243 réponses à ce sujet

[Sarah1281]

My seventy-seventh story was 'Too Pretty To Refuse' where a Warden refuses to accept that Morrigan isn't interested in women not matter how attractive they are.


Morrigan was carefully examining her mother’s true Grimoire when Angélique Amell approached her. Reminding herself once again that Angélique had been the one to track down both of her mother’s Grimoires and even to temporarily kill the woman, Morrigan tempered her annoyance at the interruption and put down her book. “Yes?”
 
“Morrigan, my tent is cold,” Angélique announced.
 
Morrigan blinked. “Is it? Mine feels just fine and the fire I sleep by is significantly smaller than the one that you do.”
 
“Really?” Angélique said slyly, beginning to toss her hair long golden hair about. “That’s so very interesting. So you’re saying that if I were to sleep in your tent then I would be far warmer than sleeping all alone in mine?”
 
“That’s certainly possible,” Morrigan allowed. “But it sounds rather unlikely. Perhaps I just have a higher tolerance for the cold than you do. The Circle certainly seemed more insulated than Flemeth’s hut.”
 
“I don’t know…” Angélique said, shaking her head and sending her hair flying everywhere. “I don’t think that’s it. I feel that I would be much warmer if I were to stay in your tent.”
 
“But then where would I sleep?” Morrigan demanded. “Your tent? If I were willing to stay by the fools you’ve gathered to you then my tent would already be there.”
 
“We could stay in the same tent,” Angélique suggested, beginning to bat her long, delicate eyelashes.
 
“Is there something the matter with your eyes?” Morrigan asked more because what she was doing was very distracting than out of any real concern for Angélique herself.
 
“Not at all,” Angélique breathed. “Are you done playing coy?”


“Playing coy?” Morrigan repeated. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” Angélique opened her mouth to explain and Morrigan quickly added, “By which I mean to say that I know what ‘playing coy’ means but I do not know why you’re asking me to stop it. I was not aware that I was doing so.”
 
Angélique gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, we’ll do this your way. Morrigan, you are one of the most gorgeous people that don’t happen to be me that I’ve ever met and I don’t even believe that it is possible to be more gorgeous than me. Therefore, I feel that we should have sex.”
 
Morrigan choked. “W-what?”
 
“I said-” Angelique began.
 
“No, I heard what you said,” Morrigan interrupted. “I just don’t see why you think that we should be having sex.”
 
“If you heard what I said then you should realize that it is because we are ridiculously good-looking,” Angélique replied. “And good-looking people like us should be free to sleep with other good-looking people, especially when there are no pesky complications like marriage or other relationships to get in the way.”
 
“But…we are both women,” Morrigan protested.
 
“I have found that women do tend to be prettier than men,” Angélique remarked. “Men tend to be handsomer, though.”
 
“I am not interested in women, Angélique,” Morrigan said firmly.
 
Angélique rolled her eyes. “Please. You’ve slept with all kinds of random Chasind men that your mother found for you.”
 
“And I did not particularly enjoy it,” Morrigan countered. “I just wasn’t given much choice in the matter.”
 
“Well, that’s because the men your mother kidnapped and possibly drugged didn’t know what they were doing,” Angélique opined. “And believe me, I do.”
 
“The fact that those men might not have been very talented has nothing to do with me not being attracted to women,” Morrigan pointed out. “And the fact that I have slept with many men does not mean that I must necessarily be attracted to women. As it happens, I’m really not.”
 
“Come on,” Angélique scoffed. “You can’t not be attracted to me. I’m the best-looking person that you will ever hope to meet.”
 
Speaking on a purely aesthetic level, Angélique was right. Her skin was flawless and her cheeks were rosy. Her eyes were a sparkling violet that people couldn’t help but get lost in (and made prolonged conversation with her much easier to get through) and her hair was long and shimmering golden. Angélique was almost inhumanly beautiful. That said, Morrigan wasn’t even remotely drawn to her and her unfortunate personality actually wasn’t the reason. She just did not like her fellow women like that.
 
“Your level of attractiveness is a moot point if I’m not attracted to any woman,” Morrigan pointed out. “Perhaps you’d have better luck with Leliana?”
 
Angélique made a face. “No thanks. Orlesian accents are a huge turn-off for me.”
 
“And the female sex is a huge turnoff for me,” Morrigan said, hoping that she had finally gotten a break-through. No such luck.
 
“I don’t understand,” Angélique said, her face twisting into an adorably confused pout. “I’m gorgeous and female and your gorgeous and female and we both have no problems with sleeping with a lot of different people that we don’t have feelings for and yet you don’t want to sleep with me. Why?”

Morrigan rubbed her forehead in exasperation. “I just told you. I’m not interested in females that way.”
 
“But why? I’m pretty!” Angélique exclaimed.
 
“I don’t know why,” Morrigan retorted. “You’ve heard how people say that you can’t help who you’re attracted to?”
 
“I think the saying was actually ‘you can’t help who you fall in love with’ but since you don’t actually believe in love, let’s go with that,” Angélique replied.
 
“Well I cannot help it if I am not attracted to women anymore than you can apparently help it that you are,” Morrigan explained. “You can complain all you want about how unfair this is or try to change my mind for hours on end but it is never going to happen. Even if I decided logically that I should be attracted to good-looking people of both genders, that wouldn’t mean that I would all of a sudden be. Life doesn’t work like that and neither does sexuality.”
 
“Well it should,” Angélique pouted, looking extremely unconvinced.
 
“Go complain about it with Leliana or Zevran,” Morrigan said wearily. “I’m sure they’d sympathize with you a lot better than I would.”
 
“Brilliant idea, Morrigan!” Angélique exclaimed. “And then maybe we can have some hot sex and then come up with a plan to make you realize that I’m just too pretty to refuse!”
 

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt was 'Escape.'


Anders sometimes wondered why the desire to flee was so strong in him, almost like a physical need at times. He could spend hours just staring out the windows of the Circle Tower until the templars grew concerned (although he wasn’t sure if they worried that he’d fall or jump) and over time he’d begun to notice that it wasn’t like that for the other apprentices which was weird because they’d been here even longer than he had.
 
Maybe that was why, though. He had been here for the five longest years of his life and each day brought with it a growing terror that he would never see the outside properly again. Sure, the apprentices were allowed to go outside of the Tower for exercises occasionally and under strict templar supervision but that wasn’t true freedom! They were just toying with them by offering up whatever scraps they thought were harmless enough and expecting them to be pathetically grateful. And the apprentices were oh so disgustingly grateful, all but Anders and Finn. Anders, of course, resented the templar’s presumption and Finn actually didn’t like the outdoors. He had sensitive skin and some pretty severe allergies and so Anders supposed it wasn’t all that surprising even if it was still inconceivable.
 
Anders had a plan as far as those brief glimpses of ‘freedom’ were concerned. He hadn’t dared try anything before he became a fully qualified mage for fear that they would make him tranquil – death he could handle, living death he could not – but his Harrowing was fast approaching and the very first time he went out for exercises as a full mage then he would make a break for it. Sure, Anders had heard that the Harrowing was exceedingly difficult and that many people died in the attempt to pass but, well, he was sure he’d be fine. It might be egotistical of him but he’d always been one of the more talented apprentices.
 
So Anders was going to escape soon and see how far he could get before the templars had his phylactery recalled and hunted him down. This would inevitably make his life harder but…he couldn’t not do it. It was so difficult to explain because he didn’t even fully understand his need to be somewhere else – anywhere else – himself. If he didn’t do this then he didn’t know how much longer he could cling to any sort of sanity. The other mages didn’t seem to mind but then many of them had no memories before coming to this glorified prison for the high crime of possessing magic. That just struck him as fundamentally wrong but no one else seemed to care. A lack of knowledge about the outside world might have made being trapped here forever but it also served to make them even more under the Chantry’s thrall.
 
Everywhere Anders looked, there was something to escape from. The people who lived in the Tower were generally pale and sickly-looking. Anders had largely kept his physique due to sheer determination but whenever he glanced in the mirror he was struck with just how faded his own skin had become. He was starting to look like the others and that was simply not something he was prepared to deal with. The bucket-heads weren’t supposed to fraternize with the evil mages and rumors of their invasions of privacy and abuses of power were inescapable.
 
The knight-commander, Greagoir, at least, didn’t seem interested in watching the mages bathe but he was notoriously strict and always conspiring with First Enchanter Irving. Irving was another one he needed to be careful of. He always tried so hard to pass himself off as one of them, a champion for the mages who heroically and tirelessly butted heads with the Chantry on their behalf. As. If. He and Greagoir had made a game out of their power struggles and it didn’t matter who got hurt as long as they could win. So the people – lifeless, brainwashed, evil, or some combination of the three – was enough to drive him to the lake and that wasn’t nearly his only reason.
 
Anders had been born free and had spent a very pleasant childhood hiding his powers before the templars finally caught on and took him away. Unlike the others, he had had a life and now that was gone and who knew if he’d ever see anyone from before again? He had seen what reality was like and what places were supposed to look like and the Circle Tower was simply not right. It was built in the middle of a lake, for one, which even the templars couldn’t pretend wasn’t used to keep them locked up even tighter. The building was all grey and drab and the windows were few and far between. Every move he made was watched and judged by overeager zealots just waiting for him to slip up and reveal that he was secretly possessed by a demon or something. He couldn’t keep living like this. He didn’t know how anyone could go on living like this.
 
Escape. That was what he had to do, that was the only way. He had to run and to never stop running because the minute he did then they’d catch up to him and realize that he wasn’t like them, would never be like them. Once they realized that, that’d stop at nothing to make him one of them or to outright destroy him if he proved too troublesome.
 
Anders knew that he talked a big game. As far as anyone else was concerned, he was utterly fearless and he wanted so badly for that to be true. He wasn’t afraid of the outside or of trying to live among ordinary people like some of the others were but he had heard the stories of what templars did to mages who ran just as often as anybody and so the prospect of bringing their wrath down upon his head was mildly terrifying. Just the same, he feared what would happen if he allowed that fear to control him more.
 
In one week, he would attempt his first escape. He wondered how many he’d manage before they made his escape from the Tower a little more permanent.

[Sarah1281]

My seventy-eighth story was 'Why Would Teyrn Loghain Charge?' where Loghain decides to charge after all and gets himself and his army killed, leaving Alistair to once again hate on Loghain for his Ostagar decision. Loghain really can't win with him, can he? 

Alistair stood outside of Morrigan’s mother’s hut staring blankly in front of him. Everything had all gone so wrong. He had been at Ostagar for the past few weeks while Duncan had been off trying to bolster the ranks of the Grey Wardens since a Blight was on the horizon (and having some really bad luck as only one of the seven candidates he’d tried to recruit hadn’t gotten themselves killed before they could be conscripted).
 
King Cailan had just been so sure that he had almost beaten the darkspawn. He had faced the darkspawn in combat three times before Duncan had returned and each victory had been grander than the last. Just one more victory should have been enough to route them permanently and then, even if the Blight couldn’t be ended because the Archdemon wasn’t there, Ferelden and the Wardens would be able to have time to better prepare for the eventual appearance of the Archdemon. That hadn’t happened, however.
 
It was worth mentioning that Alistair had been suspicious of the Teyrn Loghain ever since he had first met the man. The general of the entire Ferelden army was willing to be called out of his tent on the eve of battle to meet with a pair of non-entities? Clearly, this meant that he was actually expecting to rendezvous with some shady characters as he was up to something. And then he had vaguely threatened them when Caunira had called Cailan an idiot. And THEN he had told them that if Cailan didn’t listen to him – or ‘reason’ as he called it – then they should just give up and start praying then. Loghain showed all the classic signs of being evil and about to betray the king! Oh, if only…
 
Alistair’s attention was briefly drawn to the fact that Caunira had finally come out of her coma and stumbled outside. It was, he noted, a bit ridiculous that he had been trying to figure out what Morrigan’s mother’s name was for three weeks now and Caunira barely had to glance her way before she introduced herself as Flemeth. Maybe Flemeth felt more of a kinship with her fellow mage than with the almost templar?
 
“So you’re saying that when Loghain charged, the darkspawn overwhelmed him and decimated his army as well as killing him?” Caunira asked, horrified.
 
“Why would Loghain do this?” Alistair demanded. “You told me that he didn’t seem content with the battle plan and kept asking the king to call for reinforcements and then he goes ahead and ignores his reservations and gets his army slaughtered anyway?”
 
“Well, what was he supposed to do?” Caunira asked reasonably. “His king ordered him to charge when the beacon was lit, we lit the beacon, and he charged.”
 
“It didn’t do any good,” Alistair pointed out sullenly. “King Cailan and the other Wardens all died anyway and Loghain’s charge only made the massacre take longer.”
 
“He couldn’t have known that that would be the result when he charged,” Caunira reasoned. “Otherwise he would have tried to come up with another plan.”
 
“I guess that goes to show what kind of a general he was,” Alistair muttered. “It’s great that he was able to be all noble and charge but Duncan and Cailan still died. We still lost. The only difference is that now we don’t have anything to stand in the way of the darkspawn horde since Loghain fed his army to them.” He shook his head. “You know, with their only being two of us Wardens left I already would have thought that this was an impossible situation but now we’re supposed to try and stop a Blight – which it’s always taken years and multiple countries allying to do – without even an army?”
 
Caunira looked uncertain as to what to say. “I’m sure that he did what he thought was right and died in the service of his king trying to protect the land that he loved so much,” she said finally, feeling a little lame as she did so.
 
“And now because of him, Duncan and Cailan died in vain. Because of him, Ferelden will probably fall to the darkspawn. Because of him, who knows what will happen?” Alistair asked angrily. He shouldn’t fault the man for just doing his job but, by the Maker, this wasn’t just some common foot soldier! This was the most celebrated hero Ferelden had! He wasn’t just supposed to rush blindly to his doom and allow any chance Ferelden had had to fall along with his men! If the battle couldn’t be won then he was supposed to know that and he was supposed to do something – anything – else so that it wouldn’t be two Wardens and a handful of unorganized deserters against an entire Blight. “I mean, Arl Eamon’s forces weren’t at the battle but most of the other nobles and officers were and they’re almost certainly all dead. I had heard something about Orlais being called upon for aid but who knows how many they were supposed to send and if they’ll even be willing to help after we’ve proven how incompetent we are against the darkspawn.”
 
“We can still try to pull our own weight,” Caunira suggested. “Duncan gave you those treaties to hold onto, right? We can try and get the mages, and the Dalish, and the dwarves to fight with us.”
 
“I don’t know why they’d be any more eager to help than the Orlesians would since the darkspawn have proven this powerful and, for now, it’s more our problem than theirs,” Alistair said pessimistically. “Still…I can’t just sit back and do nothing while Ferelden falls to the darkspawn. I can’t. There’s only two of us so we can’t do much but if we call upon these treaties maybe…maybe Loghain’s mistake won’t end up getting us all killed, after all.”
 
Flemeth chuckled, reminding them of her presence. “Oh, the irony…”
 
Caunira blinked. “Pardon?”
 
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Flemeth said airily. “I was just reflecting on how men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature.”
 
Why had Loghain done it?

Modifié par Sarah1281, 15 octobre 2010 - 12:16 .

[Wulfram]

These are very funny

Sarah1281 wrote...

“It would have been helpful,” Laiarda agreed. “I know you probably didn’t expect Cauthrien to be here but if you really wanted to make sure that I knew not to reveal your identity ever you should have said something like ‘Even if this is the only sensible way of getting any of us, including me, out of here alive, you should still keep your mouth shut and trust that I'll magically go unnoticed, while you'll be kept in the least secure prison in history.’”
 

Also, Laiarda is clearly a woman of good sense

[Sarah1281]

Wulfram wrote...

These are very funny.

Thanks, I'm glad you like them.

Sarah1281 wrote...

“It would have been helpful,” Laiarda agreed. “I know you probably didn’t expect Cauthrien to be here but if you really wanted to make sure that I knew not to reveal your identity ever you should have said something like ‘Even if this is the only sensible way of getting any of us, including me, out of here alive, you should still keep your mouth shut and trust that I'll magically go unnoticed, while you'll be kept in the least secure prison in history.’”
 

Also, Laiarda is clearly a woman of good sense

Oh, the best.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Nate prompt was 'First.'


Nathaniel eyed the newborn in his arms suspiciously. He had watched it spit up all over his sister’s husband earlier and he was hoping to avoid a similar fate.
 
Delilah laughed at him. “You look like Thomas is going to attack you.”
 
“He might,” Nathaniel said a little stiffly.
 
“Even if he does spit up on you – which he won’t as he hasn’t eaten in awhile – then that wouldn’t be an attack,” Delilah said reasonably.
 
Nathaniel remained unconvinced. “Hmph. Does he do that often?”
 
“What, spitting up?” Delilah asked, absently pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I suppose so. All babies do, really, when they’re at his age.”  
 
“You and Thomas didn’t,” Nathaniel disagreed. “Although I never really spent time with any babies besides you two.”
 
“I really can’t say if I did or not,” Delilah replied. “But Thomas? Please. He spit up every time he was fed without fail for weeks. Adria used to worry that he’d never be able to grow with the way he refused to keep his food down.”
 
Nathaniel frowned. “I really don’t remember that.”
 
Delilah shrugged. “Maybe you blocked it out of your mind due to how traumatizing it was whenever he spat up on you.”
 
“See, that I would have remembered,” Nathaniel claimed.
 
