out of the city where he could put his efforts to better use.



Strangely, I wonder how he fares under Bhelen's rule: he isn't a vocal advocate by any means, but he is (tricked) into becoming a nominal Bhelen supporter, and would seem to support at least some of Bhelen's reforms.

[Sarah1281]

I imagine he'd make out okay. He does support a lot of Bhelen's positions if not his methods but he's just so apathetic about everything that as long as Bhelen keeps Lady Helmi on his side then he'll have Lord Helmi's vote. Even when opposing Bhelen he doesn't do so very vehemently and tells you flat-out he's not going to bother getting those papers authenticated or even to look at them.

[Sarah1281]

My fiftieth story was 'When I Get Back' on the prompt of Zevran and leather. And no, it's still not a euphemism...


Zevran Arainai was strolling along the streets of Antiva one last time before he turned in for the night when a store window caught his eye. He really should be getting back soon as he’d have to make an early start the next morning but surely this little detour would not take up much of his time. He allowed his feet to lead him to the window which was displaying a pair of Antivan leather boots. And not just any leather boots, oh no, but some of the finest craftsmanship Zevran had ever seen. Perfect craftsmanship. It was not every day that one came across boots such as these, even in Antiva whose leatherworking was the envy of the rest of the known world.
 
The boots were a rich chocolate color and long enough to go half-way up his calves. They were polished enough to be vaguely shiny and there were two buckles on each boot to allow the shoe to both stay on and to be moderately adjustable. Not to mention the leather…Zevran could practically smell the fine leather from out here. Correction, he did smell leather out here, just not the leather from the boots he was observing. He could just imagine how they would feel in his hands, as soft and smooth as butter…
 
It was hardly a secret that Zevran had something of a leather fetish. Those who did not know him as well – or knew him far too well – assumed that this was a euphemism of some kind and thought it was kinky but that was hardly the case. Well, okay, that may have technically been true as well but that actually wasn’t why he was so drawn to the leather. He loved the sight of it, he loved the feel of it, and most of all he loved the smell of it although that was a bit of an aberration within the Crows. The youngest Crow recruits had long-since been packed tightly like crates in a building full of tiny apartments near Antiva City's leather-making district.
 
Day in and day out they smelled leather during their every waking moment and sometimes in their dreams. The humans felt the need to complain about it constantly despite the fact that their sense of smell was inferior to his own. Zevran really didn’t see why, though. To him, the scent of leather reminded him of home. The scent of leather was home. And now he was going to be leaving his home for the first time to go to the wet dog country of Ferelden to try and bring down the only two known Grey Wardens in Ferelden during what may very well be a Blight on behalf of the Queen Consort’s regent father. He almost missed the smell already.
 
A quick glance at the price tag revealed that those fine leather boots would cost him three sovereign. As it happened, Zevran had exactly three sovereign, two silver, and fourteen bits. That wasn’t a lot, he knew, but it had taken him ages to save up considering how the Crows felt about their assassins having their own currency. A reason for it to be looked down upon had never been explicitly spelled out but Zevran wasn’t stupid and he was hardly blind anymore. They didn’t want any of the Crows to have ideas about seeking freedom or being more important than they actually were. It was hard not to feel more important than he was considering that to the Crows he was utterly worthless. Just like Rinna…
 
No, he was not going there. It had been a mistake, and a painful one at that, but dwelling would not do anything to change the past and he couldn’t afford to be so distracted. Better to focus on the leather. It looked great in the store window and would look even better on his feet. Three sovereign might be a bargain for a half-starved little elven boy but it was a bit pricey for a pair of shoes. The Crows would also not be pleased to learn that he had purchased something like that but then he was about to leave Antiva and while it would not surprise him in the slightest to discover that there were still watching eyes in Ferelden the scrutiny could not possible be anywhere near as close. They wouldn’t ever find out about it until he came back. If…
 
Zevran took out his coin purse and shifted it from hand to hand, trying to make up his mind. On the one hand, it was a frivolous purchase that he really didn’t need and could get him into trouble. On the other hand, he was leaving anyway and what else did he really have to spend the money on? All his physical wants and needs were readily provided by the Crows. He could go and buy the boots right now and take them to Ferelden with him to remind him of the home that he may very well never see again. He took a step in the direction of the store before another thought occurred to him.
 
What if he actually succeeded and, by doing so, failed? What if he really could take down the two Wardens? He would have to return to Antiva as the Crows would never let him leave and he had already been surprised that he had been allowed to take this contract. There would never be a better opportunity for him to…fail to return. He had to face that possibility and it wouldn’t be easy. He might never find a way out and have to continue to live with Taliesin, and Rinna, and worthlessness.
 
He abruptly turned away from the boots and headed back to his apartment.
 
He could buy them should he return as a reward for a job well done. Maker knew he’d need something to come back to.

Modifié par Sarah1281, 23 août 2010 - 04:49 .

[Dean_the_Young]

I think your depictions of Zevran's fascination with certain items is superb, Sarah. You can always take the attraction on face value, just as you can with much of Zevran, but there's also something deeper underneath if you so choose.

[Costin_Razvan]

I still don't understand why you just don't copy the links for these stories and place them in the first post instead of copying every single line of text from the stories themselves.