“Clearly not,” Delilah retorted. “But you don’t have to just take my word for it. Ask Samuel sometime when you get back to the Keep. He used to find that hilarious.”
 
“I will,” Nathaniel promised, looking disconcerted at the very thought although it was hard to say if he were more upset at not remembering something his little sister was so positive about or that he got spit up on by his little brother at all.
 
“Oh, relax, Nathaniel; little Thomas doesn’t do it nearly as often as his uncle did,” Delilah assured him.
 
If Nathaniel relaxed marginally, Delilah was too polite to comment on it. “I’m glad he has your nose.”
 
Delilah rolled her eyes. “Really, big brother, not everybody has your bizarre phobias.”
 
“True,” Nathaniel allowed. “But just the same, now he can look like a nice normal member of society instead of...”he trailed off.
 
“Instead of like a Howe,” Delilah supplied. “By the time he’s old enough to really notice these things, the stigma will have largely passed, Nathaniel. You do good work. Besides, his surname isn’t even Howe.”
 
“I hope you’re right,” Nathaniel said with a heavy sigh. “When I first started out, I thought you were dead and didn’t care much if I died. I was trying to redeem the past instead of working to fix the future. Now that little Thomas is here I want to make things better for his sake.”
 
“Good,” Delilah said emphatically. “Don’t fixate on the past. That was the mistake our father made.”
 
“I would never-” Nathaniel began heatedly.
 
“I’m not saying you would,” Delilah cut him off. “But no good will from that dwelling on what once was even if you never do go crazy and start committing all sorts of vile crimes.”
 
“I suppose that’s true,” Nathaniel agreed. “It’s not so easy to move on, though. Having a younger generation that you’re trying to protect definitely helps.”
 
“Little Thomas here is only the first member,” Delilah said, reaching over and smoothing down her son’s hair. “Before long, there will be plenty more voices crying out for their ‘Uncle Nate’ whenever you come to visit.”
 
Nathaniel shot her a strange look. “Just how many children are you planning on having?”
 
Delilah tilted her head thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t really know. I know that you’ll have difficulty having children and so carrying on our family legacy will pretty much be my responsibility just as it’s your responsibility to redeem our name. I just…I don’t want them to grow up lonely.”
 
There was something in her voice that bothered Nathaniel. “You say that as though you’re speaking from experience. Surely our childhood wasn’t that bad?”
 
“Distant parents, isolation from everyone not ‘good enough’, the never-relenting pressure to live up to the Howe name…” Delilah trailed off. “It wasn’t all bad, no, especially when you were still there. Afterwards…I really don’t know how to explain it to you.”
 
“You never try,” Nathaniel pointed out.
 
“I don’t know what to say and I don’t think it will help,” Delilah insisted. “Besides, you’ve had enough disillusionment for one year. Thomas’ childhood will be different. Albert comes from such a large, loving family and I just know he’ll be a great father. He already is.”
 
“And you’ll be a wonderful mother, Delilah,” Nathaniel said loyally.
 
“That’s kind of you to say,” Delilah said with a smile. “I really feel like I have no idea what to do most of the time but Albert’s family has been a great help and I’m learning as I go. Who knows, by the time I’m raising my last child I’ll probably be wondering what in the world I was thinking when I raised Thomas.”
 
“I never actually thought that I would ever even have one nephew – especially after hearing about the war – let alone several,” Nathaniel confessed. “But you know…I’m glad. With you as a mother, Thomas is going to grow up to be a good kid and any other children you have will be the same.”
 
“And this lets you off the hook as far as settling down,” Delilah teased. “You can just come over here and visit whenever you want to see the children and then make sure to be gone whenever one gets sick or needs to be changed. And speaking of…”
 
“ ‘Speaking of’?” Nathaniel repeated suspiciously.
 
“It would appear that it’s about time for Thomas to get changed. Since you’re already holding him, would you like to do the honors?” Delilah asked rhetorically, standing up to go get the supplies.
 
The look on Nathaniel’s face was really answer enough.

[Raonar]

Nice one! But where do you get all these prompts anyway? The special-purpose threads in the story lines section?

[Sarah1281]

Raonar wrote...

Nice one! But where do you get all these prompts anyway? The special-purpose threads in the story lines section?

Thanks.

Yes, I do the weekly prompts for the Zevthread, the Anders thread, and the Nate thread. I've recently heard that the Leliana thread does them, too, but I really don't go in there.

[Sarah1281]

My seventy-ninth story was 'Treachery' which is Bryce's POV of a Duncan-less HN-origin.


Teyrn Bryce Cousland was a little more worried about Ostagar than he had let on. The king had made it sound like it was only an incursion and had assured them that if they acted quickly and decisively then they could end the threat before it spread into the more occupied parts of Ferelden. Bryce wanted to believe him but darkspawn had always disturbed him. He’d seen a small group of them once during the rebellion and even thirty years later the horrific sight and stench of them stayed with him.
 
“Relax, Bryce,” his friend Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, urged. “This darkspawn threat is no doubt just Cailan blowing a minor problem out of proportion. You know how he gets about the prospect of a glorious war ‘just like in the tales!’ I know most of the Bannorn aren’t even sending troops.”
 
“That’s entirely possible but do try to remember, Rendon, that Cailan is our king and we owe him our respect and loyalty,” Bryce said firmly.
 
“You’re always so worried about propriety and the like,” Rendon said, amused, as he shook his head. “You might have been king yourself, Bryce; I don’t think Cailan’s going to throw a tantrum if you drop the formality every now and again.”
 
“I feel that proper etiquette says more about the man employing it than the man it is addressed to,” Bryce explained.
 
Rendon’s smile dimmed. “Yes, I suppose so.”
 
“Maker, I feel too old to go to war,” Bryce said suddenly. “I know I’ve been joking about the ‘good old days’ but my time in the rebellion was some of the most miserable of my life. I was too young to really understand the oppression we were under for most of my time pre-rebellion and even if I knew how necessary it was, it was never pleasant. I’d hoped to have been able to fight my war and move on. I’d hoped that my children could have known peace for longer.”
 
“The Bannorn gets into skirmishes every time the wind blows, it seems,” Rendon pointed out. His face had darkened as it always had when the rebellion came up but, as usual, he said nothing about it. Even now, thirty years later, Rendon was still unhappy about the need to seize the town of Harper’s Ford from the Howes and to hang his grandfather, Arl Terleton Howe, as a traitor. Since Rendon’s father Padric had taken off for parts unknown in a quest to become a Grey Warden and never contacted them again, Terleton had stepped up and taken Rendon as his heir. Bryce hadn’t relished the thought of killing a man that was nearly ninety but Terleton was firmly on the side of the Orlesians and they’d been left with very little choice. Rendon had never been particularly fond of the Wardens since his father had left so perhaps it was for the best that Duncan had been by with that dwarven girl and recruited Ser Gilmore before he had arrived. “Surely you realize that keeping little Anastasia and Fergus away from combat isn’t realistic. Well, not since you had Anastasia trained as a warrior.”
 
“As Teyrn, I’m above the Bannorn’s internal power struggles,” Bryce replied. “And I know you’ll never agree with me, old friend, but even though I would be perfectly happy if my daughter never saw real combat in her life, I simply could not consider myself a good father if I didn’t give her the means to fight. Eleanor was a battle maiden in the rebellion, if you’ll remember, and neither one of us wanted to raise a damsel in distress.”
 
“If she’s weren’t a warrior, however, when would she ever find herself in need of fighting? She’s a Teyrn’s daughter; she’d have guards,” Rendon argued.
 
“I don’t know when she would ever be in a position where she’d be all alone and under attack but if the worst should happen, I wouldn’t want her to be helpless. Maker knows I would never want anything to happen to your Delilah but if it did and she were called upon to save herself then she wouldn’t have the skills to do it,” Bryce said gravely. “And I know that Anastasia would be much better prepared in such a situation. Besides, she’s far better than any of my guards anyway. Duncan wouldn’t admit it, but I knew that he only took Ser Gilmore as a consolation prize. He really had his eye on my daughter.”
 
“With the rite of conscription, he could have taken her,” Rendon remarked. “At least I won’t have to worry about that with Delilah.”
 
“I did keep that in mind,” Bryce replied. “But he assured me that he had no intention of resorting to that and as I never left the pair alone together, she didn’t have time to make plans to run off. Duncan knows that stealing my daughter from me would cause more trouble than it’s worth.”
 
“For a supposedly apolitical order, they sure do know how to stay in favor with those with real power,” Rendon said a little mockingly. “Haven’t you ever worried that training Anastasia as a warrior would lessen her marriage prospects? There are those in this world who do not approve of women fighting.”
 
“Those such as yourself,” Bryce translated. “And yet that’s never seemed to stop you from trying to set her up with Thomas.”
 
“Well, Delilah was a little young to try to match up with Fergus,” Rendon explained. “And we’re old friends so of course I would seek to strengthen the ties that bind our families together.”
 
“It would be something, wouldn’t it?” Bryce asked, a little wistfully. “But Anastasia is her own woman and never particularly interested in him. Your elder son, Nathaniel, on the other hand…”
 
“Truly, it is a shame that he’s learning so much in the Free Marches,” Rendon sighed, shaking his head. “I haven’t the heart to call him back. I’m sure he’ll return of his own accord sooner or later.”
 
“He’ll have to or risk eventually losing the Arling to his sister,” Bryce agreed.
 
“Delilah may be my second-oldest child but I really think that, in the event that Nathaniel cannot be my heir, Thomas would be a more suitable heir,” Rendon corrected him.
 
Bryce held back a sigh of his own. By his estimates, practical Delilah would make a far better Arlessa than her flighty, daydreaming brother but Rendon had never really been comfortable with women having any sort of power be it in politics or the field of battle. That was actually one of the biggest issues he had had with Cailan: it was clear that he simply wasn’t interested in the day-to-day business of ruling and would leave that to Anora. It was also why Rendon had spearheaded the movement to make Bryce king but a slightly fancier title held no appeal to him when he looked at all the restrictions he and his family would have to deal with that they didn’t have to when ruling their teynir.
 
“If a man were to be unaccepting of Anastasia’s fighting then he’s not the sort of man I would want as a wife to my daughter and a father to my granddaughters,” Bryce declared. “And Anastasia would probably react less favorably to the idea than I would. Besides, as an heir to Highever and the only eligible female Cousland, do you really think she’ll have any sort of problems finding a husband when she decides to take one?”
 
“Perhaps not,” Rendon conceded. “Of course, we can’t all be so lucky.”
 
Bryce was about to respond when he heard the faint sound of battle. He stood. “Do you hear that?”
 
“Hear what?” Rendon asked, looking puzzled as he stood as well.
 
“I don’t know, it sounds almost like-” Bryce started to say before the door slammed open to reveal Howe’s own guards who slowly filed into the room. There looked to be about a dozen of them standing all in a row, their expressions identical grim masks. He opened his mouth to ask what they thought they were doing when a sharp pain in his midsection stopped him. He looked down stupidly to see a sword protruding from his stomach. A sword whose hilt Rendon’s hand was still clutching. “W-what?”
 
“Whoops,” Rendon said with a smirk, his tone deceptively innocent. “Guess my hand must have slipped. So sorry, old friend.”
 
“Rendon…you…why?” Bryce gasped out as Rendon yanked the sword from him and casually began wiping it free of blood – his blood.
 
“Oh, who knows?” Rendon asked airily. “Maybe this is payback for what you and your father did to my grandfather during the rebellion, maybe I have proof that you’re in league with the Orlesians, maybe I’m sick of your daughter continuing to snub my son, maybe I never quite got over Eleanor, maybe I’ve become unbalanced in recent years, maybe I feel I deserved more and that you Couslands have been holding me back, or maybe I’m just that evil. History will pick one of those, I suppose, but you won’t be there to see which. I will, though, and I know which one I’d prefer.”
 
“You’ll…never get away with this,” Bryce forced out. This was all happening so fast. One minute he and an old family friend were having a light-hearted conversation about the planned battle at Ostagar and their daughters and the next he was attacked and his castle under attack. Fergus had left with the main army and now the reason for Rendon’s forces’ continued delay was all too clear. If it weren’t for the pain in his abdomen, he wouldn’t be able to believe that any of this was real.
 
“And why ever not?” Rendon drawled. “Oh, bandits. That’s another possibility. It was dreadful, you know. If only I had been there…”
 
“You treacherous bastard,” Bryce growled.
 
“My, my, such language,” Rendon said mockingly. “I’m wounded, really. And you wonder why I don’t like you. If you’re going to be so uncouth then I simply must take my leave of you. I have a lot to do anyway and these people won’t just massacre themselves, you know.”
 
“Touch my family and I’ll-” Bryce began to threaten.
 
“And you’ll what?” Rendon asked, unimpressed. “Face facts, Bryce; you’re dead already. Don’t feel too badly, though. You’re pathetic excuse for a family will join you soon enough. It’s a good thing that you trained Anastasia to fight, you know. Maybe now she’ll be able to die on her feet like the man she wants so desperately to be instead of in one of my men’s bed like a ****.”
 
Bryce lunged at Rendon but in his weakened state, the man just kicked him away dismissively before turning and leaving without another word, his men following close behind him. It was the ultimate insult. Rendon didn’t even think he was enough of a thread to finish off personally and just left him to bleed out without anyone watching him.
 
That actually worked in Bryce’s favor, however, as it gave him an opportunity to get out of here and find Eleanor and Anastasia and warn them what was happening. Oriana and Oren couldn’t fight – he’d never cursed Antivan notions of gender roles more than he did right now – and so they’d be even more at risk than his wife and daughter. He gingerly pushed himself back to his knees. He doubted he could stand on his own right now but he could at least crawl towards the door and…and what, he really didn’t know but there had to be something that he could do. He couldn’t just let it end like this!
 
Eventually, he managed to reach the door (and pointedly ignored the trail of blood he was leaving behind him) and push it open. His heart stopped as he saw feet right outside of the door. Had Rendon left one of his men stationed outside the room in case he tried to escape?
 
“M-my lord?” a more familiar voice asked, stunned. Bryce relaxed marginally. This was one of his knights: Ser Michael. “What happened to you?”
 
“Arl Rendon Howe did,” Bryce replied grimly. “Please, have you heard anything of my family?”
 
Michael shook his head. “No, we haven’t although a few knights have been sent to find them. Most of Howe’s men are outside the castle. We’ve been able to more-or-less hold our own and so even though most of the non-fighting personnel have died, we knights haven’t taken many casualties yet. We’re holding the door but once they succeed in getting it open…well, let’s just say you and the others had best be out by then.”
 
Bryce nodded. “I’m in no condition to be fighting like this so I’ll have to trust my wife and daughter to be able to make their way safely to me. Ser Michael, I need you to take me to the kitchen.”
 
“The kitchen?” Michael repeated quizzically.
 
“Aye. There is a secret passage of sorts, a servant’s entrance in the larder. Eleanor always said that if we should ever find ourselves under attack in our own castle, we should meet up there so we could all escape,” Bryce revealed. Seeing the look on Michael’s face, he managed a weak chuckle. “She doesn’t actually believe it’s possibly to be too prepared.”


“And it would appear that the Teyrna wasn’t,” Michael noted. “I can get you to the larder but I’ll need to bandage your wounds first or you’ll never make it. It seems you’ve already lost quite a bit of blood.”
 
Bryce wanted to protest that they had no time for such things but Michael was, unfortunately, right about him. He had a large gaping hole in his abdomen and leaving it untreated would just make it worse.
 
“There’s no time to clean it, unfortunately,” Michael said, grabbing some drapes and pulling them down. “But if you survive long enough to get an infection then I’ll consider my efforts here a success.” He began to tear a strip from the fabric.
 
Bryce kept as still as he could while waiting for Michael to finish with the makeshift bandages. All he wanted to do was to reassure himself that Rendon hadn’t gotten to his family. Still, if he were fidgety he might make Michael mess up and need to take longer. The seconds crept by deceptively slow as Michael worked. At last, the man pulled back and offered Bryce his hand. “Lean on me, I’ll get you to the larder. You know every man you have here would die to protect you.”
 
“I do,” Bryce confirmed gravely. “I just regret that it’s come to that.”
 
Leaning heavily on Michael, Bryce managed to make his way down the hall and towards the larder. On the way there, he saw a few of Rendon’s men but his own people kept the fighting well away from him. There were no bodies in the kitchen or the larder, for which Bryce was grateful. He hadn’t particularly expected Nan or the elven servants to still be working and he was glad not to need to wait with corpses.
 
“Will you be alright here?” Michael asked, clearly reluctant to leave him. “I could stay if you really-”
 
“I’ll be fine here,” Bryce promised. “Just get out there and held coordinate the defenses.”
 
“Yes, my lord,” Michael said, bowing his head. “I…it’s been an honor, ser.”
 
And then he was gone and there was nothing but to wait. The worst part of waiting was that now there was nothing to distract him from his physical pain and from his desperate fears about his family. Were they alright? They had to be alright. Eleanor and Anastasia both slept with a dagger under their pillow and a sword within reach and Oren and Oriana’s room was right between theirs. Every moment that he passed alone here in the larder was another moment that he felt his hope growing dimmer. Michael had done an adequate job of bandaging his wounds but Rendon’s thrust had been deep and true. He needed healing magic and he needed it now but there were no mages around at all, let alone healers. This…this was very bad. Why had this happened? How long had Rendon been planning it? Why hadn’t he noticed? Was this his fault?
 
Bryce’s attention was drawn suddenly to the sound of footsteps outside the door. He held his breath. This was the moment of truth. Had his family finally made it here or had Rendon’s men found him, thus preventing anyone else from getting out of the castle this way?
 
Eleanor, Anastasia, and her mabari Rabbit rushed in and Bryce breathed a sigh of relief. “There... you both are. I was... wondering when you would get here.” It hurt almost too much too speak which really didn’t bode well for his chances of making it out of here alive.
 
“Bryce!” Eleanor cried, falling to her knees beside him. “Maker's blood, what's happening? You're bleeding!”
 
“I was with Ren-with Howe,” Bryce corrected himself. “We were talking and I heard fighting in the hall. His men came in and then when I wasn’t looking, Howe stabbed me. Ser Michael helped me get here.”
 
“He told us that you’d come here to wait for us,” Anastasia told him. “He’s a good man.”
 
“Where are Oren and Oriana?” Bryce asked urgently.
 
Anastasia looked away.
 
Gently, Eleanor broke the news. “Howe’s men knew that they couldn’t fight and so they were killed before they went after Anastasia.”
 
Bryce froze. Oren was but a child. Unbidden, his son’s words from earlier danced through his mind. “Son, you will see a sword up close real soon. I promise." And now he had in the worst possible manner. And Oriana…he wondered vaguely which one had died first. A child should never see his parent die or vice versa.
 
“They weren’t messing around,” Anastasia said grimly. “Iona – that’s Lady Landra’s maid – opened the door and they cut her down right there.”
 
That really wasn’t the time to be asking why she had been in Anastasia’s room in the first place. Dear Maker, he was never going to get another chance to be a concerned father to this girl again, was he?
 
“We must get you out of here!” Eleanor cried out, panicking slightly. “Howe’s men will find this passage sooner or later.”
 
“I…won’t survive the standing, I fear,” Bryce confessed, trying to stay dignified in the face of that horrible truth. He was never going to leave here.
 
“Are you sure, Bryce?” Eleanor asked softly, desperately.
 
“Yes,” Bryce answered her simply. “The castle is surrounded. I could never make it.”
 
“Then I will stay here with you,” Eleanor said quietly but with conviction. “And kill anyone who tries to go through those doors.”
 
“As will I,” Anastasia said loyally.
 
Bryce shook his head in silent horror. No. No. The sentiment was a sweet one, he supposed, but couldn’t they see that he was dying? Howe’s men might never find this room and nothing could change the fact he wouldn’t live to see morning. His wife and daughter, on the other hand, were perfectly healthy if traumatized from the night’s events. He hated the fact that he was dying, he hated the fact that Oren and Oriana were dead already, and he didn’t want any more people he loved to die. “Someone…someone has to find Fergus, tell him what happened. Howe may have something planned for him, too, so he must be warned. Someone has to tell King Cailan what happened. If we all die, then Howe may tell them whatever story he wishes and though they may doubt they will have no proof and without proof or even an accusation, they cannot act.”
 
“Darling, you need to leave,” Eleanor said firmly to Anastasia. “You and Rabbit have a better chance of making it without me holding you back. You’re both far younger and in better shape than I am. I would never forgive myself if I got you killed.”
 
“Mother…” Anastasia said sorrowfully.
 
“Eleanor, I agree that our daughter must not die of Howe’s treachery but live and make her mark on the world. She can find the king and her brother and they can take vengeance on Howe and reclaim our home. But you need to go as well,” Bryce tried to tell her. “Howe’s men aren’t here yet, it will be fine.”
 
“Hush, Bryce. I’m not leaving you,” Eleanor said, cupping his face lovingly. “ ‘Til death do we part’, remember? Besides, you might think the risk is worth it but I don’t. I will kill every last bastard who comes through that door and buy Anastasia the time she needs to escape.”
 
“I…understand,” Bryce said resignedly. It wasn’t so bad, to die with the one you loved. He just wished things had been different and he didn’t feel like he was abandoning his daughter. He wished he could die years in the future in his own bed surrounded by his very-much-alive family instead of hiding in the larder.
 
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Anastasia demanded, her voice full of anger. “I can’t just leave you two to die while I escape unscathed. How could I ever explain that to Fergus? How could you ask me to walk away knowing that I’m condemning you to death?”
 
“I’m dying anyway and your mother will die regardless of whether you stay or not,” Bryce told her. “Howe has too many men.”
 
“You say you don’t want to leave us to die,” Eleanor told her. “Well don’t make us watch you die. A parent should never outlive their children and I already held my grandson’s body earlier tonight.”
 
Anastasia flinched and Bryce could tell her resolve was weakening. He pressed the advantage, feeling like a horrible person for doing so but knowing that it was necessary to save her. “And would you really leave your brother all alone in this world and with no idea of what Howe is up to? What if he invites Fergus to speak with him about the matter and stabs him as he did me? Or poisons him? Or any number of vile things, really?”
 
“I…I can’t,” Anastasia cried, looking lost.
 
“You are a Cousland, Anastasia,” Bryce said firmly. He couldn’t lose his baby girl, too. Not on top of everything. “And a Cousland always does their duty. Your duty right now is to leave us, to live, to go find your brother. Your duty is to make sure that our line doesn’t end here and that we get justice.”
 
Anastasia blinked several times, fighting back her tears. “I’ll do my duty,” she said hollowly. “Maker help me, but I will.” She took a few tentative steps towards the path leading to the outside of the castle before turning back. “I love you both so much.”
 
“And we love you,” Eleanor said with as much warmth as she could muster. “Tell your brother that as well. And that we’re very proud of you both.”
 
Anastasia forced herself to look away and then took off running, Rabbit following closely behind her.
 
“So that’s it,” Bryce said quietly. “Fergus is safe for now at Ostagar and Anastasia’s on her way there now. There’s nothing more to do but wait, is there?”
 
“It’s all up to our children, now,” Eleanor agreed, equally subdued. “They’ll be okay, I think. They’ll have each other and they’re both so very strong. I wish they didn’t have to be but it will serve them well in the days to come.”
 
“I’m sorry,” Bryce apologized suddenly.
 
Eleanor drew back, surprised. “Sorry? What ever for, Bryce? We’ve had a good life and done the best we could. I don’t think that anyone can ask for more than that.”
 
“For not seeing this coming. Howe was supposed to be my friend and I invited him into our home, I sent Fergus off with most of our forces…this could all rightly be called my fault,” Bryce explained.
 
Eleanor shook her head. “No. I don’t think you should be blaming yourself. None of us saw this coming.”
 
“I should have,” Bryce insisted stubbornly.
 
“It’s a little late for ‘should haves’, don’t you think?” Eleanor asked rhetorically. “And we don’t have so much time left that we should spend it on regrets.”
 
“You’re right,” Bryce said heavily. “As usual.”
 
There were footsteps outside and the door swung open.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt was 'Poetry.' I wrote a story.


The target’s name Gianna. Zevran had been told her last name as well, of course, but he was – as always – far more interested in the first name. One never knew when a target was going to be the seducing kind, after all, and calling out a surname in the throes of passion – or worse, getting the name wrong – was really not the kind of reputation Zevran wanted to cultivate. Granted, his targets wouldn’t be living long enough to tell anyone anything about his performance good or bad but it was just good practice and a matter of personal and professional pride to maintain the same standards of quality at all time.
 
Gianna was a very lovely young women which was, paradoxically, both his favorite and least favorite kind of target. On the one hand, it allowed him to spend some time with a beautiful woman and perhaps sleep with her. On the other, he would shortly have to rid the world of such an attractive creature. Truly, the life of an assassin was a trying one. Gianna had long, golden blonde hair. He had observed her earlier that day and it had been done up tightly in braids but now it was loose and her curls were all over the place giving her a pleasing windblown look. Her eyes were a shimmering silver and her mouth was full and red.
 
She had not quite been asleep when he had entered her home and the moment she had realized what he was and why he had come, she had wasted no time in trying to distract him. Why she thought he was that absent-minded that if they simply didn’t talk abut him killing her it didn’t happen was beyond him and honestly a little insulting but he had very much enjoyed the tour of her home and being personally introduced to all of her fish all the same. She had some very nice men’s clothes that he had been allowed to try on and he had caught her staring more than once while he was changing. That was always promising.
 
“So what do you know about poetry?” Gianna asked him once they were sitting on her couch together. She had a glass of wine in her hand but though she had offered some to Zevran as well, he wasn’t about to risk being poisoned by his target because he hadn’t killed her right away. It really was an embarrassing way to die and if that didn’t kill him, the Crows certainly would for the indignity.
 
“I know a good poem when I hear one,” Zevran replied. Strictly speaking, he knew nothing at all of poetry but he was firmly of the belief that if a poem was a good one then he wouldn’t need any knowledge of poetry or special education in order to appreciate. If a taste was an acquired one that simply meant it wasn’t very good in the first place and thus one had to build up a tolerance for it before they could pretend to like it.
 
Gianna smiled seductively at him and began in a breathy voice, “The symphony I see in thee / it whispers songs to me. Songs of hot breath upon my neck / songs of soft grunts by my head / songs of hands on muscled back / songs of thee come to my bed.”
 
Now, Zevran could see very clearly that she intended to sleep with him. He should have just let it go and do so. Tragically, a laugh burst out of him before he could help it.
 
Gianna, who had been running her hand down his leg, drew back, offended. “Was there something funny about my poem?”
 
“Just a little,” Zevran admitted. “That’s not a very good poem, you know.”
 
Gianna flushed angrily. “And here I thought that you knew nothing about poetry.”
 
“I don’t,” Zevran agreed. “Except to be able to tell a good one from a bad one and that, my dear, is a bad one.”
 
“Well I just made it up on the spot,” Gianna said defensively.
 
“That excuses you, I suppose, from being thought of as a poor poetess,” Zevran remarked. “But it doesn’t make the poem any nicer.”
 
“I’d like to see you do better, Mr. Crow,” Gianna challenged.
 
Zevran shrugged his assent. How hard could it be?
 
“It is not hard to judge skill, you know
Your talent is really a no-show
Rather than prolong this hunt
Let me be perfectly blunt
If you want to have sex, just say so.”
 
Gianna sat there staring at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “And what was that? A limerick of some sort?”
 
Zevran shrugged again. “Something like that, yes. I fear I may have broken all sorts of stylistic rules but I find myself strangely indifferent. I remembered to use five lines and I remembered that the rhyme scheme was AABBA and that’s good enough for me.”
 
“I guess I did recognize that it was supposed to be a limerick,” Gianna agreed. “I’m not sure that I’d say it was better than mine, though.”
 
“No?” Zevran asked rhetorically. “Know, show, and so all rhyme and I’m not cheating by using both forms of know. Hunt and blunt are also very clear rhymes. You rhyme neck with back.”
 
“Well…maybe those don’t technically rhyme…it’s close enough,” Gianna claimed. “And at least I got my chosen style right.”
 
“So you claim,” Zevran pointed out. “My lack of poetic training means I really have no idea.”
 
“We can call it a draw,” Gianna offered. “And say that our poems were equally good.”
 
“Or equally bad,” Zevran amended. “And that means I wouldn’t have done better but…why not?”
 
“Oh, how accommodating,” Gianna said, her voice becoming breathless again. “You know, I may not have learned much from my poetry tutor but he was one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen. As such, every time I start talking poetry it gets me all hot. You want me to just come right out and be blunt? Take me, I’m yours.”
 
As Zevran helpfully began to oblige her, he decided that maybe that poem wasn’t so bad after all. It was certainly going to make the next few hours far more enjoyable for the both of them than they would have been otherwise. He’d have to remember those lines Gianna had said just in case.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt was  'A change of scene.'


Anders had just turned seventeen last week and it meant very little to him besides another year of his life gone forever, wasted in this phallic prison. Even templar-taunting had largely lost its appeal after the first few months. It was truly pathetic but he’d been so completely and utterly bored lately that he was spending his time in the library. Admittedly, he’d been helpfully annotating the texts to make them more interesting, capturing the majesty of the great tiger Ser Pounce-a-lot and his templar-eating ways in the margins, and looking up obscure rituals.
 
He had usually been able to figure out at least a part of the ritual but the last one in the third book he’d looked through had left him puzzled for a few hours now. While he had never been simultaneously bored and confused, he had to admit that he rather preferred boredom. That was just his secret inner nerd that he’d never admit to having taking, though. Now, Anders was well aware that trying a ritual that he had no idea what it would do and was entitled only ‘Hogwarts’ was probably a bad idea. He was feeling just desperate and reckless enough to not care.
 
He had just thrown a pinch of smuggled lyrium sand into the flame to complete the ritual, reasoning that blowing himself up had to be more entertaining than staying here at the Tower. Ever since he’d made his escape attempt – the first of many, he’d promised himself – he’d barely been able to sneeze without the templars focusing their undivided and most certainly unwelcome attention on him. Fortunately for him, the templar on duty in the library at the moment wasn’t particularly attentive and had barely even registered Anders’ presence, let alone his illicit ritual. The man did start as a great wind began to form around Anders, faster and faster. Watching it was dizzying and his hair and robes were blowing everywhere.
 
When the wind finally died down, he found himself no longer standing in the library. Instead, he seemed to be in some sort of an office. There were moving portraits on the wall staring unabashedly at him, strange silver devices littering the desk, and a bird that didn’t seem to notice that it was on fire sitting on a perch. Anders blinked. Yep, it was still there.
 
He turned to the two bewildered occupants of the room who had both taken out a wooden stick and pointed it at him. How odd. One of them was the oldest man that Anders had ever seen and had a long white beard that easily put even the dwarven ones he’d seen to shame. He had half-moon spectacles and a strange twinkle in his eyes. The other man was much younger than the first but still several years older than Anders himself. This man had medium-length greasy black hair and suspicious black eyes.
 
“…Hogwarts?” Anders ventured a guess once it became apparent that they were waiting for him to speak.
 
“We’ve got a sharp one,” one of the portraits said dryly. Now the portrait was talking? Ander wondered briefly if it had somehow been possessed. As no one else seemed particularly concerned about it, he decided to just ignore it.
 
“You are indeed at Hogwarts,” the elder of the two men confirmed. “I am Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster, and this is Professor Snape. And who might you be?”
 
“My name is Anders,” Anders introduced himself. “This is probably a stupid question but…what is Hogwarts? Some kind of a school, I take it?”
 
“Obviously,” Snape said derisively. “Why are you here if you didn’t know that? And how did you even get here?”
 
Anders shrugged. “I found a ritual called ‘Hogwarts’.”
 
“And you performed it?” Snape demanded, his tone clearly implying that he questioned Anders’ intelligence. “Without even knowing what Hogwarts was?”
 
“I was bored,” Anders said, the words sounding lame even to his own ears.
 
Snape closed his eyes, looking almost pained.
 
“Perhaps you could give us some more information?” Dumbledore suggested. “You can do magic and yet you’ve never heard of Hogwarts? Hogwarts is very well-known among the magical community and so I find that to be quite remarkable.”
 
“It isn’t in the Thedas magical community,” Anders replied. “Or at least not in the Ferelden community.”
 
“Thedas?” Dumbledore asked politely. “Ferelden? I’m afraid I’ve never heard of those places.”
 
Anders raised his eyebrows, surprised. “You haven’t? I…actually don’t know what to say to that. Ferelden is a country in the land of Thedas and I don’t know anything about the geography outside of Thedas.”
 
“That is a puzzle,” Dumbledore said gravely, stroking his beard. “I’m sure that, given time, we shall be able to unravel it. Where did you study magic?”
 
“The Circle Tower,” Anders replied promptly. Realizing that that probably wouldn’t be enough information, he continued with, “It’s a Tower in the middle of a lake where everyone in Ferelden who has magic is taken the moment someone discovers this fact and where they are not permitted to leave without permission…which is only granted if they’re old enough and compliant enough.”
 
Snape looked horrified. “People where you’re from lock witches and wizards in a tower?!?!”
 
“We’re called mages,” Anders corrected. “And yes, yes they do.”
 
“The Dark Lord’s followers would have a field day with this,” Snape muttered. “Muggles imprisoning wizards. At least they aren’t killing them.”
 
Anders had never heard the term ‘muggle’ before but he figured that it probably meant a non-mage. “Actually, when you reached adulthood, the templars – they’re our guards and can somehow neutralize our magic – put a demon in you and kill you if you can’t fight off your possession fast enough. And they kill you if you use the ‘wrong’ kinds of magic. And if you leave the Tower without permission they’ll probably kill you but they didn’t kill me that one time I did so it’s not exactly a guarantee.”
 
Dumbledore looked alarmed. “They put demons inside of everyone? Why?”
 
Anders shrugged. “They claim it’s so no one who cannot fight off a possession won’t get possessed and start killing people without anyone noticing. And unless you want to lose not only your magic but, as a rather nasty side-effect, your emotions as well then you have to undertake this Harrowing.”
 
“Would I be correct in assuming that you have gone through this yourself?” Dumbledore asked shrewdly. “You seem to know an awful lot about it.”
 
Anders nodded. “Yeah, I did. I didn’t find it very difficult but then I can only speak for my own experience.”
 
“And you said that you only go through this ‘Harrowing’ when you become an adult. How old are you, Anders?” Dumbledore inquired.
 
“I just turned seventeen,” Anders announced.
 
Snape groaned. “Oh, of course.”
 
“What’s so special about that?” Anders asked, confused.
 
“In Wizarding Britain, which is where Hogwarts is located, magical children are often sent to the school for seven years starting at the age of eleven. No one is forced to go and some are homeschooled but Hogwarts is a wonderful place to learn magic and to meet your peers. Hogwarts is in session for a little over nine months, from September to June, and there is a two-week break that children can return home during if they so choose in December and a week-long break that they may not leave school during in April.”
 
“I see,” Anders said diplomatically. It would appear that these people used a different calendar system than Thedas did as he was certain that he’d never heard of this ‘September’ or ‘April.’ Hogwarts certainly sounded more appealing than life at the Circle but it was difficult not to and he couldn’t really muster up much enthusiasm about a school. “And what happens after they’re done with their schooling?”
 
“Then they go out into the world. Children generally can’t control their magic when they’re younger and learn to use their wands here at-” Dumbledore began to answer.
 
“What’s a wand?” Anders interrupted.
 
Dumbledore’s eyes went wide and he gestured to the stick still in his hand. “Why – a wand is how a wizard focuses their magic and performs spells! Are you saying that you don’t have one?”
 
“I never have,” Anders confirmed. “This ‘wand’ seems kind of like a crutch, to be honest.”
 
“Anyway,” Dumbledore said, continuing valiantly. “At the age of seventeen, a wizard becomes a legal adult and is free to do magic whenever and wherever they want instead of just here at Hogwarts. Be warned, though, that they are still not permitted to perform magic in front of those muggles that don’t know we exist…which are usually the immediate family of muggle-born wizards and those high up in the government.”
 
“I’m sure you’ll find the concept of muggles not knowing about magic to be very strange but given the barbarity they display where you’re from, you might actually be the rare teenager to fully understand the need for this secrecy,” Snape told him, miraculously looking slightly less unimpressed than he had previously.
 
Anders stood frozen in shock and elation. Finally, he snapped out of it and a wide grin spread across his face. “Best. Ritual. Ever. Oh, I am never going back. And does anyone know where I can get a burning bird like that?”
 

[Sarah1281]

This week's Nathaniel prompt was 'Agreement.'


Whenever Nathaniel stopped to think about it, he found it remarkable just how much at home he felt at Vigil’s Keep. On the one hand, he had spent his childhood there but on the other, Amaranthine under the Wardens seemed to be infinitely warmer, more genuine, just…better, overall. And he wasn’t nearly the only one to feel that way. Everyone always said that life was far easier since Rendon Howe had been killed. Well, all but the Arl’s closest political allies but that was to be expected no matter how the rest had fared.
 
Nathaniel hadn’t thought that way when he had first gotten back to Ferelden. He still remembered arriving back in the country of his birth after having spent eight years abroad and being painfully aware of how little he knew about what had been going on. He had thought that he knew enough. He had heard that the Grey Wardens now held his family’s land and that his father had died in disgrace. He had firmly believed that his father had become a scapegoat for backing the wrong side in the civil war that had broken out after Cailan’s death. He had been wrong. Maybe, as Delilah, had claimed, he’d been unable to face the truth about their father. He had to admit, he still hated the thought that his father had always been the monster he’d revealed himself to be once he’d massacred the Couslands.
 
Knowing nothing of this, Nathaniel’s grand return to Vigil’s Keep was not one of his finer moments, to put it mildly. At least he had decided against attacking the Warden-Commander despite her having murdered his father. He knew that most people disapproved of his use of the word ‘murder’ in regards to the incident but since she had broken into his father’s new Denerim estate (the fact that the Queen had wanted her to do that didn’t actually make it legal) and killed him. Regardless of what he’d done first, it was still illegal. It was still murder. He had come to terms with it, though, in the months following his conscription.
 
That was another thing he hadn’t expected to like. He had been forced to join the Grey Wardens for the high crime of attempting to reclaim some of his own family’s belongings (admitting he had originally been planning on assassinating her probably hadn’t helped) even though he had insisted that he’d rather have died. He had meant it, too. His family name was dragged through the mud, his father was dead, his home was gone, his brother was dead, he didn’t know that his sister had survived…what had he to live for? As she had pointed out, though, conscription meant that she wasn’t exactly giving him a choice about it.
 
The commander was a hated figure who never seemed to take her duties as seriously as she should. Anders was a mage who was equally flippant and seemed to make a game out of trying to make him lose his composure. Oghren was…there were really no words for Oghren. His first impression of the man was that he made drunken dwarf stereotypes look respectable. He had come around on all three of them and come to appreciate Velanna, Sigrun, and Justice as well. Somehow, when he wasn’t looking they had become more than just a ragtag collection of misfits with nowhere else to go and had actually become a competent fighting force and then, even more surprising, a family of sorts. Delilah and her children would always be most important to him but being a part of the Ferelden Wardens was…nice.
 
Attempting to critically and objectively look back at his childhood was difficult, both in the emotional and accuracy sense, but from what he could remember, things were far quieter and more solemn when his father was in charge. His parents greatly resented each other and the elves, in particular, were almost afraid of his father. He didn’t quite know why but he was sure there had to be some reason. Perhaps they could see some of the inner darkness that would destroy him in the future? One thing he knew for certain was that people were generally happier at Vigil’s Keep now despite the fact that actually being a Grey Warden wasn’t exactly a pleasant state of affairs. He wondered sometimes whether the way things had been and the way they were now said more about his father or the Grey Wardens.
 
Nathaniel had returned to Vigil’s Keep and been forced into becoming a Warden determined to hate everything and fully convinced that he wouldn’t have to try. He had started off disapproving of the almost casual way the Keep was run. He had resented the uncalled for – in his eyes – vilification of the Arling’s former lord. He had seen the Wardens as a nuisance, necessary though they may be, and lived for the day when they would no longer be needed and could be cast back in obscurity for the next four centuries. Now, though? Now, like it or not, he was one of them. Now, for better or for worse, he looked at what they did and the positions they took and agreed.

[Sarah1281]

My eightieth story was 'Underage'  which followed the prompt: At the Landsmeet, both the PC and Alistair are declared ineligible to duel (or even to choose a champion) due to being underage. Arl Eamon has to fight, and loses.


Riordan wasn’t surprised when the Orlesian Warden-Commander requested to meet with him the night before he was to set off for his Calling. Riordan had put off going for as long as he possibly could but there were days now when he woke up and didn’t feel human. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened to Grey Wardens who never went to their Calling but he certainly didn’t want to find out. He hadn’t wanted to leave in the middle of a Blight, however, as that had felt too much like cowardice given that Blights – rare as they were – were the entire purpose of the Grey Wardens. If it weren’t for the Archdemon only being able to be killed by a Warden then the Order, while still useful for dealing with darkspawn in general, would not be as absolutely essential as it was. Now that the Blight was finally over and things were finally getting back to normal, he could seek his end with no regrets.
 
“Warden Riordan,” the Warden-Commander Daphné greeted him. She was a stern-faced woman in her mid-thirties with short dark hair and solemn brown eyes. “I understand that you are leaving us?”
 
“I am,” Riordan confirmed. “I hope to be in the Deep Roads this time next month.”
 
“Yes,” Daphné nodded. “You stayed quite a bit longer than I would have expected and that is something to be commended for. They say it’s not easy to resist the Calling. Before you go, I wonder if you might enlighten me about something.”
 
“Yes?” Riordan prompted, feeling that he already knew what was coming. “Is this about what happened in Ferelden?”
 
“Indeed. Weisshaupt is quite curious about the events there and, as you know, we’ve never had an entire country completely wiped out before. We’ve sent inquiries to the dwarves in Orzammar but they haven’t seen fit to answer and except to bemoan the stupidity of humans. The Dalish who were present then were even less helpful. I’m hoping that, as a human yourself, you might have a more…unbiased tale,” Daphné told him. “Or at least a more informative one.”
 
“Very well,” Riordan agreed. “I can tell you the story of how the nation of Ferelden destroyed any hope they might have had against the Blight. Maker knows it was unlikely that they would have pulled off a victory at that point anyway but they weren’t satisfied with that and made sure that they had no chance of surviving…”




As you may recall, I was actually born in Highever and spent a portion of my childhood in Ferelden before coming to Orlais. As such, when the regent Loghain rescinded the recently deceased King Cailan’s invitation for the Wardens to assist in dealing with the Blight, I went anyway. I thought my heritage would be enough to convince them that I was sincere in my desire to help them. I thought wrong. My accent, it seems, was all the proof that Loghain needed that I was there to single-handedly re-conquer his home.
 
Now, while I wasn’t quite clear on just how anti-Orlesian Loghain was, I knew that he had been against King Maric reestablishing diplomatic ties with Orlais and allowing the Grey Wardens back into Ferelden. I had underestimated his paranoia and his dedication, however, and fell prey to a poisoned chalice shortly after my arrival. I was taken to the Denerim estate of the title-collecting nobleman Howe (whether he was an Arl or a Teyrn I can never quite remember). I was there for some months languishing in one of the dungeons but finally the estate was attacked by the only two surviving Ferelden Wardens.
 
The boy was Alistair Theirin, the bastard son of King Maric and (I’ve recently learned) a Grey Warden by the name of Fiona. She left for Weisshaupt before your time, I think, but the former Ferelden Warden-Commander Duncan always spoke highly of her. Alistair was the one being used to challenge Loghain’s regency. The girl was Ahria Tabris, an elf from the Denerim Alienage who had slaughtered her way through that particular estate once before on her wedding day when she and several others were abducted to be raped by the estate’s former owner. They were good people. They didn’t always follow or even understand Warden policies – I’m not sure they even knew why Wardens were necessary – but they were young and new to the Wardens. They were both firmly committed to ending the Blight and accomplished a remarkable amount for mere recruits.
 
The king of Ferelden had fallen at Ostagar, of course, along with a great deal of the Ferelden army. What remained of it was engaged in a messy civil war over succession and old grudges. Still, the ancient treaties we had with the dwarves, Dalish, and mages had been successfully called upon and a Landsmeet had been called to unify the nation under one ruler. The Landsmeet was called at least once a year and all nobles, while not technically required to attend, always did if they wanted a say in the important issues of the day.
 
This one began with Eamon making a fairly dull speech about how he didn’t want to live in a world where their freedoms were taken away by Loghain. It didn’t really seem to have much of an effect on the crowd as they would rather live in that sort of world than not live in one at all. Loghain accused Eamon of fear-mongering and attempting to use the Blight to seize power and put a puppet on the throne. That’s when Alistair and Ahria showed up.
 
Alistair didn’t have much to say but Ahria gave a surprisingly eloquent argument for why Loghain should step down from the regency. Her mention of the mistreatment of nobles at the hands of Loghain and his allies was of particular interest to the Landsmeet, of course, and Queen Anora herself arrived not two minutes after Loghain demanded to know where they had taken her…and on the Wardens side. Once everyone was present, the Landsmeet voted on the issue. The son of the man who had killed King Maric’s mother sided with Loghain and the rest were for Ahria. That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.
 
Loghain refused to accept the vote and insisted that everyone who disagreed with him shouldn’t get a say in setting Ferelden’s policy. While I’m sure many people with power have often felt like that, most have better sense than to outright say it. Loghain pulled out his weapons and gestured to his soldiers and an all-out battle broke out within the Chambers of the Landsmeet.
 
Alistair was just pulling his sword back to decapitate Loghain when Denerim’s Revered Mother managed to make herself heard about the noise. “In the Maker's name, stop!” she cried out, sounding absolutely appalled. “We will have order!”
 
Eamon quickly nodded. As his side had won the vote, this was hardly surprising. “Agreed. Let there be no further bloodshed in the Landsmeet.”
 
For a moment, I thought that Alistair was going to ignore this request and take Loghain’s life anyway. It might have been better for Ferelden if he had. He may have suffered the consequences but Ahria and I would likely have remained unpunished for this and could have possibly created a Warden to replace Alistair. Looking very much like he’d been forced to drink something bitter, Alistair sheathed his sword.
 
“Alistair's right to the throne is challenged, his challenger's honor is in doubt: In the past, such disputes were settled by duel,” the Revered Mother declared grandly. “Will the Landsmeet agree?”
 
Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea answered for them all. “Yes, if it will avoid further bloodshed. But it must be fought according to tradition: by strength of arms only, in single combat, until one party yields.”
 
“Do you accept the terms?” the Revered Mother asked, turning to my fellow Wardens.
 
Ahria and Alistair exchanged glances. “We do,” Ahria replied, stepping forward. “I will-”
 
“Pardon,” Bann Ceorlic interrupted. “But Warden: how old are you?”
 
For some reason, no one ever seemed inclined to learn Ahria’s name or, if they had heard it, use it. As a Warden she was greatly respected but she was still an elf and people could be very prejudiced. And furthermore, she was from an Alienage instead of the Cirlce or a Dalish clan. Mages might be hated and Dalish might be viewed as little more than savages but there is a certain respect born of fear there that city elves simply aren’t afforded.  
 
Ahria looked a little confused. “I’m nineteen.”
 
“I see,” Ceorlic said, a triumphant smirk forming on his face. “And you, Alistair?”
 
“I’m twenty,” Alistair replied, just as confused as Ahria.
 
“The age of majority in Ferelden is twenty-one,” Ceorlic declared dramatically. “It would be an insult to have mere children decide the fate of our great nation.”
 
“I’ll be twenty-one in three weeks!” Alistair protested.
 
“Good for you,” Ceorlic deadpanned. “If the Landsmeet had taken place three weeks from now then that might have been relevant.”
 
“Bann Ceorlic has opposed allowing the Wardens to fight this duel themselves on account of them being underage,” the Revered Mother announced just in case somebody hadn’t been listening. She called for another vote. It was close, but the Landsmeet ruled to not allow anyone who wasn’t twenty-one yet to fight.
 
“Can we at least choose a champion?” Alistair asked. Ahria appeared to be too enraged to speak.
 
“I’m afraid that that would be the same as having you participate,” the Revered Mother said apologetically. “And the Landsmeet has already voted against that.”
 
“If the Wardens cannot fight or even choose a champion, then who will duel Loghain?” Eamon demanded.
 
All eyes turned to him.
 
He paled. “But…I haven’t touched a sword in years!”
 
“We could always forget the duel and have them all executed as traitors,” Loghain suggested.
 
“But we won the vote!” Eamon snapped.
 
“Considering that the women arguing is underage…” Loghain trailed off.
 
“At least you don’t have to be of age to hold the throne,” Eamon muttered. “I didn’t bring a sword.”
 
“Here, use mine,” Alistair volunteered immediately, handing the bright blue sword he was holding to Eamon. “If you kill him with this, I will love you forever.”
 
“Thank you, Alistair,” Eamon said, reluctantly accepting the sword and clearly choosing to ignore the latter part of his statement.
 
“So it is decided,” Alfstanna claimed. “Loghain vs. Eamon in single combat. We will follow whoever wins.”
 
This was, perhaps, the most important duel that Ferelden had ever had. I really wish that I could say that it was a grand one. It really wasn’t. Eamon wasn’t as fat as Loghain had implied at the beginning of the Landsmeet but he was also rather out of shape. He had been comatose for most of the past year and so that was, perhaps, understandable but it really didn’t help him here. Loghain ran circles around him and had Eamon disarmed and on his knees within five minutes without even looking like he was trying.
 
“I…yield,” Eamon said, breathing hard. He couldn’t meet Loghain’s eyes. I couldn’t blame him, personally. As horrified as I was by this outcome – not that I was in much shape to fight a little over a day since escaping from the Arl’s estate – I also was a little embarrassed by how pathetically Eamon had fared.
 
Anora quickly ran over to her father and began to whisper urgently in his ear. He frowned deeply for a moment before sighing resignedly. “That is a very good point. Eamon, we’re facing down a Blight and – despite your treason – you have the second-largest fighting force in Ferelden. I am giving you one chance to swear fealty to your Queen and to relinquish any claim to the throne you may possibly have for yourself and your heirs.”
 
“You have my oath,” Eamon said curtly.
 
Loghain nodded. “Very well. Now guards, take the Wardens away to await their execution.”
 
“What?” Alistair burst out, looking shocked. “You can’t just kill us! We’re trying to stop the Blight!”
 
Beside him, Ahria stood silent. There was a terrible lack of surprise on her face.
 
“Then I’m sure you’ll see why we’re doing this,” Anora told him, sounding mournful. “Ferelden needs stability, Alistair, and you and the Warden threaten that stability.”
 
“We can defeat this Blight on our own without any aid from Orlesian agents,” Loghain concurred.
 
“We’re not Orlesian!” Alistair practically shouted. “Ahria was born in Denerim and I was born in Redcliffe! We’ve never even left the country!”
 
“It’s no use, Alistair,” Ahria said, sounding lost. “They won’t listen.”
 
“How can you be so calm about this?” he demanded, turning to her.
 
“I don’t know,” Ahria replied. “I guess I always knew that it would come to this. Humans killed my mother, you know, and I’ve always been too damn like her. Maybe I didn’t expect the regent and queen themselves to be calling for my head but it’s basically the same.”
 
“Guards,” Loghain called again.
 
As he was led away, Alistair turned to glare fiercely at those assembled in the crowded room. “One day I hope you get what's coming to you. All of you.”




“I went to see the Teyrn and Queen after the Landsmeet was over to try and convince them not to execute them,” Riordan said, winding down his narrative. “I didn’t want to have to start getting into anything sensitive in front of every noble in Ferelden. When I couldn’t tell them why a Grey Warden was needed to stop the Blight, they told me frankly that my word meant nothing to them and that they couldn’t trust Orlesians or the order. Or rather, that was Loghain’s position. Anora wasn’t about to blindly accept what I said if I wasn’t going to give her any more than that.”
 
“You did the right thing,” Daphné told him firmly. “The Grey Wardens cannot afford to let the knowledge of our taint get out.”
 
“And so Ahria and Alistair died for our precious secret,” Riordan said bitterly. “Loghain wanted to kill me, too, but Anora was concerned about how it would appear to the rest of Thedas and so they brought me to the border and told me not to come back. Once the dwarves and elves found out that the Wardens were gone, they went back to Orzammar and fled Ferelden respectfully. The mages stayed.”
 
“And within weeks Ferelden was completely overrun by the Blight,” Daphné concluded. “I was most impressed that Loghain managed to kill the Archdemon twice but in the end he wasn’t a Warden and so he could have killed it two thousand times for all the good it would have done. Thank you for explaining what happened, Riordan. Hopefully, Ferelden’s sad fate will be a reminder to other nations about why they need us.”

Riordan nodded but said nothing. He had wanted so badly to save Ferelden and in the end he had failed not only that nation but the two young Wardens that had saved him as well. The Blight have been over in record time but it didn’t feel like a victory to him.

[Sarah1281]

My eighty-first story was 'Chaos at the Landsmeet' where Angélique Amell is given far more power than she should have at the Landsmeet.


Alistair Theirin was quite convinced that he would make a terrible king. He had had it drilled into his head from birth that he was a commoner, he knew very little about the world, he had almost been a templar, he was a Grey Warden, bad things happened when he tried to lead, he was willing to put Angélique Amell of all people in charge after she’d been a Warden for all of a week (and most of that time she’d been unconscious), he knew nothing about the art of ruling…And if nothing else, how could someone so convinced that they were going to be a terrible king actually end up being a decent one?
 
Arl Eamon, it could be said, felt quite differently. He said that Alistair not wanting power somehow made him more desirable as a ruler. Alistair really didn’t get it but apparently that meant that he could be more trusted not to be corrupted by power. It was true that Alistair really couldn’t imagine himself going mad with power but, then again, he doubted even those that did go mad with power to think that it would happen to them. Since Eamon was looking to depose Anora – whether over his doubts about her fertility or the fact that her father was born a commoner and pure evil were up for debate – he would probably claim that Alistair would be a great king no matter how true this actually was. After all, how would it look if Eamon openly proclaimed that he thought Alistair was doomed to fail but wanted him on the throne in place of smart, competent Anora?
 
So Alistair had severe doubts about his ability to rule and his fate was about to be decided. The Landsmeet had decided that actually following the results of their vote would be too easy and so they were going to let Angélique and Loghain fight and they’d listen to whoever won. Now, Alistair had known Angélique for over a year now and he knew just how good she was at killing things. She could probably kill Loghain. On the other hand…well, Alistair couldn’t help but be a bit hesitant – to put it mildly – over the thought of leaving any sort of important decision up to her. Why people kept insisting on doing just that was beyond him.
 
Loghain took out his sword and charged at Angélique who, for her part, merely stepped a little to the side so that Loghain’s sword didn’t slice into her chest like he’d intended – why Angélique couldn’t be bothered to wear proper armor instead of fancy dresses everywhere was beyond him – but rather into her arm. Once she started bleeding, she flung her hand out at him and the blood (far more than should have been coming out of that one little cut and more than she should be able to lose safely as well) was flung at Loghain, locking him down and he hit his head hard on the floor, rendering him unconscious. Alistair wrinkled his nose. He hated it when Angélique used blood magic. In addition to it being evil and whatnot, it was so unhygienic!
 
“The winner is the Warden!” the Revered Mother announced. “Warden is there any way that you could revive Teyrn Loghain so that we may decide his fate?”
 
Angélique nodded cheerfully. “Can do.” She waved a hand lazily at Loghain and he moaned.
 
He sat up slowly. “What happened…wait…blood magic! You used blood magic!”
 
“Honestly, Loghain,” Eamon said disapprovingly. “Just because you lost is no reason to go accusing Angélique of blood magic.”
 
“But…I’m not just making things up,” Loghain protested. “I cut her and then her blood flew out and attacked me. Revered Mother, surely you must recognize the signs of blood magic. I mean, the name makes it pretty self-explanatory and it’s not like she was being at all subtle about it.”
 
“I resent the implication that I cannot recognize blood magic when I see it,” the Revered Mother sniffed. “Honestly, between this and your illegal imprisoning of templars, I’m beginning to think that you’re trying to alienate the Chantry.”
 
“What is wrong with you people?” Loghain demanded, bewildered. Alistair couldn’t believe he was about to say this but he could almost sympathize with the man. Angélique often had that effect on people but his templar training ensured that he could resist her…well, usually. He was somehow dating her even though he couldn’t stand her and he honestly had no idea how that had happened.
 
“Teyrn, we do not appreciate your condescension,” Bann Alfstanna said frankly. “First you tried to trick us into thinking that a vote that was exactly tied meant that you won and so were allowed to execute your challengers and now this.”
 
“I believe you, Loghain!” Bann Ceorlic cried out loyally. Given that Ceorlic always sided with Loghain on everything, Alistair couldn’t quite tell if the man really meant it or if he was only agreeing because Loghain thought so.
 
“Well none of us do,” Bann Sighard spoke up. “Seriously, does anyone else believe Loghain’s ridiculous claims that the Warden was cheating and using blood magic in her duel?”
 
There was silence.
 
“Such ridiculous accusations should be beneath you,” Arl Wulff said with a deep frown.
 
“She can’t possibly be controlling them all through blood magic…can she?” Loghain muttered to himself. “This is exactly why I can’t stand nobles.”
 
Alistair stayed quiet for as long as he could – for fear that he’d say something stupid, mostly – but when Riordan stepped forward to suggest making Loghain a Warden and Angélique seemed to agree, he could stay silent no longer. He didn’t blame Riordan, really. The man barely knew Loghain and had surely not heard of all of the man’s atrocities while he’d been tortured for months on end in Howe’s Denerim estate. He didn’t know what he was suggesting. Angélique, on the other hand…well, to be fair she might not know what she was agreeing to either. This was Angélique, after all.
 
“Please tell me you’re not seriously considering this,” Alistair begged, the anger in his voice making it far harder to tell how desperate he was. He could not possibly stay in an order with Loghain and the Grey Wardens were really all he had at this point.
 
“Why not?” Angélique asked, puzzled. “He’s a good fighter, I don’t blame him for Ostagar, we need more Wardens, I don’t actually hate him, he called me pretty when we first met…Why wouldn’t I agree to this?”
 
“Because he’s evil and I don’t want you to,” Alistair said, cringing a little as he said that. That was a horrible way to put that and wasn’t likely to convince anyone. It was hard to be eloquent when filled with so much hatred, however.
 
To his great surprise, Angélique turned tear-filled eyes to Loghain. “I am so sorry,” she apologized before sending out another wave of blood and killing him. Some of the blood she sent flying everywhere completely drenched Anora who had been standing all the way on the other side of the room.
 
“Angélique…” Alistair said, monumentally confused. “What did you do that for? I thought you said you wanted to spare him.”
 
“I did,” Angélique agreed, nodding. “But you told me not to and so I decided to ignore what I felt was right in this situation and murder someone I had intended to let live because someone else told me to.”
 
Alistair stared at her. “Yeah…you…probably shouldn’t do that. I mean, not like I don’t appreciate you killing Loghain and fully approve of it but you shouldn’t let other people make your decisions for you.” Alistair paused as he realized what he’d just said. While that was true for most people, this was Angélique he was talking about and no matter who she listened to, the advice-giver was virtually guaranteed to be more rational than she was.
 
“And so it is decided,” Eamon said, coming up to stand beside him. “Alistair shall take his father’s throne.”
 
“…Yeah, no one decided that,” Alistair pointed out. “The Landsmeet just decided that Loghain wouldn’t be the regent anymore since he’s dead.”
 
“I agree with Alistair, for once,” Anora said, hurrying to stand by them as well.
 
“Clearly you’re being biased here, Anora,” Eamon told her patronizingly. “Warden, why don’t you decide who should be king? It’s not like you’ve just proven yourself highly susceptible to ignoring how you feel about things and to listen to one of the candidates instead.”
 
Angélique smiled magnanimously. “That’s fine by me. I think Alistair should rule and I’ll be his queen.”
 
“NO!” Alistair cried out, horrified. Everyone stared at him. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sorry, Angélique, but that’s just not possible. Mages can’t be queen, you know, and I’m going to be marrying Anora and ruling jointly so since it’s not fair to either of you to continue seeing you I’m afraid I’m going to have to end things.”
 
“You are?” Eamon cried out, horrified.
 
“You are?” Anora asked, puzzled. She shrugged. “I can work with this.”
 
“You are?” Angélique asked, sounding heartbroken. “But I love you!”
 
“I know you say that,” Alistair assured her.
 
“I would set my own grandmother on fire for you!” Angélique exclaimed.
 
“I thought you didn’t know your grandparents,” Alistair reminded her. “Or any of your other relatives seeing as how you don’t have any memories of before you were taken to the Tower.”
 
“If I knew who she was I would light her on fire,” Angélique explained.
 
Alistair decided not to mention that even if she could find her grandmother, she would be a stranger and so it wouldn’t have the same meaning as if someone who knew their relatives better had actually said it. “I do hope you’re joking.”
 
“I’m not!” Angélique swore. She looked around. “Where’s Wynne? She keeps insisting on being team grandmother even though everyone but you dearly wants to stab her when she starts lecturing us like we’re disobedient children. I can use her as a proxy!”
 
“Why would I even want you to light your grandmother on fire?” Alistair demanded.
 
“Because she said that we couldn’t be together,” Angélique said as if it were obvious. “Which Wynne has totally said in the past.”
 
“But we can’t be together, remember?” Alistair reminded her. “Because you just made me king and I’m marrying Anora.” He would have really preferred to just let Anora rule alone but he wasn’t so big a fool that he couldn’t recognize the perfect opportunity to escape from Angélique’s clutches once and for all.
 
Angélique started to cry. “You’re mean!!” she wailed, her eyes mysteriously not turning all red. Why didn’t it at all surprise him that she looked gorgeous even when she cried?
 
“I’m sorry,” Alistair said lamely. He didn’t regret his decision for a minute but he hated seeing people cry, even more so when it was because of him.
 
“That’s it!” Angélique declared, running for the exit. “I quit!”


“Quit what?” Alistair asked blankly.
 
Angélique paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I quit the Blight.”
 
“You can’t just quit a Blight,” Eamon said mildly.
 
“Nobody asked you,” Angélique snapped. “And I totally can. I was just cruelly dumped since my boyfriend’s been mind-controlled by an evil harpy and now I have lost the will to live. I demand that all of Ferelden suffer with me and so I’m going to go fall in a well or something. Have fun getting eaten by darkspawn!” With that, she pushed the door open and slipped through it.
 
“She doesn’t…she doesn’t really mean that, does she?” Riordan asked uncertainly.
 
Alistair shrugged. “I really don’t know. Maybe we might want to look into using those Joining supplies you mentioned after all…”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt was“Do you stare at everyone like that?”


“Do you stare at everyone like that?” the Warden asked quietly. Zevran could certainly understand her hesitance. Caunira Surana had spent most of her life in a dank, isolated tower and had no memories of the outside from before she had been recruited into the Grey Wardens. She wouldn’t talk about what had happened but he had gathered that it involved some sort of blood magic scandal although he’d yet to see any evidence that she possessed any such talents.
 
At the Circle Tower, there had been only templars who were not supposed to get involved with mages and her fellow mages that she could gotten involved with. Of the mages, there was only one who had stood out to her as being at all spirited enough to be worth considering. Tragically – well, for her – he was a human which was a deal-breaker in and of itself and he was prone to chronically escaping so getting too close to him would have made her life there difficult so she had made sure to keep her distance and not allow herself to become too attached. Caunira was not at all experienced when it came to flirting and sex (although quite adept at turning people down if what he’d seen with Alistair and Leliana was any indication) and it showed in her question.
 
Most of the people he had known and been with would stare back unabashedly and begin to move towards sex or even simply jump him if they weren’t the patient sort. Something told him that that wouldn’t go over very well with Caunira and he did not wish to anger her for several reasons. She was his only protection against the Crows now that he had failed to kill her, of course, as well as the fact that she was a powerful mage and virgins were rarely interested in angry sex.
 
Did he stare at everybody the way he stared at her? It wasn’t like he had a mirror with him so he could see how, exactly, he stared at her and he hadn’t had to practice his stare for quite some time and so he wasn’t entirely sure though he rather doubted it. When he was a child growing up in an Antivan ****house, he had had just one stare: that of a resigned boy who watched other boys only a little older than him being sold off to many anonymous men and, occasionally, broken by them. He had seen the stares that they and many of the women of the ****house had used to entice their customers but, unlike with the massages he’d been taught, he had simply absorbed it and made no effort to make it his own.
 
When Zevran was seven he was sold himself but not to horny men – and sometimes women – but rather to the illustrious Antivan Crows. Zevran had been terrified at the prospect of being an assassin but he had seen them around sometimes, oftentimes in the very ****house he had grown up in, and they were all confident, powerful men. He had truly been lucky to escape the fate of the other ****-bred boys. Of course, such power and prestige did not come easily and the Crows training started to produce their first casualties in a little less than a year. That was when Zevran learned his second stare. The Crows didn’t want horror at death or weepy sentimentalism. They didn’t want fear and they didn’t want individualism. They had taught him to gaze impassively no matter what new sight lay before his eyes. It was a very useful skill, that, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion.
 
The years passed and Zevran had excelled in his training. He had thrown himself into it, naturally, desperate to survive and eager to excel at something other than looks which, given his species, were something that had always drawn people to him. Just because he wanted to be recognized for something besides that was no reason not to cultivate his innate talents, however, especially seeing as how seduction was such a useful tool for an assassin. That was when he developed his third stare. It had taken him more hours than he cared to admit practicing in front of a mirror and feeling very foolish and not at all enticed but eventually he had managed to take his half-forgotten memories from his years in the ****house and turn it into the kind of stare that almost without exception lured whoever he used it on into his bed. His targets, his superiors, Taliesin, Rinna…
 
Zevran was afraid that if he tried his usual alluring gaze on Caunira then she’d become spooked and he’d miss his chance with her. She looked a little like Rinna which both made him even more eager to pursue her and yet strangely reluctant. Caunira was not Rinna, he sternly reminded himself, and she would not meet the same fate. If nothing else, she had proven the ability to best him so even if he tried to kill her (again) she would be able to survive it. The Warden was his newest master but, unlike all of his previous ones, she didn’t seem to know what to do with him. If she had asked, Zevran would have had plenty of suggestions but she never did. She just talked to him for hours on end about his past and hers and genuinely seemed interested in getting to know him. If only for the sake of making sure that he wasn’t planning on trying his hand at killing her again, Zevran could understand the use of that.
 
How did he stare at her? He had caught himself staring several times – notably, right before she had asked him that question – and though he lacked the ability to see how it appeared to her, his gaze felt different than it ever had before. Almost everything with her felt different than it had before. A new country, a new and nobler purpose, a new game to play…he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it yet. But he did know one thing, at least.
 
“Not everyone.”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt was 'Human For a Day.'


Dalish mages could be rather terrified, Anders decided. He really should have realized that earlier but in his defense Velanna had never been quite so angry at him before. Who would have thought that turning her hair lime green would be enough to set her off so badly? He was willing to admit that he almost had a heart attack when he saw the magic sparkling from her fingers but she didn’t go after him. No, instead she zapped poor Ser Pounce-a-lot and then flounced away, leaving Anders to watch anxiously to see what she’d done to his beloved cat.
 
Poor Pounce just mewled and twisted for a few minutes before there was a flash of light and when Anders could see again, his cat was gone. In its place was an unfamiliar human. Despite Pounce being a male, this creature was most decidedly female. She was a leggy redhead with joy and innocence sparkling in her bright emerald eyes and a small upturned nose. She was also naked.
 
Now, normally this kind of situation would be a dream come true for Anders but…this was his cat. His very male cat. It felt wrong to so much as look at her. He quickly grabbed a blanket that someone had left lying in a corner of the room and threw it at her. “Put this on!” he ordered.
 
Pounce merely stared quizzically at it for a second. Maybe she would have eventually figured out what to do with it but having her standing there so completely exposed and where anyone could walk in on them at any second was really making Anders uncomfortably so he gently took the blanket from her and draped it around her. It wasn’t much but at least he could no longer see the parts that, as a male, she wasn’t even supposed to have! Still, he should really get something for her to wear that wouldn’t fall down and expose her if she let go of the ends of it or moved too quickly. But what? Sigrun’s clothing would be too short for her, Velanna’s clothing couldn’t really be called that fairly, and Angélique always seemed to know whenever anyone had been in her room and so he couldn’t very well sneak something out of there. Besides, her outfits were always very…distinctive.
 
Nathaniel chose that moment to walk into the room. He took one look at the situation in front of him and then turned right around and began to walk back out.
 
“Hey!” Anders called out. “Where are you going?”
 
“Somewhere where I do not have to watch you and your latest conquest going at it in the library,” Nathaniel responded curtly. “And since we’re on the subject, I would like to remind you that you have a perfectly good room of your own to use for things like this and so I would appreciate it if you could avoid tainting the rest of the Keep as such.”
 
“We were not tainting the Keep!” Anders exclaimed indignantly.
 
Nathaniel waved his hand. “Tainting the Keep, having sex with strangers in every room, call it what you want.”
 
“But…but we weren’t even doing that!” Anders protested.
 
Nathaniel favored him with a skeptical look. “Really. So you’re standing right next to a beautiful woman who is wearing nothing but a blanket – which I dearly hope you wash when you’re done with – for some completely innocuous reason, I take it.”
 
Despite the clear sarcasm, Anders nodded vigorously. “Yes! She didn’t have anything to wear and so I just grabbed the first thing I could see. You’re lucky you didn’t come in here two minutes earlier.”
 
Nathaniel didn’t look any more convinced. “Alright, I’ll bite. Why would she be in the library without any clothes if she wasn’t having sex with, if not you, then somebody?”
 
“Because Velanna got pissed at me and turned Ser Pounce-a-lot into a human,” Anders said, helpfully gesturing towards the girl just in case Nathaniel didn’t make the obvious connection.
 
Nathaniel’s eyebrow rose. “Last time I checked, your cat was a male, Anders.”
 
“She was really pissed,” Anders said by way of explanation. “And so it was weird to just be looking at her and so I had to cover her up somehow but I have no idea how long the spell will last or how to change it back! And if I go anywhere near Velanna then she’ll kill me!”
 
“You could just tell her how to change her hair back,” Nathaniel pointed out. “I only didn’t get here in time to see this girl naked because she stopped me to ask if I knew anything about how to get her back to normal.”
 
“And I take it you didn’t,” Anders guessed. “So does this mean you’ll help me?”
 
Nathaniel shook his head. “Anders, I don’t even believe you and if I did then I’m fairly certain that I don’t want to get involved with this. It’s…odd. And Angélique is getting back from Antiva today so I need to enjoy whatever semblances of normality I can before then.” With that, he turned once again to leave.
 
“Coward!” Anders called after him but without much bite in his words. They were all on edge since she was finally returning from her epic journey to get her sword back from the Crows. There had been all sorts of rumors about her and her friend Zevran conquering Antiva and leaving Zevran in charge of the Crows but no one really knew what was true and what wasn’t. Anders had technically been left in charge while she was away but, like when Angélique was actually here, Nathaniel had ended up doing most of the work. Anders would feel bad but, really, it was the Howe’s own damn fault for caring more.
 
Sighing, Anders turned his attention back to Pounce. He really hoped that he could get her back to normal before she got back or else she was bound to make everything far more complicated than it needed to be. “What am I going to do with you?” he murmured.
 
Pounce, sensing her master’s distress, walked over to him and began to rub against him. Now, this was perfectly fine and even appreciated when she was a cat. When she was a voluptuous young woman covered only by a thin blanket and Anders couldn’t stop thinking of his male cat, it was a great deal more awkward. With a yelp, he leapt back and ended up falling over.
 
“What was that?” Angélique asked, her attention attracted by the noise. When had she gotten back?!?! Her eyes fell upon Pounce who had lost her hold on the blanket. Angélique’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Andraste! A welcome home present! You’re so thoughtful, Anders! All Velanna did was turn her hair green and I haven’t been able to find Nate.”
 
It was times like these that Anders was grateful that he had made Oghren’s acquaintance as the dwarf had a far more colorful vocabulary than he did. “Caridin's teeth!”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Nathaniel prompt is 'A Secret.'


Nathaniel was just on his way to the kitchen to see if the cook would take pity on him for sleeping in late and missing breakfast when he heard some excited cries coming from his brother’s room. Deciding that his curiosity was stronger than his hunger, he slowly opened the door and stuck his head inside. Thomas, wearing a hat that he’d attached feathers to, was holding his wooden practice sword in his hands dramatically and one of the practice dummies had been moved from outside to the center of the room and was wearing an angry-looking mask that the boy had clearly made himself.
 
“What are you doing?” Nathaniel asked, completely bewildered.
 
Thomas jumped about a foot. “Ah! Don’t sneak up on me like that, Nathaniel,” he said, mildly angry.
 
“I didn’t sneak up on you,” Nathaniel pointed out. “I just opened your door.”
 
“Well…don’t do that, either,” Thomas ordered.
 
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Ever?”
 
Thomas frowned as he realized that that really wasn’t very practical. “Not without knocking first,” he amended.
 
“I won’t,” Nathaniel promised solemnly, knowing that he probably wasn’t going to remember. “So what are you doing anyway? And why do you have a training dummy in here?”
 
Now Thomas looked strangely nervous. “I’m not doing anything, really, just playing…”
 
That really didn’t make anything at all clearer. “Playing what?” Nathaniel pressed.
 
Thomas looked down. “Promise you won’t tell?”
 
“Tell who?” Nathaniel asked, wondering just what was going on that he was now being sworn to secrecy over a game.
 
“Don’t tell anyone,” Thomas said urgently. “Not even Delilah!”
 
“I promise,” Nathaniel vowed, figuring that if it were really serious and he felt that he had to tell then his little brother’s well-being was more important than his promise. Thomas would be very angry with him and might not trust him again anytime soon but he was willing to accept those consequences.
 
Thomas bit his lip, still looking hesitant. He mumbled something inaudible.

“Would you care to repeat that?” Nathaniel asked. “Maybe this time loud enough so that I can actually here it?”
 
Thomas glared at him briefly. “I said that I was playing Grey Wardens and darkspawn,” he muttered a little louder.
 
Nathaniel’s eyes widened as he realized just why Thomas had wanted to keep that a secret. Their father was currently in Denerim and so he was unlikely to see what Thomas was up to unless a servant or somebody told on him but if he did find out then it wouldn’t be good. Their father hated Grey Wardens. The last Blight was around four hundred years ago and so everyone said that they weren’t important anymore but that just made them not care about the Wardens, not actively hate them like their father did.
 
Nathaniel didn’t know all the details because his father hated to talk about it but apparently a long time ago, when his father was just a child himself, his own father – Padric Howe – had abandoned the family to go join the Grey Wardens. He was supposed to become the Arl of Amaranthine but he had decided to put glory-seeking ahead of that and leave his young son to take up the mantle of Arl from his elderly grandfather who was not able to retire when he would have liked but was forced to keep on as Arl until the Couslands had killed him for siding with Orlais during the rebellion. His father always said that he understood the need for that before quickly changing the subject. Nathaniel guessed that even if it was necessary that he still wouldn’t like to lose a family member. The worst part was that his grandfather Padric had never looked back once. Nathaniel’s father had expected him to at least send some sort of letter when his grandfather had died but he hadn’t. He had simply walked away from his family and his responsibilities – behaving in a very un-Howe-like manner – and that was the end of it. For all they knew, Padric had died a long time ago. For all that it mattered to them, he might as well have.
 
Thomas knew the story as well as Nathaniel did which was why his playing was in secret but he still looked rather defiant. “See, I’ve got a griffon hat right here…or a hat with griffon feathers on it. I’ve got my sword and I’m busy killing darkspawn. I wanted to fight an Archdemon but I don’t have anything big enough to use as a giant dragon.”
 
Nathaniel merely shook his head. “Oh, Thomas…”
 
“Don’t tell anyone!” Thomas begged. “Especially not Father! It’s just a game.”
 
“Oh, I know, I know,” Nathaniel was quick to reassure him. “But Thomas…why do you have to play this game? Surely there are plenty of others that you could pick that aren’t so…dangerous.”
 
“I’m sick of playing Rebels and Orlesians,” Thomas pouted. “And there really aren’t any other good games. And Delilah won’t play with me anyway because she doesn’t like swords. Besides, I want to be a Grey Warden someday.”
 
Nathaniel’s heart stopped. It was one thing to play Grey Wardens and Darkspawn. To actually want to be one, however, and to even say something about it? Oh, if their father found out about that Thomas would be lucky if he didn’t find himself disowned. “Don’t say that!” he hissed.
 
“Why not?” Thomas asked stubbornly. “It’s true.”
 
“Look,” Nathaniel said slowly, trying to make him understand. “If you want to grow up someday and leave us all behind like Grandfather Padric did then I won’t be happy about it but I’ll put up with it. That’s a long way away, though. You aren’t even allowed to touch a real sword yet. If you go around talking about how you’re going to do it then you’re just going to upset a lot of people now.” And anger them. Particularly their father.
 
“Well, I don’t want that,” Thomas conceded reluctantly. “And I’m not stupid enough to say that in front of other people anyway.”
 
Nathaniel just stood there, feeling a little awkward. Of course he knew that his brother wasn’t but he really didn’t want to take that kind of a chance. Now Thomas was sulking and it was all his fault and the boy had clearly been having a lot of fun before. All of the servants – and even Delilah – would knock before barging in so they’d probably have given Thomas time to hide what he was doing…although who knew how he’d hide the practice dummy.
 
“Thomas…” Nathaniel began hesitantly.
 
Thomas merely blinked at him which Nathaniel took as a sign to continue.
 
“It can’t be very much fun playing with a darkspawn that will never fight back,” Nathaniel reasoned. “Maybe I could help with that.”
 
Thomas’ face lit up. “You mean…?”
 
Nathaniel smiled at the look on his brother’s face. “Yes, Thomas I’ll play with you.”
 
“And you won’t tell anyone,” Thomas said, just to make sure.
 
“No, I won’t tell anyone,” Nathaniel confirmed. “It will be our secret.”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt was 'Reunion' and it takes place in the DSC-universe.


Ferelden had not been at all what Zevran had been expecting, to put it mildly. He had volunteered for the contract on the Grey Warden so that he could see if he could find a way out of the Crow-dominated rut he’d found himself in. Maybe he’d wind up dead, maybe succeeding at a task everyone else had shied away from would give him some validation at last – validation he desperately need ever since Rinna had just stared up at him while….
 
One outcome that he had never expected because it was so far beyond anything he’d ever experienced was that the Grey Warden would have woken him up, questioned him more or less civilly, and – upon learning that he would not go after Loghain – decide to simply let him go. Sure, Zevran could attempt to kill the Warden again but he thought that that might be pushing his luck and all of his men were dead, anyway. He was just going to have to try to live with his failure…something that would be a lot easier far from Antiva. It would also be a lot easier if the Blight engulfing the land really had been a myth like that man Howe had said.
 
Still, Zevran would rather face darkspawn than the Crows and he doubted very much that the monsters of legend could make him regret ever having been born as much as the Crows did. Could. He meant could. Since Zevran was going to be hiding in Ferelden for the foreseeable future, he had decided to seek out another group of elves to blend in with. He had never fit in with the Dalish and so he’d come to an Alienage. He had been roughly halfway between the Denerim Alienage and the one in Highever when he’d decided this but he had heard all about the chaos going on in Highever since the new Teyrn had taken over and wanted no part in it.
 
The Denerim Alienage had been no better. He had been there for only a few short hours and quickly realized that he should get out of there. The elves were rioting and that wouldn’t end well no matter how many people had been abducted for what purpose. Unfortunately, before he had time to leave, that Teyrn from Highever – Howe, it turned out – had claimed the mantle of the Arl of Denerim as well and sent troops into the Alienage. It was…horrible and it was months before the gates to the Alienage had been open again.
 
He had just learned of his newfound freedom (there didn’t seem to be much of it even here in Ferelden) and started towards the gates before they could change their minds and keep him trapped in here. To his great surprise, Taliesin of all people stood, arms crossed and smirking, framed in the gateway.

Zevran had stood there staring stupidly for a moment before he caught himself. He hadn’t been away from the Crows for that long. “Taliesin? What are you doing here?”
 
“I think the better question is what are you doing here in an Alienage,” Taliesin returned.
 
“I had only just stopped by when the gates were closed and I had no way of getting out for months,” Zevran explained. “The soldiers were too on the look-out for rioters. Now, what brings you to Ferelden?”
 
“You know that Grey Warden you were hired to assassinate?” Taliesin asked rhetorically. “It turns out that he’s not quite dead yet and professionalism requires him to be so I volunteered to go investigate the matter. Opinion’s pretty divided on whether you died or tried to run away and I really don’t think anyone would have expected this.”
 
Zevran had been trying to run away but, much like with the Dalish, he actually found life with the Crows preferable than remaining here. “So what are you going to do now that you found me?”
 
Taliesin eyed him suggestively. Really, Zevran might have known he’d take it that way. “I was thinking that we could just go and assassinate the Warden together and then hurry back to Antiva before the darkspawn kill everyone. I’m not sure how you’ll explain being unreachable for so long – because the truth is really embarrassing – but I’m sure that between the two of us we can think of something.”
 
Taliesin was always trying to find ways to save Zevran from his own choices. It was rather un-Crow-like and that was why it meant so much to him. “I’m sure we will,” he agreed. “But until we actually kill the Warden then neither of us can go back so there’s little point in thinking of a cover story until the job is actually done.”
 
“True enough,” Taliesin nodded. “So you’re in luck. The Warden is actually in town right now which is how I was able to find you.”
 
“He is?” Zevran asked curiously. “That sounds reckless. Is he still an outlaw or did that change while I was…busy?”
 
“He’s still an outlaw,” Taliesin confirmed. “But another noble has called one of those quaint Ferelden ‘Landsmeets’ to challenge the regent’s right to the throne and aims to put the Warden on it instead.”
 
“We’ll need to hurry then,” Zevran remarked. “How long do we have?”
 
“The Landsmeet is to take place two days from today,” Taliesin revealed. “Technically, I suppose we could do this anytime before the coronation which will likely take place after the Blight but I don’t want to stay in a Blighted country any longer than I have to and there’s every chance that the Warden will die in the Blight which I’m not sure we could take credit for.”
 
“And should he manage to become king then he’ll likely be far harder to kill,” Zevran added.
 
“I have it on good authority that the Warden is on his way to our client’s Denerim estate right now in order to meet up with the current queen,” Taliesin announced. “We can ambush him there and then we can go home. Both of us.”
 
This wasn’t exactly the way that Zevran had expected his trip to Ferelden to end or, if he was being honest with himself, the way he wanted it to but it seemed that, once again, the Crows proved to be the only place he belonged.“Let’s go then.”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'Namaya.'


Namaya had always been good at finding things. She didn’t know why other people had such difficulty tracking people down or locating object but her hard work, determination, and occasional pure dumb luck usually meant that if she set her heart on finding something, it would turn up sooner or later.
 
That was how she had gotten out of the Alienage. That was how she’d ended up owning her own tavern. That was how she’d first met Anders, that chronic apostate who just never knew when to quit. Life…life had been good. Business was booming and whenever Anders had shown up, he had made her laugh…among other things. Then the Blight had come. Then the tavern had been tainted and burned beyond any hope of salvaging it. Then she had had too many people who she owed money to and who owed money to her but couldn’t pay so she had little hope of ever rebuilding her tavern. She hadn’t known what to do and so she’d started tracking down things and people for anyone who could pay. In the post-Blight world where families had been separated and possessions stolen, it was a decent living.
 
That was when Anders had shown up again. He had kissed her on the cheek and shoved a diamond into her hands.
 
“Anders, what-?” she had started to say.
 
“You probably don’t want to know,” Anders cut her off. He was always saying that but since he was an escaped mage and thus his very presence in the world outside of the Circle Tower was illegal, he was probably right to try and keep her in the dark. If a Templar ever saw them together, she fully planned to disavow any knowledge of Anders’ magic.
 
“Can you at least tell me why you’re giving me this?” Namaya requested. “Because if you want me to hide this from the authorities or an irate nobleman then-”
 
“No, nothing like that,” Anders was quick to assure her. “That’s your payment.”
 
“My payment?” Namaya repeated blankly. Fire quickly flooded her veins. “I am not a ****!”
 
“Wait, what?” Anders asked, looking stricken. “That’s not what I meant at all!”
 
“Oh really,” Namaya said, venom dripping from every word.
 
“Really!” Anders insisted. “I need something found and I’ve heard that you’ve gotten quite a reputation lately.”
 
If Namaya’s ears were burning at the conclusion she’d jumped to, she refused to acknowledge it. “Oh. Well, a diamond is quite a bit more than I usually charge.”
 
“I kind of figured that,” Anders said with a nod. “But this isn’t your average case.”
 
“As you are hardly my average client, I wasn’t expecting it to be,” Namaya retorted. “I’m a little concerned about what someone like you could possibly want me to find that you think is worth a finder’s fee of an entire diamond…and not even a little one.”
 
“Are you sure you want to cut write to the chase?” Anders asked, a little disappointed.
 
“If you wanted to make small talk first – or whatever – then you really should have thought about that before peaking my curiosity,” Namaya said flatly. “What are you after?”
 
Anders looked around nervously. Nobody seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to him but he’d spent enough time being hunted that he was always paranoid that he was being watched. “Not here,” he said shortly before grabbing her arm and practically dragging her to a more secluded alleyway.
 
“Are you satisfied that we’re not being watched?” Namaya asked, a little annoyed, as she rubbed the spot on her arm that he had been holding.
 
“Reasonably,” Anders said reluctantly. “Listen, Namaya, I know that this is dangerous and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important and that’s why I gave you such a huge payment. The timing for this is perfect and if it doesn’t happen now then I don’t think I’m ever going to get a better opportunity so-”
 
“Anders, just what do you want me to find?” Namaya interrupted, his words making her feel ill at ease.
 
Anders took a deep breath before replying. “My phylactery.”
 
Namaya drew back. “Your phylactery?”
 
Anders nodded. “Indeed. Now, normally it is housed somewhere in Denerim with all the others and probably guarded ridiculously well. Since Denerim had had to be evacuated right before the darkspawn hoard came to destroy the city, my phylactery won’t be there anymore and wherever it’s being temporarily housed cannot possibly be as secure. Additionally, I’ve recently learned that my blood that they keep on hand at the Tower given how often I escape was destroyed when Uldred and his followers took over the Tower briefly a few months back.”
 
“So you want me to mess with the templars,” Namaya said, really not liking the sound of it.
 
“No, not at all,” Anders hastened to reassure her. “Just find out where it is and maybe a few details about obvious defenses and then I can take care of the rest…somehow. I don’t expect you to steal if for me, just let me know where it is. They won’t even have to know about you or your connection to me at all.”
 
Namaya really didn’t like the sound of this. It wasn’t like she had any particular fear or hatred of mages nor was she a pious woman but the Chantry wasn’t an organization that could be trifled with so easily. This had the potential to end very, very badly. Still…a whole diamond? She could really use the money and Anders was right. If she was careful, they need not even know that she was poking around.
 
“Please, Namaya,” Anders said, an almost pleading note in his voice. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
 
And so she’d agreed. Of course she’d agreed. In the end, she’d never been able to say no to him when he looked at her like that. And when he’d left a few hours later, promising to meet up with her in three weeks at the same spot, she’d gotten right to work. It wasn’t easy to find anything as the Chantry guarded its secrets jealously but eventually she’d followed up a promising lead and gotten the information that she was looking for.
 
Now she was waiting at the agreed meeting place for Anders but though it had already been an hour past when he was supposed to show up, there was no sign of him.
 
“Excuse me…Namaya, was it?” an unfamiliar voice spoke up from behind her.
 
Namaya spun around to see a woman in traditional templar attire standing there with three other templars with their helmets covering their faces. “May I help you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking. This could not be good news. She knew she should have just turned Anders down.
 
The female templar smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “You know what, I think you can.”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Nathaniel Prompt is 'Fergus Cousland.'

Nathaniel was supposed to have left for the Free Marches three weeks ago. According to Delilah, their father was threatening to come up to Highever and personally drag him to the ship that would take him there which would certainly be a sight to see since Nathaniel was a good half a foot taller than his father. Still, it would be the kind of thing that he would never ever be able to live down and so he’d really rather avoid having that scenario play out. He’d be gone this time tomorrow, however, and so even if his father did mean to do what he said he’d arrive to find Nathaniel already gone.
 
Normally, Nathaniel was much more of a dutiful son than this but he was going to be gone for years and he really hadn’t a clue when he’d be back. He was really going to miss Ferelden. Additionally, his childhood friend Fergus Cousland had just become a father a week ago and Nathaniel wouldn’t have missed that for the world. He felt like he was running out on him either way since the child – Oren – was still so very new but it couldn’t be helped. Fergus had said that he had understood and Nathaniel could only prey that he had meant that.
 
“Nathaniel?” a low voice broke the silence. “What are you still doing up?”
 
Nathaniel looked up from the portrait of the Teyrna Eleanor (he had always loved to look at portraits) he had been studying to see Fergus standing in the doorway. “I could ask you that very question, you know.”
 
Fergus grinned. “That you could but – and not to sound childish here – I so asked first.”
 
Nathaniel fought the urge to roll his eyes. Maker, and Fergus was the elder of the two. “I was just reflecting on how this will be my last night in Ferelden for quite some time.”
 
Fergus’ grin faded at that. “I know,” he said with a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s hard to believe. And your father hasn’t explained why at all?”
 
“He said something about how he wanted me to become more self-sufficient like they had to be during the rebellion,” Nathaniel replied once again. He had Fergus had had this conversation more times than he could count, as had he and Delilah, he and Thomas, he and Anastasia, he and Adria… “He thinks that it will make me a more suitable heir for the Arling.”
 
Fergus was still incredulous. “And he can’t make you a ‘more suitable heir’ without sending you out of the country?”
 
“My father is not a man willing to let his authority be questioned,” Nathaniel reminded his friend. “And so I can only press him for answers so far before the conversation turns sour. That’s all I’ve managed to get out of him and if he has some ulterior motive for sending me away then he’s not going to tell me what it is.”
 
The two stood together in glum silence before Fergus shook himself. “Oriana made me get up to change little Oren but since I was already awake I went down to the kitchens to get a snack and was on my way back to bed. Oriana doesn’t really approve of my habit of eating in the middle of the night but since I was up anyway-”
 
“She still wouldn’t approve,” Nathaniel cut him off.
 
Fergus made a face. “But she’s the one who made me get up!” he protested.
 
“She still wouldn’t approve,” Nathaniel repeated matter-of-factly.
 
Fergus thought it for a moment before shrugging. “You may be right. Just the same, she’ll never know.”
 
Something about that whole situation just struck Nathaniel as odd. “Why were you changing him in the middle of the night, anyway?” he asked curiously.
 
Fergus looked annoyed that Nathaniel apparently hadn’t been listening. “Because Oriana didn’t want to do it and said something about the fact that she had gotten him last time.”
 
“No, I understand that part,” Nathaniel corrected. “What I was curious about was why you and Oriana were the ones who would have to be changing Oren in the middle of the night.”
 
Another strange look. “Because…he’s our son? What, do you expect my parents to do it? Oh, Maker help us, Anastasia? She’s barely even interested in him during the day!”
 
Nathaniel exhaled loudly in frustration. Why was this simple thought so difficult to get across? “This is a teynir. Your family is the second most powerful apart from the Theirins. You have countless servants. Wouldn’t it be easier for one of them to take care of your son, at least at night?”
 
Fergus looked surprised at the suggestion. “I suppose it would be but…I don’t know. It feels kind of impersonal, you know? Anastasia and I both had Nan take care of us when we were little and our parents were busy but when they weren’t they were always there tending to our needs. Mother is still in the process of trying to talk her out of retiring from cooking duties and going back to being a nanny for little Oren but he’s just so little now that it seems a bit soon to have someone else take care of him when they don’t have to. Besides, I don’t want someone else – even someone like Nan – to spend more time with my son than I do and Oriana feels the same way.”
 
Nathaniel felt a small stab of jealousy at that remark but quickly suppressed it. Fergus was his friend and it wouldn’t do to hold something against him that he had no more control of than Nathaniel himself did. What Fergus had described not wanting for his son was exactly what Nathaniel and his siblings had had to contend with growing up. Adria was a wonderful woman and in so many ways she was like a mother to them but they had barely even known their mother when she had died and their father, though he tried, wasn’t exactly the most approachable man either. Part of him wanted desperately what Fergus took for granted but that was not to be and so there was no use dwelling on it.
 
“You’re a good father,” he said instead.
 
Fergus beamed at him.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt was 'A Zevran Holiday.'


The date was the thirteenth of Guardian and the place was Antiva City. The ancient celebration of Lupercalia had just begun and would continue for two days and Zevran wouldn’t miss it for the world. Some of the ways that Lupercalia was celebrated were a bit bizarre in his expert opinion, such as when two young boys were c hosen to be the ‘Luperci.’ These Luperci were led to an alter, had t heir foreheads anointed with sacrificial blood from one dog and two goats (the bloodied knife was wiped off with wool soaked in milk), and then called upon to laugh and smile before being dressed in the skin of the goats. Then the two boys were each given a thong made of the goats’ flesh and went around the city using said thong to strike at girls and young women on the streets. Far from being offended, however, these women were thrilled and felt that in taking these blows they were being protected from sterility, the pains of childbirth would be eased, and their fertility would be on the rise. Zevran wasn’t quite sure that it was healthy for these women to be so eager to be struck, even for religious purposes, but he supposed that that was really their own business.
 
All of that, though great for entertainment value, was not why he was so fond of Lupercalia. No, this was a celebration to get rid of evil spirits and to promote fertility. Fear of evil spirits (and the handy excuse) was good for business and all this interest in fertility was good for…other things. Many women were very eager to test out their new fertility…and so were many men. His current target? His lovely fellow assassin, Rinna.
 
Rinna was engrossed in throwing daggers at a tree when Zevran approached her. Though she was concentrating greatly, she noticed Zevran’s presence before he got within twenty feet of her. Had he been trying to be stealthy, he might have been quite embarrassed. Rinna was a truly marvelous creature, however, with very fine assassination skills. What he wouldn’t give to go on a mission with her…
 
“Did you need something?” Rinna asked, examining the dagger in her hand almost lazily.
 
“Not as such, no,” Zevran told her. “I was just wondering why you were still here at this Crow compound.”
 
“I’m training,” Rinna explained unnecessarily. “Is there some reason that I shouldn’t be?”
 
“Well, most gorgeous young women are off at the festivities,” Zevran pointed out.
 
Rinna laughed. “Ah, yes. Those women standing around hoping that if they can get a lucky blow then they’ll have a baby. I’ve had plenty of luck with the first but, thankfully, not so much with the second.”
 
“I take it you don’t want children?” Zevran asked, not particularly surprised. He had never really thought about the prospect of being a father – though for all he knew he was already one – and he really couldn’t picture himself as changing a child’s diaper and fixing it meals or whatever else he would be called upon to do for it.
 
Rinna shuddered at the very thought. “Maker, no. A pregnancy at this point would ruin my career and what would happen to the baby? He’d grow up a Crow or die trying. There’s plenty of slaves to be bought for that purpose; they hardly need me to contribute to our ranks.” Unspoken, of course, was the fact that there were no retired Crows and so if one lost the ability to assassinate before they were experienced enough to become part of the management then that was quite the problem.
 
“So you’re not a fan of Lupercalia?” Zevran asked, a little disappointed. He could always go find somebody else but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as it would be if it were with Rinna.
 
“Not of many parts of it, no,” Rinna agreed. “Though I’ve found that with virtually any holiday, if you dig deep enough you can come up with some cause to dislike it.”
 
“Any holiday?” Zevran repeated, snorting. “I’d say that applies really to anything.”
 
“Have you seen Taliesin yet today?” Rinna asked suddenly.
 
Zevran blinked at the apparent non-sequitur. “I have not,” he replied. “Why? Have you?”
 
Rinna nodded slowly, her dark bouncing as she did so. “I have indeed. I believe he’s looking for you. He seemed to be quite interested in the festivities as well although I don’t expect the two of you will have much luck.”
 
Zevran grinned. “Perhaps not, but what is most important is that we keep trying, no?”
 
“I think at this point any sane man would realize that it’s just not going to happen,” Rinna said dryly.
 
“Truly? Then how fortunate that we are not sane men but Crows,” Zevran said, pleased.
 
Rinna laughed. “You’re determined to keep trying until you get a baby from somewhere, then?”
 
“That is the plan,” Zevran agreed solemnly. “Or until we are thoroughly sick of each other, whichever comes first.”
 
“Are you taking bets as to the outcome?” Rinna inquired. “Because if so I have some silver I’d like to lay down.”
 
“Oh, we would,” Zevran explained. “Except that the odds are so far against us that we would rob everyone blind when we won and it wouldn’t do to anger so many dangerous assassins all at once, especially once we became ridiculously wealthy and thus a target.”
 
“A shame,” Rinna said, shaking her head in mock-sorrow. “Ah, well. I suppose I could never win, anyway, as all you’d have to do to keep the wager on is to refuse to admit that no matter how much you try, one of you is just not going to get pregnant.”
 
“And there is that,” Zevran admitted. “But only if we were dishonorable scoundrels. Do I look like a dishonorable scoundrel, my dear?”
 
Rinna tilted her head as she seemed to consider the question. “A little, but not in a bad way.”
 
Zevran shrugged. “I can work with that.”
 
“You know,” Rinna told him, “I don’t dislike all parts of Lupercalia.”
 
Just the parts with all the tradition, it seemed. Wisely, Zevran decided not to mention that. “Oh?” he asked instead, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “And what parts do you like?”
 
“Well if you and Taliesin can put off your nth attempt to make a baby, we can celebrate how fertile everyone else seems to be,” Rinna replied, slipping her dagger back into her pouch and turning to walk away, leaving Zevran with the oh-so-difficult choice to follow her or not.
 
Oh, what ever was he to do?

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'The Art of Lying.'


Anders had just put one foot over the window’s edge and was about to move the other over as well when he heard a sudden voice behind him.
 
“Anders, you aren’t trying to escape again, are you?”
 
Anders closed his eyes and cursed silently. He had checked the movements on this floor twice before making his bid for freedom. How had he missed this?
 
“Anders?” the voice said again.
 
Sighing deeply as if this act physically pained him, Anders drew his escaped leg back into the Tower and turned to face the templar. It was Cullen, at least. Cullen firmly believed in the Chantry’s teachings and felt that it was best for everyone if mages were imprisoned here at Kinloch Hold but he wasn’t that bad for a templar. He was in love with Irving’s most talented apprentice, some girl named Amell, but he wouldn’t admit it even though it was really an open secret at this point and he seemed unlikely to ever act on it. Cullen was also far too easy to embarrass and disliked mage-killing. To top it off, he felt that mages should have more privacy and greater freedom within this prison. As he was a templar who wasn’t a gorgeous girl, Anders hated him on principle but he could really be a lot worse. Anders didn’t even want to know what would have happened if Rylock had found him. He hadn’t ever had much to do with her but the way she looked at the mages sometimes…she was clearly disturbed and he didn’t want to be anywhere near her when she inevitably snapped someday.
 
Anders forced a jovial s mile. “Me? Escape? Perish the thought.”
 
“From your mouth to the Maker’s ears,” Cullen murmured. “And if you weren’t trying to escape then what were you doing?”
 
Anders paused for a moment as he frantically tried to think of a non-escape reason he could be doing this. The reason didn’t even need to be particularly good given that he already had a reputation around the Tower for being odd but it did need to be quick or it would be obvious that he was just making it up on the spot. Fortunately, he had plenty of experience with doing just that. “I was trying to get some fresh air before you so thoughtlessly interrupted me,” Anders sniffed.
 
Cullen crossed his arms skeptically. “Right.”
 
“I was,” Anders insisted. “The air in the Tower is always so very stuffy, what with the way the door is always barred and the too-few windows are often shut. You’d think a man could stick his head out the window to try and breathe properly without someone suspecting an escape attempt.”


“To begin with, it wasn’t just your head,” Cullen pointed out. “You were halfway out the window. And while I’ll admit that my fellow templars would be uncomfortable with just a mage’s head sticking out of the window, with you it would be an even bigger concern.”
 
“Oh, so now I can’t even do things that the other mages do?” Anders complained. “That is so not fair. In fact, I’m thinking about complaining about it.”
 
Cullen shrugged. “If you must. Of course, chances are that if you would stop attempting to escape everyone would be a lot less suspicious of everything you do. Just a thought.”
 
Anders ignored that. “I was not ‘halfway out the window.’ It was just one of my legs. I daresay that a good three-quarters of me was still inside of the Tower.”
 
Cullen rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just arguing semantics.”
 
“Hey, semantics can be pretty important!” Anders insisted. “Like if it had just been my head sticking out the window and you reported that then I would be faced with a lot less Greagoir-anger than if you had claimed that I was halfway out the window.”
 
Cullen looked like he was debating whether to point out that it hadn’t just been his head before shaking his head slightly. “How, exactly, does sticking your leg out the window help you to get some fresh air? Do you breathe through your legs now?”
 
Another good question. Damn. “I was going to sit on the windowsill so that I could more fully access the fresh air,” Anders replied, reluctantly conceding the point that he was going through the window when Cullen had happened upon him.
 
“Mages aren’t allowed to do that,” Cullen reminded him. “And even if they were you can bet that you wouldn’t be allowed to…and before you start complaining about that, remember that you’re the one who won’t just stay put.”
 
“What, do they really think I’m going to try to jump from such a high floor of the Tower?” Anders asked, managing to sound reasonably incredulous given that he had been planning just that and was fairly certain that he had a plan to not only survive the fall but to sustain only minimal injuries so he could continue to make his escape. It wouldn’t do him any good if he had lived through the fall but broken both of his legs and couldn’t make it any further, after all. “I’m pretty certain that that would kill me, Cullen.”
 
“And that is precisely why you’re not allowed to sit on the ledges of the windowsills,” Cullen said smugly. “Either you’re close enough to the ground to potentially try to escape or you’re high enough that a fall would likely kill you and we wouldn’t want anyone to lose their balances and meet such an ignoble and easily avoidable end, now would we?”
 
Anders snorted. “Most of the templars would. What kind of templar are you, anyway?”
 
“The kind that noticed your most recent escape attem-sorry, ‘attempt to get some air’,” Cullen shot back.
 
“So…now what?” Anders asked, realizing that he wasn’t going to be getting out of the Tower today as Cullen could render him helpless if he even looked like he was thinking about trying something.
 
Cullen sighed. “Oh, I don’t care. Just…stay away from the window, all right?”
 
“Mages honor,” Anders said solemnly.
 
Cullen seemed to accept that and waved Anders along.
 
Sucker.

[Sarah1281]

The first-ever Alistair prompt it "There were times Alistair almost wished he'd never left the Chantry."


There were times Alistair almost wished he’d never left the Chantry. Today, the day he had finally had his coronation, was one of those times. He had honestly never expected this day would come…well, not until he had seen a worrying expression on a certain Warden’s (who he was pointedly not thinking about) face after he’d finally confessed to his parentage. Still, he had almost managed to convince himself that she, not really being a citizen of Ferelden, was seeing possibilities where there wasn’t any when Arl Eamon had awoken and fallen in love with the idea of making him king as well. The Warden thinking he should be king, Alistair could sort of understand even if he disagreed. Eamon, though? The man who had spent years carefully making sure that Alistair never accidentally got any ideas about not being a commoner? Honestly, Alistair was a little concerned that there might have been something in those Ashes.
 
Alistair had slowly – VERY slowly – come around to the idea that he should take the throne because Eamon had pointed out that if he didn’t then they would have no choice but to all join Loghain and Alistair was willing to go a great deal further than just taking the throne to avoid that fate. He still thought he lacked the proper training to be a good king but at least he was willing to learn and to take the advice of those who knew better while he was still figuring things out and it wasn’t even like there was another option…until Anora had showed up. Despite the fact that he and the Warden had had to go to Fort Drakon to protect Anora and break themselves out, the queen and the Warden had really hit it off and before he knew it, he was being asked to marry the spawn of Loghain. There were worse things than being asked to marry Anora, he supposed. Being asked to marry Morrigan or Loghain himself, for example. Still, Anora was definitely up there on his ‘DO NOT WANT’ list of potential brides. Still, the Warden had made a compelling case about it being what was best for Ferelden and his duty. Besides, anything to ensure that they could take Loghain down, right?
 
The Landsmeet…he had never attended one before but would now have to sit through at least one a year every year for the rest of his life. If they were anything like his first one then he doubted his sanity would survive long enough to allow him to rule for even as long as Cailan had. It had started off well enough, better than he’d expected really, and that would make him nervous at future Landsmeet even when things were going well. The Warden’s arguments and evidence were dominating Loghain’s and the nobles (except what’s-his-name, Ceorlic) were all hanging onto her every word. Loghain tried to seize upon his missing daughter to gain back some footing but then Anora calmly came into the Landsmeet Chambers and supported them. Things were going very well. A vote was called and it was near-unanimous – Ceorlic again – in favor of them. Unfortunately, though perhaps unsurprisingly, Loghain refused to accept the vote and called for an all-out brawl. To Alistair’s shock, the Teyrn actually agreed to a duel instead, apparently still seeking to pretend to have some honor. Alistair wanted to be the one to fight Loghain almost more than anything but the Warden promptly volunteered herself instead.
 
It was a tense fight. Loghain might have been evil but he could certainly fight and he nearly won on a number of occasions. Finally, the Warden tripped him and bashed him over the head with her sword. It was hardly an inspiring victory, but at least she won. Alistair had been so relieved he could have cried. Everything he had been working for since Duncan had died was about to pay off in this one moment. Only…it hadn’t. Riordan, clearly still addled from his months-long torture and not fully comprehending the magnitude of Loghain’s crimes, suggested sparing Loghain. No, not just sparing him. Riordan called to make him a Grey Warden. To Alistair’s eternal horror, the Warden agreed with him and no amount of argument on his part would convince her otherwise. What was he supposed to have done? He still wasn’t quite sure what the answer to that was but what he did end up doing was declaring that he was leaving the Grey Wardens. In order to appease his sense of duty that was screaming at him that leaving was wrong even though letting Loghain in after what he’d done was equally wrong if not more so, Alistair announced that he was leaving the Wardens to marry Anora and be Ferelden’s king. That was a duty he had, too, right? And unlike being a Grey Warden, it was one that only he seemed able to fulfill. The Warden and Anora hadn’t seemed very impressed with this announcement and quickly moved on but Alistair hadn’t paid much attention to that, so busy wondering where it had all gone wrong. They’d had Loghain and now they were just going to let him get away with everything? Anora, he could understand since it was her father and she was a lot like him if not as evil. The Warden, though? How could she.
 
Alistair glanced over at the Warden. She was talking animatedly with Eamon, no doubt very pleased with herself. And why wouldn’t she be? She was a hero now, the Hero of Ferelden. At least Loghain hadn’t managed to grab that title as well even if he hadn’t had the courtesy to die during the Blight which the Orlesian Wardens who had already contacted him found to be very suspicious. Loghain himself was glowering at Alistair as if he were the one who couldn’t believe he were forced to put up with Alistair! This coronation reception had better not go on for too long or he couldn’t guarantee that Loghain would manage to leave this room alive. As Loghain was now being regarded as an even bigger hero than before for helping to end the Blight, if Alistair did give into temptation in front of all these people then he knew that Anora would ensure that he could kiss the kingship and maybe even his life goodbye. Speaking of Anora, she was currently peering suspiciously at him. Perhaps she could tell that he was seriously debating with himself whether it would be worth it?
 
At least there were some people coming up to him and ensuring that he wasn’t focused solely on that evil, evil man he was going to be related to in six months (he made a mental note that if he was going to give into temptation then he’d better do it before the wedding to avoid that). Unfortunately, the distractions weren’t always the most pleasant. Oghren had stumbled up to him, far drunker than usual, demanding more ale and Sten was right behind him complaining about the lack of cake. What did he look like, a caterer? He would have thought a king would have gotten more respect. Eamon had informed him that he didn’t have to worry because he was planning on becoming the new royal chancellor. Alistair had thought it was odd that Eamon was just deciding that instead of having him appoint Eamon (for he knew Anora never would. The fact Anora and Loghain hated Eamon really increased his affection for his old guardian) but it wasn’t like he would have picked anyone else anyway.
 
Leliana had wanted to perform some of her ballad about the final battle for him and, as Leliana was a friend, he had put up with as much of the Loghain-praising as was humanly possible before he cut her off as politely as he could. Lanaya came up to complain that some of the drunken revelers wouldn’t stop making lewd comments about her because she was an elf and while Alistair did feel terrible about that, he didn’t quite know what he was supposed to do about that. Irving had taken the opportunity to try to influence him on the new mage tower that needed to be constructed. Fergus Cousland had expressed his outrage that Howe had been allowed to get away with what he had for so long and had been the Teyrn of Highever for months and while Alistair had sympathized with him, he had also taken great pleasure in directing the new Teyrn’s complaints to his lucky betrothed. That odious dwarf, Vartag Gavorn, had stopped by to ‘remind’ him that Bhelen could be a valuable friend and he was fairly certain that Vartag had both insulted him and threatened him but he wasn’t quite sure how. Orzammar politics gave him a headache anyway. Zevran had offered his assassination services to the Crown and Alistair had promised to think about it. The assassin had turned down a job to assassinate Loghain once before but maybe now that he was so close by and no longer regent he would change his mind?
 
Something to consider.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Nathaniel prompt was 'Mistake.'


Nathaniel felt a little awkward about just leaving his companions standing around in the streets of Amaranthine while he went and caught up with his sister but not nearly enough to miss this opportunity. He was sure that if they got bored they could wander off and doing something else in town. They really should have arranged for a meeting place, though.
 
Delilah ushered him to a table. “Sit, sit,” she urged.
 
Nathaniel did as he was bidden, still unable to really believe that his sister was standing – alive and well – before him. When he had last seen her, she was only a child, really, and now here she was married and living in Amaranthine. Nathaniel didn’t know anything about this ‘Albert’ but he was sure that he wasn’t good enough for his sister. Sure, she might claim that she adored him but if she was already married to him then getting a divorce would be difficult and quite scandalous and who knew if she really meant it? Besides, if times were as hard as he suspected they were she likely didn’t have much of a choice and probably felt some sort of gratitude to that man for keeping her from starving. Obviously, the Couslands and King Alistair hadn’t given the slightest bit of consideration to Delilah when they were busy destroying his family to get their happily ever after. Nathaniel’s eyes swept over his sister, trying to detect any trace of unhappiness but he didn’t see any. Then again, she had just learned that he was alive so that didn’t necessarily mean any-
 
“You’re pregnant?” he exclaimed, horrified. No wonder she felt that she was trapped here! Nathaniel was going to kill this Albert, he really was.
 
Delilah smiled gently. “Yes, yes I am. I’m due in the spring, you know.” She laughed lightly. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Nathaniel.”
 
“What look?” Nathaniel asked innocently.
 
“The one where you’re plotting to ‘defend my honor’ from my husband who I love very much because he got me pregnant,” Delilah replied matter-of-factly. “I know you might not understand this but…I’m happy here. All the trappings of nobility never meant all that much to me and you know all Father saw when he looked at me was a potential advantageous marriage. He wasn’t comfortable with letting me so much as look at a sword and even though I’m two years older than Thomas, he was Father’s back-up heir. You don’t have to be the type who could be happy with the life I’ve made but please don’t do me the disservice of assuming that I was forced into it.”
 
“I…” Nathaniel started to say, feeling guilty for having done just that. “I’m sorry, Delilah. I know that, I do. I just can’t really wrap my mind around you being happy here.”
 
“That’s because we’re two different people, Nathaniel,” Delilah pointed out. “So you’ll just have to trust my word for it that I am happy here.”
 
“Alright,” Nathaniel said, sighing in defeat. “I will. But if I see any indication that you’re not…”
 
“I know, I know, I can always go back to the Keep,” Delilah supplied. “And should it be necessary, I won’t hesitate. I doubt it will be, though. Albert is a good man and maybe once you meet him you’ll feel the same. Come back here next time you’re in Amaranthine and you can meet my husband.”
 
“I will,” Nathaniel promised solemnly. He hesitated. Was he really sure that he wanted to know? Probably not, but it was his duty to seek out the truth and if he had made a mistake then it was better to be made aware of it now then desperately cling to it forever. “Sister…what did you mean about ‘Father’s evil’?”
 
Delilah frowned and nervously pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Nathaniel, are you really sure you want to talk about this? He’s dead and gone no matter what you or anyone else might think about him.”
 
“You know the woman I came here with?” Nathaniel answered her question with one of his own. “That’s Queen Anastasia Theirin née Cousland. I didn’t become a Grey Warden by choice, you know, I was forced to after I was arrested for sneaking into the Keep and trying to take back some of our possessions. I probably didn’t help my case when I informed her that I had originally shown up to kill her.”
 
Delilah covered her mouth, horrified. “Nathaniel, you didn’t!”
 
“Don’t worry, I changed my mind when I actually got there,” Nathaniel assured her. “I told Anastasia that I’d rather be killed that join the Wardens but, again, it’s not like I got that choice. In all honesty, being a Warden isn’t as bad as I thought it would be and I am grateful that she decided not to hang me after all. Just the same…my commander killed our father. She claims he killed her family first and I really don’t know much about that. If there is truth to what you said about him being evil, I do need to know in order to get past this.”
 
Delilah drummed her fingers on the table while she considered. Finally, she nodded her head. “Very well then. This all started with the Couslands. Father took his men up to Highever, purportedly so that their forces could go to Ostagar and aid King Cailan against the darkspawn. Instead, the inhabitants of Castle Cousland were massacred and Father was claiming their teynir. He said something about them being traitors, yes, but if that were the case then why kill everyone? Fergus’ son, he must have only been seven or eight! And why not try to bring it to the attention of the king instead of taking matters into his own hands? No, I was never happy with that.”
 
Oren. Nathaniel couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about Oren. He’d seen the child born as one of his last acts before leaving Ferelden all those years ago. “What else?”
 
“He sent troops in to help the Arl of Denerim manage an elven uprising in the Alienage and then claimed that the Arl had died when the King and Queen informed us that he had actually been imprisoned in Father’s dungeon and they had arrived to find him having recently been violently killed in a tiny cell,” Delilah continued. “I wasn’t at the Landsmeet, you know, but I certainly heard of what came of it. Most of the things that they charged Loghain with were things that our father had done and that they had found by going through his dungeon.”
 
“Just what could he have possibly kept in his dungeon that would have been so problematic?” Nathaniel couldn’t help but wonder. “Well…aside from Arl Vaughan. Given the rumors about him and those elves, however, he might have done the Alienage a favor.”
 
“He might have,” agreed Delilah. “If he hadn’t turned right around and led a purge through the Alienage to ‘avenge’ Vaughan and then started selling the survivors as slaves to the Tevinter Imperium. As for who he had in his dungeon…who didn’t he have? A Grey Warden, another noble, a survivor from Ostagar, a templar…these people had committed no crimes, Nathaniel. They were just inconvenient.”
 
“I don’t understand,” Nathaniel said, almost desperately. “Father would never-”
 
“He would,” Delilah cut him off. “I’ve seen it. I’ve heard about it. Everyone’s heard about it. I know better than to believe everything I hear, of course, but the rumors fit right in with the things I had personally witnessed.”
 
“How could Father have changed so much?” Nathaniel demanded. His sister wouldn’t lie, not about this. He knew that and yet this didn’t make any sense! Despite what Delilah might say, he didn’t secretly think of their father as a monster. This couldn’t be real.
 
“I don’t know,” Delilah admitted. “I don’t think I’ll ever know. His actions really speak for themselves, though.”
 
Nathaniel nodded hollowly. It couldn’t be true…except it apparently was. He’d been mistaken, then. It would appear that he owed Anastasia an apology. Maker help him.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt was 'Oghren.'


The Warden was just finishing up her tour of her makeshift camp when she turned to face Zevran who quickly adjusted his gaze. The Warden had already caught him staring at her twice and since only a little over an hour ago he was trying to kill her, he figured that perhaps he should start things off a little slowly. From the way that her ears kept reddening whenever she caught him looking her way, he was fairly certain that it wouldn’t be long before she made a move. And she was a pretty one, too. Unfortunate looks were hardly a deterrent in his line of work, of course, but it was always nice when he got a chance to sleep with someone attractive.
 
“So…any questions?” the Warden asked awkwardly.
 
“Just one,” Zevran replied, indicating the one member of her group she had yet to identify. “Who is that dwarf and what is he doing with your dog?”

The Warden frowned and followed his gaze. “Oghren!” she cried out. “You leave my dog alone!”
 
“Aw, come on, Warden!” the dwarf – Oghren apparently – protested, losing his hold of the mabari and falling over. “He’ll make me famous!”
 
“No means no, Oghren,” the Warden said firmly. “And he said no.”
 
Oghren grumbled unintelligibly and the dog bounded over to the Warden. “Right, I’m going to go and make sure he’s not traumatized. Come fine me if you have any more questions,” she instructed.
 
“Oh, I most certainly will,” Zevran said silkily, blinking lazily at her. The Warden flushed again and quickly hurried away.
 
“Hey you…” Oghren said, stumbling over towards Zevran. He was quite clearly drunk. “Elf!”
 
“Yes?” Zevran asked.
 
“You’ve got really small breasts for a girl,” Oghren announced. “And a guy, for that matter. Course, it could just be an elf thing. I can’t say I’ve met too many of those.”
 
“You do realize that I am not, in fact, a girl, right?” Zevran asked, a little amused. He had, in fact, been mistaken for a girl in the past with his long hair and occasional need to pass himself off as a member of the opposite sex for a job. Usually hearing him speak in his normal voice – as he was doing now – was enough to correct their misconceptions.
 
“That’s just what the dog thought you said!” Oghren accused.
 
Zevran blinked. Apparently this Oghren was either drunker than he thought or just plain…he didn’t even know what. “You were speaking to the dog about my gender?”
 
Oghren grunted in the affirmative.
 
“And did the dog…speak back?” Zevran asked curiously.
 
Oghren barked out a laugh. “Course not, then he’d know that I was on to him!”
 
“But you just said-” Zevran started to say before he shook his head. “No, it’s not worth it.”
 
“What’s not worth it?” Oghren demanded. “Your mom?” With that, he broke out into near hysterical laughter.
 
Patiently, Zevran waited for him to finish. “No, actually. Now, if there was nothing else, I think I’ll be going now.”
 
“Hold it, woman!” Oghren ordered.
 
Zevran sighed, wondering if it was really worth getting into this with the drunken dwarf and strongly suspecting that it wasn’t. “I’m not a woman, Oghren.”
 
“Not yet you’re not,” Oghren agreed. “But you will by the time old Oghren is done with you.”
 
“That…wasn’t quite what I meant,” Zevran corrected him. “And believe me, I do not need anyone to make me a man; that ship has long since sailed.”
 
“So you’ve got some experience, eh? That’ll make things easier. Go and make yourself ready, woman! You’ve just wiped your feet on the Oghren doormat of loooooooove!” Oghren declared, managing to mildly disturb even a hardened assassin such as Zevran.

Zevran wondered briefly how long it had been since he had been propositioned by a drunken male dwarf who was initially under the impression that he was a girl. Oh, it had been a while. Three or four months, easily. Usually they got the picture by now, though. “Oghren, I’m a man.”
 
Oghren stopped, confused. “A man, huh? You sure?”
 
“Reasonably,” Zevran said dryly.
 
“Well, that’s a surprise. Guess you never can tell with elves, huh?” Oghren said slowly. He shrugged. “Well, nobody’s perfect. Go on, my tent is that way. I’ll be along in a moment.”
 
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pass,” Zevran told him firmly, turning his gaze back to the Warden who was busy playing with that dog of hers.
 
“Yeah, you’ll pass alright by the time I’m done with you!” Oghren declared. “Especially, you know, since…” He trailed off.
 
Zevran turned to glance at him after a few moments had passed to see why Oghren had stopped speaking only to discover the dwarf had passed out and was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. In full body armor. He was most certainly going to be feeling that in the morning. It was really just as well that he hadn’t been interested as Oghren was clearly not up to performing if he was even sober enough to have been able to find everything.
 
One person that he did hope was interested, however, chose that moment to glance his way and Zevran smiled at her. It looked like it was time for him to go get to know his new leader a little better. With any luck, she’d already realized that he was male. And if not…well, he could work with that.